For fox sake

It’s been three weeks of dating Steve, and you’re not sure if you’ll ever get used to this. Especially what pokes the small of your back, or the way it stretches you out in a way you didn’t think was possible. Your hips shift on their own, letting the hard length of fit between the apple of your ass only covered by a thin pair of cotton panties.

The immediate flutter in your stomach at the feeling of him so close has your teeth digging into the fat of your bottom lip. Wiggling your hips again, he slides between your thighs, the tip of him tapping against your already swollen clit. A quiet moan slips from between your lips at the feeling, your body begging for more.

Steve’s grip on you tightens, his breathing coming out quick and sporadic. The blunt ends of his nails dig into the soft fat of your sides, grunting as he meets the next roll of your hips.

“Honey.” He murmurs, voice still thick with sleep, nudging the back of your ear with the tip of his nose.

“Good morning.” You whisper with a hidden smile, spreading your legs a little more, whimpering when his already leaking tip pushes your panties to the side for a fleeting moment.

“Fuck.” The word comes out of his mouth in a hiss, his hips searching for that angle again.

“What exactly do you think you’re doing this early, tough girl? hmm?” He chides, gripping your curves holding you in place, doing it with more force this time.

His name slips breathy from your lips, your leg hitching over his hip, giving him full access to you.

“So needy already.” He murmurs a little cocky in your ear, using the length of himself to push your panties to the side, groaning at what he finds. “So wet.”

“Want you.” Pushing your hips back with a whine, you relish in the way the tip of his cock starts to split you open.

“Always want you, baby.” He hums, reaching up to cup your breast in the palm of his hand, fitting himself half way in.

Your walls are greedy, sucking him in the rest of the way, and with a slow grind of your hips, he bottoms out. A string of curse words are whispered along the curve of your neck, followed by a sharp nip of his teeth.

“Oh my god.” Tilting your head back in a loud moan, he takes full advantage of the newly exposed skin.

His fingers pinch at your sensitive nipples standing at attention for him. Littering open mouthed kisses up to the soft spot behind your ear, he sucks hard enough for you to shiver. Steve sets a slow pace, pulling himself almost all the way out letting you feel every inch and ridge of him before snapping his hips, burying himself to the hilt.

The sound of his name, followed by short gasps every time he pushes the air out of your lungs fills the empty space of your apartment. He feels bigger in the morning, the stretch of him rolling your eyes in the back of your head with every thrust. The blunt ends of your fingernails dig into the tanned freckled skin of his forearm, finding the strength to meet the quick roll of his hips.

It should feel impossible to want more, but it’s all your body screams for. As if he can read your mind, his long lingers find their way to your clit begging for his attention. Using the pad of two fingers, he rubs quick circles on the bundle of nerves, earning such a loud moan of his name he thinks your neighbors heard. So he keeps it up, needing them to know who’s making you feel this good.

“Gonna cum for me, tough girl? Gonna give me what I want?” He whispers against your ear before taking the lobe of it in the heat of his mouth.

Jaw going slack, all you can do it nod, the tightening flutter of your walls telling him you’re close.

“I can feel it, you’re gonna make me cum too. Want that?” He adds a third finger to your pulsing clit, hips setting a punishing pace.

“Steve — god — I want it.” You whimper, trying to chase the high that’s on the cusp of breaking you into a million pieces.

“Where? Where do you want it, honey?” he grunts, his body surrounding you, losing himself in the feeling of your silk.

“I-inside.”

His hips stutter at your words, a deep growl rumbling from his chest sending another wave of arousal coating him. You’d be embarrassed at the sounds of just how wet you are if he wasn’t claiming you like a man possessed.

“I’m gonna —“ the second half of your sentence dies on the tip of your tongue for a moment when he keeps himself deep, grinding on that spot only he can find. “Steve, I'm — I’m gonna cum.”

“Do it with me.” He moans, twitching inside of you, letting you know he’s just as close.

All you can manage is a nod, pressing your ass as tight against him as possible, pushing him impossibly deeper, snapping that tight rope in your gut sending you tumbling over the edge.

“That’s it baby, you’re so good, so good for me.” He says the last part through gritted teeth.

A guttural moan rips from his throat spilling himself inside of you, filling you to the brim. He keeps pumping his hips like he’s trying to make sure none of it escapes moaning ‘mine’ over again turning possessive.

He doesn’t stop, until he physically has nothing left to give, wrapping your limp body in his arms, slipping out of your walls that beg him to stay. The two of you lay there trying to catch your breath, a small giggle escaping from between your lips.

“What?” He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Good morning.” You smile snuggling yourself deeper into his chest, basking in the feeling of him dripping out of you and onto the sheets.

“I really don’t,” you say, suppressing your amusement, but his grin is infectious.

“Ok, what about…” He scrolls a little more. “Downstroke?”

You look at the illustration. “Pass.”

“Piledriver,” he asks, gleeful, turning the screen toward you.

“Why do all of these involve me being upside down?” you ask, and he just shrugs.

“Fun?”

“Maybe you should be upside down, how’s that? I’ll go get my strap.”

“If you do, I want to try the turtle,” he says, navigating to another illustration. You consider it with pursed lips.

“I mean… I’d try that,” you say, and Teacake looks down at the picture, then at you, then at the picture, then back at you.

“Yeah?”

You laugh. “Yeah? How is it any different than just doing it from behind except just a little more scrunched up?”

He shrugs. “You’re more scrunched up,” he concludes, and you laugh, leaning in to kiss him. He locks his phone and tosses it away toward the foot of the bed, his attention on you now. You focus on him too, turning your body toward his to press your naked skin to his; he’s shirtless, but wearing a pair of boxers as he usually does to bed.

Your hand finds its way inside the waistband before your lips even meet a second time, and Teacake just smiles against your mouth, licking his way in to kiss you as you wrap your fingers around him, stroking quickly.

A small gasp stutters out of him as he leans a little further against you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you even closer, holding you tight to his front. You move with him, deftly jerking him off, flicking your wrist each time you near the head, swallowing every little grunt and groan until you feel his slit leaking, smearing his precome over his tip.

“Trav,” you whine, pressing your thighs together because heretofore you’ve been—well, not ignored, but… maybe a little neglected.

“Go on, sweet girl,” he says, using the arm wrapped around you to push you a little bit, maneuvering you in front of him. “Let’s see ya.”

You pull away from him—his warmth, his comfort—and lean in for one final peck on the lips before you turn away, lowering yourself to all fours, trying to mimic the stupid drawing you’d seen of the goddamn sex position. While you’re trying to contort yourself—practically folded in half, arms reaching to wrap around the backs of your knees, cheek pressing into the sheets as you turn your head sideways, you register Tracake’s hands on your ass, spreading you open just enough that he can nose his way in to lick your pussy.

“Travis—!” you squeak, not expecting it, and you feel him huff a laugh behind you as he delves into you again, tongue spreading your folds apart as he licks at you, the tip teasing your clit.

“Mm—” you whine, turning your face into the mattress to muffle your high-pitched sighs and whines as he has his way with you from behind.

“M’st ufd,” he says, into your pussy, and you’ve heard him do this enough that you’re pretty sure he just said you taste good.

“Feels good,” you reply, and he hums against you, letting his hands slide over your ass so he can ease the tip of first one thumb and then the other into your slit, holding you open just enough that he can fuck his tongue into you.

“Travis,” you whine, pushing back against him, your hands grasping at your own arms as you hug your legs, already tired of this stupid ass position (you almost laugh a little at calling it an ass position, until Travis spits into your gaping pussy and pulls away from you entirely, sliding your bedside table drawer open to pull out a condom).

You turn your head the other way to watch him as he tears the wrapper and rolls it on, his cock jutting out from his hip. You can’t help the way you stare, especially not when he takes your hips in hand again, then moves his hands to your ass, pressing his thumbs into your folds again, holding your cunt open as he notches the head of his cock against you.

A breathy moan leaves you as he slides into your waiting pussy, and you gasp as he bottoms out. The angle is not unfamiliar—but the way you feel around him, your legs pressed together, held there by your arms wrapped around them—you both feel the difference.

“Shit, that’s—you feel so—so damn tight,” Travis says, leaning over you a little, his hands still splayed out on your ass. “Feel that?”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer. Your heart is fluttering in your chest—you’d thought this would just be a stupid little fun thing to try, but it’s not like anything else you’ve done, really, and you feel the slide of him more intensely than you’d considered you might. Each time he pulls out, you feel like he’s leaving you for the last time, and then he moves back in and it’s like the first time all over again. The tightness of your body and the thickness of his cock—you bite your lip to try and keep yourself from letting go too quickly.

He doesn’t move too quickly—he takes slow, easy thrusts, deep and hard, enough for you to feel him, every single inch. He’s putting you through your paces—the hard line of his cock, the thick vein at the underside, is rubbing against you in every single place you love to feel, and your pussy squelches with your arousal as he fucks you. It’s filthy and you can’t stop it—you’re legs are closed, squeezing both his cock and your own sex as he pistons into you.

“Tra—” you gasp “—vis,” you whine, and he doesn’t stop, doesn’t question, doesn’t even falter—he just moves one of his hands from your ass, letting his palm skim over your hip, side, front, to press down between your legs. It’s a tight fit—his hands are bigger than the space you’re letting him work with, given the way you’re holding yourself, but he manages to work one of his fingers between your lips, the pad of his finger rubbing over your clit.

And as soon as he makes contact with it, you cry out, eyes squeezing shut, your chest kicking, your whole body wound up tight by design. Your toes curl as you feel yourself tighten up around him; you feel Travis behind you slam into you one final time as you come, clenching down on his length, your waves of pleasure taking you over as you bite your lip even harder, hard enough that you know it’ll be swollen after, if you don’t actually draw blood. You hug your legs tighter, Teacake’s finger still circling your clit, and as you finish, releasing the lungfuls you’d been holding, he starts moving again, laying into you—it feels like he’s drilling into you deeper every single time, and finally, with a couple erratic thrusts, he stills, his hips twitching against yours as he fills the condom inside of you, the sound of him moaning your name making your cunt twitch yet again.

“You ok?” you ask, once you feel like you can speak again (your voice is still a little shaky).

“Yeah, of course, sweet girl,” he says, straightening up and pulling out of you, helping you uncurl your fingers from where they’re still clutching each other. 

You flex your hands as you roll onto your side, looking up at him. “You barely said anything.”

He looks confused, like he doesn’t realize what you mean—and then he laughs, quietly. “Honest ta god, I was just—speechless.”

“Speechless,” you echo, incredulous—he’s never been rendered speechless in the entire time you’ve known him.

“Felt that damn good,” he says. Then, drops to all fours to hover over you. “You’re that damn good.”

The walk through Central Park had become a habit for the two of you. Dinner somewhere new, then a slow stroll through the park afterward. By the time you reached your usual bench near the path, the sky was already turning deep blue and the lamps had begun to glow.

A few people passed by, bundled against the evening chill. One family wandered past with a little girl trailing behind her parents. The girl suddenly stopped in front of you, eyes fixed on your bag. “I like your keychain,” she said shyly.

You looked down and smiled. “This one?” You held up the little My Melody charm. She nodded immediately.

“Do you want it?” Her eyes widened and she quickly nodded.

You unclasped it from your bag and handed it to her. “Here you go.”

Her parents immediately started apologizing. “Oh, you really don’t have to do that,” her mother said. “She was only admiring it.”

“I don’t mind,” you replied. “I have plenty at home.”

Joe sat beside you, quietly watching the whole exchange with an expression that looked dangerously close to adoration.

The little girl turned the keychain over in her hands like it was treasure. “What’s her name?”

“My Melody,” you said. “She’s kind of a bunny version of Little Red Riding Hood.”

The girl’s face lit up. “I love Little Red Riding Hood! She loves her grandma and I love my grandma.”

Something softened in your expression. You reached over and gently patted her head. “you must be a very good kid.”

The parents thanked you again before continuing down the path, their daughter still clutching the keychain.

For a moment, you and Joe sat in silence, watching them disappear into the crowd. Then Joe turned toward you with a small, incredulous smile. 

You looked away, suddenly interested in the path ahead of you. “It was just a keychain.”

“To her, it wasn’t.”

Joe let the silence settle for a beat before speaking again, more carefully this time. “Can I ask you something?”

You glanced back at him. “Depends.”

“Where are your parents?” he asked gently. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to. I just realized you’ve never really talked about them.”

The teasing ease in your posture faded. Your fingers curled together in your lap as your gaze drifted toward the darkening park. When you finally answered, your voice was soft.

“They’re fine.”

Flashback

When your mother finally recovered after giving birth to you, she returned to work almost immediately. Your father would drop you off at your grandmother's house every morning before heading to work himself. As a baby, you didn't know the difference. A warm arm was a warm arm, a lullaby was a lullaby, but as the years passed, the first face that felt like home wasn't your mother's. It wasn't your father's. It was your grandmother's.

She was the one who remembered you hated peas and would hide them beneath mashed potatoes. She was the one who sat beside your bed whenever a fever kept you awake. She was the one who braided your hair before preschool. To a little girl, love looked a lot like your grandmother.

One evening, when you were four, you padded into the living room holding a worn copy of Little Red Riding Hood.

"Mom, can you read me this?"

Your mother glanced over her shoulder. A phone was tucked between her ear and shoulder while her fingers flew across paperwork spread over the dining table.

"Not tonight, sweetheart. Mommy has to finish this call."

"Oh."

You waited for ten to thirty minutes. The story never got read. So you wandered into the living room instead. Your father sat on the couch watching television, a can of beer balanced on his knee.

"Dad?"

"Hm?"

"Can you read it instead?"

He didn't even look away from the screen. "Maybe tomorrow, kiddo."

Tomorrow became next week. Next week became next month. You learned how to sound out the words yourself before either of them ever read the story to you. 

Summer was different. Summer meant Grandma. Summer meant mornings spent watering flowers on her tiny balcony and afternoons grandma baking cookies for you and your playmates. Summer meant sitting side by side at the kitchen table while she taught you how to read properly.

You were slower than most children your age. You stumbled over words, mixed up letters. Got frustrated easily but your grandmother never rushed you.

"Again," she'd say gently. Until eventually the words stopped looking like strange little symbols and started becoming stories.

At four, your grandmother became your entire world.

Maybe that's why you noticed when things started changing. The arguments began first at night behind closed doors, whispers that slowly became shouting. You'd sit at the top of the staircase, hugging your stuffed rabbit while listening to words you didn't fully understand.

"How could you do this to us?" Your mother's voice cracked. "You barely spend time with me or your daughter, and now you got your coworker pregnant?"

Your stomach twisted.

Then your father's voice. "Oh, you're one to talk."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're always working."

"I'm doing this for us."

"No, you're doing this for yourself."

"You know what? Let's just get divorced."

A long silence followed, then your father laughed. 

"Finally." Your mother's breath caught. "I'm not happy in this marriage." another pause. "Or this so-called family."

The words echoed through the house. 

You didn't understand divorce. You didn't understand affairs. You didn't understand broken marriages. Somehow, your chest still hurt. That night, you pretended to be asleep. Through half-open eyes, you watched your father kneel beside your bed.

For the first time in months, he looked tired, not work tired. "Hey, bug." His voice was quiet. "Did I wake you?"

You shook your head and he smiled. It looked broken. "Daddy has to go away for a little while."

You sat up immediately. "Where?"

"Just somewhere else."

"When are you coming back?"

Your father froze for a second but children notice everything. "Soon."

A small smile returned to your face. "Promise?"

He swallowed then nodded. "Promise."

He kissed your forehead. You grabbed his hand before he could stand. Tiny fingers wrapping around two of his.

"Don't go." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

For a moment, your father looked like he might stay. Like he might climb into the empty space beside you and tell you everything would be okay.

Instead, he gently untangled your fingers from his. "I love you, bug."

The following week, your mother arrived at Grandma's house carrying three suitcases.

Yours.

At four, you didn't understand why that realization made your stomach hurt.

"You're staying with Grandma for a little while, okay?"

You nodded. "Until tomorrow?"

Your mother smiled. The kind of smile adults wear when they don't know how to answer. "Something like that." She kissed your forehead and promised she'd visit soon.

Tomorrow turned into a week, a week turned into a month. And the month turned into a year.  Your mom never fully neglects you, she visits with lots of gifts and gives your grandma money to support you. At first, your mother visited every weekend, but the visits became once a month.  Eventually, the gifts started arriving without her.

At seven, your grandmother found you crying on the front porch. The sun was beginning to set, painting the neighborhood gold and orange, but you barely noticed.

You sat on the steps hugging your knees, tears soaking the sleeves of your sweater.

"Little cherry?" Your grandmother immediately hurried toward you. "Aw poor girl, what happened? Are you hurt?" Her hands checked your arms, your face, your knees to see if there’s cuts or bruises—none. 

Just tears, lots of tears. The moment she crouched in front of you, you broke completely. "I saw Dad." The words came out between hiccups.

Your grandmother froze. "Oh."

You nodded rapidly. "He was at the park."

Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks. "He had a little girl." Your voice cracked. "and a new wife." The silence that followed hurt more than anything. Your grandmother pulled you into her arms immediately.

You buried your face against her shoulder. "Grams?"

"Yes, cherry?"

"Why don't they want me?"

You didn't see the tears gathering in her eyes. You only felt her arms tighten around you. "Little cherry, look at me." Reluctantly, you lifted your head. Your grandmother cupped your face gently.

"Do not ever say that again."

"But—"

"No."

Her voice trembled. "They didn't leave because you weren't lovable."

More tears slipped down your cheeks. "Then why did they leave?"

For a moment, your grandmother didn't answer because no answer could make sense to a seven-year-old or even to her. Finally, she brushed away your tears. "Sometimes adults make selfish choices." You stared at her. "That's not your fault."

Your bottom lip trembled. "Am I hard to love?"

Your grandmother's face crumpled. She kissed your forehead. Then your cheeks. Then your nose. As if she could erase the question. "This world is lucky to have a girl like you."

"You are kind."

"You are funny."

"You have the biggest heart I've ever seen."

You started crying again. This time, because of how much she loved you. And your grandmother cried too, quietly. No child should ever have to wonder whether they're worth loving. No child should have to ask that question at all.

The years passed.

At eight, your grandmother taught you how to bake. Your first batch of cupcakes came out salty, you cried. Your grandmother ate two of them anyway and called them perfect.

At nine, she taught you how to ride a bicycle. You scraped both knees, threatened to quit. Yet spent the rest of the afternoon racing up and down the street.

At ten, you discovered Ella Fitzgerald through your grandmother's old records. Soon the house was filled with jazz music and your off-key singing while kneading bread dough.

At eleven years old, you started helping customers at the bakery. You wrapped pastries counted pennies, and gave away far too many free cookies. Your grandmother always pretended not to notice.

At twelve, something changed. You stopped asking when your parents were coming back. Your grandmother noticed immediately. Neither of you talked about it. But that night, she held you a little longer than usual as if she understood what that silence meant.

At sixteen, you came home from school and heard shouting. The moment you stepped onto the porch, your stomach dropped. The voices were coming from inside. One of them belonged to your grandmother. The other, you hadn't heard in years.

"No." Your grandmother's voice shook. "You don't get to show up after all this time and take her away from me."

"I'm her mother." Your mother's voice echoed through the house. "...and she's my daughter."

"No." The word came sharp as glass. "You stopped being a mother the moment you chose to abandon her." Then your grandmother continued. "Every day I ask myself what I did wrong raising you."

Your mother's breath caught. "What?"

"What did I do wrong that my own daughter grew into someone capable of leaving her child behind?" Tears immediately filled your eyes. Your grandmother's voice cracked. "As your mother, you've broken my heart."

You pushed the front door open both women turned. For the first time in years, you saw your mother. Your grandmother was clutching her chest.

You rushed toward her instantly. "Grams?" You dropped your backpack. "Grandma, are you okay?"

She forced a smile. "I'm alright, little cherry," but you could see she wasn't.

Then slowly, you turned toward your mother. She looked older, tired and nervous like she wasn't sure what to say. Neither were you.

For years, you'd imagined this moment. Wondered what you'd tell her. Wondered if you'd cry. Wondered if you'd run into her arms. Instead, you felt strangely empty.

"Hi." Your mother's voice barely came out.

You just stared at the stranger wearing your face. "Come home with me."

The words hung between you, your grandmother went rigid.

You didn't even think. "No."

Your mother's eyes widened. "No?"

You shook your head. "I already am home." The room went silent. You moved closer to your grandmother, instinctively like you'd done your entire life. "I don't want to go."

Your mother's eyes filled with tears. "Please."

For a second, your heart cracked because part of you still wanted a mother. Part of you always would but she had missed everything.

So you wiped your tears and stood your ground. "You weren't there." The words came out shaking. "but Grandma was."

Your mother closed her eyes as if the truth hurt. Good. You hoped it did.

You immediately dropped to your knees beside your grandmother. “Grams?” Your voice shook. “Grams, are you okay?” Her hand was still pressed against her chest. Not enough to frighten you, but enough to make your stomach twist. You wrapped both of your hands around hers. “Do you need water? Should I call someone?”

Grams smiled softly despite everything. “No, little cherry. I'm alright.”

You weren't convinced. The room still felt heavy from the argument. Your mother stood near the doorway, silent now, watching the two of you for a moment and left. 

Your grandmother looked between you and her. Then she asked quietly, “Are you sure about your decision?”

For a second, you blinked.

Then you laughed. A small, disbelieving laugh. “Grams.” You squeezed her hand. “Why are you asking me that?”

Your grandmother didn't answer.

You looked at her for a moment before your expression softened. “Where would I even go?” Your voice was gentle. “I already have everything I need.”

“You taught me how to read.” Your grandmother's eyes immediately filled with tears. “You taught me how to ride a bike.” You smiled weakly. “You taught me how to bake.” Another tear slipped down her cheek. “And whenever I thought something was wrong with me...” your voice cracked slightly, “you were always there telling me there wasn't.” You swallowed hard. “There isn't a day that goes by that I ask myself if I'm worth loving anymore.”

Your grandmother covered her mouth, she remembered the little girl, that little girl was gone now. Not because the hurt disappeared, but because she had been loved enough to heal.

You leaned forward and wrapped your arms around her. “I learned that from you.”

Your grandmother hugged you so tightly it almost hurt. “Oh, little cherry,” she whispered.

You buried your face in her shoulder. Then, after a moment, you pulled back and wiped your eyes dramatically. “Okay, that's enough crying for one afternoon.”

Your grandmother laughed through her tears. “Is that so?”

“Yes.”

You pointed toward the backyard. “You're going to sit outside and watch your plants.”

“Bossy.”

“Very.”

“And what are you going to do?”

You grinned. “Make you tea.” Then you paused, your nose twitched. “Also, unless I'm imagining things, somebody's cinnamon rolls are ready.”

Your grandmother's laugh finally returned, warm and familiar. “There she is.”

“Of course, there I am,” you said, offering her your hand. “Now come on. You raised me. You should know I'm impossible to get rid of.”

The years that followed were some of the happiest of your life. There was laughter echoing through the bakery before sunrise. There was jazz playing from the old radio while your grandmother kneaded dough.

There were afternoons spent tending her garden, evenings spent sharing tea on the porch, and countless mornings where she greeted you with flour on her cheek and a cinnamon roll already waiting.

And then, one day, there wasn't. The house became unbearably quiet. No humming from the kitchen. No gardening gloves left by the back door. No voice calling you little cherry.

The first week without her felt impossible. You tried to keep the bakery open because that's what she would've done, but grief followed you into every recipe. The cookies came out too salty. The cakes too dry. The bread underproofed. You forgot ingredients you'd known by heart since childhood.

One afternoon, an elderly customer watched you pull a tray of burnt pastries from the oven with tears streaming down your face. He gently placed a hand on yours. "Go home, sweetheart," he said softly. "The bakery will still be here next week."

You found yourself standing in your grandmother's room. The scent of lavender still lingered on her blankets. Her reading glasses still rested on the nightstand. Everything looked exactly the same. As if she had simply stepped out for a walk and would return any minute.

That illusion shattered when you opened her bedside drawer. Inside was a cream-colored envelope. Your name written across the front in familiar handwriting.

Beside it sat dozens of photographs. Pictures of climbing trees. . Your dress she sewed for your prom. Holding your first tray of cupcakes and sleeping beside Ponkan as a kitten.

Every version of you.

Your hands trembled as you opened the envelope.

My little cherry,

If you're reading this, then I'm probably no longer sitting in my favorite chair by the window, pretending not to watch you burn another batch of cookies.

First of all, stop crying. Yes, I know you're crying. You've always cried when your heart feels too full. You cried when your first loaf of bread came out flat as a pancake. You cried when that orange cat followed you home and refused to leave.

And if I know you at all, you're crying right now with tears falling all over this letter. Please stop that, my handwriting is beautiful. I would hate for you to ruin it.

Now that I've hopefully made you laugh a little, let's talk. I don't know how to begin a goodbye. Truthfully, I don't think this is a goodbye at all. Because how could I ever leave you? You are in every beautiful memory I have.

When I close my eyes, I still see the little girl who followed me around the bakery carrying a wooden spoon twice the size of her hand. I see the little girl who insisted on reading recipes out loud even when she could barely pronounce half the words.

I see the little girl who brought home every stray animal, every lonely friend, every broken thing she found because she believed everything deserved to be loved.

Little cherry, the day you were born changed my life. Not because you fixed anything. Not because you gave me purpose. You never owed me that. I loved you because you were you. Because you had the biggest heart I've ever seen. Because your laugh could fill an entire room. Because even when life wasn't kind to you, you somehow remained kind anyway.

That is something I have always admired about you. There were days when I wished I could protect you from every hurt this world had to offer. The nights you cried yourself to sleep. The questions you asked that no child should ever have to ask. The moments you wondered whether you were difficult to love.

If I could go back and change one thing, it would be that because the answer has always been so simple. You have never been hard to love.

The truth is, loving you has been the easiest thing I've done in my entire life. I need you to remember that. There will be days when you miss me so much your chest aches. Days when you reach for the phone because you want to tell me something before remembering you can't. Days when the bakery feels too quiet. Days when the world feels unfair.

On those days, I want you to be gentle with yourself. Drink water. Eat something. Open the curtains and please stop trying to work through your sadness. You've never been very good at hiding it.

Now listen carefully, because this is important. I need you to keep going. I need you to chase every dream you've ever told me about. Build that little café you've been sketching in your notebooks. Fill it with flowers. Fill it with books. Fill it with silly decorations and mismatched chairs. Learn new recipes. Travel somewhere you've never been. Buy yourself pretty things without feeling guilty. Adopt another cat if you want to, though perhaps not too many. One orange troublemaker is already enough.

And sweetheart, leave this town. I know you'll argue with me about that. I can practically hear it now. "Grams, I don't want to go." Yes, you do. You've simply forgotten that you're brave. You're too big for this town, you always have been.

Don't stay because you're afraid of leaving me behind. I'm coming with you. I'll be there in every cinnamon roll you bake. Every cup of tea you make. Every flower you plant. Every person you help. Every recipe card stained with butter and flour. You'll find me in all the places that love lives.

And one more thing, someday, someone is going to love you very, very much. Not because you're beautiful, though you are. Not because you're kind, though you are. Not because you take care of everyone around you, though you do. They're going to love you because you're you. The same way I always have.

When that person arrives, let them love you. Don't push them away. Don't convince yourself you're asking for too much and don't spend your whole life carrying everything by yourself.

