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"What?" He mumbles, the word falling soft out of his cotton mouth.

You stir slightly in response to the grazing of his touch, and it kicks Peter-Tingle on high-alert that this was not a figment of his imagination. He's quick to un-hand you, scooting backwards towards the edge—and tumbling harshly onto the floorboards with a loud thump, snatching the sheets with him.

The noise echoes in his eardrums, curls splaying out over the floorboards, and Peter is completely frozen. In absolute cold, drowning terror, he watches you stir fully, turning around and stretching at your limbs—a dissatisfied frown perched in your lips at the sudden loss of warmth.

What has he done?

"Spider-Man?" You mumble, voice groggy, almost muffled as your nose dips deeper into the pillow, the one he occupied seconds ago.

Your gaze finally peers open, one palm coming to rub at your undereyes—before meeting his own widened, nearly terrified expression.

"You're awake." You state, as if his existence within the walls of your apartment is a daily, common occurrence. Even if he hasn’t stepped foot into his most favourite apartment, in years. "Hm, you've got brown eyes, who would've thought?"

Why is he here? Why are you so calm about this?

“I’m—so, so sorry.” His words fumble over each other, ears reddened at the tips. Feeling awfully exposed, he wraps his arms around his knees as he lifts himself into a sitting position, caving in on himself as he averts his gaze. “I don’t know why—or how—oh god. Was I hugging you? How did I even—I’m so sorry, I swear I have no clue on how I ended up here.”

Worse, he wasn't wearing a mask. Or much of anything really, aside from an old t-shirt, and Hello Kitty shorts that barely fit his thighs. As his fingers grip at the edge of the shirt, running over the hem, it hits him that these are his clothes. Ones he never stole back from your place, that he had merely assumed was lost to time.

Nothing could have prepared him for this situation, no prep-time or warnings from E.V.I.E.. He didn't have the protection of being Spider-Man and the mask that's become his second skin. No, he had landed bottom-first as bare-faced, shell-shocked Peter.

"You really don't remember how you got here?" You question, lashes fluttering shut as you struggle to stir awake. "Damn, I was wondering if you could tell me."

"No—I swear, I completely blacked out." He scrambles for a response. "Next thing I knew, I was in your bed—I can't believe I just said that."

Running a hand past the bridge of his nose, he hides pathetically behind his fingers, his best attempt of a mask against the chaotic churn of nerves bundling through his gut. He had promised to keep you safe by staying as far away as he could—aside from the daily checking of your social media pages and the occasional swing down your usual coffee shop just to see if your favourite order remained the same, but this? How was he ever going to forgive himself for it?

He hears shuffling, in the normal sense and not the heightened echoes he’s used to ever since his arachnid side started spinning out of control. Strangely, his senses have been dialed down to normal since he regained consciousness—and he can’t dumb it down to just a good rest. It has to be cause of you.

His lashes flutter against the pads of his fingers as he meets your gaze through the gaps. You face him head-on, sitting cross legged right in front of him, head tilted in innocent curiosity.

“You’re a cuddler.” You hum in acknowledgment.

He was genuinely going to be the first Spider-person to ever die of shame, not that he's met many, but he's sure Peter 1 and Peter 2 have never unknowingly climbed into the bed of their special someone because they couldn't control their own DNA evolution. A low sound escapes his throat, clenched through his teeth—completely at a lost for words.

He has no clue on what he’s supposed to do, not when there's no routine or steps to fall back on. Be Spider-Man (Mask's gone). The man the city actually wanted (One who preferably doesn't have panic attacks wearing Hello Kitty pants). Stay far away from his previous life (Scored a huge FAIL here). Get flowers for May (Done). Scroll through your social media pages (..Done). Feel the thrumming vibrations of the washing machine after patrols (Skipped, was too nauseous). Rinse and repeat.

There’s no coming back from this, and it wasn’t even in his control. He hadn’t meant to find you. The last thing he could recall before passing out in his apartment was—he had just wanted to go home. He swore that was all he intended.

“Hey.” Your voice, soft and warm, finally coaxes him out of his thoughts. He hadn’t even realised just how tight he had been clenching his eyes shut—as his gaze takes a few seconds to adjust back into colour with you in his full view.

Slowly and gently, your own fingers raise to pry his away from his face. He’s sure he has hand marks all over his skin, but you look at him with such a soft expression—he nearly keens.

“I got you. You're safe.” You reassure, repeating it as a mantra. “You’re safe here.”

His Adam’s apple bobs harshly, and he feels the tightening of his chest nearly burst at the seams. God, he missed you. All he wanted was to hug you, and tell you he was sorry—for all of it. That he hadn’t gone a single day without wanting to hear your voice, to be exactly where he was right now—that this was all he needed if he wasn’t so weak. If he wasn’t cursed.

“Sorry.” That’s all that comes out, a croak in his voice that he failed to swallow back.

Your lips quirk into a soft smile, and you look like home. He feels his muscles physically deflate in tension at the sight, something no inhibitor or invention could ever replicate. His life has been spinning out of control, and you've just set the needle aside without even blinking.

“You’re all good, Spidey.” Your voice is warm, comforting. “Aside from hogging the blankets, it wasn’t half-bad for my first sleepover with a vigilante.”

His lips part, a laugh caught in his throat—half shattered, half hopeful.

“Could you—I don’t know, explain to me what happened?” He raises his hands, gesturing to your apartment. “I can’t believe I lost control—I don’t remember anything.”

Your lips part, a small grin tucked between your lips. "If you insist."

A loud crash resounds behind you, kick-starting your frightened senses. Head whipping to the window, you spot your window ledge shoved half-way with brutal force, and a body covered in deep reds and blues on your wooden floorboards.

"Holy shit." You mutter to yourself, skillet pan still in hand, the oil coating its surface bubbling into tiny pops.

Spider-Man is in your living room. Spider-Man is spread out across your floorboards, seemingly knocked out cold, in your apartment.

Another sizzling pop snaps you out of your stump, and you realise the collapsed vigilante is your responsibility. Your fingers fumble to switch off your stove with a click, skillet haphazardly placed over the stove burner—apron still hanging around your neck as you rush towards the body. God, you hope it wasn't an actual body.

"Spider-Man?" You call out tentatively, and you're struck by how his body moves in response, the stretch of his back with that familiar logo disappearing to reveal a mop of dark brown curls.

He wasn't wearing a mask. You didn't know what you expected from a hero who seemed nearly indestructible on the news, even when in the process of being smashed into buildings by tanks, but Spider-Man looks much younger than you expected, ahead of you by at most a couple years—bearing a youth that is almost frightening.

He certainly did look battered. Bruises littered his cheek, as if he had slammed himself into bricks or concrete on the way, before he had landed himself in your apartment. Dark circles pooled as a dark shadow under his eye-bags, and his hair was a wet, clumped mess from the rain.

You didn't know where to begin—if you were even allowed to touch him to check if he's hurt, or to call a professional. Did the professionals even know who he was, of his true identity? What if you doomed New York City's most beloved vigilante to his fate, just because you made the wrong call?

Your knees meet carpet, hands trembling in indecision and nerves, coming to rest on his shoulder. At your touch, a hiss escapes his lips and you immediately snatch your hand back, clutching it at the wrist. Who were you kidding, you were the last person equipped to save a person's life—much less a hero's.

You rise halfway, head swinging around to locate your phone—when you feel an insistent pull of your apron, tripping you back to land on the carpet.

"Don't go." He whispers.

Your gaze snaps back to his face, and find his eyes open. Or at least, that's where his pupils should've been. He must be half-unconscious, with the way his eyes are blown into a darkened void, lips parted in some sort of daze.

"I'm going to get help." Your words form despite the panic arising in your chest at the state of him. Is this poisoning? What else could explain the blackened sclera, the way darkened veins coated his skin in an almost bluish-purple. "I'll be right back." You promise.

He shakes his head, almost insistently stubborn, jaw clenching in panic. "No, don't go." His grip tightens almost instantly, and you're swept by his abnormal strength with a sudden tug, tumbling on top of him. "Please."

You freeze, feeling the wet raindrops from his suit seep into the cotton of your apron. Before you even have a chance to push yourself off, his arms wrap around you protectively. Squashed between his broad chest and the tight grip of his hold, your nose is buried into the crook of his shoulder. You smell fresh detergent, sweat, and something so achingly familiar—it churns your senses into mush that it takes you a few seconds to register.

He's shaking, and almost feverishly warm.

"Spider-Man." You plead. "Listen to me. You don't look good. And I do not want a dead Spider on my conscience, so please—you have to let me go so I can find some professionals, just someone to check if you're alright."

His touch is a sizzling heat as the warmth envelopes you, almost like a weighted, heated blanket.

"No. Stay." He pleads. "Please, I don't want—I just need you."

He sounds so exhausted. Why wouldn't he be? Before he had suffocated you into this strange circumstance of a hug, his entire face had been dull in colour, sweat pooling at the curls over his forehead, and he just looked—fragile. Completely unlike the hero of the city you're used to seeing on screen, whether it be receiving the keys to the city or those cheerful quips that make its frequent rounds through the internet when he swoops in to save the day.

"Spidey." You call him gently, trying to think of how to persuade him. "—I won't leave you alone, I promise. Just let me get up, to at least fetch you a change of clothes. You're soaked."

The seconds passing by without a response, or the loosening of his muscles, feel like the longest beats of your life. Your own heart thumps along with the rise and fall of his chest, waiting with bated breath.

"Promise?" He murmurs weakly.

"I promise." You whisper. "I'm not going anywhere."

You feel the slow release of warm breath against your skin, the way his fingers tremor over the small of your back. Something in him relaxes just enough, and his arms give in, thumping heavily at his sides. You rise instantly, palms pushing at his chest and falling back onto the carpet. Feeling the wet residue of the rain coat your apron, and the side of your cheek that had been buried in his shoulder—your cheeks grow impossibly hot.

You need to snap out of it. He needs clean clothes. Yeah, that's a start.

Stumbling in your step, you rush towards your wardrobe—digging through the unorganised mess for a bag of clothes you had kept hidden in the most corner nook. One you hadn't thrown out since your first discovery of its existence, containing Hello Kitty shorts, some old, faded T-shirts—choices you would've never purchased for yourself but had for as long as you could remember.

You had run through a list of reasons for its existence, seemingly packed for an overnight guest. Maybe from that house-warming party you had thrown once before deciding you much preferred your space being reserved for only you, and someone had left their clothes mistakenly. Despite whatever plausibility or excuse—you never found the strength to throw them away. Even when you had every reason to, your mind instinctively buries the thought and the bag remained exactly where it was, kept in a zip-locked bag for it to be used by someone.

Apparently, today was its much-needed day.

Hoisting the bag over to the living room where he still laid, cheek pressed to the carpet, you’re relieved that the tension that previously consumed his expression has faded somewhat, with his lips parted slightly in slow exhales. His body seemed to be recalibrating, instinctively calming down right in the centre of your home.

Your hand comes to rest on his cheek, tapping it gently. Although his eyes with that dark void don't open, a low rumble escapes his throat—convincing you that he's still somewhat conscious.

"Hey, Spidey." You whisper. "I brought some clothes. Do you have the energy to change?"

He doesn't respond, and you poke your tongue into your cheek, analysing the length of him with dawning dread. It's no big deal, you just have to peel off this ridiculously tight suit with no zipper in sight without making it weird, and attempt at successfully pulling a T-shirt over his head.

Making your choice of a 'I Survived My Trip To NYC' graphic tee found at the top of the pile inside, your gaze switches back to the sprawled vigilante. From how heavy his arms had been earlier, rendering you immobile when pinned under them, you wouldn't dare make the mistake of assuming his weight would be easy to flip over. You could attempt to at least expose his back for you to take off that suit—assuming the costume even had a zipper.

Your long calculation apparently does the job for you as Spider-Man senses you near, and his arm curls protectively around your thigh, burying his nose into the crook below your knee. Your entire body stills, a tight grip over the tee as he gently rests his head over your knee, the soft texture of his curls brushing goosebumps against your skin. HIs body turns just enough to expose the expanse of his back—and the sight of a hidden zipper beneath that familiar symbol is a good sign.

Okay, sure. You could work with that.

He was ripped. You should've expected that, but the slow rise and fall of his chest expands the muscles across his exposed torso. You force yourself to tear your gaze away from the sight, reassuring yourself that your eyes were purely looking for possible injuries. You wouldn't go that low to check out a vigilante who was passed out in your living room.

Your fingers press into the sides of his cheeks, maneuvering his head so you could fit the opening of the tee over his head. Curls run through the white fabric before landing over his shoulder blades. It's strangely intimate, the way he's easily pliable in your hands—trusting you so completely. His lashes flutter once every few seconds, but he remains exactly where he is, body wrapped almost completely around yours—acting as a human barrier to you and the outside world—as you dress him in something soft and clean.

He's not supposed to be here, and you're not supposed to feel this protective over a stranger who dresses in two primary colours. Yet, seeing him at rest—makes you feel calm. The quiet of the apartment is a low hum rather than the empty chasm you’re used to, and your fingers run through his hair almost habitually.

You can't just leave him on the floor. There's also the latter half of his suit you don't want to deal with.

"Spidey." You whisper.

He lets out a low groan, wincing as his eyes shut tighter—burying himself deeper into your skin.

"No-no." Your hands come up to gently cup his cheek, coercing him.

His lashes part, and you're met with that same, expansive void, finding your own reflection in his gaze. He's still not quite himself, you believe—but he is able and willing to listen to you.

"I need you to put on these shorts." You gesture to the Hello Kitty pants you laid out for him. "Then, I need you to come to bed."

His brows furrow, lashes fluttering slowly as he processes your request. "Bed."

"Yes." You repeat. "You're exhausted, and I'm not leaving you on my floorboards. It's not too far, so please—help me out a little, Spidey."

His gaze doesn't blink, but you feel the shift in his muscles at your command. He stumbles as he raises himself, body slumping into you—but you steady him with your own grip. His nose buries itself once more into a crook to inhale your scent, this time being your shoulder.

"Okay." You mutter. "That's progress. Come on, up."

It takes you a couple minutes, mostly because he clings to you with every step and he is made of heavy weight. Whatever they feed the heroes of New York, it was clearly something out of limits from your measly grocery bill. By the time he managed to slip himself into those Hello Kitty shorts while you kept your gaze heavily fixated on the ceiling, making sure only to look when the waistband was tight around his torso, it wasn't long before he tripped himself face-first into your blankets. Your own body collapses beside him—equally tired as he is.

You attempt to form a pillow fort in your daze, a barrier of sorts. More for him than you, as you're sure in the morning once this side of him disappears—he'll have a much different reaction to waking up in an apartment with a stranger he doesn't know.

It gets demolished within seconds.

As if the pillows have formed a personal vendetta against him, they're thrown aggressively onto the floorboards. Your hand reaches out to grab them because you had just put them in the laundry—but your wrist is snatched too and you're tugged into his embrace.

You land back into the sheets, cheek smothered against his chest, and there he goes again, wrapping himself around you like a cocoon.

Here in your bed with his arms wrapped around you like you're his only anchor, brows furrowed tight—Spider-Man looked so human. Soft, and incredibly vulnerable. His arm still grips limply onto you even if you can feel his consciousness fading, as if the lack of contact would have you disappearing completely from his reach.

"Those pillows were meant for you, y'know." You mutter, unable to hide your amusement.

His lips curl into a stubborn pout. "Don't want them." He grumbles, words nearly incoherent with the small parting of his lips. "In my way."

You snort softly, before noting the dirt that coats his cheeks. With such a close proximity, you see everything. The soft lines at the corners of his eyes, the bridge of his nose, and just how beautiful he was.

"You've got dirt on your face." You whisper softly. "I should help you with that."

His grip tightens considerably, and you're dragged up so close to his face that your noses nearly bump into one another.

"Okay-okay. I'm not going anywhere." You feel the need to remind him, hand slowly lifting to press against his bruised cheek.

If the press of your finger-pads against the bruise was painful, he didn't show it—only burrowing his face deeper into the curve of your palm, a relieved sigh escaping his lips. The crease between his brows finally unfolds, and the years coated on his expression fades with it—leaving him looking impossibly young.

"Smells like you." He grumbles lowly, pressing the tip of his nose deeper into your palm.

Your heart skips a beat, traitorously even when you're sure he won't remember any of this by the morning.

“Do you have anyone?” You ask gently. “Someone I need to call?”

It’s heart-breaking, the way he immediately shakes his head, his curls ruffled against the sheets. For someone so beloved by the city, even in such a weakened state, he still believes that he has no one.

"Why are you here?" You murmur more for yourself, gazing openly over the fanning of his lashes over his darkened circles.

If it weren't for the expansive heat seeping from his broad chest through the cotton tee you tugged over his head, you would've believed yourself to be in the thick of a sweet, non-sensical dream.

You expect him to be fully asleep, but you hear it, low and almost inaudible. "Home."

Your heart tremors, barely able to comprehend it. "What?"

His words grow muffled against the sheets, the mess of his curls sinking deeper into the pillows—but you hear it. “Wanted to come home.”

Peter watches as you wring a cloth of its excess water over the sink, and the familiarity is dangerously luring. How many times has he sat here on your couch, watching as you prepped a medicine kit or a towel after his patrols? It’s almost unfathomable how quickly the new routines, rigorous with repetition and duty, all that control—that responsibility that leashed him tight falls apart the second he is in your proximity. Where old overpowers the new, because there is nothing he craves more than this. The past—the memories that became more present than reminder, when his own life had pressed ‘pause’ the moment he lost you.

He should’ve insisted on leaving when you offered to clean up the dirt that still coated his face. He should’ve shattered the hope that gleamed in your eyes when he gave you the barest nod, knowing how dangerous that fleeting belief could be when his own had never held value.

He did none of what he was supposed to do—and he didn’t even have the gull to feel ashamed for it, taking in the sight of you with unconditional hunger, absorbing every trace of movement and the way your voice resonated in the hearth of your home. He belonged in your life once, the same way the remains of his old t-shirts were kept in your wardrobe, or how the bathroom door still has the replaced hinges he fixed once on your third home date. There’s him all around, and the sight was its own guilty pleasure that the universe hadn’t completely stripped away the parts of him that used to exist in your life.

"You didn't do anything." You reassure him from across the kitchen counter. "Trust me, when you showed up in my apartment—you weren't in a state of anything other than being near-collapse."

His expression contorts. As if he needed more reasons to hate these new changes to his body—messing up all that is predictable. Predictable is good. It's safe. What isn't within even the remote levels of safe, is forcing you to look after him the entire night because he isn't even in control of his own body.

You stop in front of him, brushing some magazines and half-littered candy wrappers to the side as you sit on the coffee-table, knees brushing against his.

"Breathe." You murmur softly, eyes crinkling with a soft teasing expression.

He hadn't even realised he was holding his breath, being so close to you that it makes him feel faint. Oxygen swoops back into his lungs, his chest rising and falling as he stares at you openly with his mouth slightly gaped.

The cloth in hand raises to press against his cheek, and he feels the slight sting of its cool temperature against the warmth of his skin, the bruise above his cheekbone.

It doesn't truly register for him, not when you're staring at him so keenly he feels the need to ask. "What?"

"I just didn't expect Spider-Man to be so—" You struggle to find the words. "Human. I don't know. I suppose that sounds stupid, but you could pass by me in a coffee shop and I'd just sum you up as a cute stranger I'd never see again, not an actual crime-fighting vigilante."

The two of you were together, so it shouldn’t have struck him with elated surprise to hear it, but the admission that you still found him—he feels sixteen again, taken back to when you had first pressed a kiss onto his cheek and he understood immediately on what it meant to fall in love so completely that you could never look back.

You're too focused on dapping the wet cloth to notice his widened gaze, or the way he swallows dryly—licking at his lips. "You think I'm cute?"

"I mean—this entire time, I half-expected Spider-Man to be at least half-spider. Plus, I have eyes." You tease, your fingers gently brushing the wet cloth over the darkened soot across his cheek, rubbing off the marks. "I meant to do this last night, but you kept protesting when I tried to leave the bed. Clinging onto me—"

"Okay, okay." He raises his hand, catching you by the wrist. He's definitely flustered now. "I don't need to hear the details. I believe you."

You snort softly. "Thought you wanted the full story."

"Yeah, summed up—minus the details." He splutters. "I'm already dying inside from shame, and I've definitely ruined my impression with you forever."

"That's not true." You hum.

He blinks slowly, processing your words.

"There's no shame in reaching out for help, hero or not. I know you’re under a lot of public scrutiny but—it doesn't change who you are, y'know? You're deserving of support, just as much as everyone else. Even if the world expects you to be a hero—" You state. "You're still a person, and it seemed like you really needed someone."

He stiffens, jaw tightening as his eyes avert from yours to pinpoint his focus elsewhere—anywhere but you.

"You're not just someone." He mumbles lowly.

The press of the cloth against his cheek falters. "What?"

"You're—" His voice trails off, jaw clenching tight. “You weren’t scared of me?”

He understands how he can get when he loses control. The way his vision blacks out, and how his mind caves into silence—with his body moving on instinct rather than command. The reflection of a monster in the mirror, everything he swore not to be. The version of him that snuck into your apartment, clinging onto you as a lifeline—was stripped of the rules and promises he had made to keep everything together.

It was him at his most selfish—doing what his instincts pleaded—no, begged for him to do, and he had caved in for all of it. That's why he's here, and why you're staring with an expression he didn't dare uncover.

“I think you’re a lot more scared of yourself right now than I am.” You answer truthfully. “You were in a lot of pain. The last thing I would be was scared, when all you needed was someone to look out for you. Even if it's just for a little while.”

"I—" What is he supposed to say to that? That you're right on, and you've always been even without knowing who he is, and that he's been losing himself ever since he lost you? He swallows thickly. "I haven't been myself lately."

Your fingers tighten imperceptibly, grounding him. "You're still you, maybe you've just been putting aside what reminds you of that. I'm no vigilante, but working yourself to the bone and collapsing in a stranger's apartment—I think that's a signal for a horrible work-life balance."

"I have been resting." He argues. "I get enough hours, I have proof."

"Yeah, that's definitely why you slept like a log last night."

His lips part, gaze finally meeting yours, staring at you wordlessly. Eventually, a laugh escapes his lips, deepening the lines near the corners of his eyes. It's a little sad, and you wonder just how much he had to carry on his own—for a laugh to sound that broken.

"This is hard. I'm not supposed to—" He mutters, and that's the closest thing to raw honesty that you've pulled out of his mouth. "You're way too good for me."

Your smile deepens, and your fingers trace gently over his cheek where the bruise was finally fading. That must've been the mistake of it—the familiarity of muscle memory after a long patrol. He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek in thank you.

It’s only when he spots your frozen expression that he realises what he's done.

"I was not supposed to do that." He mutters to himself, widened eyes locked onto the spot where he left the kiss.

You blink, and he follows the movement—staring at each other in complete silence. His expression contorts, and you can't help the giggle that bubbles out of you.

"That was—wow." You choke back on your laughter. "I think you're running out of things you're not supposed to do, Spidey."

His own gaze crinkles into a smile, abashed. "I'm sorry, I just—I wanted to thank you. It was out of habit."

"Habit—you crash into people's apartments often and give out these free kisses?" You tease. "Is it part of the job description?"

He shakes his head immediately, terrified by the suggestion. "No—no. I swear this is my first time ever doing anything like this. I got the habit from my aunt, she used to—um..."

His expression dampens considerably. "Kiss my cheek for good luck."

Your gaze softens. "She sounds sweet."

"Yeah." His laugh churns awkwardly with a wince. "You would've loved her."

You watch him, and you sense it again—that chasm that ran deeper than the surface of his winced smiles. The way he shook his head when you asked if he had anyone, and even now, the way he fumbled with his fingers as if he didn't quite know what to do with himself in your gaze—and how he hadn't suggested once since waking up that he wanted to leave.

He was waiting, the way one waits for permission to exist in a room when they haven't been invited in one for years.

"Spidey." You call out.

He whips his head to look at you, pupils still widened in some perpetual disbelief, over the fact that he was in your apartment—that you were right in front of him.

"I'm going to make breakfast." You start, not leaving room for argument. "And you're going to help me."

He blinks once, then twice in astonishment. He swallows dryly. "O-Okay."

Your smile loosens into something reserved for a vigilante you had stayed up all night checking his temperature for.

You find that Spider-Man is pretty good in making pancakes, and that he easily maneuvers himself around your kitchen as if he had already memorised the layout. Of where your favourite mugs are, and how he didn't question twice when taking out the ice-cream tub without you needing to say it.

You could narrow it down to Spidey-senses, or whatever theories that's come up on your feed for his inhuman capabilities—but could it really just be that? Could his super-human abilities be the only reason behind why the warm hazel of his eyes light into the tiniest fireworks as he watches you scourge on your pancake, smiling at him with butter at the corner of your lips—as if the sight of you eating breakfast was the most beautiful thing he's ever seen?

Or why he picked you as his destination for home, or the slip of his tongue on how you meant a great deal more to him than just a someone who so happened to let him stay the night.

You have so much to uncover, but for now, he's just a boy in a NYC graphic tee that’s his exact size, and fluorescent shorts that do nothing for his thighs. He catches your gaze on his peculiar outfit, and his own lips purse in amusement.

"Any reason for the outfit choice?" He murmurs, a knowing smile covered by his fist as he rests his chin over his wrist, head tilting slightly as he gazes at you. "It's inventive."

"Oh—" You blink. "I don't know. I kinda always had them. They don't belong to me, but I just didn't see a need to throw out free clothes."

Your lips quirk up, teasing. "Suits you though. Think you'll keep it?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. I think I'll have to return it."

"Why?"

"So I can borrow it again." He suggests slowly.

You stare at him, unable to hide your growing grin. "Smooth, Spidey. Real smooth."

His gaze lights up. "Better than the cheek kiss?"

"Tons better. You could try it again—I'll see if I can adjust the scores." You tease.

"Really?" He stutters, akin to a flustered high-schooler.

"Yeah, but you'll have to tell me your name." You gesture with a point of your fork. "Can't go around giving free kisses without ID."

You meant it as a joke. You're no expert in superhero protocols, but you're sure the codenames meant no personal information spilled outside their work-life. Even when you've already seen his face, and shared a bed with him, and let him take your second favourite mug though he can't possibly know that last one. There's lines you've certainly crossed, but his name?

You part your lips to take back your impulsive request, to brush it off—only to find genuine consideration forming in his expression. Your smile falls slack in wonder. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't possibly.

Yet, he looks at you, almost peering deep into your soul. He looks at you as if he knows you, all boyish and unguarded. Whatever he sees, past the bed-hair and ice-cream smothered lips—it's worth it to him. It's worth something honest, and sacred—a truth he'll never be able to take back. It's a genuine, soft thing—a precious smile that lifts his lips, one you have no idea how brave he is for keeping. He has made his choice, and you're a part of it, always.

Peter looks at you, and he sees the only present he'll ever want. Past spells and starting-overs and stupid choices—at the centre of it all, it all becomes so simple. You—who his body sought out of instinct, who inhabited his mind with your own personal island, who had taken his heart from the first time he saw you. You're home, and no rules or lines drawn could've stopped him from returning back to you. His everything.

"Peter. Peter Parker."

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It has been two hours of sitting at this stupid conference table, looking over CVs and resumés, reading cover letters and letters of recommendation for outstanding scientists with no true wish for being a storm chaser, rather looking for the glory of solving something. Scott understands the glory chasing, wanting to capture that storm and be the first there, to take action and see the truth of nature up close, but he hates these polished academic pricks who think they’re all that because they’ve been in school for twelve years. 

            “Found anyone, yet?” Javi calls out, lifting his head, neck cracking from the motion. The two of them have been working hard at this, business partners, sponsors and investors on the line. 

            “No one worth going into danger with for,” he answers and Javi sighs, leaning back in his chair, rocking it onto two legs, his back the next to crack, loud in the still room. 

            “Maybe I should call Kate,” Javi says, not for the first time tonight and Scott bites his tongue, irritation running through his veins at the mention of this golden girl from Javi’s past. A genius with ideas that got her team killed. Javi always forgets that part. 

            “Two more hours, man,” Scott says, reaching forwards, pulling a new file from the pile, flipping it open to reveal a picture of a gorgeous girl, smiling, seeming to glow even in this 2D piece of paper. Innocence radiates from her—you—in the way she smiles, in the way she looks at the camera, body completely covered. 

            Scott can picture the lips stretched wide in a smile, rather wrapped around his cock, sucking him off with hollow cheeks and teary eyes, going from innocent to knowledgeable, to wanting. It’s an addicting thought, the feeling sending a twinge of energy to his groin as he flips past the picture, pushing past the image, instead skimming the CV. 

            He was right when he looked at the picture, taking note of the achievements that scream, good girl. The kind of girl who goes bed early and wakes up early, always studying or volunteering, never drinking or smoking or taking any kind of risk. The kind of girl who wants true love and a happy ending. The kind of girl he’d like to break. To see take those risks. 

            You graduated top of your class from Yale in a Bachelor’s of Science, then moved to Harvard for a Master’s in atmospheric chemistry. The application questionnaire filled in with neat writing, the answer as to why storm chasing, why Storm Par, merely saying; I’ve been told that science is in the real world too and that I need to see it if I’m to practice successfully.

            “What about her?” Scott asks, tossing the file over to Javi, his hand twitching once it’s gone, wanting to keep it by him, wanting to keep you by him. 

            “You better not be thinking with your dick,” Javi says, looking up at him from the picture, the glossy headshot reflecting like back at him. 

            “I’m not,” Scott says, his tone irritated, frustrated as he leans back in his seat, fingers locking behind his head, “just read her application.” And to Javi’s credit, he does, skimming over all your achievements, accomplishments. All your goodness. 

            “She’s good,” he says, lifting his head and closing the file, his hand resting on the top of it, “but I know you, Scott. I know what you like and this girl,” Javi nods at the file, “is it. So, I need a promise from you if we hire her.”

            “What kind of promise?”

            “I need you to promise me that you won’t fucking touch her,” he answers, eyes narrowing on him. “She’s too good to lose because you want to fuck her and move on.”

            “You make me sound so crass,” Scott replies, but inside he’s seething, insides twisting at the idea of you being so close, but not being able to touch you. Of watching someone else earn that right. 

            “Scott,” Javi says, his tone a warning and Scott makes an exaggerated show of rolling his eyes and offering his hand across the conference table. 

            “I promise,” he says as Javi takes his hand, palm warm and calloused against his as they shake. But Javi doesn’t know that he’s keeping his fingers crossed on his other hand, behind his back. 

            Scott’s never made a promise that he’s actually kept before. 

            He sees you as soon as you step out of your vehicle, as if he’s attuned to you even from just seeing you in that picture. You’re exactly as he expected, sweet looking and smiling, hands in the pockets of blue overalls, yellow Converse on your feet, matching the long-sleeved yellow shirt you have on underneath the overalls. You look like a farmgirl and not the kind in some porno, but rather an honest to god farmgirl.

            You are the kind of girl that he would love to show the rest of the world too. The world that isn’t light and bright and kind, but slightly dark and a whole lot rougher and dirtier than whatever cookie-cutter life you’ve been living. You are the kind of girl that he loves to corrupt, to see go from someone unsure of sex to someone who wants it, to see go from strict moral codes to rather the morally flexible ones he favours. 

            You’re the kind of girl that Javi was right about. The kind he uses and ditches, no longer concerned when he’s done what he’s wanted. 

            You’re also exactly what Javi said when he extracted that promise from Scott: too good to lose. 

            He’s still watching when your gaze drifts from your feet, up to land on him, a smile curving up your lips, the kind of smile that causes a stirring in his gut. The kind of smile that makes everyone feel welcome, makes everyone feel like they’re worth everything.

            The kind of smile, Scott doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. 

            You lift your hand in a wave, doing a small hop before you begin to jog over, the front of your overalls shifting in a way that is taking all of his control to not watch, his gaze turning away to glance at the skyline, waiting for the storm that was predicted. He can see Javi, arms crossing as he takes in the scene of you, the girl Scott has promised to stay away from, running towards him. 

            “Hi!” he hears you call out, your voice just a little breathless, but exactly as he expected anyways, light and bright and sweet. So, so sweet. “I’m—”

            “—I know who you are,” he says as he turns, narrowing his eyes at you and cutting you off, knowing that the sound of you saying your own name will destroy his resolve because it will be a piece of yourself that you’ve just givenhim. Your face freezes for a second, eyes widening in the way that comes when one is surprised, a small gleam of hurt in both of those far too pretty eyes. Eyes that he likes looking at him, ones that he would like to see lined with tears as you cry out his name—no, this line of thinking will get him nowhere. 

            “But everyone calls me Sunshine,” you say, recovering from his interruption, the smile still on your face, just the edges of it, the corners betraying the fact that it’s not as real as it was before.

            “Cool,” he says and turns back to the skyline, his arms crossing, jaw moving up and down, the flavour of cool mint on his tongue from his choice of gum that day. He chose it, knowing that he’d need something strong to ignore you. Something to distract him. 

            He can hear you turn, walk away, your sneakered covered feet cutting through the long grass that’s growing out back of the building they’re working in this week as they wait. The building that you’ll be working in too, running calculations and looking at data and making predictions, research theories. 

            “Sunshine?” he calls out, twisting his body a bit to look at you, arms still crossed as if that’s the only thing keeping him from grabbing you right now. 

            “Yeah?” you reply, looking back at him, your face twisted in the prettiest expression he’s ever seen, an expression of hope. Hope directed at him, as if he’s someone worth hoping for or hoping on.

            “In this business, we bet on rain.” The words are cruel, cutting and biting, punctuated with a particularly loud pop of his gum, the sentence making that hopeful expression fall, rather a look of pain, of sadness, of…embarrassment crosses your face instead. 

            He watches as you turn, your arms wrapping around yourself as if you’re holding yourself together, just a bit, walking away from him towards the building, towards anywhere away from him. He knows that this has hurt you, but as he catches a glimpse of Javi again, catches the way he nods at him, he knows that even if it hurts you (hurts him too, if he’s being completely honest) it’s for the best. 

            You’re too good to lose. 

            “I come baring gifts!” you call out, your voice seeming to bounce off the thin, plastered walls of the office building, surrounding Scott, suffocating him in the sound. He turns to see you standing in the doorway, bright purple Converse on your feet, matching the t-shirt you wear underneath another pair of overalls, these ones more beat-up than yesterday, but the kind of beat-up that is artfully done, designed by people who would rather look like they’re doing work than actually do the work. 

            In your hands is a container of Tupperware tied up with a bright purple ribbon, the kind that curls and kinks on its own, the kind that is a pain in the ass to tie. He can see the shape of brownies through the translucent container and he knows, he just knows, that you baked them yourself to bring to work. 

            What would it be like to watch the perfect girl that you seem to be change? Become…something different, less perfect, less good, more selfish and wanting and destructive. More like him.

            He thinks it would be too good, too perfect. 

            “Hey, Scott?” you call out, your voice sounding far too perfect saying his name. He likes the way it lilts up and around the syllable of his name, the way you make it sound sweet when it’s never been sweet before. 

            “What?” he says, his voice gruff and slightly husky. He knows why it sounds that way, knows what he was imagining, but it’s his luck that it sounds mean, cruel. Irritated. 

            “Do you want a brownie?” You hold the container out to you and he realizes that it’s open, that people have taken some while he’s been standing there, thinking things he has no business thinking. 

            So, he does what he doesn’t want to do. He scoffs and rolls his eyes, walking past you, his shoulder shoving against you, pushing you aside until he’s out of the break room, in the hallway enough distance between the two of you that he can breathe, his shoulder still tingling with the pressure of your body against him. 

