“Sure,” the orderly said easily. “Deputy, I know you were supposed to have a private room down here, but unfortunately our hallways are overcrowded and it’s not safe to have so little room to maneuver, particularly with how busy we are tonight.”

“Ok?” Gator asked, already annoyed. You could hear it in his voice.

“We have another patient who will be in your room for a short time—she won’t take up much space. No bed, just a chair.”

There was a pause, during which you found yourself surprised that Gator was actually entertaining it, but then—

“Absolutely fuckin’ not. Hell you think this is?” Gator asked.

“It’s a hospital, sir. She needs to be out of the hallway, and she’ll be in and out.”

“I’ll show ‘er in and out,” Gator quipped, but before either he or you could protest, the orderly exited the room, took hold of the handles of your wheelchair, and pushed you into Gator’s room. The overhead lights were dark, but the light directly above Gator’s bed was on, and you saw him glaring over at you as you entered. “Mind hittin’ that light, Butch?” Gator asked the orderly, and as he left the room he flicked the light switch, bathing you both in cold fluorescent light from above as the door swung shut behind him. “Eh,” Gator intoned.

“Eh?” you repeated, frowning and crossing your arm (well, arm, since the other was basically immobile), squinting a little at the glare of the lights even as your eyes slowly adjusted.

“Ain’t nothin’ too special t’look at,” he said, eyeing you, sling and all. “Coulda left the lights off.”

“Jesus,” you muttered, standing up from the wheelchair and crossing over to turn the lights off again with your good arm. “There, you look a hell of a lot better in the dark too.”

But Gator only chuckled. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he muttered, and then went back to what he’d been doing when the orderly had interrupted him: A book of word search puzzles.

You stared long enough, standing in the middle of the room, that it was noticeable, and Gator looked up at you again, scratching the side of his nose with the pencil he was holding.

“What?”

Caught, you stumbled over your words. “Nothing, I just—I wouldn’t expect to see you doing word puzzles.”

Gator blinked at you, eyes narrowed. “We know each other’r somethin’?”

“Wh—No,” you said. “I just—I know of you.”

His face relaxed into a smirk. “You know of me? Fuck’s that mean?” He sounded amused.

“I mean—The sheriff… Sheriff Tillman. ‘A hard man for hard times.’” You forgot to keep the mocking edge from your voice, so you just spurred on. “You’re his son. Everyone in the county knows you.”

Gator kept his eyes on you, then hummed, noncommittal. “A’right.” He went back to his book.

You sat back down, mostly because you felt awkward standing in the middle of the room, and pushed yourself back and forth a little, rolling the wheelchair to and fro. It went on for a minute or so, probably, until Gator sighed heavily and looked over at you.

“So what happened t’yer arm?” he asked. “Some guy rough y’up?”

You snickered. “Not in the way you think.”

“Hell’s’at mean?”

“We were having a good time, until we weren’t.”

There was a beat of silence, and then he snickered. “So it’s a sex thing?” He laughed. “Damn, how’d you fuck up fuckin’ that bad that ya needed the hospital?”

“I dislocated my shoulder,” you said.

“You did?” Gator asked. “Or he did?”

“Ok, Deputy, relax.” You adjusted your arm a little in the sling. “Everyone was a consenting adult, I just—got the shit end of the stick.”

“So where’s yer guy?” Gator asked. “Bet he’d love knowin’ y’were in here w’me. Since everyone in the county knows me ‘nd all.”

“He—” you said, but cut yourself off. Where was he? Last you’d seen him he was in the drivers’ seat of his pickup, telling you you’d be fine but he had work in the AM so he couldn’t stick around, and if you needed anything, to just let him know. He’d driven away before you realized that he’d never given you his number, so. Where was he indeed. By now, he was probably home, beer drunk and cock jerked, sleeping like a baby before his shift in the morning. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

Gator laughed. “Cold.”

“Well, he left me here and blew me off, so.”

“A’right, that’s worse. ‘Nd after you blew him’n everything too. Damn.”

“Who said I blew him?” you asked, not quite believing you were entertaining this line of conversation.

“Ya look like the type,” Gator said, shrugging.

