watch the queen conquer

It was no surprise that Gator still harbored a deep-seated hatred for social interaction. Even the thought of being amongst strangers was enough to send him back to bed. What could he say? The quiet safety of his own home sounded much better than the monstrous wasteland outside. 

There was nothing more to it. No secret code to crack. No mystery to solve. Gator Tillman liked being alone. Always had, always would.

Unless he was with you.

But that was different—frankly, you didn’t count. You weren’t a part of the danger awaiting him outside his front door. You weren’t affiliated with the mob that was surely tracking him down, or sent by the righteous hand of God to punish him some more.

No, you were the cathedral next door, offering asylum to forsaken sinners like him.

With your help, Gator uncovered sanctuary in the walls of his own home—in the walls of his own mind. You singlehandedly casted away every demon that lived in his head. You washed over his thoughts like holy water, cleansing him of his original sin.

You were Gator’s godsend—the savior he had begged for all his life. 

And he worshipped you every day.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t consider Sunday mornings to be the only time he believed. He no longer found restraint in religion, fear in faith. You didn’t confine him in commandments; you didn’t hold expectations over his head. 

All you asked was that he simply call you each day. It didn’t matter whether it was the first ray in the morning or the last star in the night. You just wanted to hear from him. From what he was doing, to what he was thinking, even to what he dreamed of the night before.

You never pushed him on his past. You didn’t demand details on his backstory. You approached his history like one would a scared animal. You let him come to you, get familiar with your scent before trusting your presence.

Time and time again, Gator convinced himself the next secret he shared would be the final straw—would be the thing that finally pushed you away. But you forgave all of his wrongs. You found the young boy behind all of his sins—the little kid who craved nothing more than love, who was only mean because of his daddy. 

You cherished every new puzzle piece he gave you—as if you were carefully binding every broken shard of him into a resplendent and breathtaking mosaic, one you planned to install on the walls of your heart.  

Gator had never been seen before. Not like this. Not like you did.

That must be why you were able to convince him to crawl out of his cave in the first place. Over a month ago, you managed to invite him over for Thanksgiving. Just you and him. The second you asked, Gator was as good as yours, for he caved immediately—physically incapable of letting you down.

Every instinct he survived on begged him not to go—too terrified of being vulnerable—but the second he knocked? You gave him a tour of your house, holding his elbow as you waded through every corner and hall as if he were there to make it his.

You confessed to having done research when he called you out on showing him where the light switches were—something he never thought about until he was blind. 

“I hope you’re not offended, or anything—I could understand if you were. I just—I thought asking you directly might—I don’t know—piss you off or something? I’m sorry, I just wanted to be prepar—”

“Sweetheart,” Gator interrupted. “Stop stressin’. I appreciate the thought.”

Gator couldn’t begin to tell you how much it actually meant to him that you so visibly cared for him—that you thought about him to begin with. It was more than anyone had before. 

And here you were now—still thinking of him.

Even if you were about to kill him doing it.

Gator’s watch beeped on his wrist, announcing the time.

10:00 P.M.

In sync with his watch, a familiar knock came from his front door. Dressed and ready, Gator unlocked his door, swinging it open with the biggest smile on his face. 

“There she is…”

A squealing set of arms embraced him in no time, invading his senses with that signature perfume that had leaked into his dreams. Another squeal escaped you as you pulled back to admire him. “You look so handsome!!”

He smirked smugly, slowly spinning himself on display for you. 

“Do I now? Gorgeous stylist picked it out fer me.” 

Thanks to you, Gator didn’t have to sweat about his outfit for tonight. The angel that you were, you had raided his closet earlier that week to find a suitable set of clothes to match yours. “Let me feel the dress?”

You sought out Gator's hands and brought them to your waist, letting him touch the sequin dress you were wearing for tonight—black, like his button-up. 

“Like it?” You chimed, no doubt wielding his favorite smile of yours.

“Fuckin’ love it, doll. Bet y’look like a million bucks,” Gator charmed, knowing exactly what to say to make you swoon. 

“Mhmm,” you hummed while Gator's hands trailed to your lower back, shamelessly nearing your ass. “You excited for tonight?”

Gator smiled. He had learned how to hold back his nerves a while ago. “Bet your ass. Can't wait t’show off my favorite girl.” 

That part wasn't a lie. He was fucking thrilled to show you off tonight. To flaunt you around the way someone as beautiful as you deserved. A long time ago, you had done Gator the courtesy of describing everything about yourself, even allowing delicate fingertips to trace your features. Gator carefully filed every detail of you into his memory that day, down to the very shape of your eyes.

Deep down, Gator knew you could've been lying about your appearance. You could've been painting a false picture for him so he wouldn’t be disappointed—so you could be someone you wanted to look like. 

But he didn't care. He wanted any version of you there was. The model, the bad hair day, the sinner, the saint—any iteration of you was celestial to him. 

The issue wasn't you. It was never you. The real reason for the turning of his stomach was none other than himself. 

Gator couldn't help but be mortified about something as simple as a New Year’s Eve party. A new environment filled to the brim with drunken strangers, paired with meeting your friends for the first time? 

Gator wasn't sure you were enough to keep him alive tonight.

But God help him, he wanted you to be. He wanted you to override everything that haunted him—to show him a life where he had nothing to worry about, where it was just the two of you.

You must have noticed Gator growing quiet. “Hey, my friends are going to love you. I promise,” you assured him. 

Gator bowed his head. “Y’dont know that.”

You found his cheek. “Yes, I do.” Your vow went deeper than any white lie Gator had grown accustomed to, cutting down every defense he relied on. 

“Hey…” You picked his chin up. “You trust me, right?”

Gator huffed. He hated when you did that.

 “Yes…” he muttered. 

“And you know I wouldn't hurt you?” You continued, running your hand through his hair—ungelled and loose. You once casually told him that you liked it better like this, when he looked more like himself than a drill sergeant. 

Gator's lips twitched in a sheepish smile. “Yea,” he caved, further thawing with your every word.

“So…” you straightened out his collar for him. “Trust me when I tell you tonight is gonna be just fine.”

Against his every instinct—every carefully developed layer of his shield—he believed you.

And come hell or high water, Gator Tillman would make sure that stayed true.

Ironically, the unlocking of the car clicked like securing handcuffs.

“Ya promise we can still run away if shit goes south, right?” Gator muttered as he followed you out of the backseat, his fingers trembling around his cane. Oh, how badly he wanted to ditch it and bolt out of here. 

You settled your fingers over his other hand, calming him before he could panic. “It's your call, Gator,” you promised. “Just say the word, and we’re gone.”

Gator nodded. He knew you well enough to know you would keep your end of the deal, but he also knew how important this night was to you. He couldn't ruin something so special to you. Not tonight. 

Gator used his cane to lead him up to the front door, your hand beside his the entire time. The music from the party was seeping through the door.

You squeezed his hand one last time. “Y’ready?”

Gator turned your way, presenting you with a gentle smile. “Course.”

“Alright then…” You allowed a brief pause between you before opening the door, freeing the music into the night. Right away, a chorus of cheers welcomed you into the party, screaming your name. Chills ran down Gator’s spine. 

Whenever he walked into a room before, he was met with disappointment, annoyance, or fear. He had never experienced what it was like to be celebrated for showing up—let alone by an entire room of people. 

It didn’t matter if the applause was for you; Gator still felt wanted, even through association.

“Hey!! Oh my god, girl! You look so gorgeous!!!” One of your friends squealed as they hugged you, taking your hand away from his. If Gator wasn't so happy to know you were, he was sure her high pitch could've given him a migraine. 

“Hi! Happy New Year's Eve!” You responded enthusiastically, joining Gator's side again. “This is Gator…” you dragged with a smile.

Gator extended his hand towards the voice. “Nice t’meet ya,” he greeted politely. Gator was determined to be on his best behavior. 

Your friend shook his hand kindly. “Gator,” she greeted back, a knowing tone in her voice. “Great to finally meet you! My name’s Drew.” Gator nodded, recalling what you had told him on the car ride there. 

“Drew’s like popularity in a bottle. I’ve known her since freshman year of high school. She's kinda one of those girls you would expect to backstab you in a high school movie, but she's actually one of the most loyal girls you'll ever meet,” you told him. “Oh, and she's always wearing this really sweet perfume—smells like the color pink.”

Shaking her hand, Gator could attest—she did smell pink. He noted the way her charm bracelet clinked as she shook his hand. “Heard a lot about you,” she chimed, letting go of his hand. 

Gator gave her another polite nod. “All good things, I hope.” 

“Oh, definitely,” she smiled. “Did you two want anything to drink? They have the place stocked.” 

You chuckled along with her as you squeezed Gator’s arm. “Sure, thank you.”

“Course, babe. I’ll see you later on the dance floor, kay?”

“You got it,” you agreed, laughing beautifully.

You led Gator to the kitchen island, running past random greetings the further you travelled through the house. 

“So, babe, huh?” Gator teased.

You laughed easily, releasing his hand to start fixing you both a drink. “Yep, that’s Drew for you.”

Gator smiled. “Long as she’s not tryna take ya away from me,” he teased, resituating his hand on your lower back.

“Oh, yeah. You’ve got a lot of competition, Tillman.” You ribbed back, placing a drink in his hand. You clinked your solo cups together. “To the New Year.”

Gator beamed back at you. “To the New Year.”

You both slammed your empty cups down in victory. “I totally won that, by the way,” you challenged.

“Oh, no fuckin’ way, sweetheart.”

“I’m serious!”

The two of you began to play around with each other until a new female voice called your name from far behind you.

“Sophie, hey!” You cheered as the voice came over to hug you.

“Sophie’s my lifelong friend. She’s pretty much my sister at this point,” you had told him. “She can get a little… enthusiastic when she’s drunk. She doesn’t really have a signature scent I can think of, but her voice is rather distinct.”

“Hi!” She screamed back. “When did you get here?! They played all of the good songs already! I had to do Wanna Be all by myself—”

“—No!” You shouted in utter despair. “Are you kidding?!” Gator had no idea what was going on.

“I know! Come on, you gotta get out here before you miss something else!” Sophie insisted, calling away from Gator now.

“Soph!” You laughed, startled. “Give me a second, okay? I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Okay! Just don’t take too long, or it’s on you if you miss Freek-A-Leek!” Sophie warned before returning to the dance floor.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Gator muttered, speaking for the first time since she came over. You laughed nervously. 

“Are you okay if I go on the dance floor for a little while?” 

The cruel part of Gator wanted to tell you no—to keep you all to himself. But he was trying to be better. He didn’t want to be a dick when it came to you. It didn’t matter if you were for only him to worship—Gator knew he would hate himself if he took you away from the rest of the world, if he was the reason why your smile was gone.

“Course,” he assured, finding your hand. “Have fun.” He pressed a featherlight kiss to your knuckles.

You responded by pressing a kiss to his cheek as you departed. “You’re the best.”

Gator felt the tips of his ears grow warm. He choked on nothing, his heart racing at lightning speed. The declaration, the kiss. You’d think after everything he survived before he met you, he wouldn’t be scared of someone as sweet as you.

Yeah, no. Gator was sure that at any moment he would find himself on a coroner's table, cause of death: you.

Before Gator knew it, it was ten minutes until midnight. Ten minutes before he left this year behind. Ten minutes before he lived in a year where he wasn’t alone. Ten minu—

“Yooo!! My man!” A loud and charismatic male voice howled in his direction—jubilant in a way that was foreign to Gator. A hand clapped him on the back shortly. “Gator, right? Oh my God, it’s so good to meet you, dude. I’m Alex.”

Alex. Right. 

“Alex is my best friend. He always throws the most insane parties. I can’t wait for you to meet him. Oh, and he’s always wearing like really expensive and unnecessary cologne.”

Gator granted him a tight smile, outstretching his hand. “Gator,” he returned politely. Alex’s hand was hefty—his handshake firm and commanding. Seconds into meeting him, and Gator already couldn’t help but feel intimidated by his strong personality.

Alex laughed heartily. “Man, I cannot begin to tell you how stoked I am to finally meet you.” It was as if Alex were a ball of energy, bursting at the seams with excitement. “Let me tell you—you sir, have been all she’s talked about since fucking Halloween, bro.”

Gator smiled briefly, the apples of his cheeks instantly growing warmer. “So!” Alex clapped. “You enjoying the party?!” Gator offered a curt nod to which Alex scoffed, obviously unconvinced. “C'mon, Gator. Hey, you say the word and I got you.” 

Gator couldn’t help but take notice of how Alex was so unashamedly himself—unafraid of anything. 

Gator envied it. 

“Nah. Thank ya, though.” He shook his head, graciously rejecting the offer—or at least, as graciously as he could. 

Alex sighed, notably disappointed at Gator's reluctance to warm up to him. “Not much of a party guy, huh?”

Gator ruffled a hand through his tousled hair. “Guess not,” he muttered.

Alex patted him on the back again. The force behind it felt scarily familiar, enough to set Gator on alert. He couldn’t begin to count the amount of times he had felt that very same hand.  Fortunately, Gator had spent his life discerning between danger and a warning shot. There was no callousness here, no hazard or caution. 

Gator knew he wasn’t in danger with Alex and his lavish cologne. The only danger was his own mind.