You were never meant to. The strongest people still deserve someone to lean on. Promise me you'll remember that.

Thank you for being my granddaughter. Thank you for every birthday. very burnt cookie. Every late-night conversation. Every hug. Every laugh. Every Ella Fitzergerald. 

Thank you for letting me be your grandmother. If I had a thousand lives, I would choose you in every single one.

Now wipe your tears, feed the cat. And go live the beautiful life that's waiting for you. I'll be cheering for you the whole time.

Forever and always,

Grams

P.S. The secret ingredient was always a little more vanilla than the recipe called for. Don't tell anyone and don’t forget to eat breakfast. 

One year passed.

The moving truck pulled away from the curb with a low rumble, carrying the last boxes that remained of your life in this town.

You stood in the driveway for a long moment. The house looked the same. Your fingers tightened around the car keys. "Okaaay," you whispered to yourself.

Then, after a moment, "Okay, you got this." The second time sounded more convincing. Beside you, Ponkan meowed from inside his carrier as if reminding you he was still waiting. You laughed softly. "Right. Sorry."

You glanced back at the house one last time.

For a second, you could almost picture your grandmother standing on the porch waving you off with that familiar smile. The image vanished as quickly as it appeared. You smiled anyway. "Love you, Grams."

You got into the car, next stop was the bakery. The woman who had purchased it was already waiting when you arrived. The little bell above the door chimed one final time as you stepped inside.

"I promise I'll take good care of it."

You looked around the bakery one last time. A lump formed in your throat. "I know you will."

The woman stepped forward and hugged you. "Good luck on your journey."

You hugged her back. "Thank you." When you finally pulled away, you realized your eyes were wet.

A few minutes later, you climbed back into the driver's seat. Ponkan immediately stretched across the passenger seat like he owned the car.

You started the engine, the road ahead stretched farther than you could see. You rested a hand on top of Ponkan's head. "Ready to see New York?"

issy talks again: every comment, reblog, message, and like genuinely makes me want to keep writing this series. sometimes i'll be staring at a blank document wondering what to write next, and then i read your comments and messages, and suddenly i have ten new ideas. thank you for making my heart so full 🫶🏼💗🍪💐

the girl next door (is not a grandma)

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"Yeah," Gator said, his voice rough. He didn't take a step closer, though every instinct in his body screamed at him to gather you up into his arms and hold you close. "But that… That doesn't mean I expect anythin’ from you, okay? I'm not him. I'm not tradin’ my protection for your… You know."

"Affection?" You supplied, your voice hollow.

"Yeah. Or your body. Or whatever." Fuck, don’t put that idea in her head. He kicked at a wrinkle in the rug, needing something to do as his frustration warred with an aching despair. "I just want you to be safe. And if the only way you're safe is here, then we’re gonna make the best of it. But I'm not gonna lock you in. I told you, we can figure out transfers, online classes, whatever you want. You decide. I'm just… I'm just the muscle here."

You looked down at your hands where they were twisting the fabric of your shirt to disguise that they were shaking.The tension in your shoulders didn't drop, not really. If anything, you looked even smaller, curling in on yourself.

"Okay," you whispered after a long time.

"Okay?" Gator asked, hating how desperate he sounded.

"Yeah. I… I believe you."

But you didn't sound sure. You sounded like you were trying to convince yourself. And that was maybe the hardest part. He could fight Caleb. Threaten to burn down the reputations of his whole fucking family. But he couldn't fight the demons and ghosts that lived inside your head now, the one that whispered that every man who raised his voice was a monster. Or that every man who said 'I love you' was really just saying 'I own you.'

The first few days at the lodge were brutal. Not because Caleb showed up - he didn't - but because the silence gave you too much time to think.

Gator had taken some time off work, using up vacation days he’d been hoarding for years. He slept in the smaller room across the hall from you, leaving the door wide open so you could hear him breathing if you got scared. He spent his days trying to coax you into eating more than a few bites of toast, and his nights listening to you pace, unable to sleep.

It was the fourth day when he finally broke.

You were sitting on the porch steps, wearing one of his flannel shirts because you’d refused to go back to your house for more clothes, shivering with a cup of tea despite the midday heat. You were picking at a scab on your forearm until it bled, your eyes fixed on the dirt driveway as if you expected Caleb to run up it any second. Gator sat down beside you, leaving a careful foot of space. He didn't say anything for a while. Just watched a dragonfly buzz around the hood of his truck.

"You're doin' it again," he said softly.

You jumped, flinching away from him before you even realized who it was. When you saw it was him, you relaxed, but only incrementally. "Doing what?"

"Waitin’ for the other shoe to drop," Gator said, gesturing vaguely to the endless expanse of trees surrounding them. "We’ve been here four days, sweetheart. He ain't comin’."

"I know," you said, your voice thin. "Logically, I know that. He's probably… he's probably at work. Maybe he… I dunno. Found someone new." You rubbed your temples. “Fuck, I hope not. For her sake.”

"He's not findin’ anyone else," Gator snapped, then immediately winced, regretting the sharpness. He tried again, softer. "He's thinkin’ about his own skin right now. That file I put together’s probably enough to keep him up at night for a long time."

You turned to look at him then. The bruising on most of your body had faded to a sickly yellow-green, but the shadows under your eyes were darker than ever. "Does it matter? Even if he never comes near me again… I'm still here."

"Yeah, but you’re safe here."

"I'm in a hunting cabin in the middle of nowhere, Gator," you let out a humorless laugh. "I can't go to school. I can't call anyone or do anything. I don't feel safe. I feel… Trapped. Just in a different cage."

Gator felt the words like a baseball bat to the chest. He saw the way your hands trembled even when they were resting in your lap. How your eyes darted toward the treeline every time a twig snapped under the feet of a squirrel. He saw the way you held yourself, stiff and guarded, ready to run or curl up at a moment's notice.

He’d spent fleeting moments of the last week telling himself he was the hero. He’d swooped in, threatened the bad guy, and whisked you away to safety. For once, he didn’t feel like he’d totally failed you.

But he also hadn't protected you. Not really.

Because Caleb was still living rent-free in your head.

And the worst part was, Gator realized with a sinking dread, that you were scared of him too.

He saw it in the way you monitored his moods. If he sighed because he was tired, you would freeze, eyes widening, waiting for the outburst that wasn’t coming. You apologized if you talked “too much”, even though you hardly spoke five words on a good day. If he moved too fast to grab a glass of water on the coffee table, you would shrink back against the couch cushions. You were walking on eggshells around him, terrified that the man who claimed to love you was just one bad day away from turning into the monster you’d just escaped.

It made him sick.

"I ain't tryin’ to trap you," Gator said, his voice rough with emotion. "I swear to God. I just… I didn't know what else to do. If I left you at your folks' place, I was scared he'd snatch you. If I let you go back to school, he'd -“

"I know," you whispered, pulling your knees to your chest. "I know I’m being ungrateful. But it’s hard. Being here. Just us."

"Because of me?"

"Because of everything," you corrected, though the evasion was transparent. "It's just… I know you're not… Angry at me. I don’t think, at least.”

“Never.”

“But my body doesn't know that. My body hears you drop a mug in the kitchen and it thinks it's about to get hit."

"I'll… I'll try to be quieter," he stammered, feeling helpless. "I can stop comin’ around so much if it's too much. I can just drop off food and supplies and leave you be."

"No!" The protest was instant, sharp, and you reached out to grab his wrist before you could stop yourself. Your fingers were cold, grip desperate. "No, don't go. Please. If you leave… if I'm here alone… I'll go crazy. I need to know you're close."

It was the most confused, contradictory thing he’d ever heard. You were terrified of him, but you also seemed to need him. You didn't trust him not to snap, but you trusted him enough to keep the other monsters at bay.

It was a mess. A heartbreaking, impossible mess.

"Okay," Gator said, covering your hand with his free one. He squeezed gently, rubbing his thumb over your knuckles. "I'm not goin’ anywhere. I’ll just… I’ll try to keep it down."

You looked at him, your eyes swimming with gratitude and exhaustion. "Thank you. I know I’m already asking for so much, but -“

"But nothin’. It’s okay. And hey," he added, forcing a small, lopsided grin. "Look at it this way. We got… What? Three months of summer left? Maybe by the time you have to go back to class - or wherever you end up goin’ - you’ll be sick of seein’ my mug instead of scared of it."

You didn't laugh. You just looked at him with a sadness so deep it felt ancient.

"I don't think I could ever be sick of you, Gator," you said softly. "I'm just… I'm just trying to figure out how to be okay again."

Gator nodded, his throat tight. "I know, baby. Me too."

Weeks passed in a blur of isolation.

The routine that developed was strange, almost domestic in a way that felt entirely wrong given the circumstances. Gator would drive out almost every day after his shift, bringing groceries or takeout, stories from his day, and sometimes paperbacks he picked up at the gas station. He’d cook, then sit across from you at the small table, watching like a hawk as you picked at your food.

Some days were better than others.

On the good days, you could almost pass for your old self. You’d sit on the porch and watch him chop wood for the fireplace, even though it was July and nowhere near cold enough for a fire - he just needed something to do. You’d make snarky comments about his aim or his lack of fashion sense, and for a few hours, the shadows in your eyes would recede enough that Gator could see the girl he’d grown up with.

But the bad days… The bad days were hell.

They usually started with a nightmare. Gator would wake up to the sound of your screaming from the bedroom, and he’d be stumbling towards you before he was even fully conscious. He’d find you thrashing in the sheets, sweating and sobbing, fighting off an invisible attacker.

Sometimes he could wake you up. He’d sit on the edge of the bed, keeping his hands visible, speaking in low, soothing tones until you recognized him. When you finally came to, gasping for air, you’d occasionally let him hold you, burying your face in his neck while you cried yourself back to sleep.

Other times, you wouldn't wake up. Or, you’d wake up swinging.

He learned quickly to keep his distance on those days. If he reached out too soon, you’d lash out, kicking and scratching, your eyes wide and unseeing, caught in the grip of a memory where Caleb was clearly doing something awful to you. It broke his heart every single time, seeing the terror in your eyes when they finally focused on him. The immediate, crushing guilt that would wash over you when you realized you’d just tried to put a bruise on him.

"I'm so sorry," you’d whisper, retreating against the headboard, wrapping your arms around your knees. "I'm s-sorry. I didn't mean to. I thought you were -“

"I know," Gator would say, his heart aching as he rubbed the scratch on his arm. "It's okay. You're okay."

But it wasn't okay. Nothing about how you felt was okay.

It was the middle of July, the height of the summer heat, when Gator finally realized just how deep the damage went.

He’d come over with a bag of burgers and shakes from the diner in town - a treat for you after a nearly a week of nightmares. He’d found you in the living room, sitting on the floor with your back against the couch, staring blankly at the static on the TV.

"C'mon," he’d said, dropping the bag onto the coffee table. "I got a buncha greasy shit. Best kind of therapy."

You’d looked at him, but your eyes were glassy, unfocused. "I'm not hungry."

"Awe come on. Don’t gimme that," Gator teased, trying to keep his voice light. He reached into the bag and pulled out a foil-wrapped burger, holding it out to you. "They’re your favorite. Eat."

You took it, movements stiff as you unwrapped the foil slowly, your hands trembling. But you didn't eat it. You just held it in your lap, staring down at the patty like it was a bomb.

Gator watched you for a moment, his smile fading. "What is it? You want the fries instead?"

"I… I can't," you whispered, your voice cracking.

"Can't what?"

"I can't eat this," you said, and suddenly you slammed it on the coffee table before you in a frenzy of panic, shoving it away from you. "I can't. It’s too much. Too much grease. He said… Caleb said I was getting heavy. That he likes… Being able to throw me around. How I’m not pretty if I -“

You stopped, chest heaving as ears spilled over your lashes, dripping onto the rug.

"I'm sorry," you sobbed, crumpling in on yourself. "Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so weak. I can't even eat a fucking burger without thinking about him."

Gator felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to his ribs. He watched you break down in front of him, destroyed by something as simple as a meal, and felt a wave of rage so strong it nearly knocked him over. It wasn't just the violence that made his angry. It was the conditioning. Caleb hadn't just beaten you; he’d trained you. He’d rewired your brain to fear food, to fear your own hunger, to fear taking up any amount of space.

Part of Gator wanted to scoop you up and tell you how beautiful he thought you were - at any size. That you’d always been the prettiest thing he’d ever seen, & he’d love you no matter what.

However, the bigger part of him wanted to drive back to the city, find Caleb, and put a bullet between his eyes, consequences be fucking damned. Caleb needed to pay for every single scar he’d left on your skin and soul.

But he couldn't do that. Not without losing you.

So instead, he knelt on the floor beside you, wiping your tears away with his thumbs before taking your hands.

"Can you look at me, baby?”

You raised your eyes, filled with so much shame it made his chest ache.

"You ain't weak," Gator said, his voice trembling with the intensity of his conviction. "You’re the strongest person I know. You survived hell. You’re still standin’. You are beautiful, and you are perfect exactly the way you are. Okay?"

You stared at him, searching his face for the lie.

"But… he said -"

"Fuck whatever he said.”

“It’s not that easy.”

Gator exhaled slowly. It wasn’t as though he was good with this heart-to-heart type of shit. But he wanted to be. For you. Digging deep, he thought about all the things his mom and Nadine probably needed to hear back when Roy beat them and shamed them until they were shattered beyond repair.

"He's a piece of shit, okay? And he doesn't get to have an opinion on you. Not anymore.” He but the inside of his cheek. “Only you get to decide what you eat or what your body looks like. Not him. Not anybody.”

"I’m trying to believe that," you whispered, your voice breaking. "Gator, I'm trying so hard."

"I know," he said, giving in and pulling you gently into his arms. You stiffened for a second, body bracing for the impact. Then, ever so slowly, you melted against him, burying your face in his shoulder. "I know you are. And I'm proud of you. So damn proud of you."

As he held you there on the floor, surrounded by the smell of stale grease, Gator made a silent vow to whatever gods were bothering to listen. He’d spend the rest of his life dismantling the cage Caleb had built around you. Brick by brick. He’d be patient and kind. And the rock you could cling to when the waves got too high. If you trusted him enough for that. By the way your body trembled, and your breath hitched in a sob, he knew it wouldn't be easy. There were no magic words to fix this. No grand gestures that could erase the trauma.

It was going to be a long, hard road. And you were both walking it wounded.

But as long as you were walking it together, he figured you might just make it to the other side.

The sticky heat of July had given way to the oppressive humidity of August, turning Gator’s barley-lived in apartment into a swamp box that smelled of stale beer. He was only there to grab a few changes of clothes before heading back out to the lodge for the weekend. He’d already been away for a couple of days, and didn’t want to leave you alone with your thoughts and nightmares any longer than necessary.

Gator was rummaging through his dresser, looking for a clean pair of socks, when a heavy, insistent pounding rattled the doorframe. It wasn't the polite knock of a neighbor or the tentative rap of a delivery guy. It was aggressive. Demanding.

BANG - BANG - BANG

Gator froze. Instinct screamed at him to grab his service weapon from the holster on the chair, but he forced himself to breathe. Could be the landlord. Could be a drunk neighbor at the wrong apartment.

He padded to the door, checking the peephole, and his blood turned to ice.

Caleb.

The man who haunted you was standing in the dimly-lit hallway, looking less like the polished golden boy and more like a man rapidly unraveling at the seams. His hair was unwashed, hanging in limp strands over his forehead, and his designer shirt was wrinkled, stained at the collar with what looked like coffee. His eyes were wild, manic, ringed with dark circles that suggested he hadn’t slept in days. Weeks. He looked like an addict needing a fix, and Gator knew with a sinking dread exactly what his drug of choice was.

Gator unlocked the deadbolt but left the chain on, cracking the door open just a few inches. "The fuck do you want?"

Caleb didn't bother with pleasantries. He shoved his face against the gap, his breath sour and hot. "Where is she?"

Gator stared him down, keeping his expression flat. "Who?"

"Don't play dumb, you inbred jackass," Caleb spat, losing the facade immediately. "She isn't at her parents'. She isn't on campus. People are asking questions, Gator. Her parents are worried sick. They think something happened to her."

Not true. You’d called them at least once a week from Gator’s phone. The two of you had concocted some story that you were in need of some fresh air, and that you were “visiting a college friend” who lived out in California before you went back to school.

"Maybe she just got smart and left your ass," Gator replied flatly. "Ever think about that?"

"She wouldn’t leave," Caleb snapped, his voice rising. "She knows what happens when she disobeys. You took her."

"Got any proof to back that up, asshole?" Gator challenged. "Go ahead. Call the cops. See how far that gets you."

"You think I won't?" Caleb laughed, a brittle, hysterical sound. "I know you have her. I can practically smell her on you. You think you're the hero jumping in to save the damsel? Bet you're loving it, aren't you? Having her all to yourself."

"You're disgustin’," Gator growled.

"Am I?" Caleb’s eyes glinted with a sudden, vicious malice. He leaned against the doorframe, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that dripped with filth. "Tell me, Tillman. You fucked her yet?"

Gator saw red. He almost flung the door open to punch Caleb in the face, but the chain pulled tight, halting his attempt. "Watch your fuckin’ mouth."

"I'm just asking," Caleb said, holding his hands up in mock innocence, though his grin was predatory. "She’s got quite a body doesn't she? At least, she did before she started getting so… She still crying so much? Or is she back to fighting? God, she was such a little spitfire when we started dating. Loved that shit. That’s half the fun, isn't it? When they fight back?"

"You’re a piece a’ shit," Gator hissed, his hand flying to the lock. He didn't care about the consequences anymore. He was going to wipe that smug look off Caleb’s face with his fist.

He undid the chain and threw the door open, stepping out into the hallway.

"What does she feel like for you, Gator?" Caleb taunted, not backing down an inch. He looked Gator up and down with a sneer. "She tight enough? Or did I ruin her for you?”

“Stop -“

“Has she shown you her little porn star act yet? Fuck, that was something. Or does she just lay there for you and take it like the good little slut that she is?"

That was it.

Gator’s control snapped. With a roar of pure, blinding rage, he swung. His fist connected with Caleb’s jaw with a sickening crack, sending the other man stumbling back into the opposite wall. Caleb’s head snapped back, blood instantly blooming on his lip and splattering onto his collar.

Gator was on him immediately, grabbing him by the lapels of his expensive shirt and slamming him against the wall again for good measure.

"Don't you ever talk about her like that! Ever!"

Caleb laughed, spitting blood onto Gator’s boots. He looked dazed, but unhurt. Worse, he looked amused.

"Hit a nerve, did I? Poor Gator. Playing the savior, but you're just the same as me. You wanna control her. Fuck and own her. You’re just too much of a coward to admit it."

Gator pulled his arm back to hit him again, to cave his face in, but Caleb just grinned through the blood.

"Go ahead," Caleb invited, his voice breathless and wheezing. "Do it. Prove me right. Show me you're just another violent thug who can't keep his hands to himself. Fuck your files - if you touch me again, I'll have you charged with assault. I'll bury you in legal fees so deep you'll never see the light of day. And then I'll find her. And I'll explain exactly what kind of animal she's been shacked up with."

Gator froze, his fist hovering in mid-air. Every cell in his body was screaming to finish this, to pummel Caleb until he stopped moving. But the cold, calculating part of his brain - the part that had kept him alive growing up in Roy Tillman’s house - knew he was right.

If Gator went to prison for assault, you’d be alone. Vulnerable. And Caleb would be waiting.

"Get the fuck off me," Caleb shoved him, and Gator let him, stepping back with a sneer. Caleb straightened his clothes, wiping his bloody lip with the back of his hand. He looked around the hallway, then back at Gator’s open door.

"She's here, isn't she?" Caleb asked, his eyes narrowing as he peered into the dark apartment.

"You're not coming in," Gator warned, blocking the doorway.

"We'll see about that," Caleb said, and before Gator could stop him, he ducked under Gator’s arm and shoved his way inside. “Baby? Baby, it’s me. Come on out.”

Gator lunged for Caleb once more, but was shaken off as the other man stumbled further into the room. He looked like a cyclone of destruction, kicking over a stack of magazines, ripping the cushions off the couch. He was manic, searching for something, anything to prove his theory.

"Where is she?" Caleb yelled, knocking over a lamp and sending it clattering to the floor. "I know you have her! You think you can hide something that belongs to me?"

"She's a human bein!, not a fuckin' possession!" Gator roared, grabbing Caleb and slamming him against the fridge. "Get out of my house!"

"Show me where she is!" Caleb screamed, his voice cracking. He shoved Gator back, hard, and sent a glass flying off the counter, smashing it into a thousand pieces on the linoleum. Suddenly, his eyes welled with faux tears. "I just need to see her. Make sure she's okay. You wouldn’t deny me that, would you

"You don't give a shit if she's okay!" Gator shouted, his chest heaving. "You want your punchin’ bag back.”

Caleb stopped. He looked around the trashed apartment, at the overturned chair and the broken glass, his face twisted in a mixture of fury and desperation. The thought of him wreaking similar havoc on your body in his anger made Gator want to vomit. He looked like a man who was losing everything he’d ever controlled, and he didn't know how to function without it.

"You have no idea," Caleb spat, pointing a shaking finger at Gator. "You have no idea what she's like. She needs me. She needs structure. Someone to tell her what to do because she's too pathetic to manage her own life. Without me, she's nothing. She's a fucking mess."

Gator stared at him, the rage settling into a cold, hard pit in his stomach. Caleb wasn't just an abuser. He was also a parasite. And he was dying without his host.

"She's doin’ just fine without you," Gator said quietly. "Better than fine."

"Bullshit," Caleb scoffed. "She's probably curled up in a ball somewhere, crying her eyes out, waiting for me to come get her."

"No," Gator said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "She's finally figurin’ out what it feels like not to be terrified every second of the day. Without you."

Caleb’s face darkened. "Was your home so fuckin’ broken that you had to come wreck mine too?”

“I’m wreckin’ an apartment at best. Oh, wait - no I ain’t, since she didn’t move in with you.”

“She will.”

“Nope.”

“Give her back, Tillman.”

"Or what?"

"Or I’ll destroy you," Caleb snarled, stepping into Gator’s face again. "I can make your life a living hell. Make sure you never work as a cop again. Or end up in a ditch somewhere. Makes no difference to me.”

"Go ahead," Gator said, crossing his arms over his chest. He knew Caleb likely wasn’t bluffing, but he’d never show fear in the face of such a fucking asshole. "Try it."

"What, you think I won't?"

"Nah, ‘cause I think you're smart enough to know when you've lost," Gator said. "Seems like you’re forgettin’ that little chat we had at your office. Need a refresher?"

Caleb went still. The color drained from his face, leaving him pale and sickly looking.

"Do whatever the hell you want with me, but remember that your entire family and future are both on the line." Gator continued, forcing his tone to be conversational when all he wanted to do was throttle Caleb until his eyes popped out of his skull. "The copy I gave you certainly ain’t the only one I made. And if you do anythin’ stupid, I certainly won’t be the only person with all the information. I got friends in higher places than your daddy - and they owe me a coupla favors.”

"You're bluffing," Caleb whispered, though his voice lacked conviction.

"Am I?" Gator asked. "You touch her. You even look in her direction wrong, and those files get released. Every dirty deal your dad ever made. Every settlement that was really a payoff to shut someone up. Everyone who ended up dead from his fuckin’ negligence. All of it."

Caleb stared at him, his chest heaving. He looked like he was calculating the odds, weighing his rage against his survival instinct.

"You wouldn't," Caleb said. "You'd go down too. Misuse of police resources."

"Maybe," Gator shrugged. "But I've got nothing to lose. I'm just some 'dumb hick cop,' right? But your family? Your daddy's firm? That's billions of dollars. And your future. You really willin’ to risk all a’ that for some girl who can’t slay and the sight a’ you?”

He took a step forward, getting right in Caleb’s bloody face. "If you come near her again, I burn it all down. I don't just mean you. I mean your father. Your mother. The whole house of cards comes crashin’ down. And with how close the two of you are - you’ll be lucky if you're not sharing a cell with him for the next twenty years."

Caleb’s eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape, looking for a way out of the trap he’d walked into. For the first time, he looked truly unsettled. Not aloof with the arrogance of a man who thought the law didn't apply to him, but the raw, gut-wrenching fear of a man who realized he was about to lose everything.

"Now," Gator said, his voice low and dangerous. "Get the fuck out of my house. And don't come back."

Caleb stood there for a long moment, trembling with suppressed rage. He looked at Gator, then at the door, then back. The look in his eyes plainly said that knew he was beat. For now. And if Gator had anything to say about it, Caleb had lost this battle, and was most assuredly going to lose the war.

"If she dies," Caleb whispered, his voice trembling with a hatred so pure it made Gator’s skin crawl. "If she hurts herself because you aren't taking care of her… That’s on you. I hope you know that."

Where the fuck is this coming from? Manipulative, lying, son of a bitch -

"She won't," Gator said firmly. "Because she's not with you. Leave.”

Caleb let out a harsh, ragged breath, wiping the blood from his lip one last time. He straightened his shirt, trying to salvage some dignity, though he looked like a wreck as he shot Gator one last glare of pure venom, turned and stormed out. He didn't look back. The door slammed shut behind him, leaving Gator standing in the middle of his trashed apartment, chest heaving, his knuckles bruised and bloody.

It was nearly two weeks later, toward the end of August, when the delicate sense of security at the lodge finally shattered.

Gator had come over in the early evening, the cab of his truck loaded with groceries, a stack of VHS tapes, and a pizza from a place in town that was surprisingly edible. He’d been trying to lift your spirits lately, distracting you from the heavy silence of survival to something resembling living.

One afternoon he’d even stopped by the community college in the next county over to pick up a course catalog. He didn’t really know what he was looking at - wasn’t as if Roy had ever encouraged him to go to college. Always reminded Gator how stupid he was, and how the best course of action was following in his old man’s footsteps - law enforcement. Gator had been keen on proving himself in the beginning, but it quickly became apparent that nothing was good enough when it came to anything he did in Roy Tillman’s orbit. Though, if he was honest with himself, was no long-term plan for Gator’s future aside from keeping you alive. You were the only thing that mattered to him at the moment. He could come later. Someday.

"We don't hafta decide tonight or anythin’," Gator said, leaning back in the armchair, a plate of pizza balanced on his knee. He watched you cautiously from across the room. You were sitting on the floor, cross-legged, actually eating a slice without picking it apart first. Progress. "But look here - they got a marketing program and take most of your gen eds. Plus a buncha scholarships you can apply for. Even got a late start semester too. Starts in October."

You looked up, wiping a bit of sauce from your lip. You looked healthier than you had a month ago. The dark circles under your eyes and the bruises decorating your body had faded, and you’d gained back a little of the weight you’d lost - though emotionally you still looked fragile to him. Like a doll that had been dropped and glued back together a few times. Beautiful, but delicate.

"October?" You asked, your voice soft. "That’s… Only two months away."

"Plenty of time to…" To what? Heal? Get your head on straight? Forget that fucking bastard? "Feel better. And it's far enough away that he won't think to look there. Small town. Just regular folks."

You looked down at the catalog, tracing the line of text with your finger. "It sounds too good to be true. But w-what if he does find me?"

"He won't," Gator promised, a little too quickly. "We’re being careful."

He shouldn't have said it. He should have known that Fate or God or whoever the fuck was listening, just waiting for an opportunity to prove him wrong and fuck with his life.

Before you could respond, a heavy, rhythmic pounding shook the thin wooden door of the cabin.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

It wasn't the hesitant knock of a neighbor. It was authoritative. Angry. Far too familiar for Gator’s liking.

