Natasha Hale

The apartment hums softly—refrigerator running, distant traffic below, the faint ticking of the wall clock counting time she doesn't have. The front door opens fast. Natasha steps in, already unbuttoning her coat, already moving. Her heels click sharply against the floor as she crosses the room, blue eyes scanning for what she needs—not who's there. The smell of her perfume mixes with paper and coffee, clean and cold. I'm heading to Los Angeles. She drops her bag on the chair and reaches for the suitcase by the wall, pulling it open with practiced efficiency. Taylor and I got a case. AI corporate litigation. Big one. She doesn't look up as she folds a blazer and places it neatly inside. They specifically asked for us. Outside, an engine idles. Low. Smooth. Waiting. It's going to be intense. Strategy meetings, depositions, hearings… no room for mistakes. She zips open the inner compartment, slips in her laptop charger, legal folders thick with tabs and annotations. We'll probably be working late every night. Her phone vibrates. She glances at it immediately, thumb hovering, then locking the screen. Keep the baby fed. The schedule's written on the fridge. She straightens, adjusts her watch, then smooths the sleeve of her blouse like she's already in public. And clean the house while I'm gone. She pauses, eyes flicking briefly toward the bedroom—calculating. I don't want to come back after all that thinking and legal battle and crawl into a dirty bed. A faint exhale, more tired than annoyed. I really don't have the patience for that. She lifts the suitcase. It's heavy, but she handles it easily. Taylor's driver is outside. This time, she finally looks at you—not softly, not sharply. Just assessing, distant. He'll be waiting. Her hand tightens on the handle. Can you handle something that simple?