“Excuse me?” you asked, scowling at him, offended.

“What?” he asked, trying to hide his amusement, but you absolutely heard him snickering. “It’s a compliment.”

“How is that a compliment?”

“Means ya look… givin’. ‘Nd carin’, y’know. Generous and shit.”

“Pig,” you said, turning your wheelchair away from him and facing the door.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. I meant it. Ya seem like a real nice broad.” You turned to glare at him over your shoulder.

“I don’t want to be in here with you just as much as you don’t want to be in here with me,” you said.

“So we’re even,” he said, then gestured at your arm. “That shit hurt?”

“Uh, yeah?” you said. “We can try to recreate what I was doing if you want to see for yourself.”

“Yeah, fuck that,” Gator said, but he was chuckling to himself. He smiled over at you. “Fun as I’m sure it was.”

“So what happened to you?” you asked.

“Waitin’ on some stitches,” he said, then fell silent.

You waited for him to keep talking, but he didn’t. “What happened?”

“This,” Gator said, and curled his hand into the sheets on top of him, pulling them to the side to reveal his leg, thigh draped in the hospital gown. He tugged up the hem of the gown and you saw a thick pad of gauze, not quite bled through but a red sliver was making itself known.

“Um,” you said, because that didn’t quite answer your question in its entirety.

“Some fucker’ got me with a boxcutter,” he said.

“And it was big enough to need stitches?”

Gator fixed you with a look. “Wanna see it?”

“No, I’m good,” you said, but he started peeling the gauze away. “I said I’m good. Gator! I’m good!” 

He’d barely uncovered an inch of it, but you could see that the gash was larger, a decent slice dug into his thigh. “So yeah, need some stitches. Wasn’t too deep, it ain’t still bleedin’ too much or nothin’, but it’s long enough it needed, ah… medical attention.” He turned to look at you, and before you could react he continued. “Got something else long enough y’d need medical attention. ‘Nd as luck should have it we’re both already in the goddamn hospital.”

“You’re disgusting,” you said. “And just to knock you down another peg, you’re not nearly as attractive in a hospital gown as you think you are.”

“Not even with these on?” Gator asked, reaching to the tray table set off to the side. He grabbed something you couldn’t see, then slid his sunglasses onto his face. It was so unexpected and lighthearted that you laughed—genuinely.

“Sorry, no,” you said, shaking your head a little. Sure, you were both trapped in the same room off of the emergency department at the hospital, but Gator Tillman was fucking flirting with you. Badly, but still. Even if he was just doing it to pass the time, he was still coming on to you.

“So—y’know my name,” Gator said. “You gonna tell me yers or do I gotta bust out the badge and ask fer ID?”

“The badge is worse than the shades,” you said, and he lifted them off his eyes and furrowed his brow at you, like he was trying to gauge if you were serious or not. But before he could question you, you’d given him your name.

Gator marked his page in the puzzle book with the pencil, then held out his right hand toward you to shake, reaching out over his own body. You didn’t make a move to stand or wheel closer to him.

“Dammit woman, don’t leave me hangin’,” he said. “Tryna be, uh, upstandin’ here.”

“My arm’s in a sling,” you said, pointing to your right arm with your working left one. “Sorry.”

“Fuckin’ excuses,” he grumbled.

But he wasn’t such terrible company, really, not for the few short minutes you’d spent with him. At least he was entertaining, and he’d rolled with the punches you’d thrown back at him in response to his sexist BS. You stood up, took the two steps to his bedside, and placed your left hand in his, not quite shaking it but trying to, at least. His hand was cold in yours, the skin rough like you’d expected, but still softer than you’d thought it would be. Just as the thought crossed your mind, you pulled your hand away, because you didn’t want to linger and give him any ideas.

“You got any more puzzle books?” you asked, gesturing at the word search book.

“You can take this one,” Gator said. “Was in here already when they dumped my ass on this bed.” He proffered it to you. You took it.

“How long have you been in here?” you asked, sitting back down and opening the book to where he’d marked it. The word searches on the open pages were complete (left) and half-done (right). 

“Got here after you,” Gator said. “Y’said, what—you been here fer three hours?” 