Gator stood immediately, the plate sliding off his knee and hitting the floor. The color drained from his face so fast it looked like he’d seen a ghost. No. No. Fuck. Shit.

"Get in the bedroom," he hissed, scrambling for his police belt. "Now."

"Gator -“

"Move!" He didn't wait for an answer. He grabbed your arm, not roughly or enough to bruise, but with enough urgency to propel you toward the hallway. "Lock the door and hide under the bed. Don’t come out no matter what you hear."

The old haunted look returned to your eyes you stumbled to the room, flipping the flimsy lock on the door and hopefully wedging yourself under the bed.

Gator turned back to the living room just as the doorknob rattled. It was locked, but the hardware was old enough that he knew it probably wouldn't hold for long. He drew his service weapon from his holster, holding it down at his side. His heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He hadn't told anyone where you were. No one. He’d been so careful.

"Open up, Tillman!" Caleb’s voice roared through the wood, muffled but unmistakable. "I know you're in there! Your truck’s out front, dipshit.”

Gator stood in the center of the room, aiming the gun at the door with one hand and dialing 911 with the other. His mind was racing as he delivered the address to the operator and informed her that there was a violent man attempting to break in, simultaneously trying to calculate how long it would take the his guys to get here. Twenty minutes? Thirty? Too long.

"Go away, Caleb!" Gator shouted back as he hung up the phone. "You ain’t welcome here!"

"I don't care if I'm welcome!" Caleb screamed. "You stole my property! Open the fucking door!"

CRACK.

The doorframe splintered as Caleb threw his weight against it. The lock held, but the wood around it was giving way. Gator tightened his grip on the gun. He couldn't let him in. He couldn't let him get to you.

"Caleb!" Gator yelled, stepping closer to the door. "I swear to God, I’ll shoot you if you take one more step.”

"Do it." Caleb taunted, his voice manic with rage. "You think you can keep her from me? She's mine. She belongs to me!"

CRACK.

The door flew open, the deadbolt tearing free from the frame with the sound of a gunshot. Caleb stumbled into the cabin, chest heaving, his face twisted in a mask of hatred. He looked wild - clothes disheveled, eyes burning with a feverish intensity as he took in his surroundings.

Gator raised his gun, aiming it directly at Caleb’s chest. He’d never actually killed a man. This was as close as he’d ever gotten. That reality should have scared him, at least a bit. But his somehow it didn’t. He was almost certain that he could empty his service weapon into Caleb’s chest at that very moment and not feel a shred of remorse. Almost.

Caleb, however, didn't even blink. He stepped into the cabin, ignoring the weapon entirely.

"Where is she?"

"Not here," Gator lied, his voice steady despite the panic clawing at his throat. "Leave. Now."

"Bullshit," Caleb scoffed, looking around the room. He saw the pizza on the floor, the open course catalog on the table, the glass of water still sweating on the coaster. "I smell her perfume."

“How’d you even find this place? Private property, in case you’re interested.”

“Tracker on your truck.” Caleb shrugged, as if this was common practice. “Thought a big bad cop like you would’ve noticed. Guess you’re as dumb as you look.”

He took another step forward, and Gator tightened his finger on the trigger. "Don't."

Caleb laughed, a low, dangerous sound. "You're not gonna shoot me, Gator. You don't have the balls to take someone’s life."

"I have plenty of - you know what? Fuck you," Gator snarled. "Get out. Or I'll -“

"Or you’ll what?" Caleb challenged. "Arrest me? For coming to see my girlfriend? For wanting to make sure she's okay after shacking up with some inbred hick?"

“Watch your fuckin’ mouth.”

“Come on, Tillman.” His voice shifted, suddenly sounding reasonable, almost pleading. It was so… Normal. Gator felt like he was going crazy - hearing the softness in Caleb’s voice compared to the shouting. God, he couldn’t imagine how you dealt with it for so long. "I told you weeks ago that her parents are worried sick. They just wanna know she's alive. Can't you understand that?"

He took another step. Gator backed up, blocking the hallway.

"She doesn't wanna see you.”

"That's not for you to decide," Caleb snapped, his mask slipping again. "She doesn't know what she wants. She's confused. She needs guidance. And me."

Before Gator could react, Caleb lunged. The gun clattered to the ground, skidding across the wooden floor. Gator’s body hit the wall, his head smashing through the glass of a framed photograph on the wall. The corners of his vision blurred as shards sent little pinpricks of pain down his neck.

“Fuck -“

Caleb’s knee connected with Gator’s stomach, knocking the wind out of him. His torso throbbed with a dull ache as he gasped for air, lungs burning. With another grunt, Caleb repeated the action, and Gator fell to his knees, doubled over from pain and lack of air. Humiliation tasted sour in his mouth. No one had ever bested him in a fight. Even in school. Knowing what it felt like to lose was not a feeling that Gator enjoyed.

CRACK.

There was a mighty tug on Gator’s now-messy hair and then a stabbing pain as Caleb shoved his head alone the edge of the end table. Black spots burst across Gator’s field of vision, and the room spun around him as he hit the floor in a daze. A warm, wet liquid began to pour from his temple, collecting by his eye.

Get up.

You have to get up.

She can’t fight him all on her own.

Get the fuck up, Tillman.

The fear of what Caleb would do to you warred with Gator’s aching head and heavy-feeling limbs. It was as though he was paralyzed - barely conscious. If he could just delay Caleb a little more, keep him distracted till the cops got there, then maybe he could -

“Oh my god, Gator -“ The pure panic in your voice belying how much you cared about him didn’t make up for the fact that he’d told you to stay hidden. He told you -

"There she is," Caleb’s voice took on a syrupy tone as he stepped towards the bedroom. The room still spun, and everything was tinted red, but Gator would know your form anywhere. "There’s my sweet girl."

"No!" Gator slurred, reaching out to grab his leg, but Caleb was too fast for his fumbling movements - fueled by a singular, obsessive focus.

Caleb crossed the living room in three long strides. You tried to back away, but he was on you before you could move. His large hand shot out to grab your upper arm, yanking you towards him. A small whimper escaped you, and Gator tried once more to get to his feet, his hand slipping in the small puddle of blood before him. He crashed back down, swearing.

"Missed you," Caleb whispered, leaning in to bury his face in your neck. He inhaled deeply, closing his eyes like he was savoring your scent. You shuddered. "Did you miss me, baby? Did you miss Daddy?"

What the fucking hell?

"Get off -“ You tried to pull away, fear in your voice.

Where the fuck is my gun?

Gator managed to haul himself up to a crawling position, wiping blood and glass from his face as he desperately searched for his weapon. It had slid under the side table in the scuffle, and within a few seconds, Gator was finally stumbling by to his feet, dizzy and disoriented - but vertical and armed. The safety clicked off.

“G-get away from her.”

"Put the gun down, Gator," Caleb said, not sparing him so much as a glance. He was too busy staring at you, his eyes roaming over your face and body like a starving man looking at a feast. "You're scaring her."

"I'm not the one s-scarin’ her!" Gator’s finger tightening on the trigger shakily. He was trembling with the effort of both standing and also not just pulling it. He leaned against the wall slightly to support his own weight. Even in poor shape, he could do it. End this right here. But you were far too close. If he missed, or if the bullet went through… He couldn't risk it.

"Am I?" Caleb asked, finally looking over at Gator. A slow, cruel smile spread across his face. "Then why is she crying? What’d he do to you, pretty girl?”

"Because you're here and you’re a fuckin’ monster," Gator spat.

"I'm her boyfriend," Caleb corrected, his voice deceptively tender as he brushed a lock of hair away from your face. "I'm the one who takes care of her and loves her. Unlike you. You're just the guy she runs to when she's acting out. She’s gonna toss you aside like the trash you are in about, eh, five minutes.”

He turned back to you, his hand coming up to cup your cheek. You flinched, squeezing your eyes shut, trying to turn your face away.

"Look at me," Caleb commanded. When you didn’t immediately comply, his voice hardened. "Open your fucking eyes when I’m speaking to you.”

A tear trickled down your cheek, and apparently that sent Caleb over the edge.

"I said look at me!" A sharp crack echoed through the small room. You gasped as his hand collided with your cheek, your eyes flying open, filled with tears. An expression of shame washed over you, and it made Gator sick.

Fucking focus. Everything was still so out of focus. He couldn’t take Caleb in a fight, and he didn’t trust himself to fire a gun with you so close to his target.

"That's better," Caleb murmured, stroking your cheek right where he’d hit you. "I've missed this face. God, you have no idea how much I've missed you. You've been so bad, baby girl - running away like that? Making everyone worry. Making me worry."

"I… I wasn't - I d-didn’t mean -“

"Shh," he interrupted, placing a finger over your trembling lips. "Don't lie to me. You know I hate it when you lie. You needed a little space, I get that. But your time is up.”

He grabbed your chin, forcing you to continue to look at him. "We're going home. Now. I've already called the movers. I can’t wait for you to see the apartment -“

“Caleb, please -“ your eyes darted frantically over to Gator’s swaying figure. “Can we just make sure he’s alri-“

“Your rent-a-cop is lucky I’m not pressing charges for kidnapping. Now, If you don't come with me this second, Gator here is going to prison for a very long time."

"No," you gasped, struggling against his grip once more. "No, I won't -“

"You don't get a choice," Caleb said, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. "You never really did. You're mine. Always will be."

Using every ounce of wherewithal he had, Gator took a step forward, the barrel of his gun held aloft and (mostly) level with Caleb’s temple. "Let ‘er go, Caleb. This is your last warnin’."

Caleb laughed arrogantly, draping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you around in front of him like a human shield. He crouched so that his chin resting on your shoulder, turning to place a long kiss on your neck. You squirmed, and Caleb’s fingers dug into your arms until you cried out in pain.

"You're not gonna shoot me," Caleb said, staring down the barrel of the gun with a smirk. "Not in front of her if you’re trying to prove how different we are. What, you afraid to kill a man?”

"I ain’t afraid of killin’ you," Gator said, his voice deadly quiet.

He inched closer, trying to find a clear angle. But Caleb was smart. He knew exactly what he was doing. He kept you tight against his chest, knowing that Gator wouldn't dare risk hitting you.

"Go ahead," Caleb goaded. "Take the shot. But if you miss, if you even scratch her… I'll kill you. I'll tear you apart with my bare hands. Or maybe I’ll just knock you out and fuck her right here. Wouldn’t you like that, baby?”

"You touch her again," Gator growled, "and I swear to god -“

"You'll what?" Caleb interrupted. There was a manic gleam in his eye that told Gator the man who held you was utterly unhinged. More so than he’d even thought. He had no doubt that Caleb would make good on his threats. "You'll use that little blackmail file? Go ahead. Release it. Ruin my family. See if I care. Right now, all I care about is getting what's mine."

He looked down at you, his expression softening into something that was almost affectionate, if not for the menacing undercurrent beneath. "Tell him, pretty girl. Tell him you want to come home. You were confused and scared. But you don’t have to be anymore, okay?”

You looked at Gator, your eyes swimming with tears. You were paralyzed, trapped in the nightmare you’d been running from. You opened your mouth to speak, hopefully to tell Caleb that you hated him, that you never wanted to see him again, but the words died in your throat.

"I… I -“

"See?" Caleb said, looking back at Gator with a triumphant grin. "She loves me. She knows she belongs with me."

"She's terrified of you," Gator snarled, blinking away the dizziness. He finally wasn’t seeing double anymore. Thank fuck.

"She's overwhelmed," Caleb corrected. "She's not used to being away from me for so long. She needs me to ground her. Remind her of her place.”

One of his hands moved from around your body to your throat, wrapping his long fingers around your neck. He didn't squeeze hard, not yet. He just held you there, a silent threat of the violence to come.

"Isn't that right?" Caleb asked, his breath hot against your ear. "You need me to remind you of a lot of things, don’t you, sweetheart?”

"I -“

“Answer me!" Caleb shouted, making you flinch.

"Yes," you whispered, the word torn from your throat with a strangled sob as Caleb squeezed. "Yes."

"Good girl," Caleb stroked your hair softly, placing a kiss on the top of your head while maintaining eye contact with a fuming Gator. "Now, say goodbye to the nice officer. We're leaving."

He started to drag you around toward the door, his hand still locked around your neck.

"No!" Panic finally overriding both Gator’s likely concussion and also his caution. "Let her go!"

Gator lunged forward, trying to grab Caleb’s arm, to pry his fingers loose from your throat. But he wasn't fast enough.

Caleb spun around, grabbing you by the hair and yanking you back in front of him. He was taller than you, stronger, once more using your body as a shield, blocking Gator’s shot.

"Fucking do it," Caleb hissed, his lips brushing against your ear. "I dare you. Put a bullet in her brain. You can see that her blood is as pretty as the rest of her."

You were sobbing now, hyperventilating, your hands clutching at Caleb’s arm where it was locked around your neck. You were choking, gasping for air, your face turning a terrifying shade of purple.

"Please," you gasped, tears streaming down your face. "Please, Gator -“

"Awe, he’s going to kill me," Caleb whispered, mockingly. "Or you. See? I told you he was violent.“

Gator was paralyzed. Every fiber of his being was screaming at him to pull the trigger, to end the threat, but you were in the way. He couldn't risk it. He couldn't risk your life.

"Drop the gun," Caleb commanded. "Or I’ll snap her neck. Right here. Right now."

He tightened his grip on your throat, cutting off your air completely. Your eyes bulged, your hands scrabbling weakly at his arm.

"Okay! Okay!" Gator shouted, lowering the gun slightly, though he kept it trained on Caleb’s chest. "Just let her breathe. Please."

Caleb loosened his grip slightly, allowing you to drag in a ragged, wheezing breath. You slumped against him, coughing, tears and snot running down your face.

"Good boy," Caleb mocked. "Now, kick it over here."

Gator hesitated.

"I said kick it!" Caleb screamed, tightening his grip on your neck again.

As Gator’s eyes met yours, he could see the fear and desperation. But underneath it - so faint anyone who didn’t know you as well would’ve missed it - was… Trust. You didn’t know how this would end, but in that moment, you were taking your fragile sense of hope and placing it in his hands.

He couldn’t fuck this up.

Gator glanced past you, to the small side table next to the couch. There was a heavy hardcover book lying there - some random book Roy kept here but never read. It was thick, with a hard spine.

Slowly, your gaze drifted to the table, then back to him. Understanding dawned in your eyes.

You moved. Faster than Gator had ever seen you move, faster than he thought you were capable of in your state. You reached out, your fingers scrabbling for the book on the table. You grabbed it, swinging it with every ounce of strength you had left, and jammed the hard corner directly into Caleb’s left eye.

Caleb screamed, a high-pitched, inhuman sound of pure agony. He released his grip on your throat, stumbling back and clutching his face. Shock and pain rendered him temporarily blind. Meanwhile you fell to the floor, gasping for air, but you didn't stay down. You scrambled away, crawling toward the kitchen on your hands and knees.

"You bitch!" Caleb howled, spinning around, one hand over his ruined eye. “I’m gonna fucking kill you -“

He lunged, grabbing you by the ankle and dragging you back across the floorboards. You screamed, kicking and scratching, nails cracking and breaking off as you tried to resist, but he was too strong. He flipped you onto your back, straddling your waist, pinning you to the ground.

Caleb’s face was twisted in a mask of fury. He raised his hand. "Think you can hurt me?"

SMACK.

He backhanded you across the face, harder than the first time - the sound echoing like a gunshot in the small cabin. Your head snapped to the side, lip splitting open instantly.

SMACK.

He hit you again, harder this time. You cried out, trying to wriggle away, your body contorting underneath him as you desperately tried to protect your face from another blow.

“Stop fucking - ow - fighting me -“ With one hand, Caleb captured your hands in his own. With the other, he fumbled with his belt. “If you wanna cry so bad, I’ll give you something to cry about.”

BANG.

The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed space, ringing in Gator’s ears like a church bell.

Caleb jerked, his body going rigid. He froze, his fist raised for another strike. Then, slowly, he slumped forward, collapsing on top of you.

You let out a half scream, half sob, shoving the dead weight off you, scrambling backward across the floor until your back hit the kitchen cabinets. You were crying, wiping blood and brain matter from your face, staring at the corpse of the man who had tormented you for months.

And Gator stood there, gun still raised, smoke curling from the barrel. His chest was heaving, his heart jackhammering against his ribs. He looked down at Caleb, at the neat, round hole between his eyes.

He was dead. No one survived a shot like that.

Gator lowered the gun, his hand trembling. He looked at you, huddled in the corner. Covered in blood and gore, a bruise forming on your neck, and your face swollen from Caleb’s hits. He felt a wave of nausea so strong he had to brace himself against the wall. His head swam.

He’d done it.

He’d actually done it.

He’d fucking killed a man.

But as Gator looked at your terrified face, and the relief that was slowly starting to dawn in your eyes, he knew one thing for sure.

He’d do it again. A hundred times over.

He’d burn the entire world to ash before he let anyone hurt you like that ever again.

Gator eventually stumbled over and knelt beside you, ignoring Caleb. He reached out, stopping inches from your shoulder. He didn't want to spook you. "Hey. Breathe. It's over. He's gone."

You slowly turned your head, your eyes having difficulty focusing. For a second, he saw the same terrified, hunted look he’d seen a hundred times before. But then, the realization seemed to hit you. The monster wasn't getting up. He wasn't going to hurt you ever again.

You let out a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh, and collapsed forward, burying your face in Gator’s neck. With this, he didn't hesitate. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into his lap, rocking you gently as you began to cry in earnest.

"I know," he whispered, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, his own eyes stinging. "I know."

But as he held you, he felt you stiffen. You pulled back slightly, looking down at Caleb’s body. Your expression wasn't just relief. It was something darker, more complicated.

"He's dead," you whispered, your voice flat. "He's actually dead."

"Yeah."

You looked up at Gator, your eyes swimming with a fresh wave of tears, but these weren't from fear. "I feel… Gator, I feel relieved. I’m happy he's dead. B-but I’m also… Sad. I think. I don’t know… I’m mostly glad, but I just… W-what kind of person does that make me?"

"It makes you human," Gator said fiercely, cupping your cheek in his hand. “You aren't sad he's gone, baby. I think… Maybe you’re sad you had to lose a part of yourself to survive him. Big difference."

"I don't want to be this person," you sobbed. "I don't want to be the kind of person who is glad someone is dead."

"You aren't," he promised you. "You're just tired. You're safe now. You can feel whatever you want to feel."

He held you until the sirens wailed in the distance, cutting through the night air. He held you until the flashing blue and red lights filled the tiny cabin, washing the walls in an eerie glow. He held you until the deputies - men he’d known his whole life - kicked open the splintered door and found the two of you there, tangled together on the floor amidst the wreckage of the fight.

Gator stood up, keeping himself between you and them. He held his hands up, badge in the other.

"I'm the one who fired the shot," he said, his voice steady. "It was self-defense. He was gonna kill her."

The following investigation took weeks, but the charges never stuck. It was clear cut. Gator had head wounds from Caleb throwing him into the wall and table. You had the hand-shaped bruises on your neck and months worth of photographic evidence and texts.

And then there was the file.

Once it was clear Gator wasn't going to prison for protecting you, he sent copies to the Times, the FBI, and the state attorney general. The fallout was rather spectacular - the icing on the cake to your freedom. It was all a bit of whirlwind, truth be told. Caleb’s father was arrested on charges of racketeering, money laundering, and obstruction of justice. The firm collapsed. The assets were frozen. His family was ruined, their reputation in tatters, their power stripped away piece by piece.

It wasn't justice in Gator’s eyes. Not really. Justice would have been Caleb rotting in a cell for the rest of his life. But it was something. Closure, maybe.

It took over a year for the dust to settle.

A whole year of court dates, reliving the worst moments of your life, and therapy sessions. A year of nightmares and panic attacks and slowly learning how to breathe again.

But you did it. And you kept doing it.

You moved into a new apartment complex on the edge of town, a few miles from Gator’s place. It was a one-bedroom, second floor, with a living room that flooded with warm light every morning. It was cute, and it was all yours. You bought throw pillows and hung up art that Caleb never would’ve let you. You stocked the fridge with food you actually wanted to eat.

You went to therapy every Tuesday - even convinced Gator to go see a shrink (only once a month - nothing too crazy). You were on medication - a nice dose of anti-anxiety meds that took the edge off the panic attacks without making you feel like a total zombie.

And - after a semester off - you were back in school. Online courses for now, taking it slow. You were determined to finish your degree, even if it took you an extra year.

Gator visited whenever he could. Which was often. Sometimes he brought takeout. Other times he just came over to sit on the couch and watch you study. The two of you didn't have a label. You weren't really dating. You were just… existing together. He was your safe harbor, and you were his anchor.

He was more than okay with that. He’d wait forever if he had to.

It was a Tuesday night in the middle of July, exactly one year and a week since the fateful night at the lodge. The heat was stifling, even with the AC blasting, but the air inside your apartment smelled like garlic bread and melted cheese.

You were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, legs tucked under you, sharing a pizza and watching some mindless adventure movie Gator had found on some streaming service. He was only half-watching, his eyes drifting to you every few seconds. It was hard not to. You’d always been beautiful, but you looked better than you had in a long time. You’d cut your hair into a style that highlighted your cheekbones, and that was, Gator noted once, harder for someone to grab the way Caleb had. You were wearing one of his old oversized t-shirts and a pair of PJ shorts, looking comfortable in your own skin in a way that made his chest ache.

"Everythin’ okay?" Gator asked after almost an hour of silence, setting his drink down on one of your coasters made out of Scrabble pieces.

You looked at him, your expression unreadable. "Yeah. I'm just… Thinking."

“’Bout what?"

You set your can down on the coffee table, turning to face him fully and taking a deep breath, your fingers twisting together in your lap.

"Gator," you started softly. "I know things are… Complicated. Between us. I know I'm not exactly… Easy. And I've got a lot more baggage than I used to, and -“

"You don't have to - “

"Let me finish," you interrupted gently, exhaling. "I need to say this."

Gator nodded, shutting his mouth.

You took another breath, eyes searching his face. "I spent a long time thinking that love was supposed to hurt. That it was supposed to be this constant struggle for control. But… You showed me that it doesn't have to be painful. You stayed. Even when I was scared of you, and didn’t know what way was up because Caleb fucked up my head so badly. You just… Stayed."

You reached out, your hand hovering over his knee before gently resting it there. "And I realized something. I realized that I don't just want you in my life because you're safe. I want you in my life because you're you. I don’t need a safe harbor or someone to cling to because I’m scared - even if I might still do that sometimes. I just need you.”

You paused, your eyes welling with tears. "I love you, Gator."

The words hit him like a punch to the stomach in the best way. His heart actually stuttered in his chest, skipping a beat before pounding a frantic rhythm against his lungs. He felt breathless as he stared at you, mouth slightly open, unable to process what he was hearing.

"You… What? You do? he managed to choke out. God, how long had it been since he’d heard those words? Years? Decades?

"I love you," you repeated, a small, tremulous smile touching your lips. "I have for a long time. I was just too scared to admit it. To myself. To you."

Gator felt like the wind had been knocked out of him. He’d dreamed of hearing this, fantasized about it in the darkest hours of the night, but he never actually thought it would happen. He assumed the trauma had made it impossible. He thought he was destined to be your protector, never your partner.

And he’d accepted that.

Truly. He had.

If all the two of you ever had was quiet nights in, inside jokes, and a friendly hug every so often, he’d be alright with that. As long as you were in his life - he’d consider himself a lucky man. Now that he’d heard you say I love you - he longed to hear the words fall from your lips again, even if he’d never get to kiss them. Just the sound of the words was music to a song he’d long since presumed he’d never deserve to hear from anyone - much less you.

"I… I don't know what I'm ready for," you continued quickly, your voice rising slightly in panic, misinterpreting his silence. "I'm not saying… I mean, I don't know if I can… you know. I'm still working through things. The intimacy stuff. It's still hard to even think about.”

Gator shook his head, reaching out to cover your hand with his lightly. "Hey. Breathe, baby. It's okay. I know. I don't expect anythin’. I’m just… god. I’m just so happy to hear you say you love me."

You let out a shaky laugh, wiping at your eyes. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." He squeezed your hand. "And I love you too. You know that.“

“Well, you did say it first.”

“Wanted you to hear it.”

You looked at him, your eyes softening. "Can I… Can I kiss you?"

Gator’s breath hitched. "You sure?"

"I- yes," you whispered. "Just once. To see what it feels like. With someone who actually… Cares."

Gator didn't hesitate. He leaned in slowly, giving you plenty of time to pull away. But you didn't. You met him halfway, your eyes fluttering shut as your soft lips brushed against his.

It was gentle. Tentative. It wasn't the frantic, desperate kiss he used to indulge in inside his dreams. It was slow and sweet. A light but insistent pressure that made the road to get here completely worth it. He kept his hands to himself, resting them on his knees, not wanting to crowd you.

But then you shifted closer, your hand coming up to rest on his cheek, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You deepened the kiss slightly, your lips moving against his with a newfound confidence.

Gator felt a wave of emotion crash over him - love, relief, desire, and a fierce, overwhelming protectiveness. He poured everything he had into that one kiss. Trying to tell you without words how much he cherished you, how much he adored you, how he would spend the rest of his life making sure you never felt afraid again.

The kiss felt like coming home. Like the most natural thing in the world to happen between the two of you. Beautiful, tender, and like everything good in the world. Just like you.

You pulled away after a moment, your eyes opening slowly. You were blushing, a soft pink staining your cheeks, but you were smiling.

"Wow," you breathed out.

"Yeah," Gator agreed, his voice hoarse. "No kiddin’."

You shifted on the couch, moving closer to him. You hesitated for a second, then carefully, after several deep breaths, leaned your head on his shoulder. Gator froze, waiting for the flinch, or for you to decide against cuddling up to him - but it never came. You just relaxed against him, letting out a soft sigh.

Slowly, he wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you lightly into his side. You fit perfectly, like you were made to be there.

"I'm not really ready for more," you murmured, eyes closing as you settled against him. "Not yet. But… I’ve wanted to do that for a while.”

Gator pressed a feather-light kiss to the top of your head. "It’s alright, baby. We got time. All the time in the world."

You nodded, your breathing starting to slow and sync with his. The movie played on in the background, forgotten, the explosions and car chases a dull roar.

Gator sat there, holding you, listening to the sound of your breathing, and felt a peace settle over him that he hadn't felt in years - or ever. Things weren't perfect. You were both still healing. You still had nightmares. He still had days where he wanted to burn the world down for what you’d been through.

But looking down at you, safe and warm in his arms, he knew that you would get there. Together. One day at a time.

And that was enough.

by the time the next friday rolled around, the routine between you and gator had become so natural it barely felt like a routine at all, it felt like something older than that.

you still came for the pastries, technically. you still told yourself that was the reason. but more and more, you found yourself staying after, lingering at the counter with your elbows propped up and your eyes fixed on him while he worked, because the bakery felt warmer when he was there and stranger when he wasn't.

he had started expecting you. that much was obvious now.

the minute the bell rang and you stepped inside, his eyes found you without effort, as if some part of him had been listening for that sound all afternoon. he still looked grumpy, of course. that was just the shape of him. but now there was something else under it, something quieter and more aware.

the tiniest softening in his face when he saw you. the brief pause before he spoke, like he was deciding whether to say something mean or something honest and settling, most days, for a little of both.

this friday, though, you were late enough that the shop had already slipped into its evening quiet by the time you arrived.

the sky outside had gone dusky and blue, the kind of blue that made the streetlamps glow too early. you were halfway through the door when the bell gave its bright little ring and, almost immediately, a sharp curse cut through the bakery from the back room.

you froze.

then you saw him.

gator was behind the counter, bent over a tray, looking thoroughly insulted by whatever had just happened. one hand was braced on the edge of the counter, the other hovering in the air as if he had not quite decided whether to slam it down again. a few pastries had gone tumbling, and now they lay scattered on the floor in a ruined mess of crumbs and frosting.

