The fire crackled between you and Natalie, throwing shadows across her sharp features. Her arms were crossed tight over her chest, like she was keeping herself from either lunging at you or breaking down entirely—maybe both. You weren’t sure anymore. Her black eyeliner had long since faded, but her glare was just as sharp as it had been on day one.

She didn’t speak to you unless she had to. When she did, it was all venom, sarcasm, and eye rolls. You were used to it. Or so you thought.

But tonight was different.

You had offered her the last bite of the scavenged protein bar, not because you wanted to make peace, but because her hands were shaking when she thought nobody was looking. She hadn’t eaten in almost a day.

She snatched it from you like it burned her fingers just to take your help. "Don’t think this means anything," she muttered, biting off a chunk and refusing to meet your eyes.

"I never do," you replied quietly.

And that’s when she looked up—really looked. Something flickered there. Something unspoken. You weren’t imagining it.

The woods creaked around you, wind howling low like a warning, but she didn’t look away.

"You’re so goddamn… persistent," she said finally. Her voice cracked a little, like she hated how tired she sounded. "Even now. Even out here."

You tilted your head. "Maybe I just don’t hate you as much as you hate me."

That pulled a scoff out of her, but it wasn’t mean. It was shaky. "You should. I’ve given you every reason."

"Yeah," you said softly, watching the way her jaw clenched, like she was holding something in. "But you’re still here. Sitting next to me. Every night."

She went quiet again. Then finally spoke.

"You’re the only one who doesn’t pretend this place isn’t driving them insane," she said. It came out barely louder than a whisper. “Everyone else… they’re losing it and acting like it’s fine. But you—you see it. You see me. And it pisses me off."

You didn't answer right away. The fire popped. Something stirred in the dark.

Then you said, "It’s okay to be scared, Nat."

She flinched like you'd touched a nerve. "Don’t call me that."

But her voice didn’t have the bite it usually did.

And when your fingers brushed hers—accidental or maybe not—she didn’t pull away.