Craze

craze | 23 | she/her | woc | I write sometimes | Joe Keery stan

[gloomy4djo]

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[gloomy4djo]

Back to the Start - Chapter 4 : Wildflowers and Ferris Wheels

Back to the Start

Warnings: Heavy pining | romantic tension | nostalgic themes.

WC: 1.5k

A/N: the last chapter was cute but this one may be cuter lol. Gator bringing her random flowers just because? so fucking adorable.

The world didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. It was as if the sharp edges of the last seven years had been sanded down, replaced by a rhythm that was becoming as natural as breathing. The silence that once felt like a canyon between you and Gator had been filled with the sounds of shared laughter and the low hum of the diner’s jukebox.

Fridays were no longer a nervous countdown; they were a sanctuary. You didn’t even have to look at the door to know it was noon. You’d be in the back booth, and the bell would chime, and there he would be. The ritual was sacred: a large basket of fries between you and two milkshakes that somehow always ended up with two straws in one glass by the end of the hour.

But it was the moments in between the Fridays that were changing the landscape of your heart.

It became a common sight in town—the Sheriff’s cruiser idling at the curb outside your studio. At first, the neighbors gossiped, but soon it just became part of the scenery. Gator would step inside, usually still wearing his vest and that black jacket, looking like he’d just come from a scene, but his eyes would soften the moment they landed on you.

And he never came empty-handed.

"Found these out by the old creek bed near the county line," Gator said one Tuesday evening, stepping into the studio. He looked a little sheepish, holding out a bundle of vibrant, purple lupines tied together with a piece of discarded twine.

You wiped your paint-stained hands on your apron, a genuine smile lighting up your face. "They’re beautiful, Gator. Truly."

"They reminded me of that painting you did junior year," he muttered, watching as you placed them in a glass jar on your desk. "The one with the field. I figured they’d look better in here than out in the mud."

"You remember that painting?" you asked softly, looking up at him.

Gator leaned against the doorframe, his thumb hooking into his tactical vest. A small, knowing smirk tugged at his lips. "I remember everything you painted. I was the one who had to carry 'em all to my truck, remember? My back hasn't forgotten the 'great canvas haul' of 2016."

You laughed, the sound bright and easy. "You complained the whole time."

"Because you were bossy," he countered, though his tone was nothing but fond. "Still are, probably."

"Only when it comes to my art."

"Good," he stepped closer, his presence warm and grounding in the quiet room. "I like you bossy. Means you're still you."

The flowers became a language of their own. Sometimes it was a handful of bright yellow sunflowers he’d picked up from a roadside stand; other times it was a single, delicate rose he’d clearly spent too much money on at the florist in the next town over. Each time he brought them, it felt like he was laying down a brick, rebuilding the foundation that had been demolished years ago.

For the first time in a decade, you felt safe. Not just safe from the shadows outside, but safe in your own skin. The "before" didn't feel like a ghost story anymore; it felt like a map you were finally following back home.

One afternoon, as you were finishing up a sketch, Gator dropped by just to bring you a coffee. He stayed for an hour, sitting on a wooden stool and watching you work in silence.

"You're staring," you murmured, not looking up from your charcoal lines.

"Hard not to," he replied, his voice low and raspy.

You finally looked at him, and the intensity in his gaze made your breath hitch. It wasn't the look of a man checking on a citizen; it was the look of a man who was hopelessly, desperately in love with the woman in front of him.

"Everything is... it’s going back to how it was, isn't it?" you asked, the question barely a whisper.

Gator reached out, his hand hovering near yours on the table before he tentatively covered your fingers with his own. His skin was warm, his touch certain. "No," he said softly, shaking his head. "It’s better. Because this time, I know exactly what I’m losing if I let go. And I’m not letting go again."

You smiled, a deep, soul-deep sense of peace settling over you as you squeezed his hand. The future wasn't just a concept anymore. It was right here, in the scent of wildflowers and the weight of his hand on yours.

-

The town fair was a neon-soaked tradition that smelled of diesel, fried dough, and woodchips. In high school, it had been a battle of wills; you’d spend weeks pestering Gator, dragging him from the shooting gallery to the Tilt-A-Whirl while he grumbled about the crowds and the "death trap" machinery. He’d put on a show of being miserable, but you’d always catch him watching you out of the corner of his eye—his chest swelling with a quiet, fierce contentment every time you let out a breathless laugh.

This time, the script flipped.

You were closing up the studio on a humid Thursday evening when Gator leaned against the doorframe, spinning his truck keys around his finger. He wasn’t in uniform, just a clean white t-shirt and jeans that fit him a little too well.

"So," he started, trying to sound casual, though the slight flush on his neck gave him away. "The fair’s in town. Set up in the old clearing by the tracks. I was thinking... maybe you’d want to go? With me?"

You paused, a paintbrush halfway to the rinse jar. Your heart did a slow, dizzying roll. "Oh, Gator!" you exclaimed, the excitement bubbling up before you could check it. "Really? I haven't gone since... well, since the last time we went."

The sheer, unfiltered joy on your face hit him like a physical weight. Gator’s cool exterior crumbled instantly, replaced by a grin so wide it made him look ten years younger. "Yeah?" he asked, his voice lifting. "Well, I figured someone had to make sure you didn't get sick on the Zipper again. Safety first, right?"

The fairgrounds were a sensory overload, a kaleidoscope of flashing lights against the dark North Dakota horizon. But for the first time in years, the noise didn't feel overwhelming—it felt like a celebration.

Gator was a different man tonight. He didn't just walk beside you; he walked with you, his hand constantly finding the small of your back or catching your elbow to guide you through the throng of people. When you instinctively reached out and linked your arm through his, pulling him toward a game booth, he didn't grumble. He just tucked your arm closer to his side, his thumb stroking the fabric of your jacket.

"Cotton candy first, or popcorn?" he asked, looking down at you with a gaze that was dangerously soft.

"Both," you decided. "And we’re sharing."

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that was lost in the music of the carousel. "Some things never change."

The night became a blur of nostalgia and new beginnings. You shared a giant tub of popcorn, your fingers brushing against his in the buttery depths of the bucket. You ate blue cotton candy until your lips were stained, laughing when he pointed it out, only for you to realize his were the same color.

You rode the Ferris wheel as the climax of the night. As the bucket reached the very top, the machinery groaned to a halt, leaving you suspended in the cool night air, the entire county spread out beneath you in a grid of flickering lights.

The silence up there was profound. You looked over at Gator, expecting him to be looking at the view, but he was looking at you. The neon lights of the midway reflected in his hazel eyes, making them look like gold.

"You're doing it again," you whispered, the cold air nipping at your cheeks.

"Doing what?"

"Looking at me like I'm the only thing here."

Gator didn't look away. He shifted closer on the bench, the movement causing the bucket to sway gently. He reached out, his fingers tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear, his touch lingering on your cheek.

"Maybe that's because you are," he murmured.

The teasing was gone. The grumbling was gone. In the quiet of the high altitude, the truth was the only thing left. Gator looked at you with a raw, aching kind of devotion—the look of a man who had finally found his way back to the only place he ever felt like he belonged.

You leaned your head against his shoulder, feeling the steady, heavy thrum of his heart through his shirt. For the first time in a long time, the world below didn't matter. There was no Sheriff's department, no Tillman ranch, and no past. There was just the smell of sugar, the sound of the wind, and the man who had finally stopped running.

Taglist: @simsimstay2017 @keerygirlie98 @scaramou @stydiaforeverbitchezz @louisbelongstome28 @kristywidget97 @emmapaucubarsi2 @mystickittytaco

[gloomy4djo]

Back to the Start - Chapter 3 : Sugar and Regret

Back to the Start

—

Warnings: Emotional tension, lingering trauma, and heavy atmosphere. Some angst, themes of grief and loss, emotional repression, regret and feelings of abandonment. Romantic tension, unspoken pining and emotional vulnerability.

