Summary: One of your’s and Gator’s favourite times of day is when he calls home on his lunch break. Second only to when he actually gets home. Today is no different. Nothing, not even workplace behavioural regulations will keep him from hearing your voice.
Warning: FLUFFFFFF, some insinuations to sex so MDNI, Gator is down BAD, reader knows and loves it, no physical descriptors of reader, only that they’re in a sun dress (or could be I guess) (if I’ve missed anything lmk!)
w/c: ~900
a/n: Shit summary but this little blurb has kept me happy on long drives 😝. Basically an entire ~900 words based on Ethel Cain’s unreleased demo of Louisiana. Not really in line with the show but it’s vague enough that it can work.
He’s having a conversation.
Or at the very least he’s meant to be. Not even sparing a glance to the beat cop in front of him who was vehemently expressing how handing out parking tickets is the true first line of defence in ‘the war on drugs’. Not a single moments hesitation before he turned his whole body away from him and headed toward the alcove near the front of the station holding one of the last pay phones in America.
You thought it was more romantic he thought.
Throwing his hands up in a combination of embarrassment, defeat and just a little bit of offense, the cop expressed his upset.
“What the hell man?!”
Another man stationed at the desk behind didn’t even look up from his laptop to deliver his response.
“He’s calling home.”
Even without an explanation, the cop’s smirk could have told the story just as well.
Quickly another man chimed in, having had to move out of Gator’s line of fire as he charged off toward the phone.
“Don’t even try man, 12:00 o’clock on the dot, everyday, he’s on that fucking phone.”
Gator didn’t even blink. Only running a hand over his already cemented, slicked-back hair as if he was actually about to be face to face with you once he dialled your number. His number too. The one listed under ‘home’ in his personnel file. The thought had him lowering his chin toward his chest in attempts to conceal the blush beginning to creep up on his cheeks.
It didn’t even take two rings.
He could practically see you.
Curled up on the love seat in one of the sundresses he adored to see you in.
He could hear the kitchen fan whirring in the background and your smile through the phone the second you picked up.
Gator spoke first after a subtle, but there, sigh of relief.
“Hey, baby.”
“Hi, honey.”
He knew he didn’t have long, but as always he wanted to leave an impression. Something for you to smile to yourself about ‘till he came home.
“How’s the weather down there huh? Warm? Ya sittin’ pretty while I’m out ‘ere workin’ away aren’t ya?”
“…Maybe. It’s somehow colder here without you though… If you want I’ll go with you.”
“And where’s that baby?”
“Wherever you go…
You could take me for a ride along or somethin’.”
Gator was sure you could hear his shit eating grin through the receiver. Biting his tongue before he made a joke about ridin’ somethin’ else so early into the call, while he knew he was catching stray glances from the guys behind him.
“You that much of a mess without me?”
He knew it. And he fucking loved it. What he loved more though was you. And how you proudly declared your independence but still ultimately desired to have him take care of you.
“Baby, it’s July. May as well be in Louisiana.
I’ll be sweating through this dress till you get home.”
“Well honey, I’ll be home soon enough to get that dress off ya, don’t worry. Be good for me, I’ll see you when I get home.”
“Always.”
The simpleness of your sincerity warmed something deep in his chest and turned something over softly in the pit of his stomach.
Working to move past the emotion clawing its way up his throat while standing in the middle of a police station, Gator cleared his throat as a signal that the topic was to change.
“…So uh, what’s for dinner?”
“Hmmm. Not sure about dinner but I have a pretty good idea for dessert.”
Your insinuation was not lost on him.
God he loved you.
“Do you now?”
“Mmhhmmm. I was thinking something short n’ sweet.”
Most likely referring to the dress that you were currently sprawled out in, Gator couldn’t fathom the idea of anything else about your reunion being ‘short’.
“Well I don’t know about short honey, but i’m definitely fiendin’ for something sweet.”
“Is that right?”
His turn.
“Always.”
“Well then I’ll have it wrapped and ready to go by the time you get home.”
Exhaling through his nose and leaning his head back, Gator’s restraint was evident in the pronounced tendons straining in his neck.
“Ugh, Baby, you’re killing me.”
Your soft laugh could be heard perfectly through the static. Clearly you had the desired effect in him.
“The sooner you clean the streets the sooner we can get dirty. How ‘bout that?