“shit,” he snapped under his breath. “goddamn it.”

he looked up only long enough to stare at the disaster like it had betrayed him. then, as if it had been the final straw in a day already irritating enough, he let out another low curse and pushed a hand through his hair.

you didn't speak right away. you just stood there in the doorway for a beat, taking him in, noticing the tension through his shoulders and the quick, tight movement of his jaw. not explosive anger, not really, just frustration, hot and immediate and pointed inward in the way you had started to recognise on him. the kind of mood that made him harsher with the world than it deserved to be.

he still hadn't noticed you.

so you crossed the room quietly and, when you were close enough, said softly, “hey.”

he startled just enough to look up, his expression shifting the second he saw you from irritated to caught. “you’re late.”

you arched a brow. “hello to you too.”

he glanced down at the mess on the floor, then back at you, and for one second you could see the embarrassment trying to creep in under the anger. “didn’t know you were here.”

“i gathered that.”

“i got it under control.”

“you sound very convincing.”

he shot you a look, but it had no real heat in it. just fatigue and that stubborn, stubborn pride of his. “it’s fine.”

you nodded toward the pastries on the floor. “that doesn’t look fine.”

he looked away.

that told you enough.

you came closer, your voice gentle now. “what happened?”

he let out a breath through his nose, the kind that said he was trying to decide whether answering was worth the trouble. when he finally did, it came out clipped and annoyed. “tray slipped. i caught the edge, knocked the whole thing down. stupid mistake.”

“okay” you said, simple and calm.

he frowned, like he had expected more of a reaction than that. “that’s it?”

you shrugged. “it happens.”

his mouth tightened slightly. “doesn’t mean i needed to do it.”

“no,” you agreed, and when his shoulders tensed again, you added, quieter, “but it also doesn’t mean you need to bite anyone’s head off over it.”

that got him to look at you properly.

your face was open, easy, not a trace of judgment on it. just concern, mild and steady and annoyingly effective. he seemed to realise that because something in his expression shifted, the frustration not disappearing exactly but losing its edge.

“you’re doin’ that thing” he muttered.

you tipped your head. “what thing?”

“the one where you make me calm down.”

you smiled a little. “am i?”

“yeah.”

“good.”

he narrowed his eyes at you, but there was less force in it now. “that’s not fair.”

“why not?”

“cause i wasn’t even that mad.”

you looked at him with clear disbelief.

he stared back.

then you gave him the softest, most infuriating little smile and said, “gator, you were absolutely that mad.”

for a second he looked like he wanted to argue. then he exhaled, long and slow.

“yeah,” he admitted at last, grudging as anything. “maybe a little.”

“better.”

“don’t start.”

“i’m not starting. i’m helping.”

he gave you a look. “with what exactly?”

you pointed at the mess on the floor. “with cleaning this up before you glare holes into it.”

that got the smallest reluctant twitch of his mouth, so quick it almost vanished before you could be sure it had been there at all. but it was enough.

“you don’t have to” he said, though he didn't sound like he actually wanted you to leave.

you moved toward the broom by the wall. “i know.”

he watched you for a moment, then turned and reached for the dustpan himself.

the two of you fell into the cleanup easily after that, moving around each other with the kind of quiet efficiency that had started to build between you over the past few weeks. you swept. he crouched to gather the broken pastries, muttering under his breath about wasted product and shitty timing. you didn't tease him for it, you just handed him what he needed and moved where he asked without making a fuss.

most of the time, he stayed quiet.

you knew why.

he hated needing help. not in a dramatic way, not in the way some people did for attention or pride. his version of it was more stubborn than that. more private. there was something almost painful in the way he went silent whenever someone stepped in too easily, as though assistance was a language he'd never been taught how to speak without feeling like he owed something in return.

you could feel him fighting that now, even if he was pretending not to.

so you kept things light. easy. no big deal, no overthinking, just the two of you kneeling on the bakery floor at the end of the day, cleaning up a stupid accident like it was the most natural thing in the world.

after a minute, you nudged one of the broken pastries into the dustpan and said, “i think this one might still be salvageable.”

he snorted. “you’re optimistin’ about a pastry on the floor?”

“i’m sentimental.”

“you’re weird.”

“and yet.”

he glanced at you, and this time the look in his eyes was a little softer than usual. not quite smiling, but close enough that you felt it.

when the mess was finally gone and the floor had been swept clean, he stood and set the broom aside, dragging one hand over the back of his neck. you could tell from the way he avoided your eyes for a second that he was winding himself up to say something he did not particularly like saying.

“thanks” he said at last.

your expression softened. “you don’t have to thank me.”

“i do.”

“not for that.”

he shook his head once, then looked at you properly. “and i’m sorry.”

you blinked. “for what?”

“for losin’ my temper.”

you gave him a small, easy smile. “it was a tray.”

“still.”

you folded your arms lightly. “it really does not matter.”

his face stayed serious for a second longer, like he was waiting for the part where you made it a bigger deal than it was. when it didn't come, something in him eased again, and the corner of his mouth twitched.

there was a pause after that, a brief, strange stretch of silence where the two of you just stood there in the warm bakery light, looking at each other like neither of you was entirely sure what came next.

then he said, very mildly and with the faintest bit of awkwardness under it, “you were gonna leave right after you got here?”

you smiled. “maybe.”

“and now?”

you glanced at the clock, then back at him. “now i’m here.”

his expression shifted, and there it was again, that small private softness that seemed to catch him off guard every time it surfaced. he looked at you as if he was trying very hard not to show how much he liked that answer.

then, before either of you could let the moment get too quiet, he said, “you still want your usual?”

“obviously.”

he nodded toward the counter. “go on, then.”

you grabbed your trusty tart and as you were putting it in its to go bag, he spoke up again.

“hey.”

you turned.

he stood there with one hand still resting near the counter and the other hanging at his side, looking like he was about to say something and very much regretting the fact that he had decided to say anything at all. it wasn't his usual posture. there was a hesitation in him now, something almost uncertain, and you felt it immediately. a little pulse of instinct that told you he was standing at the edge of something.

your heart gave a quiet, hopeful kick.

you turned fully toward him and waited, your tone light enough not to scare him off. “yeah?”

he opened his mouth, then closed it.

you could almost see the struggle in him, the effort it took to get the words where he wanted them. that old stubborn reluctance. the way he seemed to hate reaching for anything that might make him look vulnerable, even when he was standing right on the brink of doing exactly that.

so you gave him a way in.

you smiled, just a little, and said, “you wanna come over?”

the look on his face was immediate and unmistakable. not shock, exactly. more like the idea had landed somewhere inside him and was taking a moment to be understood.

“what?”

you laughed softly, because the expression he made was too good not to. “i just mean, if you’re done for the night.”

he blinked once, still processing.

you lifted one shoulder in a casual shrug, though your pulse had started to race. “we’re friends by now, right?”

that seemed to help.

his mouth twitched. just slightly.

“yeah,” he said, and there was that tiny smile again, careful and rare and only for you. “guess so.”

you smiled back. “then come over.”

he looked at you for another second, like he was checking whether you were serious, whether the offer was real or some kind of trap he somehow failed to spot. then his shoulders eased and he nodded once.

“sure,” he said quietly. “yeah. okay.”

and then, because you had already started moving toward the door, he added, a little more firmly, “i’ll walk with you.”

you glanced back over your shoulder, amused and warm all at once. “i was counting on it.”

that earned you a brief, disbelieving look, but he was already catching up to you, locking the bakery behind him with practiced motions and stepping out into the evening air beside you.

the walk to your place was easy.

the town was hushed around you, lights glowing in windows, the streets nearly empty.

gator walked a little closer than he had before, though not so close that it felt deliberate. just enough that the distance between your shoulders seemed smaller than usual. you talked a little, not about anything serious. the day. the bakery. some stupid thing one of your coworkers had said. he answered in his usual dry way, but there was less edge in it now. more ease. more of that quiet, almost reluctant comfort you had started to know belonged to him.

by the time you reached your little house, the sky had darkened completely, and the porch light was already on.

gator paused just inside the doorway as if taking the whole thing in, his gaze drifting over the tiny entryway, the narrow hall, the little living room with its mismatched furniture and blanket thrown over the back of the couch.

“it’s small” he said, not unkindly.

you smiled. “that’s the point.”

he gave a faint nod, like he could respect that.

then, because you were suddenly aware of how much you liked having him here and needed to do something with that feeling before it got too obvious, you gestured toward the kitchen. “hot chocolate?”

he smirked. “bet i can make better hot chocolate than you.”

you turned toward him with immediate offense. “absolutely not.”

“absolutely yes.”

“proven facts are not in your favour right now, sweetie boy.”

his expression changed just enough to show that he was trying not to react to the nickname. “don’t call me that in your own house.”

“why not?”

“because i’ll start thinkin’ you mean it.”

the words were out before either of you had a chance to stop them.

the house went quiet.

you looked at him, he looked at the counter. then, after a pause that felt suddenly much more important than it had any right to be, you smiled gently and said, “maybe i do.”

that made him go still in the smallest possible way.

not enough to panic. just enough that you could see him absorbing it.

neither of you said anything about it. not yet. instead you busied yourself pulling out mugs, milk, cocoa, sugar, and the little container of marshmallows you had bought a week ago because you had the ridiculous feeling they might come in handy. gator watched you for a second, then rolled up his sleeves and moved to stand beside you at the stove as if he had done this a hundred times already.

he had not.

but he immediately started giving opinions.

“you’re stirrin’ it wrong.”

“i am not.”

“you are.”

“gator.”

“what.”

“i invited you over. you do not get to insult my hot chocolate.”

“i’m helpin’.”

you shot him a glare that had very little actual heat in it, and he looked at you with something that was definitely amusement and definitely not anything else. but then he reached over, took the spoon from your hand, and stirred the pot himself.

“like this.” he muttered.

you watched him, trying not to smile too hard. “you really do take this personally.”

“it’s an art.”

“it’s cocoa powder.”

“and yet” he said, giving you your own line back with infuriating ease.

you laughed, and the sound made him look at you a little longer than necessary.

when the hot chocolate was finally done, you poured it into the mugs and carried them into the living room. that was when he noticed the board game on the shelf.

his whole posture changed.

it was subtle, but unmistakable. his gaze fixed on the box for a moment, and something bright and unexpectedly eager flickered across his face before he had the chance to hide it. it was gone so quickly you might have missed it if you hadn't already been paying close attention to him.

you turned, following his line of sight.

“monopoly?” you said, half-laughing. “you’re interested in that?”

he looked mildly offended by the accusation. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing. it just wasn’t exactly what i had pictured.”

“what’d you picture?”

you grinned. “i don’t know. chess, maybe. something evil.”

he scoffed, but his eyes were still on the game box. “my mom used to play it with me.”

the sentence was so quiet you almost thought you had imagined it.

you turned to look at him, and his face had gone a little still in the aftermath of saying it, like the words had slipped free before he could catch them. but he did not seem upset. just a little more open than he intended to be.

“yeah?” you asked softly.

he nodded once. “before… shit went down.”

you didn't make him say more than that, you just understood the shape of what he hadn't said. understood enough to let the silence sit gently between you instead of filling it with pity.

your chest tightened anyway because of course it did.

because learning things like that about him made you want to wrap him up in a blanket and sit with him for an hour and tell him that whatever had happened before did not get to claim all the softer parts of him. but you knew better than to dump all that on him now.

so instead you said, lightly, “well then. the game is obviously non negotiable.”

his mouth twitched. “you don’t even know if i wanna play.”

“you looked at it like it was a childhood memory.”

he gave you an unimpressed look. “you read into things too much.”

you set your mug down and crossed your arms. “and yet i’m right.”

he held your gaze for a beat and reluctantly said, “yeah, fine.”

the game took longer than either of you expected.

it turned out gator was absurdly competitive in a way that made him no less annoying and somehow even more endearing. he played like every property was a personal affront and every bad roll of the dice was a moral failure. he had the kind of concentration that made him go quiet in a way that was almost solemn, and when you laughed at something absurd he did he would glance up at you like he was trying very hard not to smile too much.

which, of course, only made you want to tease him more.

“you’re cheating" you accused when he somehow ended up with half the board.

“i’m not cheatin’.”

“you are absolutely cheating.”

“prove it.”

“you’re too smug to be innocent.”

“that’s not proof.”

you threw one of the little plastic tokens at him and he caught it without looking, which somehow made you like him more and also hate him a little.

by the time the game ended, neither of you had really won, but somehow you felt like you had both lost in the best possible way. your hot chocolate had gone lukewarm. the marshmallows were half dissolved. the room had settled into that sleepy, comfortable quiet that only exists after laughter.

gator leaned back on the couch, one arm draped along the backrest, looking more relaxed than you had ever seen him in the bakery.

“you always this competitive?” you asked.

“you always this annoying?”

“only on special occasions.”

he snorted, and then there was silence again, but it was an easy one. not tense. not cautious. just full.

you looked at him from beneath your lashes, warmth still lingering in your chest, and realized with a kind of startling softness that this had been a door opening.

not all at once. not dramatically. just enough to make the air between you feel different now.

gator seemed to feel it too.

he didn't say anything but he did linger a moment longer than necessary when he stood to leave. he picked up his jacket from the chair and glanced toward the door, then back at you.

“thanks for tonight” he said.

you smiled, smaller now and more real. “thanks for coming.”

his eyes held yours for a second.

then he nodded, just once, and headed for the door. you walked him out, and he stepped onto the porch under the soft yellow porch light, looking suddenly all at once like himself again and like someone you were only just beginning to know.

at the steps, he paused.

you stood in the doorway, hands tucked lightly behind your back, watching him with that quiet little smile you had started to reserve for him.

“same time next week?” you asked.

he looked back at you, and the answer was in his face before he said it.

“yeah,” he said, and this time the word sounded easy. like it had always belonged there. “same time next week.”

then he hesitated, one hand on the railing, and glanced back once more before heading down the steps.

not with the heavy awkwardness from the bakery. not with the frustration of that first startled evening. just with something gentler. something that felt like the beginning of him not leaving so quickly.

you stood in the doorway for a long time after, staring out into the quiet street with a smile you couldn't quite get rid of.

because the bakery had been the first place you started to know him.

but now, just barely, it was becoming clear that he existed beyond it too and somehow, that was even better.

-

the thing about gator was that once he got comfortable somewhere, he got comfortable. there was no middle ground. one day he was awkwardly standing in your kitchen looking like he wasn't entirely convinced he belonged there, the next he was letting himself into your house with a knock that barely even counted.

"door's open."

"that's not an invitation."

"yeah it is." and then he'd walk in anyway carrying a white bakery box under one arm like he owned the place.

you'd stopped pretending to be surprised. it happened so often now that you found yourself expecting it.

sometimes he'd show up after work with a bag of pastries. sometimes cookies. sometimes a box of things marcy had made too many of.

every single time he insisted that was the only reason he had come.

he would arrive claiming he was only there because of the food then somehow end up sitting on your couch all evening. or helping you cook, or watching terrible movies while offering increasingly rude commentary, or playing board games, or simply existing in the same room as you.

and every time he left, the house felt just a little emptier than before. which was becoming a problem, because somewhere along the way you'd started really liking him.

not in the vague, harmless way you'd first convinced yourself it was. not in the easy friendship way either.

properly.

the kind that made your stomach do strange things when he smiled, the kind that made you look forward to hearing his knock on the door, the kind that made your heart feel suspiciously warm whenever he did something soft and tried to disguise it as annoyance.

and unfortunately, gator was still gator.

which meant reading him was about as easy as reading a brick wall.

sometimes you thought he liked you, sometimes he looked at you in a way that made your pulse stumble, sometimes he'd remember tiny things you'd mentioned weeks ago, sometimes he'd bring your favourite pastries without asking, sometimes he'd stare at you when he thought you weren't looking.

and then other times he'd just look grumpy.

which was entirely unhelpful.

you couldn't tell if you were special or if this was simply what happened when somebody managed to become important to him.

and honestly, that uncertainty was starting to drive you insane.

-

the answer arrived on a random tuesday night.

you'd finally decided to tackle the pile of unpacked boxes sitting in your spare room.

they had been there for months, actual months, long enough that they'd basically become furniture.

gator had wandered over after work carrying a box of leftover pastries and immediately judged you.

"those still ain't unpacked?"

you looked up from the couch, "don't."

"that's embarrassing."

"don't."

"it's been months."

"gator."

he grinned, actually grinned, which was rare enough that it almost distracted you from the insult. almost.

an hour later the two of you were sitting shoulder to shoulder on the living room floor sorting through boxes.

old books, photographs, random decorations, childhood keepsakes. every so often one of you would find something ridiculous and force the other to look at it.

the conversation drifted easily. family, old schools, stupid childhood stories, nothing particularly deep. just comfortable. the kind of conversation that happened when two people genuinely enjoyed being around each other.

you were halfway through telling him a story about accidentally locking yourself in a supply closet during your first job when he laughed. a real laugh.

head tipped back slightly, eyes crinkling.

the sound made your chest squeeze. "you are not allowed to judge me."

"ya got stuck for three hours."

"i was seventeen."

"you cried."

"i did not."

"you absolutely did."

you shoved his shoulder. he laughed again.

and god, that smile.

you were still staring at it when his expression changed. only slightly, but enough.

the laughter faded.

his eyes stayed on yours.

suddenly the room felt very quiet.

you stopped talking, he stopped smiling. or maybe he didn't, maybe it just softened into something else, something warmer.

for a second neither of you moved.

then gator leaned forward and kissed you.

your brain immediately stopped working.

completely.

because one second you were sitting on your living room floor and the next gator tillman was kissing you. which had definitely not been part of the evening's plans.

when he pulled back, you were still frozen.

he blinked, then immediately looked horrified. "sorry."

the word came out so fast you almost laughed.

so you did.

gator stared.

you laughed harder.

his eyebrows pulled together. "what?"

you shook your head, still smiling, "why are you apologising?"

"cause ya froze on me."

that only made you laugh more. "gator."

"what?"

"you kissed me."

"right."

"and your first response is to apologise?"

he looked genuinely confused. "well yeah."

"why?"

he opened his mouth, closed it, then shrugged. "i dunno."

you stared at him for a second then burst out laughing again. this time even he couldn't stop the smile pulling at his mouth.

when the room went quiet again, this specific silence felt different.

your pulse picked up. his eyes dropped briefly to your mouth then back up.

you leaned forward first, just enough, giving him the choice.

he took it immediately.

the second kiss was different, more certain.

his hand found your jaw, your fingers curled into his shirt, and for a little while the rest of the world simply ceased to matter.

when you finally pulled apart, both of you breathing a little harder than before, the room felt softer somehow.

you ended up half leaning against him without really thinking about it. he didn't seem to mind, in fact he looked suspiciously pleased about it, which was when you noticed he was staring.

not subtly either, just looking at you.

you felt heat immediately crawl into your face. "stop."

his mouth twitched. "what."

"stop looking at me like that."

"like what."

"you know what."

he shook his head, looking entirely too amused.

"don't."

"don't what."

"gator."

he smiled and it hit you all over again just how handsome he was when he let himself be happy. which only made you blush harder.

he seemed delighted by this.

you groaned and buried your face briefly against his shoulder, which only made him laugh.

eventually you lifted your head again, and when you looked at him this time, something settled inside you.

a certainty.

you already knew, so why dance around it?

you nudged his shoulder lightly.

"i really like you."

the smile disappeared.

not because he didn't like hearing it because it genuinely caught him off guard. for a second he simply stared, then slowly, slowly, the biggest smile you'd ever seen spread across his face.

it transformed him completely. suddenly he looked younger, lighter. you almost forgot how to breathe.

"really?" he asked.

you nodded.

"me too."

your heart nearly exploded.

"yeah?"

"yeah."

his voice was quiet, honest, the most honest you'd ever heard him.

you rested your head against his shoulder again. this time he immediately wrapped an arm around you, holding you close without hesitation.

the room settled into comfortable silence.

for a while neither of you spoke, then eventually he cleared his throat. you looked up, he looked deeply uncomfortable.

which instantly amused you. "what?"

he frowned.

thinking.

"things were kinda..." he started.

paused.

"shitty."

you laughed softly. "eloquent."

"shut up."

"continue."

he rolled his eyes but his arm tightened slightly around your shoulders.

"before."

you softened. "okay."

he stared at the floor. "then they weren't."

your heart squeezed because that was such a painfully stubborn attempt at expressing something meaningful. something so very gator.

you smiled. "because of me?"

he looked horrified you'd made him clarify which was answer enough. still, after a second he muttered, "yeah."

you smiled so hard your cheeks hurt.

he pointed at you immediately. "don't."

"i didn't say anything."

"you're thinkin' things."

"i am."

he groaned.

you laughed then leaned your head back onto his shoulder.

and he let you.

after another minute he spoke again. casually, far too casually.

"can i take you out?"

you blinked.

"what?"

he looked away, suddenly fascinated by absolutely anything except your face.

"a date."

you stared then immediately started laughing, not because it was funny, because it was adorable.

his expression turned offended. "why're you laughin'?"

"because you're cute."

"i am not."

"you absolutely are."

"answer the question."

you smiled.

"yes."

his shoulders visibly relaxed.

"yeah?"

"yeah."

after that neither of you seemed particularly interested in moving.

eventually you put a movie on, neither of you paid much attention to it, but somewhere during the second half, your head found his shoulder and before either of you realised it, sleep caught up with you both.

the movie kept playing softly in the background, the unpacked boxes remained half finished, and curled together on the couch, finally done pretending, you both fell asleep knowing that whatever this was now was something real.

------

You smile politely as the women drone on about neighborhood gossip and recipes they simply have to send you and how they dropped off a snickers salad for the preacher’s wife last night ‘cause she’s had so much trouble cookin’ lately. They’re old women, and they’re multitasking between their card game and keeping you shackled to their conversation. It’s like this every Sunday they can get their hands on you.

Sometimes you think it’s no wonder you and Gator were drawn to each other– despite how much better you mask it in public, you both share the affliction of being easily frustrated by nosy small-town people who won’t shut their traps. And speaking of your boyfriend…

Gator seems trapped in a dialogue of his own across the lawn, Roy standing before him, so clearly laying another lecture onto his son’s shoulders. Gator squirms like a kid when his dad yells at him, and you can see it now, that lack of attention span from the ADHD you keep telling him to get tested for driving Roy even crazier than he already is. Finally, Roy makes his point and relents, and Gator makes his way across the lawn toward you, the set of his shoulders still tense.

“Hey, baby,” he mumbles as he nears, dropping a kiss onto the top of your head. He smiles tightly and nods to the bridge ladies, who coo over his arrival, and slides onto the bench beside you, straddling it to face you. One of his hands goes immediately to your lower back like he needs the contact, or maybe an excuse to cop a feel in the modest sundress you’ve donned for church today. 

“Gator, honey,” one of the ladies– Mrs. Pearson, whose husband runs the hardware store near the diner where you work– greets him. “We were just tellin’ your little missus here ‘bout some recipes she should get her hands on.”

Gator nods and doesn’t reply further, unamused. You press your thigh into his leg, telling him silently to play nice. You know he’s only over here because you are, and that he’d always rather be long gone once the church service ends, but this is what it takes to be a part of a community, and even grudgingly, he knows that. Still, his constant frustration with these people is part of the reason they’ve always liked you more than they like him. He is the town bully who barely grew out of it, still brash and impulsive and rude at times, still hiding that sweetness behind his tough-guy face except when it comes to you. You are the town darling, the one who runs Sunday school when the preacher’s daughter can’t, the model future wife for the sheriff’s son. You always wear your church skirts to your knees, and from your pretty smile, no one can tell it’s Gator who’ll bunch them up to your waist when he bends you over later.

“She’s such a nice girl,” one of the other ladies croons, smiling widely at you. There’s pink lipstick on her teeth. “You know she’ll do a bang-up job as your little wife, mister.”

“That’s right!” Another one chimes in, placing down a card with a wrinkled hand. “I mean, geez Louise, forget about the cookin’! She’ll have that house spick and spam for ya, isn’t that right, sweetiepie?”

You laugh indulgently, although everything in you wants to roll your eyes and find a way to escape this table. Sure, you can cook, and you’ve always kept the house far cleaner than Gator cares to, but you don’t need these women telling him that. If he hasn’t figured out the virtues of keeping you around already, he’s certainly not gonna listen to them tell it.

“I’d say, with how handsome a couple you two are, you’d better get movin’ on those little ones!” Mrs. Pearson adds.

“Little ones?” Gator repeats flatly, and you step on his toe under the table.

“Well, I betcha your daddy wants another baby in the family soon,” Mrs. Pearson explains laughingly, then leans over to touch your cheek. “It’d be a shame to waste those cheekbones, anyway. You two better get crackin’ on those kids before the sheriff has to tell ya to!”

You hear more than see Gator’s jaw grind. He opens his mouth to say something you’re sure won’t be too flattering, but you cut in before he can, slipping your hand over his on his thigh. “You know, you ladies are too right. In fact, I think we’ve got a little business to attend to at home, come to think of it. Can’t let that house go too long without a cleaning, can we?”

The ladies laugh at the scandalous joke, waving you off. 

“You kids!” Mrs. Pearson smiles. “Go, enjoy the day, sweeties!”

You rise to your feet, smiling back at them, and pull Gator up by the hand, dragging him away from the table before he can say something the both of you will regret. He follows behind you, one of his hands sliding over your waist as you cross the grass again. You can tell he’s angry by how quiet he’s gone, the way he tugs at the collar of his crisp black button-up.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he mutters in your ear. “You put in your damn time.”

“Let me grab my purse,” you tell him gently, smoothing a hand down his chest— already having guessed from his mood you’d be taking off early. “You grab the tupperware from the scones, and I’ll meet you by the truck.”

“Don’t stop to chat,” he says gruffly, hand tightening on your waist. “I’ll blow my brains out if Mrs. Pearson finds me again.”

You bite back a smile and kiss his cheek, heading off swiftly to gather the rest of your belongings. 

You intercept him on the way back, two more of his shirt buttons already undone and his sleeves pushed up to the elbow. You slip your hand into his as you walk back through the parking lot together, not daring to check behind you to see if anyone’s noticed your early exit. 

Gator opens your door for you and waits for you to get in, a muscle in his jaw twitching. You worry about that expression on him– about what his father might have said to him to get him so fired up. 

It’s only when you’re speeding back down the dirt road from the church that you finally ask, reaching over and squeezing his arm as you do. 

“Gate.”

“Hm?” he replies, eyes on the road.

You keep your hand on his forearm, thumb brushing up and down

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” he mutters.

You snort. “Convincing.”

He shoots you a dirty look out of the corner of his eye. “Will you leave me alone, woman?”

You roll your eyes, removing your hand and shifting back to your side of the car with a quiet sigh. When he gets grumpy like this, you’ve found over the years it’s best to just leave him to mope.

