Mail service: Amazon
Item: gator Tillman
Size: medium (enemies to lovers)
Color: green
Address: downtown
Thank you!!
Tough love: Gator x you
The North Dakota wind is howling against the siding of the Sheriff’s station, but the air inside is colder. It’s 2:00 AM, and the building is a tomb—empty, save for you, the endless paperwork piling up, and the man leaning against the doorframe, watching you like a predator stalks a snare.
Gator Tillman. Deputy of the year in his own mind, and a complete, arrogant nightmare to everyone else.
You don’t look up. You know the exact weight of his gaze. You can feel it on your neck, the prickling sensation of his intense, unchecked need for control. You’ve been butting heads with him since the day you started here, him acting like he’s the Sheriff himself, and you... you’re just the only person who hasn’t learned to fear him yet.
"Working late?" he drawls. His voice isn't soft. It’s clipped, authoritative, and drips with that specific brand of entitlement he wears like armor.
"I have work to do, Gator. Go home to your daddy," you snap, finally meeting his eyes.
He pushes off the doorframe, moving into your space with the predatory grace of someone who carries a gun and knows exactly how to use it. He doesn't respect the desk. He doesn't respect your personal space. He shoves a stack of files aside with his forearm, his badge catching the harsh overhead light, and he leans over you until you’re trapped between the swivel chair and the mahogany edge of the station desk.
"Don't talk about him," he growls, his hand shooting out to grip the back of your chair, anchoring you.
His eyes are dark, frantic, and swirling with a cocktail of rage and attraction he clearly doesn't know how to handle. He’s jealous of the time you spend here, of the way you look at the evidence boards instead of him, of the way you don't bow down to his name.
"You’re obsessed with me, aren't you?" he whispers, leaning down until his lips are brushing against the shell of your ear. He smells like cheap coffee, stale cigarettes, and the bitter scent of authority. "Trying to prove you’re better than me. Trying to get under my skin."
"You have a very thin skin, Gator," you counter, though your voice shakes.
He doesn't like that. He hates it. He grabs your jaw, his fingers digging in with a sharp, possessive pressure that demands your full attention. He doesn't kiss you with sweetness; he kisses you like he’s making an arrest, like he’s claiming jurisdiction over every inch of you. It’s hard, messy, and frantic. The kind of kiss that isn't about affection, but about conquest.
He’s not waiting for an invitation. His other hand drops to your belt, his movements clinical and aggressive. He’s treating this like a power play, and God help you, the toxic, desperate chemistry is impossible to fight.
He hikes you up onto the edge of the desk, the scattered papers sliding and falling to the floor. He’s between your legs before you can even register the shift in balance, his uniform trousers rough against your skin, his gun belt pressing hard into your stomach. A constant, heavy reminder of who he is and what he represents.
"You're not doing this for the job," he rasps, his hands sliding up your thighs, his grip bruising. "You're doing it because you want to see if you can break me."
"I think I already have," you breathe, pulling him closer by the collar of his uniform shirt.
He makes a sound, half-snarl, half-gasp and crashes his mouth onto yours again. It’s violent. It’s intense. It’s everything you’ve been denying yourselves for months of shouting matches and petty sabotage. He’s taking everything you’ve got, leaving no room for argument, no room for anyone else.
In the middle of the station, under the buzzing, sterile lights, he reminds you exactly who is in charge. And for once, you don't even try to fight him for the win.
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