A/N: the ending for this chapter really had me in my feelings, good feelings though! I've already drafted out my ideas for the next few chapters and I cannot wait to write them. Things are slowly starting to look better for them. Next chapter is just a whole bunch of cuteness.

WC: 2.2k

The smell of fresh paint had finally replaced the sharp, lingering scent of bleach and broken glass. It had taken weeks of grueling work—longer than you’d liked—but the studio was finally breathing again. You had replaced the warped frames and repainted the scuffed baseboards. The "Grand Reopening" sign in the window felt like a victory flag planted in the middle of a battlefield.

Business was slow to return, but the children came back first. Their laughter and the messy, chaotic joy of their finger-painting sessions did more to fix the building than any carpenter could. What you didn’t know was that the studio was never truly alone. Every few nights, Gator would pull his car to a stop across the street. He’d sit there in the dark, watching the building for an hour, sometimes two. He’d check the locks, guarding the only place left in town that didn't feel cold.

It was a Tuesday night, nearly a month after the reopening. You were alone, moving through the ritual of closing up, leaving only the soft, warm glow of the front desk lamp. You were exhausted, but there was a quiet peace in the room as you organized the brushes for the morning class.

Outside, the crunch of gravel signaled a car pulling up. You stiffened, your hand instinctively tightening around your keys. A familiar silhouette passed the front window. You exhaled as the bell above the door chimed.

Gator stepped inside. He wore a dark tactical vest over a simple black long sleeve shirt, topped with a black jacket. He looked hesitant, keeping one hand hooked into the edge of his vest as his eyes scanned the room.

"Everything looks... good," he said, his voice echoing in the quiet space. "Better than the last time I was in here."

"It’s getting there," you replied, leaning against the desk. "You’re out late."

Gator shrugged, finally meeting your eyes. The awkwardness between you was thick. "Just in the area. Making sure the locks held. People around here... they don't always know when to leave a good thing alone."

He started to pace a small circle near the door, his boots clicking on the floorboards. He looked out of place among the splashes of color—a man built for the harshness of the county standing in a room meant for creation.

"You, uh... you been busy?" he asked. The question was clunky, a far cry from the easy banter you used to share.

"Teaching mostly. The kids are happy to be back."

Gator nodded slowly. He looked like he wanted to leave, but his feet were anchored to the spot. "Listen," he started, his voice dropping to that low, raspy register. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit that had survived the years. "I was thinking. I mean, if you're not too busy... or if you don't hate me too much..."

He trailed off, looking at his boots. Suddenly, the air in the studio was gone. The same heavy, suffocating tension that had paralyzed you both the night he helped fix the window rushed back. It was that electric pull—that terrifying current—that made your skin buzz. You could see the pulse jumping in his neck.

"Gator?" you prompted softly.

He looked up, and the stiffness in his shoulders seemed to melt. "Do you want to grab lunch some time? At the old diner? You know... the one with the red booths near the tracks."

You froze. In high school, that diner had been your sanctuary. You’d spent hundreds of hours in the back booth. You hesitated, the memories of your final argument and the years of silence flashing behind your eyes like a warning. Gator caught the flicker of doubt on your face immediately. He shifted his weight, looking ready to bolt.

"I mean, if it's too much, I get it," he muttered quickly. "I shouldn't have—"

"Yeah, Gator," you interrupted, a small, tentative smile finally breaking through and tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I’d like that."

He stopped mid-sentence, his eyes widening slightly as if he hadn't actually expected a 'yes.' The tension in his jaw relaxed, and a genuine, boyish grin broke through.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you repeated, feeling a strange warmth bloom in your chest. "I’d really like that."

"Right. Good," he said, his voice lighter than you'd heard it in years. "Maybe... Friday? I’m off at noon."

"Friday works."

"Right. Friday." He backed toward the door, the bell chiming as he opened it. He paused on the threshold, the cool air rushing in. "I’ll see you then."

-

Between Tuesday and Friday, the hours seemed to stretch like a long, thin shadow. You found yourself checking the clock at the studio more than you ever had, counting down the days with a restlessness you couldn’t quite name. You told yourself you should still be angry. You should be cold. After seven years of silence, you shouldn't be rushing home to check your reflection in the mirror, but the heart is a stubborn thing, and yours was beating a rhythm you hadn't felt since you were eighteen.

When Friday finally arrived, you flipped the sign to "CLOSED" two hours early. You went home, showered, and chose your clothes with a deliberate care that made your hands shake.

You made it to The diner ten minutes before noon. The place was a time capsule of yellowed linoleum and the scent of burnt coffee. Out of habit, you claimed the back booth—the one tucked away near the kitchen door where the rest of the world couldn't reach you. When the waitress approached, you didn't even look at the menu.

"A large order of fries," you said, your voice a little breathless. "And two milkshakes. One vanilla... and one strawberry." Back then, you would have ordered one to share, two straws sticking out of a single glass. Ordering two was the silent acknowledgement of the space between you now—the gap you weren't sure you could bridge.

The bell above the door gave its tinny chime. You looked up, and for a second, the years vanished.

Gator walked in, dressed in normal clothes—a dark hoodie and well-worn jeans. His hair was styled in that familiar slick-back with the faded sides, a look that made him seem more like the boy you remembered and less like the Sheriff's deputy. He scanned the room, his eyes lighting up the moment he spotted you in your corner.

He made his way over, his hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket. As he reached the table, his eyes dropped to the spread—the mountain of fries and the strawberry milkshake waiting for him. A genuine, lopsided smile spread across his face, the kind that reached his eyes and stayed there.

"You actually came," he said, his voice soft with surprise. He slid into the booth across from you, the leather creaking as he settled in. "And you remembered the strawberry."

"I told you I’d be here, Gator," you said, offering a small smile. "And some things are hard to forget."

The first twenty minutes were anchored in a polite, clumsy awkwardness. You were different people now; the silence that used to be comfortable felt heavy with the weight of things unsaid. You talked about the studio’s new classes; he talked about the mundane parts of his week that didn't involve a badge. But eventually, the small talk ran dry, and the hum of the diner faded into the background.

Gator’s smile faltered, replaced by a somber, focused intensity. He pushed his milkshake aside and leaned forward, his eyes locked onto yours.

"I’m sorry," he said suddenly. The words were blunt, hanging in the air between you like a lifeline. "For how I drove away that night. For leaving you standing there in the dark. I’ve spent seven years regretting getting in that truck. Wishing I could go back and just... shut my mouth. Stayed on that porch."

He looked down at his hands, his knuckles whitening. "And I’m sorry I wasn't there when your mom passed. I wanted to be. God, I wanted to be."

You felt a familiar ache in your chest, but you stayed quiet, letting him speak.

"I found out from my dad," he whispered. "And I... I sat outside your house. Three nights in a row, right around midnight. I’d park at the end of the gravel and just sit there, staring at your front door. I wanted to knock so bad it felt like my skin was crawling, but I couldn't. I couldn't face you. Not after what I’d said. Not after I’d become exactly what I promised I wouldn't."

The air seemed to leave your lungs. You stared at him, your eyes wide and your heart jumping against your ribs. "You... you sat outside my house?"

Gator looked up, the vulnerability in his gaze raw and unguarded. "Every night. I just wanted to make sure you were okay. But I felt like a ghost. I didn't think I had the right to be a person to you anymore."

The shock of the confession rippled through you. All those nights you had sat in your darkened kitchen, mourning your mother and the loss of your best friend, he had been right there—just a few yards away in the dark.

The bitterness that had been your armor for years finally started to crumble. You looked at him, your gaze softening until it mirrored the way you used to look at him in the bed of his truck or the halls of the high school. You spoke in that soft, steady tone you had always reserved just for him.

