By the time you get the email about school being cancelled, Instagram is already flooded with people pretending they're best friends with the kid who died. 

It’s depressing in its own right—watching people use the face of someone they met once or twice as currency. Forget the fact that someone lost a child, a sibling, a friend, a partner… all anyone cares about is twisting grief into attention. Turning his death into an aesthetic. Posting story after story, begging someone—anyone—to notice them instead.

You close Instagram after the umpteenth post of someone posting his yearbook photo and saying that they were such good friends and they'll never be the same without him. 

You didn't know him that well. You know you shared a class with him—AP Biology—but you never talked. You think he had a girlfriend, an older brother, and a small group of friends. But you hear most things secondhand, so it's all hearsay at this point. It still feels strange. Not strange enough to post something on your socials and plead for people to send you their sympathies instead of the people who actually deserve them, but strange nevertheless. 

When Monday rolls around, Nat doesn't reach out to you. That's not nearly as shocking as it would have been before school broke for the Holidays. So, you reach out to her.

You'd be lying if you said her texts weren't off-putting. Sure, she's been distant recently, but you two just had sex. Again. Maybe you think more about this stuff than she does, but you'd think that she'd have a little more compassion in her messages. It's almost like you're back at the beginning again—she's just as aloof. Just as distant.

So, you press a little harder. What's the worst that happens?

All you end up being is hurt. Ghosting and avoiding are one thing—straight-up being an asshole is another. 

You have to turn your phone off to prevent yourself from saying something you'd regret. Hell, you almost start pulling your hair out in frustration, but decide going for a walk would be the better coping mechanism (look at you, making healthy decisions instead of spiralling again… that's growth). You throw on your sneakers and hoodie, paying no mind to your parents, who actually seem to care for once about where you're going.

They ask. You give a dismissive answer. They tell you to be safe. You almost laugh at the words—they've never cared before, but when someone vaguely adjacent to you dies? Well, now they have to act like parents, not just people watching over someone they're legally responsible for.

The street is quiet under what’s left of the February snow—thin patches clinging to curbs and lawns, melting slow. Every breath you let out curls into the cold air like smoke from a Marlboro Red. 

Nat had offered you one, once. Late fall, bordering on winter. Somewhere between the school and her side of the train tracks. She was already halfway through her smoke, laughing about something Van had said a few days prior. It was offered to you without thought, like she was sharing a cig with a friend in the smokers' corner of the school. You accepted it—reluctantly and with teasing from Nat, but you accepted it. It… wasn't the worst thing imaginable (it reminded you a little of the weed you had smoked with her on that first day in the skate park), but it definitely wasn't something you were itching to do again anytime soon. Yet, here you find yourself, wishing the breath that left your lips was a plume of smoke instead.

You kick yourself mentally for even missing the feeling. You know you shouldn't—it's a filthy habit, something you're only craving for the reminder of the lips that held it—but, fuck. What you wouldn't give.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

There's an assembly on Tuesday.

It's exactly what you would expect—a lineup of teachers, the principal speaking about the deceased, a handful of close friends giving in memoriam speeches, and every single student in the school sitting awkwardly in the bleachers.

Josh's girlfriend—Emily—is the only one who seems genuinely stricken at his death. Her words are shaky as they spill from her lips, but it's not her voice you're paying attention to—you're listening to the people whispering behind you.

"Don't know why we're grieving this asshole," one of them whispers. "Dude dealt drugs. Probably died because he short-changed a guy. Wouldn't surprise me."

"Nah, he was in AP classes. No way he was a dealer. Plus, you ever seen him around those people?" the other responds. "He probably knocked her up. Why do you think she's so upset? I mean, seriously. You date the guy for less than a year—"

"Would you two knock it off?" a third party cuts in, barely even whispering. "People are literally mourning him right now. Christ."

You turn your head to the side, just a fraction, to catch who had cut in.

Vanessa—Van, the goalie. One of Nat's close friends. They sit next to Taissa, who just rolls her eyes at the encounter like it's something she's seen frequently.  

You look back to the front, pretending it didn't shake you how fast someone was willing to shut them down. Most people don't care—hell, most around here live for rumours. But, even then, you can't help it when your eyes scan the crowd instinctively, like you might catch a glimpse of bleached blonde hair or wartorn combat boots.

You don't.

Nat isn't here. Of course she isn't. Of course she would skip a memorial service for a kid she said she knew. 

Somehow, that makes everything worse. 

The rumours sound far too familiar for comfort. Sure, you could say that it's people regurgitating the exact same lines for different people because they fit the mould, but given everything that's transpired over the past little while… Well, an uneasy feeling settles deep in your gut. You know the rumours that circulated around Nat weren't anywhere close to accurate, but there was still truth in them.

Furthermore, this isn't exactly a big school. Maybe nine hundred kids, max. You know all the kids in your grade who have gotten into shit, the ones with wealthy parents, the ones who only attend class to get out of their house, and the ones who treat these hallways like they’re the entire world, terrified of what happens when the bell rings for the last time.

You don't remember hearing anything about Josh ending up in trouble before he died—you don't remember hearing anything about him, actually. No news is usually good news in this town, so the fact that people didn't talk about him should've been a good thing.

Maybe it wasn't. Maybe it was just more complex than you thought it was. After all, you had never heard anything about Denny until you met him—and you wished things had stayed that way—so… what if this was a similar situation? A ghost, someone who only exists in the corners of the world you were taught to avoid.

Nat, on the other hand, was given rumours because of circumstances and appearance, not because anyone actually knew the whole story. 

That's when it hits you—you're just like Josh, in a way. You're both unassuming, good students. People know your face and maybe your name, but not who you are. If you told anyone in your class that you had not only hung out in an abandoned house (crack den) with the local burnout, let alone slept with her, you could count the people who would believe you on one hand. 

Assumptions are a heavy thing to carry, but they're also a shield. People look at Nat and see a car crash waiting to happen; they look at you and see a mid-sized sedan obeying the speed limit. They don't bother checking the trunk. 

The assembly concludes with a slideshow and a sad song that was likely added in a poor attempt to tug on the heartstrings of people who don't care nearly enough to bleed.

Whether it works or not is a different story.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Thursday hits you like a truck.

You look like a walking corpse. The hollows under your eyes are visible from a mile away, and you’ve been isolating yourself by design. School is a blur; you haven’t retained a single thing from the past two days, and you don’t have the energy to care. 

By the time the last bell rings, you’re running on fumes. You just want to go home and stare at the ceiling. You dump your bag in your locker, already planning your escape route, until the sound of footsteps heading your way makes you freeze.

Your head instinctively turns in the direction of the heavy thuds, and you pinch your eyebrows together in confusion when Natalie ends up being the source. You don't even have time to get a word out before her hand locks around your wrist and drags you into a nearby classroom.

"Uh, what the hell?" you ask, staggering backwards when she releases your hand and slams the door shut behind you. "What's going on—"

"Have you spoken to anyone?" Natalie cuts you off, spinning around to face you. "Since that night. Have you spoken to anyone?"

You blink, stunned, and shake your head. "Spoken to anyone about what? About what we did? Why the—why does it even matter if I did or not? It's not like we haven't slept together before—"

"No, not about us fucking. Jesus Christ." She runs her hands through her hair frantically, tugging on the strands in frustration. "About the party. You tell people I was there? That I was in that house?"

"What? Why the hell would that even matter? I mean… I told my friends? Do you not tell your friends when—"

"Fuck!" She kicks a chair, sending dust into the air and the chair onto its side. "No! Like… Has anyone talked to you? Did you say shit to anyone?" 

If you didn't know better, you'd think Nat was strung out and tweaking out at the first person she saw. But her eyes aren't pinpoint, and she isn't slurring. She’s vibrating with an energy that feels less like a chemical high and more like a cornered animal trying to chew its own leg off. You've never seen her like this before—terrified and desperate.

"I haven't spoken to anyone that I don't know? I don't go around telling people that I hooked up with someone in a parking lot or that they were attending the same party as me!" Your hands cling to the backpack strap as if it were some sort of lifeline, something to get you out of this mess. "Why are you so worked up? What's going on? Did something happen?"

You regret the words the second they leave your mouth. Yes, something happened. A kid was stabbed less than a week ago. What you meant to ask was if something happened to her—but now that you're thinking about it, what if something happened because of her?

"Did something happen?" she parrots with a sardonic twist. "Yes, something fucking happened. Have you been living under a rock? Josh fucking died." She takes a step into your vicinity, close enough that you can see the sweat on her brow despite the chill in the air. "I wanna know if you told people you shouldn't have that I was at that fucking party, Princess."

A frown settles onto your lips as her tone sinks in—cruel in a way she (usually) isn't with you—and you take a step away from her. "No, Nat. I haven't spoken with anyone. I said that already. What the fuck is going on with you? Did you do something?"

Nat scoffs and shakes her head. "Oh, fuck you," she says, as though she didn't just make it seem like she did do something. "You would assume I did something. Always the fucking villain, right? Never the victim. What a joke."

"Would you just tell me what's going on? I can—I don't know—help, maybe? I can't do anything when you're just yelling at me instead of actually talking to me!" You release your backpack in favour of throwing your hands up in the air, frustrated and confused. "I don't even know what's going on! Yeah, Josh died, but what does that have to do with this!?" You gesture frantically between the two of you, trying to get your point through Nat's thick fucking skull.

It doesn't work.

"Please," she scoffs again, walking backwards to the door. "Like you don't fucking know, Princess. You know exactly what's going on. Don't play stupid."

She throws the door open and exits the room just as dramatically as she had entered it, leaving you stupefied and with more questions than answers.

"What the hell did you get yourself into, Nat?"

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Your parents aren't home tonight.

Something about 'your aunt' and 'dinner' and 'might not be home until morning'.

You don't know. They didn't elaborate, you won't ask, and the world will keep spinning.

The silence they leave behind is heavy, pressing against your eardrums until it's deafening. You can't stand the thought of being upstairs in your room—too many shadows, too much silence, and the phantom weight of Nat sitting on your bedframe just weeks ago. It feels haunted up there. So, you exile yourself to the living room.

You sink into the couch and turn on the TV, just to have something to fill the void. It's some mind-numbing reality show, people screaming at each other over nothing, but you aren't really watching. It's just noise—white noise to drown out the replay of Nat's voice screaming at you in the science room. Pink light flickers across the walls, casting long, dancing shadows that look too much like people out of the corner of your eye.

Your phone rests in your hand. You unlock it, scroll through Instagram, close it. Open TikTok, watch three seconds of a video, close it. Check your messages, see nothing new, and close it. It's a cycle of masochism, waiting for a notification that isn't coming, from a person who made it very clear she wants nothing to do with you.

You aren't sure how long you sit on the couch, going through the motions. Maybe ten minutes, maybe three hours. You aren't sure that time matters in this space, anyway. It's dark out, snow still dusts the street, the house is emptier than usual, and you feel as though you're drifting between realities. 

Until the news starts playing.

You pay no mind to it at first—it's just background noise, after all—but then they start talking about Josh. 

"Joshua Coleman was a senior at Wiskayok High School, with his sights set on attending Princeton University once he had graduated. His close friends and family all describe him as a kind and considerate person who enjoyed spending his free time outdoors."

"The Wiskayok Police Department gave a press update yesterday evening, with Commissioner Johnson saying that the investigation is 'rapidly evolving.' He confirmed that detectives have identified several persons of interest and are actively interviewing individuals believed to be involved in the altercation. While he declined to name specific suspects, Johnson stated that the department is analyzing hours of social media footage from the night in question and urged anyone with information to come forward before officers come to them."

Interviewing suspects. Several persons of interest. Officers come to them.

What if Nat is one of those people? What if that's why she was so upset at school earlier today? What if she's convinced you said something to the cops, and now she's lashing out to cover all her bases?

What if she thinks you're just someone who would sell her out in a heartbeat?

Your eyes flash to the liquor cabinet, like your brain knew you needed some sort of release. You've never been the type of kid to break into your parents' booze stash and replace what you drank with water, but here you are, debating doing exactly that.

And, you know what?

Who gives a fuck. Your parents never have, and you can't be assed to act like a respectable child right now, so you stand up from the couch and head to the cabinet. It's not locked—it never has been—so you don't even have to pretend to break in to get your spoils. There are countless options—Jim Beam that your dad hasn't touched in three years, Tanqueray Gin that remains sealed, Baileys Irish Cream that has dried sugar crusted around the cap, Triple Sec for the 'Margarita Night' that never happened, Vermouth that looks like it's growing friends because your parents forgot it needed to be refrigerated after opening… But your mind's eye is already set on one drink, and one drink only—the bottle of Patrón Silver. You've never had tequila before, but there's a first time for everything, right?

You make the mistake of drinking straight from the bottle the second you crack it open. 

It doesn't taste like a party. It tastes like gasoline and pepper spray.

The second the liquid touches your tongue, your body rebels. It's not a drink; it's a physical assault. It burns your mouth, searing the soft tissue of your cheeks before sliding down your throat like liquid razor blades. A full-body shiver rakes you as the taste settles into your mouth, and you nearly spit up what you didn't swallow.

"Eugh, what the hell?" you mumble to yourself, looking at the bottle with disdain. "Who would willingly drink this?"

No one is there to answer your rhetorical. 

