You hear three short raps against the door of your apartment — hesitant but sharp. It’s nearly midnight and you weren’t expecting anyone. You’ve been curled up in Natalie’s old hoodie, your face lit only by the soft blue glow of your phone screen, scrolling through the tagged photos of her most recent concert in Berlin. She looked good. Tired. But good. You’d memorized the setlist already, watched blurry clips fans uploaded online, and cried to one of her songs for the third time this week.

You slide off the couch, bare feet against cold hardwood, heart already tripping over itself with a cautious kind of hope. Because maybe it’s your neighbor, maybe a package mishap. Maybe you’re delusional.

But when you open the door, there she is.

Natalie.

In all her chaotic, beautiful, sleep-deprived glory. Her hair’s a mess under the hood of her faded bomber, the same one she wore when she first kissed you on the roof of her van. She smells like cigarettes and airport terminals, and her guitar case leans against her knee like some loyal dog.

Your mouth falls open but nothing comes out. Not at first.

“Hi,” she says, quietly. Her voice cracks a little.

“Natalie,” you whisper, breath catching, eyes already welling.

“I couldn’t do it anymore,” she says, with a tired smile. “The whole distance thing. Woke up in Paris yesterday and realized the only place I wanted to be was here. With you. So I bailed. Tour’s done. I told them I needed a break. Fuck it.”

You blink, trying to process what she just said, but she’s already stepping forward, dropping her bag with a heavy thud inside the doorway, and wrapping her arms around you. She’s thinner than she was a few months ago — worn down from months of sleeping on tour buses and burning too many candles at once — but when she clings to you, it's with a desperation that says she’s still yours.

You bury your face in her chest, trying not to cry too obviously.

“You didn’t call,” you mumble, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “You asshole.”

“I wanted to see your face,” she breathes into your hair. “I needed to feel it. Not through a screen. Not in between cities.”

You lead her inside, stumbling over half your own limbs, heart hammering like it’s trying to escape your chest. She looks around like she’s been starving for the sight of your space — the blanket you always curl up with, the photo of the two of you at Coney Island pinned to the fridge, the pile of opened letters she sent you from tour stops you never had the heart to throw away.

“Have you eaten?” you ask, because it’s the only way you can think to show love right now without dissolving.

“Airport pretzel,” she mutters. “Regret.”

You laugh, then cry a little harder. “You’re insane.”

“You love that about me,” she says, collapsing onto your couch like she belongs there. Her voice is raspy, tender. “God, this place smells like you.”

You press a kiss to her temple and disappear into the kitchen for leftovers, returning with a mismatched plate of pasta and too much garlic bread. Natalie eats like she hasn’t in days, and when she’s done, she sinks into the cushions beside you, head resting on your shoulder like it never left.

Your fingers thread through her hair, gently tugging out tangles from turbulence and months of sleeplessness. She closes her eyes and lets herself be held.

“I hated waking up without you,” she murmurs. “It was the first thing I thought about every morning. And the last thing I felt every night. The silence after the shows... it wasn’t the same without your voice cutting through it.”

Your throat tightens.

“I tried to be supportive,” you whisper. “I didn’t want to be the reason you stopped doing what you loved.”

“You are what I love,” she says without missing a beat, voice barely audible.