nat wakes up before the sun, like always. not because she wants to, but because her body just never learned how to sleep in. even now, with a real bed, with a roof that doesn’t leak, without the whipping wind of the wilderness beating on her shelter, with lottie’s slow, steady breathing beside her.
she lies there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. listening. the apartment is quiet, too quiet. nothing but the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of cars outside. the silence should be comforting, but it never is. it makes her chest feel tight, makes her wonder if she should be doing something. surviving something.
she slips out of bed carefully, peeling lottie’s arm from where it draped over her waist. the hardwood is cold under her feet as she pads into the kitchen. it’s still got that lived-in messiness—mail stacked haphazardly on the counter, a jacket slung over a chair, an old candle burned halfway down next to a pile of books neither of them have finished.
she starts making coffee because it’s something to do, because it keeps her hands busy. lottie likes when the apartment smells like coffee in the morning. nat likes that lottie likes it.
soon enough, soft footsteps sound behind her, then warm arms circle her waist. lottie presses against her back, chin hooking over her shoulder. “you always get up so early,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep.
nat shrugs. “habit.”
lottie hums, squeezing her a little before letting go. nat watches as she moves around the kitchen, grabbing two mugs, swaying a little on her feet like she’s got a song stuck in her head. she’s still in nat’s tattered weezer t-shirt, her hair a mess from sleep. she looks soft like this. untouchable in a way that makes nat ache a little.
they sit at the table, sipping coffee, and lottie starts talking about their plans for the day. normal things. work, groceries, maybe stopping by the bookstore down the street. nat nods along, but she can’t stop the thought creeping in, the one that’s been with her since they left the wilderness.
this isn’t real. it’s borrowed time.
she must tense up, because lottie reaches across the table, brushing her fingers over nat’s knuckles. “love, you’re doing it again,” she says softly.
nat swallows, staring down at the coffee cup in her hands. “doing what?”
“waiting for the bad thing.” lottie’s voice is gentle, like she already knows the answer. like she’s known it for a long time.
nat exhales sharply, shaking her head. “it’s not—” she stops, sighs. “it’s just hard to trust this, y’know? normal life. feels like any second now, it’s all gonna fall apart.”
lottie studies her for a moment, then tilts her head. “what if it doesn’t?”
nat almost laughs. “it will, lottie. it always does.”
lottie watches her carefully. “is this about what your therapist said?”
nat’s jaw tightens. “don’t start with that.”
“nat—”
“i don’t have PTSD,” she snaps, pushing her chair back. “i’m just not some idiot who thinks bad shit won’t happen again.”
lottie doesn’t flinch, doesn’t fight her. just sighs, slow and steady. “that’s not what it means.”
nat scoffs, crossing her arms. “oh, what, you’re a shrink now?”
“i don’t need to be. i know you.” lottie leans forward, elbows on the table. “you barely sleep, you flinch when people touch you the wrong way, you get stuck in your head reliving things you don’t even want to talk about—”
“everyone has nightmares,” nat mutters.
“not like you do.”
the kitchen is quiet except for the rain starting outside. nat hates this conversation. hates that lottie won’t just drop it. hates that she feels seen.
lottie reaches for her hand again, softer this time, like she’s giving her the chance to pull away. nat doesn’t.
“you don’t have to name it if you don’t want to,” lottie says, voice quieter now. “but don’t pretend it’s not there.”
nat looks down at their hands, at the way lottie’s thumb brushes over her skin like it’s instinct. like touching her is second nature.
“okay,” nat says finally, voice quiet. “just for today.”
lottie grins like she’s won something, but it’s not smug—it’s warm, like sunlight breaking through clouds. like she actually believes in this, in them.
“good,” she says, standing up. “then come dance with me.”
nat blinks. “what?”
lottie’s already moving to the old radio on the counter. she twists the knob, and a scratchy, half-static song spills into the room, some old love song that probably came with the apartment. then she turns back, holding out a hand. “c’mon.”
nat hesitates. she should say no. she should roll her eyes and say she’s not in the mood. but lottie’s looking at her with that quiet patience, the same way she did back then, when nat was all jagged edges and rage and too much grief to hold. when lottie was the only one who could ever pull her back.
so she sighs and stands, letting lottie take her hand, letting herself be pulled in close. lottie rests a hand on her waist, swaying them gently, her chin tucked against nat’s shoulder like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“you’re ridiculous,” nat mutters, but she doesn’t pull away.
“you love it,” lottie teases.
and yeah, maybe she does. maybe she loves the way lottie hums against her skin, the way their bodies move together like they were always meant to. maybe she loves the way lottie makes the world feel softer, even when nat’s still bracing for the fall.
the song crackles on, and the apartment feels impossibly still. nat can hear the rain hitting the windows, can feel lottie’s heartbeat slow and steady against her own. can smell coffee and candle wax and lottie’s sweet shampoo.
maybe she doesn’t have to brace so much. maybe she lets herself believe in the good parts. just for today.