I have no idea

Early 40's 😳

[graywrenhart]

hello my darling <3

if i may :’) i would like a hazelnut latte please :) extra hot, with a dash of the prompt: “the desperate scramble to get closer when there is no closer to get”

love @keer-y on main 🤍

𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐄𝐑 𝐔𝐏! - DESPERATE

visit gray’s 4k cafe

gator gets home from a long work trip to find you desperate for him.

tags: [smut, MDNI] [established relationship] [husband!gator] 560 words.

It’s sometime past midnight when you finally hear the front door open. 

You launch out of bed, where you were unsuccessfully attempting to sleep while waiting for your husband to finally get home, and fly down the stairs. 

The door has barely shut behind Gator before you’re on him. 

He grunts, stumbling backwards as you throw your arms around his neck and breathe him in. He smells like the cold air outside, and gun oil, but beneath it all…that familiar musk that has heat pooling between your legs. And all of a sudden you’re ravenous—licking his neck, kissing his face, grinding your hips into his. 

“Shit, mama,” Gator huffs, “can’t even get inside before you’re—”

You finally find his mouth with yours, and his words dissipate like mist at the first taste of you. 

It’s been three weeks since you’ve seen Gator. 

Three. Weeks. A case took him away across the country, so it’s been twenty-one excruciating days without your husband in your bed.

And that’ll do things to a girl. 

“Upstairs,” you breathe between kisses. “Need you.”

He snorts and pulls back to smirk down at you, his brown eyes flashing in the dark entryway, but when you start to move towards the stairs, his hands lock down on your hips. Hard.

“Too far,” he says, and then he’s kissing you again, pressing you backwards into your living room. Your eyes flutter shut as you surrender to his maneuvering, his broad shoulders shifting under your hands, and the next thing you know, he’s guiding you down onto the couch. 

Well, more so, tossing you onto the fabric cushions, before following you down.

You sigh into his mouth as his weight settles on top of you. This feels right. It’s so right, it’s almost like your bones were too light before in comparison. But then his hands dive under your shirt, pinching your hard nipples, and your sigh turns into a deep moan.

“There ya are,” he hums before finding your mouth with his again. “S’my girl.”

It’s dark in here, since you turned all the lights off before going to bed, but you don’t need light to see each other. 

Not like this. 

The gun still holstered on his thigh digs into your leg as you press yourself even closer, and when he reaches down to make sure the safety is on, something deep and aching snags in your chest. 

You’re both panting now, desperation for each other turning you into frantic writhing messes, and you could let your body to the talking, but for some reason, you feel the need to say it, too. 

“M-missed you so—” you start, but his hand finally breaches your sleep shorts and finds your soaked folds, so all you can muster is a torn whimper.

Gator curses. “You’re soakin’ me. I need t’leave town more often, huh?” 

You scoff and slap his arm beneath his jacket, but there’s no heat behind it because you’re starving for him, and all your blood rushes to your core as he sinks a finger into you, stroking your slick walls firmly before pulling back.

“Missed ya too,” he whispers against your throat, and when he sits up to unbuckle his belt, his broad frame rises over you—a sinful silhouette. “Ass up, babygirl. Let me show ya how much.”

gator masterlist | divider by @saradika-graphics | visit gray's 4k cafe!

[ethelcainsdaughter666]

Knuckle Velvet

Gator Tillman AUfic! x oc character

“Nothing hurts like you do, like the way you say I love you”

Warnings: MDNI, NSFW, SMUT!(PiV unprotected (wrap it up hoes!), OralMale!, RoughBJ!, FingeringFem!, Daddy kink!, Rough sex!, DomGator!, Choking!, Spanking!, Use of Handcuffs!, Degrading!, Tini hint of SubGator if you blink you miss it!)!, VIOLENCE, TALKS OF SELF HARM, ATTEMPTED SA!, DRUG USE!

WC: 8.2k

Author’s note: Hi my angels! I love this chapter. I REALLY love it. Did you read the warnings? Yeah I hope this counts as credit towards y’all’s therapy bills. Now remember though…. When the knuckle velvet demon is being generous…. *gulps hard*. Enjoy the good we are getting this chapter. Okay I love y’all bye. 🩷

P.S. Always always always appreciate likes, reblogs and comments and some of the things you guys say omg yall crack me up! Also to my lurkers shoutout to you! I know you’re there like I can feel your eyes 👀 and I love you too it’s cool how you’re just restraining from pressing any buttons, I know I couldn’t do that but good on you!

Masterlist

Part eleven: he’s been carrying it with him the whole time

They say true love hurts and the heartbreak Amma felt from Gators betrayal, she swears it could kill her. Amma loved Gator but she also hated him now. Every time he called she just hit ignore and every time he texted her the message went unread.

He showed up at Jena’s after two days. All while Amma stood on the other side of the door while Jena talked to him. She could tell from his voice he was in pain, and she was glad they both could suffer at least. After almost two weeks of not seeing Gator Amma couldn’t lie. She really missed him.

“I mean do you see yourself forgiving him?” Jena asked as they sat on her bed together in Jena’s room.

“I don’t know. I mean the fact he was Joe and didn’t tell me? I mean it’s weird right? That’s like creepy behavior right?” Amma’s voice going up an octave.

“I mean did he know the whole time?” Jena raised a brow.

“No he didn’t.” Amma shook her head. “But he’s known since we first started… you know messing around.”

“Maybe he didn’t know how to tell you.” She shrugged.

Amma squinted her eyes at Jena.

“Why are you playing devils advocate right now?”

“I’m not.” Jena shook her head. “I’m just trying to understand everything that happened.”

“Jena he lied to me and…. He talked to me as Joe still when we were dating-“

“I thought you said he only did it once after the fight you got into on your birthday?” Jena interrupted her.

Amma huffed a breath out.

“Okay yeah but…” Amma looked down picking at her nail. “I just don’t know if I could ever trust him again.”

Jena nodded her head.

“I get it I really do, but maybe you should talk to him. Don’t leave things so unsettled ya know?”

Amma rolled her eyes.

“Spoken like a true preachers daughter.” She muttered.

“Yeah well it’s true.” Jena cooed as she got up from her bed and grabbed her purse. “If you keep avoiding him and what happened it’s only going to eat you up. So yeah maybe call him.”

“Mmmm.” Amma nodded her head tight lipped.

“Hey.” Jena said as she stood at the door.

Amma glanced in her direction.

“I’m saying this because I’m your best friend and I do know you Amma. Just talk to him.” Jena gave her a small smile.

“I’ll think about it.” Amma shrugged.

“Yeah okay.” Jenna let out a small chuckle. “I’ll see you later.” She waved before closing the door.

Amma sat there thinking about what Jena said “just talk to him” like it was so easy. She also knew Jena had a point. After Jena and her parents left for church. Amma got in the shower she was working a double shift at the diner. Trying to save up extra cash for a car.

She was singing and washing her hair, still thinking about what Jena said and about Gator. The fucking asshole. Amma thought if she saw him right now she’d smack him. Or maybe kiss him. Fuck no she’s not sliding back that easy. He deserves to be punished not rewarded. Damn it though now she’s thinking about his lips on her. The way they perfectly fit hers and how soft they feel on her skin. God when he’s between her legs with that tongue of his. Amma hadn’t really touched herself in a while. She thought since no one was home. Might as well.

She leaned her back against the wall in the shower and balanced her leg on the side of the tub. She dipped her hands between her thighs, touching herself in all the right spots. Thinking only about Gator, imagining it was him touching her. Just as she was getting close, she could hear Jena’s dog Dixie barking and growling.

“Dixie! What’s wrong?” Amma shouted.

Usually Jena’s dog was quiet, Amma knew someone must be here. She turned off the shower. Just as she wrapped a towel around her, she heard something crashing and falling on the ground. When she swung open the door and saw Gator she was surprised and also pissed, did that little pervert hear her? Maybe not.

When she yelled wanting to know why he was here. She couldn’t lie the way Gator told her “I wanted to see you.” With his big puppy dog eyes. She felt a pang of empathy for him, but that was quickly gone when she remembered he lied to her.

When she came out to leave for work. Amma was surprised to see he was still waiting for her outside of Jena’s. No car meant riding one of Jena’s old bikes from high school. She figured he understood what fuck off meant when she told him to go. She knows he’s sorry but she just couldn’t get over him lying to her. And she was sure he didn’t really love her. How could he? He saw her as cherry this fantasy girl she created herself to be online. Amma was sure he’d give up on her eventually. She also couldn’t lie seeing him with a black eye made her smile just a little. She assumed either her brother or Roy did it.

She wasn’t surprised to see Gator waiting for her outside the diner. She assumed he’d been there all damn day probably. It was kind of sweet in a pathetic kind of way. Of course it started to rain when Amma was going back to Jena’s. She hated to take a ride from him, but she didn’t want to get struck by lightning either.

She thought maybe it was better to get struck by lightning. Being that close to him made it hard to say no. Hearing him tell her he loves her for her and he sees her. It made her heart ache. She missed him so much. When they made out, and his hand went between her thighs. She almost fell back into him, but something in her brain screamed no don’t trust him don’t do this.

After Gator had dropped Amma off at Jena’s all she wanted to do was go out. She needed a night to dance, drink and definitely do drugs. She wanted to forget about Gator for a bit. Her feelings for him were so complicated, she still wanted him. But fuck how could he lie to her like that? Gator should have known how big trust was to her. She knew he was sorry, but she was still hurting and a mean part of her wanted Gator to hurt too.

Amma was in the kitchen eating an apple when her dad came in through the backdoor. He looked surprised to see her. Then again they haven’t spoken since her grandfathers funeral.

“Oh… hi.” He hummed out.

Amma didn’t say anything just continued to eat her apple.

“Just here to drop off some things… I guess it doesn’t matter to you….” James shrugged shaking his head. “How are you doin’?”

Amma finished her apple and tossed it in the trash.

“We don’t have to talk James.” She shook her head giving her dad a tight smile.

“You’re still my daughter Amma.” His tone sharp. “And I do care about you.”

“You didn’t seem to care when you kicked me out.” Amma snipped back crossing her arms over her chest.

“You shouldn’t be with the Tillmans Amma.” He shook his head.

Amma just rolled her eyes.

“That’s not your choice I’m an adult and…. Whatever issues you have with Roy that’s between you two. Gator isn’t his dad ya know?” Amma pointed out.

“The Tillmans are all the same honey. That family is no good—“

“Then why did you let Gator come stay with us all the time? Why didn’t it bother you then?!” She interrupted her dad. “Or did you not want to make it obvious to anyone that mom slept with Roy?”

“You watch your damn mouth.” James Senior with two strides was in Amma’s space now.

In this moment she wished Gator was here, because she was scared of her dad as he towered over her, and she wasn’t sure where anyone else was in the house.

“I think it’s pointless we talk.” Amma muttered out, she tried to walk away but her dad grabbed her arm tight.

“Amma please I don’t want you to end up like your mother.” He pleaded.

“I’m not my mother.” Amma yanked out of his hold.

“Oh you are exactly like your mother Amma. You’re all of her worst qualities wrapped up in one. All the dark secrets and never wanting to be happy! So angry at the world! And just like you she wanted to be alone and she didn’t trust anyone! Even though I gave her the world!” He snapped.

“Gave her the world?! You trapped her!” Amma shouted.

“I loved your mother! The same way I love you! And being with the Tillmans will kill you! They are dangerous Amma! Your mother wouldn’t want you to be with them!” He sneered out.

“She killed herself while being pregnant with me! She clearly didn’t want me to be with you! You fucking idiot!” She snapped back.

The slap was hard enough Amma’s whole head and body twisted in the other direction. She held her cheek turning back to her dad, he looked just as shocked as she did. Amma just nodded her head. Tears springing down her cheeks.

“Yeah and you didn’t want me around the Tillmans right?” Amma hissed.

“Amma I’m sorry I didn’t—“

“Fuck off.” Amma bit out before storming out of the house.

She heard Jena following behind her.

“Amma wait I’m coming! Oh my god are you okay? My dad and I heard everything! Jesus Christ!” She grabbed Amma pulling her into a hug.

Amma teared up a little before she hugged Jena back.

“I’m… I’m alright can we just go?” Amma sniffed.

“Yeah of course.” Jena nodded her head.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Amma couldn’t get Gator out of her mind, no matter how much she drank or how much she snorted up her nose he was still there. She wanted to call him and tell

him what happened, but why would it matter. Gators just like everyone else who wants to hurt her. Amma’s starting to think the only person she has is Jena, but even then Amma doesn’t want to talk to Jena either.

She met a guy at the club named Kent. Amma recognized him from college. He was cute enough, Amma kind of thinks he looks like Gator in a certain light. She didn’t even tell Jena she was leaving with him, only texting her that she was. She was sure Jena wouldn’t have let her leave with him.

When she went back to Kent’s place they started making out, he led her down a hallway into a bedroom. Lying her down on a bed, they were both pretty drunk. As they pulled away and Amma took a look at him and she saw Gator staring back at her.

“What the hell?!” She immediately shoved Kent off of her.

“Whoa hey what’s wrong sweetheart?” Kent asked putting his hands up.

Amma blinked a few times and shook her head.

“I’m sorry I— I thought you were someone else just now…”

Kent sat up and leaned back on his headboard.

“How long ago was the break up?” He asked.

“It was like two weeks ago…” Amma shrugged.

“Been there, took me six months before I moved on from my last relationship.” He nodded.

“I don’t what to do with the pain…” Amma mumbled as she laid back on the bed staring at the ceiling.

“Embrace it.” He shrugged.

She turned her head in his direction, he tilted his head at her.

“The best way to move on is to move forward.” He cooed.

“But what if I… don’t want to move forward without him?” She asked.

“I mean… why did you guys break up?”

“I caught him in a lie.”

“How bad was the lie?”

Amma thought back to the night she found out Gator was Joe.

“Does it matter? He lied…” She muttered.

“I guess that’s fair.” Kent agreed.

Amma really wanted to get Gator out of her head for a bit.

“Hey Kent?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you have anything strong drug wise?” She asked.

“Yeah sure.” He shrugged.

Amma had never done heroin before but she thought why not? Kent told her it would just relax her. He told her she could just snort it even, and she did. The moment the high hit Amma doesn’t even remember laying back down. She felt airless and euphoric. Then she fell into a dream at least she thought it was a dream, but it felt real she could feel the hot sun on her skin.

“Amma! Come on honey don’t you wanna feed the ducks?”

Amma turned her head to see her mother Gemma with a bag of seeds in hand. Standing by a pond with a handful of ducks around her. She approached her mom slowly.

“Mom?” Amma said in almost a whisper tears brimming in her eyes.

Gemma just gave her a soft smile, reaching her hand out to Amma.

“Come on I can’t fed them alone.” Gemma cooed.

Amma joined her mother, the ducks around them happily quaking and eating.

“I wish you were here…” Amma whispered.

“I am here my beautiful girl.” Gemma smiled. “You can always come find me here.”

“I’m so sorry what happened to you.” Amma teared up.

“Don’t be….” Gemma gave her a warm smile. “They can’t hurt us here.”

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Amma doesn’t know how she ended up at Gators, she does remember waking up to him laying her down in bed. She spoke his name softly, there was a part of her that was just so relieved to see him. Before she drifted off back to sleep. Amma couldn’t remember much after she snorted the heroin. Everything just felt like a big blur to her. When she finally woke up again she remembers hearing Gators voice.

“Yeah she’s sleeping now, she was pretty upset though.” Gator breathed out. “I just thought you should know.”

She turned seeing Gator on the phone with someone.

“Gator?” She muttered out weakly.

He came to her side so fast, and held her so tight as she cried. Amma swears only Gator could only give her this level of comfort. She’s still pissed that he lied but the truth was after everything with her dad, she needed Gator. He was the one person that saw her darkness and knew her secrets and he still loved her, Amma thought he had to if he was still here.

Then he told her she could stay at the cabin to be safe from her dad. Amma wanted to take him up on the offer, but she was nervous. Maybe she was forgiving him too easily?

Later that night when they both were sleeping Amma woke up to Gator groaning. She thought he was having a nightmare. Only to peak over the bed where Gator was sleeping on the floor, shirtless with just his sweatpants on and a very visible hard on. Amma realized these weren’t groans of distress but moans of pleasure. She just watched him as he tossed his head slowly back and forth. Biting his lip and his breathing picking up just a little. Amma knew she shouldn’t be watching this. Yet she couldn’t look away. She wondered if he was dreaming about her. Then his hand moved over his hard on, cupping it over his sweats. Gators hips jerked up just a little.

“Amma…” he moaned pathetically.

Fuck.

Amma immediately got out of bed waking him up. She just wanted him, and maybe she hid it under the guise of needing a distraction, she really just wanted him. Amma felt like kissing was too intimate and she wasn’t ready to fully give in.

When he was between her legs, she felt so much relief. All the build up after being apart for two weeks was obvious. Knowing he was stroking his own cock while eating her out was an even bigger turn on. She couldn’t get over how well he knew her body.

Amma noticed the way he stared up at her in awe when she crawled back into bed. She knew it was the look of love and adoration. Amma realized as she got comfortable in bed again she was glad he was Joe. Because it turns out the guy she runs to when she feels like she can’t talk to anyone was Gator.

“I’m kind of relived you’re Joe.” She whispered.

“I was surprised to learn you’ve been in front of me all along.” He admitted.

Amma knew she hid who she was. Of course Gator didn’t see her at first. She didn’t see him either. He was always just a crush to her, one she thought would never bloom into anything else. Especially because the older Gator got, the more of an asshole he seemed to be. It’s like the universe waited until the timing was just right. Then they were pushed together, what are the chances they find each other anonymously on tumblr? Seems far and few, almost like it was their destiny.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

When Amma woke up in the morning it was quiet minus the sound of a rooster crowing. She thought maybe Gator was gone. Amma peaked her head off the side of the bed to see him lying there, already awake staring at the ceiling. His hands resting behind his head, showing off those biceps. He’s doing that on purpose she thought. His eyes met hers.

“Mornin’.” He hummed.

Amma thought about all the mornings he came over to her house and always said that to her. It made her giggle a little.

“What?” He grinned.

“Nothin’ it’s stupid.” She shook her head.

He sat up on the floor so he was resting his chin on the edge of the bed. Making them more face to face.

“I won’t think it’s stupid.” He promised.

“I was just thinkin’ about all the mornings you came over and that’s all we used to say to one another… mornin’!” She emphasizes the last word. “And yet… we might of already of talked that morning…”

A small smirk creeped across his lip.

“Can I ask you something and I want you to be honest?” She said.

“Whatever you wanna know.” He nodded.

She chewed her bottom lip a little nervous, but she knew if she wanted to move on from it she needed to confront everything.

“When did you figure out I was… well you know…” She asked sheepishly.

Gator looked up to the ceiling for a moment before he made eye contact with her again.

“Do you remember that morning I spit my coffee out?” He muttered.

Amma remembers that morning pretty well, Gator spitting out his coffee out of no where seemed pretty crazy and kind of funny at the time. She didn’t understand what it had to do with him figuring out she was cherry. She just stared at him to go on.

“Well when you bent down to grab the towel you dropped…. I saw your panties…. The same ones you messaged me that morning.” He hummed the last word.

Her eyes widened in surprise. Is that really what gave her away? Her panties!?

“Yeah after that I uh…. Went through your stuff in your room and found the wig and… yeah it was obvious to me who you really were then.” Gator bit his lip nervously.

Amma appreciated the honesty. Kind of weirded out a little he went through her stuff, who’s Amma kidding she knows she would have done the same thing.

“Thanks for telling me.” She nodded, she sat up in bed.

Gator kept his chin resting on the edge of the bed, just looking up at her like a sad pathetic puppy.

“I’ll tell you anything you wanna know, just ask.” He promised.

Amma reached her hand out cupping his face. He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes.

“Do you really love—“

“Yes.” He answered quickly before she could even finish her sentence.

She let out a breathless chuckle.

“I do.” His voice so sincere. “You love me right?”

She swallowed hard. God Amma loved Gator more than he could ever understand.

“Yeah…” She whispered.

Amma leaned down and kissed his forehead for a moment. She pulled back looking at him. A man that loved her for her, but she knew she wasn’t ready to forgive him fully.

“I still need time Gator…” She spoke softly.

He nodded his head.

“Take all the time you need. I’ll wait for you.”

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Later that night Amma was working third shift at the diner it was pretty slow. Just her and the cook Jonah working. They hadn’t seen anyone in two hours. Then again it was three in the morning. Amma was taking out the trash, when her father approached her. She gasped as he stepped out from behind the dumpster. James Senior looked awful, he had two black eyes and a busted lip.

“Amma I’m not here to fight.” He held his hands up innocently.

She took a few steps back trying to get closer to the door.

“I’m really not comfortable that you’re here.” Amma said shaking her head.

“I just wanted you to see what he did to me.” He gestured to his face.

“Who’s he?” She asked looking him up and down, still making small steps to the back door.

“Who do you think? Roy, he did this to me.”

“Gee I wonder why….” She muttered.

“Has your mind already been polluted by them so much you don’t see how dangerous they are?” James scoffed.

“I think the only one whose mind is polluted here is yours father.” Amma said standing high and tall.

She turned to walk back inside but her father grabbed her arm.

“Amma don’t be stupid! You need to come home okay? We need you! I need you!”

She tried to get out of her father’s hold, but he gripped her arm like a vice.

“Let go of me!” Amma shouted.

Before things could go any further a flood light hit both of them, the flash of lights and a police siren briefly on.

“You good Amma?” Gator asked as he hung out of his truck idling in the road not too far from them.

She finally jerked out of her dad’s hold.

“I’m good!” She shouted back before going back into the diner locking the door behind her.

She looked through the little peep hole in the door to see her dad was leaving and Gator didn’t drive off until James was gone.

“You okay?” Jonah’s voice boomed as he stood behind her.

Amma jumped clutching her chest with one hand.

“Yeah no I’m okay…” Amma nodded her head. “I’m okay.”

The sound of the bells ringing as someone came into the diner. Amma knew before she walked out from the back it was Gator. He stood at the counter a look of worry on his face.

“Are you okay?” He asked.

Amma nodded her head, her arm still stinging from where her dad had a grip on it. She could see Gators eyes avert to her arm that she was holding. Amma glanced down to see what he was seeing. She had a bruise on her arm, from how hard her dad grabbed her. Amma put her arm behind her back.

“Do you want some breakfast? Or coffee?” She asked trying to distract him and herself if she’s being honest. Amma didn’t want to acknowledge James seniors erratic behavior.

“Yeah I’ll take a coffee.” Gator nodded as he sat down at the bar stool.

And he didn’t leave until her shift was over three hours later.

“Can you not tell anyone about that?” Amma asked Gator in his truck as they drove back to the cabin.

“About what?” Gator eyed her briefly then looked back to the road.

“About my dad showing up tonight. Don’t tell your dad or James okay?”

“Amma I don’t think your dad is mentally stable.” He grumbled.

“He’s just…” Amma shook her head taking a deep breath. “Just leave it alone okay? The more my dad gets pushed the more he’s going to get mad.”

Gator didn’t say anything, but she saw the way his jaw tightened.

“Listen I know my dad is crazy okay? I know that but he’s also just—“ Amma choked a little on her next words. “He’s also just really sad.” She reached over where Gators hand was resting on the console. “Please just don’t say anything for me, just trust me?

He stopped at a red light and looked at her, then to where they were holding hands.

“Okay I won’t say anythin’ for you.” He promised.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

It had been a week since the incident at the diner. Amma hadn’t seen her father since. She felt uneasy whenever she left the Tillman ranch. Amma knew something was wrong with James Senior, something inside him just seemed to of snapped. Like he knows he’s lost control of Amma, and he can’t stand it. She knows he can’t stand that she’s staying with the Tillmans.

Amma was sitting on the porch of the cabin reading a book. It was the middle of the day, the sun was shining. A mild heat in the air. A clear sign summer was officially here.

“Son of a bitch!” Gator shouted, throwing off his hat.

Amma glanced up from her book to see Gator off in the distance with one of the farmhands, Amma believes his name is bowman? They were working on a tractor together. It clearly wasn’t going well.

She tried to suppress a laugh, but a giggle definitely slipped out from her lips. Even from the distance Gator seemed to notice her laughing at him. She immediately stopped and pretended to go back to reading. After a few beats passed by, a shadow casted over her. Amma looked up to see Gator, all sweaty, covered in oil and dirt.

“How’s it goin’?” She asked holding back a smirk.

“How do you think woman?” He scoffed.

Amma just bursted out into laughter.

“I’m sorry but you look like a raccoon, with all that dirt and oil around your face.” She wiped away a tear from laughing so hard.

Gator had his hands on his hips, clearly not amused. She continued to laugh.

“Yeah you think that’s funny? Come here…” He opened his arms wide for her like he was going in to hug her.

“Gator! No!” Amma said jumping out of the rocking chair tossing her book to the ground. “Don’t you dare!”

He started chasing her.

“Oh come on Amma it’s just a little dirt!” He teased chasing her around.

“No! Get away from me!” She screamed while also laughing.

He chased her around the cabin.

“You really think you can outrun me?” He laughed chasing her around.

Gator had her cornered by a shed behind the cabin. She tried to dodge around him, but he grabbed her by the waist pulling her close to him.

“Ahhh no you asshole!” She giggled and screamed.

They both fell to the ground together and just started laughing. After a beat they both stopped just staring at each other. They hadn’t done anything since the first night Amma came back. If anything they’ve been acting like roommates. Gator still stayed in the cabin with her, she felt safer knowing he was there. He slept on the couch now, Amma didn’t want to chance seeing him dream of her again.

She noticed the way they seemed to be moving closer to one another. Almost like they might kiss. Amma thought she might let him kiss her. Then at the last second she looked away from him.

“You should shower.” She suggested before getting up from the ground.

She could see the way Gator watched her get up. Amma could tell he really wanted to kiss her. He finally stood up and then pulled off his shirt, wiping the dirt off his face. Amma couldn’t help but to check him out, god damn. He definitely did that on purpose. His chest all sweaty and his biceps popping out. The smell of musk and dirt on him. Unknowingly Amma bit her lip.

“You should too.” He said giving her a smirk.

“I’ll wait till you’re done.” She shook her head awkwardly.

He licked his lips, before looking down kicking the dirt a little.

“Yeah alright.” He nodded before he walked off into the cabin.

Amma went back to the porch reading. She didn’t want to chance seeing Gator fresh out of the shower with just a towel wrapped around his waist, but the thought of it turned her on. No wait shit. Stay strong Amma, she told herself. Just then her phone buzzed. Jena texting her saying they should go out tonight. Amma thought it couldn’t be a bad idea. She was feeling a little bit of cabin fever. Only going to work and then back to the cabin all week. She can’t keep hiding out here.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

“So how are things going with Gator?” Jena asked Amma as they sat at the bar.

Amma thought about their almost kiss today.

“You know there goin’.” She shrugged.

“Do you think you’re gonna get back together?” She eyed her as she took a sip of her beer.

“I don’t know.” She sighed, but she knew the answer was yes. “I just don’t want to give in too easy.”

Jena nodded her head.

“That’s completely understandable. You gotta train the dog to remind him, bad behaviors get bad rewards.”

Amma laughed at that.

The girls had a few more drinks, a few people from high school started talking to Jena and Amma. One of them was Tommy Sims.

“Well well well look who it is Amma Owens.” Tommy gleamed.

Amma couldn’t lie after losing her virginity to Tommy in the backseat of his truck her senior year of high school. She avoided him. The sex was bad and extremely awkward. Tommy was handsome though, but also kind of a douche. As he was talking to her, she noticed Gator and her brother James walk into the bar, still in their police attire. Gator seemed to notice her and Tommy. Amma had a mean idea in her head.

She pretended to laugh at whatever Tommy just said and she reached over grabbing his bicep briefly. Amma didn’t need to see Gator to know he had that pissed off look on his face. She felt Jena elbow her a little, like she was telling her hey Gator is watching. Amma glanced at Jena with a little knowing smirked.

“So what are you up to tonight?” Amma asked Tommy.

“Not much needed to cut loose, been working like crazy lately.” He nodded.

“You’re a paramedic right?”

Tommy nodded his head.

“Yeah I really like it too.” He nodded. “And hey I’m really sorry to hear about your grandfather. Willard was a great man.”

Grief is such an odd thing. Amma hadn’t cried over her grandfather since the funeral, but the mention of him being gone hit her heart hard. She felt her chest tighten. Amma briefly forgot he was gone. If she even did return to her old home, she wouldn’t find Willard sitting on the porch listening to his police scanner or maybe in his study sitting next to her grandmother as they read together. Amma felt like she might cry.

“Yeah thanks, I appreciate it.” She nodded with an awkward smile.

Jena clearly seemed to sense Amma’s discomfort.

“Wanna get another drink?” Jena asked Amma.

She nodded her head.

“Hey I’ll buy this round.” Tommy smiled charmingly.

The girls thanked him as the three of them walked up to the bar ordering more drinks. Amma’s mind wandered to Willard again, she hated how she didn’t say goodbye. The guilt ate at her. Fuck she really needed to cry or something.

“I’ll be right back.” Amma said leaning into Jena’s ear.

Before Jena could even say anything Amma disappeared into the crowd and made a beeline to the restroom. For once there wasn’t a line. There were two girls at the sink fixing their hair and adding on extra lip gloss. Amma opened the first stall door and a blonde girl was doing a line of something off the toilet paper holder box.

“Oops sorry..” Amma threw up her hand closing the door.

Then she paused thinking she could go for a line, she opened the door again. The blonde girl sitting all casual with her legs crossed and hands in her lap, like she wasn’t just snorting something. Amma closed the stall door behind her leaning against it.

“What are you doing? And how much for a line?” Amma eyed her.

“Coke and don’t worry about it, I remember you hooking me up.” She winked at her.

What’s strange is Amma doesn’t recall this at all. If someone had a gun to her head right now she couldn’t tell anyone the blonde girls name.

After Amma hit her line she felt so much better. A sigh of relief leaving her lips.

“Thank you.” She smiled at the blonde girl.

“No problem Amma.”

Fuck she feels bad that she can’t remember this girl or her name. Did they go to high school together? Just then a hard knock at the stall door made both girls jump. Amma glanced down seeing a pair of familiar boots under the stall door. Well fuck. The door opened and there was a very unamused Gator standing there. He glanced to the residue of white powered on the toilet paper holder.

“Out.” He pointed at Amma.

She came out with a look of shame, tail between her legs. She tried not to look at Gator. He guided her out of the bathroom and then rushed her out the back exit of the bar.

“Gator I wasn’t—“

“Don’t fuckin’ lie.” He spat.

“I should at least tell Jena and james—“

“That you were getting high in the bathroom?” He glared at her. “No you’re done here. I’m takin’ your ass home.”

“Gator!” Amma jerked out of his hold. “I’m an adult I’m allowed to make my own choices!”

“Yeah? Alright then.” His eyes so intense on her. “How about I arrest you then?”

Amma shut her mouth after that. Gator gave her a satisfied nod that said that’s what I thought.

He walked her over to his truck in the parking lot opening the passenger door. Amma got into the truck. The drive home was so awkward and silent. Amma wanted to say something though. She couldn’t take the silence anymore.

“Gator I’m sorry…” Amma choked out.

Gator didn’t say anything. She looked downed at her hands in her lap so embarrassed. Amma wondered if he was over her and her bullshit.

When they got back to the cabin Gator jumped out of the drivers side and made a beeline to her side of the car. He opened her door and unbuckled her yanking Amma out of the truck. Pinning her against the truck with her back to him.

“I gave you a pass that last time…. But what did I say would happen if I caught you snorting shit up your nose again?” His breath hot on her ear.

“That you would use handcuffs and…” She swallowed. “You wouldn’t be so generous next time.”

She felt the metal cuffs click around her wrists.

“Now you’re gonna find out just how mean I can be.” He whispered in her ear, she could feel the smirk on his lips.

She felt her heart pounding with excitement. He threw Amma over his shoulder smacking her ass hard before he carried her into the cabin. She let out a little yelp. As soon as they got into the cabin he put her down. He bent down briefly and pulled her heels off tossing them to the side. Gator stood back over her, just looking down at her with a darkness to his eyes that turned her on.

“On your knees.” He demanded.

Amma dropped down to the floor. Looking up at Gator as he stood over her. He unbuckled his pants and pulled out his already hard cock leaking precum. Grabbing the back of her head pulling her hair hard. She let out a wince. He held her head in place.

“Open.” His voice deep.

She opened her mouth. Gator had a sinister smile on his lips. He slowly pushed his cock into her mouth, she started to gag as he pushed his whole length down her throat. Then stopped when his cock was all the way down. Amma struggled to breathe. Her hands jerked behind her back the sound of metal clashing. He finally moved pulling his cock out of her mouth. Giving her a short lived moment to breathe, before he shoved his cock back inside her mouth and started fucking her face. Amma closed her eyes feeling tears stream down her face. As he fucked her throat mercilessly.

“Come on fuckin take it, like the slut you are.” He groaned out.

Amma couldn’t help the moan she did around his cock. She could feel the way her cunt was soaking between her legs. Gator pulled her head off his cock, a string of saliva dragged from his cock to her lips. She looked up at him.

“Don’t forget the balls baby.” He husked as he stroked his cock.

Amma opened her mouth sticking her tongue out, moving down more so she could lick his balls. She took one in her mouth sucking it before moving on to the other. Gator let out a moan dropping his head back as he continued to stroke his cock.

Amma licked up his shaft and over his fingers, and to his tip. Gator looked down at her with a smirk.

“That’s my good little slut.” He cooed. “Come on.” He yanked her hair making her stand back up.

Once she was on her feet Gator turned her around wrapping his arm over her waist and shuffling her into the bedroom. He pushed her onto bed. Amma was flat against her stomach she turned her head to the side. The room was dark only the moon providing any light. She could see Gators shadow casted against the wall. She knew he was just looking at her. Probably thinking about his next move. She just watched in awe and excitement as he pulled off his deputy’s vest and shirt, the sound of his boots being kicked off. She watched as his shadow moved and he crawled onto the bed, he pushed her up the bed more so her legs were no longer hanging off.

Gator pressed his lips to her ear as he hovered over her, his legs on either side of her caging her in. Amma felt goosebumps move across her skin.

“You know I think this is what you’ve been wanting mama.” His hand grabbing onto the chain of her cuffs, pinning her arms down against her back firmly.

Amma didn’t say anything, but it was true. She’s been craving this. She wanted Gator to punish her, but she didn’t know how to ask him. Also a small part of her was still mad at him.

“No.” She shook her head a little.

“Really? You didn’t want daddy to get rough with you?” He teased biting her ear lobe.

Amma let out a pathetic moan.

“Yes I did.” She said breathlessly.

“That’s what I fuckin’ thought.” He let go of her cuffs and pulled up the hem of her dress. Exposing her black thong.

His rough hands rubbing her ass, before he landed a hard smack to her ass over and over again. No question he was leaving his palm print on her ass.

“You were so fuckin’ bad tonight.” He husked out, as he gripped the flesh of her ass.

“I know…” She breathed out. “I’m sorry daddy.”

She felt his hand pull down the strap of her dress. His lips kissed her bare shoulder.

“I don’t want anything to happen to you baby.” Gator whispered into her skin.

His hand moved down her back and between her legs. Pressing into her cunt through her panties. Amma’s body shook with pleasure, she let out a pathetic high pitched moan. Gator let out a breathless chuckle.

“Oooh… she’s sensitive.” He teased as he continued to rub her cunt through her panties.

His fingers pressing right into her clit. Amma opened her legs more. She was desperate for her release. Her body getting hotter. Then Gator stopped. Amma blinked trying to turn her head to look at him.

“Why did you stop?” She whined.

“Because you were close.” Gator said deadpanned. “You don’t get to cum that easy.”

Gator took one of Amma’s hand cuffs off and flipped her onto her back, cuffing her in the front. He grabbed the chain of the cuffs and pinned her hands above her head. He used his free hand to pull her panties to the side, teasing up her wet folds.

“Did you wanna fuck Tommy again?” He said, jealously dripping in his tone.

Amma couldn’t help how fast her smart mouth moved before her brain.

“I figured maybe he’s gotten better since high school.” She chuckled breathlessly.

Gator pushed two fingers inside her roughly, Amma let out a loud moan. He pumped them in to and out of her as if he was trying to go as deep as he could with his long thick fingers.

“Oh fuck…” Her cunt clenched around his fingers.

He pressed his thumb into her clit, moving it in slow circles. Amma jerked her arms but Gator held her firmly in place.

“You think Tommy would make you feel this good?” He smirked.

Amma rolled her eyes in annoyance and pleasure.

“Maybe… I should call him.” She breathed out.

Gator pull away from her cunt and wrapped his hand around her throat not tight to where she couldn’t breathe, but tight enough she couldn’t move her head.

“Keep runnin’ that mouth of yours princess.” He hissed.

Amma smirked a little.

“Ooh he’s sensitive.” She mocked.

She saw the way his pupils dilated. He moved so fast straddling himself above her head, then forced his cock into her mouth. Fucking her throat even deeper than before. Amma gagged and struggled to breathe.

“Take it slut.” He growled out.

Amma moaned rolling her eyes back. Drool dripping down the side of her lips. As Gator slid his cock in and out of her throat. He pushed his cock all the way to the back of her throat and stilled. Amma jerked and pulled as she struggled to breathe. Finally Gator pulled his cock out of her mouth and she took in a deep breath. She coughed a little.

“Good fuckin girl.” He groaned moving back down between her legs, then flipping her over onto her knees making her arch her back.

Gator ripped her panties off. Then started teasing her cunt with the tip of his cock. He pushed the head inside barely an inch then pulled back out. Amma moaned desperately trying to push back for more.

“Please daddy..” She begged.

“Please what?” He teased.

“Please fuck me…”

“Ask again.” He smacked her ass.

“Please fuck me daddy.” She groaned.

He smacked her ass a couple more times.

“Again.” He repeated.

“Please please please fuck me daddy!” She begged.

She felt Gator push his cock fully inside of her. Amma moaned into the mattress at the relief. He let out a groan once he bottomed out inside of her.

“Fuck…” He muttered.

Gator draped himself over her back, his chest flushed against her.

“I’ve missed being inside you.” He moaned pathetically into her ear.

Amma’s cunt clenched around his cock, she missed feeling him inside of her.

“Did you miss it too princess?” He teased.

“Yes I did daddy.” She nodded her head quickly. “I’ve missed your cock.”

She felt the smirk on his lips.

“Yeah I could tell.” He purred.

Then he snapped his hips into her, starting a pace so hard she dropped from her knees into the mattress. He put his forearms on either side of her head caging her in. Nothing but a mix of pain and pleasure as he fucked her. Amma gripped the sheets like a lifeline, the metal of the cuffs started really digging into her skin that it was painful. But Amma liked it.

Gators snaked one of his hands underneath Amma and started teasing her clit. She bit out a moan, closing her eyes tight.

“Please let me cum.” She begged, her legs opening a little more.

“I don’t know…” He teased as he bit little love bites on her shoulder. “Ask me nicer.”

“Daddy please let me cum..” She moaned. “Please I’ll be a good girl.”

“Mmm say it again.” He growled.

“Please let me cum…” Amma bit her lip so desperate for not just her release, but for Gator. “You can kiss me daddy.”

He suddenly stilled inside of her. Using his freehand to turn Amma’s face to him. He planted a soft kiss to her lips. She felt her cunt clench around his cock as she leaned into the kiss more. He started a slower pace now. The kiss just grew more deep.

Gators pace started to pick up a little more. Amma moaned into his mouth. He pressed harder more controlled circles on her clit. She pulled away from the kiss crying out in pleasure. Gator still held her head in place their noses brushing together.

“You gonna cum princess?” He groaned.

“Can I daddy?” She begged.

Gator let out a breathless chuckle.

“Good girl for asking.” He stole a kiss from her lips. “Such a good fuckin’ girl. My girl.” He muttered the last words on her lips. “You can cum.”

Almost as if her body had been waiting for his permission Amma came around his cock. She cried out moaning his name over and over. Gator kissed her hard and desperate as he fucked her through her orgasm. His pace getting sloppy before she felt his hot cum fill her up.

“Fuck mama.” He moaned stilling inside of her as he collapsed fully on top of her.

He reached up grabbing her hand interlacing their fingers together. Both of them lying there trying to catch their breathes.

“You okay?” Gator asked after a beat.

Amma nodded her head.

“I’m okay.” She assured him.

Gator pulled out of her and unlocked her cuffs.

“Come on.” He gestured picking her up into his arms.

He carried her to the bathroom before placing her down carefully. Amma watched as he ran a bath. Gator helped her get out of her dress, before taking off his pants the rest of the way. They got into the bath tub together and he held her close in his lap. His big arms wrapped tight around her. Amma turned her head looking at him.

“I’m sorry about how I’ve been acting and treating you—“

Gator just shook his head at her.

“I deserved it.”

Amma couldn’t help the tears she felt brim to her eyes.

“No you don’t Gator. You don’t deserve that.” She tried to assure him.

“No I did Amma. I shouldn’t have lied to you. I was wrong for that. I promise I’ll spend the rest of my life proving to you that you can trust me baby.” His big sweet puppy dog eyes just looking at her so lovingly.

Amma pressed a soft kiss to his lips.

“I love you.” She promised on his lips.

“I love you too.” A soft smile moving across his lips, as he brushed his nose against hers.

When they got out of the bath Gator put on some boxers and Amma wore an oversized t-shirt that belonged to him. She stood at the bathroom sink. Amma remembered she left her necklace that Gator gave her should have been on the sink, but when she had moved back in it was gone. She was too nervous to ask Gator where it was.

“You lookin’ for somethin’?” He asked walking up behind her.

She turned to him crossing her arms a little embarrassed.

“Have you seen my necklace? The one you gave me? I thought I left it here.”

Gator pressed his lips together briefly then nodded his head before he turned and picked up his cargo pants unzipping a side pocket and pulling out the necklace.

“I wanted to keep it safe.” He said as he held it out to her.

Amma thought she might cry, he’s been carrying it with him the whole time.

“Will you put it on me?” She asked before turning around and pulling back her hair.

Gator put it on her so delicately, she turned around to face him. Before grabbing the heart pendant for a moment.

“You really had it the whole time?” She asked as tears started leaving her eyes.

Gator looked as if he was gonna cry too.

“Yeah.” He nodded his head his voice cracking a little.

Amma grabbed him by the neck and pulled him into a deep kiss. They pulled to each other so tight before they stumbled back into the bedroom falling onto the bed together. They made love all night long. Getting tangled in the sheets together. Keeping their hands interlaced, and whispering I love you.

☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️☁️

Taglist: @jas-mines-things @luminousdoomsellsword @fersitay @beelzebzb @kristywidget97

@frootybb @stoneyggirl2 @skkeletonns @downbad4bil @nicherthanu @alfiesangel444 @deeplightblue @proooof @haydensheartt @supershyemma @delphinemix @emmasreaderacc @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @arayajasmynee

[oneddjo]

gatorade

Summary: You and Gator used to be best friends from your childhood to the middle of your adolescence. But because of choices that were made back then, your friendship fell apart. After 15 years, Gator is incarcerated in a medical facility because of his blindness, serving his sentence for the crimes he committed. Although in this facility, coincidentally or not, you are the new art therapist, and your paths cross again.

Pairing: blind!prisoner!Gator Tillman x psychologist!fem!reader

Word count: 34.2k

Warnings: post canon, best friends to strangers to lovers, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, angst, slow burn, fluff, smut just in the end, yearning, fake love triangle, insecure!Gator, mostly Gator's pov, angry confessions, art therapy sessions, dealing with blindness, problems with parents, Dorothy as sort of a sister figure and the sweetest person ever, mention of anxiety disorder, no use of y/n

Note: Hey! First of all, today is my birthday, but who gets the present is you guys! Secondly, as a therapist, I loved to write this. I had this idea when I was planning my previous fanfic about Gator. Having him in a medical facility, I could only imagine him having some kind of therapy as well, so I thought art therapy would fit in the story perfectly. And I'm 100% sure that the way the facility he is in is not accurate; I didn't mind doing a research about it, I just did how a facility for disabled people would be in my dreams. This is my first time writing angst and hurt/comfort like that, and I think it ended up pretty good. Hope you like it! English is not my first language, so keep that in mind.

AO3 link | Wattpad link masterlist

"Seriously? This fucking shit again?” complains Gator, snorting while seated on an armchair in the common area, listening to some football game playing on the TV.

“Seriously, Tillman,” says nurse Willow, “now c’mon, get your ass up here. Chop chop,” rushes him, clapping his hands, “you want your cane, or want to walk with me?”

“The hell walking with you,” Gator murmurs to himself in protest, feeling for his cane that is resting on the side of the armchair. When he grabs it, with his free hand on the seat arm, he pulls himself up and stands.

Gator starts walking towards a guidance path, with Willow right beside him. “Is this one, right?” asks Gator when he hits the path with his cane.

“Exactly,” confirms Willow, his hands tucked behind his back as he walks beside Gator. “You know,” he adds a few seconds later, “the psychologist is good for the eye; it’s a shame you can’t see her,” teases Willow, chuckling, nudging his friend slash patient with his elbow.

“You know I could sue you for harassment, right?” says Gator back, groaning at the back of his throat, turning a corner, “for making fun of my fucking expense.”

“Sue, huh?” Willow laughs, following Gator when he does another corner, “You are indeed spending a lot of time with your lawyer; you are even using her jargon now.”

“I should introduce her to the new shink then. She could sue you, too, for sexual harassment,” says Gator, bitterly, turning the last corner.

“You get really grumpy when someone steps on your toes, Tillman,” Willow chuckles, lightly nudging Gator’s ribs, his smile fading a little, a little more serious now. “My bad, man, I know how difficult this is for you.” 

Gator stays silent for a few seconds, then enters the therapy room, placing his hand on Willow’s shoulder as a way to ask for guidance and also to thank him for his apology.

Willow places his hand over Gator’s hand on his shoulder and walks towards a nearby stool. Gator’s cane hit the stool before they reached it, grabbing the seat to sit there properly, resting his cane at his side at the table in front of him.

“What the hell is happening here, Low?” asks Gator, tilting his head closer to Willow as he feels the things on the table, trying to understand what he is holding. “What the fuck?” he says to himself, confused.

“It’s some instruments to shape clay,” Willow says, and Gator can hear him waving to someone.

“Clay?” exclaims Gator, furrowing his eyebrows. “for fuck sakes, these art therapy sessions are unbelievable,” he groans, frustrated, tilting his head towards Willow while he hears some footsteps approaching them from the door. “This is really a requirement for me to reduce my sentence?”

“If you want to be set free from here, I highly recommend that to you, inmate. It might help you in your healing process as well,” you say between laughs, resting your side at the table beside his cane. 

“Hey, Willow,” you greet the nurse, crossing your arms over your chest, then turning back to look at Gator.

Gator furrows his brow, turning his body toward you. He releases the instruments from his hand, resting his elbow on the table. You laugh at the confusion on his face, clearly visible even behind his sunglasses.

That sound makes his heart pound loudly and hard on his chest. He straightens his posture, his mouth opening and closing without a single word leaving him for a few seconds. “No fucking way,” he says, breathless, grabbing the back of the stool and the table.

“Hey, Gatorade,” you giggle beamingly, “long time no see.”

“Jesus Christ,” Gator chokes, “Ginger,” he calls you in a strangled sob, pushing himself up from the stool and launching himself into your arms. He holds you with his arms wrapped around your neck, mostly because of the height difference between you tw.

You take some steps back from the crash, but you freeze for a second by the sudden affection. However, you hold him back right after, holding him by his middle, your head just under his chin. You shut your eyes and fist his shirt in the back, pulling him closer.

Without you being aware of it, this was all that Gator needed to stop restraining himself. He let a shaky gasp leave his lips, followed by a strangled sob. He moves his arms to embrace more of you, his hands wrapped fully around you, his hands wide-spread on your shoulder blades.

“You still smell like vanilla,” he sobs, pulling you even closer. A trembling hand goes to your head, cradling the back of your neck, pressing his temple to the top of your head.

“Fucking stupid glasses,” he murmurs to himself, taking off his sunglasses, severely crooked on his face, and placing them at the table beside you, not caring at all where he put them.

“Gate,” you choke against his chest, your voice muffled against it, “I’m your therapist, this is not professio-”

“Fuck professional,” Gator cuts you, pressing his lips on your temple, his hand on the back of your head, grabbing it fully while he fists the back of your shirt. 

“It’s been what?” he chokes. “15 years?” he pulls back, holding both sides of your head, pressing your foreheads together. You grab his wrists tightly, both of you sobbing, your wet and hot breaths hitting each other’s faces.

Gator pulls back, kissing your forehead, his lips lingering there for a couple of seconds before pulling away and grabbing his sunglasses again. When he releases you just afterward, you both wipe your tears, chuckling weakly, him putting his glasses back on with trembling hands.

“What the hell just happened here?” Willow says, confused as fuck, looking at one another in disbelief. “Do you know each other?” He turns to you, his tone a pitch high, “And ginger where?”

You chuckle along with Gator, placing a hand over his shoulder beside you, with him placing his hand above yours, “Yeah,” he answers, “she was my best friend, we were attached to the hip,” he grins, adjusting his glasses on his face with his free hand, leaning back at the table, stumbling on his cane, holding it by his side.

“And Ginger because my hair used to be red,” you chuckle, watery, leaning towards Gator unconsciously, “now I dye it black since high school.”

“Oh, that’s really something,” Willow smiles at you two, chuckling, “and what happened? Seems like you haven't seen each other for many years, huh?”

You notice Gator getting tense in his shoulder. You glance at him and see him clenching his jaw and swallowing hard. With his eyebrows furrowed, he opens his mouth to answer, but you cut him off and look back at Willow.

“Life happened,” you simply say, shrugging while smiling slightly, as if what happened between you two was not the most hurtful thing in your life.

Gator squeezes his hand between his, his shoulders relaxing. He tilts his head towards you, smiling thankfully. “Yeah, huh,” he clears his throat, turning his head to the direction of Willow’s voice, “different high schools,” he lies, making you exhale sharply through your nose.

“But huh,” he adds just afterward, holding your hand tighter, leaning his head in your direction again, “I kept seeing her around town until this shit happened,” he points to his eyes with the hand over yours.

“Are you for real?” You snap your head towards him, your heads closer now. You sound surprised: “When was the last time you saw me?”

“It was a little after Thanksgiving,” he says quietly, a soft smile on his lips. “You were doing groceries,” he chuckles from the memory, “you were wearing brown pants and an orange sweater,” he smiles fondly from the memory, “and your hair was just as short as now, and was black too.”

“How do you remember?” You ask breathlessly, your eyes slightly wide from surprise, your heart aching in your chest, “It's been three years…”

“How could I not remember?” He turns to you, confused. “It's you, Ginger,” he says sweetly, “I can't forget about you even if I tried.”

“Also, I had the chance to see you one last time before this,” he points to his sunglasses, smiling happily, “ so now you are engraved in here forever,” he chuckles boyishly, with two fingers pointing to his head.

In contrast, you can not laugh brightly like it. You freeze, too stunned by his statements. What does he mean by all of it? He never forgot about you? He… He couldn’t even if he tried?

You are too out of breath and too speechless to say anything back. You swallow a lump in your throat, your breath becoming a little erratic, your nostrils widening more and more with the rise and fall of your chest, the time between those movements shortening.

As the good nurse he is, Willow notices you starting to hyperventilate. He even thinks you might be having a panic attack. 

Gator starts to notice your state of being, since his hearing has become one of his most-used senses over those years without vision, and he can hear you gasping for air over and over. And he is about to ask you if you are okay when Willow intervenes, putting his hand over the other shoulder of Gator.

“Hey, man, let’s get ready for the session, shall we?” he says to Gator, but exchanges a look with you, taking slow, deep breaths and exhaling slowly for you to follow. He nods and smiles encouragingly at you when he sees you following his lead.

“Oh, yeah, but-” Gator tries to protest, holding your hand properly now, taking it out of his shoulder. He turns towards you while he awkwardly starts to walk away with Willow, holding his cane in his free hand. “Are you okay, Ginger?”

You nod too quickly, chuckling nervously, but way calmer now, even though your heart is pounding hard on your chest. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, Gator.” You squeeze his hand, trying to reassure him of something you are not.

“But we really need to have it starting soon, or I’ll be called out,” you chuckle humorlessly, hesitantly releasing his hand from yours. “Now let Willow get you some place, and I’ll set everything ready.”

“Yeah, c’mon, Gator,” says Willow, winking at you with empathy and guiding Gator closer to the other inmates around the table. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees how tense Gator seems to be, but he also notices how he tilts his head slightly back, his ear pointing in the direction you were at.

“It was something I said?” he asks sadly, quietly, his eyebrows lowered, just like his lips, as he pulls up a stool and rests his cane beside it when Willow arrives and places Gator there. 

“She just must still be surprised that she got to see you after all these years of you being apart,” Willow says gently, placing his hand on Gator’s shoulder blade, trying not to stress his patient slash friend, at least for now.

Before Gator could say anything, you clear your throat at the opposite side of the rectangular table, calling everyone’s attention. Willow says farewell to Gator, waving goodbye at you as he walks out of the room, leaving you to work.

“Good afternoon, boys!” You say as happily as possible. You scan the faces in front of you, smiling gently while you tell your name, “I’m the art therapist who is going to work with you for this upcoming year.”

Even fighting to, you keep glancing at Gator every couple of seconds, and you always find him facing you, leaning a little forward, his elbows and arms resting on the table. He nods at your words while he adjusts his perfectly positioned sunglasses.

“I guess you are already familiar with this kind of therapy since I’m not the first one working with you, but I would like to introduce you to art therapy either way.” You look at the inmates in front of you one by one.

“Art therapy is a way to express yourself and process your feelings, but instead of talking...” you bend over the table, grab a big piece of unused clay, lifting with both of your hands, “you do art!”

Gator smiles at your excitement, his heart skipping a beat with what you say next. You point to a clay close to Gator while you ask for the inmate beside him.

“Could you please pass this piece of clay to the guy beside you so that he can feel it, please?” Gator hears the man beside him agree, and just a second later, he feels the clay on his hands, startling Gator.

“Thank you…?”

“Marlon,” the guy beside him asks.

“Thank you, Mr. Marlon. But next time be gentler, okay?” you chuckle softly. “he can’t see, and we don’t need to scare him every time we pass something to him, okay?” you say just as gently. “Pat his shoulder next time before passing him something, okay?”

“Yeah,” Gator hears Marlon leaning back at his stool, his tone a little annoyed, “whatever,” he adds in a murmur to himself, shifting on his seat.

Gator’s heart aches even more in his chest with your last sentence. He smiles widely and softly to himself while he turns the clay in his hands, and you keep talking in the background.

“So, as I was saying,” you spin the clay in your hands, “we can use it to relax, to treat trauma, to know ourselves better.” 

You place the clay back on the table, and when Gator feels the vibration of it hitting the table, he does the same with the one in his hands.

“And I know some of you are here because you want to, what I appreciate from the bottom of my heart,” you grin, putting your hands on the table and keeping your weight on them, “but I know most of you are here to decrease your sentence, am I right?”

You hear a lot of murmurs of agreement; you see them nodding, but you also notice how Gator laughs to himself, pushing himself back to lean on the stool, crossing his arms over his chest, nodding as well with the widest smile possible.

“Either way,” you chuckle to yourself, “I hope we all have a good time together, and that we can learn a lot from ourselves from this.” You smile gratefully at everyone as you shut the doors around the room, making it more comfortable for them. 

“Now, to start this properly, I would like to know,” you lift your hand, counting, “your names and age, if you are here for free will or to reduce your sentence, how many years are you incarcerated and how long is your sentence, and the reason why you are here, and if you already did any sort of art therapy, and if affirmative, what kind.”

Gator hears a protest around him as you list the things you want to know about them, and, to support you, he raises his hand and clears his throat. “Can I start, doc?”

You snap your head towards Gator, surprised by his initiative, and smile widely in approval. “Yes, of course!”

Gator grins and gets butterflies just by understanding you are smiling and happy. “Huh, I’m Gator, I’m 30,” he chuckles while also counting on his fingers, something he got from you from the years you were friends, and when you notice he still does it, your heart aches. 

“I’m here to reduce my sentence, but I’ve already done some of this before, like crochet, embossing drawings, painting too,” he thinks for a while, “oh, I also made collage with sticks, leaves, rocks, sand…” he chuckles, “that was something…” he hears some guys chuckling, and notices they are agreeing with him.

Feeling more comfortable, he points to you, laughing and smiling playfully on his lips, “so I’m not shitty on this, I’ll probably be the most centered dude here,” his colleagues laugh.

“But yeah, huh,” he chuckles bitterly, crossing his arms again, still counting, his smile fading, “I’m here because of,” he lift his other hand, because the reasons are a lot, chuckling humorlessly, “first-degree murder, kidnappning, assault, arson, tempeting with evidence” he lifts his other hand now, still counting, swallowing dryly, “attempt murder of a lawmnet officer and official misconduct,” he ends the list quietly.

“And huh,” he clears his throat, fixing his perfect sunglasses again, “I’ve been in jail for almost three years already, and I only got a 10-year sentence because I was acting under duress, because it would have been over 50, I guess,” he chuckles nervously.

He clears his throat again, soothing himself as he runs his hands over his thighs. “And my lawyer and I are trying to reduce it to four years.” 

Even after all those years, repeating it numerous times, this still makes him really upset and ashamed of himself for the things he did for his father, a man who never showed him love, but he has been so willingly seeking approval for his whole life.

So, when the men around him cheer him up, clapping and whistling, Gator is caught totally off guard. He startles at the sudden sounds, but relaxes just when he hears the sound he missed for all these years: your laugh, still audible even over the others, and it still remains his favorite sound ever.

When everyone calms down, you still giggle a little. “That is amazing news, Gator,” you say softly, “and I really hope this works out for you as planned!” 

His heart aches at the kindness in your voice, something that never changed, even throughout those 15 years apart. “I hope that too, ma’am,” he says with a small but warm smile.

The rest of his colleagues introduce themselves, and Gator tilts his head to both hear them and you. You notice from across the table how he always seems to have his attention on you in every way possible. You get butterflies and smile to yourself every time you glance at him and notice it.

“Thank you, everyone, for introducing yourselves,” and just by your excitement in your voice, Gator can tell how wide your smile is, making himself smile broadly too, “Now it’s my turn.”

“I already said my name, so I’ll not reapeat myself,” you chuckle, “I’m 30 years old, and I’m a psychologist for almost 7 years,” someone whistles, surprised, and you chuckle a little shy, “I’ve already worked as a counselor in schools, as a therapist itself too, in social service as well,” you scan the faces in front of you, “and it was three years ago that I started working with art therapy,” you smile to yourself, proud of your journey.

“And I always wanted to work in a penitentiary, so being here is an enormous pleasure and honor, mostly because I can work with art therapy with you,” Gator smiles to himself, happy that you achieved what you have wanted so much since you two were little.

“So, now that the introductions were made, let’s put these hands to work?” you say while rubbing your hands together, “feel yourself at home and grab a piece of clay and one of the bowls with water to humidify it over there on your lefts,” you point to a side table against the wall of the room, “and grab some apron too to not make a big mess.”

While you talk, Gator hears people standing up and walking away, but the footsteps approaching catch his attention; he turns his head towards them, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. 

“You can use the clay that is already on the table in front of you, if you want to,” you say kindly. “Do you want me to bring a bowl to you, or do you do it yourself?”

“No, I can get it,” he smiles when he notices it's you. He stands up, holding his cane. You step back to give him space, and you both giggle when the cane hits your shoes. By the noise of his colleagues, he walks towards the table, and you walk back to your place, watching him.

From the bag on the stool beside you, you grab your notebook and pencil case, set them on the table, and get ready to take notes on today's activity. You sit at the another stool close to you, just in time for Gator to get back and place the bowl on the table in front of him.

“Well, now that everyone has clay and water, have fun. The water is used to make the clay manageable, so this first encounter is to learn how to maneuver it, learning how much water, pressure, and shape you can make with it,” you say while scanning their faces. “If you need anything, let me know,” you dismiss with a smile.

Gator nods to your instructions, pulling the stool closer to the table. He places the clay in front of him and the water bowl a little behind it. Since you didn’t say how to water it, he dips his hand in the water and starts to manage the clay.

He can shape little parts of it, but the piece is still too hard, so he tries one more time, then one more, and then gives up. Gator leans back on the stool; his hands are wet with clay resting over his thigh, over his apron, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

You notice, from across the table, smiling weakly to yourself, that he still gets this grumpy face when he's frustrated. You are ready to stand up and walk towards him to guide him, but he surprises you, making you sit still and pay even closer attention.

With a frustrated but also determined groan, he leans towards the table again. Gator cups one of his hands at the water bowl, and carefully pours it into the clay he is holding with his other hand.

His eyebrows rise when he notices how malleable it is now, and he smiles proudly and boyishly to himself. It’s still a little hard to manage, but now he understands how to do it.

You smile so widely that your cheeks hurt, and your heart skips a beat. You look down at your notebook and take notes about him and his other colleagues. 

After a couple of minutes, an inmate calls for your help. You lift your head from your notebook, close it, stand up, and head to the inmate.

Gator tilts his head toward your footsteps as he continues playing with the clay in his hand. He can’t hear you or the dude you are talking about, but just hearing your muffled voice at a distance after all this time is priceless either way.

After helping the guy, you walk up to them one by one and ask if they need anything from you. Gator hears your footsteps approaching, and, unconsciously, he straightens his posture, his ear still facing you as you move around.

“Need anything, Gator?” you ask nicely.

He turns his head to you, resting his elbows on the table, his hands up with clay around them. “No, doc, I’m good.” he smiles at you. “Since I started this shrink thing a couple of years ago, I’m not like that stupid quitter I was back then anymore,” he chuckles, cupping the bowl again and letting the water run onto the clay, playing with it.

“You were never a quitter, Gator,” you say kindly, your eyebrows slightly furrowed, as it is painful to hear him talking so little about himself. “You just had difficulty with frustration, that’s all.” 

“But either way, this is amazing progress, Gator. Congratulations, you are doing really well!” You pat his shoulder gently, lingering there for a second before pulling away and heading to the next inmate.

Gator freezes with his hand on the clay for around ten seconds. You… you congratulated him? For him making progress? For him learning how to deal with frustration?

No matter how much time passes, he believes he will never get used to being praised, even though Dorothy always praises him for every damn thing he does. You and Dot have a lot in common, he realizes, smiling to himself as he returns to manage the clay on his hands.

You sit back on your stool, opening the notebook again and taking notes as you observe. You watch as the inmates manage and learn how to deal with something hard to manage, that requires water, something so essential but also so disposable sometimes, to make it manageable. 

You wish for them to get it before the end of this long year, while you focus on your notes and the minutes go by. You stand up when you see that one hour has passed, clearing your throat to call for everyone’s attention.

“Well, this is all for today, guys,” you announce while opening the door of the room again. “If you want to continue to play with your portion, feel free to stay here, but you are all excused now,” you smile widely. “Thanks for coming; see you all next week.”

As everyone starts saying their goodbyes to you, you pour the water from their bowls into a large one you grabbed from the side table.

Gator slowly stands up from his seat, cleaning, or at least trying to, his hands on the apron he is wearing. He hears the steps fade in the distance until the only things he can hear are you walking around the room and the water pouring from one thing to the other. 

“There is a sink here, or something, that I can wash my hands in, Ginger?” Gator asks with a hand on his cane and the other on the table, his head tilted in your direction.

“Yeah, Gate, at the corner on your left,” you say, walking towards him, offering your arm for him to take, your elbow pressing against his. “C’mon, I need to pour this water out too.”

“Okay then,” he chuckles, taking your arm, walking by your side. You walk at his pace, and he feels grateful for how thoughtful you are to him—something he likes to realize, even after all these years, that you keep to yourself.

“Here,” you say as you two approach the sink. “You can go first.” He feels the shape of the sink. “There is a bottle of soap on the left of the faucet,” you instruct, as his hands run around the edge of the sink to the bottle.

You take Gator’s cane so he can wash his hands properly, and he smiles at you, tilting his head towards you as you pump the soap bottle for him. “Thanks.”

He turns the faucet on, rubbing the soap in his hands, taking a little of the water to make the soap easier to clean his hands with clay.

While Gator takes his time cleaning them, you pay attention to him. The last time you saw him, you think it was September or something. He was in his deputy clothes, leaning back against his Jeep parked on a random street, when you passed by him in your car.

You still remember what you felt that day. He had his eyebrows furrowed in that permanent scowl he had on him, vaping. You could see him the moment you turned the corner on that street, and you couldn't, for anything in the world, take your eyes off him.

You felt a lump in your throat since the first moment you recognized him. Your eyes crossed as you got closer, and your window being down helped him recognize you as well.

You held each other’s gaze while you crossed his path, and you noticed how his expression changed as he realized it was you. 

The scowl? Gone, replaced by an expression you could read like the palm of your hand. He looked at you the same way he used to when he ran to you after a fight with his father, crying and asking why he didn't like Gator, why his father couldn’t love him.

It was a look that said: ‘I want you in my life, why can’t I have you?’ His eyebrows got together as if he was in pain, and you remember noticing his breath becoming shaky.

You saw in your rearview mirror, while you drove past him, when he pushed himself from the car, walking to the street while he watched you drive away.

And before you turned the corner to the next street, you saw him slamming down the vape in his hand onto the asphalt with rage, and both of his hands going to his hair, grabbing it by its roots. 

You could even swear you saw him squatting in the middle of the street, but at that time, you were already sobbing, stopping the car in the middle of the street. 

Gripping the wheel until your knuckles turn white, your forehead pressed against it, sobbing loudly, shamelessly, because no matter how many years had passed, you still missed him and loved him with your full heart.

“Ginger?” You startle, the grip around his cane tightening as you are pulled back to the present. “Are you there?” he chuckles weakly, reaching and grabbing your wrist.

You freeze, starting to hyperventilate again, your eyes wide at him while you try your hardest to calm down. You look down at his hand on your wrist, squeezing your eyes shut.

He starts rubbing your pulse there, like he always did to you when you were younger, while you were having something you didn't know what it was until you got into college: a panic attack.

This touch, after all these years, is strange and painful, but also so familiar that, even with the pain of the memory and the loss of this touch for 15 years, you can calm down, taking a deep breath and exhaling heavily.

The grip on his cane tightens, and you tense when his other hand rests hesitantly at the side of your shoulder, “Hey, Ginger, talk to me, please.”

You hold a whine from leaving your lips when you hear the pain and concern in his voice. You nod, shut your eyes even harder, and swallow a lump in your throat, placing your free hand over his on your arm.

“It’s just-” Your voice cracks slightly as you squeeze his hand, slowly opening your eyes to face him, your heart aching when you find him looking so worried at you, and you try your best not to cry in front of him.

“I’m just happy to be here, Gatorade,” you chuckle humorlessly. The smile doesn't reach your eyes, “and for meeting with you again.”

His breath hitches, then he chuckles with relief, even though he feels that something is off either way. He presses your pulse one last time, releasing your wrist hesitantly, but not letting go of your shoulder.

“I missed you too, Ginger; you have no idea how much,” Gator chuckles, with a grin growing on his face.

You stay silent for a while, and he absently and unconsciously rubs your shoulder as you stare at him. You are still trying to calm down completely while you learn the new fine lines and features he has on him now.

“Huh,” he clears his throat, chuckling nervously, reluctantly releasing your arm, already missing feeling you under his touch, “do you need help organizing the stuff around here? I’m free for the rest of the day.”

“Yeah, huh,” you chuckle nervously, passing his cane to his hand. Your fingers linger against the other, making both of you get butterflies.

You take a step back, a little disoriented, and walk to a cabinet on the opposite side of the room. “You can bring the used clays for me here. It’s…” You stay quiet, counting under your breath, “15 pieces,” you say, reaching the cabinet.

“Yes, ma’am,” Gator agrees while heading to the table. With his apron still on, he grabs a clay with one hand, bringing it close to his chest to keep it from falling. With his cane in one hand and the clay in the other, he goes on and on, landing them on you.

Gator feels the table for the next clay on it, not having so much trouble finding them by the water spilled on the table and some dry clay as well. Even blind, he can still use his investigation skills, just not with his vision now.

While you stand by the cabinet, you notice it. You notice how he adapted something he lost by using other skills in hand, pun not intended.

“So you really got into psych, didn't you?” he asks while walking back to you. “You used to talk about how you liked that shit back in the day.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, taking the clay from his hand while he turns back to the table, “I got in right after school.”

“Of course you did,” he agrees proudly of you, “you were always smart, Ginger.” He rolls a clay off the table to take it to you, “Where did you go?”

“UCLA,” you answer like it is nothing, but you have a proud smile on your lips.

“Are you fucking kidding?” He freezes in shock, smiling so widely that all his face has smile lines. His eyebrows are raised high, a proud smile on his lips. “You got into UCLA?” he returns to walk, handing you the piece.

When he hears you put it in the cabinet, he holds you by your middle, lifts you into the air, spinning you. You cackle carefree, in shock by the movement, your hands on his shoulders. “You fucking did it, Ginger!”

Gator puts you down, his hands still around your waist with yours still over his shoulders, even though he pulled away. “How was it to be at the place you always wanted to study at?” he asks with genuine interest, still grinning.

You giggle, hitting his shoulder playfully, blushing. “It was really awesome. It was really a dream, you know?” you confess, giggling.

During your speech, just by your tone, Gator knows how happy you are, and his heart has never been this full of pride. Knowing that you got into the university you always dreamed of getting into makes him so full, but slightly sad that he wasn’t there to congratulate you at the time.

“You deserved it, Ginger,” Gator says bluntly, unconsciously rubbing your waist, “I never doubted you would get in. I’m so proud of you.”

You swallow hard when he starts rubbing your side, and your head starts spinning when he praises you. Your heart races at the same speed as the butterflies in your stomach that are flying and hitting against your walls there.

“Thank you, Gator,” you say, a little breathless, blushing hard, trying so hard not to hold his shoulders tight. “Now c’mon,” you chuckle nervously and quietly, pulling away from his arms, “let’s finish this.”

Gator chuckles with a lopsided smile, flexing his hand once while he returns to the table. His heart is racing, but also longing. He grabs another clay and walks back to you

Even though his touch is no longer around you, you can feel a tingling sensation in the area where his hands were, at your waist, just like he feels around his shoulder. So, for the sake of your sanity, you change the subject to redirect your mind.

“So, huh,” you clear your throat, chuckling nervously, “you did crochet before?” There is a slight hint of teasing in your tone, and Gator notices it, tilting his head a little, a lopsided smile on his lips as he hands you another clay.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, his fingers brushing against yours, making him a little nervous, already turning back to the table again, “it was the only thing I could do at the time to reduce my sentence,” he states, grabbing another clay.

“I was damn good at it, you know?” he smiles smugly, turning to walk back to you, “did socks, purses, even beanies too.”

“Awwwn,” you coo playfully, giggling, as you take the clay from his hand to place it in the cabinet. “You made beanies?”

“Shut up,” Gator says with no sign of resentment, laughing just after, turning back to grab the last clay on the table, “I did a decent job at least; they warm my ears in winter.”

“Awwwn, they get your ears warm?” You tease again, laughing, “Wow, never thought you would get this soft, Gatorade.” You chuckle, watching while he returns with the last piece, then you hold it and put it in its place, shutting the cabinet.

He laughs carefree, his body shaking, unconsciously leaning his body slightly towards the direction of your voice, “This art therapy shit isn't supposed to help me heal? Guess the shrinks before you did a good damn job.” You walk beside him towards the table. “I’m a softie now, apparently.”

“Yeah, perhaps,” you chuckle, you two stopping at the corner of the table when his cane hits the table’s foot, “but without this...” You place your palm over his heart, you can even feel his heartbeat under it, “not a single change would be possible, Gate,” you say fondly.

He stays quiet for a while, his head turned toward you. He exhales heavily, swallowing hard, and places a hand over yours on his chest, holding your hand. 

“That's… that's really kind of you, Ginger… thank you,” he says quietly, but full of gratitude. “You were always so sweet to me,” he confesses just above a whisper, a sad smile on his face, while unconsciously holding your hand tighter.

You thank whatever divine creature out there for your hands not being over your heart, because it's embarrassing how hard and strong your heart is beating in your chest. You can even swear you can hear it.

“Huh,” you chuckle nervously, trying not to hyperventilate again. Against your will, you take your hand off his chest and away from his hand. You turn to the stool where your bag is, your hands a little trembling as you pack your stuff.

Gator feels the ache in his chest, just like the cold on his hands, from the absence of your touch. He turns his head toward the noises you are making and recognizes the sound of paper and pens being put away.

He might not see, but he became really good at interpreting people’s sounds. And even if he wasn’t an expert, you sound the same when you are nervous or uncomfortable, as he did when he had the honor to be in your life back then.

“Hey, Ginger,” he says quietly, awkwardly. Gator places his hand at the edge of the table and walks towards you, guiding himself by it. “Do you have something to do now? Another session or something to head to?” He plays with the stripe of his cane, a nervous habit he developed.

“No, I'm done for the day,” you say with a nervous smile on your face, happy that he can’t see it, but little do you know that he can read you like the back of his hand since always. 

“Why? Do you need something, Gator?” You ask, closing your bag as you straighten up and hold the strap. You swallow dryly, also noticing that his claw is clenched just like yours.

“No, huh…” he shakes his head, taking a second, “actually yeah…” he says softly, quietly, “guess we need to talk, Ginger…”

“No, Gate, don’t worry about it,” you laugh nervously, dismissing it, putting the strap of the bag over your shoulder, “it’s oka-”

“The hell it is, Ginger!” Gator exclaims a little frusttated, his eyebrows furrowed so deeply that the wrinkles are deep between them, “I know you, okay?” he says breathless, as if he is in pain, putting the cane against the table, “even without those fucking things,” he points to his eyes, “I can feel it is not okay, that you,” he points at you, “are not okay,” he says slightly quieter.

“I-,” his voice cracks, his hands are lifted in front of him, unsure of what to do with them, “I thought I would never know about you ever again,” he runs his hands through his hair, a little trembling, “and when I heard your voice again earlier…”

Gator says it with so much sadness, but also hope, and relief even: “It was like this fucking universe gave me another chance to make it right to you.” He, disregards all his instincts, he places his hands on your shoulders, sliding his hand down until he reaches your hands.

“And I don’t want to screw this again,” his voice cracks, holding your hands tightly against his, “so please,” he begs, “please let’s talk.”

Your heart aches, and you do your best not to cry, something that is nearly impossible because you can’t see him suffering and not cry along. “Okay,” you say quietly, holding his hand back, taking a gasp out of him, “let’s talk.”

Gator exhales so heavily with such relief that he feels dizzy. “Okay, okay,” he nods quietly, frantically. “Do you mind if I close the doors?” he asks, already releasing one of your hands to grab his cane.

“No, but let me clo-”

“No, let me do this,” he cuts you off, already walking with his cane, following the guidance path to the door, closing them one by one. 

You remain nervous, but fight against your own body and grab another stool for him to sit beside you. You pick the skin around your fingers and do your best not to spiral again.

Gator comes back a minute or two later, and he gets surprised when his cane hits a stool that you are not at. “Oh,” he says, grabbing the edge and sitting on it, resting the cane on the table. “Thank you, that was… really thoughtful of you,” he says quietly.

“No mention it,” you are as quiet as he is.

“I, huh,” he cleans his throat after a couple of seconds, bouncing his leg, pulling his collar, feeling nervous, “I want to start this apologizing to you, Ginger.”

You lift your head at him, sitting straight, crossing your arms over your chest, leaning back in the chair. “No, Gator,” you say dismissively, chuckling ashamedly, “you don't need-”

“No, I definitely need to,” he straightens up, resting his hands over his thighs, “this fucking shrinking thing must have been good for something,” he murmurs under his breath, taking a deep breath, his face turned to you. 

Gator says your name with pain, full of regret, “I pushed you away out of nowhere,” he extends his hand, searching for yours that you give to him like second nature, without you even realizing it.

He holds your grip tightly. “I had just lost my mom, and then Dorothy ran away too,” he shifts into his seat, uncomfortable, “and the last thing I wanted was for you to run away from me too,” his voice cracks.

“So I selfishly thought that pushing you away would hurt less than you pushing me away,” Gator gets closer to you, sitting at the edge of the stool, searching for your other hand, which you give right away as well.

“But I was so fucking stupid wrong, Ginger,” his lips are trembling, his brow furrowed, “until we graduate, I cried every single damn day,” he sobs slightly, holding your hands tighter, “because I have lost the last most important person I had in my life.” 

“I spent the last 15 years of my life cursing myself for having lost you,” he takes a deep, shaky breath, bringing your hands over his heart, “I’m so sorry, Ginger,” he stands up, saying your name, hitting his knees against your legs, “I’m sorry for being a fucking asshole and for pulling you away.”

Gator leans forward, hesitantly resting his forehead to yours. “Please,” he cries unshamelessly, his body slightly shaking, you giving up your self-restraint as well, crying along with him, “please, forgive me.”

“Gate..” you sob back, pressing your foreheads together, holding his hands as tight as possible, “I thought you hated me,” you confess between sobs, leaning towards him, “no matter how much time passed… There wasn’t a single day I didn't think about you, Gator.”

You pull back to look at him, and you see how wrecked he is, just like you. Tears running down his face, his lips parted from his cry, the sadness in his face you only saw on him when he talked about Roy, and when Linda disappeared, and Dot ran away.

“Ginger,” he cries out your name, pressing your hands deeper on his chest, “I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you,” he lifts your knuckles to his lips, pressing a longer and eager kiss on them. “Please, forgive me,” he sobs against your hand, lifting his head to face you.

“Of course I forgive you, Gatorade,” you say while hugging him by his neck, sobbing quietly.

The moment your arms wrap around him, he freezes for a second, trying to process what is happening, melting just as your scent enters his nostrils, hugging you back by your middle.

His arms wrap around your back, embracing all of it like a lifeline, mostly because it sort of is. You hold each other tightly, smelling one another. It is like coming home after years of trying to find yourself in a world that doesn't make sense, until now.

You both pull back after a while, with Gator unable to take his hand off you, sliding them from your back to hold you by your shoulders.

He can’t see, so he isn't aware of how close you two are right now, forcing you to pull a little back to be able to think properly, sliding down your hands to his shoulders as well, squeezing one last time, your touch lingering there before letting go.

You chuckle nervously, wiping the tears on your eyes, “Gate, do you mind if I put my stuff away? Since it’s my first day, I need to do a report to my supervisor.”

“Yeah yeah,” he chuckles nervously as well, his touch lingering a second more in your shoulder before stepping back, wiping his tears from under his glasses. He adjusts his perfect glasses on his nose, “of course, go do your big girl stuff.”

“Big girl stuff?” you ask over your shoulder, chuckling, heading to the stool where your bag is.

“Responsibilities, reporting to others,” he shrugs, lop-sided smiling, sitting back on the stool, grabbing its edge to guide himself on it, “big girl stuff.”

“So you being a deputy, it was you being a big boy?” This sounds too flirtatious for your liking, the words leaving your mouth before you could even process them. You freeze in place and look away, still organizing your bag, your back to him, while blushing and your heart racing.

Because of that, you don't notice Gator blushing, and the twist on his mouth trying to prevent a smile from showing. Were you flirting with him? He got it right?

Gator chuckles, leaning back on the stool, feeling confident about the possible flirtatious tone. You look over your shoulder and see his arms crossed over his chest, and he manspreads with his feet resting on the bars under the stool. 

You have to look away from your own sanity, because no matter what Gator Tillman would wear, from his pjs when you were younger, to school uniform, to tactical gear, to even a fucking facility uniform, you will always find him the most handsome, attractive, and hot guy ever.

“I’m still a big boy, doc,” his tone is slightly flirtatious as well, testing the ground, could even sound like nothing if you don’t pay close attention. “Going to art therapy is a responsibility I take very seriously,” he chuckles, “and it depends who the shrink is; I commit even more depending on who it is.”

You blush harder; your breath hitches. You can hear the smirk in his tone. You’ve flirted with each other before, but you were teenagers; it was nothing more than calling one another pretty. But now you are adults, and this has gotten to a different level.

But before you could even think about something to say back, you two snap your heads towards a knock on the door, finding Willow there.

“Hey,” he greets with a friendly smile, half of his body in the room, “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all!” You chuckle nervously, and Gator can’t help but notice, smiling to himself, tilting his head in your direction to pay more attention to you.

“Good,” Willow enters the room, and Gator hears his steps coming in your direction, “because I would ask if you are going to the office now. I’m on break, and I would like to continue to show you the place around.”

“Oh, I would love to!” Gator can hear the relief in your voice, just like the smile you have on your face. He sits upright on his seat, straightening his posture, a little uncomfortable.

“That’s great!” Gator notices Willow’s excitement as well when he pats Gator’s shoulder, “Want help to leave the room, or are you staying a little more, Tillman?”

Gator exhales through his nose, nodding, a forced smile on his face, “I’ll be here for a minute or two, but thanks.”

“Anytime!” Willow smiles back, noticing that Gator is not comfortable at all, but he is not sure why. He turns to you, stepping forward, “ready?”

“Yeah,” you smile, and Gator hears you putting your bag on your shoulder while you step towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it and rubbing with your thumb.

“Thanks for today, Gatorade. It was amazing seeing you again after all those years.” The fondness in your voice makes his chest ache, and a soft smile appears on his lips, and he instinctively places his hand over yours on his shoulder. “See you next week, yeah?”

“Of course,” he squeezes your hand, smiling widely, “I’m never going to skip art therapy ever again.”

You chuckle shyly and blush, feeling your heart pounding on your chest. Without wanting to, you let go of him, and you notice his hand lingering in your hand too.

“Bye, Gatorade, have a nice week,” you say, walking away.