“Funny. You’re a minx, y’know that?.
I’ll be back home before it gets dark.”
The lack of words cutting through the static in that moment said more than anything else did.
Looking up and over his shoulder, Gator made sure the rest of the guys had lost interest in his conversation before he spoke his next words.
“I love you, you know that right?”
“I know. I love you too, Gates.”
He had no right to revel in the nick name he thought.
But he did.
God he couldn’t wait to get home and hear you say those very words again, this time directly into his ear.
He felt like the luckiest man alive.
Which honestly? To have gotten a woman like you, he was.
“Your what shower?”
“My everything shower.”
“The hell's an everything shower?”
𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠: gator tillman x reader
𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬: established relationship, touch-starved!gator, soft!gator, grumpy x sunshine, suggestive content, domestic fluff, mostly non-sexual nudity, hair washing, massaging, grumpy man gets exfoliated against his will, angst if you squint
𝐚/𝐧: shoutout to this ask for pushing me to finish this!
♡ · · · ♡ · · · ♡
“What the fuck is all that?”
The question stops you halfway through the bedroom doorway.
You nearly lose your grip on everything at once. Three different bottles wobble dangerously in your arms, your oversized tub of vanilla sugar scrub pressed against your chest hard enough to leave an imprint. A fluffy white robe hangs from your elbow, and the container of hair mask is clenched between your teeth because you made the mistake of thinking you could carry just one more thing.
From the bed, Gator stares at you like you’ve just walked in hauling tactical equipment.
The room is dim except for the glow of the TV, some hunting show droning quietly in the background, forgotten the second he noticed you. He’s sprawled out on top of the comforter in gray sweats, one hand shoved under his shirt while the other holds his phone against his chest.
His eyes drag slowly over the pile in your arms.
You've been caught red-handed.
“It’s... for my everything shower.”
“Your what shower?”
“My everything shower.”
“The hell's an everything shower?”
You walk farther into the room, dumping everything onto the dresser with loud plastic clacks. “It’s my full routine. Hair mask, exfoliating, shaving, skin care. The whole thing.”
“A hair mask,” he repeats slowly.
“Yes.”
“You put a mask on your hair.”
“Well, it’s basically just deep conditioner.”
“But y’call it a mask.”
“Yes, Gator.”
He squints harder, visibly trying to work through the logic of that.
Honestly, you can’t even blame him.
You’ve seen your boyfriend's shower routine.
Well, calling it a routine is generous.
One sad, dented bottle of cheap 3-in-1 shoved in the corner of the tub with the label peeling halfway off. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face wash—it probably doubles as dish soap and engine degreaser too. You once asked him what face cleanser he used and he looked at you like you’d started speaking French.
You walk over to the bed with a sigh, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his sweats.
“C’mere. I’ll show you.”
“I know how showers work.”
“Do you, though?”
“Real funny.”
Still, he lets you tug him up. Peels off the mattress with a groan, warm and sleepy, hair sticking up everywhere from laying around all evening. His shirt rides up when he stretches, exposing a strip of skin and the soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his sweats.
He follows you toward the bathroom, scratching absently at his stomach while he grumbles under his breath.
“You women use too much shit.”
“Yeah, and you use dish soap to wash your whole body.”
“It cleans me, don’t it?”
“Mm, debatable.”
He snorts, stepping behind you as you twist the shower handle. Water blasts against the tile, steam already beginning to curl through the air. The bathroom warms quickly, mirrors fogging at the edges while you line up bottles along the shelf with practiced precision.
Gator leans against the sink watching you.
The second your shirt hits the floor, he goes dead silent.
You feel it before you even turn around—that heavy, heat-soaked stare settling low on your back and dragging slowly downward.
You glance up toward the fogging mirror and catch him watching openly, head tipped back while his eyes track the slow slide of your shorts down your thighs.
Teeth catching on his bottom lip, pupils gone dark.
There’s nothing subtle about the look on his face.
By the time your shorts pool around your ankles, he’s already pushing lazily off the sink.
You barely get half a breath in before his palm cracks sharply against your ass.
The sound echoes off the tile.
You jolt with a gasp, shooting him an unimpressed look over your shoulder while he just stands there grinning crookedly at you.
“Gator.”