"The past is the past, Gator," you said sweetly, the familiar softness of your voice acting as a bridge across the years. "We can’t go back and fix what happened on that porch or take back the silence that followed. All we can do now is focus on the future... and what we're going to do with it."

Gator stared at you, his breath hitching as if he were seeing you clearly for the first time in a decade. He looked like a man who had been underwater for seven years and was finally being allowed to breathe.

"The future," he repeated, his voice barely a whisper. "I think I'd like to try that. If you'll let me."

You looked at him after he said that—really looked at him. You saw the tired lines around his eyes and the regret he carried, but you also saw the spark of the boy who had once been your entire world. You nodded slowly, a small, genuine smile blooming on your face.

"I think I will," you said.

-

The air outside of the diner was sharp, a biting contrast to the grease-slicked warmth of the booth. The wind whipped between the buildings near the tracks, but neither of you moved toward your cars just yet. You stood across from each other on the weathered sidewalk, the distance between you barely three feet, yet it felt like the most significant space in the world.

Gator shoved his hands deep into his jacket pockets, shifting his weight from heel to toe. The restlessness that usually defined him had settled into something quieter, something more grounded.

"It was really nice," he said, his voice barely carrying over the low hum of a distant freight train. He looked back at the faded neon sign of the diner and then back to you. "Catching up. It was... it was nice to be back in there with you. Without the yelling. Without the mess."

You pulled your coat tighter around your chest, nodding as a small breath of mist escaped your lips. "I’m glad you asked me, Gator. That night at the studio... I’m glad you didn’t just walk back to your car."

"Me too," he whispered.

The conversation hit a sudden, jarring halt, but the silence wasn't empty. It was heavy. You stayed there, caught in each other's gravity, staring just a little too long. It was that specific kind of look—the one that bypasses the last seven years and dives straight back into the decade of history before it.

The tension was thick, electric and suffocating all at once. It was the undeniable realization that despite the silence, the hurt, and the divergent paths you’d taken, the core of it hadn't changed. You weren't just two old friends grabbing fries; you were two people who had been the center of each other's universe, and that pull was still there, stronger than ever.

It was in the way his eyes searched yours, desperate and soft, and the way you didn't look away. It was the terrifying, beautiful truth that neither of you had ever stopped being in love with the other. The feeling was right there, trembling in the air between you, unspoken but screaming to be heard.

Gator took a half-step closer, his shadow overlapping yours on the concrete. For a moment, it looked like he might finally close the gap, his gaze dropping to your lips before snapping back to your eyes with a look of pure, raw longing.

"I'll see you around, right?" he asked, his voice thick. "This wasn't just a one-time thing?"

"No," you promised, your heart hammering against your ribs. "It wasn't."

He nodded, a sharp, jerky movement as he forced himself to step back toward his truck. He didn't want to go, and you didn't want to watch him leave, but as he climbed into the driver's seat, the look he gave you through the glass told you everything.

The future you’d spoken about wasn’t just a concept anymore. It was starting right now.

Taglist: @simsimstay2017 @keerygirlie98 @scaramou @stydiaforeverbitchezz @louisbelongstome28 @kristywidget97 @emmapaucubarsi2

[gloomy4djo]

Chapter 3 should be out later today (it’s currently 1am)

[gloomy4djo]

Im getting so fucking frustrated 😭

I dunno if my acc is shadow banned or something like what’s happening

[gloomy4djo]

Back to the Start - Chapter 2 : The Weight of Seven Years

Back to the Start

—

Warnings: mentions of reader’s mom passing away, verbal coldness from both her and Gator. Vandalism, emotional tension, heavy angst. (Roy being an absolute cunt per usual). Gator’s a little bit of a cunty in the beginning but he’s trying his best.

WC: 3.5k

A/N: next chapter will be less depressing, and more so Gator trying to ease his way back into her life and make things right. it'll be cute and maybe a little sad but mostly happy vibes. I was conflicted on which song to choose, it was between this one or back to friends by sombr. Both felt right - I would say listen to both maybe??. Also I’m sorry to anyone that had a hard time reading chapter 1 with that stupid ass text color I used 😭 I’m just gonna keep it as is instead of being fancy, except for this part lmao.

The night Gator Tillman drove away, the silence that settled over your porch wasn't just quiet—it was a burial. You had watched his taillights bleed into the horizon and felt the finality of it like a physical weight.

Life in Stark County didn't stop because your heart was broken. The news traveled through the grapevine like a slow-moving fever. You heard he’d enrolled. You heard he was the top of his class. You heard he was exactly what Roy Tillman wanted him to be: a weapon with a badge.

While Gator was learning how to break people, you were learning how to hold them together. Your mother’s health had plummeted. The pills weren't enough anymore, and the house felt like it was shrinking under the weight of her labored breathing. You traded your sketchbooks for larger canvases, finding that small drawings couldn't contain the amount of screaming color you had trapped inside. You painted through the exhaustion, through the grief, and through the loneliness that Gator had left in his wake.

—

March 5th

It was a Tuesday in March, the kind of day where the North Dakota sky looked like a sheet of unpolished lead. Gator was in the precinct, polishing his boots, trying to ignore the way the leather smelled like the man in the glass office down the hall.

Roy Tillman stepped out, his spurs clicking with a rhythmic, predatory authority. He didn't look at Gator; he looked through him.

"Gator," Roy called out, his voice a low, gravelly rasp.

Gator stood up straight, his spine snapping into a rigid line. "Yeah, Dad?"

Roy adjusted his hat, his face a mask of granite. He didn't offer a seat. He didn't offer a preamble. "The girl’s mother. The woman from the house on the edge of town. She passed this morning."

The air left Gator’s lungs. He felt a cold sweat prickle at the nape of his neck. Your mother—the woman who had offered him a brand of soft, unconditional kindness that felt foreign in a world ruled by Roy’s iron fist. Even when she was too weak to stand, she had always made room for him at her bedside, listening to him when everyone else was busy fearing him. He remembered the way she’d reach out a thin, trembling hand to pat his arm, her voice a fragile whisper as she told him he had "kind eyes" whenever he felt like a monster.

"She... she's gone?" Gator whispered, his hand trembling near his holster.

Roy leveled a look at him, his eyes narrowed and devoid of empathy. "Death is the wage of sin, son. Or in her case, just a weak constitution. Don’t let your face go soft like that. You got a patrol in twenty minutes. I don’t want you distracted by some neighborhood mourning."

"I should go by," Gator murmured, more to himself than his father. "I should tell her—"

"You'll do no such thing," Roy cut him off, his voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register. "That girl was a leash. She was the anchor dragging you into the mud. You’re a Deputy now. You don't go sniffing around the doorsteps of people who don't respect the law of this house."

Roy leaned in, his shadow eclipsing his son. "She’s dead, Gator. The world keeps turning. Get your gear."

Gator watched his father walk away. He wanted to scream. He wanted to drive to your house and let you cry into his shoulder. But he looked down at the badge pinned to his chest—the badge he had traded you for—and he stayed in his chair.

—

Three Years Later

March 5th had become a milestone of survival. You stayed in the family home, keeping your father company in the quiet rooms that still smelled faintly of her lavender detergent. Your brothers were shadows on a caller ID, distant and busy, leaving you to be the keeper of the hearth.

But you had found your own light. You opened The Arch Studio in a refurbished brick building downtown. It was your sanctuary. During the day, you taught children how to see the world in shapes and shadows. You loved the way their faces lit up when a messy smudge of blue became a sky. It was the only thing that made the seven years of silence from Gator feel bearable.

Until that Friday night.

A "gut feeling" is a jagged thing. It woke you up at 11:00 PM, a cold pressure behind your ribs. When you pulled up to the studio, your heart dropped. The front window was shattered, a jagged tooth of glass glinting in the moonlight.

