Blue

That really shouldn't piss you off as much as it does. It's not like you're bad looking by any stretch of the imagination. You're the queen fucking bee of Dickson High for crying out loud.

"Get your feet off the desk," you snap at him. He raises both eyebrows at you.

"Alright, your majesty," he drawls, shifting on his seat to push his legs back under the table.

You don't talk at all for the rest of the class, but you catch him looking at you a couple of times.

After school your friends, Brittany and Angie, drag you out to the mall to go shopping for the Halloween party one of the jocks is throwing at his place on Friday. Your clique has a reputation to uphold when it comes to Halloween costumes. It's way too fucking cold this time of year in North Dakota to dress slutty (the girls who do always end up freezing), so you tend to dress warm.

Last year you went as Envy Adams from Scott Pilgrim, and no one got your costume other than the nerd boys in your year level who probably were at the party uninvited. After a whole night of dudes dressed as star trek and lord of the rings characters following you around, and one guy dressed as Link from Legends of Zelda telling you that you didn't have the right body type or complexion to make a good Envy (he stopped after you pointed out that he was at least 50 pounds too heavy to make a game accurate Link), you decided to not dress as something even vaguely nerdy this year.

"We should coordinate outfits," Angie suggests, walking in front of the pack, "I think we should do like a Zombie, Vampire, Werewolf thing."

"That could be cool," Brittany muses, "I call dibs on vampire."

"I'm werewolf then," Angie chirps.

"Ugh really?" You catch up with the rest of the group, "I guess I'm the zombie."

On Halloween night you sit on the floor of Angie's bathroom doing your makeup. You opted to ditch the traditional zombie makeup, way to gritty for your taste, instead doing it more like how you'd seen some of the weirdo scene kids at school draw zombies. Your costume consists of your makeup, a wool lined jacket, ripped jeans, and a pair of worn out combat boots.

"We look like a bunch of emos," you call out to Brittany who is putting on red lipstick in the hallway mirror. She's gone quite gothic with her vampire outfit.

"An emo a goth and a furry," she responds, putting her lipstick back in her bag.

"It's Halloween, Angie points out, walking down the hallway in her wolf ears and tail, "the one time of the year we can dress however we want."

"I'm pretty sure that only applies to the people who show up half naked, but you make a valid point." You pull yourself up off the floor, "who's driving?"

"I can," Brittany offers, straightening out her dress, "I'm not gonna drink tonight anyway."

"Okay cool." you fix your makeup one last time in the mirror before you head off.

The party is already pumping by the time you get there. You lose your friends almost immediately but you don't really care. That's not why you are here. You grab yourself a cup of cheap lukewarm beer from the coffee table and get to partying. The music is pretty shit, and the beer is pretty shit too, but a party is a party.

You get quite drunk after a while, and walk straight into someone while heading to the kitchen to find more beer.

"Shit, sorry," you apologise, looking up at the person you walked into, only to find yourself looking right into the eyes of one Gator Tillman.

"Watch it," he grunts.

Interaction five.

He doesn't look overly dressed up. Just in jeans and a jacket. He does, however; have a baseball bat with nails hammered through it in one hand, so that's something.

Normally if you got yourself into this situation you would just walk past him, but you're pretty drunk, and you're kind of sick of Gator ignoring you, so instead you start to talk.

"What are you meant to be anyway?" you tilt your head at him.

"I'm a zombie hunter."

"Oh that's funny, because I'm a zombie," you ramble, just managing to catch your drunk tongue before you say something stupid like 'Oh, you should hunt me,'.

"Yeah I could tell." He keeps breaking eye contact and is barely giving you any kind of a reaction which is pissing you off. Any other guy right now lucky enough to have you stop and talk to them would at least be grovelling a little bit.

"Why don't you hit on me?" you blurt out, the alcohol taking hold of your tongue.

"Excuse you?" he arches an eyebrow.

"I mean," you consider backtracking and pretending you never said anything, but fuck it, you want answers and he is going to give them to you, "I mean you've pretty much tried to get with every girl in our year level now, and you haven't even catcalled me or anything."

"Do you want me to hit on you, your majesty?" he's smirking slightly now and that just pisses you off more.

"No, that's not, I didn't," you stumble over your words, "I just want to know why."

"Maybe I'm just not attracted to you."

"Bullshit." you flush, "If you aren't into me then why did you kiss me in 9th grade?"

Now it's Gators turn to fluster, "That didn't mean shit. I was sad, you were there, I kissed you."

"You shouldn't have done it if it didn't mean anything."

"Yeah I know." Gator pushes past you back into the party. Part of you wants to follow after him, but you shove that feeling down and get yourself another beer.

By the time you realise you might have had too much to drink, it's a bit late to turn back. You rush to a secluded part of the backyard as the bile makes it's way up your throat. When you drop to your knees and start to hurl you barely notice the hands that come behind you holding your hair up behind your neck.

You only really notice the man behind you once you've finished puking and he starts to speak.

"You're so gross." Gator screws up his nose, tucking your hair into the back of your shirt so he can riffle through his pockets without your hair falling back into your face.

"Why are you here?" you choke out slightly.

He doesn't answer your question, finally pulling a little travel pack of tissues from one of his pockets.

"Chin up," he commands, wiping around the bottom of your mouth with the tissue, "You need to go home now."

"I don't want to go home."

"You're way too drunk, and guys keep looking at your ass. You're gonna end up in some guys bed if you don't get out of here."

"Why does that matter to you? You're always in peoples beds." You watch as he chucks the used tissue away.

"That's different."

"No it's not"

"Yes it is, I'm taking you home." he stands up, waiting for you to do the same.

"Your home?"

"No, puke face. Not my home, your home."

"Oh."

"Don't sound so disappointed."

You blush a deep crimson, "I'm not disappointed I wouldn't let you take me back to your house if you were the last man on earth."

"Good to know. Do you want a lift home or not?"

Brittany was meant to drive you home, but she probably wont want to leave for another few hours considering the fact that her boyfriend is here.

"Fine," you eventually agree, climbing shakily to your feet.

THANKS FOR READING XXX

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When your footsteps finally approach your doorway - softer than he expected after a grueling twelve-hour ER shift - he almost breaks cover. The urge to step out, wrap his arms around your waist from behind, and bury his face in the crook of your neck comfortingly is a white-hot spike of longing. He wants to inhale the vanilla and lavender scent that’s been haunting his REM cycles for years - every night since college. The smell that’s uniquely you. That makes him feel like he’s coming up for air after drowning in code and loneliness.

Instead, he counts to ten and waits until he hears the scrape of your key in the lock, the heavy creak of the hinges, and finally, the decisive snick of the lock engaging again.

Only then does he exhale, a slow, controlled release of tension that he’s practiced in the mirror a thousand times. He adjusts his glasses, checks his reflection in the darkened window of the neighbor's door.

Not a stalker.

A guardian.

A best friend who understands that the world is a chaotic algorithm of variables, and you are the only constant worth protecting.

Keys waits exactly seven minutes. He knows it takes you three to get your coat off, drop your bag, and scroll absently on your phone while you set out one of those shitty frozen meals and preheated the oven. Two to use the bathroom and wash your hands. One to pour that glass of cheap Pinot you like. One to settle onto the couch and begin to flip through the channels.

It’s not obsession so much as it is pattern recognition. Care. A precaution for your safety in the big city.

Hey, he types, his thumbs flying over the screen. Just wanted to make sure you got home okay after that double shift. I can grab us reservations at that Italian place you love for Friday if you're free?

You’re typing

A shiver works its way down his spine, primal and electric. It’s as if you sensed him standing there, just feet away, separated by brick, drywall, and social convention. As if you can feel the weight of his attention. The sheer gravitational pull he feels toward you. The one he’s always felt towards you.

Almost home now, the message reads.

Keys’s smile waivers. You’ve been inside for eight whole minutes now. You’re lying. He isn’t sure why, but maybe it doesn’t matter. He’ll allow you this illusion of privacy. Besides, he knows where you are. Almost down to the inch.

Great! he replies, carefully leaning into the facade of the casual friend. Let me know when you're inside. You know how I worry.

He does worry. With a visceral, gut-wrenching intensity that keeps him pacing his living room floor at 3AM. The world is unsafe. From the drunk driver statistics in your neighborhood to the carbon monoxide detector in your hallway that hadn’t worked properly when he secretly tested last month. He worries about the way your smile didn't quite reach your eyes a few days ago at brunch, and how it made him want to tear the world apart until he found the thing that hurt you so he could erase it.

Keys pulls up the tracking app he developed himself last year as he heads to his car down the street. The same application he’d presented to you as a beta test for "Soonami employee safety," a feature he was "troubleshooting”. You’d downloaded it without a second glance, because he’s Keys. He’s the harmless genius. Loyal sidekick. The friend zone personified.

The screen illuminates his face in the gloom. Your dot is stationary. Third floor. Third window from the left. He’s spent hours staring at that window from the street, memorizing the shadows you cast when you forget to close the blinds. He knows the rhythm of your pacing when you’re on a call with your mother or a friend. He knows the erratic, joyful movements of your late-night dancing, solitary and beautiful, when you think no one is watching.

He saves the data point, adding it to the sprawling, encrypted spreadsheet he maintains on a private server. It has everything he could possibly need. Your commute times, grocery lists, sleep cycles.

It’s not stalking. It’s merely a comprehensive map of your wellbeing so that he can predict your needs before you even know you have them. So he can be the perfect solution to every equation in your life.

Keys is idling at the curb, the engine of his car purring in the damp evening air, when your location pings three blocks away at the local grocery store. Perfect. Not far away at all, and it was the perfect excuse to “run into you”. He hasn’t seen you in what feels like days, and he’s going a bit stir crazy with concern. Valid concern. You don’t take care of yourself the way you should.

A short drive later, he finds you in the produce section. Your scrubs are wrinkled, dark circles bruising the skin beneath your eyes - but to him, you look like perfect, radiant, and terrifyingly fragile.

"Fancy meeting you here," he says, sliding into your peripheral vision with a smile that he’s calibrated to be charming and utterly forgettable as anything other than friendly.

You jump, hand flying to your chest. "Keys! Jesus, you scared me. What’re you doing here?"

"Just restocking the essentials," he lies, holding up his basket. It contains exactly one item: the specific, overpriced small-batch coffee you stopped buying months ago to save money. "Saw you from over there and thought I’d say hi."

“Ah. Okay. Well, hi.” You offer him a tight smile and Keys notes immediately that it doesn’t reach your eyes.

He taps the handle of his basket, trying to ascertain what the problem is. There haven’t been any anomalies in your daily patterns, exceptionally difficult patients or coworkers. And there’s certainly no logical reason for you to be upset with him of all people. So why the cold shoulder? Why the fake pleasantries and absent smile?

“You alright?” Keys cocks his head, scrutinizing you under the harsh florescent light of the grocery. “You seem off.”

“Long day,” you shrug. “Long week, honestly.”

“Why do you work so much?”

“Not all of us can have a cushy tech job where we play video games for a living.”

The words come out as a snap, and based on the uncomfortable expression that washes over your face, Keys knows you don’t really mean anything by the insult. You pinch the bridge of your nose, hanging your head in defeat as soon as the words leave your mouth.

“Fuck, Keys. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean -“

“It’s okay!” Keys sets a light, comforting hand on your shoulder, reveling in the warmth of your skin & the way you relax slightly under his touch. “You’re not wrong. I mean, you’re literally saving lives, and I’m looking at zeros and ones all day. You’re a real-life hero and I only ever play one on a screen.”

You shake your head slightly. “I guess. I’m still sorry, though. Haven’t been sleeping super well lately,”

Keys glances at your basket - inside there’s several boxes of protein and granola bars, coffee grounds, and a bag of carrots. That won’t do. “You eating okay too?”

You let out a strangled laugh. “You sound like my mom.”

“I mean…” Keys gestures to your haul. “If this is all you’re getting, that’s a little concerning.”

“I eat plenty,” the lie comes out easily, but your gaze flits away from him. “It’s just been super busy at the hospital and when I do get a break I don’t have time to prepare a five course meal.”

“But-“

“I gotta go. It was nice seeing you, Keys.”

Before he can respond, you’ve already scurried away, ducking into another aisle as if anxious to end the conversation about your terrible eating habits. You got like this in college too - so focused and locked in to your studies and clinicals that you didn’t take good care of yourself. One time you’d even ended up in the ER due to severe dehydration, and you’d had to be hooked up to an IV for two days until you got back on your feet. Then - less than twenty-for hours after you’d been discharged - you were back working. You were a great nurse, but a terrible example for those you took care of.

The kindness, understanding, and care you extended to others was rarely ever reciprocated. Not that it would be at the hospital. But it didn’t have to be that way outside of it. Keys was determined to make sure of that.

The grocery isn’t the only place Keys orchestrates inserting himself into your orbit throughout the week.

Two days later, he appears at the nurses' station with Tupperware of homemade soup, timed to the minute of your scheduled break. The secretary - a woman old enough to be him mother - thought he was a very handsome young man, and Keys had milked her attraction to him for all it was worth, eventually getting her to agree to pass the soup on to you.

"It’s my mom's recipe," he says, and it’s not a total lie. He found it in a recipe book attributed to a mother on some blog, modified it for maximum nutritional density based on your shift work, and spent three hours simmering it. "Made too much and thought my friend would like some."

He’d spent hours the previous night parked outside the hospital, waiting to watch you leave through the sliding glass doors, measuring the slump of your shoulders against the severity of your exhaustion. He’d cross-referenced your gait and visual symptoms with medical journals, and it appeared you have severe burnout and likely nutrient depletion.

On Friday, he invited you over for a "beta test" of a new streaming platform his work is launching. In reality, he’s spent the last week consuming every piece of media you’ve ever mentioned liking, building a predictive model of your entertainment preferences so seamless that you’ll never want to leave. Extreme? Maybe. But having all your favorite films and shows migrated into one place is practical. And, Keys decides, very romantic.

"Keys, this’ll be the fourth time we’ve hung out in like two weeks," you say over the phone, and your voice is thin, fraying at the edges. "Don't you have… I don't know, work? A life?"

"Of course I do. But this is important," he says, and he doesn't mention that he rescheduled a critical deployment meeting, risking a reprimand from Millie herself, to ensure his Friday evening remained free. "Besides, it's been ages since we had a real movie night."

The guilt trip. It’s a dirty tactic, but Keys knows it works. It always works. You show up at his door twenty minutes later, looking like you haven't slept since he saw you last.

His apartment is no longer just his space. It’s a curated habitat designed for you as well. A vanilla candle - the one you’d lingered over in a store months ago - burns low on the coffee table, scenting the air. Your favorite soda is chilling in the fridge. The throw blanket, the one you’d absentmindedly stroked during your last visit and remarked on for its softness, is draped across the couch in an invitation that screams domestic intimacy.

"Perfect timing," he says, pulling the door open wider, drinking in the sight of you. A stunner in sweats and an oversized t-shirt of a band he knew you didn’t really listen to. "I was just about to start dinner. Come sit.”

You slide onto one of the barstools at his spotless kitchen island, propping your head up on one of your elbows as your tired eyes aimlessly track his movements around the kitchen. Between your slow blinks and smothered yawns, Keys almost feels bad for inviting you over. Almost.

"Tired?"

"Mhm," you hummed, now not even bothering to open your eyes. You looked gray, the skin under your eyes bruised with shadows that makeup couldn't quite hide. "Twelve-hour shift. The floor was a zoo."

"And you worked a double yesterday," Keys notes, leaning on the counter, his tone carefully calibrated between concern and judgment. "When’d you last sleep?"

"Catnap in the breakroom around four," you mumble, shifting uncomfortably in the seat. "And last night? Uh. Three hours, maybe."

Keys feels a familiar spike of irritation lance through his chest. It was upsetting how you treated your own body. Humans required maintenance; it was a machine that needed fuel, rest, and calibration. You treated yours like an old junk car - the sort that redlined constantly, was fueled by garbage, and never got taken in for an oil change.

"Keys, really," you sigh, finally prying your eyes open to look at his frustrated face. They were bloodshot, the pupils sluggish. "There’s no need for you to worry. I'm fine."

"You're not fine," he counters, frustration tinging his voice. "You're working yourself to an early grave, and you look like you haven’t slept or eaten in a week"

"Damn, you know how to charm a girl," you mutter.

"You need rest. And nutrients. I can help with at least one of those.”

“I get nutrients.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, the cafeteria has -“

"Cafeteria food is processed sodium," Keys snapped, turning to face you. "Look at you. You’re shaking. When was the last time you ate a decent meal?"

“Whats your definition of a decent meal, Keys? Since apparently nothing I do is up to your lofty standards?”

The snarky words cut through Keys like a knife. “Someone has to look after you.”

“I don’t need looking after.”

“Yeah? Well maybe I’ll believe you when you’re not slumped in half against my kitchen counter, how’s that? I hate that you don’t give a shit about yourself. You take care of all those other people and don’t leave anything for yourself.”

“So?”

“So - if someone came in who looked like you and had your symptoms, would you turn them away, or ignore them?”

Your shoulders fall, making you look small. “No.”

“There you go then. What’d you eat today?”

“A bagel this morning. And coffee. Lots of coffee."

"Lots of coffee," Keys repeated, feeling a headache bloom behind his eyes. "That’s not fuel. That’s a chemical stressor. You’re running on caffeine and panic."

"I'm fine," you insist, though your voice lacks any sort of conviction. "I just need to sleep the entire weekend. Get a nice reset."

"You won't reset," Keys replies, his voice dropping, intensifying. "You'll crash. You always do."

He remembered last month. The flu that had knocked you flat for nearly ten days. He remembered coming over to find you delirious with fever, shivering under a pile of blankets in a far too toasty apartment. He remembered the empty boxes of Theraflu on the nightstand and the way your skin had felt like paper.

