Sarenade✯

“Goddamn disgraceful,” Roy calls from the other side of the truck, where he’s packing his own fishing gear. “Nice young lady with that attitude toward her daddy. He oughta smack it outta ‘ya.”

Your frown deepens, but you wisely don’t reply. Your dad’s never hit you– you’ve always thought he just lacked the guts– but that doesn’t stop his best friend from suggesting it any time he sees you. So what if you’ve always been unruly, always balked against the town’s expectation you be perfectly quiet and chaste? It’s only a few more years till you’re out of here for good, and you won’t have to worry about Roy Tillman and his sycophantic male fantasies anymore. Or, arguably worse, his disgusting, intolerable, pain-in-the-ass son. 

As if your thoughts have summoned him, a black truck pulls up to the curb outside your house, and your mood darkens even further. You don’t mind your dad leaving for the weekend– you prefer it, actually. The issue, though, is that he’s decided you won’t be spending it alone. Instead, mostly because the last time you were left home unsupervised, you might have taken the opportunity to spend a couple hours with your then-boyfriend, and your dad might have found out from the neighbors, this time, you’re going to have a babysitter. 

The door of the black truck opens, and you watch as Gator’s heavy combat boots hit the concrete. He’s dressed ridiculously for the hot weather in a black t-shirt and that weighted tactical vest, his beige cargos thick and creased from the drive. His hair is gelled back, like he actually bothered to make himself presentable for this bullshit job. To top it off, he’s already taking a pull from his neon-tropical-vomit-flavored vape, blowing a pungent cloud into the air.

Your nose wrinkles almost unwittingly. You think dimly that you must hate him more every time you see him. 

Gator slams his door, and his eyes land on your stiff form immediately. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls to you, a grin pulling at his mouth as he stalks up your driveway toward you. 

You freeze in place, willing your frown and your crossed arms into stone before him. It’s a practice you’ve perfected when dealing with Gator– a survival tactic, really. You’ve learned over the years just how many miles he’ll take if you relinquish that first inch. 

Roy catches the nickname, which Gator’s been teasing you with since you were fifteen, and frowns, too. Crossing around the truck to his son, he grips him by the shirt and warns him loudly, “No funny business. You hear me, boy?”

Gator raises his hands in surrender, and you can’t help your amusement as his tough-guy facade cracks a little under his father’s scrutiny. It’s maybe his truest weakness you’ve ever been able to detect. “Relax, Dad, I was just kiddin’ around,” Gator complains.

Roy releases him and turns to you, pointing one finger at you. “And you– honor thy father and mother. You know what that’s from?”

“Hamlet?” you guess innocently, ignoring the look your dad shoots you in response.

Roy’s jaw clenches, displeased by how he’s failed to intimidate you. “Be good,” he barks. “Gator here’ll make sure you behave.”

The shit-eating smirk is back on Gator’s face, and you fight not to let your face burn. You’re almost twenty– you don’t need a goddamn babysitter. This whole thing is ludicrous.

Your father calls his goodbyes to you, and without saying anything further, you turn on your heel and head back into the house. You don’t need to check behind you to know Gator’s following you.

You’ve probably hated Gator Tillman since he’d first learned to walk and talk and pull your hair.

The town of Lehigh is just small enough to get uncomfortable when you find someone you truly detest. And ever since that first moment you can’t remember, some family barbecue or church picnic too far back to recollect, whatever moment you first met Gator, you’ve known he was someone you were engineered to despise.

He’s loud and lewd and completely unapologetic about it. When he’s not shovelling food into it like he’s been starving for years, he’s got the foulest mouth of anyone you know. When the opportunity has presented itself, he’s never once failed to make a comment about how your ass looks. 

He’s despicable. Disgusting. He chews up women and spits them out, barbie after barbie, in and out of his tacky, red-pill bedroom at the ranch. He was the first one on the playground to call you names and the only one in the class to boo your presentations in high school English. Even if it weren’t for his crippling nicotine addiction, the ridiculous way he wears his hair, and the superiority complex that’s only worsened since he got his license to work as a deputy for his father, he’d still be the same arrogant, sexist prick you’ve grown up barely tolerating. 

In some ways, you think Gator might be even worse than his father. Roy’s an unbelievable asshole, it’s true. Apart from his insane, puritanical beliefs about women, the cruelty and abuse he levels at everyone around him, he’s got one thing and one thing only going for him: he’s honest. He might be evil, but it’s what he is.

Gator’s different. Gator isn’t evil, not to the core of who he is. And that’s what makes him worse– he could be different if he ever pulled his head out of his ass and stopped trying to be Roy. He could learn to love women instead of using them, to handle things softly, to speak gently despite that tough-guy voice in his puny brain. But he won’t do it– won’t make that choice. That, you think, might be weaker and more pathetic than anything.

And no matter how much you hate him, no matter how many times you’ve screamed into your pillow with frustration after a fight or stormed out of his truck when your dad has forced him to pick you up from some school event or another, Gator’s stuck to you like flies on shit. He seems to think it’s funny– some sick little game in his head to keep coming back for more. He’ll keep mocking you with flirting, teasing you about your hair or your clothes. He’ll keep threatening the guys you’re seeing to scare them off, thinking it’ll never get back to you. He’ll keep provoking a fight, even when you shove at his chest and fire insults right back at him. 

That’s just Gator. He’s never known how to leave well enough alone, how to keep his hands from clenching in a vice grip. Everything he’s once owned has bruises on it.

As you make your way to your living room, you hear him shut your front door, probably with a little more force than necessary, and drop his overnight duffel bag in the entryway. “What, no hello for me?” he mocks you, not bothering to take off his shoes as he follows after you. 

Set on ignoring him, you flop onto the couch and pull over the magazine you’d been flipping through idly.

You watch those idiotic combat boots stop a few feet before you on the living room rug. 

“You know, if you wanted to know ten ways to drive a man crazy, you could just ask me.”

You snort, not lifting your eyes from your magazine. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Repulsion’s really more your area, isn’t it?”

“You sure?” Gator goads you, and you don’t need to look at him to be able to tell he’s grinning down at you. “Bet I’ve got a tip you could use, sweetheart.”

You lower the magazine, finally meeting his stare with all the ire you can muster. “I’d rather stick my hand down a garbage disposal, thanks.”

Gator’s grin is absolutely feral. Quicker than you can avoid, he leans down and snatches the magazine out of your hands, and a fresh wave of fury rises in your gut as you scramble for it back.

“Now, what are you ‘n I gonna get up to this weekend?” he asks you, thumbing through the pages of the magazine as he strolls away from you. 

You leap up from the couch, going after him. “I have plans,” you inform him sharply. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Your bedroom’s in the doghouse out back.”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head solemnly, closing the magazine and chucking it onto the dining table. “Your daddy said you’re under house arrest. That means no going out, little miss.”

“Oh, blow me, Gator. We’re the same age.” you spit back, face twisting.

“Well, sure, but someone still can’t stay home alone without gettin’ into trouble, now can she?” Gator teases. “Heard you had your lil’ boyfriend over last time. What’d you do, huh? Suck him off while your folks were gone?”

Your face goes brilliantly, vibrantly red. “You’re a pig from hell,” you fire at him, planting both your hands on his chest and shoving him back. “It’s none of your damn business.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Gator goes on crudely, his eyes tracing over your burning face. “Friends tell friends what they’re gettin’ up to. ‘Specially when they’re whorin’ around and need lookin’ after.”

He knows exactly what to say to get to you– he always has. If Gator Tillman ever had a talent, it was knowing the precise formula of words to lay down to make you go white with rage. 

“You’re just jealous,” you shoot at him. “I bet no one’ll come near yours. I doubt you’ve gotten head since Lottie Jameson during seven minutes in heaven.”

Gator steps closer, his eyes sparking with temper and challenge. “You wanna settle that bet, baby?”

You scoff, lost for a comeback at his heated expression, at the nickname that’s always completely disarmed you. “I can’t believe my dad thinks you’ll keep me out of trouble. He’d have better luck having me stay with a crack addict.”

“You got a dirty fuckin’ mouth on you, you know that?” Gator drawls, nonplussed. You watch as he digs in his tactical vest and pulls free his vape, and your brows shoot up. 

“Do not fucking puff that in my house, Gator,” you warn him, pointing a finger threateningly at his hand. 

Gator’s smile spreads slowly. “Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m not kidding,” you threaten him. “Those things are fucking disgusting. I don’t need this house to smell like you.”

Gator raises it halfway to his lips, and you take two sharp steps toward him, telling him just how quick you’ll make good on your promise of violence. He halts at your motion, amused, then smiles wider as he lifts the vape up to his mouth.

Unable to kill your temper, you lunge at him. 

Gator dodges your first attack, swerving out of the way of your hand as it grabs for the stupid pen. The second time you reach for him, he’s not as fast, and your nails dig into the skin of his hand as you wrest the vape from his fingers, pulling it free and quickly pitching it out the wide-open living room window. 

Gator’s eyes flare in shock as he tracks the precise throw, then turns back to you, now only inches from your face. “That one was a spare,” he goads you, reaching into his vest again and pulling out another, even more disgusting bar of e-cancer. 

“Give me that,” you spit, hands digging into his again. 

Gator growls as you wrestle with him, trying to pull away. “Quit fuckin’ scratching me– ow!” 

His free hand grabs for your wrist, and you work your elbow into him to try to wedge your way out, grunting with the effort. It lands somewhere against his ribs, but with the heavy vest, it probably hurts you more than him. 

The vape in Gator’s other hand clatters to the floor as he grabs for your wrists again. “Would you fuckin’ quit it?”

“Let go,” you hiss, twisting your arms to get him to loosen his grip on you. The wrestling match devolves between you, more frantic, less fair. You stomp your heel down onto his foot, and he swears, grabbing for your arms to try to pin them to your sides. To his credit, Gator doesn’t try to hurt you– just get you to stop laying into him, like he knows somehow it’d be wrong to rough up a woman who, despite her temper, still isn’t as strong as him. It must be the influence of the one loose brain cell rattling around in his head that hasn’t yet been corrupted by his father. Still, his hands are rough and his grip strength is completely ridiculous, so the dig of his thumbs into your biceps will probably bruise.

“Christ, stop thrashin’, woman!” he yells at you as you try to twist away from him, accidentally pinning yourself against his chest. “You’re like a wild fuckin’ animal. Will you– ow, fuck!”

Gator’s finally had enough– wresting his hands free, he grips your waist and hauls you into his arms, making you loose an aggravated yell. 

“Put me down, you fucking asshole!” You yell at him, slapping at his shoulders as he carries you back through the living room.

“Calm the hell down!” he barks at you, his hands a vice on your legs as heaves you up, throwing you over his shoulder completely. “Goddammit, woman, you’re fuckin’ relentless.”

You thrash against him, writhing against the unbending pressure of his arms. 

“Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t put me down–”

He reaches the couch and chucks you down onto it, and you yelp as your back hits the plush cushions. Gator comes over you, knees on either side of your thighs to keep you in place. Your hands reach up, probably to claw his eyes out or something, but you settle for slapping at him like you used to do when you two would fight like this as kids, the blows weak but sufficiently annoying. 

Gator’s hands try to still your attacks, fighting for control of your wrists again. “No, no– ah, fuck. Hold still, will you? There– hah. Gotcha.” His hands clamp down on your arms, finally pinning you to the cushions. 

“What the fuck?” you spit, blowing hair out of your face as you wriggle against him. 

Gator pants above you, triumphant. “You done?” he asks, brow raising. You loosened his hair of some of its gel when you yanked it, and strands hang down over his forehead as he looms over you. 

Something twists in your gut– unnamable, but so close to that same rage you always feel when you see him. 

“Get off of me, you bastard,” you tell him, fuming. 

Gator just smirks, his breaths evening. “Guess you’ll do anything to get me on top of ‘ya, huh?” 

The teasing makes you see red, and you move before you have a chance to think, driving your knee up between his legs. 

Gator blocks you with his thigh just in time, his eyes widening in shock and outrage. “Jesus, you’re a real piece of work,” he huffs, his breath ruffling your hair. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”

“Get off of me,” you say again through your teeth, thrashing again. “And don’t call me that shit.”

He finally releases you, sitting back on his heels as you scramble upright. He examines his hands, now sporting red lines from your scratching. “Cut your fucking nails,” he orders you. “You’re like a dragon.”

You push off the couch, rubbing at your sore forearms. “Don’t touch me, Gator,” you bite, stalking away. Your cheeks are red, your heart is pounding, and you’re absolutely humming with anger. And you have a feeling it’ll stay that way for a while yet.

A few hours alone in your room cool you off significantly. 

Despite the fact that you can hear the noise of the TV blaring whatever inane hunting show Gator’s put on while he lounges around doing fuck all, you spend the first hours of what was supposed to be your blissful, solitary weekend hunkered in on your bed painting your nails and calling your friends. All of them are outraged but unsurprised when you tell them about your fight with Gator, and none of them can admit to ever having come to blows with a man before. You tell them, of course they haven’t– and neither have you. Gator’s not a man, he’s a weasel.

You’re on speaker with your friend Emmie while you finish up painting your toenails, only just beginning to feel the hunger you’ve been dreading. Hunger means you have to get dinner. Dinner would require stepping out of this room and seeing the amoeba that’s taken residence on your couch. 

Emmie’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “Come on, babe. It won’t be that long.”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “You’re not the one hearing the dulcet tones of Duck Dynasty through the walls.”

“Oh, please,” Emmie snorts. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view a little bit.”

You color despite yourself, your eyes flicking to your door, as if Gator will appear there and scare the hell out of you. It’d be in character. “I am not.”

Emmie laughs into the receiver. “Face it, hon. Gator Tillman might be the biggest asshole ever to walk the earth, but he’s hot. You’ve always thought he was hot.”

You narrow your eyes, picking your phone up to hiss into the receiver, “If there was ever a sliver of attractiveness in him, it was immediately overruled by how completely and totally revolting he is. I do not think he’s hot.”

“Yeah, right,” Emmie teases, unperturbed. “He had you pinned to the couch today.”

You scowl, though she can’t see it. “Shut up, Emmie. It’s not like I have a crush on him. I mean, I’m not thirteen anymore.”

You can hardly stand to recall those few months you’d had a teeny-tiny thing for Gator– right up until he made out with Mandy Collins in front of you and stomped your heart into the dirt. You knew better now than to let yourself fall for any kind of lie he told you. No part of Gator Tillman was worth the torture that was spending any amount of time around him. 

A creak of the floorboards in the hallway makes your head shoot up. Your eyes narrow, but when there’s no more noise following it, you relent and turn your attention back to convincing Emmie you’re still sane.

You talk for a while more, but eventually, your stomach starts growling louder than you can ignore any longer. You sigh and tell Emmie you have to go, then hang up and reluctantly rise from your bed. 

You open your door cautiously, looking left and right for any sign of him. Then, shaking yourself, you remember it’s your house, too, and you don’t have any reason to hide from him. In fact, if anyone should be embarrassed of your fight earlier, it’s sure as hell not you.

Without another thought, you make your way down the hallway, your nose in the air and your eyes forward. 

Gator’s not in the living room– in fact, he’s placed himself exactly where you’re going. The fridge is open, and he’s picking up containers from within it and throwing them down aimlessly, unimpressed. He must find one he likes– some kind of leftovers your dad must have stuck in there– because he takes it out and pitches it onto the counter. 

“Don’t eat that,” you snap. “I already made pasta for tonight.”

Gator turns, brows raised at your tone. He hasn’t fixed his hair since your fight, and you brush aside how much better he looks when he’s a little disheveled like this, his t-shirt rucked up a bit around his waist from lounging on the couch. “You cook for me, sweetheart? That’s cute.”

Your nose wrinkles. “I must have gotten you confused for a homeless person. Feeding you is kinda like doing charity.”

“Nah, I bet you made it special,” he teases you, rifling through the fridge to find the container you’re talking about. “You put my name on the label, too?”

“Just move out of the way,” you spit, knocking your hip into his to shove him over before he completely wrecks your organization of the fridge. “God, do you have to destroy everything you get your hands on?”

He shrugs, nonplussed, as he steps back and leans against the counter. “Lotta girls like what I do with my hands.”

You hiss at the joke and don’t reply as you find the container of pasta and set it on the counter, pulling down two bowls from the cabinets and moving for the forks. 

“Kinda sweet, you makin’ dinner for me,” he hums.

“I did not make dinner for you,” you repeat bitterly. “My dad said I was responsible for cooking this weekend. This was completely forced.”

“Whatever you say,” Gator replies mildly. “Doesn’t look that way, though. Almost looks like you have a crush on me, or something.”

Your fingers freeze over the silverware, your heart leaping into your throat. “The fuck did you just say?”

You turn over your shoulder to find Gator smirking at your back, utterly triumphant. “You heard me,” he insists. “You got a crush on me, sweetheart?”

Your fingers close around the two forks tight enough to hurt. “You were eavesdropping?” you ask in outrage.

“Kinda hard not to when you talk so fuckin’ loud,” Gator drawls.

Anger roils in your gut again, that quickly. You toss the forks onto the counter and glare at him. “Well, if you were listening at my door, you little pervert, you would have heard me say how deeply I don’t have a crush on you.”

“But you did,” Gator corrects you, a grin spreading across his face.

You fight the redness blooming in your cheeks. “I was thirteen and deluded,” you defend yourself. “I also thought I was gonna marry Justin Bieber."

“How bad did you like me, huh?” Gator asks, his voice needling deeper at an old wound you didn’t realize was still capable of hurting. “You write ‘Mrs. Tillman’ on all your notebooks?”

“God, do you need an ego boost that bad, that you’re digging at middle school me?” you scoff in challenge, refusing to let him humiliate you. “Why the hell do you care, Gator? Times have clearly changed.”

Gator pushes off the counter, something settling even and dangerous in his eyes. His voice is a low rumble as he tells you, “Maybe I’ve got a crush on you, too.”

Your heart pounds harder in your chest– so hard it’s embarrassing. So hard that for a stupid moment, you worry he might be able to hear it. 

“Yeah, right,” you make out roughly. You refuse to let yourself fall for it. This boy has burned you too many times for you to believe him now. “You don’t have a crush on anything that can say words with more than one syllable.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he murmurs, stepping closer until he’s towering over you, his face slightly bent towards yours. Your breath hitches just the slightest bit, caught off guard by the close proximity. You pray he didn’t notice, but know somehow he did anyway.

“You’re insane,” you tell him, your voice weaker than you mean it to be. “I hate you. You hate me. You just don’t like that you can’t control me, so you play this game with me instead.”

“Maybe,” he hums, his eyes half lidded as they drop to your lips. “Or maybe I’m thinkin’ about you every time I get a minute alone. Maybe I’m makin’ some girl scream, and I’m picturin’ the way you’re lookin’ at me right now.”

Your chest feels tight, your heart beating an odd, off-kilter rhythm. “You’re repugnant,” you breathe. “You’re sick, Gator.” For some reason, your emotion feels almost too big to come to terms with. “I fucking hate it when you do this. It’s like sex is some competition to stoke your ego.”

His hand comes up slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Gently, he presses his thumb to the corner of your lips, his eyes studying the touch with rapt attention. “You have no idea what I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ with this pretty little mouth.”

The touch entrances you, catches you in a cloying spell. It only breaks when his smirk returns, irreverent as always. 

His fingers drop away from your face, and before he can say another word, you put both hands on his chest and shove him backward. “Fuck you, Gator.”

His lips twitch upward. He knows he’s won. “You wish,” he mocks you.

Abandoning the food on the counter, you flee from the kitchen, fire alight in your belly. “Make your own damn dinner. I’ll eat in my room.”

“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that,” he calls after you, that smartass humor still lingering in his tone. 

You don’t care. You’re already gone. 

It’s only a few minutes later, when your noise-cancelling headphones are set firmly over your ears and you’re sulking to your moodiest playlist, that your bedroom door swings open and Gator reappears. 

“Knock, much?” You snap at him, already scowling. 

Gator stays in your doorway and snorts, waving a hand at you. “Like you’d be able to hear me with those huge fuckin’ things on.”

“Get out of my room, Gator,” you spit harshly. 

He reveals his other hand, which holds a steaming bowl of the pasta you made. Without ceremony, he throws the bowl onto your desk and sticks a fork in it. 

You blink. Gator Tillman sort of made you dinner. That’s fucking new.

“Here,” he drawls, giving you a flat look. “You women get cranky when you’re hungry.”

“Get out,” you yell, grabbing one of the pillows on your bed and chucking it at him. 

He laughs as he dodges it. “Have a good night, sweetheart. Don’t try to sneak out your window– I’ll know.”

“Why don’t you go blow yourself?” you yell after him. “It’s all you’re good at, anyway!”

His chuckle echoes down the hall.

The next morning, you don’t emerge from your room until you’re fully dressed and ready. 

Unfortunately for you, Gator’s always been an early riser.

“Cute outfit,” he calls from his place leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s showered since you last saw him, and he’s dressed more casually in jeans and a rock t-shirt, a baseball cap set backwards atop his ungelled hair. You guess he’s not going into the station today– probably no need, without his dad there for him to impress.

“Bite me,” you fire back, not looking at him. You’re still furious about the shit he pulled last night. You spent hours tossing back and forth in bed over it, actually– completely revolted at what he’d implied. Your sheets had been cloying and burning against your skin. And, petulantly, you’d hoped that somewhere in the house, in whatever room of the house Gator had finally crashed, he was sleeping even worse.

You can’t put your finger on why it bothered you so much that he said what he did. Gator’s always been that way– teasing, mocking, pushing entirely too far over the line of basic decency. He’s always used sex against you, whether you’ve been getting any lately or not. Maybe it’s that you’ve been single for a few weeks now, and the aloneness is starting to feel a hell lot like a dry spell. The last thing you need in the midst of all of that is Gator fucking Tillman telling you he jerks off thinking about you.

You shove that thought aside before it can torture you any further this morning. It’s all a game– it always has been. You just need to keep a grip on your anger and a firmer one on your composure and get through this godforsaken weekend.

The killer thing, you think as you stroll through the kitchen, feigning being unbothered by his presence, is that your outfit really is cute– an olive green tank and your shortest denim skirt, your nicest sunglasses pushing back your hair. No part of it is for him, however. In fact, today, you’re planning on putting as much distance between you and Gator as possible.

“So where we goin’ today, sweetheart?” he asks as you near him in the kitchen.

You grab an apple out of the fruit bowl and a bagel from the breadbox. “We are not going anywhere.”

“Now, don’t be like that,” he chides you, pushing off the counter and moving closer. “You and I could have some fun this weekend if we really tried.”

You ignore him and his innuendos as you nab the cream cheese from the fridge and start spreading it on your bagel, untoasted. “I’d hate to interrupt your busy schedule of kicking puppies and stealing candy from babies.”

He grins again. “I can raincheck it till next weekend.”

When you don’t respond, he moves closer. “Come on,” he presses you. “You got all dressed up for me. Can’t let it be for nothin’.” His hand slips toward you and tugs at the hem of your skirt, his knuckles skimming along your thigh. 

You go ramrod straight, your knee jerking forward and knocking against the cabinet in front of you, hard enough to make you wince. “It’s not for you,” you fire back when you regain control of your words. “I’m going out. Now get your hands off me before I find another use for this butterknife.”

“You’re goin’ out?” he repeats, disbelieving.

“Yes,” you spit, finishing with your bagel and moving away from him. 

Gator laughs dryly. “You’re not goin’ out.”

“The hell I’m not,” you scoff. “Emmie’s gonna be here in ten minutes. I’m getting the fuck away from you for a while.”

“Emmie,” he repeats, laughing again. “Yeah fuckin’ right. You think I’m dumb?”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’re sneakin’ out to go see your fuckin’ boyfriend,” Gator says in challenge, moving an inch closer. “And you think I won’t find out.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, you idiot,” you spit at him, taking a bite of your bagel.

“Then whoever you’re givin’ it out to this week,” Gator suggests, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter so much to me.”

“Oh, yeah?” you scoff, meeting his eyes with fire in yours. “‘Cause you seem pretty damn interested in where and when I’m putting out. You jealous, Gator?”

Something shifts in his eyes as he watches you, his eyes dipping to your mouth as you chew your food slowly. “You gonna give me a reason to be?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

His eyes sweep down your body, then back up. “It means I don’t see what I have to be jealous about when I’m the only one you’re always screamin’ at.”

“Oh my God,” you snort, though you feel none of the casual indifference you project. “You are so full of shit. I think your ego’s actually starting to infect the rest of your brain.”

