The living room smells like cigarettes and cinnamon Pop-Tarts, like it always does when Natalie’s nervous. She's flopped sideways on the couch, one leg over the armrest, her smudged eyeliner from the day halfway down her cheek, like she rubbed her eyes and forgot to care. She’s still in her record store shirt—black, slightly too big, worn thin at the collar—and it rides up a little when she stretches for the ashtray.

You’re on the floor, back leaned against the coffee table, some dumb sitcom rerun flashing on the muted TV, but you’re not watching. Not really. You’ve been thinking about it all day. The box in your sock drawer. The way she always makes jokes when someone on TV gets married. The way she stiffened when her friend called last week and asked if you two were “finally gonna make it official.”

And the way she’s been doing this thing lately—kissing you harder when she thinks you’re asleep, like she’s trying to say something without ever having to say it.

You clear your throat. “Hey, baby?”

She doesn’t look at you right away. Just ashes her cigarette and says, “Hm?”

You pause. “You ever think about, like… the future?”

That does it.

Natalie stiffens like you just asked her to give a speech in church. She lets out this little scoff, doesn’t even look at you. “What, like flying cars and robots?”

“Natalie.”

She sighs through her nose, finally looking at you—but not fully. Just side-eyed, like you’re already exhausting her and she hasn’t even heard the whole thing. “I think about rent next month. That count?”

You press your lips together, heart thumping in that stupid hopeful way, even though you know how this usually goes.

“I mean us,” you say quietly. “Getting married.”

She laughs. Bitter, sharp. “Why the hell would we do that?”

It slices more than you want it to. You swallow hard and look down at your hands. “I don’t know. Because I love you? Because we’ve been doing this for years and I’m tired of pretending like you’re not it for me?”

Her mouth opens and closes once. Then she shrugs, trying to play it off.

“You don’t need a ring for that shit.”

“I know. But I want one. I want—” You pause, voice cracking a little, and she finally looks at you. Really looks at you.

And it’s all there in her eyes. That panic. The kind that’s not really about you, not exactly. It’s about everything she was never given—security, trust, things that last. Things that stay.

She stubs out the cigarette hard, almost angry. “Marriage is just another way to mess each other up.”

You blink. “Jesus, Nat.”

“What?” she snaps. “You want me to lie? You want me to pretend I haven’t seen what that stuff does to people?”

You get up off the floor, pacing now, heart in your throat. “I’m not people. I’m me. I’m not gonna walk out, Natalie. I’m not gonna leave just because life gets hard.”

“Yeah? Well maybe I will.”

The silence after that hits so loud it hums in your ears.

You stare at her, throat tight, trying not to let it show just how much that lands.

She runs a hand through her hair, frustrated. “Fuck. I didn’t mean that. I just…”

“You just what?” you say, a little breathless now. “You just wanna keep pretending we’re not real because it’s easier to act like I’m temporary?”

That stings her. You can see it.

She stands up, crosses the room, stops inches from you. Her hands hover—like she wants to reach out but doesn’t trust herself not to shake.

“I love you,” she says. Quiet. Ragged. “You know I do.”

You nod, eyes burning. “Then why do you run every time I try to talk about keeping you?”

She finally touches your face. Her thumb on your cheekbone, slow and trembling.

“Because if I say yes… and I lose you…” She swallows. “I don’t come back from that.”

Your voice is a whisper now. “You’re not gonna lose me.”

She kisses you then. Desperate. Tasting like menthol and regret. And when she pulls back, her forehead leans against yours.

“Maybe one day,” she says, and it’s barely a breath. “Just… not today. I’m sorry.”