desc - a hard, half broken gator who never learned how to properly rest finds peace in the arms of you.
val speaks - sorry anon this isnt my au oooopsie poopsie 😁 anyways heres a draft that i forgot to post a few days ago lovelys - ill try n get back in my rhythm soon just super tired n unmotivated lately ilyyy xo
i do love this one i love my baby gator
word count: 2.8k
the first thing people got wrong about gator tillman was that he was made of iron. they saw the hard set of his jaw, the cold little glance he gave when somebody asked a question he didn't feel like answering, the way he could turn a room quiet just by walking into it. they saw the version of him his father had carved out of duty and menace and old, ugly habits, and they decided that was all there was.
even you, at first, had almost believed it.
but then you started noticing the cracks in the armor, the things he thought nobody could see. the way he always looked just a little too tired under the eyes, the way his shoulders never really dropped, the way he seemed to live in a state of half-preparedness, like if he let himself settle for even one second, something would catch up to him. maybe that was what made you look twice. maybe that was what made you keep looking. because underneath all that attitude and all those sharp edges, you could tell there was something in him that had never once been given permission to rest.
you learned quickly that gator did not sleep like other people. he slept like it was a mistake, like his body had only barely convinced him to stay down for a few hours, like even in his dreams he was listening for trouble.
four and a half hours, maybe five if the world was kind, and then he was up again. back beside his father, back at the station, back doing whatever rotten little thing needed doing because roy tillman said so. and when he did sleep, it was never gentle. he would come over to you with that same tired look in his eyes, still carrying the day on his shoulders like he was trying not to fold under it.
he would act as if nothing touched him, as if he was the same stubborn bastard he was in every other room, but you saw it. you saw the way he blinked a little too slowly. you saw the way his hand would curl around your waist like it was holding on more than it was claiming. you saw a man who had forgotten he was allowed to be comfortable.
so you made it your private mission, your own little conspiracy against the world, to soften gator tillman.
the first night he stayed over properly, it was after a hookup that had left both of you a little wrecked in that lazy, breathless way that made conversation feel unnecessary for a while.
he had been smug as hell about it too, that stupid little half-smile on his face like he thought he had won something, like he always did. he’d told you he didn’t have work the next day, which was enough to make him almost human and you’d rolled your eyes and told him to stop acting like that was a miracle. he’d made some snide comment in return, something like you should be grateful he was there at all, and you had laughed and shoved his shoulder until he pretended to be offended.
then came the sleeping part.
you had expected him to lie on his back like a soldier waiting for orders, hands flat at his sides, eyes shut but not really gone.
instead, when you reached for him in the dark, careful and slow as if you were approaching some skittish animal, he startled for half a second and then went completely, absurdly still.
you slid closer, one arm over his chest, your cheek against his shoulder, and the entire shape of him changed. the tension just bled out of him. his breathing deepened. his hand came up, almost uncertain at first, and then settled at your waist with a kind of quiet possession that was more relief than anything else.
it was the strangest thing, seeing a man who could be so damn difficult become so soft in your arms that fast. like he had been carrying himself wrong for years and you had finally put him back where he belonged.
he made a sound in his sleep not long after, small and ruined and embarrassingly peaceful, and by morning there was a little line of drool on your pillow.
when he woke up and caught you looking at it, he squinted like he was prepared for battle. “what.”
you gave him the sweetest smile you could manage. “nothing.”
his gaze narrowed. “that ain’t ‘nothin’”
“no?”
he followed your line of sight, looked down, and then looked back up with the kind of offended expression a man could only make when he was deeply, personally betrayed by his own body. “you better not be thinkin’ what i think you’re thinkin’.”
you smiled wider. “i think you slept really well.”
“i did not.”
“gator.”
“i did not drool.”
you laughed so hard you had to bury your face against his chest, and he grumbled something under his breath and pulled you closer by sheer force of annoyance. but he did not let go. not even for a second.
and years later, if he ever caught you looking at him in a certain way and asked what you were smiling about, you would always think back to that morning, to the first time his body finally trusted itself enough to rest. because that was the night everything changed. not all at once, not in some grand dramatic way, but in the quiet little seam between one breath and the next.
that was the night he started sleeping properly. the night he started to believe that maybe he did not have to keep one eye open all the time. the night you realised that softness was not something you had to pry out of him with both hands, it was already there. he had just been waiting for someone safe enough to let it out.
after that, he came over more often.
at first he acted like it was no big deal, like he was just stopping by because he happened to be in the area, which was a ridiculous lie and you both knew it. then it turned into keeping a toothbrush in your bathroom. then a shirt folded over the back of your chair. then boots by the door. then a mug in your cupboard that only he was allowed to use.
somewhere along the way, he stopped leaving so early in the mornings. some days he would wake before you and just lie there, watching the light move across the ceiling, one hand absently twirling a strand of your hair around his finger like he had nowhere else to be. other days you would wake first and find him already half asleep against your shoulder, one knee thrown over yours, breathing all warm and slow, his mouth parted just a little like he had finally given up pretending he was too tough for comfort.
those were your favourite mornings. the quiet ones. the ones where the world had not gotten its dirty hands on him yet.
“sleepy boy” you would murmur, smiling into his hair, and he would make some offended noise and pull you closer, but he never once told you to stop.
actually, that was a lie. he did tell you to stop.
“quit callin’ me that.”
“why?”
“cause it’s stupid.”
“you love it.”
“do not.”
but even while he was saying it, his eyes would be closing again, and the corner of his mouth would twitch like he was losing an argument he had already stopped caring about. sleepy boy. it sounded like something tender enough to embarrass him and affectionate enough to make him go quiet, which was exactly why you used it. because gator was not a man who asked for softness, he’d probably rather swallow glass than admit he needed it.
but he did need it, all the same.
he needed a hand in his hair and a warm body next to his and a voice that did not demand anything from him except that he stay. he needed to learn that stillness was not the same as weakness, that he could rest and the world would not end. that somebody could hold him without trying to own him.
you gave him all of that without ever saying it out loud.
and in return, he gave you the little things. the surprising things. the things that nobody else would ever believe if you told them.
he came with you to farmers’ markets, trailing behind you with the look of a man being sentenced to a deeply feminine form of punishment, muttering about how this was not his scene and he was only here because you had asked him.
and yet somehow he always ended up carrying your bags. somehow he always ended up buying you fruit you had merely glanced at, or a candle because you said it smelled nice, or a ridiculous ceramic dish because you made a face at it and he said, without missing a beat, “fine, now i gotta get it, don’t i.”
he hated how much he enjoyed your smile when he did things like that, hated how obvious it was when you were pleased with him, hated the fact that it made him like making you pleased even more.
he took you to the shooting range once because he thought it would be a fun way to show off and maybe impress you, which was a terrible plan from the start because the noise made you flinch so hard your whole face went tight.
he noticed immediately, of course he did. for all his faults, gator noticed everything about you. the second he saw how your shoulders had gone rigid, he was already stepping in front of you, body angled just enough to block the worst of the sound. he asked if you were all right in that low voice of his, not mocking this time, not cocky, just concerned in a way that made something ache softly in your chest.
you tried to laugh it off. “it’s just loud.”
he looked at the lane, then at you, then back again, clearly reconsidering his entire opinion of the activity. “yea, well. whole place is stupid.”
you blinked. “you brought me here.”
“i know.”
“gator.”
he gave you that look, the one that said don’t start, and then he muttered, “we can leave”
you did leave. and in the truck afterward, while he drove one-handed and kept the other resting against your thigh like a promise, he spent the entire ride making sarcastic comments about how maybe he should’ve taken you somewhere less likely to assault your ears. but there was no bite in it, only care.
only the hidden satisfaction of a man who had wanted to show you off and ended up wanting to protect you instead.
that was the strange, beautiful thing about loving gator tillman. he was still an asshole to everyone else, probably always would be. he still had that edge, that sharp, dangerous instinct to cut first and ask questions never. your friends still looked at you like you had pulled off a miracle. your mother, if she ever met him, would probably cross herself. the man had a presence that made people bristle on instinct.
but around you, when nobody else was looking, he softened in tiny ways that felt louder than any speech. he brought you cold drinks without asking, he remembered exactly how you liked your eggs, he let you rest your feet in his lap while he pretended not to care, though he always adjusted the blanket over them when you got sleepy. he pressed kisses to your forehead when you were half asleep and acted annoyed if you noticed, he listened when you talked, really listened, even when he was exhausted, even when his day had been rotten, even when the whole world seemed to be asking too much of him.
and god, he slept.
he slept so much better after you. not every night, not perfectly, some nights he still woke at the slightest sound, his whole body going rigid before he remembered where he was. some nights the old habits still crept in, and you would feel him staring at the ceiling in the dark, jaw tense, thoughts running too far ahead of him to catch. but then your hand would find his. or your leg would hook over his. or you would murmur his name in that drowsy, soft voice of yours, and one breath later he would come back to you.
every time.
eventually, he started to expect it. the little ritual of it. the way you would tuck yourself against his chest and fit there like you had been made for the job. the way he would sigh into your hair like he had been holding his breath all day and only now remembered how to let it out. the way his hand would trace slow circles against your back until your breathing matched his.
sometimes he would still try to fight it, mutter that he was not tired, that he was fine, that he did not need to be baby’d like some kind of pretty little prince.
you would just look at him and say, “shut up and sleep, gator”
and he would.
not because you made him, because he wanted to. because you had become the one place in the world where he did not feel like he had to be on guard. because somewhere between your teasing and your touch and your impossible, steady kindness, he had learned that being loved did not mean being trapped. it meant being seen, fully seen. all the way down to the tired, soft, half-broken parts he had spent his whole life pretending weren’t there. you saw them and did not run. you saw them and kept him anyway.
that, more than anything, was what undid him.
he never said it out loud, of course he didn't. gator was many things, but he was not the type to sit you down and give you a clean confession with a bow on top. not in so many words, but he had his ways.
the way he looked at you when you curled into his side. the way his thumb would brush over your knuckles absentmindedly while he watched tv with you, not really watching it at all. the way he would pause in the middle of some cruel little comment to somebody else and glance at you first, just to make sure you were all right. the way his expression changed when he thought you were asleep, all the sharpness draining from it until he looked almost young again, almost hopeful, almost like a man who had found something he was terrified to lose.
and maybe that was the truth of him. maybe he had always been a sleepy boy waiting for the right hands to tell him he could rest. maybe he had always been one good, stubborn, loving person away from becoming something gentler than the world had planned. maybe you had not changed him at all, only coaxed out the version of himself he had buried so deep nobody had bothered to look for it.
either way, it was yours now.
yours in the quiet hours of the night, when he finally let his eyes close without fear. yours in the lazy afternoons, when he lay tangled with you on the couch, one hand in your hair, the television droning on while his breathing went slow and heavy against your shoulder. yours in the mornings when he woke with that soft, groggy look he would kill a man for seeing, and yours in the little half-smiles he tried and failed to hide when you called him your sleepy boy just to watch him go pink in the ears.
he hated that he loved it. he loved that you knew he did.
and every time he came home to you, tired and rough and carrying the whole ugly world on his back, you would open your arms and he would step into them like returning to himself, as if he had been chasing rest his entire life without knowing what shape it would take. as if all those years of hard sleeping and harder waking had been leading him, inevitably, to this.
your bed, your touch, your voice in the dark, your steady heartbeat under his cheek.
if anyone asked, if any of them ever got brave enough to wonder how a girl like you ended up with a man like gator, they could keep wondering.
let them puzzle over it. let them call you crazy or sweet or foolish or stubborn. they would never understand that the whole thing had never been about taming him it had been about loving the part of him that was exhausted from pretending. it had been about seeing past the hard shell and the bad habits and the ugly inheritance and choosing him anyway. choosing him until he learned how to choose peace for himself.
choosing him until he slept.
and now, every night he curled around you and let his face go slack in the dark, you thought of that first morning and smiled to yourself.
Omg hiii! I just adore your writings anytime I see you post it just makes my day 10X better so when you said you were taking requests I just had to reach out!!
I was wondering if you could write something along the lines of Gator who’s taken an interest on a woman who’s new to town. He’s down bad for her but she doesn’t give him the time of day. After his umpteenth time of asking her out she finally tells him she’s a single mom.
Does gator continue trying to peruse her or does he run for the hills?
Okay that’s my little request thank youuuu and I hope you have a great day! 💕
us
gator tilman x reader
desc - when you first moved to stark county, you were expecting a quiet life for you and your daughter. what you didnt expect, was catching the eye of gator tillman and somehow getting him to stay
val speaks - aww hey thanku sm!!! that means the world ily💗 hope u enjoy !!
p.s - he doesn't run for the hills
word count: 7.2k
the first thing you noticed about your new town was how quiet it was.
the streets were narrow and mostly empty, the buildings low and tired looking in the particular way small town places got when they had been standing too long and nobody bothered to pretend otherwise. still, it had what you wanted. a little house at the edge of town, old but sturdy, with a porch that sagged just a bit on the left side and a yard small enough to manage on your own. it had been cheap in a way that made you suspicious at first, but the realtor had smiled too hard and said things like “good bones” and “quiet neighborhood” and in the end it was the price tag that sold you.
you hadn't moved here because you were looking for a fresh start in the dramatic sense. you just needed a place that was yours, a place where your daughter could sleep with her stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm and not have to hear you worrying over every little sound in the dark. a place where you could make coffee in the morning without thinking about the man who had left you both.
you had wanted cheaper rent, fewer questions, and a life that did not ask more of you than you could give.
so you packed up what mattered, sold what did not, and drove until the landscape looked unfamiliar enough to be called new.
the first few days were a blur of boxes, half-assembled furniture, and your daughter running from room to room as if she were mapping out a kingdom she planned to rule. she adjusted faster than you did. children always did. she found the best spot by the front window, decided the hallway was perfect for games that involved being a fox, and declared the back step “her lookout.” by the end of the week she had already made a friend out of the woman next door, who had introduced herself with a casserole dish and a warm, practical smile.
her name was doris, and she was the sort of neighbour who knew when to offer help and when to let silence do its job. she had silver hair that she pinned up without much fuss and a front porch full of flowerpots that looked like they had all survived several winters out of pure stubbornness.
she was also, you learned with some surprise, a retired babysitter who had apparently looked after half the children in town at one point or another.
“if you ever need to run errands or anything,” she told you the second time you met, balancing your daughter on one hip as if she weighed nothing at all, “you bring her over. i mean it. she’s a sweetheart.”
you had thanked her more times than necessary, because gratitude came easier to you than accepting kindness without flinching.
and because your life had gotten just complicated enough to feel almost normal, that was when gator tillman started noticing you.
not that he had any right to call it noticing. everybody saw everything in a town this small, but there was noticing. and then there was the way he looked at you like you had been dropped into the middle of his day and, for reasons he couldn't explain, made the whole thing feel a little less dull.
you saw him first at the grocery store.
it was one of those fluorescent-lit places that looked a little too bright no matter what time of day it was. you had been standing in front of the cereal aisle with a box of cheap granola tucked under your arm, trying to remember whether your daughter was out of milk or just very committed to pretending she was, when you felt eyes on you.
when you looked up, there he was.
he was leaning against the end of the aisle like he had all the time in the world, sheriff’s department uniform neat enough to suggest he cared about appearances but not neat enough to make him look harmless. tall, broad-shouldered, that sort of face that looked like it had learned early on how to smirk without being asked.
there was something pretty in the wrong way about him, which was annoying because you had no interest in being distracted by a man who clearly knew how to take up space.
he glanced at the box in your hand and then back at your face, the look lingering just long enough to be rude.
“you new round here?” he asked.
the accent had a rough, easy drawl to it, the kind that sounded practiced even when it wasn’t. you gave him a polite smile that did not encourage anything.
“yes.”
“huh.” he pushed off the shelf and took a few steps closer, hands loose at his sides. “pretty girl like you, what’s she doin’ in a place like this?”
you stared at him for a beat, expression flat enough to freeze water.
“buying cereal.”
one corner of his mouth twitched, like he had been hoping for something sharper.
“single?”
that one earned him a look. not a flustered one, not a coy one. just a look that said he hadn't, in fact, earned the right to ask.
“that’s a strange thing to ask a stranger in the cereal aisle.”
“not strange where i’m from.”
“well,” you said, and slipped the granola into your cart, “strange where i'm from.”
he blinked once, then let out a quiet laugh that sounded too pleased with itself. he had the decency to look amused instead of offended.
“fair enough.”
you would've thought that would be the end of it, but it was only the beginning.
he kept appearing in your orbit after that in ways that were almost too convenient to be accidental. sometimes at the hardware store, where you were trying to figure out which kind of screw was used for what and he would appear beside you with all the confidence of a man who had never once admitted he did not know something. sometimes outside the gas station, where he would give you a lazy salute before asking if you’d “settled in yet.” once, at the post office, he held the door open for you and told you your haircut looked nice, which was so transparently him trying to get a reaction that you nearly laughed in his face.
he always looked a little more pleased with himself when you looked unimpressed.
“you always this cold?” he asked one afternoon while you were loading groceries into the back of your car.
you didn’t even turn around. “you always this annoying?”
he snorted. “you got a sharp tongue.”
“and you’re still talking.”
that made him grin in a way that probably worked on somebody else, somewhere, but not on you. not when your days were full of work and unpacking and making sure your daughter ate enough vegetables to count as a reasonable parent. not when every spare thought you had was already claimed by practical things.
still, you noticed things against your will.
that he always looked too carefully at you before stepping too close. that he wore his uniform like it had been chosen to impress people, and perhaps it had.
that there was something in his expression whenever he realised you weren't impressed by him, not even a little, that looked less like irritation and more like challenge.
he asked your name on the second week. then asked what you did before moving here. then asked, with a glance that made it obvious he already thought he knew the answer, whether you had someone waiting for you at home.
“why?” you asked, shutting your car trunk harder than necessary.
“jus' curious.”
“that sounds like a lie.”
he tilted his head, one of those small, self-satisfied gestures he seemed to make when he thought he was winning something. “maybe i’m interested.”
“in what?”
“you.”
you made a sound in your throat that was almost a laugh, almost disbelief. “you barely know me.”
“plenty of time f' that.”
there was no reason for your face to go warm, but it did.
you told yourself it was the weather, the late afternoon heat, or the fact that he was standing far too close with far too much confidence and an expression that said he liked being looked at. you took the grocery bags from the cart and shut the trunk with your hip.
“you should probably find someone else to bother.”
“and miss this?”
you glanced up at him then, really looked at him, and found that the amusement in his face did not hide something else entirely. something hungry, maybe. or simply determined. either way, it was the sort of expression that belonged to a man who was used to getting what he wanted and was still trying to decide whether he wanted you.
you smiled a little, just enough to be polite and not enough to be encouraging.
“good luck with that.”
then you got in your car and left him standing there with his hands on his hips and a look on his face like you had just made his week more interesting than he was prepared for.
you didn't tell him about your daughter.
not because you were hiding her in any shameful sense. never that. she was the best thing in your life, the bright center of it, the reason you kept yourself standing when exhaustion and loneliness tried to work you over in the quiet hours. but she was also yours. your responsibility, your tenderness, your boundary. you had learned the hard way that some men heard 'single mother' and made assumptions before they had even finished blinking.
and then there was the other reason, the one sitting under all the others like stone under soil: you were careful now.
your daughter’s father had left enough damage in his wake that you had stopped calling it heartbreak and started calling it a lesson. he had walked out before she was old enough to ask difficult questions, but not before he had left behind the kind of ache that taught you not to hand your life to men who liked the sound of their own promises.
after that, you had decided that if you ever dated again, it would be with both eyes open and your daughter’s safety in mind. no introductions unless you were sure, no temporary men drifting in and out of her world just because they made your own nights less empty for a while.
gator tillman was not the kind of man you would let near that kind of trust.
not yet.
besides, you had heard enough about the sheriff’s department by then to know better than to trust the uniform too quickly.
the town talked, and small towns always turned gossip into weather. you heard enough in passing to know that the department was not exactly full of role models, and the sheriff himself was apparently the sort of man who had made his own name synonymous with trouble, fear, and rot. people lowered their voices when they mentioned him. even doris, who seemed to speak plainly about nearly everything else, would only click her tongue and say, “that family’s got problems” in a tone that suggested the word problems was doing a great deal of work.
so when gator found you at the diner one morning and casually dropped that he was deputy of the sheriff’s department, you acted as if you didn't know, raised an eyebrow and said, “congratulations” like he had informed you of a particularly useless skill.
he looked offended for exactly half a second before recovering.