You nodded, looking down at the word search he’d left unfinished. The theme was “Picnic.” You noticed that he did them the same way you did: alphabetically by the word list. That… surprised you. He’d left off at lemonade so you started searching for it, the pencil clutched in your left hand, the book balanced on your lap.

“Yeah, I got here ‘bout… midnight.”

“Surprised you’re still waiting,” you commented, trying to be flippant, but it definitely came out more bitter than you’d intended.

“Why’s’at?” Gator asked.

You circled lemonade in the word search, a little wobbly since you were balancing it on your legs and handling it with just one hand. Now you were looking for napkins. “The name Tillman carries weight around here. Didn’t you know?”

“‘Parently not enough,” Gator said. “Got my ass sittin’ in here with some chick who thinks she can just say whatever’s on her mind like I ain’t gonna take it personal.”

“That’s a fragile ego, Deputy,” you said. Napkins jumped out at you on the page, but when you went to circle it, you dropped the pencil, and when you leaned over to pick it up, the book fell off your lap. You sighed heavily and picked them up.

“Ain’t nothin’ fragile ‘bout me, sweetheart,” Gator said, derisively, watching you.

“Well, from where I’m sitting,” you said, hoisting yourself back into the wheelchair, book and pencil in hand, the puzzle page you were working on lost, “seems like there is.”

“Why? ‘Cause’a my leg? Fucker got the jump on me, ain’t nothin’ more to it.”

“No. Because you care what a chick you just met and probably never will again thinks about you.”

“Whoa. Now just wait a fuckin’ second, who said that?”

“You did,” you said, absently flipping through the pages of the puzzle book, looking for “Picnic” again.

“When the fuck did I say that?”

“Just now,” you said, looking up at him, tucking the pencil behind your ear so you had one less thing to balance while you were looking through the book. “If you’re taking what I’m saying personally, you’re giving it weight. And if me not being a badge bunny and knowing you throw your last name around like it’s an extra six inches is getting to you, then that ego of yours is made of fine china.”

He watched you, eyes narrowed just a little, as you found the page you’d left off on, then reached to untuck the pencil from your ear. As soon as you’d lifted your hand, the book fell to the floor again and you groaned, tossing your head back, and the pencil clattered to the floor behind you.

“God fucking—damn it,” you groaned, and Gator only chuckled.

“Gimme that fuckin’ book,” Gator said, ignoring—or, at the very least not acknowledging—what you’d said. 

“You said I could have it,” you said, mostly to be petulant.

“And they said you’d be ‘in’n’out’,” Gator said, mimicking the orderly’s voice. “‘Nd yet yer still fuckin’ here. Gimme that book, pick up the pencil, ‘nd get yer ass over here.”

As you watched, he reached his left hand out to lower the railing on the side of the bed, then shimmied a little to the side, like he was making room for you to sit beside him.

You shook your head, but stood up to grab the pencil from where it had fallen anyway, then looked at him again, confusion still etched on your face.

“I said git,” Gator said, palm slapping the mattress beside him.

“For what?”

“Only got three workin’ arms ’tween us,” he said. “You wanna do yer fuckin’ word search, you look for ‘em ‘nd I’ll cross ‘em off.”

It felt like a trap, almost. You weren’t the biggest busybody in Dickinson, but you heard everything that women said about the police in this town, especially the Tillmans. And yet, you were with Gator, getting firsthand, empirical evidence that he could, actually, behave himself. You were still more than an arm’s length away, though, so who knew how long that would last?

You picked up the fallen book, then handed it and the pencil to Gator. He took it, opened it, found “Picnic,” then looked at you expectantly, before angling his head toward the bed beside him, looking at it pointedly. You stepped over and climbed onto it beside him, careful not to jostle his injured leg.

“Napkin,” Gator said, and you pointed with your good arm, because you still remembered where you’d seen it. “Fuckin’ crack shot, huh?”

You laughed, despite yourself. “Something like that.”

And after you’d found park and plates in quick succession, Gator shifted the book a little bit away from you.

“Yer too good at this,” he said. “I ain’t even gettin’ a chance t’look myself.”