“Bye, Ginger,” he says affectionately, smiling like a fool.

And Willow notices it, narrowing his eyes at him, saying a see you later to Gator and walking by your side to the back door of the session room.

You look over your shoulder one last time and find Gator not as happy as he was just seconds ago. He has his jaw clenched, a scowl on his face, and his arms crossed over his chest. With confusion and an ache in your chest, you follow Willow to the administrative part of the facility.

“Hi, sweetie Gator boy,” Dorothy greets Gator while entering the visiting hall. Her arms are wide open, just like her smile, a bag over her shoulder. When she approaches him, who is already standing, smiling like a little boy just by hearing her voice, she hugs him tightly.

“Hey, Dots,” he hugs her back, his heart warm with the smell of baked cookies she always seems to have when go visit him. They pull away after a while with a content sigh from Gator, with her sitting by his side.

“I have something to tell you,” unable to hold the biggest smile, what catches Dot’s attention, narrowing her eyes slightly, smiling sweetly.

“Oh, and what is it?” she says in a quiet giggle, happy for whatever reason it might be.

“Huh,” Gator chuckles, adjusting his sunglasses, which are perfectly nice on his face. He says your name and last name to her, shifting in the seat, blush appearing on his cheeks, “Do you remember her?”

“That sweet friend of yours?” Her face softens. “Yeah, of course I remember her! She was always around when Roy wasn’t,” she smiles, “you were always happier around her, you know?” she giggles, and Gator blushes even harder, “but what about her?”

He chuckles nervously, bending over the table, his forearms resting there, but not before fixing his perfect glasses again, “She, huh,” he clears his throat, “she is working here now; she is the new art therapist.”

“Are you kidding!” Dots exclaims, giggling, making Gator giggle in relief for some reason, “That’s incredible, Gate! You've missed her, I imagine.”

“Totally,” he grins, his chest aching just by remembering the time you two went apart, “I never told you that we were not friends anymore after you left the ranch, or did I?”

“No, you did not!” Her eyes go sadder, leaning towards Gator, “What happened? You were so close!”

Gator groans from self-embarrassment, pressing his hand over his forehead, rubbing his finger there while telling her what he told you. His tone is low, almost like he was grieving, which he absolutely was at the time.

Dorothy’s face gets sadder and sadder throughout the story. She extended her hands over the table and held Gator’s free one, rubbing his knuckles while he passed through the events.

His shoulders get less tense with her affection, and his voice becomes warmer when he starts to talk about meeting you again previously at the beginning of this week.

“So now,” he starts to conclude, “after 15 fucking years, we are talking again,” he smiles dreamily just by saying it, just by imagining having you in his life again.

But then reality hits when he hears the facility's siren ringing behind him. His smile fades, and a scowl starts to show up. “But I’m stuck here for I don't know how long,” he shrugs, clenching his jaw, his tone a little bitter, “So dunno what will happen after this year.”

Dorothy grabs the edge of the chair with one hand, doing little jumps to get closer to Gator. She passes that arm over his shoulders, pulling him to rest on her shoulder. She rubs his shoulder with affection, her head against the top of his.

“Yeah, we don’t know the future, that’s for sure,” she starts, and just for being on her arms, Gator relaxes, clinging to her embrace, “but we have the present, which is a gift in its own. Pun intended," Gator chuckles weakly, making herself giggle a little.

“Take this time with her back into your life and make the best of it,” her voice is sweet, calm, reassurance. “You will have around 60 encounters to make it memorable.” 

She pulls back, cupping Gator’s face with the hand over his, leaning into her touch while furrowing his eyebrows in a painful affection, something he is still getting used to again. “So don’t waste this beautiful opportunity life is putting on your hands again, okay?”

Gator smiles weakly, but warmly, nodding just after, “Okay, I’ll try my best not to screw up this time again.” Beside his smile, his tone is a little bitter towards himself.

“Oh, don’t you dare be mean to yourself!” Dot pulls away, looking at him with disapproval. “You went through a lot, things that most people never go through,” she notices how Gator turns his face away, but paradoxically tilts his head towards her to hear her better.

“It might not be the better response, but it was the best one you could have back there,” she takes a deep breath, placing her hand on his shoulder, then up to his hair, running her fingers through it, Gator leaning towards her touch.

“So don’t be tough on yourself about it, okay? She forgave you, and now you two have a new chance, so do the best with it, okay?”

Reluctantly, not necessary feeling worthy of such words, Gator nods after a while, making Dot grin widely. “I don’t want her out of my life again. I’ll do everything to have her as my friend again.”

“Who said she can be just a friend?” she giggles, joking, making Gator blush hard, chuckling from embarrassment. “I always had this feeling you liked her back there when you were kids.”

“Can we not, please?” Gator chuckles embarrassingly, blushing even more, making Dorothy laugh beamingly. “Hope you brought my cookies for compensating for picking on me this early.”

Dot laughs while cradling his head to kiss his temple, pulling away from their embrace to go through her purse. “It’s 10 a.m, Gator; it’s not early.”

“Whatever,” he says, fake annoyed, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair. Dot giggles at his grumpiness, placing the bag of cookies over his chest. The scowl on his face disappears, and the boyish smile ever appears.

Because of the dynamic settled on that ranch so early on, Dorothy always looked at Gator as someone to take care of. First as his older sister, then later as his stepmother. But now, that the scenario is not the same anymore, seeing him as her younger brother makes her heart bloom. Mostly because seeing her little bro falling in love again makes it even more endearing.

One week has passed, and you are late for the art therapy session. Gator is seated at his spot for more time than necessary.

He got there really early to have the opportunity to chat with you before the session, but the minutes went by, and other inmates started to arrive, and nothing from you.

As time went by, he grew anxious, shifting his weight on the stool, playing with his cane, trying to ease his nerves. He sharpens his hearing all the time, trying to catch a glimpse of a sound that would announce you.

But just after 15 minutes of your lateness, he finally hears you. It’s about the walk you enter that is rushed, the way you walk, a characteristic that he remembers from previous years. Your steps were always something he learned to recognize, the only few he felt relief to hear.

“Boys, I’m so so sorry,” Gator notices how short of breath you are, and he hears you dropping the bag at a stool. He also hears your steps fading away, just like your voice.

“I’m not used to the traffic of this city yet. I swear I’m not going to be late again,” and as you say it, your voice becomes louder again, and then Gator hears a sound and senses the vibration of the table, startling a little.

“Let me just pick the clays for you to continue, and we can go with our session, okay?” Gator notices the nervousness in your voice even if you are saying it as lightly as you can say it. He opens his mouth to ask if you need help, but he is cut off before he could say anything.

“Uuuuh, doc,” says an inmate from his right while laughing, “did you dye your hair?” Gator furrows his eyebrows in confusion, his head tilted towards the guy, then tilted towards you, curiosity hitting him.

“No, no,” you chuckle lightly, the vibration of 15 balls of clay already placed on the table done, “I'm just going to let it natural now.”

“Oh, no way!” someone afar laughs, incredulous, “so you are a redhead? Why did you dyed black then?”

What? Gator widens his eyesockets in surprise, a wide smile spreading across his face by the realization that you are ginger again, something he stopped seeing in you since the beginning of High School.

You chuckle nervously, and Gator can hear you sitting at the stool across from him. “You know that thing about women who change their hair when we go for some breakup? It is true sometimes,” you state, chuckling.

“So why you change it to natural now?” asks Gator before he could stop himself, his jaw clenching while he swallows hard, fixing his perfect glasses on his face, “You broke up with someone?”

“I, huh,” you laugh nervously, and Gator senses a vibration over the table; it’s you bending over and resting your elbows there, “I actually was quote unquote on a break that doesn’t exist anymore, so no need to have my hair black anymore.”

Gator stills with your answer, his heart beating fast against his ribs. He can’t see you, but you are just as nervous as him now, sweat starting to accumulate at your hairline and you bretahing becoming faster as well.

“But anywaaaaay,” you bring you both back to reality, taking your eyes away from Gator, trying to focus on something else to calm yourself down, “you can grab the bowls at the table by the wall and fill them with water,” you state while turning pages from your notebook, “and you can start to sculpt today.”

Gator hears the stools being pulled away and his colleagues heading to the table, and even still shaken by your statement, he grabs his cane and walks towards the sound, grabbing his bowl and then filling it with water. It might not be the necessary quantity, but it will work for now.

You watch Gator coming back to his stool, and you notice he is counting under his breath the stools he goes by with the help of his cane, hitting its feet. You smile warmly to yourself with it, glad to see how independent he has become even in a difficult situation like this.

When he gets to the number of his own stool, he smiles small to himself, placing the bowl at the table and then sitting back on the stool, leaving the cane beside him against the table.

With everyone in their places, in a quiet room filled only to slightly groans from effort, water being cupped from the bowl, and clay being sculpted, the art therapy session of the week begins.

Gator doesn't have a single idea in mind about what he is going to make, but either way, he rolls a clay ball to be placed in front of him, and slowly, really therapeutically, he wets it and starts to mold it, trying to get used to its texture and how malleable it is with a certain quantity of water.

He was never really good at drawing, so the perception of things’ shapes and else were not something he was a master at, but since touch was one of the senses he uses the most from the past three years, he had memorized some things and some shapes.

When Scotty come with Dorothy every now and then to visit him, he always asks for them to bring some toys that were from them, and he runs them around his fingers, sensing the shape of them. It was cars, farm animals, domestic animals, kitchen supplies, and sometimes fruits too. And then the recall something.

When you were kids, you had a stuffed animal that you lost after a family trip. You were in a rush, and unintentionally you left it behind. It was a giraffe, a baby giraffe.

You gave him an alligator, and you had a giraffe, and you played together for many years until Miss Long Neck went missing. Gator passed years looking for a stuffed giraffe like the one you had, but he never found it.

So just like that, he made his decision: Miss Long Neck will be brought back to life, and he will gift you with her until the end of this one year of your art therapy thing.

While taking your notes at the opposite side of the table about the patients there, your eyes always end up landing on Gator, and you notice how his expression changed from absently molding the clay until something hit him.

His face totally changes from his eyebrows furrowed from thinking to them being high from realization. You saw it growing; the change was progressively subtle, but by the eagerness of his hands around the clay, you can imagine he has an idea to accomplish now.

You smile warmly to yourself while noting it down, and when you lift your eyes again, they stay in Gator for a couple of minutes, and you feel your heart swelling just by looking at him, just like when you were younger and you lost track of time because you enjoyed to watch him existing, your place of peace in the middle of hell that was your life.

When you realize the feelings that are blooming inside of you again, you shake your head, lowering your eyes back to your notebook. You can’t feel this kind of stuff again; you are his therapist now. Well, not the traditional kind of therapist, but he is still your patient, and you can’t fall for him again. Well, continue to fall, actually.

So you try your best to focus on something else, cursing yourself for the lack of professionalism. The important thing is to try your best not to show any sign of your real feelings to him. These types of things can happen, but unlike in the clinic, you can’t “fire” him as your patient, so you can’t let your feelings show. At all.

The rest of the session goes by, until the end of it arrives.

“Hey, boys,” you call their attention quielty, smiling fondly, “the time of our session today is over, but feel free to stay over time working on your projects,” you bend over, your elbows on the table, “but if you don’t want it, just please discard the used water and place the bowl back at the table, and put the clays away on the cabinet. Thank you for today, boys, see you next week!”

With that being said, Gator hears stools being pulled back and steps going in different directions, and after a while, the silence in the room is present again. He chuckles to himself before talking to you.

“Guess I’m the only one here now, huh?”

You giggle, nodding, “Precisely, so I’ll let you be -”

“NO!” he protests too eagerly, answering it too quickly, his face in shock. He chuckles nervously, shifting his weight on the stool, “I mean, we can talk. It’s okay for me.”

You giggle again, cursing yourself in your mind for being just a fool for him, like you always have been, “Okay, we can chat.”

“Good,” he smiles widely, “that’s good,” he chuckles, still molding his clay, multitasking.

“So,” you start, standing up and cleaning the parts of the table that are not being used anymore, “what are you planning to create?”

Gator smiles to himself, his head tilted towards you, which seems to be somewhere on his left as he hears you wiping the table, “it’s a secret.”

“Oh, c’mon!” you protest, laughing, making him laugh too, “so I’ll only know what you are planning to sculpt in a year from here? You are mean,” you laugh beamingly.

“Not mean, just mysterious,” he says with flair, laughing just after, “don’t spoil the fun, Ginger, just trust the process.”

“Okay okay,” you say laughing, in surrender, “oh!” you exclaim, walking back to your bag. Gator hears you searching for something in there, “aha!”

With his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, he hears you coming in his direction; he even straightens his posture and cleans his hands on his apron, taking as much clay out of it as possible.

“Extend your hand,” you command, and he obeys, just like he always did. Gator feels the weight of it on his hand, his brow furrowing a little in recognition, a boyish smile spreading on his face.

“Are you serious?” he chuckles, then laughs properly when he opens the bottle, smelling inside of it. “No way you got the cherry one,” he giggles, taking a long sip of his Gatorade.

“Of course I did,” you giggle just as lightly. “You were obsessed over those things back there,” you recall. “The first time I saw you, you were drinking some Gatorade,” you laugh carefree.

“And still you remember my favorite flavor,” he teases, smirking smugly while drinking a little more. “Wow,” he chuckles, closing the bottle, “I really missed it. Since I got arrested, I’ve never drunk it again.”

“Oh my god, don’t say I committed a violation because I gave you this!” you say, scared, making Gator laugh, dismissing it with his hand.

“Don’t worry about it, Ginger. I just thought it would be pointless to ask Dot to bring me some,” he shrugs, placing the bottle at the table carefully, “and I always had way more important things to worry about than a fucking Gatorade,” he chuckles, leaning back on the stool.

“Well,” you chuckle, shaking your head when you notice how smiling like a fool you are, going back to your place, “I’ll take it as my personal task from now on every week then.”

“This is a lot of commitment, Ginger,” he jokes humorlessly, returning to his sculpture, wetting his hand to mold the clay again, “I’m your charity project now?”

You turn to him, your eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, a little offended as well. You take a couple of seconds to respond, sounding as calm as possible, “What that’s supposed to mean, Gator?”

He shrugs, chuckling humorlessly, still molding the clay under his hand, his head facing his hand, “I’m a fucking prisoner, Ginger. Giving gifts to me or whatever hell this is must be some local project about resocialization or some shit.”

You are so surprised and incredulous by the blasphemous words that left Gator’s mouth that you don’t catch the bitter tone of his voice. You are too shocked to say something back right away, so you open and close your mouth numerous times trying to find words.

“Wow, Gator,” you say after a while, breathless, hurt, “this is what you think you are to me?” You chuckle bitterly, a little watery even, “a fucking charity project?” you scoff with disgust.

But before Gator could say anything back, Willow knocks on the door, making you both snap your heads towards the sound. “Hello, you two,” he smiles, friendly, “may I come in?”

You turn your face away, taking your eyes away from both Willow and Gator and focusing on your bag. You clear your throat, your voice leaving it a little husky, “Yeah, Low, come in.”

Willow enters the room, heading to Gator’s side, and he notices how his jaw is clenched and his shoulders are tense while he plays with the clay. Willow furrows his eyebrows in confusion, looking at you, your back facing both of them, and he notices you putting your stuff in your bag.

“Are you already leaving?” he asks you while watching Gator's expressions, and he sees he freezes for a second before returning to his activity.

“No, I’m just organizing my stuff,” you answer, still with your back to them, “I need to be in the facility for at least three hours, so since Gator is still working, I’ll stay here.”

“If I’m trapping you here,” Gator says a little irritated, cleaning his hands on his apron, his head facing the forming sculpture in front of him, “I’ll put my clay away and let you free of me.”

“Gator, she didn’t say th-”

Gator cuts Willow, taking his apron off while he is standing up. With a big scowl on his face, he sets it over the stool, grabs his cane, and marching towards the door to leave, farewelling over his shoulder a short have a nice rest of the day towards you.

You and Willow watch Gator leave the room. It’s like a punch on the stomach for you. You turn your face away again, trying to prevent the tears from dropping, and Willow notices.

“I’ll talk to him, let me just put his things awa-”

“No need, Willow,” you say as firmly as possible, but the shakiness in your voice is not so subtle as you think it is, “I’ll put them away. Go talk to him.”

After years of being a healthcare professional, Willow learned how to recognize someone who needs space, so he just agrees, saying he will come back in some minutes, heading to the door Gator just left. He shuts the door behind him, leaving you with some privacy, mostly because he is sure you will cry once you are left alone, which indeed happens.

It doesn't take long for Willow to spot Gator. He is heading to the yard behind the facility when Willow approaches him.

“What the hell just happened, Gator?” Willow walks beside Gator, confused as hell.

Gator doesn't respond right away, but he clenches his jaw harder, and the grip on his cane gets tighter while walking in the yard along the guidance path.

“I was holding her back by staying after session there,” his voice is low.

“Oh, that’s why then you couldn't even put your things away and let your sculpture, apron, and everything else there for her to put away?” Willow chuckles sarcastically, “Good manners of you, huh?”

Gator swallows dryly, the scowl getting uglier on his face, but Willow doesn't let him say anything back. “What happened, Gator?”

Gator stays a while in silence, both walking side by side, the sun hitting his face. It’s fall, so it’s not so hot to burn, just enough to warm. A little calmer from the hug of the sun, Gator answers him. “Nothing, just-” he takes a deep breath, “I just don’t want to be on her way.”

“And why would you be? She told me that she would suggest you stay after the session to keep the work going if you want to. Wasn't that the reason you were there?”

Gator doesn't say anything, just keeps walking. He breaks the silence after a while. “You are friends?” he asks as nonchalantly as he can.

He can’t see, but Willow shrugs. “Sort of, yeah. We chat in the staff room when she is around,” he turns to look at Gator, “But you didn't answer my question.”

And Gator doesn't say anything again, but he keeps playing Willow’s words in his head. So you are sort of friends… How could he compete with Willow? A good guy who is not a fucking criminal?

“Well,” Willow chuckles after a while, tiredly, noticing he would not get an answer from Gator, “I’ll help her clean the mess you made. See you later, dude.” he pats his shoulder before turning and heading back to the session room.

You are sobbing quietly, wiping the tears from your face while placing Gator’s clay back in the cabinet when Willow knocks on the door, making you startle a little, snapping your head into his direction.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, but his smile fades when he notices your face is wet from tears. “He can be a dick sometimes, you know?” Willow walks towards you, “don’t take it to your heart.”

You chuckle weakly, walking back to the table by the stool your bag is on. “It’s easy for you to say when it’s not you who spent 15 years apart from him.”

“True,” he chuckles quietly, looking with empathy at you. “Would you mind telling me what happened?” he asks while pulling a stool to sit by your side, “he didn’t say much.”

You stay in silence for a while, sitting on your stool. You bend over the table, your elbows on it, while picking the skin on your finger, looking at them. You glance ahead of you and see the Gatorade bottle there, and your face turns even sadder, your mouth and eyes pointing down.

“He thinks he is my charity project,” you say quietly, standing up and walking around the table to grab the bottle, then coming back and sitting on the stool again.

“I gave him his favorite drink, and he thinks he is charity-,” you choke, “sorry.” You squeeze your eyes, bending over the table again, elbows on it while your hands press against your eyes. You let a strangled sob leave your lips, the bottle still in your hand. 

Willow looks at you with his eyebrows furrowed together, with such empathy towards you. He rubs your back to soothe you, and he says something back after a minute, “he is not used to kindness, I suppose.”

You take some shaky deep breaths before taking your hands from your eyes, pulling from the table to sit straight again. “Not anymore at least,” you state, wiping your tears, playing with the bottle in your hand, “Life wasn't always so tough on him back when we were kids.” You smile sadly, recalling, “kindness wasn't something so foreign for him back there...”

“But anyway,” you chuckle weakly, shaking your head to center yourself, “would you mind giving him back this?” You extend the bottle to him. “I like to think he forgot about it after running away, rather than he chose to leave it behind.”

“Yeah, of course,” he smiles, friendly, grabbing the bottle from you. “Meet you at the staff room later?” he asks while you stand up and hang your bag over your shoulder.

“Yeah, totally,” you smile gently, heading to leave from the door behind you. Willow watches you go and curses under his breath.

“Stupid Tillman,” he murmurs while standing up, leaving the room from the other door, shutting it behind him. He goes to the yard again and finds Gator sitting on a bench far from the back entrance of the facility.

“Here, you idiot,” Willow says while extending the bottle to Gator’s hand, making him startle. “You forgot it there.”

“Oh!” he says in surprise. “Thanks,” he adds quietly. Unsure if he is dignified to drink it still, he reluctantly opens the bottle and takes a sip from it.

“Don’t be a dick to her again, okay?” Willow firmly states, “And we both know the last thing you feel about her is something negative.” Gator doesn't respond, just drinks his Gatorade.

“So stop being an ass to the best thing that happened to you after she went away,” Gator opens his mouth to protest, but Willow cuts him off, “and don’t you dare correct me because those words left your mouth. I know you don't mean harm, so watch that big mouth of yours.”

Gator just scowls, taking a long sip from his drink again. “Be the big man you are and think about your actions. I’ll let you be. See you later, Tillman,” Willow farewells, heading back to the facility, leaving Gator to his own thoughts, cursing himself for being such an ass to you.

More than a month has passed since the day Gator had you in his life again. During the past weeks, he has apologized to you. He asked Dot to bring some brownies to give to you, since it’s your favorite.

So the next session he had, he was earlier, and you got in time. Still awkward from the previous situation about you last week, you greeted him politely.

“I, huh,” he cleared his throat, playing with the brownie on his lap, out of your sight, “I brought you something. As an apology for being a dick to you.”

“Oh…” you said quietly, placing your bag on the stool beside you.

“Yeah, huh,” he chuckled nervously, standing up. He took his hand behind his back, grabbing his cane with the other and walking slowly towards you. “You were being sweet as you always were to me, and I treated it like it wasn't usual from you. I’m sorry, Ginger.”

He extended his hand to you, bringing the brownie to your view. “This is an apology gift for you.”

You looked from the brownie to him; a warm smile appeared on your face, just like your heart aching on your chest. But just as quickly as this feeling, another thought came up to your mind; a smirk grew on your lips. “This is part of some program to reduce your sentence, Tillman?” you tried to say as steady as possible; you were trying your best not to laugh.

However, Gator didn’t notice it. His face turned horrified at the idea, his eyebrow lifting in desperation, “No, no, no, Ginger! I’m really sorry, I would never do that to-,” then he heard your muffled laugh because of the hand over your mouth.

He laughed together, pointing a finger towards you with the brownie in hand, a boyish smile on his lip, “You got me, mama.”

“Here, you idiot,” you laughed while extending your hand to him. You grabbed the brownie and placed another bottle of Gatorade in his hand.

Gator continued to laugh while he sensed the bottle in his hand, recognizing the shape. Along with this, you unwrapped the brownie and took a bite of it, humming in approval, rolling your eyes back in delight. “God, they seem like the ones Nadi-, sorry, Dotothy used to do when we were kids.” 

After swallowing the Gatorade, Gator added, “because it is from her,” and you noticed a smug and proud smile on his face.

“No way!” you laughed beamingly, taking another bite, covering your mouth when you said back, “I missed it so much! I never found a brownie so good as this one!”

“I know,” he simply stated, smiling fondly at your excitement. “Sooooo,” he leaned into your direction, “do you forgive me for being a dick?”

You froze for a second, so he remembered you liked those brownies? But you shook your head, chuckling nervously, focusing on the situation in front of you. “Yeah, Gatorade, of course I forgive you.”

Gator cheered like a little boy, making you giggle at his response. You chatted a little until you both finished your gifts. You placed the little wrap back on your bag as a souvenir, and he put away the empty bottle to take to his room later as a souvenir as well. 

After that, the weekly art therapy sessions went great, and because of excitement and anxiety as well, Gator was always way early in the art therapy room, sitting on a stool there waiting for you. Just like now.

“Who would imagine that you would become enthusiastic about art therapy, huh, Tillman?” teases Willow, chuckling while entering the room. Gator hears the steps coming from behind him, tilting his head back towards the sound.

“You don’t have anywhere better to be right now, Willow?” Gator says, a little grumpy, facing ahead of him. 

“You are grumpy as usual, so what is different now?” Willow chuckles, and Gator hears him pulling a stool to his side, and he mentally rolls his eyes back.

“Oh yeah, Ginger,” Willow chuckles in amusement, making Gator groan in annoyance, “that’s the reason you are here so early.”

Gator turns his head towards Willow, an immense scowl on his face, “Would you mind shutting that hell of a big mouth of yours at least once, Willow?”

“Years have passed, and you still have the dirtiest mouth in the world, huh, Gatorade,” you laugh while entering the room.

Gator snaps his head towards the source of your voice, his features softening instantly, a lop-sided smile even appearing.

“He is all tough just for the appearance, Low; he is a softie deep inside him,” you tease, and Gator hears you pulling a stool across him, his head tilted towards you all the time.

“I’m not a fucking softie!” he protests, getting a scowl again, making both of you and Willow laugh.

“How are we today, boys?” you say, and Gator can hear you taking things out of your bag and placing them over the table.

“Good, excited to celebrate Thanksgiving later,” Willow answers. “You are all dressed up today,” he teases you, making Gator curious as he tilts his head towards you. “Are you going out after work?”

You dismiss it, blushing, smiling, “nah, I’m just wearing those old brown pants and my orange sweater.” You glance to Gator to see his reaction, your heart swelling when you catch it.

His eyes go wide with realization, his mouth open from surprise. You are wearing the same clothes you were wearing the last time he saw you. His heart pounds hard and strong on his chest.

You smile to yourself, a little breathless when you add next, “but I need to wear the lab coat either way, so it’s just to feel nice.”

“We will have a Thanksgiving party later here,” Gator says too quickly, his voice a pitch high from the excitement. “You can stay over,” he chuckles weakly, “since you don’t have anywhere better to go.”

“I would love to,” you smile widely at him, and he knows it just by the way your voice sounds, “thanks for the invitation.”

“Are you going to pass the weekend with your parents?” asks Willow to you, trying to hide the proud smile towards Gator from growing, “it must be a ride to be there.”

You chuckle nervously, grabbing the bottle of Gatorade from your bag to give it to Gator, placing it in front of him. He feels the vibration, smiling gratefully at you while grabbing it, placing your brownie where the bottle was.

You melt at it, like every time for the past weeks. You grab it and start to unwrap it as you answer Willow, “No, I’m huh,” you chuckle humorlessly again, “I don’t have a relationship with my parents.”

“What?” Gator is shocked, the bottle halfway to his mouth. “Things got shitty like that?” he asks sadly, concerned.

“Yeah,” you chuckle nervously, “we had a big fight when I went to college, and it was the last straw for me.” You take a deep, painful breath.

“So when you were in town…?”

“I was visiting friends,” you smile sadly, “or sometimes visiting some member of my family, but never because of my parents.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that-” Willow begins, but you cut right away, dismissing it with a forced smile.

“Nah, don’t be,” you chuckle. Gator notices the nervousness and sadness on your voice, fighting his instincts to offer his hand to you, “I always had a strange relationship with them, and as the years were passing, I became more aware of the shit they put me through, and when I went to college I just cut relation,” you shrug, taking a bite of the brownie, “I feel sad for not having parent figures, but never for not having them around.”

Gator can’t see you anymore, but he recognizes the same signals you always gave since you were young about how you were feeling. So now? He still can notice how your voice goes to a lower volume when talking about it, like you are trying to make yourself small.

“Have you eaten the brownie already, Ginger?” so he chooses to change the subject, taking a sip from his Gatorade, smiling as widely as he can to distract you, “taste it with the Gatorade after; cherry and chocolate work together.”

“Ugh,” you cackle, wrinkling your nose with disgust at the idea, “are you serious? This doesn't sound good at all.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he laughs, extending the drink to you, “give it a chance; I’ll give you double next week if you don’t like it,” he extends his other hand with his pinkie to you, “promise.”

You smile at it. You used to pinkie promise over anything when you were kids, and seeing Gator bringing this tradition back swells your heart. With the brownie in hand, you lace your pinkies, and with the other hand you grab the bottle from his.

“For fucks sakes, Tillman,” you murmur while laughing, making him laugh. You take a bite from the brownie, already lifting the bottle to your mouth. “If I throw up, I don’t fucking care if you are blind or not; you will wipe this floor.”

“Guess you are not the only one with a dirty mouth here, huh?” Willow teases Gator, laughing along with him. 

“She got it from me.” You roll your eyes at Willow but with no heat in it, and push Gator playfully by his shoulder, making him cackle even more. 

Then you drink it. Yeah, Gatorade is not your thing, but it’s not horrible either; you are making a funny face between disgust and curiosity when Gator speaks again. “You are doing that face, don’t you?” he chuckles beamingly, “you are too quiet.”

“What face?” Willow looks confused from Gator to you while you give the bottle back to Gator.

“The exact one I’m doing,” and that makes Gator cackle even more, “fuck Gator, this is not the worst thing ever, but fuck, seems like I’m vaping .”

“Ooooh,” Gator realizes, laughing still, “so that’s probably the reason I might like it.”

“Oh, it totally is,” you laugh, finishing your brownie when other inmates start to come to the session.

“Well, I guess this is my lead,” Willow smiles at you and pats Gator’s shoulder, “good art therapy for you two, see you later.”

You both farewell Willow, and you place yourself across from Gator while he finishes his drink and you wipe your hands on the lab coat that you are putting it on.

The session goes well. Gator is still learning how to mold the clay the way he wants to; it’s taking a while, but progress is noticeable. You take your notes about your patients, and your eyes always end up landing on him, over and over.

You keep blaming yourself for the feelings blooming stronger in your heart, and you want to believe you are managing it well. But in reality? You are not so nonchalant as you think you are.

Willow already noticed how you two are around one another, but since he understands the dilemma you are going through, he keeps his thoughts to himself.

But when it is about Gator… He teases him frequently, and this is what he is doing while both of them are in the common area, having a gathering for the Thanksgiving celebration at the facility after the session, waiting for you.

“I knew you were going to ask her to come,” Willow giggles, nudging Gator’s ribs, the latter groaning in annoyance, “you are so obvious, Tillman.”

“I’m not obvious for shit, Low,” protests Gator, eating turkey from a plastic plate, leaning back against a wall beside Willow, his cane by his side. “I just like her a lot, always have and always will.”

Gator tilts his head in different directions every couple of seconds, trying to hear your steps or your voice when you will finally show up. And of course Willow notices it, laughing to himself.

Willow is drinking absently, scanning the faces around the common area when he sees you coming from afar. He grins to himself and turns to look at Gator, watching when he will notice you are here.

Oblivious about being his subject of study, Gator sharpens his hearing, and just a couple of seconds later, he stays still, his ear tilted towards your direction, capturing steps he recognizes as yours.

Since he was younger, Gator learned to discriminate footsteps as a way to get ready for upcoming trouble. So, because of that, he not only learned the dangerous ones, but also the ones that calmed down his nervous system.

So despite himself, Gator is grinning like an idiot when he hears you approaching. You are still very far, but even after 15 years, he can’t forget the footsteps that calm him the most.

He straightens his posture, his whole body facing towards you while you greet some of your patients there, some staff, with the expectation of encountering you again.

Gator hears you getting closer, and by the direction of your voice, you are close to the table with the food over it. You giggle because of something one of the nurses says to you. Gator can’t hear what it was, but his heart warms and his face softens just by hearing your laugh, something that he really missed and always lit up his day.

“You are not so nonchalant as you think you are,” whispers Willow, leaning towards Gator, laughing just after, “you are aware of that, right?”

Gator sighs in annoyance, “Shut up,” groans in frustration, but his expression melts just after when he hears you approaching them, making Willow roll his eyes with no heat in it, drinking from his cup.

“Hello again, boys,” you greet both of them, but your attention is mostly towards Gator. “Thanks for inviting me,” you say to him, “I didn't know here in the facility festivities like that were celebrated.”

You two were always touchy with one another back in the day, and mostly because he can’t see you now, you sense the urge to be even more present physically. So for that, you stay up with your feet apart just enough to your tiptoe to touch his, making you present there.

Gator notices your move while you thank him, his heart racing a little while some butterflies fly around his stomach, something he doesn't recall feeling for… 15 years, coincidentally?

“Huh,” he chuckles nervously, shifting the weight on his feet, fixing his glasses that are perfect on his face with his free hand. Willow chuckles into his cup, looking away to give his friend/patient some privacy. “Yeah, it was something a shrink suggested some years ago before I got here.”

“It was a shrink and a social worker, actually,” adds Willow. “I knew them; they were incredible professionals and did an amazing job here with the inmates,” he smiles proudly, “Here is the best special needs unit in the country because of them.”

“That’s why, Lorraine, because of Dot,” Gator smiles fondly just by recalling, “made everything into her hands to put me here. No other facility offers the therapies that are here.”

“Oh, that’s incredible,” you smile widely from Willow to Gator, “I was aware of its excellence when I was looking for a job in a facility, but I didn't know the history behind it.”

“It’s a five-star facility basically,” Gator jokes, making you giggle lightly. Willow excuses himself and goes to talk to another of his patients, leaving you two alone.

When Gator notices Willow is really gone, his head tilted slightly in his direction, he exchanges his focus back to you, a big smile on his lips.

“Seriously, Ginger, thanks for coming; I was afraid you would not show up,” confesses Gator, chuckling shyly.

“Why wouldn't I show up?” you chuckle, confused.

Gator shrugs, chuckling nervously, shifting the weight on his feet, but not stopping from touching your feet; he could never let go of your touch like that. “Dunno, hanging out with some delinquent is not something I have ever imagined you would be up to do.”

Your heart aches with his self-deprecating. Fuck Roy for always having made him doubt himself, and for dragging him in a path where Gator considers himself a fucking delinquent, and nothing else.

“It’s because I’m not hanging out with a fucking delinquent,” your tone is cold, almost angry, making the smile on Gator’s lips fade, “I’m hanging with Gator Tillman, my friend.”

Gator clenches his jaw, swallowing a lump in his throat, tilting his head down. He can’t seem to get used to you seeing him with such good eyes, even when you were kids.

“You did shit and are paying for it,” you say softly, flexing your hand and tucking it into the front pocket of your lab coat, preventing you from holding him. “Roy doesn't dictate you anymore.”

It’s like a punch in his guts. He presses his lips together, twisting his mouth. He switches weight on his feet again, feeling really uncomfortable with such truthful but also so unsettling words.

Willow comes back a second after, and you and Gator engage in a conversation that he is not totally paying attention to, too focused on his inner battle.

He can’t see himself the way you see him. He is an inmate, has a criminal record for the rest of his life with crimes that would get him arrested for the rest of his life if he wasn't disabled.

And you? You are a fucking incredible professional, who can get and be around anyone else; why would you choose him over all people? You are sunlight and fresh life, while he is darkness and a rotten piece of shit. You deserve so much better than someone like him.

Some time has passed, and it’s now Christmas week, and just like always, Gator is some considerable minutes earlier for the art therapy session. Always willing to spend more time with you, but now it’s more special, since he has a gift for you.

He has a package on the table in front of him while he is seated on the stool, leaning back. He plays with the wrapped plastic around the brownie in his hand. It’s a way to ease himself from the nervousness he is feeling.

After some short but torturous minutes, the back door of the room cracks open, and his face, which had been pointed at the brownie in his hand, snaps up towards the sound. And before the door is even shut, he hears you.

“Hey, Gatorade,” he can hear the smile in your voice, making himself grin, even with his nerves up. He straightens up his posture while he climbs off the stool. He grips the edge of the table to stabilize himself, and also to hold something tightly without smashing the brownie on his hand.

“Hello, Ginger,” he chuckles, a little nervous, adjusting the glasses on his face. He clears his throat while hearing you approaching and getting closer by every second. “I have something for you,” he senses the table until touching the present over the table. 

You chuckle, amused, and Gator hears you putting your bag at the usual stool, “I can see that,” and stopping just a couple of steps in front of him.

“But first, for you, as always,” he grins as confidently as he can, extending his hand with the brownie on it.

“And for you,” and you two exchange the little gifts, you grabbing the brownie and he the Gatorade from your hands. Your fingers brush, sending a jolt of electricity through your bodies, making both stomachs get chills.

Gator places the Gatorade on the table, putting a hand over the present and pushing towards you over it. He has a nervous, but mostly tender smile on his face. “Merry  Christmas,” he says your name fondly just after, “hope you like it.”

“Oh, Gate,” he can hear how soft your voice sounds. He hears a soft and low sound, like you are placing something over the table. It might be the brownie, he believes.

After it, he can hear you taking the package in your hands. “You didn’t need to,” you say, while he hears you unwrapping it carefully.

“But I wanted to,” he simply states. 

You look at him with such ache on your chest you think you might cry, so you look away, concentrating on opening the gift. Out of nervousness, Gator plays with the bottle that is now in his hands, spinning it against the table, his head tilted towards you, paying the closest attention possible to you.

When you finish unwrapping the present, you see it is a simple purple box. Gator speaks again when he no longer hears paper being unwrapped.

“I asked Dot to bring a beautiful box a couple of weeks ago,” he says quietly, pointing vaguely towards you, “and I did my best wrapping it,” he chuckles, adjusting his glasses again. “I, huh, I wanted to do it myself too.”

“And it got really great,” you turn your head to him, “thank you, Gator.” He can hear you smiling, your voice so soft that his heart aches.

But just after it, his heart starts to race when he hears you pulling the lid of the box open. You place it beside the box, and you stay silent.

Gator hears you moving and holding something in your hand. He can even hear your thumbs rubbing the fabric of the crochet piece of clothing.

“I made them a month ago,” he confesses quietly. “It’s winter, and it’s pretty cold here during this time,” he explains, squeezing the bottle a little tighter in his hand while he soothes himself over his thighs.

“It’s beautiful, Gate,” and he notices how awed your voice sounds, how he would even consider you are slightly breathless. He hears you moving while you add, “do you mind if I wear them during the sessions?” You turn to him, grabbing the second thing in the box.

“Not at all!” he answers too quickly, taking an embarrassed chuckle from him, and an amused chuckle from you. “I would love that, actually.”

“Good,” you chuckle weakly, taking a step closer to him, making him swallow a lump in his throat, “because I really loved them,” you confess with such awe that he practically melts with your confession, sighing in relief.

“Would you like to see how they are in me?”

Gator chuckles, confused, “I don’t know if you are aware of it, but I can’t see, Gin-”

“Not like this, you fool,” this takes an unbelieving, funny, and shocked laugh from him, “like this,” and you hold his free hand, placing it at the fabric around your neck.

Gator freezes at your move. Not from the suddenness of it, but from the intimacy of it. Slowly and carefully, really sensing it, he runs his finger of one hand, then later the other one that was previously in the bottle, along the scarf around your neck.

He senses the way the scarf turns around your neck and that its ends are on each side of your neck while the middle wraps around your neck. The fabric is soft; he made sure to get the softest one possible.

“Are you getting warm?” he asks quietly, afraid to scare this sacred and precious moment away, like he is in a dream.

“Totally,” you confess just as quietly, studying his face while he senses the scarf on you. You notice how careful his touch is, and how his hands are slightly trembling, and you wonder why, but don’t ask anything.

“And you remembered red is my favorite color,” you add just after, and you notice a smug but weak smile at the corner of his lips.

“How could I ever forget it?” his tone starts warm, but quickly turns teasingly. “You used to write in red in every fucking place you could touch,” he huckles, making you chuckle back.

“Can I, huh,” he chuckles nervously, clearing his throat, “can I see how the beanie is on you?”

“Only if you say if the scarf looks good on me,” you tease, slightly nervous like him.

“Any shit look good on you, Ginger,” he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the damn world, “I don’t need eyes to know it.”

And he doesn't need your words of approval to go up from your neck to your head. What is good. Because you are speechless with his statement, your heart pounding on your chest, too self-aware of the proximity and intimacy of this moment.

Even though Gator is some 15 centimeters taller than you, slightly hovering over you, his touch is feather-like. His head is tilted down while his hands slide from the scarf to your jaw.

Because of a lot of things he doesn’t even know how to start enumerating, he can’t trace the line of your jaw until your chin, even if he is aching so much to, so he just keeps going up from the sides of your face.

His fingertips run over your cheeks to your temple. The touch is so light that a shiver is sent down your spine. You have to shut your eyes to try to compose yourself. 

The last time you were intimate like this with him was when he was comforting you because you fought with your parents, and with the care and affection he always had for you, he had cupped your cheek to wipe the tears away from your face.

Gator is oblivious to your reaction to his touch, but he is really aware of his own. It’s been way over a decade since the last time he touched your face with such delicacy, or even at all. 

Your face has changed, of course; you are a grown woman now, but the softness of your skin remains the same, with a wrinkle or two at the corner of your eyes that must have appeared during these years apart.

He chuckles breathlessly when he thinks about how many times you must have laughed to have those fine lines, and his heart melts just by imagining you smiling widely, being happy, even without him.

“What?” you ask quietly, noticing the way he is smiling.

“Nothing,” he says, reaching the hem of the beanie around your head, the fabric just as soft and just as red as the one around your neck, “just appreciating my good work.”

You chuckle, his hands now rubbing all the extensions of the beanie. It’s squareish, forming corners, like little cat ears. He squeezes it playfully, making you two giggle.

Before letting you go, just because Gator is Gator, he shuffles your head, tucking the beanie more into your head, covering your eyes, making him laugh at the possible outcome of his action.

“You are an idiot, Gator Tillman,” you say while feeling defeated, hearing him laugh while you can't even see. You adjust the beanie properly on your head and see him folding by laughing. “It’s not even that funny, dickhead.”

“Oh, it totally is,” he wipes the tears from under his glasses, stopping the laugh little by little. “You probably did the same face you have always done when we were kids.”

“You jerk,” you laugh while walking away, making Gator furrow his eyebrows when he hears you stepping away. “Don’t make me regret getting a Christmas gift to you,” you joke.

You search into your bag, coming back after a while in front of him, “extend your hand.” You command, and he obeys, without any discussion, like always. Gator feels a thick and big piece of paper in his hands. When he holds it properly, sensing it, he identifies it as an envelope.

“Once you mentioned you have a CD player in your room, so I did something to you.”

Gator furrows his eyebrows together, his head tilted to you. There is volume inside the envelope, he notices. He opens it carefully not to rip it off since it's glued together. Without a lot of effort, he opens it, pulling a plastic square thing on his hand.

“I recorded your favorite songs you liked when we were kids,” you chuckle, and he notices you are the one nervous now, “and during these years we were apart, I saw you hearing some other songs as well,” you confess quietly, “and I put them in there too.”

Gator lifts his face from the CD in his hands to you. His heart aches with your confession about how you paid attention to him even though he pushed you away. Something that makes him a little surprised, because he thought he was the only one doing that.

“Merry Christmas, Gatorade… Hope you like it,” you smile quietly, and he hears you shifting the weight on your feet, and you rubbing some plastic on your fingers, which he assumes is from the brownie.

“I already love it,” he smiles at you slightly breathless, his heart swelling, “thank you, Ginger. This… was really sweet of you.”

“Thank you too,” you add just after, embarrassed, chuckling nervously, “now I’ll spend the rest of the winter warm.”

“And I’ll spend the rest of my time here with the best soundtrack,” he lifts the CD in front of his face, making you both giggle slightly.

“Oh, did you not see the card!”

“Card?” he asks, confused, coming back to the envelope in his hands, searching inside of it. “Oh, the card,” he chuckles when he pulls it out of it.

“You know I can’t quite read now, right?” he jokes, opening it.

“It’s in raised print,” you say, giggling proudly, “I made sure you got the message.” He hears the tone of tease in your tone, making him smile in suspicion.

Gator runs his fingers over the raised letters, doing the curves and corners of the letters, mumbling the letters and then the words being formed, laughing harder and in fake incredulity with each word coming to light.

“The worst soundtrack to the best dude,” he finishes, laughing amused, “I thought your taste in music would get better as you got older, Ginger,” he teases back, putting the card back in the envelope, “you know, the older, the wiser.”

“You are right, Gatorade,” you start, tease, “wiser, not tone deaf,” you laugh.

“Fuck you,” Gator says with no heat, laughing along with you.

But before you could do anything else, the front door of the session room opens, and the other inmates start to come inside. You both snap your heads in the direction of it, composing yourselves and putting the packages and present away.

You say a warm and heartfelt goodbye to Gator while he sits on his stool, opening the Gatorade and smiling to himself, rubbing the corners of the envelope with the CD back in, tucked in his front pocket. He smiles to himself with the most tender and loving feeling on his chest.

You come back to your place as well, placing the beautiful purple box in the stool with your bag beside it. You smile warmly to yourself as well, adjusting the scarf and beanie better on you when your eyes land on Gator. The way he's smiling, matching with yours, makes it really hard to concentrate on anything else but him.

But well, you have a job to do, so you clear your throat and do the greetings and instructions. However, even as the session progresses, you always keep glancing at him, just like you notice his head tilted slightly in your direction as well, making a beat from your heart skip every time you notice.

A couple of months have passed, and with that, the sessions continued and progressed. His sculpture is getting the shape of his liking, looking more like something that resembles a giraffe, but there are still around 6 months to come for this project to end.

Just like the art therapy sessions, the visitations with Dorothy go on as well, with the current one, Scotty being present as well.

“Gator!”

“Hey kiddo!” Gator chuckles, shortly out of breath from being crashed by Scotty, their arms wrapped around him. “Long time no see,” he says while ruffling their hair affectionately.

Scotty hug Gator for a little while, pulling away after and sitting in a chair beside Gator while Dorothy hugs him hello. “I got a lot of homework those last weeks,” confess Scotty sadly, “I’m sorry for not coming the other times. I tried to convince my mom, but she doesn't let me come.”

“Oh, that’s okay, kid,” smiles Gator towards Scotty, grabbing the edge of the chair and pulling closer to them, “school is way more important than this.”

“Dunno,” Scotty thinks a while before adding, “I’d rather come here and spend time with you than other things. You are way cooler!”

Scotty declares it like it’s simple, obvious. Dorothy smiles at them, then turns her attention to Gator.

Gator is blushing. Hard. He’s been seeing Scotty at least twice a month since he got arrested, and their relationship has grown since the beginning. 

But this? Admiration? Gator is not stupid; he always noticed the affection that Scotty get towards him had only grown, but being said bluntly like it? Like it’s just right? It makes Gator feel shy, uneasy.

Love is something that became foreign to him over the years. It is something he is trying to get used to again, but this always takes him out of his guard. Mostly when it comes to Scotty.

“You are right, baby,” adds Dot after a while when she realizes Gator is too speechless to say anything, chuckling to herself and looking back at Scotty, “Gator is indeed way cooler than homework,” and this takes a breathless but legit chuckle from him, “but you have responsibilities.”

“And you doing your responsibilities makes you just or even cooler than me,” Gator adds, smiling boyishly, “or you think I fart around?” This takes a light laugh from Scotty, encouraging him.

“I need to do a lot of shit arou-”

“Language!” Dorothy cuts him off, making him and Scotty laugh.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, rephrasing, “I need to do a lot of things…” he punctuates the change, tilting his head towards Dot, making her shake her head, smiling, thinking how silly he is, “here to get out of here soon. Remember the sweater I gave you two years ago? I learned how to do it here.”

“And he does sculptures now too,” Dot says teasingly, wiggling her eyebrows. Scotty look from her to Gator, their eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Why is she smiling funny like that?” they ask Gator, who blushes even more.

“Do you remember that girl I told you he was friends with when he was younger, when me and him lived together?” Dot turns to Scotty, who nod. Gator rubs his forehead in frustration, “She is his art therapist now.”

“Oh, that’s cool!” Scotty turn to Gator, and he can hear the smile in their tone, making himself smile despite himself. “You have your friend back now!”

“Yeah,” Gator starts quietly, a warm smile spreading on his face, his chest aching from affection towards you, his head tilted towards Scotty, “I have my friend back.”

“But maybe she is not just a friend…” teases Dot. Scotty snap their head to her, opening their mouth in surprise, then back at Gator. They are smiling widely when they speak again, excitedly.

“Do you like her?”

“Yeah, but not like that!” Gator exclaims defensively, his tone pitched a little high, blushing hard

“So why are you blushing like that?” interrogate Scotty, crossing their arms over their chest. Gator can hear by their moves and the tone of their voice that they won’t let it go easily.

“Because you are accusing me of something that is not true!” he stays defensive, blushing even more. “She is just a friend, my best friend that happens to feel like home, okay? Jesus…”

“You like heeeer, you like heeer,” Scotty teases, humming.

“Scotty, sweetie,” Dot chuckles while calling their attention, “if we keep teasing him, he is not going to trust us anymore to talk about her, okay?”

“Oh,” adds Gator, chuckling, faking betrayal, “so you are just nice to me to get gossip?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” she jokes while laughing, making them both laugh, “but I want you to feel comfortable around us too, so it’s a double win,” she chuckles warmly.

“I always forget how smart you are,” Gator laughs, pointing at Dot.

“Sooooo Gator,” start Scotty again, making Gator sigh, tuning to them with a fake annoyed expression on his face, “how is she like? I think you never told me about her.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles in realization, “I think I’ve never… So, well…” he chuckles a little nervous, bending over the table, elbows resting there, “we went apart for around 15 yea-”

“Why?”

Gator chuckles humorlessly, “because I’m an idiot.” Dot chuckles against her hand, muffling her laugh, making the smile on his face grow. “But life saw me as someone who deserved a second chance - twice, apparently - and she is now in my life again.” He takes a deep breath, so light and enamored that it’s impossible to deny it.

“She is the funniest,” he starts again, a little breathless, “the light of the room; she always calls out my bulshi- sorry,” Dot chuckles along with Scotty, “she is really good at her job, and so gentle and kind…”

Gator gets lost in his own memories of you from when you were kids, but also your voice nowadays keeps playing on his head, “she has the most beautiful smile I’ve ever heard too, and she is so thoughtful, so caring…”

“You love her,” begin Scotty, “you know that, tight?”

“Yeah!” Gator starts defensively, a pitch higher, “but like I said, not like that.”

“Totally,” Scotty don’t buy it at all, “you keep saying that like it would change the fact that you love her.”

“This kid got your mouth, you know that, right?” Gator turns to Dorothy, a little scowl on his face, then turning to Scotty, “For someone who thought I was cool, you are being a pain in the ass.”

“Just admit it, and I'll stop,” say Scotty defiantly, challenging Gator, leaning back in the chair and crossing their arms over their chest.

Gator just groans, leaning back as well, crossing his arms, a big scowl now on his face.

“Wow,” Dot says after a while, laughing, “we have two kids on this table, it seems.” Gator does a funny mock face, mimicking her, which just makes her laugh.

“So, since I'm the only grown-up here,” Gator does the face again, “let me tell you some good news!” She starts beamingly, grinning, “Seems like we got your appeal, Gator!”

Gator freezes for a second, then slowly turns his head towards the sound of her voice. His eyes widen in shock, his mouth opens in a little o. “What?” He says lowly, as if he is scared he might wake up from a dream.

“Seems like you will be free earlier than 10 years! It's not completely sure yet, but Lorraine told me it's 90% sure, just need paperwork from the facility about your activities and some signatures and stuff.”

“Jesus Christ, Dorothy…” starts Gator quietly, his hands trembling, his breath speeding, “are you for real?”

“We don't have anything official yet,” she adds, “not even a date yet, but yeah…” she chuckles warmly, “it's going well and promising, and I hope we will have good news really soon.”

“Oh Lord,” says a breathless Gator, but slowly he becomes energetic. His smile starts to spread while he runs his hands over his hair, his breath still heavy. “I’ll be out of here soon…” It’s still so foreign the idea that he speaks lowly, afraid to wake up.

“Yeah, you will!” agree Scotty while they jump on Gator, making him short of breath but laughing just after, wrapping the kid with his arms, while tears start to accumulate on his waterline.

Dot watches the scene with so much warmth, and care, and affection that she thinks her heart might explode by seeing this sweet boy who was encountered by loss at such a young age, who was introduced to violence and corruption, but is now graced to have met love again, getting a beginning to a new start.

You and Gator are chatting, as always, when the rest of your patients enter the session room for the day. You greet them with a hello and farewell Gator with a sweet goodbye while finishing your brownie.

You walk to the stool where your bag is and place the plastic wrapped around the brownie inside of it, still chewing the last bite of it when you talk to the inmates, covering your mouth. This makes Gator smile, a mix of smugness and happiness.

“I would like to add something new to our meeting today,” you announce while swallowing, and Gator hears you taking something out of your bag.

He hears you stepping away, somewhere close to the table by the wall on his left, your voice getting distant with the steps you take, “I was running through my stuff yesterday, and I found this: an old CD of mine I did when I was in middle school.”

Gator hears the smile in your tone, tilting his head towards you to hear you better. He furrows his eyes in concentration, thinking if it’s the CD he thinks it is. He hears you opening the tray of the CD player. He hears you putting the CD in and shutting it, then pressing a button, and shortly after ‘Complicated’ by Avril Lavigne starts to play.

Gator chuckles to himself with shock, leaning back on his stool, rubbing his chin while a grin appears on his face. It’s the same fucking CD you recorded with him one afternoon after school while you were hanging in his bedroom.

“Hope you enjoy the soundtrack of the day, boys.” Gator hears the smile on your face getting wider, his own smile growing big as well. “Now go grab your bowls, fill them with water and all the usual stuff,” he hears you sitting at the stool, flipping through your notebook.

Gator waits for everyone to get their stuff, as usual, and then, heading to the table at the wall, he says over his shoulder to you, “Can I change the song, doc?” You can’t see, but he has a proud smile on his face.

“Oh!” you say apologetically, “of course, Gator, you can change it if you don't li-”

But before you could finish your sentence, Gator is pressing the skip button over and over again. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. When you are about to ask what he is doing and why he is not listening to the songs before skipping, the intro from ‘Cherry Pie’ by Warrant starts to play.

You chuckle in amusement, surprised, a little short of breath even. He turns his head to you with a smug smile, “being years since I heard that one,” he states while grabbing his bowl to fill with water.

You look at him with incredulity, but also in awe. He… remembers? This is your favorite song back in the day, and still is one of your favorites. And he not only remember it, but also remembered which track it was in that CD.

You have to make a lot of effort to take your eyes off him. But either way, your heart is pounding loudly, and with butterflies all over your stomach. 

You smile and chuckle to yourself during the whole session, glancing up at him constantly, noticing how his hands work around the sculpture. They are wet and with dry clay around his fingers, molding the piece in front of him into something you are a little suspicious about, but not totally sure.

You notice how delicate the movements of his hands have become even more since the beginning of the sessions. He was already good with delicate handcrafts since the previous art therapy sessions he had, and paying attention to his hands molding and being so smooth around the clay does something funny to your core.

You blush hard with the realization of the filthy thoughts you are having. You shake your head as quickly as possible to shut those thoughts down, even though they have been present fairly enough since the first day you met him again.

There are still 20 minutes before the art therapy session begins, but Gator is already heading to the room, using the guidance path along with his cane to get there.

Willow sees Gator from a distance, then starts walking in his direction, but he stops still far away when Gator opens the door to the art therapy room and sees you are already there, for some reason. 

Actually, he knows the reason why. He just smiles happily to himself, turning on his heels and heading somewhere else, leaving the two of you on your own.

“Hey!” you greet Gator when he opens the door, scaring him a little, making you both giggle just after, “I’m so sorry, Gate, didn’t want to scare you.”

“That’s okay,” he laughs, guiding himself into the room, heading to his stool. “What are you doing here so early?” his cane hits the stool’s leg, and he grabs its back.

“Because it’s your birthday!” you exclaim beamingly, a beat skipping on Gator’s heart by hearing the excitement in your voice, but also…

“Do you remember it?” he chuckles breathlessly, pulling the stool to sit on it, placing the little package with your brownie at the table while resting his cane beside him.

“Of course I remember,” you chuckle in disbelief, as if it's obvious. “Besides being 4th of July, I could never forget when your birthday is,” you chuckle while sliding a present box towards him over the table, placing the Gatorade on top of it. 

“Do you remember we joked about the fireworks being because of you?” you chuckle just by the memory of it. “You became cockier and cockier over the years because of it.”

“I still think they are for me, okay?” he chuckles, his eyebrows a little furrowed by the sound of something sliding over the table, something way heavier than a bottle of his favorite drink.

But before he could ask what it was, you speak first, “Open it.”

“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles playfully, making you blush but smile widely as well.

He senses the table until reaching the box, going up to the top and finding the bottle there. He grins widely, shaking it slightly in the air and placing at the table.

There is a ribbon bow on top of the present you got for him, which makes his smile soften. Gator pulls it carefully, and the flaps of the box open slightly. He finishes opening them, folding them to the outside. He starts to put a hand inside the box when you speak again, “Just be careful,” he freezes mid-air, a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“For fucks sakes, woman,” he teases, continuing his movements more carefully, “I’m blind, but I'm not a caveman, so this might be classified as discrimination.”

“Shut up before I take it back and change my mind.” Gator can hear the smile in your voice, a grin growing wider on his face.

When he touches the first thing inside the box, he feels something… smooth? He senses it better, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. “What the hell is that?” He pulls it out of the box, holding it with both hands, running his fingers around it carefully.

“It’s a succulent plant,” Gator hears the excitement in your voice, tilting his head towards your direction. “It represents resilience, the ability to overcome hard times,” your voice softens. “And also represents enduring love,” he notices you are a little nervous.

He chuckles a little smugly, but also fondly when he speaks again, “and I guess the resilience part is about my fucked up life,” his voice softens, “and the enduring love... Us?”

“You are not a dumbass after all, it seems,” you tease, laughing, himself laughing with incredulity. “And don’t worry, it is easy to take care of. You said once that a lot of sun enters your room; she just needs to be under it, and needs water only when the soil is dry.”

Gator nods, chuckling to himself, feeling as comfortable as he always felt around you. He places the plant beside the bottle on the table. “Noted,” he starts, running through the box again, “I’ll call her Desert then, because she needs just a little water,” he lifts a box from inside, this one smaller.

“So creative,” you joke while Gator turns the little box in his hand, opening it carefully, running his hands around the objects inside of it, hard plastic rubbing together.

“You gave me one of those on Christmas,” he smiles wide, turning his face to you.

“Yeah, but I didn’t make those,” he hears the smile in your voice. And when he does that confused face you always loved, you chuckle, “I bought them… You always wanted them, and when we were kids, you told me you would buy them when you lived on your ow-”

You don’t even have time to finish before he laughs in disbelief, shock, beamingly as well. “Are you fucking kidding me!” He stands up from the stool he was sitting on, stepping towards your voice, “Are they…?”

“Yeah,” you laugh brightly, “it’s ‘Bleach’, ‘Nevermind’ and ‘In Uterus’ from Nirva-”

You cackle when he wraps his arms around your middle, spinning you in the air. “For fucks sake, Ginger!” His laugh mixes with yours. You wrap your arms around his neck to hold yourself to keep balance.

When he puts you on the ground again, pulling back from you, Gator doesn’t notice, too excited with the CDs in his hands, running his fingers over them, but you are really close to each other.

It’s been a while since you were this close to him. You notice the fine lines between his eyebrows more closely, lines that deepened from the past years of all the stress and worry his job asked of him.

You also notice that the smile lines on him are way less deep than the ones between his eyebrows; this makes you a little sad, because you recall how strong they were when you were kids. You hardly saw Gator not smiling, and you were attached at the hip, so you spent a significant amount of time with him.

Your heart is pounding when your eyes fall to his lips, and you find that fucking stupid pretty smile of his that you always loved so much still has that silly light from his youth. 

You take a step back because you are his fucking art therapist, for fucks sake! You need to keep this fucking professional for at least until the end of your contract, more than four months to go. You can fucking do this!

“There are still things on the box, you know?” Your voice leaves huskily from your lips, so you clear your throat, “or I can take them bac-”

“NO! No, don’t take them back,” he takes a step back, sensing the table until reaching the box again, “I just zoned out,” he confesses, grinning, placing the CDs beside the previous gift, “what else do we have here?” he hums while running his hands inside the box, finding a Tupperware there.

Gator shakes it carefully, but doesn't recognize the sound. You notice his confused face, using all his skill in investigating and failing miserably. “Open it,” you suggest.

“You are bossy today,” he chuckles, a mischievous smile appearing at the corner of his mouth, “I like it.”

You blush hard and almost choke into the air. You feel the heat spreading from your neck through your face, and you do your best to cool yourself while he effortlessly opens the pot, the smell already hitting both of your noses. “I finally learned how to bake them,” you confess quietly, still too shaken by his tease, or whatever shit that was.

Unfortunately, he is too stunned by the smell of the oatmeal raisin cookies that hit his nostrils, tilting his head down to the pot. He reaches one of the cookies, bringing it to his mouth when you speak again, “With all due respect,” you start, receiving a raised eyebrow from Gator while he chews, making you chuckle, “they are disgusting.”

“What the hell?” he chuckles in disbelief, in fake, but not so much, offended, with the cookie still being chewed on his mouth. “You must be the one in jail, not me!” he chuckles slightly bitterly, but mostly playfully, taking another bite. “Your mouth is way dirtier than I thought.”

You laugh, finding the face he is making funny, holding the pot with the cookies like you would attack it. “Seems like they are good.”

“Yeah, they are,” he says it lighter now, smiling a little even, finishing to eat the current cookie, his mouth full of it still. You watch him, your heart getting warmer just by seeing him hum from contentment. 

His mother used to bake those, and you literally spent your whole life trying to recreate those cookies the exact way she used to do. And being able to achieve this on his birthday is something you are really proud of.

“Thank you, Ginger,” he starts, swallowing, placing the pot by the table as well. “Really,” he turns his face to you. “I’ll take good care of Desert while listening to Nirvana,” he chuckles boyishly, “but seriously,” he takes a step closer, willing to but afraid to reach for your hand, “I really loved it,” his smile fond, his heart aches, “the best birthday gift I’ve ever got.”

“For real?” he hears the smile in your voice, grinning in response.

“For real. I, huh” he chuckles nervously, fixing the glasses on his face, “I’ve missed your gifts through those years, you know?” he confesses quietly, “you are the best gift giver, so I really missed it, I, huh,” he chuckles nervously again, clearing his throat again, “I feel seen… every time you give me something.”

You melt with the confession, your heart aching, tightening your chest. All you want is to pull him into your arms and kiss him. But you can’t. So, for the sake of your mental health, you tease him, “Awn, prison AND therapy made you the softie I always knew you were, Gatorade.”

He groans in annoyance, but you see a smile slipping through the corner of his mouth. He shows his middle finger to you, making you cackle while he fights a grin, but is defeated just after, laughing with you as well.

Behind Gator, you both hear the front door opening and the inmates start to show up for the session. You chuckle, the laugh fading while you help him put the presents back in the box.

The art therapy session begins just a little later; the box is on the ground at the feet of Gator’s stool, his half-drunk Gatorade on top of it, molding the clay into something that resembles a giraffe, you notice, but you're not quite sure, while you eat the brownie, taking notes in your notebook.

Around a month later, Gator is seated at the table in the art therapy room way earlier than necessary for its beginning as he always is, but today it’s different. Well, not entirely true. He is waiting for you to chat, that’s for sure, but today is also your birthday.

Gator has a little present bag in his hands. He can’t sit still for too long. He gets up from the stool and bounces on his toes. Then he paces along the length of the table, one hand at the edge of it to guide him. He fixed his glasses on his face way more times than needed. He ran his hands over his hair way more times than necessary.

The only thing that could make him stop pacing around is you. And just a short period of time later, he snaps his head towards the back door. The sound of you entering the room is almost Pavlovian to him. His shoulders drop, a grin grows big on his face, and he sighs, relieved, while he places the present bag on the table.

“Good afternoon, birthday girl,” he turns his body totally towards you, his arms wide for you while he hears your steps getting closer and closer to him, along with his heart pounding on his chest.

You chuckle, and just by the sound of it, Gator knows your smile is as big as his. “Didn’t know you would remember.” Your heart is beating just as fast as his. You place your bag on the stool by your usual spot, your arms open to fit against him.

“I could never forget,” he confesses so sweetly that you melt against him, already in his embrace, your hum of contentment reverberating against his chest. You hug him by his middle, while he holds you over your shoulders.

You press yourself against his chest, his arms around you pulling you closer. You shut your eyes, intoxicated by his perfume; it’s still woody, and it’s always been since you can remember it. He smells like home.

Gator cradles the back of your neck, rubbing your scalp with such affection that your heart aches. You fist the fabric of his shirt tighter, making him press your bodies together even more. Both of you relax on each other’s arms. A place that was always home, and continues to be even with those long years being apart.

Gator has his temple pressed against the top of your head, his face tilted slightly towards you, trying to not make so obvious that he is trying to smell your hair. You smell like vanilla, and he smiles to himself when your scent hits his nostril. The familiarity of it always makes him dizzy for some reason.

You could die in his arms, that’s for sure. But you are at work, and he is your patient. You can’t stay like this with him at all, but for some reason you continue to stay in that ambiguous line of professionalism and throwing your ethics in the air.

So, reluctantly, you pull away after a while. Your head is already spinning, and then you find resistance from his part, his embrace lingering a second longer until pulling back too. You try your best not to think much of it, but fail miserably.

“I brought you something,” Gator’s voice is croaky, forcing him to clear his throat, giving you the little present bag, taking it from the table.

“Awn, Gate,” you coo, making Gator melt with the sweetness of your voice, “you didn’t need to do that,” he hears you placing the bag back on the table, opening it.

“I know,” he chuckles nervously, leaning his side against the table, trying to act cool, even crossing his arms over his chest, “but I wanted to.”

You glance at him while a grin grows on your face. And you do such a painful face just by looking at him, turning your attention back to him for a few more seconds. Fuck, he always looked so charming, dangerously charming leaning like that.

You shake your head, cursing yourself in your mind, focusing on the bag again. You laugh when you see two brownies on top of a little box. “You are generous today, it seems,” you joke, and he hears you taking them out of the bag, putting them aside.

“Don’t let this go up your head,” he teases, chuckling too. “One is mine, and the other is Dot’s,” his tone softens. “She said she wanted to give you something, but didn’t know what exactly, so she went with the safest option.”

You smile tender to the brownies, then back to Gator, “Thanks her for me, please? If I bump into her someday, I’ll thank her myself too.”

“Of course,” he smiles fondly as well. You shake your head again, focusing on the bag again. You pull the little box inside of it out. It’s ornamented, but it’s noticable its handcrafted.

Gator notices your silence, and he deduces you are examining the little box. “I made it too,” he adds quietly, “Dot just bought the box. I painted and all.”

“Too?” you repeat, a little breath taken. The box is beautiful, and no one can deny how much attention Gator gave to it. It is brown and has yellow beads glued to it, perfectly aligned to the edges of the little box. There is also a red fingerprint on one side of the box. You smile to yourself, because it must be Gator’s, and having a little piece of him like that makes butterflies fly on your stomach.

When you open the box, Gator tenses. You fall into even more silence after, and he tries his best not to freak out, using all the tools he learned with years of therapy since he got to the facility.

“I made them,” he clears his throat, his voice quiet. He pulls the sleeves of his long shirt up, showing a peyote stitch bracelet on his wrist, with dark green and black beads interleaved.

You lift a similar one from the little box, but the beads are red and orange. You look from yours to his, your heart beating fast against your ribs.

“It’s beautiful, Gatorade,” your voice is quiet, in awe. Gator sighs with quiet relief. He hears you moving, and by the sound, you are sliding your hands into the bracelet, putting it on your wrist as well. “Did you learn to bead here too?”

“Not exactly,” he chuckles, pulling both of his sleeves up to his elbows now, “I do crochet, as you know,” he points vaguely at you, you both chuckling, “and I was used to seeing you beading all the time, so I was already familiar with it.”

You giggle, but not from the story, but from the present. It fits you perfectly. You think if there is a correlation between him always holding you by your wrist at least once a day and this perfect fit, but for the sake of your sanity, you don’t pay too much attention to it.

“I still have our first one…” you confess quietly. “Do you mind if I ask what happened to yours?”

Gator chuckles humorlessly, a little sadly even. “Roy ripped off just a few days after me and you…” He hesitates, “You know,” he sounds embarrassed, but swallows it quickly and continues just after, “he was mad and all that shit. I cried over it for a week,” he chuckles sadly, remembering how heartbroken he felt.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Gate…” you coo, but you are shortly cut off.

“Don’t worry,” he dismisses it, not wanting to come back to that day, to that fucking week. “I kept the beads,” he smiles more warmly, but still a little down, “maybe someday you can redo it for me.”

I kept the beads. Your heart skips a beat. He still has the beads from a bracelet you made for him almost 20 years ago. “Yeah,” you chuckle breathlessly, “maybe.”

“Did you see the other present?” he asks quietly, smiling lop-sided. “It’s in the little box too.”

You were so amused by the bracelet that you didn't even notice another gift for you in there. You look back at the little box you placed on the table and, indeed, there is another present there.

Gator hears you pulling the gift out of the box, the beads rubbing the inside of it. He hears your breath catching for a second, and a proud smile surges on his face.

“Gator…” you can't even finish your sentence. It’s a necklace, beaded by him as well, you assume. Well, it’s actually a choker, a clasp to close it around your neck. The beads are brown, a possible match for the bracelet if you want to.

“Willow helped me with the colors,” he adds, a little smug by the effect of the presents to you, “and to put this stupid small clasp too.”

You chuckle, but it’s breathless. You are in awe, amused. You turn your face to him, swallowing dryly. “Could you put it on me?” It’s quiet, a little scared even.

“Yeah,” his voice is just as quiet as yours, “of course,” just a little huskier. He pulls himself from the table, his hand outstretched to you, and you place the choker on top of it. 

You turn your back to him. Both your hearts are pounding strongly on your chests. He passes the necklace to the front of you, holding the other end of it, and the beads touch your neck. You hold your breath when his fingers brush the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to calm yourself. But the step closer he gives, and his hot breath hitting the back of your neck, doesn't do much to help.

You are too focused on your own emotions, so you don’t notice how nervous he is as well. He fails to clasp the choker more than once, his hands too shaky to do it correctly.

This proximity, this intimacy always made him dizzy. Even when you were younger. But back there he didn't feel this insecure, this unsure around you. You are still home. Comfort. Peace. What changed then? Self-consciousness? Probably.

“Here,” he speaks just a little above a whisper, “done.” He takes a step back while you turn towards him, and you watch his expression. He seems just as shaken as you… No, no. Your mind is just too fogged to think straight.

“They are really beautiful, Gate,” you thank him fondly. “Both are my favorites now,” he can hear your grin getting bigger, smiling along with you. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Glad you liked it,” and before any more interactions, the other inmates enter the room for the art therapy session of the day. 

You two do your farewells. You grab the box, bag, and brownies and step away from him, and when he sits on his stool again, gripping the edge of the table to balance, his fingers hit something. When he grabs the thing properly, he smiles boyishly. His Gatorade. Even on your birthday, you are giving him a gift? But, c’mon, how could you not? Gator just aren't aware of it.

Gator is leaning back in the chair in the visiting hall, manspreading, the cane between his legs. He plays with the end of it, his mind far away, thinking about anything in particular. Just another visit day. Right?

His head snaps up when he hears Dot’s voice from shortly afar, probably thanking a guard for letting her in, or some shit like that. Gator hears her steps, and how fast she seems to get to him. He is standing up to greet her, but before he could straighten up properly, she has her arms around him.

Gator laughs breathlessly at the impact, holding her by instinct for now, and before he could ask anything, she pulls back just as fast as she crashed into him. “We have a date set!”

“What?” Gator chuckles with such confusion, his eyebrows furrowed together, dizzy with all those things happening all at once. “A date set for what?”

“For your release!” She does little jumps from excitement, giggling beamingly, “You will spend Thanksgiving with us!”

“What?” Now he is breathless; he can even swear his blood pressure dropped. His voice leaves his lips with such pain and disbelief, still unable to comprehend what is happening.

Needing to get his balance, he drops his cane he was holding to the floor and grabs the edge of the table in front of him. His grip on it is so tight that his knuckles turn white. He turns his face to Dot, “are you serious, Dot?” his voice cracks, his lips slightly parted. “I’m going out of here in less than three months?”

“I’m dead serious, sweetie,” she cups his cheek, wiping tears falling from behind his glasses. “Just in a few months you will be a free man again, Gator,” he sobs quietly against her hand, her face tilted towards her touch, “no more prison… no more Roy.”

And this is the last straw for him to break completely. Gator launches himself towards Dot, wrapping his arms around her, sobbing uncontrollably, and he turns that little kid again. And just like before, Dorothy holds him like an older sister holds her little brother.

“I’m getting out of here…” he sounds so little, so uncertain, so scared, as if he thinks he is dreaming and afraid to wake up. His sentence almost sounds like a question.

So Dot reassures him, “Yes, you are, sweet Gator. You are,” rubbing his head with affection and care.

“Can’t wait to tell her,” he confesses between his sobs, taking a fond smile from Dot.

“Well, boys,” you start, calling their attention while standing up from the stool you were sitting on, facing the inmates in front of you across the table and their beautiful sculptures in front of them. You smile at their achievement, and inevitably your eyes keep being drawn to Gator over and over.

“It’s been a long and incredible year that I spent here with you,” Gator can hear the smile in your voice, and his heart aches, grateful for this year. 

“I learned a lot from you all. I learned a lot about yourselves as well, your background, lessons that life has taught you,” you take a deep breath, chuckling with emotions. Your watery response doesn't go unnoticed by Gator, who gets emotional as well.

“And those beautiful sculptures you made,” you point to them, grinning so widely that your face hurts, “it’s a reminder from this journey of healing and self-knowledge. I really hope this year working together did good to you as it did to me.”

Some inmates complement your speech, adding the importance of this year to them, what they overcame and learned during this process. Consciously, Gator decides not to add to the conversation, spending his energy on holding the emotions that are close to overflowing. The lump on his throat represents the blessing of having you in his life again, but also the loss of you from next week.

But he shakes his head and sniffs hard, trying to remember that he will be free in less than a month; then he will be able to have you around more. Right?

“Oh! One last thing!” you chuckle, forcing Gator to come back to the present. “The sculptures are yours now, a souvenir to keep from this process,” you smile widely. “Well, that’s it! Thank you for this year, boys. Congratulations!”

Everyone claps, celebrating the end of this journey. Gator startles a little from the sudden noise, clapping just after. From across the table, he hears you giggling gently. He deduces it’s because of him. He tilts his head towards you, smiling warmly at you.

Around him, he hears the inmates around him pushing the stools and leaving the room while chatting. He stays on his seat, waiting for the crowd to exit completely. While waiting, he hears you walking around the table, pouring the water from the bowls in the sink.

When the only thing he can hear is you, he clears his throat and stands up, holding the edge of the table to keep balance. “Ginger?”

“Yeah, Gate?” you say over your shoulder, organizing the bowls at the table by the wall.

“Can you come here?” 

The nervousness in his tone calls your attention. You are already walking towards him when you speak again. “Yeah, of course.”

Gator chuckles at the softness in your voice, his shoulder dropping slightly. When your steps stop and he notices you are close, he speaks again. “First of all,” he chuckles nervously, fixing his perfect glasses on his face, “my memory is not that good, and I'm blind, so be aware of it.”

“Okay…” you chuckle, confused, but paying attention.

“Do you remember Miss Long Neck?”

He can’t see, but your eyes shine with the memory of your stuffed animal. “Of course I remember her; it’s a shame I lost her.”

Gator hums with content, and before you could answer back, he continues, “Stuffed baby giraffes are difficult to find, you know?” he chuckles, his hand sensing the table to grab the sculpture, pulling it closer to him.

“I never found one to give to you,” your heart swells with his confession, “so I made you one.”

You look stunned from Gator to the sculpture he is sliding towards you. It’s not perfect, but it is indeed a giraffe, a baby one. It even has a shorter ossicone. Your silence is broken by an amused chuckle that leaves your mouth. You hover the piece of art with your hand with hesitation, afraid to touch it, and break it, and upset Gator, and lose him again, and-

“It’s yours, Ginger,” Gator cuts your spiraling, forcing you to look at him. His tone is kind, tender. “Touch it. I made it for you.” And with that, he holds your wrist, smiling wider when he feels the bracelets he gave you there, and lands your hand over Miss Long Neck.

Your breath catches at the touch of his calloused hands on your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. But when you finally touch the giraffe, your heart aches and your eyes sting. He fucking remembers that silly stuffed baby giraffe you had when you were 10 years old, something from 20 years ago.

You remain speechless, not trusting your voice to say anything else. You run your fingers through the sculpture with such care, feeling the shape of his finger that stayed there. The beautiful and perfect imperfections. And the fucking shorter ossicone.

“I can’t believe you remember her,” you chuckle weakly, looking at Gator.

His features soften even more when he hears the emotion in your voice. He searches for your hand, seeking to comfort you. He is rubbing your knuckle when he speaks again.

“I still have my alligator in my room here,” he confesses, and you see the blush spreading on his face.

“No way!” you chuckle lightly now, making him smile. “You still have Leather?” you ask beamingly. “By the way, what a dark name to give to a fucking stuffed animal, Gator,” you laugh loudly.

He laughs just as carefree as you, holding your hand tighter. “Yours is Long Neck, not so original,” he squeezes your hand unconstincly, “but yeah, I still have him, but he is well hidden.”

“Yeah, because it would totally ruin your reputation of being tough, huh?” you tease, and you find yourself getting closer to him. When you realize, you shake your head and your smile fades, taking a step back again. But you refuse to let his hand go.

Gator notices some movement coming from you, but not being able to get it entirely, he undoes the furrow on his face and smiles back, “because I’m tough, it’s not just a reputation, darling.”

You can swear your heart skipped a beat and your blood pressure dropped. Darling? For fucks sake… The only thing you can do is chuckle nervously, letting go of his hand and keep it busy, holding the sculpture with both hands now. “I hope you don’t need to hide him for that long,” your voice leaves your lips a little shaky, making Gator confused, furrowing his eyebrows because of your reaction.

However, he shakes his head, focusing on telling you the big news. “Well, about that…” you turn to look at him again, finding him fighting a grin to spread on his face, “I’ll be discharged at the end of November.”

“WHAT?” you practically scream, startling him but also making him laugh. “Gator Tillman, are you serious right now?” Your voice cracks, “don’t fucking play with this.”

The emotion in your voice hits him like a punch, leaving him breathless and even dizzy. He needs to focus to answer you properly, “Dot told me last week,” his voice thick with emotions as well, “I’ll be free soon.”

“Oh my god,” you choke, and before he could process anything, you throw yourself into his arms, and he doesn't take more than a second to hold you back by your middle.

You wrap your arms around his neck, making him snuggle against the crook of your neck. You both cry into each other’s arms. He fists your lab coat as a lifeline, clinging to you, pressing you two as close as possible.

The cry you are sharing is not just about him being released from jail, but also some kind of promise. A promise to meet again out of this facility, in the real world. A promise to continue something that a bad decision in the past pulled apart.

“How are you feeling, bud?” asks Willow, one of Gator’s bags over his shoulder while his hand rests on his shoulder. Gator walks with the help of the guidance path with his cane.

“Nervous as shit,” Gator chuckles, indeed nervous, his voice shaky and a little emotional. Willow squeezes his shoulder in compassion, nudging his side. “Don’t forget the party next week, okay? Dot will kill me if you don’t show up.”

Willow chuckles, “I’ll be there, I promise.”

They pass the bars from the entrance of the facility to get to the reception, and Gator notices how Willow’s breath hitches; he also feels his grip around his shoulder getting tighter for a fraction of a second.

Gator turns his head towards Willow while he hears someone standing up, probably from some chair somewhere by his side, and when he is about to ask what happened…

“Hey, Gatorade.”

His head snaps towards your direction, his mouth opening in an o. Chocked, surprised. He chuckles waterly, dropping the bag over his shoulder on the floor by his feet, and walking with his cane towards you.

Faster than he thought, mostly because you walked towards him as well, your bodies crash. He drops his cane on the floor, being quickly picked up by Willow.

His hands are spread across your back, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. You hold him by his neck, his face buried at the crook of your neck, sobbing against it, tightening the grip around you.

The glasses get crooked on his face, and he quickly takes them off and tucks them into the front pockets of his pants, wrapping his arm around you again, pulling you even closer.

You cradle the back of his neck while you cry with him, his bigger body shaking against your smaller one.

“You are a free man now, Gator,” you say between your sobs, tightening the grip at the back of his neck. “You are free now.”

Gator cries harder, almost fusing you into his body. “Yes, I am,” he agrees between sobs, a mix of shock from your presence there and the relief and sense of freedom.

When you push away from each other, you two chuckle waterly. You wipe the tears from under his glasses, his hands holding your wrists, trying to ground himself, but also not wanting to let you go.

“Where is Dot?” his voice is waterly still.

“At home,” you state, just as emotional as him, “I talked to her and offered to pick you up.”

“Are you for real?” he chuckles, his voice thick with emotions, “you came here just to pick me up?”

“I don’t get the surprise,” you chuckle back, your eyes stinging, “I might not be your art therapist anymore, but it doesn't mean I don't have a bond with you,” you poke his nose playfully despite yourself, making him startle slightly and giggle just after, “besides, I thought we were best friends.”

“Fuck yeah we are!” he laughs while holding your middle and lifting you in the air, making you cackle. When he puts you on the floor again, his hands linger around your waist. “Come to the Lyons' Thanksgiving next week.”

“Are you for real?” you chuckle, amused.

“You and this fucking habit of questioning every fucking thing I tell you,” he laughs, “of course I’m for real, dumbass,” and he receives a punch on his shoulder from you, laughing louder. “This is harassment, you know?”

“Oh, shut up,” you laugh, making him laugh along with you. Fuck… He is fucked.

Willow looks at the two of you with the biggest and proudest smile on his face while signing Gator’s discharge papers; he can’t wait to see you two together next week.