You end up mixing the Patrón with whatever Great Value soda your parents have in the fridge to start with. You go through two cans and a sliver of tequila before realising that you might need something with a little more… punch to neutralize the taste. So, you switch to orange juice. The citric acid proves to be exactly what you need to help mask the pungent taste of the liquor, and you end up downing about half the bottle as a result, only stopping because you ran out of juice.

The room is spinning by the time you put the bottle down. Your head is fuzzy, and all your remaining thoughts are on Nat.

Nat and her terrible habits. Nat and her addictive personality. Nat and her skin littered with bruises. Nat and the way she turns cruelty into a defense mechanism. Nat and that faded leather jacket that smelt like cigarette smoke. Nat and her tendency to shoot first, ask questions later. Nat and the way she remembers all the little details about you. Nat and her surprising sense of humour that still catches you off guard. Nat and the heat of her skin pressing against yours in the backseat of a car. Nat and the way she let you touch her scars when she wouldn't let anyone else near them.

Thoughts blur together, colliding and crashing until there is only one coherent sentence left in your brain—

God, you miss her.

You miss her so much that it feels like you've been beaten to a pulp and left to rot in the mid-summer sun. You'd take the cruelty and the smoke and the danger and fucking everything if it meant you could have her back.

So, obviously, you make the worst possible choice for your mental health: you open Instagram and start stalking Nat's profile. Because apparently you're committed to being pathetic today.

[a/n: nat is allergic to technology….. if she knew how to use insta she would try to set her pronouns to suck/my dick only to get upset when it doesn't work]

Her page doesn't say much. It's not like she's that active on it—her last post was from the summer, a photo of Van in the water—but it still makes something close to rage simmer in your lower gut. You know the anger is irrational, really, you do—but the alcohol doesn't. No, the alcohol tells you that your upset is right. If anything, you should be more upset. Yeah, you should be downright pissed that she's treating you this way—acting like you meant nothing to her, when it's obvious you meant a lot to her.

You know what? Fuck Nat.

Yeah, Fuck Natalie Scatorccio. She deserves to know how much you absolutely loathe her right now, too! That's why you're closing Instagram, opening up iMessages, and sending her a bunch of texts that tell her exactly how much you hate her stupid fucking guts right now.

Your thumbs are clumsy against the glass as they fly across the keyboard. You have to close one eye just to stop the letters from swimming, but you manage. You get it all out—the anger, the confusion, the… the fucking everything! You tell her exactly what you think of her silence. You tell her she's a coward. You tell her… well, you aren't even sure what you're typing by the end of it, but it feels righteous. It feels fucking great. Like getting a tattoo—a good pain.

You don't wait to see if she responds. No, you're better than that. You're done playing her game.

With a scoff that sounds pathetic in the empty room, you toss the phone onto the rug like it's a piece of trash. Boom. Mic drop. You showed her. Finally had the last word. You feel like a goddamn genius. A badass who shoots first and asks questions later. The top shit. Yeah. You're that guy.

The triumph lasts exactly three seconds before gravity decides it's bored of holding you upright.

The room tilts violently to the left. The ceiling starts to rotate. You groan. Your head falls back against the armrest, the room spinning faster and faster until the centrifugal force pins you to the cushions. The darkness behind your eyelids is spinning, too, but it's better than the light from the TV.

Within moments, the anger dissolves into a black, heavy nothingness, and you pass out cold, fully convinced you just won the war.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Your head is pounding when you come to.

The only reason you even wake up is because your parents decided to be as loud as humanly possible when returning home. Their voices are arguably the most agitating, grating things you've ever heard in your life. It's most likely a result of the hangover you definitely have, but either way… You want nothing more than to get as far away from them as possible. So, you stand up unsteadily on your feet, stumble as you reach down to grab your phone, then clamber up the stairs with all the grace of a baby deer.

You don't know how much you drank last night to get a hangover this rough, but you've already decided—Tequila is the worst liquor known to man, and should be eradicated immediately. You hope whoever invented it is currently rotting in hell.

When you finally make the long trek up the stairs, all you want to do is collapse into bed and sleep for the next four to eight business days.

Of course, before you slip off into that blissful oblivion, you check your phone. Just to check the battery percentage. Maybe to make sure you didn't accidentally post twenty-seven Instagram stories of your drunken escapades.

To your surprise, there's a text from… Nat? What the hell? You're already expecting a slurry of texts—brutal remarks thrown at you for doing something you have no knowledge of (who the hell would you talk to, and why was she so pressed about it?), a degrading comment about something you've expressed insecurity about (she knows how to cut deep), or her telling you that she never wants to speak with you again.

What you're surprised to see, however, is that there's only one missed text. Not twenty. One. 

To make matters worse? All it says is 'ok'.

So, against better judgment, you tap on the notification to see the text history. 

Oh.

My God.

Your phone flies across the room and into the pile of washed clothes still sitting in the hamper from laundry three days ago.

You groan in equal parts frustration and embarrassment, bury your face into your pillow, and promise yourself that you'll never touch another drop of Tequila again in your life.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

You don't wake up until sometime in the late afternoon, completely missing the entire school day. Ellie and Theo seem to be the only two people in your life who really cared to notice, blowing up the group chat asking where you are and 'if the deadbeat Italian shot you dead in the alleyway behind the school.'

You debate letting them think that she did.

In the end, you just send them a text that says you came down with the stomach flu and had to stay in for the day. It's not necessarily a lie, but it's also not the whole truth. They don't need to know you drunk-texted Nat, anyway. You can already hear Ellie's response in your mind—verbal assaults where she means well, but nothing you're that interested in experiencing anytime soon.

The weekend passes in a blur. Both too fast and too slow at the same time—but no memories stick out more than others. 

When Monday comes around, you're still running on empty, but your headache isn't nearly as bad as it was on Friday morning (or afternoon, or whenever you woke up). 

You leave the house for school later than usual, but somehow still manage to arrive before the first bell rings. Among all the students scattering the halls, one thing sticks out against the beige walls and dark olive lockers—posters that weren't there the last time you were on campus. 

WISKAYOK STUDENT COUNCIL PRESENTS: SPRING FLING "A Night in Bloom" FRIDAY @ 6 P.M. — MAIN GYMNASIUM IMMEDIATELY FOLLOWING THE SOCCER GAME! TICKETS: $10 In Advance / $15 At The Door Proceeds benefit the Senior Class Gift DRESS CODE: SEMI-FORMAL Valid Student ID Required for Entry. No Re-Entry After 8:30 P.M.

And, the one that rubs salt into the wound:

GIRLS' VARSITY SOCCER OPENER @ 3 P.M. — WEST FIELD WISKAYOK YELLOWJACKETS vs. MENDHAM MINUTEMEN SUPPORT THE TEAM! BUZZ BUZZ BUZZ

Great. So, not only is Spring Formal this Friday, but the first soccer game of the year is also this Friday. Meaning, you can't escape it. The game bleeds right into the dance. If you go to one, you’re in the orbit of the other.

And, no offense to the sport, but you sort of hate it right now, given everything that's transpired recently. You aren't particularly keen on the idea of attending an event tied to soccer, even if only by association. 

You rip down one of the posters out of spite. A few students glare at you. You don't have the mental fortitude to feel self-conscious about it today, so you crumple up the poster and toss it in the nearest trash bin before stomping off.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

When the lunch bell rings, you barely make it to your locker before you get ambushed by Ellie and Theo.

Theo looks like he was forcibly dragged here by Ellie (he probably was), and Ellie looks… far more gleeful than she usually does on a Monday. Which is… mildly concerning.

"We're going to Spring Formal," she declares, not even bothering with a 'hello' or 'how are you.' "You don't get a choice in the matter."

You shoot a glance at her from over your shoulder while dropping your European History textbook into your locker. "Is this gonna be like the time you two dragged me to a party, then immediately abandoned me? You know, the one where someone got murdered?" 

Theo snorts at your remark, leaning against the locker adjacent to yours. "In our defense, we tried to find you later, but you had vanished. We figured you dipped long before anything exciting happened."

"Yeah, someone else gave me a ride home," you mumble back, returning your gaze to your locker. "It's whatever. My phone died, so I couldn't even tell you guys I was leaving."

"Since when do you not fully charge your phone before going literally anywhere?" Ellie asks, leaning into your vicinity as though she were trying to smell untruth. "You're usually one of the most well-prepared people I've ever met. Right after Charlie, obviously."

A dreamy, sarcastic sigh drifts from Theo at the mention of his boyfriend's name. "Don't you love a man who's always prepared? It's so sexy—"

Ellie groans and rolls her eyes. "God, you two are gross. We get it, you're in a relationship, Theo." But then, just as quickly as the conversation was diverted towards Theo and his relationship, it's turned back to you, once she realises something. "Wait." She sticks her face into your vicinity, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Who drove you home? There's, like, a non-zero chance that you actually knew anyone else there. Unless…" Her eyes unfocus for a second, as though she's thinking, then widen (almost comically) as she lands on a thought. 

She spins around to face Theo. "Do you remember seeing Natalie at the party?"

He blinks, glancing up from his phone (where he was no doubt texting Charlie). "Uh… Honestly? I was maybe—possibly—probably too drunk to really remember who I saw in vivid detail?"

You have to fight back a laugh as Ellie closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to keep her face the picture of serenity when you know she's trying not to strangle Theo.

But when she turns back to look at you, you know she knows exactly how you got home. 

"What did you two do." She glares daggers at you. "What happened. I want all the information. We have—" She grabs Theo's phone from him, looks at the time, then gives it back. "—twenty minutes. I want to know every. Single. Detail."

You blink. Swallow down the lump in your throat. "Do you need to know everything?" you meekly reply, looking away from Ellie's face. "Can I just give you the TL;DR?"

Ellie crosses her arms. "Only if you agree to come to Spring Formal with us."

You groan dramatically, hitting your head against the locker shelf. "Nooo… that means I gotta deal with the soccer game beforehand…"

"No!" she quickly replies, shaking her head. "You don't even have to breathe on the same field as her. We'll skip it completely. We can meet at my place, get ready, and then go to the school—long after the game has ended. Like… seven. Or eight. Whatever time we decide to go. No one cool shows up right at the start, anyway."

"We aren't cool—" Theo mumbles, earning a dismissive wave from Ellie.

"Ignore him. It's never too late to become cool. It's like… It's like what that guidance counsellor from Freaks and Geeks said—'if you think you're cool and you feel it, it happens'. That could be us." She nods, seemingly happy with her logic. 

You look at her reluctantly, heavily debating all the options provided, then sigh. "Fine. Fine, yeah, I agree." You run a hand down your face, sigh again, look at the floor, then give her exactly what you agreed upon. "I left the party when I saw her dancing with someone else. She followed me out, we yelled at each other, then made out, then got in her car and left. We ended up in a parking lot, had… uh…" You gesture vaguely with your hands, not exactly willing to state what transpired between you and Nat out loud. "Then she drove me back to my place. That was it."

When you glance back up at them, both of their mouths are wide open. 

"In her CAR?!" Ellie practically screeches, grabbing your shoulders and shaking you vigorously. "You could have contracted RABIES!"

"I don't think that's how rabies works—"

"THAT IS NOT THE POINT!" Ellie cuts you off, fingers digging into your shoulder. "WHAT THE HECK."

Even Theo, who normally isn't that reactive, has to add—"You have absolutely zero survival instincts. None. Negative survival instincts. We've watched countless slasher flicks together… have you learned nothing? The plot of the first Scream movie has the boyfriend as the killer. That could have been you, dude."

"I should slap you," Ellie murmurs, dropping her hands from your shoulders and stepping back. "You're lucky I think violence is abominable."

She sighs. "Regardless, you surrender your right to complain about the formal," she declares, smoothing down the front of her shirt as if the mere mention of the car wrinkled it. "That's the price of admission for your terrible, terrible decision-making skills. You are coming to my house on Friday, we are getting ready, and we are going to this dance. If not to have fun, then to prove that you have not, in fact, been murdered by a burnout in a Ford Ranger."

"...It was actually her mom's Mercury."

They both groan in defeat.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Tuesday passes in a gray haze of lectures you don't listen to and hallways you navigate on autopilot. You keep your head down, avoid the smoking corner, and only interact with Ellie and Theo outside of class. It works, for the most part. You exist in a bubble of your own misery, protected by the noise of your headphones and the hood of your sweatshirt. 

But the thing about small towns—and smaller high schools—is that it's hard to escape anyone who shares the same walls as you. 

Wednesday is when your luck (if you can call it that) runs out.

You're feeling slightly better today than yesterday. Not necessarily happy, but not exactly depressed—which you'll take, given how downbeat you've felt over the past while. 

You're walking to your fourth-period class, doomscrolling on your phone and trying to ignore the flyers for Spring Formal that seem to have multiplied exponentially since Monday, when you round the corner too quickly. You don't see the person coming the other way. You feel the impact of a shoulder colliding with yours, then the splash of a lukewarm liquid against your chest.

"Oh, shit, my b—" The voice cuts off abruptly.

You glance up from your blue-stained white shirt and lock eyes with Natalie.

"Actually," she sneers, as though you're the one who stained her shirt and not the other way around. "Fuck you."

