djosphere

“You know I could sue you for harassment, right?” says Gator back, groaning at the back of his throat, turning a corner, “for making fun of my fucking expense.”

“Sue, huh?” Willow laughs, following Gator when he does another corner, “You are indeed spending a lot of time with your lawyer; you are even using her jargon now.”

“I should introduce her to the new shink then. She could sue you, too, for sexual harassment,” says Gator, bitterly, turning the last corner.

“You get really grumpy when someone steps on your toes, Tillman,” Willow chuckles, lightly nudging Gator’s ribs, his smile fading a little, a little more serious now. “My bad, man, I know how difficult this is for you.” 

Gator stays silent for a few seconds, then enters the therapy room, placing his hand on Willow’s shoulder as a way to ask for guidance and also to thank him for his apology.

Willow places his hand over Gator’s hand on his shoulder and walks towards a nearby stool. Gator’s cane hit the stool before they reached it, grabbing the seat to sit there properly, resting his cane at his side at the table in front of him.

“What the hell is happening here, Low?” asks Gator, tilting his head closer to Willow as he feels the things on the table, trying to understand what he is holding. “What the fuck?” he says to himself, confused.

“It’s some instruments to shape clay,” Willow says, and Gator can hear him waving to someone.

“Clay?” exclaims Gator, furrowing his eyebrows. “for fuck sakes, these art therapy sessions are unbelievable,” he groans, frustrated, tilting his head towards Willow while he hears some footsteps approaching them from the door. “This is really a requirement for me to reduce my sentence?”

“If you want to be set free from here, I highly recommend that to you, inmate. It might help you in your healing process as well,” you say between laughs, resting your side at the table beside his cane. 

“Hey, Willow,” you greet the nurse, crossing your arms over your chest, then turning back to look at Gator.

Gator furrows his brow, turning his body toward you. He releases the instruments from his hand, resting his elbow on the table. You laugh at the confusion on his face, clearly visible even behind his sunglasses.

That sound makes his heart pound loudly and hard on his chest. He straightens his posture, his mouth opening and closing without a single word leaving him for a few seconds. “No fucking way,” he says, breathless, grabbing the back of the stool and the table.

“Hey, Gatorade,” you giggle beamingly, “long time no see.”

“Jesus Christ,” Gator chokes, “Ginger,” he calls you in a strangled sob, pushing himself up from the stool and launching himself into your arms. He holds you with his arms wrapped around your neck, mostly because of the height difference between you tw.

You take some steps back from the crash, but you freeze for a second by the sudden affection. However, you hold him back right after, holding him by his middle, your head just under his chin. You shut your eyes and fist his shirt in the back, pulling him closer.

Without you being aware of it, this was all that Gator needed to stop restraining himself. He let a shaky gasp leave his lips, followed by a strangled sob. He moves his arms to embrace more of you, his hands wrapped fully around you, his hands wide-spread on your shoulder blades.

“You still smell like vanilla,” he sobs, pulling you even closer. A trembling hand goes to your head, cradling the back of your neck, pressing his temple to the top of your head.

“Fucking stupid glasses,” he murmurs to himself, taking off his sunglasses, severely crooked on his face, and placing them at the table beside you, not caring at all where he put them.

“Gate,” you choke against his chest, your voice muffled against it, “I’m your therapist, this is not professio-”

“Fuck professional,” Gator cuts you, pressing his lips on your temple, his hand on the back of your head, grabbing it fully while he fists the back of your shirt. 

“It’s been what?” he chokes. “15 years?” he pulls back, holding both sides of your head, pressing your foreheads together. You grab his wrists tightly, both of you sobbing, your wet and hot breaths hitting each other’s faces.

Gator pulls back, kissing your forehead, his lips lingering there for a couple of seconds before pulling away and grabbing his sunglasses again. When he releases you just afterward, you both wipe your tears, chuckling weakly, him putting his glasses back on with trembling hands.

“What the hell just happened here?” Willow says, confused as fuck, looking at one another in disbelief. “Do you know each other?” He turns to you, his tone a pitch high, “And ginger where?”

You chuckle along with Gator, placing a hand over his shoulder beside you, with him placing his hand above yours, “Yeah,” he answers, “she was my best friend, we were attached to the hip,” he grins, adjusting his glasses on his face with his free hand, leaning back at the table, stumbling on his cane, holding it by his side.

“And Ginger because my hair used to be red,” you chuckle, watery, leaning towards Gator unconsciously, “now I dye it black since high school.”

“Oh, that’s really something,” Willow smiles at you two, chuckling, “and what happened? Seems like you haven't seen each other for many years, huh?”

You notice Gator getting tense in his shoulder. You glance at him and see him clenching his jaw and swallowing hard. With his eyebrows furrowed, he opens his mouth to answer, but you cut him off and look back at Willow.

“Life happened,” you simply say, shrugging while smiling slightly, as if what happened between you two was not the most hurtful thing in your life.

Gator squeezes his hand between his, his shoulders relaxing. He tilts his head towards you, smiling thankfully. “Yeah, huh,” he clears his throat, turning his head to the direction of Willow’s voice, “different high schools,” he lies, making you exhale sharply through your nose.

“But huh,” he adds just afterward, holding your hand tighter, leaning his head in your direction again, “I kept seeing her around town until this shit happened,” he points to his eyes with the hand over yours.

“Are you for real?” You snap your head towards him, your heads closer now. You sound surprised: “When was the last time you saw me?”

“It was a little after Thanksgiving,” he says quietly, a soft smile on his lips. “You were doing groceries,” he chuckles from the memory, “you were wearing brown pants and an orange sweater,” he smiles fondly from the memory, “and your hair was just as short as now, and was black too.”

“How do you remember?” You ask breathlessly, your eyes slightly wide from surprise, your heart aching in your chest, “It's been three years…”

“How could I not remember?” He turns to you, confused. “It's you, Ginger,” he says sweetly, “I can't forget about you even if I tried.”

“Also, I had the chance to see you one last time before this,” he points to his sunglasses, smiling happily, “ so now you are engraved in here forever,” he chuckles boyishly, with two fingers pointing to his head.

In contrast, you can not laugh brightly like it. You freeze, too stunned by his statements. What does he mean by all of it? He never forgot about you? He… He couldn’t even if he tried?

You are too out of breath and too speechless to say anything back. You swallow a lump in your throat, your breath becoming a little erratic, your nostrils widening more and more with the rise and fall of your chest, the time between those movements shortening.

As the good nurse he is, Willow notices you starting to hyperventilate. He even thinks you might be having a panic attack. 

Gator starts to notice your state of being, since his hearing has become one of his most-used senses over those years without vision, and he can hear you gasping for air over and over. And he is about to ask you if you are okay when Willow intervenes, putting his hand over the other shoulder of Gator.

“Hey, man, let’s get ready for the session, shall we?” he says to Gator, but exchanges a look with you, taking slow, deep breaths and exhaling slowly for you to follow. He nods and smiles encouragingly at you when he sees you following his lead.

“Oh, yeah, but-” Gator tries to protest, holding your hand properly now, taking it out of his shoulder. He turns towards you while he awkwardly starts to walk away with Willow, holding his cane in his free hand. “Are you okay, Ginger?”

You nod too quickly, chuckling nervously, but way calmer now, even though your heart is pounding hard on your chest. “Yeah, yeah, I’m okay, Gator.” You squeeze his hand, trying to reassure him of something you are not.

“But we really need to have it starting soon, or I’ll be called out,” you chuckle humorlessly, hesitantly releasing his hand from yours. “Now let Willow get you some place, and I’ll set everything ready.”

“Yeah, c’mon, Gator,” says Willow, winking at you with empathy and guiding Gator closer to the other inmates around the table. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees how tense Gator seems to be, but he also notices how he tilts his head slightly back, his ear pointing in the direction you were at.

“It was something I said?” he asks sadly, quietly, his eyebrows lowered, just like his lips, as he pulls up a stool and rests his cane beside it when Willow arrives and places Gator there. 

“She just must still be surprised that she got to see you after all these years of you being apart,” Willow says gently, placing his hand on Gator’s shoulder blade, trying not to stress his patient slash friend, at least for now.

Before Gator could say anything, you clear your throat at the opposite side of the rectangular table, calling everyone’s attention. Willow says farewell to Gator, waving goodbye at you as he walks out of the room, leaving you to work.

“Good afternoon, boys!” You say as happily as possible. You scan the faces in front of you, smiling gently while you tell your name, “I’m the art therapist who is going to work with you for this upcoming year.”

Even fighting to, you keep glancing at Gator every couple of seconds, and you always find him facing you, leaning a little forward, his elbows and arms resting on the table. He nods at your words while he adjusts his perfectly positioned sunglasses.

“I guess you are already familiar with this kind of therapy since I’m not the first one working with you, but I would like to introduce you to art therapy either way.” You look at the inmates in front of you one by one.

“Art therapy is a way to express yourself and process your feelings, but instead of talking...” you bend over the table, grab a big piece of unused clay, lifting with both of your hands, “you do art!”

Gator smiles at your excitement, his heart skipping a beat with what you say next. You point to a clay close to Gator while you ask for the inmate beside him.

“Could you please pass this piece of clay to the guy beside you so that he can feel it, please?” Gator hears the man beside him agree, and just a second later, he feels the clay on his hands, startling Gator.

“Thank you…?”

“Marlon,” the guy beside him asks.

“Thank you, Mr. Marlon. But next time be gentler, okay?” you chuckle softly. “he can’t see, and we don’t need to scare him every time we pass something to him, okay?” you say just as gently. “Pat his shoulder next time before passing him something, okay?”

“Yeah,” Gator hears Marlon leaning back at his stool, his tone a little annoyed, “whatever,” he adds in a murmur to himself, shifting on his seat.

Gator’s heart aches even more in his chest with your last sentence. He smiles widely and softly to himself while he turns the clay in his hands, and you keep talking in the background.

“So, as I was saying,” you spin the clay in your hands, “we can use it to relax, to treat trauma, to know ourselves better.” 

You place the clay back on the table, and when Gator feels the vibration of it hitting the table, he does the same with the one in his hands.

“And I know some of you are here because you want to, what I appreciate from the bottom of my heart,” you grin, putting your hands on the table and keeping your weight on them, “but I know most of you are here to decrease your sentence, am I right?”

You hear a lot of murmurs of agreement; you see them nodding, but you also notice how Gator laughs to himself, pushing himself back to lean on the stool, crossing his arms over his chest, nodding as well with the widest smile possible.

“Either way,” you chuckle to yourself, “I hope we all have a good time together, and that we can learn a lot from ourselves from this.” You smile gratefully at everyone as you shut the doors around the room, making it more comfortable for them. 

“Now, to start this properly, I would like to know,” you lift your hand, counting, “your names and age, if you are here for free will or to reduce your sentence, how many years are you incarcerated and how long is your sentence, and the reason why you are here, and if you already did any sort of art therapy, and if affirmative, what kind.”

Gator hears a protest around him as you list the things you want to know about them, and, to support you, he raises his hand and clears his throat. “Can I start, doc?”

You snap your head towards Gator, surprised by his initiative, and smile widely in approval. “Yes, of course!”

Gator grins and gets butterflies just by understanding you are smiling and happy. “Huh, I’m Gator, I’m 30,” he chuckles while also counting on his fingers, something he got from you from the years you were friends, and when you notice he still does it, your heart aches. 

“I’m here to reduce my sentence, but I’ve already done some of this before, like crochet, embossing drawings, painting too,” he thinks for a while, “oh, I also made collage with sticks, leaves, rocks, sand…” he chuckles, “that was something…” he hears some guys chuckling, and notices they are agreeing with him.

Feeling more comfortable, he points to you, laughing and smiling playfully on his lips, “so I’m not shitty on this, I’ll probably be the most centered dude here,” his colleagues laugh.

“But yeah, huh,” he chuckles bitterly, crossing his arms again, still counting, his smile fading, “I’m here because of,” he lift his other hand, because the reasons are a lot, chuckling humorlessly, “first-degree murder, kidnappning, assault, arson, tempeting with evidence” he lifts his other hand now, still counting, swallowing dryly, “attempt murder of a lawmnet officer and official misconduct,” he ends the list quietly.

“And huh,” he clears his throat, fixing his perfect sunglasses again, “I’ve been in jail for almost three years already, and I only got a 10-year sentence because I was acting under duress, because it would have been over 50, I guess,” he chuckles nervously.

He clears his throat again, soothing himself as he runs his hands over his thighs. “And my lawyer and I are trying to reduce it to four years.” 

Even after all those years, repeating it numerous times, this still makes him really upset and ashamed of himself for the things he did for his father, a man who never showed him love, but he has been so willingly seeking approval for his whole life.

So, when the men around him cheer him up, clapping and whistling, Gator is caught totally off guard. He startles at the sudden sounds, but relaxes just when he hears the sound he missed for all these years: your laugh, still audible even over the others, and it still remains his favorite sound ever.

When everyone calms down, you still giggle a little. “That is amazing news, Gator,” you say softly, “and I really hope this works out for you as planned!” 

His heart aches at the kindness in your voice, something that never changed, even throughout those 15 years apart. “I hope that too, ma’am,” he says with a small but warm smile.

The rest of his colleagues introduce themselves, and Gator tilts his head to both hear them and you. You notice from across the table how he always seems to have his attention on you in every way possible. You get butterflies and smile to yourself every time you glance at him and notice it.

“Thank you, everyone, for introducing yourselves,” and just by your excitement in your voice, Gator can tell how wide your smile is, making himself smile broadly too, “Now it’s my turn.”

“I already said my name, so I’ll not reapeat myself,” you chuckle, “I’m 30 years old, and I’m a psychologist for almost 7 years,” someone whistles, surprised, and you chuckle a little shy, “I’ve already worked as a counselor in schools, as a therapist itself too, in social service as well,” you scan the faces in front of you, “and it was three years ago that I started working with art therapy,” you smile to yourself, proud of your journey.

“And I always wanted to work in a penitentiary, so being here is an enormous pleasure and honor, mostly because I can work with art therapy with you,” Gator smiles to himself, happy that you achieved what you have wanted so much since you two were little.

“So, now that the introductions were made, let’s put these hands to work?” you say while rubbing your hands together, “feel yourself at home and grab a piece of clay and one of the bowls with water to humidify it over there on your lefts,” you point to a side table against the wall of the room, “and grab some apron too to not make a big mess.”

While you talk, Gator hears people standing up and walking away, but the footsteps approaching catch his attention; he turns his head towards them, his eyebrows slightly furrowed. 

“You can use the clay that is already on the table in front of you, if you want to,” you say kindly. “Do you want me to bring a bowl to you, or do you do it yourself?”

“No, I can get it,” he smiles when he notices it's you. He stands up, holding his cane. You step back to give him space, and you both giggle when the cane hits your shoes. By the noise of his colleagues, he walks towards the table, and you walk back to your place, watching him.

From the bag on the stool beside you, you grab your notebook and pencil case, set them on the table, and get ready to take notes on today's activity. You sit at the another stool close to you, just in time for Gator to get back and place the bowl on the table in front of him.

“Well, now that everyone has clay and water, have fun. The water is used to make the clay manageable, so this first encounter is to learn how to maneuver it, learning how much water, pressure, and shape you can make with it,” you say while scanning their faces. “If you need anything, let me know,” you dismiss with a smile.

Gator nods to your instructions, pulling the stool closer to the table. He places the clay in front of him and the water bowl a little behind it. Since you didn’t say how to water it, he dips his hand in the water and starts to manage the clay.

He can shape little parts of it, but the piece is still too hard, so he tries one more time, then one more, and then gives up. Gator leans back on the stool; his hands are wet with clay resting over his thigh, over his apron, his eyebrows furrowed in frustration.

You notice, from across the table, smiling weakly to yourself, that he still gets this grumpy face when he's frustrated. You are ready to stand up and walk towards him to guide him, but he surprises you, making you sit still and pay even closer attention.

With a frustrated but also determined groan, he leans towards the table again. Gator cups one of his hands at the water bowl, and carefully pours it into the clay he is holding with his other hand.

His eyebrows rise when he notices how malleable it is now, and he smiles proudly and boyishly to himself. It’s still a little hard to manage, but now he understands how to do it.

You smile so widely that your cheeks hurt, and your heart skips a beat. You look down at your notebook and take notes about him and his other colleagues. 

After a couple of minutes, an inmate calls for your help. You lift your head from your notebook, close it, stand up, and head to the inmate.

Gator tilts his head toward your footsteps as he continues playing with the clay in his hand. He can’t hear you or the dude you are talking about, but just hearing your muffled voice at a distance after all this time is priceless either way.

After helping the guy, you walk up to them one by one and ask if they need anything from you. Gator hears your footsteps approaching, and, unconsciously, he straightens his posture, his ear still facing you as you move around.

“Need anything, Gator?” you ask nicely.

He turns his head to you, resting his elbows on the table, his hands up with clay around them. “No, doc, I’m good.” he smiles at you. “Since I started this shrink thing a couple of years ago, I’m not like that stupid quitter I was back then anymore,” he chuckles, cupping the bowl again and letting the water run onto the clay, playing with it.

“You were never a quitter, Gator,” you say kindly, your eyebrows slightly furrowed, as it is painful to hear him talking so little about himself. “You just had difficulty with frustration, that’s all.” 

“But either way, this is amazing progress, Gator. Congratulations, you are doing really well!” You pat his shoulder gently, lingering there for a second before pulling away and heading to the next inmate.

Gator freezes with his hand on the clay for around ten seconds. You… you congratulated him? For him making progress? For him learning how to deal with frustration?

No matter how much time passes, he believes he will never get used to being praised, even though Dorothy always praises him for every damn thing he does. You and Dot have a lot in common, he realizes, smiling to himself as he returns to manage the clay on his hands.

You sit back on your stool, opening the notebook again and taking notes as you observe. You watch as the inmates manage and learn how to deal with something hard to manage, that requires water, something so essential but also so disposable sometimes, to make it manageable. 

You wish for them to get it before the end of this long year, while you focus on your notes and the minutes go by. You stand up when you see that one hour has passed, clearing your throat to call for everyone’s attention.

“Well, this is all for today, guys,” you announce while opening the door of the room again. “If you want to continue to play with your portion, feel free to stay here, but you are all excused now,” you smile widely. “Thanks for coming; see you all next week.”

As everyone starts saying their goodbyes to you, you pour the water from their bowls into a large one you grabbed from the side table.

Gator slowly stands up from his seat, cleaning, or at least trying to, his hands on the apron he is wearing. He hears the steps fade in the distance until the only things he can hear are you walking around the room and the water pouring from one thing to the other. 

“There is a sink here, or something, that I can wash my hands in, Ginger?” Gator asks with a hand on his cane and the other on the table, his head tilted in your direction.

“Yeah, Gate, at the corner on your left,” you say, walking towards him, offering your arm for him to take, your elbow pressing against his. “C’mon, I need to pour this water out too.”

“Okay then,” he chuckles, taking your arm, walking by your side. You walk at his pace, and he feels grateful for how thoughtful you are to him—something he likes to realize, even after all these years, that you keep to yourself.

“Here,” you say as you two approach the sink. “You can go first.” He feels the shape of the sink. “There is a bottle of soap on the left of the faucet,” you instruct, as his hands run around the edge of the sink to the bottle.

You take Gator’s cane so he can wash his hands properly, and he smiles at you, tilting his head towards you as you pump the soap bottle for him. “Thanks.”

He turns the faucet on, rubbing the soap in his hands, taking a little of the water to make the soap easier to clean his hands with clay.

While Gator takes his time cleaning them, you pay attention to him. The last time you saw him, you think it was September or something. He was in his deputy clothes, leaning back against his Jeep parked on a random street, when you passed by him in your car.

You still remember what you felt that day. He had his eyebrows furrowed in that permanent scowl he had on him, vaping. You could see him the moment you turned the corner on that street, and you couldn't, for anything in the world, take your eyes off him.

You felt a lump in your throat since the first moment you recognized him. Your eyes crossed as you got closer, and your window being down helped him recognize you as well.

You held each other’s gaze while you crossed his path, and you noticed how his expression changed as he realized it was you. 

The scowl? Gone, replaced by an expression you could read like the palm of your hand. He looked at you the same way he used to when he ran to you after a fight with his father, crying and asking why he didn't like Gator, why his father couldn’t love him.

It was a look that said: ‘I want you in my life, why can’t I have you?’ His eyebrows got together as if he was in pain, and you remember noticing his breath becoming shaky.

You saw in your rearview mirror, while you drove past him, when he pushed himself from the car, walking to the street while he watched you drive away.

And before you turned the corner to the next street, you saw him slamming down the vape in his hand onto the asphalt with rage, and both of his hands going to his hair, grabbing it by its roots. 

You could even swear you saw him squatting in the middle of the street, but at that time, you were already sobbing, stopping the car in the middle of the street. 

Gripping the wheel until your knuckles turn white, your forehead pressed against it, sobbing loudly, shamelessly, because no matter how many years had passed, you still missed him and loved him with your full heart.

