jen

four years. that's how much time passed since the night marcus –your now ex– broke up with you.

the breakup with him didn’t happen because you were unavailable. it happened because he was a lying cheating piece of shit.

and the memory still lingered like a bruise that refused to fade completely.

you found out a random tuesday evening. a mutual friend posted a story on instagram: nothing dramatic, just a casual photo for a party the previous weekend. in the background, clear as day, you saw him with his tongue down another girl’s throat.

the same weekend he told you he was ‘’too tired to hang out’’ and needed ‘’space.’’

you confronted him the next night when you two went out to have dinner. you played your role perfectly; laughing at his jokes and leaning at the right moments.

you were good at faking. you always had been.

you wanted to talk about that, and when you did, he didn’t even try to lie.

‘’yeah. i slept with her. so what? you’re never really present anyway. you’re always halfway out the door emotionally.’’

you tried not to cry. not in public. not in such a luxurious restaurant. you were about to speak, but he interrupted you.

‘’maybe if you actually talked to me instead of acting like some mysterious untouchable girl… i wouldn’t have needed to find pleasure in someone else.’’

his words were cruel, but the betrayal burned deeper than the insult.

you had let him in more than most. you shared pieces of yourself you usually kept hidden. and he rewarded that vulnerability by cheating you and then blaming you for it. 

that night you drove home in silence, your hands were gripping the steering wheel so tight your knuckles turned white. you didn’t cry until you took a shower. 

the hot water was burning your skin as reality settled in: trusting someone backfired spectacularly.

after marcus, something inside you shifted.

you stopped believing that real intimacy could be safe. 

every man who showed interest felt like a potential traitor. every sweet word sounded like manipulation waiting to happen. every touch made you wonder what that guy was hiding behind that smile.

you still went on dates. you still flirted effortlessly and still let men take you home and fuck you. but you never truly let them close.

the second things started feeling real –the second a conversation turned vulnerable, when sometime tried to stay the night and hold you, or even when a touch became too tender– you disconnected. you left your own body and watched everything from above.

years passed like this.

a string of shallow relationships that never lasted more than a few weeks. you became an expert at keeping people a comfortable distance while making them believe they were close. 

but you never stayed. not emotionally at least.

your best friend watched this cycle repeat itself with growing worry and frustration. she was there the night you found out about him cheating. she held you while you cried angry tears. and she was tired of seeing her best friend never letting anyone in.

one afternoon, after you mentioned yet another guy who slowly ghosted you after a few dates, she sat you down on her couch with two glasses of wine and a look that said she wasn’t going to let you dodge the conversation this time.

‘’i love you more than anything in this world,’’ she started quietly. ‘’but i can’t keep watching you destroy any chance of real connection because of what he did to you four years ago. you deserve to feel something.’’

you tried to brush it off with some humor, but she wasn't having it.

‘’you need therapy,’’ she said. ‘’you’re so scared and that fear is costing you years of your life. just go to one session. if you hate it, i’ll never bring it up.’’

‘’i don’t need therapy,’’

‘’yes, you do. you think you’re fine because you can still flirt and get guys, but you’re not fine. you’re lonely when you’re with someone.’’

you let out a bitter laugh.

‘’i’m not scared. i’m smart. after what marcus did, why the hell would i let someone in again? so they cheat on me and then blame me for having trust issues? no, thanks.’’

‘’not every man is marcus. but you’ll never know that if you keep pushing everyone away before they even have a chance. you deserve to feel safe with someone. you deserve to be loved and not just desired.’’

you looked away.

‘’i’m handling it.’’ you repeated stubbornly.

‘’you’re not handling it,’’ your friend said softly. ‘’you’re surviving. there’s a difference.’’

she slid a small business card across the table toward you.

hawkins behavioral health.

you didn’t book the appointment right away.

for nearly three weeks, the small business card your best friend gave you sat in your kitchen like a quiet accusation. every time you went to drink water, you saw it. every night you came exhausted from work, it was still there.

at first, you ignored it completely.

you told yourself you didn’t need therapy. but the words felt thinner every time you repeated them.

you started researching the place anyway – mostly out of boredom, you convinced yourself. hawkins behavioral health had a clean website and good reviews. 

but one name kept appearing with particularly strong feedback: dr. steve harrington.

you read review after review.

‘’he actually sees you. doesn’t just nod and write things down.’’

‘’first therapist who called me out on my bullshit in the kindest way possible.’’

‘’made me feel safe enough to be honest.’’

you closed the browser more than once, annoyed at yourself for even considering it.

then came the date with tyler. a guy you met.

it was supposed to be casual, just drinks at a nice bar. he was charming, successful, and funny. 

on paper, he was perfect. in reality, he spent most of the night talking about himself.

when you finally opened up a little, he didn’t seem to care. but there was a specific comment that hurt.

‘’guys don’t want to deal with a bunch of emotional baggage, you know?’’

the comment stung more than it should have.

later that night, when he kissed you outside the bar and invited you back to his place, you went. but the entire time you felt hollow. you two didn’t even kiss there, just talked at night and he let you stay to sleep.

the next morning you drove home in silence. when you walked into the apartment, the little business card was still on the counter. you picked it up, turned it over in your hands for a long time, and finally sighed.

‘’fuck it,’’ you whispered.

you called hawkins behavior health that same afternoon and booked an appointment for the following thursday.

the day of your first session arrived faster than you expected. 

you spent the entire morning convincing yourself you could still cancel. you changed outfits three times and almost turned the car around twice on the way there.

but somehow, you ended up walking through the front doors of the building.

the reception area was warm and comforting, with soft lightning and exposed brick walls. behind the desk stood a woman with short brown hair and energetic presence. 

her name tag read: robin buckley – office coordinator.

she looked up and gave you a bright welcoming smile.

‘’hi! you must be the 4:30. first time with us?’’ you nodded, gripping the strap of your bag a little too tightly.

robin’s smile softened, sensing your nerves.

‘’totally normal to feel anxious. everyone is on their first visit.’’ she typed something on her computer. ‘’you’re here to see dr. harrington, right?’’

‘’yes.’’

‘’he’s really good,’’ she said kindly. ‘’a little young for a psychologist, but perceptive. something annoyingly so, but don’t tell him i told you that.’’ she gave you a playful wink. ‘’just be honest with him. he can candle the truth.’’

she printed some forms and handed them to you.

‘’fill these out and i’ll let him know you’re him. deep breath. you’ve got this.’’

ten minutes later, robin returned and led you down a quiet hallway lined with plants. 

she stopped in front of a wooden door and gave you one last encouraging smile.

‘’dr. harrington? your 4:30 is here.’’

you took a deep breath and stepped inside.

the office was nothing like you had imagined. it didn’t feel clinical or cold. warm afternoon light poured through tall windows, bathing the room in a soft golden hue. 

one wall was lined with tall bookshelves filled with psychology texts, novels, and a few personal items – like a small framed picture of a group of friends, and what looked like a tiny hawkins high keychain hanging from a shelf.

two comfortable deep armchairs faxed each other with a low wooden table between them. a box of tissues on the table and a long couch that looked untouched.

and he was rising from one of the armchairs. steve harrington.

he was younger than you expected even if robin told you before. 

much younger. early twenties, if that. 

he looked tall even if he was sitting, with messy brow hair that looked like he’d run his hand through it several times that day.

and he had warm hazel eyes. big hazel eyes you weren’t able to ignore.

he also wore a brown jacket over a button-up shirt. 

steve looked more like a handsome graduate student than a licensed psychologist.

‘’hi,’’ he said with low warm voice. ‘’i’m steve harrington. you can call me steve if that makes you feel more comfortable. come in, please.”

he gestured toward the empty armchair across from him.

‘’sit however you’d like. there are no rules in this room.’’

you gave him a small smile and sat down, crossing your legs neatly and folding your hands in your lap. you studied him from a moment: the way he moved, the way he looked at you. 

he was annoying attractive. too attractive to be doing this job.

steve sat down across from you, leaning forward slightly with his hands clasped loosely between his knees. he didn’t speak right away. he just looked at you –not staring, but truly paying attention– and it made your skin prickle.

‘’so,’’ he said gently after a few seconds, offering a small smile. ‘’what brings you here today?’’

you let out a soft breath and gave him a smile.

‘’well…. apparently i’m very good at making men want me, but terrible at actually letting them stay.’’ you titled your head a little, letting your gaze linger on his face for a second. ‘’my last boyfriend said i’m emotionally unavailable. among other things.’’

you finished with a light laugh, hoping it would steer the conversation into safer waters.

steve didn’t laugh with you.

he simply watched you with a calm and thoughtful expression. 

after a moment, he talked.

“you started with a joke,” he noted gently. “and a compliment hidden inside it. you smiled while talking about something painful. that’s interesting.”

you raised an eyebrow, trying to keep your expression light.

“are you always this direct?”

“well… i’m noticing some things. you are trying to deflect,” he replied but not unkindly. “you’re very good at it. you use charm and humor to keep things from getting serious.”

you felt a flicker of irritation mixed with uncomfortably and nervousness.

“you’re very observant for someone so young,” you said, your tone was still light but with a subtle edge. “does that usually work for you? reading people before they even say anything?”

steve’s mouth twitched into the faintest hint of a smile.

but his eyes remained steady.

“you’re doing it again,” he said softly. “shifting the focus onto me and testing my reactions.” he paused, then added. “it’s okay. we don’t have to rush. this is your space.”

you sat back slightly, studying him.

he was good. too good.

and the fact that he was young somehow made it worse. 

he shouldn’t be this perceptive.

he shouldn’t be able to see through you this easily.

steve waited patiently, giving you time. his presence was calm, steady, and strangely grounding.

those hazel eyes never left yours, but they weren’t intimidating either.

they were patient. kind. like he really had nowhere else he’d rather be.

“so,” he said again. “when you say you’re “terrible at letting people stay”… what does that feel like for you?”

you opened your mouth, ready to give another polished half-joking answer.

but for the first time in a long time, the words got stuck in your throat.

steve didn’t push. he simply waited, watching you with that calm gaze. 

the silent stretched between you, not awkward, but heavy. for once, you didn’t know what to say. you didn’t have a clever line prepared. you didn’t have a flirty deflection ready.

after a long moment, you let out a slow breath and looked down at your hands.

‘’i don’t know how to… stay,’’ you admitted quietly. ‘’when things get real. when someone starts looking too closely. i just… leave. not physically. but emotionally. i go somewhere else in my head. i smile. i say the right things. but i’m not really there.’’

steve nodded slowly, his expression soft but attentive.

‘’that sounds lonely,’’ he said gently. ‘’being with someone but no really being with them.’’

you swallowed hard.

‘’it is,’’ you whispered. ‘’but it’s safer.

steve leaned forward sightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

‘’can you tell me more about that? when did you start feeling the need to protect yourself from the others like this?’’

you hesitated. the memories of your ex came rushing back – his cruel words, the way he blamed you for his own cheating, the humiliation of realizing you tried to be vulnerable with someone who never deserved it.

‘’four years ago,’’ you said, voice quieter now. ‘’i was with someone. i thought i was letting him in. i was trying and he cheated on me. then told me it was my fault and after that… it just felt easier to never let anyone close enough to hurt me again.’’

steve listened without interrupting. you liked that. and his eyes never left your face.

when you finished, he spoke carefully.

‘’so you learned that being vulnerable leads to pain. and now, even when you want connection, your mind and body protect you by disconnecting.’’

you looked up at him, surprised by how gently he said it.

‘’you’re very young to be this good at this,’’ you said, trying to regain some control with a teasing smile.

steve’s lip curved into a faint smile.

‘’and you’re deflecting again,’’ he replied softly, but there was no judgment in his tone. ‘’it’s okay. we’ll work on that. one step at a time.’’

he paused and then asked gently.

‘’when you’re with someone now… physically… what does that disconnection feel like in your body?’’

you shifted in your seat, feeling exposed under his attentive gaze. you hadn't expected him to go there so directly, yet so kindly.

‘’it feels like… im floating,’’ you admitted. ‘’like i can do everything right but i’m not really feeling anything. it’s like automatic.’’

steve nodded slowly, processing your words.

‘’and does that bother you?’’ he asked. ‘’or has it become normal?’’

you stayed silent for a long moment.

‘’.. it bothers me,’’ you finally whispered. ‘’but i don’t know how to stop doing it.’’

he gave you a small nod.

‘’that’s why you’re here,’’ he said gently. ‘’we’re going to figure that out together. no pressure. just honestly, at whatever pace you need.’’

for the rest of the session, steve listened carefully as you spoke. he didn’t interrupt. he didn’t judge. 

he simply asked thoughtful questions and noticed things you hadn’t even realized about yourself; the way you joked when things got heavy, the way you crossed your arms when you felt vulnerable…

by the time the session ended, you felt strangely drained. but also lighter.

steve stood up when the hour was over and gave you a warm smile.

‘’you did really well today,’’ he said. ‘’i know it wasn’t easy. same time next week?’’

you nodded, feeling a strange mix of nervousness and relief. 

as you left his office, you couldn’t stop thinking about how easily he had seen through every wall you tried to put up.

then the days after your first session passed in a strange haze.

you went back to your routine: work, nights with your best friend… but something felt different. lighter, maybe. or perhaps just more aware.

you tried dating again. not because you suddenly believed in love, but because you wanted to prove to yourself (and maybe to steve), that you could try.

his name was daniel. he was kind, funny and worked as a graphic designer. 

he didn’t try too hard. 

on your first date, you talked for almost three hours about music and movies. on the second, he kissed you goodnight outside your car. 

you wanted this to work. 

you returned for the second session. you spent the entire week thinking about steve’s words.

the way he looked at you. the way he actually listened. it was unsettling how much space he was taking up in your mind.

when you walked into his office and steve was already waiting, sitting in his usual chair. he wore a blue polo shirt that made his hazel eyes stand out even more. 

the moment you entered, he gave you a warm smile that made your stomach tighten.