You attempt to sputter out a reply—some scathing retort that would surely have her regretting her actions—but she's already walking away from you, heading in the direction she was going before you became an obstacle.

"W-what?" you muster once the shock fades. "Nat, what the hell was that?" You make an effort to raise your voice for once, but the only response you get is a middle finger thrown over her shoulder, not even bothering to turn around and do it to your face.

Then she gets lost in the sea of students walking to class, and you're standing there, dumbfounded, with a wet shirt that you'll have to bleach when you get home.

The worst part is that you still don't even know what you did wrong. Sure, you drunk-texted her and told her off, but that was only after she pulled you into that empty classroom and got pissed at you over nothing. 

You sigh. You still have three classes to get through.

You make a pit stop in the bathroom, garnering a few amused glances from the people you pass on your way there. You do your best to pay them no mind, but it's impossible to deny the embarrassment you feel burning up your chest and neck. You keep your head down the entire way to the bathroom, trying to block anyone else from seeing it (which proves to be futile, but you try).

When you finally reach your destination, there's still someone in one of the stalls, but other than that, the bathroom is empty. You grab a handful of brown paper towels and wet them, scrubbing frantically at the spot. It doesn't help—it just spreads the blue further, turning a concentrated mess into a watercolour disaster. The paper shreds as you smear the blue, leaving behind wet clumps of brown pulp on your shirt.

You look ridiculous. You look like a child who couldn't handle their Kool-Aid pouch.

You stare at your reflection for a long moment.

A laugh (that sounds dangerously close to a sob) spills out of your mouth. You try to add some soap to the paper towel you're currently using to clean the mess.

It doesn't come off.

You scrub harder.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Friday.

Classes have already ended.

You've told yourself that you wouldn't watch the soccer game. Why would you want to? It's chilly out, the outdoor metal bleachers will likely still be frozen, and you'd have to watch Nat play. 

Yet, here you are, standing in the shadows of the bleachers, hood up, watching as the teams finish their warm-ups. As much as you hate that you do it, your eyes drift to that familiar bleached blonde shag every few minutes. She's still doing stretches with the rest of the team, seemingly trying to shake out whatever is in her system before the match starts. 

You, admittedly, let your gaze linger on Nat as she stretches. The slight definition of her biceps as she stretches them over her head, the exposed line of her throat when she rolls her head back, the flush that consumes her pale skin after she finishes running suicides… 

Christ, you're pathetic.

When the game finally starts, the crowd kicks up. 

You don't attend sports games. Or watch them on television. You weren't expecting them to be this loud, though. Parents holler and students whoop. Maybe soccer is a bigger sport than you thought it was, if the crowd turnout is anything to go by.

The players take it in stride, like the cheers for the team are what give them the energy to play. You understand why teams always play better on home turf, now. It's easy to be a god when you have a congregation. 

You don't understand soccer—you knew that coming to the game—but you understand what a push-and-pull looks like. You understand that the people in the white jerseys aren't the people you want to win. 

It's also very hard to follow the ball from where you're brooding, but keeping up with the energy is easy enough—if everyone runs in one direction, odds are, that's where the ball is going.

Mendham pushes early. You have to peek your head out to watch their player move the ball across the field, only to be stopped in the midst of their assault by Lottie. From the way Nat spoke about her, you've learnt she's a defender—and that much is obvious in the way she plays. She has a strange, fluid grace, weaving through the swarm of players with footwork that looks more like dancing until she gets close. Then, once she reaches the unfortunate player with the ball, she elbows the girl on the other team hard enough to send her stumbling away with a loud yelp. She gets a whistle and a yellow card from a referee. Not a single person looks surprised. 

Behind Lottie, Van is a literal wall in the net. A Mendham player catches a lucky break and sends the ball screaming toward the top corner. You hold your breath, but Van is already in the air, grabbing the ball before it can even get near the goal and tackling it to the dirt. They stand up with a triumphant cheer, whooping like they were born for this role. You've heard that the Yellowjackets have never lost a game with Van in the net, and watching them now, you see why.

The game progresses. The ball moves up the field, and the Yellowjackets shift from 'defense' to 'assault.' 

Shauna is the first to turn the tide. She's the fastest person on the pitch, a blur of yellow and blue that seems to move at a different frame rate than everyone else. She intercepts a Mendham pass, and suddenly she's gone—streaking down the sideline before the other team can even pivot their hips. She doesn't keep the ball long and kicks it off to Mari in the center, who sends the ball spiralling toward the left wing.

That's where things get shaky. 

The freshman on the team—whose name escapes you—is clearly out of her depth. You watch as she fumbles the reception, her feet tangling as she tries to keep up with the frantic pace Mari set. She looks like a startled fawn on cracked ice, and a Mendham defender sees the weakness, slamming into her shoulder to strip the ball. The freshman hits the grass hard.

But before the Mendham girl can even turn to dribble away, Natalie is there.

Nat doesn't offer the freshman a hand up—there's no time for that—but she does steal the ball back from the person who shoved the freshman to the ground before they can even dribble away with it. Nat's slippery and agile in a way comparable to a snake. She humiliates the other girl, dancing around her with a sneer before launching a cross-field pass to Taissa.

Taissa is a force of nature. You watch her dive headfirst into a crowd of players, emerging with the ball between her feet as if by sheer force of will. She's determined, ignoring the elbows and tripping hazards that the bible girl tries to help manage from the back. Then Taissa seemingly spots Jackie near the box.

Jackie, the captain, looks every bit the part. She's shouting encouragement, guiding her teammates into position with a strength everyone listens to. She's the influence that keeps them from falling into a disorganised mess. She catches Taissa's pass, and rather than taking the shot herself, she sees the opening.

She sees Nat.

The ball is tapped perfectly into the path of Nat's sprint.

There's no hesitation from Natalie. She's already in motion, a bullet cutting through the Mendham line. Two defenders try to box her in, but she's too nimble—she dips her shoulder, pivots on a dime, and suddenly has a clear line of sight.

She swings her leg. The thud of impact is the loudest thing on the field—crowd be damned. 

Silence for a heartbeat—shock, maybe—then, the world erupts in noise.

Goal.

It's overwhelming how quickly the crowd shifts from supportive cheers to straight-up screaming. It's not that much different on the field, at least for the home team. The Yellowjackets swarm Nat, giving her playful shoves and pats on the back. Van runs out from the goal (although they probably shouldn't be leaving it yet)  just so they can give Nat an aggressive noogie, laughing all the while. 

There's a genuine, half-flustered grin on Nat's face, too. As if she's not accustomed to praise and isn't sure how to respond to it. You're not sure if the flush on her cheeks is from the cold, the exertion, or the emotions. The one thing you do know is that she's happy. Genuinely happy. 

That's the worst part.

It hurts more than seeing the anger. Hurts more than seeing her sneer at you in the hallway. Hurts more than her acting like you were nothing more than a speck of dust on her shirt. If she didn't push you away, maybe you'd be happy for her. But right now, all it does is reinforce the fact: she doesn't need you. She has a team. She has friends. She has glory. She has people who actually want to see her succeed in life, not just people who want to tear her apart, piece by piece, like Denny.

You are just a spectator in her life. Always have been.

The joy on the field makes your misery feel even heavier. Some part of you says that she shouldn't get to be happy while you're wallowing in anguish. It's a feeling you don't particularly enjoy, this bitter jealousy, but it's one you can't push down despite your best attempts. 

You can't stomach the remainder of the game. You know how it ends, anyway. As it stands, you just feel like an intruder on the moment—on her moment.

With your hood pulled low, you turn your back to the pitch and start the trudge back to your home to gather the armour you'll need for tonight. For the dance you don't want to attend. 

You can't wait to spend the weekend in bed, away from anyone who isn't necessary to interact with.

You don't look back. You can't. But as you round the corner of the school, the cheering behind you falters for half a second. On the grass, Natalie pulls away from the team's embrace, her chest heaving as she scans the crowd. She looks towards the shadows where you once stood, and watches the empty space until the referee's whistle forces her to lock back in. 

If you turned around, you would have noticed the waver in her smile.

You didn't. You don't.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

You show up at Ellie's a little later than intended.

The door is already unlocked—unsurprising, you aren't sure the Collins' ever locked their door, firm believers in 'small town safety,' or whatever Mrs. Collins keeps saying. You're fully expecting them to be the victims of a Dateline episode at some point.

The warmth of the house is complemented by the smell of fresh-baked bread that Mr. Collins is currently pulling from the oven. In contrast to the prescribed gender roles, it's Mr. Collins who plays stay-at-home parent. 

He greets you when he hears the door shut, turning his head to the sound. "Well, y/n! Heya!" He takes off the oven mitts and heads towards the kitchen island. "It's good to see you! Been far too long," he chuckles. "Ellen is upstairs already, very eager to go to Formal." A beat, then he claps his hands in remembrance of something. "Oh! Theo is also upstairs. Much less eager than Ellen is, mind you."

You give him a meek thanks before scurrying upstairs. He's a more attentive man than your father, sure, but you're not that keen on having a conversation with him right now. Your day has already been weird; you don't need your friend's dad to remind you that your own father probably wouldn't have even said hi to you when you walked in the house.

Ellie has a big room. Much bigger than yours. Wall-to-wall filled with expensive knick-knacks and stuff she's acquired from her trips abroad with her family, a four-poster bed, fairy lights adorning the ceiling, a wall filled with polaroids (a lot of you and Theo, namely), a flatscreen TV… Basically, it looks like she's living out a teenager's dream in real life.

And when she sees you, she grins like the cat that just caught the canary. 

"I'm doing your makeup," she says immediately. "You don't have a choice. I won't, like, make you look like Chappell Roan, but I will make you not look like you just crawled out of bed ten minutes ago. Which is… you know… your usual state of affairs."

"It's preeeeeety sad," Theo agrees, lounging on Ellie's bed playing some hyperpop track off his phone. "Wanted For Murder looks better than you most days, and she usually looks like she passed out in yesterday's makeup."

"Try last week's," Ellie scoffs, grabbing her makeup kit. "She's about as well put-together as a homeless raccoon."

You drop your backpack on the floor. "Aren't all raccoons technically homeless?"

She scowls. "Not the point."

"I didn't come here for you to shit-talk my… not… ex?" Your face scrunches as you try to find a word for your relationship (or lack thereof). 

"Exsituationship?" Ellie hums, tossing down a few different mascaras onto her dressing table. "It's literally, like, classic situationship core."

You groan and flop onto her bed, 'accidentally' smacking Theo on your way down. "Do all situationships hurt this baaaaaaaaaaaaad? Like being shot four times in the chest with a shotgun, then run over by a semi?"

"Yes," both of them say immediately, not even bothering to look at you. 

Another groan rips itself from your throat as you stare at the ceiling. "God has forsaken me."

"Shit," Theo murmurs, finally glancing at you. "Join the club. I wonder what the final straw for him was… playing Dungeons and Dragons unironically, or taking dick up the—" "LALALALALA I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"  Ellie interrupts, as loudly as possible. "I do NOT need to hear about your sex life with an older man."

"HE'S ONLY NINETEEN!" Theo yells back. "HE IS ONE YEAR OLDER THAN ME!" 

You're grateful the conversation has drifted from you. So, you keep dogpiling on Theo. 

"You're dating a man in college. While you're in high school." You sigh dramatically and grab Theo's phone from his hands. "That's basically a criminal offense. Are we sure this man isn't on a list somewhere?"

A strangled groan rips itself from Theo's throat as he throws an arm over his eyes like this teasing isn't a daily occurrence between the three of you. "You all hate me," he declares. "You all hate me, and this is hell. I am in hell."

You scroll through Theo's Spotify as he and Ellie continue to squabble at each other before queueing a song that has him whipping his head to stare at you with a deadpan expression.

"Seriously?" he mutters, raising an eyebrow. "Out of all of the songs on my playlist, you had to pick "icantbelieveiletyougetaway"?"

You shrug and toss his phone back to him. "It's a good song."

"It's a terrible song," Ellie counters immediately, still rifling through her makeup to find what she wants to use on you. "Both of you have awful music taste. Why can't you listen to something like… Sabrina Carpenter?" 

"That's so mainstream!" Theo protests immediately. "I hate when we're playing Gloomhaven and you hijack my music. You always play the worst stuff."

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

You're staring at your reflection in the mirror, wondering who the hell you're looking at.

Ellie's done your makeup—you look good, sure, but you don't look like someone you recognise. She's also 'lent' you (given you and does not plan on getting back, more like) a necklace and some earrings to wear for the Spring Formal. 

"You look good," she murmurs from behind you, fussing with your hair as you appraise your reflection in the mirror. "Seriously. I'm not just… like… saying that. You look nice. Sure, your clothing choice is a little… basic, but you look pretty." Then, she leans in and whispers: "And Natalie is a fool."

You give her a grateful smile through the mirror, and she squeezes your shoulder once in a show of support before pulling back.

As she moves away from you to put her heels on, Theo walks in the room, and Ellie lets out an audible groan. "Seriously? You're wearing a Dr. Who shirt with that suit?"

He shrugs and grabs his Converse from where they were kicked off at the foot of her bed. "It's Spring Formal, not Prom. You act like I'm showing up in cosplay."

She scowls at him. "That's something you would do."

"Yeah, but I didn't."