“Ginger?” You startle, the grip around his cane tightening as you are pulled back to the present. “Are you there?” he chuckles weakly, reaching and grabbing your wrist.

You freeze, starting to hyperventilate again, your eyes wide at him while you try your hardest to calm down. You look down at his hand on your wrist, squeezing your eyes shut.

He starts rubbing your pulse there, like he always did to you when you were younger, while you were having something you didn't know what it was until you got into college: a panic attack.

This touch, after all these years, is strange and painful, but also so familiar that, even with the pain of the memory and the loss of this touch for 15 years, you can calm down, taking a deep breath and exhaling heavily.

The grip on his cane tightens, and you tense when his other hand rests hesitantly at the side of your shoulder, “Hey, Ginger, talk to me, please.”

You hold a whine from leaving your lips when you hear the pain and concern in his voice. You nod, shut your eyes even harder, and swallow a lump in your throat, placing your free hand over his on your arm.

“It’s just-” Your voice cracks slightly as you squeeze his hand, slowly opening your eyes to face him, your heart aching when you find him looking so worried at you, and you try your best not to cry in front of him.

“I’m just happy to be here, Gatorade,” you chuckle humorlessly. The smile doesn't reach your eyes, “and for meeting with you again.”

His breath hitches, then he chuckles with relief, even though he feels that something is off either way. He presses your pulse one last time, releasing your wrist hesitantly, but not letting go of your shoulder.

“I missed you too, Ginger; you have no idea how much,” Gator chuckles, with a grin growing on his face.

You stay silent for a while, and he absently and unconsciously rubs your shoulder as you stare at him. You are still trying to calm down completely while you learn the new fine lines and features he has on him now.

“Huh,” he clears his throat, chuckling nervously, reluctantly releasing your arm, already missing feeling you under his touch, “do you need help organizing the stuff around here? I’m free for the rest of the day.”

“Yeah, huh,” you chuckle nervously, passing his cane to his hand. Your fingers linger against the other, making both of you get butterflies.

You take a step back, a little disoriented, and walk to a cabinet on the opposite side of the room. “You can bring the used clays for me here. It’s…” You stay quiet, counting under your breath, “15 pieces,” you say, reaching the cabinet.

“Yes, ma’am,” Gator agrees while heading to the table. With his apron still on, he grabs a clay with one hand, bringing it close to his chest to keep it from falling. With his cane in one hand and the clay in the other, he goes on and on, landing them on you.

Gator feels the table for the next clay on it, not having so much trouble finding them by the water spilled on the table and some dry clay as well. Even blind, he can still use his investigation skills, just not with his vision now.

While you stand by the cabinet, you notice it. You notice how he adapted something he lost by using other skills in hand, pun not intended.

“So you really got into psych, didn't you?” he asks while walking back to you. “You used to talk about how you liked that shit back in the day.”

“Yeah,” you chuckle, taking the clay from his hand while he turns back to the table, “I got in right after school.”

“Of course you did,” he agrees proudly of you, “you were always smart, Ginger.” He rolls a clay off the table to take it to you, “Where did you go?”

“UCLA,” you answer like it is nothing, but you have a proud smile on your lips.

“Are you fucking kidding?” He freezes in shock, smiling so widely that all his face has smile lines. His eyebrows are raised high, a proud smile on his lips. “You got into UCLA?” he returns to walk, handing you the piece.

When he hears you put it in the cabinet, he holds you by your middle, lifts you into the air, spinning you. You cackle carefree, in shock by the movement, your hands on his shoulders. “You fucking did it, Ginger!”

Gator puts you down, his hands still around your waist with yours still over his shoulders, even though he pulled away. “How was it to be at the place you always wanted to study at?” he asks with genuine interest, still grinning.

You giggle, hitting his shoulder playfully, blushing. “It was really awesome. It was really a dream, you know?” you confess, giggling.

During your speech, just by your tone, Gator knows how happy you are, and his heart has never been this full of pride. Knowing that you got into the university you always dreamed of getting into makes him so full, but slightly sad that he wasn’t there to congratulate you at the time.

“You deserved it, Ginger,” Gator says bluntly, unconsciously rubbing your waist, “I never doubted you would get in. I’m so proud of you.”

You swallow hard when he starts rubbing your side, and your head starts spinning when he praises you. Your heart races at the same speed as the butterflies in your stomach that are flying and hitting against your walls there.

“Thank you, Gator,” you say, a little breathless, blushing hard, trying so hard not to hold his shoulders tight. “Now c’mon,” you chuckle nervously and quietly, pulling away from his arms, “let’s finish this.”

Gator chuckles with a lopsided smile, flexing his hand once while he returns to the table. His heart is racing, but also longing. He grabs another clay and walks back to you

Even though his touch is no longer around you, you can feel a tingling sensation in the area where his hands were, at your waist, just like he feels around his shoulder. So, for the sake of your sanity, you change the subject to redirect your mind.

“So, huh,” you clear your throat, chuckling nervously, “you did crochet before?” There is a slight hint of teasing in your tone, and Gator notices it, tilting his head a little, a lopsided smile on his lips as he hands you another clay.

“Yeah,” he chuckles, his fingers brushing against yours, making him a little nervous, already turning back to the table again, “it was the only thing I could do at the time to reduce my sentence,” he states, grabbing another clay.

“I was damn good at it, you know?” he smiles smugly, turning to walk back to you, “did socks, purses, even beanies too.”

“Awwwn,” you coo playfully, giggling, as you take the clay from his hand to place it in the cabinet. “You made beanies?”

“Shut up,” Gator says with no sign of resentment, laughing just after, turning back to grab the last clay on the table, “I did a decent job at least; they warm my ears in winter.”

“Awwwn, they get your ears warm?” You tease again, laughing, “Wow, never thought you would get this soft, Gatorade.” You chuckle, watching while he returns with the last piece, then you hold it and put it in its place, shutting the cabinet.

He laughs carefree, his body shaking, unconsciously leaning his body slightly towards the direction of your voice, “This art therapy shit isn't supposed to help me heal? Guess the shrinks before you did a good damn job.” You walk beside him towards the table. “I’m a softie now, apparently.”

“Yeah, perhaps,” you chuckle, you two stopping at the corner of the table when his cane hits the table’s foot, “but without this...” You place your palm over his heart, you can even feel his heartbeat under it, “not a single change would be possible, Gate,” you say fondly.

He stays quiet for a while, his head turned toward you. He exhales heavily, swallowing hard, and places a hand over yours on his chest, holding your hand. 

“That's… that's really kind of you, Ginger… thank you,” he says quietly, but full of gratitude. “You were always so sweet to me,” he confesses just above a whisper, a sad smile on his face, while unconsciously holding your hand tighter.

You thank whatever divine creature out there for your hands not being over your heart, because it's embarrassing how hard and strong your heart is beating in your chest. You can even swear you can hear it.

“Huh,” you chuckle nervously, trying not to hyperventilate again. Against your will, you take your hand off his chest and away from his hand. You turn to the stool where your bag is, your hands a little trembling as you pack your stuff.

Gator feels the ache in his chest, just like the cold on his hands, from the absence of your touch. He turns his head toward the noises you are making and recognizes the sound of paper and pens being put away.

He might not see, but he became really good at interpreting people’s sounds. And even if he wasn’t an expert, you sound the same when you are nervous or uncomfortable, as he did when he had the honor to be in your life back then.

“Hey, Ginger,” he says quietly, awkwardly. Gator places his hand at the edge of the table and walks towards you, guiding himself by it. “Do you have something to do now? Another session or something to head to?” He plays with the stripe of his cane, a nervous habit he developed.

“No, I'm done for the day,” you say with a nervous smile on your face, happy that he can’t see it, but little do you know that he can read you like the back of his hand since always. 

“Why? Do you need something, Gator?” You ask, closing your bag as you straighten up and hold the strap. You swallow dryly, also noticing that his claw is clenched just like yours.

“No, huh…” he shakes his head, taking a second, “actually yeah…” he says softly, quietly, “guess we need to talk, Ginger…”

“No, Gate, don’t worry about it,” you laugh nervously, dismissing it, putting the strap of the bag over your shoulder, “it’s oka-”

“The hell it is, Ginger!” Gator exclaims a little frusttated, his eyebrows furrowed so deeply that the wrinkles are deep between them, “I know you, okay?” he says breathless, as if he is in pain, putting the cane against the table, “even without those fucking things,” he points to his eyes, “I can feel it is not okay, that you,” he points at you, “are not okay,” he says slightly quieter.

“I-,” his voice cracks, his hands are lifted in front of him, unsure of what to do with them, “I thought I would never know about you ever again,” he runs his hands through his hair, a little trembling, “and when I heard your voice again earlier…”

Gator says it with so much sadness, but also hope, and relief even: “It was like this fucking universe gave me another chance to make it right to you.” He, disregards all his instincts, he places his hands on your shoulders, sliding his hand down until he reaches your hands.

“And I don’t want to screw this again,” his voice cracks, holding your hands tightly against his, “so please,” he begs, “please let’s talk.”

Your heart aches, and you do your best not to cry, something that is nearly impossible because you can’t see him suffering and not cry along. “Okay,” you say quietly, holding his hand back, taking a gasp out of him, “let’s talk.”

Gator exhales so heavily with such relief that he feels dizzy. “Okay, okay,” he nods quietly, frantically. “Do you mind if I close the doors?” he asks, already releasing one of your hands to grab his cane.

“No, but let me clo-”

“No, let me do this,” he cuts you off, already walking with his cane, following the guidance path to the door, closing them one by one. 

You remain nervous, but fight against your own body and grab another stool for him to sit beside you. You pick the skin around your fingers and do your best not to spiral again.

Gator comes back a minute or two later, and he gets surprised when his cane hits a stool that you are not at. “Oh,” he says, grabbing the edge and sitting on it, resting the cane on the table. “Thank you, that was… really thoughtful of you,” he says quietly.

“No mention it,” you are as quiet as he is.

“I, huh,” he cleans his throat after a couple of seconds, bouncing his leg, pulling his collar, feeling nervous, “I want to start this apologizing to you, Ginger.”

You lift your head at him, sitting straight, crossing your arms over your chest, leaning back in the chair. “No, Gator,” you say dismissively, chuckling ashamedly, “you don't need-”

“No, I definitely need to,” he straightens up, resting his hands over his thighs, “this fucking shrinking thing must have been good for something,” he murmurs under his breath, taking a deep breath, his face turned to you. 

Gator says your name with pain, full of regret, “I pushed you away out of nowhere,” he extends his hand, searching for yours that you give to him like second nature, without you even realizing it.

He holds your grip tightly. “I had just lost my mom, and then Dorothy ran away too,” he shifts into his seat, uncomfortable, “and the last thing I wanted was for you to run away from me too,” his voice cracks.

“So I selfishly thought that pushing you away would hurt less than you pushing me away,” Gator gets closer to you, sitting at the edge of the stool, searching for your other hand, which you give right away as well.

“But I was so fucking stupid wrong, Ginger,” his lips are trembling, his brow furrowed, “until we graduate, I cried every single damn day,” he sobs slightly, holding your hands tighter, “because I have lost the last most important person I had in my life.” 

“I spent the last 15 years of my life cursing myself for having lost you,” he takes a deep, shaky breath, bringing your hands over his heart, “I’m so sorry, Ginger,” he stands up, saying your name, hitting his knees against your legs, “I’m sorry for being a fucking asshole and for pulling you away.”

Gator leans forward, hesitantly resting his forehead to yours. “Please,” he cries unshamelessly, his body slightly shaking, you giving up your self-restraint as well, crying along with him, “please, forgive me.”

“Gate..” you sob back, pressing your foreheads together, holding his hands as tight as possible, “I thought you hated me,” you confess between sobs, leaning towards him, “no matter how much time passed… There wasn’t a single day I didn't think about you, Gator.”

You pull back to look at him, and you see how wrecked he is, just like you. Tears running down his face, his lips parted from his cry, the sadness in his face you only saw on him when he talked about Roy, and when Linda disappeared, and Dot ran away.

“Ginger,” he cries out your name, pressing your hands deeper on his chest, “I’m sorry for all the pain I caused you,” he lifts your knuckles to his lips, pressing a longer and eager kiss on them. “Please, forgive me,” he sobs against your hand, lifting his head to face you.

“Of course I forgive you, Gatorade,” you say while hugging him by his neck, sobbing quietly.

The moment your arms wrap around him, he freezes for a second, trying to process what is happening, melting just as your scent enters his nostrils, hugging you back by your middle.

His arms wrap around your back, embracing all of it like a lifeline, mostly because it sort of is. You hold each other tightly, smelling one another. It is like coming home after years of trying to find yourself in a world that doesn't make sense, until now.

You both pull back after a while, with Gator unable to take his hand off you, sliding them from your back to hold you by your shoulders.

He can’t see, so he isn't aware of how close you two are right now, forcing you to pull a little back to be able to think properly, sliding down your hands to his shoulders as well, squeezing one last time, your touch lingering there before letting go.

You chuckle nervously, wiping the tears on your eyes, “Gate, do you mind if I put my stuff away? Since it’s my first day, I need to do a report to my supervisor.”

“Yeah yeah,” he chuckles nervously as well, his touch lingering a second more in your shoulder before stepping back, wiping his tears from under his glasses. He adjusts his perfect glasses on his nose, “of course, go do your big girl stuff.”

“Big girl stuff?” you ask over your shoulder, chuckling, heading to the stool where your bag is.

“Responsibilities, reporting to others,” he shrugs, lop-sided smiling, sitting back on the stool, grabbing its edge to guide himself on it, “big girl stuff.”

“So you being a deputy, it was you being a big boy?” This sounds too flirtatious for your liking, the words leaving your mouth before you could even process them. You freeze in place and look away, still organizing your bag, your back to him, while blushing and your heart racing.

Because of that, you don't notice Gator blushing, and the twist on his mouth trying to prevent a smile from showing. Were you flirting with him? He got it right?

Gator chuckles, leaning back on the stool, feeling confident about the possible flirtatious tone. You look over your shoulder and see his arms crossed over his chest, and he manspreads with his feet resting on the bars under the stool. 

You have to look away from your own sanity, because no matter what Gator Tillman would wear, from his pjs when you were younger, to school uniform, to tactical gear, to even a fucking facility uniform, you will always find him the most handsome, attractive, and hot guy ever.

“I’m still a big boy, doc,” his tone is slightly flirtatious as well, testing the ground, could even sound like nothing if you don’t pay close attention. “Going to art therapy is a responsibility I take very seriously,” he chuckles, “and it depends who the shrink is; I commit even more depending on who it is.”

You blush harder; your breath hitches. You can hear the smirk in his tone. You’ve flirted with each other before, but you were teenagers; it was nothing more than calling one another pretty. But now you are adults, and this has gotten to a different level.

But before you could even think about something to say back, you two snap your heads towards a knock on the door, finding Willow there.

“Hey,” he greets with a friendly smile, half of his body in the room, “Am I interrupting something?”

“Not at all!” You chuckle nervously, and Gator can’t help but notice, smiling to himself, tilting his head in your direction to pay more attention to you.

“Good,” Willow enters the room, and Gator hears his steps coming in your direction, “because I would ask if you are going to the office now. I’m on break, and I would like to continue to show you the place around.”

“Oh, I would love to!” Gator can hear the relief in your voice, just like the smile you have on your face. He sits upright on his seat, straightening his posture, a little uncomfortable.

“That’s great!” Gator notices Willow’s excitement as well when he pats Gator’s shoulder, “Want help to leave the room, or are you staying a little more, Tillman?”

Gator exhales through his nose, nodding, a forced smile on his face, “I’ll be here for a minute or two, but thanks.”

“Anytime!” Willow smiles back, noticing that Gator is not comfortable at all, but he is not sure why. He turns to you, stepping forward, “ready?”

“Yeah,” you smile, and Gator hears you putting your bag on your shoulder while you step towards him, placing a hand on his shoulder, squeezing it and rubbing with your thumb.

“Thanks for today, Gatorade. It was amazing seeing you again after all those years.” The fondness in your voice makes his chest ache, and a soft smile appears on his lips, and he instinctively places his hand over yours on his shoulder. “See you next week, yeah?”

“Of course,” he squeezes your hand, smiling widely, “I’m never going to skip art therapy ever again.”

You chuckle shyly and blush, feeling your heart pounding on your chest. Without wanting to, you let go of him, and you notice his hand lingering in your hand too.

“Bye, Gatorade, have a nice week,” you say, walking away.

“Bye, Ginger,” he says affectionately, smiling like a fool.

And Willow notices it, narrowing his eyes at him, saying a see you later to Gator and walking by your side to the back door of the session room.

You look over your shoulder one last time and find Gator not as happy as he was just seconds ago. He has his jaw clenched, a scowl on his face, and his arms crossed over his chest. With confusion and an ache in your chest, you follow Willow to the administrative part of the facility.

“Hi, sweetie Gator boy,” Dorothy greets Gator while entering the visiting hall. Her arms are wide open, just like her smile, a bag over her shoulder. When she approaches him, who is already standing, smiling like a little boy just by hearing her voice, she hugs him tightly.

“Hey, Dots,” he hugs her back, his heart warm with the smell of baked cookies she always seems to have when go visit him. They pull away after a while with a content sigh from Gator, with her sitting by his side.

“I have something to tell you,” unable to hold the biggest smile, what catches Dot’s attention, narrowing her eyes slightly, smiling sweetly.

“Oh, and what is it?” she says in a quiet giggle, happy for whatever reason it might be.

“Huh,” Gator chuckles, adjusting his sunglasses, which are perfectly nice on his face. He says your name and last name to her, shifting in the seat, blush appearing on his cheeks, “Do you remember her?”

“That sweet friend of yours?” Her face softens. “Yeah, of course I remember her! She was always around when Roy wasn’t,” she smiles, “you were always happier around her, you know?” she giggles, and Gator blushes even harder, “but what about her?”

He chuckles nervously, bending over the table, his forearms resting there, but not before fixing his perfect glasses again, “She, huh,” he clears his throat, “she is working here now; she is the new art therapist.”

“Are you kidding!” Dots exclaims, giggling, making Gator giggle in relief for some reason, “That’s incredible, Gate! You've missed her, I imagine.”

“Totally,” he grins, his chest aching just by remembering the time you two went apart, “I never told you that we were not friends anymore after you left the ranch, or did I?”

“No, you did not!” Her eyes go sadder, leaning towards Gator, “What happened? You were so close!”

Gator groans from self-embarrassment, pressing his hand over his forehead, rubbing his finger there while telling her what he told you. His tone is low, almost like he was grieving, which he absolutely was at the time.

Dorothy’s face gets sadder and sadder throughout the story. She extended her hands over the table and held Gator’s free one, rubbing his knuckles while he passed through the events.

His shoulders get less tense with her affection, and his voice becomes warmer when he starts to talk about meeting you again previously at the beginning of this week.

“So now,” he starts to conclude, “after 15 fucking years, we are talking again,” he smiles dreamily just by saying it, just by imagining having you in his life again.

But then reality hits when he hears the facility's siren ringing behind him. His smile fades, and a scowl starts to show up. “But I’m stuck here for I don't know how long,” he shrugs, clenching his jaw, his tone a little bitter, “So dunno what will happen after this year.”

Dorothy grabs the edge of the chair with one hand, doing little jumps to get closer to Gator. She passes that arm over his shoulders, pulling him to rest on her shoulder. She rubs his shoulder with affection, her head against the top of his.

“Yeah, we don’t know the future, that’s for sure,” she starts, and just for being on her arms, Gator relaxes, clinging to her embrace, “but we have the present, which is a gift in its own. Pun intended," Gator chuckles weakly, making herself giggle a little.

“Take this time with her back into your life and make the best of it,” her voice is sweet, calm, reassurance. “You will have around 60 encounters to make it memorable.” 

She pulls back, cupping Gator’s face with the hand over his, leaning into her touch while furrowing his eyebrows in a painful affection, something he is still getting used to again. “So don’t waste this beautiful opportunity life is putting on your hands again, okay?”

Gator smiles weakly, but warmly, nodding just after, “Okay, I’ll try my best not to screw up this time again.” Beside his smile, his tone is a little bitter towards himself.

“Oh, don’t you dare be mean to yourself!” Dot pulls away, looking at him with disapproval. “You went through a lot, things that most people never go through,” she notices how Gator turns his face away, but paradoxically tilts his head towards her to hear her better.

“It might not be the better response, but it was the best one you could have back there,” she takes a deep breath, placing her hand on his shoulder, then up to his hair, running her fingers through it, Gator leaning towards her touch.

“So don’t be tough on yourself about it, okay? She forgave you, and now you two have a new chance, so do the best with it, okay?”

Reluctantly, not necessary feeling worthy of such words, Gator nods after a while, making Dot grin widely. “I don’t want her out of my life again. I’ll do everything to have her as my friend again.”

“Who said she can be just a friend?” she giggles, joking, making Gator blush hard, chuckling from embarrassment. “I always had this feeling you liked her back there when you were kids.”

