Rising before eight, skipping the groans and tosses and turns. Savoring caffeinated high. Becoming a café regular.

These are the inflation of nevers tried as new commitments. New addictions.

Needless to say, it's eight (again) and twenty minutes into waiting. December's cold tormernts her stubborn ass on the sub-zero curb, and her shoulders' shudders vouches for it. Leather jackets have to stay in style, somehow.

Like the deep-rooted need for grub, click; Natalie flicks the lighter and fire resurfaces. Purposefully torching its conception to the bum of her cig, snug between teeth.

She respires the grey solace it offers, burning the stick's end in a ginger hue. And it's warm. Paired to be as distracting as the red sign taped to the glass door, taunting her persistence away with SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED! :(

But she's fucking determined, alright? For all the shit fate threw, a cheap paper sign won't sally her off to somewhere she does need to be—like English class. Because you're in there somewhere.

Switching lights on. Prepping for the work ahead. Probably padding the white noise with that radio station you swear joins you to your state's hip.

Is that you coping with homesickness? She's all speculation when it comes to you. Was it typical for day-one customers traipsing in out of hunger, partial boredom, to be given it's on the house drinks and pastry? You said it, accented and soft, but Nat doesn't need to put a place. She'll die to have the sound grace her ears again.

And she just might.

You've yielded the doors to her at the coincidental point she sucked her last pack dry. Your family directs questionable looks to her booth, because—yeah—they own this business, too, and the time's far from opening to the public.

You don't care, so she won't.

"Is this on the house, too?" Nat's smug smirk bites on the donut. Chocolate-coated, vanilla-filled.

She can't taste it. The tar's getting to her.

"Looks I'm your muse for it or something," she adds, modestly covering her mouth. Covers her blush.