You roll your eyes and take one last look at yourself in the mirror, trying to force a smile that won't come.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

You arrive at the Formal fashionably late.

The budget for this event isn't nearly as big as the one for prom is, and that's obvious enough in the decorations. The gym is sparsely littered with paper flowers and banners attempting to get you in the Spring Formal mood, string lights with more than a few bulbs fried, and table toppers from the dollar store. The food looks downright disgusting (minus the drinks—which you've overheard are already spiked with… something). The only real saving grace here is the music; sure, it's got some top 40 music in there, but they're also playing some absolute bangers between the… mediocre stuff. For instance, a remix of "So Real" by Jeff Buckley is currently playing. So, it could be worse. 

The three of you are currently seated at one of those folding plastic tables, people-watching. "It's way more entertaining than actually dancing. Like…" She points to Jackie Taylor and Jeff Sadecki. "Those two. Homecoming King and Queen. They look like they barely tolerate each other. What are the odds they break up three days after school ends?"

Theo scoffs and flicks a baby carrot across his plate. "I doubt they even make it to the end of the year," he mumbles petulantly, dropping his forehead to the table with an exaggerated groan. "I'm positive there's a love triangle between them and that girl they always hang out with. Shania, I think?"

"It's Shauna, actually," Ellie counters while stabbing at some lukewarm pepperoni pizza with a plastic fork. "Shauna practically follows Jackie around like a lost puppy." A beat, and she turns to face you. "Sorta like… you and N—"

"Shut uppppppp." You join Theo in dropping your forehead to the table, groaning dramatically. "At least Nat wouldn't even be at something like this," you grumble, more to yourself than them. 

"Neither would Charlie…" Theo murmurs, sounding like a dejected child rather than someone on the verge of graduating.

"God, you two are pathetic." Ellie sighs.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

You take a break from the pair to head for the bathrooms at some point.

You're stopped dead in your tracks when you see Nat leaning against the wall near the entrance, laughing about something with Kevyn.

You hate that she looks good, too. Leopard print dress, fishnets, smoky eye shadow, dark red lipstick, and her titular combat boots… 

She wasn't supposed to be here.

Miraculously, you no longer need to pee. Crazy how that works.

You turn on your heel and head back to the gymnasium, beelining past Theo and Ellie in the Loser's Corner™, and speed walk straight for the spiked punch as some song by Bella Kay plays that feels a little too on the nose for the current situation. 

The punch, which you soon find out, tastes like shit. It's very obviously Great Value Kool-Aid flavouring and bottom barrel vodka, but you'll take what you can get right now. It burns on the way down—which means it will probably also burn on the way up—but it numbs the emotions with every drop you swallow. Things turn into a blurry haze, muddying your brain and causing your thoughts to swirl. You aren't even drunk (but you're definitely on your way there), but you're already debating making reckless decisions that Ellie would scold you for later.

All things considered, you make the… best choice given your predicament. Instead of going straight up to Nat, you head for Lottie, who you find standing on her own, wearing mismatched expensive clothes, nursing something out of a red solo cup.

You, despite your slightly sedated state, still have the decency to approach her with some amount of bashfulness. Is it weird to ask your (not) situationship's friend about them? Probably. Do you care right now? Not enough to stop yourself.

"Hey, ah, Lottie?" you say with a timid smile, resting your back on the wall next to her. "How has your night been?"

Lottie shrugs absently, still glancing out at the party floor with a neutral expression. "Fine, I suppose."

You follow her gaze to the floor and find your gaze landing on nothing worth noting, so you shrug and continue with the conversation. "Yeah. I'm in the same boat." A long, long pause follows your comment, unsure of how to phrase the question you want to ask without sounding like you're completely down bad.

Eventually, you find the words.

"Hey, uhh…" A deep sigh leaves you. You stare at the floor. "...Do you think tonight is a good night to talk to Nat?"

She considers that for a long moment.

"Maybe. She's been acting off since Josh died." A brief pause. "But I also don't believe that there's ever a 'good' time to talk to Nat about something serious. You either take the plunge or remain in the dark until the sun burns out. It's something that you need to decide—I can't make your choices for you, and Nat wouldn't confront someone directly about an issue that's been bothering her."

You offer a short, jerky nod in response to her advice, and your brows furrow as you consider it. You know, deep down, that she's right—from every interaction you've had with Nat, you don't think she'd be the type to confront someone first. She's only a fighter when push comes to shove.

"Do… you know why Nat's been so on edge? Is it just because of Josh dying?" You kick at some imaginary rock on the gymnasium floor. "She… pulled me into an empty classroom a little while ago, got mad at me, said I must've been saying stuff to the cops? I… I dunno. She seemed really upset."

Lottie blinks in surprise as her head whips to face you. "She did what?" She takes a moment with that, letting herself be taken aback, but can't seem to come up with even the slightest hint of a notion as to why Nat would act like that. "I… I'm very sorry that she did something like that. That's so far removed from her character I can't even fathom as to why it would happen." She offers you a sympathetic frown. "I think that you should talk to her, really. It's the only way to get any answers you're looking for."

You squeeze your eyes shut and let out a deep sigh—you know she's right, but that doesn't mean you're all too eager to talk to Nat again. (At least, in this context)

"Yeah. I just…" You shrug. "I don't know how I'm gonna go about it, you know? How do I just…" You gesture vaguely to nothing. "How do I just ask her what's been going on without making her upset again?"

She hums as she taps the side of her cup, a pensive expression crossing her face. "Don't jump into the conversation assuming things, I guess. Ask her questions, let her open up to it on her own?"

"If she never opens up about it?" "Then you have your answer, for better or worse."

"I wish it were easier than this," you mumble, more to yourself than her. 

"We all do. Life is never as easy as it seems for others, is it?" She uncrosses her arms. "Theatre, movies, TV shows, assumptions…" She drinks whatever remains in her cup, then crushes it slightly—perhaps she isn't just talking about 'other people.' "Monologues that other people write on your behalf; everything you wish you could change, but are powerless to."

Prophetic, you think to yourself. 

"Sounds like you can speak from experience, Lottie."

"Maybe—but Nat can as well. She's not the only person who's had their story written by people who didn't stick around to witness it."

She's right about that part, too. You think about what you knew about her prior to your first actual encounter—stories thrown around like they were nothing more than scrap paper. Drunken fights in parking lots, late-night joyrides, stints in juvie, an obscene amount of previous partners and hookups that would rival even Mick Jagger… How many of those were actually true?

"Yeah." Your lips purse in thought. 

Lottie gives you a single nod, smiles softly at you, and pushes off the wall. "Good luck, y/n. I hope things go well for you—and her. You both deserve good things."

You return her smile. "Thanks, Lottie." You glance around the gym. "Guess I'm off to look for a bleached blonde enigma, huh?" You turn back to look at her, but she's already gone, vanished into the crowds like some sort of phantom or spectre.

"Right, well…" You glance around at the crowds of students, trying to locate the one person you know who would be more of a wallflower than the life of the party—in other words, trying to find a needle in a haystack when you know the needle isn't even in the pile of hay.

You're starting to scheme up ideas of where Nat might be hiding when Ellie (with a reluctant Theo in tow), already far more drunk than you are, appears in front of you.

"How long does it take for a pee break?" She grabs your hand and guides you out to the dancefloor, despite the fact that she's got worse coordination than you. "You're missing all the fun!"

"Like getting drunk off crappy vodka?" Theo scoffs, following the two of you with his hands shoved in his pockets. "We'd have more fun at home."

"You're just salty Charlie isn't here, Theodore."

He groans. "No, I understand. He has night classes on Friday."

"Why would you willingly choose night classes on a Friday in your freshman year? There's gotta be, like, other options?" you manage while stumbling over your feet as Ellie guides you.

"He works when the other classes happen."

"Oh, right. Forgot he was a barista."

"Which is, like, top five gayest jobs for a gay man to have," Ellie replies (with far more cheer than she normally would). "Are you aware you're dating a gay man, Theo?"

"Oh, no," he shoots back, deadpan. "I had no idea my boyfriend was gay. Whatever will I do?"

She doesn't bother with a response to that, just drops your hand and spins to face you once you reach the center of the dancefloor. "Shut Up and Dance" by Walk the Moon blares from busted speakers, and Ellie screams along to the chorus as it hits.

Truly, a song made for a high school dance.

You humour her for a couple of songs before Theo leaves to 'get more drunk' and she follows gleefully. For people who don't drink that often, you'd think it would reflect in their behaviour. Regardless, you take the opening to look for Nat again. You quickly determine that since she isn't glued to one of the walls, she isn't in the gym. So, if you were Nat and overstimulated at a school event, what would you do?

Go for a smoke, probably. 

You head for the nearest exit, push the door open and head for the smoker's pit, following the scent of cigarette smoke around the yard like a bloodhound tracking a felon. The scent leads you past the bleachers to the edge of the shadows, where the orange glow of a cigarette finally gives her away.

Nat looks like something out of a magazine when you find her—or maybe an album cover. 

She's wearing her leather jacket over her dress, propped against the wall, one foot resting on the stone while the other remains on the ground. A cigarette dangles from her mouth, smoke curling into the air. Her head is tilted back slightly, eyes shut, but she doesn't look at peace. If anything, you'd say that she knows you're watching her. Maybe it's the way her jaw tenses when she pulls the cigarette from between her teeth, or how her brows pinch together as though she's debating something.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer," she eventually mumbles out once she realises you aren't going to make the first move, although the words lack their usual vitriol. She flicks the butt to the ground and stomps it out with the toe of her boot.

You hesitate. Your hands wring together in a physical display of nervousness, and you swallow heavily before finally finding the courage to speak the words you've been rehearsing in your mind all night: "Can we… talk? Please?" Because I can't help but feel like absolute shit about the past while we've been apart and I fucking miss being your friend and having you in my life—

"Fuck," Nat cuts off your internal spiral, pressing a palm to her eyes. "I can't believe you actually had the balls to ask. I thought you were gonna piss yourself the second I said somethin'." 

When her palm drops and she turns to look at you, she looks tired. Not the type of tired that sleep can fix, but something bone-deep that she's been unable to shake for as long as she's lived. 'Mature for her age,' as some people would say. Even in the poor lighting outside the school, you can tell her eye makeup is smudged beyond how it usually is, as though she's been constantly wiping at her eyes to prevent tears from falling. 

"You been havin' a good night?" she asks, although neither of you really cares about the answer. "The punch is spiked. Shitty vodka, but better than nothing."

You shrug half-heartedly. "Better night than some, worse night than others."

There's still about three to four feet of cold asphalt between you, although the distance feels simultaneously greater and less than that. Far enough to feel the distance, but not enough to feel like strangers. 

"...You were at the soccer game," Nat murmurs after letting your reply settle for a moment. "Saw you leaving after I got the goal." Her eyes dart nervously away from you, a poor attempt at hiding the fact that she wanted you there. "Was surprised to see you there, is all. Know you aren't the biggest sports person."

"I'm not." You lean against the wall, an attempt at appearing casual with the conversation, despite your wrung hands giving your stress away. "I don't even know if I've been to a single game in four years." A strained laugh. "Decided that I might as well get one game in before I graduate."

She doesn't call you out on the lie. You're grateful for that.

"Soccer isn't even that interesting. Probably, like, the worst sport at this school you could have 'randomly' attended."

Well, okay. Maybe you thought too soon. It's not a direct callout, but it's definitely laced with suspicion. 

"It was—It was just… convenient timing. I was heading out, and walked by the soccer field. Saw you guys warming up. Figured that I might as well stick around to watch the first game of the season." You cross your arms in a gesture that does nothing to aid in your claims of innocence. 

Nat hums, a teasing smirk twitching onto her face, like the time spent apart was never there, and she's still giving you guided tours of abandoned skate parks. "That why you tried to hide out of everyone's view? Instead of sitting on the bleachers like a normal person? Y'know, I probably wouldn't've even seen you if you were in the crowd. But you chose to stand off to the side. Like you wanted me to see you."

You fluster immediately, trying to find some retort, only to end up looking like a fish out of water. 

She just laughs. And, for a moment, things feel like they used to.

But just for a moment. 

Then the quiet comes. The part where neither of you knows what to say. Nat's glancing away from you once more, and you're staring at a tree somewhere in the distance. It's… awkward.

"Fuck," Nat huffs after a long moment of silence. "God, this is so stupid." She reaches into her jacket pocket and pulls out a small metal flask. The front of it is inscribed with worn initials—R.S. For a moment, you wonder which thrift store bin she dug it out of, or whose pocket she picked it from. It doesn't quite match the girl standing before you. It looks like it belonged to a tradesman who worked long hours and was constantly drunk on the job, but was never once reprimanded for it. 

She unscrews the cap and takes a pull, her throat moving as she swallows the burn. She doesn't grimace, even though you can smell the alcohol from here—something with an insanely high ABV that only functions to get someone plastered. 

"Want some?" she asks, extending her arm.

You hesitate. It's an olive branch in the form of shitty, lukewarm booze. 

It's one you take.

Nat's fingers are warm as they brush against yours. You'd like to say there's some electric shock that ripples through you at the touch—that it's like worlds collide and you just met your soulmate.

This isn't Hollywood. That isn't how this works. There isn't even a faint static shock as you take the war-torn flask from her hand. 