            “Scott,” he hears you call out and he tenses, muscles seizing up at your voice saying his name and still saying it with warmth as if the two times he’s been a dick haven’t been enough to ruin him in your view yet. 

            “What?!” he snaps, turning around, arms crossed, jaw clenching around the piece of gum in his mouth, the same piece of gum that’s he’s been chewing so much that it’s hard now because he was watching you after the storm talk with fucking Tyler the fucking Tornado Wrangler and he couldn’t do anything about it. 

            “I was just gonna ask you what your coffee order was,” you whisper, your voice still sweet, still lilting in the evening air, the sky just starting to deepen to night, “because I’m doing a run for our team.”

            “I don’t want anything,” he says, his voice more defeated than angry or distasteful. He can see the recognition in your eyes, his gaze trained on the land that was damaged and destroyed just hours ago. It fascinates him, the way tornados leave a perfect place absolutely destroyed. 

            Maybe that’s why he does this job. Because he’s like a tornado and the girls he’s been with are the land—absolutely changed and destroyed once he’s gone. 

            He doesn’t want that for you. 

            No matter how much he wants you.

            “Morning!” you call out to him, stepping into the breakroom, a tray of coffee in your hands, four cups resting in it. You set the tray on the table, pulling a cup from it and walking to him and handing him the cup. He can smell the scent of the coffee, mixing with the scent of you, the one that is citrusy and sugary and all together far too addictive. 

            “What is this?” he asks, his tone disdainful, eyes narrowed. He hopes it looks like he’s glaring, rather than checking you out, taking the new outfit you’re wearing, a button-up shirt tucked into linen pants, but still with a pair of bright coloured Converse. 

            “It is,” your voice is high and dramatic, excited, “an iced latte flavoured with a shot of hazelnut. I was informed this was what you liked.” Your face is hopeful, so hopeful that it hurts him because that damn promise is still hanging over his head, the words still ringing through him too good to lose even when he wishes that they weren’t because he would like nothing more than to shove you up against the breakroom wall, the coffee slipping from your hand, totally forgotten as he fucked you senseless. 

            “Not my kind of drink,” he tells you and steps past you, steps away. Fuck Javi for doing this to him. He could have had you ten times by now if it weren’t for that damn promise. 

            That stupid, fucking promise. 

            “Hey, Scott,” you call out and he sighs, turning around, hands in the pockets of his slacks, taking in the sight of you jogging towards him, a small box held in your hands. “I brought you something.”

            “Don’t want it,” he says and turns, walking away, knowing that you’ll be standing there with that crestfallen look on your face, his shoulders tense. He wants nothing more than to turn back around, take the gift and kiss you until you’re breathless. Kiss you until you want more. 

            But he can’t.

            “Scott?”

            “Fuck off, Sunshine,” he replies, not even turning around to look at you. He trains you, he works with you and he can play professional, but the times in the breakroom, the times in the field and now, when the day is done…he can’t be nice. 

            He can’t play at someone who cares because then he will and that promise will get broken. 

            He sees you step into the breakroom of the new office building for this week and he waits for you to say something, anything. A hi or brought you something or anything, but you do nothing. You don’t even look at him, rather stepping up to say something to Javi, a piece of paper held in your hands, a smile for him, but nothing for Scott. 

            He doesn’t like it. 

            He really doesn’t like it.

            “Okay,” Scott hears Kate say, her voice still grating on his nerves, as he pauses outside the room, debating whether to go in or not. Debating whether coffee is worth playing civil. “How bad was the date?”

            “It wasn’t bad,” he hears you say and he can feel his breath hitch, feel it stutter, breaths pulsating as a heat fills his veins, one of jealousy and anger. “It just wasn’t good.” He doesn’t like picturing you out with another guy, talking sweetly to him, doting on him, possibly having sex with him. 

            It makes him want to go in there, pull you from the room and make you realize that you’re his. 

            “Bad sex?” Kate asks and he chokes for a moment, the hard swallow he had at the image of you crying as he fucks you relentlessly, his breathing hitching at the choking. 

            “How about no sex?” you counter, your voice light but an undertone, an edge to it. Something he didn’t know you had. “I don’t…do that. I’m a virgin,” he hears you sigh, the sound sweet and light, your admission going straight to his dick. 

            He could be the first guy you ever have, the one your body learns before all else. He’s never had that before, not really. He could be your first. He could be the experience you compare all future ones too, the model for it all. The one who makes you want it. 

            “I’m still waiting for the right guy,” he hears you say amidst the sound of blood pulsing in his head, his dick growing hard at the thoughts running through his head, thoughts that stop like cold water has been poured over him. 

            The “right” guy. That’s what you’re waiting for and he certainly has not made himself seem like that. 

            “Waiting for the quote-on-quote right guy isn’t always worth it,” he hears Kate say, for once agreeing with her. “Just find someone who is willing to go down on you, put your pleasure as top priority.”

            “I don’t think I’ll find that,” he hears you say, the laugh at the end of your sentence not sweet and light, but sad. Self-deprecating. 

            He would do it, would make you come around his tongue, his fingers first before even trying anything else. He would make it good for you first because you enjoying it would be the best thing to him. 

            Because…no, he’s not going there. Feelings make things messy. And besides, he has the promise that he made to Javi. But the thought of someone else having you, of being there first is the worst thing he’s ever thought of. It’s the worst thought to pass his mind and he…he doesn’t want that. 

            He wants to be first. To be the one to strip you of that bit of innocence. 

            Fuck the promise.

            “I bring cookies!” he hears you call out, the crew congregating in the lobby of the hotel, waiting for the storm that was promised to drop. He glances over his shoulder at you, taking in the way that you always seem to glow, bright and beautiful and perfect. You hold the Tupperware container in one hand, the limb kind of outstretched as you stand in the entry way. He has about two minutes before people realize and start to move so he moves first, closest to the entrance, cutting to you and standing before you. 

            He watches as you flinch just a little at his approach, the sight both pleasing and hurting him, the idea that he stripped you of the idea that all people are good, but it hurts because…no, no feelings. 

            He reaches into the container, grabbing one, his eyes flicking to you, tracing the shape of your lips as he says, “I love cookies.” He lifts it, biting into it with slow, exaggerated movements, eyes locked on you the entire time, making sure to lick his lips at the end. “Delicious,” he tells you, dropping his voice a register, making the sound husky, hoping to get a rise out of you. 

            Which he does, his eyes tracking the movement of your throat when you swallow, the darkening of your cheeks as you turn from him, to Kate who’s appeared to take one, shooting him a strange glance. One not quite a glare, but not quite not one either. 

            But he knows you reacted. 

            That’s what matters.

            “Hey, Sunshine!” he calls out, waving at you, two cups of coffee held in his hands, one for you and one for him. He watches as you walk to him, your bag held tight to your shoulder, expression wary. 

            “What’s wrong, Miller?” you call out, voice still light and sweet like you, but a separation between him and you, the last name a distance. One he doesn’t like. He doesn’t want that distance between you now, but he’s aware that he created it. 

            “Just come here!” he says and you do, jogging to reach him, taking in the sight of the gathering clouds behind him. “This is for you,” he says, handing you the coffee, the one you take with apprehension, his arm coming around your shoulder, your body stiffening at his touch. 

            “Why are you being nice?” you ask him and his heart breaks for a moment because he never wanted this. He never should have made that fucking promise to Jav, it’s only hurt you and for some reason, that…well, that hurts him. 

            “Because I want to be. Now, look,” he says, pointing to the clouds, the first raindrops beginning to fall in the distance, untouched in the place where you stand, where sunshine still reigns. “Sunshine and rain.”

            “I thought we only bet on rain in this business,” you return, tone dry and oh, that voice does something to him, a smile, a real smile, the dimpled one comes out, curving up his lips for you. 

            “Not anymore.”

            “Sunshine! You’re with me! Let’s go!” he yells out, gesturing you over, the van already running, his door open as he climbs in, you hopping in after him into the passenger seat, your scent overwhelming him for a moment before he blinks, refocusing. “You ready for your first real day in the field?”

            “Yeah,” you tell him, your tone excited as you buckle yourself up and he puts the van in gear, taking off after the storm. He likes this, you beside him. He likes it a lot. 

            “I know you don’t like coffee in the afternoons,” he says, stopping behind you, reaching around you, his hand holding a sweating plastic cup, one which holds a pink coloured drink, “so I got you this.”

            “Why?” you ask him, taking it and turning around in the same breath, his breath hitching from the graze of your fingers against his. 

            “Because I want to.”

            Rain is coming, he can tell in the smell of the air, the shift in the pressure, the change in the winds. It’s why he’s taking his break now, lifting his watermelon vape to his lips, pulling on it, the smoke filling his lungs before he blows it back out, watching the vapour twist and twirl in the air like fingers or figures dancing. 

            “Why?” he hears you call out behind him, your voice confused and hurt and he wondered how long it would take before you confronted him, before he fessed up. “Why are you so nice to me now? After months of being a jerk?” He should have known you wouldn’t swear. 

            “You can say it, Sunshine,” he calls out without turning around, putting his vape back to his lips for another puff. “I was a dick,” he says on exhale, hearing your footsteps crunch along the gravel that makes up the parking lot of the old school that’s base of operations for the week. 

            “Yeah,” you say, voice so close now, but not quite close enough, “you were a dick.” The swear sounds strange in your mouth as if you rarely say them and the fact that he’s gotten you to say one sends a thrill through him, one that lands right in his dick. 

            “Well, you see, Sunshine,” he says, turning around to look at you, his vape back at his mouth as he sucks in again, the taste of the watermelon nicotine vapour permeating his mouth as he blows it out at you, saying, “I made a promise to someone about you.” You cough, batting away the smoke that flies at you, stepping closer to him. 

            “A promise?” you ask. 

            “I promised that I wouldn’t do anything about my attraction to you when Javi and I hired you,” he says, “because I have some…bad habits with women and Javi didn’t want you to be another one that has to suffer through them.”

            “So, you were a jerk because…what? You…like me?” you ask and he nods, the vape pen still in his hand even as he lets his hand drop, falling to his side. 

            “Bingo, Sunshine,” he says, eyebrows flicking up, his gaze darting to the sky for a moment before flicking back to you and the way you look, the way your eyes are shifting more than any storm ever could. 

            “What changed?” you ask him finally, stepping even closer, your proximity making his breath hitch and his palms tingle with the need to reach forwards and frame your face before kissing you long and deep and slow with a lot of tongue and the taste of nicotine on his tongue slipping onto yours. 

            “I just…” he pauses, shoving past the thoughts that crowd his mind, “couldn’t stay away anymore.” 

            “Well, I like you being nice,” you tell him, voice soft as you lean against the brick wall beside him, looking out at the darkening skies. “Smells like rain doesn’t it?”

            “That and my watermelon vape,” he answers and you look at him with a teasing glint in your eyes, a shift to your lips that he likes, wants. Covets, actually. “Wanna try?” He can see the debate in your head before you shrug and nod, reaching out a hand for it and he places it in your hand, palm lighting up at your touch. 

            “But you can’t judge me if I cough cause I’ve never done this before,” you tell him, holding one finger out to him and he holds both hands up, laughing a bit to hide the desire that’s growing in him as he watches you lift the pen—the pen that his lips have touched, that his saliva has been on—to your lips, drawing a breath in of the vapour, coughing immediately, pushing the pen at his chest as you double over, coughing. 

            And he doesn’t judge it because he can feel his dick growing hard at the sight of you that’s ingrained in his brain of you with your lips to a vape, trying it for the first time. 

            He wonders how many other things he can get you to try for the first time. 

            “Now that you know I like you,” he calls out when you straighten up, breathing more even again, “will you go out with me?”

            “Nope,” you tell him, your lips curving in a smile as you reach forwards, straightening the collar of his polo tee. “You have to be consistently nice first.”

            “Okay,” he says, his free hand reaching forwards, cupping your cheek, delighting in the way your pupils expand for a moment, your breath hitches and your lips part. “I’ll do it.”

            The first time he sees you outside of work in his attempt to be nice is when you invite him out to coffee with you and Kate. It was awkward and hard because it was Kate, but he did it because of the smile on your face when he did it. 

            He would do anything for that smile, the one he saw the first day, the one that made him feel enough. And you gave it. 

            The second time was helping you shop, he gave outfit advice like a friend while fighting a boner the entire time. 

            The smile you gave him hinted at the fact that you knew. 

            The third time was a picnic with you and Kate and fucking Tyler that he sat through with a grin plastered on his face, playing nice the entire time because you asked him to. 

            The fourth time was coffee just the two of you. The fifth time was a group movie outing. The sixth was more movies, laughing and talking and showing you that he remembered how you liked your popcorn, the type of candy you liked. 

            And he realized through these times, that yeah…feelings were involved this time. Because he might…yeah, he might love you. 

            “Why did you insist on a farmer’s market?” Scott asks you now, your body curled in the passenger seat, the basket of strawberries on your lap, your knees pulled up, body facing him, window open, wind running through the tendrils of your hair. 

            “The strawberries, man! The strawberries!” you reply, lifting one to your mouth, biting into it, red juice dripping from your lips down your chin in a way that makes him want to stop the car, lean over and lick it away, lick you clean. The strap of your overall has also come undone, but he doesn’t want to fix it, rather undo the whole thing, letting him fuck you senseless. 

            “It was a zoo!” he cries, laughing as you tip your head back out the window, the column of your throat long and elongated. He walks to kiss his way up it, to meet your lips, to taste the strawberry still on your tongue. He wants to fuck you right here, right now. 

            But he won’t. 

            Not yet, at least. 

            “He hasn’t made a move yet?!” he hears Kate whisper, her voice shocked and slightly worried. “I thought he would have by now. Don’t you want to have sex with him?”

            “More than anything,” he hears you answer, his heart clenching in his chest, pain and anger and irritation warring, making it hard to breathe, his lungs squeezing tight. “But he hasn’t made a move.”

            “So, you make one!” Kate returns. 

            “How?” you ask. 

            “I don’t know! Ask, maybe?”

            “Oh, yeah, Kate. That would so work, just go up to him and be like, ‘would you like to have sex with me?’ and see what he says?”

            “Yeah, actually, exactly like that! Do that!”

            “I’m not that girl! I’d vomit all over him before the words came out!”

            “Listen to me! You are smart and hot and sexy and that fucker would be lucky to have you and I already know that you’re head over heels for him so just go for it! Maybe…maybe he is the one.”

            Scott slams his office door, unable to listen to that conversation, to you talking about letting someone else be first. Unable to listen to the fact that you’ve been seeing someone else. He’s been consistently nice and yet you’re seeing someone else; probably fucking Tyler. 

            But, he can’t let someone else have you first. He wants your body to learn his shape first, no one else’s. 

            (And if he’s being honest, he wants to be first, last and only. But he’s quite good at lying to himself.)

            The knock sounds on his door, soft and quiet, three taps. Your knock. He wonders why you’re here, knocking on his office door when everyone else has gone home, the day over. He wonders why you’re not out with fucking Tyler and asking him to have sex with you. Why are you here? Knocking on his door?

            He doesn’t get it, but he rises from behind his desk where the data sits, walking around to open the door, watching as you step in, the skirt you wore today swishing around your thighs. He’s wanted to rip it off of you all day, and honestly, he’s tired of playing Mr. Nice Guy when he’s never even been what you wanted. 

            “Scott I ha—” He cuts you off, pressing his lips to yours in a fast, hot kiss, pushing you back into the wall, your noise of surprise has you open your mouth, enough that he can slip his tongue into your mouth, stroking along yours in a way that has you gasping, your hands scrambling digging into his back, nails no doubt leaving half-moons on his skin.

            His hands are on your waist, hot and heavy, your skin deliciously soft, even through the layer of fabric, he can tell. He slides them down from your waist, to your hips, back to your ass, squeezing the skin as you moan into his mouth. 

            “Do you have any idea,” he whispers, pulling back from the kiss, his forehead falling against yours, “how crazy you’ve been driving me?”

            “Scott, I—” He doesn’t let you finish, his one hand sliding around your thigh, slipping underneath the skirt, inching closer to your pussy. 

            “With the playing nice? And the hang-outs,” he whispers, his hand pulling your underwear to the side, the gesture having your body squirming on the wall. “The treats and the laughing and the smiles. Only to find out,” his voice drops as he slides one finger in-between your folds, watching as your face twists both in pleasure and a bit of revulsion, “that there’s been some other guy all along?”

            “There’s been a mis—”

            “There’s been no mistake,” he whispers, dragging the finger back and forth, back and forth between your folds, stimulating you, arousal growing on his finger, the pad of his index finger pressing down on your clit. “I heard you talking to Kate about it.”

            “What?” Your eyes fly open, wide with surprise and shock. “Then you should kn—” you break off, your words becoming nothing but a low moan as he slips one finger inside of you, knuckle deep, dragging his knuckle back down your walls as he pulls it out, his thumb finding your clit, finger continuing to pump in and out of you. 

            “I know that I’ve wanted to do this,” he whispers, his voice a husky rasp as he slips a second finger in, dragging both knuckles down your walls and up them over and over as his thumb circles your clit in clockwise motions over and over and over, your breathing hitching, noises breathless whines. “Since I heard you tell Kate you were a virgin.”

            “Do you know,” he whispers, adding a third finger, listening as you whine, your head falling against the wall, hands curling into his back, his mouth dropping to your neck, kissing and licking and sucking up the column of your throat. “What you do to me?” He slips a fourth finger inside, his other hand, sliding underneath your shirt, towards your breasts, roaming over them underneath the practical bra you wear. 

            “Scott,” you whine as he presses down on your clit, fisting inside of you, for one, two, three pumps before you cry out, sharp and unbidden, your walls clenching around him, tight and unrelenting as your orgasm washes over you. He draws out when you’re finished, instead lifting his hand to your lips, skin glistening with your arousal as he pops two fingers into your mouth. 

            “Suck,” he whispers and you do, sucking the taste of yourself down, before he pulls his fingers back out, sinking to his knees before you. “Now, I want to know what you taste like, Sunshine,” he says, lifting one of your legs onto his shoulder, followed by the other, his body the only thing holding yours up, your back flat against the wall. 

            He can see your pussy, glistening and pretty as he leans forward, pressing a kiss against your mons first before dragging his tongue from your entrance to clit, tongue flattening on your clit, your whines precious above him. You’re sweet and sour and salty, delicious, better than any treat you’ve ever made, any coffee you’ve ever brought him. 

            He drags his tongue over and around your clit, little figure 8s around it, your hands clawing at his hair, pulling at the strands, rough and hard and desirous. 

            “Look at you,” he murmurs against you, “my not-so-good girl.” The words have you whining more, your hips bucking up, back towards him and he obliges, his tongue finding your entrance, diving in and out while one hand trails up your thigh, to your clit, one finger circling it and driving you to the edge in tandem with the movement of his tongue. 

            It doesn’t take long before you’re clenching around him again, another orgasm washing over you, flooding his tongue with that sweet and salty taste of your release. 

            “Scott,” you whisper as he sets your legs back on the ground, standing back up, his hands finding your waist, “the guy I was talking about was you.” He swallows hard on reflex. 

            “What?” he asks you and you smile at him, despite that fucked out glaze in your eyes and the shake in your legs. 

            “I thought we were, kind of dating,” you whisper and then he’s pulling you from the wall and towards his desk, his hand knocking a bunch of papers and pens and whatever off of the surface, his hands yanking down your skirt and panties, pushing you down onto the surface of the desk, his hands fumbling with his belt, his zipper, before finally succeeding in pulling his hard and leaking cock out of his pants. 

            Then, without fanfare, he slips inside of you. You cry out around him, pussy clenching once before he slips all the way in, you already slick from two orgasms. 

            “You,” he whispers, pulling out before slamming back in again, “are fucking perfect. Feel so good around me, pretty girl.” You whine at that, his hands gripping your hips tight as he jackhammers in and out of you, needing this, needing you in a way he’s never needed anything else. 

            “Like this, huh?” he whispers. “Always knew you were a naughty girl.” Your hand reaches back for his and his heart melts, one hand letting go of your hip to instead hold onto you. You cry out again, his name on your lips as he slams up and into you. “Know how many times I dreamed of this? You whining and crying as you came on my cock? Too many times? I wanted to be the one to end your little innocence act, you know.”

            He can feel that you’re close in that way you’re clenching around him and he slams up and into again, your pussy orgasming for the third time. When you’re done, he pulls out, still hard, still not done, pulling you back and lifting you to sit on the desk. 

            He wants you to watch him as he fucks you. When you’re settled he slams back in again, lips chasing after yours as he drives in and out, his own release so close, especially with the way your lips move against his. The way your tongue feels against his. 

            “Oh, pretty girl,” he whispers, “I’m the only guy you’re gonna have now. You know that right?” He feels you nod against him when he kisses you again, hard, just as you clench around him again, this time drawing his own release from him and he comes inside of you, in thick, hot ropes. 

            He can feel exhaustion in him as his head falls against your shoulder, breathing heavily drawing in your citrusy sugary smell which is exactly how you taste. 

            “I’m glad,” you breathe out and he lifts his head to look at you, “that it was you. Even if this was a shitty way to do it.”

            “Am I the one?” he asks you, a teasing smirk growing on his face, the taste of you still lingering on his tongue. 

            “I want to say yes,” you whisper. So, say yes, he thinks. “But what does this mean for us? I know…I know that taking virginity is a kink for some people so—” He cuts you off, pressing a short and sharp kiss to your lips, the kind that steals the breath from your lungs. 

            “You think I’d ever let anyone else have you now?” he asks. “Your body knows me. And it’s only gonna know me, okay?”

            “Okay,” you breathe out, your words falling out in-between a laugh and a gasp. “What now, then?”

            “Now,” he says, lifting you from the desk and helping you back into your skirt and underwear, “we go to my place and fall asleep.”

            “Just sleeping?” you ask, a wanting, teasing glint in your eye and he feels that jolt of lust knowing he’s done. He’s made you want more, want him. But unlike all those other times, he’s not letting go of you. 

            You’re his. 

            “I love you,” he says. “So, sleeping, fucking, dating. I want it all, Sunshine. Every last bit.”

            “I think that can be arranged,” you tell him with a teasing smile, your arms around his neck. “But you might have to carry me out of here. I don’t think I can walk.”

Gator Tillman had wriggled his way into your life like a worm.

Everyday after a shift, he’d come over to check on you and help out with anything that needed doing, whether that be making food, baby preparations or even just being someone you could talk to. So much so you’d even gotten a dark green key cut for him, explaining that you thought the colour ‘fit his aura’.

Money had still been an issue for you, but Gator didn’t mind covering your weekly shop or getting you anything you desired. You wished you could do more for him in return, but he’d always tell you is was fine, give you his card and smiled that smile which always filled you with warmth.

Overtime, it had become clear that the relationship between the two of you was certainly more than friends, but nothing had been said for clarity, leaving you and your teeny huge crush on him secretly hoping he felt the same way.

~*~*~*~*~

It’s a crisp Monday morning in the middle of November, frost creeping in through the draft and a light blanket of snow dusted over your lawn. Layered up under cozy coats and autumnal jumpers, you were getting ready for yet another baby scan, your due date being mere weeks away. As you’re lacing up your leather winter boots, a buzz echoes out from your phone.

🐊: good morning angel

you: good morning gates =]

🐊: u need anything 2day

you: I think I’ll be okay thanks. I’ve got a baby scan in a bit but after that I’m free if you want to come for dinner! :p

🐊: baby scan? the doctors is a 30min walk from ur house

you: it’ll be a whimsical winter walk

🐊: omw

Okay… change of plan.

With a giggle, you put down your phone. Gator had become endearingly protective over you and your baby girl. Any chance he got, he’d message or call to make sure you were okay and didn’t need anything. Every so often, he even dropped off little gifts for you or the baby.

One day, it was a small stuffed sheep with comically big eyes and a ‘c’ shaped smile. Gruffly, he’d told you he saw it in Walmart and thought your little baby would like it, murmuring something about it being stupid anyway.

Another day, it was a DVD of La La Land, telling you he’d seen it in a thrift store and remembered you loved it. Each time he mentioned a little thing you loved, or remembered something you’d mentioned offhand in a random conversation a million Tuesdays ago, it felt like your heart was growing three sizes.

So the fact that Gator had offered told you he was picking you up? You were pretty sure you looked like a tomato with how much you were blushing.

~*~*~*~*~

Snow crunched under the wheels of Gator’s patrol car as he drove you to the doctor’s office. Throughout the drive, his hand had slowly and hesitantly ended up on your thigh, fingers completely frozen as if you’d never notice it was there if he kept still. Placing a soft hand over his, you looked over at him with a smile so warm his heart melted into a puddle like the snow on the sidewalks.

Once you arrive, Gator helps you out if the car, a protective hand over your bump. As the two of you walk up to the door, he tenses as he spots a familiar truck parked across the street.

A truck with ‘Stark County Sheriff’s Department’ written on the side.

~*~*~*~*~

“Well, Momma, I can confidently say your baby girl is looking fit as a fiddle!” Marge, your midwife, beams as she points to the screen, your baby a white silhouette.

Gator’s hand is yet again placed on your thigh, his thumb rubbing in absentminded circles. When is big brown eyes meet yours, they’re filled with nothing but absolute awe for you. For the fact you’ve grown a baby. For the fact that your little girl is strong. Gazing into his eyes, you also notice how suspiciously watery they are.

Once he sees you noticing, he looks away and quickly rubs his eyes. Murmuring a quiet, “Just got somethin’ in my eyes…”

~*~*~*~*~

As you and Gator leave hand in hand, he tenses up yet again, placing you slightly behind him with a hand on your bump.

“Gate?” Eyebrows furrowing, you try to catch his stern gaze.

Following his eye-line, you spot the one man you’d never want to see. Leaning up the side of the ‘Stark County Sheriff’s Department’ truck across the street is none other than Roy Tillman.

“Gator, let-let’s just go.” You say worriedly, eyes flicking between him and Roy.

Gaze never leaving his father, Gator walks you to his car, covering you with his body.

“Get in. Lock the door. I’ll be back.” He mumbles, brain occupied with how he’ll get out of trouble.

Once the door is locked with a click, he makes his way over to Roy.

There’s no shouting, no hitting at all. Just stern words and hurtful phrases hitting weak spots in Gator’s ego. His face is a painting of pain, gaze locked to the floor and muscles tense.

You can’t tell what Roy is saying, but you know for a fact it isn’t good.

Once Gator finally gets back in the car, he immediately pulls out his kiwi lime blast vape, taking a hit and blowing it out of the window.

Staring ahead, he huffs.

“Fuckin’ old man knows nothin’.” He shakes his head and scoffs, devoid of any humour.

“He don’t get it! Saying I should fuckin’ leave ya. No fuckin’ way. It don’t matter none if yer pregnant.” Gator’s eyes flick to you and then back ahead.

“He don’t get how much you mean to me. Fuckin’… yer ma world.”

“Gate…” Placing a hand on his thigh, you try to catch his gaze.

…

“Gator look at me please.”

Brown doe eyes meet your own, and his face has never looked so soft.

“I’m… I’m your world?” Beaming, you squeeze his thigh.

His eyes flick down to your lips, his own parting slightly as he lets out a quiet breath.

Slowly, Gator begins to lean in, giving you plenty of time to pull away.

You don’t.

Once his lips meet yours, you get your answer.

You were Gator’s world.

And he was yours.

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You drag him by the arm, ushering him inside the animal shelter. He grumbles, muttering nonsense under his breath the whole time - pretending as if he's not letting you parade him around with minimal resistance.

As you push open the doors to the shelter, the coat of paint on the gray walls chipping away, you spot a young girl behind the reception desk.

You make a beeline for it, Gator walking next to you.

"Hi, welcome ! I'm Leah, what brings you to the animal shelter today ?"

"Nothin' much to do 'cept buy one of these critters, ain't there ?" Gator deadpans, crooking his eyebrow.

Leah's face flushes in embarrassment.

"Gator!" you hiss in admonishment, nudging his elbow.

'What' he mouths, seemingly unbothered.

"Hi, oh my gosh, I'm so sorry. Leah, right ?"

The receptionist nods, her eyes downcast.

"Hi sweetie, I'm so sorry. What my boyfriend here meant to say" you explain, glaring at Gator, "-was that we're to look at some puppies and maybe take one home today." You turn back to her, excitement brimming.

Luckily she mirrors it, gathering up a few sheets and forms from the desk.

"Ok, great! We're always so happy whenever people come in to adopt. Let me show you to our pups and dogs." she beams, gesturing at you and Gator to follow her.

Sounds of extreme barking and howling alert you to the nature of the room you're about to enter. As Leah opens the door, the sight you're greeted with immediately makes you squeal.

Dogs of various shapes, sizes, colours and types are present before you, tails wagging and noses sniffing the air - trying to get a sense of you and Gator.

"Oh my gosh ! Gates, look!"

"M looking, hun."

"Oh my god, they're all so cute!"

Excited yips and barking fill the air, all of the dogs turning to look at the two of you in intrigue, some of them tripping over their own paws, their excitement palpable.

You turn to Gator, grinning, a question on the tip of your tongue.

"If yer 'bout to ask me if we should take 'em all home, I'm leavin'."

You pout, rolling your eyes.

"Fine, geez. We'll just get the one today, and then I'll keep coming by every week to get a new one. Our home's gonna be the dog farm people come to visit 10 years down the line, with the old, wrinkly couple as a bonus."

"Already thinkin' of spending forever with me, sweetness? Didn't think ya were that eager." He winks, leaning closer to you.

Your face warms, realising what you just said.

Thankfully, Leah clears her throat then. "So, we've got a variety of dogs, as you can see. We did have a few older dogs as well, but most of them were in an adoption event last week, and thankfully all 6 were adopted!." she chirps. "So, we've mostly got some pups and a few young dogs at the moment."

"Aww, that's great to hear! I'm excited to see the little ruffians."

Leah smiles, directing you to the first dog in the kennel.

"So, this is Levi - he's an American Bulldog. He's two this year, a little mischievous occasionally, but otherwise obedient."

You smile at the dog, the colour of his floppy ears reminding you of Gator's bedhead.

"This is Pearl, she's a poodle. A little bit of a diva, but she's such a sweetheart and loves cuddling."

Gator moves closer to you, his mouth near your ear, "Sounds like another lady I know."

You swat his chest playfully.

She goes around introducing you to almost 15 dogs, before you come to an adorable dachshund wagging its tail at you and Gator.

"Over here, we have this new pup we found out in the rain last night actually. Our vet confirmed that he's around 5 months currently, and is still in his teething phase." Leah exclaims.

"We haven't given him a name just yet, but he has a lot of energy. He does get a bit spooked sometimes though if someone talks loudly - we think he might've had a bad owner earlier."

You look at Gator then, and see him staring at the pup, something stony in his expression. His jaw is set, and his fists are slightly clenched. You reach out, intertwining your fingers with his in what you hope is a comforting gesture. He swallows, looking down at your conjoined hands, before clearing his throat.

"We'll take him."

Your eyes widen slightly, "Gates, you sure ? We don't have to if it reminds you of ..." you trail off, unsure of how to bring up his father.

His hand squeezes yours in reassurance, "I know, sweet girl. Can't abandon this fella though, he deserves the chance to have a good home, don't you think ?

"Yeah" you agree, voice thick, squeezing his hand back. "He does."

Gator looks at Leah, who seems to have been doing her very best to not listen in on your conversation. "We'll take him." He repeats. "Ya got any forms and stuff we need to fill, kid?"

"Oh, yes, yes - yeah !" Leah breathes, "It's back at the front desk, I'll get the process started right away!"

"Appreciate it." Gator nods.

The both of you follow her out, back to the reception hall. You wave back at the dachshund, whose tail only wags faster still.

Filling adoption forms might be one of your top 10 nightmares at this point, the process incredibly long and monotonous - pretty much sucking the energy out of you. At one point, Gator pops down to the cafe down the street to get you both some coffee to just get through all the documents.

"Ok, and that should be all. I'll get one of our staff members to bring the dog out here, and y'all can take him home." Leah remarks.

"There's also a list I've attached to the back of the forms - it's just a summary of a few things you might need that's necessary to have when raising a dog. If you have any queries, feel free to call us!"

You look at the list from the set of documents you're holding, committing the first few to memory. "Thank you, Leah. We appreciate it, sweetheart."

She beams. "Of course! Thank you for adopting from Sage's Shelters!"

!Ruff!

The sound of excited barking following a door creaking open draws yours and Gator's attention. A seven pound package accompanies the sound, ears flapping as it runs towards you.

You immediately thrust the documents into Gator's chest and squat down, arms open with glee.

Which immediately turns into horror when the puppy trips, skidding into you and causing you to fall onto your butt.

"Oof!"

Gator chuckles above you, clearly enjoying the spectacle, but you don't even have time to frown at him as you feel the dog licking your face in excitement.

"Whoa, whoa -, hey buddy, hi! Yeah, I'm glad to see you too!" You giggle, sitting upright. He yips, panting with his tongue out.

You scoop him into your arms gently, tilting him towards Gator, who only gets a second's warning before the puppy is trying to wriggle out of your arms - proceeding to lick Gator's face, slobbering all over his cheek.

Gator reels back in disgust. "Ugh! The fuck they feeding yeh?" He exclaims, peering at the dog, who only continues to try and lick at Gator's face.

"Shit! Get that thin' away from me, fuck!"

You chortle, unable to hide your laughter. "Guess he's already taken a liking to ya. Lot quicker than I did, that's for sure." you wink, nudging Gator's hips with yours.

Gator wipes the slobber off of his face with the back of his hand, scowling. "Let's get to the car before he decides to piss on me too."

You snicker at his remark, swaddling the puppy securely as you walk through the automatic exit doors.

Once you get into Gator's truck, you hop into the backseat, placing the dog on the towel you had laid on surface beforehand. He sniffs the object, before promptly circling his tail and plopping down - breathing beginning to even out.

"What should we name him, do you think?" you question, looking at Gator through the rearview mirror.

"Probably Slick or Spit or something considering how much the mutt enjoys it." He grumbles, switching on the ignition.

You roll your eyes. "I see we're resorting to holding grudges against a dog."

"Yup."

You sigh. "What about.. Zeus?"

"You want to name this tiny thing after the Greek God of Thunder?"

You hum, "Mhm, fair point. Steve ?"

"No."

"Walter, like Wally for short ?"

"Fuck no."

You huff, "Well, I don't know then, Sheriff, got any ideas ?"

"Rocky" he replies curtly, proceeding to yell at the passerby crossing the street during a red light.

"Rocky - like from the movie Rocky ?"

"Yup."

"No."

"Fine. Whatcha think 'bout Dash?"

"Dash the dachshund" you raise your eyebrow - exasperation evident in your tone.

"Fuck, I dunno, Oliver or somethin' then?"

"Oliver.." you muse, turning the idea around in your head. The blinker switches on as Gator pulls into the driveway.

"Yeah.. I like that, it's cute."

Gator scoffs, switching off the ignition and turning around in his seat to face you and the sleeping pup.

"A man named Gator and a dog named Oliver, sounds like the start of a bad joke" he grumbles, the slightest bit of insecurity flickering in his eye whenever it came to his name.

You shift forward in your seat, careful not to disturb Oliver. "Good thing I like bad jokes then." you whisper, cradling his face. His eyes shut close, his body leaning into your touch.

A sense of peace settles over the both of you... Which is then immediately interrupted by Oliver, who seems to have realized that you have arrived at your destination - tail wagging excitedly.