Inside, it was a massacre of color. Canvases were slashed. Your teaching supplies were tossed. They’d taken the fifty dollars in the petty cash drawer, but the real theft was the art. Three of your largest oil paintings—the ones you’d poured your grief into—were stomped on, footprints smeared in wet Prussian Blue across the floor.

You called the station, your voice shaking. You expected a stranger. You expected a deputy you didn't know.

The patrol car pulled up ten minutes later. When the door opened, a man stepped out who looked like a ghost wearing a memory.

Gator had filled out. He was broader, his face weathered by a cynicism that hadn't been there at eighteen. He looked like a Tillman. But when his eyes landed on you, standing there in your oversized sweater with shards of glass on your shoes, the "Deputy" mask slipped for a heartbeat.

"I took the call," he said, his voice deeper, raspy. He didn't say hello. He didn't say I'm sorry about your mom.

"Gator," you breathed, the name feeling like a curse on your tongue.

He walked past you into the studio, his heavy boots crunching on the glass. He moved with a practiced, professional gait, notepad in hand. "Forced entry through the front. Looks like kids, maybe. Or someone looking for a quick fix."

He walked over to a smashed sculpture a six-year-old had made. He lingered there for a second too long.

"My dad mentioned you'd opened this place," Gator said, his back to you. "Said you’d done well for yourself. The classes, the studio..." He paused, his voice taking on a rehearsed, mocking edge—the echoes of a lecture he’d clearly heard a thousand times. "Followed by a long talk about wasted potential. How a girl with your brains should be doing something... productive for the county."

You laughed, a sharp, bitter sound that echoed off the high ceilings. "I’m not surprised. Roy never liked me. I suppose I should be flattered I’m still a topic of conversation at the Tillman dinner table."

You stepped further into the light, crossing your arms. "It looks like he finally got his wish, though. You’re the big Deputy now. No distractions in sight. No 'weights' to hold you back."

Gator stiffened, his knuckles whitening around his pen. "Don’t start."

"Don't start what? Telling the truth?" Your voice rose, the dam finally breaking after seven years of pressure. "You haven't spoken to me in a lifetime, Gator. You walked past me at the grocery store last month like I was a literal ghost. I stood in the produce aisle holding a bag of apples and watched the man who was once my best friend look right through me." Your voice cracked, a jagged break that betrayed how much you still cared. "You didn’t even come to her funeral. She loved you. She asked about you until her very last breath, Gator. I had to lie to a dying woman because I couldn't tell her the truth. That the boy she once knew was gone.”

"I’m working!" Gator barked.

The volume hit the walls and bounced back, loud and violent. He looked at you, his chest heaving, and for a second, the Sheriff’s son was gone. He looked guilty. He looked small. He glanced toward the open door, making sure no one was watching, then stepped into your personal space. He smelled like tobacco and cold air.

"I’m always working. That’s what’s expected. You think it’s easy? Being him? Trying to satisfy a man who doesn't know the meaning of the word?" He sighed, a long, weary sound that deflated his shoulders. "I wanted to call. Every day for seven years, I picked up the phone. But the look on your face that night on the porch... the things I said... I was a dick to you, to the only person who actually saw me." His voice cracked.

"Yeah," you whispered, your eyes glossing over as you looked up at him. "You were a real prick. But it still would've been nice to hear from you. She deserved better than a lie about you being 'busy'."

Gator opened his mouth, his throat working as he tried to find words that didn't exist. He looked around the ruined studio, at the paint-stained floor and the broken dreams of the children you taught. He had loved your mother. She was the only person who had ever looked at him without expecting a debt to be paid.

You wiped your face quickly, brushing away a stray tear with the back of your hand. "Well. This place is a dump now. I bet your dad will be real happy to hear that. Another 'distraction' out of the way."

Gator ignored the jab, but his jaw remained tight. He looked at you, and you could see the conflict in him—the urge to reach out and pull you into the comfort of a friendship that had died a decade ago, and the cold reality that he didn't know how to be that person anymore.

You stood there, feeling small, the same hollow ache that had settled in your bones the day the dirt hit your mother's casket.

Gator didn't know you anymore. He didn't know how you took your coffee, or what songs made you cry, or how you dealt with a broken heart. He just stood there in his uniform, a stranger with a familiar face, looking at the ruins of the only beautiful thing left in town.

"I'll... I'll put the report in," he said softly, his voice barely a whisper. "I'll make sure no one bothers you tonight."

"Thanks, Deputy," you muttered, turning away to pick up a ruined brush.

He didn't move for a long time. He just watched you—a ghost watching a ghost—before finally stepping out into the cold night, leaving you alone in the colorful wreckage of your life.

—

The four days following the break-in were a lesson in endurance. You spent them in a haze of bleach fumes and the sharp, metallic scent of industrial glass cleaner. The insurance company had sent a man in a cheap suit who took photos and told you it would be "weeks" before a claim could be processed. You couldn't wait weeks to clean, but you also couldn't open. The studio stayed dark, a "Closed Until Further Notice" sign taped to the door, because you couldn't bear the thought of the neighborhood kids seeing their sanctuary looking like a crime scene.

So, you did the work in the dark. You swept until your palms blistered. You scrubbed Prussian Blue paint out of the floorboards until your shoulders throbbed.

And every day, like clockwork, you saw the same black patrol car.

It never stopped. It would just slow down as it passed the studio, the engine a low, rhythmic thrum against the curb. You didn’t look up from the floor you were scrubbing, but you felt his eyes. You felt the weight of seven years of unspoken apologies trailing behind that cruiser like a ghost. He was checking on you—or perhaps he was just checking on the mess he’d let his father’s world make of yours.

By day five, your nerves were frayed. The studio was cleaner, but it was hollow. The shattered front window was still boarded up with ugly plywood, making the space feel like a bunker instead of a workshop.

You were on a ladder, trying to scrape a particularly stubborn smear of black spray paint off a ceiling beam, when the bell above the door—one of the few things that hadn't broken—chimed.

You didn't turn around. "We're closed. I don't know when we'll be open."

"I don't think a sign is gonna stop the dust from settling," a voice said.

Your heart did a slow, painful roll in your chest. It wasn't the Deputy. The voice was softer, stripped of the professional bark he used when he was wearing the badge.

You climbed down the ladder, wiping your chalky hands on your jeans. Gator was standing in the doorway. He wasn't in uniform. He wore a faded denim jacket over a grey hoodie, and his hair was a mess, windswept and unstyled. In his hands, he was lugging a heavy red toolbox and a circular saw.

He looked awkward. He looked like the boy who used to climb through your window, before the world told him he had to be a King or a Killer.

"Uh," he started, his eyes darting around the room, finally taking in the scale of the damage now that he wasn't looking through the lens of a police report. "I came to help. Thought I’d... y’know, try and fix up the place a bit."

He set the toolbox down with a heavy thud that echoed through the quiet studio. He looked at the plywood over the window and frowned. "My dad’s gonna have a fit if he sees me here on my day off, but... I figured if I don't help you, you're gonna end up breaking your neck on that ladder."

You stood there, holding a scraper like a weapon, your breath hitching. "You're not on the clock, Gator?"

"No," he muttered, finally meeting your eyes. The hazel depths of them were tired, shadowed by the same lack of sleep that was haunting you.

"Just me today. No Deputy Tillman. Just... Gator."

He walked over to the front window, running a hand over the rough plywood. "I brought some proper glass. Stole it from the maintenance shed at the ranch. Let’s hope my dad doesn’t realize or he’ll have my neck." He tried to joke, but the humor fell flat between you, heavy with the reality that for seven years, he hadn't stolen so much as a glance in your direction.

"Why now?" you asked, your voice small. "You’ve driven by ten times this week. Why today?"

Gator stopped messing with his toolbox and stood up. He looked at you—truly looked at you—and the professional distance he'd maintained during the police call vanished.

