they should make it illegal to end your story with an epilogue where your main female character is suddenly randomly married and has children when she's never once expressed a desire for this previously
YOUR HOUSE IS ALWAYS AS DEAD as a cemetery when midnight approaches, so silent, and it’s definitely not in a peaceful way either.
it’s the kind where you’re left alone with your pacing thoughts, where you don’t even dare to call your girlfriend on the phone because you know just how thin the walls are and exactly how easily your parents could find out and send you to some conversion camp.
your lamp dimly lights up the room, the warm lighting cascading onto your desk, your perfect clothes, the framed certificates you’ve earned from church that your mom insists on displaying onto your walls like proof of how ‘good’ you are.
you’re sitting on your bed, leaning your back against the headboard as a book laid open in your lap, you haven’t bothered turning a page in ten minutes, due to your continuous cautious glancing at the window.
it’s stupid to be checking every thirty seconds, you know that of course, but as you were just about to convince yourself to turn of the lamp and finally go to sleep, you hear a soft thump.
you lift your head immediately, heart thumping in your chest instantly as you see her hand clenching the frame. —READ MORE!
you don’t even catch the fact that you’re smiling so brightly until natalie pulls herself over the window sill, landing inside your room smoothly as if it’s muscle memory at this point.
which, it probably is.
she pauses after climbing in, breath slowing after the intense cardio she had just seemed to finish, eyes landing on you with a glint of relief.
there’s always something about the way natalie looks at you every time she successfully sneaks into your room, as if she just snuck into some highly guarded prison.
“hi,” she whispers.
you shake your head, holding back a smile as you try to look unimpressed with her insane sneaking in skills even though your chest is warming even more in your chest.
“you’re late.”
natalie simply shrugs with an exasperated expression, closing the window quietly behind her.
“your porch light was on for forty minutes while i was parked outside. i thought your mom was still up.”
“god, seems like she always is,” you mutter under your breath. “at this rate we’re gonna get caught one day.”
natalie let’s out a quiet chuckle, inching closer.
“yeah? then i’ll just tell her i came over to study.”
you raise an eyebrow at her words, holding back a scoff yourself.
“you? studying? really?”
“hey,” she says, feigning an offended tone. “i could be studying material, can’t i?.”
“yeah well, you’re wearing a leather jacket, and in my mom’s eyes, that’s like—being sent to hell energy.”
“okay, you have a point.”
you try to keep your serious face, but it slips from your face immediately. a smile reveals itself onto her face now too as she comes even closer, your noses nearly touching now, and then her hand brushes lightly along your arm like she’s memorizing the feel of you.
“you’ve been staring at the window since i told you i was coming on the phone, haven’t you?” she whispers.
your face warms as you quickly scrabble out, “no i have not.”
she lets out a sound, she clearly doesn’t believe you. “don’t lie to me, you have.”
you don’t get the chance to refuse again, because she immediately breaks the gap and kisses you.
your hand comes grips the front natalie’s jacket instinctively as you kiss her back with an equal amount of force, she steps closer without breaking the kiss, one hand sliding to your waist as the other brushes over the thin fabric of your nightgown.
“you talk too much,” she mumbles against your lips.
“you sneak into my house in the middle of the night,” you whisper back with a smile. “i think i’m allowed.”
she grins, and kisses you again, this time with a softness, and you fall back onto your bed as you tug natalie down with you.
she goes with no fight, bracing the impact with a hand beside your head as she climbs over you, her knees pressing into the mattress between yours, the fabric of your gown riding up under her touch.
the book you were previously ‘reading’ slides off your bed and hits the floor with a thud, neither of you care enough to break the kiss.
“missed you so much,” natalie whines under her breath, talking absentminded as she brushes her fingers along the side of your body, now slipping just beneath the your nightgown to rest against your bare skin.
“you saw me a few hours ago,” you say, wanting to tease her, but it comes out more tenderly than you intended it to.
“yeah,” she agrees, leaning down to kiss you again, “still fucking missed you.”
she kisses you slower now, with affection and care dripping into the action.
your fingers make their way into her hair, tugging on the strands gently, and she exhales a breath against your mouth in a way that makes butterflies release in your stomach.
this moment is so fragile and warm and special the way all of your memories with natalie are, and you just wish it wasn’t limited to your room.
and as you two are getting more and more lost in each other, suddenly there’s a knock.
you and natalie natalie freeze instantly, her hand tightening at your waist.
