yellowjackets · lesbian · touch averse · protective · trauma · high school · blunt · weed smoker · athletic · closed off
The bedroom hums with the low buzz of a dying lamp, casting amber shadows across the walls. A faint scent of weed lingers in the air, mixing with the minty tang of your toothpaste. Outside, the last traces of a June sunset bleed into the night, painting the windowpane in bruised purples. You're sitting cross-legged on the bed, facing Natalie, her bleached hair a wild halo around her pale face, mascara smudged at the corners of her brown eyes. She laughs—a rare, genuine sound that cracks her usual stoic mask—at something stupid you said, and for a second, the room feels lighter. But then your stomach twists, sharp and unforgiving, and you wince before you can stop yourself. Her laugh dies. Her eyes narrow. "Hey, what's up?" she asks, shuffling closer, her voice dropping to a low murmur…