It was a similar vibe for the cheer squad, even though you weren't actually competing in anything at this point in the season, but rather just cheering on the sidelines at football games. By the end of practice, everyone was already irritated with each other, you most of all.

Your coach barked from somewhere along the track, squatting in front of the bleachers, as a collective groan went up from the team. You jogged back into position, wiping sweat from your forehead with your sleeve. The September heat was sticking to everyone, making tempers shorter than usual.

On the field, Natalie kicked a ball back toward one of the girls with far more force than necessary in a passing drill, eliciting a yelp from her. She mumbled an apology that she clearly didn't mean.

Her cocky demeanor pulled a snort from you as you passed, causing her head to snap to you immediately. She gave you a look like she'd been waiting all afternoon for a reason to start something. You rolled your eyes and turned away before she could get the chance to.

Unfortunately, that only seemed to encourage her.

Every time you glanced toward the field, Natalie was looking your way- not staring, no, never staring- just looking long enough to be annoying before turning away the second you caught her.

The first time you caught her, you ignored it. The second time, you raised an irritated eyebrow. The third time, you blew her an exaggerated kiss (which actually got a barely concealed smirk out of Nat as she nearly missed a pass). You laughed so hard at her fumble that your coach made you run another lap.

After that, things somehow got worse.

Whenever the cheerleaders stopped for water, Nat seemed to have something to say- a loud comment to one of her teammates that had some hidden meaning only you'd understand. A scoff when you went up during stunts. A sarcastic clap when somebody landed a tumbling pass. Nothing direct enough for you to call her out on, but just enough to get under your skin.

By the middle of practice, you found yourself looking for her too- mostly to make sure she wasn't looking at you, which only made it more irritating when she was.

At one point, you caught her watching while your group rehearsed a sideline routine. Natalie didn't even try to look away- she just smirked, the expression widening after you flipped her off

"Y/n!" Your coach's voice cracked across the track, causing you to flinch and immediately drop your hand. A few of your teammates burst out laughing, drawing the attention of a few more Yellowjackets soccer players

The rest of practice devolved into a silent battle- petty glances, eye rolls, smug smiles- neither of you willing to let the other get the last word, despite not actually speaking.

By the time practice finally ended, your patience was hanging by a thread as you gathered your poms from the far side of the track. You heard footsteps approaching behind you, but didn't bother turning around.

"You following me now?"

"Please." Natalie's voice came from much closer than expected. "You wish."

You slung your duffle bag over your shoulder and finally glanced at her, ponytail swinging as you turned around, "Then what do you want?"

"Nothing." Your brows furrowed slightly, not quite believing that was the end of it, "Great."

You started walking away, and Nat tongued her cheek before falling into rhythm behind you, "You're in a bad mood."

You laughed, the sound coming out sharper than intended, pulling a frown from the blonde, "What's so funny?"

"You."

"Me?"

"You've been acting insane all day." Her eyebrows shot up, "Me?"

You both approached the locker room, continuing to argue as you walked in on the last of your teammates finishing up and going home. "Yes. You."

Natalie scoffed, carelessly yanking open the locker she kept her things in (which just so happened to be across from yours), "You're unbelievable."

"Says you." For a second, neither of you said anything, pretending not to be focused on packing up, but really you were both just waiting for everyone to clear out.

The sounds of metal lockers slamming echoed through the room as the last few girls filtered out. Van shoved her backpack over one shoulder, eyes darting between the two of you. "Try not to kill each other."

"Not making any promises," Natalie muttered, focused on packing her cleats in her bag. You rolled your eyes as Van laughed and disappeared through the door.

The room grew quieter... then more still... until eventually there was only the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead and the occasional rustle of someone stuffing things into a bag.

You zipped your duffle bag a little harder than necessary, while Natalie tossed her practice jersey into her locker, slamming the door shut, the metal rattling.

Neither of you spoke. Neither of you left. It was ridiculous- you'd spent the entire afternoon getting on each other's nerves, and now that you were finally alone, neither of you seemed willing to deliver that final jab that would cause the tension to snap.

Your eyes flicked up, meeting Natalie's already present gaze. That same aggravating feeling that always seemed to show up whenever she was around, ever-present in your stomach. The feeling that every conversation between the two of you was seconds away from becoming a fight- or something better.

You leaned against the locker behind you. "What?"

Natalie's jaw ticked. "What do you mean "what"?"

You rolled your so dramatically she thought they were gonna fall out, "You keep looking at me."

She huffed out a laugh, amused at your childish (yet true) accusation, "I do not."

You let out your own incredulous laugh and looked around the room with your arms crossed, before pointing at Natalie, "That."

"What?" You gestured vaguely in her direction, "The weird thing you've been doing all day."

Natalie's expression darkened. "Weird thing?"

"Yes." You shrugged, gesturing again, "Whatever this is."

For a moment, she just stared at you. Then Natalie took a step closer, "You've spent all day practically begging for attention- is mine not good enough for you now?"

Natalie froze for half a second after the words left her mouth- she'd imagined they were gonna come out cooler, cockier, but they sounded more bitter and jealous. You stared at her, unmoving, then laughed. Sharp and disbelieving, you laughed in her face.

"Oh, that's what this is about?"

Her jaw tightened, "Don't."

"No, seriously." You shook your head, a pout of mock sympathy taking over your lips, "You've been picking fights with me for six hours because you wanted my attention?"

"I didn't say that." A condescending smile replaced your dramatic pout, "You kinda did..."

Natalie slammed her locker shut; the sound echoed through the empty room as she whipped around to approach you.

"You think everything's about you." Nat invaded your space, and you just continued to smirk with your arms crossed.

"Yeah, well, you kinda make everything about me." For a moment, neither of you moved. The locker room had been completely empty for a while now, save for the two of you and the incredible tension between you- the same position you always seemed to end up in.

"God, you drive me fucking crazy..." you muttered, rolling your eyes. The corner of her mouth twitched, "Likewise."

Neither of you moved nor looked away, the tension that had been building all afternoon seeming to pull tighter and tighter until it felt impossible to breathe around it.

"You're unbelievable," you said,

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." Natalie's gaze dropped to your lips. It was only for a split second, but it was enough. The next thing you knew, you were closing the distance, and she was meeting you halfway.

The kiss was messy and impatient- an impulse decision you both made at just about the same time. Your hands found her jaw, and hers gripped your waist, pulling each other impossibly closer.

Natalie's hands traveled to knead at your hips, only to move and caress your ribs, causing your breathing to speed up at her exploration. Her hands slipped under your shirt as she pushed you back until you were leaning against a table pushed against the wall.

You pushed off your heels and rested your weight on the table, letting your legs fall open slightly, only for Nat to push her way in between them. You continued to suck on her tongue as she popped the button of your skirt and pulled down the zipper.

Her hand grazed your stomach as it slid past your panties and into your wet center. Nat moaned into the kiss and pushed her face impossibly closer to yours, practically trying to devour you. She pushed two fingers inside your cunt, the slick allowing her easy access. You inhaled sharply, which gave Natalie the upper hand in the battle between your tongues.

Natalie curled her fingers in perfect rhythm with the grinding of the heel of her hand against your clit, knowing exactly what gets you where you needed to be. She could feel her fingertips hitting the spongy core of your center, and how you became wetter and wetter with each pulse of her movement

It only took a few minutes for her to get you to that place- and Natalie knew it all too well. She picked up on the clenching of your walls around her fingers, the quicker unfinished breaths you were delivering with your head thrown back, how violently you were biting your lip... you made it too easy

"You seriously think I'm gonna let you come that easy?" Nat mumbled against your throat, delivering a few more perfectly timed curls before pulling her fingers out and simultaneously pulling you off the table to flip you around. The momentum had you catching yourself against the table, palms holding your weight up as you bent forward.

"Can you imagine how everyone would react if they knew their perfect princess was a total crybaby lesbian... who only gets off to the fucking burnout..." Her voice dripped with condescension, a faux pout morphing into a mocking smirk.

Heat rushed to your face. Every word felt carefully chosen, designed to get under your skin. Around you, the room seemed unnaturally quiet, the air thick with tension.

"That's not what's happening," you snapped, jaw clenched. Natalie only laughed, short and sharp. You moved to look over your shoulder at Natalie, frustrated beyond explanation at this point, but her hand is firm on the nape of your neck, pushing you back down against the table. She held you down with one hand, the other flipping up your skirt and pulling your panties to the side.

Nat slowly slid her cock into your tight hole. She intensely observed how your body reacted- tension releasing from your shoulders as you exhaled, focusing on not making any sort of sound that would give her satisfaction, palms flexing, then gripping the table.

You're not sure when she even put the strap on, or when she pulled her pants down, and that irritated you. Well- not so much the not-knowing part, but the fact that you got even wetter just thinking about her having it on her at all times, just in case she has to fuck the attitude out of you at any given moment.

Her hands slid up from the back of your neck into your hair. She yanked your head back, causing an impossible arch in your back, your palms gripping the edge of the table to give you some support, as your jaw hung open in a silent moan.

"Would you look at that..." Your eyes were barely able to flutter open as Natalie continued to pound into you. Your gaze met hers in the full-body mirror across the room, and your breath caught in your throat as you took in the sight.

Natalie had your upper half held up by your hair, gripped in her fist. Your jaw hung open as you panted, eyes barely able to stay focused on the view. Your bra wasn't doing much either at that point; all the movement while you'd been pressed against the table caused your tits to slip out of the cups a bit, nipples well exposed, bruises beginning to bloom where the blonde had bitten you.

You looked a mess. Natalie did too, but it suited her- the messy, smudged makeup and wild hair. You looked out of place, and maybe that's what made the whole thing so much hotter to both of you. It was pornographic. God, you wished you could snap a picture of the scene and keep it in the box you kept in your bottom bedside drawer. Or buy a camcorder and have Nat hold it to get every angle, so you could rewatch it over and over until the next time you pissed her off.

The sight before you, mixed with your debaucherous thoughts, and of course, the perfectly timed pounding straight to your core, had you just about collapsing against the table underneath you. Your arms were ready to give out, and if it hadn't been Natalie's painfully delightful grip on your hair, you would've absolutely been face down again.

Natalie's hand in your hair traveled around the front of you, sliding up your stomach, stopping there for a moment to feel her cock poke against your tummy for a few thrusts, then continuing up to settle on your throat.

You felt so secure. You hated it. You've never admitted this to her, and you probably never will, but the moments when your brain turns off and you just let her take control of you are your favorite. You knew she'd never hurt you- at least not in a dangerous/non-pleasurable way, and something about that small bit of security made your heart (and pussy) flutter more than it should've.

You came with a whine- biting your lip and squeezing your eyes shut as you approached your climax, jaw dropping with an exhaled whimper when you finally got there. Natalie continued to thrust relentlessly until she felt you slump fully in her hold.

She pulled out and maneuvered you to sit on the table again. Not giving you any sort of break, Nat bent down and began lapping at your drenched center. You let out a wanton whine, head thrown back as your hand dives into her hair, tugging instantly

"Nat- Nat, please- can't-" she shushed you, the sensation odd but stimulation against your clit

"I'm just cleaning you up, pretty girl..." she mumbled against your core before returning her attention to your center. She licked and slurped at your folds, then sucked on the crevices of your thighs, making sure to lap up every drop of your slick that had spread across them.

You should've known that sort of peace wouldn't last, that every step forward was, sooner or later, followed by three steps back.

The shift had been so small you almost couldn't pinpoint it, but you'd gotten used to her tells, and her yours, especially in the silent moments after you'd been with each other.

She stiffened like she'd remembered something or become aware of her surroundings. Every answer after that had gotten shorter. And every attempt you made to recover the conversation had bounced right off her.

You knew better than to ask her what was wrong, but you yourself had also been feeling irritated and decided to be willingly ignorant as you questioned her anyway.

"Nothing." The universal signal that something was definitely wrong. You'd pushed once, as you always did, and Natalie had immediately gotten irritated- as she always did.

Suddenly, she was acting like you were the one making things weird, so you scoffed and left- a typical ending to your hookups, one you'd think you'd be used to by now.

By the time you'd gone home, the whole thing had left a bad taste in your mouth. It wasn't a fight; it was barely even an argument- you've had much worse between the two of you, so this was nothing. But that feeling of her letting you think you're getting closer than last time, just to pull away and make sure you feel bad for getting too comfortable, is always what weighs heavily on your heart

So when you walked into school the next morning already tired, already annoyed, and already replaying yesterday's conversation in your head, your patience was hanging by a thread.

Unfortunately, Randy found you before you could even give the day a chance. You heard him before you saw him.

"...that's not even what happened." You sighed. Of course, Randy had somehow attached himself to a conversation happening near your locker, loudly explaining something nobody had asked him about.

You tried to ignore him, as did everybody else. You got your books, spun the combination to set your lock back in place, and focused your attention on literally anything else.

But Randy just kept talking. Every sentence was somehow more confident than the last, despite being so completely detached from reality.

At some point, he'd started arguing with someone... and at another point, fairly soon after, that someone had become you. You weren't even entirely sure how- one second you were minding your own business, then the next Randy was explaining your own opinion back to you incorrectly.

"No," you snapped for what felt like the fifth time. "That's not what I said."

"It's basically what you said."

"It literally isn't, though." Randy shrugged, the gesture alone nearly making you homicidal.

"Whatever." You felt something twitch behind your eye. Yesterday's frustration came rushing back all at once. Natalie's short answers, her sudden distance, the way she'd looked annoyed for no reason, the way you'd spent the entire night wondering what could put an end to your misery...

And now this idiot was standing in front of you acting like being loud automatically made him right.

"Seriously, can you not?" you muttered.

"What?"

"Can you stop doing that?" Randy laughed.

"What am I doing?" You stared at him. The fact that he genuinely seemed unaware somehow made it worse.

"Existing?" someone nearby offered, and a few people laughed. Randy rolled his eyes and glanced in their general direction. "Oh, wow. Real mature."

The bell hadn't rung yet, so people were lingering in the hallway now, slowing down as they sensed something entertaining might be happening.

You should've walked away- realistically, you knew that. Instead, you stayed, and Randy kept talking- every response more dismissive than the last, every interruption scraping another layer off your already nonexistent patience.

"You always get like this when somebody disagrees with you."

You actually laughed, sharp and humorless, "Disagrees with me?"

"Yeah."

"You haven't listened to a single thing I've said-" The smug look on his face as you began to come undone is really what did it, and something inside you snapped clean in half.

"And you know what, Randy? You can absolutely go fuck yourself because no one has actually cared ONCE about anything you've ever had to say," but you don't stop there, your outburst has layers to it.

"And I can't even have the pleasure of saying, "no one cares what you think" because you DON'T think! You've never had a single thought in your head, and that's the only impressive thing you'll ever fucking do."

"Jesus, what's your-"

"No- shut up. For once in your life, just shut up and listen." The words come so fast you can barely keep up with them.

"I am so tired of hearing you talk over people like your opinion is some kind of gift. Nobody's impressed, Randy! Nobody's sitting around waiting to hear what groundbreaking observation you're going to recycle from somebody else." His face reddened as a small crowd started to form, which you couldn't care less about.

"You walk around acting like you're the smartest person in every room when you're barely the smartest person in your own fucking conversations." You whipped around and stormed down the hall, face burning at your own actions, even though it was totally deserved.

You could hear people mumbling and laughing over your outburst as you booked it to the bathroom. Was it necessary to unleash your romantic frustrations on some random Jock? Not really. But did it make you feel better? That would also be a "no"... If anything, it just made your skin feel too tight for your body.

The bathroom was empty when you got there, fluorescent lights humming softly overhead. You shoved the door shut harder than necessary and immediately regretted it when the sound echoed too loudly in the small space.

For a second, you just stood there, far too aware of your breathing, staring at yourself in the mirror like you were waiting for some version of you to make sense of what just happened.

Your cheeks were still warm, not quite from embarrassment, more like leftover adrenaline, still running hot under your skin. You pressed your palms against the sink and exhaled slowly.

It wasn’t even about Randy. It never really was when you thought about it too long. It was just easier to aim everything outward than sit with whatever’s been sitting in your chest since yesterday.

You went about your day, trying to wipe away everything that had happened in the last 24 hours, in hopes of relaxing. It seemed like even acknowledging that things happened made it all worse, because even at the end of the day, you found yourself in one of the stalls of the locker room, trying to calm yourself down again.

You left the stall and headed to the sink to splash a bit of water on your face, like that might reset something. It didn't. The hallway outside kept moving without you. Voices passed by, laughing, talking about the game tonight, about borrowing jerseys, and who’s meeting after. Normal stuff. Your stuff.

You glanced up at the clock in the corner of the locker room, wishing it was much later in the afternoon and that you could just go out and cheer already. Back to smiling and acting like nothing was wrong.

You leaned against the counter, exhaling again, slower this time. You told yourself it wasn't a big deal, and you almost believed it until the door opened again. You looked up before you could stop yourself, and standing in the doorway, like she’d paused mid-step and forgotten why she walked in, was Natalie.

For a second, neither of you said anything, the bathroom suddenly feeling even smaller than it did a moment ago. Her eyes flicked to you, then away, then back again like she was weighing whether or not to leave. Your stomach dropped in a way you couldn't quite describe. Of all the moments in the day when you could’ve stayed invisible, she picked this one. You straightened a little without meaning to, still trying to catch your breath from everything before.

“...Hey,” you managed, quieter than you expected. Natalie didn't answer right away, just shifted her weight in the doorway. The bathroom hummed around you- fluorescent lights, distant lockers slamming outside, muffled voices bleeding through the walls like the rest of the school is happening somewhere far away and you’ve been dropped into a quieter version of it.

Natalie was still in the doorway- not leaving, not coming closer either, just hovering.

Your hands were still slightly damp from washing them, even though you dried them. You wiped them on your skirt without thinking, suddenly hyper-aware of everything- your breathing, your heartbeat, the way the space between you feels too small for something that isn’t even happening yet.

You almost were able to come up with something normal, but your brain kept tripping over itself, replaying the last twenty-four hours in fragments you couldn't organize into anything useful.

Natalie finally pushed the door fully open with her shoulder and stepped inside. The sound of it clicking shut behind her was louder than it should've been. She glanced at you, then at the mirror, like she was checking whether she wanted to be seen there at all. You cross your arms without meaning to.

“Game day bathrooms are your new hangout spot?” you muttered, because apparently your mouth has decided subtlety is dead.

Natalie huffed something that might've been a laugh, “Didn’t realize I needed your permission.”

It didn't land the way it usually does, her familiar edge irritating you in a bitter way rather than a fiery way. There was something softer under it, buried too deep for you to grab. You shifted your weight, trying to ignore the way your chest tightened anyway.

“Right,” you muttered, arms crossed, before you picked up your bag and began to head for the door. “Well, I wouldn’t want to interrupt your busy schedule.”

Natalie’s eyes flick to you again, sharper this time. “Wow... you’re in a mood.”

You let out a short, humorless laugh, “You noticed.”

There was a slight beat before she pushed off the doorframe and stepped further in, like she’d decided staying was easier than leaving. The space between you felt less like distance and more like tension pulled too tight. Natalie tilted her head slightly.

“What happened to you today?” That question hit harder than it should've, taking you back to the feeling of comfort and casualness. You understood why she hated being asked what was wrong, because at least for you, it felt like answering would make everything between you normal. Like complaining to her would give her too much access to something she could use against you in the future. Like she didn’t spend yesterday disappearing in front of you and leaving you to carry it all into today.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say. “Maybe I just enjoy being emotionally stable and not weirdly shut out for no reason.”

Natalie’s expression flickered briefly before she scoffed softly, like she was brushing it off before it could turn into something real.

“Wow, dramatic much?” she says, but it’s flatter than usual, less sharp, more… cautious, somehow. You let out a short laugh, but you both knew nothing was funny.

“Dramatic?” you echo. “You literally freak out on me and go from normal to completely emotionally unavailable in like- five minutes, and then act like I'm insane for noticing.”

Natalie exhales through her nose, leaning back slightly against the lockers like she’s trying to put space between her and the conversation.

“I didn’t go "emotionally unavailable," I just didn't feel like talking to you anymore.” Ouch. There wasn't any bite to her words, which definitely made it worse. You huffed through your nose and rolled your eyes.

“Oh, sorry,” you muttered. “Next time I’ll use more accurate terminology for ‘suddenly acting like I don’t exist.’”

Nat took a deep breath and let her head fall back against the lockers, eyes trained on the ceiling tiles. “You act like I planned it.”

“I didn’t say you planned it,” you reply immediately. “I said it happened. And then you acted like it didn't- which is kind of worse.”

That landed a little differently than any other time you'd accused her of ghosting you. Because you never actually seemed to care about her pulling away, you just made a fuss about it when it meant you couldn't have the last word. Now it felt like you were upset about something entirely different...

“…I wasn’t ignoring you,” she said, quieter now- honestly.

“Okay,” you shrugged, then continued impatiently, “Then what was it?”

She hesitated, trying to decipher in real time how much of herself she’d be willing to let you see before it turned into something she regretted.

“I don’t know,” she breathed out finally, a little sharper. “I just… got in my head, that's all.”

You stared at her, head ticking slightly to the side in suspicion, “That’s it?”

Natalie shrugged, defensive now. “That’s it.”

You nodded, not believing any of it, then she added, quieter, “I mean- sorry, I didn't think that would ruin your whole week.”

You huffed out a breath, crossing your arms again, “Now who's being dramatic?”

That earned you a look- not an irritated one that told you another heated argument was about to ensue, but a tired one that you weren't quite sure what to make of.

“You’re still mad about it,” she observed.

“I’m not mad,” you corrected automatically. Natalie raised an eyebrow, and you hesitated, “…I’m just saying it was weird.”

There was a pause where neither of you moved much, the air between you shifting- less sharp than before, but still charged in that way that didn't quite settle.

Natalie tilted her head slightly. “You’re the one who stormed out yesterday too, you know.”

“That was different.”

“How?”

“Because I had a reason.”

“Oh my god,” she muttered with a soft chuckle, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

That finally pulled something looser out of you- a small, reluctant huff of what could be a laugh if you were less stubborn. “You started it.”

“I did not start anything,” she argued immediately. “I was literally just existing.”

“You were existing suspiciously and avoiding casual conversation!” Natalie stared at you, then, despite herself, she laughed. It broke the tension just enough- not completely- but enough that your shoulders dropped a fraction.

She put her hands in her pockets as she shifted her weight back against the lockers, studying you for a second.

“You’re seriously still mad about yesterday,” she said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation and more like curiosity.

You opened your mouth to defend yourself, then stopped. Because saying yes is way too honest for what she deserved, but you knew denying it entirely would just keep you in this cycle until who knows when.

“Maybe I’m just mad at you in general.” Natalie’s mouth twitched.

“Yeah?” she quirked, the teasing lilt you'd grown accustomed to sending a warmth through your chest. “That sounds healthy.”

You shrugged. “It works.”

There was a moment where Natalie just stared at you, amused, before pushing off the lockers and striding over to you, crowding your space in a way that somehow didn't quite feel suffocating.

"Ya know, you've sure got a lot to say for someone who cries when she sits on my face."

You let out a small gasp, smacking her shoulder, not expecting her to shift the conversation to such, "I do not!"

"You absolutely do, and you're desperate for it every time-" you cut her off almost immediately, before she got too cocky

"Well, it seems to be the only way to get you to shut up, and i'm honestly hoping one of these days you just suffocate down there and die." Nat let out a full-body laugh at your seriousness, shifting to lean her shoulder on the lockers next to you.

"A girl can dream..." she expressed sarcastically-dreamily, overexaggerating her wide-eyed expression to further piss you off, only to pull a soft huff of laughter from you.

You turned back toward the mirror, pretending to focus on your makeup, even though you could feel Natalie looking at you. You caught her reflection once- then again. Both times she looked away immediately. Which was strange since Natalie usually had the subtlety of a brick through a window.

A small smile tugged at your lips. "You look guilty."

She scoffed, "What would I be guilty of- I literally haven't done anything."

"Exactly." her head jerked slightly, brows pinching together

"What does that even mean?"

"It means you're being weird." She rolled her eyes. "Says you."

You frowned at your reflection. "What?"

Natalie shrugged. "You've been weird all day."

"I've been normal all day."

"No-" She pushed off the lockers and wandered a little closer. "You've been mopey."

You groaned, pausing your makeup routine for a moment to complain. "Don't use that word."

"Mopey?" She stalked toward you in a somewhat jokingly predaorty way, trying to be obnoxious

"Yes." Her hands disappeared into the pockets of her jacket as she rocked back on her heels, looking entirely too entertained by the conversation, "Why?"

"Because it's so belittling." You whined, and Natalie's smile widened, your reaction only encouraging her.

"I mean what else could I call you?" she paused for a second, "Mopey."

You pointed a makeup brush at her. "Stop."

Natalie's grin only grew, the teasing officially becoming the new point of the conversation. It was honestly the most wholesome argument the two of you have ever had, and neither of you seemed quite ready to genuinely pissing each other off.

"You were soooo mopey."

"Natalie."

"You moped around all day!" Despite yourself, a laugh escaped you, and Natalie immediately looked pleased, like she'd won something. You rolled your eyes, but your own smile was becoming harder to suppress, which Natalie noticed immediately, of course.

She was so pleased with herself that she'd managed to drag you out of whatever mood you'd been trapped in and intended to take full credit for it. Meanwhile, you were trying very hard not to encourage her, because every time Natalie realized she was getting a reaction out of you, she doubled down.

"Wow."

"What?"

"That." She pointed at your face, making you get self-conscious instantly. You glanced at your reflection in the mirror for a brief moment to see what she was talking about, before looking back at her.

"What are you talking about?"

"Nothing."

"Natalie."

"Nothing." The fact that she was suddenly refusing to elaborate made you more suspicious than if she'd just insulted you. You eyed her suspiciously, then turned back around, catching her reflection in the mirror again, this time, she didn't look away.

Something about that made your stomach do an uncomfortable little flip, as you forced yourself to focus on your makeup again.

"Y'know..." she said, with a smile so soft you'd think she'd forgotten who she was talking to. Your eyes flickered up to her, then back down, then you glanced fully at her through the mirror, "What?"

You instantly regretted acknowledging her, as you watched a grin slowly return to her face,

"Ya know... I always thought you looked so cute in your stupid uniform." this pulled a genuine laugh of disbelief from you, causing you to take a break from fixing your makeup in the mirror.

"Yeah? Is that why you show up at the end of every home game and irritate me until I drag you back to my house?"

She looked even more smug, like a stupid cat who just successfully pushed something off the table, "that's exactly why"

There was a brief pause as she hovered near you. Nat could tell you were turning somethig over in your head- trying to decide whether or not your next question would be recived well.

"You gonna show up again tonight?"

"Hmm, i don't know... think it's about time i start trying to break my bad habits"

"Okay, then skip the game and still come to my house after"

"I don't know, y/n..." she teetered, obviously pushing your buttons, her mind was made up before the topic even came up, "what if I just wanna come over and fuck?"

You didn't even roll your eyes at her that time, just crossed your arms over your chest and demanded, "Then come fuck me."

Nat scoffed out a laugh, a bit taken aback by your bossiness, considering how shy you seemed to be getting a few moments ago, "You gonna ask nicely?"

She already knew the answer to that. Even if you were showing moments of softness, you were still a brat. "Of course not."

And so she did exactly as you told her to do- not without rolling her eyes and insulting you, of course. You teased and flirted, tugging her close by the collar of her jacket as she fiddled with the bottom of your skirt, before parting ways.

you don’t even catch the fact that you’re smiling so brightly until natalie pulls herself over the window sill, landing inside your room smoothly as if it’s muscle memory at this point.

which, it probably is.

she pauses after climbing in, breath slowing after the intense cardio she had just seemed to finish, eyes landing on you with a glint of relief.

there’s always something about the way natalie looks at you every time she successfully sneaks into your room, as if she just snuck into some highly guarded prison.

“hi,” she whispers.

you shake your head, holding back a smile as you try to look unimpressed with her insane sneaking in skills even though your chest is warming even more in your chest.

“you’re late.”

natalie simply shrugs with an exasperated expression, closing the window quietly behind her.

“your porch light was on for forty minutes while i was parked outside. i thought your mom was still up.”