“You know, that’s a shame, man. She loves ‘em.”

Gator perked up with the new information. “...Really?” It wasn’t all that shocking to Gator. You were charming and confident. It wasn’t hard to imagine you would thrive in this environment. 

Gator just liked hearing about you. 

Alex snickered. “Uh, yeah, dude. You should see her right now.” Gator—oddly enough—directed his attention to the dance floor. He could vaguely hear you screaming along to the lyrics of whatever song was playing. “I swear, get her a little tipsy and she thinks she’s Britney Spears.” 

Gator snorted at the thought. God, how he wished he could see you right now. To see your hair swinging back and forth. To see you bursting with your unabashed confidence—the very thing that made him fall for you in the first place.

Fuck, he felt ridiculous with how much he wanted to admire you the way everyone else could. He wanted to worship the ground you walked upon. To degrade himself down to nothing more than your disciple—awaiting your every word as if it could grant him an explanation for all this suffering.

As much as he tried, Gator still couldn’t understand why he had been punished so severely—why he had been barred from bearing witness to the angel he was sent. For fuck’s sake, what God could be that heartless to deliver him such a message?

“I will show you everything, my son. Yet, I will deliver you a piece of heaven that you will never bear witness to.”

“—You are one lucky son of a bitch, you know that, Gator?” Gator could’ve laughed—out of everything he had been called, he had never been thought of as lucky. 

But Gator being Gator, took Alex’s statement as a threat—a burning feeling arriving in his chest. “Whadya mean by that?” He instigated, squaring his shoulders.

“Christ, man—” Alex exhaled in something akin to awe. Gator’s clenched jaw quickly turned into a scowl. Fuck it, if he was blind—that wasn’t gonna stop him fro— 

“—I have never seen her this happy.”

Gator halted, stopping in his tracks like a deer in headlights. 

“I swear to God, man—you are all she talks about. Twenty-four seven it’s Gator this, Gator that.” Alex exhaled through his nose in amusement. “She's so obsessed with you, she’s even got my boyfriend asking about you when I come home, wanting to know if there’s any updates on you two.”

“Oh.” Gator was sprawled across the pavement—those headlights seeing him to his death.

Alex didn’t falter, soldiering on with an unshakable smile. “I’m just saying—for someone who's known her since we were kids… I have never seen her fall this hard.” 

Gator’s heart constricted in his chest. His tongue felt dry, suddenly running empty on a tank he just filled.

“Are you?” Alex directed.

Gator stammered. “Am I…?”

“Falling for her,” Alex filled in. 

Gator swallowed roughly. He ducked his head backwards, facing the ceiling as if some merciful God would give him the right answer. How was he to pour out his shielded heart to a man he considered a stranger until two seconds ago?

Alex registered his hesitation. Setting his drink down on the counter next to Gator, Alex leaned closer, his voice coming out lower. “Listen, I don’t know about you, but that girl dancing out there, she loves like its breathing.” The soft statement reverberated somewhere deep in Gator’s chest. 

A sigh escaped Alex. “Gator… don’t let her fall for you if you’re just gonna let her down,” he added, more sincere and direct than he had sounded all night. “You and I both know she doesn’t deserve that.”

“‘S not that—believe me, I’ve…” Gator exhaled, shaking his head. “Never—in my entire life—have I felt so certain ‘bout anyone before. I can’t—I can’t imagine an honest life without her by my side.”

Gator was never one for confessional. When he was a kid, his father once beat him senseless for confessing to his other that Roy was responsible for the bruise on his wrist. He didn’t mean to—he just wanted to tell God he was sorry for breaking his mother’s glass, even if his father already punished him for it.

That was how Gator learned guilt was dangerous—that confession was suicide. After all, when you were a Tillman, secrets led to cemeteries, whether it was yours or someone else’s.

But the words fell from Gator’s lips before the noose could break his windpipe. “I like her so much it scares the shit outta me.”

Alex let out another sigh from beside him. He followed by leaning his shoulder against Gator’s. “Can I ask you something?”

Gator shrugged. Might as well go for broke. Not like his father could hurt him now.

“Why haven’t you kissed her?” 

Gator straightened immediately. “Hey, girls talk,” Alex instantly defended. Gator could almost see his hands up in the air in surrender—the bastard.

Gator swore under his breath. How much did your friends know about him? 

“...I mean, it’s obviously weighing on her,” Alex continued cautiously. “It’s not like she doesn’t want you to—”

“—I.” Gator hesitated. For shit’s sake, why was it so hard to admit something as trivial as the truth—the real reason for all of his hesitance? 

The confession floated in the air delicately, avoiding every point sharp enough to shatter it.

“I’m scared I’ll miss.”

Alex's voice came in closer, hushed amongst the chaos of the party. “What?”

Gator groaned. “I’m scared that I’ll miss,” he repeated, raising his voice enough to stick. “‘M scared I’ll lean in t’kiss her, an’ end up kissin’ her fuckin’ cheek or somethin’.” He stressed.

“I'm sure it's not as bad as you thin—”

“—Y’ever been blind?” Gator challenged, facing Alex straight on now. “Y’ever been so fuckin’ humiliated just existin’? Havin’ t'walk with a fuckin’ cane just t’get around?”

Gator exhaled roughly. “Ion't need eyes t’know everyone's staring at me like ‘m some fuckin’ circus freak.”

Alex had gone silent, obviously not knowing what to say. Gator knew this was a bad idea. There was a reason why he didn’t tell anyone what he was scared of. Gator Tillman was not scared. Gator Til—

“She doesn't.” 

Alex’s interruption caught Gator's attention. “What are ya talkin’ about?” 

Alex puts a hand on Gator's shoulder. “Listen, I—I know a thing or two about what it's like to be… stared at.” Alex started solemnly. “To feel shamed for something you can't control—for something you can't get rid of. Fuck, man. Just—I know what it's like to have something you didn't expect to come onto you change how people will see you for the rest of your life.”

Gator stayed silent. He could only assume what Alex was referring to.

“But, Gator, she doesn't stare at you… She sees you—she sees past what everyone else does. She did with me, and she does with you, too.” 

Gator freed a breath he didn't know he was holding hostage.

“When she looks at you, Gator, I swear—she shines at you.” Alex's voice was warmer than any man’s Gator had ever heard. “I promise you, man. She doesn’t see a freak—she sees a future.”

Gator’s thoughts stalled. Could it really be possible that you looked at him as anything more than a monster? 

Another tap on his shoulder returned him to the moment. “Speaking of…” Alex mused, his voice a step further away than before.

Gator’s eyebrows furrowed. “What—?” Before he knew it, he recognized a tender brush of fingers on his arm. 

“Hey…” 

It was you. You were back. The faint alcohol on your breath contradicted your soft, concerned whisper. “Are you okay? I thought I heard you getting upset—?”

Gator shook his head, smiling on instinct. “Hey… there y’are.” His hands found your forearms. “I’m okay, sweet. Nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

Gator imagined a pout on your lips. “You sure?” He nodded, wrapping an arm around you—savoring the closeness.

“‘M all sure, pretty girl…” You pressed closer into his side, warming Gator’s body for reasons that had nothing to do with your body heat. 

“So…” he teased, accent drawling. “Heard y’were havin’ fun on the dance floor?” 

Gator chuckled when your head dipped into his shoulder.

“Shut up,” you muttered into the fabric of his shirt. “You're not supposed to know when I look stupid…”

Gator shook his head, laughing. “What, y’thought bein’ wit a blind guy meant I wouldn't know when yer bein’ cute?” he teased. “Joke's on you, doll. I got eyes everywhere.”

You giggled as he whispered in your ear, making you shiver. “Guess I was mistaken.”

“Sorely,” he affirmed, smirking. You pushed him on the shoulder, making him hold you closer. 

“Countdown’s coming up soon,” you informed him. “Got any resolutions for next year?”

“I got one,” he mumbled, still smiling at you.

“Yeah?” You fished. “What is it?”

He shook his head firmly. “Nope, can't tell ya.” 

You laughed in confusion. “What do you mean you can't tell me?”

He solemnly shook his head again. “Too risky. I tell ya, and it might not come true,” he shrugged—as if his hands were tied. “Sorry, teach. Can't compromise it.”

You huffed. “You know that's not how New Year's resolutions work, right?”

Gator just smiled. 

Someone proceeded to scream from the living room. “Ten seconds, bitches!!” Cheers followed around the room, a giggle falling from your lips.

“Ten seconds…” You repeated lowly. “Better act now, Tillman. Time's running out.”

A sudden feeling of action spurred in Gator’s bones. You were right. Alex was right. Who cared if he missed? He wanted to kiss you at midnight.

“Ten!”

Gator focused in on you. Recalling everything he knew about your features, his hand carefully found your cheek.

“Nine!”

Time stilled between the two of you as he mapped your position, cupping your other cheek as well. You were close. There was no way he could mess this up. All he had to do was lean down. 

“Eight!”

Your fingers morphed around his wrist—gentle as ever. 

“Seven!”

He guided his thumbs to your lips, mapping the corners like a cartographer.

“Six!”

One touch of your lips, and Gator realized all of his dreams were bullshit. 

“Five!”

They weren’t just soft—they were sticky from your lip gloss that no doubt reflected amongst the party lights.

“Four!”

Gator's tongue slipped out to lick his lips. It was now or never.

“Three!”

He cleared his throat, “I wanna—” 

“—Do it.”

“Two!”

Gator smirked at your assertive permission and finally bent down to find your lips.

“One!”

Layered cheers of Happy New Year echoed throughout the house like a drunken cacophony. But nothing got past the drumming in Gator’s ears. 

Everything was boiled down to you. The crowd, the screams, the scents battling for attention—all of it was gone. There was nothing else Gator could’ve been bothered with other than the flavor of your lips.

The alcohol coating your tongue did nothing to overshadow your true taste. You rivalled every vape he ever put to his mouth. Every hit, every puff—nothing could compare to this. He found himself addicted before he could even open his mouth. 

Gator almost choked on nothing when your other hand fisted his collar, heaving him closer—kissing him harder, your tongue breaching past his lips.

Holy fucking shit, you were something else.

He groaned into your mouth as your tongue waltzed with his. Fuck, he hoped you were always this confident when you kissed. One of Gator’s hands forked between the silk strands of your hair, as heavenly as an angel’s.

As Gator slowly began to tune back in to the world around him, he realized the applause that surrounded you both no longer had anything to do with the countdown. 

Your friends were cheering for the two of you. 

Something about the revelation made Gator’s head rush. He kissed you harder, deeper—taking pride in the action. You were his to kiss. Blind or not, you were Gator’s.

You smiled against his lips as you pulled away, clearing your throat. “Was wondering how long it was gonna take you to do tha—”

Gator didn’t dare hesitate before bringing you back, kissing you like it was a mission—like it was a show of faith. 

“Happy New Year, teach,” Gator smirked, the words falling into your open mouth. A soft exhale entered into his own. 

“Happy New Year, Gator…” Gator couldn’t stop himself from kissing you again. Could you blame him? It was you, and he was addicted. Whatever. Fine him, sue him, send him to the chair—he would still die the happiest he'd ever been.

“It was you, you know…” he breathed into your mouth. “Y’were my resolution.”

You tugged on his collar once again, shorting his breath briefly. “Yeah? How so?”

He nodded quickly—as if he was begging for mercy. Or for you to never stop. Honestly, he wasn't sure anymore. “Wanted t’kiss ya,” he muttered, breathless. “And tell ya I like you.”

He could feel your smile in front of him. “Well, you got the first part done…”

Gator almost snorted. God, you were relentless. 

“Might as well knock the second part out, right?” You hung your arms around his shoulders instead, granting relief to Gator's lungs. 

Gator smirked, shaking his head. You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

And he lived off of it.

“I like ya, teach,” he finally admitted. “‘N I wanna be yours.”

“Mine?” You chimed.

“Yes. Yours.” His hands found your waist again, head dipping near your ear. “I want t'be all yours, baby. Wanna worship the ground ya walk on, kiss you senseless every morning’...” Gator relished in your shiver.

“...I want to stop being scared,” he confessed, retreating from your shoulder to face you. 

Your hand brushed through his locks delicately—as if he were the most precious thing you had ever touched. “I want that, too, Gator.”

In all of Gator's dreams—all of his fantasies about this exact moment—he imagined the sounds. He pictured the softness of your voice, the fragrance of your perfume, maybe even the taste of your lips.

The one thing that always stayed the same, though, was the darkness. The lonely void he was sentenced to—as familiar to him as the oxygen in his lungs. 

But he was wrong. There was no more darkness. 

For the first time in what felt like years, he could see again. 

He saw it all. More than he ever saw before—more than he ever knew was there. 

Cleansed of all of his demons, bathed in your faith, he was reborn—the mud washed from his eyes.

It was only you. His start, his end, and every beautiful breath in between.

Gator Tillman was many things. 

But he would never be a coward again.

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He sighed. Put the book down. Looked at her properly, which was maybe a mistake because she was doing the thing where she looked back at him like she’d already won.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he said.

“I genuinely believe I’m stronger than you.”

“No you don’t.”

She sat up, swung her legs off the bed, and stood. He watched her come over to him - a man who had made peace with his life choices and was very keen to see what would come next. He got up off the bed, and waited.