“You’re not goin’ out,” Gator says with finality. “Pops told me to watch you, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

“You can’t keep me under house arrest, Gator,” you challenge, panic flaring within you at the thought of him actually trapping you in here with him all weekend.

“The fuck I can’t,” he snorts. “I’m the babysitter, ain’t I?”

“You’re not my babysitter,” you fire at him, your temper kicking up again.

“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “What am I, then?”

“My local parasite?” you offer, mockingly sweet.

Gator doesn’t take the bait– just smirks at you. “You try and leave here without me, sweetheart, and I’ll just have to call your daddy and see what he has to say about it.”

“There’s nothing to do in here,” you argue, trying desperately to make him see reason. “I’m gonna be bored out of my skull, and so are you.”

“Alright, then let’s find somethin’ to do,” Gator suggests. “You and me. Not Emmie or whatever fuckin’ guy you were gonna let put his hands on you all afternoon.”

“You’re such a fucking pig!” you nearly yell in aggravation.

“Come on,” he goads you. “You wanna play a board game? Want me to braid your hair?”

“I want to get as far away from you as possible before I catch something contagious.” You ditch the rest of your food and make for your room again, dimly aware that it’s becoming something of a fortress.

“It’s a small house, sweetheart,” he tells you as he follows you, right on your heels. “You can’t avoid me forever.”

You whip around and stick a finger into his chest. “I want you out of here, Gator. I want you gone. I don’t care where you go. Just get out of my fucking house and leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that,” he tells you, intensity back in his expression.

“I don’t care,” you repeat, shaking your head. You’re almost trembling with anger, your fists clenched. “I don’t care what our dads say about it. I’d rather be grounded until I’m dead than spend another moment with you.”

For a second, Gator doesn’t speak. And then, voice low, he mutters, “You weren’t kiddin’ yesterday, were you?” he asks, his eyes scanning your face. “You really do hate me.”

“I do,” you agree– probably the only time you ever have. “And you hate me.”

“But you think about me,” he murmurs without answering you. His voice takes on a low, dangerous edge, and you become aware again of how little space there is left between your faces. “Don’t you, pretty?”

“You’re delusional,” you hiss, the words coming out on a whisper.

“Nah,” he brushes you off. “I can tell, baby. When you’re all hot and bothered like this, when you get this fired up…” he lets out a breathy laugh. “I bet you toss and turn all night, too riled up to get to sleep ‘cause all you can think about is me.”

The words hit too close. They make your breath hitch, and like always, he can tell. It’s like he knew what you were doing in your bedroom last night– knew how long it took you to finally settle down, and only after you’d taken care of yourself a few times, just to pull some stress out of your brain. It’s like he knew what you’d been thinking about when you had.

Gator sees it on your face– that vulnerability, open and ready for him to exploit. And you can’t let him have it. And you’re running on five hours of sleep. And you’d rather die than let Gator win one over you like he has all your life. 

And you tell yourself that’s why you grip him by the neck of his shirt and haul his lips to yours.

The kiss is hard, abrasive, and pressing. You don’t give Gator a second to adjust, swallowing his breath of surprise, your hand fisted in his shirt.

And something in you, something you’ve been ignoring for your entire life, something that tortures you on nights like last night and days like today when you really can’t shove him out of your mind, settles and clicks into place. That dooming, disastrous secret you’ve pretended all these years you haven’t yet discovered. 

Heat licks up inside you, seeping into your belly. You want more, you realize– more than the slide of your lips against his, more than Gator still and receiving. You want hands and tongues and teeth. You want him to move, but for once in his pathetic life, Gator Tillman seems frozen.

With the hand still gripping his shirt, you shove him back, sucking in a breath. 

His face is torn in shock. He’s panting slightly, his shining lips just beginning to turn pink. His dark eyes rove over your face, wider and more focused than you’ve ever seen. 

Your stare traces from the few hairs sticking out of his ballcap down to his lips that were plusher than you’d thought possible for a man like him. And then you laugh, low and harsh. 

Without another look at Gator, your heart in your throat, you turn on your heel and disappear behind your bedroom door. 

You’re sitting at the high table of a coffeeshop next to Emmie, your feet propped up on the bar between your stool legs, when the sight of a black truck pulling up to the curb outside makes your heart drop through your shoes. 

It would be fair to say that, in the heat of anger, you did something pretty fucking stupid. 

After you’d kissed Gator and left him standing in the hallway, the retreat to your room hadn’t felt any less stifling than being in his presence. With Emmie still on her way to pick you up and the elephant sitting between you and your next interaction with Gator, you’d thought that then would be the perfect time to manufacture an escape. 

Ironically, Gator had given you the idea by himself. Your window was ground-level, and your dad had never bothered to stick a screen on it to keep out the summer bugs. Today, that would work in your favor. 

You left your music blaring out of your speaker and snuck out the window as gracefully as you could once Emmie had texted and informed you she was parked around the block. And then you’d driven into town and filled your friend in on everything you still couldn’t believe had just happened. 

Emmie had laughed herself sick when you’d told her you kissed Gator. You supposed it was fairly ridiculous, really– a stupid, uncharacteristic, poorly-thought-through move. It would cast a pall between you– that much, you knew. But you’d been too tired of him playing that game, holding feelings and attractions over you like you were the only affected one. So, there. Now, at least you’d shown him what you were made of. 

Emmie notices you staring out the window, and her eyes widen as she realizes why. “Is that–”

Gator jumps down from his truck and slams the door, his expression already awash with anger. You swallow as you watch him stomp toward the café and rip open the door, his eyes landing on you immediately. 

A jolt runs down your spine at that look– the total rage that’s directed only at you. He must have driven around looking for Emmie’s car– guessing at the spots you two frequent together. You wish you could say you’re surprised he found you so quickly, but Gator’s always had a good memory when it comes to cataloguing how best to drive you insane. Including but not limited to memorizing the name of your favorite coffeeshop.

Gator stalks toward you, and you register dimly that his hair is a wreck beneath his cap, his mouth set in a grim line. Oh, he’s furious you ran out on him. This was his one job, the one promise he made his dad for these two days– and you made him fail.

He stops in front of you where you still clutch your mug, not sparing Emmie a second glance. “Let’s go,” is all he says– not a request.

Swallowing, realizing you’ve pushed him to the limit, you rise from your stool and turn back to Emmie.

She’s watching the encounter with wide, skeptical eyes. “Babe,” she starts, her voice quiet. “Are you gonna be okay?”

You know what’s on her mind– what’s probably running through the minds of everyone in this café. They know Gator’s reputation, and they know his daddy. Worse, they know what it means when a woman upsets a man from the Tillman family. 

But you’re different for one reason– you know Gator. And no matter how hard you push, no matter the bullshit he spits at you, you know one thing about him for certain– he will not hurt you. You used to call it pathetic, just like with your father, but now you think differently. Gator wouldn’t hurt a woman because he doesn’t have it in him. And he won’t hurt you because all he wants to do is the opposite, even in his weird, twisted way.

“I’ll be fine,” you tell Emmie, pushing off your stool. “I’ll get you back for the coffee later, yeah?”

Emmie nods, watching as you turn back to Gator. 

He’s no less full of ire, but you can tell he’s satisfied by your compliance. He lets you walk toward the truck first, and you wonder if it’s so he can catch you if you try to run off again. 

When you reach the passenger side door that he holds open for you, you start, “Gator–”

“Get in the fucking car,” he snaps.

You clamp your mouth shut, still riling internally against his order, and climb into the seat.

The drive back to your house is wordless, but you can tell he’s still steaming about this. It’s only when you’re back in the house, the door slammed behind you and your jacket thrown over the hook again, that he finally pipes up. 

“You’re a real fuckin’ brat, you know that?”

“You wouldn’t let me go,” you argue flatly. 

“What are you, fuckin’ twelve years old?” he shoots back. “Climbin’ out your window? They weren’t kiddin’ when they said you needed a goddamn babysitter.”

“It’s my house.” Your expression contorts with frustration. “I should be able to leave it when I want to. And I don’t need some overgrown manchild guarding my door.”

He storms over to you, his expression stony. “Well, clearly, you fuckin’ do. I come in there to check on you, and you’re just gone. That’s real mature, sweetheart.”

“Check on me?” you scoff. “Oh, please. You were probably just worried I’d tell your daddy what you’ve been saying to me all weekend.”

“What I’ve been saying?” he huffs, outraged. “How ‘bout what you’ve been doing? You’re nothin’ better than a fuckin’ preteen, stompin’ around and escapin’ outta your room.”

You meet his stare, your brow set and low. “You think you can just keep me here– that I’ll just do whatever you want. You’re wrong, Gator.”

“It is my job to take care of you this weekend,” he snaps.

“No, it’s your job to watch me,” you correct him. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m supposed to know where you are. I’m supposed to keep tabs on you, woman. ‘Nd I don’t need you climbin’ out your window and runnin’ off ‘cause you want to fuckin’ rebel.”

You round on him, his attitude only feeding yours. “I told you I was gonna go crazy in here. You can’t lock me up, Gator. You’re not in charge of me.”

“Right now, I am,” he spits back. “Right now, you answer to me. And when I tell you to do something, you fuckin’ do it.”

“You’re a prick,” you breathe. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met. Why the hell would I listen to you?”

He crosses the rest of the room toward you in three long steps. “Say that again.”

“You’re not mad about this,” You shake your head, meeting his eyes. “You’re not mad I ran off or got you in trouble.” You let your eyes scrape down over his face, then back up. “You’re mad because I did it after I kissed you. You’re mad I didn’t just fall at your feet like everyone else does.”

“You really wanna talk about the shit you pulled back there?” he asks threateningly, eyes widening. He looks crazed like this– almost feral. “You wanna go there? ‘Cause you don’t tend to like it when you ‘n I talk dirty.”

You will a smirk onto your face. “You liked it, didn’t you?”

Gator’s expression shifts. He’s almost shaking with anger. You’ve never seen him like this– never once. You’ve never seen him when he’s losing before.

“When you thought I meant it,” you clarify. “For a second there, I made you believe it.”

Gator doesn’t say anything, his eyes boring into yours. And that’s how you know– you won. It just doesn’t feel as sweet as it should.

“You don’t like me,” you shake your head, finally seeing the full picture. “You just don’t like that you can’t have me. That’s what I am to you– something you can’t stand for anyone else to put their hands on.”

He snorts, tries to wave it off. It’s not as convincing as he tries to make it. “‘Cause you know everything about what I think now?”

“Yeah,” you challenge. “Yeah I do know you, Gator. And what you’re doing here? It’s fucked.”

“Yeah, well I know you, too,” he spits out, his glare so hard it could chip rock. “I know you tell yourself you’re throwin’ yourself at all those douchebags ‘cause you’re rebelling, but really you just can’t stand anybody rejecting you. I know you take shit from your dad and my dad and everyone else ‘cause you don’t have enough of a spine to stand up to ‘em.”

“You don’t know me,” you say gutturally, the words landing sharp as gravel in your chest. “You don’t know anything. Least of all how to want something without hurting it.”

Gator’s fists are clenched to hide his shaking. “Fuck. You.”

“You wish,” you throw back, and you don’t need to say it harshly. Because for once, the words you pitch at him are true, and the both of you know it now.

Gator rips his eyes away and stalks back toward the living room. “Go hide in your room again. Do whatever the hell you want. You always do, anyway.”

You watch him walk away, and in your head, beneath the rushing anger, you make a decision. 

You’re not going to hide. You’re not going to slink away and let him have this– let him avoid what you’ve made him feel today, tonight, maybe for longer than you know. He doesn’t get to give up the game now that he’s lost the upper hand. 

So, that night, you don’t go back to your room. 

You do your summer homework at the counter with your headphones on while Gator fires off curt emails at the dining table. You eat a wordless dinner side by side, the leftovers somehow tasting worse than they had yesterday– but maybe that was the aftertaste of the fight in your mouth. Gradually, things even out, some of the tension slipping out of the air. Maybe it’s that it’s all on the table now– nothing left unsaid between you, and nothing to say that could possibly be worse.

You and Gator settle into a rhythm, the fizzing, livid frustration soothing between you as you move side by side, unspeaking, for the entirety of the night. The first time you exchange words again, it almost feels like things are back to how they were before.

Gator’s on the couch in front of the TV, but he’s not watching it. Instead, he’s observing you as you emerge from your room, where you’d changed into a baggy sweatshirt with your high school’s name on it and a pair of athletic shorts you’ve probably grown out of by about two years. Gator’s eyes track you as you make your way back into the living room, running up and down your body.

“What?” you snap, sick of his scrutiny.

“Nothin’,” he replies, not tearing his eyes away as he smirks. “Real sexy outfit, that’s all.”

You roll your eyes, though you might be secretly glad the two of you are any kind of back to normal. “I’m in my own living room. I'm allowed to wear what I want.” You flop down onto the other end of the couch from him unceremoniously and pick up the discarded remote. “You probably sleep in your jeans, you cretin.” 

Gator hasn’t changed out of his day-clothes yet, but his hair is sticking out further from the front of his cap. He adjusts it on his head, and you have to pull your eyes away from the way his arms flex with the motion.

Adjusting to be more comfortable on your end of the couch, your back against the armrest and your legs stretched out across the cushions, you change the channel, and Gator makes a noise of protest. “I was watching that.”

“You were watching 10 Things I Hate About You?” you deadpan, giving him a look. “Really?”

Gator fumbles a little for words. “It’s the guy from The Joker. I don’t know.”

You snort, clicking through channels. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of rom-coms.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he gripes, turning his eyes back to the screen.

When a few minutes have passed and you still haven’t settled on an evening feature, he makes a noise of exasperation and throws a hand out at the TV. “Will you just pick something already?”

“It’s my house,” you remind him imperiously. “It’s my TV. I'll take my damn time.”

“I’m gonna be dead by the time you land on a movie.”

“All the better for me,” you answer sweetly.

“Just give me the fuckin’ remote,” he insists, sitting up and reaching out for it.

“No, thanks,” you huff, holding the remote away from him in case he decides to snatch it out of your hands. “I have very little interest in watching Swamp People or whatever the hell it is you find entertaining.”

“Well, you’re gonna pick some girly crap, and I don’t wanna sit through that,” he argues.

“Then go to bed,” you propose, not looking at him as you keep clicking. “Nothing’s keeping you here.”

With no warning, a large hand clamps around your ankle, and you yelp as Gator drags you toward him by your leg until you’re staring up at his smirking face, your sweatshirt hitched up around your waist. The action, the audacity of it, steals the breath from you, and for whatever reason, you don’t fight him as his hand spans your calf to keep you in place.

Gator leans over you, and there’s none of the playfulness of the last words you spoke in his eyes. Instead, he’s staring down at you with such unbelievable focus it makes your heart pound in your throat. 

 It doesn’t even surprise you when he kisses you.

Gator’s lips are as plush as they were this morning, but this time, he doesn’t freeze. He pushes against you, hard and claiming, his head bowed over yours and his hands loosening their grip on your legs. The kiss is messy, his tongue pushing past your lips and sweeping your mouth, like he knows neither one of you can stand to do anything halfway anymore. 

You don’t even notice that he’s wrested the remote from your hand until he pulls back and smirks at you. 

You stare up into his face– his stupid, arrogant, triumphant face– as he holds the remote over you in victory, just like he’s held everything over you, every little thing he’s ever won. 

It’s less than a moment before you snake your hand around the back of his neck and pull him back down toward you. 

You kiss him again, harder this time, the push and pull of your lips igniting something in your gut you didn’t ever think Gator Tillman would be capable of eliciting. It’s intoxicating, that feeling– so close and intimate. You nip at his bottom lip, and Gator groans.

You have just enough sense left in your dazed brain to pull the remote from his fingers again, and he lets it go almost willingly. This time, you’re the one who pulls back, relishing in that last second of victory. 

The two of you hang there for a moment, staring back into each other’s faces. 

And then, in one brief, intoxicating second, the dam breaks, and all bets are off. 

The remote clatters to the floor. Gator’s hands surge for you, wrap around your back and band around you to pull you upright. Your lips lock together, messy and desperate, and the noises you’re making are absolutely indecent as he licks into your mouth like he wants to steal the sounds from you. You break the kiss only long enough to push yourself fully upright and onto your knees, swinging one leg over his lap and straddling him, your loose hair falling down between you. 

Gator looks ravenous as you loom over him, hunger baked into his expression, so intense it makes your breath catch. You don’t pause long enough for him to mock you for it. 

You grab his face in both of your hands and pull him toward you again, teeth scraping against lips. You take a second to knock the cap off his head and pitch it away, and then you’re tugging his hair and he’s panting against your mouth as his hands squeeze harder than necessary at your waist and hips. 

You’re surprised– honestly shocked– he hasn’t made a move to grope at you yet. His fingertips press into you so harshly you think they might bruise– so rough and needy, like it’s been years of waiting for him to paw at you like this. Maybe it has.

Your hands run down his body, over his shoulders and pecs and tensed abdomen. You don’t break the kiss while your fingers grip his belt tightly, and Gator lets out another groan into your mouth. 

His hands dip a little lower, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweatshirt, but that’s all he does. Fine, then– maybe all his big talk is just that. If you need to be the cleaver of what you’ve spent years convincing yourself is a normal, hate-hate relationship, then so fucking be it. 

Your hands scrabble to undo his belt without looking, the starched denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs. 

Gator pulls away from you just long enough to catch his breath, his eyes hazy with lust as he looks up at you. “What’re you doin’?”

“Gonna fuck you,” you pant, surging forward to kiss him again. You finally make progress with his belt and nearly tear it open, but Gator’s not finished. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs, one of his hands sliding up beneath your sweatshirt and settling flat on your back. “Thought you hated me.”

“I do,” you correct him, voice strained even now. You tear your lips from his to kiss down his neck, finger still working to pull his belt free. “I hate you so fucking much, Gator.”

You can almost hear his grin in his voice as he says. “Good. Just checking.”

His hands grip your thighs, and suddenly you’re in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his waist as he pulls you up with him as he stands. 

“What are you doing?” you ask against the skin of his neck, your attention honed on leaving an obnoxiously big mark there. 

“I’m not fuckin’ you on a couch,” Gator tells you dryly, and begins to carry you toward your bedroom like it’s second nature. 

“Such a gentleman,” you mock him. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I just want you spread out,” he says bluntly, his nose prodding into your hair as you continue to attack his throat. “Let’s not get things confused, baby.”

You give a muffled laugh against his Adam's apple.

When you make it to your bedroom, Gator actually throws you backward onto the bed, so hard you squeak when you hit the mattress with a bounce. “‘Course you got stuffed animals on here,” he drawls, moving over you on all fours. “You’re such a kid.”

“And you’re a heartless bastard,” you coo, your hands coming to rest on his chest. “They’re cute.”

With one hand, Gator sweeps your stuffed animals off the bed. “‘M not having them watching me.”

“You insecure, or something?” you tease, your voice a high pitch. 

Gator’s eyes narrow into a glare. “Why don’t you put your hand in my pants and find out, sweetheart?”

“Take your shirt off,” you demand, refusing to let him know what the challenge in his eyes is doing to you. With him hanging over you like this, his broad body commanding your attention, you feel like you’re on fire. 

“You’re pretty fuckin’ needy, aren’t you?” he goads, but he sits up and tugs his shirt over his head anyway. 

“And you’re doin’ exactly what I told you to,” you point out, though the effect of the teasing is a little lost when your eyes fall to his bare chest. 

You almost hate him just for looking as good as he does. The unfortunate side effect of the gym-bro identity he’s developed is that Gator’s had serious results. His pecs are sculpted, his stomach lean and toned, and his arms… well, if you weren’t seriously fucked before, you certainly are now. His biceps flex as he moves over you again, pulling you back into a harsh kiss. “Your turn,” he makes out when you break free. “Strip.”

“How romantic,” you croon. “What if I wanna keep everything on?” 

Gator shakes his head. “Nope.”

You give him a look. “Excuse me?”

“Show me your tits,” he orders you. “I’m gonna see every inch of you.” When you still don’t move, he barks, “Now.” 

“You know, your bossiness?” you hiss, fingers moving almost involuntarily to the hem of your sweatshirt, “One of your worst qualities.”

“It works, don’t it?” he huffs, watching as you struggle to free your arms. Impatient, he pulls back again and yanks you upward. “This is the ugliest fuckin’ sweatshirt I’ve ever seen.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, and he drags it over your head and tosses it aside, baring you to the room. Your nipples perk up from the sudden chill, and the warmth in your gut builds as Gator takes you in hungrily. When he touches you again, he starts by smoothing down the hair he wrecked with your sweatshirt. And then those hands run over your shoulders and down your arms, soothing the goosebumps that haven’t gone away since the second he kissed you. 

“Fuck,” he blurts out, staring unabashedly at your chest.

Your skin prickles under his stare, the vulnerability of it. You’re not afraid of Gator. You just can’t tell what he’ll do when his walls are down, and that’s more thrilling than anything.

Without any more delay, he cups your right breast and squeezes gently, like he’s testing the weight in his palm. You squirm a little, and he tells you, “Hold still.”

“Gator,” you make out, a little put off that this is taking so long. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just shut the fuck up and let me touch you,” he says back, and kneads at your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. “It’s the first time, sweetheart. Gotta enjoy it.”

Your breath hitches when he slaps lightly at your tender flesh, watching the movement with a smirk on his face. “You’ve got great tits, you know that?” 

You shoot him a dry look. “What, first time you’ve ever seen a pair?”

He lifts his other hand and presses into both at once, massaging with a care you didn’t know he had in him. “Mouthy,” he observes, frowning. “You should quit that. Pants.”

“What about them?” you ask indignantly, watching the way he remains fascinated by your chest.

Gator’s eyes flick up to yours. “Get them off.”

“I suppose ‘please’ is a foreign concept to you,” you drawl, laying back against the comforter. In the back of your head, you register that you’re letting him order you around, and that under normal circumstances you would be completely revolted with the way you’re giving in. Right now, it feels like the least of your worries.

“I like to have all the manners comin’ from you.” Gator breathes as he moves over you again, his face appearing above yours. He kisses you once, briefly, and then starts drawing a line down the middle of your body with his lips– your chin, your throat, your sternum. He gets distracted at your chest and diverts to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, and you arch up into the touch, letting out an embarrassingly loud gasp. 

Gator hums against your breast, satisfied by the sound. His teeth scrape gently over its peak, and your fingers curl in his hair in response.

“This doesn’t feel like fucking,” you mock him, though it comes out breathy and weak. 

“Be nice,” Gator tells you flatly. “Or I’ll stop being nice.” That’s ironic considering you can’t recall him ever starting. 

Your fingers dip into the waistband of your shorts just as Gator’s lips reach your stomach, and he helps you work them down your legs, his broad hands smoothing over your skin until you’re completely bare and he chucks the shorts away. You shiver, the reality of being so exposed in front of him hitting you beneath the hazy lust. Your legs tense up involuntarily at the realization, your knees locking together.

Gator’s head snaps up, and that sight alone almost rips another moan from your throat. His hair is falling in his eyes, mussed from your grip. “Hey. Don’t fuckin’ hide from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell should I trust you?” you ask, the question tearing from you before you can stop it. 

His stare is absolutely wicked. “You spread your legs for all those other guys, don’t you? Doubt you trusted any ‘a them. Bet they didn’t even make you come.”

His mocking does nothing to quell your insecurity. “You’re an asshole, Gator,” you snap, pushing up on your elbows and drawing your legs away from him.

His hand reaches out and grips you around your ankle again, halting you. And then he says, his eyes intent upon your face, “I know you better than anyone. That’s why you should trust me.”

The words relax you without you meaning them to. Gator sees it, and he smiles a little– not quite devoid of arrogance, but something bordering on genuine.

And then he grips you by the ankles and props your legs up, eye-level with your cunt. 

He doesn’t touch you at first– just looks. 

“Gator–” you squirm a little, arching your back. From here, you can see the pleased expression on his face as he examines you, and something about the diligence in it is making it hard to stay focused. “Gator, either move or get back up here. I don’t care.”

“Just let me look at you, baby,” he throws back, nonplussed. One of his thumbs brushes against the skin around the center of you, and you shiver. “You’re so wet it’s unfair.”

“Stop staring at me, you pervert,” you make out, but the light touch is affecting you so much already that your argument sounds weaker than you mean it to. “It’s creepy.”

“Why?” he asks bluntly, that thumb guiding itself through your folds, parting you gently. “It’s pretty.”