"I saw you through the window yesterday," he said softly, his voice dropping to that low, vulnerable register you hadn't heard since high school. "You were standing there in the middle of all this mess, looking so small. It was the way your shoulders were shaking... it was exactly how you looked the night I left you on that porch. The night of the fight."

He stepped closer, the smell of sawdust and old denim clinging to him. "I spent seven years hating myself for driving away while you were crying," he whispered, his own voice cracking. "I saw you yesterday and I realized... I couldn't do it again. I couldn't leave you like I did that night. Not again."

The air in the studio suddenly felt thick, charged with a heavy, suffocating tension that made it impossible to breathe. Gator didn't pull away. He stayed right there, deep in your personal space, his eyes searching yours with a desperate intensity. You could see the pulse jumping in his neck. It was the kind of silence that held a thousand confessions, a magnetic pull that felt like it might finally snap the thread of "just friends" you had both clung to for a decade.

For a moment, the wreckage of the studio disappeared. The jagged glass and the slashed canvases faded into a blur, leaving only the two of you. You looked at his mouth, then back to his eyes, and the world felt like it was tilting. Neither of you knew that the other felt it—this terrifying, electric current that made your skin buzz. You both just thought you were alone in the feeling, scared to speak and ruin the only piece of "him" or "her" you had left.

Flashback: The Summer Before the End

In that heavy silence, your mind slipped back to a night that felt like a lifetime ago. It was July, the air warm and smelling of sweet clover. You were seventeen.

Gator’s truck was parked out at the quarry, the tailgate down. You were lying in the bed of the truck, a tattered wool blanket spread out beneath you both. The North Dakota sky was an endless ocean of black ink, spilled over with a trillion diamonds.

Your head was resting right on his chest, your ear pressed against the steady, rhythmic thump-thump of his heart.

Gator was frozen. He lay perfectly still, his arms tucked stiffly at his sides, staring up at the stars with wide, unblinking eyes. He was terrified to take a full breath, terrified that the rise and fall of his chest would cause you to shift, to move, to realize how close you were and pull away.

He didn't know that you were holding your breath too, memorizing the way his heart sped up when you sighed. He didn't know that the reason you were so still was because you were trying to find the courage to reach for his hand.

"Gator?" you whispered into the fabric of his t-shirt.

"Yeah?" his voice was barely audible, tight with the effort of staying immobile.

"The stars look like they're falling."

"They're not," he murmured, a slight tremor in his voice. "They're exactly where they're supposed to be. Just like us."

He wanted to turn his head. He wanted to press his cheek against your hair and tell you that he didn't want to build arches in the city if you weren't there to walk under them. But he stayed quiet, and you stayed quiet, both of you convinced that the other only saw a "best friend" in the dark.

Present Day

The memory shattered as the circular saw on the floor glinted in the light. The tension snapped, but the residue of it remained, thick and cloying.

Gator cleared his throat, stepping back just an inch—enough for the cold air of the studio to rush between you again.

"The window frame is warped," you said, your voice trembling as you fought to regain your composure. "The kids who did it... they used a crowbar."

Gator nodded, a small, relieved shadow of a smile touching his lips. He reached into his toolbox and pulled out a level, his hands still shaking slightly.

"Then we’ll straighten it out," he said. "Together."

For the next four hours, the only sounds were the rasp of sanders and the steady rhythm of work. It was easier this way—communicating through the physical labor of "fixing" something. Gator didn't ask questions about your life, and you didn't ask about the Academy or what it was like now that he was a deputy. Instead, he asked for the screwdriver, and you asked him to hold the glass steady.

It felt like a haunting. Every time your fingers brushed his as you passed a tool, the ghost of your freshman year hovered in the air.

"You still use these?" Gator asked, picking up a set of charcoal pencils from a side table.

"When I have the time," you replied, watching him. "You still draw?"

Gator laughed, but it was a hollow sound. He looked down at his calloused, scarred knuckles. "Roy says drawing is for people who don't have enough to do. I mostly just fill out incident reports and warrants now. Not much call for shading in the Sheriff’s department."

He looked at you then, and for a split second, the mask shattered. "I missed it, though. This. The smell of the charcoal. The way you always had a smudge of it on your nose."

He reached out, his thumb hovering just inches from your face, before he caught himself and pulled back, clearing his throat.

"Anyway," he muttered, turning back to the window. "Let's get this glass set."

As the sun began to set, casting long, orange shadows across the newly cleaned floor, the studio looked different. The window was clear again, the plywood gone. The "nothing" you had seen in his eyes a few nights ago was still there, tucked in the corners, but for the first time in seven years, there was something else, too.

A flicker of the architect, he once wanted to be.

"I should go," Gator said, packing his tools. He stood by the door, looking like he wanted to say a thousand things but couldn't find a single word that wouldn't ruin the fragile peace you’d built over the last few hours.

"Gator?"

He paused, his hand on the doorframe.

"Thanks," you said. "For the window."

He looked back at you, his silhouette dark against the evening light. "Don't thank me. I'm just... I'm just trying to make sure the arches stay up. Like you said."

All these years and he still remembered that.

He left as quietly as he had come, his truck disappearing into the dark. You stood in the center of your studio, the smell of pine and Gator Tillman lingering in the air, and for the first time in three years, you didn't feel like you were waiting for a storm. You felt like you were standing in the aftermath of one, wondering if the foundations were still strong enough to build something new.

Taglist: @simsimstay2017 @keerygirlie98 @scaramou @stydiaforeverbitchezz @louisbelongstome28 @kristywidget97

[gloomy4djo]

Okay so I kinda spent all night writing the next chapter. There’s a big time skip but that’s because I don’t plan on making it a super long series.

[gloomy4djo]

Back to the Start - Chapter 1 : The Echo of Taillights

—

Warnings: Brief mentions of parental illness, emotional manipulation (Roy Tillman), heated arguments, screaming, crying, and unresolved feelings. Gator being a bit of a prick but it’s not his fault. His dad got into his head (I hate that man with a passion).

WC: 1.9k

A/N: this chapter really tugged at my heart strings. I cried a few times while writing this. I know this chapter is short but I promise it’ll get better and longer with each chapter! I’m actually really nervous about this but I hope you guys like it! Also, I hope the audio works, it was being weird earlier and wasn’t letting me add it. Comments/reblogs are very much appreciated!

The North Dakota wind never just blew; it bit. It carried the scent of dry earth and the cold, looming shadow of the Tillman ranch. For four years, that wind had been the backdrop of your life, but it always felt warmer when Gator was beside you.

Your freshman year was a blur of fluorescent lights and the heavy weight of a responsibility no fifteen-year-old should carry. While other girls were worrying about lip gloss, you were counting out white and blue pills, tucked into a small plastic cup for your mother.

"Did you take the morning dose, Ma?" you’d whisper, your heart aching at how small she looked in the bed.

"Go to school, honey," she’d rasp. "Don't be late."

But you were late. Four times in one week. The vice principal didn't care about the logistics of caregiving; he only cared about the clock. Which was how you ended up in Room 102—the graveyard of after-school hours.

You were tucked in the back corner, your sketchbook open to a messy charcoal drawing of a cathedral you’d seen in a library book. You were so deep in the graphite shadows that you didn’t notice the chair beside you scrape against the floor.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

You blinked, looking over. It was Gator Tillman. Even as a freshman, he carried the heavy atmosphere of his father, Roy. He wasn't a bully, not exactly, but he was apart. People gave him space out of fear for the man who wore the star in Stark County.

Gator wasn't looking at you. He was looking at the desk, methodically digging the point of a pocket knife into the wood.

"You're gonna get in more trouble for that," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly.

Gator paused, his eyes shifting toward you. They weren't cold like his father’s; they were restless. "Already in detention. What are they gonna do? Give me double detention?"

He leaned over, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. He smelled like pine and something metallic. His eyes landed on your drawing.

“That looks pretty cool,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “Is that… like a church?”