‘’hi,’’ he said. ‘’it’s good to see you again. come in, make yourself comfortable.’’

you sat down in the armchair across from him, crossing your legs and folding your hands in your lap. for a few seconds, you didn’t know where to begin. 

steve waited patiently, as always – never rushing you, never filling the silence.

‘’i’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,’’ you started quietly. ‘’and… i went out with this guy named daniel. a few times, actually.’’

steve nodded slowly, giving you his full attention.

‘’tell me about that,’’

you took a deep breath.

‘’he’s really kind. patient. he doesn’t pressure me. we talked for hours and he actually listens.’’ you paused, then added more softly. ‘’i wanted it to be different this time. i want to try going somewhere serious with him. not just casual.’’

steve listened, his eyes steady on you. when you finished, he spoke carefully.

‘’that’s a significant step – choosing to try something real with someone after being hurt. how did it feel for you?’’ you looked down at your hands.

‘’at the beginning it was okay. i felt present. but then i slipped away again.’’ you let out a small breath. ‘’i hate that i keep doing that.’’

steve was quiet for a moment, processing your words with care.

‘’what you’re describing is a very common trauma response,’’ he said gently. ‘’after being betrayed by someone you tried to trust, your nervous system learned that vulnerability equals danger. so when intimacy starts to feel real, your mind protects you by dissociating.’’

you looked up at him, surprised by how good he explained it. steve continued.

‘’the fact that you’re aware of it happening is already a progress. most people don’t even notice when they disconnect.’’

his words wrapped around you like a blanket. you felt your cheeks grow warm and you bit your lip. 

‘’thank you,’’ you whispered. steve’s expression softened further.

he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

‘’would you like to practice some grounding exercises? things you can use when you feel yourself starting to flow away?’’

you nodded. and for the next thirty minutes, steve guided you through several exercises with patience and care. his voice was incredibly calm and silky as he spoke.

he watched you practice, his eyes never leaving you.

‘’good,’’ he said when you did it correctly. ‘’that’s really good. you’re picking this up quickly.’’

every time he praised you, even subtly, you felt warmth spread through your chest. you found yourself feeling timid under his attention.

steve remembered details from your previous session and wove them in naturally.

‘’you mentioned last time that you tend to perform because you want others to feel good,’’ he looked at you. ‘’we can work on finding balance.’’

you felt exposed but safe. the way steve spoke made you feel truly seen.

when the session was nearing its end, steve looked at you.

‘’you did really well today,’’ he said softly. ‘’you were honest about something difficult. you let yourself be vulnerable.’’

his praise hit you deeply. you felt your face flush.

you left his office with warm cheeks and the confusing realization that your therapist’s gentle praise was starting to affect you far more than any touch from daniel ever had.

after that, you continued seeing daniel. the relationship –if it could even be called that yet– developed slowly and sweetly. he was consistent in a way that was almost foreign to you. 

but every time the moment leaned toward something more intimate, you gently stopped him.

daniel was always understanding. he’d kiss your forehead and never made you feel guilty. and yet, every time you left his apartment, you felt a quiet frustration with yourself.

you wanted him fully. you wanted to be normal. but something inside you still head back.

in the other way, your therapy sessions with steve became the anchor of your week. you found yourself in that office. steve seemed to look better each time you saw him. 

sometimes it was the way his hair fell across his forehead. 

sometimes it was the soft sweaters that hugged his biceps and shoulders. 

sometimes it was simply the way he looked at you.

the flirting on your part was subtle, almost unconscious. quiet and soft words while tucking your hair behind your ear. 

steve never crossed any lines. 

he remained perfectly professional. but his gaze would linger a second longer than necessary, and his voice would drop into that low silky tone when he praised you.

you told yourself it was nothing. he was just doing his job.

one afternoon, after a particularly long session, you met your best friend for a coffee. the moment you sat down, she studied your face with a knowing look.

‘’so… how are things going with daniel?’’ she asked, cutting into her avocado toast.

you smiled, a small genuine one.

‘’they’re good, actually. he’s really sweet. we’ve been seeing each other a couple times a week. we haven’t slept together yet… but i feel like i might be getting closer to wanting that.’’

her eyes lit up.

‘’that’s great! i’m really happy for you. he sounds like a good guy.’’ you nodded, stirring your coffee.

there was a comfortable pause. then she took a sip of her drink and asked casually:

‘’and how’s therapy going? you haven’t told me much about it lately.’’

you hesitated for a second, then shrugged lightly.

‘’it’s… going well, i think. my therapist is really good. he’s patient, he actually listens, and he explains things in a way that doesn’t make me feel like i’m broken. we’ve working on grounding exercises so i can stay more present, especially with daniel.’’

she raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued.

‘’tell me more about him. what’s he like?’’

you looked down at your cup, feeling a little shy.

‘’he’s… younger than i expected. really perceptive. he remember everything i tell him. he just helps me understand why i do it.’’

she stayed quiet for a moment. then she leaned forward with a mischievous grin.

‘’okay… i have to confess something. after you told me you started therapy, i got curious and looked him up on google.’’

you blinked. ‘’you what?’’

‘’i googled him,’’ she said, laughing. ‘’dr. steve harrington. i found his profile on the practice’s website and some pictures. girl… he’s ridiculously hot. like, stupidly attractive. i mean… i get why tour sessions feel intense.’’

you felt your face heat up instantly. you looked down at your latte.

‘’he’s just my therapist,’’ you said quickly, trying to sound casual. ‘’he’s professional. really good at his job. that’s all.’’

‘’sure. that’s why you are blushing right now.’’

after that comment, you may have started seeing steve a little bit differently. 

maybe more handsome. 

maybe with more interest.

you tried to think it was just nonsense, that your best friend’s talk was inside your brain.

while waiting in the reception area for your session, you made the mistake of checking the practice's recent google reviews on your phone.

several new ones appeared. from women in their twenties.

one in particular caught your eye:

‘’dr. Harrington is incredible. i’ve never felt so understood in my life. he’s helped me so much with my intimacy issues. 10/10, would recommend to anyone.”

there were several more like that – all women praising how attentive and emotionally available steve was.

your stomach twisted with an ugly feeling you didn’t want to name.

jealousy.

then, as you were sitting in the waiting room, the door to steve’s office opened.

a pretty brunette woman stepped out, smiling brightly. steve followed her to the door, speaking to her in that same gentle, warm tone he used with you.

“see you next week. you did great today.”

she left, laughing at something he said. you felt a sharp pang in your chest.

when Steve turned and saw you waiting, his expression softened immediately.

“hey,” he said warmly. “ready?” 

you forced a small smile and followed him into the office, trying to ignore the uncomfortable knot of jealousy twisting inside you.

you sat down in your usual armchair. steve settled across from you, leaning forward sightly with his elbows on his knees.

‘’how has your week been?’’ he asked softly. 

you hesitated for a moment and opened your mouth to give a vague answer, but steve continued you could speak, his tone calm.

‘’you mentioned last session that you’ve been seeing someone. daniel, right? how are things going with him?’’

the question caught you slightly off guard. he had remembered the name. 

of course he had.

you shifted in your seat, suddenly feeling exposed.

“they’re… going well,” you said carefully. “he’s really kind. patient. we’ve been spending more time together. we talk a lot, we kiss… but we haven’t slept together yet.”

steve listened with complete focus, his eyes never leaving your face. he nodded slowly, processing your words.

“and how do you feel about that?” he asked with a soft voice. “about holding back with him?”

you let out a slow breath.

“i feel guilty sometimes,” you admitted. “he’s a good guy. he deserves someone who can give him everything. but i’m scared. every time things get more physical, i feel myself starting to disconnect again. i don’t want to perform with him… but i don’t know how to stop doing it.”

steve was quiet for a few seconds. His expression remained calm and professional, but you noticed the subtle tension in his jaw and the way his fingers tightened slightly around his pen.

“it makes sense that you’re scared,” he said gently. “after being betrayed by someone you tried to trust, your mind and body learned that intimacy equals danger.”

he paused, then added in that low silky tone he had.

“but I also notice that when you talk about daniel, you describe him as ‘nice’ and ‘kind.’ you don’t talk about desire. about wanting him. does that feel significant to you?”

his question felt more direct than usual. you felt your cheeks warm under his steady gaze.

“i… i don’t know,” you whispered. “maybe I’m still not ready. or maybe i’m comparing how i feel with him to… other things.”

steve’s eyes lingered on you for a moment longer than necessary. he didn’t push further on that comment, but the air in the room felt heavier.

you felt your face flush. you looked down at your lap, unable to meet his eyes. 

a shy, nervous smile formed on your lips as you played with the hem of your sweater and your fingers trembled slightly.

you left his office with the confusing realization that steve’s gentle praise affected you.

and no matter how many times you told yourself he was just being a good therapist. 

the feeling was getting harder to ignore.

another day that daniel texted you asking if you wanted to do something casual. you said yes before you could overthink it.

the night arrived. he was the same as always: easy to talk to, interested in what you said, and never pushy. he brought you flowers –white daisies– and remembered your drink.

when dinner was over, you ended up on his couch. the kissing started slow and sweet. his hands were careful as they slid under your sweater, caressing your back. 

for a while, you stayed present. you felt the warmth of his body, the softness of his lips, the way he whispered how beautiful you were. it felt nice.

but the moment his hand moved lower, slipping under the waistband of your jeans, something inside you tightened.

you pulled back gently, placing a hand on his chest.

‘’daniel… wait,’’ you whispered. he stopped immediately, looking at you with concern.

‘’is everything okay?’’ he asked softly.

you sat up a little, pulling your sweater back down. 

your heart was racing, but not from desire – from anxiety.

‘’i’m sorry,’’ you said quietly. ‘’i thought i was ready, but… i’m not. not tonight.’’

daniel nodded without hesitation. he sat back and gave you a kind, understanding smile.

“that’s completely fine,” he said. “we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. i’m really happy just spending time with you.”

you felt a wave of relief mixed with guilt. 

yet you still couldn’t give him what he probably wanted.

you stayed for a little while longer, talking on the couch, but the atmosphere shifted. 

when you left his apartment that night, you hugged him goodbye and told him you’d text him soon. the drive home was quiet. you felt disappointed in yourself.

by the time you got home, took a shower, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the frustration had built up to a breaking point.

now it has been months. months of this same cycle. flirting, dating, getting close, but then freezing or performing the moment things became truly intimate. 

you were tired of it. exhausted.

you arrived at your session feeling a mix of determination and deep embarrassment.

steve was already seated when you walked in. he wore a sweater that made his shoulders look broader. when he saw you, his hazel eyes softened with that familiar warm attention.

“hi,” he said gently. “come in. make yourself comfortable.”

you sat down. steve noticed your body language immediately.

“you seem a little nervous today,” he observed softly. “would you like to tell me what’s on your mind?”

you took a deep breath and decided to be honest.

“i’ve been thinking about what we talked about last time,” you said quietly. “about why i disconnect during sex. i… i want to understand it better. so i can try to fix it with daniel.”

steve nodded slowly, his gaze steady and kind.

“i’m glad you want to explore this,” he said. “to help you, i’m going to ask some personal questions about your sexual experiences. you don’t have to answer anything that makes you uncomfortable. but the more honest you can be, the better i can understand what’s happening and help you work through it. is that okay with you?”

you swallowed hard and nodded. steve kept his voice low and professional.

“when you’re with daniel, or with previous partners… do you feel any physical pleasure at all? or does it become purely mechanical after a certain point?”

your cheeks started burning.

“sometimes… at the beginning,” you whispered. “i feel warmth. tingling. but then it fades. i start focusing on what i should be doing instead of what i’m feeling.”

steve nodded, completely focused on you.

“do you touch yourself when you’re alone?” he asked calmly. “masturbate?”

your face went hot. you looked down at your lap, fingers twisting nervously in your sweater.

“…yes,” you admitted.

“how does that feel compared to sex with someone else?” he asked gently. “do you stay present when you’re touching yourself?”

you bit your lip, feeling incredibly exposed.

“mostly yes,” you whispered. “it’s easier when i’m alone. i can control everything. i don’t have to worry about what the other person is thinking.”

steve’s voice remained soothing.

“that’s very common,” he said. “when you’re alone, there’s no fear of judgment or betrayal. your body feels safe enough to stay present. but when someone else is involved, that safety disappears and your mind protects you by dissociating.”

he paused, then continued.

“when you masturbate… what do you usually think about? do you stay focused on the sensations in your body, or does your mind wander to fantasies?”

your face was burning now. you couldn’t look at him.

“i… try to focus on the sensations,” you mumbled. “but sometimes i fantasize. about… being wanted. being seen. not just fucked.”

steve was quiet for a moment, giving you space. the silence felt heavy but not uncomfortable. 

when he finally spoke, his voice was even softer, almost careful.

“thank you for being honest about that,” he said. “that’s really helpful information.”

he leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees.

“as an exercise for this week, i’d like you to try something at home. when you masturbate, i want you to focus completely on the physical sensations. you don’t have to do it every day, just when you feel comfortable.”

your heart was beating fast. the idea of doing that and then telling him about it made your stomach twist with nerves.

“and… you want me to tell you how it went?” you asked, voice small.

steve nodded calmly. 

“only if you feel comfortable sharing. this is your space. but yes, talking about it next session could help us understand what makes it easier or harder for you to stay present.”

you swallowed hard, cheeks still burning.

