17. Stay
Stay
Kiri
Natalia is carry-me levels of drunk by the time we're ready to leave. She's bypassed the sloppy or obnoxious options and gone straight to that dangerous, gravity-is-optional kind of wasted where she thinks she’s floating until her feet betray her. She pushes off the table and immediately wobbles. Rafe jumps in like he’s trying to catch a priceless vase mid-fall.
“Whoa—easy,” he says, as he puts both arms out, palms open, like he’s defusing a bomb.
Which, to be fair, he kind of is. A drunk, emotional Nat is basically a grenade in a dress.
She leans into him, and Rafe goes rigid.
Completely fucking panicked. His eyes dart toward Kasia like Natalia might explode and somehow make this his fault. Ronan steps in from the other side.
“I've got ya.” Natalia swings an arm around his shoulder with far more enthusiasm than coordination and catches him with her elbow hard enough to make him grunt.
“All right,” I sigh. “Both of you, move.”
Rafe shoots me a look sharp enough to slice bone. I lift my hands in a helpless shrug.
“What? Want her to faceplant or break something? If Ro loses an arm it'll be hard to play the next show.”
Ronan rubs his shoulder. “Please take her. I like having functional limbs.”
Rafe’s jaw clenches. At first, I think he’s going to argue anyway. Then Natalia’s knees buckle again, and whatever speech he was preparing dies on impact. He gives one quick nod.
I slip an arm around her waist and she leans into me instantly.
All her weight settling against my side like her body has already decided I’m safe.
She tips her face up to mine, eyes glassy and bright, and smiles like I’ve just done something extraordinary instead of preventing her from meeting the floor.
If her face is anything to go by, I just dragged the sun down and handed it to her. Shit.
“Hiiii,” she slurs.
“We’ve met before,” I say, deadpan.
She grins. “Ohhh, yeah, we have.” Her devious smile stretches wider before she drops her voice an octave and puffs out her chest as we walk. “Is that what you were thinking about—”
It takes me a second to realize she’s trying to impersonate me. Badly. The alcohol is definitely loosening her tongue. I huff out a laugh and shake my head, cutting her off before she can finish the sentence. Self-preservation finally kicks in through the sheer ridiculousness of it.
"Okay, okay. That's enough of that. More walky, less talky." She bursts out laughing, distracted long enough for me to steer her up the steps and onto the tour bus before her legs, or her mouth, can ruin my life any more than they already have.
Inside, the bus is as extravagant as it always is in Japan. Plush leather, polished wood, ambient lighting. More screens and controls than most recording studios. Natalia reaches out to touch everything we pass like she’s in a museum of luxury.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Am I drunk, or is this thing stupidly fancy?”
“Both.”
She pats a glossy panel along the wall. “It’s so smooth.”
“It’s a wall, Nat.”
“A fancy wall.”
Her fingers tighten in my shirt as the bus shifts beneath us. Her knuckles go pale and I hold her tighter. To stop her from falling.
That’s all.
We reach the back lounge and she catches her shoe on the small step, dragging me down with her. We nearly crash into the couch together but I manage to brace one knee against the edge and keep her upright, both hands landing on her waist.
She looks at me. The hallway comes back all at once. I straighten her quickly and step back as far as her grip will allow.
“Okay,” I murmur. “You stay here. I’m going to—” Her fingers lock around my wrist.
“Stay.”
Just that. Just one word and something reckless explodes in my chest. I clear my throat. “I’m just grabbing a blanket. I'll be ten seconds.”
She pouts before she flops onto the sofa, and that's when I notice her dress has ridden up her thighs, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. My brain immediately produces several extremely unhelpful images. I turn around so fast I nearly walk into the door.
Blanket.
Get the fucking blanket.
I step into the main cabin and tap Rafe on the shoulder.
“I’m staying back there with her,” I say quietly. “If she tries to stand up on her own, she could get hurt.”
His eyes narrow, then flick toward the cracked lounge door behind me. I know exactly what he’s thinking, which is irritating because I've also thought several versions of it. Before he can say anything, Kasia touches his arm, relief softening everything in her face.
“Thank you,” she whispers. “We'd appreciate that.” That settles it.
I grab a blanket and head back, leaving the sliding door cracked, nothing hidden or shady, nothing for Rafe to panic about. No trace of something he can interpret as me taking advantage of a drunk woman after kissing her against a wall like it was my dying wish just a few hours ago.
She’s sprawled sideways on the couch when I return, one shoe dangling from her toes.
She doesn’t stir when I take off her heels or when I set them neatly beneath the table, but when I pull the blanket over her legs her eyes flutter open and she reaches blindly in my direction.
I hesitate, then move to the far end of the couch.
But Natalia is on a mission. She scoots toward me, finally claiming my legs with her head as it lands heavily against my thigh. I go completely still. Her cheek presses into my leg, warm even through my pants.
This is fine. Practical.
She needs to lie on her side anyway in case she gets sick, perfectly reasonable positioning.
I gently adjust her head so her neck isn’t bent at an uncomfortable angle.