You felt the blood rush to your face, your skin buzzing. “Oh,” you managed, a small, shy smile breaking through. “Thanks. It’s a cathedral in France. I like the way the arches hold everything up. It’s like… the building is reaching for something.”

Gator pulled his knife back, closing it with a sharp click. “I get that. Reaching for something.” He held out a hand, calloused even then. “I’m Gator.”

You reached out to shake his hand and told him your name.

“I know,” he replied, and for the first time, the restless energy in him settled.

The teacher at the front cleared his throat sharply, but Gator didn’t move back. He stayed in your space, asking you about the different pencils you used, telling you about how he hated the way his house felt like a fortress. By the time the clock hit 4:00 PM, the quiet girl and the Sheriff’s son were the last ones to leave, walking side-by-side into the parking lot.

The years that followed were a collage of moments that felt like they belonged to someone else’s movie.

Beneath the surface of those years, a quiet, magnetic pull took hold. You felt it in the way your pulse jumped when he sat too close, and he felt it in the way the air in the room seemed to clear only when you arrived. You loved him with a desperate, silent intensity, convinced it was a secret you’d take to your grave. And Gator, in his own restless way, liked you just as much—finding in you the only person who saw him as something other than a Tillman legacy. Yet, neither of you ever acted on it. The fear of breaking the only safe thing you both had kept the words locked away. You were two people orbiting the same sun, completely unaware that the other was caught in the same gravity.

—

There was the time in sophomore year when you heard pebbles being thrown at your window, it was around 2AM. It was Gator, you let him climb through your window because his dad had gone on a "righteous" tirade, and Gator just needed to hear someone talk about something—anything—that wasn't sin and punishment.

"Tell me about the city again," he’d whispered, lying on your rug while you sat at your desk.

"Big buildings, Gator. Glass and steel. No dust. Just lights that stay on all night so you never feel like the dark is closing in."

"I want to build that," he said, staring at your ceiling. "Not fences. Not jail cells. I want to build something… beautiful. Something that makes people want to stay because it’s good, not because they’re trapped."

By senior year, you were his shadow, and he was yours. At every football game, through the biting October frost, you sat in the bleachers. You were often the only person there specifically for him. Roy Tillman didn't do "games" unless there was a political hand to shake.

When Gator would come off the field, bruised and breathless, he wouldn't look for his father's approval. He would look for your bright scarf in the stands. He’d find you, and for a split second, the bravado he wore for the world would drop.

The night of graduation felt like a threshold. The air was thick with the scent of mown grass and cheap cologne. You were standing by his truck, your graduation gown unzipped, the diploma a heavy cylinder in your hand.

"We did it," Gator said, leaning against the tailgate. He looked handsome, but there was a shadow behind his eyes.

"We did," you agreed. "So… the city? Chicago? Minneapolis?"

Gator looked out at the horizon, where the sun was dipping below the flat North Dakota plains. "I want to see it all. I want to build those arches you draw. I want to be someone who isn't just 'the Sheriff's boy'."

You looked at him, the orange light catching the sharp line of his jaw. The words were right there, pulsing in your throat. I love you. Take me with you. Don't leave me here in the dust.

But you looked at his hopeful face and feared that saying it would make the dream too heavy to carry. You didn't want to be a tether; you wanted to be his wind.

"You're going to be the best architect they've ever seen," you said instead.

He smiled, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. "You think so?"

"I know so."

You thought you had time. You thought the summer would be a slow bridge to a new life. You didn't account for Roy Tillman.

—

The change happened in July. It started with Gator missing dinner dates. Then he stopped answering his phone. When you finally saw him, he was wearing a stiff, button-down shirt, his hair cut shorter, his eyes guarded.

The night of the "Announcement" was humid, the kind of night where the air feels like it’s waiting for a storm to break the tension. Gator pulled up to your house late. He didn't get out of the truck at first. He just sat there, the engine idling.

When you walked out to the porch, he finally stepped out. He looked tired. No—he looked defeated.

"My dad talked to the Board," Gator said, not looking at you. He was kicking at a loose stone in your driveway. "And the Academy. There’s a spot. They’re fast-tracking me."

The world felt like it tilted on its axis. "The Academy? Gator, you haven't even applied to design schools yet. We talked about this. Your portfolio—"

"The portfolio is a hobby!" he snapped, his head whipping up. His eyes were red-rimmed. "It's a pipe dream. My dad… he made me see. This county needs Tillmans. It needs order. I can't just go off and play with blocks while there’s work to be done here."

"Work to be done?" You stepped off the porch, approaching him. "You mean his work? Gator, he’s colonizing your brain. He’s turning you into a version of him because he’s scared of you being happy!"

"He’s not scared! He’s proud!" Gator shouted, his voice echoing off the side of your house. "He said I was finally acting like a man. He said all that talk about 'building things' was just soft. That you were making me soft."

The word felt like a slap. "Soft? Because I believe in your talent? Because I don't want to see you carrying a gun and looking for reasons to hate people?"

"It's about legacy!" Gator stepped into your space, but it wasn't the usual warm, protective presence. It was aggressive. It was Roy’s posture. "You don't get it. You’re just a girl who stays home and draws pictures and takes care of her sick mom. You don't have a name to live up to. You don't have a father who expects greatness!"

"I have a father who expects me to be myself!" you screamed back, tears starting to blur your vision. "And yes I have a mother who is dying, and yet I still have enough room in my heart to want a better life for you! How can you be so blind? He’s not proud of you, Gator. He’s proud that he broke you."

Gator’s face contorted. For a second, you saw the boy from freshman year—the one who wanted to reach for the arches—shivering underneath the surface. But then, he sneered. It was a cruel, practiced look.

"Maybe he’s right," Gator spat. "Maybe I’ve spent too much time listening to you. You’re just a weight. You’re a distraction from what I’m supposed to be."

The silence that followed was deafening. You felt your heart fracture, a physical sensation in your chest like glass splintering. You looked at him—really looked at him—searching for the boy who wanted to build beautiful things, but the light you once saw was extinguished.

"I look at you," you whispered, your voice thick with a sudden, hollow realization that paralyzed your lungs. "And I see nothing. Not the boy I knew, not the man you said you'd be. It's like you've just... faded into him. I'm staring at a shell, Gator. There's no one left inside."

Gator flinched as if you had struck him, but the vulnerability was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold, stony mask.

"I have to go," he said, his voice flat.

"If you get in that truck," you said, the tears finally spilling over, "don't come back. Don't call me when you realize that wearing that badge makes you feel like a ghost. Don't come to me when you’ve forgotten how to build anything but walls."

"Fine," Gator said. He climbed into the driver’s seat, the leather creaking. "I won't."

He slammed the door. The engine roared to life, a violent sound in the quiet neighborhood. You stood on the edge of the grass, your arms wrapped around yourself as if you could hold the pieces of your soul together.

As his taillights faded into two red dots in the North Dakota dark, you realized the most painful part: he didn't even look back. Not once.

You went back inside, sat at your desk, and picked up your sketchbook. You looked at the cathedral—the one he thought was cool. With a shaking hand, you took a heavy black marker and scribbled over the arches until there was nothing left but a dark, jagged hole in the center of the page.

You weren't best friends anymore. You weren't a set. You were just two people who knew each other’s secrets and chose to use them as weapons.

You were ghosts. And ghosts don't build things; they only haunt the ruins of what used to be.

Taglist: @simsimstay2017 @keerygirlie98 @scaramou @stydiaforeverbitchezz @louisbelongstome28 @kristywidget97

[gloomy4djo]

can’t wait for this new story to unfold!!! 😊 but i’m sorry the font color killed my eyeballs too LOL

It’s gonna be so good!