Now that the alcohol is near your nose, it genuinely smells like hand sanitizer. Not even the fun ones—the ones mass-produced during the pandemic that made your eyes water from ten feet away. You drink it down all the same.

You immediately cough it back up.

"What the fuck is this?" you wheeze, nearly dropping the flask. "Rubbing alcohol?!"

Nat just laughs. Warm and open, her head tilting back and one hand going over her mouth in a poor attempt to stifle the sound. "Oh, dude," she manages after tears begin to form in her eyes. "You should have seen your face! It's fuckin' moonshine, not Everclear or some shit." She grabs the container back from you and caps it before the scent can singe your nose hairs further. "Fuck. I'm guessing you've never had straight liquor before?"

"I have, thank you very much. I've just never had something strong enough to disinfect hospital supplies."

She rolls her eyes as she tucks the flask back into her jacket, though the slight smirk never leaves her face. "'s not that strong, Princess. You're just a little bit of a bitch." She shrugs, rubbing salt into the wound. "'s okay. We all start somewhere."

"God, you're an ass," you murmur, crossing your arms, as though it changes the fact that heat is creeping up your neck at the familiar teasing you've missed.

The teasing fades back into that same silence from earlier, and Nat's smile gradually falls. Things get uncomfortable again. 

"Did you…" You clear your throat, shift on your feet, then roll your shoulders back. "Did you wanna talk? About… I don't know. About whatever's been going on? Any of it? How we haven't spoken properly in ages?"

Nat hesitates, unsurprisingly. There's this war in her eyes—the biological urge to flee the situation, and the want she can't deny of desiring to finally be open to someone for once in her life. She opens and closes her mouth a few times while figuring out a way to respond that won't immediately make her nervous system collapse in on itself, and eventually settles on—

"I… Fuck. I don't know. Maybe? Not here, though. I don't wanna talk about shit in this…" She gestures vaguely to the school. "Hellhole."

"I don't have my car here," you offer immediately, glancing around. "I came with Ellie and Theo. She lives super close to the school—"

She shakes her head to cut you off. "No, no. Just… walking. I dunno where; we can figure that out later. I jus'... don't wanna be here. Hate this place."

"Yeah, uh, yeah. I can go for a walk. Let me just… get my jacket? I left it on a chair inside. I'll be right back, though." 

As you head inside, you realise that grabbing your coat won't be the only thing you have to do, as Ellie intercepts you with a drunken giggle. "Heyy!" she slurs, loosely wrapping her hand around your wrist and tugging you towards the makeshift dance floor. "I feel… like… I've barely seen you all night! We still need to daaaanccccceeeee!"

Now, you love Ellie. You really do. She's a great friend, is consistently there for you, and is probably the textbook definition of a 'ride-or-die'. The only issue is that right now, your current plans involve leaving this place and not even considering a return until mandatory (Monday). 

So, you lie. A little.

"I was actually… Gosh, I felt really sick, El," you mumble, trying your hardest to sound exhausted and beaten. "I was gonna walk home… The cold air was… uh… really helpful for my nausea?"

If she were sober, she'd hear how the last sentence was phrased as a question and call you out on your bullshit. She is currently three sheets to the wind. The only thing she will remember is arriving with you and Theo, then getting shit-faced.

"Awe…" Ellie whines, tugging on your wrist slightly, as if that would change your mind or make the sickness go away. "Are you sure you can't stay a little longer? You'll be fine. Just, like, don't throw up!"

You laugh awkwardly and pull your hand back from her hold. "Yeah, ah, sorry. I just… really don't feel good. Might even throw up on the way home, actually. It's so bad, Ellie."

She pouts, opens her mouth as though she plans on pushing you to stay further, then locks eyes with someone across the gym and squeals like a preteen meeting their favourite member of a boy band. "Oh my GOD! Rachel! I didn't think you'd show—!" And she's running off in that direction with all the grace and attention span of someone who doesn't know how to hold her liquor. 

You're able to grab your jacket without any further interference. Theo is MIA (likely making out in a dark corner with Charlie, no doubt), Ellie is still distracted, and you aren't really that close with anyone else at the dance, so it's an easy exit. 

Nat is still propped against the wall where you left her when you exit the gymnasium, smoking another cigarette with fingers shakier than you know she'd like them. She doesn't properly acknowledge you at first, taking another few long drags from the cigarette before offering it to you. "Know you don't usually smoke, but this is a menthol—might like it better than a Red."

Your hesitation isn't nearly as strong as it was the first time she passed you a cigarette. Maybe it's the desire to be close to her again, maybe it's the fact that a menthol seems more pleasant than a normal smoke, or maybe it's just for the sake of it. The exact reasoning behind the action remains unimportant, as your fingers brush against hers and you take the cigarette from between her fingers. 

The taste is different from her Marlboro Red—you suppose that's the difference between a menthol and a standard cigarette. The closest thing you'd relate it to is spearmint gum. You understand why people get hooked on these; it'd only be better if it were one of those vapes Ellie smokes like oxygen. You exhale slowly, managing not to cough (shock) and pass the cigarette back to her. "I like it better than I liked your Marlboros."

"That was a Marlboro, dumbass." She puts the butt between her lips and fishes the pack out of her pocket. "'s just a Marlboro Green, not a Red."

"Oh," you mumble, looking at the pack she displays before watching her return it to her jacket pocket and push off from the wall. "I guess I don't really know my cigarettes, huh?" You give a strained chuckle and fall into step beside her.

Nat chuckles on her exhale. "Nah. Didn't expect you to. Was jus' bein' an ass." She leads you out to the sidewalk, nudging you with her elbow. "Plus, you probably don't even know what a spliff is; wouldn't expect you to know different brands of cigarettes."

You try really hard to rack your brain for what a spliff is. It sounds dumb, so it has to be a type of drug. Maybe a brand of cigarettes? Spliff? Or a type of—

"Dude," Nat cuts off your thoughts with a laugh, waving her hand in front of your face. "You're thinking really hard right now, huh? God, you should have seen your face. You do this thing—" She points to her eyebrows and scrunches them loosely with her lips forming a slight frown. "When you're thinkin' really hard." She places the cigarette back between her teeth and faces forward. "'s kinda cute, actually."

Your face burns.

"It's like… a cigarette with weed in it," she continues, as though you aren't actively flustered and barely paying attention. "Tobacco and weed. Best o'both worlds. I'll roll one sometime, force you to smoke it with me."

That implies there will be another time. That implies that we'll hang out again. 

"Can't make me do anything," you mumble petulantly, earning another low, raspy chuckle from Nat.

"You're telling me if I shotgunned it with you, you wouldn't open up for me? Like a good girl?" she teases. She says it with that same jagged smirk, the kind that makes it impossible to tell if she's just being a dick or if she actually wants to see you choke on the smoke.

You mutter something incoherent in response, your entire body warm in a way that has nothing to do with the chill in the late winter air. 

The silence that follows feels less daunting and more like a natural lull in the conversation, something you find yourself appreciating more than you thought you would. It's just the two of you walking down a slushy sidewalk, shoulders occasionally brushing, and Nat finishing off what's left of her cigarette. You need to look at anything other than her, so you let your eyes drift to some movement in a nearby oak tree.

"Oh, is that a… wait." You slow your stride and squint, the bird-nerd in you momentarily overriding any gay panic. "Nat, look, it's a Tufted Titmouse." You point up to the small songbird sitting on a branch, a small smile twitching its way onto your face.

Nat stops dead in her tracks, looking from you to where you're pointing and back again. "A… A what?"

"A titmouse," you repeat, a bit more confident this time. "They're pretty common, though their population has been on a decline in New—"

A sound rips out of Nat, loud enough that it scares the bird out of the tree. "A titmouse?" You're fucking with me. A titmouse? Christ, you're a dork." She wipes at the corner of her eye, smudging her already ruined mascara to a point of no return.  

"It's a legitimate name!" you protest, despite the fact you're smiling. "...There's a bird in the same family called the great tit that lives in Europe. There's also the dusky tit, ashy tit, and the ground tit."

She laughs louder, grabbing your shoulder to steady herself as she doubles over. "Who the—who fuck names these birds? How fucking stupid are these names? What, is there also the… fucking… blue tit? Red tit? Black tit?"

"Would you believe me if I said yes?" You shoot her a wry grin. "Blue tit, yes. Red-throated tit. Southern black tit…" 

Another laugh rips from her, her fingers digging into your shoulder in an effort to keep herself upright at this point. "Were they fuckin' drunk when naming these birds? Who the fuck sees a bird and goes—" She clears her throat and straightens her back, and does her best impression of some old man from the nineteenth century. "Why, yes. That bird right there? The one that looks like… a bird? Yes, that bird shall be called 'Tit.' Quite the fitting name for a bird of that appearance."

You can't help yourself when giggles start bubbling out of your chest at her terrible attempt at an impression. Which, in turn, causes Nat to start giggling, and it isn't long until the two of you are full-blown belly laughing.

"That was an awful impression!" you manage, shoving her shoulder playfully. 

"It got you laughing, so I think it's a great impression, actually," she quips back with a cocky grin that'd make you swoon if you weren't still slightly upset at her for how she's treated you.

Somewhere between laughs, Nat pulls that flask out of her pocket again and takes a swig far too big for the levity of the situation. 

Then… the tone shifts. 

Nat sighs. "Earlier… Look, I was a prick. My head's just… I should'nt've taken it out on you." She kicks a stone across the sidewalk, refusing to meet your eyes in her lukewarm attempt at an apology.

You frown slightly, shoving your hands in the pockets of your jacket as the two of you continue walking down the empty street. "...Didn't feel very good for you to start yelling at me like that, whatever the reason." 

She takes another swig. "I… I know. 's just… fuck. Cops have started hounding me for info 'bout what happened." She hesitates, as though she's debating taking another shot of rubbing alcohol or grabbing a Marlboro, but decides against it. "Pulled me outta school one day to interrogate me. Started asking me shit I knew nothing about. Just because…" She scoffs. "I… what? Have a record? Grew up in a part of the world they don't understand? Have a dad who was a piece of shit?" Her jaw clenches as she recounts the things she thinks about herself and other things people assume about her. "It's so fuckin' stupid!" 

She rubs her face and pushes her hands through her hair frantically, clearly on the verge of an actual breakdown—something stronger than just screaming and drinking herself into a stupor. 

"I just don't know how to fucking deal with it," Nat relents, her face resembling more of a broken child who just watched their parents throw a vase across the room rather than the woman standing before you who has been through things far beyond her years.

Therapy, you think to yourself.

"I don't know what to say, Nat," you say quietly. "I… I'm sorry you're going through this? I mean, really, I am. But I don't know what I can do for you other than just… be a friend."

It's obvious she's not quite sure what she wants you to do, either. 

"Does anything help?" you murmur. "Like… obviously I can't stop the police from harassing you, but… is there anything I can do for you?"

There's no response that comes from her for far too long. She just stares at the ground, brows furrowed and jaw tense, looking like she wishes the ground would swallow her whole.

"I don't fucking know," finally leaves her in a low, reluctant mutter.

You nod. "That's okay, you don't need to know right now. I can just… be here for you if you need someone to talk to. I'm good at listening."

Nat grunts in acknowledgement, although it sounds more like a reluctant acceptance of support.

Well. You weren't expecting much, anyway.

Silence falls over the two of you once again, only broken by the scuff of your shoes against the pavement and the distant hum of cars passing.

At some point, the tense silence becomes unbearable, so you think of the first thing you can to break it— "You know, I don't think I actually know how old you are." Seriously? That's what you go with? "I mean, we're both graduating soon, but I don't know your actual age."

She chuckles lowly, shooting you a sideways glance. "Don't you know it isn't polite to ask a lady how old she is?"

"You're hardly a lady," you mumble back with a roll of your eyes. "Maybe a Dame at best."

"Right. I know what that means," she deadpans. "But uh… I'm nineteen."

Your jaw drops. Nat blushes. "What? You're older than me?" You look at her, shell-shocked and no longer walking. "Seriously? You're nineteen?"

Nat groans and shoves your shoulder. "Dude. You're acting like I just told you I'm twenty-seven." The two of you start walking again, though Nat moves a few steps ahead of you, then spins around to face you. "Didn't start kindergarten until I was six. Turned seven while I was still in it." She shrugs. "Parents never wanted to put the effort of enrolling me in school until a social worker started sniffing around. Again."

You tilt your head to the side. "Wait, Again?"

"Yeah. Again. You'd be surprised how often they show up. Was usually right after my dad got too loud or ma had another 'episode'. You get used to the routine after a while." She turns back around and kicks a loose stone, watching it skitter into the gutter. "Actually, I think that's how they lost the first one."

Your brain lags for a second. "The first one?"

Although you can't see her face right now, you can see the way her shoulders hunch forward and how her hands clench into fists. She keeps walking forward. "A brother. I think. Hard to tell when they scrubbed the house clean of any proof they ever existed." She picks up the pace, forcing you to stumble after her in confusion. "Don't look at me like that. I don't even know his name."

"I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…" You shake your head, trying to gather the thoughts as they bounce around at this new information. "I didn't mean to dig up bad memories. I was just… I just wanted to know how old you were."

"Yeah, well, now you know," she snaps, shoulders still hunched forward and pace still rapid. 

