Jesus Hotwheel Christ ● Reposts

Mike’s annoying green eyes followed your every movement – how you paced back and forth, dried glass that had already been dried, wiped down the same spot on the counter for a fifth time. He felt like he was watching a plane crash in slow motion.

“You know,” he said eventually, “if you scrub it any harder, you’re gonna take the varnish off.”

“I’m cleaning,” you huffed out before eventually tossing the rag over your shoulder.

“You’re hovering, kid,” he muttered behind the rim of his glass.

You rolled your eyes and reached for a clean glass before you snatched the whiskey bottle from Mike’s grip – owner privileges, or whatever he called it.

“This ain’t your bar,” he murmured as he snatched the bottle back before placing it far enough you wouldn’t reach without moving. “I’ve been back for eight hours and you’re already pissing me off.”

“Go back to Florida then, old man.”

Mike took another sip of his whiskey before glancing towards the entrance.

You could see the gears turning in his head.

“Don’t start,” you muttered as you pointed your glass at him.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking loud enough,” you pursed your lips.

One of the inebriated college kids raised their hand a little too excitedly to catch your attention before they motioned at their emptying glasses and slurred an can we have another round, please?

You clicked your tongue loud enough for them to hear, followed by a curt nod before you reached for three clean glasses. This was good – at least you had something to do for the next two minutes instead of being interrogated by your boss.

A country-rock song you’d never hear before crackled softly through the speakers overhead as you poured the drinks and set them on the tray before scribbling the order onto their bill. Mike watched as you moved beneath the warm amber light, disappearing around the counter and behind him as you made your way towards the three patrons.

You returned a few moments later, balancing a collection of dirty glasses on the tray while a deep frown settled between your eyebrows.

“You’re gonna scare our only customers with that face,” he muttered against the rim of his glass before pushing himself off the stool. “Go smoke, and please come back with a smile or something.”

“I fucking hate it when men tell me to smile,” you muttered, already reaching for your tattered pack of cigarettes before all but storming out of the bar.

The thick, humid Nashville air hit you before you’d even pushed the door all the way open.

The night hung heavy and wet – a black, starless sky smothered beneath low clouds. Thick grey masses pressed close overhead, swollen and breathless, as though the sky itself was holding its breath while stubbornly withholding the rain. The air felt annoyingly warm and oily against your skin, clinging to you and turning the streetlight overhead into a hazy, muted halo.

A deep sigh escaped you as you leaned against the brick wall and slid down until you were sitting on the sidewalk. The cigarette found its way between your lips almost automatically while you watched the white headlights of passing cars grow and shrink in the distance.

In between the dry, chemical tang of cigarette drags, you brought your thumb to your mouth. Your teeth worried at the loose skin around the nail for no reason other than the fact that you’d never been particularly good at sitting still.

You’d caught yourself doing that more often lately.

What had supposed to be a simple one-night stand three weeks ago had turned into a constant buzz beneath your skin. Stolen glances towards a half-working clock. Lingering looks from behind the counter. A stomach that flipped every time a certain grey-haired man walked through the door. Finding excuses to stay after closing, and missing him on nights he didn’t show up.

And now he was going back on the road at the end of the week.

Jesus Christ, get a grip.

Another sigh escaped you as you closed your eyes and let your head fall back against the brick wall behind you.

The heavy thud of boots against the sidewalk pulled you from your thoughts – just in time to stop yourself from spiralling outside your workplace.

“Hey, you.”

His warm, roughened voice reached you a second before he did.

Eddie’s grey curls seemed to have doubled in volume, frizzing wildly in the humidity.

So did his smile when your eyes finally found him.

“Hey,” you murmured quietly before taking one last drag from your cigarette and throwing it somewhere on the street without caring too much about it.

He let his gaze linger on your face for a moment longer than necessary. The smile tugging at his lips faltered for a brief second before he carefully crouched down beside you.

You reached for the tattered pack resting between your legs and pulled out another cigarette. Bringing it to your lips, you lit it without much thought.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, just tired,” you mumbled as your gaze drifted away from the street and back to him.

Eddie’s eyes lingered on your side profile for a moment longer before he braced a hand against the ground and lowered himself beside you, completely ignoring the protest of his joints as he reached for you pack.

“Bullshit,” he murmured as he lit his cigarette.

“We’ve known each other for three weeks,” you muttered, a humourless laugh escaping you. “How would you know if I’m bullshitting or not?”

That made Eddie still beside you, his tattooed hand pausing mid-air between drags. His eyebrows pulled into a furrow as he blinked slowly at you.

“Where is this coming from?” he murmured as he brought the cigarette back to his lips.

Instead of answering right away, you exhaled and dragged a hand through your hair. You licked your lips and brought the cigarette back to your mouth for another long drag. The ember glowed warmly between your fingers as you stared across the nearly empty street.

Beside you, Eddie waited, his eyebrows still furrowed. Which somehow only made everything worse.

“You leave on Friday,” you muttered eventually, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Swallowing hard, you closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose with your free hand before letting out another weary sigh.

Neither of you said anything for a few seconds. A car door slammed somewhere down the block, the sound echoing through the humid air and bouncing off the surrounding buildings.

“And that’s what’s got you sitting on the sidewalk looking like somebody kicked your dog?”

A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Maybe,” you admitted as a small, bitter smile tugged at your lips.

“Maybe?” he echoed, raising an eyebrow in disbelief.

“Don’t let it go to your head, Munson.”

You dragged a hand down your face as the words settled heavily between you.

“Y’know,” he started softly, flicking ash onto the pavement as his gaze drifted down the quiet street, “you could always tag along.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you muttered, scrunching your nose as you shook your head.

“I’m not,” he said, and turned back towards you.

“Yes, you are,” you sighed. You pinched the cigarette between your fingers and stared at the glowing ember for a moment. “You can’t just… say stuff like that like it’s the easiest thing in the world.”

You crushed the cigarette filter against the concrete with more force than necessary before flicking it into the street. Then, without another word, you rose to your feet.

Eddie’s eyes followed you immediately. He tilted his head back against the brick wall, curls dragging over the rough surface as he watched your expression. He immediately noticed the deep furrow between your eyebrows as you stared down at the ground, absentmindedly kicking at a discarded beer cap. After one last slow drag of his cigarette, he pushed himself to his feet.

He could practically hear the gears turning in your head.

“Don’t go there,” he murmured softly as he dropped his cigarette onto the sidewalk and crushed it beneath his boot.

“A little too late for that,” you replied wearily, your eyes still fixed on the ground.

Eddie stepped closer and rested his hands on your hips, pulling you gently towards him, and traced slow circles against the fabric of your shirt.

“This was supposed to be…” you trailed off and swallowed. “Easy and fun.”

A quiet breath escaped him as he continued the soothing motion of his thumbs.

Eddie couldn’t help noticing how you looked beneath the amber glow of the streetlights. Even now, when you refused to look at him, that stubborn furrow remained firmly planted between your eyebrows. Something warm stirred beneath his ribs when he felt his expression soften – a reaction that seemed to happen more and more often whenever he was around you.

“And now I feel like a fucking teenager throwing a tantrum.”

That earned a soft laugh from him, and his tattooed hands tightened around your hips ever so slightly.

“Trust me, sweetheart,” he murmured, tilting his head as he finally caught your eye. “I wasn’t exactly thrilled when I booked my flight, either.”

That finally made the furrow between your eyebrows soften.

“How long will you be gone?” you asked hesitantly.

“Two months,” he answered softly, bringing one hand up to cup your cheek.

“Jesus,” you glanced away for a second. “See? A fucking teenager throwing a tantrum.”

Eddie barked out a laugh at that – the kind that made him throw his head back and his stomach ache.

When the laughter finally died down, he looked at you again.

“The offer still stands,” he reminded you.

“I don’t have enough money to pay rent and book a flight,” you deadpanned.

He opened his mouth to reply, but you cut him off before he could get a word out.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“The answer is still no,” you murmured as a mischievous glimmer found its way to your eyes as you trailed your fingers over his chest and twisted his nipple.

“Ouch! What the hell?” Eddie yelped, loosening his grip on your cheek to smoothen the assault you’d just committed on him.

You shook your head, brushing imaginary lint from his shirt before leaning in to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

“That was for trying to act like my sugar daddy instead of my–” the words died in your throat as warmth crept into your cheeks. “Whatever. I’m heading back.”

“Mike can hold down the fort for another few minutes, babe,” he murmured, catching your wrist when you tried to reach for the door. “You were saying?”

“I wasn’t saying anything,” you replied, deliberately ignoring the new glimmer in his eyes.

“I’m pretty sure you were about to call me your boyfriend,” he teased, a grin tugging at his lips.

“You’re too old to be called a boyfriend.”

“Manfriend isn’t a thing, babe,” he laughed. “But sure. Manfriend, boyfriend – I’ll be whatever you want me to be.”

You shook your head as you tried – and failed miserably – to keep a smile from tugging at your lips.

“I want you to be less annoying,” you replied, though the way the corners of your mouth curled made it clear you didn’t mean a word of it, “and let me get back to work.”

Eddie’s gaze flickered towards the large window of The Brass Lantern, catching Mike scratching absently at his head before he looked back at you. He squinted and pursed his lips, pretending to consider your request for a moment.

“Can’t do that,” he said, shaking his head. “I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Being a rockstar, and all that.”

“Should I call TMZ?” you raised an eyebrow. “’Corroded Coffin frontman Eddie Munson harasses woman half his age’.”

“Nah,” a grin tugged at his lips. “’Eddie Munson harasses his girlfriend.”

Eddie’s grin widened as he watched you open your mouth, only to close it again, and your widened eyes blinking helplessly at him.

“You know what?” you said after a moment, not giving him a chance to reply. “Can’t wait for you to be gone. You’re too annoying.”

His eyebrows shot up at your words.

“Wow, okay,” he said, nodding sarcastically. “You’re gonna pay for that.”

Before you could react, he let go of your hips and immediately dug his fingers into your sides. Broken laughter escaped you as you tried to twist away from him, nearly doubling over when he chased the movement and found the spot beneath your ribs.

The wooden door creaked open behind you, but neither of you seemed to notice.

“I don’t pay you to flirt with my customers, kid,” Mike muttered, forcing his lips into a disapproving line.

Eddie’s head whipped over his shoulder at the sound of his voice, his hands immediately stilling against your sides.

“And you, asshole,” Mike continued, pointing at him, “are you buying me a welcome-home drink or not?”

The backstage pass hung heavier from your neck than it should have.

You turned the laminated card over between your fingers – fresh homemade manicure glistening under the passing street lights – for what had to be the tenth time before you finally stepped out of the cab.

CORRODED COFFIN – ALL ACCESS.

The words still looked ridiculous, no matter how many times you read them again.

Three weeks ago, you’d been serving whiskey to a tired man at the end of the bar. Now you were standing behind an arena in Nashville while stagehands wheeled road cases twice your size past you.

You followed a buff, bald guy – who was far nicer than he looked like – through the endless maze-like hallways until the two of you stopped in front of a white door. It would’ve been just another unassuming door if it wasn’t for the laminated piece of paper that read CORRODED COFFIN: PLEASE LET THESE MAN IN, along with a picture of each member. Because apparently, even at their grown age, they still lost their credentials frequently.

The bald crew member knocked twice before pushing the door open. Noise spilled into the hallway instantly – not music, or shouting, just light conversations. The kind that happened when people had known each other for decades. He stepped aside and motioned for you to go in.

Eddie looked up from where he sat, a cigarette in one hand and a can of beer in the other. His expression instantly softened the moment his eyes found you.

He passed his beer to Gareth and crushed the half-smoked cigarette before he pushed himself off the couch and stepped closer. His hands immediately found their favourite spot, pulling you closer by your hips to greet you with a soft kiss.

“There you are,” he murmured when he pulled away.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been anxiously waiting for me,” you replied sarcastically, although the look you gave him was far sweeter than you’d intended.

“Oh, he has,” Gareth murmured teasingly, tipping Eddie’s can back for a sip. “It was getting kinda annoying, if I can be honest.”

“Shut up,” Eddie muttered over his shoulder, though his voice didn’t sound nearly as annoyed as he’d hoped.

Gareth didn’t bother replying. Instead, he simply grinned into the beer can while Jeff – the little shit – immediately burst out laughing.

Eddie’s hands tightened ever so slightly around your hips, his smile softening as his eyes lingered on your face.

For a moment, the noise of the green room seemed to fade into the background.

Until Gareth ruined it again.

“Jesus Christ, look at him,” he groaned dramatically. “He looks like a fucking teenager in love.”

Eddie rolled his eyes, and pointed towards the door behind you. “Scram.”

The drummer barked out a laugh and pushed himself off the couch in search of another beer.

“C’mon, Jeff,” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself while he opened his new can. “Let’s give the lovebirds some time alone.”

Jeff merely shook his head, his grin still firmly in place as he murmured a low hi towards you and followed Gareth out of the green room, pulling the door shut behind him.

Eddie had spent more than twenty years in rooms exactly like this one.

Corroded Coffin had performed in the best of halls, the worst of halls, and everything in between. And, surprisingly, the backstage areas never differed all that much, no matter where. Obviously, some were bigger and fancier than others, and had much more luxurious trappings – but they all served the exact same purpose.

Despite being the vocalist of the band, Eddie had never really felt the need to have his very own dressing room like a lot of other iconic frontmen had.

The green rooms the three men shared were always alarmingly simple – unlike what some people might expect. They were always clean, everything always worked – light bulbs, all the faucets, urinals, showers – and there were always too many mirrors around that somehow never failed Eddie to feel like he was relaxing in a nightclub or a very cheap motel.

Despite the big crew running around, the numerous road cases being pushed up and down, and the uncontrollable chaos of tangled calm professionalism and last-minute intensity that repeated itself every single time they played, he always saw backstage as a place of meditation, reflection and, most importantly, self-scrutiny.

Because, even after all those years, he still got nervous about screwing up in front of thousands of people. Tonight, however, his nerves had very little to do with the show itself. And now you stood in front of him, backstage at Nissan Stadium, and every annoying voice in the back of his head suddenly fell quiet.

The green room – which, ironically, was painted a deep red – didn’t feel nearly as suffocating as it had two hours earlier when he’d arrived far sooner than necessary.

Eddie leaned down and captured your lips again, taking advantage of the fact that he no longer had an audience. The kiss was slow and familiar, comfortable. His thumb brushed absentmindedly against your hip as he pulled you a little closer, and a quiet breath escaped you when he finally pulled away.

“How long until you go up there?” you murmured against his lips.

“Fifteen minutes, give or take,” he replied, glancing towards the clock ticking above the door.

“That’s all I need.”

Eddie pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression going completely blank for a second as though you’d somehow managed to short-circuit his brain with four simple words.                                                                 

“What?”

He blinked rapidly, the meaning finally catching up to him.

You only licked your lips, a mischievous glimmer settling in your eyes. Gently pulling his hands away from your hips, you sank onto your knees and looked up at him.

He wore a black three-quarter-sleeved shirt, tattoos peaking out, stretched across his chest and hugging his arms a little too well for your liking, paired with the same jeans he’d worn yesterday when he’d come by your place. The silver chains hanging from his belt loops and the faded red bandana tucked into his back pocket had become as much a part of Corroded Coffin’s image as the music itself. His grey hair, usually frizzy from humidity and lazy neglect, had been coaxed into perfect curls by someone on his team sometime earlier that evening.

Needless to say, he looked really fucking good as he stood tall above you.

His fingers immediately flew to your hands when you reached for his zipper, stilling your movements as he swallowed a dry lump.

“Wait–” he breathed out, chest already heaving up and down despite the fact you hadn’t done anything just yet. “Bath– Let’s go to the bathroom.”

“No,” you said firm and curtly, and slapped his hand away. “I want you facing the door while I blow you.”

“But–” he cut himself off when he felt you tug down his zipper. He licked his lips with a nervous swipe of his tongue and dragged a hand through his hair. “W-what if they walk in?”

“Not my problem,” you muttered. “You’re the one facing the door, not me.”

You curled your fingers around the elastic band of his boxers, and pulled it down just enough for the fabric to sit tightly under his balls. Slowly trailing your gaze from his pretty cock towards his, you were met with warm, rosy cheeks and helpless blinking eyes staring back.

A large glob of spit fell from your mouth while you kept your eyes glued on his. Eddie twitched when you curled your fingers around his girthy length, spreading the sticky spit up and down. Then, with torturously slow precision, you pulled your mouth open and flicked your tongue against his slit before you wrapped your lips around his aching tip, softly sucking.

Eddie’s hand immediately found the back of your head, heavy rings coiling around your hair as his nails dug into your scalp.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he groaned out, closing his eyes and throwing his head back as his grip on your hair tightened.

But then you mmediately pulled back in one abrupt movement, letting his hard cock slap against his shirt. A broken groan fell from his lips, followed by whimper-y no, no, no’s.

“Keep your eyes on me when I blow you,” you grumbled curtly.

Eddie let go of your hair and dragged his hand through his own, eyes still tightly shut as he bit his lips before he finally found your gaze again.

“S-sorry.”

He felt hot and heavy to the touch when you wrapped your fingers around his dick once again, flicking your wrist in an agonizingly slow pace.

“P-please,” he whimpered, blinking rapidly. “I-I’ll be good. Promise.”

“You do that again and I’ll leave you like this for the whole stadium to see,” you murmured firmly and tilted your head to the side. “Understood?”

A cold shiver ran down his spine as your words reached him. Then, he gave you a soft nod before he bobbed his head up and down in desperation, a soft understood falling from his lips.

His balls, so big and full, and pretty with the white fuzzy hairs coating them, drooped low for you. He begged and gazed down at you with molten brown eyes. Your eyelashes glistened under the warm amber glow of the lights overhead, sweeping your tongue against his slit.

Eddie’s free hand cradled your cheek, warm rings kissing your skin, while his other hand worried at your hair – tugging harshly at your strand, smoothing it down, and repeating the process all over again.

“Jesus,” he choked out, eyebrows furrowed and mouth hanging low.

You pushed down, all the way onto the girthy base until the tip of your nose dipped into the coarse, greying hairs. A broken moan escaped him when he felt your throat flutter around him, drops of spit mixed with pre-cum rolling down the corners of your mouth as you kept him deep in the back of your gummy walls. You spluttered and choked, relishing the way his heavy cock slid in and out of your mouth.

Releasing him, you spit onto his veiny length and slid your hand up and down while you tried to catch your breath. You trailed slick, open-mouthed kisses down his cock until you reached his fuzzy balls. Just like you’d told him to, Eddie kept his eyes glued on you – the way you moved your hand, the way you swirled your tongue against his silky skin, licking fat stripe after fat stripe.

“You taste so good, Eds,” you whispered against him, and trailed kisses where your hand can’t curl around until your lips engulfed his tip for a harsh suck. “I love taking you in my mouth, baby.”

Eddie panted heavily, stroking your face with his trembling hand as broken whimpers continued falling from his plush lips. A shiver ran down his spine when you snaked your free hand under his shirt, soft fingertips threading through the strip of hair that trailed down from his navel to the base of his twitching cock.

You claim him with every suck, every flick of your slick tongue, every shove of his dick all the way to the back of your constricting throat until he bottomed out. His fuzzy balls, heavy with the warm, sticky cum that made your head spin, staggered into your face, slapping against your chin.

“Baby, I-I’m–” he cuts himself off when he comes with a grovelling moan down your throat, bucking desperately into your mouth as he tries his best to keep his eyes on you instead of shutting them closed. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

Eddie’s nails dug in your scalp as he held you there, giving you no choice but to gag around him and take every last drop he had to offer.

When you pulled your mouth off of him, the grip he had on your hair tightened as he pulled you up for a kiss. A muffled groan slipped from him when you parted your lips, pushing his come into his mouth as you brushed your slick tongue against his. You still had a hand curled around his length, refusing to let go of him just yet.

Breaking the kiss, you pulled back just enough for your eyes to trail down his rosy cheeks and molten eyes. With your free hand, you pulled the hem of your skirt up just a bit. Giving his cock a soft tug and ignoring the broken, oversensitive whimpers that fell from him and angled your hips just right – just enough for his twitching cock to slide between your slick folds, coating him in your sticky wetness.

“You feel what you do to me?” you whispered against his lips before pulling him in for another kiss.

“Fuck,” he breathed out, eyebrows pulling into a deep furrow. “Are y– Fuck. Are you not wearing anything under your skirt?”

“Why would I?” You licked your lips, a mischievous glimmer settling in your gaze. “Easier for you to have your way with me after the show, hm?”

His breath hitched in his throat while his teeth worried at his lower lip, cock twitching and painting your clit with the last few drops of cum that spilled from his slit.

You kept your eyes on Eddie’s as you licked your lips and slowly leaned in for another kiss. His free hand found your waist, pulling you closer until you were pressed flush against his chest, while he desperately rolled his hips for more friction.

For a moment, he kissed you back without hesitation, his thumb tracing absentminded circles against your side as he tasted himself on your tongue, muffled groans spilling from his mouth and into yours.

But just as his ringed hand began to wander towards your ass, a series of hard knocks rattled the door and echoed through the otherwise quiet green room.

“You done fucking your girl, Munson?” Gareth asked from the other side. “We’re late!”

He groaned against your lips, unable to pull away just yet – not when you continued sliding your messy folds along his still hard dick. With one last kiss to his swollen lips, you softly pushed him away, pulled your skirt back down and swiped the corners of your mouth with your thumb.

And then you turned around, barely giving him time to compose himself, and grabbed the doorknob and pulled the door open. You shot Gareth and Jeff a sweet smile before brushing past them without a word.

Gareth’s eyes followed you – more composed than he’d expected – for a moment before drifting back to Eddie. The clank of his buckle cut the silence between the three of them while Gareth’s gaze trailed over his pink cheeks, swollen lips and the unmistakably dazed look that refused to leave his eyes.

“Dude,” he breathed out, unable to suppress a laugh. “She’s dangerous.”

Eddie ignored him and simply pulled his zipper up while he brushed past them and walked down the hall, looking for the stagehand that had his earpiece.

"C'mon," he murmured, keeping his voice low and steady. "Get some sleep."

You climbed in without argument, curling into a tight ball on your side. You looked impossibly small in the center of the mattress. Gator pulled the blankets up, tucking them around your shoulders with a gentleness that felt foreign in his hands. Probably felt foreign to you at this point too, if he had to guess.

"I'll be right out there ‘till you go to sleep," he said, nodding toward the door. "Okay? Just holler if you need me."

You looked at him, your eyes red-rimmed and unfocused. For a second, he thought you might argue. Might tell him to leave, to go home and forget you ever existed. But you just swallowed hard and gave a tiny, barely perceptible nod. "Okay."

Gator lingered for a moment, looking down at you as you settled back into your fetal position. He’d long since memorized the curve of your cheek, the way your lashes fanned out against your skin. But the dark bruising peeking out from the collar of the shirt made him want to rage. He wanted to crawl in beside you, wrap himself around you and keep the entire world at bay until you were healed.

But he knew that was a line he couldn't cross. Not tonight. Maybe not ever. You weren't his. You weren't a damsel he needed to rescue just to feel like a man. You were his best friend, and you were deeply hurt, and the last thing you needed was him imposing his presence on you when you were this vulnerable. Even if everything remained G-rated - it still felt like a shitty thing to try and do.

"Sleep tight," he whispered.

He backed out of the room, closing the door until it was just open a crack, leaving enough of a gap to hear if you called out for him.

He sat in the hallway for a long time, his back against the wall, listening to the silence of the house. It was deafening. According to a note he saw in the kitchen when he’d gone to grab water, your parents were out of town for the night, something about a convention or expo in Bismarck. Just as well. Gator doubted that they’d be too keen on seeing their daughter in your current state.

His mind was a chaotic storm, swirling with images he couldn't unsee. The brand on your chest. The way you’d crumpled on the floor, begging him not to hurt you. The sound of your voice describing what Caleb had done to you in the bed of his truck.

It made him sick on your behalf. It made him want to put his fist through the drywall.

But mostly, under it all, it made him feel like a failure.

He’d spent his entire life watching his father destroy women he claimed to love. He’d seen his mother’s bruises, heard Nadine’s screams. He’d made a vow to himself that he would never be that man. That he would protect the people he cared about.

And he had failed.

He hadn't been there when you’d needed him most. He hadn't gone to college with you - instead opting to stay in this shithole town, playing cop and chasing a ghost of a legacy he wasn't even sure he wanted. He’d let you leave, trusting that you were going off to have some grand adventure. To live a life that was bigger than this place, because that’s what you deserved. He’d been jealous, sure, but you were strong, beautiful, smart, and the brightest light he’d ever met. You’d be fine without him.

He hadn't known. He hadn’t fucking known.

And he knew he should have.

He should’ve seen the signs sooner. Pushed harder when you came home for Thanksgiving, when you were just starting to look like a ghost of yourself. He should have begged to know what was wrong instead of accepting your half-truths and fake smiles.

He could have stopped this. If he’d been paying attention, he could have stopped Caleb before he ever laid a fucking hand on you.

Instead, you’d been alone. You’d been trapped at school with a monster who thought he owned you. All the while Gator had been here, doing paperwork and breaking up bar fights, completely oblivious to the hell you were living through.

Fuck, he hated himself for it. Sure, he hated Caleb with a pure rage that scared even him. But he hated himself so much more.

She’s never gonna trust a man again, he thought, the realization settling in his gut like lead. Not really. How could she?

He’d seen it happen to his mother. After years of Roy’s terror, right before she’d abandoned them, she’d just sorta… Shut down. She’d flinch if a man raised his voice too loud. Apologize for things she didn’t do. She’d lost her spark, her fire. And eventually, Gator lost her. And Nadine? He had no idea where the hell she was after she too vanished into thin air, but he hoped she was able figure out who she was without Roy’s fists defining her existence.

You were strong too, obviously. But this… This kind of trauma, it changed people. Gator’d seen it first hand. It hollowed a person out. Made them see threats where there were none. Helped them build walls that no one could scale.

And even when - or if - you did heal and somehow found a way to put the pieces back together… It would never be with him. Not now. Not after he’d failed you this badly.

It was probably a selfish thought, but he couldn’t help it.

Why would you ever want him anyway? He was just a dumb hick cop, just like Caleb had said. He was nothing more than violence and a bad temper and a bloodline he couldn’t fully escape. He was the son of a man who beat women senseless. What if the apple didn’t fall far from the tree? Maybe he wasn't hitting you, but he’d pretty much just sat by let it happen. He’d stood by and done nothing while the best thing in his life was being tortured.

And God help him, he wanted to kill Caleb. Make him suffer - even though whatever he could dole out would only be a fraction of what he deserved for laying his hands on you. He wanted to wrap his own hands around that smug, entitled neck and squeeze until the light went out of his eyes. The rage was a living thing inside him, a beast that was clawing at his insides, screaming to be let out.

But if he did that… Gave in to that violence… He’d lose you for good. Prove Caleb and everyone else right. He’d be just another Tillman man who solved his problems with his fists. And then you’d never look at him without seeing a monster. You’d never feel safe with him. He was trapped. Caught between his need for revenge and his desperate, aching need to be the man you deserved.

Gator pushed off the wall and paced down the hallway, his boots silent on the carpet. He needed to get out of his head. He needed to breathe.

He was just about to head downstairs to wait on the porch steps, sit in the dark and stare at the front door until the sun came up, when a sound stopped him cold.

It was a whimper. Small, yet gut wrenching, coming from behind your bedroom door.

Gator froze, his hand hovering over the banister. The sound came again, louder this time. A broken cry that twisted something deep in his chest.

"No," you gasped, voice hoarse with sleep and terror. "Please. Don't. S-stop -“

Against his better judgement, he didn't think or hesitate about crossing a line. He pushed your door open and stepped inside.

The room was dark, illuminated only by the pale wash of moonlight filtering through the blinds. You were tossing and turning in the bed, sweaty and thrashing against the sheets. Your face was contorted in fear, tears leaking from the corners of your closed eyes.

"Get off!" You screamed, your legs kicking out at the phantom assailant in your dreams. "Caleb! Get off - please -“

The name was like a bucket of ice water in Gator’s veins and he was at your side in two strides. He didn't touch you - not yet. He knew better. He knew what it was like to wake up swinging, to be trapped in a nightmare where the monster was real and the attempted help was just another perceived threat.

"Hey," he said, his voice firm but soft. "Hey, wake up, baby. You're dreaming. It's just a dream, you’re safe -“

But you didn't wake up. You just cried out again, your back arching off the mattress as you tried to fight off an invisible weight. "H-help me - someone, please - G-Gator, help -“

At the sound of his own name, his heart shattered. You were calling for him. Even after he’d let you down so terribly - even in the throes of your worst nightmare, you were calling for him.

"I'm here," he said, reaching out slowly. He placed a hand on your own smaller one, gripping it firmly. "I'm right here. You're safe. I got you."

You gasped, your eyes flying open. They were wide and unfocused, darting around the dark room wildly. For a second, you didn't see him. You were still back in that truck bed, or dorm room. You were still trapped.

"Gator?" you whispered, your voice trembling.

"I'm here," he repeated, lacing his fingers through your own, grounding you. "It's me. It's Gator."

You stared at him for a long moment, your chest heaving as your brain caught up to what your eyes were seeing. Then, with a sob that sounded like it was ripped from your lungs, you reached for him. Your hands tangled in the front of his shirt, pulling him closer.

"D-don't leave," you begged, your face burying in his chest. He felt hot tears seep through the fabric, and he gently stroked your hair. "Please don't leave me. He'll c-come back. If-f you go, he’s gonna come back.”

Gator felt the words like a physical blow. He'll come back.

"Nobody's comin’ back," he promised you, his voice low and fierce. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

You shook your head, your fingers tightening their grip on his shirt. "Stay. Please."

He gazed at you in the darkness. You were trembling, your eyes wide and pleading. You were terrified. And you were asking him to stay. He knew he shouldn't. It was a bad idea. He was a man. A man with a temper and a gun and a history of violence in his blood. You were a victim of abuse, freshly triggered and terrified. Sharing a bed was a line he shouldn't cross. What if you woke up in the morning and didn’t remember asking him to stay?

But… He couldn't say no. Not when you looked at him like that. Not when you were begging him.

So he kicked off his boots by the side of the bed, one by one. Then he pulled his belt off, setting it on the nightstand with a soft clink. He didn't want anything that could be misconstrued as a weapon, or even remotely remind you of restraint or pain.

Carefully, he climbed onto the mattress, the springs groaning under his weight. You shifted immediately to make room for him. You didn't curl away from him like he assumed you would - if anything you moved as close as you could, your body seeking his warmth like a flower seeking the sun.

Gator settled in beside you, lying on his back. He kept his hands to himself at first, resting them on his stomach. He didn't want to crowd or overwhelm you.

But it seemed like you weren't having it. You scooted closer, until your head was resting on his shoulder. Your arm draped over his chest, your leg pressed against his. Gator held his breath. He was terrified. Paralyzed that he’d do something wrong, and that he was just another man who had failed you.

As he felt your breathing start to slow and your body relax against his, the terror began to recede, replaced by a fierce, overwhelming sense of protectiveness.

He slid his arm up to wrap it around you, settling you against his side. Not hard enough that you couldn’t easily roll away if you wanted, yet close enough to feel comforted. Hopefully. You sighed, a soft, happy sound that made his chest ache.

"This okay?" He whispered after a few minutes.

You nodded. "Yeah. It's… Nice."

“Uh, okay. Yeah. Okay. Good.”

Gator stared up at the ceiling as the minutes ticked by, his eyes tracing the shadows cast by the moonlight. He listened to the sound of your breathing, feeling the steady rise and fall of your chest against his. His mind was still racing, filled with guilt and rage and a thousand other emotions he couldn't name. But as he lay there, holding you while you slept, he felt a strange sense of peace settle over him.

He couldn't fix this. He couldn't go back in time and stop everything Caleb had done. But he could be here. With you. Maybe he could be the safe place you ran to when the nightmares got too loud, or the wall you hid behind until you were strong enough to fight again.

And he vowed he would. He’d stay right here, as long as you needed him. Even if he had to kill Caleb - or hell, even burn down the world to insure your safety.

He looked down at you, sleeping in his arms. You looked slightly more peaceful in your sleep. Younger. More innocent. It broke his heart all over again to think of what you’d been through, and somehow survived.

But as you shifted in his sleep, your hand tightening on his shirt, he made another vow.

She might not trust anyone right now, he thought. But she trusts me. She’s here, in my arms, asking me to stay. That has to count for somethin’.

Right?

He pressed a featherlight kiss to the top of your head, careful not to wake you. He closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of your shampoo that still hadn’t changed after all these years - vanilla and something unique to you.

"Sleep," he whispered into the dark. "I got you."

And for the first time in a long time, Gator Tillman felt like maybe, just maybe, he was exactly where he was meant to be.

Gator swore he’d only closed his eyes for five minutes, but he woke up to the morning light filtering through the blinds. For a second, he didn't know where he was. The mattress was too soft, the air smelled sweet, and there was a weight pressing against his side that felt both terrifyingly foreign and like the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

Then he shifted, and the events of the previous night crashed back into him. The bruising. The confession. The brand.

He looked down. You were still curled into his side, but you weren't asleep. You were holding your phone up with a trembling hand, angled awkwardly to capture the ugly, mottled purple bruise on your thigh.

Gator cleared his throat, his voice rough with sleep. "What're you doin'?"

You jumped, nearly dropping the phone. You scrambled to sit up and put a few inches of space between the two of you, clutching the device to your chest as if it were a shield. "I… Nothing."

"Didn't look like nothin'," Gator said, rubbing a hand over his face. "Take a lot of pictures like that?”

You bit your lip, glancing away. "I… I had to make a new email account. Not linked to my main cloud."

Gator sat up, looking at you in the harsh morning light. You looked exhausted, dark circles under your eyes seemed to have deepened overnight, and you were hunched in on yourself, guarding your stomach that he knew was covered in bruises. Even with your disheveled appearance, you were still beautiful to him.

"Why?"

"Because I…" You took a shaky breath. "I know it probably won't come to anything. I mean, he's rich. His dad’s a lawyer. They'd probably just say I faked it or that I'm crazy. And it’s not like I have the money to press charges. But… I don't know. I’ve been taking pictures of everything and sending it to myself. Just in case."

Gator’s heart ached at the defeat in your tone. You weren't even doing this because you thought justice was possible. You were doing it because you were terrified, and it was the only lifeline you could think to throw yourself.

"Can I see?" he asked softly.

You hesitated, your fingers tightening on the phone case. "Gator, you don't need to -“

"I need to," he cut you off gently. "Please."

You stared at him for a long moment, searching his face. Whatever you saw there must have reassured you, because you slowly unlocked the phone and navigated to the account. You held it out to him, hand trembling.

Gator took it. The screen was bright, illuminating a folder simply labeled "reports." Probably in case Caleb did find it. It’d look like schoolwork.

He opened it, and his heart sank.

There were dozens of photos. Hundreds, maybe. Scrolling back, the dates went all the way to late October. Not long after you met him.

At first, they were small injuries. A bruise on your upper arm that looked like a grip. A scratch on your neck. Gator felt a spark of anger, but it was manageable.

But as he scrolled forward through the months, the horror escalated.

There was a picture of your bare back from early December - right before you came home for winter break - covered in welts that looked like they came from a belt and the imprint of a boot. A photo of your knee, swollen and purple, taken right after you must’ve gotten back to school in January. A black eye in February, partially hidden by makeup that you’d tried to wipe away for the photo.

And then, there were the ones that made him even more sick - somehow.

A photo of your inner thigh, stained with a bruise the size of a grapefruit, and a similar one on your naked hip. A close-up of another cigarette burn on your ribs. A picture of your wrist, handcuffed to a bedpost, the skin raw and rubbed bleeding, as if Caleb had neglected to free you after… He couldn’t bear to think about it.

Every image was timestamped and dated. Some days had multiple entries.

October 20th. November 8th. December 12th. January 2nd.

It was a campaign of terror. A systematic destruction of a human being, documented in cold, high-definition detail. Gator stopped scrolling. He felt sick and couldn't take any more. His hands were shaking so badly he thought he might drop the phone.

"He did all this?" he whispered, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears.

You were sitting with your knees pulled up to your chest, picking at a loose thread on the duvet. You wouldn't look at him. "It probably looks worse than it was," you mumbled.

Gator’s head snapped up. "’Scuse me?"

"I mean… It looks bad in photos," you said, your voice rushing now, defensive. "But… you know how bruises are. They bloom. They look purple and huge, but then they fade in a few days. And I… I bruise easier than most people. Always have."

Gator stared at you, dumbfounded. “He beat you with a belt, sweetheart. It looked like he fuckin’ kicked you in another one.”

"He’d had a really long week," you said, your eyes pleading with him to understand. "He had school, and was helping his dad’s firm with handling a huge merger. A-and he wasn't sleeping. He was just stressed. And I was… I was being annoying. I kept asking him about dinner when he was trying to work. I shouldn’t have gotten in his way.”

“In the way of what? Him playin’ Indiana Jones or doin’ karate in the livin’ room?”

"It was an accident."

“What about your leg? When’d he do that?”

“I -“ you hung your head. “I brought the wrong kind of beer back from the store. But he had every right to be angry - I mean, he’d texted me a picture and everything, I was just too stupid -“

"And the burns?" Gator tapped the now dark screen of the phone. "Those an accident too?"

You shuddered slightly, looking down at your hands. "He was drunk. He didn't mean to. He gets… Impulsive when he drinks. But he’s usually really careful. He’s actually… Really sweet most of the time."

“Sweet?”

Gator wanted to scream. You were sitting here, cataloging your own abuse like it was a weather report, making half-baked excuses for a man who had branded you like livestock and beaten you until your skin was more purple than it’s normal shade.

Desperate to keep himself from imploding with rage right there, he lowered his voice, fighting to keep it even. "He put his initial on your skin. That ain't 'impulsive.' That's -“

"He said he was sorry!" you cried out, tears welling in your eyes. It seemed like you’d already convinced yourself that every word out of your mouth was the truth. “I mean, he literally cried, Gator. He held me and told me he’d never do it again. And…. And that he loves me so much it scares him sometimes. That’s why he gets so jealous. Because he loves me."

Gator set the phone down onto the nightstand. "Love isn't s’posed to hurt you! Love isn't practically puttin’ you in the hospital because you forgot to buy the right brand of fuckin’ beer!"

"I know," you sobbed, practically folding in on yourself. “I know, okay? I know it sounds crazy. But… I feel like I’m always making it worse. If I just… if I was better at reading him, or if I didn't nag him so much, or if I didn't make him jealous…"

You looked up at him, your face crumpled. "Fuck, I’m sorry, Gator. I was so dramatic last night. I probably made it sound like… Like he beats me every day. He doesn't, I swear. Most days, we’re fine. Like we go out, have dinner, watch movies. He’s funny and charming. A-and everyone loves him. You just… Don't get it."

Gator felt like he’d been hollowed out like a jack-o-lantern on halloween. Carved and gutted completely from the inside out. He didn't get it? He was the one looking at a photo gallery of your suffering while you sat there apologizing for the inconvenience of your own pain and the actions of another.

"I do get it," Gator said, trembling with suppressed rage. "I get that he’s brainwashed you. I get that he’s made you feel like you’re lucky he hasn't killed you yet."

He leaned forward, grabbing your hands lightly and forcing you to look at him. “But I need you to listen to you. You’re not dramatic or annoyin’ or anythin'. It’s not your fault. He’s doin’ this because he’s a bad fuckin’ person, and like he needs to hurt you to feel like a man."

You tried to pull your hands away, but he held on tight. "Gator, stop -“

"No," he interrupted. "I ain't stopping. Not about this. I’m gonna say this until you actually hear me. You are the best person I know. You’re smart and kind and beautiful, and you deserve someone who looks at you like you hung the goddamn moon, got it? Not like you’re property he can jus’ mark up whenever he’s had a shitty day."

“I-I feel like I’m crazy though.” You were crying in earnest now, big, heaving sobs that shook your entire body. But Gator couldn’t stop. He needed you to hear him. To know that you weren’t alone in all this, even if you had been up till now. “Like I said, he’s not always like this -“

"You’re not crazy," he said fiercely. "We’re gonna get through this."

You slumped against him, burying your face in his shoulder. He held you, his chin resting on top of your head, fuming silently. He wanted to find Caleb, drag him out into the street, and put a bullet between his eyes. But he knew that wouldn't fix a damn thing. It wouldn't fix the part of you that still thought you deserved this. Hurting Caleb would only satisfy his rage temporarily. It wouldn’t do shit to heal your broken heart or battered soul. Honestly, more physical violence would probably only make it all worse.

The phone on the nightstand buzzed.

Once. Twice. Three times.

Gator stiffened. You pulled away, wiping your eyes as you reached for the phone, dismay etching itself across your features.

"Who is it?" Gator growled. He already knew the answer.

"It's him," you whispered, staring at the screen.

"Turn it off.”

"I… I can't," you stammered. "If I don't answer, he’ll make the drive over here. He’ll think something happened."