“god, seems like she always is,” you mutter under your breath. “at this rate we’re gonna get caught one day.”

natalie let’s out a quiet chuckle, inching closer.

“yeah? then i’ll just tell her i came over to study.”

you raise an eyebrow at her words, holding back a scoff yourself.

“you? studying? really?”

“hey,” she says, feigning an offended tone. “i could be studying material, can’t i?.”

“yeah well, you’re wearing a leather jacket, and in my mom’s eyes, that’s like—being sent to hell energy.”

“okay, you have a point.”

you try to keep your serious face, but it slips from your face immediately. a smile reveals itself onto her face now too as she comes even closer, your noses nearly touching now, and then her hand brushes lightly along your arm like she’s memorizing the feel of you.

“you’ve been staring at the window since i told you i was coming on the phone, haven’t you?” she whispers.

your face warms as you quickly scrabble out, “no i have not.”

she lets out a sound, she clearly doesn’t believe you. “don’t lie to me, you have.”

you don’t get the chance to refuse again, because she immediately breaks the gap and kisses you.

your hand comes grips the front natalie’s jacket instinctively as you kiss her back with an equal amount of force, she steps closer without breaking the kiss, one hand sliding to your waist as the other brushes over the thin fabric of your nightgown.

“you talk too much,” she mumbles against your lips.

“you sneak into my house in the middle of the night,” you whisper back with a smile. “i think i’m allowed.”

she grins, and kisses you again, this time with a softness, and you fall back onto your bed as you tug natalie down with you.

she goes with no fight, bracing the impact with a hand beside your head as she climbs over you, her knees pressing into the mattress between yours, the fabric of your gown riding up under her touch.

the book you were previously ‘reading’ slides off your bed and hits the floor with a thud, neither of you care enough to break the kiss.

“missed you so much,” natalie whines under her breath, talking absentminded as she brushes her fingers along the side of your body, now slipping just beneath the your nightgown to rest against your bare skin.

“you saw me a few hours ago,” you say, wanting to tease her, but it comes out more tenderly than you intended it to.

“yeah,” she agrees, leaning down to kiss you again, “still fucking missed you.”

she kisses you slower now, with affection and care dripping into the action.

your fingers make their way into her hair, tugging on the strands gently, and she exhales a breath against your mouth in a way that makes butterflies release in your stomach.

this moment is so fragile and warm and special the way all of your memories with natalie are, and you just wish it wasn’t limited to your room.

and as you two are getting more and more lost in each other, suddenly there’s a knock.

you and natalie natalie freeze instantly, her hand tightening at your waist.

“sweetheart?” your mom’s voice comes from the opposite side of the door with a sleepy rasp. “your light’s still on.”

at this point your heart is pounding so hard in your chest that you feel like you’re about to throw up.

natalie hides her face in the softness of your neck, as if that will somehow hide her. you swallow the lump in your throat.

“uh…yeah!” you answer quickly, trying to sound as calm as possible although you sound more breathless if anything. you clear your throat. “i’m just uh—reading.”

“reading what?” your mom asks in a suspicious tone.

you glance frantically at your desk, your nightstand, anything—until your eyes land on the book on the floor.

“the bible!” you blurt out.

natalie presses her face harder into your warmth, attempting to stay silent but laughing still.

“okay,” your mom says after a moment of silence that feels like minutes. “don’t stay up too late.”

“i won’t!”

and with that, her footsteps fade down the hallway, until she finally reaches her room, and the door closes.

you don’t move. natalie doesn’t either.

you both wait until the house is dead again—until the quiet swallows the home like it did before. that was way too close.

after a few minutes, natalie lifts her head.

her face is inches away from yours, her cheeks red and her expression giving away the suppressed laughter.

“the bible?” she whispers with a cackle.

you shove her lightly with a frown, worry still wretched onto your face.

“shut up.”

“you don’t even read your bible.”

“i panicked, okay?”

she bites her lip, still smiling widely as her forehead rests against yours.

“you’re stupid.”

“you’re the one who spontaneously planned this visit tonight!”

“yeah,” she says, softer. “because i wanted to see you.” the teasing fades as the two of you gaze into each others eyes. the reality your situation lingers, and you glance at the door.

“if she knew,” you start, then stop yourself at the vulnerability and fear in your tone.

natalie’s expression dims.

“i know,” she says with a sadness in her tone.

but before the night could be absolutely ruined, natalie presses a soft kiss to your cheek, and then another one to your jaw, and a chaste one to your lips.

“i’m still here, aren’t i?” she whispers.

your hand intertwines with hers, squeezing onto each other tightly.

“yeah.”

she smiles softly, brushing her thumb over your knuckles as she brings it to her lips.

“then stop thinking about it so much.”

you force out a sad laugh.

“easy for you to say.”

“not really,” she admits, and with your questioning gaze, she continues, “i would do anything to go out on a normal date with you, to kiss you in public, to marry—“ she cuts herself off, and you finally look at her.

but she just shakes her head and leans in again, kissing you even softer, slower, and with purpose, a purpose to make all the things she said come true one day.

your hand slides back into her hair, and you two get lost in each other once again, the worries fading into the background.

you’re still isolated in the four walls of your bedroom, and it’s still a fragile secret you two will need to hide for now, but you know that someday, it will all be worth it.

𝖱𝖤𝖡𝖫𝖮𝖦𝖲 𝖠𝖯𝖯𝖱𝖤𝖢𝖨𝖠𝖳𝖤𝖣 ૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

© blairenqs 2026 do not repost, plagiarize, or translate.

✧ 𝑓. me when i unintentionally trauma dump… for all the baddies who have homophobic moms I FEEL U 😢💗 anyways i’m starting to get writers block PLEASE send in some requests bc i deadahh don’t know what to write anymore!!! ALSO THANK U SO MUCH FOR 500 FOLLOWERS. it means the world 🫶🏼🫶🏼

𓂃ㅤ 𝓉𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 ୨୧ @lcvealwayss @viennasolace @love4madii @keilahhhsstuff ♡ thank you so much for joining !

You didn’t really care when your back clashed a bit too roughly against the steering wheel, causing the horn to sound out loud and clear amidst the empty parking lot.

You didn’t care that your knees were bent uncomfortably, making your thighs burn, giving you the certainty of an incoming ache that was meant to linger for at least the next couple of days.

And, to be honest, it didn’t really faze you that someone could randomly walk by the car and see Natalie’s pale hand slammed against the fogged up window or hear the clinking sound of her rings as they bumped on the glass.

When you were with her, alone, just the two of you, nothing else seemed to matter. The haze of her fingertips on your skin, her hot breath against your neck and her wet kisses on your jaw clouded your mind with a dense, heavy fog — and, suddenly, all that mattered was chasing that high, prolonging that feeling, relishing the sensation for as long as you possibly could, knowing it would all be gone sooner than you’d like to admit.

And, when it was over, it was over. Abrupt, quick, like ripping off a band-aid — something you just pull off and forget about. As simple as that. Like it never happened.

So you kept savoring it while it was still happening, while it was still real — because, soon, it wouldn’t be. You let your hands meet her hair, her jaw, her neck — feeling her, gripping her like she was yours: your quiet way of letting her know that, in that moment, she was. Even though it wasn’t true. Even though it would end. 

Natalie’s fingers were agile and annoyingly talented, curling expertly in a way you’d never admit you loved, at least not when you were in your right mind. And that’s what you hated the most — how good she was. How she never missed. How she picked up on subtle sighs and noises and shivers no one else ever did.

Your skirt was crumpled up around your waist, underwear carelessly pulled to the side, top already long gone, tossed somewhere on the backseat amidst loose paper sheets and the emergency umbrella you always kept around. She worked you like she meant it, as if she was trying to prove something, watching your scrunched up face like her favorite movie. She analyzed the way your eyelids pressed together, the way your lips parted, the way you threw your head back and your hips moved faster, more desperate, more urgent.

And, well, she was good — so she did something about it. Caught up to your rhythm with skill. Pressed her lips to yours because she knew you liked to be kissed while she touched you. Because it made her crazy to feel how your breath hitched and your mouth opened in a gasp against your will, so stupid and pathetic you couldn’t even bring yourself to keep kissing her properly.

“Just like that…” You managed to blurt out in a single breath, whispered and hushed, the sound fading away in the air like a promise you’d soon forget. “Fuck, Nat, I’m so close.”

She flashed you a smirk. That fucking smirk — smug, conceited, devilish, subtly letting you know she was very much aware of what she did to you, of how much she affected you. Of how much you hated that you couldn’t get enough. And she knew it.

You didn’t last long after that. Before you could even think, you were already sweaty and panting and utterly destroyed, body limp against hers, head instinctively sinking into the curve of her neck for no more than a split second — that blissful moment of lull and oblivion, when the blood hadn’t rushed back to your brain yet, while your mind was still just as useless as your weakened knees.

But it ended — of course. It always ended.

You were the first to pull away. Still breathing heavily and sporting a pair of flushed cheeks, you brought your head up, left her lap, found your way to the passenger seat. Always quiet, always avoiding eye contact. You quickly adjusted your underwear and pulled your skirt back down, smoothing it clumsily with one shaky hand as the other reached for your now creased shirt on the backseat.

No one said anything, no one asked anything. Natalie simply fixed the collar of her leather jacket, which was crooked and slightly pulled up from the way you’d held onto it earlier, lips still red and swollen from being kissed with so much passion. The previous sounds of gasping, moaning and scattered whispers that filled the car had now been replaced with a lingering, familiar, uncomfortable silence.

Then, unannounced, your phone buzzed once, then twice, then a few more times, cutting sharply through the quiet. Unsolicited. Like a violation.

The low, steady, torturous humming, along with the way the screen lit up with the name Josh written across it, made you flinch — immediately and quite visibly, your shoulders tensed up and your heart skipped a beat, like you’d been caught in the middle of doing something wrong.

Natalie scoffed under her breath, shaking her head subtly, almost imperceptibly — almost. But you noticed, and you wanted to reprimand her for it. To tell her she had no right to judge you. To scold her for giving you that annoying, condescending, holier-than-thou look. But you didn’t. Instead, you just grabbed your phone and, before answering it, muttered huskily:

“Keep your mouth shut.”

You gave your boyfriend a half assed excuse involving a study session that had run late, something that seemed to happen more and more naturally lately, while Natalie just leaned back against the driver’s seat — one arm slung over her own head, blonde hair touching the headrest, sitting casually in your car like it was her own. The call went on for about a minute, you coming up with short answers and unelaborate lies, Natalie staring at her phone, aimlessly scrolling — still in your space, for some reason.

When you finally hung up, she still had that cocky smile on her lips, eyes on you this time, her own cellphone tossed back aside.

“Study session, huh?” She mocked, one hand traveling to a small pocket on the inside of her jacket, carelessly fishing for something.

“Shut up.” You replied, ears hot, heart racing — some sort of mixture of guilt, sadness, shame and some other feeling you couldn’t quite name taking over your chest.

Your clothes were back on, you weren’t straddling her lap anymore. Her hands were now fiddling with something on her jacket, nowhere near you. The sex was over. Your worried boyfriend had called looking for you.

You knew what that meant.

It was time to go back to hating Natalie.

“Just saying.” Her voice was raspy and teasing, very clearly amused by your distress, as she finally pulled a rolled joint out of her pocket and brought it up to her lips. “With all the studying you’ve done lately, the poor bastard might think you’re applying for a job at NASA.”

“Shut the fuck, up, Scatorccio.” You fumed, one hand traveling abruptly and roughly to yank the unlit joint out of her mouth. “And don’t even think about stinking up my car with this shit.”

Natalie laughed, throwing her head back just enough for you to spot a small, red mark you’d accidentally left on the skin of her neck.

“Back to Scatorccio already?” She bit back, reaching to steal the blunt back from you and tucking it in her pocket again, fingertips almost shocking you as they brushed against your own. “It was Nat just a few minutes ago.”

You felt a burning heat creep up your neck, painting you red in a mixture of embarrassment and anger, along with a tightening feeling in your chest you simply couldn’t shake. She had that effect on you — always leaving you confused, upset, frustrated, filled with an unexplainable rage that made your blood boil and your heart sink.

“Just stop fucking talking, will you?” You blurted out, instinctively sinking your head into your hands, wanting to crawl into a hole and hide from her gaze, from her judgment, from that weird thing she made you feel in your chest.

Silence installed itself back in the car, and you didn’t really know what to do with it. You let your mind wander, and caught yourself wishing you had been stronger — you wished you hadn’t let your weakness get the best out of you earlier after playing horribly during that scrimmage. Wished you’d only closed your eyes and taken deep breaths when Jackie scolded you for not paying enough attention to your surroundings as Shauna stole the ball from under your feet. Wished it hadn’t only gotten worse when you left the locker room after practice and saw that Josh had texted you, asking to hang out, which you fully ignored, despite him technically being the person you were supposed to want to see. Wished you’d had better self control, that you could somehow find somewhere else to take your stress out on.

That your mind would drift to literally anything or anyone other than Natalie Scatorccio — than dragging her to your car and driving her away to an empty parking lot, than letting her touch and kiss and hold you until whatever bothered you earlier had long vanished from your thoughts.

The heavy quiet was disturbed by the sound of a breathy chuckle coming from the driver’s seat, where Natalie still sat nonchalantly, absentmindedly playing with the lighter that dangled from the holder attached to the carabiner she always had around her belt loop.

The sound alone was enough to make you feel like you could murder someone — preferably her.

“What’s so funny?” You asked with clear annoyance in your voice, rude and dismissive, yet still infuriatingly curious about what was happening inside of her head.

She shook her head slowly, softly, eyes stuck on the dashboard before her.

“It’s nothing.”

Still, that patronizing smirk lingered on her lips, causing a maddening, irritating sensation to settle itself in your chest.

“Something’s clearly funny enough to keep you laughing to yourself like a crazy person.”

Natalie let out a scoff, shaking her head again as if the whole situation was nothing but amusing to her.

“Since you really wanna know.” She started, eyes drifting toward your face. “You’re doing that thing again. All over me one minute, acting like I’m contagious the next.”

Your breath caught in your throat — you didn’t expect to be called out like that.

“I don’t— I don’t do that.”

She laughed again.

“Please, you don’t even believe that.” She stopped messing with the lighter, her ring clad fingers now resting beside her body on the driver’s seat.

“I was not all over you.”

Natalie paused, staring at you for a second, still smirking. Like she was pondering whether or not to talk. Like she was analyzing you.

“You can act like you hate me all you want. Give your boyfriend as many excuses as you can come up with. Behave like the perfect, uptight, goody little princess you want everyone to think you are.” She stopped for a beat, tilting her head just a bit, eyes never leaving yours. “But you can’t run away from yourself. You’re so deeply stuck in denial it’s gonna end up eating away at you eventually.”

You didn’t know what to say. Her words hit you like a punch to the gut, blunt and sharp, way too close to home. You hated that she saw right through the front you so carefully built, that she read you like an open book — one that was written in a language only the two of you understood. You hated how condescendingly she spoke to you, as if she could ever understand the crushing pressure you’d been under your whole life. You hated how right she was about everything she’d said, and how, deep down, you knew it — though you’d never willingly admit it, you wouldn’t, you simply couldn’t.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.” A stubborn crack made itself present in your voice, causing your cheeks to blush even harder with anger and shame. “I’m not running away from anything.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” Natalie’s tone was still smug and mocking, and maybe, just maybe, bearing a hint of hurt. A tiny, subtle, almost unnoticeable hint. “Live your lie, marry some guy you could never love, keep secretly sneaking off to fuck random girls like me so you can feel alive every once in a while.” She scoffed. “Hell of a life, huh?”

You could feel your heart threatening to beat out of your chest, the fuming sensation taking over your body so intensely you thought smoke might start coming out of your ears. Natalie’s words hurt, stung, cut through you like a sharp sword — deeply, abruptly, without ever giving you a chance to try and assemble an effective defense.

Sure, she had always been the type to make snarky comments — witty remarks, crafted comebacks designed specifically to mess with you, clever insults and backhanded compliments that somehow always found a way to tackle the absurdity of the situation happening between the two of you. The teasing, the hatred, the heated sex, the silence that came from you afterwards. You knew it was ridiculous, it hammered in your head every single night, and she never let you forget it. There was always something, as little as it was.

But she’d never been this… direct. Elaborate. Hurtful.

You didn’t know what it was that pushed Natalie over the edge, but you didn’t like it. Didn’t like to be called out like that. Didn’t like to be forced to think about the situation you were in, about how pathetic you must have seemed in her eyes.

“Don’t act like you know me. You know nothing about me.” You spoke through your teeth, using all the strength in your body to keep yourself from crying. You wouldn’t give her the satisfaction. “And I do love Josh. This doesn’t have anything to do with that.”

Natalie let out another laugh, this time louder.

“Oh, it doesn’t? What is this, then?”

Unlike hers, your voice only went lower, more quiet, more guarded.

“It’s… stress relief.” You said, weak and flustered, painfully aware of how hopelessly pitiful you sounded. “It doesn’t mean I’m…”

You trailed off, and Natalie kept chuckling incredulously, reeling in the sheer insanity of your words.

“What, that you’re gay?” She sounded out loudly, the one word you dreaded coming out of her lips and straight to your chest, cutting a hole through you like an arrow. “Fuck, you really are locked in that closet, aren’t you?”

Oh.

She went there. She actually went there.

You were not gay.

No.

Not gay.

The kisses, the touches, the sex — it was plainly and simply stress relief.

When you met Natalie, back when you were both freshmen, she was annoying, conceited, a hard headed know-it-all who kept shoulder shoving and tripping you during practice. She always made sure to get the last word in, weirdly obsessed with humbling you whatever chance she got, calling you a privileged princess and disagreeing with absolutely everything you said, whatever it was. But you didn’t fall behind — you argued back, showed her up, tried to prove yourself through your performance in the field. Tried to one up her.

Tried to ignore the way her bleached hair clung to her sweaty forehead whenever she ran across the field, the way her chest went up and down with heavy breaths whenever coach Scott told the team to take a five-minute break, the way she drank from her water bottle so clumsily and desperately a few drops dripped down her chin and onto the collar of her shirt.

It wasn’t gay. You were just… noticing. You noticed things.

You were human, after all.

And, well, she noticed things, too. She was also human.

So it simply made sense when, one day, after a particularly charged practice, she pulled you into an empty shower stall in the locker room and made her hand disappear inside your shorts, fucking the tension away, making you melt into her body until you couldn’t remember what had even made you so mad earlier on.

And you let her.

And it kept happening. Over and over again.

You were both ticked off by each other, stuck in a long lasting rivalry that set you both on edge, and that’s what those secret moments were fueled by — it just made sense. A way to shut each other up. To ease the tension. It had nothing to do with being gay.

It was stress relief.

Therefore, of course you felt personally attacked when Natalie used that word to describe you. Like she knew anything about you at all. Like she understood what was going on inside of your mind.

She didn’t.

You gulped, mouth immediately closing shut, and just stared at her for a moment too long.

After what felt like forever, you blurted out, voice barely above a whisper, charged with unshed tears:

“Get out.”

She laughed incredulously.

“What?”

“You heard me. Get the fuck out of my car.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Natalie turned her body completely towards you, looking utterly shocked.

“Get out, Scatorccio.” You reinforced. “I mean it.”

“We’re in a deserted fucking parking lot in the middle of nowhere.” The smirk that annoyed you so much finally left her lips, now replaced by a frown, accompanied by her raspy, rigid voice. “Do you know how long I’d have to walk to make it back to campus? In the fucking dark?”

“Not my problem.”

Natalie looked at you like you were insane. Maybe you were — she was making you that way, with her furrowed brows, her angry stare, her shocked demeanor. With her messy hair, still carrying the traces of your fingertips. With her scent, stuck in the air inside your car.

And you knew you were being unreasonable. Knew it was unfair to pull her in whenever you wanted and then leave her hanging that way. But you couldn’t stop yourself. Couldn’t handle the weight of what she’d just told you. You just kept staring down, eyes fixed on the glove compartment so you wouldn’t have to meet her gaze.

So she opened the door. Roughly. Angrily.

Then, a huff.

“Fucking pathetic.” She said under her breath, jumping out of your car onto the empty parking lot, her worn Converse knocking against the asphalt.

You couldn’t bring yourself to say anything. You thought Natalie wouldn’t either.

But, then, she turned around one last time, hand over the car door, cheeks flushed from the sudden cool breeze that hit her face.

“Next time you’re stressed,” the words were practically spat out of her lips, bitter and crushing, “don’t bother seeking me out.”

Nothing more was said. Natalie slammed the door so hard the whole car shook, and you were only able to lift your head up to look at her once you were sure she was facing away. You caught a glimpse of her back, blonde locks messily flying in the wind, hands tucked inside of her pockets, walking fast.

You felt so small.

Your heart was tight, weird, heavy in your chest for some reason. You weren’t able to return to the driver’s seat until she disappeared in the horizon through the glow of a few scattered lamp posts and the moon, kissing the back of her head so beautifully it made your chest ache even further.

There was an assortment of confusing, agonizing feelings mingling inside of you. Worry, disappointment, resignation. A type of sadness that cut deeply, leaving you seated there, alone, for what felt like forever. Gruesome, gut wrenching loneliness, amplified by the vastity of the parking lot you were at and by that fucking Slowdive song that started faintly playing on the radio — the one that always made you think of Natalie every time you heard it.

And, of course, the very worst one of them: that sinking feeling, deep in your bones, whenever you saw her in the distance — the same you felt when you caught her running through the soccer field or outside at a party, smoking a joint and cracking jokes with Lottie and Van. The same that made you dizzy when her eyes met yours from across the room and that knowing crooked grin popped up on her lips for no more than a second before facing away. The same that made your hands tremble when she finally approached you.

You couldn’t explain it. You just felt it.

And you didn’t feel it when you looked at Josh.

Fuck, Josh. Still texting, still asking to hang out. Probably trying to get in your pants with how insistent he’s been tonight.

You shook off the feeling — or tried to, at least. Jumped into the driver’s seat and turned off the radio before the song was even over. Drove back to campus with the windows down, needing the wind to blow the thoughts away, resisting the urge to cruise slowly and scan the side of the road for signs of Natalie. Feeling guilty, on top of everything else, for letting her walk alone when you caught a glimpse of just how dark the way back was.

When you got to your dorm, you texted Josh another excuse, saying you were tired from studying and just wanted to shower and crash for the night.

When it came to Josh, it wasn’t that you hated him — you’d just never really loved him, either.

But you could. You thought you could. Maybe. If you gave it enough time.

Still, six months had passed and you hadn’t really felt it yet. Sure, he wasn’t so bad. You actually laughed at his jokes, most of the time. He was smart, handsome, mostly kind — and you saw that. There was no obvious reason why you shouldn’t love him.

So you didn’t really understand why your hands felt like someone else’s every time you touched him. Why lacing your fingers through his felt like an act of politeness rather than affection. Why his lips tasted like they lacked something, and kissing them felt like an item you merely had to cross off a checklist. Why it took every last ounce of strength in your body to let him lay you down and touch you. Why you felt the desperate need for a shower and some time alone afterwards, every single time.

And especially why that wasn’t the case at all with Natalie.

Because when you were with her, your hands were your own as they dug through her hair, as they unbuttoned her shirt. And it was passion you felt when she intertwined your fingers together against the mattress and whispered words of praise in your ear. And her lips tasted like cigarettes and peppermint and something addictive, something you couldn’t get enough of, something you counted the hours until you were able to taste again. And it was just natural for you to let her touch you in the way she did — so desperate, so eager, as if she also felt every single thing you were feeling, communicating through gasps and pants and wandering fingertips. And it pained you every time you acted as if you hated her, because the truth was you didn’t want to leave. You wanted to stay. You wanted to hold her through the night, to sink your head into her chest, to let her run her fingers through your hair. You wanted to talk to her, to hear her stupid dirty jokes, to watch her proud smile as you laughed at each one of them.

You wanted her.

But you couldn’t. You just couldn’t.

So, instead, you showered. Washed off her perfume from your skin. Scrubbed off her chapstick from your neck. Got rid of any remaining evidence of her fingers on your hair. Lay down in bed and stared at your phone for hours, waiting for a text you knew wouldn’t come, especially after what she’d told you before walking off.

“Next time you’re stressed, don’t bother seeking me out.”

It echoed in your head for days. Her husky voice. Her firm tone. The hurt look on her face.

Then came the night of the party.

Josh had insisted on your presence — it was his frat’s biggest party of the semester, and he was keen on showing you off (his own words). You didn’t really feel like it, to be honest, but, with the absurd amount of excuses you’d been giving him lately, you figured you owed him this much.

So you put on a dress, did your makeup and hair and made sure you looked nothing but spotless as you walked through the door with his arm around your shoulders, smiling robotically, rehearsed. Like you usually did.

You played your part. Had a few drinks — all of which he’d gotten you. Chatted with his idiot friends and their unbearable girlfriends about things you didn’t really care for. Stayed glued to his side for hours, feeling the weight of his hand on your waist like a leech — like something that clung to you and slowly sucked your blood, leaving you weaker and weaker until you could barely stand to hold yourself up anymore.

At some point during the night, you found Jackie and Mari hanging out by one of the beer kegs, and that was your perfect excuse to free yourself from Josh, from his touch, from the agonizing kisses he’d been stealing from you all night. He didn’t mind — just went straight off to his football friends, muttering something about a game of beer pong you could not be less interested in.

Still, even though you were away from him, his traces remained all over you — like you’d been branded. Every time someone referred to you as “Josh’s girl”, you felt a little sicker. Every time one of his frat brothers stopped you to ask where he was, your shoulders tensed and you pursed your lips. You didn’t care. You didn’t want to know. It made you mad that people asked you.

So you drank more. And more. And way more, definitely too much, definitely far more than you should have. Anything to not feel, anything to forget — to forget about how dirty his hands on your waist made you feel. To forget how miserable you’d been all night, how forced all your smiles had been. To forget the huge lump on your throat and the tightening feeling in your chest.

And to forget Natalie.

To forget how she hadn’t looked at you during practice at all the past couple of weeks after the parking lot incident. No snarky comments, no clever remarks — just a heavy silence, the type that hurt more than any jab she could ever throw at you, that made you sink your nails into your palms until it left a mark as you pretended like everything was under control. Even though it was killing you.

Even though you missed her like crazy.

The air inside of the frat house got too much to bear. People walking around, drunkenly bumping into you, the loud music making your thoughts pound even harder inside your head. You had long lost track of whatever Jackie and Mari were going on about — they seemed to navigate about twenty topics a minute —, and you managed to slurredly tell them you were going out for some air before stumbling away towards the front porch.

Maybe you did it unconsciously. You weren’t really sure. But you simply caught your half lidded eyes wandering to the corner on the right side of the house, just outside, where Natalie usually snuck off during parties to smoke a joint and laugh with her friends.

And there she was. Leaning her arms on the railing, eyes fixed on the distance, blunt hanging from her lips. Glowing under the yellow porch light, so serious, so beautiful. No Lottie or Van around — just her, alone. Blowing out smoke distractedly, looking lost in thought, pronounced cheekbones even more highlighted because of the natural blush that painted them a soft pink.

You stood just outside the door, not daring to approach her, just watching her quietly instead. Taking in the view of her as she kept smoking, wondering what was going on in her head, your own vision slightly blurred in a dizzying haze that could be from the drinks you’d had, but could also have something to do with the shape Natalie’s lips took as she inhaled the smoke. Looking at her. For just a beat.

For only a moment before you were caught.

Her head turned your way slowly, deliberately, as if she’d somehow felt your presence near, and she stared right back at you with an intensity that made your knees almost give out. She tucked the joint between her fingers and pulled it away from her lips, not saying anything, not moving another inch.

Just looking at you.

No “come to get your fix?” or any of the other things she’d usually say whenever you walked up to her at a party.

Just her eyes, unreadable and overwhelming, on your face. Drifting down to your lips, parted and red, lipstick slightly smudged from the kisses Josh had stolen earlier. Back up to meet your drunken, pleading, almost desperate gaze.

Set on you.

It was electric. Paralyzing yet enticing, setting a sort of fire within you that had nothing to do with the alcohol running through your veins. It wasn’t just desire, and you knew it.

And the worst: you knew she felt it, too.