"Hi Oli, you ready to go inside your new home, bud ?"

!Ruff!

"If that mutt's gonna ruin our peace when we're havin' a bit of fun, I'm throwin' him out to the garden."

You roll your eyes, often a habit at this point when conversing with Gator. "Sure you will - knowing you, you'll probably end up spoiling Oli in a few weeks, you big softie." You stick your tongue out. Oliver barks in agreement.

"Alright, alright. Get outta my jeep, the both of ya." he grumbles, grabbing the car keys.

Leah was definitely not joking when she claimed that Oliver was quite energetic. Three weeks later, and it still took you by surprise - seeing how quickly the clean and orderly living room transformed into the sight after a hurricane in a matter of seconds under his four paws.

"Fucker's chewed through his bed again... and peed in my fuckin' boot." Gator scowls, emptying out his boot.

"Well, the shelter did say he was going through a teething phase. I read that it's supposed to reduce after about 7 months, so hopefully he'll ease up on chomping through things like the Tasmanian Devil soon enough." You sigh, gathering the torn couch pillows that have somehow ended up near the empty furnace, the moonlight serving to illuminate the massacre even further.

Gator being Gator decides to make a bad situation worse.

"Told ya we shouldn't have got one of these shits - they ain't nothin' but trouble." he retorts, taking a beer out of the fridge.

You whirl around at him, seething. "Don't. You. Dare. Gator. Tillman." you fume, punctuating each word with a jab against his chest.

"You agreed to this. In fact, you fucking suggested it!"

"Coz yer said yeh was lonely, woman! Da hell else was I supposed to do ?" he snaps.

"I said that it feels lonely coming to an empty house, Gator. Your stakeouts at the new station take so long, that by the time I come from work, I barely see you! That's not something you can fix with a dog!"

"What the hell did yer want the fuckin' dog for then ?!"

You feel your eyes starting to tear up, your chest feeling like it's being squeezed to nothing.

"I wanted one so that we could have a bit more love and laughter in our home, Gator." you sniffle, wiping the tears that are starting to fall with the ends of your sweater. "Do you even know what it's like to come home, weary and exhausted, and see a little creature bounding towards you - just happy that you're home ? No expectations, no obligations, just pure joy that you exist in the same space?"

You continue, mouth trembling. "Yes, I wanted a dog, but I wanted to experience the good and the bad together, Gator. Is that too much to ask without you shifting the blame to me just because you're annoyed ?"

Gator's jaw tightens, his eyes downcast.

Oliver pads into the room just then, his mouth holding the chew toy you and Gator had chosen together at the pet store the day after he was adopted.

"Aroo?" he questions, tilting his head - likely sensing the tension radiating across the room.

"Hi Oli" you whisper softly, careful to not spook him or remind him of any bad, loud memories. You crouch, extending your hands to carry him.

"I'm going to take him upstairs for now, maybe let him sleep a bit." you announce to the room, not looking at Gator as you heft Oliver into your arms.

He says nothing, continuing to stand by the kitchen counter, his beer untouched.

You wake up to an empty room, no trace of Oliver or Gator nearby. You shift, turning over to look at the alarm clock on your bedside. 22:13 it reads, the neon lights on the numbers glowing in the otherwise dark room.

"Probably dozed off accidentally." you mutter to no one in particular, rubbing your eyes blearily. You push yourself upright despite your body protesting, desperately wanting to go back to sleep... But you need to check on Gator and Oliver, so you shuffle downstairs - movements slow and languid.

"Sit !"

"Ruff!"

"Oliver, sit !" Gator's voice carries through from the garden, his frustration evident in his tone.

You inch closer to the porch, your footsteps light - barely even noticing that the living room has been cleaned up, looking much better than it did a few hours ago.

"Fuck, why won't yeh just sit and not be a piece of shit for a second?! Yer stupid or something ?" Gator yells, his voice booming.

"Aroo.." Oliver whines, tucking his tail in between his legs, his body shaking.

You go to intervene, your rage from earlier reigniting instantly at Gator shouting at your pup. Before you can do anything though, you see Gator kneeling down slowly, settling on the grass.

"M' sorry" you hear him whisper. "M' sorry, boy." Gator whispers, reaching out to pet Oliver.

Oliver moves out of reach, his frame still trembling.

Gator nods, accepting his reaction. "Yeah, dat's fair. Don't blame ya, I'm a fuckin' bitch, I know."

Oliver lets out a low whine in agreement.

Gator chuckles, "Yeah, sometimes I feel the stuff my dad said still hauntin' me, y'know ? Like all his shitty behaviour fuckin' possesses me, and before I know it, I'm lashin' out like him." He scoffs, "Son of a bitch is dead and still manages to fuck up my life."

He looks back at Oliver, "I'm sorry bud, didn't mean to yell at ya.. I fuckin' hated it when he did that, made me feel small and worthless 'n' here I am, doing the same to ya." Oliver shuffles slightly towards your boyfriend.

"Can't undo that now, but maybe this'll help ?" Gator asks, a treat between his fingers.

The dachshund decides that it's an adequate apology, and jogs towards Gator. He then chews on the treat offered to him, and settles down right in the middle of Gator's lap, seemingly content.

Gator freezes, his shoulders hunching up. Oliver pays no mind to this, continuing to lay in Gator's lap. You observe as Gator's hand, shaking slightly, reaches down hesitantly to pet Oliver's head.

"Won't do it again, I promise. Won't ever yell at yeh, I swear." He promises, petting Oliver with a bit more confidence. "At yer and her both." He amends, stroking Oliver's fur gently. "Fuckin' idiot I am, yelling at the best thing that's ever happened to me. He confesses, his free hand dragging across his face.

"Had fuckin' tears in her eyes 'n' everythin'.. never hated myself more than in that moment, and that's sayin' somethin'."

You feel your eyes beginning to glisten with tears, your heart feeling like it's being torn to shreds at the defeat in his voice.

"Still don't know how I managed to get her to go out with me.. I was being a fuckin' moron, that's for sure. Yeh wanna know how I asked her out ? he snorts, the memory playing in his head already.

You smile too, knowing at what he's about to say next.

Oliver shifts, one of his ears flopping in the process. Gator takes this as a sign and continues his story.

"Had just moved to town recently, still no proper sense of who I was or what the hell I was doin'.. And then one day, I saw her from outside the window of one of 'em fancy coffee places. Fuckin' detest the smell of those spots, still do... But fuck boy, she was just so beautiful, I had to give it a try.

'N' it wasn't her figure or nothing that caught ma eye - was the way she was listenin' to music on them earphones, smilin' along and tappin' her leg to the beat. Looked so fuckin' peaceful 'n' everythin', so I went up to her and guess what I said ?"

Oliver is well past asleep at this point, a gentle snore emanating from his tiny body. Gator pays him no mind, proceeding to recount your first meeting regardless.

"I tapped on her shoulder, waitin' for her to take off the earphones. Once she did, I used one of ma best pick up lines from back home."

You recall the first time you saw Gator, his hair still slicked back then, his smile a combination of cocky and nervous somehow. But what really drew your attention were the freckles on his face - a glorious splatter of stars across the canvas of his skin, and the softness of his sienna eyes - looking like he held a million little secrets in them.

"Hey sweetheart, ya from Tennessee ? Coz you da only 10 I see."

You blink. Once, then twice.

"Um, you do know that we're in Tennessee, right ?"

You see the realization occur in real time, the absolute horror etched across his face making you chuckle.

"Fuck" you hear him murmur, pink blooming on his cheeks.

"I do appreciate the compliment though." you say as you turn back towards the window, a smile threatening to break at what just happened. 'He's kinda cute when he's flustered' you think, moving to pick up the earphones on the table.

Before you can pop it inside your ears, you feel another tap on your shoulder.

"Yeah?"

The stranger clears his throat, "Whatcha listenin' to right now?" He tilts his head towards your headphones.

"Oh, um, it's this artist called Beebadoobee."

He blinks rapidly. "Beeba-what ?"

You giggle slightly. "Bee-ba-doo-bee" you clarify, breaking down the name.

"That Justin Bieber's new name or somethin'?" He questions, still dumbfounded.

"No, she's an indie artist." you explain.

If anything, the confusion etched on his face deepens. "Huh ?"

You roll your eyes playfully. "Here, sit down and try listening to it first." You offer him one side of your earphones, and he tentatively grasps it - slowly bringing it up to his ear. You put it in the other side, and press play. The notes of 'If You Want To' resume, and you continue nodding along to the song.

Gator on the other hand, seems quite at first. Then, you notice his pinkie slowly tapping the table to the beat, bit by bit.

You smile. 'Cute' you think.

As the song draws to a close, both of you are somehow sitting close enough that your shoulders touch, and you find that you don't mind it that much honestly.

"Whatcha think ?" you question, taking out the earphone from your ear.

"S' not bad." he muses, doing the same, placing it on the table.

"Not bad?" You repeat, amused.

He shrugs, head swaying from side to side. "Not my kinda jam, but y'know it ain't bad."

"I'll let the artist know." You tease, tracing patterns on the wooden desk.

"Why'd you wanna know what song I was listening to ?" You ask, curious about the man next to you.

"Saw yer outside the door, smilin' and lookin' all pretty, wanted to know what song blessed me enough to witness yer smile." He shrugs, acting like that wasn't a line worthy of being in a movie.

Traitorously, you feel your heart flutter.

"Smooth line." you remark, hastily gathering your belongings, lest you start actually falling for this stranger.

Gator's eyebrows furrow. "Wasn't a line."

"Right. Well, I've got to get going, so I'll see you around ..." You trail off, unsure how to address him, and maybe, just maybe hoping to catch his name.

"Gator." He supplies. "Gator Tillman."

Something about his name seems familiar, but you shrug it off.

"Well then, I'll see you around, Gator. Don't go around asking other people in town if they're from Tennessee." You rib, winking at him.

The tips of his ears flush immediately, the spots of red and pink quite a delightful addition to his face.

"See ya." He mumbles, looking downcast as you leave, not understanding what he did wrong.

Gator glances back to where you were sitting moments ago, eyes widening as he notices you left behind your lipstick or lip gloss or whatever those darn things are called. Fuck if he knows.

He grabs the tube and runs out of the café - grateful that the smell of whatever ridiculously sweet drink being made and assaulting his nose was starting to clear up.

"Hey!" He yells, cursing himself for not having gotten your name.

You don't hear him, earphones loud enough to drown the outside world.

He sprints faster, feet carrying him to the bus stop that you're waiting at. As he reaches the end of the street, panting like a dog, he skids to a halt - last thing he needs is getting decked in the face by running up to you out of nowhere.

Although if it at least grants him the opportunity to be touched by you in some manner, he supposes it can't be all that bad.

Fuck, he thinks, he's so fucking gone for you already.

He clears his throat, gently tapping your shoulder.

You whirl around in surprise, your eyes shining with recognition.

And fuck, your eyes, Gator muses. Way too fucking gorgeous to have for a mortal. The things he'd do just to have you spare a glance at him with them eyes.

"Before yer say anythin', want ya to know that I ain't stalking yeh or whatever. Saw yer left this at the cafe", he reveals, showing the tube in his hand. "Wanted to get it to yer, is all." He rasps, breathing still shaky.

You smile shyily, pocketing your lipgloss from his hand.

"Thank you."

"Ain't a problem." Gator waves his hand in dismissal.

"You're new to town, right ? Why don't I show you around as thanks ?"

Gator's face contorts in surprise.

"You'd do that ? Didn't really seem like yer wanted to have anythin' to do with me."

"Well.. you did heroically return my lipgloss back to me, seems only fair right ?" You grin.

He returns it, "If yer offerin', I ain't gonna turn it down, darlin'."

Your cheeks warm at the term of endearment, despite yourself.

Suddenly, a large screech rings in the air, signalling the arrival of the bus.

You quickly pull out a pen and some tissue from your bag, scribbling your number on it.

"Here." You thrust the tissue into Gator's hand. "It's my number" you confirm, walking towards the bus.

"Call me sometime and I'll show you around."

Gator nods, his tongue caught between his teeth, seemingly memorizing the number.

You wave to him, climbing on.

"Wait!" He yells.

You turn to look at him.

"I don't know your name!"

You smile coyly, the secret on tip of your mouth.

"How about we hang out first and if the date goes well, I'll let ya know ?" You offer.

He smirks. "Yer drive a hard bargain, missy, but I accept - it's a date then." He promises, giving you a two-fingered salute as your laughter rings through the air.

"N' here we are, 2 years later." He drawls, petting Oliver, who's still very much asleep.

"Dunno why she chose to go out with me then. Dunno why she's still with me now either to be honest with yer. She continues to choose me for whatever reason, even though I have no idea why she would put with a shitbag like me, but lord knows 'm grateful for it." he finishes, chuckling to himself quietly.

"But I wanna try and be worthy of her." Gator confesses, gently lifting Oliver from his lap and onto his broad shoulder.

"So, me 'n' yer got some work ahead of us to do, alright ? Gonna show her that she did the right thing by decidin' to take a chance on da both of us."

Your heart clenches, a mix between being torn at how Gator still views himself so negatively, yet soaring at how much he loves you.

The sound of footsteps approaching garner your attention, and you make your way to the kitchen - not wanting Gator to know that you may have accidentally-on-purpose ended up overhearing his conversation with Oli.

You set the kettle to heat, waiting to make yourself a cup of tea, when Gator shuffles inside the house. He places Oliver down on the dog bed, moving the water bowl closer to the pup.

As he goes to head on upstairs, he realizes the kitchen light is on and spots you. The moment he does, his entire expression softens - the sight never failing to give you butterflies.

He tentatively makes his way to you, uncertainty written all over his face from your fight earlier.

"Hey."

"Hi." You return, taking the teabag and placing in your mug. At this point, it was probably one of your favourite mugs considering how often you use it.

Gator had gotten it for you one day on the way back from work, his tone casual, yet his expression anything but - eyes searching if you liked it. It had two otters engraved on the front, holding hands as they slept. He'd said then, cheeks pink, that it reminded him of the two of you, because you always ended up reaching for his hand in your sleep and tucking yourself into his chest.

In all honesty, it was probably your favourite sight to wake up to, his expression soft, eyes untroubled and resting. His hair was a canopy of brown waves, having being grown out from that slick back he sported when you met. You loved running your fingers through the strands, Gator nuzzling further into the crook of your neck at the motion.

You didn't go to tell him that the only reason your hand had initially started reaching out for his was because he used to have severe nightmares frequently when you moved in together. Once you realized that holding his hand helped him settle down slightly, it became a reflex whenever he started tossing and turning. Eventually though, your body started craving his warmth so much that you ended up automatically burrowed into him. The first time you'd done that, he'd called you 'Bunny' relentlessly for a week.

The kettle sings, startling you slightly.

"I, uh, wanted to apologise, for, uh earlier." Gator starts, nervously rubbing the back of his neck.

"Shouldn't have raised my voice 'n' yelled at ya. Didn't mean to, I swear, doll, but I guess my frustration at Oli got the best of me.. n- not that that's an excuse or nothin'." he clarifies, hand reaching out and rubbing miniscule circular motions on your wrist. "M' sorry, darlin'. Truly." he ends, punctuating the last word with a soft kiss to the inside of your wrist.

You remain quiet, unsure of what to say, although the anger in your heart has diminished.

"I'll even get down on ma knees and beg if you want baby, just don't wanna go to bed fightin'." He confesses, bringing your hand up to his lips and placing the lightest kisses over your knuckles. You melt, your other hand carding through Gator's hair, the moonlight making everything feel softer.

"Not necessary." You whisper, looking up at him.

"Ya sure?" Gator questions, a smirk accompanying the sudden wicked glint in his eyes. "Recall yer generally liking it when I'm on my knees for ya, sugar." He exclaims, dropping down to his knees, his large, calloused hands encompassing your thighs.

"Gator!" You squeal, yanking him up by his sweatshirt, cheeks aflame. "Oliver's right there!" You tut.

"So ? He ain't comin' with us, and he sure as hell ain't gonna interrupt me showin' my girl a good time." Gator states, tilting your face to his.

When your eyes meet his, the flirty energy subsides, tenderness overtaking his features.

"Yer sure we're good tho?" He breathes, nudging his nose against yours.

"Mhm" you confirm. "Forgave you a while back anyways... I wasn't entirely made at you, more so at the situation I guess."

"I know, baby, I know. I'll fix it, I swear. Don't even fuckin' like doin' em stakeouts, waste of ma time, and keeps me from the only thing I want - comin' home to my girl."

Heat pools in your stomach at his words - the sincerity paired with the timbre of his voice making you feel things.

"Since when were you such a smooth talker, Tillman ? Got any other girls you're tryna impress?" You press, threading both hands through his hair and bringing his face closer to yours.

He grins, devilish and pretty. "Fuck no, sweet thing. Ain't got or care 'bout anyone else 'cept ya - yer it for me." He confesses, his hands settling on your lower waist, his grip firm.

Electricity hums underneath your skin, and you pull him into you, your lips capturing his. Hard and without mercy.

The tea lays forgotten and abandoned.

Gator groans into your mouth, the sound settling low in your system, and taps at your thighs to jump up. You immediately oblige, and he hoists you up, arms securely holding you. You bite his lower lip, and he growls, licking into your mouth with urgency.

You unwillingly break away from him, needing oxygen. Gator tries to chase your lips, but you don't let him kiss you. Not yet.

"Upstairs. Now" You sigh, pulling his head back by his hair, only for your breath to hitch at the sight of him. His wooden brown eyes now mere ringlets against the black void that seems to have consumed his irises. He exhales roughly, chest heaving, which draws your eyes to his mouth, the view so tantalizing that you forget to breathe - his lips, kiss-biten and swollen, a gorgeous pink that you want all over you.

"Gator, upstairs. Please." You beg, running your hands over the galaxy of freckles and moles across his shoulders.

He nods, carrying you all the way to your room. Once you enter, he shifts, keeping you upright with one hand and locking the door with the other.

Your brows furrow at the action.

"I ain't taking any chances with that dog walking through while we're busy." He scowls.

You can't help it, you chortle at the absurdity of his statement, tucking your face into the crook of his neck.

"Don't laugh at me, goddamn it." He retorts, but his tone is devoid of any actual annoyance, and before long, he's chuckling alongside you.

You move your head back to look at him, unable to muffle the smile on your face. "God, you're so cute sometimes, Gates."

"Cute?" He guffaws, eyes narrowing. "I'll show yer cute" he vows, throwing you onto the bed.

Over the next few months, true to his word, Gator and you work out how to train Oliver better. Gator swears even his police training wasn't this difficult, the energy Oliver has akin to that of a rocket sometimes - his slender frame helping him narrowly avoid yours and Gator's hands when trying to catch him for bath time.

Yet over time, thankfully, Oliver becomes a relatively obedient dog, often surprising you and Gator with how well he obeys commands.

Well, for the most part at least, with a few exceptions being his love for stealing Gator's work boots and chewing on your themed socks, despite his teething phase being long past.

Well, can't teach an old dog new tricks, you suppose, smiling fondly as Oliver munches happily on his treat.

!Ruff!

"Hi Oli !" You exclaim, keys jiggling as you unlock the door, back from work.

He barks, tail wagging ferociously.

"Hi baby, I'm happy to see you too!" You coo, bending down to pat him on the head and give him plenty of belly rubs.

You hear a scoff, nonsensical grumbling echoing slightly against the walls. You make your way to the kitchen to find Gator readying supper.

"Fucker's been here 2 months, and he's gettin' greeted 'fore me and bein' called baby." He mumbles in annoyance, nearly spilling mayonnaise all over his wrap.

You bite back a smile, slowly walking towards and wrapping your arms around Gator's waist. "Hi baby." You greet, purposely cooing at Gator the same way you did with Oliver, as you kiss his neck.

The grumbling intensifies and you laugh into his back, the muscles firm under your cheek.

"Callin' me and the dog the same fuckin' thing now - what am I, chopped liver?"

"Aww, are ya mad at me, hun?" You tease, ruffling his hair. He huffs, only to abruptly turn around and lift you onto the counter. You gasp, your senses off-kilter.

Gator then places his hands on either side of your thighs, tilting his head and just observing you.

Your cheeks warm under the attention he's giving you, his eyes full of affection.

"S' wrong, baby? Sure seem pretty quiet suddenly. Nothin' else to add?" He teases, his fingers ghosting the length of your arm, featherlight and steady.

You lean into him. "No, not really, just missed you, Gates."

You hear his sharp inhale at your sentiment, and feel him press a soft kiss against the side of your forehead.

"Missed ya too, sweet girl. More than yer could imagine."

An impatient whine interrupts the both of you, and you turn to the sound, only to see Oliver pawing at the foot of the counter.

"Aww, baby, I'm sorry." You apologize, stepping down from the counter. "Your dad decided to distract me. C'mere, baby." you urge, settling down on the floor.

Oliver giddily runs up to you, launching himself into your arms - his coat shiny and soft like a marshmallow.

"I can feel you rolling your eyes, you know ?"

"Well, can ya blame me? Switched from stakeouts to investigations to have better hours so I can come home early to yeh, and yer cuddling up with that damn dog. Even brought home some of that thousand island dressing stuff yer like and made tacos." He fusses, serving yours and his food onto your respective plates and placing it back into the fridge to eat for dinner.

Your heart pangs, heavy with guilt. As much as you know that Gator loves Oliver - because he does, he's been the one training Oliver to obey commands, thoroughly enjoying the sense of authority he gets to wield in a way that's fun and significantly less illegal - he's also right in saying that you haven't been giving him as much attention nor fully reciprocating the effort he's been putting into spending more time with you.

You give one last kiss to Oliver's forehead before setting him down gently, and walking towards Gator. You bring your hand up to his chest, feeling his heartbeat, the pulse steady and clear.

"I'm sorry, baby. You're absolutely right, I haven't been spending that much time with you. It's not intentional, I swear, but I'm so sorry I made you feel like that, Gates." you whisper, placing a soft kiss on his jawline.

"I haven't been managing my time well, and I've started leaving you out of things. I'm so sorry, baby." you repeat, intertwining your other hand with his.

"S' fine, I'm probably being stupid -, "

"No, you're not, Gator." you state.

" - being jealous of a fuckin' dog, what am I, 12?" He continues, scoffing at himself.

"Gator Tillman" your voice is like steel, and that gets his attention.

"You. Are. Not. Being. Stupid. Nor. Are. You. Stupid." You assure him, punctuating each word with a kiss. "Ok ?" You ask, looking at him.

He doesn't look you in the eyes. You gently tilt his face down towards you, "Ok?" you repeat, your tone impossibly soft. He nods, barely distinguishable, more so a jerk of his head, but he nods nonetheless. You hum, pleased.

"Good. Because no one gets to talk about the man I love like that, not even you, Gator Tillman." You state, tone sharp and precise.

He cracks a little smile at that.

"Thank you for telling me how you felt, Gates. Means a lot that you're willing to trust me with your feelings. I want you to do that more, ok? Because I want to know how to love you in the way you deserve."

He stills at that.

You continue looking at him, the setting sun bathing the kitchen in soft waves of orange and yellow. "You deserve love, Gator, so so much, you know that, right ?" You bring up the hand that was on his chest to cup his cheek, your thumb lightly brushing his face in soft motions.

His entire demeanour softens at that, leaning into your hand, coffee eyes dilating.

"Yes ma'am." He salutes at you.

You beam, pulling him closer to you, chests touching. "Can I kiss you?" you breathe, not wanting to cross the line until he forgives you.

"Thought yer said it was 'May I'." he quips, leering at you.

You roll your eyes playfully. "Fine, may I kiss you, please Gator ?"

He groans lightly, "Course sweetheart, yer ain't never need to ask." He responds, pulling your waist to his, breaths mingling.

Your hands find the base of his neck, fingers sifting through his hair, pushing yourself up to meet his lips in a tender embrace.

You don't go to slip your tongue into his mouth and neither does he, both of you content to remain savouring the taste of each other's lips. You draw back momentarily, pressing dainty kisses to the corners of his mouth, before leaning back in to kiss him - focusing on his upper lip the way he usually does with you, hoping he can feel how much you love and how apologetic you are for ever making him not feel as loved as he should be.

He pulls back, giving you one last kiss, placing his forehead against yours. "Apology accepted, baby. Yer my safe space, yeh know that, right ?"

You sniffle, gleaming. "I'm glad, Gates."

Later that night, you and Gator settle down on the couch, the TV light casting shadows across the living room. Oliver remains curled up near the coffee table, snoring gently.

You had told Gator that Oliver could stay out in the garden until the both of you went up to sleep, but he dismissed that, motioning for Oliver to follow him to the TV area. The dachshund went willingly, almost sashaying as if he were a prince, and settled next to Gator's feet.

"You sure? He really likes hunting for butterflies, we could let him stay out for a few hours, spend some time together."

"Yer tryin' get me alone woman, that it?" Gator teases, winking.

You playfully punch his arm.

"Nah." Gator rasps, watching Oliver sleeping intently. "I don't mind him staying with us, last thing I need is this fucker goin' 'n' diggin' that damn garden." His face and body completely contradict the nature of his words, the softness in his eyes evident of his affection for Oliver.

You poke his arm, "Liar. You're such a softie, Gator."

"That so? Know at least one thing about me that ain't so soft, sweetheart."

You groan, rolling your eyes in tandem. "Let's just watch the movie, you perv."

Gator chuckles, his hand pulling you into his side, thumb tracing the edge of your shoulder.

"Whatever you say, hun."

It's been a whole summer since you've gotten Oliver, and you think you and Gator have adjusted pretty well, all things considered.

Gator has started taking Oliver on his early morning 5 am runs, both of them loving the rush of cold air against their faces. You stay in bed peacefully until 7am, not a peep from the outside world. By the time you come downstairs to make a cup of tea, Gator and Oliver often finish their run, coming through the front door.

You beam, saying 'your boys' are back home, the smile Gator tries to hide behind a scowl a repetitively endearing sight. Oliver just accepts it, tail wagging, and then runs off into the garden - conducting his daily inspections against the neighbourhood squirrels.

Oliver and you have a developed your own sense of routine too - mostly comprising him monitoring your ability to fold and fit sheets from the comfort of yours and Gator's bed, and then promptly refusing to get off said bed when you need to actually change the sheets.

On the days where Gator does it, he's as obedient as, well, a dog.

You pout, the favouritism blatantly obvious, and you faux rant about it to Gator one day - legs swinging over the kitchen counter as he assesses the contents of the fridge to determine what to make for dinner.

"Like this is the epitome of the parent who didn't want to get the pet ending up being its favourite. The actual audacity Oli has."

Gator chuckles, shaking his head as he drops a kiss on your forehead.

He's been trying out and making new dishes recently, quite enjoying cooking - says it gives him something to do with his hands. You give him a few suggestions on some other things he could be doing with his hands. Safe to say, dinner doesn't get made that night - the both of you opting for takeout after the exhaustive and refreshing aftermath of your shared endeavours.

Honestly, despite the clear favouritism Oli has towards Gator, you can't really find it in you to be genuinely upset - because it's allowed you to truly see Gator in a different, more tender light. A Gator that allows himself to just be in the moment without worrying out being perfect, a Gator that lets himself indulge in what he would've considered silly activities like playing hide and seek with a dog - yet actually wholeheartedly enjoy it, scooping up Oliver at every given opportunity. Your favourite though, might be how Oliver has helped Gator rest more.

Over the past two years, Gator has always been wound-up and alert over the smallest noises, never letting himself fully rest. It kept breaking your heart, because what an exhausting way of living that must be, and what a fucked up life he must've had, constantly having to rewire and adjust himself to not get left behind or be considered 'useless'.

And try as you might, it wasn't something you could really help with, because dating you had only made Gator anxious on losing out the best part of his life - so he became even more neurotic. But with Oliver, Gator lets himself rest. You suppose it's one of those special things about the bond between man and dog, but when you come home after work and find Gator dozed off on the couch with Oliver's head resting on his thigh, your heart swells. One of Oliver's ears always activate to the sound of the front door being opened, and as soon as he realizes it's you, he lets out a soft 'aroo', happy that you're home, and goes back to sleep.

You don't think anything will beat the sight of them curled up together honestly, your boys - two hurt, abandoned souls becoming each other's shelter in their own ways.

Because as much Gator trusts Oliver, Oliver trusts him just as much, if not more.

Thunderstorms always frighten Oliver, likely an effect of the extreme sound animal ears can hear, and from being deserted during the pouring rain the day before Gator and you adopted him. You tried to do things by the book, muffling the sounds by closing the windows, and trying to act relaxed, but his frame would tremble regardless - his scared whines devastating to hear.

Gator's not the biggest fan of thunderstorms either, it often stirring up bad memories for him too. He'd told you about this one summer night after you'd had started dating, when you had mentioned noticing he'd flinch sometimes during thunderstorms.

"Reminds me of the night my ma left us. Dad was pretty mad, rumblin' around the house, smashin' everythin' in sight - wasn't very pleasant."

But when Gator entered the room that night, Oli bounded to him without abandon, leaping into his arms. Ever since then, whenever there's a thunderstorm, Oliver finds Gator somehow and ends up in his embrace. Gator tries his best to be brave for the both of them, softly muttering "I've gotcha buddy, I've gotcha - won't let nothin' hurt ya Oli, I swear, boy"

It would be remiss not to say that watching the way Gator takes care of Oliver makes you fall in love with him all over again.

All this isn't to say Oliver doesn't love you either. He does, very much so - often coming to get you first to show the new holes he's dug or showing you how close he is to catching his own tail (he's not, but it's still very cute how much he likes spinning around to show you). Whenever you have the day off from work, he's tucked into your side - whining the moment you get up from the couch to grab something to eat. His whining keeps getting louder the longer you take to come back - much like Gator to be honest - and immediately shuts up when you come back, burrowing into you. Still, very much like Gator. Sometimes you wonder if it's a genetic trait and then realize you're talking about a dog and a man.

Recently though, as he's grown a bit bigger - body lengthening, truly depicting the 'sausage dog' form his breed is often portrayed as - he's become a lot more protective of you, barking at the squirrels and pigeons that come your way whenever you're reading on the porch, and growling at weird men that stare at you for too long when you're walking him.

However, his protection, much to your entertainment, includes 'protecting' you against Gator. Not that Gator would dare lay a hand on you, of course not, but sometimes when he tries to be seductive [keyword being: 'tries'] and walk up to you, all slow and hulking, broad shoulders and strong arms on display - Oliver mistakes this for a sign as a sign of a potential attack. He starts barking, jumping up in the space between you and Gator - not letting your boyfriend come close to you.

Gator steps back. "Bitch, the fuck ? Why are yer always cockblockin' me ?" That's the third time this week!" He exclaims, glaring at Oliver.

You blink. "....Gator, honey, it's only Wednesday."

"I know that, my point still stands." He replies gruffly, arms crossed like a petulant child.

You can't help it, you snort. Before long, you're laughing, with tears already brimming at the corner of your eyes from the sheet absurdity of the situation - your boyfriend and dog staring at each like they're about to have a cowboy duel.

Gator scowls, jaw set, but you can already see the smile threatening to break at his face.

You crouch down to Oliver's level, hugging him to get him to stop jumping. "Aww, look Oli, you made Dad sad." you chide, mouth set in a faux pout.

"Daddy's not a bad guy, ok ? Daddy's very good to me, and you - he's very good to us, right?" You ask, turning to face Oliver. He pants in agreement, and you lift him up to Gator's face. "Give Dada a kiss, ok ? Let's say sorry for hurting his feelings.... And cockblocking him because he lets you hump that poor duck toy to your heart's content, doesn't he?" you question, your tone sympathetic but your smile widening with mischief.

Gator's eyes narrow at your faux sentiment, tongue in cheek. His eyebrow crooks up, hand settling firmly on your waist, and in that moment, you can tell he has every intention of continuing your prior activity once you're both in the bedroom without any dog-shaped interruptions.

Your cheeks heat, Gator's gaze and his wavy locks working a little too well in his favour.

Oliver, bless his heart, seems to think that you're actually sad about how he barked at Gator and starts licking his face. A lot. Like a lot. Repeatedly.

"Ack! What the- " Gator yelps, reeling back, his previous smooth demeanour disappearing into thin air.

Oliver refuses to let him move back though, continuously wiggling forward, and licking more of Gator's face.

"Oli, shit! Stop!" your boyfriend shrieks.

At this point, Gator's face, coated with tons of spit, is probably wetter than you were earlier this morning. Not that you would say that to Gator, otherwise you'd probably end up unable to leave the room for a week afterwards, legs sore and spirit leaving you.

Now generally, you pride yourself on an empathetic person, but you can't seem to stop laughing currently - not quite lowering Oliver to the ground just yet, nor helping Gator either - laughter taking over your system.

Oliver barks happily, thinking he's resolved the issue, and turns back to look at you as if asking if you're proud of him. You giggle, kissing his little head.

"Yer think this is funny?" Gator spits out.

"Only a little" you tease, placing Oliver on the ground, who scampers off back into the garden.

"Oh yeah?" He quips, lifting the bottom of his white t-shirt to wipe off some of the saliva on his chin - eyes staying locked on yours the entire time.

Your throat feels dry at the action, eyes dropping down to hide your flustered state - only for your breath to hitch at the sight of his soft, strong stomach - gleaming with sweat from his run earlier today. You watch as a bead of sweat rolls down his chest, leisurely making its way down, and disappearing into Gator's glorious happy trail right in front of you. You swallow thickly, eyes still roaming the expense of his skin.

Gator clears his throat, his smirk evident.

"Like what yer see?" He teases, tugging the t-shirt back down.

He walks up to you, barely a hair's breadth remaining between your bodies. You feel the warmth from his chest emanating, goosebumps erupting over your skin.

"Yes" you breathe, unable to lie even if you wanted to in this moment.

The tips of his ears bloom a bright red, the flush slowly spreading across the apples of his cheeks.

"Y- Yeah?" He stammers, slightly thrown off-guard by your conviction.

"Yes."

He brushes your hair back, placing it behind your neck, and leans in.

Your eyes flutter shut, lips tangling in anticipation - only to feel something wet and almost syrupy being spread across your face.

You squint, confused, as Gator snickers, lovingly caressing your face with some weird substance.

"Gate?"

"Hol' on, sugar." He grins maliciously. "M' almost done."

"Gator, what are you- ?" You step back, voice trailing off as you recall the events that had happened just moments prior, before being very distracted by your boyfriend.

Immediately, your face contorts in rage and disgust.

Gator slowly backs away, gearing to run - that infuriating toothy grin still plastered on his handsome face.

"GATOR TILLMAN!" You shriek.

He hoots, sprinting into the garden, his laughter echoing throughout the house.

You follow him, heels hot on his trail.

Unfortunately, Gator is prepared, holding up Oli as his line of defense once you reach the garden.

"Yer wouldn't do anything, would ya, sugar ? He teases. "Not with Oli here, looking so happy to see ya."

He tuts, sticking out his tongue at you, happy at having exploited your weakness, because Gator and Oliver have similar brown eyes, and when they gang up against you, eyes sparkling like pools of chocolate syrup - it's a battle you can never seem to win.

You huff, the rage of a thousand suns still burning inside you, but you can't deny how adorable Oliver looks in that moment - his little tongue out and panting, tail wagging, and calling for you excitedly to join him and Gator, clueless as a butterfly about how pissed you are at his dad.

"Fuck you."

Oftentimes, you try to be the bigger person in difficult situations, but today you're petty as hell. No way are you letting Gator run away, scot-free.

"Already did, last night and this mornin', sweet thing, didya forget ?." He quips, clearly enjoying your agony.