Your steps slow back down to a normal walking pace, feeling extremely uncomfortable with the sudden hostility she's displaying.

Nat either feels the loss of your presence close behind her or hears your footsteps slow and grow distant, and she comes to a stop until the two of you are side by side again. "Didn't mean that. Way I said it." She doesn't look at you. It's another apology that will never contain the word 'sorry.' "Just… Just a strange night."

"Yeah, I know what you mean." You glance down at your feet as you continue alongside her, uneasy in the tension. "Guess… uh… I guess I can't make fun of my friend for dating a nineteen-year-old anymore, huh?" You try your hand at humour to dismantle the thickness of the air, and Nat seems grateful for the reprieve. 

She huffs. "Yeah. Can't say shit when we've been doin' somethin' for a while, huh?" The tension in the air breaks, just like that. "The more y'know, or whatever."

"Speaking of the more you know… I'd like to know where we're going."

"Mm. Home, I think," Nat murmurs, glancing up and around. "Yeah, I think I just started walking home without thinkin' 'bout it. You cool with that?"

"...I haven't been to your place before. Are you sure it would be okay?"

Nat nods and waves dismissively. "Yeah. Don't think my ma is home. If she is, she's probably drunk outta her fuckin' mind. Probably knocked out right now if she's home, anyway."

"I mean… if it's okay with you, then it's okay with me." You nod back, fighting the smile that threatens to creep across your face. "I'm expecting a five-star Airbnb experience."

She snorts. "You'll be lucky if it's half a star."

"Can I push for a full star? Is that an option?"

"How did you want me to get you that extra half-star, huh?" She grins at you, her eyes sparkling in the streetlight. "Maybe a homemade dinner of boxed mac and cheese? I can top it with Velveta, too. 𝓔𝔁𝓽𝓻𝓪 𝓯𝓪𝓷𝓬𝔂."

The two of you start giggling immediately, and that quickly turns into loud, guttural laughs once more. Things feel warm and open and fun.

It's almost like the two of you never had a falling out.

A part of you hates how easy it was to fall back into this rhythm—the jokes, the teasing, the openness, the familiarity…

You don't even realise  you've stopped laughing until Nat says your name—Not Princess—and snaps you out of it.

"Hey… you good?"

The question freezes all your internals. The check-in, as simple as it is, is so unexpected that your body doesn't know how to react.

You start crying. 

Tears spill from your eyes as both of you stop walking in the middle of some random neighbourhood. Nat stares at you helplessly, mouth opening and closing without any words seeming to come to the surface. The tears aren't pretty, either. It's ugly crying—snot spilling from your nose, sobs wretched from your throat—and that only makes things worse.

You stammer through some vague words that come out as hiccups before you finally find your metaphorical footing, and vomit out whatever words appear in your mind.

"I don't know! No—No, I haven't been good. I'm not good. I'm not able to… pretend that everything is hunky-dory like you. You pull me back into your mess when you're lonely, then treat me like a stranger the second things get real! You don't get to do that! Y-you don't get to treat people like that just because you're h-hurt or lonely or… or… whatever!" You frantically attempt to wipe the tears from your cheeks to no avail. "M-maybe I knew it was all an act. Maybe I-I-I was ignoring every warning sign from the start, and that's my fault. But maybe it was your fault for treating me like that. It—" You inhale, another little sob breaking from you. "It takes two. But it was you who decided to behave like that."

Nat's face flickers through a range of emotions—shock, guilt, dismay, to name a few—but it lands on the exact one you should have seen coming the second you started crying: anger. 

"Fuck you," she starts with, one of her fingers jabbing at your chest. "If you 'knew it was all an act,' then what're you cryin' for, huh? What, did you think that this was gonna be some bullshit fairytale love story? That we were gonna be high school sweethearts that got married the second we graduated? Huh?"

You scoff and shove her away from you, feeling like you're back in that abandoned house and she's yelling at you for simply caring. "D-do you even hear yourself? All I'm a-a-asking for is basic human decency, and you're acting like I just w-wrote a whole l-life for us!" The sobs that had started to calm return in full force now that the two of you are in a yelling match, and you're reminded why you hate being mad like this—you sound like a child unable to get your point across, with the words garbled between gasps of air. "It's just excuses a-after excuses with you! B-but d-do y-you even f-fool your-yourself with them?"

Surprisingly, she falters at that. She doesn't have some immediate scathing retort to your lash, and that alone makes you take a step back, mentally and physically. 

In the end, aren't you both just two hurt girls? For different reasons, sure, but you're both hurt.

The neighbourhood returns to silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. Both of you stand far enough apart to appear as strangers.

That coldness returns to your bones.

When you finally calm yourself enough again, you decide you might as well say what you're thinking, even if it doesn't end well.

"I know—" you start, catching yourself before the sob can rip itself from your throat again.

A deep inhale.

"I know we were never together. I know I have no right to be acting like I am. But… Fuck, Nat. I want you back so bad it hurts. Does that make me fucking insane?"

Nat doesn't respond for a very, very long time. The silence builds, your anxiety grows.

She eventually looks at you again, tears in her eyes, and pulls you in for a hug.

It catches you off-guard, how out of character the action is, but maybe you don't know Nat as well as you liked to believe you did.

You hug her back almost immediately. She's crying in your arms, her face pressed into your shoulder. Her mascara-stained tears bleed through the fabric of your jacket, but you can't bring yourself to care when you're doing the exact same thing.

It takes a while for the two of you to part, and even longer for the crying to cease. You end up walking alongside Nat for a beat in silence, close enough that your arms keep brushing, but neither of you makes a move to go further than that, to bridge that gap again.

By the time the suburban roads give way to gravel, Nat's visibly growing agitated in the silence.

"Look, Princess…" she sighs, her hand disappearing into the mess of her bleached hair. "I just… I'm not the 'relationship' type, alrigh'? And 's not you, it's—"

"That's okay!" you blurt out before she can even get the rejection out. "We can… just be friends who make out sometimes. Or… whatever. No labels, just… whatever this is."

She hesitates, opening her mouth before closing it and letting herself think before she speaks. She knows you're feigning being chill—hell, you know you're doing a bad job at it, speaking too fast and adding too many words—but she doesn't turn down the offer. Whether out of selfishness or pity, she lets you believe that you could be okay with being 'no-labels, friends who do stuff sometimes'. 

"Yeah, uh," she laughs, although the sound is slightly strained. "Friends who do stuff sometimes. So, what, we're just friends with benefits?"

You scoff half-heartedly and glance away. "Okay, well, that implies there's only sex. We do… like… other stuff." 

"...You mean the friend part of the friends with benefits? That other stuff?" 

You pointedly look at the gravel road in front of you. You don't need to look at her to see her expression, anyway—you know she has a cocked eyebrow, a half-formed smirk, and the light of amusement in her eyes. "No. No, I mean… kissing! Or whatever. Kissing and cuddling. That other stuff."

"Do I need to whip out a dictionary and give you the definition of 'friends with benefits'? 'cus, Princess, I hate to break it to you—that is literally what it means. It's only sex if you're just…" You catch her gesturing to nothing out of the corner of your eye as she tries to find the words, "If you're just fucking. Like, nothing else. You don't hang unless you're screwing each other. Cum and run. Smash and dash. Shoot and scoot. Nut and—"

"Okay, okay! I get it, Nat!" You shove at her shoulder as she breaks out in giggles, trying to fight your own smile at her phrasing. "Friends with benefits. Fine. That's what it is."

If Ellie were here, sober or not, she would have smacked you. She's told you, more than once—it's a situationship. You want something more, but Nat has commitment issues. It's messy, and there's no getting around it. 

But, hey, what's wrong with a little bit of ignorance now and then? After all, maybe if you can stick around long enough, maybe she'll be willing to try for you.

"But… still friends, right?" Your smile falters, and your gaze drifts to her. "I just… I want to make sure, aside from everything, we'll still be friends. I like talking with you, Nat."

She scoffs. "That's fucking gay." And, any other person, that comment might make you hesitate. With Nat, on the other hand? You get the idea she's using the phrase to ignore the feelings it stirs up inside of her.

But that could just be wishful thinking.

"Yeah, dumbass. Obviously, we're friends. I would have just said… I dunno. 'Fuck buddies' if we weren't friends. Friends actually have conversations or whatever, fuck buddies just… fuck. But it's still casual, y'know? Not like either of us are proposing anytime soon." 

"Not even if I had a blue raspberry ring pop?"

"Oh, shit. Maybe. You got the ring on you?" 

You make a display of checking your pockets just to come up empty, and let out an exaggerated groan. "Must have forgotten it at the dance. We could always go back and check…"

"Oh, fuck no. We're almost at mine. I would rather deal with my mom than any of the assholes at the school—and that's sayin' somethin'. My ma is a bitch when she's drunk."  

You and Nat grin at each other as the outskirts of the trailer park she calls home come into view, the splotched grass and flickering streetlights a stark contrast to the environment where you live. It's not nearly as daunting of a change as the media would have you believe—there are no fights breaking out in the middle of the road or drug labs in every other house, it's just… people trying to get by with the best they have.

You're taking in your surroundings when Nat starts speaking in a tone of voice you've never heard her speak in before. Is she… baby-talking?

"Sliver! C'mere buddy. Oh, who's a good boy? Who's a good boy?" 

You turn to face her, not even realising she had stepped away from you, and see her squatting down to pet a scraggly-looking dog. You aren't sure what type of dog Sliver is (although your best guess is a mutt), but you can tell that it's definitely getting up there in years. White fur lines its muzzle and eyes, contrasting sharply with its black-and-brown speckled fur.

You tentatively approach them, careful not to spook the dog into running off. "Didn't know you had a dog, Nat," you whisper, crouching next to her. "Sliver?"

"Not my dog," she replies while scritching the dog's chin. "He just comes and goes whenever he feels like, y'know? Like a lil' nomad."

"Guess he's taken a liking to you, huh?" You reach a hand out for the dog to sniff, to no avail, as he just seems interested in getting pets from Nat. "And just you, apparently," you add with a mutter as you drop your hand.

Nat snickers and throws a cocky shrug. "Mm, what can I say? I'm just that likable. You could learn a thing or two, Princess."

You try reaching your hand out again, hoping to prove a point that dogs like you as well as her, but internally prepare yourself for the disappointment of being snubbed—

Sliver turns to look at your hand, sniffs it while Nat keeps petting his chin, then licks your hand once. Nat's hand freezes as her eyes snap to where Sliver is licking you, and her jaw drops when the dog lets you pet behind its ears.

"No fucking way," she mumbles as her hand goes limp. "He doesn't even let Van or Kev pet him—and he's known then for-for fuckin' years!"

Now it's your turn to be cocky. "Well, maybe Sliver just looooooves me, huh?" You make a point of petting the dog as though you've known it for years and not twenty seconds. "Aren't you a good boy? Such a good boy."

She scoffs petulantly and stands up to cross her arms so she can properly pout like a toddler—but, when you turn to look at her to tease her further, you find her with her cheeks burning scarlet. Is she… flustered?

You turn your head back to face the dog. If this moment didn't feel strangely significant, maybe you would taunt her a little more. The look in her eyes and flush on her face prevents any desire to ruin the mood. "He's a sweet dog," you comment quietly, scratching Sliver's chin for a few more seconds before standing up. "Thanks for letting me meet him."

"Didn't let you. He chooses where he wants to go, or whatever. You just happened to be here," she mumbles. "But yeah, he's cool. Chill." She shrugs, a poor attempt at nonchalance. "He's probably just being nice to you, or something. Knows when someone is a bit of a loser."

"Oh? That's why he likes you so much, then?" You gently nudge her with your elbow. "Two losers and a nomadic dog, huh?"

"I'm not a loser," Nat protests, kicking a piece of gravel across the ground. "I'm super cool," she adds, sounding like she's trying to convince herself just as well as you.

"You sure sound cool."

"...Fuck off."

You grin and continue walking alongside her. 

When you arrive at her trailer, it's simple—white with pale blue accents, a porch, and a scattering of various objects thrown around the yard. Nat's pickup sits off to the side of the house, but her mom's Mercury is nowhere to be seen.

Nat, noticing the way your eyes catalogue the environment, dismisses your apparent skepticism with a shrug. "Don't worry, my ma is out right now. She's been spendin' a lot of time with this new douchebag that smells like the bathroom of a shitty bar. Probably won't be home 'til tomorrow. Maybe next week. Dunno. Don' care."

You wonder if she knows she's lying about not caring. You know she loves to act like some heartless bitch (mainly because it's easier to play into the rumours than prove them wrong), but you've also seen the way she talks about the people she likes; how her eyes light up when she talks about Van or Kevyn, or how her smile grows warmer when she reminisces about good times with old friends. You don't call her out on it, but you do tuck that information in the back of your pocket.

You follow Nat up the creaking wooden stairs to the front door, trying to pay little mind to the way your heart begins to beat faster the closer you get. You know, consciously, what will happen once you get inside that trailer—you'll end up in her bed. That much is certain, even if tomorrow isn't. 

The interior isn't anything to write home about; even in the dark, you can see the piles of miscellaneous items piled around the living room, the holes in the walls, the furniture that looks dated in an already old home… 

It feels like the perfect representation of Nat, in a way.