I’m sorry that made me giggle just a tad bit. I hope your eyeballs are okay 😭 giving you a smooch on the forehead as an apology

[gloomy4djo]

diva i LOVE the aesthetic of your blog and everything but i am BLIND and can’t see anything 😭 please could you in the next chapters use a darker font? like the end of the chapter is fine it’s just the beginning my eyes were struggling! (this is obv said with so much love please don’t take it any other way i just am a mole) such a great chapter btw 🤎

Omg yes 😭 I’m sorry! Thank you for letting me know. I’ll be sure to change it. Also, thank you! 💛

[gloomy4djo]

Back to the Start - Chapter 1 : The Echo of Taillights

Back to the Start

—

Warnings: Brief mentions of parental illness, emotional manipulation (Roy Tillman), heated arguments, screaming, crying, and unresolved feelings. Gator being a bit of a prick but it’s not his fault. His dad got into his head (I hate that man with a passion).

WC: 1.9k

A/N: this chapter really tugged at my heart strings. I cried a few times while writing this. I know this chapter is short but I promise it’ll get better and longer with each chapter! I’m actually really nervous about this but I hope you guys like it! Also, I hope the audio works, it was being weird earlier and wasn’t letting me add it. Comments/reblogs are very much appreciated!

The North Dakota wind never just blew; it bit. It carried the scent of dry earth and the cold, looming shadow of the Tillman ranch. For four years, that wind had been the backdrop of your life, but it always felt warmer when Gator was beside you.

Your freshman year was a blur of fluorescent lights and the heavy weight of a responsibility no fifteen-year-old should carry. While other girls were worrying about lip gloss, you were counting out white and blue pills, tucked into a small plastic cup for your mother.

"Did you take the morning dose, Ma?" you’d whisper, your heart aching at how small she looked in the bed.

"Go to school, honey," she’d rasp. "Don't be late."

But you were late. Four times in one week. The vice principal didn't care about the logistics of caregiving; he only cared about the clock. Which was how you ended up in Room 102—the graveyard of after-school hours.

You were tucked in the back corner, your sketchbook open to a messy charcoal drawing of a cathedral you’d seen in a library book. You were so deep in the graphite shadows that you didn’t notice the chair beside you scrape against the floor.

Scritch. Scritch. Scritch.

You blinked, looking over. It was Gator Tillman. Even as a freshman, he carried the heavy atmosphere of his father, Roy. He wasn't a bully, not exactly, but he was apart. People gave him space out of fear for the man who wore the star in Stark County.

Gator wasn't looking at you. He was looking at the desk, methodically digging the point of a pocket knife into the wood.

"You're gonna get in more trouble for that," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly.

Gator paused, his eyes shifting toward you. They weren't cold like his father’s; they were restless. "Already in detention. What are they gonna do? Give me double detention?"

He leaned over, his shoulder nearly brushing yours. He smelled like pine and something metallic. His eyes landed on your drawing.

“That looks pretty cool,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave. “Is that… like a church?”

You felt the blood rush to your face, your skin buzzing. “Oh,” you managed, a small, shy smile breaking through. “Thanks. It’s a cathedral in France. I like the way the arches hold everything up. It’s like… the building is reaching for something.”

Gator pulled his knife back, closing it with a sharp click. “I get that. Reaching for something.” He held out a hand, calloused even then. “I’m Gator.”

You reached out to shake his hand and told him your name.

“I know,” he replied, and for the first time, the restless energy in him settled.

The teacher at the front cleared his throat sharply, but Gator didn’t move back. He stayed in your space, asking you about the different pencils you used, telling you about how he hated the way his house felt like a fortress. By the time the clock hit 4:00 PM, the quiet girl and the Sheriff’s son were the last ones to leave, walking side-by-side into the parking lot.

The years that followed were a collage of moments that felt like they belonged to someone else’s movie.

Beneath the surface of those years, a quiet, magnetic pull took hold. You felt it in the way your pulse jumped when he sat too close, and he felt it in the way the air in the room seemed to clear only when you arrived. You loved him with a desperate, silent intensity, convinced it was a secret you’d take to your grave. And Gator, in his own restless way, liked you just as much—finding in you the only person who saw him as something other than a Tillman legacy. Yet, neither of you ever acted on it. The fear of breaking the only safe thing you both had kept the words locked away. You were two people orbiting the same sun, completely unaware that the other was caught in the same gravity.

—

There was the time in sophomore year when you heard pebbles being thrown at your window, it was around 2AM. It was Gator, you let him climb through your window because his dad had gone on a "righteous" tirade, and Gator just needed to hear someone talk about something—anything—that wasn't sin and punishment.

"Tell me about the city again," he’d whispered, lying on your rug while you sat at your desk.

"Big buildings, Gator. Glass and steel. No dust. Just lights that stay on all night so you never feel like the dark is closing in."

"I want to build that," he said, staring at your ceiling. "Not fences. Not jail cells. I want to build something… beautiful. Something that makes people want to stay because it’s good, not because they’re trapped."

By senior year, you were his shadow, and he was yours. At every football game, through the biting October frost, you sat in the bleachers. You were often the only person there specifically for him. Roy Tillman didn't do "games" unless there was a political hand to shake.

When Gator would come off the field, bruised and breathless, he wouldn't look for his father's approval. He would look for your bright scarf in the stands. He’d find you, and for a split second, the bravado he wore for the world would drop.

The night of graduation felt like a threshold. The air was thick with the scent of mown grass and cheap cologne. You were standing by his truck, your graduation gown unzipped, the diploma a heavy cylinder in your hand.

"We did it," Gator said, leaning against the tailgate. He looked handsome, but there was a shadow behind his eyes.

"We did," you agreed. "So… the city? Chicago? Minneapolis?"

Gator looked out at the horizon, where the sun was dipping below the flat North Dakota plains. "I want to see it all. I want to build those arches you draw. I want to be someone who isn't just 'the Sheriff's boy'."

You looked at him, the orange light catching the sharp line of his jaw. The words were right there, pulsing in your throat. I love you. Take me with you. Don't leave me here in the dust.

But you looked at his hopeful face and feared that saying it would make the dream too heavy to carry. You didn't want to be a tether; you wanted to be his wind.

"You're going to be the best architect they've ever seen," you said instead.

He smiled, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind your ear. "You think so?"

"I know so."

You thought you had time. You thought the summer would be a slow bridge to a new life. You didn't account for Roy Tillman.

—

The change happened in July. It started with Gator missing dinner dates. Then he stopped answering his phone. When you finally saw him, he was wearing a stiff, button-down shirt, his hair cut shorter, his eyes guarded.

The night of the "Announcement" was humid, the kind of night where the air feels like it’s waiting for a storm to break the tension. Gator pulled up to your house late. He didn't get out of the truck at first. He just sat there, the engine idling.

When you walked out to the porch, he finally stepped out. He looked tired. No—he looked defeated.

"My dad talked to the Board," Gator said, not looking at you. He was kicking at a loose stone in your driveway. "And the Academy. There’s a spot. They’re fast-tracking me."

The world felt like it tilted on its axis. "The Academy? Gator, you haven't even applied to design schools yet. We talked about this. Your portfolio—"

"The portfolio is a hobby!" he snapped, his head whipping up. His eyes were red-rimmed. "It's a pipe dream. My dad… he made me see. This county needs Tillmans. It needs order. I can't just go off and play with blocks while there’s work to be done here."

"Work to be done?" You stepped off the porch, approaching him. "You mean his work? Gator, he’s colonizing your brain. He’s turning you into a version of him because he’s scared of you being happy!"

"He’s not scared! He’s proud!" Gator shouted, his voice echoing off the side of your house. "He said I was finally acting like a man. He said all that talk about 'building things' was just soft. That you were making me soft."

The word felt like a slap. "Soft? Because I believe in your talent? Because I don't want to see you carrying a gun and looking for reasons to hate people?"