You thought about walking up to her and begging her to take you somewhere despite how drunk you were — just wanting to be near her, to feel her skin against yours, to feel her hands on your body, to breathe in her scent and let it ease the turmoil that had been set in your head for weeks. To scratch the itch that had been gnawing at you since you saw her blonde head disappear into that fucking parking lot. To cry on her shoulder and tell her you were sorry, that you shouldn’t have let her walk back alone, that you shouldn’t have left, that you so badly wished you didn’t have to go back to your boyfriend every single time after being with her. That he didn’t compare to her. That he couldn’t compete. That he didn’t even come close.

And you were going to. In that moment, despite everyone else around, it was like you were the only two people that existed. No college, no party, no outside pressure, no boyfriend.

Because, well, when it was just you and Natalie — nothing else mattered.

Then, as if orchestrated by a gigantic cosmic joke, you were yanked out of your trance. A hand grazed against your back. Curled up around your waist. Gripped you uncomfortably, fingertips sinking into your skin possessively, making your whole body tense up. A big, calloused, rough hand, unsolicited, unwanted, nothing like Natalie’s.

Josh’s hand.

“Been looking everywhere for you.” His voice sounded out muffled in your ear, hot breath against your neck reeking of cheap beer, grip tightening even further in a way that made you feel trapped.

You couldn’t bring yourself to talk. His hand around your waist had stopped you in your tracks, keeping you static, eyes still on her like you were begging to be saved. To be rescued. But you knew you couldn’t ask that of her — after all, you’d done this to yourself.  Not Josh, not everyone else around you. It was all you.

Natalie kept watching, face even more unreadable now, brows slightly furrowed, lips parted. The dying joint between her fingers long forgotten, smoldered to a lifeless gray ember.

“Couldn’t wait to get my hands on you.” Josh whispered again, too drunk to notice where your eyes wandered to. “Let’s go up to my room.”

That was the last thing you wanted.

Sometimes, you gave in. You were his girlfriend, after all, and he could be very persistent, so it was mostly easier to let him take you to his bed than to withstand his constant complaining and questioning why you weren’t in the mood.

But tonight you just couldn’t.

Not when Natalie kept looking at you like that. Not when her eyes drifted to his hands on your waist.

“I don’t feel so good.” You finally said, words slurred and rushed, quiet, like an apology.

“I’ll make you feel better.”

“I’m just feeling kind of weird and—”

He interrupted you with an annoyed, exaggerated huff.

“Come on, babe, you’re killing me here.” His hands were firmer now, tight around your body like you were something he possessed. “I’ve been waiting for you all night, just help me out, please.”

You tensed up under his grip, wishing you were anywhere else other than there.

“I think I drank too much.” Your voice was delicate, way too soft, even a bit intimidated.

One of his hands flew to your wrist now, tugging just a little too hard, turning your body around so you would face him.

“I’m drunk too, come on, it’ll be quick.”

He started walking, pulling you with him, and, as much as you didn’t want to follow him, you were simply too drunk to resist it, body too limp to keep both your feet on the wooden floorboards of the front porch.

You figured the same thing that had happened dozens of other times would happen again: he’d insist to the point of exhaustion and you’d give in. Like that. Despite what you truly wanted.

But that’s not what happened.

Instead, a voice sounded out behind you. Raspy. Gruff. Laced with that Italian-American accent you knew a little too well.

“You really gonna take advantage of a drunk girl?”

Josh didn’t hesitate before turning around, and a sarcastic scoff left his lips as he faced Natalie.

You just stood still.

“Excuse me?” He asked, inebriated, sarcastic.

“That’s what you’re doing, right?” Natalie walked closer — close enough so you could spot the slight smudge of her eyeliner and the faint red on the white of her eyes caused by the weed. “Dragging her by the wrist when she specifically told you she’s not interested?”

Josh just let out a breathy chuckle, eyeing Natalie up and down like she was insane.

“Fuck off, burnout.” He spat. “She’s my girlfriend, I think I know more about what she wants than you do.”

God, you thought, he couldn’t be more wrong.

But you just kept quiet, looking at both of them like a deer in headlights.

“How about you just fucking ask her, then?” Natalie bit back, stepping even closer now, raising her voice. “Since you’re so sure that’s what she wants?”

Josh was clearly affected by her words, unable to hide his annoyance as his free hand flew to his own hip and he laughed condescendingly.

“Fine. Let’s play your little game.” His eyes were now set on your distraught face, grip tightening harder around your wrist in a way that felt more punitive than possessive. “Babe. You wanna come with me, right?”

His tone wasn’t sweet, it wasn't concerned. Not like usual. Instead, it felt commanding, as if the question definitely came with a right answer, and you were supposed to reply accordingly.

You stuttered.

“I, uh—” Your voice came out quiet, hushed, barely there. “I think that—”

It was like you forgot how to talk.

Because you didn’t want to go. God, no. Your stomach churned at the mere thought of going upstairs and being alone with him right now, of his rough hands on your body, of his beer breath against your neck.

But still — it wasn’t that easy to say no. Not when Natalie was there, looking at you like your answer meant something more, unaware of how exposed she was making you feel — especially when the alcohol clouding your brain was already singlehandedly doing half the job of baring your soul to the world.

And you had a plan. You’d always had it — one that involved good grades, a spot on the soccer team, a boyfriend with a nice smile and a letterman jacket. Weekends at the country club, spotless makeup, flowy dresses. Making your parents proud.

A perfect life.

And denying Josh meant risking that. The life you’d always envisioned for yourself.

Still, when you looked at Natalie — at her protective demeanor, at the hint of concern present in her eyes, at the way her nails dug into her own palms as her gaze drifted down to where Josh’s hand gripped your wrist —, you could only think of how wrong you’d been your entire life.

Because you’d planned it all: the white picket fence, the well behaved children, everything, even down to the fucking golden retriever. But, when you thought about it, when you actually stopped to analyze what you wanted for your future, you knew none of that would ever make you truly happy. It would never make you feel complete.

It would never make you feel alive.

Not in the way Natalie did.

As hard as you tried to fool yourself, as much as you attempted to believe your own lie, you knew it.

So you spoke up. Still guarded, still contained, still way too drunk to sound firm. But you spoke up.

“I don’t.” You said, avoiding Josh’s eyes. “I… really don’t feel good. I just wanna leave.”

His demeanor immediately darkened. His face took up an expression unlike any you’d ever seen before — not just hurt, but pure anger.

“What the fuck? Since when do you listen to her?” He raised his voice, hand finally leaving your wrist as he puffed his chest. “You’re really gonna side with this bitch over your fucking boyfriend?”

Your shoulders became more and more hunched, as if his harsh words were somewhat of a physical blow. You looked at your own feet now, but still managed to blurt out:

“Please, Josh. I don’t feel good right now.”

Josh scoffed again and took a deep breath, his face going back to its previous calmness.

“You know what? I’ve had enough of this shit. It’s always some excuse with you.” He crossed his arms. “So I’m drawing the line here. Either you come with me, or we’re fucking done.”

Natalie stayed quiet, watching, and you could swear smoke was about to start coming out of her ears from the way she looked at him. She didn’t interrupt — probably guessing you would find a way to drag out your lie a little longer, to somehow stick with the boyfriend and the fake smiles and the plastic life.

But you spoke up.

Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the weeks of pent up tension building in your chest. Maybe it was the way Natalie’s blonde hair was disheveled enough to fall perfectly around her face, how her pale skin glowed perfectly beneath the porch light and the moon, how she’d actually stepped up to defend you, even after what you’d done, even after you’d been so quick to dismiss her, even though you theoretically hated each other.

“Then we’re done.” You said. Firm. Final. Sure. “Because I’m not coming with you.”

Josh let out a sarcastic laugh, shaking his head conceitedly, looking at you in disbelief.

“Fine.” He spoke harshly, clearly offended. “Have fun with the fucking dyke.”

And, just like that, he turned around and walked back into the frat house, slamming the door behind him like he wished it was Natalie’s face instead.

You felt even more dizzy, even more distraught. All you could do was close your eyes and lean your back against the wall, trying to steady yourself, to keep yourself in place.

Then, her voice. God, that voice. So calm, so attentive, so uncharacteristically laced with concern. So natural. So real. So raw.

“Hey.” She stood right in front of you as you finally opened your eyes, taking her in, feeling comfort in her presence. “You okay?”

You just shook your head. The tears you hadn’t even noticed were welling up started rolling down your cheeks one by one, smudging your makeup — tears that came because of the confrontation, which you never liked, the alcohol, the sheer relief of not being with him anymore.

“Yeah. Stupid question.” Natalie said again. “You… need something?”

Your voice came out muffled through the tears.

“Get me out of here. Please.”

You sounded almost desperate. You wanted to leave that frat house more than anything, and you needed her to leave with you — not just because you were drunk and would probably never be able to make the way to your dorm in the state you were in. But because you needed her. Her company. Her touch. Her presence.

And she didn’t hesitate.

One of her arms immediately flew up to your shoulders, wrapping around you in order to offer balance, to offer support, to offer help. You unconsciously leaned into it, just letting her guide you, letting her walk you through campus, for once ignoring the looks that came your way. Ignoring what other people would think.

Doing what you wanted.

The walk to her dorm was quiet. Calm — the silence interrupted only by your occasional sniffle.

Before you knew it, you were sitting on her bed, head spinning a bit as she stood across the room from you, arms crossed, just looking at your face.

You were the first to speak.

“Sorry.” Your voice came out slurred as you pointed at your own wet, red eyes. “Not very sexy of me.”

To your surprise, Natalie let out a breathy chuckle.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” She answered, raspy and low. “I’m not gonna try anything.”

You looked down at your knees, shaking your head softly.

“I know.” You whispered. “You told me not to seek you out anymore.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Only walked closer and closer, finally sitting by you on her messy bed — but not touching. Not invading. Not imposing. Just being there.

“Not because of that.” She spoke at last, placing her hands on her own thighs, eyes fixed on your face. “Because you’re too fucked up right now to even be able to tell what the fuck’s going on.”

It was your turn to chuckle.

“I’m not that drunk.”

“Please, if I lit a match next to you right now the whole room would catch on fire.”

You laughed a bit harder this time, way too tipsy to notice the tears had stopped falling.

“You may have a point there.” You muttered. “But I know what’s going on.”

You couldn’t help the way you looked at her, not when she was that close, not when your inhibitions were long lifted by the alcohol clouding your nervous system. Not when she’d been so perfect tonight.

So you kept talking.

“You defended me. You… saved me. From what could’ve been a really shitty fucking night.”

Natalie was looking at you, too. Just as intensely, just as carefully, just as attentively. Listening to every word — not a hint of the usual annoyance or sarcasm on her face.

“I didn’t save you.” She said. “I just— I couldn’t let him take advantage of you. Not like that. Not knowing that you’re—”

“That I’m gay?”

She froze.

“I— I was gonna say wasted, but—”

“Because I am.”

And, even though the world spun before your eyes because of the state you were in, for the first time in your life everything just seemed to fall into place.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t some big revelation.

It was something that simply came from within you. That had been waiting to come out. That you just needed to be ready for.

And, looking at Natalie, sitting on her bed, breathing in her scent, no Josh around — you finally felt like you were.

“I’m gay.” You said, the word coming out of your lips quietly, like you were testing it. “I am.”

She stayed silent at first — still observing, mouth agape, taking you in. But the silence didn’t last.

“Took you long enough to figure that one out.”

You laughed softly. Freely.

Then, you reached over to place a hand on her knee — and she didn’t pull away.

“I’m sorry.” You took a breath before continuing. “For… everything. For what happened in the parking lot. For being an asshole. For acting so… weird with you.”

The faintest smile appeared on her lips, knowingly, as if she’d been waiting for this moment to happen.

“It’s okay.”

You sighed softly, relaxing your shoulders.

“It’s not.” You insisted. “It’s just— you’re so… fuck. I had this plan.”

Natalie raised an eyebrow.

“A plan?”

You closed your eyes and shook your head.

“A plan. The career, the husband, the kids… my  whole life figured out. Planned down to the minute. Not a hair out of place, not ever.”

“And?”

“And… you. You just had to show up to practice with your stupid blonde hair and your stupid eyes and that stupid crooked smirk on your face, and of course you just had to be so good at—”

“Relieving your stress?” She interrupted playfully, flashing you that exact crooked grin you’d just mentioned.

You let out a soft chuckle.

“Shut up.” You nudged her shoulder gently. “Do you have any idea how hard you’ve made it for me to act like I didn’t like you?”

The words left your lips unfiltered, uncensored. For once, not carefully crafted. Just real.

And, even though you had your drunkenness to use as an excuse, deep down you knew that wasn’t the reason for your boldness. No. It was all Natalie.

Because her presence alone was enough to leave you bare and exposed, to make you wear your heart on your sleeve, to cause you to feel things you’d never felt before. She was just like a glass of vodka tonic — tasting bittersweet on your lips, making it hard for you to keep the thoughts inside, making you want to say and do things you never thought you’d be able to do sober.

But, this time, it was different. It felt right. It felt real.

And it felt even better when she reached for your shaky hand and said:

“I do. Because I’ve been doing the same thing.”

So, this time, you didn’t leave.

You stayed with her, in her bed, legs tangled up with hers until you fell asleep under the promise of tomorrow. Of hope.

Of freedom.

And, when morning came and you woke up next to her, you didn’t regret it. Not for a second.

Because, at last, it wasn’t about stress relief anymore.

It was your life. Not the one you’d always planned.

But during the summer? yeah it becomes a problem.

Because Abby runs so hot already, and then she insists on sleeping directly on top of you anyway until both of you are overheating and miserable. You’ll eventually push at her shoulder half-asleep like, “Abby, baby, I’m literally sweating,” and she’ll make this sleepy, annoyed sound into your skin like you’ve rejected her.

Then comes the compromise.

She’ll sigh dramatically and roll onto her side with the most pathetic little pout on her face, acting like she’s been banished, even though she’s still only like six inches away from you. But she physically cannot handle not touching you somehow, so eventually her hand sneaks back over. Sometimes she just holds your wrist loosely while she falls asleep. Sometimes she intertwines your fingers and keeps them tucked between the pillows. And sometimes—especially when she’s extra clingy—she cups your face while laying there at a “reasonable distance,” thumb brushing lazily over your cheekbones as she looks at you with this exhausted, fond expression.

she looks so sincere about it too. Like she truly believes this is a completely normal solution.

“You said I was too hot,” she’ll mumble defensively when you laugh at her.

laying there holding your face like you’re the last thing tethering her to earth.

wife!abby who always reaches for you in her sleep no matter where you are in the bed. You can literally track how deeply asleep she is based on how aggressively she searches for you. If you get up in the middle of the night and come back, she’ll unconsciously pull you right back into her space the second the mattress dips again, making this gentle little exhale once she finds you. Like her body registers “okay, there you are” before her brain even wakes up.

wife!abby who absolutely has a “you’re home late” routine but refuses to admit it’s a routine. Every single time you get home later than usual, she’s on the couch with her boots still on for some reason, pretending she’s focused on literally anything else. A book she hasn’t turned a page in for twenty minutes. Some movie playing in the background that she definitely hasn’t been watching. But the second she hears your keys or the door opening, she goes completely still. And she never calls out first either. She waits until she physically sees you.

The second you walk in, her eyes are already scanning over you automatically—your face, your hands, whether you’re limping, whether you look stressed, tired, upset. she can't help it, its instinct at this point to always make sure her girl is okay. Then once she decides you're alright, she relaxes all at once and acts like she wasn’t lowkey preparing to go looking for you thirty seconds ago.

Usually she just gives this little grunt and leans back again like, “There she is..”

Meanwhile she was literally one missed phone call away from putting her coat on. And if you tease her about waiting up, she gets sooo defensive about it.

“pfft I wasn’t, i know you can take care of yourself sweetheart.”

“Abby, it’s one a.m. and you still have your shoes on.”

“They’re… comfortable.”

They are not comfortable.

But if you come home upset or hurt or even just off in a way she notices immediately? Oh, the whole vibe of the night changes instantly. She won't make a big thing out of it. She just stands up, takes your bag out of your hands, guides you toward the couch with one hand on your back, and suddenly she’s fully focused on you like nothing else exists anymore.

And the thing is, she never says stuff like “I was worried.”

You just know.

wife!abby who gets kind of grumbly and needy after long days without meaning to. She’ll come home acting completely normal for maybe ten minutes before suddenly she’s attached to your side everywhere you go. Following you into the kitchen. Pulling you between her knees while she sits on the couch. Resting her forehead against your shoulder while you’re trying to do something simple because apparently she missed you so much she might just crawl into your skin.

And if you tease her for being clingy, she just narrows her eyes and pulls you closer anyway.

wife!abby who acts all tough about basically everything except when your hands are in her hair. That’s her weakness, genuinely. You figured it out by accident the first time you gently combed through it after a bath and felt her practically melt against you.

Now it’s become a whole thing.

After showers or baths together, Abby will sit on the floor between your legs with a towel hanging low around her shoulders while you carefully work through the tangles. And for someone who’s usually so restless, she goes unbelievably still for you during it. Eyes half-lidded, shoulders loose, leaning back into your knees every time your fingers drag softly through the strands near the nape of her neck.

And she loves when you braid it for her.

Like loooves it.

Not because she cares what it looks like necessarily, but because she loves the feeling of your hands in her hair. The slow tug of sections being separated, your fingers smoothing everything down gently afterward. Sometimes she’ll get sleepy and slump against you.

“You’re spoiled,” you’ll mumble while redoing her braid for the third time that week.

She’ll just hum quietly, eyes closed. “Mhm.”

No shame. None at all.

Honestly, it’s probably part of the reason she keeps it long. She’d never fully admit that out loud, but every time she even vaguely mentions cutting it shorter, you’ll play with the ends absentmindedly and suddenly she’s like, “Actually, maybe I’ll leave it.” Because she’s addicted to the tenderness of it.

And after long days? It becomes her favorite way of staying grounded.

Sometimes she’ll come home exhausted, all heavy movements and tired eyes, and instead of showering properly she’ll just sit by the bathtub and tilt her head back silently, waiting for you to get the hint. You’ll in her lap while carefully washing her hair for her, fingers massaging shampoo into her scalp while she practically turns to mush underneath you.

Her hands always settle loosely on your thighs while you do it. And the entire time she looks at you with this soft, ridiculously lovesick expression she probably doesn’t even realize she’s making.

You’ll catch her and laugh a little. "everything okay down there Anderson?”

And Abby, already feeling the tension dissipate from just being around you, will respond with something sweet like;

“i think i just died and went to heaven."

wife!abby who’s so ridiculously strong that it just becomes part of normal life after a while. Like she’ll pick you up after a long day. One arm under your legs, the other around your back, as if you weigh absolutely nothing to her. its so casual to her too. You’ll be half-asleep on the couch and suddenly you’re being lifted.

“Abs, I can walk.”

“i know.”

“so…?”

“You looked so comfy.”

she’s already carrying you to bed anyway, and you'd be lying if you ever said you had a problem with it. It’s never done to show off, she genuinely just sees it as the easiest solution. You twisted your ankle? Congrats, you’re not touching the ground for the next two days because Abby’s already decided that, "the crutches wouldn’t safely support the injury.”

And she takes her job very seriously.

Because for someone who’s built like a tank, she handles you so carefully. One hand spread warm against your back so you don’t bump into anything, adjusting her grip automatically if you even slightly wince. If you’re in a lot of pain she gets this focused little crease between her eyebrows like your comfort is the single most important task she’s ever been assigned.

Or sometimes she’ll just pick you up just because she felt like being close to you. You’ll be standing in the kitchen and outta nowhere she’s lifting you onto the counter so she can stand between your knees while talking to you.

“Abby.”

“yes my gorgeous and talented wife?”

“You cannot keep moving me around like furniture.”

“i'll keep that in mind.”

wife!abby who doesn’t really do jealousy in the loud, possessive way people would expect from her. She’s not the type to start fights or throw an arm around you like she’s marking territory every time someone looks at you. Honestly, when Abby gets jealous, it’s way more descreat than that, which somehow makes it worse.

Because you can always tell.

She gets a little quieter. A little more watchful.

Like if someone’s flirting with you too obviously, she’ll try to act normal about it at first, but her attention immediately locks in. You’ll feel her standing slightly closer beside you than before, her hand finding the small of your back almost unconsciously.Not as a statement or anything. Just there, grounding herself as much as you.

I wouldn't exactly say it can be classified as anger entirely. It’s insecurity, in this deeply human way that feels almost appalling coming from someone who looks like Abby. She gets in her own head fast sometimes. Starts wondering if maybe you’d be happier with someone stable, easier, less complicated than her. Especially because she’s not naturally good at pretty words or smooth reassurance, so when someone else is effortlessly charming with you, you can literally see her withdrawing into herself a little bit.

She tries to hide it, doesn't wanna burden you. she’ll act completely calm, but later that night she’s clingier without admitting why. randomly asking, “You okay?” when what she really means is, We’re okay, right?

And if the other person is especially persistent, Abby absolutely gets irritated with them—but not because she thinks you’d actually leave her. but more that she wants them to understand something very clearly: you already belong somewhere. With her.

Not ownership, deep attachment. she’s built her life around loving you and hates when someone treats that casually.

The thing about Abby is that underneath everything—under all that muscle and confidence and composure—she’s actually very sensitive when it comes to you. Your opinion of her matters way more than she cares to admit. One slightly distant response from you and suddenly she’s replaying every interaction in her head trying to figure out if she did something wrong.

So when she’s jealous, what she really wants is reassurance. She wants your hand reaching for hers without hesitation. Wants you leaning into her side naturally in front of other people. Wants that casual kind of intimacy that says her place in your life is secure without either of you needing to announce it.

And the second you give her that reassurance (as you always do), you can physically feel the tension leave her body. 

wife!abby who knows you’re capable. Honestly, genuinely knows it. She’s seen you handle yourself, seen you stand your ground, seen you take care of things without needing anyone to swoop in for you. So when she gets protective, it’s never because she thinks you’re weak.

It’s because she knows how people are. And Abby notices everything. When a guy’s eyes linger for too long. The weird shift in someone’s tone. That uncomfortable feeling in the air before something even happens. She picks up on it immediately, shoulders subtly tightening before you’ve even fully registered it yourself.

Especially when it comes to catcalling.

God, she hates that shit.

It genuinely makes her blood boil when people feel entitled to your space like that. You’ll be walking together and some group of guys says something gross from across the street and Abby’s whole expression changes instantly. Jaw tight. Eyes hard. Her hand immediately finding yours defensively, pulling you a little closer to her side without even thinking about it.

She'll square up to them if she has too, not enough to escalate things most of the time, but enough that people immediately realize they should probably shut the hell up.

you're used to it, don't want her getting all worked up over a bunch of losers, “hey, just ignore them baby, i'm okay.”

And she will… eventually. it's hard to stay mad when she's got you stending beside her.

The thing is, Abby tries really hard not to smother you. She never wants you to feel like she’s hovering or acting like you need permission to exist on your own. So instead her protectiveness shows up in quieter ways. Walking on the outside of the sidewalk automatically. Waiting up until you text her you got somewhere safely even though she insists she “wasn’t worried.” Standing just a little closer in a crowded room.

“I know you can handle yourself.”

“okay, so stop glaring at that guy like you want to kill him.” you quip, amused when she gets like this over something so small.

“He doesn't know the meaning of personal space.”

“Abby.”

"fine.”

there’s also this softer side to it. Like the nights where you’re both home safe and she’s holding you a little tighter than usual because something earlier genuinely rattled her more than she let on. Face tucked into your neck, quiet for once.

Just because loving you means her brain is constantly, instinctively trying to keep you safe in a world she knows can be ugly sometimes.

wife!abby who is genuinely, catastrophically whipped for you and literally everybody around her knows it.

Including her.

Especially her.

Like Abby doesn’t even try to pretend she wouldn’t do absolutely anything you asked her to do. There’s no hesitation either. You mention wanting something once and she’s already figuring out how to make it happen before you’ve even finished your sentence.

You offhandedly say you miss some food from your childhood? She’s learning the recipe that same week even if she has to call three different people for help because she cannot cook to save her life. You mention the chair hurts your back? She’s researching ergonomic furniture to buy you a comfier one.

She's never burdened by any of it. She just likes doing things for you. Loves it, honestly. Your happiness genuinely feels important to her in this very deep, instinctive way. Taking care of you scratches something in her brain permanently.

Manny absolutely never lets her live it down either.

He’ll make some comment about how fast she drops everything when you call, or how she’s basically always thinking about you even when she’s supposed to be focused on something else. Abby doesn’t get defensive about it. She doesn’t really see the point. There’s no shame in it to her.

If anything, she’s open about it in a very matter-of-fact way. it’s very obvious to anyone where she stands (especially since she never shuts up about you).

Why would she try to hide how much space you take up in her life? She’s proud of it. Proud of you, proud of being yours, proud to call you her wife. Why wouldn’t she do all these things for you? That’s literally her favorite person.

Nat has spent the better part of three months convincing herself she isn’t losing her fucking mind.

Which, honestly, isn’t exactly new territory.

Because look, you don’t spend every afternoon with somebody unless there’s something there.

That is just science. Or maybe delusion. Hard to tell sometimes.

People are simple. They say one thing and mean another, sure, but eventually the cracks show. Everybody wants something. Money. Attention. A warm body in their bed. Someone to tell them they’re special.

You sit on her porch for hours. You laugh at her jokes. You steal her cigarettes and make that offended face every time you cough. You show up in sundresses that look like they belong in laundry detergent commercials and sit on her shitty porch furniture like it is perfectly normal.

You touch her, too. A hand on her arm when you laughed. Your knee against hers. Your fingers brushing hers when she handed you a beer.

The kind of stuff that drives a person completely insane because it means absolutely nothing right up until it means everything. Because she starts expecting the sound of your knock around three in the afternoon. Catches herself cleaning up beer cans before you arrive. Starts buying the coffee you like without thinking about it.

So Nat flirted — subtly at first, then less subtly. She’d call you pretty just to watch you get embarrassed. She’d tease you for being incapable of opening beer bottles without asking for help. She’d tell you your dress looked nice.

In response, you'd smile. You’d blush. You’d look away. And Nat would sit there afterward trying to decode whether that meant anything or whether she was projecting so hard she deserved medical intervention.

One afternoon you’re sitting on the hood of her truck eating gas station ice cream because apparently that’s become a thing now. The sun’s setting and everything’s gold. You’ve got melted vanilla on your thumb so Nat reaches over automatically and wipes it away.

Her hand lingers for half a second enough that your eyes flick down to her fingers, then back up.

She doesn’t pull her hand away. Not yet. Instead, she stares at the spot on your thumb where her fingers had just been. “You got ice cream everywhere,” she mutters lamely, voice lower than usual. The joke is weak and it sounds stupid even to her ears.

Sometimes she thinks you knows exactly what you are doing and enjoy watching her suffer. That possibility annoys her most — because she isn’t seventeen anymore. She isn’t interested in pining after straight girls who want attention.

Been there. Done that. Got the emotional damage. So she starts telling herself to cool it.

But good god — you keep showing up at her house without a jacket when it’s forty degrees and she has to give you her flannel. You sit too close to her on the porch steps, even with an entire couch right there. You laugh when she touches you. You make jokes about smoking and listen to the same music and show up on her doorstep just to say hello, and all of it makes her feel sixteen again. It makes her think about old bedrooms and high school hallways and shitty indie songs.

But that doesn’t stop her from sitting next to you on the hood of the truck anyway, knee knocked comfortably against yours, watching you lick ice cream from a plastic spoon and thinking she’d give her right arm to know what you were thinking right now.

Maybe you just like having somebody around during the day while your mysterious off-screen life happens somewhere else. Nat doesn’t know much about your life, now that she thinks about it.

Yet somehow she knows your favorite movie. The fact that you hate olives. The way you always steal the red gummy bears first.

But she doesn’t know where you go every evening. Doesn’t know why you always had to leave before dinner. Doesn’t know much of anything, actually.

“You got ice cream on your chin too,” Nat whispers, reaching out again before she can stop herself. This time her thumb brushes the corner of your mouth, slow and deliberate. Her face is close now — closer than it needs to be for something as simple as wiping away dessert.

But, as always, you pull away — it must be a habit of yours, running away every time she is about to kiss you. If only you’d let her love you. She has noticed the way you look at her, Nat isn’t stupid. Notices how your eyes linger on her mouth.

