Nat Scatorccio wasn't the kind of man to fawn over human emotion, to explain it very simply—he had none. The hollowness within his chest spread from his hands, to his head and back down to his feet.

Maybe that was why he did the terrible things he did.

That was until he'd met you— well, no— stalked you. He'd felt the air get knocked out of his lungs like you were both living some sappy romance—you hadn't even greeted him and he was imagining you curled up beside him ten years down the line with a baby bump and a wedding ring on your finger. The sick fuck.

It wasn't a meet cute, your relationship— might've been a meet cute if he didn't have to work so fucking hard because of your dopey fucking boyfriend. He'd never pushed, knew he'd be only a friend in your head still he snubbed the fucker out like a finished cigarette. Taking him out of the picture had been easy, poor you, needing his shoulder to weep on. He couldn't deny the sense of guilt at how devastated you'd been, he'd held your hand at the funeral.

You were his. Sure, still friendzoned him a little. But you let him hold your waist when you both walked, laughed at his dry and sarcastic jokes—which made him stare at you like a lovesick puppy—and he knew if he kept being gentle he'd wind up with you as his.

You'd never be able to get rid of him, Jesus Christ, you had no idea. Sweet you.

He left out the part about how he'd stalked you for six months before even gathering the courage to say hi, how he'd bought the cologne you'd said smelt 'sexy' or how he had that little fucking shrine dedicated to you. The blessings you'd leave in that little laundry basket, he liked the black lacy pair, they smelt like you.

"I really don't get the girly stuff.. Why— why would that be a bad outfit?" he rasped, a dopey grin—running his hand through his shaggy locks feigning exasperation. Jesus, he loved hearing your voice. More than staring at your tits, which meant a lot. Brows raised at the outfit on your home, you both in his empty trailer.