When In Doubt, Look Intelligent ☺️

The tapping pulled you gently from sleep. For a moment you lay still, listening. The house hadn't quite woken yet. No children charging around upstairs. No distant clatter from the kitchen. Just the soft, deliberate tapping coming from your porch door.  

You pushed back the covers and crossed the room, drawing the curtain aside. Gator stood on the porch, the sight of him woke you properly. He looked exhausted. His uniform was still on, his hair was mussed beneath where his hat had clearly been, and there were shadows beneath his eyes that suggested he hadn't slept at all. 

You unlocked the door and pulled him inside. 

"Hey, I didn't know you were coming? You didn't text. You okay?" 

He stepped into your room, the cool morning air following him in. Up close he looked worse. Tense. Drained. He simply shook his head. Concern settled in your chest. 

"What's wrong?" 

"Um, I need t'speak t'Maggie." 

"Yeah, okay, yeah, I can get her." 

You'd barely turned towards the door when his hand closed gently around yours, stopping you. His grip wasn't tight, but it was enough to make you look back. 

"Can y'stay with me?" 

You softened immediately. 

"Course, let me get her, just go sit in the office, I'll come back." 

You kissed him softly before slipping out into the hallway. The Big House was still quiet as you hurried across the living room towards Maggie's bedroom. You tapped against the door lightly. 

"Maggie?" 

For a few seconds there was only silence. You were just reaching for the handle when the door opened. Maggie stood there already awake, an expensive cream silk robe tied neatly around her waist and fluffy pink slippers on her feet. Her hair was still a little tousled from sleep. 

"Jesus, Baby, the house burning down? Why you up so early?" 

The teasing disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived. She took one look at your face and straightened slightly. 

"Gator's here, he says he needs to speak to you. I dunno, he looks… something's wrong." 

She didn't ask another question. She simply nodded and stepped into the hallway beside you. 

"He's in the office." 

"He say what it was about?" 

You shook your head as you crossed the quiet living room together. 

"No, just knocked on my door looking like he hasn't slept." 

You turned into the office. Gator wasn't sitting where you'd expected him to be. He was pacing slowly across the rug, one hand dragging repeatedly through his already dishevelled hair. He stopped the moment you walked in. Maggie moved behind the desk and took her usual seat. 

"You alright, Gator?" 

You crossed the room first, slipping your hand into his before gently steering him towards one of the armchairs. He sat, though only because you encouraged him to, his eyes never leaving Maggie. 

"M'sorry, I didn't know what t'do, been thinkin' bout it all night, I jus', I dunno I jus', he's gonna be mad that I told ya, but I couldn't not tell ya." 

"Gator, tell us what?" You asked. 

He reached into his vest and pulled out a thick stack of folded papers, passing them across the desk. 

"Dad's been hidin' reports, not filin' 'em. Some lady came in yesterday. Was only listenin' 'cause she mentioned a loan," his eyes found yours. "Y'said Maggie was lookin' at a loan company." 

"Yeah, we think they've been targeting people at the Grace Foundation." 

He nodded once before looking back to Maggie. 

"Also, I saw who he's hidin' them for." 

Maggie paused halfway through the first report and looked up; Gator unlocked his phone and held it out across the desk. 

"I didn't know, Maggie, I swear. I didn't have nothin' t'do with it, I ain't ever hidden nothin'..." 

"I know, Gator." 

The reassurance landed instantly. Some of the tension left his shoulders and you reached for his hand beneath the desk. He took it without hesitation, weaving his fingers through yours. 

"Y'know the guy?" 

Maggie handed the phone back. 

"Marshall Beaumont. I know him." 

"Marshall?" You frowned. "As in… poker money Marshall?" 

"The very same." 

Beside you, Gator's grip tightened. 

"I didn't know anythin', I only found 'em yesterday 'cause that woman came in an' dad was actin' strange, if I had known..." 

Maggie looked at him with a softness that she reserved for very few people. 

"I know, Gator. I know you didn't have anything to do with it. You are not your daddy, that's why you're sat here showing me these." 

You squeezed his hand gently. Only then did you understand why he'd looked so exhausted standing outside your bedroom. He hadn't just lost sleep. He'd spent the entire night deciding between the man who'd raised him and the people who had become his family. 

Your mind drifted back to that evening in the bath, when he'd quietly admitted that Roy was all he had. He'd been wrong then. He had you. He had Maggie. He had this family. And sat here in the office, handing over those reports despite knowing exactly what it might cost him, this felt like Gator choosing all of you. 

Maggie gathered the reports into a neat pile before sliding them beneath the notepad on the corner of her desk. Then she looked back at Gator. 

"Thank you, Gator. I'll deal with it." 

"Do y'want the texts? I can send 'em?" 

She shook her head. Gator hesitated, clearly still trying to work out where he fit into all of this. 

"D'you... need me t'like.... be..." 

Again, Maggie shook her head. 

"I won't tell him it was you and you definitely don't need to be here for it. I can handle Junior." 

There wasn't even a hint of uncertainty in her voice. Whatever conversation she was about to have with Roy, she'd already decided exactly how it was going to go. 

She glanced towards you and gave a small nod. Understanding, you squeezed Gator's hand before standing. You gave him a gentle tug and, after only the briefest hesitation, he rose with you, his fingers still threaded tightly through yours. 

The office door clicked shut behind you, leaving Maggie with the reports, while you led Gator back to your bedroom. Once inside, you closed the door quietly before turning to him. He was still carrying the weight of the morning on his shoulders. You wrapped your arms around him. He folded into you, burying his face against your shoulder with a tired sigh that sounded as though he'd been holding it in for hours. 

"This why you were avoiding me last night?" 

"Weren't avoidin' ya," he murmured against you. "Jus' got in m'head. He's my dad, y'know?" 

"I know," you tipped your head back just enough to kiss him softly. "I know. You could have come to me though, you didn't even have to tell me, you could've just... been here. With me. At least then you might have slept." 

"I know, m'sorry." 

You kissed him again before your hands found the zip of his deputy vest. 

"You don't have to be sorry. C'mon, let's get you to bed. You look exhausted." 

He didn't argue. You eased the heavy vest from his shoulders, followed by the rest of his uniform until he was left in nothing but his T-shirt and boxers. Every movement seemed slower than usual, dulled by a night without sleep. 

When you climbed beneath the covers together, he came to you without hesitation. His head settled against your chest while you curled yourself around him, one hand threading gently through his hair, the other still laced with his. It reminded you a little of Nicky; the first few weeks after Madison had passed, he'd get nightmares and you'd climb into bed with him, twirling your fingers through his curls until he drifted off. 

For a while neither of you spoke. His breathing was still uneven, sleep tugging at him but refusing to take hold. You combed your fingers slowly through his hair. 

"...Logan told me something today. He told me it wasn't him who used to leave the headphones on the bleachers during football practice. It was you." 

He was quiet for a moment before giving the smallest shrug against your chest. 

"Yeah." 

"...Yeah?" 

"Y'd get bored." 

A smile tugged faintly at your mouth. 

"So your solution was to leave me your headphones?" 

"Headphones... iPod... Game Boy if m'iPod was dead." He shrugged again. "Whatever I had." 

You couldn't help laughing softly. 

"Gator..." 

"What?" 

"I spent years thanking Logan, I handed them back to Logan. Why didn’t you never say anything?" 

He was quiet for so long you wondered if he'd already fallen asleep. Finally he murmured, almost confused by the question. 

"...Didn't do it so you'd thank me," his thumb lazily traced once across the back of your hand. "Just hated knowin' you were sat up there on y’own, waitin' on us." 

You shook your head, smiling to yourself as your fingers continued their slow path through his hair. 

"...I can't believe I never knew." 

He hummed sleepily. 

"Didn't matter if y'knew." 

"It matters to me." 

Another sleepy shrug. 

"Mattered t'me that y'weren't lonely." 

The words were so quiet you almost thought you'd imagined them. You felt something inside your chest pull tight. All those afternoons. Walking out to the bleachers because there was nowhere else to go. Finding the headphones already looped around the rail. Thinking Logan had remembered you. 

All along, it had been Gator. 

He'd never needed you to know. He'd just wanted you looked after. 

Before you could think of anything to say, his breathing finally deepened against your chest. His grip on your hand loosened, the tension slowly melting from his body until, at last, sleep claimed him. 

You still didn't know exactly what had gone through Gator's mind overnight, but you knew what it must have cost him to walk into Maggie's office. He'd spent years believing that, whatever Roy did, loyalty meant standing beside him. This morning he'd chosen something else. 

He'd chosen you. 

・❥・ 

The television murmured quietly from the living room. Some cartoon Maggie couldn't have named was keeping the younger children occupied while Ford drifted somewhere between them and the kitchen, never quite sitting still for more than a minute. The Big House felt settled in that familiar way it always did between breakfast and lunch, everybody close enough to hear one another without necessarily sharing the same room. 

Maggie leaned against the counter with a mug of coffee, one hand wrapped around the warmth while the fingers of the other tapped idly against the ceramic. Her attention rested across the room. 

You were sat at the dining table surrounded by organised chaos. The biker refurbishment had gradually claimed almost every inch of the tabletop; plans spread open beside your laptop, folders stacked into neat piles, notes scribbled in margins only you would ever understand. Every so often you'd type something, reach for another sheet or pause to read through a quotation before carrying on. 

It reminded Maggie a little of herself. The way you disappeared into the work. 

She found herself thinking about Gator. She'd always had a soft spot for the boy. Truthfully, she'd expected far less from him. A child raised by Roy Tillman had every reason to become another Roy Tillman. Yet somehow Gator had grown into a decent man despite it. 

Now he had you. Maggie wasn't naïve enough to believe you'd changed him overnight. But she'd watched enough people over the years to know the difference between a man trying to become better and one content to stay the same. 

Those reports had proved it. She doubted Gator would have walked into her office a month ago. The loyalty he'd carried towards Roy all his life would've won. Guilt had a habit of looking an awful lot like devotion. Then you'd quietly made yourself part of his life, Maggie suspected you'd never even realise what you'd done. 

It reminded her of Wayne. Not because Gator was much like him. Wayne had been louder. More confident. Entirely too fond of hearing his own voice. But every now and then Maggie caught Gator watching you when you weren't looking, and it was the same expression she'd spent years pretending not to notice on Wayne's face. Like you were something extraordinary. Like he still couldn't quite believe he'd somehow ended up with you. 

Wayne had always looked at Maggie that way. It was a rare thing. The sort of love that never really settled into habit. The sort that kept choosing the same person every morning. 

A knock at the front door interrupted the thought. You looked up from your laptop at exactly the same moment Maggie lifted her head, but Ford reached the door first. 

"Sheriff, we expecting you?" 

"Maggie is." 

Ford stepped aside, nodding towards the kitchen. Maggie held Roy's gaze for a beat before setting her coffee down on the island. Then she turned and walked towards the office. She didn't ask him to follow. She knew he would. 

The office door closed behind them with a soft click. Maggie crossed to her desk and took her usual seat, waiting while Roy settled himself into the armchair opposite. To her surprise, he removed his hat, placing it beside him along with his phone before leaning back. 

"This a business meeting or a casual one, Maggie?" 

For the briefest moment, irritation flared. Roy had always possessed that particular brand of confidence that came from believing he was the smartest man in the room. It wasn't unique to him. His father had carried exactly the same swagger. Maggie had known Roy Tillman Senior well enough over the years. He'd been just as arrogant, just as convinced the world revolved around him. The difference was that Senior had actually been clever enough to support it. Junior simply thought he was. 

She leaned back in her chair, refusing to let the annoyance reach her face. 

"Depends how you wanna play it, Junior. Want to tell me about a loan company, causing trouble, repossessing houses?" 

She watched his jaw tighten almost imperceptibly. There it was, the pause. Maggie had spent the better part of sixty years listening to people lie. There was always a moment where they decided which version of the truth they were willing to tell, she could practically hear Roy planning his next line. 

"Ain't heard about no repossessions." 

"No? So you're not getting reports about people taking out loans, repayments doubling?" 

"You in need of a loan, Maggie?" 

Maggie had heard that trick before too, humour. People had a habit of reaching for it when they felt the conversation slipping away from them. A joke changed the rhythm of a room. Bought them a second or two to think. Invited everyone else to stop taking things quite so seriously. 

It was a shame Junior was about as funny as he was clever. 

She wasn't about to tell him where she'd gotten her information. The image of Gator sitting opposite her in this very office, looking exhausted. Like every word had cost him something. She remembered the way he'd stumbled over his sentences, apologising before he'd even told her what he'd found, terrified she'd somehow think less of him for bringing evidence against his own father. No. She wasn't going to reward that courage by selling him out. This conversation could happen perfectly well without Gator's name ever leaving her lips. 

"I've got several clients at the Foundation who have only ended up there due to these loans. Some of whom, categorically tell me they spoke to you. Filed a report." 

"Ain't much I can do 'bout all that Maggie. People should pay their bills." 

She ran her tongue thoughtfully across the inside of her lip. There it was again, that effortless ability to reduce somebody’s troubles because they weren’t something Roy faced himself. A quiet huff of laughter escaped her. 

"You always have been a piece of shit, Junior. Fine, you don't wanna tell me, I'll find out for myself." 

Roy reached for his hat and settled it back onto his head. 

"You know I do what I can for folks, but I can't pay off the whole county's debts, Maggie." He smiled. "Maybe you could." 

"You're walking a thin line, Junior. Don't forget who put you where you are." 

Roy's shoulders stiffened almost imperceptibly. His jaw worked once, the only outward sign that she'd managed to land the blow exactly where she'd intended. For a moment Maggie wondered whether he might turn back, but instead he simply tipped the brim of his hat in a gesture that fell somewhere between respect and insolence before letting himself out. Maggie let out a slow breath. 

Fuck Roy Tillman. 

She pushed herself up from behind the desk, intending to head back to the kitchen, when something caught her eye. Roy's phone was still sitting on the armchair where he'd left it beside his hat. She picked it up, weighing it thoughtfully in her hand before the corner of her mouth lifted into the faintest smile. 

Well, there was no reason to go chasing after him. Soon enough he'd be halfway back to town, patting his pockets and cursing under his breath while trying to remember where he'd left it. She'd give it back, of course. Eventually. But there was something deeply satisfying about the thought of Roy Tillman spending a few hours mildly inconvenienced. 

Petty? Perhaps. But Maggie found she could live with that. 

・❥・ 

The roads were almost empty by the time Gator finished his shift. Darkness had settled over the county hours ago, the headlights of his truck cutting a lonely path through familiar roads as he drove home. He hated the late shift. Always had. There was something about finishing work when everybody else was already settling into bed that made the whole day feel longer than it really was. Mostly, though, he hated that it meant saying goodnight to you through a phone screen. 

He'd already sent the text while he was at the station. A quick Sleep well, Baby. Love you. It wasn't enough. He'd much rather have driven to the Big House, climbed into bed beside you and fallen asleep with you tucked against him. 

He rubbed a hand slowly down his face before lowering the driver's window, letting the cool night air rush into the cab. It helped a little. His phone buzzed against the centre console. For half a second he smiled, already expecting your name. Instead, the screen read: 

Roy: Ranch. Now. 

The smile disappeared; his stomach sank with a familiarity that was almost biologically ingrained. He knew exactly what this was. It wasn't the first time Roy had summoned him like this. Never with an explanation. Never with a request. Just an instruction and the expectation that Gator would obey it. 

He could ignore it. The thought crossed his mind. He could keep driving. Turn towards the Heaton Ranch instead. You might still be awake. He could climb into your bed, wrap his arms around you and pretend none of this existed. 

Part of him wanted to. The other part knew he wasn't going to. He'd made his choice the moment he'd walked into Maggie's office carrying those reports. 

Whatever Roy Tillman had become, he was still Gator's dad. Somewhere deep inside him, buried beneath years of disappointment and resentment, was a little boy who still believed fathers deserved loyalty. Roy certainly believed they did. Gator had gone against him. He'd chosen Maggie. Chosen you. Chosen what he knew was right. Choices had consequences. 

Besides, disappointing Roy wasn't exactly new. He'd been doing that his whole life, and he'd learnt to take the punishment that came with it. He could try to delay it, sure, but there was no avoiding it. 

By the time the Tillman Ranch came into view, any lingering hope that he might have been wrong had disappeared. The place was quiet; no guards lingered outside the house; no ranch hands were finishing late jobs. The house itself sat in darkness, every window black against the night. 

Only the barn was lit. One solitary light spilled through the open doorway, casting a pale square across the dirt yard. Gator parked beside the cattle fence and switched off the engine. For a moment he simply sat there, staring towards the barn. 

Eventually he climbed out but each step felt heavier than the last as he crossed the yard towards the waiting light. 

The barn felt cavernous. Empty stalls. Stacked hay bales. Machinery sitting idle beneath dust sheets. The silence only made Roy's presence feel larger somehow. He was waiting exactly where Gator knew he would be, hands hooked through his belt, posture relaxed enough that anybody passing by might have mistaken him for a man simply ending another day's work. Gator knew better. 

As he stepped inside, Roy shifted just enough to place himself between Gator and the barn door. 

"I knew you were stupid, but I didn't peg you for a traitor," Roy grunted. 

Gator opened his mouth; Roy never gave him the chance. 

"Fancy yourself a Heaton, do ya? Knew you were fucking the girl but didn't realise you'd taken her last name as well." 

He removed his hat with unhurried precision, hanging it on the hook beside the door before turning back around.  

Gator felt his jaw tighten. It wasn't what Roy thought of him, that hadn't mattered for a long time. It was the way he talked about you, reducing everything the two of you had built together into something cheap enough to sneer at. A familiar anger stirred in his chest before he forced it back down again.  He'd learnt a long time ago there was no point rising to Roy's bait. Not when Roy had already decided how the conversation was going to end. 

"Got nothing to say for y'self? I got you that damn badge, now you're using it to play spy, on me, in my own house?" 

Roy started towards him. It was remarkable how quickly Gator's body remembered things his mind wished it could forget. His shoulders tightened, his stomach knotted. Somewhere deep inside him he was already waiting for the first blow before Roy had even reached him. 

"Shit that doesn't concern you." 

Gator kept his eyes lowered, another lesson learnt long ago. Sometimes looking Roy in the eye only made him angrier. A hand clamped around his jaw anyway, rough fingers digging into his chin as Roy forced his head upwards. 

"Such a fuckin' disappointment, boy. Ain't no wonder your mama ran." 

The words stung, not because Gator believed them anymore but because Roy always knew exactly which wounds had never healed properly. The punch came a split second later, driving hard into his stomach. Air rushed from his lungs as pain folded through his middle, but he stayed upright through instinct more than determination. 

Roy had some rules; faces healed too publicly but broken ribs didn't invite questions from anyone, bruises were better hidden. 

"Couldn't just keep your mouth shut?" 

The second punch landed against his ribs. Pain shot around his side, and he sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth. Roy smiled as though he'd been hoping for exactly that. 

"You know, she didn't even say it was you. I just knew." 

Another fist buried itself in his gut. Gator doubled slightly before forcing himself straight again, his breathing already becoming shallow against the ache spreading through his torso. 

"Made your way into Maggie Heaton's good books have ya? Protected by her now? Enough you've become her fuckin' dog?" 

Roy caught the front of his shirt this time, bunching the fabric in his fist and dragging him forwards until they were almost nose to nose. 

"This family not good enough for ya?" 

The punch caught him clean across the jaw, his head snapped sideways, copper flooding his mouth where his teeth split the inside of his cheek. 

"My name not good enough for ya?" 

Another followed before he'd properly recovered from the first. Gator rocked backwards, steadied himself and said nothing. He'd spent most of his life learning that Roy eventually got bored, you just had to survive long enough for him to reach that point. 

By the time Maggie turned onto the Tillman Ranch, she already knew something was wrong. The place was too quiet. Ordinarily the ranch was alive regardless of the hour. Armed guards wandering between the house and the outbuildings. Trucks arriving. Engines idling. Roy had built the place to feel occupied, to remind anyone passing through that they were being watched. 

Tonight there was nothing, even the house sat in darkness. Only the barn glowed against the night. 

Maggie pulled the Yukon to a stop and killed the engine. For a moment she simply looked through the windscreen, taking it all in. Then she reached across to the glovebox, retrieved her pistol and checked it with practised ease. Roy's phone disappeared into the pocket of her jacket before she climbed out into the cool night air. 

The second the driver's door shut, she heard it. Roy. His voice carried across the yard, muffled by timber walls but unmistakable all the same. 

"I raised you, boy. This the thanks I get?" 

Maggie was already moving. She crossed the yard, the gravel crunching beneath her shoes. The shouting grew clearer with every step until she reached the barn door, left slightly ajar. Through the gap she could see them. 

Roy's fist crashed into Gator's side with enough force to make him double over. For a second it looked as though he might collapse completely, but Roy caught hold of the front of his shirt, hauling him upright again as though he wasn't yet finished with him. 

Something cold settled inside Maggie, she pushed the door open just enough to slip through. Roy's arm was already drawing back again. The click of the safety echoed through the barn and Roy froze. Maggie stood with both hands steady on the pistol, the barrel pressed against the back of Roy’s head. 

"Lay another hand on him and I'll shoot, Junior." 

Roy turned. He looked from the gun to Maggie before letting out a short, disbelieving laugh. Slowly, almost mockingly, he lifted both hands away from Gator and took a step backwards. 

Maggie didn't lower the weapon; her eyes flicked briefly towards Gator. He was bent over slightly, one hand wrapped around his ribs, blood running steadily from his nose onto the dirt floor. 

"You good? Get up." 

He nodded, it wasn't convincing, but it was enough. As he straightened, Maggie reached into her pocket and tossed him the Yukon keys. 

"Get in the car." 

He caught them and disappeared through the barn door, leaving Maggie alone with Roy. She waited until she heard the distant slam of the passenger door before looking back at him. The gun never moved, but she reached to pull Roy's phone from her pocket. She tossed it onto the dirt between them. 

"If your daddy could see you now. What a fucking disgrace," she spat. 

The words landed exactly where she'd intended. For the first time that evening, Roy's composure slipped. His jaw tightened, something angry and almost embarrassed flashing across his face at the mention of the only man he'd ever truly wanted approval from. 

It was all the opening Maggie needed, she stepped forward once and swung. The butt of the pistol cracked sharply against Roy's cheekbone, splitting the skin and sending him staggering sideways before he could recover. When he looked back at her, the gun was already trained on him again. 

"You lay a hand on that boy again and I won't let you walk away." 

Maggie backed slowly out of the barn. She climbed behind the wheel and shut the door with deliberate calm. For a moment she simply gripped the steering wheel, her breathing measured, refusing to look across at Gator. 

She'd seen enough. The blood running from his nose. The way he'd been holding his ribs. The slight tremor in his hands as he'd caught the car keys. Worse, the fact he took every punch like this was all too familiar. How had she missed it? The question arrived with startling force. 

Gator had been around this family for years. Sunday lunches. Football games. Birthdays. Christmases. She'd watched him become a man and never once stopped to wonder why he always seemed to carry himself like somebody waiting for permission to exist. She'd seen bruises often enough, dismissed them as roughhousing with Logan or the hazards of ranch work or police work. God knew she'd never imagined... 

The engine rumbled into life; headlights swept across the barn just as Roy stepped back outside. Without taking her eyes from the windscreen, Maggie spoke quietly. 

"Don't give him the satisfaction of letting him see you cry, Gator." 