Her eyes open halfway and she smiles up at me, sleepy and gentle.
Something in my chest rattles around at the look in her eyes. I can’t help the smile that tugs back.
“You were snoring,” I whisper. “Whole bus was shaking.”
The joke barely lands, but it gets a tiny curl from the corner of her mouth before she responds with a groan.
“Kurwa. All men do is lie.”
Her hair is everywhere. I brush one strand away from her face before it gets caught against her lips. She makes a soft sound, almost a purr. My hand stops. I should pull it back.
I do.
Eventually.
My mind still can't quite believe the voice I talked to over messages, is right here, in my lap. Like this, she looks so vulnerable and a little broken, no armor left. None of that usual Natalia fire, like she could take on the world for fun. I let myself have this moment. A second where I can pretend that none of the consequences exist. That I’m allowed to want her, to keep her safe. To feel any of this.
I'll let it out, just for today. For her.
Nat grapples for the purse she dumped on the coffee table with the clumsy precision of the painfully inebriated before finally giving up and collapsing back against me. Her brows pull together, and she exhales so loudly I’m sure the whole bus hears. Then she looks at me.
"What time is it?"
I check my watch. "11:45."
“11:45, hah,” she mutters. “This day will never fucking end.”
She’s rolls onto her side now, away from me, eyes on the floor, body curled inward. I adjust slightly, putting both my hands on the back of the couch, far enough away that if Rafe walks in, I can claim this whole setup is just innocent. A simple, sensible lie wrapped around the truth.
My hands flex as I breathe out. The tattoo on my right hand catches my eye, the ink curling over the ridge of a scar I earned the first time I fought back.
I remember the wild swing, the way it connected, the shock on my dad’s face before he finally understood I wasn’t his goddamn punching bag anymore.
The last time he ever put his hands on me, my mother, or Rithy.
At least, when I was around. It’s strange how certain memories echo in moments like this.
I look back at her just as the first tears hit my knee, then another.
At first, I don’t know what to do. Natalia's not exactly someone who invites comforting. Half the time, reaching toward her feels like approaching an animal with its foot caught in a trap. Maybe she’ll understand you’re trying to help or maybe she’ll bite through your hand.
I place my palm carefully against her shoulder. She sighs, wipes her face, then rolls onto her back and drags both hands over her eyes. Then she starts talking, no warning or buildup, just the raw honesty that only comes when someone is drunk enough to finally stop holding everything in.
“He was so damn stubborn,” she says, voice thick. “Wouldn’t just take a day off from his shop. Always fixing a fucking car. He got so wasted at Amelka’s party… he was probably still drunk the next morning.” She gives a humorless laugh. “Polish vodka ran in his veins, not blood.”
I huff a breath at that.
“He’d be pissed at me,” she continues. “For blaming the vodka and not him for not double-checking the jack. He always took responsibility. For everything.”
She sighs again, deeper this time, and lets her arm hang limply off the couch. The other rests on her forehead before she turns her head toward me, eyes glittering under the dim lights.
“I’m jealous of her, you know?”
I frown. “Who?”
“Kasia.” She swallows. “They were close, grew up together. They were friends. I was waiting for the—” Her words slur a little, but her meaning is loud.
Drunk hearts don’t hide their wounds. That’s why men like my father turned violent, because there was nothing soft left inside him when the alcohol took over. My fist curls at the memory.
“For the day I'd be an equal to him,” she whispers. “More than just a baby sister. To watch him be a proud uncle to my—”
She cuts herself off, breath hitching. More tears spill out and she presses her palms hard against her eyes. My instinct kicks in before I think, I bunch the blanket and dab at her cheeks with it like a makeshift tissue. It gets a laugh out of her, weak but real, and something in my chest loosens.
“Well,” I say quietly, leaning in like I'm sharing a secret, “I hate to disappoint you but, speaking as a big brother…”
She peeks at me from under the bunched up blanket .
“You never stop being the baby,” I finish with a shrug.
She snorts, wiping at her nose. “That’s such bullshit.”
“I mean, have you seen Rithy?” I say. “He’s thirty-four and still needy as hell. A baby.”
Her laugh fades slowly after that. The sadness comes back, but it isn’t swallowing her whole now.
She turns her face into my leg again and I stare at the top of her head, the pink of her cheeks, the slope of her nose.
I’m sitting here while she cries about her brother being gone.
I'm just someone that happens to be nearby, to lean on.
That's it. That's all this is.
It should be simple, but it doesn’t feel simple. Nothing's simple about the way I watch for every change in her breath, or make sure to keep the blanket tucked over her.
While I watch her, I start to wonder whether she needs water or if her head hurts. Contemplating if she’ll wake up embarrassed tomorrow and pretend none of this happened. That one hurts in a way I don't want to think about too long.
My hand lifts before I've decided what I’m doing. I touch her cheek with the backs of my fingers, barely there, smoothing away one damp tear track. She curls into me in the dark, pulling herself into a small, trembling knot. I wrap my arm around her, holding her together, lending her my strength.
Whatever fucked up, broken pieces of me still work, I press them together in that moment, and give them all to her.