“not impressed?”
“should i be?”
that got him again. he seemed to like that you did not treat him like a prize, maybe because he had so clearly expected you to.
still, he kept at it.
not in a grand, romantic way. not in the way men in movies bought flowers or stood in the rain. gator was too proud for that and too clumsy with sincerity to try.
instead he flirted the way he did everything else, sideways, half-mocking with an expression that tried to disguise how earnest he was underneath. he’d make comments about your smile when you least expected it. tell you he liked the way you looked angry, which was ridiculous. offer to carry your groceries. ask if you always looked this tired when you were “tryin to ignore him” which was so transparently a trap you refused to step in it.
and every time you brushed him off, he came back anyway.
not always right away. sometimes he’d go days without crossing your path, and you would almost convince yourself he had finally gotten bored. then you would see him leaning against the counter at the pharmacy or parked across the street when you were coming out of doris’s house and there he’d be again, looking at you like the answer to some question had been hiding just out of reach.
the strange thing was that you didn't entirely mind him.
not in the sense that you wanted him, not at first. you did not trust him enough for that. but he was entertaining in a way that had become, against your better judgment, part of your routine.
he made you feel seen in an irritatingly persistent way. not understood, not really, but seen. and after months of keeping your head down and making sure life held together by force of habit, there was something disarming about being noticed with such blunt intensity.
it would have been easier if he had been smooth. easier if he had been charming in a way that made it simple to dismiss him. but gator was not simple. he was all swagger and half-sincere smiles, all bravado with something restless underneath it, something that looked like it was always trying to prove itself. you could tell, even from the little you’d seen, that there was a boy underneath the deputy act who had learned early on how to turn self-assurance into armor.
that didn't make him safer, it just made him harder to ignore.
the day he finally asked you out properly, it was raining.
not the dramatic kind, not a storm. just a steady gray drizzle that made the street shine and turned the town soft around the edges. you had been standing outside doris’s house, waiting for your daughter.
gator came around the corner in uniform, hair damp from the rain, gaze finding you immediately like he'd been looking for you for far longer than he was willing to admit.
“you keep pretending you don’t like talkin’ to me” he said as he approached.
“i’m not pretending.”
“sure.” he stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the water gathered along the dark line of his lashes. “i’m askin anyway.”
you sighed, already tired of whatever game he thought this was. “asking what?”
“take you out.”
you looked at him for a long moment. the rain stitched silver lines through the air between you, and for some reason his confidence seemed almost quieter than usual, like he had made himself say it before he could change his mind.
“no” you said.
he nodded immediately, like he expected it. “figured.”
you folded the bakery bag a little tighter in your arms. “then why ask?”
“cause i wanted to.”
it was such a gator answer that it nearly made you smile, except he was watching your face too closely for that.
you were tired. more tired than you usually let yourself be around other people, and maybe that was why the next words came out before you had time to smooth them over.
“i have a daughter.”
something shifted in his expression so fast you almost missed it.
it was not dramatic. not disgust, not mockery. more like blank confusion, the kind that made his brows draw together as if the idea had to be rearranged in his head before it could fit.
“a daughter” he repeated.
“yes.”
“you got a kid?”
“yes, gator. i do.”
he looked at you like he was trying to solve a problem he hadn't known existed two seconds ago. then his face cleared, but not in the way you expected. not with apology. not with withdrawal. just with the dawning, baffled realisation that you had been a whole person this entire time and he had only bothered to ask about the parts he found convenient.
“oh” he said, very softly.
you had expected a lot of things. questions. awkwardness. maybe a flirty line twisted around the fact to make it easier for him to save face. maybe even disappointment if you were unlucky. but the confusion was strangely sincere, and it threw you more than it should have.
he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked away for a second, then back at you.
“single mom” he said, like he was trying the words out.
“yes.”
the rain ticked on the sidewalk. somewhere down the street a car passed, tires hissing over wet pavement. gator’s face had gone oddly unreadable, not in a cold way, but in a stunned one, like his brain had gotten stuck on a sentence it had not prepared for.
“right” he said at last, and you could not tell whether he sounded annoyed, impressed, or just confused in general.
you lifted one shoulder. “that’s why i haven’t been interested.”
he was quiet for a beat, then nodded once, too quickly, and gave you a small, almost stiff smile.
“okay.”
you frowned slightly. “okay?”
“yeah.” he shoved his hands into his pockets. “see ya round.”
and then he stepped back like the conversation had ended cleanly, like he had not just been knocked sideways by the simple fact that you had a child and a life that existed entirely outside his little orbit of self-importance.
you watched him turn and walk away down the wet street, boots splashing through the rain, and told yourself the reaction meant exactly what it looked like.
that he was done, that the daughter part had been the thing to put him off. that whatever half-finished attraction he'd been nursing toward you had finally met a wall it couldn't climb.
you should have felt relieved.
instead, you felt something you had no name for. disappointment, maybe. or the faint sting of being misread yet again. you tucked the feeling away with the rest of them and went back inside to your daughter, who was curled on doris’s couch with her socked feet in the air and her face smeared with jam, laughing at something on the television.
life moved on as it always did.
except gator didn't really leave.
he still showed up in your line of sight. still held doors, still tried to catch your eye, still made comments under his breath when he thought you weren't listening. but after that day, something changed in the shape of it. the flirting remained, but there was a little less swagger around the edges. a little less performance. he didn't ask about your single life quite so casually after that. he looked at you longer when he thought you weren't paying attention, like he was reconsidering something he had assumed too quickly.
and you, stubbornly, kept your distance.
you let him be a nuisance. you let him be a familiar face in a strange town. you let his attention settle around you without giving him the satisfaction of thinking it had changed your mind. because it hadn’t. not really.
or that was what you told yourself.
the truth was that every now and then, when you were out with your daughter and saw him across the street, his gaze snagged on her for just a second too long, not in a bad way, but in the way of a man trying to fit a new fact into the picture of you he had been carrying around.
something in that look made your chest go tight, because there was no way to know whether it was interest or pity or merely surprise.
you hated surprise.
you hated the possibility that being a mother had turned you into a different kind of woman in his eyes, one less desirable, less worth the trouble.
so you let gator think what he wanted, let him believe you had shut him down cleanly. let him walk away thinking the answer had been no and not something more complicated and brittle and practical.
and for a little while, that was enough.
until the day you were halfway down the grocery aisle again, reaching for a box of pasta with your daughter’s voice reminding you to buy the fun shaped kind, when you heard a familiar voice behind you say, “you always this hard to catch, or is that just f'me?”
you closed your eyes for half a second.
of course it was him, of course he was back.
you turned slowly, already prepared to be unimpressed.
gator was standing there with one hand resting on the cart beside him, a crooked smile on his mouth, rain jacket damp at the shoulders. and then his gaze flicked, briefly, past you.
past your arm, past the cart and landed on the little hand peeking out from beneath the blanket in the child seat, where your daughter sat with her legs swinging and a packet of crackers clutched in one hand.
gator’s whole face changed, just for a second.
the surprise was immediate, yes, but it was something else too. something softer and much more dangerous.
your daughter looked back at him with open curiosity and no sense at all that this was a moment that mattered.
gator blinked.
then, very carefully, like he was approaching something that might bite him, he said, “well. hi there.”
your daughter smiled around a cracker crumb.
and you, standing there with one hand on the pasta shelf and your entire carefully guarded life suddenly visible, felt your patience and your nerves and something inconveniently warm all collide at once.
gator looked up at you after that, and the expression in his eyes told you, before he even opened his mouth, that whatever he'd thought about you before was gone.
completely gone.
and for the first time since you had moved to town, you had the distinct, unsettling feeling that your quiet little life had just become interesting in ways you weren't prepared for.
-
gator didn't stop being persistent after that day at the grocery store, but he did get quieter about it.
not less interested, exactly. just more careful with it.
it was the kind of careful that probably would've gone unnoticed on anyone else, but with gator it stood out. he was still the same man in the same uniform with the same easy confidence and the same habit of looking at you like he was trying to memorise the shape of your face, only now there was something else threaded through it. hesitation, maybe. not enough to make him back off entirely, but enough to make him think before he spoke.
the truth was that your daughter had gotten into his head.
not in the way he would have admitted out loud, and definitely not in the way he would have put it to anyone else. but it had happened anyway, quietly and all at once, like a door in his mind had opened onto a room he had never once considered walking into.
when he thought about a future, he had always assumed there would be a wife in it someday, because that was the sort of thing roy had drilled into him with the sort of confidence only men like them could manage. a wife. a home. children, eventually. a life that looked respectable from the outside and obedient from the inside.
maybe there would be a son to teach things to. maybe a daughter to spoil in ways he had never been spoiled. he'd never thought too hard about it, because thinking too hard had never done him much good.
but then there was you, and then there was the fact that you already had a child.
that should have made the whole thing simple. that should have made him walk away, or at least lose interest, or at the very least decide you were too much trouble for a few flirtatious exchanges in grocery store aisles and parking lots.
he'd told himself, more than once, that he was only interested because you were pretty and sharp-tongued and impossible to impress. that was how it started, after all. he had seen you, wanted your attention, and gotten irritated when you did not hand it over. that sort of thing was familiar to him. manageable. but now? now there was more to it than that, and he didn't quite know what to do with the fact that the more he learned, the less he wanted to leave.
what threw him most of all was that the daughter part didn't put him off.
it intimidated him, sure. it made him feel like he was standing on the edge of a conversation he had no language for. because it was one thing to think about being a father in some distant, abstract sense. it was another thing entirely to look at a woman you were genuinely interested in and realise she already had someone who mattered more than you could possibly matter to her. someone who came first. someone who didn't care how charming he was or how good he looked in uniform or how many times he'd managed to make her mother laugh.
he'd never been very good at not being the centre of things. and yet, embarrassingly enough, the fact that he was not the centre of your world made him want in more, not less.
he liked the challenge of it. hated that he liked it, but still.
he also liked that you didn't know him.
everybody in town had some version of him in their heads already. deputy. sheriff’s boy. trouble. arrogant. reckless. useful if you needed something done, impossible if you wanted honesty. maybe one or two people would have said handsome with the sort of tone that suggested it was a warning. but none of that was the whole story, and for once, there was something almost intoxicating about getting to be seen before a big rumor had finished introducing him.
with you, he had a chance to be whatever he wanted you to know first.
that thought sat in his chest in a way he didn't quite understand. not noble, not romantic, just strangely important. like the version of himself that existed in other people’s mouths had become irrelevant in the face of the version he could offer you instead.
and for your part, the fact that he hadn't run when you told him about your daughter changed things in a way you didn't entirely trust, but couldn't ignore either.
you had expected awkwardness. maybe a polite retreat. maybe the same sort of half-done interested expression men got when they realised there was baggage attached to dating you and decided baggage was inconvenient. you had prepared yourself for him to disappear into the gap between one conversation and the next, and you had even convinced yourself that would be for the best.
but he hadn't disappeared.
he'd blinked, looked confused, and then kept coming back.
not in a way that made you feel pressured, just persistently enough that you found yourself increasingly curious about him in spite of yourself. it wasn't that you were suddenly ready to bring him home for sunday dinner and call him part of the family. no, that was absurd. but maybe, just maybe, you were willing to let him know you beyond the surface of your own guardedness.
so when he caught you alone one afternoon outside the pharmacy and said, with far too much confidence for a man who had been carefully keeping his distance, “you ever rethink bout letting me take you out somewhere proper?” you surprised yourself by answering, “yes.”
the silence that followed was immediate and complete.
gator just looked at you.
not in a rude way, in a stunned one. like he hadn't expected the word to come out of your mouth and needed a second to make sure he'd heard correctly.
then, because he was still gator and couldn't leave anything sincere alone for too long, he cleared his throat, shifted his weight and said, “yeah?”
you smiled before you could stop yourself. “yes, gator.”
that got another blink out of him, slower this time. and then, in a very visible effort to recover his usual composure, he straightened a little and tucked one hand into his pocket.
“all right,” he said, trying very hard to sound as if this was not the most surprising development of his week. “i can do proper.”
you laughed then, because he looked ridiculous and smug all at once, and the sound of it made his expression soften in a way you hadn't expected. he asked if he could pick you up later, said he knew the best place in town, and you agreed before you could overthink it.
the dinner was better than you had any right to expect.
you felt a small stab of guilt leaving your daughter with doris so you could go on a date, but doris had waved you off with the kind of cheerful determination that suggested she enjoyed being trusted with important secrets. your daughter, meanwhile, had apparently decided doris’s house was a luxury resort, because she'd been thrilled to stay.
gator had actually shown up on time, which was your first surprise of the evening, and he'd looked annoyingly good in a way that made you briefly resent the existence of collared shirts.
he opened the car door for you without making a big deal of it, and when you thanked him, he just gave you that lopsided little look of his like he was pretending the gesture hadn't mattered.
the place he took you to was a small restaurant at the edge of town, the kind with dim lighting and booths that had definitely seen better decades. it wasn't fancy, but it was warm, and the food was better than its peeling wallpaper suggested.
more importantly, he talked to you.
really talked, in a way you hadn't expected.
not just the usual fragments of himself he threw at you when he was trying to flirt. he asked questions and waited for answers. he told you things about town without making them sound like he was showing off and when you asked him what he liked doing when he wasn't in uniform, he actually had to think about it for a moment before shrugging and saying, “not much, lately.”
that had led to a conversation about where you grew up, which had led to one about your daughter’s favourite cartoons, which had led to him admitting, after some prompting, that he had once wanted to be a pilot when he was younger because he liked the idea of leaving things behind and seeing the world from above.
you looked at him for a beat too long after that, because there was something unexpectedly vulnerable in the confession, something too honest to be part of the image he usually tried to sell.
the other people in the restaurant noticed him, of course. he was impossible not to notice. eyes flicked toward him from two tables over, then away again when they realised he'd seen them. you noticed it too, the little shifts in posture, the careful glances. you noticed how he ignored them without even turning his head, he simply sat there with you and let the room do what it wanted.
that, more than anything, was what stayed with you after the night was over.
he didn't make you feel foolish for being cautious. he didn't try to charm you into dropping your guard all at once. he simply made space for the conversation to happen, and by the time he drove you home, you found yourself feeling lighter than you had in months.
after that, there was no sudden declaration, instead, he just kept showing up.
better behaved than before, though not perfect. he still flirted, but the lines changed.
he stopped using words like hot and started using beautiful instead, like it mattered more to him. he told you he liked your laugh. he said your hair looked good when it was pulled back. he complimented the way you handled your daughter with a mixture of patience and firmness that made him look at you like you were quietly impressive in ways he hadn't expected.
and then there were the little things, little things that ended up mattering far more than the grand ones.
he mentioned, one afternoon, that there was a big play area just outside town that he used to go to as a kid. “they got a climbing thing,” he said, pretending to sound casual. “a trampoline. swings. some weird old wooden i fell in once.”
you laughed at that, and then he glanced over at you and added, almost as an afterthought, “she might like it.”
your daughter.
he had remembered that she existed, and not in a vaguely polite way. he had actually thought about what might make her happy.
that stayed with you longer than it should have.
doris, naturally, was not immediately convinced.
she didn't say anything cruel, because doris was not that sort of woman, but she did fix you with a look one evening over the fence and said, “you be careful with that boy, now. sheriff’s family isn't known for being easy to deal with.”
“he’s not his father” you said before you could stop yourself.
doris gave a small hum, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “just saying.”
you nodded because there was no point arguing with the town’s collective memory. but you weren't especially worried.
gator had already given you the short version of his father, and while he hadn't said anything directly ugly, there had been enough in the way his mouth tightened when he mentioned him to tell you the truth.
stern. controlling. a man who expected obedience and called it love. a man who got what he wanted and didn't much care who he hurt in the process.
that was enough to make the picture clearer.
and over time, the back and forth between you and gator turned into something steadier.
he drove you to work when he could, leaning across the passenger seat with a hand on the wheel and telling you to hurry up like he was doing you a favour, even when he offered. he started showing up with coffee exactly the way you took it, which annoyed you more than it should have because it was thoughtful. he remembered when your daughter had a school event and asked about it later, not in a probing way, just in a way that made it obvious he had been listening.
when she started school properly, he went with you to the first parent-teacher meeting when you realised you were more nervous than you wanted to admit, and he stood beside you in the classroom with his hands in his pockets, looking far more composed than you felt.
the teacher had called him your partner.
you opened your mouth to correct her, then closed it again.
gator, beside you, hadn't corrected her at all.
when she mistook him for your daughter’s father, he only smiled politely and let her get on with it until she had moved on to another topic. later, in the car, you gave him a look and said, “you didn’t have to do that.”
“do what?”
“let her think that.”
he glanced at you, one hand on the steering wheel. “didn’t seem important.”
you stared at him.
he shrugged, but there was a faint red creeping up the back of his neck. “figured i was there to help, not be difficult.”
that had nearly undone you on the spot.
months passed like that.
not rushed, just a slow, steady kind of closeness that crept in through routine until you realised one day that it had been there for a while.
he learned which cereal your daughter liked best. he learned not to make too much noise when he came by after dark. he learned that you liked your tea strong and your mornings quiet and your affection delivered in practical gestures.
in return, you learned that he was not nearly as hard as he looked, and that the parts of him the town called trouble were often just the parts of him that had learned how to survive.
he was still stubborn. still smug. still far too pleased with himself whenever he managed to make you roll your eyes. but he was also gentler than you had expected. gentler with your daughter, especially, once he got used to her. awkward at first, yes. entirely too aware of his own hands and voice and size, as if he was afraid of doing something wrong. but children have a way of making even the most self-important men honest, and your daughter did that to him almost immediately.
by the time the three of you went to the playhouse just outside town together, he'd already figured out how to kneel down to her height without making it seem awkward, how to answer her questions seriously even when they were ridiculous, how to carry a paper cup of juice in one hand while she dragged him by the other toward the trampoline with a grin that suggested she'd decided he belonged to her for the afternoon.
and to your absolute surprise, he let her.
he complained about the trampoline first, just enough to make you laugh. “i’m not doin’ that,” he said, watching the two of you bounce around like you had not a single care in the world. “i look stupid already, don’t need help.”
“you always look stupid” you called back.
your daughter immediately took his side, which seemed to delight him. “he doesn't look stupid.”
gator’s entire face lit up.
“see?” he said, pointing at her. “she gets it.”
and then he climbed onto the trampoline with the both of you.
you hadn't seen him laugh like that before.
it wasn't the sharp little huff he let out when you mocked him, or the smug grin he wore when he thought he had gotten the upper hand. this was something else entirely, something open and helpless and bright. your daughter was bouncing around in front of him, shrieking with joy, and he was making the kind of face men usually reserve for the moment they realise they're in over their heads and having the time of their lives anyway.
it did something strange to your chest.
later that evening, after the three of you had been home and your daughter had worn herself out so thoroughly she had gone down for a nap, gator was sitting down while you cleaned up the kitchen.
the house was quiet in that rare, soft way it got. sunlight leaned through the front windows, gold and tired. the air smelled faintly of soap and sugar and the lingering trace of the day.
you came back into the living room to find him on the couch with his elbows on his knees, looking around like he had started noticing details he had not seen before.
you paused in the doorway. “what are you thinking?”
he looked up slowly. “i like this.”
you leaned against the frame. “like what?”
he glanced toward the hallway, where your daughter was sleeping, then back at you. there was no swagger in him now. no performance. just a quiet sort of certainty that made him look younger and older at the same time.