You paused. “Is this a race?”

He paused too. “Yeah. Think it is.”

“Well you have to let me see it, then,” you said, unable to lean too close to him, your right arm already stiff and sore from being in the sling.

“You seen it enough,” Gator said. “Plus, yer too good, I should get a lil’ advantage.”

“You mean you should get to cheat,” you replied.

Gator turned to you, grinning all smug, and nodded. “Real glad we see eye t’eye on that. ‘Preciate it.” You watched as he circled the next word, which you could barely read due to the angle at which he was holding the book.

“You’re such a dick,” you said, and you just saw his cheek round up even more, his smile widening as he crossed the word off the bottom of the list.

“My dick is one’a the most notable things about me,” Gator said, and you were so used to his crass comments by now that you just sighed in exasperation and rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see you.

“Just let me see the puzzle,” you said, shifting so that you were kneeling beside him on the bed, since you couldn’t lean into him with your arm as tender as it was. You leaned over him, taking extreme care not to actually let any part of your body touch his, and reached over with your left hand to try and grab the book. “We can do it together, just let me hold the book. You can keep the pencil.”

Gator switched the book to his right hand, holding it out of your reach before you even got close. “You wanna do it wi’me? Damn, ‘n I thought you were different. But I like ‘em a little mean sometimes.”

“You are such a—” you started to say, but stopped yourself, trying to think of a name to call him that he wouldn’t be able to turn into something sexual or make suggestive. And as you cycled through your choices, his smirk only grew, until he had bent his good leg at the knee, resting his elbow on it and balancing his chin on his hand, watching you with a bemused expression while your mind whirled through the various insults you knew. “Manchild.”

Gator guffawed at that, and you really had to work to suppress your own smile, moving back to sit beside him normally, no longer wanting to play his stupid games.

“First time I heard that one,” Gator said, moving to hold the puzzle book between the two of you, half on your lap, half on his.

“Color me shocked,” you snapped back, but there was no venom in it. “I would’ve guessed that was, like, your middle name.”

“So then what’s yers?” Gator asked. “Smartass?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” you said, and this time, when he laughed, you did too. You hadn’t ever wanted to cross paths with this guy, but being stuck in this room with him—willingly sharing space with him, so close your injured arm and his injured leg were almost brushing against each other—it wasn’t turning out to be the worst part of your night. That, amazingly, was still your shoulder. It wasn’t like you’d let him know he was making things bearable and the time pass quickly. You could keep your gratitude unspoken. And you would.

“You lookin’ or what?” Gator asked, shaking the book a little, and you looked over at him to find him staring at the side of your face, tapping the book with the pencil’s eraser. “I already fuckin found sandwich but I don’t wanna circle it if yer gonna chew me the fuck out about it.”

“Sandwich,” you said, letting your eyes rove over the puzzle. “There.” You pointed and he drew an elongated oval around the letters.

“Very good,” he said, condescendingly.

But instead of rising to it, you just decided to show him up. There were four words left: spring, tablecloth, wasps, and watermelon. You’d already found them—but sandwich had needed to be circled first—so you simply tapped the page in four spots, in order.

“There you go,” you said, repeating the taps so he knew you weren’t bullshitting and had found the remaining four words. “So, what do I win?”

“Win,” Gator repeated, circling each of the four words, then crossing them off the list. He stuck the pencil in the book and closed it. “Fuck makes you think you won somethin’?”

“You said it was a race,” you said. “I found the words faster than you. That means I get a prize.”

“Fuck kinda prize you think this place got? Hold on, lemme page the nurse ‘nd see if I can score ya some ice chips.”

You laughed, a true, hearty laugh, eyes closed and giggles bubbling bright out of your chest, and when you opened your eyes again and let your gaze fall on Gator, you didn’t miss the way he was looking at you, expression soft for the briefest moment, until he remembered himself, remembered who and what he was supposed to be under observation—a Tillman—and let the scowl creep back onto his features. A little too late; you wondered if he ever showed this part of himself to anyone else. Not that you were special—you knew you weren’t, not to Gator Tillman—but here he wasn’t supposed to be anyone, wasn’t beholden to his father or the department. He was just a guy waiting for stitches, messing around with a puzzle book and the woman they’d dumped on him by chance.

