“Merlin’s beard, Marls—what is this?” you hissed, staring at the mountain of junk spilling from your denim bag right onto the library table.

Marlene blinked, utterly unbothered. “It’s organized chaos,” she said, shoving a quill back in and accidentally knocking over your ink pot. “Mostly organized.”

You groaned, rescuing your poor notes from a smear of chocolate on the corner of one. “You stuffed your socks in here!”

“I didn’t have pockets!” she defended, grinning as if this was the most reasonable excuse in the world. “Besides—you love me messy.”

You shot her a look. She shot back that grin. And somehow, despite the disaster of it all, you really couldn’t argue.