“us” he said.
you felt the smile come before you could stop it. not a big one. just something small and true and impossible to hide.
gator noticed, because of course he did.
he stood then, crossing the short distance between you with a kind of care you wouldn't have expected from him months ago. he stopped and looked down at you for a moment like he was still deciding whether to say something else, then he lifted a hand to your face and kissed you.
it wasn't your first kiss.
the first one had been an accident, really, in the way certain things only become accidents when you are too busy to think about them. you'd been rushing out of his car one morning because you were late for work, one hand already on the door handle, your mind full of everything except the fact that he was leaning toward you to say something when you turned and, without thinking, pressed a quick kiss to his mouth in a distracted goodbye before hurrying off.
you froze for half a second afterward, mortified.
he, on the other hand, had looked so pleased with himself you had wanted to throw your coffee at him.
he had absolutely loved that kiss.
this one was different. this one was slow and deliberate and it made your breath catch in a way that had nothing to do with surprise. his hand rested lightly at your jaw, his thumb barely moving, and when he pulled back, he stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of him still there.
“what was that for?” you asked softly.
his mouth curved, almost shy if you did not know better.
“for bein’ here.”
you laughed under your breath, because of course that was the sort of answer he would give when he was being sincere.
and maybe that was the moment it really started.
not when he first flirted, not when he first asked you out, not even when he found out you had a daughter and stayed anyway. maybe it started here, in the quiet middle of things, where he'd already found his way into your home and your routines and the little safe spaces you had built around your life. where your daughter reached for him without fear, where he walked softly enough through both of your days that one evening you looked up and realised he was no longer just visiting, he was there.
not because he had forced himself in. not because you had been careless. but because he had proved, over and over again, that he could be trusted with the parts of your life that mattered most.
he was nothing like the rumors said, nothing like the shadow his father cast and nothing like the man you had first assumed he would be. he was still flawed, still arrogant, still infuriating in all the usual ways, but he was also gentle where it counted. attentive. patient. quietly devoted in ways he would probably have denied if called out on them directly.
a softie, really.
you probably would never say that to his face but you knew it now, and so did he. at least in the private little corners of your life where the two of you had started to belong to each other without ever quite saying so too soon.
|| desc- what they do for you on your birthday !!!!
val speaks- it’s my bday! so this is very self indulgent☺️ if it’s coincidentally your birthday too have the best day! n if it’s not just pretend xo
sigh feeling 19 and misaligned rn!
word count: 8.5k
joe keery
you wake up slowly, the kind of soft, unhurried waking that only happens when there’s nowhere to be and nothing pressing waiting for you. the air feels different here, lighter somehow, warm even in the early morning and for a second you forget where you are.
joe had flown you to italy for the week. he was here to shoot a movie once and the minute he landed he knew he wanted to come back here with you so why not bring you for your birthday?
then you feel it, an arm draped over your waist, familiar and steady, pulling you just a little closer whenever you shift.
and then his lips.
they’re warm and barely there at first, brushing against your cheek, your temple, the corner of your mouth like he’s testing if you’re awake. when you stir, he smiles against your skin and presses a few more deliberate kisses across your face, uncoordinated and soft, like he can’t decide where to land.
you let out a quiet laugh, still half asleep, turning your head so your nose bumps into his. “joe…”
“good morning” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep, but there’s this quiet excitement under it.
you open your eyes properly then, and he’s already looking at you, hair a mess, eyes soft, that small, crooked smile that always feels like it’s just for you.
“happy birthday, baby” he says, like it’s something he’s been holding in all morning.
your chest tightens a little at the way he says it. you lean in, kissing him once, twice, slow and warm. “thank you.”
“i love you” he adds, almost immediately, like it’s just part of the sentence.
“i love you too.”
for a moment neither of you moves. it’s just quiet, the soft light coming through the shutters, his thumb absentmindedly tracing patterns on your hip while you stay tucked into him. then, suddenly, he pulls back.
“wait- don’t move” he says, already halfway out of bed.
you blink at him, amused. “what are you doing?”
“just- stay there” he insists, grabbing something from his bag, then something else, nearly tripping over his own feet in the process.
you push yourself up onto your elbows, watching him with a small smile. “you’re being weird.”
“i’m being prepared” he shoots back, though he’s clearly a little flustered. then he turns back to you, holding a small bundle of things, and for a second he just stands there, like he’s trying to figure out how to start.
it’s.. kind of endearing.
“okay,” he exhales, sitting back down on the bed. “so. presents.”
“joe-” you start, already shaking your head, but he cuts you off.
“nope. let me do this. please.”
you hold up your hands in surrender, smiling. “okay, okay.”
he hands you the smallest box first.
it’s simple, but wrapped neatly, like he actually took the time to do it himself instead of just handing it to you in a bag. you peel it open carefully, glancing up at him once. he’s watching you way too closely, like your reaction matters more than anything.
inside is a ring.
you pause for a second, then pick it up. it’s delicate, a soft pinky ring with his initial on it, small but clear.
“joe…” your voice comes out quieter than you expected.
“wait,” he says quickly, already pulling something from his own hand. “i got one too.”
you look up, and he’s holding his hand out, on his pinky is a matching ring, but with your initial instead.
“i just-” he lets out a small breath, suddenly a little shy. “you always do that thing, you know? with the pinky promises. like it’s… serious to you. so i thought-” he shrugs, a little helplessly. “we could have one that’s, like… permanent. like a forever pinky promise or whatever.”
for a second, you don’t say anything.
your throat feels tight, your eyes stinging just slightly as you look between the ring in your hand and the one on his finger.
“that’s… really-” you stop, laughing softly because you can’t quite get the words out. “that’s really sweet.”
“yeah?” he asks, watching you carefully.
you nod, slipping it onto your pinky. it fits perfectly.
“yeah,” you say again, softer. “it’s perfect.”
the smile that spreads across his face is immediate, wide and relieved and so genuine it makes your chest ache a little.
“okay, good,” he says, like he’s been holding his breath. “good.”
he leans in, kissing you again. slow this time, a little deeper, his hand coming up to cradle your face.
“happy birthday” he murmurs against your lips.
you laugh softly. “you already said that.”
“i’ll say it again.”
he hands you the next few things after that. small painting kits, the kind you’ve pointed out before but never actually bought. you raise an eyebrow at him.
“really?”
“what?” he shrugs. “you like them.”
“i’m terrible at them.”
“that’s not the point,” he says immediately. “you like doing them. and for the record, everything you make is… objectively great.”
you snort. “objectively?”
“yeah,” he nods seriously. “award-worthy, even.”
you roll your eyes, but you’re smiling.
there are a couple of shirts too, ones you’d mentioned offhand weeks ago, and a small bouquet of flowers he must have picked up the day before.
“and,” he adds, almost as an afterthought, “there’s more stuff. back home.”
you stare at him. “joe.”
“what?” he grins. “i didn’t bring everything with me.”
“this is already too much.”
“no, it’s not” he says easily. “it’s your birthday.”
you shake your head, but there’s no real protest behind it. “this is perfect.”
his expression softens at that, something quieter settling in. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
-
the day unfolds slowly, like it’s stretching itself out just for you.
you get dressed without any rush, his attention constantly drifting back to you, pausing mid-conversation just to look at you, like he keeps getting distracted.
“what?” you ask at one point, catching him staring.
“nothing,” he says, but he’s smiling. “you just- look really good.”
“i just put on a t-shirt.”
“yeah,” he nods. “and you look really good in it.”
it doesn’t stop there.
breakfast is long and easy, the kind where you talk about everything and nothing. half-finished stories, random thoughts, little jokes that don’t make sense to anyone else. he keeps reaching across the table, touching your hand, your wrist, like he needs to stay connected.
after, you walk through the town, no real plan in mind. the streets are warm, the buildings glowing softly in the sunlight, and every now and then he lifts his camera.
“stop moving” he says, already focusing.
“i’m literally just walking.”
“yeah, and you look- hold on-” click. “there. perfect.”
you laugh, shaking your head. “you’re ridiculous.”
“i’m right” he corrects, lowering the camera just long enough to grin at you.
shopping is chaos, but in the best way. every time you pause for even a second, he notices.
“you like that?” he asks casually.
“it’s cute,” you admit, already stepping away. “but i don’t need-”
“we’re getting it.”
“joe-”
“it’s my special girl’s special day,” he says, already handing it to the cashier. “give me a break.”
you groan, but you’re laughing, and he looks entirely too pleased with himself.
by the time you head back to the airbnb to drop everything off, your hands are full and your heart somehow even fuller.
-
dinner is different.
quieter, softer, a little more dressed up. you catch him looking at you again when you step out, and this time he doesn’t even try to hide it.
“what?” you ask, smoothing your outfit self-consciously.
he just shakes his head, stepping closer. “you’re… yeah. you’re unreal.”
the restaurant is beautiful, the kind of place that feels almost too pretty to be real, and the night outside is warm, the air buzzing softly with distant conversation and music.
after, you walk again, past monuments lit up against the dark, quiet streets that feel like they belong to just the two of you.
he takes more photos. of you laughing, of you not looking, of you just existing.
“you’re gonna run out of film” you tease.
“worth it” he says without hesitation.
-
by the time you’re back in bed, everything feels soft again.
you’re tucked into him like you were that morning, his arms around you, his face buried briefly in your shoulder before he pulls back slightly.
he’s quiet for a second.
“hey” he says, a little hesitant.
“yeah?”
“was today… okay?”
you blink at him. “okay?”
“yeah. like- i don’t know. i just, i wanted it to be good.”
you prop yourself up slightly, looking at him properly. “joe.”
he watches you, a little unsure.
“today was perfect,” you say, gently but firmly. “like- actually perfect.”
his shoulders drop just a little, relief washing over his face as a smile spreads slowly.
“yeah?”
“yeah,” you nod. “one of my favourite birthdays.”
he lets out a soft laugh, leaning in to kiss you, slow, lingering, like he’s savoring it.
“good,” he murmurs. then, softer, “i really hoped so.”
he reaches up, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering against your skin.
“we’ve got more stuff planned this week, though” he adds, a hint of excitement creeping back in.
you groan, rolling your eyes. “of course we do.”
he grins. “what? i’m not done.”
“you’re impossible.”
“and you love me.”
you huff out a small laugh, settling back into him. “unfortunately.”
he laughs quietly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“happy birthday" he whispers again.
this time, you just smile, closing your eyes as you sink into him, warm and steady and entirely yours.
steve harrington
you wake up to chaos.
“mom! mom- wake up!”
“shh- no, don’t jump yet-”
“can we jump now?”
and then, too late.
two small bodies launch onto the bed at the same time, one landing somewhere near your legs, the other climbing straight onto your stomach with absolutely no hesitation. you let out a surprised laugh, eyes still half closed as you instinctively reach out to steady them.
“okay, okay-i’m up, i’m up” you mumble, already smiling.
“happy birthday!!” they both shout at once, voices overlapping, way too loud for this early but impossible to be annoyed at.
you finally open your eyes properly and there they are, your son practically bouncing in place, your daughter already trying to shove something into your hands.
and behind them, steve.
he’s standing in the doorway for a second, tray in hand, just watching. there’s this soft, almost disbelieving look on his face, like this, right here, is everything he’s ever wanted and he still hasn’t quite gotten used to it.
then he walks over, setting the tray carefully on the bed.
“easy, easy” he says, laughing under his breath as he sits beside you. “let her breathe first.”
“but it’s her birthday!” your daughter insists.
“i’m aware,” he says, glancing at you, eyes softening immediately. “i’ve been aware.”
you smile at him, reaching out to touch his arm briefly. “good morning.”
“happy birthday” he says, quieter now, leaning in to kiss you properly.
it’s quick because the kids are right there, but it still lingers just enough to mean something.
then the moment is gone again because your son is already grabbing a card.
“open this one first!”
breakfast ends up being less about eating and more about everything else. the four of you piled into the bed, plates half-forgotten as the kids hand you their cards. messy handwriting, too many stickers, drawings that don’t quite make sense but mean everything anyway.
you laugh, you thank them, you kiss their heads.
steve watches the whole thing like he’s memorising it.
there are little presents too. perfumes, moisturisers, things they clearly picked out with way too much enthusiasm. you make a show of loving every single one, and they beam at you like they’ve just nailed it.
at some point, your daughter curls up against your side, your son sprawls across the end of the bed, and steve shifts closer behind you, his arm wrapping loosely around your waist.
it’s warm. easy. full.
and for a second, everything just settles.
-
getting ready takes longer than it should, mostly because the kids keep coming back in to “check on you,” which really just means interrupting.
by the time you’re finally dressed, steve’s already in the room, leaning against the doorframe like he’s been waiting.
his eyes flick over you once, and then again, slower this time.
“what?” you ask, a little amused.
he pushes himself off the wall, walking over until he’s right behind you. his hands settle on your hips, then slide around your waist as he pulls you back against him.
“nothing,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “you just look… really good.”
you huff a small laugh. “it’s just a dress.”
“yeah,” he says easily. “and you look really good in it.”
he says it like it’s obvious. like it always is.
“happy birthday” he adds again, softer this time, his chin resting briefly on your shoulder.
“you’ve said that like five times already.”
“i’m gonna keep saying it.”
you turn your head slightly, just enough to kiss him. “thank you.”
“love you” he says immediately.
“love you too.”
-
dropping the kids off is… a process.
there’s hugs, last-minute reminders, your daughter insisting on one more kiss, your son pretending he doesn’t care but still hovering close.
your parents wave you off eventually, laughing, promising everything will be fine. and then it’s just the two of you.
the car feels quieter. different.
steve glances over at you as he starts driving, one hand on the wheel, the other reaching over to rest on your knee.
“okay,” he says. “weekend officially starts now.”
you smile. “yeah? what’s first?”
he grins. “second breakfast.”
you raise an eyebrow. “we literally just ate.”
“doesn’t matter.”
it’s ice cream, of course it is. you don’t even question it when he pulls up, just laugh as you unbuckle your seatbelt.
“you’re ridiculous.”
“you love it” he shoots back.
and he’s right.
there’s something about it, something that still feels a little like the beginning. like late nights and cheap uniforms and him leaning over the counter trying to make you laugh.
he watches you take the first bite, like he’s waiting for your reaction.
“good?” he asks.
“obviously.”
“yeah,” he nods, satisfied. “thought so.”
-
shopping is a lot, not in a bad way, just in a very steve way. you pause for half a second in front of something and he’s already clocked it.
“you like that?”
“it’s nice, but i don’t need-”
“we’re getting it.”
“steve-”
“it’s your birthday,” he says, like that explains everything. “don’t argue with me today.”
you roll your eyes, but there’s no real resistance behind it.
he just wants to take care of you, and you let him.
-
by the time you get back home, your arms are full, your cheeks ache from smiling, and steve still somehow looks like he’s not done.
“okay,” he says, setting everything down. “now- actual presents.”
“steve…”
“nope,” he cuts you off, already reaching for a bag. “sit.”
you laugh, but you do it.
the first thing is a stack of books.
you blink at him. “you remembered all of these?”
“you talked about them,” he shrugs. “i listen.”
“sometimes” you tease.
“all the tim,” he corrects.
next you pull out the bra and just stare at him. he’s already grinning.
“really?” you ask, trying not to laugh.
“what?” he shrugs, completely unapologetic. “it’s my favourite color.”
“of course it is.”
“and it’ll look good on you” he adds, like it’s obvious.
you shake your head, but you’re smiling.
then comes the necklace.
you don’t realise what it is at first, just that it’s delicate, simple. but when you turn it over your breath catches.
one side, in slightly uneven engraving, clearly his handwriting, 'i love you'. the other, two tiny thumbprints, pressed into the metal, shaped into a heart.
for a second, everything goes quiet.
“steve…” your voice is barely there.
“yeah” he says softly, watching you.
your eyes sting before you can stop it.
“hey-” he’s already moving closer. “hey, c’mere.”
you don’t even think about it. you lean into him, and he wraps his arms around you, pressing kisses to your temple, your cheek, wherever he can reach.
“you okay?” he murmurs.
you nod against him, laughing a little through it. “yeah. it’s just- this is… a lot.”
“good a lot?” he asks.
you pull back just enough to look at him. “perfect a lot.”
his grin comes back instantly, wide and a little proud.
“okay,” he says. “good.”
then-
“there’s one more.”
a camera.
you stare at it, then at him. “steve-”
“you’ve been talking about it forever,” he says. “and you’re always taking pictures anyway, so- figured you should have a good one.”
you don’t even try to argue this time.
you just climb into his lap, hands on his face as you kiss him properly, slow and full and a little overwhelming.
“thank you,” you murmur against his lips. “for everything.”
he laughs softly, arms tightening around you. “yeah, yeah- i’m great, i know.”
“shut up” you mumble, kissing him again.
“you love me.”
“unfortunately.”
he grins into the kiss.
-
his card is last.
you open it slower this time, already a little emotional.
inside, his handwriting again, messy, a little uneven, but so him.
happy birthday. thank you for making my life complete, for giving me everything i ever wanted, for making me the happiest, luckiest guy in the world. i love you.
you blink a few times, but it doesn’t really help.
“you’re trying to make me cry today, aren’t you?” you say, voice soft.
“maybe” he admits.
you look up at him. “it’s working.”
he smiles, softer now. “good.”
-
dinner ends up being exactly what you’d expect.
you order in, of course you do, but steve disappears for a bit while you’re waiting, and when you step outside-
the backyard is lit up.
soft string lights draped overhead, a blanket spread out, pillows thrown around like he didn’t overthink it too much but still cared enough to make it feel right.
you look back at him. “steve…”
he shrugs, suddenly a little shy again. “figured it’d be nice.”
“it’s more than nice.”
he watches you sit down, then joins you, pulling you into his side almost immediately.
you eat there, under the lights, under the quiet sky, your legs tangled together, his arm warm around your shoulders.
at some point, you stop talking.
you just sit there.
together.
“you happy?” he asks after a while, voice low.
you lean into him a little more. “yeah.”
he presses a kiss to your hair. “good.”
“this is perfect” you add.
he smiles against you, not saying anything for a second.
then, quietly, “you deserve it.”
gator tillman
you wake to the quiet first, not the kind that feels empty, but the kind that hums like something’s already started without you. the other side of the bed is cold, sheets tugged loose, and for a second you just lie there, blinking at the ceiling, listening.
then you hear it, muffled cursing from downstairs. cabinets opening, something clattering, a low “shit-” under his breath.
it makes you smile before you even sit up.
you pull on one of his shirts, sleeves swallowing your hands, and pad your way down the stairs, still half-dreaming. the house smells faintly sweet, like fruit and something toasted just a little too long.
he doesn’t hear you at first. he’s at the counter, back to you, shoulders tense like he’s squaring up to a fight instead of… whatever’s in front of him. there’s a bowl on the table. a knife abandoned halfway through something. a carton of yoghurt left open.
“gator?”
he startles. actually startles. shoulders jump, head snapping toward you like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. for a second there’s that familiar guarded look but it melts quick when he sees you.
a small, crooked smile replaces it.
“hey” he mutters, rubbing the back of his neck like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself.
his eyes flick to the table and he points at the bowl, a little sheepish, a little annoyed at himself. “kinda fucked up, but i tried, babygirl.” he huffs a quiet breath. “happy birthday.”
the bowl is messy. yoghurt piled uneven, fruit cut in chunks that are definitely too big, a drizzle of honey that’s pooled more than spread. it’s not pretty.
it’s perfect.
you grin so wide it almost hurts and cross the room before he can say anything else, wrapping your arms around him. he stiffens for half a heartbeat but then he folds into it, arms coming around you, firm and grounding.
he smells like soap and sleep and a little bit like toast.
“thank you” you mumble into his shirt.
he shrugs like it’s nothing, but his hand lingers at the back of your head just a second longer than usual before he pulls away. “yea, well.”
you sit together at the table, knees brushing. you eat your yoghurt, and he picks at his toast like it personally offended him. his free hand finds your thigh without thinking, resting there, thumb tracing absent little patterns.
you start rambling about the dream you had, something strange and disjointed about horses and a road that didn’t end, and he listens. really listens. doesn’t interrupt, doesn’t tease. just nods sometimes, eyes on you, like every word matters.
it still surprises you, sometimes.