She pulled away before Roy could take another step, the tyres throwing dirt behind them as the Yukon surged down the ranch road. Neither of them spoke, the silence stretched all the way to the county road. Only once the Tillman Ranch had disappeared completely in the rear-view mirror did Maggie pull into a small lay-by beneath a stand of cottonwoods. She switched the engine off. The sudden quiet rang in her ears. 

Then she undid her seatbelt. She didn't hesitate, leaning across the centre console, she wrapped both arms around Gator and pulled him against her with all the force of a mother reclaiming a frightened child. 

He broke instantly. The first sob tore out of him before he'd even managed to return the embrace. Then another. Years of restraint seemed to collapse all at once as he buried his face against her shoulder, every breath catching painfully in his chest. Maggie simply held him tighter, one hand cradling the back of his head while the other stroked slowly through his hair. 

She'd held Brooks like this after Wayne died, Ford too. Baby, more times than she could count. 

"How long?" She asked quietly. 

It took Gator several attempts before he managed to answer. His voice was muffled against her shirt, shaking almost beyond recognition. 

"Forever." 

The single word hollowed something out inside her. She kept stroking his hair for another few moments before gently drawing him back just enough to see his face. Blood had dried beneath his nose. Tears had carved clean tracks through the dust on his cheeks. Maggie brushed them away with her thumb as though he were still ten years old instead of a grown man wearing a deputy's badge. 

"I wish you told me, Gator. I would've protected you." 

The guilt settled heavily in her chest. She prided herself on seeing people, on noticing what others overlooked. Yet Gator had walked through her front door for years carrying this alone and she'd never once asked the right question. She'd accepted every bruise, every split knuckle, every quiet explanation because she'd assumed boys would be boys. Logan. Work. A bar fight. Anything except the truth. 

"I am so sorry. If I had known, I never would've spoken to him. I never would've put you in this position." 

"Y'didn't,” Gator shook his head. “He said y'didn't say nothin'. He jus' knew it was me." 

Maggie gathered him into her arms again without a second thought, uncaring that his blood and tears were soaking through her shirt. 

"You're staying with us. As long as you need. Forever, if you want. With Baby, long as she don't mind, or I'll have Brooks put you up in the Cabin. You ain't going back to that house, understand me." 

She didn't phrase it as a question; there was nothing to negotiate. Gator gave a small nod against her shoulder. Only then did Maggie finally let him go. 

He settled back into the passenger seat looking utterly exhausted, his eyes red and swollen, his breathing finally beginning to steady. Maggie reached for her phone, sent one brief text, then slipped it back into the centre console before starting the engine again. As she fastened her seatbelt, she reached across and rested her hand briefly on Gator's knee, giving it a reassuring squeeze. 

"Let's get you home, kid." 

・❥・ 

You'd been lying awake for long enough that you'd stopped trying to force it, instead watching the shadows cast across your ceiling by the porch light outside. Gator should have finished work by now. You wondered if he was home yet, if he was asleep. When your phone lit up, you reached for it almost automatically. 

Your heart sank the moment you saw the name on the screen. Maggie. That was strange enough on its own. Maggie didn't text. She called. If she wanted somebody, she'd simply come and find them, she hated texting. You frowned as you opened the message. 

Maggie: Coming to your porch door in 10. Need you to be calm, Baby. Don't freak out. He needs you. 

For a moment you simply stared at the words. He. Your mind began trying to fill in the blank. Logan? Brooks? Ford? Then another name forced itself to the front of your thoughts. Gator. Maggie had gone to the Tillman ranch, said she had to give Roy something. Your stomach twisted. 

You sat upright so quickly the duvet slid into your lap. The lamp clicked on beside the bed, bathing your room in soft yellow light as you read the message again, somehow hoping the words might have changed. They hadn't. 

Need you to be calm. 

That was easy enough for Maggie to say. You climbed out of bed and began pacing the room, your phone still clutched tightly in your hand. Eight minutes had never felt so impossibly long. Every time you reached the bedroom door, you turned and walked straight back again, chewing on the edge of your thumb. 

Don't freak out. 

You repeated it to yourself over and over; it did absolutely nothing. You pulled your thumb from your mouth, forcing yourself to stand still in the middle of the room. The porch door opened and you turned instinctively. Maggie stepped inside first, then Gator followed her. 

Everything else disappeared. 

His eyes were swollen and red, his face streaked with dried blood, and he held himself with that careful, guarded stiffness people only had when every movement hurt. Whatever Maggie had meant by he needs you, it hadn't prepared you for this. 

You crossed the room before either of them had the chance to say a word. Your arms wrapped around him, pulling him against you as tightly as you dared. For a second he simply stood there, then every ounce of tension seemed to leave him as he leaned into the embrace, burying his face against your shoulder. Behind him, Maggie rested a gentle hand on his back. 

"Get some rest, we'll talk more in the morning." 

When you looked up, she was already smiling at you with that familiar mixture of reassurance and quiet affection that somehow managed to steady your own panic. Then, without another word, she slipped through the door, pulling it closed behind her and leaving the two of you alone. You held onto Gator for another moment before gently easing back, your hands finding his arms as you looked up at him. 

The sight of him made your chest ache. There was a stiffness to the way he stood that told you every part of him hurt. You had no idea what had happened. A dozen possibilities chased one another through your mind, none of them making any sense. Maggie had told you not to freak out and now didn’t seem the time for talking, so you swallowed every question. 

"Can you sit on the bed for me? Let me clean you up?" 

He didn't answer but he let you guide him towards the bed, lowering himself carefully onto the edge of the mattress. Even that looked painful. Your fingers drifted gently through his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. 

"I'm just gonna get some stuff, I'm coming right back, okay?" 

He gave the smallest nod. You hurried through the house as quickly as you dared, grabbing the first aid kit from the kitchen cupboard before filling a bowl with warm water. A couple of clean cloths came from the drawer beside the sink, then, almost as an afterthought, you took a bottle of water from the fridge too. Your arms were full by the time you made it back to your bedroom, your thoughts racing faster than your feet. 

Nothing about tonight made sense. Had someone attacked him? Had something happened on shift? Why hadn't he called you? Why had Maggie brought him here? When you stepped back into your room, Gator hadn't moved an inch. 

He was still sitting exactly where you'd left him, elbows resting loosely on his knees, staring at the floor with empty, unfocused eyes. He looked so utterly defeated that your own heart felt as though it might break. You set everything carefully on the floor beside him before lowering yourself to your knees between his legs. 

For a moment you simply looked at him. Then you reached up and cupped his face as though he were made of glass, your thumbs brushing gently against his cheeks until, eventually, he lifted his eyes to meet yours. 

"I'm gonna clean you up, okay? You don't have to talk, just let me look after you." 

His expression crumpled. Fresh tears gathered instantly, spilling over before he could stop them. You felt your own eyes sting in response, but you forced yourself to smile anyway. Carefully, you let your hands fall away from his face and reached instead for one of the cloths, dipping it into the warm water as you tried to think of nothing except taking care of him. 

Gator closed his eyes the moment the warm cloth touched his face. You barely grazed his skin, carefully wiping away the dried blood beneath his nose before moving to the split in his lip. Every touch was impossibly gentle. He was only slightly aware of the fresh tears escaping beneath his closed eyelids, sliding silently down his cheeks. 

He didn't bother apologising for them, he didn't have the energy. His ribs ached every time he breathed. His jaw throbbed. Every muscle in his body felt heavy, but none of it hurt as much as the thoughts he couldn't seem to quiet. 

Roy had known. But Maggie hadn’t told him. The thought kept circling back to the same place. Maggie had protected him before she'd even understood what she was protecting him from. She could have spoken his name. She could have told Roy exactly where she'd gotten those reports. Instead she had tried to keep him out of it. 

The memory of her standing in the barn doorway flashed across his mind. Gun levelled at Roy. Calm as anything. Lay another hand on him and I'll shoot. He felt another tear escape. 

The cloth left his face, and he heard you place it back into the bowl before gently pushing everything aside across the floor. Only then did he open his eyes. You were still kneeling between his knees, watching him with that same soft expression you'd worn from the second he'd walked into your bedroom. 

Without really thinking about it, he reached for you. His thumb brushed lightly across your cheek, the movement slow enough that he noticed the tremor in his own hand. He tried to still it, but you simply leaned into his touch as though the shaking didn't matter. His chest tightened. Even now, even looking like this. You still leaned towards him. 

"Lip is split, and you're gonna have some nasty bruises. But your nose isn't broken, and you're still pretty." 

A tired smile tugged weakly at the corner of his mouth. 

"You gonna let me see the rest?" 

Slowly, he let his hand fall from your face before pushing himself carefully to his feet. You stepped back to give him room, your eyes never leaving him. His fingers found the hem of his T-shirt, he wanted to show you, he didn't want to lie to you. But somehow this felt different, this was vulnerable.  

The bruises hidden beneath the fabric weren't just injuries. They were years of keeping quiet. Years of pretending nothing was wrong. He'd spent so long making sure nobody ever saw them that the thought of letting you see this part of him made something twist painfully in his chest. Roy did his worst work here specifically because Gator could hide it, but he didn’t want to hide from you. 

He stood there for a long moment; fingers curled around the cotton without moving. 

"Want me to help?" 

He didn't answer, he simply let his hands fall away from the hem of his shirt and stood still while you stepped closer. Carefully, you gathered the fabric in your hands and began lifting it upwards. You moved as gently as you could, taking your time whenever the cotton caught against his ribs, but even your lightest touch drew a quiet wince from him. 

"I'm sorry, being as gentle as I can." 

He gave the smallest shake of his head, more to reassure you than himself. As the shirt reached his chest, your eyes dropped almost instinctively, and the sight made you freeze. Bruises covered him. Deep purple already spread beneath his skin, angry reds blooming around fresh impacts until almost his entire torso had become a patchwork of injuries. Some marks had the shape of knuckles. Others had begun to blur together where blow after blow had landed in the same place. 

You felt your throat tighten. You knew Gator; if somebody had swung at him in the street or during an arrest, he'd have swung back. He'd have come home bruised, certainly, but there would've been something to show for it. Split knuckles. Torn skin. The evidence that he'd fought to protect himself. 

But there was none of that. These injuries belonged to somebody who'd simply stood there and taken it. Swallowing hard, you continued lifting the shirt over his head before laying it quietly on the bed behind him. 

Gator's eyes remained fixed somewhere over your shoulder, refusing to meet yours. Gently, you reached up and cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing lightly across his skin until he finally looked back at you. 

"Anything feel broken or just bruised?" 

"Ain't broken." 

"Good." You nodded, relieved despite everything. 

You turned towards the dresser, remembering one of his T-shirts folded neatly in the bottom drawer. You'd barely taken a step before his hand closed carefully around your wrist, you looked back over your shoulder. 

"Just getting you a clean shirt, I'm not going anywhere." 

Instead of letting go, he gave the slightest pull. You stepped back towards him and his arms slipped around your waist. He held you carefully despite the pain you knew every movement must have been causing him, burying his face into the crook of your neck. 

"M'sorry." 

The words were little more than a whisper against your skin. Your hand found his hair, stroking slowly through it. 

"You've got nothing to be sorry for." 

"Y'shouldn't have t'see this." 

Your heart ached. Carefully, you drew back just enough to look at him again, your hand settling against his jaw. 

"You wanna tell me about it?" 

He stayed quiet for so long you wondered whether he was going to answer at all. When he finally did, he never looked at you. 

"Brought it on m'self. Knew he'd kick off that I told Maggie." 

The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. For a moment you simply looked at him, your hand still resting against his jaw, your thumb moving absent-mindedly across his skin as your mind tried to make sense of what he'd just said. Then, slowly, everything about tonight began to rearrange itself. 

The bruises covering his body. The blood on his face. None of it had happened at work. None of it had been some drunken idiot or an arrest gone wrong. It had been Roy. 

His own dad. 

You thought back to that evening in the bath, when Gator had quietly admitted that Roy was all he had. At the time you'd thought he'd meant emotionally. That despite everything, despite Roy's temper and impossible expectations, he couldn't bring himself to walk away because he was still his dad. 

You hadn't understood. Not really. You'd never imagined that all this time, the bruises you'd occasionally caught sight of, the way he sometimes flinched when somebody raised their voice, the quiet loyalty he still carried for Roy, had all been growing from the same place. 

He'd been surviving him. 

Your chest ached as you looked at him standing there, shoulders rounded as though he was somehow trying to make himself smaller. 

"Deserved it." 

The words were spoken so quietly you almost didn't hear them. Somehow they hurt more than everything else he'd told you. You shook your head before you'd even thought about it, nobody deserved this. 

"If Maggie did this to me, would you tell me I deserved it?" 

He blinked at you. The question seemed to stop him completely. His eyes searched yours for a long moment before he slowly shook his head. Of course he wouldn't. You reached up, smoothing a strand of hair back from his forehead, wishing there were some way to make him see what felt so painfully obvious to everyone else. 

You'd never seen him like this before. Gator was always the steady one. The person who listened while everybody else fell apart. Tonight there was nothing left of that careful composure. Just a frightened, exhausted man trying to convince himself that the people who loved him would see him the same way his father did. 

Gator stood quietly for a long moment, his eyes never leaving yours. He hated this. Not being hurt, he'd lived with that for so long it had become something he simply endured. It was this part he didn't know what to do with. Standing in front of you with nothing left to hide. Letting you see the parts of himself he'd spent years pretending didn't exist. He'd never shown anybody this. Not really. The bruises had always healed before anyone looked too closely. The excuses had always come easily enough. Roy had made sure of that.  

But this was different. He was choosing to let you see. Not because he wanted you to carry it with him. Because he wanted you to know him. All of him. Even the parts he'd spent his whole life believing made him difficult to love. Slowly, he rested his forehead against yours. 

"I don't want you t'leave." 

You smiled sadly, your noses almost brushing. 

"I'm not going anywhere. I love you. All of you." 

The words settled somewhere deep inside him. For a moment he simply stood there with his eyes closed, breathing you in. The familiar scent of your shampoo. The warmth of your hands against him. The steady rhythm of your breathing. It grounded him in a way nothing else ever had. 

"He jus' gets mad. Starts off yellin'... he don't normally go f'my face, can usually hide it. Guess I made him real mad this time." 

"It's not on you, Gator. He should never lay his hands on you. There is no excuse. He's supposed to love you. People who love you, they don't do this." 

He wanted to argue. Not because he thought you were wrong, but because somewhere inside him, there was still a little boy who wanted his dad to be different. 

Instead he found himself thinking about Ford. The way Ford looked at you across a room. The quiet pride in his face whenever you succeeded at something. The instinctive way he'd always stepped between you and anything that might hurt you, whether it was a playground bully when you were little or a grown man now. 

That was love. 

He thought about Maggie walking into that barn with a gun, holding him across the centre console of her car. 

That was love. 

He thought about Brooks, Logan, the boys, every loud dinner around the table at the Big House, every hug that lasted longer than it needed to, every hand squeezed, every forehead kissed, every drive safe and text me when you get there. 

That was love. 

Then he thought about Roy. About all the years he'd spent trying to learn which version of his father he was coming home to. How easy it had always been to say the wrong thing. Stand in the wrong place. Breathe at the wrong moment. 

You were right. If Roy had loved him the way the Heatons loved one another he wouldn't have done this. Not tonight. Not ever. Gator finally understood something he'd never been able to admit to himself before. Roy wasn't teaching him love. He'd been teaching him fear. 

Because Gator knew what love felt like now. It was standing in front of him with tears in your eyes, refusing to let go of him. It was your hands on his face, your voice telling him none of this was his fault. 

He couldn't imagine hurting you. Couldn't imagine raising a hand to you. To Ford. To Maggie. To Logan. To any of them. His own hands lifted slowly until they rested against either side of your face, holding you carefully as though you were the most precious thing he'd ever been trusted with. 

"I love you, Baby." 

You leaned forwards and kissed him softly. It wasn't hurried or desperate, just gentle. A quiet promise pressed against his lips. 

"I love you, Gator. More than anything. Thank you, for telling me." 

You felt him nod ever so slightly, his forehead still resting against yours. 

"Maggie said I can stay, if y'alright with it?" 

You couldn't help the tiny smile that found its way onto your face. Even now, after everything that had happened tonight, he was still asking permission. Still worrying about whether he was welcome. 

"Of course I'm okay with it. I want you here, always. Stay, you're safe here." 

The words felt far too small for what you wanted to say. Stay forever. Don't ever go back there. Let us be your family. Instead, you kissed him again, hoping somehow he'd hear all of those things anyway. 

When you finally stepped away, you crossed quietly to the dresser and opened the bottom drawer. One of Gator's T-shirts lay folded neatly inside amongst your own clothes. It had gradually become normal over the past few months. A spare pair of jeans. A hoodie. A toothbrush in the bathroom. Little pieces of him had found permanent homes in your room long before either of you had ever spoken about it. You carried the shirt back over to him. 

"Arms up." 

He managed a faint smile before carefully doing as he was told. Together you eased the shirt over his head, taking your time around the bruises that covered his ribs and stomach until the soft cotton finally settled against his skin. 

One by one you helped him out of his boots, then his trousers, leaving him in nothing but his boxers and T-shirt before guiding him gently around to his side of the bed. He lowered himself onto the mattress with obvious care. 

You picked up the bottle of water from the floor and passed it to him. He drank obediently while you gathered the bowl, cloths and first aid kit into your arms. The water had turned a murky pink now, stained with dried blood, and you found yourself looking away from it as you carried everything through to the bathroom. You left it all on the counter, it could wait until morning. Gator couldn't. 

When you returned, he'd already stretched out beneath the covers, the bottle resting on the bedside table beside him. His eyes followed you as you climbed into bed, and without needing either of you to say a word, you opened your arms, he moved into them immediately. 

You settled back against the headboard, drawing him gently against your chest until his head rested beneath your chin. Your fingers disappeared into his hair, stroking slowly through it, the same steady rhythm. You weren't trying to fix anything; you simply wanted him to know he wasn't alone anymore. 

For a long time the only sound in the room was the quiet rhythm of his breathing. Gradually it began to slow, each breath a little deeper than the last, the tension leaving his body piece by piece until, eventually, you felt the full weight of him settle against you. You kept stroking his hair anyway, just in case he woke up and needed reminding where he was. 

You looked down at him and felt something inside you quietly settle. This was what mattered. Not pretending life was easy. Not relationships that only existed while everything was fun and uncomplicated. This was what loving somebody actually meant. Being trusted with the ugly parts as well as the beautiful ones. Holding them together on the nights they couldn't quite do it themselves and knowing, without either of you needing to say it aloud, that tomorrow you would still be there. 

Your thoughts drifted back over the last few days. 

It was strange how quickly life could change. You'd spent tonight watching the man you loved finally trust someone enough to tell the truth about something he'd been carrying for years. You knew that the people who loved you didn't disappear when life became difficult. They stepped closer. 

Perhaps that was what growing up really was. Not losing your innocence all at once but quietly realising that your time and your heart were too valuable to keep giving away to people who only ever asked you to doubt yourself. Brooke and Paige had spent the last few days making you feel guilty, making you question yourself, making you feel as though you somehow owed them pieces of yourself you'd already outgrown. 

The people who truly loved you had never done that. 

Carefully, so you didn't disturb Gator, you leaned across to the bedside table and picked up your phone. The screen illuminated the room just enough for you to navigate to the group chat, the familiar names appearing one beneath the other. For so long they'd represented your whole world outside the ranch. School. Sleepovers. Teenage years. Growing up. 

Now they just looked like names on a screen. You knew Megan would still call. Hannah would still text. The people who genuinely wanted to be part of your life would find their way to you because that was what people did when they cared. 

You didn't need a group chat to hold people together; your thumb rested over the screen for only a moment before you pressed the button. Tonight, you chose the people who chose you. 

You: *left the group chat* 

・❥・ 

The morning sun washed the pastures in pale gold as the Yukon rolled steadily towards town, long grass bowing beneath the breeze on either side of the gravel road. You had one leg tucked beneath you on the passenger seat, the other drawn loosely against your chest, watching the fence posts pass by in an endless rhythm. Everything outside looked impossibly ordinary. Horses grazed in neighbouring fields. A tractor crawled along in the distance. Somewhere behind you, back at the ranch, the rest of the family would already be filtering into the day. 

It felt strange that the world could carry on so normally after yesterday. After Gator. Maggie kept both hands on the steering wheel for a while, her eyes fixed on the road ahead.  

"How was Gator this morning?" 

"Yeah, he's okay..." You looked down at your hands before correcting yourself with a small shake of your head. "Well, no he isn't, but I left him in bed, told him to stay and rest. Cleaned him up as best I could but..." You swallowed against the image that resurfaced. "His whole body, Mags. He's covered." 

The bruises had looked even worse in daylight. Last night you'd mostly been working on instinct, focused entirely on getting him cleaned up, stopping the bleeding. This morning there had been time to actually see what Roy had done to him. Every mark carried its own shape and colour now. Deep purple blooming beneath tan skin. Bruising scattered across his ribs and shoulders where punches had landed over and over again. 

Without taking her eyes off the road, Maggie lifted one hand from the steering wheel and rested it lightly on your thigh across the centre console. 

"You did a good job," she said quietly. "You stayed calm when he needed you most. He's safe now. He can stay as long as he wants." 

You knew she meant it. Especially now, now that you knew her even better.  Maggie collected people; not casually, not quickly but with certainty. And once somebody became one of hers, that was it. They were fed without asking. They had somewhere to sleep. Someone worrying whether they'd eaten enough or slept enough or looked tired. They became another name Maggie mentally counted whenever she checked everybody was safe. Somehow, somewhere over the past few weeks, Gator had crossed that invisible line. 

"What happened?" you asked. "I mean, he told me it was Roy, but I didn't want to ask him a million questions." 

For the first time since leaving the ranch, Maggie's attention seemed to drift somewhere beyond the road ahead. 

"I went to return Junior's phone," she said after a pause. "When I got there they were in the barn. When I spoke to Junior, I didn't mention Gator's name, but I should have done a better job protecting him. I had no idea." 

You turned towards her. The expression on Maggie's face wasn't anger. If anything, it was worse. Regret sat heavily around her eyes. Maggie wasn't somebody who second-guessed herself very often. She made decisions, accepted the consequences and kept moving. Seeing genuine guilt sitting on her features felt strangely unsettling. 

"I've known that boy his whole life, and I know Junior. I know he's a piece of shit, but I never thought he..." She stopped herself, exhaling slowly through her nose. "I don't agree with Roy Tillman about much, but I at least thought he valued family." 

You reached across the centre console and covered her hand with yours. 

"At least you were there," you said softly. "You got him out. He's safe now." 

Maggie was quiet for another few seconds before giving a small nod. 

"Yeah," she said. "You're right. And now we have some headway with this loan company." 

"So how much do you know about Marshall?" You asked. 

A humourless little sound escaped her. 

"Unfortunately, more than I'd like. Marshall's one of those men who's spent his entire life convincing people he's respectable because he wears an expensive suit and sponsors enough charity dinners." 

"So... not respectable." You raised an eyebrow. 

"Oh, he owns legitimate businesses," Maggie replied. "Big Dakotan family name in agriculture. I met him for the first time last year; he’s been at a few poker tables. He’s sleazy, inappropriate, a misogynist at best, and I sometimes dread to think at worst." 

"But?" You prompted. 