"Your immune system is compromised," Keys continues, ticking the points off on his fingers. "You don't sleep, eat, or hydrate. You live on caffeine and granola bars. It’s a miracle you haven't ended up in the ICU as a patient. Again.”

"I'm a nurse," you say defensively, though you looked away from his scrutiny. "I know how to take care of myself."

"Do you?" Keys challenges. "Because based on the evidence, this isn't self-care. It’s slow-motion suicide."

You stare at him, lower lip trembling slightly. He knows that normally, you’d have more fire to argue with him. But it’s been snuffed out by your chaotic life. Maybe that’s why he feels emboldened to push you until you break. Not out of cruelty, but you need to see where he’s coming from. It’s for your own good.

“I'm just tired, Keys. Really tired. I don't have the energy to... To be a person right now."

"So you’re just going to shut down?" Keys asks, stepping closer. "Keep not taking care of yourself and just hope for the best?”

"It’ll get better.”

"It won't," absolute certainty seeps into his voice. "Not unless someone intervenes."

You slouch further into the chair, resting your forehead on your arms. Keys watches you for a moment, taking in the fragile curve of your spine. He rounds the counter and placed a comforting hand between your shoulder blades. You don’t instantly relax like you had at the grocery, but a bit of the stress seemed to slowly ebb out of you as he stands there, thumb rubbing slow circles just below your neck.

“Breakfast for dinner?” He asks. It’s your favorite. Has been since well before the two of you met. And he knows it. You grunt noncommittally, but that’s all the encouragement Keys needs.

The next few minutes he moves about the kitchen with precision and purpose. This sort of thing is what he’s good at. This was what you needed. Someone to manage the variables and optimize the system so that you didn’t have to think about a single thing.

The kitchen fills with the smell of eggs, sausage, and chocolate chip pancakes. After a little while, he places a plate and a bowl of fruit in front of you, and you slowly lift your head, blinking at the feast before you.

“Awe, Keys. You really didn't have to."

"Eat.”

To his satisfaction, you follow his order without any protest. Picking up the fork and taking a small bite. You chew slowly, mechanically, as if your body has forgotten how to process a real meal. After a few bites, some color seems to return to your face, but the exhaustion in your eyes remained - a deep, cavernous weariness that one good meal and a night of sleep alone won’t be able to fully fix.

"Keys?" you ask softly, staring at the eggs.

"Yeah?"

"I'm glad I came over."

The admission was small, fragile. It hit Keys in the chest with the force of a physical blow. You’re finally getting it.

"I’m glad you did too," he replies, watching you take another bite. "I'm always going to be here. Someone has to keep you alive."

You let out a soft huff of laughter, not realizing he wasn't joking.

I'm serious, Keys thinks, watching you with a possessive tenderness that terrified as much as it thrilled him. I'm the only thing keeping you from dissolving entirely. If I left, you'd drift away. You'd waste away.

He watches you finish the food, his mind already cataloging your deficiencies, planning future meals and ways to get them to you. You were pliable now due to how exhausted you were - but he knows that the second you get a modicum of strength back, you’ll be a patient who refused to comply with her own treatment plan. But that was okay. That was what he was for.

He would take care of you. He had to. Because clearly, no one else was going to.

A little while later, Keys convinces you to migrate over to the couch so he can start up a movie. Some easy romantic comedy you’ve always enjoyed. But Keys isn't watching it. He’s watching you.

He’s cataloging the micro-expressions flickering across your face, now that you’re not nearly passed out from exhaustion at his kitchen counter. The way you’re sitting on the very edge of the cushion, spine rigid. The way you keep checking your phone, screen lighting up every few minutes with notifications you aren't sharing. The way you haven't rested your head on his shoulder - something you did once when you were really tired, and that he’s been praying for a repeat of for months.

"I should probably get going," you say abruptly, only an hour or so in. The credits haven't even started rolling.

Keys feels the blood drain from his face, cold and sudden. Why would you leave early? He made you dinner. You should be feeling better. It wasn’t even that late. Did he say something? He knows he was hard on you earlier, but that was to help you.

"Already?" He keeps his voice level, but his hand tightens around his knee, nails digging into the denim. "But we haven't even gotten to the part where…"

"Next time," you say, but the word feels like a door closing. You’re already standing, moving toward the front door. "Early shift tomorrow."

Keys watches you gather your things and slip on your shoes, his mind racing, running through a million variables, a million scenarios to fix this. To stop you. Make you stay. But he sees it in the tight line of your shoulders, the way you can’t quite meet his eyes.

You aren't just leaving. You're pulling away.

The thought steals the air from his lungs. It’s confusing. Just over an hour ago you said you were glad to be there. With him. Now, even though he followed you to the door and you’re only standing a few feet from him - it feels as though you’re miles away, behind a thick stone wall with barbed wire at the top. Did he do something? Did one of your phone notifications upset you? He hasn’t planned for you to leave so abruptly for no reason.

The silence of the apartment feels loud suddenly, mocking him. He looks at the scattered shrine he’s built to you - the candle, the movie that still plays quietly on the TV, the blanket - and all he sees is the hollow reflection of his own desperation.

Next time.

But the data doesn't lie. The pattern is shifting. And the thought of a world where next time doesn't come, where the algorithm he’d built around you and your life finally collapses in on itself, is a terror so profound he can barely breathe through it.

He forces a smile, one that doesn't reach his eyes, one that feels like a fracture in his soul. "Right. Early shift. Go get 'em, tiger."

“Thanks again for everything, Keys.”

As the door clicks shut behind you, Keys doesn't move. He stands there in the center of his perfect, curated habitat, and the silence screams at him. He checks his phone. Your dot is moving away, walking down the street, further and further out of his carefully constructed radius.

For a moment, the sheer, ugly weight of his need for you presses down on him, heavy and suffocating. He shouldn’t be so reliant on your existence. But God help him, he’s not sure he can stop.

Over the next several weeks, the inexplicable distance between the two of you doesn’t just grow; it calcifies. It turns into a wall that he can see but cannot breach, and every text message returned with minimal words - “Fine," "I’m busy," "Okay" - is another brick in that barrier.

The silence is deafening. Keys finds himself checking his phone every thirty seconds, the phantom vibration syndrome becoming a real, twitching in his pocket. When you leave his messages unread for hours, a stretch of time that used to be unfathomable between them, he feels it like a withdrawal symptom - like he’s well and truly addicted to an scrap of attention you’ll throw his way. The dull ache in his chest sharpens into a serrated blade, twisting deeper with every passing hour. He timestamps your responses, plotting them on a graph that trends violently downward, cross-referencing the dips with your work schedule. He tries to find the variable that is breaking his system, but the data is incomplete.

Did you decide he was too overbearing? That had to be it, although to the best of Keys knowledge, you had no idea the extent of his obsession - no, not obsession - commitment to keeping you healthy and safe.

When you cancel plans two weeks in a row - vague, flimsy excuses about being "busy" that he knows are lies because he knows your schedule better than he knows his own - something inside him snaps. The fragile tether holding his darker impulses at bay frays and breaks.

One night, he doesn't go home. He goes to a hardware store across town, paying in cash, wearing a hat he keeps in the trunk for emergencies. By 2:00 AM, he’s installing a high-resolution, motion-activated camera in a gnarled oak tree across the street from your apartment building, angling the lens to capture the street and your window that faces said street.

Keys tells himself it’s for security. There was a break-in three streets over last week; he read the police report. He’s just being proactive. Ensuring the variables of your safety remain constant.

But as he tests the feed on his own phone, watching the night-vision footage of your empty apartment, the rationalization begins to sour slightly. He knows he isn't entirely doing this for security or out of genuine concern. He’s doing it because the silence is killing him, and he needs to see you come and go. Verify you’re safe. Know exactly when you’re lying to him.

A thought comes unbidden, sharp and terrifying, as he watches the light in your apartment kitchen turn on: If I can’t have you, at least I can watch you.

He locks the phone, hands trembling slightly. The rationalization is seamless. Automatic. Rehearsed a thousand times in the theater of his mind, where wanting you so badly feels like a sickness and a cure all at once. It’s toxic. Controlling. But it’s all he has.

If Keys knows one thing about you - and he knows many - it’s that a guilt trip will always work. He’s well-versed on what it takes to emotionally manipulate you - composed from years of friendship and data he’s collected on your psyche. He knows your buttons. That you can’t stand to see him or any of your loved ones hurting. That the fear of disappointing people is a lesion burned into your soul - a cancer you’ve never cut out.

"I know you've been super busy," he says when he finally corners you into a phone call, voice carefully calibrated to sound wounded and soft. A dying man asking for water. "I just... I miss my friend, you know? We used to talk like every day. It feels like I'm losing you."

He doesn't mention the tracking app that shows him you aren't at work when you claim you are. Doesn’t need to. Even without knowing the full extent of his action, he knows your own guilt will do the heavy lifting for him.

You sigh, and Keys worries he might’ve not laid on the guilt thick enough. "One night. But Keys, I really am exhausted. I can't do... Much. Just a movie night, okay?”

That's all he needs. A foothold. A crack in the wall.

“Of course. I’m just excited to see you.”

The evening unfolds according to the script he’s written in his head. Your favorite wine is breathing on the counter. A rom-com with a "will they/won't they" tension that he hopes seeps into the room air is queued up on the television. The extra-soft blanket is draped over the couch. Snacks ranging from sweet to salty are arranged on the coffee table.

Perfect. Everything is perfect.

Except it’s not.

You’re physically present, but your mind is clearly miles away. You’re stiff, any laughter is a hollow sound, echoing without reaching your eyes. You check your phone constantly, a habit entirely unlike you.

Keys’s chest tightens like a python squeezing his lungs. This isn't right. You’re supposed to melt into the couch, maybe rest your head on his shoulder again. Ideally you’re supposed to remember that he’s the only one who knows you, the only one who cares enough to make all the noise stop.

Maybe he severely overestimated his role in your life. That, while you hung the moon and planets in the vast night sky of his life, perhaps he was merely a tiny, meaningless star amidst thousands in yours. The thought threatens to crush him under an avalanche of insecurity and doubt.

The blue light of the television washed over the living room, casting long, flickering shadows across your face. The Princess Bride was nearing its climax, the swashbuckling hero facing impossible odds, but Keys wasn't watching. He was watching you.

You were curled up on the far end of the couch, a physical chasm between your bodies that hadn't existed three months ago. You were scrolling through your phone, the screen illuminating your distant expression, thumb scrolling with a repetitive, mindless rhythm. You hadn't laughed at the jokes or quoted the classic lines. You were just... physically present. And barely at that.

"You're missing the best part," Keys tries to keep his voice light, desperate to ignore the leaden weight in his stomach.

You glance up, eyes slightly unfocused. "Hmm? Oh. Yeah. Sorry."

You lock the phone and set it on the side table, but instead of relaxing back into the cushions, you shift uncomfortably and wince, hand flying to your left side, pressing against your ribs just below the breastbone.

Keys pauses the movie. The room plunged into sudden silence. You shoot him a side long glance.

“Thought this was the best part.” You mutter absentmindedly, reaching for your phone once more. Keys narrows his eyes, zeroing in on the subtle flinch he’d caught.

“What happened?"

“Huh?”

“You just winced and held your ribs. What’s going on?”

"Nothing," you reply quickly, pulling your hand away as if burned by your own skin. "Just... A cramp. Something I ate."

"Bullshit," Keys had long since hacked into your cycle tracking app - an invasion of privacy he knew wasn’t right, but it had helped him be exactly the person you needed on many occasions - and therefore he knew for a fact you shouldn’t be cramping for another two weeks at least. "That wasn't a cramp. You flinched."

You sigh, a heavy, rattling exhale that spoke of a deep exhaustion. "It's nothing, Keys. Seriously. Just drop it."

"Show me," he commands, scooting closer. "Lift your shirt."

“What the fuck, Keys?” You push yourself father away, but the thick arm of the couch presses into your back, impeding your escape. “I’m not undressing for you.”

“Christ, baby. I’m not asking you to strip for me. Just lift up your shirt a little.”

If you notice his slip-up of calling you baby, you don’t let on. Keys wonders if you didn’t care, or… Maybe that you liked it. God, he hopes you secretly did, even if you look exhausted and frustrated.

"Just stop," you snap, but there was little heat in it, only a weary resignation. "I'm fine."

"Then show me." The tone was non-negotiable. A flat line of authority. “Please. I just want to make sure you’re okay.”

You hesitate, eyes darting to the door then back to him. Finally, you relent. Sliding off the couch to stand a few feet away, you grip the hem of your t-shirt and slowly pulled it up, exposing the soft skin of your stomach. Keys follows you, drawing near and his breath catches in his throat.

There, marring the perfect canvas of your skin, is a sprawling galaxy of bruises. Not just a single mark; it was a violent patchwork of purple, blue, and angry red, spread across your left ribs and wrapping around toward your back. It looked fresh, the skin still tender and inflamed.

The air leaves Keys’s lungs in a sharp hiss. "Jesus fucking Christ."

"It looks worse than it is, I swear,” you say, letting the shirt drop back down to cover the damage. "Just some discoloration and swelling."

"Just some - who the hell did this?" Keys demands, his voice rising, the calm, nerdy facade shattering instantly. "Did someone hit you?"

"It was nothing," you insist, turning away from him to glance out the window. "Just some guy in the parking garage after work. Disgruntled former patient, I think. He was confused, maybe high. He got in my face and wanted painkillers. When I said no, he... He shoved me. I fell against the bumper of my car. I think he kicked me a few times. Dunno. It’s all kind of a blur. But security took care of him.”

The room felt suddenly small, suffocating. The blood was roaring in Keys’s ears, a hot, deafening rush of white noise. A thin film a red coated his vision, and images flash through in his mind - cold concrete, flickering fluorescent lights, you, alone, tiny and vulnerable against a predator. You being thrown against a car, hitting the ground, and some faceless stranger’s shoe colliding with your torso repeatedly.

"When?" The word sounds like a shot from a canon in the quiet room. "When did this happen?"

"Two days ago," you admit softly.

"Two days ago?" Keys feels like he’s losing his already tentative grip on reality. "You've been walking around with this for two days? And you’ve been sitting here for hours and didn't think to mention that you were assaulted?"

"I didn't wanna make a big deal out of it!" you shout back, finally meeting his gaze. Your eyes were wide, startled by the intensity of his reaction. "It’s not like you can do anything about it now. I filed a report. Security handled it. I’ve been icing it. I'm fine!"

"Did he touch you?" Keys asks, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. He grabs your shoulders, turning you to face him, his fingers digging in, maybe a bit harder than he meant to. “Did he touch you anywhere else?"

"What? No! Jesus, Keys, you're freaking me out -“

"Did he hurt you? Besides the ribs? Punch you? Choke you?" The questions were tumbling out, frantic, fueled by a manic need to catalog every injury, every violation. It was cruel to make you relive the encounter, but he had to know if it was worse that you were letting on.

"No, none of that," you struggled against him, trying to pull away. "I told you the entire thing. That’s it."

"That’s it?" Keys feels like his carefully constructed world is caving in more by the second. "You were attacked."

"It was a scuffle," you reply evenly. "It happens. It’s the city."

Keys releases you, stepping back, chest heaving in anger. You were content just shrugging the whole thing off. Minimizing it and acting like this was just another day in the life of an ER nurse.

Does she think it’s normal? The thought settled in his stomach like lead. That being assaulted is part of the cost of living?

But at least Keys knew that it wasn't normal. It was utterly unacceptable. Not only that - it was a catastrophic failure on his part.

Where was I? The question tortured him, echoing in his skull. Where was I two nights ago when she was walking to her car? I was here. I was in my apartment, probably playing a video game or coding some useless app while she was being thrown against a car bumper.

He hadn't been there or able to stop it.

The panic set in then - an icy, clawing dread that gripped his throat. If he hadn't known about the bruises, what else didn't he know? If you hadn't told him about the attack, what else were you hiding?

You can't protect what you can't see, his mind whispered, the logic cold and flawless. You can't save her if you don't know when she's in danger.

He looked at your phone, sitting innocently on the coffee table. You still had the tracking app he’d lied to you about, but it was admittedly occasionally glitchy. And if your phone was off, or service was bad - or God forbid, if someone stole it or smashed it - he wouldn’t know where you were, period.

I need eyes, Keys thought, the plan beginning to form in the back of his mind, rapid and distinct. I need eyes that never close. A tether she can't cut.

"Keys?" You reach out to touch his arm, looking genuinely concerned now, frightened by his silence. "You're shaking."

He looked down at his hands. They were indeed trembling, vibrating with the aftershocks of adrenaline.

"I'm fine," he lies, voice sounding distant even to his own ears. "I just... I hate that I wasn't there."

"It’s not like you can be everywhere," you reply softly. Sweetly. Entirely misunderstanding the true depth of his fixation.

"Can't I?" Keys murmurs.

He sits back down on the couch, but he doesn’t bother to look at the TV, where you’d unpaused the movie. The only thing he can focus on is you - sitting there with your fractured ribs and your casual dismissal of violence.

This isn't the end, Keys mind feels utterly frantic. What if next time, it’s not just a shove and a few kicks? What if it’s a a knife? A gun? Someone who wants to violate her?

Right then, Keys makes a promise that he would not allow there to be a next time. He couldn’t allow you to exist in a world where you could be bruised and battered without him knowing. He had plenty of ways to observe you, but he needed to be inside the perimeter. A more integral part of the operating system.

"I'm ordering you food," Keys says abruptly, picking up his own phone. "Real food. And you're staying here tonight. I'm not letting you go back to that apartment alone."