“Okay,” she said, hands on her hips. “Stand still.”

“What?”

“Stand there and try to stay standing. I’m going to push you.”

He stared at her, then looked over his shoulder, at the very solid nightstand behind him. “That’s not… I don’t think this is a -”

“Are you scared?”

He stood up straight, pinched the bridge of his nose, then waved any hint of doubt away with both hands. “Fine, sure, push me. What’s another head injury anyway?”

She put both hands flat on his chest and shoved. He moved back about an inch, mostly out of surprise, and she looked at this result with genuine scientific interest.

“See? Stronger.”

God, he thought, she’s adorable.

“You got me by surprise. Try again.”

She tried again, properly this time, her whole weight behind it, and he braced and didn’t move at all and she ended up with her forehead against his sternum, slightly out of breath, hands still fisted in his sleep shirt.

“Fine, whatever,” she muttered into his chest, her breath hot through the fabric.

“Are we done?”

“Nope.” She lifted her head and stepped back from him. “Your turn.”

He looked at her for a second, something shifting in his expression - the amused patience dropping away into something quieter and more focused. Then his hands came to her hips and he walked her backwards until her knees hit the bed.

“Sit,” he said.

She sat. It wasn’t entirely a choice. He stood over her, took his time looking at her, and she felt the room change in that way it did when Steve stopped playing around.

“Lie back,” he told her, one hand at her shoulder pressing her gently back into the mattress, and she went without a word.

He came down over her, slow and deliberate, and got both her wrists in one hand and pressed them into the mattress above her head, and she tested it - actually pulled, the way she’d pushed against his chest - and didn’t move an inch.

“Oh, okay.” Her voice came out different than she intended.

“Yeah, feel that?” He was looking at her like he had all the time in the world, which she knew from experience was either a promise or a threat, depending. “Still think you’re stronger than me?”

She thought about it. His weight settled over her, solid and certain.

“Let’s find out.”

His free hand slid under the waist of her shorts, warm and lazy with it, and she trembled and stopped pretending to be cool about any of it. He kept her wrists pinned while he learned her, which was something he’d always been good at - patience, when it mattered - and she pulled against his grip and arched up into his exploring hand and he let her, because this, all of this, was exactly where he’d wanted them.

“Steve.”

“Still keeping score?” he murmured, mouth moving up her throat to her jaw.

“Shut up.”

He laughed, soft, and shifted his weight. He let go of her wrists to get her vest off her, taking his time about it, and she thought about using her hands but didn’t. He looked at her for a moment after, just looked, in that way that still got her even now. Then he reached back to pull his own shirt off and she immediately pulled him down by the back of the neck, and he followed her (he always followed her), and she heard the smile in his voice.

“Stronger,” he whispered, nose grazing hers.

He sighed. Put the book down. Looked at her properly, which was maybe a mistake because she was doing the thing where she looked back at him like she’d already won.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he said.

“I genuinely believe I’m stronger than you.”

“No you don’t.”

She sat up, swung her legs off the bed, and stood. He watched her come over to him - a man who had made peace with his life choices and was very keen to see what would come next. He got up off the bed, and waited.

“Okay,” she said, hands on her hips. “Stand still.”

“What?”

“Stand there and try to stay standing. I’m going to push you.”

He stared at her, then looked over his shoulder, at the very solid nightstand behind him. “That’s not… I don’t think this is a -”

“Are you scared?”

He stood up straight, pinched the bridge of his nose, then waved any hint of doubt away with both hands. “Fine, sure, push me. What’s another head injury anyway?”

She put both hands flat on his chest and shoved. He moved back about an inch, mostly out of surprise, and she looked at this result with genuine scientific interest.

“See? Stronger.”

God, he thought, she’s adorable.

“You got me by surprise. Try again.”

She tried again, properly this time, her whole weight behind it, and he braced and didn’t move at all and she ended up with her forehead against his sternum, slightly out of breath, hands still fisted in his sleep shirt.

“Fine, whatever,” she muttered into his chest, her breath hot through the fabric.

“Are we done?”

“Nope.” She lifted her head and stepped back from him. “Your turn.”

He looked at her for a second, something shifting in his expression - the amused patience dropping away into something quieter and more focused. Then his hands came to her hips and he walked her backwards until her knees hit the bed.

“Sit,” he said.

She sat. It wasn’t entirely a choice. He stood over her, took his time looking at her, and she felt the room change in that way it did when Steve stopped playing around.

“Lie back,” he told her, one hand at her shoulder pressing her gently back into the mattress, and she went without a word.

He came down over her, slow and deliberate, and got both her wrists in one hand and pressed them into the mattress above her head, and she tested it - actually pulled, the way she’d pushed against his chest - and didn’t move an inch.

“Oh, okay.” Her voice came out different than she intended.

“Yeah, feel that?” He was looking at her like he had all the time in the world, which she knew from experience was either a promise or a threat, depending. “Still think you’re stronger than me?”

She thought about it. His weight settled over her, solid and certain.

“Let’s find out.”

His free hand slid under the waist of her shorts, warm and lazy with it, and she trembled and stopped pretending to be cool about any of it. He kept her wrists pinned while he learned her, which was something he’d always been good at - patience, when it mattered - and she pulled against his grip and arched up into his exploring hand and he let her, because this, all of this, was exactly where he’d wanted them.

“Steve.”

“Still keeping score?” he murmured, mouth moving up her throat to her jaw.

“Shut up.”

He laughed, soft, and shifted his weight. He let go of her wrists to get her vest off her, taking his time about it, and she thought about using her hands but didn’t. He looked at her for a moment after, just looked, in that way that still got her even now. Then he reached back to pull his own shirt off and she immediately pulled him down by the back of the neck, and he followed her (he always followed her), and she heard the smile in his voice.

“Stronger,” he whispered, nose grazing hers.

“Carriage house,” Bowman said simply. “Grabbed her, threw her back in there. Locked her in. Stood watch for an hour or so, then roused Phillip ‘nd had him watch. No movement from her since I heard her go upstairs.”

Roy nodded. He lifted his chin and studied the ceiling, eyes moving over the white expanse of it. “Leave her there for now, K,” Roy said, looking to Karen, who only nodded. “Get breakfast together.” He looked to Bowman. “Get one of the other girls in there to help her out.” Bowman nodded once, then turned on his heel and left to go collect one of the hands’ women. Roy looked at his wife again, once they were alone. “You think I’m making a mistake?”

“No,” Karen said, hurriedly, stepping closer. She reached out tentatively toward Roy, touching him only when he didn’t draw away. “Of course not.”

Roy let her skim her hands over his chest, his sides. “So you think putting Gator in charge of taking care of her is working out. Is that right?”

Karen blinked, realizing the trap that he'd lain. “No, I—”

“Get breakfast ready,” Roy said, brushing her hands off of him as he turned and started back up the stairs. Karen waited a moment, then shuffled into the kitchen, waiting for whatever assistance Bowman was finding for her.

Upstairs in the main house, Roy went about his morning—showering, shaving, brushing his teeth and dressing for duty, and as he cut out of his bedroom, he took in the second floor landing. His son’s bedroom door was open now, neon blue light still spilling out of it even in the morning sun, and so he took a step inside his son’s room to wait for him to emerge from the bathroom.

Roy hadn't been in Gator’s room in a while—years, probably. He never had a reason to, never wanted to. Gator was about as deep as a puddle—there was nothing hidden in this room that could offer any further insight into his son’s psyche that he couldn’t glean from a thirty second conversation with him. He was barely more than a disappointment—the kid couldn’t do anything right, which Roy had learned from watching Gator try to locate his wife. Nadine.

This new skirt Roy found—well, was gifted from Above, more like—would be like something more of a trial run if the goddamn kid could get his act together.

The bedroom wasn’t nearly as disorganized as Roy assumed it would be—there were tacky posters on the wall of women in bikinis and a questionable flag hanging above his bed, one that Roy couldn’t quite accept being there. But then—Roy wouldn’t expect Gator to understand the intricacies of his ambitions as sheriff and would, of course, liken them to a political statement like that goddamn flag. The Tillmans’ position of power in Stark County was so much more than either symbol hanging on his son’s wall.

Roy’s eyes skimmed over the unmade bed, the clutter on the dresser, the ten-gallon tank in the corner holding a greensnake that he’s sure the kid fished out of some scummy pond somewhere. Like a child would. Shaking his head, Roy closed his eyes, rubbing his face with his whole palm, because even if Karen wouldn’t tell him to his face, he knew—he had made a mistake. With Gator, with you, with everything he was trying to do on his ranch.

The bathroom door opened, and Roy set his jaw, slipping his hands into his pockets even as the smell of breakfast started drifting up from the kitchen downstairs. A minute, maybe two, passed, and then Gator strolled back into his room, clutching a towel around his waist, casual as anything. He rounded the door, reached out of habit for the closet doorhandle, then caught sight of Roy and startled, a quiet yelp leaving him.

Quickly, he cleared his throat, skimmed a hand back over his hair, loose and falling down over his forehead, and shook his head. “Fuck are you—what’s wrong?”

Roy said nothing, only held Gator’s gaze.

“Dad?” Gator looked his father over from head to toe, pulling the towel tighter around his hips.

“I need you to think, kid,” Roy said, not moving other than to turn his face more toward Gator. “Back to last night. Why don’t you run me through your evening after dinner.”

Gator swallowed, curling his fist around the terrycloth in his hand. “I don’t—what d'ya mean?”

“Think back real hard,” Roy said, his voice cold, a steel edge grating against Gator. “We had dinner like a family. Had a nice drink. Your little miss thought who she was for a moment.” Gator opened his mouth, but Roy lifted a hand, silencing him. “You walked her home. You walked yourself home. Am I missing anything?”

Gator lifted his free hand to muss the hair at the back of his head. “No?”

“No,” Roy repeated. “You’re right. I don’t think I am.” He took a step closer to Gator, who flinched away as his father approached, pressing his bare back to his closet doors under the guise of giving him space when he really wanted to put distance between them. “I want you to think. Real hard. About everything I just said. And you tell me if either of us missed anything last night.”

Gator just looked at his father, then nodded, once, uncertain but not about to argue.

“Good,” Roy said, reaching up to clap a hand onto Gator’s cheek, not quite a slap, but not quite a friendly gesture either; it felt like a warning. “Don’t take too long. Need ya down there for grace.”

Roy vacated Gator’s room, and Gator loosed the breath he’d been holding, inhaling deeply. Something had happened last night, something involving you, something he’d fucked up. His eyes skimmed around the room like it might hold answers. He went through what Roy said. Dinner. Drink. You. Carriage house. Back home.

Dinner. Drink. You. Carriage house. Back home.

He shook his head, taking a step back and closing his bedroom door, pulling clothing out of his closet and dresser, stepping into boxers and camo pants and tugging on a thermal henley.

Dinner, drink, you, carriage house, back home. He slicked his hair back with pomade as he wracked his brain. What the hell had he fucked up in between all of that? It was simple—it was what he did every night since they’d put you in there for the most part.

He looped his fingers into his boots, picking them up, then crossing to grab his tactical vest and sunglasses, making sure his vape was tucked into his pants pocket too.

Dinner, that was normal.

Drink, that had been when you’d first copped the attitude, but still, normal.

You, he knew what Roy was talking about. You were asking questions after you’d been told not to, and Gator knew it was only a matter of time before he would be expected to… remove that impulse from you.

Carriage house, he’d walked you home. You’d slammed the door before he could retort, and he’d left you fucking alone.

Back home, he’d gotten a call from Lemley, vaped, went inside, went to bed.

Dinner, drink, you, carriage house, back home.

Gator finished dressing himself, carrying his boots and vest downstairs, leaving them by the front door before he doubled back to the kitchen. Every pair of eyes in the room turned toward him, faces all frowning except for the twins, who waved at him, Maude while holding her fork. Karen plucked it out of her hand and put it down beside her empty plate.

Shuffling into the kitchen, Gator took his place at Roy’s right hand, leaving an empty seat between himself and Bowman, where you usually sat. He glanced at it as he lowered into the chair, and without a word, Roy lifted his hands, extending them palm up, toward Gator and Karen. They each took his hands, and the rest of the table joined hands as well as Roy led them in prayer. Gator bowed his head, but he kept his eyes on your empty chair, your space occupied by his hand joined with Bowman, and as he did, his stomach fell into a pit.

Dinner, normal.

Drink, normal.

You, normal (as far as you went).

Back home, normal.

But: Carriage house. He hadn’t locked the door behind you. You’d snapped at him, thrown him off, slammed the door and disappeared into the house, and Gator had just walked away, the keys staying in his pocket.

Fucking Christ.

Keeping his head down, he flicked his eyes over to Roy, who was still speaking, eyes closed. Gator’s fingers twitched in his hand, nervous. He’d left your door unlocked, which could mean any number of things. 

Maybe you’d tried to run and gotten caught. Maybe you were laying in the carriage house right now, black and blue, beaten, dazed, unconscious.

Maybe you’d tried to run and weren’t caught. Maybe you’d been found somewhere out on the property, half dead. Or actually dead.

Maybe you’d tried to run and got away. Maybe they hadn’t found you. Maybe you were gone.