“okay,” you whispered. “i’ll try.”

the drive home was quiet. your hands gripped the steering wheel a little too tightly the whole way. 

steve’s voice kept echoing in your head. 

the way he looked at you when you spoke. the subtle way his fingers tapped against his knee.

by the time you stepped into your apartment, you kicked off your shoes and sat on the edge of your bed, replaying steve’s words from the session.

you lay back on your bed, still wearing your clothes from the day. you slid your hand inside your now pajama pants and started slowly rubbing yourself over your panties. 

you tried to focus on the sensation, on your own body like steve suggested. but after a few minutes your mind began to wander.

you kept thinking about him.

about the calm way he looked at you when he spoke.

about how low and steady his voice got when he explained things. 

about the way his hands rested on his thighs during sessions. 

you imagined those same hands on you and immediately felt a rush of heat between your legs.

you slipped your fingers under your panties and touched yourself directly, circling your clit slowly. soft sounds left your lips as you got wetter. 

every time you tried to push the thoughts away, they came back stronger. 

you pictured steve’s face, his kind eyes, the slight scruff on his jaw, the way he said your name.

guilt twisted in your chest even as pleasure built between your legs.this is wrong, you thought. 

he was your therapist. he was trying to help you and you were here touching yourself while thinking about him.

still, you didn’t stop. your fingers moved faster, sliding inside yourself while your other hand gripped the sheets. 

your breathing grew heavier. you whispered his name once, very quietly, like a secret you couldn’t keep inside.

when you finally came it was sharp and intense; your thighs shaking, a soft broken sound leaving your throat.

you felt dirty. wrong. like you had crossed a line you could never uncross. 

steve trusted you. 

he was patient and professional and genuinely trying to help you heal, and here you were fantasizing about him.

“what the hell is wrong with me…” you whispered into the quiet room.

the next few days were hell.

you tried to pretend it never happened.

you told yourself it was a one-time mistake. that it wouldn’t happen again.

but when thursday afternoon came and you walked into steve’s office, your hands were already shaking.

steve was sitting in his usual chair, wearing a soft beige sweater, looking calm and professional like always. 

he smiled gently when you entered.

“hey,” he said warmly. “how have you been since last session?” 

you sat down on the couch across from him, legs pressed tightly together.

“fine,” you mumbled.

he studied you for a moment, then leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees.

“did you try the homework i gave you?” he asked, voice gentle but direct. “touching yourself without pressure?”

you stayed silent, staring at the floor. your throat felt tight. steve waited patiently.

“you don’t have to share details if you don’t want to,” he continued softly, “but it would help if you could tell me whether you did it or not… and if you did, what came up for you. what you were thinking about.”

you still didn’t answer. your fingers twisted in your lap.

steve tilted his head.

“it’s okay,” he said. “you can sit over here if it feels easier to talk.” he gestured to the smaller couch closer to his chair, only a couple feet away. “sometimes being a little closer helps.”

you didn’t move.

after a few seconds of silence, steve slowly reached out and placed his hand gently on your knee, warm and steady, trying to get your attention.

“hey,” he said quietly, voice low. “talk to me. what’s going on in that head of yours?”

your heart hammered in your chest. his hand on your leg made everything worse. you felt tears burning in your eyes.you finally whispered, barely audible:

“…i did it.”

steve nodded slowly, thumb brushing lightly against your knee in a comforting motion.

“good. that’s okay. and when you were doing it… what were you thinking about?”

you stayed quiet for a long moment, shame burning through your whole body. then, in a tiny, broken voice, you admitted:

“…you.”

the word hung heavy in the air between you.steve froze. his hand stilled on your knee. 

for the first time since you’d known him, he looked genuinely caught off guard.

steve didn’t move. the air between you grew thick. 

he stayed quiet for a few seconds, processing your words, then spoke carefully.

“you need to try thinking about something like that when you’re with daniel. that kind of arousal… that’s what we’re trying to build with him.”

you finally looked up at him with glassy and frustrated eyes.

“how am i supposed to feel that way with daniel?” your voice cracked. “how do i differentiate it? how do i know what i really want with him?”

steve stared at you. his breathing changed.

the professional mask cracked right in front of you. 

for a moment he looked conflicted, struggling hard with himself.

then he leaned in slowly, cupped your face with one hand, and kissed you.

the kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant, but full of months of hidden tension. his lips were warm and gentle against yours. your heart slammed in your chest.

he pulled back after a few seconds with his breathing ragged.

“fuck… i’m sorry,” he whispered. “that was completely unprofessional. i shouldn’t have done that. we can’t—”

you didn’t let him finish.

you grabbed the front of his sweater and pulled him back into the kiss, harder this time. 

steve froze for half a second before he gave in completely, kissing you back with a quiet groan. his hand slid to the back of your neck as the kiss deepened, growing more desperate.

both of you knew how wrong this was.

but in that moment, neither of you cared.

“this is so wrong…” he said. “i could lose my license. i could get fired. we shouldn’t be doing this.”

you looked into his eyes, desperate.

“i need you, steve,” you whispered back, voice breaking. “i don’t want anyone else. i only think about you.”

he let out a shaky breath, clearly fighting with himself. 

then pulled you onto his lap so you were straddling him, your jeans rubbing against his thighs. his hands immediately gripped your hips.

“fuck… you’re going to ruin me,” he murmured before kissing you again, deeper this time.

his mouth moved to your neck, kissing and sucking on your skin as his hands worked between you. 

“ride my thigh, baby,” he whispered hotly against your neck. “just like this. with your clothes on. use me to feel good.”

you moaned softly and started rocking your hips, grinding your clothed pussy against his thick, muscular thigh. 

the rough fabric of your jeans created a delicious friction against your clit with every roll of your hips.

steve’s hands stayed on your hips, guiding you, pulling you harder against his leg.

“that’s it,” he breathed, sucking on the sensitive spot below your ear. “grind on me. use my thigh to get yourself off.”

you moved faster, rolling your hips in desperate circles, the seam of your jeans pressing perfectly against your clit. 

you could feel how wet you were getting, the fabric growing damp as you humped his leg.

“steve…” you whimpered, burying your face in his neck.

“good girl,” he praised softly, kissing down your neck while helping you grind harder. “look at you… riding my thigh fully dressed like you can’t wait any longer.”

his hands squeezed your ass, pulling you down firmer against him with every roll. the pressure was intense, the friction making your legs shake.

“does that feel good, princess?” he murmured, voice low and rough. “humping my leg like a needy girl?”

“yes… fuck, yes,” you moaned quietly, moving faster, chasing the building pleasure.

steve kept kissing and biting your neck gently while you rode his thigh desperately, the wet patch on your jeans growing bigger with every grind.

then he didn’t even wait for you to cum and unbuttoned your jeans and tugged the zipper down. his long fingers slipped inside your jeans and under your panties, finding you soaked.

you gasped as two thick fingers touched you.

“so wet already,” he breathed against your neck, kissing and biting softly while his fingers played with your pussy. “you really do need this, don’t you?”

you moaned quietly, rocking your hips against his hand as he fingered you deeper. 

his thumb found your clit and rubbed firm, steady circles while his mouth continued its assault on your neck.

“steve…” you whimpered, gripping his shoulders. “with you… i feel good.”

he lifted his head from your neck, eyes dark but full of concern. his fingers kept moving inside you, slower now.

“tell me,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and careful.“i don’t feel blocked,” you breathed, grinding down onto his fingers. “i’m not anxious… i’m not overthinking. i’m just… enjoying it. i feel safe with you.”

steve let out a shaky breath, clearly worried.

he stopped moving his fingers for a moment and looked straight into your eyes, his free hand gently cupping your cheek.

“are you sure?” he asked softly, thumb brushing your cheek. “i need you to be honest with me. if anything feels wrong or too much, you tell me immediately, okay? your comfort is the most important thing right now.”

you nodded, leaning into his touch.

“i’m sure,” you whispered. “i want this. i want you.”

steve searched your face for any sign of doubt, then kissed you again, slower this time, more tenderly. 

his fingers started moving once more, curling gently inside you while his thumb kept rubbing your clit in steady circles.

“good girl,” he whispered against your lips, voice full of care. “just relax. i’ve got you. tell me if you want it slower or deeper.” he whispered hotly against your skin, curling his fingers inside you perfectly. “just ride my fingers, baby. take what you need.”

his other hand slid under your shirt, squeezing your breast as he kept kissing and marking your neck. 

his fingers moved faster inside you, thrusting deep while his thumb pressed harder on your clit.

you were grinding desperately on his hand, moaning softly into his shoulder, completely lost in the feeling of his fingers stretching you and his mouth on your neck.

steve groaned quietly against your skin.

“you feel so fucking good… so tight around my fingers.”

you moaned quietly, rolling your hips against his hand as he fingered you with perfect rhythm. 

his mouth returned to your neck, kissing and sucking softly while he focused completely on your pleasure, always watching your reactions, always making sure you felt safe.

“you’re doing so well,” he murmured against your skin, fingers curling just right. “i just want you to feel good, baby. nothing else matters right now.”

the pleasure built quickly until it crashed over you. you came hard with a broken moan, thighs shaking, pussy clenching tightly around his fingers as waves of pleasure rolled through your body. 

steve kept moving his fingers gently, helping you ride out every last pulse.

when you finally came down, breathing heavily, you reached down to palm his obvious erection through his pants.

steve immediately caught your wrist, stopping you.

“no,” he said softly but firmly, breathing hard. “not today. this is about you.”

he gently lifted you off his lap and laid you down on the couch. 

he knelt on the floor between your legs, pulled your jeans and panties down in one smooth motion, and spread your thighs wide.

steve leaned in and kissed your inner thigh, then higher, until his mouth was on your pussy. he licked a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, tasting you. 

you moaned loudly, your hand flying to his hair.

he licked you slowly at first, savoring you, then became more eager; sucking gently on your clit, fucking you with his tongue, then sliding two fingers back inside you while he focused his mouth on your sensitive bud.

“steve…” you whimpered, back arching. “oh my god…”

he ate you out with perfect focus, humming against you, curling his fingers deep while his tongue worked your clit in stead patterns. 

you felt completely overwhelmed in the best way.

“it’s been so long…” you moaned, voice breaking, fingers tightening in his hair. “i haven’t felt this good with anyone in so long… steve, fuck—”

he groaned against your pussy, the vibration making you shiver. 

he doubled down, sucking harder on your clit while his fingers thrust faster.

you came again with a loud cry, thighs clamping around his head as intense pleasure flooded your body. 

steve kept licking you gently through it, drawing out every wave until you were trembling and oversensitive.

he finally pulled back, lips shiny, breathing heavily. he looked up at you with dark, worried, but undeniably hungry eyes. then he slowly stood up, towering over you as you lay on the couch. 

he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked at you for a long moment.

“do you really want me to fuck you?” he asked, voice low and rough. “because we’ve already broken every rule… if we do this, there’s no going back.”

you nodded, still catching your breath.

“yes,” you whispered. “i want you.” steve let out a shaky breath, clearly fighting with himself one last time.

he quickly unbuckled his belt and opened his pants, pulling out his cock. he was big — thick and long, the head already leaking. 

you stared at it, a mix of nerves and excitement flooding you.

“you have to be quiet,” he warned, voice serious. “no matter what. if someone hears us, i’m done.”

you nodded quickly. steve pulled your jeans and panties completely off, then climbed on top of you on the small couch. 

he rubbed the head of his cock against your soaked pussy before slowly pushing inside.you gasped at the stretch. he was so big it almost hurt, but it felt so good. 

he covered your mouth with his large hand as he sank deeper while his eyes were locked on yours.

“shhh, baby,” he whispered, bottoming out inside you. “fuck… you’re so tight.”

he started fucking you on the couch, deep and steady thrusts, his hand still firmly over your mouth to muffle your moans. every time he buried himself completely you whimpered against his palm, eyes rolling back.

after a few minutes he pulled out, stood up and turned you around, bending you over the desk. he pushed back inside you from behind in one smooth thrust, groaning quietly.

“quiet, princess,” he reminded you, hand returning to cover your mouth as he started fucking you harder. 

the desk creaked softly with every deep thrust. steve was so big you could feel him in your stomach, stretching you perfectly.

his free hand gripped your hip tightly as he pounded into you, trying to stay as quiet as possible while giving you exactly what you needed.

“is this what you wanted?” he breathed against your ear, voice strained. “you feel so fucking good…”

you could only moan helplessly against his hand, completely lost in how full you felt and how deep he was hitting inside you.

“is this what you wanted?” he whispered, voice low and rough, lips brushing your ear. “when you were touching yourself at home… thinking about me… is this what you imagined?”

you moaned against his palm, nodding frantically.

“oh yes, steve…” you whimpered, the words muffled against his hand.he fucked you a little harder, deep and slow, making sure you felt every inch.

“you were fucking yourself thinking about my cock, weren’t you?” he breathed, voice soft but filthy. “touching that pretty pussy and wishing it was me stretching you open like this…”

you whimpered louder, pushing back against him.

“yes… yes, steve… i wanted you so bad,” you gasped against his fingers.

steve groaned quietly, pressing deeper, grinding against you.

“good girl,” he murmured, kissing the side of your neck while still covering your mouth. “you feel even better than i imagined… so fucking tight and wet for me.”

he kept a steady rhythm, rolling his hips, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. his hand stayed firm over your mouth, muffling your moans as you trembled beneath him.

“that’s it, baby… take it,” he whispered hotly. “this is what you needed, isn’t it? my cock deep inside you while you’re bent over my desk…”

you nodded desperately, tears of pleasure in your eyes.