"Let him come," Gator snarled. "I’d love to have a word with him."

You flinched at the violence in his tone as your hands shook while picking up the phone. "Please, Gator. Just… Let me handle it." Gator watched over your shoulder as the messages flooded in, faster than any normal person should be able to send them.

Caleb: Good morning, beautiful.

Caleb: Did you sleep well?

Caleb: Missed waking up next to you.

Caleb: What are you doing today?

Caleb: Why aren't you answering?

Caleb: Hello?

Gator felt his blood pressure rising as he read. It started out so normal. The lure before the trap snapped shut.

"Tell him you're busy."

"I can't," you said, your fingers hovering over the screen. "He’ll want to know what I'm doing. Who I'm with."

"Tell him you're with your mom," Gator suggested.

"He probably thinks my mom’s at work," you said weakly.

Another text popped up.

Caleb: Are you ignoring me?

Caleb: You know I hate when you ignore me.

Caleb: I’m starting to get worried, baby.

Caleb: Are you alone?

There it was. The shift. The subtle slide from concern to accusation.

“Does he think you're cheatin’ or somethin’?”

“Probably.” You hung your head.

“Just, I dunno, tell him you're at the gym," Gator said, trying to keep his voice level.

"He tracks my location," you said, the confession tumbling out in a rush. "He checks it all the time to make sure I'm where I say I am."

Gator stared at you. He felt like he was standing on the edge of a cliff and the ground was crumbling beneath his feet.

"He tracks you?" he choked out.

“It's for safety," you replied quickly. “In case something happens to me. Campus can be a lot. He just… He cares."

"He doesn't care," Gator snapped, grabbing the phone from your hand. "He’s controlling you."

"Gator, give it back!"

"He’s not gonna know," Gator said, his eyes scanning the screen. "Where does he think you are right now?"

"Home," you said. “He knows I’m staying with my parents while I’m here.”

"Then we need to make sure that's where your phone says it is," Gator said, navigating to the settings, his thumbs flying. "I'm turnin’ off this location sharing bullshit.”

"No!" You cried out, reaching for it. "He’ll notice! He’ll know I turned it off!"

"And then what?" Gator challenged, holding the phone just out of your reach. "He’ll come here? That what you're afraid of?"

"Yes," you sobbed. "He’ll hurt you, Gator. I know he will."

“Better me than you.”

You stared at him, eyes wide with fear. Not entirely just for yourself, but for him. It broke his heart all over again. All you’d suffered at Caleb’s hands, and you were terrified for him. You were protecting your abuser from the consequences of his own actions.

"Gator, please," you begged. "Just give me the phone. I’ll answer him. I’ll tell him I was in the shower. Just… I can’t make him mad."

Gator looked at the phone in his hand, then at you. You were trembling, your eyes pleading. You looked so small. So defeated. He wanted to break the phone. Throw it against the wall and shatter it into a thousand pieces do that piece of shit couldn’t get to you again. To once and for all cut the cord that tethered you to this monster.

But he knew that wasn't the way. Not yet.

With a heavy sigh, he handed the phone back to you. You snatched it away, relief palpable. You quickly typed out a response as Gator watched through narrowed eyes.

You: Sorry, baby. Was in the shower. Just got out.

Caleb: Took you long enough.

Caleb: What are your plans for the day?

You: Catching up on reading. Probably making dinner with my parents later. Just hanging around the house today mostly.

Caleb: Alone?

You: Yeah, none of my friends are in town for the summer.

Caleb: None of them?

You: No.

Caleb: Send me a pic.

Caleb: Right now.

Caleb: No towel.

Your fingers froze over the keyboard, and you hung your head. Caleb's unspoken message of "prove you're alone" hung in the hair. Carefully, you got out of bed to head into the bathroom. Gator watched you go, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. He heard you turn on the shower to quickly fog up the mirror.

As the door clicked shut, he let out a grunt of frustration, punching the mattress. He felt so helpless. So useless. He was standing by, watching you jump through hoops for a man who had branded you like a cow, and he couldn't do a damn thing about it without risking your safety.

He heard the camera shutter click from the bathroom. A few moments later, you came out, eyes red-rimmed as you pulled the towel off your head that hid your dry and tangled hair.

"Did it work?" he asked.

You shrugged, refusing to show him the screen before you hit send. “We’ll see I guess.”

Your phone began buzzing less than twenty seconds later.

Caleb: You look tired.

Caleb: Did you not sleep well?

God, Gator needed to fucking kill this guy.

You: I slept okay. The drive yesterday was long, and I haven’t had coffee yet.

Caleb: Don’t drink too much - you know how that shit makes you all jittery.

Caleb: I love you. You know that, right?

Caleb: I just want to make sure you're safe.

Caleb: I’ll come check on you if I need to, baby. Don’t make me do that, okay?

Gator read the messages over your shoulder, his blood boiling. "He’s threatenin’ you. That’s a threat."

“He says he -“

“Sweetheart, he doesn’t love you, if that’s what you’re gettin’ at,” Gator forcefully softened his voice. “This is abuse. Pure an’ simple."

"I know," you sobbed, collapsing back onto the pillows and digging the heels of your palms into your eyes. "But I don't know how to stop it. Or leave."

Gator maneuvered slightly to wrap his arms around you, holding you tight. He certainly didn't have the answers. He didn't know how to dismantle the psychological cage Caleb had built around you. But he knew one thing. He wasn’t going anywhere.

"We'll figure it out," he promised you, his voice fierce. "I’m not lettin’ you go back there or do this shit alone, okay? We’re gonna find a way to stop him. Together."

But even as he said the words, he felt a cold dread settle in his stomach. Because looking at the messages on your screen, seeing the way your “boyfriend” manipulated you with kindness and cruelty in equal measure, he knew Caleb was playing for keeps.

The silence that followed the text exchange was heavy, suffocating, broken only by the occasional sniffle from you as you wiped at your face. Gator watched you for a moment, taking in the defeated slump of your shoulders and the way you were shivering despite the warmth of the room. He felt a sudden, sharp urge to do something normal. Something domestic. Anything to wipe the terrified, hunted look off your face.

"Come on," he said, his voice gruff but still soft. "Let's get some food in you."

You looked up at him, blinking in confusion. "I'm not hungry."

Gator was already heading for the bedroom door. "You haven't eaten anythin’ real since yesterday."

He didn't give you any further chance to argue. He marched downstairs, boots heavy on the hardwood, and headed straight for the kitchen. It was a nice one, cleaner and brighter than the one at his place by a mile - with lots of fun mugs, a variety of pans, and enough silverware to lend to an army.

Gator wasn't a chef. He could barely manage a can of soup without burning it. But surely he could scramble eggs and make you some toast with that strawberry jam you liked. He’d always teased you growing up because you refused to eat grape jelly. You insisted that strawberry was superior - even though Gator argued with equal fervor that all jellies and jams tasted the same. Even when you’d made him try it he’d had zero reaction. At his young age, he’d never admit you were right. At his current age, he’d be more than happy to admit that the only jelly he’d ever had on his sandwiches or toast since that day was, in fact, strawberry.

Within a few minutes, he was standing over the stove, watching the eggs and keeping an eye on the bread in the toaster, when he heard your soft footsteps behind him. He didn't turn around, but he relaxed a bit, knowing you were there.

"You didn't have to do this," you said quietly, leaning against the doorframe. You looked a little better, like you’d washed your face and tamed your hair, but your eyes were still rimmed with red.

"I know," Gator grunted, sliding the eggs onto two plates before spreading a thick layer of jelly over the toasted bread. "But I'm also hungry. And I figure you could use the company."

You let out a small, sad huff of a laugh. "Company. Right."

He carried the plates to the small kitchen table, setting them down before he pulled a chair out for you, waiting until you sat before taking his own seat across from you. You looked almost surprised by the action.

"Eat," he commanded gently, pushing the plate toward you.

You picked up your fork, poking at the eggs. You took a small bite, chewing slowly. Gator watched you, relieved when you actually swallowed and went back for another bite. The toast was definitely a hit - but then again, you’d always had a bit of a sweet tooth.

"I'm really sorry, Gator,” you said suddenly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Gator looked up, frowning. "For what?"

"For…" You gestured vaguely. "For dragging you into this. You have your own life. You shouldn't have to deal with my… My mess."

He felt a flash of anger, not at you, but at the situation that made you feel like your trauma was an inconvenience. He opened his mouth to tell you that you were his best friend and there was absolutely no place else he’d rather be, but before he could get a word out, a sharp, trilling ringtone cut through the air.

You jumped, nearly knocking over your juice. Your phone, sitting face down on the counter, was vibrating violently, the screen lighting up with a name that made Gator’s blood run cold.

Caleb❤️

You stared at it, face draining of color. For a second, Gator thought you were going to let it ring out. But then, with a trembling hand, you reached for it.

"Answer it," Gator said, his voice low and dangerous. "Put him on speaker."

You looked at him, wide-eyed. "Gator, no -“

"Please put him on speaker," he repeated. "I wanna hear what he has to say."

You bit your lip, looking utterly terrified. But then you seemed to steel yourself, nodding slowly. You swiped the screen and tapped the speaker icon before setting the phone down on the table between you.

“H-hello?" you said, your voice trembling.

"Hey, baby," Caleb’s voice purred through the speaker. It was smooth, charming, utterly at odds with the text messages Gator had seen earlier. “How’re you doing?”

“I’m good. Just eating breakfast.”

“No sugar, I hope?”

Your eyes fell to the toast that Gator has quite nearly smothered in jelly, face crumbling in shame. “Just eggs.”

“Atta girl. Can’t have you too heavy to throw around now, can I? I know how much you like it when I do that.”

A murderous rage coursed through Gator. He’d known that Caleb was clearly controlling what you were eating, but the rationale was almost too much to bear.

"I… Yeah," you managed to choke out. “Can’t have that.”

“Just trying to keep you sexy, baby,” Caleb said easily. “But I don’t have a lotta time - I just wanted to call and give you some good news."

You tensed, fork clattering against your plate. "What news?"

"The marketing firm," Caleb replied. "The one you’re doing the internship with? They called me this morning. They’re so excited to have you that they want to move up your start date.”

Gato froze, watching your face closely as the panic flare in your eyes.

"Move it up?" you repeated, your voice tight. "To when?"

“Next Monday," Caleb’s voice was far too cheerful "I know, it's soon, but it's a huge opportunity. They were impressed with your portfolio. They want you in there ASAP. Plus then we’d get to spend the summer together after all. We can even carpool, since my dad’s office is only a block away.”

Next Monday. That was five days away. Five days until you were back in the city, back in his orbit.

"I… I don't know if I can get everything sorted that fast," you stammered. “The apartment lease doesn’t start until-“

"Don't worry about that, babydoll,” Caleb cut you off. "I handled it. You know how stressed you get about logistics. I took care of it."

Gator’s jaw tightened. He took control of your logistics? What did that even mean?

“Oh?”

“I think the words you’re looking for are ‘thank you, babe’.”

“I- thank you," you whispered, sounding sick. “What, uh, how did you handle it, honey?”

“Remember the apartment downtown? The one we looked at last month?”

The apartment? Gator stared at you, his mind racing. What apartment? You hadn't mentioned living arrangements. Had you?

“They weren’t gonna have an opening till the fall, but they had someone break their lease early, so it's all ours," Caleb said, his voice swelling with pride. "I signed the paperwork this morning. It's perfect. Two bedrooms, a little balcony with a view - right between campus and the firm.”

Gator felt like he’d been punched in the gut. You were moving in together. You were planning on living with the man who had branded, beaten you, and terrified you into submitting to his every whim.

And you hadn't told him. You hadn't said a single word about it.

"That… that sounds amazing, Caleb," you said, your voice hollow. "I'm… I'm really happy. But I, uh, I don’t think my salary with the internship… I can’t afford -“

“Baby, don’t worry. I told you I was gonna take care of you. And I always keep my promises, don’t I?”

You looked utterly bereft as the pieces fell into place for Gator. If Caleb paid your rent, no doubt you’d feel indebted to him. And Gator knew that Caleb would collect what he felt he was owed, whether you wanted it or not.

“I don’t want to impose like that, Caleb. Let me -“

“It’s not imposing if I’m doing this because I love you.”

Gator wondered how many times Caleb had said those exact words before coming at you with a belt, or forcing himself on you. How many occasions had he weaponized your soft heart against you with words that meant nothing when they preceded violence.

“Your name’ll still be on the lease though, if that makes you feel better.”

Great, so you’ll still be tied to him from a legal standpoint.

“I’ll email the paperwork later. Unless you wanna come back a few days earlier -“

"No!" You blurted out, a little too loudly. Gator saw you flinch at your own outburst. "I mean… My mom is… she's not feeling well. I just wanted a few more days with her, if that’s okay.”

"Sure, sure," Caleb said, though he didn't sound convinced. "I'll email them. Just make sure you sign them and get them back to me by tomorrow so we can finalize everything. We need to start looking at furniture too. I was thinking a grey sectional for the living room? Something modern."

"Grey sounds… Nice," you whispered.

"And baby?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you," Caleb said, his voice dropping to a tender murmur. "You know that, right? I’m doing all of this for us. For our future. I just want to make you happy."

"I know," you managed to choke out. "I love you too."

"Okay. I'll talk to you tonight. Call me if you need anything before then, okay? I'm always here for you."

“I will. Bye.”

The line went dead.

You stared at the phone, frozen, your hand still resting on the device.

Gator didn't speak. He couldn't. He was too angry. He watched you, waiting for an explanation, for some sign that this was a mistake, that you were being forced into this. But you just sat there, staring at the black screen of your phone, looking like you’d seen a ghost.

"You're movin’ in with him?”

You didn't look up. "I… Yeah."

"When were you plannin’ on telling me?" Gator’s fragile temper was starting to fray.

You jumped at the sharpness in his tone, but you still didn't look at him. "I didn't wanna worry you."

"Worry me?" Gator let out a harsh laugh. "You're moving in with the man who put a cigarette burn on your chest, and you didn't want to worry me?"

“I told you he’s not always like that!" you cried out, finally looking up at him. Your eyes were swimming with tears. "You don't see the good parts. You only see the… The bad stuff. And that’s my fault. I showed you all that. He can be a good person.”

Gator had to resist slamming his hand down violently on the table in anger. “I don’t care if he’s fuckin’ Mother Teresa, sweetheart. He branded you! He beat you so hard you probably thought you were gonna die! How is there anythin’ good left after that?"

“He loves me!"

“How?”

Your voice rose so that both of you were yelling now. “Because he says he does!”

“Sure doesn’t fuckin’ show it now, does he?”

“H-he got me this internship! Found us a place to live! He takes care of me!"

“That’s still not love!” Gator shouted back. "He’s buying your silence with a pretty apartment and a job title!"

“Yes it is,” you insisted. “He wants to build a life with me."

"A life?" Gator scoffed. "You call this a life? Lookin’ over your shoulder every five seconds? Takin’ pictures of your bruises for a restrainin’ order we both know you’re never gonna file?”

Your expression shattered like glass at Gator's harsh words, and you collapsed back in your chair, the fight draining out of you as quickly as it had come. You buried your face in your hands, a broken sob escaping your throat. Gator felt the rage drain out of him, replaced by a crushing wave of helplessness. He looked at you, huddled over your plate of cold eggs, and realized with a sickening clarity that you weren't just scared of Caleb. You were well and truly trapped. And you didn't know how to get out.

“I- feel like I'm drowning, G-Gator. Like I'm never gonna get away from him."

"You are gonna get away," he said, his voice dropping to a fierce whisper. "I’m here. We’ll figure this out."

"How?" you asked, looking up at him, desperation in your eyes. "He's… he's weaving himself into every part of my life. If I leave now, I lose the internship. Housing. His dad is a huge donor at our university, so probably that too. Just.. Everything."

Gator looked at you, his heart breaking all over again. You were exhausted. Beaten down in every sense of the word. And you were right. Caleb had backed you into a corner so tight there was barely room to breathe.

"We start with the lease," Gator said slowly, his mind racing. “Don’t sign it yet.”

"And then what?" you asked, tears streaming down your face. “If I don’t, he’ll just come here and drag me back.”

“I’d like to see him try”, Gator growled.

"Gator, please," you begged. "You can't fight him with violence. He’ll destroy you. He has money and lawyers and shit. Powerful connections. He doesn’t git a shit that your dad’s the Sheriff. He has -“

"And I have a badge and a gun," Gator shot back. "And I know people too. Maybe not the kind he knows, but people who know how to make problems disappear."

You stared at him, searching his face for any sign of bluff. But Gator wasn't bluffing. He would burn the world down before he let Caleb take you away again. Gator reached across the table and took your hands in his, squeezing them tight and trying to pour every ounce of strength he had into you.

"You’re gonna be safe,” he promised you. "I swear on my life."

But even as he said the words, he felt a cold dread settling in his stomach. Because looking at the defeated slump of your shoulders, and the resignation in your eyes, he knew that Caleb wasn't going to let you go without a fight.

After the breakfast disaster, Gator had practically carried you back upstairs. You were dead on your feet, swaying with every step, eyes glazed over from a mixture of crying, adrenaline crashes, and sheer exhaustion. He didn’t say much, just helped you back under the covers and pulled the duvet up to your chin. You were out before your head even hit the pillow, breathing shallow and fast, hand clutching the edge of the sheet like a lifeline.

Gator stood there for a long time, watching the rise and fall of your chest, practically counting the seconds until you woke up screaming again. He felt like a guard dog at a gate, useless until the threat actually breached the perimeter. He couldn’t just sit here. He couldn’t just wait for Caleb to text you again, or for you to wake up and decide that moving in with your abuser was the only logical choice.

He had to do something.

The Stark County Sheriff’s Department was surprisingly quiet for it being mid morning, just the hum of the vending machines and the smell of stale coffee that Gator hated but relied on. He headed straight for the detective's bullpen. He wasn't a detective, but he had clearance. From his father, technically. But still.

He settle at a computer in the corner and quickly punched in Caleb’s name, quickly falling into a rabbit hole of information.

Caleb’s father, Richard, was a senior partner at a huge law firm. Big corporate law. Defending the kind of people who dumped toxic waste in playgrounds and fired whistleblowers for "performance issues." The firm was squeaky clean on the surface - grant interviews, philanthropy galas, donations to the police benevolent fund.

But Gator wasn’t stupid. He knew how to read between the lines. Desperately, he started cross-referencing. Civil suits against the firm that had been quietly settled. Annoyances that had disappeared.

There was certainly a pattern.

A lawsuit from a construction union alleging unsafe working conditions at a site Richard’s firm represented. Settled out of court for an undisclosed sum two days before the plaintiff was found dead of a "drug overdose."

A zoning violation for a luxury condo development that should have been denied, but the city council member who opposed it suddenly changed their vote a week after their spouse was hired by a shell company linked to the firm.

It wasn't just lawyers who were good at their jobs. It was about two steps shy of racketeering, if Gator had to guess.

And then there was the mother, Eleanor. She sat on the boards of three charities that seemed to exist solely to launder money - as none of the funds in their full amounts seemed to actually make it to the charities.

Caleb himself? He didn't seem to have a direct hand in any of it. His public record was pristine - Dean’s List, internships, volunteer work. He was a golden child - the shiny facade designed to distract from the rot underneath. But if he was joining his dad’s firm certainly he had to know about some of it.

Saving everything to a thumb drive - which had to be a gross misuse of his badge - Gator pocketed it before printing everything. Page after page of civil suits, suspicious deaths, shell companies, and property records. It was a thick dossier by the time he was done. It wasn't a smoking gun for a murder charge, but it was enough to bury the firm in federal investigations. IRS, FBI, DOJ - if this file landed on the right desk, Caleb’s family wouldn't just be ruined. They’d be destitute and likely in prison.

And if Caleb was hoping to follow in his father's footsteps? A federal indictment on the family business would ensure he never passed the bar or practice law in any state.

Gator glanced at the clock.

A drive to the city would take just under three hours.

Gator drove with the windows down, letting the wind whip his face, trying to cool the fire raging in his blood. Was this is best and brightest idea? Absolutely not. But he wasn't just doing this for you. He was doing it for every woman who’d ever been silenced by a man with a checkbook. He was doing it for his mother. For Nadine.

He parked his truck a few blocks away from the sleek glass tower that housed the law firm. His boots echoed on the marble floor of the lobby as he entered, looking incredibly out of place. Maybe he was just a dirty, hick cop. The receptionist was a polished woman in a blazer who looked at him like he was something she’d scrape off her shoe.

“Do you have an appointment, sir?”

Gator leaned against the counter, trying to act natural. “I’m here to talk to Caleb.”

“Last name?”

“He’ll see me.”

“Last name please, sir.”

Gator’s eyes grew cold. “Tell him I'm here about the property dispute. Had a sudden issue come up with zoning for the new development. No time to to make an appointment, ma’am.”

The receptionist hesitated, then picked up the phone. She murmured something into it, listened, and then hung up. "Third elevator on the left. Floor 12."

Gator nodded and walked away. He didn't wait for the elevator to close before he started bouncing on the balls of his heels, his hand hovering near his holster.

The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open. Floor 12 was just as fancy as the lobby - plush chairs, abstract art, and the faint smell of lemon polish.

Gator didn't knock once he spotted the door with Caleb’s name on it. He just pushed it open and stepped inside.

Caleb was sitting behind a desk that was too large for him, staring at a computer screen. He glanced up, startled, his fake smile faltering when he saw Gator standing there.

“Gator, right?”

All Gator could offer him was a curt nod. Caleb’s hands - the same hands that had caused you so much harm - settled on the armrests of his chair, pushing him up to a standing position.

“Long time no see. Can I help you?" Caleb asked, his eyes narrowing.

“Hope so.” Gator replied, shutting the door behind him and locking it.

Caleb’s eyes flicked to the lock, then back to Gator. His polite veneer vanished, replaced by a look of cold rage. “What’re you doing here?”

“Just think we need to have a serious talk," Gator said, walking further into the room. He didn't sit. He just stood there, looming over the desk.

"About what, exactly?”

“Don’t play fuckin’ stupid with me.”

“I wouldn’t want to deprive you of that joy.”

Gator slammed his hand down on the desk, cutting him off. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet room. “Tell me - does knockin’ her around make you feel like some big, tough guy?”

Caleb’s face hardened, as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Why’re you asking? Statistically, cops are far more likely to beat their partners than, oh, let's just say, lawyers.”

“Answer the question.”

“I don’t answer to you.” Caleb ran a hand through his hair, a smirk tugging at his lips. "And I don't know what my girlfriend been telling you, but she has a very theatrical nature. She's prone to… Exaggeration. We’re working on it.”

"Exaggeration," Gator scoffed. "Is that what you call a cigarette burn on her chest? All the bruises all over her body?”

Caleb’s jaw tightened.

"You’re hurting her."

Caleb stood up slowly. He wasn't quite as tall as Gator, but he had that lean strength of someone who worked out just to maintain an image. He walked around the desk, stopping just a few feet away.

“So why have you seen so much of her skin?” Caleb asked, his voice silky and repulsive. "Huh? You playing hero for the damsel in distress? She tell you all about how mean I am while you were comforting her? Did she show you the bruises while you were playing house? Make you feel sorry for her so you’d give her a pity fuck?”

Gator saw red. He took a step forward, invading Caleb’s personal space. "You watch your mouth."

"Or what?" Caleb challenged, his eyes flashing with arrogance. "You'll hit me? Just like I allegedly ‘hit' her? Is that your plan? Prove you're just as much of a monster as you claim I am?"

"I'm not the one who beats her all the fuckin’ time,” Gator snarled, the words leaving a bad taste in his mouth but needing to be said. "I'm not the one who dragged her out to a field and raped her till she bled just because I was mad she got breakfast with an old friend.”

Caleb’s face went completely blank. It was like a switch flipped. The arrogance vanished, replaced by a cold, calculating look. “Don’t say that word.”

“What, rape?”

"I never raped her. We’d had a bit of an argument, but everything was entirely consensual. She likes it rough.”

"Bullshit," Gator spat. "She told me everything.”

Caleb let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Oh everything, huh? She told you that I forced her? God, she's pathetic. She'll say anything to get attention. Garner a bit of sympathy. You should know that - didn’t the two of you grow up together?”

"She's not the one with a file three inches thick on her father's illegal dealings," Gator said softly.

Caleb froze. “Pardon?”

Gator reached into his jacket and pulled out the thick stack of papers he’d printed off at the station. He dropped them onto the desk between them. They landed with a heavy thud, scattering slightly.

"What’s this?" Caleb asked, staring at the documents. He didn't touch them, as if they were a bomb.

"Open it," Gator commanded. "Go ahead. Take a look."

Caleb hesitated, his eyes darting to the door, then back to Gator. He reached out with a trembling hand and flipped the cover page.

He froze, face going white as a sheet. The blood drained out of him so fast Gator thought he might pass out.

"This… This is a mistake," Caleb stammered, his voice rising in panic as he flipped through the pages. "These are old cases. Settled. Dismissed."

"Maybe," Gator said, leaning against the desk, watching the fear take over. "But the pattern is clear. Bribery. Extortion. Money launderin’. Your daddy’s firm isn't just a law firm, Caleb. It's practically a fuckin’ crime syndicate."

Caleb dropped the file as if it burned him. "You can't prove any of this."

“Uh, looks like I can though," Gator said, his voice deadly quiet. “Just gotta hand this over to the right people. The FBI. The DOJ. Once they start digging, they ain't gonna stop at your daddy. They’re gonna look at everyone.”

Caleb had gone from cool and collected to utterly unhinged in a matter of moments, and Gator’s stomach lurched at the thought of how many times you’d seen this exact version him. "Why’re you doing this? What the fuck do you want?"

“I want you to never speak to her again.” Gator’s voice was low, threatening. “Cancel that lease, never text her again, and pray to God she doesn’t press charges with the amount of evidence she has.”

Caleb stared at him, his chest heaving. For a second, Gator thought he was going to lunge. Instead, he let out a harsh, ragged laugh.

“You a fan of damaged goods, Tillman?” Caleb spat, pointing a finger at Gator. “You think that blackmailing my whole fucking family for some lying slut is really the best move here?”

“Yeah, I do actually. And if you ever call her that again - I won't just send this file to the Feds. I'll post it online. I'll send it to every news station in the tristate area. I'll make sure your family name is mud before the sun goes down."

Caleb stood there, trembling with rage and fear. He looked at the file, then at Gator.

"Get. Out." Caleb whispered, his voice shaking with impotent fury.

"Gladly," Gator said, turning toward the door. "Oh, and Caleb?"

Caleb looked up, his face a mask of hate.

"If you ever come near her again," Gator said, his hand resting on the doorknob. "You won't have to worry about the Feds. You'll have to worry about me."

Gator didn't feel victorious as he left. He didn't feel relief. He just felt a cold, hard satisfaction. He’d drawn a line in the sand. And now, he just had to hope Caleb was smart enough to step back from it before he got himself - or worse, you - killed.

The three hours back to Stark County felt like it took far too long. Gator gripped the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ached. He replayed the confrontation in his head, over and over. The look on Caleb’s face when he realized his daddy’s empire was on the line. The pure fear that was admittedly a bit intoxicating. It should have felt like a win. He’d protected you. He’d backed the monster into a corner.

So why did his gut feel like he’d swallowed a bucket of nails?

He was just crossing the county line, the familiar flat cornfields blurring past in the twilight, when his phone started buzzing in the cup holder. Gator glanced down. Your name lit up the screen. His heart skipped a beat.

He answered it immediately, putting it on speaker. "Hey. You awake?"

"Gator?"

Your voice was barely recognizable. It wasn't a whisper. It was a high-pitched, keening wail that sounded like it was being ripped out of your throat. The background noise was a chaotic mix of hyperventilating gasps and the sound of things crashing - like you were knocking stuff over in a blind panic.

"Whoa, whoa," Gator sat up straighter, his foot pressing down on the accelerator. "What’s wrong? What happened?"

"What did you do? Oh god, Gator, what did you do?"

Gator felt the blood drain from his face. "Caleb call you?"

“Of course he called me,” you sobbed, the words tumbling out so fast he could barely understand them. "He called me and he was screaming. He was so angry. He told me everything - said you came to his office and threatened him."

Gator closed his eyes for a split second, cursing under his breath. "Listen to me. I handled it. I told him to back off. He’s not gonna hurt you anymore."

"He’s already hurt me, Gator!" you cried out. "He said if I don’t come home right now - if I don't get in the car and drive back to the city tonight - he’s going to make sure the rest of my college years are a living hell. He said he’ll blacklist me. I’ll never work a job in the tri-state area. He knows so many people - I wouldn’t even be able to get a job at a coffee shop.”

The rage that had been simmering in Gator’s gut boiled over. It was one thing to threaten physical violence - that was animalistic, simple. But this? This was calculated. This was destroying your future, your career, everything you’d worked for. Maybe he should’ve thought through his blackmailing e little more before storming into Caleb’s high-rise office.

"He’s bluffin’,” Gator gritted out, though he wasn't sure if he believed it. "He’s just trying to scare you."

"He’s not bluffing!" You wailed. "He knows people, Gator! He said… He said I’m worthless, and need to be reminded of my place. Gator, he’s the only one who’s ever gonna want me."

Gator slammed his palm against the steering wheel. “That’s not true, sweetheart. I’m gonna kill him. I swear to god, I’m gonna put him in the ground."

“I have to get back or he’s gonna come here.”

Gator’s stomach turned over. “No, he wouldn’t.”

“I can’t g-go back there but I have to. Otherwise he said he’ll use me until I can’t walk. He’s going to destroy my life.”

"He’s not going to do any of that," Gator said, his voice deadly calm, hiding the fact that he was trembling with rage. "Because you aren’t going back there."

“I-I have to.”

Gator thought back to your injuries. To the cold stare and simmering threat of violence in Caleb’s eyes back at the office. He slowly forced the red haze back from his vision. He couldn't lose it. Not now. You were falling apart, and if he lost control, he’d be no use to you. But if you left, he was certain that Caleb would kill you.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice dropping to a low, steady cadence. "I want you to pack your bags.”

"What?" you sniffled.

"You heard me. Pack whatever you need for a few days. Turn off that location services bullshit. You’re not stayin’ at your parents' house anymore.’

"Where am I gonna go? Caleb can check all the motels -“

“Old hunting lodge a few hours north,” Gator said firmly. “It ain’t much, but it’s isolated and it’s got about seven deadbolts. And I’ve got my gun."

You were quiet for a moment, the only sound being your ragged breathing. "He said he’ll come for me.”

"Let him come," Gator growled. “We’ll be miles away within the hour. And honestly I’m prayin’ he shows his face at my door. Gimme a chance to put a bullet between his eyes.”

"Gator…"

"I’m serious," he said. "He’s trying to intimidate you. Don't let him win."

"He’s not just intimidating me," you whispered. "He’s threatening my career. My future."

"We’ll deal with that," Gator said. "I have enough evidence that if he tries to blacklist you, I’ll go to the Feds myself. I’d burn his entire family to the ground before I let him ruin you."

You were crying again, soft, hopeless sobs. "I’m such a fucking mess. dragging you into this. You’re going to get hurt because of me."

"I’m not gonna get hurt," Gator promised you. "And you’re not draggin’ me into anything. I walked into this with my eyes open. I’m the one who went to his office and pushed him when I probably shouldn’tve. This is on me."

Though it did little good now, he hated himself for it. It was suppose to help you, but he’d managed to fuck it up again. He’d provoked the bear, and now you were the one feeling the claws. Gator had been so focused on being the hero, on winning the battle, that he’d barely stopped to think about the fallout.

"I’m sorry," he whispered, the words tasting like ash. "I’m so fuckin’ sorry’. I thought I could scare him off. I didn't think he’d…"

"It’s not your fault," you said, echoing his own words from earlier. "He’s… A lot, I guess.”

"Yeah, he is," Gator agreed. "And we’re gonna stop him. But first, we gotta keep you safe. Pack that bag. I’m almost there. Ten minutes.”

"Okay," you breathed out. "Okay. I’ll be ready."

"Good girl," Gator said, heart aching at the relief in your voice. "I’ll be there soon. Don't open the door for anyone but me."

"I won't."

Gator hung up the phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat. He pressed the gas pedal to the floor, the engine roaring as the truck sped down the dark highway.

He was furious. At Caleb. At himself. At the world that allowed men like Roy and Caleb to exist while good people like you and his mom got thrown around and beaten till they could barely walk. It was stupid, thinking he could handle this. He’d thought a few threats and a file folder would be enough to make Caleb back down. But he’d underestimated his cruelty.

And he wasn't going to make that mistake again.

He was going to protect you. Take some time off so he could keep you safe that old hunting cabin and watch over you 24/7. Make sure you slept and ate and got a chance to actually catch your breath without Caleb around to knock the air from your lungs.

But most importantly, he was going to figure out a way to end this. For good.

Even if it meant doing something that couldn't be undone. Even if it meant crossing a line he’d sworn he’d never cross. He’d burn the world down before he let Caleb hurt you again. And this time, he wouldn't just threaten to do it.

The remaining drive back to your house took five minutes, but it felt like an hour. Gator parked his truck at the curb, killing the engine and sitting in the dark for a moment, collecting himself. Unlike how he was normally, he had to be the calm and steady one this time. He couldn't storm in there like a tornado, not with your parents inside, oblivious to the war zone their daughter was currently living in.

He walked up the path, the gravel crunching under his boots, and knocked on the door. It was answered almost immediately by your mother. She was smiling, holding a glass of wine, looking relaxed in a way that made Gator's stomach churn. It wasn’t fair, how oblivious she was. But at the same time, he didn’t want to break that illusion. Wasn’t his to break anyway.

"Gator!" She exclaimed. "What a nice surprise. We weren't expecting you. Look at you, you’ve gotten so tall and handsome.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Gator managed a tight smile, tucking his hands into his pockets to hide their trembling. "Just… Swung by to, uh, I - thought we’d go for a drive. Catch up."

"Oh, that's lovely," she said, stepping aside to let him in. "She's in her room. She's been a bit quiet tonight, and I think she's coming down with something. But fresh air will do her good."

"Yeah," Gator nodded. "Fresh air."

He didn't linger. He didn't want to chat about the weather or your mom’s garden or how his father was doing. He just wanted to get you out of here. After a few more surface-level pleasantries, he kicked off his boots and headed up the stairs, footsteps silent on the carpet. He could hear you before he even reached the door. The frantic pacing. The shallow, ragged breathing.

He pushed the door open without knocking.

You were in the middle of the room, walking a tight line between your bed and the window, clutching a duffel bag so hard your knuckles were certain to split open if you kept it up. You spun around when the door opened, your eyes wide and wild.

"You came," you breathed out, looking like you weren't sure whether to run to him or bolt out the window.

"Told you I would," Gator said softly, closing the door behind him. "You packed?"

You nodded, holding up the bag. "I… I didn't know what to bring. I just grabbed... Stuff."

"It's fine," Gator assured you, stepping further into the room. "We can get whatever else you need later."

"We have to go," you whispered, casting a nervous glance at the window, as if Caleb might be scaling the trellis at any second. “He’s gonna show up. I just know it. And my parents love him. They -“

"He’s not comin’ here," Gator said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Not tonight."

"You don't know that," you argued, your voice rising in panic. "He’s crazy, Gator. He’s… Unpredictable."

"That's why we're leavin’,” Gator said, reaching out to take the bag from your hands, but you flinched, pulling away sharply.

Gator froze. The hurt hit him like you’d punched him in the stomach, but he forced himself to breathe through it. He couldn't take it personally. You were in survival mode. Everyone was a threat right now. Even him.

"Okay," he said, holding his hands up, palms out. "Okay. Let's just… Get on out to my truck, alright? We can talk at the cabin.”

“Cabin?”

“My old man uses it during the winter for huntin' sometimes. It ain’t much, but it’s off the grid.”

You stared at him for a long moment, searching his face. Finally, you nodded. "Okay. Let's go."

Following Gator downstairs, you said a quick goodbye to your parents, telling them you'd be back late, maybe tomorrow. They didn't seem to notice the duffle bag, or that you were trembling so hard you could barely walk, or that your eyes were red-rimmed and puffy from crying. They just waved you off, assuming their daughter was safe with her childhood friend. Gator hated them a little bit in that moment. How could they could sit in their living room, drinking wine and watching TV, while you were running for your life?

He got you into the truck, locking the doors as soon as you were inside. He didn't speed - he didn't want to get pulled over and have to explain the whole situation to one of his coworkers - but he drove fast enough to get to the cabin before midnight.

To Gator’s surprise, it seemed as though Roy had done a bit of upgrading since he’d been there last. It was still a single-level, two-bedroom cabin with far too many hunting trophies on the walls. But the AC and heater worked, the kitchen was functional, and there was even a small TV in the living room equipped to play one of maybe eight or so different VHS tapes. It truly wasn’t much, but you’d be safe here.

The silence inside, however, was deafening. You sat on the edge of the plaid couch, bag clutched in your lap, rocking back and forth slightly. Gator sat on the coffee table in front of you, not sure what to do with his hands.

"We need a plan," he said finally, breaking the silence.

"I know," you whispered, staring at your knees as if you couldn’t bear to make eye contact with him.

"You can't go back there," Gator said, his voice firm. "Not to your parents’ place, or campus.”

"I know," you repeated.

"So we figure out an alternative," Gator continued. “Online classes. Transferrin’ to somewhere far away. Somewhere he won't think to look."

You finally looked up at him then, eyes swimming with fear. "Leave? You mean… Leave school?"

“I mean, yeah.”

“But all my credits, I - for how long?”

“Just a semester," Gator said quickly. “Two at the most. Till things cool down and we figure out how to really deal with him."

"I can't just transfer," you said, shaking your head frantically. "I have scholarships. I have credits… I can't just throw that away."

"It’s not throwin’ it away if it keeps you alive," Gator argued.

"I can't run away," you insisted, your voice rising in distress. "If I run, he wins. He gets to control my life. He gets to dictate where I go and what I do."

"He already does that!" Gator snapped, losing his temper for a split second before catching himself. He took a deep breath, forcing the volume down. “I’m sorry. He - he’s already controllin’ you, baby. He’s tryin’ to get you to stay in a city and at a school where he’s got access to hurt you. You leave, an’ you take that power away."

You were quiet for a moment, lower lip trembling. The thought of running his thumb gently across it, maybe kissing it so that the shaking stopped, crossed Gator’s mind - unbidden. Not the fucking time, Tillman.

"And then what am I supposed to do while I miss all that school? I stay here? With you?"

"If that's what it takes," Gator replied. "I don't care. I just want you safe. However that has to happen.”

You stared at him, and for the first time since he’d met you, you looked at him with something other than trust. You looked at him with suspicion. With fear.

"Is that what this is?" you asked, your voice barely audible. "You… Controlling me?"

Gator felt like he’d been slapped. “Woah - what?"

"You're telling me to leave school," you said, voice gaining strength. “To transfer or run away. So I can come live with you. Are you trying to decide what I can and can't do?”

“I- absolutely not. I’m tryin’ to protect you!" Gator defended himself.

"I know!" you cried out. "I know you are. Logically. But… That’s what Caleb said. Every time - h-he said he was keeping me safe. Doing what was best for me.”

The comparison hung in the air between you, toxic and devastating.

“Let’s get one thing straight, darlin’. I ain't him," Gator said, his voice low and rough. “I’d never lay a fuckin’ finger on you. And I’m not tryin’ to own you."

"I know you're not," you said, tears spilling over your cheeks. "But… Gator, I’m scared."

"Of Caleb?"

"Of you," you whispered.

Gator stared at you, his heart shattering into a thousand jagged pieces. Obviously some trust issues would arise, given everything. But it still hurt. "Me? Why the hell would you be scared of me?"

"Because you’re doing the same thing. What if I get stuck making the same mistakes over and over again?” Your voice cracked. "You’re deciding my life for me. Telling me where to go, what to do. And you think you know what's best for me. And maybe you do. Hell, you probably do. But… what happens when I disagree? What happens when I want to do something you don't think is safe?"

Gator opened his mouth to argue, to tell you that he would never hurt you, that he wasn't that kind of man. But the words died in his throat.

Because you were right.

Technically - even though he was trying to do it for your own good - he was, in a way, controlling you. He was dictating your moves. Using fear and urgency to make you do what he wanted. He was boxing you in, just like Caleb had, even if his reasons were noble.

And now you were sitting on his couch, utterly terrified, not just of the monster hunting you, but of the man trying to save you. You were traumatized in ways he couldn’t even begin to understand. Your trust had been eroded, layer by layer, until you couldn't distinguish between a savior and a jailer. The same thing had happened to his mom. To Nadine. He’d watched it happen, even if he didn’t fully grasp it.

"I don't want to end up in the same cycle," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I don't want to go from one man controlling me to another. Even if the second man is… You."

Gator felt sick. He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut. He wanted to scream, rage, grab you by the shoulders and repeat over and over again that he would lay down his life for you in a heartbeat. But he knew that would only prove your point. Just another man using force to get his way.

So he stood there, hands hanging uselessly at his sides, and let the crushing weight of your words settle over him.