"Keys, it was several days ago. I -“

"Not a discussion," his eyes lock onto yours. "I'm taking care of this. I'm taking care of you."

You sigh, defeated, and leaned your head back against the couch. "Okay. Fine."

The bruise on your ribs was fading. But the mark it had left on Keys's psyche was indelible.

When you disappear into the bathroom a little while later, an opportunity to see if you’ve been hiding other things from him drops into his lap like a gift from a vengeful god. Your phone sits there, screen black. Unlocked, probably Because you trust him. Because he’s Keys. The harmless genius. The good friend.

The rationalization forms instantly, a slick, oily coating over his conscience: I'm not snooping. I'm investigating. Something is wrong with the system. I need to investigate. For her own good.

Keys’s hands tremble as he picks up the device. He’s crossed a lot of lines before, though never one so direct and close to you. But the desperation clawing at his insides overrides the warnings. He swipes to open it, and is immediately drawn to a folder on the second page of your Lock Screen.

Dating apps.

The words hits him like a sledgehammer to the sternum. Not just one. Multiple.

His vision blurs, tunnelling down to the screen as he taps into one and scrolls, fingers moving with a detached, mechanical horror. Nearly two dozen conversations between the different apps - ranging from quick exchanges about movies or the best place in town for an espresso martini, or longer conversations that belied your immediate interest in these men you didn’t even know.

A handful of the conversations include plans to meet up for coffee or drinks, and Keys feels blindsided. He sees a world you’re building without him. A world where strangers are privy to your smile, wit, possibly even intimacy. He frantically reads messages where you’re flirting and joking - being the person he thought only existed for him. The betrayal tastes like copper in his mouth. It’s not just that you’re quietly moving on; it’s that you’re giving them what should be his.

"What’re you doing?" Your voice isn't angry. It’s shocked. Disappointed. And it cuts deeper than rage ever could.

Keys freezes, the phone still clutched in his hand, the blue light casting his face in a ghastly, accusing pallor. “I was -“ whatever lie he’d been planning dies in his throat, choking him. "I was worried about you. The.. Assault and everything. Plus you’ve been so distant, I thought -“

"Distant?" You snatch the phone from his grip, your eyes scanning the screen, seeing what he saw. The betrayal radiates off you in waves. "Or busy having my own life? Were you hoping to find something? A secret boyfriend, maybe?”

The accusation lands. It’s too accurate, and he’d never admit it.

"I just wanted to understand why you don't need me anymore. Why you didn’t tell me what happened in the garage right away," he snaps, feeling the mask slipping. The desperation leaks out, toxic and raw. "Why you're replacing me with... With these strangers."

"Replacing you?" Your voice rises, incredulous. "Keys, we're friends. That doesn't mean I can't date people, or that I have to report to you like I'm your fucking property."

"But you used to," he counters, stepping closer. He can’t stop himself. Proximity to you is a drug he craves. "You used to share everything with me. What changed? Am I not enough anymore?"

"Everything changed!" You shout, backing away until your spine hits the wall. "We're not in college anymore, Keys! We both have lives. I’m trying to move forward, not stay stuck in the past pretending that -“

"Pretending what?" He’s in your space now, looming over you. His voice lowers to a dangerous register, the calm that precedes the storm. "Pretending that we don't have something real? That this thing we’ve always had between us is just friendship?"

"W-what? God, Keys." Your eyes are wide now, filled with something that isn't even close to love. It’s confusion and fear. "We’re not… Fuck, forget it. You're a nice guy, but you’re suffocating me. I need space."

Space.

A slippery slop towards abandonment, and Keys knows it.

"You can't leave," he says, and his hand shoots out, gripping your arm. Not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough to stop you. To assert ownership. "We need to fix this. I can fix the variables. Make it work."

The look in your eyes - pity mixed with a terrifying, sharp fear - makes him release his grip instantly. The silence hangs there in the air between you, a ghost that has finally manifested due to his admission. He wants to kick himself for letting his true nature rear its ugly head in front of you. Why did you go through her phone, you idiot?

"I'm not angry," he lies, forcing his hands to his sides, balling them into fists until his nails dig into his palms. "I'm just... Hurt, okay? I need you to understand that."

For a second, a heartbeat, he thinks you might stay. That you might look past the craziness, the obsession, and see the love beneath it that was the true catalyst and fuel for his actions.

Instead, without another word, you turn and storm out the front door. You don't look back.

Keys stands frozen in his entryway, listening to the retreating sound of your footsteps. They echo down the hall like the final notes of his favorite song that he’s afraid he’ll never get to play again. Then, the vibration of his phone in his pocket breaks the trance.

He knows what it is before he even looks. He can feel it in the marrow of his bones.

Location sharing disabled.

That only happens when the app’s been deleted. Maybe you didn’t know he’d been tracking you - but you certainly hadn’t wasted any time in removing his app from your phone.

Something inside him breaks. Not like glass shattering, but like a tectonic plate shifting - deep and catastrophic. The rationalization fails. The logic loop crashes.

After a few moments, a cold, hard clarity settles over him. The fear of losing you was a low-level ache before. Now, it’s a razor blade against his throat. And he will do whatever is necessary ensure that you don't just disappear into the digital ether with some stranger from Hinge.

This isn't about just keeping you safe anymore.

It’s about keeping you.

And if his usual methods aren't working... If gentle manipulation and apps and guilt and love bombing aren't enough to tether you to him...

Well.

Your eyes glanced over the bare grey walls, then over to the dresser that sat just in front of the bed. It was nice, dark wood with silver hardware. On top, a single framed photo of him from seemingly years ago, several younger children, and a single baseball. Nothing out of the blue. Next was the nightstand on the side of the bed that he’d been sleeping in, the side that was empty now. There was a nice silver watch next to a shiny chrome wrapper. Before you could let yourself get flustered at the memories of the prior night, your eyes finally landed on the alarm clock next to it, reading 9:57 am. 

Nearly 10 already? Nathan had a meeting for his new baseball team at 10:45, and you could not afford to keep him out of the sport. He’d been having some issues ever since the two of you moved to Hawkins from Chicago, and his teacher had suggested that offering him an outlet to get the energy out might help. You were praying it did, because you really couldn’t afford to miss work anymore to pick him up after he’d disrupted his third-grade class, again.

That is exactly why it was so important that you make it to this parent meeting with the coach. It was required if the boy wanted to play, and if you missed it, you were done for. You raced around the room, trying to find as many of your articles of clothing that were strewn about from the night before as possible. As humiliating as it was, you’d have to go in the clothes you’d gone to the bar in. You were glad that you hadn’t gone too far, though; there were worse things to show up to a school in than tight jeans and a blouse. It was quite awful to have to sacrifice your panties, though, deciding a few minutes into the search that your son was more important. 

After raking your hand through your hair in the mirror in the conjoined bathroom, you made your way out of the room into the living room and kitchen. When you’d awoken to the bed empty, you’d expected the handsome stranger to be gone, or literally anything other than in his kitchen making breakfast for you. 

Though, despite what you’d thought, there he was. Shirtless with his back turned to you and on display in all of its glory, apron draped haphazardly over his neck, plating two sunny side up eggs. When he heard you step, he turned to face you.

“Oh! You're up!” His smile wasn’t so big that it was creepy, and his tone wasn’t so happy that it was obnoxious, but you could tell in the way he spoke that he was genuinely pleased to see you. However, he frowned ever so slightly when he saw the way you’d already completely dressed yourself and were seemingly looking for an exit. 

“I uh- I didn’t know how you took your eggs, so I made mine first. I want to- I wanna make you some though, if you want?” He asked, voice now a bit more wary, almost like he knows the answer from the way your head is peering around the kitchen to the front door.

“I’m so sorry, I’d really love to, but I have a meeting I have to get to-” You begin frantically, then make an apologetic face to him as he sighs and points to the door.

You quickly walk forward, slipping on your shoes where you’d kicked them off last night. “You were great, I mean, really, really, great. I’m so sorry I'm running out of here.” You apologize quickly, pull your keys from your pocket, and practically race to your car before Steve even has the chance to reply.

You looked at the clock in your car. 10:06. Not a bad time. Though you still had a 15-minute drive to your coworker's house, who’d been watching Nathan last night, then another 20 to the school. You’d be cutting it close, but you let out a sigh, put your car in reverse, and began the drive.

Your rush out prompted Steve to check the clock himself, and subsequently prompted his own rush around his bedroom to get ready for a meeting he believed to be completely unrelated. I mean, what kind of a look would it be if the coach were late, right?

An anticipation flutters in him as his ears attune themselves to the familiar sound of your truck rolling to a stop in his driveway. Each sound is a memory that is resonating in real time: the push of your car door closing in, the chirp of your lock, your footsteps shuffling on his stoop, and the gentle sound when you ring his doorbell. You didn't really have to do that. He hopes that maybe one you'll realize that you don't have to do that.

"Hey," he greets you, recalling a time when he used to just shout that the door was open the first few sessions.

"Uh, hey to you, too," you greet him with a smile and the slightest giggle, "your hair is…different."

He's combed it in a way that has taken a lot of time and care. You notice a bit of a side part with the sides combed back. It's formal and stiff, but you can't help acknowledge the effort he's taken. He frowns, feeling shudders of disappointment and embarrassment at how you reacted. Self-consciously, he brings his fingers to touch the side of his head.

"That's not really fair, " Gator grumbles.

Combing hair, grooming, and any other kind of makeup routine is difficult for any and all of your clients. For those with close cuts or those who are balding, grooming isn't a problem. Gator's predicament is the exact opposite. His brown hair is soft, thick, and full. When he's slicked it back like he used to or combs it too perfectly, it doesn't suit him.

"Hey, you know what I mean…" You raise your hand to hover just above his temple, close enough for him to feel the ghost of your touch. "May I?"

He understands and nods. With a gentle caress, you comb your fingers through his hair. Your touch releases the confines he temporarily placed on himself. The warmth from your hands on his hair feels like a luxury, especially as he feels his hair fall naturally into place. He breathes slowly as you shake out his hair. Your fingers act as liberator and as they leave his locks, he feels free.

"There we go, much better," you say admiring your handiwork.

"Yeah?" Gator's voice rises in genuine want of your honest opinion. "How do I look?"

You find yourself trying to hide an exhale that comes from deep inside your chest, "You're gonna have to bat the ladies away now."

"What if I don't want to?" He asks with a steady and earnest voice.

He leans in a millimeter closer to you, his face directly in front of yours.

His question lives somewhere between rhetorical and pointed—between dancing around an answer that he feels he'd never be able to hear and another answer he desperately wants to know. As he works through these racing thoughts, you look up at him. You contemplate answering but find yourself working through some mental gymnastics of your own. You're not stupid and you can sense where this may be going. It's therapist-client lesson 101: don't catch feelings. You've never had this problem before.

Based on just about everything you've heard about Gator, he might as well wave a red flag outside his house every day. That's what they said. They said he was no good. But the longer you've been working with him, the more he seems to defy everyone's expectations of him.

This can't possibly end well. You think to yourself. So, you do the only thing that makes sense—you deflect to avoid really answering the question the way you want so you can protect your heart.

"Well, maybe you'll get your chance," you say with a smile, your hand gently patting his chest, "maybe there'll be a pretty girl, or girls, who will take notice when we go out today."

"Huh?" The corner of Gator's lips twitch with feigned confusion. "Are you taking me out to a bar or somethin'?"

"Yes, Gator," you say, keenly aware of how your sarcasm coats every word, "I, your therapist, am taking you to a bar mid-morning in the dead of winter in Minnesota."

He steps a little closer and you notice a smirk form at the corner of his lips.

"Now who's a smart ass?"

He's close enough that you can smell the hint of his shower gel and deodorant on his skin. You notice the smoothness of his skin and the moles that adorn his face. Almost against your will, your tongue pushes itself out of your mouth to lick your lips. An embarrassment filled heat colors your cheeks and you're thankful he can't see it. With a subtle clearing of your throat you step back from him and chuckle.

"Spoiler alert," you tease him even though you know you shouldn't, "I've always been a smartass—now let's go."

His lips are parted as he tries think of a comeback that doesn't come to him. So, he just nods and follows you to your truck. Though he's come to trust you about your training sessions, a nagging anxiety always lingers when he doesn't know exactly what you have planned. As if reading his mind, you seek to allay the concerns that you can tell he has.

"So, today's going to be a little more challenging: we're going to the galleria," you pause to gauge his reaction.

It's one of restrained discomfort that he's trying to hide from you. You reach over to grasp his hand in reassurance. He draws in a deep breath and turns his head in your direction.

"It will be fine; you will do great," you declare with confidence.

He notices how you quickly you move your hand from his. It’s the most subtle of moves, but it haunts him.

"You sure 'bout that?" He asks as he puffs his chest. "It's probably really crowded now; Christmas is so close."

"Yes, I am sure," you pause and add with a hint of teasing, "just don't go around calling kids little shits."

You observe how the corners of his lips tremble with a suppressed laugh. The grin that emerges on his soft lips draws in your gaze. Once again, you're glad he can't perceive that.

The drive to the galleria thankfully isn't a long one. He's become attuned with how your car moves. He knows when you've been going down a long stretch of road. His body feels the shifting movements of the truck with each consecutive turn you make. He feels it in his core as your acceleration decreases. All this tells Gator how close you are to your destination.

His knees shake with an anxious energy as you slowly roll your truck into a parking space. He opens his door slightly, waiting for you and knowing you always meet him there. As you pull the door open all the way for him, the bustling sounds of shoppers meets his ears.

He sets his cane on the ground and steps out of the truck, pushing the door closed behind him. Whether it be routine or instinct, he hooks his left hand into the crook of your elbow. You accept it without any second thought.

"Ok, so I know you can obviously tell there a lot of people," you tell him as you lead him to step up onto the sidewalk. "Remember your cane is essential; it's a guide for you but it really helps other people to be more aware and respectful of your space—unless they're assholes of course."

You say it just as a few shoppers zoom past Gator barely missing his cane. They look back at you when they hear your expletive and are greeted with your judgmental scowl. He turns to you, brows raised, the left corner of his lips skipping upwards into a smirk.

"Assholes, huh?" He muses, a playfulness dances through the tone of his voice. "You've been hanging around me too much; I'm rubbin' off on ya."

"You wish," you reply, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

Through the cold air, the sounds of the season flutter around you both: the giggles of children and their little voices listing off their wish lists for Santa, bells jingling, and people conversing on their cell phones about last minute presents and plans. The sounds push through the cold and Gator feels them wrap the two of you in a warmth that goes straight to his heart.

"Can we go to the record store?" You ask Gator, pressing your free hand over the hand he keeps tucked in your elbow.

"Sure," he agrees with a shrug, wondering if he even has a say.

The way Gator's grip tenses at your elbow tells you he senses how small the store is. The sensation reminds you to make it a short trip. The aromatic scent of the paper vinyl jackets, the sound of an album playing in the background, and the concurrent conversations start to overwhelm his senses. He brings his cane closer to his body as he feels bodies shuffle through the tight aisles. Other shoppers walk past him, sometimes accidentally nudging his shoulder or his cane.

"You like vinyl, right?" You ask, noticing his discomfort.

Engaging him in conversation always seem to put him at ease. The question sparks a pause in time that he uses to think on his answer. He's not sure that anyone's really asked him before.He's not sure when the last time as anyone asked him about thinks he liked or didn't like. He nods.

"Yeah," he replies allowing a beat of silence before continuing, "lost most of my collection though, after—everything—ya know?"

"Right," you murmur in thought as you remember the news.

Kidnapping. Corruption. Rituals. Murder. It had all the elements that are closer to fiction than reality. It had all the things you could put into a movie. But maybe movies just mirror real life.

"I'm so sorry 'bout that Gator, really."

You look on him, not with pity, but with sadness and the firm belief that he is deserving of so much more than what he's been dealt. And he can feel your gaze setting off a buzz of energy he can't explain. Whatever it is you do—he's never felt so vulnerable. He wishes he could see you, he thinks, as he bows his head down his hair falling towards his forehead. Taking his hand from your arm, he pushes the strands from his face.

"Well…you win some, you lose some," he states his voice trailing off.

A few more shoppers shuffle around you, looking through the shelves of vinyl. Cognizant of the tight space, you take hold of Gator's hand. Your fingers act as though controlled by something beyond you and you find yours intertwining with his. Holding some records in one hand and keeping Gator's hand in your other, you lead him to the cash register where you quickly pay.

As you leave, it feels less like you're leading Gator as he keeps in step beside you. His sweeps his cane lightly across the ground before him as you navigate the holiday shoppers in the Galleria. You keep a tight hold of his hand as Gator's awareness heightens with every step he takes. The observations in his mind take over and he notices that everyone seems engaged in themselves and their own actions. But he also senses the subtle change in their movements as they maneuver around him, aware and respectful of his space.

You bear witness to how moves with more ease with each step he takes. The anxiety he often holds gradually melts away, moving through the crowd like he belongs.

"Hey," you say as you turn to him and squeeze his hand, "you're really doing a great job. "

He moves to say something but stops when he hears a familiar voice ring out.

"Gator," a woman's voice clears the crowd, the sound of it moving closer towards you.

Gator recognizes it, his heart filling with equal measures of timidity and guilt.

"Dot?" Gator utters and you immediately loosen your fingers from his.

He wishes you hadn't let go, but he works out clearly in his head the reason you did. In a few short moments Dot and her daughter Scotty stand before you. Dot's face shines with empathy and kindness, while her daughter stays quiet at her side. You can't blame Scotty for her apprehension given all the pain and trauma Roy Tillman and Gator had inflicted on their family.

"Are you doing ok, Gator?" Dot asks, a soft kindness imbues itself in her voice and her expression. "You look like you're doing better."

Gator hangs his head down while giving a slight nod.