“Can we not, please?” Gator chuckles embarrassingly, blushing even more, making Dorothy laugh beamingly. “Hope you brought my cookies for compensating for picking on me this early.”

Dot laughs while cradling his head to kiss his temple, pulling away from their embrace to go through her purse. “It’s 10 a.m, Gator; it’s not early.”

“Whatever,” he says, fake annoyed, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning back in the chair. Dot giggles at his grumpiness, placing the bag of cookies over his chest. The scowl on his face disappears, and the boyish smile ever appears.

Because of the dynamic settled on that ranch so early on, Dorothy always looked at Gator as someone to take care of. First as his older sister, then later as his stepmother. But now, that the scenario is not the same anymore, seeing him as her younger brother makes her heart bloom. Mostly because seeing her little bro falling in love again makes it even more endearing.

One week has passed, and you are late for the art therapy session. Gator is seated at his spot for more time than necessary.

He got there really early to have the opportunity to chat with you before the session, but the minutes went by, and other inmates started to arrive, and nothing from you.

As time went by, he grew anxious, shifting his weight on the stool, playing with his cane, trying to ease his nerves. He sharpens his hearing all the time, trying to catch a glimpse of a sound that would announce you.

But just after 15 minutes of your lateness, he finally hears you. It’s about the walk you enter that is rushed, the way you walk, a characteristic that he remembers from previous years. Your steps were always something he learned to recognize, the only few he felt relief to hear.

“Boys, I’m so so sorry,” Gator notices how short of breath you are, and he hears you dropping the bag at a stool. He also hears your steps fading away, just like your voice.

“I’m not used to the traffic of this city yet. I swear I’m not going to be late again,” and as you say it, your voice becomes louder again, and then Gator hears a sound and senses the vibration of the table, startling a little.

“Let me just pick the clays for you to continue, and we can go with our session, okay?” Gator notices the nervousness in your voice even if you are saying it as lightly as you can say it. He opens his mouth to ask if you need help, but he is cut off before he could say anything.

“Uuuuh, doc,” says an inmate from his right while laughing, “did you dye your hair?” Gator furrows his eyebrows in confusion, his head tilted towards the guy, then tilted towards you, curiosity hitting him.

“No, no,” you chuckle lightly, the vibration of 15 balls of clay already placed on the table done, “I'm just going to let it natural now.”

“Oh, no way!” someone afar laughs, incredulous, “so you are a redhead? Why did you dyed black then?”

What? Gator widens his eyesockets in surprise, a wide smile spreading across his face by the realization that you are ginger again, something he stopped seeing in you since the beginning of High School.

You chuckle nervously, and Gator can hear you sitting at the stool across from him. “You know that thing about women who change their hair when we go for some breakup? It is true sometimes,” you state, chuckling.

“So why you change it to natural now?” asks Gator before he could stop himself, his jaw clenching while he swallows hard, fixing his perfect glasses on his face, “You broke up with someone?”

“I, huh,” you laugh nervously, and Gator senses a vibration over the table; it’s you bending over and resting your elbows there, “I actually was quote unquote on a break that doesn’t exist anymore, so no need to have my hair black anymore.”

Gator stills with your answer, his heart beating fast against his ribs. He can’t see you, but you are just as nervous as him now, sweat starting to accumulate at your hairline and you bretahing becoming faster as well.

“But anywaaaaay,” you bring you both back to reality, taking your eyes away from Gator, trying to focus on something else to calm yourself down, “you can grab the bowls at the table by the wall and fill them with water,” you state while turning pages from your notebook, “and you can start to sculpt today.”

Gator hears the stools being pulled away and his colleagues heading to the table, and even still shaken by your statement, he grabs his cane and walks towards the sound, grabbing his bowl and then filling it with water. It might not be the necessary quantity, but it will work for now.

You watch Gator coming back to his stool, and you notice he is counting under his breath the stools he goes by with the help of his cane, hitting its feet. You smile warmly to yourself with it, glad to see how independent he has become even in a difficult situation like this.

When he gets to the number of his own stool, he smiles small to himself, placing the bowl at the table and then sitting back on the stool, leaving the cane beside him against the table.

With everyone in their places, in a quiet room filled only to slightly groans from effort, water being cupped from the bowl, and clay being sculpted, the art therapy session of the week begins.

Gator doesn't have a single idea in mind about what he is going to make, but either way, he rolls a clay ball to be placed in front of him, and slowly, really therapeutically, he wets it and starts to mold it, trying to get used to its texture and how malleable it is with a certain quantity of water.

He was never really good at drawing, so the perception of things’ shapes and else were not something he was a master at, but since touch was one of the senses he uses the most from the past three years, he had memorized some things and some shapes.

When Scotty come with Dorothy every now and then to visit him, he always asks for them to bring some toys that were from them, and he runs them around his fingers, sensing the shape of them. It was cars, farm animals, domestic animals, kitchen supplies, and sometimes fruits too. And then the recall something.

When you were kids, you had a stuffed animal that you lost after a family trip. You were in a rush, and unintentionally you left it behind. It was a giraffe, a baby giraffe.

You gave him an alligator, and you had a giraffe, and you played together for many years until Miss Long Neck went missing. Gator passed years looking for a stuffed giraffe like the one you had, but he never found it.

So just like that, he made his decision: Miss Long Neck will be brought back to life, and he will gift you with her until the end of this one year of your art therapy thing.

While taking your notes at the opposite side of the table about the patients there, your eyes always end up landing on Gator, and you notice how his expression changed from absently molding the clay until something hit him.

His face totally changes from his eyebrows furrowed from thinking to them being high from realization. You saw it growing; the change was progressively subtle, but by the eagerness of his hands around the clay, you can imagine he has an idea to accomplish now.

You smile warmly to yourself while noting it down, and when you lift your eyes again, they stay in Gator for a couple of minutes, and you feel your heart swelling just by looking at him, just like when you were younger and you lost track of time because you enjoyed to watch him existing, your place of peace in the middle of hell that was your life.

When you realize the feelings that are blooming inside of you again, you shake your head, lowering your eyes back to your notebook. You can’t feel this kind of stuff again; you are his therapist now. Well, not the traditional kind of therapist, but he is still your patient, and you can’t fall for him again. Well, continue to fall, actually.

So you try your best to focus on something else, cursing yourself for the lack of professionalism. The important thing is to try your best not to show any sign of your real feelings to him. These types of things can happen, but unlike in the clinic, you can’t “fire” him as your patient, so you can’t let your feelings show. At all.

The rest of the session goes by, until the end of it arrives.

“Hey, boys,” you call their attention quielty, smiling fondly, “the time of our session today is over, but feel free to stay over time working on your projects,” you bend over, your elbows on the table, “but if you don’t want it, just please discard the used water and place the bowl back at the table, and put the clays away on the cabinet. Thank you for today, boys, see you next week!”

With that being said, Gator hears stools being pulled back and steps going in different directions, and after a while, the silence in the room is present again. He chuckles to himself before talking to you.

“Guess I’m the only one here now, huh?”

You giggle, nodding, “Precisely, so I’ll let you be -”

“NO!” he protests too eagerly, answering it too quickly, his face in shock. He chuckles nervously, shifting his weight on the stool, “I mean, we can talk. It’s okay for me.”

You giggle again, cursing yourself in your mind for being just a fool for him, like you always have been, “Okay, we can chat.”

“Good,” he smiles widely, “that’s good,” he chuckles, still molding his clay, multitasking.

“So,” you start, standing up and cleaning the parts of the table that are not being used anymore, “what are you planning to create?”

Gator smiles to himself, his head tilted towards you, which seems to be somewhere on his left as he hears you wiping the table, “it’s a secret.”

“Oh, c’mon!” you protest, laughing, making him laugh too, “so I’ll only know what you are planning to sculpt in a year from here? You are mean,” you laugh beamingly.

“Not mean, just mysterious,” he says with flair, laughing just after, “don’t spoil the fun, Ginger, just trust the process.”

“Okay okay,” you say laughing, in surrender, “oh!” you exclaim, walking back to your bag. Gator hears you searching for something in there, “aha!”

With his eyebrows furrowed in confusion, he hears you coming in his direction; he even straightens his posture and cleans his hands on his apron, taking as much clay out of it as possible.

“Extend your hand,” you command, and he obeys, just like he always did. Gator feels the weight of it on his hand, his brow furrowing a little in recognition, a boyish smile spreading on his face.

“Are you serious?” he chuckles, then laughs properly when he opens the bottle, smelling inside of it. “No way you got the cherry one,” he giggles, taking a long sip of his Gatorade.

“Of course I did,” you giggle just as lightly. “You were obsessed over those things back there,” you recall. “The first time I saw you, you were drinking some Gatorade,” you laugh carefree.

“And still you remember my favorite flavor,” he teases, smirking smugly while drinking a little more. “Wow,” he chuckles, closing the bottle, “I really missed it. Since I got arrested, I’ve never drunk it again.”

“Oh my god, don’t say I committed a violation because I gave you this!” you say, scared, making Gator laugh, dismissing it with his hand.

“Don’t worry about it, Ginger. I just thought it would be pointless to ask Dot to bring me some,” he shrugs, placing the bottle at the table carefully, “and I always had way more important things to worry about than a fucking Gatorade,” he chuckles, leaning back on the stool.

“Well,” you chuckle, shaking your head when you notice how smiling like a fool you are, going back to your place, “I’ll take it as my personal task from now on every week then.”

“This is a lot of commitment, Ginger,” he jokes humorlessly, returning to his sculpture, wetting his hand to mold the clay again, “I’m your charity project now?”

You turn to him, your eyebrows furrowed together in confusion, a little offended as well. You take a couple of seconds to respond, sounding as calm as possible, “What that’s supposed to mean, Gator?”

He shrugs, chuckling humorlessly, still molding the clay under his hand, his head facing his hand, “I’m a fucking prisoner, Ginger. Giving gifts to me or whatever hell this is must be some local project about resocialization or some shit.”

You are so surprised and incredulous by the blasphemous words that left Gator’s mouth that you don’t catch the bitter tone of his voice. You are too shocked to say something back right away, so you open and close your mouth numerous times trying to find words.

“Wow, Gator,” you say after a while, breathless, hurt, “this is what you think you are to me?” You chuckle bitterly, a little watery even, “a fucking charity project?” you scoff with disgust.

But before Gator could say anything back, Willow knocks on the door, making you both snap your heads towards the sound. “Hello, you two,” he smiles, friendly, “may I come in?”

You turn your face away, taking your eyes away from both Willow and Gator and focusing on your bag. You clear your throat, your voice leaving it a little husky, “Yeah, Low, come in.”

Willow enters the room, heading to Gator’s side, and he notices how his jaw is clenched and his shoulders are tense while he plays with the clay. Willow furrows his eyebrows in confusion, looking at you, your back facing both of them, and he notices you putting your stuff in your bag.

“Are you already leaving?” he asks you while watching Gator's expressions, and he sees he freezes for a second before returning to his activity.

“No, I’m just organizing my stuff,” you answer, still with your back to them, “I need to be in the facility for at least three hours, so since Gator is still working, I’ll stay here.”

“If I’m trapping you here,” Gator says a little irritated, cleaning his hands on his apron, his head facing the forming sculpture in front of him, “I’ll put my clay away and let you free of me.”

“Gator, she didn’t say th-”

Gator cuts Willow, taking his apron off while he is standing up. With a big scowl on his face, he sets it over the stool, grabs his cane, and marching towards the door to leave, farewelling over his shoulder a short have a nice rest of the day towards you.

You and Willow watch Gator leave the room. It’s like a punch on the stomach for you. You turn your face away again, trying to prevent the tears from dropping, and Willow notices.

“I’ll talk to him, let me just put his things awa-”

“No need, Willow,” you say as firmly as possible, but the shakiness in your voice is not so subtle as you think it is, “I’ll put them away. Go talk to him.”

After years of being a healthcare professional, Willow learned how to recognize someone who needs space, so he just agrees, saying he will come back in some minutes, heading to the door Gator just left. He shuts the door behind him, leaving you with some privacy, mostly because he is sure you will cry once you are left alone, which indeed happens.

It doesn't take long for Willow to spot Gator. He is heading to the yard behind the facility when Willow approaches him.

“What the hell just happened, Gator?” Willow walks beside Gator, confused as hell.

Gator doesn't respond right away, but he clenches his jaw harder, and the grip on his cane gets tighter while walking in the yard along the guidance path.

“I was holding her back by staying after session there,” his voice is low.

“Oh, that’s why then you couldn't even put your things away and let your sculpture, apron, and everything else there for her to put away?” Willow chuckles sarcastically, “Good manners of you, huh?”

Gator swallows dryly, the scowl getting uglier on his face, but Willow doesn't let him say anything back. “What happened, Gator?”

Gator stays a while in silence, both walking side by side, the sun hitting his face. It’s fall, so it’s not so hot to burn, just enough to warm. A little calmer from the hug of the sun, Gator answers him. “Nothing, just-” he takes a deep breath, “I just don’t want to be on her way.”

“And why would you be? She told me that she would suggest you stay after the session to keep the work going if you want to. Wasn't that the reason you were there?”

Gator doesn't say anything, just keeps walking. He breaks the silence after a while. “You are friends?” he asks as nonchalantly as he can.

He can’t see, but Willow shrugs. “Sort of, yeah. We chat in the staff room when she is around,” he turns to look at Gator, “But you didn't answer my question.”

And Gator doesn't say anything again, but he keeps playing Willow’s words in his head. So you are sort of friends… How could he compete with Willow? A good guy who is not a fucking criminal?

“Well,” Willow chuckles after a while, tiredly, noticing he would not get an answer from Gator, “I’ll help her clean the mess you made. See you later, dude.” he pats his shoulder before turning and heading back to the session room.

You are sobbing quietly, wiping the tears from your face while placing Gator’s clay back in the cabinet when Willow knocks on the door, making you startle a little, snapping your head into his direction.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, but his smile fades when he notices your face is wet from tears. “He can be a dick sometimes, you know?” Willow walks towards you, “don’t take it to your heart.”

You chuckle weakly, walking back to the table by the stool your bag is on. “It’s easy for you to say when it’s not you who spent 15 years apart from him.”

“True,” he chuckles quietly, looking with empathy at you. “Would you mind telling me what happened?” he asks while pulling a stool to sit by your side, “he didn’t say much.”

You stay in silence for a while, sitting on your stool. You bend over the table, your elbows on it, while picking the skin on your finger, looking at them. You glance ahead of you and see the Gatorade bottle there, and your face turns even sadder, your mouth and eyes pointing down.

“He thinks he is my charity project,” you say quietly, standing up and walking around the table to grab the bottle, then coming back and sitting on the stool again.

“I gave him his favorite drink, and he thinks he is charity-,” you choke, “sorry.” You squeeze your eyes, bending over the table again, elbows on it while your hands press against your eyes. You let a strangled sob leave your lips, the bottle still in your hand. 

Willow looks at you with his eyebrows furrowed together, with such empathy towards you. He rubs your back to soothe you, and he says something back after a minute, “he is not used to kindness, I suppose.”

You take some shaky deep breaths before taking your hands from your eyes, pulling from the table to sit straight again. “Not anymore at least,” you state, wiping your tears, playing with the bottle in your hand, “Life wasn't always so tough on him back when we were kids.” You smile sadly, recalling, “kindness wasn't something so foreign for him back there...”

“But anyway,” you chuckle weakly, shaking your head to center yourself, “would you mind giving him back this?” You extend the bottle to him. “I like to think he forgot about it after running away, rather than he chose to leave it behind.”

“Yeah, of course,” he smiles, friendly, grabbing the bottle from you. “Meet you at the staff room later?” he asks while you stand up and hang your bag over your shoulder.

“Yeah, totally,” you smile gently, heading to leave from the door behind you. Willow watches you go and curses under his breath.

“Stupid Tillman,” he murmurs while standing up, leaving the room from the other door, shutting it behind him. He goes to the yard again and finds Gator sitting on a bench far from the back entrance of the facility.

“Here, you idiot,” Willow says while extending the bottle to Gator’s hand, making him startle. “You forgot it there.”

“Oh!” he says in surprise. “Thanks,” he adds quietly. Unsure if he is dignified to drink it still, he reluctantly opens the bottle and takes a sip from it.

“Don’t be a dick to her again, okay?” Willow firmly states, “And we both know the last thing you feel about her is something negative.” Gator doesn't respond, just drinks his Gatorade.

“So stop being an ass to the best thing that happened to you after she went away,” Gator opens his mouth to protest, but Willow cuts him off, “and don’t you dare correct me because those words left your mouth. I know you don't mean harm, so watch that big mouth of yours.”

Gator just scowls, taking a long sip from his drink again. “Be the big man you are and think about your actions. I’ll let you be. See you later, Tillman,” Willow farewells, heading back to the facility, leaving Gator to his own thoughts, cursing himself for being such an ass to you.

More than a month has passed since the day Gator had you in his life again. During the past weeks, he has apologized to you. He asked Dot to bring some brownies to give to you, since it’s your favorite.

So the next session he had, he was earlier, and you got in time. Still awkward from the previous situation about you last week, you greeted him politely.

“I, huh,” he cleared his throat, playing with the brownie on his lap, out of your sight, “I brought you something. As an apology for being a dick to you.”

“Oh…” you said quietly, placing your bag on the stool beside you.

“Yeah, huh,” he chuckled nervously, standing up. He took his hand behind his back, grabbing his cane with the other and walking slowly towards you. “You were being sweet as you always were to me, and I treated it like it wasn't usual from you. I’m sorry, Ginger.”

He extended his hand to you, bringing the brownie to your view. “This is an apology gift for you.”

You looked from the brownie to him; a warm smile appeared on your face, just like your heart aching on your chest. But just as quickly as this feeling, another thought came up to your mind; a smirk grew on your lips. “This is part of some program to reduce your sentence, Tillman?” you tried to say as steady as possible; you were trying your best not to laugh.

However, Gator didn’t notice it. His face turned horrified at the idea, his eyebrow lifting in desperation, “No, no, no, Ginger! I’m really sorry, I would never do that to-,” then he heard your muffled laugh because of the hand over your mouth.

He laughed together, pointing a finger towards you with the brownie in hand, a boyish smile on his lip, “You got me, mama.”

“Here, you idiot,” you laughed while extending your hand to him. You grabbed the brownie and placed another bottle of Gatorade in his hand.

Gator continued to laugh while he sensed the bottle in his hand, recognizing the shape. Along with this, you unwrapped the brownie and took a bite of it, humming in approval, rolling your eyes back in delight. “God, they seem like the ones Nadi-, sorry, Dotothy used to do when we were kids.” 

After swallowing the Gatorade, Gator added, “because it is from her,” and you noticed a smug and proud smile on his face.

“No way!” you laughed beamingly, taking another bite, covering your mouth when you said back, “I missed it so much! I never found a brownie so good as this one!”

“I know,” he simply stated, smiling fondly at your excitement. “Sooooo,” he leaned into your direction, “do you forgive me for being a dick?”

You froze for a second, so he remembered you liked those brownies? But you shook your head, chuckling nervously, focusing on the situation in front of you. “Yeah, Gatorade, of course I forgive you.”

Gator cheered like a little boy, making you giggle at his response. You chatted a little until you both finished your gifts. You placed the little wrap back on your bag as a souvenir, and he put away the empty bottle to take to his room later as a souvenir as well. 

After that, the weekly art therapy sessions went great, and because of excitement and anxiety as well, Gator was always way early in the art therapy room, sitting on a stool there waiting for you. Just like now.

“Who would imagine that you would become enthusiastic about art therapy, huh, Tillman?” teases Willow, chuckling while entering the room. Gator hears the steps coming from behind him, tilting his head back towards the sound.

“You don’t have anywhere better to be right now, Willow?” Gator says, a little grumpy, facing ahead of him. 

“You are grumpy as usual, so what is different now?” Willow chuckles, and Gator hears him pulling a stool to his side, and he mentally rolls his eyes back.

“Oh yeah, Ginger,” Willow chuckles in amusement, making Gator groan in annoyance, “that’s the reason you are here so early.”

Gator turns his head towards Willow, an immense scowl on his face, “Would you mind shutting that hell of a big mouth of yours at least once, Willow?”

“Years have passed, and you still have the dirtiest mouth in the world, huh, Gatorade,” you laugh while entering the room.

Gator snaps his head towards the source of your voice, his features softening instantly, a lop-sided smile even appearing.

“He is all tough just for the appearance, Low; he is a softie deep inside him,” you tease, and Gator hears you pulling a stool across him, his head tilted towards you all the time.

“I’m not a fucking softie!” he protests, getting a scowl again, making both of you and Willow laugh.

“How are we today, boys?” you say, and Gator can hear you taking things out of your bag and placing them over the table.

“Good, excited to celebrate Thanksgiving later,” Willow answers. “You are all dressed up today,” he teases you, making Gator curious as he tilts his head towards you. “Are you going out after work?”

You dismiss it, blushing, smiling, “nah, I’m just wearing those old brown pants and my orange sweater.” You glance to Gator to see his reaction, your heart swelling when you catch it.