"You're right," he said, his voice hollow as his eyes stung with unshed tears. "You're… I’m not - I mean, I’m tryin’ to manage the situation because I’m scared I’m gonna lose you. Terrified, actually. An’ I’m sorry. I didn't mean to… to be like him. I just… I love you. More than anythin’.“

You stilled, and Gator realized what he’d said.

He hadn't meant to say it. No, he just hadn't planned on saying it. But it was out there now. The truth he’d been carrying around for years, buried under layers of friendship.

"I-I love you," he repeated, a little louder. "And I don't know how to stand by and watch you get hurt without tryin’ to stop it, but I also don't wanna be your jailer. I wanna take care of you, but I don't want to be... Him.”

You stared at him, mouth slightly open. The tears stopped flowing, replaced by a look of stunned silence.

"You… Love me?" you whispered.

"Yeah," Gator let out a shaky breath. "I do.”

“Since when?”

“Probably since we were kids. Or like… Forever."

You looked down at your hands, your mind racing. "I… I didn't know."

"Oooo girls, they wanna have fu-u-un..."

You sang (screamed)–dressed in mismatched socks, an old Hawkins High T-shirt and pyjama shorts, your hair tied up and hanging together by sheer determination, sliding across the kitchen tiles with a whisk doubling as your microphone.

You weren't exactly giving Cyndi Lauper a run for her money, but the half-empty bottle of red wine sitting on the counter was doing a fairly decent job of convincing you otherwise.

You swung open the oven door, immediately being hit by a wave of warm, sugary goodness. Tilting your head, you squinted at the tray of cookies. Misshaped and definitely not done.

You hummed, and with a decisive nod that suggested you had far more baking expertise than you actually possessed, you pulled the rack out slightly and turned the tray around. "There," you informed the cookies. "That'll fix you."

Whether it actually would remained to be seen.

You shut the door and immediately reached for your wine glass, taking a long sip as the next song drifted through the radio. The red wine was pleasantly cool against your tongue, and you leaned back against the counter, swaying slightly to the music.

For a moment, a thought slipped through the haze of music and sugar and warm cookie-scented air. An unwanted thought that maybe, just maybe this wasn’t what a twenty-something-year old should be doing when she got the house to herself. Rather than say, have friends over; you knew the older members of the gang were free tonight bar Robin who had a late shift at the squawk. 

Maybe you should, instead, be throwing some crazy party that people would talk about for years or, maybe—maybe you should have invited a boy over. 

You immediately shook your head, as if you could physically dislodge the thought from your head. If only it was that easy; because yes, there was a boy… but he didn't want you. Not the way you wanted him.

An annoyingly familiar ache settled itself into your chest, yet again. Unwelcome. Persistent. Stupid, really, considering you'd spent months (years, if you’re honest) trying to convince yourself you were over it. Over him. And his stupidly, beautiful face and stupidly soft hair and stupidly sweet smile and–

The shrill ding-ding-ding-ding-ding of the egg timer nearly sent you through the ceiling.

"Jesus Christ!" You slapped a hand against your chest, wine sloshing dangerously close to the rim of the glass as your heart launched into your throat. You might have definitely, completely and utterly forgotten that you’d set that. 

You flicked the timer off and immediately opened the oven door, a wave of warm air washing over you. The cookies had finally reached that perfect golden colour around the edges, chocolate chips melted into glossy puddles across the tops.

Far better company than Steve Harrington.

The thought slipped in uninvited.

You groaned. Apparently your brain wasn't finished torturing you. Or lying to you. 

Because as much as you wanted to deny it—and would, repeatedly. As much as you wanted to roll your eyes and pretend otherwise, given the choice between a tray of fresh cookies and Steve Harrington?

Well.

It wasn't exactly the cookies you were thinking about at night now, was it? 

Curled beneath your blankets, a plate of still vaguely warm cookies balanced beside you and your wine glass perched precariously on your nightstand, you watched Ronald Miller grin at Cindy Mancini like she was the only woman in the world through the glow of your television screen.

You hadn’t stopped glaring at it. "Oh, please." As if any man was actually like this, well– 

The cookie paused halfway to your mouth. 

On screen, Ronald was pulling that awkwardly charming routine that was clearly supposed to make audiences swoon. It made you scoff. Actually scoff. He wasn’t that charming. Okay , maybe a little… but he tried way too hard. Steve never even had to try. Steve could walk into a room wearing a ridiculous sweater, carrying six video tapes and complaining loudly (maybe a little obnoxiously), and somehow every eye would still end up on him anyway.

Not based on true events obviously but who cares. The wine certainly didn't. Because suddenly Ronald Miller wasn't even on the screen anymore.

Instead, your mind wandered to broad shoulders, to hands constantly pushing through impossibly soft hair, to warm brown eyes that crinkled at the corners. It was deeply unfair.

The man couldn't even complain properly.

Somehow, even when he was whining about Dustin dragging him across town for some ridiculous emergency or being roped into babysitting duties for the kids yet again, he still managed to be annoyingly endearing.

Ronald Miller might have looked good in a varsity jacket, but Steve had spent years making one look utterly unfair.

You could still picture him leaning against his BMW outside Hawkins High, sleeves pushed up to his forearms, letterman jacket hanging open, sunlight catching in his hair while half the female population of Hawkins suddenly found excuses to walk past. 

The truly irritating part?

Time hadn't fixed the problem. If anything, it had somehow made it ten times worse.

Because somehow Steve Harrington had traded a varsity jacket for a stupid lime-green Family Video vest and had still come out winning.

You could picture him again outside waiting at the end of the day, one arm hanging out the driver's side window, sunglasses shoved into his hair; though this time he was here for you… and Dustin but that’s beside the current point.  

On those rare, glorious days you made it to the car alone, his face would immediately light up. "Hey, Henderson."

Then he'd be out of the car, arms wrapped around you before you could even blink, squeezing you in a quick hug that always lasted just long enough to leave you smiling afterwards. Who are you kidding? Just seeing him made you smile for days afterwards. 

If Dustin got there first, however, it was a completely different story. 

Steve would immediately become trapped in one of your brother's endless monologues while you trailed behind, rolling your eyes as Dustin launched into a detailed explanation of whatever "disaster" had occurred that day. You'd get a quick smile thrown your way as Steve somehow managed to keep up with the conversation, and then you'd open the back door yourself, sliding into your usual seat while the two of them continued talking/bickering.

But then there were summers. 

Summers were the worst. 

Long afternoons at the lake with the entire gang sprawled across towels and blankets. Robin and Eddie stretched out in the sun. Dustin arguing with Steve about music. Nancy pretending she wasn't people-watching while reading a book. Or days at the local public pool. Dustin loudly insisting he could swim despite never having taken a single lesson because he'd skipped them in favour of science classes. You and Steve watching his every move. 

Steve always so close, yet never really there. Sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes, swim shorts hanging low on his hips, and a permanent tan that appeared every summer without fail. The sunlight always seemed to cling to him somehow, turning his skin golden after mere minutes outside.

It was annoying. It was all very, very annoying.

Especially when he laughed and tipped his head back, exposing the line of his throat, or stretched his arms above his head after a swim like he had absolutely no idea what he was doing to the people around him.

Not that you were paying attention. Obviously.

However, more than once you had caught Max and El whispering to each other, looking in Steve's direction. The second you'd followed their gaze, both girls would immediately start grinning.

Which was rich.

Because at least they had the excuse of being teenagers.

You were a grown woman.

A grown woman who should have been perfectly capable of sitting beside Steve Harrington without becoming acutely aware of every accidental brush of shoulders, every lazy smile, every moment he turned toward you and gave you his full attention.

He was the sun.

And you, despite knowing better, had spent years turning your face towards him anyway.

God, you needed a stronger drink–you were turning poetic. 

Or, as Eddie constantly insisted, you needed to get laid. Preferably by Steve, but at this point, you'd probably settle for anyone willing to knock some sense into you. ‘Cause god did you need some. 

The man was lucky he was your best friend otherwise you would have hit him. It also helped that he was.. maybe not entirely wrong but whatever. 

With a sigh, you reached for your wine glass and took another long sip, determined to focus on the next movie instead of your increasingly embarrassing train of thought.

Let's be honest, if any man was capable of making you stop thinking about Steve Harrington, it should have been Westley.

The man literally crossed countries, fought pirates, survived torture and came back from the dead for the woman he loved.

Objectively speaking, that was insanely romantic.

Steve would do that. Your mind immediately countered. 

You groaned. "No, he wouldn't."`like saying it aloud might make that true but, hadn't he already kind of done that. 

Not the pirate part. Obviously.

But the rest?

The man had been beaten up, battered, dragged through a nightmare dimension and survived being tortured by Russians, all because somebody he knew needed help.

Because that's who Steve was. 

You stared at the television, but your mind had already wandered. To a day you’d recalled more times than you can remember. Back to Steve leaning against a tree, chest rising and falling in sharp breaths as everyone caught their bearings. Dirt streaked across his skin. Dried blood along his cheekbone. His hair shoved back from his forehead with trembling hands.

You remembered the fear first.

Then maybe, a little jealousy. The way Nancy had stood so close to him afterwards. The way Steve had looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him upright. Like seeing her there had made everything worth it.

You weren't necessarily proud of those feelings.

But you did have a pretty good defence, if you say so yourself. You'd been in love with the boy for years and had just survived being attacked by a swarm of murderous bats in an alternate dimension. Emotions were running a little high. Okay?

You definitely hadn't found any of it attractive at the time. You'd been too busy being terrified. Too busy trying not to imagine what would happen if Steve–if any of you—didn't make it home.

But afterwards?

Now, a few years later, safe in your room with a glass of wine and absolutely no sense of self-preservation?

Well. Now your mind could wonder. And god, did it like to. 

Steve had looked wrecked that day—hair matted with sweat, jaw tight, his usual charm stripped away—but strong. Too strong for someone bleeding in another dimension. 

You remembered the split skin across his chest. The way he'd dragged himself upright despite every reason not to. The way his first concern had been everyone else. Nancy. Robin. Any of you. All of you.

Fuck. Your breath hitched.

Yes, he was hot. Broad shoulders, strong arms, sun-kissed skin and a smile capable of causing minor structural damage to your common sense. Yes, he was handsome. Sharp jaw, warm brown eyes, impossibly good hair and the sort of face that made complete strangers trust him immediately.

But beautiful?

Beautiful was different.

Beautiful was the way kindness seemed woven into him. The way he always made room for one more passenger in his car, one more problem to carry that was never his to begin with.

Beautiful was the way he laughed with his whole chest. The way he looked at the people he loved like they hung the damn moon but never expected it in return. The way he threw himself in front of danger without a second thought if it meant somebody else got to go home. 

Beautiful was Steve Harrington, entirely unaware that he was.

God, you needed to get over Steve. Or at the very least get your mind off him. And while you couldn't exactly follow Eddie's advice to a tee, you did have something better than another man.

Something pink, buzzing, and stashed in the bottom drawer of your nightstand—purchased on a whim after one too many late-night fantasies involving a certain ex-jock-turned-bat-wilding-hero. Your fingers twitched toward the drawer before you hesitated, glancing at the still-open bedroom door. A reckless laugh bubbled up—since when did you care about locking doors? 

The house was empty. It was only slightly ajar; enough that you’d surely hear if your mom came home early. Though she never did on book club nights; her and Belinda always cracking open a few too many bottles and turning what was supposed to be a two-hour book discussion into an all-night event she needed picking up from no earlier than midday the next day.

Your fingers fumbled against the drawer handle—once, twice—before finally yanking it open with a little more force than absolutely necessary. The vibrator was cool against your palm, its smooth surface already warming as your thumb flicked on the lowest setting then the next. 

The first press between your thighs was electric, blunt and insistent through the thin fabric of your shorts. 

Your breath stuttered out as you arched into it, your free hand gripping the sheets beneath you. The movie’s dialogue blurred into static, replaced by the low, persistent hum vibrating against your skin. 

Fuck, you’d forgotten how good it felt—or maybe you’d just never let yourself just be in the moment, too wrapped up in the fantasy of someone else’s hands, someone else’s mouth. 

But this? 

This was all you. 

Your fingers curled tighter around the toy as you slipped it beneath your waistband to drag it against your already damp panties; shorts discarded halfway down your thighs.

Adjusting the angle of the toy until your hips jerked up on their own accord—until the pressure was perfect, relentless, too much and not enough all at once. 

The sound that escaped you was embarrassingly loud—half-moan, half-sigh—but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, not when you were home alone, not when the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter and–

You bit your lip, hard, but it did nothing to stifle the next noise, high and breathless as your hips stuttered against the mattress. 

God, you were close—so close you could already feel the tension building, tightening like a spring in the pit of your stomach—but you didn’t want it to end just yet.

Your fingers fumbled for the dial, twisting it down—just enough to take the edge off, to draw it out—and you groaned at the loss.

Your free hand drifted up, fingers skimming over your stomach, sliding beneath the hem of your shirt—your touch hesitant, almost unfamiliar–God, it really had been far too long. 

Your breath hitched when your fingertips brushed over your nipples—already peaked beneath the fabric—and you rolled one between your fingers, testing the pressure. 

Fuck. 

Fuck, you were— 

“Henderson?” 

Steve knocked twice before trying the handle.

Nothing.

He frowned, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The lights were on. Dustin knew they had plans tonight. Dustin had already forgotten they had plans last week, leaving Steve sitting outside the arcade for nearly forty minutes before he realised the little asshole had completely forgotten–he better not have stood him up, again. 

"Dustin?" he called through the door.

Silence. With an exasperated sigh, he pushed the door open. It moved without any fight. "Mrs. Henderson?"

Still nothing.

The house wasn't empty. It couldn't be. Door unlocked. The television was playing somewhere upstairs, faint enough to be distant but loud enough to carry down the hallway.

Knowing exactly how much your mom hated shoes in the house, Steve carefully shut the door behind him before toeing off his sneakers beside the mat.

"Dustin?" he called again as he wandered further inside, reaching the kitchen—which quite frankly looked like a war zone. 

Flour dusted the countertops. Mixing bowls sat abandoned beside the sink. A cooling rack crowded with freshly baked cookies occupied most of the available space, and an almost-empty bottle of wine stood proudly amongst the chaos.

Immediately, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

You.

This had you written all over it.

He could practically picture you here. Music blaring. Dancing around the kitchen. Leaving a trail of destruction in your wake while baking something sweet. Without thinking, he reached over and stole a cookie. For investigative purposes. Of course. 

"Henderson?" he called again, louder this time. 

The smile slowly faded.

Normally he'd have gotten some sarcastic response from upstairs by now. A yell telling him to help himself. A complaint about Dustin. Something.

Instead, the house remained strangely silent.

Then he heard it.

The sound was faint. Barely audible over the television upstairs. Soft. Unfamiliar. His brows immediately pulled together. "Henderson?"

Still no response, but then it happened again. His stomach dropped–you sounded distressed or hurt. And then suddenly every possible worst-case scenario flashed through his mind.

Had you fallen? Burned yourself? Passed out? Those were some of the tamer possibilities.

Steve's mind had spent entirely too much time fighting monsters and interdimensional horrors to jump to reasonable conclusions anymore. "Henderson!"

The next time it happened he was moving–fast–crossing the living room and heading for the stairs.The television continued playing somewhere above him. Another similar sound drifted down.

Softer this time. Weaker. Definitely coming from your room. Concern tightened violently in his chest. 

Steve Harrington had never been particularly good at ignoring people he cared about when they might need help. And he was even worse at ignoring you. 

By the time he reached the top of the stairs, his heart was hammering against his ribs. The hallway stretched out before him, your bedroom door sitting slightly ajar at the end.

You'd never been particularly good at shutting doors. Still, Steve slowed as he approached, his stomach twisting tighter with every step.

"Henderson?" he called again, voice softer now.

Nothing.

Then another sound came from inside the room, and Steve's concern sharpened instantly because that had definitely not sounded right.

Without thinking, he pushed the door open and nearly passed out at the sight in front of him.

“Henderson?”

The word left his mouth before he could stop. He stood frozen in your doorway like he’d just walked into yet another alternate dimension. Because this—this—was not happening. Couldn’t be happening. Not with you. Not with him. Not you with your back arched off the bed, pajama shorts rucked down around your thighs, one hand shoved beneath your shirt and the other disappearing past the waistband of your—Jesus Christ—underwear. 

His brain short-circuited. 

So did yours. Evidently. As your hands stayed in the same place for another half a second. 

Steve's knuckles went white around the doorframe. His pupils dilated—dark and drowning—before snapping up to your face. Trying and failing to look like he hadn't seen anything.  

Your body locked up, legs snapping shut with a mortified squeak, yanking your hand out from under your waistband so fast you nearly elbowed yourself in the ribs. Pulling your shorts up to recover some form of modesty. The vibrator clattering to the floor—still buzzing—but neither of you moved to grab it. 

A sharp inhale. Then—silence. Well silence bar the buzzing. The kind that makes your ears ring. The kind that makes you wish a Demogorgon would burst through the ceiling and swallow you whole. 

The wine haze evaporated in an instant, replaced by the kind of embarrassment that makes your skin feel two sizes too small. 

Steve cleared his throat. Twice. "So." His voice cracked. "Uh." His gaze skittered away—past your shoulder, over your bed-frame, to the wall—anywhere but down. "Cookies were good." 

You wanted to disappear, to fall through the floor all the way to the upside down to–your eyes involuntarily moved down. 

Oh. God. 

Did your mind make this up? Did your fantasies catch up to you? 

But the grey sweatpants. The thick outline pressing against the fabric. The way his fingers twitched slightly—subtle, reflexive. 

You needed him to leave. Now. Not so you could finish—Christ, no—but so you could plan your escape from Hawkins immediately. No way were you ever facing anyone again—let alone him. You were going to live the rest of your days at a convent somewhere far, far away until the sheer level of embarrassment overwhelms you and you die.  

But your traitorous body didn’t get the memo. 

Heat pooled low in your belly, your thighs pressing together instinctively—like you could trap the ache between them and suffocate it. Spoiler: it didn’t help. Not in the slightest.

Not when Steve’s nostrils flared slightly, his grip tightening on the doorframe like he was physically restraining himself from—from what? Entering? Leaving? Dropping to his knees and finishing what you’d started? 

No. Your brain screeched. No no no. This is reality. Earth-shattering. Life-ending reality. 

Then—movement. Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before stepping forward—not out—into the room, the door clicking shut behind him with finality. 

He took another step, then another until his knees bumped against the edge of your mattress, his chest rising and falling unevenly. 

“So,” he said again, voice rougher than you’d ever heard it and his fingers brushed against the hem of your shirt, tentative, questioning—shaking.

Your pulse hammered against your ribs as his thumb traced the dip of your hipbone through the fabric. Testing the waters. Giving you time to push him away—to laugh it off—to pretend this wasn’t happening—but your body betrayed you (or, more accurately, did you a favour) by arching into his touch instead. 

Hey, maybe you could pretend this was just another fantasy. That the wine had gone to your head. But you knew the wine had left your system the second you heard your name in that breathless, low voice of his. 

“Fuck,” Steve breathed before his hand slid down then slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. Warm. Calloused. Familiar in a way that shouldn’t have been possible—not when he’d never touched you like this before. Or really at all.

The TV flickered—Westley’s face melting into static—casting shadows across Steve’s expression. His lips parted slightly as his fingers brushed over your stomach, tracing a line upwards.  “Is this okay?” he murmured, and you nodded (a little too quickly).

Steve chuckled lowly, completely not believing that this was really happening and in the glow of the television, you could truly see how red his cheeks were. His hair—always perfect, always soft—was mussed from nervous fingers running through it. 

You wondered if he could hear your heartbeat—if he knew how loud it was—how fast—how yours matched the frantic rhythm of his own pulse beneath your fingertips when you finally reached for him.

His breath hitched when your hand curled into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until his knee pressed between your thighs and the heat of him seared through the barrier of your shorts. 

You weren’t sure who moved first—maybe it was him, maybe it was you–it probably was—but suddenly his lips were on yours, hungry and insistent, swallowing every gasp, every moan, every desperate noise you didn’t have the sense to be embarrassed about anymore. He’d seen worse just moments ago. 

His knee pressed harder between your thighs—an accident, perhaps, but one that made your hips jerk forward, chasing the friction, chasing the relief you’d had to put on pause.

Steve groaned against your mouth, his fingers tightening on your waist as your hips rolled against him—slow at first, then faster—each grind drawing another ragged sound from him, another whimper from you.

"Jesus—" His breath hitched when you arched up again—his praise coming out in rough whispers between kisses—"fuck, Henderson, knew you’d be like this” His fingers tangled in your hair, gentle but firm, tugging just enough to make your breath catch. "Knew you’d be a good girl—god, knew you'd be perfect—"

The words sent a shiver down your spine—how long had he thought about this? How long had he imagined you like this?—but the thought shattered when his thumb brushed over your nipple, sending sparks skittering across your skin.

You gasped and Steve grinned against your lips, chasing the sound with his tongue before pulling back just enough to murmur, "Yeah? That good?" His knee pressed harder between your thighs—without a doubt not an accident—and your fingers curled into his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as pleasure coiled tight in your stomach. "C'mon, baby—let go for me."

And you do. So hard and so sudden you didn’t even realise you were that close. 

He gently eases his knee back, but his mouth doesn’t leave yours. His thumb traces idle circles against your hipbone as you come down, as your breathing slows. “Sound better than I ever imagined,” he murmurs, voice rough with something like wonder, like he can’t quite believe you’re really here with him, like this—after so many years being so close yet so far. 

He’s not the only one. 

You blink up at him—dazed, boneless—and Steve’s grin turns crooked, smug in a way that should be infuriating but just makes your stomach flutter instead. His free hand drifts up, brushing a loose strand of hair from your forehead, “You good?” 

You nod and his thumb traces the curve of your cheekbone before he leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then your nose. Then your forehead. 

Then he pulls back, just enough to meet your eyes, and you both smile. Then laugh. Quiet at first, huffed against each other’s lips, before it bubbles up properly—giddy and disbelieving—until you’re both breathless again for entirely different reasons. 

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, wrinkling the fabric further as he shifts slightly but his grin falters when his gaze drifts lower. A slow blink. Then—"Oh." His throat works. "That’s—uh." His fingers twitch against your hip. "Still going."

Your brain catches up a beat too late—the buzzing still faint but unmistakable—and your mortified squeak cuts off abruptly when Steve abruptly slides off the bed. Not to leave, but to scoop the vibrator off the floor with a curious tilt of his head. Like he’s inspecting some alien artefact.

“Huh," he murmurs, thumb brushing over the controls before glancing back at you—your breathing still too fast, your thighs still trembling—and his grin turns certifiably wicked. "Ever used the highest setting?” 

Your breath hitches—sharp and punched-out—before you’re lunging for it, but Steve twists away effortlessly, holding it just out of reach.

"Steve—" His name comes out embarrassingly close to a whine, but he just laughs, warm and breathless, before leaning back in. His lips brushing your ear as his free hand skims up your thigh.

"C’mon, Henderson," he murmurs, voice rough with amusement and something darker. "Thought you liked a challenge?"

The man knew you far too well. 

You pout because yes, you enjoyed that, but you wanted more. Quite honestly you wanted him. You’d waited long enough.

Your fingers curl into his shirt once again, tugging him closer; peering up at him with eyes so readable Steve hesitates before his grip tightens on your hip, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin. "Hey," he says softly, suddenly serious in a way that makes your stomach flip. 

"I wanna do this right," he murmurs, and your brows pinch together—confused, impatient—until he continues, voice rough with sincerity. "The first time—our first time—I want it to be right. For you. For us.” 

He paused, before seeming to get lost in his own thoughts as he rambled, “I want us to go out on a real date first. Dinner-or-or a picnic. Whatever you want–I mean not whatever whatever. Golden dragon with the killer egg rolls and the duck you love. Then we’d go to the drive-in and see The Princess Bride” - you blush even deeper, eyes briefly flickering behind him,“or Sixteen Candles or honestly whatever cheesy rom-com is on because I know those are your favourites even though you never admit it.” 

And he's still going.

"And if it rained, we'd just stay in the car. Bring blankets. Hot chocolate. Maybe sneak in extra snacks because the food at the drive-in sucks. Then I’d drive you home and–"

You wanted him to keep going–forever preferably–but "Steve." You needed him to take a breath. 

He blinks, face screaming that he’d said way more than he ever intended. "...What?"

“You thought about this?” You can’t hide the shock and quite frankly awe in your voice as you stare up at him all starry eyed. 

"I have." His eyes stay locked on yours, impossibly open, impossibly honest. He pauses. Takes a deep, deep breath before adding, "...A lot."

You can't help the smile that spreads across your face. He’d thought about this. Not, just a brief oh that would be nice–no, he’d planned it. Curated it for you. Remembered your favourite food, your favourite movies.  

Steve takes your silence as something else entirely–you can practically see his mind going a hundred miles-per-hour—so, slowly, you reach up and tuck a loose strand of hair behind his ear. Then you let your fingers drift through his hair.

You swear your heart does a complete somersault at the look in his eyes–softer than you've ever seen them–and the way he unconsciously leans into your touch. You’d thought about doing this—brushing your fingers through his hair, being this close, kissing him—for years. And now here you are.

You really needed to pinch yourself subtly because there was absolutely no way this was real. 

You think if this was all you could ever have of Steve–a quick fuck because he’d caught you touching yourself–you honestly don’t know if that would be better or worse than having never had him at all.

Better because at least you knew, in some capacity, he felt something for you too; even if that was just base-level attraction.

Worse because you knew what it was like to have him so close. You knew how he kissed. You knew the exact shade of brown his eyes turned when he looked at you from this close.

Before you could pretend. Now you knew. And you knew you’d never be able to forget a moment of it. 

But here he was. Telling you outright that he didn't want this to be all you had. And not just that—he wanted more. Had planned for more. Planned for all of it.

And somehow, impossibly, he wanted it all with you. 

So, could you wait? 

Yes. Yes you could. 

Especially if you got a free chinese.

"I'd like that," you murmur. The words barely audible–inaudible if his face wasn't inches from yours. 

His eyes widened, looking genuinely shocked, as if the last few minutes had been wiped from memory. Or maybe as though he'd never expected you to want this.

To want more.

“Yeah?” The single word is so hopeful, so achingly sincere, that it makes something in your chest squeeze painfully tight.

“Yeah.” 

The smile that breaks across Steve's face is immediate–the kind that made his nose scrunch slightly at the bridge. For a moment, you just stayed like that. Smiling at each other like the lovesick idiots you were, caught somewhere between disbelief and happiness.

Then the faint buzzing seeps back into it.

Your eyes flicked to it simultaneously, the object still clutched in his hand, then back to each other and then you were laughing, breathless and giddy, foreheads bumping as he exhaled sharply through his nose.

His thumb hovered over the power button of the vibrator, his breath still uneven from laughter. "We can stop—" he started, already moving to switch it off, but your hand shot out, fingers wrapping around his wrist with a boldness that surprised even you.

"Or we could..." Your grip tightened slightly, guiding his hand back toward you. "...not?"

Steve’s throat worked visibly. Frozen in place once again, his eyes locked on yours as your legs parted slightly.

Then he moved. Fast and clumsy and perfect all at once. His free hand cradled the back of your neck as he kissed you again, deeper this time, all heat and barely restrained want. You could feel the shape of his grin against your lips when you arched into him, your thighs bracketing his hips as he leaned over you. 

His fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts with a reverence that made your breath catch—not tugging, not demanding, just resting there, warm against your skin, waiting. Your hips lifted instinctively and Steve exhaled sharply through his nose before dragging the fabric down inch by torturous inch, his knuckles brushing the inside of your thighs as he went. The air was cool against your newly exposed skin, but the heat of his gaze more than made up for it.

The vibrator buzzed faintly between his fingers as he pressed it against the damp cotton of your underwear, the sensation muffled but still electric.

You gasped into his mouth, your fingers twisting into his hair—soft, always so damn soft—as he kissed you with a focus that bordered on worship. His lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then lower—to the pulse point beneath your ear, to the hollow of your throat—each touch igniting a fresh wave of heat under your skin.

Your hands roamed over him greedily, mapping the familiar slopes of his shoulders through his t-shirt before slipping beneath the fabric. His skin was warm, taut with muscle that flexed under your touch as he adjusted the angle of the toy, pressing harder just to hear you whimper.

"Christ, Henderson," he muttered against your collarbone, his free hand skimming up your side, thumb brushing the underside of your breast. "You’re su—" The rest dissolved into a groan when your nails scraped lightly down his back, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, the rough drag of his sweatpants against your inner thighs sending sparks up your spine. “–fuck–good girl.” He scraped out.

The tension coiled tight in your stomach snapped all at once. A sudden, shuddering release that left you gasping against Steve’s shoulder, your fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt. Your second orgasm hits you even harder than your first. 

Distantly, you registered the choked noise he made against your neck, the way his hips stuttered against yours, the tremble in his thighs where they pressed against the mattress. But the haze was too thick, your own satisfaction too consuming, to parse what it meant well until your hand drifted lower.

You hummed dazed, still riding the aftershocks and reached for him, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants with clumsy intent. But before you could slip beneath the fabric, Steve’s hand covered yours, peeling it away gently.

You blinked up at him, confused, until you caught the flush creeping down his neck—the way his chest rose and fell just a little too fast. His lips parted like he wanted to say something, but all that came out was a shaky exhale. Then you looked down.

Oh.

The realisation hit you like a bucket of cold water. The strained fabric. The damp spot. The way his thighs tensed when he shifted slightly.

Steve let out a breathless chuckle, his grip on your hip tightening reflexively as you couldn't stop the little breathless giggle you let out. 

His cheeks burned brighter at the sound, one hand coming up to scrub awkwardly at his face as he exhaled sharply through his nose. "Christ," he muttered, voice rough with embarrassment and lingering arousal. "That's—uh—never happened before." 

The admission made your stomach swoop—equal parts giddy pride and aching tenderness—and you reached for him instinctively, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. Steve's breath hitched when your knuckles brushed his stomach, his muscles tensing beneath your touch. And you really couldn't help yourself when you said: 

“Better last longer next time Harrington, or I might regret saying yes.” 

Steve groaned but caught your wrist gently, pressing your palm flat over his thundering heartbeat. "Shut up," he muttered, but there was no bite to it, just a breathless warmth you wanted to hear everyday for the rest of your life.

His thumb stroked over your pulse point absently before he exhaled and rolled onto his back beside you, staring up at your ceiling. The silence stretched, comfortable yet still charged, until he turned his head slightly, cheek pressed against your pillow. "So. Drive-in next Friday?"

The casualness of it—the normalcy—startled a laugh out of you. As if you hadn’t just—as if he hadn’t—

The laugh bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest—hysterical and breathless—and you nodded, pressing your cheek into your pillow as you turned to face him.  

“Yeah,” you managed between giggles, the word dissolving into another helpless laugh when Steve grinned and kissed you again, his nose bumping yours awkwardly in his haste. It was messy and off-center and somehow still so goddamn perfect—his lips still curved with laughter as they moved against yours, the taste of shared amusement sweeter than any wine.  

Jesus you were down bad. But luckily for you, so was he. 

Dividers by @designlikenonsense (aka me hehe… had to do some shameless self promo)

P.S. Did not expect the reaction to the teaser... hope whoever interacted with that is not disappointed...

P.P.S. Playing around with paragraph lengths! I always write longer paragraphs, but thought that made it harder to read on here so I've been chopping them up but... I've seen discourse to the opposite so im trialling (what I call) 'mid-length paragraphs'

The first time you met Steve, you almost slapped him.

His reputation preceded him. Even your freshman year at Ohio State University, fresh out of rush week, you’d heard plenty about Sigma Chi pledge Steve Harrington. They were singing his praises from day one—he was handsome, a baseball genius, the life of any party. He commanded the attention of any room he stepped into. You were a little sick of him to begin with from how your Delta Gamma sisters wouldn’t shut up about him for two seconds even before that first party.

And when you walked into the Sigma Chi house for the first time, you didn’t even need to be told which one was the Harrington. The world gravitated around him like he was the sun itself, and he seemed to glow like it, too. He was handsome, devastatingly so. His smile was blinding. He had a stupidly good head of hair, gorgeous sun-kissed skin dotted with moles like constellations, and big hazel eyes that made him look deceptively sweet.

You’d met eyes from across the room, and at the time, it had felt like something clicking into place. Two puzzle pieces who had finally found where they belonged. Your breath hitched as he left the group he was talking to and sauntered over, that brilliant smile now directed specifically at you and you alone. Your heart had felt like it might burst from your chest.

“Oh my god,” one of your sisters, Margot, had said, grabbing onto your arm. “He’s coming over here.”

He didn’t even glance at her. He only looked at you. He wore a polo with jeans that fit him just right, a red plastic cup clutched in his large hand. When he reached you, you could smell his cologne, something intoxicating that made your head spin. He really was everything everyone had promised.

And then he opened his mouth.

“Hi,” he’d said, extending a hand towards you. “I’m Steve. And you are fucking beautiful.”

Embarrassingly, you’d giggled like a total fool, given him your hand, and introduced yourself. “Nice to meet you, Steve.”

He’d actually taken your hand and kissed your knuckles, like the prince he absolutely saw himself as. And then, that suave grin turned into something more like a cocky smirk, a look you’d grow to know and loathe. “You know, you look like a girl who deserves the very best,” he’d said. “And, wouldn’t you know it—by sheer coincidence, you’re looking at the best this frat has to offer.”

Okay, a little eye roll worthy, but that wasn’t abnormal for these frat guys. You’d raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? And what could you possibly offer me?”

His smirk had widened, and he moved in, grabbing you by the hip and pulling you against him. “Oh, things beyond your wildest dreams, baby,” he’d murmured, even as you gasped at the sheer audacity of this guy. “Why don’t we go up to my room and I can show you?”

You’d shoved him back by his chest, making him stumble, the beer in his cup sloshing over the sides and onto his light blue shirt. “You’re a fucking perv.”

Steve’s expression had immediately transformed into something harder, all traces of the charming smile from moments ago completely erased. “What the fuck?”

“You don’t get to just walk up and touch me. I don’t even know you.” You’d scoffed, crossing your arms in front of your chest. “Does that actually work for you?”

“Yeah, actually,” he’d said, looking at you with pure distaste now. “With girls who aren’t an uptight cocktease.”

You’d laughed, but only in an attempt to keep yourself from punching this guy square in the jaw. “Oh, wow. Fuck you.”

“Fuck me, huh?” he’d said, that stupid smirk back in place. “You know, that’s a good idea, maybe it would help if I got that stick out of your ass and gave you something else—“

“Oh-kay, let’s go get a drink!” Margot had said, dragging you away before you could land the slap you were winding up. You heard him laughing behind you, the sound loud and infuriating.

“See you around, baby!” he’d called after you. Margot just dug her fingers into your arm, pulling you to a completely different part of the house as fast as she could.

Things with Steve did not improve after that. And, unfortunately for you, you couldn’t escape him. He was everywhere you turned. Not only the golden boy on campus—his photo was used on any and all promotions for the championship winning baseball team—but, soon, also the president of Sigma Chi. And your houses went hand in hand.

Every party you went to, Steve was there, holding court among his adoring subjects. The guys on campus thought he was the coolest guy who ever lived, and the girls were practically stepping over each other for a chance with him. You attempted to keep your distance, but Steve loved annoying you more than he loved the girls begging to go up to his bedroom.

Delta Gamma also partnered with Sigma Chi for just about everything. As the top houses, it was just a given. Every event, every fundraiser, every charity event and mixer and rager. As much as you adored everything about your sorority and had always felt like you’d made the wrong choice, Steve was the one thing that made you question it.

It was no secret, either. Everyone knew you and Steve hated each other. Steve’s frat brothers found it hilarious, while your sisters tried their best to keep you away from each other. You just couldn’t get along—being in each other’s space for too long always ended in disaster. A loud argument, heated insults, or sometimes even a thrown drink, if Steve was feeling extra mouthy that night. You were best kept far away from one another.

You’d grown close with another girl who’d pledged Delta Gamma, Nancy. Nancy was sweet and smart and although you loved all your sisters, you’d clicked with her immediately. Nancy also happened to know Steve well. They’d grown up together, even dated briefly in high school.

“Steve is an asshole,” Nancy had told you, confirming everything you already thought. “Seriously, don’t let him try to charm you. He’s full of it.”

It kind of seemed like you and Nancy were the only ones who saw it, though. Of course there were the girls he’d already scorned, but the vast majority of the Ohio State female student population were head over heels for Steve Harrington. You couldn’t help but roll your eyes every time you saw it.

That would never be you.

Your junior year had just begun, and by the end of September, homecoming season was well underway. Sigma Chi had already partnered with Delta Gamma, a surprise to no one.

What was a surprise was that you had a chance at being crowned queen this year. Homecoming court was something you’d never given much thought to. Your attention was already divided in so many directions—between your classes and honor society, track, event planning and sorority obligations with being Social Chair, and being a TA for the first time this year, you were booked and busy. The crown was the least of your concern. Even now, you didn’t stress about it. Everyone knew your chapter president, Lindsey, would be taking the crown anyway.

The week of homecoming itself was always busy and filled with excitement—stuffed full of events and activities, a good chunk of which you had a hand in planning. But still, courting had begun, and Tommy Hagan had been going all out to catch your attention.

It started with a bouquet of flowers so huge you had to divide them up into three different vases just to display them in a way that didn’t look ridiculous. Then, it was the food. Fruit baskets, a mini cake, so much of your favorite candy and chocolate you had to beg your sisters to eat some of it. The day you walked out of the house to the entire OSU choir serenading you on the front lawn, you’d been utterly speechless.

Tommy was nice enough, you guessed. If you had to partner with someone, he wasn’t the worst choice. That would be Steve Harrington, who, by expectations alone—because Steve didn’t put much effort into anything that wasn’t baseball or getting his dick wet—was courting Lindsey. He didn’t even have to try and he knew it.

There was a new gift or grand gesture from Tommy daily, while Steve had sent a single box of milk chocolates, a half dozen and definitely the cheapest on the shelf even though everyone knew the Harringtons were absolutely loaded—and Lindsey was allergic to dairy. You could tell she was annoyed about it, but she was going to partner with Steve regardless. Every time you brought another elaborate gift into the house, the look she gave you was cold and cutting. It was…awkward.

At least for now, you could push thoughts of homecoming from your brain. It was Saturday night, and you were ready to have some fun. Or at least try to, because you were about to walk right into King Steve’s kingdom.

You’d think you would have gotten used to his presence by now, but he never got any less annoying. It’s not like you could just skip every party. Everyone knew Sigma Chi threw the best parties of any frat on campus. Were you just not supposed to go because the president was a total pain in the ass? You could kiss your social status goodbye real fast.

Sometimes you’d get lucky and wouldn’t see him at all the whole night. Maybe just a flash of his stupid hair, or the sound of his laugh from another room. A glimpse at his cocky smirk as he led some poor girl up to his room. And other nights, he seemed hell bent on annoying you as much as possible.

You really, really hoped for the former tonight. You walked into the house with Nancy and Margot, the bass already thumping, the place overrun with college students in various states of intoxication. You looked good, you knew you did. Tiny skirt that showed off your legs, a top that displayed just enough chest to have guys staring every time they walked past. Not that that was hard.

“Do you want me to get us drinks?” Nancy asked, leaning over to yell over the music right in your ear. You nodded, and she gave you a soft smile before pushing her way through to the kitchen.

There was no sign of Steve so far, which you hoped was a good omen. Your eyes scanned the room, mostly familiar faces, but a decent amount of freshmen you hadn’t gotten to know well yet were there, too.

Nancy was back quickly, walking through the crowd holding the two red cups up high in an attempt to not spill them or get anything on her white blouse. She let out a sigh of relief when she finally reached you, handing you a drink.

“It’s a total madhouse in there,” she said. “Like, more than usual.”

“How many new pledges are there this year?” you asked, taking a sip of your beer. You linked hands with Nancy and began pushing through to the living room. You eventually found a place to stand against the wall, surveying the rest of the party.

“I have no idea,” she said. Her curls were pulled back on top with a bow, and she held her drink between both delicate hands. “It’s gotta be more than last year, right?”

It certainly seemed like it. The Sigma Chi parties were always intense, but it felt like you could barely move. “With Harrington in charge this year, who knows.”

Nancy rolled her eyes. “God, I know. When I heard he was president, I almost thought about dropping out.”

You laughed, shaking your head and taking another sip of your beer. “At least in two more years, I’ll never have to see him again.”

“Lucky you,” Nancy grumbled. “I’m sure I’ll always be seeing him at some point when I’m back in Hawkins for holidays. It’s like I can’t escape him.”

The sound of your name being called caught your attention. You looked around, looking for the source—and saw Tommy Hagan on his way over, hand held up in a wave and a bright smile on his freckled face.

“Here comes your loverboy,” Nancy mumbled into her cup, looking away like she was minding her own business.