“sweetheart?” your mom’s voice comes from the opposite side of the door with a sleepy rasp. “your light’s still on.”
at this point your heart is pounding so hard in your chest that you feel like you’re about to throw up.
natalie hides her face in the softness of your neck, as if that will somehow hide her. you swallow the lump in your throat.
“uh…yeah!” you answer quickly, trying to sound as calm as possible although you sound more breathless if anything. you clear your throat. “i’m just uh—reading.”
“reading what?” your mom asks in a suspicious tone.
you glance frantically at your desk, your nightstand, anything—until your eyes land on the book on the floor.
“the bible!” you blurt out.
natalie presses her face harder into your warmth, attempting to stay silent but laughing still.
“okay,” your mom says after a moment of silence that feels like minutes. “don’t stay up too late.”
“i won’t!”
and with that, her footsteps fade down the hallway, until she finally reaches her room, and the door closes.
you don’t move. natalie doesn’t either.
you both wait until the house is dead again—until the quiet swallows the home like it did before. that was way too close.
after a few minutes, natalie lifts her head.
her face is inches away from yours, her cheeks red and her expression giving away the suppressed laughter.
“the bible?” she whispers with a cackle.
you shove her lightly with a frown, worry still wretched onto your face.
“shut up.”
“you don’t even read your bible.”
“i panicked, okay?”
she bites her lip, still smiling widely as her forehead rests against yours.
“you’re stupid.”
“you’re the one who spontaneously planned this visit tonight!”
“yeah,” she says, softer. “because i wanted to see you.” the teasing fades as the two of you gaze into each others eyes. the reality your situation lingers, and you glance at the door.
“if she knew,” you start, then stop yourself at the vulnerability and fear in your tone.
natalie’s expression dims.
“i know,” she says with a sadness in her tone.
but before the night could be absolutely ruined, natalie presses a soft kiss to your cheek, and then another one to your jaw, and a chaste one to your lips.
“i’m still here, aren’t i?” she whispers.
your hand intertwines with hers, squeezing onto each other tightly.
“yeah.”
she smiles softly, brushing her thumb over your knuckles as she brings it to her lips.
“then stop thinking about it so much.”
you force out a sad laugh.
“easy for you to say.”
“not really,” she admits, and with your questioning gaze, she continues, “i would do anything to go out on a normal date with you, to kiss you in public, to marry—“ she cuts herself off, and you finally look at her.
but she just shakes her head and leans in again, kissing you even softer, slower, and with purpose, a purpose to make all the things she said come true one day.
your hand slides back into her hair, and you two get lost in each other once again, the worries fading into the background.
you’re still isolated in the four walls of your bedroom, and it’s still a fragile secret you two will need to hide for now, but you know that someday, it will all be worth it.
✧ 𝑓. me when i unintentionally trauma dump… for all the lesbian baddies who have homophobic moms I FEEL U 😢💗 anyways i’m starting to get writers block PLEASE send in some requests bc i deadahh don’t know what to write anymore!!! ALSO THANK U SO MUCH FOR 500 FOLLOWERS. it means the world 🫶🏼🫶🏼
𓂃ㅤ 𝓉𝖺𝗀𝗅𝗂𝗌𝗍 ୨୧ @lcvealwayss @viennasolace @love4madii @keilahhhsstuff ♡ thank you so much for joining !
hi angel! 🪽i love the way you write nat, she’s perfect. i’d love to request a fic for nat where she and reader were childhood best friends and her house was nat’s refuge from home, but then reader ended up moving away and they lost contact with each other. but then you meet again— this time as equally competitive soccer players on rival teams. i guess like a friends to enemies to lovers situation?? tysm!! 🦢🫧
⠀ ࣪ ִ⠀⠀⠀⠀i’m a highschool lover⠀⠀╱⠀⠀ natalie scatorccio⠀ ⠀🪽 ㅤ ꫂ
⠀⠀⠀𖩩᩠⠀⠀ 𝔱alk : omg thanks for telling me that!! i’m really scared about mischaracterization so that means a lot<3 hope you enjoy it. also, this got too long so i might make a series about it!
No, you never wanted this. You are just a seven year old girl who wants to be left alone at her grandma’s house but no — your mother tells you you’re moving to Wiskayok.