Gator is chatting with Scotty by the couch in the living room when the doorbell rings. Gator snaps his head towards the sound, automatically standing up. He soothes himself by running his hands through his hair. Scotty chuckles from their place on the couch, looking at how nervous Gator is, knowing he would deny it if asked. While Gator pulls his collar and fixes his perfect glasses on his face, he hears Dorothy walking towards the front door, and when she opens it…

“Oh my god," Dot greets with such joy, "you two are so beautiful! Hello sweeties!”

You two? You and Willow came together? 

Gator’s heart begins to beat fast, and his mind starts to spiral. You and Willow? Yeah, of course you and Willow. How stupid of him to think that it would be different just because now that he is free-

"Hey, Gatorade,” he is brought back to the present when you hold your arms around his neck, greeting him with a caring hug. He was so out of reality that he didn't even hear you and Willow entering the house and going towards him.

Besides his brain full of insecurity, he hugs you tightly, painfully letting you go and greeting Willow just next. He is not mad at his friend; how could Gator be? Willow is great.

Gator hears you two greeting Scotty by his side, and he smiles despite himself, because seeing you all getting along means a lot to him. After doing the introductions, you four head to the kitchen.

You hold Gator's hand to guide him towards the new room. He holds your hand tightly, like a lifeline, trying to ignore the possibility of you holding Willow’s hand with your other hand.

In the kitchen, all the Lyons are there doing something for the upcoming dinner. You are introduced to all of the remaining members, and Gator unconsciously totally ignores that no one mentions you and Willow as being together, with Gator still spiraling on his own insecurity.

Later, you chat with Lorraine for a while while Gator talks with Willow, but his attention always drifts back to you. He hears Lorraine saying that he is going to work with her at the beginning of the next year.

Gator will train the new security guards she is about to hire. He was really good with tactical-related stuff, he hears Lorraine say to you, and he can’t help but smile proudly, his chest warming with recognition about his hard work as a deputy in the past.

Some hours later, while Gator is helping Scotty by the counter with some juice for the dinner that is being prepared, he hears you and Willow chatting a little afar from him. 

You are laughing along with him, and jealousy and even more insecurity spread inside of him just as hard as before. He can’t hear what you both are talking about, but just hearing you being carefree like this with Willow makes his heart ache and his eyes sting. 

However, beyond good sense, he is totally ignoring that you laugh even more when you are with him, that you are way more comfortable around him. You were like this at the facility, and now that you two don’t have some institutional shit between the two of you, you are even more yourself with him.

He takes a step back to escape from this nightmare, wanting to go to his room to put his head in place, but ends up stepping on Wayne with his back, who drops the plates he was holding while heading to the kitchen table. 

The loud sound of the ceramic shattering makes the room go quiet. Gator excuses himself, apologizing to Wayne. He sprints to his room down the hallway, stumbling against the wall because of the speed he is going. 

Everyone in the room exchanges looks, and you are even more confused about what happened. Your heart is racing; you excuse yourself too and follow Gator’s steps.

You walk quietly down the hallway, your ears sharpening, trying to hear any sound that might come from his room. When you get to his door, you knock gently against it. Knock knock.

“Gator?” you call him kindly, your ear close to the door, “It’s me… Can I come in?”

You wait around five seconds, but after waiting with no response back, you realize your question was hypothetical, because you are already turning the knob to enter his room. When you open it, slowly, trying your best not to scare him from where he might be, you see him sitting on the edge of his bed. 

His back is facing you. He is bending over his body, elbows on his knees, both of his hands intertwined at the back of his neck. You can even notice his body moving, and when you shut the door behind you and start walking slowly towards him, you see it’s his leg bouncing out of anxiety, probably.

“Gator?” you call him quietly again, but a little worried. When you reach the opposite side of the bed across from him, you stop, uncertain whether you should get closer or not, afraid to suffocate him. 

“Is everything okay? What happened?”

“It’s everything okay,” he uses your name, not Ginger, and this makes you a little suspicious, and you even notice his voice cracks. “Go back there,” he straightens up, taking his glasses off and wiping the tears aggressively from his face.

“That’s why you are crying, then? Because everything is okay?”

Gator scoffs bitterly, putting his glasses back on and tilting his head in your direction. His hands are on each side of his hips at the bed. “Don’t worry about me, I don’t want to steal you from Willow.”

You furrow your eyes at this sentence, confused as hell. You even take a couple of seconds to find the right words to say something back, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You were having so much fun together,” he says bitterly, even a little angry, the smile on his face not friendly at all, “don’t want to ruin it for you two.”

You scoff with disbelief, stepping closer, incredulous, “Are you seriously jealous, Gator?” You chuckle, shocked, “of Willow?” you say it like it’s the most stupid thing ever, something you can’t even comprehend as a possibility.

“I’m not jealous,” he chuckles back, trying to sound as convincing as possible, and failing miserably, “I just don’t want to ruin what you are building together.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You are so confused and starting to grow angry. “We were talking, Gator! I can’t talk with another friend of mine without you becoming all mean and insecure?”

Gator clenches his jaw, turning his face away from you, grabbing the sheets under his hands out of anger. “You are living a pretty good life without me around. And Willow is a fucking great guy. An amazing professional too…”

His tone is calmer, but you notice how much pain Gator is in just by the way he talks. “Don’t let me stop you from living a good life, Ginger,” his voice cracks. “I’ll be coming there soon. Go be with Willow.”

You can’t even comprehend what Gator is saying. When you are trying to make sense of all that nonsense of him, he speaks again, and your heart aches.

“Every time that I saw you during those years,” the pain is still audible in his voice as he speaks, “it was a mix of feelings,” he starts to confess, “It was mostly pain, but also relief, because you would be able to have a beautiful life where a shithead like me was not on your way.”

“Gate…” you say his name sweetly, but with pain as well, a lump in your throat.

“Don’t Gate me,” he says your name angrily, “please.” It’s painful, bitter. He stands up from the bed, walking away from you as he speaks, “I always was an asshole, since we were younger, so making you free of me was a blessing afterward.”

“A blessing?” you say angrily, incredulous, walking towards him, “Gator, you were always the light of my da-”

“Bullshit,” he says bitterly, but not because he really believes what he is saying, but because he can’t believe what you are saying.

“Bullshit?” you scoff, angrier. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me, Gator Tillman,” you confess, loud sobs appearing in your throat.

You start moving your arms with irritation as you continue, “I was left without ground when you told me to go away,” you get closer to him, “do you remember what you said to me that day?” you chuckle sarcastically. “You said-.”

“I said that you were being a pain in my ass and that you were annoying as hell,” he cuts you off, turning to your direction, saying as loud and angry as you, but with a bigger dose of regret and shame, “and that you should never go after me again,” his breath is shaky, just like his hands.

“Yeah, I remember it,” he spills it with so much shame from himself, “I remember every. single. fucking. word I told you that day,” he breathes a couple of times heavily while you stay speechless. 

“I repeated that fucking day over in over in my head for years, Ginger,” he cries angrily, “as a way to deal with the fact that I was always a piece of shit and that you deserved someone way better than me,” he chuckles sarcastically, hitting his chest angrily, “because I always knew that I didn't deserve you,” he confesses with so much pain that your head spins.

“You deserve someone like Willow,” he chuckles humorlessly, tears running down his face, “a fucking good guy, with a fuckling clean record, an ethical professional,” he sobs painfully, “just like you.”

“You-” he gasps, breathless, heartbroken, “you were always in my mind, Ginger,” he says painfully, “my mom, Dot, and you showed me what love looks and sounds like,” he cracks, “and I thought-” he gasps for air, sobbing, “I thought that losing them would mean that I would lose you too.” 

Gator sobs uncontrollably, tears running down his face uncontrollably, “and I would not be able to live if you left me as they did,” he feels dizzy, stepping back to the dresser behind him to support himself, “it was so selfish at first, but as the time passed, I saw the shit of a man I turned into.” 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, wiping his tears under his sunglasses. “And at the end of the day,” he sobs shakily, “even if I ended up mourning losing you,” he confesses, “you being away from me was the best thing I did to you.”

“Fuck you, Gator,” you say with your voice low, but full of hurt and anger. He snaps his head up toward you. “Fuck you!” you say louder, sobbing, pointing a finger at him, even though he can’t see it. 

“Best thing you did to me?” you scoff bitterly, poking your chest, walking towards him. “It was my worst nightmare coming true, Gator!” you scream at him, making him flinch, bumping into the dresser behind him.

“There wasn’t a day I didn't cry over you,” you poke his chest painfully, sobbing angrily, “there wasn’t a fucking day I didn’t think about you,” you confess sadly, pacing around, moving your hands vaguely energetically, “there wasn’t a fucking. single. day I didn't think about what I have done to you for you to hate me that much,” you run your hands through your hair.

You stop for a while, gripping the footboard of the bed in front of you, taking a deep breath to calm yourself, and pressing a hand to your forehead. “You were my fucking world, Gator,” you confess between painful whimpers, your voice lower. You turn to face him. “You were my everythi-” your voice cracks, unable to finish, sobbing uncontrollably.

You both stay silent for a while; only your heavy breaths can be heard, along with remaining sobs. Then you break the silence with something not much louder than a whisper: “I was planning to confess my feelings to you that week.”

“What?” Gator is breathless, shocked. He feels his chest aching, his head spinning.

You chuckle in disbelief, crying a little more and bitterly, leaning your side against the footboard, looking at him. “I loved you, Gator,” you confess with such sadness, “with my full heart,” you sob, looking away, unable to look at him.

“I really thought you liked me too,” you chuckle sadly, wiping away the tears. “But guess I was wrong, apparently,” you chuckle humorlessly.

“You were not wrong,” he says your name with the same painful tone as you, forcing you to look back at him. He takes a step forward, reluctantly, “I was just too stupid and scared to deal with it-”

“That’s okay, Gator,” you cut him off, looking away again, wiping the remaining tear, “it was a long time ago,” you dismiss, the pain is too much for you to bear now, “we were just kids,” you chuckle waterly, sadly, “it’s not like we feel the same now anyway…” it’s so painful to say it that it almost doesn’t leave your lips on how big this lie is.

“Tell for yourself, Ginger,” his face is marked with pain, a lump in his throat, “because I am as madly in love with you as I was when we were 15.”

You snap your head towards him, in shock, breathless. “What?”

“I never stopped loving you, Ginger,” he confesses with his full heart, “and since that first day you showed up in that fucking art therapy room,” he takes a shaky breath, “it was like those years apart never happened.”

You freeze, staring at him. Gator can’t see you, but he sees how the silence lands heavily, insecurity growing stronger inside of him. 

“Just forget about it, okay?” he chuckles, turning his body away, one hand on the dresser while the other fists his hair. “What the hell was I thinking?” he chuckles bitterly while talking to himself, “I was a fucking prisoner when we met again, what the hell was I thinking?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh c’mon Ginger!” he chuckles bitterly, snapping his head towards you, “You are fucking incredible,” he says breathless, in disbielef, “you went to college, have a stable job,” he counts on his fingers, “you are the nicest person I have ever met,” his voice cracks, “and the most beautiful soul ever,” he finishes breathless, “you are too much of a woman to me, Ginger,” he chuckles weakly, “you always was… That’s why you should be with Willow, not me.”

“Gator…” you say kindly, painfully.

“Please don't,” he chuckles sadly, extending his arm to you, his hand sighing you to stop, “I don’t need pity, I’m a grown ass fucking man and I-”

“Can you just shut the fuck up for once, Gator Tillman?” you cut him, frustration growing inside you. “God, you always think you have everything figured out, don’t you?” You chuckle in disbelief, slightly angry. “I could not care less about Willow, Gator! I don’t give a fuck about him!”

Gator stays speechless, his chest rising and falling, what you take as a clue to keep going, “I’m in love with you too, Gator. I never stopped loving you,” you take a deep shaken breath, trying not to sob again, “I would even say that falling more deeply in love with you this past year showed me that sweetness and kindness always fitted in you,” you add gentler, “it was just the world trying to corrupt you.”

“Don’t say that, Ginger,” he says, breathless, both hands gripping the edge of the dresses behind him, his back leaning back against it, “don’t say things like that unless you mean them, please.”

“I mean every single one of them, Gator,” you say, just as breathless as him.

“But why?” He pulls himself from the dresser, confused, but his voice is full of hope. “Why…” He tries to find the right words.

“Why do I love you?” you complete in disbelief. “As I said, you are the kindest person ever, Gatorade.” You both chuckle a little shyly and waterly. “You are a caregiver, always were,” Gator takes a shaky breath. “You always treated animals and children so well.”

“You were always so damn brave, Gatorade,” you say so fondly that he feels himself being pulled towards you, walking slowly towards you, “and even afraid, you always took initiative to do what you had to do.”

“You are extremely loyal as well,” Gator swallows dryly, taking another step towards you, being guided only by your voice. “You would die for the people you care for and love the most.” He takes another step forward, making you swallow dryly now.

“You may not always be good with words, but you were always a good listener,” you chuckle weakly when he takes another step towards you, only two apart, “and you always showed, at least with actions, when you cared and loved for someone. You would do anything to make the ones you love safe.”

Gator stops a step away from you, you both facing each other, both hearts hammering in your chests. “That’s why I love you, Gator,” you take a shaky breath, “that’s why I’ve always loved you,” you confess breathless, just a little above a whisper.

“Ginger,” he says so quietly. He extends his hand, hovering over your shoulder until he places his hand there. He slides his hand down your arm, and you feel goosebumps appearing where his fingers were.

Gator goes from your arm to your waist, his hand trembling as he holds you there. He takes a short step forward, pulling you closer, your chests meeting, your faces so close you can feel each other’s breath.

He lifts his other hand to your shoulder, and with his fingertips, he goes through your neck, making you shiver down your spine, up to your face, cupping your cheek, rubbing your cheekbone.

You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling shakily, and Gator senses you leaning into his touch. He presses your foreheads together, his thumb rubbing your waist as well.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, breathless against your lips, his hot breath hitting you.

“Please, don't,” you beg, and just after a painful whimper leaves his lips along with your name, he crashes his lips against yours.

Both of you groan at the back of your throats; his hand goes to your hair, gripping its roots, while his other hand wraps around your middle, pressing your chest against his.

Your hands go instinctively to his waist, fisting the fabric of his shirt and pressing your bodies together, trying to reduce any space left between the two of you.

You feel his glasses crooking in his face. “Stupid glasses,” he murmurs under his breath, pulling away from you just enough to take his glasses off and toss them at the bed behind you, coming back to kiss you even more eagerly, his hand cradling the back of your head.

Gator tilts your head to deepen the kiss, both of your lips opening to crash your tongues together. You whimper against each other's mouths. Not just from the desire of the moment, but from all these years. The years you loved one another when you were just friends, when you were just kids who knew nothing about love, only that what you couldn't get at home, you got when you were with each other.

This kiss is one full of wait and love being spilled from all the years of longing, and years apart because fear separated you from each other. You both pull back because you both startle when you hear a knock on the door, and it opens just after, “The dinner is ready, swee- oh!”

Dot smiles warmly by the door at the scene in front of her. Gator’s hand is still on your waist, holding you as if he is afraid of you disappearing, while his other hand runs through his hair, facing down. You have your back facing the door, your hands still fisting his shirt, trying to ground yourself.

Both of you are panting slightly, out of breath, cheeks flushed with puffy lips, and your hair is a little messy. “Thanks, Dot,” Gator says back with a husky voice, clearing his throat just next, “we’ll be down in a minute,” he smiles shyly.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” she smiles fondly at you two, “it was about time already,” she giggles, “I’ll let you be,” she closes the door, leaving you two alone again.

You laugh nervously, covering your mouth, being followed just after by Gator chuckling, “Perfect timing.”

“She always had this superpower,” he adds to your observation, laughing. He slides his hand up your waist to up your face, tucking your hair in your face behind your ear. 

He leans forward and kisses your forehead, lingering for a second before pulling back. “Now c’mon, I don’t want you to eat a cold dinner.”

When you both get to the kitchen, no one is looking at you with mischief, or giggling, or teasing. They are just existing.

Lorraine and Wayne glance at you, calling you to sit at the table, and the fact that they don’t have a reaction when they see your hands are intertwined makes you wonder that this, you and Gator, was inevitable, and it was just a matter of time indeed.

Scotty pull a chair by their side, calling you to sit there. You smile fondly and pull Gator to sit at your other side. Across from the table, Willow sits and smiles softly at you two, making your heart ache even more.

The dinner is comfortable, friendly, warm, really family-like. Something that neither you nor Gator are used to have, so living this, and with one another, means a lot to you two.

They ask about you, your job, your likes and dislikes, your college. And during all this, Gator can’t take his hand off of you. His hand rests on your thigh all dinner. It’s not possessive, not lustful. It’s actually grounding, natural. You intertwine your fingers with his at some point during the evening, rubbing the knuckles on his hands, and he seems unable to stop smiling like a fool for the rest of the night.

It wasn't what you had planned at all, but after dinner, you ended up agreeing on spending the night wth the Lyons. So you say goodbye to Willow, hugging him tightly by the front door.

“I’m really glad that you two stopped being fools and are together now,” he confesses into your ears, making you grin widely and blush hard. When he hugs Gator to farewell, he must have said something similar, because Gator is red as a pepper.

Since it is really late already, everyone says their goodnight and heads to their respective rooms. Dot lends you some of her clothes for you to use to sleep for the night, and when the house is quiet again, you find yourself at Gator’s room again.

“What did Willow tell you?” you chuckle, putting the clothes over the dresser.

Gator chuckles nervously, running a hand through his hair, sitting at the edge of the bed, facing you. “He, huh,” he clears his throat, “he told me to use protection.”

You choke with air, burning from embarrassment, while Gator laughs at your reaction. “He even gave me a condom,” he lifts it in the air, and you get even redder while you press your thighs together.

“And what you intend to do with it?” You don’t know where this boldness came from. Maybe from the heat that is spreading from your core up to your body. Gator freezes. His brain short-circuits, and you see him getting nervous and speechless. 

This. This makes you even wetter. It’s his shyness all of a sudden. His nervousness about being with you like that. And you know he wants this; a bulge growing in his pants doesn't hide it. And before you could make any funny comment about him stunned like that, he stands up slowly, a little unsure, and slowly walks towards you.

You are not so far apart, so in just a few steps he is close to you. With trembling hands, the condom no longer in view, he cages you against the dresser, one hand on each side of your hips.

His breath is a little uneven, and, a little worried, you rest your hands on his hips, squeezing them, trying to ground him. When you touch him, his head resting against yours, forehead with forehead.

“I don’t want this to be rushed, Ginger,” his voice leaves his lips a little husky, just above a whisper. His grip on the wardrobe tightens, his knuckles turning white.

“Me neither, Gate,” you confess, his shoulder dropping, and a sigh of relief leaving his lips. 

His hands leave the furniture and rest on your hips. “Good,” his voice is low, “because I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You won’t,” you reassure him quickly, your hands going up to his shoulder, nuzzling your nose to his. He laughs through his nose, nuzzling back.

Gator slides his hands up to your waist, caressing you through your shirt. “I’ve dreamed about having you like this for so many years” his voice is low, husky, “mine… Not only my best friend,” he swallows a lump, “but as my… as my girl.”

“So I’m your girl now, Gator Tillman?” you tease slightly, your fingers rubbing the hair at the back of his neck now.

“I would like you to, honestly,” he confesses, pulling away. He slides his hands up until it reaches your cheek, cupping it, rubbing your cheekbone.

You lean into his touch, watching his expressions, how soft his face is turning, how his smile is tender on his lips. He says your name sweetly, with so much affection that your chest aches. “Would you be my girlfriend?”

“Of course I would, Gator,” you answer just as sweet as he asked. His smile is so wide that it hurts, and without wasting any more time, he pulls you to a tender kiss, sealing this new stage of your relationship.

He holds you by your middle, his free arm pressing your body against his, and your back arches when he presses you against the dresser. You pull him closer, pulling him by his neck, deepening the kiss.

He tilts your head by holding your jaw, pressing his tongue against your lower lip. Your mouth parts for him, and your tongues crash; he hums content at the back of his throat.

Stepping back towards the bed, his hand goes to your hair, tangling at its roots. When the back of his knees hit the bed, he slowly turns you and carefully lays you on the bed, holding you by your middle, without breaking the kiss.

Letting go of your hair, he holds you and places you on his pillows. Your head rests against fluffiness, him hovering over you. One of his forearms rests beside your head, preventing him from pressing his whole weight on you. He kisses you with such passion, tongues together, no rush, just savoring one another.

His other hand is on your waist, his fingers spread at its curve, squeezing it every time you move beneath him. Your hands are on his shoulder, sliding slowly up to his hair. You tangle your fingers there when he starts dry humping you. You part your legs for him to settle better between them.

You feel how hard he is for you, and you both moan quietly and breathe heavily against each other, the kiss becoming more intense. His hand on your waist slides to your thigh, grabbing it and putting it around his waist. His hand stays there, his finger digging into your skin even over your pants. 

His thrusts are not rushed. They take their time. His hips roll against your core, applying pressure for a second, then rolling again. It’s intoxicating, addictive.

You spend quite a while like that, savoring each other, taking your time to memorise every single part of you. The shape of the lips. The responsiveness. The sounds you make. The way your touch feels. The taste you have.

“Gate?” you call him quietly between moans.

“Yeah?” he moans in response, pressing your foreheads together while rolling his hips against your core over and over again.

“Can I see you?” you ask quietly, and you see his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Your eyes,” you clarify. “Can I see them?”

His thrusts fail, and his breath catches. He pulls back, his hand on your thigh squeezing harder, but now from insecurity, fear.

“What? Why?” he asks, a little scared, and you cup his face with both your hands, and he shudders into your touch, leaning into it. His glasses crooked on his face.

“Because I want to see all of you,” you confess, and his breath hitches, leaning even more into your touch.

“It’s ugly, Ginger…” you see how embarrassed he feels, how his voice is low, just above a whisper.

“Nothing on you is ugly, Gator,” you caress his cheek, “you could never be ugly.”

“Ginger…” It’s painful, but you see the reluctance in his tone.

“Trust me, Gate. Do you trust me?” he nods too quickly, too eager. It’s not just him wanting to reassure his trust in you, but also his deep desire to be bare to you. Soul bare.

So you slowly and carefully let go of his face and hold the arms of his glasses. You notice how nervous he is, how much he is fighting his urge to pull away. You pull the glasses off his face completely, and without really thinking, he turns his head away from you.

You place them at the nightstand, and you hold his face, turning him to you. You cup both of his cheeks and rub his cheeks. You look at his eyes, how full of scars they are, and you can’t even imagine how much pain he must have gone through.

So, slowly, to not scare him away, you pull him down and press feather-like but tender kisses over each scar there. You can feel him shaking under your hands, how his breath is heavy, and how nervous he is.

“So beautiful,” you whisper against his lips, kissing him softly and gently, your hands tangling on his hair to pull him closer. He whimpers against your mouth, melting into your kiss. He was never called beautiful before. Not like that. Never like that.

You saw the worst part in him, and you still chose to call him beautiful? And it’s not just the scars and his blindness. It’s his past. The crimes he committed. The years he spent in prison. The way he pushed you away. Even after all that, you came back… Came back to him. Like he is worthy of getting love.

With trembling hands, he holds the hem of your blouse, and he hears you lifting your arms for him, and he pulls your blouse off slowly. He doesn't want to rush it at all.

When the blouse is in his hands, letting you shirtless and bare, he tosses it away somewhere and pulls himself up from the bed, his hands supporting his weight.

“Can I touch you?” his voice is fragile, scared, but so very respectful. “I can’t see you,” he swallows a lump in his throat, trying not to get too emotional, “but I can still feel you… Can I?” It’s like a plea, a blessing he is asking you to concede for him.

“Of course, Gate.” He whimpers with your permission, your voice as sweet as the sweetest candy. 

He starts slowly by your face, cupping your face, roaming the curve of your cheek, the shape of your ear, nose, lips. His touch is feather-like, reverent. You notice his eyebrows furrowed, how focused he seems to be, like he is trying to memorize you.

He runs his fingers through your jaw, your chin, then down your neck. He grins so widely when he feels the choker he gave you for Christmas resting against your neck, his heartbeat racing. He continues his journey; he learns the curve of you, how your neck connects with your shoulders, then your collarbone.

His hands slide down your arms, slowly, learning the thickness of them, how the texture of your elbow and inside of it is. When he gets to your wrist, he chuckles waterily when he feels the bracelet he gave to you as well.

He studies your fingers one by one from both hands, at the end lifting them to his lips, kissing each one of them with such reverence that you feel dizzy. "You are so gorgeous," he confesses just a little over a whisper, totally awed by you, breathless.

Gator kisses one of your arms up, taking his sweet time. He kisses and worships every single piece of you with open-mouthed kisses, leaving goosebumps behind. When he gets to your shoulder, he pulls himself up again, his hands now running down your chest.

His fingertips travel down through your cleavage. Goosebumps start to show on your body, your nipples getting hard from it. His breath hitches as well, his hands becoming slightly shaky too.

He slides down to your belly button, smiling to himself, until the waistband of your pants. He swallows hard at the idea of taking them off soon. He traces your hip bone, up to your waist, squeezing it lightly, making you both chuckle with expectation, but also from nervousness.

At your ribs, both of his hands rub them, one on each side. And slowly goes up, getting to the bottom curve of your breasts, and now it’s your breath that hitches.

He follows the curve of them until he gets to the top, going down towards your nipples. And he whines quietly when he finds them hard. He rubs them under his thumb lightly, and his head spins when he hears your little moans in response.

He feels your back arching for him, so with one hand he cups your breast, rubbing your nipple, and with the other he rests his forearm aside his face to be able to suck the other one. You moan sweetly when his wet mouth capsulates your hard nipple. His tongue circles it while he hums against you. Your hand goes to his hair, grounding yourself.

And he takes his sweet time, savoring you. After a couple of minutes, he switches, mouthing the other nipple, and with the previous one being wet now, the friction against it is even more delicious. You even hold his hair a little tighter, while gripping the sheets at the bed until your knuckles turn white.

He kisses you up slowly after a while. In your collarbone, he kisses it open-mouthed, your fingers rubbing his scalp, making him groan against your skin. He licks, nips, suckes, kisses, but so tenderly. He is worshipping and memorizing you, and he is going to take his sweet time with you.

He kisses up to your neck, leaving light marks that will vanish the next morning. When he gets to your ear, he breathes heavily and hot against it, sending a shiver down your spine, making you moan shakily. The husky and smug chuckle he gives into your ear does interesting things to your underwear.

He kisses your jaw, your chin, your cheek, then he cups your face and kisses you with passion. Your tongues meet at the same time his lips meet yours, an inseparable duo by now.

His other hand roams your body with such tenderness that you think your heart will explode. After a couple of minutes, his hands run down the waistband of your pants.

“Can I take them off?” You nod quickly, eagerly, and he cuckles boyishly against your lips. He gives you a lingering peck before pulling up.

You lift your hips for him, and he carefully takes your pants off, tossing them somewhere not important. And then he starts with your feet. He plays with your toes a little just to hear your giggle. With his own giggle fading down slowly, he runs his fingertips from your feet to your heels, then scarf and knees.

In your thighs, he spreads his hands wide against them and slowly, feather-like, slides them up your thighs. He can feel the goosebumps appearing under his touch, and he smugly smiles to himself.

When he gets to your hips, he holds you there properly. His fingers spread on his grip, making you gasp. He rubs your hipbone with his thumbs, then he hooks two fingers at the lace of your underwear. He swallows hard, “Can I?”

“Yes,” your voice is quiet, just above a whisper, but he can hear the need in your voice.

You lift your hips for him, and he slowly slides them down your legs. When they pass your feet, he brings your panties to his face, taking a deep smell of them. His head spins, and a painful groan leaves his mouth. “Fuck, you smell amazing,” he confesses in a whisper.

Gator throws your panties away as well, and holds your feet, kissing up from there until your core. He takes his precious time, licking your body, open mouth kissing you up.

He settles between your legs, resting your legs over his shoulders, holding you by the back of your thighs. He kisses your knees and up to your inner thigh, then to your groin. You whine with need, and with all of his mercy, he kisses where you need him the most.

He makes out with your pussy, wet, dripping for him. He licks from your entrance to your clit, mixing his saliva with your arousal. You moan sweetly, one hand on his hair and the other gripping the sheets while he hums with contentment against your core.

“You taste so good,” his confession sounds muffled against your pussy, but it vibrates up your body, the heat spreading through your body.

You look down at him, and you find a man who worshiped you for the last minutes with his hands, his mouth, now devouring you like you were the most delicious thing in the world, which for him it’s entirely true. His face is shining with fluids from you and him, and he doesn't seem bothered at all; the opposite, actually, his favorite spot to be, for sure.

After some long minutes, he presses his tongue flat against your clit, moving it and sending jolts of pleasure up your body. The build is progressive. Gator is consistent, and this helps the heat to spread from your core up your body.

“Gat-,” you whine between a moan, an attempt to warn him.

“I know, I got you,” he responds.

When you come, first your toes curl, and your legs lock. Your back arches off the mattress and his name leaves your lips in a strangled moan. You squeeze your eyes shut while heat spreads from your back to your face, moaning more freely as you continue to come.

You whine through the aftershock, and he takes good care of you. He doesn't stop, but slows down. When your legs start to get shaky and start to hurt from overstimulation, you pull him by his hair away from your core.

With you breathless against the pillow, he takes your legs off his shoulders, letting you spread to settle between your legs. He crawls up to you, hovering over you, and kissing you tenderly. You taste yourself on his tongue, the wetness from his face passing to yours, and you couldn't care less. The smell of your sex makes you dizzy.

After some minutes, you grab the hem of his shirt, and he lifts his arms for you to take it off. You toss the shirt away and press your hand against his sternum, keeping him up for you to watch him.

With both hands, your fingertips roam his bare torso. His neck, his shoulders, down his biceps, forearms. At his hands, you rub his knuckles, making a fragile smile appear on his face.

When your fingers go back up to his shoulder, you see goosebumps on his arms and chest, making you smile to yourself. You run your fingertips down his sternum, his stomach, belly button, happy trail, and V lines. You feel and see his muscles tensing under your touch, and his dick twitching inside his pants, a huge bulge showing how much he wants it, and you get wetter just by the vision of him like that to you. 

With your fingers, you run up to his chest, then down again, noticing how Gator shudders at your touch. When you get to his waistband, he hears you taking off his belt, and he swallows nervously. You toss it away as well.

You zip down his pants, and your hands go under them, but above his underwear. You don't take your eyes off him, so you see when he whimper when you touch him like that.

You stroke him over his underwear, his hard dick pulsing against your hand. He thrusts against your hand by impulse, unconsciously. You chuckle with affection, seeing how needy he is for you. You stroke him a few more times, then with both hands you start to pull down his pants and briefs. He lets you until you set him free.

When you pull his boxers down, his dick snaps against his stomach. You salivate at the view, holding him and giving a few strokes. He whimpers, throwing his head back.

You rub your thumb over its tip, spreading the pre cum around it. You stroke him up and down with the right pressure, and you watch how he thrusts into your hand without meaning to.

“Please, doll,” he whines, the pet name slipping from his lips without him even noticing. Heat rushes to your cheeks; what is ironic is that you are blushing with a pet name, and not with what you are doing right now. “Let me have you, please.”

With such a sweet request, you agree. You let go of him, and already missing you around him, he takes the condom off his back pocket and strips the rest of his clothes off.

He tosses them somewhere, and with trembling hands, he rips the plastic, taking the condom off and sliding down his length. He settles himself properly between your legs, with one forearm resting beside your head, and the other one holding him on your entrance.

Gator rubs its head against your folds, and you both groan, needy. He presses his forehead against yours, placing the head on your entrance, and pulling inside slowly.

You moan with the stretch of him inside of you. With his hand free now, he intertwines your hand with his, placing it at the other side of your head. He slides inside you until balls deep on you. Both your breaths are heavy, hot breath against each other’s mouth.

“You okay, doll?” he asks a little concerned, nuzzling his nose to yours.

“Yeah, babe,” you say with a light moan, nodding, nuzzling back.

Gator feels your walls taking him so well that his head spins. He starts moving slowly, in and out. It burns at the beginning, but you quickly get used to him, and you two start to moan against each other.

His thrusts become deeper, the pace is more comfortable, less torturous. His tip heats the perfect spot inside of you. He holds your hand tighter, his face resting at the crook of your neck, moaning against your skin, resonating straight to your core.

Your free hand is tangled on his hair. He pulls away from your neck and kisses you. It’s sloppy, wet, clumsy, teeth hitting teeth. Your walls start to tight around him, and he can feel that you are close. His thrusts become more erratic now too. You both are close, you can feel him pulsing inside of you.

He says your name with such awe, “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he repeats with each thrust.

“I love you too, Gator, I love you so much” you whine when you come again. Your climax is stronger now, just like your moans are louder. He kisses you, swalloing the sweet, lovingly sounds you are making.

Your fingers tighten the grip around his hair, but this just adds to Gator's orgasm. While kissing you, your walls tighten more, and one, two, three more thrusts, and then he comes, pressing himself deep inside of you.

He whines against your mouth. He cups your face and kiss you deeply, both of you come with tears running down your cheeks. Even with his body shaky, his rolls his hips against yours slowly, not willing for this to end.

You ruined it for him. But since the beginning of it all you ruined it, let’s be fair. He just had the confirmation you are the love of his life. You are the one who showed him that he deserves to be loved, that he is worthy of such thing.

At the end of the day, he is what he was afraid he would never be. A winner. Just by having you.

Note: Hey! This fanfic was way more beautiful than I thought it would be, and I'm so proud of myself for the outcome. Hope you liked it as much as I did. Gator deserved love after all the neglect and violence he got in his life, and giving it to him heals something in me. As someone myself who doesn't have a good relationship with my parents, I resonate with Gator a lot, so for the ones who resonate with him too, this was for you, for us <3

[moonstoneandmoonlight]

GET BETTER SOON | steve harrington

And I hate to make this all about me But who am I supposed to talk to? What am I supposed to do If there's no you?

Fourteen months. Four hundred and twenty six days and you finally learn who has been leaving daisies for your sister.

pairing: steve harrington x mayfield!reader words: 4.9k contains: angst (hurt/comfort), friends to lovers, (slight) second chance romance, mayfield!reader, mention of grief, hospitals, max in a coma, mention of a feeding tube, set between season four and season five, eldest daughter core, mummy issues, brief mention alcoholism, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

author's note: bit of a heavy one but i was really in the mood to write an angsty mayfield reader fic and i was listening to 'soon you'll get better' by taylor and got this idea. this is another pretty personal fic to me as last year my brother was really ill and i had the awful experience of seeing a younger sibling really unwell. sending love to others who relate 💗

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The steady beep, beep, beep from Max’s heart monitor had become a constant companion of yours over the past fourteen months.

The sound should comfort you, should act as a reminder that your sister was still here, that she was still alive, that her heart was still beating. But after fourteen months, after four hundred and twenty six days—all that the sound reminded you of was the fact you had not heard your sister's voice or seen her smile in well over a year. That you were beginning to forget the colour of her eyes and the sound of her laugh.

It was also becoming increasingly harder to hold onto hope that she would get better, that she would ever wake up. But you did, somehow. Because she was your little sister and there was nothing else you could do other than tell yourself that she would someday wake, that she’d get to graduate, go to college and know a life that didn’t involve demogorgons or the Upside Down.

But seeing her—the girl you had taught how to ride a bike and a skateboard, the girl you had always sworn to protect—lying in that hospital bed day in and day out with no sign of ever regaining consciousness, it bore an unimaginable kind of pain. The kind that had you begging to a higher power that you didn’t even believe in, trying desperately to reason with whatever force was keeping her from you. You had even begged Vecna (if he was even listening) to take her place, to let it be you instead of her. But it didn’t work, nothing did. Not music, not you and Lucas talking to her, not even El could find her. 

But still, you showed up each and everyday to the hospital. To hold her hand, to play her Kate Bush songs until visiting hours were over, to cut her hair when it was getting too long and to play card games with Lucas as you both tried to convince yourselves that it was only a matter of time before Max woke up.

The feelings of guilt however were much more difficult to distract yourself from. The feeling had edged itself so deep within you that it lived under your skin, had crept its way into your bones and settled there, refusing to leave. The fact that you felt as though you had failed to protect your little sister and the worry that she hated you for not doing enough to save her. It was all consuming but you buried it deep. You told everyone you were fine. Because you had to be. For Max, for your mom, for Lucas, for everyone who cared about your sister.

Nowadays, your days were a blur of hospital, work, the WSQK, hospital, work, the WSQK. Just like today, where you had spent your morning visiting Max before heading to work, then after a shift at the diner going to the WSQK to help Nancy with planning an upcoming crawl. Usually, you would head straight home afterwards, make dinner for your mom and then stay up watching TV so you wouldn’t be alone with your thoughts.

But today, Nancy hadn’t needed as much help as she had initially thought with crawl preparations and you left the radio station while there was still two hours left of visiting time at the hospital. And so, you headed straight over to Hawkins Memorial Hospital to see your sister. 

You hum along mindlessly to the music as you sit on one of the chairs beside Max’s bed. Kate Bush’s music was just another constant soundtrack to your day when visiting Max. You had thought by now that you would be sick of the sound of the opening beat to Running Up That Hill since it was all you played for Max but truthfully, you weren’t even a tiny bit sick of it. Because it was what you believed could be the bridge between the here and now and wherever Max was, that the song was the key to bringing her home.

Your eyes dance around the room, at the dull, grey hospital walls before they land on the drawing just above Max’s bed, the one she had drawn of her and Lucas on their would-be date at the movies. The sight of the two stick figures holding hands had always made you smile while simultaneously ripping your heart in two.

You glance then towards the abundance of gifts that sat on a table directly opposite Max’s bed. You can see one of Will’s paintings leaning against the wall, some friendship bracelets that El had made her, cards from Dustin and Mike and an album of pressed flowers that Lucas was in the process of making for her.

There was once a time where flower arrangements once adorned the table, an abundance of  soft pinks and sunny yellows that made the room feel brighter. But fourteen months on and the number of bouquets had dwindled significantly. But still, someone—you were sure it was Claudia Henderson as you had seen her buying bunches of daisies on many occasions—always left a bunch of daisies on the table every few days. The sight of them always made you since, since daisies had always been your favourite. 

You notice however that the daisies in the vase beside the window had begun to wilt and you were just beginning to wonder if you should throw them away when the door to Max’s room opened and one of her regular nurses, Nurse Rogers, walks in.

“Oh! Hello, Miss Mayfield,” she greets you with a kind, warm smile. “You’re not usually here at this time.”

You smile back, ignoring the slight pity you see in her expression as she looks at you. It was a look that you were used to after so long. People who saw you as the poor Mayfield girl who was in denial about her sister.

“Yeah, um, had some free time,” you say, your fingers digging into the soft cushion of the chair beneath you. “I figured that I should give her some company.”

Nurse Rogers smiles kindly—she doesn’t remind you that there was no evidence that Max was even aware of your presence and for that, you were grateful.

“I’m sure that she appreciates it,” she says, bustling into the room and pulling a rattling hospital cart along behind her. “I just need to replace her feeding tube. Shouldn’t take too long.”

You nod, despite the lump that had suddenly risen in your throat. Because your baby sister needed feeding tubes, because even after fourteen months, seeing Max in this position—it never got any easier. Never.

The nurse set about changing Max’s feeding tube but you couldn’t watch. You felt like a coward—because she was trapped under Vecna’s spell or whatever it was keeping her in the coma while you were in Hawkins, mostly safe and lucky to not be wherever she was. Trapped in her body, bed ridden and unable to find her way home. And yet—you couldn’t watch the nurse change her tubes, couldn’t face the fact that without all this machinery, without medical intervention that your sister would probably be dead. You couldn’t face it. You just couldn’t.

“All done,” Nurse Rogers announces after a minute or two where you had been fiddling with a loose thread on your shorts.

You sit up, your eyes stinging as you glance over at your little sister, at the tube in her mouth that made you want to burst into tears. 

“Thank you,” you say thickly, quickly wiping away a stray tear that had fallen and forcing a smile.

But Nurse Rogers notices.

“She’s still here,” she tells you, placing a gentle hand on your arm and giving you a squeeze. “You gotta be strong, honey. Your sister still needs you.”

You swallow the lump that had formed in your throat and do your best to blink away the tears that were threatening to fall but to no avail. Because it had been fourteen months of hoping and you were tired. 

“Yeah. You’re right.”

Nurse Rogers smiles at you just as there was a knock on the door. You have enough time to collect yourself as another nurse walks in.

“Hi, Miss Mayfield,” she greets you, smiling in a way that told you that she could plainly see the teartracks down your cheeks but was choosing to ignore them for your sake. “Sorry, Mags but you’re needed in Room 14.”

You feel Nurse Rogers’—Mags—hand withdraw from your shoulder and you find that it leaves you feeling a little more than empty inside. Her warm, almost motherly touch had made you realise how long it had been since you had felt that. Because you couldn’t remember a time since Max had been in a coma where your mom had truly felt like your mom. You had taken it upon yourself to take care of her, making sure that she was eating, making sure she was taking care of herself and not drinking to excess like she had been when Neil had left shortly after Billy’s death. 

It had become a strange dynamic but you knew without it that your mom would have fallen apart and so, you had done it without being asked and without complaint. You also knew you would continue doing it until Max woke up. But you couldn’t deny that it left you feeling a little bit numb to your own emotions and desperate for your mom to just hug you because you needed it.

“I’ll be right down the hall if you need anything,” Nurse Rogers tells you, a softness in her eyes that makes you feel almost like a child who doesn’t want to be alone right now. “Seriously. Anything. Just come and get me, okay?”

You nod again, grateful despite the fact you knew that you weren’t to take her up on the offer.

You don’t trust yourself to talk, don’t trust the way you were on the verge of tears and so, you just simply smile at her before turning your attention back to Max, taking her hand and telling yourself not to cry in front of the nurses.

Nurse Rogers seems reluctant to leave you but the nurse who had walked in clears her throat and both of them leave the room to return to their duties.

The door closes softly behind her and you hear the footsteps of both nurses as they walk down the hall. Part of you feels relieved that you were finally alone with your sister and the other part of you was so sick of being alone.

You let out a shaky breath, steeling yourself before looking back at Max. But the sight of your baby sister with a feeding tube down her throat makes the tears near impossible to stop. You feel your bottom lip quiver and your legs begin to shake. 

You couldn’t cry in front of Max. You couldn’t. Even if she couldn’t see you, feel you or know that you were even in the same room. You refused to let her see you like this.

And so, you stand up on shaky legs and head towards the door without a second glance back at your sister.

You walk down the hall and head straight for the bathroom. You can feel the eyes of other patients, of families waiting on news of their loved ones in the hallway linger as you pass by. You hear them whispering about the ‘Mayfield girl’, asking each other if you were the sister who refused to give up. They’re trying to be quiet but you were attuned to what everybody said about you, about Max, about your family, about the fact everyone in town thought you were in denial, that keeping Max alive was cruel and your family were just delaying the inevitable. No matter how quiet the whispers were, you had heard it all. 

But thankfully, there was no one else in the hospital bathroom when you walked in. Which, you were grateful for considering that the very first thing you did as soon the door slammed shut behind you was burst into tears. 

There was no build up, there was no opportunity to stop the sobs that shook your body. Your hands shake and your breathing becomes erratic as the tears are slipping down your cheeks.

Fourteen months. 

Four hundred and twenty six days and you fucking missed your sister.

You missed her stealing your clothes because she thought they were “cooler” than hers. You missed her forcing you to watch horror movies despite the fact that you couldn’t stand them. You missed going to the arcade with her and giving her half your pocket money just to see her smile. You missed fighting with her about whose turn it was to do the dishes, you missed watching skate off down the street to see her friends and you missed the way she would always hug you before leaving.

You missed her so much that it went beyond physical pain. You felt as though part of you was missing, as though it had been ripped away from you. You felt it when you saw her jacket waiting for her by the front door and when you noticed dust collecting on her skateboard.

You would do anything to switch places with her. You would face any storm, would tear down mountains and walk through fire for it to be you in that hospital bed instead of her. Because all you wanted was for Max to be okay.

But it didn’t matter what you were willing to do to switch places with her. Because she was still in that hospital bed, tubes coming out of her mouth and no amount of bargaining was going to save her.

It was a reality that you were finding it increasingly difficult to face.

You emerge from the hospital bathroom almost fifteen minutes later. Your cheeks feel red raw from where you had been rubbing away your tears and there’s a dull ache behind your eyes from how much you had cried. 

You make your way back to Max’s room, sniffling as you did so. Thankfully, you don’t run into Nurse Rogers and have to explain why you were in such a state. But it wasn’t the first time that you had cried in that bathroom and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.

You can hear Kate Bush still playing from inside of Max’s room as you approach and the familiar music pulls your focus back.

Max.

She’s still here. You gotta be strong, honey. Your sister still needs you.

And with Nurse Rogers’ words still ringing in your ears, you push open her hospital room door.

“—and then Robin had this really terrible idea of having an advice segment but every time a woman would call up to complain about her boyfriend she would just tell them to dump him and—”

The last thing—the very last thing—that you expected to hear when you walk back into Max’s room was the sound of Steve Harrington’s voice.

Your breath catches, everything around you feels a little fussy as you see him sitting on the chair beside her bed that you vacated only fifteen minutes ago. 

At the sound of the door closing behind you, Steve stops talking and looks up.

When your eyes finally meet his, everything around you stills.

“Hey,” Steve greets you softly and with a small smile.

“Hi,” you say quietly because you didn’t know what else to say.

Because fourteen months ago, you had finally told him that you loved him after you had thought you lost him to a swarm of demobats. And fourteen months ago, he had told you that he felt the same. He had promised to take you out on a date when everything with the Upside Down was over. But then everything that had happened with Max had derailed those plans entirely and though Steve tried and tried again to be there for you, you pushed him away. And you did so by breaking his heart the only way you knew how.

You did it by repeating the words that Nancy had once said to him. Called him “bullshit” and told him that you didn’t love him. That it was just adrenaline talking after almost watching him almost die. You still remember the look of utter devastation on his face, still remember the way he had gone uncharacteristically quiet, the bag of groceries he had bought for you and your mom still tucked under his arm.

“You don’t mean that,” he had said, his voice thick with emotion. “You don’t.”

“I do,” you had told him, the words like knives in your throat. Because you didn’t mean it. Because you loved him, you really fucking loved him. And it was because you loved him that you knew you needed to let him go. Because the proof that you couldn’t protect the people you loved was laying in a hospital bed.

Your plan had worked, Steve had avoided you after that. You still ran into each other every now and then, at the WSQK mainly where Steve worked alongside Robin or during briefings before crawls. But you had not been alone together since the night you had broken his heart outside of your trailer.

“You okay?” Steve asks, pulling you from your thoughts.

Fuck, you hate the way he speaks so softly to you, his voice full of concern even after everything you had done to him.

“Yeah,” you say too quickly, looking at his face and hating even more just how handsome he still was. Those honeyed brown eyes that made you feel warm inside, the moles scattered around his face and neck and the thick, chocolatey brown hair that you still found yourself wanting to run your fingers through.

Steve looks as though he doesn’t believe you and you couldn’t exactly blame him.

“Just um—allergies,” you sniffle, wiping your nose and looking away from him. “Just really bad this time of year.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, unconvinced. “I bet.”

You don’t look back at him. Because the thought of him visiting your sister and talking to her about things as mundane as working at the radio station was making your heart do traitorous things in your chest. You could feel the tears already threatening to fall again.

You were just trying to think of an excuse to leave when something beside the window catches your eye.

“Was Dustin’s mom just here?” You ask Steve, your eyes on the fresh bunch of daisies that had replaced wilted ones you had seen earlier.

“Huh?” Steve asks, confused as follows your gaze and looks over at the daisies. “No, um, it’s just me.”

You blink, brows pulled together in confusion before you finally look back at him.

“But the daisies, I thought it was—”

“—they weren’t from Claudia,” Steve says, the tips of his ears turning red as he looks back at you. “The daisies are from me.”

Your eyes flicker from his face before they move back over to the daisies. “H-has it—has it always been you?”

“Yeah,” Steve admits quietly. “Always.”

Something about that admission that breaks something inside of you. Perhaps it was the part of you that was desperately trying to hold yourself together, the part of you that was crying out for help or maybe it was the part of you that had convinced yourself that breaking Steve Harrington’s heart was the right thing to do.

“Oh, please don’t—”

Steve rises from his chair, not even finishing his sentence as he crosses the room in a few quick steps to catch you before you could break down into floods of tears.

“Hey, hey, hey,” he tries to hush you gently, one arm wrapping around you while the other hand gently pushes your hair back so he could see your tear stained face more clearly. “Don’t cry. It’s just flowers—”

“—it’s not just f-flowers, Steve,” you stutter out, the tears falling so thick and fast that you couldn’t stop them. “It—it’s the f-fact you’ve been b-been le-leaving them f-for her for m-months and I—I di-didn’t kno-know it was y-you.”

You watch as Steve swallows thickly, his eyes fixed on your face as he seems to mull over his next words carefully.

“I didn’t—the flowers weren’t—they weren’t necessarily for Max,” Steve begins quietly, his thumb carefully wiping a tear from your cheek. “They—they were all for you.”

Your heart feels as though it splits open that.

Because for fourteen months—four hundred and twenty six days—Steve Harrington had been leaving you flowers in your sister’s hospital room and you had no idea.

“Daisies. They’re still your favourite, right?” He asks when you remain speechless. You nod numbly, your breath catching as you look back at him with wide eyes feeling your heart pounding in your chest.

“But why—”

“I just—I just wanted you to have something in this room that was—that was just for you. Because all this—it’s been tough on you too. Really fucking tough. And I wanted you to have something in this room that reminded you that people care about you too. That I—that we all are still thinking about you.”

“I d-don’t de-deserve that,” you say quietly, your fingers curling into the front of his shirt as though you were trying to decide whether or not to pull him closer or push him away. “I don’t de-deserve it, Steve. I don’t—”

“—you do,” Steve tells you firmly, his expression shifting to something close to agony as he watches you crumble in front of him. “Don’t say that. Don’t you dare say that you don’t deserve—”

“—I c-couldn’t pr-protect her, Stevie,” you start to sob, the old nickname falling from your lips before you could stop it. You miss the way his expression falters, the way his own eyes become glassy. “I-I failed a-and I-I can’t d-do anything to h-help her. I d-don’t de-deserve an-anything l-like that.”

“Oh, babygirl,” Steve murmurs, pulling you in and wrapping his arms around you as though it was enough to protect you from everything that hurt inside of you. “You did everything you could. You didn’t fail. You have never failed your sister even a day in your life.”

“I-I just w-wish it w-was me i-instead,” you cry, burying your face into his shirt as you sob into him. “I just w-wish it was m-me.”

Steve doesn’t say anything, his heart cracking open at your words. He doesn’t argue with you, just pulls you closer and cups the back of your head with one large hand. Because he felt the same. Like you, he had spent nights wishing it had been him instead of Max.

And he also knew that if it was you in that hospital bed, he would move heaven and the earth to switch places with you. 

“I know,” he whispers, pressing his lips to the side of your head as you continue to sob into him. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

The only thing he can do after that is hold you while you cry. His arms act as an anchor around you that refuse to let you go for even a second.

You aren’t sure how long you stayed there, weren't sure how long you cried into his shirt for. All you knew was that when you finally pulled away from him was that his shirt was covered in wet blotches from your tears.

“Sorry,” you murmur, your voice a little hoarse as you look at his face. “About your shirt.”

“It’s okay,” Steve tells you gently, the smallest of smiles tugging at the very corner of his mouth. “S’just a shirt.”

You very nearly smile but something stops you. The memory—the one that had haunted you for the past fourteen months—of Steve’s face outside of your trailer as you broke his heart into pieces. The reminder that you didn’t deserve his kindness, his sympathy and you certainly didn’t deserve flowers.

“Sorry,” you say again, not entirely sure what you were apologising for as your fingers release the front of his shirt. “I shouldn’t have—”

“—I forgive, you know?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to control the swell of emotions in your chest at his words. 

“You shouldn’t,” you say finally with a shake of your head. “I was cruel to you, Steve. So cruel. You should hate—”

“—don’t try and tell me what I should or shouldn’t feel,” Steve says in a calm but stern voice, one that makes you swallow. He pulls away from you only to rub his hands over his face in frustration, his shoulders tightening as you imagine him reliving that conversation over again in his head. “I knew exactly what you were doing. I knew you didn’t mean it. That’s why I forgive you.”

“But Steve—”

“—no, listen to me, baby, okay? I forgive you. I—I will always forgive you. I don’t care if you think that you don’t deserve it. It’s too late. I’ve already done it.”

You say nothing at first, not trusting your voice as you look back at the man you had never stopped loving.

Steve can perhaps see your apprehension in your face and so, he presses on, “And I—shit—I thought that maybe the daisies would let you know that. That I forgave you and maybe—maybe that we’d find our way back to each other eventually or something.”

“Steve,” you begin gently, your shoulders sagging slightly at his words, at the almost hopeful expression on his face. “I—I can’t—”

“—why not?”

You swallow, your eyes flickering from Steve over to Max who was still laying in her hospital bed, like she had been for the past fourteen months.

“—Steve, you’re always taking care of people,” you say as you look back at him with a careful expression. “And I—I can’t be another burden to you like that. I just can’t.”

You watch as Steve’s jaw clenches at your words, at the way something flashes in his eyes. He takes a breath before he lifts a hand to gently cup your face, the gesture so gentle that you couldn’t help the small breath you let out.

“You are not nor could you ever be a burden to me,” Steve tells you in a fierce voice. “Yeah, you’re going through a lot. But I can help. I want to help. Because bottling it up, pretending you’re fine and taking care of everyone else but yourself isn’t going to help you.”

“But you—”

“—and if Max knew what you were doing—if she knew that you weren’t letting people take care of you, she’d be heartbroken.”

You wanted him to be wrong. You wanted so badly for him to be wrong. But you knew, deep down, that he wasn’t. You knew that if Max saw the way you had become a shell of yourself, if she knew that you cried alone in hospital bathrooms with no one to hold you, if she knew that you had hurt Steve just to push him away—she wouldn’t forgive you.

When you say nothing, Steve takes a step closer, his eyes studying your expression carefully.

“I’ve forgiven you. Now it’s time for you to forgive yourself.”

Fuck. You could have cried all over again.

“I don’t—I don’t know how to do that,” you whisper back, feeling like a child who was about to be scolded as you turn to look away from Steve. 

But Steve’s hand on your cheek gently turns your head to prevent you from doing so.

“That’s okay,” he whispers, his other hand finding yours and lacing your fingers together. The simple act makes you feel more alive than you had ever been and as he lifts your entwined hands to rest over his chest, you feel his heartbeat thumping through his shirt, feel the warmth of his skin against yours like a soothing balm. “Just start by letting me in.”

You’re quiet then, at war with yourself as you try not to think of all the reasons you should say no. They swirl around in your head, taunting you. The guilt, the fear, the worry. All of it. But one glance towards the vase of daisies that stood in front of the window—the reminder that for four hundred and twenty six days that Steve Harrington hadn’t given up on you—seems to quiet them.

It’s time to forgive yourself.

You couldn’t imagine a more courageous act but as you look back at Steve, you find that the task doesn’t seem so daunting with him there to catch you.

“Do you—do you wanna go grab a burger and a milkshake after visiting hours?” You ask him, a smile pulling at the corners of your lips as you give his hand in yours a gentle squeeze. “My treat.”

It takes Steve several moments to process your words and the moment that he does so, you see the reverence, the softness in his expression that was reserved only just for you.

“Anywhere you wanna go,” Steve tells you, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your hairline. “I’ll go. Always.”

You can’t stop the smile from spreading across your face at the feeling of his lips brushing against your skin after far, far too long. The beep, beep, beep from Max’s heart monitor reminding you that she was still alive, that you were still alive and that maybe forgiving yourself sometimes began with burgers and a milkshake.

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[blonde-and-lovesick]

come back to me

pairing: steve harrington x reader

summary: after months of silence, a late-night breakdown leaves you stranded with the one person you tried hardest to forget. steve is the last person you want to see, but when everything finally falls apart, he may be the only one who knows how to hold you through it

wc: 13.9k :)

warnings: 18+ pwp, oral (f receiving), edging, praise, overstimulation, p in v sex, steve harrington talking you through it, post-sex crying; severe angst, PTSD, survivor’s guilt, panic attacks, trauma-induced flashbacks, reckless driving, references to death, isolation, depression, poor self-care, crying—so much crying—MAJOR hurt/comfort, steve believing he failed everyone

You know that driving is a bad idea. You know it before you even leave the house. You know it as you pull the front door shut behind you, as you cross the stretch of drive without even bothering to lock it. You know it as you fit the key in the ignition with fingers that feel numb, when the engine stutters to life and the dashboard lights up, emphasising your shaking wrists.

There are nights when movement is the only thing that keeps you together. If you stay in the same place after an episode, the walls begin to lean inward. The silence becomes cavernous, with every sound the house makes becoming abnormal. The pipes in the walls or the rain on the roof, what were once ordinary noises, now made you want to scream.

You get into your car, slamming the door behind you a little too quickly. In the rearview mirror, you watch your home begin to fade. Your home. The one you spent months saving for, elated when you finally had the deposit, then the keys—late shifts and turned-down dinners transformed into freedom. It felt safe in the beginning. A front door you could lock and windows you could curtain. But three years ago, it all came crashing down.

It barely felt like home after everything that happened inside it, not after nights spent washing away blood in the kitchen sink, watching the water turn pink and then clear. Any sense of security vanished after you heard chimes in the hallway, learning just how thin the distance between one world and another could be.

Your hands are damp against the steering wheel, squeaking against the leather as you tighten them, knuckles paling. The road ahead is almost empty, a narrow strip of grey unspooling beneath headlights, bordered on either side by trees that seem to crowd closer whenever you look away.

You drag in a breath through your nose, letting it out as it catches against your chest.

Fuck.

You try again, forcing the air down until your lungs ache with it. Your stomach continues to churn, a relentless turning that makes you feel hollow and sick.

It never really stops anymore, but you tell yourself the driving helps. Not enough, but more than other things might. The road allows you to focus on something simple. It forces you to steady your hands and keep your feet in place as you press the pedals. Anything to just keep moving forward.

The others had moved forward, each in their own way. Nancy and Jonathan went first. Robin followed. Then the kids, one after the other, though none of them were really kids by then. Dustin. Will. Even Hopper and Joyce, who had once seemed as much a part of Hawkins as the cracked roads and the water tower. You understood their choices, you'd be stupid not to, but it didn't make it hurt any less.

Then there was Eddie. Sometimes, beneath all the hurt, you found yourself jealous of him. At least he would never have to live with the pain of his absence every day.

Max and Lucas are still close enough to visit, but they have each other. Somehow, against all reason, they managed to take the wreckage and build something from it. They had been broken open and come through holding tighter. Perhaps not stronger, but certainly less alone than you were.

You turn the radio up a notch. The song distorts through the old speakers, the bass rattling as it smothers the edge of a memory before it can properly form.

You cannot let yourself think about any of it tonight. Not when every road leads back to the same place, and every place still carries some trace of him.

The road widens as you turn onto the highway, tyres drifting over the change in tarmac, and Hawkins begins to fade until there is nothing left of it but a low orange haze against the sky.

You should feel better at the distance. Out here, there are no triggers for you to dwell on. Only open land, black beneath the night, the fields spreading on either side of you until they seem to have no end at all.

The grip you have on the wheel eases slightly as the song on the radio reaches its chorus, loud enough to fill the car, and you almost manage to disappear into it. The rhythmic beating of some old Talking Heads song, uplifting as the keyboard goes faster and—

The music begins to break.

It is so slight at first that you wonder whether you imagined it. A faint crackle of Byrne's voice as a thread of interference scratches through the familiar melody. Your fingers tighten as the sound comes again.

The song wavers, dragged thin by static, before returning for half a breath. Then it vanishes entirely beneath a rush of white noise.

Cold passes through you.

No.

You risk a glance down at the green numbers that remain lit on the dash, dial exactly where it is supposed to be. Your hand leaves the wheel long enough to just strike one of the buttons, another station spitting the same static back at you.

You press another. And then another. All yielding the same nothing.

No, no, no.

Your fingertips slip against the dial as you turn it too quickly, sweeping through frequencies, but every station is gone.

You cannot do this in silence. Music was the one thing—it was what—it was the only thing—you had to—

You need to calm down.

It had been years. It had been years. But the thought has no weight. Years mean nothing. Years did not scrub the past clean. Years were not forever.

The static sharpens again as you try to keep the car steady. You take a glance over at the fields beyond the windscreen, only to discover that they are no longer fields.

They are grey and rotting beneath a sky that flickers red. Ash drifts through the air and vines writhe over the road, and somewhere beyond the reach of your headlights, something opens its mouth.

You blink as your eyes begin to fill.

Not now.

The road returns, barely, but your lungs refuse to follow. A shape moves at the edge of your vision. It is small and low to the ground, its boned body darting from the darkness beside the road, too fast for you to understand.

Not again.

Please, not again.

You swear you hear a screech, something wet with teeth. There is the smell of rot and blood so thick that it coats the back of your throat.

You can't do this again, not while you're all alone. There is nothing left in you that could survive it. Whatever part of you had kept moving felt insufficient, used up in tunnels and left in scraps in the forest.

The shape reaches the road as headlights flare in your rearview mirror. The car behind you appears all at once, too close and violently bright. White light floods the glass, swallowing your reflection, and for an instant you cannot see anything except the glare.

The static screams as you lurch forward, wrenching the wheel. Tyres shriek across the road. Your shoulder slams against the door as the car swerves, the beam of your headlights tearing across the field. The shape that leaps has legs that flash in front of the bonnet, forcing you to slam on the breaks.

Your car leaves the road with a violent jolt, gravel hammering the underside. Your seatbelt locks across your chest and throws you back, then forward, your hands losing the wheel as the car lurches into the lay-by. Something moves beyond the glass and you recoil on instict, pressing yourself against the seat.

A young deer scrambles up the bank, its legs thin. It pauses at the edge of the field, one white tail flicking through the darkness as it disappears between the hedges on the other side of the road.

It was a deer. It was only a deer.

It's gone now.

The radio clears with a soft snap as the song returns halfway through a verse, as though nothing has happened. All you can do is stare at the road.

Your hands are raised in front of you, shaking so badly you cannot make them close. You can't move them at all. Your arms begin to tremble next, then your shoulders, the fear moving through you, wave upon punishing wave.

You fucking idiot.

Frustrated air claws at your throat as you try to swallow. The car seems too small, the roof pressing lower and lower with every breath. Heat gathers beneath your back as your skin remains cold. Your stomach twists so sharply you think you might be sick.

Please let it be over.

You can't do it again.

The pressure builds behind your eyes until the road blurs. You squeeze them shut, but that is worse. The darkness fills at once with red lightning and snapping jaws, with hands slipping from yours, with his face streaked in blood as he tells you to run.

Your eyes fly open. A sound tears out of you.

It's not quite a sob. It's too strangled for that, caught between your clenched teeth, raw with the effort of having held it there for months. It hurts as it leaves you, folding forward over the wheel, one hand pressed hard against your mouth as though you might force the rest of it back inside.

How on earth did you let it get this bad?

How many nights will it take to just stop? The mornings when you cannot even look in the mirror, scared to see what might be facing you. How long have you been telling yourself that this is temporary, that tomorrow will surely be easier, that one day you will wake without needing to remind yourself you don't have to run anymore?

Your chest heaves as you struggle to undo the seatbelt, desperate for some kind of respite.

You do not know. You do not know when it will stop. You do not know if it ever will. You don't know if you can take it.

A car pulls in behind you, but you barely hear it over the blood rushing in your ears. There is only the vague wash of tyres, another engine idling somewhere beyond your own, but the sound does not mean anything. It belongs to the world outside, and you have slipped too far from it to care. A door opens and footsteps move somewhere in the distance. You keep your forehead pressed against the steering wheel.

Perhaps you should be afraid. A woman alone on an empty road in the middle of the night, too shaken to even lift her head. There was a time when the thought would have sent your hand beneath the seat, fingers searching for the knife you still keep there. There was a time when you knew how to be afraid usefully, but it was pointless now.

The stranger could take whatever they wanted, for there was nothing left. All survival instincts annihilated under your breathing and the tears slipping hot between your hand and your mouth.

You were pathetic.

The footsteps stop beside you as the shadow falls over the glass. There is a small tap on the window, but you do not have it in yourself to look up.

Please. Just leave.

Another tap follows, a little louder this time, though still not enough to startle you. Whoever it is says something, their voice blurred by the window and the thud of your pulse. You cannot make out the words.

The voice comes again. This time, it says your name. You force your head to rise.

No.

You recognise the figure on the other side of the glass.

Not again.

Five months. Five whole months have passed since you last saw him properly. Five months since you stood in the foyer of his house, one hand wrapped around his front door, a letter left on his hall table for him to discover when the sun would rise.

He looks almost exactly as you remember him. His hair is slightly longer than it had been, the brown falling loose at his forehead, disturbed by the wind. His jacket hangs over a faded polo shirt. One of his palms is against the roof of your car as he bends towards the window. His eyes find yours, and whatever he had expected to see disappears from his expression.

His face twists, his mouth parting. His gaze moves over you quickly, taking in the tears, your shaking hands, the terror on your face. It is the same expression you have seen many times. It is the one he wore when he was scared, when he wasn't sure how to fix it; to make it better.

“Hey—” You can barely hear him through the glass. He leans closer, trying to see you properly. “Hey, can you—”

His eyes drop towards the door lock. He is trying to keep his voice calm; you can see the effort of it in the tension of his jaw.

“Can—can you open the door?” he asks. “Can you do that for me?”

All you can do is stare at him numbly through the thin layer of glass separating you both. He is the last person you want to see.

You have spent months arranging your life around his absence. Avoiding the roads near his house, letting the telephone ring until it stopped. Never walking the main road when the sky was light.

You could not see him, for seeing him meant remembering. His clothes covered in blood that was not always his, or his body curled around yours while the world shook. His mouth against your temple in the dark, promising that tomorrow would come when neither of you knew it would.

Seeing him meant remembering the nights you had gone to him because sleep was impossible. The way he always opened the door before you could even attempt to knock twice. The way neither of you called it love because there was no room for love at the end of the world. Only urgency and warmth, the desperate relief of finding each other alive again.

You turn your face away. You can't' do this here. You can't have whatever conversation has been waiting between you while your car sits half-buried in gravel. You cannot let him see you like this.

“Shit.” The word reaches you faintly.

Steve pulls at the handle. It gives beneath his hand but catches against the lock, and the failure seems to frighten him more. He knocks again.

“I’m—” He glances behind him, towards the empty road, then back. “I’m gonna need you to open the door, okay?” His voice carries an attempt at steadiness. “Please—just open the door.”

It takes more effort than it should. Your fingers feel distant, clumsy as they move. Steve watches every inch through the glass, barely blinking.

You could still drive away, pull back onto the road, leave him standing in the dirt and preserve whatever small part of yourself he has not already seen. But your thumb follows his instructions as it presses down, the lock giving with a click.

Steve has the door open before you can reconsider, cold air enters the car. His hands catch the metal and guide it carefully outward, stopping it before it can swing back. He is immediately crouching beside you.

His eyes sweep over your face, your throat, your arms, down towards your legs, searching for some visible wound he can understand.

Steve has always known what to do with injuries. He knew which cuts needed stitches and which only looked worse than they were. How to distract you while he cleaned blood from your skin, and how to press his palm against a wound and keep his voice level even when his own hands were shaking.

Pain was easier when it could be located, and this leaves him helpless.

His hands hover near you. One lifts towards your shoulder, falters and drops. Those hands had once known every part of you without asking. The roughness of his palms, the precise pressure of every finger.

“What happened?” He asks, eyes still assessing. “Are—are you hurt?”

You shake your head, but it is too small a movement. He does not seem convinced.

“Did you hit something?” His eyes move across the windscreen, searching for cracks. “Are you bleeding?”

“No.” The word scrapes its way out of you.

"Then what—" His face tightens at the sound of your voice. “What are you doing out here?”

You look past him. The road stretches in your mirror, empty except for his poorly angled car, headlights still burning. He must have stopped quickly. One wheel sits partly on the road, and the driver’s door has been left open.

Steve, who lectures everyone else about road safety. Who once spent twenty minutes explaining to Dustin why hazard lights existed.

“I thought—” Your voice fails. "I thought I saw—”

The words snag. You turn towards him, body twisting sideways in the seat. You cannot finish. The grief comes suddenly, ripping through the last weak seam holding you together. You raise both hands as if you can cover it, pressing them over your mouth, over your eyes, but the sob breaks loose anyway.

Your body pitches forward and Steve catches you.

He has no choice. One moment he is crouched beside the car, and the next you are falling into him, your forehead striking his shoulder, your hands caught uselessly between you. You feel the shock move through him as he goes rigid. After weeks of silence, and this is how you touch him again.

He wastes no time as instinct overtakes him. One arm closes around your back, the other comes up behind your head, his hand settling carefully against your hair as he draws you into him. He lets you bury your face against his neck.

The sobs turn ugly there. They shake through your entire body, dragging breath and sound from places you thought had gone numb. You clutch at the front of his jacket because there is nothing else to hold. The fabric gathers in your fists. Beneath it, his chest rises too stiffly.

He is frightened. You can feel it in the hard beat of his heart.

“Hey,” he murmurs, the way he used to in the minutes after terror, when the danger had passed but neither of you believed it yet. “It’s all right, okay? You're alright.”

You shake your head against him. It is not. You want to tell him that. You want to tell him that nothing is all right. Nothing's alright, and you don't know how to fix it.

“It’s all right,” he says again as he tightens his arms. “I got you.” His hand moves slowly over your hair. “You’re alright. I got you, angel.”

Damn him.

It's surely a slip of the tongue, but it hurts all the same. It was something he used to call you in the dark, half-teasing at first, the name softened by sleep or pressed into your skin between kisses. It became something else as time went on. Something he said when he was scared, when your hands were unsteady, when he needed you to look at him and believe, or try to, that he could get you out of this.

You needed to leave before it could get any worse.

You force yourself upright, and Steve loosens his hold immediately, though his hands remain close as you draw away. You wipe at your face with the heel of your hand, not that it makes a difference. Your cheeks are still wet, your skin still raw beneath your fingers. You can feel him watching you, but you cannot make yourself meet his eyes.

“I’m sorry, I—” You swallow. “I’m sorry. I—I have to get home.”

You scrub at the tears beneath your eyes as if they are the only evidence that needs removing. Perhaps you can still close this door, start the car and fold this night away somewhere you will never have to examine it.

“Hey, no. It’s—uh—it's all right.” Steve's voice is careful again, each word laid down gently between you. “We’ll get you home.”

You nod without looking at him and reach for the seatbelt. Your fingers slide over the material, trying to clip it back into place.

“Whoa, whoa, hey—” His hand lifts. “What—what are you doing?”

“I’m sorry.” You turn towards the wheel, reaching for the keys. “I just saw a deer. That’s all—it was nothing. I’m—I'm sorry you had to see this,” you say. “I should get home.”

Steve stiffens. “There's no way I’m letting you drive like this.”

“Steve, I’m fine.” You grit out as you try to regain some semblance of composure. “I—I just need to get back.”

Just need to get out of here.

“You cannot seriously think I'm gonna let you get behind the wheel right now.”

Steve Harrington, still appointed caretaker of everyone left breathing. Still arriving after the disaster with an earnest crease between his brows.

You look at him. Gravel presses into the knees of his jeans as the wind moves through his hair, lifting it from his forehead, and for a second he looks so painfully familiar that the last few months collapse.

You wonder what he sees when he looks at you. He must see something.

“Please,” he says as you hold his gaze. “Let me help. I won’t be able to sleep unless I know you’re home safe.” His mouth twists faintly, not quite a smile. “I mean... it's not like I can call and check, anyway.”

He looks away when he says it. He has never been very good at cruelty, not since high school—or so you have been told. He looks down at the floor, jaw working as though he regrets saying even that much.

Shame rises beneath your skin, and you are too exhausted to fight it. The fear has hollowed you out, and the expression on his face takes what remains. You glance down at the keys hanging from the ignition. Steve follows your hand as it closes around them, switching off the engine and pulling them free.

He does not speak, stepping back just enough to give you some room, happy that you are not going to bolt. You turn in the seat and place one foot out on the gravel, but your legs feel unreliable beneath you. His hands are there before you can fall, one closing around your forearm. He steadies you as he has done before, drawing you upright without pulling you too close, retreating once he is sure you won't fall.

The night settles properly over you now, working its way through your thin clothes and catching the dampness that remains at the nape of your neck. You instinctively fold your arms around yourself as you begin to walk. You only make it a few paces before something warm drops over your shoulders, Steve's jacket settling around you, heavy with the heat of his body, stopping you in your tracks.

"Steve," you begin. “You don’t—”

“I know.” He adjusts the collar around your neck before you can shrug it off. Then your hand rises towards it in protest, his palm comes down gently on your shoulder, keeping it firmly in place. “Leave it,” he murmurs, leading you away from your car.

The material smells like him. Clean soap, the faint trace of cologne he never uses sparingly. Your fingers curl into the front of it before you can stop them.

He moves as you do, matching your steps with his own. His body stays between you and the road, steering you towards the passenger side of his car. He moves ahead to open it for you. One hand above your head so you do not strike it against the door frame and keeps the other near your elbow as you lower yourself into the seat.

He waits until both your feet are inside before drawing the door. He pauses with one hand still resting along the top of it, looking down at you through the open space.

There is so much in the unspoken space, the place both of you are too scared to touch. You don't speak, choosing to pull his jacket closer around yourself. He tries not to notice it as he closes the door softly, jogging to the opposite side of the car, one hand running through his hair as he slides in, glancing at you before continuing.

“All right?” He tries softly.

It is such a ridiculous question that the answer could take hours, but you know what he means for now. He is asking if you can breathe, if you are here with him, if he can start driving, if you are comfortable enough to let him do this.

You offer him a weak nod, which will have to be enough of an answer. His gaze lingers as though he does not fully believe you.

He waits while you adjust yourself in the seat, until your hands have stopped searching for somewhere to rest and settle instead inside the sleeves. Only then does he put the car into gear, checking the road twice before pulling away. The headlights sweep across your abandoned car as he spins his around, illuminating it briefly before it disappears behind you.

He drives carefully. Both hands remain fixed at ten and two, his eyes trained on the dark road. His shoulders are stiff beneath his shirt as you try not to stare. It takes force to draw your eyes away, opting to look at the fields that slide past the passenger window beyond the glass.

You can feel he wants to say something, he draws in breath too large, then decides not to use it. Twice, his mouth opens as if he has chosen where he might begin before he changes his mind.

You do nothing to help him, wanting this journey to pass in complete silence. For him to take you back to your house, watch you walk through the door and drive away believing he has done his duty. You can worry about how to pick up your car tomorrow. You just want to return to what you have both been doing for the past few months. Steve can go back to whatever life he has made without you, and you can place one more day between you and the past.

He glances at you. The movement is brief, but you catch it in the window’s reflection.

“So, uh," he begins. "What were you doing out here so late?”

His voice is too gentle and you feel irritation stir beneath your exhaustion. You do not want to be handled by him.

"I went for a drive.” The answer is partly true.

“No, I—” he shifts one hand against the wheel. “I got that. I meant what were you doing on the side of the road?”

“I saw a deer.”

“A deer?"

“Yes, Steve.” He waits and you can feel the next question sitting in the silence. You press your cheek against the cool glass, not letting him ask. “It came out of the field. I swerved. That’s all.”

Steve makes a quiet sound in the back of his throat.

You turn your head slightly. “What?”

“Nothing.”

It most certainly is not nothing. You study his profile. His brow is furrowed, the muscles in his jaw moving as he stares at the road. He has always been terrible at concealing what he feels. Steve may lie with his mouth when he thinks it will protect someone, but the rest of him refuses to participate.

“Steve, I’m fine,” you say before he can try. “Honestly. Stop worrying.”

“Yeah,” he answers. “No. All right. You're 'fine.'”

The false agreement is almost insulting.

“What is that supposed to mean?” You ask as you turn towards him.

He exhales through his nose. “That doesn’t explain why you were driving around in the middle of the night.”

You do not have the energy to answer all of his questions right now.

“What if I wanted to?”

“That’s not what I—”

“What if I just wanted to enjoy a drive at night?” You pull his jacket tighter around you, more armour now than comfort. “Is that illegal?”

“No?” His voice rises slightly before he reins it back in. “No, I’m just saying—”

“You’re always just saying.” You turn back towards the window, pulse beginning to climb again. “You don’t have to worry about what I’m doing, okay? The deer just scared me. I would have been fine in a few minutes.”

“Right.” He says plainly, not helping with the dull ache that was beginning to form between your temples. "Sure, you would be."

“You can stop doing that.” You tell him sharply.

“Doing what?”

“Repeating everything I say like I’m stupid.” You huff.

“I don’t think you’re stupid.”

“Then stop talking to me like you do.”

He laughs. “Believe me, that’s not what I’m doing.”

“Then what are you doing?”

Steve’s eyes remain on the road, but the careful restraint is slipping. You see it in the colour rising along his neck.

“I’m just trying to understand what happened.”

“I told you what happened.”

“I know what you told me.” You can see him losing his patience. You almost want him too. At least if you fight, it can end here. “If that’s what you say happened,” he continues, each word clipped now, “then that’s what we’ll go with.”

Your teeth grit together. “Are you calling me a liar?”

Steve looks back at the road. At first, you think he will retreat.

“Yeah,” he says as his grip tightens around the wheel. “Actually, yeah. I am.”

The bluntness of it empties the air from the car. You turn away with a scoff, pressing yourself deeper into the seat. “Whatever. Believe what you want.”

“I will.”

“Good.”

“You forget,” a small smile plays at his lips, though there is no pleasure in it. “I’ve spent enough time with you to know when you’re lying.”

How dare—

The statement drips with the presumed intimacy you have spent months trying to erase. Who was he to say what you feel now? How can he say that with such certainty?

“Well, you don’t know me as well as you think.”

Steve’s expression flickers. The hurt is there and gone so quickly that you might have missed it if you had not once made a study of his face.

“No,” he says quietly. “I guess I don’t.”

The anger drains from his voice, leaving something worse behind. You decide to stare ahead, allowing the country to give way to the edges of town, scattered houses that sit dark and sleeping as you get closer to home. The knowledge brings relief. Just a few more minutes until you can be out of his car, til you can leave him, shut the door and put the past back where it belongs.

You decide to steer this pointless conversation away from you, anything to get his attention elsewhere.

“What were you doing out so late, then, Harrington?” You make the surname sound accusing, as though he is the one who has been caught somewhere he should not be.

“I was visiting Henderson," he answers calmly.

“At college?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s doing okay?” You cannot help but ask. You have not seen the boy in far too long, even longer than Steve. You can only hope he is doing better than you are, whatever that might mean.

“He’s doing good.” Steve’s voice softens despite himself. “Annoying as ever. Thinks because he’s taken half a semester of engineering classes, he can explain my own car to me. I left late. Thought I’d make it back tonight.”

You nod. The town gathers around you, houses becoming more frequent, the orange wash of streetlamps replacing the emptiness of the fields. Steve turns onto a road you both know.

“That’s nice,” you say. “At least you weren’t following me or something.”

You intend it as a joke. Perhaps a poor one, but a joke nonetheless.

“Don’t worry,” he says, sadness creeping through his tone. “You made sure I couldn’t do that.”

Steve turns onto your familiar road. You recognise the shape of your house before it emerges fully from the darkness. The porch light is still burning. You left it that way when you fled, though you cannot remember deciding to. He pulls into the drive and the engine idles for a moment, filling the car with a low vibration. Steve switches it off, though you can tell it is reluctant. The silence becomes immediate, so you reach for the door handle.

“Hey—”

You pretend not to hear him. Your fingers close around the latch.

“Wait.”

The plea in his voice catches you, but press on. You push the door open as Steve turns in his seat.

“Can you just—”

“What do you want?” You ask, frustrated.

His expression falls at the harshness of your voice. He looks at you, the dim light from the dashboard catches the tiredness beneath his eyes.

“What do I want?” he repeats, shaking his head in disbelief. "I mean—are we seriously not even going to talk?"

“We've been talking.” You tell him plainly, ready to be done with it.

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

Your hand remains on the open door. "There is nothing to talk about, Steve."

There is no need to add words to the months of silence. No need to explain the final night you shared a bed. The morning after, when Steve reached for your hand beneath the covers and found nothing but empty sheets in your place.

"I have a few things I want to say," he quips, hurt.

“Then say it to someone else.” You shut him down. "I'm tired, I've had a long night. I just want to go to bed. I don't need you turning this into a thing. I mean—It’s not like we were in a relationship or anything.”

You know it is a low blow before the sentence is even finished. You know because Steve stops moving entirely, as though the words have knocked the air from his lungs. His lips part, but nothing comes out. He just stares at you, completely stunned.

His eyes search your face, looking for anything that might undo what you have just said. A crack in your expression or some kind of falter. Any sign that you did not mean it. That you will take it back before it has the chance to settle between you.

He should have just kept driving.

You immediately get out of the car, unable to stay any longer. His jacket is still on your shoulders, but you don't stop to remove it. You shove the door shut as you hurry toward the house.

Please. Just go home.

He doesn't grant you that mercy. You hear the open and slam of the door as you force yourself to walk faster. The keys you fish out of your pocket shake in your hands as you miss the lock, metal scraping against the plate.

Shit.

“Wait!”

You find the lock again. The key finally turns.

“Please, just wait—”

You shove the door open and step inside, one hand already reaching to pull it closed behind you. But he is faster, catching it before it can shut, fingers curling around the edge. The door stops inches from the frame.