His eyes go wide with realization, his mouth open from surprise. You are wearing the same clothes you were wearing the last time he saw you. His heart pounds hard and strong on his chest.

You smile to yourself, a little breathless when you add next, “but I need to wear the lab coat either way, so it’s just to feel nice.”

“We will have a Thanksgiving party later here,” Gator says too quickly, his voice a pitch high from the excitement. “You can stay over,” he chuckles weakly, “since you don’t have anywhere better to go.”

“I would love to,” you smile widely at him, and he knows it just by the way your voice sounds, “thanks for the invitation.”

“Are you going to pass the weekend with your parents?” asks Willow to you, trying to hide the proud smile towards Gator from growing, “it must be a ride to be there.”

You chuckle nervously, grabbing the bottle of Gatorade from your bag to give it to Gator, placing it in front of him. He feels the vibration, smiling gratefully at you while grabbing it, placing your brownie where the bottle was.

You melt at it, like every time for the past weeks. You grab it and start to unwrap it as you answer Willow, “No, I’m huh,” you chuckle humorlessly again, “I don’t have a relationship with my parents.”

“What?” Gator is shocked, the bottle halfway to his mouth. “Things got shitty like that?” he asks sadly, concerned.

“Yeah,” you chuckle nervously, “we had a big fight when I went to college, and it was the last straw for me.” You take a deep, painful breath.

“So when you were in town…?”

“I was visiting friends,” you smile sadly, “or sometimes visiting some member of my family, but never because of my parents.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that-” Willow begins, but you cut right away, dismissing it with a forced smile.

“Nah, don’t be,” you chuckle. Gator notices the nervousness and sadness on your voice, fighting his instincts to offer his hand to you, “I always had a strange relationship with them, and as the years were passing, I became more aware of the shit they put me through, and when I went to college I just cut relation,” you shrug, taking a bite of the brownie, “I feel sad for not having parent figures, but never for not having them around.”

Gator can’t see you anymore, but he recognizes the same signals you always gave since you were young about how you were feeling. So now? He still can notice how your voice goes to a lower volume when talking about it, like you are trying to make yourself small.

“Have you eaten the brownie already, Ginger?” so he chooses to change the subject, taking a sip from his Gatorade, smiling as widely as he can to distract you, “taste it with the Gatorade after; cherry and chocolate work together.”

“Ugh,” you cackle, wrinkling your nose with disgust at the idea, “are you serious? This doesn't sound good at all.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he laughs, extending the drink to you, “give it a chance; I’ll give you double next week if you don’t like it,” he extends his other hand with his pinkie to you, “promise.”

You smile at it. You used to pinkie promise over anything when you were kids, and seeing Gator bringing this tradition back swells your heart. With the brownie in hand, you lace your pinkies, and with the other hand you grab the bottle from his.

“For fucks sakes, Tillman,” you murmur while laughing, making him laugh. You take a bite from the brownie, already lifting the bottle to your mouth. “If I throw up, I don’t fucking care if you are blind or not; you will wipe this floor.”

“Guess you are not the only one with a dirty mouth here, huh?” Willow teases Gator, laughing along with him. 

“She got it from me.” You roll your eyes at Willow but with no heat in it, and push Gator playfully by his shoulder, making him cackle even more. 

Then you drink it. Yeah, Gatorade is not your thing, but it’s not horrible either; you are making a funny face between disgust and curiosity when Gator speaks again. “You are doing that face, don’t you?” he chuckles beamingly, “you are too quiet.”

“What face?” Willow looks confused from Gator to you while you give the bottle back to Gator.

“The exact one I’m doing,” and that makes Gator cackle even more, “fuck Gator, this is not the worst thing ever, but fuck, seems like I’m vaping .”

“Ooooh,” Gator realizes, laughing still, “so that’s probably the reason I might like it.”

“Oh, it totally is,” you laugh, finishing your brownie when other inmates start to come to the session.

“Well, I guess this is my lead,” Willow smiles at you and pats Gator’s shoulder, “good art therapy for you two, see you later.”

You both farewell Willow, and you place yourself across from Gator while he finishes his drink and you wipe your hands on the lab coat that you are putting it on.

The session goes well. Gator is still learning how to mold the clay the way he wants to; it’s taking a while, but progress is noticeable. You take your notes about your patients, and your eyes always end up landing on him, over and over.

You keep blaming yourself for the feelings blooming stronger in your heart, and you want to believe you are managing it well. But in reality? You are not so nonchalant as you think you are.

Willow already noticed how you two are around one another, but since he understands the dilemma you are going through, he keeps his thoughts to himself.

But when it is about Gator… He teases him frequently, and this is what he is doing while both of them are in the common area, having a gathering for the Thanksgiving celebration at the facility after the session, waiting for you.

“I knew you were going to ask her to come,” Willow giggles, nudging Gator’s ribs, the latter groaning in annoyance, “you are so obvious, Tillman.”

“I’m not obvious for shit, Low,” protests Gator, eating turkey from a plastic plate, leaning back against a wall beside Willow, his cane by his side. “I just like her a lot, always have and always will.”

Gator tilts his head in different directions every couple of seconds, trying to hear your steps or your voice when you will finally show up. And of course Willow notices it, laughing to himself.

Willow is drinking absently, scanning the faces around the common area when he sees you coming from afar. He grins to himself and turns to look at Gator, watching when he will notice you are here.

Oblivious about being his subject of study, Gator sharpens his hearing, and just a couple of seconds later, he stays still, his ear tilted towards your direction, capturing steps he recognizes as yours.

Since he was younger, Gator learned to discriminate footsteps as a way to get ready for upcoming trouble. So, because of that, he not only learned the dangerous ones, but also the ones that calmed down his nervous system.

So despite himself, Gator is grinning like an idiot when he hears you approaching. You are still very far, but even after 15 years, he can’t forget the footsteps that calm him the most.

He straightens his posture, his whole body facing towards you while you greet some of your patients there, some staff, with the expectation of encountering you again.

Gator hears you getting closer, and by the direction of your voice, you are close to the table with the food over it. You giggle because of something one of the nurses says to you. Gator can’t hear what it was, but his heart warms and his face softens just by hearing your laugh, something that he really missed and always lit up his day.

“You are not so nonchalant as you think you are,” whispers Willow, leaning towards Gator, laughing just after, “you are aware of that, right?”

Gator sighs in annoyance, “Shut up,” groans in frustration, but his expression melts just after when he hears you approaching them, making Willow roll his eyes with no heat in it, drinking from his cup.

“Hello again, boys,” you greet both of them, but your attention is mostly towards Gator. “Thanks for inviting me,” you say to him, “I didn't know here in the facility festivities like that were celebrated.”

You two were always touchy with one another back in the day, and mostly because he can’t see you now, you sense the urge to be even more present physically. So for that, you stay up with your feet apart just enough to your tiptoe to touch his, making you present there.

Gator notices your move while you thank him, his heart racing a little while some butterflies fly around his stomach, something he doesn't recall feeling for… 15 years, coincidentally?

“Huh,” he chuckles nervously, shifting the weight on his feet, fixing his glasses that are perfect on his face with his free hand. Willow chuckles into his cup, looking away to give his friend/patient some privacy. “Yeah, it was something a shrink suggested some years ago before I got here.”

“It was a shrink and a social worker, actually,” adds Willow. “I knew them; they were incredible professionals and did an amazing job here with the inmates,” he smiles proudly, “Here is the best special needs unit in the country because of them.”

“That’s why, Lorraine, because of Dot,” Gator smiles fondly just by recalling, “made everything into her hands to put me here. No other facility offers the therapies that are here.”

“Oh, that’s incredible,” you smile widely from Willow to Gator, “I was aware of its excellence when I was looking for a job in a facility, but I didn't know the history behind it.”

“It’s a five-star facility basically,” Gator jokes, making you giggle lightly. Willow excuses himself and goes to talk to another of his patients, leaving you two alone.

When Gator notices Willow is really gone, his head tilted slightly in his direction, he exchanges his focus back to you, a big smile on his lips.

“Seriously, Ginger, thanks for coming; I was afraid you would not show up,” confesses Gator, chuckling shyly.

“Why wouldn't I show up?” you chuckle, confused.

Gator shrugs, chuckling nervously, shifting the weight on his feet, but not stopping from touching your feet; he could never let go of your touch like that. “Dunno, hanging out with some delinquent is not something I have ever imagined you would be up to do.”

Your heart aches with his self-deprecating. Fuck Roy for always having made him doubt himself, and for dragging him in a path where Gator considers himself a fucking delinquent, and nothing else.

“It’s because I’m not hanging out with a fucking delinquent,” your tone is cold, almost angry, making the smile on Gator’s lips fade, “I’m hanging with Gator Tillman, my friend.”

Gator clenches his jaw, swallowing a lump in his throat, tilting his head down. He can’t seem to get used to you seeing him with such good eyes, even when you were kids.

“You did shit and are paying for it,” you say softly, flexing your hand and tucking it into the front pocket of your lab coat, preventing you from holding him. “Roy doesn't dictate you anymore.”

It’s like a punch in his guts. He presses his lips together, twisting his mouth. He switches weight on his feet again, feeling really uncomfortable with such truthful but also so unsettling words.

Willow comes back a second after, and you and Gator engage in a conversation that he is not totally paying attention to, too focused on his inner battle.

He can’t see himself the way you see him. He is an inmate, has a criminal record for the rest of his life with crimes that would get him arrested for the rest of his life if he wasn't disabled.

And you? You are a fucking incredible professional, who can get and be around anyone else; why would you choose him over all people? You are sunlight and fresh life, while he is darkness and a rotten piece of shit. You deserve so much better than someone like him.

Some time has passed, and it’s now Christmas week, and just like always, Gator is some considerable minutes earlier for the art therapy session. Always willing to spend more time with you, but now it’s more special, since he has a gift for you.

He has a package on the table in front of him while he is seated on the stool, leaning back. He plays with the wrapped plastic around the brownie in his hand. It’s a way to ease himself from the nervousness he is feeling.

After some short but torturous minutes, the back door of the room cracks open, and his face, which had been pointed at the brownie in his hand, snaps up towards the sound. And before the door is even shut, he hears you.

“Hey, Gatorade,” he can hear the smile in your voice, making himself grin, even with his nerves up. He straightens up his posture while he climbs off the stool. He grips the edge of the table to stabilize himself, and also to hold something tightly without smashing the brownie on his hand.

“Hello, Ginger,” he chuckles, a little nervous, adjusting the glasses on his face. He clears his throat while hearing you approaching and getting closer by every second. “I have something for you,” he senses the table until touching the present over the table. 

You chuckle, amused, and Gator hears you putting your bag at the usual stool, “I can see that,” and stopping just a couple of steps in front of him.

“But first, for you, as always,” he grins as confidently as he can, extending his hand with the brownie on it.

“And for you,” and you two exchange the little gifts, you grabbing the brownie and he the Gatorade from your hands. Your fingers brush, sending a jolt of electricity through your bodies, making both stomachs get chills.

Gator places the Gatorade on the table, putting a hand over the present and pushing towards you over it. He has a nervous, but mostly tender smile on his face. “Merry  Christmas,” he says your name fondly just after, “hope you like it.”

“Oh, Gate,” he can hear how soft your voice sounds. He hears a soft and low sound, like you are placing something over the table. It might be the brownie, he believes.

After it, he can hear you taking the package in your hands. “You didn’t need to,” you say, while he hears you unwrapping it carefully.

“But I wanted to,” he simply states. 

You look at him with such ache on your chest you think you might cry, so you look away, concentrating on opening the gift. Out of nervousness, Gator plays with the bottle that is now in his hands, spinning it against the table, his head tilted towards you, paying the closest attention possible to you.

When you finish unwrapping the present, you see it is a simple purple box. Gator speaks again when he no longer hears paper being unwrapped.

“I asked Dot to bring a beautiful box a couple of weeks ago,” he says quietly, pointing vaguely towards you, “and I did my best wrapping it,” he chuckles, adjusting his glasses again. “I, huh, I wanted to do it myself too.”

“And it got really great,” you turn your head to him, “thank you, Gator.” He can hear you smiling, your voice so soft that his heart aches.

But just after it, his heart starts to race when he hears you pulling the lid of the box open. You place it beside the box, and you stay silent.

Gator hears you moving and holding something in your hand. He can even hear your thumbs rubbing the fabric of the crochet piece of clothing.

“I made them a month ago,” he confesses quietly. “It’s winter, and it’s pretty cold here during this time,” he explains, squeezing the bottle a little tighter in his hand while he soothes himself over his thighs.

“It’s beautiful, Gate,” and he notices how awed your voice sounds, how he would even consider you are slightly breathless. He hears you moving while you add, “do you mind if I wear them during the sessions?” You turn to him, grabbing the second thing in the box.

“Not at all!” he answers too quickly, taking an embarrassed chuckle from him, and an amused chuckle from you. “I would love that, actually.”

“Good,” you chuckle weakly, taking a step closer to him, making him swallow a lump in his throat, “because I really loved them,” you confess with such awe that he practically melts with your confession, sighing in relief.

“Would you like to see how they are in me?”

Gator chuckles, confused, “I don’t know if you are aware of it, but I can’t see, Gin-”

“Not like this, you fool,” this takes an unbelieving, funny, and shocked laugh from him, “like this,” and you hold his free hand, placing it at the fabric around your neck.

Gator freezes at your move. Not from the suddenness of it, but from the intimacy of it. Slowly and carefully, really sensing it, he runs his finger of one hand, then later the other one that was previously in the bottle, along the scarf around your neck.

He senses the way the scarf turns around your neck and that its ends are on each side of your neck while the middle wraps around your neck. The fabric is soft; he made sure to get the softest one possible.

“Are you getting warm?” he asks quietly, afraid to scare this sacred and precious moment away, like he is in a dream.

“Totally,” you confess just as quietly, studying his face while he senses the scarf on you. You notice how careful his touch is, and how his hands are slightly trembling, and you wonder why, but don’t ask anything.

“And you remembered red is my favorite color,” you add just after, and you notice a smug but weak smile at the corner of his lips.

“How could I ever forget it?” his tone starts warm, but quickly turns teasingly. “You used to write in red in every fucking place you could touch,” he huckles, making you chuckle back.

“Can I, huh,” he chuckles nervously, clearing his throat, “can I see how the beanie is on you?”

“Only if you say if the scarf looks good on me,” you tease, slightly nervous like him.

“Any shit look good on you, Ginger,” he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the damn world, “I don’t need eyes to know it.”

And he doesn't need your words of approval to go up from your neck to your head. What is good. Because you are speechless with his statement, your heart pounding on your chest, too self-aware of the proximity and intimacy of this moment.

Even though Gator is some 15 centimeters taller than you, slightly hovering over you, his touch is feather-like. His head is tilted down while his hands slide from the scarf to your jaw.

Because of a lot of things he doesn’t even know how to start enumerating, he can’t trace the line of your jaw until your chin, even if he is aching so much to, so he just keeps going up from the sides of your face.

His fingertips run over your cheeks to your temple. The touch is so light that a shiver is sent down your spine. You have to shut your eyes to try to compose yourself. 

The last time you were intimate like this with him was when he was comforting you because you fought with your parents, and with the care and affection he always had for you, he had cupped your cheek to wipe the tears away from your face.

Gator is oblivious to your reaction to his touch, but he is really aware of his own. It’s been way over a decade since the last time he touched your face with such delicacy, or even at all. 

Your face has changed, of course; you are a grown woman now, but the softness of your skin remains the same, with a wrinkle or two at the corner of your eyes that must have appeared during these years apart.

He chuckles breathlessly when he thinks about how many times you must have laughed to have those fine lines, and his heart melts just by imagining you smiling widely, being happy, even without him.

“What?” you ask quietly, noticing the way he is smiling.

“Nothing,” he says, reaching the hem of the beanie around your head, the fabric just as soft and just as red as the one around your neck, “just appreciating my good work.”

You chuckle, his hands now rubbing all the extensions of the beanie. It’s squareish, forming corners, like little cat ears. He squeezes it playfully, making you two giggle.

Before letting you go, just because Gator is Gator, he shuffles your head, tucking the beanie more into your head, covering your eyes, making him laugh at the possible outcome of his action.

“You are an idiot, Gator Tillman,” you say while feeling defeated, hearing him laugh while you can't even see. You adjust the beanie properly on your head and see him folding by laughing. “It’s not even that funny, dickhead.”

“Oh, it totally is,” he wipes the tears from under his glasses, stopping the laugh little by little. “You probably did the same face you have always done when we were kids.”

“You jerk,” you laugh while walking away, making Gator furrow his eyebrows when he hears you stepping away. “Don’t make me regret getting a Christmas gift to you,” you joke.

You search into your bag, coming back after a while in front of him, “extend your hand.” You command, and he obeys, without any discussion, like always. Gator feels a thick and big piece of paper in his hands. When he holds it properly, sensing it, he identifies it as an envelope.

“Once you mentioned you have a CD player in your room, so I did something to you.”

Gator furrows his eyebrows together, his head tilted to you. There is volume inside the envelope, he notices. He opens it carefully not to rip it off since it's glued together. Without a lot of effort, he opens it, pulling a plastic square thing on his hand.

“I recorded your favorite songs you liked when we were kids,” you chuckle, and he notices you are the one nervous now, “and during these years we were apart, I saw you hearing some other songs as well,” you confess quietly, “and I put them in there too.”

Gator lifts his face from the CD in his hands to you. His heart aches with your confession about how you paid attention to him even though he pushed you away. Something that makes him a little surprised, because he thought he was the only one doing that.

“Merry Christmas, Gatorade… Hope you like it,” you smile quietly, and he hears you shifting the weight on your feet, and you rubbing some plastic on your fingers, which he assumes is from the brownie.

“I already love it,” he smiles at you slightly breathless, his heart swelling, “thank you, Ginger. This… was really sweet of you.”

“Thank you too,” you add just after, embarrassed, chuckling nervously, “now I’ll spend the rest of the winter warm.”

“And I’ll spend the rest of my time here with the best soundtrack,” he lifts the CD in front of his face, making you both giggle slightly.

“Oh, did you not see the card!”

“Card?” he asks, confused, coming back to the envelope in his hands, searching inside of it. “Oh, the card,” he chuckles when he pulls it out of it.

“You know I can’t quite read now, right?” he jokes, opening it.

“It’s in raised print,” you say, giggling proudly, “I made sure you got the message.” He hears the tone of tease in your tone, making him smile in suspicion.

Gator runs his fingers over the raised letters, doing the curves and corners of the letters, mumbling the letters and then the words being formed, laughing harder and in fake incredulity with each word coming to light.

“The worst soundtrack to the best dude,” he finishes, laughing amused, “I thought your taste in music would get better as you got older, Ginger,” he teases back, putting the card back in the envelope, “you know, the older, the wiser.”

“You are right, Gatorade,” you start, tease, “wiser, not tone deaf,” you laugh.

“Fuck you,” Gator says with no heat, laughing along with you.

But before you could do anything else, the front door of the session room opens, and the other inmates start to come inside. You both snap your heads in the direction of it, composing yourselves and putting the packages and present away.

You say a warm and heartfelt goodbye to Gator while he sits on his stool, opening the Gatorade and smiling to himself, rubbing the corners of the envelope with the CD back in, tucked in his front pocket. He smiles to himself with the most tender and loving feeling on his chest.

You come back to your place as well, placing the beautiful purple box in the stool with your bag beside it. You smile warmly to yourself as well, adjusting the scarf and beanie better on you when your eyes land on Gator. The way he's smiling, matching with yours, makes it really hard to concentrate on anything else but him.

But well, you have a job to do, so you clear your throat and do the greetings and instructions. However, even as the session progresses, you always keep glancing at him, just like you notice his head tilted slightly in your direction as well, making a beat from your heart skip every time you notice.

A couple of months have passed, and with that, the sessions continued and progressed. His sculpture is getting the shape of his liking, looking more like something that resembles a giraffe, but there are still around 6 months to come for this project to end.

Just like the art therapy sessions, the visitations with Dorothy go on as well, with the current one, Scotty being present as well.

“Gator!”

“Hey kiddo!” Gator chuckles, shortly out of breath from being crashed by Scotty, their arms wrapped around him. “Long time no see,” he says while ruffling their hair affectionately.

Scotty hug Gator for a little while, pulling away after and sitting in a chair beside Gator while Dorothy hugs him hello. “I got a lot of homework those last weeks,” confess Scotty sadly, “I’m sorry for not coming the other times. I tried to convince my mom, but she doesn't let me come.”

“Oh, that’s okay, kid,” smiles Gator towards Scotty, grabbing the edge of the chair and pulling closer to them, “school is way more important than this.”

“Dunno,” Scotty thinks a while before adding, “I’d rather come here and spend time with you than other things. You are way cooler!”

Scotty declares it like it’s simple, obvious. Dorothy smiles at them, then turns her attention to Gator.

Gator is blushing. Hard. He’s been seeing Scotty at least twice a month since he got arrested, and their relationship has grown since the beginning. 