Compliments are rare coming from Gator. You can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s legitimately offered you one. Which is probably why you’re trembling before he’s even touched you– not because you want him to so badly right now you can’t think straight. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I like?” you prod him, your voice low. 

Gator’s face dips slightly, his eyes still intent upon the center of you. “Nope.”

You snort. “And they say chivalry’s dead. Do you– oh.”

At the first broad sweep of his tongue, every argument falls from your lips. 

It’s fair to say you’ve been with a number of sexual partners. Not as many as Gator mocks you for, but you’re not what you would call naive to how sex should feel when it’s done right. You’ve had guys go down on you like they’re making out– slow and sensual and unhurried. You’ve had uncomfortable, oblivious experiences that ended in rolled eyes and faked orgasms. And you’ve had a few really stellar players, too– ones that don’t need to brag to tell you they know what they’re doing. 

As in most things, Gator feels different.

It might be the eagerness with which he latches his mouth to your cunt, or the immediate pressure he adds without reprieve. But something about the intensity of the strokes of his tongue, the slight drag of his teeth, the way his nose presses against your clit, is unlike anything you’ve experienced before. Gator goes down on you like he’s starving for it– like he’s trying to consume you, to press himself so deeply against your heat there’s no chance of retrieval. He laps at your wetness, his tongue spearing inside you, and you moan louder, your back arching off the bed and your thighs squeezing either side of his face. 

Harshly, he takes one broad hand and presses your right leg back to the mattress. He removes himself just enough to say, “Gimme some room to work here, alright?”

“Gator,” you breathe, overwhelmed. 

“What?” he responds as he dives back in, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You let out a cry, forgetting what you’d meant to tell him. It was probably something derogatory. You wish you remembered. 

“So fuckin’ responsive,” he laughs, the vibrations travelling along your center. “Can’t believe how wet you are, baby. I really turn you on that much?”

“Fuck off,” you pant, and Gator looks up at you through his brows. 

“What’d I just say?” he goads you, and without preamble, slides one of his fingers inside you. “Be nice.”

You gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Gator– fuck, Gator.”

He pumps his finger inside you, then adds another just as fast. It’s almost annoying how he can tell immediately how to curl them to hit the spot that always makes you writhe, but when you move too much for his taste, he uses his other hand to slide over your lower stomach and pin you to the bed. “Go ‘head and hold onto me, sweetheart,” he tells you, seeing how badly you want to move. “I know– I know. It’s a lot, baby, but you can take it.”

Your cheeks sting at the way he’s talking down to you, but you can’t formulate a scathing enough reply. Instead, you snake your hand down into his hair, clutching at the strands so hard it probably hurts. 

“There you go,” he purrs, eyes on you as he lowers his mouth to your clit again, fingers still moving inside you. “That’s my good girl.”

The worst part is that he’s right– it is a lot. It’s too much, too fast, too far, but Gator doesn’t seem to care, and with the way you’re catapulting toward your orgasm, you can’t bring yourself to, either. Nothing about the way he laves and sucks at you, the way he nips gently at the apex of your core while his fingers make you bow off the bed with their consistent, unrelenting pace, is even pretending to be gentle. That’s not who Gator is– that’s not what he’s willing to give you. He’s always been this and only this– hard, rough, brutal where it hurts the best. What’s killing you even more than the overstimulating pressure is that you’re realizing in the back of your mind that he’s the best lay you’ve ever had.

“Fuck,” Gator mumbles against you, and retracts one of his hands to adjust himself in his jeans. “Jesus Christ, you taste good. Never had pussy this perfect before.”

You groan and grind your hips up against his face, and Gator makes a noise of approval deep in his throat. “Do that again.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hips chase his face as he presses harder into you, his fingers pumping faster and faster. “Fuck my face, baby. Come on— there you go. Give it to me.”

“Oh my God,” you pant as the coil inside you tightens and tightens, poised to snap. “Gator— Gator, right there, fuck—“ Your fingers clench in his hair, and he whines against you.

“Go ‘head, baby. Let go. Lemme see your pretty come face.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your orgasm tears through you, and Gator doesn’t let up for a moment as he works you through it, mumbling how good you’re being, telling you to let him see it. By the time it finally breaks, your entire body is tingling with leftover energy, and Gators tongue is still working at your center.

“Gator,” you plead, your voice a defeated whine. “Too— too much. I’m sensitive.”

“You made a real fuckin’ mess down here,” he says gruffly in return, licking over you— cleaning you up, you realize. “You can do it. Hold still.”

Now that your walls are down again, you find it in you to start disobeying like you’re used to. You squirm against his grip, your hips bucking. Gator uses the hand on your stomach to press you further into the mattress, letting him finish his diligent work. When he’s finally satisfied with himself, he presses a messy kiss to your inner thigh and moves over you again. 

“Still think I’m an asshole?” he asks, his smirk intolerably wide.

“Marginally less so,” you breathe, a little surprised, yourself. 

Gator grins and lowers his head to kiss at your cheek, your neck. “Guess the only reason you’re always bitchin’ at me is you’re too pent up to do anything else, huh?”

Your eyes flatten as he sucks at your neck, your fingers twisting in his hair. “Call me a bitch again. See where it gets you.”

“Aw, don’t feel bad, baby,” he croons. “You’re too stressed, in’t that right? Need someone to work it outta ‘ya?”

“And here I was, thinking my attitude gets you hard,” you drawl, too spent to bother being humiliated by his words.

“Maybe it does,” he offers. “And maybe I like bein’ the one to get you to finally fuckin’ relax.”

“Mm, what every girl dreams about,” you tease him. “Sex being relaxing.”

“You bored?” he challenges, pulling back to raise a brow at you.

“Whole lotta talking going on,” your return evenly, pushing down the thrill his expression sends through you.

“You’re pretty fuckin’ insufferable, you know that?” he gripes, and you grin as your hands slide up his bare chest and push him backward so you can sit up. 

“Says you,” you hum, shifting to sit cross-cross between his legs. “Pretty big talk for a guy who hasn’t pulled his dick out yet.”

“You gonna beg me?” he goads, his own grin growing.

“Over my cold, dead, rotting body,” you reply, your voice low and sultry.

Gator laughs and pushes off the bed, his fingers going for the zipper on his jeans. His eyes are on you as he shucks them down his legs and kicks them away, then follows with his boxers.

In one terrible second, the reason for every speck of arrogance in Gator clicks into place in your mind. He’s hung. Like, the kind of hung that you thought was a joke when rumors started circulating in high school. Every coy, teasing plan you’d had running through your head a moment ago curls up and dies, and your mouth goes dry as you stare at him in outrage.

“You goin’ dumb, sweetheart?” he asks you smugly.

You glare and point a finger toward his length. “Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“I can’t take that,” you shake your head, incredulous.

“Sure you can,” Gator waves you off, ego simmering in his eyes.

“Nuh-uh,” you scoff. “I’ll break. There’s no way that fits inside me.”

“Never know until you try,” he points out, crawling back onto the bed toward you. “I just warmed you up. You’ll be fine.”

“Gator—“

“Just shut up and lay back,” he complains, his face inches from yours. “I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”

He’s so uncannily good at that– saying things to you that put you immediately at ease, even while he relinquishes none of the control. Gator knows the formula of exactly how and when to push you, and he knows when it tips into too far. You didn’t think he had that sort of emotional intelligence in him, but somehow, even bare and exposed before him now, you’re not nervous.

Gator moves over you, his head lowering to kiss you again– slower and sweeter, like he knows you need the reassurance. There’s still that fire underneath it, that unkillable, tortuous want, but it’s settled somehow in the way he’s pressing your bodies together. 

“Condom?” he mumbles against your lips.

You scour your brain, trying to remember if you replaced the box of rubbers in your nightstand after the last time your dad raided your room looking for contraband. “Mm– I don’t know if I have one.”

Gator pulls back, looking downright appalled. “What?”

You roll your eyes at his expression. “I don’t actually put out that much, Gator.”

“You don’t have a single fuckin’ condom?” he deadpans. “What are you, some kind of virgin?”

“Just check the nightstand,” you snap.

Gator crawls off of you and reaches out to rifle through your top drawer. A laugh escapes his throat, and he withdraws a familiar, bright-purple object. “Now, hang on a sec. What’s all this?”

You groan and press your eyes shut. “Oh my God, just kill me.”

Gator flicks the vibrator on where he kneels straddling you on the bed, studying the way it jumps in his hand. “You think about me when you use this?”

“Gator Tillman is holding my vibrator,” you mumble to yourself. “I’ve died and gone to hell and this is it.”

“It’s kinda cute,” he says observantly. “Little. You want me to help you out with this?”

“Your window for putting on a condom and fucking me is closing,” you inform him dryly. 

He heaves a sigh, mischief in his eyes as he smiles down at you. “Fine. Some other time.” He flicks the vibrator off and sets it on the nightstand, then rifles through your drawer some more until he finds a single foil packet. “Fuckin’ finally.”

“Oh, and whose fault is it for taking so long?” you snap, pressing up onto your elbows as he sits back and tears the wrapper open with his teeth. 

“You know, you’re not real good at this whole ‘patience’ thing, baby,” he tells you mildly. 

You watch as he rolls the condom over his length and pumps himself once, twice. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll make it fit. You’ll be fine.”

“I mean having sex with you,” you retort flatly. 

“Oh, please,” he huffs. “You know you’ve been dreamin’ about this for years.”

“I fucking hate you,” you remind him, eyes narrowing. “I’ve spent my entire life hating your guts. And now you’re naked in my bed. I feel like I’m on drugs.”

“I’m not that surprised,” he tosses back, staring down at you spread out beneath him. “Been flirtin’ with you since I was twelve. Figured we’d get here one day.”

“You were not flirting with me,” you counter, the words sending color to your cheeks. “I think what you were doing qualifies as harassment.” 

“You think I talk about every girl’s tits like that?” He arches a brow.

“I know you do,” you hiss, slapping his thigh. “That’s what all disgusting, horny, deadbeats do.”

“Uh-huh. I’ve been droolin’ over you for years,” Gator snorts. “You’re pretty fuckin’ dense if you couldn’t tell, baby. Everybody else could. My friends gave me so much shit about it in high school.” Your cheeks burn redder, and he grins. “Yeah, you fuckin’ knew it, too. Your face always went red just like that.”

Determined not to let him hold it over you, you push further upright. One hand curling against his chest, you halt his movement over you and push him back into a seated position. “Is that why you’re so hard right now?” you coo, angling your head. “‘Cause I’m so affected? And you’re so above it all?”

He studies you, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Never said I was.”

“Yeah, you look pretty fuckin’ desperate, too,” you murmur, your hand tracing gently over the lines of his abdomen. “I better help you out, huh?”

“Lay back,” he says again, the words low and gruff.

Your lips curve up into a smile, and slowly, you shake your head. “You had your turn– now let me have mine.”

His brows raise in surprise, but he doesn’t object.

Cautiously, you extract yourself from beneath him, pressing up on your knees to straddle him again. Your hand comes hesitantly down to touch his length, and you watch Gator’s jaw clench as you close your fingers around him. 

“Sensitive, huh?” you croon, and he glares at you. 

“You wanna move your fuckin’ hand?” he drawls. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m not gonna last too long.”

You huff a low laugh and give him a testing squeeze, moving your hand up and down. He really is huge– so big you have no idea if you’re going to be capable of your next step. That tinge of uncertainty finds you again, but it’s just as quickly soothed by the feeling of Gator’s warm hand spanning your thigh, smoothing over it. It’s enough to encourage you to rise higher on your knees and notch him at your entrance, gritting your teeth at the sensation. 

Gator hums at the feeling, too, looking up at you with smug admiration. “You gonna ride me, baby?”

“Shut up right now,” you mumble, eyes squeezing shut. 

He laughs roughly. “Come on– sit down. I’ve got ‘ya.”

With deliberate slowness, you begin to sink down, letting out a pathetic little noise at the stretch. 

“Good girl,” Gator coos, drawing out the word. “You’ve got it. You can take it all.”

You halt your progress to give yourself a moment to adjust, the stretch of him inside you walking the delicate line between pleasure and pain. 

“Breathe,” Gator orders you. “Breathe, baby.” You can hear the smile in his voice as you suck in a bigger breath and let it out. “There she is. Look at you, baby– face all screwed up. All stretched out on my dick. Keep going. I want you lower.”

You whimper and keep going, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders while one of his grips your waist to help you down. For a moment, it’s too much, and you stop again. 

A sharp smack sounds, and the back of your thigh stings as Gator lands a slap to it. When your eyes flutter open in surprise, you find him glaring. 

“Hey. I said lower,” he tells you. “Take it. Don’t make me do it myself, sweetheart.”

“Fuck. You,” you make out, your breath coming in pants. 

He smacks your thigh again, and you cry out. “Drop the fuckin’ attitude,” he snaps. “You don’t want me to flip you around and take care of it for you. Lower.”

“It’ll hurt,” you say through gritted teeth.

“You were built for me,” he murmurs, the hand on your waist coming up to push your hair behind your ears. “You’ll be fine.”

Your hands tighten on his shoulders, and you sink lower, inch by tortuous inch. It drags another sound from your throat, and Gator preens. “Thaaat’s it. Good fuckin’ girl. You’re doin’ so good for me, baby. You’re gonna get it all the way, huh?”

Your face burns, but the challenge gets to you like it always does. Jaw clenching, you shove yourself the rest of the way down, ignoring the jolt of pain and the way you gasp outright. It fades quickly enough into ecstasy at the sheer size of him– the fullness so intense it makes you wonder if any sex will ever be the same again. 

When you manage to come to, finally adjusted to the pleasurable burn, Gator’s hands are brushing over your cheeks, smoothing down your body, keeping you centered. “There she is,” he hums again, a smile blooming all over his face. “Knew you’d fuckin’ do it for me. You’re perfect. So pretty like this– my own little cocksleeve.”  

“‘M not,” you argue, your face falling forward into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

“Sure you are,” he counters, hands slipping around to hold you close. “So proud of you. You took it so well, sweetheart.”

You whimper– at the words or at the stretch of him, you don’t know. You feel a little drunk on it– the headiness of being this close to him, the rush of anger at being so demeaned. You can’t tell if you love it or hate it.

“You’re gonna move now,” he tells you, hands slipping down to your hips. “You’ve got it. Go slow.”

You don’t have the faculty to disagree. Carefully, you begin to roll your hips, Gator’s big hands guiding you as you grind back and forth over him. Desperately, you find his lips and press them to yours, cupping his face like he’s some kind of precious to you. You clench around him, and he moans into your mouth.

The drag of him inside you is just the right side of too much. You move faster, chasing your pleasure and his, letting him push and pull you how he wants to. It feels like worship, your bodies working together like this. The fit is seamless, despite how unfathomable that would have seemed to you a day ago. 

“Your little boyfriends teach you how to do this?” he mocks you breathlessly, one of his hands tangling in your hair and tugging your head back so he can bite at your throat. “Were you this much of a slut for them?”

“Shut up,” you breathe. 

“Bet you learned all on your own,” he goes on. “None ‘a them fucked you like this. They made you do it all yourself, didn’t they? That’s why you’re so perfect for me now.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, temper flaring in you. “Quit fucking talking about them,” you bite. “I’m fucking you now, aren’t I?”

“Damn straight,” Gator huffs, his breath hot on your throat. “Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had. Shoulda been with me the whole time.”

“I’m not with you,” you gasp out. “I’m just– fuck, Gator– I’m just…”

“Just what?” he challenges, nibbling at your pulse point. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Having a– oh– momentary– lapse of sanity.”

He laughs roughly, pushing his hips up to meet yours. “We’ll see about momentary. Ah, fuck– squeeze me like that again. Jesus, you’re tight.” You let out a keening sound as you do as he asks. “Gate–”

He lets out a groan, arms squeezing tighter around you at the nickname. “Tell me how much you hate me.”

You fumble for words a little, your concentration completely shot. “What?”

“Talk,” he breathes. “Tell me. I know you want to.”

“You don’t know anything,” you pant. “You don’t know me. You don’t have any idea how much I– ah!– how much I hate that we’re doing this.”

“You don’t look like you hate it,” he murmurs.

“I do,” you nod, your eyes squeezing shut. “I fucking hate it. I hate you more than anything. You make my skin crawl.”

Gator groans.

“You’re disgusting,” you go on. “I hate the way you talk to me and the way you treat girls. I hate that you can’t live without your stupid fucking vape. I hate the way you gel your hair.” Your breath hitches as he thrusts up into you, and your rhythm falters. “You’re arrogant. You’re self-serving. You’re– fuck, Gator– you’re a prick. You’re the worst kind of asshole, and I wish I’d never met you.”

“You’re so pretty when you lie,” he moans, reaching a hand up to tweak your nipple.

You take a jagged breath. “I hate that you’re gonna hold this over me till I die.”

“This?” he scoffs, but his voice is a little weak, a little breathy. “Nah, baby. This is just for me. Can’t have anyone else knowin’ I got to see you like this.”

“Gator,” you eke out, his reassurance hitting you somewhere low and deep.

“Yeah, baby?”

You don’t know how to say it– how to get what you want without giving him his. You don’t know how to say that you need to be closer to him, to fuse your bodies together, to go over the brink with him and not care for an hour or two what sharp rocks are at the bottom of this pit you’re willingly throwing yourself into. You need him deeper, harder, more.

“More?” he mumbles, as if taking the words straight out of your head. He’s always been so good at reading you, for better or worse. It’s how he knows now to make sure you’re ready, to hear you say it even in spite of all the dominance, all the insults. It’s that fact that makes you wonder just how meaningless all this really is to him.

You nod frantically, and that’s all it takes for Gator’s hands to grip you again and lay you back down on the covers, still joined. He hitches your legs up to lock around your waist, and then he’s drilling back into you, his hips slamming into yours. 

“Gator!” you gasp out, your nails clawing at his back. 

He moans, taken over just as much as you are by the feeling of you squeezing him. “That’s it, baby. Fuck– so fuckin’ tight. Perfect little doll for me.”

Every thrust into your body drags another cry from your throat as you rake at his back, the drag of him against your walls driving you out of your mind. “Fuck– fuck– fuck, Gate, I need–”

His hand is already there– moving down between you, finding your clit as he keeps at his unrelenting pace. “You beg so– ah– so pretty.” 

You arch your back up into him as his fingers circle your clit. “Gate, I’m close. I’m– oh, fuck.”

“Can’t talk so well, huh?” he goads, pace increasing. You tip your head back at the new pressure, your mouth dropping open. “That’s okay, baby. I know I’m… know I’m fuckin’ you dumb.”

“Come with me,” you whimper, scratching at his shoulders. It’s all you need– all you’ve been able to think about for minutes now.

Gator’s head droops, and he hisses out, “Fuck.”

“Please,” you whisper– the first time you’ve said it all night. “Need it. Need– you.”

Gator kisses you hard, halting your words like he wants to seal them into permanence. His pace increases until you’re panting into each other’s mouths, and the warmth in your core is growing and growing, and you’re spiralling toward your peak–

You throw your head back and cry out his name as your second orgasm hits you, and it’s only seconds before Gator follows after you, spitting out curses with an intensity to match how he’s pounding into you. 

He works you through it, your heart beating in your throat, your bodies getting closer and closer with every slowing thrust. Eventually, you’re chest to chest, Gator’s bare skin pressed to yours, his weight an intoxicating blanket that does nothing to ease your exhaustion. 

Your fingers slowly release their vice grip on the skin of his back, your hands sliding up hesitantly to tangle in his hair. Gator lets out a defeated little noise into your neck as you scratch at his scalp. 

For a single, deluded second, you feel like you want to stay there forever. You know this has to end– know Gator’s bound to pull away any moment now, to toss you some shitty comment about not getting attached, shuck his clothes on, and walk back out of your heart with one more thing to hold over you forever. It’s a problem of yours– you’ve always hoped for more from him. For better. And even if you know this meant nothing, if you’re trying to cement that knowledge into stone in your head, a tiny, insane part of you wouldn’t be upset if maybe he cared, too. 

Which is why, when he finally does move, it surprises you more than anything tonight. 

Gator pulls out carefully and shifts his weight so he’s not crushing you, but his hands don’t relinquish their grip on your body. Instead, they slide slowly over it, spanning your ribs, holding you delicately. And then his mouth lowers, and he presses a soft kiss to your sternum. 

Your breath feels caught in your throat as he begins to place a line of careful kisses down your abdomen, his fingers brushing at your ribs and your waist. He’s touching you reverently, haltingly, like he’s mapping the expanse of your skin, worshipping the warmth of your form. It’s not sexual, and that’s perhaps what shocks you the most. It’s diligent. Curious. Purposeful.

He mumbles something against your stomach that you can’t make out.

“Gator,” you make out, your voice hoarse.

He moves back over you again, finding your face. Drops another kiss to your throat, your jaw, and then your cheek. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He stares down at you, his eyes half-lidded. “Treatin’ you good.” You fight the urge to correct his grammar and focus on the words– the simplicity of them. “Why?”

Gator doesn’t blink. “‘Cause I never said I hated you.”

You reach down and grip his forearms, feeling the corded muscle there. You roll your eyes. “Come on. Be serious.”

“I am,” he insists, voice low. 

The statement drags a scoff from your throat, and you push at his arms to tell him to get off. 

“I am,” he repeats, shifting so you can slide out from beneath him. He remains on your bed, watching as you get unsteadily to your feet and walk across the room to get your robe. 

“This isn’t real, Gator,” you argue, but whether you’re convincing yourself or him is lost on you. “You don’t mean any of this. You’re just… high on sex, or something.”

“I know what the hell I'm talkin’ about,” he snaps. “You’re tryna’ tell me that wasn’t fuckin’ incredible?”

You clench your jaw, finishing off your robe tie harshly. “I’m telling you I’m not gonna fall for this, and neither should you.”

“What’s there to fall for?” he challenges, watching as you scoop his pants off the floor and toss them onto the bed for him. “I’m bein’ serious. Let me take you out tomorrow. We’ll get dinner.”

You huff. “No.”

“Lunch.”

“Gator—“

“Coffee,” he proposes. “Come on, baby. You know you want to.”

“I’m not playing this game with you,” you cut him off. “We’re not together, Gator. We fucked. That’s it. This was a one-time thing.”

“I like you,” he says baldly, rising off the bed to start dressing. “And I know you like me, doll. Don’t see what sense there is fightin’ it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, heaving a breath. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start thinking you mean it,” you say in challenge.

Gator buttons his jeans and puts his hands on his hips. “Good. Something’s gotta get it through your thick head.”

“Nothing good happens when I let myself believe a word out of your mouth,” you return mildly, not rising to the bait. “Last time I was stupid enough to fall for you, all I got was humiliated and hurt. I won’t do that again.”

“Who says it won’t work out different this time?” he proposes.

“I say it won’t,” you tell him flatly.

He waves a hand. “You’re a cynic. I want a second opinion."

You hold back the aggravation in your tone and say firmly, “I don’t want to date you, Gator. You’d be horrible for me.”

“How do you know?” he fires back. “I’ve never been your boyfriend before.”

“I know because—” you sigh, frustrated. “You just are what you are, Gator. I can’t fix that. You’re always gonna be the guy that put gum in my hair in middle school and crashed my first date.”

He arches a brow. “I’ll also always be the guy that beat up Brian Murphy in senior year ‘cause he called you ugly.”

You flush a little at the memory— the embarrassment. The way Gator had looked as he sat outside the principal’s office, scowling at you like it was your fault he had a bloody lip. You guessed it sort of was.

Gators eyes narrow at your expression. “So what, I just can’t ever grow?”

“You can,” you correct him, tossing him his shirt, “But you won’t.”

“Three years ago, I wouldnt’ve fucked ‘ya like I just did,” he informs you, pointing to your rumpled bed. “That’s fuckin’ growth, sweetheart.”

You fight to keep your tone even. “One orgasm doesn’t just change a person like that. You’re still who you were when you walked into this house. I’m still me.”

“Yeah, and we fit pretty good, don’t we?” he drawls.

“You don’t like me.” You brace your hands on your back, determined to get this point across. “You want to… conquer me.”

Gator walks toward you evenly, sizing you up. He doesn’t stop until he’s towering over you again. “Maybe I like that I can’t.”

“And when you finally do?” you challenge, emotion working its way into your flat tone. “When I finally fall for you again? What are you gonna do when the chase isn’t interesting to you anymore?”

“Then we’ll get a little kinkier in bed,” he offers dryly, lifting a hand to brush a knuckle over your cheek.

