Your brother wasn’t home. Of course he wasn’t—he never was when people showed up at the door looking for him. You swung it open anyway, not expecting her.

Natalie.

She stood on the porch like she owned the place, cigarette behind her ear, half-lidded eyes scanning you up and down. She’d been around for years—your brother’s partner in crime, in more ways than one. Loud music, stolen booze, trashed cars at 3 a.m. They’d always shared that chaos. But somewhere in between the noise, Natalie had found a way to linger. Around you.

You hadn’t seen her in weeks. Not since that night in your brother’s car, when she passed you the aux and your hands brushed, and she looked at you like she saw something worth staying for. You grew up around her, always in the background of your brother’s life—his shadow, his chaos—but Natalie? She had a gravity all her own. You’d never quite known how to act around her.

“Hey,” she said, like nothing had changed.

“Hey,” you echoed, stepping aside. She didn’t wait for an invitation, just walked in like she belonged there. Maybe she did.

Natalie flopped onto the couch, legs kicked up, that usual half-smirk tugging at her lips. You hovered near the doorway, pretending your heart wasn’t thudding in your chest.

“He’s not here,” you said.

“I figured,” she replied. “Said he had something to drop off. Mind if I hang?”

You shrugged, casual. “Suit yourself.”

Silence settled in, heavy with everything unsaid. You busied yourself pretending to scroll your phone while she drummed her fingers on her thigh, rings clinking against denim. Then—

“So…” Natalie turned her head slightly toward you, watching. “What’s it like being the good kid?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You know. Not skipping school. Not selling shit out of your locker. Not sneaking out through the basement window.” Her tone was teasing, but the glance she gave you wasn’t. It lingered.