“Hey,” Tommy said as he reached you. He wasn’t as bad as Steve, but they were best friends and looked like they could have shared a wardrobe. He wore a dark red polo and jeans, one hand now in his pocket and the other holding his own drink. “Wow, you look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” you smiled politely. “Um, thanks for the flowers this morning. Blue this time, huh?”

“Yeah,” he said, his smile somewhat sheepish as he ran a hand through his short hair. “I was thinking, like, a different bouquet for every color of the rainbow, or something.”

You nodded, eyebrows raised. “Ooh, yeah. I see the vision.”

A soft blush colored the pale skin on his cheeks. “Did you like them?”

He was being so sweet, you couldn’t help but soften. You weren’t interested in Tommy romantically, but you were happy to partner with him if that’s what he wanted. “They were beautiful. Seriously.” His eyes lit up, and at the fear of yet another bouquet to make your bedroom look even more like a greenhouse, you added, “But I am starting to run out of room to put vases.”

Tommy laughed softly, looking down at the floor. “Yeah. Maybe I should try to get creative.”

A shout came from the sliding glass back door, drawing all of your attention behind him. “Hagan! Come out here and show the new brothers how a keg stand is done!”

Tommy turned back to you. “Sorry. Duty calls, I guess,” he said, although he didn’t look all that sorry. Sigma Chi took their keg stands very seriously. “I’ll catch you around later though, yeah? You’re not planning to turn in early or anything?”

“I’ll be here,” you confirmed, drinking from your cup again. “Go show ‘em, Hagan.”

His grin only widened. “See you later, beautiful.”

You watched him go, laughing softly as he immediately switched gears from gentleman to frat bro the second he reached the back door.

“Please let him be done with the bouquets,” Nancy said as soon as he was gone, done acting like she hadn’t been paying attention the whole time. “I’ve already got half of the flowers in my room.”

The party went on, and eventually you lost Nancy to the crowd. She’d started seeing this guy a few weeks ago, Vance, a transfer student who had her totally smitten like you’d never seen before. While Nancy had always been your partner at these parties—more like your shield from Steve Harrington—she’d started wanting to spend more time with Vance, and who were you to stop her?

It wasn’t until later in the night, when you were leaning against the wall with yet another drink, that you finally saw him. Or heard him, rather, because his obnoxious loud voice and laugh usually entered a room before he did. At least he had a warning bell, you thought.

When Steve entered the living room with his friends, telling some story that was definitely not funny enough to warrant how hard they were laughing, you thought about making a run for it. But then his eyes locked with yours from across the room, and he shot you that stupid fucking smirk that made you irritated immediately. And he knew it.

He stared at you even while he kept talking to his friends, and you stared back. He liked to do these little power plays. Even the women around him weren’t drawing his attention away. And finally, much to your disappointment, he turned away long enough to excuse himself before walking straight for you.

You really regretted not making your escape while you had the chance.

Steve greeted you by your last name, something none of the other guys did, since they cared about actually impressing you. “How sweet of you to grace my house with your presence. I almost didn’t expect you to show.”

You scoffed. “Just because you’re president this year doesn’t mean you’re special—“

“Actually, it does,” he smirked. “This is my kingdom, baby.” He held his arms out, as if the opulent house crammed full of sweaty, drunk college students was supposed to impress you. “And you’re talking to the king.”

You couldn’t have rolled your eyes harder if you tried. “Do you even hear yourself when you talk? It’s like everything you say comes from the official douchebag handbook.”

His smirk only widened. “Maybe it does. Maybe I even wrote it.”

“Steve, I’m not even sure you can read.” You shook your head, looking off to the side, searching for any lifeline out of this conversation with your least favorite person on earth. “Why are you over here bothering me, anyway? Don’t you have some poor girl to flatter long enough to get in her pants?”

“I’d much rather get under that skirt,” he quipped. When your head snapped back in his direction, eyes practically glowing with the fire behind them and the promise of pouring your drink all over his dark blue shirt and stupid khakis, he held his hands up in mock surrender. “Okay, okay,” he laughed. “I came over because you looked fucking miserable. Why do you always look so bored? You’re at a party.”

“I’m not bored,” you retorted simply.

“Could’ve fooled me,” he said, leaning a hand against the wall next to you. “You look pissed off to even be here.”

“That’s because you’re talking to me.”

Steve laughed, which was maybe your least favorite sound in the world. “Every time I see you here, you look bored. Like you think you’re too good to even be here.”

“Well, unfortunately, Sigma Chi has the most annoying guy possible as their president, so…” you trailed off, a hand on your hip. You took a sip from your beer again, but you would need a lot more alcohol to make Steve’s presence bearable.

He hummed, as if he were considering it. “I don’t know. I think you feel like you’re above all this.” He gestured around the room. “Why would you join a sorority if you hate parties so bad?”

“I don’t hate parties,” you argued. And it was true—you didn’t. You could have plenty of fun at a party. You were Social Chair.

“Well, whatever it is, you’re bringing down the mood,” he said. He downed the rest of his own drink, sitting the empty plastic cup on the mantel, where it would surely sit until some poor pledges were tasked with cleaning the whole place tomorrow.

“I don’t think anyone cares what I’m doing,” you muttered. “Other than you, for some fucking reason.”

Steve grinned again. “I know what you need.”

“Yeah?” You raised your eyebrows. “Is it for you to leave me alone and never speak to me again? Because I could agree with that.”

“You need to get high.”

That made you pause. “What?”

His smile grew. “I think you need to loosen up. Like, a lot.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder, back towards the staircase. “I could roll us a joint. I wanted to go smoke anyway.”

You just blinked at him. “You’re—“ You were genuinely stunned. “You’re inviting me to go up to your room and smoke? This isn’t, like, some weird attempt to have sex, right? Because that is never gonna happen—“

“No, Jesus,” he laughed. “I just think you need to stop being so damn uptight for once. It would help, believe me.”

“I’ve smoked before, I’m not some prude,” you mumbled, because you knew that’s exactly what Steve saw you as. “If you’re offering, why can’t you just, like…roll me one and bring it back down here?”

“I keep the good shit hidden in my room,” he shrugged. “Otherwise, these assholes would steal it all. They don’t need to know about it.”

You hesitated, because no matter how badly you wanted to accept the invitation for some free weed, it came with a worse cost—spending time one on one with Steve Harrington. He looked at you expectantly while you looked around the room, biting the inside of your cheek as you fought with yourself over it.

“Fine,” you said finally. “But we smoke, and then I’m coming right back down here and finding Nancy.”

“Deal,” he smirked. “At least you’ll be more fun. We have a reputation here, you know.”

You rolled your eyes yet again as he turned, leading the way back to the staircase. The crowd always seemed to part for Steve like he was true royalty, a deep seated respect that you personally would never understand. Your eyes darted around to every face you passed, absolutely mortified at the idea of someone seeing you following him upstairs, but no one seemed to notice.

The polished wood of the banister was smooth beneath your palm as you followed. You’d never even been up these stairs at all, the second floor a total mystery you had never been too eager to uncover. Steve’s shoes thudded against the shining hardwood floors, passing room after room occupied with couples, some of them not even bothering to close the door all the way. You scrunched your face up in disgust at one particularly shameless makeout session with the bedroom door wide open.

Steve reached a room at the end of the hall, turning to look at you over his shoulder before turning the doorknob, as if it were some grand reveal. You had to admit—only to yourself—but you were a little curious about what waited on the other side.

You trailed into the room behind him, closing the door behind you. You looked around as Steve kneeled by his bed, pulling out a shoebox. The bedroom was neat, bed made, clothes put away besides the ones piled in the laundry hamper. There was a desk with a lamp, soft light shining over a mess of papers and textbooks. His dresser was cluttered with hair products and a few bottles of expensive cologne. There were a few posters tacked to the walls, mostly sports related, a few of scantily clad women, and the year’s OSU baseball schedule. He had a bookshelf against one wall, holding his textbooks and a staggering amount of baseball trophies. A framed team photo sat on one shelf, along with one of all the Sigs taken at the beginning of the semester.

“Having fun?” Steve asked, making you jump slightly as you turned to look at him. He was sitting on his bed now, the shoebox open next to him. He was smiling at you as his fingers worked dexterously to roll the joint. “Didn’t know you could be so nosy.”

You scoffed, but your cheeks felt a little hot. “Shouldn’t have stuff sitting out if you don’t want people to look at it.”

He laughed. “You can look at whatever you want.” He licked along the seam of the joint, perfectly rolled. “Go ahead and search the whole room, if you want. The porn mags are in that drawer.” He nodded towards his nightstand.

You scrunched your face up. “Ew. You’re so gross.”

Steve laughed again as he put his baggie of weed and papers back in the box, pushing it beneath his bed again. You took a seat on the plush carpet, back leaning against his dresser. He placed a muscular arm on the end of the bed frame and lowered himself to the floor to sit across from you.

“You can do the honors if you want,” he offered, holding the joint out towards you.

There was a moment of hesitation before you reached forward, taking it from his fingers. “I don’t understand why you’re being nice to me,” you said, brows furrowed even as you placed the joint between your lips, flicking the lighter and holding the flame to the end.

“I’m not being nice to you,” he said. He still had that same look he always had when he looked at you, like it was one of his life’s greatest joys to piss you off, to get you worked up and upset. “Like I said, you’re ruining my party. Can’t have word spreading around campus that people are here looking bored. Sigs are the party kings of campus, and that’s not changing, especially not with me in charge.”

“Oh, right,” you said, exhaling that first cloud of smoke. “The new ruler can’t appear weak, and all that.”

“Exactly,” he smirked. He watched you take another hit, then leaned forward, accepting the joint back from you and taking a long pull himself.

“I don’t think anyone pays as much attention to me as you do, Steve,” you said. That warm feeling was starting to settle over you, and he was right—you were relaxing already. It was the first time you’d been in a room with him and didn’t want to scream or punch him.

His gaze was heavy on you as he hit the joint, looking at you with that intensity he always seemed to hold when you were in a room together. But now it was making you fidget, the room suddenly feeling hot.

“Who says I pay attention to you?” he finally asked. His voice was lower now, and when he leaned forward to pass the joint back to you, your fingers brushed together. It sent a jolt through your body, and you jerked your hand back quickly, bringing it to your lips to give yourself time to think before you spoke again.

“It’s kind of obvious.” Smoke billowed from your lips as you responded. The room was growing thick with it, a haze surrounding you both in and outside of your head. “Always staring at me, coming over just to annoy me…”

“It’s fun,” he admitted, laughing softly. He ran a hand through his hair, starting to lose its shape and flop into his wide hazel eyes. “Every time you get mad, you get that cute little furrow between your eyebrows, your lips get all pouty, and you roll your eyes about a million times.”

You paused—and then giggled, leaning forward to pass the joint back. “Seriously? I told you, you pay attention to me.”

Your laughter was starting to get Steve going too. He took another pull. “I mean, I notice things that are nice to look at. I’m only a man, after all.”

The laughter felt like something you could no longer control, bubbling up in your chest and filling Steve’s bedroom much like the smoke in the air. It was contagious, the two of you laughing together as you finished off the joint.

“You know you always say the cheesiest stuff possible,” you giggled, your body fully relaxed into the floor at this point. Your limbs felt heavy in the best way, like every bit of tension in your muscles had faded. “It’s kind of amazing how everyone thinks you’re so cool, because you’re kind of a total dork.”

Steve laughed hard, his head tilting back. You couldn’t help but notice the strong column of his throat, the way the muscles flexed in his neck and chest. “I have to get creative,” he said, fixing his eyes back on yours once again. “I aim to keep you entertained, after all.”

“I guess you do,” you smiled. “Annoyed, yes. Bored? Never.”

He watched you for a minute, something thoughtful seeming to cross his face. Your eyes locked in that way they often did, just staring. Seeing each other. Steve always had a way of making you feel like he could see right through you, and it made you wonder if he felt the same about you, too.

The fact that you were enjoying Steve’s company seemed to strike you all at once. It was confusing—maybe concerning—but for now, you were too high to care. He’d been right. This was what you needed.

Steve nudged your foot with his own. “I’ve never seen you look so peaceful,” he grinned. “Who knew there was more to you than being stuck up and…snobby.”

You snorted a laugh. “Fuck you, Harrington.”

The grin on his face grew. “Oh, would that help you relax some more?” he said, looking a little too proud of himself. “Because I’d be happy to help you with that, too.”

Your eyes widened, and Steve was pretty sure you were about to tell him off again—but then you tossed your head back, laughing harder than he’d ever heard from you. “Oh my god. In your dreams.”

Steve smirked, that same look you’d grown to know as cocky and insufferable, but right now, you didn’t seem to mind it. It was endearing, almost. Handsome, maybe. “Baby, you let me fuck you, and you’ll be dreaming about it for months.”

It’s like everything he said, every stupid, corny line that would usually have you irritated, was suddenly the funniest thing you’d ever heard. “You really think you’re god’s gift to women, huh?”

“I know I am.” He tilted his head to the side, body relaxed as he leaned back against his bed frame. “Never heard a single complaint.”

“That’s because girls know how to fake it,” you mumbled. “Guys can never tell.”

“Oh, I can tell.” His hands flexed where they rested on his thighs, the veins beneath his skin suddenly extremely distracting. “Some guys can’t, sure. But I know the difference between some fake pornstar moans to boost some pathetic dude’s ego, and how it really feels to make a girl fall apart.”

Your cheeks felt hot now. Your whole body did, even though your outfit didn’t cover much skin. “You’re not that good in bed.”

“How would you know?” he asked, looking at you with genuine curiosity and something like delight.

“I can just tell,” you answered quickly, looking down at the soft beige carpet beneath your bare thighs. “Guys never care about making girls feel good. Just themselves.” That’s how it had been with every guy you’d ever slept with. Not a single one had been different.

“I’m not other guys,” Steve said, voice lower now. It made your breath hitch in your throat, slowly raising your head to look at him. He was still smiling at you, but there was something different behind his eyes now, something heavy and burning.

You returned his smile, laughing softly even as you felt your heart speed up in your chest. “Yeah, well. I don’t think any guy is different in that department.”

“You wanna bet?”

That almost earned him another eye roll (playful this time, but still)—until he shifted, moving over to sit next to you. You tensed as you felt his shoulder brush against yours, feeling both electricity and heat even through the fabric of your clothes.

“Steve…”

His large hand came up slowly. Now he was looking at you in a way you’d never seen from him before. The familiar cocky smirk was gone, his soft lips parted slightly as his eyes raked over every part of you like he wanted to memorize the way you looked right now. Your chest rose and fell with your heavy breaths, watching his intense gaze travel slowly, taking his time. From your eyes, to your lips, down your throat. Lower, to your chest, but not in the pervy way he’d done in the past. No, it wasn’t that—it was…reverent. Like he was seeing something holy.

His hand finally moved, brushing your hair back softly. It made you draw in a sharp breath, chills spreading across the skin of your neck where he’d made contact.

“I like you like this,” he said, voice low and quiet. His eyes were locked on the side of your neck, where he’d just touched.

It took you a second to find your voice, although it came out more like a whisper. “Like…what?”

“Happy,” he said. His gaze finally moved to your eyes. “Comfortable. Real.” His eyes dropped to your lips. “You know, you’re really pretty when you smile like that.”

You were pretty sure you had to be dreaming, because in no world were you sitting in Steve’s bedroom while he looked at you like that. Like he wanted to kiss you. Like he was actually moving in, leaning in slowly to close the distance as if giving you all the chance in the world to run away—

You didn’t. Your eyes fell closed and then, with the force of a meteor crashing into the earth despite how soft and gentle it was, his lips met yours. His hand rested against the side of your neck while yours moved up to grip onto his bicep. He tilted his head slightly and your lips slotted together perfectly, moving together with a practiced kind of confidence and a sense of rightness you never should have felt with Steve Harrington ever.

There was no time to think with the way he was kissing you, slow and deep but utterly consuming. It was careful at first, exploratory. It felt so good, your lips moving with his like it was second nature. Steve was a good kisser. You knew he had plenty of experience, and it’s not like you didn’t, but he was taking the lead and you were happy to let him.

His tongue traced along your bottom lip, and you parted your lips on instinct. His tongue met yours with a soft groan that had you digging your nails into his arm through the sleeve of his shirt, pulling him closer.

Steve laid you back on the soft carpet with way more care than you’d ever seen him show anything. He braced himself on a strong arm planted next to your head, never breaking the kiss for a single second. His body hovered over yours, one knee moving between your thighs where your skirt had fallen up around your waist, pressing against you through your panties. His free hand rested on your hip now, holding onto you. You let out a soft moan against his lips, delirious from every point of contact, rocking your hips down against his leg to feel that friction you craved so desperately.

He groaned, moving from your mouth to kiss across your jaw, down to your neck, his lips brushing over the sensitive skin, giving you chills. Your breaths were coming in hard and heavy now, holding onto his broad shoulders like a lifeline, eyes closed as you felt every sensation he provided.

“So pretty,” he murmured against your neck, grinding his knee against you to meet every needy movement. He nipped lightly at the sensitive spot below your ear. You could feel his smirk against your skin when you gasped, hips bucking against him in response. It made no sense how he knew exactly what to do, like he somehow knew your body better than you did.

“Steve…” you whimpered, the only word your brain could conjure.

“That’s it, baby,” he said. His breath was hot against your skin, sucking at your neck, biting then soothing the sting with his tongue. “Let me hear you. Gonna make you feel so good.” 

The hand on your hip slowly slid up the smooth skin of your side, rucking your shirt up. You sat up long enough to help him pull it off completely, leaving you in the lacy bra you wore beneath. He wasted no time lowering his head to mouth at the top of your breasts, practically burying his face in them, kissing and sucking and biting at the exposed skin.

“Always had the best fucking tits,” he moaned, losing himself in a way you could only describe as worshipful. He reached behind you to unhook your bra easily, pulling it away and tossing it to the side. He pulled back to look down at your body, the look in his eyes one of pure hunger. “Actually insane fuckin’ pair, Jesus Christ.”

You laughed, because yeah, there was the Steve you knew. That laugh turned into a gasp, then a moan, when he leaned down and wrapped his lips around one of your nipples.

“Fuck,” you gasped, hands shooting up to tangle in his hair. “Oh my god—“

He swirled his tongue around the stiff peak, groaning as he sucked on it. He grabbed the other, massaging your breast in his large hand, slightly calloused from years of pitching. The friction on your sensitive, hardened nipple was maddening, back arching and pushing your tits further into his face.

He never let up with the movements against your soaked cunt, either, even as he switched back and forth between your tits. Your clit was swollen and throbbing and begging for more, and you were pretty sure your panties were utterly ruined. You could feel the pleasure building in your core with an intensity that felt like it would completely take your breath away.

You’d never had a guy make you cum in your life, and now Steve Harrington was about to do it in five minutes, fully clothed, with his fucking thigh?

Steve could sense the tension coiling in your body—and he pulled away, taking away every delicious ounce of pleasure he’d been building.

Your eyes opened, still heavy lidded and hazy. “What—?”

“My bed,” he said, and you noticed he was breathing hard, too. “Not gonna fuck you for the first time on the floor.”

You didn’t give yourself time to think about his words. He helped you up, then pulled you into another frantic kiss as you both shed clothes as fast as you could with your lips still attached, utterly desperate for each other.

Steve’s mattress creaked softly as you fell back onto it, now in nothing but your panties. You moved back towards his pillows, leaning up on your elbows as you watched him.

God, he looked good with his shirt off, you absolutely hated to admit. He had thick hair covering his chest, which was muscular and strong, but his stomach was still a little soft. His skin was sun-kissed, those moles dotting his body all over. The desire to kiss every single one of them surged suddenly within you, but you pushed the thought away. That was…intimate.

His gaze remained heavy on you as he worked his belt open without drawing away his attention once. The way he looked at you was like a starving man preparing for a feast. Your thighs were slightly parted, and he didn’t miss how damp your panties were. For him.

Finally down to his boxer briefs alone, you could see more of him than you ever had before. He was fully hard, the outline of his dick visible as it strained against the thin, snug material.

And the rumors were true.

“Jesus,” you breathed. That cocky smirk returned to his face as he watched your wide-eyed stare. Truthfully, he was used to that reaction. “You’re…”

“I know, baby,” he purred, crawling onto the bed over you. He leaned down, peppering kisses along your legs as he moved higher along your body. “It’ll fit. I’ll be careful. ‘m gonna take care of you like you deserve.”

It felt like you were melting into the soft sheets and comforter surrounding you. Steve was taking his time, placing hot, open mouthed kisses against your calf, his hand roaming up the other leg in time with his mouth. He rose higher, over your knee, up the inside of your thigh.

He laid on his stomach between your legs, kissing and nipping all along the sensitive skin of both inner thighs. Your legs trembled. The sight of him there, with his mouth all over you, was almost too overwhelming to even take in. Your head dropped against his pillows, just giving in to his every desire, your body coming alive with every touch. Trusting him.

“You’re so wet for me,” he breathed in pure admiration. His nose nuzzled against your core through the thin material, and you drew in a sharp gasp. He looked up at you from between your legs, fingers moving to dip beneath the waistband of your panties. “Has anyone ever tasted you before?”

You froze as you realized what he was asking you, what he was planning to do. By the time you found your words, he’d already slipped the delicate material down and off your body. You shuddered as you felt his breath against your pussy, cool against the wetness there, for him.

“I—“ You jolted when you felt him rub his nose against your folds, breathing in the intoxicating scent of you. Your whole body was flushed and hot. “…No.”

Steve groaned. The idea of being the first to pleasure you like this had his cock throbbing between his body and the mattress. “Fuckin’ idiots,” he grumbled, drinking in the sight of you for a little longer before he finally moved in, dragging his tongue against your cunt, moaning like he’d never tasted anything better. “You have the perfect fuckin’ pussy. Tastes so sweet.”

Your hips jerked against his mouth, crying out at that first unfamiliar contact. You heard his low chuckle, but there was no humor behind it, just pure want. He dove in, devouring you properly.

The feeling of his tongue against you was more intense than you’d anticipated. Your fingers tangled in his perfect hair, making a mess of it, pulling just hard enough to earn a groan from his chest that vibrated against your clit. You were nearly seeing stars already, hips rocking up against his mouth as he flicked his tongue against the swollen nub, sucking gently before moving down to your hole. He knew exactly what he was doing, and he was pulling you apart piece by piece until you could hardly stand it.

You’d heard of this before, of course you had. Your sorority sisters had mentioned it a few times, and you’d seen it in that trashy porno you, Nancy, and Carol had spent the night giggling at after sharing a joint and some vodka crans. But you always thought of it as a myth. No man you’d ever been with had even offered, even if you’d gone down on him first. You figured it was something guys just didn’t do, or at least something they didn’t want to do.

Not Steve, apparently, because he was worshipping you like he could have spent hours with his face buried between your legs. His skilled tongue worked against you in all the right ways, moaning against you and grinding his hips against the bed, even harder if you tugged on his hair, which you were quickly learning he liked.

“Steve—“ you gasped, body writhing and arching beneath him. “Oh my god, I—-“

“That’s it,” he praised, pulling away from you just long enough to speak, eyes glazed and lips and chin shining with your wetness, before diving in again. “Doing so good for me, sweetheart. You’re so fucking hot.”

You whimpered when you felt his thick finger pressing against your entrance, moaning as he pushed inside while his mouth focused on your clit again. With how wet you were, he slid inside easily, fucking you before quickly adding a second finger. He curled them deep inside, pressing against something that nearly had you screaming his name loud enough for the whole party to hear.

“Steve!” you gasped, one hand still tangled in his hair while the other gripped onto the pillow, feeling like you would actually float away if you didn’t hold on. The pleasure he was giving you was nearly overwhelming, your body beginning to tremble harder as that coil tightened again, faster and more intense this time. He slipped in a third, fucking you deep, stretching you around his thick fingers.

“Gotta get you ready for me,” he panted, dragging his tongue through your folds one more time just to taste you. “Fuck. You’re so good, gonna take me so well, every fuckin’ inch, I know you will. Gonna stretch so perfectly around my cock.”

A whine crawled its way from your throat, hips rocking against his fingers as he fucked you deep with them, pressing against that bundle of nerves that had you losing your mind. “Steve…Steve…oh fuck, I’m—“

He didn’t let up with his fingers for a single second. But it was when he wrapped his lips around your clit, sucking, while his fingers thrusted in hard and deep, that made it finally snap.

Your vision went white, your body tensing and mouth dropping open in a scream that was silent at first, before you let out what were probably the most pornstar-worthy sounds you’d ever made in your life. “Steve! Oh, fuck!”

Steve groaned at the sound, lapping up every bit of you, letting you grind your pussy against his tongue and working you through every shuddering aftershock until your body went limp beneath him. When he finally pulled back, you fully expected him to look up at you with that look he almost always wore, the one that made him look so proud of himself, so punchable. But instead he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before sucking his fingers clean greedily, looking down at your body with that same heated, wanting expression.

He sat up on his knees. You didn’t think it was possible before but he was even harder now, a wet spot on his boxers at the tip of his cock where he’d been absolutely dripping for you. His thumbs hooked into the waistband, pushing down just enough for you to get a glimpse of the hair that disappeared below.

“You ready for me?” he asked, voice a low rumble.

You let out a shaky breath, looking up at him with wide eyes. “…Yeah.”

Steve smirked down at you and pushed the material down in one go. His cock sprung free—and it was even more impressive than it looked before. He was thick and long, a slight right curve, vein prominent along the underside. His tip was flushed red like he was real desperate, and glistening from the precum he’d been leaking the whole time he was taking care of you. Another drop was beading at his slit. You’d never had a man look like he wanted you this bad.

You knew you were staring, and Steve certainly saw it, too. “See something you like, baby?”

You let out a breathless laugh, but truthfully, you were in no position to crack a joke or even deny it. You simply watched as he shed the last bit of clothing completely, leaving you both completely bare in his bed.

He leaned over you and reached to open the bedside drawer. There really were porn mags in there, which might have made you laugh if you couldn’t feel that thick length twitching against your thigh. He grabbed a condom and shoved the drawer closed, sitting back up on his knees. He ripped the foil packet open with his teeth and rolled it onto his cock.

When he leaned over your body again, one arm braced near your shoulder and the other stroking his cock slowly, your heart began to pound fast. There was that brief moment of I’m really doing this, right now, with him, but you’d never wanted anything more in your life.

Steve lined the head of his cock up with your entrance. You were still soaked, so he wasn’t worried, but you were. You’d heard rumors of how some girls couldn’t even take him, only getting him halfway in before giving up and jerking him off instead. You hadn’t believed them, because starting a rumor about the size of his dick was absolutely something you could see Steve doing. But now you were here in his bed, seeing firsthand that it was very true.

He traced his cock up and down through your folds, coating himself in that slick wetness, showing a surprising amount of care. He placed hot, gentle kisses along your jaw as he did, voice a soft, low rumble in your ear.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised, lips brushing against your skin. “You don’t like it, we don’t have to. But I’ve got you, baby. You’re so good, I think you can take it.”

You could hear the need in his voice, how badly he needed you to let him fuck you. But you also knew he was true to his word.

But, god, you wanted to take all of him. To show him you could, to feel him buried deep. To make him fall apart.

Steve kissed his way back to your lips, kissing you slow and deep, tongue massaging against yours. You felt the sting of the thick head of his cock pushing inside you, and you let out a soft whimper into the kiss. He moaned against you and pushed in just a little deeper.

“That’s it,” he whispered between kisses. He grabbed your thigh with his left hand now, spreading you wide for him. “Doin’ so good, baby, letting me in.” He rolled his hips in shallow thrusts, just that little bit inside of you, sinking in another inch with every slow, deliberate thrust, working you open.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, but he kept your attention on him, entirely on the way he was kissing you. You weren’t sure why or how but it was working, his slow, languid kiss distracting you from the sharp sting where he was stretching you around the girth of him, coaxing your body to relax.

The feeling of being filled was like nothing else. Sure, you’d had plenty of sex, but Steve made you feel absolutely stuffed full before he was even completely inside. He held your thigh up, keeping you open for him, your flexibility not lost on him. He rolled his hips in a few more slow thrusts—and then you felt his hips pressed flush against you.

“Christ,” he breathed, pulling back just enough to lean his forehead against yours. “So perfect, baby, you fuckin’—took it all, Jesus—“

You’d never heard Steve sound so utterly wrecked. He rolled his hips against you a few times, just enjoying the feeling of being completely sheathed inside your tight heat. And fuck, you were stretched around him perfectly, tight and hot. You felt like absolute heaven around his cock.

His cock throbbed inside you, so hard you could feel it. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, palms rubbing over his hot skin, a thin sheen of sweat coating it from the sheer effort of holding back from pounding into you.

“Steve,” you whimpered. Your cunt fluttered around him, and he dropped his head to your shoulder with a broken moan.

“Yeah?” he rasped. His hips rocked lightly against you, betraying his desperation.

“You can…” You gasped as the coarse hair at his base rubbed against your clit, still so sensitive but aching for him again. “…You can move.”

Steve moaned again, placing a few hot kisses against your neck as if thanking you. Finally he pulled his hips back, slowly withdrawing almost fully. Only his tip remained, and you could have cried at the loss of that perfect full feeling. But then he sank back in—slow at first, filling you to the brim again. Your desperate sounds of pleasure mixed together in the hot, charged air of his bedroom, a symphony intertwined much like your bodies.

“Shit,” he cursed. He set a careful rhythm, every thrust measured and slow and deep. “You’re taking me so fucking good. Fuuuuck. That pussy is fucking unreal.”

You could barely think straight. Your entire world narrowed down to the feeling of Steve inside of you, stretching you open perfectly. The sting was still there, but it was quickly fading into pure ecstasy with every movement of his hips. Your body was adapting to him like it was made for it.

Hands tangled in his hair again, you pulled him down into another messy kiss, all tongue and desperation, sloppy and hungry and hot. He groaned loudly into it, hips rutting into you faster.

Whines and whimpers and keening moans were spilling from your lips with little control. Your hips moved in time with his thrusts, meeting him every time. His cock was deeper than you thought possible, brushing against that spot that quickly had you gasping and babbling complete nonsense.

“Feels so good Steve, oh fuck, oh god, please don’t stop, don’t fucking stop I’m gonna cum again, Steve please, oh god—!”

Every word that tumbled from your lips was like fuel to the fire of his intense need. He couldn’t hold back anymore, couldn’t worry about if he might hurt you, too lost in the feeling of your body wrapped around him. His hips rocked against yours in a frantic pace now, his breaths coming in ragged pants, eyes locked on the way your tits bounced with the force of his thrusts. You arched your back and he leaned down to wrap his lips around a nipple again, moaning as he laved his tongue over it, eyes closed and completely pussydrunk, all because of you.

He sucked hard on your nipple one more time before letting go with a wet pop and sitting up on his knees. He held onto your waist and used your body, pulling you down onto his cock with every rough snap of his hips. His eyes were locked on the sight, watching himself disappear into your perfect cunt, seeing you stretch around him, take him whole.

“Holy fuck,” he panted. The sight of the muscles in his arms and chest flexing as he took what he needed from you, watching you with such heat, made you feel utterly delirious. He looked powerful and strong, like an absolute god. “Jesus. Look how you take me, baby, fuck. Knew you’d be good, but—“ His hips stuttered, eyes rolling back for a second. “—shit, holy fuck—“

“Baby,” you gasped, grabbing onto the pillow above your head. Your cunt was tightening, throbbing around him, soaking his cock. The sound of him driving into you was loud and obscene—the slick, wet sounds, the sound of his skin slapping against yours. You might have felt a little self conscious if you could think about anything other than his cock coaxing that second orgasm from your trembling body. “I can’t—oh god, Steve, please…”

“You can do it,” he was nearly begging now, his cock beginning to twitch within your tight walls, so close to his own end but determined to get you there first. “Come on, baby, give it to me. Let me feel it. Cum all over my cock, show me how good it feels, how much you like getting fucked by me.”

You turned your head, biting down on a pillow you held to your face in an effort to muffle the scream that ripped from your lungs. Your body arched, cunt clenching around him as wave after wave of overwhelming, perfect pleasure washed over you. Your ears were ringing, moaning and gasping and babbling his name again and again.

“Shit!” Steve cursed, hips pounding into you reckless and fast. “That’s it, god yeah, let me feel it—oh fuck—you’re so good, so fucking good baby, letting me fuck you like this, squeezing around me—shit—oh baby, gonna make me—gonna make me fuckin’ cum—“

His body pitched forward over yours, bracing himself on an arm and burying his face in your neck. His cock buried deep in you, hips snapping in a few more frantic, shallow thrusts before he tensed, his groan muffled against your skin as he spilled into the condom, repeating your name over and over, body shaking with the intensity.

Your head was spinning. You could hear your heart beating in your ears. Steve’s body was heavy on top of you, your sweat-slicked skin pressed together, as he tried to catch his breath. It was a minute of heavy silence before he finally slid his softening cock out of you, collapsing onto his back.

The loss of that glorious full feeling was disappointing, to say the least. But as Steve removed the condom from his spent cock, tying it off and tossing it into his trash can, the moment finally, properly, broke.

And you realized you were naked in Steve Harrington’s bed. That you had fucked him.

The effects of the weed seemed to have worn off, leaving you feeling suddenly cold and exposed and panicked. Even as you began to freak out more and more, Steve looked totally fine, laying back against the headboard with an arm behind his head. His chest still rose and fell with heavy breaths, skin still shining with sweat, but he looked satisfied. Proud of himself in that way that always pissed you off, but especially now.

“So,” he said, and like so many times before, he’d ruined it all the moment he opened his mouth. “You let me fuck you after all, huh?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, sitting up and reaching for your clothes. You felt like you couldn’t stand to be exposed like this to him for another second, holding every article of clothing you grabbed to your chest until you found it all.

Steve laughed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. He didn’t seem to have any qualms about being totally naked in front of you, comfortable in his own skin the way he always was. “Those panties might be ruined. They were pretty soaked. You can leave them here with me, if you want.” He grinned wider. “I’ll keep them safe. Won’t even wash ‘em.”

“You’re a pig,” you spat back at him. He wasn’t exactly wrong, though. You didn’t want to put them back on, but you weren’t about to walk out of this room wearing that tiny skirt with nothing underneath.

“But was I right?”

“About what?” you asked as you hooked your bra, roughly pulling your shirt back on. The scowl on your face was a permanent fixture at this point, which was amusing to him.

“That I’m good?” he raised his eyebrows, and the grin on his face told you he knew the real answer no matter what you said in response.

“You weren’t that good,” you mumbled. You pulled your skirt back onto your hips, grabbing your shoes.

Steve laughed. “Oh, come on. That’s not what you were saying when you were practically riding my face, or when you were cumming on my dick, begging me not to stop.” His words made your face burn, unable to even say something smart in return. “You don’t have to lie to me, baby. I was there.”

Fully dressed now, you moved to his dresser mirror, trying to fix your appearance. “Don’t call me baby.”

He crossed his ankles, just watching you with that infuriating grin. He made no move to cover any part of his body, his cock laying against his thigh. It was huge even when he was soft, which you hated that you even noticed. 

“Aw, why’re you so mad now?” The condescending tone in his voice made you shiver with the effort of not losing your absolute shit. “Personally, I had fun. And I just gave you your first orgasm ever—“

“Not my first orgasm.”

“Sorry, your first orgasm that you didn’t give yourself.” He tilted his head, smirking. You could feel his eyes all over your body, shameless. “Two of them, actually. So really, you should probably be thanking me.”

You barked out a laugh as you wiped a lipstick smudge from the corner of your mouth. You turned around, noticing for the first time that some of it had transferred to his face. “I’m not thanking you for shit. This never should’ve happened.”

Steve watched you head for the door. He had no intention of stopping you. He’d never let a girl stay in his bed after sex, and he wasn’t about to start now. He moved lazily even as he sat up and began to grab his own clothes.

“You can pretend you didn’t like it all you want, baby,” he said, not even looking at you anymore as he pulled his boxer briefs back onto his legs. “But you and I both know what happened in here tonight, and I don’t think you’ll be forgetting it any time soon.”

You held back a frustrated scream as you walked out of his bedroom, slamming the door behind you. Thankfully the music was loud enough that it didn’t draw any attention. You stomped down the hallway and down the stairs, back into the chaos that now felt suffocating and overwhelming in a way it never had before.

You found Nancy in the kitchen, laughing with some of the other sisters. When she spotted you her expression turned serious, saying something to the girls before walking straight to you. 

“Where did you go?” she asked, reaching for your arm. Her hand was a little cold and every touch to your skin right now felt like a scalding burn, but you didn’t pull away. “I’ve been looking for you for ages.”

“Just got wrapped up talking to some people,” you mumbled, unable to make eye contact with her. “I’m gonna head home, though.”

Nancy’s brows furrowed. “Now? Already? It’s still pretty early.”

“I just don’t feel good,” you said. All you really wanted was to get back to the safety of your own bedroom and freak out about this in private. “You don’t have to leave.”

“No, don’t be silly. I’m going with you.” She drained the last of the contents of her cup and tossed it into the nearby trash can, intertwining her fingers with yours. “This party kinda sucked tonight, anyway.”

You smiled at her, genuinely grateful. Nancy was your best friend for a reason, and you loved her. But you could never tell her what happened tonight.

As you walked hand in hand to the front door, you felt a creeping feeling up your spine. Just as Nancy turned the doorknob, opening the door and letting the cool September air inside, you looked back over your shoulder.

Steve leaned against the railing upstairs, watching you. When you locked eyes, he lifted a hand in a wave, smiling down at you.

You left the house, letting the door close hard behind you.

Steve was haunting you.

Not even in the way he always had, constantly in the same places, an unavoidable physical presence. No, this was worse. He was in your head now. And for the first time ever, you felt you had actually been lucky before.

The night after that first fateful mistake, you’d gotten back to the house, told Nancy you didn’t feel good, and went straight to bed. You removed your clothes from the party, shoved that pair of panties straight in the trash. You didn’t think you could ever look at them again.

Sleep didn’t come easily. You laid in bed, thinking about Steve and what you’d done without a moment’s reprieve. It was miserable, but you figured it was normal. Something terrible had just happened after all; a horrible mistake had been made, so of course you were going to think about it. It would fade. You would feel better tomorrow.

The problem was that it never stopped.

You woke up thinking about Steve. Went to class thinking about him. Every time you saw him on campus—and he always saw you first, smirking at you and giving you that douchebag nod, or a casual wave that he knew was anything but—you averted your eyes and headed quickly in the other direction.

If the fact that you’d done it at all didn’t disgust you enough, it was nothing compared to the horrible truth. That you’d liked it. Loved it. Wanted more. He really was the best you’d ever had, and you didn’t think he’d ever done a single thing that had pissed you off more than that.

Of all the guys you’d been with, guys who were plenty hot and popular and well liked, not a single one of them had ever cared about your pleasure in any way. They were only interested in getting themselves off. You were pretty sure they wouldn’t have been able to find the clit if they’d even bothered to try.

But Steve? He had absolutely rocked your world exactly like he promised. The only orgasms you’d ever experienced had been by your own hands, and you figured no one ever would or could know your body better than you did. How did he know the exact right places to touch, the right things to do? Every girl was different, right? Did he have some kind of stupid fucking superpower?

He had you completely spiraling. You felt like you were losing your mind. Even Nancy and Carol and the other girls noticed there was something up with you. Nancy was the only one who asked, but you quickly made up some excuse about being stressed over classes and homecoming. Tommy was still doing everything in his power to win you over, but there was only one Sigma Chi member on your mind at all hours, day and night.

You laid in bed at night with the memory haunting you. His mouth, his tongue, his fingers, his stupidly huge dick that he knew exactly how to use, that he’d taken so much care with so he wouldn’t hurt you. How hard you’d cum when he went down on you, the way he made you cum again with nothing but his cock. The memories replayed through your mind nonstop until the ache between your thighs became unbearable and you couldn’t help it anymore, your hand slipping beneath your shorts and panties and burying your moans in your fist until you came moaning his name, picturing his face the way he looked staring up at you from between your legs.

That was the worst of it, the guilt and confusion and disappointment you felt when it was over. When you were laying there in the quiet dark of your bedroom, realizing that you were really, truly fucked.

You wanted Steve. You wanted him bad. And you didn’t think you could keep lying to yourself.

By the time the next party came around, you were done even trying to pretend.

You spent a little extra time getting ready in your bedroom, picking out a cute little dress after trying on nearly everything in your closet. It was form fitting, short, and a bit revealing. You knew it would catch his attention. You honestly weren’t sure why you were even trying, since you’d never had to try to get him to notice you before, even when you desperately didn’t want him to.

When you met Nancy and Carol in the front room, their eyes widened at the sight of you. “Woah. That’s the slut dress,” Carol remarked right away.

It made you laugh even as your skin flushed with embarrassment. It was true. This dress rarely ever came out, and when it did it was because you were going on a date you really wanted to end happily—hence the nickname your friends had dubbed it with.

“Is there something you wanna tell us?” Nancy asked, her brows raised. “I mean, you look great, but…who’s it for?”

