Not that it was ever full. Not really. Just Dallas and Y/n, rattling around in a two-bedroom shack with peeling paint and a porch that creaked when the wind blew too hard.

Now it was just her.

The screen door hung loose on its hinges, swaying with a low, mournful whine. Someone had left it open. The last person to leave, probably. Last night. Or the night before. She couldn't remember.

Inside, the air was thick with dust and the cloying smell of stale cigarette smoke. Dallas's jacket was still slung over the back of a kitchen chair, one sleeve dangling to the floor.

A plate sat on the counter, half-eaten food crusted hard, a fork resting beside it like someone was coming back.