The cigarette between Natalie’s fingers is nearly burnt down to the filter, but she hasn’t taken a drag in minutes. She just rolls it between her fingers, gaze distant, jaw tight.

Her car is parked just outside of town, the two of you tucked away on some dirt road where no one can find you. The radio hums low in the background, but neither of you are really listening.

“They don’t give a shit, you know,” she mutters suddenly, voice rough, like she’s been holding it in too long. “They act like they do—like they care if I come home at night, if I pass my goddamn classes, if I make something of myself.” She scoffs, shaking her head. “But it’s all bullshit. They just don’t wanna be embarrassed. Don’t wanna have to explain why their kid’s such a fuck-up.”

You don’t say anything right away. You just watch her, the way she grips the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to the ground.

“You’re not a fuck-up, Nat.”

She laughs—sharp, bitter. “Yeah? Tell that to my mom.”

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken things. You know how this goes. She lashes out, burns hot, pulls away before she can be the one left behind.

But not with you.

Never with you.

So you just reach out, taking the cigarette from her fingers and stubbing it out in the ashtray. She lets you. Lets you take her hand, lace your fingers through hers. Lets herself breathe.

And when she finally looks at you, something in her eyes softens—just enough.

“Let’s get out of here,” she says, squeezing your hand. “Just drive. I don’t care where.”

And neither do you. As long as she’s next to you, the rest of the world can fucking wait.