The touch stills you for a moment, but it doesn’t quell your aggravation. “Stop it,” you roll your eyes, batting his hand away. “You suck, Gator. Just get out of here and we can pretend this never happened.”

You turn away, but Gator doesn’t let you get far. Gripping your arm, he turns you back toward him and hauls your face to his, locking you in another deep, pressing kiss.

You can’t help it— you’re only so strong. You forget your fight and sink into it, relishing the feeling of his tongue sweeping your mouth— the feeling you can't help but stupidly hope you’ll feel again.

When Gator pulls back, your expression must betray you, because he smirks. “You tell me you didn’t feel anything just then, and I'll let you go.”

“I—“ You fumble for words, shaking your head as you stare up at him.

“Go ahead,” Gator goads you, nodding his head to you. “Say it.”

You wrench your arm out of his grip and glare at him, wishing you had the faculty to just get it over with and lie. “Just because something feels good doesn’t mean it’s right,” you spit. “It’s not a reason to throw yourself into something blindly.”

“It’s the only reason,” he scoffs. “And you’d see that if you weren’t so fuckin’ scared.”

“I’m not–”

“It's alright, baby,” he interrupts you, lifting his hand to your mouth again, brushing at the corner. “I get it. You’re scared I’m gonna make you feel too good, right? Scared to let yourself have what you really want for once?”

You step back, wishing your chin wasn’t trembling as you answer him. “I’m scared you’ll end up just like your daddy, and I’ll be too obsessed with you to see it.”

Gator’s face shifts slightly– hardens. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“How do you know?” you press him. 

“‘Cause I’m not my daddy,” he says firmly, his voice lowering like he can’t bear for anyone else to hear it. “And you’re not like my mom.”

You still. Gator never talks about his mom. He hasn’t once brought her up in the time you’ve known him. But you’ve heard the whispers– everyone in town has. Linda Tillman, who ran off and left her boy– Linda Tillman, who Roy beat on till she just couldn’t take it anymore. Linda Tillman, who was the one and only person Gator might have loved more than his father.

She’s a cautionary tale in the back of your head– a lesson about what happens to women who fall for men like that. But, for all his faults, do you really believe Gator is one of those men? Do you believe there’s a chance in him to care more about something than proving himself– to care about you, in that stupid, deluded way you’d always secretly wished he would?

Gator must see the deliberation in your face, the desperate, feeble hope in you, because his lips soften, turn somehow sweeter as he stares back at you, not waiting for an answer. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he explains to you quietly, stepping forward and reaching up to cup your face. This time, you don’t stop him. “I’m gonna take you out. We’re gonna put our weapons down and talk. Really talk, alright? I’ll tell ‘ya whatever the fuck you wanna know. And you can keep bitchin’ about how stupid you think all this is for as long as you want.”

Your lips move to disagree, but he shushes you. 

“And I’m gonna convince you,” he promises. “I’m gonna win you over. Hold out for as long as you want to, doll. I’ll get through to ‘ya eventually.”

“Gator–” you start, but he silences you with another kiss, deep and consuming. 

He doesn’t pull back far. He’s only millimeters from your face when he whispers, “Just lemme take you out, okay?” Let me show you how good I can be to ‘ya.”

You make a noise of disagreement, your eyes shut as you take in the sensation of him– always so abrasive, so difficult to swallow. Gator Tillman has never had any difficulty commanding the entirety of your attention.

“You want me to get on my knees for you, doll?” he offers, his smile spreading as your resistance gives way under his hands and lips. “‘Ya liked that before.”

You can’t help it– you huff a laugh against his lips, and Gator grins. “There she is.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you inform him, allowing your hands to come to rest on his bare chest, still blazing with heat. 

Gator kisses you again, his smile searing against you. “Yes?” he surmises, though you’re certain by now he’s already torn the answers from your hands, already seen through your unwillingness and plunged through to the part of you that wants him with a desperation. 

So you stare into Gator’s hard, dark eyes, softened in pursuit of you, and tell him, “Fine.”

What you could really use now is a little quality time with your boyfriend, who’s seemed intent on ignoring you while his attention is commanded by running errands or finishing projects or whatever else has kept him from you for the entirety of his Saturday. The part of you that isn’t sulking petulantly is aware that he’s not doing it on purpose, but that does nothing to stifle your annoyance or your itch to spend a few hours tucked in his arms tonight. You can’t help it– you always need him close.

Rubbing the remnants of your fragrant lotion into your hands, you stroll out of the bathroom intent on wrangling him for yourself for the rest of the evening. 

You find Gator in the bedroom, a cap turned backwards on his head, the earbuds in his ears making him practically deaf as he gets ready for bed.

You sneak up behind him and wrap your arms around his waist, and he startles before realizing it’s you. He’s still immersed in his music or his thoughts or whatever task he was doing outside— probably working on the truck, if the faint scent of engine oil is any indication. You don’t really mind the quiet, though– just him being gone for so long. Gator’s always been a man of few words once his pretenses are down.

You prop your chin on his shoulder and reach up to pull out of one of his earbuds. He doesn’t object. 

“I’m making tea,” you inform him, your other hand smoothing flat over his abdomen. “You want some?”

He snorts. “You ever seen me drink a fuckin’ cup of tea?”

You huff a laugh. “You’re such a man. I’ll be right back.”

“Don’t take long,” he calls after you as you retreat to the kitchen, still not glancing up.

The annoyance you feel at his preoccupation is lessened by his request you come spend time with him. He’s usually needy at the end of the night, especially once he realizes you’ve spent the day largely apart. 

When you return to the bedroom with two mugs of tea in your hands despite his request, Gator’s reclined on the bed over the covers, one hand propped behind his head while the other scrolls aimlessly on his phone.

He notices the two cups you’re carrying and groans softly in complaint. “I told you I didn’t want any ‘a that shit.”

“It’s chamomile,” you inform him. “It’s calming. And you’ve been sleeping like crap lately— it’s keeping me up.”

“It tastes like grass,” he gripes as you set both mugs down on the nightstand on his side of the bed, knowing you’ll probably end up cuddled up next to him anyway.

“I put honey and lemon in it, you baby,” you counter, fully aware that for all his bitching, he’ll give in and drink it no matter what he says. You made it for him, and so he’ll take it. That’s just how things work between the two of you.

Gator lays his phone flat on his chest, staring up at you as though just now noticing how you look. His eyes track up and down your figure, combing over the white pajama set. Before you can retreat from his side, he reaches a hand up and pulls slightly at your top, skimming his fingers underneath the hem to examine the fabric. “You look cute tonight.”

You roll your eyes. “We’re not having sex right now.”

“I didn’t ask,” Gator defends himself mildly, his hand smoothing down your body to touch the fabric of the shorts covering your upper thigh.

“You were thinking it,” you snort. “I just washed my hair. I don’t want to get sweaty again.”

“I wasn’t thinkin’ it,” he drawls, his hand sliding to your waist before tugging at you, pulling you closer till your legs bump against the bed. . 

“Mm-hm,” you intone, raising a brow at him. 

“Gimme some credit,” he complains. “Just wanna love on my woman at the end ‘a the night. Is that so bad?”

A smile spreads across your face as you turn pliant under his hands. “Maybe you wouldn’t be so clingy if you paid more attention to me during the day.”

Gator grabs your waist suddenly and yanks you down on top of him, and you yelp, your hands bracing yourself against his chest. 

“I pay plenty of attention to you,” he protests gruffly. “You’re just a drama queen.”

You shoot him an unimpressed look. “Oh, and you’re so mature?”

Gator’s fighting a smile– one of your favorite expressions on him. It cracks the tough-guy facade completely, that humor, and there are few people you know who can bring it out of him. “Yeah, that’s right,” he teases you. 

You stare down at him with lowered lashes, your lips curving into a smile. “And who was it that got pissed off last week because he didn’t realize I picked up a shift, even though I told him the night before and gave him plenty of time to come say goodbye?”

“That was your damn fault,” he argues, though the sting has faded from the fight since he got over his frustration at spending an entire day without, mostly because of the supplemental few hours of makeup sex the next morning. 

“You wanna see me more, you better start letting me know you’re thinkin’ about me, Alligator,” you hum, tracing a finger along his pec mischievously. “You’re too preoccupied. I like it when you notice me.”

“If I think any more about you during the day, I’m gonna be jobless and broke,” he informs you dryly. “I’m already thinkin’ about you every minute. You’ve got me fuckin’ obsessed.”

“Creep,” you hum as his hands start smoothing up your waist.

“Your fault,” he murmurs, head dipping to kiss sweetly at your neck. “You’re like a witch, or somethin’. Got me under some kinda spell.”

You giggle as he nuzzles at the ticklish spot on your pulse point, your fingers carding through the loose hair at the back of his head. 

You feel a frown pull at Gator’s lips. “Why do you smell so good tonight?”

You fight not to roll your eyes again. “Rude. I always smell good.”

You hear him take in a deep breath, his nose tucked beneath your jaw. “It’s different,” he insists. “Like… I don’t know. Some flower bullshit.”

You laugh and push back, rolling off of him and onto your side of the bed. “‘Cause I just spent an hour making myself all clean and pretty for the week. I had an everything shower.”

“That’s what took you so long?” he demands, turning onto his side to chase you. It’s dimly amusing to you that he remembered the time you explained to him what an everything shower was– even if he scoffed and griped about how stupid it was at the time. “Why the hell are you doing all that bullshit?”

“Because it makes me smell nice and look cute,” you tell him flatly, propping your head up on your hand. “And it feels good. I like being all freshened up.”

“Well, I don’t know what the hell that means,” Gator grumbles, one of his hands travelling down from your waist to your thigh. “I just know I’m tired and you look pretty and I wanna hold ‘ya. Get over here.”

“You gonna ask me nicely?” you challenge, your smile splitting into a grin as his hand keeps wandering. 

“Wasn’t plannin’ on it,” he admits, eyes dancing. His hand slides down your thigh, then halts all movement. 

Gator’s frowns, tearing his eyes away from your face to study your leg where it sits beneath his fingers. “What the hell did you do?”

Your brows knit. “What?”

Gator sits up, smoothing his hand over your thigh, then back up. “Your leg. It’s, like, slippery, or some shit.”

You laugh incredulously. “What are you talking about?”

“Here–” Gator starts, wrapping his hands around both of your legs and dragging you toward him, spinning you around on the bed so your feet end up by the pillows. “Lemme see.”

You make a noise of aggravation at being tossed around, but you can’t deny the little thrill it sends through you when he manhandles you like this. And Gator’s face has drawn an amusingly skeptical kind of focus as he grabs your leg toward him and runs his hands up over your calves, feeling the softness of the skin. 

“Gator–”

“What’d you do?” he repeats, utterly fascinated by the lack of resistance under his calloused palm. 

“I shaved my legs, if that’s what you’re talking about,” you return dryly. 

“Why’d you do that?” he challenges, raising a brow at you. 

You roll your eyes as he keeps at his careful examination. “I just wanted to throw off your routine, Gator.”

“Shit is crazy,” he marvels, the judgement not entirely out of his tone as he lifts your leg toward his face, his fingers smoothing over your shin. 

You can’t help but laugh as you inform him, “I have shaved my legs before, Gate.”

“Not while we’ve been together,” he huffs skeptically.

“Yes I have, dummy,” you retort. “I exfoliated today— that’s all. I shave all the time.” Sure, you’re normally too lazy to care about your leg hair growing in in the winter, but you usually keep it pretty maintained. It doesn’t hurt that body hair is something Gator wouldn’t ever think to care about— something his dad probably told him he should hate once, but that he couldn’t give two shits about once he actually ran into a woman.

“No, you don’t,” Gator argues. “I woulda noticed before.”

“Yeah, right,” you snort. “You don’t notice shit. You thought my magenta nail polish was lavender.” 

He frowns. “Those were the same damn color.”

“Is this really that fascinating to you?” you drawl. 

“You bet your ass it is. You feel like a fuckin’ dolphin,” Gator gripes, and you swat his arm.

“Just relax!” you return, drawing yourself out of his grip. “It’ll grow back in a few days if you really care that much.”

“I never said I didn’t like it,” he corrects you, eyes fixed on your legs. “S’just weird. Come back over here. Lemme feel you.”

You grin wickedly and inch backward, out of arm’s reach from him. “No, you had your look. Now I just want to drink my tea in peace.”

“You better get back here, mama,” he threatens you mildly, humor in his eyes as he advances on you.

You shake your head in challenge, mischief dancing through you as you ease away from him. But before you can get far, Gator’s hand clamps around your ankle, and he yanks you back toward him once more with a triumphant, “Gotcha.”

You let out a little eep as you’re raked back over the bed, and then Gator’s hovering over you, a dopey grin on his face. “Gimme a kiss.”

You shake your head, fighting your laughter. “You think I feel weird. I don’t think I wanna kiss you.”

“Now, come on, you know I didn’t mean that,” he grumbles, his head dipping to capture your lips. 

You turn your face to dodge the kiss. “How would I know that?” you challenge, smiling smugly despite yourself. “I spend an hour of my time getting all pretty, and you just want to complain.”

“You’re already pretty,” Gator groans against your cheek. “You don’t need to get any prettier. You get any prettier, I’m gonna be in real fuckin’ trouble.”

“See, look at that,” you coo, running your fingers through his hair. “You can be nice when you really try.”

He grunts. “You gonna kiss me now?”

“You really are clingy,” you huff lightly, then turn your face back to smile up at him. “Hi.”

“Hey,” he says back, already smirking. His face lowers to yours, but you halt him again with a finger pressed up against his lips, and he groans. 

“Gator,” you start, “First we’ve gotta do some of that ‘communicating’ stuff.”

He groans again, his head dropping to your shoulder so some of his hair tickles your cheek. “I fuckin’ hate communicating.”

“I know,” you say comfortingly, one of your hands scratching at his head. “But you have to. You wanna keep me, don’t you?”

He lets out an “Mm-hm,” that sounds a little reluctant for your taste, but you let it go. 

“If you want me to kiss you and look pretty for you and have sex with you and listen to your opinions about my leg hair,” you go on, speaking gently but firmly into his ear, “Then you have to start noticing me a little more. Not just when you have a spare minute. Not once you’re done working on the truck. You’ve gotta remember I exist every now and again, Gate.”

“I do,” he insists in a grumble. “I’m just busy. Doesn’t mean I’m not thinkin’ about you.”

“But I wouldn’t know it,” you argue. “I need you to understand that part of being my boyfriend is that you get me all the time. Not just when you’re ready or when it’s convenient.”

Gator lifts his head and opens his mouth to speak again, but you shush him. 

“I’m not going back to how I felt about our situationship, Gator,” you tell him sternly. “That means you’ve gotta give me a little more effort. You’ve gotta notice me. Alright?”

Gator has that look on his face that’s always reminded you of a little kid that just got told to go clean his room. You disguise your amusement at that fact and stare him down. 

“How ‘come anytime I just wanna kiss you, I wind up with another fuckin’ lecture?” he asks you ironically. “I was just tryna’ pet you, woman.”

“I’m not a dog,” you reply flatly.

“Nah, you smell too nice,” he intones, the arm that’s not holding him over you sliding down your waist a bit. “And all your fuckin’ hair’s gone.” You roll your eyes and loose an aggravated sound. “Do you really hate it that much, you caveman?”

Gator laughs a little, the sound raspy from all those years he spent hooked on inhalables before you nearly forced him at gunpoint to quit. “You’re gonna slip right outta my hands.”

“Maybe that’s why I like it,” you return. “I’m harder for you to catch.”

“I already caught ‘ya,” he determines mildly. “No sense complainin’ about it now.”

“Gator,” you cut in again. “Did you hear me back there?”

He heaves a sigh, though you can tell he’s not really that frustrated. He never really is when you’re underneath him. “I heard ‘ya, I heard ‘ya. We’re not goin’ back to that situationship horseshit you were talkin’ about.”

“So?” you prod him, raising your brows as you lead a horse to water. “What are we gonna do differently?”

Gator huffs. “I’m gonna pay attention.”

“Even when you’re busy,” you clarify.

“Even when I’m busy,” he promises, the sarcasm not entirely gone from his tone. “And you’re gonna tell me when you decide to go all smooth on me again.”

You let out a sigh. “Fine, Gator. I’ll never shave my legs again. Happy?”

“I never said that,” he corrects you, and you finally allow his head to lower again, let him press gentle kisses to your collar. “I like it. You’re… soft.”

The way he says it, the gentle caress of the word, almost makes you shiver. “You actually like it?”

“Mm,” he agrees, working his kisses up your neck. “Want me to show you how much I like it?”

Despite yourself, a grin is pulling at your lips again. “You’ve got selective hearing, Alligator. I said not tonight.”

He finally makes his way to your lips, and the kiss he presses there is so perfectly sweet you can’t help but smile into it. “I heard you,” he says when he pulls back, peppering his mouth against your face. “Just thought you might change your mind after all that good comunicatin’ I was doin’.”

You blurt out a laugh, and you feel Gator’s lips curve against your jaw. “You know, when I shave my legs like this, I like to rub ‘em together like a cricket. It feels cool.”

“You’re so fuckin’ weird,” he mumbles against you, and you laugh again. 

“Here, you feel,” you insist, and slide your calf along Gator’s to show him what you mean.

Gator pulls back from kissing you, raising a brow. “Hold on– do that again. Feels crazy.”

“See, I told you!” You smile triumphantly, skimming your leg against his. 

Gator reaches his free hand down and wraps it around your thigh, hitching it up to accommodate the press of his body between your legs. “So…” he starts, a wicked smile back on his face as his hand slips up your leg and beneath the hem of your shorts. “How far up did you say this ‘smooth’ thing goes?”

“Gator–”

“I’m just askin’!”

His hands have already settled on your ample hips, lips kissing on your shoulders, pulling at your sundress straps with his teeth. 

"There. Just needed a woman's touch." You move your hand to cradle his neck as he's kissing and grabbing at you. 

"Yeah, well ain't the only thing that needs a woman's touch." He mutters against your skin.

He’d glare at you if you called it whining, but the truth hurt.

"Is that so?" You chuckle as he's pulling you into him more.

"Been thinking about these fuckin' tits all day..." He says breathlessly, as he pulls down the top of your sundress, hands already pawing at your bra. 

You let out a laugh, shaking your head as he kisses up your neck to your cheek. "Tough day?" 

"Roy had me doin’ a whole buncha bullshit." He groans out as he finally gets your bra unsnapped, massaging your breasts roughly. "But now I'm home. And I need you."

"So demanding, Deputy Tillman." You tease as you press your chest into his hands, letting him do what he pleases. "You got a warrant for this very hands-on search you're doing?" 

"Yer my wife. I don't need a warrant." His tongue is lapping at one of your nipples now, swirling around it before taking it into his hot mouth. "Damn marriage certificates my fuckin' warrant." 

Your head falls back against the wall he's pushed you up against, a soft sigh leaving your lips.

The streaks of golden hour light play along the skin of your breasts as he has his way with them. It was always the first part of you he went for, big, soft, and perfect for him.

"Lemme just get a quick taste... then I gotta take a piss." He mutters, moving to your other breast.

You laugh breathlessly. "Don't let me stop you." Your hands find home in his slicked back hair, keeping him flush against you as he worships your chest.

Once he's finally has his fill (for now), he looks at your face, then a little confused smirk graces his face. 

His thumb comes up to wipe something off your cheek, before bringing it to his lips. 

"Cherry pie, huh?" He says with a smile, licking the bit of filling from his thumb. "Tastes real good, mama."

You shrug with a smile. "Just for you, baby. Now go pee, I'll put these away." You say, gesturing to your breasts and adjusting your bra and dress.

"Like hell ya will." He barks a laugh as he heads down the hallway to the bathroom. "Get yer fuckin' ass upstairs to the bedroom and I'm gonna come up in a minute for a real cherry pie."

You didn't have to be told twice.

By the time you heard the bathroom door open and heavy footsteps starting on the staircase two at a time, you had already taken off your sundress, bra, and panties, and had gotten comfortable on the bed, laying on your side.

Gator stood in the doorway for a minute, looking at you. "Ya look like those nudie paintings we saw when you dragged me to that artsy museum in the city." 

"For the million time, they're Rubenesque paintings from the Baroque period. And thank you." You say with a smile. "Now are you gonna come here and show me how much you missed me?"

He's taking his uniform shirt off, followed by his cargos and boxers, so he's fully naked as he slides in the bed with you. 

"Well someone's wasting no time." You laugh as he pulls you close and latches on to your tits again. "Must have really had a bad day, usually you like me unwrapping you." 

"Woulda had you bent over the kitchen counter, but I didn't wanna get yer pie crust messy." He says, muffled by your breasts.

You giggle. "Such a romantic."

"Ya make dinner? Should we eat first? Don't want it goin' cold." He whispers as his lips spoil your nipples. 

"Pulled pork is in the crock pot. Got another hour left I believe." You say, running your hands down his back. "We have plenty of time for a quick appetizer."

His large hands start to move from your breasts, down your stomach, then moving to the front of your legs, making you shudder as he lightly runs them over the tops of your thighs, then slowly to your inner thigh, and finally, to your dripping core.

"Ain't gonna be quick. Yer gonna let me in this warm little gash while you scratch my head the way I like." 

"You are so poetic." You whisper, as one of his fingers starts to rub your clit lightly.

"Just call me pretty and lemme get my cock all warmed up." He nips at your neck as he moves a finger inside you.

It took a lot for him to accept when you'd call him pretty, but in the privacy of your shared bedroom, he let you take care of him in ways no one had to know about outside the walls of your home. 

"Okay, honey." You whisper, letting your legs fall open more for him.

He works you for a minute, using two of his long fingers, feeling your walls, listening to the wet sounds of your arousal.

"Fuckin' drippin' thing. Always soaked for her man." He mumbles in your ear.

You moan softly at the praise, your body arching into his touch as he hits that spot inside you.

"You want it, mama? Want my cock in this pretty little thing?" He groans, his own hips starting to rut against your thigh, feeling how hard he was.

"Think you need it even more than I do." 

The low growl that leaves his lips is more than enough evidence of that. 

"Yeah? You got a problem with that?" He says mockingly, but the slight vulnerability in his eyes betrays him.

"Never." You say breathlessly, your fingers still carding through his hair. "You work so hard. Let me take care of you, pretty boy."

"Fuckin' right." He mumbles, lining himself up with your entrance. "Gonna fuckin' stuff this needy girl." He grunts as he pushes inside. 

You let out a soft moan at the feeling of him stretching you, filling you completely as he hooks your thigh over his hip. You’d never get over the way he fucked you.

"Atta girl. She's always takin' this cock so good." He grunts, keeping you absolutely stuffed with him. 

The feeling of him inside you is intoxicating, the stretch, the fullness, the way he fits so perfectly against you.

One of his hands moves from your hip to your breasts, playing with them again as you warm his cock. 

This was the best way you two have found to calm him down after work. Make him feel taken care of, while not stripping him of the masculinity he clung to like a lifeline.

Let him use your body, be in complete control, but you were the one calling him pretty, letting him have you like this.

"Pussy feels so fuckin' good. She missed me."

"Mhm." You moan softly. "Wet all day thinkin' about you."

"Yeah?" He grunts, hands squeezing and teasing your breasts more needily. "She was thinkin' about me comin' home, warmin' up in her? Lettin' me get a taste ‘fore dinner?"

He liked talking about your pussy in the third person. Like it was his to own. A pretty, wet thing he got to come home to forever

"She knows who she belongs to." You say softly, pressing back against him.

"Thats right." He says, nipple in his mouth again, suckling on it gently. "Knows exactly who her man is. This fuckin' cock is all hers." He's rolling his hips a bit now, but he's not really fucking you, not yet.

This was your game. Let him get comfortable inside you, let him warm up in your heat while he has his fill of your body. 

"Let me see these." He moves you so your back is now on the bed, still inside you. "Goddamn, I love these." He moves over you, grabbing both of them, and starts to bounce them in his hands, watching them move.

You bite your lip to keep from laughing, watching your husband become hypnotized by your chest.

"Laughin' at me bouncin' em? Huh?" He says, looking at you with a smirk, continuing to make them jiggle in his palms.

"No." You lie. "Just watchin' you have some fun."

He rolls his eyes. "You're lucky you're so fuckin' pretty." He says, leaning down to kiss you, a messy kiss that's all him. The kind of kiss you've come to define as needy. 

