Tangled Desires (Wattle Creek #3)

15

Falling - Harry Styles

T he air smells weird, and it makes my stomach sore.

Before I can think, I rush into my room, where Michael waits—looking scared but curious.

“Quick, get up!” I whisper, pulling him by the arm. I shove him into the wooden wardrobe, closing the door before he can ask questions. “Shush! Be quiet, don’t come out until I say so. We’re just playing a game, okay?” He nods, but his eyes are wide, and I can see he’s scared. I close the door, holding my breath as Dad’s voice booms like thunder down the hall. He’s so big and scary when he’s like this. I wish I could hide too, but Michael needs me. I have to protect him. He’s just a little guy; he doesn’t understand.

What if Dad hurts him?

The door bursts open, and there he is, eyes wild and breath smelling like old beer. “Harrison!” he yells, stomping into the room. “You little fucking shit! Where are you?”

I shrink back, trying to make myself small. “It was just an accident!”

But it doesn’t matter. He grabs me by the ear, dragging me back into the kitchen. I can see the mess of broken pieces glinting on the floor—sharp and dangerous.

“Clean it up, you useless fucking boy!” He shoves me to the ground. I can feel the hard tiles biting into my knees, and I scramble to grab the shards of the plate, fingers trembling.

“Mummy!” I call out, looking over to her at the dining table. She’s sitting there, smoking a cigarette and staring at the wall like she’s not even really there. She probably took one of those white tablets again. It makes her go all weird. “Mum, please!” But she just stares ahead, lost in her own world.

He kicks me in the stomach, and I double over, gasping. “Shut the fuck up and clean it!” he snarls, bending down to yell in my ear, “You think I have all fucking night?” I can’t see much, but I can hear the yelling. Someone is calling my name, but I don’t know who. I want to shout back, to tell them I’m here, but my voice feels stuck in my throat. I want to cry, but I bite my lip to keep quiet. My head spins, and I feel like I’m in a fog.

“Harrison!” the voice calls again, louder now, piercing through my fear. It’s softer, like it’s worried. I take a shaky breath, wanting to answer but too scared to move.

“Wake the fuck up—” I jerk awake, gasping for air, and my eyes fly open. They take a moment to adjust to the dim light filtering through the window. I’m in my room, and then I hear the voice loud and clear—Michael. He’s sitting on my bed, leaning over me, looking worried. “Jesus Christ, Harrison,” he whispers. “I could hear you yelling from outside, mate.”

Embarrassment floods through me, hot and prickling. It’s a familiar shame, this feeling of being exposed and raw, like a wound that refuses to heal. I shove him out of the way, rolling out of bed, my heart still racing. “I’m fucking fine. It’s nothing.”

Deep down, I know it’s not true. I hate that he sees me like this, that I’m still haunted by shadows from a past I can’t escape. Words don’t come easy in moments like this; they just twist inside me, stirring up anger that I can’t seem to shake. The frustration feels like it’s burning under my skin, and all I want is for it to go quiet.

“Are you alright?” he asks, but I ignore him, shoving my hands into my pockets to hide the way they’re trembling. I move to get ready for work, the familiar routine helping me ground myself. I catch Michael’s eyes in the mirror as I fumble with my shirt, trying to shove down the panic that still grips my chest. “Want me to wait for you?”

“No, just fucking go,” I burst out, shaking my head. “I’ll meet you there. It’s fine.” The words leave my mouth sharper than I intend, but I can’t help it; irritation takes over. I’m already on edge, the remnants of the dream clawing at me.

He nods, used to my short outbursts by now. He knows the drill, knows I’m a walking storm. I hate this part of me—the way it can twist into anger over nothing, the way I lash out at the one person who’s always there for me. But right now, I’m just too fucking angry to care. As he heads out, I run a hand through my hair, frustration boiling inside me. I can’t understand why the hell this still affects me. I need it to stay buried, locked away in the past. But the memories claw their way back, and every time I think I’ve left it behind, it pulls me back in, reminding me of the kid I used to be.

Joey, the new kid who started working here a month or two ago, is hunched over the Land Cruiser, trying to fit a new part to the frame after a nasty front-end collision. Still learning the ropes, but come on—it’s not rocket science. He’s got the part angled wrong, and anyone with half a brain can see it’s not going to sit right.

