“you should just tell him you don’t even like men,” nat whispers against the back of your neck, hands tracing up and down your sides. her front presses into your back against the bed, and her lips trail across your skin lovingly.

this is too intimate to be considered a fling.

“you know how he is,” you mutter back, tilting your head slightly to look at nat, “he’s scary. he’ll kill me.”

nat only scoffs in response, pulling back from you to sit on the bed.

“he treats you like shit,” nat spits.

“i know, which is why i can’t—”

“you can! isn’t it better to get it done and over with? why would you want to live the rest of your life like this?”

that shuts you up, and nat huffs irritably. her fingers rake through her bleached-blonde strands, and she gets up abruptly.

“fuck this,” nat mutters, tossing your flimsy little lace dress at your face, “you’re always gonna be too scared to tell him.”

nat turns away, leaving her own bedroom with a harsh slam of the door to go to her kitchen. you’re left in the warm comfort of nat’s room, in her familiar bed wrapped in her scent that you’ve grown to love over the years.

meanwhile, nat busies herself with cooking lunch. for herself, not you.