The question made you freeze for a moment, even though you should’ve known they’d ask. Of course they would. But you recovered quickly, making up a lie on the spot that you prayed sounded believable. “No one in particular. Just…hoping to catch the attention of someone interesting, at least.”

That seemed good enough for Carol, who turned away and started digging through her purse to make sure she’d packed her lipstick, but Nancy watched you a little longer. She was always so analytical with everything, and as your best friend, she knew you too well for you to get away with lying to her about much. And you hated lying to Nancy, you really did, but how would you explain this?

The three of you left Delta Gamma as a unit, arms linked together. The walk to the Sigma Chi house wasn’t far, and it was a chilly evening, but nothing too bad. The bare skin of your thighs felt the sting of the cold the most, but before you knew it you were walking in the front door, the packed frat house instantly hot enough to make you grateful for the amount of skin you had showing.

For the first time, you were grateful to be separated from your girls so quickly. And, equally as unusual in this alternate dimension you’d somehow stepped into—you wanted to find Steve. Your eyes scanned each room for him, ears focused on listening for his voice. Something you couldn’t explain led you to the backyard, a place you didn’t often venture here.

The hot tub was on, and overcrowded. Some of the guys were in with a handful of girls, most sitting in someone’s lap. A larger crowd just hung out on the back deck, some even into the yard beneath the lights. You heard the sound of his laughter quickly, turning your head to the left at the exact time he looked in your direction.

And god, you hated to admit it, but he looked good. His hair was once again perfectly styled, and he wore a long sleeve dark green shirt with a pair of jeans that he wore…really, really well. They were tight, perfectly fitted, and you didn’t know how you’d never known about his size when he wore pants like that. His ass looked great, too.

Fuck.

You locked eyes with him. He held your gaze for a minute, smirk on his face even as he kept talking to his friends. Then, for the first time ever—he turned away. Going right back to his conversation as if you’d never even been there at all.

You were stunned.

Never in the history of your time at OSU had Steve seen you and not immediately approached to piss you off. He had never dismissed you like that. If the rage hadn’t already been boiling in your blood, it certainly was now.

You scoffed, turning around and walking back into the house. If he was expecting you to come to him, it wasn’t gonna happen. It had never happened that way before and wasn’t going to start now. Instead you pushed your way to the kitchen, heading straight to pour yourself a drink.

Just as you were reaching for one of the red plastic cups, another hand came around your shoulder and grabbed it before you could. You turned around, more confused than angry, to see Tommy Hagan standing right behind you, a warm smile on his freckled face.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly, looking like he just realized how awkward of a move it was. “I just—can I get you a drink?”

You paused for a second. “Um…yeah, sure. Thanks.”

“No problem,” he said, his expression becoming a little more comfortable at your acceptance. He moved around to the counter that held a keg and multiple bottles of liquor. It was surrounded by people, as it always was, but they moved for Tommy out of respect in the same way they did for Steve. “What’re you drinking?”

You scanned the selection—there was a bit of everything. Sigma Chi took pride in keeping the alcohol flowing at every party. “Tequila?”

“You got it.” Tommy grinned. He filled the red cup from the keg and passed it back to you, then reached for the bottle of tequila, pouring two shots. He handed one to you and held the other out in a toast.

You smiled softly as you gently tapped your cup against his, then brought it to your lips, downing the burning liquid with ease. Tommy laughed when you scrunched your face up in disgust for a second.

“You’d think Harrington would splurge for the good shit,” Tommy said, leaning back against the counter as he looked at you. “I guess I can’t complain about free alcohol, though.”

“True,” you smiled, even though you really didn’t want to talk or think about Steve anymore, especially right now. “Thanks. Again. For the drinks.” You held your beer up towards him before taking a sip.

“No problem,” he said, a soft blush touching his pale skin. “Pretty girls shouldn’t have to pour their own drinks.”

Even though you didn’t like Tommy as more than a friend, he really was sweet, and his attention made you feel good. Special. “What would I ever do without you, Tommy?”

He laughed, looking down at his shoes for a moment. “Hey,” he said, meeting your eyes again. “I was just thinking…if you’d maybe want to go out? Maybe…Monday?”

Your eyes widened. You hadn’t actually expected him to ask you on a date. Your lips parted, closed, then opened again, but you couldn’t figure out the right words to say.

“Nothing serious,” Tommy said quickly, noticing your hesitation. “It doesn’t have to be…y’know. I just thought we could maybe get some food, talk about homecoming…” His soft smile returned. “…and, you know, I’d really like to take you out.”

It was hard not to soften around him, especially with the way he spoke to you. Every Sig was great at turning on the charm, but there was something about Tommy that felt so genuine. And would it really be so bad to go out with him? “Sure. That sounds good. My last class ends at 4?”

“Great,” he said, the words leaving him in a breath of relief. “Yeah, awesome. I can pick you up from DG? Like…6?”

“That’s perfect,” you nodded. You drank from your beer again just as another Sig walked up to Tommy—Billy Hargrove. You hadn’t spoken to him much yourself, but he was nice to look at for sure. You knew a few of your sorority sisters had been out with him, and he had a bit of a reputation for being a ladies man. He had a gorgeous smile, tan skin, blue eyes, and dirty blonde hair that hung to his shoulders in soft, beautiful curls.

“Hagan,” Billy said, clapping a hand on the other boy’s shoulder. He looked like he was about to say something else, but then his eyes landed on you. “Well. You didn’t tell me you were busy entertaining DG’s most beautiful.”

Even though all these frat guys pulled the same cheesy lines, you still felt the heat rise to your skin. “Hi, Billy.”

“Hi, gorgeous.” He smiled down at you, showing off the dimple in his cheek. Something about it brought out the ‘smiling shyly, twirling your hair around your finger’, teenage girl-type feeling buried deep within you. Tommy’s confident smile had dropped, now shifting awkwardly on his feet.

“Uh, what’s up, Hargrove?” Tommy asked, trying his best to look unbothered.

Billy glanced at him for just a second before those clear blue eyes found you again. “No rush, Hagan. What, don’t wanna share her attention?” His smile was bright and friendly, the kind that would have any girl’s heart beating fast.

“It’s not—“ Tommy sighed, leaning back against the counter.

“We were just talking,” you said, glancing between the two boys. There was an unspoken tension there, but you didn’t dwell on it. “How’s basketball?”

Billy’s smile grew. “It’s great. We’ve started conditioning. Right, Tommy?” he asked, turning around to look at his friend for only a moment, a weak attempt at acting like he had any intent to bring him into the conversation. “You should come to some of our games this season. I think I play better when there’s a pretty girl cheering for me.”

You laughed, the sound light and airy and genuine. “Is that right?”

Billy shrugged. “Could be just a theory, but why take the risk? Wouldn’t be very good for school spirit if we didn’t do everything possible to make sure we take home that championship, right?”

You rolled your eyes lightly as you laughed again, but it was more amusement than irritation—not like with certain people. “I guess that’s true. We should all do our part.”

“Exactly.” He smirked. “And maybe I can come watch you run some time. See that record-breaking sprinter I’ve heard so much about in action.”

You weren’t sure why exactly, but it surprised you that he knew anything about your athletic achievements. It was talked about on campus—the school loved to celebrate their top athletes—but it’s not like most of the school cared about track and field the way they did about other sports. You were no Steve Harrington, star pitcher. “Yeah, that would be cool. I’d like that.”

“I’ve heard you’re good. Like, insanely fast.” He leaned against the counter next to Tommy with an instinctual swagger, exuding the confidence that came so naturally to him. “And, uh…long jump?”

“High jump,” you corrected, hiding your shy smile behind your cup as you sipped your beer again. “But, yeah. I’d love for you to come watch.”

“Maybe I’ll call you sometime.” Billy winked at you before finally acknowledging Tommy again. “Hagan. We’re waiting for you out back.” He looked back at you. “Sorry, came over here to grab him and didn’t expect to get…distracted.”

“Go do your thing,” you said, waving your hand in some kind of vague gesture. You were starting to feel a slight buzz, at least. “Have fun. Don’t let me hold you up.”

“I’ll see you around,” Billy said with one last flash of that charming smile. When he looked back at Tommy, his expression was more serious, nodding his head towards the back in a silent command that didn’t seem to have any other option.

Tommy smiled at you, but it was more forced, the comfort from before long gone. “I’ll see you Monday,” he said. “It was…good to talk to you. I hope you have fun the rest of the night.”

“Bye,” you said softly, but he was already gone. You watched him trailing after Billy towards the back door, where Steve and some of the other guys waited, a cheer erupting as soon as they walked out the door. Frat boys.

Left on your own again, you tried to enjoy yourself. Bouncing around the house, talking with people you knew from around campus, from sports, from Greek life. Still, you couldn’t shake the thought of Steve from your head. You knew what you’d come here to do, and even though you hated yourself for it, you hadn’t changed your mind. You didn’t think you could.

You saw him again a few times. Through the back door, in the living room, passing him in the hallway on the way to the bathroom, where he bumped into your shoulder and turned around long enough to smirk at you before walking on like it was nothing. Every time you saw him he saw you too, but he didn’t approach you once. It had you fuming.

A few hours into the party, unfortunately, you were getting desperate.

When you walked into the kitchen for another refill, you saw him again. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed over his chest with one hand holding his cup, talking to some girl you couldn’t name. You weren’t jealous—you were not jealous—but it just made you even angrier. Especially when he glanced at you for just a moment before turning back to her.

This was humiliating. It was demeaning. You hated it. You hated him. But you swallowed your pride, took a deep breath, and walked over to them anyway.

Steve looked at you again, and grinned wide, his eyes lighting up with an infuriating delight as he realized you were coming over. The girl by his side gave you a dirty look as soon as she noticed, but Steve’s attention was now entirely on you.

He said your name, a simple acknowledgement. “How are you enjoying the party?” He tilted his head to the side, his expression smug. He knew exactly what game he’d been playing all night, and he also knew he’d just won.

“It’s great,” you said, your deadpan voice doing nothing to hide your irritation.

“Good. I pride myself on my hospitality.” You didn’t think you’d ever seen Steve not looking proud of himself, but he certainly did right now. “Did you need something?”

You glared at him, biting the inside of your cheek as you refused to back down from the eye contact he was holding. The girl next to him looked between you. “I was…wondering if you had any more of that…weed.”

The grin that spread across his face was nothing short of euphoric. His hazel eyes seemed to shine with it. The girl next to him might as well have no longer existed. “Actually, you know, I might have a little more. I’d have to check.”

Your jaw clenched, looking off to the side before meeting his eyes again. Your whole body buzzed like a live wire. When he didn’t make a move, just kept looking at you, you raised your eyebrows at him expectantly. “Well?”

Steve laughed. “Now, huh?” He downed the rest of his beer and turned to the side, dropping the cup in the trash. You were momentarily stunned when he grabbed yours from your hand, too, doing the same. “Well, if it’s that urgent. Come on, we’ll go look.”

He pushed off the wall, walking in the direction of the staircase. He didn’t give the girl he’d been talking to another word or look, but she was certainly glowering at you when you glanced one last time before following after him. You felt ashamed, trailing behind exactly like he wanted you to. But worse than that was the relief.

Still, as you walked up the stairs behind Steve, you looked around to make sure no one was watching. You’d survived the first hookup without rumors starting, but you knew you had to be careful. If there was one student on this campus everyone paid attention to, it was Steve Harrington.

Even worse than some random students seeing and whispering would be Nancy or Carol. You didn’t want to have to even begin to figure out how to explain this to them. It was humiliating enough doing it, confusing even trying to justify it to yourself.

Steve led the way into his bedroom, although you’d dreamed about the same path so many times over the past week, you could have walked yourself there with your eyes closed. His room was still tidy, and the scent of the cologne he was wearing now permeated the air. All his usual hair products sat out on his dresser, and you could practically see the ghost of him there getting ready before leaving for the party downstairs, not putting it away.

He closed the door behind you, the sound of the lock clicking into place like a bomb in the silence. You turned around to face him. You hadn’t really thought this far ahead.

“So…” Steve began, walking over to you slowly. You felt like a rabbit that had run right into his trap—willingly. “Did you really want that weed? Or did you come back for something else?”

You gritted your teeth, fists clenching and unclenching at your side. Drawing in a deep breath, you tried to relax your muscles, your entire body tense. “I…”

Steve was still smiling at you as he approached. He knew you weren’t going to say it, but he had already won. You’d come. His hand came up to rest on your cheek, and you found yourself relishing in the warmth of his palm rather than flinching away.

“You don’t have to say it if you don’t want to,” he murmured, his voice low. No bravado, soft, meant only for you. His eyes were locked on yours. “I know what you need, baby.” His thumb stroked your cheek, then moved to rub slowly over your bottom lip. Your breath hitched, but you couldn’t break the intense eye contact if you tried. “Have you been dreaming about it?”

You didn’t know what to say. Your brain was short circuiting. Your hands hung loosely by your side, eyes wide, as he looked at you with pure heat. Goosebumps covered your skin, breath coming in strained.

“I already know,” he continued when you said nothing. His words were a low purr, a sound that had you hypnotized. You didn’t even react when he pulled down slightly on your bottom lip and slipped his thumb inside, pressing down against your tongue. “You’d never been fucked like that in your life. You’ve been thinking about it. Trying to recreate it with your own hand, getting off to the memory.”

Body on autopilot, you closed your lips around his thumb. Your eyes never left each others’ as you ran your tongue over the calloused pad of his finger, sucking on it. For all he tried to act unaffected and in control, you saw the shudder that wracked through him. You didn’t have to look to know he was hard already.

When he pulled his hand away, the trance was broken. But still, you both stood there, just looking at each other. The whole room felt charged with electricity, the air around you heavy enough to feel like a physical, oppressive weight.

Your lips crashed together in a kiss both hungry and frantic. It wasn’t slow and romantic, not this time. Steve’s hands dug into your waist, pulling you close, the kiss all tongue and teeth and messy desperation. He groaned into your mouth, and when he pulled your hips into his, you could feel the hard proof of what you’d already known.

He pulled back to pull his shirt over his head, your eyes drinking in the exposed skin shamelessly. He was breathing hard, eyes glazed over with unfiltered want. Shoes were kicked off, Steve’s jeans hit the floor, and he wrapped his arms around your waist, lifting you with ease and laying you on his bed.

“You wore this little thing for me?” Steve whispered in your ear as he settled over you. His lips attacked your neck, sucking at that spot he remembered was so sensitive. You wouldn’t be surprised if he left marks, but you couldn’t think straight long enough to care.

“No.” The denial was weak, even you knew that. You had watched him all night, approached him yourself after sucking up your pride, and now you were beneath him on his bed. But, fuck, hadn’t you given him enough satisfaction tonight?

“No?” He chuckled darkly against the hot skin of your neck. He didn’t believe you for a second. He was rolling his hips against you, the straining in his boxer briefs rock hard where it pressed against your dripping core. “That’s a shame, baby. It looks so good on you.”

The little whimper that escaped when he bit down on the skin beneath your ear would have been embarrassing if you were able to even process it. You arched your back beneath him, pressing your tits against his chest. Your nipples were hard through the thin material of your dress—a bra didn’t work with it, so you’d gone without—and the feeling of friction against them had a breathy noise falling from your lips.

Steve moved down your body, pushing your dress up roughly until it was up around your waist. He lowered himself between your thighs, pressing his nose against your already soaked panties, letting out a low, primal groan. “God, you’re so fucking sweet,” he growled. Unable to wait any longer, he hooked his fingers into the waist of your panties and pulled them off.

“Steve—“ you said in a voice that sounded more like a squeak than anything, spreading your legs for him, breathing hard. His big hands slid up your smooth thighs, opening them wider for him. His nose brushed lightly against your folds, making you draw in a sharp breath.

“Yeah, baby?” he murmured. He was looking at your cunt like he wanted this as badly as you did—maybe more. “What do you want?”

“Just do it,” you whined, your body writhing against his sheets with the overwhelming need. “Please, just…”

“What do you want me to do?” He was looking up at you now, smirking, even as his mouth was hovering an inch from where you needed him more than anything. “You’ve gotta tell me, sweetheart. I can’t read your mind.”

You groaned, eyes opening as you looked down at him. “You are such a fucking asshole.”

His big eyes widened with feigned innocence. “What?” You could feel his breath ghosting over your pussy, so wet for him, and it had you trembling. You couldn’t take much more of this and he knew it.

“Stop trying to make me say it,” you grumbled. You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes.

“Not trying to make you do anything,” he hummed. He moved his head, nose brushing against your clit and making your breath catch. “I just don’t know how I’m supposed to know what you want me to do if you don’t tell me, and, y’know, I’d never want to do anything you didn’t want—“

“Oh my god, Steve,” you huffed, hands running through your hair where you laid against his mattress. “Are you gonna keep running your mouth all night or put it to good use again?”

Steve laughed genuinely, eyes sparkling with amusement. “You’re so feisty. I always liked that about you.”

Before you could complain anymore, he buried his face against your pussy, diving in like it had been killing him to hold himself back, too. You cried out, loud, a hand moving to slap over your mouth a second too late. You could feel his lips curling in a smile against you.

He was good, so good, you didn’t have to have any prior experience to know that. It was no wonder he had girls lining up to get in his bed. You couldn’t keep yourself quiet, his tongue fucking inside of you, drinking in all the sweetness you dripped for him, rolling his tongue over your clit. It felt like he was everywhere at once.

“Steve, fuck!” you cried, gasping and clutching onto the pillows behind your head. “Oh my god, fuck, how are you—oh fuck—“

He groaned against your cunt, the vibrations going straight through your clit and to every nerve ending in your body. He flicked his tongue over the swollen bud, wrapping his lips around it and sucking as he sunk two fingers into your fluttering hole.

“God!” you choked. Your thighs were trembling around his head already. Your hand moved down to card through his hair before gripping onto the soft strands for dear life, pulling another moan from him when your fingers tightened in them.

Steve’s fingers fucked into you, nice and slow at first, slipping in a third finger before curling deep to hit that perfect spot. He was getting you ready for his cock again, your heart beating out of your chest at the thought alone. You could see it when you closed your eyes, just as you had for the past week, and it had you growing even wetter for him.

“Steve…” you whined, your hips starting to grind against his face. He let you, moaning and working you even harder, begging for it without any words. “I’m gonna…”

“Give it to me,” he rasped, pulling away just long enough to say the words before his mouth was right back against you, delving his tongue between your folds and focusing on your clit while his fingers worked you open.

Stars exploded behind your vision. Unable to hold it back, you cried out, mindlessly babbling combinations of his name and curses and desperate pleas of don’t stop don’t stop oh please fuck god don’t stop—

Steve worked you through every last aftershock, playing your body like an instrument he knew wholly, intimately. Your body was still shaking when he pulled away. The sight of him looking down at you like that, with his lips and chin glistening with your release, made you whimper. God, why did he have to look like that?

“So fucking good,” he said, eyes dark and awed. His cock strained hard against his boxers. You could see it twitching through the material, throbbing visibly.

His hands slid up your body, looking at you with a deep reverence as he slid the dress up until it was over your head, tossing it to his floor. His eyes raked over your naked body, every inch of it, the smooth skin and the way your chest rose and fell, how wide your eyes were looking up at him, your pretty lips parted.

“I thought about you, too,” he whispered, lips ghosting over your cheek, back to your ear. “Thought about how you tasted. How tight you felt around me. The way you said my name. The noises you made…god, I came so fucking hard playing those noises over and over in my head.”

You gasped, the throbbing between your legs starting up again at his words. You’d had no idea. Why would he be thinking of you when he could have any girl at this whole school? He wasn’t just saying it. The unfiltered heat in his voice made that clear.

Steve lifted off of you slowly, eyes staying on you until he turned away to open his bedside drawer and grab one of those foil packets he seemed to have an endless supply of. He pushed his boxers down, flushed cock springing free, and kicked the last bit of clothing off the bed with the rest.

You watched him rip the foil open and roll it onto his (impressive, huge, perfect, achingly hard) cock, your pussy clenching around nothing, your body itself begging for him. He settled between your legs, wrapping his big hands around your thighs, opening you wide.

“Dreamed about this pussy,” he mumbled, wrapping a hand around his shaft and dragging his tip through your soaked folds. He pressed the thick head against your hole, pressing forward just slightly, just feeling you. You whined, rocking your hips down, begging for him inside. He smirked as he noticed, but didn’t push in yet. His expression was almost dreamy, pupils blown. “Best pussy I ever had. Fuck. Never came so fucking hard as I did inside you.”

“Steve…” you breathed, the word itself a plea.

“Tell me,” he breathed. It wasn’t a tease anymore. The need in his voice was staggering. He was begging. “Please, baby. Need to hear you say it.”

The sight of Steve, utterly wrecked like this, was almost too much to bear. You didn’t have it in you to refuse, not anymore. “Please,” you keened. “God, Steve, please fuck me.”

His eyes fluttered closed and he let out a ragged groan, even before he finally rolled his hips forward, piercing you with that perfect, thick cock. You nearly sobbed in pleasure as you felt it, that overwhelming fullness as he sank into you inch by inch. It was easier this time but still a stretch, still that distant sting until his hips pressed flush against you.

“Christ—“ Steve choked, falling forward on his hands, planting them on either side of your shoulders. “Oh, fuck.”

You rocked your hips up against him, telling him it was okay to move. Begging him to move. “Oh my god,” you moaned. Your walls throbbed around him, which was undoing him way faster than he’d care to admit.

He pulled his hips back before sinking back in. Starting slow, as if he were still trying to be careful with his last shred of restraint. It didn’t last long. The perfect clench of your heat around him was driving him mad, his thrusts quickly working up into a punishing rhythm.

Your name left his lips in a shuddering breath, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder. The sound of his skin meeting yours filled the room, your cunt so slick and wet around him you could hear it every time he drove in. He fucked you harder than he had last time, something you didn’t even know you’d craved until you had it.

“So fucking—god—you feel so fucking good,” he grunted, his body slick with sweat where it was pressed against yours. You hooked a leg around his waist as he reached down with one hand to grab your thigh and press it up against your chest.

The angle was devastating, his cock hitting deeper inside of you than you thought possible. Your eyes rolled back as he punched soft, mindless little “ah ah ah”s from your lungs with every thrust.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. His eyes squeezed shut, sweat beading on his forehead with the effort of how hard he fucked you. The headboard knocked against the wall, chipping the paint from the force of it, the sound unmistakable for anyone who happened to walk by. “Gonna make me cum so fucking hard again. Fuck. Oh, fuck, baby, you’re so perfect, so goddamn—oh shit—“

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulling on it the way you now knew he liked. The desperate groan he let out was muffled as you pulled him down to your lips, his tongue immediately licking into your mouth. The kiss was utterly filthy, saliva dripping down the side of your mouth—yours, his, both.

The whines he was letting out were growing higher, needier. All signs of that cocky, insufferable personality were gone, nothing but pleasure and desire coursing through him. His fingers dug bruises into your thigh as he snapped his hips forward harder, and oh fuck, he was hitting that spot again—

“Steve!” you gasped, head tossing back against the pillows. Steve’s lips moved down the exposed column of your throat, placing hot, wet kisses everywhere he could reach. “Oh, fuck, Steve, I’m gonna fucking cum—“

“Please,” he begged, his voice a ragged growl against your throat. “Let me feel you. Squeeze my cock, milk me fuckin’ dry, please.”

That coil snapped again, hard, the moan it forced from you more like a scream. It was loud, you knew it was loud, but you couldn’t help it, completely delirious with the intensity of the pleasure. Your back arched beneath him, moaning and crying out and calling his name again and again.

Steve let out a choked noise at the feeling of you tightening around him, clenching and throbbing hard. His hips rutted into you with a desperate, frantic intensity, rhythm completely gone as he chased his own orgasm. He was right behind you, only a couple more shallow thrusts until he was stilling as deep inside you as possible. He groaned roughly, his head dropping to bury his face right between your tits as his body shuddered with release. You could feel him pulsing inside you even through the condom.

The room calmed, your heavy breathing the only sounds remaining. His weight was heavy over you, but you didn’t mind. You didn’t exactly want him to move, at least not yet. In the quiet aftermath, you relished in the feeling of him, his cock still throbbing inside as he slowly softened.

When he finally mustered up the energy to move he lifted off of you, pulling out and removing the condom, tossing it in the trash. You couldn’t bring yourself to look and see if there was proof of him having any other girls in here since you’d been with him. You didn’t know why you cared.

Steve sat on the edge of the bed, his arms resting on his knees. He was still catching his breath as you sat up, reality beginning to creep back in like unforgiving daylight after the safety of the night.

He turned his head to look at you, lips curling into a smile again. His skin still glistened with sweat. “Was it as good as the first time?” He asked, once again breaking the spell with his big mouth. “What you were hoping for when you showed up here tonight, dressed like that?”

You scoffed, sliding off the bed to collect your clothes again. Now that you’d gotten what you’d been craving, the desperation that had been clouding your brain was gone. That familiar shame was crawling over you again.

“What?” he laughed. “You can say it, y’know. Doesn’t mean you have to like me just because you like fucking me.”

You hesitated for a moment, then moved again, pulling your panties back over your legs. “Don’t.”

“Come on, baby,” he goaded, leaning back on the bed. He watched you, propped up on one arm, once again unbothered by being completely exposed to you. “Would it really be so bad to admit it?”

You didn’t look at him, but you could feel his eyes staring at your ass as you pulled your panties back on. “Fine,” you finally huffed, turning around. You clutched your dress in your hands, nearly throwing it at him when he didn’t even try to hide the way his gaze dropped down to your tits. “You’re good. It was amazing. Is that what you want to hear?”

He grinned. “I just wanted to hear the truth.” He shrugged playfully. “I mean, I already knew, just wanted to hear you admit it. Not for me, but for yourself.”

“Aren’t you altruistic,” you muttered, pulling the dress back over your head. The way his brow furrowed for a moment showed he didn’t know what the word meant, but he didn’t press.

Finally he sat up, beginning to replace his own clothes. “It’s okay that you can’t stay away. I get it. It’s good sex.”

“I can stay away—“

“Sure,” he interrupted, lifting his hips to get his boxers back on. “But you don’t want to, right?”

You paused. You hadn’t let yourself think about that. If it was okay to let yourself want this. Just because you hated Steve so bad, because you didn’t want anyone to know this was happening. But did that make it bad? Did it make you wrong? Weak, like you’d felt all week, and especially tonight?

Maybe he was right. It was good sex.

After buttoning his jeans, Steve stood to face you. He ran a hand through his hair, looking in the mirror behind you for just a second before focusing back on you. “Look,” he started, but it was hard to pay attention when he was standing there shirtless like that. “I think we could help each other.”

You forced your eyes back up to his face, the smirk sitting there evidence that he’d seen you staring. “Help each other?”

He walked over to you, hands resting on your hips again. You didn’t push him away, holding his gaze. “Yeah. Help each other. I told you I liked it too, didn’t I?”

You weren’t sure what to say. You’d heard him say it, when he was buried inside you, moaning your name, but you figured it was just…talk. Heat of the moment. Nothing real. Nothing you said or felt when you were fucking was real.

Your lack of a response didn’t deter him. His fingers flexed on your hips, but he didn’t pull you closer. “We could make this a casual thing,” he offered, finally putting the words out there. “You like it, I like it. Why not keep having fun together?”

You turned his words over and over in your head. It felt like far more than the seconds it actually took as you thought over his proposition. What it meant, what it changed, how it felt.

But the memory of the past week played through your mind on repeat. How miserable you’d been, the way you couldn’t get him out of your head. That he was right, the sex had been so good you’d craved it day and night, and the second time had been just as good, if not better.

Steve waited patiently, but he knew your answer before you finally forced it out. “…Okay. Yeah. I guess.”

He grinned, squeezing your hips one more time before moving back. “Okay then. Good.”

“But we keep this between us,” you added quickly. “I’m serious. Just us. You don’t tell your friends and I won’t tell mine.”

He looked amused, but he didn’t argue. “What kind of guy do you think I am?”

You stared at him. “Steve.”

“Okay,” he laughed, pulling his shirt back on. “I won’t tell a soul. You have my word.”

You let out a sigh, both relief and anxiety at once. Turning to his mirror, you fixed your hair, cleaning up your smudged makeup. “It means nothing, and no one knows.”

The heat of his body suddenly behind you made you jump. But he just stood next to you, fixing his own appearance.

“It means nothing,” he repeated. “And no one knows.”

part two soooooon

as always, comments and reblogs are so appreciated!

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When he gets himself a new accessory for work, a thigh holster for his gun, you almost pass out on the spot. He notices when you lift your head from his sheets as he's getting ready for work, your hair still a mess and the comforter slipping down your bare skin, and your eyes bug out of your head, immediately feeling the pressure in your gut.

He grins, because of course he does, walking over to the bed, his hips swaying arrogantly in the way they always do and he squats down by the side of the bed.

"You like that, huh?" He says, his voice is low and teasing as he takes your chin between his thumb and forefinger. You nod, your teeth catching your bottom lip as you look down at his thigh, then back up at his face. He pulls your lip free with his thumb, and runs his calloused skin across it.

"You be a good girl and wait right here for me, an' I'll let ya have some fun with it later, yeah?" He says, leaning in so his lips ghost over yours, revelling in the way you've turned to putty in his hands.

Your roommate Keys is absolutely clueless. That's what drives you insane about him, he sits opposite you, having no idea about the torment he's putting you through by merely existing. You have to try insanely hard to focus on what he's saying, and not get distracted by his cushiony lips, or his perfectly messy hair, or the smart stuff coming out of his mouth, spouting words you can't string together.

But when he's eating, twirling his noodles around his fork and you ask him how his day was, he looks up at you, your eyes connecting over the brim of his glasses, and you lose your train of thought. The frames have slipped down his nose enough to make him look like a professor from one of your romance books.

He has to wave in your face to bring you back to the moment. "Hey? You alright?" He asks, his brows furrowing slightly as his voice softens.

"Mhm." You say, pressing your thighs tightly together as you shift in your seat. He narrows his eyes, but then blinks it away, and lifts his hand to straighten his frames.

Your hand is wrapped around his wrist before you can stop it, and he stops mid-bite. "Leave them." You manage to choke out, and his eyebrows furrow for approximately three seconds before they raise in understanding.

"Really?" He asks, a flush creeping up his neck.

"Uh-huh." You nod, and before you know it, he's across the table, your leg pulled up around his hip as his fingers thread through your hair.

Travis slams the washing machine closed harder than necessary, every time. But you've come to love the noise, because it alerts you that he's back from the gym, and you stick your head out of the bedroom to see him drinking from his water bottle in the kitchen.

Under the light, his biceps glisten with sweat, the roots of his hair are damp, and a droplet of water drips down his chin. But nothing beats the way that he smells. You make your way out of the bedroom and over to him, pulling on his shirt to bring his mouth to yours, taking in the scent of his natural musk, and his half-faded cologne.

He startles when your tongue brushes his, and your fingers tug his shirt up. "Mmph- babe-" he mumbles between kisses, "I should shower- first."

"Uh-uh." You hum against him, tugging his shirt up as you break away. "You smell too good, need you right now."

He doesn't resist, in fact, he helps you discard his shirt and cups your head in his hands. "I dunno about good- but I ain't passin' you up." He says, bending to pull your legs up around his waist so he can set you on the kitchen counter.

"Kurt? Can you get this for me?" You call from the kitchen, and Kurt is there in an instant, skidding slightly on the kitchen tile. He sees you pointing your spoon up at the flour, which is on the top shelf of the cupboard, just out of your reach. He doesn't even question why you're not using the little stool he bought you for this specific scenario, he's just happy to help.

Your eyes drop the second he lifts his arms, straight down to where his t-shirt rides up, giving you the full display of his happy trail. The line of coarse hair is dark against his pale, soft tummy, and leads down underneath the waistband of his boxers.

He grabs the flour easily, and holds it out for you, confused about what it is that you're looking at. His first instinct is to get a little self conscious, and pulls on the hem of his t-shirt as it lowers back down to the top of his jeans.

You ignore the flour in his hand, and use the spoon to lift his t-shirt back up to see the hair again. He looks down, his eyebrows creased as the wooden spoon grazes his skin, sending a shiver up his spine.

"Once this cake is in the oven I have thirty minutes, and I'm gonna fuck you. Okay?" You say sweetly, pushing up onto your toes to kiss his cheek before taking the flour out of his hand. His hand stays still, not dropping from where it was holding the flour moments ago.

"Uh-huh." He swallows thickly, nodding quickly as his cock already starts to stir, still in disbelief that something so small could turn you on so much. "Not gonna argue with that."

You're lying on Steve's bed, holding a magazine above your head, flicking through the pages until you come across an article that will help you decide whether you're more like Cyndi Lauper or Joan Jett. Anything to not look at the headache-inducing wallpaper that Steve has plastered all around his room.

The bathroom door opens and Steve emerges, his hair dripping from the shower, little water droplets clinging to his chest hair, and a towel wrapped low on his hips. He pads over to the mirror to grab his hairbrush, completely oblivious to the way your magazine is slipping from your hands as you stared at him open-mouthed until the glossy pages smacked into your face.

He turns to see you throwing it down and sitting up on your knees to watch the muscles in his back move as he pulled the brush through his hair. "What?" He asks, eyes flicking between you and the mirror, wondering whether he forgot to wash off some soap or something.

"You look good." You say, your eyes moving over the moles dotted along his ribs that lead down to the top of the towel. He scoffs, shaking his head.

"I look like a wet dog." He laughs softly, brushing his hair back.

"I feel like a wet dog."

He turned to look at you, his eyes wide and mouth open in disbelief, curling upwards at the corners. "What did you just say?" He asks, half-laughing.

You shrug, crawling along the bed until you reach the edge, and reaching out to grab the towel and pull him closer to the bed. He stumbles forward, still laughing softly. "Babe- I'm wet."

"Yeah, so am I." You say, pulling him down on top of you.

Baron gets a little too into his work sometimes, leaning forward with his elbows on the kitchen table, papers scattered everywhere, and his hair sticking up from where he'd been leaning on his hand.

You walk into the kitchen to put your plate in the dishwasher, and notice his tired eyes under the dim lighting hanging above him. He's wearing an old t-shirt and sweatpants, with his pen between his teeth. You head over, standing next to his chair and running your hand through the back of his hair. He sighs and wraps his arm around your thighs, his thumb trailing over your skin as he kept his focus on his work.

"Hi sweetheart." He mumbles, his thumb grazing along the back of your thigh just underneath the hem of your shorts. The gentle touch sends goosebumps trailing down your thigh, the little hairs standing on end. You lean your cheek against his head as your nails gently scrape down the back of his neck.

He notices the little shift between your feet as he brushes his thumb against your skin again, not turning to look up at you, but his eyebrow lifts in acknowledgement. He does it again, more purposeful this time, and immediatley clocks the hitch in your breathing, deciding that he's suddenly done enough work and shifts the chair back to pull you into his lap.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gator didn't think. He just moved.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I -“

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

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

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

"Bullshit.”

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

“Fuck, don’t be - I wasn’t gonna -“

“Don’t touch me.”

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

“He hittin’ you?"

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

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

“I’m not -“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You don't have to -“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can’t do what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gator froze.

Hurt you?

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

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

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

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

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

“What’re you sorry about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it was your chest that broke him.

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

The brand of Caleb.

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

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

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

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

But then he looked at your face.

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

He couldn’t let that happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You.”

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

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

“Said I was what?”

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

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

"He was… Jealous?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you -“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What about my internship?”

“The one his daddy got you?”

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

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

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

“How to what?”

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

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

“But how -“

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

“A gun?!”

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

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

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

Your shoulders relaxed half an inch.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hung your head, and Gator had his answer.

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

All you could over him was a small nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trembling, you nodded.

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

You looked at him, confusion warring with fear.

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

With that, the dam broke.

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

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

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

"Did he… Often?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The smell of coffee filled the kitchen long before the sun managed to.

Morning light spilled through the old windows in pale strips, catching dust motes that drifted lazily through the air while the ancient radiator groaned somewhere deeper in the house. For once, things felt almost normal. 

You stood at the counter in one of your aunt's oversized sweaters, wrapping both hands around a chipped ceramic mug while the coffee finished brewing. The events of the previous night lingered at the edges of your mind like a dream you couldn't quite shake.

The ritual. The vision. The rush of power that had felt so natural in the moment and so strange afterward. You'd woken up tangled in blankets with the lingering memory of Eddie's arms around you and spent the better part of twenty minutes trying not to think about any of it.

Then the doorbell rang, the sound echoing sharply through the house. You glanced toward the foyer automatically.

Normally, one of your mothers would've answered it, but the house was unusually quiet this morning. Your aunt had already disappeared downstairs into the morgue, and your mother had left before sunrise to pick up some paperwork from town.

The bell rang again. You sighed and set your mug down. "Coming."

Your socks slid slightly against the hardwood as you crossed the foyer, reaching for the brass handle without much thought. Most visitors fell into two categories around here: customers, or weirdos obsessed with the house's history. 

You were expecting the first. Instead, you opened the door and found a terrified teenage boy standing on your porch. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The kid looked awful.

His face had gone pale beneath a sheen of sweat, dark circles hanging beneath bloodshot eyes like bruises. His blond hair stuck out in every direction, as if he'd spent the night repeatedly dragging his hands through it.

More than anything, though, he looked exhausted. Not tired, but haunted, like he hadn't slept for a second.

His eyes locked onto yours immediately. Relief flashed across his face, then fear. The kind that sat deep in the bones.

"Finally."

Your eyebrows lifted slightly, the familiarity of the statement caught you off guard.

"Can I help you?"

His expression faltered.

"You know exactly why I'm here."

You stared. "No," you replied honestly. "I don't."

The boy laughed a short, sharp sound. "Cut the bullshit."

His gaze darted nervously over your shoulder, toward the house looming behind you.

"You did something to me."

Now that was interesting. You leaned casually against the doorframe. "What kind of something?"

The boy swallowed. "I can't sleep." His voice came out quieter this time. "I close my eyes, and they're there."

You tilted your head. "They?"

His face visibly paled. "The spiders." A pause. "And the snakes."

You nearly smiled. Instead you settled for a look of polite confusion.

"I'm sorry," you said. "The what?"

His breathing quickened. "No,” he pointed at you. "You know."

The certainty in his voice wavered. Because the more normal you looked standing there in your oversized sweater, the crazier he sounded.

"I saw you."

You folded your arms. "Saw me where?"

His mouth opened, then closed. Because how exactly was he supposed to explain that? How was he supposed to tell another human being that he'd spent the entire night trapped inside a nightmare while he thought he’d saw the girl he'd insulted standing in the darkness watching him?

You watched realization dawn slowly across his face: nobody was going to believe him. Not his friends. Not his parents. Not the police. Not anyone. And certainly not the girl standing in front of him looking mildly concerned.

"I..." he began weakly.

You smiled, small and sympathetic, but cruel only if someone knew where to look for it. 

"I think you should get some sleep." Then, you shut the door. 

You stood there for a moment, hand still resting on the knob, staring through the stained glass panel as the boy practically sprinted down the walkway. Halfway to the street, he looked over his shoulder, like he expected something to be following him.

The corners of your mouth twitched upward. The coffee had finished brewing while you were gone, the rich smell filling the room as morning sunlight spilled across the countertops. For a brief second, it almost felt domestic, normal, maybe. 

Until you walked through the doorway and found Eddie leaning against the refrigerator with his arms crossed, watching you. A slow grin spread across his face the moment your eyes met.

"Oh, that was evil."

You snorted, reaching for your mug. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." His grin widened.

You took a sip of coffee, refusing to look guilty. "I genuinely don't know that boy."

"Right."

"He came to my house rambling about spiders."

"Mhm."

"I was concerned."

Eddie barked out a laugh. The sound filled the kitchen, warm and genuine, and for a moment you forgot about haunted houses and trapped souls and ancient covens.

Then he shook his head, dark curls falling into his eyes. "You should've seen your face."

"What face?"

"The innocent one."

You pressed a hand dramatically against your chest. "I am innocent."

"You're a terrible liar."

You tried not to smile, which failed miserably when Eddie gave you a look to break whatever innocent game you were playing at. His gaze lasted longer than necessary, his devilish smirk softening into a genuine smile. 

"What?" you asked.

"Nothing." That answer was immediate.

You narrowed your eyes. "Eddie."

"It's just..." He shrugged. "You've changed."

The words weren't accusatory. If anything, they sounded fascinated.

You leaned against the counter. "I got attacked by ghosts."

"You hexed a guy."

You lifted a finger. "He deserved it."

"I'm not saying he didn't." The amusement returned briefly before fading again. His eyes drifted toward the window, toward the sprawling property beyond it, toward the house itself.

"When I met you," he said quietly, "you were scared to walk into half the rooms in this place."

"And now?" he continued.

You waited while a slow smile pulled at his mouth. "Now you're terrifying."

You laughed. "You like it," you accused.

His eyebrows lifted. "Maybe."

"You do."

"Maybe I do."

"That's concerning," you informed him.

"Probably."

"You should be alarmed."

"I should."

You pointed your mug at him. "But you're not."

His eyes met yours, “No."

You rolled your eyes. "You're impossible."