By the time Gator looked up, Roy was staring at him and Karen was spooning eggs and potatoes onto his plate. She moved onto Gator’s plate next.

“Been thinkin’?” Roy asked, and Gator nodded.

Behind him, the ranch hands, their wives, and Bowman started serving themselves.

“You wanna tell me what happened, son?” Roy asked.

Gator took a breath, cleared his throat. “I don't...” he began, but trailed off. He huffed an unamused laugh, leaning in toward Roy and gesturing to the rest of the table's occupants, some of whom were looking on, some of whom were just digging in to their plates. “We really need ta do this in front'a all them?”

Roy turned toward him, shifting his weight in his chair so it creaked beneath him a little, placing his left hand on his hip and his right elbow on the table, leaning toward Gator. Gator's nostrils flared as he exhaled, but he held himself where he was, not giving an inch, not wanting to concede.

“I think we do, son,” Roy said, matching Gator's quiet tone. “How else will you set the bar?”

“I—” Gator said, then just exhaled and straightened up.

Roy kept his eyes on Gator, waiting. When he didn't speak, Roy continued, keeping his voice low, still. “If you want to act like a child, I'll keep you at this table until you open your damn mouth.”

“Fergot t'lock the door,” Gator said, and it was clear that only Bowman and Karen knew what he was really talking about, in context.

“Which door?” Roy asked, and when he spoke, the ranch hands and the other women at the table turned to look.

Gator knew what his father was doing—going for humiliation as a lesson to never forget to lock the door again, but he was pretty sure that the early morning visit to his bedroom would have been enough to shock him into double and triple checking that that goddamn door was locked from that point forward.

“The carriage house door,” Gator said.

Roy hummed, then shifted his gaze from Gator to Bowman.

“Wanna fill everyone in?” he asked, inviting Bowman to speak.

“I found her in the barn,” Bowman said. “Toward the back.” He shook his head dismissively. “Grabbed her, threw her back in there. Ain't made a peep since.” He looked at Phillip, who nodded.

“Yeah, it was quiet all night, sir,” he said, looking from Bowman to Roy, nodding again.

“I want it to be clear,” Roy said, purposely not looking at Gator, though it was obvious that this was for him; Gator kept his eyes fixed on his untouched breakfast, “anything that interferes with her routine, anything that causes bumps or snags, anything that risks her presence on this ranch, is going to be taken care of. She's here to stay and through the grace of God we're fortunate enough to let her help make a home out of the carriage house.” Roy scanned the table, taking in Gator's head bowed in shame, though he kept his satisfaction at that tamped down. “Things are in the works. Things are changing. But in time we'll all reap the benefits. Including you, kid.”

Roy placed his hand on Gator's wrist, not squeezing it, not grabbing it, like he'd done the last time they'd touched, to snap some sense into him. Just... holding it for a moment.

“Get down to the station,” he said. “Y'got some work waiting for you on my desk.” He surveyed the rest of the table, the hands and their wives all watching, meals half-eaten. The twins were slapping at each other and Karen was trying in vain to get them to stop. “Eat,” Roy said, breaking into a smile and trying to ease the tension. “By all means, have your breakfast. Business over.”

Everyone only resumed their meals when Roy picked up his fork and knife.

&&

The morning came and went and you spent it with Aidy. Your ribs hurt from when you'd fallen to the floor the night before, but you were just thankful you hadn't hit your head. Unless you were about to be taken out and executed, you'd started to wonder if you might not see another beating from this. You'd been found on the property after all—not really trying to run. At least, not that they could prove.

You were running out of milk for her, and you'd have to try and get some more from the barn the next time that they let you muck the stalls—if they let you. But why wouldn't they? You were under constant surveillance before your attempted escape too, so what was really different?

The clock was showing 9:07 when you heard the click of the key sliding into the lock, and you made a mad dash upstairs to stow Aidy away in the smaller bedroom. By the time you emerged again, onto the upstairs landing, Bowman was standing in the living room, looking up at you, a frown affixed to his face. You waited; he waited. But you broke first, descending the steps.

He was holding a plate covered in plastic wrap, eggs and toast with two orange slices. You looked at the plate, then up at him.

“Starting the renovations soon,” Bowman said. “Need you out of the house.”

You tried to keep the panic from showing on your face. “For how long?”

“Day, roughly,” he replied. “You'll be back in the main house with the family for tonight.” He held out the plate toward you, and you took it. It was cold, and so was the food. “Shouldn't take that long. Just fixing the downstairs bathroom and taking care of the vermin upstairs. You do anything about those spiders?”

You blinked. “No. I don't—like bugs.” You couldn't be sure but you thought, maybe, a smirk tugged at the corner of Bowman's lips.

“Which rooms needed attention?” he asked.

“Um,” you intoned. “Downstairs bathroom. Upstairs bathroom has the spiders. Smaller bedroom has the mouse. I... didn't go anywhere else up there. Kitchen, living room, and mudroom are all fine. I think the...master bedroom too.”

“All right. Eat that, then head out to the barn. Horse stalls for you today.” He turned toward the door, but stopped when he reached it, looking back at you, because you spoke again.

“Wait,” you'd called.

Bowman quirked an eyebrow, like he was doing you a huge favor by listening to your request.

“When are—when are you guys starting this stuff? Do I really even need to—to leave if it's just the one bathroom being fixed up?”

“Starting today,” Bowman said. “And I didn't make that call. Orders from above.” He paused. “Leave anything you'll need tonight on the couch. It'll be brought over.” He looked you up and down. “Barn, then main house after work. Think you can find your way?”

It wasn't even really a threat, but you knew it was a comment on what you'd done last night. Despite that, you couldn't believe your luck—you were going back into the barn, where you knew the cat was, sometimes, at least. You could steal more food for Aidy, then look around for where to put her. Maybe the cat had a nest or den or something tucked into an alcove by the cabinet where you'd seen it the night before—anything that could help you make sure Aidy was taken care of after you left this fucking place would be what you were looking for.

The eggs were spongy and the toast was soggy by the time you got to it, but at least the oranges were fresh and tart, the perfect chaser to an otherwise mediocre breakfast. You chugged some water from the kitchen tap, then headed upstairs to make sure you were bundled up enough to be outdoors for an extended period of time. After you pulled your coat out of the closet, you looked down at Aidy, still on the bed. She was still too small to walk—her eyes weren't even open yet—and you had to decide what to do with her. Leave her here, hide her, bring her with you? It was just one day. It was one whole, long day. You could keep her on your person and hope not to be caught with her, or you could leave her here and hope that she was still fine tomorrow when you returned. As much as you hated both options, that one seemed less risky for both you and Aidy. But you weren't leaving her up here, where workers or Bowman or maybe even Roy would be strolling around. You took her in the crook of your arm and carried her downstairs. You'd fed her earlier, but you gave her even more to try and hold her over before carrying her into the mudroom, where the heat was always cranked up due to its door leading outside, and settled her down there. It pained you to leave her—you felt like a villain just doing it—but pet her on her tiny little forehead and whispered that you'd be back as soon as you could. She was purring in your hands, even as you set her down, hoping she'd stay hidden and safe.

Once she was tucked away, out of sight but nowhere near out of mind, you made your way out of the house and walked to the barn.

Most of the horses were gone today, again, except for a couple at the far end near the cabinet, which could potentially give you an excuse for lingering around over there while you looked for the barn cat's hideout. You began your work, startling only once as Bowman popped in, appearing in your periphery so silently that you wouldn't have been surprised if he'd just materialized there in a blink. Just as quickly, he'd left, like he wanted to make sure you were at work. Taking the chance, knowing it was a risk, you hurried to the cabinet and, with a glance over your shoulder, pulled the metal door open, crouched down, and this time took two containers of the milk supplement, tucking them into the back of your coveralls. Then, after straightening up and hesitating for a moment, you kicked them over so they toppled, hoping that the jumble on the bottom-most shelf would keep anyone who viewed them later on from counting them and noticing any were missing.

With the milk supplement tucked safely away, snug against the small of your back, you just had to worry about being caught with it on your person, but that wouldn't be for a while at least. As you mucked out the stalls, still looking for signs of the cat, you started to feel more and more anxious about the rigid edges of the packages cutting into your back, and so you finished one side of the barn and crossed to the door. Bowman wasn't there, but Phillip was, looking spectacularly bored. When your head appeared out of the doors, he startled, then squinted at you.

“Uh—what?” he said, and you weren't sure if he was trying to sound intimidating or not, because he definitely didn't.

“I have to go to the bathroom,” you said, looking past him at the carriage house.

Phillip looked as though he wasn't sure what to say to that—he'd surely been told to keep watch for you, without further instruction for if you approached him or if something went wrong.

“Please?” you continued, trying to appeal to him, and he just cleared his throat. He, too, looked around for Bowman, but when it was clear that he wasn't around, Phillip just nodded to you.

“All right, main house,” he said, reaching for your arm—he'd probably been told to keep physical contact with you too, just in case you tried to make a break for it.

“No, um,” you said, thinking on your feet. “I need to use my bathroom.”

Phillip frowned, and you started bouncing on your feet a little, feigning a serious urge.

“It's an emergency. I won't make it to the main house.” You bounced a little faster.

“Well—they're doin' work in there,” Phillip said, gesturing—sure enough, as you watched, you saw the front door open and the old downstairs bathroom sink being carried out by a worker you didn't recognize.

“There's an upstairs bathroom,” you said. You reached for his arm, imploring him. He didn't look much older than you, was definitely younger than Gator. Then, without waiting for permission, you just took off, hurrying toward the carriage house with Phillip in tow.

You reached the door just as it opened, another worker you didn't know stepping onto the step, stopping when he saw you right there.

“Sorry, I gotta go,” you said, pushing past him. You made a break for the stairs, rushing past another man you recognized this time as another one of the hands, and slammed the upstairs bathroom door behind you. The spiders were gone from the corner, and it seemed like there was no one else up here, after the one guy had been heading down. Unless there was work to be done in the main bedroom—which you hadn't noticed when you'd peeked in there—you might have the upstairs to yourself.

You checked the door lock—it was on the outside of the door, but you trusted that Phillip would explain your urgency and that would buy you a few minutes—and then pulled the sealed containers out of your overalls. The medicine chest was too risky—too easy to open. You crouched and checked beneath the sink, but it was empty of anything else, nothing to hide the milk behind until you could retrieve it. The linen closet was in the hall, not the bathroom. You took a deep breath, composing yourself after your mad dash, and forced yourself to think.

Think.

Then, you turned, lifted the lid off the toilet tank, and placed the kitten milk inside it, replacing the lid. Confident that you'd be able to retrieve it later, hoping like hell that it stayed sealed and uncontaminated with water, you went pee and flushed the toilet for good measure, so they would buy your story at least.

When you emerged, the upstairs landing was deserted, and as you came downstairs, you saw that the men were concentrated in the bathroom, which they seemed to be gutting. You weren't sure why you needed to be brought to the main house for just one room, but you also knew that nothing Roy Tillman ever decided would make sense to you.

Just as the thought crossed your mind, just as you stepped off the lowest step of the staircase, the front door opened again and in walked the man himself, Roy, gaze fixed on you like the bead of a rifle.

“You just love bein' places you're not supposed to be, don't you, little miss?”

“I—had to use the bathroom,” you said, as Phillip stepped into the house behind him, and you would have felt betrayed if you’d thought that anyone here might give half a fuck about you. As it was, you figured that was just par for the course.

“Main house too far?” Roy asked.

You took a breath. “It was an emergency.”

Roy held your gaze, then smirked, like he was actually amused. “Good thing you made it.”

You stayed silent.

“Did you finish in the barn?”

You swallowed, then shook your head. “Not yet.”

Roy turned, glanced at Phillip, who retreated out of the house as Roy stepped to the side, holding the door open for you. He made a sweeping gesture with his arm, inviting you to step past him and back outside, but still you hesitated, because you wanted nothing more than to stay out of his reach. But that wasn’t an option. You crossed to the door, giving Roy as wide a berth as you could, but he still leaned in to you, crowding you, keeping you from stepping out the door by taking up the space himself. You were trapped right between him and the doorjamb.

“If you get any more bright ideas like you did last night, you won’t want to know what’s in store for you,” he said.

Swallowing nervously, you looked up at him, meeting his eyes, the cold, dead blue of them burning you like dry ice.

“Get,” Roy said, stepping back, and you hurried past him, past Phillip, making your way to the barn.

Walter "Keys" McKey

Keys would go white as a ghost if you tell him your late period was entering "concerning" territory. He's not ready to be a father in the slightest, not financially and definitely not emotionally, hence why he'd been so strict about condom usage in your relationship...until you got a birth control implant, which is when he'd stopped buying rubbers all together. Oh he's panicking. Weren't those hormonal devices supposed to have like a 99.9999% success rate? Didn't that blanket sized sheet of paper with all the drug facts say something like "less than one resulting pregnancy a year"? He's so caught up in his own head that he doesn't realize he's not being supportive of your emotional state in this unfamiliar, scary time. If you're easily irritable (like me), you might snap at Keys for making it sound like having a kid with you would be something "so incredibly awful" for him. At that point he'd stop and realize that he was being unintentionally insensitive about the whole situation and that he hasn't even stopped to check in with how you feel about potentially carrying a baby in you. Making up for it with a quick Doordash order of your favorite snacks (as well as a 2-pack of pregnancy tests), he's holding you on the couch and muttering that he would never consider you someone awful to have kids with. That it'd take a whole hell of a lot more than a baby to make him want to ever leave your side. As it later turns out, your period wasn't late, it simply just...stopped, as you were in the camp of implant users who'd been blessed with the lucky side effects of its hormones. At that, Keys is able to let out a sigh of relief, but he also makes sure to apologize to you once more for good measure over his initial overreaction.