"Well, I'm tryin'," Gator replies and gestures towards you, "and I've had lots of help."

Dot takes your hand and squeezes it with a kind of gratitude that you feel is almost undeserved. Dot pulls Gator into a conversation. Her genuine concern never disappears as she asks him about life, therapy, and even his sleeping habits. You watch Gator listen intently to each word like a child with his mother. Shifting her weight from side to side, Scotty garners your attention by pointing at your shopping bag. At the same time, Scotty looks you up and down as though she's sizing you up.

"You got some records?" Scotty says, starting with small talk.

"Yep," you reply, turning your full attention to her, "I'm just finishing up the last of my shopping."

Scotty nods, "Did you get any for yourself?"

"No, not this time," you respond, taking note of her genuine curiosity, "trying to make sure I get stuff for others before myself, you know?"

"I would get something for myself," she says with a beautiful simplicity bestowed only to children. "Sometimes it's fun to get yourself a little gift—that's what my mom says."

You wait a few moments to contemplate on her observation while you craft your own reply. You release a chuckle as Scotty gazes at you with a wide-eyed smile and an emphatic nod.

"Your mom is a smart woman, Scotty."

"I know," she says earnestly, "I can tell you're a lot like her; you're really kind."

Scotty's eyes shift back to Gator and Dot as she speaks. Ever observant, you follow the thread of her gaze which seems to be weaving between you and Gator. You swear you catch Gator glance at you quickly before he turns his attention back to his own conversation.

"So what do you want for Christmas?" Gator hears you ask Scotty.

He hears her lists off a few items: a light up hoverboard, a knitting kit, and a kit to make jewelry at home. Your smile is bright and wide as you listen to Scotty relay her Christmas wishes to you. Her honesty and innocence shine through and you envy it.

"What about you? What do you want?" Scotty asks.

"Oh gosh, let's see," you pause in thought, "I'm a sucker for a really good pen and a pretty journal."

Scotty's confusion appears instantly on her face, "A pen and a journal! That's it??"

"I'm a pretty simple girl, Scotty," you say plainly, "I really don't need much."

"Are you sure?" Scotty squints her eyes in disbelief. "I don't believe you."

"You're persistent," you add with smile. "Ok, fine, a girl can always use a pretty bracelet or a nice pair of earrings."

With a look of contemplation that seems wise beyond her years, Scotty gives you a knowing nod that says: I told you so. You turn your attention back to Dot and Gator as they continue to converse.

"You know Scotty's got a Christmas pageant in a week," Dot says to Gator, her voice and eyes full of genuine kindness. "You should come. What do you think Scotty?"

Scotty moves closer to her mom, first looking at Gator and then gesturing back at you. "Sure, but she should come to!"

You blink rapidly with surprise at the unexpected suggestion. You to turn to Gator to take in his reaction to Scotty's request, you see his face is already turned to you with his eyebrows raised. Dot's eyes shift from you to her daughter who looks at you with the brightest smile and a wide-eyed, glee-filled gaze.

"Now how can you say 'no' that face?" Dot added with a shrug and a joyful smile of her own. "You really should come; they always do a good job and it's just a real nice event for the season."

As you look back to Gator, he presents his open hands to you, wordlessly intimating the decision is yours and yours alone. Your eyes move from to Dot and then to Scotty again. Dot does have one thing right—how can you say no that face? With a nod of your head, you give Dot your answer. Scotty claps excitedly as Gator seems to let out a quick sigh.

Dot pulls you closer and asks you quietly, "Would you be able to bring Gator?"

"I can figure it out on my own, Dot!" He exclaims having heard her request, a mixture of embarrassment and indignation coming from deep in his chest.

"Oh, Gator, I didn't mean anything by it, I just thought—," she begins, her words full of nothing but kindhearted truth.

"No, Gator, don't worry about it," you chime in, "it's not a problem, I can bring you."

"Well, it's settled then!" Dot adds before taking Scotty's hand. "We're going to go finish some errands and we'll see you both next weekend."

Gator nods and smiles before giving them slight wave. This time, you hook your hand into his arm, gently leading him through the crowds back to the parking lot. He is hyper focused on moving his cane in front of him and his posture feels a little cold and stiff.

"So do you wanna go anywhere?" You ask him, trying to break the silence that's suddenly filled the air.

Gator shrugs, "No, not really."

His terse response almost makes you want to let him go and leave him behind. But you can't; you care too damn much.

"Ok," you acknowledge while you furrow your brows with confusion. "I guess we'll just go home then?"

"That's fine."

The silence continues as you walk towards the parking lot. When you're back at your truck, you open the door for him and he climbs in quietly. His elbow finds rest on the door and he presses his chin against a clenched fist, once inside. His tight lips, the slump of his shoulders, and his overall demeanor give the distinct impression that he is sulking.

Once you settle into the driver's seat you turn the ignition and begin your drive back to Gator's house. The air in your car is thick with silence as he crosses his arms over his chest. You hate these bouts of childish silent treatment he still clings to. You can engage him but decide against, not wanting to get into an argument with him.

When you pull into his driveway, Gator is quick to open the door. He sets his can down with a loud tap on the cement of his driveway. His movements are cautious but controlled as he navigates his way to the front door. Even in his adult tantrum he impressively manages to find his way to the door. He takes a deep breath before unlocking and opening it.

"What's with the attitude?" You finally ask with exasperation, following him inside.

"I don't have an attitude," he mumbles as he sets his cane against the bookshelf closest to the front door.

"Snapping at Dot, the silent treatment in the car?" You remind him, the floorboards creaking beneath your feet as you step towards him. "It seems like it to me."

He turns around and meets you leaving only a foot of space between the two of you.

"I could get there on my own just fine," he insists with a pout of his lips, "I can figure it out! I'm not helpless."

"No one called you helpless, Gator!" You wave your hands at your side. "Dot was just trying to make it easier for—"

"I don't need your pity!" Gator asserts while taking another step towards you.

"You need to cut it out with that!" You challenge him, hoping that he can feel how hard you are glaring at him. "When have I ever treated you with pity?"

"No," he sneers, "you just treat me like a job!"

A volcano is erupting inside you. It's heating up your face. He's made you upset before but not like this.

"Has it never occurred to you that I like spending time you?!" You shout, all reason leaving your body. "That I want to spend time with you?!"

You watch as Gator's chest rises and falls breathing in the weight if your words. He moves closer and lifts a gentle hand to hover inches from your face. And when he traces a soft caress down the curve of your cheek you can't help but draw in a sharp breath of your own. The heat of his touch is something unexpected while also being something you've been waiting for.

He leans in closer and pauses, wondering if you'll pull away. You can and maybe you should, but much to Gator's relief, you don't. Instead, you lean your head into his large hand and close your eyes. The softness of your skin warms his hand as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear before settling at the crook of your neck.

His lips are finally on yours with a kiss that is timid and soft at the start. The softness of his lips pulls you in and you press your lips harder against his. The scent of you fills him with elation while his other hand pulls you closer to him. He needs more. The softness is not enough.

You feel his grip at your waist tighten before he slips his tongue gently to open your lips and when you don't fight he pushes in deeper. Gator feels your left hand caress down his shoulder until you rest it on his forearm. He can't help but pull you closer to him, his right hand beginning to meander just beneath the hem of your shirt.

Too much. Not enough. Too much.

Your mind and heart are racing as you try desperately to work through the feelings that his lips, his hands, and maybe the inkling of something else are igniting in you.

"Stop, Gator, stop!" You release yourself from his kiss and step back. "I…we can't."

He stands before you and though he can't see your face, he's certain the expression you have must hold regret. His hand falls and his heart follows, moving down to the pit of his stomach.

"Fuck. Fuck!" He swears, running his hands through his hair. "I fucked it up."

"You didn't," You insist, unable to fight moving closer to him. "I promise you didn't."

He steps forward noticing a hint of longing in your voice. He tests the waters before you both.

"No?" A teasing tone leaves his lips as he leans towards you again.

You feel his breath upon your lips as the conflict continues in your mind. Feeling his lips on yours again is a desire and a temptation. He leans in his lips just brushing yours before you back away.

"I can't do this," you say through intense breaths.

"Why not?" He moves closer to you, caressing soft fingers down the length of your right arm.

"It's unethical, I could lose my job, ," you begin spouting reasons. "It's unfair to you."

"You can't tell me you don't feel something, sweetheart," he rebukes with more than a hint of snark to his tone.

Together, his words and tone come straight for your heart.

"You're right, I can't," you confirm, your lips trembling and your stomach flopping with the myriad of emotions swirling inside you. "Gator, I just need time to think…I—I'm sorry."

He scoffs in a combination of disbelief, frustration, and most of all, disappointment. There are so many words he wants to say to you, none of them coming out. A voice echoes inside his mind, as he asks himself if anything he says would make a difference.

"I'll call you before the weekend comes, I promise," you tell him, hoping he knows that you're going to keep your word. "I've gotta go."

Before he can say something—anything— to convince you to stay, he hears the familiar sounds of the door opening and then closing behind you. He hears your gentle footsteps on his stoop, leaving instead of arriving. The sound of your truck pulling away from his driveway leaves a silence that screams in his ears. Frustration riddles his breath as the warmth you bring disappears with your absence.

Key word, had. 

Somehow you’d been unable to hear the loud sirens over the roaring music that poured in through the living room, your beer spilling onto your boots as Nathan Sparks dropped his vape pen at the same time. Probably more out of fear than surprise. Not one part of this was following his parole.

He was fucked, and you were stumbling around too much to try and escape. Well, you didn’t really know why everyone was running. You only started taking off because they were. Probably how you ended with your face in the dirt and your knees scraped to shreds. 

“What the fuck are you doin’ here?” A familiar hiss fell across you as strong arms gripped your wrists tightly, tugging you up against his strong chest. You stumbled again, nearly folding in half before his grip tightened along you. 

The familiar voice instantly made you drop your head, knowing you were totally fucked. Gator. Your annoying stepbrother. Though both of you were much too grown for you to even consider him as a brother. It was just weird, and wrong.

Plus he loved to pester you, picking on you like he was in middle school. He’d poke at you, tug on your hair and snap your bra straps, and teasing you until your blood was boiling. He could get under your skin better than anyone else could. 

And you hated him. Not as much as you hated his father, but enough that you began to struggle against his touch as irritation filled you. Of course you had to be snatched up by him. 

“I’m not nowhere,” you slurred out, blinking roughly as your feet failed to move in motion with his. At this point he was just dragging you forward, making you squirm as you feared that you’d fall back onto the hard ground. 

“Stop with the bratty fuckin’ attitude and quit resisting,” his tone was gruff, filled with irritation as he gave you a quick pat down. You thought for a moment that you had threatened to bite him, but then you thought you might’ve imagined it, “should toss your ass in a cell, see if you like bein’ there overnight.” 

He pressed on the top of your head until you were placed halfway in the cruiser, your feet stuck out in front of you as you peered at the blood that was streaming from your knees. He was pacing back and forth as the frigid breeze washed over you, all while you were struggling to keep up with reality. 

“Does Roy know you’re here?” Gator’s brown hair was slicked back in his usual style, his brows raised enough that you could count the lines on his forehead. His pink lips were spread as an exasperated sigh left his tongue, his hazel eyes hot against your skin. 

“S’like I said, I ain’t doing nothing wrong.” For a moment you thought you might be seeing double of him, up until you blinked and the world slowed down again. Who didn’t drink in this shitty little town?

You wrinkled your nose, then again as something kept brushing against your skin. Your wrists were bound by handcuffs, so you couldn’t move it away. When did that happen?

“Gator are you-, you arresting me?” Everything was rushing towards you in waves as you squinted up at him, mouth parting in disbelief. You did not want to deal with the fallout that would come from that. 

“I should, ya even old enough to be here?” One hand was resting against the door, the other on the top of the cruiser as he bent over to observe you. His features were all scrunched together as he stared at you, waiting for your catty response. 

“I’m old enough to drink you dipshit.” He snorted as he stood, wiping at his chin even though he knew it was true. It bothered you how he treated you like you were younger than you actually were, and he did it because he knew the way it bothered you. 

“What else you had?” His flashlight was so bright that you were almost blinded, blinking away the dark shapes that remained before he was holding your head up again. 

Truth was there was a long list of items that had been available at your fingertips to fuck you up. Though other than a few drinks and a hit from Nathan’s pen here and there, you had nothing. The other things gave you a nice high, but the comedown was too miserable to even consider.

It sucked being in a town where the funnest thing to do was to get fucked up.

“Your mom,” a quiet beat passed between the two of you as his eyes widened for one split second, your joke landing cruelly as the tension crept in. The reminder that his mom was gone made your heart stall in your chest, your features pinching together at your dumb comment, “awe fuck, m’sorry. I forgot. I’m sorry. My dad’s dead if that helps.” Your tongue couldn’t stop, kept rambling as he quickly shook his head. If he had been bothered, he didn’t show it. 

It was still quiet for a moment as he cocked his eyebrows, watching the way you continued to bury yourself into a hole. 

“You talk too fuckin’ much.” Gator grumbled as he reached into his cruiser again, leaving you alone momentarily. You thought he was very lucky that you weren’t in the mood to run off. Because you would. 

“I’m glad he’s dead.” You stated simply. 

“You need to learn to shut the fuck up. Stop being such a bitch,” he scoffed again as he approached again, carrying something in his hands, “does Susan know you’re here?”

“My mom’s with your dad at like some cattle thing.” You couldn’t remember where now, only that they were out of town for the night. 

“I know where they’re at, I asked if she knew where you were at.” He sassed back, making you roll your eyes this time. 

“I told you-,” you began, huffing as you thought about telling the story all over again. He stopped you. 

“I heard you. Open your mouth.” His tone was raspy and deep, his thumb pressing against your chin as you quickly yanked your head away from him. 

“Excuse me?” You pinched your features together in disgust, kicking your feet as he leaned closer to you again with an annoyed exhale. 

“Open your mouth. Testin’ ya.” He stated as he wiggled the breathalyzer around, making you huff. You didn’t want to put that thing in your mouth. Who knows when it’d been cleaned last. 

“No.” You were squirming now, a squeal leaving your lips at the rough way he dragged you back to the edge of the seat, enough that your dress pooled up towards your waist. 

“You don’t have the right to choose, sunshine. Do it.” Gator’s tone was rough as he cocked his strong eyebrows at you as you pinched your features up in distaste. You didn’t have to listen to him. He wasn’t in charge of you. 

“Pretty sure I do, sunshine.” You mocked back, watching the way he clenched his jaw in frustration. 

Gator gripped onto your jawline, keeping you from wiggling your face away as his long fingers dug into your skin. Electricity pulsed through your body at the rough sensation, your heart hammering harshly against the side of your neck.

“I said open your mouth and blow.” He spoke through gritted teeth, his hazel eyes dark as he pressed the breathalyzer against your parted lips. 

Now, you weren’t weird. By no means did you actively crush on him, or have any other underlying feelings towards him. Not one. But you weren’t blind either. Gator was handsome, especially for such a small town like this. 

He was tall with strong shoulders, thick biceps and a softer midsection. His brown hair was always slicked back, but you’d gotten a few glimpses of it when it was undone to know that it was thick and grew fast. He had a nice forehead, arched eyebrows, and a strong nose. You could tell by the way it was slightly bent that it had been broken before. His straight teeth were hidden behind the most perfect cupid's bow that you had seen, all pink and smooth. 

Moles were also painted across his skin; all over his face, neck, arms and back. Across his chest and legs, even on his ear. You’d never seen someone with so many little marks before. Maybe you’d even admit to it being cute if it was from someone else. 

But Gator was an asshole and he was forcing you to do his stupid test, which you didn’t understand what the point was. You hadn’t even driven here; you’d just been running.

“Geez,” he let out a high pitched whistle as he read the machine, tsking as he continued to keep your jaw trapped between his fingers, “you’re not gonna remember shit.”

In all honesty you weren’t thinking, you were just irritated at the way he was continuing to hold onto you. What you were trying to do was bite down on his thumb, just enough to get your point across.

What actually ended up happening was your teeth lightly nipping at his index finger before it was in your mouth entirely, coating it was drool and your lipstick before you gagged at the way it hit the back of your throat.

Gator pulled his hand away in surprise, eyes widened as he stared at the line of drool that was connected between your lips and his finger. Neither of you spoke for a moment, but you swore you felt something pulse between the two of you. Then he gulped and wiped his hand on his pants. 

“Yeah, keep racking up the charges sweetheart,” he grumbled as he roughly pushed you inside, then slammed the door shut as you struggled to sit up straight, “shoulda left ya in the fuckin’ dirt.” 

“Fuck you, you pig.” Your insult would’ve landed a lot better if you weren’t looking in the wrong direction, and if you had actually managed to bring your legs up to kick the back of the seat. 

Maybe he didn’t hear you, or maybe he took pity on the way your tears smeared the dirt and makeup on your face. You hadn’t even realized you’d been crying, or maybe you had been the whole time. 

The rest of the ride was quiet, tense as you dropped your head down and sighed deeply. The numb feeling that settled over you wasn’t as good as what you would’ve normally preferred. You missed the days that you could drink without getting sad or angry. 

Sounds blurred in and out as the only constant you remembered was the bump of the dirt road, mainly because of the uncomfortable way it jerked your bladder about. 

You didn’t look up as Gator opened and shut his door, or even when he tugged the back door open. Your head kept dropping down, brows furrowing together at how bright the lights were. Probably at the stupid station. 

“C’mon,” he grumbled as he gripped at your cuffs, making you wince as he tugged you forward, “takin’ you inside.”

“Mhm not goin’,” you slurred, your eyelids so heavy that you couldn’t keep them open, “can’t arrest me, I know people and shit.” That was a lie. You knew no one, but he didn’t have to know that. 