He pushes it open just far enough as you stand on one side of the threshold. The porch light falls across his face, and you see the full extent of what you have done. The anger is still there, but beneath it is something so wounded that you have to fight the instinct to reach for him.

“You can't—” he tries, but the words break as they exit. “You can't, just—” He drags a hand over his face. “I know you don’t want to talk to me. I know that. You made it pretty clear. You left—and—and I tried to understand, but you gave me nothing. You gave me nothing.”

“Steve, I can’t—”

“No.” His head lifts sharply. “No—I can’t.” He pushes the door wider and steps across the threshold. “I can’t do this anymore,” he says, anger and humiliation pulling him apart. “I can’t keep sitting there trying to figure out what I did. Because I had to have done something, right? There has to be something. People don’t just—”

He stops, presses his lips together.

“We couldn’t have gone through that—though everything—and then you couldn’t have spent all those nights with me, and then just—” His breath catches. “I couldn’t have imagined all of it.”

You stare at him. There is no answer you can give that will not require an excavation. No explanation that does not ask you to kneel in the dirt and begin pulling up every ugly thing you buried there. You had been a coward. You know that now, perhaps knew it even then, standing with a letter trembling between your fingers.

But you had also been trying to survive.

You had believed distance could cauterise what tenderness kept reopening. You had believed that if you stopped waking beside him, stopped feeling his sleeping breath against the back of your neck, stopped watching the morning gather slowly over his face, then the past might loosen its grip on you. That there would be no blood beneath his fingernails in the half-light. No bruises blooming over his ribs. No seconds upon waking when his body beside yours felt dead before it moved.

“Maybe it wasn’t real for you,” Steve says as he looks down at the floor between you. “And I get that. I mean, we weren’t exactly friends before everything happened. We barely spoke until you and Eddie got involved—”

“Steve, stop it. Right now.”

You cannot hear Eddie’s name in this house. You cannot have him summoned into the hallway casually, not when you have spent years trying to keep him confined to the places where only you can touch. He remains in the photographs hidden at the back of your drawer, in the cemetery across town, in the darkness at night in which he is always almost within reach.

“I’m sorry,” He always says it like that, as though the apology has been waiting for years. "I’m sorry, and I know I should’ve done more.”

You close your eyes.

Please don't.

“I should’ve stayed with them. I should’ve known it wasn’t safe leaving just him and Dustin there. I told him not to be a hero, I told him, but I should’ve—” His voice roughens. “I should’ve made him come with us. I should’ve been there.”

You have heard this speech before. In fragments at first, when neither of you could sleep and the night made confession seem less dangerous. Then in full, one winter morning when you found him sitting on the kitchen counter with his back against the cabinets, staring at nothing.

He should have been faster. Smarter. He should have understood what your best friend intended. He should have been in two places at once. He should never have allowed anyone beyond the reach of his already battered hands.

“Steve, it isn’t because of Eddie.”

His face twists. “How can it not be?” The question comes out through his teeth. “How can it not be when you loved him? When he was your friend and I couldn’t help him? When Dustin came back alone?”

“There was nothing you could have done.”

“There’s always something.”

“No, there isn’t.” Your voice cracks with the effort of keeping it low. “Sometimes there is nothing. Sometimes something terrible happens and there is no decision you could have made that would turn it into something else.”

His eyes shine beneath the porch light. “You don’t believe that.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“But you do.” He takes another step into the hallway. “You have to.”

“I don’t!”

“I know you see him.”

The words stop you. He looks frightened by what he has said, but he has begun now and cannot seem to stop.

“Every time we were together,” he continues. “I—I know you see him. Every time you looked at me after. Every time I touched you and—and you went quiet. Every time you woke up and couldn't even look at me. I knew—” You shake your head, but the movement lacks conviction. “You hated that I was there... and he wasn't.”

You can feel all of the emotions you worked so hard to bury begin their ugly crawl. You didn't want to have this conversation here—you didn't want to have it anywhere—but it is too late to turn back now.

“I do. I do hate it,” you say, the admission hanging heavy. “I hate that he doesn’t get any of this. That he didn’t get to leave Hawkins. That he never got to become anything except the worst thing this town decided he was and the way he died trying to prove them wrong.” Steve’s face begins to fall, words he knew were true but tried so hard to ignore. “But that isn’t why I left you.”

“Then why?”

You look away.

The hallway appears painfully ordinary. A glass sits on the small table beside the telephone and there is dust on the skirting board. All these minute domestic failures seem obscene when measured against the question he is asking you.

“I can’t give you what you want,” you say.

“And what do you think I want?”

“I don’t know. Something better than this.”

He lets out a disbelieving breath.

He doesn't get it. How could he?

“I can barely function, Steve. I can hardly make it through a day without feeling like something is waiting for me to let my guard down. I don’t sleep. I can’t sit in silence. Half the time I don’t know whether what I’m seeing is real until it’s already over.” You wipe at your face, furious to discover more tears there. “I can’t be whatever you need me to be. I can’t even be what I need me to be.”

“And you think I can?” The laugh that leaves him is startlingly empty. “You think this was easy for me?”

You look at him. Because yes, some shameful part of you had believed it was easier for him.

Steve had always known how to continue. He counted heads. Checked doors. Drove everyone home. He learned who needed to be distracted and who needed to be left alone.

He had suffered. You had never doubted that. But suffering seemed to sit differently on him. It did not immobilise him as it did with you. He carried it as he carried everything else, awkwardly perhaps, with more determination than grace, but without ever setting it down where someone else might trip over it.

You had envied him for that.

“You seemed like you were coping,” you offer.

“Coping,” he repeats. He gives another laugh and shakes his head. “Yeah. That’s one way to put it.”

He releases the door at last. It remains open behind him, the night visible in the narrow space between wood and frame.

“I got up because people needed me to get up,” he says. “That’s all. Dustin needed rides. Robin needed somebody to call when she couldn’t sleep. Max had appointments. Lucas needed someone to tell him he was allowed to leave the hospital for an hour without the world ending.” His eyes fall briefly to the jacket around your shoulders. “I had people around me. I had things I could do for them. That's what got me out of bed.”

“I—” You try again, swallowing hard. Now it was your turn to be speechless.

Steve looks at you with an unbearably tender expression. He comes closer, and you do not retreat, though every instinct you have cultivated over the past five months demands it.

“When everyone left,” he says, “all I had was you.” The words land without accusation. “I needed—I needed to know you were okay. I needed to see you eat something. I needed to know you'd made it home. And it—it wasn't just when everything was bad. It wasn't just when you couldn't sleep.” His voice lowers. “You were... you were who I woke up with.”

Steve’s gaze moves over your face as though there are years written there and he is trying to read every one of them.

“You were there in the morning,” he continues. “After all of it. When the sun came up and nothing had happened for eight whole hours... you were still there. You made coffee in that awful machine my parents bought and—and complained that I never had any real food. You left your books all over my room. You stole my shirts and acted like you didn't. I just—I kept thinking that, maybe... we were going to be okay.”

He lifts one shoulder helplessly.

“I thought... if you could keep doing it, then maybe I could too, y'know? I thought I could get better because you were getting better. Or... or I thought you were.” His voice falters. “And if I woke up and you were on the other side of the bed, then maybe... maybe the world hadn’t ended after all.”

The tears come too quickly for you to hide them.

You think of Steve’s house after you left. The vast, immaculate rooms on the edge of town. The swimming pool shining beneath the moon. His parents’ bedroom kept clean for people who were never there to disturb it. The telephone ringing into empty space.

You imagine him finding the letter on the hall table.

You had placed it there because you could not bear to leave it beside him in bed, could not bear the thought of waking him or seeing his face alter as he read it. So you had dressed quietly in the dark, collected only what you could carry and abandoned everything else in his drawers.

You had believed you were leaving before you could become another weight he had to drag behind him.

“I—I didn’t know,” you say. It sounds useless now, a child’s defence. A hand held over a wound too deep to cover. “I didn’t know, Steve.”

He says nothing.

“I thought—I thought I was doing us both a favour. Every time I looked at you, I remembered. Every time I woke up beside you, I had to check... I had to check that you were still breathing.” Your voice breaks entirely. “I thought I was making it worse. I thought I was just making it worse for both of us.” You swallow, but it does nothing to stop the words from falling apart. “I thought... I thought all we were doing was keeping each other there. Keeping each other trapped—”

“And leaving helped?” Steve closes the remaining space between you. “Is it helping you? Is it gone now?”

He asks desperately, needing to know the answer. All you can do is look up at him and allow the tears to stream freely down your face, slipping along your jaw and gathering beneath your chin. You slowly shake your head, finally ready to admit something true tonight.

No. They are not gone.

The memories of everything have grown in the dark, lost all proportion. They come whenever they please. They slip beneath doors, climb through the radio, wait in the reflection of dark windows.

“No,” you breathe.

His face changes, frustration going first. Then the last of the pride that brought him through your doorway. What remains is the same aching concern he wore beside your car, stripped now of uncertainty.

He raises a hand slowly. You could move away; he gives you more than enough time to do it. His palm settles against your cheek. The contact is so familiar that your eyes close at once. His thumb moves beneath your eye, catching a tear before it can fall.

“I just want them to stop...” you say, the words barely making it out.

“I know.”

“I’m so tired.”

“I know, angel.”

His other hand comes to your face. He holds you as though you are something fragile and frightened, his fingers resting lightly behind your ears. You breathe the same narrow pocket of air. His nose brushes yours. You feel the tremor he tries to contain when your hands rise and close around his wrists, not wanting your touch to disappear again.

“I can’t fix it,” he whispers, the same apologetic tone creeping into his voice. “I know... I know I can’t. But I can make it quiet.” His eyes search yours. “Just for a little while—I can make it go away. Just for a little while.”

There is desperation in him now, but not carelessness. His body has drawn close to yours, every breath pressing him nearer, yet he waits. Even now, with the months of hurt between you and your face cradled in his hands, he is trying to be good.

“You don’t have to say yes,” he says quickly. “You don’t owe me anything. I just—” His voice falters. “I want to make it better.”

Of course he does.

Because that is what Steve Harrington has always done. He takes every terrible thing that cannot be repaired and offers his hands to it anyway.

You are tired. So fucking tired.

You can blame this on delirium, on the desperate wish to lose yourself in something, or someone, other than your own mind. Steve is safe. He has seen you at your worst, and he can give you this, if only for a moment, if only for tonight. You want him to make you forget, to keep the darkness at bay until the morning sun can do the rest.

You turn your face slightly and press your mouth to the centre of his palm and Steve stops breathing. The gesture is so small, but it seems to travel through him. His fingers curl carefully along your jaw. When he looks at you again, he appears almost afraid to hope.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs.

You shake your head.

“Say it.”

“Don’t stop.”

Steve kisses you.

His mouth touches yours with such softness. It is tentative, the kiss of someone returning to a place he no longer believes he is permitted to enter. His lips move once against yours, waiting for you to decide whether this is memory or choice.

You lean into him, and the sound he makes is completely ruined.

His hands slip from your face to the sides of your neck, holding you there as he kisses you again. This time you feel the ache inside it. You open your mouth beneath his, and he shudders.

He draws you closer with an arm around your waist, cautious only for it to disintegrate, before restraint begins to fail him. His hand spreads over your back, gathering the jacket and the clothes beneath it as though he cannot quite believe there is a body inside them as you clutch at his shirt.

The kiss deepens, grief turning slowly into hunger. It is not clean, for nothing between you has ever been. His mouth tastes faintly of coffee and something sweet, painfully familiar after so long. You remember kissing him in his kitchen while water boiled dry on the stove. In the back seat of his car, after the funeral none of you thought was fair. Against the wall of his bedroom because sleep had become impossible and wanting him was easier than being afraid and alone.

Steve’s hand moves into your hair, then your back, drawing you against him until there is no space left for memory to stand between you. He breaks away only when neither of you can breathe.

“Do you want—”

“Yes.”

“You’re sure?” he asks against your mouth.

You answer by kissing him again, all composure leaving him as he becomes frantic. He backs you further into the hallway, kicking the door shut behind him without looking. The latch catches, sealing out the night.

His hands move over you with desperation, pulling his jacket from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. You reach for him, fingers slipping beneath the hem of his shirt, finding the warm skin of his stomach. He folds around you at the touch.

“I’m sorry,” you begin to whisper.

Steve kisses the apology from your mouth before you can finish it. His forehead presses briefly against yours, his breathing uneven.

“Not tonight,” he murmurs. “You can tell me tomorrow, alright?”

You nod against him, his hand closing around your own.

He walks you backwards, deeper into the house, refusing to surrender an inch of space between your bodies. You follow without looking, guided by the familiar shape of him. You turn instinctively towards the living room, but he gently coaxes you back.

His head shakes. “Nuh-uh.”

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Not here.”

You glance past him towards the sofa, its cushions still bearing the impression of all the nights you have spent folded into one corner.

“I thought—”

“I know.” He whispers. “I don’t want you here.” His thumb moves, barely touching skin. You look up at him in confusion. “I want you upstairs,” he says. His eyes hold yours, nervous despite the certainty in his voice. “Where I had you first.”

Where he can take care of you properly.

You remember another night, years ago. You had sat on the edge of your bed while he cleaned a cut along your shoulder, both of you pretending not to notice how his hands trembled whenever they touched you. Later, when the lights went out and the house began to groan around you, he had climbed beneath the covers without being asked.

You nod, allowing him to turn you toward the stairs. He goes ahead, climbing backwards for the first few steps before straightening. His hand remains locked around yours, arm reaching behind. At the landing, he looks back, and you barely make it across the threshold of your bedroom before he turns and reaches for you.

The kiss lands against the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, your jaw. His hands move over your shoulders and down your arms, only to return immediately to your face. He kisses you again before you can breathe, his teeth catching gently at your lower lip. He touches you as though trying to memorise what he once believed he knew. The shape of your waist beneath his palms. The slope of your neck. The place beneath your ear that makes your breath catch. Every few seconds, his eyes open, checking that you remain in front of him.

He is frightened you will slip through his hands again.

“Steve—” you whisper.

“I know.”

He does not know what you were going to say. Neither do you.

“I missed you,” he says against your jaw. “I missed you.”

He presses his face into the side of your neck as though ashamed of it, arms closing around you as you curl your fingers into his hair. The room seems to sway around you. He catches your face between his hands before you can turn away, kissing you with more urgency. You stumble backwards together until the edge of the bed strikes behind your knees.

Only then does he seem to notice the room. The bed is unmade, sheets still twisted. Clothes lie across the floor with books stacked beside the mattress, a plate sits on the desk opposite, beside a cup ring darkening the wood.

“Sorry,” you begin as humiliation begins to rise. “I haven’t really—It’s a mess, I should’ve—”

“I don’t care," he says it without even looking around. “I’ll take care of it.”

He'll take care of you.

You catch at the front of his shirt, pulling him close before the grief can become speech, and he lets you. He lowers you carefully onto the bed, the mattress gives beneath your weight. He follows only far enough to remain above you, one knee pressed into the sheets, his arms braced on either side of your body.

His fingers find the hem of your shirt. He draws the fabric upwards slowly, giving you time to change your mind at every inch. When your arms rise, he guides them through, careful of your wrists, careful of your hair. The shirt falls somewhere beside the bed, but he does not watch it go. The rest soon follows as his knuckles skim your skin. He bends to press his mouth against the newly uncovered part of you.

His attention returns to you immediately.

He kisses down your body with the same patience he once used. Mouth warm against the slope of your collarbone, trailing to the soft give of your breast. He lingers there, tongue tracing a lazy circle around one nipple until it tightens, then the other, as if he has all the time in the world. Heat rises under every place he touches. You feel it climb in waves, skin flushing darker the lower he goes.

His hands slide along your ribs, over the dip of your waist, settling at your hips to hold you steady while his mouth continues its unhurried path. He knows every inch of you. The place just above your navel that makes your stomach jump and the sensitive skin along the crease of your thigh. He takes his time with all of it, drawing out the journey until the wait itself becomes its own kind of ache. The only trouble is that he is waiting too. You can feel the tension in the way he breathes against you, the faint tremor in the hands that keep you open for him.

When he finally settles between your legs, he does not rush. He lowers himself, close enough that the soft fan of his breath ghosts over your cunt. Goosebumps rise immediately, which his eyes follow with reverence, dark and intent as he leans in.

The first touch of his tongue is almost nothing—barely there, a slow drag that makes your hips twitch. He does it again, gentler still, as if he is relearning the shape of you by taste alone. Light, careful strokes that never quite give you enough pressure.

He wants you to feel every second of it. Wants the sensation to build so slowly that your thoughts have nowhere to go except here, to the wet heat of his mouth and the hold of his steady hands.

He is gentle the entire time, never greedy. He draws it out on purpose, getting lost in the slow work of you, in the way your breathing changes and your thighs begin to tremble around his shoulders. It is torturous in the sweetest way. Every time the pleasure starts to sharpen, he eases off, returning to those light, almost teasing licks that keep you right on the edge of needing more.

He brings you close once, tongue circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your back arch, pulling away the moment your thighs tighten. You make a broken sound, one he wants to hear again. He continues, even slower, until the heat pools and your mind starts to fuzz at the edges.

He's going to kill you softly.

This is his plan. Emptying your head on purpose, erasing every memory until there is nothing left but him.

When you reach down and twist your fingers into his hair, trying to pull him back against, he groans so happily it vibrates straight through you. The sound is pure pleasure. He hisses against your cunt when you tug harder, hips shifting restlessly against the sheets.

“Steve—” The name leaves you as a groan, every nerve lit.

“I know, baby—” His voice is low and unsteady. “I know—I got you.”

And you believe him.

He pulls you to the edge a third time, tongue working as he makes your vision blur, then eases off again just before you can fall. Frustration sparks and you want to kick out, to force him closer, but his hands hold you firmly in place—thumbs stroking the soft insides of your thighs, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

He knows what he is doing. He has always been good at this—at giving, at offering you exactly what you need, even when you can't ask for it yourself.

“Please, Steve—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” He looks up at you, mouth wet, eyes soft. “Just a little longer for me, yeah? You can take a little more.”

He knows you can.

Your eyes meet his. The tears on your lashes are no longer from sadness. They are from the overwhelming pleasure, by someone who knows your body better than you do. He looks satisfied by the sight. He lowers his head again.

This time, there is purpose in it. Every flick of his tongue is aimed exactly where he knows you need it most. He works you in relentless strokes that build and build until the pleasure turns almost unbearable. You grip his hair harder, but the tug only spurs him on. A hungry groan vibrates against your clit and the sensation tips you over completely.

You come with a broken cry, thighs shaking around his head, body arching hard off the mattress. He stays with you through every pulse of it, gentling the pressure just enough to keep the pleasure rolling. He doesn't stop, leaving open-mouthed kisses against your core until the last aftershock fades and you are left boneless.

You need him. You need him immediately.

You are pawing at him the moment he begins to slide up your body, hands clumsy and desperate after the teasing of not just you, but himself. Every nerve still sparks. You catch the hem of his shirt and tug hard, needing the barrier gone, needing his skin against your own.

“Easy, angel—easy—” The soft coo lands against your temple as he helps you strip the fabric over his head. “You’ve got me, alright? I’m here.”

He shrugs the rest of the way free, then works open his jeans and underwear before crawling back over you, warm and solid.

“Steve—” The name leaves you broken. You are overwhelmed, eyes stinging again already. “I’m sorry. I never should have—”

“Shhh.” He settles his weight carefully, one hand slipping between your bodies to stroke through the slick heat of you. Your hips twitch helplessly into the touch. “I know. I told you—you can tell me tomorrow. Or the day after that. Whenever you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

The words almost undo you as tears press hot behind your eyes. He takes himself in hand then, the thick head of his cock dragging slowly through your folds, coating himself in how ready you already are. Your legs come up around his waist on instinct, heels pressing into the backs of his thighs, trying to pull him closer. He catches your shaking hands before they can dig too hard into his shoulders. One he pins gently beside your head, fingers interlacing with yours, while the other stays braced by your hip. Then he kisses you, bringing you back to the moment, back to him.

He pushes into you with aching care, and both of you hiss at the first thick stretch. The sound is almost pained. His forehead drops hard to your shoulder, breath coming in uneven pulls as he fights the tremor running through his arms. Everything is too much, all the months collapsing into this moment. He holds still, buried deep, shaking with the effort of not moving.

It is you who breaks first.

“Steve—please. I need you to move.”

He nods shakily against your skin and begins to rock into you. Soft as he always is. Every thrust gentle, eyes now locked on your face. He watches for every flicker of expression, every shift of breath, terrified of getting it wrong, of not being good enough, of watching you leave him again the moment this is over.

The fear sits right alongside the love in his gaze—raw, open, and almost unbearable to look at.

Steve has always been a talker. In bed it only gets worse. The words spill out of him like he cannot keep them inside any longer.

“Missed you,” he rambles, voice rough. “Fuck—I missed you, so much—”

His hips roll a little harder, a little deeper, and the new angle steals whatever reply you might have managed. You want to tell him you missed him too, that leaving was the worst mistake you ever made, that you should have asked, should have spoken, should have stayed. All of it dies on your tongue when his free hand slips between your bodies and finds your clit, stroking in tight circles timed with every gentle thrust.

“Never leaving you again, angel.” The words come out almost like a whine. “Can’t do it again. Won’t—” His rhythm falters for a second, then steadies. “Shit—can’t let you go. Gonna be here when you wake up—gonna be here all the time—”

He keeps talking, voice urgent against your cheek, against your mouth. The promises pour out of him, every one of them an act of service, every one of them the only way he knows how.

“Gonna make you better, alright? Gonna—gonna treat you good. Have you like this all the time. No thoughts. None of it. Just—fuck, just let me make it alright—please. I swear. I swear I’m gonna make it alright.”

Tears gather and spill. The pressure builds too fast, every nerve still raw from earlier. You feel the crest rising and so does he.

“Steve—I’m gonna—”

“I know, angel.” His voice cracks. “I can feel it. Give it to me. I can take it—give it to me, I got you—”

You break with a soft, wrecked cry, body tightening hard around him as the orgasm rolls through you in long, shuddering waves. Tears slip freely down your temples. Steve follows almost immediately, a broken sound punched out of him as he buries himself deep and comes, hips stuttering, forehead pressed to yours while the last of the pleasure drains out of both of you.

He remains above you, breath still mingling with your own, hands still interlocked. The room slowly begins to take form around you both, softer than before, distant with far less edges than it had when you first woke up.

You know you need to talk to him, to tell him that you heard everything, that it was not just the heat of the moment. That you want this too, whatever it may look like. You want to wake and find him breathing beside you, even if you still have to check. Leaving him was never proof that he wasn't enough, it only proved that you were too frightened to stay.

“Steve,” you manage. He lifts his head at once. His eyes search yours, still glassy and uncertain, as though he expects the name to become an apology or a goodbye.

“I—”

You don't know how to begin. You are tired, exhausted, every strained muscle and sleepless night weighing down on you. You want to be determined, to form a coherent sentence and give him something in return after everything you have taken, but his expression softens before you can attempt the words again.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to tell you.” Your voice has gone thick. “I want—”

“I know, ” he brushes the damp hair from your temple, though something frightened still flickers behind his tenderness. “You can tell me tomorrow, you can tell me everything.”

You know what he is doing: preparing for you to stop, to put an end to all of this. He is nervous; you can see it in his eyes. You want to speak to him, to tell him that tomorrow is what you want—that you want every ordinary and difficult thing waiting beyond this bed.

“I’m not going anywhere, angel.” He lowers himself beside you and draws you carefully against his chest, pulling the covers over both of you. “Go to sleep. I got you.”

He doesn't want to take any chances. Not for tonight. Not when he has you like this.

You fight it for another few seconds, cheek resting over the steady beat of his heart. There is so much you owe him, so much that cannot remain unsaid. But his hand moves slowly along your back, the same path over and over, and for the first time in months the silence does not contain teeth.

Your last conscious thought is that he is warm. The next is not a thought at all, only warm arms tightening when your body finally goes loose against him, holding you the moment exhaustion takes you completely.

When morning does finally come, it comes carefully. It gathers along the edges of the curtains, light reaching the foot of the bed and climbing up, heating the bare skin of your ankle.

You wake without knowing you have fully woken, surrounded only by warmth and the softness of the mattress beneath you. Your eyes open slowly.

The ceiling comes gradually into focus, you blink at it, waiting for the usual violence of consciousness to take hold, but nothing comes. Your heart does not wake before the rest of you, already racing from something your mind has not yet remembered. There is no cry trapped behind your teeth, no sweat cooling beneath your clothes.

You are simply awake.

The realisation is so unfamiliar that you remain still, breathing slowly. Last night returns in pieces, but gently. Steve crouched beside your car, his jacket settling over your shoulders. His hands around your face, mouth against yours. The weight of him above you, then beside you. You remember falling asleep to the sound of his heart.

Your hand moves across the mattress before you think to stop it, only finding the opposite side of the bed cold. The pillow is empty, the indentation left by him already beginning to lift, the sheet has been drawn back carefully.

You sit up, allowing the covers to fall from your shoulder and gather around your waist. You look towards the bathroom, but the door stands open and the room is dark.

“Steve?”

Your voice is so rough with sleep, it barely crosses the room.

No answer.

Surely he wouldn't...

No, no, he wouldn't. Steve would never leave without saying something, especially not after what transpired the night before, not after he promised he would be there when you woke.

Your feet hit the floor a little too quickly, still filled with sleep. The room tilts faintly as you stand too fast, nearly catching yourself against the mattress as you drag your eyes across the floor. An abandoned T-shirt lies half beneath the chair. You snatch it up and pull it over your head, barely checking which way it faces. A pair of shorts, you step into them awkwardly, hopping once as the fabric catches around your ankle.

Your face feels swollen from crying and sleep, your body carrying the tender evidence of the night before. You did not want to wake alone.

You told him that. You had told him you did not want to be alone anymore.

The bedroom door strikes the wall when you push it open. You cross the landing quickly, one hand skimming the bannister as you take the stairs too fast. Your bare feet slap against the wood. On the last step, your heel slips and you catch the rail with a sharp breath, shoulder jolting, but you keep moving.

The hallway is empty, and—shit—so is the living room.

You pass the kitchen in a hurry, all adrenaline falling out of your body as you see him, standing at the counter with his back half-turned towards you.

Morning light pours through the window above the sink, laying itself over his skin. He is wearing only his underwear from last night. His hair is flattened on one side from sleep and pushed away from his face on the other, likely by impatient fingers. Two mugs wait beside one another beneath the coffee machine. It sputters noisily between them, struggling awake.

He turns at the commotion behind him. His gaze moves over your face, then down your body.

“Hey,” he says, the word is careful.

You grip the edge of the doorframe. Your heart is still beating too quickly, but it has begun to understand what your eyes already know.

“Hey,” you manage.

Neither of you moves. There is still so much between you that the morning has made visible. Last night allowed you to speak in fragments, in touch and apology, in promises that could be blamed on exhaustion. Daylight offers no such mercy as it illuminates you both fully. He glances towards the coffee machine.

“I was gonna bring it up,” he says. “To you—in bed, I mean.” He clears his throat and adjusts one of the mugs despite it already sitting perfectly straight. “I didn’t want to wake you. You were—” His eyes return to you. “You were sleeping.”

You release the doorframe. “Uh, thank you.”

A tentative smile pulls at one corner of his mouth. “Yeah. Of course.”

You cross the kitchen slowly, and he turns back towards the machine, giving you room rather than reaching for you. He does not seem to know what he is permitted to do now. Last night, he touched you as though his hands had been made for the purpose, but now he is unsure.

You come to stand beside him. His bare torso reveals the broad plane of his stomach and the pale, uneven scar crossing it. It curves viciously over his side, disappearing beneath the waistband of his underwear, the skin raised in places where something had once torn through him. You had watched the wound close slowly, watched him pretend the bandages did not hurt when they were changed. But last night had been darkness and urgency, your eyes too full of tears to study anything for long.

You cannot understand how he carries it so casually. How he can stand barefoot in your kitchen, waiting for a temperamental coffee machine, with the evidence of another world written permanently across his body.

Your gaze lingers. His hand stills on the coffee pot. When you look up, his expression has changed, guarded in the way people become when they are waiting for pity.

“Sorry,” you say quickly.

“For what?”

“I was staring.”

He glances down at the scar as though he has forgotten it is there.

“Oh.” He gives a small shrug, but his shoulders remain tense. “Don’t worry about it.”

Your fingers curl against the edge of the counter. “Does it still hurt?”

“No,” he says. “Not anymore.”

“It doesn’t?” You can barely believe it.

“No.” He draws the word out slightly, considering. “I mean, sometimes when it gets cold. Or if I move weird. But no, not really.”

You nod. Not anymore.

There are things that stop hurting. Not because they disappear, but because the body learns where to place them. Scar tissue forms, then the nerves quieten. The wound becomes something that can be touched without reopening. You wonder whether that will ever be true of you.

Steve’s eyes remain on your face, but he does not ask what you are thinking. The coffee machine clicks, startlingly loud in the still kitchen. He turns towards it with gratitude.

“So,” he says, reaching for the pot, “we should probably get your car today.”

The words are casual, but you hear the question hidden beneath them. Whether there will be a today, whether last night will allow it.

“Oh.” You glance towards the window. “Um. Yeah. Sure.”

“We don’t have to,” he adds immediately. “I mean, if you don’t feel up to it. It’s not going anywhere.” He begins filling the first mug. “Well, hopefully it’s not going anywhere. That would be—yeah, no it's not going anywhere.”

Despite yourself, your mouth softens. “No, I probably should.”

“Right. Yeah.” He nods too quickly. “Okay. We can do that.”

He pours the second cup. You watch him add a little milk to yours without asking. He stirs it and passes the mug to you, careful that your fingers do not have to touch his unless you choose it. You let them brush deliberately against his.

“Thanks,” you say. You lift the mug towards your mouth. It is too hot to drink, but you hold it there anyway, allowing the steam to warm your face.

The kitchen looks different. The plate that had been left on the desk upstairs now sits washed in the drying rack. The glass beside the telephone is gone and the counters have been wiped, the crumbs and unopened letters gathered into neater piles. A bin bag rests by the back door, tied at the top. Hell, even the old towel hanging from the oven has been folded evenly over the handle.

There he goes again. Useful to a fault.

He is trying not to frighten you. Worse, he is trying not to give you a reason to send him away.

You did this. You taught him this. That your tenderness could vanish between one night and the next. That he could fall asleep with you in his arms and wake with nothing. He looks towards you, then away when he realises you are watching.

“I can take a look at your car when we get there,” he says. “Make sure you didn’t mess up the alignment or anything. Not that you did. I mean, the road looked pretty rough, so—”

“Steve.”

He stops as his fingers tighten slightly around his mug. You could apologise again. There are hundreds of apologies waiting, each one inadequate in a slightly different way. But apologies belong to what has already happened. What he needs from you is something that reaches forward.

“We can get my car today,” you say.

“Yeah?” His brow furrows faintly. “Alright.”

“And then—” You look into your coffee, watching the surface tremble with your unsteady hands. “Is your house still empty?”

His expression goes blank with surprise.

“Uh. Yeah.” He shifts his weight. “Should be. My parents are still in Chicago. Or Dallas. They might be in Dallas now, actually. My mom left a message, but she talked for, like, ten minutes without saying where they were.” A nervous breath becomes a laugh. “Why?”

You run your thumb around the rim of the mug.

“I don’t know.” The words feel too large to look at him while you say them. “I don’t really feel like staying here tonight. I think I want to get out of here for a little while,” you continue. “Just for a few days. Maybe longer. I don’t know yet.”

You finally raise your eyes. Hope appears on his face so quickly that he cannot conceal it. It is immediately followed by caution, as though he is afraid any visible happiness might frighten you into taking the offer back.

“You can stay at mine,” he says. “I mean, if that’s what you want. You can take the guest room, or my room, and I can sleep somewhere else. The couch is fine. I’ve slept on it before. It’s not—well, it’s terrible, actually, but I can handle it.” He sets his mug down, words beginning to tumble as they always do when he is nervous. “You don’t have to decide how long. We can just get your car and pack some stuff, and then if you want to come back here tomorrow, I’ll bring you back. Or if you want to stay—”

“Steve.”

He falls quiet again. You have never known anyone who could make devotion look so much like nervousness.

He swallows. “You can stay as long as you need.”

There is more he does not say. Stay until you can sleep, until the silence is ordinary again. Stay after that, too.

You look down at the coffee warming your hands. Ready to give in.

“I don’t want to live alone anymore,” you say.

The words are quieter than you intended. They do not contain everything, but you hope he understands what you are trying to give him. That you want to continue beyond last night. That you are still afraid, perhaps, but no longer afraid of him.

“You don’t have to,” he tells you gently. “You’ll always have me. You know that.”

And you do. You know it in the way he stands barefoot in your kitchen, waiting for permission to remain. In every frightened, earnest promise he has ever offered you.

The distance between you becomes unbearable. You set your mug down and reach for him.

He barely has time to turn before you kiss him. Your hands rise to his face, drawing him close as you pour every sweetness you cannot yet name into his mouth. Every apology. Every morning you want to share. Every promise that this time, when fear comes, you will not disappear before he wakes. He makes a startled sound against your lips, as his arms close around you.

The kiss is gentle, softened by morning. There is no desperation in it now, nothing to outrun. His thumb brushes along your cheek, wide awake. When you draw back, you keep your forehead against his.

“I want to be better,” you whisper. “I want to be better for you.”

Steve’s arms tighten. He pulls back just enough to look at you properly. “You don’t have to do that for me.”

“I want to.”

His eyes move over your face, warm and tender.

“I got time,” he says. “As much as you need.”

You laugh softly, the sound disappearing against his chest as you let him hold you.

Outside, the morning continues without asking anything of either of you. The coffee cools on the counter, and your car remains abandoned miles away. There are still rooms to clean and words to say and wounds that will not vanish simply because the sun has risen.

But Steve is smiling into your hair.

He asks whether you want pancakes before you leave, and you tell him yes. You sit on the counter while he makes them, your legs swinging, occasionally brushing against his hip as you let yourself laugh for the first time in months. His eyes shine with something hopeful, and little by little, the tension leaves his shoulders. He can see that you are trying, that you are no longer quite so afraid.

The bag you pack is far too full for only a few days, but he doesn't mention it. He simply carries it to the car for you, and later, he will carry it upstairs as well.

He will carry whatever he can, because now he knows you are willing to carry something for him, too.

a/n: first fic lets goo!!!

this has been sat in my google docs for weeks, idk if i am happy with the final result but i wanted to clear it out.

i plan to be writing more, when time permits. please let me know what you all think and if you want to req something, i am more than happy to give it a go if i think i can do it justice!

i plan to write for other characters, not just st, so keep your eyes open for me (but ofc steve will be here in the future). this is the first of hopefully many more.

hope you enjoyed, let me know what you think/want more of :))

[lonely-ey3s]

whiskey sour | follower commission

pairing: agent jack whiskey x f!reader word count: 18k warnings: angst, yearning, flashbacks, violence/fighting, guns, blood, fluff, without giving spoilers: SMUT (18+ MDNI).

a/n: this was a commission through my kofi from @pedritosgirl2000 !! here is her ask: 5k word SMUT where agent whiskey x female agent (different agency) assigned to the same mission (idk say they’re supposed to assassinate some bad guy) and forced to work together even if he pisses her off. Maybe they’ve had a run in before and know each other prior? Or maybe this is our reader's first big mission?

i'm not going to lie, this took me so much longer than i have would liked - however it's because i wrote way more than 5k (story of my life) because i fell in love with these two. so with that, i hope you all enjoy! if you'd like to request a commission, my kofi is open for 2 slots at a time, and I have one slot taken. it is also open for donations if you like my work <33

“Hey, sorry to barge in, Brandy, but the boss needs to see you in his office,” Richie said as he leaned into your office’s doorway to take a peek. He had a stack of field reports in his arms as he found you sitting at your desk. “Carol said it’s urgent…” 

“Yeah, yeah—one sec.” You muttered distracted, only paying attention to what you were reading on your computer screen—not in any rush like you should have been. 

Richie took another step into your office, curiosity pulling him closer as he noticed something familiar shining your blue light glasses.

His brow furrowed as he pressed. “Is that the Ramsey case file?” 

That grabbed your attention. You quickly glanced up, over your screen, to see him snooping. You removed your glasses and tossed them in front of you.

“Sorry, what did you say? Champagne needs me?”  You asked as your glasses rattled across your desk while you pressed the lock button on your keyboard. 

Richie straightened, realizing he had crossed a line by the way you reacted. He nodded as he pulled the stack in his arms closer to his chest. “Uhm, yes, ma’am.” 

You closed the case file next to you as you rolled your chair back. You stood as you pressed for further details—attempting to change the subject away from what you were looking into. “Did Carol say what it's about?”

He shook his head and shrugged, racking his brain for something useful to report.

He stumbled at first but then advised, “Uh, no but… I did overhear them talking earlier about something happening down south? How they were going to send you and Agent Gin to meet up with another agent down there…” 

You reached back and grabbed your suit jacket from the back of your chair before walking out of your office—putting it on as you headed down the narrow hallway, Richie trailing close behind. 

“Did they mention the name of the agent we’d meet up with?” You asked as you glanced over your shoulder for a moment before picking up the pace. 

He shook his head and shrugged. “I thought i heard them mention someone named… Tequila?” 

You glanced forward as you buttoned your jacket, turning down the main hall and sighing, “As long as it’s not a Whiskey—I’m all for an field assignment.” 

After a very vague and short debrief with Champagne, claiming ‘details need to stay at a minimum until your arrival’—you were on a plane to New Orleans, Louisiana.

The only solid piece of information you were told was that Gin would meet you in a few days time. Of course after you gathered intel and made a game plan with the agent you’d be meeting you there. 

When you asked who you were meeting with on location—who to look for, a name, anything—Champagne advised that he was only advised by headquarters that they agent would meet you at the hotel bar after you landed. 

That certainly didn’t settle the pit in your stomach you had as you got on the plane—not in the slightest. 

After a long flight, that was much longer than you expected—you landed not only a lot later than you wanted, but you got off to yet another surprise: in an already buzzing city—you were also landing two nights before Mardi Gras began.

This added a new level of complexity that you were too tired to consider.

After checking in and sending your bags up to your room, meeting your new and somewhat secret partner where there’d be alcohol didn’t seem so much like a chore.

Fuck, after the last few hours? You needed a fucking drink. 

You sat down at the bar and knocked twice on the hardwood to get the bartender's attention. 

“Can I get a whiskey sour?” You asked sweetly when he turned to look your way, giving the young gentleman a warm, soft smile. 

Just as the bartender nodded your way, you heard a southern drawl call your name from behind you. One that made your heart rate pick up and—against your wishes—gave something deep in your belly a small flutter. 

“No longer drinkin’ martinis, Agent?” The voice asked, a slight tease in his voice. 

You took a deep breath in before turning in your seat to greet him with a forced yet polite smile. “Ah, so the mission isn’t as vague as I was advised.” You scanned him up and down from where he stood before biting back, “I mean, knowing you, specific details were… purposely withheld from me, yes?” 

He grinned and put his hand over his chest. “You wound me with such… false accusations.” 

You raised your eyebrow, a small warning, and pursed your lips tighter. A look he knew all too well. All you wanted was the truth. No bullshit. 

He exhaled and bowed his head before raising his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. You caught me.” He said as he began stepping closer, his arms slowly coming down to his sides. 

“Should’ve known…” You shook your head and rolled your eyes—clearly annoyed. “Especially with how little Champagne was giving up.” 

Jack shrugged as he casually stood next to you at the bar. “I uh, may have told the old cowboy to hold out on some of the details, ya know?” Jack grinned a little too proudly as he moved to lean his elbow against the bar. He couldn’t help as his gaze took you in, in a way that was no longer appreciated by you—nevertheless, still made your pulse skip a beat. 

His voice dropped an octave and slowed as he murmured, “Plus, we wanted to surprise ya…”

“Of course you did.” You accused as you shook your head, swinging back around to rub your temple. You couldn’t help but think over all the ways the next few days were going to be miserable. 

Jack watched and held up his pointer finger to signal the bartender for a drink, just as he placed yours in front of you.

He took a second before his voice softened and something changed in the way he held himself. “Look, I know you’re not happy about this. Especially given our last time… working together.” 

Except it wasn’t working together. It was far more than that—deeper.

You hummed and took a sip of your drink. Instead of your voice changing for the better, yours became colder, more flat. “Ah, so now you call the last time we saw each other… just working?” 

Jack paused before he looked down at his finger, picking at the seam of the bar before he muttered, slightly falling over his words. “Well, no. I don’t—but I thought we were... God, I don’t know. I know if we call it anything more than what you wanted—” 

“Mhm, right. What I wanted...” You snapped, cutting him off. You nodded more to yourself than to what he was saying—trying to keep yourself from showing that maybe a part of you still cared for what you left behind. 

“Sorry, I just thought that…” Jack tried to recover, hearing the hurt you were trying to hide.

You quickly swallowed down the lump that had crept up with each word he had muttered—wounds from the past clawing their way to the surface. “No it’s ok. It’s ok… I’m glad—I’m glad we’re finally on the same page.” 

Jack’s gaze moved back to you and it all came flooding back.

He stood there wanting to say all the things he’d held back, the words he regretted not telling you before—the ones that kept him up most nights since.

Without knowing, his face and body language softened as he moved just a fraction closer.

But before anything further could be said or done, you stood from your stool and put a twenty-dollar bill on the counter. You downed your drink in one go. The burn you felt run down your throat made you softly cough and your eyes slightly water.

You inhaled a sharp breath before adding, adding a fake small smile. “Thank God we can skip all that meet-and-greet fuss, yeah?”

You grabbed your jacket and pushed in your stool before you began to walk away towards the lobby, saying loud enough for Jack to hear. “I’ll uh, meet you back here in the morning to… establish a game plan.”

You barely made it two steps out of the bar before you heard Jack’s voice from behind you, his voice still soft but somewhat hopeful. “Good night, Y/N…” 

You stopped, only for a few seconds. Something deep down ached that you hadn’t felt since the last time you saw him.

But then you let go of a breath you seemed to be holding in and replied, “And to you.. Agent.” 

Jack stood there, watching you walk away, and couldn’t help but smile to himself—even after that cold and closed off interaction.  

Because for him, it was good to see you. He’d missed you, even if you didn’t miss him. 

He missed the way you made him feel. How you made him feel lighter, brighter… happier. He missed the challenge you brought him. The way you pushed him to think faster, deeper, to feel more than just the surface level. You brought out the good in him. 

And yeah, being called ‘Agent’ stung—like you meant it to. But he knew that just meant you cared… even if you didn’t want to admit it. 

You still cared.

“Fuckfuckfuck—” You whispered to yourself as the elevator doors shut. Your heart had been hammering in your chest since you left the bar and that stupid fucking lump crawling back up the moment you heard him say goodnight.

“God damn it...” You inhaled a shaky breath—even as you tried to hold it all back.  

Once the bell dinged to begin your ascent, you pinched the bridge of your nose—holding onto the railing bring yourself back in.

But no matter how tightly you closed your eyes or how many deep breaths you took—all you could think of was the last night you saw him. 

You stormed into the motel room—the door slamming against the wall as you entered.  Jack was on your heels, as always, and caught the door before it could close behind you. “Whoa, hey, easy now.”  His knuckles were bruised, and his arm was bloodied from a bullet graze. The dried blood on his sleeve showed an obvious—and painful reminder of his recklessness that day.

“Baby, what—what’s wrong? I don’t understand what—”  “You could’ve gotten killed!” You cut him off, your voice rising with each word. “God, what were you thinking, Jack?” He stuttered, the words he needed failing him at how mad and scared you looked. For once, he was unsure of what to say, how to make it all better. For once, he wanted to be careful with how he responded. For once, he cared what came out of his mouth in a fight.  Instead, his silence just fueled your anger and you began throwing clothes from around the room into the duffel bag that now sat open on the bed. “I knew it. I knew getting close was a mistake.” You muttered under your breath, voice shaky.  His gaze snapped from the duffel to you, and he took a step closer. “A mistake? What we have… wait, what we are—”   “No—no. There… There is no ‘we’, Jack.” You quickly corrected—more so to bring yourself comfort with what you were about to do. “There isn’t. There can’t be.” He stood there and let the silence settle; convinced it would do its work. He wanted to believe that you didn’t mean any of it. Not when this morning was so much different. Not when that last few weeks you’d spent falling in love. No, you couldn’t mean it. He told himself that you were just scared after what happened to him. Right? He watched closely to see continue to packing up the duffel before your hands slow their movements. He waited patiently until you realized how ridiculous you sounded before he softly muttered. “And who said we can’t be something more, hm?”  You hated how that made you pause mid-motion and clench the shirt you had in your hand.  He took the opportunity and stepped once more forward. He took off his Stetson, and combed his fingers through his hair—a nervous tick he had—before setting it next to the duffel. He sat in front of you before reaching out for your hand. He gently kissed your knuckles before gently pressing further. “Don’t we deserve to be happy after all we’ve sacrificed?”  Did you deserve happiness? You wanted to believe you did—especially with all that you’ve done, both good and bad.  But, with happiness came pain… then came liability, and not far behind that came a deep sense of vulnerability that you just couldn’t afford.

Another thing happiness brought was that anyone could use it against you. Anyone could manipulate and use it to hurt you. And with this job? There wasn’t a chance that you could allow that to be a possibility. This was all you had—all you had known.

But then he sat there in front of you, looking up at you like you’d hung the moon and stars. And something inside you hesitated to believe that you couldn’t have it all.

The elevator, softly jolting as it came to your floor—snapping you out of your thoughts. You heard a soft ding from above, only to look up and see the number 12 shining above. 

The shiny golden doors opened to an older couple, arm in arm, chuckling amongst themselves.

You pushed off the railing and nodded a silent ‘good evening’ to them—before slinking past to lock yourself in your room for the rest of the night. 

The last couple of days settled into something neither of you wanted to acknowledge.

You’d wake before sunrise to get coffee from whatever corner shop opened first. Then it was hours of surveillance and reading over reports together.

There was even a day when it was the two of you weaving through the crowded streets of New Orleans for hours—all while Mardi Gras celebrations grew louder and crazier by the minute.

It should've been miserable—but god damn it, it was annoyingly easy.

Not because the assignment itself was after gathering intel, but if anything, working with Jack again, being with him—it came back to you like muscle memory.

"...Two exits," you murmured beneath your breath as you watched a warehouse from the roof across the street.

Jack lowered the binoculars without looking away from the building. "West side will be cleaner to go in from."

"Mm." You hummed as you looked down, tapping information into the tablet lying in your lap. 

"They’re usin’ the front door as bait," Jack noted, putting his binoculars back up.

"You’re just seeing that?" You jabbed as you glanced over at him for a moment.

A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Mm, let me guess: it’s in your little daily logbook already?"

You rolled your eyes as you held up your binoculars again to peer through them. "You mean the logbook that you never seem to read?"

“Hey now, I read ‘em, just…” His grin slowly grew as he peeked over at you. "...must’ve missed that part."

You kept your gaze on the warehouse, your tone slightly sarcastic as you muttered. “Sure you did...”

He chuckled quietly beside you before looking back through his binoculars.

It wasn't until the fourth night that everything went sideways and something started to crack open between the both of you.

The lead you received was supposed to be a simple small mission:

1. Meet the informant

2. Exchange the payment

3. Leave

However, the second you stepped inside the abandoned repair garage, every instinct in your body screamed something was wrong. It was too quiet—all too easy. 

Jack must’ve felt it too as his hand brushed against the small of your back for less than a second. Something that happened purely out of instinct, as it had always been his way of giving you a silent warning. 

Nevertheless, it sent heat to your cheeks and another small flutter deep in your belly.

Both clouding your thoughts, slowing your movements—taking you out of your element.

You blinked gave him a slight nod of acknowledgment, pushing all that aside.  

He moved just a fraction in front of you before reaching behind to rest on his gun, holstered on his belt. 

“Stay behind me.” He whispered, scanning the area.

"It’s a setup." You murmured, eyes scanning everything around you, watching for the smallest movement. “You got any ideas on a way out of here?” 

Jack glanced over his shoulder towards the way you both came in, gambling on a simple retreat. “Thoughts on backtracking?” 

You followed his gaze behind you and went to reply, only for the lights to cut out.

“Shit.” You both muttered in unison, turning back to look at what was in front of you. It wasn’t to your complete surprise when you saw silhouettes of three large figures coming from the darkness—closing in from all sides.

The first swarmed you from the side before you could draw your sidearm. You ducked beneath his swing and drove your fist into his ribs. You quickly grabbed his wrist and threw him over your shoulder—knocking the air clear out of him.

The second lunged from behind you, but before you could react, Jack caught him.

Jack was known to hit hard. You heard the second his fist landed a blow to the man’s jaw—it was defining and solid. You turned your head just slightly to check and saw the moment just before his knee connected to the assailant's stomach. The man folded, grunting in pain before yelling something in another language before repositioning himself to take another swing toward Jack out of frustration.

"Behind you!" Jack barked as he ducked, grabbing the man’s arm with one hand and his shirt collar with the other, shoving him backwards towards a pile of wooden pallets. 

You never questioned him, never looked to double-check—you simply dropped to your knees just as a fist sailed through the space where your head had been a second earlier.

You glanced up to counter attack—only to see Jack's boot connect with the attacker's chest. hard enough to send him crashing into a stack of old tires.

You were already moving towards the assailant that Jack sent stumbling into a pile of pallets.

He swung at you faster than you expected—hitting hard across the cheekbone.

Despite the sting and immediate pain—you recovered faster than he could block. You landed three quick strikes—two to his jaw and one to the core—plus a final jab to his throat.

The man made a wet and high pitched noise as he grabbed his neck, breath stolen from him before he fell to his knees. You took it a step further and kicked him hard in the ribs—making him collapse against the concrete with a deafening thud and a gasping wheeze as he curled into the fetal position, struggling to breathe. 

You turned around just as the first attacker that went towards you got up and rushed for Jack— now that his back was turned and clearly distracted.

Without thinking, you grabbed a rusted wrench from the nearby workbench and hurled it as hard as you could toward your target.

It spun through the air to land squarely across the base of the man’s skull—making him cry out and stumble forward as it knocked him off balance.

“Jack!” You shouted.

Jack didn’t need anything further; he just knew when it came to you.

He immediately spun around—instantly moving to tackle the man to the ground. He pinned him down by straddling him, knees trapping his arms down—making the man yelp out in pain.

Without skipping a beat, he pulled out his gun and pointed it at the man struggling to get up from the pile of tires.

“Freeze!” He warned, glaring at the man who was clearly thinking about lunging again. His chest was heaving and fists were balled up—looking like a raging bull. 

You pulled your sidearm and pointed at the man below you on the concrete, laying dazed and bloodied before firing a stun bullet to his abdomen—jolting him with a high electric shock—before knocking him unconscious. 

Jack did the same when the man took a step forward—not taking a chance for another round. He firing a single shot before standing and shooting at the young man beneath his feet—knocking both out as well.

Silence settled over the garage before both of your heavy breathing filled the room. For several long seconds, neither of you spoke as you gathered yourselves on what just happened. 

Then Jack finally looked over to find you before asking. "You alright?"

You nodded, focused on the man lying unconscious at your feet. "...I'm fine."

Jack saw something in the small amount of light that seeped through one of the windows that made his stomach sink.

He wasted no time before he began stepping closer—gently saying your name to pull your attention towards him. 

You blinked at the sound of your name falling off his tongue—not hearing it in that way for years. The softness made you turn to face him—only to see him for his hand to reach toward your cheek. 

You instinctively caught his wrist before he could touch you, your guard going back up.

His eyes flicked between your hand and your face.

"You're bleedin’..." He tried to reason, nodding toward your cheek that had some blood running down it. 

“Shit…” Your stomach dropped slightly, not knowing you’d possibly been hurt.

You reached up to wipe it away with the back of your hand before muttering. "...I said I’m fine, Jack. I’m fine."

He sighed, his face dropping as you stepped away from what he could only assume was you feeling embarrassed.

His hand fell back down to his side—his fingers rubbed together anxiously, like he’d been robbed of an excuse to touch you, to care for you again. 

And of course you noticed. You could still read him like a book with those big brown eyes.

"You worry too much about me." You murmured quietly. 

“What, you expect me not to?” His expression hardened slightly, but his voice remained soft. "You're… my partner."

"Yeah, but I’m only your partner for this mission.” You said as you moved past him, shoulders barely grazing the others.

You walked over to the other body to begin gathering information about the group of men—immediately getting back to business. “Plus, I can handle myself."

"I know you can."

"Do you?" You pressed, glancing back at him as you crouched by the man who know laid unconscious by the tires. 

"Of course I do," he said, quieter than before, "but just because you can handle yourself doesn’t mean that I can’t have your back too. You know that you need me just as much as I need you." He paused before adding, “Especially in situations like these.” 

You huffed a chuckle as you dug into the man’s pockets. "I didn't need saving for anyone, Jack. I would have had it if—"

"I never said you did.” Jack cautiously interrupted, walking towards you before crouching on the other side of the body, his gaze settling on you. “Despite what you think, I do know you enough to understand you’re capable of handling things yourself...” 

Despite yourself, your cheeks bloomed a soft pink as you glanced up at him through your eyelashes.

You caught his gaze for a split second before quickly looking back down, your cheeks instantly deepening in color. 

Jack smiled to himself, noting the change before he softly cleared his throat and turned around to search the other body—leaving the conversation on that note.

Later that night

Jack balanced two paper bags against his hip as he nudged the hotel room door open with his shoulder.

You gripped your pistol on the table next to you, somewhat still on edge from earlier. 

Jack heard the faintest click as you cocked the hammer with your thumb. "Hey now, don’t shoot the delivery man," he grinned, trying to lighten the mood as he shut the door behind him with his foot.

Without looking up from the mess of photographs scattered in front of you, you countered. "Delivery man forgot to knock."

Jack strolled over, grin still lightly pulling on his lips as he teased. "Plus if ya shot me—you wouldn’t get the coffee you begged me to go out for…”

You put the safety back on and rolled your eyes, “For the record, I didn’t beg. I… I might’ve mentioned needin’ a pick me up—needing something to keep me awake for at least the next few hours...” You said with a soft sigh as you gently tossed a photograph onto the table, clearly frustrated by what was in front of you before you folded your arms over your chest. “But I didn’t beg.”

Jack just chuckled, only for you to look up just in time to watch him set two coffees and a pair of burgers in front of you.

God it was a beautiful sight.

The room that had smelled faintly of old carpet, cigarettes and rain drifting in from Bourbon Street—now smelled of the two best things in the world.

The aroma of the caramelized onions and strong black coffee both made your stomach growl and instantly put you at ease. 

Jack pulled one wrapped burger from the bag and slid it across the table toward you.

"No lettuce or tomato… and extra sauce for you."

You frowned slightly and looked up at him for a moment before looking down at the silver wrapper the burger was neatly wrapped in.

"...How'd you know that’s how I liked my burger?"

He blinked as he took off his hat, placing it on the end of the bed behind him."You've ordered the same order since Tennessee."

A beat passed as he took off his lightly damp jacket to neatly hang it on the back the chair, before adding. "… And you always said you hated how watery the lettuce made a burger. Plus ya hate tomatoes on anythin’, so..."

You stared at the wrapper for a second longer than you meant to. ‘He remembered. God, of course he did… he was always so good about that kind of stuff. He always made you feel seen.’

Jack seemed to realize what he'd admitted a second too late and busied himself unwrapping his own burger—sitting down and opening a case file, scanning over details to appear busy and distracted.

Neither of you spoke for a few minutes after that. Both trying to ignore the shift that kept making its way of creeping up between you.

You hesitated only for a moment before you picked up the burger and unwrapped it. No lettuce. No tomatoes. And a ridiculous amount of barbecue sauce that you always insisted made it better.

As you stared at it, you hated that he remembered the small details—but you hated even more that was that a small part of you was glad he did.

"So," you said after a few minutes, deliberately changing the subject as you opened a folder that you had sitting nearby, "thoughts on our three new friends?"

Jack swallowed his bite, shrugging. "Didn't tell us much that we didn’t already know..."

"They told us enough." You murmured as you spread a few photographs you took of their belongings across the table.

But after an hour of combing through it all again and running through every single detail—all you had was three men, one warehouse, four shell companies, and two names that they gave you that meant nothing.

"Our original plan doesn't work anymore." You murmured as you tossed the file folder onto the table to stand.

You turned to look at the wall that now had photos and notes hanging with scribbles your writing to show a path of evidence. 

Jack came up behind you, his eyes scanning over the same thing. He stood close enough that you could feel the warmth rolling off him.

"You’re right. It doesn’t." His voice low and focused. 

You chewed on the side of your thumb as your eyes skimmed over the details before pointing towards it. "If what they told us was true, they said they already moved the shipment… which puts us 12 hours behind schedule."

"Looks that way," Jack murmured, his gaze slowly making its way to the back of your head, realizing how close he was standing. 

You sighed and pinched the bridge of your nose, grumbling. "And Gin gets here tomorrow. God the timing..."

"Mhm." 

"We're supposed to brief him with a… a plan or… somewhat of plan of this damn operation!” You pointed to the wall that showed nothing close to a plan. 

Jack shrugged and exhaled a slow, controlled breath. "We’ll come up with something."

You let out an aggravated breath and shook your head. "Yeah with that? We nothing to come up with…" You murmured as you turned and sat on the edge of the table and began rubbing your temples.

Jack chewed the inside of his cheek, studying the wall for a moment before he decided you both needed a break.

He reached for the coffee you'd barely touched and nudged it toward you. "Take a break… drink some of this."

"I'm not tired." You sighed, nudging it back as you stood back up and turn again toward the wall. 

"Didn’t say you were… but you've been rubbin' your head like you do when you’re getting one of those headaches you tend to get when working late."

"I'm—that’s not… I’m thinking." You stuttered through your lie, removing your fingers from your temple.

"Well sorry to say, but you think better caffeinated." He protested, nudging it back toward you.

He waited a moment before moving to sit on the edge of the table, next to where you were standing. 

You narrowed your eyes at him for a second, infuriated how right he was—how well he still knew you.

You sighed before mumbling as you took a few sips. "Y’know, I hate how smug you get when you're right."

"I know." He smirked as he reached around for a case file he’d been combing through beforehand. 

And there it was. 

That smile. That stupid, crooked, soft, and kind smile that he seemed to only have for you.

It hadn't changed after all this time. Even after all the pain you knew you caused him—it hadn’t changed. It was still patient and safe. It was something that managed to soften the sharp edges he gave everyone else. It was just for you. 

You looked away for a moment before leaning on the table next to him. You looked over his shoulder at the file and read over a few details before setting your cup down behind you.

"Let's assume they were lying…" You began.

"Mm, they were." Jack assured as he flipped up a page, studying one of the shipping manifests. 

"Wha—about all of it?" You questioned, shocked by how quickly and confident he sounded.

"Not exactly." He began as he closed the folder and set it next to him. “I think they left out a few details to try and throw us off.” He continued as he started unbuttoning his cuffs—rolling them up his forearm. 

You caught a glance at the veins bulging on his tan skin. How big his hand looked compared to the buttons he was working at.

You felt your heart start to race and a rush of heat rush to your core.

So before he could catch you practically drooling, you glanced over your shoulder at the wall before asking, your voice cracking on the first syllable. "You believe what they said about the warehouse?"

Jack hesitated and peered up at you, noticing your cheeks blooming.

He only needed a second before calculating what brought on that reaction before he bit his lip to hold back a shit eating grin.

"I do." He replied, trying to keep his voice even.

"And the dock?" You questioned after composing yourself, turning back to face him.  

Jake pursed his lips and shrugged. "Might be real… but I’m not going to lie—somethin’ feels off about it."

You sighed and lingered on that thought before continuing. "Well then, what about the buyer?" 

Jack shook his head and let out a chuckled, nodding toward the folder next to him. "Mm, now that’s fake."

You raised your eyebrow and tilted your head, not sure how he was seeing this, and you weren’t.

You always saw through the smoke and lies. You could always picked up the pieces and put them together. Why weren’t you able to with this?

"What makes you so sure?"

"They answered too fast when we pushed them about it... like they were kids trying to lie about who broke their mom’s vintage crystal set." He said, leaning back slightly on his hands—making those damn veins pop even more—but like it was the most obvious observation. 

Not only that but you hated how cocky that made him look.

But you also couldn’t deny now that you thought about it more—he was right.

They were way too anxious and quick about that one question when they were all separately interrogated.

"Alright fine. You might be right." You muttered before taking another long sip, eyes fixated on the bed in front of you as you thought about everything more with that assumption.

"Well, I usually am." He teased as he grinned wider.

It caught you off guard, the ease and tease in his voice. You’d be lying if it didn’t take you back to how things were before.

Enough for a quiet snort, followed by a small, quick chuckle escaped—before you had time to swallow it. 

Jack looked to you immediately, and if you could’ve seen—the man somehow melted.

Because there it was. That laugh. That laugh that made his days brighter and his heart fuller years ago. That laugh that he still heard echo in his dreams.

Jack took a moment before he leaned a bit forward. "You still have that cute little snort before you laugh."

You cleared your throat and turned away as your cheeks flooded with a warmth that seemed almost like a betrayal.

“You uhm, you were saying the buyer was fake—” You started as you quickly got off the table to put distance between you. However smooth you were trying to be, in the process of getting up, you knocked a thick folder off—sending papers and photos scattered all over the floor. 

“Shit.” You muttered, immediately kneeling to pick everything up quickly.

“Here, let me help,” Jack said softly as he quickly slid off the table and down onto the floor with you. 

You sighed and began picking papers up faster. “It’s fine, Jack. I got it…”  

But when you both reached for the same photograph, and your fingers brushed—something shifted.

Not dramatically, but just enough that the room suddenly felt smaller, the air slightly thicker. The music that had been carrying through the open crack in the window—the trumpets and laughter weaving together—sounded further away.

It was a touch, nothing more—yet neither of you pulled away immediately.

It was when you felt his thumb shift the smallest fraction against the side of your hand, that you blinked and he’d realized what he was doing.

He withdrew his hand, his voice small and soft as he muttered. "...Sorry."

"It's fine." You muttered back, eyes darting down to gather the photographs before shoving them into the folder, the pile messy and spilling out.

Neither of you moved, just stayed there with cheeks warm, hearts pounding, and eyes avoidant of what just happened.

Jack racked his mind, trying to think of what to do or say. But before he could make a decision, you stood abruptly, tucking your hair shyly behind your ears.

Your voice came out small and quiet—almost shy. "I uhm, I need some air..."

Jack watched you cross the room before the door opened—the smell of rain and smoke from the shop down below wafted inside. Lightning struck before thunder boomed as the streets cheered in celebration.

But then you pulled it softly to close behind you.

Jack sat there and couldn’t help but question how to move forward—especially after that obvious electric moment after the years spent apart.

What could he say? What could he do to make it better? 

It was obvious there was a loose end between the two of you. How, after all that had been said and done—all the hurt and pain—there was still something of a chance to mend it. 

He knew that you also felt that shift—that same electric warmth in just the small touch of your fingers.

He knew if he could just make you see it—if you would just stop for a moment to give him a chance—you both could be so much happier. 

You leaned your forearms against the cool metal balcony. You watched the rain pour off of the roof in front of you and then saw the hundreds of people move beneath the glowing lights of the city below.

You listened to the music, the cheers, the soft thunder as it continued—the clapping of thousands as they continued to flood the streets in celebration.

All that listening and watching only to be distracted by the lingering feeling on the side of your hand—from where his thumb just was. 

You traced your finger over the skin, back and forth, slowly. You couldn’t help the way your mind drifted back to the last time you remember your hand in his. 

It was the morning you left. 

Jack would always hold you close from behind as you slept—his arm beneath your pillow, the other around your torso. You would always find his hand and interlock them together in your sleep.

It was something he found endearing and sweet. That whether you consciously meant to or not—he always found your hand in his when he’d wake.

You loved how every morning, he’d pull your hand to his lips and kiss your knuckles—then being the flirt he was, he’d move all the way up your arm before finally finding his way to your lips where he’d take his time settling there.

It was your little morning routine. It was habit.

But the morning you left? There was a reason it was before he woke.

Because if the routine had been honored, you would have never left. 

You hated how much your heart still ached for him. How that small touch sent your heart racing, your cheeks on fire.

How it reignited that fire that you thought you’d doused the second you walked out that door. 

But it had never left—it just dimmed until the time was just right. 

You heard the door open and close from behind you after a few minutes.

It wasn’t until you felt his warmth coming off his shoulder that you knew he was to your side. 

There were a few moments of silence as you both stood there, listening to the music below. The rain continued to pour above you, creating somewhat of a peaceful, yet soulful ambiance considering what you were in the middle of. 

Jack glanced to the crowd below and hummed to himself.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out softer than you hoped—a small smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Have you ever been to something like this before?” 

You kept your gaze on your hand for a moment longer before blinking and glancing down below. “What? Something this loud?” 

Jack chuckled and waved his hand as he shrugged—his lips pursing. “Sure, you could say that.” 

You couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at your lips as you thought of a memories. “Loudest party I’ve ever been to is a tie between my cousin Vinnie’s bar mitzvah or my old partner’s daughter’s quinceañera…" 

Jack leaned a bit more onto the bars but turned his head to glance at you as he smiled. “I’ve been to several quinces and can agree… they can be on the same level as Madi Gras.” 

You smiled and nodded as you watched him for a moment before looking away—back down to the crowd below. 

Jack’s gaze stayed on you and saw you were looking for a way to avoid talking about what just happened. And he wasn’t a person to make you talk about it, let alone make you feel uncomfortable.

So he gently nudged your elbow with his and sighed. “So… what’s our plan? What are we going to tell Gin when he gets here?” 

You were shocked but not surprised he avoided talking about it. He was always respectful about things like that—not wanting to push you.

Although you can’t say you weren’t a little disappointed.

So you shrugged and pushed off the rail, turning around to lean your ass against it. You crossed your arms over your chest as you pondered about all the options before suggesting, “I think we should delay our plans until we have more information. Something more solid.”

Jack stood upright as he held onto the railing next to you, rocking back and forth slowly as he looked deep in thought, eyes fixated below. “You think it’s too risky to just… wing it?” 

You took a deep breath before turning your head to look at him for a moment.

Without knowing at first, your gaze softened, and for a second, he saw flashes of something run across before you looked down and swallowed—pushing it all back down. 

A second more, you finally said. “I can’t—uhm…we can’t have what happened last time we were in a situation like this… happen again by just ‘winging it’.” 

Jack knew instantly what you were referring to. His rocking stopped, and his stance straightened before he turned on his side to face you more head-on. 

His voice changed to something remorseful yet still gentle as he assured, “Hey… I won’t let anythin’ like that ever happen again…” 

You kept your gaze away from his as tears started to well up—the emotion of that day boiling up. The thoughts and feelings of that day barreling back.

Just thinking about the moment you thought you lost him—even after all this time, it was still raw. 

You put your hands on the rail behind you and pushed off, clearing your throat gently. “Yeah, well… you can’t make those types of guarantees, Whiskey.” 

He pinched his brows together at that name—how wrong that felt, even for you.

He studied you, and after a moment, could tell just by the way you refused to look at him there was something there.

He could see that there was some part of you that regretted leaving—that never forgave yourself for walking away. He could see the pain that you still carried, the fear you still held onto. He could read you like a book—like he always had. 

His heart was pounding, and he felt dizzy—but he saw a chance to change everything.

So before he could talk himself out of it, or come up with some stupid reason to walk away—he took a gamble. 

He moved a fraction closer and placed his hand over yours before muttering. “That’s my name… and that’s certainly not what you’ve ever called me.” 

His warmth enveloped you the moment he stepped closer, and it was almost bewitching how quickly every defense you'd spent years building began to crumble.

How the familiar scent of his cologne—pine softened by bright citrus—wrapped around you, soothing your frayed nerves as it filled every corner of your senses. Fighting it felt pointless. Not when every carefully guarded thought, every ounce of resolve, every atom that made up your being—surrendered to him until there was nothing left between you but him.

You couldn't tear your eyes away from him, even as tears blurred his features. The moment you blinked, they spilled over, sliding silently down your cheeks. Embarrassed, your hand darted up beneath his, determined to brush them away before he could see. But his free hand was already there, cradling your cheek with a tenderness that stole the breath from your lungs.

“Jack…” you whispered.

His heart was pounding so hard he was certain you could hear it.

His thumb gently swept beneath your eye, brushing away the tear that had escaped. He lingered against your skin for just a moment longer than necessary—as if he couldn't bear to let go now that he had you this way.

He carefully and almost cautiously—closed the remaining distance between you, his eyes never leaving yours, as he searched your face for the smallest sign that he should stop, that you'd changed your mind or put your walls back up.

But you didn't—your gaze stayed locked on his. 

Encouraged by that, he slowly gathered your hand that had stayed beneath his on the rail and guided them until they rested between your chests—where he could feel your heartbeat nearly matching his own.

You watched as his eyes briefly fell to your joined hands.

You felt his thumb absentmindedly begin to trace slow, comforting arcs across your knuckles—grounding both of you in the quiet that settled between your breaths.

Even with the city outside still pulsing with music and celebration below, with the thunderstorm creating chaos above—right here, it all seemed to disappear. 

"I made a reckless mistake that day..." he murmured, his voice rough with regret. He swallowed hard before finishing, "...one that cost me everythin'."

Your brows pinched together as you searched his face, trying to understand the weight behind his words before you asked—almost afraid of the answer. "Everything?"

Jack lifted his eyes to yours, hearing the uncertainty in your voice. How you carried the disbelief that you could possibly mean that much to him. It made his chest ache. Because, God—if only you knew the way he still ached for you next to him, how his heart still raced when he saw someone who even resembled you on the street?

He yearned for a second chance—and this was it.

A tender smile found its way onto his face despite the tears threatening to blur his vision.

"You've always been my everythin'," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper as his eyes danced across your soft features. "From the moment you walked into my life." He shook his head ever so slightly, his smile turning bittersweet. "That's never stopped. Not for a single day."

The words stole the air from your lungs and words from your tongue. Enough that the only thing you could do was let your forehead slowly fall against his—your eyes slipping shut as you gave the smallest nod, trying to steady the storm raging inside your chest.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You simply stood there, breathing the same air, listening to the rain fall around you—letting years of distance quietly unravel between you.

"I need you to know that..." you whispered as your other hand slid from the cold metal railing to rest over his heart, feeling it race beneath your palm. The steady rhythm only quickened your own pulse and left you feeling an overwhelming flood of emotion.

You drew in a shaky breath before continuing, "...I didn't leave that day because..." But the words got caught in your throat—your mind was racing as memories crashed over you all at once. The gunshots. The way you heard his body collapse to the ground. The motel room. The argument. The night you spent wrapped in his arms. The fear you woke with the same conclusion you walked into that motel room with. The feeling you had as you walked away from him. The painful feeling of every instinct begging you to turn back. The regret you held onto until it turned you cold and numb. 

But now he was here—close enough to touch. Close enough that it almost felt like the years between never even happened.

Jack gently shook his head, his hand slipping behind your neck to cradle it with an impossible tenderness as he drew you just a fraction closer.

"Shh..." he whispered, brushing his forehead against yours. "You don't have to explain anything to me."

"But I do." You argued, nodding your head against his. 

"You don't." He insisted as his eyes searched yours, full of nothing but patience. "I don't wanna hear any of that," he murmured. "Whatever happened... it's over now. I don't care about the years we lost. I don't care about who was right or wrong. I just—"

"No, Jack, I..." Your voice trembled as you squeezed his hand, stopping him before he could finish. 

You needed to say what you’d held back. He deserved that at the very least. You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, needing him to see every ounce of truth written across your face.

"I left that day..." Your lip quivered as fresh tears blurred your vision. "...because I couldn't stand the thought of ever losing you."

Jack's breath caught and his brows pinched together, trying to process everything you were saying.

"I couldn't watch this job take you away from me." Your fingers tightened around his shirt as you pulled him slightly closer. "I… I woke up that morning and couldn't cope with the thought of you one day never coming back… of me being left alone in a world without you."

Another tear slipped free as your voice broke. "So I convinced myself that leaving first would hurt less." A broken laugh escaped you, shaking your head through the tears. "But it didn't. It hurt so much worse."

His own eyes glistened now—his thumb gently began to rub that soft spot of your jawline as he listened.

"I couldn't lose you..." you whispered, your voice breaking beneath the weight of everything you'd buried for years. "...because I love you, Jack."

The confession that you'd both waited years to hear out loud settled between you in the quiet, fragile, and undeniable moment.

All Jack could do was simply stare at you.

He couldn’t believe that every hope he'd forced himself to bury, every word he never thought he’d hear—was now right in front of him.

"You love me..." he repeated softly.

You nodded through your tears as you leaned into his gentle hold. "I never stopped."

His breath caught somewhere in his chest, his thumb stilling against your cheek. His eyes searched yours, looking for hesitation—for doubt, for regret, for anything that would tell him he'd imagined what he just heard.

He found none. 

A smile, soft and almost boyish, tugged at the corner of his mouth before he let out a shaky breath. His forehead falling against yours once more. "I’m sorry, I’m just…"

Your lips quivered into the faintest smile through your tears as you teased. “What? For once you’ve got nothing to say?” 

Jack let out a quiet, breathless chuckle. “What is this? You’ve confessed your love for me, and now you're teasing me for being speechless?"

“Absolutely.” You smiled, really smiled, for what felt like the first time in years. God, you'd missed him—missed this—missed the way he could make you feel when everything felt impossible.

Your eyes drifted to his lips before you could stop yourself.

Jack noticed as his own gaze lingered on yours, his expression softening as every ounce of his bravado melted away.

"I have a confession now," he murmured. 

“Pour your heart out, Agent.” 

His smile grew wider at the playfulness before his voice dropped slightly. "I’ve been talkin' myself out kissin’ you every damn day we’ve been here."

Your pulse skipped as you swallowed, your cheeks slowly turning a rosy shade of pink. 

"Well, that’s a shame… I seem to remember you always had terrible self-control." You purred, feeling his hand move from your neck to pinch your chin. A grin slowly formed as you knew what was coming. 

He huffed a laugh as he started to lean in, his gaze flicking back up to yours as he asked. “So does that mean you don't want me to stop?” 

You reached up and gently cupped his jaw. Your thumb brushed over the light amount of stubble there before giving his hand another small squeeze as you whispered. "I think we've spent too many years telling ourselves to stop."

You felt his heart pound faster as you closed the last inch between you, your lips barely touching as you whispered. "...so please, Jack... don’t stop."

Jack didn't waste another second as he pulled your chin up and closer before his lips were on yours, kissing you softly. It was slow and slightly nervous, like he was scared to lose you. It wasn't rushed or desperate to make up for lost time, but slow and lingering.

You melted into him almost instantly as your hand slid from his jaw to the back of his neck.

Just as he did the same, both of his hands found the small of your back, drawing you impossibly closer. Every familiar piece of him fit exactly where you remembered—as if no time had passed at all.

His lips moved against yours in slow, gentle passes, each kiss lingering just a heartbeat longer than the last before they gradually deepened.

It felt tentative at first, as though the two of you were still asking permission after all this time.

But the nerves and hesitation didn't last too long. Not when he started deepening the kiss, and you met him just as eagerly—chasing every kiss with one of your own.

Your hands eventually slipped from around his shoulders to thread through the soft curls at the back of his hair, gently tugging him closer.

A quiet, satisfied groan rumbled in the back of his throat at that feeling.

The sound sent warmth blooming through your chest, and before you knew it, his own hands had settled firmly against your waist. His fingers spread across your sides as he kept you close—making sure that what little space remained was nonexistent between your bodies.

A soft gasp escaped your lips, and then goosebumps erupted across your skin as memories of your life before rushed straight to your core with the way he held you.

You forgot how intoxicating he was.

Against every promise you'd made yourself swear over and over that first night, you found yourself leaning into him even more—deepening the kiss until your lips slowly parted against his.

He answered almost instantly, his own breath hitching before he met you halfway, kissing you with years of longing and need for more.

Eventually, your arms slid farther around his neck as he carefully guided the two of you backward until your ass met the patio railing. The cold, rain-slick metal pressed through your jeans, pulling a quiet moan from the sensation between kisses.

"There's that sweet sound..." he murmured, smirking against your lips.

His mouth drifted from yours, brushing a trail of featherlight kisses along your cheek before following the familiar line of your jaw. He lingered there, unhurried, as though reacquainting himself with every part of you he'd spent years yearning to get back to.

When his lips reached the sensitive spot just below your ear, you felt his lips smile again.

"Mm..." he murmured against your skin, his voice low and warm. "You still wear that perfume I got ya..."

The words alone were enough to make your heart stumble and your knees weak.

Your hand reached behind you to grip the slick metal railing for balance while the other disappeared into the soft curls at the back of his neck—your fingers instinctively combing through them to hold him where he was.

You meant to answer him—you really did, but all that you could manage was the smallest nod followed by a breathless sound that barely resembled a response.

After all, how could he expect you to possibly think straight? Not when his lips were on you like that. Not when his voice sounded that low, and it felt this good to be back in his arms. Not when you heard your name whispered in your ear with that familiar southern drawl.

You began to lose track of time itself as the moment stretched effortlessly between your neck and his lips—that was until a loud bang exploded somewhere below, causing you both to jolt.

Even after years of training, basic instinct took over before either of you could think.

You broke the kiss first, instinctively planting a firm hand against Jack's chest as you pushed him back just enough to create space to react if needed. Your eyes immediately scanned the surrounding area while his hand instinctively moved toward the holster at his side.

For one tense heartbeat, neither of you breathed.

But then came the cheering, the laughter, the music, and another loud crack that sounded suspiciously like a firecracker.

You both looked over the railing at the same time, hearts hammering in your chests to see the crowd had gathered in the streets below, pointing up toward you.

Several people wolf-whistled and cheered, others erupted into applause. Someone shouted something completely unintelligible to your ears but from below, was immediately followed by another chorus of cheers.

You blinked once before letting out an embarrassed laugh at what they must’ve been watching beforehand. "Oh my God..."

Jack looked down at the crowd before slowly turning back to you, his lips swollen from your kisses, his hair adorably disheveled from your fingers.

He looked completely dazed but utterly happy with that crooked grin spread across his face.

"Seems we were givin' 'em quite the show," he teased.

Heat rushed into your cheeks and all you could do was reach your cold hands up to cover your face. "I think they're enjoying it more than we may have been."

"Mm, that’s doubtful. I was enjoyin’ it very much." He smirked as he stepped closer again, moving slowly this time, giving you every opportunity to stop him if it was too public or fast.

Instead, you stayed exactly where you at and hummed before murmuring. “Me too.”

His lips brushed your temple then your cheek, before his fingers gently pinched your chin, coaxing your gaze back up toward his.

"Now, where was I?" he whispered.

Before you could think of something witty to say, he kissed you again. His lips moving softly and patiently against yours—like he had all the time in the world.

You smiled into the kiss almost immediately, melting against him as naturally as it felt to breathe.

It began with the same tenderness as before, but neither of you could ignore the pull between you for long as the kiss gradually deepened once more, every lingering touch carrying years of unspoken yearning and longing for the other.

Your hands wandered everywhere they could reach—around his neck, through his hair, against the steady rise and fall of his chest, at his waist and bicep to pull him closer—simply needing him as close to you as possible.

Jack was the same only one hand settled at your hip while the other traced gently up your back before cradling your cheek or the back of your neck again—as though he couldn't decide where he wanted to hold you most.

“I’ve missed you,” He smiled against your lips as he pulled away only for a moment to whisper. "So much, baby."

The admission stole what little composure you had left and it probably looked ridiculous from below.

You could only imagine it: the sight of two secret government agents, standing on a hotel balcony, in the middle of Mardi Gras, like teenagers stealing kisses behind the school bleachers.

But the more you thought about it, the less you couldn't have cared.

Just as Jack’s lips kissed yours again, lightning flashed across the sky—followed by a thunderous boom that rolled through the city a second later. It vibrated the city beneath your feet and startling you enough to pull away.

Jack's lips chased yours instinctively before he laughed under his breath. “Mm, wait…”

You giggled at him, your forehead resting briefly against his as you breathed. "Maybe we..."

He managed to steal one more slow, lingering kiss before you nudged your nose against his and bit your bottom lip to hold yourself back from leaning in again.

"...Maybe we should head back inside if the storm's heading this way." you murmured, sliding your hands down his chest to land at his sides.

His thumbs began tracing slow, absentminded circles against your hips while he admired you with a look you'd almost forgotten—one filled with nothing but quiet adoration.

He nudged your nose back before taking a careful step toward the hotel door, bringing you with him—careful not to let you go.

"So..." he murmured, smiling. "Does this mean we're pullin' a late night?"

You bit your lower lip, unable to hide your smile as you leaned back into him—whispering against his lips, "This means..." You kissed him once. "...I'd like you..." Another kiss, this one slower. "...to spend the night."

Jack let out a quiet groan the moment your lips met his again. "Baby," he breathed with a grin, "you don't gotta ask me twice."

Without breaking from your lips, he reached behind himself until his hand found the door knob. He twisted it open, and the two of you stumbled inside together, tangled in one another's arms and laughing softly between stolen kisses.

You were quick to reach behind and kick the door shut just as your backs bumped into the table the two of you had been working at only moments before.

The file folder that Jack had just cleaned up—filled with maps, photographs, and case notes threatened to slide toward the edge.

Jack's hand shot back on instinct, catching the nearest stack before anything could fall off the table again.

"Can’t be makin’ another mess now, can we?" he muttered with a chuckle as he felt your hands slide slowly up his chest.

You laughed against his lips as you slowed down your kiss—gently nipping his bottom lip as you hummed, “Mm-mm” 

He groaned and slipped both hands around your waist, effortlessly lifting you onto the edge of the table before stepping between your knees—not once did his lips leave yours. 

