The dorm room door slammed shut with enough force to rattle the framed photos on the wall—pictures of you and Natalie at prom, at graduation, at some shitty beach party last summer where she’d carried you home piggyback after you’d sprained your ankle dancing on a table. The memory should’ve made her smile.

It didn’t.

Natalie kicked her cleats off, sending them skidding across the floor. "Unbelievable," she muttered, yanking her sweat-damp jersey over her head. The fabric stuck to her skin, peeling away with a frustrated huff. "Fucking unbelievable."

You sat on the edge of the bed, a wad of toilet paper pressed to your still-bleeding nose. The white was already blooming crimson.

Natalie’s jaw clenched.

She’d seen the moment it happened—seen Shauna’s "accidental" kick send the ball rocketing toward your face at full force. Seen the way you’d crumpled, hands flying to your face as the cheer squad erupted in shrieks. The metallic tang of your blood had hit Natalie’s tongue before she’d even registered moving, her fist connecting with Shauna’s jaw with a crack that echoed across the field.

Now, in the quiet of your shared room, the adrenaline was fading, leaving something raw and ugly in its wake.

Natalie grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink, the plastic clattering as she dumped it onto the bed beside you. "Tilt your head back," she ordered, voice rough.

You didn’t move.

"Tilt your head back," she repeated, sharper this time. "Unless you wanna ruin another fucking shirt."

You flinched.

The second the words left her mouth, Natalie regretted them. But the anger was still there, simmering under her skin, fed by hours of unanswered texts and an empty lunch table and the way you’d looked right through her at practice like she was fucking invisible.

She reached for your chin, her grip gentler than her tone. "C’mon," she muttered, guiding your head back. The blood had started to dry in sticky trails down your lips, your chin. Natalie swallowed hard. "Jesus, you’re a mess."

You finally spoke, your voice muffled by the toilet paper. "Shauna did it on purpose."

"No shit." Natalie dabbed at the blood with a damp washcloth, her free hand steadying your jaw. "But you wanna know why she thought that was okay?"

You didn’t answer.

"Because I told her you were cheating," Natalie said, the words bitter in her mouth. "At lunch. When you couldn’t be bothered to show up or, I dunno, text me like a normal fucking person."

Your eyes widened. "I was looking for my—"

"Lip gloss. Yeah. Real fucking urgent." Natalie tossed the bloodied cloth aside with more force than necessary. "You’ve been ignoring me all day over some makeup—"

"It’s not about the lip gloss!" You shoved her hands away, the toilet paper falling to your lap. "It’s—you wouldn’t get it."

Natalie stared at you. "Try me."

You hesitated. Then, quieter: "It was the one you bought me for our anniversary."

The fight drained out of Natalie all at once.

Oh.

The memory hit her like a stray elbow to the ribs—the way she’d saved up for weeks, skipping lunches to afford the stupid little tube because you’d mentioned wanting it once. The way your face had lit up when she’d handed it to you, the way you’d kissed her with cherry-flavored lips for the rest of the night.

Natalie exhaled slowly. "Shit."

You picked at the hem of your skirt, avoiding her gaze. "I looked everywhere."

For the first time all day, Natalie really looked at you—the red-rimmed eyes, the smudged mascara, the way your shoulders hunched like you were trying to make yourself smaller. The anger in her chest unraveled, leaving something tender and aching in its place.

She cupped your face, her thumb brushing the apple of your cheek. "I’m an asshole," she said simply.

You sniffed. "Yeah."

"I’ll buy you a new one."

"You punched Shauna."

Natalie grinned, crooked. "She deserved it."

A laugh bubbled out of you, small and wet, before you winced. "Ow. Don’t make me laugh, it hurts."

"Sorry." Natalie leaned in, pressing her forehead to yours. "Not sorry about Shauna, though."