“took the day off,” he says after a while, like it’s an afterthought. his thumb presses a little firmer against your leg. “so. it’s all… ‘bout you today.”
you glance at him, catching the way he avoids your eyes, like he’s bracing for you to think it’s stupid.
it warms something deep in your chest.
when you first met him, this version of gator didn’t exist. back then, he wouldn’t have slowed down for anyone, wouldn’t have even considered it. everything was sharp edges and forward motion, no space for softness, no room for anything that didn’t fit the path laid out for him.
now he’s here, making uneven yoghurt bowls and taking days off work.
you reach over, squeezing his hand. “sounds perfect.”
he grunts, but there’s a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.
-
the walk is quiet in that easy way, boots crunching over dirt, the air crisp and clean. he keeps close, not hovering, just there. steady. the kind of presence you can lean into without thinking.
you head out toward the back fields, where the neighbor’s horses graze. he knows you like them. you’d mentioned it once, offhand, and he’d remembered.
of course he had.
you stop by the fence, watching them for a while. one of them wanders closer, curious, and you reach out, letting it sniff your hand before brushing your fingers along its nose.
“you’re gonna try takin’ one home one day” he says, arms folded over the fence.
“don’t tempt me.”
he snorts.
by the time you turn back, your legs are already starting to feel it. you make it halfway before slowing, breath hitching just a little.
he notices immediately.
“c’mere.”
you don’t even argue. you step closer and he crouches slightly, hands hooking under your thighs as you climb onto his back. he stands easy, like you weigh nothing, adjusting his grip.
“comfortable?” he asks.
“very.”
he hums, starting forward again, pace steady. you rest your chin against his shoulder, watching the world pass in slow, gentle motion.
it doesn’t last.
because he gets bored.
you feel it before he says anything, the shift in him, the way his posture changes, like he’s winding up.
“hold on” he mutters.
“gator-”
too late.
he breaks into a run.
you yelp, then laugh, arms tightening around his shoulders as he takes off across the field like an idiot, boots pounding, breath coming sharp but controlled.
“what are you doing?” you’re laughing so hard it’s hard to get the words out.
“provin’ to ya,” he shoots back, voice rough with amusement, “that i’m still strong as shit.”
you roll your eyes against his shoulder, laughing again. “you’re ridiculous-”
“yeah?” he grins, even if you can’t see it. “you love it.”
you do.
by the time he slows, both of you are breathless, laughing, the kind of lightness that sticks with you long after it’s over.
-
the truck ride is quieter, sun warming the windows, the hum of the engine steady beneath you. he hands you one of the sandwiches he made, messy, uneven, and glances over like he’s bracing for judgment.
you take a bite, it’s actually good.
you raise an eyebrow at him. “look at you.”
he scoffs, looking back at the road. “don’t make a thing outta it.”
he drives you out farther than usual, to a hillside that overlooks open land stretching out in soft waves. he parks, hops out, and moves around to the back without a word.
by the time you join him, he’s already spread a blanket out in the truck bed, smoothing it down with rough hands.
you climb up, settling beside him, legs tucked under, shoulders brushing. you eat, talk in bits and pieces, fall into quiet without it feeling awkward.
after a while, he shifts, mutters something under his breath, and hops down.
you watch him go around to the front, rummaging for a second before he comes back holding a small bundle of flowers, your favourites, and a little bag.
he doesn’t make a big deal of it. just holds them out, a little stiff. “yeah. uh.”
you take them carefully, something soft catching in your throat.
“gator…”
he shrugs, already looking away. “ain’t- don’t.. yeah.”
you don’t let him brush it off. you lean forward, wrap your arms around him again, pressing a kiss to his cheek.
“thank you.”
he huffs, but his hand comes up to the back of your neck, holding you there just for a second. “yeah.”
he’s trying not to smile.
he fails, a little.
-
back home, you set the flowers in a vase, watching them settle into place like they belong there. like he does.
the shower turns into a shared thing without discussion. steam fills the space, water running warm over both of you. you use the new soaps, lathering them into your skin, into his.
he grumbles something under his breath, but he doesn’t move away when you press closer, doesn’t pull back when you rest your forehead briefly against his shoulder.
if anything, he leans in just a little.
by evening, you’re curled up on the sofa, the day settling into something slow and quiet. your feet are in his lap, his big hands wrapped around them, thumbs pressing into the arches with surprising care.
you laugh, trying to pull away. “what are you doing?”
“hold still” he mutters, though there’s a smirk tugging at his mouth.
he keeps going, working out the tension like it’s just another thing he’s decided to do for you, no hesitation. you shake your head, still smiling.
“you’re weird.”
he scoffs softly, but when his eyes lift to yours, the smirk fades into something softer. something real.
“happy birthda,” he says again, quieter this time.
you soften right back. “thank you, gator. i had the best day.”
he nods once, like that’s all he needed to hear. like it settles something in him.
then, because he is who he is, he leans down and presses a quick, almost absent kiss to your foot.
you stare at him. “you did not-”
he snorts, grabbing your ankle before you can pull away, and then he’s leaning forward again, hand sliding up to your jaw, pulling you into a proper kiss this time.
warm. steady. certain.
he's not soft with anyone else but with you, he doesn’t hold back.
keys mckey
the morning starts slow and warm, the kind of soft, golden quiet that feels like it was made just for the two of you. sunlight spills through the curtains in thin, sleepy streaks, catching on the edges of the room and settling gently across the bed. you’re half awake when you feel him shift beside you, the familiar weight of him pressing closer, an arm slipping around your waist like it belongs there, like it always has.
keys isn’t exactly graceful in the mornings. he’s all soft edges and quiet murmurs, hair a mess, but the way he looks at you, sleepy, fond, like you’re the first good thing he's ever seen, makes your chest ache in the best way.
“happy birthday” he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep, pressing a slow kiss to your shoulder.
you hum, smiling into the pillow, turning just enough to meet him. “you remembered.”
he huffs softly, like that’s ridiculous, like there was never a world where he wouldn’t. “of course i did.”
what follows is slow and unhurried. soft kisses that linger, the kind that don’t rush anywhere. his hand traces lazy patterns along your arm, your side, your back, like he’s memorising you all over again. you stay tangled together for longer than you mean to, wrapped in blankets and warmth and him, until the day starts pressing in around the edges.
eventually, though, he shifts again, this time with purpose.
“okay” he says, a little more awake now, though there’s a hint of nervous energy under it. “i have something.”
you squint at him, propping yourself up on one elbow. “something?”
he nods quickly, already pushing himself up, running a hand through his hair in that distracted way he does when he’s thinking too many things at once. “yeah. uh- don’t get up yet, i mean, well, actually, get up, but- just- come with me.”
you laugh softly, sitting up. “you’re being weird.”
“i’m always weird,” he mutters, but there’s a small smile tugging at his mouth, something a little shy, a little excited. “just- trust me?”
you do. you always do.
now you’re standing just outside his office, still a little drowsy, still wrapped in that soft, lingering feeling from the morning. he hesitates at the door like he’s second guessing himself, fingers hovering over the handle before he finally pushes it open.
“okay,” he says, stepping aside for you. “go sit.”
you blink. “your chair?”
he nods, suddenly very intent on not looking directly at you. “yeah. just- sit there.”
you raise an eyebrow, but you do it anyway, crossing the room and settling into his chair.
he moves quickly after that, slipping behind you, hands hovering awkwardly near your shoulders like he wants to steady you but isn’t sure if he should. the computer screen flickers to life as he wakes it up, fingers tapping nervously against the desk.
“so,” he starts, then stops, then tries again. “i’ve been working on something. for a while.”
you glance back at him, he looks nervous. more nervous than you’ve ever seen him about something like this, it makes your chest tighten a little.
“keys,” you say softly, “what is it?”
he exhales, then finally meets your eyes. there’s something bright there, something hopeful. “just look.”
he clicks, and the screen changes.
at first, it looks like a simple game environment. unfinished, clearly still in development, but alive in that particular way his work always is. soft lighting, a small, cozy space carved into a larger world. your eyes scan over it, taking in the details, the way everything feels intentional, personal.
and then you notice.
“…is that-”
“yeah,” he says quickly, almost tripping over the word. “it’s- it’s yours. i mean, not yours, but- it’s for you.”
you lean closer, heart starting to beat a little faster.
it’s a corner of the game, your corner. small, tucked away, but detailed in ways that make it feel like home. there are little references everywhere, things you’ve mentioned offhand, things you love, things he’s remembered. and then you see them.
two characters.
one of them is unmistakably him, slightly exaggerated, a little softer, animated in that endearing, slightly awkward way that feels so keys. and the other-
“…that’s me” you whisper.
he nods, watching you carefully. “yeah. i- uh. i tried to get it right.”
it’s not perfect, it’s not meant to be, but it’s you. softly stylised, animated with these small, thoughtful details that make your chest ache. the way the character moves, the tiny expressions, the way it interacts with his, it’s all so carefully done.
he clicks again, and the characters move, little looping animations. the two of you walking together. sitting side by side. your character leaning into his.
it’s simple.
it’s everything.
“i made it so it’s just… there,” he says quietly. “like- no quests, no objectives. just us. a place you can go to.”
you don’t realise you’re tearing up until your vision blurs.
“keys” you breathe.
he shifts, suddenly unsure again. “i mean, it’s not finished or anything, i just, i wanted to show you, and i thought- i don’t know, it’s probably dumb-”
you cut him off by turning in the chair and pulling him down into a kiss.
it’s not delicate. it’s not hesitant. it’s full and warm and immediate, your hands coming up to frame his face as he makes a surprised sound against your lips before melting into it.
when you pull back, he looks a little dazed.
“i love it,” you say, voice soft but certain. “i love it so much.”
something in his expression shifts, relief, pride, something softer underneath it. he smiles, small at first, then wider, like he can’t quite help it.
“yeah?” he asks.
you nod, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “yeah.”
he leans into your touch without thinking, eyes soft. “…good.”
there’s a beat of quiet between you, warm and full.
and then, “i’m not done” he adds.
you laugh softly, shaking your head. “of course you’re not.”
that makes him grin, a little more confident now. “okay, but- this part, this part is different.”
he turns back to the computer, opening a browser. your curiosity spikes immediately.
“what did you do?”
“just wait.”
a website loads. it’s simple at first glance, but you can already tell it’s been built from the ground up, by him, for you.
“it’s a quiz,” he says, almost sheepish. “a custom one.”
you look at him, then back at the screen. “a quiz?”
“yeah, but not like a normal one,” he adds quickly. “just click around.”
you do.
the first question pops up. something silly, something only the two of you would understand. you laugh immediately, covering your mouth as you read it aloud.
“oh my god, you did not.”
he shrugs, trying and failing to hide his smile. “answer it.”
you click an option and instead of a generic response, it opens into something else. a photo. a memory. a little caption in his words.
you freeze.
“…keys.”
“keep going” he says softly.
you do.
each question unfolds into something more. inside jokes, moments you’d almost forgotten, things he clearly hasn’t. photos of the two of you, little notes tucked into the corners, fragments of your shared history stitched together in this strange, beautiful, interactive way.
it’s playful. it’s thoughtful. it’s so deeply, unmistakably him.
by the time you reach the end, your chest feels full to the point of bursting.
the final screen loads slowly.
happy birthday.
there’s a pause.
i love you.
you stare at it for a long moment, your vision blurring again.
“keys…”
he’s watching you carefully, that same nervous hope from earlier creeping back in. “i know it’s kind of overkill, i just- i wanted to make something you could, you know, keep.”
you stand suddenly, turning to him, and he barely has time to react before you’re wrapping your arms around him, pulling him into another kiss, softer this time, but just as full.
when you pull back, you rest your forehead against his.
“can you send me the link?” you ask quietly.
he blinks. “the link?”
“to the website,” you say, smiling. “i want to go back to it. whenever i want.”
for a second, he just stares at you.
and then he lights up.
it’s not subtle. it’s not contained. it’s this open, unguarded expression. pride and love and something almost disbelieving, like he can’t quite believe how much this means to you.
“yeah,” he says quickly. “yeah, of course i can.”
he looks at you like you’ve just given him something, instead of the other way around. like he got it right.
you reach up, brushing your fingers through his hair, smiling softly.
“best birthday ever” you murmur.
and the way he looks at you then, warm, a little awed, completely in love.
it’s something you wish you could capture, keep, return to whenever you wanted.
but maybe you don’t need to.
maybe you already have it.
travis meacham
he showed up earlier than you expected.
you hadn’t even finished making coffee yet when there was a knock. quick, uneven, like he forgot halfway through how knocking was supposed to work. you already knew it was him. nobody else knocked like that.
when you opened the door, travis was mid-sentence.
“-i swear it just came out of nowhere, like full wingspan, massive thing, i don’t even know what kind of bird it was but it looked pissed, like properly offended that i was on the road at the same time as it-”
he stepped inside as he talked, shrugging off his jacket, eyes everywhere but on you. he was animated, hands moving, voice a little too fast, like his thoughts were tripping over each other trying to get out first.
“-and i thought, okay, this is it, this is how it ends, taken out by some mutant pigeon-”
and then he looked at you.
really looked.
it stopped him mid-thought. like someone had cut the wire.
you were smiling, soft, sleepy, a little amused, and for a second he just… stared. then he huffed under his breath, shook his head like he was trying to reset himself, and stepped forward, pulling you into him.
“happy birthday, sweets.”
his voice dropped when he said it, quieter, warmer. his arms wrapped around you tight, one hand coming up to the back of your head, holding you there for just a second longer than necessary.
you could feel his heartbeat, fast, but steadying.
when he pulled back, he didn’t go far. just enough to reach into his jacket pocket.
“right- okay, so, i got you something,” he said, already starting to ramble again as he pulled out a small box, a little scuffed at the edges like he’d been carrying it around all morning. “and before you say anything, i know it’s a bit- well, you’ll see, but i thought it made sense because you always, like, you’ve got all those little things, you know? the trinkets and bits you keep everywhere, and you actually use them, which i don’t understand but i respect-”
you opened it.
inside was a small, intricate silver keychain, tiny, delicate charms hanging off it. little tools, a miniature compass, a fold-out blade no bigger than your fingernail, all detailed and slightly worn like it had history.
you blinked. “oh?”
he lit up immediately, like he’d been waiting for that exact reaction.
“yeah- see, okay, so, you remember that shop? on our first date? the one with the weird window display? like antiques but not really antiques-”
you did.
“this was in there,” he went on, words picking up speed. “and you stopped for like- i don’t know, a full minute, which is a long time for you, by the way, and you didn’t say anything but you kept looking at it, and i thought, right, that’s a thing. that’s a thing she’d actually use. and then i saw it again the other day and, well. yeah.”
he shrugged, suddenly a little unsure.
“figured it might come in handy. you know. eventually. statistically speaking.”
you didn’t let him spiral any further.
you leaned in, kissed him, quick, soft, cutting right through the noise.
when you pulled back, you were smiling wider.
“thank you, baby.”
he blinked, like he’d forgotten what he was saying entirely, then gave a small, crooked grin.
“yeah. yeah, okay. good.”
he cleared his throat and reached into his jacket again.
“also- card. which i did write in, properly, before you accuse me of anything.”
you took it, already noticing the way his handwriting crowded the inside, messy, uneven, like he’d had too much to say and not enough space to say it neatly.
you read it slowly.
it wasn’t polished. not even close. words scratched out, sentences crammed into margins, a few lines slanted where he’d clearly run out of room.
but it was him.
about how you were “his angel” (with angel underlined three times, like he’d argued with himself about writing it and then committed anyway). about how he’d “do just about anything” for you, no hesitation. how proud he was of you, for things you didn’t even think he noticed.
it made your chest ache a little.
your eyes stung before you could stop it. you didn’t say anything right away, he noticed, of course. he always did.
his arm came around you again, pulling you into his side, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head. he pressed a small kiss there, absentminded, like it was second nature.
“don’t cry,” he muttered, softer now. “it’s not- i mean, it’s good crying, i assume, but still-”
and then, without missing a beat,
“you know, the woman at the card shop, completely unrelated, but she told me this whole story about this dog she’s getting? like full life plan for the dog, i swear it had a better schedule than i do-”
you laughed into his chest.
of course he did.
he kept going, describing the dog in unnecessary detail, mimicking the woman’s voice badly, getting distracted halfway through to comment on the shop layout.
you could’ve listened forever.
a lot of people didn’t. a lot of people got tired of it, of him, the constant motion of his thoughts spilling out. you never did.
you leaned into him, smiling, letting his words wash over you like background music.
after a while, he shifted slightly.
“oh- also, before i forget,” he said, like it had just occurred to him. “i fixed your radio. it was the wiring, by the way, not whatever you thought it was. and your camera, had to take it apart, which was risky, but it’s fine now. and i sorted that basket of clothes you kept ignoring. and, yeah. other stuff. probably.”
you looked up at him, smiling in that quiet, fond way that always made him falter for a second.
he scratched the back of his neck, suddenly awkward.
“what? it needed doing.”
eventually, miraculously, he went quiet.
just for a second.
then his expression shifted again, like he remembered something important.
“right. okay. last thing—actual plan for today,” he said, pulling out two slightly crumpled tickets. “outdoor cinema. tonight. figured… you’d like it.”
you did, of course you did.
the rest of the day blurred in that easy, comfortable way it always did with him.
he cooked, properly, for once, which he reminded you of at least twice. you visited your parents, where he was oddly polite but still managed to go off on a tangent about garden tools with your dad.
by the time evening rolled around, you were both a little tired, a little full, and very much still wrapped up in each other.
you stopped for snacks on the way, completely unnecessary amounts of them. most of it terrible. all of it perfect.
at the cinema, you didn’t even bother pretending you’d watch the film properly.
you stayed in the car, curled up together, sharing food, talking over half the dialogue.
at one point, mid-sentence, you realised he’d gone quiet.
you looked up, he was already looking at you. not distracted. not halfway somewhere else in his head. just watching you.
there was something softer in his expression. something a little stunned. like he still couldn’t quite believe it, like he’d spent so long assuming people would get tired of him and then you didn’t. you were still there.
his girl.
you nudged him lightly. “what?”
he blinked, then huffed a quiet laugh, leaning in to kiss you, slow this time, unhurried.
when he pulled back, he stayed close.
“sorry,” he murmured. “wasn’t- i mean, it’s not exactly… big. today. but-”
you shook your head, smiling against him.
“it was amazing. thank you, t.”
he studied your face for a second, like he was checking you meant it then he smiled and pulled you closer.
kurt kunkle
he’d text you earlier that morning, something simple and a little awkward, like “hey!! come over today? i have something planned. it’s not a stream thing. promise.” which immediately made you suspicious, because kurt never did anything off camera if he could help it.
so when you showed up, you were half-expecting a tripod set up somewhere, a ring light, maybe even a “birthday special” title waiting to go live.
but when he opened the door, it was just him.
no camera. no setup. just kurt, standing there in one of his own hoodies, hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it too much, smiling in that nervous, lopsided way he always did.
and that alone made you smile.
“hey- hi. you, uh… you look really good” he said quickly, stepping aside to let you in, like he forgot that was the more important part.
the apartment smelled faintly sweet, like syrup, and when you walked into the kitchen you saw why. on the table sat a plate of pancakes, stacked a little unevenly, with a wobbly smiley face drawn in syrup that looked like it had taken a lot of effort and still didn’t quite cooperate.
next to it was a gift bag.
with a unicorn on it.
you couldn’t help it, you laughed, soft and surprised, and when you turned back to him he looked both embarrassed and hopeful at the same time.
“they didn’t have- i mean, they had other bags, but this one was… like, brighter? and i thought you’d- yeah” he rambled, rubbing the back of his neck.
before you could say anything, he stepped forward and pulled you into a tight hug, a little too tight, like he’d been waiting to do it all day. he pressed a quick, messy kiss to your lips right after, a little off-angle, a little rushed.
“happy birthday, baby. i love you.”
“i love you too” you murmured, still smiling, and you could feel the way he relaxed just a little at that.
he nudged the gift bag toward you like he couldn’t wait any longer. “okay- open it”
inside was, of course, his merch.
but it was in your favourite colour, neatly folded like he’d actually tried, and tucked under it was a gift card to your favourite restaurant, the one you’d mentioned once, casually, weeks ago.
you looked up at him, a little softer this time.
“you remembered.”