She says it’s temporary. Like you’re just passing through. Like the boxes stacked in the living room won’t stay stacked for long. You sit on one of them while she talks, your legs swinging, your shoes knocking lightly against the cardboard. You don’t ask questions. You’ve learned not to. When things change, they change all at once.
The trailer park is smaller than you expected. Not in size, exactly, but in feeling. Everything is close together — thin walls, narrow paths, gravel that crunches under every step. The air smells faintly like metal and something burnt, like someone left a pan on too long somewhere and never quite aired it out.
Your new home has a door that sticks when you try to open it. You have to lean your weight into it, shoulder first, and even then it groans like it doesn’t want to let you in. Inside, your mother starts unpacking immediately. She moves quickly, like if she stops for too long, she might have to think about it.
You stand in the doorway for a while, watching her. Then you step back outside.
There are other kids here. You can hear them before you see them — shouting, something hitting metal, the sharp scrape of wheels against pavement. You follow the noise, careful with your steps; Mom says the ground might give way if you’re too loud.
The sound gets louder. There’s a group of kids, boys and girls, all about your age. But one single girl stands out, for you.
She is standing on top of a broken picnic table, arms out like she’s balancing on something much higher. Her hair is uneven, like someone cut it without a mirror. There’s a scab on her knee, still a little red around the edges. She doesn’t look careful at all.
She jumps.
It’s not a big jump, but she lands like it is — knees bending, hands catching herself for a second before she straightens up again. One of the boys nearby laughs. Someone else tells her to do it again.
She doesn’t. Instead, she looks at you.
It happens quickly, that moment where she notices you don’t belong. Your clothes are too clean. Your shoes don’t have dirt pressed into the seams yet. You’re standing just a little too still.
The girl steps towards you, her expression neutral. She cocks her head to the side like she’s inspecting you. It kind of feels like you’re being put to the test.
“You new?” she asks. You nod. She studies you for a second, not unkindly, just… directly. Like she’s trying to figure out what kind of person you are without asking. “I’m Nat,” she says.
You tell her your name, quieter than you meant to. Your voice feels small out here, it doesn’t carry the same way it does inside. It never does. “That’s cool.” She smiles. Two front incisors are missing — you think her smile is cute.
There’s a pause. You think maybe that’s it. Maybe she’ll go back to the others and you’ll go back to standing near your trailer, and that will be the end of it.
Instead, she jerks her head toward the picnic table.
“Wanna try?”
You look at it. It doesn’t seem very high when you’re looking straight at it, but you can already imagine how it will feel once you’re up there. The way your stomach might drop. The way your feet might not land the way you want them to. You shake your head.
“Okay,” Nat nods, like that’s a perfectly reasonable answer. She doesn’t tease you for it. Doesn’t push. “Then you can watch.”
So you do.
You sit on the edge of the curb while she climbs back up, while she jumps again, and again, each time a little messier than the last. She laughs when she stumbles. She doesn’t seem embarrassed by anything, not even when she almost falls.
The other kids are shouting, but they’re shouting in excitement, not at her. They watch her closely, too, like a routine they know well. Maybe they’ve seen this before. They cheer when she lands on her feet. The girl smiles big each time.
After a while, she comes back over and drops down beside you. Close, but not too close. Close enough that your shoulders almost touch if you lean the wrong way. “My ma says I’m gonna break something one day,” she tells you, picking at the scab on her knee. “Like an arm or whatever.”
You glance at it. The skin is already healing underneath. “Does it hurt?” you ask.
She shrugs. “Not really.” You believe her.
The sun is starting to set. From your spot on the grass, you can see the sky starting to turn orange around the edges, and the streetlights coming on. They flicker like fireflies as they wake up for the night. Someone calls for dinner from across the park. A screen door slams.
Suddenly, Nat stands up, brushing her hands on her jeans. “You live there?” she asks, pointing toward your trailer. Your mother is still standing by the window, watching everything. She looks so tired, all the time. You wonder if other Moms look like that, too, like they’re losing energy with every minute.
When you look up again, Nat is watching you. Your eyes meet for a second, then she looks away.
“Yeah,” you say. She follows your gaze. There’s a curtain hung in the window. Probably your mother peering through the thin cloth. You don’t know what she can see from there. “Where you live?”
“In that one.” She points to the house directly across from yours. It’s a little bigger, but the paint on the outside is chipping, and there’s a rusted-out car in the yard. As you watch, the front door swings open and an older man steps out onto the porch. He doesn’t seem like he likes what he sees.