"Now, fuckin' look at how my cock makes these big fuckin' titties bounce." He says as he finally moves fully on top of you and starts to fuck you in earnest, his hips snapping against yours, watching your body move with each thrust.

You couldn't help but let out a gasp at the sudden change, the way he was hitting you deep and hard.

"Yeah, just for me." He says, grabbing one of your hands and putting it on your breast. "You feel that? How much they're movin'? That's all my cock, baby."

And god, he wasn't wrong.

"God, I love fuckin' you like this.." He grunts, his pace picking up. "Such a good wife. Lettin' me get all this stress out. Takin' what I need."

His words were a mangled mix of praise and filth, just how you liked it. Deep down, the truth was that you were equals, but sometimes he still needed to be the big, strong provider, the protector. The winner. The big man in charge. You were happy to let him have that.

"Jerked off in the cruiser at lunch." He admits. "So I could last longer for you."

A small, triumphant smile plays on your lips as you tease. "That's what our county's tax dollars are going to?" 

"Shut up." He says, without any heat. "You know my cock ain't ever gonna be able to go a whole day without least thinkin' about this. 'Specially when you wear those little sundresses around the house. Practically beggin' for it, givin' me easy access like that."

You moan as he changes his angle, hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your toes curl.

"Yeah, she's gonna let me give her a nice, big, messy creampie ‘fore dinner. Get all my stress out and pump ‘er full. How 'bout that?"

"Gator!" You say, a surprised giggle, partly a moan. "You're so gross sometimes."

"You fuckin' love it." He says, grabbing your legs and wrapping them around his waist, pulling you even closer. "And you're gonna take it all."

He was right.

You did love it. 

He stopped his thrusts, rolling you to your sides again, going back to keeping his length warm. 

"Oh so it's gonna be this kind of night, huh?" You murmur as you kiss him. "All about takin' your sweet, sweet, time."

"Gonna be hard to do mucha this for a bit. Roy's got me on patrol the rest of the week. And then I gotta help with some bullshit at the ranch." He complains, burying his face in your neck. "Can't escape when your dad's also your fuckin' boss."

"Need to escape in my pussy for a while?" You whisper back, moving your hips slowly, grinding against him.

"Don't have me cummin' early, woman. Not yet. Wanna keep bein' in here." He whines.

You nod, letting him keep you still. "Okay, okay. Just let me keep you warm. As long as you want."

"Damn right." He mutters, holding you close. "Gonna make me forget about all the idiots I had to deal with today."

The crock pot could wait. The world could wait. All that mattered right now was the weight of your husband's body on yours, the feel of him inside you, and the quiet contentment that settled over you both.

"Ya still gonna let me fuck ya like this when yer all round with my baby?" He asks, the question coming out of nowhere, but somehow not surprising you. "Even let me play with these? When they're full’a milk?"

He's had this fantasy for a while now. Seeing the evidence that you were truly his. Having everyone in town know he fucked you raw.

"Gonna be even bigger then." You say with a smile, running your hands down his back. "And you're gonna be the one who put a baby in me. You're gonna be the one who made them all big and sore. It'll be your job to make them feel better." You teased.

A shiver runs through him, and he starts to move again, a slow, deliberate pace.

"Don't start talkin' like that unless you want me to get ya pregnant tonight." He warns, his voice a low growl.

"Well I'm still on the pill, so only in your wildest dreams, mister." You tease, but the thought of it, of him filling you up and having it actually take, sends a jolt of something through you.

"Mmm, guess we gotta stick to playin' mommy and daddy then." He says, moving faster now, the urgency from earlier returning with a vengeance. "Gotta make sure this body's ready for when we really try. Keep her practicin'."

You can only moan in response, the feeling of him moving inside you, the dirty talk, the thought of him being a dad, it was all too much.

"Ya love keepin' yer man happy?" He says after he rolls you on top of him, eyes on where you're connected as you start to ride him.

"Love it." You say, putting your hands on his chest for leverage as you move. "Love taking care of you."

"Yeah, takin' this cock... ridin' me like a good girl... lettin' me have this fat fuckin' ass whenever I want." He lands a hard slap on your ass, making you yelp and clench around him.

"Oh she loves that, clenchin' round me... ya dirty little thing." He smirks, sitting up to latch on to a bouncing nipple again.

"God, Gator..." You moan, your head falling back as he sucks and nibbles on your sensitive flesh.

His greedy hands are grabbing at your ass now, guiding your movements, pulling you down harder onto him with each roll of your hips.

"This is your fuckin' seat." He says, releasing your breast with a wet pop. "Ya hear me? This is where you belong. Right 'ere. On my cock. Makin' me feel good."

"Watch it go in ‘n out." He commands, his hands still on your ass, spreading you open. "Look at my dick disappearin’ in that greedy little cunt."

You do as he says, looking down at where you're joined, watching him disappear into you over and over. It's an obscene, beautiful sight.

"Look at that, drenchin' my cock. Creamin' all over me."

Your face flushes, but you can't deny it. You can feel how wet you are, hear it, see the evidence of your arousal coating the hair at the base of his length.

"You like watchin' it too, don't ya? Like seeing how much I turn you on?" He says, a smug look on his face.

"Fuck you." You laugh, but the breathless quality of your voice gives you away.

"Oh, I'm fuckin' ya, alright." He says, flipping you over so you're on your back again, your legs spread wide for him as he drives into you with force. "Messy little bitch in heat for her husband's cock."

He's pounding into you now, the headboard hitting the wall with each thrust. The sounds filling the room are a mix of your moans, his grunts, and the wet, slapping sounds of your bodies coming together.

"And I'm just a greedy bastard fer ya." His voice is strained as he moves faster, chasing his release. "Greedy for this pussy. Greedy for these tits. Greedy for you." He's got one of your legs thrown over his shoulder now, opening you up to him completely.

"Gonna fill you up... get you all messy with my cum..." He's muttering, his face buried in your neck. "Let it drip outta ya all night... get the sheets all dirty... my fuckin' girl." 

You whine his name as he spits filth. 

"Oh, that's it, mama. Whinin' and beggin’ for a big load in this warm little hole." 

It's degrading, but it's your favorite degradation, and it sends you over the edge, your body tightening around him as your orgasm washes over you.

"Oh, sweet fuckin' Jesus." He groans. "She's just beggin' for a baby in her, huh?"

The words send another thrill through you, and you feel your second consecutive orgasm building. "Gator..." you whimper.

"Look at me." He commands, pulling back to look at your face. "Look at me while I breed ya."

His eyes are dark, intense, locked onto yours as he continues to fuck you through your release.

"You want my baby in ‘ere? Don't you? Don't you?"

You're nodding, tears of pleasure pricking at the corners of your eyes. "Yeah, I do... I do..."

"So good at your wifely duties. Taking what I give ya. Gonna pump this little cunt so full of me you'll be drippin' through dinner." He's pistoning into you now, chasing his own end.

"Shit, shit, I'm gonna..." He grunts, burying himself deep, his body tensing as he empties himself inside you.

The feeling of him pulsing inside you, the warmth of his release, it's enough to send you over the edge again, a final, shuddering orgasm wracking your body as he fills you up.

"Oh fuck yeah..." He murmurs. "Milked my fuckin' cock dry."

He collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress as he catches his breath. You run your fingers through his hair, feeling the sweat on his brow.

"Good?" You ask, a small smile playing on your lips.

"Good?" He snorts. "Felt like I died and went to heaven for a minute." He kisses your shoulder. "Ya always know how to take care of me."

"You're easy to take care of." You tease. "Just give you some food and sex and you're a happy camper."

"Callin' me easy? I'll have you know, I'm a complex man with specific needs." He says, though there's no bite to it.

"Is that so? And what are these specific needs?" You ask, playing along.

"Well, for starters," he says, propping himself up on his elbows. "I need these big titties available f’me whenever I want ‘em. And I need this pretty little pussy to be warm and wet f’me when I get home. And I need my belly full so I have the energy to fuck my wife senseless."

You laugh. "Well, Deputy Tillman, I can certainly accommodate those 'complex' needs. Especially the last one."

"Yeah, yeah." He says, leaning down to kiss you. "Love you, ya know. Even when I'm calling ya mean shit in bed." 

You know part of him feels guilty, even though you both enjoy this side of your sex life. The side that lets him be rough, dominant, and just a little cruel. The side that lets him feel like he's in charge.

"I know, honey." You say, kissing him back. "I love you too, even when you're being a caveman."

"Hey, cavemen knew how to provide fer their women." He says, a proud smirk on his face.

He slowly pulls out of you, and you can't help but wince a little at the empty feeling, the sudden rush of wetness as his release starts to trickle out.

"Fuckin' look at that..." He says, with a low whistle, spreading your legs and watching as a mix of your fluids and his cum drips out of you. "Leakin' all over the damn place, mama."

You roll your eyes. "Well, someone was determined to 'breed' me."

"Don't start, woman." He says, though he's smiling. "You know I'm just talkin' shit. I know you wanna give it a few years, travel ‘n all that shit ya always talk ‘bout."

"I just wanna live with you a little bit more before we start changin' diapers." You say, reaching for him.

He helps pull you upright, and you make a face as you feel more of his cum slide out of you.

"Better go clean up." He says, smacking your ass. "Don't want you gettin' a UTI or some shit. Then I won't be able to fuck ya for a week."

"Look at him, learning." You tease as you get up, heading for the bathroom. That had indeed happened when you first got together, and you’d never seen him pout more than that one week.

You're in the middle of cleaning up when he follows you in, leaning against the doorframe.

"What's the matter? Can't be away from me for five minutes?" You ask, catching his eye in the mirror.

"Somethin' like that." He says, coming up behind you and wrapping his arms around your waist, his chin resting on your shoulder. "Just wanna look at what's mine."

You see the two of you in the mirror: his tall, sturdy frame, your soft, curvy body, the marks he's left on your neck and breasts.

He's bending you over the sink before you can protest, the cold porcelain a shock against your heated skin.

"Gator!" You gasp, looking up at him in the mirror.

"Still got thirty minutes till dinner's done." He says, a wicked glint in his eye. "And I ain't done with you yet."

He's already hard again, and he's lining himself up with your entrance, sliding in with a groan.

"Wanna have s’more cherry pie before dinner. Been real good to ya. Earned it." He says, grabbing your hips and starting to move. 

"Think ya can take another load?" He says, leaning down to whisper in your ear. "Think ya can take me whenever I want, like a good wife should?"

You can only moan in response, your hands braced against the sink as he fucks you from behind.

"That's what I thought." He says, smirking at your cock drunk reflection. "Should make you warm me at the dinner table. Pull my dick out and have you sit on my lap. Right in front ‘a the dinner you cooked."

"God, you're relentless tonight ..." You start, but you're cut off by a particularly hard thrust.

"Gonna fuckin' talk nasty to ya while you do. Ask you how your day was while yer full of me. Tell ya 'bout my day. Eat my meal with my girl on my cock. Make ya keep it in while ya do the dishes."

He's getting faster now, the wet sounds of your coupling filling the small bathroom.

"Yeah, ya'd like that, wouldn't ya? Like bein’ my personal cocksleeve. Always ready, always wet, always willin’."

He's talking through his teeth now, his grip on your hips tightening.

"Gonna cum in ya again, fill you up some more." He's rutting against you, chasing his release.

"Gonna plug you up after, keep all that cum in there. Make you sleep with it in you." His other hand snakes around to rub your clit, and you can feel your own orgasm building.

"Gonna wake ya up with my cock in the middle of the night. And in the mornin’. And after breakfast. And again ‘fore I go t’work."

He's panting, his movements becoming more erratic as he gets closer to the edge.

"Gonna keep you full of me all the fuckin' time."

His fingers are moving faster on your clit, and you can feel yourself getting closer.

"C'mon, mama, cum with me. Squeeze my cock."

The command is all it takes, and you're cumming with a cry, your body convulsing around him as he empties himself into you for the second time.

"Shit..." He murmurs, leaning against you, both of you breathing heavily. "Goddamn..."

He stays inside you for a minute, just holding you, before slowly pulling out.

"Turn around." He says, and you do, leaning back against the sink.

He's looking at you, a mix of awe and something else in his eyes.

"Love you." He says, the words coming out a little rough.

"I love you too." You say, a tired but happy smile on your face.

"C'mon. Dinner time. I wasn't kiddin' ‘bout the dinner table." He winks at you.

You roll your eyes as he helps you stabilize, pulling you into a hug.

"Just let me get some panties on." You laugh, pushing him away playfully.

"Nuh uh." He says, grabbing your wrist. "What I just say?" 

It was gonna be a long night. 

·✶· Teacake whose technique is pure chaotic filth: messy, spit-heavy laps all over your pussy, rapid swirling circles on your clit, then suddenly stiffening his tongue to thrust deep inside you while his nose grinds against your swollen nub. He adds three fingers fast and scissoring, stretching you open.

·✶· Teacake who gets loud and sloppy, sucking noisily, humming vibrations against your clit, and occasionally pulling back just to slap your wet pussy lightly before diving back in even hungrier.

·✶· Steve who refuses to stay idle when it’s Teacake’s turn. He chokes your throat gently, kisses you deep, pinches your nipples, and trash-talks right in your ear: “He’s too messy, baby. You need me to make you cum properly.”

·✶· Teacake who gets even filthier when Steve is eating you: slapping your tits, biting your inner thighs, and whispering “Listen to how loud he’s making you… but I can make you louder.” Steve who smirks mid-lick and taunts, “Hear how she’s moaning for me, bleach boy? That’s how you eat pussy properly.” Teacake who fires back with his face still buried, voice muffled and cocky: “She’s dripping down my chin, Harrington. Keep coping while I make her squirt.”

·✶· Steve trash-talking while Teacake eats you: “Too sloppy, man. You’re just making her messy for me. Let a real man finish the job.” Teacake taunting Steve during his turn: “Look at you being all gentle. She needs it rough — move over and watch how it’s done.”

·✶· Steve who gets stupidly competitive but melts the second he’s between your legs. The moment you spread open for him he’s latched on like he’s starving, arms wrapped tight around your thighs, face buried so deep he can barely breathe. He eats you like it’s the only thing that matters, moaning desperately into your pussy every time you tug his perfect hair.

·✶· Teacake who turns into an absolute mess the second he gets a taste. Bleach-blonde hair wild as he buries his face in you, licking and sucking like he’ll die if he stops. He gets so desperate he’s grinding his hard cock against the bed while devouring you, moaning and talking filth the whole time.

·✶· Teave who lose all control when you tell them to work together. They press their faces in at the same time, tongues tangling and making out sloppily right on your clit and dripping hole, both of them moaning into each other’s mouths while tasting you.

·✶· Teave who start getting dangerously into each other the second their faces are pressed together between your thighs. Their tongues aren’t just on you anymore , they’re actively seeking each other out, sliding and licking along one another while they devour your pussy.

·✶· Steve who, mid-suction on your clit, turns his head just enough to catch Teacake’s tongue in a filthy open-mouthed kiss right over your swollen nub. He moans into it, the vibration shooting straight through you as he starts getting hard for both you and the man sharing your taste.

·✶· Teacake who gets visibly excited when Steve’s tongue brushes his. He leans in harder, making out sloppily with Steve while still sucking your clit, their lips and tongues tangling messily, trading your wetness back and forth like they can’t decide who they want more in that moment.

·✶· Steve whose competitive edge melts into desperate hunger. While his fingers are buried deep inside you, curling against your g-spot, he’s also licking along Teacake’s tongue and lips, groaning low every time they kiss deeper.

·✶· Teacake who starts grinding his throbbing cock against the bed harder the more he makes out with Steve on your pussy. He whimpers into the kiss, voice broken: “Fuck… you taste good mixed with her.”

·✶· Teave whose hands start wandering while they eat you. Fingers brushing against each other as they spread your thighs wider, occasionally gripping each other’s wrists or hair, pulling the other closer so they can kiss filthier on your clit.

·✶· Steve who breaks the kiss with Teacake just to look up at you with glassy eyes, lips shiny, and rasps, “He’s getting me so fucking hard right now, baby… but your pussy is still the main course.”

·✶· Teacake who gets bolder, sucking Steve’s tongue into his mouth while his own tongue is still flicking your clit, moaning loudly like tasting both of you at once is driving him insane.

·✶· Teave during the final team-up who press their faces together between your spread legs, cheeks touching, both tongues sliding and tangling right on your clit in a wet, open-mouthed kiss while they make out with your pussy in the middle. Steve in the team-up who focuses on your clit with that perfect suction and flicks while Teacake tongues your entrance, their lips brushing constantly as they switch and share every inch of your soaked folds. Teacake who goes feral, sucking your clit hard while Steve’s tongue joins his, both of them licking and kissing each other through your juices, fingers from both of them stretching and pumping inside you at the same time.

·✶· Teave who turn the team-up into the sloppiest, wettest make-out session on your pussy: tongues wrestling, lips sucking your clit together, moaning into each other’s mouths as you drip and gush all over them.

·✶· Teave together who become completely feral when you tell them to finish you at the same time. Both faces buried between your spread legs, tongues fighting and kissing each other on your clit, fingers stretching you open while they moan and whimper into your soaked pussy. They’re leaking in their jeans, hips rutting desperately against nothing, completely lost in making you cum.

·✶· Teave still throwing shade between moans. Steve: “Fuck… she clenches harder when I suck her clit. Teacake: “That’s because my tongue’s inside her. Keep up, King Steve.”

·✶· Steve who holds you down and keeps sucking through your orgasm, eyes glassy, face drenched in your squirt while he kisses Teacake through it, both of them greedily licking up every drop like they can’t get enough of you.

·✶· Teacake after you squirt all over both of them, grinning with a drenched face: “Told you I’d make her gush harder. You just helped me out, pretty boy.”

·✶· Steve who keeps licking you through the aftershocks, face shiny and dripping, eyes glassy with lust while he kisses Teacake lazily, sharing the taste of your cum between them.

·✶· Teacake after you squirt, still pressed close to Steve, licking the mess off the other man’s lips and chin before grinning: “Didn’t expect to like kissing you this much, Harrington…”

·✶· Steve who’s breathing hard, cock leaking in his jeans, and replies with a dark little laugh while still gently licking your oversensitive pussy: “Yeah… same. But we’re not done with her yet.”

·✶· Teacake who gets even whinier after you cum, face shiny and messy, pressing desperate kisses to your thighs and stomach while mumbling “Please… let us do it again. I need to taste you more. We’ll be so good for you, honey.”

·✶· Steve who pulls you into his chest after, stroking your hair and whispering praises while still half-hard and leaking, quietly plotting how he’s going to win the next round alone.

·✶· Teacake who cuddles up on your other side, face still messy, grinding his hard cock against your thigh and begging in that raspy voice: “I was better, right? Tell me I made you cum harder…”

·✶· Teave who stay hard and leaking for you long after, cocks throbbing and staining their boxers, both of them cuddling into your body, kissing your skin, quietly (and not so quietly) competing over who gets to rest their head closest to your pussy for round two.

. ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁ ⟡ ܁ . ⊹ ₊ ܁. . ܁₊ ⊹ . ܁

“And how long ago were you planning to?” He rounded the couch wearing grey sweats hung low on his hips, voice still rough with sleep.

You avoided his gaze, and he took that as an answer. Steve crouched down in front of you, large hands resting on your knees. First, he opened the water bottle, bringing it to your lips slowly.

“Open.” He instructed, and knowing better than to disobey, you obediently opened while he placed the pills carefully in your mouth and allowed you to swallow them down.

“Good girl.” He praised, moving hair out of your face and taking the water away. Heat rushed to your cheeks, and a smile tugged at his lips knowingly.

“Did you sleep okay?” He moved to sit beside you, and you instantly cuddled up to his side.

“Kinda,” you sighed, inhaling his scent that calmed your nervous system.

“Kinda?” He repeated, furrowing his brows, the answer not satisfying him enough.

“I kept waking up.” You answered, and Steve shook his head like your discomfort physically pained him. Before you knew it, he was scooping you off the couch and carrying you in his arms as you let out a surprised squeak.

“Steve!” You yelped, tightening your arms around his neck.

“What?” He replied innocently, walking into your shared bedroom. “You didn’t sleep enough, baby.” He shrugged like it was obvious.

“So, I can still walk?” You couldn’t help but laugh.

“You could,” he tilted his head, laying you down and fluffing the pillows around your neck. “But you shouldn’t have to.”

The words hit you harder than you expected, because with Steve you never did more than you had to. Walking past you meant a kiss pressed to your forehead, arms finding their way onto your waist, and being called baby more than your own name.

Baby, baby, baby. Nothing else could sound so sweet from Steve’s lips, and he took the term literally—you were his baby, and he would take care of you like one.

Somewhere along the way, you stopped pretending like you disliked it. Like you didn’t relax at the feeling of not having to constantly make your own decisions, to just be able to give in and let Steve love you the way he wanted.

You used to roll your eyes when Steve would kneel down and tie your shoe laces after noticing how loose they were, or when he would hold your hand while crossing the street. You’d groan and huff when he tucked snacks into your bag before work, or when he’d check up on you throughout the day.

But now, you found yourself unconsciously waiting for it. Waiting for the sound of his footsteps by the door, waiting for him to pull you into his lap after a long day so you could just melt into his chest—waiting for the soft “I’ve got you, baby” whenever life got too overwhelming.

Steve pulled the covers around your shoulders, making sure there was no possible escape. He set a hand over your forehead going silent for a moment.

“I have terrible news.” He muttered solemnly.

You tried playing the role of looking up at him all wide eyed and fearful. “What is it, doctor?”

“You’re exhausted and in desperate need of cuddles with your boyfriend.”

“How long do I have left?” You gasped dramatically.

“Not long.” He climbed in, “but good thing I’m qualified to treat it.” He winked, using his typical Harrington charm.

You rolled your eyes playfully but accepted being tugged closer to him, as Steve peppered kisses all over your hair and face.

Every muscle loosened and a sigh left you unconsciously. “There she is,” Steve whispered, though you couldn’t see his face, only hear the soft rhythm of his heartbeat underneath. “Thats my girl.”

Your eyes drifted shut as his thumb traced lazy patterns across your bare back. “You know, one day I’m gonna become incapable of doing things myself.” You sleepily whispered.

“I don’t see a problem in that.” He replied without hesitation.

You lifted your head slightly, cracking an eye open. “None at all?”

He leaned over to kiss the small of your eyelid. “I like taking care of you.”

There wasn’t a hint of embarrassment or regret in his voice, he always spoke with every ounce of his being to you, just like his love—strong and unwavering.

Shown in the way his face softened whenever he looked at you, when he instinctively reached for you in crowded places, shown when no matter what was happening—you were always the first priority.

Even with him being busy filming, he still made time to call you every night without fail. He tried to check in throughout the day, but with his limited breaks, you get a response every few hours, so the conversation never flows. Which is why he makes it up with a phone call, letting you ramble on about your day, or a dream you had the night before, and he would do the same.

As soon as you finish up brushing your teeth, you turn the light off and head into your bedroom, slipping under the covers. Getting into the bed to an empty space beside you every night was something that you dreaded. You would spend the whole day making sure that you were always doing something, only to come back to the reason why you were trying to make yourself busy in the first place.

Your phone vibrates on the bedside table, and you scramble to pick it up, swiping right to accept the phone call. The quality is slightly fuzzy for a moment before he settles his phone down on the table, and you watch as a lazy grin twitches at the corner of his lips.

“Hey, baby.” He says, and you can already hear the exhaustion in his tone, the way he still sounds breathless, even when he’s sat down.

“Hey.” You say with a sweet smile, turning the lamp on beside you and propping your phone up so that he can see you. “How has your day been? You look so exhausted.”

He sighs, his lips pressing together to form a line. “It’s been the same as usual, retaking the same scene ten times, mind blanking in the middle of saying a line. I’ve honestly just been counting down the hours until I got to speak to you. I’m okay though, I’m used to it.” He says, trailing off at the end. “How has your day been, angel?” He asks.

You couldn’t deny how drained he looked, and you knew that he wouldn’t admit it to you, because he always wanted to appear strong for you, even though you have told him countless times that he can be open with you. Sometimes he will slip, and suddenly the words will be pouring from his lips, but for his sake, he tried to hide that from you.

“I’ve been very productive today. I haven’t had the chance to sit down until I got into bed, which was five minutes ago. I bought us another storage unit, and I tried to build it, but I’m going to wait till you get back from filming because it’s a little wonky.” You laugh, propping your head up with your hand.

“Did you follow the instructions?” He grins.