"I've never liked him. Never trusted him particularly. But I had him down as the sort of man who exploited legal loopholes and underpaid contractors. I didn’t have him down for much more than that. Never thought he was all that clever." 

“So,” you tried to hide your smile. “You… underestimated him?” 

She glanced at you briefly before looking back to the road, a little smirk tugging at her lips. 

“With men like that, it isn’t often an underestimation.” 

“Men like that have the money to pay other people to be clever for them,” you shrugged. 

"True,” Maggie sighed. “And it appears I've been underestimating quite a few people lately." 

You knew she wasn't only talking about Marshall. Knew that after the last few weeks there were probably a half dozen people she probably felt she had calculated wrong; Roy, Gator, Noah. What you hadn’t considered was that she was talking about you. 

Mallard Heights came into view a few minutes later. Maggie pulled into a visitor's space and switched off the engine. You followed her to the door and watch as she pressed the buzzer, almost immediately it clicked. By the time you reached Bug's apartment door on the second floor, it was already standing open. 

Bug looked as though he'd forgotten the existence of everything outside his computer screens. His hair had become a tousled, slightly greasy mess on his head, headphones draped around his neck. His t-shirt was somehow both back to front and inside out, there was an unidentifiable stain spread across one thigh of his grey sweatpants and his socks didn't even vaguely belong together. One had a hole worn clean through the toe. 

The second he saw you both he smiled. Not because he'd remembered basic social etiquette, but because his brain was still halfway through the thought he'd been having before you'd arrived. 

"I have been looking into it, like it was annoying me at first, because I didn’t have enough and I kept getting lost but then you came up with that name, Marshall Beaumont. He’s like a cattle king. You know there is like two and a half cows for every person in North Dakota. We’re outnumbered by hooves." 

"Morning, Bug." 

He barely paused long enough for the greeting before turning and wandering back into the apartment, still talking to himself beneath his breath. You followed Maggie inside. 

Bug dropped into the large ergonomic chair at the centre of his command centre, already waking monitors before he'd even properly sat down. Maggie joined him, laying her folder beside the keyboard as though she'd expected to find him exactly like this. Truthfully, she probably had. 

You quietly slipped away towards the kitchen. The mess wasn't overwhelming. It was simply... cumulative. The sort that happened when somebody kept telling themselves they'd deal with it after the next task, then the next one, until eventually three days had passed without them noticing.  You filled the sink with hot water, rinsed the mugs and stacked them on the draining board before wiping down enough counter space to work. You opened the fridge and it occurred to you then that almost none of the groceries looked any emptier. No wonder Maggie checked on him, he really hadn't been eating. 

The kettle boiled while you put together a sandwich, cutting it in half before carrying both the tea and the plate back into the living room. Neither of them had moved. 

You placed the mug and plate in front of Bug. His fingers paused on the keyboard. His eyes dropped to the plate before slowly lifting to yours. The silence stretched just long enough for uncertainty to creep into your stomach. 

"Sorry, you just looked--" 

"No, yeah, no, like I haven’t eaten, I’ve been busy, thanks, er, thank you. Yeah, looks good." 

He looked genuinely caught off guard. Across the desk, Maggie's mouth softened into a small smile that she tried not to let become anything bigger. 

"Bug, eat, then we can work." 

The sandwich disappeared with remarkable speed, halfway through another bite he swivelled towards a different bank of monitors. 

"The names on the reports?" 

Maggie slid the folded scrap of paper across the desk. While Bug typed one-handed around his lunch, your attention drifted towards the whiteboard. It had spread. Last time there had been organised notes, now almost the entire board had disappeared beneath property photographs, IDs, company registrations, maps and printed emails. Coloured lines linked names together until the whole thing resembled the inside of Bug's head made visible. You stepped closer and Bug noticed without looking away from the monitor. 

"Oh, yeah, I needed to put it together, like to see it, sometimes I need to like, see it, you know? And I don’t have enough monitors to have it all up at one time, you know, and there’s something about it being like there…" 

"Yeah, no, I get it. Maggie makes me print out the blueprints for our jobs, because it’s easier than scrolling across it on a screen." 

He glanced over his shoulder just long enough to nod. 

"Exactly." 

A notification chimed sharply through the room; Bug spun back towards the monitor. 

"Wow, ok, Maggie, look at this." 

"I don’t know what I’m looking at Bug, that’s why I have you." 

"Right, yeah, sorry, um so, this is like all the companies that have some link back to Beaumont or the loan company. Anything in green is registered, tax paying, so like his supply stores… Field Marshalls, god I hate names with puns man, sorry, um, his stores they’re all legit, the meat supply and stuff. But then it gets a bit sketchier as you scroll down. Those in orange are mostly shells or flagged for something and then the red ones are stuff that’s been closed, like retired names. There’s 658 results. This guy is flipping businesses and hiding all sorts.” 

Rows upon rows of company names filled the screen, highlighted in blocks of green, orange and red until they blurred together into something only Bug could possibly make immediate sense of. 

"Okay, remove all the legitimate stuff, that’s in his name, right?" 

"Yeah, his and his son, Beau Beaumont. I mean, that’s just a lack of imagination, Beau Beaumont. Goddamn." 

The name snagged your attention; you looked over from the whiteboard. 

"Did you say Beau?" 

"Yeah, Beau Archibald Beaumont. 33 years old. Owns a large percentage of the legitimate business and has shares in all the generational companies." 

Maggie looked across at you. 

"You know him, Baby?" 

"Not really, I mean, not personally but that’s the guy Paige is dating." 

Your voice must have given away some of your anxiety because Maggie’s voice went soft and reassuring. 

"Nothing to say he’s like his daddy. Not all boys grow up to be their fathers,” she smiled. “What about the shells, Bug." 

"Um, none of them have his name on, but associates, and a couple reoccurring names that ‘Deran Chamberlain’ comes up a lot, but I can’t find him anywhere, think it’s an alias. Also a ‘Deacon Ross’. I found him, but he’s dead. Used to be on Beaumont’s company board but died eight years ago, so he definitely didn’t start any of these businesses." 

The next hour seemed to disappear beneath the steady rhythm of Bug's keyboard. 

Every few minutes another notification chimed from one of the monitors before another company joined the ever-growing web stretched across the whiteboards. Maggie asked questions sparingly, never interrupting Bug's train of thought unless she needed clarification. She had long ago learnt that his mind worked fastest when it was allowed to run uninterrupted. Your own role became quieter still. Every so often you refreshed mugs of tea, gathered abandoned plates or passed Bug another pen when he absently reached for one that no longer worked. 

Slowly, a picture began to emerge. 

Across the room Maggie was making herself another mug of tea, waiting for the kettle to finish while Bug continued disappearing deeper into Beaumont's world. Then the frantic typing stopped. You looked up. Bug was halfway out of his chair. 

"Woah, Maggie, I found something, look, come here." 

The urgency in his voice was enough to bring Maggie across the room before the kettle had even finished boiling. 

"So, that report, Hadley? Woman’s just made a call; she’s going to sell. Look at this." 

He pulled an email onto the centre monitor. Even from where you were stood you recognised the Vallard logo sitting at the top of the page. Beneath it sat pages of legal jargon followed by a purchase price that made your stomach sink. Maggie leaned closer, her eyes scanning the wording rapidly. 

"Has she signed this yet? Bug?" 

Her voice had changed. The calm remained, but it had sharpened. Bug must have heard it too because his fingers were already flying across the keyboard. 

"No, um, no it’s just the paperwork being sent over, she’s got to sign it in person, email says Vallard will come to her, 2pm." 

He barely reached the end of the sentence before Maggie answered. 

"Get me her number, now." 

Bug didn't question it. You watched line after line of information flash across his monitors while he searched. 

"Maggie, what are you gonna do?" 

She didn't take her eyes off the screen. 

"That offer is an insult. She’ll be left with nothing." 

"Katy Hadley, 555-8974." 

The number had barely left Bug's mouth before Maggie was already typing it into her phone. She stepped away from the desk, moving towards the far end of the apartment as the call began ringing. You couldn't make out much of the conversation. Only Maggie's voice, quieter now, measured and reassuring in the way it always became when she wanted somebody to trust her. 

Beside you, Bug hadn't stopped working; more windows opened, more searches, more information. 

"Her husband died, four months ago, bills, debts, two kids." His eyes never left the monitor. "Looks like they hand-picked her, gave her a loan, doubled the repayments." 

You looked towards Maggie just as she was walking back across the apartment. She'd already ended one call and was on another. 

"Yes... No, now… I want that contract drafted…” her voice was in full business mode. “Move the money... Katy Hadley. Yes... I’ll have someone come to collect it… Rourke. Jack Rourke, he’ll be at your office in fifteen minutes." 

She ended the call without another word before gently tapping Bug's shoulder. 

"Keep tracking Vallard, I want to know what they know." 

Another number was already dialling. 

"Jack, need you to head to my lawyer’s office. Collect some paperwork and meet me at the address I’m about to text you… Yes… Good... Thankyou." 

The call ended and Maggie turned towards you. There wasn't a trace of panic on her face, just purpose. 

"Get your stuff, we’ve got to go." 

You grabbed your bag before picking up Maggie's untouched mug and carrying it back into the kitchen. Behind you, you could still hear her talking to Bug. 

"I’ll come back later. Keep searching, use that genius brain. You’ll get bonus points if you also take a shower. I’ll stop by the diner on my way, text me what you want. I’ve got to go deal with this, you gonna be ok?" 

"Yeah, yeah, I got this. I’ll shower, I’ll text you,” Bug rushed to agree. “Is it the diner on 9th or the one on Boyce? Because the one on Boyce does better shakes, they use like gelato, it’s great, the strawberry is my favourite, but the banana is so good, which is like unheard of because banana shakes usually suck." 

"I’ll go to whichever one you want,” Maggie replied. “Just text me." 

When you turned back around, Maggie was standing behind Bug's chair. She leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head. Bug went completely still beneath the touch, his shoulders lifted almost imperceptibly before freezing there, like his brain had momentarily forgotten how to process what had just happened. Maggie only smiled. One hand squeezed both of his shoulders before she stepped back towards the front door. 

"Thank you, Bug. I don’t know what I would do without you." 

For perhaps the first time since you'd met him, Bug seemed genuinely lost for words. 

"Oh, um, yeah, you’re welcome, I guess." 

You smiled to yourself as you followed Maggie towards the door. 

"Bye, Bug." 

He looked up from the monitors long enough to lift a small wave in your direction before his attention was already drifting back towards the maze of names and companies covering every screen.  

By the time the apartment door closed behind you, Maggie was already pulling her phone back out. She barely made it halfway across the parking lot before tossing her keys towards you. You caught them instinctively. 

"I’ve got to make some calls, you drive, I’ll put the address in the navigation." 

Maggie settled into the passenger seat while you climbed behind the wheel, adjusting the mirrors out of habit before starting the engine. Beside you, Maggie was already programming the navigation with an address you'd never heard before. You pulled out of Mallard Heights and followed the directions towards the other side of town. 

For the first few minutes, the car became little more than Maggie's office. Her phone never seemed to leave her ear. You caught fragments more than complete conversations. Lawyers. Bank managers. Somebody confirming transfers. Somebody else promising contracts would be ready before Jack arrived. Every call lasted barely long enough to accomplish exactly what she needed before she was dialling the next number. 

By the time you reached the edge of town, she'd already bought the property. Not promised to, not negotiated, bought it. Somewhere between Bug finding an email and you stopping at a red light, Maggie had intercepted the entire purchase. 

The phone rang again and this time her voice softened. 

"Katy, I have a man on the way to you. His name is Jack. He will announce himself at the door and show you his ID. Do not let anyone else in the house. I’m on my way but he’ll beat me there. He has the paperwork." 

You kept your eyes on the road, concentrating on the traffic ahead while Maggie listened to the voice on the other end of the line. 

"There is no catch, Katy. I just don’t like bullies… No… You don’t have to leave; the house is still yours. I will clear the debts. I’ll explain everything when I get to you. No-one is kicking you out, not on my watch." 

The conviction in her voice left absolutely no room for argument. You found yourself tightening your grip slightly on the steering wheel. Your eyes flicked briefly to the dashboard clock. 

1:14 p.m. 

You thought back to the email Bug had pulled up barely minutes earlier. 2pm. That had been the appointment. Vallard's representative was supposed to be arriving at Katy Hadley's front door with paperwork for her to sign. Less than an hour from now they would have expected to walk away owning her home. 

Except they weren't going to, because somewhere between Bug opening that email and you pulling away from Mallard Heights, Maggie had bought the property. The contract Vallard intended to put in front of Katy would be worthless. 

Marshall Beaumont may have spent years building a system designed to move faster than desperate people could think. But he had never accounted for Maggie Heaton arriving first. 

You weren't entirely sure how she'd done it. Then again, perhaps that was the point. People often thought Maggie's strength came from her money and sure, the money helped, the contacts helped; but neither of those things explained what had just happened. 

What set Maggie apart was that while other people were still discussing whether something ought to be done, she was already doing it. Problems didn't linger around her because she refused to give them the opportunity. 

Watching her work from this close made something settle quietly inside you. There had never really been a time in your life where you questioned Maggie Heaton. She had raised you, protected you, built the family that was your entire world. 

But seeing her now, watching her decisiveness, her protectiveness over a woman she didn’t even know, only solidified something you had probably believed since you were a little girl. 

Heroes didn't always wear uniforms. Sometimes they wore silk blouses, carried a designer purse and quietly declared war on anybody who thought they could prey on people with nowhere left to turn. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hell’s’at mean?”

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

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

“I dislocated my shoulder,” you said.

“You did?” Gator asked. “Or he did?”

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

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

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

Gator laughed. “Cold.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How is that a compliment?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what happened to you?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“And it was big enough to need stitches?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ excuses,” he grumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I got here ‘bout… midnight.”

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

“Why’s’at?” Gator asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When the fuck did I say that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You paused. “Is this a race?”

He paused too. “Yeah. Think it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very good,” he said, condescendingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” you said.

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

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

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

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

“I really say what?” he interrupted you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We needed to be even?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Tillman,” the orderly said.

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

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

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

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

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

Monday mornings in the bullpen always dragged. Gator sat behind his desk staring at the incident report on his computer screen, one hand wrapped loosely around a pen that tapped idly against the edge of his keyboard. It wasn't difficult paperwork. Just dull. He'd read the same paragraph three times already before finally forcing himself to type another sentence.

The Sheriff's Office was awake around him. Phones rang somewhere near reception, dispatch crackled quietly over the radio, someone was arguing with the printer again. It all blended into background noise. The only thing impossible to ignore was Roy.

The bullpen doors swung open and Roy wandered in beside Bowman, both of them already halfway through laughing about something. Whatever story Roy was telling came with enough volume to carry across the whole room, the two of them feeding off each other as though the rest of the office existed purely as an audience.

Gator glanced up for barely a second before dropping his eyes back to the monitor and started typing again. Mostly because he wanted the report finished, partly because looking busy usually stopped Roy finding something for him to do instead.

Roy and Bowman were still laughing when Reyes appeared from reception. The rookie looked slightly uncertain, as he always did, one hand holding the door open for the woman beside him. She looked even more uncomfortable, clutching her handbag tightly against her side as her eyes moved across the unfamiliar faces.

"Hey, uh, Sheriff. Miss. Hadley wants to make a report; you want me to--"

"You can take notes, rookie." Roy waved him off before turning towards the woman with an easy smile. "Miss Hadley, I can take ya report, come take a seat."

Gator watched Roy gesture towards one of the spare desks sitting out in the bullpen. Miss Hadley sat carefully in the chair Reyes pulled out for her.  Roy leaned back against the edge of the desk, sitting half on it so he looked down at her rather than across at her. He reached for a clipboard before tossing it towards Reyes.

"So, little lady," Roy said, folding his arms across his chest. "What's the problem?"

His attention drifted back to the report on his screen instead. The traffic stop from earlier that morning wasn't exactly riveting. Speeding. Expired registration. A driver who'd somehow managed to argue with every word that came out of Gator's mouth despite being caught twenty over the limit.

Reyes' pen scratched steadily across the report form while Miss Hadley answered Roy's questions. Gator tuned most of it out, until he heard one word. Loan. His fingers stopped over the keyboard.

"...the repayments, they doubled and then again and..." the woman's voice wavered. "Sheriff, I don't know what to do, I think I'm going to lose the house."

Gator looked up. She was perched right on the edge of the chair now, twisting the cuff of her sweater so tightly the fabric had wrapped around her fingers. Tears clung stubbornly to her lashes, though she seemed to be doing everything she could not to let them fall.

A loan. Immediately his mind went to you. He remembered you mentioning some loan company over breakfast a few days ago. Maggie had apparently been asking questions about it, looking into something that didn't quite sit right. At the time he'd filed it away as another one of Maggie's community projects. Now he found himself paying a little more attention.

Reyes wrote everything down exactly as she said it, his brow furrowed in concentration while Roy simply listened with his arms folded. Eventually Roy pushed himself away from the desk.

"Reyes will show you out, Miss Hadley. I'll have a look into all this, ain't sure I can do much ‘bout your personal finances and all that. But I'll make some calls."

"Thank you." The woman nodded.

Reyes offered her a reassuring smile before leading her back towards reception, clipboard tucked beneath one arm. Roy pulled the completed report from the clipboard as he walked past Gator's desk. Gator looked up.

"What's that about?"

Roy barely glanced at the paperwork.

"Took a loan." He shrugged. "Ain't sure how that's police business. Shoulda just paid her bills."

"Want me t'type it up?"

"I got it." Roy frowned. "Ain't you got work to be doing?"

Gator looked back at his computer as Roy wandered into his office, closing the door only halfway behind him. Roy hated paperwork with a passion. Half the administrative work floating around the office eventually landed on somebody else's desk because Roy couldn't be bothered with it himself. Filing reports certainly wasn't something he suddenly took an interest in.

Gator watched without really meaning to. Roy slid the report into the top drawer of his desk. His eyebrows pulled together slightly. Through the glass walls surrounding the office, Gator watched him sit down. A moment later Roy pulled out his phone.

He spent the next couple of minutes staring at the screen, thumbs moving steadily as he typed out a message. Then, just as casually as he'd hidden the report away, he opened the same drawer and tossed the phone inside before closing it again.

The whole thing left an uncomfortable feeling sitting in Gator's stomach. Before he had much chance to think about it, Bowman appeared at the office door.

"Wanna head to the diner for lunch? Heard they changed up the specials."

Roy was on his feet instantly.

"Now you're speakin' my language."

He grabbed his hat from the desk and followed Bowman back through the bullpen. Gator kept his eyes on his report, typing another line that he didn't really read. Only once the office doors closed behind them did he glance up. He watched the pair cross the parking lot through the front windows, climb into Roy's cruiser and pull out onto the road.

Gator stayed where he was for another minute, forcing himself to type another couple of lines into the report. Eventually he pushed his chair back. The bullpen was quiet now. Reyes was still out front and there was nobody else close enough to notice him crossing the room. He walked into Roy's office as though he'd been sent there.

He slid the top drawer open, and Roy's phone was lying exactly where Gator had seen him leave it, with Miss Hadley's report tucked neatly beneath. He reached for the paperwork, intending to take a quick look before putting everything back exactly as he'd found it.

Then he noticed there was far more in the drawer than a single report. Several bundles of handwritten notes were stacked beneath the first one. Frowning, Gator lifted them out.

The first report looked almost identical to the conversation he'd overheard ten minutes earlier. A small loan. Repayments that had doubled without warning. A family falling behind before the threats started. The second was much the same. Then the third. Then another. Different names. Different addresses. The same story repeated over and over again.

One report described windows being put through in the middle of the night. Another mentioned a man being beaten badly enough to end up in hospital after refusing to sign over his property. Nearly every statement ended the same way. The house was gone. The business was gone. The family had nowhere left to go.

None of them had ever been typed up. These were paper notes, none of them had ever become official reports. This wasn't Roy forgetting or being lazy. He was burying them. Gator’s eyes flicked towards the office door before settling on the copier against the wall. A second later he'd made up his mind.

He fed each report through as quickly as he could, every mechanical whir of the machine sounding far louder than it should have inside the quiet office. Every few seconds he glanced towards the glass walls surrounding the room, half expecting someone to walk back into the bullpen but thankfully, nobody did.

As soon as the last page copied, he gathered the originals together, carefully straightening the edges before returning them to the drawer exactly as he'd found them. Miss Hadley's report went back on top. The copies he folded twice before sliding them down the front of his vest.

Only then did he pick up the phone. The screen lit up requesting a passcode. Roy wasn't exactly imaginative; Gator tried his birthday first. Wrong. He pulled out his own phone and checked the twins' birthday before trying that. Wrong. Karen's birthday. Wrong. Their wedding anniversary. Still nothing.

Gator let out a quiet sigh, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. Then he shook his head.

"Course."

Roy loved one person more than anybody else. Roy. He entered his father's birthday. Wrong again. For a second he simply stared at the screen in frustration before his eyes wandered around the office. They landed on a framed photograph sitting in the corner of the desk. Roy stood in uniform, smiling broadly for the camera, one hand resting proudly across the front of his chest. The sheriff's badge pinned there caught the light.

Gator's eyes dropped to the number engraved across the badge.

"...You're kiddin'."

He keyed it into the phone and the screen unlocked immediately. He went straight to the messages; the most recent conversation sat right at the top.

Roy: You're getting sloppy, Marshall. Third report this week.

Marshall: Bury them. I'll sort it.

Roy: Already done.

Gator read the exchange twice before backing out and opening the contact details.

Marshall Beaumont.

The name stirred something in the back of his mind. He knew he'd heard it before. He just couldn't remember where. He pulled out his own phone, took screenshots of both the conversation and the contact details, sent them to himself, then carefully deleted every trace he'd been there.

Only when he was satisfied the phone looked exactly as it had before did he lock it, place it back in the drawer and close it.

When he walked back out into the bullpen, his heart was beating noticeably faster than it had been five minutes earlier. He lowered himself back into his chair, stared at the half-finished traffic report on his computer screen. To anybody looking his way, it would've seemed like he'd never left his desk.

By the time Roy came back, Gator had finished the traffic report, he'd even managed to make himself a fresh coffee. He leaned back in his chair, one hand wrapped around the mug, both boots propped comfortably on the edge of his desk.

The door banged open. Roy strode straight through the bullpen, smelling faintly of greasy diner food, and without breaking his stride slapped the soles of Gator's boots. They hit the floor with a heavy thud.

"Go look bored on patrol, Gator."

Gator bit back the comment sitting on the end of his tongue.

"Yes, sir."

He drained the last mouthful of coffee instead, grabbed his phone and cruiser keys, and headed for the parking lot. The county roads were quiet that afternoon. He drove aimlessly for twenty minutes, letting the cruiser eat up the miles until the Sheriff's Office was well behind him. Eventually he spotted a gravel lay-by just off the road, pulled in beneath a line of cottonwoods and cut the engine.

Gator reached beneath his vest and unfolded the copied reports across the steering wheel. He still couldn't make sense of it. Why was Roy burying these? What did bad loans have to do with the Sheriff's Office?

He picked up the first statement again and read it more carefully this time. Recent widow. Two children. Forced to hand over the house after repayments spiralled beyond anything she'd agreed to. When she refused, several men had turned up at the property, thrown her family out onto the lawn, roughed her up badly enough to leave bruising across her face and broken one of her children's arms.

His jaw tightened, he looked down at the address at the bottom of the page. It wasn't far. Before he could really think himself out of it, he folded the reports away, started the cruiser and pulled back onto the county road, heading towards the woman's house.

