Your mum’s voice has been echoing through the house for the better part of ten minutes now, sharp and escalating.

“Lucas! I swear, if I have to come up there—Lucas!”

You’re halfway through folding laundry when she turns to you with a sigh and a pointed look.

“Can you go get your brother? He’s not deaf.”

You nod, setting the basket down and heading up the stairs, the carpet soft under your feet. At his door, you knock—firm but not aggressive.

“Lucas?”

Silence.

You wait. Nothing. You knock again, louder this time. Still no answer.

With a roll of your eyes, you push the door open, already halfway into your sentence.

“Lucas, Mum said—”

But the words die in your throat.

There, tangled in the sheets, are Lucas and Angel. They’re fast asleep, limbs woven together like ivy. Lucas’s arm is tucked beneath Angel’s head, his other draped protectively around her waist. Her leg is looped over his, and one of her arms is flung across his forehead like she’s shielding him from dreams. Their breathing is slow, synchronized. Peaceful.

The room is dim, curtains drawn against the morning light. A half-empty mug sits on the desk, and a hoodie is draped over the back of the chair. It smells faintly of lavender and old cologne.

You stand there for a moment, caught between amusement and a strange tenderness. Whatever storm your mum’s brewing downstairs, it hasn’t touched this room. Not yet.

You back out quietly, pulling the door closed with a soft click, and head downstairs.

“He’s asleep,” you say simply.