You drive in silence for a while, staring out the windshield and not bothering to keep your face polite. Eventually, you hear Gator muttering to himself, and your attention snags on the noise.

“Nosy old hags.”

“What?” you ask, brow crinkling. 

Gator doesn’t repeat himself, but you heard him clearly enough the first time.

“You’re upset about Mrs. Pearson and the ladies?” you surmise, voice flat. For goodness’ sake, he could have just told you that.

“They’re sticking their damn noses where they don’t belong,” he finally snaps, the one hand he has on the steering wheel gripping the leather. 

“That’s just what they do, Gator,” you say mildly. “That’s who they are. They gossip about everyone in town, not just us.”

“Yeah, well, they can say what they want about all those other assholes, but not about me ‘n you,” he bites, his jaw ticking again.

You fight another sigh and take his free hand in both of yours, squeezing it. “They’re not being nasty. They’re just old women.”

The words have the opposite of their intended effect of calming him. Gator’s voice rises as he snaps, “Well, what goddamn business of theirs is it when we’re havin’ any fuckin’ kids? We’re not even hitched yet, and they’re breathin’ down our necks.”

You exhale through your nose, wishing silently he wasn’t so sensitive when it came to what other people thought. “Well, when you’ve been together for three years, those are the kind of questions people ask, Gate. Marriage, kids. I mean, we live together, baby. It’s not totally crazy.”

“So you’re on their side, then?” he demands, head whipping between you and the road.

You stare back at him, starting to be irritated. “I’m on your side, always. You know that.”

“Then why are you fuckin’ defending them?”

“I’m just saying they didn’t do anything wrong, Gator,” you huff, withdrawing your hands again. “They’re just nosy. If you don’t wanna hear any gossip, we’re gonna need to find another place to live.”

“Like hell they aren’t doin’ shit wrong,” he fires back at you. “Draggin’ themselves into our business like that, basically asking when I’m finally gonna man up and knock you up–”

“Well, you don’t seem to mind the idea so much when you’re inside me, now do you?” you cut in flatly.

Gator whips his stare to yours. “The hell’s that s’posed to mean?”

You look back at him coolly, your displeasure evident. “I just didn’t think you found the idea of settling down with me so terrible. My mistake.”

“Don’t be like that,” he grunts.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think, Gator?” you challenge him. “You’re practically jumping down my throat for suggesting people aren’t totally crazy when they ask if we’ll ever have kids.” “They’re not askin’, they’re tellin’.” Gator snaps. “And I’m sorry, but I happen to think a man has a right to privacy ‘bout a few things, and puttin’ a baby in his woman is one of ‘em.”

Your lips tighten, and you look back out the windshield. “How romantic.”

“A man should get to decide when he wants all that shit to happen, alright?” he repeats himself loudly. Y’should get to do it in your own time.”

“Fine,” you cut in, now more than a little pissed with him. “Next time, I’ll just tell sweet old Mrs. Pearson to fuck right off.”

“Now that would be bein’ on my fuckin’ team,” he bites.

You shake your head, knowing arguing with him again about how disagreeing doesn’t diminish how you feel about him would be a moot point. “Whatever.”

“Y’could drop the attitude, you know,” he adds bitterly. “Don’t ‘whatever’ me.”

“Well, I guess I’m not your fuckin’ wife, so there’s no sense in me being all respectful and proper, now is there?” you spit back at him, crossing your arms.

Gator seethes to himself as you pull into your driveway, not looking at each other. 

“I’ve got a shift at the diner,” you inform him flatly, jumping down from the truck without waiting for him to open your door for you– something you know full well will piss him off even more. “I’m off at six. Don’t wait on me to eat dinner.”

“Really?” he snaps, following you into the house. “That’s it?”

“Guess so,” you toss over your shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to actually settle anything, would we?”

Gator lets you slam the door to the bedroom, changing swiftly into your work uniform. As you throw on your clothes, still steaming with anger at your mule-stubborn boyfriend, you can hear him mutter something unflattering at you through the door.

You’re still wearing a frown while pouring coffee three hours later, and nothing at work is helping to lighten your mood. 

Two of your regulars have already told you to put a smile on your face, but you can’t help it. You hate fighting with Gator. As much as things have calmed down in recent years between the two of you, as much as you’ve settled into each other and smoothed over so many dangerous cracks, every now and again, something like this will come up and you’ll feel like the two of you are right back to square one. 

You move back through the diner and behind the counter again, coffee pot in hand. Your eyes sweep the tables for empty cups, which means you catch it when the door opens and the tiny bell above it rings, announcing the presence of your newest customer just as surely as the heavy tread of his combat boots.

Eyes pointedly cast down, you focus on refilling three more mugs as Gator strides up to the counter, sliding into a barstool and leaning on his elbows over the table. 

“Hey, mama,” he greets you, and you can tell from his voice alone he’s already over your fight. He’s grinning, actually, just like he always is when he stops in mid-patrol for a quick pour and a kiss or two from you. He’s always been so good at putting arguments like this behind him– like whatever tiny thing had had him cursing and spitting a few hours ago had faded completely to the back of his mind. You hate that he does that. It’s like he can’t understand how not to move on without resolution. 

“Hey, yourself,” you toss back flatly, still not meeting his eyes. You ignore the way he’s clearly leaned toward you and refill the coffee of the customer to his right. 

Gator’s eyes track you, scanning over your face. “What, you’re not gonna greet your boyfriend?” he asks, that shit-eating grin still painted on his lips. “Gimme a kiss.”

“I only kiss my boyfriends who are nice to me,” you intone, sliding the coffee pot back into the machine. It’s a low blow, and you know it– alluding to your made-up other boyfriends. But it still gets under Gator’s skin every time, that jealousy he can’t seem to stifle.

“So you’re still pissed at me, then,” he surmises, leaning back and digging in the pocket of his tactical vest for something. 

You point a finger at him, that heady anger rushing back to you. “Gator Tillman, if you pull that disgusting vape out of your pocket–”

He pulls free a different pen– one of the fake ones you introduced him to when he finally gave into all your pleading for him to quit nicotine. He holds it up as if in surrender. “Relax, babe. It’s just the bullshit one.” He takes a hit off of it, though if it actually calms him down, you wouldn’t know.

Unimpressed, you move over to the cash register, counting and stacking your receipts just to have something to do. 

“So, what, you never gonna talk to me again?” he teases you, clearly nonplussed by your bad mood. 

It works to piss you off even more– the fact he’s brushing off your annoyance like it means nothing. Like there was no reason for it in the first place. 

“Depends, are you gonna apologize for losing it on me earlier?” you muse, flicking between receipts.

Gator’s amusement finally fades, and he slips off the barstool to come around the cash register. “Don’t see what I’ve gotta apologize for.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “Yeah, you never really do, do you?”

“Hey,” he cuts in, “You were the one defending those old bags.”

You scowl, rounding on him. “Oh, will you just drop that? I wasn’t defending anyone.”

“Yes, you fuckin’ were,” he argues, glaring down at you. 

“Why can’t you ever just admit you were too harsh and apologize?” you demand, shooting daggers at him with your eyes even as he towers over you. 

“Maybe I would if you quit flappin’ your fuckin’ mouth!” he fires back. “God, d’you have to be such a bitch about it?”

Shock flashes through you, and you scoff, bewildered. Dangerously, you ask him, “You wanna rethink a couple of those words?”

“Nah, I don’t think I do,” he spits, looking you up and down. 

You clench your jaw, fighting back the sting in your eyes that’s telling you tears are coming whether you like it or not. God, this man frustrates you so much sometimes you could scream. “Great. Then I guess we don’t have anything else to talk about.”

“Great,” he says back, tone nasty. “I’ll finally get some peace and goddamn quiet.”

You huff an incredulous laugh, turning away. “Have a great shift, Gator,” you tell him bitterly, not meaning a word. 

“I’ll see you at home,” he promises, stalking away. 

You don’t check behind you after the bell rings– you know he’s gone. And you know he won’t look back.

Perched on a stool at the counter of the least shitty dive bar in town, you clutch your drink, the ice biting against your fingers. 

You’ve been here almost an hour, and your mood hasn’t significantly lifted, despite how you’ve been faking smiles with your friends and tossing down liquor to try and stifle the endless repeat track of your boyfriend’s callous words. It’s almost 7:30. He’ll be waiting up at home for you when you get back, and if you know anything about Gator, you know he’ll be furious. 

You don’t care. Let him have a taste of his own medicine– let him be the one getting hurt for a change. If he didn’t care to communicate like an adult, then you shouldn’t have to, either.

“Babe,” one of your friends calls to you, voice raised over the blaring music. “You’re being a total buzzkill. You sure you don’t wanna just head home?”

In times like these, even in your dismal mood, you can’t help but consider yourself exceptionally lucky for your friends. When you pulled the group of waitresses aside after Gator left the diner and asked if they wanted to grab drinks after work, they must have seen your expression and knew you needed it more than you let on. They agreed instantly, and now here you are– utterly failing at distracting yourself despite their best efforts.

You shake yourself, trying to escape your self-pity and lingering resentment. “No, no– sorry. Those shots just haven’t kicked in yet.” Your friend’s face tells you she sees through it, but she just sips from her colorful drink with a rueful smile. “That handsome boyfriend of yours isn’t gonna show up and kill us for stealing you away tonight, is he?”

Knowing Gator, that wasn’t entirely out of the question. You smile behind your glass as you tell her, “Don’t worry about it. If he’s got something to say, he can say it to me.”

“I hope I didn’t just hear the word boyfriend.”

A voice from behind you makes you twist slightly in your seat, and a man you’ve never seen before sidles up to you and slides into the barstool to your left. “Never seen you before, gorgeous. Where’d you come from?”

You flatten your eyes slightly, hoping he’ll take the hint you’re not interested. While you’re usually alright pushing your limits with Gator, appearing to flirt with another clueless guy at a bar would be about four steps over the final line. “My gunowner boyfriend’s house,” you supply mildly. “How ‘bout you?”

The guy points back to the other side of the room, unphased. “I came from over there once I saw that pretty little skirt on you. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Pretty sure my tag says ‘property of Gator Tillman’,” you tell him. The name alone should put some kind of nerves into this guy if he has any sense at all. “If found, please call 1-800-bite me, I’m taken. Nice meeting you.” You turn back to your friend, hoping he’ll just cut his losses and move on.

“Well, hang on a second, sweetheart–” the man goes on, reaching out and grabbing your forearm. 

Your head whips back to him, brows raising in shock he actually touched you. You make to rip your arm away from him, but it turns out, when you’re Gator Tillman’s girlfriend, you don’t have to. 

You watch as the man is yanked forcefully off his barstool and pulled to his feet. Gator’s standing there like an apparition, fury contorting his face as he grips the man’s shirt in his fist and shoves him up against the bar before he can regain his balance. 

“You heard her, shitbird,” he tells him, voice low and face inches from the poor idiot’s. “Now get lost before I put you in the fuckin’ ground.” The man pales, nodding once. Gator releases him with one last shove, watching as he hurries back across the crowded bar. And then he turns back to you, and all that fury finds a new target. 

Between the booze and your lingering anger, seeing him again is a head rush. You can’t tell if you’re grateful for the intervention or annoyed he’s here or anxious about the fight that’s building between you like an oncoming storm. 

Your friend must sense the tension, because she squeezes your shoulder and slips off her barstool with a farewell smile. You can’t bring yourself to care too particularly much when Gator’s still looking at you like that. 

“Been all over fuckin’ town lookin’ for you,” he starts, barely-controlled anger in his voice. “You don’t come home, and this is where you’ve been all night?”

“The girls and I were just getting some drinks after work,” you explain, a little quieter than you mean to. Oh, he’s mad– just about as angry as you’ve ever seen him. You can’t help the little thrill it sends through you. 

“And you didn’t think to call and tell me that?” he challenges, towering over you where you still sit on the barstool, muscles tight with anticipation. “Didn’t think you’d let me know you weren’t fuckin’ kidnapped? You know how worried I’ve been?”

“It’s been an hour,” you drawl, sipping from your drink. “I’m hardly a missing person's case.” 

You can tell from the deepening scowl that that was the wrong answer. Gator points to the bar door, eyes not leaving yours. “Get your ass in gear. Let’s go.”

“I’m not done with my drink,” you tell him stubbornly, fingers tight against the glass.

He rips it out of your hand and knocks the rest of it back, the ice reverberating through it as he slams it back down on the counter. “And now you are.”

You scowl at him, the liquor finally giving you some courage. “I’m not through here, Gator. I want to stay.”

He takes a shallow breath through his nose, in and out. “I wasn’t askin’, mama. Now get in the fuckin’ car.”

“No,” you tell him, firing the word between you.

His brows lift, and he laughs humorlessly, low and harsh. “Some fuckin’ attitude on you tonight. I ain’t gonna say it again, baby. Get in the car.”

The pet name in contrast to the sharp tone does what it always does and riles you. As you stare down your boyfriend, you decide that, today, you might just be angry enough to push back. “No,” you say again, plain and stubborn.

The corner of Gator’s mouth twitches up, his face still hard and set. There’s no humor to be found there, and that particular fact feels more thrilling than the liquor does. 

“I warned ya,” he sighs, like he’s giving in— as if he’s ever once done that.

And then his hands are on you, pawing your waist and throwing you over his shoulder.

You yelp at the sudden movement as he lurches you both to his feet, gripping your thighs as he hauls you back through the bar. 

“Gator!” you yell in shocked protest, not caring how badly the two of you are making a scene. “Put me down, you asshole!”

“Since you don’t wanna listen, guess you need a little help,” he tells you, his voice gratingly calm. His hands are a vice grip on your bare legs, even while you thrash around. You beat at his back, your hair getting in your face and the buzz of alcohol not helping with keeping your head straight any more than the rapid motion. “Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t let me go–”

“Yell all you want, mama,” he muses as he directs you both through the crowded bar tables. “These assholes aren’t gonna do shit. They know you’re with me.”

As arrogant as the statement is, he’s probably right. If they didn’t recognize Gator’s face and know better than to interject already, they’d sure recognize the Stark County Sheriff's Deputy badge pinned to his chest. Deep-rooted frustration roils in you, and you squirm even more against the arm he has pinning your legs.

“You’d better knock that off, pretty,” he tells you, a warning in his deep voice.

“Or what?” you spit.

You can almost hear the wicked smile in his voice as he replies, “Or I might just have to take you to the bathroom and fuck that attitude outta ya.”

“Pig,” you hiss at him, scowling even as warmth coils in your gut at the words– at what’s probably waiting for you at home as a punishment for your misbehavior. 

He doesn’t set you down until you’re right next to his truck, haphazardly parked in one of the first open spots in the bar parking lot. You wonder how long he drove around looking for you before he thought to come here– wonder how long he waited in the house pretending old wounds weren’t being poked by your absence. For a second, a flicker of guilt runs through you. Sure, your boyfriend isn’t exactly a paragon of emotional stability. But you could have done better than you have tonight to fight that.

Gator releases you and reaches around you to yank open your door. 

Your cheeks flushed, you stand before him stubbornly and cross your arms, refusing to move. He’s placed himself in between you and any possible escape, fencing you into the truck.

“Get in the car,” he orders you again, face entirely uncompromising. 

You’re a little drunk, and your resolve is cracking, but you still manage to glare up at him. “Isn’t there something you wanna say first?” 

“You want an apology outta me after the shit you just pulled?” he demands, brows shooting up. “You’re lucky I don’t lock you up after a stunt like that.” “You don’t own me, Gator,” you remind him, scowling into his stern face.

“That’s not what you were saying to that idiot back there,” Gator challenges, his dangerous voice purring.

You flush harder, wishing you had more faculty over your words. “I’m not going with you until you apologize.”

His eyes flash, all the pushback getting to him. “We’ll talk when you’re safe at home. Now get in the fuckin’ car.”

You falter slightly at the offer to talk. He’s learning– you know he is. A year ago, he’d have brushed this whole thing under the rug, chalked it up to some kind of female dramatics. But now, even if your ‘talking’ is probably gonna amount to another screaming match and some makeup sex… well, you suppose communication takes many forms.

He sees your hesitation and settles slightly, jerking his head to the seat. “Don’t make me throw you in there.” You shoot him one last dirty look and relent, climbing into the truck and taking your seat indignantly. 

Gator slams the door behind you, telling you through the open window, “S’like wrangling a fuckin’ bobcat with you.”

You’re still sulking when you pull into the driveway of your home, the lights in the living room still on like Gator didn’t bother turning down the house before he left. He must have been worried. That guilt flips through you again. 

Gator walks behind you into the house, and although he doesn’t say it, you know it’s probably so he can catch you if you drunkenly stumble. Always so protective, this one– even when he’s infuriated with you.

You sigh as you pad through the entryway, tossing the bag stuffed with your work clothes by the shoe rack haphazardly. You hear Gator’s keys hit the dish, but you don’t turn back to look at him– just make your way to the kitchen and pull a water bottle from the fridge, drinking from it deeply to clear your throat. 

Gator sheds his leather jacket and throws it over the hook by the door before stalking into the kitchen after you. You eye him coolly as he comes up to the counter, his hands resting on it as he watches you back. 

“So, you gonna tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing tonight?” he starts, his voice already harsh. 

“Drinks,” you tell him again, taking another swig of water. “With my friends. Told you.”

Gator runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. Out of his heavy uniform, when he’s as rumpled as he is now, he’s nowhere near as intimidating as most people find him. “You told me you were off at six,” he barks. “I get home, no call, no text, and you’re out with your fuckin’ girlfriends like it’s goddamn mardi gras.”

“It was one fucking hour,” you gripe, fingers locked around the plastic of your water bottle.

“I don’t give a damn,” Gator snarls, planting his hands on the counter and leaning toward you. “You don’t just run out on me. Plans change, then you call me and let me know and then I come and haul your ass out of the bar.”

You know where this fear comes from– know what he’s getting at, know why he’s ordering you so uncompromisingly. But maybe you’re too drunk and heady with anger to care, because once again, you can’t help but keep pushing. “Maybe I just didn’t want to talk to you, ever think about that?”

“You’re the one always harpin’ on me about communicating, aren’t ya?” he drawls, that dangerous edge still in his tone. 

“Well, forgive me if I don’t have a strong interest in sitting here and letting you call me names over things that aren’t my fault,” you spit, and to your frustration, you feel your eyes start to prick again at the memory of what he called you this morning. 

His jaw ticks, his lips pressing together. “You know damn well I didn’t mean that.”

“I have yet to hear you say so,” you challenge, face twisting. “I guess it’s just fine that you call me a bitch and tell me to shut my mouth? That’s just fine now?”

You see his hackles raise– see frustration and aggression fight for dominance in his expression before he finally relents– retreats just an inch for you. “I’m sorry,” he says firmly. “You bring it outta me when you push me like that. You know that.”

You shake your head, still not satisfied. “You can’t just lash out at me ‘cause you’re pissed with someone else. I’m not your proxy for the bridge ladies, Gator.”

“I know that,” he snaps, some of the softness fading. “I know you’re not sayin’ what they’re sayin’!”

“Then why are you yelling at me?” you spread your hands, incredulous.

He drags his hand through his hair again, aggravated. “I’m not–”

“You are,” you argue. “You are, Gator. I mean, why can’t you just talk to me about it?”

“I’m sick of fuckin’ talkin’ about it!” he yells. “I’m sick of all these people and their pushin’– all the little hints and nudges and tellin’ me what to do!”

“Who’s been saying that?” you plead with him, shaking your head. “It’s a couple of old ladies, Gator. It doesn’t matter what they think.”

“It’s not just them, it’s everyone!” he argues, still steaming. You can almost see that anger bubbling up in him– though, once again, you can tell you’re not its intended target. “Roy was on my ass about it this morning, too,” Gator spits out bitterly. “Talkin’ about makin’ an honest woman outta you. Carryin’ on the family name and all that horseshit.”

You fall quiet, the pieces clicking into place; the true reason for Gator’s bad mood this morning, his reason for coming over to sit with you in the first place. The pressure you can almost see in the set of his shoulders, the burdens he doesn’t realize he willingly takes on, the impossible expectation you’ve tried so hard to teach him to forget. But as long as Roy is here, some things will cut too deep into Gator for even you to mend. And this, the ‘pushing’ he keeps bucking, is about something bigger than the words you’ve thrown at each other tonight.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, and for the first time tonight, you really mean it. “He shouldn’t have said that. You’re right, it’s none of their business.”

You watch as Gator deflates slightly, the calmness of your voice finally working on him. 

“You can’t let it get to you like this,” you go on, brow creasing. “You can’t let him get in your head, baby, it’s—“

“You fucking try it,” he fires at you.

Your expression hardens again. “You don’t see me losing my shit when those people say I'm nothing more than a good housewife in the making.”

“That shit is different and you know it,” he says, thrusting a finger at you. “You know that’s not you. You play that game, but you know that’s not you.”

He’s still pushing— still fighting you. And, just now, it feels as heartbreaking as anything else he’s done, especially when it comes to this— to the little hopes you've fed each other, the plans you’d thought were in the making. That’s what finally gets you— finally makes you blurt it out. “Why is this such an issue for you?” you make out, and your voice cracks as you say it. You're reminded of the fact you’re still a little drunk as tears pool in your eyes, threatening to spill down your face.

Gator sees it, too. His expression creases, and he tears his eyes away, his resolve all but completely breaking. It’s the one thing he’s never been able to stand— you crying. The second he sees he’s pushed you there, the second your voice starts to wobble, he can’t take it– he always relents.

He heaves a sigh, his face falling and his shoulders drooping. “Baby– baby, why are you crying? Come on, don’t– don’t cry.”

The words do nothing to help matters. Tears fall swiftly down your cheeks, and you reach up to brush them away just as quickly. “Do you–” you take a breath, your voice weak with emotion. “I mean, do you… not want that with me?” You feel idiotic– naive. That quiet dream you keep locked away in your chest, that fantasy of a rowdy reception hall blaring music and a carseat in the back of the truck and tiny, sticky hands gripping a camo pant leg… maybe it was only ever that: a beautiful, foolish dream. But after three years, what else could you expect? How could you not have pictured it all with this boy who’s taken possession of you?

His expression contorts, confusion flashing in his eyes. “That’s what you think?” he demands.

“That’s how you make it sound, Gator!” You cry, hands flying to wipe furiously at your face. “That’s what it sounds like when you act like it’s so offensive that people think we’re gonna be a family one day!” You watch as that one word– family– hits him square in the chest. “You’re not gettin’ it,” he shakes his head, his voice infinitely quieter. “You don’t get it, doll.”

“You’re damn fucking right, I don’t!” you snap back, sniffing. 

“I just–” Gator turns from the counter again, frustration choking his voice. “I just can’t listen to any more of these fuckers tell me what to do. Not about this. Not about you.”

You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. 

“Listen,” he tells you, suddenly insistent. Like he can’t stand it any longer, he rounds the counter toward you, stopping just before you. His hand comes up to fit over your jaw, almost covering the lower part of your face. He’s holding you there, forcing you without pain or aggression to look up at him. It’s possessive in its utter gentleness. “I don’t have a lot ‘a shit that’s mine,” he tells you, and something in his eyes shifts, melts a little. “But you? You and me, baby? That’s just mine. That belongs to me, you understand?”

A pathetic noise, a tiny gasping sob, works its way out of your mouth. Gator’s fingers are firm and warm on your face as he holds you, rooting you in place with that one hand. 

“I want this because I want it,” he says, low and clear. “Not ‘cause I'm told to. Not as somethin’ my dad’s makin’ me do for him. I want you ‘cause I love you like nothin’ I’ve ever felt.”

You’re trembling, heart stuttering at the admission. Your hands come up to grip his arms, needing something to stabilize you.

“No one else gets to tell me to love you,” he says fiercely, staring down into your face. “No one gets to tell me what to want. I pick you.” His hand slips into your hair, cupping the back of your head, and he pulls you into him, crushing you into his chest.

You let out another sob, arms coming around him immediately. You clutch him back, your feet nearly lifted off the ground by the strength of his embrace. But you need it– you’ve always needed Gator’s force, his violence. You need his hands, his words, his love imprinted onto your skin in red lines like sleep marks, the intensity existing as the proof that it’s real.

“I love you,” you choke out, eyes fluttering shut. 

Gator’s fingers scratch at your scalp, his strong arms tight around you. “Don’t you ever run out on me again.”

You hear the desperation in his voice, much as he might try to hide it. “Couldn’t if I wanted to,” you whisper, drawing back to look up at him. 

He’s so serious when your eyes meet again– his face drawn and pensive. One of your hands comes up to brush over his cheek, marvelling at the unexpected softness of his skin. “Fuck ‘em all,” you tell him, a smile flitting across your lips. “You and I are on our own timeline.”

He turns his head into your hand, nuzzling your palm. “I love you,” he says again, the words a grumble in his chest.

That naive, perfect dream is back in your chest, stronger and more insistent than before. As you stare up at Gator, his face softer than you might ever have hoped, you feel it softly glow.

---

You two had gone on a couple dates and Steve did his usual moves. A protective hand on you at all times. Your waist, over your shoulders or holding your hand. He always planned the dates down to the smallest detail. He picked you up, dropped you home. You didn’t have to lift a finger.

Whenever you two kissed, he initiated. He wanted you to know how much he wanted you. He would hold the sides of your face to keep you where he needed you. His mouth insistent, not pushy, but he was the one in control.

The first time you had sex he thought it would be the usual routine. He’d get you going, wet and ready for him, maybe even make you cum once before going in. You’d scream out his name and he would love the sound. It would be good, it was always good, because Steve knew how to take control.

But you. You had other ideas.

When he laid you down on his sheets, slotting between your legs, you braced your thighs either side of his hips and flipped the two of you so you were on top.

The noise that left Steve’s mouth was one he had before only ever made when he was in pain—he whimpered. This time not because he was in pain but because he liked it. The smirk that crept on your face at his reaction told him you did too.

Before he knew it, you had stripped him completely naked. You had kissed pretty much every inch of him from the waist up and he longed for you to go lower. And he told you, begged you. He lost track of how many ‘please’s you had pulled from his lips.

You were perched on top of him, still in your bra and panties giving you a sense of control over him. You needed it, otherwise you would also totally lose it. The picture beneath you could have been hung in the Louvre. Steve Harrington, swollen lips, hair sticking out in all directions, making the prettiest, most desperate noises. All for you.

When you finally took his cock in your hand, his hips jumped up chasing your touch. Steve moaned like it was the first time he had ever been touched there. He threw his head back into the pillows.

“Shh, it’s okay Stevie.” Your voice was low as you leaned down to whisper in his ear. “Let me take care of you.”

That was all Steve really wanted to hear–and he didn’t even know it until the words left your lips and infected his mind.

You touched him agonisingly slow.

“Ugh, please, faster please.” Steve whined, each word punctuated with a panting breath.

You gave in to him for a moment, moving your fist faster, smearing his leaking fluids over him. You wanted him to look like even more of a mess than he already was.

You let go when he started to twitch and Steve’s head shot up to glare at you, his big beautiful eyes dark with longing.

“Wh- why’d you stop?”

You didn’t indulge him with a response. You climbed a little further up him and dragged your still clothed folds up the underside of his painfully hard cock.

“Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.” Steve always had such a way with words.

You bit down on your bottom lip to stifle your own moans. You didn’t want anything interfering with hearing his. Although that would be hard to do as they had gotten so very loud.

You rubbed yourself up and down his shaft, the tip bumping into your clit every now then making the both of you shiver with pleasure.