You continued to kiss him, your fingers messing through his hair, his hands wrapping possessively around your waist or occasionally around your thighs to pull you closer to his waist.

He began to get a little eager and passionate with his kisses. You instinctively leaned back on your hand to hold you up, matching the energy—only for it to land on a file folder and slip—sending the folder to the ground, papers and photos scattering across the floor. 

Jack pulled back just enough to mumble, glancing at the nearby floor, quietly chuckling at the mess just made. “Damn it…”

You felt him move back just slightly, like he was about to leave you to clean up the mess. You knew he knew how you were about case files being taken care of and preserved. 

It shocked him when you quickly leaned back in and tugged at his shirt, wanting his focus back on you. 

“Mm, no… leave it.” You purred, moving your hand slowly up his chest to thread your fingers back in his hair, pulling him back to your lips. “I want you right where you are…” 

He stopped his motion and nodded—that boyish grin coming back for a moment before he crashed back onto your lips.

His voice was husky and low as he cooed as kisses started to build back up. “Tell me where else you want me...” 

“Why don’t you wing it, Agent Whiskey…” You purred between kisses, “…where do you think I want you?”

Jack had a small growl escape his lips and before either of you knew it—you were back to tongues tangling and heated breathing as you devoured each other.

Jack’s hands at one point climbed slowly up your thighs and then tightly gripped them to pull your core closer to his—and that small motion was all it took for your flood gates to open. 

You moaned feeling the growing member pressing up against his jeans, feeling him begin to rock himself against you as he dragged his lips down to your neck—beginning to suck hard enough to leave love marks. 

You couldn’t help the sounds that came out of you as you panted with your eyes fluttering shut—unable to mutter a single word with how entranced you felt under his spell. 

“Mm, I missed those sweet moans...” He murmured before kissing slowly up to your earlobe—or in other words, your weakness. 

You couldn’t help the small, helpless moan when he pulled it between his lips and went to softly suck on it.

You giggled as you instantly blushed madly and your hand shot down to his shoulder to push him back. You rolled your head to look at him, cheeks bright red and pupils just as blown as his. 

“You know that’s off limits.” You warned, your voice shy.

He barely listened, as he could only watch your lips more than anything. His tongue slid between his lips before his grip on your thigh tightened, his gaze darkening as he felt your hand slowly move from his shoulder—further down his body. 

“Is there… anything else off limits tonight?” He drawled as his hands moved to your waist, already preparing for your answer. 

Your fingers danced lightly against his belt buckle as you held onto your answer for a moment longer than necessary—teasing him in any way you possibly could. 

You thoughtfully hummed as you gazed between your bodies before your finger slid beneath his waistband—making his stomach suck in just a tad and a low growl erupt from his chest. 

“Baby…” He warned, his grip tightening around your waist, holding himself back until you gave him the okay.

And boy did you know that.

You knew how respectable he was. How he always needed consent—even after being with each other for as long as you had been—he never made a move if there was any hesitation from you. 

You grinned as you leaned forward to peck his jawline before laying heavier kisses as you moved down to his neck, then to his pulse point. 

His breath became slightly faster and erratic, and now he was the one to have his eyes flutter shut as your lips and tongue made their mark on his skin. 

“Fuck…” He whined, a little needier than he would have liked to sound.

However, for you, that little sound fueled you even more as your hand slowly began undoing his buckle as you continued marking his neck. 

The moment his belt was undone, you murmured as you grinned against his skin. “You know my limits...” 

Jack groaned as he pulled back to gently nudge your jaw to the side with the bridge of his nose.

He began gently kissing your jaw and neck as he asked, his voice filled with need. “Are you sure? You don’t wanna take things slow?” 

Your breathing picked up again as you grinned to yourself. You bit your bottom lip to hold back a moan as he started to glide his tongue over your pulse point.

You felt his arm wrap around your lower back and the other start to slide beneath your ass—something he did when he was about to lift you. Your body reacted out of pure habit, and your arm moved to wrap around his shoulders to hold on.

You moved one of your hands to cup his cheek, pulling his attention and lips back towards yours. You kissed him slowly and deeply a couple of times before pulling back enough that your breath mingled with his to whisper. “Do you really think I want to take things slow?” 

He grinned, and his head shook slightly against yours, your noses barely touching before he whispered back. “Judgin’ by the way my neck is all marked up? No, ma’am, it does not…” 

You both chuckled and stayed there for another second before you leaned back in and kissed him deeply, lips lingering on each pass for a few seconds before the next.

Jack lifted you effortlessly from the table after a few slow kisses—taking you to the bed. 

He carefully laid you on your back before you both began undressing each other and yourselves between kisses.

Eventually you were both bare before each other—you laid there giggling as Jack carefully removed your jeans from your legs. 

He stood at the foot of the bed, naked and exposed—in his most vulnerable state—and couldn’t help but pause and admire the beauty that you were before him. How you had always been the most breathtaking woman in every room. How after years the years spent apart, you were still as he remembered you on that last night together. 

He gently rubbed the inside of your ankle with his thumb as his eyes slowly made their way up your body. 

“I could never bring myself to feel for anyone else the way I feel for you…” He admitted quietly, almost like he didn’t know he said it outloud. 

You moved to sit up on the backs of your elbows. Your hair fell over your shoulders and barely onto your breasts with the way you tilted your head to the side as you watched him. 

“So there were others?” You asked softly—not an ounce of judgement or hurt in your voice—more like curiosity. 

Jack blinked, finding your eyes and swallowed nervously—feeling slightly guilty for something he knew you didn’t hold him responsible for. Didn’t mean it didn’t feel wrong. If anything, it felt dirty and unfaithful—in some way disloyal to you.

“Yes.” He muttered quietly, “And, this isn’t my business to ask of you, just because—”

“Yes.” You answered before he could finish his sentence. 

His jaw tightened and his thumb stopped against your ankle for a moment before it started again. “Did you…” he paused, worried he was about to ask something he’d regret. 

You leaned further up to where you were now sitting up fully and held out your hand for him to take—extending it as a gesture of love and respect as you pressed for him to continue. “Did I, what…?” 

You saw his features and body language immediately change the second he saw your hand. A small smile creeped up the corners of his mouth and he somehow softened in a way only you could understand. 

He reached for your hand and leaned forward to kiss your knuckles before he began to crawl up the bed to meet you as you slowly laid back down the closer he got. 

He finally came to lay on his side next to you, keeping your fingers laced with his—keeping then close to his lips as he gently kissed your knuckles while he thought of the words he wanted to say. 

He started slowly, keeping this gaze on your fingers laced with his—his voice small and shy. “Did you fall in love with any of them?”

You smiled at his fixation on your hands together—so you used it to your advantage. You pulled them to your lips and kissed them, effectively pulling his attention back to your gaze. 

“I never could stomach more than a night with someone else.” Another kiss to his thumb as you chuckled to yourself. “And that was if we spent the night together. Most of the men that tried to hit on me or take me out drove me insane…” 

Jack chuckled and brushed his thumb over yours before he reached with his other hand and tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Your gaze snapped up to his and for a moment you both just took up the space you were in together—committing it to memory. 

He cupped your cheek after a few moments and caressed your cheek softly before murmuring. “I’m never letting you go again.” 

You melted into his soft hold and smiled as you whispered, taking your hand out of his and cupping his cheek on the opposite side. “Never again.” 

Jack pulled you slowly to his lips and kissed you deeply and passionately—lingering with each one for a few seconds longer than the last. 

Your hand moved to lie across his chest as he moved to lie himself between your legs. He moved his hand down the side of your body before it came between your legs and pressed the back of your thigh back slightly to give him more room. 

You gasped at the feeling of his cock sliding between your folds—the feeling sending heat straight to your cunt. You thought you were wet already? You were now going to be soaking. 

Jack grunted at the feeling and pulled away from your lips to look down—resting his forehead against yours—seeing the tip of his cock glistening from your seeping folds already.

He smirked as he dragged himself up and down your slit—coating it more before tapping it against your clit, “God baby, you’re always so wet for me…” 

Your cheeks bloomed a deep pink as soft moans escaped between breaths. “You know what you do to me…” 

Jack pressed into your entrance for only a moment before drawing back out, teasing you now that he had you like this. 

You gripped his biceps and gasped at the sudden stretch, then the absence of him. How there was an ache of how much you missed feeling him like this—and how it came rushing back. 

“Jack…” You whined along with a needy moan as one of your hands slinked between your bodies, slowly wrapping around his shaft—reintroducing yourself to the girth and sheer sweet length of him made you moan softly. 

“Please…” You whimpered as you attempted to glide him back inside you, only to get barely the tip in before he pulled himself back out. He gently wrapped his hand around your wrist and kissed your collarbone to coax your hand to release him.

“Shh, I promise to make it worth the wait…” He murmured against your skin as your hand came back to rest on his shoulder.

He took his cock back and slowly dragged himself up and down your slit, achingly slow, one final time before perching himself at your entrance.

He kissed your collarbone again up to your jaw, then your cheek, before gently nudging your nose to ask. “Are you going to be a good girl and take me all in one go?” 

“Yes.” Your breath mingled with his as you nodded, your voice filled with need.

He looked down and watched your pretty little pussy hungrily as he hesitated for just a moment before he looked back up, and his lips barely grazed yours as his eyes searched your face to tell him to stop or perhaps this wasn't real.

But when it didn't come, he leaned in—capturing your lips as he kissed you—slowly, deeply, and with a warmth that wrapped around every fractured piece of your heart.

He stole your breath away with effortless ease, only to give it back through the quiet tenderness of his touch as he slowly sank himself into your heat. 

You both moaned and pulled away from each other's lips—unable to concentrate on something as simple as kissing. 

Your mouth fell open, gasping at the way you stretched around him.

Jack felt his knees slightly give at the sensation—it was almost euphoric. Underneath your fingertips, you felt goosebumps scatter across his skin—the man becoming completely undone.

“Fuck, I missed how well you take me.” He let out a low grunt, his voice strained as he fully buried himself inside you. 

Your breath was quick and light, moans falling out as you exhaled.

“God, I forgot how thick you are. Fuck—you feel so good.” You mewled as you began moving your hips just slightly to grind against him. 

Jack could only produce a guttural growl at your movements. No more than a couple swirls and wordless groans, and his hand firmly came to grab at your hips, stopping your movements.

“Mm, baby—you gotta stop that, or I’m not gonna last much longer.” 

You bit your bottom lip, biting back a giggle before moving your hand up to thread your fingers through the back of his hair as you whined. "But it felt so good..."

His grip tightened as he grunted, his eyes closing to refocus himself before muttering. "A little too good."

You gasped another moan at the feeling of his hips drawing back. “Mm, wait, don't stop. Please, I need to feel—” 

Your words were robbed, and a tiny squeak was the only thing that escaped your throat as Jack fully withdrew—only to sink back in immediately, faster this time.

He smirked, rolling your hips a little—his tip rubbing against the deepest part of you as he muttered. “What was that, hm? You need me to move my what?” 

You let out a needy, stretched-out moan, body arching against his as you breathed. “Please…” 

“Say it.” He insisted and did it again, but this time slower, much slower.

When you didn't answer and could only moan, he reached around your thigh and pushed it back to open you up—to get deeper before he did it again.

Only this time his forehead was pressed against yours; this time his groans mingled against your breathless moans and whimpers. This time it was more deliberate in making you feel every inch.

This time it was a clear, intentional effort to tease you to the brink of begging for more. And fuck did it work. 

You mewled as your cunt tightened around him. The immediate flush of pure ecstasy coursed through your veins the moment his tip reentered your pussy. 

God could only help you as you couldn’t help the desperate, filthy noises that came from your throat with every inch he sunk back into you. 

"I need you to say it, baby," Jack whispered, his movements slowing until they came to a complete stop. 

When you didn't answer right away—only letting out a quiet, trembling breath—he hummed, pleased with how easy it still was to completely melt you like this. How you were already a mess, and he’d barely begun. 

He slowly moved his lips against your skin, down to your chin, where he lightly nipped before peppering a few lingering kisses there, each one gentler than the last—giving you a moment to recover.

"Tell me what you need," he murmured, his voice warm and impossibly patient. "Tell me how I can take care of you... how I make up for lost time..." 

You couldn't speak, let alone barely think. Your thoughts had unraveled somewhere between how he looked at you and the way he felt so deep inside you. It left you unable to form so much as a single coherent word.

All that you knew was one thing. One thing you knew he’d understand and want as much as you did: feed into the quiet ache of staying as close to each other as possible.

You went to speak but found yourself catching your bottom lip between your teeth, trying—and failing—to steady the shaky, slightly pathetic whimper that escaped you as his hips flexed enough to move a fraction inside you.

So instead of trying to get out a string of words, your hand rose to cradle his cheek. Your thumb brushed softly over his bottom lip before you gently drew him back to your lips and began kissing him deeply.

Jack answered without hesitation, melting into you as though he understood you without a word being uttered—like understanding you was the easiest thing in the world. 

The room around you and the outside storm faded as his hips began thrusting again slowly. It faded until there was nothing left but shared breaths, quiet moans, and the unhurried tenderness of simply being together like this again.

When he finally deepened the kiss, it was slow and deliberate as his tongue slid between your lips and began dancing with yours. Your hands moved slowly down to his waist and pulled him closer—as if he could get any closer than he was—especially with the tip of his cock steadily hitting your cervix with each pass of his hips. 

“Fuck, you’re doing so good for me.” He rasped, pulling back from your lips to nudge your head to the side with the tip of his nose. 

You tilted your head up and to the side as he began kissing down your body. “I think—Fuck, I’m going to cum…” You panted, fingers barely curling against his waist as you started to feel that coil tighten. 

“Yeah? You gonna cum for me?” He mumbled as he squeezed your thigh, lips dragging down to your sternum. 

Your chest heaved up and down as you felt an intense heat start to pool in your stomach. Your hands shot to the sheets beneath you as you whined over and over, “Mhm, don’t stop. God, please—don’t stop.” 

“You’re so fucking hot when you make those noises.” Jack cooed as his hand slowly moved from the back of your thigh to between your bodies. His thumb pressed against the bud of your clit, which was enough for a soft cry to escape from you. 

Your back arched slightly off the mattress, and your breath got caught in the back of your throat as he began slow circles on the bundle of nerves. He grinned and continued the rhythm you requested while drawing slow, aching circles, moving his lips down to your breasts. 

He began gently nipping at your nipple before he sucked it between his teeth and flicked his tongue at the bud. Between that and what he was doing to your clit, you couldn’t help but let out a loud, unrestrained cry as you pulsed around him. Your fingers gripped the sheets tightly, and your thighs quivered against his body in absolute pleasure as you came.  

He hummed, satisfied at the way you completely came undone—but didn’t let up.

No, instead he pressed on your clit slightly harder and started rubbing counterclockwise. His hips also changed pace and began pumping a bit harder and faster—not allowing the wave to come down—no, he wanted it to climb higher. 

“O-Ohfuckfuck—” You cried out, voice breaking. Your hips began involuntarily grinding against him, needing sweet release. Your body felt intense shockwaves erupt with each pump of his cock against that sweet spot he continued to be hit over and over and over again. 

“Mm, that’s it. Give me more...” Jack groaned against your breast. However, instead of encouraging your movements, he turned his hand's placement from the inside of your thigh to the top of your pelvis to keep your movements still—his thumb never missing a beat on your clit.

You gasped and loudly whined from the intensity. Your voice became helpless and needy as you begged. “J-Jack, please! Please, it’s too much!” 

Just as he was about to allow that sweet crash to happen—you made the stupid mistake of trying to get away.

You planted your feet into the mattress and pushed off and back only an inch—the pleasure almost too much to bear after not having it for so long. You weren’t used to it like before. 

Jack caught you by your hip and pulled you right back where he had you. A growl escaped him as he sat up to kneel between your legs, as he continued to thrust at the same pace. “Mm, where do you think you’re goin’?” 

You looked up, your vision slightly blurred, to see his body glistening with a thin layer of sweat as he knelt there. His own chest was heaving as his own groans and grunts graced the room, coming closer and closer to his own orgasm. 

“I can’t—fuck!” You gasped sharply as his thumb released pressure just enough that it sent another shock barreling through your body. You gripped the sheets beside your head and pressed your head back, arching your chest up, as your eyes rolled back and jaw fell open. 

A broken, shaky moan came out as you pleaded. “Goddamnit, Jack, please…” 

He could see the way your stomach contracted and felt how you clenched around him with each deep stroke. He knew it was too much, but fuck, he loved making you feel this good.

"Mm, fuck you're beautiful when you're wrapped around my cock, baby." He smirked as he watched you, enjoying the show. He drank in the image of your tits perked and marked up by him. How they bounced every time his cock fucked into that pretty little pussy. 

He looked down at that next. 

He grunted as he could see how much his cock was coated in your cum. How easily it slid in and out of you, like he was made for you.

“Fuck, look at you, baby. Look how fucking beautiful this pussy is when I'm opening you up so nicely.” He moaned before his gaze flicked up to find you cupping your breasts, fingers pinching your nipples—doing anything for some release. 

He growled and moved both hands to your hips before fucking you harder and faster than before—wanting to be the one to give you the release you needed. 

“Fuckfuckfuck—” He muttered through clenched teeth, trying to keep himself from cumming himself. 

You didn’t need much more before that wave you’d been riding came crashing down—hard and fast.

Your hand shot up against the headboard while the other shot to his wrist as you cried out loudly—your body quivering in absolute and electrifying pleasure. 

“Ah, fuck baby—” Jack grunted as you pulsed around him, drawing him in deeper. 

He waited as long as he could to give you what you needed before quickly withdrawing himself—falling back onto his heels with his cock still hard in his grip, his own chest heaving and flushed. 

You whimpered at the sudden absence of him and barely was able to lift your head off the pillow. Your vision was slightly blurred, but you found him stroking himself slowly.

The sight was one of the hottest images you’d ever seen, but made you also question: why the hell did he pull out?

“Jack? You ok?” You panted, out of breath and still coming down from your high. 

He sat up on his knees and nodded toward you as his voice was low and husky as he instructed firmly. “Get on your hands and knees for me.” 

You bit your lip and somehow managed the strength to turn around on your belly before weakly pulling your knees up and under yourself, then arching your back—putting yourself just how you knew he liked. 

He continued to stroke himself as he moved up and over your legs to align himself behind you on his knees. 

He hummed, dissatisfied, when you weren’t at the exact angle he wanted. He saw you could barely hold yourself up, so he grabbed the meat of your hips and pulled you up a little more. Next, he reached up near your head and grabbed a pillow—gently sliding it underneath your stomach. 

“How does that feel now, sweetheart?” He quietly asked as he kissed your shoulder, kneading the soft flesh of your waist as he made his way back behind you. 

“Mm, much better.” You purred, smiling into the sheets as you felt him kiss your spine.

Less than a moment later, you gasped at the feeling of him sliding through your slit, but before he did anything further, you glanced at him over your shoulder.

You barely shook your ass side to side to tease him as you asked. “Do you want my arms up or down?” 

Jack grinned at your attempt, the action always obvious with you.

He tilted his head to the same side you were looking over before lightly tapping his tip at your slit as he shook his head. “I want you to stay right where I have you.”  

He bit his lip, knowing how good this was going to feel—for both of you.

“I want you to keep your eyes on me, yes?” He requested as he spit into his hand and stroked himself a few more times. 

You nodded again, too shocked to speak.

He didn't wait for words as he guided himself back into your warmth. He also didn’t take it slow like earlier, didn’t tease, didn’t play games—he just buried himself as deep as your weeping cunt would allow. 

Your brows pinched together, and your jaw fell open as your breath was completely stolen again—then another loud, sweet, needy moan escaped—sending a warmth straight to his core. 

You couldn’t do anything but grip the sheets beneath you and arch your ass up more, feeling him deeper than before. He was deep enough and at an angle that stole the breath from your lungs with each thrust. He was able to hit that sweet spot of your cervix that had always made you see stars. 

“Fuck that’s good.” He moaned, moving his hands onto the mattress beside you to hold himself up. 

“God, you’re so deep…” You mewled, feeling him continue to hit your cervix again and again—more than ever before. 

He would pull his hips back just enough to stop before the tip pulled out, before plunging himself right back in. The rhythm stole your breath—enough that when you exhaled, a choked back moan would come singing out. 

He grunted and panted as he began to build up speed before finding a steady rhythm that had you both grunting and moaning—the dirtiest sounds bouncing off the walls. 

“You’re so tight like this, baby. Always takin’ me so well…” He grunted before reaching forward and wrapping his hand around the bottom part of your jaw and part of your neck.

You moaned louder and grinned sinfully before he pulled you up to look at him as he continued thrusting into you. Your eyes rolled back as he sped up a bit—only for him to lean down and sloppily kiss you upside down. 

Fuck that’s hot.

You lost yourselves in one another—trading lingering kisses and shared breaths that turned into moans with each thrust. Your tongues eventually slipped into each other's mouths or small nips at the other's lips. 

After a few minutes, you couldn’t hold yourself up and fell back onto the sheets, crying into the mattress as you felt that coil start to tightly wind as he began thrusting a bit harder than before, chasing his own high. 

“Fuckfuckfuck…” You sobbed as you heard the sloppy, wet sounds of his hips hitting against your pussy. 

Jack was close, but he wanted to give you one more before he came. He was determined to give you at least that. 

“Can you give me one more, baby?” He cooed as he leaned down to kiss your shoulder, moaning as you arched your back and pressed your ass back against him. 

You nodded and began rocking back against him, using each other's friction to bring you both closer to release.

You held a nearby pillow close, using it to muffle your moans as you feared they were becoming too loud. 

Jack reached up to grab it, wanting to hear every little sound from you—only for the ring of your phone on the nightstand to pull his attention away. 

He stalled his hips for a brief moment to lean forward to grab it before continuing his thrusts as he looked at the contact displayed.

He grinned as he held it, his thumb hovering over the answer button. “Looks like Gin is calling for a pre-flight update!" 

You whined and shook your head rapidly into the pillow, knowing you were about to cum at any moment—especially with how deep he kept hitting. “F-Fuck no—l-let it go to voicemail…” 

“Mm, he’s going to want an update before he boards his plane.” He smirked, continuing to thrust into you at an aching pace that was starting to make your vision blur. “Here, let me answer it for you!” 

You moaned softly before you realized what he’d said.

“No no no! Wait, wait, wait, Jack—” 

Jack tutted as you pleaded, slowing his thrusts just enough to drive you crazy before his thumb hit the answer and speaker button—tossing it next to you on the pillow. 

You couldn’t help the moan that slipped out just as the phone was tossed next to you. 

“Hello? Brandy? You there?” 

You swallowed down another moan and nodded into the pillow, unable to form a single word. 

“Agent? Can you hear me?” Gin asked from the other side of the line. 

Jack grunted before he withdrew himself completely, his tip perched at his entrance before plunging himself back inside, quietly groaning before whispering. “Speak up baby, he can’t hear you...” 

You cried out into the pillow before lifting the phone to your ear, breathlessly whimpering, “Y-Yeah, I'm here. I can hear you…” 

Gin either didn’t hear or pick up on anything as he continued, clueless. “Great! Look sorry to call so late. Wasn’t sure if you’d still be awake.” 

You hummed, barely holding on to your sanity as Jack continued at a relentless pace behind you but managed to shakily respond. “Y-Yeah, I’m awake... W-We were just going through some uhm—” 

You suddenly gasped and whimpered as he hit that soft spongy spot deep within as he pulled your hips up a fraction.

You quickly covered your mouth with your free hand and shoved the speaker into the pillow to muffle it before moaning into your palm.   

Gin’s voice carried on as you continued to moan into your palm and the pillow. “Listen, I was just calling to check in. Champagne advised me there might be a bit of…tension between you and the one we got assigned with? Some fella named, Whiskey?” 

You cried into the pillow as Jack reached under your pelvis and began rubbing your clit—purposely pressing every button he could to break you. 

“N-No… things are fine…” You whimpered, clenching the phone to your ear as you stuttered. “Jack—I mean uhm—Agent W-Whiskey and I are getting along just fine.” 

Jack grinned proudly as he continued rubbing his fingers against the bud, your pussy tightening more and more. 

“Ah well, that’s great to hear!” Gin’s voice sounded pleasantly surprised. There was a pause, and then he continued. “Now, don’t get mad at me, but I read up on his profile and saw he’s the one you worked with a few years back. Is that right?” 

Jack pressed his fingers a little harder and rubbed a little faster at the end of Gin’s question, making you moan out loud. “Y-Yes! Yes, that's him!” 

“Whoa! Agent, you doin’ alright?” Gin asked, sounding slightly concerned.

You shamefully continued to whimper through your response. “Oh yeah, yeah! No, I’m f–I’m fine!” You panted, softly whimpering as you tried to think of a viable excuse for the noises you were making. 

“Brandy?” Gin pressed. 

“I’m fine just…” You gasped down a moan before you rambled off. “Just—going for a run! Clearing my head!” 

You shoved your head into the pillow as you moaned uncontrollably only to hear Gin chuckle. “Jeez, how far are you runnin’? You sound like you’re in pain…” 

“T-Trust me, I’m n-not in pain!” You whimpered into the pillow, edging closer and closer to cumming. 

“Okay…” Gin said, not completely convinced by the sounds he could barely hear. “Well, are we good to go for tomorrow? Is there anythin’ I should bring to help us out? Any equipment from Ginger’s stock pile?” 

“Uhmm—” You whimpered as you lifted your head from the pillow, trying to think of something to say to get him off the phone without sounding any more suspicious. But just as you were about to respond, Jack reached around underneath your jaw again and pulled you back up to his lips to kiss you like before. 

You both moaned and whimpered as he continued to thrust in and out of you. You could hear Gin’s voice from the phone that was now forgotten on the pillow as Jack’s tongue was nearly down your throat.

“Brandy? Hello? Ageeent? You there?” Gin said in a singsong voice like he wasn’t sure if the line dropped the call.

Jack let you go after hearing Gin ask, “Jeez, did the line drop?” 

You fell back to the pillow, drunk on him and a mess. But you felt a tightness and warmth building rapidly behind your belly button and couldn't help but slightly panic as you held the phone back up to your ear.

You whimpered before shakily stuttering. “S-Sorry Gin… I’m g-going to have to call you back when I get back—fuck... back to the hotel!” Then you hung up the phone and dropped your head into the pillow as you loudly cried out in absolute pleasure. 

Jack leaned back onto his hand to hover against your back and kissed your shoulder as he whimpered, coming close to his peak as well. “Fuck baby, that was hot.” 

You sobbed into the pillow, “That was risky—that was…” 

Jack reached back around your pelvis and began rapidly rubbing your clit at a pace that made you forget the English language all together. You cried out into the pillow as your orgasm rippled throughout your body. 

“Fuckfuckfuck! I'm cuming, I’m cuming—” You gasped as your thighs shook and your legs immediately gave out—making you melt beneath him. 

Jack wasn’t too far behind as he managed to hold up with his arm that was already between your legs. He sped up the pace as you pulsed around him with a pressure that can only be described as intoxicating.  

His hips stalled, and his knees buckled as he spilled deep inside you. A few soft guttural moans escaped him as he rested his teeth lightly against your shoulder. 

You reached around and threaded your fingers through his hair, holding him close as you softly cried, beginning to come down.

Jack began feverishly kissing your shoulder, moving your hair to the side to kiss the soft spot on the back of your neck as he groaned—coming down as well.

“I missed you… fuck, I missed you, baby.” He murmured across your skin between long kisses across your back and shoulder. 

You panted, out of breath, but couldn’t help the smile that pulled at the corners of your mouth as you listened to his words. Your fingers combed through his hair as you hummed in response. “I fear I forgot how… I cannot use my legs for a good long while afterwards...”  

You both chuckled together before Jack tucked a strand of hair behind your ear and kissed the inner part of your shoulder. 

“I guess it’s a good thing Gin thought you were on an intense run if you suddenly have issues with walking tomorrow...” 

You giggled and nodded, turning slightly underneath to be able to see him more. “I can only hope and pray he believed me.” 

Jack chuckled a little louder at that and slowly pulled out of you with a quiet hiss before he laid beside you. 

“Hm, we don’t have to worry. Gin ain’t the brightest bulb in the Statesmen.” He said with a boyish grin as he looked up at the ceiling, his chest still heaving. 

You hummed and turned to lay on your side, tucking your hand under your cheek as you faced him. “You don’t need to tell me that. He carries a… certain reputation around the office, especially lately.” 

He turned his head to you and smiled before turning to face you, reaching out to lightly caress your arm with his finger tips. “Why do you think I requested to work with you first then have him show up to wrap things up?”  

You gasped and lightly shoved his chest, acting offended. “So the truth comes out, huh? This was all your doing!” 

Jack chuckled but then something softer settled between you as his fingers trailed up your arm to your cheek. He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear before cupping your cheek and moving in closer—leaning in to press his forehead to yours. 

“Yeah… but, I don’t regret it—not for one second. Now that I have you, I’m never lettin’ you go.” He quietly promised. 

You put your hand on his and closed your eyes as you leaned into him. “Neither am I…” 

Jack took in the sight that you were in front of him and couldn't find any words other than, “You know, I've loved you since our second mission together?” 

You opened your eyes to that, slightly shocked, but couldn’t help the warmth and smile that gave you—the memories it brought. 

“Really? What did it for you back then? That horrible posh accent I had to do for a week or that ridiculous puffy dress I had to wear to that banquet?” You questioned, softly giggling under your breath. 

Jack smiled and shrugged as he also reminisced. “I will say that dress was one to remember… and not in a good way."

You both chuckled and shook your head, remembering that night.

But then he hummed and smirked. "But that accent you had? Baby… you know I felt about it.” 

You bit your bottom lip and ran your fingers through his hair, combing back the mess you’d made. “Yes, yes. You were the only one that fancied it.” You teased in that same ridiculous accent. 

Jack's nose brushed yours as a low groan escaped his chest before he pulled you in by your waist.

He leaned in and kissed you slowly, lingering against your lips before he pulled back to murmur against your lips, “There’s just... somethin' about it that makes you sound so innocent. Makes me want to—” 

“Mm, I’m well aware of what the accent makes you do.” You purred in the same accent. You felt him pull your leg over his waist, and before you knew it—you were straddling his hips. 

He barely lifted his head off the mattress to continue to kiss you through the smooth maneuver of it—his hand staying steady on your cheek.

You felt his already hardened cock sit nicely between your weeping folds before his hand on your thigh reached around and aligned himself back at your entrance. 

You let out a soft moan as his hand moved down your body to land on your hip before he fed you down to sit on him. 

You pressed against his chest to push him to lie down, softly nipping at his bottom lip before quietly whimpering as you fully seated yourself and stayed there. 

“If we’re going to do another round, we need to make it a fast one. Remember, I need to call Gin back.” You breathlessly moaned in your normal voice as you circled your hips—rubbing his tip against your cervix. 

Jack grunted as he pulled his bottom lip between his teeth. 

“Mm, you want fast, baby?” He drawled as he couldn’t help but watch your hips swirl. “Say all that again... with the accent.” 

You planted both of your hands on his thighs behind you and puffed out your chest to make your tits perk in a way that always drove him mad. You started rolling your hips, grinding up and down on his cock at an achingly slow pace as you repeated what you said, moaning sweetly in that accent he requested. 

Jack’s jaw tightly clenched and his fingers gripped the meat of your waist as he moaned—his eyes rolling back in pleasure. “F-Fuck me that’s good…” 

You let your head fall back, breathlessly moaning as you continued rolling your hips. “Please…” 

Jack growled at your plea and sat up with you in his lap, wrapping his arm around your lower back to keep you right where he wanted you. He then began quickly thrusting up into you—using his other arm to hold himself up from behind. 

Your nondominant arm moved quickly, wrapped around his shoulders but gripping tightly onto his bicep to hold yourself steady. Your other hand, tangled in his hair as you cried out broken moans, begging. “Fuckfuckfuck—don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t fucking stop!” 

“Yeah? That feel good, baby?” Jack growled and then began moaning as he completely ruined you.

He held you tightly against him; his face was buried in your tits as he took turns sucking on each of your nipples. With each thrust of his cock as it pounded up into you—you let out this desperate whimper that made his body tense, and his mind completely mush as his climax barreled closer to release. 

You weren’t too far behind either.

It took no more than a minute or two before you clenched around him and sobbed into his hair as you came—legs shaking, breath caught in the back of your throat, intense heat pulsing in your core, heart pounding in your ears—type of orgasm. 

Jack nipped at the soft flesh of your breasts as you reached your peak, murmuring against your skin. “That’s it baby... that’s a good girl…” 

You whimpered and moaned, barely kissing his damp hair down to his temple, then to his cheek—pulling his lips up to your own.

Once you had access, you kissed him slowly and deeply—moaning quietly between each breath as you felt his hip become more erratic and messy. 

"Cum for me, baby..." You purred in the accent between a kiss.

Jack grunted at that and pushed off the mattress. He brought his hand to thread through the back of your hair as he kissed you back, grunting and moaning louder, the higher he climbed.

He shivered, and his lips stalled against yours—his hips bucking up one last time—before spilling again inside you with a deep groan. 

You both stayed there for a moment, completely frozen by pleasure. Your lips brushed against each other, and hot breath mingled as your sticky bodies stayed close with each rise and fall of your chests. 

It wasn’t until his hips remembered to relax that you quietly moaned—feeling him fall out of you. The sudden loss of him made you whine as you stole another deep and slow kiss from him. 

He closed his eyes as he held you against his lips and hummed, tasting the salty sweetness of your upper lip before slowly lying back down—pulling you with him. 

You followed as he fell, continuing to press lazy, slow kisses against his lips.

His arm loosened around your waist and his fingers lightly traced up your back and arms before lacing your hand with his as he pulled away. He kissed your knuckles as you moved to lay down next to him—putting your head on his chest. 

You hummed and smiled as you watched the tenderness he gave you before you kissed his chest a few times. 

“You still gonna give Gin a call back?” He murmured against your knuckles. 

You chuckled and nodded as you reached for your phone next to his head, sliding it open to pull up your contact list. 

“I think as long as I speak normally, I’ve got a good few minutes before you wind yourself back up again.” You teased, scrolling to find Gin’s contact to dial. 

Jack chuckled and let go of your hand the second you clicked the dial button—pulling your gaze up to his by gently pinching your chin. 

His voice was husky and heavy as he warned, the phone ringing in your hand. “I’ll give you a couple of minutes before I start makin’ my way down south to clean up my mess, m’kay?”  

You swallowed and felt your cheeks immediately turn red before he pecked your lips once. He then sat up from the bed and walked to the bathroom—leaving you there, speechless and short circuiting with that response.

It wasn't until Gin's voice crackled through the receiver that you finally snapped back to reality.

You quickly cleared your throat and answered, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips as you secretly hoped Jack would come back far sooner than he'd promised.

As reckless as it was, you couldn't deny the thrill that came with the risk.

main masterlist | my KoFi

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[scarce01]

When will I be loved...? - A Stranger Things Fanfic MASTER LIST

Hey people... this is my first time actually writing fan fic pls bear with me :p I'm trying to reignite my love for writing!!

This will also be cross posted on wattpad if you prefer that for longer fics :D (@sCarce_c is my account)

Below is this fic masterlist as well as my big bad masterlist. I plan on doing specific release dates - unless life happens and that changes.

pairings: Steve Harrington x fem!oc, a tinsie winsie bit of Billy Hargrove x fem!oc, kids x fem!babysitter!oc (PLATONIC!!!)

warnings: violence, smoking, all the spooky scary stuff that happens in ST, possible spice/smut (haven't decided), ANGST, SLOWBURN!!!

WC: 3.5k (will update with posts)

themes: grumpy x sunshine, sad oc, cynical x optimistic, babysitter gets thrown into upside down mess, southern oc

INTRO 📞

CAST & FACE CLAIMS -- (7/30)

Synopsis -- (7/30)

Prologue -- (7/30)

Marianne's Mixtape 💿 -- (7/30)

ACT 1 📼 PRE-SEASON 1

Chapter 1: June 13th, 1983 -- (8/1)

Chapter 2: Meeting the Wheelers -- (8/3)

Chapter 3: The Interrogation -- (8/5)

Chapter 4: Nancy's Superb Sleepover (8/7)

Chapter 5: Rumination Ruins Everything (8/9) my b-day post!! :3

[moonchildpdf]

blind!gator x preacher's daughter!reader

summary: you take in a newly blinded and broken gator tillman as he faces the law; bringing him the comfort, care, and quiet stability he so desperately needs in the dark. c/w: blind gator. wounds description. parental abuse mention. trauma. mentions of prision/legal trouble. angst. fluff. caretaking. emotional healing. (gator is so soft and kinda a loser in this one i'm sorry but that's how i imagine him when he's vulnerable) words: 8.1k

The hospital hallways are freezing, and the bitter frost outside doesn’t help at all. It feels as if the cold has crawled straight through the concrete walls and seeped right into your bones. 

It doesn’t take you long to find the room he is in. The receptionist at the front desk was clear enough with her directions, but honestly, you didn’t even need them. The two armed police officers standing guard right outside the door are impossible to miss. 

They stand tall with their arms crossed over their vests, their heavy boots making them look entirely out of place against the pale floor. They glance at you as you walk up, their eyes tracking your movement, but they don’t stop you. 

They already know who you are. After all, the preacher’s daughter doesn’t go unnoticed in town.

When you push the heavy door open and see him sitting there on the narrow hospital bed, you can’t deny that your heart squeezes tight in your chest. 

He looks so different, yet so painfully familiar. 

His upper lip has a nasty, swollen split with a dark red line of dried blood, looking as if he took a direct hit straight to the mouth. A heavy, purplish bruise covers his cheekbone, already deep and dark, looking like it will only get worse and turn yellow-green over the next few days.

But what hits you the hardest aren’t the bruises or the cuts. It’s his eyes — or rather, the thick white gauze wrapped firmly around his head, covering the place where they used to be.

The nurse who called you earlier had already warned you about it over the phone, but seeing him like this in person is entirely different. Hearing a description over a static-filled phone line doesn’t prepare you for the reality of seeing a man who usually moves with so much confident energy sitting completely helpless in a sterile white room.

“Oh, hello,” the nurse says, turning around as the door clicks shut behind you.

She uses your name, and the moment the word leaves her lips, Gator’s entire body stiffens. He straightens up in the bed, his shoulders locking. His head tilts and turns toward the sound of your voice, moving instinctively as if his eyes could somehow pierce right through the thick layers of cotton and tape.

The nurse quickly walks over to you. She takes you gently by the arm, guiding you toward the far corner of the room, away from the bed. She leans in close, keeping her voice down to a low whisper.

“Thank you so much for coming,” she says, her eyes filled with quiet stress. “I know all of this is very sudden and confusing, but we had to call you because—”

You gently shake your head, cutting her off before she can apologize any further.

“It’s okay. Really,” you say softly. You nod your head over toward the bed, looking at him. “So… how is he?”

The nurse sighs, turning her head to look at Gator. There is a deep, genuine pity in her eyes as she watches him sitting there in the quiet.

“He’s gonna need a lot of care,” she admits in a low whisper. “The wounds on his face and body are deep, but physically, he’ll heal up fairly quickly. The issue isn’t just his recovery.” She turns back to face you, her expression grave. “The real problem is who is going to take care of him when he leaves. His father is already in prison, and when we tried contacting his other folks, none of them were willing or able to step up and—”

“I’m blind, not deaf,” Gator’s rough, raspy voice cuts through the quiet room.

Both you and the nurse freeze, turning your heads to look at him. His voice sounds dry, like sandpaper rubbing together, but the defensive bite in his tone is unmistakable.

You let out a long, slow breath. 

“Let me talk with him a second,” you tell the nurse.

She looks at you for a moment, then nods in understanding. She steps toward the door, giving a small signal to the police officers outside to give the two of you a moment of privacy. As the door quietly clicks shut behind her, the room suddenly feels much larger and far too quiet.

You take a step forward, your boots squeaking faintly against the clean floor. You walk slowly, carefully, as if any loud noise might startle him. You stop right in front of the bed, looking down at his face. 

The idea that he can’t see you — that he can’t look up and catch your eye like he always does — still doesn’t quite make sense in your mind.

“Hey…” you say softly, your voice tender.

Gator lowers his head a little bit. 

You can tell he feels embarrassed, maybe even ashamed to be seen like this — broken, bruised, and stuck in a hospital gown. But underneath that shame, you can see a tiny shift in his posture. He settles down just a bit. You know him well enough to recognize that, deep down, he’s deeply relieved to hear a voice he actually knows.

“You didn’t need to come,” he mutters, his voice low and flat. He keeps his head down, staring blankly at the blanket covering his lap.

“Yeah, well,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light to hide how hard your heart is pounding. “Seen as I’m apparently listed as your emergency contact on your phone, it felt a little rude not to show up.”

He lets out a harsh, dry breath through his nose, shaking his head.

“About that…” he starts, his fingers twitching against the thin hospital blanket.

“It’s fine, Gator.”

“No, I just… I put your name down a long time ago without really thinking about it,” he says quickly, his words tumbling out as if he’s trying to defend himself. “It’s not like I sat down and thought, ‘Oh yah, I definitely want her to be the one to get called if everything goes south.’ You know? It was just a random night, I needed to put someone down, and—”

“Oh,” you interrupt, stepping back half an inch and turning your shoulders away from him. “Well, in that case, I guess it doesn’t matter if I just leave then.”

“No!”

The word rips out of his throat before he can stop it. His arm shoots out blindly, his hand moving fast through the empty air. His fingers catch the side of your hip first, gripping the fabric of your jeans, and then quickly slides to your arm until his rough palm clasps tightly around your forearm.

He freezes, breathing heavily through his mouth. 

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, his fingers digging into your arm just enough for you to feel his tension. “I can’t… I can’t see where—”

“I know…,” you whisper gently.

You move your arm, sliding your hand down into his. You slip your fingers between his, entangling them completely. His grip on you is tight, almost desperate, his knuckles pale under the dim hospital light.

You pull a small plastic chair closer to the edge of the bed and sit down beside him. You don’t let go of his hand.

He lets out another long, shaky breath, his head dropping back. He shakes his head slowly, the bandage around his eyes moving against his hair.

“Who survives in prison being blind?” he asks, his voice barely louder than a whisper. The anger is gone now, replaced by a cold, terrible reality.

“They don’t even know if you’re going to prison yet,” you tell him softly, trying to sound far more confident than you actually feel.

Gator lets out a short, bitter laugh. He shakes his head again.

“Course I’m going,” he says quietly. He pauses, his thumb rubbing uselessly against the side of your hand. Then, under his breath, so softly you almost miss it, he murmurs, “And I got it comin.”

The words hit you right in the chest. You press your lips tightly together, feeling a hot, painful knot forming in the back of your throat. 

You look away from him for a second, staring at the gray window where the frost is thick on the glass, trying desperately to keep the tears in your eyes from falling. You refuse to break down in front of him right now. He needs you to be steady.

The quiet in the room is broken a moment later by a soft knock on the door. The nurse opens it slowly, stepping inside. Right behind her, the two police officers follow, their heavy belts clanking as they walk. They look at you, offering a small, polite nod of acknowledgment.

You start to stand up from the small plastic chair, but you don’t let go of Gator’s hand. His grip tightens slightly the second he hears the heavy footfalls of the officers entering the room.

“We gonna need you to sign a few papers before we move forward,” one of the officers says, pulling a clipboard out from under his arm. His tone isn’t mean, but it’s dry and mechanical — just another part of his daily job. “We’ve already tried reaching out to every single one of his listed relatives and contacts. None of them are willing to take responsibility for him, which means house arrest is completely off the table. Because of that, we’re preparing to transfer him to the medical ward at the detention facility later this afternoon—”

“What if he comes with me?”

The words fly out of your mouth before you even have time to fully think them through. Your sudden, hasty offer cuts the officer off mid-sentence. 

It’is completely out of character for you — you are usually careful, cautious, and deliberate about every choice you make. But this didn’t come from a place of logic or careful planning. It came straight from the deepest, most raw part of your heart.

Beside you, Gator’s hand instantly squeezes yours so hard it almost hurts. His brow furrows deeply. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but no sound comes out. He remains completely frozen, listening intently.

“I mean…” you press on, taking a small step forward while keeping your grip firm on Gator’s fingers. “Is that an option? Is it possible?”

The officer stops, looking down at his clipboard, then glances up at his partner. The two men exchange a brief, silent look.

“Well… yeah,” the officer says slowly, scratching the back of his neck. “Technically, yes. A judge will have to review the paperwork and make the final decision on his custody, but if an individual with a clean record agrees to act as a primary caregiver and host, it can be filed. It’s definitely something that can be done.”

Gator leans closer to you, his head tilting toward your shoulder. His voice is very low, frantic, and laced with a sudden, sharp panic.

“What about your dad?” he whispers tightly. “What’s he gonna say?”

You look at Gator’s battered face — at the stitches on his lip, the deep bruises on his cheek, and the thick bandages hiding his wounded eyes. You think about the cold, lonely prison cell they’re ready to drag him to before his wounds even have a chance to close.

“That’s a problem for later,” you answer him quietly, your voice steady and unshakable.

You turn your attention back to the officer, meeting his gaze with total determination. You tighten your grip on Gator’s cold hand, feeling the warm pulse beneath his skin.

“Come on,” you say softly, leaning down close to Gator’s ear so only he can hear you. “Let’s get you home.”

—

Gator is not a light man. Even beaten down, bruised, and drained of his usual restless energy, he is tall and heavy and built. His heavy leather jacket drags against your shoulder, his dead weight leaning hard into your side as his boots scrape uselessly against the concrete steps.

“Watch the step,” you whisper tightly, adjusting your grip around his waist. Your fingers dig into the thick fabric of his jacket. “Two more steps, Gator. Just lift your feet.”

“I’m liftin’ ’em,” he mutters, his voice raspy and dry. He tries to pull himself up using the handrail, but his balance is completely shot without his sight. His shoulder slams heavily into the wall with a dull thud. He curses under his breath, a sharp, bitter string of words, his jaw clenching hard.

You finally reach the top step. 

Your small apartment sits right at the end of the narrow hallway. It took you months of quiet fighting, endless arguments, and tears to get your father to agree to let you get this place. 

In your father’s eyes, a young woman living on her own was a tragedy waiting to happen. “Living alone just increases the temptation to sin,” he would tell you every single Sunday over dinner, his voice stern and cold as he stared at you across the table. “A woman needs a household to keep her mind pure.”

It had worn you down to the bone, but you had stayed patient. You nodded, you smiled, you kept your head down, and bit by bit, you persuaded him to let you take this tiny one-bedroom unit above the old repair shop. 

It wasn’t much — just a cramped living room, a tiny kitchen, and a bedroom that barely fit a full-sized mattress — but it was yours.

And now, here you were, bringing the most notorious deputy in the county through the door in the middle of the day.

You fumble with the ring of keys in your pocket, your fingers numb from the cold. The metal keys clink together loudly in the quiet hallway.

“You could put a little effort into this too, ya know?” you sigh, finally getting the key into the deadbolt and turning it with a heavy click.

The door swings open into the dark, quiet apartment. The air inside is warm, smelling faintly of your cologne, dry heat from the clinking radiator, and old coffee.

Gator stumbles over the wooden threshold, his heavy boot catching on the edge of the small welcome mat. He sways instantly, his hands shooting out into the empty air, reaching wildly for something to hold onto until his fingers catch the frame of the door.

“I could handle myself a whole lot better if I knew the layout,” he snaps, his tone sharp, though the wobble in his knees completely ruins the bravado. “But seeing as you never let me come in through the front door, then it’s not really my fault.”

You catch him by the arm before he can trip over his own feet, taking his full weight back onto your shoulders. You can’t help but shake your head, a soft, weary breath escaping your lips.

Well, he has a point there.

That was the one secret your father never found out about. Ever since you moved into this place a few months back, Gator Tillman had a habit of showing up. 

He’d park his county patrol car down the block, out of sight beneath the bare oak trees, and sneak up the metal fire escape in the dead of night. He’d tap on your bedroom window with his knuckles, wearing that heavy sheriff’s vest, his uniform hat cocked slightly to the side, smelling of tobacco smoke, cold winter air, and cheap cologne.

He never came through the front door. You would never allow it. 

If the elderly neighbors down the hall saw the Sheriff’s son walking out of the preacher’s daughter’s place at three in the morning, your father would have had you moved back home before sunrise.

“Well, it’s not my fault you’ve got such a bad reputation, Tillman,” you murmur, bracing your legs as you drag him past the tiny kitchen counter toward the small living room.

With a heavy grunt, you guide him down until his knees hit the edge of the worn cushion, letting him sink onto the sofa.

Gator drops heavily onto the cushions. The old thing squeaks in protest under his weight. He leans his head back against the wall, breathing heavily through his mouth, his chest rising and falling beneath his coat.

“Like that isn’t the main thing that drew you to me anyway,” he says, his voice falling right back into that familiar, arrogant drawl. A faint, crooked smile tries to form on his face, but it cuts off immediately as his split upper lip stretches too far, making him wince and pull back with a sharp hiss.

You roll your eyes, leaning your hands on your hips as you stand over him in the dim light.

Still, despite the sharp ache in your chest as you look at his face, a tiny part of you feels relieved. It’s good to see a little bit of his old, insufferable self shining through the wreckage, even if it’s just a front.

For a minute or two, neither of you says anything. The only sound in the small room is the clinking of the old water pipes in the corner and the heavy, uneven sound of Gator’s breathing.

You stand there in the center of the room, looking down at him.

It feels completely surreal to have him here like this. On those old nights — the nights when he used to climb through your window — he would practically take over the whole room the second his boots touched the floorboards. He’d throw his heavy gun belt onto your desk with a loud metal clatter, kick off his boots, and stretch out across your small bed like he owned the entire building. 

He was loud, he was cocky, and he was always talking about what he and his dad were building out on the ranch. 

He moved with a restless, arrogant energy, like a man who believed nothing in this world could ever touch him because his last name was Tillman.

Now, he sits hunched over on your secondhand couch, his broad shoulders pulled inward as if he’s trying to make himself as small as possible.

His uniform jacket is gone. His dark hair is messy. And worst of all, the upper half of his face is dominated by thick, white layers of surgical gauze and medical tape, wrapped tightly around his head to cover the deep wounds where his eyes used to be.

You swallow down the knot in your throat, trying to keep your hands from shaking.

“Let’s get that jacket off you,” you say quietly, stepping closer to the couch.

As soon as you move over him, Gator flinches. His body goes rigid, his hands snapping up defensively in front of his chest.

“It’s just me, Gator,” you say softly, keeping your voice calm and steady. “It’s just me. Relax.”

He pauses, his fingers twitching in the air before he slowly lowers his hands back to his lap. He lets out a harsh, dry breath through his nose, turning his face slightly toward the floor.

“Yah,” he mutters, his voice dropping into a low, embarrassed murmur. “Right.”

You reach down and gently grab the sleeves of his jacket, pulling the fabric off his shoulders. He sits there quietly, letting you pull his arms out of the sleeves, completely obedient in a way that feels utterly wrong for him. You fold it and lay it across the arm of the chair nearby, then reach down to unlace his muddy boots.

When you touch his ankle, he stiffens again, but he doesn't pull away this time. 

Your eyes focus on the ankle monitor for a second, but you quickly clear your throat. You slip the boots off his feet, setting them neatly by the front door.

“I’m gonna go grab some water and some clean towels from the bathroom,” you tell him, standing up. “I need to clean up around those bandages. The nurse said we have to keep the edges dry and clean so it doesn’t get infected.”

As you turn to step toward the bathroom, Gator’s hand suddenly shoots out blindly into the empty space between you. His broad palm sweeps through the air until his fingers collide with the fabric of your jeans. His grip is tight and frantic.

“Don’t—don't be long, alright?” he says, the cocky drawl completely vanishing from his tone, replaced by a raw, desperate edge that makes your heart ache. He sounds like a child trapped in the dark. “Just... hurry up, would ya?”

You stop, looking down at his large, bruised hand wrapped around your leg.

“I’m just going to the sink, Gator,” you whisper softly, reaching down to place your hand over his cold knuckles. “It’s three feet away. I’m not going anywhere.”

He holds on for a second longer, his thumb pressing into your denim, before he slowly relaxes his grip and lets his hand drop back to his knee.

“Yah,” he clears his throat, trying quickly to put his tough mask back on, though his voice cracks slightly. “Yah, fine. Take your time, then.”

You walk into the small bathroom, clicking the light switch on. The bright, yellow glare of the bulb reflects off the small mirror above the sink.

You lean over the porcelain basin, resting your hands on the cold edges, and take three long, slow breaths. 

You look at yourself in the mirror. 

Your eyes are tired, dark smudges hanging beneath them from the sheer stress of the last six hours. You had gone from sitting quietly in your apartment reading a book to standing in a cold hospital hallway listening to police officers debate whether to throw a blind man into a county jail cell.

You turn on the hot tap, letting the water run until it steams. You fill a plastic basin with warm water, grab a small bottle of mild antiseptic liquid from the medicine cabinet, and pull two clean washcloths and a fresh roll of white gauze from the drawer.

When you walk back out into the living room, Gator hasn’t moved an inch. He’s sitting dead still on the sofa, his head tilted slightly toward the hallway, listening intently for the sound of your footsteps.

You set the plastic basin down on the small coffee table in front of him. You kneel down so you are eye-level with his face.

“Alright,” you say quietly. “This might be a little bit uncomfortable at first.”

You dip one of the soft washcloths into the warm water. You gently reach out, resting your left hand on the back of his neck to steady him, while your right hand brings the damp cloth up to his face.

The second the warm cloth touches the deep purple bruise spreading across his cheekbone, Gator flinches sharply, pulling his head back.

“Jeez,” he grunts, his brow furrowing beneath the thick bandages. “Watch it, will ya?”

“I’m being as gentle as I can, Gator,” you say softly, not pulling your hand away from the back of his neck. Your thumb slowly rubs the tense muscle right at the base of his skull, feeling the tight knots of stress locked in his shoulders.

He lets out a low, grumbling breath, but he stops pulling away.

You move the cloth carefully, cleaning around the dark, angry split on his upper lip. The skin is swollen and raw, stitched up with black thread near the corner. You wipe away the crusty, dark blood that had dried against it.

Every time he winces, his hand twitches against his thigh, his fingers gripping his pant leg so hard his knuckles turn white.

“How bad does it look?” he asks quietly after a long silence.

You pause for a second, your fingers hovering over his temple.

“You’ve looked better,” you admit softly, trying to sound lighthearted. “The lip’s pretty swollen. Cheek’s black and blue.”

A tiny, bitter huff of air escapes his nose — not quite a laugh, but close enough.

“Yah, well,” he mutters. “You should see the other guy.”

The joke hangs in the air for a second, heavy and awkward, before it completely falls apart.

You both know there wasn’t a "guy" he beat up. 

You both know what happened out on those snowy roads, even if neither of you wants to say the names out loud. 

You know about the strange, terrifying man who had come for him — the man who had left Gator broken and sightless as retribution for the things Gator had done for his father.

You move the washcloth up toward his forehead, carefully cleaning the skin right along the top edge of the thick white bandages.

The hospital staff had done their work well enough, wrapping his head securely to protect the raw, hollow wounds underneath. You don’t dare touch the heavy inner padding — the thought of what lies beneath those layers makes your stomach turn with a deep, nauseating sorrow — but you carefully replace the outer strip of gauze that had gotten frayed and dirty during the ride over.

As you wind the fresh white cloth around his head, your fingers brush through his dark, messy hair. It’s softer than it looks, free of the heavy grease and hair product he used to pile into it when he was playing the big-shot deputy.

Gator stays completely still while you wrap the tape, his eyes hidden, his chest rising and falling in deep, quiet rhythms.

For a few minutes, sitting there in the dim yellow light of your apartment with the snow beating against the window pane, it almost feels peaceful. It feels like the old days — just the two of you tucked away from the rest of the world, hidden far away from your father’s watchful eyes and his father’s dark, oppressive shadow.

But the peace doesn’t last long. It can’t. Not with everything that happened.

You finish taping the edge of the bandage, letting your hands drop into your lap. You pick up the dirty washcloth, rinsing it out in the basin of water. The water turns a light, pale shade of pink as you wring the cloth out.

You look at him sitting there, his hands resting on his knees, his face clean now, though still terribly bruised.

The quiet in the room suddenly feels far too heavy. The questions that have been burning in the back of your mind ever since the news broke across the county start pushing their way to the surface. 

You had spent weeks listening to rumors at the grocery store, watching the local news reports about the missing women, the armed standoffs, the federal agents filling up the county diner, and the terrible things that had taken place out at the Tillman ranch.

You set the washcloth down on the wooden edge of the stool.

“Gator?” you ask softly.

He doesn’t move, but his shoulders tense up instantly. He can hear the change in your tone — the sudden lightness leaving your voice.

“Yah?”

You hesitate, pressing your lips together. You look down at your hands, then back up at his bandaged face.

“Why did you do it?”

The question falls softly between you, but it hits the room like a heavy weight.

Gator’s head tilts back slightly. His jaw tightens, the muscles along his cheeks twitching.

“Do what?” he asks, his tone turning flat and defensive, instantly building up that familiar, prickling wall he always uses when he feels cornered.

“You know exactly what I’m talking about, Gator,” you tell him, your voice steady, though your heart begins to beat faster in your chest. “The farm. The house. Dot…. all those people your dad had you hunting down.”

Gator lets out a loud, harsh laugh through his nose, turning his head away toward the far wall.

“I was a deputy,” he says sharply, his voice rising, trying to regain that old, authoritative bark he used when he wore his badge. “I was executing lawful orders for the Sheriff’s department. Taking care of business for the family. Protecting our land. That’s what a deputy does. That’s what a son does.”

“That wasn’t deputy work, Gator!” you say, stepping closer, your voice trembling with a mixture of frustration and deep sadness. “You kidnaped people! You helped him lock people away! You helped him turn that entire ranch into an armed fortress! You killed people, Gator!”

“We were protecting what’s ours!” Gator snaps, his hands slamming down onto his knees as he tries to stand up.

He rises quickly, but without his sight, his balance immediately betrays him. He sways dangerously to the left, his leg crashing right into the edge of the coffee table. The plastic basin rattles loudly, warm water sloshing over the side and spilling onto the floorboards.

Gator curses loudly, reaching out wildly to steady himself against the wall. He stands there, breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his dark hair falling over his forehead, looking completely lost and furious.

“You don’t know anything about it,” he spits out, his raspy voice shaking. “You don’t know what it’s like out there! You sit up here in your neat little apartment thinkin’ everything is real simple — thinkin’ there’s good guys and bad guys! My old man... he built everything we had! Everything!”

“He’s a monster, Gator!” you shout back, the words tearing out of your throat before you can stop them.

The room drops into a sudden, terrifying silence.

The clinking radiator seems to freeze. The wind outside rattles the window glass.

Gator stands frozen against the wall, his mouth slightly open, his bandaged head turned toward you as if you had just struck him right across the face.

You swallow hard, feeling tears burning behind your eyes. You take a step toward him, but you keep your hands down.

“He is, Gator,” you say softly, your voice breaking down into a quiet, painful whisper. “Look at what he did to this county. Look at what he did to those families. Look at what he’s doing to you right now. Where is he, Gator? Where is your dad while you’re sitting here blind on my couch waiting for a judge to send you to prison? Is he coming to help you? Is he calling the lawyers?”

Gator doesn’t answer. He turns his head away, his breathing ragged and sharp.

“He’s in a federal holding cell,” you continue quietly, step by step walking closer to him until you’re standing right in front of his shaking frame. “He abandoned you the second things went south out on that road. The nurse told me... she said when they tried to reach out to his legal team, they didn’t even ask how you were doing. They didn’t care.”

“Shut up,” Gator mutters under his breath. It’s not the angry shout from a minute ago. It’s a small, weak plea. “Just... shut up.”

“Why did you follow him so blindly?” you ask, reaching out gently to touch his jaw. “You knew what he was doing was wrong. I know you, Gator. I know you’re cocky, and I know you act like a jerk half the time, but you aren’t evil. You aren’t like him. So why? Why did you do all of it?”

Gator stands there for a long time, his body trembling beneath your hand.

He tries to speak. He opens his mouth, his chest expanding as if he’s about to launch into another loud, arrogant speech about duty, about the Tillman name, about being a real man out on the range.

“He... he needed me to—” Gator starts, his voice loud, but the sentence immediately dies in his throat.

He stops. He shakes his head, trying again.

“If I didn’t... if we didn’t hold the line, then—” He cuts off again. His hands fly up to his face, his fingers clutching at the air near his ears, pulling at his hair in absolute frustration.

He tries so hard to find the words — to pull out the rehearsed excuses his father had drilled into his head for years. 

He wants so badly to say the words that will make him sound like the brave, tough deputy he always pretended to be. He wants to explain that he was just being loyal, that he was being strong, that he was being the son Roy Tillman always demanded he be.

But the words won’t come.

Every single excuse he tries to form turns to dust in his mouth the second it hits the cold reality of the room. 

He can’t say he was protecting the ranch, because the ranch is destroyed. He can’t say he was serving the law, because he broke every law in the book. He can’t say his father loved him, because his father isn’t here.

“I just...” Gator stammers, his voice dropping an octave, cracking down the middle. “He said... he said if I couldn’t handle it... if I couldn’t do the job...”

He stops again. His broad shoulders suddenly slump downward, all the fake posture and manufactured bravado draining out of him like water running down a drain.

“He called me soft,” Gator whispers, his raspy voice trembling so violently it’s hard to hear him over the wind outside. “Every time I hesitated... every time I asked a question... he’d look at me like I was nothing. Like I was just some useless kid he was stuck with. He’d tell me my mother made me weak. He’d tell me if I couldn't take care of business, he’d find someone who could.”

Gator’s hand reaches out blindly, grabbing the front of your sweater, clutching the fabric tightly in his fist as if he’s drowning.

“I just wanted him to look at me and say I did good,” Gator chokes out, his head dropping until his forehead presses hard against your shoulder. His entire body shakes with heavy, silent sobs. “That’s all. I just wanted him to think I was a real man. I did everything he asked me to do. Everything. Even when my stomach felt like it was turnin’ upside down... even when I couldn’t sleep at night... I just did it. And he still... he still didn’t give a damn about me.”

You close your eyes as tears finally slip down your cheeks. You wrap your arms around his broad, shaking back, pulling him close against you.

You hold him tight as he breaks down in your small living room. The grand, terrifying legacy of the Tillman family — the fear that had held the entire county in a chokehold for years — collapses right here into the arms of a terrified, broken boy who just wanted his father to love him.

You stand there together in the middle of the room for a long time, holding onto each other while the cold wind batters the building outside.

You know that pain. You know it in a completely different way, but you know the terrifying weight of living beneath the thumb of a father who demands absolute control over your soul. 

Your father used the Bible, Sunday sermons, and cold, suffocating guilt to keep you quiet and obedient, making you feel like every independent thought you had was a sin that would drag you straight to hell. 

Gator’s father used violence, guns, and the toxic myth of family legacy to turn his son into a weapon.

Both of you had been built by men who viewed their children as property rather than people.

Slowly, Gator’s heavy shaking begins to subside. His breathing slows down, turning into long, shuddering gasps. He stays leaning against you, his forehead resting heavily on your shoulder, his hand still loosely gripping the front of your sweater.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters into your shoulder, his voice completely raw, stripped of every ounce of pride he ever possessed. “I’m real sorry.”

“I know,” you whisper, resting your cheek against his dark, messy hair. “I know you are, Gator.”

“I ruined everything,” he says quietly, shaking his head against you. “I’m gonna go to prison. I’m never gonna see anything again. I’m useless.”

“You’re not useless,” you tell him firmly, pulling back just enough to hold his face between your hands. Your palms rest against his warm, bruised cheeks. “You made terrible choices, Gator. You listened to a man who didn’t deserve your loyalty, and you’re gonna have to face the consequences of what you did. But you are not useless. And you aren’t going to face it alone.”

He stays silent for a second, his head tilting toward the touch of your hands, as if absorbing the warmth from your skin.

“Why are you doing this?” he asks softly, his voice full of genuine confusion. “After everything I did... after never even lettin’ me come through your front door... why did you bring me here?”

You offer a small, sad smile, even though he can’t see it.

“Because somebody has to show you what real care looks like,” you tell him gently. “And seeing as I’m your emergency contact, I guess I’m stuck with you for now.”

A faint, trembling breath escapes his lips — the closest thing to a real smile he’s had all night.

“Yah,” he whispers, his thumb brushing lightly against your wrist. “I guess you are, then.”

You slowly guide him back down onto the couch, making sure he sits down safely without bumping into the spilled water on the floorboards.

You fetch a fresh towel from the bathroom, wiping up the small puddle near the coffee table, then grab a heavy, knitted blanket from the foot of your bed. You spread the warm blanket over his lap and legs, tucking the edges around his feet.

Gator doesn’t fight you on any of it now. The exhaustion has finally caught up with him, pulling his broad frame down into the soft cushions. 

The sheer physical and emotional drain of the day has left him heavy-lidded and quiet.

“You need anything else?” you ask softly, sitting down on the edge of the couch beside his hip. “Some water? A painkiller?”

“No,” he mutters, his head leaning back against the wall. “I’m alright. Just... stay here a second?”

“I’m right here,” you say.

You slide your fingers into his hand, entangling them completely. His grip on your fingers is gentle now, no longer frantic or tight, just a warm, steady pressure holding you in place.

Outside, the storm continues to blow across the frozen streets, driving heavy white snow against the trees. The world outside is cold, harsh, and waiting for the morning light to bring the police, the legal papers, and the uncertain future that Gator will eventually have to face.

But inside the small, warm apartment, sitting together in the quiet space beneath the yellow lamp, the room is quiet.

“You know what the worst part of all this is?” he asked softly, his voice barely louder than the hum of the radiator.

You look at him

“What is it, Gator?”

He swallows hard, his throat moving with a tight, painful gulp.

“It ain’t even the thought of prison,” he whispers, turning his head slightly away, as if embarrassed to admit it. “And it ain’t even bein’ stuck in this damn dark all the rest of my life, neither.”

He stops, his jaw clenching tightly. He takes another shaky breath before continuing, his words tumbling out low and raw.

“It’s thinkin’... I’m never gonna see your face again.”

The words hung in the warm air of the small room, hitting you straight in the chest with a sudden, sharp ache.

“Gator...” you begin, but he shakes his head, cutting you off.

“No, listen to me,” he insists, his voice trembling slightly. “All those nights... when I used to climb up that fire escape and tap on your window... I’d stand out there in the freezing cold just waitin’ for you to pull back the curtain. And when you did, you’d give me that little annoyed look, like you were mad at me for showin’ up, but then you’d smile. Just a little bit.”

A small, bitter huff of air escapes his nose.

“I took it for granted,” he admits quietly, staring blankly straight ahead into the blackness behind his bandages. “I thought I’d always just be able to look at ya. I thought I’d always have my eyes, and I’d always be able to see you standin’ there. But now... it’s just black. And I’m scared, okay? I’m scared that as the months go on, as the years go on... I’m gonna start forgettin’ what you look like. I’m gonna forget the shape of your eyes. I’m gonna forget your face.”

You sit there watching him, feeling a warm tear slip down your cheek. You don’t wipe it away. You just look at this arrogant, foolish, broken boy who has lost everything, sitting in your living room grieving the one thing he had loved quietly in the dark.

You take a slow, deep breath, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand.

“No, you’re not,” you said softly, your voice clear and steady.

Gator’s head lifted a fraction, his bandaged face turning toward the sound of your voice. 

“What?”

“You’re not gonna forget my face, Gator,” you tell him gently. You reach out, placing your hands over his large, trembling wrists. “You’re just gonna have to learn to see me a different way, then.”

He frowns, his brow furrowing beneath the white gauze. 

“What’re you talkin’ about? I can’t see nothin’.”

“You’ve got hands, Tillman. You’re just gonna have to learn to recognize me with ‘em.”

Gator stiffens, pulling his hands back a couple of inches, looking suddenly flustered and uncomfortable.

“I don’t... I don’t wanna look like an idiot,” he stammers, his raspy voice rising slightly in panic. 

“You’re not gonna look like one,” you murmur, taking both of his large, calloused hands in yours. “Come here.”

You bring his hands up through the quiet space between you, guiding his broad palms until they are hovering just inches from your face.

“Go on,” you whisper softly, resting your left hand against his wrist to steady him. “Take your time.”

Gator hesitates for a second, his chest rising and falling heavily. He swallows hard, his fingers twitching in the air. Slowly, cautiously, as if he is touching something delicate made of thin glass, he lets his broad fingertips settle against your skin.

His fingertips touch your chin first. They are cold from the room, rough and hardened from years of manual work, but his touch is impossibly light.

“Start right here,” you whisper, keeping your voice barely above a breath so he can focus.

Gator’s hands tremble slightly, but as his skin makes contact with yours, he settles down. His long fingers begin to move slowly, tracing the line of your jaw. He feels the soft curve of your chin, moving his thumbs up to trace the sides of your jawline heading up toward your ears.

“You got a small jaw,” he murmurs under his breath, his tone dropping into a focused, quiet whisper. “Feels... real soft.”

“Yah,” you murmur softly, smiling just a bit. “Keep goin’.”

His thumbs slide inward, gently tracing the shape of your lips. He feels the bow of your upper lip, the softness of your lower lip, tracing the outline over and over until he knows the exact width of your mouth.

As his thumb brushes over the corner of your mouth, he pauses.

“You’re smilin’,” he says quietly, his tone a mix of surprise and wonder.

“A little bit, yah,” you admit. “How’d you know?”

“I can feel the skin pull right here,” he mutters, his thumb gently pressing against the small dimple near your cheek. “I remember that.”

A tiny, genuine breath of relief escapes your chest as you watch his face. The tense, worried lines on his forehead are starting to smooth out. He is concentrating so hard, his bandaged head tilts slightly, mapping every millimeter of your face in his mind.

He moves his hands higher, his broad palms resting gently against your cheeks. His thumbs met in the middle, tracing the bridge of your nose, feeling the slight slope of the bone, sliding down to the soft tip.

Then, his fingertips move up to your eyes.

He hesitates for a second, his fingers hovering over your eyelids.

“Close 'em,” he whispers softly.

You close your eyes, letting out a quiet breath.

Gator gently lays his fingertips over your closed eyelids. He feels the soft, delicate flutter of your long eyelashes brushing against his calloused skin as you blink softly beneath his touch. He traces the shape of your eye sockets, the gentle curve of your eyebrows, feeling the fine hairs beneath his thumb.

“Your eyes are closed now,” he mutters softly, his fingers lingering over your brow.

“Yah,” you whisper into the quiet room. “So we’re both in the dark right now.”

A faint, soft breath escapes his lips at that. He doesn’t say anything, but his hands move higher, sliding up past your forehead and into your hair. His long fingers comb through the strands, feeling the length and texture, letting the soft hair slide through his rough knuckles.

“Your hair’s softer than mine,” he observes quietly. “Smells like that citrus soap you keep in the dish.”

“It’s lemon,” you tell him gently.

He slides his hands back down, letting his palms cup the sides of your neck. His thumbs rest lightly over your pulse point, right beneath your jawline. He stays still like that for a long moment, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath his hands.

“You’re real warm,” he says softly, his voice sounding deeper now, calm and steady.

You take his right hand, guiding it down from your neck to your collarbone. He traces the sharp, delicate line of the bone beneath your sweater.

“You took your rosary off..." he points out. You just hum, offering no explanation as to when or why.

He moves his hand over the curve of your shoulder, feeling the width of it, then slides his broad palm down the side of your arm, tracing the shape of your elbow, your forearm, down to your wrist, feeling how small your arm feels compared to his heavy grip.

He moves his hands to your waist, his palms resting against the sides of your ribs over your sweater. He feels the narrow shape of your waist, the gentle flare of your hips, learning the exact proportions of your body through the slow, steady movement of his hands.

Every touch is tender, careful, and deeply respectful. There is no rush in his movements, no arrogant posturing, no slick confidence. It’s just Gator, quiet and attentive, memorizing every line, every curve, and every soft inch of you with his hands.

Finally, his hands come to a rest around your waist again, his thumbs tucked lightly into the fabric of your sweater.

He sits there for a moment, breathing deeply through his nose, his bandaged face turned toward yours, just inches away.

You slowly move closer, leaving a soft kiss right in the corner of his mouth.

“Got it memorized yet, Tillman?” you ask softly, reaching up to lay your hands over his wrists.

Gator lets out a slow, contented breath.

“Close,” he whispers, a tiny, faint trace of his old smile touching the corners of his mouth. “Might need to check again tomorrow just to be sure.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. 

“Yah, well. I suppose we can do that.”

The heavy wall between you is completely gone now. The fear, the anger, and the dark shadows of the past feel far away, pushed back by the warmth of the small room and the quiet comfort of being together.

You rest your shoulder against his chest, tucking your head comfortably in the notch beneath his chin.

Gator pauses for a second, adjusting to your weight against him. Then, slowly, he wraps his long, heavy arm around your shoulders, pulling you in close against his side. His broad hand rests flat over your hip, holding you secure and steady against him.

He rests his chin lightly against the top of your head, his dark hair brushing against your forehead.

Underneath your cheek, you could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart. It’s slow and calm now, free of the frantic panic from earlier.

“You okay like that?” you ask softly, pulling the thick blanket up over both of your shoulders.

“Yah,” Gator whispers into your hair, his voice heavy with deep, peaceful exhaustion. “I’m good. Real good.”

Gator tightens his arm around you just a fraction, tucking you closer to his chest. He lets out a long, quiet sigh, his body finally relaxing completely as deep sleep pulls him under. You close your eyes, resting your hand over his arm, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing as the night rolls quietly on.

⋆⭒˚.⋆ likes, reblogs and comments are appreciated !! thank you for reading. ⋆⭒˚.⋆

⭑ masterlist ⭑

[rip-quizilla]

Holy Grail Fic Recs

I've read a lot of fanfiction. A LOT. These are the ones that have stuck with me.

(in no particular order)

😍= Smut

*Unless otherwise specified, assume that reader characters are female.

Eddie Munson

And I Need You to Know (Eddie x Mayfield!Reader) 😍 by @the-unforgivenn

Critical Hit (Eddie x Henderson!Reader) by @amorieile

Final Girl (Ghostface!Eddie x Reader) 😍 by @beasbrain

Overheard (Eddie x Henderson!Reader) 😍 by @gaybybirth

The Hat Rule (Eddie x Reader)😍 by @ghost-proofbaby

Maybe (older!Eddie x barista!Reader) 😍 by @eveatethefruit

Unraveling (coworkers, dom/sub Eddie x Reader) 😍by @eveatethefruit

Twenty Four Hours (Eddie x Reader) 😍 by @ghost-proofbaby

So Scarlet (it was Maroon) 😍 by @ghost-proofbaby

Stranger Than (Fan)Fiction 😍 by @jo-harrington

The Ink Shop (Tattoo artist!Eddie x Reader) 😍 by @msgexymunson

Living After Midnight (Failed Rockstar!Eddie x Motel Worker!Reader) 😍 by @munson-blurbs

My, My, Those Eyes Like Fire (Rockstar!Eddie x Reader x Rockstar!Gareth) 😍 by @the-unforgivenn

One Slow Blink (Werewolf!Eddie x Reader) 😍 by @msgexymunson

Dr. E Munson, D.D.S. (Dentist!Eddie x Reader) 😍 by @msgexymunson

Danse Macabre (Rockstar!Eddie x Reader) 😍 by @vintagehellfire

Trapped Under Ice (Dad!Eddie x Reader) 😍 by @munson-blurbs

Don't Stand So Close to Me (Eddie x Teacher!Reader) 😍by @word-wytch

Forbidden Fruit (older!Eddie x Reader) 😍 by @msgexymunson

Rumour (older!Eddie x Reader) 😍 by @msgexymunson

In a Dark, Dark Room (Kas!Eddie x Reader) 😍 by @carolmunson

As You Wish (Dad!Eddie x Babysitter!Reader) 😍 by @corroded-hellfire

The Yes Policy (Dad!Mechanic!Eddie x Reader) 😍 by @pinkrelish

Steve Harrington

Wake Up Slow (Barista!Steve x Bookstore worker!Reader) by @carolmunson

Steddie

Off Limits (Frat boy!Steve x Drug Dealer!Eddie x Nonbinary!Reader)😍 by @eveatethefruit

Dirty Words (Eddie x Steve) 😍 by @morningberriesao3

Joel Miller

Killing Me Softly (Joel x Teacher!Reader) 😍 by @alltheirdamn

Rotten (Cowboy!Joel x Reader) 😍 by @alltheirdamn

[wouldthat-i]

To Build A Home

Pairing : Gator Tillman x Reader

Word Count : 10.1k

Summary : You and Gator decide to adopt a dog.

Chaos ensues.

Between the continuous slobber, boot-stealing, and sock chewing disasters, you and Gator take on your most difficult challenge as a couple yet - learning more about yourselves and each other than expected. As your lives intertwine, you learn to find home within each other.

Tags : chaotic fluff, slice-of-life, slight bit of hurt/comfort, established relationship, initial strangers to lovers, meet cute, suggestive language (MDNI), repeated cockblocking via dog, gator and reader act like horny teengagers honestly, adorable and mischievous dog antics, Oliver is a menace, soft!gator, insecure!gator, gator is trying to be better, gator is also a menace, sweetheart!reader, snarky!reader, lots of teasing and banter, low-key my version of a Gator character study, what is a timeline, roy tillman mentioned, mostly cursed at but technically mentioned, several snippets of domesticity, gator is soft for his girl, reader gets called darlin', doll, baby, my girl, etc, too many petnames to keep track of honestly, female reader, no use of y/n, she/her pronouns for reader.

Lemme know if I missed any tags !

Author's Note : hi guys !! thank you so much for all the love on my Keys fic, extremely grateful for all the support <3

I wanted to try my hand at Gator, specifically Soft!Gator, but I'm still trying to get his mannerisms and language down. Nevertheless, we learn by trying, so I gave it a shot.

Initially, this fic was supposed to be very cute and fluffy, with a lot of chaotic dog tidbits (mostly cuz I was missing my dogs lol) ... And then it became hella angsty with no prior warning ?? I blame Gator tbh.

Anyways, this fic is going to be a bit of a rollercoaster of emotions and a whole lotta chaos, so enjoy <3

Also, cheers to the wonderful doggo fics by @frootybb 💙 and @insomniacpen 🩵 - absolutely loved reading these, made me wanna write a djoling doggo fic someday, so please go check em out !!

"This is stupid."

"It's not stupid."

"Feels stupid."

You huff. "Gator Tillman, you agreed to this. We're getting a puppy. It's already settled, the court has decided."

"Yer got a court ?" he questions, chewing on some bubble gum.

"Yes, it consists of me, myself, and I."

"Damn, seem like a solid lineup of crazies."

You beam. "Exactly. Now come on, we gotta go in."

You drag him by the arm, ushering him inside the animal shelter. He grumbles, muttering nonsense under his breath the whole time - pretending as if he's not letting you parade him around with minimal resistance.

As you push open the doors to the shelter, the coat of paint on the gray walls chipping away, you spot a young girl behind the reception desk.

You make a beeline for it, Gator walking next to you.

"Hi, welcome ! I'm Leah, what brings you to the animal shelter today ?"

"Nothin' much to do 'cept buy one of these critters, ain't there ?" Gator deadpans, crooking his eyebrow.

Leah's face flushes in embarrassment.

"Gator!" you hiss in admonishment, nudging his elbow.

'What' he mouths, seemingly unbothered.

"Hi, oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. Leah, right ?"

The receptionist nods, her eyes downcast.

"Hi sweetie, I'm so sorry. What my boyfriend here meant to say" you explain, glaring at Gator, "-was that we're to look at some puppies and maybe take one home today." You turn back to her, excitement brimming.

Luckily she mirrors it, gathering up a few sheets and forms from the desk.

"Ok, great! We're always so happy whenever people come in to adopt. Let me show you to our pups and dogs." she beams, gesturing at you and Gator to follow her.

Sounds of extreme barking and howling alert you to the nature of the room you're about to enter. As Leah opens the door, the sight you're greeted with immediately makes you squeal.

Dogs of various shapes, sizes, colours and types are present before you, tails wagging and noses sniffing the air - trying to get a sense of you and Gator.

"Oh my gosh ! Gates, look!"

"M looking, hun."

"Oh my god, they're all so cute!"

Excited yips and barking fill the air, all of the dogs turning to look at the two of you in intrigue, some of them tripping over their own paws, their excitement palpable.

You turn to Gator, grinning, a question on the tip of your tongue.

"If yer 'bout to ask me if we should take 'em all home, I'm leavin'."

You pout, rolling your eyes.

"Fine, geez. We'll just get the one today, and then I'll keep coming by every week to get a new one. Our home's gonna be the dog farm people come to visit 10 years down the line, with the old, wrinkly couple as a bonus."

"Already thinkin' of spending forever with me, sweetness? Didn't think ya were that eager." He winks, leaning closer to you.

Your face warms, realising what you just said.

Thankfully, Leah clears her throat then. "So, we've got a variety of dogs, as you can see. We did have a few older dogs as well, but most of them were in an adoption event last week, and thankfully all 6 were adopted!." she chirps. "So, we've mostly got some pups and a few young dogs at the moment."

"Aww, that's great to hear! I'm excited to see the little ruffians."

Leah smiles, directing you to the first dog in the kennel.

"So, this is Levi - he's an American Bulldog. He's two this year, a little mischievous occasionally, but otherwise obedient."

You smile at the dog, the colour of his floppy ears reminding you of Gator's bedhead.

"This is Pearl, she's a poodle. A little bit of a diva, but she's such a sweetheart and loves cuddling."

Gator moves closer to you, his mouth near your ear, "Sounds like another lady I know."

You swat his chest playfully.