“yes, steve… oh god, yes…” you moaned against his hand, voice broken and needy.

steve kissed your neck again, sucking softly on your skin as he fucked you deeper, slower, making sure you felt every single inch.

“you’re doing so good for me,” he praised gently, voice full of lust and care at the same time. “such a good girl… letting me fuck you like this…”

“that’s it, baby,” he whispered against your ear, voice low and rough. “cum for me. let go.”

your orgasm hit you hard. your whole body tensed, thighs shaking as you came around his cock with a muffled cry against his palm. 

your pussy clenched tightly around him, pulsing again and again.

steve groaned quietly, burying himself deep as he followed right after you. his hips stuttered and he came hard inside you, filling you with warm pulses while pressing his face into your neck to stay quiet.

for a few seconds you both stayed like that, breathing heavily. 

then reality seemed to hit him. steve pulled out slowly and grabbed the box of tissues from his desk. he cleaned you gently first, wiping between your legs with care, then cleaned himself.

you both dressed quickly in silence. he helped you button your jeans. once you were both fully dressed, steve sat on the edge of the desk and pulled you to stand between his legs.

he looked at you softly.

“how do you feel?” he asked quietly, genuine concern in his eyes. “be honest with me.”

you took a deep breath, still a little shaky.

“i didn’t feel blocked,” you whispered. “i didn’t overthink everything like i usually do. i just… felt good. really good. safe.”

steve’s expression softened. a small, relieved smile appeared on his lips.

“that’s really good,” he murmured, sounding genuinely happy. “i’m glad you felt that way. that’s important.”

“and… is this what all your patients get?” you asked softly, half-joking but clearly a little nervous.

steve’s eyes widened. he let out a surprised little laugh and shook his head immediately.

“ohhh no, no, no,” he said quickly, almost embarrassed. “you’ve been the exception. completely. i usually stay very professional… i’ve never crossed this line before. not even close.”

he cupped your face with both hands, looking straight into your eyes, sincere.

“this has never happened with anyone else. you’re the only one.”

you bit your lip, feeling a strange mix of relief and warmth in your chest.

steve leaned in and kissed your forehead gently, then rested his forehead against yours.

“this is new for me too,” he whispered. “and probably really stupid… but i couldn’t stop myself with you.”

You had argued somewhere after the dinner rush. He got back from cleaning up his dads dirty work and being scolded for not doing good enough for him. 

Right after being chewed out by his father, he stopped by the little library where you work, as he always does after his shifts.

And he promised. You hadn’t seen him in a few days due to him being ordered to run around doing whatever the hell he did, you didn’t like to think about it. He promised he’d make sure to see you today.

So, of course when he texted you as soon as you got on your lunch break saying he was outside, you rushed your way out, abandoning the rest of your chips and sandwich just to see him. 

You hopped in his truck and immediately crossed over the center console, sitting in his lap and wrapping yourself around him.

He hugged you back, but his arms were tight and tense around you.

“I missed you.” You smiled into his neck, pressing little kisses against his neck to his jaw to his lips. You continued all over his face, his lips were weak and loose when he kissed you back.

“Baby- hold on, hey.” He said as nicely as he could, he turned his face away and held your wrists. “Can you calm down with the touchiness?”

“What?” You mumbled.

“Baby- don’t get me wrong, It’s nice and stuff, but you’re doin’ a lot right now, like goddamn just give me a minute to fuckin breathe.” He muttered, wiping a hand over his face.

Then he saw the way your face fell, that crease form between your eyebrows, the way you gulped and clenched your jaw. You pulled away slowly.

You slid off his lap and back into the passenger seat quietly. It took a few seconds of sitting in silence and staring ahead before he heard the car door open. 

“My lunch break is almost over, I should go back.” You muttered the lie as you hopped out, slamming the door shut before he could get a response out.

Now, the only light outside is the streetlamps, and Gators phone is still void of any texts from you while he decides what to do.

He sighs, both your parents' cars are in the driveway. From what it looks like from the windows, every light is off in the house. 

Except for the small rectangle of warm light on the side of the house, where your room is.

If Gator wasn’t so pissed off right now, he’d feel like a teenager again as he sneaks out to the side of the house, rapping his knuckles lightly on the window.

He can see that your door is closed, the doorknob is locked, you are nowhere to be seen in your room, and there is a small slither of your window left open with no screen on it.

He really should have never taught you how to take the screen off your window.

But now he’s worried, not panicking, he doesn’t panic. He just doesn’t like the idea of you being out this late at night by yourself. You already nearly made him pass out the other week with the spider.

Gator only clenches his fists and stomps as he mutters out curses. He whips out his phone and starts sending even more pathetically apologetic texts to you.

He’s on his second attempt of calling you by the time he’s back in his truck seat. He’s bouncing his leg enough to the point the vehicle is slightly shaking along with the movement. 

Your voice appears but it’s only your voicemail telling the caller to “leave a message and I’ll try to get back to you soon!”. And you sound so fucking sweet in it, it’s killing Gator.

The slicked back style of Gators hair has been long destroyed by now with the amount of times he’s ran his hands through it and his excessive stomping. The next best thing he can do is try and find you himself, he is not waiting. 

The truck pulls off the sidewalk and he keeps his foot on the pedal with enough weight for him to be going at a slow but tolerable pace, he’s impatient. He’s worried, but he doesn’t like to say that. It makes him feel like he’s saying he’s scared, which he is, but it makes him feel weak.

You couldn’t have gone far? It’s a small neighborhood. You’re probably just walking somewhere farther down the sidewalk? Maybe you were walking the other way when he was coming down your street?

He’s nearing the end of the street and he’s on the verge of smacking his horn, but a few more feet and you’ve appeared.

You’re at the playground that got built not too long ago at the end of your neighborhood, you’re sitting on the swingset. You’re in an old hoodie and pajama pants, your using the toe of your sandal to sway yourself back and forth.

Gators headlights practically blind you as you look up. He can see you squint, recognize it’s him, then grimace and look away.

He doesn’t even try to attempt to park nicely in between the freshly painted white lines. His truck is slanted and taking up three parking spaces.

You’re still swaying, you know Gator is walking up but you keep your eyes on the ground. Keeping that pouty look while you let your head lean against the chain on the swing.

Gator sighs and slides his hands into his pockets, he’s doing his own swaying now too.

Goddamn, he feels like a piece of shit.

“Planning a getaway?” He tries to joke. It falls flat.

“‘M not talking to you, Gator.” You mumble.

You didn’t mean to be so sensitive, you were just excited to see him. Gator is still getting used to physical touch being a good thing. Your hands have been the first to feel like his skin isn’t stinging when you touch his.

“Yeah. I kinda..noticed that.” He sighed. For the first time in awhile, Gator has no smart comebacks.

“Thought you wanted space. Thought you wanted to be alone.” Your eyes are burning holes into playground dirt, digging the sole of your old closed toe sandal into the woodchips.

“I wanted to say…that ‘m sorry.” He winces, it sounds pained. He doesn’t apologize much. “Sorry” is a word that’s becoming more common in vocabulary now that he’s met you.

God, you hate him. You’re considering taking your shoe off and throwing it at him.

You’re considering telling him to leave. But you won’t. You don’t want him to.

You’ll torture him a bit more.

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry.” He says clearly. Pitfully, pathetically. 

“I heard you.” You finally look up at him, your pink and slightly puffy eyes feel like a million tiny daggers into his body.

“So…you’ve got nothing to say about that? Nothing to say back?” He sticks his neck out. You roll your eyes and look away. You’re not looking at Gator, it’s making him ache.

“What is there to say? I heard you.” You shrug, pursing your lips together.

Gator sighs again, sliding his hands out of his pockets and pressing them against his back. He lets out a little groan as he stretches, he’s torturing you now.

“I guess you won’t be gettin’ my apology gift then.” He shrugs.

He catches the way your eyes shoot up. You’re a sucker for gift giving. Giving and receiving. Though you don’t get the latter much often from others.

Gator does his best to make up for it.

“Guess I’ll just return it, I got the receipt somewhere in my glovebox.” He shrugged. “It’ll just go back on the shelf and some other sorry boyfriend will buy it.” He sighs, kicking a few rocks. He’s putting on the most dramatic act to win you over.

And it’s working. God, you hate him.

He turns slowly and walks back to his truck, he can feel your eyes on him. He turns on the engine, but he’s not moving anywhere. He’s counting down. 

Waiting for it. 

It takes a little over 30 seconds. And then there’s the light knocking on his passenger window. Your silent way of asking to be let in. You can’t help but be polite.

He reaches over to push the door open, letting you see the surprise sitting on the passenger seat.

It’s a teddy bear with a little bow wrapped around it’s neck, as well as a fake flower that you can slip from its arms. There’s two party sized bags of your favorite candy along with it.

Worst of all, he’s buckled the bear in. The seatbelt is fastened right around its stomach and over its shoulder. 

You almost smile, you have to fight it, really fight it.

Yeah, he’s won you over. But you won’t let him know what yet.

Gator’s got one hand on the steering wheel, clenching and unclenching. His bottom lip is tucked under his teeth. He’s nervous. 

You purse your lips and clench your jaw, tilting your chin up as you inhale. 

You unbuckle the seatbelt and grab the bear from it’s spot, you hold it in your hands and stare at it like you’re analyzing it. You’re pretending to decide how you feel.

The poor teddy's little beady eyes are staring right back at you. You swallow your pride happily.

Gator’s already moving the bags of candy out the way so you can sit. His eyes stay on you while you hop into the seat. You shut the door and keep your eyes on the bear.

Gator tilts his head, he’s trying to look at you, get you to look at him. You rub one of the bear ears between your thumb and pointer finger, the fur is soft and a little silky against your skin.

“I’m still mad at you.” You let him know sternly, you still haven’t smiled yet.

“I know.” He sighs. He lets his hand fall from the steering wheel.

He grabs the bar under his seat and pushes his seat back, all the way back.

“C’mere.” He murmurs, laying slack against the seat. His hands lay flat on his thighs.

You slouch down into your seat and look at the side mirror, pretending to ignore him.

“Don’t make me ask you again.” Yet there’s no demand in his tone. But fuck, he’s worried he’s being mean again.

“You’re not even asking me. You’re just telling me.” You grumble.

But you go and you sit in his lap anyways, leaving the bear back on your seat and crawling over the center console to get to him. Lips jutted and eyes looking down and away from his face. You can see the cocky little smile blooming at the ends of his mouth in your peripheral vision.

“You’re so pouty.” Gator squishes your face between his fingers while his other hand lays against your waist.

The thing that’s changed in your personality now that you’ve gotten more comfortable with Gator. You pout a lot, you’re sensitive, you’re still quite shy. Just pouty too. Gator brought out the mouthy side of you that’s been hidden for years.

And Gator takes any chance he can to tease you for it. Because he’s Gator.

“I’m not pouty.” You grimace.

“Yea? Then what’s all this about?” He squishes your cheeks more and shakes your face lightly in his grasp.

“You.” Now you’re getting annoyed. You shove his hand away and move your head back. Your face seems to be stuck in a scowl.

Gators face slowly drops, he feels like an asshole again.

“Hey.” He says as softly as he knows how to, “Hey, ‘m not mad at ya.” The hand that you shoved away comes up to rub at your upper arm. Your fiddling with his hoodie strings, eyes focused on the way the gray cords of fabric twirl around your fingers.

Gator runs his hand down your arm and stops at your hand. He takes it into his, the rough pad of his thumb skates over your knuckles. He tilts his head down again, trying to get you to look at him. You give in.

Your eyes meet his and you swear you can see his face soften with relief.

“Look, ‘m pretty pissed you snuck off this late in the cold in this lil pair of shorts.” He mumbles as he tugs at the hem of your pajama shorts with his other hand, rubs at the fabric. “But ‘m not mad at you.”

A little sigh leaves you, you’re not sure how to respond. So he takes his chance to keep talking.

“Baby, I love you touchin’ me. I love your hands on me, all over me.” He takes your hands in his and presses them against his chest. You can feel the rump of his heartbeat under your palm when you press. “I love you touchin’ on me, yeah?” He brings up one of your hands to his lips, he presses kisses over your fingers, your palm, your knuckles, your wrist. 

He’s really trying to make it up to you.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset. I just- I had a shit day, I’ve been surrounded by asshole and fuckin idiots and- I was pissed off and I should’ve let myself cool down real quick before I saw you,” He’s rambling, this is new. “I should’ve told you I was pissed off and I could’ve- I should’ve been nicer ‘bout it. Should’ve been nicer to you.” His eyes are wandering all over as he fumbles through his words, looking everywhere but your face.

He takes a breath to swallow his own stubbornness.

“And I’m sorry, baby.” He squeezes his eyes shut and hangs his head a bit.

Good fucking god, he’s embarrassed. He can feel you looking at him and he wishes you weren’t, at least not in this moment. He can’t let you see him like this.

When he opens his eyes, you look away again. You’re biting the inside of your cheek.

“C’mon baby.” He murmurs, cradling his hand against your face, giving it a little push of encouragement to get you to turn your face to his. “I’m sorry.” You still avoid his eyes, he knows you’re waiting for more, you’re making him beg. This is a humiliation ritual for Gator.

He gets an idea and reaches over to the passengers seat where your new bear lays. 

“Gator’s sorry, yeah?” He picks up the bear, brushes the face of it against yours. The fake fur tickles your nose. Your face spreads into a meek smile. “You gonna forgive Gator? Gonna stop torturing him?” He keeps pressing it against your cheek until you can’t hold back and let out a little giggle. 

You grab the bear and he takes his chance to press a kiss against your cheek while you’re occupied. 

“Fine, fine.” You say through another giggle, Gator could faint at hearing your voice again. “I’m done torturing you. For now.” 