The address led him down a quiet county road lined with pastureland before the house finally came into view. A large SOLD sign stood prominently at the end of the driveway, with Vallard Property Services printed neatly across the bottom. The house itself looked empty. Curtains gone. Porch stripped bare. There wasn't a single vehicle parked outside.

Gator rested both hands on the steering wheel as he looked at it. Twenty minutes ago this had just been another report. Now it was somebody's home. Or it had been.

He reached for his phone and searched the estate agency. Their website loaded quickly enough, filling the screen with photographs of ranches and farmhouses scattered across the county. He scrolled through the current listings, noticing the same sort of properties over and over again. Small ranches. Family homes. Acreages.

Then one photograph made him stop. William Nesbitt's place. He frowned, William had known Roy for years. Hell, he'd lent Roy his horse trailer the summer he'd bought Leroy because Roy hadn't wanted to pay to hire one.

Gator stared at the listing; William hadn't mentioned selling. He looked back towards the empty house sitting beyond the windshield. Then down at the reports folded on the passenger seat.

His jaw tightened. One hidden report could've been laziness. Two might've been incompetence. But this? This was something else. His fingers drummed slowly against the steering wheel before he reached into his pocket for his phone and opened your messages.

・❥・

The football game had claimed the television, Walker and Tucker offering running commentary from the middle of the sectional while Logan occasionally chimed in from the opposite end. Noah was there too. Still quiet, still watching more than talking, but he was there. Curled into your usual corner of the sofa, you pulled out your phone. Gator had been on the day shift, he should've been finished by now.

You: everyone is here watching the game. r u coming over?

Gator: not tonite baby, sorry. got somethin 2 do

A small frown settled across your face.

You: everything ok?

Gator: all good baby, no chewin urself 2 bits. just sum bullshit 4 my dad

You: ok. dont do anything stupid. love you.

Gator: nothin stupid, promise. Just ranch stuff. Love u baby

You weren’t entirely convinced but his promise felt reassuring. You smiled faintly and slipped your phone back into your pocket before looking up. Rhodes was balancing along the back of the sofa with both arms stretched out, apparently convinced he was some sort of tightrope walker now his cast had finally come off. You sighed, climbed to your feet and scooped him up before gravity had the chance to intervene and he ended up in another cast.

"Okay, I'm thinking we might need a little distraction. Who's up for a game of hide and seek?"

Nicky was off the sofa before you'd even finished speaking.

"I wanna play!"

"We're all playing," you said, leaning over for the remote and switching the television off.

Walker groaned dramatically.

"That's enough out of you. C'mon, who wants to seek?"

"Why don't me and Nicky seek," Noah suggested. "You lot hide?"

"Yeah, I wanna be with Noah!" Nicky grinned.

"Okay. Three minutes, anywhere inside the house, except for Maggie's room. Outside is out of bounds, ready? Go."

The room emptied almost instantly as everyone scattered in search of the perfect hiding place. Walker and Tucker disappeared upstairs, the sound of pounding footsteps echoing across the landing. You watched Rhodes vanish around the corner.

Logan, on the other hand, made absolutely no effort to hide. He just stood in the living room with his hands shoved into his pockets, looking at you. You rolled your eyes, grabbing him by the sleeve, you dragged him out of the living room.

As you passed through the kitchen, Ford looked up from where he was helping Josie finish a yoghurt. He watched you marching Logan down the hallway to your bedroom. You opened the closet door, gave Logan a gentle shove inside and climbed in after him before pulling the doors closed behind you.

Only thin strips of light slipped through the gap between the doors, leaving the two of you sitting toe to toe on the floor amongst hanging clothes and shoe boxes. For a few moments neither of you spoke. Then Logan's phone lit up, the pale glow illuminated the grin spreading slowly across his face before he typed out a quick reply and locked the screen again.

"Megan?" You smiled.

"Maybe."

"I can tell by the shit eating grin."

"Yeah, fine,” Logan laughed. “It was Megan."

You didn't say anything else; you'd learnt a long time ago that silence was often more useful than another question. Sure enough, after a few moments he sighed.

"I really don't wanna mess this up, Baby."

"How are you gonna mess it up?"

"It's just what I do, ain't it?" He looked down at his hands. "I fuck everything up, say the wrong thing, do the wrong thing."

"You can be hot headed, yeah, sure. But you don't mess everything up. Megan's happy, she likes you."

"Yeah?" He looked across at you. "She tell you that?"

"Yeah, we spoke." You smiled. "You're not messing it up."

"But I don't know how to do this, the girlfriend thing."

"Gotta learn somehow, right? You're gonna be fine. You're a good guy, Logan, however much you hide it sometimes. And Megan knows it too. Stop worrying and just let it happen."

"Easy for you to say." He huffed a laugh.

"Is it?" You raised an eyebrow. "Has Gator got some degree in relationships I don't know about?"

Logan laughed again.

"Nah, but he don't seem to be getting it wrong."

"You aren't getting it wrong either." You smiled. "You're just overthinking it."

Logan began picking absently at the knee of his jeans, his attention settling somewhere on the floor between you. You recognised the look. He was thinking. Really thinking. Outward spiral turning internal. You shifted a little closer.

"I'm gonna tell you something, but it stays in this closet. You tell him I told you or you make a shitty joke and I'll never forgive you."

His fingers stopped moving.

"Promise?"

"Yeah, whatever, promise."

You held your pinky out towards him.

"Pinky promise me, Logan."

"What are we? Ten?" He shook his head, smiling despite himself. "Sure, pinky promise."

He hooked his finger around yours.

"Gator said this thing, and I've thought about it ever since." You looked down at your joined hands. "He said that with me, he doesn't have to think. It all just... comes to him. He said the rest of the time he's always thinking about what he has to do and how he has to be, but with me he just... is."

When you looked back up, Logan wasn't laughing. He was leaning forward now, forearms resting across his knees, listening properly.

"I didn't believe him at first," you admitted quietly. "Then I realised it's the same for me. I think that's what made me set up the date with Megan. I want that for you. You're a good person, Logan, you just do stupid stuff. The fights in bars and whatever, that isn't you. It's you being who you think people want you to be, who you think your dad wants you to be. But it isn't the real you. These past few weeks you've been here, playing with the kids and running plays with the twins... that's you."

He rested his chin on his arms, listening.

"You're the idiot who used to steal Twinkies from the corner store on Elm because you knew they were Noah's favourite."

The corner of his mouth twitched.

"You're the boy who'd leave his headphones hanging on the bleachers for me when I had to wait around for you and Gator after practice, just so I wouldn't be bored," you smiled. "That's you.”

“That wasn’t me.”

“What?”

“The headphones,” he shrugged. “That was Gator. He said you hated sitting around with nothing to do.”

You searched through the memory again, seeing it differently now. It had been every Tuesday and Thursday after school, football practice. Noah would be at track and after-school sports had never really been an option for you, so while everyone else practiced, you had to wait for your ride home.

You’d wander out onto the football field, usually huffing at the thought of having to linger around in the cold. Logan and Gator would already be on the field, Coach barking instructions at them from somewhere in the distance. And hanging over the railing of the bleachers, right where you always sat would be a pair of headphones, usually an iPod or a battered Game Boy resting on the bench below. Something to keep you occupied until practice finished.

You’d never thought twice about it. You’d always hand them back to Logan at the end. All those years, how had you never known? That whole time you’d smiled and thanked Logan, never noticing Gator quietly noticing you.

The thought settled somewhere deep inside you, uncomfortable and strangely tender all at once. Not now. There'd be time to untangle that later.

“Okay,” you gave him a small smile. “Maybe I got that one wrong.”

You reached over and squeezed his forearm.

"But I still know you. I know you’re good, Logan. That’s why I know you won’t mess this up."

The bedroom door opened, footsteps crossed the hardwood floor outside before the closet doors were yanked open.

"Found you!"

Nicky looked impossibly pleased with himself. Behind him, Noah smiled.

"We've still got to find Rhodes,” Noah said nervously. “Not gonna lie, I'm kinda worried he's somewhere he definitely shouldn't be."

You laughed as you climbed to your feet.

"Wouldn't be the first time. C'mon, I'll help you look."

Logan climbed out behind you. As he straightened up he slipped an arm around your shoulders, giving you a brief squeeze against his side and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"Thanks, Baby."

You patted him on the back before turning towards Nicky.

"Did you check inside the washer and dryer?"

"Why would we?" Noah frowned.

"Because it's Rhodes...?"

"I'll go check." Nicky sighed.

・・

Gator had finished his shift over an hour ago, but home never really crossed his mind. Instead he kept driving. Through Lehigh. Out onto the highways. Back onto the quieter county roads that wound between ranches and open pasture. His truck drifted around familiar bends a little faster than it probably should have, muscle memory was doing most of the driving now.

The reports sat folded on the passenger seat. Every time he looked at them, he found himself right back where he'd started. None of it made sense. He knew exactly who Roy Tillman was. Nobody knew him better.

Roy was hard. Cruel. A man who measured strength by how much fear he could inspire. Growing up beneath him had taught Gator that much. The majority of Roy's anger had been reserved for him. Roy believed boys were made through pain, through discipline, through learning exactly where they stood. Bruises disappeared. Lessons stayed.

Karen had never carried those bruises. But he wore her down in quieter ways. Every conversation became a correction. Every opinion became an argument. Every room somehow belonged entirely to Roy the second he walked into it.

Gator had known for years that Roy wasn't exactly the law-abiding sheriff he liked to pretend he was either. Favours got traded. Parking tickets disappeared. Friends found themselves on the receiving end of second chances other people would've never been offered. There'd been envelopes of cash that somehow never became evidence. Jobs quietly handed to cousins or drinking buddies. It wasn't right, but it was familiar small town corruption. The sort people joked about over beers before shrugging and getting on with their lives.

This wasn't that.

Roy loved Stark County. God knew he had a funny way of showing it sometimes, but Gator had never doubted that part. Roy saw the county as his kingdom. Every ranch, every business, every road eventually came back to him. Protecting Stark County was tangled up with protecting himself, but somewhere underneath all the ego there had always been genuine pride.

So why wasn't he protecting these people? Good people. Working people. People Roy actually knew.

It hadn't taken Gator long to find Marshall Beaumont. A quick search. Big money. Agriculture. The sort of man who owned land instead of working it. But why was Roy protecting him? Why was he letting people get hurt for him?

His mind drifted back to William Nesbitt. He'd grown up around the Nesbitts. They were the sort of neighbours every rancher hoped for. The kind who'd appear with feed after a bad storm without ever asking to be repaid. William had lent Roy the horse trailer when he'd bought Leroy because that's what neighbours did. They'd helped one another through harsh winters, shared equipment, traded labour, fixed fences together. That was ranching. That was Stark County.

So why was Roy standing by while somebody put a boot on their necks?

Gator looked across at the reports again. A kid with a broken arm. Threats. Families forced from their homes. Even Roy wasn't that evil...Was he?

His grip tightened around the steering wheel. Maybe he should tell Maggie, the thought had followed him for miles now. This was exactly what she'd been looking for, wasn't it? Maggie would know what to do. She always knew what to do.

But then what? If Roy found out where the information had come from... Gator swallowed. He'd survived Roy's temper before, more times than he cared to remember. But surviving it wasn't the same thing as volunteering for it.

But what would Maggie do if she discovered it herself? If she dug up the truth, what was the name of her hacker you’d told him about? Beetle? What if Maggie found out and thought Gator was involved? Would he rather take a beating from Roy or Jack? Or worse, what if she stopped him seeing you?

He eased the cruiser onto the shoulder and killed the engine. Resting his head against the seat, he closed his eyes. He could picture the Big House; you'd probably be in the living room. Oversized sweatshirt. Flannel pyjama pants. Hair all over the place because you never seemed to notice when it escaped whatever thrown up style you'd started the evening with. You'd be sprawled across Tucker or Walker without the slightest interest in whatever game happened to be on television, more interested in laughing at whatever Rhodes had climbed onto now or making sure Nicky was taking part.

That was the thing he'd never understood until he'd met you. It wasn't the house. It wasn't even the people. It was belonging. Just... existing somewhere without having to earn your place every five minutes. The Heatons had done that. You had done that.

These last few weeks had been the happiest he could remember being. He wasn't pretending all the time anymore. He wasn't waiting for the next criticism or the next fight. With you, he could just be. The thought made his chest ache. Because whichever way he turned this thing over in his head, it seemed to end the same way.

Tell Maggie.... and take the beating, accept the man is dad really was.

Keep Roy's secret... and risk blowing up the only place that had ever felt like home

For the first time in a long time, Gator honestly couldn't see a way through that didn't end with him getting hurt.

・・

You eventually found Rhodes. The laundry hamper in the upstairs hallway was overflowing with dirty washing, and buried somewhere beneath two hoodies, a pair of jeans and what looked suspiciously like one of Tucker's football socks was Rhodes, grinning so proudly with a pile of laundry balanced on his head that you almost felt bad for finding him. You had to hand it to the kid, he was committed.

The football game reclaimed the living room soon afterwards. Ford had settled back onto the sectional with Logan and the twins, their attention disappearing back to whatever had happened while they'd been busy hiding.

You had stayed upstairs. Now you were sitting cross-legged on the landing rug with Noah, Nicky and Rhodes, the contents of two Lego tubs scattered across the floor between you. The castle was... ambitious. Noah had approached it like an engineer, quietly sorting bricks into neat little piles by colour and size before placing each one with careful precision.

Rhodes had absolutely no interest in any of that.  His sole contribution appeared to be making the tallest tower physically possible, regardless of whether the pieces actually matched. Every time Noah found the perfect brick, Rhodes would triumphantly stick a bright yellow one on top because it happened to make the turret another inch taller.

Nicky had ignored both of them entirely. He was crouched over the entranceway, tongue poking from the corner of his mouth as he carefully built an elaborate arch above the front door. Every piece was considered before he clipped it into place.

You smiled to yourself. Your phone buzzed beside your knee, for a second you expected to see Gator's name across the screen. Instead, the notification came from No Boys Allowed 🚫.

                Hannah: missed u all this weekend ☹ been soooo quiet

                Brooke: Megans too busy with her new man.

                Brooke: aint that y u were so mad @ Paige? cos she ditched us for dick?

                Megan: i never said anything about Paige? thats what u were mad about?!

                Brooke: yeh cos ur just such a good friend?

                Megan: im not doing this again.

You sighed, clicked your phone screen dark again and tossed it onto the rug beside you. Noah glanced up from the neat rows of Lego bricks he'd been arranging.

"Gator?"

"No, he's doing something for his dad tonight, ranch stuff, I dunno." You shrugged. "Was the group chat. Megan and Brooke."

"Girl drama?"

"Something like that." You laughed quietly.

Noah looked back down at the Lego, continuing to sort the pieces into little colour-coded piles, but you could tell by the slight tilt of his head that he was waiting for you to continue.

"I dunno," you admitted. "It's all just been a bit weird. It's not really an argument just... I dunno. Paige and Brooke were weird at the funfair and Paige is seeing this guy and Brooke was mad at her but now she's mad at Megan because I set Megan up with Logan and..."

"You set that up?"

"Yeah." You smiled. "They seemed to like each other, at the fair, and he seems happy, right?"

"Yeah," Noah nodded. "He's been uncharacteristically cheerful. I just didn't realise you had okayed it. Thought he was doing it behind your back or something."

"No. Figured he was due a free pass considering I took his best mate." You laughed.

That earned a proper laugh from Noah.

"So they're going at it over... Logan?"

"Brooke had a crush on him in high school." You shook your head. "She's making out like she somehow owned him. I dunno, it's weird. It hasn't been the same since I found out Brooke..."

The words slipped out before you could stop them, you looked down at the castle spread across the rug.

"Doesn't matter. It just isn't the same anymore."

"What were you going to say?" he asked gently. "Since you found out Brooke what?"

"Um..." You rubbed absently at one of the Lego bricks between your fingers. "She knew about... you. Said she used to buy, for parties."

Silence settled between you; out of the corner of your eye you saw Noah's shoulders dip slightly. Before either of you could say anything else, Nicky crawled across the rug holding his newest creation with both hands.

"Can I put this on?"

"Yeah, bud,” you smiled. “It's your castle. Add it on."

Nicky carefully attached the archway above the doorway before crawling back around to admire it from every angle. Beside you, Noah had picked up two bricks, he clicked them together, pulled them apart, clicked them together again.

You looked across at him.

"I shouldn't have said anything, I'm--"

"You ain't got to be sorry." He kept his eyes on the bricks in his hands. "It's on me."

"It just made me feel stupid." Your voice was quieter now. "Like... how did I not know? Why did Brooke never tell me?"

"Because Brooke is an awful person." He said it so matter-of-factly that it almost made you smile. "Don't understand why you were ever friends with her."

Rhodes appeared beside him carrying another handful of mismatched bricks for his ever-growing tower. Noah reached out automatically, steadying him as he climbed awkwardly to his feet before handing him another block.

"You're better off without her." Then he looked back at you. "For what it's worth... I'm sorry."

You smiled softly.

"For what it's worth... I forgive you."

Back in the day, you were the kind of girl that could be found dancing on tabletops and out drinking every meathead in whatever grimy establishment you'd stumbled into for the night.

That version of you would probably be horrified to see the way you spend your Saturday nights now.

Truth is, you don't care at all. You love the little weekend ritual you'd created for yourself in the year since the abrupt end to your engagement. At thirty two years old, you're choosing to embrace the freedom that comes with having no kids, husband, or mortgage.

So that means you like to smoke a joint on your front porch as the sun is setting on your quiet street that's tucked away from the busier parts of the city. It also means that pants are optional while you sprawl out on the couch and load Animal Crossing: New Horizons on your TV to work on your astrology themed island. And most importantly: it means you can do all of this without some sad excuse of a fiance whining in your ear that your hobbies are childish.

Because while you like to get high and play video games, at least you can say you've never fucked your best friend's girlfriend while still engaged to someone else.

The only being on this planet that you'll tolerate judging you now is Mazzy, the sassy little grey cat currently curled up in the arm chair in the corner of your living room. And she always is, but she does so silently.

You hum along to the golden hour music of the game as you plant some glowing moss in your virtual garden, momentarily dazed by the graphics when your stomach growls.

"Oh shit." You giggle and sit up, realization piercing through your THC induced euphoria. "Mazzy, I forgot I ordered Wingstop!"

Your cat narrows her green eyes at you and yawns, completely uninterested in your latest case of the munchies. You dig around the couch for your phone and curse when you see there was a ring notification from twenty minutes ago when your Doordash driver dropped off your order.

"Fuck!"

After scanning the room and finding your sleep shorts, you quickly yank them on and run down your private stairwell, praying to the fast food gods that your order is still outside. You open the door to the small hallway that connects your apartment to the first floor unit and peer out onto the porch, relieved to see a green and white bag waiting there for you.

"Oh thank god!" You push open the front door and step into the warm, spring air.

When you pick up the bag, the unfamiliar scent of something sweet and tangy hits your nose. Frowning, you scan the receipt stuck to the front of the bag and see this order has hot honey and mango habenero tenders with voodoo fries, a.k.a nothing that you ordered. In fact, whoever did order this happened to pick out the flavors you wouldn't eat even in your compromised state.

A more thorough scan of the receipt tells you that this order belongs to your neighbor downstairs based on the address and there's just the initial 'T' being used as the customer name. You have no idea who this person is since they moved in while you were at work last week and you're not really the type to go out of your way to be social. But you're definitely going to make your presence known now.

You step back into the hallway and bang on the front door of the downstairs apartment, ready to chew out whoever is on the other side of that door. To your horror, out walks the third-to-last person you ever wanted to see, right behind your ex and the girl he replaced you with. The man before you with frizzy, bleach blonde hair is shirtless with his gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips as he holds a half-eaten Louisianna Rub tender. The smell of weed and your favorite wing flavor pours out of the apartment.

"Oh for fuck's sake…" Your jaw drops when it registers who your new neighbor is. "Teacake?"

"Hm?" His curls bounce as he shakes his head and his bloodshot eyes zero in on you. "Oh shit…it's you."

"Yeah." A million questions go through your head: What the hell are you doing living in the apartment below mine? Has your best friend, the same guy who ripped my heart out of my chest, died a slow and painful death yet? What have you been up to in the last year since our exes ruined our fucking lives? But you opt to stay on topic. "Did you take my Wingstop order?"

"What?" He chuckles, as if that's the most ridiculous thing he's been accused of. Which you find ironic considering this man's been to prison for unknowingly being some other idiot's getaway driver after robbing a convenience store. "No, 'course I didn't."

"Really?" You tilt your head to the side and lift the bag you're holding. "Because this one doesn't have anything I ordered and last I checked I live in unit two, not one."

He stares at the bag and looks back at the tender he's eating. "Fuck…I thought these tasted a little different."

"Are you kidding me?" you yell, though part of you wants to ask what he's smoking that gets him that out of it. "Who the hell does that!"

"Fuck, I'm really sorry." He holds up his hands, still grasping the god forsaken tender that taunts you. "It's been a long day buildin' furniture, unpackin', and shit."

"Whatever." You shake the bag. "Can we just switch so I can get on with my night?"

"Er…" He swallows and winces. "This is the last one. Already ate the others. And the fries."

You scoff. "You ate five tenders and a large side of fries in twenty minutes?"

"Technically, four and a half." He waves the last remains of your order in your face, holding back a laugh. "You can keep my order."

"I don't like the flavors you picked!" You shove the bag at him and you swear you see him smirk, making you even more annoyed. "I'd rather chew on glass than eat hot honey tenders."

He shakes his head. "Now that's just crazy talk. What'd hot honey ever do to you?"

"Be the stupid flavor that you chose to order tonight." You cross your arms and turn toward the door to your apartment. "Welcome to the neighborhood, I guess."

"Hey, wait," Teacake calls out your name and leans back on his door frame, grinning when you turn around. "You're looking pretty good by the way. Haven't see you since—"

"No!" You hold up a hand, your palm facing him. "Let me make one thing clear: we are not going to talk about James and Amber. Ever. In fact, let's just not talk at all."

"Come on, babydoll." His hazel eyes twinkle, and you hate how you're staring enough to notice the flecks of green under the hallway light. "We're neighbors now. If you wanna come in and get comfortable, I'll order you some more food."

You roll your eyes. "Pass."

Before that big mouth of his can say anything else, you push through your door and trudge up the stairs to return to your sanctuary. You pull out your phone and call your sister, not wanting to wait to tell her which ghost from your humiliating past just moved in downstairs.

After a Wingstop-less evening, you wake up trying to wrap your head around the fact that James' best friend and Amber's ex-boyfriend now lives in the apartment under yours.

You'd worked so hard to build your new normal totally separate from that group that had taken up so much real estate in your life. Truth be told, you didn't even like hanging out with James' friends on the best of days. Teacake wasn't the worst of them; in fact despite being spacey and impulsive, you might dare to say he's a nice guy. But you found him completely untrustworthy due to his awful taste in women, exhibit A being Amber, the wannabe wellness influencer that never ran out of condescending things to say to you.

Not to mention, Teacake had always been the doormat of the group. At least, you thought he'd been way too forgiving of all the shitty things his friends always did. You have no idea what his relationship with them all is like now since all you'd heard after the implosion of your engagement was that he'd gone off the grid on some sort of retreat to nurse his broken heart. You wouldn't be surprised though if he'd found it in his wanderlust, bohemian heart to forgive James and Amber. That terrifies you, because if either of those two ever set foot on your porch, you're not confident in your ability to keep your cool. You definitely don't need to give James and Amber another reason to see you as some bitter, hysterical ex.

