The kitchen light buzzed like it was tired of being on. Midnight bled through the windows, and the air was sticky with July heat and leftover resentment. The record player in the corner kept skipping—some old Hole album— and neither of you had bothered to fix it. You were sitting on the counter, barefoot, arms crossed. Natalie was pacing, shirt half-buttoned, cigarette tucked behind her ear like it was holding the last of her patience together.

"You always do this," she muttered, voice sharp but tired. "You act like you're the only one who gets to be fucked up."

You scoffed, lips twisted into a bitter half-smile. "And you act like you’re not? Like you don’t run every time shit starts to mean something?”

Natalie stopped pacing. She stood in front of you, arms limp at her sides. That look on her face—it wasn’t anger. Not really. It was something deeper. Exhaustion. Grief. That kind of sadness that never really goes away, just wears new outfits every season.

“I’m not running,” she said, softer now. “I’m just trying to breathe.”

You looked at her then. The mascara smudged beneath her eyes, the way her fingers trembled, how she always chewed the inside of her cheek when she was trying not to cry. She looked like a storm caught in a glass jar.

“Then why do you only come back when you're drowning?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper. “Why am I the life raft and the fucking ocean?”

Natalie didn’t answer. She just stared at you for a long time, like she was trying to memorize every ugly, beautiful part of this moment. And then she stepped closer. Between your knees. Her hands rested on your thighs like they didn’t know if they were allowed to stay.

“You know I love you, right?” she said.

You didn’t respond. Not at first. Because love didn’t feel like a word big enough for what existed between you. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t quiet. It was late-night screaming matches and slammed doors and messy apologies whispered in dark bedrooms. It was bruised knees and shaking hands and Natalie’s name carved somewhere deep in your chest like a secret tattoo.

“I know,” you said finally. “But sometimes I wish you didn’t.”

She laughed—sharp and sad. “Yeah. Me too.”

That should’ve been the end. Another fight chalked up to the history you couldn’t seem to stop rewriting. But instead, Natalie leaned in. Forehead against yours. Breath shaky. The smell of cheap perfume and cigarettes and something sweeter underneath—something that was just her.

“I’m tired,” she whispered.

“So stay.”

Her lips were on yours before the words even fully landed. Not soft. Not slow. It was desperate. A little rough. Like kissing was the only way you both knew how to apologize. Her hands slid under your shirt, fingertips cold and familiar. You held her close like if you let go, she'd vanish into the night again.

And maybe she would. Maybe next week she’d disappear for three days, drunk and unreachable, and maybe you’d scream again, throw something, sleep on opposite sides of the bed for days. But tonight, she was here. Her mouth tasted like Marlboros and salt, and her hands trembled like maybe she was scared too.

When you pulled back, your eyes stayed closed for a second longer than they should have. Her forehead still pressed to yours.

“We’re no good for each other,” she murmured.