“Make sure you’ve got that lined up, yeah?” I call over, barely glancing up from the Volkswagen Golf’s engine I’ve been elbow-deep in for the last hour.

He mutters a quick, “Yeah, alright,” but I’m not convinced. I get back to my work, snapping a clip in place, but when I look up, he’s hoisting the damn sway bar like he’s about to set it in backward. Fucking brilliant.

I look around, hoping Michael’s nearby to deal with Joey before he makes a bigger mess. The kid’s got confidence, sure, but he shouldn’t be left to his own devices.

“Other way around, Joey. Turn it before you fucking drop it,” I call out, louder this time. He hesitates, still not looking back, and the damn part wobbles like it’s seconds from slipping out of his grip. That’s it—I’m over there in two strides.

“Here, let me show you before you fuck it up completely.”

Joey’s shoulders tense, his jaw tightening. “If you’d shut up for two seconds, maybe I could get it right,” he snaps, all attitude and zero clue.

“Maybe if you listened in the first place, we wouldn’t be wasting time on this,” I bite back.

He huffs, practically spitting out his words. “What’s your problem today? You’re acting like—”

“Just listen and do your fucking job, and we won’t have an issue,” I snap, my tone sharp enough to cut. My jaw’s tight as I head back to the Golf, hoping the kid will drop it. But no. Joey moves toward one of the other guys, rag in hand, muttering just loud enough to make sure I hear. “...acting like a fucking bipolar fuck.”

Oh, this little prick. The hood slams down before I realise I’ve moved, the bang echoing through the shop. My fists are tight, knuckles aching. “Shut the fuck up, Joey,” I bite out, eyes fixed on the floor to keep from losing it completely. Michael’s at my side in a heartbeat, voice low and calm.

“Harrison, leave it. He’s not worth it—just—” But I can’t hear him over the roar in my head. My feet are already moving, closing the space between me and Joey. Heat surges through me, too loud to ignore. “Say that again, wanker. To my face this time,” I growl, my chest heaving, muscles coiled tight. Joey stands his ground, his lips curling into a smirk like he’s won something.

“Fuck you, Harrison. Actin’ like you own the place.” Before I can even think, my hand twitches, ready to swing.

“Oi!” Sam shouts, stepping in like a human shield. Michael grabs my arm, hauling me back. The shop falls silent. Tools stop clinking. Every head turns. All eyes are locked on us.

Joey smirks, enjoying himself way too much. “You know, maybe if you weren’t always such a dick, people wouldn’t hate working with you.” My feet move before I can stop them, ready to close the gap and shut him up. Sam steps in at my side, blocking me, while Michael grabs my arm from the other, pulling me back.

“Stop, Harrison!” Michael’s voice is firm, but it barely registers past the adrenaline roaring in my ears. Joe’s voice booms from the office, cutting through the tension like a whip.

“What the fuck is going on out here?”

“Nothing,” I grit out, jaw tight. “Just a little friendly banter.”

“Friendly my ass,” Sam mutters, holding me back.

Joe’s glare bounces between me and Joey. “Everyone, get back to work!” He motions to Sam. “Check the Land Cruiser.” The moment Sam lets go, Joe’s in my face.

“What’d I say about bringing this shit into my shop? You’ve got a problem, take it outside or deal like an adult. Take a break.”

“It’s barely ten—”

“Now,” he growls, leaving no room for argument.

I grab the nearest pack of smokes—Michael’s—and head outside. The brick wall’s cool against my back as I light one. The first drag burns my lungs, but it steadies the noise in my head. Barely.

That blonde hair, those sharp blue eyes—they filter through my head like a bloody reset button. All sass, ribbons, and snark, wrapped in a package that shouldn’t have this kind of power over me. But somehow, she pulls me back every damn time.

My brain’s chaos. Always has been—thoughts racing, emotions flaring, everything on full blast. But her sharp tongue? That fierce, no-bullshit attitude? It’s like she drags me out of the storm and plants me somewhere steady. How the fuck does she do that? I take another drag, smoke burning through the frustration coiled tight in my chest. Still doesn’t help. All I want is to see her. Just thinking about her—the sass, the ribbons, the way her eyes cut through me—takes the edge off, barely.

Michael’s beside me now, one leg propped up, smirking. “Help yourself, it’s fine,” he says.