You glare at him, eyes darting around the garden for something to teach Gator a lesson with.

Target acquired.

"You know what, fair enough, you and I both know I'm not going to try anything with Oli around. Plus, I'm just purely disgusted by how icky this feels on my face, so I'm gonna go wash it off... But you, Gator Tillman, are a pig." you exclaim, pretending to head back into the house whilst inching backwards towards where the garden hose was.

"Tit for tat, doll - don't hate the player, hate the game." he returns, tone victorious as he sets down Oliver, eyes on the ground.

You slowly turn on the water, grabbing the hose in your hand and hiding it behind your back, shielding it from his view.

"Although," you announce, "I think there's something that you're forgetting."

"Yeah ? What's that ?" He questions, looking up from Oliver to you, his expression still so smug - placing his hands on his hips.

"This." You reply, angelic, before directing the water at him.

Later, when both of your clothes are soaked, emphasis on both because Gator stole the hose from you in a matter of minutes and had his revenge - Oliver has essentially had his bath for the week, fur wet and matted from the water sprinkling everywhere whilst you and Gator were running about, spraying each other with the hose - you sprint into the house, bringing back a camera and snapping a picture of the three of you, drenched and exhausted, but so so happy.

"Ok, ok... Remember how I told ya that me 'n' yer got some work ahead of us to do ?"

"That we're gonna show yer mum that she did the right thing by decidin' to take a chance on da both of us ?"

!Ruff!

"Well, today's that day, boy -"

"Aroo ?"

"-Alright, alright... to be honest, I wanted to do it yesterday because the date would've been 6/9 then, but I'm not sure if yer mum would've found it that funny considering the occasion."

Oliver yawns, crossing his front paws.

"Anyways.." Gator continues, clearing his throat. "It's been a year since 'n' I'm 'bout to ask her to take the biggest possible chance on me today, so I need yer to go get her now, ok ? Just like we practiced bud, ok ?

Oli tilts his head, looking at Gator.

"Oli, go fetch Muma!"

!Ruff!

Four paws pad across the ground, strides soft but determined, nails clacking on the floor.

Minutes later you appear in the garden, wearing one of Gator's old shirts and your favourite weekend shorts.

Gator's breath hitches, marvelling at how stunning you look.

Fuck, he thinks, I'm so goddamn lucky.

"Gates, what's wrong ? Oli appeared all of a sudde- ?" your voice trails off, hand covering your mouth in surprise, noticing how beautifully the garden has been decorated - a canopy of your favourite flowers.

Your eyes find Gator, a gasp leaving you as you notice what he's holding in his hand.

"Gator..."

He smiles, eyes crinkling as he looks at you - nervousness and anticipation written across his face as he kneels down.

"Hi darlin'.." he exhales shakily. "Don't think I ever told ya this, but do y'know why I like gettin' up at 5am 'n' goin' to sleep late ?

You shake your head slightly in response, feeling your heart pounding in your ears at what's happening.

"S' coz that way yer the first thing I wake up to and the last thing I see before I close my eyes, sweetheart."

Butterflies erupt in your stomach. "Gates.."

His eyes are shining now, tears gathering slowly. "Been thinkin' 'bout the future these days, and honestly ? Yer the only sight I ever wanna wake up to, honey. Can't imagine livin' without yer and this little menace for the life of me." He declares, tilting his head towards the dog that's resting near your feet.

"You've always been there for me - yer fuckin' encouraged me to become a chef for fuck's sake."

You giggle, Gator's inability to not swear even in moments like this unfortunately endearing and just so Gator.

"Yer my home, angel. My home, my dreams.. fuck, yer my everythin'." He croaks, trying to keep his tears at bay - much like you right now.

"N' if yer'll have me, I want to be yours. Nothin' else I want 'cept us together, for as long as yeh'll have me, baby."

He whispers your name then, like a secret, like a promise.

"Will yer marry me, darlin' ?"

You nod as you run to him, your heart bursting with joy.

You clutch his face, the ring the last thing on your mind, and kiss him all over. Each and every perfect freckle and mole on his face is cradled by the soft touch of your lips as you breathe out a crescendo of 'yes, yes, yes, yes', tears escaping you.

He chuckles, arms wrapping around your waist like he never wants to let go.

"Doll?"

"Hmm?" you respond, still kissing his face.

"Yer.. kinda gotta the wear the ring, sweet thing." He reminds you, thumb tenderly grazing your skin. "Soon preferably, my knee's startin' to hurt like a bitch."

"Oh!" You reel back, looking at him, knees hitting the grass instantly. "Shit ! Sorry!" you exclaim, panic setting in. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to, I swear, just got caught up-"

Gator snorts, bringing the ring to your left hand. He looks at you, the love in his eyes far too overwhelming, and slips the ring on your finger.

The chill of the metal draws a slight gasp out of you, the gem twinkling like the stars in the night sky.

Gator stands up, lifting you up with him - drawing your hand to his mouth and places a gentle kiss on your ring finger. Your body ignites at his touch, craving him in his entirety.

"I love yer, angel." He breathes, the confession making you melt no matter how many times you hear him say it.

You kiss him then, leisurely coaxing his mouth open, hoping your body communicates just how much you adore him.

He groans lightly, his tongue exploring your mouth, as he works his hands up to your face, cradling your jaw as if it were more precious than air or water - as if he could not survive if not by your side.

You draw back, oxygen your enemy at this moment in time, and fist his shirt - drawing him into you further, licking his lips with fervour.

"How long?" You demand, kissing the corners of his mouth.

His answer is instantaneous. "Been savin' since I saw yer that first time, knew I wouldn't want to live in a world where I don't wake up beside your smile every mornin'." He rasps, capturing your lips, his focus always on your treasuring your upper one.

You moan, his words adding fuel to your desire, and pull him flush against you. Your hands ravenously work their way to his hair, tugging his head back, your only intention to absolutely ruin his neck with your lips.

Deciding you two have had enough of a moment together, Oliver barks, drawing your attention.

"Suppose he gave us enough time just this once at least." Gator offers, nudging your nose with his.

You groan, glaring at Oliver, for once genuinely upset with him for interrupting the moment - only for your frustration to melt away the moment he hits you with those puppy-dog eyes.

"You've trained him too well." You murmur, loosening your hold on Gator.

"Hmm?" He tilts his head, gaze curious, but his smile knowing.

"You two and your fucking boba eyes, I swear." You respond as you and Gator crouch down to give Oliver belly rubs.

" We headin' back inside ?" Gator inquires moments later, as he lifts Oliver with one hand, the other intertwined around yours.

"I'm already home with the both of you."

"..."

Oliver sneezes, nose wrinkling at your statement.

"Yeah bud, that was horrid... Never fuckin' say that again, hun."

"Shut up, Gator."

dividers by @cursed-carmine

○ 𝑺𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒔. 𝑨𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒗𝒆𝒅. 𝑪𝒐𝒑𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒔 𝒂𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒐𝒘𝒏, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝑨𝑰 𝒕𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒉𝒊𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒆𝒅.

! 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆𝒔, 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 !

He was extremely hesitant at first, understandably so given what you knew now about the whole spiderman and everyone forgetting him thing, but after getting to know you and hearing about the barrage of troubles the universe had thrusted your way, he figured if there was anyone he could trust, it was you.

A year later, not much had changed in your lives. You were still two struggling adults in your twenties just trying to get by on the day-to-day, except now, at least you had each other to cope. At least you were able to find some reprieve and light, though the pain from your lives remained a low hum in the background. 

You weren't exactly sure when it began happening—maybe a few months in—but you noticed it randomly one day. Your heart started beating faster around him. Then, he began taking up extra space in your mind until eventually, the thoughts became too loud to ignore.

You chalked the feelings up to all the trauma bonding and hours you’d spent together trying to shut out and disappear from the real world. You tried to ignore the rush of joy you felt when he laughed, or the dizziness of your head whenever you caught a glimpse of him changing out of his suit, until you were drowning in a pool of affection that you weren't sure you could surface from. 

There’d been a few times the confession almost slipped from your tongue. The intimate nights sitting out on the fire escape with food and the sound of the city in the distance, or the times where he sat a little too close to you on the couch during movie nights.

But then he’d sigh, his gaze going foggy as he zoned out on some far off point, murmuring, “MJ would have hated this movie,” or “Ned used to love this burger place.”

And just like that the words would die on your tongue. How could you ever compete with the monument of love he carried for his past relationships? No, it was easier to suppress the feelings and toss them atop the mountain of other struggles you carried. You’d learn to manage with the extra weight simple because the alternative—a life absent of his presence—wasn’t something you could fathom.

Then things started changing.

First, he was suddenly busy on your sacred days off, days you would always spend together exploring new restaurants and coffee shops around the city. Then, he started turning you away on his patrol nights, nights where you’d kept him company and even helped patch up the nastier cuts he couldn't reach. Excuse after excuse came and the fear that he’d figured out your feelings twisted your gut with nerves.

It didn't take long for you to come to the conclusion that he was building a wall to preserve the sanctity of his memory with MJ. There could be no other reason for the sudden distance. You tried convincing yourself it was for the best. The perfect solution to help you cope with losing him, because if it wasn’t now, it would be later.

You lasted exactly three days. Three days of radio silence was what it took for you to realize that no, you couldn’t do this. You couldn’t stay away from him. Maybe it was the return to a forgotten loneliness, a deep, screaming void, that had you knocking on his door frantically that night, your fist nearly pounding through the paint-chipped wood.

The door cracked open an inch and before he could get the opportunity to reject you, you pushed your way through, bursting into his apartment with a temper he’d never seen.

“Hey, stranger,” you said with a hint of venom in your voice. You turned to face him, your eyes widening slightly at the sight of his pale, flushed skin, a fine sheen of sweat settled on his temples. His eyes looked unusually dark; you blinked your own a few times to clear them and make sure you weren’t seeing something that wasn’t there. 

He said your name through the rasp of his shaky voice. “I-I’m sorry, I’m busy right now… you should go.”

“Like hell I should,” you scoffed, any anxious thoughts replaced by an unwavering surge of protectiveness. “Is this why you’ve been ghosting me? Are you sick or something?”

His face suddenly scrunched up, his hand raising to hold his head as he whimpered in pain. “I’m n-not ghosting you… I just…”

You took a step closer to him, freezing when he flinched back and held out a hand to stop you. Your heart fell to your stomach as you watched his eyes darken further. “Pete, I don’t know what’s going on but, please, let me help you… Stop pushing me away.” 

You attempted another careful step forward until he pushed himself back against the wall.

“S-stop, stop! Please just… don’t come closer.”

You swallowed down the thick lump in your throat that had risen, clenching your hands into fists to stop them from shaking. You waited patiently for him to speak, scared that the next words that left him were going to be the ones to shatter your world.

“I,” he paused, breathing in a deep breath before continuing. “I can’t… trust myself to be around you right now.”

Your brows pressed together in confusion. “Why not?”

His eyes bore into the ground as he tried to gather his thoughts over the multitude of senses that surged the moment you approached his door, but everything was fuzzy and melted together until all he could feel was you. Your presence, and it was driving him crazy.

“My systems are detecting an abnormally high heart rate, Peter,” Evie’s robotic voice rang out. “System overload is approaching.”

“Not now, Evie,” Peter choked out.

You shook your head in disbelief. “You can trust me, Peter. Please. Haven’t I proven that to you? After everything?”

“I-It’s not that—”

“Then what?” You approached him despite his protests, not stopping until you were a step away from touching.

His brain nearly short-circuited, any lasting restraint vanishing as he allowed you to fully flood his senses. The shampoo you used this morning, the perfume you’d applied a few hours ago, the fast thump thump of your heart, a beautiful rhythm that drowned out all rational thought to disarm him completely.

“Something is happening to me,” he gasped, the words tearing from his chest. “My arachnid DNA is… it’s evolving. Mutating. Everything is turned up to ten thousand a-and my impulses—” he cut himself off, slamming his head back against the door hard enough to make it rattle on its hinges. 

You shook your head, your hands reaching for him again. “If you’re scared you’ll hurt me, you won’t—”

“No!” he spat out desperately. “It’s not that I—I c-can’t—” He was practically shaking now, violent tremors racking his body.

Your heart ached as you watched him. Unable to control yourself, you lifted your hands to cup his flushed cheeks, his skin burning under your palms. “Peter,” you whispered softly, your voice reaching him over the storm raging within.

He stared at you, his pupils dilated so wide, only a thin ring of the soft brown you loved so much was present. Your lips parted with a pant at the hunger displayed in them as you got lost in their depths, a raw need you’d never seen before. “Woah…”

A low, tormented whimper escaped him when your thumbs rubbed along his skin, the sound shooting straight to pool low in your stomach, spreading a heat you scolded yourself for internally. Now was not the time.

“I can’t think straight when you’re near,” he confessed through a strained voice. His hands clenched into fists at his sides. “I can’t act normal. I can’t pretend like I usually do… not when all I want to do is—”

He groaned, tipping his head back against the door, a final sliver of restrain returning before he crossed the line.

“What, Peter?” you pressed, leaning closer to eliminate the last inch of space between your bodies, your chests brushing. You looked at him with such care, your gaze so gentle and understanding and comforting. “What do you want to do?”

In the split second before he moved you were able to catch the black swallowing the last fragment of brown, followed quickly by the entirety of the whites of his eyes. Then his lips were on yours.

It was all consuming as his mouth moved over yours, desperately kissing as if you were the very air that filled his lungs and it was being threatened away from him.

His hands dug into your sides, fisting your skin to pull you flush against his body until you could feel the taught muscle hidden beneath his shirt. You gasped into his mouth when he lifted you to wrap your legs around his waist, moaning when he took the opportunity to slide his tongue along yours.

He fell back onto the couch behind him, keeping you close as he continued to devour your lips, whimpering when your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging to pull him back so you could take a breath.

He fought against your grip, his eyes opening to lock onto yours when you pulled harder. Your chest heaved as you stared into the black pools with awe.

“I-I’m sorry,” he managed to say through clenched teeth, barely suppressing the desire to ravage you whole. “I tried to hide my feelings but it's harder like this.”

The smile that graced your lips had his head spinning all over again, his eyes burning as they turned glassy.

“Feelings?” you mumbled, leaning down to ghost your lips over his, the heat in your belly spreading further when he tried to chase them. You curve into him just enough to feel something poking you as he let out another strangled gasp. “You like me, Peter?”

A tear slips down his cheek when you say his name, the sound falling so beautifully from your lips, making his cock pulse harder in his sweatpants. The grip he has on you tightens, subconsciously pressing you down over his throbbing boner.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats with a shake of his head. “I don’t want to ruin what we have, I just… can’t lose you, too.”

Your heart clenches when his voice cracks with agony. You want to scream at him and the world the depths of your feelings for him, how he could never lose you and how the same fear had been tormenting you for weeks. But words felt small, too insufficient. So you showed him by capturing his lips with yours once more.

He met them with relief, his arms wrapping fully around your torso to cage you against him in an attempt to get as close to fusing your bodies together as possible. You arched into him, fully dragging your core against his cock, the friction a sweet torture that had his mouth falling open in a broken moan. 

“Please,” he gasped against your cheek.

You buried your face in the crook of his neck, your lips latching onto the sensitive skin as you rocked your hips faster. You could feel every inch of his cock pressing against your heat, your aching clit pulsating in your soaked panties. His grip on you turned bruising, his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips as he guided your movements to match how much he needed you.

“So g-good… you feel so—mngh—” he whined.

Just then a sharp blaring came from the other side of the room, a sound you recognized as his police scanner. You stilled your movements and removed your head from his neck. Before you could say anything, Peter’s arm flung out. A web whipped through the air and a second later it connected with the phone, striking it hard enough for a loud crack to sound out, silencing the alarm.

His black eyes shot back to find your surprised ones. He’d never, ever, ignored the call. But tonight he didn’t care. Tonight, all he wanted was you.

You could practically see the possession in his eyes as he stood up, holding you against him. Seconds later, your back met the soft mattress of his bed as he laid you down, quickly pressing himself back between your legs, his mouth finding your neck, kissing and nipping a trail of fire. Your mind, however, was still trying to comprehend what you’d just seen.

He intertwined his fingers with yours, pinning your hands beside your head, his hips rutting shamelessly into you with a pressure that stole your breath. You turned to stare at his wrist, bare of the bulky web shooters.

“Peter,” you panted, arching into his thrust. “How did you… the web?”

His lips trailed up your cheek, messily kissing over your lips with a desperate fervor. 

“Arachnid DNA,” is all he mumbled.

“O-Oh.. cool,” you managed to say before he swallowed the word with his tongue.

He parted to sit back on his heels, pulling his shirt over his head to reveal his sweat slicked torso. Your mouth went dry when he pulled down his sweats and underwear in one go, kicking them off the rest of the way.

Your gaze dropped, a heady moan slipping at the sight of his thick cock flushed a deep red as it pulsed against his stomach, streams of precum dripping down the sides.

He climbed back over you, pressing his cock into your clothed heat to resume his rutting, panting little sounds of pleasure into your ear.

“Mnmh—ah! I can—fuck… I can feel how warm you are, can smell you." His hands slipped beneath your shirt, running up until they grazed the soft skin of your breasts.

Something new in him snapped when he realized you weren't wearing a bra. He started snapping his hips harder into you until your body was climbing up the bed. “I’m sorry—oh god… fuck, I’m so sorry—I can't stop—”

“It’s okay, Peter.”

“No,” he pleaded, his lips brushing your throat. “I can’t hold back anymore. Fuck—I need you to tell me—”

“I’m here for you, Peter,” you whispered, cupping his face to force his dazed eyes back to yours. His lids were blotchy with tears, his lips red and kiss-swollen. You could see the struggle in them, the fight against his depraved thoughts to make sure you were okay with this. It only made you want him more. “Use me.”

Any remaining tension in his face melted. His brows relaxed, the cute crinkles by his eyes smoothing over at your permission.

He shoved your shirt over your head, moaning at the sight of your chest, your nipples peaked and begging for his touch. He captured one in his mouth, laving it with his tongue before sucking hard. His other hand rolled the other between his fingers, flicking and pinching the sensitive bud, drawing out high pitched cries from your lips.

“Mmm, so pretty, taste so sweet.”

His free hand fumbled with your pants in an attempt to push them down, a frustrated, almost animalistic groan escaping him when they caught on your hips. He gave a small tug and tore the fabric away from your body, discarding it without a second thought.

“Hey!” you yelped, the protest dying when he pressed the hot head of his cock through your sodden folds, rubbing it through the slick mess. 

The slick sounds of your wet heat were enough to make his consciousness slip as he failed to suppress a sob.

He could hear every microscopic hitch of your breath in his heightened ears, every pulse at your clit against his shaft a divine torment, the rush of your blood beneath your skin. You watched, enamored, as his eyes fluttered weakly when his tip caught at your hole, and then he was pushing in.

“O-Oh fuu—” his eyes fluttered as your tight cunt clenched around the invasion.

“I’m sorry, so sorry—so tight, fuck, ‘M sorry—” he apologized in a continuous stream as he sank in, forcing himself deeper until he was fully bottomed out. Tears slipped from his eyes, cascading down his flushed cheeks, your walls clamping down to draw out more small cries from him, basking in the sight.

You sucked in a sharp breath at the stretch. It had been a while for you and Peter was so thick. You could feel every vein, every ridge of his cock dragging against your velvety walls as his hips met yours.

Before you could fully adjust and let the sting subside, he was pulling out and driving back into you with a punctured breath, stealing the air from your lungs. You dug your nails into the muscles of his back, biting your lip to suppress a yelp as he set a brutal pace, each thrust burying him just as deep.

The head of his cock kissed your cervix with an overwhelming, euphoric pressure. 

“Cunt feels so fucking good, squeezing me so tight.”

The pain began to fade, replaced by a pleasure so sharp it bordered on agony. You wrapped your legs tighter around him, locking your ankles, pushing him deeper inside you. “'M so full, Peter.”

He collapsed onto you, his lips leaving wet, sloppy kisses wherever he could reach as he fucked you mercilessly, his cock pistoning in and out of you.

The pressure in your belly snuck up on you, building and coiling tight like a live wire trapped beneath your skin.

“P-Peter—!” you cried out, your cunt fluttering around his cock. You bowed off the bed, your back arching as he fucked the orgasm out of you, wave after wave of white-hot ecstasy flowing through your nerves.

The foreign scent of your cum invaded his senses, something he could only describe as overwhelmingly you and all-consuming, causing his eyes to screw shut with a sob.

The violent constrictions of your walls around his cock only edged him on further. He fucked you through your climax with ragged, desperate bucks, his movements dissolving into a frenzy, the filthy sounds of wet skin slapping together filling the room.

You latched onto his wrists beside your head, feeling an intense heat radiating from the hypersensitive skin over his organic webbing. Before you were even aware of your actions, your head was turning, your lips pressing a soft kiss to his wrist.

Words were beyond him as your touch reduced him to incoherent, whimpering babbles. “Feels… s’good—mphm. C-Can’t… ‘M yours… all yours—”

His thrusts turned erratic, his gut tightening as he rested his forehead on your chest, nuzzling into your skin in an attempt to sink into you, to become one.

"It h- it hurts—can't stop... 'M sorry—"

You could feel his cock swelling inside you, his thrust faltering to shallow, uncoordinated thrusts. A sob wretched from him, wanton and broken, hot tears spilling from his clenched eyes, dripping onto your skin.

"Come for me, Peter."

He sank all the way in one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go as his body tensed.

Then his mind blanked.

His vision went black, speckled with stars. With a guttural cry, he came, his release a torrent, spilling deep into your cunt in thick, hot pulsing waves. He whined into your chest, his body spasming through each powerful jet.

You panted through each hard twitch of his cock, overwhelmed with the sheer volume of cum as he continued to fill you, the sensation so intense you struggled to catch your breath. It just kept going as he shook above you, his cum leaking out around the base of his cock still stuffed deep inside you.

He stayed there as your cunt milked every drop, creating a home for himself, content with living inside you for as long as you'd let him.

You carded a hand through his hair as tremors continued to wrack his oversensitive body. “Shh, you’re okay,” you whispered into his ear, your voice hoarse. “You did so good.”

He went boneless above you, a dead, spent weight. Eventually, his softened cock slipped from your used cunt, followed by a stream of his release dripping down to soak the sheets as you whimpered through it all.

A few moments later, the silence in the room was broken by Evie’s voice. “Heart rate regulated. Vitals have returned to baseline levels.”

It seemed to bring Peter back to earth. He lifted his head from your chest with a groggy moan, blinking blearily down at you. His eyes were back to their normal, warm brown, the black reduced to his pupils, though still glazed with wonder.

You guided him to his back, leaning over to wipe the tears from his cheek before pressing a soft kiss to his lips.

He sniffled, fresh tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I didn’t… I didn’t want it to happen like that. I wanted to be… better for you.”

You shushed him gently, kissing his cheek. “We’re okay.”

“I’m sorry,” he insisted, the vulnerability clear in his tone. “I am.”

You shook your head, a small smile playing at your lips. “Then never ignore me like that again.”

He sniffled with a nod, his lips squirking up into that boyish smile that made your heart ache. “Okay.”

“Do you feel better?” you asked, your hands smoothing down his chest.

He nodded, a dark blush spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. “I didn’t know I could feel that good,” he admitted with awe. 

“Has it been a while for you, too?”

He swallowed hard, his gaze flicking away for a second before meeting yours again anxiously. ‘I’ve never, um…” he took a shaky, deep breath. “That was my uh, first time.”

Your hands froze on his chest. “What?”

He winced. “I told you I couldn’t control myself.”

You laughed at the surprising confession, leaning down to brush your nose against his. “Well, at least it was memorable.”

He smiled, all shy and genuine and so Peter-like, you couldn’t resist kissing him, tender and slow. Your hand continued rubbing, your thumb brushing over a nipple, circle it to a peak when he whimpered, his whole body jolting back away at your touch.

“Tsk, so sensitive.” Your hand trailed lower, grazing over the dips of muscle to rest just above where his cock was stirring back to life. “So how easy is it for that side of you to come out?”

His breath caught as your finger dug into the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. When you flicked your eyes back up to his, you saw it again.

The inky blackness had started to expand, swallowing the warm brown, once again drawn out by you. 

Don't be shy to leave a like comment or reblog, truly means the world to me :D

“Baby,” Rafe calls out in hopes that you’re just in the bathroom. He stares at the ajar door leading to the toilet, but it doesn’t move. No one responds to him. A few birds chirp outside his window, and he finally realises that he’s completely alone right now.

He pouts. Rafe Cameron pouts, because there’s no one here to see him act like a child and he’s missing his pretty girlfriend too much. You left him to wake up alone, so that must mean you hate him.

Fuck. He knew it. He knew you hated him. He’s had a feeling for a good amount of time. An angel like you should never settle for a bullshit of a boyfriend like himself, and you realised that yourself at last.

So Rafe trudges down the stairs of Tannyhill in an absolutely foul mood, sending glares toward every corner despite being alone in the Cameron estate. But even then, even as he’s pouting and frowning and waiting to punch anyone who appears in front of him, he’s still hoping that with every edge he turns, you might appear.

You don’t. Maybe that’s because he hasn’t really turned any corners at all, but still. You don’t appear. You just don’t.

Have you really left? Left Rafe alone to wallow in his misery once again? He hasn’t not had you in a while, and truth be told, he’s gotten too used to it. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help it. He loves you too much, and he needs you too much. Every second of every day.

“Baby …” he whines in frustration, to no one in particular, as he enters the kitchen, expression contorted like he’s holding back tears. He runs a rough hand through his buzzed hair and tries to grip and pull on his strands, but then he remembers that he doesn’t have that hair anymore.

(He should’ve listened to you when you told him not to shave off all his hair. Is that why you left him? Fuck. He hates his past self now. Why didn’t he listen?)

Rafe heads straight for the coffee machine, grumbling under his breath about how you “better be surprising me with head for scaring me like this.”

“The fuck?”

He whips around, almost spraining a muscle. His eyes are as wide as saucers, pupils blown so wide that the blue of his irises is almost nonexistent. Rafe swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he stares straight at you.

Shit. Did she hear that?

“What’s got your panties in a fuckin’ twist?” you scoff lightheartedly, amusement lacing your features as you laugh softly. You’re holding a mug, filled with your morning coffee already, and Rafe thinks he might cry.

Your lips part again so you can say something, but Rafe doesn’t hear a single word at all. His mind is racing, and his heart is beating too loudly in his chest. He can hear his heartbeat speeding up with every second that passes, and the pace with which he approaches you almost matches the rate his heart is going at.

“No— Nonononono, my coffee—” you sputter, attempting to save your day’s life support by leaving it safe on the nearest counter. A good half of it spills anyway when Rafe throws himself at you, clutching you so tightly you wonder if you’ve done something wrong.

The base of your mug clatters against the marble counter. Rafe buries his face into your neck, inhaling your scent like he’s forgotten it over the time he spent without you in bed with him. He lets out a soft sound that’s a little too similar to a dog’s pitiful whimper.

His nose twitches. “Why did you leave?”

You roll your eyes, but hug him back just as firmly. You’re a little pissed that you’ve lost some of your energy in the form of caffeine, but you have no capacity to think about that as Rafe hugs you so close you’re practically one figure now.

“I was literally just going back up,” you deadpan, patting his back gently, trying to soothe him. You swear he’s crying into your shoulder — is he sniffling? Whining? You’re not sure. You do know that he’s sulking, though. He always does.

And then the proof comes: Rafe groans, the sound muffled from the way he presses his face against you. It’s familiar, because you’ve heard it countless times over the course of your relationship. Which is practically every single fucking day.

He doesn’t say anything, much to your exasperation. He never says anything though, so you don’t know why you’re so pressed. You file that thought away and focus on soothing your big baby of a boyfriend.

For a few very long moments, the two of you stay like that. You’re not sure how much time has passed, but it’s enough for you to grow tired on your feet (because you haven’t had your morning coffee yet).

“Can we—?” you begin, but Rafe cuts you off promptly.

“I thought you left,” he says sadly into your neck, and you can hear the slight crack in his voice. The shakiness and fear of his statement possibly being true when he woke up without you by his side. “For real, baby. I thought you actually packed your shit and left.”

Your annoyance fades into a fond sort of concern. Rafe has attachment issues, and you’re the one person he actually loves too much to let go of. He’s made it clear that anyone else can fuck off when he gets tired, but you? The six feet two future CEO of Cameron Development never wants you to be out of his sight. He needs to have you with him every time.

It’s clear to even a blind person that Rafe can’t function properly without you. Ward’s labelled you a liability countless times before, but Rafe doesn’t care — he hasn’t cared in a long time, and neither have you.

Your head turns to press a kiss against his temple. “Sorry, baby,” you murmur, warm breath tickling his skin. He shifts a little and buries his face deeper into the crook of your neck. “I didn’t think you’d wake up yet. You know I’ll never leave you like that.”

Rafe makes an unintelligible noise that you’re about to question, but then he pulls away from your neck and stares down at you with that pout. You fall silent immediately, watching closely as Rafe’s expression changes from sulky to hopeful and relaxed.

“Yeah,” he whispers, like raising his voice even just a little would chase you away. “You won’t. You love me too much.”

You flash a smile at him, cupping his face tenderly, when he suddenly leans down to kiss you. “Rafe—!”

He plants a giddy kiss on your lips, short and sweet, before pecking your entire face over and over again like he can’t get enough of you. Rafe’s relishing the soft laughs you’re letting out, his heart lurching at the realisation that he’s making you laugh like this.

How could you leave him when you look so happy having his kisses all over your face?

“Come back to bed,” he mumbles, focusing his affection on the corner of your mouth. When he locks eyes with you, you can see the plea in the blue. “We haven’t cuddled enough.”

You nod despite yourself, already reaching for your mug (now half-filled because of a certain someone), but Rafe has other plans.

The fucker picks you up bridal style, ignoring the yelp you make.

“You’re not escaping me this time,” he reasons simply, already walking out of the kitchen despite your protests about your abandoned (and spilt) coffee. You eventually quieten down about it when you realise Rafe won’t be turning around.

Now your coffee’s going to get cold, and you’ll have to make another one.

“You don’t need coffee when you’re gonna spend the whole day with me,” Rafe huffs petulantly, as if he can read your thoughts (and at this point, he probably can, with how well he’s able to decipher your expressions).

“You are exactly why I need coffee,” you grumble under your breath, then let out a high-pitched scream when Rafe almost drops you. “Hey! You know it’s true!”

“But you still love me.”

“Debatable.”

“I’m gonna throw you out the window.”

“You won’t do that. You almost cried ‘cause you woke up alone.”

“I— Fuck. Fine. But we’re still cuddling.”

Barramas, University, 11:57 pm.

Rafe hated himself. Genuinely, this should have been the motivation behind the many self-sabotaging acts he committed, along with everything he tended to preach far too often for it to be considered mere slips or simple carelessness. However, the last thing that crossed his mind the moment he unlocked his dorm room door and his eyes landed on the person who was, until then, the most unlikely to seek him out at that hour—at least in his perception, admittedly somewhat biased to assume such a thing—was anything close to self-reproach.

— Are you going to let me in or just keep judging me with that superior little look of yours, Cameron?

Her rounded chin lifted in challenge, large brown eyes narrowing in his direction, and the blond definitely ignored the sudden pressure in his chest when he noticed her reddish lips jut out in what was probably an involuntary pout—considering the girl’s irritatingly bratty mannerisms.

He almost laughed in disbelief; he might have, if the moment his gaze traveled over her body his mind hadn’t been struck by a mix of feelings that included everything except the indignation he should have shown in the face of such audacity—especially when she was clearly the more vulnerable one between them.

And fuck.

Bea was wearing a simple white tank top, thin to the point of being almost scandalous, short enough to expose her stomach and beautiful waist, her golden skin looking soft to the touch… and a damn—blessed—denim mini skirt. That was it. The fabric molded perfectly to her curves, and Cameron hadn’t even looked at her from behind. Her thick thighs were completely exposed, so full that their inner sides brushed easily against each other, as well as against the frayed threads of the skirt. The sensuality, however, came with the obvious discomfort she felt in the low nighttime temperature against her barely covered skin, which made Rafe’s thoughts blend fascination with concern.

— Does your brother know you’re dressed like that? — Rafe asked suddenly, his naturally deep voice a few tones rougher, the rasp in his timbre more pronounced. His thin lips pressed into a straight line, visibly tense and bothered, his subtly defined jaw shifting as he swallowed hard, the veins along his long neck standing out. Bea didn’t even suspect that his question might be anything more than his usual disdain toward her.

— Oh sure, Rafe. Because if my brother knew I ran all the way from downtown Barramas to your dorm practically half-naked—according to what he’d probably call it—at this hour, I’d definitely still be alive to answer you.

She shot back sharply, despite her naturally sweet tone. When it came to the older one, Kvint forgot any trace of subtlety. Her thick brows furrowed and she rolled her eyes slightly, which stirred irritation in him. He was about to slam the door in her face and return to his book—far more interesting than the situation he neither wanted nor felt obligated to be part of.

Bea was trouble. A problem. A complication that a senior medical student, intern at one of the largest university laboratories, with a more aligned and discreet appearance that quickly revealed his personality—a young man who saw no issue in acting exactly like the nerd he was, delivering long monologues about research, graphs, and diagnoses, as well as his personal tastes in science fiction films, video games, and books—definitely did not want to get involved with.

Well, at least that’s what he thought.

There was something about the younger girl—and certainly something within himself—that made him quickly wonder what could have brought Bea there, to him. With her striking brown eyes, sharp yet delicate and graceful features, defined curvy body, and a bratty, captivating personality too impossible to ignore. Because yes, the moment infatuation hit him, Rafe’s first instinct had been to flee and ignore her as much as possible—a form of self-protection mixed with subtle denial. But as the universe never failed to play tricks on him, in the most unbearable way possible, of course his attempt to escape had been unsuccessful.

So, surprising Kvint and himself alike, the blond’s next words were:

— Come in. You’re going to explain what happened right now if you don’t want your brother knocking on this door in the next five minutes.

Contrary to his usual withdrawn demeanor, Cameron tapped into the side of himself that unconsciously surfaced whenever he dealt with that irritating little thing—more imposing, though he couldn’t sustain it for long. His inherently correct nature when it came to bending rules, whether moral or societal, and his methodical personality, rarely prone to mistakes, were traits quickly noticed by anyone who interacted with him—and acted as brakes against any deviation from that line.

But for now, impatience consumed him completely as his long fingers wrapped firmly around Beatriz’s slim wrist—careful not to press too hard—and pulled her inside the single dorm room, ignoring her predictable protests.

— Hey, Cameron?! What the hell is your problem? Ow, my wrist!

Bea shouted, stumbling over her own steps because of her heeled boots. Her naturally soft voice slowed on the last phrase as a hint of exaggerated sweetness colored her tone, quickly confirming to Rafe—who didn’t even bother looking at her—that it was nothing more than drama.

— You have three minutes. Starting now.

He sat in his armchair in the corner of the room, adjusting the hoodie stamped with the logo of the men’s medical fraternity and straightening his round prescription glasses on the bridge of his nose, looking at her over the lenses as if to make it clear he wasn’t open to objections.

(…)

— And yes, he was an idiot! It’s like I have a magnet for them! But this one was worse, because at least I usually end up with idiots who are good in bed, which clearly wasn’t the case, since that clown barely knew how to kiss! Can you believe that?

With little modesty, as usual, she delivered what sounded like the rant of the week to her brother’s best friend, indignant in a way that didn’t even bother reinforcing their rivalry by being anything less than honest. It wasn’t her style. And by now, she had accepted that she was in the bastard’s hands. He was looking at her with something beyond his familiar superiority; his flushed cheeks under the yellow lighting caught her attention.

