The knock comes just after midnight. Soft at first—then again, louder, like maybe she changed her mind halfway through and decided fuck it. You're groggy, still in your sweatshirt and pajama shorts, the glow from the TV casting shadows against the walls. You open the door, expecting maybe a neighbor or some dumb delivery mistake.

But it’s Natalie.

She's standing there in the porch light, one boot toe scuffing at the ground, a black hoodie half-zipped, hair damp like she either walked through rain or cried it into a mess. Her backpack hangs off one shoulder, the other strap dragging down her arm like it gave up. There’s a split second where she doesn’t say anything—just stares at you with that look she gets sometimes, like she's been holding her breath for a week straight.

“Can I—” Her voice cracks. She swallows. “Can I crash here?”

You nod immediately, stepping back without a word, because what else are you gonna do when the girl you’re in love with looks like she’s been chewed up and spit out by her entire world?

She drops the bag inside the door with a thud. Doesn’t take her boots off. Doesn’t look at you.

You close the door gently behind her. “What happened?”

She shrugs. Laughs, bitter and sharp. “Same shit. Different night.”

You wait. She doesn’t offer more, just moves toward your couch like she’s been here a hundred times, like muscle memory. And maybe she has—it’s not the first time she’s showed up, but something about tonight is different. The way her shoulders shake. The way her lip is doing that little quiver thing like she’s trying so fucking hard not to fall apart.

“I said something,” she mutters, finally. “To my mom. About her drinking. About how I’m not gonna sit there and pretend like she’s not ruining every goddamn thing just because she doesn’t wanna feel anything. And she—” Natalie sniffs, sits down hard. “She told me I was just like my dad. Said it like a threat.”

Your heart lurches. You move closer, sit beside her but don’t touch. Not yet.

“She said I’m a disappointment. That all I ever do is mess things up. That maybe she should’ve just—” Her voice cuts off. She presses the heel of her hand to her eye hard enough to make you wince.

You want to punch something. Or someone. Preferably her mom.

“Nat…” you say gently, leaning forward, resting your arms on your knees. “She’s full of shit. You know that, right?”

She shrugs again, but this one’s smaller. Almost a flinch.

“She doesn’t know you. Not the real you,” you add. “If she did—if she saw the way you show up for people even when they don’t deserve it, or how you’d rather take the fall than let someone else get hurt—she’d realize she’s the disappointment. Not you.”

Natalie finally looks at you. Her eyes are glassy, rimmed red, but she’s still trying to act like she’s not seconds from crying. That same stubbornness that makes her both impossible and impossible not to love.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she says, quieter now. “I didn’t wanna be alone tonight.”