Gator Tillman

Ugh, this guy (said semi-affectionately). Ok so, Mister "Hit it and quit it" who only wants to be friends if there's some kind of benefit involved? I don't see him being too fond of condoms. He's favoring his pull out game, which for the most part is fairly accurate, but not as fool proof as an actual fucking condom. That's why it's not a huge surprise when you're standing in your bathroom with a positive pregnancy test in hand after your period's late by two weeks. Several thoughts plague you at once: You weren't ready for a kid. Gator wasn't father material—that is, if he even wanted to be a father. If he did, he'd no doubt get his daddy involved in the matter, and you'd sooner die than have Roy Tillman get involved in your reproductive health. All the "what-ifs, what-ifs" wore you out, so for the time being, you decided that you'd avoid Gator until you got a second opinion from a doctor. Turns out, the deputy took your little situationship more serious than you'd thought, and he did not take too kindly to the cold shoulder treatment. He was blowing up your phone wondering what he did wrong and why you'd become a "bitch" to him. He was badgering your friends about your whereabouts (you quickly opted to lie to them that you were withholding sex to teach him a lesson of sorts). On the day of your appointment, you found out that you had actually gotten a rare false positive from your home test. Relief instantly flooded your system, and you quickly asked the doctor what forms of birth control you could get on ASAP to avoid any future headaches over a potential Tillman Jr. As you pulled up to your house later in the afternoon, you spotted Gator waiting against his cruiser with his hair undone and a king-sized chocolate bar in his hand. "Here," he gruffly said, shoving it at you as soon as you walked up to him. "Figured it was your monthly's or somethin'. Chocolate's good for that, right?" You stared at him for a moment, watching as he nervously looked away to check his tattoo. "...Well? Say somethin' already." An amused smile cracked your face as you gently placed your free hand on his arm to lead him up the steps to your house.

Travis "Teacake" Meacham

One second you were clawing at Travis' back as he was whining over and over that he was gonna cum, next second your blood was running cold as you felt a sudden rush of something "warm" in you. You barked at him to get off ("Oh, I got off," he unhelpfully quipped) so you could confirm that—yes—his condom had indeed broken. Once Travis noticed it too, he was scrambling off the bed to find a towel to try and clean you up the best he could, swearing the whole time that he was never buying Skyns again. The impromptu ride to the drugstore's tense, far too quiet for either of yours liking, and you're practically tripping over each other to grab a pack of Plan B and a bottle of Gatorade once inside. Your boyfriend's stiffly rubbing your thighs as you sit on the hood of his car to take your emergency contraception. "Yeah, yeah chug that shit," Travis encourages, nodding with wide eyes as you shakily bring your juice bottle to your lips. Per the instruction packet, you were supposed to get your period within 3 weeks of taking the pill, but as day 16 draws to a close, you're downright terrified at the thought of potentially being pregnant. He's assured you multiple times that no matter what, he's not leaving you to deal with this on your own. In fact, the second the morning staff shows up to take over from Travis at the storage lot, he's rushing over to your place to bring you drive-thru breakfast and rub your feet. A small part of your brain starts to think, well, if you are pregnant at least it'll have a great dad, but then you quickly shut that thought down and pray for your period to come ASAP. Finally, on day 20, you find some spots of blood in your underwear while undressing for a shower. Without even thinking, you excitedly call your boyfriend in to take a look. He lets out a sigh of relief at the stained material and scoops you up into a big hug. Suffice to say, you're googling around for another method of birth control after you get out the shower, one that don't come from the drugstore.

Baron Lamram

Much like Steve, Baron's jumping the gun when you mention to him over dinner that your period was strangely overdue by a week and some change. To him, the timing couldn't have been any more romantic given that you'd just gotten engaged a month ago. You, on the other hand are a bit more reserved. A week wasn't concrete proof of anything, and furthermore, you weren't really in the right financial condition to be having any babies when your mother-in-law had just been transferred into a nursing home and the cost of her medication had just gone up. But then another week passes without a period, and you were starting to worry. Fuck, could you actually be pregnant? You were on the pill, but you could admit that there were some days where you'd missed your 'on time' window due to misplacing the pack or random bouts of brain fog following an exhausting day at work. "We'll figure this all out, I promise," Baron assures you one night as you brushed your teeth on autopilot. He rests his head on top of yours as he rubs his large palms against your stomach, mumbling, "Don't worry, mama." The next morning, you wake up in his arms with some abdominal cramps. Groaning, you get up to use the bathroom, only to notice an ugly smear of brick red on your inner thigh. "Shit!" You sprint out the room to grab a wet rag and your box of menstrual products. Baron stirs awake from the commotion, his hazel eyes falling to the patch of blood in the sheets where your body had been. After washing your hands and splashing some cold water on your face to calm yourself down, you pad back into the bedroom, pausing when you catch your man changing out the bedsheets. Guiltily, you tuck yourself against the doorframe. "Hey, uh, mornin'," you mutter, holding your breath in anticipation of a bad reaction. "The heatin' pack's in the kitchen closet, top shelf. You should go lie down on the couch for a while," Barons says. When he senses that you haven't moved, your fiancé looks up with a soft smile and motions his head towards the other room. "Go on, get! I'll be there with you in a minute."

Kurt Kunkle

When Gator had pressed for a why, you admitted that - thanks to Caleb’s rich and powerful father - you’d landed an internship at a marketing firm in the city. Important. Prestigious. A foot in the door that would be “a huge stepping stone to further your career”. A one in a lifetime sort of opportunity, from the way you described it.

Gator had listened, of course, pressing the phone to his ear so hard it hurt. He forced a congratulations through a throat tight with jealousy and a cold, gnawing dread. Though it selfishly meant less time with you - he was more concerned about the fact that this whole opportunity was due to Caleb. Not that you couldn’t have gotten it through your own merit, but Gator’s gut felt sour. It seemed like just another thing for Caleb to hold over your head. Get you to rely on him. Plus it kept you in the city - which meant more time for him to sink his claws in deep. Mark you as his territory while Gator sat miles away, helpless and angry.

After what felt like ages without seeing you, the sight of your figure standing on your porch under the midday glare was a welcome one. Though his relief at seeing your face was instantly eclipsed by a confusion that curdled his stomach.

For some reason, you were wearing a sweatshirt. Not just a light layer for an over-air-conditioned room, but a heavy, grey university hoodie that looked about three sizes too big. It was at ninety-five degrees even in the shade today, the humidity oppressive enough to make a grown man gasp for air. But there you were, drowning in fleece, shivering like it was the dead of winter.

Gator got out of his truck and trudged up the steps to you,, squinting against the harsh white sun. "Expectin’ a cold front?"

You shrugged, hugging your torso - a defensive, cagey gesture he’d seen too many times from other women in his life. "It was cold in the car," you muttered, refusing to meet his gaze. "AC was blasting."

Gator bit his tongue so hard he tasted copper. He wanted to ask you who the hell you thought you were fooling. But he saw the way your eyes darted around the yard, checking for neighbors, observers, anything that could pose a perceived risk. You were like a cornered creature waiting for the trap to snap shut.

"Well, welcome back," Gator said, his voice deliberately light, belying the hurricane raging in his chest. "Wanna get outta here? We got a new foal down at the ranch. Ugly as sin but in a weirdly cute way."

The offer was a lifeline, and he watched you take it with a desperation that made his heart ache. You nodded eagerly, stepping past him toward his truck. His heart ached to pull you into his arms and shield you from the outside world, but you clearly didn’t want to be touched. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to violate that boundary.

The drive to the Tillman ranch was far too quiet. The windows were down, but the air rushing in did nothing to cool the tension radiating from you. Gator kept glancing over, noting that you were sweating through your hoodie, but also seemingly uncomfortable in a way that went beyond the heat. He could see a sheen of perspiration on your forehead, hair damp at the temples, yet you kept the hood up and your hands tucked deep inside the pouch. You looked utterly miserable, shrinking yourself down to take up less space.

When he pulled up to the main house, Gator’s radio crackled. Dispatch.

"Unit 4, we have a 10-15 at the Miller property. Requesting backup."

Gator sighed, slamming his palm against the steering wheel. "I gotta check on this. It’ll just be a minute."

"Okay," you said quickly, opening the door and climbing out. "I’ll just… Wait here."

"Stay on the porch," Gator warned, holding up a finger. "Don't go wandering off. Got new dogs around somewhere, and they can be assholes if they don't know you."

You nodded, and Gator turned his attention to whatever the fuck was happening over the radio at the worst possible time. It only took five minutes - just a drunken dispute at a neighbor's, nothing serious - but when he glanced back towards the porch, his blood ran cold.

Roy Tillman was standing there, looming over you like a giant bear. You were backed up against the siding, posture rigid, that now-familiar, haunted look in your eyes as you stared up at him. Roy was too close. Way too close. He had one hand resting on the side of the house, caging you in, his face wearing a charming grin that was wildly out of place.

A white-hot spike of fury pierced Gator’s chest. He knew that look. That posture. He’d seen it a thousand fucking times aimed at his mother and Nadine. Really any woman who wandered too close to the Tillman orbit.

Gator didn't think. He just moved.

He sprinted across the yard, boots kicking up dirt, and arrived just as Roy leaned in closer, saying something that made you flinch violently.

"Hey!" Gator barked, skidding to a halt and inserting himself physically between you and his father. He met Roy’s steely gaze with a glare. "Get the hell away from her."

The older man raised an eyebrow, unhurried and unimpressed. "Just welcomin’ the young lady home, son. No need to get your panties in a twist."

"She doesn’t wanna talk to you," Gator spat, ignoring his dad’s narrowing eyes. He turned, placing a gentle hand on your lower back to lead you back towards the truck. "We’re just leavin’."

"Gator," Roy’s voice followed them, sharp as a whip. "Don't be rude, boy. We were just talking about her -“

"Fuck off, Roy," Gator shouted over his shoulder, not looking back. He opened the door to his vehicle and practically pushed you into the truck, slamming it and sealing you in before storming around to the driver's side.

He didn't speak until they were off the property, speeding down the gravel road with the tires spinning. His head spun angrily. The idea that his father had been sniffing around you made him want to vomit. The two of you may have been lifelong friends, but Gator hadn’t made a habit of bringing you out to his place even when Roy wasn’t there.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, voice trembling. Tears threatened to spill from your eyes, and it broke Gator’s heart to see you so upset. "I didn't want to be rude. He just… He came out of nowhere."

"Not your fault. Don’t apologize. He's a prick," Gator gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turned white. He doesn't talk to people. He preys on them.

"I know," you said, pulling your knees up to your chest, burying your face in the sweatshirt. "I just wanted him to go away."

Gator drove aimlessly for miles, taking the backroads that wound through the cornfields, trying to outrun the image of his father trapping you on that porch. Finally, when he couldn't stand the silence anymore, he pulled off onto a dirt road that led to an old silo that decades of high school kids had taken turns vandalizing over the years. Killing the engine, he turned to look at you, his frayed patience finally snapping.

"You gonna tell me what the hell’s goin’ on?" He tried to keep his demanding voice in check, but it felt impossible. The corrosive anger was like acid in his bloodstream. "No bullshit. No 'it's complicated.' Tell me the truth."

You stared out the window, refusing to look at him. "Nothing, Gator. Just drop it."

"I can't just drop it!" He shouted, turning in his seat to face you fully, his desperation spilling over. You shuddered at the volume of his voice, unconsciously pressing up the passenger door in an effort to put some distance between the two of you.

“I -“

"You're sweatin’ through winter clothes in July. You look like you haven't slept since the last time I saw you. And now you're letting my dad corner you because you're too scared to tell him to get lost? That's not like you.”

That’s not my girl he wanted to add. But you weren’t his. Not really. Not in any way that mattered or that would change whatever the fuck was happening with you.

"It is me," you insisted, your voice rising in panic. "I'm just… Stressed."

"Bullshit.”

Gator reached out, his hand hovering over your sleeve, as if he was going to jerk it back to prove his point. He didn’t, but fuck, if it didn’t take every ounce of self control not to see if another purple handprint had bloomed across your skin. He needed to know if it was just a one-time thing. An accident. Ever since that day in the diner, he’d prayed to a God he didn’t even believe it that his eyes had played tricks on him. Your head snapped toward him, your eyes wide with fear.

“Fuck, don’t be - I wasn’t gonna -“

“Don’t touch me.”

Gator’s hand fell to his lap as he struggled to get his breathing under control. It felt like he’d run a mile in the midday summer heat without stopping. His next words tumbled out of his mouth before he could force them to stop.

“He hittin’ you?"