“Yes. Well, partially. They didn’t make sense towards the end, so I just guessed what I needed to do.” You say, pulling a laugh from him.

“I’ll finish it off for you when I get back. You need to make sure you’re giving yourself time to relax though, baby.” He whispers.

Part of you wishes that he could listen to his own words, which is something that he never does. He puts so much care into you, that he forgets he should do that for himself too. No matter how many times you tell him to slow down, he continues to overwork himself until he’s completely drained.

You hum, watching as his eyes close for a few seconds too long when he blinks. “So do you, baby.”

“You worry too much about me. I’m okay. Just have my days on set, that’s all.” He says with a sweet smile, though you don’t believe him for a moment.

A frustrated huff leaves your mouth, and you shake your head. “You’ll be back home soon.”

“That’s exactly what’s keeping me going.” He mutters, glancing down at his hands.

“Think you need to get some rest, baby. I’m not going to keep you up if you’re getting tired.” You say, bringing your phone closer to you.

He knows he can’t disagree with you, he’s just glad you said it for him. “I’m going to grab a snack before I get myself to sleep. Didn’t get any breaks today with the number of times we had to spend working on a singular scene.”

The concern starts to grow inside of you, and you can tell this is a result of him overworking himself. “That sounds like a good plan. Make yourself a big meal, baby. Let me know how it was tomorrow. Please get some rest.” You sigh.

He nods, shifting in his chair and standing up, taking his phone with him to the counter. “I love you.” He whispers, and you notice the slight crack in his mood.

“I love you, Joe. Sleep well.” You whisper.

He flashes you a warm grin before ending the call, and the silence that follows has the guilt consuming you immediately. You stare at the phone for a while, regretting even thinking about ending the phone call. Even though you knew he needed to rest, it was obvious that he just wanted to speak to you, because he’s made it clear it’s the only good part about his day, especially after filming.

No matter how hard you tried to get yourself to sleep, the exhausted look on his face and the way he was speaking breathlessly to you was completely engraved into your mind every time your eyes closed. The thought alone of him being so stressed and exhausted with filming without anyone being there with him to guide him through was something you shouldn’t have to think about.

Your feet meet the carpet, and you pad your feet along the floor, opening the wardrobe to take out some suitable clothes. You slip a dark blue hoodie on and a pair of joggers before making your way out of the bedroom, grabbing your keys and heading out the door. It’s eight o’clock at night, and usually you’d be sound asleep, but leaving Joe on his own when he’s clearly overworking himself was something you’d never dream of leaving him to do.

You slip into your car, turning the heating on before reversing out of your parking space. Every few minutes, you glanced down at the directions app to check how long you had until you arrived, and it was painfully dragging. A quiet playlist played in the background, but it did nothing to clear your thoughts. You didn’t need to ask Joe to come see him, because you knew that was exactly what he wanted, and you couldn’t stand another day without him.

After what felt like the longest drive, you park the car to the closest parking space near the entrance to his hotel. You turn the playlist off and step out the car, walking through the doors and up the stairs. You walk down the hall, checking each number beside the door before stopping at number 35, gently knocking on the door.

The door slowly opens after a few minutes, and you’re met with a sleepy look on Joe’s face, his hair slightly damp. He’s barely registered you’re standing in front of him before your arms wrap around his neck, holding him close. He blinks at you and shuffles backwards, making room to close the door.

“I’m sorry if I woke you up or disturbed you from doing something.” You whisper, slowly lifting your head up.

“Holy shit.” Is all that he can manage out, and his hands slip into your hair, almost like he’s checking that you’re in front of him.

A small laugh leaves your mouth, and you brush your thumb over his cheek. “Surprise.”

“You’re insane. You drove here?” He asks, letting his forehead drop to yours.

“All three hours.” You nod.

“This is exactly what I needed.” He mumbles, letting the tension from his shoulders drop.

“I wasn’t going to let you deal with the stress on your own.” You whisper, gently taking his hand and walking through the room, sliding under the covers and making room for him.

Joe slips under the covers, bringing his arms around you, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your lips, letting out a soft hum. “You’ve got no idea how good this feels. I feel like I’ve been drowning with all the filming.”

“You shouldn’t feel like that, baby. Whether you’re overworking yourself or the people on set are, you shouldn’t be feeling stressed, at least not this stressed. It’s not normal.” You sigh.

“It feels normal.” He mutters.

“Well, it shouldn’t. Either way, I couldn’t last another day without you. That drive was so worth it, even though I feel like my feet are going to fall off.” You laugh breathlessly.

“Did you not take a stop?” He asks.

“Nope. It’s late enough, and I didn’t want to waste any more time.” You whisper.

“You do so much for me, baby. Thank you.” He whispers, resting his head against your neck, exhaling.

“My errands can wait. You can’t.” You say, slipping your hand through his damn hair.

“If you want me to relax, you need to as well.” He says, gently resting his hand on your lower back.

“Deal.” You mumble. “Please get some sleep now, I’ve already kept you up longer than necessary.”

A lazy grin twitches at his lips. “So worth it now that you’re here.”

“Sleep.” You repeat.

He hums. “I love you.”

“I love you. Now rest, you’ll need it for tomorrow.” You whisper.

He falls asleep in record time with his body completely pressed against yours. His breaths slow down, not as heavy as they were when you called him hours ago. You weren’t sure how long you were going to stay with him for, but you wanted to push that thought to the back of your mind, because he needed you.

You walk farther into the room, dumping everything onto the dresser with loud plastic clacks. “It’s my full routine. Hair mask, exfoliating, shaving, skin care. The whole thing.”  

“A hair mask,” he repeats slowly.

“Yes.”

“You put a mask on your hair.”

“Well, it’s basically just deep conditioner.”

“But y’call it a mask.”

“Yes, Gator.”   

He squints harder, visibly trying to work through the logic of that.

Honestly, you can’t even blame him. 

You’ve seen your boyfriend's shower routine. 

Well, calling it a routine is generous. 

One sad, dented bottle of cheap 3-in-1 shoved in the corner of the tub with the label peeling halfway off. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, face wash—it probably doubles as dish soap and engine degreaser too. You once asked him what face cleanser he used and he looked at you like you’d started speaking French.

You walk over to the bed with a sigh, hooking your fingers into the waistband of his sweats.

“C’mere. I’ll show you.”

“I know how showers work.” 

“Do you, though?”

“Real funny.”

Still, he lets you tug him up. Peels off the mattress with a groan, warm and sleepy, hair sticking up everywhere from laying around all evening. His shirt rides up when he stretches, exposing a strip of skin and the soft trail of hair disappearing beneath his sweats.

He follows you toward the bathroom, scratching absently at his stomach while he grumbles under his breath. 

“You women use too much shit.”

“Yeah, and you use dish soap to wash your whole body.”

“It cleans me, don’t it?”

“Mm, debatable.” 

He snorts, stepping behind you as you twist the shower handle. Water blasts against the tile, steam already beginning to curl through the air. The bathroom warms quickly, mirrors fogging at the edges while you line up bottles along the shelf with practiced precision.  

Gator leans against the sink watching you.

The second your shirt hits the floor, he goes dead silent. 

You feel it before you even turn around—that heavy, heat-soaked stare settling low on your back and dragging slowly downward.

You glance up toward the fogging mirror and catch him watching openly, head tipped back while his eyes track the slow slide of your shorts down your thighs.

Teeth catching on his bottom lip, pupils gone dark.

There’s nothing subtle about the look on his face.

By the time your shorts pool around your ankles, he’s already pushing lazily off the sink.

You barely get half a breath in before his palm cracks sharply against your ass.

The sound echoes off the tile.

You jolt with a gasp, shooting him an unimpressed look over your shoulder while he just stands there grinning crookedly at you.

“Gator.”

“What?” he smirks, all fake innocence, though his voice has already dropped rough around the edges. His hand lingers where he smacked you, fingers spreading possessively over the curve of your hip. “You standin’ there lookin’ like that... ain’t my fault.”

You turn away before he can catch you smiling.

By the time you step into the shower, the room is thick with steam. Warm water pours over your shoulders the second you step under the spray, heavy enough to make you sigh. Heat slides down your spine, loosening every tight muscle in your body.

A second later, the shower curtain jerks open.

Then:

“Oh—jesus CHRIST—!” 

You burst out laughing as Gator physically recoils the second the water hits him, one hand slapping against the tile wall to keep from slipping on his bare ass.

“Why the fuck is it so hot?”

“It’s not that hot!”

“My skin’s peelin’ off!” 

“It’s just warm.”

“Goddamn, it’s like Satan’s asshole in here.”  

You laugh harder, grabbing his wrist before he can escape.

“C’mere.” 

“No, wait—hang on, hang—babe—”

You yank him fully under the spray.

Hot water drenches him instantly.

His hair flattens against his forehead, dark strands dripping into his eyes. He squints through it with a look of genuine betrayal while the spray beats against his shoulders.

“Shit—” He jerks slightly, hissing through his teeth when the water hits the back of his neck. “Y’tryna boil me alive?”

“Oh my god, you’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious.” His hands land on your waist like he needs support through this deeply traumatic experience. “I’m literally cookin’ in here.”

The heat has already flushed his skin pink across his chest and up into his cheeks. Tiny beads of water cling to his lashes every time he blinks, steam blurring the usual sharpness of him—the hard set of his brows, the tension around his mouth.

He looks so soft like this.

Prettier, somehow.

Especially with those flushed, perpetually pouty lips.

You can’t help but smile.

“You’re such a baby,” you coo softly, reaching up to smooth his soaked hair back. “C’mere, you big baby.”

He grumbles something vaguely offensive under his breath, even while leaning into your touch.

Your palms slide over warm, wet skin, fingertips tracing through the damp hair over his sternum before your arms curl loosely around his neck. Water streams between your bodies in hot sheets, slicking your skin together every time he shifts closer.

And he is close now.

Chest pressed against yours, big hands spread over your waist. He’s radiating heat under your palms, muscles slowly relaxing despite all his complaining.  

You cup his face in both hands, rubbing your thumbs affectionately over his flushed cheeks.

He sniffs once, still pretending to pout, though his eyes have already started drooping heavier from the heat. A bead of water slides down the bridge of his nose before disappearing against his mouth.

God, he’s gorgeous like this.

Dripping wet, hair hanging in his face, lips pink from the heat and pulled into that stubborn little pout he gets whenever he wants attention but refuses to ask for it directly. 

You kiss him before he can start complaining again.

And, for all his dramatic huffing and bitching, a quick press to his baby-pink lips is all it takes.

The second your mouth touches his, he melts.

A low sound rumbles deep in his chest as his arm snakes tighter around your waist, hauling you flush against him beneath the spray. The kiss starts lazy, warm and lingering, and he sighs into it like he’s been waiting for it since the second he stepped under the water.

“Mm,” he mumbles, mouth curling against yours, “So this ‘everything shower’ thing…”

You already know what he’s about to say.

“…that include me bendin’ you over in five minutes or...?”

You laugh into his mouth.

“Gator.”

“What? You said everything.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“False advertisin’, then.” 

He steals another kiss before you can answer, smiling into it this time, all smug and pleased with himself. His hands spread possessively over the curve of your waist, thumbs rubbing slow circles against your hips.

When you shove lightly at his chest, he barely moves.

“Focus,” you tell him. 

“I am focused.”

“On the shower.”

“I can multitask.”

“No, you cannot.” 

He grins against your temple, pressing one lingering kiss there before finally loosening his grip enough to let you move around him.

Barely.

Even then, his hand stays planted firmly on your hip while you start reaching for products. 

And despite all his whining about how hot the water is—despite the way he keeps distracting you every thirty seconds by kissing your shoulder, squeezing your ass, groping your tits, dragging his hands over your stomach whenever you lean forward— 

He’s fascinated.

You can see it all over his face, clear as anything.  

His eyes follow every little thing you do. The loofah hanging from the hook. The jars lined neatly along the shelf. The soft clicks of lids opening and the thick, sweet scents blooming through the steam one by one: vanilla, cocoa butter, orange blossom, lavender.

“So what’s all this shit for?” he asks eventually.

“Language.” 

He snorts and picks up one of your body oils carefully, turning it over in his massive hand while water drips from his wrist.

“Why’s this bottle so fuckin' tiny?”

“’Cause it’s expensive.”

“How expensive?”

You hesitate.

His eyes narrow immediately. “How expensive.”

“…Thirty dollars.”

“For that tiny-ass bottle?”

“It’s good oil!”

He looks genuinely horrified.

“Holy shit. You could buy, like… a car part with that.”

“Yeah, because those are definitely comparable purchases.”

He rolls his eyes, turning his attention on the scrub jar in your hand.

He squints at the label through the water dripping into his eyes.

“Sugar scrub?”

“Yeah.”

“The hell’s that mean?”

You grin instantly. “Hold still.”

His eyes narrow with immediate suspicion. “Why.”

“You ask too many questions.”

Before he can move away, you scoop a handful into your palm. 

It’s your favorite scrub too—the ridiculously overpriced strawberry pound cake one that smells good enough to eat, warm brown sugar and whipped vanilla frosting.

You rub it over his forearm without warning. 

He flinches immediately. “Ow, what the fuck—"

"Relax."

Sugar crystals drag slowly across his skin while your hands work over the hard muscle of his arm. The scrub softens beneath the heat, turning slick and grainy between your fingers.

His brows pinch together while he watches you.  

“…What’s it even doin’?”

“Gets rid of dead skin.”

“I don’t got dead skin.”

“Everybody has dead skin.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure, babe.”  

He eyes the scrub suspiciously while you keep going. "Is this gonna make my arm all... glittery, or whatever?"

“...No.”

“You hesitated.” 

“No, I didn’t!" you insist, laughing. “I do have a glitter shower jelly though.” 

“A what.”

“A shower jelly.”

“The fuck is a shower jelly?”

The grin spreading across your face makes him immediately point at you.

“No.”

“Too late!”

You twist around beneath the spray, reaching behind him toward the crowded shower shelf. Your fingers close around the little plastic pot wedged between your body wash and conditioner. It jiggles in your hand when you pick it up—golden and translucent, packed with tiny flecks of glitter that catch under the warm bathroom light. 

You plop it directly into his palm.

The jelly slips against his skin, wobbling in his hand like a living thing, and his entire face twists in genuine alarm.

“What the fuc—why’s it doin’ that?”  

You dissolve into laughter, doubling over against him while he stares down at the jiggling soap with genuine distrust, holding it out at arm’s length like it might suddenly grow teeth. 

“This ain’t right,” he mutters, poking it cautiously with his thumb.

“It’s just soap!” 

Tears prick at the corners of your eyes while you hide your face in his shoulder, laughter shaking out of you in muffled bursts against his warm skin. His chest hitches once beneath you, reluctant amusement creeping in despite himself.

When you finally manage to pull back and look at him, his expression has changed completely.

Water slides slowly down his face in shimmering trails, gathering at his jaw before dripping down to his chest.   

He’s not looking at the shower jelly anymore.

He’s looking at you. 

Hazel eyes much softer than you’re used to, focused in a way that makes your laughter taper off.    

It still manages to catch you off guard, even after all this time.  

Because Gator’s never been good at saying things straight out. He jokes, he deflects, he fills silence with anger and attitude—whatever comes easiest.

But sometimes, when he looks at you like this, it feels like he doesn’t need to say anything at all. 

You’re still peering up at him when he blinks, huffing as he tosses the shower jelly toward the shelf without even looking where it lands. 

“Thing’s fuckin’ haunted.”

Then his hands settle on your waist.

Big, warm palms slide around your hips without hesitation, dragging you forward until there’s no space left between you.

You squeak when you lose your footing against the slick tile.

“Gator—!” you gasp, grabbing his shoulders to steady yourself, laughter spilling out of you again even as your pulse jumps.

“What?” he says, mouth curling into that lazy, knowing grin.

“I almost slipped,” you breathe, trying to find balance against his chest.

“Nah.” His smile widens. “Got you.”

Then his nose nudges along your neck, inhaling deeply.

“Why’s all this shit smell like food, huh?” 

You huff a laugh, squirming when his lips skim the damp skin just below your ear.

“Jelly,” he mutters between kisses. “Sugar scrub. Vanilla frosting. Coconut whatever… what’s next? Rotisserie chicken lotion?”

That gets another laugh out of you, helpless and bright, the sound buried as you press closer into his shoulder. Your arms slide up around his neck, fingers threading through the damp hair at the nape.

“I’m serious,” he mutters, though you can tell he’s smiling too. You hear it in the lazy drawl of his words, feel it in the way his chest vibrates beneath your cheek. “Like I’m showerin’ inside a damn bakery.” 

You love moments like this.

Doing nothing else but being close with one another, swaying under the steady press of warm water, cocooned in steam while the rest of the world falls away.

His hands move absentmindedly over your back, gliding up and down your skin in a comforting rhythm.

Then, naturally, his grip slides lower on your hips.

You feel the shift in him before you even see it, his grin turning cocky in a way that always spells trouble.

“So…” he murmurs, voice dropping low in his chest. “Can we fuck now?”

You snort, pushing lightly at his shoulders so you can look at him properly.

His expression is completely shameless, nothing but open, unapologetic confidence.

You wouldn’t expect anything less from your boyfriend.  

“No,” you say flatly.

His expression sours. “No?”

“We still have to exfoliate.”

Gator rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised he doesn’t injure himself.

“You’re killin’ me.”

But he doesn’t let go. 

And honestly, the longer this goes on, the less he even pretends he wants out of the shower.

Especially once your hands slide higher over his shoulders.

The second your thumbs press into the tight muscle at the base of his neck, his whole body jerks beneath your hands. 

“Jesus…” he mutters under his breath.

“Too hard?”

“No,” he says immediately. “Just... keep goin’.”

That alone makes you smile again.

Because two weeks ago this man would’ve rather thrown himself into traffic than let something pink and strawberry-scented anywhere near him. 

Now he’s standing beneath scalding water while you rub sugar scrub into his shoulders, massaging the tension out of him like a spoiled housecat.

You take your time with him, working your thumbs into the tendons there. 

God, he’s tight everywhere.  

The muscles across his shoulders feel hard as stone beneath your palms, thick bands of tension packed so tightly they barely move under your touch. Every time your thumbs drag across another knot, his breathing catches slightly.

Your smile fades little by little.

“Baby,” you murmur quietly, “when’s the last time you relaxed your shoulders?”

“Uh, dunno.”

“You don’t know?”

He shrugs, though even that movement looks stiff. 

“Never really think about it.”  

Your fingers drag slowly down the back of his neck again, pressing into another rigid knot there.

“Gator,” you say softly, brows pulling together, “you’re hard as a brick back here.”

He snorts quietly at that. 

You roll your eyes, but the innuendo doesn’t land quite the same now. 

Because once you really start paying attention—really feeling him beneath your hands—you realize how tense he actually is.

Every inch of him feels wound tight.

His shoulders sit high even while he’s supposedly relaxed, thick muscles rigid beneath your palms no matter how much steam fills the shower or how hot the water runs over him. 

Like he’s always bracing for something. 

The realization tightens something in your chest in return. 

And maybe he notices the shift in you, because after that, he goes unusually quiet.

No more smartass comments. He just stands there under the spray while you finish working the scrub over him.

The pink sugar crystals melt gradually beneath the water, dissolving against warm skin while your fingers work over the hard planes of his chest and shoulders.

Gator watches your hands more than anything else.

You notice it every time you glance up.

His eyes tracking the slow circles of your palms, the drag of your nails lightly scratching through the damp hair on his chest. The way you smooth water over his shoulders afterward. 

You catch yourself wondering, briefly, if this is something he’s ever really experienced before outside of sex—outside of anything physical and fleeting. Being touched without it carrying an expectation, without it needing to lead anywhere else or turn into something more.

His shoulders begin to drop first. Then his jaw loosens. Then the permanent little line between his brows eases until he stops looking so guarded all the time.

"Kinda feels nice, I guess,” he admits after a while, voice quieter than usual.

You smile to yourself.

“Yeah?”

“Mm.” 

When you reach for the shampoo, he tips his head forward without being asked.

You work the product through his hair slowly, fingers sliding into damp strands as the scent of citrus and jasmine fills the steam around you. It lingers warm and clean, cutting through the heavy sweetness left from everything else.

Then your nails scrape lightly across his scalp.

And the sound he makes is... well.

Your gaze lifts slowly.

Gator’s standing completely still beneath the spray, eyes shut tight, brows pinched together while a slow breath slips through his parted lips. 

“Gates, was that...?”

His eyes snap open. 

“No.”

The denial comes way too fast.

You stare at him for exactly one second before laughter slips out of you.

“Oh my god, it was!”

“It was not.”

“Yes, it was!”

“No, it wasn’t. Shut up.”

You bite back another laugh at how seriously he suddenly sounds about it.

His cheeks are already flushed pink from the heat, but now the color creeps higher—up the tips of his ears too.

Interesting. 

Purple-tinted shampoo runs in slow trails down his temples as he glares at you through wet lashes, mouth twitching while water streams down the sharp slope of his nose.

“You’re annoyin’,” he murmurs. “I’m leavin’.”

“No, you’re not.”

To prove your point, you drag your nails lightly against his scalp again.

A gruff noise slips out of him before he can stop it this time, low and helpless, pulled up from somewhere deep in his throat. His eyes squeeze shut and his hands tighten briefly at your waist.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “I hate you.”

“Liar.”

He makes no move to leave.

If anything, his grip on your waist tightens when you start rinsing the shampoo from his hair, angling his head toward you so you don’t have to reach so far.  

You’ve known Gator long enough to understand how big this actually is.

Because for all his flirting and constant touching, genuine softness doesn’t always come naturally to him.

Not receiving it, anyway.

He’s good at grabbing your waist to pull you into his lap while you’re trying to cook dinner. Good at kissing your neck in the kitchen while murmuring filthy things against your skin just to hear you laugh.

He knows how to want, how to take up space. 

But this? 

Standing still while somebody takes care of him?

That’s different.

And for the first time since he stepped into the bathroom, he looks completely calm.

You don’t think you’ve ever seen him be this still for so long.

Usually there’s always something twitching in him somewhere—a bouncing knee, fingers tapping against his thigh, shoulder bunched up to his neck and his jaw locked tight like he’s perpetually gearing up for a fight. 

But right now, he just looks tired.

Like he doesn’t feel the need to bury it, for once. Safe enough to let the exhaustion sit in him without pushing it away.

So you keep touching him gently. Combing your fingers through his hair while water pours through the strands in dark rivulets, nails scraping softly over the base of his skull until he shivers.

By the time you finally finish rinsing him off, Gator looks completely wrung out.

His cheeks are flushed deep pink from standing under the heat too long, damp hair sticking up in uneven directions, his eyes gone heavy-lidded in that sleepy way they get late at night. 

You step out first, wrapping a towel around yourself while he stands there dripping on the bathmat, rubbing absently at his own forearm.

His brows furrow thoughtfully.

“Huh.”

You glance over while tightening your towel. “What?”

He rubs his arm again slowly, fingertips sweeping over the skin where you used the scrub earlier.

“…Feels different.”

The smile that breaks across your face is immediate.

“Right?!”

You sound so aggressively excited about it that he snorts quietly, shaking his head.

Still, he keeps touching his arm. 

Testing the skin with obvious confusion, thumb brushing over the softness there.

“Huh,” he says again, quieter this time. 

Then, because he physically cannot allow himself to sound too impressed for longer than thirty seconds, he shrugs and reaches for a towel.

“S’fine, I guess.”

Which, translated from Gator-speak, is basically a standing ovation.

You grin to yourself while he drags the towel roughly over his hair—

Then immediately shakes his head like a dog, spraying droplets all over the floor.

“Oh my—Gator!”

...

Afterward, you settle onto the bathroom counter in one of his oversized shirts, rubbing lotion into your legs while the room stays thick with leftover warmth.

Everything smells sweet, vanilla and strawberry sugar lingering heavy in the humid air. 

Gator sprawls across the closed toilet seat nearby in a fresh pair of sweatpants, elbows planted on his knees while he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes.

You try not to stare too much at how pretty he looks like this too, softened and comfortable, relaxed enough to practically fall asleep upright. 

You hold up a bottle.

“This one’s toner.”

“Uh huh.”

“This one’s moisturizer.”

He gives you a flat look.

“Yeah,” he drawls slowly. “I know what moisturizer is, babe.”

You ignore him.

“And this one’s hyaluronic acid.” 

“You put acid on your face?”

“It’s not that kind of acid.”

His skeptical hmph makes you laugh quietly while you pat serum into your cheeks.