I take another drag. “You should probably consider a career in sarcasm.”

Michael clears his throat. “Well, can I have at least one of my own cigarettes?”

With a sigh, I dig the pack out of my pocket and toss it to him. He catches it mid-air before muttering a thanks as he sticks a cigarette between his lips. “Thanks. So, wanna talk about your Hulk moment earlier?” I keep my eyes on the smoke curling into the air.

“Cool, good chat,” he says dryly.

I snort.

“There he is. Thought you’d turned into the big green guy—was half expecting chest-thumping or some shit.”

“The Hulk doesn’t do that,” I deadpan.

“Then what? He breaks stuff?”

“Yeah, and saves the world.”

Michael squints. “What’s his catchphrase again? ‘It’s smashing time’?”

I roll my eyes. “‘It’s clobberin’ time,’ wanker.”

“Right!” He grins, flicking ash to the ground. “Marvel marathon tonight? Maybe a doob?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” I mutter, but my head’s already somewhere else. She’s stuck there, the way she always is—rolling her eyes at my dumb jokes but smirking, anyway. That spark, the fire, the way she crosses her arms like she’s about to rip me a new one. She’s all sharp edges, bright colours, and somehow, she’s my calm in all this chaos.

Makes everything else fade.

Michael’s scrolling on his phone, muttering, “Shit! We’re watching these in the wrong order.”

I glance over, frowning. “What?”

“We were supposed to start with Captain America, not Iron Man. Everything’s out of order now.”

I smirk, nudging him. “You had one job, mate.”

“Oh, piss off. You could’ve checked, too.” I laugh, about to fire back, when there’s a knock at the door. Michael shrugs. It wouldn’t be Joe, surely. Please don’t be Mum. I swing the door open and freeze. There she is—hands on her hips, eyes flashing, ribbons in her hair. Imogen.

“Midge?” I blink, thrown. “What are you doing here?”

She pushes past me, already on a roll. “Alright, here’s the deal. I need sleep—real sleep, not this tossing-and-turning bullshit. Sleep is crucial, Harrison, especially before the baby gets here. So, there are going to be rules, and you’d better not screw this up.”

I stare, trying to process as she rattles on, hands gesturing wildly. She’s flushed, pacing, but all I can focus on is how bloody her she is—fierce, all fire and sass, nose scrunching in that way she does when she’s frustrated.

She stops, locking eyes with me. “The other night, I slept better than I have in weeks. And the night after that? Even better. I don’t know if it was the back rubs or just… you, but I need that again.” Her voice wavers slightly, but her chin’s up, determined. It hits me—this is her asking for help, trusting me. That trust floors me. I nod, about to say something, when Michael clears his throat, popcorn in hand, clearly loving the drama. She snaps her fingers in front of my face.

“Hello? Are you even listening?”

“Uh, yeah, I did,” I stammer, trying to piece it together. Is she saying what I think she’s saying? That she wants to move in? Michael clears his throat, and Imogen glances at him.

“Oh! Hi. Am I interrupting?”

“Just a movie—”

“No, not at all,” I cut in.

She raises an eyebrow. “So, what do you say, caveman? Wanna play house?”

I grin like an idiot. “Midge, all you had to do was say, ‘I’m moving in,’ and I’d have said ‘fuck yes’ in a heartbeat.” She lets out a breath of relief.

“So, we’re neighbours now?” Michael adds, making her glance back at me.

“Looks that way,” she says, but her eyes narrow. “Don’t get too comfortable. I’m not stuck here. If you piss me off, I’ll pack my shit and leave.”

Michael and I grin. “Yes, ma’am.”

Her phone rings, and she glances at the screen, her face lighting up. “Oh my God, it’s Claire!” She squeals, rounding the kitchen bench, to chat. I drop back onto the couch beside Michael. He glances at me, then at Imogen, phone in hand, and wiggles his eyebrows.

“This is gonna be interesting,” he says with a smirk, dragging out the last word.

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Michael chuckles, but I lean back, letting my head rest against the cushion. My gaze flicks toward the living room, where her laughter filters through, and that calm settles over me again—the kind that doesn’t make sense but feels like it’s meant to. Her being here, with the baby—it fits. Like it was always supposed to be this way. I can’t explain it, but she’s mine.

I know that, deep down, even if she doesn’t see it yet.