— You know, I’d love to get one of them fresh out of the box, teach him how to kiss and actually please a girl, because besides thinking with their dick, they only think about their own dick!

She huffed, too frustrated to notice the deeper blush burning across his skin. Swallowing hard, he looked down at his hands, trying to focus on anything other than her words and the way she looked so beautiful just talking.

— I doubt you’d understand. After all, you’re a man. You’ve probably had more orgasms in your life than you’ve eaten vegetables.

That struck something internal in him. His shoulders tensed; his fingers pressed nervously together. His throat felt dry and his pulse quickened because… well, Cameron couldn’t question or agree with Beatriz. He had no criteria when it came to romantic experiences like kissing—let alone sexual ones. Yes, he knew that at twenty-one, and in his position in society as a man, it sounded almost absurd, impossible, or any other synonym of disbelief. He felt embarrassed—but not enough to rush into something he had always believed should be shared with the right person. He had desires, but he also wanted it to be good, pleasurable, meaningful.

— Actually, no. I—I don’t know if I can answer that.

He kept it short, still not meeting her eyes, mentally cursing himself for stuttering and genuinely wondering if he would really reveal that infamous information to Kvint… And the question was: why? He shouldn’t. It would be his riskiest and least intelligent choice. After all, that girl was trouble in every sense—and would definitely turn it into a bigger one once she knew.

— Why? Don’t tell me that—

— I’ve never even kissed anyone, Beatriz. Go ahead and make your jokes. But at least I haven’t had the misfortune of getting involved with someone who can’t do the bare minimum.

He cut her off abruptly, defensive words spilling out before he finally lifted his face—only to be met with something he never expected to see in her expression.

Fascination.

Her gaze held no judgment, a subtle smile curving her pretty lips, as though she had just received the best news of the day.

— Like, never kissed with tongue, or never kissed anyone at all?

She stepped closer to the armchair, her naturally restless aura blending with… anticipation? Rafe’s pulse raced. He breathed through parted lips as the sweet scent of vanilla and the warmth radiating from her body reached him—intoxicating and disorienting all at once.

— I’ve never kissed anyone. I’ve never been with anyone like that.

And something clicked inside Bea. The nervousness, the unusual sensations, the palpable tension—all of it made sense when satisfaction hit her full force. Her desire, fulfilled in the most unexpected way possible. And of course, it had to be Rafe there—annoyingly proactive, openly superior, so proper even in the perfectly styled blond strands of his hair and those sweaters far too big for his imposing frame and withdrawn posture. But beyond the teasing directed only at her, Bea knew he was more than that. Cameron was attentive, loyal, loving, undeniably concerned for those he cared about. His long-standing friendship with her older brother proved it. And she stubbornly tried to ignore the discomfort that came with him not acting the same way toward her. She didn’t understand the bitterness in her mouth—after all, she couldn’t possibly care less about that know-it-all’s apathy… right?

— And would you like to try?

She asked quickly, unconcerned with sounding curious. She was not one to suppress her impulses—she lost too much compared to what she could gain.

Then it hit her: his apathy toward her could interfere with her proposal—one she considered impossible to refuse. Her heart raced when his blue eyes narrowed, confusion twisting his angular features. He was surprised by her tone, which clearly hinted at something he hadn’t fully processed—at least not regarding his friend’s sister. That small, wild force of nature. The nightmare of anyone seeking peace.

His nightmare.

— Eventually, yes? I don’t like treating it like a big deal. I want it to be good, and I think forcing it would ruin everything. I don’t usually function well under pressure—

— I can make it good.

Sudden and completely unaware of the effect she triggered, she said it, looking at him through her long lashes with that far-too-calm little smile. Only then did the blond notice she was leaning over him, her long brown hair falling into his lap, her scent flooding his senses.

— If you want, of course… It has to feel good for you. I understand. I don’t know if you’d trust me with that.

She murmured softer, perhaps more to herself. But for the first time, Rafe reversed their dynamic. His disdain gave way to consent, granting her access to a vulnerable part of him. Looking into her sweet, eager eyes, it felt right.

— I do. I want to. It has to be good for both of us, isn’t that what you want?

He was slightly trembling, though the rasp in his voice prevailed. His mouth dried as he stared at hers, finally allowing himself what he had long suppressed—and not regretting it. The desire alone was already pleasurable.

Beatriz smiled in satisfaction and straightened slightly, tucking her hair behind her ear, her flushed face tilting as though admiring something. And she was. Her gaze traveled over Rafe’s tense figure—the broad chest rising quickly beneath the hoodie, his parted lips betraying his rapid breathing, blue eyes hazy behind his glasses, blinking slowly. His large hands gripped the padded arms of the chair, channeling impatience while remaining patient for what she was about to give him.

So affected by so little…

— Can I sit on your lap, Cameron?

She asked sweetly, as though she already knew he wouldn’t refuse. He nodded frantically. She bit her lip, satisfied at having her whim indulged.

Balancing on her toes, she leaned in, rounding her chin and offering him a calm look. She gently pushed her forehead against his, her slender arms wrapping around his broad shoulders, watching him close his eyes. She brushed the tip of her nose against his slowly, their warm breaths mingling. She noticed his inexperience—even in not knowing where to place his hands—quickly guiding them to her waist, pressing his trembling fingers there as she sighed, just as affected.

She didn’t prolong the teasing. She wanted it as much as he did, so she pressed a long, soft kiss to his lips, something inside her warming at the feel of them. Pulling away for milliseconds before kissing him again.

When she parted her lips, she felt the blue-eyed boy timidly follow her lead, and she couldn’t stop the smile that curved between their mouths. The tip of her experienced tongue slipped slowly into the temptation that was Rafe Cameron, and her heart skipped when she tasted him. He was delicious.

Their mouths had been joined only minutes, yet they already felt addicted. Now that he had finally experienced it, he would never settle for anything less than something angelic. And Beatriz felt angelic to him—even as she exuded chaos.

They both sighed in delight when she gently bit his lower lip.

Her tongue brushed his inexperienced one, and his skin seemed to catch fire. She felt how nervous he was. Wanting to intertwine their tongues, she moved the hand resting on his shoulders to his nape, deepening the kiss. He was completely surrendered, at her disposal—but she wanted it to be good for both of them.

Their lips explored, their tongues moving in sync. Bea tilted her head slightly for better access. The sound of their mingled breaths filled their ears, stirring something deep within. Her delicate fingers threaded through his gel-smoothed hair, tugging lightly—but Rafe misinterpreted it, and their lips parted for a fraction of a second as he let out a needy whimper.

— Bee… more.

That was enough for Kvint to lose the last shred of her sanity. She leaned fully over him, pressing her chest against his, her thighs against his, her barely covered body rubbing against the thin fabric of his tailored pants. She shivered at the palpable evidence of his arousal, kissing him with as much hunger as she could express. His pulse raced, his body trembling as soft moans and vulnerable sounds escaped him. By now, saliva mingled in the heated sensation, her fingers in his hair as she kissed him exactly the way she wanted—and he seemed completely immersed in it.

Immersed enough that when they finally needed air, they pulled apart, eyes closed for a few seconds. She cupped his cheeks, taking in the sight of a breathless Rafe—deliciously flushed down to his neck, glasses fogged and askew, lips swollen and slick with their shared saliva, his once-perfect hair falling over his slightly damp forehead. His chest rose and fell rapidly, and the hands that had once hesitated at her waist were now sliding to her hips in a clear, unspoken message that she wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

Her thumb brushed over his swollen lower lip, smiling hazily when his blue eyes opened, pupils blown wide, leaving only a thin ring of blue visible. She wiped away the moisture there and, almost automatically, pressed her finger back against his mouth, feeling the soft suction. She bit her own lip at the sight of him savoring her touch so openly.

— Was it good for you?

She asked playfully, smiling when he nodded in his dazed, vulnerable state. Sighing, she leaned down to place a tender kiss on his crimson cheek.

— I’m glad, Cameron.

And yes, satisfied as she was, Bea definitely wasn’t pulling away again. There, without invisible walls, unspoken words, or desire masked as teasing—it was good for both of them.

It was what it was.

“Why?” You question slowly. Your eyes briefly fly to Ben who’s scribbling on the coffee table, he looks up curiously when he sees the familiar face.

“Uncle Scott,” he beams in greeting.

Scott matches that expression, the sweetest he’s ever looked, as he comes over and ruffles his hair. “Hey, big man, what’re you working on?”

“Me, mom, and dog.”

“Dog, huh?” he chuckles, “I’m sure we can arrange that.”

Ben brightens, hopeful eyes turning to you. You’re going to strangle this man. “Let’s talk about it after dinner, bud.” Your narrowed eyes switch over to Scott. “A word?”

He confidently strolls back over to you, disregarding your glare as he begins to pull out all sorts of things. Mushrooms, vegetables, packs and packs of meat. USDA Prime. Jesus Christ— “What are you doing?”

“Unpacking groceries.”

You pinch his side. He’s built like a brick wall, he doesn’t even flinch. “Scott.”

He says your name in response. A teasing lilt hanging to each letter.

“Why are you here? What is all this?”

“Groceries.”

“Don’t be an ass. Why did you extend your trip?”

“To spend time with you.” He begins to organize your fridge. Worst part? He knows exactly how you like your fridge arranged so he’s putting all the things in all the right places.

“I’m serious,” you hiss.

“What makes you think I’m not?”

You swallow, gaze flying to Ben again who’s back to drawing out his dream dog. It looks more like a deformed puppy but you get the gist of it. “We can’t—” you take a deep breath, “Listen, Ben is young. He’s going to latch onto you if you keep coming around.”

“Would that be so bad?”

The question infuriates you. You scowl, “Are you fucking kidding me? That would be a nightmare. What happens when you leave? He’s going to be asking around for Uncle Scott who will never come around again. There’s a reason why I don’t bring around just anyone to meet him.”

Scott’s eyes tighten almost imperceptibly, but you know him better than that. “You bring others around to meet him?”

“I— no, that’s not what I meant. Jenna’s really the only person who comes over other than my mom. The staff at the hospital know because he pops by time to time. I don’t— I’m careful about who I expose him to. I don’t want to have to answer questions about where someone went or pick up the pieces of a boy who shouldn’t have his heart broken because people disappear on him.”

He seems to mull over this for a moment. His next question sends a shock through your system.

“Who says I’m leaving again?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Traitorous little thing is getting excited for nothing. “What’re you talking about?”

“Storm Par is set up and running. We have a good team down in Oklahoma always collecting data. I’ve been managing mostly strategy and investor relations.” He looks a little too pleased when he says, “I need to be closer to potential funders anyway, a lot of them are in the northeast.”

“You’re not—” Your breath hitches in your throat, “you’re not considering moving back, are you?”

A proud look settles on his face. “Just signed for a sublet for the next couple of months while I look for a more permanent apartment. How’s this neighborhood? I don’t remember it being particularly nice, but it seems good. How do you feel about moving?”

“Scott,” you snap. “That’s insane. You can’t just— that’s crazy. You were literally supposed to leave today. Suddenly, you’re deciding to stay here? On a whim? What’s wrong with you?”

“Not a whim, I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve… just decided it’s the right move.”

“In one night?”

“I don’t need more time than that.”

You give him a look. “That’s stupid.”

“It’s efficient decision-making.”

“Scott.”

“What’s for dinner? Does he have any allergies?”

“Scott.”

He takes a deep breath, sapphire eyes dulled out as he looks up at the ceiling, praying for some lord almighty to save him. “We can spend all night arguing about this but it’s a done deal. I like Boston, I’ve decided to come back. Is that so hard to believe?” Before you can say yes, absolutely, Scott continues, “I’ve thought about this for a while. Trust me when I say I am not doing this impulsively and I’m not just going to change my mind.”

The two of you are locked in a stare-down, neither budging. Two stupidly stubborn fools.

Scott’s eyes are jagged when they first land on yours, sharp in a way that could cut. But the longer he looks at you, the more they thaw, like ice melting in the changing of seasons. It’s a soft transition that warms your frozen heart.

However, then his gaze trails to your mouth, the way they’re parted, teeth peeking out in aggravation, tongue pressing against your teeth as your jaw is clenched. His eyes go molten, scorching as they sear into your skin, tracing your bare shoulders, the length of your neck, exposed collarbones.

“Should put more on you,” he mutters.

“What?” You jerk back, confused.

“Nothing. Dinner? I don’t know how to cook.”

“Then get your own damn dinner, I’m not cooking for you.”

He challenges you with a raise of his eyebrow. “But I bought groceries.”

“That I didn’t ask for.”

“I fuckin’ forgot how bull-headed you are sometimes. Arguing for the sake of arguing.” He huffs a laugh through his nose, hip leaning against your counter, eyes sparkling. “If you wanted to fuck, just say so.”

His voice is low, low enough that you know Ben doesn’t catch it over the sound of the television, but it still puts you on high alert. “Can you not say insane things when my son is around?”

“Always picked a fight when you wanted a fuck,” he smirks.

Your lips part, ready to tell him off, but he turns to the sink instead, beginning to wash his hands.

“Now, what do you need help with?”

Scott’s reappearance has thrown your life for a loop, adding this new, uncontrolled variable that you’re not sure how to handle. He drops you off and picks you up from work. The moment he heard that you’ve been taking the train an hour each way to work, he made that call with no room for argument. He refuses to even drop you off a block away from the hospital so you end up with your coworkers’ curious eyes on you when you’re pulling up every morning in Scott’s stupidly shiny car.

“Have a good day at work, honey,” he would call out obnoxiously through the open window.

The furious glare you throw his way does nothing to deter this behavior. Now, you’re bombarded with questions about him every time you have a moment to yourself, which means you no longer have a shred of peace at work.

He comes by nearly every evening; you say nearly because you had to cut him off, tell him that he cannot show up every single day.

“Why not?”

“Scott. You can’t just come here everyday, he’s going to get confused. You are not family.”

“Yet.”

“What?”

“Fine. Every other day, but full weekends.”

It’s a compromise that you tried to negotiate down, but he refuses to budge on.

The worst part is that Scott is terrific with Ben.

He’s smart and answers all of Ben’s questions with tact. The moment your son learns that Scott works with tornadoes, chasing after them and being smack dab in the middle of the action, he’s absolutely enthralled. You have to emphasize to Scott that you will murder him if Ben ever tells him that he wants to be a tornado chaser.

“I’ll protect him, don’t worry,” is all he says.

You still worry.

Beyond that, Ben seems to enjoy his company, has started asking when Uncle Scott would be coming around again so he could show him the progress he’s made on the massive Superman LEGO set that Scott had gotten him.

“You can’t spoil him too much,” you frown when he pops by on his assigned day, a gift box in hand. It’s the fourth in two weeks.

“He’s a kid. He likes toys.”

“You can’t spoil him,” you mutter.

Your worry is partially rooted in the fact that you can’t just give Ben whatever he wants, whenever he wants, but it also stems from your guilt for not being able to provide all this. It’s not as if you’re not making money; you save enough from your salary, but Boston is an expensive city.

Scott seems to understand this. He dials it back, but you know that he’s itching every time Ben mentions something new he’s curious about. He just picks and prioritizes what he gets him.

Otherwise, he’s good. Too good even. That seems to be a pattern when it comes to him.

You tell yourself it’s because he doesn’t know he’s the father. It’s less commitment, less pressure. He plays the role of a cool uncle who showers Ben with gifts and attention.

Scott has pressed again, of course — who’s the father, when did this happen, do I need to have a conversation, you could fight for child support — to which you answer no repeatedly. An easy denial to give him none of the answers he’s looking for. It never stops him from asking again; he thinks he’ll wear you down eventually.

Truth be told, you think that Scott will bore himself soon. He can’t possibly be serious about permanently moving back to Boston. You’re convinced that in the next couple of weeks, he’ll realize that this pretend domesticity isn’t the life he wants, and he’ll pack up his bags again and leave. When that day comes, you won’t be disappointed.

As long as he never finds out Ben is his son, you’ll be fine.

(Maybe if you repeat it enough times, you’ll actually believe your own words.)

However, you seem to have a knack for putting your foot in your mouth and speaking too soon, because your worst nightmare comes to fruition one day when you let your guard down. Usually, you do a pretty good job of keeping track of their conversations, making sure they stay on safe territory that gives away nothing. Ben has zero clue about his father anyway, so there’s nothing really to give away.

Or so you think.

You’re caught up trying to balance sending work emails and batting away your mother’s efforts to inquire more about Scott. She’s been badgering you nonstop to learn more about your history, prodding Scott whenever she’s here to share more, even going as far as to drop the most obvious hints.

“You know, she is very single. Incredibly single.”

“Mother!”

“I’m aware,” Scott smirks. “Refuses to let me change that.”

You don’t appreciate the way he’s looking at you now, how your body is tingling all over from the memories. The press of his fingers on your hip, how his mouth feels mapping out the curve of your breasts, the burn between your legs when he pushes himself in with a hungry groan.

Heat unfurls across your face and you’re quick to turn away, missing how your mother and Scott share knowing looks.

But now that she’s not here, she’s still torturing you with incessant, inane questions about him. The only thing you manage to catch in the midst of your stress is Scott saying, “Your birthday’s in Decem—”

You don’t think much of it. Not for a moment. Until it hits you.

By the time you look up, Scott’s already directing his eyes towards you. Your blood runs cold.

It’s not a question. He knows. He’s not a fool.

Born the December in the year that you graduated college, it’s not difficult to do the math on when Ben was conceived. If you retrace your steps, it’s not difficult to know who had done the conceiving.

The two of you don’t address it, not out loud. Not yet. Your brain is short-circuiting, trying to configure an excuse or a lie that would work in this instance. You’re running on empty, especially when your heart is beating straight out of your chest. Everything feels hot, your body can’t seem to handle this stress very well.

You have maybe an hour left before Ben’s due for bed and you’re half tempted to keep him awake because that means keeping Scott’s anger at bay. You can feel it roll off him in waves, crackling energy that zaps you even from this distance.

The minutes tick down much too quickly and, before you know it, Ben is yawning on cue and you’re getting him ready for bed. You spend a little longer than necessary tucking him in, reading him his story, all the while Scott is standing in the doorway watching the two of you.

He’s being considerate of Ben, maintaining his distance before he probably rips you a new one. You appreciate it, but you press an extra kiss or two onto your son’s face before you exit the room — for good luck.

When the two of you are back in the living room, Ben completely out cold to the world, Scott doesn’t ask. He simply states the irrefutable truth.

“He’s mine.”

You clear your throat. “Technically, he’s mine.”

“Don’t fucking act cute with me right now,” he snarls, jabbing his finger in the direction of the hallway both of you just left. “That’s my kid in there. Are you fucking kidding me?”

Wincing, you take a step away from him. “Can we not do this?”

“Like hell I’m letting this slide. You’ve got to be shittin’ me. That’s my kid. Ben is mine.”

The pulsing in your head only worsens the harder he glares, the more he seethes. “You’re the father. Doesn’t make him yours.”

You hear the sharp intake of breath. The confirmation landing firm in his chest. “Why the fuck wouldn’t you tell me?”

“Why does it matter?” You snap, throwing his irritated look right back at him.

“You’ve got to be on another fucking level of insane to think it doesn’t matter.”

“I was going to,” you begin, “tell you, I mean, but the timing never felt right.”

Scott looks at you, completely aghast. “Timing never felt right? You knew. You knew before I left, before we graduated. All those times you didn’t want to drink, didn’t want to eat sushi, this was why. You had all the fucking time in the world to tell me.”

“Would it have changed anything?”

“It would’ve changed everything!”

Your lungs feel devoid of oxygen as you look at Scott, his frustration palpable. Fury is carved into the lines of his face, eyes blazing with the sort of anger you’ve never seen on him. However, in between the twist of his lips and the fire in his gaze, you see a flicker of something warmer. Softer.

Hurt.

The kind of hurt that comes with a betrayal that you cannot take back.

Scott breathes out. “I would’ve been here for you.”

“I never asked you to.”

“You never asked,” he spits out, “you never let me make that decision for myself. Instead, you let me believe that I had fucked up something between us. You cut me off and I didn’t even know why.”

“It would’ve been selfish,” you argue.

“It would’ve been fair,” he insists. “You should’ve trusted me to make my own judgment call.”

Your fingers wring together in front of you. Is this it then? The point of no return. You can’t seem to find the words to say to remedy the situation.

“I didn’t want you to have to choose,” you murmur. “Between me and your dream.” The unsaid words being I didn’t want to watch you choose your dream over me.

Scott has always been larger than life. He is meant for greater things, to innovate and create. He has gone so far since you first met him. He’s become an even bigger person than you could’ve imagined.

What right did you have to hold him back from all that?

“Again, that’s not for you to decide,” he sighs, “Have you ever considered they’re one and the same?” Your gaze flies up to meet his weary one. “You’re an idiot,” Scott mutters. “So fuckin’ stupid.”

You press your lips together into a thin line. “Thanks a lot, asshole.”

“Does he know?”

With a shake of your head, you lean back. “No, he’s been… pretty good at not asking too many questions about who his dad is. It’s only a matter of time before that curiosity grows though, especially once he starts school and the other kids will undoubtedly ask him.”

“I can help you with all that, you know. I am his father after all.”

Wincing, you swallow thickly. “You don’t have to, Scott. It was my decision to go through with the pregnancy. You don’t have to feel like you have to participate.”

“Why do you keep saying it like that?” He lets out an exasperated sound. You frown in question. “Like I don’t want to be here. For him. For you.”

“I— I just don’t want you to feel pressured to—”

“Sweetheart,” he begins and your heart feels like it’s been dipped in syrup, “I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. I’ve been present, haven’t I? And that was before I even knew he was mine. What makes you think I’m going to change my mind?”

“It’s different! Being here to support me as a friend and being here as— as his dad! As a parent.”

Scott looks up to the ceiling again, inhaling deep through his nostrils. “Tell me how it’s different.”

“A fun uncle is not a co-parent.”

“So I want to co-parent.”

“You don’t know what that means.”

“It means being here for you, for him. It means having equal responsibility and stakes in raising him. It means you’re not doing this alone.”

A lump grows in your throat as you look at him. His determination is evident.

“So I’m going to need you to get it through that thick skull of yours that I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to piss you off, you’re going to piss me off, but we’ll make it work.”

You laugh, tears pricking the corner of your eye. “Maybe if we don’t kill each other first.”

His lips curve into a smirk. “You can’t kill me. I’m your baby daddy after all. Fucked you so hard that your birth control didn’t work.”

You almost choke on your own spit. “You’re such a piece of shit.”

He laughs. “Don’t forget the father of your child.”

Your fingers are itching to make contact with his cheek. He really can be such an asshole sometimes. He knows exactly which buttons to push. Repeating the fact that he’s Ben’s father, reminding you again that he knows your big secret now. The worst part is you know that he’s doing it intentionally; the more irritated he gets you, the better the sex. He likes it when you fight back, when you push him.

He likes it when he can put you in your place.

“Some friend you are,” you grunt.

Scott’s rising to his feet, moving towards you. With every step he takes forward, he backs you up until your lower spine lands against the kitchen counter.

“Let’s get one thing clear,” Scott says low, coming up to press you against the solid surface. With both hands planted on either side of you, he leans towards you. Your breath catches. “We’re not friends. We haven’t been for a while.”

“That’s… mean,” you whimper.

“The things I want to do with you — to you — they’re not things friends do.”

There’s a promise in his gaze that has your heart fluttering, your stomach curling with desire as heat builds between your legs.

It’s hard to breathe when he’s this close. Hard to even think. Your palm flattens against his firm, broad chest, applying pressure in a feeble attempt to put some distance. Except now you can’t help but feel the way his pecs feel underneath your fingers and you can picture yourself on top of him, sinking down on his cock while your hands are planted on his skin.

Heaven have mercy.

“Things are different now,” you gulp.

“You think I still can’t make you cum three times in a night?”

Your lips part. “That’s not—” Heat climbs up your throat. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Scott chuckles. “I hope you know that this only makes me want you even more. You’re stupid if you think I’m ever letting you out of my sight again.”

“Just because you want to be here and be a father does not mean that it changes anything between us.”

His joy quickly morphs into irritation again. “Why not?”

“Because Ben will always come first and we can’t… just keep fucking.”

“Again, why not?”

Because I’m in love with you. Because I’m going to get my heart broken again.

“I want to maintain some boundaries. It’ll be better for us that way.”

Scott is quiet, thoughtful as he regards you, before he straightens. “Okay then. You do that. You maintain your boundaries.”

“Thank you.”

“Doesn’t mean I’ll be helpin’ you do that,” he laughs, bitter as he smiles at you. A threat laced into his expression. “Better prepare yourself, sweetheart. I’m not here to protect your walls. I’m here to break them down.”

“We should go out.”

Your gaze lifts from your laptop, eyes instinctively wandering down the hall to Ben’s room where he’s safe and sound asleep, then back to Scott who’s on his own laptop on the dining table. “Like to get groceries?”

“No, for dinner.”

You look over your shoulder, to the take-out menus stuck to the fridge with a mismatched set of magnets. “There’s a pizza place Ben likes down the street. We could go tomorrow.”

“Finally letting me in two days in a row?” Scott cocks an eyebrow.

A glare is all he gets in return.

“I meant us. Just the two of us.”

Your fingers stop, hovering over the keyboard. “Why?”

“So I can take you out.”

“Why?”

“To spend some time together. You know, outside of parenting.”

Parenting still sounds foreign on his tongue, at least to you. Scott seems to have settled in comfortably with the title, taking on the mantle even without the official acknowledgment. The two of you agreed to ease Ben into it; he seems to have taken a liking towards Scott so at least telling him may be easier than you initially anticipated.

However, considering the situation at hand, you can only ask, “Why?”

“How old are you?” Scott snaps.

“I don’t think we need to do anything together outside of parenting.”

“Why not?”

It’s your turn to give him a look. “We are two people who happen to be raising a child together. Somewhat.”

“But we’re friends first.”

“I think co-parenting supersedes the friend label now, which means I can’t be doing that with you. Not alone.” 

He knows you’re being obstinate for the sake of it, pissing him off just because you can. However, he doesn’t take the bait. 

“You know what, you’re right, sweetheart. Let me rethink this.”

Scott was never one to give up easily. On the contrary, when presented with a challenge, he rises to the occasion. He goes above and beyond.

It starts off innocuous enough, subtle that you nearly think that all of it is accidental. When he’s trying to help around the kitchen and he reaches across you, arm brushing your breasts. Your nipples perk up on instinct, seeking the familiar warmth of his touch like you’ve been trained. He doesn’t say a thing so you brush it off as inconsequential. His hand on your hip when he’s excusing himself behind you. His eyes on you when he licks his thumb clean off the brownie batter you’re making.

It doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter. These tiny touches, interactions that shouldn’t mean anything. You shouldn’t be reacting this way. You tell yourself it’s because it’s been a while since you got laid last — unfortunately, by none other than the source of your frustrations.

But then the touches become firmer, intentional in a way that you can’t miss. He’s slipping an arm around your waist when he picks you up at the hospital, head ducking to press a kiss to the side of your head, all the while you’re mid-conversation with a coworker who then scurries away under Scott’s glare. In the car, he’s sliding a possessive hand over your thigh, squeezing when he asks you about your day. He has a hand pressed against your lower back at all times, practically manhandling you when you move around different spaces.

And god do you fucking love it. Maybe it’s because you’ve been deprived of physical touch for so long, you haven’t had anyone in your corner reminding you that they’re there. But you also know yourself better than that and the only reason all of this works is because it’s Scott and you were in love with Scott.

You tell yourself it’s all in the past. This is the remnants of your feelings long forgotten from your more youthful self.

But then it all disappears. The touches. The fleeting glances. The flirty smiles. The difference is jarring and you can’t help but notice the extra space he puts between the two of you when you’re walking with Ben, keeping him in between you two. Or how he moves away from the kitchen when you enter it, and again when you move into the living room. Or how his question actually sounds polite when he asks you how work went.

How he doesn’t even blink twice when you tell him a colleague — that same one that he had scared away — had asked you out to dinner.

The frustration builds inside of you, like he’s crafting a wall with the distance brick by brick. You find yourself leaning towards him only for him to shift in his seat and away from you. The inches between you on the couch feel like they stretch for miles, his arm extended on the other side instead of behind your back.

You feel like an addict seeking a fix, constantly chasing after him — subtly, not enough for it to be obvious, but certainly enough for him to notice.

So, by the time he suggests it again, he’s Pavlov’d you to seek his attention. Fucker.

“Do you want to spend the day together?”

You grit your teeth. Somehow, Scott has conspired with your mother that she whisked Ben away early this morning for a trip to the zoo and you end up with this asshole at your front door with a smirk on his face, shoulders squared, chin tilted up like he’s done something good.

“You did this on purpose.”

“What did I do?”

He knows exactly what he did. “All of it.”

“Come on. Get dressed.”

“You haven’t even told me where we’re going,” you snap.

“Nowhere you need anything fancy,” he says before steering you by the elbow out the door.

You allow yourself to be pushed into the car, he even straps your seatbelt in for you, before he’s driving. Destination still unknown. You try to ask and Scott tells you to just relax, tells you that you’re wrung up too tight.

Then he stops and you look quizzically out the window.

“I got you a massage appointment.”

You nearly break your neck at the speed you whip around to look at him. “What? Why?”

“Thought it would be a nice thing to do. You used to gather knots like you were starting a collection and I had to press all of that out for you. Figured, with all the years of build up and I highly doubt you’ve been smoothing those out, a professional could do a better job.”

At a loss, you find yourself only staring at him. He looks cocky, so damn proud that he’s done something right — that he knew exactly what you needed.

“Now get going, they’re not gonna find another timeslot for you.”

With your mind in a blur, you exit the vehicle. The spa is nice, a mix of lavender and eucalyptus in the air that has you relaxing almost instantly. The experience is… divine to say the least. For once, you have not a single thought in your mind and you find yourself melting into the table during your two-hour long session.

By the time you step back outside, after the people inside tell you that it’s been paid for, Scott is waiting out front. In a daze, you slip back into the car.

“Good?” is all he asks.

You nod slowly.

“Good,” he smiles, “now, let’s get you ready for dinner.”

Scott tells you that he’s taking you somewhere casual, but nice. Nice enough that you end up spending a bit of time washing your hair, doing your makeup, even fixing your hair a little bit. When you spritz on perfume, you tell yourself that it’s for your sake.

But you can’t deny that when you see Scott drink you in — how his blue eyes go ten shades darker, how his lips part when he gets a whiff of the florals clinging onto your skin — that it might’ve been for him too.

You would think a man like Scott would take you somewhere nice, somewhere you’re going to be gawking at the prices all night, wondering if you should even be in a place like that. But when he pulls up to a quiet corner in Cambridge, an Italian restaurant that seems all too familiar, you find yourself caught off guard.

“What? You would’ve preferred steak and fries at Del Frisco’s?” He’s chuckling quietly to himself, knowing full well what your answer would be.

Before you can reach for your door, Scott’s rounding the car and pulling it open, even going as far as to offer a hand.

He’s a perfect gentleman the entire night. When you hesitate on ordering because of the prices, Scott — the condescending prick that he is — orders for you, except he orders right. You’ve been eyeing that dish but you couldn’t do the math fast enough to figure out your budget for the month. He orders a bottle of red, your favorite — it’s nothing fancy, but it had been a step up when you felt like splurging in college. The food is delicious, reminiscent of the old days when he would treat you to a meal to make you feel better, right after he fucked you seven ways to Sunday.

You’re warm, body buzzing with your fill of food and wine. For the first time in a while, you feel a little lighter, like the world isn’t weighing down on your shoulders. Scott drives you back home and he stops right in front of your apartment building.

You know what’s coming. A proposition — as always. You’re going to say yes — as always. He’s always been a snake charmer, saying and doing all the right things to get one into bed with him. It worked on you for months. It used to work on all the ladies before he stopped using it on them.

It still works on you, considering you’re feeling that warmth between your legs. That anticipation humming in your veins. You can practically taste his mouth on you, the tartness from the wine mixed with the gelato you ordered for dessert. You take a breath in eager hopefulness.

However, when he walks you to the apartment entrance, he only kisses the back of your hand. “Have a good night, sweetheart.” Then he’s slowly making his way down the steps, leaving you completely gobsmacked.

You find yourself saying, “Wait,” before you can even think twice.

Scott halts, turns, a knowing smile dancing on his lips.

You should have more self-restraint. But when he’s looking at you with those bright blue eyes and an expression that promises you a good time, you’re only human.

“What is it?”

You fidget with the handle of your purse. “Where are you going?”

“Home,” he drawls, tilting his head like he’s waiting to see your next move.

“You’re not gonna stay?”

Scott’s lips quirk up, shfiting into a look too cocky for your liking. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Don’t be a dick.”

“Doesn’t sound like you do,” he makes a face, raising his shoulders in a shrug as he pretends to slowly turn back around.

You should let him go. You hope he has fucking blue balls tonight. However, that also means you’ll be left alone with your thoughts in an empty apartment and your vibrator on a Saturday night, and that sounds a heck of a lot less fun than getting your brains scrambled by the one man who knows exactly how to do that.

“Do you want to come up?”

It’s comical how quickly he whirls around to say, “Don’t mind if I do.”

The ride up the elevator is weighed down by tense silence. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears in time with the numbers that climb, a beep in rhythm to each floor. Scott stands next to you, hands planted on the railing casually, but you hear the impatient tapping of his shoe. When the elevator finally dings, he lets you leave first and you feel the burn of his gaze on your back, trailing the length of you down to the curve of your ass where the silk of your dress rests.

Your fingers are barely functional as you clumsily dig through your purse to open the door. It’s one thing to have someone watching you, it’s another to have Scott staring at you. The hungry look in his eyes, the way you can practically feel the heat radiate off him.

You don’t even get a chance to properly set aside your bag before Scott is pressing you up against the wall. He drinks in your surprised little gasp, your instinct to move away from him only has him backing you up against your kitchen counter. With you half-seated on it, Scott’s hands slide around your neck, cupping your cheeks so he can lick into your mouth. He takes the chance to slip his tongue in between your little gasps, tasting that sugar on your tongue.

“Fuck, sweetheart, been waiting to do that all night,” he groans as his mouth travels towards your neck instead, sucking on the delicate skin until you feel the sting spark every nerve inside your body. He does it over again, like he’s zapping you with electricity every time he leaves a new mark on your body.

You’re no better, your hands immediately crawling up his chest to find his buttons and fumble with them, slipping them out one at a time until you can shove his shirt off his shoulders. God, how is it possible that he seems even broader than before? Your palms explore his biceps, feeling the way they flex beneath your fingertips, muscles tensing into a firm surface for you to hold onto.

“You got… bigger,” you note in a daze. It’s ridiculous how drunk you feel right now and it’s certainly not from the wine. It’s his scent — masculine and clean. Like rain on freshly mowed grass, earthy in a way that grounds you. You can’t help but breathe him in, making a mental note that he still uses the same shampoo.

“A lot of time lugging around equipment out there,” he mutters. As if to prove a point, he lifts you up to the counter and wraps your legs around his waist. “Always getting drenched in the storms.”

Fuck. Terrible visual. You imagine him in a white short-sleeve shirt, the fabric soaking up all that rain and clinging to every inch of his muscles and leaving nothing to the imagination. His dusky nipples poking through the fabric. Curly brunette hair with droplets, that one stray hair on his forehead whenever it gets too humid. You can practically see the light smattering of hair on his chest, a path leading down to his navel.