And even though he’d rather chew glass than admit it out loud, something about all of this clearly gets under his skin in a way he doesn’t entirely hate.

It's starts small at first.

Lingering in the bathroom doorway while you do your nighttime routine, pretending he’s only there because he’s “waitin’ for you to finish the hell up already.”

He picks up random bottles in the meantime, squinting suspiciously at labels.

“What’s body butter supposed to be?”

“It’s moisturizer.”

“So lotion.”

“Thicker lotion.”

“That’s stupid.”

Three days later you catch him using it. 

Only because, apparently, “my hands are dry as shit.”

Then he uses it again the next night.

And the night after that. 

After that, it stops being occasional. 

You start catching him using your products without even asking first.

Rubbing lotion into his hands while standing in the kitchen. Swiping your expensive lip balm across his mouth while pretending not to notice you watching him.

And honestly, you think part of it stops being about the products pretty quickly.

You think he likes the familiarity of it. The closeness.

Smelling your body wash on his skin. Coconut lotion rubbed into his knuckles and vanilla sweetness clinging faintly to the collar of his shirts.

Little pieces of you following him around. 

It becomes most obvious after rough days.

The kind where he comes home exhausted down to the bone, shoulders slumped, smelling like sweat and engine oil.   

Sometimes he barely makes it through the front door before he drops, collapsing face-first into your chest with a groan. His forehead presses into your shoulder while his arms wrap loosely around your waist.

And when you run your fingers through his hair and murmur, “Everything shower?” he’ll let out a long exhale against your neck before mumbling a tired little, “Yeah,” into your shirt. 

Some nights he’s too drained for anything else. 

He just stands beneath the spray with his eyes closed while you wash his hair slowly, his hands resting heavy on your waist more for grounding than anything possessive.

Other nights, though, he’s more awake. 

More opinionated.

“Wait,” he says one evening, catching your wrist before you grab a scrub jar. “Not that one.”

You blink over your shoulder. “What, this one?”

“Nah.” He points lazily toward the shelf. “The other one.”

“The cotton candy scrub?”

“…Yeah.” 

You can’t help it—you grin a little, slow and knowing. 

“What? It smells better than that strawberry cake shit.”

Soon enough you’re rubbing cotton candy and shea butter into his skin, pink suds sliding down his tattooed bicep while he stands there acting like this is all one giant inconvenience he’s tolerating for your sake. 

And in return, he starts taking care of you too.

Not always gracefully, and definitely not innocently.

His hands wander plenty, soap-slick palms gliding over your hips, sudsing up your tits and ass under the excuse of “helping.”  

Sometimes it’s worse when he’s half asleep. Distracted kisses pressed against your shoulder while you’re mid-sentence, mouthing lazily along your neck as he absentmindedly drags the loofah across your stomach.

You’ll be talking about your day and suddenly realize he stopped listening five minutes ago because he got distracted kissing your collarbone.

But underneath all the flirting and grabbing and constant horny commentary, something softer grows there too.  

Comfort in the repetition of it.

In knowing that no matter how exhausting the week gets, eventually there’s this: warm steam, your skin pressed up against his, the familiar clutter of bottles lined along the shelf and your voice explaining what each one does while he pretends not to care—even though he remembers every single one.

It becomes yours. 

This quiet little thing that belongs only to the two of you.  

Most nights, things do escalate eventually. Slow kisses wrapped up in steam-heavy air, wet skin sliding together while his mouth finds your throat and your fingers tangle in his hair.  

But sometimes he’s honestly too tired for any of that.

Sometimes it ends exactly here. 

With dryer-warmed towels and sleepy silence afterward, the bedroom dark and cool against freshly showered skin while Gator stretches across the bed with a groan, head dropping heavily into your lap.

You scratch lightly against his scalp, carding your fingers through his damp hair while he drifts in and out of sleep.   

His arms slide around your waist eventually, a little clumsy with exhaustion before settling properly. He pulls you closer until his face presses into your stomach, breath warm through your shirt. 

“Mmfh…” he mumbles, words blurred heavily by sleep. “You’re the… the best thing that ever happen’ to me, y’know that?”

You know there’s a good chance he won’t fully remember saying it tomorrow.  

Not because he doesn’t mean it; just because honesty comes easier when he’s too exhausted to keep it buried. 

You smile, fingers never stopping their slow rhythm through his hair.

“I love you too,” you murmur back, just as gentle. 

And you think, as he drifts into sleep in your lap, that he looks most like himself when he stops trying to be anything at all.

These adjustments felt like a breath of fresh air; you were slowly finding your new normal and figuring out who you were behind the wife you once trained yourself to be. 

Things changed rapidly but as long as you had your youngest, Hope, back in the evenings whilst your other kids slept at Steve's parents' house, you knew things would eventually fit into place.

Hawkin's community pool was surprisingly quiet on Friday mornings, and a trial of Baby Swim Classes was set to start. You associated the community pool with summer break, and the strong smell of chlorine always lingered in your children's hair.

You carefully adjusted your daughter’s swim diaper beneath her polka dot swimsuit, feeling the soft weight of her almost eight-month-old body against your hip. 

Hope was incredibly small for her age, but she was thriving, her cheeks filled out once she got a taste for the Raspberries, Starwberries, and Blueberries you introduced her to on her weaning journey and her eyes bright that stared at you at every moment of the day made all of the difficult days worth it.

You were sitting on the low wooden benches in the changing area, partially hidden by a row of navy lockers, as you struggled to adjust the straps on your own swimsuit, you were busy calmly cooing away to Hope when the voices drifted over from the other side of the changing room.

"I’m telling you, I was there for Jury Duty when they were divorcing!" a voice whispered. 

It was Heather, a woman who had lived three doors down from you and Steve, she was a few years older and was known for regularly sleeping with the local handymen in the area. 

"Jury Duty for divorce? I thought you went for serial killers, mass murderers."

"Their divorce involved a Custody Dispute, it was absolutely horrific! Steve looked like he’d crawled out of a gutter, guilty as sin, and then his lawyer called her a breeder, can you imagine being her in that room? Being dragged through all that?"

You froze as your fingers fumbled the strap of your suit, and your daughter let out a little coo, cheekily smiling up at you with her gums. You smiled back at her but pressed a hand to her chest to keep her quiet. You could feel your heart pounding in your chest. 

"My brother heard Steve had an escourt, one of the fellas from his work was talking about it," another voice chimed in, "Is that true? I would never believe that Steve of all people could do something like that."

"It’s always the ones you think are perfect," Heather sighed, "you know my plumber? John? Well, he said he saw him at the gas station last week. Said he’s living with his parents again."

"My brother said that she got sixty percent of the house sale," the other woman added, her tone shifting to something more judgmental. "She’s taking Steve for every cent in spousal support. I mean, don't get me wrong, he’s a dog for what he did, but she’s certainly getting her moneys worth out of him!"

You stood up and walked around the corner of the lockers, holding your daughter firmly, and stepped into their line of sight. Heather and her friend jumped when they saw you, Heather dropped her compact mirror, waking her son up from his nap, causing him to whimper and cry, waking up the other baby.

Their faces flushed red with embarassment, you stared at them both, refusing to look away.

"Not that it's any of your fucking business," you said firmly but not unkind, "but that sixty percent is to make sure my kids have a roof over their heads, clothes on their back, and food in their stomach."

Heather started to shake her head, her jaw lowering, "Oh, we were just—"

"Just what? Speculating instead of packing a more suitable swimsuit for your baby?" you interrupted with a cold smile that didn't reach your eyes and slowly walked past them before peering back over your shoulder "Heather, why don't you focus on which plumber or electrician you're screwing this week instead of gossipping about a divorce that doesn't concern you?"

You continued to walk away with your head held high, headed toward the pool. As you stepped into the cool, shallow water with your daughter still on your hip, you realised that you weren't ashamed anymore, you weren't going to be embarrassed on behalf of Steve.

The drive home from the community pool was a blur of suburban landscapes and the faint sound of the lullaby track to keep your daughter fast asleep in the back, her tiny chest rising and falling in a peaceful state after a morning of high-energy splashing.

You smiled at her through the rearview mirror, then focused back on the road, the voices of Heather and her friend replaying in the back of your head as you pulled into the driveway of the marital home, the large FOR SALE sign staring at you. 

Skillfully unclipping Hope out of the carseat, you brought her inside and placed her in her crib. The moment you finally sat down on the couch and closed your eyes, your phone began to vibrate in your pocket. 

"Oh great," you sighed, pulling it out of your pocket.

The caller ID was ESTATE AGENT, JULIEN.

"Hello, Julien?" you answered, remembering to turn on the baby monitor, making sure your end was silent. 

"Good afternoon," Julien sounded excited, answering quickly, "I have some good news!"

"What is it?" you asked, forcing back a yawn. 

"We’ve received an official offer on the property. It’s a young family moving in from the city, they are cash buyers, looking for a forever home. They’ve offered five percent above the asking price on the condition of a quick closing."

Young Family. Forever Home.

That was you and Steve once. Looking for a forever home to begin expanding your family. Both new to your jobs, working tirelessly and saving every penny. 

You didn't want to accept out of fear that what was once a loving home, was cursed by Steve's actions, now rotting at the foundations - but the sale of this house would be your chance to leave and start over, in a new house you could turn into a safe home without lies smeared across the walls; it would be the last act of severing your link to Steve.

"The house is theirs," you finally breathed, "Tell them they have a deal."

Julien smiled through the phone, "Wonderful, now that's not all."

You closed your eyes again, removing your hovering thumb away from the off button. 

"I know you were looking for a new property to move into for you and your kids in the area, with plenty of space."

You hesitated for a moment, "Yes?"

"Well, theres a five-bed bungalow, ten minutes away from your current home."

"What? You're joking-" 

"No," Julien laughed, "It's spacious with a beautiful garden, the decor is dated but I think this property would be perfect for you and the kids. The family who were here before you kept it in their family and have taken good care of this house, I think... I think it's a sign."

When discussing the type of home you were looking for, you made it clear to Julien that you didn't want stairs. You were firm that whatever home you'd end up in, would be the home you wanted to retire in, to hold your grandchildren in; you couldn't move again after this, you wanted to settle down, properly this time as a single mom.

"I want to see this home, Julien. When can we go?"

"How does tomorrow at ten sound?"

Tomorrow, Ten. Steve will have the kids, he'll be here to pick up Hope by the time I get back.

"Perfect. I’ll be there."

As you hung up, you no longer felt tired enough for a nap. You were wide awake, anxious, excited, and buzzing with the desperation that you could finally escape this house.

"I can't believe it," you whispered, "I'm actually getting out of this house."

The school bell rang, which meant your two eldest kids, Rose and James, were responsible for rounding up their younger siblings as they spilt out of their classes, dreading another weekend with their dad.

Steve hadn't yet found the right place in Hawkins to resettle because he hadn't fully accepted that the marital home wouldn't be his again. Steve still believed he could win you back and repeatedly pushed back property searches. 

He was standing in front of his minivan, leaning against the bonnet, watching the sea of colourful backpacks and jackets pour out of the brick building.

Steve had tried to look tidy today; he made an effort, shaving away his rough bristles, pushing his greying hair back, and threw on a clean sweater he had washed and dried the night before. 

The twins noticed him first as Steve lifted his arm up, waving them over with a nervous smile. They ran over to Steve with their heavy backpacks bouncing against their small frames, and Steve’s nervous smile grew larger as he dropped to one knee, catching them both in a wide hug, burying his face in their necks for a second too long, taking in their scent.

 "Hey, fellas! Oh, I missed you. I missed you so much."

Rose and James dragged their feet behind the twins; neither of them smiled, and they hung back a little, not wanting to get any closer to their dad.

Steve noticed the drastic change in behaviour when it came to Rose and James; he had several arguments with them last week when they refused to get in the car, it got so heated you had to walk out the house and force them into the car.

Steve stood up, his smile faltering as he watched them approach. 

"Hey, Rose, James. Fancy pizza tonight? We could finish watching that film series we started last week?"

Rose stopped three feet away, with her arms tightly crossed over her chest. She didn't look at her dad's face; she stared down at his shoes and shrugged.

"I've got a history project to finish, and I’m not hungry."

Steve frowned but didn't give up, "I can always help you with it-"

"She doesn't need your help," James interrupted, walking past his dad without a second glance and climbing into the back seat, staring out the opposite window.

"We’re only here because the judge said we had to be. Can we go now? I'm tired." Rose huffed, forcing herself to sit in the passenger seat.

Steve stood frozen for a moment, his chest aching at how his eldest were treating him. He understood why, and he knew deep down that this treatment was well deserved, but it still killed him inside. It only seemed like yesterday when Rose and James were small, babbling away at each other and fighting over who cuddled with dad first; now they were making it clear they didn't like their dad, at all. 

The joyful giggling of the twins carried into the backseat as Steve got them buckled in. He glanced at Hope's car seat, missing her, and reminded himself that it would only be a couple more months until he could have her overnight. He cleared his throat and walked around to the driver's side, buckling himself in, checking his watch before picking up his fourth child, and eventually, Hope. 

The dining room at the Harringtons was the polar opposite of the warm, chaotic kitchen the kids were used to. Steve's parents hated conversation at the dinner table and often found themselves constantly arguing with the twins, who struggled with different tastes and textures. As a result of too many tears, Steve and the kids ate first and quickly, before Mr and Mrs Harrington occupied the space for the evening. 

Steve sat at the head of the long mahogany table, where his father would always sit, and his eyes would stare at the empty sat across from him, wishing that you wre there; giggling and chatting away, spoon feeding Hope as she wriggled and cooed away in her highchair. 

The smaller kids helped themselves to the pizza, but Rose and James remained stubborn, not bothering to grab a slice. 

"So," Steve started, double-checking the temperature of Hope's baby food, "I'm going to start looking at a new place for us, maybe an apartment near the park with a great pool with enough room for everyone—"

"We don't want an apartment," Rose snapped, picking up her glass of soda, bringing it to her lips. "We want our home."

Steve’s face fell, "I know it's a big change, I don't like it either but-"

James scoffed, "You're the one who caused all this," his voice cracked, "it's your fault!"

Steve sighed, his eyes beginning to sting. "James, please-"

"Please what?" James raised his voice, pushing his chair out as it screeched against the hard wood.

Steve clipped the bib on Hop, stroking her cheek with his index finger, dropping his tone. "Not in front of the younger ones."

"You've ruined everything!" Rose started up again, standing up and leaving the table, storming off. "I hate you!" she shouted, "I hate what you've done!"

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, the spoon with baby food hovering in the air, Hope trying to grab it with her tiny hands.

"Sit down, James," Steve pleaded, reaching out for his hand across the table.

James watched Hope coo away, with no clue of what was going on, happy and hungry. He slapped his dad's hand away and left the dining room, hurrying to his sisters aid. 

Rose, James, and Steve couldn't sleep. All three of them were crying over the argument, over the breakdown of the happy life they wanted so badly. You, on the other hand, got an early night once Steve dropped Hope off, who was calm and sleepy with a belly full of mushed carrot. 

You woke up early, got Hope bathed and dressed, gave her some milk before Steve picked her up, the morning air was lighter today, and the sky was clearer. The birds singing put your worries at ease as you finally pulled up the curb of a quiet, tree-lined cul-de-sac. 

The bungalow you were excited to view sat nestled behind a low stone wall, its white-painted bricks and large windows gleaming in the sunlight, looking like something from one of the twins' bedtime storybooks. Getting out of the car, you were greeted by Julien, who stood by the front door with a warm smile. 

"Right on time!" He beamed.

You smiled back, walking over to him, already scanning the front porch.

"I'm surprised I got any sleep," you laughed, "I'm so excited to get in there, Julien."

As you entered the bungalow, you were met with a wide, open-plan hallway that lead you to a rather spacious living area bathed in the morning light. Julien mentioned over the phone that the bungalow had dated decor, and you couldn't help but let out a light laugh at the 70s orange and brown geometric wallpaper.

"My mom will love this wallpaper." You hummed.

"Dated, as I mentioned." Julien laughed, trailing behind, "But it's all on one level, as we discussed, with five bedrooms and two bathrooms, and of course the garden."

From room to room, you imagined your future with the kids, the twins doing homework at one end of the marble-top kitchen island, Rose getting ready for prom in the bathroom with James banging on the door, telling her to hurry up because he wanted a bath and not a shower. 

You wandered into what would be your bedroom and stood in the centre, taking a deep breath. For the first time in over thirteen years, you could have your own room. It could be any colour you wanted, with curtains or blinds to match or not match.

You could have as many cushions or pillows as you wanted, or toss them on the floor if you didn't. You could sleep peacefully in a new room, a new house, that would never have Steve spend the night.

Coming to the last leg of the viewing, you pushed open the French doors leading to the back garden. The tall and trimmed hedges offered privacy, and you were blown away by the well-maintained sea of green grass which stretched to the very back of the garen where an Apple tree hid in the corner. 

"Oh my god," you whispered to yourself, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips, "I'll take it," you said almost breathlessly, turning back to Julien. "I can see myself and the kids here. Please tell the owners they've got a buyer."

The sound of the front door opening on Sunday evenings was always followed by the heavy, sluggish footsteps of five children who wanted to eat their dinner, complain about their dad and his parents before getting ready for bed. Tonight was no different; they looked exhausted. Rose carried her baby sister, who was sleeping peacefully against her chest. 

"In the living room, kids," you called out softly, ushering them toward the sofa. "I have some news!"

From the way they entered the house, you knew they didn't spot the massive SOLD sign outside, and you were quite relieved of it. Had they seen it, you would probably be the subject of complaint for the night, not Steve.

You took Hope from Rose's arms and sat on the edge of the coffee table, facing your children. 

"This house has been sold," you began, trying to keep your voice steady. "We’re going to be moving into our new home in the next few weeks. It’s a beautiful bungalow, only a few minutes away from here, with a huge garden for you to play in, and enough rooms so everyone has their own space. It’s going to be our new start."

The kids were quiet for a moment, Rose and James exchanging looks before the twins burst into tears, "I don't want to leave!" the shorter one wailed, "I like it here!"

You frowned as their little faces turned blotchy and red, "Hey," you said softly, "everything we own in this house will come with us... your toys, your bunk bed, all of it."

Rose nodded and James, "Does this mean we'll still have to keep going there?" she asked, her voice flat.

You paused. "To your grandparents' house?"

"To see him," James hissed. "Mom, he’s pathetic. All he does is try to buy us with take out pizza, video games, or whatever the twins beg him for. He isn't trying."

"The judge made an order, James," you reminded him, your heart aching. "Until you’re older, the law says you have to spend that time with your father. I can’t change that, and I don't want to."

"So we’re being forced to see him?" Rose's eyes flashed with a sudden, sharp anger. "He’s the one who ruined everything. We have to leave our home, and spend weekends in a house where  his parents treat us like problem children."

"I know it’s not fair," you sighed, stroking the back of Hope's head, "None of this is. But I need to get back on my feet, find a job so I can make my own money so we can decorate this new home together. I promise that in two years none of this will matter anymore."

"Well, I’m never going to forgive him," Rose whispered, her eyes filling with tears, "James won't either."

She walked toward the stairs, James following close behind her, leaving you in the centre of a room filled with the sobs of your younger children.

Steve was still parked outside, the engine of his minivan rumbling lowly. He watched the kids walk inside ten minutes ago, the twins giving him a quick cuddle, Rose and James ignoring him, but he still couldn't bring himself to drive off just yet. He couldn't face his mother and father again tonight. He needed to escape.

As he stared at the front door of the house he once lived in, he could almost the chorus of goodnights from the kids, their laughter and squeals as they fought to have their teeth brushed, and the whimpers of Hope stirring in her sleep, needing a feed. He closed his eyes, remembering what your voice sounded like when you climbed into bed next to him, kissing him, telling him how much you loved him before going to sleep. 

He sighed and forced his eyes open, reaching for the gear shift. Shifting the car into reverse, his headlights swung across the front lawn, cutting through the darkness and illuminating the real estate sign at the edge of the driveway. 

SOLD.

Steve slammed the minivan back into park, his breath hitching as he jolted in the seat. He leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching the windshield, staring at the word as if he could make it disappear by sheer force of will.

He knew it was for sale. He had signed the papers in that miserable café, and watched the FOR SALE sign go up, but this... SOLD was different; his precious memories were being snatched away from him; the heights of his children marked on the pantry door would be painted over without a second thought. 

"No," he whispered, his voice cracking. "No, no, no, fuck!"

He looked back at the house, his eyes frantic, desperate to jump out of the car and run to the door, and pound on it until you came out. He wanted to beg at your feet, and force you to listen to him apologise over and over until the sun came out, but he couldn't move, he couldn't even breathe.

Steve looked up to your bedroom window, watching as your shadow passed by, carrying Hope in your arms. He gripped the steering wheel as his vision blurred with tears, forcing himself to pull away and drive down the street, glaring at the sign as it disappeared in his rearview mirror. 

End of Part 8

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Steve sat in his car outside the Wheeler house, gripping the steering wheel like it might somehow help him make a better decision.

This was a terrible idea. A really terrible idea.

He leaned his head back against the headrest and stared up at the roof of the car. “This isn’t weird,” he muttered to himself. “You’re helping someone. That’s a normal thing to do.”

The silence stretched for a second before he exhaled.

“…God, this is weird.”

It had only been three days since everything with the Demogorgon. Three days since Four had shown up at his house looking exhausted and unsure where she was supposed to stand. Three days of her quietly wearing whatever clothes Steve could find that were small enough to almost work.

At first, it hadn’t seemed like a problem. His old t-shirts hung on her like dresses, and the sweatpants only needed the waistband rolled twice to stay up. It worked.

Until Steve had been doing laundry earlier that afternoon and realized something that made his brain short-circuit completely.

She didn’t have anything else.

Which meant he had to go buy clothes. Which meant buying things like socks and shirts and-

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, dragging a hand down his face.

Underwear. And bras.

He sat up again, glancing toward the Wheeler house like it might somehow judge him for even being here. There was absolutely no way he was walking into the women’s section of a store by himself and figuring that out.

So here he was.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Steve exhaled sharply, pushed the car door open, and stepped out.

The air was cool as he crossed the driveway, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his jacket. Halfway up the walkway he slowed, suddenly aware of how ridiculous this entire situation felt. Nancy Wheeler was the last person he expected to be asking for help with something like this, especially considering they weren’t even dating anymore.

He stopped in front of the door, hesitating long enough for doubt to creep back in.

Maybe he should just leave.

No. Too late now.

Before he could reconsider again, Steve lifted his hand and knocked. The sound echoed a little too loudly in the quiet evening, and he immediately regretted it.

Footsteps approached from inside. A moment later, the door opened, revealing Nancy Wheeler staring at him in surprise.

“Steve?”

For a second, neither of them said anything. Nancy blinked, clearly trying to figure out why he was standing on her porch looking like he’d just been handed the worst homework assignment of his life.

Steve opened his mouth to answer and immediately realized he had no idea how to start this conversation.

Nancy seemed to pick up on that quickly. She stepped outside and pulled the door closed behind her, giving them a little privacy before folding her arms lightly. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” Steve said quickly. “Yeah, everything’s fine. I just- I needed to ask you something.”

Nancy waited.

Steve ran a hand through his hair, already regretting the words that were about to come out of his mouth. “This is going to sound weird.”

Nancy’s eyebrows lifted slightly. “Steve…”

“It’s not weird weird,” he rushed to clarify. “Not like- not in a creepy way or anything.”

That didn’t seem to help.

Nancy studied him for another moment, clearly growing more suspicious the longer he struggled to explain himself. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Steve exhaled slowly. “You remember… Four, right?” He made a slight face when he said it, like it left a bad taste in his mouth.

Nancy nodded after a moment. “Of course.”

“Yeah. That’s- yeah.” Steve shifted his weight awkwardly. “She doesn’t really… have clothes.”

Nancy tilted her head slightly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean technically she does,” Steve said quickly, gesturing vaguely with his hands. “But they’re mine. Like…all of them.”

Nancy glanced down at his jacket before looking back up.

“And that’s been fine for the most part,” Steve continued, the words starting to come faster now. “Shirts, sweatpants, whatever. But then I realized earlier that there are other things she probably needs.”

Nancy’s expression slowly shifted as she pieced it together.

Steve rubbed the back of his neck. “…underwear.”

Nancy stared at him.

“And bras,” Steve added, already miserable about the conversation.

For a second she just blinked at him before saying slowly, “You came here because you need help buying a girl underwear.”