“Shut up,” a sigh left his lips as he pressed a hand against your head, keeping you from smacking into the door, “we’re at the ranch.” He added, reaching around unlocking the cuffs from your wrists.

You touched your arms softly as you stumbled, back slamming against the cruiser as a hiss left his lips. Gator jerked you forward, mumbling underneath his breath as he dragged you up the steps as you continually rambled. You weren’t sure what you were saying, but you were fairly certain you were talking. 

“Christ, do you ever shut up?” Gator huffed, his hands on your waist to keep you from toppling down the long staircase.

“I told you to shut up,” you wagged your finger at him, wobbling from side to side, “and do your chores.” You laughed for whatever reason, finding your own thoughts funny. 

“You got jokes tonight, huh?” He raised his arched eyebrows at you as you fell against him this time, your legs giving out as your chest fell against his heavy vest. If you were sober, you’d be mortified. 

“I’m very funny,” you snorted as you looked up at him, the gap between you two only a few inches apart, “and lots of men like my mouth.” You concluded, eyes continuing to roll into the back of your head so you missed his reaction. But you could still feel his hands burning into your waist.

Gator grumbled underneath his breath, shifting you so he could drag you to your room easier. You were fairly certain he’d be carrying you if your feet weren’t lazily dragging on the ground. Or perhaps that was a dream. Maybe this was all a dream. 

Your head hit the pillows as you continued to mumble, words jumbling together as he had the decency to remove your boots and then tug your dress down your thighs. He even brought the cover over your shoulders as you instantly sank into it, soothing yourself. 

You were absolutely positive that you were dreaming when you felt fingers across your cheek, then down the bridge of your nose and across your lips. It slightly tickled, but relaxed you more than anything.

You didn’t hear him leave, nor could you recall what had happened when you awoke, certain that you had managed to haul and wander yourself back all on your own. 

Gator would never be nice enough to do such a thing; it had to be all a dream. 

Taglist: @keerygal @louisbelongstome28 @meowmah @tiredpurpleee @mirellef2001 @lopang @thoroughlymimi @austinmahomboy @ivysmith19 @gatorgirlie @leexiproo @littlebunnybigheartfics @aliciaaaas @chelliquinn @lovecant-breakthespell @charlston-chews @feliciahardysgf @kind-of-a-writer

That had been Thursday evening, the middle of the week. Week two of your marriage. The two of you were good at ignoring each other, subtle glances but no words exchanged as the days dragged out. Gator stayed out later, perhaps on patrol, maybe at a bar somewhere drinking his feelings… You cooked and left food in the fridge for him whenever he came home late into the night. You slept on your side of the bed, tense whenever he slipped under the covers on his side after spending another few hours in his office.

He was almost always gone before you woke up, and you never complained. It made things easier.

Saturday night rolled around, Gator had finally mumbled something about going to have a few drinks with his father, that he’d be back later and to not wait up for him. He didn’t need to add the last part, you never did anyways.

“Got you a dress for service tomorrow.” He said as he slipped on his boots by the door, watching you from where you sat stiffly on the couch.

“Hope it fits right.” Was all he said before he was out the door, the faint crunch of gravel under his boots the only sound before you heard his truck start up and pull away from the house.

The dress itself was much fancier than anything you’d ever been able to afford. A baby blue dress that would go down to your ankles, modest, something appropriate for a Sunday morning church service, a darker blue and purple floral pattern decorating the fabric, lace stretched across the front. You just stared at it for a while, hand reaching out to touch it. The fabric was soft, flowy, and would probably feel nice against your skin.

You wondered for a moment if blue was Gator’s favorite color, if he’d picked it because he wanted to see you in blue, but you quickly shook the thought away, reminding yourself you didn’t care what his favorite color was. Didn’t care about him.

You hung the dress up in your shared closet so it wouldn’t get wrinkled in the odd hours of the night, and would be perfect and pristine for you to wear tomorrow.

The idea of going to church with Gator was odd. He seemed so far from a religious man, so hardened and sinful… His father even more so. So far you’d managed to avoid seeing Roy Tillman, but you’d have no choice in the morning.

You spent the evening enjoying the quiet and comfort of being alone, showering, taking your time to just relax under the water, scrub every inch of your skin until you were sure you were clean.

Changing into your sleeping clothes, an old t-shirt and shorts, you made your way to the bed. You hated the way it felt cold without him there. The bed was so big, but you still curled up on the edge of your side for whenever he came back and took his side.

You reached for your phone, fingers hovering over the screen before pressing the call button. The phone rang a few times before your mother picked up.

“Hello?”

Hi, mom.” Your voice choked up immediately. You called her almost every day, whenever Gator wasn’t around. You refused to let him be involved in any more of your life than he already was.

“How are you doing? Still settling in?” Your mom’s voice was soft, she sounded exhausted and you were sure she was, without you there to help take care of her.

“Yeah… Still settling in.” That’s what you’d called it. You were sure you’d never fully settle in, you were so sure your homesickness would be a permanent pit in your stomach. It wasn’t like you couldn’t go see your mother, but it wasn’t the same as sharing a roof with her, sharing dinner every night with her.

“I made your chicken parm the other night, the one you always made when I had a bad day.” You whispered into the phone, holding it as close to your skin as you could, as if you’d be able to feel her words sink into you.

“Oh you did now, did you? Did it taste good?” She asked.

You let out a sad laugh, sniffling. “I forgot the extra oregano you always put in it, so it was missing something.” It was missing more than just extra seasoning, it was missing the love your mother used to make it with.

“How’s Gator?” She asked and it had you pausing, bristling.

“He’s fine.” You didn’t go into detail, didn’t tell her that the two of you hadn’t really talked in two days. Hadn’t shared dinner together or spent any real time getting to know each other.

You knew nothing about him and he knew nothing about you. Favorite colors, favorite foods, animals, movies… It was a complete mystery.

“I miss you.” Your mother’s voice filled your ears and you had to clench your eyes shut to stop the tears that were rapidly forming.

“Miss you more.” Your words caught in your throat before you managed to push them out.

“Are you still taking your pills?” You asked and the way your mom paused, not answering right away gave you your answer.

“Mom, did you run out?”

“A few days ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? You need that medicine.”

“You know I don’t have the money.”

You sighed, hot tears spilling onto your cheeks as you stared at the phone, your mother’s contact photo. A picture of the two of you, much younger, much happier.

“I’m going to get you the meds, mom. You can’t just not take them.”

She tried to argue but you quickly shut it down. “You don’t get a choice in this. Remember choices? When we had those? Like back when I thought I had a choice in who I was going to marry? Yeah, you don’t get certain choices either. I’m getting you the damn meds.” You weren’t mad at her, but she could be so damn stubborn sometimes.

She didn’t argue, knew there was no point when you got like this. “Alright sweetheart. I love you.”

“I love you more, forever and always.” A shaky sigh left your lips.

“Goodnight, baby.”

“Night mom.”

The call ended with three abrupt beeps and you just stared down at the phone in your hand, wanting to toss it against the wall. You were so angry, none of this was fair, you were stuck here when you should have been there with your mother, making sure she was taking care of herself–

“Your mom’s sick?”

You flinched, eyes turning towards the open bedroom door, seeing Gator leaning against the wood. You weren’t sure how he’d come into the house without you noticing, how he’d quietly taken off his boots and crept down the hallway. How much had he heard?

“Yeah.” You replied solemnly, picking at your nails, the skin red and irritated from the frequency of your picking due to stress.

“She need some kinda medicine?” You weren’t sure why he was even asking, why he cared.

You just nodded, not meeting his eye. “She can’t afford it. And she’s too stubborn to ask for help.”

“Seems like you’re too stubborn to ask for help too. Why ain’t ya tell me?”

“Why would I tell you?” You countered, continuing to pick at your nails.

“Because you’re my wife, and my wife should tell me if she needs something’ from me.”

“I don’t need anything from you. Don’t want anything from you.”

“Really? So you’re tellin’ me you don’t want me to give ya some money for yer mom’s medicine?”

You paused for a minute, staring down at the bedsheets.

“That’s what I thought.” He continued, rounding the bed to get to the closet, pulling off his jeans and grabbing a pair of sweatpants, the same ones he always wore to bed.

You tried not to stare, cheeks burning as he stood there in his boxers, back to you. He slipped on the pants and crawled into bed, shuffling under the covers, closer to your side of the bed than he usually allowed himself to get. You didn’t comment on it, tried not to think about the fact that you could feel the heat radiating off of his body under the covers.

“I’ll give ya some money and you’ll buy your mom the damn medicine, alright?”

You didn’t reply, just turned your back to him, laying your head down on the pillow.

Gator didn’t fight for more, didn’t ask anymore questions. He got comfortable on his side and you soon heard the way his breathing evened, the soft snore that always came when he fell asleep.

Why was he so soft with you? It was different from the stories you’d heard around town. Were they wrong, or were you blinded by the feelings for him you couldn’t understand?

You twisted your ring around your finger, the pads of your fingers memorizing each ridge, each indent.

—

Morning came faster than you wanted it to.

Gator woke up first, sliding out of bed to shower. He preferred to shower in the morning, unless he came home super dirty from work, whereas you preferred to shower during the night. It actually made for a pretty decent arrangement.

You weren’t sure what time service started but you made your way to the closet, grabbing the dress from where it hung, still as soft as when you’d touched it the night before.

Once Gator exited the bathroom, you made your way in, sliding by him in the hall without a word. The mirror was covered in condensation, the bathroom humid from his shower. It smelled like his two-in-one body wash and shampoo along with his aftershave and cologne.

You wiped the mirror off with your t-shirt once you’d taken it off and balled it up, getting a look at yourself in the mirror. Someone you no longer recognized.

You stared at the dress for a long while before you pulled it over your body. It fit almost perfectly and it made you wonder how he knew your size when he’d bought it.

You smoothed the skirt portion out, tugging it down till it sat just right, and then you gave a little spin, watching as it swished around you.

It was perfect.

You hated it.

—

Gator had changed when you came out of the bathroom, dressed in slacks and a black button up, hair slicked back as usual. You much preferred it when he let it loose, let it breathe, but why would it matter what you liked?

He looked you up and down, a smile tugging on his lips. He still looked sleepy, but seeing you in the dress seemed to wake him up better than a cup of coffee ever would.

“Ya look nice in it, knew ya would. My mama used to have one just like that.” There was a heartbreaking fondness in his voice as he talked about his mother. You had no idea what had happened to her, if she’d left, if she’d died, what. But Gator, just from his one mention, seemed like a total momma’s boy. Despite the way he chased his fathers attention like a dog chases a squirrel.

“Ya hungry?” He asked as you dug through your clothes and found a white sweater, baggy, but something that could help keep you warm when you made your way outside.

Instead of saying no, like you usually did, you nodded.

Gator seemed surprised before he nodded his head in turn, stepping out of the bedroom as he made his way to the kitchen.

The sunrise was beautiful, you watched it through the kitchen window as he put two pieces of toast in the toaster, pressing the button down.

You made dinner, Gator sometimes made breakfast. It was the little dynamics like that, the routines that you were building that had you softening. It made things seem so simple, so normal that you almost forgot you’d been forced into this whole arrangement. Like maybe it was something you could get used to if you gave it more time.

Gave him more time.

The sound of eggshells cracking against the pan on the stove brought you back. Every time Gator had made eggs for you, which this time would make three, they were either too runny or rubbery and nearly burnt. You didn’t mention it, you’d been taught it was the thought that counts, and Gator trying as hard as he was? It was more than you’d expected in the beginning.

You poured the coffee once it had finished brewing, adding a bit of milk into yours. Gator liked his black so you left it like that, bringing the mugs to the table as he followed after you with both plates.

You sat in your normal spot and Gator sat in his, silverware clinking together as you ate. You ignored the way the toast had burnt and the bite that the eggs had to them. He had tried, you wouldn’t be rude about his cooking. He probably wasn’t used to cooking much for himself, let alone anyone else.

“Y’excited for church?” He asked through a mouthful of egg, some falling back onto his plate. It was times like this that reminded you Gator was just a man. He may have seemed like a hardened sheriff deputy on the outside, but on the inside? He was just like any other man.

“Uh..” You weren’t sure how to answer, it was always a guessing game of what to say to him, if he’d get mad if you told the truth. Talking to him was like walking on broken glass, one wrong move and you were going to be in for a whole lot of pain.

“Maybe, I dunno. Haven’t been to church in a while.” You said as you sipped your coffee.

The answer seemed to satisfy him as he nodded.

“I don’t really enjoy goin’, but my daddy says it’s important and he’ll light my ass up if I’m not in the pews every Sunday, so the hour and a half is worth it if he leaves me alone after.”

It was odd when Gator spoke about his father. Because on one hand, he spoke of him like he was this amazing man who needed to be praised and respected, but on the other hand he seemed scared of him, constantly worried he was going to get in trouble. Constantly needing to prove himself. Wasn’t that exhausting?

Maybe you’d ask him about it later, but it seemed he was in a decent mood for now so you decided to just leave it be, there was really nothing worse than an angry Gator Tillman. That terrifying glint he got in his eyes? It made you shiver just a little.

“So you used to go to church, is that it?” He asked, continuing to eye you across the table.

“Sometimes, when I was little. My parents tried to make it a habit but it never stuck. But it was uh… Nice. The older women who attended always gave us baked goods, clothes… Stuff to help us get by. It was nice.” It was the most you’d opened up to him.

“You said your parents. You never talk much about your daddy, what happened with him?” Gator asked.

You had two choices here. You could either tell Gator to fuck off, or you could open up a little more. Both posed their own risks. If you opened up, there was a chance you might become more attached to Gator, and he could use all of that against you, your fears, your trauma.

“He uh… Walked out on my mom and me when I was eight.”

“You ever see him after that?”

“No, he uh… He died.” The way you’d said it so plainly had Gator pausing, continuing to watch you over the table.

“Drunk driving thing. Didn’t see a stop sign and yeah.. That’s it.” You shrugged. You’d been numb to it for years now, just trying to push it down and ignore it. It always went well until you had to tell someone new about it and watched as they pitied you.

You didn’t see pity in Gator’s eyes, you saw understanding.

“My mom left too.” He said softly, looking away from you as he spoke about his own traumas.

You let him share.

“Her and my daddy never really got along, y’know? Some people just aren’t made for each other. One day she was there, the next she wasn’t. My daddy acted as if she didn’t exist at all, got mad at me whenever I brought her up, so I guess I just stopped talkin’ about her.”

“Do you miss her?” You asked.

“Yeah. Every day. Do you miss your dad?”

“Sometimes, yeah.”

It was the softest, most intimate conversation the two of you had, had yet, a look of understanding crossing both of your features. You had something in common, something that could connect the two of you, something you could lean on each other for if you wanted it.

You opened your mouth to ask another question when the sound of Gator’s chair scraping against the floor had you shutting up. He was standing up and walking off without a word, that hardened disguise he wore snapping back into place as if it had never been gone. But you had seen through it, even if just for a moment.

He was just hurting, maybe he wasn’t as bad as you’d thought, as everyone had said.

Sympathizing with the devil was a dangerous path to go down, but here you were doing it.

—

You cleaned up after breakfast and by that time, Gator was emerging from his office, standing by the door as he took a hit of his vape, watching you slip on your shoes. Beat up sneakers that definitely didn’t go with the dress, but besides your winter boots, they were all you had.

He held the door open for you as the two of you made your way to his truck. You hadn’t been in it before. It was a bit messy, old vapes crunching under your feet as you hopped in.

The rumble of the engine was loud as you shifted your gaze over to the man beside you. Your husband, you reminded yourself.

—

The drive took less than a minute, the two of you realistically could have walked, but it was a bit chilly out, and Gator had decided to take the truck.

You wrapped your white sweater further around yourself as the two of you made your way into the church, the smell of incense filling your nostrils as you looked straight ahead at the altar before glancing at the faces in the pews.

Some familiar, people you’d known for years around town, others not so familiar. There was pity in your gaze.

Gator led you to a pew in the very back, sliding in and waiting for you to sit down next to him. Once you did he rested an arm behind you on the pew, brushing your shoulders just briefly. It had you tensing.

‘Our Father who art in heaven

Hallowed be thine name

Thy kingdom come

Thy will be done

On earth as it is in heaven’

You recited the prayer along with the others, having memorized it since you were a young child. You were surprised to find out it had never really left you.

Roy Tillman stood up from where he sat in the front, making his way up towards the stand, clearing his throat.

“Good morning, neighbors!” His voice boomed through the space, echoing as it seemed to bounce off the walls.

“It is wonderful to see all of your faces this morning the lord has given us, amen?”

A few people in the pews mimicked his amen before falling silent.

You watched him through a glare, Gator’s hand settling on your shoulder and squeezing gently.

Roy talked about everything and nothing, casually misinterpreting whatever verses he brought up. You soon learned his favorite ones were about women obeying their husbands. Go figure.

“Ephesians five tells us, ‘Wives, submit to your husbands as to the lord, for the husband is the head of his wife.” You swore he looked directly to you when he said it, but you soon realized by the way Gator stiffened beside you, he was looking at him.

“God wants us to lead our families with a stern hand. Punishment comes from a place of love. When someone we care about is falling into sin, is it not up to us to pull them out of it? To punish them, show them the true way of God?”

His words made you sick. You were sitting here, in the pretty blue dress Gator had gotten for you, listening to his father talk about how to punish women. It was sick.

You stared out of one of the windows instead of looking at Roy, hands balled into fists at your side. Gator didn’t miss the way you’d tensed, the way you held yourself as his father spoke.

The choir came up at the end, consisting of several women and one man towards the front. They sang two songs, ones you weren’t paying attention to, but you heard Gator softly singing beside you.

