You don’t notice she’s in your bed until the floor creaks. The window’s ajar, letting in the buzz of summer, and you’re already awake—too awake. Natalie’s boots drop to the carpet with a soft thud, and she slips under your sheets like this isn’t the third time she’s shown up unannounced in the middle of the night, like you didn’t spend the last week trying to get her out of your bloodstream.

Her voice is low, rough with something unspoken. "Couldn’t sleep."

You say nothing, because you know it’s a lie. She never comes here to sleep.

She smells like cigarettes and something sweeter—jasmine, maybe, or a memory you can’t quite pin down. Her hand finds the space between your shoulder blades, not gently, not kindly—like she’s trying to memorize the way your spine curves under her palm before she forgets it all on purpose.

“Natalie,” you whisper.

She hums, eyes closed, like she doesn’t want to hear the rest.

You turn to face her anyway. Her pupils flicker toward you, and for a moment, she softens. For a moment, you swear she’s going to stay. She could. She might.

But then she opens her mouth and wrecks it all. “You’re too nice to me,” she mutters. “It’s pathetic.”

It burns. That word. Like she threw it to hurt you before you had the chance to hurt her first.

You flinch. “What the hell does that mean?”

Natalie smirks, bitter and crooked. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

You sit up. “Then why are you here? Why do you keep coming back?”

“I don't know,” she lies again.

But the truth is written all over her—beneath the tattoos, under the bruises, in the shake of her breath when you look at her too long. She wants this. Wants you. But she wants to destroy it first. Before you can get close enough to see how scared she really is.

“I think I’m bad for you,” she says. Her voice is smaller now, like the little girl still buried in the rubble. “So if I say something that’s… cruel—just push me away, alright? Tell me I’m a lost cause. Tell me to fuck off.”

You blink, stunned. “That’s what you want?”

Natalie shrugs. “I want to stop pretending I deserve anything else.”

“I’m not gonna give up on you because you ask nicely.”

She laughs once—sharp, defensive. “You should.”

And maybe you should. Maybe this love does feel too familiar—like a wound you keep scratching open, like something you’ve nursed back to health just to watch it fall apart again. You’ve seen this look in her eyes before. The begging-not-to-be-loved. The flinch before affection.

But you don’t pull away. Not yet.

Instead, you lean in, press your forehead to hers. Her breath hitches.

“If you say something rude,” you murmur, “I’ll call you on your bullshit. But I’m not gonna hate you for being scared.”

Natalie pulls back, looks at you like you’re a ghost. Like no one’s ever said that to her. She opens her mouth to speak—closes it again.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” she says eventually, like it’s a confession. “But I think I will.”