“Good.” He smiles. “You can get fussy with me all you want, I deserve that, but don’t go running off ‘cus of it.” He holds your chin gently, tilting your face down to give you a kiss to your forehead, the tip of your nose, then your lips.

You just smile and kiss him back before you wrap your arms around his neck, you smush yourself against him.

“I’m sorry you had a bad day.” You speak into his shoulder.

“You don’t gotta apologize, ‘s nothing. You made it better.” He feels like a cornball saying that outloud, but he can feel you smile against him, so it’s not too bad.

The two of you stay like that for a little while. Gator strokes his hand up and down your back while pressing little kisses to your neck here and there. Your shoulders loosen after some time, your chest rises and falls more slowly against his.

“You falling asleep on me?” He nudges you.

You absolutely are.

“Mm-mm.” You give him a lazy shake of your head. 

Gator pulls you away from him like he’s trying to take tape off a piece of paper without ripping it. Once he gets a look at your lidded eyes and pouty lips, he knows you’re about to knock out.

“Alright, time to go home.” He rubs his thumb against your cheek and you groan.

“Why can’t I just stay with you?” You whine.

Last time you fell asleep in his car, smushed against him, your neck hurt the rest of the following day.

“Next time.” He promises with a kiss to your lips. “Gotta get back to the ranch.” He holds onto your waist as you slip off his lap and onto the passenger seat, he’s pretending to guide you, he really just wants to hold you.

“I thought you were patrolling?” You yawn, leaning your head on his shoulder.

“Only to find you.” He kisses the top of your head before turning on the engine. You smile to yourself.

Once he’s parked outside your house again, he walks you to your window and lifts you just a little bit so you can sneak back in through your window.

“Get your little sneaky ass back in there.” He gives you a small swat to your ass and he can hear the little giggle you try to hide.

He passes you the two bags of candy he bought for you, you already carried your bear with you crawling through your window.

Gator finishes off giving you his gifts by leaning in and pressing one last kiss for the night to your lips, he lingers.

You’re just about to say goodnight and close your window when he stops you.

“Uh uh, screen back on the window.” He tells you with that stupid cocky grin. You roll your eyes but you listen anyway, you pick up the window screen from where it’s laying against your wall and shove it back into the windowsill. 

It’s annoying having to look at each other through the thin grid, you feel like some princess locked in a tower.

“I better not see you running around this late again.” He's still got that stupid grin on his face. He shoots a wink at you before walking away from your window.

“Uh huh. Later Gator.” You say with a sweet sweet smile, you know it pisses him off. 

And before he can fully turn around, you’re shutting your window and closing your blinds. You laugh behind your hand, you love torturing him.

Gator drives back to the ranch in silence. He yawns and runs his hand down his face to his neck, rubs at it.

He wishes he crawled through the window with you, wrapped his arms around you and stayed in your bed for the night. Feel your arms tucked around him and legs lay over his under the covers, feel your hands twitch the way they always do and listen to the little breaths you always make when you’re asleep.

His phone vibrates on the dash. 

It’s a text from you.

goodnight 💕

He’s so amused by you.

“Yeah, that's right,” he said, voice gravelly from behind you as he pushed a little too roughly against you, your hands sliding over the reports placed on the desk, scattering them to the floor. Neither of you cared enough to worry about what they might have been or if they were in any particular order.

“Gator,” you moaned, just letting your upper half collapse onto the desk, not trying to move away from him but instead giving yourself the leverage to hike one of your legs up onto the surface beside you, your right knee nudging the sheriff's desk lamp and almost knocking it over, as you spread yourself even further apart for your fellow deputy behind you.

“God, fuckin' good little bitch y'are,” Gator muttered, and you groaned, reaching back with your right hand to dig your fingers into your ass cheek, holding yourself open too, now, so Gator could see himself entering you. You heard him chuckle.

“Fuck me,” you whined in response, half sprawled out on his father's desk as he slid his hands to your waist, pulling you back onto his cock as he just kept pounding into you, the slap of skin on skin audible, the wet sounds of him entering and leaving your tight pussy just serving to make your clit throb, your tongue peek out of your mouth. You were so goddamn worked up you were fucking panting.

And Gator clocked it, because of course he did. He could read your body like no one else ever had. He laughed again, derisive—your pussy clenched down on him, and he groaned before he spoke, his hand skimming up your spine through your uniform shirt, because all you'd bothered to remove was your boots and pants.

“Losin' yer breath there, huh?” Gator asked. “Need it that bad.” That one wasn't a question.

“Yeah,” you agreed, knowing you were better off keeping your wits about you, since you were here for work, after all, but not quite able to shake it off. Gator was a motherfucker with a mouth on him, someone you wouldn't bring home to mama, but with how he took care of you in other ways, that was actually the perfect reason not to bring him to meet her.

“Need me t'fill up this perfect little tang a'yers,” he said, and you loosed a stuttering breath at how filthy he made you feel, the absolutely vile shit he said to you—the way it made you clench down on him, made the slide even easier because he had you gushing at the demeaning words leaving his lips.

“Please,” you moaned, and he shoved into you fully, and stopped.

“N—Gator, don't—don't stop,” you whined, and he just laughed again, pulling out of you, watching as your pussy gaped a little once you were empty, your slit fluttering around nothing.

“Turn over,” he said, waiting as you managed to flip yourself around on shaky legs, leaning back against Roy's desk, watching as he made sure the condom was still exactly where it was supposed to be, not paying you any attention at all.

Your arousal was running down one of your thighs as you stood there waiting, his thick cock jutting straight out from his front, curved up just a little, the rubber sheathing him shiny, doused with you.

“Lean back,” he said, stepping closer to you, and you did, bracing yourself on Sheriff Tillman's desk—your boss and his father, making all of this even more fucked up than it was—and before you really had your balance, Gator had hooked one of his hands beneath your thigh, pulling it up roughly, opening you for him again. He held onto it, crowding you, bullying his cock back into your loose pussy and you groaned as he bottomed out yet again, this time feeling his breath fanning over your lips and cheek, mint mixed with tobacco, his eyes on yours.

“Y'like me close like this, right?”

“Yeah,” you agreed, but you'd take him in any position in any place at any time. You weren't picky, not when it came to him.

“Yeah,” he sneered, echoing you. “Like ya like this too. Grindin' that sweet little tang all over my cock, go on, get movin'.”

He held your leg to the side, making sure that he had enough room to fuck into you as you balanced half on the edge of the desk, the wetness that had been dripping onto your thigh now smearing over his front as he rolled his hips against you.

“I said get movin',” Gator said, and with his free hand he reached back behind you, pressing his fingers beneath you to cup your ass so you were nearly sitting on his hand. It spurred you on—you bucked into him, feeling his cock press even deeper into you, drawing a groan from your chest as you felt his cheek round up as he pressed the side of his face to yours, grinning as he whispered to you. “Y'know yer mine, right?” Gator asked you.

You shuddered, nodding, but that wasn't answer enough for him. He squeezed your ass, squeezed your leg, pushing it back even more to spread you open further, fuck you even deeper.

“All fuckin' mine,” he said. “Ain't no one else ever gonna fuck you like I do, y'know that, right?”

“Yes, G—” you started to say, but he wasn't finished yet. His hips pressed tight into yours as he pushed into you all the way, stilling deep inside you. Your body was squeezing down around him, your walls clinging to him, pulsing, trying to entice him to start moving again, though the weight of him just resting inside you was still satisfying in its own depraved way.

“This pussy belongs to me,” he said, pulling out and thrusting back in. “This mouth belongs to me.” He let his lips brush over yours but didn't kiss you—he never did. “This fuckin' tight little ass belongs to me.” He dug his fingertips into the plush flesh of your backside so hard it almost hurt. “I think y'like that, don'tcha?”

“Yes,” you nearly cried out.

His cheek was against yours again, lips brushing over it as he spoke, the faint tickle of his eyelashes making you shudder. “Then give it all t'me, darlin',” Gator said. “Show me how much y'like it, c'mon.”

“Gator...” you whimpered, and he huffed a short laugh as your hands gripped his arms, shaky fingers pressing into his triceps.

“Fucked ya out already?” he mused. “Fuckin' pillow princess.”

You whined as his hand slid out from beneath your ass and moved to your thigh, splaying out there as his thumb crooked against your mound, sliding down to press between your labia. He rubbed at the hood of your clit for a moment before moving down just a little further, the pad of his finger finally making contact with your neglected clit.

“Ah, fuck, Gator,” you said, not dipping your head back but forward, resting your temple against his shoulder, tipping your chin to kiss his neck.

“Wanna feel ya come, ya little fuckin' slut,” he said, with as much affection as he could muster—which wasn't a lot, but you had done this enough times by now that you knew the tone with which he said it wasn't as harsh as it could be. “Know I ain't done 'til you are.”

“I'm close,” you said, grasping at him. The sun was rising higher in the sky—the other deputies would be arriving soon. Sheriff Tillman would be arriving soon, and if he caught his son with you in his office, one of you would be getting the boot and it wasn't Gator.

“S'prised it took this long,” Gator mumbled, rubbing your clit in slow, deep circles now, feeling it kick against his thumb, feeling your pussy ripple around him in waves. “Must be offa my game.”

“Tried to—hold it back,” you admitted, and Gator didn't pull away to look at you, just kept shallowly dragging his cock out of you and then pushing back in, giving you the depth and pressure you liked rather than the friction he needed.

“What fer?”

“Wanna feel you all day,” you breathed, and you felt Gator's cock twitch when you did, his hips rub against your thighs as his body tried to seat him even further inside you. It affected him, but of course he had to pretend it didn't.

“Think ya wouldn't if it was quick?” he said, starting to fuck you properly again, but keeping it slow for you, snapping his hips in at the last moment so his front hit yours with a little extra pressure.

You whimpered in response, and he fucked you harder, quicker, picking up the pace with his thumb too. After a few passes, he hit just the right angle, and your orgasm hit you, your whole body tightening up around him—vaguely, you heard him groan as he fucked into you one last time, his hips stuttering against yours as your orgasm pulled Gator's along with it, and you both rode it out together, his face pressed into your cheek, your lips kissing his earlobe, drawing it between your lips for a brief moment.

“Fuckin' shit,” Gator half-growled as he came down, holding onto you to ground himself before he even attempted to move.

“Jesus,” you sighed, as he lowered your leg back down but didn't pull out of you, your thighs tight on either side of his hips. You looked up at him, eyes meeting, and he studied you for a moment.

“Fit fer duty?” he asked, as he always did after he wrung you out, and you laughed, because that was what you always did too.

“As a fuckin' fiddle,” you replied, and Gator pulled out of you, the both of you flinching a little at the sensation of losing each other, not wanting to even if this was nearly an every day occurrence for you. You slid off of the sheriff's desk as Gator backed up, tying off the condom and grabbing some tissues out of his jacket pocket for the two of you to clean up.

“Got any more?” you asked, still wiping your thighs. “I'm, um...”

Out of the moment, you were never as good with dirty talk, but Gator didn't have that problem, even a little.

“Got ya soakin' wet, didn't I,” he said, handing you the rest of the tissues he had. “Had ya fuckin' drippin' down yer own leg.”

“Yeah, well,” you said, dismissively, but felt your cheeks burning.

He stepped closer, caging you in against his dad's desk, even though you were at risk of being discovered now more than ever.

“Yeah, well,” he said. “She knows who she belongs to, don't she?”

You swallowed, nodding.

“Who?” Gator asked.

You scoffed, not quite believing he was going to make you say it.

“Who,” he demanded. “Say it.”

“You,” you replied. “You, Gator.”

He put his hand on your hip, sliding it over your abdomen, his thumb dipping into your folds again to brush over your swollen clit, still sensitive and wet, making you tense a little. “Goddamn right.”

He tugged his pants back up, tucked himself away, left you standing at his father's desk half-naked and completely debauched. “Have a good day, Deputy,” he said, smug, and left the office.

&&

The coffee you stopped for an hour later did nothing to calm you the fuck down—in fact, it only made you feel even more wound up. Gator was probably doing a task for his dad—you'd heard the sheriff reaming him for something or other as you twirled your keychain around your finger and headed out to the lot to climb into your cruiser and take off on patrol, waiting to become useful to dispatch.

But it was a slow morning. You'd pulled off the highway just behind a low wooded area, hiding yourself from oncoming vehicles to try and catch anyone who might get the bright idea to speed in broad daylight on the open road, and sipped your coffee. You'd ordered it light and sweet, heavy on the sweet, and apparently the guy who'd made it for you didn't know what either of those words meant because it was still dark and barely tasted of sugar at all.

You nursed the steaming cup, settling back in your seat, watching for anything untoward happening on the highway, but you didn't spot much, other than people slowing down once they noticed your car as they were halfway to passing you.

Wasn't worth pulling someone over for going only a few over the limit. No, you were waiting for the small-dicked show-offs in their overpowered pickup trucks or bright and shiny sports cars, pushing triple-digits because they thought they could.

It didn't take long for your mind to wander—the radio chatter wasn't worth listening to, not really, so you put your tepid coffee in the cupholder and exhaled deeply, sliding a little bit further down in your seat and adjusting your seatbelt so it wasn't pressing against your throat.

Sighing heavily, you tuned back in to the radio for a moment as you heard Gator's voice.

“Anyone know what time the pizza place near the station opens?”

You snickered, and then laughed quietly to yourself as dispatch responded.

“Deputy Tillman, the radio is to be used for official department business.”

“Fuckin' hell,” Gator said back. “Just tryna find out when I can get a slice.”

“It opens at 11,” Lemley answered, and you just smirked as Gator thanked him and a different dispatcher admonished them both.

