The front door creaks open with a soft click, the sound drowned out by the music drifting from the kitchen. Natalie steps inside, kicking off her battered Doc Martens with a quiet thud, her waitress apron still slung low on her hips, smelling faintly of fryer grease and coffee. She’d gotten off early—some bullshit about the lunch rush dying down—and expected to find the apartment empty, the way it usually was at this hour.

But then she hears it.

Your voice.

Soft, slightly off-key, but happy, humming along to Sabrina Carpenter’s "Manchild" as the song plays from your phone propped up on the counter. Natalie leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and just—watches.

You’re sweeping the kitchen floor, barefoot, wearing her old Black Flag t-shirt (the one she’s been missing for weeks), the fabric riding up just enough to show the dimples at the small of your back. The afternoon sun slants through the window, catching the dust motes swirling around you like you’re in some kind of goddamn indie music video.

And you’re dancing.

Not like, full-on choreography, but little sways and hip bumps to the beat, the broom handle serving as your makeshift microphone during the chorus. You spin in a lazy circle, eyes closed, belting out "you’re just a manchild, yeah!" with zero shame, completely oblivious to the fact that your girlfriend is currently having a heart attack from how fucking cute you are.

Natalie’s chest does something stupid and warm.

She should tease you. Should scare the shit out of you by clearing her throat or wolf-whistling. But instead, she just—stays there, biting her lip to keep from grinning like an idiot, memorizing the way your nose scrunches when you hit a high note.

Finally, as the song fades out, you turn—and freeze, broom clutched to your chest like a weapon.

Natalie raises an eyebrow.

"Uh," you say intelligently.

She pushes off the doorframe, slow, deliberate, stalking toward you with that lazy smirk that always makes your stomach flip. "Don’t stop on my account," she drawls, plucking the broom from your hands and leaning it against the counter. "I was just waiting for my solo."