The whole thing is absolutely fucked. You pad around your kitchen to make your morning coffee and think about how Teacake would respond to a mysterious, threatening letter asking him to move out immediately.

Seriously. The whole city of Boston and he just had to move into the vacant unit below you?

You spend the morning sprawled out on the couch with Mazzy, watching TV and scrolling through Tiktok at the same time with the hope that the screen overload will get your mind off of things. Then, at around one in the afternoon, someone rings your doorbell. You get up and swipe the touchscreen in your living room, groaning when you see Teacake, still shirtless, standing on the porch in front of your Ring camera.

"Go away," you yell into the speaker.

"Can we talk, please?" Teacake holds up a Wingstop bag to the camera. "I brought a peace offering."

You lean against the wall and consider your options. Unfortunately, you are pretty hungry and still craving the chicken tenders you were denied last night. So you open the front door and go downstairs to meet Teacake in your shared hallway.

He offers a lopsided smile when you open the door and offers the bag to you. "Five Louisianna Rub tenders and a large side of lemon pepper fries."

You take bag and narrow your eyes. "Did you get them well done?"

Teacake scoffs. "Obviously."

"Hm." You drum your fingers on the door frame. "And did you get extra ranch?"

"I'm no amateur, honey." He puts his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. "Gotta say, I've always loved a woman that knows how to eat."

That definitely doesn't track, considering Amber once tried to convince you that dates covered in almond butter taste the same as a snickers bar. "What are you even doing here in Boston? I thought you were moving back to Atchison after the breakup."

He shrugs. "Didn't wanna have to leave my job at the studio. Weren't a lot of openings as a yoga teacher in Kansas."

"Well…payment accepted." You hug the bag to your chest. "That bought you five more minutes of conversation."

"Alright." Teacake huffs out a laugh. "It occurred to me that you might be worried about if any, well…familiar characters are gonna be comin' round here."

"The thought crossed my mind." You reach into the bag and take a bite of a fry.

"Trust me, that ain't happenin'." He slices the air with his hand to emphasize his point. "I really don't talk much to those guys anymore, but especially not James and Amber."

You raise your eyebrows. "That's somewhat reassuring."

"Yeah." Teacake scratches the back of his neck. "So, if you…I don't know, you don't have to avoid me. Because of that."

The kind, vulnerable expression on his face reminds you that this guy was hurt too, more so than you thought if he's actually cut his best friend out of his life. Maybe he deserves a bit of grace for his takeout mishap. You already didn't have a ton of friends before James, so you can only imagine how lonely he must feel. Under different circumstances, maybe you could've help with that.

"Listen, thanks for the food," You gesture to the bag. "I don't mean to be bitchy, but as much as I'd like to say I've moved past the break up…it still hurts a lot. Looking at you just reminds me of a time in my life that I'm actively trying to forget."

Teacake flinches. "I was just as blindsided as you, ya know."

"I know you were," you say honestly. The image of him showing up at the doorstep of your old apartment (the one you shared with James) with tear stained cheeks and a wild, desperate stare is burned into your memory forever. "I'm not saying it's your fault, the reminder part I mean. I just spent so much time tied up in your friend group's drama and then ultimately became a casualty so…that's why I'm not really looking to hang out anytime soon."

He gives you a strange expression that you can't quite name. Like you've caught him off guard. "I'm real sorry about all that."

"No need to be." You shrug. "Already told you it's not your fault. Just don't crowd my car in the driveway or take my food when I have the munchies again and we'll be good."

"Munchies?" Teacake puts his hands on his hips and tilts his head. "You smoke pot?"

He looks at you with renewed interest, his adorable, wide eyes reminding you of a golden retriever desperate to play. You force yourself to ignore the warmth that blooms low in your gut and turn back into your stairwell. "Goodbye, Teacake."

You manage to go a whole three days without another reminder of Teacake's presence. You settle back into your routine and throw yourself into work on Monday while Mazzy supervises your efforts from the daybed in your home office.

By Wednesday night, you're in need of a reset from the corporate grind, so you pour yourself a glass of wine and settle into bed early to watch a movie. While you're scrolling through options on Netflix, a faint thumping noise travels up from below.

You think nothing of it at first since it sounds just like the dryer you always used to hear when your old neighbors lived downstairs. Then you hear the moaning.

"Fuck!" A distinctly female voice yells. "Just like that…"

"Oh. You gotta be kidding me." You lean back against the headboard and put on whatever your remote had been hovering over, cranking the volume all the way up.

"That's right," Teacake grunts, loud enough to still be audible above the movie. "Takin' me so well."

You grab a pillow next to you and scream into it, even though you know this anger is not rational at all. Teacake is a grown man and is allowed to fuck whoever he wants, you just really wish you didn't have to be made aware of it. Not just because you like to forget his world currently exists right below your feet, but also that there was a part of you kind of now somewhat interested in what sex with Teacake would be like.

Hell, this random girl seems to be having a good time. Better than any of your previous experiences, as sad as that is to admit. Your cheeks burn as you dig through your nighstand for your wireless headphones and connect them to your TV so you can block out the noise.

Two days later on Friday night, you're reading on your back porch when you hear Teacake's door open below. Soft voices carry up to you, and you realize that he's got a woman with him again. Judging by the fact her voice is noticeably different from last time, it's someone new too. You roll your eyes and return to your book, considering you were here first and it sounds like they're just sharing a joint anyway.

"What is this?" The girl giggles. "I feel so…I don't know, like, amazing."

Wonder if it's the same strain that makes him take Wingstop orders that aren't his…You huff and sink further into your chair.

"Yeah?" Teacake chuckles. "I'd love to add onto that feeling if you're up for it."

They continue to giggle and shift on the cushions of his patio couch. You hear a zipper pulled down and fabric sliding off of someone's legs. Your head snaps up, thinking that surely he's not going to…

The unmistakable sounds of wet, open mouth kisses on that girl's pussy fill the air, followed by her cries of pleasure. You sit up and plan on going inside when Teacake's muffled groans make you freeze.

You thought enthusiastic eaters like this only existed in legend (and the romance novels you read). But right now you're experiencing second hand exposure to a real life man that's lapping at some girl's cunt like it's his last meal. You should go back inside, as it now feels weird to listen in on them. But it's not like you set out to do this, you were minding your own business on your porch. Plus, there were other duplexes not even six feet away from yours…anyone could see them.

The thought caused heat to pool low in your belly. You drag a hand down your face and quickly go back inside, not hesitating to grab your vibrator once you're safely back in your room. You'd never admit this to anyone else, but you get off that night at the image of a bleach blonde stoner enthusiastically going down on you.

Once you've wrung every last drop of pleasure from yourself, you march into your office and start typing up a spreadsheet.

You stomp down the steps to Teacake's apartment first thing the next day, not even thinking about your bed head and morning breath before banging on his door. He opens it while holding a breakfast burrito, not wearing a shirt (you're starting to think he never does when he's home). You force yourself not to stare at his chest hair or how firm his pecs feel when you slap the piece of paper you have on them.

His brow furrows as he scans the paper, still chewing on his burrito. "What's this?"

You cross your arms. "My weekly schedule."

He stares at it and raises an eyebrow, laughing when he looks back up at you. "You plan your TV time?"

"It's not locked in stone, it's just my average routine." You poke the page with your pointer figure. "I'm giving it to you for reference so that you can plan your booty calls at times that are more convenient for me."

"Oh?" His eyes twinkle as he sighs. "Listen, I know you're territorial of this house—"

"Excuse me? I am not."

"Babydoll, you've been growling and snapping like a rabid dog. Think I can't hear you slammin' doors and shit up there? It's kinda cute actually, not gonna lie." He winks, making you scowl. "Anyway, those intimate moments of mine aren't planned so I don't need this."

He holds the paper out and you shove his hand back towards him. "Well, maybe you can start planning them because I'm sick of listening to it when I'm trying to relax."

Teacake stares at you for a moment, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. "You know…you're always welcome to join if ya want."

Your face burns as your mouth falls open. Amber must've really done a number on him, because you don't remember him ever being this forward. "Ha. Fuck you."

A stupidly smug smile spreads on his lips, which he then licks as he drinks you in with his eyes. "That's what I'm offering."

If you didn't know he's just messing with you, due to the fact that you know you're not someone he'd ever been interested in, you might be tempted to jump into his arms and take him up on said offer.

"UGH! You're disgusting!" You march back upstairs, but not before flipping him off.

From that day on, you decide that Teacake is at the top of your shit list, shared trauma be damned.

Taglist: @djorkinnit @ann-aatn @tellcherhesgone

Comment below if you'd like to be added or removed! 🩵

Series Masterlist

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hell’s’at mean?”

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

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

“I dislocated my shoulder,” you said.

“You did?” Gator asked. “Or he did?”

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

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

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

Gator laughed. “Cold.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How is that a compliment?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So what happened to you?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“And it was big enough to need stitches?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuckin’ excuses,” he grumbled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah, I got here ‘bout… midnight.”

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

“Why’s’at?” Gator asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“When the fuck did I say that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You paused. “Is this a race?”

He paused too. “Yeah. Think it is.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Very good,” he said, condescendingly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” you said.

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

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

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

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

“I really say what?” he interrupted you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We needed to be even?” you asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Tillman,” the orderly said.

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

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

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

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

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

“Nadine?” You whisper back. You’ve known Roy and Gator were looking for his ex(?) wife for a long time. You also knew she was like a sister to Gator at one point, and he had his own reservations about the search.

two weeks ago -

“I don’t know, I think she’s got herself a family out there. She’s leavin’ us alone, hasn’t gone to the police about any of it… maybe it…” he trailed off, staring down at his cereal.

You put a hand on his shoulder from where you sat next to him. “Maybe it’s what, hon?” Your voice was gentle.

Gator shook his head, and your heart sank as you saw his walls go up again. “Nothin’. ‘S not like I can back out of this now, hah,” he laughed, “dad’d get an aneurysm off of that one.”

Your brows creased in worry. “Gator… you’re an adult, you know. You can decide you don’t want to do something and tell your father.”

He scoffed. “Baby, I love you, but ya don’t get it, okay? It’s Roy. Everyone in this town owes him the way he sees it. Even me. Even you. Some things.. they just aren’t worth fightin’ against.”

You’d known you wouldn’t get anywhere with continuing the argument that day, the same one the two of you had time and time again, so you’d dropped it. Smacked a kiss to his cheek and told him to be safe on his way out the door.

Now, two weeks later, he was calling you in tears.

“Yeah. I—she had the entire house fuckin’ booby trapped like it was Home Alone or somethin. One of the guys is still out cold. Everybody else is sleepin’”.

You sighed, waiting for him to continue. You knew if you coddled or pried too much in these moments he’d just crumple in on himself.

Eventually, he sniffs hard and speaks again. “I- I saw a picture in there. Her and her husband and her k-her kid. They looked… happy.” His voice cracked on the last word.

“Oh, Gator…” you whispered.

“And it made me mad, y’know? But then—shit, I don’t know. There was also a part of me that felt… bad. Like I was dragging these innocent people into this crap.” He sighed, rough and exhausted.

“You know what I’m gonna say, Gates,” you sigh. He doesn’t respond, like he wants you to say it again.

“You don’t have to keep following orders, Gator. You’re your own person. And if… if that means we can’t live in Lehigh, then so be it. We can move away, start over. You can do something that makes you actually feel good about yourself.”

He’s quiet for a long time, and you figure this is ending the way it usually does when the two of you have this conversation.

“Okay, Gator, well, I’m gonna go back to bed. You drive safe okay?”

“Okay. Love you,” he grunts out, frayed.

“Love you, too.”

You hang up the call and pull the covers up to your chin, November cold lacing through. As your eyes drift off, you try to imagine a life with Gator outside of Stark County, but all your mind sees is the inside of your eyelids.

-

You wake up in the morning to knocking on your door. You know it’s Gator before you’re fully awake; throwing the covers off and blinking against the blinding sunlight as you stumble towards the door, sparing a quick glance in the peephole before you open it to find him standing there. He’s got a bruise under his eye and looks tired down to the bone. You go to step aside and the next thing you know, he’s thrown his arms around you in a crushing hug.

Somehow, you wrestle the door shut from your position, tangled in a man who has almost a foot on you, and hug him back, ready to stand in the apartment threshold for as long as he needs.

Slowly, he leans his head down to your ear. “Can we talk about how we could get the hell out of here? And how soon y’think we could make it happen?”

You pull back and look at him, bewildered. His eyes are sincere, determined; a man who learned where the line was last night. Slowly, you nod, leading him over to your couch.

“Nadine?” You whisper back. You’ve known Roy and Gator were looking for his ex(?) wife for a long time. You also knew she was like a sister to Gator at one point, and he had his own reservations about the search.

two weeks ago -

“I don’t know, I think she’s got herself a family out there. She’s leavin’ us alone, hasn’t gone to the police about any of it… maybe it…” he trailed off, staring down at his cereal.

You put a hand on his shoulder from where you sat next to him. “Maybe it’s what, hon?” Your voice was gentle.

Gator shook his head, and your heart sank as you saw his walls go up again. “Nothin’. ‘S not like I can back out of this now, hah,” he laughed, “dad’d get an aneurysm off of that one.”

Your brows creased in worry. “Gator… you’re an adult, you know. You can decide you don’t want to do something and tell your father.”

He scoffed. “Baby, I love you, but ya don’t get it, okay? It’s Roy. Everyone in this town owes him the way he sees it. Even me. Even you. Some things.. they just aren’t worth fightin’ against.”

You’d known you wouldn’t get anywhere with continuing the argument that day, the same one the two of you had time and time again, so you’d dropped it. Smacked a kiss to his cheek and told him to be safe on his way out the door.

Now, two weeks later, he was calling you in tears.

“Yeah. I—she had the entire house fuckin’ booby trapped like it was Home Alone or somethin. One of the guys is still out cold. Everybody else is sleepin’”.

You sighed, waiting for him to continue. You knew if you coddled or pried too much in these moments he’d just crumple in on himself.

Eventually, he sniffs hard and speaks again. “I- I saw a picture in there. Her and her husband and her k-her kid. They looked… happy.” His voice cracked on the last word.

“Oh, Gator…” you whispered.

“And it made me mad, y’know? But then—shit, I don’t know. There was also a part of me that felt… bad. Like I was dragging these innocent people into this crap.” He sighed, rough and exhausted.

“You know what I’m gonna say, Gates,” you sigh. He doesn’t respond, like he wants you to say it again.

“You don’t have to keep following orders, Gator. You’re your own person. And if… if that means we can’t live in Lehigh, then so be it. We can move away, start over. You can do something that makes you actually feel good about yourself.”

He’s quiet for a long time, and you figure this is ending the way it usually does when the two of you have this conversation.

“Okay, Gator, well, I’m gonna go back to bed. You drive safe okay?”

“Okay. Love you,” he grunts out, frayed.

“Love you, too.”

You hang up the call and pull the covers up to your chin, November cold lacing through. As your eyes drift off, you try to imagine a life with Gator outside of Stark County, but all your mind sees is the inside of your eyelids.

-

You wake up in the morning to knocking on your door. You know it’s Gator before you’re fully awake; throwing the covers off and blinking against the blinding sunlight as you stumble towards the door, sparing a quick glance in the peephole before you open it to find him standing there. He’s got a bruise under his eye and looks tired down to the bone. You go to step aside and the next thing you know, he’s thrown his arms around you in a crushing hug.

Somehow, you wrestle the door shut from your position, tangled in a man who has almost a foot on you, and hug him back, ready to stand in the apartment threshold for as long as he needs.

Slowly, he leans his head down to your ear. “Can we talk about how we could get the hell out of here? And how soon y’think we could make it happen?”

You pull back and look at him, bewildered. His eyes are sincere, determined; a man who learned where the line was last night. Slowly, you nod, leading him over to your couch.

“i said what i said,” you answer, and loose a little sigh as he covers your mound with his hand, middle finger pressing against the seam of your lips. you sip your wine daintily.

gator gives up on trying to talk and instead presses his finger against you, letting it slip into the midst of your folds, circling your clit as soon as he finds it. you switch your wine glass to your other hand, mostly so he doesn’t knock it out of your hold, and stay focused on the movie.

he doubles his efforts—lets his hand dip down further, rubbing over your slit to collect some of your wetness to bring it back to your clit, easing the slide as he drags the pad of his finger over it. your breath catches, but you’re determined not to let him distract you from the film.

he shifts closer to you, his thigh against yours, his wrist curling into you as he changes the angle of his hand, two fingers teasing entrance to your cunt as he thumbs your clit, feeling your body jump a little against him. he can’t look away from your profile, the slant of your nose, the way your jaw is tight even though you’re pretending it’s not.

“c’mon,” gator mutters. you lift your wine and take another sip. “fuck.”

he curls his fingers inside of you, the wet sound of him fucking you with them audible as you fight to keep your breathing even, level. your lips are pursed tight, and you’re definitely in danger of breaking the stem off your wine glass, but you can’t let him see it. it’s a game now.

on the tv, ryan is kissing rachel in the rain, and gator snickers, leaning in close to you, tongue flitting over your throat, which bobs as you swallow. “feels like that,” gator comments, meaning the rainstorm.

“fuck off,” you say, even though it means you’ve just lost the meaningless little competition you started.

“you bet yer ass i’m tryin’,” gator says, and you huff a laugh. “don’t leave me hangin’ here.”

you lift your wine—gator huffs and mutters “unbelievable”—then finish it off and place the glass on the coffee table beside the bottle.

then, you turn to him, spread your legs a little more, and lean in to kiss him as he fingerfucks you, your clit pulsing under his touch, coming on just his hand.

“ready t’return the favor?” gator asks, even though he isn’t a question as much as a hopeful order.

But then you got the call from Robin in the middle of the night, panicked and crying and breathless as she says, “Steve’s dad died a couple of days ago, and I know you guys haven’t talked in forever, but he’s really falling apart and I don’t know what to do and he won’t talk to me and Mr. Harrington’s funeral is today and—”

That’s all you needed to let her know that you would make the hour and a half drive up from Indy, kicking out your date that slept over the night prior and packing a bag in a massive rush, only remembering at the last minute that you’re about to attend a funeral, that you need to be dressed for a funeral, and—

And you make it back to Hawkins by ten, a black dress on and pearl earrings that Steve once gifted you hanging from your ears.

The town is the same as you left it. Still small, still aging, still quiet. Everything that you thought you hadn’t wanted in life, and everything that you found yourself yearning for once you got your apartment above a restaurant on Mass. Ave and a shiny new job at a bank downtown.

For a moment, you almost let your muscle memory take over, to guide you towards the northeast end of town to the white, two-story cottage with a fenced in backyard and hydrangea bushes spilling out everywhere in the summer. The kind of house, the realtor had said, that was perfect for raising a family, with its tall ceilings and big windows and creaky stairs, ready to withstand everything from the small pitter-patter of feet across wood floors to the slamming of doors from teenage fueled angst.

The house that you know Steve still lives in, even two years later.

But you don’t let old instinct take over. There’s enough heartbreak being back in Hawkins as it is.

The funeral home sits in the center of town, the one that Will Byers was once memorialized in before he was found alive just days later, and sits opposite of the place the MAC-Z used to sit.

(The place where Steve had been released from military custody to you, and the place where he had dropped to one knee and asked you to marry him just minutes later.)

(The place that you had said yes through your confusion and tears, because he disappeared for weeks without a word, and you’d only had a thirty minute warning from the military to come collect him.)

(Steve never told you why he had been held in custody.)

(You never asked.)

You park down the street and make your way through the well-worn sidewalks, carving out the same path that you used to take with Steve in that summer after the two of you graduated high school, hand in hand whenever he had a free moment from Scoops.

(A summer that, as you recall, had been cut short by a mall fire and grief and the three weeks you spent by his side in the hospital, worrying and fretting as you slowly watched the swelling around his eye go down. A summer where too many people died, Steve had to be kept under observation in case of a brain bleed, and in the aftermath, he became more cagey than ever.)

A sea of mourning black surrounds the pristine white funeral home as you make your way closer, the crowd surging towards the ornate double doors, and it’s only then that you spot him.

Steve.

Steve Harrington in all of his glory. His hair is a little shorter than you remember it, a little less styled, and there’s new laugh lines crinkled along his eyes. But despite the differences in the man you once knew and the man in front of you now, he’s still the same Steve he’s always been with a soft look on his face and a steadiness to his broad shoulders despite the occasion.

And like a moth to a flame, he meets your gaze through the mass of people. His brown eyes widening with recognition as his face does something funny, like he’s not sure whether to laugh or cry or both, and you can’t help but offer him a small smile.

He smiles back.

The moment is cut short when someone calls his name, and with one last, lingering look in your direction, he disappears inside.

You stand there for a moment, heart pounding, before slipping into the building after him.

You find a seat in the very back of the hall, away from the congregation of people you once knew, the people you once considered family. There will be time to greet your former mother-in-law later, when she doesn’t have Robin on one side and Steve on the other, and there’s no part of you that has any desire to run into Dustin Henderson who’s lingering near the front.

(Not after the last time you talked to him, two months after you filed and he went from begging you to not go through with it to insulting you when you told him that you unequivocally were not going to stop the proceedings.)

(Two weeks later, Steve had found out what happened and forced Dustin to apologize, but you never quite stopped nursing that wound.)

It’s a beautiful service, really. Not that you’d expect anything less from the Harringtons. Friends of Danny’s give their eulogies, colleagues talk about his business prowess, until finally, Laura and Steve step up to the dias side by side.

You can tell, even from a distance, that Laura isn’t quite holding it together the way you know she wants to. The way she needs to, really, because Laura Harrington has always prided herself in being put together and in charge, a matriarch in a family full of nothing but men for generations. You can tell that Steve notices, too, by the way he squeezes her arm and pulls a paper from his pocket, spreading it along the wooden surface of the podium.

He searches the crowd for a moment, and his eyes settle on you in your seat in the very last row. You’re not sure what he’s looking for, but whatever he derives from seeing you, it has his shoulders relaxing. And quietly, hesitantly, he glances down at the paper and begins his speech.

His voice is strong and steady as he reads, the same soothing timbre to it that he’d once used to calm you down after nightmares and hard days at work. A reassuring quality to his tone, one that could make anyone relax, as he talks about his earliest memories with his father — little league games, vacations to the Harrington beach house, morning spent snuggled between his parents — to his early twenties and learning how to navigate adulthood with his father’s guidance.

(He skips past the teenage years, the ones where you first entered Steve’s life. The arguments with his father about his future, the worries about his past, the stress that he might never amount to something. The period of time where resentment had swelled up so much between the two that it bubbled over constantly.)

He talks about the last conversation he had with his father, only a week prior, where the two of them had sat in the backyard of Steve’s house. And Danny, never a man with much to say, had clapped Steve on the shoulder and said, I’m proud of you, Steve. Truly.

You don’t miss the way Steve surreptitiously wipes his face.

“Anyone who met him would tell you that he was a complicated man,” Steve says. “But at the end of the day, no matter what other role he filled, he was my father. All I can say to that is thank you, Dad, for loving me even when I didn’t think you were, and—” He pauses, clearing his throat. “I’ll miss you, and I hope you’re resting easy now, wherever you are.”