"It's about legacy!" Gator stepped into your space, but it wasn't the usual warm, protective presence. It was aggressive. It was Roy’s posture. "You don't get it. You’re just a girl who stays home and draws pictures and takes care of her sick mom. You don't have a name to live up to. You don't have a father who expects greatness!"

"I have a father who expects me to be myself!" you screamed back, tears starting to blur your vision. "And yes I have a mother who is dying, and yet I still have enough room in my heart to want a better life for you! How can you be so blind? He’s not proud of you, Gator. He’s proud that he broke you."

Gator’s face contorted. For a second, you saw the boy from freshman year—the one who wanted to reach for the arches—shivering underneath the surface. But then, he sneered. It was a cruel, practiced look.

"Maybe he’s right," Gator spat. "Maybe I’ve spent too much time listening to you. You’re just a weight. You’re a distraction from what I’m supposed to be."

The silence that followed was deafening. You felt your heart fracture, a physical sensation in your chest like glass splintering. You looked at him—really looked at him—searching for the boy who wanted to build beautiful things, but the light you once saw was extinguished.

"I look at you," you whispered, your voice thick with a sudden, hollow realization that paralyzed your lungs. "And I see nothing. Not the boy I knew, not the man you said you'd be. It's like you've just... faded into him. I'm staring at a shell, Gator. There's no one left inside."

Gator flinched as if you had struck him, but the vulnerability was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by a cold, stony mask.

"I have to go," he said, his voice flat.

"If you get in that truck," you said, the tears finally spilling over, "don't come back. Don't call me when you realize that wearing that badge makes you feel like a ghost. Don't come to me when you’ve forgotten how to build anything but walls."

"Fine," Gator said. He climbed into the driver’s seat, the leather creaking. "I won't."

He slammed the door. The engine roared to life, a violent sound in the quiet neighborhood. You stood on the edge of the grass, your arms wrapped around yourself as if you could hold the pieces of your soul together.

As his taillights faded into two red dots in the North Dakota dark, you realized the most painful part: he didn't even look back. Not once.

You went back inside, sat at your desk, and picked up your sketchbook. You looked at the cathedral—the one he thought was cool. With a shaking hand, you took a heavy black marker and scribbled over the arches until there was nothing left but a dark, jagged hole in the center of the page.

You weren't best friends anymore. You weren't a set. You were just two people who knew each other’s secrets and chose to use them as weapons.

You were ghosts. And ghosts don't build things; they only haunt the ruins of what used to be.

Taglist: @simsimstay2017 @keerygirlie98 @scaramou @stydiaforeverbitchezz @louisbelongstome28 @kristywidget97

[gloomy4djo]

Back to the Start - mini series

Pairing: Gator Tillman x Fem!Reader

Summary: In a town as small as this, you’d think it would be impossible to lose someone. But Roy Tillman is a master of erasure, and he spent years carving you out of his son’s life.

Once, you and Gator were inseparable—the kind of friendship that lived in the quiet spaces between high school bleachers and whispered plans for a future that didn't involve badges or bloodlines. Then came the academy, the pressure of the Tillman name, and a silence that lasted long enough to turn "best friends" into "ghosts."

Now, you’re a painter, finding peace in the soft edges of a canvas and the solitude of your studio. He’s the Sheriff’s Deputy, hardened by his father’s expectations and the weight of a uniform that never quite fit his soul. You live in the same zip code, but you might as well be on different planets.

Until a shattered window and a can of spray paint change everything. When a break-in leaves your studio in ruins, it’s not just a stranger who responds to the call—it’s the man you used to know, standing in the wreckage of your sanctuary.

The glass is broken, the paint is spilled, and the secrets you’ve both kept for years are finally coming to the surface. Can you restore what was lost, or are some things better left in the past?

A/N: I’m really excited to start this mini series - I had thought about it for a long time and I finally just said fuck it. Chapter 1 should be out sometime this week (I’m hoping). I really hope you guys enjoy this.

[gloomy4djo]

Uhm so might just kms before I even release the first chapter BECAUSE WTF IM BREAKING MY OWN HEART AND ITS LITERALLY JUST THE FIRST DAMN CHAPTER

I’m also on my period so that doesn’t help 😭

[gloomy4djo]

Update: first chapter is going out soon. I’m gonna shower and make some last minute edits then it should be good to go!

[gloomy4djo]

Back to the Start - mini series

Pairing: Gator Tillman x Fem!Reader

Summary: In a town as small as this, you’d think it would be impossible to lose someone. But Roy Tillman is a master of erasure, and he spent years carving you out of his son’s life.

Once, you and Gator were inseparable—the kind of friendship that lived in the quiet spaces between high school bleachers and whispered plans for a future that didn't involve badges or bloodlines. Then came the academy, the pressure of the Tillman name, and a silence that lasted long enough to turn "best friends" into "ghosts."

Now, you’re a painter, finding peace in the soft edges of a canvas and the solitude of your studio. He’s the Sheriff’s Deputy, hardened by his father’s expectations and the weight of a uniform that never quite fit his soul. You live in the same zip code, but you might as well be on different planets.

Until a shattered window and a can of spray paint change everything. When a break-in leaves your studio in ruins, it’s not just a stranger who responds to the call—it’s the man you used to know, standing in the wreckage of your sanctuary.

The glass is broken, the paint is spilled, and the secrets you’ve both kept for years are finally coming to the surface. Can you restore what was lost, or are some things better left in the past?

A/N: I’m really excited to start this mini series - I had thought about it for a long time and I finally just said fuck it. Chapter 1 should be out sometime this week (I’m hoping). I really hope you guys enjoy this.

[gloomy4djo]

Uhm so might just kms before I even release the first chapter BECAUSE WTF IM BREAKING MY OWN HEART AND ITS LITERALLY JUST THE FIRST DAMN CHAPTER

I’m also on my period so that doesn’t help 😭

[gloomy4djo]

Back to the Start - mini series

Pairing: Gator Tillman x Fem!Reader

Summary: In a town as small as this, you’d think it would be impossible to lose someone. But Roy Tillman is a master of erasure, and he spent years carving you out of his son’s life.

Once, you and Gator were inseparable—the kind of friendship that lived in the quiet spaces between high school bleachers and whispered plans for a future that didn't involve badges or bloodlines. Then came the academy, the pressure of the Tillman name, and a silence that lasted long enough to turn "best friends" into "ghosts."

Now, you’re a painter, finding peace in the soft edges of a canvas and the solitude of your studio. He’s the Sheriff’s Deputy, hardened by his father’s expectations and the weight of a uniform that never quite fit his soul. You live in the same zip code, but you might as well be on different planets.

Until a shattered window and a can of spray paint change everything. When a break-in leaves your studio in ruins, it’s not just a stranger who responds to the call—it’s the man you used to know, standing in the wreckage of your sanctuary.

The glass is broken, the paint is spilled, and the secrets you’ve both kept for years are finally coming to the surface. Can you restore what was lost, or are some things better left in the past?

Chapter 1 - The Echo of Taillights

Chapter 2 - The Weight of Seven Years

Chapter 3 - Sugar and Regret

Chapter 4 - Wildflowers and Ferris Wheels

Chapter 5 - coming soon

[gloomy4djo]

Gator Tillman

Back to the Start - mini series

[gloomy4djo]

BABES I NEED HELP. so i read this jude fic a while ago and it was like: jude and supermodel!reader (i think) are family friends, both their families stay in this holiday house, jude and reader end up really vibing and then confessing their feelings and have good sex, i think it was a oneshot. I HAVE BEEN SEARCHING FOR EVER FOR THAT FIC AGAIN BECAUSE ITS SO GOOD BUT I CANT FIND IT

do you maybe know who wrote it 😭😭

Hi love! I tried looking around myself and had no luck 😭 I’m sorry! I’ll keep searching around to see if I find it. If I do I’ll for sure send it to you!

[gloomy4djo]

Walter “Keys” Mckey

Coming soon..