"I'm not stopping you."
Natalie's voice was soft, almost breathless. It wasn't until Sabrina spoke that she realized she had been standing squarely in the doorway, blocking the path like a sentinel. She shifted aside quickly, her movements stiff with self-consciousness, and gestured for Sabrina to enter.
The door closed with a muted click. Natalie bent to the shoe cabinet, retrieving a pair of pale gray slippers and setting them before Sabrina.
"Here… wear these. Bought them too big by mistake. Never got around to returning them."
Sabrina's gaze flicked down. The slippers were simple, clean-lined, their texture soft and inviting—no frills, no fuss.
"Perfect," she said, her tone easy as she slipped off her black boots and slid into the gray pair.
Natalie moved toward the coffee table, fingers curling around an upturned glass. She hesitated, then turned back.
"Tea or water?"
It was late—too late for caffeine, perhaps. She didn't want to impose a sleepless night on someone who had come this far.
"Water," Sabrina replied. She loved tea, but tonight her body craved rest more than ritual.
Natalie nodded, carried the glass to the dispenser, and pressed the button. A stream of clear water spiraled into the cup, catching the light in a whirl of silver.
Behind her, Sabrina stood silent, arms folded loosely as her eyes traced the quiet geometry of Natalie's movements.
She wore a soft beige loungewear set, fabric draping gently over her frame. Her hair was gathered in a loose knot at the nape, a few strands tumbling free to brush her shoulders. The curve of her neck gleamed pale against the muted tones, delicate as porcelain.
Sabrina's gaze lingered—then drifted outward, sweeping the room.
It was a modest two-bedroom flat, compact yet meticulously arranged. Ivory walls glowed faintly under warm lamplight, adorned with small, tasteful prints. The furniture was simple, but chosen with care—each piece whispering of someone who, despite everything, still tried to love life.
When Natalie returned, she held out the glass with a quiet "Here."
"Thanks." Sabrina took it, her fingers brushing Natalie's for the briefest moment before lifting the cup to her lips. The warmth seeped through her, chasing away the chill that clung to her skin.
Natalie hesitated, then spoke.
"I didn't expect you to be in Skylark this year."
"My parents had their plans," Sabrina said lightly. "I didn't want to be part of them. So I stayed."
Natalie nodded slowly. "I see… Should I start the noodles now?"
"Please."
She turned toward the kitchen, the soft pad of her slippers fading into the hum of distant fireworks. Outside, the night was alive—bursts of color clawing at the sky, laughter spilling from balconies, voices threading through the cold air.
Natalie filled a pot, the water glinting under the harsh kitchen light. As it began to heat, she peeled garlic with deft fingers, the papery skins whispering against her nails.
Behind her, Sabrina leaned against the doorway, watching.
"You've probably never stayed in a place like this," Natalie said suddenly, glancing over her shoulder. "Old buildings like these… walls are thin. Every sound leaks through. Must feel strange."
Sabrina's brows lifted slightly. "It's my first time, yes. But…" She shrugged. "Doesn't bother me."
Noise had never rattled her. She had grown up in chaos—parents shouting, doors slamming, plates shattering like brittle promises. She had learned early how to carve silence inside herself, how to write through storms.
Natalie smiled faintly. "That's good. I just worried someone like you—used to comfort—might find this… too bare."
Her tone was light, but the words carried a shadow of something deeper.
Sabrina's laugh was soft, edged with irony. "Television really has done a number on people. Not every rich kid is a caricature."
Natalie shook her head, lips curving wryly. "Not a caricature. Just… most of them are."
Her voice thinned, trailing into silence. And then—without warning—the silence cracked open.
Words spilled like water from a fractured glass.
She spoke of difference—of worlds divided by invisible lines. Of how love had once felt possible, only to splinter under the weight of mismatched dreams.
Her voice was calm, almost detached, but Sabrina heard the tremor beneath. She heard the ghost of a wound that had never quite closed.
Natalie's hands moved mechanically—washing greens, slicing ginger—as memories unfurled like smoke.
She spoke of a woman who had called her "stingy," who had laughed in the leathered hush of a luxury car while Natalie stood on the curb, small and breakable.