The funeral ends and everyone is ushered to the graveyard, where Steve serves as one of the pallbearers and stands strong as Laura finally crumples into his side. 

You hang further back once again, away from the prying eyes of anyone who would ask too many questions, and you lose sight of him when the crowd migrates to the reception in a local church.

There’s part of you that wants to seek him out, to offer him your condolences and ask if there’s anything you can do, but—

Your eyes catch on Laura standing in the corner by herself, gazing at a family portrait of her and Danny and Steve from Steve’s childhood, and you cross the room without thinking, falling into place next to her with a quiet, “He was a good man.”

Laura blinks at you, though she doesn’t look surprised to see you there. Happy, maybe, but not surprised.

“Danny loved you, you know,” she says, apropos of an actual greeting, like this isn’t the first conversation you’ve had with her since you filed for divorce. “Never stopped talking about how get togethers weren’t the same without you beating him at cards.”

“I’m sure he’s having a big laugh that this is what got me back in Hawkins,” you say. Her lips twitch up. “He could’ve just asked, honestly. Spared us all the dramatics. I would’ve come for less.”

The corners of her eyes crinkle together the same way Steve’s does, and she draws you into a warm hug with shaking hands, the smell of her floral perfume overwhelming your senses. 

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers. 

You feel your throat grow tight. “I’ve missed you, too.”

You stay like that for a few moments, letting her rock you back and forth and draw whatever comfort it is that she needs from your bones, until a throat clears and you look up to see the familiar face of Robin Buckley. You pull away from Laura and offer Robin a small smile, one that she easily returns, and you know that the two of you will catch up later when she squeezes your arm. 

“Mrs. Harrington, let’s go get some food,” Robin says.

Laura rolls her eyes, but lets Robin loop their arms together. “Steve’s had her on ‘Mom watch,’” she tells you conspiratorially.

“Well, there’s worse company to be had,” you say. “Robin always has a few jokes on hand, at least.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Robin says, and you let yourself bask in the raspy warmth of her voice for a few moments before stepping out of their way. And just as she’s slipping past you, she stops to whisper in your ear, “He’s in a private room down the hall.”

You stare at her, surprised, but she only leads Laura across the room without further acknowledgement. 

You shouldn’t go. Honestly, really, it’s a bad idea as it is — meeting him surrounded by people was one thing, but a private audience with your ex-husband is—

(Your feet are moving across the floor before you can even finish the thought.)

The hallway is quiet and empty, the conversation from the reception hall only a quiet buzz compared to the pounding in your ears as you slowly and methodically check each room you come across until finally, at the end of the hall, you spot one with the door cracked open.

You press your palm flat against the wood, the hinges creaking in protest as you ease it open just a bit wider, and find Steve sitting on a couch, leaning over his knees with his face pressed into his hands.

He doesn’t move.

The door clicks shut behind you.

You settle on the couch next to him, silent and waiting for something — anything — to tell you what to do. Any cue or sign from Steve or God or anyone who will listen, because your hands are shaking and your throat is dry and Steve—

Steve. Strong, brave, kind Steve, who once held you as a doctor stitched up an ugly gash in your leg, is hiding his face as his shoulders tremble, trying to pretend like his tears aren’t catching in his throat.

“I want to be left alone, Dustin,” he mutters. “Just five minutes. Please.”

You bite down on your lip and, quietly, say, “I’m not Dustin, but I can give you space.”

He jerks up, tears still coursing down his face, and stares at you with wide-eyes, his voice little more than a whisper when he says, “Oh.”

You smile. “Hey.”

“You’re here,” he murmurs, full of wonder, as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re real or simply a mirage.

“Yeah,” you say, just as quiet. “I’m here.”

It starts with his brows pressing together, then his jaw clenching. He presses his eyes shut, his nose flares, and you pull him into your arms before the first hiccuping sob has a chance to billow out.

He doesn’t fight you, only wraps himself more firmly around your waist as he buries his face into your chest, his back heaving from unrestrained grief and everything left unsaid between the two of you. He cries and cries and cries, letting everything out until he’s stripped down to his rawest form, the image of a man held strong for far too long finally letting himself fall apart entirely.

You let him.

You smooth your hand down his back and card your fingers through his hair, comforting him in the way you only know how.

(The only way you learned how, back in those first few, fraught hours after the mall fire back in ’85. Back when you’d sat in the waiting room, leg bouncing, waiting for anyone to tell you that he was okay. Waiting for his parents to catch a flight back from their beach house in North Carolina, waiting for a nurse or a doctor to come out, waiting for a sign that your boyfriend was going to make it.)

(And when you’d finally been allowed into his hospital room, he’d grinned, all boyish charm and bloodied teeth, like it was no big deal that he’d been hurt.)

(It was the first time you’d seen him so injured.)

(It was nowhere near the last.)

“It’ll be okay,” you whisper. “I’ve got you, Steve. I got you.”

The front of your dress is completely soaked through, but you find that you don’t quite care. Not when he lets out a heart shattering, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

Your entire body freezes.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Steve?” You press at his shoulders, suddenly desperate to see his face. “Steve, what are you talking about?”

He pulls back, and for a moment, he’s the eighteen year old boy who smiled at you with a swollen eye and a split lip, tutting affectionately when you sobbed into his shoulder. He’s the boy who pulled you into his strong arms, uncaring of the IV line he was surely at risk of tugging out, and said, I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, honey, I know that I scared you— 

“For everything,” he gasps out. “For keeping things from you, and — fuck, crying on you — and I know you’ve moved on, but I just — god, I’m so sorry for everything, for the divorce and the secrets and—”

(And your heart breaks all over again, because can anyone ever truly move on from Steve Harrington?)

“Steve,” you murmur, brushing a thumb down his cheek. He tilts his head just a little bit more into your palm. “It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he insists. “I mean, fuck, I kept so much from you, and everyone told me not to and I drove you away and—”

“Steve.”

He falls silent.

“I forgave you a long time ago,” you say. “You don’t need to worry about me, okay?”

(It’s the same thing that he said to you before disappearing off the face of the earth for weeks. The same words that he whispered as he held you close in the doorway of your apartment, his arms trembling as he murmured all of his love and affections into your ears, like he only had one more chance to tell you. Like he wasn’t sure he’d ever see you again.)

(It’s what he said before disappearing for twenty-five days, nine hours, and three minutes, leaving you alone as the earth heaved and shook and groaned, when it felt like the entire planet was once again at risk of falling apart, and you thought that you might die without ever getting to see his face once again.)

(And it’s what he said just minutes after the military released him back to you, seconds before he dropped to his knees and desperately said, I can’t live without you, will you please, please marry me? I’ll do anything to make you happy—)

“Your father just died,” you gently say. “You’re allowed to worry about yourself for once.”

He looks like he wants to argue, like he wants to push back, but you watch the fight leave his body. He gives you a wobbly smile, you give him one back, and for a moment, you can let yourself pretend that you hadn’t thrown eight years down the drain in the matter of a single night.

(That last argument still haunts your dreams. The way your voice cracked as you begged for him to let you in, to let you understand. How his fists shook when he said, Can’t you see that I’m doing this for you? The calm resolve you felt when you realized with an icy clarity that the two of you were too stuck in your ways to change.)

(The moment, nearly a year later, when you realized that you weren’t quite sure if you wanted to change into a new person without him.)

(Looking at him now, you think he might feel the same.)

You let out a sigh and draw him closer, resting your forehead against his the way that you always did, letting the feel of stubble rough up your palm.

His breath catches.

You peek at him through your lashes to find him searching your face with barely disguised desire.

You want to laugh. Truly, you do, because if there was ever a wrong time and place to feel desire, it would be your ex-father-in-law’s funeral, but you can’t help the timeworn flame deep inside of you from flickering to life once more, a fire that’s only ever been maintained by Steve’s careful hands.

“Honey,” he says hoarsely.

You swallow, tilting your chin just a bit closer.

That’s all the encouragement that he needs.

His fingers grip your waist, dragging you across the cushions and into his lap, and it’s need that has you tangling your hands with his hair. Need to be closer, need to be with him, need to be one with him.

(Need to remember what it’s like to fall asleep with his arms wrapped around your skin, whispered promises of nothing ever hurting you, swaddling you as you drifted off.)

“Tell me to stop,” he begs, his hot breath ghosting your skin. “Tell me to stop right now, and I will. I swear, I will.”

“Don’t stop,” you say, and he surges forward, capturing your lips with his own.

It feels like coming home, in a way. Kissing him, feeling him under you. Like stepping into a soft memory, carried along by hands that have long since learned the tune of you, held by a man who had dedicated so much of his life in pursuit of the knowledge of who you were, inside and out. 

Like your body had been held in stasis for two entire years, frozen in time, only able to come back to life with the key he held in his heart.

You giggle into the kiss, suddenly elated, as his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, teasing for more.

And you give it. God, you give him more. You’d give him the world, if you could, and suddenly you’re crying, your heart twisting, because you wasted so much time, because you were so, so stupid, because—

“I’m sorry,” you gasp into his mouth. “I should’ve listened to you, I should’ve trusted—”

“Not your fault, honey,” he assures, pressing a trail of kisses down the column of your throat. “I kept so much from you — there’s so much I need to tell you, and—”

And— 

There’s a knock at the door.

“Steve?” Robin’s voice, hesitant and unsure, calls through the wood. “Are you in there?”

He drops his head against your shoulder and lets out a world weary sigh.

The doorknob turns, and you don’t even have time to gather yourself or launch yourself across the couch, to pretend like Steve doesn’t still have his body wrapped around yours, before Robin’s peaking inside.

“Oh,” she says dumbly, eyes wide as she takes the two of you in.

Your face burns with embarrassment.

“Uh, Steve,” Robin begins, clearing her throat uncomfortably. “Your mom is asking for you. What… do you want me to tell her?”

“I’ll be there in a second,” he says. “Just give me a minute, Rob.”

Robin nods, and with a lingering look towards you, shuts the door behind her.

The two of you stay frozen like that, your legs still wrapped around his hips, his forearms still pressed into the small of your back, until—

A shocked laugh escapes him.

“Fuck,” he says, releasing his hold on you to scrub at his face. “Fuck, I’m sorry, I have to go check on my mom, but later — can we talk? Later? Are you staying in Hawkins, or were you planning on going back to…?”

“I packed a bag, but I wasn’t sure what my plans were,” you say. “I can stay, though. We can talk. I think—”

I think we need to talk.

“Come over,” he says, an urgent strain to his voice. “Tonight. Please.”

“Of course,” you say, because after everything, there’s no way you can deny his request. “Of course I will, but you should—”

“Yeah, I know,” he says, already beginning to shuffle you from his lap, keeping you steady as he settles you onto the cushions once more. “I know, just — you mean it? You’ll—?”

“I’ll be there,” you say. “I promise.”

He smiles, soft and true, and presses one more chaste kiss to your lips, as though he’s leaving the promise of something more for you to chase later.

Now, normally, this kind of thing is against the rules. But tonight is a slow one, with most of the usual patrons choosing a bigger sports bar to go to after the win, and you don’t see a reason to deny this team much of anything right now. 

So, you turn and a handful of shot glasses from the shelf, snagging a fresh bottle of tequila, too. 

“Hey, could I get a glass of water?” A voice calls behind you. 

“Sure thing, do you want—” you start, but freeze when you look up to see who just sat down at the bar.

He smiles, white teeth flashing in the lights. His bleached hair is parted down the middle, falling over his forehead in frizzy, crimped waves. 

“…Ice?” you finish lamely. 

His brown eyes crinkle at the corners, and your stomach does a little flip. 

“Ice? Nah. Well, just—whatever you got’s good. Thanks.”

You nod, swiping a glass and filling it quickly from the tap. 

“Hey, great assist tonight by the way.” The words tumble from your lips as you set the glass down in front of him. 

His eyes flicker with interest as they meet yours again. “You saw the game?”

His jacket gapes a little off his waist, the width of his shoulders filling it out as he reaches for the glass.

“I always turn the TV to local sports.” You motion to the TV in the corner of the bar. As if he couldn’t see it for himself. 

“Shit, seriously? That’s cool.” His gaze lingers on you for a second before he clears his throat, then shifts on the barstool to hold out his hand. “Hey, I’m Teacake, by the way. Well, Travis, technically, but everybody calls me that. Or Tea.” 

You smile, setting down the glass you were holding and reach out to clasp his hand in yours. But when you look down at your hands, you forget entirely how to introduce yourself. 

His hands are so big that his palm practically engulfs yours, and his long, blunt fingers brush your wrist, warm against your skin. 

“How we doin’ on those shots?” Someone calls. 

You jump, the music swelling back into your ears, and you drop Teacake’s hand. Looking up, you find Gus now standing at the bar. He’s tall and lean, with black hair that’s shaved down short. You recognize him as the team’s right winger. 

“Y-yeah! Yeah, got ‘em right here,” you say, flashing Teacake an apologetic look before flipping open the tequila bottle and pouring eight neat shots, all in a row. The liquor gurgles from the spout, splashing right into the glass bottoms without spilling a drop.

“Jesus, you’re really fast at that,” Teacake muses under his breath, and you have to bite your lip to hide your smile. 

Gus turns around to face the bar, then cups his hands around his mouth and yells, “Body shots!”

An answering chorus of whoops and cheers echo through the bar, and you shake your head in amusement. This is definitely a bad idea, but hey—it’s not every day you win the semifinals. 

“We’re celebrating you tonight, man!” Jamison shouts over the music, coming up behind Teacake and clapping a heavy hand on his shoulder. A few of the girls fill the gaps between the stools in front of you, a cloud of sparkling tops and perfume. “What’dya say, girls?” he says, turning to them with a charming grin, sweaty brunette curls sticking to his face. “You wanna show our boy, Teacake, a good time?”

You grab a knife and slice into a fresh lime, the tart smell filling your nose, the sticky juice spilling over your fingers as you try not to look up at him. 

“Hey, hey,” Travis says, holding his hands up in surrender. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.”

A shadow falls over your cutting board, and you look up to see one of the girls shimmying herself up onto the bar top.  

“Where do want it, Tea?” The girl asks coyly, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “Here?” She brushes her hand over her cleavage, and the boys crowd around, eyes eager, drinks hooked lazily in their hands. Her hand travels lower, circling the flat stomach peeking out under her top. “Or here?”

He swallows hard, then opens his mouth to say something, but she turns over her shoulder to you before he can. 

“Hand me that, would you?” She says. The neon lights catch in her lashes, and she smiles. 

You reach over to hand her a tequila shot, but she stops you, one manicured finger pointing beside you. 

“No, I meant the bottle.”

Wordlessly, and a little reluctantly, you hand her the tequila bottle, as well as a pinch of margarita salt, and a fresh lime wedge. When she turns back to Travis, a chant starts up from the crowd. 

"Tea-cake, Tea-cake, Tea-cake!”

The team’s bellows are so loud, they temporarily drown out the music. Everyone crowds in even more, and even Landon, their shy goalie, grabs a hold of Teacake’s jacket and shakes him a little in anticipation. 

Travis raises his big hands, motioning for them to stop. A small smile tugs on the corner of his mouth, but he shakes his head, and the cheers dies out. 

The girl on the bar starts to pout, her bottom lip slick with lip gloss. “You’re not any fun.”

“Oh, me?” Teacake asks, pointing a finger into his chest. “I’m fun. I’m huge fun! But look—” He fishes something out of his pocket, then holds it out proudly. “Fourteen months sober.”

He’s holding a sobriety coin. It’s a smooth, slightly tarnished bronze, but Teacake holds it like its treasure. It winks under the flashing lights as he weaves it between his knuckles in a practiced motion. 

Gus groans. “That’s right. Sorry man. I forgot. I didn’t mean—”

“Nah, man, you’re good.” Teacake says, with a little shake of his head. “Don’t worry about it.” Then, he holds out his hand for the drunk girl still perched in front of him. “Shit, here, let me help you down. And it’s not that I don’t want to, okay? Your tits look good. Great, I mean! They look great. Seriously.”

She looks up at him, then, and flashes him a small smile, turning back to her friends. You recognize that look. Pity.

It makes your stomach twist. 

Travis is a fairly new addition to the Bucks. Apparently, after spending a short time in the slammer for something stupid, his childhood hockey coach decided to give him a fresh start. Saw his potential. Saw his heart. 

He’s got more to prove than the others because of this, though, and you recognize that earnest desire to succeed. It matches your own.

Maybe that’s why you find yourself leaning over the bar in front of him and saying, “You know, you don’t have to drink alcohol in order to do a body shot.”

Travis looks over his shoulder at you, and his lips part in surprise. Like, he almost can’t believe you are speaking to him again. The rest of his team still stands around, but they aren’t listening anymore. 

“There are…other ways.” you continue, mouth suddenly dry.

He twists towards you, wide shoulders taking up your vision as he leans over the bar, meeting you halfway.  “Oh yeah?”  His hair flops in his face as he tilts his head. “What other way are we talkin’ about here?”’

You smirk to yourself, then plant your hands on the sticky bar top and level his gaze. 

“Oh. Oh, shit. You mean off me?” His eyes widen and he glances at the girls, then back at you. “Trust me, these girls don’t wanna—”

“I bet they would,” you interrupt with a shrug you hope looks casual. “But I wasn’t talking about them.”

He lets out a quiet, stuttering laugh. “Are….are you sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’ right now? You want to do a body shot off me?”

Landon, Gus, and Jamison all turn around sharply in unison. It’s honestly kind of impressive for three guys as drunk as they are.

“Wait, what did he say?” Landon asks. 

Jamison gestures towards you with his glass. “I think the bartender’s doing a body shot off Tea.”

At that moment, the song changes. It turns into something with a deep bass, and a sexy tempo that sits low in your hips, humming up your spine. 

“Ohhh yeah. Yep, this is happening!” Gus shouts. “Clear the bar top!” 

A blur of hands grab their drinks from the ledge before you can blink. Gus sure knows how to command a room. 

Travis rubs his neck. “I don’t know, man. I’m trying to get better at not getting talked into shit, you know?”

Jamison scoffs. “What’s the harm in this, T? You’re not the one drinking!”

A cheer runs through the crowd, and in a matter of seconds, the boys have Teacake laid out on the bartop like your personal offering. He’s scoffing, batting their hands away, lips twisted in disgust as they try to rip up his shirt. 

“Ah—okay, what the hell, man? Jesus,” he hisses. “Can take off my own damn shirt…”

Getting a knee up on the counter for leverage, you climb up onto the bar top with him, and man, that really makes the crowd go crazy. 

You seek out his eyes underneath the neon lights as your knees find their place on either side of his hips. His jacket is gone, leaving his chest heaving underneath a mussed white T-shirt, and his tongue darts out over his bottom lip as his gaze meets yours. 

He blushes, but doesn’t look away, so you turn to the girl from before, who’s standing on the ground watching. 

“Can I see that?” You ask. She hands the tequila bottle up to you, clearly a little chagrined she didn’t think of this first. “Thanks.”

 Snatching a pinch of salt from the counter, and a fresh lime wedge, you lean back on your heels and look down at Teacake.

He’s so wide and broad underneath you, your knees almost ache from being spread so far, planted on either side of his ribs. His chest is warm through the cotton shirt, brushing against your inner thighs. 

The rest of him is just as good, from the sliver you can see. His stomach made up of strong muscles under a thin layer of fat you just want to sink your teeth into. 

“There’s no fucking way this is happening,” he mutters in awe.

“Why not?” you ask.

“Why not? I mean—look at you! You’re, like, insanely hot and shit.” 

You smile. “So are you.”

And he is. 

You raise your head to look at the crowd. They’re all gathered around, awaiting your next move as the song’s tempo picks up.

“Where should I put the salt, boys?” You yell over the music. 

A chorus of suggestions rise, each one more risqué than the last, but you turn back to Teacake and move down his body. 

“I think…” You tilt your head, pursing your lips. “Here.”

“Jesus,” Travis hisses, dropping his head back against the bar as you swipe the lime across the sliver of skin just above his waistband, then sprinkle salt over the gleaming strip. “Are you sure you—”

“Hold this for me, would ya?” You reach up and press the lime wedge peel against his mouth, muffling his words. 

Slowly, under your watchful gaze, his lips part and his teeth accept it. 

“Atta girl!” Jamison shouts. “Show him who’s boss!”

Gus cheers, slinging an arm around one of the girls. “Finally, someone who knows how to shut Tea up!”

Travis’ nostrils flare as the lime invades his senses, his pupils dilated and fixed on you. The swinging lights skitter across his lashes, painting his freckles in gold.  

“Good boy.” You murmur, smiling. “Now pull that shirt up higher.”

The boys whoop so loudly the vibrations travel through your kneecaps planted on the bar. They crowd around closer, slamming open palms into each other’s chests, slinging drinks around. 

You’ll have to stay late cleaning this place up. But, considering the view in front of you right now, it’s so worth it. 

Teacake scoffs against the lime at your order, but his lips quirk. The veins in his hands flex as he reaches down and grabs his shirt and drags it higher.

The glass bottle feels slick in your sweaty palm, salt chunks digging into the pads of your fingers in the other, and your heart hammers against your ribs as you stare down at him. 

Lick. Shoot. Suck. 

Easy. 

But as his shirt lifts, revealing hard pecs beneath warm, soft fat, and a chestful of dark hair, your mouth parts on an exhale. He’s so big, and so warm. Like a damn furnace underneath you right now. 

Suddenly, you’re consumed by the urge to know what it’s like to burrow into his side and use that heavy arm like your personal weighted blanket. Your head swims like you’ve already slammed the shot, and—fuck, what are you supposed to do again?

Right. Lick. 

You shuffle down until your face is practically level with his crotch as the song builds to the chorus. He’s wearing dark jeans, spread tight over his thick, muscular thighs. God, if you were alone right now…

But you’re not. And you have a job to do. 

Slowly, you lower your body. You’re utterly entranced by the way his breath heaves once, twice, his head tipping up to look at you, and then your mouth descends—just as the beat drops. 

Cheers erupt, but you hardly hear them over the blood rushing in your ears. 

The harsh bite of salt invades your tongue, but you swipe it across his skin eagerly, looking for the taste of him underneath it. 

With the hand that isn’t clenched around the bar top for stability, you tip the bottle just enough for a small pool of tequila to land on his stomach. His core clenches as it splashes over his body, pooling in his navel before running in rivulets down his sides.  

He curses again from behind the lime, but you swoop in, slurping the alcohol off his body, letting your lips drag over the dips and valley of skin and muscle. His stomach jerks beneath the hot, velvety glide of your tongue, and despite everything, a groan escapes him. 

It’s muffled under the music, you more so feel it than hear it, but it sends a thrill down your spine. 

The tequila bites your taste buds, hot and bitter, but the scent of his skin is overwhelming. Warm, but clean, probably from his shower after the game, with just a hint of sweat that makes embers stir between your hips. 

Hollowing your cheeks, you suck gently, intent on getting every drop, and his hand twitches at his side as if he wants to grab your hair for you.

You look up when his chest vibrates under your lips and find him trying to say something to his teammate from behind the lime. One of the boys has his phone out, filming over Teacake’s shoulder with a wicked grin. 

Travis waves him away, but it’s no use, and when he turns back to you, he’s laughing from behind the fruit, his eyes crinkling at the corners. 

You laugh too, heartbeat fluttering against Travis’ thigh as you slide your tongue over his abs again. The tequila is gone now, but he deserves to have a video his teammates can wave around, make inside jokes about, or threaten to show everyone at the fancy hockey galas.