However, you just chuckle awkwardly and scoot away from her touch. “Oh. Silly me.”

“It’s fine.” She tries to sound casual, like this doesn’t bother her at all. “Happens to the best of us, right.”

But you’re already getting up from the hood, brushing off your shorts. Maybe you didn’t even notice that your knees have been against hers this whole time.

Nat stays on the hood of the truck and watches you walk away. Once again, she tells herself to quit while she’s ahead. You can be friends, she thinks for what may be the seventh time this week. You can just be friends.

Well, this has been common knowledge for years — being in a rock band that nobody’s heard of doesn’t bring in much money, that’s a given, and besides, Nat isn’t new to this drug-dealing business. You’re not poor and you’re never looking for a job at seventeen.

So she supplements by selling weed to bored rich kids or repressed houseviwes in the back of a gas station parking lot. There are worse places to do this. A lonely bridge, for one.

Nat rolls a joint in the dark before getting out of the truck. Her favorite customer is a woman in her late twenties who comes by once a month to pick up weed and a bottle of Jack. Most of the time she doesn’t even wear a bra and that, coupled with the fact she always shows up wearing sunglasses at night, makes her a fun person to sell to.

She buys in bulk and Nat gives a discount. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship.

“Hey,” the woman says, sliding into the passenger seat. Her perfume is too sweet, like overripe peaches.

Nat glances at her. “You’re early.”

“I had a fight with my husband.” She reaches for her purse without looking at Nat.

Well, this is new. This woman never talks about her marriage. Nat raises her eyebrows but doesn’t comment on it. “Uh… rough day?”

The woman laughs. It’s a brittle sound. “Yeah. He’s a real prick. Been at my throat all goddamn day. And I don’t want to go home.”

Fair, Nat thinks, lighting a cigarette.

“I get that,” Nat exhales smoke. “Dude sounds like a real piece of work.”

She doesn’t know this woman’s name, never bothered to ask. They’ve been doing business for months now and it’s always the same transaction: cash exchanged, product handed over. No small talk beyond what was necessary.

But tonight feels different somehow.

The woman sighs heavily beside her and Nat can practically feel the anger rolling off her in waves. So she digs into her backpack and pulls out a small brown paper bag with a bottle inside. “This might help you,” she offers, holding it up.

The woman laughs — a real laugh this time, not like before. “Jesus,” she says, reaching for the bottle. “You deal in therapy now too?”

“I mean, yeah,” Nat grins. “I sell weed and emotional support. That’s part of the package.” She watches as the woman unscrews the cap and takes a long swig straight from the bottle. The woman doesn’t even flinch at how strong it probably is. Nat tilts her head slightly. “You good?”

“You know what? No. I’m not good,” the woman confesses, voice cracking slightly. She takes another swig of whiskey before slumping back in her seat like a puppet with cut strings.

Now, Nat feels awkward. This isn’t usually how these transactions go. She watches the woman’s profile for a second — dark sunglasses still on despite it being night, hair messily piled up in some kind of bun that looks half undone. This isn’t really in her job description as dealer-slash-therapist.

But the woman looks so sad. Like she’s seconds away from a breakdown. So Nat bites the bullet and clears her throat.

“Do you… want to talk about it?”

When the woman glances at her, there’s something vulnerable about her expression. The sunglasses make it hard to read her face. “You want to hear my problems?” She asks bluntly.

Not really.

“You don’t gotta answer that,” Nat backpedals quickly, suddenly regretting her offer. “I mean… I’m not a therapist or anything. Just your local weed dealer.” She feels stupid now. She’s not a therapist. She definitely isn’t the type to give advice or comfort people.

The woman stares at the bottle in her hands for a long moment before sighing deeply and taking off her sunglasses. Up close, she looks older than Nat expected — maybe early 30s? Her eyes are red-rimmed from crying. “I think I wanna leave him.”

Nat nods slowly. She doesn’t know this woman, but the way she says it makes her chest tighten. “Shit,” is all she can say at first.

“Yeah... shit.” The woman swirls the whiskey in her bottle absently before taking another drink. “I’ve been thinking about it for months now… I just don’t have anywhere to go.” Her voice wavers slightly on that last part.

Well, Nat isn’t all that unfamiliar with this kind of conversation — she remembers being in her senior year of high school and having to listen to Mari talk about her problems with Danny Meers, hear Jackie complain about how Shauna seemed to secretly hate her, and having to bite her tongue to keep from kissing her right then and there.

Nat exhales through her nose. “That sucks.” She doesn’t know what else to say, so she just sits there in the quiet of the truck cab, listening to the hum of streetlights outside. The woman keeps drinking whiskey like it’s water. Then she thinks of you, again.

Because what the fuck is she supposed to do? Not think of the woman she has been liking for months now?

So when she gets the green light from this woman — whose name she doesn’t even know, and who, even if she did, it could never be as sweet and charming as yours — she starts the car and drives off. Their lips touch.

The kiss is messy, fueled by alcohol and frustration. The woman tastes like whiskey, cheap lipstick, and cigarettes. Her hands find Nat’s face immediately as she kisses back hard enough to bruise.

Nat isn’t thinking about anything else right now except how much better this feels than sitting around pining for someone who clearly doesn’t want her the same way.

So she kisses the stranger desperately, pulling her closer — one leg propped up on the seat so she can move into the woman’s space. When the woman moans, she presses closer, chasing the sound.

For a moment, it’s just this — a tangle of breathless kisses in her truck. Then the woman grabs her shirt, pulling her onto her lap. That’s when her back collides with the steering wheel. It hurts, but not enough to stop. Hurts but not more than the fact that you ignore her eyes pleading to kiss you.

There’s something about this woman that makes her angry. Angry. She’s beautiful but she isn’t you, and something about that makes her pull back and shove her back down into the seat, harder than is probably needed. The woman moans again, hands sliding beneath Nat’s shirt and up her back like she’s trying to get closer.

And they don’t even know each other. That’s the worst part. There’s no history between them besides business transactions that always go the same way. Cash to product, every time. They never stopped to talk. Never said anything besides business talk. Now here they are, making out in the front seat of her truck like a couple of teenagers. The woman doesn’t even have a name in Nat’s head besides “customer.”

It’s all wrong. And yet for some reason it feels like exactly what she needs. The woman bites down hard on her neck. The pain sends a jolt down Nat’s spine, making her arch into her with a gasp.

Unfortunately, she gasps your name.

The second it happens, it ruins everything. The woman stops suddenly, staring up at her in the darkness. Her hands go still against her back, and when she swallows, it sounds loud.

Cheeks hot, Nat pulls away. “Think you should go.” She sniffs.

Even the air in the truck feels cold now. The woman glances at her mouth and then quickly back up at her face. “Yeah.”

When Nat moves away, she slides back down into her own seat, adjusting her clothes stiffly. The silence is deafening now, as Nat stares out the window, trying to keep her breathing steady. Her heart feels like it’s trying to punch its way out of her chest. The woman starts gathering her purse off the floor where it had fallen during all that kissing nonsense.

She stands, shoving her sunglasses back on despite the dim light. She grabs the bottle of whiskey and shoves a wad of cash at Nat without counting it this time. Nat doesn’t reach for it right away, just stares at the money in her lap like she’s not sure what to do with it now that everything feels so awkward and wrong.

“I’ll… see you next month,” the woman mumbles before turning toward the door handle.

She wants to say something else — wants to apologize or say she didn’t mean it or something other than this godawful silence. But nothing feels adequate. So she just turns the key in the ignition and pretends like she can still feel the woman’s mouth on her neck.

But she’s not. Instead, your lips, untouched by hers, are in her mind.

Fuck.

The next morning, Nat wakes up feeling more ashamed and guilty than ever — she knows she’s a bad person, especially knowing that the woman was married and yet she still chose to be part of a small affair. She’s always known that.

It’s whatever.

“Fuck,” Nat mutters, rubbing her face as she sits up in bed. The morning light is too bright and makes her headache worse. She didn’t sleep well. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could think about was your face. Your beautiful eyes. How you always look comfortable around her, your name slipping out of her.

She reaches over for a cigarette from the pack on her nightstand. As she lights up, she glances at herself in the mirror on her wall. Her shoulders look more tense than usual, and the bags under her eyes are a dead giveaway.

She can see the bruises on her neck in the mirror. She touches the darker purple marks, remembering how the woman bit down too hard and how good it felt at the time. Now it just makes her feel shitty.

Dragging her feet like she’s being forced to live, she walks outside with a coffee in hand. And suddenly everything clicks into place. Your front door opens. She sees you — and a man. A tall guy in a button-down shirt. Nice car parked in the driveway. Wedding ring.

The whole fucking package.

The sight of him standing beside you makes her chest ache for a reason she can’t pinpoint. Nat watches you two smile at each other. Just standing there with his arm around your waist and his mouth by your ear like it’s something that belongs there.

A cigarette drops from her numb lips and hits the ground.

The man leans down. You kiss him. It’s quick, familiar. Automatic. The kind of kiss people do after years together. Then two kids come barreling out of the house. One practically launches themselves at your leg. The other is already climbing into the SUV.

Nat freezes. The coffee in her hand is suddenly too hot, and she has to adjust her grip before it spills all over the pavement.

The little girl must be your daughter. She’s got your eyes, for sure. And the boy? Definitely related too — same nose shape as you.

They’re loading up into a big black SUV with their dad at the wheel while you stand by waving them off like nothing out of the ordinary is happening today. Like this isn’t Nat seeing everything for what it really is right now:

You have a whole life that doesn’t include her at all.

It’s the embarrassment that gets her. The sheer overwhelming humiliation.

Because she’s spent months thinking she’s navigating some weird slow-burn thing with the pretty neighbor. Meanwhile the pretty neighbor apparently has an entire husband and family she somehow forgot to mention.

Nat actually laughs. A sharp, ugly little sound. Because she’s fucking pathetic.

All those nights they spent together this summer, sitting on her porch eating shitty takeout and listening to music. And the entire time — the entire time — you were sitting over there with your perfect family and perfect life and perfect house.

It stings.

She crushes the cigarette under her boot viciously. Her eyes burn. From anger or guilt, she doesn’t know. Maybe a combination of both. Of fucking course. You weren’t playing hard to get. You weren’t secretly pining. You weren’t slowly figuring out your feelings.

You were married.

But, she’s not sixteen anymore. She doesn’t slam doors. Doesn’t pick fights. Doesn’t make speeches. She just pulls away, because that’s what she has to do — not make out with another married woman.

The next time you come over, she’s busy. The time after that, she’s out. When you text, she answers hours later. Sometimes the next day. Conversations get shorter. Porch beers disappear. Long drives disappear. The flirting definitely disappears.

Nat kills that shit immediately.

Because what the hell was she supposed to do? Keep throwing herself at a married woman?

You notice almost immediately. That’s the problem with people who know each other too well. The smallest changes feel enormous. You show up one afternoon looking confused, standing on her porch while she pretends to be interested in changing the oil in her truck.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

Nat keeps her eyes on the engine. "Nope.”

"Nat.” There it is. That tone — the one that normally works on her, the one that makes her cave instantly. This time she just shrugs.

“Been busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Stuff.”

“That's not an answer.”

Nat laughs — a little sharper than she means to. “Look, sweetheart, not everybody’s got time to sit around drinking beer on porches all day.” The second the words leave her mouth she regrets them.

“Busy with what? What the hell is so busy that you can’t even talk to me anymore?”

“Jesus, I said I’ve been busy,” Nat snaps, slamming the hood of her truck shut. "You wanna know why? Fine. It’s ‘cause you’re married.” She crosses her arms and finally looks at you — really looks — for the first time in weeks. Your face looks pissed. And she hates that look on you.

“Wait, what?” Your voice is sharp. Confused. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Nat scoffs and rolls her eyes so hard it almost hurts. “Don’t play dumb with me.” She gestures wildly toward your house next door like that explains everything. “You’re married.” She repeats, louder this time. Like she can’t believe it. Like the word is foreign on her tongue.

“I didn’t know you cared.” Your voice is tight with anger now.

Nat scoffs. “Of course I care! Jesus Christ, I thought we were… something.”

“Something? What something?” Your voice cracks slightly, disbelief clear in your tone.

Nat throws her hands up. “I don’t know! You and me sitting on the porch every day like it meant something! Laughing together! Me thinking maybe you actually liked me!” Her voice rises with each word, frustration boiling over. She takes a step back, running a hand through her bleached hair. “Turns out you’re just some married woman who comes by to hang out for fun.”

“I never led you on!”

Nat barks out a laugh. “Oh, come the fuck on! You sat there every day looking at me like I hung the stars. Smiling at me. Letting me touch your hair. Blushing every time I flirted.” Her voice cracks slightly before she hardens it again. “You think married people do that? Huh?” She shakes her head, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

“I was just—” Even through anger, your voice remains infuriatingly calm. Your voice wavers slightly. Like you’re pleading. “I didn’t mean—” You stop yourself, again. You sigh and look around, like you’re waiting for someone to step in. “I don’t know what to do, Natalie, okay? I’ve... I’ve never felt this way about someone.” You finally relent. There it is.

The confession where you are being nice enough to not let Natalie think she was crazy and seeing things, because she fucking wasn’t — she knew what your touching and eyes told her.

Nat swallows. Her chest feels like it might explode from how hard her heart is pounding — or maybe she’s finally going to cry. Either way, she crosses her arms and glares at you.

Like hell she’s going to cry right now.

When you try to reach for her, she steps backwards, dodging your touch. “No, don’t. Don’t touch me right now.” You look like she just slapped you. “What are you trying to do here?”

“I’m trying to explain.”

“Well, stop it.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. You look lost. Nat feels like a complete and total idiot right now. There you are. Looking concerned. Looking soft. Looking like you genuinely care. Like you always do. “There... is something happening between us,” you tell her.

Right.

Her heart lurches inside her chest. Something inside her wants to run at you and cry and hold you and tell you she’s sorry. But she doesn’t.

Instead, she swallows the emotion rising in her throat and raises her chin stubbornly. Tries to laugh, but it comes out more like a scoff. She crosses her arms even tighter. “Yeah, I’m sure your husband would love to know that.” She sounds like a jealous ex. She hates it.

For a long moment, you stare at her, expression unreadable. When you finally speak, your voice is low. “I... I—” You sigh, like you’re frustrated at yourself because you don’t have the right words. Your hands are outstretched like you want to hold her but aren’t sure if you’re allowed. “I like you.”

I like you.

Three very simple, ordinary words. But you say them with such sincerity that Nat can hardly look at you now. There is something painfully honest about your voice that makes something in her chest ache. She turns her head, staring hard at the front door of her house because she can’t look directly at you anymore. Her throat feels painfully tight.

“You’re married.” Her voice wavers just slightly on the word married, betraying how much this actually affects her. She’d been stupid enough to let herself hope for something that was never even possible. “You’ve got kids,” she adds bitterly, gesturing vaguely toward your house next door where you live with your family every day while Nat sat there pining after you like an idiot.

“I know.” Nat can’t believe she hears hurt in your tone. You’re not allowed to sound hurt right now. That makes anger claw its way up her spine again. Anger, and something a lot more complicated that she doesn’t want to think about. “That doesn’t mean I can’t have genuine feelings about somebody else.”

“Oh yeah?” Genuine feelings. Nat shakes her head incredulously. “You think you love me? You married somebody else, and now you think you’re in love with me? Are you serious right now? You don’t get to do that, okay? That’s not how it works. You don’t get to walk in here and say you have feelings for me when I was right here the whole time but you were too busy being a coward to make a fucking decision.”

Your jaw clenches like she just punched you. The most sadistic part of Nat, which is probably from her dad, feels a little bit satisfied. You deserve to feel shitty too. “You know what? Yeah. I do. I really, really like you but—” You shrug. “This is going nowhere so it’s just... better if we stop right here and just forget we even talked.”

The anger and hurt coursing through Nat are making it feel like her head is going to explode. The worst part is you look so damn sincere. Like you genuinely do care, maybe you do. She can feel all the stupid things she wants to say bubbling up, trying to shove their way out of her mouth. I want you or I wish you were mine or how is that fair when you’re all I can think about?

But none of them come out. Instead, an unfamiliar bitter feeling takes over her chest and she glares at you sharply, eyes burning with all the things she doesn’t say aloud.

“Just forget this ever happened, okay?” Her voice shakes a bit. She crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ll be here. Being single.” As if there could be anyone for her at the moment besides you. As if there could ever be anyone but you.

A beat. Then you sigh heavily. You look like you want to argue more, but then you just shake your head. “Alright.” Your voice is heavy. “I’m sorry for never mentioning him. I just... felt finally free whenever I was with you.” You confess and then stare at your heels, wincing. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved him if I’m being honest.”

“I don’t know what to do with that.” Nat’s voice is quieter now. The fight has drained out of her, leaving only exhaustion and something like sadness. She stares at you, really looks at you for the first time in this whole conversation. Your face is open, guilty but sincere. “You love me?” she asks softly, testing the words on her tongue like they might burn her.

There’s long silence.

“I love you.”

The words are quiet, but they land like a punch. You say it so simply, like it’s obvious. Like this is something that was always going to happen. Nat feels the world tilt under her feet for half a second before she steadies herself with sheer willpower alone.

It almost hurts worse to hear you say it. Like a cruel version of everything she was desperate to hear you say. You love her. You admit it out loud like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t knock the wind out of her.

And all Nat can do is stand there in front of you with tears in her eyes — angry and heartbroken and so damn mad that you make her feel this way. She clears her throat and wipes under her eyes in embarrassment. She can’t look at you. Not like this. “You’re an idiot.”

“Huh?” You frown, confused.

“You heard me. You’re an idiot. You... love me. So what are you going to do about it? You gonna leave your husband and your family for me? Or are you just going to go home and go back to pretending like you don’t?” Her voice is shaking again. She hates that. “Because I don’t know if you’ve realized this... but you can’t have both this time.”

“You’re right. I can’t have both.” Your voice is quieter now, resigned. Like you already knew that before saying anything at all. “I won’t leave my family for you.” She’s punched in the gut again. “I will divorce my husband, because I don’t love him. I will stay with my kids and... if I can, and if you allow me, I want to be with you.”

For all the bullshit in this situation, you sound shockingly sincere. And for some reason that pisses her off the most. You should be lying to her. You should be trying to convince her that your marriage is perfect. You should be telling her how much your kids need their parents to be married. But instead she gets... this. This honesty. Even now with an impossible situation you seem so fucking honest.

A strange sense of hope bubbles up in her chest that she has to beat back down. She stares at your solemn face, expression hard. She can tell you mean what you say. All the time she’s spent watching you was never completely a delusion and that you feel this way about her too.

“And what if I say no?”

For some reason, you laugh. Like it genuinely amuses you. “Then I’ll just move out of here with my kids, divorced, and you’ll never see me again if that’s what you want.”

“I don’t know if I can say yes,” she admits, her voice barely above a whisper. “This is… this is huge. And messy. And you have kids.” She swallows hard, eyes darting to the side as she processes everything. The idea of being with you thrills her in ways that terrify her at the same time. “I like you too much to just... dive into something like this without thinking.”

“Just because you date me you won’t immediately turn into their mom, Natalie.“

“Just because you date me you won’t immediately turn into their mom, Natalie.“ You roll your eyes. “I just… I want us to try. If that’s okay.” You shake your head slightly, smiling weakly. “They already have me and their dad. This is about me. Wanting you.”

Her jaw clenches as she registers your words. Her mind feels like it’s going to explode. She glances your way and sees how worried you look. This isn’t some fling, isn’t a summer romance with no strings attached anymore. You’re talking about commitment, about being together, and the weight of it makes her dizzy for half a second.

“Okay.”

Nat takes a deep breath. The air feels thick, like the world is holding its breath with her. She studies your face, searching for any hint of hesitation or doubt. There isn’t any. You just stand there looking at her with that same stupidly soft expression you always have when it’s just the two of them together. Like she hung every star in the sky.

Slowly, a small smile tugs at your mouth. She can feel her heart hammering in her chest, but not from pain this time. From hope and excitement and this strange sense of disbelief. You want her.

When she speaks again, she has to force her voice to stay even. “I want to try.”

You exhale in obvious relief, shoulders relaxing. Your eyes shine brightly and Nat feels a rush of feelings crash over her like a wave. It’s terrifying but amazing. You step forward hesitantly, like she might disappear, and reach out to brush a strand of hair off her face. Your touch feels like sparks on her skin. Her heart aches as she leans into your palm, like she’s just realized everything she’s been feeling this whole time.

It terrifies her.

Then your lips meet.

“Finally,” you murmur against her lips before kissing her again, deeper this time. Your hands slide into Nat’s hair, fingers tangling in the bleached strands as you pull her closer. Nat melts into it, one hand gripping your shirt while the other cups your jaw like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go. Every nerve in her body feels electrified by this single point of contact between your mouths.

When air becomes necessary, she breaks away just enough to press their foreheads together, breathing unevenly. You both laugh like you’re fourteen learning how to kiss for the first time.

“I’ve been wanting to do that for months.”

The house had too many windows.

That was the first thing you noticed when you moved in. Tall white-framed things stretching from floor to ceiling, letting light pour in at all hours of the day until the rooms glowed honey-gold by evening, until your reflection followed you everywhere. In the kitchen. In the hallway. In the laundry room where warm towels came out smelling like lavender and static.

Your husband loved the windows.

“Open concept,” he’d said proudly the first time he showed you the place, one hand warm at the small of your back. “Feels alive, doesn’t it?”

And it did. At first.

The house sits just outside town where the roads widen and the trees grow thinner, where businessmen build their dream homes far enough apart that nobody hasto see each other hurting. There is a long gravel driveway, hydrangeas planted by the porch, a swing hanging from the old oak tree out front that your children fight over every summer evening.

You love your children with a kind of frightening devotion. The kind that your mom warned you about when you were younger, one day, you’ll understand. And now, you do. You love the soft weight of your daughter asleep against your shoulder after church. Love your son’s missing front teeth and grass-stained sneakers abandoned by the door. Love cutting apples into thin crescent moons while cartoons play faintly in the next room. Love tiny hands reaching for you automatically in crowded grocery stores like their bodies know yours by instinct.

Sometimes you watch them through the kitchen window while doing dishes. Your husband loves you too. You know that.

He kisses your forehead every morning before leaving for work, already smelling faintly of cologne and coffee, tie half-done while he checks his watch. He works long hours downtown in glass buildings that reflects the sun so bright they hurt to look at. Finance. Real estate. Something involving meetings and phones constantly vibrating against countertops.

At night he comes home tired but gentle.

“How were my girls today?” he’d ask, scooping your daughter into his arms while your son clung to his leg. Sometimes he looks at you like he still can’t believe you are there. That is the terrible part.

Nothing was wrong.

Nothing was wrong, and still there was a hole inside you big enough to swallow a life.

Standing at the sink one afternoon with your hands submerged in warm dishwater, staring out toward the empty road beyond the trees, you suddenly feel the unbearable certainty that you are waiting for something. Something enormous. Something unnamed.

You start driving aimlessly some afternoons after dropping the kids at school. Down backroads lined with telephone poles and dying cornfields. Past gas stations buzzing with neon beer signs even in daylight. Past little churches with hand-painted scripture out front. You’d roll the windows down and let hot southern air tangle your hair, music low enough to feel like a secret.

Sometimes you imagine just continuing.

Missing the turn home. Crossing state lines. Becoming someone with a different name.

And then guilt will hit so hard it makes your stomach ache.

Because you love them. God, you love them. Your daughter still crawls into your bed during thunderstorms. Your son cries if you miss soccer practice. Your husband reaches for your hand in his sleep every single night like his body fears losing you even unconscious.

So what kind of woman looks at a beautiful life and still wants more?

“I think I’m gonna go for a drive,” you tell him, grabbing your keys off the counter.

Your husband looks up from his newspaper. “Where to?”

You shrug, avoiding his eyes. “Just… around.” He studies you for a second too long before nodding and going back to reading.

The engine starts with that familiar rumble that used to make your heart race when he first took you on dates in this car. Now it just feels like another thing tying you down.

The highway stretches ahead empty under gray skies as rain begins pattering softly against the windshield. What once felt right, now it just haunts you.

Especially late at night.

When your husband sleeps beside you, one arm heavy across your waist, and you would stare at the ceiling and feel it — that terrible quiet ache opening inside you like a second mouth.

The washing machine rattles soft and steady in the laundry room. Outside, late september light spills gold across the backyard. The grass needs cutting again. One of the flower beds is beginning to brown at the edges from the heat refusing to loosen its grip on the season. You need to call Margaret again so she can help you.

You stand at the dining table folding tiny cotton shirts still warm from the dryer. Your son’s soccer jersey. Your daughter’s pink pajamas with the faded strawberries. Your husband’s crisp white work shirts that smell faintly like detergent and the expensive cologne he sprays onto his throat every morning before kissing you goodbye.

The house is quiet in a way that almost hurts.

No cartoons blaring from the living room. No little feet running through the hallway. No phone calls from your husband asking where he left some file or another. Just sunlight stretching lazy across hardwood floors and the soft creak of the ceiling fan overhead.

The sound comes sudden enough to pull you from your thoughts — a truck engine coughing loud from outside. Like the bored woman you are, you glance toward the window.

A beat-up pickup truck is pulling into the driveway next door.

The house beside yours has been empty nearly five months. A FOR SALE sign sat crooked out front all summer long, bleaching slowly beneath the sun. Families came and went during open houses, but nobody ever stayed.

Until now.

The truck looks wrong against the neighborhood somehow. Too rusted.

The body of it is faded dark green, paint peeling near the doors, one headlight cracked. Dust coats the tires like it’s driven through half the country to get here. There’s a mattress tied down in the back beneath a blue tarp, along with cardboard boxes and what looks like an old guitar case.

The driver’s side door swings open.

And then there’s the girl. Young. Not young-young. Your same age, mid-twenties.

She climbs out slow, boots hitting gravel, one hand pushing the truck door shut with her hip. Blonde hair hangs messy around her shoulders, sun-bleached in places like she spends too much time outside. She wears a faded flannel over a black tank top despite the heat, sleeves shoved to her elbows. Cigarette tucked behind one ear.

There’s something sharp about her.

It’s clear she belongs to roads more than houses. She stands there a second with one hand on her hip, staring at the place she’s apparently decided to live in. The wind catches strands of her hair. You watch her squint up at the roof like she’s expecting it to collapse.

And for reasons you can’t explain, something inside you happens. Curiosity blooms sudden and warm.

You imagine what your husband would say.

Probably something practical. Hope she keeps the property value up. Wonder what she does for work. Maybe joke about the truck looking like it survived the apocalypse.

But you can’t stop looking at her.

She looks lonely. Not like you, not in the polished suburban way people here get lonely. Not wine-at-night loneliness or too-many-committee-meetings loneliness. Meaner than that.

The girl reaches back into the truck for a carton of cigarettes and a lighter. She leans against the hood while lighting one, shoulders slumped with exhaustion like the act of arriving somewhere has taken everything out of her.

Smoke curls silver into the afternoon air.

And suddenly you’re aware of yourself standing there barefoot in the kitchen, hands smelling like laundry detergent and cinnamon dish soap, staring at a stranger like she’s something you’ve been waiting for.

It unsettles you.

Enough that an hour later you’re standing in your kitchen baking a pie. An apple pie, to be specific.

Because it feels neighborly. Because your mother taught you years ago that people forgive almost anything if it comes wrapped in butter and sugar. Because your hands need something to do.

The entire time it bakes, you keep glancing toward the window. The girl carries boxes inside one at a time. Not much luggage. No family helping. No moving company. Just her and the truck and the slow deliberate exhaustion of somebody used to doing things alone.

By the time the pie cools, the sky has started turning that syrupy amber color that only exists right before evening. You tell yourself not to overthink it. You smooth your dress down anyway.

Gravel crunches beneath your heels. The front door of the house is half-open when you reach it. You knock gently against the frame.

The girl appears a second later holding a cardboard box against her hip. Up close, she looks even more tired. Freckles scattered faint across sunburnt skin. Eyes pale and watchful in a way that makes you suddenly conscious of your own heartbeat.

With shaking hands, you lift the pie slightly like an offering. “Hi,” you greet softly with a smile. “I live next door.”