"What? No!" The denial was instant, explosive, and more tears sprang to your eyes. "God, Gator, stop it! Why do you always have to make everything so dramatic? He wouldn’t… He doesn’t hit me."

"Then why’re you hidin’?" Gator shouted, clenching his fists against his thighs. "Why the sweatshirt? Why’re you so fuckin’ jumpy?”

“I’m not -“

“You flinch when anyone moves too fast! You think you’re good at hidin’ it but guess what? I see you. I see the way you shrink away from everyone.”

"It’s not what you think!" Your voice was hoarse as you dissolved into sobs. "Please, just take me home. I shouldn't have come. I shouldn't have done this."

You looked so utterly defeated and resigned that Gator felt the fight drain out of him. He wanted to scream, to demand the truth until his throat was raw, but looking at you - shaking and broken in the passenger seat of his truck - he felt like it would be the final nail in the coffin. If he pushed any more, he’d lose you. More than he already had.

"Fine," Gator bit out, putting the truck in gear. "Fine. I'll take you home."

The drive back to your house was agonizing. You cried silently the whole way, wiping at your face with the sleeve of that ridiculous sweatshirt, leaving dark streaks of mascara on the grey fabric. He wondered vaguely if it was Caleb’s, but he tried to banish the thought. Gator drove with white-knuckled intensity, the cab of the truck filled with the sound of your ragged breathing and the hum of the engine. He was spiraling, his mind racing with a dozen horrific scenarios, but he clamped his mouth shut, terrified that if he opened it, he'd say something he couldn't take back and frighten you away forever.

When he pulled into your driveway, the house was dark. Your parents weren’t home, apparently.

"Come on," Gator said, cutting the engine. "I'm walkin’ you in."

"You don't have to -“

"I'm walkin’ you in," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "And I'm not leavin’ you alone like this."

There was apparently no fight left in you, and you didn’t protest as he followed you up the path to the front door, his boots heavy on the gravel walkway. You fumbled with the lock, hands shaking so badly you couldn't insert the key properly. Gator gently took it from you, unlocked the door, and pushed it open.

The house was silent and empty, a tomb of suburban normalcy that felt completely at odds with the storm that raged within you.

"Can we talk? Like, actually?" He asked quietly as you stepped into the hallway.

"Just go, Gator," you whispered, not turning around. "Please. Just leave."

"No," he said, closing the front door and leaning against it. "We aren't done."

You turned on him then, your eyes flashing with a mix of anger and terror. He hated that you were clearly scared of him - he certainly didn’t want you to be - but it gave him hope to see even a flicker of the feistiness you’d previously had.

“Yes, we are! I can't do this with you!”

“Can’t do what?”

“Getting interrogated every five seconds like I'm a fucking criminal!"

"I'm not interrogating you!" Gator fought to keep his voice even, stepping away from the door and into your space, his hands clenched at his sides. "I'm tryin’ to help you! Can't you see that? I feel like I’m the only one who actually gives a shit about whatever’s happenin’ with you!"

You backed away from him until your back hit the wall, hands out in front of you slightly has if to either defend yourself or placate him. Gator wasn’t sure which option was worse.

“You think just because you're playing cop that you can swoop in and save me. But you don't know my life. You don’t know what I -“

"But I know you!" The wild animal he’d fought against his whole life to keep in a cage clawed at the insides of his chest as his frustration boiled over into a blind rage. "Used to know you better than anyone! I know you're lyin’ to me. You're scared. And I know that Caleb is bad fuckin’ news."

Gator was towering over you now, chest heaving, his face flushed with anger. Not at you, of course. Never at you. But he was close enough that he saw the moment you snapped. The defiance in your eyes shattered, replaced by a primal, bone-deep fear.

You didn't yell. You didn't fight. You just…Crumbled.

A choked sob escaped your throat, and you slumped against the wall, sliding down until you hit the floor. You curled into a ball, covering your head and neck with your arms, and started to weep. Not the quiet tears from before, but heart-wrenching, terrified sobs that shook your entire body.

"Please," you gasped, your voice muffled by your denim-clad knees. "Please d-don't be angry. I'm sorry. I'm so s-sorry. Don't hurt me. Please don't hurt me."

Gator froze.

Hurt you?

The rage drained out of him instantly, replaced by a cold, creeping horror. He stood there, looming over you like a monster, and realized with a sickening lurch that you weren't afraid of the argument. You were afraid of him.

You were waiting for the blow. You were reacting to him the way he was now willing to bet money on how you reacted to Caleb.

“Oh god," Gator breathed, the air leaving his lungs in a rush. "Oh god, no."

He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands hovering awkwardly, terrified to touch you. "Hey… Hey, look at me. Shh, it’s okay. Please look at me."

You shook your head, face still buried in your arms as your body trembled violently. "I'm sorry.”

“What’re you sorry about?”

“I don’t - I-I'll be good, I promise. I won't do it again. Just please… Don't."

"Whoa, whoa," Gator’s voice cracked, his heart breaking into a thousand jagged pieces. "Baby, no. I’d never - hey, shh. Breathe. It's Gator. It's just me."

Slowly, you lowered your arms, peeking out at him with red, swollen eyes. You looked so small, so defeated. The sight of you made him ache.

"I’d never hurt you," Gator whispered, tears stinging his own eyes. "You know that, right? I would never… I'm not… I wouldn’t.”

You stared at him for a long moment, searching his face, looking for the lie. When you didn't find it, you let out a shuddering breath, but the fear didn't leave your eyes. It just settled in, a heavy, permanent resident.

"Why?" Gator asked, his voice trembling. He knew the answer, but it was still circumstantial. He didn’t want to hear you say it, but he needed to. "Why’d you think I’d do somethin’ to you?"

You didn't respond. You just looked down at your hands, picking at your cuticles. The silence stretched out between you, thick enough to choke on.

Gator waited. He waited for you to lie. Deflect. Tell him to leave again. But instead, you slowly reached for the hem of your sweatshirt. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely get a grip. Hesitantly, you pulled the heavy grey fabric up, over your head, and off, letting it drop to the floor beside you. Underneath, you were wearing a thin tank top that was practically see-through even in the dim light of the entryway. With a small sigh, you peeled it off too, leaving you in just a bra and your jeans.

Though you were beautiful in any state, Gator felt his soul leave his body.

He couldn't breathe or even form a coherent thought. He could only stare, dark eyes tracing the map of violence that had been etched across your skin.

There were bruises everywhere. Dark purple splotches on your upper arms, fingerprints blooming on your biceps, and grapefruit-sized contusions all over your back and torso. A long, jagged scratch ran down your forearm, crusted over with dried blood - probably only hours old, if he had to guess. There were older bruises too, fading yellows and greens, evidence of a campaign of terror that had been going on for a long time.

But it was your chest that broke him.

Just above the curve of your left breast, stark and angry against your skin, was a burn mark. It was circular, about the size of a cigarette, or something similar, but the shape was undeniable. It was a C.

The brand of Caleb.

Gator felt a wave of nausea so strong he had to brace himself against the wall to keep from falling over. Despite the fact that his entire life had been marred by violence, seeing it effect you made him physically ill.

I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna find Caleb and tear him apart with my bare fuckin’ hands.

How could he do this? How could anyone hurt someone like you? It went against every natural instinct he had. Men like Roy and Caleb - they were parasites. Cancers that needed to be cut out.

After the initial shock wore off, rage hit him like a tsunami, a blinding red fury that threatened to consume him completely. He wanted to scream. Put his fist through the drywall. Hunt down your “boyfriend” and end his fucking life.

But then he looked at your face.

You were watching him closely, fear in your eyes, waiting for him to snap. Waiting for him to become a monster.

He couldn’t let that happen.

So Gator forced the rage down, swallowing it down like about as easily as shards of glass and sandpaper. He knew that if he completely lost it now and gave in to the violence singing in his blood - he would only be proving your worst fears right. He’d just be showing you that he was just like Caleb. Or Roy.

Instead of acting on his most primal urges, he just looked at you, his heart shattering in his chest, and reached out a shaking hand.

"He do this to you?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

You looked away, unable to meet his gaze, shame burning in your cheeks. "Please don't… Don’t m-make me say it."

"I need to know," Gator said, his voice gaining strength, steeling itself against the horror. "So I can… I dunno, fix it."

You let out a broken laugh, a hollow, empty sound. "You can't fix this, Gator. Nobody can."

The silence that stretched between you was heavier than the humid air pressing against the windows. Gator couldn't tear his eyes away from the brand on your chest - that, angry 'C' that claimed ownership over flesh that had always been too good for this world. He felt like he’d been hollowed out with a spoon, scraped clean of anything resembling hope or stability. Every instinct in his body was screaming at him to act, but he forced himself to be a statue. He realized with a gut-wrenching clarity that if he so much as raised his voice right now, he would only exacerbate your nightmares.

So he just sat across from you, his back against the wall, close enough to be a comfort but far enough to be safe. Hopefully. He wanted to reach out, to gather you up in his arms and promise you the moon, but he kept his hands on his knees, white-knuckled and trembling.

"Hey," he whispered after what felt like an hour, the sound scraping against his dry throat. "Look at me. Please?”

Slowly, you raised your head. Your eyes were swimming a shame so profound it seemed to darken the very air around you. You crossed your arms over your chest, trying to hide the bruises and burn, trying to disappear inside yourself again.

"Don't," Gator said softly, shaking his head. "Don't hide. Not from me."

"I'm ugly," you choked out, the words barely audible. "Look at me, Gator. I'm… I'm ruined."

"You ain't ugly," Gator said, his voice fierce with a sudden, intense protectiveness. "And you ain't ruined. Not even a little bit.”

A scoff fell from your lips as you painstakingly pulled the tank top back on, hiding some of the injuries from sight again.

“You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Always have been.” The raw sincerity and honesty in his tone softened your expression. “Bruises don't change that. Burns don't change that. You could be covered in dirt and dressed in a fuckin’ potato sack and you'd still be the only light in this godforsaken state."

He saw the skepticism in your eyes, and tried not to think about all the shit you must’ve heard - probably from Caleb - that would make you doubt how stunning you were. Gator wouldn’t lie to himself and say he wasn’t occasionally as shallow as the next guy when it came to some women - he had his faults and vices. But the idea of anyone making you feel anything less than gorgeous inside and out made him want to scream.

"I mean it," he insisted, leaning forward slightly, careful not to crowd you. There were a million things he wanted to say to you, but words failed him.

I've loved you since we were kids scraping our knees on the playground. I loved you when you had popsicles smeared on your face. And I love you now. Nothing changes that. Not Caleb. Not anyone.

“I’m here with you, okay? Always will be.”

A fresh wave of tears spilled over your lashes, but the tension in your shoulders dropped a fraction. You took a shuddering breath, and for the first time, it felt like you were actually seeing him - seeing the boy who had stood by your side through everything, the man who was currently breaking apart at the seams just looking at you.

"Can you… Can you tell me?" Gator asked, his voice hesitant, terrified of pushing you too far. "How did this happen?"

You wiped at your face with the back of your hand, leaving a streak of mascara across your cheek. You looked down at the floor, picking at a loose thread in the carpet, gathering the courage to speak. It took nearly ten minutes for you to speak again.

"He was in my English class," you began, voice small and distant, as if you were narrating a movie you’d watched rather than a life you’d lived. "Last fall. First day. He sat behind me. He was… Nice. Really. He helped me with my essay on The Great Gatsby, and I helped him with Jane Eyre. He brought me coffee when I was pulling all-nighters. Said I was brilliant. Beautiful. That he’d never met anyone like me."

Gator nodded, keeping his face neutral, though inside he was fighting tooth and nail.

"Eventually he asked me out," you continued. "I didn't… I didn't really feel a spark. You know how it is. Like, he was handsome and smart, but he just… I didn't care about him like that. So I told him no. That I just wanted to be friends."

"’Course you did," Gator murmured. "You got standards."

"But he… He wouldn't take no for an answer," you said, your voice shaking. "Said I was just scared. He said I was damaged from my past or close minded or some shit. That I needed to give him a chance to show me how a real man treats a woman. He just… Kept pushing. And he was so nice about it. So persistent. I thought… I thought maybe I was being ungrateful for shrugging off someone who was making such an effort. Maybe I was being close minded.”

"You weren't," Gator ground out. "You were picky. That ain't a crime."

"At some point I said yes," you whispered, shame coloring your cheeks. "We went on one date. Then another. And then… Next thing I knew I was his girlfriend."

"And that's when it all changed?" Gator asked gently.

"Yeah," you let out a hollow laugh. "It was slow at first. Those little comments. 'Don’t you think that skirt’s too short?’ ‘Why are you talking to that guy?' 'You shouldn't go out without telling me.' I thought he was just… protective. You know? I thought he cared. Like you.”

Gator’s stomach churned. He was protective. But he didn't want to lock you in a cage. Maybe lock you away in a temporary safe house until he gutted Caleb like a fish so you’d feel safe again - but never an actual cage.

"And then it got worse," you continued, your voice dropping to a whisper. "He started checking my phone every time we were together m. And if we weren’t then he’d get mad if I didn't text back in five minutes. He’d drive by my dorm to make sure I was there. He hated any of my guy friends. He especially hated…"

You trailed off, eyes darting to Gator’s face and then quickly away.

