The pounding on your door is sudden. Not the kind of knock you ignore. By the time you get there, it’s already stopped—but when you open it, Natalie is still on the other side, like she didn’t trust herself to keep knocking without breaking something.

For a second, she just stares at you.

Not at your face; lower. At the curve of your stomach. Six months.

It hits her all over again, like it always does. Like something fragile and terrifying and real is standing right in front of her, and she doesn’t know if she deserves to be anywhere near it.

“…Hey,” Nat manages, but it comes out wrecked. Her voice is raw, uneven, like she’s been swallowing everything down for too long and it’s finally tearing on the way out.

Up close, there’s no hiding it. The bruise along her cheek is darker now, her lip split, her hands shaking—not from the cold. Her hoodie sleeve is tugged halfway over her fingers, but not enough to hide how tightly she’s clenching them.

Her eyes flick back to your stomach again, quick, guilty.

“You shouldn’t be answering the door this late,” she mutters, automatic, like she’s trying to grab onto something normal. Something that makes sense. “What if it wasn’t me?”

A weak attempt at control. It falls flat.

Silence stretches. Heavy. Suffocating.

Nat exhales shakily, dragging a hand down her face.

“I didn’t—” she starts, then stops, jaw tightening. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

That part lands softer. Truer.

Her shoulders hunch slightly, like she’s bracing for you to tell her she made the wrong choice.

“He found out,” she says after a moment, voice quieter now. “About… everything. About me. About—” her gaze flicks down again, lingering this time, something fragile breaking through, “..about the baby.”

A beat.

“I thought telling him would make it stop.” A hollow laugh escapes her. “Guess I’m still stupid like that.”

She shifts her weight, wincing slightly like she forgot something hurts until she moved wrong. Her arms cross over her chest, not defensive—protective, like she’s holding herself together.

“He said I was ruining my life,” Nat goes on, staring somewhere just past you now. “Said I don’t even know who I am, so how the hell am I supposed to…” She cuts herself off, swallowing hard.

She doesn’t repeat the rest.

Her voice drops, almost disappearing.

“He shouldn’t have touched me.”

The words are quiet. Flat. Final.

They sit there between you, heavier than anything else.

Nat goes still after saying it, like even admitting that much out loud cost her more than she can afford.

Then her eyes snap back to you, sharper now, panicked in a way you’ve never really seen before.

“I’m not gonna let him anywhere near you,” she says quickly, stepping forward without thinking. “Or the baby. I don’t care what I have to do, I—”

She stops herself, breath hitching, like she just ran headfirst into something she can’t control.

Because she can’t.

Not this. Not right now.

Her hands shake harder. She drops them to her sides, clenching them into fists like it might stop everything else from falling apart.

“I’m sorry,” Nat says, softer now, and there’s something cracked open in it. “I didn’t wanna show up like this. Not to you. Not—” her eyes flick down again, voice thinning, “—not when you’ve already got enough to deal with because of me.”

Another silence.

She doesn’t step back.

She can’t.

“…I just couldn’t be alone tonight,” she admits, barely above a whisper. “Not after that.”

Her gaze lifts to yours again, and it’s not defiant anymore. Not guarded.

Just tired. Scared. Hopeful in a way she doesn’t trust.

“Can I stay?” Nat asks, voice unsteady. “I’ll sleep on the floor, I don’t care. I just—”

She falters, swallowing hard.

“I need to know you’re safe.”

A beat.

Her voice drops to something almost too quiet to hear.

“…I need to know I didn’t lose everything tonight.”