“What?” he smirks, all fake innocence, though his voice has already dropped rough around the edges. His hand lingers where he smacked you, fingers spreading possessively over the curve of your hip. “You standin’ there lookin’ like that... ain’t my fault.”
You turn away before he can catch you smiling.
By the time you step into the shower, the room is thick with steam. Warm water pours over your shoulders the second you step under the spray, heavy enough to make you sigh. Heat slides down your spine, loosening every tight muscle in your body.
A second later, the shower curtain jerks open.
Then:
“Oh—jesus CHRIST—!”
You burst out laughing as Gator physically recoils the second the water hits him, one hand slapping against the tile wall to keep from slipping on his bare ass.
“Why the fuck is it so hot?”
“It’s not that hot!”
“My skin’s peelin’ off!”
“It’s just warm.”
“Goddamn, it’s like Satan’s asshole in here.”
You laugh harder, grabbing his wrist before he can escape.
“C’mere.”
“No, wait—hang on, hang—babe—”
You yank him fully under the spray.
Hot water drenches him instantly.
His hair flattens against his forehead, dark strands dripping into his eyes. He squints through it with a look of genuine betrayal while the spray beats against his shoulders.
“Shit—” He jerks slightly, hissing through his teeth when the water hits the back of his neck. “Y’tryna boil me alive?”
“Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”
“I’m serious.” His hands land on your waist like he needs support through this deeply traumatic experience. “I’m literally cookin’ in here.”
The heat has already flushed his skin pink across his chest and up into his cheeks. Tiny beads of water cling to his lashes every time he blinks, steam blurring the usual sharpness of him—the hard set of his brows, the tension around his mouth.
He looks so soft like this.
Prettier, somehow.
Especially with those flushed, perpetually pouty lips.
You can’t help but smile.
“You’re such a baby,” you coo softly, reaching up to smooth his soaked hair back. “C’mere, you big baby.”
He grumbles something vaguely offensive under his breath, even while leaning into your touch.
Your palms slide over warm, wet skin, fingertips tracing through the damp hair over his sternum before your arms curl loosely around his neck. Water streams between your bodies in hot sheets, slicking your skin together every time he shifts closer.
And he is close now.
Chest pressed against yours, big hands spread over your waist. He’s radiating heat under your palms, muscles slowly relaxing despite all his complaining.
You cup his face in both hands, rubbing your thumbs affectionately over his flushed cheeks.
He sniffs once, still pretending to pout, though his eyes have already started drooping heavier from the heat. A bead of water slides down the bridge of his nose before disappearing against his mouth.
God, he’s gorgeous like this.
Dripping wet, hair hanging in his face, lips pink from the heat and pulled into that stubborn little pout he gets whenever he wants attention but refuses to ask for it directly.
You kiss him before he can start complaining again.
And, for all his dramatic huffing and bitching, a quick press to his baby-pink lips is all it takes.
The second your mouth touches his, he melts.
A low sound rumbles deep in his chest as his arm snakes tighter around your waist, hauling you flush against him beneath the spray. The kiss starts lazy, warm and lingering, and he sighs into it like he’s been waiting for it since the second he stepped under the water.
“Mm,” he mumbles, mouth curling against yours, “So this ‘everything shower’ thing…”
You already know what he’s about to say.
“…that include me bendin’ you over in five minutes or...?”
You laugh into his mouth.
“Gator.”
“What? You said everything.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“False advertisin’, then.”
He steals another kiss before you can answer, smiling into it this time, all smug and pleased with himself. His hands spread possessively over the curve of your waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles against your hips.
When you shove lightly at his chest, he barely moves.
“Focus,” you tell him.
“I am focused.”
“On the shower.”
“I can multitask.”
“No, you cannot.”
He grins against your temple, pressing one lingering kiss there before finally loosening his grip enough to let you move around him.
Barely.
Even then, his hand stays planted firmly on your hip while you start reaching for products.
And despite all his whining about how hot the water is—despite the way he keeps distracting you every thirty seconds by kissing your shoulder, squeezing your ass, groping your tits, dragging his hands over your stomach whenever you lean forward—
He’s fascinated.
You can see it all over his face, clear as anything.
His eyes follow every little thing you do. The loofah hanging from the hook. The jars lined neatly along the shelf. The soft clicks of lids opening and the thick, sweet scents blooming through the steam one by one: vanilla, cocoa butter, orange blossom, lavender.
“So what’s all this shit for?” he asks eventually.