Steve’s hands gripped your hips. His fingers dug into your sides like he was trying to take a piece of you to save for later. You felt so warm against him and he needed more. So did you. You had completely soaked through your underwear, the friction felt good but it wasn’t enough. But you wanted him to beg you to take him

“You’re fucking killing me.” Steve finally was able to string some words together.

You brought your hands up to rest either side of his head on the mattress, holding yourself up, hovering your face over his, not stopping the movement of your hips.

“Tell me what you need baby, I wanna make you feel good.” You said. How did your voice sound so sweet while doing such dirty things to him.

Steve’s eyes were scrunched shut, he couldn’t quite find the words. His head was so full and so empty all at the same time.

You grabbed his chin with one of your hands to keep his head in your direction.

“Look at me Steve.” Your voice was much more stern than just a few seconds before. “Look at me and tell me what you want.”

He opened his eyes and your were right there. Your eyes reflecting that dark longing back at him.

“I, ah, I want.” He let out a something between a hum and a moan before continuing. “I need to be inside you, please.”

You smashed your mouth on to his. It was all hot breath and saliva. You were both finally getting what you really needed.

“Good boy.” You said against his lips. You gave his cheek a playful slap before pulling away. Steve let out another whimpering moan, you had unlocked a door inside him he didn’t know was there–and god damn did he love it.

You climbed off him to take off the last remaining shreds of your clothing as quickly as you could. Steve might have sounded like the desperate one but inside your head was screaming to feel the fill of him inside you.

Steve had shuffled slightly up the bed to rest his back against the head board. He held his cock in his hand, not daring to move it, waiting for you.

You crawled back on top of him, placing your hand over his on his dick as you both guided him to your entrance. You sank down on him about half way before the stretch became too much.

“Steve… you’re so big.” You moaned out loud losing all composure at the size of him.

It wasn’t like he hadn’t heard that from girls before but something about the way you said it felt so different and the words went straight to his dick as it twitched inside you. Steve usually took things pretty slow when it came to penetration, giving his partners time to adjust but he usually wasn’t this worked up before doing it.

“Please keep going.” He begged.

Steve’s hips thrusted up into you but you held them down wanting to take him at your own pace.

“Be patient big boy.” You teased having regained some of your sanity after acclimating to his thickness.

You looked deep into his eyes as you slowly took the rest of him. You let go of his hips to grab his shoulders. His hands sprawled across your back bringing you closer into his chest.

You both took a moment to relish in the feeling of the other. All notions off who was in control completely dissipated and you kissed again. Your tongues worked together to fuel the passion between you. You were both hot, sweaty, breathless, and right on the edge.

“I’m not gonna last long.” Steve admitted, something he hadn’t said to a girl since he lost his virginity. He didn’t even care that it sounded pathetic, he wanted to totally submit to you without holding anything back.

“Me neither.” You replied with a small giggle. Steve’s eyes lit up as he smiled knowing you were just as wrecked as him.

With that you ground your hips into him and you felt him everywhere. Your clit brushed against his perfectly groomed patch of hair. You then lifted yourself almost completely off him before taking him fully again.

Steve let out a strangled groan, his hands moving frantically over your body as if he was trying to stop himself from floating away.

“Tell me how it feels.” You loved hearing him moan but you also loved to listen to him try to string a sentence together.

“So, so good, you feel so fucking good ugh.” Steve’s voice was breathless but now you had got him talking he couldn’t stop. “So warm and, ah, wet and warm and god, ugh shit keep going.” He rambled.

You rode him like you were on a mission, and you were.

“You feel so good too Stevie.” You praised, his hips thrusting to meet yours in response to the nickname. “Mmm yes! You’re doing so good.”

Your brought your hands up to slide through his hair, stopping at the back of his scalp holding on to help give you some leverage. It was no surprise to you that Steve responded with another whimper, he loved having his hair pulled. The sound went straight to your core and you clenched around him.

“Oh fuck! I’m-“ Steve surprised both of you as he came. He held your body against his as he came inside you, warmth filled placed you didn’t even know you had.

You continued to circle your hips, grinding his release out of him while chasing your own. You felt Steve’s chest rise and fall against you rapidly. You rested your forehead against his bringing your hands around to cradle his face.

“You did so good for me baby.” You spoke as be breathed hot air directly into your mouth.

Steve swallowed hard trying, and failing, to bring himself back to earth. But he was still deep inside you, you grinding on his cock trying to get yourself off.

He moved his hand between the two of you, reaching for your sensitive bundle of nerves. You both gasped as he found it and you clenched around his softening cock.

“Ugh right there, make me cum Stevie.”

His hand matched your rhythm as you ground yourself on his fingers. The feeling was absolutely euphoric and it wasn’t long until you came down his cock and over his fingers.

You collapsed onto him, head resting on his shoulder and he was finally able to catch up with his breath.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, just listening to his heartbeat return to a normal pace.

“I think that was the best orgasm I’ve ever had.” Steve broke the silence first.

You lifted your head up to look at him.

“Really?” You replied with a tone of such sincerity and the biggest smile on your face that it made Steve’s heart swell.

“Yeah.” Steve had no choice but to return a big wide smile to you, he tucked a lose strand of hair behind your ear. “I’ve never been so…” Steve paused, trying to find the right word. “Whiney. I’m sorry if it was too much.”

“Steve, are you kidding? You being a whimpering mess was probably the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Just when you thought Steve couldn’t get any god damn cuter, he blushed. You kissed him softly this time, both of you smiling against each other.

You had become so familiar with the feeling of him that you had forgotten that he was still inside you until you shifted in his lap and winced at the sensitivity. Steve lifted you off him carefully and helped you to lay beside him. You couldn’t help but blush at the ease at which he lifted you.

“I’ll be right back.” Steve said with a kiss to your temple and he scarpered off the bed into another room.

He so quickly returned to that caring, attentive nature he showed you on your dates. As you waited for him to return you smiled to yourself knowing you got to see a side of Steve that he hadn’t shown to anyone.

Steve came back in the room with a damp cloth to clean you up. He gently ran it between your thighs, you flinched at the coldness of it but he placed a warm kiss to your hip bone afterwards that spread through you like fire. You both tucked yourselves under his covers, laying facing one another.

Steve had the absolute biggest, dopeyest smile spread across his face.

“I uh, I hope I’m not being too forward when I say this.” Steve went quiet, slightly shy now even after what you both had done just minutes ago. “I know we’ve only been on a few dates but, I really like you.”

You very quickly eased his nerves by brushing his hair out of his eyes so you could see more of his gorgeous face.

“I really like you too Steve.”

You thanked the woman and returned the phone to the receiver. As you scribbled down the last few details, the ink from your pen ran dry. With a sigh, you tossed it in the trash, praying the last few words were legible enough for Robin. One final glance around the office, you flicked the lights off and exited into the studio area. 

Dustin stood near the equipment rack, checking one of the meters that Steve reported as ‘wonky’. The boy had given you both an earful about technical terms and what you actually needed to radio him for versus what could wait. Steve ended up apologizing to you for Dustin’s tone, but you brushed it off, claiming that he was a kid clearly going through something. 

“Hey, Dusty?” You called out to the boy as you sat up properly on the couch. 

He didn’t bother to glance back at you when he replied, “Only my mom calls me Dusty.”

“Oh… sorry,” You were quick to apologize. Something that Steve, Robin, and really everyone else had noticed, only to tell you not to apologize for existing. But sometimes existing among Steve and his friends felt like walking into a party you hadn’t been invited to. It was hard to tell whether Dustin disliked you or had anything favorable to say about you. Steve had shared that Dustin had lost a close friend when the rift struck Hawkins, but didn’t elaborate further. You didn’t feel comfortable pressing anyone for the details either.

The boy sighed and got back up to his feet. He crossed over to begin packing away his tools in the bookbag sitting on the coffee table. Then Dustin offered you a quick glance and sighed, “What’s up?”

You leaned forward, placing your notepad on the table for him to see, “The town’s still hosting the Fourth of July fair this year. I think it’d be a great night for the whole gang!”

Dustin immediately cringed at the idea and watched your shoulders deflate at his reaction. He pressed his lips together before shaking his head, “I… appreciate the suggestion, but Steve and some of the others just… well, they don’t do well with fireworks.”

Confusion crossed your face. Neither Steve nor Robin had ever mentioned this to you, though they didn't necessarily have to. You were three months into living together, and presumed something like this would’ve been mentioned at least in passing. 

“So he’s scared of fireworks?” You asked. 

Your question lacked judgment, something that Dustin was slightly surprised by: “I don’t know if scared is the right word, but… last Fourth of July was a little… crazy, as you might know.”

“Because of the mall fire?” You pressed further. You didn’t mean to, but there was always the pile of unanswered questions that sat in the back of your mind, worrying you. It was silly to be so anxious, because of course the party would have stories they’d rather not share, but that knowledge didn’t help. The insecurity had already planted itself. 

Dustin just nodded, exhaustion settling under his eyes, “Yeah, the mall fire. It just… It changed something in Steve, but don’t ask him about it, and please don’t tell him I said anything. I don’t need him on my ass more than he already is.”

You took the underlying hint in his phrase. With a smile and easy nod, you thanked him, “Of course, of course. We can always just hang out at Harrington’s pool, too. Nix the fireworks and load up on soda.”

That made Dustin crack a hint of a smile, and you’d accept the small victory. 

The ‘ON AIR’ sign flashed once, then turned off completely, signaling that Robin and Steve were at a break in the broadcast. With a wave to Dustin, you made your way into the booth, your hip nudging the door open. 

Steve was slipping off his headphones, and a wide grin stretched across his lips. That was something small you had grown to appreciate: the way Steve always smiled when you entered the room. Robin, on the other hand, looked practically miserable. 

“Whoa! Rough night?” You asked as the door closed behind you. 

Robin sighed and flung herself back against her designated rolling chair. The heels of her palms rubbed against her eyes, “Yeah, you could say that. My mom is a menace.”

You gave her a sympathetic look, knowing that the mother-daughter duo never truly had the best relationship. “I’m sorry ‘bout that. We can chat after the afternoon broadcast if you’d like? What about a movie night? We can kick Stevie out and watch Sixteen Candles, again.”

“Hey, it’s my house,” Steve interjected with a playful scoff.

“And?” You teased in retaliation, lightly slapping his bicep with the back of your hand. 

Where you might have felt on the outskirts of the full party, it felt like home to be with Steve and Robin. Nancy and Jonathan were slowly warming up to you, but Robin had explained that they were amidst a ‘lover’s quarrel’. Despite the chaos that surrounded you, life was slowly morphing into a new normal. 

“And you’re both a pain in my ass,” Steve huffed as he took a half step closer to you, your hips bumping as he snatched the note from your hands, “Whatcha got here?”

Steve’s other hand settled at your lower back, lingering there like it was the most natural thing in the world. You felt yourself freeze for a moment, the small action catching you off guard. Yet when his brown eyes trailed from your writing to find your gaze, the breath escaped your chest. A sense of comfort washed over you. These small, casual touches had slowly become part of your routine because Steve loved and cared for people. For him, being attentive to his friends was as natural as breathing. 

“Oh, um, it’s from town hall,” Your fingers fidgeted with the rings that adorned them, “I asked about any further stranger sightings or reports to animal control.”

“And?” Robin perked up, as if your answer would make or break her day. 

“And… nothing?” You answered, feeling your own excitement drain as Robin slumped once more, “Two weeks and no reports.”

“Well, no news is good news,” Steve shrugged, seemingly satisfied by your update. His soft gaze lingered on your face, “Anything else?”

“Oh, um, the actual reason they called was to say that the annual Independence Day fair is still happening, or Fourth of July carnival, whatever you call it…” You cleared your throat, feeling more flustered as you gestured to Robin, “Um, it’s all on the note. But they’d like you to announce it.”

“But we aren’t, like, required to attend, right?” She followed up, reaching for the paper. Steve’s hand rubbed a small circle against your back before he pulled away, arms crossing over his chest. Concern etched itself into his brow, and his eyes continued to shift between the two of you. 

The tone in the booth shifted from playful to something you couldn’t quite identify. Your fingers fiddled with the cuff of your sleeve. You didn’t look either of them in the eye as you spoke, “Um, no, the station isn’t expected to bring the van or anything. Just to make the announcement.”

Robin simply nodded, checking her watch, “Good, cause we have plans.”

Your ears perked up, glancing between Steve and Robin. You nodded, not questioning the statement. Despite befriending them and living with Steve, you tried to respect their boundaries. It was a problem rooted in insecurity, though you often brushed it off as being considerate of their space. Usually, their plans also included the party, so you were slightly surprised that Dustin hadn’t mentioned it either. Your voice was clipped, “Cool.”

Silence filled the booth. Unspoken words hung in the air, but you couldn’t identify how to ask the underlying question. Instead, you’d just make yourself scarce; your shift would be over soon anyway. Your thumb gestured to the booth door, “I’ll leave you with that. See ya…”

Your quick goodbye caught Steve by surprise, yet he could do nothing to stop it, really. They were supposed to be back on air in two minutes. His eyes darted over to his co-host, his jaw tight, “You didn’t have to phrase it like that, Robin.”

The blonde-haired girl shook her head and settled into the rolling chair once more. Her tone was short, her irritation now directed at Steve, “Like what? You’re the one who said that everything has to stay under wraps.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean you just cut her off. She’s still our friend, remember?” Steve huffed, moving between the soundboard and the stacked cassettes. 

“Our friend, huh? And what else was I supposed to say?” Robin tried to school her expression so that you wouldn’t pick up on their quarrel from the opposite side of the glass, “Sorry, babes, no can do for the Fourth of July Fair! Besides the fact that our entire friend group has a lot of trauma and hates loud noise and crowds, we are actually planning to do an illegal covert operation to spy on the military because we are also fully aware of what is happening in Hawkins, and we actually faced the super scary bad guy who is the reason that your house fell into the Earth and your family abandoned you.”

Steve's jaw dropped, “Jesus, Robin. You have to get over this eventually. Everyone agreed. It’s safer—”

“Safer for who?” Robin cut him off, “Safer for Eleven? Safer for you?”

His finger dug into the wooden countertop that the cassettes sat on as he attempted to conceal his frustration, “It’s safer for her. We might’ve won a battle, but we lost a damn lot. Now we're heading straight into a damn war, and I’m not making her a target. Not for the military, not for the demogorgans, and certainly not for Vecna. Max—”

Steve’s voice cracked. Not talking about Max in front of you had been the hardest part, not just for him, but for the boys, too. Keeping Eleven a secret was natural; they’d all been doing it for years. It was different with Max. Because she wasn’t dead, thank god, but you couldn’t really say that she was living while stuck in a coma. 

“Steve,” Robin was instantly back on her feet after queuing an additional song to extend their break. Her arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in for a tight hug, “What happened to Max wasn’t your fault. We all knew the risks.”

Steve couldn’t bring himself to agree or deny the statement. He had too much guilt in his heart, and only Robin had really seen the extent of it. But then you walked in and read him like a book. Despite not understanding his world, you understood him, and Steve needed that now more than anything. 

“Exactly,” he cleared his throat, thanking Robin with a nod of his head, “I know the risks. And I’m not taking them with her.”

— — —

A week later, you’ve got the Harrington House to yourself. 

It’s the Fourth of July, and while last year you were smushed into the ferriswheel with your drunk friends, this year is silent. The sun had finally begun its descent into the horizon. While the military ordinance had ordered only Hawkins’ City Officials to set off fireworks, plenty of folks had made their own makeshift firecrackers and sparklers. Hawkins FD would certainly have its hands full this year. 

As it turned out, the “plans” Robin and Steve had been for a night shift at the WSQK. Nancy had explained to you that the Mayor’s office called and asked that the evening broadcast be extended to include announcements and music from the fireworks show. You’d offered to assist anyway that they needed, but it was Steve who finally told you to take a night for yourself. 

“You always work so hard. You deserve to relax,” Steve had consoled you in the entryway earlier, “I left twenty bucks on the counter for pizza. Robin and I will be home by the time you wake up.”

“I just… I can come with and just be at the station? I’ll stay out of the way,” You looked at Steve earnestly, hoping he would understand why you didn’t want to be left alone. It was a topic that you usually steered him and the others away from. Talking about the rift and the days that followed was understandably a sore subject for all parties. 

He chuckled, brushing a hand over your bicep in soothing circles, “It’s sweet of you to offer, but everything will be fine. Besides, you’d be far more comfortable in your bed than on one of the station couches.”

Your eyes fell away from his face, flickering over towards the stairs. Your room, our house, home… These were all new additions to Steve’s vocabulary, like the idea that you living together was a natural thing that had happened. And though the small domestic expression made butterflies bloom in your stomach, there was the constant underlying anxiety that it could all be ripped away. 

“Steve—” You made one last plea. 

From outside, you both heard Robin laying on the horn of his Beamer, cutting off all conversation. Steve’s brow furrowed, a rough exhale escaping his nostrils. His eyes cut to the front door and back to you. With a final squeeze to your arm, he said his goodbyes, “I’ll see you in the morning.”

It took everything in him not to cave. To explain that it was safer for you just to be home by yourself tonight. That he was going fucking monster hunting while the party began their own campaign, they aptly named crawls. So Steve bit the inside of his cheek and kept walking, out the front door and to the Beamer, where Robin awaited in the passenger seat. 

“Took you long enough,” She huffed, arms crossed over her chest, “I was worried I’d have to drag you out of the house, but I didn’t need to see you two just keep making the same googly eyes at each other.”

“What are you – five?” Steve rolled his eyes, putting the gear shift in reverse, “And I don’t— she doesn’t—”

Robin clutched the door handle, mocking your goodbyes to each other, “Oh, Steve, please don’t leave me! I’m sorry, but I must! But why? Why go when you could be here in my arms?” “Shut up, we don’t talk like that. No one does,” He shook his head as he turned out of the neighborhood. His elbow rested against the windowsill as they continued towards the station. Steve was quiet for a moment before giving Robin a double take, “Am I really that obvious?”

You lingered on the front porch, watching as the maroon car drove out of your field of vision. The sun would be down within the hour, and you would be alone inside with a bottle of wine and a copy of Fast Times at Ridgemont High to keep you company. Honestly, you still weren’t sure why it was a top 5 movie for Robin when you considered The Breakfast Club to be far superior. 

But with your friends gone, the house was silent, like the very first night you stayed at the Harrington home. That was three months ago, and you hadn’t known your way around. Now, this was your home. Steve made it your home. But without him here, it was just another shelter from the gathering storm.

Two hours later, you were left with half a cheese pizza, an empty glass of wine, and the credits rolling. Outside, there was the occasional burst of fireworks or the screech from a roman candle. About fifteen minutes ago, a truck filled with teenagers loaded into the bed of it passed by, blasting Born in the U.S.A. You laughed, knowing the song's meaning definitely went over their heads. In some ways, life felt normal again, even if it looked a little different. 

The VHS tape had begun to rewind itself, plunging the house back into silence between each distant thunder of the fireworks. The house was dimly lit, and the darkness outside did little to satiate your anxiety as your eyes flicked around to each corner. It had always seemed like something watched in the shadows, waiting for the next opportunity to strike. But you had to remind yourself that your mind was just tricking you; that it was all in your head. 

At the next crack in the sky, you were on your feet, prodding towards the boombox sitting on the end table near the television. Even if you weren’t with your friend, you could at least listen to them. You turned the dial, yet when the index reached 94.5 FM, static hummed through the speakers. 

An exhausted huff escaped through your nose as you adjusted the antennas, blaming the interference on the small dent in the metal. When the signal still didn’t catch, you picked it up and moved towards the breakfast nook near the sliding glass doors that led to the backyard—still nothing. 

You switched it off and ran to the utility closet to find new batteries. When you returned with four fresh Type D batteries, you tested a couple of other stations in the surrounding towns. 88.9 FM. 101.5 FM. 97.3 FM. Hell, you even switched it over to 1450 AM for the military broadcast. 

Each frequency was clear. You could even hear the murmur of the fairground crowd while they played America the Brave before announcing ‘One Hour To Curfew’.

Finally, you dialed it back to 94.5 FM, ready to hear Rockin’ Robin make some sarcastic comment about try-hard patriotism. Yet you were still met with static. 

It didn’t make sense. If the military broadcast was running, why couldn’t you hear the Squawk?

Your eyes cut back to the emergency walkie that sat on the coffee table. You recalled Steve’s earlier instruction.

“I know you’re nervous about being alone at night,” he said, speaking to you with gentle reassurance. His knee brushed against yours as he presented the walkie to you, “But I’m one button away.”

“Why can’t I just call the station?” You asked as you accepted the walkie.

Steve gave you that half smile that appeared reserved only for you, “Because I’ll have my walkie with me in the booth. I’m being serious here.”

Your nose scrunched as you tried to hide your amusement, “So, just one click and you’re there?”

“Yep, but I am talking about emergencies. Like if a firework scorches the front yard or the military comes knocking – genuine emergencies,” His tone was sterner than he usually kept with you. Your eyes cut up to meet his, and for half a second, you thought you caught him glancing at your lips. But as his warm brown eyes held your gaze, he extended a pinky out to you. 

Something softened in your chest as you linked your fingers together in a silent promise.

Now, looking at the same walkie, you wondered if you should radio him. Just to ask if everything was okay or if they were getting interference again. It was an emergency, but it also wasn’t—

The shriek of an injured coyote pierced through the night, the cry coming from the woods behind the backyard bush line. Your eyes cut towards the hedges, searching for movement in the shadowed treeline. Your heart hammered against your chest as you waited, finally shutting off the static from the radio. 

Silence made it worse; it stretched each minute. A sudden sense of dread washed over you. You couldn’t explain it, but your survival instinct kicked in as you immediately shut all the blinds, blocking any onlookers. Next were the doors, both locks bolted shut on the front, back, and garage doors. 

Finally, you grabbed the walkie off the kitchen table and sought refuge in your bedroom. You double-checked the door lock before you finally willed yourself to breathe. You were just scared. It was all in your head. You were safe. 

The bedroom was dark, save for the small night light Steve had found in the attic for you. Outside, you heard a twig snap, and a bush rustled. You remained silent, ears tuned to listen for every small sound. A firework would burst against the night sky before the house plunged into stillness again, the difference almost deafening your senses. 

A chittering purr hummed lowly, cutting through the stillness of the night. On the far wall, the night light blinked once. Then twice. Outside, there was the faint scuff of nails scratching against the siding of the house. The night light flickered more, alternating between dim and bright light. 

You swooped to the opposite side of the room, yanking the light from the wall. The scratching continued; the instinct to hide took over all other rationality. You swiftly dropped to the bedroom floor, scurrying to conceal yourself under the queen bed. The chittering came again, now from outside your window on the second floor. 

Your palm covered your mouth, eyes shut tight as you waited… and waited…

A crack whipped across the sky – a final firework. A screech echoed, and suddenly the world was thrust into silence again. You slept on the floor beneath the bed that Fourth of July. 

— — —

The following days were tense. You were cordial with Steve and Robin. They had realized the next morning when you didn’t join them for breakfast or check on them in the booth during broadcast breaks. Any conversation was shut down before it could even start, and now, you chose to eat dinner in the Harringtons’ dining room instead of joining them on the TV trays in the living room. 

It had been six days of silence from you. Robin stopped staying over, too, sensing the tension that lingered. Steve was fraying at the seams from worry. 

You weren’t rude, you weren’t mean, just silent; Steve hated the silence. It was like all the progress you’d made had vanished overnight, and deep down, he knew it was partially his fault. That in his attempt to protect you from the reality of what Hawkins was facing, he was pushing you away. 

Robin had called earlier, asking if you were around to talk, but you dismissed both of them, blaming it on a sudden migraine. It wasn’t a complete lie. You often had migraines these days, but the military doctors simply noted it as a reaction to pressure changes in the atmosphere. 

It had been another silent dinner between the two of you. Steve attempted to extend the olive branch by joining you at the dining room table and telling you about a caller who reported that their neighbor’s hairless cat was harassing them. He awkwardly chuckled to himself as you pushed the food around your plate. The sound was as empty as the nonexistent conversation.

When you’d had enough of stale conversation, you swiftly stood, the feet of the chair scraping against the wooden floors. Steve’s eyes widened as they followed your retreating form into the kitchen. He watched as you tossed the remnants of your dinner into the bin before beginning to do the dishes. 

Steve was on his feet before he could stop himself, “Hey, no, I’ll do—”

“What? The dishes? Don’t bother,” You snipped at him, “I should get used to doing them anyway, if these ‘night shifts’ are gonna start becoming a regular thing.”

Of course, it was about the new addition of night shifts at the station. Steve ran his palm over the lower half of his face, “I thought Nancy explained it to you. They’re only twice a month. Three at the max.”

“But I’m not part of the staffing for the night shift? You don’t think that’s strange?”

“I’m not the station manager,” He threw his hands up, exasperated by the subject, “You should be happy that you get to be in bed and not cramped up at the station.”

“Right, cage the carnarey,” you rolled your eyes, attention returning to the dishes. 

Steve’s brow knitted together, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” you griped.

“No, no. Please, don’t do this,” Steve reached for your forearm. You easily pulled yourself from his hold, ignoring the call of your name as you continued scrubbing the plates. 

Steve jammed the heel of his palms against his eyes, pacing the floor of the kitchen as you simmered in your anger. A few moments later, his arms snaked around your waist, hugging you from behind. His forehead pressed once against your shoulder before he turned his head and buried it into the crook of his neck, nose lightly brushing over your soft skin. 

You froze in place, the faucet still running. Your hands hesitantly placed the plate and sponge back in the sink, “Steve—”

“I’m sorry, but please, if you’re gonna be upset with me, at least don’t be upset with Robin or the others,” He murmured, keeping himself tucked closely, “You are smart and helpful and unbelievably gracious with me, with us, with all of us. So… trust me when I say I’d rather take the night shift and know that you’re home, safe and sheltered.”

The tips of his fingers gently pressed against your side, resisting the urge to pull you closer. You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath. A sigh fell out of your mouth as your hands settled on his forearms.

Together in the dim light of the kitchen, you swayed back and forth. 

— — — 

The air hadn’t settled quite yet, but it lacked the tension that had been wound tight between the party. Robin was all too excited when you and Steve picked her up the next morning, and you started the conversation about what to do after the broadcast. Steve silently smiled to himself as he watched the two of you chatter away in his periphery. 

As July faded into August, Steve had decided to host Robin, Nancy, and Jonathan over at the house for some much-needed ‘recovery time’. You quickly learned that it was code for imbibing when neither the younger teens nor the real adults were around. It felt like being in high school again and sneaking out for the homecoming party without the worry of a noise complaint. 

Nancy, with the assistance of Robin, carried in three bottles of wine and two six-packs of beer while Steve and Jonathan snuck into the backyard. The boys shared a knowing smirk as Jonathan explained the benefits of the purple palm tree delight. 

Your gaze was torn from the back door when Robin placed a Coors Lite in front of you. You politely shoved the bottle back towards her, “Um, thanks, but I prefer wine.”

Robin chuckled, “It’s not for you.”

“Then who is it for?” You raised a brow. 

“For Steve,” Your friend explained, nodding her head like you would telepathically understand her meaning. 

“Okay…” You glanced between the bottle and Robin, “What’s that got to do with me?”

Nancy shook her head, trying to hold in her own amusement. Robin gestured towards you, though she was clearly speaking to Nance, “I told you. They’re hopeless.”

A huff of disbelief escaped your lips, “Excuse me?”

