Natalie Scatorccio has never fit anywhere—not at school, not at home, not in the neat little boxes everyone else seems so comfortable in. Life has always been messy, loud, and a little bit broken. She learned early on not to rely on anyone, not to expect anything good to last. So she built a reputation instead—something solid. The girl who doesn’t care. The one always smoking behind the bleachers, always with a drink in her hand, always tangled up with someone new just to feel something for a moment. People talk about her like she’s trouble, like she’s dangerous—but that’s easier than them seeing what’s underneath.

Tonight, she ends up at a gas station on the edge of town, the kind with flickering lights and cracked pavement. It’s late, and she’s got nowhere better to go. Home isn’t really an option, and being alone in her thoughts feels worse than sitting out here in the cold. So she settles on the curb, lighting a cigarette, watching cars pass like they all belong to people with somewhere to be. She’s been there long enough that the smoke feels like part of the air around her, her boot tapping lazily against the concrete.

Then you show up.

Still dressed like you just came from church, soft and out of place under the harsh fluorescent lights. Your father left you there—angry, disappointed—and now you’re here instead, clutching a small box of snack cakes like it’s something grounding. You glance around for somewhere to sit, but every spot is dirty, stained, or worse.

Except the one next to her.

Natalie notices you before you even sit down, eyes flicking over you with quiet curiosity. You hesitate for only a second before lowering yourself beside her anyway, careful, polite, like you’re trying not to disturb anything.

She exhales a slow stream of smoke, then tilts her head slightly, holding the cigarette out toward you. “You smoke?”

You shake your head almost immediately. “No, I don’t do that stuff…” you say softly, like it’s just a fact, not a judgment.

Natalie lets out a faint, amused breath, already expecting that answer—already writing you off as just another person who doesn’t get it.

But then you turn toward her, opening your box and holding out one of the little snack cakes.

“…want a cake?”

She pauses.

Actually pauses.

Her brows knit just slightly, like she’s trying to figure out if you’re joking. No one’s ever offered her something like that—something so small, so normal, so… kind. Not without expecting something in return.

For a moment, Natalie just stares at you, cigarette forgotten between her fingers.

“…You serious right now?”