The hum of the engine fills the silence between you, low and steady, like a heartbeat that neither of you wants to disturb.

Natalie sits still in the driver’s seat, one hand on the gearshift, the other loose on her thigh. Her gaze isn’t on you anymore, it’s fixed somewhere out the windshield, at the flickering streetlamp or the shadows cast by the trees. But you can feel her attention like it’s stitched into the air between you.

You’re not sure who’s holding who here.

“I should go,” you say, voice quiet. You don’t reach for the door handle.

Natalie huffs a laugh—soft, under her breath. “Yeah. You’ve been saying that for five minutes.”

She finally looks at you, and it’s that same look she gave you at parties back then when your ex was across the room, too drunk to notice, and Natalie was the only one who ever made sure you got home safe. The kind of look that said she saw too much. That maybe she felt too much.

You shift in your seat, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your jacket. “You always do this,” you murmur, eyes flicking to hers. “You wait until I’m about to leave, then you say something that keeps me here.”

Her smile is small, but it reaches her eyes this time. “Yeah? And you always stay.”

You don’t have an answer for that.

Natalie leans back in her seat, one arm draped lazily over the wheel. “She never talked about you after you left,” she says, not looking at you. “Like it was easier to erase you than admit she screwed it up.”

You blink, surprised. “Did you talk about me?”

Natalie’s jaw tightens. “I tried not to.”

“Why?” You asked curiously as you rubbed the back of your neck out of habit.

Her head turns slowly toward you again. She hesitates and her breath hitches before she spoke, “Because I didn’t want to remember how easy it was to care about you.”

The weight of her words lands hard too honest, too exposed. You should say something. You should leave.

But instead, you reach out. Gently. Fingertips brushing against hers where her hand rests on the center console. She doesn’t pull away. Her fingers shift, slide, wrap around yours with quiet intent.

“I used to think about calling you,” you admit. “But it felt… wrong. Like betraying her.”

“She never deserved your loyalty.”

“And you did?”

She meets your gaze, it was steady, aching. “I don’t know. Maybe not. But I never asked for it. I just… wanted you.”

The silence that follows is thick with all the moments you could’ve had and didn’t. You don’t remember who moves first.

It’s small at first a lean, a pause, your eyes flicking to her lips, hers to yours. The kind of moment that dares you to ruin it. Then her hand is on your cheek, fingers calloused and unsure, and your forehead presses gently to hers.

You’re both breathing like something’s about to break.

“Are you going to kiss me?” you whisper.

“Not unless you want me to.” She said as her gaze flickered to your lips then back up to your eyes in one swift movement like she had been dreaming of this exact moment.

“I’ve wanted to for a long time.”