"C'mon," she whispers, grabbing your wrist gently to guide you off towards her bedroom before you can see too much. 

Her room is exactly how you'd expect it to be. The walls are lined with posters from various punk (or punk-adjacent) bands and a handful of soccer tournament medals. Her overhead light doesn't have a bulb in it, so she chooses to turn on one of the many lamps she has around the room. The cassette stereo she has is flicked on not long after, and some song you've never heard before begins pulsing through the room.

"Nice place."

Nat scoffs and sits on her bed. "Please. You don't gotta be nice; you can say it looks like shit." She starts taking her boots off. Her jacket doesn't immediately follow once her shoes have been discarded. Rather, she fiddles with the sleeves, brows pinched as she stares at the floor.

You gingerly sit beside her and smooth down some imaginary wrinkles on your clothes. You aren't fully sure where to go from here—do you make the first move? Does she? What if you both just sit here, staring into oblivion, until daybreak?

A hand on your thigh answers all your questions.

"Nat…"

You turn to look at her. Her other hand finds the back of your neck before you get a chance to speak, and all of a sudden, you're kissing. 

This isn't the first time tonight you're reminded of that moment after your encounter with Denny.

You pull back as you place a hand on her shoulder. A strained smile makes its way onto your face—not necessarily because you don't want this, you just don't want it to happen like that.

You can see Nat immediately tense, preparing for some sort of argument, like she's already expecting another big fallout from a simple beat.

"Can we just… talk for a minute? Is that okay?" you ask timidly. She fidgets restlessly, scoffs, then removes her hands from you. "What's there to talk about?"

"You're smarter than that, Nat."

Another scoff. "So, what? You wanna get all… angsty and talk about some bullshit that happened months ago? Thought we already did that on the walk over."

"I wanna know why you acted like you didn't know me after everything that happened. Acting like… like we could've just gone back to strangers after all of that."

"We could have," she mutters. "I've 'gone back to strangers' with people I've done worse shit with." She crosses her arms and redirects her gaze elsewhere.

You take a leap of faith. "I think you were scared."

"Scared? What the fuck would I be—"

"Of things getting too real for you. That scared you. You were terrified that someone might actually get to know you on a personal level. Sure, friends are one thing, but friends don't know the way you taste or how you twitch when you sleep. They haven't heard the way you—"

"I get it!" she cuts you off as she stands from the bed and pushes fingers through her hair. "Jesus Christ, I get it. You saw me fuckin' cum! We shared a bed! Whatever! That doesn't mean I was fuckin' scared of… of… falling in love with you or whatever bullshit you imagined!"

"I never said that!" You stand up from her bed as well. "I never said that you would 'fall in love' or end up as 'high school sweethearts'! That was all you! You said that stuff!" You step closer to her. "Is that what you wanted? You wanted the Hallmark ending, but decided you weren't good enough for it?"

She shoves you away from her. "Fuck you! You don't get to say that shit like you know me!" A frustrated groan rips from her throat as she begins pacing around the confined space of her room. "Fuck! You were supposed to be easy! Just somethin' to pass the time! Not… this!"

The tension in the air is so thick you could cut it with a knife.

"You were supposed to be easy," Nat murmurs again, her voice cracking as though she's just finally realised something she was trying to deny for so long. 

You don't speak after her revelation. You let her digest everything that she's admitted tonight. 

"God-fucking-dammit." She sits back down on her bed, immediately dropping her head into her hands. 

You sit down next to her after a moment. "More than you bargained for, then?" you ask gently.

A disbelieving laugh falls from Nat's lips, something halfway between resigned and mirthful. "Yeah." She flops back on her bed with a heavy sigh, arms splayed out beside her as she stares at the ceiling. "More than I fuckin' bargained for."

You let the air settle for a few seconds before opening your mouth again. "I know you're probably going to roll your eyes at this, but could we just… be romantic about it? For tonight?"

Nat doesn't respond immediately. Not with words or with actions. 

You wonder for a beat if you shouldn't have said anything at all.

"Y'know what? What the hell, sure. Just a heads-up that I've never done this shit 'romantically' before. Might be awful at it."

You shrug and lie down beside her and stare at the cracks in the ceiling. "You act like I've done 'this shit' romantically before. It's just been you, Nat."

Her voice grows softer. "Yeah. Guess we both got a learning curve to get over then, huh?"

"Yeah."

Both of you turn to face each other at the same time.

Her eyes dart down to your lips. A silent invitation.

You place your hand on her cheek and tenderly stroke the bone with your thumb. Nat's eyes flutter shut. 

You lean in and kiss her. There is no immediate rush or urgency to the action this time; she lets you play out this fantasy of romance the way you wanted. She waits for you to make the move to deepen the kiss, too. Doesn't force the climax like she would in any other context. She tastes faintly of mint when your tongue begins to prod at her lips, and strongly of moonshine once they part for you.

This is the type of first kiss in a relationship that people write books about. Not that rushed, awkward one you had in a run-down house. 

That all being said, this is Nat we're talking about, and she is prone to expediting things once she figures they're going a little too slow for her liking. 

She maneuvers you onto your back and climbs on top of you after a solid six or seven minutes of making out. She doesn't pin you down or take control, but her actions make it clear where she wants this night to go. One of her hands is planted firmly beside your head while the other cups your jaw, and the kiss only gets messier from there.

You sit up once she situates herself fully on top of you and wrap your arms around her waist. Your fingers splay across her lower back, and her fingers tangle into your hair.

When Nat breaks the kiss, she looks at you with nothing short of adoration.

"I missed you," you murmur, not fully intending on speaking the words aloud. 

Nat doesn't respond. Whether it's because she agrees with you or doesn't want to crush your hopes is unclear, but she kisses you again all the same.

Her hands eventually find your wrists and guide them down lower.

You face burns once your fingers graze her ass, and Nat chuckles at the way you freeze suddenly.

"What's wrong, Princess?" She grins against your lips. "Forgot everything I taught you already?"

"...No."

"Mm." She releases your wrists and drapes her arms around your shoulders. "What was it I told you? Stop bein' so scared to touch me?" Her lips press to your ear. "Wouldn't be lettin' you touch me right now if I didn't want you to, babe."

A shiver rakes its way up your spine, and you find yourself digging your fingers into the fabric of her dress, pulling her flush against you.

"Not scared," you mumble back. "Just… I'm just figuring things out. That's all."

Nat chuckles warmly as her hips roll down into yours. "Really? Doin' a poor job of actin' like you aren't."

"Shut up."

"Nah, it's cute." Her fingers thread through your hair as her hips continue to move. "Cute that you still get all flustered around me n' shit."

You grumble. She giggles.

Her lips meet yours again. It's more frantic than the last kiss, but somehow she manages to keep it just as tender as the one you had initiated. Her tongue slides into your mouth with a practiced ease, and you welcome it in willingly.

You remember what she had told you that very first time you two slept together—don't be afraid to touch me, I want you to—or something like that, and you let your hands wander. You start by running one hand up her back to rest between her shoulder blades, while your free hand slides lower along her body to push her dress up higher.

"Gettin' a lil' handsy," Nat murmurs against your lips, sounding far too smug.

"Is that a bad thing?"

A hum. "Not a complaint, 'f that's what you're askin'."

"That is literally what I'm asking, Scatorccio."

"Whatever. Shut up."

As she kisses you once more, you vaguely acknowledge the sound of Kurt Cobain blasting through her busted stereo—"Heart-Shaped Box," you think. Maybe the lyrics are fitting to the situation, a little too much so, but fitting nonetheless. 

You lie flat on the bed again and take Nat down with you, attempting to maintain the kiss to the best of your ability. One of your hands grips the back of her neck while the other continues to push her dress up, bunching it around her waist.

Nat hums once your hands touch the bare skin of her lower back. You can feel the way her lips curve into a smirk, and it both infuriates you and turns you on simultaneously. 

She shifts herself so that she's riding one of your thighs and her knee is pressed firmly against your center. You gasp at the sudden shift of pressure and find yourself rolling your hips into it. A groan spills from her—not loud enough to be loud, but noticeable enough that you find yourself clenching around nothing instinctively. 

"Too many clothes," she mumbles against your lips, her breath still mingling with yours. She pushes herself into a sitting position on your thigh and shrugs her jacket off, then pulls her dress over her head unceremoniously. 

Your mouth is suddenly very, very dry.

The faint lighting in the room highlights her still-healing bruises and scratches mixed in with her long-since faded scars. Notably, there's also another tattoo you were unable to clock the first time you had seen her shirtless—a black and white sawed-off shotgun on her left hip, much cleaner than the stick-and-pokes you had noticed on her arms. You're almost tempted to ask about it, but you already know the question would be brushed off.

In lieu of the question you would ask, you let your hand drift toward the tattoo and tenderly brush it with your thumb. 

"'nore that," Nat murmurs, sounding a little uneasy. "Stop lookin' and just… feel, or whatever sappy shit you want me to say right now."

You snort and let your hand drift higher up her body. "You're terrible at intimacy."

"Sex is pretty fuckin' intimate, Princess."

"Sex is physical," you correct as your left hand cups her breast. "Emotion is intimate. There's a difference."

She groans and rolls her eyes, but does nothing to hide the smile forming on her face. "Geez, artist and poet. What can't you do?" 

"Someone isn't a fan of William Woodsworth."

"Who?"

"He helped launch the Romantic Age."

"Do English fun facts help you get pussy?"

You grin. "Helped me get yours."

"Jesus Christ. Shut up. You've gotta be the most annoying person I've ever been with. The others were just assholes."

"So I'm better than the others by default, then?"

"Unfortunately. Now shut the fuck up, and do something with your mouth other than just speak, loser."

You open your mouth to shoot back another smart comment (not so unsimilar as to what Nat has done to you in the past), but are silenced by her thumb pressed to your lips.

You stare at her for a beat, mouth half-open.

Your lips close around her thumb.

Nat's breath hitches, and her hips jolt downward violently. 

"Fuck," she murmurs under her breath. "Yeah, like that…" 

Her free hand grabs your chin and tilts it upwards the second your tongue begins swirling around her thumb. She angles your head exactly where she wants it and picks up the pace she's been building on your thigh. 

Maybe it's been a while, but it genuinely seems like she's getting off more to just this than you actually going down on her. 

When Nat looks down at you, her eyes are half-lidded. She pulls her thumb out of your mouth and smears the saliva across your lips before crashing back into you again. There's something ferocious about the way she kisses you, like she's just shed the last of her restraints and is fully giving herself over to the feeling.

God, you missed this.

︻デ═一・・・・・・・・・・・・・・

Your clothes get ditched not long after, leaving you in your underwear. Nat's hands have returned to your shoulders. Her lips are half-parted as she moves atop you, eyebrows pinched, and her head is tilted back just enough to expose her neck.

You run your hand up her body, and Nat sighs once your palm finds her breast again. Her slick smears itself across your thigh with every rock of her hips. Before you can even think to ask for more, her hands leave your shoulders to slide up her body and to her bra clasp. Your hands instinctively take advantage of the revealed skin, and your thumbs run over her nipples.

Nat's hands move to your wrists, holding them in place as she continues her increasingly frantic rocking. 

"Christ," she whispers, tightening her hold on your wrists. "You've gotten a lot bolder, huh?"

You shrug, trying to play it off. "Yeah. Had a pretty good teacher."

She laughs, low and raspy. "That so?" She opens her eyes to look back down at you, that lop-sided smirk present once more. "Don't think you got taught well enough last time. Guess we'll have to have another lesson."

"It's a good thing I love learning," you chirp, half-giddy and half-teasing. "And I've been told I'm really receptive to the material."

Nat rolls her eyes. "God, you're such a fuckin' nerd." She pushes herself off your thigh, leaving you suddenly much colder without the heat of her body on top of yours. "But fine." She flops back onto her pillows and gestures for you to follow, but stops you before you can position yourself next to her. "Nuh-uh. We're learning something new today."

Your head tilts sideways as you try to figure out her play. "What's that, then?"

"I…" She exhales through her nose and glances away. Her chest and neck burn red. "You can, like, practice leaving hickies, or whatever." She looks back at you, bashful. "But—but only on my stomach, yeah? Out of view."

"I thought you said you don't like having hickies on your skin?"

"I said visible."

"I don't think—"

"Shut up," she groans. "Take the win, or I'm putting my shirt back on."

 You grin and lean down, hovering your lips above her stomach for a brief moment before pressing a soft kiss to her upper abdomen. The love bites start off small, testing the waters, before you finally commit to a hickey right above her belly button. 

Nat plays with your hair idly as you spend minutes leaving marks (some darker than others) across her stomach before she tugs on your hair to indicate that you're done. 

She sighs deeply when she looks down at the collection of small bruises you've made across her skin and runs her fingers across them, contemplating. 

"Someone had a field day," she murmurs, poking one of the darker hickeys. "That help you get your 'practice' in, or whatever?"

"Dunno. You were the one who let me. Do you think the practice was good enough?"

Her eyes roll dramatically at your teasing question. She tugs your head up closer to hers and answers your question with a frantic kiss.

From there, it's obvious she's grown tired of playing it slow.

It's a blur of teeth clashing and tongues tangling, and you don't even notice Nat's body shifting until she grabs your wrist and begins guiding it down her body. Your breath hitches once you finally clock where she's guiding you, but you do nothing to stop her. 

