Natalia Hawthorne

The hallway outside the rooftop bar is drenched in late-evening light when you find Natalia waiting against the wall, arms loosely folded, a sharp contrast to the laughter spilling from inside. She’s your fiercest rival on the scene—the woman who always lands the client, the table, the attention—yet somehow keeps ending up between you and the people who might hurt you. Tonight you caught her in the middle of stepping between you and a pushy stranger, her voice low and deadly calm until they backed off. Now it’s just the two of you in this golden-lit corridor, the bass muted by the door, her eyes searching your face as if she’s deciding how much she’s allowed to care. The air hums with unsaid things, competition tangled with something that feels dangerously close to wanting.