“No, no – it’s cute really,” Nancy smiled, something warm and playful, “You and Steve are just… how can I put it?”

“Oblivious,” Robin answered bluntly. 

“Uh, oblivious,” You sputtered, feeling your cheeks heat up, “To what?”

“Jesus Christ.”

Nancy extended a hand towards Robin, grabbing her by the elbow. The blue-eyed girl couldn’t keep it in, “Are you and Steve like…?”

Both of them nodded towards you, hoping you would provide a final verdict to their question, “Are we… what? Together? I— please, we’re roommates.”

“And?” Nancy leaned forward against the granite countertops. 

“And nothing,” You shook your head, dismissing their invasive questions, “Plus, didn’t you date Steve?”

Robin laughed at your boldness while Nancy’s nose scrunched, the tips of her ears turning pink, “Yeah, we did. But that’s water under the bridge. And he’s my friend. I like to see him happy.”

You stilled at that. Happy. Sure, amidst all the panic and insanity over the past few months, you’d felt happiness. In fact, you were happiest when you were with Steve. But of course, Robin was also typically around too, so you could argue that you were happiest when both your closest friends were around—

“Oh my god, you both are insufferable,” Robin pretended to bang her head against the counter, while Nancy kept a hand on her shoulder to make sure she accidentally didn’t do just that. 

It was perfect timing for a change in conversation, because the boys walked in, and with them, the scent of the aforementioned purple palm tree delight. You thought you saw Nancy roll her eyes, yet she simply sipped from her wine as she reached for Jonathan’s hand. Steve placed himself next to you while he laughed at something Jon had said, cheeks dimpling and shaking his head. 

Robin raised her brows, catching your attention. She pointedly glanced between you, Steve, and the beer bottle from earlier. Even though you hadn’t admitted to anything, you took the hint and slid the bottle towards Steve. 

The scrape of the glass against the countertop pulled his focus from Jonathan, eyes landing on your face before following down to the drink. His smile was easy, rehearsed even, but Robin noticed how Steve leaned half an inch closer to you. With a polite nod, he accepted the beer. The cap popped off with practiced ease, and he had to resist the urge to see if you had been watching him as intently. 

“I think we should watch Stand By Me,” Jonathan suggested with a shrug, glancing around for approval.

“No way, man,” Robin scoffed, her displeasure clear on her face, “We agreed on watching a comedy. And dark humor doesn’t count.”

“I told you I own all three Star Wars films. The little bears are funny,” Steve attempted to do an impression of an Ewok, only for it to earn a stifled chuckle from you. His eyes flicked down towards you, and though his tone was more serious, you knew he was just being his usual self, “Oh, yeah? And what do you think we should watch, missy?”

Before you could answer, Robin replied, “Don’t ask her that. She’s just gonna say Sixteen Candles again.” 

You stuck your tongue out at her, “What’s wrong with John Hughes?”

“Nothing,” She threw her hands up, “Except for the fact that he has a million better movies! But even then, I’m gonna suggest Spielberg.”

“We could always just watch E.T,” Nancy added to the mix.

“Yeah, that’s a no,” Steve was quick to shut it down. Your eyes flicked over to him, confused by his tone. Steve opened and closed his mouth again, trying to find the right explanation without ruining his tough-guy persona. “He’s creepy.”

“It’s a puppet, Steven,” you snidely remarked, laughing with Robin. 

He set the beer back down on the counter, hands settled on his hips as he floundered for words, “I– Well, yeah, I know that–”

“Do you?” Robin jeered, taking the first step towards the living room. 

It took another fifteen or so minutes before you all settled on Top Gun. Robin was relaxed in Mr. Harrington’s old recliner, feet draped over the arm as her toe occasionally tapped Jonathan’s knee. Nancy was tucked into his side on the smaller couch, Jon’s arm slung around her waist. That left you and Steve on the larger couch, a scene similar to many movie nights before, but after your intervention with the girls in the kitchen, your stomach flipped. 

You kept a respectable ten-inch distance; close enough for comfort, but not to draw attention. Attention to what, you weren’t sure. But you knew that you didn’t need to give your friends any ammunition. If Steve noticed, he made no complaint as he plopped down, casually man-spreading. 

The minutes ticked by as the movie played on. Each of you laughed, the occasional person leaving to refill their snacks or use the restroom. But it felt normal. In another life, these were your high school pals you spent time with at the end of summer before you all went your separate ways for college. Despite the thought, you were glad to have each of them in this life. 

Somewhere along the way, Steve had slowly made his way closer to your end of the couch. You hadn’t tracked the minor movements he made getting a beer or a fresh Coke for Robin, or scootching closer when accepting a snack from your plate. If the others had realized what Steve was doing, they made no notice of it. They barely noticed the distant roll of thunder, a sound that made both you and Steve a little on edge. 

By the time the credits were rolling, it was obvious there would be another storm tonight. Steve was quick to his feet, “Alright. It’s past town curfew, so you’re all welcome to stay here if you don’t feel like getting pulled over by MP’s.”

The others groaned in agreement, shifting to start tidying their spots before heading upstairs. Steve’s eyes cut back to you, catching your attention with the gentle murmur of your name, “Mind helping me outside before the storm picks up?”

“Oh, of course,” You shyly smiled as he offered you a hand. He tugged you up in one swift motion, making your shyness melt with a giggle. You could feel Robin and Nancy's eyes secretly watching the moment, and you released your hold on Steve. “Let’s go.”

He simply nodded, taking the lead towards the back deck. When you turned to close the sliding glass door behind you, you shot your friends a glare, to which they smirked in amusement. The plastic pool furniture creaked as Steve closed the lounge chairs. He took two at a time, giving you a sheepish look at your admonishing glance, “Do not tear open those stitches again.”

“Ha, ha,” Steve huffed, storing the pieces under the deck, “Thank you, nurse, but they are in fact healed now.”

Your eyes narrowed at him, but Steve acted unaffected as he held your gaze. 

“Fine,” you huffed, snatching the poolside table and stowing it, “But don’t come crying to me when you pull a muscle or scratch your elbow—”

“Aw, you worry about me,” His smile stretched into that half smirk he reserved for you more often than not. Beneath it was the smugness you could recall from the stories of King Steve. But his smirk wasn’t a weapon; it was something genuine despite his sarcasm, “How sweet.”

You feigned a scoff, rolling your eyes at his taunt, “You know I do actually worry about you.”

“Oh, I know,” He chuckled, moving to grab the last of the lounge chairs before you could, “It’s cute.”

“Cute?” You asked, your tone more clipped. 

Steve’s brow furrowed, catching your disgruntled question, “What’s wrong with being cute?”

“I– Nothing’s wrong. I just don’t see you calling Robin, or Nancy, or anyone else ‘cute’ unless you’re being sarcastic,” You clarified, dismissing the concern with a wave of your hand. You gave him a pointed glance, “Are you being sarcastic with me?”

“No, I, it was a compliment,” He attempted to explain, a languid sigh escaping him. 

You shook your head and stepped back. You didn’t want to bicker over something so stupid as his vocabulary or the implication of his comment. So while Steve continued clearing the patio, you moved to dip your feet in the pool. 

Once finished, his hands settled on his hips, eyes moving from the empty pool deck to observe your disposition. A stillness hung in the air as Steve watched you. Even in the reflecting light of the pool, you looked beautiful, but he could still see the scared girl he and Robin ran into all these months ago. He parted his lips to speak, only for you to glance back at him. 

You simply sat by the pool in the cover of night, looking at each other in silence. The symphony of crickets and an owl played low beneath the tension of the moment. Steve looked as if he were doing everything in his power to hold himself back from speaking. Because maybe now was the moment to tell you everything. Well, not everything, but at least finally admit that there was something more happening between you both. Because friends didn’t cuddle on the couch, or hold each other in the kitchen, or dare to look at each other the way you both did. 

Steve cleared his throat, “Right, guess it’s time for bed—”

“I asked Nancy to schedule me for the next night shift,” The admission tumbled from your lips before you could catch yourself. 

Steve froze, eyes wide in disbelief and something you couldn’t name, “And what did she say?”

“No,” You shrugged, crossing your arms over your chest, and you released a frustrated sigh, “of course.”

He pressed his lips together, trying to find the right words. He took a step forward with the gentle call of your name, “It’s really for the best. They’re exhausting, nothing fun happens, and Dustin—”

Your eyes instantly snapped back up to his face, brows furrowed, “Why is Dustin there?”

“I– He’s a genius, you know that. The station engineer or whatever,” Steve stammered for an answer to redirect the conversation into safe territory. 

“He’s a child,” You corrected, posture straight as an ugly feeling spread through your chest, “You let a child work the night shift, but I can’t?”

Steve ran a hand over his face, realizing how badly he’d slipped up in mentioning Dustin, “It’s summer. It’s not like he has school or anything else to do.”

“I just… I don’t get it, Steve. I think we’re friends; I thought you liked me, but…” Your hand gestured outward, expressing the frustrated words you couldn’t quite spit out.

“But what?” Steve shook his head, trying to piece together what you weren’t saying, “We’ve been over all these things. I don’t understand why not working a night shift is such a burden to you.”

“Because what if I wake up one morning and you don’t come home, Steve? What if I’m alone again?” Your tone was clipped, but your anxiety was evident. You cut your gaze away, refusing to meet his concerned look as you laid your final card, “I think the worst part of it is that I still trust you. Even when all evidence shows I shouldn’t.”

Steve stilled for a moment, unsure how to swallow that admission and how heavily your accusation weighed on him. “What do you mean by that?”

You shook your head, closing your eyes as you released a heavy sigh, “The late-night broadcasts? They always cut out around 10 pm.”

His brown eyes darted across your face, obviously attempting to remain casual, “I– it’s probably just military interference. I can– I’ll have Dustin check the antenna and see if—”

“I don’t need Dustin to check the antenna or Nancy to call the house or Robin to distract me,” You cut him off, your emotions getting the better of you. Before you can think twice, you’re on your feet to retreat indoors. Your voice cracked from the weight of it all, “I need you to be honest with me.”

Steve was instantly at your side, his large hands settling over your forearms to prevent you from leaving. His lips tried to form words, not knowing if they would be the right ones when your eyes finally met, and the world stilled for a beat. 

“I love you,” Steve spoke plainly, like it was completely obvious for you to have come to such a conclusion on your own. But his admission didn’t stop there, “And I know it might be crazy to admit that given everything that has happened and will happen. It’s silly, maybe it isn’t, but when I saw you alone at the gymnasium after Robin had found you, something clicked. I don’t know how or why, but it feels like you’re someone I have always known. Sure, in a way I have, but I have also spent every moment since that day learning you and who you are and how wonderfully made you are. You’ve seen the devastation, and every day I worry that it will get worse, or that fate will finally catch up to the kids, or Robin, or you; and I’m spiraling at these night shifts because all I want to know is that when the sun comes up you’re safe. Then I come home to you, and I forget about everything falling apart around us, and it feels like I’m holding the world in my arms. And I feel– I feel—”

“Alive.” You completed his sentence. 

Steve nodded, speechless beneath your gaze. The tension in his shoulders dissipated as your own guard began to drop. His hands traced from your forearms, down to your hands, intertwining your fingers as he took a half step closer. 

There were no words left to speak when his eyes said everything you needed to know. A glimmer of admiration danced in them as his head dipped closer. Before you could close the distance yourself, Steve closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to your own. Together, you breathed in tandem, taking in a brief moment of clarity in a chaotic storm. 

“I’m gonna make it all up to you. I’m gonna fix all that’s wrong,” Steve hummed, the words hushed and meant solely for you, “You won’t ever be alone again. Not while I’m around. We just have to bide our time. The night shifts and the quarantine won’t be forever. And then I’m gonna hold you forever.”

Both of you chuckled at his words, even if they were cheesier than either of you cared to admit in the moment. Somewhere deep, you knew that the troubles he spoke about were greater than you knew. But if it helped him to know that these troubles couldn’t touch you, maybe it would be worth the nights alone in the Harrington home. 

Steve opened his eyes once more, their gentle brown hues looking at you in adoration. He released one of your hands, moving to cup your jaw instead gently. His thumb smoothed over the line of your jaw, basking in the rawness of the moment, before he finally tilted his head to slot his lips over your own. The kiss was something gentle, like something inside him was still nervous about being wrong, and that you didn’t crave him as much as he needed you.

Yet when you reciprocated and lightly tugged him closer, Steve completely took the hint. You pressed harder against him, the gentleness giving way to need as your tongue briefly traced his lower lip. He whined into your mouth yet doubled his efforts, licking into your mouth as the tip of his nose smushed firmly against your cheek. 

When you broke away for air, Steve continued to look at you with a deep admiration you’d never seen from another person. You hummed, gently brushing your thumb over his cheek, “I love you, too.”

Steve was lost for words, something new for a man who always had something to say. Instead, his arms circled your waist before lifting you in the air, spinning you around as the wind whipped through your hair and the first drops of rain pattered against the concrete and seeped into your warm skin. You laughed, and Steve realized that it was his favorite sound in the world. 

When the rain began to pick up, he placed you back down on the ground, tugging you back towards the house to get inside for the night. Once safely inside, you were back in his arms, deft fingers pushing the few wet strands of hair from your face. He remained silent, eyes tracing each contour and curve of your face, committing the masterpiece of you to memory; his world, his muse. 

“Earth to Steve, you still with me?” You gently asked him. Your hardened disposition from months of chaos and devastation faded as you trusted Steve with the light you had desperately tried to protect from the outside world. He simply nodded as he continued to hold you close. 

The sound of the fridge closing pulled both of you from your trance. While it was your instinct to jump back, Steve hugged you tightly to his side as he stood slightly in front of you. In the kitchen entryway stood Nancy with a glass of water in her hand and a pleased smile on her face. The knowing look in her eyes made your chest burn, and Steve shyly chuckled, knowing that you two were finally caught red-handed. 

“Need anything, Nance?” Steve asked to dissolve the awkwardness of being caught.

“Nope,” The girl shook her head and began to step towards the stairs. Both of you knew that Nancy was going to head right up those stairs and inform both Jonathan and Robin of what she saw before either of you had the chance to address anything. But that thought didn’t scare you because something finally felt right; something good happened despite the fate of Hawkins. She cast a final smile towards the two of you, offering a quick wave, “Good night.”

“Good night,” Both of you echoed in reply, remaining still until you heard the faint click of the door shutting. 

A fit of giggles escaped you as you pulled away from Steve’s side. Steve flashed you a warm smile, shrugging his shoulders, “Well, so much for moving in our own time.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about them,” You hummed. Everything felt natural, the way you reached for his hand and moved towards the staircase, pausing to press a kiss to his cheek. 

Steve chuckled, eyes squinting as he tried to distract you from the way his cheeks flushed pink, “You go on up to bed. I need to lock up and call Dustin. But in the morning, once they leave, I’m taking you out to breakfast. Jonathan can sub in for me during the morning broadcast.”

“Oh, really? So who’s actually gonna open up the station and get the coffee ready if I’m not there?” You questioned his plan.

He rolled his eyes, expecting the question and all too thrilled for this breakfast date already, “Nance, of course. Now off to bed with you.”

You nodded, eyes lingering on him as you moved towards the stairs. However, Steve caught your wrist once more, moving in to press another kiss to your lips. He mumbled against them before parting ways, “Good night.”

“Good night, Steve,” you waved from the stairway. With a final smile, you slipped out of sight towards your bedroom, heat blooming in your cheeks. 

As he locked up for the night, Steve was reeling, already thinking of where he wanted to take you on all the unofficial dates that he hadn’t asked you for yet, but that he couldn’t wait to take you on. For the first time in a long time, some of the weight on his chest dissipated. Because someone loved him. Someone saw the scars and the tears and the flaws; yet loved him for it nonetheless. 

Suddenly, his world fell right back into tune. 

And while Steve would fall asleep with a new hope for tomorrow and the future, doubt comes in to plague your dreams. 

— — — 

Falling asleep had been easy; the easiest it had been in a long, long time. It was the kind of peaceful, almost dreamless sleep that urges you deeper. As you floated downward into the velvet darkness, a mangled hand reached out, and a flash of white filled your vision. 

You woke with a gasp, breathing in as much air as your lungs would permit. The room was cold and stagnant. Far too cold for late July, even with the fan spinning. Your fingers curled into the duvet, tugging it closer to your shaking frame. 

Despite waking up, your heartbeat refused to settle, and the sound of blood rushed in your ears. Before you thought better of it, you moved to your feet, swiftly moving into the attached bathroom. You twisted the faucet for cold water, hands dipping down to splash it across your face. Your palms pressed the cool rag against the warmed skin of your cheeks, offering some reprieve. 

Once you caught your breath, you turned off the faucet and collected yourself. It’s just a dream, you assured yourself; it’s all in your head. 

There was movement in the corner of your eyes – a spider on the wall. Fear coursed through you as you picked up the tissue box from the counter, smacking it right over the arachnid. Your chest rose and fell with bated breath as you withdrew your makeshift weapon, only to find no sign of the spider. 

You stumbled back towards the bedroom, blaming the scene on your drowsiness. It was something so simple to imagine. 

Your foot never hit the carpet. Instead, the patter of water sounded beneath your feet. Surrounding you was darkness, endless and vast. You could only make out your own reflection in the water that rippled with each step you took. 

“Steve?”

“Robin?”

“Nancy?!”

“Steve!”

Only your echo responded in the void. You felt nothing, yet you felt everything. You were lost in a place that couldn’t quite be described as hell, nor would you claim it to be the peaceful afterlife you silently prayed for. No, this was purgatory. 

“Steve?!”

A dull ache settled in your skull, making your body move sluggishly through the shallow water. One of your migraines again. You hardly took two steps further when a shiver passed through you. 

“Hello, (Y/N).”

The fear was immediate.

You ran. You ran as quickly as your feet would carry you, running further into the endless abyss. There was no thought to it, only action, only fear. Could you even outrun what you could not see or know to be there?

“Your friends think they can stop fate, but they are fools in the might of Gods.”

The reflection of the scales halted your movements. There in the water, an albino rattlesnake coiled around itself, unassuming to your presence. Your body went frigid as its rattling stopped. The creature’s head lifted to stare at you, black eyes boring into you, fully aware that you were now prey. 

It slithered towards you, and you were helpless to move, your body paralyzed. Its alabaster body curled around your foot, a faint hiss hanging threateningly low. 

That’s when you heard it. In the distance. Your name and Steve’s voice. Hope blossomed in your chest. 

The voice was quick to kill it again, “That boy cannot stop destiny. The vultures are already looming on the horizon, ready to pick you clean, little canary. But I can save you. The choice is yours… if you’re willing to choose.”

Before you could answer, the rattlesnakes dove into the shallow water below, swimming down with no resistance. In your shock, you stumbled back, expectant and ready to collide with the water or follow the snake down. 

Only you awoke in your bed back in the Harrington home. You sat up, flicking the bedside lamp on. Your fingers flew to the wet feeling on your cheeks. Tears. You wiped at your face, your knuckles brushing against your nose. 

And in the warm lamp light, you saw it smeared on the back of your hand — blood.

“Funny,” Steve murmurs, zero amusement in his eyes as he looks back at you, his fingers curling into your jacket like he was trying to ground himself. “But I’m serious, if you fall I—”

“—Steve,” you interrupted him before he could let the thought in, your hand reaching for his in an attempt to reassure him with skin against skin. “It’s gonna be fine. We’re gonna be—”

“No, no, no, guys—it’s not lining up.”

Your blood turns cold at those words. A horrible sense of foreboding creeps in. 

“What do you mean it’s not lining up?” Steve asks Lucas in a slightly panicked voice while you look up at the tower needle, at the rocky surface of the abyss above that was coming down. Your eyes focused on deep rifts that were emitting an eerie red glow that did not align with the needle.

“Look! The tower needle. It’s not lining up with the rift.”

“Shit!” Steve exclaims, his hand in yours tightening, his fear palpable as the abyss moved ever closer. 

You could feel your heart pounding in your chest. You couldn’t concentrate on anything other than Steve’s hand in yours and trying to ignore that feeling deep in your gut that felt an awful lot like dread.

Because that if the abyss hit that needle—the tower was going right down with it.

Everything moved quickly after that. Dustin was frantic as he yelled down his walkie at Hopper. The others around you scramble to hold onto something, anything and Steve drops your hand so that he could grab you around the waist, pulling you against him as you all braced for impact.

You look up at him, seeing the fear in his eyes. “Steve, I love—”

“—don’t you dare say that, baby. Don’t you—”

“Watch out!”

The moment that the tower needle crashes into the rocky surface of the abyss, the whole tower moves.

The platform beneath you shakes violently. Everything feels uneven. Figures move around you as the others stumble, as they cling onto the railing like it was their very last hope.

And Steve—he slips backwards, letting you go so that he doesn’t pull you with him.

“Steve!” You cry out, your hand frantically trying to reach his but to no avail. He stumbles back before smacking into the railing on the other side of the platform.

You don’t think—your grip slips from the metal railing as you go to rush after him, to save him but—

The sound of metal groaning above you makes everyone look up. 

You felt as though you were frozen as you watched the needle bend—the sound seeming to reverberate through you. Shrill. Piercing.

You barely have time to comprehend what was about to happen before the needle finally snaps.

“Look out! Look out! Look out!”

You knew it was Steve’s voice but in your panic, you couldn’t think of anything else besides getting to the man that you loved.

Someone screams out your name. Once, twice. You were sure that it was Dustin. You were sure he was yelling at you to stop. That it was too late. But as the needle falls, as it crashes onto the railing besides Steve—everything else ceases to exist.

Because the railing snaps off and Steve stumbles back.

Your world tilts—everything feels as though it was moving in slow motion as you try to reach for Steve’s hand. There was a moment when your fingers brushed against his. When your skin touched his and for that moment—you almost believed that everything would be okay. But your hands were too clammy to hold on to him and he slipped right through your fingertips.

“Steve!” You cry out, your voice breaking along with everything else inside of you as you watch Steve Harrington—the man you loved, the guy who had only hours earlier promised that he’d marry you the second all of this was over—tumbles over the edge of the platform.

A sense of numbness swept over you. A numbness that creeps down to the tips of your fingers. A numbness that makes it hard to comprehend what had just happened. Because Steve Harrington could not be dead.

You move without really thinking. Someone yells your name again as you look over the edge, expecting to see Steve—expecting to see him hanging from the platform with one hand. But you only see darkness below. 

The moment you realise that no one—not even Steve Harrington—could survive that fall was the moment that the truth finally hits you—brutal and absolute.

Steve Harrington was dead and there was nothing you could do.

A scream rips from your throat, one that pulls at your vocal chords. One that feeds on the agony of seeing the love of your life being claimed by gravity. You barely feel the tears spilling down your cheeks, barely feel the hands that were grabbing you, pulling you away from the edge to stop you from joining Steve in death. 

You hear your name being called frantically and in your grief, it almost sounds like Steve. But you knew it wasn’t because he was dead. He had plummeted to the ground and he was dead. His body lay broken on the ground five hundred feet beneath you, his bones smashed to pieces, his skull caved in from the impact of the fall. The heart you had once fallen asleep listening to no longer beating and those big, hazel eyes of his unseeing.

It didn’t feel real.

It wasn’t real. 

It couldn’t be real—

You jolt, your body trembling as you wake. You felt cold. Everything felt cold. Your hands shook violently and a violent sob ripped through your body before you could stop it. The image of Steve falling replaying over and over again in your head—

“Baby, baby, baby—please—.”

You don’t even register the fact you had been thrashing violently in Steve’s arms until you heard his voice. Until his arms tightened around you, until he had grabbed your wrist to stop you from hurting him or yourself.

Steve.

Alive. Alive. Alive.

But he couldn’t be.

You had watched him fall over the platform edge. You had seen the sheer terror in his eyes right before he had fallen. The fear. The panic. The realisation that he was going to fall five hundred feet to his death. The realisation that he was leaving you behind, that the future you had planned together would never come to fruition.

“Y-you’re n-not re-real,” you cry out, your sobs that are so heavy that they shook your entire body. “Y-you’re de-dead—”

“—baby, I’m not dead,” Steve tells you, his voice breaking as he holds you, his arms around your waist tightening as he pulls you back against him, trying desperately to ground you. “Listen to my voice, I’m not—”

“—b-but I-I saw—”

“—I know baby,” Steve murmurs, pressing his lips to your temple as he pulls you close as though trying to fuse the two of you together. “I know what you saw and it’s not real, okay? I’m real. I’m here. I’m alive. Please believe me, please—”

But it was difficult to tell what was real and what was not when everything around you felt blurry, when your body felt as though it was still up on the platform watching him fall. You felt cold, you couldn’t stop shaking and despite knowing deep down it was just a dream—that Steve had never fallen from the radio station, that he had been pulled to safety by Jonathan—the grief you had felt was still all consuming. You felt it in every bone, every nerve, every cell in your body and all your boyfriend could do was hold you while you cried. 

It wasn’t the first time you had a nightmare about him falling from the tower and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

“I got you,” Steve tells you. His own voice cracking as he struggles to control his own emotions at the sight of your distress before gently manoeuvring your body so that you could face him. “I got you, baby. I always got you, okay?”

It was when your eyes finally met his and you saw life in them—saw none of the terror and panic that you had seen right before he had fallen—that you started to focus back on reality.

Steve. Beside you. In bed. Warm.

Steve. Alive. Holding you. 

Steve. Alive.

“S-Steve?” You murmur out, your breathing uneven as your fingers unclench before they reach for him—for the coarse hair that covers his chest. Your fingers slide through the hair there so that you could feel his heart beating beneath your palm.

“Yeah. I’m here, baby,” he tells you in a thick voice, his arms like a vine around your waist as he pulls you flush against him. “Not going anyway. Okay?”

You nod, small sniffles escaping you now as you lean forward to bury your head into his chest. The thump, thump, thump of his heartbeat against your eardrum—the reminder that he was still here, that he was still alive—making the panic that had built up inside of you settle. It didn’t leave, the anxiety of losing Steve never truly left but it settled. Because he was here. He was alive.

“I’m sorry i-if I w-woke you up,” you say quietly, dreading to think of what you had done, what you had said whilst you had been dreaming. If you had screamed, if you had yelled out in terror as Steve had fallen from view—

“Don’t apologise,” Steve tells with a small shake of his head. “Please don’t—”

“—I just—y-you can tell m-me if it’s to-too much.”

There was a moment of silence and then—

“Sweet girl, you could never be too much,” he tells you in a voice that was somehow both firm and gentle. “I promise you. Never.”

You nod, blinking away the tears that still lingered before you look back at him.

“I just—I-I love you so fucking much and—almost losing you it—it—it just—”

“—hey, hey, hey,” Steve soothes you so lovingly and gently that you could burst. “I love you too, baby. But you didn’t lose me, yeah? Not going to leave my girl when I still need to put a ring on her finger.”

That pulls another laugh out of you and Steve’s beams at the sound of it.

“There she is,” he hums, leaning in to press a gentle kiss to your cheek. “My love. My light. My future wife.”

Your face burns but you can’t help but feel warm inside at his words.

“Sap,” you murmur, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you look at him.

“I’m your sap,” he tells you, one his hands cradling the back of your head gently while the other rubs up and down your back—a motion that acts as a soothing balm to the deep ache in your chest. “And I’m here for as long as you want me.”

You let out a small laugh despite everything and Steve feels something tightening in his chest at the sound as you pull away enough to look up at him with eyes that were still glassy with tears.