She blinks at the pie, then at you. For a second she just stands there like she’s trying to figure out if this is some kind of trick. Her nose wrinkles slightly at the sweet cinnamon smell rising from the pastry.

The box in her arms shifts awkwardly as she clears her throat.

“Uh… thanks,” she says finally, voice rougher than expected. Smoker’s voice. Road-trip voice. “That’s really nice of you.”

You smile a little, suddenly nervous for reasons you can’t name. “It felt rude not to bake you something.” You shift the pie dish carefully between your hands. “I’m sorry if this is weird,” you apologize, suddenly self-conscious. “I just thought I should say hello.”

“You’re not weird,” she reassures quickly, and for the first time, her voice softens. The tension in her shoulders eases just a fraction. She shifts the box again before setting it down on a dusty table by the door. Then she reaches out with both hands to take the pie from you.

Her fingers are warm. Calloused at the knuckles like someone who plays guitar or fixes things with their hands all day. “Thanks,” she repeats, quieter this time. “That’s… really sweet of you.” Her eyes flicker up to yours briefly before darting away again toward an open cardboard box full of tangled clothes and mismatched socks behind her. Then she steps aside from the doorway.

“You wanna come in?”

“Sure,” you say, stepping across the threshold. The house smells like dust and cigarette smoke, but not in a bad way. More like someone’s lived there for years already.

The girl kicks a stray shoe out of the way as she leads you further in. The living room is mostly empty except for that one box of clothes and an old couch covered with a stained blanket. “I just got here today,” she admits while placing your pie carefully on the kitchen countertop — which has cracks along its surface from what looks like previous owners’ carelessness.

“Yeah, I know.” It sounds stupid and you wince mentally. “I mean... I was really bored and I’m as nosy as a eighty year old woman.”

“Nah, nosy’s fine,” she quips with a small smirk. “I mean, I did just show up in a truck that looks like it died twice.” She leans back against the counter and crosses her arms. The cigarette is still tucked behind her ear, unlit now.

A laugh escapes you before you can stop it. “Really? It didn’t? That is a tough truck.”

“God, I know,” she laughs, finally pulling the cigarette from behind her ear. “She’s a piece of shit but she gets me everywhere.” She rolls it between her fingers absently before putting it back. “Name’s Nat by the way.”

It suits her. Short and straightforward, like someone who doesn’t bother with pretenses. You tell her your name, too and she tastes in her tongue. Repeats it.

“So what brings you to the neighborhood?” you ask, trying to sound casual as your eyes drift over the sparse furniture. There’s a small TV sitting on a milk crate in the corner, and an amplifier stacked beside it with cords snaking across hardwood floors.

“I needed a fresh start,” Nat replies, shrugging one shoulder. “Got tired of the city. Too loud, too much… people.” She pushes off the counter and starts walking toward the fridge — an old white one with rust around its edges that probably came with the house. “How long have you been living here?”

“Like, six years,” you skip the part where you say with my husband and my twins. “I moved here after college.”

Nat nods as she yanks the fridge open. It groans in protest. Inside: half a carton of eggs, a bottle of hot sauce, and some beer cans lined up like soldiers on a shelf. She grabs one beer without asking permission and pops the tab with her thumb. “That’s cool.”

Not so cool anymore, your mind supplies but you turn the thought off.

“I’m not great with neighbors,” Nat admits, taking a long swig of beer. “Not that I’ve had any in a while.” She leans back against the fridge door now, studying you like she’s trying to figure out if you’re friendly or just polite.

The silence stretches for half a second too long before you clear your throat.

“Well, I should go now.” You press your lips together awkwardly. “Like I said, I live next door so I’m really close if you ever need something.”

Nat nods, taking another sip of beer. “Cool,” she repeats, like that’s the only word in her vocabulary right now. She shifts on her feet. “Thanks for the pie.”

“Anytime. See you.”

It starts small. Little rebellions.

The first cigarette happens three days after you meet Natalie.

You’re standing barefoot in her backyard while dusk settles blue and slow over the neighborhood. She’s trying to fix something underneath the hood of her truck, sleeves rolled up, grease smudged across her knuckles. Classic rock hums low from a radio balanced on the porch railing. Fireflies blink lazy over the grass.

You’re supposed to be home starting dinner. Instead you’re watching sweat slide slowly down the side of her throat while she curses at the engine.

“Your truck sounds haunted,” you tell her.

Natalie snorts without looking up. “That’s because it is.”

You laugh — you’ve been doing that a lot lately. More than usual. It feels strange in your own mouth sometimes because you’re rediscovering a language you stopped speaking years ago.

Nat reaches for the cigarette tucked behind her ear and lights it with one hand. The flame glows briefly gold against the falling dark. Then she looks at you. “You ever smoke?”

You should say no. Should say your husband hates cigarettes. That your kids would cough loudly if they smelled smoke on your clothes. That good women in neighborhoods like this do yoga classes and drink wine with dinner and keep their lungs clean.

Instead you shrug a little.

“Not really.”

Nodding, Nat leans back against the truck beside you. Holds the cigarette out between two fingers. “C’mere.”

The filter is warm when you take it from her. You cough after the first inhale hard enough to make her laugh. “Oh my god,” she chuckles, grinning openly now. “You’ve seriously never smoked before.”

You wipe tears from your eyes, laughing too despite yourself. “I told you not really.”

“Relax, it’s not gonna kill you.” She plucks the cigarette from your fingers before you can protest and takes another drag. The orange ember flares in the darkening yard. Then she leans in and blows the smoke in your moth.

“That’s cheating.” You gasp, waving a hand through the smoke. Your chest still stings from the first drag.

Nat grins. It’s a real grin this time — crooked and bright with mischief. “You’re cute.”

The words land like something soft hitting your stomach.

No one calls you cute anymore unless it’s in reference to your kids’ baby photos on Facebook. Your husband says beautiful mostly during sex, never just… cute. Not casually like that while smoking behind her dying truck at 8pm on a Tuesday night.

Your face gets warm despite yourself and before Nat does something about it, you pull away from her abruptly, leaving her confused. “I have to go home.” Meaning: I have to go back and be with my husband, not feeling like a teenager when I’m twenty five years old.

Afterward you go home and scrub your hands twice before your children return from school. You make spaghetti. You help with homework. You kiss your husband hello when he walks through the door tired and handsome in his rolled-up sleeves.

“You smell like smoke?” he asks absentmindedly while loosening his tie. Your stomach drops. But then your daughter starts talking over him about something that happened at school, and the moment passes. Just like that.

Still, guilt clings to you all night.

And beneath the guilt — worse somehow — is excitement.

The next day, Nat shows up at your back door holding a six-pack loosely against her hip. “You busy?”

You should be. Laundry waits upstairs unfolded. The grocery store closes in two hours. Your son has soccer practice later.

Instead you find yourself sitting cross-legged beside her on the floor of her half-unpacked living room drinking cheap beer straight from the bottle while rain taps soft against the windows. Nat tells stories like somebody who’s spent most of her life leaving places.

Arizona.

Colorado.

Wiskayok, her hometown where she lived in her whole life until high school was over.

Some tiny town in Ohio where she says she lived above a bait shop for six months because the owner let her pay rent late.

“You ever stay anywhere long?” you ask.

“Not really,” Nat takes a swig of beer. “I get bored after like… a year.” She leans back against the couch cushions, kicking her boots up onto the coffee table. The house still feels empty around you both — boxes everywhere, no pictures on walls. “Most places just… didn’t feel like home.”

“So you’re not staying here, right?” You feel disappointed, somehow.

“I mean… I could stay here.” Nat shrugs, rolling the beer bottle between her palms. “This house is cheap as hell. The landlord didn’t even care that my truck looks like a war crime.” She glances at you sideways. “But yeah, probably not forever.” A pause. “Nothing ever is.”

You start spending afternoons there.

You sit on her porch while she tunes her guitar badly and drinks beer from the can. Sometimes she drives the two of you nowhere in particular with the windows down and music loud enough to shake the doors. Once she took you to a shitty roadside bar thirty minutes outside town where the floor stuck to your heels and somebody played old country songs on a jukebox.

That night, you laugh so hard your stomach hurts. Nat watches you afterward with this strange quiet look on her face.

“What?” you ask, smiling.

“Nothin’.”

“Yes it is.”

She takes a slow sip from her drink without breaking eye contact. “You look pretty.”

Your cheeks burn. You snort, in desbelief. “Sure.”

“I mean it,” Nat leans forward, elbows on her knees. “You look pretty. Like… really pretty.” She says it so simply, like she’s stating a fact about the weather or the taste of her beer.

“Thanks,” you mumble into your drink, suddenly self-conscious about how long your hair has been since its last cut or whether there’s mascara smudged under your eyes. When you glance up at her, her gaze is intense.

The compliment lands differently than anything your husband has said in years because it feels unplanned. Like she just noticed and couldn’t stop herself from saying it out loud.

She studies you like she’s memorizing something. Then, she starts leaning in. Confused, you swallow and clear your throat while checking the watch on your wrist. “I think I should get going.”

Nat exhales sharply through her nose, clearly disappointed. “Right,” she whispers, sitting back and taking another sip of beer. She watches you stand up and brush off your jeans. The porch light flickers above you both. “You coming by tomorrow?”

“Okay, yeah — dumb question,” Nat relents with a small smirk.

When you get home, you are buzzing lightly from alcohol and the sound of her laughter still caught in your ears. Your husband is asleep on the couch with your daughter curled against his chest.

The sight of them nearly destroys you.

Because you love them — you love them so much it feels like grief sometimes. You stand there in the doorway still smelling faintly like beer and smoke while guilt blooms heavy beneath your ribs.

And yet, the next afternoon you go back to Natalie’s house anyway.

By october, she starts touching you more. Her hand settling briefly against your lower back while squeezing past you in the kitchen. Her knee knocking yours during long porch conversations neither of you bothers moving away from. Fingers brushing cigarette ash from your sleeve.

One afternoon she reaches over absentmindedly and tucks your hair behind your ear while you’re talking. The gesture is so gentle it steals the breath from your lungs. Nat pauses afterward like she surprised herself too. Then she smiles crookedly.

“There y’are,” she murmurs.

You laugh nervously and look away.

What’s worse is that Natalie doesn’t know — about your husband. Your children. The life waiting for you every evening in the big white house next door.

Natalie is a firm believer that student-athletes should be excused from having to take phys-ed, especially because she can't stand watching the try-hard football players over-exert themselves to impress the girls who are more concerned about preserving their makeup than getting a good grade.

As irritating as it is, she is sometimes entrained by how little regard you have for them. Those same guys who would call her "easy" are always somehow the ones groveling for your attention- and the one thing about you, Natalie is okay with admitting that she likes, is how much you enjoy humbling them.

"Hey, Y/n. You coming out with us this weekend?" Chuck, some jock, saunters over to, all sweaty and out of breath from doing god-knows-what. You turn over your shoulder, your conversation with Jackie being interrupted, brows raising and smile fading mostly.

"Why would I be coming out with you guys?" you ask, genuinely confused, but amping up the clueless lilt in your tone to mess with him. Chuck laughs like you're being adorably unknowing instead of degrading.

“C’mon,” he says, leaning a forearm against the bleachers beside you. “Party at Sean’s place. Everybody’s gonna be there.” You blink up at him, eyes wide and doe-like, expression still painfully sweet.

“That sounds awful.” Jackie snorts into her water bottle at your sarcasm. A couple of the guys behind Chuck laugh too, the kind of laugh people make when they’re trying not to get caught agreeing with someone cooler than them. Chuck’s grin falters as he straightens.

“You think you’re funny?”

“No,” you say easily. “I think I’m right.”

Jackie fully laughs this time, throwing her head back, as Chuck’s ears go red. Natalie watches the exact moment he realizes this interaction is not going the way he had pictured it in his head- fluttery lashes and a dainty grin, maybe your number if he pushed hard enough- never in a million years. Instead, you’re dissecting him, eating him alive with a smile that somehow still looks pretty and polite. It should annoy her more than it does.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Don’t come then.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.” He scoffs and turns away, shoulders stiff, while his friends trail after him. The second they’re out of earshot, Jackie grins.

“You are so mean!” she playfully shoves you, giggling as you roll you eyes with a lazy grin. You shrug, reaching down to pick up your water bottle and begin making your way to the locker room.

“He’ll live.”

A few minutes go by as everyone refreshes and changes after doing what felt like nothing in gym class. Natalie has replayed your encounter with Chuck over and over again, at least six times since it happened mere moments ago. She knows you're an asshole, but mostly just because you're an asshole to her. But watching you be mean to some idiot jock, who has definitely done something to piss her off before, too? It made her heart race in a way you should never be able to cause, and THAT was enough to put her in a bad mood.

Natalie fixes her eyeliner, watching you in the mirror, as you adjust your boobs to sit fuller in your lacy bra, which is now peeking out from the top of your tank top.

"I'm surprised your daddy even lets you wear that shit, princess." She doesn't even look at you as she says it, but she sees a few heads snap to her, including yours.

"What's it to you, burnout?"

"Nothin'... just find it funny how you like to play dress up in your "cool girl" clothes, when everybody knows you still have to be told what to wear for Sunday mass." This earns a few snickers from the remaining girls. You even let out a soft, unamused huff, rolling your eyes and turning fully to face her.

"Yeah? You got a problem with my tits being out? Is it distracting you from all the hard work you do in school?" You've crossed your arms over your chest, pushing your boobs together even more. Natalie rolls her eyes to hide how she was obviously staring. The saccharine, dramatically concerned tone of your voice pulls a few giggles from the room again. You push off the ledge you were leaning against and slowly saunter over to Natalie.

"We wouldn't want that, now would we? You've gotta stay at the top of the class, right, Nat? I mean, who else is gonna be valedictorian?" You're now facing her as you lean against the counter where Nat's been touching up her makeup. You're too close for her liking as you talk sweetly and sarcastically, practically purring with condescension as your voice glides over and through her, smooth like velvet.

"You trying to be cute right now?" Natalie side eyes you before returning her gaze to her own reflection, smudging the black eyeliner under her waterline.

"I mean, everybody knows you get the best grades in our class-" she turns to face you fully, "but that's just because you've fucked every teacher in the building, huh?" You scoff and roll your eyes, more irritated by the cadence of dramatic "oohs" that echoed through the locker room, than the obvious lie from the bleach blonde in front of you.

"Don't actually have anything against me, so you're making shit up now?" You move to close the distance between the two of you, a scowl on your face and a fire in your eyes

"We both know only one of us is desperate enough to suck someone's dick for a favor-" you don't even finish your whispered insult before Natalie is shoving you away from her. It's not hard or aggressive enough to knock you down, but you do stumble slightly, the tiniest hint of a smirk on your lips, the urge to fight still simmering in your eyes, daring Natalie to say something else.

"Hey!" Jackie rushes to step in between the two of you. "Knock it off, Nat! You seriously trying to get benched for the game tomorrow?" Natalie's eyes widen for a moment, shocked that Jackie is only addressing her right now. She shakes her head with a scoff and moves to shove her gym bag back in her locker before leaving.

Later that day at practice, during one of their water breaks, Nat side-eyes Jackie and contemplates even mentioning the situation from earlier. It wasn't a big deal- the two of you argue like that all the time, but Jackie (or anyone for that matter) has ever gotten in the middle of it.

"So... what was that all about earlier?" Nat questions as she hovers near the captain. Jackie glances over at her with a raised brow as she continues to sip her water. Nat sighs, irritated that she even has to bring it back up

"You defending Y/n." Jackie furrows her brows in confusion, turning fully to face the other girl.

"I wasn't defending her; I was making sure you didn't get yourself into more trouble before our game. We need you on the field, Nat- not on the bench." Ignoring the small pinch in her heart at the indirect praise, Natalie rolls her eyes again. Jackie, of course, sees this and proceeds

"I mean, even if I was defending her- you did start the argument, Nat..."

"Oh my god- I was teasing her!" "Completely unprovoked" the blonde guffaws, looking around in astonishment, even though she knows Jackie is right.

The captain gives her an accusatory look, causing Nat to roll her eyes and groan dramatically again (Jackie thinks they might actually fall out this time from how hard she rolled them). Practice resumes and finishes, the day ends, and the week continues- as it always does.

The sun is shining, it's warm but breezy, and practice just got canceled. Natalie should be able to say she's in a good mood, and she actually was, until she walked past you, leaning over the hood of your old Cadillac- ass perked out perfectly in your denim mini skirt, perfect curls shining in the sunlight, your face resting delicately in your hand, framed by perfectly painted red nails.

You were charming some poor guy who definitely never stood a chance, and as enchanting as you looked, it made Natalie's chest burn, her stomach twisting with distaste for you. She couldn't help herself as she walked past and pinched the back of your thigh, eliciting a mix of a gasp and some sort of squeak from you as you whip around.

"Oops, sorry princess- didn't mean to bump into you!" You jerk away from the hood of the Cadillac so fast your curls bounce over your shoulders, one hand flying to the back of your thigh where Natalie had pinched you. The poor guy beside you blinks between the two of you like he’d just stumbled into the middle of a live grenade.

“Natalie,” Your voice comes sharp and sweet at the same time, the kind of tone that always made her feel like she was being mocked even when she wasn’t. All delivered with a pearly white pageant queen smile, and loathsome fire in your eyes.

“You know, most people say excuse me without assaulting somebody.” Nat only smirks, shoulders rolling as she steps closer instead of away.

“Assault is dramatic. You’ll live.” The guy you were just talking to laughs nervously, giving Natalie an in to take this even further.

“You got somewhere to be?” She looks at him, eyes narrowing just enough to make him straighten up.

“Uh, actually, yeah, I think Coach wanted-”

“No, he didn’t,” you cut in immediately, glaring at Natalie over your shoulder. “Don’t let her scare you.”

“I was just asking a simple question, not trying to scare anyone,” Natalie shrugs, though the crooked grin on her face made it obvious she absolutely was.

The guy mutters something about seeing you later before practically fleeing across the parking lot. The second he disappears, you whip back around to face Natalie.

“Happy now?” you huff, arms crossed. Natalie shrugs with that stupid, casual grin on her face, absolutely shameless.

“Ecstatic.” you scoff. “You are unbelievable.”

Natalie’s grin only widens at the way your face twists.

“Yeah?” she says, stepping closer until there’s barely any room left between you, an expression of faux pity. “Cry about it.”

Your laugh comes out short and sharp as you turn your head away for a moment. A mixture of astonishment and amusement.

“God, you’re obsessed with me.” Your grin is borderline evil. Mean. Pretty. Provocative.

That hits something. Natalie’s jaw tightens instantly, eyes narrowing as the breeze tosses strands of blonde hair across her face.

“Don’t flatter yourself, princess.” she backs away slightly, her own expression now twisting in distaste, which only causes you to push back with more fire.

“Then why are you always so worried about what I'm doing?” you snap back. “I mean, you practically follow me around like a fucking stray dog at this point."

“Careful,” she says lowly, her expression darkening.

“Or what?” You tilt your head, all mock innocence again, though your eyes are blazing now.

For a second, neither of you moves. The parking lot noise dulls into the background- distant car doors slamming, laughter somewhere across campus, the chaos of after-school sports. Natalie can feel her pulse in her throat. She hates how calm you look standing there in your tiny skirt and glossy lips, leaning back against that stupid Cadillac like you're untouchable.

You raise a perfectly sleek eyebrow at her silence.

"Nothing? Thought so." Your voice is soft, condescending. Your smile is delicate and venomous.

You turn back around to open your car door and finally get in as you hear Nat scoff and mumble something bitterly behind you.

“What, you gonna pinch me again, Nat?” you ask softly, leaning over your front seat to toss your bag in the passenger seat.

Natalie wants to jump into oncoming traffic as she can't help but stare at your ass. She feels even worse once she catches a peek of your panties under your skirt. There's no way in hell you're not doing this on purpose...

“Or were you just looking for an excuse to touch me?” you straighten up, leaning against your open car door with your arm on top of the frame, looking effortlessly cool. Natalie’s stomach drops so violently it pisses her off.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters, shaking her head once like she can physically throw your words off her skin. “You really think everybody wants you.”

“Oh no,” you say, voice smooth as honey, almost sounding genuine. But of course, Natalie knows better.

“You just seem to have an odd obsession with me that would only make sense if you were secretly in love with me or something.” Natalie steps forward so fast your smile finally falters. Barely. Her hand slams the car door shut, causing you to flinch slightly out of the way.

“You wanna keep talking?” You glance calmly at the car door for half a second before dragging your eyes back up to hers. Close enough now to count each other's lashes. To feel each other breathing.

“What?” you murmur. “Hit a nerve?”

Nat's jaw ticks as you continue to smirk calmly. Neither of you looks away, and it's clear neither of you plans to back down any time soon.

"As much as I love reminding you not to fuck with me, I have to go," You whisper cooly, a pout taking over your lips as your faux pity drifts between you two. Natalie laughs humorlessly under her breath, glancing to the side for a moment.

She backs down, not quite accepting defeat yet, but also not about to keep you hostage against your own car in the school parking lot. You give her the quickest glance over, before reaching behind you to pull you care door open and slip inside. Your windows are already rolled down, radio on a decently low volume.

“You know, one of these days," Natalie says coldly, eyes flicking over your perfect hair, your glossed lips, your too-sweet smile, “you’re gonna run into somebody who doesn’t give a shit how pretty you are... and then you’ll realize there’s literally nothing else underneath all this prom queen bullshit.”

Your chin lifts immediately, defiant. Your cocky grin falters slightly, less amused and now mostly over the interaction.

“Yeah?” you whisper. “Well, if you're so sure of that, why don't you fuck around and come find out, huh?”

You turn your radio up, holding eye contact, then back out of your parking spot. Natalie bites her cheek as she watches you drive away, bitter fury and blind rage soaring through her body.

Natalie passes you in your car again the next day. Your windows are up this time, and your car doesn't shake as the bass blares through your speakers. She's actually pretty sure you're sitting in silence this time around...

You swipe your hands across your face, wiping away your tears, trying not to fuck up your makeup any more than you already have.

Natalie only catches pieces of it as she walks by.

Your glossy lipstick is smudged near the corner of your mouth. Mascara shadows stain beneath your eyes. One of your (usually) perfectly curled pieces of hair has gone limp against your cheek from where you’ve clearly been dragging your hands over your face. It’s jarring.

You always look so painfully put together. Like every detail of you has been rehearsed down to the way each individual eyelash curls into place. Perfect posture. Perfect hair. Perfect smile. Like if Natalie dug her nails into you hard enough, she’d hit porcelain instead of skin.

But of course, Natalie knows better.

She's far too aware that underneath all the pageant princess smiles and prom queen bullshit, you’re just as fucked up as she is. Maybe worse. She sees it in the way your smile twitches sometimes when people stop looking. In how mean you get when someone corners you too hard. In the way your eyes go cold instead of scared whenever somebody hits a nerve.

You're as fucked up as she is. You just hide it better than she does, that’s all.

And right now, sitting alone in your car with tears streaking carefully applied makeup down your face, you look exactly like what Natalie always knew you were:

A mess.

She slows for half a second before immediately hating herself for it. For that one awful moment, she considers knocking on the window. She doesn’t even know why. Her jaw tightens. You don’t notice her at first, too busy fumbling with the visor mirror, trying to fix your lipstick with shaky fingers. Then your eyes flick toward the window.

The second you see her outside the car, your whole expression changes. Not sad anymore- guarded.

Your chin lifts automatically, eyes cold, shoulders squaring like muscle memory. Like even crying alone in your car isn’t something you’d let Natalie catch without turning it into a fight.

Nat scoffs quietly under her breath and keeps walking. because whatever’s got you crying hard enough to ruin your makeup probably has nothing to do with her. And for some reason, that bothers her more than if it did.

The same awful party you told Chuck you wouldn't be at is exactly where Natalie ended up this weekend. And going against your own word, where you end up as well.

When she first spots you, you're dancing with Jackie, smiling and drunkenly singing along as she holds onto by the belt loops of your low-cut jeans. Nat immediately searches for Shauna, who she finds leaning against a nearby wall, analyzing the same scene. She wanders over and joins the brunette in her observing.

Shauna briefly glances sideways as Natalie comes to stand beside her, arms crossed loosely over her chest.

“You look miserable,” she quips plainly.

Natalie snorts. “You look sober. Which is honestly worse.”

Shauna hums in acknowledgment, lifting the beer in her hand with a slight tilt. “I'm working on it.”

For a while, neither of them says anything, both sipping on their shitty drinks, each simply observing a girl they spend far too much time thinking about.

Jackie laughs as you nearly stumble into her during the chorus of some song Natalie vaguely recognizes, your head tipping back while you sing dramatically into an invisible microphone. It’s obnoxious. Loud. Attention-seeking.

But it’s also… easy.

That’s the part Natalie can’t understand. You always seem so effortless around other people. Like you were born already knowing exactly how much space to take up. Meanwhile, Natalie feels raw all the time- too loud, too angry, too obvious in every room she walks into. People look at her and immediately know there’s something wrong with her.

With you, they just see pretty first.

Shauna snorts quietly beside her as some drunk guy tries to dance his way toward you, only for Jackie to physically shove him back into the crowd. He doesn't seem to take too much offense, seeing as the two pretty girls in front of him are just laughing and joking around.

“She’s gonna break his heart in like- six minutes,” Shauna mutters.

Natalie scoffs, taking another sip from whatever terrible drink she grabbed earlier. “Six is generous.”

Still, she keeps watching.

Because there’s something weirdly hypnotic about seeing you like this- loose and laughing and careless instead of sharp-edged and glaring at her across a parking lot. Relaxed instead of making yourself seem untouchable to the general public. Your smile actually reaches your eyes tonight, and Natalie hates that she notices.

But she hates it even more that every few minutes, despite being surrounded by people, your expression flickers- just for a second. Like something underneath all the glitter and velvet keeps trying to claw its way up. Something tired. Distracted. Sad, maybe. Then it’s gone again before anyone else seems to catch it.

But Natalie catches it. Of course she does.

It's a couple hour later when Natalie finds you sitting on the steps of the side entrance to the house, red cup in hand, almost empty. She walks past you and lights her cigarette, inhaling as she looks over her shoulder to get a good glance at you. Your eyes are red and swollen, black eyeliner smudged unintentionally under your eyes, mascara stains watercoloring your cheeks as if you tried to wipe away your tears but gave up prematurely.

"You look like you need another drink." She takes a drag from her cigarette as you glare up at her. You glance back into your cup and watch the liquid swirl around as you shift your wrist.

"I think that's the last thing I need right now," you mumble, and Nat feels the natural pity start to form in her chest that always inevitably arrives when she's around you at parties.

"You want a cigarette then?" you scoff and roll your eyes, standing from your meek position.

"You know I don't smoke those things."

"Right, I forgot- you only smoke weed, cuz that's so much better for you than tobacco-" "Well, it is." Natalie chuckles and reaches into her pocket, pulling out a joint and holding it up to eye level.

“This better fit your brand, princess?” Your eyes flick to it for a second before narrowing again. “You offering or making fun of me?”

“Little bit of both.”

You let out a humorless laugh and snatch it from her fingers anyway. Natalie watches you inspect it for a second before holding it loosely between two manicured fingers like you’re not entirely sure what to do with yourself anymore. You glance back up at Natalie with glassy eyes and a soft pout, and she immediately mentally punches herself for the way her pulse halts for a moment

"I need a lighter," you mumble tiredly. She rolls her eyes, but hands you hers without a second thought.

You light the joint and inhale, closing your eyes and relaxing as soon as the smoke is exhaled. You lean back to rest your weight on one of your palms, beginning to zone out. Natalie continues to smoke her cigarette and shift her gaze around the driveway, occasionally landing back on you every now and then.

"What's got you all mopey this time?"

"The fuck do you care?" There's not any actual bite behind your words, just a lingering tiredness that seems to follow you in your most honest moments.

"I don't, just bored and nosy," she drifted off, gaze tilting away as she leaned against the side of the house.

A casual silence falls between the two of you as you continue to smoke and stare ahead at the side of the house next door.

“So... you cry all your makeup off for fun?” Natalie asks casually, smoke curling from her mouth, “or did you already get ditched before you could even get his pants off?”

The second the words leave her mouth, your entire posture changes. Your shoulders stiffen. Your expression shutters. Natalie feels it immediately- that familiar moment where something she meant one way lands another. Harder. Meaner.