Steve immediately pointed at her. “Yes. Exactly that. Thank you.”

Nancy let out a small breath that was dangerously close to laughter, shaking her head slightly. “I did not expect this conversation today.”

“Neither did I,” Steve said.

She studied him again, noticing the way he kept shifting nervously like he was worried he’d said the wrong thing somehow. It was… surprisingly considerate of him.

Nancy sighed lightly and uncrossed her arms. ”Okay. I’ll help.”

Steve visibly relaxed. “Seriously?”

“Yes, Steve. Seriously.”

Nancy reached for the door, then paused. “Do you at least know what size she wears?”

Steve hesitated.

Nancy looked back over her shoulder. “…Steve.”

He grimaced slightly. “Well, she’s been wearing my clothes. So no.”

Nancy closed her eyes briefly before opening the door. “Give me a minute. I need to tell my mom I’m going out.”

Steve nodded quickly. “Yeah. Okay.”

Nancy disappeared inside, leaving Steve standing alone on the Wheeler porch again, feeling, for the first time since he’d pulled up, like this might actually work.

The bell above the door chimed softly as they stepped into the shop. Warm air wrapped around them almost immediately, carrying the faint scent of detergent and something floral Steve couldn’t quite place. The place was small, but neat. Rows of folded sweaters, racks organized by color, a few mannequins in the window dressed like they belonged in a catalog.

It felt slow.

Steve lingered near the entrance for half a second too long before following Nancy inside.

She moved through the store like she’d been there before, fingers brushing over fabrics, pausing just long enough to check sizes before pulling things from racks. Steve trailed behind her, arms steadily filling with whatever she handed him. First a couple shirts, then shorts, then a pair of sweatpants that looked like they might actually fit without being rolled twice.

“These should work,” Nancy said, glancing over her shoulder briefly.

Steve nodded, adjusting his grip as another item got added to the growing pile. He didn’t really know what working meant in this context, but Nancy seemed confident, and that was enough.

For a while, it was easy. Normal clothes and in safe territory. He could do this part.

Nancy moved on to a small display of socks, picking out a few pairs without much thought. Steve shifted the stack in his arms again, trying to keep everything balanced as it threatened to slide.

“This is a lot,” he muttered under his breath.

Nancy didn’t look up. “She doesn’t have anything, Steve.”

“I know,” he said quickly. “I just- yeah. I know.”

The words came out softer than he meant them to.

Nancy glanced at him then, just briefly, before turning back to the rack. She stepped back like she was assessing everything she’d picked so far.

“Okay,” she said. “That should cover most of it.”

Steve nodded again, relieved. “Good. Great. Awesome. We’re done.”

Nancy didn’t answer. Instead, she turned toward the back of the store.

Steve followed her line of sight and immediately felt his stomach drop.

“Nope.”

Nancy paused mid-step and looked back at him.

“Nope,” Steve repeated, already shaking his head. “No, I’m gonna wait right here.”

Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Steve.”

“I’m serious,” he said, tightening his hold on the clothes as if that somehow proved his point. “This is where I tap out.”

Nancy sighed, the sound quiet but long-suffering. “You’re not ‘tapping out.’ You’re helping.”

“I am helping,” Steve insisted. He shifted the stack again, nearly dropping a shirt in the process before catching it against his chest. “Look at this. This is helpful. I’m doing great.”

Nancy crossed her arms. “You’re coming with me.”

Steve didn’t move.

Nancy stared at him for a second, unimpressed.

“It’s just underwear.”

Steve made a face, his gaze immediately darting anywhere but in that direction. The ceiling, the racks racks, the front window. Anywhere.

“That’s exactly the problem.”

Nancy let out a short breath, clearly fighting the urge to laugh. “It’s not like you’ve never seen this stuff before.”

“That’s not the point,” Steve shot back quickly. He shifted the clothes again, buying himself a second before lowering his voice slightly. “I don’t want to be a creep.”

Nancy blinked.

That… wasn’t the reaction she’d expected.

Steve exhaled, glancing toward the back of the store again before looking away just as fast. “She doesn’t have anything,” he said, quieter now. “I don’t even know what I’m supposed to be looking for, and I’m not about to just guess at it. That feels… weird.”

He hesitated, then added, a little more firmly, “Wrong, actually.”

Nancy watched him for a moment, her expression shifting as the pieces clicked into place.

He wasn’t embarrassed in the way she’d assumed. He was trying to be careful.

Steve adjusted the pile in his arms again, the movement restless. “She should at least get some privacy with this stuff,” he continued. “Like.. it’s hers. I don’t need to be involved in every part of it.”

There was a small pause between them, the kind that settled instead of stretched. Nancy’s shoulders dropped just slightly.

“Okay,” she said.

Steve blinked. “Okay?”

“I’ll handle it,” she repeated, already turning toward the section. “Just stay here and try not to drop everything.”

Steve let out a quiet breath of relief. “Oh, I won’t. This is my entire job now.”

Nancy rolled her eyes, but there was no bite to it as she disappeared between the racks in the back.

Steve stayed exactly where he was, standing in the middle of the store with an armful of clothes and nowhere to put them. For a second, he considered setting everything down, but the idea of reorganizing it later felt like more work than just holding it. So he stayed, waiting.

A few minutes passed.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, then back again, glancing around the store in an attempt to look like he absolutely belonged there and wasn’t counting down the seconds until Nancy came back.

An older woman behind the counter looked up briefly, offering him a polite smile before returning to whatever she’d been doing.

Steve nodded back awkwardly.

This was fine. Totally normal.

Just a guy standing in a clothing store holding a pile of girls’ clothes.

Nothing weird about that.

He adjusted the stack again as something slipped, catching it just in time with his elbow.

“Don’t drop it,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s the one thing you’re supposed to do.”

From the back of the store, he could hear the faint rustle of hangers shifting, the soft scrape of fabric being moved aside.

Then Nancy’s voice, distant.

“Do you think she’d prefer these or something softer?”

Steve froze.

“…I’m not answering that!” he called back immediately.

There was a beat of silence.

Then Nancy’s muffled laugh.

Steve had dropped Nancy off a few minutes earlier, thanking her quietly before heading home.

By the time he pulled into his driveway, the house was dark.

He grabbed the bags from the passenger seat, adjusting them against his arm before heading up the walkway. The porch light flickered on above him as he reached the door, casting everything in that familiar warm glow.

The lock clicked as he pushed it open.

Four stood just inside the doorway like she had been waiting, her posture still in that way she got when she wasn’t sure if she was supposed to move first or not. One of his t-shirts hung past her thighs, the sleeves too long, the collar slipping slightly off one shoulder.

Steve paused for half a second, something in his chest easing at the sight of her.

“Hey,” he said, softer than he meant to.

Four’s eyes dropped almost immediately to the bags in his hands.

Steve noticed.

He shifted them slightly, lifting one just enough for her to see. “Got you some stuff.”

She didn’t move right away, just looked at the bags like she wasn’t entirely sure what that meant.

“It’s-“ Steve hesitated, then shrugged lightly. “Clothes. Actual ones. That might, you know… fit.”

She stepped a little closer, quiet and careful, her attention fixed entirely on what he was holding. After a second, she reached out and took one of the bags from him, fingers curling around the handles like she expected it to be taken back.

“…for me?” she asked, her voice quiet but clearer than it had been a few days ago.

Steve’s expression softened without him really thinking about it. “Yeah. For you.”

That seemed to settle something.

He huffed out a small breath, half nervous, half amused, and gestured with his head toward the stairs. “C’mon.”

He turned and started up, not checking if she followed, because she always did.

Sure enough, he could hear her behind him, light steps trailing a pace or two back as they moved through the house. It had become a kind of routine over the last few days. If he was home, she wasn’t far. If he moved, she followed.

He didn’t mind.

By the time he pushed open his bedroom door, she was right there at his shoulder, stopping just short of stepping inside until he did first.

Steve crossed the room and dropped the remaining bags onto his bed, the fabric rustling softly as he let go. “Okay,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “So Nancy helped. I didn’t just, like, guess. For the record.”

Four lingered near the door for a moment before stepping further in, her gaze moving between Steve and the bags like she wasn’t sure which one to focus on.

Steve shifted his weight, glancing at the bags and then back at her. “You can, uh, try stuff on. If you want.”

Four didn’t react to the awkwardness, just nodded once, before turning toward the bathroom.

The door closed softly behind her.

Steve let out a breath the second she disappeared, sitting on the edge of his bed with his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together as he stared at the floor.

This was fine.

Everything was fine.

A few minutes passed and he could hear faint movement from the bathroom, the soft shift of fabric, and the quiet creak of the floor.

Then the door opened and Steve looked up.

Four stood in the doorway, hesitating for just a second before stepping into the room.

She was wearing one of the sweaters Nancy had picked out.

It fit. Not oversized or slipping off her shoulders. Not something she had to hold in place.

It fit.

Steve blinked once, then pushed himself to his feet.

“Better?” he asked.

Four glanced down at herself, fingers brushing lightly over the fabric like she was still getting used to how it felt.

“…it fits,” she said, almost like she wasn’t used to that being true.

Steve nodded once, like that settled it. “Good.”

There was a small pause.

Then Four shifted slightly, her grip tightening just a little on the hem of the sweater before she looked back at him.

She didn’t say anything else.

She didn’t have to.

Steve glanced at the rest of the bags on the bed, then back at her. “There’s more in there,” he said. “You can go through it. Keep whatever you want.”

She nodded again, a little more certain this time.

“…okay.”

Four moved past him without hesitating now, stepping up to the bed and reaching for the bags on her own.

Steve watched her for a second, then looked away, giving her the space without making a thing out of it.

He clapped his hands together softly, breaking the quiet before offering her a small smile.

You also couldn't keep any food down, no matter how much or little you ate or drank, it all just came right back up; you tried everything that promised to keep morning sickness at bay, and you were starting to loathe the taste of ginger, the smell alone giving you intense headaches.

Whilst you were going through the hardest twelve weeks of your life so far, growing Steve's lifetime wish, he too was constantly being sick and suffering from exhaustion. You were sure it was his body picking up on your symptoms, even if your pregnancies had never physically affected him like this before, but you couldn't be any further from the truth.

When your eyes finally closed for a few hours each night, Steve's bloodshot and dry eyes were glued to you, the sight of you sleeping so peacefully without a clue that he fucked someone else was eating him alive; every time you flashed him a smile, kissed him, or cuddled up to him in bed, the knife sank further into his skin, slowly torturing him alive. 

The once peaceful and calming silence of the night that came when the house was still, and the kids were fast asleep, had now been plagued by the memory of the other woman's moans tangled with Steve's, and the sound of her chanting his name echoed off the walls, getting louder and louder as he tried harder and harder to sleep the taunts of his mistake away. 

When Steve got dressed infront of the mirror he could see the marks of her lips and hands all over him, such a sight left him red and raw after he would spend far too much time in the shower scrubbing away at the skin on his chest, back, and arms; you noticed how dry and cracked his skin became, and you forced Steve to let you be the one to gently rub and massage the thick and soothing lotion onto his skin that helped aid your tweens psoriasis flare ups. 

Steve sat on the edge of his side of the bed with his back facing you, like he did every night. You crawled onto the bed behind him, with the lotion in one hand as you slowly scooted behind him, you wrapped your arms around him, pressing a kiss on his spine and frowning at the red and angry cracks in his skin. Steve flinched and moved away from you. 

"What's your problem, Steve?" You huffed, watching him leap off the bed, "You flinch away from me every time I go to do this, the lotion can't be that cold!" 

Steve hated the look of frustration and hurt on your face, he tried to tell you the truth, like the night after he cheated, he drove, but he was a greater coward than anyone ever gave him credit for. 

"I'm so sorry baby," he panicked, forcing himself to sit down on the bed again, "my skin is just so sore, it's painful when anything touches it."

You sighed, wasting no time pumping the lotion into the palm of your hand, using your index and middle finger on the opposite hand to scoop it up in little bits at a time. 

"Please go and see a doctor, Steve," you muttered, trying not to sound too firm, "If it's stress from work or the pregnancy, I'm pretty sure they can give you something to help calm you down a little bit these days. It won't be long until you can get the green stuff on prescription, I overheard the pharmacist talking about it when I picked up my vitamins."

How can I possibly explain to the doctor that my stress is the result of me cheating on my pregnant wife? 

Steve jolted when you spread the lotion across his back and slowly massaged it into his skin with the pad of your thumb. "I'll make an appointment if it doesn't get better by next week," Steve replied quietly, feeling your touch go over the marks he tried so hard to scrub away. 

"You said that last week, sweetheart," you hummed, "Oh, I forgot! It's my twelve-week scan at the hospital tomorrow, I think they'll be doing some blood work too." 

"My boss is well informed," Steve forced himself to lean into your touch, his heart breaking even more against your pure-hearted care for him, he no longer deserved, "I don't want to miss it."

-

The hospital in Hawkins always brought back the memories of your births with the other children, Steve holding your hand when you were on the bed or the birthing stool as he guided your pushing, the pain building and building until the beautiful cries of your bundle of joy pierced through the room. 

Steve sat in the hard plastic chair, his leg bouncing with nerves that he tried to pass off as excitement, his hand gripped yours as your head rested on his shoulder. 

"Strange, isn't it?" you said quietly.

Steve's attention focused on the other couples around him, deep in conversations about baby names or what they needed to buy for the nursery, all happy and excited. He noticed that many of the young couples didn't have gold bands on their ring fingers, bound first by a new life rather than the tradition of marriage, which was so different compared to the couples he saw the first time he ever set foot in this waiting room. 

If she finds out, you'll end up a divorcee, stuck seeing the kids on weekends.

"Steve?"

"Hm?" Steve broke out of his thoughts at the sound of your voice.

"We won't be coming here again after this baby is born." You repeated, "Our firsts with this baby are also our lasts. It's a strange, bittersweet feeling, isn't it?"

The realisation made Steve's blood run cold: the last scans, the last time you'll have a growing bump and feel the baby kick, the last birth you'll ever get through like a champ. 

If you tell her now, you'll ruin all of this for her; she'll look at the baby and be reminded of what you've done.

Steve opened his mouth, but quickly stopped when the tall and fresh-faced Sonographer called you into her room. Steve followed behind you as you entered, climbing onto the exam table and lying on your back. She applied a generous amount of the cold gel that always made you jump, moving around the baby.

She kept quiet for a moment, pressing different buttons and listening to the blood flow over and over. You knew she needed to focus, making sure that she could spot any abnormalities if there were any. She turned the monitor, pointing to the faint flicker on the screen, which made both you and Steve exhale in relief. You reached out and grasped Steve's hand.

"There's the heartbeat, strong and steady. They are measuring a little small; they are a week or two behind, so we'll need you to come in for follow-up scans. Your OBGYN will talk to you about this before you leave. He's going to run some repeat bloods and discuss your care plan."

"Is the baby being small anything to worry about?" Steve asked, standing up from his seat, "Our other kids never measured small."

"It could be related to your wife's age; her age bracket means that her pregnancy is deemed high risk. Your OBGYN will explain everything and, as you probably already know, he'll answer any questions you have." She gave Steve a kind smile and printed off a scan picture of the baby and a growth chart, scratching estimates and numbers onto it, tucking them inside your notes. 

The blood draw was over and done by the time you heard "just a sharp scratch", and you were seen to rather quickly compared to the younger moms-to-be who kept running off to the toilet. 

Your OBGYN wasted no time diving into the risks of a pregnancy at your age, handing you leaflets that felt like threats looming around the corner.

GESTATIONAL DIABETES, GESTATIONAL HYPERTENSION, PRE-ECLAMPSIA

"Now these are all things to be mindful of," your OBGYN added, "it doesn't mean it's going to happen, and under my care, I'll make sure that you're in safe hands. It's just more common for mothers of your age... awareness increases a safer outcome for both you and baby." 

The titles burned into your hopeful eyes and made your excitement turn into more of a worry.

Steve felt like a parasite, the guilt clawing deeper into his chest, knowing his selfishness and demands for another child put you at greater risk than he ever before.

He hated the constant reminder that you weren't a young girl anymore, and that you were a year or two away from forty, as if you were being punished by professionals for having a baby in your later years. He hated that he traded you in for a younger woman who never knew the marathon of pregnancy and childbirth.

"Your blood work will take a few days to come back. If there's anything serious, we'll call you. No news is good news in our line of work," he hesitated for a moment before scribbling onto a piece of paper, handing it to you.

"Your sickness could be Hypremasis Gravidarum, for some it goes away by twenty weeks, but for others they are still suffering from it after the birth. I've prescribed you some stronger anti-sickness medication. If your sickness gets worse and you become dehydrated at any point, please come in right away."

-

Steve dropped you off at home, leaving you to try and get a few hours of sleep before the kids came home from school screaming, shouting, and fighting over the TV remote. Steve insisted that he'd pick up your prescription and some treats for the kids to buy their silence so you could nap. 

He waited in the long line of sluggish pensioners with their wooden walking sticks, staring at a display of a new brand of throat sweets, when a voice cut through the chatter and rustling notes between the Pharmacists; he knew the voice. The last time he heard it, it reminded him of a version of himself he didn't know anymore. 

"Steve!" 

Steve spun around. Dustin Henderson was standing there gripping a colour-coded pillbox, looking closer to thirty, sporting a vintage Ghostbusters sweatshirt. He stepped forward and pulled Steve into a one-armed hug.

"Dustin," Steve said, his voice cracking. "Hey, man. What are you... What are you doing here?"

Steve hadn't seen him in years; he had been the success story Mr Clarke always spoke proudly about up until his retirement. Dustin took his genius and ran, leaving Hawkins behind, with the exception of the occasional visit here and there to see his mom and Steve.

Seeing Dustin in the pharmacy when he was supposed to be in a high-rise somewhere felt jarring. 

"My mom," Dustin sighed, the light in his eyes dimming. "She's not been great, Steve. Her memory... It's deteriorating much quicker than the doctors expected, than I expected. I've been packing up the house, my fiancée and I are moving her in with us so we can care for her and her three cats." A smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

Steve looked at the young kid who became his little brother, his shadow, who was facing a devastating part of life with grace and acceptance. Dustin returned to Hawkins out of a sense of duty and love, to protect his mother, whilst Steve left you and the kids behind to destroy the Harrington Kingdom you spent over a decade building.

"I'm sorry, Henderson," Steve frowned, for a second, he wasn't sure if he was talking about Dustin's mom or himself.

"Are you okay, Steve?" Dustin asked, his brow furrowing as he tilted his head, "You look a little thin since we last met."

No, I'm not okay, and it's all my fault. I'm a liar. I'm a cheat.

"The sixth one is on the way," Steve said, forcing a laugh, "The house is chaos with constant bickering between the eldest kids and then the tears and messy handprints with the youngest. I'm just tired, Henderson."

The conversation shifted from the pharmacy to the parking lot once Steve grabbed your meds, and Dustin paid for his mother's pill-box, the automatic doors taking forever to close behind them. Dustin was still talking, his hands moving with the same frantic energy as he detailed the nightmare of moving his mother across state lines and finding her a new doctor that will accept her insurance plan.

"She asks for my dad, Steve. Every morning," Dustin sighed, leaning against the side of his SUV. "And I have to tell her the truth every single time. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do... being honest when you know it'll hurt them."

Steve stopped dead in his tracks, the plastic pharmacy bag crinkling loudly in his grip. The word honest twisting the knife. He looked at Dustin, seeing a glimpse of the kid who looked up to him and relied on Steve for guidance in his time of need.

Don't tell him, he shouldn't have to carry YOUR burden on his shoulders.

"I did something, Dustin," Steve blurted out.

Dustin paused, his car keys halfway to the lock. He frowned, his head tilting in that old, inquisitive way. "Did What? Steve, you look like you're about to vomit."

Steve looked around the half-empty parking lot, his paranoia peaking. 

"My wife and I were struggling to conceive for over a year, and I... I thought... I thought we were over. I thought the marriage was dead because we couldn't have the sixth kid." Steve swallowed hard, his eyes filling with tears, "I lied to her, I told her I was at a business meeting, but I was with another woman for the night."

The silence became suffocating, and Dustin's hand slowly dropped from the door handle.

"You're shitting me." Dustin's tone went cold, his gaze hardening.

"I realised my mistake as soon as I did it, and I came home to tell her. I was going to be honest, but she was standing there with the pregnancy test. I-I panicked."

Dustin continued to stare at him,  "And did you tell her? After she showed you the test?"

"How could I?" Steve stepped forward, his hands out in a pleading gesture. "It'll kill her. I keep waiting for the right time, but it never comes."

Dustin stood his ground, his face hardened into an expression of pure loathing, which Steve had only seen once before.

"There will never be a right time, Steve. You're letting her live a lie because you're too much of a coward to face the consequences!"

"I'm trying to protect her!" Steve hissed, his eyes stinging.

"Protect her?" Dustin jabbed a finger toward Steve's chest. "You're only protecting yourself!" He wrenched his car door open, tossing the pillbox into the passenger seat.

Steve panicked, rushing closer to Dustin's door "Dustin, wait—"

"No! Stay away from me, Steve." Dustin climbed into the driver's seat. "Don't call me. Don't check in. Be a man and stop being such a damn coward, fucking tell her!" 

Dustin slammed his door shut, twisting his keys and starting up the engine. Dustin peeled out of the lot, leaving Steve standing alone in the shadow of the pharmacy, clutching your anti-sickness meds.

-

Your eyes slowly blinked open, the sound of the kids brushing their teeth with their electric musical toothbrushes, the catchy musical notes travelled through the wall.

"Steve?" You yawned, slowly sitting up in bed. 

"Hey," he whispered, his voice thick as he saw your eyes flutter open. "How did you sleep?"

"How long was I out?" The blanket slid to your waist, your hand going over your stomach.

"A while, baby. You needed it." He stood up, crossing the room to sit on the bed. 

"I got the meds; you need to take them twice a day with food." Steve hesitated for a moment, "I ran into Dustin when I was there."

Your face lit up, "Dustin? Is he okay? Is his fiancée with him?"

Steve's face dropped.

Be a man and stop being such a damn coward, fucking tell her!

"He's... he's okay, just dealing with a lot. His mom isn't doing well, her memory is fading fast, so he's moving her out of Hawkins to live with them so they can take care of her."

"Oh, Steve," you sighed, reaching out to take his hand as you crawled closer to him. "That's awful. You have his address, right? We should send them something. Maybe flowers, or a card so they know we're thinking of them."

Steve didn't pull his hand away, but his fingers twitched. "He was in a rush. I don't think we'll be seeing much of him for a while."

You didn't notice the finality in his tone; you were too busy pulling him closer and guiding his hand until it was resting right over your stomach.

"Can you believe it?" you whispered, "After everything that doctor told me and the months of feeling like I was failing you... we've got what we've always wanted. I know they're a little small, but it'll all work out in the end."

Steve looked down at his hand on your stomach, a sacred connection between the three of you.

"I never thought you were failing me," he choked out, "I was the one who... I was the one who couldn't handle the wait."

"We're past the waiting now," you leaned forward and pressed your forehead against his. "I know what the risks are, but I don't want to hide our baby in fear... I want to celebrate, Steve. In a few weeks, I'm going to start showing, and I want the kids, and our parents, and everyone to know."

"Everyone?"

"A reveal party," you suggested, a smile blooming on your face. "Nothing huge, just family. My parents, your parents, the kids. We'll get a small cake, maybe not balloons, as you know what the twins are like, but I want our parents to see that we're finally whole. I want them to see how happy you are."

Steve felt the walls of the bedroom closing in, the thought of a party in a room full of the people who loved them most, all toasting to the baby and the success of his big dream finally coming true, knocked him sick.

"A party," he repeated, the word sounding deadly.

"Don't look so scared" you giggled, "we've had five of these parties before" you reached up to cup his face. "I'll do the planning. You just have to stand there and look handsome. Can you do that for me?"

Steve looked into your eyes that reflected unconditional love, making him realise he had no choice. He needed to keep running, or his web of lies would catch up and eventually capture him.

"Yeah," he said, his voice cracking as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. "I can do that. Whatever you want."

Steve held you properly for the first time since your announcement, clinging to you as if you would fade away to nothing if he let go. The kids ran past the bedroom door with their faces covered in toothpaste and bubbles. 

"Dad!! He won't stop throwing water at me!" 

You erupted into laughter and pulled away from Steve, a playful smirk spreading across your face, "Go on, super-dad!" you teased, "you can handle this bedtime routine like a champ!"

End of Part 2

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