God forbid that the women in Oklahoma have seen him like that. That’s a visual you’d rather keep to yourself.

Scott distracts you again when he brings his face back to kiss you. He kisses like he’s inhaling you, stealing every hitched breath from your lungs. His mouth is ravenous as it moves against you, teeth grazing your bottom lip lightly in a tantalizing threat. He finally nips and you let out a little whine that he laughs lightly at as he kisses you harder. Firmer. Soft lips, only slightly chapped, as they relearn what it is exactly that makes you moan down his throat.

“Love kissing you,” he mutters, “missed doing this. I want to do this everyday.”

You’re about to tell him why that would be a bad idea but you sigh dreamily instead, tipping your head back when he begins trailing wet kisses along your jawline again.

His hands wander to your back, dragging the zipper down quietly until your dress pools on the floor. His thumb brushes over your nipples peaking through the lace. “Missed these pretty tits too. Couldn’t get enough of them last time.” He ducks his head and tugs one free from your bra, lips closing in around your nipple in a wet heat. His groan reverberates straight through you, tongue laving around your pert nipple like he’s trying to coax it out.

As he does so, his other hand reaches for the clasp of your bra until you hear the little sound before it slides down your shoulders.

“Hands on the counter.”

“Bossy,” you murmur, but do so anyway.

Scott looks mildly surprised at your obedience and you can’t even bring yourself to care. You lean back slightly and spread your legs wider to let him step in between them, his mouth warm and sweet on your tits. He mouths hungrily at your breasts, biting, squeezing, until you’re a moaning mess arching into his touch. One of his hand slides down to your lower spine to yank you closer to him, pressing your core against the thickness in his pants.

“I’ve been hard all night lookin’ at you in that pretty dress,” Scott growls, “knew exactly what you looked like underneath it, couldn’t wait to take it off you.”

You appear to have lost your entire vocabulary when he slips that hand from your back to the space between you, two fingers against the panties that’s quickly gathering moisture. The whine that is pulled from your lips is instinctual. Pure primal need.

“Imagining you stretched out on that massage bed, naked, slicked up in oil. Fuck, I had to drive around and keep myself busy for two hours so I didn’t go back and do the job myself,” he huffs a laugh as he begins rubbing your clit over the material, arousal easing the slick of his fingers even with one layer between the two of you.

A gasp is wrenched from your throat as you stare at him, wide-eyed. “That’s— that’s ridiculous.”

Scott hums, shaking his head, pressing harder, pulling out another needy sound. “Stop bein’ so tense. You’re undoing all of that woman’s hard work.” Your eyes light up briefly. “I wasn’t going to let some other man touch you. I’m not an idiot.”

“You’re such a possessive asshole,” you let out a breathless laugh, “it’s just a massage.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m going to be the only one that gets to touch these pretty tits. Not to mention, this—” he slides his fingers under your panties, gathering up the arousal from you slick folds on his fingertips and listening to the lewd squelch as he dips his fingers in just a tad. “You’re so goddamn wet.”

Instead of clamping your legs shut, embarrassed like you always have been, you can’t help but let your thighs fall apart further, giving him room to give you the pleasure that you so badly needed.

“You’re so much easier when you’re not stressed.”

That snaps you awake. “Oh, fuck you.”

Scott pushes two fingers in, the slide is swift and wet. “Just like that,” he grins as he slowly drags his fingers out only to shove them back in. He’s rough and he’s messy, you can hear how wet you are as he watches you come undone, thumb against your clit like he has something to prove. “Shit, sweetheart, you’re dripping all over the counter. You’re so messy, pretty girl.”

“S-Scott,” you moan, fingers wrapping around his wrist. “I c-can’t, mmm, please.”

“I know, I know, still so tight, aren’t you? I don’t want to hurt you,” he says as he slowly sinks to his knees. You look down to find him with his starry eyes looking right up at you as he sticks his fingers in his mouth. You can see the moment his eyes flutter shut as he tastes you, tongue lecherously poking out to lick his fingers clean. “Better than dessert.”

“You’re so corny—” your words split off into a choked gasp when Scott dives in between your legs. His tongue drags all the way up to your clit until you’re bucking against his mouth. He licks and devours, the roughness of his tongue sliding up your slick folds, lips closing in around your core, your clit, to suck until you’re shuddering against him. “Fuck, Scott, wait, slow down.”

Scott leans away, giving you a brief moment of reprieve — except, when you look down at him, his bottom half is glistening in the moonlight that spills across your floors. His eyes return to your pussy, just beneath your stomach that’s rising and falling with your labored breaths.

His index and middle fingers rest on each of your lips as he slowly pries them apart, your pussy pulses and there’s no doubt that he catches that movement. The slight tensing, squeezing, inside of you. “Look at this pussy spreading so wet and easy for me. She’s droolin’, sweetheart.”

As if he can sense another argument on your lips, Scott leans forward again to press kisses onto your inner thigh, blooming warmth with every spot he touches. He kisses up and up until he’s back with his face between your legs, your thighs closing in around his head until he’s practically suffocating in your cunt.

It’s the way he likes it though. His hands on your ass to drag you forward so he can tongue-fuck you faster, knowing full well you’re enjoying it when you’re grinding against his face with tears leaking from your eyes and his name said in prayer.

That pleasure coils humiliatingly fast in your stomach. You can feel your climax, long abandoned, surfacing quickly. God, it feels so good, his mouth — it’s only gotten better. You hate to think if he fucked anyone else while he was away, because — of course he did, he was a hot young bachelor in bumfuck Oklahoma. He was probably the hottest shit down there.

Scott scowls up at you, “You’re tensing up again, what are you thinking about?”

“Nothing,” you blurt out, pressing your lips together.

He rises to his feet, fingers catching your chin. “Tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” you snap irritably. Great, now you’re thinking about some cute girl in a cowboy hat he’s probably fucked the same way he did you.

“You just stiffened up again. Either you tell me, or I won’t fuck you.”

You roll your eyes, “Holding sex hostage? Real mature.” Well, two can play that game. “If you won’t fuck me, I’m sure I’ve got a few people on my dating apps that have been begging to.”

Scott’s eyes flash, your heart palpitates a little too aggressively. “Yeah? You wanna try that again with me?” Your mouth dries. “Sweetheart, you’re cute if you think I’m letting anyone else near this pretty pussy of yours. You think anyone can get you off?”

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip.

“You’re mine,” he breathes out, catching your lips again. You can taste yourself on him, his moan vibrating against your mouth.

But you can’t deny his words. Instead, you let him pick you up and carry you all the way to the bedroom. He doesn’t stop kissing you the entire way, stealing your breath every chance he gets. Your back lands on the mattress, Scott climbing over you and pressing your legs into your chest.

“Love fucking you just like this,” he murmurs, applying just a little more pressure. “Maybe I can put another baby in you.”

“Scott!” You gasp.

“Fuck, I wasn’t even around when you were pregnant. I’d do it right this time. Make sure you’re taken care of — however that may be. Heard the first trimester’s roughest, probably needed a cock to fill you up, hm? Fill you up and get you so stupidly cockdrunk you won’t have the mouth to talk back to me.”

Another protest sits on your tongue but then Scott’s unzipping his pants and his cock, thick and throbbing, is in his hands, tip sitting at your entrance. You can feel your pussy dripping onto him, a trail of slick that slides down the length of him.

“I could fuck you, cum in you as much as I want — not like I didn’t already,” he chuckles, “no more risk of getting you pregnant twice. God, I could do that to you, sweetheart. Want another kid with me?”

“You’re— fuck, you’re insane.”

Scott only grunts as he begins pushing into you. “So fuckin’ tight. I need to teach your pussy how to take me again. You were so sweet and loose for me back then, we fucked so much, your cunt was shaped to my cock. Can’t wait to do that again.”

The ache burns between your legs as Scott stretches you out, your pussy opening up painfully slowly for him. You hold your breath, tensing up as he whispers for you to relax, to just keep your legs open and let him take what he needs. Your eyes roll when he finally buries himself all the way, the head kissing the deepest parts of you.

“S-shit, fuck, that feels so good. You feel like heaven.”

“Please, please just move,” you whine.

“I know, baby, but I can’t fuck you too fast, gonna hurt you. My cock barely fits in this tight pussy of yours,” Scott coos, dragging back his hips and slowly coaxing you open with a push of his cock. “I gotta go easy on her. She’s not used to being filled up, is she?”

You call him an asshole in your head, because you don’t trust your voice not to break in the haze of your pleasure.

“Pretty girl hasn’t had anyone taking care of her in a while.”

“I can take care of myself just fine,” you defend with a snap.

“Yeah? What? Those vibrators I see you hiding? Doesn’t feel the same, does it? You needed someone to fuck you properly.” Scott smirks, “Maybe I should’ve given you a dildo shaped to my cock. That way you could fuck yourself on it whenever you missed me. I’d make you call me when you do that, wanna hear you beg for my cock while you push it inside you. Better yet, I want to see you while you ride it and realize it ain’t the same as the real thing.”

“You’re so fucking gross,” you hiss and, sure enough, it melts into a moan when Scott drives into you again, and again, and again.

“What does it say about you when I can feel you chokin’ out my cock at the thought of it?” He laughs, taunting. “You’re as fucked up as I am, sweetheart. How do you think we made a baby in the first place?”

Oh fuck, Scott feels you open up to him, mold around him. That pain dulls into a throb that only serves to weave desire between your legs. You clench around him, pussy pulsing with his every word, as he fucks deep inside of you. He pushes you back into this mating press, groaning when he feels himself reach deeper inside you.

“Shit, baby, this pussy is fucking unbelievable. I can’t believe I gave this up for years. Missed fucking this gorgeous cunt so bad,” he swallows. That vein on his neck goes taut as he tries to stop himself. “You still on the pill?”

You nod weakly, fingers digging into his biceps as he pounds into you, his hips jerking faster and harder.

Then he laughs and it sounds mean and your stomach twists. “Didn’t do us much good last time though, huh? It’s alright, sweetheart. If you get knocked up again, I’ll be here. I’ll be here to fuck all that stress out of you, give you all the massages that’ll end with my head between your legs. Get you all your cravings so you can show your appreciation with your mouth on my cock.”

It’s disgusting, The thought of returning favors when he’s the one who gets you pregnant, but something about it has you tightening, punched in the stomach with a level of arousal that you can’t seem to contain.

“Don’t need to use this pretty brain of yours, baby. Just gonna have you barefooted waddling around and you can let me take real good care of you,” he pants, sweat beading his forehead as he fucks into you faster, holding himself back harder. “Make sure you and our baby are good. Don’t you worry.”

“F-fuck you,” you stutter as he drives back into you.

The bed creaks under the pressure of his thrusts, you’re getting fucked into the mattress that you can feel your body imprinting onto the bed. “That’s right. Good girl. Gonna make you a mommy again, sweetheart. Gonna put another baby into you. You’re already so cockdrunk, you won’t even know. I’m not letting you out of here until it takes.”

That knocks all the oxygen from your chest. “Shit, Scott— hold on.”

“Can’t do that,” he grunts, “pussy feels too good. Can’t get enough of this hole. I’m going to fill you up, baby. You’re gonna be leakin’ my cum for days. Maybe I’ll send you to get another massage and they’ll see you dripping my cream.”

Scott pounds into you, each word filthier than the next. He’s driving himself and you into a frenzy as his thrusts get sloppier, wetter, squelching bouncing off your four walls.

“I’m gonna print my cock in your pussy so nobody else can touch you.”

“Breed this pussy so good, keep you plugged up with my cum for days.”

“This pussy was meant to be fucked, sweetheart. You don’t need princess treatment, just need to be fucked like you need another baby in you.”

It’s filthy. It’s demeaning. It’s a fucking turn-on.

“‘M gonna— shit, Scott, hnnng, please, gonna cum.”

“Yeah, you wanna cum, pretty girl? You wanna cum around my cock?”

You can only nod in your haze, desperate, eager.

“Cum around me, sweetheart. I wanna feel that cream coating my cock. I wanna feel that stickiness, feel what it’s like to have my girl feel so good because of me.”

Scott pounds into you faster, deeper as he fucks you harder into the mattress. He presses you further in this position, tilting your hips up until you’re climbing and climbing and falling apart around him with a loud whine. Your body trembles with the force of your orgasm, legs quaking around him as he drags out your climax with every thrust until he himself is spilling warmth inside you. You can feel the mess in your insides, feel it slosh around, feel it leak from where you two are joined.

“Fuck,” he groans, “cumming so much, sweetheart. Fillin’ her right up.”

Your heart slams against your chest as you feel exactly that.

Scott’s hips are still jerking with his cum spurting right into you. He refuses to budge, staying there until he’s sure everything’s out. Even then, he nudges his hips a little deeper, like he’s making sure his cum stays in there.

He eases out of you slowly, but he doesn’t let go of the pressure on your legs, keeping your hips up as he watches his cum ooze out of you. His brows pucker in annoyance as he uses two fingers to push it back into you.

You wince, pussy sensitive from the friction earlier. “Gross.”

“You like it.”

You do. It’s stupid but you do. Something about him staking his claim, leaving a part of him inside you, it’s just the kind of thing that has you squeezing around his fingers again.

Scott smirks. “Do you want me to clean you up?”

Your stupid, traitorous, dysfunctional brain says no. For some reason, you really like feeling his cum inside you. But you know that the correct answer is— “Yes.” It’s the only reason Scott asks – because he knows.

His eyes scan you for a moment, as if he’s trying to decide whether you’re telling the truth. Then he sighs and lets your legs down gently as he disappears, coming back only when he has a damp cloth in hand. It’s so strange for him to be so familiar with your place to know where things are.

At the same time — so right.

He wipes you clean, murmuring to himself about how pretty you look with his cum inside you. You try not to let your lips stretch too wide with the heat rolling across your face.

When he’s done, Scott slides himself in next to you, pulling you close.

That’s when you freeze because — what is this? What are you? The panic sinks in fast and you feel fear claw at your chest. You have a son. You can’t be doing — whatever the fuck this is — with his dad, who he doesn’t even know is his dad.

“Scott—”

“Sleep.”

“Go home.”

“No.”

“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “You can’t be here when Ben comes home tomorrow morning.”

Scott exhales long and hard, like he’s had enough of your shit. “Why not? I get full weekends, don’t I? That includes mornings. Now sleep.”

“Sleep in your own home! You can come back tomorrow.”

Before you know it, you’re back on your back and Scott’s on top of you, pinning you down with a glare. “Sweetheart, it seems like I didn’t fuck you hard enough. If I did, then you wouldn’t be thinkin’ whatever the fuck is going through that big head of yours right now. So, I’m going to fuck you again, and I’m going to keep fucking you until you stop treatin’ me like I’m some shameful one-night stand. I’m the father of your child — our child. So take your pick — do you want me to fuck you again until your head’s too full of cock to argue, or do you want to sleep?”

You open your mouth. Sleep is on the tip of your tongue, but then you feel him and his gaze warm on you and your legs press together on instinct.

He chuckles, dipping his head to press a chaste kiss onto your lips. “Good answer.”

Sure enough, he keeps his promise and you only find yourself falling asleep when he gives you your third orgasm of the night.

There is no monumental shift. Scott acts the same way he always has — at least around Ben.

He tries to maintain some level of distance but you can tell that he’s getting a little antsy about his own son not knowing who he is. Every time he asks you, you have to shoot it down, mainly for Ben’s sake.

But you also know that you raised a good, smart kid, which means it’s not surprising when Ben asks, “Who’s Uncle Scott really?”

“He is—” you pause, “—a friend.”

“Boyfriend?”

Fuck.

“No, he’s just a friend — like the kind you’ll meet in school.”

Ben looks at the television where there’s an interview of Scott playing, the one from a local station talking about his startup. “You love him?”

Your heart slams against your ribs. Warmth creeps up on you and Ben must notice it because he’s smiling softly, patting your hand.

“I like him,” Ben gives his nod of approval before turning back to the LEGOs in front of him.

A four-year-old just reassured you that he likes his dad. His dad that he still doesn’t know about. You know it isn’t fair and you will tell him at some point, you’re just not sure how to have that conversation yet — not when Scott’s time here is uncertain, despite what he says.

Still, while Scott keeps things steady with Ben, he switches tactics with you. His hand is always touching you — your hip, your back, your shoulders. Subtle touches like a reminder that he’s here. It’s oddly comforting and you find yourself seeking his touch more than before.

Around your son, he still maintains some distance, even when you can tell he’s itching to get closer. The two of you are at the grocery store, you’re driving the cart while Ben runs ahead, giggling and pointing at everything he wants — which is really anything with at least twenty grams of added sugar.

Scott has an amused smile on his lips as he watches him.

“Think he could be a runner someday. Has the makings of an athlete. Maybe football,” he says, almost proudly with his chest puffed up.

You roll your eyes, “I’d rather avoid my son getting his head knocked around.”

“Or entrepreneur, he has a way with making you do things, you know. Smart. Manipulative.”

“Where do you think he got that from?”

Scott only smirks.

You’re scanning through your list when you realize, “Shit, I forgot to grab butter and it’s up the aisle.”

“I’ll grab it,” he says, squeezing your hip, “just get what you need here.”

Ben insists on getting chocolate milk, mainly because he’s convinced the chocolate cow on the box is real. You tell him that you could get the smaller version and that you’ll take him to a farm one day and realize that there are no cows that produce chocolate milk.

“With Uncle Scott? In Oka— Okla—” He struggles, frowning when he can’t remember.

Oh. “Oklahoma,” you add, “maybe. I’m sure there are closer farms.”

His mouth opens in a bright grin.

When you finally cave and put both the chocolate milk and the regular milk in the cart, you look back down the aisle to see Scott standing there.

Talking to a woman.

A woman who was very much his type before he met you.

Your chest pinches with an unfamiliar feeling. It’s understandable that Scott has seen and is probably still seeing other women. The two of you don’t have a label on things, nothing you can tape to his forehead that says off limits.

She looks young, sweet, dressed like she has a life. She’s smiling up at him, giggling at something he’s saying in a way where you know it’s not because he’s funny. She reaches up to touch his arm and he takes a step back, a polite smile in place, then he’s saying something and looking at you. And then she’s looking at you too, face souring.

Alright then.

You turn away again, continuing to push the cart as Ben sets his mind on cereal next. He’s been on a Lucky Charms kick and you desperately need to move him off it. It’s all sugar and food coloring.

Scott appears next to you, a hand on your lower back as he puts the butter box in the cart. He peeks at your list. “Cereal next?”

“Um, yeah,” you say, eyes going over your shoulder to catch another glimpse of that woman. “She was cute.”

“Yeah, she was.”

Your lips immediately curl and Scott catches it before you can school your expression. “Didn’t get her number?”

“Told her I’m with my wife and kid,” he smirks.

Wife and kid— you’re not even sure how to respond to that, so you resort to clearing your throat with a deadpan look. “Glad to hear we can be used to avoid women you don’t like.”

“Well, I was only half lying, wasn’t I?” He huffs as the two of you turn the corner, finding Ben already with a box of Lucky Charms in hand. You sigh as Scott mutters under his breath, “Not too late to make it all completely true though.”

You try to convince Ben that cornflakes are much more fun, which is the least convincing argument you can make, until Scott steps in and says that cornflakes make him super strong like the rooster on the cover. So Ben swaps out his pick for a box of Froot Loops and declares that he wants to be strong like this bird instead.

It isn’t until the two of you are unloading groceries into his car that it hits you, and the bag nearly slips from his fingers.

Make it all completely true. Wife and kid.

“Took you long enough,” Scott chuckles smugly. “Give it some thought. Maybe we can stop by the jewelers on the way back.”

Scott is relentless to say the least. He has increased the frequency of touching, has made it all the more obvious in front of everyone. Your coworkers all know him by name, chatting with him when you wrap up work late. Sometimes, he’s the one who picks Ben up from your mom’s and brings him to meet you at the hospital.

Your mom, of course, is over the moon. She can’t stop gushing over him, telling you how he helped her fix her leaky faucet, how he’s always on time to pick up Ben even when he’s still in the middle of work, and “Did you know he was featured in Forbes?”

He finally invites you and Ben over for dinner in his new apartment. It’s much more spacious, a two-bedroom that’s twice the size of yours — one of which he has set up for Ben. So Ben is also over the moon when he sees how massive his bedroom is. He asks if the two of you can stay and you only manage a tight-lipped smile before you redirect your glare towards Scott.

“Your place too,” Scott says casually, handing you an extra set of keys. “In case you ever need some more space.”

Later, he also shows you that he’s left most of the closet empty in the master bedroom. “In case you need to stay over.”

It’s sweet. It’s thoughtful.

It’s too much.

You don’t even know where you stand with him. He takes you out again and then another time; you tell yourself that this is just friends hanging out, but you know it’s different when you end up in his bed at the end of the evening. The first time you slept with him at his and tried to leave after, you realize that your shoes are nowhere to be found.

“Where are my shoes?”

“I knew you were going to pull some stupid shit like this. So I hid them.”

“What the fuck? Are you four?”

“No, but our son is. Now get your ass back into bed.” You cross your arms over your chest, planting your foot down in protest. Scott regards you coolly. “You either come here on your own accord or I’m throwing you over my shoulder.”

He doesn’t make threats lightly, so you stomp all the way back to his bedroom where Scott proceeds to fuck you over again and makes sure that you have no energy left to move.

Things are… good.

For the first time in years, you feel almost at peace. Ben’s a good kid, raised right, adored by all around him. He’ll start school next year with a stronger support system, what with Scott vowing to attend every parent-teacher conference and other events that require his presence. The two of you agree to tell Ben in a month — a month to prepare for the conversation.

You can’t even imagine what it’s like — living four years of your life never seeing your father and then suddenly dropping one in his lap. Well, you suppose it isn’t very sudden considering Scott’s been around more often than not. Part of you hopes that Ben is hopeful about Scott, it’ll make the conversation easier.

That being said, your work schedule has been atrocious which means you haven’t had the chance to really sit down with him and have a conversation on how to broach the topic with your son. The one time you finally manage to get off work early, you decide to swing by Scott’s; he works from home and you figured all three of you could do dinner together at that pizza place.

The key rests between your fingers, pinched tight as you stare at it.

You should just ring the doorbell. Right? It isn’t your home. But Scott gave you a key and what if he’s still in the middle of something? What if he has someone else in there? No, you shouldn’t use the key. Then again, he shouldn’t have given you a key if he would be doing anything he wouldn’t want you to see.

The internal debate persists until you decide fuck it and push the key into the lock. You open the door slowly, quietly, nothing like your own creaky one. Scott’s nowhere to be found in his giant living room with his giant television. You look at that giant screen with envy, thinking about how wonderful movie nights would be with that setup. Scott has already insisted on doing movie nights at his instead, stocking up on popcorn and sugar, and you’re tempted to agree.

Muffled voices carry down the hall. He’s probably in the bedroom so you silently make your way over in case he’s on a call.

“Yeah, I’ll be back next week, alright,” Scott says, sounding agitated. You get a peek through the bedroom door and find him pacing.

An open suitcase in front of him.

Your heart drops. The scene is all too familiar. It’s like you’re twenty-two again, left behind in this town while he goes off to chase his dreams — only this time, he had promised you he would stay. Only this time, it won’t only be your heart he’ll break.

“I know it’s takin’ me a while,” he grunts, scrounging his hand through his hair, “no, I still need to pick up my shit.”

You can’t hear the person on the other end of the line but it’s clear that he doesn’t seem very pleased. A sigh heaves from his chest as he looks out the window, a mournful expression painted onto his face.

“I have to tie up some loose ends.”

Loose ends? You swallow thickly. That’s— is he talking about you? About Ben? He’s supposed to be back in Oklahoma next week. No doubt whoever is on the other side is someone at work. But he had promised you he would stay — right? He had said that he would be sticking around. Why else would he get an apartment? Why would he set the bedroom up for Ben otherwise?

But your mind has spiraled beyond the point of reason. Your survival instincts kick in again; you never want to be the person left behind. Not again. Not after that first time. So you should leave first. It’ll make it easier for the both of you.

Scott won’t have to break the news and you — you can let that hope quietly slip away.

All you can do now is… leave.

So you do. You take one step back then another and another until you’re in his kitchen. You open one of the drawers and tuck the extra set of keys he gave you inside; after all, you won’t be needing those anymore. Then you’re out the door.

You’re functioning numb as you get home. Ben greets you with a big smile and so does your mom. You force yourself to smile too and ask if the two of them want pizza for dinner. Your mom looks at you with a silent question asking where Scott is. You only shake your head.

When Scott calls you as you’re getting ready to leave for the restaurant, you don’t pick up.

Not feeling so hot.

His face appears on your screen as your phone vibrates with the incoming call. You curse yourself for texting so quickly.

“Hey,” you try to rasp.

“What is it? A cold? A fever? I can grab medicine and dinner on the way there. Maybe that wonton noodle soup from—”

“No, don’t,” you blurt out, “I, uh, don’t want to get you sick.”

“I don’t give a shit about that.” You can practically imagine his annoyed scowl. He’s probably shrugging on his jacket, you can hear the jingle of his keys as he heads to the door. “What do you want to eat? You like that wonton soup right? It’s on the way to yours.”

“Scott, please.”

“Sweetheart,” he sighs.

“I’ll be fine,” you insist, “just give me a few days to recover and I’ll text you, okay.”

Silence on the other end means that he’s giving it actual thought. Then you hear the long exhale. “Fine. Call or text me if you need anything. Seriously.” He clears his throat, “You know, your mom could also take Ben for a few days. I’ll come take care of you.”

You bite your tongue, blinking away the tears as you stare up at the ceiling. You can’t get used to this, can’t get used to someone checking in on you, putting you first. This isn’t the kind of thing that lasts.

“No, I promise I’ll be okay.”

You call in sick for work, which shocks your entire team because you’re the type to drag yourself out of your deathbed to make sure you don’t miss a day. You’re not sure you like this reputation.

Jenna calls your bullshit out immediately. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you mutter, picking on the lint on your pajama pants. You’re waiting for Ben to wake up so the two of you can spend the day together. He’s a little confused why you’re at home for a few days, but he certainly isn’t complaining.

“Does it have something to do with hottie Scottie?”

You wince, “That’s a gross nickname. Never say that again.”

“So it does, what did he do?”

It’s not what he did. It’s what he’s about to do. “It’s not a big deal. I just needed a break. Gonna spend some time with Ben.”

“Well, Ben loves her cool Aunt Jenna so I’ll swing by after with fried chicken?”

Your lips twitch. She always knows the right things to say. “Sounds good.”

On the other hand, you spend the rest of the week dodging Scott’s every attempt to come visit. You tell him that your cold has only gotten worse (you’re fresher than a spring chicken), that your mom is taking Ben for a few days (he’s sitting at the dining table), and that you are doing fine otherwise (your heart is splintering in your chest).

He sounds frustrated over the phone and, when he does visit, you pretend that you’re too sick to see him, refusing to let him through the door.

“This is fucking ridiculous. You have a cold. I’ll be fine,” he snaps through the front door. “Will you just let me in?”

Once again, you emphasize that that’s not good practice and colds are highly contagious. You can hear Scott’s feet shuffling outside, his annoyed grunts.

“Can you just let me in?” He breathes out deeply, “Please. I haven’t seen you in days and I really want to. I just want to make sure you’re good.”

Your forehead presses against the cool door. You tell yourself to stay strong. Don’t give in so easily. So again, you deny him entry and he finally leaves.

On Sunday, he calls and you at least pick that up. “I have to fly out to Oklahoma for a few days,” he mutters, “I’ll be back. Call me, text me, fucking email me if you need to — if you need anything at all, alright.”

“I’ll be fine,” you whisper.

You’re tying up those loose ends for him.

Scott goes radio silent for the first half of the week. You think this is finally it. He’s finally cutting you loose and maybe he’s simply going to fade into a distant memory. You’re back at work when he leaves Boston, your coworkers peppering you with questions about your absence. Jenna keeps the wolves at bay, telling all of them to give you some space.

“You need to talk to me at some point,” she gives you a look.

You lick your lips, mouth trembling as you finally say the words you’ve been too afraid to say. Because it’s one thing to think it, it’s another to admit it aloud. “Scott’s gone.”

“What?” She jerks back, “What do you mean he’s gone?”

Pushing around your peas, you sigh. “He’s in Oklahoma.”

“Temporarily right?”

You shrug. “Feel like it might be for good.”

“Did he tell you that?”

No, but you heard his conversation and it’s all about the words that are said behind your back that matter, right?

“Hon, listen to me. I’ve never seen a man more obsessed in my life. That guy’s in love with you.”

To that, you laugh, heart a little lighter for some odd reason. “He’s just being a good friend. He probably felt guilty after — you know — finding out that he knocked me up.”

She gives you a look. “If you seriously believe that, I’m going to have to take you up to neuro to get your head checked.”

On Thursday, you’re finally settling with the possibility that this really is it. You’ll be okay; you survived once without him, you can do it again. Instead, you focus strictly on work, drowning in the mountains of paperwork and unfinished studies. While you’re doing all that, your phone lights up with Scott’s name.

You don’t pick up. The last thing you need while you’re stressed out of your mind is to hear him apologize, hear him tell you that he’s changed in his mind. You can have your heart ripped out of your chest later.

Blissful ignorance is better than blatant rejection, that’s always been your motto.

You’re ready for a night of full decompression, which means you’re going to cuddle up with your baby and maybe fall asleep on the couch after a filling dinner of grease. “I’m home,” you call out.

The sight before you has you freezing. Scott’s on the couch — your couch — with Ben on his lap. They’re reading one of Ben’s favorite books and your son is giggling uncontrollably. Now, he is facing the front which means he can’t see Scott’s expression.

And that is a look that has your entire body stiffening in the doorway. You’re almost tempted to run again, but how could you abandon your son? So you try to ignore your buzzing nerves.

“Mom!”

“Hey, buddy,” you smile weakly, closing the door behind you. “Where’s, uh, my mom?”

“She left earlier, said I should spend some time with Ben and you,” he smiles. It’s sweet. It’s a sickeningly sweet smile, which means you know better than to trust it. “Ben here was just telling me about all the fun you had last week. All week in fact. Said you weren’t going to work so you two could spend all day together. Outside.”

Well.

“We watched a baseball game and then got ice cream!” Ben announces cheerily. Then he begins to list down everything you did last week — everything — and he is completely unaware that he’s digging a deeper grave for his own mother.

“That so?” Scott chuckles, patting his head. “Your mom’s a real miracle worker, isn’t she? Real healthy and spry to be doing all those things.”

The evening is tense, mostly for you. Your back is ramrod straight as Scott insists on cooking dinner and you have to keep a close eye to make sure he doesn’t add anything to your food. There are smarter ways to take you out, none of them ideal for you. Ben seems to sense the thickness of the air, eyes darting between the two of you.

Of course, neither of you show a thing but the anger that rolls off Scott is nothing short of obvious. So Ben then proceeds to declare that he wants to sleep early.

He never sleeps early. He’s just hit you with a second strike.

You busy yourself with getting him ready for bed, staying for as long as you can. You’re glued at the hip while he brushes his teeth, while he picks out his pajamas at an alarmingly fast speed. He doesn’t even want a bedtime story, telling you that he’s knackered from the long day.

And he goes straight to sleep. Traitor.

You were hoping Ben could buy you more time to come up with some sort of explanation for your behavior, or at least figure out a way to turn the conversation back to him because — what’s he doing back here? Isn’t he supposed to be in Oklahoma?

When you finally step out of Ben’s room, Scott looks noticeably ticked off.

His jaw is squared tight, dimples that are usually so endearing appearing more menacing in this light. “You wanna tell me why you lied about bein’ sick?”

You shift back on the heels of your feet. “I just needed some me time.”

“Bullshit,” he spits out, “you know I would’ve given you that if that’s what you wanted. Try again.”

While you’re usually better at thinking on your feet, the glare he’s pinned you with has your brain completely scrambled. You’re coming up with nothing. Zero. Zilch. Nothing even remotely close to being sufficient for your lie.

“Can’t think of anything, can you? Now that I’ve caught you.”

“Scott…”

“What was it?” He grunts, “What fucking spooked you?”

You press your lips together. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve never been good at commitment, sweetheart. Been runnin’ since the day I met you. So tell me, what fucking scared you?”

A protest sits on the tip of your tongue, ready to fall from your lips. Defensive. But Scott’s looking at you wearily, a five o’clock shadow that’s rarely ever there dusted across his face.

“You were going to leave,” you murmur.

He frowns at that. “When the hell did I say I was gonna do that?”

“You didn’t have to tell me,” you sigh, “I heard you on the phone.”

His eyebrows jump, surprise coloring his expression. If that isn’t confirmation, you don’t know what is. “What’re you talking about?”

It’s your turn to look irritated. How is he going to play dumb when he’s been caught red-handed?

“I heard you — you were going to head back Oklahoma, that you needed to pack your stuff and—” the last part has your throat constricting, you’re blinking back tears as you look at him. “—that you needed to tie up loose ends.”

Scott looks far from appeased from your explanation. “Yeah, and?”

“Are you shitting me?” You hiss, “If you were going to leave again, were you ever going to tell me? Were you just going to disappear? Leave me here alone again.”

“That’s not fucking fair,” he snaps right back, “I reached out to you. Multiple times. I called and texted and you disappeared. So don’t turn this shit around on me like I intentionally left you.”

“How was I ever supposed to tell you, Scott? I’m pregnant, can you stay here with me instead?”

“Yes! Exactly like that,” he snarls, “it’s as simple as that. But instead, you stopped responding to me. You left me.” That shuts you up, your breath catching in your throat. “So don’t be a hypocrite.”

“It would’ve been selfish of me — to tell you,” you gulp, chest tight, “you would’ve stayed because that’s who you are. That stupid sense of responsibility despite you being irresponsible enough to go out there and chase goddamn tornadoes. I couldn’t do that to you.”

“I know, because that’s who you are,” he mutters, “you think you gotta do everything on your own. You think I don’t hear things? Your mom and Jenna told me plenty about how tough things were for you. How do you think that makes me feel? I’m the asshole that left you.”

“You didn’t know,” you breathe in shakily.

“Doesn’t change the circumstances, does it?” He snips. His face softens then, melting slightly as he sees you curling into yourself. “But I really need you to get your head checked. Something ain’t right up there if you think for a second I could really ever leave you again.”

You look up at him and he’s already taken a step towards you. His hand slides up your neck to cup your cheek, his warm blue eyes on you.

“I was wrapping things up in Oklahoma so I can move here for good. I needed to deal with some paperwork and all the transition for the fieldwork. We’re not short-handed but, you know how it is with leadership.” He pauses, searching your face for any reaction. “I couldn’t just leave my team hanging out to dry so I had to finalize everything before I officially moved here.”

Well. Your voice is quiet when you ask, “So you weren’t going back to Oklahoma for good?”

The aggravation returns to his face. “You’re shittin’ me right? Have I not been telling you for weeks that I’m here to stay?”

“I just thought you meant temporarily,” you sputter, “who picks up their entire life on a fucking whim?”

“It’s not a whim! I was planning to move back here, focus more on raising funds with investors. That was, if I managed to find you!” That has you jolting back in surprise. “I came here to look for you. Properly this time. Fuck, and I told myself that, if I found you, I wasn’t gonna get you walk away from me again.”

“You— really?”

He rolls his eyes, lips tugging up. “Yeah, really. Let go the love of my life once, ain’t doin’ that again.”

“Love of your life?” You squeak.