Finally, you pull back and crawl up his body. He looks up at you, brown eyes wide and pupils blown. That lime still pitifully stuck between his lips, flesh part facing you. Your hair brushes his cheek and his hand flies up. You think he’s going to brush it away, but instead, he reaches up under your hair, and cups the nape of your neck.

Your heart stops. His hand is so heavy, so warm, as he pulls you down. Your lashes flutter and you try to keep from grinning in excitement as you slowly, slowly lower your mouth down to his. 

His breath ghosts along your cheek as your teeth sink into the flesh of the fruit. The sour tang hits the back of your throat, but you barely feel it, because your bottom lip slides across his. 

Your stomach swoops, heat pooling in your belly. It feels like, for a moment, it’s just the two of you. No music. No onlookers. And when his other hand brushes your thigh beside his hip, you nearly forget how to breathe. 

The hoots and hollers coming from the boys rip you back into the present, and you pull back just far enough to take the lime from your own mouth, but you stay hovered over him, your eyes on his. 

He swallows hard, and his thumb brushes your thigh again. Intentional, this time. Earnest, and almost…grateful. 

“So, you still think girls don’t want to do that to you?” You tease. 

“I think—” He breaks into a helpless laugh. “Shit, man, if this is what’s waiting for me at the afterparty, I’ll win every fucking game.”

“Hey,” you smile down at him with a shrug. “It’s worth a shot.”

a/n: god, I need him bad. like, badddddddddd. expect more hockey!teacake soon. (my sports romance side is coming out, if you couldn't tell)

also, if you liked this, you might like soccer player!travis (football, for her lol) by @moonstoneandmoonlight.

teacake taglist: @xoxocelestial , @s3xytosomeone , @tellcherhesgone , @another-widow , leave a comment here if you want to join!

Friday evenings in the Big House always carried a particular kind of momentum. Tonight, the excitement had an obvious cause. The Dickinson funfair only rolled into town once a year, and somehow it had become one of those unofficial Heaton traditions. The kids had been counting down to it for days. Nicky had asked every morning whether today was finally the day.

The living room was its usual level of chaos. Tucker and Walker were ready to leave for once, occupying opposite ends of the sofa in jeans and hoodies. Maggie stood near the front door with one hand tucked beneath her elbow, quietly finishing a phone call while occasionally glancing around the room to check who was still missing.

By the door, Nicky sat concentrating on tying his trainers. His tongue poked from the corner of his mouth as he carefully pulled the laces tight. You crouched beside him, resting comfortably on your heels.

"Do you think there will be bumper cars?" Nicky asked.

"Maybe, bud." You smiled, watching his fingers work clumsily through another knot. "You trying to show off your driving skills?"

"I want Tucker to drive me; he does big bumps."

"Yeah, must admit I am glad he doesn't have a license yet." You laughed.

Gator listened to the conversation with the faintest smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. One hand rested loosely in his pocket while the other absent-mindedly rubbed the back of your neck.

Judging by the thunder of bare feet echoing across the floor, Rhodes wasn't remotely interested in finding his shoes. He burst into the living room at full speed wearing everything except the one thing he'd actually been sent upstairs to fetch.

He tore through the room, narrowly avoiding the side table before changing direction for no obvious reason whatsoever. At precisely that moment Ford appeared at the top of the stairs with Josie balanced comfortably on his hip. His eyes landed on Rhodes.

"Rho," he called. "Shoes, please! Or you don't get to come."

Rhodes stopped so abruptly he almost slid across the hardwood floor. Then, without a word, he spun on his heel, sprinted straight back towards Ford and launched himself dramatically onto the floor at his feet. Both legs shot into the air, and he wiggled his feet at Ford expectantly. Ford simply closed his eyes for a second, the long-suffering sigh escaping him carrying years of accumulated fatherhood.

"Hold her for me, Gator." He shifted Josie carefully into Gator's waiting arms. "Need to get him while he's still."

Gator accepted Josie with the automatic reflex of somebody trying to help but actually holding her was another matter. Babies remained something of a mystery to him.

He shifted her experimentally against his chest, trying to remember how you'd done it. One arm beneath her diaper-clad butt. Other hand spread carefully across her back. Not too tight. Not too loose. Every time he thought he'd figured it out she wriggled into some entirely new position that made him wonder if babies came with instructions everyone else had somehow received except him.

She tipped her head back, looking up at him with impossibly bright blue eyes before breaking into a grin so wide it almost swallowed her whole face.

God, she looked so much like Madison. Not just a little bit. She was her. Same eyes. Same little nose. Same smile that started in the corners of her mouth before taking over the rest of her face.

If God existed, and Gator wasn't entirely convinced He did, then making Josie look this much like her mama felt like some kind of cruel joke. Like leaving Ford a permanent reminder of everything he'd lost. A tiny little ghost that reached for him with Madison's face.

Josie squealed. Before Gator had time to react, both of her little hands landed on either side of his face, then she enthusiastically launched herself forwards. Her forehead collided squarely with his nose. He instinctively pulled her back, readjusting his grip before she could attempt another assault.

"Ok, y’little demon," he said, trying not to laugh despite the sting blooming across his face. "Maybe less of the headbuttin', yeah?"

"Uh-oh."

There wasn't an ounce of apology in it. If anything, she sounded delighted with herself. Then, she slapped both tiny palms enthusiastically against his cheeks.

"Uh-oh!"

Gator looked at her for a long second before slowly turning towards you, extending Josie slightly farther away from his own face as though the extra few inches might somehow protect him from whatever she'd decided this game was.

"Baby," he called with complete sincerity, "how do I stop her slappin' me?"

You turned towards Gator just as Josie reached for him again, both of her little hands landed squarely on his cheeks.

"Uh-oh!"

The word came with enough enthusiasm that you couldn't help laughing. Stepping closer, you slipped your hands beneath her arms and gently adjusted the way Gator was holding her. Instead of facing him, you turned her around, so she sat with her back against his chest, one of his forearms supporting her underneath while his other hand rested securely across her middle.

From the console table behind the sofa, you picked up one of Josie's toys and placed it into her waiting hands. She looked down at it for all of a second, then she opened her fingers and let the toy drop to the hardwood floor.

"Uh-oh!"

You paused, your eyes flicked from the toy to Josie before lifting towards Ford, who was still crouched in front of Rhodes, concentrating on tying the last of his shoelaces.

"Ford, when did she learn uh-oh?"

"Oh yeah, that one gets boring real quick,” he glanced up as he tightened the knot. “I spent a good half hour picking up toys that she had thrown out of her crib last night while she just yelled 'uh-oh' at me like it was the best game ever."

Smiling, you reached over and smoothed the wisps of blonde hair away from her forehead.

"Ignore your daddy, clever girl. He's just grumpy because he's old."

"I'm not old!"

Ford stood, brushing his hands against his jeans before giving you a playful shove with his shoulder as he crossed the room. He took Josie back from Gator, settling her comfortably on his hip as the front door opened.

You looked up to see Brooks step inside with Logan close behind him. Noah followed a pace after them, quietly closing the door behind himself. For a moment, nobody said anything.

It had been a couple of weeks since Maggie had walked him into the bathroom at the Cabin and locked the door behind him. He looked different now. There was still a washed-out pallor to his skin, and the dark circles beneath his eyes spoke of nights that were probably still coming in short stretches rather than full sleeps. But he was standing.

He'd shaved. His hair had been washed. Most noticeably of all, he was still. His hands weren't trembling.

You became aware of the room watching him. Measuring the difference. The silence only lasted a heartbeat, but it was long enough that you worried Noah might notice it too. Thankfully, Nicky was unaware of the lingering looks and subtlety had never really been his strength.

"Noah!"

He was off the sofa before anyone could stop him, racing across the living room and throwing himself at Noah with enough force to almost knock him backwards.

"You're better! I didn't know you were coming. Can I sit next to you in the car?"

Noah's surprise lasted barely a second before he smiled. He rested a hand against Nicky's back as the little boy clung tightly around his waist.

"Uh, yeah, sure bud."

Just like that, the moment dissolved. By the front door, Maggie slipped her phone into her pocket.

"Ford, if you take Brooks, Noah and the littles. I'll take the rest. We don't need to be arriving in a full armada; parking is going to be a nightmare as is." She said reaching into the bowl on the console table and tossed Ford the keys to the Suburban.

By the time both cars reached Dickinson, the parking situation was every bit as hopeless as Maggie had predicted. Half the town seemed to have had exactly the same idea.

Ford eventually squeezed the Suburban into a space that could generously be described as a parking spot, while Maggie settled in a row a little further over. You found Gator's hand as you all started towards the entrance. Ahead of you, Nicky had attached himself firmly to Noah's side. Noah didn't seem to mind in the slightest. If anything, there was something quietly grateful in the way he glanced down at the little boy every so often, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

Rhodes, meanwhile, had been deposited onto Brooks' shoulders almost the moment he'd climbed out of the truck. It had long since become the family's preferred method of transporting him through crowds, it dramatically reduced the likelihood of Rhodes vanishing into the nearest source of excitement. Considering the alternative was probably a leash, it seemed the kinder option.

Ford had Josie balanced easily against one hip, her attention already darting from one flashing ride to the next. Beside you, Walker and Logan had fallen into conversation about something you only half caught, while Maggie walked ahead with one hand looped comfortably through Tucker's arm, listening to him with the sort of quiet attention that always made each grandchild feel like they had her entirely to themselves.

The fair opened up in front of you in a riot of colour, music and flashing lights. Every year it looked exactly the same, and every year it somehow felt exciting all over again. Rides towered overhead, while rows of game stalls promised oversized stuffed animals. The smell of fried dough, popcorn and candy drifted through the air, mixing with the steady soundtrack of laughter and machinery.

Families wandered between the attractions carrying enormous plush toys tucked beneath their arms and clouds of pink cotton candy balanced on paper sticks. Off to one side, a small rodeo arena had already drawn a crowd, cheers rising above the rest of the noise every few minutes as another rider entered the ring.

Within minutes the family had scattered. Not far enough that anyone lost sight of each other, but everybody drifted towards whatever had first caught their eye.

Across the way, Tucker and Walker had discovered the coconut shy and were currently trying to sabotage Logan’s throws. You were still watching them push each other when Gator slipped an arm around your shoulders, drawing you comfortably into his side.

"Want me t'win you a bear?"

"You wanna show off that arm, Mr All-State?" You teased.

A quiet chuckle rumbled in his chest as he steered you towards one of the bottle stalls. The carnival worker took his money and passed over three baseballs, gesturing towards the neatly stacked pyramid of glass bottles.

"You know these are rigged, right?" You said, leaning into his side.

"Nah," Gator said, weighing the first ball in his hand. "Y'jus' gotta hit hard enough."

You folded your arms with a smug smile as he threw. The ball struck the top bottle with a crack loud enough to make you jump. Glass exploded into a hundred glittering pieces, scattering across the back of the stall. For a second everyone simply stared, even the carnival worker looked at Gator in open disbelief.

Gator turned towards you with a small wink, heat crept into your cheeks.

"Show off." You muttered.

The second throw looked just as confident. It skimmed across the top of the pyramid instead, clipping only the highest bottle before disappearing harmlessly into the back netting.

"Ah-ha! Not so cocky now!"

He glanced at you, smiling to himself, before giving you a playful slap on the backside as he reached for the final ball.

"Y'want the bear or not, Baby? C'mon, kiss f'luck?"

Rolling your eyes, you leaned up anyway, pressing a quick kiss against his lips. He bounced the ball once in his palm before he threw and this time it hit dead centre. The whole pyramid collapsed in a spectacular cascade of crashing glass, bottles tumbling in every direction until nothing remained standing.

You couldn't help yourself; a little clap escaped you, followed by an equally enthusiastic cheer. The carnival worker blinked twice before gesturing towards the wall of prizes.

"Pick a prize," he grumbled.

Gator's arm found your shoulders again.

"What one d'ya want, baby?"

You looked over the rows of oversized bears, cartoon dogs and brightly coloured dragons hanging overhead before something tucked away at the back caught your eye. Almost hidden behind the shelving sat a small plush alligator. You pointed towards it with a grin.

"That one."

"He knocked 'em all down, you can have a big one," the worker said, following your finger.

"Nope, I want that one please."

With a slightly puzzled expression, he reached behind the display, retrieved the little alligator and handed it across. You accepted it with a smile.

"Really?" Gator laughed.

"Mh-hm, a little gator."

You tucked the little plush beneath your arm. He shook his head fondly before leaning down to press a kiss against your temple. Together, you wandered back towards the rest of the family, where Brooks was standing at one of the confectionary stalls buying enough cotton candy and popcorn to feed what looked like half the fair. You'd barely managed to prise Rhodes' bag of popcorn open before someone called your name.

"Ohmygod, hi!"

You looked up just in time to see Hannah weaving through the crowds, Megan close behind her. Megan’s brother, Josh was with them too, though he peeled away almost immediately after spotting Tucker and Walker.

Hannah, on the other hand, made a beeline straight for you. She threw her arms around you without hesitation, nearly knocking the popcorn bag back out of your hands. She pulled back only long enough for Megan to step in. Megan's hug was softer, briefer, but no less genuine.

"You cool if we hang with you guys?" Megan asked.

"Yeah of course." You glanced over towards the rest of the family, who were already beginning to drift towards the next ride. "We're heading to the carousel, Hannah, if you wanna get the kids to meet us there?"

Hannah smiled and shook her head.

"It's ok, just me tonight. Mom's bringing everyone tomorrow night. I just came with Megan."

That was unusual. Normally, going anywhere with Hannah meant going somewhere with at least half a dozen children in tow. She had one biological brother, Ryan, who played football with Tucker, Walker and Josh, but it never really stopped there. Her parents had fostered children for as long as you'd known them, meaning Hannah was almost permanently surrounded by younger siblings. Every fair, parade or town event usually involved her trying to keep track of what felt like a small army.

Megan nodded towards Josh.

"Yeah and it's just me and Josh. Dad's working."

Ahead of you, the rest of the Heatons were already gathering outside the carousel. Josie squealed, reaching excitedly towards the painted horses while Ford laughed and carried her aboard. Brooks lifted Rhodes onto one of the larger horses, the stuffed monkey still hanging proudly around his neck, while Maggie claimed one of the stationary benches beside Nicky. By the time the music started, and the carousel eased into motion, almost the entire family was scattered amongst the painted animals.

The carousel deposited everyone back onto solid ground with varying levels of enthusiasm. Josie protested loudly when Ford lifted her off her horse, apparently convinced one ride wasn't nearly enough, while Rhodes immediately became distracted by something else flashing further down the midway. The group drifted on at its usual leisurely pace, stopping whenever something caught somebody's eye.

It was Nicky who slowed first this time. You noticed him lingering beside a small face-painting stall, watching another little boy climb down from the chair with bright blue superhero paint stretched across his cheeks. His feet had stopped moving even though the rest of you hadn't.

"Nicky, do you want your face painted?" You asked.

His eyes dropped to the ground, and he gave the smallest shake of his head. You knew that answer, it wasn't really no, it was I don't want to be the only one. Your gaze drifted instinctively towards Rhodes, already halfway through considering whether he could be persuaded to sit still for five minutes before dismissing the idea entirely. There wasn't a hope in the world.

Before you could volunteer yourself, Hannah was already moving. She skipped ahead, slipping her hand into Nicky's as though the idea had only just occurred to her.

"I'm gonna have mine painted, so we could totally have it done together. I want fairy wings or maybe mermaid scales, how about you?"

Nicky glanced up at her, his fingers tightened around hers.

"Maybe... a tiger."

Hannah's face lit up. "That is such a good choice! I love tigers."

"We watched a show about tigers," Nicky said, finding a little more confidence with every word. "And it said they can jump really high."

"No way!"

"They can jump like..." He held one hand up above his head. "Really, really high."

As they wandered towards the painters together, Hannah continued asking him questions with genuine fascination, treating everything he said as though it was the most interesting conversation she'd had all day.

She'd always been brilliant with children.  Partly because she'd grown up surrounded by them. But that wasn't the whole reason. There was something about Hannah that never quite grew up, not in an immature way. More that she'd somehow managed to keep hold of the bright, whimsical parts of childhood that everyone else slowly misplaced along the way. She moved through the world with the easy enthusiasm of somebody who still found it exciting. She made most of her own clothes, and tonight she wore green gingham overalls with flared bottoms trimmed in lace, little heart patches stitched onto the back pockets and embroidered flowers climbing over the front.

You watched Hannah and Nicky settle side by side into the painters' chairs, already deep in conversation about tigers, and couldn't help smiling to yourself. Within a few minutes, Nicky had forgotten any shyness.

While the painters worked, the rest of you migrated to one of the nearby tables. Gator sat beside you, one arm draped comfortably along the back of your chair, your little stuffed alligator resting on the table between you.

A few moments later Noah and Megan wandered over together. They were already halfway through a conversation, continuing it so naturally that neither seemed to notice you'd become part of it.

"...feel less like I'm gonna throw up every two seconds, that's been nice."

"Yeah? Well you look better, doesn't he?"

Megan smiled looking between you and Gator.

"Look even better when we feed y'somethin', reckon Rhodes weighs more than you." Gator teased.

Noah laughed, the sound still quieter than it used to be but coming far more easily than it had a week ago.

"Yeah, you're probably right. Actually, think Logan went for food."

He glanced over his shoulder just as Logan appeared weaving through the crowd with a paper tray tucked beneath one arm and a bag of fries in his hand.

"They had cheesy fries," Logan said as he reached the table, "but thought that was probably a bit much."

"Yeah," Noah replied with a smile. "Not sure my stomach can take dairy right now, thanks though."

There wasn't another chair. Before Logan could decide whether to stand, you pushed yours back.

"Here."

"You sure?"

You nodded and, before he could argue, settled yourself sideways onto Gator's lap instead. His arm slipped comfortably around your waist. Logan took the chair, which left him sitting beside Megan, he looked into the paper bag in his hands before holding it towards her.

"Sorry, I didn't know you were here, would have got you some."

"Well as long as you share, I won't hold it against you." Megan smiled, reaching in for a fry.

You caught yourself watching them for a moment. Logan said something you didn't quite catch, Megan laughed, and he smiled back almost absent-mindedly before stealing another fry himself. It looked comfortable.

Nicky and Hannah walked back towards you hand in hand, Hannah sporting shimmering green fairy wings across one cheek while a bright orange tiger now stretched proudly across Nicky's face. He couldn't stop smiling.

You wandered from stall to stall with the family, stopping whenever someone wanted to play another game or look at another ride. Every so often your attention drifted back towards Logan and Megan. Somehow they'd ended up walking beside one another again, talking easily as the crowd carried everyone along.

You found the rest of the family gathered beneath the Ferris wheel. They had come to a complete standstill as Rhodes had declared he couldn't possibly get in the queue until he'd finished his burger.  You were all stood waiting when a familiar voice cut across the noise of the fair.

"What's up, bitches?!"

You turned to see Brooke; she strode towards you like she'd arrived at an entirely different event. She wore tiny denim shorts, a cropped top and enough confidence to fill the whole State of North Dakota. In one hand she carried a silver hip flask, which she immediately held out towards the group. One by one, everyone declined.

Brooke pulled an exaggerated face. "Boring."

"It's not really that kind of night, Brooke," Megan said.

"For you, maybe."

Brooke shrugged before taking another swig herself. That was Brooke, everything with her seemed to exist at maximum volume. Every idea was a good idea until it wasn't. Every night out became an adventure or a disaster, sometimes both. She had a habit of pulling everyone else into whatever chaos she'd created before anybody realised what was happening.

Before anyone could comment, Hannah suddenly looked over your shoulder.

"Paige!"

You followed her gaze. Paige was making her way through the crowd with a man you didn't recognise. She wasn't just walking beside him; she was hanging comfortably from his arm. He looked older than the rest of you by at least ten years. Everything about him seemed carefully put together. Crisp shirt, expensive watch, polished boots. The sort of man who looked as though he'd stepped out of a dealership advert.

Paige's smile faltered slightly when she realised she'd been spotted. For a second she almost looked as though she'd considered pretending she hadn't heard. But reluctantly she steered the man over.

"Hi guys," she said. "Um... this is Beau."

"Nice to meet you all."

The introductions were polite enough. Even so, something shifted. You couldn't quite explain it, only that the easy conversation you'd all been having seemed to disappear, somewhere in the middle the comfortable rhythm you'd all settled into simply... vanished. Without really thinking about it, you leaned a little closer into Gator. His arm settled around your shoulders almost instinctively.

Brooke stepped across to Paige, already holding out the flask again.

"Oh, um..." Paige hesitated.

Before she could decide, Beau reached for the flask.

"What we drinking?"

"Whiskey," Brooke said with a smirk.

"My kind of girl," Beau grinned.

He took a long swig before handing it back towards Paige, this time she accepted it. Out of the corner of your eye you noticed Nicky edging a little closer to Hannah, his fingers were still wrapped around hers.

"We're about to ride the Ferris wheel, if you guys..." Hannah started.

Brooke groaned dramatically before she could finish and Beau smiled.

"There's a stand near the carousel that's serving shots, we could head over there." He glanced at Paige. "I could introduce you to a few of my pals."

Brooke pointed at him as though he'd just solved world hunger.

"YESS! My man, lead the way Beau!"

The three of them turned and disappeared back into the crowd without another word, you watched them go. Beside you, Megan looked faintly offended.

"Well, bye then?"

"Let them go,” you said. “I really can't be bothered with Brooke's messiness tonight anyway."

The atmosphere seemed to lift almost instantly after they'd disappeared. Hannah gave Nicky's hand a gentle squeeze.

"Are you gonna ride with me? I'm kinda scared of heights, so you better be brave."

Nicky nodded enthusiastically. Gator's arm slipped more firmly around your shoulders before he pressed a kiss against the side of your head.

"M'not scared of heights but think you should hold my hand anyway."

You laughed, nudging him lightly in the ribs.

Across from you, Logan glanced towards Megan.

"You wanna..?"

"Sure." She smiled. "But if you shake the seat Logan Heaton, I will push you out of it."

The Ferris wheel climbed steadily above the fair until the noise below softened into something distant and indistinct. From up here, Dickinson seemed impossibly vast. The last of the evening sun still hung low over the horizon, washing everything in warm gold while the fair glittered beneath you in little pockets of coloured light. Beyond it stretched open fields in every direction beneath a cloudless sky.

You leaned comfortably into Gator's side, his arm resting loosely across your shoulders. He pressed a kiss into the top of your head.

"You havin' a good time?"

"Mh-hm, yeah." Your eyes drifted across the fair below. "Noah looks good."

"He's lookin' better." Gator followed your gaze. "Logan too."

You looked back across the wheel, spotting them a few gondolas behind.

"Yeah, he seems to be getting on with Megan."

A quiet chuckle escaped him. As he shifted, the little stuffed alligator slipped towards the edge of the seat. He caught it just before it disappeared over the side, tucking it safely beneath his leg.

"Don't lose mini-gator."

"Couldn't've jus' picked a bear, huh?"

"Not sure if you're aware,” you smiled up at him, “but I'm like, a teensy bit obsessed with you."

Gator took a slow breath. You were teasing, he knew that. But the thing was, you meant it too. It had only been a few weeks. A few impossibly long, impossibly hectic weeks that somehow felt both like no time at all and a lifetime. Since then, the two of you had rarely spent a day apart. In any other situation, that would've sent him running in the opposite direction in fear.