But this? Admiration? Gator is not stupid; he always noticed the affection that Scotty get towards him had only grown, but being said bluntly like it? Like it’s just right? It makes Gator feel shy, uneasy.

Love is something that became foreign to him over the years. It is something he is trying to get used to again, but this always takes him out of his guard. Mostly when it comes to Scotty.

“You are right, baby,” adds Dot after a while when she realizes Gator is too speechless to say anything, chuckling to herself and looking back at Scotty, “Gator is indeed way cooler than homework,” and this takes a breathless but legit chuckle from him, “but you have responsibilities.”

“And you doing your responsibilities makes you just or even cooler than me,” Gator adds, smiling boyishly, “or you think I fart around?” This takes a light laugh from Scotty, encouraging him.

“I need to do a lot of shit arou-”

“Language!” Dorothy cuts him off, making him and Scotty laugh.

“Sorry,” he chuckles, rephrasing, “I need to do a lot of things…” he punctuates the change, tilting his head towards Dot, making her shake her head, smiling, thinking how silly he is, “here to get out of here soon. Remember the sweater I gave you two years ago? I learned how to do it here.”

“And he does sculptures now too,” Dot says teasingly, wiggling her eyebrows. Scotty look from her to Gator, their eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Why is she smiling funny like that?” they ask Gator, who blushes even more.

“Do you remember that girl I told you he was friends with when he was younger, when me and him lived together?” Dot turns to Scotty, who nod. Gator rubs his forehead in frustration, “She is his art therapist now.”

“Oh, that’s cool!” Scotty turn to Gator, and he can hear the smile in their tone, making himself smile despite himself. “You have your friend back now!”

“Yeah,” Gator starts quietly, a warm smile spreading on his face, his chest aching from affection towards you, his head tilted towards Scotty, “I have my friend back.”

“But maybe she is not just a friend…” teases Dot. Scotty snap their head to her, opening their mouth in surprise, then back at Gator. They are smiling widely when they speak again, excitedly.

“Do you like her?”

“Yeah, but not like that!” Gator exclaims defensively, his tone pitched a little high, blushing hard

“So why are you blushing like that?” interrogate Scotty, crossing their arms over their chest. Gator can hear by their moves and the tone of their voice that they won’t let it go easily.

“Because you are accusing me of something that is not true!” he stays defensive, blushing even more. “She is just a friend, my best friend that happens to feel like home, okay? Jesus…”

“You like heeeer, you like heeer,” Scotty teases, humming.

“Scotty, sweetie,” Dot chuckles while calling their attention, “if we keep teasing him, he is not going to trust us anymore to talk about her, okay?”

“Oh,” adds Gator, chuckling, faking betrayal, “so you are just nice to me to get gossip?”

“Pretty much, yeah,” she jokes while laughing, making them both laugh, “but I want you to feel comfortable around us too, so it’s a double win,” she chuckles warmly.

“I always forget how smart you are,” Gator laughs, pointing at Dot.

“Sooooo Gator,” start Scotty again, making Gator sigh, tuning to them with a fake annoyed expression on his face, “how is she like? I think you never told me about her.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles in realization, “I think I’ve never… So, well…” he chuckles a little nervous, bending over the table, elbows resting there, “we went apart for around 15 yea-”

“Why?”

Gator chuckles humorlessly, “because I’m an idiot.” Dot chuckles against her hand, muffling her laugh, making the smile on his face grow. “But life saw me as someone who deserved a second chance - twice, apparently - and she is now in my life again.” He takes a deep breath, so light and enamored that it’s impossible to deny it.

“She is the funniest,” he starts again, a little breathless, “the light of the room; she always calls out my bulshi- sorry,” Dot chuckles along with Scotty, “she is really good at her job, and so gentle and kind…”

Gator gets lost in his own memories of you from when you were kids, but also your voice nowadays keeps playing on his head, “she has the most beautiful smile I’ve ever heard too, and she is so thoughtful, so caring…”

“You love her,” begin Scotty, “you know that, tight?”

“Yeah!” Gator starts defensively, a pitch higher, “but like I said, not like that.”

“Totally,” Scotty don’t buy it at all, “you keep saying that like it would change the fact that you love her.”

“This kid got your mouth, you know that, right?” Gator turns to Dorothy, a little scowl on his face, then turning to Scotty, “For someone who thought I was cool, you are being a pain in the ass.”

“Just admit it, and I'll stop,” say Scotty defiantly, challenging Gator, leaning back in the chair and crossing their arms over their chest.

Gator just groans, leaning back as well, crossing his arms, a big scowl now on his face.

“Wow,” Dot says after a while, laughing, “we have two kids on this table, it seems.” Gator does a funny mock face, mimicking her, which just makes her laugh.

“So, since I'm the only grown-up here,” Gator does the face again, “let me tell you some good news!” She starts beamingly, grinning, “Seems like we got your appeal, Gator!”

Gator freezes for a second, then slowly turns his head towards the sound of her voice. His eyes widen in shock, his mouth opens in a little o. “What?” He says lowly, as if he is scared he might wake up from a dream.

“Seems like you will be free earlier than 10 years! It's not completely sure yet, but Lorraine told me it's 90% sure, just need paperwork from the facility about your activities and some signatures and stuff.”

“Jesus Christ, Dorothy…” starts Gator quietly, his hands trembling, his breath speeding, “are you for real?”

“We don't have anything official yet,” she adds, “not even a date yet, but yeah…” she chuckles warmly, “it's going well and promising, and I hope we will have good news really soon.”

“Oh Lord,” says a breathless Gator, but slowly he becomes energetic. His smile starts to spread while he runs his hands over his hair, his breath still heavy. “I’ll be out of here soon…” It’s still so foreign the idea that he speaks lowly, afraid to wake up.

“Yeah, you will!” agree Scotty while they jump on Gator, making him short of breath but laughing just after, wrapping the kid with his arms, while tears start to accumulate on his waterline.

Dot watches the scene with so much warmth, and care, and affection that she thinks her heart might explode by seeing this sweet boy who was encountered by loss at such a young age, who was introduced to violence and corruption, but is now graced to have met love again, getting a beginning to a new start.

You and Gator are chatting, as always, when the rest of your patients enter the session room for the day. You greet them with a hello and farewell Gator with a sweet goodbye while finishing your brownie.

You walk to the stool where your bag is and place the plastic wrapped around the brownie inside of it, still chewing the last bite of it when you talk to the inmates, covering your mouth. This makes Gator smile, a mix of smugness and happiness.

“I would like to add something new to our meeting today,” you announce while swallowing, and Gator hears you taking something out of your bag.

He hears you stepping away, somewhere close to the table by the wall on his left, your voice getting distant with the steps you take, “I was running through my stuff yesterday, and I found this: an old CD of mine I did when I was in middle school.”

Gator hears the smile in your tone, tilting his head towards you to hear you better. He furrows his eyes in concentration, thinking if it’s the CD he thinks it is. He hears you opening the tray of the CD player. He hears you putting the CD in and shutting it, then pressing a button, and shortly after ‘Complicated’ by Avril Lavigne starts to play.

Gator chuckles to himself with shock, leaning back on his stool, rubbing his chin while a grin appears on his face. It’s the same fucking CD you recorded with him one afternoon after school while you were hanging in his bedroom.

“Hope you enjoy the soundtrack of the day, boys.” Gator hears the smile on your face getting wider, his own smile growing big as well. “Now go grab your bowls, fill them with water and all the usual stuff,” he hears you sitting at the stool, flipping through your notebook.

Gator waits for everyone to get their stuff, as usual, and then, heading to the table at the wall, he says over his shoulder to you, “Can I change the song, doc?” You can’t see, but he has a proud smile on his face.

“Oh!” you say apologetically, “of course, Gator, you can change it if you don't li-”

But before you could finish your sentence, Gator is pressing the skip button over and over again. You furrow your eyebrows in confusion. When you are about to ask what he is doing and why he is not listening to the songs before skipping, the intro from ‘Cherry Pie’ by Warrant starts to play.

You chuckle in amusement, surprised, a little short of breath even. He turns his head to you with a smug smile, “being years since I heard that one,” he states while grabbing his bowl to fill with water.

You look at him with incredulity, but also in awe. He… remembers? This is your favorite song back in the day, and still is one of your favorites. And he not only remember it, but also remembered which track it was in that CD.

You have to make a lot of effort to take your eyes off him. But either way, your heart is pounding loudly, and with butterflies all over your stomach. 

You smile and chuckle to yourself during the whole session, glancing up at him constantly, noticing how his hands work around the sculpture. They are wet and with dry clay around his fingers, molding the piece in front of him into something you are a little suspicious about, but not totally sure.

You notice how delicate the movements of his hands have become even more since the beginning of the sessions. He was already good with delicate handcrafts since the previous art therapy sessions he had, and paying attention to his hands molding and being so smooth around the clay does something funny to your core.

You blush hard with the realization of the filthy thoughts you are having. You shake your head as quickly as possible to shut those thoughts down, even though they have been present fairly enough since the first day you met him again.

There are still 20 minutes before the art therapy session begins, but Gator is already heading to the room, using the guidance path along with his cane to get there.

Willow sees Gator from a distance, then starts walking in his direction, but he stops still far away when Gator opens the door to the art therapy room and sees you are already there, for some reason. 

Actually, he knows the reason why. He just smiles happily to himself, turning on his heels and heading somewhere else, leaving the two of you on your own.

“Hey!” you greet Gator when he opens the door, scaring him a little, making you both giggle just after, “I’m so sorry, Gate, didn’t want to scare you.”

“That’s okay,” he laughs, guiding himself into the room, heading to his stool. “What are you doing here so early?” his cane hits the stool’s leg, and he grabs its back.

“Because it’s your birthday!” you exclaim beamingly, a beat skipping on Gator’s heart by hearing the excitement in your voice, but also…

“Do you remember it?” he chuckles breathlessly, pulling the stool to sit on it, placing the little package with your brownie at the table while resting his cane beside him.

“Of course I remember,” you chuckle in disbelief, as if it's obvious. “Besides being 4th of July, I could never forget when your birthday is,” you chuckle while sliding a present box towards him over the table, placing the Gatorade on top of it. 

“Do you remember we joked about the fireworks being because of you?” you chuckle just by the memory of it. “You became cockier and cockier over the years because of it.”

“I still think they are for me, okay?” he chuckles, his eyebrows a little furrowed by the sound of something sliding over the table, something way heavier than a bottle of his favorite drink.

But before he could ask what it was, you speak first, “Open it.”

“Yes ma’am,” he chuckles playfully, making you blush but smile widely as well.

He senses the table until reaching the box, going up to the top and finding the bottle there. He grins widely, shaking it slightly in the air and placing at the table.

There is a ribbon bow on top of the present you got for him, which makes his smile soften. Gator pulls it carefully, and the flaps of the box open slightly. He finishes opening them, folding them to the outside. He starts to put a hand inside the box when you speak again, “Just be careful,” he freezes mid-air, a smile at the corner of his mouth.

“For fucks sakes, woman,” he teases, continuing his movements more carefully, “I’m blind, but I'm not a caveman, so this might be classified as discrimination.”

“Shut up before I take it back and change my mind.” Gator can hear the smile in your voice, a grin growing wider on his face.

When he touches the first thing inside the box, he feels something… smooth? He senses it better, furrowing his eyebrows in confusion. “What the hell is that?” He pulls it out of the box, holding it with both hands, running his fingers around it carefully.

“It’s a succulent plant,” Gator hears the excitement in your voice, tilting his head towards your direction. “It represents resilience, the ability to overcome hard times,” your voice softens. “And also represents enduring love,” he notices you are a little nervous.

He chuckles a little smugly, but also fondly when he speaks again, “and I guess the resilience part is about my fucked up life,” his voice softens, “and the enduring love... Us?”

“You are not a dumbass after all, it seems,” you tease, laughing, himself laughing with incredulity. “And don’t worry, it is easy to take care of. You said once that a lot of sun enters your room; she just needs to be under it, and needs water only when the soil is dry.”

Gator nods, chuckling to himself, feeling as comfortable as he always felt around you. He places the plant beside the bottle on the table. “Noted,” he starts, running through the box again, “I’ll call her Desert then, because she needs just a little water,” he lifts a box from inside, this one smaller.

“So creative,” you joke while Gator turns the little box in his hand, opening it carefully, running his hands around the objects inside of it, hard plastic rubbing together.

“You gave me one of those on Christmas,” he smiles wide, turning his face to you.

“Yeah, but I didn’t make those,” he hears the smile in your voice. And when he does that confused face you always loved, you chuckle, “I bought them… You always wanted them, and when we were kids, you told me you would buy them when you lived on your ow-”

You don’t even have time to finish before he laughs in disbelief, shock, beamingly as well. “Are you fucking kidding me!” He stands up from the stool he was sitting on, stepping towards your voice, “Are they…?”

“Yeah,” you laugh brightly, “it’s ‘Bleach’, ‘Nevermind’ and ‘In Uterus’ from Nirva-”

You cackle when he wraps his arms around your middle, spinning you in the air. “For fucks sake, Ginger!” His laugh mixes with yours. You wrap your arms around his neck to hold yourself to keep balance.

When he puts you on the ground again, pulling back from you, Gator doesn’t notice, too excited with the CDs in his hands, running his fingers over them, but you are really close to each other.

It’s been a while since you were this close to him. You notice the fine lines between his eyebrows more closely, lines that deepened from the past years of all the stress and worry his job asked of him.

You also notice that the smile lines on him are way less deep than the ones between his eyebrows; this makes you a little sad, because you recall how strong they were when you were kids. You hardly saw Gator not smiling, and you were attached at the hip, so you spent a significant amount of time with him.

Your heart is pounding when your eyes fall to his lips, and you find that fucking stupid pretty smile of his that you always loved so much still has that silly light from his youth. 

You take a step back because you are his fucking art therapist, for fucks sake! You need to keep this fucking professional for at least until the end of your contract, more than four months to go. You can fucking do this!

“There are still things on the box, you know?” Your voice leaves huskily from your lips, so you clear your throat, “or I can take them bac-”

“NO! No, don’t take them back,” he takes a step back, sensing the table until reaching the box again, “I just zoned out,” he confesses, grinning, placing the CDs beside the previous gift, “what else do we have here?” he hums while running his hands inside the box, finding a Tupperware there.

Gator shakes it carefully, but doesn't recognize the sound. You notice his confused face, using all his skill in investigating and failing miserably. “Open it,” you suggest.

“You are bossy today,” he chuckles, a mischievous smile appearing at the corner of his mouth, “I like it.”

You blush hard and almost choke into the air. You feel the heat spreading from your neck through your face, and you do your best to cool yourself while he effortlessly opens the pot, the smell already hitting both of your noses. “I finally learned how to bake them,” you confess quietly, still too shaken by his tease, or whatever shit that was.

Unfortunately, he is too stunned by the smell of the oatmeal raisin cookies that hit his nostrils, tilting his head down to the pot. He reaches one of the cookies, bringing it to his mouth when you speak again, “With all due respect,” you start, receiving a raised eyebrow from Gator while he chews, making you chuckle, “they are disgusting.”

“What the hell?” he chuckles in disbelief, in fake, but not so much, offended, with the cookie still being chewed on his mouth. “You must be the one in jail, not me!” he chuckles slightly bitterly, but mostly playfully, taking another bite. “Your mouth is way dirtier than I thought.”

You laugh, finding the face he is making funny, holding the pot with the cookies like you would attack it. “Seems like they are good.”

“Yeah, they are,” he says it lighter now, smiling a little even, finishing to eat the current cookie, his mouth full of it still. You watch him, your heart getting warmer just by seeing him hum from contentment. 

His mother used to bake those, and you literally spent your whole life trying to recreate those cookies the exact way she used to do. And being able to achieve this on his birthday is something you are really proud of.

“Thank you, Ginger,” he starts, swallowing, placing the pot by the table as well. “Really,” he turns his face to you. “I’ll take good care of Desert while listening to Nirvana,” he chuckles boyishly, “but seriously,” he takes a step closer, willing to but afraid to reach for your hand, “I really loved it,” his smile fond, his heart aches, “the best birthday gift I’ve ever got.”

“For real?” he hears the smile in your voice, grinning in response.

“For real. I, huh” he chuckles nervously, fixing the glasses on his face, “I’ve missed your gifts through those years, you know?” he confesses quietly, “you are the best gift giver, so I really missed it, I, huh,” he chuckles nervously again, clearing his throat again, “I feel seen… every time you give me something.”

You melt with the confession, your heart aching, tightening your chest. All you want is to pull him into your arms and kiss him. But you can’t. So, for the sake of your mental health, you tease him, “Awn, prison AND therapy made you the softie I always knew you were, Gatorade.”

He groans in annoyance, but you see a smile slipping through the corner of his mouth. He shows his middle finger to you, making you cackle while he fights a grin, but is defeated just after, laughing with you as well.

Behind Gator, you both hear the front door opening and the inmates start to show up for the session. You chuckle, the laugh fading while you help him put the presents back in the box.

The art therapy session begins just a little later; the box is on the ground at the feet of Gator’s stool, his half-drunk Gatorade on top of it, molding the clay into something that resembles a giraffe, you notice, but you're not quite sure, while you eat the brownie, taking notes in your notebook.

Around a month later, Gator is seated at the table in the art therapy room way earlier than necessary for its beginning as he always is, but today it’s different. Well, not entirely true. He is waiting for you to chat, that’s for sure, but today is also your birthday.

Gator has a little present bag in his hands. He can’t sit still for too long. He gets up from the stool and bounces on his toes. Then he paces along the length of the table, one hand at the edge of it to guide him. He fixed his glasses on his face way more times than needed. He ran his hands over his hair way more times than necessary.

The only thing that could make him stop pacing around is you. And just a short period of time later, he snaps his head towards the back door. The sound of you entering the room is almost Pavlovian to him. His shoulders drop, a grin grows big on his face, and he sighs, relieved, while he places the present bag on the table.

“Good afternoon, birthday girl,” he turns his body totally towards you, his arms wide for you while he hears your steps getting closer and closer to him, along with his heart pounding on his chest.

You chuckle, and just by the sound of it, Gator knows your smile is as big as his. “Didn’t know you would remember.” Your heart is beating just as fast as his. You place your bag on the stool by your usual spot, your arms open to fit against him.

“I could never forget,” he confesses so sweetly that you melt against him, already in his embrace, your hum of contentment reverberating against his chest. You hug him by his middle, while he holds you over your shoulders.

You press yourself against his chest, his arms around you pulling you closer. You shut your eyes, intoxicated by his perfume; it’s still woody, and it’s always been since you can remember it. He smells like home.

Gator cradles the back of your neck, rubbing your scalp with such affection that your heart aches. You fist the fabric of his shirt tighter, making him press your bodies together even more. Both of you relax on each other’s arms. A place that was always home, and continues to be even with those long years being apart.

Gator has his temple pressed against the top of your head, his face tilted slightly towards you, trying to not make so obvious that he is trying to smell your hair. You smell like vanilla, and he smiles to himself when your scent hits his nostril. The familiarity of it always makes him dizzy for some reason.

You could die in his arms, that’s for sure. But you are at work, and he is your patient. You can’t stay like this with him at all, but for some reason you continue to stay in that ambiguous line of professionalism and throwing your ethics in the air.

So, reluctantly, you pull away after a while. Your head is already spinning, and then you find resistance from his part, his embrace lingering a second longer until pulling back too. You try your best not to think much of it, but fail miserably.

“I brought you something,” Gator’s voice is croaky, forcing him to clear his throat, giving you the little present bag, taking it from the table.

“Awn, Gate,” you coo, making Gator melt with the sweetness of your voice, “you didn’t need to do that,” he hears you placing the bag back on the table, opening it.

“I know,” he chuckles nervously, leaning his side against the table, trying to act cool, even crossing his arms over his chest, “but I wanted to.”

You glance at him while a grin grows on your face. And you do such a painful face just by looking at him, turning your attention back to him for a few more seconds. Fuck, he always looked so charming, dangerously charming leaning like that.

You shake your head, cursing yourself in your mind, focusing on the bag again. You laugh when you see two brownies on top of a little box. “You are generous today, it seems,” you joke, and he hears you taking them out of the bag, putting them aside.

“Don’t let this go up your head,” he teases, chuckling too. “One is mine, and the other is Dot’s,” his tone softens. “She said she wanted to give you something, but didn’t know what exactly, so she went with the safest option.”

You smile tender to the brownies, then back to Gator, “Thanks her for me, please? If I bump into her someday, I’ll thank her myself too.”

“Of course,” he smiles fondly as well. You shake your head again, focusing on the bag again. You pull the little box inside of it out. It’s ornamented, but it’s noticable its handcrafted.

Gator notices your silence, and he deduces you are examining the little box. “I made it too,” he adds quietly, “Dot just bought the box. I painted and all.”

