It’s a slow-burning summer afternoon, the kind that sticks to your skin and makes everything feel heavier. The fan in your shared apartment whirs lazily, barely doing its job. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, legs tucked under you, trying to focus on the book in your hands. The kind of book that’s supposed to make you forget the world around you. But Natalie is making that impossible.

She’s sprawled out behind you, halfway on the bed, halfway on the floor, like a cat too proud to ask for space but still too needy to leave yours. She’s dramatically sighing every few minutes, the kind of exaggerated exhale that’s just begging for a reaction.

You don’t give her one. Yet.

“Babe,” she finally says, drawing out the vowel like it hurts to say your name. “Are you mad at me?”

You flip a page without looking at her. “No.”

She groans again, louder this time, then rolls onto her stomach and starts dragging her fingers up the blanket covering your thighs. Light touches. Annoyingly persistent. “You haven’t looked at me in, like, an hour.”

“I’ve been reading.”

“Yeah, but you live with me. I’m literally right here. You’ve seen this book a hundred times but only one me.”

You raise your eyes from the page and look down at her. She’s pouting—actually pouting. Her eyeliner is a little smudged, her shirt’s a size too big and falling off one shoulder, and she’s got a band-aid on her knee from falling off her bike two days ago. She looks like trouble and heartbreak, but mostly right now she looks like she wants you to tell her she’s still your favorite thing in the world.

“Natalie,” you say, slowly. “Are you seriously jealous of a paperback novel?”

She gasps, eyes wide with theatrical betrayal. “I can’t believe you’d even say that to me.”

You don’t stop the smile that breaks across your face.

And that’s exactly what she was waiting for. In one quick movement, she crawls onto the bed and straddles your lap, facing you. Her arms loop lazily around your neck, and she leans in so close you can smell her shampoo—cheap citrus and something unmistakably hers. She bumps her forehead gently against yours.

“There she is,” she murmurs. “There’s my girl.”

You arch a brow. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t grow up learning how to ask for things normally.”

Your fingers trace the curve of her hip through the thin fabric of her shorts. “Is that what this is? Your version of asking for attention?”

She shrugs, a little vulnerable now, like her bravado’s worn thin. “Maybe. I just… hate when you disappear into your own world. Makes me feel like I’m outside of it.”

Your expression softens. You press a kiss to her cheek, just below her eye. “You’re not outside of it. You are it.”

She doesn’t say anything for a second. Just exhales slowly against your neck, her body relaxing into yours. She smells faintly like cigarettes and vanilla lip balm. Her nails are chipped black, and she keeps brushing your hair out of your face like she needs to remind herself you’re real.

“Can we just… stay like this for a while?” she asks quietly, voice low and unsure in a way that guts you.