For a split second, her bravado falters, something like fear passing through her eyes, but it’s gone just as quickly as it arrived. You open your mouth to say something — you’re not sure what, maybe goodbye, or ‘I’ll see you tomorrow’, or just nothing at all — when the man on the porch calls out to Nat.
“Natalie.” His voice is sharp. It echoes a little, but not enough to sound friendly. “Get your ass over here, now.”
She hesitates, shifting her weight back and forth on the toes of her shoes. For a minute, you think she might just ignore him — she looks like she wants to — but then she mutters, “I gotta go.”
“Bye,” you smile.
“Bye.” And with that, she goes. You watch her walk all the way up to the house, her steps getting slower and slower the closer she gets to her dad. He says something you can’t make out, but it doesn’t sound like anything nice. Nat keeps her eyes on the ground the whole time.
Nirvana is playing louder than it should be. Mom’s out, probably at work — Nat’s here, painting your nails because she’s better at it than you are. It’s summer, the last summer before high school; you are excited — a fresh start — but Nat doesn’t really care. Says it’s probably like middle school.
She dips the brush back into the bottle of nail polish, the dark shade staining the tips of her fingers for a moment before she starts to paint your pinky. Her expression is focused, like she’s concentrating hard on getting each line right even though she’s done this same thing dozens of times on herself. Every now and then, her eyes flick up to meet yours, then back to your fingertips again.
“My birthday’s coming up.”
“Yeah, you already told me fifteenth times,” smiles Nat, not looking away from her work. “Stop acting like I don’t know.”
You laugh, shifting to get more comfortable. The old couch in the living room is lumpy in places, and there’s something digging into your back, but you don’t really care. Nat is warm on your side, pressed up against you under one of the blankets that your mom bought at a thrift store a few months ago and that smells a little like mothballs. You rest your head on her shoulder.
Nat tries to reach up and readjust your head. “Stop moving. It’s fucking up my focus.”
“But you’re really comfortable,” you whine.
Nat sighs. She’s pretending to be exasperated, but she doesn’t push away when you put more of your weight against her. After a second, she softens a little. She even tips her head, just a fraction, so that it’s resting on top of yours.
You watch her work for a few minutes in silence. It’s strangely soothing — the way she moves, the sound of the brush against the nail, the warmth. You start to relax into it. “What you’re thinking about? You’re chewing your lip.” You point out.
For a moment, Nat pauses before resuming her painting. Her eyes are fixed carefully on your fingernails. The nail polish looks black in this light, shiny and dark like ink. She shakes her head. “Nothing. Just… some stuff at home.”
You know she’s avoiding the subject. Whenever Nat gets like this there’s no point in pushing it. The most you’ll get from her is vague, half-true answers and long, stilted silences. Better not to push at all. “Your dad?”
The brush jerks a little, leaving a trail of black paint on the side of your thumb. For a second, it almost looks deliberate.
Then Nat swears under her breath — shit — the soft, muttered curse word almost lost under the sound of the music. She reaches across to grab a tissue from the side table, starting to dab at the polish that she spilled. She doesn’t look up at you when she answers. You can feel her tensing up beside you. “Yeah. My dad.”
Your shoulders hunch without even meaning to. You feel the sudden urge to change the subject to something lighter. Anything to smooth over the silence before it turns awkward. You look around for something to say.
The window is open, letting a cool breeze in from outside. The sounds of cars in the distance and lawnmowers from somewhere nearby drift in with it. You can see the sky turning dark blue as the sun starts to set. A small, silver bracelet around Nat’s wrist catches your attention — one you gave her. You gesture to it. “You still keep it?”
“‘Course.” Nat glances down at the bracelet and nods. “Why wouldn’t I?”
Something softens in her face, a little of the tension leaving her shoulders. She picks up your hand again, careful not to smudge the wet nails. Her fingers are callused and a little rough, from years of playing soccer with Vanessa Palmer and climbing trees and jumping from higher heights than she should. The contrast next to your own skin makes you think of the first time you saw her, and how small you felt, back then.
From outside, you can hear someone yelling. Then the sound of a door slamming. A second later, there’s the faint rumble of someone’s car driving away. You try not to think about the implications of that while Nat puts the brush back in the bottle and caps it, wiping her fingers on a tissue. You examine the nails — you can see a few places where the polish has gone over the edges, but it looks better than anything you could manage. Nat glances at them with a self-satisfied expression.