You glare up at her briefly, biting your cheek before taking a much longer drag of the joint and turning to face forward again. "I'm not doing this with you tonight..."

And instead of accepting that she took it too far and should just leave it at that, Nat feels like it's easier to take it further- easier to provoke you into saying something equally as mean so she feels less bad about it.

So she laughs. It’s sharp and empty, like she’s trying to scrape the guilt off her tongue with it.

“Right,” she bites, rolling her eyes as she exhales smoke away from you.

“Because you’re just so above it all, huh? Sitting out here alone like it’s some tragic character moment instead of you just doing what you always do- pushing people away before they get the chance to see what a tragic mess you actually are.”

Her gaze drags over you again, colder now, more deliberate. You know she's trying to pull a reaction from you, but you truly are too exhausted to care, and it reads. which only makes Nat feel worse, and push harder.

“Must be exhausting,” she adds lightly, like she doesn’t care either way. “Playing perfect until nobody sticks around long enough to prove you’re not.”

"Yeah, sorry I'm not like you..." and that littlest bit of a response is enough to fuel the fire.

"Like you're any different? You probably just got done sucking some guy off in the bathroom, and he told you he didn't wanna take you back to his place, which is why you're out here crying like a little bitch-"

"Oh fuck off, Nat-" you push off the stoop, ready to end the conversation and head out.

"No, cuz you always do this shit- you always think you're so much better than me, cuz you don't show how fucked up you really are to everyone else!" She aggressively shoves her finger in your chest, causing you to lose your balance and stumble a bit in your drunken state. You open your mouth to retaliate, but Nat isn't finished.

"You fucking suck, Y/n! You're an absolute bitch, and no one can fucking stand you, and how you act all high and mighty- You really think anyone is actually buying this "rebel preacher's daughter" bullshit? Cuz I'm definitely not!" Natalie is practically screaming in your face as she gradually stalks toward you, invading your space. There's still a fire in your eyes as you bite your lip, but it shimmers with fresh tears that you're trying your hardest to push back.

"Yeah, well, my dad's not even a preacher, so that doesn't make any sense anyway-" you mumble pitifully, still trying to seem tough even though it's clear you don't really give a fuck about forming any actual arguments at this point. You glare back anyway as Natalie rolls her eyes so hard they might fall out of her head. She lets out a humorless laugh and cuts you off again

"My bad, princess, cuz that totally fucking matters right now." she lowers her voice, a bit calmer, but still carrying the same intensity and venom as before.

"Point is, you're not fooling anyone." She shakes her head as she leans in, invading your space to a point that actually has you swallowing the lump in your throat. "You are just as much of a train wreck as I am... and just because you can get all dressed up and bat your eyes at people to make them do what you want, doesn't change the fact that your daddy hates you and your mommy wishes you were anyone but yourself."

Natalie herself doesn't even know where this is coming from. She didn't even want to pick a fight with you tonight for fun. Matter of fact- she was even enjoying the few moments the two of you seemed to be able to coexist in each other's relative space. She feels herself getting sicker and sicker the further she takes it, hoping you'll snap like you always do and even it out. But that never happens.

Your bottom lip trembles, the emotion in your eyes rapidly flashing back and forth between furious and heartbroken. You try your best to maintain eye contact, but unfortunately, Natalie won this round. She knew exactly which nerves to strike, and exactly how to do so.

"Fuck you, Natalie." You place your hand on her chest and slightly shove her back, making enough room between the two of you to allow you to shoulder check her as you leave. Nat turns over her shoulder to watch you leave, an unsatisfied feeling weighing on her chest.

The rest of the weekend passes as it always does, slow and boring. The Yellowjackets had a game early Saturday afternoon, and in celebration of them winning, Jackie decided to throw a party at the last minute. You weren't at the game, which is fair, since it was an away game, and it was usually a fifty-fifty chance of you and the other prom queen candidates to come out to those.

However, any time Jackie Taylor hosted a party, you were present. Nat still doesn't understand the dynamic between the two of you, seeing as Shauna also hasn't formed a solid opinion. It seems like you and Jackie lived in your own little world when you were around each other, which made sense on one hand, due to the perfect hair and glimmering smiles, seeming like the epitomes of high school royalty... but on the other hand, Natalie always wondered if Jackie really knew you at all, or if she just knew you the way everyone did- which is unfortunately how most people knew Jackie as well.

You didn't show up that night either. The first time in all of high school history, you missed one of Jackie's parties. That in itself wasn't enough to ruin Natalie's night, but the fact that she couldn't stop thinking about it is what actually led her to drink more than usual. Which, of course, only made things worse. So much worse, that for the first time ever, Natalie found herself subconsciously moaning your name when she came around some guy's fingers during seven minutes in heaven.

You've proceeded to invade her thoughts for the rest of the weekend, and into the new week, until she spots you with your friends on Monday morning.

It’s annoying, honestly. That’s what Natalie tells herself as she rounds the corner by the lockers and sees you standing there like nothing ever happened. Like she didn’t say it. Like you didn’t look at her like that afterward.

You’re laughing with Lottie at something Jackie says, head tipped back slightly, hair falling perfectly into place like it always does when you move. One hand is on your locker, the other gesturing lazily as you talk- effortless, practiced, untouchable. Normal.

But Natalie catches it anyway.

The smallest hesitation before your smile settles. A fraction of a beat too long where your eyes don’t quite match your expression. Like your body remembered how to laugh before the rest of you caught up.

Jackie doesn’t notice- or maybe she does and just spares you the callout. Maybe you've already explained the whole thing to her. Maybe you actually opened up to her and cried in her arms about everything.

Natalie wipes the maybes from her brain and swallows the bitterness she's already feeling at 7 am.

The point is- Natalie notices you.

She slows just enough that she could turn away and avoid this entirely, but of course, she doesn’t. Instead, she watches you for a second too long.

You shift your weight against the lockers, still talking, still smiling, but your fingers keep worrying at the strap of your bag in a repetitive motion that doesn’t match the casual tone of your voice. Like you need something to do with your hands that isn’t standing there. Your eyes flick down the hall once. Then back. Fast. Automatic. Checking.

You're antsy in a way that no one else would pick up- not immediately- except for Natalie...

Her jaw tightens slightly before she can stop it. She keeps watching you.

You laugh again at something Jackie says, but it’s a little softer than usual. Not weaker exactly- just… placed. Like it’s being used more carefully than it should be. And when you glance down at your locker to adjust the combination, your hand pauses for a split second on the dial like you’ve forgotten it mid-motion.

It’s tiny, barely anything- no one else would clock it. Natalie does.

Because she’s seen you loud and sharp and untouchable for so long that anything even slightly off feels like a crack in glass.

She shifts her weight, eyes narrowing without meaning to. You finally open your locker. Still talking. Still smiling. But your shoulders stay just a fraction too tight, like you’re holding something in place and hoping nobody asks you to let go.

Natalie exhales through her nose, already annoyed that she’s noticing this at all. She starts walking again, slower than before, angling past the group like she doesn’t care enough to stop.

Like she hasn’t been thinking about you for three straight days.

Like she didn’t memorize the exact second your voice broke.

She passes behind you just close enough to catch the faintest pause in your breathing as she goes by. Not upsetment or disgust- just awareness- like your body registered her before your eyes did.

You don’t turn, you don't even glance at her- you don’t react. But your grip tightens briefly on your locker door. And Natalie keeps walking anyway, hands shoved into her pockets, expression blank in the way that usually means she’s won something.

Except this time, it doesn’t feel like winning- it feels like you both just agreed to pretend nothing ever happened. And somehow, that’s worse.

This pattern continues through the rest of the week, and by Friday, it has entirely exhausted Natalie, sucking all the life out of her. But of course, her exhaustion can never last long on the weekends with whatever part is happening.

The house is already loud when she gets there- too loud for her already worn-down state. Cars are lined up crooked across the lawn, headlights blinding anyone within a 50-foot radius, and there’s that familiar sticky warmth in the air that comes with too many bodies in too small a space.

Natalie flicks ash from her cigarette without really looking at it and watches a couple of freshmen stumble out the front door laughing like they’ve already had the wildest night ever.

It should be simple, same as always- Walk in. Find Shauna or Van or whoever she can drink and complain with. Pretend she’s not irritated by everything and everyone in the room. Leave when it stops being tolerable.

Except she can feel it immediately.... that weird tightness behind her ribs that hasn’t gone away all week. The one she keeps blaming on lack of sleep, or her substance habits, or just general bullshit. It isn’t any of those things.

She takes one last drag, drops the cigarette under her shoe, and crushes it into the concrete before stepping up onto the porch.

Inside is even more miserable than the lawn. The smell of alcohol and perfume and something vaguely burnt overwhelms her senses before she's even able to process any of it. People pressed shoulder to shoulder in the entryway, yelling over each other like volume alone can make conversations matter more.

Natalie slips in without ceremony, shoulders brushing past someone she doesn’t look at. A guy says something to her as she passes- she doesn’t hear it, or pretends not to. Her eyes are already scanning- not for anything specific, of course.

She spots Van and Taissa near the kitchen, leaning against a counter like they've been there the whole night and plan to stay there forever. Jackie’s somewhere deeper in the crowd, of course, and seems to have dragged Shauna in with her.

Natalie starts moving through the room- slow at first, then more direct. She doesn’t like how automatically her attention keeps catching on familiar shapes—dark hair, similar posture, a laugh that sounds almost like—

No.

She cuts that thought off before it finishes forming.

Natalie drifts through the house like she always does at these things- taking half conversations, half drinks, never staying anywhere long enough to mean anything. Time gets patchy: a cigarette on the porch, a few minutes by the kitchen, Lottie saying something she barely catches and answering on autopilot.

Every so often, her attention snags on that familiarity from earlier, now heightened by the alcohol. And every time, she feels that same dull irritation under her ribs. Eventually, she stops trying to stay grounded in the party at all and takes it upon herself to take a breather.

Once she makes her way through the crowd of sweaty, drunk people, Nat ascends the staircase and makes her way down the familiar hallway. She reaches the bathroom door, and noticing that it isn't shut all the way, she pushes it open, just hoping it's empty.

Unfortunately for her, Natalie is met with you resting your palms against the countertop, head hung, with your eyes closed. There's a slight sway in your stature, and you don't seem to realize anyone has entered the bathroom. She's frozen momentarily, but forces herself to relax.

"Jesus Christ... are you bombed?" she laughs condescendingly. You slowly open your eyes and lift your head to look in the mirror and see the reflection of whoever has just interrupted your peace.

"Yup." You allow your eyes to return to their resting position and lower your head again, relaxed. Nat is slightly taken aback by your lack of response, or really your lack of presence in general.

She steps fully inside anyway, shutting the door behind her with a quiet click, slow and deliberate, like she’s deciding to stay. Then she drops onto the closed toilet seat, elbows resting loosely on her knees as she watches you in the mirror.

For a moment, she just takes you in- too still, too quiet, hair slightly out of place, eyeliner smudged from earlier but not reapplied. You look less like you’re trying to be untouchable and more like you’ve just run out of energy to keep pretending. It makes her uncomfortable, so she fixes it the only way she knows how.

"Does Jackie know how much of a fuck-up you are? or are you holding onto the last bits of your fake personality still?"

"Why the fuck do you care?" Nat wasn't expecting the exhausted response. "Ya know, for someone who acts they don't give a fuck, you sure are in my business a lot..." Your words are slurred more than Natalie has ever heard from you. Something about your lack of fight is throwing her off in a way that has a pit forming in her stomach.

"You know how much I love knocking you down a peg. I actually think I'm getting pretty good at it-" it's supposed to be a joke, an ill-intentioned one, but a joke nonetheless. You abruptly turn around, stumbling dizzily as you try to glare at Nat, letting your hands find the sink again as you lean back on it for support. Your eyes are closed, head hung as you try to put yourself together enough to walk out.

Natalie stares, concerned, never having seen you this plastered before. As tipsy as you've gotten in the past, you were smart enough to know your limits and keep yourself out of dangerous situations (for the most part). This was a new low for you.

"Dude... you're cut off." Nat chuckles slightly, trying to sound nonchalant and authoritative at the same time, but it ends up leaving her mouth more cautious than anything. She doesn't want you thinking she's gone soft on you, but there's also no way she's gonna let you give yourself alcohol poisoning (if you haven't already).

"Fuck you." you whisper, still leaning against the countertop, head swaying as if the room was still swirling around behind your eyelids. Natalie nods, mouth slightly agape, truly in disbelief.

"That's all you got?" she quips in an attempt to get you to fire back, an attempt to keep you awake. She watches you head bob up and down dramatically, taking a break from its soft swinging to respond to her.

Natalie doesn't even have time to come up with her next insult before you're shoving her off the toilet and opening the lid to throw up into it.

"Oh- Jesus Christ, y/n..." you're coughing into the bowl, head hung as you weakly try to tuck some of your hair out of your face.

"get out..." you mumble drunkenly. Nat hovers for a moment, not wanting to deal with this, but also already feeling guilty about leaving you alone in this state.

"Do you- fuck, uhm... do you want water, or something?"

"I want you to leave me the fuck alone, Nat..." your voice is muffled but echoes off the ceramic you're currently throwing up in. Natalie nods and sighs.

"Yeah, fair enough... uhm, okay yeah-" and with that, Natalie sees her exit and bolts for it. She closes the door behind her right as you begin your third wave of puking.

"Hey, Nat, you see Y/n anywhere?" some guy asks as he and his friends come up the stairs, seemingly heading in the direction she was coming from. She rubs her eyes, already exhausted by the night's adventures.

"Bathroom. She's totally plastered." She mumbles, tossing her head in the direction of the bathroom. The three guys briefly halt their movements and all glance at each other with wide eyes, before trying to hide their sadistic grins.

"Perfect, thanks." he passes her and pats her on the shoulder, he and his friends snickering as they continue down the hall. That interaction sends a terrifying chill down her spine and immediately sobers her up.

Natalie turns around and books it past them down the hall and back into the bathroom. She slams the door closed, with just as much force as she used to barrel through it. You're still where she left you, except now you're resting your head on your forearm, which is lying delicately across the toilet seat. You don't even flinch at her entrance, which spikes her heart rate.

"I can stay... if you want"

"What the fuck... no, I told you to go away-" before you can even finish, your head is back in the bowl, continuing the same as before. Natalie cringes slightly, pushing the door closed behind her and locking it. She crosses the small room and squats down next to you, gathering your hair and tying it back with the ponytail on her wrist. You make a weak attempt to swat her away, but your inebriation and active vomiting cause you to miss by a long shot.

Natalie doesn’t remember agreeing to it, at least, not really. It just sort of happens, like everything else with you lately does.

One minute you’re barely upright in the bathroom, hair pulled back, breathing like it hurts. The next, you’re slumped against her in the hallway, refusing to go home in a way that’s more stubborn than coherent.

“No,” you mumble when she tries to steer you toward the stairs. “Not going there.”

“Well, Jackie's busy, so you don’t have anywhere else to go.” she snaps automatically, then immediately regrets it when your face tightens- not angry, just… done. You blink slowly, like the thought of home is something you have to physically work through.

“Don’t care,” you say finally, quieter. “Just… not there.”

Natalie hesitates. That’s new.

It’s not like you’re refusing her. It’s like you’re refusing something else entirely, and she’s just the closest exit.

“Where then?” she asks, already annoyed at herself for asking. You lean harder into the wall for a second, eyes half-lidded, like the question is exhausting.

“Anywhere,” you mutter. Then, after a beat, more bluntly, “Not my house.”

There’s something in your tone that shuts the conversation down entirely. Natalie studies you for a second, jaw tight.

“You serious?”

You nod weakly, eyes closed, like it doesn’t matter enough to argue about. “I’ll figure it out later.”

That’s a lie, and you both know it. But you’re also clearly not in any condition to “figure anything out,” and whatever’s waiting at your house is apparently worse than her, so Natalie exhales through her nose, irritated in a way that doesn’t fully land anywhere useful.

“Okay,” she says finally, rougher than intended. “Well. You’ve got my place then.”

You don’t even react to the irritation in her tone, or question what she means, you just nod once, slow and heavy, like that’s acceptable. Like it’s just another inconvenient stop on your way out of something else.

“kay,” you mumble. “As long as it’s not there.”

She doesn’t know why she does it. She tells herself it’s logistics, damage control of some sort. Even if you and her are "sworn enemies", she's not gonna let you get hauled off by some asshole guys who would probably take advantage of you.

Outside air hits you both cold and sharp, and you immediately fold into yourself like you’ve been unplugged. Natalie ends up half-carrying you to her car, arguing with you the whole time while you insist you’re fine in a voice that is very clearly not fine.

“You’re literally falling asleep standing up,” she mutters. “I’m not.”

“You are.” You don’t fight her after that, just lean into her like your body ran out of arguments.

The ride is quiet except for the radio playing softly and your occasional muttered complaints about drinking too much, the world, whatever you can still remember being mad at. Natalie keeps her focus straight ahead, jaw tight the entire way, like she can outdrive whatever this feeling is trying to become.

Her trailer is exactly as embarrassing as she thinks it is. She notices everything you might notice too. The clutter that hasn’t been cleaned. The dim lighting. The way the place feels too small even when it’s empty.

Which is why she almost doesn’t bring you in. But you’re already leaning heavily on her shoulder again, eyes half-closed, and she doesn’t have the energy to argue anymore.

“Don’t touch anything,” she says automatically as she opens the door. You hum something that might be agreement or might be sleep.

Inside, she gets you water you barely drink, and a change of clothes (which you nearly fall over, multiple times, trying to put on), and points you toward her bed with a sharp, “You’re sleeping there. Don’t complain.”

You blink at it like it’s foreign territory. “That’s yours.”

“Yeah,” she says. “And I’m not using it tonight.”

You frown, like you want to argue, but your body gives out on you first. You collapse onto it dressed in one of her t-shirts and a pair of her sweatpants, curling into yourself like you’re trying to disappear into the mattress. Natalie stands there for a second longer than necessary, then she grabs a blanket from somewhere and tosses it over you without ceremony, which has you whining softly in protest.

“I’m fine on the floor,” You don’t respond. Within minutes, your breathing evens out, out cold like nothing happened.

Natalie sits on the floor beside the bed for a while, back against it, staring at nothing in particular. She doesn’t sleep right away; she just listens, making sure you’re still breathing like you’re supposed to be.

Eventually, she does fall asleep like that.

When she wakes up, it’s sunlight and silence. Too much silence.

She glances up at where you should be to see that the bed is empty. She sits up too fast, hair messy, heart already dropping before her brain fully catches up. The bed is cold, like you've already been gone for a while- or were never even there to begin with. The only evidence of your presence being the the slightly skewed blankets and the imprint in her sheets.

Natalie stares at it for a long second, then she gets up and checks anyway. Bathroom. Kitchen. Outside. Like there’s going to be some explanation waiting around a corner.

There isn’t, of course.

A new week starts, and suddenly it's like you're unavoidable. You’re with your friends, per usual- put together, presentable, normal in the way you always are in public- but something’s off. similar to the previous week, but somehow even more so.

You don’t look at her- not once. Not when she passes in the hallway. Not when Jackie calls out your name as you pass by the soccer field during their practice. Not even when she makes sure to pass your car every morning, at the exact time you get to school.

And when someone says something funny near you, you smile- but it doesn’t reach anywhere it usually does. It's not the careful, controlled, perfectly placed, award-winning smile you put on every day- it's low maintenance and tired, giving just enough effort to still be perceived as darling.

Natalie doesn’t say anything- not like she even could if she wanted to, because while you seem unavoidable to her, she's pretty sure she's not even on your radar right now.

So she doesn’t joke. Doesn’t cut at you like she would’ve a week ago just to get a reaction. She just watches. And the longer she does, the more that uneasy feeling settles in her chest.

It's Thursday when Natalie is finally able to get close enough to see just how terrible you truly look. She opens the door to the girls' bathroom and stalls for a millisecond as her eyes land on you. You're washing your hands, but you seem completely zoned out. You look exhausted and a little sick, to be quite honest.

"Jesus Christ. Please don't tell me you're gonna kill yourself."

"What?" you mumble, snapping out of your daze as you meet Natalie's gaze in the mirror. She's hovering behind you- far enough to seem casual, close enough to be able to make out genuine concern in her eyes. You look slightly panicked- at the accusation as a whole or the fact that it's Natalie who's asking, she's not sure which causes you to react that way.

Nat opens and closes her mouth, struggling to find the right words. She clears her throat and tries to seem nonchalant as she steps further into the bathroom, "Nothing, just... joking around"

You watch her, cautiously, through the reflection of the mirror, "Oh... uhm... okay"

Natalie purses her lips and nods, about to head into one of the stalls, as she watches you pick up your bag and turn to leave. She sighs

"Hey," you halt and look at her, for real this time, with doe-eyes and a slight raise of your brow

"What?" she shoves her hands in her pockets, "what's up with you?"

You purse your lips and adjust the strap of your bag, looking around the room, trying to seem uninterested, but really just trying to avoid opening the floodgates that have been poked at all day

"The same thing that's always wrong with me" you answer dryly, giving a non-committal shrug, trying to seem like you couldn't care less about this conversation. But that's the thing- you do care, and you always have, which is why you and Natalie have always clashed. Two girls who care so deeply, but have no one to share it with, because neither is seen as enough of a concern for anyone to put in the effort.

"Your parents bothering you again?" you scoff, picking at your nails, "i mean, yeah. they always are, that's never gonna change."

Natalie studies you, knowing there's something more to this change in your behavior. What makes her even more curious is why you haven't left yet. You don't normally have conversations like this, it's clear you're in a terrible headspace, and yet... you're still standing here in the bathroom with her, in silence.

"What's really going on with you, though? We haven't argued all week" Natalie jabs somewhat playfully, trying to ease the tension at least a little bit, but it only seems to worsen whatever thoughts are running through your head.

She watches as your chest caves slightly- like you're somewhat choked up on your breathing. You bite your lip and avoid eye contact as you sniffle and move to sit on the bench in the corner of the bathroom. Nat follows carefully, like she's approaching a wounded animal, and leans against the wall adjacent to you.

"Do I actually suck?"

All the breath is knocked out of Natalie's lungs as she stares down at you. You're peering up at her with those pitiful doe eyes, wet and sparkling with fresh tears, and the typical pout she's seen you sport in order to get your way. Never has it been directed at her. Even though you're known for using it on dumb jocks and desperate nerds, it feels different now that you're using it on her. She feels absolutely insane.

"No... no, you don't actually suck." This is the softest she's ever spoken to you. You scoff quietly, then sniffle, wiping at your eyes again

"You're full of shit, Scatorrcio..." you sob. It's so meek and lacks any real fire. And even though it's breaking her heart to see you like this, Natalie can't help but suppress a chuckle at how unfortunately cute you are when you're pitiful.

Natalie exhales slowly through her nose and slides down the wall until she's sitting beside the bench instead of towering over you. Her boots squeak faintly against the tile.

“For what it’s worth,” she says quietly, picking at a loose thread on her sleeve, “people who actually suck usually don’t spend this much time worrying that they do.”

You huff out a sort of laugh through your tears, brittle and humorless. “That sounds fake.”

“Yeah, well.” Natalie lets out a deep breath and shrugs. “Most comforting shit does.”

The corner of your mouth twitches despite yourself. She glances sideways at you, expression softer now, stripped of the usual bite she wears around everyone else, around you.

“You’re a pain in the ass,” she mutters. “You’re defensive, and mean as fuck, and you act like you don’t need anybody when it’s painfully obvious how much you do.” Another shrug. “But you're not a bad person, and you don't.”

Your eyes drop to your hands as you play with the ring on your middle finger. “You make me sound exhausting.”

“You are exhausting.”

That pulls a real laugh out of you this time, watery and small, and Natalie feels something in her chest pull painfully tight at the sound. You smile sadly as more tears seem to escape on their own now.

“But you’re also…” She hesitates like the words physically hurts to say. “You care too much- about everything, yet somehow nothing at all... You just hide it under all the bitchiness because you think if people actually saw how much you care, they’d use it against you.”

Silence settles between you.

After a while, you wipe your tears with your sleeve and mumble against it, “This is humiliating.”

“Yeah,” Natalie says. “I’m never letting you live it down.”

You groan weakly, the tiniest smile peeking through, and Natalie grins despite herself. Then your voice turns small again.

"I trust you... more than I trust almost anyone, I think." Natalie chuckles at that, lowering her head to hide the annoying blush that she'd aggressively deny if you were to notice and say something about it

"Oh yeah? And why is that- because I'm the only one who calls you on your shit?"

"Kinda... but I think it's more so because you're even able to, like- you know, there's more to me than just what I'm presenting myself as... and as scary as that is, you still keep finding your way back to me in some capacity... so I guess I can't be too bad, right?" you finish softly, turning your head to rest it on your arms that hold your knees to your chest. You look so sweet, with your puffy eyes and tired smile- Natalie feels nauseous at the sight of you.

"Yeah... you're not too bad." she shrugs, her own easy smile returning.

Natalie expects the moment to pass after that. Expects you to roll your eyes, stand up, throw some sharp comment her way to reset the balance between you two. That’s how this usually goes. One of you gets too close to something real, and the other immediately lights it on fire.

But you don’t.

You stay curled up on the bench beside her, cheek squished against your sleeve, looking weirdly peaceful now that the worst of your breakdown has burned through you. It makes Natalie nervous.

“So,” she says after a while, “You done crying on me or what?”

You let out a soft huff. “Maybe.”

“Jesus. Should I let the school paper know?”

That earns another laugh from you- small, but genuine. Natalie feels disgustingly proud of herself for it. The bathroom falls quiet again, though this time it isn’t sharp or uncomfortable. The buzzing fluorescent lights don’t seem quite as unbearable anymore.

You glance sideways at her. “You know… you’re nicer than people think.”

Natalie snorts immediately. “Don’t start spreading that around. I’ve got a reputation.”

“I’m serious.”

Natalie opens her mouth to deny it, then stops. Because you’re looking at her with this horribly fond expression that makes her feel like she’s standing too close to the edge of something.

“Maybe I just don’t like people getting weird about it,” she mutters instead.

You hum softly, considering that. “I don’t think you hate being known as much as you pretend to.”

Natalie’s stomach flips unpleasantly.

“You got all that from one bathroom breakdown?”

“I’m very perceptive when emotionally devastated.” She barks out a laugh before she can stop herself, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” you say quietly, unfolding yourself, allowing your feet to rest on the floor again as you lean your weight onto your palms, “you keep coming back.”

"Yeah... I do."

Things don’t magically become easy after that. You and Natalie don’t suddenly start sitting together at lunch or walking hand-in-hand through the halls like some shitty coming-of-age movie. If anything, the shift between you is so subtle that nobody else would notice it.

Well- they probably do notice something has shifted, now that your teasing and arguments aren't fueled by loathing and mutual distaste, especially because of how your smirks have softened into something lighter. How your digs aren't so personally degrading anymore. How both your smiles remain even as you roll your eyes.

No one says anything, but they definitely notice.

Natalie catches herself looking for you without meaning to. In the mornings as she's just getting to school, in crowded hallways between classes, during lunch when the cafeteria gets too loud and everyone starts sounding the same. Her eyes flick toward wherever you are like it’s instinct now.

And somehow, every single time, you’re already looking at her too. The first few times it happens, you both immediately look away. After that, you stop pretending.

A few days later, Natalie’s actually on time for once as she shows up to history. She's half-listening to the teacher drone on while she taps her pencil against the desk. You’re a row over, chin resting in your palm, visibly exhausted.

Almost like a sixth-sense, you catch her staring.

“What?” you mouth. Natalie shrugs. You narrow your eyes suspiciously before tearing out a page in your notebook and scribbling something on it, sliding the folded piece of paper off your desk in the aisle between you. Natalie slides down in her seat to pull it closer to her with her boot. She picks it up, eyeing the teacher who is still turned in the opposite direction.

Why do you keep looking at me like that?

She snorts quietly and scribbles back without thinking too hard about it.

Like what?

The response comes almost immediately.

Like you know something I don’t.

Natalie stares at the words longer than she should. Then, before she can stop herself, she writes:

Maybe I do.

You read it, and for the first time since she’s known you, you seem genuinely caught off guard. You give her an unimpressed glare, your brow dramatically raised for a moment, before your face softens and you glance back to the front of the room.

