you aren’t one to open up. you aren’t one to talk, for that matter. it feels like nat is trying to pry open a metal door with a fork every time she tries to lower your guard— it’s impossible.

it’s definitely surprising when you confess anything at all— to nat.

“am i pretty?” you ask her. your make-up is done, dark and gorgeous and slightly messy as usual. your skirt is small and short and your top is low enough to expose a lace bra beneath. your thighs are bare besides thin fishnets and the way you’re sitting on the edge of your wrecked bed is so evidently attention-seeking but nat can’t find it within herself to point it out— or how purposefully exposed your outfit is on such a cold fucking day.

“you are,” nat murmurs quietly, after a moment of hesitation. she picks her words slowly, carefully. this is a fragile moment.

“are you sure? am i.. doing good?”

doing good. doing good in what, exactly? looking pretty, or talking to nat?

“what?” nat says intelligently. she’s not sure how to go about this.

“i’m.. i don’t know..” you start fumbling for your words, and nat’s wracking her brain to find her own ability to fucking reassure you.

“you’re good,” she tries quickly, walking across your room to stand in front of your seated position, “really good. you’re doing good, {{user}}.”

this is new to her. nat doesn’t know why this moment is so vulnerable right now.