“yeah, well… i- i write stuff down” he admitted quickly, like it wasn’t a big deal, even though it clearly was.
you leaned forward and kissed him, slower this time, deliberate. he made a small surprised sound against your lips before kissing you back just as messily as before, hands unsure but eager where they settled on your waist.
“thank you” you whispered.
he ducked his head a little, smiling.
the two of you sat down and shared the pancakes, and he watched you take the first bite like it was some kind of final exam.
“they’re good” you said, laughing a little.
“really?” his eyes lit up immediately. “okay, good, because the first batch was, like, really bad.”
after a while, he nudged the shirt toward you. “you should try it on. just to- like, see if it fits. for quality control.”
you rolled your eyes, but stood anyway, slipping it on over what you were wearing.
it fit perfectly.
when you turned back to him, he froze for a second, then very obviously tried to act normal and failed.
you laughed.
“kurt.”
“i- i’m normal. this is a normal reaction. it’s, yeah,” he said, smiling nervously, looking anywhere but directly at you.
you stepped closer, bumping your shoulder into his. “you’re so weird.”
“you like it” he shot back, a little more confident now.
“i do.”
later, he took you out.
he insisted on going into town first, and before you even knew where you were heading, he was pulling you toward a photo booth like it was the most important stop of the day.
“it’s- it’s a thing. couples do this” he said, already digging for coins.
inside the cramped booth, he got even more awkward, trying to figure out where to put his hands, how to smile, glancing at the camera like it might judge him.
the pictures came out slightly chaotic. one of you laughing, one where he blinked, one where he was clearly mid-sentence.
and the last one, he kissed you. soft, quick, but real. he stared at that strip for a second longer than the others, then, of course, took a picture of it on his phone.
you didn’t even have to ask.
“don’t” you warned lightly.
he was already typing.
“too lat,” he said, showing you the post: My worlds birthday 😍
you groaned, but you were smiling.
-
the park was quieter.
he’d set up a small picnic, nothing overly fancy, but thoughtful. your favourite snacks, a blanket, drinks he knew you liked.
“you said you liked this. picnics. so… i did one” he explained, like it needed justification.
it didn’t.
you sat together, talking, eating, the afternoon stretching easy and warm around you. at some point, he reached into his bag again, a little more hesitant this time.
“okay, this one- this one’s like… i don’t know if it’s too much or-”
he pulled out a small charm bracelet.
your expression softened immediately.
“kurt…”
“i did a bunch of pr stuff to afford it,” he rushed to explain. “like, extra. more than usual. i saw something like it on your pinterest and i wanted to get you something, something special.”
that hit harder than anything else he’d done that day. you wrapped your arms around him without thinking, hugging him tight.
“it’s perfect.”
he let out a small breath against your shoulder, like he’d been holding it.
later, he leaned back against a tree, and you settled in front of him, your back against his chest, his arms wrapped loosely around you.
he kept pressing small kisses to your cheek, your temple, your jaw, soft, absent-minded, like he couldn’t help it.
for once, he wasn’t talking.
he’d actually made the whole day about you and he’d done it right.
“as a reward,” you said eventually, tilting your head back slightly to look at him, “i’ll join your stream later.”
he blinked. “what? baby, it’s your birthday. you don’t have to do anything for me.”
“i want to,” you said simply. “we can play minecraft.”
his expression softened in a way you didn’t see often.
“are you sure?”
“i’m sure.”
you paused, then added, “if you also play animal crossing with me.”
he laughed softly, almost breathless. “yes. baby, anything.”
then, like he couldn’t help himself, “i’m also- i’m saving up for the new tomodachi thing? so we can stream that. i think people would really-”
you just smiled, letting his voice fade into the background as you sank back into him, warm and steady and real.
hiii i just saw your recent post and i don’t know if this is what you meant but could i request like girldad!gator x reader and just head canons and stuff
maybe there’s some headcanons about how he’d act if people kept pressing reader to do certain stuff to have a boy (like how people say missionary is the best position if you want a boy)
gator - the girl dad!
gator tillman x reader
sooo cute ! below the cut r some lil headcannons then that last scenario too :)) - xo val
word count: 1.2k
gator was protective of you before your daughter came along, sure, but once he held that tiny little girl in his arms for the first time, something in him changed so deeply it was almost frightening to witness. it wasn’t louder protection, not exactly. it was quieter, steadier.
suddenly every door was checked twice before bed. every horse in the stable was watched carefully if your little girl wanted to pet one. every sharp edge in the house got covered, every cabinet locked, every stranger looked at twice as hard. and with you, god, with you he became almost ridiculous. if you were holding the baby and looked even a little tired, he was there. if you sighed, he was there. if you so much as rubbed your neck, he was behind you, big rough hands working out the ache before you even asked. because now you weren’t just his girl you were the mother of his little girl, and in his mind that made you damn near sacred.
finding out he was going to be a father terrified him in a way nothing else ever had, because somewhere deep down lived that scared little boy who had grown up under a hard man’s shadow, and he was convinced for months that cruelty lived in his blood.
he’d lie awake at night with his hand spread over your stomach and stare into the dark, thinking thoughts he’d never say out loud. what if i ruin her? what if i become him? what if i don’t know how to love right? but then your daughter was born, tiny fingers curling around one of his, and every ugly fear cracked clean in half. because what came naturally to him with her wasn’t hardness, it was gentleness. awe. he talked softer to her than he talked to anyone. smiled more. laughed easier. let her put glitter clips in his hair, let her smear sticky little hands over his face, let her climb him like he was a mountain. he became the father he never had without even realising he was doing it.
and the thing is, he is still gator. dramatic as hell. stubborn beyond reason. prideful. if he’s in a mood, everybody knows it. he sulks like a child when you call him out. gets that tight jaw, folds his arms, acts like the whole world is against him because you told him he cannot teach your five-year-old how to spit sunflower seeds off the porch railing. he’ll mutter under his breath for an hour like he’s the victim of some great injustice. but then, because he genuinely cannot stand being on bad terms with you, he comes back soft. always soft for you. maybe it’s flowers he absolutely pretends he did not stop to buy. maybe it’s fixing that thing in the house you mentioned once in passing. maybe it’s silently wrapping his arms around your waist from behind while you cook, burying his face in your neck, rough voice low when he mutters, “still mad at me, baby?” and when you laugh and roll your eyes, he kisses your shoulder like he’s thanking god you’re his. because for all his big-man bravado, he worships the ground you walk on. everybody can see it.
with your daughter, he’s somehow even softer. impossibly so. he carries her when she’s perfectly capable of walking because he likes feeling her little arms around his neck. lets her nap sprawled on his chest while he sits motionless for hours because he doesn’t wanna wake her. learns how to braid hair, badly at first, crooked little braids that make you laugh, then secretly practices until he gets good because he wants to be able to do it right for her. he’s the dad sitting front row at every little school thing, looking way too intense for a room full of children in paper crowns, but clapping the loudest when she waves from stage. and if anybody makes her cry? lord help them. but when she’s crying in his arms, his voice goes syrup-soft, forehead pressed to hers, whispering, “hey now, daddy’s got you. ain’t nothin in this world gettin to my girl. not while i’m breathin.” and he means it with every part of him.
ʚଓ ʚଓ ʚଓ ʚଓ
the ranch was loud that day. boots on wood floors, men talking too big, women gathered in little circles speaking low, kids running wild through open fields with grass stains on their knees and sun on their faces. the whole place smelled like horses, smoke, and summer heat settling heavy over everything.
you were standing near one of the fence lines, half watching your daughter while she sat on a hay bale with gator crouched in front of her, his big hands carefully helping her tie a little ribbon around the neck of a barn kitten she’d become obsessed with. his tongue poked at the inside of his cheek in concentration while your daughter giggled every time his thick fingers fumbled.
it made your chest ache, watching them.
then came one of the older tillman men, one of those relatives that always seemed to appear out of nowhere, smelling like tobacco and old opinions.
he planted himself beside you, arms folded over his chest, eyes fixed somewhere out toward the fields.
“pretty little thing y’all got there” he said.
you smiled politely. “she is.”
he nodded once, then leaned closer like he was letting you in on some great secret.
“course, next time around, oughta try for a boy.”
your smile tightened.
“oh?”
“family needs sons,” he said plainly, like it was fact carved into stone. “heard there’s ways to better your chances. right position, right timing. missionary’s supposed to-”
“the fuck did you just say?”
the voice came sharp as a gunshot.
you turned.
gator was there now, having risen from where he’d been helping your daughter, his whole body gone stiff with quiet fury, not loud anger, somehow worse, eyes flat and dangerous.
your daughter was tucked safely on his hip, one little hand holding his shirt collar, completely unaware.
he stepped closer, gaze never leaving his uncle.
then softer, to you-
“go on, baby. take her inside f' me.”
you frowned, confused by the steel in his voice, but there was something in his face that made you obey. you kissed your daughter’s cheek, squeezed gator’s arm once, and walked toward the house, slow enough to still hear.
his uncle raised both hands.
“now son, i was just sayin’-”
gator got right in his space.
“if ya ever talk to my wife ‘bout sex positions again,” he said, voice low and viciously calm, “i swear to god-”
“no, son, i just meant- for a boy, y’know, family line and-”
gator shook his head, jaw tight.
“listen real close.”
he jabbed one finger hard into the older man’s chest.
“me n’ my girls are just fine.”
another push.
“if we have a boy someday, we have one.”
another.
“if we don’t, we don’t.”
his eyes went dark.
“you stay the fuck outta what happens in my marriage, and you sure as hell stay outta speakin’ on my daughter like she ain’t enough.”
silence, thick and stunned. then gator stepped back, adjusted his hat, and walked off like it was done.
later, when he found you, he wrapped both arms around your waist from behind and buried his face in your shoulder, holding you tight like he needed the reminder of you.
voice rough, quieter now,
“they ain’t ever gonna make my girl feel less than for bein’ born a girl. not while i’m here.”
then he kissed your temple, and softer still, “not you either.”
that was gator. rough hands, sharp edges, storm in his bones, but for his girls?
hi! i requested the gator fic u asked about. i was thinking canon, but it’s totally up to you! whatever you’re most comfortable with :) 💌
SMALL TOWN
gator tillman x reader
desc- after coming back to the town you grew up in, you hear someone you went to highschool with is in jail? and blind? what could go wrong with visiting him
val speaks - hii thanku for the request lovely! hope u love☺️ also idk why but small detail readers dad is called parker?? dk where i got that from lol
the town looked smaller than you remembered.
maybe it was because you’d spent the last four years in a city where the buildings blocked the sky and nobody knew your name. maybe it was because when you left, you swore you wouldn’t come back unless you had to.
but there you were anyway.
the library still smelled the same. old paper, dust, that faint plastic scent from the computers that had probably been there since 2009. you stood behind the front desk with a stack of returned books and tried to ignore the feeling that the town was watching you settle back into place.
“good to have you back,” mrs. langley had said when she hired you two weeks ago. “smart girl like you shouldn’t stay gone forever.”
you weren’t sure if that was a compliment or just the way small towns talked.
most days were quiet. kids after school. a couple retirees reading newspapers. sometimes someone would come in asking about the old records or genealogy files.
sometimes they’d recognise you.
“you’re parker's daughter, right? the one that went off to college?”
you’d smile and say yes.
nobody mentioned high school much. which you appreciated.
because high school here had been… its own ecosystem.
you’d been the quiet one. the girl with the good grades and the scholarship posters taped to the guidance counselor’s wall. people copied your homework sometimes but never really talked to you otherwise.
and then there were the popular kids.
football games. trucks in the parking lot. parties you heard about but never got invited to.
he’d been one of them.
gator tillman.
you mostly remembered the noise around him. loud laughter in hallways. the way people moved out of his way without even realising they were doing it. he had that kind of gravity back then, just like his dad.
you shared exactly one class sophomore year. american history.
he sat in the back and tapped his pen against the desk like he was bored with everything on earth. once he’d asked to borrow a pencil from you. you’d slid one back without turning around.
“thanks” he’d said.
that had been the whole interaction.
after that you just existed in the same building for a couple more years until graduation came and everyone scattered.
you left for college.
he stayed.
that was the last you’d really thought about him.
until today.
it happened around closing time.
two regulars were sitting near the computers whispering in the way people do when they want to be overheard.
you weren’t paying attention at first. you were checking in books, scanning barcodes, the soft beep filling the quiet room.
then you heard the name.
“tillman?”
your hand paused over the scanner.
“yeah, they’ve had him locked up for a couple years now” one of them said.
“the son?”
“mmhm. whole mess with the father and everything. fbi dealt with it for a while.”
the other person lowered their voice even more, which of course made you listen harder.
“heard he’s blind”
there was a short silence.
“bandages over his eyes still and everything. terrible business.”
the scanner beeped again under your fingers but you didn’t remember moving the book.
blind.
for a moment the name from high school didn’t match the image your brain tried to build.
gator had always been movement. loud boots in hallways, careless smirks, leaning back in chairs like he owned the room.
blind didn’t fit.
you finished closing the library on autopilot. lights off. doors locked. keys in your bag.
the sky outside had already gone dark.
your house sat on the edge of town, the same place you’d grown up in. your parents had moved to arizona last year, chasing warmer winters, which meant the place was yours now.
it felt strange living there alone.
the kitchen light hummed softly while you made tea. the window over the sink looked out toward the road and the empty fields beyond it.
the town went quiet early. by nine o’clock there were barely any headlights passing by.
you sat at the table with your mug and tried not to think about what you’d heard.
but small towns had a way of circling back.
memories started filling the silence.
the history classroom.
the scrape of chairs.
the sound of that pen tapping behind you.
you remembered something else too, though it was small.
one day after class you’d dropped your notebook in the hallway. papers everywhere.
most people had just stepped around it.
he hadn’t.
you’d looked up and seen his boots first, then him crouching down to pick up a couple pages.
“here” he’d said, handing them over.
you’d muttered thanks and hurried away because you didn’t really know what else to do.
it hadn’t meant anything.
probably he didn’t even remember it.
still.
you stared into your tea until it went cold.
blind.
in jail.
the words didn’t sit right in your chest. not exactly sympathy, not exactly curiosity either. just… something unsettled.
you told yourself it wasn’t your business.
you hadn’t talked to him in years.
hell, you’d barely talked to him at all.
but the town was small. stories like this didn’t stay distant. they crept into everyday conversation until suddenly everyone had an opinion about a person they hadn’t seen in a decade.
you didn’t like that idea.
the clock on the wall ticked past midnight.
you tried reading for a while. that didn’t work.
then you tried watching tv. also useless.
eventually you ended up sitting on the couch in the dark, listening to the quiet house breathe around you.
your brain kept circling back to the same thought.
he was probably alone.
jail in this county wasn’t big. a handful of cells, the fluorescent lights that never really turned off, the echo of footsteps in the hallway.
and if what they said was true…
bandages over his eyes.
you rubbed a hand over your face.
this was ridiculous.
you stood up and paced the living room once, twice.
“it’s not like you know him” you muttered to the empty room.
still.
morning would come. the library didn’t open until ten.
visiting hours at the jail started earlier than that.
you stopped pacing.
the decision slid into place quietly, like it had been waiting all night.
“fine” you said under your breath.
tomorrow you’d go.
just once.
just to see.
-
the jail looked exactly how you expected it to.
low brick building. two patrol cars outside. a flag that creaked softly in the wind.
you sat in your car for a minute before going in, fingers resting on the steering wheel. now that you were actually here the whole idea felt… a little strange.
you barely knew him.
but you’d already come this far.
inside, the air smelled like disinfectant and old coffee. a deputy at the desk asked your name, who you were visiting, then gave you a look you couldn’t quite read when you said it.
“wait over there.”
you nodded and sat in the plastic chair by the wall.
your knee bounced without you meaning it to.
after a few minutes the deputy returned and gestured down the hallway.
“ten minutes.”
you stood, heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest, and followed him.
the room they brought you to was small. metal table bolted to the floor. two chairs.
you barely had time to sit before the door on the other side opened.
he stepped in with another officer guiding him by the arm.
for a second your brain struggled to match the person in front of you with the guy you remembered.
his hair was shorter. his shoulders still broad but slouched now, like the weight of the room pressed down on them. and wrapped around his eyes were thick white bandages.
your chest tightened.
the officer helped him sit before leaving the room.
the door shut.
silence.
gator tilted his head slightly, listening. his hands rested on the table, fingers twitching once like he wasn’t sure where to put them.
“who’s there” he said flatly.
his voice was the same.
a little rough. a little bored sounding.
you cleared your throat.
“hi.”
he frowned immediately.
“that ain’t very helpful.”
you almost laughed out of nerves.
“sorry. um… it’s-”
you said your name.
there was a pause.
long enough that you wondered if he remembered you at all.
then he leaned back slightly in the chair.
“…from school?”
“yeah.”
another pause.
“huh.”
he rubbed his thumb along the edge of the table, thinking.
“what’re you doin here.”
not angry exactly.
just confused.
you shifted in your seat.
“i know it’s weird,” you said quickly. “i just… heard about you yesterday.”
his shoulders stiffened.
“heard what.”
the words came out sharper.
you hesitated.
“at the library. some people were talking.”
his jaw tightened a little.
even without seeing his eyes you could tell the moment something in him closed off.
“still?” he muttered.
you rushed a little.
“i didn’t mean to overhear or anything. it just sort of happened and then i-”
you stopped, suddenly aware of how strange this sounded.
“i guess i just… wanted to see you.”
the room went quiet again.
gator leaned back further in the chair, head tilted slightly toward the ceiling like he was thinking through something he didn’t want to deal with.
“well” he said after a second, voice dry. “congrats.”
you blinked.
“on what.”
“you seen me.”
the words had an edge to them. not loud, just… tired.
you felt heat creep up your neck.
“i didn’t mean it like that.”
he shrugged one shoulder.
“sure.”
his fingers tapped once against the table.
you noticed they were scarred up, like they’d healed badly.
“whole town knows it off by heart” he said. “ain’t exactly private.”
you didn’t know what to say to that, so the silence stretched again.
you could hear faint sounds from the hallway outside. a door closing somewhere. someone talking down the corridor.
gator’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
“library, huh,” he said after a moment.
“yeah.”
“figures.”
you weren’t sure if that was an insult or just observation.
“i graduated last year,” you added awkwardly. “moved back a couple weeks ago.”
he nodded once like he’d expected that somehow.
then his hand lifted, gesturing vaguely toward his face.
“so,” he said. “bet that was the real shocker.”
your stomach twisted.
“i wasn’t-”
“don’t worry about it,” he cut in. “everyone likes a good story.”
his voice had gone colder, not directed at you exactly, more like he was talking to the air.
still, the tension in the room made your chest feel tight.
you pushed your chair back slightly.
“i should probably go” you said quietly.
gator’s head turned a little in your direction.
you stood, brushing your hands against your jeans.
“i didn’t come here to make things worse,” you added. “i just-”
you stopped yourself.
it didn’t matter.
“sorry.”
you turned toward the door.
your hand had just reached the handle when his chair scraped sharply against the floor.
“wait”
you paused.
turned back.
he was half standing now, one hand on the table like he’d moved too fast and wasn’t sure where the edge was.
his head tilted toward you again.
for a second he didn’t say anything.
like the words were stuck somewhere in his throat.
then, quieter than before,
“…thanks.”
the word came out rough.
you blinked.
“for what?”
he shrugged slightly.
“comin.”
it clearly cost him something to say it, you could hear it in the way the word dragged a little at the end.
you gave a small nod even though he couldn’t see it.
“yeah” you said softly.
a second passed.
“bye, gator.”
he didn’t answer.
but his shoulders relaxed just a fraction.
you slipped out of the room.
the air outside the jail felt colder somehow.
you sat in your car for a minute again before starting it.
your brain kept replaying the conversation in pieces.
the way he’d stiffened when you mentioned hearing about him, the sharpness in his voice and that quiet, awkward thank you at the end.
you didn’t know what you expected when you came here.
closure maybe.
curiosity satisfied.
instead you just felt… strange.
like you’d opened a door into something complicated and then walked away before understanding it.
the library was quiet when you got there.
mrs. langley was in the back office and waved when you came in.
“morning!”