She spoke of promises that dissolved like sugar in rain. Of a phone call made in desperation, met with a voice colder than steel: "And what does that have to do with me?"
Her words were quiet, but they cut. Each syllable a shard of something once tender, now brittle with time.
Sabrina listened, her face unreadable, though her fingers curled tighter around the glass.
When Natalie fell silent, the kitchen seemed to exhale. Steam rose from the pot, curling like ghosts toward the ceiling.
Sabrina spoke at last, her tone low, deliberate.
"You say people can't understand each other. But you understand perfectly."
Natalie turned, startled.
"You see the gap," Sabrina continued. "You name it. That's not failure. That's clarity."
Natalie's lips parted, then curved in a faint, rueful smile. "Clarity doesn't bridge distance."
Her voice was soft, but firm. "That's why I'm done. Love… isn't worth the ruin."
The water boiled, a furious froth. She dropped the noodles in, watching them writhe and soften.
Behind her, Sabrina's voice slid through the steam like silk.
"Maybe not with her. Maybe not with most. But not all of us are the same."
Natalie stilled.
Sabrina's gaze held hers, steady as a blade.
"I'm not her."
The words landed like a stone in still water, sending ripples through Natalie's chest.
She turned away too quickly, fumbling for eggs, her pulse a wild, traitorous drum.
"Do you want one?" Her voice was thin, brittle.
"Two," Sabrina said simply.
Minutes later, they sat across from each other at the small dining table, steam rising between them like a veil. The noodles gleamed under a scatter of scallions, each bowl crowned with a golden egg.
Sabrina tasted the first bite—and paused.
"This is… incredible."
Natalie's laugh was soft, almost shy. "Glad you like it. I worried it might be too plain."
"Perfect," Sabrina murmured, and bent her head again.
They ate in silence, broken only by the distant crackle of fireworks. Outside, the city burned bright against the dark, but here—here was a pocket of warmth, fragile and fleeting.
When the bowls lay empty, the clock had slipped past one.
Natalie glanced at the time, then at Sabrina. "It's late."
Sabrina leaned back, her smile slow, deliberate.
"So… do you have a bed for me?"
Natalie froze.
The question was simple. The meaning was not.
Her throat tightened. "There's a guest room. Sheets aren't on yet."
"I'll manage." Sabrina rose, fluid as shadow. "Where's the linen?"
"In the closet," Natalie murmured.
Sabrina nodded, already moving. Then paused at the doorway, her voice curling back like smoke.
"And if I want a shower?"
"There's a robe. And a spare nightdress," Natalie said quickly. "They're loose—you'll fit."
"Good." Sabrina's smile flickered—a blade glinting in moonlight.
Natalie watched her disappear down the hall, her own breath snagging in her chest.
She cleaned the dishes in silence, the sound of water masking the chaos in her head. When she finally slipped into her room, the hush was heavy, broken only by the distant hiss of the shower.
She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers twisting the hem of her sleeve, her mind a tangle of nerves and something darker—something she didn't dare name.
When the water stopped, her pulse leapt.
She told herself to breathe. Told herself this was nothing.
But when she walked toward the guest room—wanting to check the blankets, wanting to make sure Sabrina was comfortable—she found the door ajar.
She knocked twice, lightly. No answer.
"I'm coming in," she called, and pushed.
The door swung wide—just as Sabrina pulled it open from the inside.
Natalie stumbled forward, her hand catching air, her body pitching—straight into Sabrina's arms.
The impact stole her breath. Her fingers clutched instinctively at the curve of Sabrina's waist, seeking balance, seeking something she couldn't name.
Warmth enveloped her. Clean, soft, edged with the faint scent of soap.
Her heart slammed against her ribs, wild and ungoverned. She lifted her gaze—and froze.
Sabrina's hair clung in damp strands to her temples, framing a face too sharp, too beautiful. Her robe was white, cinched loosely at the waist, revealing glimpses of skin that gleamed like ivory under the muted light.
Their eyes locked.
Natalie felt every nerve tighten, every breath falter.
And then—Sabrina's mouth curved, slow and wicked.
"So eager to hold me?" Her voice was velvet, threaded with heat. "Hmm?"
The question slid through Natalie like fire, leaving her bones molten, her thoughts undone.