Then she hesitates, taking your hand again and turning it over gently. For a moment, she examines your palm thoughtfully.
In silence, you watch her run a fingertip over the lines that criss-cross your palm, the way she traces them like they mean something. At first, you think she’s just being absent-minded, but then she starts to make deliberate shapes with her nail, drawing invisible lines on your skin. After a second, you realize she’s tracing the pattern of the hearts.
“Thought you hated hearts.” You tease, softly.
“Shut up,” Nat murmurs, without looking up. But she’s smiling a little now. She continues to trace the hearts on your palm, a quiet, thoughtful frown on her face, like she’s trying to memorize them. The feeling of her nail against your skin is almost ticklish. “Did you know girls can like other girls?”
Not really — at least not before. Your mom never mentioned that to you; she said your aunt often brought that other blonde woman to family gatherings because they were such good friends — even though you saw them kissing gently outside in the yard. You thought they were just playing around.
Then, one day, you found out about him. About RuPaul. You watched him on the TV in your living room, dressed in sequined dresses and feather boas — glittery makeup. Your mother looked at the screen, shaking her head; at the time you were only 8.
That same day you had asked her about him. Why he’d dress like a girl if he was a boy.
Mom had been quiet for a long second before she answered. She said some boys liked dressing up, but that was all. That it only meant they were different, and it didn’t make them weird or bad, or wrong, it just meant they were different.
“Does that mean he kisses boys, too?” You’d asked.
At that, your mother had laughed slightly — it had sounded sharp in the open air. She patted your shoulder, like she was trying to be reassuring, and said that it was possible.
“Yes. Sometimes men like that will kiss other men, honey.”
So you figured girls kissed other girls. When you played — forced — Nat to play with dolls, you’d told her they could kiss; that grown people liked doing that.
Of course, Nat had laughed, calling you an idiot and saying, “Girls aren’t supposed to like that. Girls are supposed to like boys. It’s not right.”
The memory stings even now. You were young when it happened — only eight or nine. Nat had a tendency to repeat things she heard a lot without thinking too much about what they meant. She wasn’t homophobic. Just ignorant, and naïve. But that didn’t make it hurt any less when she repeated whatever her dad had told her.
But when you started insisting, pretending they were real people — because it was just a game, and the kissing looked like the grown people’s did in movies — she eventually played along. Not a long kiss, only a second or two, on the cheek or the lips, then back to playing. And she never asked why girls kissed girls when you were playing, she just pretended to be a grown person too, like you both weren’t still in elementary school. But Nat never liked playing with dolls, so it never lasted long.
“Yeah, ‘course. I know that.”
Softly, Nat laughs. Her nail brushes across the center of your palm, right in between two of the hearts. She pushes down, just a little. Her face is still turned down toward your palm. “And you’d do it?” She asks. She sounds like this conversation is casual, even though the question feels like it carries a thousand other questions with it.
“Maybe.”
For a few seconds, Nat goes quiet. You can feel the tension start to come back, as suddenly as if someone dropped an invisible weight between you. Her hand tightens on yours a little, but not enough to hurt. Her gaze flicks up to meet yours, searching for something in your expression. Then she asks: “With me?”
There’s a second where you think she might be joking. Then you realize the question is sincere. You can see the seriousness in her face, the slight tension in the way she’s holding your hand.
“As practice?”
Nat doesn’t smile this time. She just stares at you, her thumb continuing to rub circles on your palm. Her lips part like she’s going to say something, but she hesitates. The look in her eyes is almost vulnerable, open and more emotional than you’ve seen from her in a long time. It looks fragile. Soft.
Finally, she nods. Slowly. “Just practice.”
There’s no reason for the sudden spike of nerves in your stomach, or the way your heart rate spikes — but you can feel adrenaline starting to flood your system. It makes your palms feel clammy, and you try not to focus on the feeling.
“Yeah. Okay.”
At first, Nat moves forward, leaning closer. She seems hesitant, not sure exactly what to do. Her breath is warm on your face, and her eyes flick down to your mouth. She still looks uncertain. Vulnerable.
Then, suddenly, she cups the side of your face with one hand. Just like you’ve seen guys do before kissing the girl.
The touch is unexpected, and it feels oddly intimate. Her fingers curve gently around your jaw and slide onto the back of your neck. They’re calloused, rough, but they hold you like you’re something fragile and precious, like you need to be treated carefully.