“morning.”
you settled behind the desk and started checking in the return bin, but your mind kept drifting.
to the bandages around his eyes.
to the way he’d said thanks like it physically hurt.
and sometime around mid-morning you realised something mildly inconvenient.
gator tillman had somehow lodged himself in your thoughts.
and didn’t seem particularly interested in leaving.
-
you tried to focus on work after that first visit. the library stayed quiet most days, a few kids wandering in after school, older men reading newspapers near the window, someone asking where the local history section was. normal things. routine things.
but your brain kept drifting.
every time the door chimed open, every time you stacked returned books or scanned barcodes, your mind slid back to that small room in the jail. the metal table. the quiet hum of the lights. the way gator had said thank you like the word had scraped its way out of him.
you didn’t really understand why it stuck with you.
still, a couple days later you found yourself sitting in your car outside the jail again, staring at the building like maybe it would give you a reason to leave.
it didn’t.
so eventually you got out.
the deputy at the front desk recognised you this time. he didn’t comment on it, just nodded and told you to sit in the plastic chair near the wall. after a few minutes he came back and led you down the same hallway as before.
the visiting room looked exactly the same.
you sat down and waited.
a minute later the door opened.
gator stepped in, guided by the officer like last time, but something about him was different. you noticed it almost immediately. when he sat down across from you, the corner of his mouth tilted upward slightly, not a full smile, but something close. a small smirk.
the officer left the room.
gator tilted his head in your direction almost instantly.
“hi.”
you blinked in surprise. “hi.”
for a moment you just stared at him before asking, “how’d you know it was me?”
the smirk shifted a little wider.
“nobody else visits me, darlin.”
the words were casual, almost joking, but they still landed heavier than he probably meant them to. you shifted in your chair, suddenly unsure what to say to that.
“oh” you said quietly.
he leaned back in the chair, arms resting loosely on the table. “so,” he added, voice still edged with that lazy sarcasm, “you back for round two?”
“i guess so.”
“couldn’t stay away?”
you huffed softly. “don’t flatter yourself.”
a quiet breath left him, maybe a laugh, and the room fell into that same awkward silence as before. you realised, once again, that you hadn’t actually planned what you were going to say.
“i brought news” you said eventually.
his head tilted slightly. “news?”
“yeah. figured you probably don’t get many updates in here.”
he shrugged one shoulder. “not really.”
so you started talking.
at first it felt strange. you told him about little things, the library getting a shipment of new books, mrs. langley complaining about the copy machine again, the high school football team losing their first game of the season. nothing important, just bits of the outside world.
gator mostly listened.
sometimes he muttered something dry in response. “figures,” or “that machine was busted ten years ago.” sometimes he just sat there quietly, his thumb rubbing along the edge of the table like he was focusing on the sound of your voice.
he still had that sharpness in his tone sometimes. that standoffish edge like he wasn’t fully sure what to do with you being there. but he never told you to leave.
and when your time was up, he said, “see ya.”
which felt like progress.
the next visit happened a few days later.
this time, when he sat down, he leaned forward on his elbows like he’d already settled into the routine. “alright,” he said, “what’s the outside world got for me today?”
you raised an eyebrow. “impatient?”
“bored.”
so you told him more things.
about a woman who tried to return a library book that had been overdue since 2014. about the diner downtown changing owners. about how the town council had spent an entire meeting arguing about whether the park benches needed replacing.
he listened to everything. sometimes he interrupted with sarcastic comments, sometimes he just sat there quietly, but whenever you paused for too long he’d say something like, “go on” like he didn’t want the conversation to stop.
the visits stayed short, but they started happening regularly.
once or twice a week for a little.
then a bit more.
each time you came in, gator seemed to relax a little faster once he realised it was you. you started noticing small things, the way he turned his head toward the door whenever footsteps approached in the hallway, or how he’d already have something half sarcastic ready to say the second he sat down.
one afternoon you walked in and the first thing he said was, “you’re late.”
you glanced at the clock. “by two minutes.”
“still late.”
but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when he said it.
you didn’t comment on it.
but you noticed.
weeks passed like that. small conversations, bits of gossip from town, quiet moments where he just listened while you talked about completely ordinary things.
slowly, without either of you acknowledging it out loud, the visits became normal.
expected.
then one day you didn’t show up.
the library called you in early because one of the staff members was sick. the morning turned into a rush of sorting books, helping kids with school projects, fixing the printer twice, and by the time the day finally slowed down you glanced at the clock and realised visiting hours were already over.
you felt strangely guilty about it.
which didn’t make much sense.
he wasn’t expecting you.
probably.
still, the next day you went to the jail after work.
when the officer brought him into the room, gator sat down and immediately turned his head toward you.
“where were you yesterday.”
you paused halfway into your chair.
his voice wasn’t teasing this time. it sounded tight.
“i had to work” you said carefully.
he frowned. “you always work.”
“i got called in early,” you explained. “someone was sick. i couldn’t make it.”
you rubbed the back of your neck. “sorry.”
he leaned back in the chair slowly, shoulders settling against the metal. for a second his expression shifted into something you hadn’t seen from him before, something quieter.
“…oh,” he muttered.
it wasn’t anger.
it was closer to sadness.
the realisation made something in your chest tighten.
“i didn’t think you’d notice,” you said gently.
he scoffed under his breath. “ain’t much else to keep track of in here.”
you hesitated before adding softly, “i didn’t skip on purpose.”
he was quiet for a moment after that. then his shoulders loosened slightly, and the tension in his voice faded.
“…yeah” he said.
another small pause passed before he leaned forward again, resting his arms on the table.
“so,” he added, his voice a little rougher than usual, “what’d i miss.”
and in that moment it became very obvious.
gator tillman was actually starting to look forward to your visits.
and somehow, without planning it, without really understanding how it happened ,you’d become one of the only things he had to look forward to at all.
the visits started feeling… easier after that.
not at first all at once, but slowly. like something in gator had stopped fighting the fact that you kept showing up.
he still had the sharp edge in his voice sometimes, still tossed out sarcastic comments like they were second nature, but the tension that had filled the room during those first visits wasn’t there anymore. now when he sat down across from you, his shoulders were looser. his posture more relaxed.
and sometimes he talked first.
which had definitely not been happening before.
one afternoon he walked in, sat down, and said, “alright. what disaster’s the town got goin on today.”
you laughed quietly. “disaster?”
“somethin’s always wrong in a place this small.”
“well,” you said, settling into the chair, “mrs. langley locked herself out of the supply closet again.”
he snorted.
“third time this month.”
“woman should not be in charge of keys.”
you spent a while telling him about that. about the argument between two old men over a newspaper. about a kid who tried to check out six dinosaur books at once.
he listened like he always did now, head angled toward your voice, thumb brushing along the table.
but this time, after you finished talking, he stayed quiet for a moment.
then he said something you hadn’t expected.
“used to hate this town.”
you blinked slightly.
“yeah?”
“yeah.”
he leaned back a little in his chair.
“felt like everyone knew everyone’s business. couldn’t breathe without someone hearin about it.”
you smiled faintly. “still kinda like that.”
“mm.”
he rubbed the side of his thumb against the table again.
“funny thing though.”
you waited.
“…now it’s kinda nice hearin about it.”
you didn’t say anything for a second.
because you realised what he meant.
your visits.
the small stories you brought with you.
the outside world.
he cleared his throat a little after the silence stretched.
“not much else to look forward to in here,” he added casually.
but the words sat between you.
you felt something warm settle quietly in your chest.
another day you were halfway through telling him about the library ordering new computers when he interrupted suddenly.
“wonder what you look like now.”
you paused mid sentence.
“…what?”
he shifted slightly in his chair.
“you.”
you blinked, confused.
“what about me?”
“how different.”
he shrugged a little.
“from high school.”
you thought about it for a second.
“um… i don’t know.”
“c’mon.”
you laughed awkwardly.
“well… my hair’s longer now, i guess. it was like shoulder length back then. now it’s… longer”
he nodded slowly like he was picturing it.
“what colour is it?”
you smiled a little.
“you don’t remember?”
“you coulda’ changed it”
“it’s the same color” you said.
he hummed quietly.
then he said, almost absentmindedly,
“still pretty then.”
your brain stalled.
“what?”
he shrugged again.
“you were.”
your face warmed slightly.
“wish i could see you,” he added.
the sentence came out softer than usual.
and suddenly the room felt heavier.
because you could hear something in his voice that hadn’t been there before.
sadness.
like the thought had slipped out before he could stop it.
without really thinking about it, you reached forward across the table.
your hand rested gently over his.
gator froze.
completely still.
like he wasn’t sure what had just happened.
for a second you panicked and started pulling your hand back.
“sorry i-”
before you could finish the sentence, his fingers closed around yours.
not tight.
just enough to stop you from leaving.
you went still.
he held your hand like he was trying to process the feeling of it.
his thumb shifted slightly against the back of your hand.
“don’t” he muttered quietly.
you didn’t move.
the moment stretched between you, quiet and warm and a little fragile.
his shoulders had relaxed again, but his hand stayed around yours.
like he didn’t want to let go yet.
and for the first time since you’d started coming here, the room didn’t feel like a jail at all
-
by the time the visits had become more of a regular routine, the walk through the jail didn’t make you nervous anymore.
the first few times you had come here, the place had felt heavy. every door that shut behind you had made your chest tighten a little. the fluorescent lights, the echo of footsteps in the hall, the quiet conversations between deputies, it had all made you feel like you didn’t quite belong there.
now it just felt like somewhere you went.
the deputy at the desk nodded when you signed in, and another guard led you down the hallway toward the visiting room. you were halfway there when one of the guards walking past slowed slightly when he noticed you.
“you’re the one that visits tillman, right?”
you paused for a second, a little surprised.
“yeah,” you said.
the guard gave a small nod, like he’d been confirming something to himself.
“figured.”
you tilted your head slightly. “why?”
he hesitated for a moment before answering, but there was a small smile on his face.
“his behavior improved a lot after you started coming around.”
you blinked. “what?”
“every year before you he kept to himself mostly. didn’t talk much. got into a couple arguments with other guys.” the guard shrugged. “nothing major, but still.”
he glanced down the hallway toward the visiting room.
“after you started visiting though? whole different story. calmer. actually listens now. even cracks a joke sometimes.”
the words made something warm bloom in your chest.
“really?”
“yeah,” he said with a small chuckle. “so… thanks.”
you didn’t really know what to say to that. you just smiled a little, feeling strangely shy about it.
“i didn’t do anything.”
“you showed up” he replied simply.
then he gestured toward the room. “he’s already waiting.”
you nodded and walked the rest of the way down the hallway, your thoughts a little quieter than usual.
gator was already sitting at the table when you walked in.
his head turned toward the door almost immediately, like he had been listening for the sound of your footsteps.
“that you?”
“who else would it be?” you said, closing the door behind you.
“could be anyone.”
“yet you guessed right.”
a small grin tugged at his mouth as you sat down across from him.
“lucky guess.”
you studied him for a second.
there was something different about him these days. it wasn’t just the way he spoke or the way his shoulders seemed less tense. there were moments now where pieces of the person he could’ve been without everything that happened, slipped through.
little flashes of real humor. the kind that didn’t feel sharp or defensive.
and the more you saw those moments, the harder it became not to like him.
“i can tell you’re smiling. what about?” he asked suddenly.
you hadn’t realised you were.
“nothing.”
“that’s suspicious.”
“i’m just thinking.”
“dangerous”
you laughed softly.
“you’re one to talk.”
“hey,” he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, “i do a lot of thinking in here.”
“do you?”
“yeah.”
he paused for a second.
“…mostly about how boring it is.”
you snorted.
“sounds about right.”
“that why you keep comin back?” he asked. “to entertain me?”
“maybe.”
“generous of you.”
the conversation flowed easily after that. you told him about the library getting a donation of old books that smelled like someone’s attic. he made a comment about how the town probably hadn’t bought new books since the early 2000s. you told him about a kid who tried to convince you his mother was a butterfly.
he laughed at that one.
actually laughed.
the sound caught you off guard enough that you stopped mid sentence.
“what?” he asked.
“nothing,” you said quickly, though you were still smiling.
it just felt good hearing it.
over time, the visits started stretching to the very end of the allowed time without either of you noticing. the guard would knock on the door and both of you would jump a little, surprised it had passed so quickly.
one afternoon, when the conversation paused for a second, gator tilted his head slightly in your direction.
“you’re funny, you know.”
you blinked. “what?”
“funny.”
“i heard you.”
“just sayin.”
you rolled your eyes a little.
“that might be the first nice thing you’ve ever said to me.”
“not true.”
“name another one.”
he thought about it for a moment.
“…you’ve got nice hands.”
you stared at him.
“that’s your example?”
“workin with limited information here,” he said dryly pointing to his face.
you couldn’t help laughing again.
the truth was, somewhere along the way, the visits had stopped feeling like something you were doing out of curiosity or kindness.
you had started looking forward to them.
you caught yourself thinking about what you were going to tell him that day while you were shelving books at work. sometimes you’d notice something small around town and immediately think i should tell gator about that.
and the more time you spent with him, the more you saw pieces of someone different than the boy everyone remembered from high school.
there was humour there. dry, a little rough, but real.
there was quiet honesty too, in the moments where he forgot to guard his words.
and slowly, without you realising when exactly it happened, the feeling in your chest when you thought about him started changing into something warmer.
something softer.
something that felt a lot like falling.
one afternoon, after you had been talking for almost the whole visit, the conversation paused and gator shifted his hand slightly on the table.
his fingers brushed yours without either of you meaning them to.
for a second neither of you moved.
then his hand settled there.
not grabbing.
just resting against yours.
“you comin back tomorrow?” he asked after a moment.
you smiled a little.
“probably.”
he nodded slowly.
“good.”
and for the rest of the afternoon, that quiet warmth stayed with you long after you left the jail.
-
the visits started to feel different after that.
not in a big obvious way. nothing you could point to and say that’s when it changed. it was just… small things.
little shifts in the way you talked to each other, like the way your hands were resting on the table like usual and at some point during the conversation, his fingers brushed yours.
neither of you moved away.
a few weeks ago that probably would’ve made you nervous. now it just felt natural.
his hand shifted slightly, his fingers resting loosely over yours like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“you blush a lot” he said suddenly.
your head snapped up.
“…what?”
“i can hear it.”
“you cannot hear blushing.”
“sure i can.”
“that’s not a real thing.”
he gave a small shrug.
“feels real.”
you rolled your eyes even though you were smiling.
the flirting wasn’t obvious. if anyone else had been sitting in that room they probably wouldn’t have even noticed it.
but you felt it.
in the pauses between sentences. in the way his voice softened sometimes when he said your name. in the quiet moments where neither of you felt the need to fill the silence.
and the more time passed, the more those moments stacked up.
until one afternoon, a few weeks later, the conversation slowed to a stop.
gator’s hand was already resting over yours. you could feel the slight tension in his fingers like he was thinking about something.
finally he spoke.
“can i tell you somethin?”
“of course.”
he hesitated for a second.
that alone made your stomach flip a little. gator didn’t usually hesitate.
“i like you” he said simply.
your brain stalled.
completely.
for a moment you just stared at him, not saying anything.
he must’ve noticed the silence because he let out a small breath through his nose.
“don’t… worry about it,” he added quickly, his voice turning a little rougher. “not like anything’s gotta come from it.”
you opened your mouth but nothing came out yet.
“i know the situation’s kinda…” he gestured vaguely with his free hand. “not ideal.”
you still hadn’t said anything.
he kept going, quieter now.
“i’m in here. blind. not exactly bringin a lot to the table.” he let out a short humourless laugh. “so it’s not like i’m expectin anything. i just figured you should know.”
your chest tightened a little hearing that.
“gator-”
“you don’t gotta say it back,” he interrupted quickly. “seriously.”
you shook your head even though he couldn’t see it.
“no, that’s not-”
you took a small breath.
“i like you too.”
this time it was his turn to go quiet.
completely still.
“…you do?”
“yes.”
you could feel his hand tighten slightly around yours, like he was making sure you were actually still there.
for a second he didn’t say anything else.
then a small, almost disbelieving smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.
“huh.”
you laughed softly.
“that’s your reaction?”
“i’m processin.”
“take your time.”
he squeezed your hand once, gentle but certain.
months passed like that.
quiet conversations. shared jokes. long stretches of comfortable silence where you just sat there with your hand in his.
until one afternoon, right when the visit was about to end, gator spoke up suddenly.
“hey.”
“yeah?”
“tomorrow,” he said, leaning back slightly in his chair, “don’t come till five.”
you frowned a little.
“five? i usually come earlier.”
“i know.”
“why five?”
he tilted his head slightly toward you, a faint smirk tugging at his mouth.
“you’ll see.”
“that’s not an explanation.”
“best one you’re gettin.”
you stared at him suspiciously.
“gator.”
“what?”
“what are you planning?”
“nothin bad” he said casually.
that somehow made you more nervous.
“should i be worried?”
“probably not.”
“that is not comforting.”
he just laughed quietly.
“five o’clock,” he repeated.
the guard knocked on the door then, signaling the visit was over.
you stood up slowly, still eyeing him.
“you’re being weird.”
“you’ll survive.”
you shook your head but couldn’t stop smiling a little.
“fine. five.”
“good.”
but that night, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, your brain absolutely refused to stop thinking about it.
what on earth was waiting for you at five o’clock tomorrow.
-
the next day dragged.
work felt slower than usual, every clock you passed seeming like it had barely moved since the last time you looked at it. you tried to focus on shelving books, answering questions, helping someone find the history section, but the thought kept circling back.
five o’clock.
you had absolutely no idea what gator meant.
by the time you finally left work, your nerves had settled into this restless kind of anticipation. the drive to the jail felt strangely quiet, like everything around you was holding its breath.
when you pulled into the parking lot, the sun was starting to dip lower in the sky.
you walked toward the entrance the same way you always did, expecting the usual routine. sign in, walk down the hall, wait in the little room.
but before you even reached the doors, you noticed two figures standing near the front of the building.
one of them was a guard.
the other-
you slowed.
gator was standing beside him.
for a second your brain refused to catch up with what you were seeing.
he wasn’t in the visiting room.
he wasn’t behind any doors.
he was outside.
just standing there.
your heart jumped into your throat.
“gator?”
his head turned immediately toward your voice.
even with the cover around his eyes, you could see the faint smile that spread across his face the second he heard you.
and before you could even think about it, you were already moving.
you crossed the distance quickly and wrapped your arms around him.
he stiffened for half a second, clearly surprised by the sudden contact. then he let out a quiet laugh under his breath and his arms came around you, holding you just as tightly.
“hey there” he murmured.
you pulled back just enough to look up at him, your hands still gripping his jacket.
“what’s going on?” you asked, your voice half confused, half breathless. “i thought you still had time left here.”
gator tilted his head slightly, the smile still there.
“turns out good behavior actually means something around here.”
you blinked.
“what?”
“got let out early.”
you looked past him toward the guard standing a few feet away.
it was the same one who had talked to you before.
he met your gaze, gave you a small smile, and nodded once.
the realisation settled over you all at once.
you looked back at gator.
then, without even thinking about it, you pulled him into another hug.
this time he laughed softly, clearly a little less surprised, and hugged you back.
“guess you’re stuck with me now” he said.
“i’m okay with that” you replied quietly.
after a moment you pulled away again, still smiling a little in disbelief.
“come on” you said gently, reaching for his hand. “let’s get you out of here.”
he followed your lead easily as you guided him toward your car.
once he was settled into the passenger seat, you walked around to the driver’s side and got in. for a second you just sat there, hands on the steering wheel.
then it hit you.
you looked over at him.
“wait.”
“what?”
“where do i take you?”
he was quiet for a moment.
the small smile he’d been wearing faded just slightly.
“…honestly?”
“yeah.”
he rubbed the back of his neck, looking a little awkward.
“not really sure.”
that answer made your chest tighten.
you didn’t even hesitate.
“come to my place.”
his head turned toward you again.
“you sure?”
“yeah,” you said simply. “of course.”
after a second he nodded.
