Tangled Hearts.

~Chapter 56~

~Raelyn~

~November, 12th 2023~

Nine months pregnant.

Let me tell you what that *actually* feels like.

Imagine a watermelon lodged beneath your ribs, an alien doing kickboxing inside your uterus, your bladder holding on for dear life, and your spine folding like a rusty lawn chair.

Now imagine trying to look cute through all that.

Yeah. No.

These last three months have been some kind of fever dream—love, laughter, hormones that could start a war, and way too many people asking, *"How are you feeling?"* like that wasn't a loaded gun of a question. Colby's lucky he's hot and sleeps next to me every night or I'd have decked him too.

I was due November 16. It was November 12th now, and Aspen Jean Brock was acting like she wanted out *yesterday.* She'd been kicking me with the force of a tiny angry demon all day. My ribs were bruised. My patience was nonexistent. My spine? She left the chat weeks ago.

I waddled like a woman possessed.

And honestly?
I *was* possessed.

By love. By irritation. By a very specific need to eat crushed ice while threatening anyone who looked at me wrong.

Still, I was holding on—barely. Our chaotic little trap house had become something sacred lately. After graduation, we'd all vowed to stick together, to be this weird, mismatched family long after the caps were tossed and the degrees were framed.

I meant it.

Because I needed them now more than ever.

Especially Blake, who had just turned eight and was in that sweet spot between baby and kid, where everything was loud, sticky, and dramatic. We'd thrown him a Halloween-themed birthday party two weeks ago, and the house still smelled vaguely like frosting and plastic skeletons. He'd worn his vampire cape every single day since.

Meanwhile, I was just trying not to explode.

Literally.

We were gathered around the dinner table—everyone home tonight, rare and beautiful. Tara had made pesto pasta, and it was suspiciously not burnt. Isa played DJ from the kitchen speaker, alternating between moody indie ballads and aggressive Taylor Swift b-sides. Blake was talking with a mouthful of garlic bread, and Colby was pretending not to care.

"You look like you're dying," Katrina commented casually, watching me shift in my seat for the hundredth time.

"Thanks," I muttered. "That's the look I was going for. Dead but glowing."

"You *are* glowing," Devyn chimed in sweetly. "Like a radiant candle that's about to snap in half."

Colby chuckled next to me. "A very hormonal candle."

"Do you want to die tonight?" I asked him flatly.

"Not particularly."

"Then don't say hormonal. Say *divine.* Say *terrifying.* Say *goddess in active labor and denial.*"

"Fair," he said, raising his hands in surrender.

The pasta was good. The company better. But the pressure in my back was building with every passing second like I was a soda can being slowly shaken to death. I pushed my plate away, swallowing the last bite of bread before dragging myself upright.

"I'm gonna lie down," I mumbled.

Colby looked at me with that ever-alert wolf-boy expression like he was already half-prepared to scoop me up and run to the hospital. "You sure you're okay?"