She goes around introducing you to almost 15 dogs, before you come to an adorable dachshund wagging its tail at you and Gator.

"Over here, we have this new pup we found out in the rain last night actually. Our vet confirmed that he's around 5 months currently, and is still in his teething phase." Leah exclaims.

"We haven't given him a name just yet, but he has a lot of energy. He does get a bit spooked sometimes though if someone talks loudly - we think he might've had a bad owner earlier."

You look at Gator then, and see him staring at the pup, something stony in his expression. His jaw is set, and his fists are slightly clenched. You reach out, intertwining your fingers with his in what you hope is a comforting gesture. He swallows, looking down at your conjoined hands, before clearing his throat.

"We'll take him."

Your eyes widen slightly, "Gates, you sure ? We don't have to if it reminds you of ..." you trail off, unsure of how to bring up his father.

His hand squeezes yours in reassurance, "I know, sweet girl. Can't abandon this fella though, he deserves the chance to have a good home, don't you think ?

"Yeah" you agree, voice thick, squeezing his hand back. "He does."

Gator looks at Leah, who seems to have been doing her very best to not listen in on your conversation. "We'll take him." He repeats. "Ya got any forms and stuff we need to fill, kid?"

"Oh, yes, yes - yeah !" Leah breathes, "It's back at the front desk, I'll get the process started right away!"

"Appreciate it." Gator nods.

The both of you follow her out, back to the reception hall. You wave back at the dachshund, whose tail only wags faster still.

Filling adoption forms might be one of your top 10 nightmares at this point, the process incredibly long and monotonous - pretty much sucking the energy out of you. At one point, Gator pops down to the cafe down the street to get you both some coffee to just get through all the documents.

"Ok, and that should be all. I'll get one of our staff members to bring the dog out here, and y'all can take him home." Leah remarks.

"There's also a list I've attached to the back of the forms - it's just a summary of a few things you might need that's necessary to have when raising a dog. If you have any queries, feel free to call us!"

You look at the list from the set of documents you're holding, committing the first few to memory. "Thank you, Leah. We appreciate it, sweetheart."

She beams. "Of course! Thank you for adopting from Sage's Shelters!"

!Ruff!

The sound of excited barking following a door creaking open draws yours and Gator's attention. A seven pound package accompanies the sound, ears flapping as it runs towards you.

You immediately thrust the documents into Gator's chest and squat down, arms open with glee.

Which immediately turns into horror when the puppy trips, skidding into you and causing you to fall onto your butt.

"Oof!"

Gator chuckles above you, clearly enjoying the spectacle, but you don't even have time to frown at him as you feel the dog licking your face in excitement.

"Whoa, whoa -, hey buddy, hi! Yeah, I'm glad to see you too!" You giggle, sitting upright. He yips, panting with his tongue out.

You scoop him into your arms gently, tilting him towards Gator, who only gets a second's warning before the puppy is trying to wriggle out of your arms - proceeding to lick Gator's face, slobbering all over his cheek.

Gator reels back in disgust. "Ugh! The fuck they feeding yeh?" He exclaims, peering at the dog, who only continues to try and lick at Gator's face.

"Shit! Get that thin' away from me, fuck!"

You chortle, unable to hide your laughter. "Guess he's already taken a liking to ya. Lot quicker than I did, that's for sure." you wink, nudging Gator's hips with yours.

Gator wipes the slobber off of his face with the back of his hand, scowling. "Let's get to the car before he decides to piss on me too."

You snicker at his remark, swaddling the puppy securely as you walk through the automatic exit doors.

Once you get into Gator's truck, you hop into the backseat, placing the dog on the towel you had laid on surface beforehand. He sniffs the object, before promptly circling his tail and plopping down - breathing beginning to even out.

"What should we name him, do you think?" you question, looking at Gator through the rearview mirror.

"Probably Slick or Spit or something considering how much the mutt enjoys it." He grumbles, switching on the ignition.

You roll your eyes. "I see we're resorting to holding grudges against a dog."

"Yup."

You sigh. "What about.. Zeus?"

"You want to name this tiny thing after the Greek God of Thunder?"

You hum, "Mhm, fair point. Steve ?"

"No."

"Walter, like Wally for short ?"

"Fuck no."

You huff, "Well, I don't know then, Sheriff, got any ideas ?"

"Rocky" he replies curtly, proceeding to yell at the passerby crossing the street during a red light.

"Rocky - like from the movie Rocky ?"

"Yup."

"No."

"Fine. Whatcha think 'bout Dash?"

"Dash the dachshund" you raise your eyebrow - exasperation evident in your tone.

"Fuck, I dunno, Oliver or somethin' then?"

"Oliver.." you muse, turning the idea around in your head. The blinker switches on as Gator pulls into the driveway.

"Yeah.. I like that, it's cute."

Gator scoffs, switching off the ignition and turning around in his seat to face you and the sleeping pup.

"A man named Gator and a dog named Oliver, sounds like the start of a bad joke" he grumbles, the slightest bit of insecurity flickering in his eye whenever it came to his name.

You shift forward in your seat, careful not to disturb Oliver. "Good thing I like bad jokes then." you whisper, cradling his face. His eyes shut close, his body leaning into your touch.

A sense of peace settles over the both of you... Which is then immediately interrupted by Oliver, who seems to have realized that you have arrived at your destination - tail wagging excitedly.

"Hi Oli, you ready to go inside your new home, bud ?"

!Ruff!

"If that mutt's gonna ruin our peace when we're havin' a bit of fun, I'm throwin' him out to the garden."

You roll your eyes, often a habit at this point when conversing with Gator. "Sure you will - knowing you, you'll probably end up spoiling Oli in a few weeks, you big softie." You stick your tongue out. Oliver barks in agreement.

"Alright, alright. Get outta my jeep, the both of ya." he grumbles, grabbing the car keys.

Leah was definitely not joking when she claimed that Oliver was quite energetic. Three weeks later, and it still took you by surprise - seeing how quickly the clean and orderly living room transformed into the sight after a hurricane in a matter of seconds under his four paws.

"Fucker's chewed through his bed again... and peed in my fuckin' boot." Gator scowls, emptying out his boot.

"Well, the shelter did say he was going through a teething phase. I read that it's supposed to reduce after about 7 months, so hopefully he'll ease up on chomping through things like the Tasmanian Devil soon enough." You sigh, gathering the torn couch pillows that have somehow ended up near the empty furnace, the moonlight serving to illuminate the massacre even further.

Gator being Gator decides to make a bad situation worse.

"Told ya we shouldn't have got one of these shits - they ain't nothin' but trouble." he retorts, taking a beer out of the fridge.

You whirl around at him, seething. "Don't. You. Dare. Gator. Tillman." you fume, punctuating each word with a jab against his chest.

"You agreed to this. In fact, you fucking suggested it!"

"Coz yer said yeh was lonely, woman! Da hell else was I supposed to do ?" he snaps.

"I said that it feels lonely coming to an empty house, Gator. Your stakeouts at the new station take so long, that by the time I come from work, I barely see you! That's not something you can fix with a dog!"

"What the hell did yer want the fuckin' dog for then ?!"

You feel your eyes starting to tear up, your chest feeling like it's being squeezed to nothing.

"I wanted one so that we could have a bit more love and laughter in our home, Gator." you sniffle, wiping the tears that are starting to fall with the ends of your sweater. "Do you even know what it's like to come home, weary and exhausted, and see a little creature bounding towards you - just happy that you're home ? No expectations, no obligations, just pure joy that you exist in the same space?"

You continue, mouth trembling. "Yes, I wanted a dog, but I wanted to experience the good and the bad together, Gator. Is that too much to ask without you shifting the blame to me just because you're annoyed ?"

Gator's jaw tightens, his eyes downcast.

Oliver pads into the room just then, his mouth holding the chew toy you and Gator had chosen together at the pet store the day after he was adopted.

"Aroo?" he questions, tilting his head - likely sensing the tension radiating across the room.

"Hi Oli" you whisper softly, careful to not spook him or remind him of any bad, loud memories. You crouch, extending your hands to carry him.

"I'm going to take him upstairs for now, maybe let him sleep a bit." you announce to the room, not looking at Gator as you heft Oliver into your arms.

He says nothing, continuing to stand by the kitchen counter, his beer untouched.

You wake up to an empty room, no trace of Oliver or Gator nearby. You shift, turning over to look at the alarm clock on your bedside. 22:13 it reads, the neon lights on the numbers glowing in the otherwise dark room.

"Probably dozed off accidentally." you mutter to no one in particular, rubbing your eyes blearily. You push yourself upright despite your body protesting, desperately wanting to go back to sleep... But you need to check on Gator and Oliver, so you shuffle downstairs - movements slow and languid.

"Sit !"

"Ruff!"

"Oliver, sit !" Gator's voice carries through from the garden, his frustration evident in his tone.

You inch closer to the porch, your footsteps light - barely even noticing that the living room has been cleaned up, looking much better than it did a few hours ago.

"Fuck, why won't yeh just sit and not be a piece of shit for a second?! Yer stupid or something ?" Gator yells, his voice booming.

"Aroo.." Oliver whines, tucking his tail in between his legs, his body shaking.

You go to intervene, your rage from earlier reigniting instantly at Gator shouting at your pup. Before you can do anything though, you see Gator kneeling down slowly, settling on the grass.

"M' sorry" you hear him whisper. "M' sorry, boy." Gator whispers, reaching out to pet Oliver.

Oliver moves out of reach, his frame still trembling.

Gator nods, accepting his reaction. "Yeah, dat's fair. Don't blame ya, I'm a fuckin' bitch, I know."

Oliver lets out a low whine in agreement.

Gator chuckles, "Yeah, sometimes I feel the stuff my dad said still hauntin' me, y'know ? Like all his shitty behaviour fuckin' possesses me, and before I know it, I'm lashin' out like him." He scoffs, "Son of a bitch is dead and still manages to fuck up my life."

He looks back at Oliver, "I'm sorry bud, didn't mean to yell at ya.. I fuckin' hated it when he did that, made me feel small and worthless 'n' here I am, doing the same to ya." Oliver shuffles slightly towards your boyfriend.

"Can't undo that now, but maybe this'll help ?" Gator asks, a treat between his fingers.

The dachshund decides that it's an adequate apology, and jogs towards Gator. He then chews on the treat offered to him, and settles down right in the middle of Gator's lap, seemingly content.

Gator freezes, his shoulders hunching up. Oliver pays no mind to this, continuing to lay in Gator's lap. You observe as Gator's hand, shaking slightly, reaches down hesitantly to pet Oliver's head.

"Won't do it again, I promise. Won't ever yell at yeh, I swear." He promises, petting Oliver with a bit more confidence. "At yer and her both." He amends, stroking Oliver's fur gently. "Fuckin' idiot I am, yelling at the best thing that's ever happened to me. He confesses, his free hand dragging across his face.

"Had fuckin' tears in her eyes 'n' everythin'.. never hated myself more than in that moment, and that's sayin' somethin'."

You feel your eyes beginning to glisten with tears, your heart feeling like it's being torn to shreds at the defeat in his voice.

"Still don't know how I managed to get her to go out with me.. I was being a fuckin' moron, that's for sure. Yeh wanna know how I asked her out ? he snorts, the memory playing in his head already.

You smile too, knowing at what he's about to say next.

Oliver shifts, one of his ears flopping in the process. Gator takes this as a sign and continues his story.

"Had just moved to town recently, still no proper sense of who I was or what the hell I was doin'.. And then one day, I saw her from outside the window of one of 'em fancy coffee places. Fuckin' detest the smell of those spots, still do... But fuck boy, she was just so beautiful, I had to give it a try.

'N' it wasn't her figure or nothing that caught ma eye - was the way she was listenin' to music on them earphones, smilin' along and tappin' her leg to the beat. Looked so fuckin' peaceful 'n' everythin', so I went up to her and guess what I said ?"

Oliver is well past asleep at this point, a gentle snore emanating from his tiny body. Gator pays him no mind, proceeding to recount your first meeting regardless.

"I tapped on her shoulder, waitin' for her to take off the earphones. Once she did, I used one of ma best pick up lines from back home."

You recall the first time you saw Gator, his hair still slicked back then, his smile a combination of cocky and nervous somehow. But what really drew your attention were the freckles on his face - a glorious splatter of stars across the canvas of his skin, and the softness of his sienna eyes - looking like he held a million little secrets in them.

"Hey sweetheart, ya from Tennessee ? Coz you da only 10 I see."

You blink. Once, then twice.

"Um, you do know that we're in Tennessee, right ?"

You see the realization occur in real time, the absolute horror etched across his face making you chuckle.

"Fuck" you hear him murmur, pink blooming on his cheeks.

"I do appreciate the compliment though." you say as you turn back towards the window, a smile threatening to break at what just happened. 'He's kinda cute when he's flustered' you think, moving to pick up the earphones on the table.

Before you can pop it inside your ears, you feel another tap on your shoulder.

"Yeah?"

The stranger clears his throat, "Whatcha listenin' to right now?" He tilts his head towards your headphones.

"Oh, um, it's this artist called Beebadoobee."

He blinks rapidly. "Beeba-what ?"

You giggle slightly. "Bee-ba-doo-bee" you clarify, breaking down the name.

"That Justin Bieber's new name or somethin'?" He questions, still dumbfounded.

"No, she's an indie artist." you explain.

If anything, the confusion etched on his face deepens. "Huh ?"

You roll your eyes playfully. "Here, sit down and try listening to it first." You offer him one side of your earphones, and he tentatively grasps it - slowly bringing it up to his ear. You put it in the other side, and press play. The notes of 'If You Want To' resume, and you continue nodding along to the song.

Gator on the other hand, seems quite at first. Then, you notice his pinkie slowly tapping the table to the beat, bit by bit.

You smile. 'Cute' you think.

As the song draws to a close, both of you are somehow sitting close enough that your shoulders touch, and you find that you don't mind it that much honestly.

"Whatcha think ?" you question, taking out the earphone from your ear.

"S' not bad." he muses, doing the same, placing it on the table.

"Not bad?" You repeat, amused.

He shrugs, head swaying from side to side. "Not my kinda jam, but y'know it ain't bad."

"I'll let the artist know." You tease, tracing patterns on the wooden desk.

"Why'd you wanna know what song I was listening to ?" You ask, curious about the man next to you.

"Saw yer outside the door, smilin' and lookin' all pretty, wanted to know what song blessed me enough to witness yer smile." He shrugs, acting like that wasn't a line worthy of being in a movie.

Traitorously, you feel your heart flutter.

"Smooth line." you remark, hastily gathering your belongings, lest you start actually falling for this stranger.

Gator's eyebrows furrow. "Wasn't a line."

"Right. Well, I've got to get going, so I'll see you around ..." You trail off, unsure how to address him, and maybe, just maybe hoping to catch his name.

"Gator." He supplies. "Gator Tillman."

Something about his name seems familiar, but you shrug it off.

"Well then, I'll see you around, Gator. Don't go around asking other people in town if they're from Tennessee." You rib, winking at him.

The tips of his ears flush immediately, the spots of red and pink quite a delightful addition to his face.

"See ya." He mumbles, looking downcast as you leave, not understanding what he did wrong.

Gator glances back to where you were sitting moments ago, eyes widening as he notices you left behind your lipstick or lip gloss or whatever those darn things are called. Fuck if he knows.

He grabs the tube and runs out of the café - grateful that the smell of whatever ridiculously sweet drink being made and assaulting his nose was starting to clear up.

"Hey!" He yells, cursing himself for not having gotten your name.

You don't hear him, earphones loud enough to drown the outside world.

He sprints faster, feet carrying him to the bus stop that you're waiting at. As he reaches the end of the street, panting like a dog, he skids to a halt - last thing he needs is getting decked in the face by running up to you out of nowhere.

Although if it at least grants him the opportunity to be touched by you in some manner, he supposes it can't be all that bad.

Fuck, he thinks, he's so fucking gone for you already.

He clears his throat, gently tapping your shoulder.

You whirl around in surprise, your eyes shining with recognition.

And fuck, your eyes, Gator muses. Way too fucking gorgeous to have for a mortal. The things he'd do just to have you spare a glance at him with them eyes.

"Before yer say anythin', want ya to know that I ain't stalking yeh or whatever. Saw yer left this at the cafe", he reveals, showing the tube in his hand. "Wanted to get it to yer, is all." He rasps, breathing still shaky.

You smile shyily, pocketing your lipgloss from his hand.

"Thank you."

"Ain't a problem." Gator waves his hand in dismissal.

"You're new to town, right ? Why don't I show you around as thanks ?"

Gator's face contorts in surprise.

"You'd do that ? Didn't really seem like yer wanted to have anythin' to do with me."

"Well.. you did heroically return my lipgloss back to me, seems only fair right ?" You grin.

He returns it, "If yer offerin', I ain't gonna turn it down, darlin'."

Your cheeks warm at the term of endearment, despite yourself.

Suddenly, a large screech rings in the air, signalling the arrival of the bus.

You quickly pull out a pen and some tissue from your bag, scribbling your number on it.

"Here." You thrust the tissue into Gator's hand. "It's my number" you confirm, walking towards the bus.

"Call me sometime and I'll show you around."

Gator nods, his tongue caught between his teeth, seemingly memorizing the number.

You wave to him, climbing on.

"Wait!" He yells.

You turn to look at him.

"I don't know your name!"

You smile coyly, the secret on tip of your mouth.

"How about we hang out first and if the date goes well, I'll let ya know ?" You offer.

He smirks. "Yer drive a hard bargain, missy, but I accept - it's a date then." He promises, giving you a two-fingered salute as your laughter rings through the air.

"N' here we are, 2 years later." He drawls, petting Oliver, who's still very much asleep.

"Dunno why she chose to go out with me then. Dunno why she's still with me now either to be honest with yer. She continues to choose me for whatever reason, even though I have no idea why she would put with a shitbag like me, but lord knows 'm grateful for it." he finishes, chuckling to himself quietly.

"But I wanna try and be worthy of her." Gator confesses, gently lifting Oliver from his lap and onto his broad shoulder.

"So, me 'n' yer got some work ahead of us to do, alright ? Gonna show her that she did the right thing by decidin' to take a chance on da both of us."

Your heart clenches, a mix between being torn at how Gator still views himself so negatively, yet soaring at how much he loves you.

The sound of footsteps approaching garner your attention, and you make your way to the kitchen - not wanting Gator to know that you may have accidentally-on-purpose ended up overhearing his conversation with Oli.

You set the kettle to heat, waiting to make yourself a cup of tea, when Gator shuffles inside the house. He places Oliver down on the dog bed, moving the water bowl closer to the pup.

As he goes to head on upstairs, he realizes the kitchen light is on and spots you. The moment he does, his entire expression softens - the sight never failing to give you butterflies.

He tentatively makes his way to you, uncertainty written all over his face from your fight earlier.

"Hey."

"Hi." You return, taking the teabag and placing in your mug. At this point, it was probably one of your favourite mugs considering how often you use it.

Gator had gotten it for you one day on the way back from work, his tone casual, yet his expression anything but - eyes searching if you liked it. It had two otters engraved on the front, holding hands as they slept. He'd said then, cheeks pink, that it reminded him of the two of you, because you always ended up reaching for his hand in your sleep and tucking yourself into his chest.

In all honesty, it was probably your favourite sight to wake up to, his expression soft, eyes untroubled and resting. His hair was a canopy of brown waves, having being grown out from that slick back he sported when you met. You loved running your fingers through the strands, Gator nuzzling further into the crook of your neck at the motion.

You didn't go to tell him that the only reason your hand had initially started reaching out for his was because he used to have severe nightmares frequently when you moved in together. Once you realized that holding his hand helped him settle down slightly, it became a reflex whenever he started tossing and turning. Eventually though, your body started craving his warmth so much that you ended up automatically burrowed into him. The first time you'd done that, he'd called you 'Bunny' relentlessly for a week.

The kettle sings, startling you slightly.

"I, uh, wanted to apologise, for, uh earlier." Gator starts, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

"Shouldn't have raised my voice 'n' yelled at ya. Didn't mean to, I swear, doll, but I guess my frustration at Oli got the best of me.. n- not that that's an excuse or nothin'." he clarifies, hand reaching out and rubbing miniscule circular motions on your wrist. "M' sorry, darlin'. Truly." he ends, punctuating the last word with a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist.

You remain quiet, unsure of what to say, although the anger in your heart has diminished.

"I'll even get down on ma knees and beg if you want baby, just don't wanna go to bed fightin'." He confesses, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing the lightest kisses over your knuckles. You melt, your other hand carding through Gator's hair, the moonlight making everything feel softer.

"Not necessary." You whisper, looking up at him.

"Ya sure?" Gator questions, a smirk accompanying the sudden wicked glint in his eyes. "Recall yer generally liking it when I'm on my knees for ya, sugar." He exclaims, dropping down to his knees, his large, calloused hands encompassing your thighs.

"Gator!" You squeal, yanking him up by his sweatshirt, cheeks aflame. "Oliver's right there!" You tut.

"So ? He ain't comin' with us, and he sure as hell ain't gonna interrupt me showin' my girl a good time." Gator states, tilting your face to his.

When your eyes meet his, the flirty energy subsides, tenderness overtaking his features.

"Yer sure we're good tho?" He breathes, nudging his nose against yours.

"Mhm" you confirm. "Forgave you a while back anyways... I wasn't entirely made at you, more so at the situation I guess."

"I know, baby, I know. I'll fix it, I swear. Don't even fuckin' like doin' em stakeouts, waste of ma time, and keeps me from the only thing I want - comin' home to my girl."

Heat pools in your stomach at his words - the sincerity paired with the timbre of his voice making you feel things.

"Since when were you such a smooth talker, Tillman ? Got any other girls you're tryna impress?" You press, threading both hands through his hair and bringing his face closer to yours.

He grins, devilish and pretty. "Fuck no, sweet thing. Ain't got or care 'bout anyone else 'cept ya - yer it for me." He confesses, his hands settling on your lower waist, his grip firm.

Electricity hums underneath your skin, and you pull him into you, your lips capturing his. Hard and without mercy.

The tea lays forgotten and abandoned.

Gator groans into your mouth, the sound settling low in your system, and taps at your thighs to jump up. You immediately oblige, and he hoists you up, arms securely holding you. You bite his lower lip, and he growls, licking into your mouth with urgency.

You unwillingly break away from him, needing oxygen. Gator tries to chase your lips, but you don't let him kiss you. Not yet.

"Upstairs. Now" You sigh, pulling his head back by his hair, only for your breath to hitch at the sight of him. His wooden brown eyes now mere ringlets against the black void that seems to have consumed his irises. He exhales roughly, chest heaving, which draws your eyes to his mouth, the view so tantalizing that you forget to breathe - his lips, kiss-biten and swollen, a gorgeous pink that you want all over you.

"Gator, upstairs. Please." You beg, running your hands over the galaxy of freckles and moles across his shoulders.

He nods, carrying you all the way to your room. Once you enter, he shifts, keeping you upright with one hand and locking the door with the other.

Your brows furrow at the action.

"I ain't taking any chances with that dog walking through while we're busy." He scowls.

You can't help it, you chortle at the absurdity of his statement, tucking your face into the crook of his neck.

"Don't laugh at me, goddamn it." He retorts, but his tone is devoid of any actual annoyance, and before long, he's chuckling alongside you.

You move your head back to look at him, unable to muffle the smile on your face. "God, you're so cute sometimes, Gates."

"Cute?" He guffaws, eyes narrowing. "I'll show yer cute" he vows, throwing you onto the bed.

Over the next few months, true to his word, Gator and you work out how to train Oliver better. Gator swears even his police training wasn't this difficult, the energy Oliver has akin to that of a rocket sometimes - his slender frame helping him narrowly avoid yours and Gator's hands when trying to catch him for bath time.

Yet over time, thankfully, Oliver becomes a relatively obedient dog, often surprising you and Gator with how well he obeys commands.

Well, for the most part at least, with a few exceptions being his love for stealing Gator's work boots and chewing on your themed socks, despite his teething phase being long past.

Well, can't teach an old dog new tricks, you suppose, smiling fondly as Oliver munches happily on his treat.

!Ruff!

"Hi Oli !" You exclaim, keys jiggling as you unlock the door, back from work.

He barks, tail wagging ferociously.

"Hi baby, I'm happy to see you too!" You coo, bending down to pat him on the head and give him plenty of belly rubs.

You hear a scoff, nonsensical grumbling echoing slightly against the walls. You make your way to the kitchen to find Gator readying supper.

"Fucker's been here 2 months, and he's gettin' greeted 'fore me and bein' called baby." He mumbles in annoyance, nearly spilling mayonnaise all over his wrap.

You bite back a smile, slowly walking towards and wrapping your arms around Gator's waist. "Hi baby." You greet, purposely cooing at Gator the same way you did with Oliver, as you kiss his neck.

The grumbling intensifies and you laugh into his back, the muscles firm under your cheek.

"Callin' me and the dog the same fuckin' thing now - what am I, chopped liver?"

"Aww, are ya mad at me, hun?" You tease, ruffling his hair. He huffs, only to abruptly turn around and lift you onto the counter. You gasp, your senses off-kilter.

Gator then places his hands on either side of your thighs, tilting his head and just observing you.

Your cheeks warm under the attention he's giving you, his eyes full of affection.

"S' wrong, baby? Sure seem pretty quiet suddenly. Nothin' else to add?" He teases, his fingers ghosting the length of your arm, featherlight and steady.

You lean into him. "No, not really, just missed you, Gates."

You hear his sharp inhale at your sentiment, and feel him press a soft kiss against the side of your forehead.

"Missed ya too, sweet girl. More than yer could imagine."

An impatient whine interrupts the both of you, and you turn to the sound, only to see Oliver pawing at the foot of the counter.

"Aww, baby, I'm sorry." You apologize, stepping down from the counter. "Your dad decided to distract me. C'mere, baby." you urge, settling down on the floor.

Oliver giddily runs up to you, launching himself into your arms - his coat shiny and soft like a marshmallow.

"I can feel you rolling your eyes, you know ?"

"Well, can ya blame me? Switched from stakeouts to investigations to have better hours so I can come home early to yeh, and yer cuddling up with that damn dog. Even brought home some of that thousand island dressing stuff yer like and made tacos." He fusses, serving yours and his food onto your respective plates and placing it back into the fridge to eat for dinner.

Your heart pangs, heavy with guilt. As much as you know that Gator loves Oliver - because he does, he's been the one training Oliver to obey commands, thoroughly enjoying the sense of authority he gets to wield in a way that's fun and significantly less illegal - he's also right in saying that you haven't been giving him as much attention nor fully reciprocating the effort he's been putting into spending more time with you.

You give one last kiss to Oliver's forehead before setting him down gently, and walking towards Gator. You bring your hand up to his chest, feeling his heartbeat, the pulse steady and clear.

"I'm sorry, baby. You're absolutely right, I haven't been spending that much time with you. It's not intentional, I swear, but I'm so sorry I made you feel like that, Gates." you whisper, placing a soft kiss on his jawline.

"I haven't been managing my time well, and I've started leaving you out of things. I'm so sorry, baby." you repeat, intertwining your other hand with his.

"S' fine, I'm probably being stupid -, "

"No, you're not, Gator." you state.

" - being jealous of a fuckin' dog, what am I, 12?" He continues, scoffing at himself.

"Gator Tillman" your voice is like steel, and that gets his attention.

"You. Are. Not. Being. Stupid. Nor. Are. You. Stupid." You assure him, punctuating each word with a kiss. "Ok ?" You ask, looking at him.

He doesn't look you in the eyes. You gently tilt his face down towards you, "Ok?" you repeat, your tone impossibly soft. He nods, barely distinguishable, more so a jerk of his head, but he nods nonetheless. You hum, pleased.

"Good. Because no one gets to talk about the man I love like that, not even you, Gator Tillman." You state, tone sharp and precise.

He cracks a little smile at that.

"Thank you for telling me how you felt, Gates. Means a lot that you're willing to trust me with your feelings. I want you to do that more, ok? Because I want to know how to love you in the way you deserve."

He stills at that.

You continue looking at him, the setting sun bathing the kitchen in soft waves of orange and yellow. "You deserve love, Gator, so so much, you know that, right ?" You bring up the hand that was on his chest to cup his cheek, your thumb lightly brushing his face in soft motions.

His entire demeanour softens at that, leaning into your hand, coffee eyes dilating.

"Yes ma'am." He salutes at you.

You beam, pulling him closer to you, chests touching. "Can I kiss you?" you breathe, not wanting to cross the line until he forgives you.

"Thought yer said it was 'May I'." he quips, leering at you.

You roll your eyes playfully. "Fine, may I kiss you, please Gator ?"

He groans lightly, "Course sweetheart, yer ain't never need to ask." He responds, pulling your waist to his, breaths mingling.

Your hands find the base of his neck, fingers sifting through his hair, pushing yourself up to meet his lips in a tender embrace.

You don't go to slip your tongue into his mouth and neither does he, both of you content to remain savouring the taste of each other's lips. You draw back momentarily, pressing dainty kisses to the corners of his mouth, before leaning back in to kiss him - focusing on his upper lip the way he usually does with you, hoping he can feel how much you love and how apologetic you are for ever making him not feel as loved as he should be.

He pulls back, giving you one last kiss, placing his forehead against yours. "Apology accepted, baby. Yer my safe space, yeh know that, right ?"

You sniffle, gleaming. "I'm glad, Gates."

Later that night, you and Gator settle down on the couch, the TV light casting shadows across the living room. Oliver remains curled up near the coffee table, snoring gently.

You had told Gator that Oliver could stay out in the garden until the both of you went up to sleep, but he dismissed that, motioning for Oliver to follow him to the TV area. The dachshund went willingly, almost sashaying as if he were a prince, and settled next to Gator's feet.

"You sure? He really likes hunting for butterflies, we could let him stay out for a few hours, spend some time together."

"Yer tryin' get me alone woman, that it?" Gator teases, winking.

You playfully punch his arm.

"Nah." Gator rasps, watching Oliver sleeping intently. "I don't mind him staying with us, last thing I need is this fucker goin' 'n' diggin' that damn garden." His face and body completely contradict the nature of his words, the softness in his eyes evident of his affection for Oliver.

You poke his arm, "Liar. You're such a softie, Gator."

"That so? Know at least one thing about me that ain't so soft, sweetheart."

You groan, rolling your eyes in tandem. "Let's just watch the movie, you perv."

Gator chuckles, his hand pulling you into his side, thumb tracing the edge of your shoulder.

"Whatever you say, hun."

It's been a whole summer since you've gotten Oliver, and you think you and Gator have adjusted pretty well, all things considered.

Gator has started taking Oliver on his early morning 5 am runs, both of them loving the rush of cold air against their faces. You stay in bed peacefully until 7am, not a peep from the outside world. By the time you come downstairs to make a cup of tea, Gator and Oliver often finish their run, coming through the front door.

You beam, saying 'your boys' are back home, the smile Gator tries to hide behind a scowl a repetitively endearing sight. Oliver just accepts it, tail wagging, and then runs off into the garden - conducting his daily inspections against the neighbourhood squirrels.

Oliver and you have a developed your own sense of routine too - mostly comprising him monitoring your ability to fold and fit sheets from the comfort of yours and Gator's bed, and then promptly refusing to get off said bed when you need to actually change the sheets.

On the days where Gator does it, he's as obedient as, well, a dog.

You pout, the favouritism blatantly obvious, and you faux rant about it to Gator one day - legs swinging over the kitchen counter as he assesses the contents of the fridge to determine what to make for dinner.

"Like this is the epitome of the parent who didn't want to get the pet ending up being its favourite. The actual audacity Oli has."

Gator chuckles, shaking his head as he drops a kiss on your forehead.

He's been trying out and making new dishes recently, quite enjoying cooking - says it gives him something to do with his hands. You give him a few suggestions on some other things he could be doing with his hands. Safe to say, dinner doesn't get made that night - the both of you opting for takeout after the exhaustive and refreshing aftermath of your shared endeavours.

Honestly, despite the clear favouritism Oli has towards Gator, you can't really find it in you to be genuinely upset - because it's allowed you to truly see Gator in a different, more tender light. A Gator that allows himself to just be in the moment without worrying out being perfect, a Gator that lets himself indulge in what he would've considered silly activities like playing hide and seek with a dog - yet actually wholeheartedly enjoy it, scooping up Oliver at every given opportunity. Your favourite though, might be how Oliver has helped Gator rest more.

Over the past two years, Gator has always been wound-up and alert over the smallest noises, never letting himself fully rest. It kept breaking your heart, because what an exhausting way of living that must be, and what a fucked up life he must've had, constantly having to rewire and adjust himself to not get left behind or be considered 'useless'.

And try as you might, it wasn't something you could really help with, because dating you had only made Gator anxious on losing out the best part of his life - so he became even more neurotic. But with Oliver, Gator lets himself rest. You suppose it's one of those special things about the bond between man and dog, but when you come home after work and find Gator dozed off on the couch with Oliver's head resting on his thigh, your heart swells. One of Oliver's ears always activate to the sound of the front door being opened, and as soon as he realizes it's you, he lets out a soft 'aroo', happy that you're home, and goes back to sleep.

You don't think anything will beat the sight of them curled up together honestly, your boys - two hurt, abandoned souls becoming each other's shelter in their own ways.

Because as much Gator trusts Oliver, Oliver trusts him just as much, if not more.

Thunderstorms always frighten Oliver, likely an effect of the extreme sound animal ears can hear, and from being deserted during the pouring rain the day before Gator and you adopted him. You tried to do things by the book, muffling the sounds by closing the windows, and trying to act relaxed, but his frame would tremble regardless - his scared whines devastating to hear.

Gator's not the biggest fan of thunderstorms either, it often stirring up bad memories for him too. He'd told you about this one summer night after you'd had started dating, when you had mentioned noticing he'd flinch sometimes during thunderstorms.

"Reminds me of the night my ma left us. Dad was pretty mad, rumblin' around the house, smashin' everythin' in sight - wasn't very pleasant."

But when Gator entered the room that night, Oli bounded to him without abandon, leaping into his arms. Ever since then, whenever there's a thunderstorm, Oliver finds Gator somehow and ends up in his embrace. Gator tries his best to be brave for the both of them, softly muttering "I've gotcha buddy, I've gotcha - won't let nothin' hurt ya Oli, I swear, boy"

It would be remiss not to say that watching the way Gator takes care of Oliver makes you fall in love with him all over again.

All this isn't to say Oliver doesn't love you either. He does, very much so - often coming to get you first to show the new holes he's dug or showing you how close he is to catching his own tail (he's not, but it's still very cute how much he likes spinning around to show you). Whenever you have the day off from work, he's tucked into your side - whining the moment you get up from the couch to grab something to eat. His whining keeps getting louder the longer you take to come back - much like Gator to be honest - and immediately shuts up when you come back, burrowing into you. Still, very much like Gator. Sometimes you wonder if it's a genetic trait and then realize you're talking about a dog and a man.

Recently though, as he's grown a bit bigger - body lengthening, truly depicting the 'sausage dog' form his breed is often portrayed as - he's become a lot more protective of you, barking at the squirrels and pigeons that come your way whenever you're reading on the porch, and growling at weird men that stare at you for too long when you're walking him.

However, his protection, much to your entertainment, includes 'protecting' you against Gator. Not that Gator would dare lay a hand on you, of course not, but sometimes when he tries to be seductive [keyword being: 'tries'] and walk up to you, all slow and hulking, broad shoulders and strong arms on display - Oliver mistakes this for a sign as a sign of a potential attack. He starts barking, jumping up in the space between you and Gator - not letting your boyfriend come close to you.

Gator steps back. "Bitch, the fuck ? Why are yer always cockblockin' me ?" That's the third time this week!" He exclaims, glaring at Oliver.

You blink. "....Gator, honey, it's only Wednesday."

"I know that, my point still stands." He replies gruffly, arms crossed like a petulant child.

You can't help it, you snort. Before long, you're laughing, with tears already brimming at the corner of your eyes from the sheet absurdity of the situation - your boyfriend and dog staring at each like they're about to have a cowboy duel.

Gator scowls, jaw set, but you can already see the smile threatening to break at his face.

You crouch down to Oliver's level, hugging him to get him to stop jumping. "Aww, look Oli, you made Dad sad." you chide, mouth set in a faux pout.

"Daddy's not a bad guy, ok ? Daddy's very good to me, and you - he's very good to us, right?" You ask, turning to face Oliver. He pants in agreement, and you lift him up to Gator's face. "Give Dada a kiss, ok ? Let's say sorry for hurting his feelings.... And cockblocking him because he lets you hump that poor duck toy to your heart's content, doesn't he?" you question, your tone sympathetic but your smile widening with mischief.

Gator's eyes narrow at your faux sentiment, tongue in cheek. His eyebrow crooks up, hand settling firmly on your waist, and in that moment, you can tell he has every intention of continuing your prior activity once you're both in the bedroom without any dog-shaped interruptions.

Your cheeks heat, Gator's gaze and his wavy locks working a little too well in his favour.

Oliver, bless his heart, seems to think that you're actually sad about how he barked at Gator and starts licking his face. A lot. Like a lot. Repeatedly.

"Ack! What the- " Gator yelps, reeling back, his previous smooth demeanour disappearing into thin air.

Oliver refuses to let him move back though, continuously wiggling forward, and licking more of Gator's face.

"Oli, shit! Stop!" your boyfriend shrieks.

At this point, Gator's face, coated with tons of spit, is probably wetter than you were earlier this morning. Not that you would say that to Gator, otherwise you'd probably end up unable to leave the room for a week afterwards, legs sore and spirit leaving you.

Now generally, you pride yourself on an empathetic person, but you can't seem to stop laughing currently - not quite lowering Oliver to the ground just yet, nor helping Gator either - laughter taking over your system.

Oliver barks happily, thinking he's resolved the issue, and turns back to look at you as if asking if you're proud of him. You giggle, kissing his little head.

"Yer think this is funny?" Gator spits out.

"Only a little" you tease, placing Oliver on the ground, who scampers off back into the garden.

"Oh yeah?" He quips, lifting the bottom of his white t-shirt to wipe off some of the saliva on his chin - eyes staying locked on yours the entire time.

Your throat feels dry at the action, eyes dropping down to hide your flustered state - only for your breath to hitch at the sight of his soft, strong stomach - gleaming with sweat from his run earlier today. You watch as a bead of sweat rolls down his chest, leisurely making its way down, and disappearing into Gator's glorious happy trail right in front of you. You swallow thickly, eyes still roaming the expense of his skin.

Gator clears his throat, his smirk evident.

"Like what yer see?" He teases, tugging the t-shirt back down.

He walks up to you, barely a hair's breadth remaining between your bodies. You feel the warmth from his chest emanating, goosebumps erupting over your skin.

"Yes" you breathe, unable to lie even if you wanted to in this moment.

The tips of his ears bloom a bright red, the flush slowly spreading across the apples of his cheeks.

"Y- Yeah?" He stammers, slightly thrown off-guard by your conviction.

"Yes."

He brushes your hair back, placing it behind your neck, and leans in.

Your eyes flutter shut, lips tangling in anticipation - only to feel something wet and almost syrupy being spread across your face.

You squint, confused, as Gator snickers, lovingly caressing your face with some weird substance.

"Gate?"

"Hol' on, sugar." He grins maliciously. "M' almost done."

"Gator, what are you- ?" You step back, voice trailing off as you recall the events that had happened just moments prior, before being very distracted by your boyfriend.

Immediately, your face contorts in rage and disgust.

Gator slowly backs away, gearing to run - that infuriating toothy grin still plastered on his handsome face.

"GATOR TILLMAN!" You shriek.

He hoots, sprinting into the garden, his laughter echoing throughout the house.

You follow him, heels hot on his trail.

Unfortunately, Gator is prepared, holding up Oli as his line of defense once you reach the garden.

"Yer wouldn't do anything, would ya, sugar ? He teases. "Not with Oli here, looking so happy to see ya."

He tuts, sticking out his tongue at you, happy at having exploited your weakness, because Gator and Oliver have similar brown eyes, and when they gang up against you, eyes sparkling like pools of chocolate syrup - it's a battle you can never seem to win.

You huff, the rage of a thousand suns still burning inside you, but you can't deny how adorable Oliver looks in that moment - his little tongue out and panting, tail wagging, and calling for you excitedly to join him and Gator, clueless as a butterfly about how pissed you are at his dad.

"Fuck you."

Oftentimes, you try to be the bigger person in difficult situations, but today you're petty as hell. No way are you letting Gator run away, scot-free.

"Already did, last night and this mornin', sweet thing, didya forget ?." He quips, clearly enjoying your agony.

You glare at him, eyes darting around the garden for something to teach Gator a lesson with.

Target acquired.

"You know what, fair enough, you and I both know I'm not going to try anything with Oli around. Plus, I'm just purely disgusted by how icky this feels on my face, so I'm gonna go wash it off... But you, Gator Tillman, are a pig." you exclaim, pretending to head back into the house whilst inching backwards towards where the garden hose was.

"Tit for tat, doll - don't hate the player, hate the game." he returns, tone victorious as he sets down Oliver, eyes on the ground.

You slowly turn on the water, grabbing the hose in your hand and hiding it behind your back, shielding it from his view.

"Although," you announce, "I think there's something that you're forgetting."

"Yeah ? What's that ?" He questions, looking up from Oliver to you, his expression still so smug - placing his hands on his hips.

"This." You reply, angelic, before directing the water at him.

Later, when both of your clothes are soaked, emphasis on both because Gator stole the hose from you in a matter of minutes and had his revenge - Oliver has essentially had his bath for the week, fur wet and matted from the water sprinkling everywhere whilst you and Gator were running about, spraying each other with the hose - you sprint into the house, bringing back a camera and snapping a picture of the three of you, drenched and exhausted, but so so happy.

"Ok, ok... Remember how I told ya that me 'n' yer got some work ahead of us to do ?"

"That we're gonna show yer mum that she did the right thing by decidin' to take a chance on da both of us ?"

!Ruff!

"Well, today's that day, boy -"

"Aroo ?"

"-Alright, alright... to be honest, I wanted to do it yesterday because the date would've been 6/9 then, but I'm not sure if yer mum would've found it that funny considering the occasion."

Oliver yawns, crossing his front paws.

"Anyways.." Gator continues, clearing his throat. "It's been a year since 'n' I'm 'bout to ask her to take the biggest possible chance on me today, so I need yer to go get her now, ok ? Just like we practiced bud, ok ?

Oli tilts his head, looking at Gator.

"Oli, go fetch Muma!"

!Ruff!

Four paws pad across the ground, strides soft but determined, nails clacking on the floor.

Minutes later you appear in the garden, wearing one of Gator's old shirts and your favourite weekend shorts.

Gator's breath hitches, marvelling at how stunning you look.

Fuck, he thinks, I'm so goddamn lucky.

"Gates, what's wrong ? Oli appeared all of a sudde- ?" your voice trails off, hand covering your mouth in surprise, noticing how beautifully the garden has been decorated - a canopy of your favourite flowers.

Your eyes find Gator, a gasp leaving you as you notice what he's holding in his hand.

"Gator..."

He smiles, eyes crinkling as he looks at you - nervousness and anticipation written across his face as he kneels down.

"Hi darlin'.." he exhales shakily. "Don't think I ever told ya this, but do y'know why I like gettin' up at 5am 'n' goin' to sleep late ?

You shake your head slightly in response, feeling your heart pounding in your ears at what's happening.

"S' coz that way yer the first thing I wake up to and the last thing I see before I close my eyes, sweetheart."

Butterflies erupt in your stomach. "Gates.."

His eyes are shining now, tears gathering slowly. "Been thinkin' 'bout the future these days, and honestly ? Yer the only sight I ever wanna wake up to, honey. Can't imagine livin' without yer and this little menace for the life of me." He declares, tilting his head towards the dog that's resting near your feet.

"You've always been there for me - yer fuckin' encouraged me to become a chef for fuck's sake."

You giggle, Gator's inability to not swear even in moments like this unfortunately endearing and just so Gator.

"Yer my home, angel. My home, my dreams.. fuck, yer my everythin'." He croaks, trying to keep his tears at bay - much like you right now.

"N' if yer'll have me, I want to be yours. Nothin' else I want 'cept us together, for as long as yeh'll have me, baby."

He whispers your name then, like a secret, like a promise.

"Will yer marry me, darlin' ?"

You nod as you run to him, your heart bursting with joy.

You clutch his face, the ring the last thing on your mind, and kiss him all over. Each and every perfect freckle and mole on his face is cradled by the soft touch of your lips as you breathe out a crescendo of 'yes, yes, yes, yes', tears escaping you.

He chuckles, arms wrapping around your waist like he never wants to let go.

"Doll?"

"Hmm?" you respond, still kissing his face.

"Yer.. kinda gotta the wear the ring, sweet thing." He reminds you, thumb tenderly grazing your skin. "Soon preferably, my knee's startin' to hurt like a bitch."

"Oh!" You reel back, looking at him, knees hitting the grass instantly. "Shit ! Sorry!" you exclaim, panic setting in. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to, I swear, just got caught up-"

Gator snorts, bringing the ring to your left hand. He looks at you, the love in his eyes far too overwhelming, and slips the ring on your finger.

The chill of the metal draws a slight gasp out of you, the gem twinkling like the stars in the night sky.

Gator stands up, lifting you up with him - drawing your hand to his mouth and places a gentle kiss on your ring finger. Your body ignites at his touch, craving him in his entirety.

"I love yer, angel." He breathes, the confession making you melt no matter how many times you hear him say it.

You kiss him then, leisurely coaxing his mouth open, hoping your body communicates just how much you adore him.

He groans lightly, his tongue exploring your mouth, as he works his hands up to your face, cradling your jaw as if it were more precious than air or water - as if he could not survive if not by your side.

You draw back, oxygen your enemy at this moment in time, and fist his shirt - drawing him into you further, licking his lips with fervour.

"How long?" You demand, kissing the corners of his mouth.

His answer is instantaneous. "Been savin' since I saw yer that first time, knew I wouldn't want to live in a world where I don't wake up beside your smile every mornin'." He rasps, capturing your lips, his focus always on your treasuring your upper one.

You moan, his words adding fuel to your desire, and pull him flush against you. Your hands ravenously work their way to his hair, tugging his head back, your only intention to absolutely ruin his neck with your lips.

Deciding you two have had enough of a moment together, Oliver barks, drawing your attention.

"Suppose he gave us enough time just this once at least." Gator offers, nudging your nose with his.

You groan, glaring at Oliver, for once genuinely upset with him for interrupting the moment - only for your frustration to melt away the moment he hits you with those puppy-dog eyes.

"You've trained him too well." You murmur, loosening your hold on Gator.

"Hmm?" He tilts his head, gaze curious, but his smile knowing.

"You two and your fucking boba eyes, I swear." You respond as you and Gator crouch down to give Oliver belly rubs.

" We headin' back inside ?" Gator inquires moments later, as he lifts Oliver with one hand, the other intertwined around yours.

"I'm already home with the both of you."

"..."

Oliver sneezes, nose wrinkling at your statement.

"Yeah bud, that was horrid... Never fuckin' say that again, hun."

"Shut up, Gator."

dividers by @cursed-carmine

○ 𝑺𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔. 𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅. 𝑪𝒐𝒑𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑨𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒉𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅.

! 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 !

█▓▒▒░░░MASTERLIST░░░▒▒▓█

[madsama]

sparks

joel miller x f!reader

summary: autumn leaves and cool weather have finally taken over jackson. the end of the week is finally here and so is your date with joel. an evening that you had been daydreaming about turned into everything you wanted and more.

part one

part two

your sewing machine was hard at work. you were trying to finish up as many orders as possible by the time evening rolled around. both nervous and excited, you were hoping that staying busy would help keep those feelings suppressed.

the hours had passed quickly. you closed up shop and went inside the house to get ready. the festival always had a dance party in the community center at the end of the evening. you looked at the many dresses hung up in your closet. the many dresses that were made by your very hands.

the weather had cooled down a good amount in the last few days. unsure of which one to choose, you plucked one off the hanger and added a cardigan on top. hoping this would be enough to keep you warm.

you always had your hair up in a messy braid or ponytail. tonight, you let it all flow. knowing there have been a few days of rain this week, it was more than likely still muddy out. you put on some warm frilly socks and chelsea boots. after completing your look, you stood in front of the mirror.

this was it. in a matter of minutes, joel miller would be knocking on your door. you let out a huge breath and brushed your hands down the front of your dress. closing your eyes, your mind lingered to the memory of the first time joel entered your shop. how nervous he got when your ran your hands across his chest. when he brought you flowers and stood so shyly in your presence.

a smile tugged at your lips.

***

joel was in his truck. hands on the steering wheel. it took him hours of calming himself down to get to where he is now. he never hesitated when he brought a flannel for you twice, sometimes three times a week to patch up. always finding something just to see you.

this time it was much different. this was a date. something he had not done in years. let alone with a woman much younger than him. you were a beacon of light that shined through him. through years of darkness and sadness. he gripped the steering tighter and started the engine, making his way down the street.

he finally arrived at your house. brushing a hand through his curly, peppered locks before exiting his truck. the leaves crunched beneath his boots as he made his way to your front door. letting out a big sigh through his nose, he lifted a hand and knocked.

the door creaked opened and there you stood. joel’s heart sank deep into his stomach. his pulse increased drastically as he stared at you. he was in awe.

“you look beautiful” he whispered.

his compliment made your cheeks turn pink. you smiled and looked down at your feet.

“and you look very handsome” you replied.

joel finally worked up the courage to look back into your eyes. a cheeky grin plastered on his face.

“shall we?” he asked, reaching out his arm as a signal for you to walk ahead of him.

so you did. he followed closely behind. you could feel his eyes burning a stare into your body. before you got the chance to open the passenger door, joel was quick to reach out a hand and open it for you. you smiled at him and hopped in.

***

the evening was the most fun you had in a long time. the two of you tried different sweet treats that the locals had made, had dinner on a patio that was beautifully lit by lights strung around fall trees. you even played a few cheesy games that the town had set up. laughing together at how badly you threw a baseball or how terrible joel was at pinning a tail on a donkey.

after this, the two of you made your way to the town’s community center for the dance. you weren’t sure if joel was a dancer or not. he sure didn’t seem like one.

the inside of the building was decorated nicely. dim lighting filled the room. table and chairs pushed to aline the walls to make space for the dancing.

tommy waved at you both as your eyes wondered for somewhere to sit. the two of you took a seat at the table, joining tommy and his wife.

“you two look good” tommy said, picking up his glass of whiskey to take a sip.

“thank you” you replied shyly.

turning your head towards the many people gathered in the middle, you watched as they cheered and moved to the music. nervously, your hand clutched the fabric of your dress and your leg bounced up and down uncontrollably.

“ya gonna ask her to dance or what?” tommy asked joel, who was also watching everyone else.

a slow long played softly over the speakers now. the lively crowd now moving at a smooth pace.

tommy got up from his chair where him and his wife made their way to the middle. he gave joel one last look before turning away.

you looked over at him. he chest moved up and down at a steady pace. he wiped his hands on his jeans which were noticeably shaky. before you assured him that it was okay if the two of you didn’t participate, he stood up from his seat.

he stuck out a hand, gesturing for you to take it. your eyes sparkled up at him. you placed your hand in his. feeling the warmth of his skin made butterflies grow in the pit of your stomach.

he pulled you behind him, finding a good place amongst the crowd. he was much taller than you. his broad figure towering over you.

he finally stopped, turning to look down at you.

“i-it’s been a while since i’ve done this, i-“

you cut him off. just as you did back at the shop, you took matters into your own hands. you grabbed his hands and placed them on your lower back. he tensed up instantly at the sudden action. you reached up and tied your arms around his neck.

“did you really forgot how to slow dance, miller?” you whispered, getting up on your tip-toes.

“or do you just like it when i take charge?”

your flirty comment made his cheeks turn red. his brown eyes stared firmly into yours. he was surprised by the words that came out of your mouth. your statement was most definitely not untrue.

joel tightened his grip on the plush of your hips. a sly smile plastered on his face. his reaction told you everything.

***

joel drove you back to your house and walked you up to the porch. the cool breeze of the night made you shiver. the cardigan you had on was definitely not enough.

before turning around, a heavy material was placed upon your shoulders. cold hands came up to grip the jacket tighter. the very jacket that brought joel into your shop, desperate for you to fix. the smell of him and everything he was, wrapped around you.

you turned to face him. your mouth partially open, a cloud forming around your lips due to the crisp air.

“j-joel“ you said with shaky breath.

his breath was warm and close. your eyes bounced back and forth between his and his lips. he was doing the same until he snaked an arm around the small of your waist and pulled you into him.

your lips crashed into his. you took a handful of his flannel, keeping yourself grounded. feeling the warmth of his body through his shirt made your heart flutter. the stubble of his beard tickled your soft skin. he brought up his free hand to cup your face and deepened the kiss.

the two of you parted from each other, both catching your breath. your foreheads gently touching. your hand still rested upon his chest, feeling his heart beat intensely.

“i think i’m in love you with you” he whispered.

❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥❥

i’m so sorry this took me forever to post a third part 🥲

i hope you all enjoy this 🤍 - m

@the-heart-is-an-organ-of-fire @cuteanimalmama @joelmillerschesthair @mystickittytaco @billionairecowgirl

[cottoncandybrandy]

ch.5 - 1984

summary: steve loves someone real, loses her anyway and finds himself reaching for a girl he can't prove exists before the wreckage even finishes settling. you're trying to hold together a boyfriend's college plans, a dead mother's absence, and a private notebook full of a stranger you're chasing without a last name. neither of you knows how close you already almost were.

CW: 18+ MDNI, slight canon divergence, mentions of torture/blood, some (like 2?) suggestive comments, fluff, underage drinking, emotional hurt/comfort, stancy halloween szn 2, lmk if i forgot anything :)

WC: 16.2k (im sorry?)

A/N: sorry this took so long, i just had such a hard time writing this chapter and it kinda feels a little like a nothingburger BUT i love chapter 6 so get amped up for that

series masterlist

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The dream drops you into a back room that smells overwhelmingly like waffle cones and industrial air conditioning. You’re tucked into a corner near a mop bucket and boxes of unopened cake cones, and there's Steve — older, unmistakably older, but somehow younger looking than you've ever seen him in any other dream, in a way you don't have words for yet. 

It takes you a second to understand it's the because of the uniform. A striped red shirt beneath a navy sailors shirt and matching shorts. A ridiculous little cap perched at an angle that suggests he's stopped caring how it looked sometime around the fourth hour of his shift, and to top it all off — white knee high socks. He looks completely, gloriously unbothered by how stupid he should feel.

A younger kid is perched on an overturned bucket nearby, curly-haired, gesturing with a scoop like it's a conductor's baton. "Camp Know Where changes a person, Steve. You're looking at a whole new Dustin."

"You've been back two weeks. Still smell like bug spray and nerd."

"That's growth, actually. I learned morse code. Built a radio tower out of spare parts. Also, I met a girl, who, unlike you, actually likes me." Dustin twirls the scoop with theatrical flair. "Meanwhile you're in here every shift striking out with, and I cannot stress this enough, literally everyone."

Steve grimaces and flicks a napkin at him, unimpressed but fond. Dustin flicks it back without breaking stride, already moving on. "What about Robin?"

Steve blinks. "What about her?"

"The girl for you. She's right there. Free real estate."

"She's not my type."

"Based on what data? You've actually talked to her, what, twice? I've talked to her more than you have, and it's been about russian transmissions." Dustin shrugs. "You'd know her better than me. Allegedly."

"I know her fine. We work together." Steve says it easy, dismissive, though something flickers behind it he doesn't seem to fully understand — some old, restless instinct that's never once landed on anything close to right, no matter how many girls he's tried it out on. "She's fine. Just not it."

"'It.'" Dustin repeats the word like a punchline Steve doesn't know he's told. "Very specific criteria for a guy who can't articulate what it actually is."

"I'll know it when I find it."

"Cool. Very scientific." Dustin doesn't even glance up from the ice cream scoop. "Anyway, wouldn't matter — Robin's got the whole whiteboard against you."

Steve pauses. "Wait, you knew about that?"

"Everyone knows about that, Steve."

"She said she's collecting data. On my rejections." Steve gestures at it, half-hidden by napkin boxes near the mop bucket, rows of tally marks climbing well past anything flattering. "I had, like, one class with her junior year. That's our whole history. Where's the vendetta coming from?"

"Maybe you're just memorable."

"That's not comforting."

"Wasn't trying to comfort you. Was trying to be right." Dustin grins, delighted with himself. "Face it. You're not losing your touch, you just never had one to lose."

The bell over the front counter jingles, and Steve's whole posture changes in about half a second flat, shoulders back, that easy, practiced grin sliding into place like a mask he's put on a thousand times. You drift closer, curious, and immediately understand why Dustin's already smirking behind the divider like he knows exactly what's coming.

Two girls, unmistakably his own age, backpacks slung over their shoulders like they wandered in straight from some other part of the mall, lean against the counter, already giggling before Steve's said a single word.

"Ladies." He leans an elbow on the counter, missing it slightly, correcting with a smoothness that almost, almost, sells the whole thing as intentional. He drags a hand back through his hair on the way up, a gesture so practiced it's clearly its own opening move. "Steve Harrington. Some people call me Steve the Hair Harrington. You can call me whichever one you like better."

One girl snorts into her hand. The other one just stares at him, unimpressed, arms crossed. "That's — genuinely terrible."

"I get that a lot." He says it like a compliment, entirely unbothered, scooping with a flourish. "Rocky road, was it? Bold choice. I respect a woman who likes things a little chunky."

Something small and unexpected flares in your chest, watching him lean into it, watching those girls laugh at him — a quick, hot flicker of something that feels embarrassingly close to jealousy before you even fully register it. That's ridiculous, you tell yourself immediately, mortified at your own reaction. He doesn't even know I exist. You watch a second longer, bracing for the feeling to get worse.

Instead, one of the girls, laughing despite herself, says, "Do you actually get anywhere with these lines?"

"Every single time." Steve hands over the cone with total, unshakable sincerity, like the question itself is faintly ridiculous. "It's a numbers game. Odds are always in my favor."

The girl's friend is full-on cackling now, and even the unimpressed one is fighting a smile as they walk off, and the jealousy in your chest dissolves so fast into pure, delighted amusement that you actually laugh out loud, forgetting for a second that nobody here can hear you.

"That was so bad," you say to no one, grinning helplessly.

Dustin, from behind the divider in the back room, mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "a numbers game, sure, Steve," just loud enough for Steve to hear.

"It worked, didn't it?"

"She said no."

"She laughed. Laughing is only a few steps away from a yes."

"That's not how yeses work, Steve."

It keeps going like that; a steady trickle of customers, all of them recognizably his own age, clearly killing time at the mall the way every teenager in Hawkins apparently does, and Steve trotting out a new, increasingly terrible line for every single one of them, apparently incapable of repeating himself even once.

A group of girls who look like they might go to Hawkins High gets informed that Scoops Ahoy's specialty flavor is "heartbreak, and I would know, I invented it — ask around, they call me the Hair for a reason." One girl leaning on the counter with her friends gets, with total, earnest sincerity, hair dragged back for emphasis: "I don't usually do this, but you've got the kind of smile that could end world hunger. Or at least this shift. Steve, by the way. The Hair, if you're nasty."

She laughs so hard she nearly drops her cone.

You're doubled over by this point, delighted in a way that has nothing to do with any of the actual jokes landing — it's watching Dustin's increasingly pained expressions behind the counter, watching Steve commit so completely to believing he's still got it, entirely unaware of how thoroughly he doesn't, watching an entire mall food court fall a little bit in love with a boy in a stupid sailor hat and a genuinely excellent head of hair, one terrible pickup line at a time.

A new customer steps up before Dustin can say anything, and Steve turns that same easy, ridiculous grin on her without missing a beat: "Now, I don't wanna alarm you, but I think you might be lost. Because heaven's usually a little further north of the food court."

Dustin makes a sound like he's been personally wounded. "Oh my god."

The line lands somewhere between so terrible and so earnestly delivered that it loops all the way back around into genuinely funny, and between that and the look on Dustin's face — pure, betrayed disbelief, like he can't decide if he wants to laugh or throw a scoop at Steve's head — you lose it completely. A real laugh, loud and helpless, doubling you over somewhere that isn't really anywhere, shaking you right out of the dream itself.

You wake up laughing, which is apparently becoming something of a pattern.

It takes you a second to place the room, not your own ceiling, but Ella's, string lights looped crooked along the headboard, a poster of some rock band you only half-recognize peeling slightly at one corner. Right. It’s Thursday. You stayed over after the two of you burned through half a bag of popcorn and most of a rented movie neither of you actually finished watching.

You lie there a second longer than you need to, still smiling, before it fully registers just how long it's actually been. Three weeks, at least, since the last real one; a real Steve dream, the kind that leaves something warm behind instead of something you have to shake off. Lately it's mostly been the other kind: the kitchen, the shattered mug, your mom collapsed on the floor, your own hands locking into place against her chest that never once seems to actually help in the dream any more than it did in real life. You wake up from those gasping, some nights, disoriented and shaking in a way that no amount of Ella's family's warmth can fully talk you down from until well into breakfast. You'd take a hundred more nights of terrible pickup lines over even one more night of that kitchen floor, and some greedy, grateful part of you wants to hold onto this one a little longer just for that reason alone.

"Okay," Ella says from the other bed, propped up on one elbow, already grinning at you over the gap between the mattresses. "You were cackling. Like, genuinely cackling, in your sleep. I thought you were choking for a second."

"I wasn't choking."

"You were doing something. What was so funny?" She narrows her eyes, delighted, already fishing. "Good dream?"

"It was — yeah. It was a really good one." A real one, you don't say. The kind I haven't gotten in a while.

"Was it about Aaron?" Ella waggles her eyebrows so hard it's basically a full-body gesture, grinning wide enough to show all her teeth. "Wink wink. Nudge nudge. Was he doing something extra scandalous?"

"Ella."

"I'm just saying! You're allowed. You've been together like, what, two years now—"

"One year, and nine months." The correction comes out automatic, precise, a fact you've apparently got memorized down to the exact number without meaning to.

"Whatever, basically two years, and you never tell me any of the gory details." She flops back onto her pillow, mock-wounded. "I have to just assume the worst — best — most scandalous things."

"It wasn't about Aaron." That part, at least, is true. You don't offer anything else, and Ella, mercifully, doesn't push, she just makes a face like she's filing the mystery away for later interrogation before rolling out of bed to go fight with her curling iron instead.

"Hey," you say, catching her at the bathroom door before she disappears into the mirror for the next twenty minutes. "Thanks again. For letting me crash here."

"You say that every time like I'm doing you some huge favor." Ella rolls her eyes, fond. "You know you can just live here. Since Heather's off at school you can just take her room."

"It’s just that James is at IU the whole semester, and dad's in Cincinnati till Sunday for work." You shrug, keeping it light even though it isn't, entirely. "I just— you know. The dreams. I don't do great in the house by myself when they show up, and lately they've been showing up a lot."

Ella's face softens all the way, no hesitation this time; she's heard this particular explanation enough times by now that it doesn't need any further unpacking. "The kitchen ones?"

You nod, not trusting your voice with much more than that.

"Yeah, no, obviously you're staying here." She says it simply, like there was never really a question to begin with. "You can stay literally whenever you want. My mom loves you more than she loves me, probably."

"That's definitely true."

"I'm aware." She grins again, mercifully letting the heavier moment pass without lingering on it, and disappears into the bathroom, already yelling something about the curling iron being possessed.

You sit there another minute on the edge of the bed, grateful in a way you don't fully have words for; not just for the company, or the hairspray Ella's mom keeps stocked specifically for you now, but for the fact that nobody in this house makes you explain yourself. Nobody asks why a sixteen year old still can't sleep in an empty house almost two years later. They just leave the porch light on and set an extra plate at breakfast, like it's the easiest thing in the world.

You think about Steve three separate times before you've even finished getting dressed, which is, if you're honest, not unusual anymore, though this morning it feels different, lighter, less like reaching for something and more like still holding onto something you got to keep for once.

It happens while you're pulling on a sweater, some flash of the sailor hat, the ridiculous, earnest confidence of The Hair, if you're nasty, and you catch yourself smiling at nothing in the mirror before you can stop it. It happens again while you're digging through your bag for a hair tie, some stray, unplaceable detail from the dream surfacing — the curly-haired kid's voice, the casual way they spoke to each other, and you find yourself trying to hold onto it, turning it over carefully, the way you always do now, cataloging it before it can slip away.

You don't write it down until tonight, obviously. You would never do it here, not at Ella's, the notebook stays home, tucked under its floorboard, safe and singular and entirely yours. But you spend a stray minute standing at Ella's dresser mirror trying to remember every detail anyway, the way you always do lately, half convinced that if you just hold onto enough of it: the mall, the sailor uniform, the Ahoy hat, you might eventually assemble enough real, verifiable facts to prove, one way or another, whether any of it could possibly be true.

You don't know why it matters so much to you whether he's real. You just know it does, more than it probably should, more than you'd ever be able to explain to a single living person without sounding unwell.

You definitely don't tell anyone about the notebook. Not Ella, not your dad, and not Aaron — especially not Aaron.

That's the part that sits heaviest in your chest most mornings, if you actually let yourself sit with it. It feels, some days, uncomfortably close to cheating; not in any way you could point to, not in any way that would hold up if you tried to explain it out loud, but close enough that the guilt shows up anyway, quiet and persistent. A whole notebook of feelings about another boy. A whole private world you retreat into almost every night, one you've never once invited Aaron into, one that occupies more of your actual heart most days than anything happening in your real, waking life.

Aaron is real, you remind yourself, buttoning your sweater, the thought arriving worn and familiar from how many times you've had to reach for it lately. Aaron is good. Aaron loves you, actually, provably, out loud and in front of everyone. This other thing — whatever it might be — isn't even a person. It's just a dream. It's a boy who's never once had to actually show up for you the way Aaron does, every single day, without fail.

It doesn't fully land, the way it never fully lands anymore. You get dressed anyway, and go downstairs, and let the morning carry you forward regardless.

Ella's parents are already at the kitchen table by the time you make it down, her dad half-hidden behind the newspaper, her mom sliding a plate of eggs across the table like she's been doing it your whole life instead of just the last two years.

"Good morning," Ella's mom smiles at you, warm and unbothered, the way she always is. "Sleep okay, honey?"

"Really well, actually."

"Good." She doesn't ask anything further, doesn't need to, just fills your juice glass without being asked and goes back to buttering her own toast. Ella's dad grunts something amiable from behind the sports section that might be a good morning.

"She had a dream about a mystery man last night," Ella announces around a mouthful of toast, entirely too pleased with herself. "Wouldn't tell me who. Very suspicious."

"It's nobody, Ella."

"Nobody makes you laugh in your sleep like that."

"Leave the girl alone," Ella's mom says, mild, not even looking up, and Ella subsides with a theatrical sigh, already moving on to complaining about a trigonometry test instead.

You eat your breakfast, half-listening, half still turning dream details over in your head, and check the clock over the stove more out of habit than urgency. "We should probably go, actually, I told Aaron I'd get us there before the bell this time."

"Since when do you drive us?" Ella asks, already gathering her bag, grinning sideways at you. "Last time you drove I nearly went through the windshield at that stop sign on Miller."

"That only happened one time."

"It happened enough times that I specifically remember it." She grabs a piece of toast to go, already heading for the door. "I love you, but you brake like you're mad at the car."

"I am improving."

"You are technically improving," Ella allows, generous, swinging the front door open. "C'mon, Speed Racer. Try not to kill us on the way to school this time."

You roll your eyes, grab your bag, and follow her out into the cool morning air, car keys already in hand, one last stray thought of a sailor hat and a terrible pickup line trailing warm and unbidden behind you the whole way to the driveway.

The cassette Margaret lent you rattles slightly in the tape deck as Ella cranks the volume, both of you belting some scratchy, gloriously overproduced 70s pop song at a volume that's almost certainly illegal this early in the morning, windows cracked just enough that half the parking lot can hear you botching the high notes on your way in.

"You are so flat," Ella informs you, delighted, still singing anyway.

"You're one to talk."

"I never claimed to be good. My enthusiasm makes up for the lack of talent." She harmonizes badly on purpose just to make you laugh, and you're both still cackling, breathless, as you pull into the space next to Aaron's black truck.

He's out front with a cluster of his friends, bag already slung over one shoulder, and you can hear Jude mid-story before you've even got the car in park — big, sweeping gestures, clearly reenacting some crucial defensive stand from some semifinal game a couple years back.

"—and this guy, this absolute menace right here, strips it clean off him twice, TWICE, and the dude's just standing there like—" Jude does an exaggerated, wounded expression that gets a laugh out of the rest of the group. "And then Aaron comes back and drains a three right in his face. Should've seen this guy's face, man. Priceless."

"I had him rattled the whole game," Aaron says, easy, grinning. "Kid thought he was hot stuff. I humbled him."

"We still lost, though," someone points out.

"By one point. Against a guy who clearly peaked that exact night." Aaron shrugs, unbothered, and then he spots you climbing out of the car and his whole face does something warmer, softer, all the performed confidence melting straight off him. "Hey, there she is."

"Hey." You barely get the word out before he's crossing the distance and kissing you, easy and sweet, one hand coming up to rest at your jaw like it's the most natural gesture in the world.

"Oh my god," Ella announces loudly, gagging with theatrical commitment as she rounds the front of the car. "It is eight in the morning, you two. Some of us haven't even had breakfast fully digest yet."

"Jealous," Aaron says against your mouth, not breaking away.

"Deeply," Ella confirms, unbothered, already heading toward the doors.

Jude and the rest of Aaron's friends erupt into the kind of hollering, wolf-whistling chaos that's apparently required by law whenever Aaron kisses you in public, and Aaron pulls back just enough to flip them off without any real heat behind it, grinning the whole time.

"You guys are the worst," he says, not sounding remotely bothered.

"You're just mad we're witnesses," Jude calls back, already herding the rest of the group toward the doors themselves.

"So," Aaron says, falling into step beside you as the parking lot empties out around you, bag slung over one shoulder, something bright and restless in his voice that you clock immediately. "I finished it. Last night. All the applications, sent out, done."

"Seriously? All of them?"

"All six." He says it like he still can't quite believe it himself, grinning down at you. "Purdue, IU, Notre Dame — reach school, I know, I know, and a couple of the smaller ones my counselor kept pushing. Six schools, six essays, six checks my mom's gonna be annoyed about for a month. Done."

"That's huge, Aaron."

"It's a relief, mostly." He bumps your shoulder with his, easy. "I keep thinking about it, though — like, actually thinking about what it's gonna look like. Next year. Me somewhere, you still here finishing up." He says it lightly, like it's simple math instead of something that makes your stomach do something complicated and unpleasant. "But your senior year's gonna fly by, I promise. And then you'll be back with me, in the same place again. That's the plan, anyway."

"Yep. That's the plan," you echo, keeping your voice easy, practiced.

"I actually wanted your take on something." He pulls a folded paper from his bag, a little crumpled at the corners. "Notre Dame or Purdue, if I get into both. My dad's pushing Notre Dame, obviously, but Purdue's got the better program for what I actually want to do, and it's closer, and—" He stops himself, laughing a little, self-conscious in a way that's rare for him. "Sorry. You don't have to actually weigh in on this. I just — I like knowing what you think. About stuff like this."

"Purdue," you say, mostly because it's closer, mostly because it's the answer that requires the least from you right now, and he lights up like you've handed him something important.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Closer's good."

"Closer is good, you’re right." he agrees, folding the paper back up, satisfied, already moving on to some smaller logistical thought about dorm buildings and roommate assignments you only half hear.

You nod along, smiling in the right places, and underneath it something in your chest sits heavy and quiet the rest of the walk — not about Purdue, not really. About the whole shape of what he's describing so easily, so certainly: a future already sketched out in his handwriting, both of you slotted neatly into it like the outcome was never actually in question. You don't know how to tell him that most days you're not sure you belong anywhere in that drawing at all, not the way he thinks you do. You don't know how you'd even start.

You don't try. You just keep walking, keep nodding, keep trying to be exactly the girl he's already planned an entire future around.

He walks you all the way to your locker, the hallway thinning out around you as the first bell warning crackles overhead.

"I've got that thing with Coach after practice," he says, leaning one shoulder against the locker next to yours while you spin your combination. "But I'll call you tonight. Tell you how the dorm stuff shakes out, if my mom's stopped hyperventilating about the application fees by then."

"Sounds riveting."

"It'll be riveting. I'll make it riveting." He tugs lightly at the strap of your bag, grinning. "You working on anything for track today?"

"Just more conditioning. Nothing exciting."

"Everything you do is exciting." He says it easy, unguarded, entirely sincere, and something in you softens despite everything else sitting complicated underneath it — because that part, at least, has never once been performance. He does think that. He's never once had to pretend to.

"You're ridiculous."

"You love it."

"I tolerate it." You bump his shoulder with yours, and he catches your hand before you can pull all the way back, lacing his fingers loosely through yours for one more second before the second bell warning cuts through the hallway, scattering the last stragglers toward their classrooms.

"Gotta go." He presses a quick kiss to your temple, already backing away down the hall. "Purdue. I've got a good feeling about Purdue."

"Go to class, Aaron."

"Going, going." He grins the whole way backward, nearly colliding with a freshman before he finally turns and jogs off toward the science wing, and you watch him go for one second longer than you probably need to before turning back to your locker, pulling out your books, and heading the opposite direction into a Thursday that already feels, somehow, both entirely ordinary and quietly, privately impossible to explain to anyone at all.

The rest of the morning blurs by the way school days do when nothing especially memorable happens in any of them; a pop quiz in chemistry you're fairly sure you bombed, a substitute in English who lets the whole class get away with doing basically nothing for forty-five minutes, a stretch of study hall spent half-doing homework and half-doodling in the margins of your notebook, careful not to let anything too revealing slip out in ink where somebody could see it.

By lunch, the cafeteria's buzzing with a specific, familiar kind of chaos, somebody's brought up Halloween, two weeks out and the only thing anyone at your table wants to talk about.

"Okay, but we need an actual plan this year," Priya announces, dead serious, jabbing her fork in your direction. "Not a repeat of last year where we all just showed up in whatever and called it a costume."

"I was a very convincing ghost."

"You wore a sheet with two eye holes cut out. That's not a costume, that's a crime against effort."

"Harsh."

"Accurate." Priya's already sketching something on a napkin, group costume ideas spiraling out in increasingly ambitious directions, when Marcus drops into the empty seat next to you, uninvited, grinning like he's about to deliver very important news.

"Okay, hear me out," he says, to the table at large. "You two—" he points between you and the general direction of wherever Aaron currently is, still in line for food, "should do a couples costume. Something dumb. Like salt and pepper shakers."

"Absolutely not."

"Or, hear me out, hear me out — ketchup and mustard."

"Marcus."

"I'm just saying, condiments have range." He looks entirely too pleased with this idea, and Priya, traitorously, looks like she's actually considering it. "You'd crush it. Everyone would talk about it for weeks."

"For all the wrong reasons."

"There's no such thing as wrong reasons at a Halloween party." Marcus steals a fry off your tray without asking, thoroughly unbothered by your look, and wanders off just as Aaron slides into the seat across from you, tray in hand.

"What'd I miss?"

"Marcus wants us to be condiments for Halloween."

"That's genuinely a great idea." Aaron considers it for exactly one second before shaking his head, already moving on. "Actually, no — I had a better one. I was kind of hoping you'd go for the Risky Business thing with me. You know, Joel and Lana, some sunglasses, the whole look."

"I am absolutely not dressing up as a prostitute for Halloween, Aaron."

"That's not — I meant more the, you know. The socks. The sunglasses part." He has the decency to look at least a little sheepish about it, backpedaling fast. "I wasn't thinking the whole — I just thought the sunglasses were a good bit."

"The whole costume comes as a set, Aaron. That's the joke."

"Okay, fair. Withdrawn." He holds both hands up in surrender, grinning despite himself. "Back to condiments, then."

"We are not doing condiments either."

"We can workshop it," he says, entirely unbothered, and steals a fry off your tray for the second time in five minutes like the conversation never happened at all, and you throw another one at him for good measure.

"So," Aaron says, a few minutes later, once the table's noise has drifted off into some separate argument about costume budgets. "I'm actually heading down to Bloomington in a couple weeks. Before decisions come out. Figured I'd get a real look at the place instead of just the brochure version."

"You already toured, though."

"With my parents. That's a different tour." He shrugs, easy, stealing another one of your fries in retaliation. "I was thinking I'd see if your brother's around while I'm down there. Get the actual scoop instead of whatever the admissions office wants me to hear."

"James would talk your ear off about the dining hall menu for at least twenty straight minutes if you let him."

"I'd take it." He grins, and then, a little more careful, a little less performed than a second ago: "You could come too, if you wanted. I mean James wouldn't mind, right? Might be good for you to actually see the place yourself instead of just hearing about it secondhand from me nonstop for the next two years." A beat, something warmer and a little more deliberate underneath the casual tone. "In case it ends up being ours someday. Not just mine."

Something in your chest does a complicated, guilty flip at that — the easy, hopeful way he says ours, like it's already half-decided, like the two of you spending a weekend away together is just one small, obvious step on a path he's already walking with total confidence.

"Maybe," you say, keeping your voice light, easy, the way you've gotten so practiced at doing. "I'd have to check with my dad."

"No pressure. Just — throwing it out there." He bumps your foot under the table, grinning, already moving on to something about Marcus's condiment costume idea, and you let the moment pass, grateful for the deflection even as some quiet, familiar guilt settles low in your stomach for the rest of the period.

Track conditioning that afternoon is its own particular kind of chaos — Coach Merrick running you all through sprints until your lungs burn, the whole team scattered across the infield in various states of exhausted collapse by the time she finally calls it.

"I genuinely might die here," Mary Leigh announces, flat on her back in the grass, staring up at the sky like it personally wronged her. She transferred in from somewhere in Georgia last spring and still hasn't fully adjusted to Indiana's version of weather, a fact she brings up at least twice during every single practice. "Somebody tell my parents I loved them."

"You're being dramatic," Ella says, dropping down next to her, equally winded but considerably less theatrical about it.

"I am dying, Ella. There's a difference between drama and a medical emergency."

"There really isn't, with you."

"I'm going to remember this betrayal." Mary Leigh flings an arm dramatically over her eyes, and you laugh, dropping down into the grass beside both of them, chest still heaving from the last set.

"Random question," you say, once you've caught your breath, keeping your tone as offhand as you can manage. "Either of you ever hear of an ice cream place with, like, a sailor theme? Boat stuff. Sailor hats, the whole thing."

Ella squints at you. "A what?"

"A sailor-themed ice cream parlor. Like at a mall or something, maybe."

"Is this a Fort Wayne thing? Or, like, an Indianapolis thing?" Mary Leigh props herself up on her elbows, actually considering it. "We don't have anything like that down here."

"I didn't say it was here. I just — heard about it somewhere. Wondered if it rang a bell."

"Doesn't ring anything," Ella says, already losing interest, flopping back into the grass. "Sounds like something you'd see at, like, a boardwalk. Why, you planning a road trip?"

"No reason. Just curious." You let it drop as easily as you brought it up, filing the blank looks away right alongside everything else you've never managed to actually confirm. "Forget I asked."

"You're so weird sometimes," Ella says, fond, not pushing it any further.

"You guys hear Marcus's genius costume idea?" you ask, once you've got enough breath back to talk.

"The condiments thing?" Ella makes a face. "Is Aaron actually considering that?"

"Aaron thinks it's a great idea."

"Of course he does." Ella rolls her eyes, fond. "He'd wear a trash bag if you told him it'd make a good couple's costume."

"That's oddly sweet, actually," Mary Leigh says, still flat on her back. "In, like, a deeply unserious way."

"He's like that about everything," you say, and something in your own voice comes out a little more wistful than you meant it to, though neither of them seems to catch it, both too busy arguing about whether ketchup and mustard actually counts as a real costume or just an excuse to wear all red or all yellow.

You lie there in the grass a while longer, listening to them bicker, the afternoon sun warm on your face, and let yourself not think about IU, or dining halls, or the particular weight of the word ours, for at least a few more minutes.

You drop Ella off just as the sky's starting to go gold at the edges, idling at the curb while she gathers her bag from the backseat.

"You coming in?" she asks. "My mom's making that chicken thing you like."

"Maybe a little later — I've got some stuff to get done at home. Dad's back soon, so I gotta make sure the house doesn't look like a disaster before he sees it."

"Fair enough." Ella leans back through the open door for a second, grinning. "Tell Aaron hi from me after he's done scandalizing you in real life."

"Alright. Goodbye, Ella."

"I'll get more out of you eventually!" she calls, already halfway up the driveway, laughing, and you wait until she's safely inside before pulling away from the curb, Margaret's cassette still humming low from the tape deck, the drive home stretching out easy and familiar in front of you.

You've got the whole dream still sitting warm and half-intact in your chest: the sailor hat, the terrible pickup lines, Dustin's voice, and for the first time all day, with the windows down and the last of the afternoon light spilling gold across the dashboard, you let yourself think about it freely, unguarded, already composing the notebook entry in your head before you've even made it home to write it down.

The house is still bright when you pull into the driveway, late afternoon sun slanting warm through the front windows, and you sit in the car a second longer than you need to before actually going inside — a habit you've picked up without really noticing, some small, automatic pause before crossing the threshold, like you're giving the house a chance to just be a house before you have to be inside it.

It's fine, mostly. Daylight makes it fine.

You drop your bag by the door, kick off your shoes, and it's only when you glance down the hall toward the kitchen — an entirely unremarkable, unprompted glance, the kind you make a hundred times a day without thinking — that something in your chest goes quiet and heavy for a second too long. The linoleum's the same. The counter's the same. Nothing about it looks any different than it ever does, than it's looked every single day for two years now, and yet some part of you still braces every time your eyes land there anyway, still half-expects to see something you're never going to see again.