Next thing you knew, you were dismissed. You moved to get out of the pew but Gator dragged you back to stay by his side.

“We’re gonna stay a few minutes.” No room for argument, what he said went.

It had your blood boiling again. Had the conversation you’d have over breakfast meant nothing to him?

Things only seemed to get worse when Roy made his way through the crowd to the two of you. You immediately moved behind Gator, as if he could protect you from his father.

He couldn’t even protect himself.

“Mornin’, son.” He patted Gator on the shoulder, so hard it made him wince but he smiled at his dad regardless.

“Good mornin’ dad. Your message was uh.. Really good. Important stuff, y’know?”

Gator Tillman was sucking up to his father right in front of your eyes. It gave you secondhand embarrassment just watching him yearn for his approval.

“Absoloutely. What did little missy here think of my message, huh?” Roy turned towards you, frozen in place behind Gator.

“Good.” Was all you said, fixing Roy with a look that said more than your words. You weren’t buying his bullshit.

“Anything in particular grab your attention the most?” He stood in front of you, a hand resting on his hip, hat tipped low as he watched you, the beginnings of a smirk curling at the corners of his mouth.

You could have chosen to stay quiet, could have chosen to let it go, but as others piled out of the church, you stood your ground.

“Your interpretation of uh… What was it again? Ephesians was interesting. Especially the part where you conveniently left out how men are actually supposed to treat their wives.”

Gator froze beside you. Were you really about to start an argument with his father?

Roy furrowed his brows at your words, watching you seriously.

“Not an interpretation, little missy, just readin’ the word of the lord.”

You let out a chuckle, smoothing your hands over your dress before looking back up at him, challenge in your eyes.

“Yes of course, I understand that sir… It’s just the parts you left out. You know, when someone preaches from the bible, it’s probably a good idea to include all of it, not just cherry pick what you want to hear. I’m sure everything written in there is important.”

Roy gritted his teeth. He was angry that someone was challenging him, especially a woman.

You continued on.

“I’m rusty with my verses so correct me if I’m wrong, but right after the verse about women obeying their husbands, about being submissive? There’s a verse right after that which tells the husband to love his wife as he loves himself, to love her like Jesus loved the church?” You blinked up at the older man innocently, hiding the smug expression you wanted to bear so badly.

Roy’s face was growing red, anger evident in every action.

The church was almost empty at this point, just a few stragglers left behind, talking.

“Kind of hard to follow that verse when you treat women how you do.”

Gator stood beside you, mouth shut the entire time when he wanted to just slap a hand over your mouth and drag you out of there, back to the house where you couldn’t talk back to his father.

Talking back to Roy Tillman was almost a death sentence, even being Gator’s wife. It was risky, but what did you have to lose? Everything had already been taken away from you.

“But besides that the message was great.” You added.

Gator at this point had had enough. He cleared his throat, trying to steady his breathing and not look like such a mess, sweat beading at his forehead where his hair was slicked back.

“Go wait in my truck.” He said to you, nodding towards the doors.

“Gator-”

“I said go wait in the fuckin’ truck.”

You nodded, shifting away from him and away from Roy, glancing over your shoulder as you walked out of the church, into the bright afternoon sun.

You immediately regretted it the second you’d stepped out of the church. It was as if something had possessed you to say it, like you didn’t have control over your tongue.

—

“You let her talk like that to me again, son? We’re going to have problems. Big problems.” Roy’s large hand was clasped against Gator’s shoulder, so hard it made him wince.

“She’s… She’s just settling in. She’s still learnin’ her place.” Gator tried.

“Well you better teach ‘er fast, son. Tillman’s don’t take that kinda disrespect. A woman should never talk back to a man like that.”

Yes sir…” Gator mumbled, looking at his feet.

“Wanna try that again, boy?” Roy’s grip got tighter.

“Yes sir.” He said a bit louder, meeting his father’s eye.

“Good. You tell her as much too, okay? She’s yours to discipline. She’s your property. Don’t let her talk to me like that again.” He finally let go of Gator’s shoulder with a shove that had him taking a few steps back before catching himself.

Gator was quick to head towards the doors, heartbeat in his throat.

“And son? If ya don’t like her, we can always find you a new pretty little thing to have on your arm. Sometimes marriage doesn’t work the first time around.” He winked at his son.

—

“What the fuck were you thinkin?!” Gator had ripped into you the second you were back at the house.

You’d barely had time to take off your shoes before he was slamming the door, glaring at you.

“I was thinking that he should have said the verse correctly.” You said with a shrug.

“You humiliated me.”

“It wasn’t about you.”

“It doesn’t matter! You’re my wife, do you have any idea how that made me look? In front of my father no less?”

“Why are you so concerned with what he thinks about you?” You asked, looking up to meet his eyes. They were dark, filled with an anger you’d only seen a few times now.

“You can’t talk to him like that again.” Was all he replied with.

“Why not? What’s gonna happen?” You challenged.

Gator slammed his fist against the wall, the drywall crumbling around his hand.

You jumped, talking a step back from him as he pulled his hand from the wall, a fist shaped hole now left in its wake.

“You’re going to find out if you keep it up. Do you really wanna find out?”

“Is that a threat?”

“It’s not a threat! It’s a goddamn warning!” He shouted, absolutely furious.

“You do realize that he could make you disappear if he wanted to, right? You, your mother? I’d suggest next time you keep your damn mouth shut.”

You were so stunned by his words that you just stood there, staring up at him. Just when you thought the two of you were finally getting somewhere, everything came crumbling down. All because you couldn’t bite your tongue. You still didn’t regret it.

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” You felt tears blurring your vision.

Gator scoffed, nodding to your words as he bit his bottom lip between his teeth, so hard it almost bled.

“Yeah, so I’ve been told.” He shoved past you, making his way to his office and slamming the door behind him.

You stood in the kitchen, staring at the hole in the wall, the hole that very easily could have been your face if he’d been any angrier.

This had just proved your point, Gator was a storm you were not, and would not ever be prepared to weather.

You’d been given floaties to try and survive a tsunami.

—

The two of you went back to not talking, avoiding each other. You stopped making him dinner, he didn’t mention it, just brought home greasy diner food that sat on the counter until you threw it away.

You slept on the couch, he also didn’t mention it, never asked you to come back to bed, didn’t say a word to you.

It was harder than you thought it would be.

One evening, almost a whole week later, he was tying his boots up by the front door as you sat on the couch, watching but not paying attention to whatever was playing on the tv in front of you.

You thought it odd that he was going out so late, especially on a day he usually didn’t work, but you didn’t ask about it, just kept your mouth shut. What he did was none of your business. In fact, you didn’t want to know what evil things his father put him up to, how he got his hands dirty.

The hole in the wall still hadn’t been patched up, a glaring reminder that Gator had some serious issues. As if you needed a visual reminder.

He left, slamming the door behind him. You let out a sigh, staring down at the ring on your finger. For whatever reason you hadn’t taken it off. It had become part of you now it seemed, playing with it helped ground you back to reality when things felt so far from it.

You cleaned the kitchen, washing the dishes Gator left in the sink, throwing away the trash that littered the counters and the stove, cleaned out the fridge, throwing out the expired food that you didn’t have a chance to cook with.

You felt guilty having let it go to waste, knowing your mother would have scolded you for it had she been there. But she wasn’t, another realization that had you wanting to sink into yourself.

You fought through it, taking a deep breath as you finished cleaning up the kitchen, ignoring the gnawing loneliness you felt at any given moment.

Night had fallen two hours ago, when Gator had left. You knew it was a bad idea, but you just seemed full of them lately. You decided to pull on your shoes and a sweater, leaving the house.

A walk wouldn’t hurt anything, right? Gator was away, Roy was probably also away doing god knows what, a ten minute walk to get some fresh air would be fine. It wasn’t like there was a rule against it.

You closed the front door behind you, stepping out into the night that was illuminated by the moon and stars that twinkled above you.

You’d always loved nature, loved being outside, especially when your mind was heavy with thoughts.

You inhaled deeply, the crisp night air filling your lungs as you made your way away from the house, keeping to the gravel. The property was quite big, you still hadn’t explored it yet and you didn’t want to get lost in the dark.

Crickets chirped in the grass on either side of you, singing into the night as you walked along the driveway. It was the most at peace you’d felt in about a month now. A month, it had almost been a month since you’d married Gator Tillman. A month since you’d left your mother, left everything you knew. And even though she was only a fifteen minute drive away, it felt like an eternity, especially when you’d been with her your entire life.

A sound had you freezing in place. It sounded like a muffled groan, coming from down the drive. Usually at this point was where you’d scurry back inside and lock the door, but your curiosity got the better of you.

You’d been much less cautious ever since you’d been practically stripped of your rights. It was hard to care when you felt like you were trapped.

Against your better judgment you began to follow the noise, trying to figure out where it was coming from. It was so faint that a part of you wondered if you were imagining it.

The barn came into view, old, paint peeling. You stared at the building, a sinking feeling in your stomach. The sound was coming from inside, a dim light peeking out from the door. There was someone in there.

Your feet were moving before your mind had fully decided, sneaking towards the barn.

You heard muffled voices the closer you got, pulse quickening as you reached the barn. You crept towards the door when you heard it. A familiar voice. Two familiar voices.

“This the right guy?” It was Roy. Roy’s voice.

“I’m sure of it.” Gator’s voice said confidently.

Your heart sank as you heard another quiet groan. It sounded pained. What was going on in there?

You crept closer to the door, managing to peek around the corner to see inside.

You wished you hadn’t.

The sight would be ingrained in your memory forever. There was a man tied to a chair, bleeding from his mouth, his head, there wasn’t much of him that wasn’t covered in the crimson fluid.

You covered your mouth before you gasped. Gator and Roy’s backs were to you, focused on the man who seemed barely conscious, barely alive.

Roy approached him, pistol in his hand that he used to lift the man’s chin, blood continuing to drip.

“Gave you several chances, told ya what would happen if you went against me. Bet you wished you’d a’ listened to me now, huh?”

The man just groaned again as Roy spoke, weakly trying to shift away from the pistol. It looked like there wasn’t much fight left in him.

This is what Gator had left to do? Torture a man?

Your footing slipped and gravel crunched under your foot, loud in the otherwise silent night.

You pulled away from the door as both men turned to look.

“Go check it out, I’ll finish up here. See ya in the mornin’, son.” Roy’s voice rumbled as you heard boots coming closer to the barn door.

You ran without thinking, your feet carrying you across the yard in a sprint. You didn’t know where to go, it was a straight shot to the house, but would you make it before Gator saw you? Probably not.

You ran to the well instead, crouching behind it, heart beating rapidly as you tried to stay as still and as small as possible.

You didn’t hear anything, no footsteps in your direction. You’d lost him.

You slowly stood up, still shaking as you began to make your way back to the house, still on high alert.

You were so close to reaching safety when a hand slapped over your mouth.

You tried to scream, but it was muffled as a body pressed close to you, holding you close by the waist so you couldn’t run.

“Shhh”

Gator.

You stilled against him, eyes wide. You couldn’t see him, but he didn’t seem mad. He seemed just as scared as you.

“Shhh, don’t yell.” He removed his palm from across your mouth, turning you around to look at him. His eyes were about as wide as yours were.

“What- What were you guys doing to that man?” You asked in a whispered rush, hands trembling as you looked up at him for some kind of explanation.

“He owed my daddy money, didn’t pay up.”

Oh my god. The Tillmans were monsters. Everything you’d heard about them was correct.

You were standing in front of a monster.

And he was your husband.

“So you what… Tortured him?”

“Yeah.” He breathed out, trying to guide you closer to the house, farther from that barn and his father.

“Please just get inside, if my dad sees you out here he’ll kill you.”

You believed him fully.

As you made your way to the front door you heard it. Muffled, but unmistakable. The sound of a gunshot. It had come from the barn.

“Oh my god. Oh my god he killed him!”

“Shhh!!” Gator hushed you, rushing you into the house and locking the door behind him.

“He killed him!” You shrieked once inside, pacing the living room as Gator watched you, looking almost as shaken up as you. Almost.

“He killed him! Oh my god! That man- That man probably had a family, friends, people that cared for him!”

“He was a bad man.” Gator tried to reason.

“Does that mean he deserved to die?” That shut him up quick. With that logic, both Gator and his father should be dead too.

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Is that what you go out and do? When you leave for work, you’re going out to torture people?” Your voice wavered as you said it, looking at him for an explanation.

He shook his head, reaching out to try and stop your pacing. You took a step away from him.

“Not always, no. I do my job. I go down to the station, I arrest people, and enforce the law. Sometimes my father makes me catch bad people for him. It doesn’t always end like that.” He gestured towards the door.

“How many people?”

“Huh?” He asked.

“How many people has he killed?”

Gator just shook his head. He didn’t know the answer and it made you sick.

You gripped your stomach, biting back a gag at what you’d seen.

“You cannot tell anyone what ya’ saw. Got it?” Gator watched you seriously.

You just nodded, scared that if you didn’t obey, that maybe it would be you next.

A tear fell down your cheek and before you knew it, you were sobbing.

More surprising than the sobbing, was Gator wrapping his arms around you, pulling you to his chest.

“Shhh, you weren’t supposed to see that, mama. M’sorry.”

For the first time ever, you let him comfort you. Let him hold you.

He was warm, smelled like leather, gun powder and his cologne. You buried your face in his jacket and inhaled deeply.

He rubbed your back, hands that had done so much damage, hurt so many people, gentle for you. Only for you.

He let you cry it out, held you as he rocked the two of you back and forth, letting you rest most of your weight on him as the tears subsided.

You pulled away from his jacket, looking up at him. Your eyes were bloodshot and swollen, nose red as you sniffled.

Gator just blinked before he was leaning down to kiss you.

His mouth was warm against yours, tasted like tobacco and whatever flavor vape he’d bought this week.

Surprisingly, you didn’t pull away.

You kissed back, fingers gripping his jacket roughly as your lips molded against his.

He groaned against your lips, the sound deep in his chest as he crowded you against the wall, one hand falling to your waist, the other tangling in your hair.

You melted against him, parting your lips to grant him access to your mouth.

He took it instantly, tongue slipping between your parted lips to explore.

It struck you that this was the first time you’d ever kissed him, the first time you’d really let him this close without pushing him away.

He nudged your thighs apart, one of his knees sliding between them, resting against your core.

You hated how wet you already were, how worked up he got you.

“Gator-” You breathed against his lips as he moved his kisses to your neck, harsh and a bit painful.

“Yeah, mama?” His breathing was heavy against your skin, hand squeezing your waist.

You weren’t sure what you needed, if this would help anything. But it would help get your mind off of the horrors you’d seen, and at the moment, that was what you needed.

“Take me to bed.”

He didn’t need told twice.

The two of you shuffled down the hallway, hands everywhere, mouths eager against each other.

He tore off your shirt, letting out a low whistle before he crowded you back on the bed, eyes raking over your body.

He crushed his lips against yours in another bruising kiss, hands cupping your breasts through your bra, moaning into your mouth.

“You gonna let me see these pretty tits, mama?” He grinned, hands creeping around to the back of your bra, fiddling with the clasps that held it together.

His brows furrowed in concentration, letting out a sound of annoyance as he tried and failed to get it open.

“Fuckin’ hate these damn things, shouldn’t wear ‘em at all.” He mumbled as he finally got it undone, watching as it fell to your lap.

His hands were on you instantly, warm, calloused hands cupping your breasts as he grinned.

“Fuckin’ pretty, mama. Look at these.” He hummed, leaning down to take one of your nipples between his lips, sucking gently. He closed his eyes, thoroughly enjoying himself, getting lost in your boobs.

You could see how hard he was through his pants, tenting the front obscenely.

He laid you down on the bed once he’d lavished attention to your breasts, kissing down your stomach, popping the button on your jeans, undoing the zipper before he was pulling them down in one swift tug along with your panties.

You gasped, bare in front of him while he was still fully clothed.

“Not fair.” You whispered, keeping your thighs clenched shut, not allowing him to see more.

“You gotta take off some things too.”

Gator didn’t have a problem with that.

He was standing up from the bed, shedding his jacket, his shirt, his pants and then his boxers until he stood before you, fully naked.

You glanced at his chest, the hair decorating his muscles, soft and curly. Your eyes tracked down his tummy, the way it softened at his hips, something you could squeeze. The happy trail that led down to a thick patch of hair that rested neatly above his cock, just a bit darker than the hair on his head.

His cock, which you hadn’t gotten a good look at before, the time you’d touched him, was what really caught your eye.

He was long and he was thick, pre-cum drooling from the reddened tip as he stood proud, twitching with each heavy breath that he took.

“See somethin’ you like, sweetheart?” He asked in that cocky tone of yours that you hated. Tonight you liked it.

He crawled over you, kissing you again, messy, needy, everything you needed in the moment.

His fingers trailed down your body, pads of his fingers trying to memorize each inch of his skin.

He parted your thighs, staring at your glistening core.

“All this for me? Aww mama, you’re so fuckin’ wet.”

You blushed at his words, watching as he brought a finger to sweep through your wetness, just barely brushing against your clit.

You let out a soft breath, hips slightly arching into his touch.

“Look at that, you might think ya hate me, but your body sure doesn’t.”

He was right about that, but you still tried to fight it.

“N-no. Shut up.”

He just laughed at your pathetic attempt at arguing.

Two thick fingers breached your hole. The first few seconds had you holding your breath in anticipation, but he just shoved his fingers in and out. Didn’t curl them, didn’t go slow or try to build anything up. It didn’t feel great.

Had he never… Actually pleasured a woman before? You remembered the stories, how he was a fast and hard fuck, how he only got himself off before redressing and leaving.

Disappointment filled you. This wouldn’t do.