“alright.”
the drive was quiet, but not uncomfortable. every now and then he’d ask where you were turning or how far away it was, and you’d answer, guiding him along the way.
when you finally pulled into your driveway, the sky was almost fully dark.
you got out and walked around to his side, helping him step out of the car. his hand stayed lightly on your arm while you guided him up the short path to the front door.
when you opened it, he paused just before stepping inside.
for a moment he just stood there.
then he turned slightly toward you.
“hey,” he said quietly.
“yeah?”
“thank you.”
the words were simple, but the way he said them made your chest ache a little.
“you don’t have to thank me.”
“still will.”
there was a small pause between you.
and then, before you could second guess it, you leaned forward and kissed him.
for half a second he froze.
then he melted into it almost immediately.
his hand found your arm, pulling you a little closer as he kissed you back, soft but certain, like he’d been waiting to do that for a long time.
when you finally pulled back, both of you were smiling.
“…guess that answers that,” he murmured.
you laughed quietly.
“come on,” you said, squeezing his hand. “let’s get you inside.”
you write gator soooooo good and i had the cutest idea. gator and reader are friends and she crotchets/knits him a replica of his old childhood teddy or toy when he mentioned it to her once and showed her a picture of it, maybe like roy threw it away bc boys shouldn’t have stuffed animals and seek comfort from them and when reader gifts it to him he almost cries, no one has ever listened to him before, gifted him something, handmade with love, like omg he’s gonna be like you’re making it very hard not to fall more in love with you😩😩😩😩😩
lumpy dog
gator tillman x reader
val speaks - lil bit of gator this evening yayayaya i loooove soft gator and gator and yes. love u! thanks for requesting <3
you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch with yarn in your lap staring at absolutely nothing. the tv is on but muted. some late afternoon light spills in through the window and makes the yarn look warmer than it is. soft brown. you bought it weeks ago without really knowing why.
you’re supposed to be crocheting something.
that was the plan, anyway.
you just don’t know what.
there’s already a half finished scarf in the basket beside the couch. a lopsided coaster you gave up on. the beginnings of a tiny frog that somehow turned into something that looked more like a green potato with eyes.
you turn the hook between your fingers.
maybe a hat.
maybe-
and then, kind of out of nowhere, you remember a conversation you had with gator.
it was a while back. one of those slow nights where gator had come over late, boots dropped by the door, jacket slung over the back of a chair like he lived there even though he technically didn’t.
you had been sitting on the floor then too, yarn spread around you while you worked on something small.
he’d been watching.
not in a judgey way. more like… curious.
like he didn’t really understand it but he liked seeing you do it.
“so you jus… loop it around like that?” he’d asked, leaning forward a little.
“yeah.”
you showed him again, slower.
he squinted at your hands like you were performing surgery.
“huh.”
you’d smiled a little. “wanna try?”
he laughed under his breath and leaned back against the couch.
“nah. i’d screw that up in about two seconds.”
“you won’t.”
“yeah i would.”
you kept crocheting anyway, hook pulling yarn through the loop.
after a minute he’d said, quieter, “my mom used to have one of those.”
you looked up.
“a crochet hook?”
“nah. a stuffed thing.” he gestured vaguely. “like… some animal. i dunno.”
you waited because you knew there was more coming.
gator rubbed the back of his neck.
“used to sleep with it when i was real little.”
his tone had that casual shrug to it, like it didn’t matter. but it did.
“what happened to it?” you asked.
he huffed a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
“dad threw it out.”
you stopped.
“why?”
gator looked down at the floor for a second, jaw shifting a little.
“said boys shouldn’t be sleepin with stuffed animals.” he shrugged again. “said it was girly.”
the word sat there for a second. you felt your eyebrows pull together automatically.
“that’s stupid.”
he glanced at you, half surprised.
“yeah, well.”
you watched his face carefully.
“did you believe that?”
he didn’t answer right away, instead he leaned over and picked up his phone off the table.
“hold on.”
you heard a couple taps, scrolling.
then he turned the phone toward you.
“this was it.”
it was a picture he’d taken of an old photo. the original looked like it had been in a box somewhere. little kid gator sitting on a bed with messy hair, holding this small stuffed animal that had clearly been loved half to death.
some kind of lumpy dog, one ear a little longer than the other.
you smiled immediately.
“that’s cute.”
he scoffed lightly.
“looks like it got hit by a truck.”
“no it doesn’t.”
“yeah it does.”
you zoomed in.
“it’s adorable.”
gator watched you looking at it.
something in his expression had softened a little then. not fully, he still had that stubborn tilt to his mouth. but he’d said, quieter, “i cried when he threw it out.”
you looked up.
“of course you did.”
he shrugged like he expected you to make fun of him. you didn’t, you just set the phone down and said, “your dad’s kind of a dick.”
gator snorted.
“yeah. tell me somethin i don’t know.”
you nudged his foot with yours.
“little kids are supposed to have comfort things.”
he looked at the yarn in your hands again.
“guess so.”
then, after a second,
“used to think he was right, though.”
you raised an eyebrow.
“about stuffed animals?”
“about… all that.” he gestured vaguely. “bein soft. needin comfort.”
your hook moved through another stitch.
“and now?”
gator looked at you for a long moment in the kind of way that made your chest feel warm.
“now i think he was just mad all the time.”
you smiled a little.
“yeah. sounds like it.”
the memory fades as you sit there on the couch now, hook still idle in your hand. you glance down at the brown yarn. then over at your phone on the table.
after a second you reach for it and scroll back through your messages with him until you find the photo you made him send you.
there it is.
the lumpy little dog.
you look at the yarn again.
and suddenly the idea feels obvious.
“oh” you mumble to yourself.
you grab a lighter beige skein from the basket. then the darker brown.
you prop your phone against the coffee table so you can see the picture.
slowly, piece by piece, the shape starts forming in your hands.
it takes hours.
then days.
a couple times you almost scrap it because the head looks weird or one leg ends up longer than the others.
but you keep going.
because every time you look at the photo you imagine gator’s face when he sees it.
and that’s enough to keep you stitching.
by the end of the week the little dog is sitting on your coffee table.
crooked ear and all.
you pick it up and turn it over in your hands.
it’s not perfect, but it’s close.
close enough that when you hold it next to the photo on your phone, the resemblance makes you grin.
“okay” you whisper.
now you just have to wait for gator to come over.
and somehow not ruin the surprise before then.
-
you hear that familiar low rumble pulling up outside, tires crunching lightly on the gravel. gator's here. your heart does that stupid little jump it always does when he shows up, even though he comes over all the time.
the knock finally comes.
three quick taps.
you hop up and head for the door.
when you open it, there he is, leaning one shoulder against the frame like he’s been there forever already.
the second he sees you his expression softens.
“hey, baby.”
you smile immediately.
“hey.”
you lean forward and kiss him, quick but warm, one hand catching the front of his jacket. he kisses you back easy, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
when you pull away he studies your face for a second.
“what’s that look for?”
“what look?”
he squints a little.
“that one.”
you grab his hand before he can investigate further.
“come here.”
he lets you pull him inside, kicking the door shut behind him with his boot.
“alright…” he says slowly as you drag him toward the couch. “what’re we doin.”
“sit.”
he drops onto the couch with a small grunt, spreading his arms along the back like he always does. still watching you suspiciously.
“you actin weird.”
“i’m not.”
“yeah you are.”
you point at him.
“wait there.”
he snorts.
“where else would i-”
“gator.”
“alright, alright.”
you hurry into the other room before he can ask anything else, grabbing the little crocheted dog from the table where you’d hidden it earlier.
your stomach does a small nervous flip as you bring it back.
he’s still sitting exactly where you left him, long legs stretched out, one hand drumming lightly on his knee.
his eyebrows lift when he sees you.
“what’s that behind your-”
“close your eyes.”
he blinks.
“…why.”
“just do it.”
he leans back a little, skeptical.
“you plannin on punchin me or somethin.”
you cross your arms.
“gator.”
he sighs dramatically but closes his eyes.
“fine. they’re closed.”
you step closer, holding the little dog carefully.
“no peeking.”
“ain’t peekin.”
“promise?”
his mouth twitches.
“why’d ya say that like i’m five.”
you ignore him and gently place the crocheted dog in his hands.
“okay.”
his fingers automatically curl around it.
“you can look.”
he opens his eyes and at first he just stares. his hands shift slightly, turning the little dog over like he’s trying to understand what he’s looking at.
his brows pull together.
“…where’d you get this.”
you watch his face carefully.
“i made it.”
he looks up at you.
then back down at the dog.
his thumb runs slowly over the uneven stitching on the ear. you can literally see the moment it clicks. his shoulders go still.
“wait…”
he turns it again, looking closer now. the crooked ear. the lumpy body. the slightly uneven legs.
his jaw tightens just a little.
“this is-”
you nod softly.
“yeah.”
for a second he doesn’t say anything.
just sits there holding it like it might disappear if he moves too fast.
you watch his expression change in small pieces.
his eyes soften so much it almost hurts to look at.
“you… made this.”
it’s quieter this time.
you nod again.
“i remembered the picture you showed me.”
he swallows.
his fingers tighten a little around the dog’s body.
no one’s ever really listened to him like that before. you can see it all over his face. like the idea that someone actually remembered something he said, something small, something from when he was a kid, doesn’t quite make sense to him yet.
his thumb keeps brushing over the stitching like he’s taking it in piece by piece.
“took a while,” you say softly. “i tried to make it look the same.”
he looks up at you again.
and for a split second you think he might actually cry.
his eyes are shiny.
not full-on tears yet, but close enough that you notice immediately.
you can’t help the small laugh that slips out.
not mean.
just soft.
he exhales through his nose like he’s trying to keep himself together.
“shut up.”
you sit down beside him, smiling, and wrap your arms around him.
he hugs you back instantly.
one arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his chest like he needs to make sure you’re real. you feel him press his face briefly into your hair.
his grip tightens.
you murmur against his jacket, “i know it’s not perfect but-”
“shut up” he says again, softer this time.
you laugh into his shoulder.
after a moment he pulls back just enough to look at you again.
the little dog stays in his lap, one hand still resting protectively over it.
then he reaches up and cups your face with both hands, his thumbs brush lightly along your cheeks. he looks at you like he’s trying to memorise something.
“you’re makin it real hard not to fall more in love with ya”
the words come out a little rough. like he didn’t plan on saying them.
your chest tightens in that warm, dizzy way it always does when he gets honest like that.
you smile.
not tearing up, but close.
“yeah?”
he huffs a quiet laugh.
“yeah.”
you lean forward and kiss him.
when you pull back you hug him again, arms around his middle.
he rests his chin lightly on top of your head.
after a second he mutters,
“that’s some corny bullshit i never thought i’d say.”
you smack his arm lightly.
“hey.”
he glances down at you.
“what.”
“no,” you say, smiling. “that was cute.”
he rolls his eyes a little but you can see the faint pink creeping up the back of his neck.
hi!! I was wondering if you could write a soft gator fic. like they’ve been friends forever since they were kids. so she sees past the douche baggery. they finally end up getting together and she softens him up and makes him feel loved. this is crazy sappy but I’m sending it anyway. I love your fics!!!
SOFT (...hard)
gator tillman x reader
desc - you were the only person gator was ever soft with, and it scared him to admit that was because he loved you. but he did, and you loved him right back
val speaks - ugh i love gator (and u ;) so much i can't. thanku sm for the request! i hope u love what i did with it!
you’d known gator tillman since before either of you really understood what a last name meant in this town. back when summers felt endless and dirt roads were racetracks for rusty bikes, he was just gator. loud, stubborn, always trying a little too hard to look tougher than he was. everyone else saw the sheriff’s kid, the one already learning how to stand like his dad, talk like his dad, glare like his dad. but you saw the pauses in between. the moments when he checked over his shoulder after doing something reckless, like he was waiting to see if someone was proud of him.
most people missed that part. you never did.
when you were kids, he’d show up at your porch with scraped knuckles and act like it didn’t hurt. you’d clean him up anyway, ignoring his complaints while he sat there muttering under his breath. he never said thank you outright, but he always came back the next day. that was gator, never asking for care, just hovering close enough to receive it.
you learned early he wasn’t really like his dad. not underneath it all. the town whispered about the tillmans, about power and fear and doing things the 'right' way, but you’d seen gator cry once when you were twelve after his dad tore into him for losing a baseball game. he’d sworn you to secrecy, eyes red, voice sharp with embarrassment.
“ain’t nothin’, alright? just pissed me off.”
you didn’t argue. you just sat beside him on the tailgate until he stopped sniffling. after that, something settled between you, an understanding neither of you ever talked about.
years passed, and the town didn’t get bigger, just heavier. gator grew into his badge like it was armor, deputy star catching the light whenever he walked into a room. people stepped aside for him now. some out of respect, some out of fear. he played the part well enough. smug grin, sharp words, that restless energy like he always had something to prove.
but with you, the act slipped.
he still leaned against your car like he used to lean against your bike as kids, boots crossed, hat tipped low while he watched you with that familiar almost-smile.
“you still drivin’ this piece a junk?” he’d tease, knocking on the hood.
“you still compensating with that badge?” you’d shoot back.
he’d laugh then. real laughter, not the forced kind he used around other deputies, head tilting back, shoulders loosening. those were the moments you knew were real. the ones nobody else got to see.
somewhere along the way, the teasing turned softer. longer looks. hands brushing just a second too long when he passed you something. neither of you said anything about it, because saying it would mean changing things, and you both pretended you were fine where you were.
except you weren’t.
he started finding excuses to stop by more often. late nights after shifts, exhaustion dragging at his face, uniform wrinkled and eyes tired in a way that had nothing to do with work.
“just needed somewhere quiet” he’d mumble, dropping onto your couch.
you’d hand him a drink, sit beside him, and he’d relax inch by inch until his knee bumped yours and stayed there. he never talked about his dad directly, but you heard it anyway in the way he asked small questions.
“you think folks can… change how people see ’em?”
or
“you ever feel like no matter what you do, it ain’t enough?”
you always answered honestly. always gently. and every time, his shoulders eased like he could finally breathe.
when he finally asked you out, it wasn’t smooth or confident like people expected from deputy tillman. it was awkward, boots scuffing the ground while he avoided eye contact.
“so… uh,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. “reckon maybe we could go out. like… not just hangin’ out. a real date.”
you blinked at him, smiling before you could stop yourself. “you asking me or issuing an order, deputy?”
he huffed a laugh. “c’mon, don’t make it hard on me.”
you said yes before he could second-guess himself.
dating gator felt… easy. surprisingly soft. he still acted cocky in public, arm slung around your shoulders like he had something to prove, but when it was just the two of you, he turned quieter.
one night, sitting in the bed of his truck under a sky full of cold stars, he nudged your shoulder with his.
“y’know,” he said, voice low, “i like it like this. just… us. ain’t gotta be nobody else.”
you glanced at him, surprised by the honesty slipping through.
he caught you looking and immediately smirked, trying to cover it.
but his hand found yours anyway, fingers rough and warm, holding on a little tighter than necessary.
you squeezed back, understanding what he couldn’t say out loud.
because beneath the badge, beneath the attitude, beneath the shadow of his father, gator tillman was still the boy who showed up on your porch hoping someone would see him.
-
gator wasn’t good with love. not in the ways people usually meant it, anyway. it wasn’t cruelty, it was absence. love had never been something handed to him gently, never something soft or safe. growing up, affection came tangled up with expectations, with pressure, with the constant feeling that he had to earn approval and still somehow fell short. so when it came to you, when things turned real between you, he didn’t always know what to do with it.
sometimes he’d go quiet after you said something sweet, like the words hit him wrong simply because he didn’t know where to put them. sometimes compliments made him shrug or joke them away, discomfort flashing across his face before he could hide it. he wasn’t dismissing you, he just didn’t understand why someone would look at him like that. like he was enough without proving anything.
you never pushed. that was the difference.
you understood that love, for gator, was a language he’d never been taught. so you stayed patient, steady, never making him feel wrong for learning slowly. when he forgot to say things back, you didn’t hold it against him. when he struggled to explain what he felt, you waited instead of filling the silence.
and for gator, that patience was terrifying at first.
he’d never had someone so interested in him. not deputy tillman. not the sheriff’s son. just gator. awkward, stubborn, unsure gator who didn’t always say the right thing and sometimes got defensive when he felt too exposed. he kept waiting for you to get tired of it, to realise he wasn’t as put together as he pretended to be.
but you never did.
so he tried. harder than he’d ever tried at anything.
he started paying attention, really paying attention, watching how you showed care and slowly mirroring it back. awkward at first, a constant hand settling at your lower back, bringing you coffee without announcing it, checking if you got home safe even when his messages sounded gruff.
“just makin sure” he’d text. “roads get weird this late”
but you knew what he meant.
the quiet nights were where he changed the most. when the world wasn’t watching and he didn’t have to play a role, something softer surfaced. conversations stretched longer, silences becoming comfortable instead of tense. sometimes he’d ask questions so quietly you almost missed them.
“you… uh… you really like bein’ with me?”
each time you reassured him, you could see something settle inside him, piece by piece.
one night after a particularly bad day he showed up at your place looking worn down in a way you hadn’t seen before. shoulders tight, jaw clenched, eyes tired and distant.
he didn’t make jokes. didn’t pretend he was fine.
he just sat beside you on the couch, silent for a long time.
then, hesitant, almost unsure, he shifted closer and slowly laid his head in your lap.
you froze for half a second, surprised, before your hands instinctively moved into his hair. his breath hitched and his whole body seemed to sag, tension draining out of him like he’d finally allowed himself to stop holding everything up.
your fingers moved gently through his hair, slow and steady, and gator let out a quiet sigh he probably didn’t realize escaped him.
“this okay?” you murmured.
he nodded against you. “yeah… yeah. feels… real nice.”
he stayed there a long time, eyes closed, one hand loosely gripping your sleeve like he needed to make sure you were still there. for the first time, he wasn’t trying to impress anyone. wasn’t trying to prove anything. he just let himself be cared for.
and something shifted in him right then.
because love, he realised, wasn’t supposed to feel like a test you kept failing. it wasn’t supposed to make you feel small.
lying there with your hands in his hair, safe and quiet and wanted, gator made a promise he never said out loud.
he would never be like his father.
never make you feel lesser. never make you question where you stood. never turn love into something heavy or conditional. he didn’t know exactly how to do it yet, he was still learning, still stumbling, but he knew one thing for certain.
he’d spend the rest of his life trying to give you the kind of love he’d always wished someone had given him.
and for the first time, that didn’t scare him.
-
gator tried harder than anyone realised.
he just didn’t always know how to show it right.
it started with little things. things most people wouldn’t even notice. the heater turned on before you got in because he knew you were always cold. him remembering stories you’d told months ago and bringing them up casually like they mattered enough to stick in his head.
“figured you’d be hungry” he’d mutter, handing you a bag of takeout like it wasn’t a big deal.
but you saw the effort behind it. you always did.
and every time you thanked him, really thanked him, he’d look almost confused for a second before ducking his head with a small, proud smile.
one evening after his shift ran late, you showed up at the station with coffee and a homemade dinner packed into containers. the fluorescent lights made everything feel harsh and tired, and gator looked worse, uniform wrinkled, eyes heavy, frustration sitting plainly on his face.
he blinked when he saw you.
“what’re you doin’ here?”
“bringing my boyfriend food before he forgets to eat again” you said simply.
he scoffed, but the corners of his mouth twitched upward. “i eat.”
“gas station jerky doesn’t count.”
he shook his head, but when you handed him the container, his expression softened in a way he couldn’t hide. he sat beside you at a desk, shoulders slowly relaxing as he ate, like the day was finally loosening its grip on him.
“you didn’t have to do this” he said quietly.
you shrugged. “wanted to.”
he didn’t respond right away, just looked at you for a moment longer than usual. something warm and almost disbelieving in his eyes.
later that night, when you were both back at your place, he lingered close, following you from room to room under the excuse of helping. handing you things before you asked. brushing against you like he needed the contact.
“you hoverin’, deputy?” you teased.
“ain’t hoverin’,” he replied, leaning against the counter. “just… keepin’ you company.”
you smiled, pretending not to notice how his gaze softened every time you laughed.
another night, after you’d had a rough day yourself, he showed up unexpectedly with a worn hoodie of his and a bag of snacks.