“Too?” you repeat, a little breath taken. The box is beautiful, and no one can deny how much attention Gator gave to it. It is brown and has yellow beads glued to it, perfectly aligned to the edges of the little box. There is also a red fingerprint on one side of the box. You smile to yourself, because it must be Gator’s, and having a little piece of him like that makes butterflies fly on your stomach.

When you open the box, Gator tenses. You fall into even more silence after, and he tries his best not to freak out, using all the tools he learned with years of therapy since he got to the facility.

“I made them,” he clears his throat, his voice quiet. He pulls the sleeves of his long shirt up, showing a peyote stitch bracelet on his wrist, with dark green and black beads interleaved.

You lift a similar one from the little box, but the beads are red and orange. You look from yours to his, your heart beating fast against your ribs.

“It’s beautiful, Gatorade,” your voice is quiet, in awe. Gator sighs with quiet relief. He hears you moving, and by the sound, you are sliding your hands into the bracelet, putting it on your wrist as well. “Did you learn to bead here too?”

“Not exactly,” he chuckles, pulling both of his sleeves up to his elbows now, “I do crochet, as you know,” he points vaguely at you, you both chuckling, “and I was used to seeing you beading all the time, so I was already familiar with it.”

You giggle, but not from the story, but from the present. It fits you perfectly. You think if there is a correlation between him always holding you by your wrist at least once a day and this perfect fit, but for the sake of your sanity, you don’t pay too much attention to it.

“I still have our first one…” you confess quietly. “Do you mind if I ask what happened to yours?”

Gator chuckles humorlessly, a little sadly even. “Roy ripped off just a few days after me and you…” He hesitates, “You know,” he sounds embarrassed, but swallows it quickly and continues just after, “he was mad and all that shit. I cried over it for a week,” he chuckles sadly, remembering how heartbroken he felt.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Gate…” you coo, but you are shortly cut off.

“Don’t worry,” he dismisses it, not wanting to come back to that day, to that fucking week. “I kept the beads,” he smiles more warmly, but still a little down, “maybe someday you can redo it for me.”

I kept the beads. Your heart skips a beat. He still has the beads from a bracelet you made for him almost 20 years ago. “Yeah,” you chuckle breathlessly, “maybe.”

“Did you see the other present?” he asks quietly, smiling lop-sided. “It’s in the little box too.”

You were so amused by the bracelet that you didn't even notice another gift for you in there. You look back at the little box you placed on the table and, indeed, there is another present there.

Gator hears you pulling the gift out of the box, the beads rubbing the inside of it. He hears your breath catching for a second, and a proud smile surges on his face.

“Gator…” you can't even finish your sentence. It’s a necklace, beaded by him as well, you assume. Well, it’s actually a choker, a clasp to close it around your neck. The beads are brown, a possible match for the bracelet if you want to.

“Willow helped me with the colors,” he adds, a little smug by the effect of the presents to you, “and to put this stupid small clasp too.”

You chuckle, but it’s breathless. You are in awe, amused. You turn your face to him, swallowing dryly. “Could you put it on me?” It’s quiet, a little scared even.

“Yeah,” his voice is just as quiet as yours, “of course,” just a little huskier. He pulls himself from the table, his hand outstretched to you, and you place the choker on top of it. 

You turn your back to him. Both your hearts are pounding strongly on your chests. He passes the necklace to the front of you, holding the other end of it, and the beads touch your neck. You hold your breath when his fingers brush the back of your neck, sending a shiver down your spine. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to calm yourself. But the step closer he gives, and his hot breath hitting the back of your neck, doesn't do much to help.

You are too focused on your own emotions, so you don’t notice how nervous he is as well. He fails to clasp the choker more than once, his hands too shaky to do it correctly.

This proximity, this intimacy always made him dizzy. Even when you were younger. But back there he didn't feel this insecure, this unsure around you. You are still home. Comfort. Peace. What changed then? Self-consciousness? Probably.

“Here,” he speaks just a little above a whisper, “done.” He takes a step back while you turn towards him, and you watch his expression. He seems just as shaken as you… No, no. Your mind is just too fogged to think straight.

“They are really beautiful, Gate,” you thank him fondly. “Both are my favorites now,” he can hear your grin getting bigger, smiling along with you. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Glad you liked it,” and before any more interactions, the other inmates enter the room for the art therapy session of the day. 

You two do your farewells. You grab the box, bag, and brownies and step away from him, and when he sits on his stool again, gripping the edge of the table to balance, his fingers hit something. When he grabs the thing properly, he smiles boyishly. His Gatorade. Even on your birthday, you are giving him a gift? But, c’mon, how could you not? Gator just aren't aware of it.

Gator is leaning back in the chair in the visiting hall, manspreading, the cane between his legs. He plays with the end of it, his mind far away, thinking about anything in particular. Just another visit day. Right?

His head snaps up when he hears Dot’s voice from shortly afar, probably thanking a guard for letting her in, or some shit like that. Gator hears her steps, and how fast she seems to get to him. He is standing up to greet her, but before he could straighten up properly, she has her arms around him.

Gator laughs breathlessly at the impact, holding her by instinct for now, and before he could ask anything, she pulls back just as fast as she crashed into him. “We have a date set!”

“What?” Gator chuckles with such confusion, his eyebrows furrowed together, dizzy with all those things happening all at once. “A date set for what?”

“For your release!” She does little jumps from excitement, giggling beamingly, “You will spend Thanksgiving with us!”

“What?” Now he is breathless; he can even swear his blood pressure dropped. His voice leaves his lips with such pain and disbelief, still unable to comprehend what is happening.

Needing to get his balance, he drops his cane he was holding to the floor and grabs the edge of the table in front of him. His grip on it is so tight that his knuckles turn white. He turns his face to Dot, “are you serious, Dot?” his voice cracks, his lips slightly parted. “I’m going out of here in less than three months?”

“I’m dead serious, sweetie,” she cups his cheek, wiping tears falling from behind his glasses. “Just in a few months you will be a free man again, Gator,” he sobs quietly against her hand, her face tilted towards her touch, “no more prison… no more Roy.”

And this is the last straw for him to break completely. Gator launches himself towards Dot, wrapping his arms around her, sobbing uncontrollably, and he turns that little kid again. And just like before, Dorothy holds him like an older sister holds her little brother.

“I’m getting out of here…” he sounds so little, so uncertain, so scared, as if he thinks he is dreaming and afraid to wake up. His sentence almost sounds like a question.

So Dot reassures him, “Yes, you are, sweet Gator. You are,” rubbing his head with affection and care.

“Can’t wait to tell her,” he confesses between his sobs, taking a fond smile from Dot.

“Well, boys,” you start, calling their attention while standing up from the stool you were sitting on, facing the inmates in front of you across the table and their beautiful sculptures in front of them. You smile at their achievement, and inevitably your eyes keep being drawn to Gator over and over.

“It’s been a long and incredible year that I spent here with you,” Gator can hear the smile in your voice, and his heart aches, grateful for this year. 

“I learned a lot from you all. I learned a lot about yourselves as well, your background, lessons that life has taught you,” you take a deep breath, chuckling with emotions. Your watery response doesn't go unnoticed by Gator, who gets emotional as well.

“And those beautiful sculptures you made,” you point to them, grinning so widely that your face hurts, “it’s a reminder from this journey of healing and self-knowledge. I really hope this year working together did good to you as it did to me.”

Some inmates complement your speech, adding the importance of this year to them, what they overcame and learned during this process. Consciously, Gator decides not to add to the conversation, spending his energy on holding the emotions that are close to overflowing. The lump on his throat represents the blessing of having you in his life again, but also the loss of you from next week.

But he shakes his head and sniffs hard, trying to remember that he will be free in less than a month; then he will be able to have you around more. Right?

“Oh! One last thing!” you chuckle, forcing Gator to come back to the present. “The sculptures are yours now, a souvenir to keep from this process,” you smile widely. “Well, that’s it! Thank you for this year, boys. Congratulations!”

Everyone claps, celebrating the end of this journey. Gator startles a little from the sudden noise, clapping just after. From across the table, he hears you giggling gently. He deduces it’s because of him. He tilts his head towards you, smiling warmly at you.

Around him, he hears the inmates around him pushing the stools and leaving the room while chatting. He stays on his seat, waiting for the crowd to exit completely. While waiting, he hears you walking around the table, pouring the water from the bowls in the sink.

When the only thing he can hear is you, he clears his throat and stands up, holding the edge of the table to keep balance. “Ginger?”

“Yeah, Gate?” you say over your shoulder, organizing the bowls at the table by the wall.

“Can you come here?” 

The nervousness in his tone calls your attention. You are already walking towards him when you speak again. “Yeah, of course.”

Gator chuckles at the softness in your voice, his shoulder dropping slightly. When your steps stop and he notices you are close, he speaks again. “First of all,” he chuckles nervously, fixing his perfect glasses on his face, “my memory is not that good, and I'm blind, so be aware of it.”

“Okay…” you chuckle, confused, but paying attention.

“Do you remember Miss Long Neck?”

He can’t see, but your eyes shine with the memory of your stuffed animal. “Of course I remember her; it’s a shame I lost her.”

Gator hums with content, and before you could answer back, he continues, “Stuffed baby giraffes are difficult to find, you know?” he chuckles, his hand sensing the table to grab the sculpture, pulling it closer to him.

“I never found one to give to you,” your heart swells with his confession, “so I made you one.”

You look stunned from Gator to the sculpture he is sliding towards you. It’s not perfect, but it is indeed a giraffe, a baby one. It even has a shorter ossicone. Your silence is broken by an amused chuckle that leaves your mouth. You hover the piece of art with your hand with hesitation, afraid to touch it, and break it, and upset Gator, and lose him again, and-

“It’s yours, Ginger,” Gator cuts your spiraling, forcing you to look at him. His tone is kind, tender. “Touch it. I made it for you.” And with that, he holds your wrist, smiling wider when he feels the bracelets he gave you there, and lands your hand over Miss Long Neck.

Your breath catches at the touch of his calloused hands on your skin, sending a shiver down your spine. But when you finally touch the giraffe, your heart aches and your eyes sting. He fucking remembers that silly stuffed baby giraffe you had when you were 10 years old, something from 20 years ago.

You remain speechless, not trusting your voice to say anything else. You run your fingers through the sculpture with such care, feeling the shape of his finger that stayed there. The beautiful and perfect imperfections. And the fucking shorter ossicone.

“I can’t believe you remember her,” you chuckle weakly, looking at Gator.

His features soften even more when he hears the emotion in your voice. He searches for your hand, seeking to comfort you. He is rubbing your knuckle when he speaks again.

“I still have my alligator in my room here,” he confesses, and you see the blush spreading on his face.

“No way!” you chuckle lightly now, making him smile. “You still have Leather?” you ask beamingly. “By the way, what a dark name to give to a fucking stuffed animal, Gator,” you laugh loudly.

He laughs just as carefree as you, holding your hand tighter. “Yours is Long Neck, not so original,” he squeezes your hand unconstincly, “but yeah, I still have him, but he is well hidden.”

“Yeah, because it would totally ruin your reputation of being tough, huh?” you tease, and you find yourself getting closer to him. When you realize, you shake your head and your smile fades, taking a step back again. But you refuse to let his hand go.

Gator notices some movement coming from you, but not being able to get it entirely, he undoes the furrow on his face and smiles back, “because I’m tough, it’s not just a reputation, darling.”

You can swear your heart skipped a beat and your blood pressure dropped. Darling? For fucks sake… The only thing you can do is chuckle nervously, letting go of his hand and keep it busy, holding the sculpture with both hands now. “I hope you don’t need to hide him for that long,” your voice leaves your lips a little shaky, making Gator confused, furrowing his eyebrows because of your reaction.

However, he shakes his head, focusing on telling you the big news. “Well, about that…” you turn to look at him again, finding him fighting a grin to spread on his face, “I’ll be discharged at the end of November.”

“WHAT?” you practically scream, startling him but also making him laugh. “Gator Tillman, are you serious right now?” Your voice cracks, “don’t fucking play with this.”

The emotion in your voice hits him like a punch, leaving him breathless and even dizzy. He needs to focus to answer you properly, “Dot told me last week,” his voice thick with emotions as well, “I’ll be free soon.”

“Oh my god,” you choke, and before he could process anything, you throw yourself into his arms, and he doesn't take more than a second to hold you back by your middle.

You wrap your arms around his neck, making him snuggle against the crook of your neck. You both cry into each other’s arms. He fists your lab coat as a lifeline, clinging to you, pressing you two as close as possible.

The cry you are sharing is not just about him being released from jail, but also some kind of promise. A promise to meet again out of this facility, in the real world. A promise to continue something that a bad decision in the past pulled apart.

“How are you feeling, bud?” asks Willow, one of Gator’s bags over his shoulder while his hand rests on his shoulder. Gator walks with the help of the guidance path with his cane.

“Nervous as shit,” Gator chuckles, indeed nervous, his voice shaky and a little emotional. Willow squeezes his shoulder in compassion, nudging his side. “Don’t forget the party next week, okay? Dot will kill me if you don’t show up.”

Willow chuckles, “I’ll be there, I promise.”

They pass the bars from the entrance of the facility to get to the reception, and Gator notices how Willow’s breath hitches; he also feels his grip around his shoulder getting tighter for a fraction of a second.

Gator turns his head towards Willow while he hears someone standing up, probably from some chair somewhere by his side, and when he is about to ask what happened…

“Hey, Gatorade.”

His head snaps towards your direction, his mouth opening in an o. Chocked, surprised. He chuckles waterly, dropping the bag over his shoulder on the floor by his feet, and walking with his cane towards you.

Faster than he thought, mostly because you walked towards him as well, your bodies crash. He drops his cane on the floor, being quickly picked up by Willow.

His hands are spread across your back, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. You hold him by his neck, his face buried at the crook of your neck, sobbing against it, tightening the grip around you.

The glasses get crooked on his face, and he quickly takes them off and tucks them into the front pockets of his pants, wrapping his arm around you again, pulling you even closer.

You cradle the back of his neck while you cry with him, his bigger body shaking against your smaller one.

“You are a free man now, Gator,” you say between your sobs, tightening the grip at the back of his neck. “You are free now.”

Gator cries harder, almost fusing you into his body. “Yes, I am,” he agrees between sobs, a mix of shock from your presence there and the relief and sense of freedom.

When you push away from each other, you two chuckle waterly. You wipe the tears from under his glasses, his hands holding your wrists, trying to ground himself, but also not wanting to let you go.

“Where is Dot?” his voice is waterly still.

“At home,” you state, just as emotional as him, “I talked to her and offered to pick you up.”

“Are you for real?” he chuckles, his voice thick with emotions, “you came here just to pick me up?”

“I don’t get the surprise,” you chuckle back, your eyes stinging, “I might not be your art therapist anymore, but it doesn't mean I don't have a bond with you,” you poke his nose playfully despite yourself, making him startle slightly and giggle just after, “besides, I thought we were best friends.”

“Fuck yeah we are!” he laughs while holding your middle and lifting you in the air, making you cackle. When he puts you on the floor again, his hands linger around your waist. “Come to the Lyons' Thanksgiving next week.”

“Are you for real?” you chuckle, amused.

“You and this fucking habit of questioning every fucking thing I tell you,” he laughs, “of course I’m for real, dumbass,” and he receives a punch on his shoulder from you, laughing louder. “This is harassment, you know?”

“Oh, shut up,” you laugh, making him laugh along with you. Fuck… He is fucked.

Willow looks at the two of you with the biggest and proudest smile on his face while signing Gator’s discharge papers; he can’t wait to see you two together next week.

Gator is chatting with Scotty by the couch in the living room when the doorbell rings. Gator snaps his head towards the sound, automatically standing up. He soothes himself by running his hands through his hair. Scotty chuckles from their place on the couch, looking at how nervous Gator is, knowing he would deny it if asked. While Gator pulls his collar and fixes his perfect glasses on his face, he hears Dorothy walking towards the front door, and when she opens it…

“Oh my god," Dot greets with such joy, "you two are so beautiful! Hello sweeties!”

You two? You and Willow came together? 

Gator’s heart begins to beat fast, and his mind starts to spiral. You and Willow? Yeah, of course you and Willow. How stupid of him to think that it would be different just because now that he is free-

"Hey, Gatorade,” he is brought back to the present when you hold your arms around his neck, greeting him with a caring hug. He was so out of reality that he didn't even hear you and Willow entering the house and going towards him.

Besides his brain full of insecurity, he hugs you tightly, painfully letting you go and greeting Willow just next. He is not mad at his friend; how could Gator be? Willow is great.

Gator hears you two greeting Scotty by his side, and he smiles despite himself, because seeing you all getting along means a lot to him. After doing the introductions, you four head to the kitchen.

You hold Gator's hand to guide him towards the new room. He holds your hand tightly, like a lifeline, trying to ignore the possibility of you holding Willow’s hand with your other hand.

In the kitchen, all the Lyons are there doing something for the upcoming dinner. You are introduced to all of the remaining members, and Gator unconsciously totally ignores that no one mentions you and Willow as being together, with Gator still spiraling on his own insecurity.

Later, you chat with Lorraine for a while while Gator talks with Willow, but his attention always drifts back to you. He hears Lorraine saying that he is going to work with her at the beginning of the next year.

Gator will train the new security guards she is about to hire. He was really good with tactical-related stuff, he hears Lorraine say to you, and he can’t help but smile proudly, his chest warming with recognition about his hard work as a deputy in the past.

Some hours later, while Gator is helping Scotty by the counter with some juice for the dinner that is being prepared, he hears you and Willow chatting a little afar from him. 

You are laughing along with him, and jealousy and even more insecurity spread inside of him just as hard as before. He can’t hear what you both are talking about, but just hearing you being carefree like this with Willow makes his heart ache and his eyes sting. 

However, beyond good sense, he is totally ignoring that you laugh even more when you are with him, that you are way more comfortable around him. You were like this at the facility, and now that you two don’t have some institutional shit between the two of you, you are even more yourself with him.

He takes a step back to escape from this nightmare, wanting to go to his room to put his head in place, but ends up stepping on Wayne with his back, who drops the plates he was holding while heading to the kitchen table. 

The loud sound of the ceramic shattering makes the room go quiet. Gator excuses himself, apologizing to Wayne. He sprints to his room down the hallway, stumbling against the wall because of the speed he is going. 

Everyone in the room exchanges looks, and you are even more confused about what happened. Your heart is racing; you excuse yourself too and follow Gator’s steps.

You walk quietly down the hallway, your ears sharpening, trying to hear any sound that might come from his room. When you get to his door, you knock gently against it. Knock knock.

“Gator?” you call him kindly, your ear close to the door, “It’s me… Can I come in?”

You wait around five seconds, but after waiting with no response back, you realize your question was hypothetical, because you are already turning the knob to enter his room. When you open it, slowly, trying your best not to scare him from where he might be, you see him sitting on the edge of his bed. 

His back is facing you. He is bending over his body, elbows on his knees, both of his hands intertwined at the back of his neck. You can even notice his body moving, and when you shut the door behind you and start walking slowly towards him, you see it’s his leg bouncing out of anxiety, probably.

“Gator?” you call him quietly again, but a little worried. When you reach the opposite side of the bed across from him, you stop, uncertain whether you should get closer or not, afraid to suffocate him. 

“Is everything okay? What happened?”

“It’s everything okay,” he uses your name, not Ginger, and this makes you a little suspicious, and you even notice his voice cracks. “Go back there,” he straightens up, taking his glasses off and wiping the tears aggressively from his face.

“That’s why you are crying, then? Because everything is okay?”

Gator scoffs bitterly, putting his glasses back on and tilting his head in your direction. His hands are on each side of his hips at the bed. “Don’t worry about me, I don’t want to steal you from Willow.”

You furrow your eyes at this sentence, confused as hell. You even take a couple of seconds to find the right words to say something back, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You were having so much fun together,” he says bitterly, even a little angry, the smile on his face not friendly at all, “don’t want to ruin it for you two.”

You scoff with disbelief, stepping closer, incredulous, “Are you seriously jealous, Gator?” You chuckle, shocked, “of Willow?” you say it like it’s the most stupid thing ever, something you can’t even comprehend as a possibility.

“I’m not jealous,” he chuckles back, trying to sound as convincing as possible, and failing miserably, “I just don’t want to ruin what you are building together.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” You are so confused and starting to grow angry. “We were talking, Gator! I can’t talk with another friend of mine without you becoming all mean and insecure?”

Gator clenches his jaw, turning his face away from you, grabbing the sheets under his hands out of anger. “You are living a pretty good life without me around. And Willow is a fucking great guy. An amazing professional too…”

His tone is calmer, but you notice how much pain Gator is in just by the way he talks. “Don’t let me stop you from living a good life, Ginger,” his voice cracks. “I’ll be coming there soon. Go be with Willow.”

You can’t even comprehend what Gator is saying. When you are trying to make sense of all that nonsense of him, he speaks again, and your heart aches.

“Every time that I saw you during those years,” the pain is still audible in his voice as he speaks, “it was a mix of feelings,” he starts to confess, “It was mostly pain, but also relief, because you would be able to have a beautiful life where a shithead like me was not on your way.”