“Gator,” Your voice was weak but he looked up at you.

“That feel good?”

“N-no…” He thought you were joking at first, but the way you shifted uncomfortably under him convinced him you actually meant it.

“What, ya don’t like bein’ fingered?”

“It’s not that it just-” You paused, embarrassed. “Have you done this before?”

“Yeah.” He scoffed as if the question was insane to ask.

“Gator…”

“What?” He snapped.

“Just… Don’t be so rough. I don’t like it rough, not in the beginning. It hurts.”

He softened a bit, nodding. His fingers were still inside of you, waiting on your direction.

“You don’t have to be so rigid with it, bend your fingers a bit, curl them. Touch my clit, don’t just finger fuck me.”

You couldn’t believe you were teaching Gator Tillman how to finger you right now, but crazier things had happened tonight.

He was a fast learner. His pace slowed, he relaxed his fingers, curling them inside of you, watching as you writhed, not in pain, but pleasure this time.

His thumb rubbed over your swollen clit, grinning wolfishly at the reaction it pulled from you.

It felt so good.

“Mmmm, fuck, Gator…” You groaned, watching him as he watched the way his fingers sunk into you before he pulled them out again, glistening with your slick.

“Gonna fuck ya nice and good, gonna stuff this tight little hole with my cock.”

His words were dirty, had you blushing but nodding in agreement. You wanted the sense fucked out of you.

“Is that somethin’ you want, my pretty mama.” He pulled his fingers from you, wiping them off on the sheets before he was crawling over you, caging you under him again, but this time you let him. This time it didn’t overwhelm you.

His cock nudged your thigh as he stared down at you, obviously desperate. You could tell from the look in his eye.

He grasped himself in his hand, giving himself a few strokes before he was sliding himself across your folds, coating himself in your wetness, getting him ready for you.

The friction was delicious, his cock bumping against your clit as he repeated his actions a few more times. You could have cum just from that, but of course Gator wanted more.

You felt his tip notch at your entrance and he paused for a brief moment before he was sliding into you all in one go.

The stretch took your breath away, a mix of pleasure and pain filling your body. There was so much of him, so much to adjust to, and thankfully once he was fully seated inside of you, he paused.

“You’re so fuckin’ tight, squeezin’ the life out of me.” He laughed, tipping his head back. One of his hands squeezed your breast, thumb swiping over your nipple.

When he finally moved, it was the most delicious thing you’d felt in your entire life.

He pulled out till just the tip rested inside of you before he was pushing back in, a groan escaping your lips as you gripped onto his shoulders.

“Feelin’ good, mama? Feelin’ how I’m splitting ya in half with my cock? You’re takin’ it so well, made for this I swear.” He cursed under his breath as his hips soon found a rhythm.

You arched up against him, clinging to him as he fucked you within an inch of your life.

“Shiiiiit,” He cursed, body trembling over yours. The longer he went on, the more he seemed to lose it. His rhythm, his stamina.

After a few moments you let out a frustrated groan, using all your strength to flip the two of you until his back hit the mattress with a thud.

“What the-” His words died in his throat as you positioned yourself over him and sunk down again. He filled you up deeper this way as you rested in his lap.

“Holy shit.” He moaned, hips bucking up against yours.

“That’s so fuckin’ hot. Ride me baby, use me.”

“You don’t ever shut up, do you?” You asked, having half a mind to shove your palm over his mouth to keep him quiet. You would have if you didn’t like his sounds as much as you did.

You lifted your hips before sinking back down, finding your own rhythm as you rode him.

Gator’s large palms rested at your hips, holding but not moving you, letting you do all the work yourself save for the occasional buck of his hips.

He was a mess under you, panting, whining.

“Fuck mama, oh shit please… Mama…” The nickname seemed to turn into something more as he said it with a whine, gripping onto you. You liked it.

“I’ve got you, you’re okay.” You assured him.

You didn’t realize how much he needed those words.

He cried out, hips rocking into yours as he writhed under you.

“Am I doing good? Am I being good?” He asked. You were so lost in your own pleasure that for a moment you thought you’d imagined it, but as you opened your eyes and glanced down at him, he looked up at you with wide brown eyes, begging for approval. Praise.

“You’re doing so good, Gator, making me feel so good. Yeah, you’re doing good.” You cupped his cheek, leaning down to kiss him and he let out a whimper against your lips before kissing back.

Your release was creeping up on you quickly, beginning to tighten around him.

Gator all but wailed, sloppily thrusting up into you, stealing the breath from your lungs.

“I- I’m- Where do you want me to-?”

Your hand fell to your clit, rubbing in tight circles.

“Inside, you can- Inside.” You answered, causing him to moan again, loud, long and broken.

“You’re close? You gonna- You gonna come with me?” He was asking… Begging.

“Gator- Yes, Yes..” You breathed out, trying to focus on getting yourself over that edge into sweet release.

“I’m so close, I’m right there, oh god… Oh fuck, fuck!”

He came with a cry, giving a few more weak thrusts inside of you before he was melting against the bed, his bones feeling like jelly.

It took you a few more moments to find your release, bouncing on his cock, rubbing at your clit before you were met with your own release, practically collapsing against his chest as it washed over you.

The two of you laid, intertwined as you caught your breath.

Gator played with your hair, something so soft, something you didn’t know he was capable of doing.

You managed to weakly slide off of him, wincing at how empty you felt after the fact, how his release spilled out of you, making a mess of your thighs and the sheets under you.

“I need to shower.” You said softly, standing up. Apparently Gator took it as an invitation to join you because he got up after you, following you to the bathroom.

The shower was cramped but fortunate for you, Gator let you hog most of the water, rinsing yourself off as he watched, a fucked out expression on his face. You liked him like this. Soft. Almost normal. You tried to forget about the fact that he and his father had tortured and killed a man tonight.

You grabbed his shampoo and he watched you with a puzzled expression before you were beckoning him under the stream of water, letting him wet his hair before you were massaging shampoo into it, the heat from the water and the shampoo helping remove the gel.

“Why the gel?” You asked softly as you massaged his scalp.

“I dunno… Think it makes me look cool.” He said with a shrug.

You laughed softly and Gator bristled for half a second.

“Are you making fun of me?”

“No.. I just think it would look nice if you didn’t use gel all the time. Let your hair breathe for once.”

He just hummed at your words as you stepped back and let him wash the soap from his hair.

He stared at you under the water, the two of you soaking wet, exhausted and satisfied. Not arguing for once.

“What’re you looking at?” You asked, crossing your arms over your bare chest.

“You.” Gator said with all the fondness of a man in love.

Fuck…

Were you falling for him?

Even worse…

Was he falling for you?

————————————

He’d never even had a proper girlfriend from what you’d heard. He preferred simple hookups in cheap, shitty motels, or at the Tillman ranch when his father was away. Those girls never stuck around and no one could blame them. Gator treated them like playthings, things to use and then discard once he got tired of them.

His father had been pushing him to settle down for a while now, saying it would make his reputation look better and of course Gator, always aiming to please his father, agreed to it.

He didn’t know what he wanted in a woman, perhaps someone submissive, willing to obey, be a nice little housewife but he wasn’t excited at the prospect of settling down with one person. It limited him.

The worst part of it all? His father was going to be the one to choose said girl. Gator had tried giving suggestions, girls around town he’d found pretty but never ones he’d slept with before. Your name never even left his lips or crossed his mind.

But it sure did Roy’s.

Your family never grew up with very much, you’d learned to get by, had gotten very good at going without things that others might deem necessities. You bought clothes secondhand, clearance groceries, all the things that others in the town might look down on. Especially Roy Tillman. He’d had his eyes set on you for a long time. You’d be the perfect little wife to his son, someone forgettable, an accessory that Gator could keep on his arm for certain events, someone to warm his bed and keep him satisfied while he did his father’s bidding.

Your mother had tried to do her best to protect you, to keep you hidden away but Roy was persuasive, and your mother never admitted to it, but you were sure he’d thrown plenty of threats her way to get her to agree.

“Do you still have that dress from a few years back? The one with sunflowers?” Your mother asked you over dinner one evening, glancing at the sparse food on your plate you hadn’t touched. Her hands shook as she held her utensils. She’d been ill, going to the doctor every other week just to be prescribed medicine she couldn’t afford.

You didn’t miss the exhaustion in her gaze, the set of her jaw, the toll whatever illness she had took a toll on her body. Your mother, always strong, always taking care of herself was aging, a cruel reminder that the world just kept going without pause.

“Yeah,” You replied, glancing across the small table the two of you sat at every evening for dinner, fixing her with a raised brow expression, confused. That was the dress you only wore for special occasions.

You opened your mouth to ask why but she was already speaking again. “We’re going down to the Tillman ranch tomorrow. Wear that dress.” She didn’t explain further, taking her plate to the sink and rinsing it off, hands gripping the counter to support herself.

You laid in bed that evening with a sinking feeling in your stomach. There would be no good coming from going to that barn and you had a feeling your life would be very different this time tomorrow.

You were right.

You woke up early, finding the dress in the back of your closet and trying it on. It didn’t fit right, tight over the chest but wide around the hips, a dress you’d gotten for free from a woman in town who had used it as a sewing experiment before deciding to give up on it. Still, it was one of the nicer dresses you had, one you only wore for certain occasions.

As you brushed your hair in the mirror you glanced at your reflection, blinking slowly. You looked tired, but when weren’t you?

You drove, your mother in the passenger seat, wrapped in her red sweater as you made your way to the ranch. The sound of the car’s tires crunching gravel underneath had your stomach churning as you turned up the driveway, glancing at the property that you unknowingly would soon be familiar with.

There was a newer building a little ways away from the main house that caught your attention. It was a small house, one that would probably be comfortable for one or two people. The wood was fresh, the paint looked pristine, like it had just been built days before your arrival. You didn’t spend much time dwelling on it.

You pulled up, parking your car where several others were parked, shutting the car off as you stared at your mother who just looked straight ahead, refusing to even acknowledge your presence.

Roy Tillman met you at the door, ushering the two of you inside with a grin that made your stomach turn. He’d looked you over several times as you made your way in. Walking to his office, you felt your stomach sinking when you saw Gator sitting inside, behind his father’s desk off to the side in a chair that creaked under his weight like it would break if he moved the wrong way.

His eyes met yours with an unreadable expression. He didn’t seem mad, but he didn’t seem happy in the way his father was.

He straightened up when his father walked in, taking a seat beside his son, leaving you and your mother to take the two seats on the opposite side of the desk, facing them. No one spoke for several moments before Roy was clearing his throat, glancing at the paperwork lining his wooden desk.

“We just need you to sign these papers,” He gestured to your mother, sliding her a pen across the desk as he gave her a menacing smile.

Gator was fiddling with something in his hand, something shiny that caught your eye. It almost looked like a ring, but what would he be doing with something like that? He’d never been the type to wear much, if any jewelry. And besides, it looked like a woman’s ring.

Your mother’s fingers trembled around the pen as she placed the tip against the paper, hesitating. That’s when your eyes caught sight of a few words on the paper and your whole world as you knew it fell from underneath you.

You were to be married to Gator Tillman. Whatever paperwork your mother was currently signing was a legal document that was signing your life away.

“You’ll need to sign it too, son. And you little missy.” You and Gator both looked up at Roy as he spoke, your eyes wide, mouth dry. You were backed into a corner. You knew if you said no to this that he would make you pay. Marrying Gator could help you pay for your mother’s medications, keep her safe… But what did it mean for you? A life of misery?

Gator was the next person to sign it, taking the pen from your mother and scribbling his name on the bottom next to hers. He didn’t seem very enthusiastic about it.

It was your turn. Gator dropped the pen onto the desk instead of offering it to you, his chair squeaking once more with his movement.

You didn’t pick it up immediately, just staring at the papers. The top ones were filled with many words you didn’t bother to read, too stunned but the one on the bottom was the certificate itself.

Hot tears filled your eyes and blurred your vision as you signed it, signing away your life to the Tillman’s.

“You’re gonna be a good little wife to my son now, aren’t you?” Roy collected the papers, stashing them away in the drawer of his desk, smiling at you.

You’d probably never know why he chose you of all the girls in town to marry his son, but you’d hate him for the rest of your life.

—

Everything happened so fast after that, you hadn’t even had a real conversation with Gator before you were packing up all your things from your childhood home and moving into the brand new house that had been built on the Tillman ranch, just for Gator and his new, shiny wife.

Your mother had held you and cried before you left and you knew it wasn’t her fault, not really. You didn’t blame her for it, but it didn’t make you any less angry.

Gator wasn’t there when you arrived, off on some errand his father had sent him on so you got settled in by yourself, hands shaking as you explored the house. The living room was small, one couch and a chair, a tv and a fireplace. Rounding the corner you saw the kitchen, granite countertops and wooden cabinets, a black fridge, microwave and stove. It was nicer than the kitchen at your home, but it didn’t make you feel any better about the arrangement.

There were no photos lining the walls, no magnets and childhood artwork on the fridge. It was void of any of the coziness a normal home would have.

You padded down the hall, further into the house. The bathroom wasn’t decorated at all, plain white towels hanging from a hook, the shower curtain an ugly puke green color. You didn’t dare look at yourself in the mirror.

Another room, which appeared to be Gator’s office, the only room that seemed to have any life in it. There were papers stacked on his desk, pens strewn across it, sticky notes with random words drawn on them, books piled in a corner. It was a mess, but it was the only sign this house had been lived in at all.

The bedroom was next, just one because of course a married couple was expected to share a bed. The thought made your stomach turn as you gripped the doorframe for support before going in farther.

The bed was made, blue sheets that just didn’t go with the wooden dresser in the corner or the bookshelf on the right side of the bed, still empty. The only thing on the nightstand closest to you was a ring, the ring Gator had been messing with that day in his father’s office, the day your world changed. Any choices you ever had, had been torn away from you as you signed your name onto the paper.

It was your ring, you presumed, but you had no intention of wearing it. Not now, not ever.

You didn't unpack anything, just sat stiffly on the couch as you watched the sun start to set, fading below the horizon, the moon claiming its spot in the sky as you stared and watched it happen.

—

Gator came home around seven, his boots stomping up the drive before he was opening the door with a harshness that came from a man irritated with something.

He kicked his boots off at the door before his eyes fell on you, brows furrowing. The two of you were married, but strangers. You hadn’t so much as exchanged a hello to each other, but you were expected to share a bed?

His first words to you:

“You’re not wearin’ your ring.” He stopped short of the couch, just watching you.

You felt like your skin was crawling under his gaze, just wanting to get as far away from him as you could.

“I’m not wearing that thing.” Your first act of defiance.

He bristled at your words, a hand on his hip as he just stared at you, his wife.

“You will wear it if you want to save yourself some trouble, trust me.” He laughed, but there was no warmth to it.

“No.”

“Hell. It'll be your funeral when Roy catches you without it.”

“I don’t care.”

“Of course you don’t, not until it happens. Save yourself some trouble and just fuckin’ wear it.”

His words rubbed you the wrong way but you stayed put on the couch, staring at the floor.

“No dinner?” Gator asked, leaning against the wall, taking a puff of his vape, letting the smoke fall from his mouth, filling the air with the sickly artificial smell of strawberry.

“What?” You asked, still not looking at him.

“You didn’t make any dinner.” He replied.

“Nope.”

“A wife is supposed to make her husband a meal for when he comes home from a long day at work, don’t ya know that?”

His audacity had you finally looking up to meet his eye. This was the closest you’d ever been to him, finally able to take in his features. A strong jaw littered with freckles, a sharp nose, deep hazel eyes that were dark in the dim light of the house, brown hair slicked back flat against his head. He wasn’t awful looking, but it didn’t change how you felt.

“Fuck you.” The words seemed to take both of you by surprise, your eyes widening as it left your lips, aimed directly towards Gator.

“”Scuse me?” He scoffed, watching you still.

“I’m not cooking you dinner. I don’t want to be here.”

“I don’t want you to fuckin’ be here either princess, but ya are, I’d suggest getting used to it.” He didn’t want you to be here either… You wonder just how much of this he had gotten to decide if he didn’t even want you for his wife.

“We gotta learn to live together, yeah? You’re my wife.” He didn’t seem exactly happy when he said the words and your eyes trailed to his hand, a silver wedding band adorning his ring finger. He was wearing his ring. You still wouldn’t wear yours.

“I’m going to take a shower and I expect something when I get back.” He didn’t give you time to reply before walking off, slamming the bathroom door as he went.

The last thing you wanted to do was make him dinner, but you also didn’t want to be alone in a house with an angry, hungry man either, so you made your way into the kitchen, glancing around. There wasn’t much you could do with the sparse groceries that stocked the fridge and pantry but a box of mac n cheese would have to do.

You filled up a pot you found under the sink, setting it on the stove to boil as you rummaged through the pantry to see if there was anything else you could pair with it.

You came away with a can of green beans. Not ideal, but it would do.

Soon enough the water was at a rolling boil and you poured the elbow noodles into the hot liquid before you went in search of a can opener for the can of green beans.

You were finishing up the food by the time Gator had come out from the shower, hair still wet but no longer stuck to his head with the amount of gel he used. He looked softer this way, dressed in a pair of sweats and a black t-shirt that hugged his arms in a way you might find attractive if you didn’t dislike him as much as you did.

He let out a hum of approval as he grabbed a beer from the fridge, twisting off the top before his lips wrapped around the neck of the bottle, swallowing down a swig as he sat at the small kitchen table in the corner, right next to the living room.

“There’s wine in the cupboard above the stove, wasn’t sure what you drink.” He said gruffly as he took another sip of his beer.

“Water is fine. Or uh- Beer.” He seemed surprised by your answer, as if he couldn’t believe a woman could like beer, something he deemed as a male drink. Idiot.