You look away before the feeling can fully settle in. You've gotten good at that, not pretending it isn't there, exactly, just declining to sit with it any longer than you have to, redirecting yourself toward something smaller and more manageable instead.

You head upstairs.

The notebook comes out from under the floorboard easily, familiar, your fingers finding the loose corner without even having to look for it anymore. You settle onto your bed, late sun still pouring gold through the window, and start writing before the dream can fade any further than it already has.

Ice cream shop. Sailor theme — striped shirts, dumb little hats. He was with a kid named Dustin, younger, maybe twelve or thirteen, curly hair, really funny. There's a girl named Robin who also works there but she wasn't there.

He kept trying these terrible pickup lines on customers. Called himself "the Hair" more than once, actually, like it's a whole bit he's committed to. It was the funniest thing I've ever watched. I woke myself up laughing.

First real dream in almost three weeks. Mostly it's been the kitchen lately. I'll take this one over that a hundred times out of a hundred.

You pause there, pencil hovering, and reach for his last name — the way you usually reach for things left behind in these dreams, the way you've written dozens of times by now across a dozen different entries — and come up with nothing.

You know he said it. You're almost sure of that much, at least — some easy, confident introduction, tossed off like it was nothing, the same breath as the ridiculous nickname. But the actual word won't come, no matter how many times you turn it over, chasing it the way you'd chase a word stuck right on the tip of your tongue. It's already gone soft and formless at the edges, the way names and street signs always seem to go in these dreams, dissolving faster than anything else no matter how hard you try to hold onto them.

You try anyway. You sit there for a long minute, eyes shut, replaying the dream from the very start: the mop bucket, Dustin's teasing, the bell over the counter, hoping the sound of it might come back to you if you just retrace enough of the steps around it. It doesn't. Whatever the word actually was, it's already slipped past the place where memory turns into fact, leaving nothing behind but the shape of where it used to be.

Steve H., you write instead, frustrated, underlining it twice like the emphasis might somehow will the rest of it back. You want it — badly, more than you'd ever admit to anyone — because a last name is the one thing that might actually turn into something real. A last name means a phone book. A last name means an address, a real one, something you could point to instead of just describe.

Half a name isn't enough for any of that. You know that even as you write it, and it aches a little, the particular frustration of being handed almost everything you'd need and losing the one piece that would have made the rest of it usable.

You close the notebook before the thought can go any further, sliding it back beneath the floorboard, pressing it flat until it clicks quiet into place.

The afternoon light's gone soft and heavy through your window by the time you finally lie back against your pillow, meaning to just rest for a minute before getting up to shower and pack a bag for Ella's — or maybe Mary Leigh's, you haven't decided yet, whoever answers the phone first.

You don't mean to fall asleep, you rarely do.

But the bed is warm, and the day's been long in the specific, invisible way days are long when half of them are spent performing a version of normal that takes more from you than it looks like from the outside, and your eyes are heavier than you realize until they're already closed, the last of the sun sliding gold and slow across your bedroom ceiling.

You figure you'll wake up in twenty minutes, thirty at most. Just enough time to shower, throw a bag together, and get out before dinner.

You're asleep before you can even finish the thought.

The dream starts easy enough, the way the best ones do, before you understand it's not going to stay that way.

You're somewhere fluorescent-lit and industrial, concrete floors and low ceilings, the hum of machinery somewhere close by that you can't quite place. Steve's sitting a few feet away, older again, hunched forward with his elbows braced on his knees, laughing so hard at something you didn’t hear.

"Okay — okay, wait, say that again," he manages, still laughing, shoulders shaking with it.

A voice answers from somewhere behind him, dry and pleased with itself. "I said if you die down here, I'm telling everyone it was because you tried to flirt your way out of it."

"That's — that's slander. That's premature slander."

"It's not slander if it's accurate."

He laughs again, helpless, and something warm and easy blooms in your chest just watching it — you almost laugh too, the sound of his laugh so purely, ridiculously him that it catches somewhere happy in your own throat before you can stop it. You try to turn toward the voice, curious, wanting to see who he's bantering with. Your body won't move. You're fixed here, rooted to whatever spot the dream's decided to plant you in, able to hear everything and see almost nothing beyond the narrow, unmoving slice of the room directly in front of you.

Robin, you think, distant and certain, the way you know most things in these dreams. You don't get a face to go with it. Just the voice — sharp, warm underneath the sarcasm, clearly enjoying getting a rise out of him even in whatever strange, fluorescent-lit place this turns out to be.

You don't see anything wrong yet. That's the part that stays with you longest, later — how normal it still feels, right up until it doesn't.

The door at the far end of the room opens, and the lighthearted thing in your chest curdles all at once into something else entirely.

There are men in the room now — several of them, moving with the clipped, efficient purpose of people who do this often. One of them crosses straight to Steve, and before you can fully register what's happening, a hand fists hard in his hair and wrenches his head back and up, sharp and rough.

That's when you see it. The blood.

It's already dried at the corner of his mouth, a thin dark line down his jaw, one eye swollen just enough to look wrong on a face you know so well it aches — none of it visible a second ago, none of it there while he was laughing, like the dream is only letting you see the truth of it now that someone's forcing his face into the light. Restraints hold him fixed to the chair, wrists lashed tight to the arms of it, and your chest goes cold and tight all at once, the warmth from a second ago gone completely, replaced by something closer to panic.

The men are talking to each other, fast and clipped, in a language you don't understand, moving with the same clinical efficiency as before. It's Steve's voice that sounds wrong first — looser than it was only a few seconds ago, words dragging slightly at the edges, like his mouth isn't quite keeping pace with what he's trying to say.

"Hey — hey, easy, I'm cooperating, see, very — very cooperative guy, right here—" The sentence wanders somewhere it shouldn't, trailing off before picking back up a beat too late, and something about the rhythm of it makes your stomach twist harder than the restraints or the blood already had.

"Steve?" Robin's voice too, thinner than it was a minute ago, syllables blurring soft into each other. "Steve, I don't feel good—"

What's wrong with them, you think, confused, grasping for an explanation your mind can actually hold onto. Why do they both sound drunk? It doesn't occur to you yet that someone did this to them on purpose, whatever those men gave them, it's already worked its way through both of them, stripping something away that neither of them can get back by trying harder.

"Leave him alone!" Robin's voice cracks trying to find its usual sharpness and doesn't quite manage it. "He doesn't know anything, I swear, we don't—"

Someone cuts her off, harsh, and you hear something — a smack, a pitiful sound of protest — that makes your whole body strain uselessly against whatever's holding you fixed in place, desperate to turn, to see her, to do anything other than stand frozen and useless while this happens all around you.

"Steve." Your own voice comes out thin, useless, exactly the way it always is here. "Steve, I'm here, I'm—"

He can't hear you. He never will.

They ask him something. You don't catch all the words — accented, clipped, half-drowned by your own pulse pounding loud in your ears — but you catch the shape of a question, and Steve's answer, loose and slightly slurred, dragged up from somewhere he clearly doesn't have much control left of: "I already — I told you, man, I scoop ice cream. I don't know anything about—"

One of the men steps back, winds up, and you scream his name, useless, desperate, straining against the frozen weight of your own body as the man's fist rears back—

Your eyes fly open to the sound of your phone ringing, shrill and insistent on the nightstand, and for one horrible, disoriented second you're still half inside the dream, chest heaving, certain the blow is still hanging there somewhere, still about to land, still not finished.

The room is dim, late-afternoon light gone dusky through the blinds. Your heart is slamming so hard you can feel it in your throat, your hands shaking as you fumble for the phone, knocking the clunky plastic half off the nightstand before you manage to actually grab it.

You don't answer right away. You sit there a second, breathing hard, one hand pressed flat over your own racing heart, trying to steady it into something that won't sound like panic the second you pick up.

It's not real, you tell yourself, the same worn, familiar argument you've had with yourself a hundred times before, never quite managing to fully believe it. It's not real. He's fine. Wherever he is, whatever year that even was — he's fine, he is okay. If it’s not real then he has to be okay.

The phone keeps ringing, insistent, and you finally swipe it up, forcing your voice into something steady before you answer.

"Hello?"

"Hey, it's me." Aaron's voice, easy and warm, grounding you back into your own body faster than anything else could have. "I called Ella's but she said you hadn't gone back over there yet. Figured I'd try your house next."

"Sorry, I was asleep. Long day." You press your palm harder against your chest, willing your heart to finish settling before he can hear anything wrong in your voice. "What's up?"

"Nothing, really. Just wanted to hear your voice." A small pause, and you can hear the smile in it even through the phone. "That's not weird, right? Calling for no reason?"

"It's not weird." Something in your chest loosens, warm and real, chasing the last of the dream's cold edges further away. "That’s actually really nice, Aaron."

You talk for a few minutes about nothing much and somewhere in the middle of it, still a little rattled, still craving the specific, uncomplicated safety of somewhere warm and full of people, you hear yourself ask before you've fully decided to.

"Hey, is it okay if I stay at your place again this weekend? Instead of Ella's?"

"Are you kidding? My mom is always asking about you." He laughs, easy. "Pretty sure if you stopped coming around she'd stage some kind of intervention. My dad already moved that old recliner out of the guest room because you mentioned once you didn't love the color."

"I said it in passing. One time."

"Doesn't matter. You said it, so it's gone. I'm pretty sure they'd throw the rest of my childhood stuff out on the curb too if you asked them to. Redecorate the whole room to your exact specifications. I'm basically just living there on your family's good graces at this point."

"That's not true."

"It's a little true." You can hear him grinning through the phone. "Come on over. Stay as long as you want. Nobody's gonna ask you a single question you don't want to answer."

Something in your chest aches at that, warm and grateful and a little bit sad all at once, though you don't examine the sad part too closely.

"Thank you," you say instead, quietly.

"Anytime. Always." A beat, softer. "I should let you go get your bag together, probably. But I love you. See you soon."

"Love you," you say back, easy, automatic — and it isn't until after you've already hung up, phone still warm in your hand, that you notice, the way you always seem to notice a half-second too late, the small, missing word at the front of it.

You don't let yourself sit with that either. You get up, and go get ready for your stay at the Thomas’s, and carry both the worry and the ache with you the whole way there.

The dream drops him into a warm, overlapping wall of noise, laughter and clinking glasses and somebody's off-key rendition of a song blaring from a jukebox somewhere behind him. It takes Steve a second to place the room: low light, sticky floors, a chalkboard behind the bar advertising a drink special in handwriting nobody bothered to make legible. College bar. Definitely a college bar.

He's barely gotten his bearings before he spots you, and the whole room seems to warm up another five degrees just from that.

You're at the center of a long table pushed together from what looks like three separate tables, surrounded by more people than he's ever seen in one of these dreams — a cluster of girls squeezed in close on one side, laughing at something on someone's camera, and a whole loud, easy crowd of guys on the other, all matching energy, a couple of them wearing shirts with greek letters stitched across the chest. Somebody's got a sash on that reads GRAD across it in glittery marker. It's clearly, unmistakably, the last stretch of something big.

"Okay, okay," a girl says — Amy, something in Steve supplies without being asked — raising her glass high enough to slosh a little over the side. "To senior year. To not dying before finals. To Charlotte somehow still passing organic chem despite never once opening the textbook."

"I opened it," Charlotte protests, delighted, already laughing. "I looked at the cover for a full ten seconds."

"Hey! That's basically studying."

The table erupts into laughter, glasses clinking together in a loose, chaotic toast, and Steve finds himself grinning helplessly along with all of it, leaning against the edge of the table like he's got just as much of a stake in Charlotte's chemistry grade as anyone else there. He can't touch anything. Can't be seen, can't be heard, same as always. But something about the noise and the warmth of it pulls him in anyway, makes him feel less like he's watching from outside a window and more like he just happens to be the one guy at the table nobody's bothered to introduce yet.

"To Heather," someone else calls out, further down, "surviving three roommates and at least one minor gas leak."

"That gas leak built character," Heather says, deadpan, and gets another round of laughter for it.

You're glowing in the middle of all of it — older again, easy in your own skin in that particular, settled way he's only ever seen in the birthday dream. Older than any of that, actually, he realizes, watching you throw your head back laughing at something one of the fraternity guys says. This is further out than he's ever gotten before. Whole years further.

The night moves the way nights like this do, one bar bleeding into the next, the whole loud group spilling out onto a street lit up gold and noisy with other groups doing the exact same thing, everybody wearing some version of the same giddy, half-panicked energy of people who know an ending is coming and are trying to hold onto the last of it a little too hard.

"I can't believe we're actually doing this," Amy says, arm slung around your shoulders as the group ambles toward the next place, some string-lit patio bar with a line already snaking out the door. "Like, in two weeks, this—" she gestures at the whole noisy street, the whole crowd of you "—just doesn't exist anymore."

"Don't," Charlotte groans. "I'm not emotionally prepared to be sad and drunk at the same time."

"I'm just saying! We're never all gonna be in one place like this again. Not really." Amy squeezes your shoulder, more sincere for a second under the noise. "I'm gonna miss this so much it's stupid."

"We'll survive," you say, but Steve, watching, catches the way your voice softens right along with hers, the same bittersweet weight sitting behind your eyes even as you smile.

One of the guys — tall, easy laugh, clearly comfortable enough in the group that he must be a regular fixture — throws an arm loosely around your shoulders from the other side, grinning down at you. "Did Davis end up hearing back from that interview yet? The fancy one his dad's been bragging about to literally everyone at the club?"

"Not yet. Should be soon, though."

"Tell him if he gets into that program I expect a private tour of whatever obnoxious car his parents buy him to celebrate."

"Yeah, yeah. I'll pass along the message. He'll pretend he didn't hear it."

Something about the friend's face nags at Steve as he laughs along, easy and unplaceable, gone almost as soon as it arrives — a flicker of I know that face from somewhere, a half-formed image of a party, or a gym, somebody's face lit up under fluorescent lights in a moment he can't quite locate. He frowns slightly, trying to chase it down, the way he tries to chase down everything in these dreams that won't hold still. It slips away before he can place it, dissolving back into the noise of the bar the second he stops reaching for it.

Weird, he thinks, and lets it go, the way the dream seems to want him to. Just another detail he's not allowed to keep.

Inside the next bar, somebody orders a round of shots nobody really needed, and the whole table toasts again, this time to something looser, less organized — "to us," somebody says, and it's apparently enough, because everyone drinks to it anyway, laughing at how thin the toast actually was.

Steve finds himself genuinely, helplessly happy, wedged into the middle of a booth between two guys who don't know he exists, watching you across the table laugh so hard at one of Heather's stories that you have to put your drink down before you spill it. He doesn't know these people. Doesn't know their majors, their hometowns, whatever's waiting for all of them two weeks from now on the other side of this specific, glowing, temporary version of being twenty-two and surrounded by everyone you love in one room.

He doesn't need to know any of that. He's just glad, plain and uncomplicated, to be here for it — to watch you exist in a version of your life that's clearly, fully yours, full of people who adore you, on the very edge of something enormous and new.

"Speech!" one of the fraternity guys calls out, banging his glass on the table. "C'mon, somebody give a speech. We're graduating in two weeks, somebody has to say something meaningful."

"I'll do it." Amy stands up on the bench, wobbling slightly, glass raised high. "To four years of terrible decisions, worse hangovers, and somehow still ending up exactly where we're supposed to be." A pause, her voice going soft under the noise for just a second. "And to however far away we all end up, don't you dare any of you forget tonight or this table."

The whole group erupts — cheering, glasses raised, someone getting a little emotional near the end of the table and immediately getting teased for it — and you're laughing and a little misty-eyed all at once, raising your own glass along with everyone else's, and Steve watches the whole moment with something warm and full sitting steady in his chest, no ache to it at all for once. Just simple, complete happiness, borrowed from a night that was never really his to begin with and somehow feeling like a gift anyway.

When he wakes, he's still smiling before he's even fully aware he's awake.

He lies there a minute, replaying it — Amy's toast, Charlotte's terrible organic chem defense, the noisy, golden street full of people who love you exactly the way you deserve to be loved. He doesn't chase down that stray, unplaceable flicker of recognition from the bar either, that half-second where somebody's face nearly clicked into a memory he couldn't quite reach — just lets it go, the way the dream always seems to want him to, and lets the whole night settle into his chest warm and complete instead, the rare kind that doesn't ache at all on the way out.

He doesn't know where any of that happens yet, or when, or who half those people are going to turn out to be to you. He just knows, lying there grinning at his own ceiling like an idiot, that wherever and whenever it is — you're surrounded by people who love you, laughing until you can't hold your drink steady, standing right at the edge of the rest of your life.

I got to be there for that, he thinks, simple and pleased, even if nobody there ever knew it.

It's enough, this time, to just have gotten to watch.

The good feeling doesn't last long after he wakes up.

It's still there at first — warm, easy, the residue of a night he wasn't really part of clinging pleasantly to his chest the way it always does after a good one. He lies there smiling at his ceiling for a solid minute before the rest of it catches up to him, the way it always eventually does.

Nancy.

The thought arrives quiet and sudden, and the good feeling curdles almost instantly into something heavier, something closer to shame. He's got a girlfriend. A real one, awake, solid, sitting in his passenger seat every morning on the way to school, who loves him and who he loves back — actually loves, not the easy, performed version he handed out to half of Hawkins for two straight years before her. And he just spent an entire night, in whatever secret part of his mind handles this, wrapped up in someone else's laugh, someone else's future, some stranger's graduation party he had absolutely no business feeling this happy about.

He hasn't done anything wrong. He knows that, logically, knows that a person can't help what shows up behind their own eyes at three in the morning. It doesn't make the guilt sit any lighter in his chest.

He thinks about it a long time, lying there, turning the whole shape of it over the way he's gotten so used to doing.

There was a version of himself, not that long ago, who spent every single date searching for pieces of you in somebody else's face — Macey's laugh, some stranger's perfume, a white car that made his stomach drop for no reason he could explain to anyone. He knows that about himself. Isn't proud of it, exactly, but doesn't pretend it didn't happen either.

And then he met Nancy Wheeler, and something about the whole exhausting habit just… stopped.

He didn't even notice at first. It took him weeks to realize he'd gone an entire month without once catching himself comparing her to you, without that automatic, unconscious flinch of close, but not quite. Nancy doesn't remind him of you. Not her laugh, not her hair, not the particular, sharp way she argues a point until she's won it. She's never once, not for one single second, felt like an echo of somebody he's never actually met.

He used to think that would bother him. It doesn't. If anything, it's the opposite — it's the reason he trusts what he feels for her at all. Nancy isn't a stand-in for anything or anyone. She's not a good approximation of a feeling he can't have. She's just Nancy, whole and separate and entirely her own person, and he loves her precisely because none of it is borrowed from somewhere else.

And there's something else too, something even harder to explain to anyone who wasn't there for it. What he and Nancy went through together — the thing with no face crawling out of the wall in the Byers' living room, the bat, the blood, the whole impossible night neither of them is ever allowed to talk about outside the small, tight circle of people who actually lived through it — that's not something a dream can manufacture a substitute for. That's real in a way almost nothing else in his life is real. He held her with his own two hands that night. He bled for it, a little, and so did she, in ways that never fully healed even after the physical part did. He doesn't know if you exist anywhere outside his own head. He knows exactly what he and Nancy survived, together, side by side, in a house that still doesn't sit right in his chest whenever he drives past it. No half-remembered dream girl gets to touch that particular kind of bond, whatever else she might get to touch instead.

Which is what makes the guilt so confusing. If loving Nancy is real — and it is, he's sure of that, more sure of it than he's been of almost anything — then what does it mean that some other part of him is still reaching for you, still cataloguing your laugh and your perfume and your last name he can never quite hold onto, still keeping an entire secret notebook full of feelings about a girl who might not even exist?

He doesn't have an answer. He's stopped expecting one, most days. It doesn't stop the guilt from showing up anyway, quiet and persistent, every single time one of these dreams leaves him this happy.

He gets up and gets the notebook anyway. He always does, with or without the guilt.

He tells himself, writing it down, that it isn't really a betrayal — that recording a dream isn't the same as chasing something, that Nancy would never even need to know, that there's nothing here that costs her anything real. He's not sure he fully believes himself. He writes it down regardless, the way he always does, some old habit stronger than the guilt sitting on top of it.

College bar, somewhere. Graduation coming up soon for her. Friends — Amy, Heather, Charlotte, a whole big group, guys too, some of them in a fraternity maybe. Toasts. Everybody a little drunk and a little sad about it all.

There was a guy in the group I almost recognized. Couldn't place him though. Gone before I could catch it.

He pauses there, pencil hovering, chewing the inside of his cheek before he lets himself write the next part.

Somebody mentioned a name — Davis. Sounded like her boyfriend, maybe. Rich kid, going to med school somewhere fancy. Didn't like hearing about it even though I probably should've been fine with it.

I have a girlfriend. I love my girlfriend. I don't know why I keep doing this to myself.

He sits there a long moment after that, staring at his own handwriting, something uncomfortable and unresolved sitting behind his ribs. He thinks, unbidden, about college — his own, whenever he actually gets there, wherever that ends up being. Some quiet, half-formed hope surfaces before he can stop it: maybe that's when I actually meet her. Maybe that's the whole point of all this — not now, not with Nancy, but somewhere further out, once all of this is supposed to happen.

It's a strange thought to have while lying in the same room he's about to leave to go pick up the girl he's actually, currently, provably in love with. He doesn't examine that too closely either. He closes the notebook, tucks it back behind the shoebox of baseball cards, and gets up to get ready for school like it's any other Tuesday.

Nancy's already outside by the time he pulls up, backpack slung over one shoulder, hair still damp from the shower, and something in his chest does what it always does when he sees her — settles, simple and certain, no comparison anywhere in it at all.

"You're two minutes late," she says, sliding into the passenger seat, mock-stern.

"Traffic."

"There's no traffic in Hawkins, Steve."

"There's traffic in my mind," he says, and she rolls her eyes, but she's smiling when she does it, reaching over to turn the radio up before he's even fully pulled back onto the road.

He takes the turn onto Cornwallis without thinking about it, same as always, and it's only when the Byers' place comes into view for half a second down the side road — small, quiet, nothing about it different from any other house on the street to anyone who doesn't know better — that Nancy's hand finds his on the gearshift, quick and wordless, gone again just as fast. Neither of them says anything about it. They never really do. It's just a thing their hands know how to do now, some small, automatic reflex built out of a night neither of them talks about outside a very short list of people, and Steve squeezes back before he lets go to shift gears, grateful, the way he always is, that at least this part of it they get to carry together instead of alone.

He glances at her once, quick, sideways, memorizing the specific, unremarkable way morning light catches her profile — nothing about it echoing anyone else at all, nothing borrowed, nothing almost-right. "I missed you," he says, quieter, meaning it the whole reckless, unguarded way he always means things like that with her.

"I saw you last night." She says it lightly, teasing, already flipping through radio stations — fond, definitely fond, but a half-beat slower to land on anything warmer than that, her attention already halfway back to the dial before his sentence has even fully settled. It's nothing. He's used to it. She's just not built the same way he is about saying things out loud, that's all.

"Still counts."

"If you say so." She finds a station she likes and leaves it there, humming along under her breath, and Steve tells himself that's an answer too, in its own way — just a quieter one than the kind he keeps handing her, and maybe, he thinks, watching her hand still resting loose and familiar near his on the seat, not really so different from a hand finding his at exactly the right second without needing to be asked.

Just Nancy. Just this. Just the actual, solid, waking-up-and-choosing-her-again version of love he gets to have, every single ordinary morning, whether he deserves the guilt sitting underneath it or not.

He pushes the guilt down, same as always, and drives them both to school.

"Hey, so," Steve says, easing the car into the school lot, scanning for a decent spot with more focus than the task probably deserves. "Would you be willing to look over some of my college essay stuff? Like, actually look at it. Not just tell me it's fine because you feel bad."

Nancy blinks at him, clearly caught off guard. "You wrote college essays?"

"I've started essays."

"Steve, it's barely October."

"I know. I'm trying to be proactive." He says it like the word itself surprises him a little, still finding a parking spot, still talking. "I figure if I get a head start now, I'm not scrambling in January like everybody else. Get ahead of it."

"Who are you and what have you done with my boyfriend." She's not entirely joking, studying him now with the specific, narrow-eyed attention she usually reserves for something she thinks doesn't quite add up. "You've never once been proactive about anything academic in your entire life."

"That's not true. I'm proactive about basketball."

"Basketball isn't a subject, Steve."

"It's a discipline." He throws the car into park, only half-joking now. "Look, my dad's already started in on the 'what's the plan' thing at dinner. Full lecture last week about how I need 'direction.' I figure the fastest way to shut him up is to actually have some."

Nancy softens slightly at that, the teasing edge dropping out of her voice. She knows enough about Steve's house — the quiet, the expectations, the specific flavor of disappointment his father's gotten so efficient at delivering — not to push too hard on it. "Okay. That I believe a little more."

"See? Not just a personality transplant."

"I didn't say I believed it completely." She's watching him again, that same careful, searching look from a second ago. "You've seemed different the last few days, though. Not just about school. Just — somewhere else in your head a lot."

"I've had stuff on my mind."

"What kind of stuff?"

"Just — the future. Getting out of here eventually. You know." He shrugs, a little more evasive than he means to be, throwing a glance toward the school doors instead of at her. "Everybody's already talking about next year like it's decided. Figured I should probably start actually deciding something myself instead of just showing up to it."

Nancy doesn't answer right away. Something crosses her face, brief and distant, gone almost as fast as it arrives — the same look she gets sometimes when a conversation drifts too close to anything from last November, anything with Barb's name anywhere near the edges of it, even when nobody's said it out loud. Steve's learned not to chase that look when it shows up. He just waits it out instead, lets her come back to the conversation on her own time.

"I get that," she says finally, quieter. "Wanting to actually go somewhere. Not just — stay stuck in whatever this year turns into."

"Yeah." He reaches over, gentle, and tucks a piece of hair back that hasn't actually fallen loose, an excuse to be close to her more than anything. "I just want it to matter. Whatever I end up doing. Doesn't have to be some big thing. Just — mine, I guess. Something I actually picked."

"That's not a small thing, Steve." She says it plainly, some of the distance from a second ago folding back into something more present, more here with him. "I like this version of you. Ambitious Steve."

"Ambitious Steve's here to stay."

"We'll see." She's smiling now, small and real, and something in the space between them shifts easy and familiar, the kind of quiet that doesn't need filling.

He leans in first. She meets him halfway, one hand coming up to rest light against his jaw, and for a few unhurried seconds there's nothing else in the entire morning except this — her mouth soft against his, the windows slightly fogged, the ordinary, solid comfort of a girl he actually gets to have instead of one he only ever gets to dream about.

Then an engine guns loud and obnoxious somewhere behind them, tires screeching faintly as some car swings too fast into an empty spot two rows over, and Nancy pulls back first, startled, laughing despite herself.

"Somebody's in a hurry," she says, glancing over her shoulder at whoever it is, already reaching for her bag.

"Some people have no respect for a moment." Steve sighs, exaggerated, though he's grinning too, already resigned to the morning reasserting itself around them. "We should probably go anyway. Don't wanna be late to your own personal essay-grading job."

"Remember that you’re the one who asked for it."

"Best decision I've made all week." He gets out of the car, still smiling, the engine's roar already fading into the ordinary background noise of the parking lot filling up, and falls into step beside her toward the doors, the whole strange, unexamined shape of the morning tucked quietly away behind him for now.

The next few days pass in the kind of blur that doesn't leave much behind to remember.

There's a new guy — Billy Hargrove, transferred in from California, already strutting the halls like he owns them by second period. He corners Steve near the gym after practice, all sharp grin and sharper posturing, some comment about "King Steve" that isn't remotely a compliment the way he says it. Steve brushes it off easy enough on the surface, tells himself it's nothing, some new kid trying to stake a claim. Something about the guy sits wrong in his stomach anyway, low and unplaceable, gone before he can figure out why.

He doesn't think about it much past that. He's got bigger things weighing on him by the time the day's done.

Dinner at the Hollands' is the kind of evening that leaves a person feeling scraped hollow afterward.

Steve doesn't say much of anything. He just eats what's put in front of him and lets Nancy carry the weight of the conversation, watching her do it with a kind of quiet, practiced grace that breaks his heart a little every single time. He holds her hand under the table the whole time and during the ride home afterward, neither of them saying much, both of them carrying the same specific, unspoken exhaustion of two people lying to grieving parents because the truth is worse than anything either of them could actually say out loud.

He thinks, driving her home, that this is exactly the kind of thing that binds two people together in a way nothing else can. He doesn't know yet how wrong that thought is about to turn out to be.

The Halloween party is loud, crowded, everyone in costume, red cups everywhere, the whole house thick with the specific chaos of a party that got away from whoever was supposed to be chaperoning it hours ago.

Nancy's drinking more than usual almost from the second they walk in — a cup that keeps finding its way back to the punch before it's ever fully empty, a laugh that gets a little louder and looser with every refill. Steve notices. He doesn't make a thing of it, not at first — the party keeps pulling at him too, a couple guys from the basketball team dragging him into some argument in the kitchen, somebody's cousin cornering him for ten straight minutes about some weed he's trying to sell. He circles back to check on her every so often, gets waved off each time with some version of I'm fine, go have fun, and believes her a little more than he probably should each time he hears it.

By the time he finds her again, well past midnight, something's clearly gone wrong. She's swaying slightly near the kitchen island, cup dipping down into the punch bowl again. 

“Hey." He keeps his voice light, careful, closing the distance between them slow enough that it doesn't feel like an ambush, gently reaching for the cup in her hands.. “No, you’ve had enough, okay?” 

“Screw you!” She says it too fast, already half turning back toward the punch bowl.

“Please Nance, I’m serious—” That final sharp tug of the solo cup sent red liquid splashing down the front of her costume and across the floor in one sharp, ugly second.

The room does the thing rooms full of drunk teenagers do — dramatic gasps, a beat of laughter, somebody shouting something unhelpful, a ripple of attention Nancy clearly hates being the center of. 

“What the hell, Steve!”

"Shit– Nance, I’m sorry..." Steve's there in three steps, hand steady at her elbow, already following her down the hall toward the bathroom before the moment can turn into more of a scene than it already has.

“That’s not coming off, Nance.”

She's quiet at first, scrubbing at the red stain with a wet hand towel. “It’s coming out.”

It's when he steps in front of her, trying to catch her eye, get her to stop scrubbing, that something in her face finally cracks open. 

"C’mon Nance. Please just let me take you home,"

"No— I’m— No. You wanted this." She slurs out, accusation dripping from her words.

"No, I didn’t want this." He shakes his head while trying to get a hold on her arm again, to steady her. “I told you to stop drinking.” 

"It’s bullshit. All bullshit." She looks at him then, something raw and unguarded, glassy-eyed in a way that has nothing to do with the alcohol alone. 

"No, it’s not bullshit Nancy."

"No, you." It comes out sharp, immediate, and something in her face softens right after, guilty, though she doesn't take it back. "You’re bullshit."

"Wha– what?"

“You. You’re pretending like everything’s okay,” 

She’s quiet for a moment, staring into his eyes with an emotion he can’t recognize. So Steve waits, standing there in the bathroom, patient in the specific way he knows he needs to be with a drunk girl.

“Like– like it’s great and we’re in love. And we’re partying– yeah, let’s party!”

"Like we’re in love?" He asks finally, so quiet he almost misses it under the muffled bass thumping through the wall. He reaches up and cups her face with the same gentle fragility he would cradle her beating heart. 

“It’s bullshit.”

“You don’t love me?”

Something flickers across her face at that, her voice coming out a little more gently. "It’s bullshit,"

The words land somewhere behind his ribs, sudden and total, knocking something loose he didn't know was still holding steady until right this second.

He doesn't say anything for a long moment. He doesn't even know how to.

He steps back eventually, quiet, and leaves the bathroom, leaves her standing there in front of the sink — not out of cruelty, just because staying feels unbearable, some old instinct telling him to move before the feeling catches up to him fully. He doesn't say goodbye to anyone on his way out, doesn't bother finding whoever's coat he borrowed or whatever half-costume piece he left somewhere in the living room. He just walks straight out the front door, past the keg stand and the shitty decorations and the candlelit pumpkins on the porch steps, out into the cold October air, and doesn't look back once.

He doesn't remember much of the walk to his car, or the first few minutes on the road after — just the porch lights blurring past, the radio left off, his hands steady on the wheel out of muscle memory more than anything else. And it isn't until he's turning onto his own street that the whole thing finally catches up to him — not anger, not really, just a heavy, hollowed-out kind of sadness that sits in his chest like something physical.

I loved her. The thought arrives simple and devastating, turning over and over as he pulls into the driveway and just sits there, engine ticking as it cools, not ready yet to go inside. I actually loved her. Not the searching for someone else kind. Not the almost kind. The real thing, finally, for the first time in my whole life and it still wasn't enough. She still doesn't love me back.

He feels, more than anything, like a fool. He'd spent so long telling himself the love he had for Nancy was proof of something, proof he could feel something real, something not borrowed from a dream he couldn't even prove was true. And it was real. He's sure of that, even now, even with his chest aching like this. It just didn't matter in the end. Real hadn't been enough to make her love him back.

He sits there a long while, car still idling in the driveway, turning it over slow and careful, the way he does with everything that actually hurts. Nancy was the first person he ever really got to just be with — no searching, no half-conscious cataloguing, no quiet, exhausting habit of measuring her against a girl he's never even met. He didn't love her because some piece of her reminded him of you. He loved her because she was entirely, completely herself, and being around her had felt, for the first time in his whole life, like putting something down instead of carrying it.

That's the part that actually hurts worse than the breakup itself, if he's honest. Not just that he lost her. That he lost the one relationship that had ever managed to be simple. And underneath the sadness, there's something almost grateful too, small and strange and hard to hold onto right now — glad, even now, even like this, that what they had was real while it lasted. Nobody can take that part away from him, not even her, not even tonight.

But the second that thought settles, the wall it was propped against goes with it, and there's nothing left standing between him and you at all.

He's spent months telling himself you're not real. Some dream his mind built out of loneliness and too many nights alone in a too-big house, nothing more than that, a stubborn habit he's been trying to grow out of the same way he grew out of King Steve. He's said the words to himself so many times they'd almost started to stick. And now, not even thirty minutes out from the worst conversation of his entire life, you're the only thing he can actually think about — clearer than Nancy's face in the bathroom, clearer than the sound of her voice cruelly slurring Bullshit at him.

He hates how easy it is. Hates that the second something real falls apart, he goes running straight back to something he can't even prove exists, like Nancy was never anything more than practice for a feeling he was really saving for someone else. That's not true — he knows that's not true, knows what he had with Nancy was its own whole, separate, real thing — but it doesn't stop the thought from showing up anyway, quiet and unwelcome, right alongside the grief.

Maybe that's the actual problem, he thinks, still sitting there in the driveway, engine off now, chest tight with something he doesn't have a clean name for. Maybe I never really convinced myself of anything at all. Maybe some part of me's been waiting for exactly this — an excuse to stop pretending you're not the one I actually want to go looking for.

He finally gets out of the car and lets himself into the house quiet, doesn't bother with the lights, doesn't bother with anything except getting up the stairs and into his room and out of the ridiculous half-costume he never even finished putting together properly tonight. He's in bed within minutes, still fully dressed except for his shoes, staring up at a ceiling that doesn't offer him a single answer.

Please, he thinks, eyes already sliding shut, exhaustion and heartbreak pulling him under together. Please, just — let me see her tonight. Whoever she turns out to be. I just need somewhere that still feels like it might actually work out.

He doesn't know if it's a fair thing to ask for. He asks anyway, the way he always does, some small, stubborn part of him still reaching for the one place that's never once, in his whole life, made him feel like a fool for hoping.

He's asleep before he can finish the thought all the way through.

The dream arrives soft at first, sunlight instead of streetlights, warm air instead of the cold October night he fell asleep inside of.

Steve finds himself standing at the edge of a huge, sprawling green lawn, rows of folding chairs stretching out in front of a stage draped in red and white banners, a sea of black gowns shifting restlessly in the breeze. Somewhere behind him, a marching band is tuning up, brass catching the sun in little scattered flashes. He doesn't know how he got here. He just knows, the way he always knows things in these dreams, that you're close, and that whatever's about to happen matters enormously.

Indiana University. The letters resolve slowly across a banner strung above the stage, and something in his chest does a small, surprised lift at the sight of it. He didn't know that before. Some old, stubborn part of him files it away instantly, greedily, the way he files away every scrap of you he's ever managed to hold onto.

He finds you in the crowd milling near the front once the ceremony lets out, cap already askew, gown flapping loose in the breeze, and the sight of you nearly knocks the breath out of him — not because anything about the moment is dramatic, just because you look so completely, radiantly happy, laughing with your whole body the second your family reaches you.

He's seen you glow before, in other dreams — the track meet, the birthday, even the bar crawl. He didn't think there was a version of that left to top. He was wrong. There's something different about this one, something that has nothing to do with the sunlight or the cap and gown and everything to do with the specific, unguarded way you're looking at your own life right now, like you can't quite believe you actually made it here and are still deciding whether to laugh or cry about it. He's never once seen you look this radiant. He doesn't think he's ever seen anyone look like this, honestly — not performed, not posed for anyone watching, just pure and entirely unselfconscious in a way that makes something in his chest ache in the best possible way.

Your dad gets there first, pulling you into a hug so tight your feet nearly leave the ground, laughing in a way Steve's never once heard from him in any other dream — open, defenseless, nothing careful about it at all. Your brother's right behind him, taller than Steve remembers, ruffling your hair under the cap until you swat his hand away, both of you laughing. An older woman — your aunt, Steve recognizes her from the birthday dream, filing the detail away automatically — hovers just behind them, already dabbing at her eyes with a tissue, entirely unashamed about it.

Steve notices the gap in it too, quiet and immediate, the same way he notices everything he's not supposed to be able to know. There's a version of this exact moment that should have a fourth person standing in it, and doesn't, and he's the only other one here who actually understands why — who watched it happen, who still remembers the sound of a name he was never supposed to learn. Caroline. He thinks it once, gentle, unbidden, and something in his chest aches for you in a way that has nothing to do with pride at all. He hopes, absurdly, uselessly, that wherever she is, she gets some version of seeing this too.

"Wow. Look at you," your dad says, holding you back at arm's length just to look, like he needs a second to actually take it in. "Look at you."

"Dad, you're gonna make me cry before the pictures even happen."

"Cry all you want. You’ve earned it." He pulls you back in for another hug, quick this time, before letting you go so your brother can take his turn.

Steve stands a little ways off, hands in his pockets, grinning like an idiot at the whole time, feeling — not for the first time in one of these dreams, but maybe more than ever — like he's genuinely, actually here for it. Not watching through glass. Just here, present, part of the noise and the sunlight and the sheer, uncomplicated joy of it.

Later, once the photos are done and the crowd's thinned into smaller, looser clusters, you all end up back at your college house, sitting together at a picnic table someone's dragged into the front yard, a cooler of drinks between you, your cap sitting crooked and forgotten on the table.

"So," your aunt says, leaning forward, elbows on the table, "What's next?"

You laugh, a little helpless, pushing your hair back from your face. "Honestly? I have no idea."

"No idea at all?"

"I mean — I've got some. My lease here runs through August, so I figured I'd just stay, keep working, see what shakes out. No reason to rush into anything before I actually have to." You shrug, easy, though Steve catches something underneath it — a real, honest uncertainty, not panicked exactly, just present, the specific unresolved feeling of standing at the very edge of something enormous with no map for what comes after. "There's a few jobs I've been looking at. Nothing too far away, just haven’t decided quite yet."

"Where's Davis, anyway?" your brother asks, glancing around like he expects him to materialize. "Figured he'd be here for this."

"Interview." You say it a little flat, a little clipped, like it's not the first time you've had to explain it today. "Last-minute thing, some program moved their date up. He's in Missouri."

"On your graduation." Your aunt doesn't quite manage to keep the disapproval out of her voice, mouth pressing into a thin line.

"It's a good program. I told him to go." You say it easy enough, though Steve catches something small and tired underneath it, gone again just as fast as it surfaced.

"Still." Your aunt doesn't push it further than that one word, but she doesn't fully let it go either.

"That's allowed, you know," your brother says, nudging your shoulder. "Not having it all figured out five minutes after graduation, I didn’t."

"I know. Doesn't stop it from being terrifying."

"Terrifying's normal." Your dad says it warm, certain, reaching over to squeeze your hand where it rests on the table. "You've got time. More than you think you do right now."

"That's what everyone keeps telling me."

"Because it's true." He smiles at you, something soft and proud settling into it. "You just graduated college, kid. Let yourself enjoy it for five minutes before you start panicking about the rest."

You laugh again, quieter this time, and lean into his shoulder for a second, and Steve watches the whole exchange with something warm and complicated turning over in his chest — pride, mostly, plain and uncomplicated, but something else too, something that feels almost like relief. You don't know where you're going yet. Neither does he, most days, if he's honest with himself. There's something oddly comforting about that, watching you sit here at the actual edge of your whole life with no more of a plan than he's got for his own.

Maybe that's the point, he thinks, watching you laugh at something your brother says next, easy and unhurried. Maybe none of us are supposed to know yet. Maybe that's not something to be scared of. Maybe it's just — the good kind of unknown, for once.

The dream doesn't need much more than that. It just lets him sit there a while, unseen, unnoticed, soaking in the warm afternoon light and the sound of your family's laughter and the particular, easy way you exist here — grown, capable, entirely your own person, standing right at the threshold of a whole open future you haven't decided the shape of yet.

He doesn't think about Nancy, not once, the whole rest of the dream. That's its own kind of relief, small and unexpected.

When he wakes, the hurt from the night before is still there — of course it's still there, one dream of you can't undo something like that, and some tired, honest part of him knows better than to expect it to. His chest still aches, dull and heavy, the specific shape of You’re bullshit still sitting lodged somewhere behind his ribs where it's probably going to stay a while.

But underneath it, something else has shifted too, small and steady and entirely new. He lies there a long moment, staring at his ceiling, turning the dream over the way he always does — your dad's hand squeezing yours, your aunt's tears, the crooked, forgotten cap on the picnic table, the easy, uncertain hope in your voice when you said I have no idea.

Indiana University, he thinks. She went to IU.

It's not much. It's barely anything, really, just a school, not a street, not a last name, not anything he could actually act on tonight or tomorrow or any day soon. But it's more than he had yesterday, and after a night like the one he just survived, that feels like something worth holding onto, tightly.

He doesn't reach for the notebook right away this time. He just lies there a while longer instead, letting the warmth of the dream sit next to the ache of the night before, both of them true at once, neither one able to cancel the other out.

Maybe I get to see you there too, someday, he thinks, quiet, hopeful in a way he hasn't let himself be in a long time. Maybe that's not as far away as it feels right now.

It's a bigger hope than he's used to letting himself have. He holds onto it anyway, and — strange, unfamiliar, almost unearned — it just feels like hope tonight. Not foolishness wearing hope's clothes.

He lies there a while longer, letting both feelings sit where they are, before his mind finally circles back around to Nancy, the way he knew it eventually would.

He still loves her. That part isn't complicated, no matter how much last night hurt, doesn't feel like something that just switches off because she couldn't say it back, doesn't feel like something he's ready to hand over and walk away from just because one terrible night in a bathroom said otherwise. He thinks about the Hollands' dinner table, her hand steady on his under it. He thinks about the drive to school some mornings, her hand finding his on the gearshift without either of them needing to ask. That's not nothing. That's not something he thinks he's supposed to give up on this easily, not over one drunk, honest, awful conversation said at a party neither of them is going to remember fondly.

He's not ready to just let it go. He decides that plainly, lying there in the grey early light, the same steady certainty he's felt about almost nothing else in his life lately.

He also decides, just as plainly, that he's not driving her to school today.

It's not punishment. He turns the thought over carefully, making sure of that before he lets himself settle on it — it's not about making her feel it, not about tit-for-tat, not about anything petty like that at all. It's just that he needs the morning. Needs a few hours where he isn't sitting three feet away from her in a car, both of them pretending last night didn't happen before either of them has actually figured out what to do with it. She'll understand. Or she won't, not right away, and he'll explain it later, when he's better at explaining things than he is right now at six in the morning with his chest still aching.

He gets up, finally, moving slow, and by the time he's showered and dressed the shape of what he actually wants to do has settled into something clear enough to act on.

Red roses. Not because they're original — he knows they're not, knows it's the most obvious gesture in the world, the kind guys do in movies right before the girl forgives them — but because he means it plainly enough that he doesn't need to be clever about it. He wants to show up at her door tonight, roses in hand, and tell her he's not giving up on this, not yet, not over one hard night. He wants to apologize for pushing, for the timing, for not knowing exactly what she needed him to say back there in the bathroom. He wants to tell her he still loves her and means to keep showing up anyway, however long it takes her to figure out whether she can say it back and mean it.

He doesn't know if it'll work. He doesn't let that stop him from deciding to try.

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[yeah-iveheardofbears]

i can fix him (no really i can)

pairing: gator tillman x reader

summary: your husband is dead in the living room and deputy tillman is here to investigate. but there is history there, and maybe a mutually beneficial arrangement...

wc: 13k

cw: m*rder, staged s**cide, morally grey reader, descriptions of violence, mysoginy, explicit smut, p in v unprotected, oral (f&m recieving), body worship, breeding kink, talk of eventual pregnancy, reader is described as curvy, illusions to child abuse and domestic abuse, canon compliant ending-ish, bittersweet but happy ending, blind!gator briefly, soft!gator a lil at the end

a/n: this may be my favourite piece of gator work I have done since 'especially then'. its been a little brain worm for a while so i hope you all love it as much as i did writing it. its darker than my usual stuff and i'm really happy i pushed myself to write it because im so proud.

gator masterlist | consider buying me ko-fi | join my taglists

It was a decent attempt, he had to say.

Blood spatter looked consistent. Gun was in the correct hand. Note was in that barely legible script he saw on Brian's bar tabs, where he'd try to haggle down the prices to no avail. Everything was ponting to a textbook suicide.

Except Brian had never so much as read a textbook in his short, sad life. And more importantly, Brian loved himself too much to ever leave said life.

Gator leaned against the doorframe, taking in the scene. The room smelled of stale cigar smoke, old leather, and the coppery tang of fresh blood. A glass of amber liquid sat on the desk, a few splashes on the polished wood beside it, as if the hand holding it had trembled at the last moment.

He took a drag of his cherry scented vape and let out a low whistle. "Well, darlin', that's a real masterpiece you got here."

You didn't jump. You hadn't even flinched when he'd let himself in through the back door. You were standing by the window, looking out at the gray, endless expanse of the North Dakota sky, a dark silk robe tied loose at your waist.

You knew it was going to be him who came when you called in the suicide.

You had made sure his schedule lined up. Had made sure the right word was whispered to the right person.

He saw you then in the reflection of the window glass. The pale oval of your face, the dark, unsmiling set of your mouth. You looked like a portrait of a grieving widow. Too calm, maybe. Too still.

"Is it, Deputy Tillman?" Your voice was soft, a little breathless, like you'd been holding it in for a long, long time.

Gator pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the room, the heaviness of his worn leather boots on the woven rug the only sound. He kneeled down by the worn recliner, taking a closer inspection.

"Better not find any other prints 'side his on this here .38."

You turned around from the window very casually, adjusting the loose silk of your robe to be more decent around your freshly showered body.

"You won't, considering I haven't fired a gun since my daddy took me hunting back in '96. And I was terrible at it." You had a little smile then, at least a ghost of one.

"Your daddy was a hell of a shot, though," Gator said, still examining the gun. "Don't reckon that's something that skips a generation."

"He'd have disagreed with you."

Gator grunted, thinking about your old man. He'd been a shark in cheap clothes, all jaw and cold eyes, the kind of man who'd sell you the shirt off your own back and make you thank him for it.

"Gotta take your alibi, protocol and all..." he took out a small black notepad from his utility vest, tearing his eyes away from the supple skin of your thighs as he stood again.

Wasn't the time to be thinking about your thighs, with your husband cooling in his chair ten feet away. Gator Tillman, however, wasn't always known for his good sense.

"Tell me 'bout your night."

You looked thoughtful, a slight furrow in your brow as you replayed the evening.

"Brian came home around seven. I had dinner ready. He was already drunk when he got here. Started up almost immediately, something about the Johnson boy shorting him on a feed bill. I just... let him talk. Let him get it all out, as is my wifely duty."

You said the word ‘duty’ like it was something bitter on your tongue. Gator scribbled on his notepad, though he wasn't writing any of that down.

"He moved to the recliner after dinner, put on the news. Had me... soothe him a little."

Gator's eyebrows raised at that, finally looking up a little from his notepad. "Soothe 'im?"

"I'm sure you're well versed in the art of fellatio, Deputy Tillman." You stated it plainly, like reading a grocery list. "It was the only thing that quieted him down when he was in one of his moods."

Gator choked on his own saliva, coughing into the crook of his elbow. You didn't even blink.

His eyes flicked to your lips just as you wet them slightly to speak again.

Lucky bastard, he thought.

The thought came and went, replaced by the familiar sting of something complicated he always felt when he was near you. You were trouble. Always had been. Not in the flashy, obvious way like himself. The quiet, deep water kind of trouble.

"I went upstairs to take a shower, freshen up. It's not really lady like to smell like cheap whiskey and your husband's climax." Your own self disgust was a palpable thing. "I came back down an hour later and he was like this."

You gestured to the lump of a man in the chair.

"You didn't hear the shot?" He asked, leaning in a little closer to the body.

"The shower was running," you said, your eyes holding his. "Water's loud. The pipes in this old house groan like ghosts. And I was in there for a good long while. Trying to wash him off me. He wasn't exactly a neat man. Clearly."

You gesture to his state of dress and general self care, the blood, and the unceremonious way it soaked into the fabric of the old, stained recliner.

Gator grunted again, stepping back from the body. He circled the room, a methodical prowl. He ran a gloved finger along the dusty top of a bookshelf, looked under the desk. For posterity or whatever.

"Why'd you think he did it, last night of all nights?" He looked at the half-empty glass, the spilled whiskey. "Anything different 'bout him? Besides the usual, I mean."

There had been. Obviously.

But not last night.

Brian Olson was not a smart man. He was a bully, a coward, and a thug, with a loud laugh and a cruel grip. He was also not suicidal.

Your father, on the other hand, had been a genius. A ruthless, charming, monster of a man. And you were your father's daughter through and through, to the end of his days and beyond.

While your now deceased husband had not been smart, his daddy did own the county's largest feed and supply business. The late elder Olson was also a mess of a man, a drunkard who used his fists instead of words. But he ran a damn good business, so that didn't matter, right?

A match made in hell for you, no doubt. A business transaction that bound your father's influence to Brian's, in what was the most profitable way. A transaction that would also bind you to Brian.

Feed bags were great hiding spots for unmarked bills, illegal arms. You'd known since you were a girl that money and violence were the same language, just spoken in different dialects.

Gator knew it too. Not as an academic, but as a son. He'd learned it sitting at Roy's knee.

The women of Stark County were nothing more than pawns in the brutish games of men. And, despite your 'pedigree', you had been no exception. In fact, you may have been one of the most valuable pieces of all.

It had always been a race between your father and the dear old Sherriff. Your family farm would have added more land to hold the Tillman empire, and vice versa. But your father's stubborn greed had created a stalemate.

A land war would have drawn too much attention. So you were a treaty. A treaty sealed with blood and a cheap gold band.

And so, the rat race between the Olson's and the Tillman's first born sons was born. And the finish line was your marriage bed.

Your whole life had been a tug of war, orchestrated by your father, between two grown men, and the sons they'd made in their own image. You'd simply been the rope.

Naturally, the Olson's won out. Your father was always too big for his britches and the idea of getting a leg up on Roy Tillman in the great Midwest arms race was more tantalizing than any partnership with him. He knew the sheriff would never actually treat him as an equal, just another crony.

You'd be remiss if you didn't admit to yourself that, sometimes, you imagined what life would have been like if that war had ended differently. Maybe with you and a younger, less jaded Gator Tillman running off together in a beat up truck. Leaving the rot and the violence in the rearview mirror.

"He seemed... different, sure…" you finally said, your voice dropping to a near whisper. You were good at this. You were an artist. "Quieter. Not the shouting drunk I'm used to. The sullen kind. The kind that starts thinking too much."

You let the silence hang in the air, heavy and full of implication. Gator watched you, really watched you. He saw the way your hands, though perfectly steady, were clasped a little too tightly in front of you. The slight, almost invisible tremor in your bottom lip.

"Jus' us here," he started as he walked closer to you, hands on his hips, the notepad now tucked away.

You were still in your robe. The silk clung to your generous curves and the thought alone made the hair on Gator's neck stand up.

"You can talk to me," he said, the words coming out rougher than he intended.

"Nothing to talk about. I think the situation is pretty clear, deputy."

He gritted his teeth at the professionalism spilling from your lips.

"No wire. No damn body cam. Can search me real thorough if you don't believe me." Gator gestured to himself, a small smirk playing on his lips. It was a clumsy, boyish attempt at something else, at cutting through the performance.

Your eyes flickered up to meet his, and for a second, the grieving widow mask slipped. He saw a flash of something ancient and weary in their depths. The look of someone who has seen too much, done too much, and is still standing.

"Is that so?" you asked, your voice a little softer now. A little more like you. The you he remembered from dusty county fairs and stolen moments behind the beer tents.

"It is funny though..." he turned to the body, a finger pointing in the general direction of your late husband's corpse, "...that your old man went and had that 'accident' on the farm not even six months back. Now this." 

He clicked his tongue. "Just a real run of bad luck for the menfolk in your life."

It was a direct hit. A carefully aimed shot to see if you'd flinch.

"He was never very careful with the wood chipper." Just the right amount of clipped, distant grief. The kind that comes when you're more angry at the inconvenience of a death than the actual loss.

Gator felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. You were magnificent.

He took another step closer, close enough to smell the clean, soapy scent of your skin, the subtle hint of jasmine from your shampoo.

"See, I know that. And you know that. But the boys up in the big leagues, they might see a pattern. An' you know Roy isn't a fan of outsiders sniffin' 'round his county. 'Specially not about money, or land, or pretty widows who inherit 'em both." He kept his eyes on you, letting the threat of Roy Tillman, the tyrant of Stark County, hang between you.

But, to you, it wasn't really a threat. You had planned this. You knew exactly how Roy Tillman thought. You knew that he would respect a move this bold, this clean. He might even admire it.

"I can handle a dangerous man, Gator." It held multiple meanings, and the sound of his name on your lips, in this hushed, blood-scented room, went straight to his groin.

"I know you can," he said, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "That's what I'm worried about."

He reached out, not to touch you, but to trail a single gloved finger along the polished wood of the desk. His lips were by your ear now, the artificial cherry scent flooding your senses.

"I know about the hit."

For the first time since he walked into your home, he had played the right card. He heard your breath catch. Just a little hitch, so small anyone else would have missed it. But Gator had been listening for it. Waiting for it.

You turned your head, your cheek brushing against his perfect smirk before he pulled back to look down at you.

"Just you?" Your words were measured, careful.

"Jus' me." Gator let out a deep sigh, shaking his head a little to mock actual care for your piece of shit husband. "Poor ol' Brian just never could keep his mouth shut after havin' a few."

He looked back to the body. "Runnin' it at the VFW last week. Talkin' big 'bout how he was finally gonna be a real player. Had a meet set up. Some fella from out east. Big money. Somethin' about a new route."

It was true.

You found out about the target on your back a few weeks ago. Brian had taken a call, thinking you were busy outside tending to the laundry. He'd used that barking whisper he always used when he was trying and failing to be discreet. You heard everything.

'You were never getting one over on me, you piece of shit' , you wanted to scream at your husband's corpse.

He would have gotten everything, if he had more sense than greed. But then, that's what ultimately killed him. That and very thorough aim from a .38 revolver after you laced the rim of his nightly glass of whiskey.

Sometimes you were grateful for the farming upbringing your father’s blood money gave you. Useful skills like cooking, baking, and even gardening. The things every future wife should know.

Wolfsbane was a funny thing.

Too much could kill him, and while cardiac arrest wouldn't be shocking for a guy like him, it didn't feel vindicating enough. No, a smaller, more strategic amount would make him paralyzed, nerves overstimulated before the fatal blow. Pun intended.

Stark County wasn't known for its forensic department, and the aconitine would already be broken down in his body by the time of the autopsy.

If the deputy sheriff didn't already know you so well, it would have been the perfect murder. A textbook staging of a lonely man's last despair, all set against the backdrop of a county more concerned with the price of crops than the finer points of evidence collection.

But he did know you. Better than anyone alive. And that was the problem.

And you weren't sure if you'd chosen him for that reason or another entirely. Perhaps it was a little bit of both. You needed a gatekeeper. And you wanted an audience.

"Guess he won't be collectin' on that route," you said softly. Your gaze was fixed on your husband's slumped form, but you saw Gator's reflection in the dark window. You saw the way he looked at you.

"You ever think 'bout it?" he asked, the question coming out of nowhere, soft as falling snow. "Runnin'?"

The word hung in the bloody air. It was the same question he'd asked you years ago, under a different sky, behind the splintered walls of the county fair's funhouse. The answer was the same now as it was then.

"Every day."

A beat of silence. The only sound was the tick of an old grandfather clock in the hall, a sound so constant you usually didn't hear it. Tonight, it sounded like a countdown.

"I'm a deputy now, darlin'," he said, and the word was a plea. "And in my expert opinion, this here's a suicide. Tragic, but clear. A man with demons couldn't fight 'em no more."

He paused, letting the weight of what he was offering settle.

"No reason for the state boys to get involved. None at all."

Your eyes finally left the window, meeting his.

"Gonna call in the clean up crew. They'll bag'im and tag'im, take'im to the morgue. I'll write the report myself."

He finally reached out, his rough fingers ghosting over your exposed shoulder. They were calloused from rope and rifle, but he touched you like you were glass. He was so close now you could feel the warmth of him, a stark contrast to the manufactured, dead heat of your home.

If you had felt the shape he drew on your skin, a clumsy heart, you didn’t draw attention to it

"Shouldn't stay here tonight. Isn't right for a woman to be in a house with a ghost so fresh."

He was right. And he was giving you another out.

"Can set you up with a room over at the old inn just off the interstate. Muriel rents 'em out cheap, and she doesn't ask no questions. Part of the charm."

It was a plan. A carefully constructed escape route, built with the same quiet competence as the crime scene in front of you.

"I have money, Gator. I can pay for my own room."

The words were sharp, a small, unnecessary pushback against the sudden rush of his help, his proximity. You didn't want to owe him anything. Owing a Tillman was worse than owing the bank.

"Keep your money, darlin'," he said, not flinching. "Consider it a county expense." A corner of his mouth twitched. "Welfare for the recently widowed."

You watched him, a predator watching another predator. You assessed him. He wasn't like his father, not entirely.

There was a boy underneath all the bravado. One desperate for approval he'd never get. The boy who once showed you how to skip rocks across Miller's Pond until the sun went down, the one who taught you how to drive a beat-up Ford stick shift when you were sixteen, your father's lessons in finance and cruelty forgotten in the fading light.

You liked that boy.

You just weren’t sure you trusted the man he'd become.

"The sheriff may not like you giving the county's money away," you said, your tone flat, testing him.

"See, funny thing is..." his gazed trailed over you once again. "I reckon you already thought about that."

Checkmate.

The thrill of your intelligence being seen, acknowledged, was almost as intoxicating as the thought of Brian's blood on your hands. That's what you had been counting on. That he'd respect the game more than the rules.

"Divorce?" he tutted. "Now, that would've got messy. Lawyers and judges and money changin' hands. All that paperwork. Not to mention the whole county runnin' their mouths about it, callin' a fine thing like you 'used goods', a sinner, all that."

He shook his head, a mock sympathy on his face.

"A widow though... a widow gets respect. A widow gets insurance, she gets property. A widow gets to keep her name, and all that comes with it."

"A widow is still a single woman in a county run by men who hate them," you countered, the challenge lighting your eyes.

He grinned. A real one this time. "Not if she knows who to stand behind."

Gator had always been smart about a select few things. He knew survival. He understood the currency of fear and loyalty. He was also, in this moment, a man looking at a woman he'd wanted since he understood what wanting was. And he was smart enough to know you were a prize, and a weapon, all at once.

"I'd prefer to be beside someone." Your correction was subtle, a whisper-thing of a sentence. "Not behind them."

His breath hitched. The game between you shifted, the stakes rising imperceptibly. He had expected you to take the deal, to play the role of the fragile thing he was protecting. He hadn't expected you to rewrite the rules before the ink was even dry on your husband's death certificate.

"However..." you brushed past him. "Posterity is a useful thing to have, deputy."

Gator watched the way your hips swayed as you walked to the bar cart in the corner of the study. His father would have been proud, if you weren’t a woman, he thought as you poured a fresh glass of amber liquid over ice. The casual way you took up space, the easy way you navigated this world of smoke and violence.

"A woman is like a gun in this county, you know," you began, your back to him as you poured, the crystal of the decanter catching the low light. "Valuable for what she can do, who she belongs to. A man will boast about the one he's got, clean her, admire her. Run his calloused hands all over her..."

He pictured his hands all over your smooth skin and had to physically fight a shudder.

"But she’s still a weapon at the end of the day. And a weapon needs a steady hand."

You turned, swirling the whiskey in the glass. "She needs a place to rest her trigger without the fear of being discharged by a clumsy fool with an itchy finger."

Gator's jaw tensed. He hated how good you were at this. How you could twist him up with words as easily as he could tie a knot.

"You have steady hands, Gator Tillman," you said, your gaze dropping to them, resting on his hips. "You always have."

You held the glass out to him. An offering. A truce.

He took it, his fingers brushing against yours. A jolt, sharp and electric, went up his arm.

"Hardworking hands like that with no ring..." you hummed, stepping even closer, the scent of jasmine and clean skin overwhelming the lingering smell of death. "They must get awful lonely."

It wasn't subtle. A new terms and conditions page for the unspoken contract between you.

He downed the whiskey in one go before putting the glass on the cart, the burn a welcome distraction.

"Look," he started, his own patience wearing thin. He hated feeling like the mouse in your game, especially when he was supposed to be the cat. "What do you want?"

"What I've always wanted." Your response was simple, honest in a way that was more terrifying than any lie you could have spun. "Freedom. My land. And to not have to touch another man I don't want to, for as long as I live."

You paused, your eyes scanning over the utility vest he wore, the way the fabric strained slightly against his chest. A flicker of something -appreciation, maybe- before it was gone, replaced by that cool, assessing look.

"But that's not what you asked, is it, deputy? You asked what I want... from you."

You reached up, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw. A shiver traced a path down his spine, straight to his groin again. He hadn't been touched like that in... years. Not with this kind of deliberation. Not with this kind of promise.

"I want your silence. Your protection. I want Roy Tillman to see me as an asset, not a threat. You can arrange that."

Your touch moved to the collar of his shirt, your thumb brushing against the bare skin of his throat. He could feel your pulse, or maybe it was his own, hammering against your touch.

"And I want..." you leaned in, your lips just barely grazing the shell of his ear. "...I want someone I don't have to pretend with. Someone who already knows the monster under the bed."

This was it. This was the price. Not just his silence, but... more. His complicity. His partnership. A piece of him he wasn't sure he could afford to give, but one he suddenly, desperately wanted to.

"I'm the perfect wife, Gator. Your father knows this. Hell, I gave my shitbag husband the best head of his life right before I put a bullet in his brain," your voice was a caress. "Imagine what I can do for a man who actually deserves it."

Gator's mind raced. He pictured you in this kitchen, in this house he'd get to call home, the smell of your perfume in the air instead of stale cigar smoke. He pictured you laughing, a real laugh, not the polite, brittle thing you wore in public. He pictured you in your shared bed, the sheets tangled around your legs.

"Your daddy has been trying to get you a wife for years," you continued, your fingers trailing down his chest, the rough fabric of his flannel a poor barrier. "A meek little thing to pop out a few Tillman brats. To look pretty while he pulls your strings. All because the Olson's got to me first."

You had a knack for peeling back the layers of him, for seeing the parts he kept hidden. The boy desperate for his father's approval, the man who was starting to realize he'd never get it.

"I am not meek, Gator. And I am not little. But I am lethal. And I am efficient."

You let out a small, breathy laugh against his neck. "Your father would never see it coming."

You knew Roy Tillman. You knew him the way people in this part of the state know the coming of winter - an inevitability, a force of nature. You knew that Roy saw people as tools, to be used and discarded.

And you knew the best way to beat a man like that was to become the sharpest tool in his shed. A tool he thought he controlled, but one that could cut him when he least expected it.

Gator's hands, which had been hanging limply at his sides, came up to grip your waist. They weren't gentle. They were proprietary and claiming. His fingers dug into the soft silk of your robe, pulling you flush against him.

"This just a business deal, to you? Way t'fuel that bloodlust of yours?" he muttered, his lips brushing against your hairline.

"Do you think I would put all my cards on the table for someone I simply consider a business partner, Gator?" you whispered back, tilting your head to give him better access to the curve of your neck. "I'm many things, but I'm not foolish."

You felt the rumble of his groan against your skin. His head dipped, his nose trailing along your collarbone as he inhaled your scent. For a moment, he was just a boy again, standing a little too close to you behind the barns, smelling of summer and youthful desperation.

"I'm not heartless. But my heart hasn't had a say in my life for a very long time," you continued, your voice hypnotic. "Maybe it's about time it did."

You reached up, your hands framing his face. You saw the exhaustion etched around his eyes, the permanent slump of his shoulders from bearing a weight that was never truly his to carry.

"Get this mess cleaned up. Get your daddy on board and make him think it was his idea. And then when you're done, meet me at the room you promised. Alone."

His eyes met yours, a storm of confusion, desire, and a dangerous sort of hope warring within them.

"And I'll show you," you murmured, your thumb stroking the slight stubble growing in on his chin, "what a woman who wants to put her hands all over you is capable of."

Gator held your gaze for a long moment, the room silent save for the ticking clock and the quiet hum of the refrigerator. He was weighing the options, calculating the risks, but he was also drowning in the promise in your eyes.

It was the biggest gamble of his life. To step out from his father's long shadow and walk beside the sun.

He leaned in, closing the last sliver of space between you, and captured your lips in a kiss that was anything but gentle.A sealing of a pact written in blood and whispered promises.

"I'm gonna call 'em, in, bring the cruiser 'round the back," he said against your lips, breathless. "Wait for me at the kitchen door. Don't touch nothin'."

He pulled away, the absence of his body heat leaving you feeling suddenly cold. He straightened his uniform, ran a hand through his slicked back hair, and turned on his heel, before a quick backward glance.

"Put somethin' decent on. The sight of you in that robe's gonna give poor Walt from the coroner's office a heart attack." A ghost of a smirk played on his lips. "And that's a sight I'd rather reserve for myself."

Then he was gone, leaving you alone with the ticking of the clock and the cooling corpse of your ex-husband.

The room at Muriel's inn was nice, cozy and homey. The floral wallpaper was slightly faded, the bedspread a heavy quilt of mismatched squares.

It was the kind of room where good, simple people came to rest their heads.

And it was currently the room where you lounged on the bed, in a simple black nightgown, a glass of cheap red wine in your hand, a novel about someone else's drama lying forgotten beside you.

You had done as Gator asked, put on something "decent". A simple pair of dark jeans and a plain, cream-colored sweater before he'd led you out through the back door. He'd wrapped an arm around you, a perfect performance of grief and support for any prying neighbor's eyes. The whole drive to the inn, he hadn't said a word. Just a grip on the steering wheel and the scent of cherry vape smoke filling the car. Couldn't risk any eyes or ears of the cruiser picking up anything less than a tragic widow. Protocol and all.

Now you waited. The cheap wine was sour on your tongue, but the warmth spreading through your chest was welcome.

A knock at the door. Not loud, but not tentative. A solid, purposeful rap. Three knocks, evenly spaced.

You got up from the bed, wine still in hand, and opened the door.

He stood there, the yellow light of the hallway casting long shadows behind him. He'd shed the uniform for a black shirt, dark jeans, and that damn leather jacket.

"You didn't have to dress like a widow too, you know." You gestured with your glass towards the all-black ensemble.

"Figured it was respectful." he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. The click of the latch was unnaturally loud in the quiet room.

The room suddenly felt too small, too full of unspoken things.

He took in the scene: you in your black nightgown, the wine, the open book.

"Yeah, because you came here for such a 'respectful' reason, Gator." you snort, taking a sip from your glass as you let your hair down from its clip.

"You look good," he said, his eyes tracing the path of your hair as it fell around your shoulders.

"So do you." you reply, your voice low as you set your wineglass on the dresser and lean back against it, elbows on the smooth wood of the top. "All cleaned up. Like you didn't just spend your evening cleaning up my mess."

"Our mess now," he corrected. He took a step closer, the worn leather of his jacket creaking softly. The space between you shrank. "Just us now... no pryin' eyes... don't have to put up that cold front, got 'nough of that outside..."

He was right. Out there, you were a grieving widow. A tragic figure in a town that would eat you alive if they smelled weakness.

In here, you were just you. And he was just him.

You watched him, your head tilted, a predator's curious stillness. You would let the mask drop when you were good and ready, and not a moment before.

"Did he bite?" you asked, changing the subject.

Gator let out a humorless laugh, a short, sharp burst of air. He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture of familiar frustration.

"Wants me to bring you over for a 'family dinner' tomorrow, as a gesture of his 'generosity'." He huffed.

That was code for talking business once Karen put the twins to sleep. The business being how it only made sense for you to marry his son now, to combine the Olson land and the Tillman's to ensure some bullshit security that Roy himself didn't even need. Roy Tillman saw a woman as a vessel for the next heir, not a person. A broodmare for his legacy.

A slow smile spread across your face."Yes, because Roy is just the king of generosity. Presenting me the prodigal son on a silver platter."

You let your eyes travel down his frame finally. The broad shoulders, before your eyes were dipping down to his waist, solid in the chest and a little soft in the middle. God, how you wanted to sink your teeth into any soft spot he had.

"Don't get me wrong," Gator said. "He's plenty suspicious. Wants me to keep an eye on ya. 'Make sure the little lady is settled'. 'Keep an eye on the books'. All that."

"And by keeping an eye on the books, he means he thinks I hired someone for this job, huh? Since I'm such a bad shot and all."

"’fraid so, darlin'. He thinks you're a mastermind with a killer's instincts, but not a killer's hands. He's almost right." The corner of his lip ticked upwards. Gator's eyes had a dark, glittering quality to them, like he was enjoying this as much as you were.

"Well I guess we'll just have to fudge the books up a bit." You shrug. "Make him think whatever it is he wants to think."

"Figured you'd say that." He looked at you, a long, heavy look that stripped away all the pretense. This wasn't about the money or the land or the revenge anymore. Not entirely.

"You've looked good these past few years, you know." You dart your tongue, more red from the wine, to wet your lips. "More solid than you were in high school."

His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "A lotta' things have changed since then. You 'ave."

You pushed off the dresser and closed the distance between you, your fingers deftly going for the zipper of his jacket. "Mmm, you think? I've filled out too. Haven't left the house much since Brian and I got hitched. Didn't like me leaving too long. Probably worried about me catching some man's eye. Sure he was real glad for the added weight."

Your words were casual, but they carried the poison of a thousand resentments. You slid the jacket from his shoulders, and it pooled on the worn floral rug with a soft thud. Underneath, the black t-shirt was thin, worn soft, and clung to the hard lines of his chest and soft give of his stomach.

"A little extra cushion never stopped me from sneakin' glances at you over the years." He murmured, reaching out to catch your wrist as your fingers went to the hem of his shirt. His grip was firm, a question in it.

"That so?" you asked, your eyes locking with his. "What'd you think about when you looked?"

His thumb stroked the delicate skin on the inside of your wrist. "You know damn well what I thought about."

"Say it," you commanded, your voice a low thrum. "I want to hear you say it."

Gator let out a shaky breath, the control he'd been clinging to finally splintering.

"Thought about what it'd be like to have this." His other hand came up to trace the curve of your hip over the silk of your nightgown, grabbing the generous flesh there in his calloused grip. "Pressed all against me while I fuck ya the way you deserve."

Your lips curled into a slow, dangerous smile. This was the truth. This was the want you knew had been simmering beneath the surface of him. The boy in the truck had grown into a man with deeper hungers.

"And how do I deserve to be fucked, Gator?" You accentuated the word in such a teasing way, sure to rile him up.

"Hard," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. "’til you can't remember yer own name. ‘til the only god you can pray to is me."

A shudder went through you, a response to the possessive promise in his voice. You had been controlled, used, and objectified your entire life. But this wasn't that. This was mutually consuming. A fire you both willingly walked into.

"Sounds sacrilegious, praying to false idols and all..." your gazed slowly trailed downward, as your hands toyed with his belt buckle.

"I'm the realest damn thing you'll ever touch," he grinned. "You want me to show you?"

You answered by pulling his t-shirt over his head. The worn cotton whispered against his skin, and then he was bare from the waist up in the dim light of the room. You had a few moments to take him in. The solid chest, dusted with dark hair, the soft plane of his stomach, the surprising strength in the lines of his shoulders.

"You know, I always hated church..." you admit as your flick open the buckle you'd been playing with, and unzip his fly. "The constant up and down, the kneeling..."

You tugged his pants down as you lowered yourself to the floor, knees hitting the hardwood. "But I think I've found some use for it now..."

Gator's hand went to your chin to make you look up at him. "You have, have ya?" He teased, before letting his thumb graze your bottom lip. "I'd like to see what that pretty mouth looks like saying its prayers."

The sight of you, on your knees for him, nearly made his own buckle. All those wasted years, of watching you from afar, of watching you become another man's property. You let out a pleased little hum and you nuzzled your cheek against the hard line of his boxer briefs, the softest of kisses placed against the cloth.

He shuddered at the contact, his other hand moved to tangle his fingers in your hair, not roughly, but with a surety that spoke of a long-held need finally being met.

He was so hard already, the shape of him prominent against the thin fabric.

"That seems like a very... big ask..." you tease, kissing up his clothed shaft, the thickness of him undeniable. "I should get a real look at it."

Slowly, you peeled the fabric down. The trimmed dark hairs at the base of him, then the flushed, heavy reality of his cock. He let out a low hiss as the cool air of the room hit him.

"Jesus..." he breathed out. It was a prayer, a curse, and an exultation all at once. "Look at that..."

He wasn't talking about himself. He was talking about the reverent way you looked at him. The hunger in your gaze that was so much more potent than the performative act you'd described doing for Brian.

"What? The old drunk not measure up? You act like you've never seen one before."

His words were a mockery, but your hands were gentle. They were so gentle, so reverent. Your thumb brushed over the tip, collecting the bead of precum there. 

"Gator Tillman," you looked up at him the same way you always did, putting him in his place with your words. "You know damn well what you have going for you. You're not that kind of stupid."

The compliment was backhanded, a left hook after a feint, but it made him preen anyway. You saw the way he stood up straighter, the way a boyish pride warred with the predatory hunger in his eyes.

"Smart girl," he muttered, his grip on your hair tightening just a fraction. "Always too damn smart f'me..."

"Good thing you're not looking for a wife you can push around, then, huh?" You leaned in, your breath ghosting over the head of his cock. "Wouldn't last a day."

You watched his face as you licked the leaking tip, tasting the salt of him. The gasp he let out was the most honest sound you'd heard him make in a while.

"Someone's gotta make you work for it..." you said, your lips wrapped around him for a brief, teasing moment before pulling away again. "But I think you'll find the work is the reward."

Before he could answer, you took him into your mouth properly, a slow slide. You were methodical. You explored him, learning the shape and feel of him, the way he twitched against your tongue.

Gator was lost to the sight and sensation of it. You, this woman of smoke and silences, on your knees before him, worshiping him with a mouth that had, just hours ago, spoken so coolly of murder. It was a holy act and a blasphemy, all in one.

"Christ, woman, where'd you..." His breath hitched as you took him deeper, your tongue doing something clever and sinful that had his hips jerking forward of their own accord. "Don't stop..."

You had no intention of stopping. This was your territory. A place of quiet command, where your hands and your mouth held more power than any gun.

He looked so good like this. Head thrown back, the column of his throat exposed, the soft moonlight from the window catching the dark hair on his chest. 

Your hand found purchase on his thigh, after tugging his clothes down more, rubbing the warm, solid muscle there, feeling it tense and flex beneath your touch as he fought for control. Your other hand moved to cup the heavy weight of his cock, your thumb stroking the sensitive skin in a rhythm that mirrored the movements of your mouth.

You drew back, leaving him wet and glistening in the dim light. He let out a moan of protest.

"Easy there, deputy," you murmured, your voice a rough, silken thing. "You're gonna wake the whole inn."

He let out a ragged laugh, looking down at you with those dark, hungry eyes. "Muriel's deaf as a post. 'Sides, let 'em hear. Let 'em know you ain't mourning that prick."

You smirked, a slow, sinful curve of your lips. Your hand began to move over him with a newfound purpose, over the soft skin of his stomach, before stroking him again.

"I don't know about that. Might have to keep it down for the main event. We wouldn't want the fine folk of Stark County to think their deputy’s future wife is... a screamer."

That had him. The word 'wife' hung in the stale, cigarette-scented air.

His fingers tightened in your hair, a possessive, grounding gesture. "Yer somethin' else, you know that?" he breathed, the words dripping with arousal and deep fondness. 

"Just being honest..." You murmur as you kiss over where his stomach was slightly plush, just above his shaft. You such a little to leave your mark on him, a subtle, possessive brand in the soft light of the room.

You were marking your territory. Not with your name on a deed, not with a ring on a finger, but with the imprint of your lips on the soft flesh of him. The rest could wait.

Gator looked down at the faint pink mark, then back at you, and a slow, predatory grin spread across his face.

"Careful now, darlin'," he murmured, the sound vibrating through his chest. "You keep that up and I'm gonna forget my own name."

You looked up at him from under your lashes. "Make sure you make me scream it enough then."

Then, you took him back into your mouth, no longer teasing. This was an act of consumption, a claiming. You hollowed your cheeks, your tongue working him with a precision that spoke of long-denied desire. Your pace quickened, the room filling with the wet, rhythmic sounds of your efforts and his ragged breaths.

"Gettin' there," he gritted out, the muscles in his thighs taut as cords. "Christ, you're good at that."

With one final, hard suck, you pulled back, a string of saliva connecting your lips to him for a brief, shining moment.

"Can't let you have all the fun," you said, pushing yourself to your feet.

He watched, mesmerized, as you stepped out of your nightgown. It was a simple thing, but the way you let it pool at your feet was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen.

You were all curves and soft skin in the dim light. The generous swell of your hips, the fullness of your breasts, plush skin of your thighs.

"Fuckin' hell..." He groaned, stepping fully out of his pants and briefs, kicking them aside. He closed the distance between you, his hands immediately going to your waist, pulling you flush against him. The feel of your bare skin against his was a revelation, a homecoming he hadn't known he was searching for.

"Gator," you breathed, your hands tracing the lines of his shoulders.

"Yer all woman, aren't ya? No more hidin'," he murmured, his hands roaming your back, the curve of your ass. He was a man of the land, and this was territory he wanted to claim. To know every dip and hollow. He wanted to map you with his hands, his tongue, his cock.

Those calloused hands gripped the fat of your ass, squeezing hard. You could feel him, hard and heavy against your belly.

"All this gonna be mine?" he growled, a low, possessive sound in the back of his throat.

"It's always been yours," you whispered back, and the surprising truth of it hit you both. In a life lived for others, this one fierce, selfish want had been a constant thread.

He picked you up then, as if you weighed nothing, and a surprised gasp escaped your lips. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your arms around his neck. He carried you the few steps to the bed, laying you down against the worn quilt as if you were something precious.

"M'gonna make you forget him," he promised, his body a heavy, comforting weight over yours. "Forget every last one of 'em."

"You already have," you said, and it wasn't a lie.

He lowered his head, not to kiss you, but to press his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "Gonna let me' ave a taste of that heaven you been hidin'?"

You tilted your head back, baring your throat to him in a gesture of absolute trust, a silent invitation. "Take it."

After placing some kisses there, Gator began to move downwards, a slow pilgrimage. His mouth was hot and wet on your skin. He wasn't in a hurry. He savored you, like a man who'd been starving.

He paid tribute to the delicate hollow of your throat, the dip of your collarbone. He laved the swell of your breasts, his rough hands molding them, his thumbs brushing over the hardened peaks.

Then he took one in his mouth, and a sharp cry tore from your lips. He sucked, hard, a pulling, possessive pressure that sent a jolt straight to your core. He grazed the sensitive bud with his teeth, just enough to make you gasp, to make your back arch off the bed.

"Yer a loud thing, weren't lyin' about that." he murmured against your skin before giving the same treatment to its twin.

"Only for... someone who knows what they're doing," you managed to get out, your hands threading through his hair, holding him to you.

"Oh, I know what I'm doin'," he promised, his voice a low rumble against your skin. "Gonna give this pretty gash the attention it deserves."

He shifted, his broad shoulders forcing your thighs wider. The anticipation was a force, coursing through your veins like lava. 

Then he was there.

His tongue was a thing of wonder. It was no gentle, tentative exploration. He knew what he wanted, and he took it. He licked a broad, flat stripe up your slit, and the sensation was so overwhelming, so right, that a sob escaped you.

"Tastes better'n I imagined," he groaned, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you open for him. "An' I imagined a lot."

He ate you like a man at a feast. His tongue delved into you, tasting, exploring. He found your clit, that bundle of nerves, and circled it, again and again, until you were a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him.

His tongue plunged into your entrance, fucking you with a wet, desperate rhythm that had you seeing stars. You'd never been touched like this. Never been seen like this. Brian had seen sex as a transaction, a messy obligation. This... this was worship.

"Gator," you gasped, your hips bucking against his face, chasing the pleasure he was giving you.