“Language.”
He snorts and picks up one of your body oils carefully, turning it over in his massive hand while water drips from his wrist.
“Why’s this bottle so fuckin' tiny?”
“’Cause it’s expensive.”
“How expensive?”
You hesitate.
His eyes narrow immediately. “How expensive.”
“…Thirty dollars.”
“For that tiny-ass bottle?”
“It’s good oil!”
He looks genuinely horrified.
“Holy shit. You could buy, like… a car part with that.”
“Yeah, because those are definitely comparable purchases.”
He rolls his eyes, turning his attention on the scrub jar in your hand.
He squints at the label through the water dripping into his eyes.
“Sugar scrub?”
“Yeah.”
“The hell’s that mean?”
You grin instantly. “Hold still.”
His eyes narrow with immediate suspicion. “Why.”
“You ask too many questions.”
Before he can move away, you scoop a handful into your palm.
It’s your favorite scrub too—the ridiculously overpriced strawberry pound cake one that smells good enough to eat, warm brown sugar and whipped vanilla frosting.
You rub it over his forearm without warning.
He flinches immediately. “Ow, what the fuck—"
"Relax."
Sugar crystals drag slowly across his skin while your hands work over the hard muscle of his arm. The scrub softens beneath the heat, turning slick and grainy between your fingers.
His brows pinch together while he watches you.
“…What’s it even doin’?”
“Gets rid of dead skin.”
“I don’t got dead skin.”
“Everybody has dead skin.”
“I don’t.”
“Sure, babe.”
He eyes the scrub suspiciously while you keep going. "Is this gonna make my arm all... glittery, or whatever?"
“...No.”
“You hesitated.”
“No, I didn’t!" you insist, laughing. “I do have a glitter shower jelly though.”
“A what.”
“A shower jelly.”
“The fuck is a shower jelly?”
The grin spreading across your face makes him immediately point at you.
“No.”
“Too late!”
You twist around beneath the spray, reaching behind him toward the crowded shower shelf. Your fingers close around the little plastic pot wedged between your body wash and conditioner. It jiggles in your hand when you pick it up—golden and translucent, packed with tiny flecks of glitter that catch under the warm bathroom light.
You plop it directly into his palm.
The jelly slips against his skin, wobbling in his hand like a living thing, and his entire face twists in genuine alarm.
“What the fuc—why’s it doin’ that?”
You dissolve into laughter, doubling over against him while he stares down at the jiggling soap with genuine distrust, holding it out at arm’s length like it might suddenly grow teeth.
“This ain’t right,” he mutters, poking it cautiously with his thumb.
“It’s just soap!”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes while you hide your face in his shoulder, laughter shaking out of you in muffled bursts against his warm skin. His chest hitches once beneath you, reluctant amusement creeping in despite himself.
When you finally manage to pull back and look at him, his expression has changed completely.
Water slides slowly down his face in shimmering trails, gathering at his jaw before dripping down to his chest.
He’s not looking at the shower jelly anymore.
He’s looking at you.
Hazel eyes much softer than you’re used to, focused in a way that makes your laughter taper off.
It still manages to catch you off guard, even after all this time.
Because Gator’s never been good at saying things straight out. He jokes, he deflects, he fills silence with anger and attitude—whatever comes easiest.
But sometimes, when he looks at you like this, it feels like he doesn’t need to say anything at all.
You’re still peering up at him when he blinks, huffing as he tosses the shower jelly toward the shelf without even looking where it lands.
“Thing’s fuckin’ haunted.”
Then his hands settle on your waist.
Big, warm palms slide around your hips without hesitation, dragging you forward until there’s no space left between you.
You squeak when you lose your footing against the slick tile.
“Gator—!” you gasp, grabbing his shoulders to steady yourself, laughter spilling out of you again even as your pulse jumps.
“What?” he says, mouth curling into that lazy, knowing grin.
“I almost slipped,” you breathe, trying to find balance against his chest.
“Nah.” His smile widens. “Got you.”
Then his nose nudges along your neck, inhaling deeply.
“Why’s all this shit smell like food, huh?”
You huff a laugh, squirming when his lips skim the damp skin just below your ear.
“Jelly,” he mutters between kisses. “Sugar scrub. Vanilla frosting. Coconut whatever… what’s next? Rotisserie chicken lotion?”