You do, however, have to fight back a whine once you realise how wet she is for you, even through the fabric of her underwear. Sure, you felt it against your thigh earlier—but it's another thing entirely to feel against your fingers. You let out a soft groan and immediately press your index and middle fingers firmly against the wet spot.

Nat's hips rock against your hand at the sudden pressure (even though she was the one orchestrating it), and her nails dig desperately into your wrist as a shuddering exhale parts from her lips. 

"Fuck, yes…" she murmurs. Her head tilts backwards as she gives herself over to the feeling. 

You're sure it's partially because of the intoxicants running through your veins, but the head rush you get from her behaviour is borderline criminal. You go to dip your hand under the waistband of her underwear, but she bats you away before you can get too far and shimmies them off herself. Once freed of the last remains of her clothing, she lies back on the bed and parts her legs for you.

A trembling hand runs up her parted thighs. You position yourself on your side next to her and let your hand move to her center. You toy with her for a few seconds, simply tracing her folds, then slide two fingers through them. They part easily, and your breath hitches at the feeling of skin-on-skin. 

"You're so wet, Nat," you whisper.

"God, shut up." She tangles her fingers into the hair at the nape of your neck, pulls herself up towards you, and kisses you as your fingers begin to circle her clit. Her hips arch off the bed and further into your touch. She's wet enough that it feels less like you're playing with her clit and more like you're gliding over it.

It's impossible to keep your thoughts grounded when she's panting directly into your mouth. You have to force your fingers to maintain the rhythm she's taught you. You can't tell if it's desperation in the way she clings to you or something else entirely—but who are you to question why she's opening herself up for you again?

Your fingers slide lower down to tease her entrance before one slides in to test the resistance, and another joins it once you realise there's little to none. You groan into her mouth at the feeling of her around your fingers, and she returns the sound with a gasp when your fingers crook into her G-spot.

Nat breaks the kiss and lets her head hit the pillows again, though her hands never leave your hair. You follow her down and begin peppering kisses along her jaw and neck. She exhales hard through her nose and gives her neck up to you, leaning into the atmosphere. Her breath quickens alongside the pace of your fingers, and you swear she's getting close—

"Wait, wait—" Nat grabs your hand and pulls it back from where it rests between her thighs. 

Your first reaction is confusion, followed immediately by concern. "Wait, what? What's wrong?"

She shakes her head and chuckles awkwardly. "Nothin', just… bigger fan of marathons instead of sprints, y'know?"

"Oh. Uh, yeah. I get that. Don't want the race to end before it's even begun, right?"

"Nah, Princess. The race has definitely started. Just don't wanna reach the end before I'm ready to. 's boring if you do it that way."

You nod. She's still holding your wrist, and neither of you has shifted positions. You look down at her, unsure of where to go from here, and she answers your mental question with action.

Your hand is guided to her mouth, and much like what you had done to her earlier, your fingers slide into her mouth. Your jaw drops before you can stop it. In a way, this is far more intimate than a kiss or when your lips were around her thumb—she's doing this, still fully aware that she's tasting herself on your fingertips. She looks up at you through her eyelashes as her tongue slides around, cleaning your digits from what remains of her.

When she pulls your wrist back, your palm rests idly on her chin, and your fingers on her lips. She gives you what is arguably the cockiest grin you've ever received.

"What? No nerdy comment?"

"Holy shit."

That smirk widens. "You're so easy. Kinda sad, honestly."

You push your fingers past her lips once more. Her eyes nearly pop out of her head in shock, but she doesn't push you away or make some move of disgust. 

"I wanna do what we did that night after the drive," you murmur as your fingers press down on her tongue. "Go down on you, I mean. I've, uh, thought about it, since then."

Nat pushes your hand back to speak, lips still curled upward. "Shit, been thinkin' about it, huh?" She scoffs, but her cheeks burn red regardless of the tone she uses. "Someone's a little obsessed. But… yeah. Sure. Or… whatever." She drops your hand and waves vaguely at you. "Go ahead. You can… go down on me."

"Don't sound so excited."

She rolls her eyes. "I'm enthusiastic." 

You roll your eyes in turn and start kissing down her body, taking extra time when you get to the hickeys you had left on her stomach earlier. Nat's fingers thread through your hair as you lower. Your hands slide over her thighs, and you push them outwards. Nat sighs wistfully, assuming you'll go straight for where she wants you to, but lets out a petulant groan when you keep working down her thighs. 

Although you don't praise her directly, you do whisper soft words against her skin—something she can't make out, but with a tone that sounds tender enough to be far too soft for her liking. Your tongue drags along her skin between whispers while Nat twitches restlessly.

The kisses and licks turn into nips and bites; your words remain just as soft and affectionate. 

"Jesus. Just… shut up," Nat groans, grabbing a pillow and covering her face with it. "You're so… sappy." 

You grin into the skin of her thigh. "Just saying what I think."

"Think less." Her words are muffled, but you can see the blush she's probably trying to hide on her face across her neck and bleeding down onto her chest. 

There's no response you could give to that comment that you think would properly encapsulate how you feel. In lieu of a verbal response, your mouth reaches her center, and your tongue begins moving.

You've done some… Google searches… since the last time you did this, and you'd like to think you've learned more in your research—research you plan to turn into empirical testing. You start off with broad, flat strokes of your tongue that avoid her clit on purpose (which results in her tugging on your hair), before shifting your positioning and hooking one of her legs over your shoulder while pushing the other further away, opening her up further for your viewing pleasure.

A moan-sigh parts from her lips when you finally begin lapping at her clit, though you hardly spend enough time there for her to get comfortable. You explore her pussy with intense focus, swiping through her folds and slipping your tongue into her hole. 

This time, you're determined to get her there. 

One of your hands runs up her body to palm at her breast, while the other remains on her thigh, both of them kneading into her flesh. Her skin, slick with sweat from both the path the night has taken and the humid heat of her trailer, sticks to your palms and soaks into the sheets beneath her.

"Come As You Are" by Nirvana crackles through her speakers as Nat's breathing grows staccato. Her hips begin rocking into your face as she bites down on her hand, her muffled groans lost to the reverberating bassline. 

Your hand parts from her breast to trail back down her body and slip into her heat, two fingers joining the frantic movement of your mouth against her clitoris. 

It doesn't take long after that for Nat to reach her climax. A hot treacle runs down your chin and throat, far more profuse than you remember it being. 

You take pride in that.

You let her ride out her orgasm until the tremors begin to still into something more gentle, then retract your fingers from her and drag your tongue up her torso until your lips meet. Nat kisses you back sloppily, one of her hands still tangled in your hair while the one she had bitten into rests loosely on the mattress. 

"...Shit," she murmurs once the kiss breaks and your forehead rests on hers. "You got better at that, Princess."

A brief huff of air parts from your lips and fans over her face. "Thanks."

Both of you smile warmly at each other as your breathing slows to match hers. It's a far softer environment than you would have ever imagined Nat would be capable of at the beginning of the year, back when you were still lost in a mindset based more on rumours and schoolyard gossip than the truth of knowing the girl currently splayed out beneath you.

Reality, you've found, has been better than fantasy, even if messier.

Speaking of messier—Nat starts growing restless. You aren't a gambler, but you'd be willing to bet your life on her not being too fond of the warm dynamic that has taken hold in the afterglow. 

She clears her throat and turns her head to the side, collecting her composure once more. 

"So, uh, that was sweet 'n all, but maybe we should play a little harder, huh?"

Your brows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"You're always so careful with me," she scoffs. "I'm not fragile, babe. You can touch me like you mean it."

"...I did?"

"No, Princess. Not like that. You can be rougher with me."

"What?"

Nat rolls her eyes. "You can hit me, y'know."

You blink.

"I'll be fine," she clarifies. "I can take it. Like I said, I'm not made of glass."

You consider that for a beat. "Where… where would I even hit you? I don't wanna hurt you or anything—"

"Jesus Christ." A deep, profound sigh leaves her, though it feels more affectionate than cruel. "I'm not gonna teach you how to fuckin' slap me. Just… do it. Where it feels natural, or whatever."

"Like… right now?"

"You're so fucking dumb sometimes. No. When we're fucking."

"Ohhhhhhhhhh. Right. Yeah. That makes more sense."

 She stares at you for a minute, likely in disbelief, then rolls her eyes and shrugs. "Whatever. Anyway… I've got, like, shit tucked away. If you wanna try something that isn't just hands and mouths."

"...Like what…?"

Another roll of her eyes. You don't even know if you're being purposefully ignorant, or if you're just genuinely a little special sometimes.

"Just grab the shoebox from under my bed."

You hesitate for only a moment before following her instruction and reach blindly under the bed until you come across the shoebox—brown and nondescript, something that no parent would likely bat an eye over—and pass it off to her.

Nat props herself up on the pillow behind her, yanks the lid off unceremoniously, pulls out the worn shirt covering whatever's in there, and presents the contents to you.

"Got a vibe and a strap."

Your jaw drops comically. It's not that you thought Nat was a saint when it came to this sort of stuff—you just didn't think she'd be so brazen about it.

(Although, if you really think about it, you shouldn't be surprised she's this forthright. It fits her much better than being bashful about the topic.)

"Uhhhh…" Your face burns. The room was already hot and humid, but it feels impossibly warmer now. "I don't… I don't even know… I wouldn't even know how to use that," you say, gesturing vaguely to the harness and silicone attached to it. "I've never… like… done anything like that before!" Your responses come out in nervous sputters as your face grows ever warmer.

Nat doesn't (much to your appreciation) comment on how visibly flustered you are, and just shrugs. "We all gotta learn somehow, y'know? You learn by doin'."

You continue to sputter out some nonsensical responses about how you wouldn't know where to start, or that it's too short notice, or that you're too drunk…

She just watches you flounder with a crooked smile, but does eventually give you the reprieve and waves her hand dismissively. "It's whatever right now. Option is there, though. You can try it on next time."

A soft smile spreads across your face. "Yeah. Next time. I like that, I think."

Your smile is returned with a softening of the smirk on her face and a wistful look in her eyes. She doesn't let you think about what that could mean for too long until she's leaning closer to you, cupping the back of your neck, and pulling you in for a slow, deep kiss. As the kiss progresses and her tongue swipes into your mouth, you start to feel her free hand trail down your body.

You don't bother trying to stop her. You're already soaked, just the act of getting her off turning you on enough that her fingers find no resistance as they part your folds. Nimble fingers locate your clit with a speed most straight men would be convinced they have. Your arms loop around her neck as she begins circling the bundle of nerves, and you let your brain shut off.

Her tongue battles with yours (even though you're barely putting up much of a fight in return) as she begins smearing your slick across the pads of her fingers. When her hand moves downwards, you already know why she's been gathering the wetness, and your hips instinctively tilt upwards to make the action easier.

Nat groans into your mouth when her middle slides into your heat, a sound so guttural you wonder if this gets her off more than you getting her off.

The kiss breaks with a quiet gasp that parts from your lips as she nudges your G-spot with the tip of her finger. When your eyes flutter open, hers are glued to your face. Her index joins her middle, and her relentless assault begins.

You aren't sure exactly how long it takes to reach your climax—time blurs in the sweltering heat of the moment—but what you are sure of, however, is that Nat's eyes never part from your face the whole time. When your precipice is reached, she moans in tune with you, as though you falling apart is the hottest thing that's happened all night. 

Your come-down is easy, and Nat makes a better attempt at the caring partner tonight than she did that first night. She delicately passes you your clothes back, hands you a water bottle from her nightstand (which is stale and lukewarm, but it's better than nothing), and shows you to the washroom to allow you to clean yourself up. 

When you return to her bedroom, she's shut off her stereo and made her bed. She's under the covers and on her phone, but tosses it down when you close the door and nods at you. "Hey, you stayin' the night?"

You blink, part of you not expecting her to offer. "Uh… yeah, sure. That sounds good." You clamber into bed beside her and tuck yourself under the ragged sheets. 

Unfortunately, Nat is also freezing. Which is something, conveniently, she forgot to mention. You don't remember her being this cold before; maybe she just has bad heat regulation?

Regardless of her current temperature, you don't stop her when she turns on her side and presses her back to your chest with a grunt.

"Cool," she mutters as she (definitely doesn't) snuggle into you. "We don't serve continental breakfast here."

You bark out a laugh and slide your hand over her waist. "Darn, I was expecting a pancake breakfast and a mimosa. One-star Yelp review."

"No one fuckin' uses Yelp anymore, loser." She holds your hand (notably trying not to make it a 'big thing')

 and rests her arm across yours at the same time. "Just… like… Karens. And my ma."

"Ah, so the people who could make your life a living hell, then?"

Nat scoffs. "Damn, got me there." She turns to look at you over her shoulder. "Oh, please, don't give me a one-star review on Yelp. Please, it would be detrimental to my small, local business," she deadpans.

"Hmm… decisions decisions."

She rolls her eyes and turns back to face the wall. "I'll also kill you."

"A five-star review it is."

"Thank you for your patronage at Casa del Nat."

You chuckle and rest your forehead against her scapula. "Goodnight, Nat."

"G'night, Princess."

a/n: i hope u all enjoyed smut : character analysis. friendly reminder if you think it means something, it probably does. much love