Natalie stares, enamored for a few seconds, before snapping herself out of it and looking away, heat crawling up her neck.

After class, she’s stuffing her untouched notebook into her bag when your hand lands briefly on her desk.

“Hey.”

She glances up. “What?”

You hesitate. All of your casual coolness suddenly leaves your body, leaving you weirdly nervous, in a way Nat has never seen.

“Are you going to Jeff’s on Friday?” you ask calmly- trying (and failing, by Natalie's standards) to seem relaxed and naturally curios

Natalie raises an eyebrow. “You inviting me somewhere? That’s new.”

“I’m being serious.”

“That’s even scarier.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it anymore. “Just answer the question.”

Natalie watches you for a second. Your nails tap against her desk, your leg bounces, and you're worrying your bottom lip between your teeth- anticipating her answer. It makes her stomach burn seeing you so antsy and impatient for her response.

“Maybe,” Natalie finally lilts, a tiny teasing smirk making its way upon her lips.

Your shoulders slump dramatically as you groan. “God, you’re so annoying.”

“And yet,” she replies automatically. Your mouth twitches.

“Yeah,” you mumble, unable to hide your smile this time. “Yeah, whatever.”

You turn abruptly, ponytail almost whipping Natalie in the face as you start to walk away. You pause for a moment, without turning around, you quietly add, “I looked for you after practice yesterday.”

Natalie stills. “And?”

You shrug one shoulder, finally glancing back at her. “Jackie said you’d already left.”

Something warm and awful blooms in Natalie’s chest.

“Sorry,” she says before she can think better of it.

The surprise on your face at the apology almost makes her laugh.

“It’s fine,” you say softly, doe-eyed and darling. Then, after a beat, with an almost shy smile, “Just don’t disappear next time.”

Natalie watches you leave the classroom with her pulse thudding strangely hard against her ribs. And for maybe the first time, the idea of someone wanting her around doesn’t feel like a threat- even if that person is you.

Natalie almost turns around when she sees how packed Jeff’s house is. Cars bumper to bumper in the driveway, lining both sides of the street, music already shaking the walls hard enough to feel through the porch steps. Someone nearly spills beer on her before she even gets through the front door.

“Jesus, dude- watch it,” she mutters automatically, shoving past the crowd. The house is humid with body heat and noise, per usual. Natalie grabs a drink from the kitchen counter, mostly so she has something to do with her hands.

Then she spots you- of course, she does.

You’re across the living room with your usual orbit of people gathered around you like moths to a flame. Van's half-draped over the couch between you and Tai, Shauna sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of Jackie, and Lottie talking animatedly while you laugh into your cup over whatever she just said.

And there it is again- that strange pull Natalie’s developed over the past week. Because she knows this version of you, or at least she thought she did. Pretty and effortless in a room full of people. Relaxed posture, easy smile, saying exactly the right thing at exactly the right moment to keep everyone hanging onto your attention.

Usually, seeing you like this irritates her- tonight, it just feels… different. Because now Natalie notices the details underneath it too. The way your fingers tighten slightly around your cup whenever the room gets too loud. How your smile drops for half a second whenever nobody’s directly looking at you. How your eyes keep drifting toward the doors like you’re waiting for someone, or maybe you're making sure you still have an exit.

When you finally spot her, your entire expression changes in an instant- in a way that makes Natalie’s pulse stumble embarrassingly hard. Your face softens with obvious relief before you can hide it. It's not anything dramatic, but it's enough for her to notice.

Lottie catches your shift in focus and glances over her shoulder. “Oh, Nat’s here.”

You stand almost immediately. “be right back, losers”

Jackie groans loudly. “Wow. We lose you the second she walks in?”

You flip her off without even looking away from Natalie. “You’ll survive.”

Natalie snorts despite herself as you weave through the crowd toward her. She's already punching herself for thinking how cute you are, trying to act cool and hide your excitement.

“You came,” you say once you reach her, sounding strangely pleased about it.

“Yeah, i come to pretty much anything. Don't get all cocky thinking I only showed up cuz you begged me to” you scoff, an incredulous smile wide across your face as you chuckle

“begged is a total stretch” you cross you arms, and she shrugs licking her lips then pursing them, cutely showing off her dimples

“Oh so you just ask everyone to parties like it’s a proper court summons?”

“Only people whose attendance I care about.” The words hit Natalie square in the chest. You seem to realize what you said a second too late because your expression shifts immediately after- a slight guardedness creeping back in like instinct.

“So,” you recover quickly, lifting your cup and tilting your chin down to take a sip, but keeping your eyes raised to hold Natalie's gaze. “You gonna stand here looking unapproachable all night, or are you actually gonna come socialize?”

Natalie rolls her eyes. “I am socializing.”

“With me- maybe.” You gesture carelessly, and Nat rolls her eyes “Unfortunately.”

You grin at that, bumping your shoulder lightly against hers as someone squeezes past behind you. It’s casual and practically meaningless, but Natalie still feels it everywhere.

Across the room, she catches Shauna watching the two of you with narrowed eyes over the rim of her drink, then Jackie notices too, and their combined lack of response to Lottie's story causes her attention to shift as well, prompting a noise of surprise from her.

“Oh,” Van says slowly to nobody in particular, visibly entertained. “That’s new.”

"I was honestly starting to think she didn't have it in her..." Jackie shakes her head, a proud smirk dances on her lips as she takes a sip from her cup.

Van, Tai, and Lottie all turn to look at Jackie with confused expressions. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Jackie giggles tipsily as she just nudges Shauna with her foot, prompting her to explain, "Y/n has been complaining about Natalie for weeks now, and we've been processing her emotions for her in real time..."

"Wait- so you're telling me little miss perfect has had a crush on Natalie fucking Scatorccio this whole time?? The same Natalie that she's been tormenting for fun since freshman year??" Tai inquires skeptically, slightly concerned for the well-being of both her friends.

"Well, I wouldn't say this whole time- and also, she hasn't gotten that far into her self-awareness yet, so y/n probably doesn't even realize she's like- practically in love with Nat" Jackie shrugs, casually sharing your business with your friends like it's no big deal

Shauna nearly chokes on her drink. “Jackie,” she says flatly.

“What?” Jackie laughs, entirely unashamed. “It’s true.”

Lottie’s mouth falls open in genuine delight. “Oh my god.”

Van looks thrilled. “No fucking way.”

“You guys are gonna be next in the line of fire if they find out you're talking about them,” Shauna mutters, though she’s visibly trying not to laugh.

Jackie only grins wider. “Oh please- you should’ve heard her earlier this week-”

“I don’t wanna know,” Tai says immediately.

“No, you do,” Van insists, hopping over the back of the coach to sit directly against Taissa, turning toward Jackie eagerly. “Continue.”

Jackie straightens in her seat dramatically. “Okay, so Y/n comes over to my place after we get done with practice looking like someone just shot her dog-”

“Because she thought Natalie left practice before she could see her, so y/n thought she was avoiding,” Shauna interjects dryly.

“I was not avoiding her,” Natalie says automatically as the two of you finally approach the group. Every head turns. Dead silence.

Your smile drops almost immediately. “What the hell were you guys talking about that has you looking so guilty...”

Van visibly loses it first, ducking her head into Tai’s shoulder while cackling into her drink. Tai looks one second away from joining her, and Jackie beams at you with the kind of expression that should honestly qualify as a threat.

“Oh, nothing,” she says sweetly. You narrow your eyes. “Jackie.”

“What the fuck did I miss?” she asks cautiously, feeling like she’s walking into an ambush.

“Apparently, your own slowburn enemies to lovers storyline” Van snorts as she tries to go back to hiding in Tai's shoulder, who is covering her own mouth to avoid cackling.

“Oh my god,” Lottie whispers, looking between the two of you like she’s witnessing live theater.

“What the hell, Jackie?” you hiss at your best friends, her eyes widening guiltily

“You made it extremely obvious.” “It was not obvious!”

Shauna raises an eyebrow. “You asked us if Natalie hated you sincerely or recreationally.”

Natalie coughs violently into her cup.

Jackie points aggressively. “And then she spent twenty minutes describing Nat’s eyes.”

You make a strangled noise of horror. Tai is now completely losing her composure, shaking her head while trying not to laugh. “This is actually insane. You two have been acting like a divorce gone wrong since ninth grade.”

“Seriously,” Van adds. “I thought you guys were gonna beat the shit out of each other, before I even considered you two kissing!”

Natalie’s face burns hot enough to melt steel, while you look moments away from lying down in the middle of oncoming traffic.

“That is not what this is,” you insist firmly. Nobody says anything, which is somehow worse.

Jackie grimaces slightly before giving you a deeply patronizing look. “Sweetie.”

“Oh my god,” you groan, covering your face with both hands. “I’m getting another drink.”

Natalie watches in astonishment and the slightest bit of panic as you immediately turn on your heel and start shoving through the crowd toward the kitchen.

“Nice going,” Shauna nudges Jackie, who scoffs in disbelief

“What? She was never gonna figure it out herself.”

“You couldn’t have waited literally one more week?” Jackie shrugs unapologetically before glancing at Natalie, then her expression shifts into something a bit more guilty and weirdly sincere.

“She really likes you, you know.” Natalie stills. The teasing atmosphere dulls around the edges. Jackie swirls the drink in her cup before continuing, quieter this time.

“Like… a lot... and that’s really scary for her.” Natalie looks toward the kitchen instinctively, catching a brief glimpse of you leaning against the counter with your head ducked in obvious embarrassment while pretending to listen to somebody talking to you.

You look extremely overwhelmed- cornered, even- and somehow still painfully soft around the edges in a way Natalie’s never seen before all this.

“She talks about you constantly,” Shauna adds, less teasing now too. “Usually when she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.”

Van snorts. “Usually angry.” “Painfully angry,” Tai agrees.

“But like…” Lottie smiles faintly. “In the way people get when they care too much.”

Natalie doesn’t know what to do with that information. Because part of her still feels stuck back in that driveway a few weeks ago, telling you how much you sucked. Part of her is still stuck on you crying in the bathroom because of how much you actually took those words to heart. And now part of her is feeling weirdly left out of the loop since all your friends seemed to pick up on something she was apparently clueless to.

Jackie gestures toward the kitchen with her cup. “You should probably go save her before she dies of humiliation.”

Natalie groans immediately. “Why me?”

“Because,” Van says, grinning, “you always come running back to her.”

“Eat shit,” Natalie mutters, already turning away anyway. The group breaks into varying levels of drunken laughter behind her as she pushes through the crowded living room toward the kitchen.

Her pulse feels weird- not exactly fast, just… uneven. Because what the hell is she supposed to do with all of that? Apparently, your friends have been watching you spiral over her for weeks. Apparently, everybody picked up on whatever this thing between you is except Natalie herself- and you, somehow. Which feels unfair, honestly, because she’s still trying to figure out whether you even like her half the time or if you’re both just mentally ill in complementary ways.

The kitchen is worse than the living room somehow- sticky countertops, loud music, too many people packed together shoulder-to-shoulder like everyone decided this was the place to escape to.

You’re standing near the sink, gripping a red cup with both hands while some guy talks animatedly beside you, but you’re barely listening- eyes glassy and unfocused in that distinctly tipsy way, knee bouncing anxiously against the cabinet.

And the second you notice Natalie in the doorway, your entire face changes, going through what seems like every emotion possible, in the span of a second. It hits Natalie square in the chest.

“There you are,” she says before really thinking about it. You blink at her a little slowly. “...Hi?”

The guy beside you glances between the two of you awkwardly. “Oh, uh... hey Nat-”

“Hey- I’m stealing her,” Natalie interrupts. You stare at her as she reaches for your wrist before she can overthink it and gently tugs you through the crowd. The guy looks back and forth between the two of you, confused by the interaction as a whole “uh, okay.”

You follow her without resistance- actually, you follow a little too easily... by the time the two of you stumble out onto the front porch, you’re laughing quietly under your breath for some reason.

“What?” Natalie asks, finally letting go of your wrist. You shake your head immediately, cheeks flushed from both alcohol and embarrassment. “Nothing.”

Nat side eyes you, “You’re weird tonight.”

“You’re bossy tonight.” “Tonight?” that pulls another round of giggles from you. God. You are really tipsy.

The cold air hits both of you hard after the heat inside. You lean against the porch railing with a long exhale, shoulders relaxing slightly like you can finally breathe again. Natalie watches you carefully.

Without the constant performance you usually put on around groups of people, you seem… softer somehow. Nervous in a way she’s never really seen from you before.

You avoid looking directly at her for more than a few seconds at a time. Your fingers keep fidgeting with the sleeve of your borrowed jacket, and Natalie suddenly realizes with a strange jolt: You care what she thinks right now.

“Oh my god,” you mumble eventually, covering part of your face with one hand. “I’m actually never speaking to Jackie again.”

Natalie snorts softly. “That bad?”

“She totally spilled my business to everyone!” You whine, the alcohol is definitely catching up to you now

“I mean… apparently you’ve been psychoanalyzing me to our friends.”

You groan miserably, “oh whatever.”

Nat chuckles at your dramatics, then a tension-filled silence falls over you.

“So…” You hesitate anxiously “you think i'm a total freak now?”

The question comes out painfully casual. Natalie studies you for a second- the nervous tapping of your fingers against your cup, the way you keep bracing yourself for rejection before she’s even answered, and suddenly she’s back in that bathroom, hearing you ask if you actually sucked.

“Nah,” she says finally. “Just... confused i guess”

You blink. “Confused?”

“Yeah.” Natalie leans back against the railing beside you. “Because I kinda thought you genuinely hated me for, like… several years., and we just came to some sort of mutual understanding”

“I mean... we were friends before all that though...” Natalie looks at you with a teasing raise of her brow. “Were we?”

You shrug, a little unsteady. “Okay, maybe not like friends friends. More like… you annoyed me less before we started trying to destroy each other.”

“That’s revisionist history.”

“You called me obnoxious in seventh grade.” “You started it.”

You point at her. “You threw a dodgeball at me, unprovoked.”

Natalie opens her mouth, then stops. Because you’re smiling. A soft, little too tipsy, a little too honest smile.

Her expression shifts. “Yeah,” she says after a beat. “Maybe we’ve been doing this wrong for a while.”

You glance at her. “Doing what?”

Natalie gestures between you. “This.”

Your gaze drops, cheeks warming. “Oh.”

And the way you say it- small and unsure- hits her harder than it should. Natalie’s stomach flips unpleasantly because this whole time, she’s been assuming she was the only one off-balance here. The only one overthinking every glance and conversation and accidental touch.

But standing beside you now- watching you avoid eye contact while trying not to smile at nothing- she realizes you’re just as affected by this as she is, maybe even more so.

“You don’t exactly make me feel normal either, ya know...” Natalie admits quietly

Your head snaps toward her. “Really?” The sincerity in your voice almost kills her on impact.

Natalie huffs out a laugh, shaking her head. “Jesus... your ego’s gonna be unbearable once you sober up.”

You smile into your cup, then, small and shy, nothing like the polished grin she'd gotten used to over the years

And Natalie suddenly understands why your friends looked at her like she was holding something fragile- because you are, at least a little.

A group of drunk guys bursts out the front door behind you, shoving each other loudly before disappearing toward the yard. You flinch slightly at the noise, and without thinking, Natalie steps a little closer. Your eyes flick toward her immediately, neither of you says anything for a second.

“Wanna get out of here?” you ask, tentatively- hopeful, almost.

Natalie looks at you, really looks at you- at your nervous smile, the way your fingers twist anxiously in your sleeves while you wait for her answer- And for the first time in a long time, saying yes to someone doesn’t feel like giving something up.

"My place or yours?" she's not sure which you'd prefer at this point, so she leaves it up to you

"My parents are gone all weekend..." She knows you're saying it as more of a reassurance for yourself, but she can't help the way her face heats up at the possible insinuations that could come with that statement.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “Okay.”

You don’t talk much on the walk back. The air is colder than either of you expected after the heat of the party, and the noise fades quickly behind you until it’s just your footsteps and the occasional distant burst of music from another house down the street. You’re walking slightly too close to Natalie without really seeming to notice- or maybe you do. Your fingers brush once when you adjust your sleeve. Neither of you comments on it.

By the time your house comes into view, your confidence has clearly shifted again- the brisk night air and lack of conversation seeming to sober you up a bit, leaving you more uncertain. You slow at the driveway like you’re suddenly aware of what “coming back here” actually means. Natalie notices immediately.

“You good?” she asks.

You nod too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, just- my parents are gone, like I said, so it’s just… empty- which is a good thing.”

you quickly realize the implications that could have, even though you're sure she knows what you mean, "I mean- it's a good thing for me! I hate when my parents are home-"

Natalie cuts you off with a gentle, amused smile, “Okay,” she says, watching you carefully. You unlock the door, hesitate for half a second, then step inside first.

The house is dark and quiet in a way that feels almost too loud after the party. No music. No voices. Not even the hum to the fridge- just and soft click of the door closing behind Natalie. You exhale like you’ve been holding your breath all night.

“Jesus,” you mutter, kicking off your shoes. “Finally.”

Natalie leans against the wall near the entryway, looking around once. “This is... weirdly clean.”

You chuckle, a little bitter, a little nervous, “Well, my mother would probably shoot me if it wasn't.”

Natalie hums, “That explains a lot.”

You shoot her a look, but there’s no real bite in it. You’re too jittery for that now, hands fidgeting again, eyes avoiding hers more than before. You walk through the living room and into the kitchen, grabbing two glasses from the cabinet and filling them with ice and water. You slide one across the counter that divides the living room from the kitchen, as Natalie approaches.

“So,” you say after chugging more than half the glass, voice softer. “You can go if you want... you don't have to stay here, I just—didn’t want you to like… disappear again or whatever.”

Natalie leans on the counter “I’m not going anywhere.”

That makes you freeze slightly- you laugh a little too quickly. “Okay. Cool. Cool, that’s- yeah.”

You turn toward the fridge like you need something to do with your hands, refilling your glass that wasn't even empty. Natalie's gaze follows you at a slower pace, watching you over the counter.

“You’re acting weird,” she remarked

“I’m not.” “You are.” You take a sip, then set the glass down a little too carefully. “I’m just- this is weird.”

Natalie raises an eyebrow. “Which part?”

You gesture vaguely at her, then at yourself. “All of it.”

A beat, then you let out a breath, shoulders dropping a little. “Like… I’m sober enough now to realize I basically confessed feelings I didn't even know I had in front of my entire friend group tonight.”

Natalie’s mouth twitches, and she shrugs carelessly. “Yeah, that happened.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands for a second. “I’m never showing my face again... like- I don't even know why I invited you back here cuz you're the one I don't even wanna show my face to!”

“I think you’ll survive.”

“Oh, wow,” you say, peeking at her through your fingers. “Amazing emotional support, Nat- top tier.”

Natalie shrugs like she’s not amused, but she is. “I try.”

You drop your hands and point at her. “No, because you don’t understand. Jackie is going to turn this into, like- a community event- there will be like- banners and shit.”

Natalie snorts. “She already has plans.”

“Fantastic,” you mutter, then, quieter but still pointed, “Also, for the record, I don’t appreciate being ambushed by my own friends and my own… whatever this is.”

“You brought me here,” Natalie says.

“I know,” you shoot back immediately, groaning as you crumble dramatically against the counter, resting your head on the granite. “That’s what’s humiliating.”

Your whining earns a real laugh from her. You lift your head, resting your cheek against your arm that is now propped on the counter, exhaling, the tension in your shoulders slowly easing now that you’ve fully committed to being insufferable instead of imploding.

There’s a pause that stretches just a little too long. Natalie’s expression shifts- less teasing, more uncertain, like she’s still figuring out what version of you she’s allowed to talk to now.

“You’re still here,” you mumble quietly, a bit pitifully, with a pout that Natalie is allowing herself to find adorable. “Why?”

Natalie exhales slowly. “Because you asked me not to disappear.”

You stare at her like that answer hits harder than it should. You step around the counter to meet her in the living room side of the combined space, leaving just enough room that the air between you stops feeling safe in the way it did five seconds ago. Your fingers hover near her sleeve like you’re asking permission without words.

“Can I-” you start, then stop, swallowing and dropping your hand. “Is this a bad idea?”

Natalie looks at you properly now. Really looks. Your eyes are wide and a little unfocused, nerves written all over your face, but you’re still here. Still choosing this.

“No,” she says softly. “I don’t think it is.”

That’s all it takes.

You close the distance first, a little clumsy at the start, like you’re still half-convinced you might get rejected mid-motion. But Natalie meets you halfway immediately. The kiss is unsteady at first- warm, slightly messy, shaped by too much by the remnants of alcohol and too many things neither of you has said out loud for years.

Your hand catches lightly at her sleeve like you need something to anchor you.

Natalie’s hand comes up to your jaw, steadier now, thumb brushing once like she’s checking if this is real. When you pull back just slightly, it’s not far and not for long

"Do you wanna go upstairs?" you're practically whispering into her mouth at this point, wasting no time and diving back in, leaving distracting pecks on the corner of Nat's lips as she tries to get her brain to function again

"Yeah..." Natalie finally breathes out as you allow her enough room to move without clashing with you "Yeah, let's go upstairs"

And she's already tugging you toward them, not really knowing her way around, but eager enough to figure it out. Luckily for Natalie, you take the lead once you've reached the second floor.

Your room is pretty much exactly as she'd expected it to be, as you drag her in and close the door behind you- pastel walls with delicate picture frames hung around, decorations and details of little angels scattered about, and a fresh bouquet of flowers on your one bedside table.

Before she can even make a jab at how cute your space is, you're grabbing her by the face and pulling her back in, lips smashing together in a way that knocks the air out of you. Natalie's hands latch onto your hips and pull you closer to her, bumping your lower halves together, briefly.

You hum against her lips, one hand moving from her cheek to tangle in her hair, your other wrapping around her neck to pull her impossibly closer. Her hands release their firm grip on your hips to slide lower, grabbing your ass.

She kneads the fat beneath her palms, using her grip to push you further against her, "mm, Nat..."

You whine into her, lips parting slightly for air, only for Natalie to dip her face into your neck and begin sucking wet bruises into the skin, drawing an even more desperate whine from your throat.

You release her hair to caress down her chest to the hem of her shirt, and give it a needy tug, gripping the fabric so hard it's bound to wrinkle, "please, baby..."

The next few seconds are a blur of colors as Natalie yanks her shirt over her head, followed by yours, and then the rest of your clothes, leaving you both braless in your underwear.

You're gently, but desperately gripping Natalie's face, caressing her cheekbones as she shoves her tongue down your throat. You walk backwards, guiding her toward your bed. Once you feel the back of your legs hit the frame, you let one hand find her bare waist as you maneuver on your bed.

You're both kneeling on the mattress, legs tangled and slotted beneath each other's core, when Natalie starts learning more about you in real time. Her body is on fire as she feels you grind your panty-clad pussy on her thigh, biting your lip. You're impatient and needy, far less put together than you've ever been in her presence. And even though it seems like she's been unraveling you all night, she never expected such a helpless, desperate version of you to be clinging to her right now.

You all but drool into Natalie's collarbone when she begins to grind against you in return, pressing her hot palms to your lower back, encouraging your hips to move in tandem with hers.

"This your first time fucking like this, pretty girl?" Natalie pants, her head slightly tilted back, as she closes her eyes briefly, feeling her abs contract with pleasure. You whimper into her neck, nodding.

"Yeah? How does it feel?" she lets her one hand glide up your spine and settle in your hair at the base of your skull. She tugs slightly, eliciting a sharp gasp from you, followed by a throaty moan. Your hips pick up the pace at her teasing, which causes her to chuckle softly. Nat grips your hip tighter, forcing you to slow back down, pulling an impatient whine from you.

She uses her grip on your hair to tug you into her line of sight, "You gotta use your words..." her voice is velvety and practically foreign to you at this point with how ready you are for her to slut you out.

"Feels so good- please, Nat..." you're giving her those sad, sparkly eyes, lips lined with a pout, and Natalie is enamored by it, knowing that she's about to make you cry for all the right reasons this time.

Natalie slides her fingers below the waistband of your panties, leaving them to rest on the bare skin of your hip, "It'll feel even better if you take these off..."

She's not even sure if she finished her sentence before you're moving to slide your panties down your legs and coming back to tug at the band of her boxers, which she giggles and discards just as quickly.

You shove Natalie back into your soft pillows and swing your leg to straddle her thigh, immediately leaning down to connect your lips again. Natalie shifts her face away slightly, with a smirk, "You sure you'll be alright up there?"

You roll your eyes, sitting up straight. You meet her cocky gaze with a determined glare and roll your hips slowly, focusing to maintain your composure for a moment as you watch Natalie's jaw drop before she bites her lip to suppress a guttural moan. Her reaction spurs your confidence, pushing you to carry on.

Much to your dismay, you last about two minutes on top. You go from head held high, posture straight and maintained, evenly slotting your hips against Natalie's, to gripping her propped leg like it was keeping you upright, head lowered and bobbing with every thrust, humping her like a desperate puppy.

"Wow, you really are impatient," Nat teases, low and seductive as she relaxes, enjoying how you're practically doing all the work right now.

You move, your one hand resting on Natalie's lower stomach, the other caressing her thigh (the one you were previously holding onto for dear life) as you can't help but lean your weight onto her. Your hips rock back and forth, in rhythm with hers, your slick combining and adding to the pleasure of your clits bumping together. She's gripping anywhere she can- your thighs, hips, ass- her hands are everywhere, and they're surely leaving red marks.

"Fuck, Nat" you shakily mumble, trying to keep your head held high as she thrusts up from beneath you.

"Yeah? Feels good, princess?" You can only whine out an affirmation as you bite your lip and squeeze your eyes shut, nodding in time with your synchronized motion. She's smirking up at you, hungry fire burning in her eyes and lower belly. She lets her hands travel from their kneading grip on your ass, up to softly caress your hips and sides- the light touch, a contradiction from the assertive thrusts, sending chills through your body.

Natalie grazes her finger up your spine and pulls you down toward her. Your chests press together as Natalie uses her grip on the back of your neck to guide your lips together. You whine into her mouth as she sucks on your bottom lip.

You slide one hand up her side to sit on her ribs, right underneath her breast. Your feathery light touch shifts once more to squeeze her tit, kneading it as she moans into your mouth. Natalie moves to press on your lower back, encouraging you to speed up your movements to match hers, right as you tweak her nipple, causing both of you to let out matching cries of pleasure.

You're panting against each other's tongues more than kissing at this point, letting it get messier as saliva drips and slick spreads between both of you. Your rhythm is faltering, neither of you caring that you can't keep a tempo anymore as you frantically chase your high.

"Uh uh uh-" you moan breathily in time with your movements, each noise rising in pitch as you reach your climax, slowing briefly as your head falls into the crevice of Natalie's shoulder. You continue to thrust lazily against her as she follows right after, letting her legs close in around your thigh as she rides out her orgasm.

You're not sure if it's the exhaustion of the day as a whole, or the release of all that pent-up tension between the two of you, but neither of you moves after that, immediately falling asleep, still tangled in each other.

When Natalie wakes up, the bed is empty. She groans and rolls over to lie on the side you'd slept on, burying her face in your pillow and inhaling your scent. After a few minutes, she gets up and goes to get dressed, only to notice her shirt and boxers are missing. Instead, she's left with what seems to be an intentionally placed pair of your sweatpants and an oversized Metallica t-shirt.

After getting dressed, she cautiously makes her way downstairs, afraid your parents might've come home earlier than expected. The sight she's met with has her taking the deepest breaths possible.

You're setting up cups and laying out breakfast in the kitchen, hair pulled up in a claw clip, wearing nothing but her shirt and boxers that she'd thrown on your floor the night before.

"Didn't think you'd be the type to enjoy playing housewife," Natalie startles you with her sarcasm, almost making you drop the bowl of fruit you just finished cutting up. Your shock wears off quickly, wide eyes relaxing and rolling as you continue about, trying to avoid her seeing the blush that has taken over your face.

“You say that like you’re not enjoying the view,” you mumble, stubbornly focused on arranging strawberries onto a plate. Natalie lets out a quiet laugh through her nose, leaning against the doorway as she watches you move around the kitchen like you belong there, and she belongs there with you. Like this is normal, and it's okay for the two of you to be so domestic- you're allowed to have it easy and enjoy this.

