It’s late.

Not just “past your bedtime” late—it’s the kind of late where the house is completely still, the only sound the low hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional creak of the old pipes. Moonlight spills through the crack in your curtains, painting soft silver lines across your blanket.

You’re not really asleep. You’ve gotten good at pretending, at breathing slow and even, eyes closed just enough. You’ve done this routine a dozen times before. Because she always shows up eventually.

Right on cue, the faintest tap on your window. Not loud. Never is. Just enough for you to hear.

You’re already moving before the second knock.

You push the window open, and there she is—Natalie, hoodie zipped up halfway, smudges under her eyes, that usual guarded expression not quite hiding how tired she looks. Her backpack is slung over one shoulder like it’s filled with bricks instead of whatever she stuffed in there last-minute. You don’t say anything. You don’t need to.

She climbs through with practiced ease, like your room is more familiar to her than her own. The second her feet hit your floor, her shoulders drop. A little. Like being here gives her permission to breathe.

Her voice is soft. “She was screaming again. About nothing. I didn’t even do anything this time.”

You don’t ask for details. You just take her hand and pull her toward your bed like she belongs there. Because she does.

You both crawl under the covers, and she lets out this tiny breath when your arms wrap around her. Like she’s been holding it in for hours.

She doesn’t say anything else—not about her mom, not about the yelling, not about the ache she carries in her chest that she never fully talks about. She doesn’t need to. You just hold her tighter.

Your fingers trace circles on her back, gentle and slow. Her forehead rests against your collarbone, cold skin slowly warming against yours. After a few minutes, her breathing syncs with yours. You feel the tension bleed out of her, bit by bit, like your bed is the first place all day she’s felt safe.

“Sorry I woke you,” she whispers.