“So,” Gator said, clearing his throat a little as though he’d just realized now how close you were to him. “Ya wanna try ta explain how the hell ya dislocated yer arm mid-fuck?”

You sighed. “We weren’t actually… doing anything yet,” you said. “He was kinda—so he was behind me, and he had my arms behind my back.” You gestured, but Gator watched you, a half-smirk playing at his lips, one eyebrow quirked up. “He was holding them behind me, you know.”

“Yeah, I’m followin’,” Gator said, suppressing a grin.

“And I guess he just—I kinda… Twisted the wrong way from how he was moving, and next thing I knew I couldn’t really move my arm. It didn’t hurt that much when it popped out, but moving it back in front of me was really bad. And then add the emotional damage of him having to put my clothes back on...” You grimaced at Gator. “Maybe I lucked out that he just left me here.”

“Prob’ly,” Gator said, lifting his hand to bite at one of his cuticles, though he lowered his hand when you scrunched up your nose at him. “Nah, I’m just sayin’—guy like that ain’t gonna see shit through after he hurts ya? Scumbag.”

You blinked, shaking your head a little in disbelief. “What?” you asked, probably somewhat dumbly, because you hadn’t thought Gator could feel sympathy for the fairer sex.

“Guy fuckin’ dislocates yer damn arm and can’t even stick witcha at least through triage? That’s some lame ass shit.” He glanced over at you and realized you were looking at him like he had six heads. “What, you think I wouldn’t?”

“I mean—everything I’ve ever heard about you points to no, you wouldn’t.”

Gator cocked his head to the side. “‘Nd why’s that?”

You shrugged your good shoulder, but the movement still made you flinch a little. As though it were his fault, Gator moved away from you, like he’d nudged your arm and that was what made you shudder in pain.

“You’re not a… long haul kind of guy,” you said. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Mm,” Gator hummed, then sucked his teeth. “Gotta say, this whole ‘you knowin’ of me’ thing fuckin’ sucks.”

“Sorry,” you said.

“No you ain’t,” Gator said, but he chuckled a little, darkly, unamused. “You came in here thinkin’ you knew all there was t’know about me and yer still just sayin’ it. Well, if your opinion holds so much weight like ya think I think it does, maybe try watchin’ yer mouth.” He looks over at you. “Or I’ll give ya somethin’ better t’do with it.”

You moved yourself a bit away from him to sit on the edge of the mattress, letting your left leg drape off of it, toes to the floor. “Ok, fair point. I don’t even know you, I shouldn’t judge you.” You looked over at him out of the corner of your eyes, assessing. You decided to be honest and press your luck. “You just don’t exactly give off the most… comforting aura.”

Gator turned to look blankly at you, his expression slowly morphing into disgust. “Don’t say shit like that t’me,” he said, then laughed. “I ain’t tryna be no one’s friend out here. I can’t be seen as… comforting. I’m the law.”

“Oh my god, you really say that? You really say that. I didn’t think—”

“I really say what?” he interrupted you.

You dropped your voice to match his. “‘I’m the law.’ You’re a real piece of work, you know that? ‘I’m the law,’ get the hell out of here.” You laughed and reached across your body with your left hand to shove at his left arm, playful and teasing.

“I don’t know why you think yer so cool, Miss Can’t-Even-Fuck-Right,” Gator said. “Promise ya if y’were with me, you wouldn’t’a dislocated nothin’. ‘Cept maybe yer—”

“Let me guess, my jaw?” you asked. “Because your dick’s so big? I get it, you’re packing. Can we move on?” But you were smiling. Despite yourself, despite his demeanor, you were starting to find the moments in between when he dropped the act actually… charming. Something else you’d keep to yourself, because if he found out you were actually enjoying his company, he’d be even more insufferable.

“Nah,” Gator said, stretching out his injured leg, wincing a little as he did. Surreptitiously, he lifted the hospital gown again, checking the gauze taped to his thigh. The little red sliver you’d seen before was just a touch wider, the wound still oozing. He covered it again quickly, but you’d still seen. “Got m’self.”