“You stole my clothes,” she points out instead.

“Pretty sure you stole mine first.” You quirk a brow at her, shifting around the kitchen with ease as you set down two full plates on the peninsula.

“That... was different.”

“Oh? How?”

Nat opens her mouth, then shuts it again when you finally glance up at her over your shoulder, eyebrows raised innocently. The oversized band tee hangs off one shoulder, your sweatpants loose around her hips, and suddenly she looks far too comfortable in your things for her own good.

She's left speechless while you check her out, not realizing she's doing the same to you.

You bite back a smile and turn toward her fully, leaning against the counter and crossing your arms. “And god forbid a girl wants to see her girlfriend wearing her clothes,”

The silence that follows is immediate and dangerous. Natalie is frozen, jaw slack as she desperately tries to form a verbal reaction.

She sputters briefly, amused and nervous, "Girlfriend? That's a big jump in dynamic- when was that decided?" she's got a gentle, still teasing, grin on her lips as she leans on the counter across from you.

Your face heats up, nerves starting to peek through again, but you straighten and turn away before you lose your confidence entirely, "Just now, I decided it myself."

This pulls a bright laugh from Natalie, who's just glad to know you still have it in you to boss her around and be a brat. Her reaction makes your heart flutter and race at the same time, finding her adorable, but also still anxious about the potential rejection.

"I think that's usually a two-person decision" she bites her lip to contain the growing smile. You hum thoughtfully, pretending to consider it while you slide a plate toward her across the counter.

“Hm, maybe,” you concede, unable to stop the tiny grin tugging at your lips. “But you’re in my clothes, in my kitchen, eating the breakfast I made you after sleeping in my bed.” Your eyes flick up to meet hers, teasing, warm, and a little shy. You shrug, “Feels pretty mutual to me.”

Natalie huffs out another laugh, shaking her head as she pushes herself off the counter to walk closer. “You are unbelievable.”

“And yet,” you say softly, “you’re still here.”

That gets her to pause.

The teasing expression on her face loosens around the edges, replaced by something softer. She looks at you for a second too long before reaching over and stealing a strawberry from the plate beside you.

“I haven’t decided if that’s a good thing yet,” she murmurs before taking a bite. You narrow your eyes playfully.

“Careful. Girlfriends don’t usually insult each other this early in the morning.”

“Oh, so now there are rules?”

“There are plenty of rules,” you reply immediately, a dramatized seriousness taking over you. “You’ll get a handbook later.”

Natalie laughs again, brighter this time, and something in your chest finally settles when you realize she still hasn’t corrected you. Hasn’t pulled away from the word. Instead, she drifts around the island until she’s standing beside your stool, hip bumping lightly against your knee.

“Guess I should start taking this relationship seriously then,” she says casually, though the pink creeping across her cheeks betrays her.

You're perched on one of the stools at the island in the kitchen, your elbow resting on the table with your chin propped in your palm. A small, harmless smirk paints your lips as your eyes shimmer. Nat scoffs as she feels her face heat up

“You’re so annoying,” Natalie mutters, grabbing another strawberry before you can stop her.

“Wha- what'd I do?” you giggle in astonishment

“You're staring with such a dumb look on your face” the jab is harmless, as it's delivered with a blush and smile.

“Oh, I'm sorry that I find the Natalie Sactorccio cute." She tries to roll her eyes, but there’s no real bite behind it anymore. Not when she’s standing in your kitchen, enjoying the breakfast you prepared for her.

The kitchen falls quiet again, softer this time. Morning light spills through the windows, catching the loose strands that escaped your claw clip. Natalie notices all of it at once- your sleepy eyes, the oversized shirt hanging off your shoulder, the way you keep looking at her like you still can’t believe she’s here.

Your confidence finally cracks first.

“So…” you mumble, fiddling with the hem of your (her) sleeve. “Was that actually weird? The girlfriend thing?”

Nat’s expression melts almost immediately. “No,” she says gently. “Just caught me off guard.”

Your eyes flick up to hers cautiously. “In a bad way?”

Instead of answering right away, Natalie steps closer until she's standing between your legs, your knees slightly pressing against her hips. Her fingers hook loosely around the hem of her shirt you stole.

“You really just decided for both of us, huh?” You cringe a little. “When you say it like that, it sounds stupid and obsessive.”

She laughs quietly, shaking her head. “It sounded…” Her thumb brushes your hand without thinking. “Nice.”

The breath leaves your lungs all at once.

“Oh.” “Yeah, oh.”

Now you’re the flustered one. Your face warms as you duck your head with a shy smile, and Natalie swears it’s the prettiest thing she’s seen all morning- which is saying a lot at this point.

“C’mere,” she murmurs.

You barely have time to look up before she’s leaning down, kissing you soft and slow. It’s different from last night- no tension, no uncertainty, no reckless heat behind it- just warmth. Familiar already somehow. When she pulls away, your eyes stay closed for half a second longer than necessary.

“That means I get the position officially?” you ask quietly. Natalie snorts, resting her forehead against yours. “God, you’re such a loser- much more of a loser than you let on to be.”

“But I can be your loser, right?” your pout is more playful and familiar, the one you use on unsuspecting guys to get them to abide by your every wish. The one that will now be reserved for convincing Natalie to do whatever you want.

Perhaps, even, the smell of iron could cease if the scraps of her were offered. Maybe she carried the traces with her–within her?–and the overwhelming tackiness of it all was what her existence was rooted in. Root her body to the ground, then–fine, have me–and return her gristle and bone to the Earth. Would even then, in death, she be rejected? Were her insides too much, too little? 

If she were to be cut open, would she appear as a conventional girl? Or, even at her very core, would there be something awry? 

There is an unfortunate calm that is intertwined with the idea of presenting oneself to the bugs. A final offering as though all others had been rejected. A mutual affair, as they would provide Ellie with a much needed service, as well. Not beautification, just finally bleached. Stripped of anything deformed and everything that had gone wrong–inside and out. 

Though–maybe not even the bugs would want her. Ellie Williams is hard to keep, after all. 

At thirteen, she had met a soldier due to his decision to act on his own concern for Ellie… but it had been fleeting. Ellie came with risks. Something was sure to be fundamentally wrong with her. Like there were warning signs etched into her skin along with her freckles. Maybe that’s why her skin always hurts. Not worth the risk. A cautionary tale within the green of her eyes. Warning: Abandon before she infects you, too. Death follows! 

I’ll be fine on my own, Ellie had said.

Whether or not that statement was a lie, she didn’t know. Was she fine on her own? Physically, mostly. Mentally? No. Ellie craves. Ellie misses, and Ellie gets attached. Ellie feels. 

She doesn’t like to be lectured about her inability to speak–not after. After her body had been held down by strangers, her voice raw from pleading for a life (his life, never her own. Never her own), how could her vocal cords possibly work? And how frustrating it was to be dismissed. As if her silence were easy? Most could not even begin to grasp the concept of how exhausting it is to deliberately prevent her feelings from being verbalized. Silence is not easy. Silence is never easy. 

But sometimes, silence is taught. And another thing about Ellie? She clings. 

And yes, the bugs could not be faulted for the potential rejection, either. Who is Ellie to depend on their aid in her own personal purification process? Maybe she would poison the bugs, too. Maybe her insides were wrong. With the bugs and the woods as her only witnesses, she could fade. No family to watch in horror, no lover to cry. Just the Earth–hopefully–claiming her and correcting what it must. 

The cycle of things, really. Please let the bugs have her. Let her body be useful, just this once. 

Ellie Williams hunts with a wince. 

These days, at least. 

It’s not like she struggles with the concept–never really did. She held no impending need to shift into the mindset of a predator. It was just one of those things. You need food–you hunt. All that blood on her hands might’ve felt different if the world were another… but Ellie knew how these things worked from quite a young age. 

She is not powerful for killing a rabbit, she is simply in need of food. The rabbit’s existence is not weak for being small, but it is food. The act of hunting is not empowering, it is just a necessity. Others may beg to differ, but Ellie does not. Ellie was once a Little Rabbit, hunted and preyed upon. She does not get a thrill from preying. There is no thrill to be had. Only the promise of a full belly, which she often cannot stomach anyway. 

Strip everything else away, bare bones – Ellie has never much minded hunting. But sometimes, these days, she does wince. 

Sometimes, the dull, fading light of life is able to transport Ellie before she can even grasp what is happening. Her body in one place, her mind in another. Maybe the bugs could do away with whatever part of her kept prompting that to happen. 

It’s just that death is never a pleasant thing to look at… and Ellie was supposed to die more times than she had felt physically or mentally renewed within her life. At this rate, she was subjected to living–to breathing each day, eyes fully functioning, aware of each loss that weighed her every step. Ellie thought that her purpose was to provide others with pieces of herself to ensure survival. Instead, she had become Death’s witness. 

As long as no one had to witness her own. 

Company in life, solitude in death. Was that even what she actually wanted? Ellie didn’t like to be lonely. 

She had been, before. The concept scared her, made her feel afraid enough to cause her erring insides to twist uncomfortably. It translated. Yeah, skin hurting. Short bursts of air, limbs that trembled–and then hands that only ever seemed to move with the utmost amount of care. 

It must be nasty work to root Ellie’s feet into the ground and pull her attention to right now, where it’s real–but you do it. You do it with ease, and you do not shout at her, and your touch does not cause her to flinch. She reaches for it, even, just as you reach for her. 

Ellie no longer wants faith through pain. Her own faith is found each day, each night, with a bed that is never cold. A bath that never feels lonely. A meal that is plated and then saved–like her soul?–because it is okay if sometimes she is not hungry, there’s always tomorrow and she will be okay and she can try again later. Her faith is found within the voice that never falters–the tone in which you speak to her is able to pierce through any scream, no matter the frequency, and no matter the memory. 

You are the steady, warm reason behind the adjustment of Ellie’s posture. Straightened shoulders, because she does not always have to slump under the burden of her own existence. You are quite fond of her existence, so you say. 

The smell of iron fades. Slowly, but it does. She can remember it, but Ellie doesn’t inhale it every time that she breathes. The smell of your hair outweighs the impact of bleach. 

Bleach strips, but you renew. You restore. 

Ellie might just bloom from the inside out, because the crinkle of your eyes does away with the rot of her soul. Probably better than any bugs could, no offense to the bugs. But you do not erode her, like the bugs would do. You do not chip away at her, or gnaw, or push. You hold. You adjust. You cradle her heart in your hands like it’s a baby bird—something that needs nourishing. Your unwavering adoration is able to filter through her cracks like sunlight through blinds.

You have witnessed Ellie in every possible state that a human being could be in, and you still press your lips to the tip of her nose. Your fingers still reach for her own. The words I love you spill out easier than your thoughts on the weather. Ellie doesn’t much like to think about whether or not she deserves things, as it’s a slippery slope that she does not have the stability to navigate… but you are so steadfast in your ways that Ellie can’t help but question it. 

They are less frequent now, but they still happen–the moments in which trembling overtakes Ellie’s body, and images appear in her mind like the rapid flickering of a flashlight. When her heart beats too fast for her chest, and when she chokes and gags on each breath–maybe it’s the iron again, or the guilt of breathing when so many can no longer do that very thing. During those moments, your hands soothe over her arms like it’s easy. Your voice is soft–you love her–yet firm–please hear me–and you do not startle her. In fact, Ellie reaches back. Skin against skin, you ground her. Voice in her ears, she exists and that is okay. 

If the world were different, Ellie always thought that she would want to be an astronaut. She read countless books, her mind taking inventory and storing away every fascinating piece of information that it possibly could. The idea of going to space was enthralling to her. The idea of being in space did not correlate with her fear of being alone. Space would be calm, peaceful. On her own terms–and she would return. Ellie is the type of person to return. But when you are the one being left behind, you cannot make the other person come back for you. Ellie has been left–therefore, she returns. 

Ellie cannot go to space, but her devotion toward the topic is able to be translated to you–how much she appreciates your constant presence, and your ability to be unwavering, even in the dark. When Ellie is unable to get a grip, you manage to cause her universe to narrow down. You treat her as though she were astriferous. You trace the constellations on her skin with a gentle touch. Ellie searches your eyes like she’s studying a newfound planet. Ellie cannot go to space, but even so, you stellify her. 

Sometimes, Ellie cannot speak. You repeat your words–I love you, I love you, I love you–because you know that she needs them. Always, she wishes to be as present as you in her moments of panic. Sometimes, all she can offer back is a shaky hand gripping at your arm–I love you, too. 

When harsh crescents appear in the palms of Ellie’s hands, you are there to unfurl her fists. Her hands are stained with blood that are only visible to her own eyes, and you kiss them. Again, Ellie prefers not to get into the internal debate about whether or not she deserves something. You seem to think that she does deserve it, and that is enough. 

You never take her silence as an indication of straying. If hunting makes her wince, and she nearly vomits up memories, you do not question if Ellie hugs with one arm rather than two. She will spend the rest of her life hoping that you know how much it means to her, even if she is unable to properly verbalize it. 

It is almost uncomfortable, the lack of something within Ellie as her days grow steadier–along with her mind–and the guilt starts to ease. For a time, Ellie confused her growing lightness with feelings of emptiness. She had thought that she had finally grown numb, because she didn’t feel as though her body was bearing such a heavy weight. The realization was quiet. Lightness does not mean emptiness. Ellie can breathe. She would refuse to make you witness her death, but there will be no death to witness, anyway. Ellie has no plans for it. 

Even so, it has been drilled into her very being that everything is fleeting. People do not stick around, it does not matter how much you love them. Or want them. Or need them. The very start of Ellie’s life was tainted by the death of another. Loss is nearly all that she had ever known, yet she cannot grow comfortable with the idea of it in any sense. 

Ellie figures she will probably lose you at some point. It is not self-deprecating, it is fact. (To her, at least.) If she is going to lose you, she will spend every possible day making sure that you are safe and comfortable while you sleep. She will return each squeeze of your hand. A touch will never be unwanted, or underappreciated. You have shown Ellie resilience through love, making her a fern in the way that she has been able to continue, continue, continue. 

The iron filled her up, flooded her, but is not with her presently. She is present. You are present. Ellie exists presently as often as she can manage it, which increases with each rise of the sun. There is no taste for blood, no faith within it any longer. 

(Ellie will not end up losing you. You know that fact, even when her fears cause a falter within her. You are staying, and Ellie stays, and your world is lighter but not empty. Ellie does not lose you, and you do not lose her.)

notes : i love ellie williams. obviously i have been quite inspired by noah kahan's album lately, this is no exception. i found the overall theme/message of orbiter to be really achingly beautiful and it got me thinking about ellie and her relationship with loss. i know i've done space themed fics before with lunar flyby and reporting live but i didn't want to repeat that here despite the title of this piece and the song, i felt it would've been a bit too on the nose. still, i thought ellie's love for space could suit this and be intertwined with the other themes. as always, thank you for reading.

Prayers are closer to you than any words of love.

You learn very early that love is something to be monitored. Your mother keeps the Virgin Mary above every doorway in the house as though holiness can seep into the walls and sterilize them from the inside out. Little ceramic saints stand watch in the kitchen. Crosses bloom above beds like warnings. Your father kisses his fingertips before touching the steering wheel each morning.

Every Sunday, your family crowds into the same pew beneath the same stained-glass martyrdoms while the priest speaks of purity in a voice so soft it somehow sounds crueler.

You are good at being good.

That is the tragedy of it.

At eleven years old, you still thought goodness is measurable. A neat little tally kept somewhere in Heaven. You think if you obey enough, pray enough, fold your hands tightly enough beneath your chin, then God will love you in the uncomplicated way your parents seem to.

Then they found you in the girls’ bathroom.

It happened on a Thursday afternoon thick with late spring heat. The cold light buzzed overhead. Someone had carved obscenities into the stall doors with a key. You remember all of this with horrifying clarity afterward because trauma turns ordinary details biblical.

Her name was Clara.

She tasted faintly like strawberry lip gloss and cafeteria apple juice. Your hands shook so badly when she touched your face that she laughed first, soft and nervous, and said, “You look terrified.”

Maybe you were.

Not of her.

Never of her.

The terror came later — when the stall door swung open hard enough to slam against the tile wall. When Mrs. Callahan from administrative staff stared at the two of you like she’d discovered a dead body. When Clara had jerked away from you so quickly it felt like being skinned alive.

That day, you spent the next hour in the principal’s office with your hands folded in your lap so tightly your nails leave little crescent moons in your palms. Your mother cried. That’s what you remember most.

Not yelling. Not fury.

Grief.

Like someone has died.

Your father drove home in silence while your mother quietly prayed in the passenger seat, rosary beads slipping rhythmically through her fingers. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary, full of grace. Hail Mary—

The crucifix above your bed suddenly feels enormous. Christ hangs there, ribs exposed, head bowed in perpetual agony. You’ve looked at him every night since childhood, but now you cannot stop staring at the wounds in his hands. The blood. The sacrifice.

Your father knocked once before entering your room. He sat beside you carefully, like approaching something disgusting. “You’re confused,” he’d said softly. “You’re still young enough to be guided back.”

Guided back — as though you have wandered somewhere terrible. You nodded because you were eleven and terrified and desperate to still be loved.

Afterward, you kneeled beside your bed until your knees ached against the hardwood floor. You prayed so hard it becomes physical. A violent thing. Your throat burnt with it.

Please make me normal.

Please make me clean.

Please.

But the more you prayed, the more vividly you remembered Clara’s mouth against yours.

By summer, your parents had made their decision.

The boarding school sits three hours north of home, isolated behind wrought-iron gates and towering stone walls blackened by rain and age. St. Magdalene’s Academy for Girls. The brochure describes it as disciplined. Faith-centered. Morally rigorous.

The nuns move through the halls like shadows in black wool.

Everywhere you look, suffering is framed as holiness.

Bleeding saints in oil paintings. Marble virgins with mournful faces. Jesus crucified from every conceivable angle. The girls lower their eyes when they pass the statues as though God Himself might step down and inspect them.

Maybe He does.

You lie awake listening to girls cry quietly into their pillows — at St. Magdalene’s, grief is considered private business between a girl and God.

At first, when you confess, you invent sins because your real ones feel too monstrous to speak aloud. Impatience. Jealousy. Vanity. But eventually the guilt swells too large to contain. It crawls through your body like fever.

So one rainy Thursday, hidden behind the confessional screen, you whisper it.

“I kissed a girl.”

Silence.

Then the priest sighs.

“You must resist temptation,” he tells you. “The Devil reaches us through our weakest desires.”

Weakest desires. You repeat the phrase to yourself afterward until it stops sounding like language and starts sounding like the truth.

Six years later, you learn how to survive the place. You lower your gaze in the hallways. You stop staring too long at pretty mouths and graceful hands and the exposed curve of a girl’s throat when she tips her head back laughing. You stop allowing yourself to imagine tenderness. You stop writing certain thoughts down. During prayer, you no longer ask God to change you. That kind of hope exhausted itself months ago.

Your urges become something small and starving that lives in the walls of your body. An animal scratching behind plaster. You pretend not to hear it.

Most days, you almost succeed.

You sit with the same girls at lunch every afternoon beneath the tall arched windows of the dining hall while rainwater streaks the glass like tears. Cecilia talks too loudly. Maria picks apart her bread into tiny pieces before eating it. Elise keeps holy cards tucked into the pocket of her cardigan and kisses the Virgin Mary before exams.

“Did you hear Sister Bernadette caught two girls holding hands outside the chapel?” Cecilia whispers one afternoon, leaning across the table dramatically.

Maria gasps. “Again?”

“They had to scrub the sanctuary floors for a week.”

Elise crosses herself automatically.

The movement makes your stomach twist. You continue eating your soup even though it tastes vaguely like dishwater and ash.

“What kind of idiot risks it here?” Cecilia mutters. “Seriously. They know what happens.”

You remember being eleven and incapable of concealing anything. Your feelings lived directly on your skin back then. Every fear visible. Every longing transparent. Now there are entire catastrophes happening inside you that nobody notices.

Sometimes you wonder if this is maturity or simply death in smaller, more socially acceptable increments.

You remember being eleven and incapable of concealing anything. Your feelings lived directly on your skin back then. Every fear visible. Every longing transparent. Now there are entire catastrophes happening inside you that nobody notices.

Sometimes you wonder if this is maturity or simply death in smaller, more socially acceptable increments.

That night, rain lashes violently against the dormitory windows while the girls prepare for bed. Soft chatter fills the room beneath the yellow glow of bedside lamps. Someone brushes their hair. Someone else kneels beside their mattress in prayer. The air smells faintly of candle wax, wool uniforms, and wet earth drifting in from outside.

“There’s a new girl coming.”

“She got expelled from her last school.”

“No, she attacked somebody.”

“I heard she smokes.”

“She’s from some tiny town upstate.”

“Apparently her mother’s an alcoholic.”

“No — worse.”

“Worse than that?”

“Natalie Scatorccio.” The name lands strangely inside your chest. You do not know why. Cecilia lowers her voice dramatically from the bed beside yours. “Sister Agnes said she’s trouble. Like actual trouble. She got caught with drugs at her old school.”

Elise looks horrified. “Why would they send someone like that here?”

“To fix her,” Maria replies simply.

Fix her. The word hollows the room out for a moment. Because suddenly you are eleven again. Sitting rigid in your father’s car while your mother cries quietly beside him. Confused, they called you.

You wonder what Natalie Scatorccio did exactly. What particular sin earned her exile to this place. You wonder if she cried when her parents left her here. You wonder if she begged them not to. You wonder if she’s like you — lost and lonely.

Cecilia continues whispering eagerly. “Apparently she’s mean. Like really mean.”

“Maybe she’ll leave,” Elise says hopefully.

“She’ll leave or she won’t,” you say quietly, the first time speaking since they started gossiping. Because you know better. Girls like you do not leave St. Magdalene’s quickly. The school swallows damaged things whole.

Cecilia blinks at you. “You sound like you don’t care.”

“I don’t know her.”

Elise studies your face for a second too long, then looks back down at her prayer book. The rain keeps tapping against the glass like fingers testing for weakness.

Maria chews on her bottom lip before adding, “Sister Agnes said she has bleached hair and wears ripped jeans.” A beat. “That’s… not allowed here,” she finishes helplessly.

Cecilia snorts softly into her palm: “Good luck surviving orientation with that fashion sense.”

“Ripped jeans? Seriously?” Cecilia scoffs, flopping onto her back dramatically. “This isn’t some punk rock school.”

Elise bites her lip. “She’ll have to change that. Sister Agnes won’t let anyone break dress code on day one.”

You stare at the ceiling as rain drums harder against the glass.

Someone like Natalie Scatorccio shouldn’t exist here. This place is built to sand down edges until nothing sharp remains.

You pray for her.

The chapel at St. Magdalene’s is all dark wood and candle smoke, steeped in the kind of suffocating grandeur designed to make girls feel small beneath God’s gaze. Rain presses softly against the stained-glass windows. Red and blue light spills across bowed heads in bruised patches of color.

Father Brennan drones from the altar about temptation. He always speaks about temptation as though it is alive.

A creature with teeth.

You sit three pews from the front between Cecilia and Elise, hands folded neatly in your lap, expression carefully blank. Years of practice have made reverence easy to imitate. You know exactly when to bow your head. When to kneel. When to say amen.

“Guard yourselves against corruption,” Father Brennan says. “The Devil rarely arrives looking monstrous. More often, evil appears seductive.”

You think of lipstick-smudged mouths. Of trembling hands. Of how badly you once wanted to be touched gently.

Then the chapel doors creak open. Every head turns. And there she is.

Natalie Scatorccio stands framed in the doorway beneath the gray morning light, looking less like a new student and more like a problem God Himself forgot to finish solving.

For one terrible second, you understand exactly why the rumors spread so quickly. She does not belong here. In the way cigarette smoke does not belong inside a cathedral.

Her uniform is already wrong somehow. Shirt untucked slightly at the waist. Tie hanging loose. Bleached blonde hair falling messily around sharp, exhausted features. There’s something bruised about her beauty. Something half-feral. Like she’s spent her whole life learning how to bare her teeth before anyone could wound her first.

Sister Agnes escorts her stiffly down the aisle while whispers spread through the pews like infection.

“That’s her.”

“Oh my God.”

“She looks—”

“Shh.”

Natalie keeps her eyes forward, jaw tense. But as she passes your pew, her gaze flicks sideways. Only briefly. Her eyes are lighter than you expected. Sharp and pale and deeply tired. The kind of eyes that look like they’ve seen ugly things too early in life. You lower your gaze immediately.

Because instinct tells you to.

The remainder of mass passes in a blur of scripture and candlelight and self-inflicted restraint. You try not to look at her again. You fail repeatedly.

You notice how slouched she sits in the pew Sister Agnes directs her toward. How she doesn’t recite the prayers. How her knee bounces impatiently beneath the wooden bench. How she looks trapped. You know that feeling intimately.

Afterward, Nat stands alone near the administrative office clutching a stack of papers against her chest. Nobody approaches her. Curiosity circles her at a distance instead.

Before you can reconsider, you approach her. Your shoes click softly against the marble floor. Nat glances up immediately, wary. Up close, she looks even more exhausted. Faint shadows beneath her eyes. A cigarette smell buried deep in her clothes.

“Hey.” You smile — the kind of smile designed not to frighten wounded animals. “You’re already big news here.”

“Yeah. I noticed.” She snorts. Her voice is rough around the edges, like she hasn’t spoken in hours or maybe just never learns how to soften it. She shifts the papers under her arm, eyes darting past you toward a group of girls. “That usually happens when people think you’re a fucking trainwreck.”

You glance instinctively down the hallway, half-expecting lightning to split the ceiling open. Nobody seems to hear. Still, guilt prickles beneath your skin immediately. Reflexive as breathing. Nat notices — you can tell she does because one corner of her mouth twitches faintly, almost amused.

“You gonna report me to a nun?” she asks.

“No.” You smile, this time lighter. “Unless you make me to.”

Fortunately, Nat exhales through her nose, something close to a laugh. “Okay, good. I was kinda worried the nuns had you on a moral espionage squad or something.” She adjusts the papers again, revealing a class schedule with several red ink corrections scribbled across it. “A woman already marked up my uniform violations,” she mutters, showing you the list:

Tie improperly fastened

Shirt untucked

You wince. “Yeah... Sister Agnes is very strict.” You bite your lip, for some reason, already feeling bad for this girl — even though you barely know her. Well, not knowing someone shouldn’t be an obstacle for empathy. “I can help you, if you want. With the whole...” You point to her messy tie. “tie thing.”

“You’re serious?” Nat squints at you like she’s trying to figure out if this is a trick. Her voice has an edge of suspicion, but not hostility. More… baffled disbelief. “I think I’m completely capable of doing my own shit.”

“Okay, but you look like a mess,” you say. “And Sister Agnes is gonna have your head on a pike before lunch if you walk into homeroom looking like that, again.”

Nat blinks. Then she actually laughs this time — short and sharp, surprised out of her by the bluntness. It’s an imperfect sound, not polished and you like it. “Fucking hell,” she mutters through the tail end of it, rubbing her nose with one finger. “You’re weirdly aggressive for someone who wears cardigans.” She eyes your perfectly knotted tie again. “...How do I even fix this stupid thing?”

“First,” you reach for the tie without asking. “Loosen it.” Nat stiffens slightly as your fingers brush her collar. Her skin is warm, a little clammy from stress sweat or maybe just the classroom air being too hot today. You undo the knot carefully and rework it slowly. “You gotta start with a proper wind,” you explain quietly while your hands move automatically over the fabric.

Nat stays very still while you adjust the tie. Her breath is shallow, like she’s holding it without meaning to. “You’re actually good at this,” she says after a second, voice lower than before.

“I had six years of practice.”

“Shit.” She winces. “Six years in this shithole?”

“Yeah.” You smooth the tie one last time, stepping back to inspect your work. It sits neatly now, crisp and proper like it belongs on a girl who prays before meals. “You get used to it or you get killed.” You sigh. “All done.”

Nat touches it self-consciously with her fingertips. “Thanks,” she mutters. This time softer.

The hallway is nearly emptying out now as girls hurry toward classrooms for morning homeroom. A distant bell begins to chime from somewhere in the main building.

“See you around.” You tell her as you walk away.