You let your head tip back against the driver's seat, your hand trailing over your thigh, clad in your thick uniform trousers. Even through the canvas, you still felt yourself get twitchy, your inner thigh jumping a little at your touch.

God, you did still feel him, even though it had been a couple hours since you'd hooked up.

You glanced at the radio—silent. Surely there wouldn't be anything going on so early this morning that you'd be needed to get involved with. You hesitated, then lifted your hand from your thigh to lower the volume. It was fine.

With your right hand, you unbuckled your seatbelt and with your left, you dug into your pocket for your phone, swiping to open it and navigating to your text thread with Gator, which was pretty much exclusively nudes and lewds that you two sent to each other as spank bank material—you didn't have much to talk about otherwise, truthfully.

Scrolling through the photos with one hand, you unbuttoned your pants with the other and tugged down the zipper, lifting your hips and shoving them down just enough that you could slip your hand down between your thighs.

This was some Gator type shit to do, for sure—you smirked, because just as the thought crossed your mind, you passed a photo he'd sent you of his cock, propped up on the steering wheel of his cruiser, his thumb curled over the head, smearing his precome away from the slit. You felt your pussy clench a little at the sight of him, and pressed your fingertips against your slit through your panties, but kept flicking through pictures.

You paused for a moment on one you'd sent, a shot of you from the waist up, one hand gathered in your hair, head cocked slightly to the side, the other playing with one of your nipples, lips swollen from how you'd been biting them. You studied yourself, then nodded approvingly. You were fucking hot. You rubbed at your slit, then stopped. You might be a little conceited but probably not enough to jack off to yourself.

Back to Gator.

You loosed a little groan as you slid your hand up your front and then back down into your panties, letting your middle finger slip between your folds as you kept looking through pictures—and then stopped, finding one he'd sent pretty early in your situationship, when you were both still walking on eggshells around each other and thus going all out in your dick and titty pictures.

His cock was flushed, red at the tip, drooling precome in a streak down the head; he was flexing it toward the camera, so you could see how big he was, how close to coming he'd been when he snapped the picture, his hand not wrapped around it but just propping it up on his palm.

“Shit,” you muttered to yourself, pressing your finger further between your labia to rub over your clit, sighing a little. You were still wet, even though you'd tried to clean yourself up; your fingertip was slicking so goddamn easily over your clit that you felt your nipples perk up in your bra at how easy it was to touch yourself. You were still fucking drenched, and you curled your wrist a little, the pad of your fingertip sliding down from your clit to your leaking cunt, rubbing at your entrance but not moving inside—this was going to be quick and dirty to try to get it out of your system, not you taking your time the way you wanted to.

You tapped the picture of Gator's cock, fullscreening it, and moved your finger back up to your clit, tongue flitting over your lips as you rubbed yourself, looking at the picture but mostly thinking about Gator, especially that morning.

“Ain't no one else ever gonna fuck you like I do," he'd said, and you groaned quietly, because god, he was probably right. It took a special kind of person to walk the line between generous and debaucherous, and Gator balanced on it perfectly.

The sound of your hand working between your legs filled the car, and you closed your eyes, but held your thumb on your phone screen in case you wanted a visual to go with your memory, and you thought of the way you'd felt his lips just brush over yours, the slight graze of his eyelashes on your temple, and your whole body gave a kick, your clit throbbing, your pussy desperate for something inside of it again.

“Y'know yer mine, right?” he'd asked you.

“Yours,” you mumbled, so fucking lost, a little embarrassed of the hold he had on you, but fuck if he wasn't right. You did like it, liked how possessive he was of you, how much he wanted you, desired you. If you belonged to him, you knew that the reverse was also true—he could claim your pussy was his as much as he wanted, but all that meant was he was yours just the same. Wrapped around your little finger.

You opened your eyes and looked down at the picture again, then frantically swiped back through them to find the one of him in the cruiser, because suddenly that one seemed like the right one to see at the moment.

“Fuck,” you said, loudly, because you were about to crest your peak, your finger slipping erratically over your clit, and you still hadn't found the picture you were looking for—and then all of a sudden, a knock came at your window.

You shrieked a little, your hand stilling between your legs, dropping your phone; it bounced off your thigh and slid down between the door and the seat.

“Hell you doin'?” Gator asked, bemused, a smirk on his lips.

“Gator?” you asked, mouth dry, cheeks burning hot. “What are you—?” You got half the question out before you saw his eyes dip down to your lap, and then back up to your face. His lack of a reaction told you he'd seen what you were doing before he'd tapped on your window.

“Open the window,” he said. “Don't move otherwise.”

“Gator,” you said, stern, and started to pull your hand out of your pants as you reached to depress the button to roll the window down.

“Don't you fuckin' dare,” he said, leaning half into the car. You thought for one hysterical moment he was going to kiss you. Your heart sped up a little in your chest, even though it was already fluttering.

But no—he didn't even look at you as he leaned over you, past you, his arm reaching for your radio. He turned the volume knob up until you could hear.

“—pond?” A pause. “Deputy, please respond?” the dispatcher was requesting.

Gator grabbed the radio with one hand.

“Go on,” he said, voice low. “Respond.” He pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, hanging half into the window of your cruiser, and held the radio up to your mouth while pressing the button on the side.

With his other hand, he reached down to cup his hand over yours, pressing your hand against yourself. Your breath hitched.

“D-Deputy sheriff, badge number 4101,” you managed to say, trying to keep your voice steady. Gator tucked his hand further between your legs. “All clear, all—all set. Musta accidentally hit the radio knob 'nd turned the volume down.” You looked up at Gator, who just about nudged your cheek with the radio, then slid his hand up just the same as you'd done, and then right back down, fingers lacing with yours as he moved them together, making the pad of your finger slide over your clit again. “Deputy Tillman is on scene,” you said. “No problems, thanks.”

“Thank you Deputy,” the dispatcher said. “Be more careful with that radio.”

“Will do,” you said, shaking a little, waiting for Gator to release the button that would transmit any audio from your cruiser, and once you saw his finger move away, you moaned, moving your free hand to his wrist, clinging to him.

“Jesus fuckin' Christ,” he said, tossing the radio into the passenger seat, the coiled wire bouncing around as he did. “Didn't give it to ya good enough this mornin', ya needed even more?” He crowded into you, even though he was leaning in through the window. “When I said ya were a good little bitch I didn't think you'd start actin' like y'were in heat. God damn.”

“Gator,” you whined, and he smirked down at you, pulling his hand out of your pants and then, as you watched, lifted his wet fingers to his lips and sucked them off.

“Get out,” he said, as he lowered his hand. When you hesitated, he jerked his head toward the backseat. “C'mon. Get movin'.”

You opened the door to your cruiser as he backed up a few steps, taking his hand as he helped you out and then walked you right past the rear door, opening it and waiting for you to sit on the back seat. You sank down and he glanced around, so you did too. You'd been so enthralled in what you were doing that you literally hadn't even noticed the way he'd pulled up in his own cruiser, mostly blocking yours from view from the road, and when he sunk down to his knees and curled his hands into the waistband of your pants, you just lifted your ass up to let him pull down your uniform pants and your underwear, which were so wet they stuck to you just a little.

“Fuck,” Gator said, eyeing the way your panties were almost soaked through in the crotch. He pushed your legs up a little, looking at you between them where he bent you at the waist. “Get yer boots off, gonna be hard enough t'take care'a ya in the backseat, ferget keepin' anything on.” He pushed your thighs up against your stomach as you reached up to unlace your boots, knowing full well that your wet cunt was on full display for him. You let each shoe fall to the floor of the cruiser, and then together you pulled off your pants and underwear—though Gator plucked those from your fingers. You watched, eyes wide, as he crumpled them up in his hand and then lifted them to his face, breathing in your scent deeply, his own eyes slipping closed.

“Mm,” he hummed absently, and then you watched, speechless, as he parted his lips and let the soaked cotton drag against his tongue. “Fuck, that's real nice.”

You could feel your heartbeat in your fingertips, hear it in your ears; beyond aroused, you watched as he lowered his hand to stuff your dirty underwear into his pants pocket, and then pushed your legs back up so you were open and exposed to him.

“Just a taste ain't enough,” he said, holding your gaze as he lowered his face down to your cunt, already pulsing around nothing, already way too needy.

His tongue dragged over your folds, and the warmth of it against your heated core made you shudder, your hands sliding down to grope at your thighs, holding onto them as he sucked at your slit, your cunt squeezing down as he did, wanting to suck something inside of it, hold it there, get fucked hard and harsh, but he wasn't giving anything to you yet.

No—he just moved up, his lips moving over your clit as he sucked at it, tongue circling it, probing at it beneath the hood, between your lips, teasing it as you moaned, loud and unabashed, feeling it throbbing the more he sucked.

“Gator,” you whined, and he didn't pull away to speak; he just groaned against you, sucking you still, letting his tongue cradle it with gentle pressure until you were reaching for him, his hair, his face—he cut you off with his own hand, letting your fingers move between his as he held your hand. You squeezed it, hard, as you felt yourself let go against his face, your hips rolling up against him as he moved with you, not pulling his mouth off of you even as you pushed at his hand, because it was too much.

He flicked his tongue against you a few more times, then pulled away, licking your arousal off of his lips before he gave your ass a playful little slap and leaned up, hands on the backs of your knees, holding himself over you.

“Whatcha think, princess?” he asked. “Make ya feel any better?”

You shook your head.

“No?” he asked, smirking. “You tryna say she aint satisfied?”

“That's exactly what I'm saying,” you replied.

He laughed, releasing one of your legs—you curled your own hand around your knee, holding it up for him—and dipped two fingers into your cunt, still willing and ready for him. When he did, your eyes slipped half closed and a low, heavy moan fell from your lips.

“Got it,” Gator said. “Feelin' all empty without me in ya, huh?”

“Yeah,” you sighed, and he dug his fingers just a little deeper inside of you, feeling your walls pressing around him as you squeezed down onto them.

“Look at her,” Gator said, twisting his wrist so his palm was facing up, curling his fingers to try to find your g-spot. “She knows, don't she?” He scissored his fingers apart just a little, stretching you, pulling another moan from you. You released your legs—they fell against him just a little, but you needed hands on your tits right fucking now; your nipples were peaked inside your shirt, begging for attention from you, from him, you didn't fucking care.

Gator's fingers slowed to a stop inside of you as he watched you practically tear open the buttons of your uniform shirt, pulling it open and then just yanking your bra up, tits spilling out from beneath the cups as they ended up atop your chest, pebbled nipples hard. You cupped them almost immediately, pinching and rolling the perked buds as Gator watched, almost as dumbstruck as you'd felt when he'd interrupted you.

“Lemme in there,” he said, but you didn't relent, just kept your fingers working over your tits, as he pulled his fingers out of you and moved them to his waist, undoing his own belt, button, and fly and shoving his camo pants down along with his boxer briefs, cock springing out of the waistband. He was pink at the tip, not reddened yet, not like the picture you'd been touching yourself to, but he was getting there and the thought alone made you groan eagerly.

With one hand, he slipped two fingers into a pocket of his tac vest; with the other, he braced himself on the backseat of the cruiser and leaned over you, pushing your left hand away from your tit with his face as he covered your nipple with his mouth, sucking at it and making your back arch up off of the seat.

“Feels so good,” you whined, flexing your hips, like that could get him to move any faster; he couldn't even see you doing it.

“Gonna feel—even better,” Gator said, still groping around in a different pocket, “in a fuckin'—minute. There we fuckin' go.”

He pulled away from you and you saw, now, what he'd been looking for—a condom. He tore the corner of the wrapper with his teeth and then, pushing himself so he was kneeling over you, his slicked-back hair brushing the roof of the cruiser, he pulled it out, rolled it on, and with no warning, no preamble, sank right into you, your position and spread legs giving him the easiest access to your cunt he'd ever had.

“Oh my god,” you half-yelled, at the same moment he grunted out, “Shit, fuck yeah.”

He started a brutal pace instantly, not giving you time to acclimate, not waiting to bottom out before he'd pulled back, instead just going at you right away, fucking you hard and fast and making you squeal beneath him as his hips pistoned against yours.

“Gator—!” Your voice was high and broken as you said his name, the cruiser rocking back and forth as he fucked into you, desperate, your previous orgasm doing nothing to sate you—you just wanted everything he could give you and then some.

“Uh huh,” he uttered, bracing his hands on the seats for a moment as he tucked his knees up a little, giving himself more leverage to drill down into you, his cock reaching so fucking deep inside your pussy as you wrapped your legs around him, squeezing his sides with your thighs as you fought to keep him pounding into you, wanting the residual ache from him inside of you for as long as you could keep it.

“Keep—fuckin'—just like that,” you mewled, then moved your left hand down to your clit, your right hand still tugging at your nipple, switching to rubbing over it at the same pace and rhythm as you moved your hand over your swollen clit.

“Shit,” Gator said through gritted teeth. “So fuckin' tight, can't—can't—”

“Come for me,” you said, and he glanced up at you, meeting your eyes—you'd never asked him that before, never took even a little charge with him. His hips faltered for a second, weakened because of how it felt for you to speak that way to him. “Go on,” you coaxed him, squeezing your cunt down on his length. “Come for me, Gator. Give it all to me—”

You gasped as his hips snapped against you, you echoing what he'd said to you that morning bringing him to the edge.

“Fuckin'—gonna,” he moaned, leaning down further over you, his face right above yours, his nose brushing against your nose as he looked down into your eyes. This, probably, was the most intimate you'd ever been, looking right at each other in the throes of passion; or well—lust, at least.