"No," Eddie murmured, still looking at you. "I just think you're worrying about the wrong thing."

"And what's the right thing?"

The smile on his face softened. "Sweetheart, I'm dead."

You blinked. His gaze drifted briefly over your shoulder, toward the staircase leading deeper into the house. "Been dead for a long time, too."

"Eddie—"

"No, hear me out. When I first met you, you were alive in the most normal way possible."

You snorted. "Wow. Romantic."

"Shut up."

You laughed again, but he kept going. "You were worried about moving to a new shitty town and whether the house was haunted."

"Really? It’s haunted?"

"Very haunted."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome."

The corner of his mouth twitched, then he grew serious again. "And now? You talk to the dead like they're neighbors." 

You opened your mouth, then closed it again. Because he wasn't wrong.

"And last night you crawled into somebody's head and took his manhood. For fun, may I add."

"So no." His eyes dropped briefly to your lips before returning to your face. "I'm not alarmed."

You hated the way your pulse reacted to that. "Eddie."

"What?"

"You make that sound way creepier than you think."

He laughed softly. "Maybe."

Then his expression softened once more. "If anything, I think we're finally starting to make sense."

You stared at him. "What does that even mean?"

His grin widened. "Sweetheart, I'm dead."

He spread his hands. "You're becoming some powerful witch that can make a man lose sleep and reverse puberty on demand."

"Eddie."

"I'm just saying."

He pointed between the two of you, "Sounds like a match made in heaven."

A pause, then he tilted his head in thought, "Or hell."

Another pause, "Or whatever the supernatural equivalent of aggressively codependent soulmates is."

That affected you in a way you weren’t all that ready for. 

Maybe it was the way he said it. Maybe it was the look on his face afterward, like he'd spoken before he could stop himself. Whatever it was, it left you standing there staring at him while your coffee grew cold in your hands.

Eddie seemed to realize what he'd said a second later, and for once, he didn't have a joke ready.

"You know," you said eventually, trying and failing to ignore the way your pulse had picked up, "for somebody who claims he's dead, you're ridiculously dramatic."

A laugh escaped him. "Claims?"

"You know what I mean."

"I don't, actually."

You rolled your eyes.

Eddie stepped closer, the movement casual enough that it should've been harmless. You could feel his presence before he touched you, the familiar pull of him settling into the space around you.

"I think you're just avoiding the conversation."

"What conversation?"

"The one where I said we're soulmates."

You groaned. "Oh, my God."

"What?"

"You are unbelievable."

"I thought it was pretty romantic."

"It was objectively terrible."

He looked genuinely offended. "I spent ten years dead, and that's the reaction I get?"

"You survived."

"No, I literally didn’t."

You laughed despite yourself, and the victorious look that crossed his face made it immediately obvious that had been his goal all along. The idiot.

Your smile lingered longer than you meant it to, and before you could look away, Eddie's gaze dropped to your mouth again.

You weren't entirely sure who moved first. Maybe it was him, maybe it was you. Maybe after everything that had happened, the ghosts, the spells, the house, the way he'd looked at you all morning, it didn't really matter.

The kiss started soft, not tentative, just slow. Like neither of you were in any hurry to get anywhere. His hand found your waist while yours slid into the curls at the back of his neck, and for a moment the rest of the world disappeared entirely.

You forgot about the house. Forgot about Myrtle. Forgot about whatever ancient evil was apparently living beneath your basement. All you could think about was Eddie.

The way he smiled against your mouth. The way his thumb brushed lightly against your side. The way he kissed you like he'd been waiting a very long time to do it. Which, to be fair, he probably had. When you finally pulled back, it wasn't because either of you wanted to; it was because you were both smiling too much to keep kissing properly.

Eddie rested his forehead against yours. "You know," he murmured, sounding entirely too pleased with himself, "I think this is the healthiest relationship I've had."

You barked out a laugh. "Eddie."

"I'm serious."

“It’s not like you can exactly go out on many dates.”

His grin widened. "The competition isn't exactly fierce."

You shoved him lightly. The movement barely budged him, but he laughed anyway. God, you loved the way his dimples looked when he laughed. The thought was interrupted by the sharp ring of the doorbell.

Neither of you moved, and the bell rang again.

Eddie groaned dramatically. "No."

You buried your face in his shoulder, already laughing. "It could be important."

"It isn't."

"You don't know that."

"I absolutely do."

The doorbell rang a third time, and Eddie pulled back just enough to look at you. "It's him."

You blinked. "Who?"

"The kid."

"What kid?"

"The one whose life you've ruined."

You stared; his expression remained completely serious. "The poor bastard finally worked up the courage to come back."

"Oh, my God."

"'Ma'am,'" Eddie said, pitching his voice higher. "'Please. The spiders are unionizing, and my dick still doesn't work.'"

You nearly choked laughing. "Eddie!"

"I'm just saying."

The doorbell rang again. "He sounds desperate."

You shoved him away before he could continue. "Go."

"Rude."

"Disappear. You’re dead, remember? He can’t see you."

He sighed heavily, like you'd asked him to perform manual labor. "This relationship is built on oppression."

"Eddie."

"Fine."

His grin never faded. But before he disappeared, he leaned forward and pressed one last quick kiss to your forehead. And with that, he vanished.

The bell rang one final time just as you reached it. "Coming."

You pulled the door open, fully prepared to find either an impatient customer or the victim of your latest magical mistake.

Instead, you found a man standing on the porch: Wayne Munson. 

You pulled the door open and immediately stopped. For a second, your brain didn't quite catch up with what you were seeing.

"Wayne?"

The older man looked almost as surprised as you did. Not because he'd found the wrong house, but because you were apparently the one answering the door.

"Hey, kid."

You blinked. "Hi."

The greeting came out far more confused than you'd intended. Wayne huffed a quiet laugh through his nose and glanced briefly over his shoulder toward the driveway before looking back at you.

"What are you doing here?" you finally asked.

Wayne rubbed a hand across the back of his neck. "That's a fair question."

The answer immediately made you suspicious. Because Wayne Munson struck you as the kind of person who always had a reason for showing up somewhere.

You stepped aside. "You wanna come in?"

"If you're sure."

"I'm not," you admitted.

That earned a genuine laugh. "Fair enough."

You led him into the kitchen, grabbing another mug while he settled into one of the chairs at the table. For a minute, the conversation stayed comfortably normal. Coffee. The weather. Whether you'd adjusted to the house.

Wayne seemed perfectly content talking about anything except whatever had actually brought him here. Eventually you gave up waiting.

"Okay."

He glanced up. "Okay?"

"You drove all the way out here for a reason."

Wayne sighed. "Yeah."

You waited. He stared into his coffee for a moment, then another. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter.

"You remember what happened at Halloween?"

Immediately. The trailer. Eddie. The conversation neither of you had really known how to navigate.

You nodded slowly. "Yeah."

Wayne rubbed his thumb against the side of the mug. "I've been thinking about that."

You didn't say anything, just allowed him to continue. "I know what you told me."

His eyes lifted to yours. "And I know I probably sound crazy bringing it up again."

You almost laughed. Of all the people in the room, Wayne was definitely not the one who sounded crazy. But there was something so sincere about the way he said it that you couldn't bring yourself to interrupt.

He looked away again. "I guess I just wanted to talk."

The admission seemed to embarrass him slightly. Not enough to stop, just enough that he cleared his throat afterward.

"You don't have to do anything."

You frowned. "Wayne—"

"No, I mean it."

His gaze returned to yours. "I didn't come here expecting anything."

That was probably true, or at least he wanted it to be. Wayne took a slow breath. "It's just..." He paused. "Some days are harder than others."

Your chest ached. Not because he was crying, not because he was falling apart, because he wasn't. Because grief had settled so deeply into him that he could talk about it calmly, like an old injury. One he'd learned to live around.

"I just wanted to know if he's okay."

The question hung quietly between you. You looked down at your hands for a moment, trying to figure out how to answer. Trying to decide whether you should explain that ghosts weren't exactly a topic with straightforward answers. Trying to decide how much to tell him.

Then Wayne's eyes shifted. Not to you, past you. The change was so subtle you almost missed it. His brow furrowed slightly, confusion flickering across his face. You turned automatically and nearly jumped.

Eddie was standing three feet behind you. No warning. No dramatic entrance. Just there. One second the space had been empty; the next it wasn't. You weren't even sure how long he'd been listening.

His eyes never left Wayne. Wayne stared, not moving, not speaking. Just staring at the young man standing in your kitchen exactly as he'd looked the day he died. For a moment, nobody said anything.

Then Eddie shoved his hands into his pockets and offered a small, nervous smile. The kind you'd never seen him wear before. "Hey, old man."

The coffee mug slipped slightly in Wayne's hands. And when he finally spoke, his voice sounded like it had been dragged up from somewhere deep inside him.

"Jesus Christ."

Eddie laughed, softly. "Yeah."

Wayne stared at him for another second before a rough laugh escaped him, the sound halfway between disbelief and relief. “Look at you,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Still got that damn hair.”

Eddie snorted. “What, you thought my hair was gonna change in a month?”

“Was kinda hopin’.” The tension broke just enough for both of them to smile.

You watched the exchange quietly from your chair, feeling like an intruder in a moment that wasn't really yours. For all the jokes and sarcasm Eddie hid behind, you'd never seen him look like this before. Softer. Younger, somehow. Less like the ghost trapped in the house on Loc Nora and more like somebody's nephew.

Wayne seemed to notice it too. His eyes never left Eddie, like he was trying to memorize him all over again. You swallowed against the sudden tightness in your chest.

"Why don't..." you started carefully, drawing both of their attention. "Why don't you guys go talk?"

Eddie looked at you. Wayne looked at you. You pointed vaguely toward the back door. "The garden's nice."

Eddie immediately shook his head. "No."

You blinked. "No?"

"No."

You narrowed your eyes. "Eddie."

His expression shifted into something stubborn. "You don't gotta leave because of me."

Your heart squeezed a little. Idiot. You smiled despite yourself and walked over to where he stood. "I'm not leaving because of you," you said softly. "I'm giving you space."

His eyes searched yours for a moment, and the stubbornness slowly faded. Wayne looked away, suddenly very interested in his coffee.

You reached for Eddie's hand and gave it a small squeeze. "Go."

His gaze dropped briefly to where your fingers were wrapped around his, then back to your face. "You sure?"

You nodded, and the corner of his mouth twitched. "Okay."

For a second, he just stood there, looking at you like he wanted to say something else. Then he squeezed your hand back and looked at Wayne. "C'mon, old man."

Wayne laughed quietly as he stood. "You’re still bossy as hell."

"You have no idea."

The two of them headed toward the back door together, Wayne shaking his head while Eddie immediately started talking about something before they even reached the porch. You smiled as they disappeared outside.

For the first time since you'd met him, Eddie looked... lighter. And if anyone deserved that, it was him.

You grabbed your coffee and settled back into your chair. Only a few minutes passed before your aunt appeared from the basement, your mother following behind her. Both of them watched through the back window for a moment.

Wayne and Eddie sat together near the edge of the garden, talking quietly beneath the late afternoon sun.

Your mother smiled softly. "That was kind of you."

You shrugged. "He needed it."

Your aunt hummed in agreement before moving toward the coffee pot. "There is another matter."

Immediately suspicious, you looked up. "What matter?"

The look exchanged between your mothers did absolutely nothing to ease your concerns. "Myrtle wishes to speak with you."

You froze. "...About?"

Your aunt poured herself a cup. "She didn't say."

"That's never a good sign."

"No," your mother admitted. "Usually it isn't."

You groaned. "Great."

Your aunt smiled into her coffee. "She'd like you at her shop tomorrow morning."

You frowned. "Her shop?"

"Myrtle owns an apothecary in town," your mother explained. "Books, herbs, charms, divination supplies. It's where most local practitioners go when they need something specific."

That somehow made you more nervous. "And she specifically asked for me?"

Both women nodded. You stared at them. "Fantastic."

Your aunt's smile widened. "On the bright side, she sounded impressed."

"That's supposed to make me feel better?"

"No."

You sighed dramatically and sank lower into your chair. 

The conversation between Wayne and Eddie stretched far longer than either of them intended.

At first, it was the obvious things. Questions Wayne had been carrying around for years. Questions Eddie answered with an awkwardness you'd never seen from him before. Then it became stories. Old memories. Arguments about things that happened a decade ago that somehow still mattered.

Hours slipped by. The sun climbed higher, and every time you glanced out a window, they were still there. Sometimes sitting in the garden. Sometimes walking the property. Sometimes just standing beneath the old oak tree near the edge of the yard, talking quietly between themselves.

Neither seemed eager to end it, not that you blamed them.

By early afternoon, you found yourself lingering less and less around the windows. The conversation wasn't yours to listen to, and every time you accidentally caught sight of them, Wayne's expression looked a little lighter. So you left them alone.

The house had finally settled into something resembling peace for the first time in days. No angry spirits. No surprise hauntings. No attempted murder in the shower. A welcome change.

You eventually retreated upstairs with a towel thrown over your shoulder, deciding that if the world wasn't ending for once, you might as well enjoy a hot shower. The bathroom window overlooked most of the property.

You glanced outside while the water warmed. Wayne was still there, only now he wasn't talking to Eddie. Your mother and aunt stood with him near the garden gate, speaking quietly amongst themselves. You frowned slightly. That’s odd. 

You searched for Eddie automatically but couldn't find him anywhere. Maybe he'd wandered off. Maybe he'd gone back inside. Maybe he'd finally gotten tired of talking. Whatever the reason, it wasn't your business.

You shrugged it off, then stepped into the shower. Steam quickly filled the room.

The hot water felt incredible against your skin, easing tension you hadn't realized you'd been carrying all day. You tilted your head back beneath the spray, letting it soak through your hair while the noise of the water drowned out everything else.

For several minutes, you thought about absolutely nothing. Which was rare. Then, you felt it. Not saw. Not heard. Felt. That familiar shift in the air, a presence. Your eyes immediately opened. And despite yourself, a laugh escaped you.

"Eddie." Silence.

You rolled your eyes. "You know I can tell it's you, right?" Still nothing.

The feeling lingered. You laughed again, shampoo sliding through your fingers as you shook your head.

"Show yourself. Or I can just make you, y’know?"

His voice came from somewhere in the room immediately. "Now where's the fun in that?"

Your grin widened. "There you are."

"Technically, there I am not."

You snorted. The voice shifted locations. Suddenly sounding like it was right beside the sink. Then near the door. Then somewhere above you. Show-off.

"You've spent all day with Wayne and somehow became more annoying."

"I learned from the best."

You gasped dramatically. "Wow."

"Sorry."

"That wasn't even believable."

"You're right."

The water continued running between you. A comfortable silence settled for a moment.

Then, "I missed you." The confession came so casually that it took you a second to process it. 

You froze. "Excuse me?"

You could practically hear the grin in his voice. "It's been like six hours."

"You were literally with your uncle."

"Doesn't mean I didn't miss you."

Heat crawled into your cheeks, which was ridiculous; you were already standing under hot water. "You are impossible."

"That's not a denial."

You pointed accusingly toward where you thought he might be. "You are abusing the fact that I can't see you."

"Probably."

You groaned.

The bastard was absolutely smiling right now. Then, after a moment, his voice softened slightly.

"You okay?" The teasing was gone, just like that. 

"...Yeah."

"You sure?"

A small devious smile tugged at your mouth. "Yeah."

Silence lingered for a second. Then, "Good."

The water keeps pounding down, but there’s a slight, almost charged shift in the air. You tilt your head back again, letting the spray hit your chest, and try to ignore the way your skin prickles with awareness.

Then his hand is there; cool fingers sliding up the inside of your thigh, slow and deliberate, like he’s mapping every inch of wet skin. You jolt, a sharp inhale cutting through the steam.

“Eddie—” His name breaks off into a shaky breath as those fingers brush higher, teasing along your folds without giving you what you want. Just light touches, disappearing the second you roll your hips forward to chase them.

“Shh,” his voice murmurs right against your ear, low and amused, even though you still can’t see him. “You said you were okay. Let me take care of you.”

You brace one hand on the tiled wall, the other fisting in your own hair as his touch returns; firmer this time, two fingers circling your clit with maddening precision. The contrast of hot water and his cool skin makes everything sharper. He presses one finger inside you, then two, curling just right, and your moan echoes off the walls.

But the second your thighs start to tremble, he pulls back, completely.

“Fuck,” you hiss, frustration sparking hot in your belly. “Eddie, don’t—”

He chuckles, the sound circling you like smoke. Then you feel the blunt head of his cock: hard, cool, leaking, nudging against your entrance. He rubs it up and down your slit, teasing, pressing just the tip inside before pulling out again. Over and over, shallow little thrusts that stretch you for half a second and then leave you empty, aching.

You try to reach back for him, but your hands meet nothing but steam and water. He’s fully invisible, fully in control, and it’s driving you insane in the best worst way.

“Eddie, please—” The words slip out before you can stop them. He rewards you by pushing the tip in again, a little deeper this time, rocking just enough to brush that spot inside you before withdrawing completely.

“Not yet, sweetheart,” he whispers, voice rough with want. “Want to hear you beg a little more. Been thinking about this all day, how tight and warm you get when you’re desperate.”

You’re panting now, forehead pressed to the cool tile, hips rocking uselessly into nothing. Every time you get close, he senses it and eases off, leaving you throbbing and empty. The edge is sharp, almost painful, and the power within you begins to coil tightly with impatience.

You’ve had enough. Your voice comes out low, commanding, and laced with intent.

“Show yourself. Now.”

The air ripples and Eddie materializes behind you with a soft groan, solid and flushed, his hands immediately gripping your hips like he can’t help it. His cock is flushed dark and slick from teasing you, pressed hot against your ass.

“Fuck, that’s hot when you do that,” he growls, spinning you around and slamming his mouth to yours. The kiss is filthy, tongue and teeth and hunger, as he backs you against the wall, lifting one of your legs around his waist.

He doesn’t wait. He thrusts into you in one smooth, deep stroke, burying himself to the hilt. You cry out into his mouth, nails digging into his shoulders as he starts fucking you hard under the spray; deep, punishing strokes that make your back slide against the tile with every snap of his hips.

“Like this?” he rasps against your throat, biting down hard enough to mark. “This what you needed, baby? My cock splitting you open after I got you all worked up?”

You nod frantically, one hand fisted in his wet curls, the other clawing down his back. He’s relentless—dominant and possessive, one hand pinning your wrist above your head while the other grips your thigh, holding you open for him. The angle lets him hit deep every time, the coolness of him inside your heat making you clench tighter around him.

You push against his chest suddenly, using a flicker of intent to guide him. He stumbles back a step, eyes wide and dark with surprise and lust as you shut off the water and drag him out of the shower by his hand. Water drips everywhere as you pull him down the hall to your bedroom, both of you leaving wet footprints and not caring.

The second the door shuts, you shove him onto the bed. He lands on his back with a surprised laugh that turns into a groan when you climb on top of him, straddling his hips and sinking down onto his cock in one smooth motion.

“My turn,” you tell him, rolling your hips in a slow, filthy grind.

Eddie’s hands fly to your waist, but you grab his wrists and pin them above his head, leaning down so your breasts brush his chest. You ride him hard; deep, deliberate circles that have him cursing and thrusting up to meet you.

“Fuck—yes—use me,” he pants, head thrown back, curls splayed across your pillow. His hips buck wildly, but you control the pace, slowing down every time he gets close, just like he did to you.

You lean forward and bite his collarbone, then his nipple, dragging your nails down his chest hard enough to leave fresh red lines. He arches into it with a wrecked moan, cock twitching inside you.

“Look at me,” you command softly. His eyes snap open, dark and glassy, completely gone for you. You sit up straighter, riding him faster now, one hand braced on his chest while the other squeezes his neck. 

You lean down again, kissing him deep and slow even as your hips keep that punishing rhythm, swallowing his moans. When you finally let him chase his release, you whisper against his lips, “Come for me, my love.”

He breaks with a shattered groan, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside you, cool pulses that tip you over right after him. You come hard, clenching around him, nails digging into his shoulders as pleasure crashes through you in waves.

You collapse onto his chest afterward, both of you slick with water and sweat, breathing hard. Eddie’s arms wrap around you immediately, holding you close like you’re something sacred.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs into your hair, voice hoarse and reverent. 

You hum back in approval, nudging your head into his chest. For a while, you just simply existed in each other's space.  

You were curled against Eddie's side beneath the blankets, your head resting on his chest while his fingers lazily played with strands of your hair. Neither of you spoke for a while, but Eddie's hand continued moving through your hair, occasionally scratching lightly against your scalp in a way that made your eyes drift shut.

"You know," he said eventually, his voice rough from disuse, "for somebody who's supposed to be all dark and mysterious, you're kinda clingy."

You immediately pinched his side, and he yelped.

"You deserved that."

"I absolutely did not."

You couldn't help laughing, and the sound seemed to make him smile. You felt it more than saw it, the way his chest shifted beneath your cheek. His arm tightened around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer.

"Better?" he asked quietly.

The question was simple, but you knew what he meant. You nodded against him. "Yeah."

"Good."

His thumb brushed slowly across your shoulder as your eyes drifted toward the window.

"Eddie?"

"Hm?"

"What would've happened if I never moved here?"

You felt him go still for a moment. Not uncomfortable, just thoughtful. After a long pause, he sighed. "I would've kept haunting the house."

The answer made your chest ache. You tilted your head up enough to look at him, and his eyes were already on you.

"I would've kept doing the same thing I've done for ten years," he admitted softly. "Watching people come and go."

You swallowed. "And now?"

A small smile appeared, the kind that only ever seemed to belong to you.

"Now I don't have to."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. Before you could say anything, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. "Get some sleep."

You smiled despite yourself and settled back against him. "Only if you stay."

Eddie's arms wrapped around you again immediately. "Wasn't planning on going anywhere."

You barely remembered falling asleep. One minute you had been curled against Eddie beneath the blankets, listening to him ramble about some disastrous campaign Gareth had run years ago, and the next sunlight was spilling across your room through the lace curtains.

For a few seconds, you just stared at the ceiling, then you remembered…Myrtle.

You groaned loudly into your pillow. The sound earned a laugh from somewhere beside the bed, so you turned your head. Eddie sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through one of your aunt's books.

"Good morning, sunshine."

You threw a pillow at him, and he caught it effortlessly.

"That wasn't very nice."

"You knew exactly what you were doing."

"Correct."

You rolled your eyes and dragged yourself out of bed. An hour later, you found yourself standing in front of Myrtle's shop. The place looked older than it should have; hot physically, but energetically. The windows were crowded with dried herbs, old books, crystals, bundles of plants hanging from hooks, and enough strange objects to make most people cross the street immediately.

A bell chimed softly when you stepped inside. The smell of lavender, cedar, and smoke hit you first. Then it’s energy; the entire store felt alive. You barely had time to look around before Myrtle's voice floated from somewhere deeper inside.

"Come along, darling."

You followed the sound toward the back of the shop. Myrtle sat at a small wooden table surrounded by books stacked so high they practically formed walls around her. A teapot rested between two empty cups, steam still curling from the spout.

She motioned toward the chair across from her, so you sat while Myrtle poured tea. For several moments, neither of you spoke, so she simply studied you. Not your clothes. Not your face. You.

The feeling was unsettling enough that you finally shifted in your seat. "What?"

Myrtle smiled faintly. "You've gotten stronger." The statement wasn't a question.

"I don't know what that means."

"Oh, I think you do."

She slid a cup toward you, the porcelain clicking softly against the wood. "I could feel it the second you walked through the door."

You frowned. "Feel what?"

Myrtle leaned back slightly. "Power."

"The first time I met you, it was there, but dormant. Uncertain. Like a storm still sitting beyond the horizon." Her gaze sharpened slightly. "Now it's arrived."

You swallowed; Myrtle watched the reaction, then nodded slightly as if confirming something.

"Hecate's influence is particularly strong in you."

You immediately sat straighter. "You can tell that?"

"My dear, I could tell from halfway across town." That wasn't comforting.

Myrtle continued before you could respond. "Most witches spend years building that sort of connection. Decades, sometimes. Many never achieve it at all."

Your fingers tightened around the warm cup. "What does that mean?"

Myrtle's expression softened. "It means she chose you."

You found yourself looking down into your tea.

"Hecate doesn't simply grant power," Myrtle continued. "She grants responsibility."

Something about the way she said it made your stomach drop.

Myrtle folded her hands atop the table. "That is actually why I asked you here."

You looked up, immediately wary. "Okay..."

The smile slightly disappeared from Myrtle's face. "There are some things I wished to discuss away from the house."

You immediately knew where this was going. "Eddie."

Myrtle nodded. "Eddie." The name lingered in the space between you.

"I wanted to speak freely about your attachment."

Heat crept up your neck. "Myrtle."

"Oh please," she said dismissively. "I'm two hundred years old. We can call things what they are."

Your face grew warmer, so Myrtle ignored it. "The boy is attached to you."

You opened your mouth, but she held up a finger to silence you. "And you are attached to him."

You closed your mouth. Fair enough.

Myrtle sighed softly. "It's understandable."

The words surprised you. You'd expected criticism, judgment, maybe a lecture. Instead, she sounded almost sad.

"You found each other under impossible circumstances."

Your brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"

Myrtle was quiet for a moment, then she leaned forward slightly. "The house chose the wrong witch."

You blinked. "What?"

"It expected power." Her eyes held yours. "It did not expect compassion."

"Most practitioners would've approached that house as a problem to solve. A haunting to cleanse. Spirits to banish." Her expression softened slightly. "You moved in and started making friends."

You couldn't help smiling faintly. "That sounds stupid when you say it like that."

"It sounds dangerous."

The smile vanished. Myrtle took a slow breath, then finally arrived at what she'd been building toward. "The connection between you and Hecate is becoming exceptionally strong."

Your stomach tightened again. "And?"

"And Hecate governs many things, but one of her oldest responsibilities concerns the crossroads."

You immediately thought of the vision. The four paths. The owl. The black dog.

Myrtle watched understanding dawn across your face. "Life and death are a crossroads."

Silence. "The dead and whatever comes after are a crossroads."

More silence. Then, realization. Slow. Awful.

Myrtle nodded. "Exactly."

Your chest tightened. "The house has trapped souls." You said it quietly.

Myrtle nodded once. "And if anyone can free them..." Her gaze settled fully on you. "...it may very well be you."

You looked away first. "No." The answer came immediately.

Myrtle's expression saddened. "You haven't even heard the rest."

You already knew. Somehow, you already knew. Your voice came out barely above a whisper.

"If I free them..."

Myrtle didn't respond; she didn't need to. The answer sat between you, heavy and painful. 

"If I free them," you repeated, staring down at your tea, "then I free all of them."

Myrtle remained silent.

"Not just the kids from Eddie’s school."

Silence.

"Not just the others."

Silence.

"Eddie."

The name nearly broke apart in your throat.

Myrtle finally spoke. "Yes."

The word landed like a stone. You sat there staring into your empty cup as if it held all the right answers, while Myrtle watched your mental battle.  Then Myrtle reached across the table and gently placed a hand over yours.

"This is not a decision you need to make today."

You swallowed hard. "But eventually."

Myrtle's eyes softened. "Eventually."

The walk wasn't your idea at first. At least, not consciously. You'd made it halfway home from Myrtle's shop before realizing you had absolutely no intention of discussing any of this inside the house.

Not with Eddie there. Not with dozens of trapped spirits lingering in the walls. Not with the constant feeling that somebody was always listening. By the time you stepped through the front door, you already knew what you were going to do.

Your mother looked up from the kitchen table. "How was Myrtle?"

You set your keys down. "We need to talk."

The immediate concern on both their faces almost made you laugh. "Nobody's dying," you clarified.

"That's usually reassuring when people say it," your aunt replied.

"It wasn't meant to be."

You grabbed your jacket again. "Come on."

Your mother frowned. "Come on where?"

You pointed toward the door. "Walk." The look your aunt gave you suggested she already knew exactly why.

Within ten minutes, the three of you were making your way through the neighborhood, leaves crunching beneath your shoes as the afternoon sun filtered through the trees. The houses became more sparse the farther you went, eventually giving way to stretches of woods and empty road.

Nobody spoke for the first several minutes. You were trying to figure out how to start. Unfortunately, there wasn't really a gentle way to bring it up.

"Myrtle thinks I can free the spirits."

Your mother immediately stopped walking, and your aunt did too. You kept going another few steps before realizing they weren't beside you anymore. Turning around, you found both of them staring.

"Oh good," you muttered. "That means it's bad."

Your mother sighed. "What exactly did she say?"

You shoved your hands deeper into your jacket pockets. "Apparently Hecate likes me."

Your aunt snorted. "Understatement."

You shot her a look. "Apparently Hecate really likes me."

"More accurate."

You groaned. Neither of them looked particularly amused. You looked down at the road as you started walking again; the other two quickly caught up.

"She said my connection to Hecate is unusually strong," you continued. "Strong enough that I could potentially break whatever is keeping the spirits trapped."

Your mother remained quiet.

"She also said that if I did..." Your voice faltered slightly. "Then it'd be all of them."

The silence that followed was answer enough. You swallowed, "Yeah."

Nobody corrected you. Nobody said she was wrong. A squirrel darted across the road ahead as the three of you continued walking.

Eventually your aunt spoke. "How are you feeling about it?"

You laughed, a short, humorless sound. "Fantastic."

Neither of them smiled. You looked up at the sky, then back down, then finally shook your head.

"I don't know." The admission felt pathetic. You hated how small your voice sounded.

"Myrtle's talking about all these trapped souls and this huge responsibility and saving people and doing the right thing." You kicked a loose stone off the road. "And all I can think is that I have a ghost boyfriend who literally doesn't exist beyond the confines of a haunted house."

Your mothers exchanged a glance, immediately suspicious.

"What?" you asked.

Your aunt looked away first. "Oh, sweetheart."

You narrowed your eyes. "What?"

"Witch and spirit relationships are actually fairly common."

You stopped walking. "What?"

Your aunt blinked. "Not necessarily healthy."

"That is not helping."

"But not uncommon."

"That somehow made everything worse."

Your mother finally laughed; the sound was soft.

You dragged your hands down your face. "Great. Fantastic. Wonderful. I'm apparently participating in a centuries-old supernatural cliché."

"You say that like you're not living in a haunted funeral home."

You pointed at your aunt. "Not helping."

"Sorry." She didn't sound sorry at all.

The road stretched quietly ahead of you, trees swayed in the breeze, and the world felt frustratingly normal considering your current crisis. Finally, your mother reached over and squeezed your shoulder.

"You love him." The statement landed gently.

You looked away. "Mom."

"You do."

You hated that she was right. You hated it even more because there wasn't a dramatic realization attached to it. No moment. No revelation. Just the simple fact that somewhere between unpacking boxes and ghost stories and late-night conversations, you'd fallen in love with him.

And now, somebody was asking you to consider a future in which he no longer existed. Your eyes burned unexpectedly, and you blinked hard. Your aunt immediately noticed and placed a hand on your shoulder. 

"Oh, honey."

You groaned. "Don't."

"You're crying."

"I'm literally not."

"You literally are."

You wiped beneath your eye. Traitor.

Your mother wrapped an arm around your shoulders as you walked, and you let her. Mostly because you were too tired to protest.

"No one is asking you to make a decision today," she said softly.

"Myrtle basically implied eventually."

"Eventually isn't today."

You stared down at the road while your aunt nodded in agreement. "Besides, Myrtle gave you information. Not a deadline." That made you feel marginally better. 

Your mother squeezed your shoulder again. "You don't need to solve the entire house tonight."

"Or tomorrow," your aunt added.

"Or next week."

You glanced between them. “What if freeing them is the right thing?" Your voice came out quieter than intended. 

"Then you'll make that choice when you're ready."

"And if I'm not?"

Her expression softened. "Then you'll still make it."

You looked away. The answer wasn't comforting, but it was honest.

The three of you continued down the road together as the sun slowly sank lower in the sky, and for the first time since leaving Myrtle's shop, the impossible choice waiting somewhere in your future didn't feel quite so immediate.

driving myself insane writing this because i'm SCARED y'all, okay!?!!?

anyway...hope you enjoyed :3

series taglist: @ssculker @mmmunson @jesus-hotwheel-christ @mysticbellie @em1989ts @abbysleftbicepp @jestthejoker-12 @hbkchokeme @lemon-sm00thie @sternengvcker @longing1yearning @dreamerjj @bitterestwillow @raeyas-ghost

overall taglist:

@lnnn1n @youngbrokefab @ludachrissy @sisteramycatherine @izzycstairs @britttzy267 @eddiemunsonsimpp @powerpuffedbjtch @sariahs-stuff @cciessuzi @lilyquinnmunson @julxsxx @kozume-ko @obsessed-eddie @doomdabss @leelei1980 @hexqueensupreme @ches-86 @plaidamoosette @bobiverses @meadows-of-asphodel @whitakerstorm @brrrainst3w @serendipdipity01 @hypersexytoptobottom @m-art000 @walleloveseve @camsmunson101 @flavorfullsteve @peachpuffs25 @micheledawn1975 @whitakerstorm @cciessuzi @blackqueenie-18 @ggdawgg @velvetdimond @enne02  @ludachrissy @izzycstairs

Flinching. Refusal to get close to anyone. Wearing oversized clothing and long sleeves even when it was hot out to cover any bruising or injuries. A haunted look in the eyes that wavered between victimhood and the desperation to not be pitied - but to be a survivor. And not some eventual statistic.

He’d seen all that and more consistently from the women in his life. But maybe he just didn’t want to see it when it came to you. Of all people.

You were his friend, after all. A childhood playmate turned genuine friend who got him through the worst days of high school. Smart, funny, beautiful, and the brightest light in his life on any given day - Gator would’ve been lying to himself if he said he hadn’t craved from you since the day he started noticing girls at all.

One minute, you were all scraped knees, pigtails, and popsicle stains. Carefree and goofy. Then the months of summer break had passed and suddenly you were… Different. Not bad different. But a sort of different that made Gator’s skin feel hot even when the autumn breeze should’ve easily cooled him down.

You’d grown a few inches over the summer (though Gator noted with a small satisfaction that he was still taller than you), and looked way more like a woman than you had before. Soft and more filled out in areas you hadn’t been earlier in the year. Your hair was a little shorter, but still soft enough that Gator felt the urge to run his calloused hand over it whenever he saw you. You’d gotten your ears pierced, and were even experimenting with makeup - a wash of something sparkly over your eyelids, and something that made your lips look like they were stained with raspberry jam or something. It was a mesmerizing picture to say the least.

All in all, you were still most certainly you, but god - your little changes did a number on Gator’s already fragile mental state. His brain almost short-circuited seeing you from afar in the schoolyard on the first day back, and he nearly had a heart attack when you ran up and flung your arms around his neck in an excited greeting. He’d stiffened, unsure of how to respond to a girl - much less you - hugging him so tightly. The scent of vanilla washed over him, and he had to resist the urge to sniff your hair. With great effort, he’d wrapped his arms around you, and listened to you go on about your summer as if your very existence hadn’t just shaken his entire world.

The confusing feelings inside Gator’s chest whenever he saw you only multiplied and grew as the years went on. You only grew more beautiful and vibrant in his eyes - painting the bleak midwestern skies of his heart in technicolor hues. Every touch of his arm, or smile he got to bask in spurred him on another day. Made him forget about his shitty home life, father, & dead-end future - just for a little while.

But more than that, you were his anchor. No, his lighthouse in the violent sea that was his personal life. You never ditched him when you made other friends. You always took time to hang out with him, or help him with his homework. You spoke in a way that was encouraging and soft, but also laced with tough love when he needed to hear it. It always seemed like you knew exactly what he needed. Thing if he was being honest with himself, the only thing he really needed was you.

It was an addiction, to a degree, this sort of feeling that he had towards you. If he didn’t get to see you all weekend, his mood towards the world at large quickly soured. The world felt too big without you by his side. He felt jealous of people who had more classes with you. Of your eventual coworkers when you got a part time job at the local diner. None of them deserved someone like you.

Hell, he didn’t even deserve you and he knew it.

Through every bad day, black eye, and cruel interaction with his dad, you stood by him. Sometimes offering kind words he didn’t know how to fully process. Other times taking his hand in yours and resting your head against his shoulder as you sat in silence together. He did his best to support you too, although he knew he wasn’t very good with words or actions aside from using his fists. A protective sort of urge always overcame him whenever you were around, and he didn’t fully know what to do with that.

You were all sweetness and humor and brazen independence where he was often bitter and hard edges - even if he did his best to hide that fact from you. After all, you deserved the best of him. Even if there wasn’t much of that at any given time.

A cavernous hole took up residence in his chest when you left for college. He didn’t want you to go. He did, but also, in the same breath, he didn’t. You’d be hours away, and texts or phone calls weren’t a match for the real thing. He wanted to beg you to stay. He almost did, truth be told. The night before you left, he’d driven to your house, parked his truck down across the street, and nearly shown up on your porch to beg you not to leave him. His mother had left him. Nadine had left him. He could barely stomach that he was losing you too - even temporarily.

But if he ever cared for you, he knew he had to let you go experience life outside of Stark county. Even if it was the hardest thing he’d ever done.

Gator kept his gut feelings of dread to himself when you turned up during Thanksgiving break and eagerly asked to meet him for breakfast one morning. You’d come up to him outside of the diner to hug him - just as you always had - but there was a far-away look in your eyes that dimmed the megawatt glow he’d missed so much. You were smaller and a bit more stiff in his arms as he held you, as if college had already taken a toll only a few months in. But then again, he’d started his journey to becoming a cop - so maybe both of you were changing a bit.

The two of you had fallen into your easy back and forth during breakfast as if no time had passed, and Gator felt the knots in his stomach loosening somewhat. The tenseness with which he walked about the world slowly eased out of his body as time with you went on.

This was what he needed. You were what he needed. Even though you’d be headed back to school in a few days, he was determined to spend every moment he could with you to soak up the light and joy you radiated. You were truly a balm to his bruised and battered soul.

Gator practically counted down the seconds until your winter break.

It wasn’t as though the two of you had any big plans or anything, but fuck - he missed you terribly. Everything seemed to remind him of you. If he saw a cute animal while he was out on patrol, he’d text you a picture. If he saw a celebrity you’d mentioned in passing on a magazine at the grocery, he’d ask if you had recommendations for a movie they were in, or a song they wrote. When it was sunny outside, it was a poor imitation for the warmth you made him feel, and when it was grey and cold all he wanted to do was hold you close to keep you from it.

The first thing Gator noticed about you a few days before Christmas was the dark circles underneath your eyes. He knew better than to comment on a woman’s appearance, but he couldn’t ignore how his heart clenched when he showed up to your parents’ house for cookies and a movie night to find your eyes looking practically bruised. It was probably from all the late nights studying. That’s what college kids did, right? Cram for finals and shit?

That night, sometime after his fifth sugar cookie and between It’s A Wonderful Life and Elf was when he first heard it. The name.

Caleb.

It wasn’t from you. It came from your mother. Not even in front of Gator, but in the dim light of the kitchen when you’d gone to refill your hot cocoa. Gator had been on his way back from the bathroom as he heard hushed tones. Cloaked in the darkness of the hallway, feeling only a bit of guilt for eavesdropping, he watched as you leaned against the counter, shoulders tense.

“He was welcome to come with you.”

“Yeah, mom. I know.” You shifted uncomfortably. “He wanted to go see his own family.”

“Maybe next time?”

“Maybe.”

“If Caleb matters to you, he matters to us, sweetie.”

Gator felt physically ill from his hiding spot. Who the fuck was Caleb? And since when did he matter to you enough that your mom knew about him but not Gator? Were you embarrassed by him? Were you drifting away from your friendship due to distance? Or some other reason? The very idea made him sick.

“So who’s Caleb?”

He fought to keep his voice and stance neutral as two of you stood out in your parent’s porch a few hours later. Snow swirled trough the air in violent flurries, but Gator barely felt the chill. He had to know why you didn’t tell him about some guy from college.

Logically, Gator knew he was giving in to his possessive side under the guise of trying to protect you. It wasn’t as if you were his. As a result, he didn’t really have a leg to stand on to demand answers or explanations as to who you interacted with in your free time.

But uncertainty clawed at his insides, hot and ravenous, worried beyond all reason that you were hiding shit from him. Why would you leave out such a huge detail in your life? Did you think he’d be mad? React with rage like his dad? The idea that you potentially thought he could act like Roy - despite never giving any indication of feeling that way - broke his fucking heart.

“I knew that was you in the hallway.” You muttered, wrapping your arms around your torso to guard against the frigid weather. “Didn’t peg you for a gossip, Gator.”

“Ain’t gossip if I’m just curious.”

“Curiosity killed the cat.”

“And satisfaction brought it back. Your point?”

You sighed. “Does it matter?”

“‘Course it does.” Gator felt a sharp pang in his chest. “I care about you. I wanna know what’s goin’ on. So who is he?”

“No one.”

“Bullshit. Your mom wanted you the bring him home for the holidays. That’s not nobody.”

“Drop it, Gator.”