He'd never had a girlfriend. His life before you had been made up of one-night stands, the occasional casual hook-up and women whose last names he often never learnt. He'd never imagined himself spending Friday nights at a travelling fair with an entire family. Never pictured himself sitting on Ferris wheels or carrying stuffed toys.

None of it should have fit him and yet, it fit so naturally it frightened him. He liked the ordinary moments more than anything else. Helping make coffee in the morning. Sitting on the porch late into the evening. Listening to Maggie and Ford argue over nothing. Watching you laugh with the kids. Every tiny piece of domestic life you'd quietly invited him into had become something he found himself wanting more of.

It was terrifying; wanting something meant there was something to lose. He'd spent most of his life never being completely sure of anything. But he'd never been more certain about you. He lowered his head, pressing another gentle kiss into your hair, taking a second to breathe in the familiar scent of your shampoo before speaking.

"Ain't ever had someone be happy jus' cause I'm around."

You lifted your head then. The setting sun caught your eyes, making them seem brighter somehow, and for a second he forgot entirely what he'd been thinking about. He wasn't sure he'd ever stop noticing little things like that.

"Think I could get used to it."

Your smile spread slowly across your face. He thought, not for the first time, that it might genuinely be one of the most beautiful things he'd ever seen.

"Well you better, because I'm not letting you go."

You leaned in before he could answer. The kiss was soft, lingering just long enough for him to catch the sweetness of cotton candy still left on your lips from where the two of you'd shared some with Nicky earlier. It was over far too quickly. You pulled back wearing that familiar, cheeky little smile that always made him want to kiss you all over again.

"I ain't goin' anywhere."

・❥・

Sunday lunch at the Big House had slipped back into its familiar rhythm. By now, everyone had fallen into the same seats they always seemed to occupy without ever discussing it. Platters of roast meat, vegetables and Maggie's impossibly good roast potatoes covered the centre of the table, passed back and forth between conversations that overlapped so naturally they almost became background noise. It felt comfortably full again. Noah's chair wasn't empty anymore. It struck you how much easier the room felt because of it.

This was the first Sunday he'd made it back to the table since everything had happened. Recovery still sat visibly on him. He looked healthier than he had a fortnight ago, but there was a tiredness that hadn't quite left his face yet. His appetite hadn't returned either. Nicky had decided that wasn't acceptable. Having claimed the seat beside Noah before anyone else had the chance, he had quietly appointed himself chief caretaker.

"Vegetables are kinda gross," he informed Noah very seriously while adding another spoonful of carrots to his plate, "but they are good for you, so you won't get sick again."

Noah looked down at the steadily growing pile of food before glancing at Nicky.

"Uh, yeah, thanks bud."

You noticed he barely touched most of it. Instead he picked quietly around the edges of his plate, managing a little here and there. Nobody commented. Nobody encouraged him to eat more. The conversation simply carried on around him, and that felt kinder than drawing attention to it.

"Can we go to the fair again today?" Rhodes asked.

"It's not there anymore, bud, they only stay for a few nights. We'll go next year though." Ford replied.

"Next year you might be tall enough for the dipper," Tucker added.

Rhodes' eyes widened hopefully.

"Thanks for that, Tucker," Ford glared across the table.

Tucker only grinned. Brooks leaned across the table reaching for a dish.

"What was your favourite ride, Rho?" he asked.

"Ummmmmmm..." Rhodes considered the question with enormous concentration. "Bumper cars! Or the spinny one."

"How about you, Nicky?" Ford asked.

The attention shifted, Nicky shrank a little in his chair as everyone looked his way.

"Uh..." He glanced down at his plate. "I-I liked having my face painted."

Ford smiled.

"Yeah? You looked great bud! I liked your face paint too," he reached across the table, rubbing his thumb lightly across Nicky's cheek where the faintest smear of orange still clung stubbornly to his skin. "Like it even more if it washed off properly."

"Did you put your photo on the fridge?" Maggie looked up from carving another slice of beef.

Nicky nodded enthusiastically.

"What photo?" Ford asked.

"Hannah and me took photos in a special box," Nicky explained.

"A photo booth?"

"Yeah." Nicky smiled. "We made funny faces. I like Hannah."

"She likes you too, bud.” You smiled. “She said you were very brave for her on the Ferris wheel."

"Hannah doesn't like heights, so I held her hand." Nicky positively beamed.

"Good job, kiddo." Ford nodded approvingly. "Hannah's a nice girl, was good of them to join us. Who was the other girl? Josh's sister, right?"

Before either Tucker or Walker could answer, Logan spoke up.

"Megan."

You looked across the table; he didn't meet your eye. Instead, he concentrated very hard on cutting another piece of roast beef, as though the answer hadn't come a little too quickly. A smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. You turned towards Gator, arching one eyebrow. He caught the look immediately. A small smile appeared on his face before he gave the slightest shake of his head, choosing very wisely not to involve himself while he continued eating.

"Yeah," you said, looking back towards Ford. "Megan."

"Their dad still in finance?"

"I dunno, Ford. I'm not friends with their dad?" You frowned.

"So you don't know what he does?” Ford laughed. “You telling me your friends don't know what I do?"

"Slightly different when your name is printed on half the buildings in the County and at least 1 in every 3 trucks on the road."

Ford laughed again, pointing his fork at you.

"Such a wiseass."

"Language," Maggie said without looking up.

Ford looked across the table at you with the exaggerated expression of a man unfairly blamed for somebody else's actions. You only smirked back.

The children spilled out onto the grass almost as soon as lunch was finished, the adults following more gradually. Chairs scraped across the patio, conversations picked up exactly where they'd left off inside, and Maggie naturally found herself at the head of the outdoor table, presiding over the family with the quiet authority she carried so effortlessly, her attention fully on the yard.

Josie had abandoned Ford in favour of chasing after her older brothers, toddling across the grass with determined little legs that hadn't quite figured out how to keep up with the rest of her yet. Maggie smiled to herself.

"I have a very scary feeling that girl is going to be another Rhodes."

Ford let out a long sigh, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Don't say that, Ma. One Rhodes is more than enough."

"Gonna have your work cut out for you, Baby." Brooks leaned back in his chair with an amused grin. "Maybe you can get her answering Ford's emails."

It was meant entirely as a joke, but you caught the brief look Ford sent your way. It carried the faintest hint of guilt, as though he still worried he'd asked too much of you.

"I'd have more chance teaching her than I would teaching Ford," you joked.

That earned a laugh from around the table, Ford included. When the laughter settled, he looked back out towards the children.

"Actually," he said, almost thoughtfully, "I'm thinking I'm gonna step back a bit at work."

The table stilled. Ford had never been good at doing things halfway. It wasn't even the business itself that consumed him so much as the responsibility of it. Every project had to pass beneath his eyes before it was signed off. Every delay became his problem to solve. Every mistake, whether he'd caused it or not, landed on his shoulders. Delegating seemed almost physically painful for him. If something mattered, he'd rather do it himself. Hearing him suggest stepping back felt almost as surprising as hearing him suggest selling the company altogether.

"I just don't wanna miss them all growing up," he said, watching Josie stumble after Rhodes across the grass. "And I've got Burt to project manage. I can work from home, only going into site when I need to. I also don't want to have to pay Baby any more money than I already do, I don't think I could afford her childcare fees."

"Definitely not." You smiled. "You can barely afford me as it is."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. Maggie looked across at him warmly.

"Well, I think that's a great idea."

"Yeah?"

"Of course." She folded her hands around her mug. "We are in a very fortunate position; it would be silly not to take advantage of that. What's the point in having beautiful children if you can't enjoy them."

"Aww, Ma." Brooks grinned. "You getting soft on us?"

"Oh I definitely wasn't talking about you, Brooks."

Logan and Noah laughed.  Brooks pressed a hand dramatically against his chest in mock offence. Maggie reached across the table, giving Noah's knee an affectionate pat before winking at you.

"But the rest of my kids, beautiful little angels."

The conversation drifted naturally onwards. Somehow, as it almost always did when the Heaton men were involved, it circled back to football. You lasted about thirty seconds before getting bored and pulling your phone from your pocket.

The No Boys Allowed group chat was already busy.

Hannah had uploaded half a dozen photos from the fair. There were pictures of the Ferris wheel lit against the sunset, Brooke making an exaggerated face at the camera before she'd disappeared, and several of Nicky proudly showing off his tiger face paint. One in particular made you smile. Hannah was crouched beside him in front of the face-painting stall, both of them grinning with fresh paint across their cheeks. You saved it to your camera roll before reacting to a few of the others.

Then Brooke started uploading her photos. They may as well have been from a different event entirely. Blurry selfies, tequila shots, Paige laughing with Beau, somebody you'd never met hanging over Brooke's shoulder. Loud. Messy. The sort of pictures taken towards the end of a night rather than the beginning. You scrolled through them without reacting as a new message appeared.

Paige: we had very different nights. lol.

Megan: u both disappeared? thought we were gonna chill together?

Brooke: what? with u and the whole school bus?

Paige: lol

Megan: kinda the point of a FAMILY funfair? u 2 just embarrassed urself

Brooke: some of us wanted actual fun

Brooke: i wasn't gonna walkaround with my face painted like a fucking idiot

Your thumb stopped moving. The words sat there on the screen for a second before they properly sank in. Brooke could be tactless, impulsive, loud. But she wasn’t usually cruel. Especially not to Hannah. Hannah hadn't even said anything. Before you could really think about it, your thumbs were already moving.

You: Hannah was making Nickys night. u were doing tequila shots at a family fair. lets not pretend shes the embarrassing one.

The message sent, almost immediately you wished you hadn't engaged at all. You backed out of the group before another reply could appear and opened a private chat with Hannah instead.

You: Hey, ignore Brooke. shes being a bitch. ur facepaint was cute! Nicky hasnt stopped talking about u, he has ur photobooth strip pinned to the fridge!

Satisfied, you locked your phone and laid it face down on the table. When you looked up again, the conversation had somehow progressed from football to the structural integrity of travelling fairground rides, with Brooks confidently insisting that none of them met modern safety standards while Ford argued they were inspected far more often than people realised. It was exactly the sort of debate Sunday afternoons at the Heaton ranch always seemed to produce, and you slipped back into it as though you'd never left.

Later that evening, you and Gator migrated to your bedroom. Fresh from your shower, you wandered around the room in an oversized T-shirt and shorts, rubbing lotion into your arms before moving on to towel-dry your hair.

Across the room, Gator was stretched comfortably against the headboard, bare-chested in nothing but a pair of loose shorts. He'd showered first and had apparently decided moving again was entirely optional. His eyes followed you lazily as you drifted between the dresser, the bathroom door and the bed, never really staying in one place for long.

"Did you see Logan when he mention Megan at the table?" You asked.

Gator watched you wander around the room as you talked, still towelling your hair as though the thought had only just occurred to you. A smile settled on his face, he’d wondered when you were going to bring it up, but feigned ignorance.

"What d'you mean?"

You looked over at him with an expression that suggested he couldn't possibly be serious.

"Logan? Megan? He got all... shy." You paused, trying to find the right word. "Which is weird because Logan is..."

"Not fussy?" Gator offered.

A laugh escaped you.

"Well, I was gonna say 'a fuckboy' but sure, let's go with what you said."

That made him laugh too. You weren't wrong. Gator had watched Logan pick girls up since they were teenagers. There had been plenty over the years and he'd never once seen him lose his nerve around any of them. If anything, confidence had always come too easily to Logan.

You reached for the bottle of moisturiser on the dresser, rubbing it into your arms before glancing back over at him.

"Soooo, what do you think about maybe, inviting them both out for the evening. Like a double date?"

The suggestion caught him by surprise. He laughed, it was only for a second, but it was long enough. You looked away, suddenly shy.

"No? Maybe I misread it, stupid idea."

The smile disappeared from his face.

"No, Baby, not a bad idea." He shook his head gently. "Sorry. Jus' somethin' Logan said t'me when he found out... 'bout us."

Your brush stopped halfway through your hair; you looked back at him in the mirror.

"What did he say?"

"He said no double dates." Gator smiled to himself. "I told 'im he didn't have no one to bring to a double date anyway."

You laughed quietly.

"But if I invite Megan...?"

Gator pushed himself off the bed. You watched him in the mirror as he crossed the room, stopping behind you before slipping both arms comfortably around your waist. Your back settled naturally against his chest.

"If y'wanna play matchmaker, go for it." His chin rested lightly against the top of your head. "But y'better warn Megan."

A smile spread across your face, you caught his eye and gave him a playful wink.

"If anyone can handle Logan, it's Megan. Trust me."

・❥・

You sat curled up in the passenger seat with your legs tucked beneath you while Maggie drove, one hand resting lightly on the steering wheel. Noah sat behind you in the back seat, you glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.  He was picking absent-mindedly at the cuff of his sweatshirt; his eyes fixed somewhere out of the window without really looking at anything.

It was his first meeting. The rehabilitation centre in Gladstone had been one of the Grace Foundation's projects for years, long before Noah had ever needed it. They ran inpatient and outpatient programmes alongside daily NA and AA meetings. Maggie had organised everything.

She pulled neatly into a parking space before switching off the engine and rested a hand briefly on your knee.

"Stay put, won't be long." Then she turned in her seat to face Noah. "You ready, kid?"

He let out a slow breath and shrugged.

"Guess so."

You watched the two of them climb out together. Maggie stayed beside him as they crossed the car park and disappeared through the front doors. It wasn't long before Maggie returned alone.

"He looks better, right?"

"Yeah, he does." You smiled back. "He go in okay?"

"A little nervous but Holly is a brilliant counsellor, and she runs a great group. Now, I was thinking, how do you feel about a little house call?"

"Who are we going to see?"

"Lana Miller." Maggie indicated out of the car park. "I want to check how she's doing and I need to ask her about something. Thought we could go together."

"Sounds good." You smiled.

You hadn't seen Lana since the accident at Brook’s drill site that took her husband, Pete. Everything afterwards had happened through Maggie. Even while Noah had been withdrawing at the Cabin, Maggie had never stopped. She'd sent groceries over every few days, was regularly calling to check on her.

The farmhouse came into view a few miles later, sitting quietly back from the county road. It was modest but well cared for. White clapboard siding, pale blue shutters and little window boxes beneath each front window where the last of the summer flowers were beginning to wilt. It looked like the sort of place someone had once taken great pride in making feel like home.

Maggie pulled onto the gravel drive and the two of you walked to the front porch together. She knocked once, nothing. After a few moments she knocked again and this time you heard it. The unmistakable cry of a baby carried through the front door, followed almost immediately by the soft sound of a woman trying to soothe him. Instead, the crying only grew louder, until finally the lock clicked and the door eased open.

Lana stood on the other side with Finn balanced against her shoulder, he was crying hard enough that his whole little face had turned red. Lana looked as though she'd been trying to settle him for hours. Her ponytail had all but given up, loose strands escaping in every direction, and there were milky stains across the front of her T-shirt. The tiredness around her eyes was impossible to miss. Even so, when she saw Maggie, she smiled.

"Hey, Maggie. I'm sorry, he's been fussing all morning."

"Never apologise," Maggie said gently. "Finn's just exercising those lungs, aren't you little man?"

She brushed a finger softly across the baby's cheek. Lana stepped back to let you both inside. The kitchen told the story before Lana said another word.

Dishes covered one side of the counter, stacked in uneven piles beside baby bottles in various stages of being dealt with. A couple had been washed and left to dry, but most still sat half-filled with old formula. Something smelled faintly sour. You couldn't tell whether it was the tied-off trash bag waiting by the back door or the forgotten bottle sitting in the sink. Then Lana turned slightly, a streak of dried spit-up ran down the back of her T-shirt.

She led you through into the living room, though it wasn't much different. Laundry lay in small piles across the floor, impossible to tell whether it was waiting to be washed or folded. The coffee table had disappeared beneath paperwork, unopened envelopes and a laptop left half-open as though she'd been interrupted in the middle of something days ago and never made it back. The television murmured quietly in the corner to nobody in particular. Above it all hung a framed photograph of Lana and Pete on their wedding day, it was the only thing in the room that looked straight.

Lana caught your eye and gave an apologetic smile, still pacing gently with Finn against her shoulder. His cries had settled into unhappy little whimpers, though he continued to squirm restlessly in her arms.

"I'm sorry it's such a mess, there's just been so much to do and Finn... he's really fussy and I haven't had a chance to-"

"When's the last time you took a shower, hon?"

Maggie didn't interrupt her harshly. If anything, her voice was so gentle it seemed to undo something Lana had been desperately holding together. The young woman's face crumple, a sob escaped before she could stop it and she covered her mouth with one hand, embarrassed by it.

"I'm sorry... I-I haven't... he just won't sleep and so I don't sleep and--"

Without saying another word, Maggie set her handbag down on the faded floral sofa. She stepped forwards and carefully lifted Finn from Lana's arms before turning and placing him into yours. You settled him instinctively against your chest, one hand supporting his little head as you began to rock him gently. Maggie rested an arm around Lana's shoulders.

"You're gonna go upstairs. You're gonna take a nice, long, hot shower and then you're gonna lie in your bed and get some rest. Finn is safe, Baby is amazing with little ones."

Lana shook her head weakly.

"I should--"

"Go on," Maggie said, leaving no room for argument. "Shower, rest. I don't want to see you back down here until you've done both those things."

For a moment it looked as though Lana might protest again but exhaustion won. She nodded once, wiped at her face and slowly made her way upstairs. You waited until you heard the bedroom door close before looking across at Maggie.

"Glad we made a house call."

"Mhm," Maggie hummed in agreement as she rolled up the sleeves of her blouse. "Right, I'll start in the kitchen."

You looked down at Finn, whose cries had already begun to quiet into sleepy little sniffles against your shoulder.

"Okay," you said softly. "I'm gonna feed him and see if I can get him down."

Maggie disappeared back into the kitchen while you found a clean bottle amongst the ones she'd already washed, measured out formula and carried it through to the living room. There weren't many places left to sit, but the armchair was clear enough. Settling into it, you rested Finn comfortably in the crook of your arm.

By the time the bottle was empty, and you'd gently burped him against your shoulder, his eyelids were already beginning to droop. You lowered him carefully into the bassinet beside the sofa, giving it the gentlest push with your foot until the slow rocking settled him fully to sleep.

Only then did you turn your attention to the rest of the room. One quick sniff confirmed your suspicion; the laundry pile on the left was clean but unfolded, while the one on the right definitely needed another trip through the machine. You folded each clean item neatly, building a tidy stack on the sofa cushion before checking on Finn again. He hadn't stirred.

Gathering the dirty washing into your arms, you carried it through to the kitchen. The difference in there was noticeable. The sink was empty. Every dish had been washed, dried and put away, while several clean bottles stood lined up neatly on the countertop ready for the next feed. Maggie looked up as you walked in.

"Are you gonna be ok for a bit on your own? I'm going to run into town and pick her up some groceries."

"I'll be fine." You glanced towards the living room. "Finn's sleeping anyway."

She nodded, squeezed your shoulder as she passed and headed for the front door. You started a load of washing, found a broom tucked away in the hall cupboard and worked your way steadily through the downstairs. Sweeping floors. Straightening cushions. Sorting paperwork into neat piles.

Somewhere along the way, you smiled to yourself. Maggie couldn't walk past somebody who was struggling without asking what they needed. Somewhere along the way, you'd started doing the same. Maybe kindness was contagious or maybe Maggie was right and you were much more like her than you first thought.

Maggie returned an hour later with several grocery bags balanced across both arms. The two of you unpacked everything together before she set about cooking, filling the little farmhouse with the smell of onions, garlic and something slow simmering on the stove.

Hours slipped by quietly. When Lana finally came downstairs, the house barely resembled the one you'd walked into that morning. The floors were clear. The washing was folded. Fresh groceries filled the cupboards and refrigerator. The sour smell had disappeared beneath the warmth of home-cooked food. Finn, freshly fed and rested, lay contentedly in Maggie's arms making soft little cooing noises instead of crying.

Lana stopped in the kitchen doorway. She looked clean. Her damp hair had been brushed back neatly, she'd changed into fresh clothes and, after what was clearly several uninterrupted hours of sleep, some of the exhaustion had lifted from her face.

"You two didn't have to do all this,” her eyes filled with tears. “Thank you so much."

"Nonsense," Maggie said, smiling as she gently bounced Finn against her shoulder. "Anything we can do to help."

"Lunch is ready too,” you said. “Take a seat, I'll bring it over."

While Maggie and Lana settled at the little dining table, you plated up lunch and carried it across to them. By the time you sat down, the atmosphere inside the farmhouse had softened completely. Finn had finished another bottle and was dozing peacefully in his bassinet beside the table while the three of you sat down together. It wasn't anything elaborate, just a simple home-cooked meal, but judging by the way Lana ate, you weren't sure she'd had one in days.

"Thank you so much for this."

"You're welcome, hon." Maggie smiled warmly. "Sorry I haven't been by in a few weeks. Noah's been really sick."

Lana's expression immediately filled with concern.

"Oh no, is he okay now?"

Maggie glanced across the table at you before answering.

"He's getting better, yeah."

Conversation drifted easily after that, mostly about Finn. Once everyone had finished eating, you gathered the plates together and carried them through to the sink, washing them while Maggie and Lana continued talking behind you. When you returned to the table, Maggie was leaning forwards slightly.

"I had something I wanted to ask you about, Lana."

"Okay, sure."

"I wondered if you had spoken to anyone. After Pete passed. Did anyone contact you, about the house?"

"How do you mean?" Lana frowned.

"Property companies? Developers? Anyone who sparked an interest?"

She thought for a moment before her face brightened with recognition.

"Actually, yes. There was this company, I can't remember the name now. They called asking about loan opportunities for widows." She smiled gratefully. "But, of course, you had taken care of all that, thank you again for that."

"Least we could do." Maggie nodded. "So, you didn't talk to them?"

"No, sorry. I got the call and I told them over the phone that I wasn't in need of a loan and had no interest in selling the property and to take me off their call list."

"Ok." Maggie considered that for a second. "And they never called back?"

"Haven't yet, no."

"If they do, could you pass on the number to me?"

"Sure, why, is something wrong?" Lana's brow furrowed.

"No, nothing's wrong." Maggie smiled reassuringly. "Just want to know a little more about them, see if it's something I should be looking into."

"They did say they did specific loans for widows, so maybe for the Grace Foundation. If they call back I will send the details over," Lana smiled.

"Thank you, hon."

Maggie stood, giving Lana's shoulder an affectionate squeeze.

"Now, I will be back in a couple of days but if you need anything, and I mean it, anything. You call me, okay?"

Lana nodded. As she started to stand, Maggie gently stopped her.

"Don't get up sweets, we can show ourselves out." She leaned over the bassinet, smiling as she brushed a finger lightly across Finn's cheek. "Goodbye beautiful boy."

The gravel crunched beneath the tyres as Maggie steered back onto the county road. You watched the farmhouse disappear into the rear-view mirror before looking across at Maggie.

"What was that about?" You asked.

"Bug found something about this loan company. He couldn't find much though, just that they seem to be targeting widows, single parents, that sort of thing. I thought it was worth asking, but without a name, Bug doesn't have much to go on."

"Is it worth asking around at the Outreach Centre, or the Hawthorn? See if any residents have been approached?" You asked.

Maggie glanced across at you, a smile spread slowly across her face.

"See? I told you, you're a lot more like me than you think." She reached across and gave your knee a gentle pat. "Good idea, baby."