“thought maybe we could just… do nothin’,” he said awkwardly. “watch somethin’ dumb.”
you took the hoodie, immediately pulling it on. it swallowed you whole, smelling faintly like his cologne and laundry soap.
his ears turned red when you smiled at him. “looks better on you anyway,” he mumbled.
you ended up curled together on the couch, your legs draped over his while he absentmindedly traced shapes along your ankle. halfway through the movie, you rested your head on his shoulder and felt him go very still, like he was memorizing the moment.
“you okay?” you asked softly.
“yeah,” he said after a second. “this is… nice.”
you reached for his hand then, intertwining your fingers with his. he squeezed back immediately, tighter than expected, thumb brushing over your knuckles again and again.
it was moments like that where you made him feel loved without needing grand gestures. you listened when he talked, even when his stories rambled. you laughed at his bad jokes. you never made him feel stupid for needing reassurance, even when he disguised it as teasing.
and slowly, gator started letting himself lean into it.
one quiet night, rain tapping softly against the windows, he sat beside you while you read, his head resting against the back of the couch. after a while, he shifted closer, hesitant.
you looked up just as he carefully pulled your legs across his lap, like he was asking permission without words.
“comfortable?” you asked.
he nodded. “yeah… just like havin’ you close.”
you set your book down and absentmindedly ran your fingers through his hair. the reaction was immediate. his eyes fluttered shut, breath leaving him in a slow exhale.
he didn’t say anything, but his hand came up to rest over yours, keeping it there.
in that moment, he looked younger somehow. softer. not the deputy everyone saw, not the man constantly trying to live up to impossible expectations, just gator, finally allowed to rest.
after a while he murmured, voice sleepy and sincere, “you make things… quieter in my head.”
your chest tightened at that.
you leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to his temple. he froze for half a second before relaxing completely, one arm wrapping around your waist like instinct.
he started trying even harder after that. opening doors for you without thinking. texting you good morning even when he was terrible at words. learning when to joke and when to just sit beside you in silence.
he didn’t always get it perfect.
but every effort came from the same place. the growing realisation that you made him feel safe in a way he’d never known before.
and every time you smiled at him like he was doing something right, gator felt something settle deep in his chest.
like maybe, for once, he wasn’t failing at being someone worth loving.
-
even though gator knew it fully, knew it deep down in that quiet, certain way that settled in his chest whenever he looked at you, neither of you said it out loud yet.
the words hovered between you for months, unspoken but always there.
for gator, it wasn’t because he didn’t feel it. it was because he felt it too much.
saying it felt dangerous. permanent. like the second the words left his mouth, something fragile would break and you’d realise you deserved better and walk away. admitting it out loud felt harder than the hundreds of times he’d thought it silently while watching you laugh, or when you fell asleep against his shoulder, or when you showed up for him without ever being asked.
in his head, he said it all the time.
love you.
when you handed him coffee exactly how he liked it.
love you.
when you defended him without making it obvious.
love you.
when you smiled at him like you actually saw him. not the badge, not the reputation, just him.
but out loud? his throat closed every time.
still, over the months, it became harder and harder to keep it in. there were too many moments stacking up between you. late-night drives with music low and windows cracked open. laughing so hard together his stomach hurt, the kind of laughter he didn’t remember having with anyone else. quiet evenings where neither of you talked much, just existing side by side like it was the most natural thing in the world.
for the first time in his life, gator felt cared for without conditions.
and somewhere along the way, without realising it, he’d found his person.
the realisation terrified him almost as much as it grounded him.
it happened on a normal night. nothing dramatic, nothing special. you were curled together on the couch again, his arm around you while some half-watched show played in the background. your fingers traced lazy patterns on his sleeve, and he felt that familiar warmth settle into his chest, heavy and safe.
you said something soft, teasing him about falling asleep early again.
he huffed a quiet laugh, pulling you closer without thinking.
“can’t help it,” he murmured. “long day… just like bein’ here with you. i-”
he paused.
the words slipped out before he could stop them.
“-love you.”
silence followed immediately.
gator froze.
you could actually feel him tense beside you, his whole body going rigid like he’d just stepped off a cliff. he pulled back slightly, eyes wide, panic flickering across his face as if he could somehow grab the words back and shove them into his mouth again.
“uh-” he stammered, rubbing the back of his neck. “didn’t mean- i mean, i did mean it, just-”
you didn’t make a big deal out of it.
you didn’t gasp or stare or turn it into a moment heavier than it needed to be.
you just smiled softly and said, easy as breathing, “i love you too, gator.”
the panic drained out of his face, replaced by something else entirely, something raw and startled. he blinked at you like he wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
for a second, he just stared.
and then you saw it. his eyes shining, emotion hitting him all at once. he swallowed hard, jaw tightening like he was trying very, very hard not to cry.
because he honestly couldn’t remember the last time someone had said those words to him and meant them.
you didn’t point it out. didn’t tease him. you just smiled gently and snuggled closer, resting your head against his chest like nothing had changed at all.
his arm wrapped around you tighter, almost instinctively, holding you close like he needed proof you were still there.
he let out a shaky breath, burying his face briefly in your hair.
“well,” he muttered after a moment, voice rough but trying for humor, “hearin’ you say that kinda made me... hard?”
you pulled back immediately, staring at him in disbelief before bursting into laughter.
“gator!”
he grinned, relief flooding his face as you both laughed, the tension dissolving into something warm and easy again.
“what?” he said, laughing too now. “jus' bein’ honest.”
you shoved his shoulder, still laughing, and he pulled you right back into his arms, smiling in a way that was softer than anyone else ever got to see.
val speaks - hii this is like an intro thing to my gator series just to see how u guys like n stuuuuuff. it will pick up from this and fall into a better / bigger storyline but yea !!! lmk !! also forgive me for not being great at smut i just had to add it.. anwayszz love ya
the thing about small towns is that people notice things.
it's not always the big things, not the stuff that makes headlines or ends up in the paper, it’s the quiet things people remember. who parks where every morning. which truck always rolls through the same intersection just after sunrise. who sits at the far end of the diner every thursday night and doesn’t say much.
people notice patterns.
and if someone was paying enough attention, they’d probably notice the pattern between you and gator tillman. not that there was anything obvious about it.
nothing they could point to and say that’s what this is. no dates. no hand holding. no long goodbyes or anything soft like that. most of the time it just looked like the sheriff’s son coming into lou’s coffee shop with the rest of the deputies, voice louder than everyone else’s.
but he always looked for you first.
whatever existed between the two of you never really had a name. it lived in the in-between parts of things. late nights when the diner was half empty. the way he leaned against the counter like he had nowhere else to be. the way he lingered even after everyone else had gone. and even the times he'd come back to your place after, just to make sure you got home safe, of course.
tonight isn’t much different at all.
the shop smelled like burnt coffee and fryer oil, the low hum of the fridge buzzed somewhere behind the counter, the neon sign in the window flickered every now and then, throwing pink light across the front booths.
you’ve got the late shift. you usually did.
it’s quiet for the most part. a couple truckers passing through, an older man reading the paper in the corner, the kind of night where time moves just a little too slow.
then the door swings open.
you don’t even have to look up to know who it is.
“well damn,” one of the deputies says as they pile in, shrugging off jackets. “smells better in here than the station tonight.”
you grab a couple menus out of habit even though none of them ever look at them.
“that’s because lou actually cleans this place,” you say, setting the menus down anyway. “can’t say the same about the sheriff’s office.”
a few of them laugh.
and then there’s gator.
he comes in last like he always does, pushing the door shut behind him with his shoulder. tall, broad in that careless kind of way, jacket slung half open like he couldn’t be bothered to zip it up all the way.
he drops into the stool at the counter like it belongs to him. which, at this point, it kind of does.
you walk over with the coffee pot.
he’s already watching you.
“you gonna keep starin’,” he says, voice easy, a little amused, “or you gonna take my order?”
you don’t even pause while you pour his coffee.
“depends,” you say. “you gonna keep being annoying or you done yet?”
one of the deputies snorts into his drink.
gator just leans back a little in the stool, one corner of his mouth pulling up like he’s trying not to smile.
“damn,” he mutters. “she’s mean tonight.”
“you’ll survive.”
you slide the mug toward him.
he wraps his hand around it, takes a sip, and makes a face.
“coffee’s still terrible.”
“and yet you keep coming back.”
“maybe i’m hopin’ it’ll get better.”
you shrug, already turning to take someone else’s order.
“hope’s dangerous, tillman.”
the booth behind him laughs again and the conversation shifts, deputies talking over each other about something that happened earlier in the day. loud, messy, the usual kind of noise that follows them wherever they go.
you move between tables, refilling cups, dropping off plates when the food comes up from the kitchen.
it’s easy enough to pretend you’re not paying attention.
but every now and then you glance toward the counter, and every time you do, gator’s still there. watching.
not in an obvious way. he looks away quick enough most times, or pretends he’s listening to whoever’s talking beside him. but you catch it anyway.
eventually the food’s gone, the coffee’s finished, and the deputies start filtering out one by one.
chairs scrape against the floor. jackets get pulled back on. someone tosses a few bills onto the counter.
“see you tomorrow” one of them calls on the way out.
the bell over the door jingles.
and then it’s quiet again.
except for the one person who hasn’t moved.
gator’s still sitting at the counter, turning his empty coffee mug slowly between his hands like he’s got nowhere else to be.
you wipe down the table nearest him.
“station closed tonight or something?”
he glances up.
“nah, m’ not on a graveyard shift is all.”
“why are you still here anyway?”
he shrugs, leaning back in the stool.
“what,” he says, voice lazy, “you tryin’ to kick me out?”
the diner clock ticks on the wall.
you grab your jacket from the hook behind the counter.
“shift’s over.”
gator watches you pull it on.
“yeah,” he says after a second. “i noticed.”
you grab your bag.
walk toward the door.
and when you step outside into the cool night air, the gravel parking lot quiet and empty under the streetlight, you hear the diner door open again behind you. you don’t have to turn around to know he followed you out.
because he always does.
it’s late enough that the roads are mostly empty, just the occasional set of headlights passing the other direction. the radio hums quietly in the background but you’re not really listening to it.
you already know he’s following, you saw the headlights pull out of the parking lot behind you.
he doesn’t try to hide it either, he's never subtle about much.
you pull into the small driveway beside your place, the porch light casting a dull yellow glow over the yard. the engine ticks quietly when you shut the car off.
a few seconds later, his truck rolls to a stop along the curb.
you sit there for a moment, hands still on the wheel, before letting out a small breath and grabbing your bag.
the truck door slams shut behind you as you step out.
“you're following me now?” you call over your shoulder, locking the car.
“maybe” he says.
his voice carries easy through the quiet night. you finally glance back at him, he’s leaning against the side of his truck, arms crossed, like he’s got all the time in the world.
you raise an eyebrow.
“your daddy not gonna question why you’re here?”
it’s casual when you say it, like it doesn’t matter, but you see it anyway. the way his jaw tightens just slightly.
“he won’t know” gator says.
you give him a look. not mean, just a look.
like you both know that’s not really true.
he notices, of course he does. his mouth presses into a thin line for a second before he pushes himself off the truck.
“you comin’ inside or you just gonna stand there?” he mutters.
you shrug, turning toward the porch.
“didn’t realise you were invited.”
he’s already following you up the steps.
the door creaks when you push it open, the familiar quiet of your house settling around you the second you step inside.
it’s small. not much to it. downstairs there’s a couch, little kitchen area, table shoved near the wall.
gator shuts the door behind him.
he doesn’t say anything at first, just looks around the same way he always does when he’s here. like he’s taking inventory of the place even though he’s seen it a dozen times before.
you drop your bag on the counter.
that’s when you notice him looking at something.
a folded envelope sitting beside the sink. you’d meant to move it earlier. he reaches over, picking it up slightly to glance at the front.
you see his brow furrow.
“gator,” you say.
he looks over at you.
“leave it.”
he hesitates for a second before setting it back down.
“that rent?” he asks.
you lean back against the counter, arms crossing.
“don’t worry about it.”
he glances at the envelope again.
the red stamp on the corner is pretty hard to miss.
overdue.
“can i help?” he says after a second.
you let out a short laugh.
“don’t act like you care.”
the words hang there a little heavier than you meant them to.
gator goes quiet.
he’s not great at moments like that. never has been. half the time he just stands there like he’s trying to figure out what the right thing to say is and coming up short.
you sigh, rubbing your hand over the back of your neck.
“not that you’d worry too much about me anyway,” you add, softer this time. “but don’t. payday’s tomorrow, i’ll pay it then.”
you gesture vaguely toward the envelope.
“just means i won’t be eating for a week.”
for a split second, he actually looks concerned. genuinely concerned. it catches you off guard enough that you snort.
“relax,” you say, waving a hand. “i’m kidding.”
you push off the counter, grabbing a glass from the cabinet like it’s no big deal.
“i’ll figure it out.”
you glance at him over your shoulder.
“keep your panties on.”
gator exhales slowly through his nose.
there’s a look on his face now. somewhere between annoyed and something else.
“is pissin’ me off all you plan on doin’ tonight?” he says.
you shrug.
“wasn’t really a plan.”
there’s a quiet second.
then he moves in two quick steps across the room before you really have time to react. his hand catches your wrist lightly, pulling you toward him just enough that you bump into his chest.
“gator-”
but whatever you were about to say gets cut off.
because he kisses you.
sudden and warm and a little rough around the edges, like most things about him. his hand slides up to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as you grab onto the front of his jacket to steady yourself.
you kiss him back without really thinking about it. you always do.
the tension that’s been sitting between you since the diner unravels quick, turning into something heated and messy and familiar.
he backs up a step.
then another.
until the back of his legs hit the couch.
he drops down onto it with a quiet huff and pulls you with him.
you end up half sprawled across his lap before shifting, knees settling on either side of him as you catch your balance.
his hands slide up your sides instinctively.
the room is quiet except for your breathing and the faint hum of the fridge in the kitchen.
then he mutters under his breath,
“you’re trouble.”
there’s something a little breathless about the way he’s looking at you now, like whatever other smart remarks he had lined up got lost somewhere.
you brush a piece of hair out of his face.
“you started that” you murmur.
“yeah?” he says quietly.
his thumb traces absent circles along your side.
“yeah.”
you lean down first this time.
the kiss is slower now, deeper, the kind that lingers instead of crashing into you like before. his hand moves up your back, fingers pressing into the fabric of your shirt like he’s trying to pull you closer even though there’s nowhere left to go.
you can feel his breathing change under you, he lets out a quiet exhale against your mouth.
“damn” he mutters softly.
you smile a little against his lips.
he tilts his head up to kiss you again, hands moving over your sides, like he’s memorising the shape of you.
the couch creaks under the shifting weight of both of you.
you can feel the heat of him through his jacket, the steady rise and fall of his chest as the kiss deepens again. your hands slide down to his shoulders, pushing the jacket halfway off without breaking the moment.
gator laughs quietly under his breath.
“bossy tonight.”
“you complaining?”
“not really.”
his voice is lower now, and the rest of the world fades out for a while.
he strips you down to just your underwear and you only manage to get his shirt off before he pulls you back for a kiss. it's a clash of teeth and tongue, his rough hands slide down to your ass and he squeezes, pulling your hips down further to grind against him.
he breaks the kiss briefly to mutter against your mouth-
"fuck, doll. need you so bad"
you grind against him again, not really trusting yourself to speak and his reaction is immediate. his head tips back against the couch, jaw going slack as a needy moan slips out. his grip on your ass tightens, encouraging the slow drag of your heat against his. "yea, jus' like that pretty" he manages, eyes fluttering shut as he begins to meet your thrusts.
"please, gator" you mewl
the moment those words leave your mouth, his entire body goes rigid underneath you. his eyes snap open, dark and blown wide with want.
"say that again.." he begs, voice cracking, fingers digging bruises into your skin. "please- baby, say my name again"
you whisper his name against his neck and something in him snaps. his his hips jerk up and he pulls his dick free from his cargos, hard and leaking, pressing it hot against your core through the thin fabric of your panties.
his hands are shaking as he pushes your underwear aside, not even bothering to take them off completely. he wraps an arm around your waist and lifts you up just enough to line himself up.
you slowly lower yourself down onto him, both of you moaning as he fills you up. his head falls back again, eyes rolling slightly as he bottoms out inside you.
he starts moving underneath you, slow and deep, his head turns to press kisses along your collarbone as you rock together. every time you say his name, his thrusts get more desperate. "keep sayin it" he begs, thumb finding your clit and rubbing in slow circles.
you both loose control completely. the speed picks up and shifts into something frantic and raw. he's hitting deeper now, his hips slam up into you with a force that makes the couch creak under you both. his thumb presses harder against you.
"nghh- not so cocky now princess huh" he says with a broken laugh, sweat dripping down his temple.
"you- fuck. shutup-" you manage "neither are you"
he groans loudly, face contorting as you throw his own words back at him. for a moment, he looks almost embarrassed. but then he's just fucking you harder, trying to shut you up with his dick.
he flips you over onto your back suddenly, not even breaking rhythm, staying buried deep inside of you. he's pinning you down, using his size to his advantage, as he leans forward to bite your bottom lip just hard enough to make you gasp. he then swallows the sound with a kiss.
you clench around him and he looses his rhythm for a second, he pulls back but keeps his forehead pressed to yours.
"fuck- fuck, doll, don't-" he says, trying to sound commanding, "don't do that or i'm gonna-"
"i'm close, gator please-" you moan "fill me up"
he wraps your legs around his waist, holding you open as he goes even deeper.
"right there, huh? takin my cock so good" he grunts againt your mouth, hitting that spot inside you over and over until your vision starts to blur. "wanna feel you come round me- wanna fill this pretty pussy up"
he watches your face carefully now, his movements getting shorter and faster as he chases your orgasm. suddenly, his thumb presses down again, harder, and his dick hits that perfect spot inside you at the same time.
you fall apart around him, convulsing and crying out his name and he follows immediately. his thrusts become jerky and sloppy as he buries himself as deep as he can, you feel him pulse inside you, hot and thick, filling you up in a way you know means it will be dripping out of you later.
"shit, baby"
he collapses on top of you, still twitching.
eventually the room settles again.
you’re both stretched out across the couch now, covered by a blanket, close enough that you can feel the heat of him beside you.
gator’s lying back with one arm thrown behind his head, chest rising slowly as he catches his breath.
you’re half turned toward him, elbow propped against the cushion.
for a minute neither of you say anything.
somewhere outside a car passes down the road. gator runs a hand over his face and lets out a long sigh before sitting up slightly.
you already know what that means.
he swings his legs off the couch, reaching for his shirt and jacket that got thrown on the floor.
“you're leavin’ already?” you ask.
he shrugs as he pulls them on.
“got stuff to do tomorrow.”
you watch him for a second and the room suddenly feels quieter than it did a minute ago.
“you could stay” you say.
it comes out casual. like you didn’t think too hard about it.
gator pauses halfway through zipping his jacket. when he looks back at you there’s something there, something soft, like he’s actually thinking about it. like he really wants to.
the moment stretches, then he shakes his head slightly.
“shouldn’t.”
you don’t argue you just nod once and look down at your hands.
he grabs his keys from the side.
“lock up after me” he says, almost out of habit.
“i always do.”
he lingers by the door for a second like he might say something else. then he opens it. the cool night air slips in before the door shuts again behind him.
a moment later you hear the truck start outside, and just like that, he’s gone.
you stay on the couch a while longer.
the house feels bigger when it’s quiet like this.
you stare at the ceiling, listening to the fridge hum and the faint ticking of the clock near the kitchen.
that’s the thing you don’t get about gator tillman.
because when it’s just the two of you he’s… different. almost gentle in his own clumsy way. like the guy sitting on your couch a few minutes ago fucking you senseless wasn’t the same one swaggering around town trying to be his father.
but the second anything real gets close, anything that might mean the two of you actually care about each other, he runs. every time.
you let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand over your face.
“idiot” you mutter to no one in particular.
then you lean back into the couch cushions and close your eyes.
because the next time you see him he’ll probably walk into lou’s coffee shop like nothing happened, and you’ll pretend the same thing.