“Please,” he didn’t make a habit of begging anyone for anything - but the cagey way you were acting set his teeth on edge. “Who is he?”

You ran a hand through your tangled hair, exhaling deeply as if your exhaustion ran bone-deep in a way sleep couldn’t fix. “I met Caleb in my English class a few months ago. He’s nice. We’ve gone on a couple of dates. Nothing serious.”

“Then why’re you tryin’ so hard to avoid talkin’ about him?”

“What is this, an interrogation?” You shivered, instant regret making a home in your eyes after you snapped at him. “I’m sorry, Gator. I shouldn’t have… I just… He’s not really anyone. I’m probably gonna end things soon. I don’t see it going anywhere.”

Your admission that Caleb wasn't super serious should have been enough to soothe the beast roaring in Gator's chest. But as he watched you practically fold in on yourself against the biting wind, your eyes darting away from his to scan the empty, snow-dusted yard, he felt a cold dread that had nothing to do with the temperature. You were vibrating with a specific sort of tension he hadn’t seen since… Since Nadine had suffered a particularly bad beating from his father. It was the kind of nervous energy that made a person look like they were ready to bolt at the slightest sudden noise.

"Sure you're okay?" Gator asked, his voice dropping lower, rougher. He took a half-step closer, invading your personal space just enough to gauge your reaction. "You seem… Kinda jumpy."

"I'm fine.” He knew it was a lie because you did that thing with your jaw - clenching it tight before forcing a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes. "Just tired. Finals were a nightmare. A-and the travel back always wears me out."

"Right. Finals." Gator nodded, stuffing his hands into his coat pockets to stop himself from reaching out to grip your shoulders. "Well, you're home now. You can relax."

Your smile tightened. Fragile and brittle. "Yeah. Exactly. Home."

He wanted to push. Demand to know why you looked like you were waiting for the other shoe to drop. Why there was a shadow haunting your gaze that hadn't been there back in August. Shake you just a bit till you told him the truth.

The sudden memory of his dad’s old habits flashed through his mind - Roy looming over a trembling Nadine or his mother, demanding answers and submission with his fists. Their cries still plagued his worst moments. He’d always vowed he’d never do something like that.

Because Gator wasn't Roy.

He would never be Roy.

So, he swallowed the questions, choking them down until they tasted like bile.

"C'mere," he grunted, opening his arms.

You hesitated for a fraction of a second - a micro-second of pause that spiked his anxiety before you stepped into him. You felt small, fragile, like a bird or something. Gator wrapped his coat around you, engulfing you in his scent of leather, the fruit-flavored vape you’d been trying to convince him to quit for ages, and the cheap pine tree air freshener dangling from his rearview mirror. He held you tight, tucking your head under his chin, and felt you exhale a shuddering breath against his chest.

For a short moment, you melted into him, fingers clutching the fabric of his shirt around his waist. It was the only moment of genuine relief he felt from you all night.

"I missed you," he murmured into your hair, the vanilla scent he loved so much wafting over him. "Don't be a stranger, alright? You're back for three weeks. Wanna be sure I see you."

"I know," you muffled into his jacket. "I missed you too, Gator."

He forced himself to pull away first, because if he didn't, he was terrified he'd never let go. Truthfully, he probably would’ve held you forever if you’d’ve let him. “Get inside before you freeze your ass off."

"And you get home safe," you gave his hand a small squeeze before slipping back into the house, the door clicking shut behind you.

Gator stood in the cold for a long time after the automatic porch light flicked off, staring at the dark wood of the door, his gut churning with suspicion he couldn't name.

Over the next two weeks, Gator saw you nearly every day, but sometimes it felt like he was talking to a ghost.

You met him for coffee one morning before his patrol shift, but you spent the whole time scanning the parking lot through the window. You came over to watch trashy reality TV - a longtime guilty pleasure for you both - at his apartment the next night, but you sat on the edge of the couch, your phone in your lap, screen down, as if it were a live grenade.

When he asked about Caleb again - only once - you replied vaguely that it was over, and that you didn't want to talk about it. So, Gator played along. He talked about the his own job, the idiots he was training with, and the local gossip around town. He tried desperately to be the safe harbor you'd always been for him.

But as the days wore on, the knot in his chest only grew tighter.

The night before you were slated to drive back to campus - January 2nd, the dead of winter - you were at his place again. He’d insisted on a final movie night - the both of you curled up on his worn-out sofa under a pile of blankets. Gator had made popcorn, burning a bag slightly because he was distracted by the dark circles bruising the skin under your eyes that had only gotten worse.

You looked exhausted. Hollowed out. A shell of your former vibrant self. It set his teeth on edge, seeing you like this. He wasn’t mad at you - but he wanted to find the cause of it soon because he couldn’t bear for you to be this upset. Ever.

"Hey," Gator said softly, pausing the movie as the credits rolled. "Want another soda?"

"Yeah, please," you whispered, not looking at him. You were staring at the muted TV, thumb hovering over your phone screen. “I gotta use the restroom. Be right back.”

He headed into the small kitchenette, grabbing two cans from the fridge. He was taking his time - not wanting to miss out on time with you, but also trying to figure out a way to ask you what the hell was going on without sounding or acting like his old man. He was still debating his approach when he heard your phone vibrate on the coffee table. Once. Twice. Three times in rapid succession.

A long pause. Then, four more quick buzzes.

Gator frowned. He wasn't a snoop. He mostly respected your privacy. But the sheer volume of notifications so late at night set his teeth on edge. Walking back into the living room, he intended to jokingly ask why your phone was going so crazy.

But you were still in the bathroom.

Gator looked at the phone. It was lit up, the screen bright against the dark wood of the table. A notification banner slid across the lock screen. He bent down, eyes narrowing.

Caleb: Baby?

Caleb: Got back a few days early & campus sucks without you.

Caleb: When do you get back?

Caleb: Tomorrow, right?

Caleb: Why aren't you answering?

Caleb: Don’t ignore me. I miss you.

Gator’s stomach dropped. He told himself to walk away. This was clearly private. Very much your business and no one else’s. But then another message popped up, the preview text longer this time.

Caleb: I've been driving around campus for hours thinking about you. Thinking about what I'm going to do when I see you.

Caleb: Fucking answer me.

Gator’s vision narrowed to a pinpoint. The rational part of his brain - the part that acknowledges shit like boundaries and laws - screamed at him to put it down. But the protective, far more feral part of him - the part that remembered his mother’s bruises and Nadine’s sobs - forced his hand forward. He picked up the phone, punching in your birthday - which he’d told you was a shitty passcode but you swore it was the only date you’d remember.

He swiped up, scrolling hastily back through the message thread that was a waterfall of mostly one-sided texts, spanning back to the day you arrived home. They started innocently enough.

Caleb: Miss you already, beautiful.

Caleb: Can't wait to see you.

Caleb: Wish you were here.

As he continued to scroll, the tone shifted.

Caleb: It's so empty here without you. Why’d you leave me?

Caleb: Sent you a snap. Did you see it? ;)

Caleb: Can’t wait to fuck that smart mouth of yours when you get back, baby

Gator felt his face heat up, a mix of embarrassment and intrusion, but he kept scrolling, morbid curiosity driving him. He’d reached ones from only a few hours ago.

Caleb: You ignoring me now?

Caleb: Are you with someone?

Caleb: Is it that dumb hick you told me about? The cop?

Caleb: Call me.

Caleb: Answer the phone.

Caleb: You whoring yourself out to him since I’m not there to make you feel good?

Gator’s grip on the phone tightened, the plastic casing creaking under his fingertips.

Caleb: Don't let him touch you. You're mine.

Caleb: I better not find out you fucked him.

Caleb: Send me a picture.

Caleb: Now.

Caleb: Send me a pic of your tits.

Caleb: STOP IGNORING ME

Caleb: If you don't send a picture right now I'm driving out there.

Caleb: I'll put that son of a bitch in the fucking ground if he touched you.

Caleb: Think he’ll want to be around you when he finds out what a slut you are? How rough you like it?

Caleb: Send me a fucking picture.

You: Attachment: one image

The photo loaded before Gator could scroll, and while the sight of your naked body made his breath hitch, it wasn’t right for him to see you like that. He threw the phone onto the couch cushion as if it had burned him. Bile rose in his throat. He wanted to vomit. Put his fist through the wall. Get in his truck, drive however many hours it took to find this Caleb prick, and put a bullet between his eyes.

The bathroom door creaked open. You shuffled out, your eyes red-rimmed, looking like you’d spent the last five minutes crying.

Gator stared at you, his jaw working, He saw the way you flinched slightly as his gaze intensified, the way you curled into yourself on the couch, protecting your stomach.

With a sickening lurch, he realized that if he told you what he saw - went full ballistic "Gator Tillman" - on the situation, you might clam up completely. Retreat. Accuse him of invading your privacy and go back to… Him. Gator wasn’t stupid. He’d seen enough battered women in his life and job that he knew sometimes they sought the safety of the familiar hell instead of the unknown.

"I should probably head back," you said quietly, though you looked reluctant to leave the safety of his apartment. "Mom wants to do a big breakfast thing before I hit the road early tomorrow."

"Right," Gator nodded. He walked you to the door, his hands shoved deep in his pockets to hide their shaking. "Drive safe, alright? Call me when you get there."

"I will," you promised, giving him a quick hug - far too quick and detached for his liking. "Thanks for everything, Gator. Really."

He walked you down to the parking lot, watching you get into your car, check the backseat before getting in - a habit he'd never noticed you had until tonight - and he stood on the sidewalk until your taillights faded into the snowy darkness.

Gator didn't sleep that night. He couldn't. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw those texts. The photo of you - beautiful, obviously - but with such empty, sad eyes. Seeing how Caleb spoke to you made his heart - that he’d long assumed incapable of feeling much of anything at all - shatter into a thousand ugly pieces.

You went back to school the next day, and Gator went back to work, but he was a man possessed. His phone became an extension of his hand. Every time it buzzed, his heart jumped. He waited for your texts like a starving man waits for bread.

He started counting. Counting the hours between your texts - three hours, six hours, twelve. Counting the days until Spring Break - forty-two, forty-one, forty. He marked the calendar on his wall with a red X.

Spring break arrived with a deceptive warmth, a cruel tease of a sun that did nothing to melt the lingering grey slush in the ditches of Stark County. For Gator, the weeks leading up to it had been an exercise in psychological torture. Every infrequent text message from you had been analyzed like evidence in a homicide, every phone call dissected for a tremor in your voice or a hesitation that spelled trouble. He’d been running on fumes and caffeine, temper fraying around the edges.

Admittedly, he’d built up a fantasy in his head. Driving to your house the second you pulled into the driveway, picking you up bridal-style and putting you in his truck, and speeding you away to the middle of nowhere where he could wrap you in a blanket and just keep you safe for a week. Not kidnapping per se. But he needed to see you, to confirm with his own eyes that you were still in there. That the spark he loved so much hadn't been extinguished by the cancer growing in your dorm room miles away.

Instead, he got a text that made his stomach hit the floor.

You: Meet us at the diner at noon?

Us.

The word sat there on the screen, mocking him. Gator stared at it until the letters blurred, willing it to change, willing it to be a typo. Us could easily mean you and your mom. Or maybe both your parents. But deep down, in the dark, primal place where his gut instincts lived, he knew exactly who us meant.

He arrived at the diner ten minutes early, his knee bouncing aggressively under the table as he nursed a cup of black coffee that was doing nothing to settle his nerves. When the bell above the door chimed, Gator’s head snapped up so fast his neck cracked.

There you were.

For a second, Gator’s breath caught in his throat. You were wearing a light blue sweater - the color of a springtime sky - and you looked beautiful. Obviously. You always did. But the light in your eyes was even dimmer than it had been over winter break.

The man who must’ve been the infamous Caleb walked in front of you, leaving you to trail behind, and Gator hated him instantly on a molecular level. He looked like every trust-fund prick Gator had ever wanted to arrest just for existing. Expensive jeans, designer shoes, a smug, entitled set to his shoulders that screamed I own everything in this room - including her. He was good-looking in a way that was manufactured. Too polished. Like he belonged on a gold course or something. Nothing like the rough-hewn, dangerous edges Gator possessed.

Caleb led you to the booth where Gator was sitting, a smirk playing on his lips as if he’d won some prize. You slid in across from Gator, forcing a smile that didn't reach your eyes, while Caleb sat next to you, draping his arm across the back of the booth, his fingers resting heavily on your shoulder. The same fingers that had texted you all that vile shit. And probably tried to - no. Don’t think about that happening. She’s your friend.

"Hey, man," Caleb greeted him, his voice smooth and unbothered. "You must be Gator. Nice to finally put a face to the name. This one just won’t shut up about you.”

Gator saw red as he stared at Caleb, expression flat and hopefully unreadable, a mask he’d perfected from years of dealing with his father. He grunted noncommittally, not wanting to waste his one precious life interacting with this guy any more than he absolutely had to. For your sake.

"Fuck, I’m hungry." Caleb snagged the menu from the dispenser. "Hopefully this place has something edible. It’s… Quaint."

"It's food," Gator grunted, finally tearing his angry gaze away from the other man to look at you. "You doin’ okay?"

You nodded, but you were twisting your hands in your lap and you could barely meet his eyes. "I'm good. Tired.”

Caleb twirled a lock of your hair around his index finger, tugged slightly and ignoring your small wince. “Come on, baby. I didn’t tire you out that badly, did I?”

“Th-the drive was long." You shot an embarrassed glance at Gator. “But I shouldn’t complain. Caleb insisted on driving.”

"Just trying to make sure you’re safe, sweetheart," Caleb replied, his thumb stroking the back of your neck in a way that made Gator’s skin crawl. It felt less like a bit of harmless PDA and more of a claim. Like he wanted to piss Gator off. "She gets so distracted. Bit of a ditz, but that’s why I love her.”

He pressed a lingering kiss to the side of your neck, and you tried to supress a shudder. Gator wanted to reach across the table and break Caleb’s nose as it nuzzled against where your neck met your shoulder.

Before Gator could defend how smart he knew you were, the waitress, a tired-looking woman named Barb who’d known Gator since he was in diapers, came over to take everyone’s orders. Gator ordered a burger and fries. When it was your turn, you opened your mouth to speak, but Caleb cut you off.

"I’ll have the club sandwich - extra fries, and a coke. She'll have the side salad," Caleb said, flashing a charming smile at Barb. "Dressing on the side. And a water. With lemon."

Barb looked at you, her pen hovering. "You sure, hon? That ain’t much food. The pancakes are real good today."

"I'm fine," you said quietly, not meeting the woman’s eyes. "The salad sounds good."

Gator saw it then - the way your shoulders slumped, the almost imperceptible tremor in your chin. He knew you. You loved food - especially greasy diner breakfast food at any and all hours of the day. But it was like you were shrinking yourself, disappearing, just to keep the peace.

"Bring her the pancakes," Gator said, his voice loud and firm in the sudden quiet of the booth. "Extra chocolate chips."

Caleb’s smile faltered, a flicker of annoyance crossing his polished features. A crack in the veneer of his composure. "I don't think so.”

“An’ why the hell not?”

“She's watching her figure. Right, baby?"

"Gator, it's fine," you said, reaching across the table to touch his arm. Your touch was cold, fingers trembling slightly. "I'm not super hungry anyway."

Gator ignored you, his eyes locked on Caleb.

Barb, sensing the tension, wisely just nodded, mumbled something about getting that right out, and scurried away.

Caleb laughed, a short, sharp sound that lacked any humor. "You sure you don't want some more coffee to wash down the superiority complex? Maybe an extra side donuts to go along with sticking that big nose in our relationship? Cops love donuts, right?”

Gator’s jaw tightened. Not that it mattered, but he actually didn’t care much for them. "I'm good."

"I bet," Caleb leaned back, draping his arm back around you, his hand landing heavily on your shoulder once more. "So, tell me, Gator. What exactly do you do around here? Besides harass the locals and watch paint dry?"

Gator wanted to slam his head into the table. Flip the booth over. Drag this man outside and introduce his face to the pavement. Instead, he sat there, trapped by his own internal promise to not be Roy, to not be a fucking monster. He forced himself to take a sip of his coffee, the bitterness coating his tongue.

"I'm in the academy," Gator said flatly. "Deputy program. Doin’ a lot of patrol work.”

"Ah," Caleb nodded. "Respectable."

"Somethin’ like that."

The conversation that followed was a torturous session of small talk. Caleb talked about his father's law firm that he’d be joining as soon at he graduated and his most recent ski trip to Aspen. You sat there, silent and fading, nodding at the appropriate times, laughing softly when he made a stupid joke, but your eyes were dead.

When the food arrived, Gator dug into his burger with gusto, eager to do anything that wasn’t interacting with Caleb. He watched you out of the corner of his eye. You picked at your salad, pushing a lettuce leaf around your plate. The pancakes sat untouched. Mocking you.

"Gonna eat those?" Gator asked, pointing his fork at the stack.

You looked at the pancakes, then at Caleb, who was watching you with a predatory stillness, as if daring you to try. "I… I'm full."

“Good girl.” Caleb murmured at the same time Gator replied “Bullshit.”

"She said she's full," Caleb said, his voice dropping an octave, the charm evaporating. "Don't be fucking rude, Gator."

It was the tone. Exactly how Roy spoke to his mother when she was five minutes late with dinner. Or to Nadine when she talked back. Gator felt the rage building in his chest, a physical heat spreading through his veins.

"I'm just lookin’ out for her," Gator said, his voice low and dangerous. “Someone has to. Clearly ain’t gonna be you.”

"I can look out for myself," your voice cracked slightly. You turned to Gator, your eyes wide. "Stop making a scene. Please."

Gator recoiled as if you’d slapped him. He was the one making a scene? But as he looked at you, pieces fell into place. He saw the terror behind the annoyance. You weren't really angry at him. You were terrified for him. Or maybe - more likely - terrified of what would happen to you later because of his interference. Fuck, he was so stupid.

He slumped back in his seat, defeated. "Alright. Sorry."

The rest of the meal passed in a suffocating silence. You managed to choke down half the salad, but the pancakes remained a sad, cold mess. Caleb paid the bill - commenting loudly about how everything in the town was so “cheap” as he pressed a kiss to your forehead and stood to go to the restroom. Gator watched him walk away counting the seconds until he was out of earshot. He turned to you immediately.

"Why?" Gator hissed, leaning across the table. "Why’s he here? I thought you were gonna end it.”

You looked down at your lap, picking at a loose thread on your sweater. "I know."

"So what changed?"

"It's complicated, Gator."

"Try an’ un-complicate it," he demanded. "He treats you like shit. Barely lets you speak. He's controlling what you eat, for Christ's sake.”

"I'm fine," you insisted, but your voice was weak.

"You ain’t fine," Gator reached out, intending to take your hand, but you pulled it back quickly, tucking it under the table. "He's bad news. I can feel it. My gut is never wrong about this shit."

"He's just… Intense," you whispered. "He cares a lot. Sometimes he just gets worried."

"About you eatin’ pancakes?" Gator scoffed.

You looked up at him, eyes swimming with unshed tears. "Please, just stop. I don't want to fight, okay? Not with you.”

"I'm not tryin’ to fight with you," Gator softened his voice, hating the fear in your tone. "I just… I can't stand seein’ you like this."

You looked away, staring out the window at the bleak March landscape. "I made a mistake. And now I'm… Dealing with it. And I don't know how to get - never mind. I shouldn’t have said anything. Fuck.”

"We can figure it out," Gator said urgently. "Me ‘n you. Like old times. You just gotta say the word, and he's gone."

"I can't," you shook your head frantically. "You don't understand. If you interfere, he'll… His dad is… I- shit. Forget I said anything. I’m just being over-dramatic, okay? I’m good. Promise.”

Gator felt like he’d been punched in the gut as you plastered a fake smile on your beautiful face, but before he could argue, Caleb sauntered back to the table, his smug grin firmly back in place.

"Ready to roll, sweetheart?" He asked, reaching out to grab you from the booth.

You jumped up as if burned by his touch, grabbing your coat. "Yeah. Let's go."

Gator stood up slowly, his body aching with the tension of holding himself back. He watched as Caleb helped you into your coat, his hands lingering on you for a second too long.

Caleb clapped Gator on the shoulder as he stood with a grip that was outwardly friendly but felt like a warning. "We should do this again." He leaned in. “You lost, Tillman. Best thing you can do is get the fuck over it. She doesn’t want you.”

Gator gritted his teeth.

You turned to him, offering a small, tight smile. "It was good to see you, Gator. Really."

"Yeah," he said, his eyes locked on yours. "You too."

You turned to leave, walking slightly ahead of Caleb toward the door. Gator’s eyes tracked your movements like a hawk. As you reached out for the door handle, pushing it open against the spring wind, your sleeve rode up your arm ever so slightly.

Gator stopped dead in his tracks.

There, on your wrist, was an angry-looking bruise. It wasn't a small bump. It was a full handprint. Four distinct finger marks wrapping around your wrist, dark purple and mottled with green, clearly made by someone gripping you hard enough to leave a severe mark.

It looked exactly like the bruises his father used to leave on his mother when he dragged her down the hallway. When the nights were filled with sobs and pleas for him to stop.

Gator felt the blood drain from his face, the world tilting on its axis. He stood there in the middle of the diner, surrounded by the clatter of silverware and the murmur of conversations, and felt violently sick. The realization hit him like a physical blow: Caleb wasn't just texting you inappropriate shit or being a controlling prick. He was putting his hands on you.

as if he was able to hear your thoughts, waking up from the sound of them, gator shifted behind you, his voice—still rough with sleep—tickling you in just the right places.

“mornin’ darlin’,” he whispered, teeth grazing the shell of your ear, drawing a little giggle from you. “morning, gates,” you whispered, turning around, propping yourself up on your elbows so you could look down at his beautiful face.

his dark hair—usually gelled back so it was out of his brown eyes—fell messily into his forehead, making him look absolutely divine.

those hazel eyes shimmered in the morning light, waking up the butterflies in your stomach and making them swirl around.

“how did ya sleep?” he asked, voice still scratchy, reaching up and tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear.

you leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering shut briefly, then met his gaze again. “mhhh, slept pretty good. but… if i remember correctly, there was something pressed up against my ass in the middle of the night,” you teased, causing him to laugh. and god, if that wasn’t the most beautiful sound on earth.

“yeah? i have no fuckin’ idea what yer talkin’ about,” he replied, sitting up, his hand sliding to the back of your neck so he could pull you down into a soft kiss, all sweet and sloppy.

after a few seconds, he pulled away again, his thumb brushing along your lower lip, smearing away the wet trace of saliva he left behind.

“gotta leave for work,” he murmured, eyes focusing on your lips as he followed the movement of his finger with his gaze.

“can’t wait to see ya later.” gator kissed you once more before slipping out of the cozy warmth of the bed, leaving you behind. the sheets stayed tangled around your legs but he took all of his warmth away with him.

the sun was about to set when gator opened the front door of the small house you lived in together. almost immediately, he was greeted by the smell of grilled chicken and it felt like something close to heaven after this awfully long day of being separated from you.

“darlin’, i’m home!” he called out right after the door fell shut behind him, but there was no answer.

maybe you wore your headphones—as always when you cooked. but when he looked for you in the kitchen, you were nowhere to be found. only the light in the oven gave away that he was right in his guess and that you were already preparing dinner.

“i’m upstairs!”

your angelic voice felt like music to his ears, and he let out a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. desperate to feel you in his arms, he walked up the stairs—taking two at once—before reaching the first floor.

the faint smell of vanilla hung in the air, telling him that you just took a shower and he moved over to the bedroom. but much to his disappointment, he couldn’t find you in there as well.

right when he thought about calling out for you again, his sweet and soft girl, there was a quiet clearing of a throat behind him. and when he finally turned around, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

there you were, standing in the doorway, looking like pure sin. you wore that old lingerie set—one of his favourites, covered by black lace roses and those tiny little bows in the front, nipples flashing at him through the thin material. the one he’d thought you’d thrown away after he’d asked you multiple times if you could wear it again—only to be ignored instead of blessed with an answer.

a smug smile was on your face, the metal handcuffs he usually kept in the drawer of his nightstand, dangling from your index finger. “look who came home,” you purred, tilting your head, those beautiful locks falling over your shoulders like a silent invitation.

“shit, baby,” gator whispered, his pupils dilating as he took a step closer.

“ah-ah,” you raised your voice, making him stop dead in his tracks, his adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed thickly.

“did i give you permission to move?” you tilted your head to the side and the realization of what you were doing went straight to his cock.

“loose the vest, baby.”

the command was soft but explicit, signaling him who was in charge this time. and god, that was exactly what he needed right now. so he didn’t hesitate, the deputy vest coming off in one single motion, hanging it over the chair that stood by your vanity.

“good boy,” you praised, watching how his shoulders tensed, clearly having trouble to control himself. and you haven’t even started yet.

“now, the jacket.”

it fell to the floor with a soft thud, leaving him in that tight black shirt and his camo pants which were doing nothing to hide the affect all of this had on him.

“on the bed. arms over your head,” you instructed, watching every single movement of him until he was splayed out on the bed on his back, obediently placing his strong arms over his head.

only then you did move as well, your smaller frame climbing on top of him, straddling his waist, avoiding contact with the visible bulge that pressed intently against his pants.

you still held the cuffs between your fingers as they slipped under the edge of his shirt, pushing it up slowly. gator groaned when he felt the cool metal brushing against his skin, his hands twitching but he kept them over his head—right where you wanted them to stay.

“just like that…” you muttered, pulling the fabric over his head, throwing it to the side. “such a good boy…”

you leaned over him, your breasts—covered by that fucking seductive lace—hanging right into his face as you cuffed his hands onto the metal headboard of the bed.

he breathed in your scent deeply, those soft and sweet notes of vanilla along with the familiar hint of whiskey. it made him chuckle, already knowing exactly why he got that absolutely perfect treatment.

“christ, baby. if that’s what i’m receivin’, you should get drunk more often,” he hummed, the soft click of the last cuff snapping echoed through the room.

it was your turn to chuckle then, your hands braced on his chest, feeling the soft curls of the dark hair underneath your palms. “good for you, i planned this long before i got drunk,” you murmured, grinding your hips against his groin, eliciting a hiss from his mouth and his hips bucked up against you involuntarily.

you grinned, satisfied with the reaction, the next roll of your hips having his body shaking underneath you as his hands strained against the cuffs.

“jesus fuckin’ christ,” he growled, his chest rising and falling slowly with every heavy breath he took. “you’re evil, baby. fuckin’ evil,” he muttered while you slipped down his body, fingers fiddling with the straps of his thigh holster—the one he always wore when he was out on patrol.

“i know…” one strap came loose, the other followed shortly after. “that’s why you love me.”

the holster along with his gun landed on the floor beside the bed, and you finally had enough space to get rid of the remaining clothes.

it took you seconds to open his pants and pulling them down, his boxers following after, leaving him completely naked in front of you. and sweet lord, it was a sight you’d never get tired of.

his legs long and muscular, leading up to his veiny and thick cock, resting heavily against his stomach. he was hard as a rock, small beads of precum pooling right under his navel, little twitches smearing it on the skin there, leaving a glistening mess.

“fuck, darlin’. you wanna spend the rest of the evening looking at me like that?” he asked, ripping you out of your thoughts and you moved slowly, leaning back over him.

“and even if that was the case… you wouldn’t be able to change something about it as long as you’re cuffed to the bed.” you reached over to the other side of the bed—your side—pulling up the bottle of whiskey you’d placed there, hidden from his gaze.

the second he saw it, his eyes widened. “baby, what are you-“ you didn’t let him come any further. you opened the bottle, tilting it and spilled the expensive liquid all over his chest and stomach. it dropped down his sides, soaking the sheets underneath him but you couldn’t care less.

“oops.”

he tensed at the sensation, a deep groan rumbling through his chest when you put the bottle away and lowered your head to breathe in the scent.

the strong whiskey, mixed with the musky smell of your husband, was the perfect combination. so you didn’t wait any longer and dragged your tongue over his skin, slurping the drops of whiskey off him.

gator let out a strangled moan, his hips bucking up, desperately searching for friction while his cock twitched helplessly against his lower stomach.

“oh, f-fuck…” his voice sounded broken, almost desperate, and you couldn’t help but smile, your mouth still catching the value alcohol.

the journey continued until you reached his lips, hovering right over them with the last remaining liquid in your mouth.

you didn’t have to ask, he understood. his mouth opened, ready to take whatever you were about to give to him.

and right now, you let the whiskey—mixed together with your spit—drop into his mouth, forcing him to swallow.

you lowered your lips onto his, kissing him messily, your tongue pushing against his, both of you moaning into each other.

a string of saliva connected your lips when you pulled away, finally starting to rub your lace-covered pussy against his bare cock.

“tell me what you want, baby,” you murmured, slipping down his body, nails digging into the flesh of his muscular thighs. “you…” he pressed out, his cock twitching again, right in front of your face. “i only want you… ain’t ever wanted anythin’ more.”

and then, finally, you touched him properly. your fingers traced the vein on the underside, right from bottom to top before wrapping your hand around his length. your thumb brushed over the head, smearing the precum around, coating him in it, sending a shudder through his body.

“oh shiiit, baby,” he moaned, thrusting his hips into your grip. he realized what mistake it was as you pulled away, eyebrows raised.

“no moving, or you want me to fix your slutty hips on the bed as well?” you warned, and gator groaned.

“‘m sorry, darlin’. no moving,” he murmured, voice cracking on the words and watched how you lowered your head, pressing a kiss on the tip, the salty taste of his arousal dancing on your lips.

you heard the soft clinking of the handcuffs as he strained against them, trying desperately to get his hands on you.

“speak to me, pretty boy. tell me what you need. wanna hear it.” your hot breath fanned over his wet tip, and he sucked in a sharp breath.

“need your mouth. fuck baby, need you to suck me off… need it so bad. please, baby, please…” the words babbled over his lips, and who were you to deny that to him after he begged so beautifully?

your lips closed around the head then, suckling softly before taking him deeper until he hit the back of your throat.

“fucking hell,” gator hissed, his hips instinctively snapping up into the wet heat of your mouth, almost making you choke on him.

your grip on his waist tightened as you pushed his hips down, punishing him with pulling away once more, making him groan in disapproval. he lifted his head to look down on you, pupils dilated and lips swollen from biting down on them.

“baby… what yer doin’?” he panted, his cock completely coated in your spit and another small bead of precum appeared on the slit.

instead of answering, your fingernails dug into his thighs, squeezing the flesh, then pressed soft, wet kisses along his shaft. “stay still, honey.”

the sound he made was absolutely wrecked, broken even, his whole body shuddering underneath you but he nodded, signaling you that he understood.

“good boy,” you praised, leaning down again, taking him between your lips. you continued to suck on the tip, tongue flicking over it teasingly. then you sank further down, even deeper than before, his thickness stretching your throat, forcing you to breathe through your nose.

the constant clinking sound of the handcuffs against the metal headboard filled the air along with the little sounds he made and your heavy breathing.

you stayed like that for a few seconds without moving, feeling him twitch and throb against your tongue. then, you finally swallowed around him.

a deep, guttural sound tore from his lungs, his thighs trembling under your firm grip and you knew he was close already. “don’t cum…” you murmured, your tongue flicking out against his balls. “unless i say so. understand?”

he whimpered, flexing his arms as if he wanted to reach out for you only to be stopped by those goddamn handcuffs.

“gator…” you urged him, lips closing around one sack, suckling softly on it. “answer me.”

“i… i won’t cum. only if you say so,” he echoed your words, followed by a growl like it caused him physical pain.

“such…” suck. “a…” suck. “good boy.” you pulled away with a wet pop, your hand closing around his shaft once more, stroking him rhythmically.

it wasn’t long until you replaced your hand with your mouth, taking him deep just like before, bobbing your head up and down, keeping that steady rhythm.

“baby…” gator moaned, his hips twitching underneath you. “s-stop. i’m gonna cum if you keep goin’ like this.” he sounded completely breathless, his north dakota accent stronger than you’ve ever heard before.

but of course, you didn’t stop. you only went harder, forcing him so deep that you were choking on him, drool dripping down your chin and onto his balls. he began to twitch, his breathing becoming faster and you knew he was on the very edge.

but before he could fall over, you withdrew, pulling away completely, leaving him throbbing and shaking on the mattress.

his arms practically ripped on the cuffs, thighs shaking so hard you swore the mattress was moving underneath you.

“the fuck?” he cried out, lifting his head so he could look at you, poor cock glistening wet and throbbing where it rested against his stomach.

“i told you not to cum, gates,” you pointed out, pouting your lips but still staying out of reach as he shifted his hips, making his cock bob slightly.

“‘m sorry…ain’t gonna happen again. jus’ please, c’me back here,” he begged and you tilted your head to the side, watching him through narrowed eyes.

after a few more seconds of letting him wait, you bowed your head again, swallowing him whole in one movement. and when he was about to cum again, you repeated the same action as before, pulling away, reminding him about your rule.

you edged him like that—triggering is orgasm and pulling away right before it hit—until you decided it was enough, getting rid of the lingerie, stripping naked right in front of his eyes.

his hands stayed cuffed but you could see clearly how bad he wanted to touch you. the hazel brown of his eyes swallowed completely by pure and primal need, mouth slightly hanging open as he watched you with heavy breaths.

“you fuckin’ diabolical bitch,” he cursed, hips pushing up as you crawled back on top of him, alining his cock with your tight hole.

you huffed out a laugh at his words, punishing him by not sinking down on him immediately. you dragged the tip through your folds, coating him in your arousal while the poor man tried to free his hands from where they were still cuffed to the headboard. but the keys were far away, out of his and also your reach, lying on the bedside table.

“loose the cuffs,” he growled, voice deep and primal but all you could do was laugh. without waiting any longer, you sank down on him, your pussy swallowing inch by inch until he was fully seated inside of you.

you leaned forward then, lips brushing against his but not nearly kissing him. “only if you beg for it.” it was a breath, tickling over his still swollen lips and he made a completely new sound, something you never heard before.

he whined.

gator fucking tillman whined because of you. and it made you feel like the most powerful woman on earth.

his hips snapped upwards, the head of his cock hitting your cervix, tearing a moan from your own throat. “loose. the. cuffs,” he repeated, pulling on them a little stronger, the painful screech of the headboard echoing off the walls.

but you didn’t even think about it. you only placed your hands on his soft tummy, fingers brushing through the trail of hair growing there before you sat up, throwing your head back and arching your back, giving him a full view of your tits.

“baby, i swear to fuckin’ god if you—“ he got cut off by the first move of your hips, moaning out loudly as he felt your walls tighten around him.

only seconds later you set a pace that had his head spinning. you moved up and down his cock, circling your hips in between, practically tearing him apart. all that with your fucking perfect tits bouncing in front of his eyes, still too far out of reach.

“baby, please“ he whined, hands straining against the cuffs again. “please, just… loose the fuckin’ cuffs. lemme touch ya.” it was pathetic how he begged but it was exactly how you wanted it. so completely wrecked and drunk on you that you decided it was enough.

you leaned over, grabbing the key before leaning over his head, breasts falling right into his face. the quiet clicks sounded and the first cuff came loose, then the second. the moment he was free, it all happened very fast.

his hands found your hips, turning you around, trapping you underneath him. your breath left your lungs from the sudden movement while his big hands slipped to the back of your knees, pushing your legs up and over his shoulders, folding your smaller form in half, all while he was still buried in you.

the first move had you arching your back off the mattress, changing the angle, causing him to slide even deeper. “fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth, then his payback began.

his pace was relentless, thrusting into you before pulling all the way out before slamming all the way back in, pressing the air out of your lungs in a breathless scream.

he pounded into you over and over again, driven by that raw need, not stopping until he had you right where he wanted you, crying and begging just like him only a few minutes before.

his thumb found your clit, rubbing over it in tight circles, adding just the right pressure. “gator… oh, f-fuck… i’m gonna cum…” you moaned, feeling how the pressure in your stomach built, almost becoming too much.

“funny thing, baby. because you were the one telling me not to cum until ya say so,” he rasped against your lips, and just before the coil snapped, his finger was gone, hips stilling completely.

that fucking asshole did the same thing as you did to him, denying you to reach your peak, a desperate cry tearing from your lips.

“you can cum, gator. just please, please let me—”

he cut you off with a kiss, tongue fucking into your mouth, finally picking up his pace again.

when he pulled away, he lowered his head to look down at where your bodies connected, watching him slipping in and out of you. “fuckin’ hell. like ya were made for me, babygirl,” he praised, his thumb finding your clit again.

“cum with me, would ya? can ya do that f’me?” he asked and you nodded, maybe a little too hard even. but it only spurred him on, hips crashing down against yours, making your tits bounce. and that was enough for both of you.

your orgasm crashed over you, so hard you could swear you passed out. your walls clenching around him, milking him dry, was gator’s undoing and he buried himself deep into your pussy with one last thrust, thick ropes of hot cum spurting out, coating your delicate walls.

you didn’t know how long it took until you stopped shaking. all you could feel was his body collapsing on top of you, bracing himself on his elbows next to your head so he wouldn’t crush you. “have i already mentioned that yer fuckin’ evil,” he breathed out, making you giggle underneath him, your hands coming up to cover your face.

“hey, don’t hide from me now, mrs. tillman,” he murmured, peppering kisses on the back of your hands, pushing them away with his nose. you finally moved them aside, eyes meeting his, the room illuminated by the sunset making them sparkle like liquid amber.

“couldn’t stop myself. and maybe… you can really blame the whiskey,” you smiled softly, your fingers tracing over his strong biceps.

he was about to say something when the beeping noise of the oven echoed through the house, telling you that dinner was ready.

“i have to go,” you whispered, pressing a quick kiss to his lips, pushing him off so he rolled over to the free side of the bed. you slipped away, completely ignoring the feeling of his cum and your juices leaking out from between your legs.

you bowed down, grabbed his shirt and pulled it over your head—not even bothering to put panties on—before you disappeared through the door.

gator’s eyes were fixed on the ceiling as he took deep, steady breaths, still processing what the hell just happened. a few minutes later, he followed you down, finding you in the kitchen, placing the delicious smelling food on the plates.

he took two beers out of the fridge, bringing them to the dining table, waiting for you to join him and sat down with you.

he was only a few minutes into eating when he stopped, feeling your gaze on him. he lifted his head, eyes meeting yours, finding you biting your bottom lip.

you stretched out your leg, your foot touching his bare thigh, tracing its path down right between his legs, brushing against his cock, securely tucked away in his boxers.

gator grinned, flashing his teeth at you while he placed his fork back on the table. he reached over, fingers curling under your chair, yanking you closer on it. “you greedy little slut,” he growled, pushing his own chair back as he fell to his knees in front of you—the grilled chicken completely forgotten on his plate as he focused on his actual meal right in front of him.

2026 whispersoflost

If you had told yourself three months ago that you were being protected by a talking corpse in a small town infested with the infected, well... your past self probably would tell you that you had the survival instinct of a baby. You would have to agree. 

Zombies didn't talk. They didn't stare at you without eating you, they didn't do their best awkward attempt of a smile at you, they didn't bring you food when you asked, they didn't spare you while they ate every other human around, they didn't tend to and bandage your wounds, and they didn't look at you with a human-like concern whenever you showed a sign of pain.

Zombies were not your friends. They were your enemies, monsters you were supposed to kill for your own survival so that they wouldn't get to you first.

So then who the hell was this strange corpse that did all of these things when he wasn't supposed to? Why did he care for you instead of ripping your brains apart? Why was he making sure to do everything he could to keep you alive instead of doing everything to kill you?

For a moment, you considered he actually wasn't infected, but if he wasn't a zombie, what the fuck was he? Because he certainly wasn't human, that was clear enough.

You didn't talk much to him in the first three days of staying in the little town, remaining inside that same, large house. You had learned your lesson about not leaving, not until your leg was healed enough to get a move on. For the first three days, you avoided him as much as possible, too afraid his friendly act would disappear and he would try to eat you like a normal zombie would, and too confused by his strangely kind nature, not wanting to see him do anything else because you didn't want to confuse yourself even more.

He seemed to have noticed this, and didn't force himself into your space. He only came to you when necessary, to give you food and medication for your stab wound. You tended to the wound yourself now, not trusting his dead fingers to do so, even if he had bandaged the wound the first time round.

For a majority of the time, you stayed in the same bedroom you had first woken up in, wondering where the owner of the bedroom was now, and vaguely questioning if the corpse who looked after you had perhaps been the owner. You had rummaged the bedroom a little bit, having grabbed a pair of jeans from the abandoned closet to replace your ripped ones. They were too big on you, but you were able to manage.

But sometimes, when you were absolutely sure the corpse wasn't home, you would walk around the house, exploring the excessive amount of rooms it had. You even left the house to check out the backyard, going no further beyond the fence when you examined the murky pool and the untouched deck chairs. You had stared at the pool for a while, wondering how it had looked before the apocalypse, how many people how swam in it and whether they were still alive.

They probably weren't.