“Gate…” you say his name sweetly, but with pain as well, a lump in your throat.

“Don’t Gate me,” he says your name angrily, “please.” It’s painful, bitter. He stands up from the bed, walking away from you as he speaks, “I always was an asshole, since we were younger, so making you free of me was a blessing afterward.”

“A blessing?” you say angrily, incredulous, walking towards him, “Gator, you were always the light of my da-”

“Bullshit,” he says bitterly, but not because he really believes what he is saying, but because he can’t believe what you are saying.

“Bullshit?” you scoff, angrier. “You were the best thing that ever happened to me, Gator Tillman,” you confess, loud sobs appearing in your throat.

You start moving your arms with irritation as you continue, “I was left without ground when you told me to go away,” you get closer to him, “do you remember what you said to me that day?” you chuckle sarcastically. “You said-.”

“I said that you were being a pain in my ass and that you were annoying as hell,” he cuts you off, turning to your direction, saying as loud and angry as you, but with a bigger dose of regret and shame, “and that you should never go after me again,” his breath is shaky, just like his hands.

“Yeah, I remember it,” he spills it with so much shame from himself, “I remember every. single. fucking. word I told you that day,” he breathes a couple of times heavily while you stay speechless. 

“I repeated that fucking day over in over in my head for years, Ginger,” he cries angrily, “as a way to deal with the fact that I was always a piece of shit and that you deserved someone way better than me,” he chuckles sarcastically, hitting his chest angrily, “because I always knew that I didn't deserve you,” he confesses with so much pain that your head spins.

“You deserve someone like Willow,” he chuckles humorlessly, tears running down his face, “a fucking good guy, with a fuckling clean record, an ethical professional,” he sobs painfully, “just like you.”

“You-” he gasps, breathless, heartbroken, “you were always in my mind, Ginger,” he says painfully, “my mom, Dot, and you showed me what love looks and sounds like,” he cracks, “and I thought-” he gasps for air, sobbing, “I thought that losing them would mean that I would lose you too.” 

Gator sobs uncontrollably, tears running down his face uncontrollably, “and I would not be able to live if you left me as they did,” he feels dizzy, stepping back to the dresser behind him to support himself, “it was so selfish at first, but as the time passed, I saw the shit of a man I turned into.” 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, wiping his tears under his sunglasses. “And at the end of the day,” he sobs shakily, “even if I ended up mourning losing you,” he confesses, “you being away from me was the best thing I did to you.”

“Fuck you, Gator,” you say with your voice low, but full of hurt and anger. He snaps his head up toward you. “Fuck you!” you say louder, sobbing, pointing a finger at him, even though he can’t see it. 

“Best thing you did to me?” you scoff bitterly, poking your chest, walking towards him. “It was my worst nightmare coming true, Gator!” you scream at him, making him flinch, bumping into the dresser behind him.

“There wasn’t a day I didn't cry over you,” you poke his chest painfully, sobbing angrily, “there wasn’t a fucking day I didn’t think about you,” you confess sadly, pacing around, moving your hands vaguely energetically, “there wasn’t a fucking. single. day I didn't think about what I have done to you for you to hate me that much,” you run your hands through your hair.

You stop for a while, gripping the footboard of the bed in front of you, taking a deep breath to calm yourself, and pressing a hand to your forehead. “You were my fucking world, Gator,” you confess between painful whimpers, your voice lower. You turn to face him. “You were my everythi-” your voice cracks, unable to finish, sobbing uncontrollably.

You both stay silent for a while; only your heavy breaths can be heard, along with remaining sobs. Then you break the silence with something not much louder than a whisper: “I was planning to confess my feelings to you that week.”

“What?” Gator is breathless, shocked. He feels his chest aching, his head spinning.

You chuckle in disbelief, crying a little more and bitterly, leaning your side against the footboard, looking at him. “I loved you, Gator,” you confess with such sadness, “with my full heart,” you sob, looking away, unable to look at him.

“I really thought you liked me too,” you chuckle sadly, wiping away the tears. “But guess I was wrong, apparently,” you chuckle humorlessly.

“You were not wrong,” he says your name with the same painful tone as you, forcing you to look back at him. He takes a step forward, reluctantly, “I was just too stupid and scared to deal with it-”

“That’s okay, Gator,” you cut him off, looking away again, wiping the remaining tear, “it was a long time ago,” you dismiss, the pain is too much for you to bear now, “we were just kids,” you chuckle waterly, sadly, “it’s not like we feel the same now anyway…” it’s so painful to say it that it almost doesn’t leave your lips on how big this lie is.

“Tell for yourself, Ginger,” his face is marked with pain, a lump in his throat, “because I am as madly in love with you as I was when we were 15.”

You snap your head towards him, in shock, breathless. “What?”

“I never stopped loving you, Ginger,” he confesses with his full heart, “and since that first day you showed up in that fucking art therapy room,” he takes a shaky breath, “it was like those years apart never happened.”

You freeze, staring at him. Gator can’t see you, but he sees how the silence lands heavily, insecurity growing stronger inside of him. 

“Just forget about it, okay?” he chuckles, turning his body away, one hand on the dresser while the other fists his hair. “What the hell was I thinking?” he chuckles bitterly while talking to himself, “I was a fucking prisoner when we met again, what the hell was I thinking?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh c’mon Ginger!” he chuckles bitterly, snapping his head towards you, “You are fucking incredible,” he says breathless, in disbielef, “you went to college, have a stable job,” he counts on his fingers, “you are the nicest person I have ever met,” his voice cracks, “and the most beautiful soul ever,” he finishes breathless, “you are too much of a woman to me, Ginger,” he chuckles weakly, “you always was… That’s why you should be with Willow, not me.”

“Gator…” you say kindly, painfully.

“Please don't,” he chuckles sadly, extending his arm to you, his hand sighing you to stop, “I don’t need pity, I’m a grown ass fucking man and I-”

“Can you just shut the fuck up for once, Gator Tillman?” you cut him, frustration growing inside you. “God, you always think you have everything figured out, don’t you?” You chuckle in disbelief, slightly angry. “I could not care less about Willow, Gator! I don’t give a fuck about him!”

Gator stays speechless, his chest rising and falling, what you take as a clue to keep going, “I’m in love with you too, Gator. I never stopped loving you,” you take a deep shaken breath, trying not to sob again, “I would even say that falling more deeply in love with you this past year showed me that sweetness and kindness always fitted in you,” you add gentler, “it was just the world trying to corrupt you.”

“Don’t say that, Ginger,” he says, breathless, both hands gripping the edge of the dresses behind him, his back leaning back against it, “don’t say things like that unless you mean them, please.”

“I mean every single one of them, Gator,” you say, just as breathless as him.

“But why?” He pulls himself from the dresser, confused, but his voice is full of hope. “Why…” He tries to find the right words.

“Why do I love you?” you complete in disbelief. “As I said, you are the kindest person ever, Gatorade.” You both chuckle a little shyly and waterly. “You are a caregiver, always were,” Gator takes a shaky breath. “You always treated animals and children so well.”

“You were always so damn brave, Gatorade,” you say so fondly that he feels himself being pulled towards you, walking slowly towards you, “and even afraid, you always took initiative to do what you had to do.”

“You are extremely loyal as well,” Gator swallows dryly, taking another step towards you, being guided only by your voice. “You would die for the people you care for and love the most.” He takes another step forward, making you swallow dryly now.

“You may not always be good with words, but you were always a good listener,” you chuckle weakly when he takes another step towards you, only two apart, “and you always showed, at least with actions, when you cared and loved for someone. You would do anything to make the ones you love safe.”

Gator stops a step away from you, you both facing each other, both hearts hammering in your chests. “That’s why I love you, Gator,” you take a shaky breath, “that’s why I’ve always loved you,” you confess breathless, just a little above a whisper.

“Ginger,” he says so quietly. He extends his hand, hovering over your shoulder until he places his hand there. He slides his hand down your arm, and you feel goosebumps appearing where his fingers were.

Gator goes from your arm to your waist, his hand trembling as he holds you there. He takes a short step forward, pulling you closer, your chests meeting, your faces so close you can feel each other’s breath.

He lifts his other hand to your shoulder, and with his fingertips, he goes through your neck, making you shiver down your spine, up to your face, cupping your cheek, rubbing your cheekbone.

You squeeze your eyes shut, exhaling shakily, and Gator senses you leaning into his touch. He presses your foreheads together, his thumb rubbing your waist as well.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, breathless against your lips, his hot breath hitting you.

“Please, don't,” you beg, and just after a painful whimper leaves his lips along with your name, he crashes his lips against yours.

Both of you groan at the back of your throats; his hand goes to your hair, gripping its roots, while his other hand wraps around your middle, pressing your chest against his.

Your hands go instinctively to his waist, fisting the fabric of his shirt and pressing your bodies together, trying to reduce any space left between the two of you.

You feel his glasses crooking in his face. “Stupid glasses,” he murmurs under his breath, pulling away from you just enough to take his glasses off and toss them at the bed behind you, coming back to kiss you even more eagerly, his hand cradling the back of your head.

Gator tilts your head to deepen the kiss, both of your lips opening to crash your tongues together. You whimper against each other's mouths. Not just from the desire of the moment, but from all these years. The years you loved one another when you were just friends, when you were just kids who knew nothing about love, only that what you couldn't get at home, you got when you were with each other.

This kiss is one full of wait and love being spilled from all the years of longing, and years apart because fear separated you from each other. You both pull back because you both startle when you hear a knock on the door, and it opens just after, “The dinner is ready, swee- oh!”

Dot smiles warmly by the door at the scene in front of her. Gator’s hand is still on your waist, holding you as if he is afraid of you disappearing, while his other hand runs through his hair, facing down. You have your back facing the door, your hands still fisting his shirt, trying to ground yourself.

Both of you are panting slightly, out of breath, cheeks flushed with puffy lips, and your hair is a little messy. “Thanks, Dot,” Gator says back with a husky voice, clearing his throat just next, “we’ll be down in a minute,” he smiles shyly.

“Don’t worry, sweetie,” she smiles fondly at you two, “it was about time already,” she giggles, “I’ll let you be,” she closes the door, leaving you two alone again.

You laugh nervously, covering your mouth, being followed just after by Gator chuckling, “Perfect timing.”

“She always had this superpower,” he adds to your observation, laughing. He slides his hand up your waist to up your face, tucking your hair in your face behind your ear. 

He leans forward and kisses your forehead, lingering for a second before pulling back. “Now c’mon, I don’t want you to eat a cold dinner.”

When you both get to the kitchen, no one is looking at you with mischief, or giggling, or teasing. They are just existing.

Lorraine and Wayne glance at you, calling you to sit at the table, and the fact that they don’t have a reaction when they see your hands are intertwined makes you wonder that this, you and Gator, was inevitable, and it was just a matter of time indeed.

Scotty pull a chair by their side, calling you to sit there. You smile fondly and pull Gator to sit at your other side. Across from the table, Willow sits and smiles softly at you two, making your heart ache even more.

The dinner is comfortable, friendly, warm, really family-like. Something that neither you nor Gator are used to have, so living this, and with one another, means a lot to you two.

They ask about you, your job, your likes and dislikes, your college. And during all this, Gator can’t take his hand off of you. His hand rests on your thigh all dinner. It’s not possessive, not lustful. It’s actually grounding, natural. You intertwine your fingers with his at some point during the evening, rubbing the knuckles on his hands, and he seems unable to stop smiling like a fool for the rest of the night.

It wasn't what you had planned at all, but after dinner, you ended up agreeing on spending the night wth the Lyons. So you say goodbye to Willow, hugging him tightly by the front door.

“I’m really glad that you two stopped being fools and are together now,” he confesses into your ears, making you grin widely and blush hard. When he hugs Gator to farewell, he must have said something similar, because Gator is red as a pepper.

Since it is really late already, everyone says their goodnight and heads to their respective rooms. Dot lends you some of her clothes for you to use to sleep for the night, and when the house is quiet again, you find yourself at Gator’s room again.

“What did Willow tell you?” you chuckle, putting the clothes over the dresser.

Gator chuckles nervously, running a hand through his hair, sitting at the edge of the bed, facing you. “He, huh,” he clears his throat, “he told me to use protection.”

You choke with air, burning from embarassement, while Gator laughs at your reaction. “He even gave me a condom,” he lifts it in the air, and you get even redder, while you press you lthighs together.

“And what you intend to do with it?” You don’t know where this boldness came from. Maybe from the heat that is spreading from your core up to your body. Gator freezes. His brain curtcirtiut, and you see him getting nervous and speechless. 

This. This makes you even wetter. It’s his shyness all of a sudden. His nervousness about being with you like that. And you know he wants this; a bulge growing in his pants doesn't hide it. And before you could make any funny comment about him stunned like that, he stands up slowly, a little unsure, and slowly walks towards you.

You are not so far apart, so in just a few steps he is close to you. With trembling hands, the condom no longer in view, he cages you against the dresser, one hand on each side of your hips.

His breath is a little uneven, and, a little worried, you rest your hands on his hips, squeezing them, trying to ground him. When you touch him, his head resting against yours, forehead with forehead.

“I don’t want this to be rushed, Ginger,” his voice leaves his lips a little husky, just above a whisper. His grip on the wardrobe tightens, his knuckles turning white.

“Me neither, Gate,” you confess, his shoulder dropping, and a sigh of relief leaving his lips. 

His hands leave the furniture and rest on your hips. “Good,” his voice is low, “because I don’t want to ruin it.”

“You won’t,” you reassure him quickly, your hands going up to his shoulder, nuzzling your nose to his. He laughs through his nose, nuzzling back.

Gator slides his hands up to your waist, caressing you through your shirt. “I’ve dreamed about having you like this for so many years” his voice is low, husky, “mine… Not only my best friend,” he swallows a lump, “but as my… as my girl.”

“So I’m your girl now, Gator Tillman?” you tease slightly, your fingers rubbing the hair at the back of his neck now.

“I would like you to, honestly,” he confesses, pulling away. He slides his hands up until it reaches your cheek, cupping it, rubbing your cheekbone.

You lean into his touch, watching his expressions, how soft his face is turning, how his smile is tender on his lips. He says your name sweetly, with so much affection that your chest aches. “Would you be my girlfriend?”

“Of course I would, Gator,” you answer just as sweet as he asked. His smile is so wide that it hurts, and without wasting any more time, he pulls you to a tender kiss, sealing this new stage of your relationship.

He holds you by your middle, his free arm pressing your body against his, and your back arches when he presses you against the dresser. You pull him closer, pulling him by his neck, deepening the kiss.

He tilts your head by holding your jaw, pressing his tongue against your lower lip. Your mouth parts for him, and your tongues crash; he hums content at the back of his throat.

Stepping back towards the bed, his hand goes to your hair, tangling at its roots. When the back of his knees hit the bed, he slowly turns you and carefully lays you on the bed, holding you by your middle, without breaking the kiss.

Letting go of your hair, he holds you and places you on his pillows. Your head rests against fluffiness, him hovering over you. One of his forearms rests beside your head, preventing him from pressing his whole weight on you. He kisses you with such passion, tongues together, no rush, just savoring one another.

His other hand is on your waist, his fingers spread at its curve, squeezing it every time you move beneath him. Your hands are on his shoulder, sliding slowly up to his hair. You tangle your fingers there when he starts dry humping you. You part your legs for him to settle better between them.

You feel how hard he is for you, and you both moan quietly and breathe heavily against each other, the kiss becoming more intense. His hand on your waist slides to your thigh, grabbing it and putting it around his waist. His hand stays there, his finger digging into your skin even over your pants. 

His thrusts are not rushed. They take their time. His hips roll against your core, applying pressure for a second, then rolling again. It’s intoxicating, addictive.

You spend quite a while like that, savoring each other, taking your time to memorise every single part of you. The shape of the lips. The responsiveness. The sounds you make. The way your touch feels. The taste you have.

“Gate?” you call him quietly between moans.

“Yeah?” he moans in response, pressing your foreheads together while rolling his hips against your core over and over again.

“Can I see you?” you ask quietly, and you see his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “Your eyes,” you clarify. “Can I see them?”

His thrusts fail, and his breath catches. He pulls back, his hand on your thigh squeezing harder, but now from insecurity, fear.

“What? Why?” he asks, a little scared, and you cup his face with both your hands, and he shudders into your touch, leaning into it. His glasses crooked on his face.

“Because I want to see all of you,” you confess, and his breath hitches, leaning even more into your touch.

“It’s ugly, Ginger…” you see how embarrassed he feels, how his voice is low, just above a whisper.

“Nothing on you is ugly, Gator,” you caress his cheek, “you could never be ugly.”

“Ginger…” It’s painful, but you see the reluctance in his tone.

“Trust me, Gate. Do you trust me?” he nods too quickly, too eager. It’s not just him wanting to reassure his trust in you, but also his deep desire to be bare to you. Soul bare.

So you slowly and carefully let go of his face and hold the arms of his glasses. You notice how nervous he is, how much he is fighting his urge to pull away. You pull the glasses off his face completely, and without really thinking, he turns his head away from you.

You place them at the nightstand, and you hold his face, turning him to you. You cup both of his cheeks and rub his cheeks. You look at his eyes, how full of scars they are, and you can’t even imagine how much pain he must have gone through.

So, slowly, to not scare him away, you pull him down and press feather-like but tender kisses over each scar there. You can feel him shaking under your hands, how his breath is heavy, and how nervous he is.

“So beautiful,” you whisper against his lips, kissing him softly and gently, your hands tangling on his hair to pull him closer. He whimpers against your mouth, melting into your kiss. He was never called beautiful before. Not like that. Never like that.

You saw the worst part in him, and you still chose to call him beautiful? And it’s not just the scars and his blindness. It’s his past. The crimes he committed. The years he spent in prison. The way he pushed you away. Even after all that, you came back… Came back to him. Like he is worthy of getting love.

With trembling hands, he holds the hem of your blouse, and he hears you lifting your arms for him, and he pulls your blouse off slowly. He doesn't want to rush it at all.

When the blouse is in his hands, letting you shirtless and bare, he tosses it away somewhere and pulls himself up from the bed, his hands supporting his weight.

“Can I touch you?” his voice is fragile, scared, but so very respectful. “I can’t see you,” he swallows a lump in his throat, trying not to get too emotional, “but I can still feel you… Can I?” It’s like a plea, a blessing he is asking you to concede for him.

“Of course, Gate.” He whimpers with your permission, your voice as sweet as the sweetest candy. 

He starts slowly by your face, cupping your face, roaming the curve of your cheek, the shape of your ear, nose, lips. His touch is feather-like, reverent. You notice his eyebrows furrowed, how focused he seems to be, like he is trying to memorize you.

He runs his fingers through your jaw, your chin, then down your neck. He grins so widely when he feels the choker he gave you for Christmas resting against your neck, his heartbeat racing. He continues his journey; he learns the curve of you, how your neck connects with your shoulders, then your collarbone.

His hands slide down your arms, slowly, learning the thickness of them, how the texture of your elbow and inside of it is. When he gets to your wrist, he chuckles waterily when he feels the bracelet he gave to you as well.

He studies your fingers one by one from both hands, at the end lifting them to his lips, kissing each one of them with such reverence that you feel dizzy. "You are so gorgeous," he confesses just a little over a whisper, totally awed by you, breathless.

Gator kisses one of your arms up, taking his sweet time. He kisses and worships every single piece of you with open-mouthed kisses, leaving goosebumps behind. When he gets to your shoulder, he pulls himself up again, his hands now running down your chest.

His fingertips travel down through your cleavage. Goosebumps start to show on your body, your nipples getting hard from it. His breath hitches as well, his hands becoming slightly shaky too.

He slides down to your belly button, smiling to himself, until the waistband of your pants. He swallows hard at the idea of taking them off soon. He traces your hip bone, up to your waist, squeezing it lightly, making you both chuckle with expectation, but also from nervousness.

At your ribs, both of his hands rub them, one on each side. And slowly goes up, getting to the bottom curve of your breasts, and now it’s your breath that hitches.

He follows the curve of them until he gets to the top, going down towards your nipples. And he whines quietly when he finds them hard. He rubs them under his thumb lightly, and his head spins when he hears your little moans in response.

He feels your back arching for him, so with one hand he cups your breast, rubbing your nipple, and with the other he rests his forearm aside his face to be able to suck the other one. You moan sweetly when his wet mouth capsulates your hard nipple. His tongue circles it while he hums against you. Your hand goes to his hair, grounding yourself.

And he takes his sweet time, savoring you. After a couple of minutes, he switches, mouthing the other nipple, and with the previous one being wet now, the friction against it is even more delicious. You even hold his hair a little tighter, while gripping the sheets at the bed until your knuckles turn white.

He kisses you up slowly after a while. In your collarbone, he kisses it open-mouthed, your fingers rubbing his scalp, making him groan against your skin. He licks, nips, suckes, kisses, but so tenderly. He is worshipping and memorizing you, and he is going to take his sweet time with you.