He was filthy about it, letting you ride his face. His nose pressed against you, he breathed you in, the smell of your arousal his new favorite scent. He pulled back just enough to spit on your cunt, a shocking, crude act that made you clench around nothing, before diving back in.

"Fuckin' soaked for me," he rasped, his words vibrating against your folds. "Messy little thing."

And you were. You could feel it, the slickness on your thighs, the sounds filling the room were wet, sloppy, obscene.

Your hands fisted in the quilt, your back arching as he pushed you closer and closer to the edge. His fingers joined his tongue, one, then two, pushing inside you, curving just right.

"There it is," he growled against your clit, finding that spot, that perfect, agonizing spot inside you. He knew he'd found it by the way your entire body went rigid, a choked moan tearing from your throat.

"Fuck! Gator, don't stop," you begged, your pride dissolving into need.

"Wasn't plannin' on it," he mumbled, doubling his efforts. His fingers pumped into you, scissoring, stretching, while his tongue worked your clit in tight, relentless circles.

The world narrowed to this. To the feel of him, inside and out.

"That's it, gimme that sweetness," he coaxed, his free hand pressing down on your lower belly, amplifying the pressure, the pleasure. "Lemme have it."

And you did. The orgasm ripped through you, an all encompassing event that left you gasping and trembling. Your thighs clenched around his head, your heels digging into his back as you rode the wave, your cries filling the small room.

He didn't let up, drawing it out, wringing every last drop of pleasure from your shuddering body until you were a boneless, panting mess on the bed.

When you finally came back to yourself, he was kissing his way back up your body, his lips and chin dripping and slick with you.

"See?" he murmured, hovering over you, a smug, triumphant look on his face. "Told ya I'd make you scream."

You reached up, your hand tracing the line of his jaw, your thumb smearing your own wetness across his skin.

"Show-off," you breathed, pulling him down for a kiss. It was a messy kiss. You could taste yourself on him, and the intimacy of it, the  unvarnished want. 

He settled between your thighs, the thick head of his cock nudging at your entrance.

"Had ta get ya all wet f'me," he rasped, his hands planting on either side of your head, caging you in. "You're ready for me, ain't ya?"

You didn't answer with words. You just rocked your hips up, taking just the tip of him inside you.

"Mmm... impatient," he chuckled, a low, dark sound. "Alright then. You want me so bad, you can do the work."

He stayed perfectly still, a heavy, solid weight, the challenge clear in his dark eyes.

"Asshole," you muttered, but there was no heat in it, only a fond, exasperated affection. 

Your hands found his ass, gripping the firm muscle, and you pulled. A slow, delicious slide as you took him inch by inch.

"Fuckin' hell," he groaned, dropping his head to your shoulder as you sheathed him completely.

For a moment, you both just stayed like that, breathing, adjusting.

"Like my girl greedy fer it," he murmured into your skin. "Like she's been waitin'."

You just clamped down on him, a silent, punishing squeeze that had him seeing stars.

He gripped your thick thighs and lifted them up higher to wrap around his waist and began to move. The pace he set was merciless. This wasn't the slow, sweet lovemaking of romance novels. This was a hard, deep rhythm that had the headboard slamming against the wall in a counterpoint to your cries.

"Oh, she loves this," he growled. He looked down at you, his dark eyes wild, devouring the way your breasts bounced with each thrust. "Took too long, didn't it? Tired of that bastard wastin' all this good pussy."

The words were filthy, but it was the truth. Your body was a kingdom your husband had been too foolish and too selfish to properly rule. Gator was taking up the mantle of conqueror.

"Tell me," he demanded, his voice a raw, commanding thing. "Tell me how much better I am."

"Fuck, Gator... you're..." you gasped, your nails digging into the sweat-slick skin of his back. Words failed you, lost in the overwhelming sensation of him filling you, stretching you, possessing you.

"Louder," he grunted, adjusting his angle, hitting that spot inside you that made sparks dance behind your eyes.

"You're so much better," you sobbed, the admission torn from you. "God, you're better."

You were a clever woman. You knew words were currency. But here, with him, honesty was more potent. The genuine praise was something he'd always craved without ever being able to name it.

That was it. His praise kink, his desperate need for validation, laid bare. You felt a thrill that had nothing to do with the pleasure coursing through you. It was the thrill of understanding your weapon. Of knowing exactly where to press. Without having to do any thinking, because he was made for you.

He shifted again, hooking one of your legs over his shoulder.

"Gonna make you my wife. Gonna breed this pretty pussy 'til it takes," he snarled, the possessive words a stark, primal counterpoint to the surprisingly tender way his thumb stroked your ankle.

You'd been a wife before. A title bought and sold like cattle, an alliance sealed with a kiss and a signature. But this was different. This was a siege, and you were the one manning the walls, deciding who got past the gates.

The new angle was devastating. He was hitting that spot, over and over, the pleasure so intense. 

"Love the way you fill me up," you panted, your hands gripping the headboard now, using the leverage to meet his punishing thrusts. "No one's ever... fuck... no one's ever been this deep."

"Look at you, fuckin' back on me," he groaned, the words strained. His dark eyes were fixed on the place where your bodies joined, watching himself disappear into you, over and over.

"Knows what she wants," he praised, like he was breaking a wild mustang and finding it a perfect, eager ride.

He shifted, pulling your other leg up to join the first, effectively folding you in half. He was impossibly deep like this, a solid weight pinning you, a cage of muscle and sweat and raw, ragged want.

"Just like that," you whimpered, your control finally shattering. "Just like that, Gator. Don't stop."

He moved one of your hands from the headboard, lacing your fingers with his and pinning it to the mattress beside your head.

"Look at me," he commanded, and your eyes fluttered open to meet his. He held your gaze, his hips never ceasing their relentless rhythm.

"This pussy's mine now," he stated, a simple, brutal fact. "Ain't no one else's. Ever again."

"Yours," you breathed, the word a vow.

"Say it again."

"It's yours, Gator. All yours."

He let out a choked sound, a victory and a surrender all at once. He had you. And you had him.

He brought a thumb down to where you were joined, pressing, circling your clit with a precise, devastating pressure.

"Cum all over this cock," he growled. "Wanna feel you squeezin' me. Wanna feel ya claimin' me right back."

The second orgasm hit you harder than the first, a violent, shattering thing that ripped a scream from your throat. Your cunt clenched around him, a series of tight, rhythmic pulses that milked him, pulling him deeper.

"Fuck!" he groaned, his hips stuttering. With a few final, deep thrusts, he buried himself to the hilt. 

Thick spurts of warmth filled you as he came with a shudder, burying his face in your neck. His body was a heavy, dead weight on yours, but you didn't mind. You held him, your hands stroking the sweat-damp hair at the nape of his neck.

"That's my girl," he murmured into your skin, the words ragged with aftershocks. He kissed the tender flesh of your neck. "Takin' all of it."

You lay there for a long while, a tangle of limbs and sweat and satisfaction. The only sounds were the frantic beating of your hearts, slowly returning to a normal rhythm, and the distant hum of a truck on the interstate. After a few moments, Gator stirred, propping himself up to look at the mess between your bodies, your legs still tangled around him. You felt him soften inside you, a finality in that simple biological fact.

"Mmm," he hummed, a smug sound of deep satisfaction. He let your legs fall softly around him and watched as he slowly pulled out, followed by a warm trickle of your combined release. He used two fingers to spread your folds, a proprietary gaze on what he'd done.

"Oh, she's pretty like that," he murmured, almost to himself. "All fulla’ me." He scooped up some of the mess on his fingers and brought them to your lips. "Taste us."

You obeyed, your tongue swirling around his fingers, tasting the salt, the musk, the proof of his claim. You watched his eyes darken as you did, a fresh wave of desire rolling off him.

"Greedy," he chuckled, withdrawing his fingers. He flopped onto his back beside you, one arm thrown over his eyes, a slow, blissful smile on his face. "Well, shit."

"Well, shit, indeed," you agreed, stretching languidly.

You propped yourself up on an elbow, looking down at him. You took a moment, a real one, to study him. The rise and fall of his chest, the way the dim light caught the dark hairs on his chest. 

"You're my problem now, Tillman," you said softly, the words carrying a surprising weight. "And I'm yours."

He moved his arm, looking at you. His eyes were soft, the predatory haze replaced by something warmer, more vulnerable.

"Always have been," he said, the admission quiet as he pulled you closer, tucking you against his side. His arm came around your waist, holding you in a possessive but gentle embrace. "Just took us a while to get 'ere."

You laid there together, tangled and messy. It was the most alive you've felt in years. 

"God, I'm glad he's dead," you said, the words a simple, pure statement of fact.

Gator's arm tightened around you. "Me too." There was no judgment in his voice, only a grim, shared satisfaction. He ran a hand through your hair, a gesture that felt startlingly intimate.

"I'm never gonna treat you like he did. Y'know that, right?" He was looking at the ceiling, but you could hear the sincerity in his words, the boy peeking through the man.

"I know." You turned to press a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.

"Won't lay a hand on ya unless you're askin' for it." He hesitated. "And I'll... I'll listen. To what you have to say."

You knew this was hard for him. The Tillman men weren't raised for conversation. They were raised for commands.

"I'll hold you to that," you said, your head resting on his chest, still mindlessly placing kisses on the sweat damp skin.

He grunted in response, a comfortable, weary sound. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. Sleep was a siren's call, but you fought it.

"Hey," you murmured, your fingers tracing idle patterns on his stomach.

"Mmm?"

"What happens now? With your father."

Gator sighed, the sound ruffling your hair. "We go to dinner. You smile, you cry a little. You play the part of the grieving widow, so sweet, so fragile." His fingers found your chin, tilting your face up to his.

"He'll eat it up. A pretty, helpless thing like you. With all that land, all that money. He'll see a bargain."

"And what will you see?" You asked, your gaze steady.

Gator was quiet for a long moment. He looked at you, really looked at you, as if seeing you for the first time.

"A partner," he said, the word feeling foreign on his tongue, but true. "Someone who ain't scared of the dark. 'Cause she's already livin' in it."

A small, genuine smile touched your lips. "That's the most romantic thing anyone's ever said to me."

"Yeah? Well, I love you. So it's not 'ard." He said this as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, a fact as simple as the sun rising in the east. Like it was a fact he'd known for a decade, one he'd been waiting for the right moment to share. 

He was looking at the ceiling when he said it. He'd always been better at loving things with an engine or a trigger than a person. The confession had come out of him with a grunt and a scratch on his belly, as casual as if he'd commented on the weather.

You pushed yourself up on your elbow again, the worn quilt pooling around your hips.

"You mean that? Don't joke about this."

Finally, he turned his head to look at you, and the vulnerability in his eyes was so naked that it made your chest ache. The smug, predatory deputy was gone, replaced by the boy who used to throw rocks at the old water tower just to hear the echo.

"When've I ever joked about you?" he asked, and he was right. Every look, every touch, every loaded word between you had always been laced with a terrifying seriousness.

"I do, too, you know," you admitted, the words feeling foreign on your tongue, a language you hadn't spoken since you were a girl. "I think I have since we were seventeen and you tried to fight Dale Jennings for saying I was stuck-up."

A slow grin spread across his face.

"He had it comin'. You ain't stuck-up. Yer smart. Big difference."

"Yeah, well, getting your nose bloodied over me in the parking lot of the Bowl-A-Rama is a formative experience for a girl," you said, your fingers tracing the line of his jaw.

"I'd get my nose bloodied for you again tomorrow," he promised.

"Oh, I know you would. You're very predictable that way."

A comfortable silence settled between you, the kind that only comes from years of unspoken history.

"Predictable? I think you mean reliable," he corrected gently, shifting to wrap an arm around you, pulling you flush against his side.

You let out a soft laugh, your head pillowed on his chest. "Same difference, coming from you."

He squeezed you, a playful warning.

"Keep running that mouth and I'll have to find somethin' to fill it," he murmured, but there was no heat in it, only a lazy, post-coital contentment.

"You're all talk now, Tillman. You're spent."

"We'll see about that in the mornin'." He yawned, a wide, jaw-cracking one.

You listened to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. It was a sound you could get used to.

"You really think we can pull this off?" you asked, your voice small in the quiet room. "The whole... happily ever after thing?"

Gator was quiet for a moment, considering.

"My dad's a lot of things, but he's not stupid. He's gonna poke, he's gonna prod. But he's also a man who likes to win. He sees your land, yer family's money... he sees an empire. But he's not gonna look too close at the gift horse's teeth if he thinks it's gonna carry him to the finish line." He paused.

"We'll just have to be smarter. And you, darlin'," he kissed the top of your head, "are the smartest person I know." 

You smiled into his chest. It was true. And that was the problem, wasn't it? Smart women were dangerous. Especially to men like Roy Tillman.

"Now get some shut eye." Gator grunted, pulling the covers over you both. "Gotta get my energy up to fuck ya in the mornin'. Then again in the shower."

You chuckled, the sound muffled by his chest. And for the first time in a long, long while, you closed your eyes and let the world go, feeling the steady rise and fall of the man you loved, the man you were about to con the devil with.

Over a year had gone by since that night, and things didn't go quite as planned. 

Just as you had the plan set, Roy caught wind of where his ex wife was living now. Nadine was his white whale, and he'd do anything to get his once child bride back under his thumb. 

Including making his son do his dirty work. 

But Nadine, a woman after your own heart, was a crafty one. The whole ordeal left Roy to rot in prison and Gator was no longer under his thumb. 

You had used every resource you could to get him a deal. Rural North Dakota meant there weren't many onlookers for what did go actually down, and that meant that Gator Tillman was no longer. 

As far as Stark County knew, he died from his wounds, and you along with him.

"Careful, it's hot." You say as you hand him a cup of tea, sitting next to him in your shared home.

The east coast was a place of ghosts and new beginnings for the both of you. Here, no one knew you as that rich girl whose father died mysteriously, or that fuck-up working for his violent father.

No one knew the old you at all. They knew your new names and your new identities.

Gator felt for the handle of the mug as you sat with him. 

"Fuck..." he whispered when he felt how hot it was. "Weren't lyin'..." 

"I'm not in the business of tricking my blind husband." you said gently, as you leaned over and kissed his cheek.

It had taken months of recovery. Even after he was released from the hospital, he was a shell of the man he was. The wounds had blinded him, and that had been the final curse Roy had placed on him. A cruel reminder of the debts he inherited from his father

"Could just call me your husband, don't have to add 'blind' to it," he grumbled, but leaned into your touch anyway.

You let out a soft sigh. "It's not an insult, Gator. It's a fact. Like how you have brown hair and you're a grumpy bastard in the mornings."

He took a cautious sip of the tea, his movements still a little clumsy, a constant reminder of what he'd lost. The doctors said he'd adapt. They said he'd learn to navigate the world by sound and touch. But they didn't understand. This was a punishment, not just a physical ailment.

The one thing keeping him from completely spiraling was you. He could feel you before you entered a room, a change in the air pressure, the faint scent of your perfume. He could map the floor plan of this house in his mind, each step you took a familiar landmark.

"Still ain't used to it," he admitted, setting the mug down on the coaster you'd placed in its exact spot.

"Given last night, I'd say you're adapting just fine. You certainly don't have trouble finding what you're looking for in the dark," you teased, your fingers trailing down the strong line of his forearm.

A slow, lazy grin spread across his face. He reached out, his hand moving with a new, practiced confidence. It found your waist, then slid around to pull you closer. "Funny girl. You know, my other senses are gettin' real sharp. Can practically smell when you're gettin' yourself into trouble."

"I'm a saint now, remember? I retired from my life of crime," you said, though your tone suggested otherwise.

"Right," he drawled, his other hand coming up to cup your cheek, his thumb stroking the skin just below your eye. "Only thing criminal 'bout you now is how good you feel. An' the way you spent all that money on new curtains. For a house a blind fella lives in."

"They're for me," you countered, leaning into his touch. "And for the hypothetical nosy neighbors who like to peek. Besides, it's my father's money. Or rather, my money. I think I've earned the right to spend it on absurdly expensive silk drapes if I so please."

He hummed, a low, thoughtful sound. "That you ‘ave."

It was a shared truth between you, one of many dark little secrets you both nurtured.

"Should put'em to good use. Close 'em up so the neighbors can't see me taking you here on the couch," he said, a dark smile playing on his lips.

You laughed, a genuine sound that always seemed to startle him a little. "It's ten in the morning, Gator."

"My clock's broken," he countered, pulling you in for a real kiss. He mapped your lips with his, a familiar, cherished territory. "Ain't had a proper look at you in a year," he murmured against your mouth. "Least you could do is let me get a proper feel of ya whenever I damn please..." 

"You had a ‘proper feel' of me not eight hours ago."

"Wasn't proper ‘nough," he grunted, his hands already starting to wander. "Can never be proper ‘nough."

You let him pull you onto his lap, the plush of the couch yielding beneath your combined weight. This was your sanctuary now. A house you'd paid for with blood money and a fresh start you'd bought with your silence.

His hands roamed your back, tracing the curve of your spine with a practiced intimacy. He'd memorized you, every dip and swell, with a soldier's precision. Without sight, every other sense had been amplified, each touch a revelation.

"Your hands are warm," you commented softly, your own hands resting on his shoulders.

"Yeah? Give 'em something to feel then, mama..."

He took your pajama top off with a new found confidence. He couldn't look, but he could feel. He leaned down, his mouth finding your breast with an unerring accuracy that still made you catch your breath.

His tongue swirled around the peak, a hot, possessive brand. He'd always been a mouthy bastard, and now it was his primary way of reading the world.

"Don't think I can wait for the bedroom," he murmured against your skin, one hand untying the drawstring on your pants, the other cupping your ass, pulling you flush against him.

"Then don't," you breathed, rising up on your knees just enough to let him shove the silk down your hips.

"Can't even wait to get these off ya..." He groaned when he felt how wet you were already, running a finger through your folds.

"Fucking Christ, you were made f’me," he growled.

You arched into his touch, a silent invitation for more.

He shoved his sweats down enough to free himself. He was already hard, the head of him a heavy, insistent presence against your thigh. "Need you," he grunted, the words a raw, needy thing.

You didn't make him wait. You reached down, guiding him to your entrance, sinking down onto him with a slow, deliberate sigh.

"That's my fuckin' girl..." he groaned, his head falling back against the couch as you took him in, inch by perfect inch.

"Still greedy, too," he breathed, his hands moving to grip your hips.

"Only for what's mine," you replied, your hands braced on his shoulders as you began to move.

"All yours baby..." He laid against the back of the couch, letting you set the pace. His world had been reduced to a universe of touch and sound, and you were at the center of it all. The soft fall of your hair against his skin, the little hitch in your breath when you rolled your hips just right.

You found a rhythm, a slow, grinding pace that was more intimate than any frantic quickie. 

You pushed his hair out of his face, something you loved doing now that he never slicked it back anymore. He let you. This gentle act always made him still for a moment.

"Gonna make a mess of ya," he promised, though the words lacked their usual bite, softened by the reverence of his touch.

He was right. He was. You could feel the slickness where you were joined, the obscene sounds your bodies made as you rode him.

"Mmm the way you ride, honey." He bucked up into you, a deep, powerful thrust that made you gasp and grab onto him tighter. "Like you were born to do it."

You laughed, a breathy, breathless sound. "Guess I just needed the right saddle."

He chuckled, a low, dark sound that vibrated through his chest and into you. "Yeah? Needed the right cock to break you in?" His hands gripped your ass, squeezing hard.

You didn't answer with words. You leaned down and bit his shoulder, a sharp, possessive nip. Not hard enough to break the skin, but enough to leave a mark. To claim him, right back.

"Crude," you chided softly, your lips tracing the mark you'd made. "But not wrong."

You loved this. The way he could be so gentle, then so animalistic. All for you. The world thought Gator Tillman was dead. That the brutish son of a tyrant got what he deserved.

But in this quiet house on the coast, he was alive. And he was all yours.

"My girl's gettin' close," he murmured, his senses tuned to you like a finely tuned instrument. He could feel the change in your breathing, the way your movements became more frantic, less controlled.

"Want it to stick this time, we've been trying so long... make you mine all over again..." You said against his neck, your words a prayer.

"We will. We will," he promised. He wasn't much of a man of faith anymore, but he believed in this. In the two of you, tangled together on this couch, a world away from the dust and bad blood of Stark County.

"Fuck... don't stop," you pleaded, your control finally shattering. 

Your orgasm hit you, a blissful wave that left you trembling in his arms. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your body shaking with the force of it.

"That's it baby, let me fill you up, give you what you need..." He held you through the shudders, continuing to meet your faltering hips with deep, steady thrusts until he followed you over the edge with a guttural groan, burying himself as deep as he could.

"Fuck yeah..." he moaned. "That one's gonna take, that one's for keeps..."

You stayed like that for a long while, a sticky, sated mess. His softened cock still inside you, a comforting, possessive presence.

After a few minutes, he carefully shifted you, lifting you off him and settling you beside him on the couch.

"Don't let that drip outta you, mama. Put your hips up on a pillow..." He nudged you with a knee, a clumsy but caring gesture. He had become obsessed with the idea of something truly his and yours. A clean slate. A do-over.

You complied, grabbing a decorative pillow from the arm of the couch and tucking it under your hips.

He grabbed the waist band of his sweats, pulling them back up with a grunt.

"Your tea's gone cold," you noted, your voice lazy and sated.

"Y'woke me up enough, don't worry 'bout it." He found your hand, lacing your fingers through his.

"I'll make more," you offered, starting to sit up.

He laid down, tucking you against his side. "Stay."

You settled against him, your head on his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart a familiar comfort. He was blind, but he could still see you clearer than anyone ever had.

"It's a good day," he said after a while, his fingers stroking your arm.

It was. There were no ghosts in the house. No memories of violence or betrayal. Just the smell of sex and chamomile tea and the faint, salty tang of the sea breeze coming through the open window.

"Yeah, it is." you say softly, lips against his chest.

He hummed in agreement.

"I love you," he said. The words were no longer a foreign language. They were an everyday occurrence, like the sun rising.

"I love you too."

You didn't need to say it back, but you always did. He felt it in the way you arranged the furniture so he wouldn't trip. In the way you described the changing colors of the leaves in the fall. In the way you let him, a man whose hands had caused so much pain, touch you with a terrifying tenderness.

It was an odd sort of happiness. A fragile thing built on a foundation of blood and lies. But it was yours. And it was real. And as you lay there, your fingers intertwined with his, you knew you wouldn't change a thing.

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[moonlitlilith]

Chapter Two - Dinner

Summary: You meet Harry Castillo for dinner hoping to convince him that Willow Creek is more than just a business opportunity. As the evening unfolds, Harry starts to understand the deep connection you have to the ranch. But when business finds its way back into the conversation, the fragile understanding between you both is shattered.

You stared at the dress laid out on the bed and let out a frustrated sigh. This was ridiculous. It was dinner.

Just dinner. A conversation.

A chance for Harry Castillo to see Willow Creek Ranch as more than a number on a piece of paper..

That was it..

Except... When was the last time you had actually gone out to dinner with a man? You couldn’t remember. Not properly. There had been no time.

After your father passed, the ranch became your priority. Every morning brought another responsibility. Every decision seemed to rest on your shoulders.

Dating had slowly become something that belonged to another version of you.

A version of you who had time to get dressed up. A version of you who didn’t fall asleep thinking about fence repairs, bills, and whether the winter feed would last.

You ran your fingers through your hair, looking at your reflection.

“When did I become this person?”

Not some romantic evening where you were trying to impress a man. Harry Castillo was the man trying to buy your ranch. The ranch your father and his grandfather had spent their entire life building. The ranch you had spent the last two years fighting to keep running. You had every reason to keep your guard up. And yet, somehow, you were standing in your bedroom wondering what to wear.

You shook your head at yourself.

“When did this become complicated?”

A knock sounded at the door before Emma stepped inside. She took one look at the clothes scattered across the room and smiled.

“Oh no.”

You pointed at her.

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.” she held up her hands defensively.

“You were thinking it.”

Emma laughed and walked over, picking up one of the dresses you laid out before putting it back down. “You know you don’t have to prove anything tonight, right?”

You looked at her through the mirror as you finished curling your hair into soft waves.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean Harry Castillo walked onto your land expecting a simple deal. He thought money would solve the problem.”

Your expression softened.

“He didn’t exactly act like that.”

“No,” Emma admitted. “I’ll give him that. He was more respectful than I expected from what you told me.” She sat on the edge of the bed watching you run fingers through your hair. “But that doesn’t change why you said no.”

You nodded. “I know.”

“You built this place back up after your dad passed. You kept the ranch going when people told you it was too much for one person.” You looked down as Emma’s voice softened. “Don’t forget that just because he’s charming.”

You smiled slightly rolling your eyes towards her. “He is annoying.”

“Very.” she agreed.

“And arrogant.”

“Definitely.”

“And impossible.”

Emma grinned. “But?”

You sighed. “But he’s not what I expected.”

“I figured.”

You looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re trying to figure out the man, not the ********.”

You were quiet. Because maybe she was right. Emma reached for your hand. “Listen to me. Having dinner with him doesn’t mean you’re giving in.”

“I know.”

“Talking to him doesn’t mean you’re selling.”

“I know.”

“And being curious about him doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten what this ranch means.”

That was the part you needed to hear because that was your biggest fear. That somehow being willing to see another side of Harry meant you were betraying everything you had fought for.

Emma smiled as she saw the realisation on your face. “You can be open-minded and still stand your ground.”

You nodded slowly. “That’s true.”

“Good.” She stood up, walking towards your choice of dresses. “Because I actually think that’s exactly what you should do.”

You looked surprised. “You do?”

“Yes. Meet him. Listen to him. Let him listen to you.” She paused. “But don’t let a nice dinner and a handsome face make you forget why you said no.”

You laughed. “Handsome face?”

Emma shrugged. “I’m not blind. I googled him.”

You rolled your eyes with a laugh. “He’s still the enemy.”

“He’s not the enemy.”

You looked at her in the mirror. “He’s the man trying to buy my ranch.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “And you’re the woman standing in his way.” She walked over and picked up another dress from the wardrobe. “But he’s also just a person on the other side of the negotiation.”

You watched as she held it up.

A long white dress, elegant and effortlessly feminine. It was nothing like the practical clothes you normally lived in. It showed just enough to feel confident without feeling like you were trying to be someone you weren’t.

Your eyebrows lifted.

“Emma.”

“What?”

“You’re suggesting I wear that?”

She smiled. “I’m suggesting you remind him that you’re not just a ranch owner he wants signing papers.” You looked back at yourself in the mirror, then at the dress in her hands.

“He’s not going to change his mind because of a dress.”

“I know.” Emma placed it against you as you both looked in the mirror. “But maybe he’ll stop seeing you as a business obstacle and start seeing the woman behind it.”

You were quiet. Because that was the part that had surprised you most about Harry Castillo. He had arrived expecting a deal. You had expected arrogance but underneath the expensive suit and confident attitude was a man who seemed genuinely curious about you. A man who listened when you spoke. A man who, despite everything, had made you wonder who he was when he wasn’t negotiating.

You took the dress from her. "This is not a date.”

“Of course not.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That smile.” Your friend of 15 years laughed.

“I’m just saying, there’s nothing wrong with wanting to look nice.” You looked at your reflection again.

For so long, your life had been about responsibility. About protecting the ranch. About proving you could handle everything thrown at you. Maybe tonight wasn’t about proving anything. Maybe it was simply about allowing yourself one evening to be something other than the person who carried the weight of everything.

You changed into the dress and stood in front of the mirror. There was a difference. Not because you looked like someone else. Because you felt like yourself again. And maybe that was why you were going. Not because Harry Castillo had convinced you. Not because he was charming enough to make you forget what mattered. But because you wanted to understand him. The man behind the offer. And maybe, just maybe, you wanted him to understand you too.

“Okay.”

******

Harry Castillo had spent his entire career walking into rooms and knowing exactly what to expect.

Boardrooms. Private offices. Luxury hotels.

Rooms filled with people who knew his name before he introduced himself. He was used to being watched. Used to being the person everyone turned toward. Tonight was different. Tonight, he was the one waiting.

He sat at the table near the window, one hand resting beside his glass of water, his other thumb brushing absentmindedly against the edge of his phone.

He had checked the time twice.

Then a third time.

He told himself it was habit. He valued punctuality. That was all. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was waiting for a woman who had spent their first meeting refusing to give him what he wanted. A woman who had challenged him more in 30 minutes than most people had in years.

Harry noticed the difference the moment he stepped inside. This wasn't New York. There were no glass towers surrounding him, no perfectly dressed executives talking over expensive cocktails, no room full of people trying to impress one another.

Wyoming had its own kind of confidence.

Around him, men sat wearing worn Stetsons and well-loved boots, their jackets carrying the faint smell of the outdoors. Cowboys and ranchers filled tables alongside locals who had grown up with the land as part of their identity. Whiskey glasses sat beside plates of steak, beer bottles were raised between stories and laughter, and nobody seemed concerned with appearances.

It was refreshingly honest.

Luckily, the restaurant he had chosen gave him a little middle ground. It was refined enough that Harry didn't feel completely out of place, but still rooted in the world around it. The dining room attracted a mixture of people, wealthy locals celebrating special occasions, visitors passing through Wyoming for the first time, ranchers after a long day's work, and tourists wanting a taste of the West.

It was elegant without feeling disconnected. And as Harry looked around the room, he realised something. This place made sense for you. You belonged here. Not because you were trying to fit into it, but because it was part of who you were.

And for the first time since arriving in Wyoming, Harry felt like he wasn't just visiting another location for a business deal.

He was stepping into your world.

The restaurant doors opened distracting his thoughts. Harry looked up casually at first. Then he stopped. For a moment, the noise of the room seemed to fade.

You stood just inside the entrance, one hand resting lightly on the strap of your purse as you looked around, searching for him. And Harry found himself simply watching.

It wasn't just that you looked beautiful. He had met beautiful women before. Women dressed in designer gowns, perfectly styled, surrounded by people trying to impress them. This was different.

You weren't trying to command attention. You weren't walking in like you expected the room to notice you. You were just being yourself. And somehow, that was exactly why he couldn't look away.

The white dress caught the warm glow of the lights, elegant without being overly formal. It was softer than the clothes he had seen you wear on the ranch, but it still felt like you. Like you hadn't dressed up to become someone else. You had simply allowed him to see another side of you.

Your hair fell loosely in soft waves around your shoulders instead of being tied back like it had been when you worked. There was a confidence in the way you carried yourself, but Harry could see something else too.

A hint of uncertainty. A small hesitation as your eyes moved through the room. And strangely, that made him smile.

Because the woman who could stand in the middle of her ranch and tell a billionaire no without blinking looked almost nervous walking into dinner. He stood before he even realised he had moved. His usual composure had slipped. Only slightly. But enough that he noticed.

You finally saw him and your eyes met his. For a second, neither of you moved. Harry had seen you angry. He had seen you determined. He had seen you ready to fight for what mattered to you. But this was different and he hated how much he liked it.

A small smile appeared on his face as he stood to greet you.

“You came.” The words escaped before he could stop them.

You walked toward him, raising an eyebrow. “You sound surprised.”

Harry shook his head slightly, trying to recover. “Maybe I am.”

“Why?” Because he had spent years surrounded by people who wanted something from him, and yet here you were, walking into a dinner you could have easily refused.

Instead, he simply said “Because you’re not someone who does anything unless you mean it.”

You studied him for a moment. Then the smallest smile touched your lips. "You learned all that for one conversation?"

"Maybe."

Harry pulled out your chair and as you sat across from him, he realised something he hadn't expected.

The woman in front of him wasn't just the person standing between him and a business deal. She was the first person in a very long time who had made him forget about the deal entirely.

Harry waited until you had taken your seat before gently pushing your chair in. He walked around to the opposite side of the table, his eyes meeting yours as he sat down.

"Thank you for coming," he said sincerely. "I wasn't entirely convinced you would."

You let out a quiet laugh, picking up the linen napkin and placing it across your lap.

"Well," you replied, a teasing smile tugging at your lips, "it's not every day the man trying to buy your ranch offers to buy you dinner."

Harry smiled, shaking his head "I had a feeling you weren't going to let me forget that."

"Not a chance."

"I was hoping tonight might earn me a clean slate."

You raised an eyebrow. "That's asking an awful lot after less than twenty-four hours."

"Fair enough."

Your eyes moved slowly around the restaurant, taking everything in. It was clear this wasn't somewhere you visited often.

The room was elegant without being overwhelming - dark wood, soft lighting, crisp white tablecloths, and quiet conversations filling the space. The kind of place where people lingered over dinner rather than rushing through it. Around the room, he noticed a mix of people: local ranch owners in pressed shirts and Stetsons, tourists passing through Wyoming, and businesspeople who looked more at home in places like New York than the middle of ranch country.

Harry watched you for a moment. Not because you looked out of place. You didn't. There was something about you that still made the room feel like it belonged to you more than him. But he noticed the way you studied everything, the details, the atmosphere, the little things most people would overlook.

"You've never been here before, have you?" he asked.

Your eyes returned to his. "No."

It wasn't said with embarrassment. Just honesty. Harry nodded slowly.

"I wasn't sure if it was your kind of place."

You looked around again before meeting his eyes. "It's different."

A small smile crossed his face. "Different good or different bad?"

"Ask me after I've had a drink."

That earned a quiet laugh from him. Straightforward. A little guarded. But with enough humour to keep him interested. Harry had spent years surrounded by people who tried to appear like they belonged wherever they were.

You didn't do that. You simply walked into a room and decided for yourself whether you liked it. And he found that strangely refreshing.

A waiter appeared beside the table, offering each of you a menu.

"Can I start you off with something to drink?" Harry glanced across the table.

"Ladies first."

You looked over the drinks list for a moment before smiling politely at the waiter. "I'll have a glass of the Sauvignon please."

"Excellent choice." The waiter turned to Harry. "And for you, sir?"

Harry closed the menu without looking at it. "Woodford Reserve. Neat."

The waiter nodded. "Of course." As he disappeared toward the bar, you rested your elbows lightly on the table.

"Bourbon."

Harry smiled. "That sound like a criticism?"

"I just had you pegged as a scotch kind of man."

"I usually am."

Your eyebrows lifted. "But?"

He glanced around the restaurant, taking in the ranchers in worn denim, weathered Stetsons resting on nearby chairs, and more whiskey glasses than wine glasses scattered throughout the dining room.

"I figured if I was going to have dinner in Wyoming, I should at least try to fit in."

You laughed softly. "Trust me, one bourbon doesn't make you a cowboy Mr Castillo."

"Harry, please. And I had a feeling you'd say that."

"You'd need the hat."

"And the boots?"

You glanced beneath the table at his polished leather boots that probably cost more than one of your horses. "They're a decent start."

Harry looked down at them before meeting your eyes again. "I'll take that as the closest thing to a compliment I'm likely to get tonight."

A smile tugged at your lips. "Don't get used to it."

The waiter returned with your drinks, placing the deep red wine in front of you before setting Harry's bourbon on the table.

Harry lifted his glass. "To no negotiations."

You looked at him for a beat before clinking your glass gently against his. "To no negotiations."

******

Harry had expected dinner to feel like a negotiation. That was what he was good at. Reading the room. Finding the weak points. Understanding what mattered to the person sitting opposite him. But sitting across from you, he was finding it surprisingly difficult. Because you weren't giving him the answers he expected. You weren't impressed by his reputation. You weren't interested in the money. And you certainly weren't interested in making this easy for him. He took a sip of his drink, studying you for a moment.

"I want to understand something."

Your expression became slightly guarded as you placed down your knife and fork.

"What?"

"Willow Creek. Why does it mean so much to you?"

The question caught you off guard. Not because it was difficult. Because you had expected him to ask about the land. The value. The price. Not the reason.

"You mean besides the fact that my family has owned it for generations?"

"Yes."

You studied him carefully, trying to figure out if this was another tactic and Harry noticed. "I'm not asking because I'm trying to change your mind."

You raised an eyebrow. "You're not?"

"No. Not tonight."

You weren't completely convinced, but you continued anyway. "My family built that ranch. My grandfather started it with almost nothing. My dad spent his entire life there." You glanced down briefly. "It's just always been part of my life."

Harry nodded. "And after your father passed, you took over?"

You looked at him without hesitation. "Yes."

"That must have been difficult."

You gave a small shrug, taking a sip of your wine "It was."

No dramatic explanation. No attempt to gain sympathy. Just a fact. You didn't want to give him any more control knowing that and Harry respected that.

"Why not sell then?"

"Because everyone assumes selling is the obvious choice."

"And you don't?"

"No."

"Why?"

You looked toward the window, where the lights of the town reflected against the glass.

"Because people see a ranch and they see land. "And land has a price." You looked his directly in his brown eyes. "But that's not all it is."

Harry nodded slowly, taking a sip of his whiskey.

"So what do you see?"

You hesitated. "I see years of work. "I see my family's name." You looked down at your hands. "I see something my father spent his whole life building."

Harry listened carefully and not because he was trying to find a way around it, because he genuinely wanted to understand.

"And you think selling would mean losing that?"

You considered the question. "Maybe not losing it."You looked back at him. "But letting someone else decide what happens to it."

For a while, the conversation stayed on your side of the table. Harry asked questions. Not the kind his lawyers had prepared. Not questions designed to uncover a weakness. Questions because he genuinely wanted to know. But eventually, his eyes dropped to his glass and he gave a small sigh. "I suppose it's only fair." You looked up.

"What is?"

"You've told me why you won't sell." He started as he put his whiskey glass down. "I should probably tell you why I want to buy it."

You watched him carefully. Part of you expected the usual answer. Money. Expansion. Profit. But Harry didn't sound like he was giving a presentation. He sounded like he was explaining himself.

"When I first heard about Willow Creek, I saw the same things any investor would see. Land. Location. Potential. The property is rare. The size, the location, the resources available... it's the kind of opportunity that doesn't come along often."n

You leaned back slightly.

"So it is business."

"Yes. Always."

The honesty surprised you.

Harry leaned for as as he continued. "But it's not just that."

You raised an eyebrow. "No?"

He shook his head. "When I build something, I don't want it to be temporary. My company has always focused on growth, but I'm not interested in buying something, stripping it down, and moving on." His expression became more serious. "I've spent too many years watching companies get bought by people who only care about the quickest return."

You studied him. "That's not what you want?"

"No." He glanced out of the window. "Willow Creek has history. It has infrastructure. It has something that can't be created overnight."

You noticed the way he spoke about it. Not like a number. Not entirely.

"You want to keep it?"

Harry looked back at you, a serious smile on his face.

"Yes." The answer was immediate. "I want to develop it. Expand it. Make it stronger."

You frowned slightly. "Develop it how?"

"Modernise parts of it. Invest in the land. Create something sustainable." You stayed quiet, biting your tongue. Because even though you didn't like the idea of him owning it, you could understand the reasoning. "I know that probably sounds like a businessman trying to justify a purchase."

"It does." You said flatly taking a sip of your wine.

Harry smiled faintly. "Fair."

A small silence passed.

"But I want you to understand something." You looked at him. "I didn't come here because I saw a piece of land sitting empty." His eyes held yours. "I came here because I saw something worth protecting."

That caught you off guard. Because it sounded dangerously close to what you had said earlier. "You realise that's exactly what I'm trying to do?"

Harry nodded. "I do."

"And you still want to buy it."

"Yes."

There was no hesitation and somehow, that honesty made it harder. Because Harry wasn't pretending. He wasn't a villain trying to take something from you. He was a man who genuinely believed he could give Willow Creek a future.

For a while, you let yourself believe the evening might actually be different. And for a moment, sitting across from him beneath the warm lights of the restaurant, you forgot why he had come to Wyoming in the first place. You forgot he was the man trying to buy your ranch.

Then he brought you back.

"The reality is, though, emotional attachment can make it harder to see when something isn't practical."

You stared at him. Slowly, you placed your glass down.

"Excuse me?"

Harry immediately noticed the shift in your expression.

"I didn't mean-"

"No." You shook your head. "You did."

He paused.

"I was just saying that sometimes-"

"Sometimes what?" Your voice was sharper now. "Sometimes people who actually live and breathe something don't understand it as well as someone who walks in with a business plan?"

Harry leaned back slightly. "That's not what I said."

"But it's what you meant." The table went quiet. You looked around for a second, almost embarrassed that you had allowed yourself to relax. That you had thought tonight could be something else. You had agreed to dinner because you thought maybe you could have a conversation with him.

Not a negotiation. Not a sales pitch. Not another attempt to convince you that he knew better.

"We agreed not to talk about negotiations tonight.".

Harry exhaled. "You're right."

But the apology came too late. Because the damage was already done.

"You don't get it, Harry."

His expression softened. "I’m trying to."

"No, you're trying to buy it."

The words landed between you. Harry didn't argue. Because there was truth in them.

"I'm sorry... I can't do this." The words came out quieter than you intended, your chest tightening as you reached for your purse. You pushed your chair back, the legs scraping softly against the wooden floor. Harry looked up immediately, confusion washing over his face as he rose halfway from his seat.

"Wait... you're leaving?"

You let out a short, disbelieving laugh and shook your head.

"I am."

"Please, just let me explain."

"No." You looked at him, disappointment etched across your face. "You promised me this wouldn't happen."

Harry frowned. "I wasn't trying to negotiate."

"Weren't you?" Your voice remained calm, but it carried enough hurt to make him pause. "You invited me here because you said you wanted to get to know me. You told me there'd be no business, no lawyers, no negotiations." You gestured between the two of you. "And yet somehow we've ended up right back where we started."

"That wasn't my intention."

"Maybe not." You slipped your purse onto your shoulder. "But intentions don't really matter when the outcome is the same."

Harry stood fully now, taking a cautious step towards you.

"Please... don't leave like this."

You met his eyes, and for a fleeting second he saw the warmth that had been there earlier in the evening disappear.

"I'm sorry, Mr Castillo..." You stopped yourself, shaking your head. "Harry - whatever your name is." You took a steadying breath. "I don't know why I convinced myself this dinner was about anything other than selling Willow Creek. That's on me."

The words stung far more than if you had shouted.

"The ranch isn't for sale," you said firmly. "It wasn't for sale yesterday, it isn't for sale tonight, and it won't be for sale tomorrow." You took another step back. "And if you or your lawyers set foot on my land again without my permission..." A faint, humourless smile crossed your face. "...I won't hesitate to shoot them or you off land."

Harry couldn't help the small breath of disbelief that escaped him.

You held his gaze. "I'm done having this conversation."

Without another word, you turned and walked away, leaving Harry standing alone beside the table as the restaurant fell quiet around him.

The cool Wyoming air hit your face the moment you stepped out of the restaurant. You didn't stop walking. Your boots clicked against the wooden sidewalk as you wrapped your arms around yourself, your heart pounding so hard you could hear it in your ears.

"Damn it," you whispered, blinking back the tears threatening to spill. You weren't crying because of the ranch. You had defended Willow Creek countless times before. You'd argued with developers, lawyers, and investors who thought money could buy generations of history. That part didn't hurt anymore.

The man who had listened as you spoke about Willow Creek.

What hurt was that, for a little while, you'd forgotten who Harry Castillo was.

The man who had made you laugh over dinner.

The man whose smile had caught you completely off guard.

You had allowed yourself to believe that, just for one evening, he genuinely wanted to know you. Not because you owned something he wanted. Just... you.

You shook your head, frustrated with yourself. "How stupid can you be?"

You should have known better. Men like Harry didn't become the men they are by separating business from everything else. Business was who he was. Every conversation had a purpose. Every meeting had an objective. And tonight, despite everything he'd promised, you'd ended up right back where you'd started.

On opposite sides of the table.

You reached your truck and rested your forehead against the driver's door for a moment, closing your eyes. The image of him standing as you walked away flashed through your mind. The confusion on his face. The disappointment. Part of you knew he hadn't meant to hurt you. That almost made it worse. Because if he'd been manipulative, you could have hated him.

Instead, he was simply a man who couldn't stop thinking like a businessman.

You climbed into the truck and gripped the steering wheel tightly. As the engine started, you looked back at the restaurant one last time. You swallowed hard, shifted the truck into gear, and pulled away.

---------------------------------------------------------

Would love to know what you guys think and what you want to see? Do we want a slow burn? 🖤

Taglist: @vickie5446

[moonlitlilith]

Wildflower - A Harry Castillo Story

Harry Castillo knows how to win. In business, there is always a number that changes someone’s mind.

Except yours.

When the New York billionaire arrives in Wyoming to buy your family’s ranch, you become the first person to ever walk away from his offer.

Frustrated and intrigued, Harry finds himself returning again and again - claiming it’s about business, while everyone around him sees the truth.

The man who has spent his life acquiring everything is about to discover the hardest thing to earn: someone’s heart.

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chapter one - willow creek ranch

[celestialrosesgarden]

The Runaway [The Mandalorian x Reader]

Word Count: 4.4K

Chapter One: The Escape

Lok was a barren planet, devoid of any color or life. Acres of deserts with rolling hills, alongside the expansive sulfur pools, littered the planet. It was a desolate planet; anyone forced to stay would be a prisoner to its harsh climate.

You were one of the unlucky ones to be an inhabitant of such a planet.

Your lungs burned as your feet carried you further along the stretch of sand. Your heels kicked up sand behind you, causing occasional trips due to the shoes being unfit for your activity. Despite the feeling of the dust you inhaled making it harder for you to breathe, you continued to run. You just needed to make it up the hill, and then you could finally give your body the chance to rest. Your dark cloak bellowed in the artificial wind you created by your speed, revealing the slivers of the white gown you wore underneath.

You took a few more steps before reaching the very top of the mountain, your legs giving out the moment you stopped moving. Hacking coughs racked your body, your throat scratchy from the energy you spent; the dry air provided no relief to your dry lungs. The dark cloth wrapped around you like a blanket, sticky on your sweaty skin. A thick layer of sand particles coated your eyes, making them water in response. You let your eyes flutter closed for just a moment, bathing you in darkness. You took a couple of heaving breaths, your diaphragm expanding as big as it could to desperately take in any semblance of relief. Once you were able to take smaller breaths without pain (even if they were shaky), your eyes opened once more.

You stared at the disturbed sand that had shifted when you collapsed onto the ground, ruffled around your form. Using all your strength, you forced yourself off the ground. Staggering for a second before fully grounding yourself, you took in the surrounding view. Behind you, you could see the way from which you came. The path you had just taken, but the footsteps were no longer imprinted on the surface. It seemed that despite the hot, dead heat that covered you, a breeze still seemed to flow. You turned away from the monotonous surface to turn to the view over the mountains. Miles beneath the ledge lay nothing but more sand, which was guarded by the shadows of the adjacent mountains. It was a long way down.

You squeezed your hands into fists, your fingernails pinching deep into your delicate flesh. You took a couple more deep breaths while squeezing your eyes shut. You knew what you had to do. You just didn't think that in the moment it would be so difficult to do. Despite months of planning and preparation, nothing could prepare you for the vast darkness that lay beneath you. That you would soon lie with too.

You opened your eyes again, turning them to the sky, and whispered a silent prayer: please give me a sign I'm doing the right thing. And if it is, give me the strength to do it.

Tears pooled at the edge of your lashes. Taking one more large breath, you prepared yourself to take the plunge before a sound drew your attention.

You looked around wildly, eyes scanning the vast range for a sign of life. Nothing was there. Maybe you imagined the sound, as you were unable to recall what it even sounded like.

A frustrated sigh left your lips. You were looking for an excuse to not go through with it, and time was dwindling. You only had a certain amount of time before everyone realized you were gone, and if they had already noticed, surely they would assemble a group to search for you. You had even less time before they found you. You had to get it together and do it soon before—

The feeling was there again.

A slight caress of what felt like fingertips slid down your back, causing the bumps on your skin to rise in suit. You turned around to stare at the land before you, eyes perusing for anything to explain this strange feeling. Nothing but sand filled your view until the smaller sliver of a light tucked behind a mound of sand flashed before you. You narrowed your eyes to get a better glimpse of what it was, and the light wavered. It was metal.

Once more, the tingle of wind gently made its way from your shoulders down to your fingertips, as if to pull you along. You didn't know why, but you let it. You followed the wisp of energy all the way back down the hill that you, just a mere few minutes ago, struggled to hike up. You followed it all the way until you could see what the glimpse of metal was connected to.

In front of you sat a large spaceship that towered above your form. The metal was dusty and worn; the dust from the sand that coated the ship seemed to be doing it a favor: hiding the scraps and dents in its form. The most out-of-place thing was that the ramp at the back of the ship was left wide open. You glanced around; no footprints. The air around you was dead: no sounds had graced your ears. No one was nearby. You weren't sure what someone would be doing all the way out here. You knew of the planet's history, ingrained with the cruelty of pirates and the destruction that they had caused. But that had been so long ago; there was no way that they could still exist here. Right?

You felt it again. The pull, this time in your chest. The pull that was pleading with you to go inside the ship.

And despite your judgement and throwing all caution to the wind, you made your way up the ramp.

Your heels clicked as you slowly made your way across the ramp, echoing against the walls inside the ship. The light from the open ramp flooded inside. There wasn't too much going on inside the ship, and you continued to look for a semblance of ownership.

"Hello," you called out to the empty air. "Is anyone in here?"

You paused, waiting for a response, and were met with silence. Remaining apprehensive, you decided to continue your journey further into the ship. Maybe this was your lucky day. If the ship was truly abandoned, maybe you could use it for your escape. Of course, there was the small issue that you had never actually flown a spaceship before, but how hard can it be? You spent hours having your brother go on and on about them; surely some of that knowledge could come to your aid now. You made your way deeper into the interior when your eyes met a floating capsule just hovering a small distance away from you. You paused, unable to see what was inside the carrier.

Then you felt it again, that strange force washing over you, but this time, it was amplified. That pull that seemed to whisper, move forward. With your mind clouded over with that feeling at the forefront, you slowly crept towards the device. You could barely see the shape of pointed ears peering over the capsule, and when you went to take the next step closer—

A strong force shoved into your chest, pushing you against the firm metal panel behind you. The wind was knocked out of your lungs, rendering you speechless. A distorted voice spoke out, "Get away from it!" His tone was filled with anger, shining through the mechanical hint to it. The action of being shoved against the wall caused the hood of your cloak to fall further down your face, hindering your view of the figure in front of you. The pressure against your chest persisted as he kept his arm firmly against you, pinning you between him and the wall. The pain of his restraint, as well as the extensive exertion of your journey, had made it difficult for you to get even a peep out. The lack of response from you caused him to grab your arm, pulling you towards him before once again slamming you against the wall. A sharp hiss of pain slipped out as your head hit harshly backwards, the edge of a panel causing pain to branch out from the back of your scalp. The sensation of cold metal being thrust into your jaw forced your head to angle upwards. In turn, this moment allowed for your hood to fall further down, exposing your face and part of your hair. You finally were able to get a good look at the figure in front of you. The silver helmet  he adorned was mostly dark, with light reflecting from the top. The T-shaped visor was black and devoid of any emotion. However, with how close he was to you, you could see your own reflection staring back at you. Your eyes were wide, lips slightly parted as your chest rose up and down erratically, and you could see what the metal pressed against your jaw was: a blaster. You took in a shaky breath and squeezed your eyes as you leaned back against the wall, trying to put distance between you and the weapon.

"I'm so sorry," you squeaked out. "I didn't realize this ship belonged to anyone; I thought it was abandoned. I don't mean to cause any trouble, I swear." You trembled under his hold, blaster still held steadily against you. You were unsure of what he was thinking. Unsure of whether he even believed you despite telling the truth. You allowed yourself the opportunity to open your eyes, as if looking at him would give you any indication as to what he was thinking. But his helmet masked any emotion he could feel, leaving the pit in your stomach to get deeper.

His tight hold of you lessened, and even after his grasp left your arm, the pain of his hand lingered. He took a step back, creating a small distance between your forms, and holstered the blaster into position securely on his hip. An awkward silence washed over the room, the two of you sizing each other up, waiting for the other to make any sudden movement. The soft coo of the child inside the capsule seemed to break the trance.

The man cocked his head towards the ramp that you had used to let yourself in, "Leave."

You stood there, your back still awkwardly pressed against the sturdy wall behind you. The pulsing of your head caused you to hesitate before you spoke softly, "I cannot."

Silence filled the air once more. Neither of you moved. You stared at the blank expression of his helmet, no longer able to see yourself in the reflection due to the distance between you. You didn't know if that made you feel more or less at ease. It was the man who spoke up first.

"There's something I can help you with?" His tone came off in this harsh, sarcastic way. You could tell he had no true intention of helping you; he merely wanted you off of his ship. Away from his child, you suppose. You hesitated, thinking of the best way to offer your proposal.

"I need safe passage off of this planet." You continued, "You may drop me off at the next planet you visit. I can pay you for your service."

Silence once more. Even without seeing his face, you could tell he was looking you up and down. You, a young lady, were graced with nothing else on you but your lousy brown cloak that covered most of your form. You had no bag, no indication of having anything that could prove that you could pay the man in front of you.

"My price is high."

You stepped forward a bit, revealing a bit more of yourself. You could feel the light against the warm skin of your face. Angling your face towards his masked face, you pleaded, "I can pay it. I may not have the credits now, but as soon as we get to the next planet, I can pay you." You took a deep breath. "I need your help." Your eyes flickered to the open ramp of the ship. "I cannot stay here."

No one spoke for a moment. The pit in your stomach only grew deeper with every passing moment. You couldn't take no as an answer; this was the only way out now. Your body would not be able to pull itself up that mountain again; your other plan was foiled, and if he said no, you would surely be found and punished for your attempted escape. You tightly balled your hands into fists, in a lame attempt to stop the way they violently shook.

The soft sound of the child pulled you away from your frantic thoughts. Before you, the child in its crib sat up taller, allowing you a good look at its form. The green wrinkled skin of his face was softly illuminated by the light that made its way into the ship. His long, pointed ears stood proudly on his round face. And his dark eyes stared right at you. The sound left him once more as he slightly angled his head to get a better look at you.

He turned his head to the Mandalorian before cooing again. Your eyes glanced away from the child to the armored figure, as the two seemed to be having a silent conversation between them. A beat passed. The masked man turned towards you:

"Deal."

He turned quickly, ignoring the shock written across your face, and quickly moved to close the ramp. You stood, still semi-against the wall, watching his movements as the light from the outside slipped away with the shutting of the ramp. His armor was reflected now only by the dim overhead lights, as well as the colorful lights from the buttons and panels scattered across the inside of the ship. Basking in the warm glow from the ship, you could finally take a second to just breathe. The sticky sensation of sweat on your skin felt suffocating with the lousy cloak pressed against it. You shrugged off the cloak, letting it slip off before folding it into your arms. The hairs on your neck were matted by the dense layer of sweat. The feeling of the long sheer veil softly grazed your newly exposed skin along your arms. The white gown cascaded down your body, ruffles disheveled and wrinkled by the movements of the day. You glanced down; the bottom hem of the dress, caked in the dusty sand, contrasted greatly against the clean cloth around your midriff. The slight shimmer of the cloth shone brighter due to the glow of gentle lights around you. You could only imagine how much of the orange dirt had plagued your once brand-new heels beneath your dress. Your hair cascaded down your face, and you could feel the small jewels carefully scattered throughout it as you went to swipe it out of your vision. Your hand traced up the opposite arm towards the area of the man's previous tight hold. A slight wince followed as your fingertips traced the discoloration that had already begun to form.

You were so lost in your own world that the past few moments of silence went unnoticed. However, the discovery of the man's lack of movement caused you to glance up at his previous position.

There he stood, still by the buttons to close the ramp. But his form was trained in your direction, watching your movements for who knows how long. You pulled your arms into yourself, wrapping yourself in a tight hold as if to shrink as small as possible to disappear from his steady gaze. The veil slipped past your shoulders to wrap around the front of your form. The light formed a halo around the shimmering gems that graced the cloth now adorning the front of your form. Your eyes still remained on his unmoving body, and then he quickly turned, making his way to a different part of the ship.

You let go of the breath that you were holding in. Despite your request for his aid, you were unsure of the man. Uncertain of who he was and what business he could possibly have on this dead, barren planet. Worst of all, what could he possibly be doing with the child that sat only a few mere feet away from you?

The child, which had completely slipped your mind, with its rather large eyes, still remained trained on you. You felt that feeling again, the invisible rope that compelled you to move towards the capsule that inhabited the small creature. You blindly followed that feeling until you were just a step away from the child. He craned his neck to look up at you, curious eyes that followed you,  waiting for a moment. He cooed once more before raising his tiny arm up towards you.

You hesitated. The man seemed rather upset before when you were near the child, and you had the bruise on your arm to show for it. He was protective of what you assumed to be his son, and the last thing you needed was to make him upset again. At the possible detriment of his taking back his deal and leaving you abandoned on the planet, you wouldn't allow yourself to touch the child in front of you. You whispered softly, "I'm sorry, but I don't think I am allowed to touch you."

The child whined, his arms reaching even further in desperation to get closer to you. He whined louder when a moment passed, and he continued to strain himself to find his way from your remote form. "Okay," you reached your hand out towards him, scared that if he reached any further, he would tip and fall out of his holder. You let your pointed finger slide into his open hand, his hold wrapped around it. The oddly firm grip from the tiny creature took you by surprise. The feeling of his slightly sharp nails grazed softly against the tip of your index finger. This small action placated the creature, and he let out a rather happy coo at the newfound contact between you.

With his grasp still on your finger, you lowered yourself onto your knees to let yourself be at eye level with the child. His eyes never left yours, and you took this opportunity to get a better view of the small creature before you. You had never seen anything quite like him before. The green, wrinkled skin made him seem like he should be older than he truly was. The light from above the two of you allowed you to see the light wisps of hair that sparsely coated his head. Those dark, expansive eyes were actually quite bright in this lighting, as they reflected everything the small child held in its gaze. Right now, you could see yourself in his gaze. And despite your best judgment, you felt slightly embarrassed by your disheveled appearance. With your free hand, you went to swipe away the dirt that had painted across your cheek. Your hair was tousled across the top of your head; the makeup around your eyes was smudged. If only your mother could see you now, the look of disgust she would give you for looking anything less than perfect. The child before watched as you readjusted your appearance, as he reached his other hand out for the cloth that descended down past your head. His small, three-digit claw wrapped around the sheer fabric, and you watched the way he slowly moved it back and forth in his hold. His eyes were trained on the way the light caught the gems carefully sewn into it. He squealed in delight as the light came and went with the smallest movement of his hand. A small laugh slipped past your lips; a small smile bestowed the shape of your lips. Your eyes watched the way his face contorted into one of joy at the simplest pleasure of the veil that brought you so much pain. "Do you like that?"

The child moved his eyes away from the fabric that remained in his sturdy hold. His other hand let go of its grasp on your finger to now reach out to your face. You shifted slightly, allowing his hand to gently touch the tip of your nose. The smile remained graced upon your lips as you watched the way his vast eyes studied the shape of your face.

"We're leaving now."

You jumped back, moving your face away from the child. He let out a disgruntled grunt at the loss of contact with you. You remained seated on the floor, the gown pooling around your form as you looked up at the man with wide eyes. You went to quickly apologize for touching his child, but before you could, he was already gone; you assumed to the cockpit. The child mewled, both arms outstretched to you as he opened and closed his tiny fist in your direction.

"I don't know if I'm allowed to pick you up, honey."

He whined in response and continued his restless movements with his fist. You glanced at the ladder that the armored figure disappeared into. If he truly had a problem with you being near the child, he would have said something. Surely he had to see the child touching your face before. If he had any issue with it, you assumed he would have forbidden you from even being allowed anywhere near the creature. You took one more glance in the direction you last saw the man before scooping the tiny baby into your arms. The child babbled happily in the new position in your grasp. You looked around for a moment, looking for a place to rest so that you could safely take off into the vast space. Due to the lack of seating around you, you finally realized why the man emerged earlier. He was not being kind enough to let you know about takeoff; he was telling you to follow him into the cockpit in the most curt way possible. You slowly raised yourself from the ground, struggling due to the child that was wrapped tightly in your one arm. Once you had gathered your bearings, you made your way up the ladder. The door slid open, the light from the windows momentarily blinding you. Beyond the windows lay the vast terrain that you had crossed just moments ago. And there in the seat right in front of the control panel sat the masked man, who didn't even turn to look at you. You knew that he could hear you, the sliding of the door, and the tapping of your heels on the metal panels beneath you giving your position away. You glanced at the seat on the man's right, seeing a makeshift carrier for the creature. You gently lowered the child into the seat and waited until he was completely nestled into the space before moving to the open seat across from it. The masked man continued to fiddle with the switches and buttons, but it wasn't until the soft click of your seat belt closing that the engine fired to life. He moved the stick directly in front of him, and you could feel the ship's shaky rise off the ground. The ship moved steadily as it ascended further into the sky until the surface became nothing but a distant memory.  Once the ship began slowly cruising through space, you truly felt the weight of today hit you.

You were free.

Your eyes felt heavy, and you fought with all your might to not doze off in the seat. A quick washup and some sleep would help you be back in better shape. The man still hadn't spoken to you since you were back on the ground, and you felt your throat tighten up at the thought of being the one to break the silence. You remembered seeing the refresher and a sleeping cot by the ladder, but you didn't want to assume you could just use both without permission. Your father had driven home the idea that you didn't deserve anything unless you were explicitly given permission for it. You stared holes into the back of the helmet, trying to conjure up the courage to ask if it was okay to go, when the man spoke up for you.

"Refreshers downstairs. Sleep in the cot."

With a quick thank-you for the curt statement, you made your way back down the ladder. The first thing you did was wash the grime off your face, using the water to gently remove the buildup. You let the cool water run over your delicate skin, washing away the memories of your expedition. The water dripped slowly from your skin, and you leaned over the sink, resting your forehead on the cool metal surface. Your body felt like dead weight, and it was taking far more energy than it should have to keep your body upright. You removed your head from the surface and stood up straight, expecting to see a mirror in front of you; however, no such thing existed. You guessed it made sense: why would a man who wears a mask require such a thing? You made your way out of the washroom back into the empty space of the interior of the ship. Your eyes landed on the cloak you left behind amidst the interaction with the child. With a quick swoop, the cloak was back in your arms. You moved back to the small cot tucked into the corner. Before allowing yourself to enter, you peeled the pins that held the veil in place from your hair. Without care, you balled the fabric together, tossing it lazily in the corner. The removal of the gems that decorated it would have to wait until tomorrow. You sat at the edge of the cot before swinging your feet into it, readjusting yourself so that they lay in the deep crevice of the small space. Placing the folded cloak at the opening edge of the cot, you finally let your head rest against the scratchy fabric. The mattress, which was nothing more than a thin cloth, barely provided any comfort from the harsh metal surface beneath it. Despite that, after a few moments of shutting your eyes, sleep had taken over you.

[midnox]

T H E W A R M T H O F Y O U ❄️ (+18) Steve Harrington

Summary : Everyone in Hawkins has an opinion about the girl who lives deep in the woods. Steve Harrington does too... until he knocks on her door. Warnings: erotic, dirty talk, sex, +18 - Inspired by The Christmas Tree Farm. Writers notes : English is not my native language; please excuse me if there are any mistakes or poor translations.  The reader is depicted with black hair and pale skin. Steve Harrington x fem!reader

This is my first time writing an erotic story for Steve, so I'm a little nervous... I hope you'll like it! ✨

Of all the residents of Hawkins, that girl who lived deep in the woods was among the people Steve liked the least.

Even back in high school, he'd had a hard time putting up with your nasty attitude, always hanging around Eddie Munson and their stupid club. And clearly, the years hadn't improved things. You now lived alone, holed up in the middle of the woods like the bitter person he thought you were, with only a black cat for company.

Surprising.

You'd always struck him as looking like a witch, your porcelain complexion contrasting with the darkness of your gaze, accentuated by hair as black as night.

Except that Robin had grown fond of the loner you were, who always came to get her pistachio drink (which had intrigued her enough that he tried it himself, before declaring it was probably the worst drink he'd ever had), and when the snowstorm was announced, who had she asked to help that poor girl?

Steve. Always Steve. He already regretted giving in and taking the car to venture onto the already snow-covered path that ran through the woods; he regretted it a little more upon seeing the house that seemed empty, with nothing coming from it, not even chimney smoke. And he regretted it even more now, cursing Robin, when your dark gaze fell on him as you opened the door.

« Harrington ? »

Your eyebrows furrow in surprise at finding him on your doorstep. Big snowflakes are already melting in his unruly hair and on the shoulders of his puffer jacket. He must be freezing, but you don't open the door any further to let him in.

« What do you want? »

The tone comes out sharper than you'd intended. As if he were just an intruder come to disturb the peace of your solitude. You'd like to be warmer, more welcoming, but seeing him here, in front of your house, throws you off far more than you want to admit.

« Robin asked me to bring this. » He lifts the bag of salt handed out for clearing paths. « For the snow.»

Without answering, you push the door open just enough to reveal an identical bag behind you, along with a shovel leaning against the wall. He'd already felt stupid, but never quite this much.

Especially since your dark eyes scrutinize him without the slightest embarrassment, as if you needed to look him over like that just to make him feel even more ridiculous.

The silence doesn't help matters either.

Well... now he's standing in front of you like a complete idiot. Holding out a bag of salt you obviously have no use for, clearly giving the impression that your situation worries him. And that's exactly what he wanted to avoid.

« Right... I guess I'll head back. » Your gaze makes it perfectly clear you couldn't care less. Your hands simply tighten around the comforter wrapped around you. He hadn't noticed until now, but standing in front of you, he notices your slightly purple lips, the two blankets wound around your shoulders, held firmly by a hand that seems to be shivering.

The porch light suddenly goes out, taking with it what little brightness still cut through the falling night.

« Shit... »

You rush inside, a curse slipping from your frozen lips. Without thinking, Steve follows you. The purplish color of your lips keeps turning over in his mind as he closes the door behind him to keep more cold from getting in.

He hears you grumbling somewhere down the hallway. The dim light filling the house keeps him from making out much, so he heads toward what looks like the living room.

A shiver runs down his spine. The fireplace is out. A pulled-out sofa bed takes up the center of the room, buried under a mountain of blankets and throws.

And then there's that black cat, motionless, staring at him with eyes far too bright for such a dark room.

« What are you doing here?»He turns around abruptly, and you glare at him nastily. « Do you just walk into people's houses uninvited? » You bite the inside of your cheek, annoyed at your own harshness. It's just that no one ever comes to your house. No one sees the disaster this house has become without heating. And you certainly don't want all of Hawkins finding out how complicated things really are.

Even less so if the news comes from Steve Harrington, who, at this moment, seems almost too impeccable for this chaotic living room.

«I figured you might need help.»

« Do you know how to fix a fuse box? » He shakes his head. « That's what I thought.« » »

He's annoyed that you guessed he wouldn't know how to handle it, as if he'd just failed to meet some expectation. Even more, he hates this feeling of being useless.

Steve had been adored throughout his high school years before falling abruptly from his pedestal. Then he'd become a kind of hero to the group of kids he'd protected. And now, facing you — this strange girl who'd shared his school years — he found himself reduced to the state of an insect trapped in a spider's web, watched by the one who'd woven it as if he were worth absolutely nothing.

Damn it. « What about the fireplace? Is that broken too? »

« I can't get the fire going. » You shrug your shoulders as if it were nothing more than a minor detail. Steve rolls his eyes at such nonchalance.

What business is it of his anyway?

He turns back to try his luck with the fuse box. Obviously, he doesn't know the first thing about it, but he needed a few minutes away from you. He could leave, he probably should leave. Robin would kill him if he turned around and something happened to this girl. No heat source. In the middle of a power outage.

When he comes back into the living room, he finds you balanced on a chair, digging through the top shelf of a huge cabinet. He notices the chair wobbling and moves closer to keep it from tipping over. Realizing how close Steve is, you startle and slip. He throws his arms out to catch you, but your momentum is already too much. You both collapse onto the hardwood floor with a shared groan of pain. His hands close instinctively around your sides as you end up practically sprawled on top of him, your long hair forming a curtain around you both as you push up onto your hands and knees to get up. Steve is lying beneath you. Your thighs frame his as if keeping him from leaving, and suddenly, you don't know what to do anymore. His chocolate-colored gaze seems to warm up a little of everything that had stayed cold in you. Unable to look away, you stay perfectly still.

« I was trying to find the flashlights. »

Your voice is barely a whisper brushing against Steve's face.

Without even realizing it, his thumbs trace slow movements against the fabric of your sweater. Under the distracted caress of his fingers, the fabric rides up imperceptibly, revealing just enough skin for him to feel its warmth beneath his palms.

« Okay. » The word echoes like the answer to a question neither of you had voiced.

Your gazes search each other in the dim light, neither of you moving. Then the seconds stretch on, and Steve realizes you're just as unable as he is to break this moment.

Very slowly, he lifts his face to yours, his lips brushing against yours.

A simple touch, hesitant, almost shy.

Then the kiss deepens naturally. Your lips part in a breath that feels as much like a sigh of relief as a release. His arms tighten around you as he sits up slightly, closing the distance between your bodies even further.

Your hands, freezing despite the blankets, come to rest against his cheeks. Steve breaks into a smile against your lips before pulling you a little closer to him, as if he alone could give back all the warmth this house had stolen from you.

Your lips find each other again, more slowly this time. You let yourself be guided, letting go for a few moments of that need to control everything. And, against all odds, you discover it isn't so frightening.

Maybe because it's Steve. That idiot you used to watch from a distance in high school, never suspecting that one day he'd be here, kissing you in the middle of your freezing living room.

« Oh… shit. » He groans as he pulls back just slightly, struggling to catch his breath. You feel him tense against you as his hips trace slow, almost unconscious movements, feeding the friction that makes each of your breaths falter.

In the darkness of the room, he reaches behind him for the back of the sofa to steady himself. He lifts the two of you up before letting himself fall onto the mattress, which creaks under your combined weight.

In one motion, he flips your positions, and now he's above you, looking at you as if he were seeing you for the first time. The faint light filtering through the windows traces the outline of your face, and this time, he no longer lets himself be intimidated by your gaze.

His hand slides down to the fastening of your trousers, which he finally undoes with a sharp movement before rising onto his knees to position himself between your legs. A new sense of impatience takes hold of him. The urge to possess you is so intense that he begins to feel increasingly cramped in his boxers; every movement heightens the friction—already made almost unbearable by the tightness of his jeans. Seeing you in your panties—without even being able to make out the color—arouses him. Your legs are parted wide enough to welcome him as he moves back in against you. The moan that escapes you when you feel his manhood against you makes him gasp, a sound instantly stifled by another kiss. Your lips meet with ever-growing eagerness. Your noses brush against each other; your teeth occasionally clash in your haste, yet neither of you slows down. Your fingers tangle in his hair, holding him close as if you fear he might pull away. Your tongues seek each other out and intertwine, while your hips move in unison, maintaining that sweet friction. His hand slides up beneath your sweater. His fingertips graze your skin, slowly tracing the curves of your waist. Under his touch, warmth seems to gradually reclaim your body, as if every movement erases a little more of the chill that had settled deep inside you. « Oh… » you breathe as one of his fingers caresses you through the fabric of your panties. « Should I keep going? »he whispers against the corner of your mouth. « Fuck… yes. » A soft chuckle escapes him against the skin of your neck before he gently nips at it, while his finger continues its slow movements over the cotton. He can hardly believe he’s here. He still doesn't understand how it’s possible, given that for so long he was convinced he couldn't stand you. And yet, feeling you against him—so close—feels startlingly natural. As if this might be the only night fate would allow you to discover each other this way. His mind drifts, in spite of himself, toward everything that sets you apart. You live in seclusion, while he spends his time surrounded by others. You systematically refuse anyone who tries to reach out to you, while he's incapable of stopping himself from wanting to save everyone, a prisoner of that damn Clark Kent syndrome.

« Oh... Harrington... » You don't say his first name.

As if calling him by his last name were still enough to preserve some tiny distance between you. As if that could keep this night from becoming anything more than what it was.

Just one night.

« Yes... there… » The fabric is so damp that he can feel the moisture soaking into the pad of his finger. He plays with your clitoris, sliding the tip of his index finger against the fabric, and wrings a frustrated growl from you when he stops almost immediately. He looks up at you. « Can I? » His finger slides to the edge of your panties, and you nod while biting your lip. You try not to dwell on the fact that he asks for your consent every time—with every new move, every step—as if he needs to be sure you want it just as much as he does. Convinced he’s simply going to pull off your underwear, you instinctively lift your hips. But his hand rests on your stomach to keep you still, and Steve gently moves the fabric aside before continuing, never once breaking eye contact. The satisfied sound that escapes your lips sends a shiver through him. His jaw tightens as he feels his cock react with an intensity he hasn't known since his freshman year of high school. The thought of ejaculating right there in his boxers—like a teenager facing the most arousing scene he’d ever experienced—flashes through his mind.

Your body twists on the sofa; your fingers tangle in the throw blanket. You haven’t been touched in so long that every caress seems to awaken a part of you that you thought lay dormant. As you move, your sweater rides up, and he admires your curves revealed in the moonlight, unable to tear his gaze away. The curve of your belly—begging to be nibbled, to be gripped so he can possess you more fully. Sensing you growing wetter, he slides in a second finger, and you bite your hand to keep from screaming. Yet that is exactly what he wants: to hear you cry out in pleasure, to see you completely undone—and all because of him. He leans over you, gently pulls your hand away from your mouth, and interlaces his fingers with yours—never breaking eye contact—while his other hand continues its slow caress. « I want to hear you. » His body looms over you, and a strange warmth spreads deep within your chest. As if, for the first time in a long while, you felt safe simply because he was there. As if, for the first time in a long while, someone truly saw you. Saw you as you were. His thumb slides over your clitoris as he hooks his fingers inside, and your eyes roll back when the orgasm hits. Dirty words spill from your lips as you come, and for a moment, he wonders if this isn't the most beautiful sight he has ever witnessed. Your body relaxes, your hands stop trembling against the throw blanket, and your thighs instinctively tighten around him. You watch Harrington, unable to look away, as he slowly runs his tongue over his fingers—as if still savoring the moment that had just belonged to the two of you. « Next time, I'll use my tongue. » The promise echoes in your mind with an almost painful sweetness. Yet, you refuse to dwell on it; he only said it in the heat of pleasure. « You're still too dressed. » Your husky voice makes him smile, and he begins to unzip his jeans, his gaze locked on yours. His hands move slowly—too slowly for your liking—so you sit up and impatiently push his hands away to strip off those damn trousers yourself. They slide down to his mid-thighs since he is kneeling; he then lets himself sink back against you, propping himself up on his forearms to let you finish pulling them off with your feet. « Shit…»

He feels so hard as he presses against you; only fabric stands between you and taking the next step. Your lips meet again. Your tongues seek each other out in a tangle of clumsy movements, guided by a single, shared desire. His hands slide beneath your sweater. He inwardly curses the cold you live in when he discovers the two long-sleeved tops you are still wearing. He removes them one by one with growing impatience, until your chest is finally revealed. Beneath all those layers, he hadn't even noticed you weren't wearing a bra. Your hardened nipples seem to stand at attention just for him. Clad only in your panties, you suddenly feel terribly vulnerable. You hate the sensation. But when he grazes your chest with his fingers—as if it were something wondrous—you calm down. As he gently caresses your breast, a shiver runs through your body; you startle, and something falls to the floor with a dull thud, snapping you both out of the moment.

« What is…? » He leans down to pick up a small object that had fallen onto the floorboards. In the dim light, he brings it closer to his face, squinting to try and identify it. « What is this?! » « Oh, shit! » You immediately snatch it from his hands before hiding it under a cushion, your cheeks burning. « It's nothing!  » A faint purring sound rises from the cushion, drawing a smile from Steve. « It's nothing… but it's vibrating.» Anticipating your move, he retrieves the object before you can stop him. He examines it for a moment, then finally realizes what he’s holding. A burst of laughter escapes him, and you hurriedly pull a throw blanket over yourself, unable to meet his gaze. « Give it back! » « I never pictured you as someone into that kind of… game. » « Oh? So you’ve thought about me like that, Harrington? » Steve’s expression closes off at your retort and the mockery in your voice. « I live in the living room, so…» Steve glances down at the unfolded sofa, the piled-up blankets, and the cold fireplace, before slowly raising his eyes back to yours. « So… you use it here? »

« No, I don't…» « Show me how you touch yourself. » He stands up from the sofa, his cock even harder—if that’s even possible. « Please.» There is no mockery in his voice, nor the slightest hint of pressure. He waits patiently—tense, yet ready to stop everything the moment you say the word. You never quite understood the "Harrington effect" back in high school—not fully, anyway—but you get it now. His hair is tousled, and there is something wild, almost animalistic, about his demeanor, yet you feel no fear. Only that familiar sense of safety. You take a deep breath before lying back down and sliding your panties down your legs. Across from you, Steve pulls off his knit sweater, revealing his bare chest. You had always imagined yourself drawn to men with perfectly smooth skin. Yet, your gaze lingers on the fine brown hair lightly dusting his chest, and a sharp intake of breath escapes you before you can stop it. He remains focused on the sight before him, completely captivated by you. From where he stands, the moonlight streaming through the windows gives him a near-perfect view. Leaning against the furniture behind him, he fights the urge to join you, preferring to let you move at your own pace. Your thighs tremble as you press the toy against yourself, the initial vibration already taking effect. You grip the cushion behind you, arching your back as you turn up the intensity; soon, you are reduced to nothing but moans as waves of pleasure wash over your body.

« What are you thinking about? » You could answer, but it’s too much for you. You can no longer focus on anything but the toy vibrating against your clitoris. He sees your body trembling harder, your thighs tightening around your hand, and he realizes you’re about to come. He quickly sheds his boxers, tossing them into a corner of the room, before moving back to position himself over you. Your body still writhes under the final waves of pleasure, your fingers clenched around the toy. He places his hand over yours and, with a firmness tempered by gentleness, removes the toy from your grasp. He could have let you come, but he wants to feel you tightening around him. He wants to thrust deep inside you and know exactly what it feels like. « The right answer was: 'I’m thinking of you.' » A groan of frustration escapes you as his lips graze yours. « Of you, Harrington…» he whispers with a half-smile. He tears open the wrapper he’d pulled from his pants, rolls it on, and then thrusts into you in one sharp motion. The sudden intrusion steals your breath away. Your nails dig into his skin, and he, too, needs a few seconds to catch his breath before pulling back—only to drive back in harder. It’s neither truly gentle nor truly rough. It’s just right—enough for your bodies to learn each other. His lips slide along your neck—where he almost thinks he can still taste that damn pistachio drink—before he gently nips at your skin. He never imagined he’d sleep with you—let alone enjoy it this damn much. You were everything he thought he didn't like: solitary, quiet, and—whenever you deigned to speak—always armed with that irony that made him want to roll his eyes. And yet, he’d said yes to helping you; he’d stayed to light the fireplace; and he was the one who’d kissed you first. Shit. Maybe you really were a witch. Maybe a spell had been cast through your dark eyes the moment they met his. And if that were the case… was it really so wrong to think he’d come back, no matter what? Every. Fucking. Time. His hands slide beneath your buttocks to pull you closer, never breaking eye contact. Your arms stay wrapped around his neck as your lips meet, part, and find each other again, until a sharp gasp escapes you despite yourself. « Yes… right there… yes… yes… fuck… » Hearing you curse turns him on; without slowing his movements, he grabs the toy he’d set aside and slips it into your hand. « Touch yourself. » He whispers this while grazing your lips, his left hand sliding under your thigh to press it harder against the mattress and open you up wider for him. The toy’s familiar hum fills the living room again, and as you place it against yourself, he feels as though the vibrations are resonating right through his own body. « Oh God… don't stop. » Fuck. Even if he wanted to, he couldn't help it. He senses the slightest shift in your body, as if he already knows it intimately. Your thighs are racked with uncontrollable tremors from the toy and his movements—movements he instinctively slows down to savor every one of your reactions. Overwhelmed by the sensations, you bite hard into his lower lip. Feeling his cock slide deep inside you and give you such intense pleasure ought to be illegal, but it’s even more exquisite when the toy joins your bodies together. « It feels so good. » He growls before straightening up, his hands steadying your hips to let you find your own rhythm.

He watches his cock slide out and back into you, moving slower and slower. He clenches his jaw, trying to hold back the orgasm that’s already surging deep within his balls. Steve moves so slowly between your thighs that you feel a tingling sensation spreading all through you. Vibrations take hold of your clitoris, and the moment he fills you again, you explode. Sparks of light dance behind your closed eyelids; your legs wrap tighter around Steve as he gently picks up the pace, letting you savor every moment before thrusting harder to reach his own climax. He collapses onto your burning body—swearing aloud at the sheer intensity of the experience—and licks your lightly salted skin.

Your arms wrap around him and he can feel your racing heartbeat echoing his own. After a moment, he presses a kiss to the top of your chest before sitting up. He retrieves the condom to toss it into the cold fireplace, then comes right back to you.

You haven't moved, but you like that his hand brushes against yours, as if he wanted to show you he was still here.

Your breathing gradually calms. Steve realizes you're cold when your body starts to shiver, and he quickly gets up to find his boxers, which he puts on before grabbing his sweater and coming back to you.

« Come here... »

You take his outstretched hand to help you sit up. Without a word, Steve pulls his sweater over your head. It's way too big for you, but you immediately savor the warmth and the scent that lingers in it.

Your thighs stay half-bare. He doesn't ask you to put your underwear back on, not convinced you'd want to slip back into something still damp. And, more selfishly, he likes the idea of you wearing nothing but his sweater.

His.

He lies back down, settling on his side to keep watching you. You do the same as he pulls the various throws back over you both.

Your hand drifts absentmindedly over his chest, brushing the fine brown hair the way you'd pet a cat. A shiver runs through Steve. He'd rather chalk it up to the cold.

« Tomorrow, I'm teaching you how to light that damn fireplace. »

The cat, silent until now, lets out a purr, as if approving the decision.

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