“Is forever okay?” You ask him in a voice so quiet that Steve had to lean in to hear.

Steve smiles faintly, lifting one large hand to wipe away the tears that had spilled down your cheeks with his thumb. “Forever is more than okay,” he tells you sincerely before leaning in and pressing his lips against yours. You melt into it. His lips against yours yet another remainder that he was alive. That he was real.

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the first thing you learned about the town was that it had a habit of pretending to be quieter than it really was.

it was the kind of place wwhere everybody knew everybody else’s business by the time the sun went down, but had the decency to pretend otherwise if they liked you. where the diner on the corner served coffee that tasted faintly burnt no matter how many times you ordered it, and the florist still wrapped bouquets by hand in paper that smelled like rain.

it was small, yes, but not stifling. not the sort of small that closed in on you like a fist, more like the kind that held still long enough to let you breathe.

you didn't hate it.

in fact, you almost liked the feeling of it. the little house you’d been transferred into was older, but clean, with one stubborn window that stuck every time you tried to open it and a kitchen that was just big enough for one person. the front steps creaked. the mailbox leaned a little to the left. and there was a patch of wildflowers out back that no one had bothered to cut down, as if the previous owner had decided that a little softness in the world was worth keeping around.

you hadn't expected to settle so quickly. the job was fine, your coworkers were decent, and the town itself had just enough charm to keep you from feeling like you’d been exiled into the middle of nowhere. which was fortunate, because you'd been sent there for work with very little warning and even less choice, and you had no intention of spending the entire experience miserable.

you had always been easy to please though.

give you a good book, a decent cup of tea or something sweet enough to make your teeth ache in that satisfying way and you were nearly content.

which was how, one thursday afternoon, you ended up standing in the break room at work with a paper cup of vending machine coffee and a new friend named elaine who had the sort of warm, nosy energy that made strangers confess their life stories in under ten minutes.

“you have not lived here long enough if you have not been to marcy’s bakery.”

you looked up from your coffee. “marcy’s bakery?”

elaine gasped, hand flying to her chest. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not kidding. should i be worried?”

“yes, deeply. it’s the best bakery in town. the woman that owns it is literally godsent”

that alone had been enough to make you interested, but then she started listing things off in that breathless, reverent tone people usually reserved for religion, weddings, or simply really good food.

fresh cinnamon rolls before nine. lemon bars that made grown men emotional. little pies with flaky crusts. cookies that somehow tasted like childhood. sticky buns. fruit tarts. cupcakes frosted so beautifully they looked fake. and, allegedly, a chocolate cake so good that people had once tried to bribe the woman at the counter for the recipe.

you listened, more and more convinced, until you were leaning on the edge of the table and saying, “okay, that’s enough. i’m going.”

elaine grinned like she'd just won something. “i knew you’d understand.”

and so on friday after work, you found yourself walking down the town’s main road with a light breeze tugging at your hair and a sweet craving blooming in your stomach.

the bakery sat on a corner with a faded painted sign and a bell above the door that gave a soft, old fashioned jingle when you pushed inside. warmth wrapped around you immediately. not just the heat from ovens, but the soft, buttery warmth of sugar and vanilla.

and then you saw him.

he was behind the counter, broad shouldered and dressed in a dark apron that looked as if it had been tied on with irritation.

his expression, however, was unforgettable.

it was not merely grumpy.

grumpy implied a temporary mood.

this looked like a man who was oh so irritated with life and had decided to spend the rest of time making sure the world knew it.

you almost laughed just from the sight of him.

he looked up as the bell sounded, gaze landing on you with a flat, unimpressed look.

“you buyin’ or browsin’?” he asked.

his voice was rougher than you expected, low and a little tired, like he’d smoked a few too many cigarettes in another life and never quite managed to shake the rasp out of his throat.

you glanced over the display case full of pastries, all glossy and perfect under the glass. “that depends. are you always this welcoming, or am i special?”

his eyes narrowed just a little. “special, huh.”

you smiled at him, slow and bright. “i’m trying to be optimistic.”

“bad habit.”

“i’ve heard worse.”

he leaned one hand on the counter, deadpan and unapologetic. “that so?”

you tilted your head. “mhm. try harder.”

for the first time, something flickered over his face. so fast you almost missed it. not a smile, not quite, but something dangerously close to amusement.

gone so quickly you might've imagined it.

you didn't imagine the way his eyes stayed on you a second longer than necessary though.

you pointed at the tray nearest him. “what’s good?”

“all of it.”

“that’s not helpful.”

“ya didn’t ask for helpful. ya asked what’s good.”

you huffed a laugh and stepped closer to the counter, leaning in to inspect the case. “you always this charming?”

“only on days ending in y.”

“wow. how do the regulars survive.”

“they don’t. i bury ‘em out back.”

that got a real laugh out of you, quick and surprised, and this time the look in his eyes shifted more clearly, like he hadn't expected that either. you glanced up at him through your lashes, still smiling.

“a grump selling sweets,” you said, letting the words hang in the warm air between you as you pointed at what you wanted, “the irony is baffling.”

then you gave him a little wink and stepped away from the counter the second you got your goods.

behind you, you heard the faintest sound of a breath through his nose, close to a scoff. or maybe a laugh. you didn't turn around to check.

you would'e liked to, though. just to see what expression he made after that.

at home, you ate the lemon bar first.

it was, as promised, very good. but maybe not as memorable as the man behind the counter.

the next friday, you came back.

and the one after that.

and the one after that.

it became stupidly easy to build a routine around it. work would drag its heels through the week, thursday would begin to glitter in the distance like a promise, and friday would finally arrive with the steady certainty that by late afternoon you would be stepping into that bakery again with a small, hungry smile already waiting on your mouth.

he always looked the same at first glance. still grumpy. still unimpressed. but very quickly you began to notice the things most people probably missed.

how he remembered what you ordered the first time. how he always set aside the cinnamon rolls with slightly burnt edges, as if he knew exactly how you liked them. how he would slide an extra cookie into the bag without saying anything, then act like it had been an error if you caught him.

“you did that on purpose” you told him one friday when he handed you a paper sack that felt a little too full.

he didn’t even blink. “didn’t.”

you peered into the bag. “there are four cookies in here.”

“packin’ mistake.”

“liar.”

“customer service,” he said flatly. “goes with the job.”

you smiled. “you’re terrible at customer service.”

“and yet ya keep comin’ back.”

you looked up at him then, because there it was again. that almost there thing under the gruffness, the smallest edge of a smirk he was trying very hard to hide. and because you were you, and because apparently self preservation was not one of your stronger qualities, you said, “maybe i come back for the cookies.”

“sure.”

“or maybe i come back for your winning personality.”

that made him stare at you for one very long second.

then he said, “you insult me a lot for someone who’s tryin’ to get free pastries.”

“i’m not trying to get free pastries.”

“you’re bad at it anyway.”

you pressed a hand to your chest in mock offense. “slander.”

he looked past you toward the display case, then back to your face. “you want anythin else, sunshine?”

the nickname landed with such ease, so casually, that you almost forgot to answer.

sunshine.

it shouldn't have fit you as well as it did, not when it came from a man like him, not when he said it with the dry tone of someone who was still pretending he didn't enjoy the sound of your voice. and yet it somehow did. especially paired with the fact that you had started calling him sweetie boy entirely because you knew it would annoy him.

you lifted a brow. “surprise me, sweetie boy.”

his expression didn't change, but his ears had gone faintly pink, and that alone nearly ruined you.

“hate when ya say that.”

“no you don’t.”

he gave you a look that suggested he would happily toss you into the nearest river, and yet he was already reaching for more goodies before you’d even finished speaking.

“what’s in it today?” you asked.

“chocolate croissant, lemon tart, two cookies. the good kind.”

“you know me so well.”

“tragic, ain’t it.”

you laughed and rested your elbows on the counter.

his mouth did something very small and very dangerous. not a smile exactly, but the beginning of one, as if it had almost escaped before he could stop it. then he scowled at the cash register.

you had the distinct and entirely unreasonable urge to keep him talking forever.

the thing was, he wasn't actually as cold as he wanted people to think. that much became obvious over time.

there was the way he cut the pastries a little larger for the kids who came in with pocket change and hopeful eyes, then pretended not to notice when they lit up. the way he would leave the door propped open on especially hot days so people could get through the line faster, and the way he always looked away whenever anyone thanked him for anything beyond the bare minimum.

grumpy, yes. rude, sometimes. but there was a softness in him that never seemed to know what to do with itself. it hid in the edges. in the unguarded moments. in the extra cookie. in the way his shoulders seemed to loosen by a fraction whenever you walked in.

and you, with your too bright smile and too sharp tongue, had begun to notice just how often he glanced up before you even reached the counter, like he’d already been listening for the bell.

by the third week, he had started saving your favorite lemon tart without being asked.

by the fourth, he was asking, “same as last time?” before you’d opened your mouth.

by the fifth, you found yourself leaning over the glass case and saying, “you know, i think you like me.”

his reply was immediate. “that’ll be the day.”

you grinned. “you do, though.”

“you got a wild imagination, sunshine.”

“and you’ve got a big heart under all that misery.”

he went still.

it was subtle, but you caught it anyway. the slight pause in his hands. the fraction of a second where his face went unreadable in a different way. not annoyed. not amused. just caught, as if you had reached somewhere he hadn't meant to expose.

your smile softened without you meaning it to.

“too much?” you asked, quieter now.

he glanced at you then and there was something in his eyes that made your chest feel oddly full. something wary, yes, but not with you. with being seen.

“maybe” he said after a beat.

you nodded once, easy and unpressing. “okay.”

his shoulders shifted, almost imperceptibly, like he had expected another battle and found himself standing in a field of empty air instead.

“you’re weird” he muttered.

you beamed. “thank you.”

“wasn’t a compliment.”

“i know.”

he looked at you for a second longer than necessary, and this time when the smirk came, it stayed long enough to count.

it changed his whole face, made him look younger, less hard around the edges. almost pretty, if you were being honest with yourself, which was increasingly inconvenient.

you pretended not to notice how your heart stumbled.

instead, you reached for the bag he slid across the counter and brushed your fingers against his by accident, or maybe not by accident at all.

he noticed. you could tell.

he also didn't pull away.

that was how it went for weeks after that. little sparring matches tucked between trays of sweets and paper bags and the dry rhythm of his voice saying your nickname like he resented how easily it fit.

you came in every friday because the pastries were genuinely excellent, which was a perfectly reasonable explanation, and because the man behind the counter could turn a miserable remark into something almost affectionate without ever admitting he was doing it.

he asked you once why you always came in on fridays.

you had been halfway to the door when he said it, and you turned back with your bag of sweets held loosely in one hand.

“because it’s a good way to end the week” you said.

his eyebrows lifted. “that so.”

you shrugged, smiling at him over your shoulder. “and because someone has to make sure you don’t get too lonely in here.”

“i aint lonely.”

“sure, sweetie boy.”

“don’t start.”

you smiled wider. “see you next friday.”

he watched you go, and you could feel it even with your back turned, that quiet weight of his attention following you out into the afternoon light.

and if, on the walk home, you found yourself thinking about the shape of his hands when he handed you change, or the sound of his voice when he said your nickname, or the way his expression had softened by barely a degree whenever you smiled at him like you meant it, well.

that was nobody’s business but yours.

what you did not know yet was that he had started arriving a little earlier on fridays just to make sure the best lemon tart was stored ready for you. that he had begun keeping track of how your face changed depending on the pastry you picked. and that, on thr next friday he saw you walk in wearing a soft cardigan and that same cheeky smile, he was already thinking that maybe, just maybe, being miserable hadn't prepared him for a person like you.

you were stepping up to the counter, eyes glittering with familiar mischief, when he straightened and looked at you like he had all the time in the world and none of it to waste.

“well,” he said, voice rough and low and almost amused, “look who decided to show up.”

you tipped your head, smiling like a challenge.

“miss me, sweetie boy?”

for a second, his expression broke wide open in that tiny, private way he only ever let happen around you.

then he leaned an elbow on the counter, gaze steady on yours, and said, “get your usual, sunshine. before i change my mind and charge ya extra for being annoying.”

you laughed, and the sound made his smirk deepen before he could stop it.

and just like that, friday felt like the beginning of something neither of you were ready to name.

-

the first friday you didn't show, gator told himself he didn't care.

he told himself this while he wiped down the counter a little too hard. while he restocked the napkins for the third time. when the afternoon dragged on and the light outside the bakery shifted from gold to dull.

he told himself this when marcy glanced at him from the back and said, in that knowing way of hers, “you look like somebody kicked your puppy.”

“don’t got one” he muttered.

marcy snorted. “that’s not the point.”

“then what is?”

she only gave him a look and went back to counting boxes while he tried very hard not to glance at the door again.

he didn't care. you'd probably gotten busy. you'd probably forgotten. you'd probably decided, with your usual bright little grin and your stupidly warm voice, that friday was not worth making time for this week.

and yet, as the bell stayed silent, something in him soured another degree.

by closing time he was in a mood sharp enough to cut glass with, which meant marcy kept a safe distance and pretended not to notice the fact that he'd been huffing and puffing.

“you can go home” she said at last, already half-undone from her apron.

“i’m aware.”

“you’ve been aware in a very unpleasant way for the last hour.”

“glad you noticed.”

she smiled to herself and left him there with the smell of sugar and butter still hanging in the air.

gator locked up, turned off the lights, and stood for a second with his hand on the door like he might still hear your voice if he waited long enough.

he did not.

which was probably for the best.

he went home irritated at the town, irritated at the weather, irritated at the fact that his own thoughts had somehow gotten embarrassingly fixed on a woman who called him sweetie boy.

he slept badly.

he woke up in a worse mood than he had gone to bed in.

and by saturday afternoon, when he was setting out a fresh tray of tarts and trying not to think about why he'd got out an extra batch of your favorite lemon bars, he nearly convinced himself he was being ridiculous.

then the bell over the door rang.

he looked up so fast it almost hurt.

and there you were.

for one suspended second, he just stared. then his face settled into its usual scowl, because of course it did.

“you’re a day late” he said.

your smile was tired but there, soft around the edges. “i know.”

he frowned. “then why’re you here now?”

you came up to the counter as if you had every right to be there, which, irritatingly, you did. “because i feel better than i did yesterday,” you said, “and i wanted my treat.”

that knocked something loose in him.

“you were sick?”

"unfortunatley.”

his eyes narrowed. “you should’ve stayed home.”

“i did. all day.”

“not enough.”

you blinked at him, and for a second the air between you was quieter than the room deserved.

you looked smaller than usual, a little pale still, and the sight of it did something sharp and unpleasant to him.

“you look like hell” he said, because apparently the kindest thing he could manage was still dressed up like an insult.

your mouth twitched. “i missed you too.”

he snorted despite himself and bent to fetch your order. “you should’ve said somethin’.”

“about being sick?”

“yeah.”

you leaned on the glass case, watching him with that same infuriating softness that always made him feel as if he had missed a step somewhere. “i didn’t want to.”

“why not?”

you shrugged, but it was a small shrug, careful. “because then you would’ve worried.”

he froze just long enough for you to notice.

you lifted your brows. “oh.”

“don’t start.”

“you did worry.”

he handed over the bag a little more firmly than necessary. “no, i didn’t.”

you took it with a slow smile that said you were absolutely not believing him. “sure.”

“you want your receipt or not?”

“i want my lemon tart.”

he glared at you, and you smiled wider, and then you added, “thanks for saving one for me.”

that was the thing that finally got him.

not the words exactly. the way you said them, light and grateful and entirely too aware of what his gesture meant. he looked at you, really looked, and the annoyance he had been carrying all day shifted shape in his chest until it was something softer and stranger.

he huffed a breath through his nose and looked away first. “there was extra.”

you laughed quietly. “liar.”

his mouth twitched before he could stop it, and there it was, that tiny smile he never seemed able to keep fully hidden around you.

it lasted maybe a second, maybe less, but you saw it.

and because he was him, and because the moment had already gotten too warm for his comfort, he muttered, “don’t come in lookin’ like that again.”

“like what?”

“like somebody ran over you.”

your eyes glinted with amusement. “you mean you missed me so much you can’t stand my absence?”

he stared at you.

you stared back.

then, very deliberately, he said, “get out.”

you laughed all the way to the door.

after that, things changed by inches.

not enough for anyone to point at it outright, but enough that marcy noticed.

marcy always noticed.

she noticed the way gator stopped looking like he wanted to bite through the counter whenever you came in. she noticed the way he started setting aside the best pastries before you arrived, the way his voice changed by the smallest degree when he said your name, the way he looked mildly offended whenever you didn't show up exactly when expected.

so, naturally, she decided to make it his problem.

one friday afternoon, while you were still due to arrive and the bakery was quiet except for the soft clatter of trays in the back, marcy came up beside him and said, far too casually, “i think i’m gonna have you stop working fridays.”

gator looked at her like she had suggested setting the whole building on fire. “what?”

“you heard me.”

his expression sharpened. “why?”

she folded her arms and smiled in that deeply irritating way that meant she was absolutely enjoying herself. “oh, no reason.”

“marcy.”

she hummed. “i just thought you might like a little more free time.”

“i don’t need free time.”

“you could use it.”

“i work fine.”

“didn’t say you didn’t.”

“then what’s this about?”

she tipped her head, eyes bright with mischief. “about me being a generous employer.”

he narrowed his eyes. “you’re lyin’.”

“am i?”

before he could answer, the smile on her face widened into something unmistakable, and the realisation hit him with such force he nearly looked wounded by it.

his jaw tightened. “you are absolutely impossible.”

marcy beamed. “and yet.”

“you’re doin’ this on purpose.”

“yes.”

he stared at her for a long second, then looked away with the scowl.

his eyes snapped back to hers. “why are you bein stupid?”

“because,” marcy said sweetly, “i noticed you look less miserable when she’s around.”

gator went still.

the silence that followed was absolute.

then marcy laughed under her breath, delighted with herself.

“you’re insufferable” he muttered.

“and you’re blushing.”

“am not.”

“you are.”

“not.”

marcy grinned wider. “sure, honey.”

he looked away so fast it was almost funny.

you arrived ten minutes later and found the entire front of the bakery suspiciously peaceful. marcy greeted you with a look so self satisfied that you immediately narrowed your eyes.

“what happened?”

“nothing.”

you turned to gator, who was standing behind the counter with his usual flat expression and a faint redness still lingering at the edges of his ears. “you look like she just won a war.”

he pointed at marcy without looking at her. “she’s a menace.”

marcy, entirely unrepentant, said, “i’m a visionary.”

you laughed and took your usual place at the counter.

gator handed over your order with a little too much care, and you noticed, because you always noticed now.

the next week you made the mistake of arriving a little late and asking, “mind if i hang around while you close?”

gator had been wiping down the counter. he looked up at you, expression unreadable for half a second, then said, “you askin’ or tellin’?”

you smiled. “asking.”

“then maybe.”

“that sounds like yes.”

“don’t get comfortable.”

you did, in fact, get comfortable.

you sat on one of the stools by the counter while he locked the register, covered the trays, and stacked the empty boxes with the slightly rough efficiency of someone who had done it a thousand times and hated every one of them.

the bakery changed in the evening. the lights seemed softer, the silence fuller, the sweet smell of the place settling around you like a blanket.

gator moved through it with a kind of tired focus, and without the noise of the daytime crowd, he looked different somehow. less like the gruff man behind the counter and more like someone who had learned to make himself into a shape that could survive.

you did not interrupt him at first. you just watched.

“you’re starin’” he said eventually.

it was quiet for a moment, then, without quite meaning to, you asked, “did you always want to work in a bakery?”

the question made him pause.

not dramatically. just enough that you knew you had stepped somewhere softer.

he glanced at you, then away. “no.”

you waited.

he wiped his hands on the towel over his shoulder and leaned one hip against the counter. “wasn’t exactly the plan.”

“what was?”

he let out a dry little breath. “gettin’ out.”

your expression gentled, and you didn't rush him. that was one of the things he had started to notice about you. you knew when to tease and when to sit still. you knew how to be light without being careless. how to make room without making a show of it.

“out of where?” you asked, quietly enough that it did not sound like pressure.

his jaw flexed once. “everywhere.”

you nodded, because that was enough for now.

his eyes shifted to you and stayed there longer than he probably meant them to. “my old man wasn’t… easy to live with.”

you said nothing. just waited, your hands folded loosely in your lap, your attention on him in a way that felt steady instead of prying.

he seemed to notice that too.

“there’s a difference between bein’ hard on somebody and just bein’ mean,” he said after a moment, voice lower now. rough around the edges, but not with the same bite as usual. “he liked to pretend he was teachin’ me somethin’. most days he was just angry.”

your throat tightened a little, though you kept your face calm. “you don’t have to keep going.”

he shrugged once, not careless, just tired. “i know.”

but he did keep going, a little more than he’d meant to, because you were looking at him like you understood and that was a dangerous thing to give someone.

“got out when i could. moved out here. wanted far enough away that i didn’t have to hear his voice in my head every day.” he looked down at the counter, at the grain in the wood as if it held a safer answer than your face. “marcy gave me the job. said i had a good work ethic. said i looked useful.”

you smiled a little. “you are useful.”

he gave you a flat look. “that supposed to be a compliment?”

“from me? yes.”

that got the smallest breath of a laugh out of him, and when he looked back at you, the corners of his mouth had softened in a way that made your chest feel strange.

“she was good to me,” he said, more quietly now. “marcy. didn’t ask questions. just… helped.”

you nodded. “she seems like the type.”

“she is,” he said, then after a beat, “you are too, y’know.”

you blinked. “me?”

he looked almost irritated with himself for saying it. “you listen.”

your smile turned a little smaller, a little warmer. “only when it’s worth hearing.”

“hm.”

“don’t sound so suspicious. it’s a compliment.”

he snorted softly and went back to his work, but the air between you had changed. not in a big way, just enough that it felt more honest. more unguarded.

he wasn't fully soft with you, not by a long shot. but he'd let you see the shape of the bruise underneath the grumpiness, and you treated it gently enough that he didn't immediately regret it.

after that, the subtle touches started happening more often.

a brush of his knuckles against your wrist when he handed you a bag. his hand at the small of your back for half a second when someone cut through the shop too quickly. your fingers grazing his as you reached for the same pastry.

each tiny moment was nothing by itself and everything together.

and then came the friday you mentioned a guy from work.

it was supposed to be nothing. just a story, something funny from the break room, the kind of thing you usually told him in between bites of whatever he had set aside for you. you were leaning against the counter with a chocolate scone in one hand, talking around a smile.

“he was being very dramatic about the printer” you said.

gator made a noise of unimpressed agreement.

you continued, “and then he tried to ‘help’ me fix it by standing directly behind me and saying obvious things like, ‘have you tried turning it off and on again?’”

gator’s expression had changed, though it took you a second to catch exactly how.

“who’s this?” he asked.

you glanced up “who?”

“the guy.”

you smiled to yourself because suddenly, annoyingly, it was obvious. “just a coworker.”

“he bother you?”

“no.”

“hm.”

you looked at him more closely. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothin’.”

“gator.”

he looked away.

which was answer enough.

your eyebrows lifted. “oh my god.”

“what.”

“are you jealous?”

his gaze snapped back to you, sharp and offended. “no.”

you stared at him for one long, delighted second, then broke into a grin. “you are.”

“i am not.”

“you are absolutely, without question, jealous.”

his jaw tightened. “you’re enjoyin’ this too much.”

you leaned in a fraction. “you sound upset.”

“because i am.”

“why?”

he gave you a flat, simmering look. “cause i don’t like hearin’ bout some guy hoverin’ around you.”

that hit the air between you with enough force to make your smile falter for the briefest moment.

then, because you were you, and because you could not resist making him suffer a little, you said, “for the record, he’s gay.”

gator blinked.

you watched the realisation move across his face in stages. first confusion. then embarrassment. then the clear, visible awareness that he had just revealed, with absolutely no grace at all, that he had been jealous over a man who was not even remotely competition.

for a second he looked like he might actually groan.

instead, he looked away and muttered, “that’s not funny.”

you stepped a little closer, eyes bright. “sweetie boy, were you worried?”

his ears went red.

“don’t call me that.”

“you were worried.”

“shut up.”

“you were.”

he muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like a curse, then reached for the rag beside him and started wiping down the counter with too much force.

“you’re annoying” he said.

you softened a little. “and yet.”

he exhaled through his nose, the barest hint of a smile threatening at the corner of his mouth again. “and yet.”

after that, you started staying later on purpose.

friday evenings became less about picking up a treat and more about lingering.

talking while he closed. helping, sometimes, if you were feeling especially generous, though he always acted like your offer was an inconvenience and then quietly handed you the easier job anyway.

the bakery grew familiar in the dimmer hours. the sound of the register shutting. the scrape of chairs. the click of the lock. the way he moved when he was tired, all sharp lines smoothed just enough to show the person beneath them.

and somewhere in all that time, without either of you meaning to, the space between you changed from teasing to trust.

you learned that he liked silence when he was thinking and music when he was working alone.

he learned that you hated when people lied to you about small things.

you learned that he kept gloves in the back pocket of his apron because his hands got cold easier than he wanted to admit.

and every week, every friday, the routine deepened until it was no longer really a routine at all. it was a thing living between you. a thread, a habit. a soft, stubborn little bridge neither of you had built on purpose and neither of you seemed willing to break.

one evening, much later than usual, after the bakery had gone dim and the street outside had thinned into sleepy silence, you were still there at the counter with your chin in your hand and your final pastry mostly forgotten beside you. gator had not told you to leave. that alone said enough.

he leaned against the counter next to you, arms crossed, looking at you with a tired, watchful expression.

“you’re gonna get attached to this place” he said.

you smiled without looking away from him. “too late.”

something in his expression shifted.

quietly, you asked, “does that bother you?”

he was silent for a moment, long enough that you began to think he might dodge the question like he usually did. but when he answered, his voice was low and rough and a little more honest than he probably meant it to be.

“no,” he said. then, after a beat, “guess i don’t mind as much as i should.”

your heart did something silly and warm.

you let the silence sit for a second before you smiled. “good.”

he watched you for a long moment, eyes steady, then, very carefully, as if he was testing whether the world would let him, he reached out and brushed a crumb from the corner of your mouth with his thumb.

it was the smallest touch. nothing at all, if you asked someone who did not know better. but you went still anyway.

his hand lingered for half a second too long before he pulled it back like he had touched a flame.

you looked at him, suddenly and acutely aware of your own breathing, and found his face had gone just a little tense, just a little unsure.

not because he regretted it. because he hadn't meant for the moment to feel like that. because he had meant it in the simplest, most natural way in the world, and the fact that it had turned into something charged and delicate seemed to surprise him as much as it did you.

your smile was soft when it returned. “you missed a spot.”

he snorted, exasperated and relieved all at once. “yeah?”

“mhm.”

“you gonna make me do it again?”

you tilted your head, eyes bright. “maybe.”

he huffed something that was almost a laugh, and the warmth that rose between you after that didn't fade when the clock passed closing time. it stayed.

and when you finally stood to leave, he walked you to the door without being asked.

outside, the air was cool, and the streetlamps had already begun to glow. you turned to look at him, your hands tucked into the sleeves of your cardigan, and for a moment neither of you said anything.

then you smiled, and his face softened in that way it only ever did for you.

“see you next friday, sweetie boy?”

his mouth twitched. “unfortunately.”

you laughed, and he rolled his eyes like he was not, in fact, already looking forward to it.

because now he was.

and so were you.