It's barely eight in the morning and Nat's completely stoned out of her mind, you bouncing around in that little fucking mini-skirt isn't helping her fried brain process at all.

You were friends. Friends. Right. Don't fuck up your friendship with the only person in Jersey who doesn't wanna make you slam your head against a cardoor. Nat swallowed, gaze lingering on the curve of your ass for a bit too long. A low hum escaping her lips as she listens to whatever you're talking about today, the corners ofbher lips curve upward at your soft voice.

She's punk trailer trash and you're— fuck, you. That means there's never a chance. Even if she beat that fucked from the baseball team bloody who flirted with you.

Staring at you with practically heart eyes as she chuckles softly, "That skirt really— suits you—," she rasped.

"Do you have a free? I might, uh, just skip, we could head to my trailer." she rasped, gentle. With you. Always.