“Beer, huh? You just sayin’ that?” He asked playfully.

You shook your head, preparing a plate and taking a seat at the table, leaving Gator to make his own plate.

“You know, the woman is supposed to make her husband a plate, supposed to serve the man of the house first.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He just laughed at your reply, plating the rest of the food, grabbing another beer and taking a seat opposite you at the table. You avoided his gaze, taking a few bites of your food, the artificial cheese taste doing nothing to ease your stomach which had been in knots all day.

The slight hizz of the fresh beer being opened filled the otherwise silent room before he was passing it to you, setting it down next to your plate without a word as he sipped from his own.

The two of you ate in silence, Gator watching as you shoved your food around your plate.

“You haven’t unpacked anything yet.” He finally said, his fork scraping against his plate in a way that had you cringing.

“Nope..” You sipped your beer, the bitter, bubbling liquid sliding down easily.

“Why?”

“I don’t want to be here.”

“But you are.”

“Well I don’t fucking want to be!” You snapped, glaring at him as you slammed your utensil down onto your plate with a harsh clash.

His eyes darkened. “Do you think I want you here either? I fuckin’ don’t! I didn’t want this. Was perfectly fuckin’ content fuckin’ any bitch I wanted and going on my way after. Now I’m stuck with you.” He sounded just as angry as you felt. “A fuckin’ bitch who hates my guts.”

“Don’t call me a bitch.” You snarled.

“I’ll call you whatever I want to call you. You’re my wife now. My property.”

You seethed at his words, getting up from the table, slamming the chair back against it as you stormed off to the bathroom, hot tears rolling down your cheeks. As the lock clicked you slid down to the floor, head in your hands as the overwhelming tide of emotions finally began to wash over you, a sob escaping your lips as you curled in on yourself.

Fuck this. Fuck him. You hated this.

Gator sat at the table, finishing his beer as he stared at your empty seat and listened to your sobs echo from the bathroom.

Trying to pull yourself together after a few minutes, you turned on the shower, listening to the hiss of the water as you twisted the faucet till the water was to your liking. You stripped from your clothes, tucking them into a corner of the bathroom before stepping into the shower.

Since you hadn’t unpacked, the only thing that was in the bathroom was Gator’s 2-in-1 Shampoo and body wash. It smelled like musk and wood, sharp and manly.

You lathered it over your body, cringing at the way it smelled, like him.

Your tears mixed with the water as you washed the soap from your body, not bothering with using it to wash your hair. You’d collect your own shampoo later and put it in the bathroom for next time.

After using most of the hot water and staying as long as you really could, you shut it off, reaching for one of the clean white towels that hung next to the shower, drying off your body before tying up your hair. You redressed back into the same clothes you had brought into the bathroom since you didn’t have anything else.

Taking a deep breath, you unlocked the bathroom door and stepped out into the hallway before making your way to your shared bedroom.

Gator was laying across the bed, doing something on his phone, looking up at you when you walked in.

“Cleaned up the dishes since you ran off during dinner.” He mumbled, eyes shifting down your frame, catching on where the fabric clung to still damp skin.

You continued to dry off your hair with the towel before you tossed it aside, rummaging through one of your bags for clean clothes.

“Gonna put on a show for me?” Gator asked from the bed and you just rolled your eyes.

“Fuck you.”

“I’d love that, mama.” His voice was a purr that had you pausing, glancing back over at him.

He was sprawled across the bed, just watching you as you moved around the room. There was no real threat in his eyes, but you knew if he wanted something he was likely to take it. You’d heard the stories, he was a selfish lover, used girls to get him off and then left them high and dry. Exactly what you’d expect from an asshole like him.

Still, the idea of fucking him wasn’t something completely off the table for you. Sure it wasn’t something you craved, but it had been a long time since you had someone like that, and the man in front of you was now your husband. It would happen eventually, but not tonight.

“What, your hand not enough for you?” You hissed, standing there, in front of the bed with your clothes clutched to your chest, ready to retreat back to the bathroom to change.

“Or how about all the girls you fuck, huh? What about them? They not good enough for you?”

He blinked a few times, not expecting you to argue again. Why had his father chosen you, out of all the women to be his wife?

“I’m married now, mama.” He wiggled his ring finger in front of his face. “Off the market.” A wink sent your way that had your nose curling up in disgust.

“Being married doesn’t mean anything to your father.”

“I’m not my father.” His words were dark, as was his expression.

For the first time that night, you had struck a real nerve with him.

“Oh? But you’re constantly grovelling for his attention, following him around like a lost puppy.” You cooed, voice dripping with venom.

Gator sat up a bit in bed, glaring at you now. “You don’t know shit about me or my father.”

“And I never want to.”

The arguing began again. The two of you couldn’t stand each other.

“You don’t get to talk to me like that.” Gator was staring at you so hard it was like he was looking directly through you.

“What’re you gonna do about it?” You challenged.

“You’re my wife, I should be punishing you for it.” The threat had you pausing, watching him as you tried to control your expression. You didn’t want to show him you were scared.

He shifted off of the bed, taking two long strides before he was in front of you, staring down at you.

“And I will in the future if you keep behaving like this. My dad wouldn’t be as patient as me, wouldn’t want me givin’ you even one chance.” His hand was grasping your chin before you knew it, forcing you to look up at him.

“You respect me, I’ll take care of ya. I’m not asking for much here, princess. You’ve got a nice home, a husband who’s gonna support you, really you’re getting a better deal of this than I am.”

“I don’t want to be here.” Your voice came out choked as you looked up into his deep brown eyes. For once they didn’t look so scary.

“I know you don’t.” He wasn’t trying to comfort you, not really, his hand still holding your chin in place.

“I coulda had any girl I wanted and my father chose you. No clue why, maybe because your family doesn’t come from much, no one would bat an eye at the fact that you were married off to me. No one cares.” His words felt like a slap in the face.

“You’re pretty enough,” He continued, grinning down at you. “My pretty little wife, you’ll clean up nice. I think you’ll be decent once you stop being so damn stubborn.”

A tear fell onto your cheek as he spoke.

He clicked his tongue, brushing the tear from your skin with the pad of his tongue, eyes never leaving yours.

“Why’s my pretty wife crying?”

“I hate this.” Was your reply.

Gator sighed, finally letting go of your chin and taking a step back from you.

“Put on the ring.”

“Gator-”

“I said put on the fuckin’ ring.” He turned his back to you before climbing into bed, pulling the covers over himself as you stood there, frozen in shock.

The ring seemed to stare at you from its place on the night stand, a cruel reminder that you were now Mrs. Tillman.

You went back to the bathroom to change before you made your way back to the bedroom. Gator was asleep fast, snoring softly on his side of the bed, hair messy against the pillows.

Glancing at the ring on the bedside table you picked it up, feeling the coolness of it against your palm before your skin began to warm it up.

Your hands were shaky as you slid it onto your ring finger with a sad sense of finality to your actions. The ring felt like a pair of handcuffs, imprisoning you to a life of being Gator’s little wife.

Crawling into bed beside him you laid under the covers, on the very edge of the bed on your side, ready to bolt if he so much as shifted too much.

The space between your bodies was large, a reminder that the two of you didn’t even know each other, that you were simply strangers sharing a bed.

–

Gator was gone before the sun rose, dressing in his work clothes, off to patrol or do whatever Roy demanded him to do.

You stayed in bed till nearly noon, shifting back and forth in the sheets that smelled like Gator. You wanted the world to open up and swallow you whole but when it didn’t you decided to get up and get ready for the day.

After you’d gotten ready in the bathroom, you made your way to the kitchen, seeing the dishes from last night’s dinner settled in the drying rack where Gator had placed them after he’d washed them.

Right. Dinner.

Gator would be expecting dinner when he got home, but there wasn’t much in the house.

You’d grabbed your coat and car keys before stepping out of the house into the sunlight. The Tillman ranch was beautiful but there was an eerie feeling that crept around the old wooden buildings, secrets hiding in every stretch of grass and gravel. You could only imagine the kinds of things that had happened on the property.

Your car was peeling out of the driveway a few moments later and the idea of just never returning crossed your mind. Of just driving out of town, going anywhere else, but then you thought of your mother, of the awful things Roy would do to her if you left. Of the things he’d do if he hunted you down and found you.

The small grocery store wasn’t crowded, never was but you moved around the space differently now, the ring on your finger weighing you down, your steps sluggish.

Chicken breast, ground beef, milk, eggs, bread, all the things you could think to grab for dinners the two of you could share. Part of you wondered if he was picky, what his favorite foods were, but the other part of you, the part who didn’t care about him, just ignored it.

You checked out, your eyes not meeting the cashier’s as you handed over the cash that Gator had left for you, your allowance for groceries and whatever else you wanted to buy.

The drive back to the ranch felt like driving into something you knew you shouldn’t, like driving into the eye of a storm.

Gator was a storm, one you weren’t prepared to weather.

By the time you had gotten back to your small shared house, you got to work with dinner. Chicken parmesan, or the best version of it you could make. You weren’t exactly a chef, but you knew a few good meals you’d made for you and your mother many times over the years. Chicken was cheaper than beef, and if you paired it with a carb like pasta, it stretched a lot longer.

The chicken was in the oven and the pasta was boiling on the stove by the time Gator arrived home, earlier than yesterday you noted.

He slammed the door shut behind him, mumbling something under his breath as he kicked his boots off, immediately going for a beer in the fridge just like he’d done the night before. Routine.

His hair was slicked back again, his officer uniform covered in what looked like mud. He was tracking it into the house, even without his boots on but you didn’t mention it. You didn’t need to get into a screaming match with him after he’d just walked through the door.

He took the beer with him to the bathroom and you heard the shower start up as you took the chicken out of the oven.

His shower was shorter than the day before and soon enough he was back in the kitchen, looming over your shoulder as he examined the food you’d made.

“What’d you make?” He asked, voice surprisingly gentle compared to how he’d spoken to you the day before.

“Chicken parm. I went to the store today.” You began to fix a plate. Gator watched you, so close to you that you felt his breath on the back of your neck.

Once you’d finished plating the food you turned around to face him, offering out the plate to him which he took, trying and failing to hide the smirk that graced his lips as he sat at the table.

The two of you sat in silence again and when you’d both finished your food, you began to clean the kitchen and Gator went to his office.

Life like that quickly became your normal.

A week went by with little arguing or bickering, mostly because the two of you just glided around each other, only talking when you had to. You didn’t know much about what Gator did before he came home to you. You knew his job, but he never shared details, and you also never shared your adventures which consisted of doing his laundry, cleaning up whatever messes he’d made around the house and cooking dinner. You’d also visited your mom twice, making sure she was taking her medication. The bottle was beginning to run low and you knew you were going to have to ask Gator for money to buy her more.

–

The two of you had eaten dinner and you were laying in bed when Gator finally retired for the night, getting in beside you. It still felt weird sharing a bed, but not as weird as the first night.

“You’re gonna go to church with me on Sunday, I’m gonna pick out a dress for you.” He said, finally cutting the thick silence with his words.

You glanced over at him, brows furrowing. “Church?”

“Yeah, church. My dad makes me go every sunday, and as my wife you’re going with me. I didn’t make you last week because you were settling in, but you’re gonna go with me this week.” There was no room for argument, but you’d still try to find room.

“You’re going to pick out a… Dress for me?” You asked to which he nodded, shifting onto his side to look at you better.

“Sure am, gotta make sure my wife is in somethin’ pretty for Sunday service.” He continued to stare at you for several seconds. “When are you gonna let me touch you?”

His words had taken you so off guard that you just stared at him with wide eyes before choking out a “What???”

“You’re my wife, but you don’t let me touch ya. We haven’t even kissed yet. How long’s it gonna be like that?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

“I’m trying to be patient but you’re killing me here. Leaving your husband real needy here sweetheart, you’re supposed to take care of my needs y’know.”

You scoffed at his words but it was causing a fire to burn between your thighs in a way that had you feeling disgusted with yourself.

“I don’t care if you fuck whoever you want, I know that’s what you did before.”

“Already told you I’m a married man now, that’s not right. My wife should be able to take care of me just fine.”

You swallowed hard, looking away from him, cheeks burning.

“Come on, don’t you wanna see what it’s like?”

Part of you did, a big part of you actually.

“Been fuckin’ rock hard the past few days, just waitin’ to see if you’d make a move. You didn’t of course, mama. I can only wait so long.”

His little nicknames for you had more of an effect than you’d ever care to admit to him.

“I don’t want to fuck you.”

“You will. Eventually. Not askin’ for all of it tonight, just want something to hold me over. Your hand, your mouth…” He trailed off, shifting closer to you in the bed, less and less space between the two of you.

“Thinkin’ about your fucking hand around my cock, doll. Think it would feel real nice.”

You hated that he was convincing you to actually want it, that you were kind of eager to get your hands on him.

He grabbed one of your hands, shifting more as he led it down till it was pressed over the bulge in his pants, feeling the outline of him.

“Just like this, baby, come on, touch your husband.” Your hand stayed frozen in place over his clothed erection, biting your lower lip between your teeth.

“I hate you.” You tried.

He shook his head, laughing. “No you don’t.”

“I do.” Neither of you believed it.

“If you hate me so much, fuckin’ get it out by touching me. You can be rough, I don’t care.”

He let go of your hand, and you gently squeezed his clothed bulge.

Gator grinned, resting his head back on the pillows as he watched your hand, the way it pressed against him, massaged him, kneading his cock over the confines of his now much too tight pants.

“Won’t bite ya, unless you ask. Touch me for real.” He urged, shifting his hips upwards to meet your touch, letting out a heavy breath.

Your shaky fingers met the cold zipper of his pants, he hadn’t changed into his sweats for the night yet, as you undid it, hearing the soft zzzzip as you undid the zipper, his cock bulging more now that he was less confined.

You peeled back his boxers and his cock sprung out, hard and dripping from the tip, a soft blush color that was just a tad darker than his complexion.

Gator was watching your every move, chest rising and falling as he got increasingly more worked up.

“Fuckin’ touch me, doll, see how hard I am for you? Just dripping for you, come on touch me.” He wasn’t begging but he also wasn’t demanding either, he just liked to hear himself talk.

Your hand wrapped around his girth, feeling the way he twitched in your grip, his thighs tensing up at the touch. Your hand was a bit cold but the heat from his skin quickly warmed it up as you gave one single stroke over his skin, watching the way it had him tensing.

“Gotta give me more than that, s’not fair. Do it properly.” He bucked his hips up, fucking his cock through your fist with a satisfied sigh before you began to work your hand up and down his cock. His pre-cum was working decent enough but the feel of your hand was still a bit dry against him so he grabbed it, pulling it away from his cock and bringing it to his lips instead, spitting into your palm as you watched with wide eyes before he let you get back to work.

His added saliva had your hand sliding over him with much less resistance and it intensified the pleasure for him. His hips rolled into your hand, watching as you worked him over, twisting your hand at the top, thumb swiping over his tip, getting coated in his opaque fluid.

“Feels good.” He hummed, moving his hips in time with your hand.

You’d been silent this whole time, just exploring his body, learning exactly how he liked to be touched, what part was the most sensitive. You’d found it, rubbing your thumb directly under the head of his cock had him tensing up, biting back a curse.

“Easy.” He warned, eyes dark.

You continued your movements, causing him to jerk underneath you, leaking more pre as your thumb focused its attention on just the head.

Gator’s soft sounds of pleasure got louder, turning into grunts and groans, the manly sounds of pleasure.

“My pretty wife, fucking touchin’ me so good.” He gasped, quickly losing it. Gator had never really had good stamina, had never really cared to. He wanted his pleasure when he wanted it, finishing whenever he wanted to as well. Why should he need to pace himself when he could always just get more later on?

After having only his own hand for nearly a month now, he felt like he was going crazy. Usually it was at least a different girl every week, but his father had told him he was going to settle down with one girl and stop chasing distractions, focus on his job.

He wasn’t focused on anything but you in this moment, on the way your palm slid over him, coaxing him even closer to the edge.

“Oooh, fuck doll, doing so well, know just how to take care of me, don’t ya? Didn’t even need to teach you how to touch m-my fucking dick.” He cursed through a moan, his lower stomach tensing.

“Fuckin close, you want it? Want me to cum? Doing a good job- Doing a real good job, princess.”

You just nodded, letting him talk because he obviously seemed like he needed it.

You could feel that he was close just by how tense he was, you hadn’t even needed his words to figure it out.

“Gonna cum all over your hand, oh yeah–fuck–” He tipped his head back, closing his eyes as his hips rolled frantically into your touch before he was coming, a choked groan falling from his lips.

His cum coated your hand and his stomach as you stroked him through it before pulling away, watching him recover.

He laid there for a moment, covered in his own release, panting as he worked to get his breathing back to normal.

Once he did, he was on top of you, pinning you against the bed, a knee between your legs.

The pressure had you cursing under your breath, looking up at him with wide eyes, frozen underneath him as his hands crept to your hips, eager to peel you out of your clothes.

Touching him had been one thing, but the feeling of his skin on yours, with him being so close, you weren’t ready for it.

“Gonna touch ya, say thank you to my pretty wife for making me feel so good.” He whispered against your ear before nipping at the skin, taking it between his teeth gently.

You shoved at his chest as hard as you could and got off the bed, rushing out of the room.

Gator sat back on his heels, staring at the empty spot on the bed where you once were, blinking in confusion. He sat there, covered in his own cum, wondering what he’d done wrong.

You had locked yourself in the bathroom, scrubbing his release off of your hand, trying to calm your beating heart as it raced in your chest.

It wasn’t that he’d done anything wrong, it just felt too real, having him on top of you like that.

And you hated that you hadn’t hated it.

You didn’t hate him.