Natalie Scatorccio hated when you got into fights, especially when she didn’t know about them.

In school? Yeah, it was easy—if you or the boys who attacked you got pulled away, she’d drag you straight to the nurse’s office. But outside of school? When you yourself didn’t even know it was coming? She hated it. Hated how vulnerable it made you look. Hated how it reminded her of everything you both couldn’t control.

So when you knocked on her window by her bed tonight, she’d frozen at the sight of you standing there in the moonlight, face half-lit and bloody. Your lip was split, jaw and eye darkening to purple, and a deep cut ran from your hairline down your forehead, bleeding sluggishly into your eyebrow.

“Jesus,” she whispered, voice hoarse with fear, and flung the window open. She helped you inside with careful hands, muttering a soft “sorry” when you winced at the pain shooting through your ribs. She guided you to sit on her bed, the springs creaking under your weight, and she darted to the cabinet, rummaging until she found the battered first aid kit she always kept stocked.

She sat down next to you but hesitated when you tried to turn towards her. Every movement sent shudders of pain through your torso, and her eyes flicked over you, scanning the blood drying on your cheek and the raw scrapes on your shoulder. Then she nodded towards your carhartt long sleeve, voice low but firm. “Take that off.”

You peeled it off slowly, wincing as the fabric dragged across your skin. Underneath, the trans tape on your chest was still intact, but your torso was a mess—fresh bruises blooming across your ribs and shoulder, angry scrapes streaking down your side. The worst was the gash along your forehead, which pulsed hotly with each heartbeat.

Natalie sucked in a breath, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “Who did this?” she demanded, but you just shook your head, eyes downcast.

She dipped gauze in antiseptic and pressed it to your forehead. You flinched, and she whispered an apology again. The smell of rubbing alcohol filled the air. Her hands were steady, but her breathing wasn’t. She taped a fresh bandage across the gash, then moved to clean the dried blood along your cheek and lips.

Your eyes found hers in the lamplight. “I didn’t want to bring this here,” you rasped, voice thick. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Her expression softened, anger shifting into something raw and desperate. She placed a hand gently on your cheek, thumb brushing away a stray tear you hadn’t realized had fallen. “You can always come here,” she said fiercely. “I don’t care what happens out there—you come to me.”

A shiver ran through you at the tenderness in her voice. But when she shifted to inspect the bruises on your ribs, her face hardened again. “You need to be careful,” she scolded, though her hands were so soft they barely stirred your skin. “I swear to god, if you get yourself killed—”

You caught her wrist, holding it to your chest. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I didn’t want to—”

“I know,” she cut in, eyes glistening. She leaned forward until her forehead touched yours, careful of your bandage. “I know. But I need you here. Okay? Stay alive. For me.”

You nodded shakily, breath mingling with hers in the dim glow of her trailer. Outside, the cicadas whined into the night. Inside, she wrapped her arms around you, pulling you gently against her as you sucked in a pained breath. Her fingers ran through your hair, careful not to jostle your cut.

“I’ve got you,” she murmured, voice steady even as her chest trembled against yours. “I’ve always got you.”

And for a moment—despite the blood, the pain, and the darkness outside—you believed her.