You almost didn’t register that he’d spoken, because it didn’t sound like he’d actually said words. “What?”

“With the boxcutter.” He cleared his throat. “I got m’self.”

“You—” you started to say, but stopped yourself. “Oh, my god.”

“Was a fuckin’ accident, a’right?” he said, huffy. “Breakin’ down some shit at the station, lost m’grip on the box, next thing ya know I’m bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

“That’s so embarrassing for you,” you said, and Gator lifted his left hand, flipping you off. You laughed, but were pleased to see he was smirking too.

“Ain’t no more embarrassing than twistin’ yer arm out of its socket when yer just tryna get it in.”

You nodded your head to the side, conceding the point. “Fair enough.” You paused. “Why… did you tell me that?” you asked.

Gator shrugged. “You told me ‘bout yours. Figure we’re even now.”

“We needed to be even?” you asked.

“Yeah, why not,” Gator said. “Yer cool.”

If it had been five minutes earlier, you’d have ribbed him for that, given him shit for it. But it had happened at exactly the right moment—you felt decent enough even though your shoulder still hurt, and he seemed to have loosened up enough that he could be real, or at least as real as a Tillman could be in these parts.

“You might be cool too,” you said, pulling your leg back up onto the bed, pushing yourself up closer beside him, your knees pressing into his hip as you tried to face him—and then promptly fell sideways into the upright part of the bed because your right arm was in a sling and you had no way to prop yourself up.

“I take it back,” Gator said, absolutely losing his shit at your awkward faceplant, your dislocated arm held in place by the sling. “Nothin’ fuckin’ cool aboutcha, my god, woman.” He reached back to help you up, wrapping his arm around you and holding you securely to his side. “Y’ok?”

When he asked it, his voice was quieter, lighter, brushing against your cheek like the touch of a lover, of someone who cared about you, even though he couldn’t and he didn’t.

“I’m fine,” you said, your cheek burning not only from the impact on the hospital mattress but also embarrassment. You glanced over at him, and noticed: He was a lot closer than you realized, even as he retracted his arm, which was dumb as hell, because you were practically sitting on his lap, and just might be if not for his cut leg and your immobile arm.

“That’s one word fer it,” Gator said, his hand moving over your knee, up your thigh, just enough for you to feel affected by it.

And you shouldn’t. This was Gator Tillman, fundamentally one of the worst people you could get involved with, and yet aside from some locker room talk and all of the rumors and conjecture you’d gathered from living in his vicinity, he hadn’t done anything to truly turn you off. It was the push and pull of flirting with a guy, the little barbs and pokes that made something new into something fun, something brimming with potential. So when his hand skimmed a little further up your thigh, you leaned in and just barely let your lips brush over his.

He kissed you back. Of course he did. You figured he was going to, because you were there and you were making it easy, but what you didn’t count on was how he would do it. With his fingers pressing just enough into your thigh that you could feel it, with his nose bumping against yours as he tilted his head the slightest bit to the side, with his lips closing around your cupid’s bow, keeping it simple and sweet before he pulled back. It was the perfect kind of kiss for the moment, and you never would have expected Gator to read the mood like that. You were starting to think you’d been wrong about him, or maybe everyone else had.

Just as you opened your mouth to speak, the door to the room opened and the orderly marched back in, stopping short when he saw you perched on Gator’s bed. You felt his hand move off of your thigh and instead to your lower back, holding you steady as you hurriedly stood up from the bed.

“Careful,” he muttered, as you slid your legs down over the lowered railing.

“Mr. Tillman,” the orderly said.

“Deputy,” Gator corrected him, and you smirked as you took your seat again.

“Deputy,” the orderly continued. “The doctor is about ready to see you, and since you have a… roommate, we’ll be bringing you to one of the exam rooms for the stitches.” You were wheeled over to the side, while the orderly unlocked the wheels of Gator’s bed and pushed him out of the room.

“See ya,” you said, lifting your good arm to wave.

Gator nodded his chin toward you as he passed by. “Ya just might.”

Except when he was brought back to the room to wait for his discharge paperwork, you were gone.