He kisses up to your neck, leaving light marks that will vanish the next morning. When he gets to your ear, he breathes heavily and hot against it, sending a shiver down your spine, making you moan shakily. The husky and smug chuckle he gives into your ear does interesting things to your underwear.

He kisses your jaw, your chin, your cheek, then he cups your face and kisses you with passion. Your tongues meet at the same time his lips meet yours, an inseparable duo by now.

His other hand roams your body with such tenderness that you think your heart will explode. After a couple of minutes, his hands run down the waistband of your pants.

“Can I take them off?” You nod quickly, eagerly, and he cuckles boyishly against your lips. He gives you a lingering peck before pulling up.

You lift your hips for him, and he carefully takes your pants off, tossing them somewhere not important. And then he starts with your feet. He plays with your toes a little just to hear your giggle. With his own giggle fading down slowly, he runs his fingertips from your feet to your heels, then scarf and knees.

In your thighs, he spreads his hands wide against them and slowly, feather-like, slides them up your thighs. He can feel the goosebumps appearing under his touch, and he smugly smiles to himself.

When he gets to your hips, he holds you there properly. His fingers spread on his grip, making you gasp. He rubs your hipbone with his thumbs, then he hooks two fingers at the lace of your underwear. He swallows hard, “Can I?”

“Yes,” your voice is quiet, just above a whisper, but he can hear the need in your voice.

You lift your hips for him, and he slowly slides them down your legs. When they pass your feet, he brings your panties to his face, taking a deep smell of them. His head spins, and a painful groan leaves his mouth. “Fuck, you smell amazing,” he confesses in a whisper.

Gator throws your panties away as well, and holds your feet, kissing up from there until your core. He takes his precious time, licking your body, open mouth kissing you up.

He settles between your legs, resting your legs over his shoulders, holding you by the back of your thighs. He kisses your knees and up to your inner thigh, then to your groin. You whine with need, and with all of his mercy, he kisses where you need him the most.

He makes out with your pussy, wet, dripping for him. He licks from your entrance to your clit, mixing his saliva with your arousal. You moan sweetly, one hand on his hair and the other gripping the sheets while he hums with contentment against your core.

“You taste so good,” his confession sounds muffled against your pussy, but it vibrates up your body, the heat spreading through your body.

You look down at him, and you find a man who worshiped you for the last minutes with his hands, his mouth, now devouring you like you were the most delicious thing in the world, which for him it’s entirely true. His face is shining with fluids from you and him, and he doesn't seem bothered at all; the opposite, actually, his favorite spot to be, for sure.

After some long minutes, he presses his tongue flat against your clit, moving it and sending jolts of pleasure up your body. The build is progressive. Gator is consistent, and this helps the heat to spread from your core up your body.

“Gat-,” you whine between a moan, an attempt to warn him.

“I know, I got you,” he responds.

When you come, first your toes curl, and your legs lock. Your back arches off the mattress and his name leaves your lips in a strangled moan. You squeeze your eyes shut while heat spreads from your back to your face, moaning more freely as you continue to come.

You whine through the aftershock, and he takes good care of you. He doesn't stop, but slows down. When your legs start to get shaky and start to hurt from overstimulation, you pull him by his hair away from your core.

With you breathless against the pillow, he takes your legs off his shoulders, letting you spread to settle between your legs. He crawls up to you, hovering over you, and kissing you tenderly. You taste yourself on his tongue, the wetness from his face passing to yours, and you couldn't care less. The smell of your sex makes you dizzy.

After some minutes, you grab the hem of his shirt, and he lifts his arms for you to take it off. You toss the shirt away and press your hand against his sternum, keeping him up for you to watch him.

With both hands, your fingertips roam his bare torso. His neck, his shoulders, down his biceps, forearms. At his hands, you rub his knuckles, making a fragile smile appear on his face.

When your fingers go back up to his shoulder, you see goosebumps on his arms and chest, making you smile to yourself. You run your fingertips down his sternum, his stomach, belly button, happy trail, and V lines. You feel and see his muscles tensing under your touch, and his dick twitching inside his pants, a huge bulge showing how much he wants it, and you get wetter just by the vision of him like that to you. 

With your fingers, you run up to his chest, then down again, noticing how Gator shudders at your touch. When you get to his waistband, he hears you taking off his belt, and he swallows nervously. You toss it away as well.

You zip down his pants, and your hands go under them, but above his underwear. You don't take your eyes off him, so you see when he whimper when you touch him like that.

You stroke him over his underwear, his hard dick pulsing against your hand. He thrusts against your hand by impulse, unconsciously. You chuckle with affection, seeing how needy he is for you. You stroke him a few more times, then with both hands you start to pull down his pants and briefs. He lets you until you set him free.

When you pull his boxers down, his dick snaps against his stomach. You salivate at the view, holding him and giving a few strokes. He whimpers, throwing his head back.

You rub your thumb over its tip, spreading the pre cum around it. You stroke him up and down with the right pressure, and you watch how he thrusts into your hand without meaning to.

“Please, doll,” he whines, the pet name slipping from his lips without him even noticing. Heat rushes to your cheeks; what is ironic is that you are blushing with a pet name, and not with what you are doing right now. “Let me have you, please.”

With such a sweet request, you agree. You let go of him, and already missing you around him, he takes the condom off his back pocket and strips the rest of his clothes off.

He tosses them somewhere, and with trembling hands, he rips the plastic, taking the condom off and sliding down his length. He settles himself properly between your legs, with one forearm resting beside your head, and the other one holding him on your entrance.

Gator rubs its head against your folds, and you both groan, needy. He presses his forehead against yours, placing the head on your entrance, and pulling inside slowly.

You moan with the stretch of him inside of you. With his hand free now, he intertwines your hand with his, placing it at the other side of your head. He slides inside you until balls deep on you. Both your breaths are heavy, hot breath against each other’s mouth.

“You okay, doll?” he asks a little concerned, nuzzling his nose to yours.

“Yeah, babe,” you say with a light moan, nodding, nuzzling back.

Gator feels your walls taking him so well that his head spins. He starts moving slowly, in and out. It burns at the beginning, but you quickly get used to him, and you two start to moan against each other.

His thrusts become deeper, the pace is more comfortable, less torturous. His tip heats the perfect spot inside of you. He holds your hand tighter, his face resting at the crook of your neck, moaning against your skin, resonating straight to your core.

Your free hand is tangled on his hair. He pulls away from your neck and kisses you. It’s sloppy, wet, clumsy, teeth hitting teeth. Your walls start to tight around him, and he can feel that you are close. His thrusts become more erratic now too. You both are close, you can feel him pulsing inside of you.

He says your name with such awe, “I love you. I love you. I love you,” he repeats with each thrust.

“I love you too, Gator, I love you so much” you whine when you come again. Your climax is stronger now, just like your moans are louder. He kisses you, swalloing the sweet, lovingly sounds you are making.

Your fingers tighten the grip around his hair, but this just adds to Gator's orgasm. While kissing you, your walls tighten more, and one, two, three more thrusts, and then he comes, pressing himself deep inside of you.

He whines against your mouth. He cups your face and kiss you deeply, both of you come with tears running down your cheeks. Even with his body shaky, his rolls his hips against yours slowly, not willing for this to end.

You ruined it for him. But since the beginning of it all you ruined it, let’s be fair. He just had the confirmation you are the love of his life. You are the one who showed him that he deserves to be loved, that he is worthy of such thing.

At the end of the day, he is what he was afraid he would never be. A winner. Just by having you.

"aahh i can't believe it" you screamed into the empty hallway. "its actually ours"

gator watched fondly from the door as you twirled around in the space, eyes taking in every inch of house already thinking of how to decorate.

aside from the basics that either came with the house or were given reluctantly to you by your parents, it was pretty bare.

the walls were tall, wide and plain ready to be covered in photographs (and maybe a nicer wallpaper) meeting dark, hardwood floors at the bottom.

behind gator stood a large, white front door with frosted glass panes running down. through the glass you could just see the three steps that took you down off the wooden porch which spanned the whole front of the house.

"it is ours mama"

"i can't believe it" you repeated with a squeal.

"cmere" gator held his hands out at the end of the hall, ready for you to throw yourself into them.

"ugh i love this door- and isn't the view outside so pretty"

"not as pretty as the view right 'ere in font-a me"

gators arms tightened around your waist as you wrapped yours around his neck. lowering you back he ghosted his lips against yours.

"y'know what we gotta do now angel?"

"no?"

"lil house tour"

"we know where everything is what-" your brows furrowed, not picking up what gator was putting down.

"christen the house sweets" he smirked at your cute, innocent mind.

"oh"

“yeah oh”

before you could answer properly, he spun you around, pressing you up against the wall next to the front door and attached his lips to yours.

pushing his tongue past your lips, gator explored your mouth with burning desperation.

his hands pawed at your hips through your clothes as you tried to peel his tactical gear off him.

"where'd ya wanna start the tour?"

"mm down-" you began to push gator down the hall, your mouth still locked over his lips, your sentence fading away.

both of your feet stumbled across the floor, almost tripping over each other at one point until you reached the opening of the living room.

"good choice sugar"

gator picked you up and threw you onto the small, hand-me-down couch which you definitely wanted to swap out for a nicer one.

he dropped to his knees immediately, pushing up the layered skirt of your sundress and ripping off the thin fabric of your panties.

without hesitation, gator shoved his face into your core, ducking his head under your skirt and licking a bold stripe up your slit.

"oh- gate" you threw your head back against the pillows.

wave after wave of arousal rushed to your cunt, the sight of gator with his head under your dress and the wet sounds of him lapping up your wetness had you on the brink of cumming already.

feeling the heat of gators tongue tease your entrance then begin to thrust in and out of your dripping hole, you writhed and squirmed into the sofa.

gators lips latched onto your clit, suckling softly and flicking his tongue over the sensitive nerves, smearing shiny wetness all over his face.

"fuck- aah"

your chest was heaving, your stomach contracting in pulses as you bunched up your skirt higher to find and thread your fingers into his hair.

"gatooor- i'm close!"

humming acknowledgment into your pussy, you fell over the edge, arching your back off the couch. if it wasn't for gator beneath you, literally holding you up as he rode out your orgasm, you would have fallen right off the real edge of the couch at the peak of your climax.

"ya taste even better in our own home" gator groaned as he resurfaced, standing you both up and looking down to you with glistening lips.

"i still hate that couch" you remarked breathlessly, your legs still slightly shaking as they struggled to hold you upright.

"we’ll look later.." he shrugged, eager to get on with his tour. "where next mama?"

you hummed in thought, taking gator's hand and leading him through the room and into the next; the dining room.

it was a smaller room, connected to the kitchen with grey tiled floor and a door out to the back yard. in the middle was a square, empty dining table with four matching chairs tucked in.

feeling his eyes burning into you from behind, you pulled out a chair, spinning around and pushing gator down into it.

this time, you dropped to your knees, your hands pushing up gators tshirt until he got the hint to pull it fully off and discard it somewhere you won't find until tomorrow.

"my turn" you whispered against the softness of his lower stomach, your nose brushing the corse hair that led into his jeans.

feeling him tense up slightly, you undid his jeans, pulling them down out of your sight where gator lazily kicked them off the rest of the way.

his underwear was tented with his rock hard cock, soon freed by your eager hands which wrapped around his thick length in an instant.

"such a good girl f'me- aven't had the house twenty minutes and yer already on yer knees" gator groaned. "and not to pray" he added slyly at the end, just to wind you up.

it made your heart pang in your chest, guilt mixed with excitement mixed with anticipation mixed with freedom.

you took his leaking head into your mouth, swirling your tongue against the bitterness of his precum, ignoring his comment.

"yeah angel- fuck" his hands knotted in your hair immediately, his favourite thing to do as his hips already began to shallowly buck up into your face.

you took him gradually deeper and deeper, trying to prolong it as much as possible. gators knuckles were white against the edge of the table and in your hair where he gripped onto, concentrating so hard on not falling apart too soon.

"ya look like- whole lotta sin down there- so fucking beautiful" gator praised, his voice shaking slightly each time the tip of his cock kissed the back of your throat making your eyes water and shine.

spit dribbled out your mouth and down the base of gators cock, covering his balls in a shiny layer of slick which you spread with one hand.

the straps of your dress were falling down, your tits threatening to spill out any second, the top of them glistening with your mixed fluids dripping from around gators cock.

he noticed, reaching down to pull the fabric, your boobs fall out of the sewn in bra of the dress. his hand in your hair griped tighter, now forcing your movements himself.

the tiles of the dining room where cold against your knees, beginning to hurt where your bone pressed against the equally hard surface.

"oh god" gator moaned.

you choked around gators cock hearing the word, the feeling of your throat spluttering around him only sending a violent shiver down his spine.

his hands pulled on your hair frantically, the sting forcing a couple tears from your filled eyes as you sat up coughing and spluttering, a thick string of spit connecting his tip to your lip before snapping and dripping down your chin.

"sorry sweets- yer too good i- wanna last"

"well" you stood up still catching your breath, your knees hurting as they peeled away from the floor, small red circles dented into them. "next room"

gator shimmied off his underwear the rest of the way, leaving him fully naked as you still had the modestly of your sundress (minus your boobs that were sinfully resting over the cups).

"gotta get this off" he tugged at the back of the skirt with one hand as he pushed you into the connected kitchen, toying your nipples with the other hand.

the tiles spread into the larger kitchen, each wall lined with wooded kitchen counters, topped with marble. they were broken up by an oven and a sink on opposite sides, the top scattered with the odd utensil and appliance that had been left for you.

once your front hit the matching island that was isolated in the middle of the space, gator's hands found the zip to your dress, ripping it down and shedding you of any modesty you had left.

"so fucking pretty- 'm so lucky" he groaned into your neck as he stroked his cock against your ass. “we’re so lucky”

your cunt was dripping down your thighs, a sticky mess between them that was only about to get worse as gator pushed into you effortlessly.

you both moaned at the sensation of him beginning to fill you up, your upper body falling against the cold counter top when he reached the hilt, sparks shooting where the coldness spread through your pebbled, touch starved nipples.

"gator- so full" you mewled.

"i know sugar- yer so warm- so perfect fer me"

he pulled out slowly, letting you feel each vein and ridge of him drag against your soft, sensitive walls before slamming back in and setting a punishing pace.

"fuck gator aah"

his hips smacked into your ass, making a sticky sound as mixed wetness spread between you with each thrust of his lower half. extenuated by gator spitting down on your ass, watching the glob of spit roll down to where you sucked him in.

"fucking made for me ya are- can feel ya squeezing me- close already ma?"

"yeah- fuck- so close" you breathed out, your hands desperately trying to find something to hold onto.

gator rubbed his hands up your ass, his thumbs brushing over your tight hole before his palms landed down on your soft cheeks with a loud smack.

you cried out but pushed back into him, gaining another few hearty spanks until your skin was red and warm.

he then traveled up your sides to your arms, getting a hold of them and pulling them behind your back. he folded them over one another and held onto both your forearms with one large hand, using them to pull you up slightly.

the new angle forced gators spongey head right into the perfect spot against your front wall, fireworks exploding in your lower stomach where gator rested his free hand.

"gonna cum fer me?"

you let out an unintelligible string of moans that you wernt sure were meant to be in the first place, except gator swore he heard an "oh god" which sent him crazy.

his cock pistoned into you ruthlessly, pulling back on your arms to make you meet his thrusts. his palm on your stomach felt himself inside you as the tips of his fingers found your puffy clit.

he'd hardly touched you before you fell apart, shaking and screaming as your pussy gushed around his length, kickstarting his own release.

filling you up, his hips finally slowed to a shallow roll. your arms fell free of his hold, attempting to help you stand by bracing on the counter in front of you.

"ya know we're only half way sweets"

"mm" you collapsed back against his chest, his still rock hard cock plugging you full of his spend as you both caught your breath.

"so what do ya say? continue?" his hands gently traced up your body, his lips kissing your jaw.

"upstairs?"

"mhm"

pulling out abruptly, gator picked you up bridal style and carried you up the stairs, stopping at the hallway as his eyes flicked between the two remaining rooms.

"end in the bedroom?" he asked.

"seems appropriate"

"oh sugar, none of this is appropriate" he winked, kissing you again as he took you into the bathroom.

the bathroom was huge, probably the space of two separate rooms that had had the wall knocked down.

there was a walk in shower, then a separate bathtub beside it. a toilet hidden in the corner then a large counter, where a small sink was dropped in the middle with a small mirror behind.

the counter followed the wall and curved at the end causing it to face the huge floor length mirror that was on the same wall as the shower opposite.

"here looks good"

gator popped you on that bit of counter, making sure you faced the mirror. he walked in front of you, parting your legs as he did. taking a second to look, he watched the last of his cum drip out of your hole, catching it with a finger and pushing it back in.

he bent over spitting roughly on your clit, then he added another finger until he was thrusting them in an out of you with a quick rhythm, smearing slick wet fluids all over your core and the insides of your thighs.

"oh gate" your head fell against the wall, your legs already trembling again.

"look at the mirror mama- look at what i'm doing to you"

you couldn't help but moan at the sight, so dirty and so sinful. so pretty and so right

"gonna have to do a lotta praying to make up for this- i'm sure i could help though"

as he was speaking disgusting words that made your head spin, his lips attached into your chest, licking over the swell of your breast, sucking your peaked nipples into his hot wet mouth, pulling off and dribbling salvia over them.

as gator curled his fingers into your front wall, the coil in your abdomen was winding tighter. tighter, even tighter, too tight.

"gatoooorr" you screamed, your eyes ripping away from the mirror and squeezing shut, your orgasm tearing through your body.

from around his hand, your cunt sprayed clear, hot fluid as you came. gator pulled of your chest with wide eyes, his cock twitching and throbbing as you squirted all over him.

it dripped down his arm where his hand was still inside you, got over his chest and beading in the hair there, even wetting his dick. you yourself were covered up to your stomach, the counter beneath your ass becoming slippy.

"holy shit mama"

your head was too fuzzy to call gator out for his comment, your feet sliding off the counter.

he swallowed thickly, your eyes opened and refocused on his cock. thicker than before, standing up against his stomach, his tip, red and angry, leaking pre cum into the hair under his belly button that was damp with your release.

"can ya give me one more?"

"yeah" you nodded and gator sweeped you out the bathroom and into your bedroom.

the room was glowing golden as the sun began to set through the bay window, casting a bright orange strip across the middle of your bed that was centred in the empty room.

the bed you gave yourself to gator in, the bed that's already seen so much sin. and was about to see a lot more living in this house.

gator padded across the soft carpet and dropped you gently onto the mattress, your hair fanning out over the pillow, you looked like an angel sent to gator personally.

he kissed your lips softly, finding your hand and lacing your fingers together as he guided his cock into you.

he buried himself inside your warm pussy, sighing against your lips as he did. it felt like home.

one hand softly touching your hip, the other holding your own by your head, his lips stayed moving against yours in time with each soft roll of his hips.

you free hand didn't rush to your necklace, it reached up to gators neck and pulled him impossibly closer. you didn’t think about it once.

neither of you spoke, just moaned and mewled into each others mouths, sharing the same small bit of air between you.

each drag of gators cock against your fluttering walls sent a wave of warmth through your whole body, your body that was desperately trying to reach another release despite its exhaustion.

gator was close, you could feel his length throbbing inside you, feel his tip leaking against your cervix with each thrust.

leaving gators neck, your fingers found your clit; your overstimulated, raw, swollen bundle of nerves. you rubbed weak circles over it, keeping in time with gator until you finally saw your peak.

you both came at the same time, a rolling wave of pleasure passing between your two sweat slicked bodies as gator refilled your walls that weeped around him.

he groaned into your mouth, finally breaking the lazy kiss that neither of you wanted to end.

"i love ya"

"i love you"

the words were whispered like a confession, like a secret only you two were allowed to know of (which was sort of true).

slowly, gator separated himself from you, after staying buried inside of you for as long as possible, and pulled you under the covers against him.

"did ya like the tour?" he whispered into your shoulder, an edge of his previous lust returning (not that it ever truly left).

"i loved it- i love this house" you giggled softly, still so giddy and excited about your new home.

"im happy yer so happy"

"can't wait to decorate"

you began to ramble, talking mindlessly in that hazy state of blissed out peace in which gator just hummed along in agreement.

“i want lace curtains, warm white bulbs, rosemaries and crosses in every place-“

"ya know-" he interrupted. "there's one place that i didn't show you"

"really? what the porch!? i don't think-"

"no no angel- but now you say it"

"gator-" you warned, turning over to face him.

"the shower"

"oh yeah" you agreed, nudging your nose against his.

"what do ya say"

“we really should check it works” you hummed.

“mhm you’re right sugar” he nuzzled against your cheek.

"no funny business"

"what-!" he exclaimed as you both began to sit up.

"we've already done too much today, imma praying for hours"

your sense and religious mindset had slowly began to seep back in, however each time you messed around with gator it got weaker and weaker. and he knew it.

"yer already gonna pray.. might as well" he pushed, mouthing at your neck as you stepped into the bathroom.