"He especially hated what?" Gator pressed, dread pooling in his gut.

"You.”

Gator felt a cold shock run through him. "Me?"

You nodded. "I told him about you. Probably in the first date, honestly. How we grew up together, that you were my best friend. Turns out he didn't like it. After we started dating he liked you even less. Said you were in love with me, and were going to try and steal me from him or something stupid. He said you were… Um-“

“Said I was what?”

A tormented look crossed your face. As if a mean comment about him would would hurt worse than the harm Caleb had cause you. “He said you were a dumb hick cop who couldn't let go of his high school crush."

Gator wanted to laugh at the irony of it all. Technically - he was in love with you. He was a dumb hick cop unable to let go of his feelings for you. But hearing it used as a weapon to isolate you, made his blood boil.

"He was… Jealous?”

"Obsessively," you whispered. "It was like he couldn't stand that I had a life before him. That I had people who cared about me who weren't him. He wanted me to cut everyone off. My parents, my friends… Especially you. He tried to make me stop talking to you. But I… I couldn't. I’d already lost all my other friends. I couldn't lose you too. So I lied. I told him we weren't super close anymore. But I still… I still texted you. I still called you behind his back whenever I could. I didn’t tell him we met up over fall or winter break. And he only agreed to let me casually see you in the spring if he came too.”

A sudden, horrific clarity dawned on Gator. He remembered all the texts from the last many months, the phone calls that had gone unanswered. He remembered the frustration he’d felt, the confusion.

"The first time," Gator said slowly, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "The first time he hit you. What happened?"

You didn't answer for a long time. You just stared at the floor, your body trembling violently. Finally, you looked up, your eyes filled with a devastating amount of sorrow.

"We were at his apartment," you whispered, your voice barely audible. "It was a Tuesday night in November. I was in the kitchen, making dinner. And my phone rang. It was you."

Gator stopped breathing. He remembered that night. He’d called you to complain about his dad, to ask you if you wanted to come home for Thanksgiving early. In all honesty, he’d just wanted to hear your voice.

"Caleb was in the shower, so I answered it," you continued, tears streaming down your face. "I was so happy to hear from you. I don’t even remember what he talked about, but I remember laughing with you. Honestly I hadn't laughed in weeks."

Gator squeezed his eyes shut, fighting back the urge to cry himself. He could hear the joy in your voice in his memory, a sound he’d cherished without realizing how much it would cost you.

"Then he came into the kitchen," you said, your voice breaking. "He didn't say anything. He just… I said goodby and hung up, and then he took the phone out of my hand. Asked who I was talking to.”

“Did you -“

"I lied and told him it was my mom. But he didn't believe me.” You hung your head. “He checked the caller ID and said he’d known I was lying. He thought I was cheating on him so he smashed my phone.”

Your eyes clouded over, as if reliving the trauma all over again.

“H-he threw it against the wall. And then he… he grabbed me. By the hair. And he threw me on the floor."

Gator felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He opened his mouth to speak, to scream, to curse, but no sound came out.

"He started yelling," you continued, voice low and detached, as if you were reciting a list of groceries. "He called me a whore and a slut and said I was nothing. Told me how I was lucky he put up with me at all. And then… He kicked me."

"He kicked you?" Gator choked out, the image of you on the floor, defenseless and terrified, searing itself into his brain.

You touched your side unconsciously. "He knocked me around a little more, and said if I ever talked to you again, he’d kill you and make me watch. But honestly, I thought he was going to kill me that night. Thought that a lot over the last few months, honestly.”

Gator felt the world tilting on its axis. “I'm so sorry," he whispered, tears finally spilling over, tracking hot paths down his cheeks. "I am so fuckin’ sorry. I never should have called. I never should have -“

"It wasn't your fault," you said firmly, reaching out to touch his arm. Your skin was cold against his. "It wasn't you, Gator. It was… He just… I think he wanted - needed - a reason. And you were the easiest target. If it hadn’t been you, it would’ve been someone else.”

Gator covered your hand with his own, squeezing it gently, trying to pour every ounce of love he felt for you into that simple touch.

"I'm gonna kill him," Gator whispered, the words slipping out before he could stop them. "I'm gonna find him, and I'm gonna kill him."

"No," you said, shaking your head frantically. "No, Gator. Please. You can't. He… he knows people. He’s got money and lawyers and shit. If you touch him, he’ll destroy you. He’ll put you in jail. Or worse."

"I don't give a shit," Gator said, his voice gaining a dangerous edge. "I got people too. I don't care about jail. He can't keep doin’ this to you. He can't brand you like livestock."

"It's not just that," you whispered, pulling your hand back and hugging yourself again. "It's that… If you go after him and it doesn’t work out, he'll know I ratted him out. And he'll… Make me pay for it.”

The fear in your eyes was absolute. Gator felt helpless, a new and terrifying sensation for a man who prided himself on being able to handle anything. He knew that saving you wasn't just about beating the bad guy; it was about dismantling the cage you’d been locked in, brick by psychological brick. And he didn't know how to do that without breaking you further.

"Okay," Gator breathed out, forcing the violence back down into the dark place where he kept his father’s sins. "Okay. We do this your way. We play it smart. I don’t want you to think I’m tryin’ to control you, but you can’t go back there. You hear me? You’re never going back there."

“I have to go back to school in the fall, Gator.”

“Transfer somewhere else. Do online shit. Easy.”

“What about my internship?”

“The one his daddy got you?”

Your lower lip trembled. “I know it sounds stupid, but it was such a good career opportunity.”

“I’m not sayin’ you didn’t earn it, but dontcha think it’s just one more thing hes usin’ to control you?”

You looked at him, hope warring with despair in your eyes. "I don't know how.”

“How to what?”

“Leave.” You shuddered. “I’m not brave like your mom. Or Nadine.”

The comparison broke his heart all over again. “You’re plenty brave. An’ good news is you ain’t married to him. So this should be a lot easier.”

“But how -“

"We change your number. Get a restraining order. Maybe get you a gun -“

“A gun?!”

“I don't care what it takes. We’re gonna figure this out. Both of us."

"Together," you whispered, testing the word as if it were a foreign concept.

"Together," Gator promised, leaning his forehead against yours, careful not to crowd you too much, but desperate to bridge the gap between your pain and his protection. "I’m not lettin’ you go again. Not ever. And I sure as hell ain't letting him win."

Your shoulders relaxed half an inch.

"Come on," Gator said gently, pushing himself up off the floor. He kept his hands visible, open and non-threatening. "Let's getcha cleaned up. Some of those scratches… they look like they need attention."

You hesitated, looking up at him with red-rimmed eyes, but eventually nodded. Slowly, you let him help you up, your movements stiff and jerky from how long you’d been sitting on the hardwood floor. He led you upstairs to the bathroom connected to your bathroom, relishing in the scent of your perfume that seemed to have soaked into the walls over the years.

Gator closed the door softly, shutting out the rest of the house just in case your parents turned up while he was there, creating a small, safe bubble in the fluorescent light. He lifted you up onto the counter with ease and turned to the medicine cabinet. His heart beat wildly as he pulled out the first aid kit - alcohol, cotton pads, bandages.

It was a routine he knew intimately. Far too intimately.

Flashbacks of his childhood crashed over him - sneaking into the bathroom after his father had gone to bed or left in some rage. His mother sitting on the edge of the tub, trying to stifle her whimpers as he dabbed peroxide on a split lip or a bruised cheek. Or Nadine in the kitchen, ice pack in hand, while Gator checked her wrist for fractures. He had been the medic in a war zone he was too young to fight in.

And now, here he was. Years later. Doing the exact same thing for the only woman he’d ever really loved. Not that it was the right time to tell you that.

"Okay," Gator turned back to you, forcing a reassuring smile he didn't feel. "This might sting a little bit."

You flinched as he touched the cotton ball soaked in alcohol to the jagged scratch on your forearm. He worked with a surgeon's precision, his hands steady despite the turmoil raging inside him. He cleaned the dried blood, trying desperately not to cause you any more pain.

"I'm sorry," you whispered, tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. "I'm such a mess.”

"You ain't a mess," Gator murmured, focusing intently on a particularly deep gouge near your elbow he was afraid to ask the origin of. You're a survivor. Big difference. “Besides. Even if you were, I like your mess.”

A ghost of a smile appeared on your lips. “You say that now, but you won’t -“

“Won’t what? Still think that when I wake up tomorrow?”

“Yeah.” You shrugged, though sadness radiated off of you in waves. “I’m more trouble than I’m worth sometimes, I think.”

Gator tucked a lock of hair behind your ear carefully, his eyes steadily meeting yours. “Who told you that?”

You hung your head, and Gator had his answer.

“He’s wrong, you hear me?” He leaned forward and pressed a light, chaste kiss to your forehead, only lingering for half a moment. As he drew back, he saw that you’d closed your eyes, as if relishing in the gentle gesture. How many times could one man’s heart break in the span of an evening? “You’re worth everythin’. And I’m gonna make sure you don’t forget it. Okay?”

All you could over him was a small nod.

He bandaged your arm, moving on to put a special gel on the burn. Then he examined the bruises on your shoulder and lightly massaged a menthol-scented salve across them. It wouldn’t cure the bruises, but it would help ease the pain in the muscles.

As he worked, a question began to form in the back of his mind. A question so vile and horrific, that he tried repeatedly to push it away. But it kept coming back, gnawing at him, demanding an answer. He’d seen the bruises. The burn. But those were things done in anger, in a moment of rage. There were other kinds of violence. Violations that didn't leave a mark on the skin but shattered the soul.

Gator finished applying a bandage to the burn above your heart after the medicine had soaked it, and took a step back, his hands resting on the edge of the counter on either side of your hips. He looked at you, finally at eye level, and felt his heart break all over again.

"Hey," he said softly. "There’s… Somethin’ I need to ask you."

You tensed, eyes darting to the door, the panic rising instantly. "W-what?"

"And I need you to tell me the truth," Gator continued, his voice dropping to a whisper. "No matter how bad it is. I need to know."

"I… I don't know if I can," you stammered.

"You can," Gator insisted, his gaze intense but pleading. His thumb brushed the outside of where your hand rested on the counter, rubbing calming circles against your pinky. "You trust me, right?"

Trembling, you nodded.

"Then tell me," Gator said, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. "Did he… Hurt you? In other ways?"

You looked at him, confusion warring with fear.

"I mean," Gator took a deep breath, steeling himself against the answer he knew was coming. "Did he ever force himself on you? When you didn't want to? When you said no?"

With that, the dam broke.

A sound tore itself from your throat - a raw, guttural sob that seemed to come from the depths of your soul. You didn't answer with words. You just collapsed forward, burying your face in Gator’s chest, and began to weep hysterically. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you tight as your body shook with the force of your grief. He didn't speak or soothe you with empty platitudes. He just held you, letting you cry, letting the poison out.

"He didn't understand the word 'no'," you choked out between sobs, your voice muffled by his shirt. "Didn’t like it either. Never did."

Gator closed his eyes, resting his chin on top of your head, fighting back the urge to put his fist through the bathroom mirror. He’d expected this. But hearing you say it out loud made it real in a way that stole the air from his lungs.

"Did he… Often?"

"So many times," the words were barely audible, your fingers clutched the fabric of his uniform. "When I said no, he just… Laughed. He said I was his girlfriend. It was my job. He said if I really loved him and wanted him to be happy, I’d…” Another sob wracked your body.

Gator felt physically ill. The thought of you, terrified and being used like a piece of meat by that monster, made him want to tear the world apart.

"It wasn't just… It wasn't just when he was angry," you continued, your voice detached, as if you were recounting a nightmare you couldn't wake up from. "He’d do it when I was asleep sometimes. I’d wake up, and he’d be… Inside me. And I’d just freeze. I’d just pretend I was still asleep because I was too scared to move."

Gator’s grip on you tightened, his jaw clenched so hard he thought his teeth might crack. The violation of it, the sheer, calculating cruelty, made his blood run cold.

"And in the shower," you added, another sob tearing through you. "He’d… Make me wash him. And then he’d… He’d push me up against the wall or down in my knees and take what he wanted. Over and over, and it’s my fau-“

"Shh," Gator whispered, rocking you back and forth. "Nothin’ about this is your fault. You're safe now."

"I'm not though," you pulled back slightly, looking up at him with eyes full of devastation. "I'll never be okay. I’m ruined, Gator. I’m dirty and used up and what if I never… Never get over all this?”

"No," Gator said fiercely, cupping your face in his hands, forcing you to look at him. "Listen to me. You’re not dirty or ruined or any of that shit. What he did to you - that's on him. He’s fuckin’ evil and you - you’re the best thing I’ve ever known. Period.”

You searched his face, looking for the revulsion you expected to see, but he holed you were finding only love. And maybe a burning, righteous anger.

"When we came back during spring break," you whispered, shame burning in your cheeks. "When we met at the diner."

Gator felt his stomach drop. He remembered that day. He remembered seeing you in the booth with Caleb, looking small and broken.

"He was so mad that we were even there,” you continued. "He said I was flirting with you. That I was embarrassing him. After we left, h-he drove us out of town to some abandoned field off the main road. There was nothing there. No one at all."

