For fox sake

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sleep tight," he whispered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And he had failed.

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

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

And he knew he should have.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gator?" you whispered, your voice trembling.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded. "Yeah. It's… Nice."

“Uh, okay. Yeah. Okay. Good.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why?"

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

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

"Can I see?" he asked softly.

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

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

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

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

He opened it, and his heart sank.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gator’s head snapped up. "’Scuse me?"

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

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

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

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

"It was an accident."

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

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

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

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

“Sweet?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The phone on the nightstand buzzed.

Once. Twice. Three times.

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

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

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

"Turn it off.”

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

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

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

Caleb: Good morning, beautiful.

Caleb: Did you sleep well?

Caleb: Missed waking up next to you.

Caleb: What are you doing today?

Caleb: Why aren't you answering?

Caleb: Hello?

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

"Tell him you're busy."

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

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

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

Another text popped up.

Caleb: Are you ignoring me?

Caleb: You know I hate when you ignore me.

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

Caleb: Are you alone?

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

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

“Probably.” You hung your head.

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

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

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

"He tracks you?" he choked out.

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

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

"Gator, give it back!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Better me than you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caleb: Took you long enough.

Caleb: What are your plans for the day?

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

Caleb: Alone?

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

Caleb: None of them?

You: No.

Caleb: Send me a pic.

Caleb: Right now.

Caleb: No towel.

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

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

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

"Did it work?" he asked.

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

Your phone began buzzing less than twenty seconds later.

Caleb: You look tired.

Caleb: Did you not sleep well?

God, Gator needed to fucking kill this guy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He says he -“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gator looked up, frowning. "For what?"

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

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

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

Caleb❤️

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m good. Just eating breakfast.”

“No sugar, I hope?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Grey sounds… Nice," you whispered.

"And baby?"

"Yeah?"

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

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

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

“I will. Bye.”

The line went dead.

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

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

"You're movin’ in with him?”

You didn't look up. "I… Yeah."

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

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

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

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

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

“He loves me!"

“How?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He had to do something.

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

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

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

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

There was certainly a pattern.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gator glanced at the clock.

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

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

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

“Do you have an appointment, sir?”

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

“Last name?”

“He’ll see me.”

“Last name please, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gator, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

"About what, exactly?”

“Don’t play fuckin’ stupid with me.”

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

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

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

“Answer the question.”

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

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

Caleb’s jaw tightened.

"You’re hurting her."

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What, rape?”

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

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

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

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

Caleb froze. “Pardon?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Caleb looked up, his face a mask of hate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Gator?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I-I have to.”

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

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

"What?" you sniffled.

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

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

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

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

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

"Gator…"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I won't."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He pushed the door open without knocking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cabin?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I know," you repeated.

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

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

“I mean, yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of Caleb?"

"Of you," you whispered.

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

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

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

Because you were right.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You… Love me?" you whispered.

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

“Since when?”

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

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