That gets another laugh out of you, helpless and bright, the sound buried as you press closer into his shoulder. Your arms slide up around his neck, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape.
“I’m serious,” he mutters, though you can tell he’s smiling too. You hear it in the lazy drawl of his words, feel it in the way his chest vibrates beneath your cheek. “Like I’m showerin’ inside a damn bakery.”
You love moments like this.
Doing nothing else but being close with one another, swaying under the steady press of warm water, cocooned in steam while the rest of the world falls away.
His hands move absentmindedly over your back, gliding up and down your skin in a comforting rhythm.
Then, naturally, his grip slides lower on your hips.
You feel the shift in him before you even see it, his grin turning cocky in a way that always spells trouble.
“So…” he murmurs, voice dropping low in his chest. “Can we fuck now?”
You snort, pushing lightly at his shoulders so you can look at him properly.
His expression is completely shameless, nothing but open, unapologetic confidence.
You wouldn’t expect anything less from your boyfriend.
“No,” you say flatly.
His expression sours. “No?”
“We still have to exfoliate.”
Gator rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he doesn’t injure himself.
“You’re killin’ me.”
But he doesn’t let go.
And honestly, the longer this goes on, the less he even pretends he wants out of the shower.
Especially once your hands slide higher over his shoulders.
The second your thumbs press into the tight muscle at the base of his neck, his whole body jerks beneath your hands.
“Jesus…” he mutters under his breath.
“Too hard?”
“No,” he says immediately. “Just... keep goin’.”
That alone makes you smile again.
Because two weeks ago this man would’ve rather thrown himself into traffic than let something pink and strawberry-scented anywhere near him.
Now he’s standing beneath scalding water while you rub sugar scrub into his shoulders, massaging the tension out of him like a spoiled housecat.
You take your time with him, working your thumbs into the tendons there.
God, he’s tight everywhere.
The muscles across his shoulders feel hard as stone beneath your palms, thick bands of tension packed so tightly they barely move under your touch. Every time your thumbs drag across another knot, his breathing catches slightly.
Your smile fades little by little.
“Baby,” you murmur quietly, “when’s the last time you relaxed your shoulders?”
“Uh, dunno.”
“You don’t know?”
He shrugs, though even that movement looks stiff.
“Never really think about it.”
Your fingers drag slowly down the back of his neck again, pressing into another rigid knot there.
“Gator,” you say softly, brows pulling together, “you’re hard as a brick back here.”
He snorts quietly at that.
You roll your eyes, but the innuendo doesn’t land quite the same now.
Because once you really start paying attention—really feeling him beneath your hands—you realize how tense he actually is.
Every inch of him feels wound tight.
His shoulders sit high even while he’s supposedly relaxed, thick muscles rigid beneath your palms no matter how much steam fills the shower or how hot the water runs over him.
Like he’s always bracing for something.
The realization tightens something in your chest in return.
And maybe he notices the shift in you, because after that, he goes unusually quiet.
No more smartass comments. He just stands there under the spray while you finish working the scrub over him.
The pink sugar crystals melt gradually beneath the water, dissolving against warm skin while your fingers work over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.
Gator watches your hands more than anything else.
You notice it every time you glance up.
His eyes tracking the slow circles of your palms, the drag of your nails lightly scratching through the damp hair on his chest. The way you smooth water over his shoulders afterward.
You catch yourself wondering, briefly, if this is something he’s ever really experienced before outside of sex—outside of anything physical and fleeting. Being touched without it carrying an expectation, without it needing to lead anywhere else or turn into something more.
His shoulders begin to drop first. Then his jaw loosens. Then the permanent little line between his brows eases until he stops looking so guarded all the time.
"Kinda feels nice, I guess,” he admits after a while, voice quieter than usual.
You smile to yourself.
“Yeah?”
“Mm.”
When you reach for the shampoo, he tips his head forward without being asked.
You work the product through his hair slowly, fingers sliding into damp strands as the scent of citrus and jasmine fills the steam around you. It lingers warm and clean, cutting through the heavy sweetness left from everything else.
Then your nails scrape lightly across his scalp.
And the sound he makes is... well.
Your gaze lifts slowly.
Gator’s standing completely still beneath the spray, eyes shut tight, brows pinched together while a slow breath slips through his parted lips.
“Gates, was that...?”