Gator closed his eyes, dreading where this story was going.

"He got out," you whispered. "And he hauled me around it and threw me in the bed of the truck. And he… He -“

You broke off, sobbing uncontrollably, unable to say the words.

"He raped you," Gator finished for you, the words like lead in his mouth.

"He was so angry. I knew he wanted to punish me, because he’d never been that rough before. And it hurt. It h-hurt so much. And when he was done, I was bleeding so bad, I thought I was gonna die right there. I know it sounds over dramatic, but I…” You touched one of the bandages on your arm. “Anyway. He said I needed to learn a lesson. Remember who I belong to."

Gator couldn't breathe. The image of you - his sweet, kind, beautiful friend - sitting next to Caleb, traumatized and bleeding, less than an hour after he’d seen you, was more than he could bear. It felt like a miracle you were still sane at all.

Gator pulled you back into his arms, holding you as if he could fuse your broken pieces back together with nothing but hope and his own body heat.

"I swear to you right now, I’m never gonna let him touch you again. Got it? You’re not his property. Or anyone else’s. I’m never gonna let anyone hurt you like that. Never again. We’ll figure this out.” The words came out in a rambling rush.

"I know," you whispered against his chest, your breathing finally starting to slow, though the tears still fell. "I know we will."

Still, on certain nights like this one, his insistence on everything being perfectly routine can get sticky.

You’re sitting at the dinner table, and it’s as crowded and rambunctious as usual. Your two youngests, eight-year-old twin girls, are giggling conspiratorially to each other. Your eleven-year-old son is trying to sneak his broccoli onto Steve’s plate without him noticing. Steve is moving the broccoli back piece by piece without looking, his eyes trained on your face as you tell him about your aggravating day at the office. And your oldest, your daughter Grace, has yet to show.

“Where is she?” you mutter, interrupting your own story as you become aware of the prolonged absence. “She’s leaving pretty soon, so she’s gonna have to eat quickly if she doesn’t–”

“Hey, Gracie girl!” Steve calls up the stairs, anticipating your needs and acting immediately like always. It’s a well-oiled system, your partnership. After all these years, reading each other comes naturally. “Dinner’s gettin’ cold, kid!”

You smile fondly as Steve returns to resupplying your son’s portion of vegetables, marveling a little at how well he wears fatherhood. The white button-up he wears for work is crisp and clean despite the chaos of the house tonight, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His wedding ring is a little scratched after so many years of wear, but the gold is still polished and maintained. And his eyes… well, the crows feet in their corners haven’t changed one bit of the warmth in those golden brown eyes. 

You’re pulled from your careful study by the arrival of your firstborn, thumping her way down the stairs and slinking into the last empty chair at the table. She’s not looking at any of you, and her posture is ramrod-straight. It doesn’t take you long to figure out why as your stare lands on the makeup she’s swiped onto her eyes, the blush that’s a shade too dark for her skintone. Your brows raise slightly, but you don’t comment on it.

“Hey, there she is,” Steve tosses out as Grace portions some pasta onto her plate. “What were you doing up there?”

“Sorry,” Grace replies casually. “Just getting ready.”

Steve’s eyes flick up from his fussing with your son and land on Grace’s face. You watch the moment it registers in his expression that his oldest daughter– the little girl he’s been cooing over from the second he met her fourteen years ago– is wearing makeup.

Steve’s eyes start to narrow, his humor fading. You shoot a hand out under the table and grip his knee, and he turns to you, suspicion awash in his face. 

You raise your eyebrows at him, reminding him silently not to say anything to embarrass her. 

He shoots you a disbelieving look back, like you’ve asked something impossible of him, and you squeeze his knee harder. 

Finally, he looks away and clears his throat. 

“So, are you excited about tonight, Grace?” you ask, opting for subtlety as you return your attention to your food.

Your daughter’s face brightens. “Yeah, Hannah said her mom even let her rent some horror movies.”

“Oh, yeah?” you smile to yourself at her excitement. “You’re not gonna get too scared, are you?”

Grace rolls her eyes. “Mom, I haven’t gotten scared at a horror movie since I was nine.”

“When we watched The Shining, you started crying,” her brother points out mockingly.

“That was different,” Grace insists. 

“Tonight?” Steve asks, and his voice is a little deeper than before– less amused. “What’s tonight?”

“Hannah’s having a birthday party,” you say of your daughter’s best friend. Grace has been gushing about the party all week– her first real boy-girl event. “You knew that.”

“I didn’t know that,” Steve frowns, his fork spearing at his plate. 

You fight not to roll your eyes. “Yes, you did. I told you on Wednesday that Grace would be gone tonight. It’s on the calendar.”

“I don’t remember that,” Steve replies mildly around a bite of food.

“Well, you have selected hearing, darling,” you say teasingly, lifting your hand to touch the hair at the back of his head affectionately.

“So, are there gonna be boys at this party?” Steve asks, overly casual.

Your fingers squeeze slightly at his neck in warning.

Grace colors a little. “Well, yeah, like, a couple. Just some of Hannah’s boyfriend’s friends.”

“Hannah has a boyfriend?” Steve asks flatly. “Is that even legal at your age?”

“Steve,” you start, your voice low. A laugh is building behind your lips at the barely-controlled panic and frustration in your husband’s face. 

“Yeah, Dad, it’s legal. Duh.” Grace huffs in answer.

You can tell Steve dislikes the attitude almost as much as the idea of his daughter hanging out with boys for the first time. “So these boys are the reason you’re wearing makeup?”

You shoot Steve another look that goes completely ignored. 

Grace colors further. “I’m not– it’s not even that much. And it’s not for boys, Dad. That’s so gross.”

“Aren’t you a little young to be wearing makeup?” Steve challenges, squinting at her. “Where’d you even get that stuff?”

Grace is glaring back at him, her cheeks redder with the blush. “Mom got it for me.”

Steve whips his head to you like you’ve committed an ultimate betrayal. “You did what?”

You fight your exasperated sigh. “She’s fourteen, honey. She can wear makeup.”

“Says who?” he asks, incredulous. “I certainly didn’t say she can wear makeup. She’s too young.”

“I started wearing mascara when I was thirteen,” you inform him pointedly. “It’s a rite of passage.”

Grace puts her elbows on the table and her head in her hands. “Dad, will you just stop? You’re embarrassing me.”

His expression turns a little pleading. “I’m just saying, honey, you’ve got such a beautiful face already. You don’t need to cover it up with all that stuff.”

“Yeah, it looks like you frosted a cake,” your son jeers, and you give him a stern look that makes him quiet. 

“Alright, enough,” you cut in. “Grace can wear makeup if she wants to. Now everybody just leave her be.”

Steve looks like he wants to argue this point to the death, but he bites his tongue and stabs at his dinner again petulantly.

Grace gives you a grateful look and keeps eating. 

It’s a matter of seconds before Steve interrupts the silence again. “I just think that–”

You let out a long-suffering sigh.

“You just don’t need any of that, Gracie,” Steve reasons with her, his hands spread and his face sympathetic.

Grace lets out an aggravated noise. “Oh my God, will you stop calling me that? It’s so embarrassing.”

“I can’t call you Gracie now?” Steve’s face twists in shock. “I gave you that nickname. I invented it!”

“It makes me sound like I’m four!”

Steve’s brows knit. “So, what, you’re so grown up now you’re wearing makeup and seeing boys and I can’t even call you–”

“Steve,” you say again flatly, more firmly this time.

He looks over you and takes in your uncompromising face. His lips press into a firm line, and he huffs. “Fine.”

Your younger daughters are unperturbed by the fighting traveling across the table, still happily shoveling pasta into their mouths. Your son’s eyes sparkle with mischief as he snorts and says, “Mom really shut you up, huh, Dad?”

Steve gives him a withering look. “When you get to be my age, kid, you learn that the key to happiness has a lot to do with listening to your wife.”

Silence returns to the table, broken only by the scraping of forks against plate and the sound of Steve’s indignant sighs.

Later, when you’re standing in the kitchen washing up and the kids have escaped to their rooms, Steve corners you again. 

“Hey, crazy,” he starts, his voice a hissed whisper. “What kind of backup was that?”

You give him an amused look as you scrub a plate clean and hand it to him. He dries it with the dishcloth in his hand without a second thought. “You know, it’s generally unadvisable to call your wife crazy.”

“Well, what the hell was that?” he repeats. “You totally turned on me in there.”

“Steve,” you hum, handing him another plate, “Honey, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m dead serious!” he insists, stacking the dry plates. “We’re supposed to be a unit, and you just–”

You turn to face him, eyes flat. “Us being a unit doesn’t mean I have to agree with you on everything. Especially when you’re being way overprotective.”

“Overprotective?” he scoffs, brows knitting. “I’m not being overprotective. I’m being exactly the right amount of protective.” He runs his hand through his neat hair, mussing it. 

You give another sigh. “Baby, Grace is fourteen years old. She’s allowed to wear makeup and speak to the occasional boy.”

“No,” Steve shakes his head petulantly. “No, she’s supposed to stay locked in her room until she’s thirty.”

“I seem to recall you and I found our way around my being locked in my room,” you remind him pointedly. 

Steve gives you a look. “That was different.”

“Steve, baby, I love you, but you’re starting to sound like my dad,” you tell him.

“Ouch,” he huffs, leaning back against the counter.

“Look, she just wants to know that you don’t think she’s a toddler anymore,” you reason with him. “She wants to know that you trust her.”

“I do trust her,” he argues. “It’s them I don’t trust.”

“What are a couple fourteen-year-olds gonna do?” you challenge dryly. “Hannah’s parents will be home all night– her mom told me on the phone.”

“I don’t like this,” Steve mutters, dragging a hand through his hair again. “Maybe I should just wait outside until she’s done. Just in case she needs me. Make sure she’s not getting into trouble with those boys.”

“Oh, now who’s being crazy?” you drawl, spraying down another plate. 

“I’m serious!” Steve insists. “If she’s gonna be staying out all night, running around with God-knows-who–”

“It’s a birthday party,” you remind him in a sing-song voice.

“That she’s wearing makeup to,” Steve counters firmly. 

You loose a tired laugh and shut off the tap, turning toward him. “Come on. It’s not that big of a deal.”

“It’s a huge deal,” he huffs. “I mean, you saw that gunk on her face. She looked– she–” he fumbles for words, flustered.

“Grown up?” you guess, your voice softening a little. 

Steve looses a breath, aggravated. He’s so like her sometimes– his daughter. They have the same temper and the same brown eyes. It melts out of him now, replaced by something that looks suspiciously like fear of losing her.

“She looks grown up because she is,” you tell him placatingly. “She wasn’t gonna stay five forever, Steve.”

He groans. “Don’t say that. That’s my Gracie girl you’re talking about."

You smile fondly and step closer, drying your hands on the dishtowel in his before slipping them around his waist. “You’ve gotta let it go, baby. They’re all getting older. And you trying to stop her from being a teenager is just gonna make her do it faster.”

Steve’s hands come around you, too, and his head drops and settles in the crook of your neck. “I don’t like this.”

“I know,” you tell him, scratching your nails gently along his back. 

“She was supposed to be obsessed with horses for at least a few more years.”

You laugh gently, holding him against you. “Just drive her over to Hannah’s tonight and try to patch things up. She loves you– she can’t stay mad at you forever. Be nice. And for God’s sake, don’t say anything else about her face.”

Steve sighs again, his breath warm and his voice muffled against your neck. “That’s my baby, you know?” he admits softly. “The first baby. She shouldn’t be this old already.”

“Funny how that ‘time’ thing works,” you hum, your fingers a soothing rhythm over his white shirt. 

Steve pulls back slowly, reluctant to let you go, as with everything. “I’m sorry I flipped out.”

“It’s alright,” you tell him, lifting a hand to brush a piece of his hair back. 

He huffs a quiet laugh. “Guess I’ve gotta get on board with all this ‘growing up’, huh?”

“You will,” you promise. “It’ll get easier.” You kiss him once, quick and pressing. “It’s just how it goes. Growing, aging, changing. Everything gets better with time.”

“Mm,” he mumbles against your lips. “Change. Never been great at that one.”

It’s true– he’s never been good with it. Steve has always wanted things exactly as they are, trapped in a perfect moment with the people he loves. It’s a snowglobe life the two of you share– a beautiful, idyllic snapshot, even with the flurries. 

“Too bad,” you tease him. “It’s happening whether you like it or not.”

“So I’m gathering,” he grumbles. 

You stay that way for a moment, soaking in the sweetness of holding each other, even after so many years. 

“I love my kids,” Steve tells you after a moment, as if it needs saying anymore. “I want to keep ‘em mine.”

“I know,” you say again, your lips twitching.

“And I love you,” he goes on, his head dropping to press another kiss to your lips. “Even when I call you crazy.”

“I love you too,” you murmur against his lips. “Even when you’re being overprotective. Especially then.”

And you do– all his quirks and idiosyncrasies, from his protective tendencies to his inability to give up on fixing the broken printer upstairs. It’s a part of who he is, that stagnation, that determination to sink himself in the present. 

Steve Harrington loves fiercely, his hands gripped onto it with a total unwillingness to let go. And that, more than anything else, would never dare to change. 

---