All in all, your time in the small town was... pleasant, as much as it could be. More pleasant than the world had ever been ever since it had ended. At times, it felt boring. You had become so accustomed to being on the run all of the time with adrenaline pumping through your body, that it felt strange to settle down and just... rest. It was weird to have a break from it all. It would've felt lonely if you weren't so used to being alone now.

You only felt your safety being threatened at night, but no one could ever feel truly safe at night anymore.

Nighttime had become the most dangerous time of day ever since the world ended, because nights weren't peaceful anymore. They were quiet unless you made a wrong move, unless you didn't hide yourself well enough.

You still didn't know the exact cause of the outbreak that had turned the world into this, and you weren't sure if anyone really did. All you knew was that it had to do with the creatures that roamed around at night, that searched for its prey only by listening for a heartbeat. Creatures that unlike corpses, truly had no humanity, because they were never human. They were something else entirely, something that looked like they belonged in a different world.

The first time you had seen one, you had almost immediately accepted your fate, that you were going to die. It had been early in the apocalypse, back when you knew next to nothing about what the world had turned into. You had escaped while bleeding out, but you had escaped nonetheless, and that had been the first time you realised that you actually had a chance of surviving this apocalypse.

The creatures had no faces, instead having a head that split open like the petals of a flower in the most terrifying way. Some of them had bodies like a human; those were the worst ones. There were smaller ones that ran on all fours like dogs, and while they were technically easier to deal with, they were still quick and sharp. They didn't always necessarily kill, some just liked to bite. Although being bitten by them was basically death, the other option was being ripped to shreds and feeling every part of it.

Neither of those were very good options.

These creatures had been the ones to instil the horrifying virus into the humans that turned them into corpses, that stopped their heartbeat yet kept them alive in a way that wasn't living. It had all started with one bite from the creatures that contained the virus, and that unfortunate human who had been bitten started to bite others, and it became hell from there.

You had heard rumours that the creatures had come from a lab, that it had been an experiment gone wrong, that they had escaped beyond the scientists’ control. And even though it probably wasn't true, it wouldn't surprise you if a crazy scientist had been the cause of a zombie virus.

You had learned quickly that these creatures only came out at night. No one had an explanation for why that was, but it was something to take advantage of. It meant humans knew when to be careful, that they could get everything done during the day with some sense of ease, knowing that a creature wouldn't sneak up on them with the sun out.

But even at night, it was still hard to hide from them. The creatures were able to detect heartbeats, and humans had no way of suppressing their heartbeats unless they died. So, the best bet was barricading windows and doors at night, hiding in one room and staying very still, trying to keep a steady heartbeat while the creatures would try to break through.

Some succeeded, a lot didn't.

The first night in the abandoned town, you had done a pathetic attempt at barricading the door and window when nighttime fell. Once you heard the first prowl of the creatures outside, you believed for sure that you were going to die.

But somehow, by some sort of miracle... they never came. They lingered, they got close, but they never penetrated the house that you resided in, and you were in complete disbelief of it. You possessed a heartbeat that had very much been hammering against your chest in the moment, so why hadn't they come?

Ever since you had arrived in the small town, so many things had happened that contradicted everything you thought you knew, and you couldn't wrap your head around it.

On the fourth day, things started to change with the talking corpse.

You were lying down on the king-sized bed, flipping through a magazine you had found under it, one of the many trinkets you had found that was collecting dust. You were grateful that the magazine wasn't sticky, something you would've expected from a teenage boy's bedroom.

All of your senses sharpened as soon as you heard the door creak open, and you sprung up in the bed, your hand flying to the knife laid beside you out of an instinct you had learned from the apocalypse.

But of course, it was him, carrying in a can of food again, and you only slightly relaxed.

He looked at you blankly before crossing the room slowly in a wonky step to place the can on the bedside table, laying down a spoon beside it.

"Thank you," you said. Sure, he was dead, but that wasn't going to erase your manners.

He looked at you, and his lips quirked up in that awkward, weak smile that he was clearly using all of his might to pull. You held in your laugh, and opted to smile back instead, hoping the amusement wasn't too obvious in your eyes.

"How... leg?" He asked quietly, looking at your covered thigh.

"Getting better," you answered.

He grunted with a small nod of his head, and you assumed that was his zombie way of saying that's good. Your eyes flicked down to something you had noticed in the past few days; the patch of dried blood on his hip, the fabric torn aggressively in that particular spot. You hadn’t asked, and you didn’t think you ever would, but you were still curious. You had a strong suspicion that that spot was the place he had gotten bitten, and it was hard to tell whether it had been by a corpse or a creature.

It seemed as though it would’ve hurt a lot, and you couldn’t suppress the pang of sympathy inside you at the thought of it.

In return for your curious gaze, he stared at you flatly for a full minute before turning away, making his way out of the room.

You stared after him, questions warring in your mind as you considered the abnormality of his behaviour. Why was he like this? Why was he not like his fellow zombies outside, roaming the streets brainlessly with nothing but a need for human brains?

You blurted out a question before you could stop it from spilling, but it wasn't the one you expected yourself to ask.

"Where do you go all the time?"

He halted in his tracks, and turned to you as quickly as he could, which wasn't with a lot of speed, but you were willing to give him some credit considering he was dead. His eyebrows furrowed at you in question.

"You don't stay at this house all day. You're always going out, and I'm just curious on where you go," you said, your voice lowering with each word as embarrassment suddenly washed over you, realising how stupid your question sounded.

His eyebrows relaxed, understanding spreading across his pale face. He took a moment to answer, and you waited patiently before he got out, "mall."

You blinked. "Mall? As in a shopping mall?" When he nodded, you raised your eyebrows. "There's a mall here?"

"Yes. Go there... a lot," he told you slowly, and you nodded as you listened. "Friend."

Your eyebrows furrowed. "Friend?"

"My f-friend. There," he clarified.

You perked up, your eyes widening. "You have a friend? What kind of friend?"

He seemed to realise the underlying hope you felt, and cancelled it out as he said, "l-like me."

You deflated, feeling a little disappointed. It would've been nice if the corpse had just so happened to know another human.

"So you go to the mall where your friend is?" You asked, and he nodded. "What do you guys do?"

He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. He shut it, face scrunching up as if he was trying to find the words. He struggled, opening his mouth again with no sound coming out, and he grunted a little more aggressively, frustration showing.

Your chest twisted slightly with guilt, so you said, "hey, forget I asked. I was just curious, I don't need to know."

He frowned. "S-sorry. Can't... explain."

"Don't worry, I understand," you said with a reassuring smile. "Well, I can't understand, but I get why it's hard for you. It's impressive that you even talk this much anyway."

He seemed pleased at that, his smile slightly less awkward this time. He then said, "eat."

"Ah, good point," you said, clicking your tongue as you shifted on the bed, moving to the side of the bed so that you could grab the canned food from the bedside table.

You examined the can, seeing that salmon was your meal of the day. You hummed in approval, popping the lid open. You were about to dig in before you paused, slowly looking up to see the corpse staring unblinkingly at you.

You couldn't say that you didn't feel a little uncomfortable, but it wasn't like you weren't used to him staring at you. He liked to do it a lot, and it didn't take you by surprise anymore.

Instead of telling him to go away or giving him a dirty look like usual, you instead asked another question. "Whose house is this anyway? Clearly, the person was rich."

Something strange flickered in his expression, and he looked around the bedroom, his jaw tightening.

"D-don't know," he said, shoulders slumping.

"Oh, so did you just pick a random house?" You inquired, taking a bite of your salmon.

He shrugged weakly. "Don't know. C-can't... remember."

You paused, those words catching your attention. "Is there... anything you can remember?"

He looked at you, and shook his head.

"Really? Nothing at all?" You asked in surprise, and he shook his head again. "What about yourself?”

He shook his head once more, and you halted your eating, highly intrigued as you gazed at him.

"But you're still conscious?" You questioned.

He tried and failed to make a gesture with his hand you couldn't understand, so he struggled to say, "s-sort of."

"Sort of?"

"Hard to... control m-myself."

"I see," you said thoughtfully. You didn't think he would walk that slow on purpose.

"Name," he said suddenly.

"Huh?"

"You, name? You ask... I ask t-too," he said.

You squinted at him, slowly deciphering his words in your mind.

"You want my name, and you're saying... I've asked questions, so you want to ask me questions too?" You guessed.

He nodded eagerly. God, you were already getting way too good at zombie talk.

"Oh, right. Well," you told him your name.

He repeated it, the letters forming slowly on his deteriorating tongue. He said it again in a whisper, testing the name, and your stomach did a little weird thing.

"You had a name, didn't you?"

He nodded sheepishly.

"I know you said you don't remember anything, but surely you'd remember that?" You tried.

He blinked slowly, starting and never quite finishing, "S..."

You looked at him with confusion. "S?"

"S... s..." he said, face scrunching up in the way he did when he was trying really hard, struggling to say something, but he just couldn't. Except, it seemed that the reason behind it this time was that he couldn't remember.

And then you felt the small sink of your heart, pity blooming shyly.

Because he had a name, and he couldn't remember it. He was a human once too, just like you. He had a life, probably had friends and family, and he had had a name.

And now he couldn't tell you anything about the most crucial part of his identity, because he had forgotten it. It had all been taken from him.

God, it would've sucked to be conscious as a corpse.

"It starts with an S?" You asked softly, and he nodded. "Was it... Sam?"

He shook his head.

"Simon? Seth? Spencer?"

He shook his head for each one, and you pressed your lips together. He ducked his head, seeming a little embarrassed, and you felt even worse for him.

"At least you know it starts with an S. You can hold onto that," you tried to say hopefully. "But then, what do I call you?"

He only shrugged, still looking at the ground, and it was so strange how... innocent he looked, when he should've been anything but. He had literally eaten brains before, and yet, as you looked at him, it didn't feel like he would ever do such a thing.

"How about Zombie Boy?" You suggested, and he looked up at you. "I know it's nothing endearing, but well, when I look at you, I guess I just think... Zombie Boy. You're a zombie, but you act like a boy, like you're human, just a little slower. I think it fits you."

He straightened up a little, showing his approval as he smiled as widely as he could at you, his eyes subtly yet noticeably brighter.

"Eat," he said again, reminding you of the food you were holding.

"Only if you sit with me and survive through more of my interrogation, Zombie Boy," you shot back.

He seemed to be slightly taken aback, but he staggered over to the bed in his slow haste, sitting on the edge a reasonable distance from you, but still beside you, still close as he looked at you eagerly.

You took another bite of your salmon to satisfy him, and when you returned his smile this time, it was not forced in a way that you only did it because you felt obliged to. It was genuine, real, there because you really wanted him to see it.

And the fact that you did this with no trace of the fear that had been lingering inside you for the past few days terrified you.

***

Spending time with you was strange in the best way.

He couldn't remember the last time he had looked at a human without having the urge to eat them. Nor could he even remember the last time he had held a conversation with one, which was obviously back when he had been a human himself.

So hanging out with you while you were a human and he was like this was certainly weird.

Really, the whole situation was bizarre, he agreed with you on that. He wished he could tell you why he was protecting you instead of trying to eat you, why he had saved you in the basement instead of just killing you like he had done to the others.

He tried to figure out what was so different about you that made him want to keep you safe, but of course, he wasn't very smart with his slow and rotting brain, so he couldn't come up with anything. What he did know, however, was that he was glad he had saved you, because being with you easily became his favourite time of day.

He didn't want to shun his best friend in the mall whose name started with an R, she would always be his friend, and would always be the one who had kept him company for however long he had been a corpse for. But being around you was different than being around her, because you talked, and you expressed your feelings, which meant that he could actually know what you were thinking about and what kind of opinions you had. With you, he was able to forget what he was, and for a few seconds at a time, he could pretend he was a human just like you.

Then you would call him Zombie Boy, and he'd be reminded of it all over again. Though, he couldn't say he hated the nickname, not when it came from you. Not when he finally had a name.

It was almost dangerous how you made him feel, which was a whole thing in itself. He wasn't supposed to feel, and his stomach wasn't supposed to stir in the way that it did whenever you smiled or laughed, making him feel almost warm inside. He couldn't decipher the meaning of the sensations inside of him, and he was slightly scared to.

He stuck around the house a lot more now. You finally came out of the bedroom when he was present, going out of your way to meet him in the kitchen. You said that you were just hungry, eager for the food he had brought you, but you always ended up staying, talking to him while he listened, waiting patiently when he would struggle to get words out.

You didn't look at him like he was something to be afraid of anymore, and he didn't realise how important that would feel to him.

You stopped looking at him like that even when he had to wipe his own blood on you, something he had to do in order to keep you safe, hidden from the other corpses. Sometimes, he would notice, or you would point out the other corpses starting to gravitate towards the house you were in, clearly sensing you.

So he would have to do that every time to make them go away, to protect you. He hated doing it, hated the visible discomfort on your face while he did it, hated that you had to be covered in your blood just to stay safe. But you understood now, why he had to do it, why it was important for your survival, so you let him do it every time. It was unconventional, but unconventional had become the new normal ever since the world had ended.

He feared the most for your life at night, when the creatures came crawling out of the woods. Now that you two had formed some kind of… alliance, he helped you to barricade the house by leading you to the things you could use, acting as a lookout while you built the makeshift barricades. And whenever nighttime fell, you would hide in the bedroom while he would linger outside the house, making sure that no creatures would come by.

You had expressed your confusion to him about how the creatures somehow didn’t detect your heartbeat, how they didn’t come to the house to hunt you down. He couldn’t answer your questions, because he was just as confused as you. He wondered if it had to do with the blood he wiped on you, but it didn’t add up with the fact that the creatures searched solely for heartbeats.

However, it gave him nothing to complain about. He didn’t know what he would do if your life was put at risk like that.

You liked to ask questions, he had noticed, which was a shame, because he was never able to give you very good answers. He could answer your simple inquiries, like telling you that he got your human food from abandoned grocery stores, and that the town's name was Hawkins, and that corpses didn't feel physical pain or sweat or shiver, even though they did run cold-blooded. He liked it when he was finally able to give a proper reply to your questions, it was embarrassing to not be able to remember anything.

Especially when you asked about the house you were hiding in. You thought that he had just chosen a random house to put you in, but that wasn't true. This house wasn't random, he had always gravitated towards it, but he didn't know why. There was a good chance that it was his, that the bedroom you slept in used to be his, but he couldn't know. If it was his old house, why didn't he feel that distant warmth in his chest that he felt whenever he walked through the mall? If it had been a home, then why did nothing tug at him inside when he looked around the vaguely familiar walls? And if it wasn't his old house, then why did he still feel drawn to it?

He liked to ask himself questions too, he could see where you came from.

It was a late night when he was the one to ask you a question, two days after you started hanging around each other.

You had both been on the couch downstairs, him sitting stiffly on one end while you sat comfortably on the other, facing him with your back pressed against the arm of the couch, your legs spread out with your knees still bent. You were eating out of a can once again, having dinner while he stared shamelessly, wondering what it was like to have something other than human brains fill his appetite.

Then another thought resurfaced, something else he had been wondering from the very moment he saw you.

"Why..." he began, and your eyes snapped to him, your full attention focusing on him as you waited calmly for him to finish his thought. "Those m-men... you were with... w-why?”

You blinked. "What men?"

"W-when... we met," he said sheepishly.

You blinked again, something darker flickering in your eyes as you shifted slightly in your spot. "Oh. Why was I with them?"

He nodded weakly, and your jaw tightened, your expression becoming unreadable, and he regretted asking.

"S-sorry. No need… to answer," he said apologetically.

"No, it's okay, I'll answer," you assured, and his eyes widened slightly, eager to hear the reason. You sighed. "First of all, they were not my friends."

"Could tell."

You smiled a little, and he felt proud of himself. "Settle down, Zombie Boy. Want me to tell you or not?"

"S-sorry," he said as quickly as he could, and you chuckled.

"I was alone," you started, and he sobered, listening intently. "I've pretty much been alone since the apocalypse started, and I've travelled a long way alone, and the last group of people I'd seen before this had been months ago, so I felt a bit detached from civilisation — not that there's much left of it. Anyway, that's why when I saw these three men, I got a bit excited. It was my first time seeing people for ages, but well, it was easy to realise that they were the type of people I would've been better off without seeing."

You told him the story while avoiding eye-contact, your food becoming untouched. You had run into the men when you had walked into an abandoned convenience store, planning to rummage through it for any possible useful supplies that could've been left around. They had already been there, and it had only taken you a few minutes of speaking with them to realise that you didn't want their company. You had tried to make a sly escape, had tried to be nice to their faces about it, but they hadn't let it happen. You had been forcefully grabbed by them, handled by two of them as they had shoved you into the trunk of their shitty car, locking you in there.

You had remained in there until the next day when the men arrived at Hawkins.

They had dragged you along with them then, willing to use you as a sacrifice if they came across any corpses. Clearly, that had backfired on them completely, as you were now the only one alive, being looked after by the same corpse who had taken their lives.

He felt that same hot feeling simmering in him once you finished telling your story, the same thing he had felt when he had seen in person how careless one of the men had been about giving you up. He wished he had given those men a more painful death, he wished he had prolonged their suffering for a little longer before taking the light away from their lives.

He would've done that for you, and that was a little scary.

"Assholes..." he grunted.

"Yeah, that sure is a suitable adjective," you scoffed bitterly. There was a pause in which you finally looked at him, something strange in your expression. "Zombie Boy, I never thanked you properly."

He tilted his head slightly to indicate his confusion. You were a fast learner at deciphering his slow ways of communication.

"For saving me," you clarified. "I was too scared at first that you were just going to eat me eventually, but I can see now that you're... different. You saved my life when you could have done the opposite, when you were supposed to do the opposite. Without you, I would either be dead or heavily traumatised right now. I don't know what those guys would've done to me if you didn't kill them."

His stomach plummeted at that. He didn't want to know what would have been done to you, it was a horrifying thought.

"So thank you," you said earnestly. "I haven't shown my appreciation well, so I'll show it now."

He didn't know what to say, because he hadn't thought of it as a grand gesture. He just did it simply because he wanted to, and because you didn't deserve to be a sacrifice. That was all there was to it.

"W-would do it... again," he said quietly.

You smiled softly, and his chest fluttered strangely at the sight. "You're nicer than some humans in this fucked up world, you know that?"

"Not... you."

You huffed out a laugh. "Using flattery to get on my good side?"

He smiled crookedly. "Not a-already?"

You rolled your eyes with a smile. "Yeah, sure Zombie Boy."

He felt considerably lighter after that.

A week and a half into your stay since you had arrived at Hawkins, he brought you something else other than food.

He was prompted by you beforehand, when you had been sprawled on the same couch while he sat on the floor, sunlight spilling through the windows this time.

"Getting stabbed was very inconvenient," you said flatly, staring at the ceiling. "I can't do shit, and I'm stuck here with corpses swarming outside. No offence, Zombie Boy."

"S'okay... get it," he said.

"I just... I'm so bored. I can't leave the house, and I can't leave this town while my leg is still healing. You're not here at all hours of the day, y'know, so there's that too," you said.

"C-can be, if you... want," he offered softly.

"No, your friend will get suspicious if you stay here all the time. You told me that, remember?" You reminded him.

He let out the closest thing to a sigh. "Yeah."

"You sure she wouldn't like me?" You asked, this not being the first time you had said it. "She could be like you."

He shook his head. "Too r-risky."

"I guess," you said, blowing a little raspberry. "I just have nothing to do. It's not like the TV works. I miss TV. Do you remember what TV was?"

He screwed his face up in deep thought, desperate to be able to say yes to you so that you could talk about it. TV... it was familiar, but then everything was, he just didn't know it.

"Watch," he said. TV was something that would be watched, he thought he remembered.

"Yeah, everyone watched TV," you said wistfully. "New episodes of shows would release weekly, and we'd all scramble to watch them. You could buy tapes from the video store, or rent whatever movie you wanted. Now... there will never be a new movie again."

He gazed at you, noticing how the tears welled up in your ears. He frowned. He didn't like seeing you upset, he actually hated it. He was never able to do anything about it, and he hated that just as much.

"Oh my god... I'll never listen to music again either. I'll never get to go into another record store and buy a new album... god, now I'm just upsetting myself," you said miserably, burying your face into your hands. "I miss Madonna."

That was when it occurred to him that he could make you feel better.

He abruptly got to his feet, and you looked at him quizzically.

"Going to... g-get something," he told you.

"Food?"

"No, d-different. Trust me," he said, and you raised your eyebrows at him before he left the house.

When he came back, his hands were full.

He struggled to get through the front door, and you had had to come running through the house to assist him. But when you saw what he was holding, your body had frozen with shock, and he had hastily closed the door before you freaked out.

And you freaked out alright.

"No fucking way! A radio? A boombox at that? You're kidding," you exclaimed, snatching the boombox from his hand and rushing over to place it on the counter, examining it closely like it was an ancient artefact. You ran your fingers along it, your eyes wide like you were a kid again, discovering a radio for the first time again.

And without even realising it, he watched you the whole time with a large smile, one that came along easier than it ever had before.

It wasn't the same boombox that belonged to him and his friend in Scoops Ahoy, but he had grabbed a handful of cassette tapes from their collection. The boombox had come from one of the department stores in the mall, technically brand new as it hadn't been bought, collecting dust on the shelves while waiting for a customer that would never come.

"Zombie Boy, I think I love you," you declared, still staring at the boombox, and his insides did something entirely complicated at the words.

I love you.

You looked over your shoulder at him while he was still processing it, his jaw slack and his eyes wide.

"Are those cassette tapes? Wow, that's a fair few!" You said, spotting the cassette tapes he held in his hand. "Come on then, let me see what tunes you have."

He obliged immediately, dragging his feet over to where you stood by the counter. He dropped the cassette tapes onto the counter, and you immediately went to grab them, reading the labels on them.

You gasped at one. "You got Madonna! Oh my god, you're the best."

He ducked his head down as you put the cassette tape into the boombox, his stomach doing backflips. This feeling was so odd, yet so good in a way he couldn't describe, because he was horrible at describing things with his sluggish mind.

"Not..." he started when you reached to adjust the volume, and you looked at him curiously, "... t-too loud. Others... hear it. Bad."

You nodded in understanding, and turned the volume to a sound not loud enough to attract the others outside of the house, but loud enough so that you could feel the music in your bones all the same. A delighted gasp escaped you when the intro of Like A Virgin started to play. Your hands came to hold your heart, your eyes closing as you said dramatically, "it's like seeing the sun for the first time in ten years..."

He smiled, and a strange sound huffed out of him, startling himself. You opened your eyes, looking at him before a grin slowly spread on your face. "Was that a laugh?"

His smile faltered, and embarrassment washed over his features.

"No, no, it's okay! It's just... when was the last time you laughed, Zombie Boy?" You asked.

He only shrugged, because he couldn't even remember how to laugh.

That same sympathy filled your eyes, and you stared at him for a moment before grabbing both of his arms, pulling him to you. His eyes widened, a confused grunt leaving him as you didn't let go of him, looking into his eyes.

"When was the last time you danced?" You asked, wiggling your eyebrows teasingly.

It took him a moment to realise what you were implying.

Oh no.

He shook his head as frantically as he could, but it was too late by then, your mind already made up as you starting to sing along to the lyrics, "yeah you made me feel shiny and new! Come on Zombie Boy, you don't have to sing, but at least dance with me!"

He grunted in objection, but then you started to move your head side-to-side, hair whipping around your face while your body swayed along as you sang loudly, "Like a virgin! Touched for the very first time!"

All resistance left his body, letting you swing his stiff arms around as you continued to dance enthusiastically but carefully, mindful of your recovering wound. How could he stop you when you looked happier than he had ever seen you before? How could he fight against it when you looked so beautiful like this, freely dancing and enjoying the music that no one had time to appreciate anymore? How could he resist when you were willingly pulling him into your space, your fingers on his arms shooting sparks through his arms, a shocking sensation in his decomposing body.

Then when your hands slid down to hold his, it was something else entirely, his knees weakening just by the touch. The contrast was striking, your warm fingers pressing against his piercingly cold ones, and the feeling made his eyes widen.

"Spin me around, Zombie Boy!" You told him, and he looked at you, incredulity written all over his face. You laughed, "I'll help you out."

You lifted his arm in the air with yours, grinning cheekily at him as you twirled around under his arm, your hair majestically fanning around your head as it moved in sync with your body. If he still had a beating heart, it would've stopped in that moment, captivated by you as the sunlight hit you in all the right ways, framing you as some sort of angel. He would've easily believed you were an angel.

He smiled without meaning to, coming again without the usual difficulty as he admired you. He wished his body would allow him to dance with you in the way you deserved to be danced with. He wished you didn't have to be the one to put in the effort to be spun around, and he wished he could sing along loudly with you, with the same enthusiastic energy you were radiating. He imagined he would also wildly nod his head to the music, and perhaps he would also grab a fake microphone that you would both sing into, laughing at each other while doing it.

But instead, he was stuck like this; a dead, stiff person who didn't even know the lyrics to the song because he either didn't remember or ever know them; not that he would have even been able to sing if he did know them.

He couldn't be the dance partner you deserved, and he never would be.

His smile faded by the time the song finished, but you hadn't noticed as you let go of him, breathing heavily as you caught your breath.

"What other songs did you bring?" You wondered aloud breathlessly, walking over to the counter to check out the other tapes as Material Girl started playing on the boombox.

He watched you wistfully, longing to pull you into another dance to this song he was sure he had heard before.

"Oh, Stranger In Town by Bob Seger? Doesn't that album have that one song that was in that one movie?" You asked, and your face scrunched up in concentration as you tried to remember the name, snapping your fingers as you did so. He smiled softly at your antics, which widened as you spoke excitedly when you finally remembered. "Risky Business! Yeah, Tom Cruise danced to it. Wow, I had a massive crush on that guy."

When he processed the words, his gut stirred funnily in a way that made his hollow chest burn with a feeling he was incapable of naming. Tom Cruise... the name was faintly familiar, but whoever it was seemed to be your type. He wondered what the person looked like.

You turned to him with a hand of your hip, your eyes shamelessly looking him up and down, and he was hit by a wave of bashfulness under your sudden examination, averting his eyes from your gaze timidly.

"Y'know, I bet you would look a bit like him if you were human. You probably did," you said offhandedly.

He did a double take at your words, his eyes widening slightly. You thought he looked like the guy you used to have a crush on? A guy you surely must have thought was attractive, so did that mean-

No, now he was just being delusional.

you skipped over to him with a grin, clearly oblivious to the spiral you had caused inside his mind. "Care for another dance, Zombie Boy? This song was really popular, you probably knew it as well. I mean, who doesn't know Madonna?"

And then you launched into the lyrics again as the chorus played, your body language and voice passionate as you belted the words, and the complicated thoughts in his head faded to back of his mind, completely distracted once again by you. Especially so when you pulled him in to join once more.

He couldn't remember the last time he had felt so alive like he had in that moment.

All comments and reblogs appreciated!

Divider by @/strangergraphics

Look away. Look away. Look away. Look away.

Steve’s angel on his shoulder is screaming at him, begging for the man to listen but he doesn’t. He can’t.

Because less than a hundred feet away from him, you’re there. Carefree and beautiful, swimming and floating around in your pool.

Never mind that it’s almost one in the morning. Every night for the past two weeks, you’ve stepped onto your patio and swam laps around the pool while Steve watches from his window.

He can’t tell if it’s a blessing or a curse that his bedroom window has the perfect view of your backyard, and the pool you’ve occupied lately.

Steve doesn’t know you well. You moved into the house next to his only a few months ago – renting it from the Belmont’s he’s grown up living next to.

You seemed nice, kind even. On the first week, you had knocked on his door with a plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. You introduced yourself with a dizzying smile, and a syrupy sweet voice – he physically had to stop himself from drooling.

And once you were fully settled in, your routine began. You worked at the diner in midtown, and he only knew that because saw you wearing the uniform dress and apron while he was checking the mail – not because he was watching you (he absolutely was).

You seemed to take the mid shifts for the most part. You left for work around 2PM and came home at 9PM, four days out of the week. He wasn’t sure what you did once you were home but once midnight hit, you were in the pool – every night like clockwork.

And tonight’s no exception.

Steve is standing in front of his window, far enough to not be seen unless you’re really looking, but still close enough to see you clearly. There’s not much light outside – most of it comes from the reflection of the moon and a warmer light you’ve installed in your own backyard.

You’ve been swimming for almost thirty minutes now and not once has his eyes wandered from the sight of you. Despite the darkness, he can see you perfectly. You’re floating on your back now and your body is on full display to him.

You’re wearing a red bikini and the color is so stark, it almost glows against the water. Your arms are moving slowly under the water to keep you afloat, your knees and ankles moving carefully to help tread the water.

He can’t tell if your eyes are open or not, and it’s hard to focus on anything except your tits.

Steve inwardly cringes at himself, and tears his eyes away from you – choosing to stare at a patch of carpet on his bedroom floor instead. He’s being disgusting and disrespectful. You’re in the comfort of your own home, doing something that brings you peace and he’s invading that. Even if you don’t know it.

He should close his blinds– no, he’s going to.

Just as Steve looks back up to close the curtains, his eyes land back on where you were floating but something’s different.

You’re still floating, easily treading water but this time, without your fucking top on.

Steve’s mouth goes completely dry and his already half hard cock, hardens even more – straining against the waistband of his sweatpants.

He sees the bikini top you had on barely two minutes ago now hanging off the small stonewall ledge of the pool. For a second, he wonders if you took it off for him. But that would be ridiculous. Surely if you had even an inkling of him watching you, you would storm right up to him and smack him across his face – probably yell obscenities at him, maybe even call the police.

Right?

Steve swallows harshly and despite telling himself to shut the blinds a few moments ago, he grabs the chair from his desk and slides it to in front of the window. He settles into it without much more thought and watches as you move through the water.

He knows he shouldn’t but all common sense has left his mind and has been overtaken by hunger. Steve’s hands find the waistband of his sweatpants and boxers, swiftly tugging them down past his thighs.

The cool air hits his skin and just barely offers him some sense of relief. He can feel the bead of precum wet on his tip. Keeping his eyes on you, he raises his hand and carefully spits into his palm. He wraps his palm around his cock, slowly twisting his wrist as he jerks himself off.

“Fuck,” He breathes aloud. The relief is immediate, and even though he wishes it was your hand instead of his, he welcomes it.

His wet hand keeps working around himself, and he watches you descend under water. You stay under for a few seconds, long enough to make him miss you. Finally, you come back up, your hands raising to push your drenched hair away from your face.

Steve doesn’t even try to silence the moan that spills from his throat. His eyes follow the way the water cascades from down your face, down your throat, all the way till it falls over your tits. Your mouth is just barely hung open, very clearly so you can inhale fresh air, and water slides over your rosy pink lips.

Steve’s hand moves faster as he keeps his gaze glued to you. His room fills with the sound of his slick hand fisting his cock, his hand stroking himself up and down, up and down.

He whines into the air as you lean backwards again, your chest and torso displayed to him again and he’s so, so fucking grateful.

“Oh fuck, mhmm,” Steve groans, his hand moving faster. The lewd schlick sound of his wet palm stroking his cock surrounds him, it’s so loud he’s almost worried you’d be able to hear it.

His breathing getting heavier as he tracks the way you move. His eyes threaten to squeeze shut but he can’t bring himself to look away from you, even for a second.

You keep moving, slowly swimming from the shallow end to the deep end. Your body moves to effortlessly, so beautifully and his mind begins to wander.

He imagines how you’d look riding him. He imagines how your tits would bounce in clear view of his face, perfect for him to grab and squeeze as you fuck yourself on his cock.

His hand tightens around his shaft, a thin layer of sweat building at his temple. He keeps thinking of how you’d look as he fucked you.

He could fuck you in that same pool – push you against the stone wall, holding your hips in place as he fucks into you. He imagines every pretty sound that would slip past your lips, how you’d whine and beg for more.

“S-Shit. Yeah, just like that, baby,” Steve hisses as he moans mindlessly, his hand pumps his dick faster, rougher. He’s so close already.

He focuses back on you. You’re floating in the shallow end again, and Steve’s gaze is fixated on the way your hand rises out of the water, the tips of your fingers gently gliding across the west skin of your stomach, up the valley of your breasts, carefully circling the skin around your nipple.

His hand is frantic now, stroking himself relentlessly as he stares at you. He’s a moaning, blubbering mess as he watches the way you touch yourself. It’s a show perfectly made for him.

Steve felt that rush of adrenaline coursing in his veins, traveling through his chest and all the way down to his cock. He was right there, and as he watches you emerge from the pool – water soaking your tanned body, droplets sliding down your skin, he’s thrown over the edge.

His stomach tightens, head thrown back as he whines your name into the air. He barely has time to throw his shirt upwards, exposing his stomach as warm ropes of cum spurt from his cock, coating his skin.

His chest heaves, and he keeps his hand moving over his skin, drawing out his orgasm. It takes him a few seconds for the ringing to leave his ears and come back to reality. His hand uncurls itself from around his dick, and he lets it drop against his sticky stomach.

Steve tracks you as you step out of the water and reach for a towel. He’s sad as you cover yourself up, but as his mind catches up with his body, he realizes he should feel guilty. His face burns with shame and he moves to clean himself up.

He grabs a few napkins from his nightstand, wiping his cum off his skin, and tells himself this was a one time thing and it will never happen again.

⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂇⊹ ࣪ ˖

Gator knew that getting involved with you was going to drive him crazy. But he had no idea it would be this crazy. Because you…how does he even describe you? The first time he met you, maybe he would have just said a “hot piece of ass,” and he wouldn’t disagree with that assessment now. But you’re something else too. It’s just that…it’s been a long time since Gator’s even been with a girl, and you’re helping him with this case (although helping is a stretch), and you’re teaching him things. New things. Interesting things. And he likes it. He likes it a lot. So much that he can’t stop thinking about your next appointment in the middle of work. 

“Gator.” The voice calls, distant, as he thinks about how good that hotel room is going to be. “Gator.” It calls again, this time a little closer. “Gator.The last one finally snaps him out of it. Actually, it’s the smack that comes to the backside of his head. He blinks, straightening in his seat as he watches Roy settle across the desk. “You’re off in dreamland.” 

“No.” He clears his throat. “Just thinkin’ about the case.” 

Roy blinks at him for a long moment, reading him to filth with just his eyes. “So how is it going then?”

“Good, yeah. Think I’m getting close.” He imagines your face then, snickering at his wording. “Give me a day. I’ll have solid lead.” 

Roy just exhales, shifting in his seat. “Any one getting close to us?” To the corruption, the murders, the fact that the ranch is actually the biggest drug trafficking route in the county. Conveniently enough, Marcus is Roy’s biggest opponent in the drug game, so when the FBI approached about collaborating on this case, it became the biggest blessing and the worst curse. The deputies of Stark County only know one rule and it’s the rule of Roy Tillman, so having to be…behaved is difficult. 

“Those assholes have nothing on us.” Gator smiles, puffing chest out proudly. Roy doesn’t look at him, doesn’t nod, just turns back to some papers on his desk. Gator slinks out of the office, head hung low. 

And as soon as that door is shut, his shoulders relax a little. He’s noticed those kinds of things lately. How stiff he is in certain situations. How it doesn’t feel like that with you. He doesn’t think about it too long. Stiff is good, right? Stiff is strong. Either way, the noise of the bullpen pulls him right back into that tense state, FBI agents laughing loudly from the desk that used to belong to Deputy Moore. None of the deputies have their own desks anymore. No, they have to be “accomodating” to their guests and share two computers between the rest of them, with half the resources taking double the time. Right now, both computers are being used, and there’s no way in hell he’s going to wait. Gator glances to the secretary desk. She’s not there. Probably off icing her old bones that she’s always complaining are randomly bruised. Score. 

He speeds there before any other deputies noticed, immediately pulling up the database and typing the same name he has everyday for the past week. Peter Wagner. And just like each time before, nothing shows up. He’s asked around to see if anyone had heard of him, hell, any new guy coming into town but not a single person had. Who is this guy? Some ghost that just floated into town? No history, no friends, no trace. 

Suddenly, a heavy force slams onto Gator’s shoulders and he jumps with a small yelp. He turns to spot one of the FBI agents, Henry, with a insufferable smirk plastered on his face as he eyes Gator up and down. “Easy there chihuahua.” He snorts, and another passing agent chuckles. With these guys here, Gator’s starting to get what it was like for the equipment manager of his high school football team — having dirty rags tossed on him, while the rest of the team laughed and scoffed at his existence. He’s almost sorry. Henry’s eyes drift to the computer, scanning over the words. He scoffs. “Didn’t I see you looking this guy up like yesterday?” Gator freezes. These agents really did have their eyes on them at all times. “Where’d you even hear about this?” 

The hooker I sleep with for information. “Just a CI.” Gator closes out of the window, suddenly feeling very defensive of his lead. Henry shakes his head. “Leave that shit and come join us on a real lead.” Gator looks up to the door, where two agents wait at the door, eyes locked on Gator and Henry. And then he feels the stare, boring into his skull from his other side. Roy leans out of his office, face flat, but Gator knows what that look is saying. 

“Do what they ask. They know better.” 

And of course, he listens. 

⊹ ࣪ ˖𓂇⊹ ࣪ ˖

If ever you decided to apply for a normal job (you never would) and you had to write a resume, you wouldn’t have much of a recent job history to add, but your list of special skills would be extensive. You’re brilliant at time management, resilient as ever, good with people, even better with your hands, and your oral communication is off the charts. But your best skill, and the one you take the most pride in, is your attention to detail — you study each and every thing a client does, says and likes, and use it to make sure that you have them wrapped around your little pinky.

Marcus is into the public shit, likes you sucking him off under tables while he’s having meetings and trying to hold it together. He enjoys the power of it, one hand on your head, one shaking hands, doing it right under their noses. That’s how you know that when he pulls you into the other room, you have to whisper into his neck about how hot that was, how you love doing whatever you ask, and minutes later, you’re walking home with next month’s rent stuffed in your purse. 

When he’s not taking you out, Peter loves over the phone stuff. You think that hiding his face makes him bolder or maybe he’s learned that you are not the type someone should be out with in public. You prefer it, because that means you can settle on your couch — phone pressed to your ear, When Harry Met Sally playing quietly in the background as you dig into your dessert. You don’t even have to fake your moans of pleasure. Chocolate mousse is just that good. He’ll whisper asking if you’re close, voice shaking with restraint. You time it perfectly, raising the volume of the television as he breathes all heavy, and Meg Ryan’s loud, exaggerated moans and yeses taking over instead of your own. He comes undone seconds later, and you smile, turning the volume back down. You’ve done this maybe three times now, and he still hasn’t noticed. Luckily, you’re watching your favorite movie. 

“Was it good for you?” He pants.

“So good.” You breathe, admiring the amazing color quality on the television you bought with this appointment’s payment. 

And then there’s Gator. 

You know, you’re not meant to have any, but he’s your favorite. He always books that same cushy hotel room, desperate to get you off just as much as himself. And strangely, with him, you never know what going to get. He’s learning, slowly, that he doesn’t have to be the performance he puts out into the world. Not here, at least. There are some days where he lets you take the lead — a panting mess no matter if he’s underneath you, above you or right between your legs. Other days, something else takes over. Today, he’s got you pinned against the mattress, hips snapping into you from behind, each thrust punching the air out of your lungs as you sink deeper and deeper into the mattress. But then, even then, he’s surrendering something to you. As you attempt to snake your hand down from where he’s holding it, his fingers twitch. Gator has this thing that he does. Every time he wants something he can’t come out and ask for it with words, no. It comes out as the slight parting of his lips, the tiniest flinch of fingers, a breath that escapes a little too heavy. And you’ve noticed every single twitch, meeting it with whatever you could. “What…do you need?” You manage through heavy breaths. 

He buries his face into your shoulder, pressing deep open mouthed kisses there, like that will make it easier to say. “Not yet.” He whines, all the while still desperately chasing his own high. “Wanna…taste it.” 

You smile, but you’re keyed up and you don’t know how much longer you can resist. “Anything…I can do t-” You’re cut off by your own lewd moan. He pauses completely at your question, burying his face in your hair for a moment. 

“Tell me…” He whispers, weak and small. “Tell me I’m good.” You wish, more than anything, that you could see his face right now. He’s finally lowered that shield completely. But since you can’t you do what he asks. You only have to say it once before he’s coming completely undone. And when he does, he tilts your head up, pressing a slow, grateful kiss there.

Before you can reciprocate, he’s pulling out, and flipping you over, settling right between your legs. He glances to the clock then back up at you, a determined smirk across his lips. “I’ll pay you for the extra time.” You don’t get to ask what extra time, when he’s licking once up your already sensitive core. Your back arches instantly. 

You hate that you taught Gator how to tease. It’s his new favorite thing now — taking you right to the edge, so close that you can see the drop and then pulling away. And it drives you nuts. His tongue alternates between pumping in and out of you and licking with precision, your grip tight on his hair, as you grind against his face. As you do, he puts his big palms on your hips, forcing you down. “Shit, Gator.” You whine as that heat builds in your stomach. “Fuck, keep…” And then he pulls his head away, that sly smile on his face. 

“Feel good, mama?”