His eyes snap open.
“No.”
The denial comes way too fast.
You stare at him for exactly one second before laughter slips out of you.
“Oh my god, it was!”
“It was not.”
“Yes, it was!”
“No, it wasn’t. Shut up.”
You bite back another laugh at how seriously he suddenly sounds about it.
His cheeks are already flushed pink from the heat, but now the color creeps higher—up the tips of his ears too.
Interesting.
Purple-tinted shampoo runs in slow trails down his temples as he glares at you through wet lashes, mouth twitching while water streams down the sharp slope of his nose.
“You’re annoyin’,” he murmurs. “I’m leavin’.”
“No, you’re not.”
To prove your point, you drag your nails lightly against his scalp again.
A gruff noise slips out of him before he can stop it this time, low and helpless, pulled up from somewhere deep in his throat. His eyes squeeze shut and his hands tighten briefly at your waist.
“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “I hate you.”
“Liar.”
He makes no move to leave.
If anything, his grip on your waist tightens when you start rinsing the shampoo from his hair, angling his head toward you so you don’t have to reach so far.
You’ve known Gator long enough to understand how big this actually is.
Because for all his flirting and constant touching, genuine softness doesn’t always come naturally to him.
Not receiving it, anyway.
He’s good at grabbing your waist to pull you into his lap while you’re trying to cook dinner. Good at kissing your neck in the kitchen while murmuring filthy things against your skin just to hear you laugh.
He knows how to want, how to take up space.
But this?
Standing still while somebody takes care of him?
That’s different.
And for the first time since he stepped into the bathroom, he looks completely calm.
You don’t think you’ve ever seen him be this still for so long.
Usually there’s always something twitching in him somewhere—a bouncing knee, fingers tapping against his thigh, shoulder bunched up to his neck and his jaw locked tight like he’s perpetually gearing up for a fight.
But right now, he just looks tired.
Like he doesn’t feel the need to bury it, for once. Safe enough to let the exhaustion sit in him without pushing it away.
So you keep touching him gently. Combing your fingers through his hair while water pours through the strands in dark rivulets, nails scraping softly over the base of his skull until he shivers.
By the time you finally finish rinsing him off, Gator looks completely wrung out.
His cheeks are flushed deep pink from standing under the heat too long, damp hair sticking up in uneven directions, his eyes gone heavy-lidded in that sleepy way they get late at night.
You step out first, wrapping a towel around yourself while he stands there dripping on the bathmat, rubbing absently at his own forearm.
His brows furrow thoughtfully.
“Huh.”
You glance over while tightening your towel. “What?”
He rubs his arm again slowly, fingertips sweeping over the skin where you used the scrub earlier.
“…Feels different.”
The smile that breaks across your face is immediate.
“Right?!”
You sound so aggressively excited about it that he snorts quietly, shaking his head.
Still, he keeps touching his arm.
Testing the skin with obvious confusion, thumb brushing over the softness there.
“Huh,” he says again, quieter this time.
Then, because he physically cannot allow himself to sound too impressed for longer than thirty seconds, he shrugs and reaches for a towel.
“S’fine, I guess.”
Which, translated from Gator-speak, is basically a standing ovation.
You grin to yourself while he drags the towel roughly over his hair—
Then immediately shakes his head like a dog, spraying droplets all over the floor.
“Oh my—Gator!”
...
Afterward, you settle onto the bathroom counter in one of his oversized shirts, rubbing lotion into your legs while the room stays thick with leftover warmth.
Everything smells sweet, vanilla and strawberry sugar lingering heavy in the humid air.
Gator sprawls across the closed toilet seat nearby in a fresh pair of sweatpants, elbows planted on his knees while he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes.
You try not to stare too much at how pretty he looks like this too, softened and comfortable, relaxed enough to practically fall asleep upright.
You hold up a bottle.
“This one’s toner.”
“Uh huh.”
“This one’s moisturizer.”
He gives you a flat look.
“Yeah,” he drawls slowly. “I know what moisturizer is, babe.”
You ignore him.
“And this one’s hyaluronic acid.”
“You put acid on your face?”
“It’s not that kind of acid.”
His skeptical hmph makes you laugh quietly while you pat serum into your cheeks.
And even though he’d rather chew glass than admit it out loud, something about all of this clearly gets under his skin in a way he doesn’t entirely hate.