Scott looks up at the ceiling, praying to some almighty up there to lend him some patience. “Thought that was fuckin’ obvious,” he mutters, “for someone so fuckin’ smart, you can be real stupid.”

“That’s so rude,” you frown.

“Apparently, I have to be if I need you to get your head out of your ass.”

You lick your lips, face flushing with heat. “So, uh, love of your life? Can I get some clarity on that?”

“How can I be any clearer?” He snaps, “If you’re gonna ask me since when, you really think I’d keep fucking you back then if I wasn’t in love with you?” Your jaw practically drops. “You’re the idiot that didn’t want anything real.”

“You were fucking everything that moved!”

“Until I met you!” He shakes his head. “Jesus, you really— I don’t know how you got me wrapped around your finger all this time.”

You huff, “Are you gonna keep insulting me all night?”

“Are you not gonna tell me you love me?”

A laugh bubbles up your throat. “What makes you think I love you?”

“I don’t think, I know, sweetheart,” Scott grins, arm stretching to pull you towards him. He tucks you in close, your breasts against his chest as your palms land on his shoulders, fingers scratching the hair at the nape of his neck. He lets out a quiet little moan. “Come on, say it. I know you’ve been dyin’ to for years now.”

With a roll of your eyes, you puff out, “I love you.”

He grunts, leaning down to tease you. “Don’t think I heard you.”

“I love you, Scott Miller. Now will you shut up and kiss me?”

“Never could say no to you, sweetheart.” 

+ sam: thank you so much if you've made it this far!!! you've finally seen the inner workings of my mind when i'm truly hyperfixating. please know that i appreciate every single piece of engagement but i especially love to hear what you think of the story, your fave parts, etc.!!! <3

scott is yearning for (taglist): @unabashedlyinlovewithyou @eiaf4uwn @thebabykashmere @nbhrhn @w1nchesterfiles @ae1szn @pinksplace @stanmarvelous @coffinlolz @chloluvsdilfs @athenxt @xreader1989 @theonlyaphrodite @wowitsafemale @yagurlannastasia @lettucel0ver @velvetnightmoonsandbows @tushy4toot @hoodharlow @lichi-dunkera @mansaaay @yagurlannastasia @fruitypebsworld @solynoche @thedarkseidofthemoon @burrowedinmyheart @annabethboleyn @lil-mann @magicwithaknife @kissmekissme5 @moonlightspencie @shoutingcardinal @youotterbekiddingme @potter-solomons @victoriuhmm @effyssky

story taglist: @reepicheeps-blog @coolvoidfire @lmaolmaos @garfieldsladybird

“Are we there yet?”

Lacey’s voice floats through the car and you watch as Scott’s jaw twitches and his hands tighten around the wheel. 

“Almost honey. Maybe you should sleep a little and I’ll wake you up when we get there okay sweet pea?”

She nods, yawns right on cue and you watch through the rear view as her eyes blink lazily. She’s out in under five minutes flat, mouth hanging slightly open as her fingers curl tight around her Krypto plushie. 

“That was easy,” Scott says, “can you pass me the gum, it’s in the glove compartment.”

“Scott,” you warn.

“She’s sleeping. I’ll spit it out before she wakes up.”

He has one hand on the wheel, the other held out to you as you guys cruise along the interstate, radio barely audible. You just sigh and pop a gum pellet into his hand. A dimple creases into his cheeks as he smiles. 

“Thank you.”

“Whatever. You really shouldn’t chew as much gum as you do. It’s bad for your teeth long term,” you mutter, pressing your forehead to the window, the cool surface helping to alleviate the slight nausea you were beginning to feel. You let out a sigh, stomach lurching when you feel Scott’s hand on your thigh. 

“You good? Need me to drive slower?”

“I’m fine. Just a little car sick is all,” you lie, pulling your features into a smile when you turn to look at him. 

He’s not convinced. You know he’s not convinced because he holds your gaze for that little bit longer before turning his eyes back to the road. 

“Didn’t know you got car sick.”

“We’ve never been in a moving car together for this long,” you reply. 

He reaches over to turn on the air con, nice and low so it doesn’t get too cold. 

“That better?”

You just nod, staring at the road ahead. 

“I heard gum helps,” he starts, “no I’m telling you it helps. That’s why I started chewing it anyways, I used to get so fucking carsick those first few rides. Sorry.” 

You tsk, make mental note to chastise him for his language later, then help yourself to a pellet of gum. He’s right; the wave of nausea dies down. 

“Told you,” he smirks when you haven’t said anything in over ten minutes. You just roll your eyes, lean your forehead back onto the window. You watch as flakes of snow start falling, your eyes fluttering shut as Scott hums along to the music playing on the radio. When you open your eyes again, you guys have stopped for gas, and Scott is gently shaking you awake. 

“We’re going into the Dunkin’. Want anything?”

Sure enough, Lacey stands next to him, her hand in his. You didn’t even hear her wake up or get out of the car. 

“Iced water. Savoury croissant. You pick the flavour,” you say, stretching. 

“No coffee?”

“No coffee. Not conducive to what we’re trying to do,” you remind him. 

“It’s okay in moderation,” he mumbles, but he doesn’t argue. Just leans over so he can squeeze your hand. 

“See you soon.”

Then he’s scooping Lacey up into his arms, tickling her a little once he has her settled. Her tiny peals of laughter are muffled by the car door, and then they disappear completely when they step into the Dunkin’. Your hand lays absentmindedly over your stomach and you lean your head back into the headrest. You let your mind wander, finally letting your body relax now that you’re alone in the car. You were excited for this trip, your first real trip as family. Scott had talked you into it one night as he pressed soft kisses into your chest. 

“Since we’re making another one. We should do family stuff,” he’d kissed into your neck, one hand moving the hair out of your eyes as he laid his hand over your stomach. 

You snort. 

“‘Making another one’,” you mutter into the empty air of the car. Scott made it sound so easy, like it was simply a matter of adding the right ingredients at the right time and whoop! baby on board! To him it was an exact science. He was tracking your cycle, somehow always ended up in your house on the days that you were most fertile. He had a diet plan for you, came over when he could to help meal prep. He was doing absolutely everything in his control — in and out of the bedroom — to start building out your family as soon as possible. It surprised you, how much he wanted it; for a man who swore his career was his life and there would be no distractions from that, he settled pretty convincingly into the role of doting father. 

You’re pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of the back door opening, Scott handing you the food so he can buckle Lacey in. 

“Not much longer now, okay sweet pea. Almost there,” he reassures as he kisses her forehead, then shuts the door. 

He hands you your croissant, and you start tearing into it almost immediately. 

“Mommy’s hungry,” Lacey giggles from around her mouthful of grilled cheese. 

“Don’t talk with your mouth full sweetie,” Scott chides, but there’s no bite and his eyes are so soft you think he might actually start tearing up. 

Lacey just suppresses a giggle, but she doesn’t say anything else. You polish off the rest of your croissant, and Scott frowns slightly. 

“You should’ve told me you were hungry. Would’ve gotten you another one. Don’t need you digging around in my food,” he mumbles as he picks through the bag and pulls out a bag of chips. They’re salt & vinegar and your stomach roils at the thought. You just shake your head. 

“Seriously? They’re your favourite. I thought.” His brows knit together briefly. 

“They are. Just not right now. I think I’m really tired,” you assure him, your hand on his.

He throws you a sideways glance but he doesn’t argue, just props his food between his knees then starts the car. You want to say something about his modes of driving, but he seems to think better of it himself, and he sheepishly hands you his food to hold. 

“Habit,” he explains. 

You just snort. 

“Work on it. You’re not driving my kids around with your knees propping the wheel up so you can eat,” you chastise. 

“Yes ma’am.” He gives you a mock salute before he starts eating his food, tearing through two egg and cheese sandwiches and balling up the wrapping before you can even comment. 

“Daddy’s hungry too,” your daughter whispers from behind your seat and you laugh. 

“He is doing all the driving. It’s using a lot of energy,” you explain. She nods sagely, like that explains why he managed to empty your bag of chips into his mouth in under a minute flat. He smacks the wheel twice. 

“Right, one more hour.”

Lacey groans. “But Daddy one more hour is so many minutes. Can I have tablet time?”

Scott raises his brow at her before she lets out a small “please.”

He looks at you and you nod. Scott gets out so he can get her tablet out of your backpack in the trunk. When she’s situated, a weird uncanny cartoon remake of some show you swear you watched as a kid is playing, and she’s smiling wide, the paw of her Krypto toy between her teeth. 

“We really need to get her to stop chewing on her toys,” Scott notes and you just hum, forehead back against the cool glass of the window. You fall asleep again the moment Scott starts driving, hand resting on your stomach while he navigates the rest of the way to his parents’ cabin. The snow is just picking up when you get there, and Scott makes you and Lacey wait in the car while he takes the bags in and turns on the heating. 

When you’re inside you’re surprised at how… homey it is. Family pictures on every mantle, pictures of Scott as a child looking into puddles, staring at the sky, sat in front of the family computer looking painfully annoyed at the parent on the other side of the camera. You bend down so you can pick Lacey up, hugging her tighter when you realise that one day she’s going to be too big for you to pick up. Even now it was beginning to be a struggle — she’d clearly got her height from Scott.  

“Guess who that is,” you say, pointing at a picture of Scott standing in front of a Science fair project, a pair of glasses with thick black rims perched on his nose. His project won first place, but in the picture he looks stoic, all business even at the tender age of fifteen apparently. She looks at the picture, tilts her head before she looks at Scott, her mouth dropping open in a tiny O of recognition. 

Scott grimaces. 

“Your dad won a prize,” you tell her, “for being smart.” 

She giggles. 

“Uncle Javi says daddy’s silly sometimes,” she says. You don’t get a chance to respond because she’s pointing at something above the fireplace. A photo album sits on the mantle above the fireplace and you hear Scott groan. There’s a picture of a baby on the front and a faded label with a hastily scrawled ‘Scotty’ is barely hanging on to the spine.

“Don’t worry about that sweetpea,” he says, but it’s too late. You’re already walking over to it and letting her pick it up. When she’s got it you put her down, stretching as you watch her race to the couch. She flops down unceremoniously, almost sinking into the mass of cushions around her. 

“Can we look? I wanna look,” Lacey pouts, little legs swinging of the couch as she holds the photo album in her lap. Scott’s face is an entertaining mix of reluctance and adoration as he sits next to her, his arm around her. 

You watch as he helps her open it, flips through the pages with her. She looks so small next to him, practically swallowed by his frame as she points at different pictures, asking who’s who, beaming when she sees Scott’s parents. 

You leave them like that, thumbing through Scott’s past as she giggles at the sillier pictures of Scott as a baby. You go into the room you’re sharing with Scott, rummaging through your bag for something. When you find it you head back out, taking a seat on her other side. Scott looks at you, face morphing into concern. 

Good? He mouths above her head, Lacey too distracted with pictures of Scott rough-housing with his cousins. 

You nod, take a deep breath and then gently tap your daughter’s arm to get her attention. 

“Lacey sweetie, I found this letter in your schoolbag yesterday. Do you know what’s in it?”

It’s a pale blue envelope with her name written in big loopy writing. Her eyes widen as she shakes her head and you laugh when she very eagerly grabs it out of your hands, throwing in a hasty “thank you,” as an afterthought. 

She slips her finger under the lip of the envelope and slowly unseals it, fingers carefully shimmying the contents out. Her brows knit together in confusion as she stares. 

“It’s a picture but it doesn’t make sense,” she says. “There’s no colours or anything.”

She turns it so Scott. “Daddy, do you know what this is?”

He exhales softly when he looks, a small smile on his face. “Yeah sweetie. It’s a sonogram.”

He’s holding it like it might float away if he lets go for even a second. 

“What’s a … sonogram?”

She regards the picture with new curiosity, as if it will reveal its secrets to her. 

“It’s a picture of the baby. In mummy’s tummy.”

There’s a beat of silence where you can see the words sinking in and then she’s wrapping her arms around your middle, the warmth of her cheek pressing into your stomach. 

“Surprise,” you say as you cradle her head. 

“When is the baby gonna come out?” She asks, head tilted up so she can look at you, her eyes boring into yours. It strikes you then just how much she looks like Scott. Thick dark hair, that deep dimple carved into her cheek, the light smattering of freckles across her face. 

“It’s gonna be a long time. Only when you’re in the first grade,” you reply. Her shoulders sag a little but she doesn’t complain. Instead she starts a list of all the things she needs to learn to do, all the things she will share with the baby when it comes. You feel a strange tugging at your heart when you see the way she lights up, letting go of you so she can hug Scott who’s still sat with an expression somewhere between disbelief and joy, sonogram still clutched tight in his fingers. 

When Lacey starts yawning, eyes closing in slow, lopsided blinks, Scott scoops her up in his arms. 

“Right, that’s a lot of excitement for today. It’s nap time for you,” he says, tickling her when she starts complaining. 

“How far along are you?” Scott asks when he’s got her down. He sits next to you on the couch, hand hesitating before he finally lays it on your stomach. 

“About ten weeks. I thought I’d wait until it was ultrasound confirmed before getting anyone’s hopes up,” you explain. 

“You went alone?”

“I went with a friend. Don’t worry Scott I won’t hold it against you for missing baby’s first ultrasound. Again,” you elbow him lightly. 

He rolls his eyes. 

“Done a good job keeping it a secret,” he mumbles, hand rubbing at your belly slowly. 

“Couldn’t do it much longer. The morning sickness has been worse this time around,” you explain. “Surprised you didn’t notice in the car,” you say. 

“Thought you were just car sick,” he mumbles, “like you said you were.”

His hand moves up from where it rests on your stomach, slowly gliding its way up your torso until he’s cradling your face, his thumb rubbing at your jaw. 

“We’re having another one,” he smiles, and you ignore the way tug in your chest when you see his dimple. 

“Yeah. We’re having another one.”

Scott pushed off the truck so fast Javi actually muttered, “What the hell—?” as he jogged past.

“Jesus Christ. You’ve got to be kidding me,” Scott said when he reached you, his voice tight with disbelief. His eyes dropped immediately to your stomach, then back up to your face, storm-blue with worry. “What are you doing here?”

You smiled nervously, tugging on one strap of your overalls. “Surprising you. Thought it’d be nice.”

“Nice?” His voice pitched higher, his hands flying up in disbelief before he ran them through his hair. “You’re pregnant. You came to Oklahoma—in the middle of storm season—to surprise me?”

“I missed you,” you said simply, shrugging like that explained everything. “Weeks on end with nothing but phone calls wasn’t cutting it. I wanted to see you.”

Scott’s jaw tightened, his hands flexing as if he wanted to reach for you and hold you still at the same time. “You’re—” He cut himself off, exhaling through his nose. “You’re pregnant. With my child. And you thought the best idea was to walk straight into tornado country?”

Your smile softened, even as you stepped closer. “I thought the best idea was being with my husband. You’re out here every day risking your life, and I’m supposed to just sit at home counting the hours? No. I needed to see you. Needed you.”

That last part cracked through his armor. His shoulders slumped, and he dragged a hand down his face, muttering something under his breath that sounded a lot like unbelievable. When he looked at you again, the irritation had shifted into something more raw—fear stitched with affection.

“You know I’m glad to see you,” he admitted, quieter now. “More than glad. But I can’t have you anywhere near a storm. Not now. Not with the baby.”

You reached for his hand, threading your fingers through his. “I just want to be nearby. To see you. To remind myself why we’re doing this, why we put up with all the distance.”

For a long moment, Scott just looked at you. The storm-light reflected in his eyes, blue and unsettled, but his thumb brushed over your knuckles in a gesture that betrayed the truth—he’d missed you just as fiercely.

Finally, he exhaled, conceding. “Fine. You stay in town, at the hotel, or with the locals if we’re stationed here. Nowhere near the field. You don’t argue, you don’t negotiate. If I find out you’ve even thought about stepping foot into a chase zone—” He broke off, shaking his head. “You’ll make me lose my damn mind.”

You grinned, leaning up to kiss his cheek. “Deal.”

Javi’s excited yells of your name broke you apart from Scott, who sighed before tilting his head towards the team, “Come on,” he pressed a hand to the small of your back, guiding you.

-

Kate was still getting her bearings with StormPar. She’d only been with the team a short while, and though she admired their skill, she couldn’t quite figure Scott Miller out. He was brilliant, sure, and his instincts were sharp—but he was also blunt to the point of arrogance, a man who treated downtime as wasted time and carried himself like the storms bent to his will.

So when she stepped out of the diner with a coffee in hand and saw you standing by the convoy, chatting animatedly with Javi, her brain almost short-circuited.

You were nothing like the picture she’d built in her head of “Scott Miller’s other half.” She didn’t even know that Scott had another half. You were warm, laughing easily, your overalls stretched comfortably around your belly. You nudged Javi with your elbow after some joke, earning one of his rare grins, and then teased him about being the only one responsible enough to keep the equipment dry during lunch.

Kate blinked, staring between you and Scott, who was lurking a few feet away by his SUV, arms crossed, jaw tight, his gaze flicking constantly in your direction like he expected a tornado to materialize beside you at any second.

“You okay?” Kate asked him carefully.

Scott gave her a look like she’d asked if water was wet. “She shouldn’t be here.”

Kate tilted her head. “She seems fine to me.”

“She’s pregnant,” he said flatly, his eyes narrowing as you tipped your head back in laughter at something Javi muttered. “Pregnant. In the middle of Oklahoma. During storm season.”

Kate raised her brows. “And you’re letting her hang around the convoy?”

Scott’s scowl deepened. “I didn’t let her. She showed up.” He ran a hand over his face, muttering under his breath. “Drove halfway across the damn state just to ‘surprise’ me.”

Kate hid a smile behind her coffee. “You don’t sound very surprised. More… rattled.”

Scott cut her a sharp glare, but she noticed the way his shoulders eased slightly when you turned and caught his eye. You waved at him, bright and unapologetic. He shook his head, but his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile.

When you finally crossed the lot to join him, Scott straightened immediately, arms uncrossing as if to make room for you. You slipped easily under his arm, your hand finding its way to his chest.

“Did you eat?” you asked, tilting your head up at him.

“Yeah,” he muttered, though Kate noticed how his voice softened in a way she hadn’t heard before. “You?”

“Half a burger.” You grinned. “Baby’s been hogging all the space.”

Scott huffed out a laugh—an actual laugh—and pressed a quick kiss to your temple before glancing down at your belly. “Figures.”

Kate stared. She couldn’t reconcile it. This was the same Scott who, hours earlier, had snapped at her to recalibrate the radar faster, who hadn’t cracked a single joke since she joined the team. And yet here he was, letting you tease him, letting you lean into him, letting his edges soften like it was second nature.

When you looked over and caught Kate staring, you smiled wide and waved her over. “You must be Kate! I’ve heard about you. Come on, tell me everything. How’s Scott as a boss? Brutal?”

Scott groaned under his breath. “Don’t encourage her.”

Kate couldn’t help it, she laughed. “Oh, I think she already knows the answer to that.”

You winked. “Oh, I know. I just like hearing it from someone else.”

-

Tyler Owens’ trucks came skidding into the lot like they were pulling up for a rock concert instead of storm chasing. His crew piled out—laughing, loud, hyped up on adrenaline and caffeine. Tyler himself hopped down from the driver’s seat, sunglasses on even though the sun was dipping low, grin as wide as the horizon.

You were sitting on the tailgate of Javi’s truck, sipping water and stretching your legs. Overalls on, hair a bit windswept, hand absently resting on your belly. You didn’t think much of the new arrivals—until Tyler’s eyes landed on you.

“Well, hello there,” he drawled, striding over with all the confidence of a man who had never once been told no. “Didn’t realize this town came with its own welcome wagon.”

You blinked at him, caught off guard. “Uh… what?”

He leaned one arm against the truck beside you, giving you his best smolder. “Local girl, right? Figured someone as gorgeous as you wouldn’t let us outsiders just blow through without saying hi.”

For a beat, you just stared. Then you glanced down at yourself—at your very obvious baby bump pressing against your overalls—and then back at him. Surely he had to notice.

“…I’m pregnant,” you said, deadpan.

That only made Tyler’s grin widen. “Hey, I don’t discriminate. Beautiful is beautiful.”

Before you could come up with a response—because your brain had short-circuited at the sheer audacity—you noticed the sudden drop in temperature around you. Not from the weather. From the shadow that fell across both of you.

Scott.

He was standing there, arms crossed, jaw set, looking every inch the brooding storm chaser who’d sooner wrestle a tornado barehanded than let Tyler Owens breathe the same air as you. He didn’t say anything at first—just stared at Tyler with an intensity that made even Tyler falter.

“Uh…” Tyler cleared his throat, shifting slightly under the weight of that glare. “So, uh, this your…?”

“My wife,” Scott said flatly.

The words landed like a thunderclap.

Your lips twitched, fighting a laugh at the way Tyler actually leaned back, like the revelation had physically shoved him. “Wife,” he repeated, the cocky edge in his voice wobbling.

Scott stepped closer, close enough that Tyler had to crane his neck to keep eye contact. He was taller, broader, radiating a quiet, simmering possessiveness that said more than any threat could. “She’s not a local. She’s not interested. And if you ever so much as look at her again like that, I’ll—”

“—buy me a coffee and call it even?” Tyler cut in quickly, his grin snapping back on, though it wavered under Scott’s glare. “Got it. Loud and clear, big guy. Congratulations on the kid.”

With that, he backed away fast, practically jogging to rejoin his crew.

Scott exhaled slowly through his nose, his arm sliding automatically around your shoulders, drawing you into his side. You could feel the tension humming through him, the possessiveness that had spiked the second he’d seen Tyler lean in.

“You okay?” he asked you quietly, his thumb brushing over your arm.

You tilted your head up at him, fighting a smile. “I think I should be asking you that. You looked about ready to flatten him.”

Scott didn’t deny it. His eyes still tracked Tyler across the lot, like he half-expected the man to circle back. “He’s lucky he stopped when he did.”

You snorted, nudging him. “Scott Miller, storm chaser, baby-on-board bodyguard.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile, but he shook his head. “Not funny.”

“It’s a little funny,” you teased.

“Not funny,” he insisted again, though his arm tightened around you as he steered you back toward the SUV. “And for the record, you’re not talking to him again.”

You laughed outright at that. “Jealous much?”

Scott didn’t answer, but the glare he shot Tyler’s way spoke volumes.

-

The diner lot had transformed into chaos. Radios crackled, gear clanged, engines roared to life—StormPar in full launch mode. The radar lit up with a cell just a few miles west, and Scott was in his element, pacing between vehicles like a general on the battlefield, barking orders with that clipped, no-nonsense tone.

He was so focused, so commanding, that you knew now was your moment.

While Scott stalked toward his SUV, you casually strolled in the opposite direction, aiming for one of the trucks. You even whistled innocently as you went, like you were just stretching your legs. Nobody questioned it; they were too busy scrambling.

You swung the door open, grinning as you climbed—well, waddled—into the passenger seat. The bump made it a bit awkward, but you got there, strapping yourself in like you belonged.

“Perfect,” you murmured. “Front-row seat to science.”

“Alright, Mike, you’re with me! Javi, take the east road with—” Scott turned, scanning the line of vehicles, and his words died mid-sentence.

Because there you were. Sitting like a queen on her throne, buckled in, already reaching for the glovebox like you belonged there.

For a second, Scott just… stared. His jaw worked, no sound coming out. Then his face went red, ears and all, and he stormed across the lot like a thunderhead about to burst.

Unfortunately, you’d barely started rummaging the glovebox for snacks before the shadow fell across the window. A very large shadow.

You froze. Slowly, you turned your head.

Scott.

He stood outside the truck, arms folded, jaw clenched so tight you were surprised his molars didn’t shatter. The vein in his temple pulsed like it had its own heartbeat.

“…hi, honey,” you said sweetly, giving him your best innocent smile.

“What,” he bit out, yanking the door open so hard it nearly swung off its hinges, “do you think you’re doing?”

You batted your eyelashes at him. “Going storm chasing, obviously. Thought I’d keep you company.”

“Absolutely not.” His voice jumped an octave, his hand braced on the frame of the door. “Out. Now.”

“But Scotty…” you whined, patting your bump for emphasis. “Baby and I want adventure. We can’t just sit around eating diner pie all day.”

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something that sounded a lot like blood pressure, through the roof, gonna kill me early. He reached for your seatbelt, being very careful with your baby bump.

“Oh, come on,” you pleaded, clinging dramatically to the seatbelt. “I just want to observe!”

Scott unbuckled you with one swift, practiced motion. “You are not observing anything except the Weather Channel in a safe, stationary building.”

Then he leaned in, practically scooping you under the arms like you weighed nothing at all.

You squealed dramatically as he hauled you out of the seat. “Scott! You can’t just manhandle a pregnant woman!”

“Watch me,” he gritted, setting you down firmly on the gravel.

“Scott—!”

“No.” He crouched slightly so you couldn’t miss the fire in his eyes. “You think this is funny? That storm could eat this town in ten minutes. You are pregnant. You are not stepping foot in a chase vehicle.”

You crossed your arms, sticking your chin out. “So you’re saying I can’t come.”

“I’m saying you absolutely cannot come,” he snapped, exasperated. “Not now, not later, not ever. End of discussion.”

“Wow.” You gasped theatrically. “My husband, the tyrant. Crushing my dreams of scientific discovery.”

Scott pinched the bridge of his nose like he was begging some higher power for patience. Behind him, Javi and Kate were openly watching, biting back grins.

“Don’t encourage her!” Scott barked at them without looking.

“I wasn’t,” Javi deadpanned, though his shoulders shook.

Kate muttered, “I mean, points for effort,” earning herself a death glare.

You smirked up at Scott, deliberately baiting him. “You know, I read somewhere that stress is bad for pregnant women. Maybe if you just let me come along, my blood pressure would be lower.”

Scott groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re going to be the death of me.” He jabbed a finger at you. “Inside. Motel. Now. Or so help me, I’ll tie you to the bedpost.”

Your eyes widened. “Kinky threat. Noted.”

He choked, sputtering, and you laughed all the way back to the motel while the rest of StormPar looked like they might collapse trying not to laugh themselves.

Behind you, you heard Javi mutter to Scott, “You’re doomed.”

And Scott’s immediate snarl, “Shut it!”

-

The convoy thundered down a back road, dust pluming behind the tires, storm clouds rolling like bruises overhead. Radios chattered, Javi rattled off radar readings from the passenger seat, but Scott’s grip on the wheel was… murderous. Knuckles white, jaw set, every tendon in his forearm straining.

Javi glanced sideways, waiting. Scott didn’t say anything for a solid thirty seconds, and then it all came out like a dam breaking.

“She’s doing it on purpose,” he growled, eyes fixed on the road. “She knows she can’t come with us. She knows how dangerous this is. And what does she do? Sneaks into the damn truck. Straps herself in like she’s about to go joyriding into a tornado. Do you know what that did to my blood pressure?!”

Javi, ever calm, just marked something on the tablet. “Oh, absolutely. She’s doing it on purpose.”

Scott snapped his head toward him. “Thank you! Finally, someone sees it. She’s baiting me, I swear.” He swung the truck around a bend, tires spitting gravel. “She sits there with that little smile, acting like she’s innocent, but I know. I know she’s laughing in her head.”

“She was laughing out loud, actually,” Javi corrected smoothly.

Scott’s nostrils flared. “Exactly. She thinks it’s funny. She—she actually accused me of being a tyrant! In front of the whole team!”

“Mm-hmm.” Javi didn’t look up from the radar.

“And then—” Scott’s voice pitched higher, halfway between outrage and disbelief. “Then she said I was being kinky! Kinky, Javi!”

That was too much. Javi slapped a hand over his mouth, shoulders shaking.

Scott glared. “Don’t you dare laugh.”

Javi failed spectacularly, snorting into his hand. “You—pfft—you’re killing me, man.”

Scott groaned and thumped the steering wheel. “This isn’t funny. I can’t—I cannot chase storms and babysit my pregnant wife at the same time. She’s gonna give me a heart attack before the baby even gets here.”

“Mm,” Javi said, finally pulling himself together, still smiling. “Or maybe she just missed you so much she’d rather risk tornadoes than be away from you.”

Scott opened his mouth to argue. Closed it. Swore under his breath. His ears went red.

Javi smirked knowingly, jotting down another reading. “Thought so.”

Scott muttered, “She’s still never getting near a chase vehicle again.”

“Of course not,” Javi said, voice light. “You just keep telling yourself that.”

-

The storm had burned itself out by the time StormPar rolled back into town, their convoy pulling into the motel lot like a caravan of the world’s most exhausted warriors. Engines cut off one by one, doors slammed, boots scuffed over gravel. Everyone looked wrecked—windblown, damp, hair sticking in odd directions from hours of chasing down dirt roads.

Scott was the last to climb out of his truck. He rolled his shoulders, exhaustion pressing into him like a weight, but his mind was already on one thing: you.

He walked the narrow hall to your room, keyed open the door, and—

His chest tightened.

There you were, sprawled in the middle of the motel bed like you owned the place, hair mussed from napping, a paperback open but forgotten at your side. Your overalls were unbuttoned at the top for comfort, your baby bump rounding the thin motel blanket. The lamp cast you in warm light, softening the edges of a day that had been nothing but chaos.

You looked up when the door clicked, your face brightening instantly. “Scott!”

You shoved the book aside, bracing your hands to push yourself up—but the bump got in the way. You rolled once, twice, tried to leverage a pillow. Nothing. You made a sound halfway between a grunt and a growl. “Oh, come on—”

Scott leaned against the doorframe, biting back a laugh as he watched you struggle like a turtle flipped on its back. His lips twitched, and then the chuckle slipped out before he could stop it.

You froze, glaring at him. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not,” he lied, voice rough with fatigue but warm with amusement. “I swear I’m not.” Another laugh broke free. “Okay, maybe a little.”

“Scott Miller,” you huffed, flopping dramatically back onto the mattress, “you’re supposed to help your poor, immobile wife. Not stand there laughing at her suffering.”

He pushed off the frame and crossed to you, that faint smile lingering as he sat on the edge of the bed. “You’re not suffering,” he said gently, slipping a hand under your back to help ease you upright. “You’re just… adorable.”

Your eyes narrowed, suspicious. “Adorable?”

Scott bent down, pressed a kiss to your temple, then another to your bump. “Yeah. Adorable.” His voice softened even more. “And mine.”

You melted into him, arms circling his neck. “Fine. You’re forgiven. But only because you look like you’ve been wrestling with tornadoes all day.”

“Funny,” he murmured against your hair. “That’s exactly what I’ve been doing.”

When you finally managed to sit upright, he stayed close, one hand absently rubbing over your bump, the other tugging you against his side. For the first time all day, his shoulders loosened.

“Stay put,” he ordered softly, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “I’ll get cleaned up and then come back. Don’t you dare try sneaking into a truck again.”

You gasped in mock offense. “Would I do that?”

“Hey there, sugar,” Gator says, the smirk on his face evident in his voice.

“Hi,” you say before pecking his lips.

You slither your hands around his waist, over the soft leather of his jacket. Gator’s hands come up to cradle your face and keep you close, stealing another taste of your lips.

“Ya ready to go?” he asks.

You nod and reluctantly pull away from his warm grasp.

Gator opens the passenger side door for you and gives your ass a firm smack as you climb in – what a gentleman.

As he rounds the front of the car he winks at you through the windshield before getting in the driver’s side and starting up the engine.

“Oh!” you exclaim suddenly. “Before we go, I wanna give you this…”

You rummage briefly in your bag and pull out a soft package. It’s wrapped in yesterday’s newspaper, held together with a piece of twine that you neatly tied into a bow.

Gator gawks at it as if you were handing him bomb.

You thrust it more into his space to encourage him to take it.

“What’s this?” His fingers brush yours as he hesitantly takes it from you.

“Just a little something for you.”

“Don’t tell me I forgot our anniversary or some shit?”

“No,” you chuckle.

“You want me to eat your pussy later, that it?”

“Gator!” You give his arm a scolding slap. “No, I don’t want anything in return. But I won’t say no if you want to,” you joke, rubbing the spot on his arm that you hit. “Just open it.”

Gator struggles a little with trying to untie the bow before deciding to rip the whole thing open.

A neatly folded pile of fabric falls to his lap and again he just stares at it.

“It’s a scarf,” you say, feeling the need to state the obvious.

Gator’s silence hangs heavy in the front seats of his truck. He picks up the fabric between his thumb and pointer finger like he’s scared it will fall apart under his touch.

It’s a dark, mossy green knitted scarf. Not too chunky as to feel overwhelming but thick enough to keep him warm on those night patrols when the heater in his cruiser ‘never fuckin’ works’.

You picked out the colour to go well with his other clothing but mostly with the hope that it would bring out that hint of hazel that hid in his eyes.

Because Gator knows you, he knows you spend a lot of your free time knitting. It’s something that annoys him when he’s trying to get in your pants in bed but you keep insisting on ‘one more row’. So when he sees the long line of the fabric hanging down in front of him, he knows that you made it – you made it for him.

Gator has so much to say but feels so incapable of articulating any of it. He’s never been one to express himself with words, even when it comes to you. Usually he lets his hands do the talking, which you’ve never complained about.

But now there’s so much he wants to say.

He wants to tell you how much it means to him that you spent your days off creating something just for him.

He wants to tell you that you really didn’t have to spend your hard earned money on the softest freakin’ yarn he’s ever felt, just for him.

He wants to tell you that no one has even done something like this for him, and he never thought that anyone ever would.

Most of all he wants to tell you that he loves you and he’d do anything for you.

While Galtor is processing the rush of emotions he feels at the gesture, you drone on about the material and how you made it, even though you think he probably couldn’t give less of a fuck.

“It’s a cashmere, silk blend so it’s warm but won’t be scratchy on your skin. I know you get sensitive sometimes. And I–“

“You made this?” he interrupts, even though he already knows the answer.

You nod, dipping your head forward to try to catch his eye but he refuses to meet your gaze.

“For me?”

“Yeah, for you Gator.”

“This must have taken ya fuckin’ ages.”

You shrug. “I mean yeah, but I wanted to do it. I like making things for the people I love.”

That’s what makes Gator finally turn to look at you and when he does you see his eyes are slightly glazed over and you smile to yourself because you were right – it does bring out his eyes.

“I dunno what to say… No one’s ever–“

“–You don’t have to say anything.” You place your hand on his knee to reassure him. “I know.”

Gator feels a tightness in his chest that he’s come to recognise as a good thing. It’s the same feeling he gets when you kiss him, when you tell him you love him, even when you hold his hand.

“But I am going to insist that you try it on.”

You delicately take the fabric from him and drape it around his neck, tossing one side over his shoulder so it’s wrapped around him.

“There, looks good on you.”

“Ya think?”

You offer him a small, reassuring smile as you lean over to press your lips to his.

Gator responds instantly, finally using a language he’s fluent in to show you how much the gift means to him. He holds the back of your head with one hand, the other resting on your hip as you both lean into each other over the centre console.

The kiss says everything he can’t say with words.

His lips moving over yours, slotting together as if to say, we belong together.

His hand on your hip squeezes you twice as if to say, thank you.

And you hum against his lips as if to say, you’re welcome.

“It’s real soft,” Gator commented, pulling back just enough to speak but still close enough to keep your lips touching.

“The kiss?”

“No,” he picked up the end of the scarf and waved it around to show what he was talking about.

He almost hit you in the face with it and you giggle in such a way that Gator feels that tightness in his chest again.

“Smells just like ya too.” He brought the end to his nose and gave it a deep sniff.

“I washed it with my shampoo.”

“You thought‘a everything, didn’t ya.”

