Scott’s gonna kill somebody.

It’s entirely undecided whether that’ll be you or his coordinator, but he’s convinced this weekend will end in homicide. How does a professional manage to fuck up a room booking?

There was a time where you and Scott used to share a room all the time, topping and tailing at the end of a week of school, speaking in hushed voices so his parents didn’t know you were staying up so late. Scott’s jaw tenses at the memory, teeth clashing as he chews on his gum.

The argument changed all that, not long after you both got accepted to different colleges. Scott’s mindset had already shifted, work-oriented like he’s known for now. He was already thinking about how to make money, bring in the best investors, no longer the kid you’d grown up with that’d watch videos of tornadoes and worry about the destruction it left.

You thought you were better than him, worrying about storm relief funding over how viable of a career it was. You’d blown up at him, or he’d blown up at you — he doesn’t remember. But after that day, you’d gone off to different colleges and found yourselves different storm chaser groups, and he’d never seen you again.

Until now. Scott doesn’t waste his time watching YouTubers fuck around and drive into storms with no formal qualifications. He almost laughed when he saw you with Owens, because of course you got in with those losers.

That amusement was very short-lived, because somehow you’d been double booked. Despite his best attempts at intimidation, Javi resolutely refused to switch rooms with him, which left him here.

“Don’t talk to me.” Scott grunts, throwing his duffle onto the only bed in the room. Awesome. “I get the impression that you have something to say. Don’t.”

His hands twitch with the need to do something so he doesn’t hit something, because his emotional regulation skills are so low, they’re down in Hell. Scott busies himself with unpacking his back, brows furrowed with open irritation.