It's starts small at first.
Lingering in the bathroom doorway while you do your nighttime routine, pretending he’s only there because he’s “waitin’ for you to finish the hell up already.”
He picks up random bottles in the meantime, squinting suspiciously at labels.
“What’s body butter supposed to be?”
“It’s moisturizer.”
“So lotion.”
“Thicker lotion.”
“That’s stupid.”
Three days later you catch him using it.
Only because, apparently, “my hands are dry as shit.”
Then he uses it again the next night.
And the night after that.
After that, it stops being occasional.
You start catching him using your products without even asking first.
Rubbing lotion into his hands while standing in the kitchen. Swiping your expensive lip balm across his mouth while pretending not to notice you watching him.
And honestly, you think part of it stops being about the products pretty quickly.
You think he likes the familiarity of it. The closeness.
Smelling your body wash on his skin. Coconut lotion rubbed into his knuckles and vanilla sweetness clinging faintly to the collar of his shirts.
Little pieces of you following him around.
It becomes most obvious after rough days.
The kind where he comes home exhausted down to the bone, shoulders slumped, smelling like sweat and engine oil.
Sometimes he barely makes it through the front door before he drops, collapsing face-first into your chest with a groan. His forehead presses into your shoulder while his arms wrap loosely around your waist.
And when you run your fingers through his hair and murmur, “Everything shower?” he’ll let out a long exhale against your neck before mumbling a tired little, “Yeah,” into your shirt.
Some nights he’s too drained for anything else.
He just stands beneath the spray with his eyes closed while you wash his hair slowly, his hands resting heavy on your waist more for grounding than anything possessive.
Other nights, though, he’s more awake.
More opinionated.
“Wait,” he says one evening, catching your wrist before you grab a scrub jar. “Not that one.”
You blink over your shoulder. “What, this one?”
“Nah.” He points lazily toward the shelf. “The other one.”
“The cotton candy scrub?”
“…Yeah.”
You can’t help it—you grin a little, slow and knowing.
“What? It smells better than that strawberry cake shit.”
Soon enough you’re rubbing cotton candy and shea butter into his skin, pink suds sliding down his tattooed bicep while he stands there acting like this is all one giant inconvenience he’s tolerating for your sake.
And in return, he starts taking care of you too.
Not always gracefully, and definitely not innocently.
His hands wander plenty, soap-slick palms gliding over your hips, sudsing up your tits and ass under the excuse of “helping.”
Sometimes it’s worse when he’s half asleep. Distracted kisses pressed against your shoulder while you’re mid-sentence, mouthing lazily along your neck as he absentmindedly drags the loofah across your stomach.
You’ll be talking about your day and suddenly realize he stopped listening five minutes ago because he got distracted kissing your collarbone.
But underneath all the flirting and grabbing and constant horny commentary, something softer grows there too.
Comfort in the repetition of it.
In knowing that no matter how exhausting the week gets, eventually there’s this: warm steam, your skin pressed up against his, the familiar clutter of bottles lined along the shelf and your voice explaining what each one does while he pretends not to care—even though he remembers every single one.
It becomes yours.
This quiet little thing that belongs only to the two of you.
Most nights, things do escalate eventually. Slow kisses wrapped up in steam-heavy air, wet skin sliding together while his mouth finds your throat and your fingers tangle in his hair.
But sometimes he’s honestly too tired for any of that.
Sometimes it ends exactly here.
With dryer-warmed towels and sleepy silence afterward, the bedroom dark and cool against freshly showered skin while Gator stretches across the bed with a groan, head dropping heavily into your lap.
You scratch lightly against his scalp, carding your fingers through his damp hair while he drifts in and out of sleep.
His arms slide around your waist eventually, a little clumsy with exhaustion before settling properly. He pulls you closer until his face presses into your stomach, breath warm through your shirt.
“Mmfh…” he mumbles, words blurred heavily by sleep. “You’re the… the best thing that ever happen’ to me, y’know that?”
You know there’s a good chance he won’t fully remember saying it tomorrow.
Not because he doesn’t mean it; just because honesty comes easier when he’s too exhausted to keep it buried.
You smile, fingers never stopping their slow rhythm through his hair.
“I love you too,” you murmur back, just as gentle.
And you think, as he drifts into sleep in your lap, that he looks most like himself when he stops trying to be anything at all.
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