“Please,” you begged, and then your fingers slipped over your clit just right, his cock driving home into you, and your lower half tensed and then snapped, your hips curling upward and fucking your cunt onto his cock as you came, hard, so hard you had to close your eyes and let your jaw drop in a silent scream, breathy gasps falling from your lips as you rode it out on his cock, his front still slapping against yours, his rhythm becoming sloppy as he got even closer.

“Whose am I?” you asked, voice weak.

“Yer fuckin' mine,” he growled at you, his hips canting into yours as he came. “Yer mine.”

Your heels dug into his back, pulling him against you, your pussy quivering, overstimulated, as you held him inside of you, his arms failing, his front falling flat against yours. “Yeah,” you decided, “but vice fuckin' versa.”

He met your eyes from where his cheek rested on your shoulder, the two of you smirking a little. Then, like he wasn't entirely sure about what he was doing, he rose up just enough off of your body to kiss you for the first time.

You could tell it wouldn't be the only.

your thighs shook where they framed jim’s lap, his free hand braced on your hip while the other worked between your legs, fingers deep and slow and soaked.

you gasped, voice trembling as you moaned his name, breath hot against his neck. “jim- fuck- ”

his mouth twitched into a grin you couldn’t see, his fingers curling just right inside you, and he felt it - how wet you were, how the slick clung to his skin. creamy and warm, trailing down his knuckles and forearm in lazy, obscene drips.

“yeah?” he murmured, his voice low, smug, deliciously soft in your ear. “you like that, baby?”

you whimpered, hips rolling down onto his hand, your panties long pushed to the side, his old college t-shirt sticking to your back where you sweated through it. “mhm,” you managed, barely coherent. “so good- jim, i’m-”

he kissed the edge of your jaw, breath warm. “you’re fucking soaking me.”

you felt it, the mess you were making of him, dripping down his wrist, your body clenching greedily around his fingers with every slow thrust. and he didn’t stop. he kept watching your face, lips parted, flushed and glassy-eyed, like you were the only thing in the world worth staring at.

“just like that,” he whispered, fingers pressing deeper, “give it to me, sweetheart. let me feel you.”

your hand shot out blindly, catching the loosened knot of his tie and tugging - just enough to steady yourself, to pull him in closer, like your body was trying to anchor itself to him while his fingers wrecked you.

he was still in his work clothes, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, dress shirt slightly rumpled from hours at his desk - and now completely undone from watching you fall apart in his lap. his tie hung loosely around his neck, cool silk clenched tight in your fist as your hips jerked forward with another wave of slick heat.

jim’s leather watch gleamed under the soft bedroom light, but the shine was dulled now by the creamy slick that coated his wrist. it trailed down his forearm, catching in the notches of muscle, his knuckles drenched in your mess. he groaned when he looked down at it.

“look what you’re doing to me,” he muttered, almost dazed, like he couldn’t believe it. his fingers stayed buried inside you, slow and purposeful, dragging against that spot that had your back arching and your thighs trembling. “fucking dripping all over me, baby.”

you couldn’t speak - just nodded, clung tighter to his tie, chest heaving. every curl of his fingers made your eyes flutter, your jaw slack with quiet, ruined sounds.

he leaned in, mouth brushing yours but not quite kissing, his breath catching. “you always get this wet for me?”

you nodded again, helpless, desperate. “always. just you.”

that made something flicker in him - low and rough and needy. his hand flexed on your hip, his tie clutched tighter in your grip, the weight of him still fully clothed against your bare thighs, warm and solid. his fingers moved a little faster now, the wet sounds obscene between your thighs, your body grinding down to meet every thrust.

and he watched you - like you were the only thing in the world he wanted to see come undone.

“Yeah, I—sorry,” he says, bending himself at the waist too, draping his front over yours, his sweaty chest sticking to your back as he scatters kisses all over your shoulderblades. “You just—” he heaves a sigh, wrapping an arm around your waist to hug you like it’s an apology. “You get real tight when you touch yourself like that.”

You squirm a little underneath him, because you feel too wet and too sensitive and you still haven’t come. He pulls his hips back a little, and you feel his come start to dribble out of you and down onto your fingers, your palm.

“Well,” you say, turning a little to look back at him as he pushes himself off of you. “You know the rule.”

You watch as the smirk flits over his face, because he loves this as much as you do.

“Yes ma’am,” he says, straightening up, pulling out of you, tapping the head of his cock against your gaped slit a couple times, just for fun, watching you tighten up around nothing, more of his release oozing out of you as you do, and then he flops down onto the bed beside you, looking over at you with a grin on his face.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you did this on purpose.”

Steve lifts a hand, holds up three fingers, and shakes his head. “No ma’am, scouts honor.”

“Stop calling me ma’am, you weirdo,” you say, but there’s no malice in it. You push yourself up to your knees, move so you’re straddling his chest, and then without any further conversation or fanfare, lower your come-covered pussy to his mouth.

He wastes no time either, parting his lips against you and licking into your folds, tonguing your slit and moaning as he tastes himself on you, in you. His hands come up to grope at your ass, pulling you further onto him, holding you down, wanting his face buried in your pussy. Your grasp at the headboard, holding onto it for support as Steve laps noisily at you, his mouth sucking and slurping his own spend from inside of you, swallowing his release and your arousal both, eyes fluttering closed at the taste of you both combined.

“Steve,” you resume moaning his name, one hand slipping from the headboard as you press it to your clit again, rubbing at the sensitive bead as Steve eats your pussy with abandon, like there’s nothing else he’d rather be doing, ever. His tongue slides into you, your slit slippery with his come and your own fluids, and you shudder as you feel it drip out of you into his waiting mouth.

“Taste so—fucking good,” he manages to utter from between your pussy lips.

“I’m—close,” you tell him, and the wet sounds of his mouth on you resume, the feeling of his lips sucking at your folds, drawing them into his mouth, making you quiver on top of him. “Steve, babe, I’m—”

“Mhm,” he encourages you, tongue moving against you as he squeezes your ass, fingers pressing divots into you as he holds you down, and you grind your cunt down against him.

Your fingers slip over your clit at the perfect angle—finally, you found it again—and you keep doing it, pressing a little harder, moving them a little faster, and then, your body curls up on itself, your other hand leaving the headboard to curl into Steve’s mop of hair, holding tight to him as you tremble on top of him, your cunt squeezing down around nothing but his tongue, still inside of you, fucking into you as best he can while you’re so tight, and you tear your fingers away from your clit because suddenly, suddenly it’s all too much, it’s all way, way too much and you pull up and off of him, falling back and landing roughing on his chest, wetting his chest with your pussy, dripping come and saliva onto his front.

“Mm,” Steve says, and you glance up at him, still breathless. His lips are pursed, and he points at his mouth and then at yours. You slide yourself back, whimpering as his softening cock slicks through your folds, but you end straddling his thighs as he sits up. His hands land on your arms, pulling you close, and he takes your mouth in a searing kiss, lips pressing to yours. You part them, already suspecting what he’s angling for, and once you do, his part too, tongue slipping between your lips, pushing the mouthful of his come and yours into your mouth. You take it in, not pulling away, just kissing him back; you pass it back and forth, swapping spit and come until finally, you let it slide down your throat, the mouthful making you moan against Steve’s lips as the taste of both of you lingers on your tongue, the scent of sex still hanging in the air too.

Your cactus - they don’t come in litters by the way, they’re not puppies. A cluster, maybe? Either way I like that it leans. Gives it character. Who needs a fully upright functional cactus when the leaning one still flowers?

One more thing. You don’t need to apologise for the emails. Maybe I shouldn’t have listened to all of them. I’m glad I did though. It was good hearing from you, even when you weren’t really writing to me.

Take care. Gator.

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected] 

Date: 24 Oct 2025

Hi Gator,

House of Pain, huh? I’ve had “Jump Around” stuck in my head for five days. I’m blaming you for that. Coincidentally, it is my go-to song choice at karaoke. I know all the words.

If you can find a good audio-described copy of 2001 - A Space Odyssey, you should watch it. Your roommate is right, it is a good movie.  I took my dog for a walk earlier, before it got dark, and there’s a huge tree trunk that washed up years ago that sort of looms on the shore like the obelisk in the movie.  I thought about it, then I thought of HAL, then I thought of your software. Was it hard to learn how to use it?  Does your accent give it any trouble? Mine does sometimes when I use voice commands in the car, I’ll be trying to get it to call someone and it decides I’ve asked it to find directions to somewhere random instead. That’s annoying.

So you live with two other guys, and you have a support worker. What’s that like? How do you spend your days? One thing I remember is that boredom doesn’t suit you - I hope Britt has a lot of patience if she has to deal with a bored Gator Tillman. God help the girl.

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected] 

Date: 26 Oct 2025

Karaoke. I didn’t have you down for karaoke. I’m going to need to know more about this at some point.

The obelisk thing - okay, that’s a good comparison. I’m adding 2001 to the list. Britt has a whole system for finding audio described stuff, she set it up on my laptop, so that’s not the problem it used to be. The accent thing - yes, constantly. The software and I have an ongoing disagreement about certain words. It keeps hearing “marsh” when I say “wash”, which makes no damn sense. Mikey thinks it’s the funniest thing that’s ever happened to anyone. He’s an ass.

What’s it like living here? It’s okay. It’s a lot, sometimes, living with other people, but it’s easier than the last time I did it. Britt is good at her job and doesn’t take any of our stuff personally, which you have to respect. Dom is anti-social, Mikey talks too much in the evenings, and Greg - one of the overnight support workers - once talked me through a whole situation at two in the morning and then made me go to the ER anyway, which I needed but was being stubborn about. The routine helps. I’ve got things I do during the week that I didn’t used to have, a group I go to, a kitchen session where I’m learning to cook properly, Joshua twice a week, and I meet Dot most weeks too. The routine fills the days. Some days that’s enough and some days it’s not, but most days lately it’s been enough.

Boredom isn’t really the problem. Turns out there’s a lot to keep you busy when you’re learning to do everything differently.

What’s your dog’s name?

Take care. Gator.

****************

He books the longer session himself, which he knows Joshua notes without commenting on out loud. Two hours instead of one, starting at two in the afternoon, which means he should be inside and occupied at home through the worst of the early evening when the streets start filling up.

Joshua had been expecting it. Gator could tell from the way he’d sounded on the phone - not surprised by it, just ready, the way of someone who has already cleared the time in their head before being officially asked.

They don’t talk about Halloween directly. That’s not how it works, not with Joshua, not with this particular thing. They talk around the edges of it - about control, about the difference between responsibility and punishment, about the work of learning to carry something without being flattened by it. Joshua asks questions that don’t announce themselves as questions. Gator answers them as honestly as he can, which is more honestly than he could have managed a few months ago, which he thinks feels like something.

At some point, maybe an hour in, Joshua says, you know she doesn’t blame you for it. Not anymore.

I know, Gator says.

Do you believe it?

He holds onto that for a little while. Noise from the street outside carries through the office window - a child’s voice, high and excited, followed by the shriek of someone who has been successfully scared.

I’m working on it, he says.

That’s enough, Joshua says. That’s exactly enough for today.

The session runs the full two hours. By the time he’s out on the street it’s past four and he can feel somehow that the light has gone and Stillwater has committed fully to Halloween - he hears passers-by talking about the carved pumpkins on porches, and the strings of orange lights in windows. A group of small children cross the road ahead of him with an adult he can hear but not see, the adult saying wait for me, wait for me in the tone of someone who has been saying that all afternoon.

He finds the bus stop. He waits.

On the bus he takes out his phone and puts an earbud - just one - in. He navigates to the email - her reply to his question, received two days ago and not yet answered because he’s been thinking about what to say, which is new, the thinking before the saying, something Joshua would comment on if he ever mentioned it.

HAL reads it back to him in its flat generic accent.

Flynn.

Just the one word. Her dog’s name, given to him freely, like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world to give someone like him something he asked for.

He thinks about it for the rest of the journey. The bus moves through Stillwater’s Halloween streets, the sounds of it coming through the windows - laughter and doors and the occasional distant firework - and he sits in the middle of it with his phone in his hand and her dog’s name in his head and something happening in his chest that isn’t anything to do with the heaviness of the date, that is in fact the opposite of it.

He’s still sitting with it when the woman across the aisle pats his shoulder and says, have a good Halloween, honey, and he realises his face has done that thing it does without his permission.

Thanks, he says. You too.

He gets off at his stop. He walks the half block to the house, his cane finding the familiar path, the smell of woodsmoke and something sweet from a neighbour’s porch, and he goes inside and upstairs and sits at his desk and pulls up the email app and starts talking.

“Hey. Flynn’s a good name. Tell me about him.”

****************

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected] 

Date: 06 Nov 2025

Flynn sounds like exactly the right kind of stubborn. Mikey has opinions about the name - he says it’s a good name for a dog who knows he’s good looking, which I think is a compliment to Flynn and an insult to everyone else simultaneously. That sort of talk is pretty typical for Mikey. What sort of dog is he? Is he a mutt, or a breed?

It snowed on Saturday. First proper snow of the year - I knew it was coming, the air had been doing something different for a few days, that kind of cold that means business. But I still wasn’t ready for it. I was on the bus when it started and I could hear it before I understood what I was hearing - the sound the wheels make on the road changes, the whole of the outside changes, and then someone near the front said “oh, it’s snowing”, and I just sat there and listened to it come down. I don’t know what I expected. I’ve been in snow before, obviously. But this was different somehow. Quieter than I expected. It settled.

Group on Tuesday was good. Leticia was late - her car wouldn’t start in the cold - so we just sat there for a while, the five of us, waiting. Marie said, “well, I’ll tell you what I heard on the way here”. And she did. She talked for about ten minutes - the sounds of her street in the morning, what the coffee place on the corner smelled like, the noise of the bus she takes. Nothing about what she might have seen though. I don’t know if she knows she does that. I didn’t say anything.