You kiss a girl for the first time in your life.
Nat kisses differently than the people in movies. It isn’t the dramatic, passionate clash that you’ve seen so many times before. She is tentative and gentle, like she’s testing the waters. Her lips are softer than you expected. They slide against yours like a whisper, barely a brush of skin on skin. You can feel her breath against your face, and that same faint, almost unnoticeable scent of mint.
Your eyes have fallen shut. Nat pulls you closer slowly, gently. There’s a moment where she stops moving, her mouth pausing, still pressed against yours. You feel her start to pull away again, and on pure instinct, you reach up and curl your fingers around her wrist.
She pauses, just for a second. Then she kisses you again. Your noses brush. Your tooth knock.
“Ow.” You pull away.
“Forgot you have braces,” laughs Nat. It breaks the tension between you like pulling on a thread. She presses a hand to her mouth, still laughing. Her eyes are crinkling up in that cute little way they do when the corners of her mouth turn up. “That was so stupid.”
You reach up and rub your lip, where you knocked your teeth together. “Yeah, it was.”
After a second, you can’t help but start to laugh, too. It feels like a bubble’s popped, and suddenly everything lightens, like you can both breathe again.
Nat laughs as well, leaning forward to rest her forehead against yours. Your noses are still almost touching, and you can feel her breath against your skin. She’s so close that you can see every fleck of brown in her eyes. When she speaks again, her voice is soft, like she’s afraid of ruining the moment. “I think I need more practice.”
“Yeah?” For a second, the smile that spreads across your face starts to make your cheeks ache, and your head seems a little fuzzy. It’s like you just ran a mile without stopping. Your heart rate is still fast, but in a different way now — like an odd mix of adrenaline and happiness. “Wanna practice again?”
Something warm and shy flickers in Nat’s eyes as hers flicks down to your mouth. Her throat bobs in a nervous swallow, and for a split second, she looks so much younger than the tough-as-nails girl you know that it makes your heart ache a little.
Then, she leans forward again.
This time, there’s more purpose to the way her hand cups the side of your face, the way her thumb brushes gently along your jawline. You can feel her exhale against your mouth.
The second kiss is less hesitant. She presses forward gently, her lips moving to fit better against yours. For a second, you both fumble, then you tilt your head just slightly, like you’ve been watching the love interests do in the movies, and the position becomes a little more comfortable. That warm, soft feeling flares through your gut again when she hums softly against your mouth, like that’s the right way to do it.
Nat pulls back again after a second, her eyes still focused on your face.
She looks… different. Happier, maybe. Her lips look a little more red, and there’s a slight flush of color on her cheeks. Her breathing is still a little fast. Her eyes are soft, searching your expression like she’s looking for something. You wonder what yours looks like. If she can tell that you’re feeling suddenly flushed and lightheaded.
She looks like she’s about to say something — or like she wants to — but then the sound of a guy screaming outside distracts both of you.
It isn’t one of the other kids from the trailer park. The voice is too deep, and the words are too clear. It takes you a second to pick them out, but they’re not words you ever want to hear.
“I’m fucking tired of you, Vera!”
That’s Nat’s dad.
For a second, Nat hesitates, her eyes going suddenly blank. All the emotion that was in her face a moment ago fades out, like someone pulled a plug, and a cold look of resignation falls across her features. She stands carefully, letting go of your hand. The place where her thumb was touching your jaw feels cold where her touch was just seconds ago.
You reach for her. “Nat—”
She shakes her head. The blank look in her expression is almost scary. There’s no warmth there at all, and no trace of the hesitant, uncertain girl you were kissing a minute ago. When she speaks, her voice is flat and emotionless. “It’s okay. I should probably go check to make sure he didn’t break anything.”
Her expression doesn’t change, but her eyes flicker over your face. For a heartbeat, you wonder if she can hear the anxiety and fear in your heartbeat. Her fingers brush your arm gently. “I’ll call you later,” she says, so quietly you can barely hear her. But the words have a finality to them. They sound more like goodbye, and you try not to let that show on your face.
You nod. Nat takes one more look at you — her eyes searching your face again like she wants to say something, but the sound of her dad yelling from outside stops her. She swallows again, then her expression closes off, and she turns to go.
stormborns
baratheonpilled
titsay
vaporwave
tangentwithtanner