“I was just thinking of you mostly.”

Gator laughs, ducking his head trying to hide the blush spreading on his cheeks.

You don’t push him to say whatever sappy thing he’s thinking, well aware that he struggles to reveal those parts of himself.

Which is why you’re caught off guard when he lifts his head again, brushes his thumb over your cheek and whispers softly, “I love you, baby.”

It’s your turn to blush and you’re sure Gator can feel your cheeks heat up under his touch.

“I love you too,” you whisper back.

Gator clears his throat like he’s decided his time to be vulnerable is up. “We got a reservation to get ta.”

He quickly moves his hands from you to the steering wheel and peels out onto the road.

The entire evening Gator never takes the scarf off. Even in the restaurant, he leaves it loosely hanging around his neck and he fiddles with the end of it whenever he gets nervous just from the way you look at him.

When you arrive back to your place, you pull Gator in the front door by tugging him by the scarf.

That night, he makes sure you know just how thankful he is.

It's been a week and a half since that incident. Well, since the meeting with Gator. You'd rather remember him than anything else that happened that day.

And he probably takes up way more space in your head now than a police officer just doing his job should. You catch yourself more often than not unconsciously looking for him: when a patrol car drives by, you look at the driver, and when policemen stop at a coffee shop for a cup of coffee and donuts, you scan their faces, never spotting Gator among them.

You would have called him by now, but you don't want to seem importunate. He's got more important things to do, surely, than spend time with some girl he met while working. That was just basic politeness, right? Why overthink it...

You're just another episode of his work shift. Nothing more.

But what about Gator?

Every evening, when he patrols the area, he drives by your house. Never stopping. He slows down just a little for a couple of seconds, looks at the light in your window, and drives on. He convinces himself it's just part of the route. That he's checking if everything's okay, if you're home, if you got back from work safely.

But he knows the truth.

He's looking for you. At every intersection, at every coffee shop where he stops, in every similar figure walking along the shoulder.

He replays that evening hundreds of times in his head, wondering if you'll have the courage to call him – since you're a little shy – or maybe you don't want anything to do with him anymore and just want to forget that day like a terrible nightmare.

Gator remembers your name. Your face. Your voice. Your address.

And he doesn't know what to do with it, because if he's too persistent, how's he any different from those jerks on the street?

So you're both waiting for the right moment or until one of you makes the next move.

The day's been overcast from the start, so, as per Murphy's Law, the rain starts exactly when your workday ends. Correction: your awful workday. It starts with a trainee spilling coffee all over you, forcing you to spend the whole day with a stain on your blouse because your jacket can't cover it fully. Then your boss demands you fill out several reports that need more than a day, but you manage somehow, cutting your lunch break from thirty minutes down to fifteen.

All you want is to go home.

You walk out of the building and open your umbrella, carefully going down the wet steps. The rain's coming down hard, with sharp gusts of wind that suddenly shift direction. Your hair falls into your eyes, and just as you try to shield yourself from the stinging drops, the wind changes again and your umbrella flips inside out. You stumble, trying to hold onto it, because you're getting carried away like a sailboat.

You run back under the awning. Your umbrella's broken, your mascara's running, your shoulders and back are soaked, and there's water sloshing in your shoes. You could ask someone for a ride to the bus stop, but your friend who has a car is on sick leave, and your coworker's not going your way, besides, he's already gone, since the office is obviously empty.

You stand there for five minutes. It's pointless to expect the downpour to let up anytime soon, so you're left with only one option.

Gator Tillman.

Gator's lying on the couch, tossing M&Ms into his mouth, when the phone rings. Unknown number.

"Good evening, Gator Tillman, Deputy Sheriff of Stark County." He says the usual line without missing a beat.

"Hello. It's me." You feel flustered and stupid.

"Is everything okay?" Gator asks immediately, recognizing your voice.

"Yes! Nothing happened to me, I just..." You sigh. "Are you busy?"

"Nope, it's my day off, I'm completely free." Gator assures you, but you feel embarrassed anyway.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to bother you..."

"Hey, it's all good. I'm not doing anything. So what's up? Do you need me to come over?" Gator turns off the TV, grabs his keys, and pulls on his jacket.

"Yes, please. It's pouring out there, my umbrella's broken, and it's a pretty long walk to the bus stop."

"Be there soon. Send me your address."

Fifteen minutes later, you spot his car pulling up. He stops in front of the office, and you start coming down the steps. He gets out quickly and hurries over to you, opening his umbrella. He's holding a black leather jacket in his hands, which was apparently on him before, because when he silently drapes it over your shoulders, you feel the warmth.

"Thank you so much." You press a little closer to him, ducking under the umbrella, but it's still too small for the two of you, and rain drips off the edge onto Gator's shoulder and arm. You reach the car, and you're not sure where to put your broken umbrella, its spokes sticking out every which way, impossible to fold up like normal.

"Give it to me." Gator takes it from you and tosses it on the floor behind the back seats as he gets in.

"Oh god." You exhale and relax, closing your eyes. He turned on the seat warmer in advance.

"Quite the weather." Gator starts the car and heads toward your house. "You're not too cold, are you?"

"No." You shake your head and pull the jacket all the way on, slipping your arms through the sleeves. Now you have a chance to get a better look at Gator. Today he looks completely different: his hair's a little fluffy from the humidity and probably incredibly soft, he's not in his uniform, and... "You have a bruise?"

"Oh, that... Got it during an arrest a couple days ago." He chuckles – it's just routine for him.

"Did the perp fight back?"

"Almost. I walked into a doorframe."

"What?" You cover your mouth with your hand, holding back a laugh. His behavior doesn't always match the image he projects.

"It was dark in there! And cramped!" He looks at you, gesturing with one hand. "Go on, go on, laugh it up. It's not my umbrella that turned into a piece of modern art."

"Sorry, but that's actually funny. Did you put that in your report as serious bodily injury?" You see Gator barely holding back a laugh himself.

"Don't forget whose car you're in right now. And whose jacket you're wearing." He says it importantly, with a hint of pompousness.

"One-one, Officer Tillman."

"At least, losers better stick together. Two negatives make a positive and all that." You both laugh.

You chat easily, like old friends, without any awkwardness. Everything feels simpler with Gator.

You pull up to your house.

"And... Mission accomplished. Your home, miss." Gator turns to you, smiling. He gets out and opens his umbrella, then opens your door, offering a hand to help you out. He walks you all the way to the porch, and you stop there. You want to thank him somehow.

"Maybe you want to come in?" You ask suddenly.

"If you're inviting me."

"I mean, just dinner. Nothing more." You add, making sure he understands correctly.

"Yeah, sounds great. I'll be right back then, I'll grab your umbrella from the car, maybe I can fix it." You open the door while he goes back for the umbrella. You hang his jacket on the hook and take off your shoes. He follows you in.

"I can sit somewhere while you get cleaned up." Gator says, stopping in the middle of the hallway.

"You can go into the living room. I'll be quick." You head to your room, and Gator's left alone in your living room.

He doesn't sit down right away – he looks around carefully. On the back of the couch is a cute knitted blanket with little flowers, on the shelf are books with dog-eared pages, a few whimsical colored glass vases. Gator sits on the edge of the couch, hands on his knees, feeling a little awkward in this cozy room. He feels like he doesn't belong here. He's used to a different environment, where everything's rougher, sharper, where people rarely talk about simple things.

But here, in your space, even the air feels softer, probably because of the faint scent of vanilla candles.

He hears your footsteps from the hallway and looks up. You come out in dry clothes, your hair still damp but brushed, your face clean, without smeared mascara. You look different: simpler, more vulnerable, and it makes his heart tighten, because he doesn't know how to be that open and easy.

"I think we can have dinner. Do you like tomato soup?" You ask, heading to the kitchen, and Gator follows you.

"I like everything."

You step into the kitchen. It's small but cozy. Everything matches, and on the counter there are little delicate things: matching salt and pepper shakers, a copper saucepan, a fruit bowl, a porcelain cup with a gold rim.

"Your place is nice." Gator says, pulling out a chair.

"Thanks." You take a pot out of the fridge and put the soup on the stove to heat up. "Garlic bread?"

"You're gonna spoil me, and I'll end up coming over every night." Gator props his chin on his hand, watching you. You almost say you wouldn't mind, so you steer the conversation elsewhere.

"What do you usually do on weekends?"

"Sleep." You turn and look at him, and he looks back. He looks a little pitiful. "Not very exciting, I know."

"For someone who works a lot and gets tired, that's not bad." You set a steaming bowl of soup in front of him, along with sliced bread.

"I also eat sometimes after sleeping!" Gator tries the soup and practically purrs with pleasure. "This is insanely good."

"Glad to hear. Enjoy your meal." You start eating too. "Do you cook?"

"Nope. I usually order food, or... instant noodles, jerky, canned soup. Your soup's way above all that."

"Nothing special." You shrug.

"I've got low standards. One time I found a chunk of mold in my soup. Haven't eaten out of a can since."

"Gator, gross!" You wrinkle your nose and laugh.

"The tough life of a sheriff, what can I say." He snorts.

"I haven't laughed like this in a long time." You admit.

"Me neither. I'm happy I could cheer you up." Gator gives you a shy smile.

After eating, he offers to do the dishes, but you send him to work on the umbrella instead. When you're done, you walk into the living room, where Gator's sitting on the floor, hunched over the umbrella. He actually fits surprisingly well into the overall aesthetic of your home.

"Look, I fixed it." Gator stands up and folds the umbrella, then presses the button and it opens. "Just had to put the spokes back into the loops."

"Oh, thanks! I thought it was a goner."

"Good as new. Almost." Gator takes the umbrella back to the hallway and returns. He sits on the other end of the couch, and you move a little closer. You notice his shoulders drop: he looks less tense, even relaxed.

You chat for about another hour: about work, hobbies, a little about childhood, but more about yours, because Gator answers reluctantly, and you don't want to interrogate him. You yawn, and Gator checks the time. It turns out it's just past nine, and neither of you noticed how fast the time flew.

"I think it's time for me to go, I've overstayed my welcome." Gator stands up, and you walk him to the hallway.

"Thanks for today." You give him a modest smile.

"Thank you too. I haven't had an evening like that in a while. It was nice." He puts on his jacket and pauses. He needs to say something else, but he's so afraid of scaring away this fragile evening that built itself, without Gator's usual pushiness and your shyness. "Listen, what about just meeting up? You know, not when one of us gets into trouble?"

"I'd love to." Your eyes light up.

"Great, yeah, cool. I'll text you then."

"I'll be waiting. See you."

"See you."

You watch through the window as he walks to his car, and Gator, noticing you, waves goodbye.

Poor reader in this chapter is like:

The first trimester of your pregnancy had certainly not been treating you well.

On top of your aching back and swollen ankles, most mornings were spent hunched over the toilet, your mind buried in a pile of nausea.

Whenever you were feeling well enough to drag yourself to the grocery store, you’d always be delighted to see your favourite deputy waiting for you.

Seeing Gator had become one of the little interactions you looked forward to. The two of you had gone from mumbled hellos to full blown chats about life and the weather. Having told Gator about your pregnancy, he’d shocked himself with how… protective he had gotten.

Gator didn’t think himself to be the kind of man to ever want kids. Didn’t care for them, really. But deep down he knew it was the quiet fear deep in his bones that he’ll turn out just like his father, and he wouldn’t dare put anyone through that.

But when it came to you, Gator wanted nothing more than to shield you from the monsters of the world. He didn’t mind the fact that you had life inside of you, a baby which would soon grow into a tiny version of you. In fact, he was excited. Each week, he loved seeing how you had grown, or being shown any new scan photos. His favourite update being that day you told him the little foetus was a sweet baby girl.

Any baby of yours was simply an addition to the wonder that was you. ‘Angel’ he’d call you, because in Gator’s mind, you had been sent down as a blessing. Someone who could distract and heal him from the quiet horrors he endured and who would prove to him how perfect the would could be. All he wanted to do was see you happy.

In summary, Gator was infatuated.

So, when you called him for help on a foggy Wednesday morning, Gator dropped everything. Luckily, he wasn’t on patrol, so he sped to your house with a bag filled with your weekly groceries (including your favourite food, fusilli, which you insisted on calling ‘swirly pasta’.)

You’d told him you were feeling sicker than usual that day, and that you needed help getting out of bed and making some food, and to your surprise, he happily obliged.

~*~*~*~*~

thump thump thump

As the noise of Gator’s strong knock echoes through your house, you text him.

angel: key is under the mat! c:

Huffing out a laugh at your little analogue emoji, Gator grabs the key and steps inside.

Calling out your name, he locks the door behind him before placing the bag of goods onto your marble kitchen counter.

Out of curiosity, he opens up your fridge to find it nearly empty. He knew you’d struggled with finding the money for necessities, having seen your baren shopping cart and clothes with the odd hole, but he didn’t realise it was to this extent. Heart pounding with the unfamiliar feeling of worry, he shuts the fridge and straightens himself back up.

“I’m in bed!” You weakly shout down to Gator, voice rough around the edges from having just woken up.

Bounding up the stairs, he steps into your bedroom and is met with the sight of you wrapped up in bed, tired eyes and a weak smile, and the view practically cracks his heart in two.

“Gate! Oh thank you so much for coming.” Attempting to sit up, you whimper in pain and Gator rushes to your side.

“Don’t mention it angel. What d’ya need me to do?” A calloused hand on your back, he helps you sit up, smoothing over your hair with care.

“I’m just hungry,” you look almost embarrassed as you finish your sentence, “I don’t know if there’s much in the kitchen bu-“

“I brought groceries. What d’ya want?”

You gaze fills with shock.

“Gator, you got me-? Why?”

At your question, he simply shrugs.

“Don’t stress it, just tell me what you want, stubborn woman.”

~*~*~*~*~

As the morning drifts into night, Gator finds himself sat in your baby’s nursery, currently wrestling with a bedside table.

Maybe he should read the instructions next time.

“I really appreciate the help Gator.” Smiling, you lean against the cot as you watch him tighten the last screw on the table.

“It’s nothin’” He mumbles gruffly, but his tone is nothing but caring.

Standing up, his gaze catches yours.

“You need anythin’ before I go?”

All day Gator had been helping with baby preparations, making food and holding back your hair when familiar nausea flooded your senses.

“I’m all good now thanks to you.”

The smile on your face fills Gator with a rare sense of home.

God, you were going to be the death of him.

“You get to restin’ now, call me if you need anythin’ else.” And for once, Gator smiles. It’s imperfect, not practiced or symmetrical, but it’s Gator’s.

And once the door shuts, you wish you could just run outside and tell him to stay.

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That’s how everyone’s told you it’ll be with your first. There’s been no end to the stories you’ve heard about how you and Gator are destined to fumble along blind in this. 

Gator rounds the corner, your daughter tucked tight into his chest in a hold that looks suspiciously similar to how you’ve seen him carry a football. “Baby– babe, where am I takin’ her?” 

You trail behind him, peering over his shoulder to check that your daughter’s face is still caught in that sleepy, contented expression you already adore. “Just– just go to the living room, I guess,” you offer helplessly. “I don’t know, Gator. She’s not asleep yet.”

“Okay. Okay,” he repeats, a renewed focus in his step as he ever-so-carefully treads toward the living room. 

Your daughter June was born at 6:14 on a Monday morning. June like June Carter, the one country artist you and Gator can ever compromise on; June like your favorite month of the year, sticky-sweet, playful, full of tall, emerald grasses and rope swings suspended over creek beds and barbecue smoke in the air. Gator had joked that she must have had the basics of life down already, waking your asses up right before the start of the week. Tillmans were always good at being difficult. 

When they make it to the sofa, Gator hesitates, looking back at you. “Here— sit down, mama. I’ll bring in the bags.” With the care of someone diffusing a bomb, he hands you your daughter, ushering you back toward the couch. You accept the baby and sit down, grunting a little at the strain on your sore body. “Forget the bags, Gate. Just come sit with us for a second.”

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, shaking his head. You frown a little at the speed with which he abandons the two of you, like he can’t stare at your daughter for too long or she’ll somehow combust. He’s always hated to feel like a coward, but he's fleeing the room right now.

When he finally returns, all the bags stowed in your bedroom for the two of you to bother to unpack later, his expression isn’t any less full of that humming, restless anxiousness. He shifts from foot to foot, wringing his hands a little, like he’s waiting for you to assign him another task. Like he needs you to. 

“Gate,” you say again, attempting to soothe him with your voice as you gently bounce your daughter in your arms, “Baby, I don’t think you’ve sat down since this morning. Why don’t you just take a breath– stop moving for a second.”

He shakes his head immediately, clapping his hands together. “Can’t. Can’t sit down.”

“Why not?” you press him.

“Too much to do,” he explains, looking around the living room like he’ll find some sort of chore there. But the house is clean, there's a casserole in the fridge to heat up if you get hungry later, and the only thing left to do is unpack the hospital bags, which shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. You made sure everything was settled before you left, and he knows it.

“There’s nothing to do,” you argue mildly. “She’s not even due for another feeding.”

Gator starts pacing, back and forth and back and forth. He’s not looking at you. “Think I forgot to lock the truck. I should go–”

“Gator,” you interject, your voice stern. “Why won’t you settle down?”

Gator finally turns to you, his lips set in a line. “Because if I take a second to think, I’m gonna start thinking about the fact I have a fuckin’ kid,” he hisses, like the low tone will stop her hearing him.

“Oh, and it’s just sinking in now?” you snap, wishing you could keep your temper even. Damnit, but you’re tired and still sort of in pain and you smell like a hospital. And you wish your husband could get his shit together so you could be the one complaining right now. 

“Yeah, kind of, baby,” Gator fires back, running a hand through his hair. He drops into a crouch suddenly, blowing out a breath. “I’m freakin’ out. I’m freakin’ out, mama.”

“Breathe, Gator,” you order him, grateful he's at least talking about it now. “You freaking out isn’t gonna make her any less… born.”

“I can’t do this,” he heaves. “I can’t be a dad. No fuckin’ way.”

“You’ll figure it out,” you reply dryly, unperturbed. “Better get with the program, cause she’s here.”

“I’m a fuckin’ idiot!” he protests, rising from his crouch to spread his hands and stare at you. “I can’t figure shit out. I’m probably gonna pass that to her.”

“You’re not an idiot.” you say firmly. “You figured out how to be a husband, didn’t you?”

“Barely,” he snaps.

“Gator,” you meet his eyes, turning your baby in your arms to show him her face. “Look at her.”

You watch as his eyes fall slowly to June, and his posture shifts almost imperceptibly— tension melting, expression softening. The panic fades little by little and then altogether.

“Shit or get off the pot,” you tell him. “If you’re gonna get on board and be a dad, now’s the time. Do you want her?”

Gator nods, stare caught on her sleepy face.

“Good,” you finish, eyeing him. “She wants you, too.”

He hesitates. “Can I—“

“Hold her?” you guess. “You don’t have to ask, Gate. She’s yours.”

With hands that you can tell are still shaking slightly, he lifts her out of your arms again, that tiny bundle of blankets and soft limbs, and tucks her into his own. His eyes are locked onto her, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Hey, girlie,” he musters, his voice low and scratchy. 

Your lips pull upward, your brow knitting. “Is that better?”

Gator nods, biting his lip as he stares down at her. He starts rocking a little, side to side. 

You rise from the couch, getting close enough to peer into his arms and run a finger down June’s soft cheek. You mumble softly to her, “Your dad’s fucking crazy, just so you know.”

“Sorry,” Gator tells you, real emotion in the word.

You run a hand down his arm. “I’m gonna go to the bedroom for a bit. Just take a second with her and breathe, okay, baby?”

He nods again, looking a little lost for words. “You’re not worried I’m gonna break her, or something?” he asks, glancing up as you leave his side. 

You snort, roll your eyes, and don’t bother to reply. And when you glance back at him, that little action looks like it shocks Gator most of all. 

Gator Tillman is going to be killed by his daughter June. He knows it for a fact.

She’s staring up at him right now with that sleepy, wrinkled, barely-awake newborn face. She’s got that baby smell, like warm milk. And her black eyes, the ones that are just learning how to blink, are fixed on his. 

Gator has black eyes. He’s always hated his eyes. They’re too dark, like twin pits in his head, boring into other people’s faces, setting everyone on edge. And he gave them to his daughter. And they don’t look so bad on her, as a matter of fact.

June blinks up at him, her face blank. She’s scrutinizing him, judging his reaction– he can tell. Maybe she sees the softness in his face, the way he’s completely crumpled in front of her, and knows already what a loser he is for her. 

But that’s just how it is now– unavoidable. Gator Tillman is a loser. He’s lost. He cares too much, loves too hard, has altogether too many things to lose, and so he’s been defeated in the game he’s been fighting his entire life. The love swarming in his chest is so huge, so unshakable, that he knows instantly this is what his dad always warned him against feeling— devotion to the point of weakness. Loving something so much it could control you— could kill you, just like the look in his daughter’s eyes is. And right now, holding June, he’s struggling to remember why he ever bothered to fight it in the first place.

“You don’t say much, do ya?” he asks her, the words quiet enough that his wife won’t hear him from the bedroom. 

June blinks back. Doesn’t so much as babble. 

“Gonna be an easy baby?” he asks her, bouncing her a little. “No cryin’ all the time? Give your mama a little break?”

Another blink. 

“You’re quiet already,” he observes, jaw ticking. “I was always screamin’ as a baby. You must not be a Tillman after all.”

June’s mouth opens in a little O as she yawns widely– like his self-depreciation is somehow boring to her. She gets that from her mom.

“Bet you’re gonna be the best baby there is,” he murmurs. “Probably gonna beat all the other kids by a mile.” He shifts on his aching feet, his gut twisting a little as his own words ring an old bell in his head. “Aw, who am I fuckin’ kiddin’?” he complains, blowing out a breath. “I’d be fine with it if you were the biggest loser on Earth.”

She stares back up at him, making no move to struggle against her swaddle, the pinning of her tiny arms.

“You don’t know much ‘a anything, do ya?” he realizes. She might have his eyes, but she’s nothing like him– doesn’t have the capacity to be. Nothing’s learned or set in stone. Nothing’s infecting her the way it did him, passed down by each carrier of their last name, willed into being like it was a simple fact of who they were. There’s no evil in her– no cruelty. No violence. He’d see it in her eyes if there was. “That makes two of us,” he huffs.

Slowly, he shifts the baby slightly in his arms so she can see around her, then turns in place. “Chair,” he says, gesturing to the armchair that’s become cemented as his in the time he’s owned this house with you. “Couch,” he tells her. “You can have that seat if you want. Mom likes the left side.”

He goes on naming furniture like a lunatic, letting June’s eyes sweep over it, assessing. She must be smart, he thinks to himself– smart enough to already know what’s happening around her, to look into her dad’s face and read him down the blackened core of who he is. Smart enough not to have gotten her brain from him. 

He doesn’t know what to do about any of it. He doesn’t know what to do now– letting his baby girl judge him, going completely still under his stare, giving him that same look he’s so used to– the one that says, well, kid, you better not fuck this one up. Better be good for her. Better figure it out before he inevitably mars the first perfect thing that’s ever been put in his hands. 

But his panic has faded, pushed back into some crevice of his chest. He’s breathing June in, and that scent, the compact weight of that little bundle, is calming him completely. He stays like that for a long moment, his daughter inches from his face. She lets out a breath through her nose.

“Alright, fine,” he mumbles, softer than he’s ever said anything. “I’ll be your dad.”

He wouldn’t know the first thing about doing it right. When you’d told him you were pregnant in the first place, he’d barely made it through the hugging you and reassuring you and smiling like it felt like good news long enough to get you out of the room– just in time, ‘cause the second you were gone, he’d run to the bathroom and puked his guts up. And he’d spent the following nine months being out-of-his-mind terrified. And two days ago, watching you grip his hand as you bore down, he’d thought that maybe that anxiety attack bullshit you were always goin’ on about might be worth looking into. 

But he’s not thinking about any of that right now. His daughter is in his arms. She weighed 6 pounds, 4 ounces when she came out– so tiny. A fraction of what he’s been training himself for years to lift, and yet every time he holds her, she’s pinning him down. She’s a fragile, delicate little thing. She’s the heaviest thing he’s ever carried. 

And his breathing is even. And his throat has lost its tightness. And he’s staring back into her black eyes and promising himself silently that there isn’t a minute of an hour of a day of the rest of his life that he’ll waste not being the best father on the planet for her. He doesn’t care what it takes– promotions at the station or years of therapy or unravelling the screwed-up neurons in his brain one by one. He’d die for her, easy. He’d do it in a second. But he’d change for her, too. And there’s no violence left in him except for the magnitude of what he feels in his chest for her. 

Gator leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, fighting the sting in his eyes. “Love you, girlie.”

June blinks, as if satisfied by his words. And then her eyelids lower slowly, and she goes to sleep in his arms.

It’s later and dark outside when the three of you start getting ready for bed. 

June has been passed out since five o’clock, and you and Gator have been trading off holding her while she sleeps since then. You’re already getting rather good at doing things one-handed, to your own pride.

But now, you’ve been sitting in your bedroom for almost fifteen minutes, and you haven’t seen Gator since he left to go set June in her crib in the nursery. Slowly, you ease off the bed and make your way down the hallway toward the room. The door’s slightly ajar, the only light coming from the glowing nightlamp in the corner. You find Gator standing over the crib, his hands braced on the wood as he stares down at a sleeping June. 

You come up behind him and wrap your arms around his middle, pulling him close to you. His hand moves to cover yours, but he doesn’t break his stare.

“Come to bed,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond. When you peer over his shoulder, trying to glimpse his face, you realize his jaw is clenched tightly, his eyes soft. Like he’s torn between fierce protection and gentle care.

“She’s not going anywhere,” you tell him quietly. 

“I know,” he murmurs back. 

You stay with him like that for a second, your fingers scratching lightly against his stomach.

“She’s so little,” he finally admits, eyes locked onto June’s sleeping face.

You hum in reply, a smile pulling at your face. He says it like it’s shocking to him– like it’s worrying him. Like he thinks if he looks away, that vulnerability that’s always felt like a curse to him will rear up and bite him again, and all the good things in this nursery will disappear. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen to her, Gator,” you assure him, the words soft.

He shakes his head. “It might.”

“The monitor’s on,” You remind him. “We’d hear her cry. You sleep light, anyway.”

“Something might happen,” he repeats, firmer. The way he’s gripping the wood tells you just how terrified he is. 

“You built the crib,” you go on. “You know how sturdy it is. And you set up the alarm system, too.”

He shakes his head again, unconvinced.

Your hands keep scratching at his abdomen, trying to calm him. “You need to sleep, baby. You’ve been up for forever. Come to bed.”

“Can’t.”

You keep holding him, understanding the paralysis that’s keeping him poised here— the protecting hes telling himself he needs to do. Gator had told you once that he’d never felt like he owned much— never had much that was his alone. And the things he did possess— the people he cared most for, his wife and his daughter—those were to be held onto with an iron grip. Those were to be safeguarded at any cost; one that outweighed his own trauma and hurt and self-loathing. That’s who Gator was— iron-fisted. Iron-hearted.

You see it now, in the set of his shoulders, the breathing your daughter has seemed to inexplicably steady. The determination in his stark face turned gentle, turned diligent, filled by devotion. 

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” you promise him. “We’re gonna be good, Gate.”

So many promises are wrapped up in those few words. We’re gonna be safe. We’re gonna do this right. You’re gonna be the dad she needs you to be. You wonder if he hears it, or if it’s another of the sweet nothings you sometimes attempt to utter into the abyss his father carved into him.

But Gator’s hand tightens over yours, and as he squeezes you back, he only says, “Okay.”

---

You couldn’t stop giggling, the sound spilling through the kitchen and bouncing off the walls. There you were, standing in the center of the room with your belly bare in a little curve that had grown so quickly over the past months. Every time you looked at it, you were reminded of the tiny life growing inside you and right now, that life seemed perfectly in sync with Clark’s exaggerated dramatics. He moved carefully, almost ceremoniously in front of the fridge as if selecting the perfect items from a sacred pantry just for you.

Your cravings had taken on a life of their own lately…sweet, salty, tangy, spicy and everything in between but nausea often made keeping even a small bite in your stomach a challenge. Clark had never once made you feel guilty or pressured to eat more than you could handle. Instead, he hovered with the patience of someone who was both completely in awe and mildly terrified of breaking you with the wrong move.

In his large hands, he held a cold, glistening jar of pickles and a cluster of ripe, ruby-red tomatoes. He brought them close to your rounded stomach, holding them there like ceremonial objects and your laughter shook your belly against them. “Focus, sweetheart,” he said, voice gentle yet commanding, as if he were trying to calm a tiny orchestra inside you.

“It’s cold!” you protested while still giggling, feeling the chill from the glass and the skin of the tomatoes. 

Clark only grinned, tilting his head and shrugging. “Had to wake her up, sorry. Ready?”

You nodded eagerly, your hands resting lightly on your belly as your eyes followed every motion he made. Clark placed the jar of pickles first, pressing it softly against your stomach and holding your gaze. The room seemed to hush, your heartbeats intertwining with his heightened hearing, the steady thrum of your daughter inside giving a rhythm to the moment. Three heartbeats quieted into a tiny, measured pause as his focus sharpened and attuned entirely to the life nestled within you. You could feel the warmth radiating through your skin, the faint pressure of the jar against your belly and the careful, reverent way Clark waited as if each second were both a promise and a prayer.

“What’s she saying?” he asked, eyes scanning your face with a mix of curiosity and awe.

“You’re asking me? I thought you were the professional,” you laughed, the sound light and airy, teasing him about being the ultimate baby whisperer.

Clark’s lips twitched into a small, serious smile. “Certified,” he assured, his tone mock-authoritative, before he carefully withdrew the pickle jar and reached for the fresh tomatoes, pressing them gently against the curve of your belly. “Come on, baby,” he whispered, his voice softer now, aimed more at your daughter than at you, a private little conversation between father and child.

You giggled, letting your hands rest lightly on your belly. “I think she wants both,” you murmured, feeling a subtle shift, a tiny little nudge that made your belly twitch in agreement.

Clark shook his head, a small chuckle escaping despite his concentration. “No, she doesn’t. Last time you tried tomatoes with mayonnaise and a glass of pickle juice, you threw up.”

You laughed harder, your belly wobbling slightly with each breath. “She’s feeling brave today,” you said amused by the little life inside you seeming to pick and choose.

“Well, her dad isn’t,” he muttered, opening the pickle jar with careful fingers and handing it to you. Then, lowering himself to kneel in front of you, he pressed his ear to your belly, though he didn’t need it because his senses were already perfectly attuned. “Sniff that…come on girl, talk to daddy,” he murmured, his voice soft and reverent, you could practically see the concentration and awe mirrored in his eyes, the tiny connection between them pulling at his heart with every gentle nudge.

You did as he asked, lifting the jar to your nose and inhaling the sharp, briny scent. It wasn’t even a second later that a small but sure kick rippled across your stomach.

“There you go!” Clark exclaimed, his voice full of awe and eyes widening like he’d just witnessed the world’s greatest miracle. His palm flattened instantly against your skin, eager to catch the movement again, his grin stretching impossibly wider.

You couldn’t stop smiling, warmth bubbling up in your chest as you watched him lean closer, his gaze fixed on your belly like it was the most sacred thing in existence. His thumb brushed in slow, soothing circles right where you believed her head was, gentle and protective.

“Teamwork, baby Steel! That’s how it’s done,” he said proudly, his tone caught somewhere between a coach calling plays and a dad already bragging about his kid. He pressed a tender kiss to the exact spot she’d kicked before straightening up and leaning in to capture your lips with a softer one.

When he pulled back, his eyes sparkled with mischief as he announced grandly, “Pickles with honey coming right up, ladies!” already heading toward the pantry like he was about to deliver a five-star meal instead of your questionable craving.

He swore his baby-whisperer abilities went far beyond the kitchen experiments with pickles and tomatoes. Especially at night, when you were half-asleep but restless, turning this way and that as your daughter refused to settle. Clark was always the first to notice, his sharp hearing picking up the change in your breathing and the faint frustrated sighs you let slip. He would quietly slide down in the sheets until his face was level with your belly, his voice dropping to that low, velvety tone he only ever used when it was just the three of you.

“Hey, bud,” he whispered, his lips nearly brushing your skin.

Even though he’d used his x-ray vision countless times to watch her tiny form shift and kick, it still stunned him every single time. It never lost its magic. 

He always wished you could see what he saw…your daughter’s little fists flexing, her knees nudging out as if testing her limits and the undeniable spark of life that was half him, half you.

“Your mama’s trying to sleep, sweetheart,” he murmured softly but with a firm edge, as though reasoning with a toddler instead of a fetus. “In a perfect world, you’d sleep at the same time. That’s called teamwork.” His brow furrowed when he felt her push again, wriggly and stubborn. 

“Don’t you dare kick her, young lady,” he whispered, giving your belly the same stern-but-gentle tone he reserved for Smallville calves that wandered into the wrong pasture.

There was a pause that made him grin as he felt her shift, the pressure easing. He stroked the curve of your belly with his thumb, murmuring low enough that you couldn’t quite make out every word.

“Thank you,” he said softly, like he was addressing a tiny diplomat. “See, that’s teamwork. Now, how about a little deal between you and me, huh?”

His hand spread wide against your stomach, thumb still moving in a soothing circle. “Your mama’s had a long day. I want to make her a nice steak dinner tomorrow night…medium-well, not her favorite but we’re still adapting. All I need from you is a little cooperation, just a few hours of letting her rest, no gymnastics and definitely no rib kicks.” He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “Think you can do that for me?”

Another flutter, softer this time and he chuckled, shaking his head like he’d just been bargained with. “Tell you what. If you hold up your end of this treaty, I’ll hold up mine. Powdered donuts and cream filling with rainbow sprinkles…the good ones from that little shop in Chicago your mama loves.” His grin widened, boyish and fond as he kissed your skin. “We’ll fly there ourselves if we have to…well, just me. No flying for you until you’re like seventy-five. Just…let her sleep tonight, okay?”

Then, quieter still, almost reverently “I promise, I’ll make it worth your while.”

The baby seemed to quiet under his touch, her movements easing as if she’d actually considered her father’s bargain. Clark smiled to himself, the faintest swell of pride in his chest until he heard you stir.

Your voice was soft and groggy, laced with sleep but startlingly precise. “Mmmm Clark… I have donut hunger… please… precisely half of one drenched in cold milk… for some strange reason.”

He froze, blinking up at you in disbelief before his gaze flicked to your belly, then back to your sleepy face. Then back again to your belly, as if your daughter had somehow whispered the request to you herself. A grin tugged at his lips.

“Smart,” he murmured, eyes sparkling. “Asking for a security deposit.”

“What?” you mumbled while rubbing at your eyes, too drowsy to even process the words.

“Nothing, baby,” he said quickly, smoothing a hand over your hair before kissing your temple. “As long as it’s not pickle juice again, we’re good. I’ll go get that for you.”

Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your stomach, his silent goodnight to your daughter and then another to your forehead, lingering there for a second like he couldn’t quite pull away. Then in a rush of air, he was gone.

He smiled the whole way there, his flight steady and light, because the thought of you waiting at home made even midnight trips across states feel easy. The owner of that little shop never asked questions anymore, just boxed up the powdered donuts with rainbow sprinkles, knowing someone very important to Superman loved them more than anything. 

By the time Clark touched down again, balancing half a donut and a tall glass of cold milk, the glow in his chest was impossible to hide. Being Superman had its duties but being a superdad-in-training and a baby whisperer on call was quickly becoming his favorite job of all.