You didn't think about Natalie Scatorccio.

You didn't think about how she was doing, you didn't want to keep in touch with her, you didn't wonder how she was handling everything that happened; not even when a tiny part of your mind was screaming at you to do so. Why would you? After the way she treated you? Pff, no thank you. There was a time where you would never think in such way, though, yet you would never admit it. There was a time where you would do anything for her, even when the two of you were nothing.

On those nights where the alcohol controlled your every though, you could still feel her lingering touch on your skin—how it burned in such a pleasuring way, in a way that was so uniquely hers, how her lips tasted, how her fingers felt—. You hated her for that; hated how vivid those memories were, how they slipped through the cracks no matter how tightly you tried to seal them. Hated that she ruined it by choosing him.

Travis. Your brother.

He didn’t even know what she was like, not the way you did. Not in the dark, quiet moments when her voice got soft and her guard finally fell, when she looked at you like you were everything and nothing at once. When she'd lean in like kissing you would kill her, yet would do it anyway.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it was just physical. That what you were really mad about was how stupid it all was. But every time her name came up—on the news or on someone else's lips—you felt that tug in your chest, ugly and familiar.

So when she showed up at your door two years later—hood up, backpack slung low, with a fresh bruise blooming along her cheekbone—you felt it again.

It was late. Raining, of course, because why wouldn’t it be?

"He's not here." Was all you managed to say. Nat blinked at you like she’d just remembered you existed, like maybe she'd hoped you wouldn’t be the one to answer the door. "Yeah, I figured..."

You didn't answer... you just stared. She looked tired—not just run-down tired, but soul tired. The kind of tired you used to see in your own reflection back then, back when things were bad. She had that same hard look in her eye and, suddenly, you were seventeen again, with blood on your sleeves, arguing behind the cabin because you couldn’t stand the way she looked at him. The way she didn’t look at you.

There was a beat. You could had slam the door, you could had tell her to get fucked; but instead, you heard her out. "Got kicked outta the motel. Long story..." She lazily explained—knowing, or maybe just hoping, that you'd care—.

You were so close to slamming the door and going back to bed but then she shivered and her shoulders curled in, and something in your chest cracked open.

“You can stay..." You muttered after sighing. "Just—... don’t make a mess..." Natalie raised an eyebrow and spoke once again. "Didn’t know you were into hospitality now." She rasped out.