Michael in the cooking workshop has started teaching me to bake. Cookies, this week. The first batch went about as well as you’d imagine - Michael was very nice about it, which tells you everything. The second attempt was a little less burnt. I’m going in on Tuesday with the goal of producing something actually edible. I’ll report back.

Take care. Gator.

****************

The storms haven’t arrived yet. They’re coming - you can feel it in the air, the sort of heaviness that settles over the coast before the weather turns - but on this mid-November morning it’s still walkable, the beach is still accessible, the sea is doing something dramatic but not dangerous in the grey light.

Flynn runs ahead. You walk. The usual arrangement.

You’ve been thinking about what to write back to Gator’s last email. Not anxiously - that’s new, the not-anxious quality of it, the way the back-and-forth has settled into something that feels more like conversation than negotiation. You’d told him about Flynn’s name origin, and he’d come back with a whole thing involving his roommate Mikey and a movie marathon and a very strong opinion about naming conventions for animals that you’d found genuinely funny. You’d written back the same night and told him about the Therapet training process, how Flynn had come to you as a failed police dog, already partly trained, already himself, just needing the right context to be useful in.

He’d said, “that sounds like most people actually.”

You’d thought about that for two days.

Flynn doubles back, checks on you, accelerates away again toward the northern rocks. You watch him go and take your phone out of your jacket pocket and think about writing something, here, now. You look out at the ocean, the vast grey ahead, knowing that somewhere out there the winter storms are building up.

You put the phone away.

You think, “I’ll tell him about the storms when they come.”

You walk.

****************

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected] 

Date: 24 Nov 2025

Hi Gator,

Flynn says thank you for asking, the groomer was great. He’s doing well. He had a very important Sunday last week - we went on a Therapet visit to a care home along the coast, his regular placement. He has a favourite resident there - had, I should say. She died in September. Her name was Mrs Okafor and she was eighty-four and she used to call him Ọba mi, which is Yoruba for something like “my king” - it’s lucky he doesn’t speak Yoruba because that would have gone straight to his head. Her daughter told me at the funeral that she talked about Flynn every week, and that she’d thought he was something her mother had dreamed up. She’d been living with dementia, so sometimes the things she’d talk about had happened forty years ago, if they’d happened at all. But he’s very real and he’s asleep at my feet right now, dreaming about something, his legs going nuts. Whatever it is, it looks like hard work.

We spent most of the afternoon there. There’s a man who’s been living there since 2018, Walter. His son and grandkids moved to Arizona for work last year and the nurses in the care home said they could see him fading every day, like he’d given up. No one else comes to visit him - except for Flynn. Walter tosses a ball every so often for him, which Flynn brings back each time, and they sit together and Walter tells him stories. Sometimes I stay to listen, but I always feel a little like a spare part - the residents don’t really need me, it’s Flynn they look forward to seeing. He’s very good at his job. The nurses say Walter’s doing better now. I hope that continues. I’m going to bring him some magazines next week - he loved going fishing with his son, so I’ll try to find some angling magazines or something like that.

Thanksgiving this week. I’m spending it with my friends Esha and Kim - they’re a couple, they live about ten minutes from me, they’ve been here longer than I have and they’re the closest thing I have to family out here. We used to host a big dinner for everyone in the community who didn’t have anywhere to go, which was a lot of people when I first arrived. Three years on, most of those people have coupled up or moved away or found their people, so now it’s just the three of us with too much food and a very competitive game of Scrabble that Esha always wins. I don’t mind. It’s warm and it’s ours and that’s enough.

What are your plans?

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected] 

Date: 01 Dec 2025

Sorry for the slow reply.

I spent Thanksgiving with Dot and her family. Dot is - she’s complicated to explain. She was my stepmom for a little while, before Karen, but when I think about it, she didn’t ever really feel like a stepmom. She’s only a couple of years older than me so that might be part of it. The truth of it all is pretty bleak. Anyway.

She’s been - she's important. That’s the clearest way I can put it. She got me out, which is a long story, and now we have coffee most weeks and she picks me up from Joshua sometimes and on Thursday she made me sit at her table with her family and pass the cranberry sauce and pretend I knew what I was doing, which I didn’t, but I figured it out. We never really did Thanksgiving properly, in Lehigh.

Her husband Wayne cooked. He has opinions about stuffing. Strong ones. I’m not going to weigh in on the stuffing debate because I’ve only been out of jail since May and I don’t have enough data yet, but I’ll say this - it was good. Dot’s daughter Scotty was there too. She’s sixteen and she doesn’t miss much. She’s a good kid. It was - it was okay. More than okay, some of it. I didn’t know what to do with most of it, if I’m honest. It’s been a long time since I was at something like that.

Your Mrs Okafor - I’m sorry. She sounds like she was something. Sounds like she had good taste in dogs, and people. Walter likes fishing? He’ll like the magazines. That’s a nice thing you’re doing for him. I don’t think you’re as peripheral to Flynn’s job as you think you are.

Esha and Kim sound good. I’m glad you have them.

Happy late Thanksgiving. 

Gator.

****************

The smell of it hits him at the door.

He’s been to Dot’s enough times now that the house has its own geography in his head - the three porch steps, the door that sticks slightly in its frame, the right turn into the living room, the left into the kitchen where the island is, where he knows to put his cane. He knows the distance from the front door to the couch. He knows which floorboard creaks in the hallway and has learned to step over it out of habit, though he’s not sure why, nobody minds.

But he doesn’t know this smell. This is new.

Turkey and something sweet - sweet potato maybe, or the cranberry sauce Wayne has been making since seven this morning according to Dot, who had called at eight to tell him this in the tone of someone filing a report. Underneath that, there’s sage, butter, cinnamon, and the dry heat of an oven that’s been on since early morning. It’s a lot. It fills the house. He stands in the doorway for a moment longer than necessary, just holding it.

“You okay?” Dot, from the kitchen.

“Yeah,” he says. “Just - it smells good.”

He can hear her deciding not to say something, which is its own kind of saying it.

“Come on in,” she tells him. “Wayne needs someone to tell him the stuffing is fine.”

“Is it fine?” 

“Oh yeah, it’s incredible,” she smiles. “But he needs to hear it from someone other than me and Scotty.”

He hears Wayne working at the stove with the concentrated energy of a man who takes his cooking seriously and knows it. Gator can hear him moving - the rhythm of someone who knows their own kitchen completely, who has been cooking in this space for years and doesn’t need to think about where anything is. He finds that comforting in a way he doesn’t examine.

“Gator,” Wayne says, without turning around. “Glad you’re here. What do you know about stuffing?”

“Nothing,” he says, as a cold Coke bottle is pressed into his hand. “Not a damn thing.”

“Perfect,” Wayne says. “Unbiased opinion. Try this.”

Something is put in front of him - a spoon, he thinks, and then the smell of it, sage and butter and something else, something that’s been cooking long enough to become its own thing. He tries it.

“It’s good,” he says.

“Of course it’s good,” Wayne almost laughs, satisfied. “Dot thinks I put too much rosemary in.”

“Hey, I didn’t say too much,” Dot cuts in, from somewhere behind him. “I said a lot.”

“Those are the same thing, Dottie.”

“They’re not.”

He stands in their kitchen listening to them argue about herbs with the ease of people who have been arguing about the same things for years and enjoy it, and something in his gut does something he doesn’t have a word for. Not envy. Not quite. Something adjacent to it, and also something else entirely.

Scotty arrives from upstairs at some point - he hears her on the stairs, the footsteps of a teenager descending without urgency - and she says hey, Gator, in his direction, which is a little warmer than the first dinner, and then she immediately starts an argument with Wayne about the music he’s got playing, which Wayne loses, and then the kitchen fills with something loud and vaguely familiar that Scotty informs him is essential Thanksgiving listening, which he has doubts about but doesn’t say a word.

He finds a place at the kitchen island and stays there. Not in the way, not quite participating, just being present. Learning the choreography of it. Dot passes him things without being asked - a dish to hold, something to mash, small tasks that fold him into the preparation without asking him to know what he’s doing. He notices she’s doing it. He doesn’t say anything.

At the table Wayne says grace, which Gator hadn’t expected - a short, plain thing, nothing elaborate, nothing like his father’s self-indulgent speeches - just gratitude for the food and the people around the table and the year that’s been. He sits with his hands in his lap while Wayne talks and thinks about the years before, the Thanksgivings in Lehigh that weren’t really Thanksgivings, that were just days when Roy was present and required things of people and called it a celebration.

This is different. This is the thing itself, he thinks. Whatever this is supposed to be - this is it.

“Could you pass the cranberry sauce?” Dot asks, to him specifically.

He finds it. He passes it. He gets it right.

“Thank you, hon,” she says, exactly as she would to Wayne or Scotty, exactly as though he’s always been here, exactly as though this is ordinary.

He decides to let it be ordinary.

Later, when Scotty has disappeared back upstairs and Wayne is doing something in the kitchen that involves a lot of clattering, Dot sits beside him on the couch.

“You doing okay?” she asks. Second time today.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think so.”

“Good,” she says, her hand on his arm. And then, after a moment, she leans in beside him, conspiratorially, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Save me from more playlist fights at Christmas?”

He thinks about it. About the smell at the door, and Wayne’s stuffing, and the cranberry sauce passed correctly, and Scotty’s playlist, and grace said plainly over a table that had room for him at it.

“Okay,” he says. “I’d like that.”

****************

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected] 

Date: 03 Dec 2025

Hi Gator,

December on the coast is a whole different thing from the rest of the year. The sea has been genuinely angry this week - two days of storms that kept us off the beach entirely, which Flynn took as a personal affront. He’s been pacing the cabin and whining at the door, stopping sometimes to look at me as if I’m responsible for the weather, which I’m not, for the record. We did get out yesterday when it eased off, but we stayed well back from the waterline - the waves have been coming up high and fast and neither of us felt like finding out what that felt like up close. The big logs on the shore have been rearranged by the storms, some of them shifted twenty feet from where they usually sit. Flynn assessed the situation and decided his usual log was unacceptable in its new position and staged a small protest. I let him have it. It’s been a hard week for the dog.

Work is steady. We’re in the quieter stretch before the end of year reporting period, which means I can breathe for a few weeks before everything gets busy again in January. I’ve been using the time to get ahead on some things, which is either virtuous or compulsive depending on how you look at it. Probably both.

I’ve been watching the weather reports for the midwest this week - I do that sometimes, check the forecasts for North Dakota out of habit. I’ve started checking Minnesota too, lately. How’s the snow in Stillwater? I keep seeing warnings for the region. I imagine the bus route gets interesting in winter.

I hope you’re keeping warm.

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected] 

Date: 07 Dec 2025

Flynn staging a protest is the funniest thing I’ve heard all week. 

Yes, the snow is definitely here now. It’s been snowing since the end of November, on and off. The bus route is fine - the drivers know what they’re doing and the city keeps the main roads clear. The halfway mark is different in the snow, the sound is different, the way the wheels sound on the road, the way the air feels when the doors open at each stop. Everything is quieter. I didn’t expect that, how quiet it gets. In Lehigh the snow was loud somehow, or maybe just everything around it was loud and the snow didn’t change that. Here it just settles. The whole city settles under it and gets quiet and I find that I don’t mind it at all.

I don’t know what the weather is like where you are now - I don’t know what it’s like on the coast in winter. But I remember what snow looked like in North Dakota. The plains especially. Nothing stops it out there, it just goes, as far as you can see in every direction and then further. I remember thinking it looked like the end of the world and also like the beginning of it somehow. I don’t know if that makes sense. Did it feel like that for you?

I’ve been thinking about Christmas. Dot’s already sent me approximately nine hundred messages about the playlist argument situation, which I’m staying out of. I told her she’s on her own with that one. Scotty and Wayne have these running battles about music - there’s nothing angry in it, but they argue and fight about bands and songs and playlists and. I’ve never seen that before. They fight like they’re having fun about it. I think they are. They always laugh, at the end.

This is going to sound strange. I was thinking about the office - the one in Dickinson, the main building. And I remembered you always had a little Christmas tree. In the corner of your office, or near your desk, I can’t remember exactly where. Little green thing, covered in glitter. Do you still have it?

Give Flynn a scratch from me.

Stay warm. Gator.

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected] 

Date: 10 Dec 2025

Hey,

I can’t believe you remember that tree. I bought it in K Mart in a rush one morning on the way to work, on a whim. I saw it at the counter and just grabbed it, and then once it was on my desk it looked so pathetic being the only Christmas thing in there, so I went back after my shift and bought the lights and glitter and paper chains and ornaments. I managed to fit everything in a box the next January and I stored it in the basement, beside the uniform supply room. The box is probably still down there. Maybe someone found it, and it’s being used again?

The coast is usually mild but stormy. It doesn’t get so cold where I am, but further inland or on higher ground it can get colder and there’s usually snow at some point. I mean, I say mild, it’s somewhere around forty-five degrees which is still pretty damn cold but not cold enough for ice or snow.  The rain, though. Some days the rain feels endless. It seeps in everywhere, into your bones even. It comes down hard and fast, then eases just a little before the wind brings in more heavy rain. It’s thick and relentless, every day. Weirdly, I like it. I like the dramatic weather. It feels like the whole coast is getting clean.

I remember the snow, and yeah, it felt like the end and the beginning all at once for me too. I remember how quiet the plains got, even with the wind. It was like a thick blanket had been laid out over everything. It was beautiful.  I miss it, sometimes. I miss parts of it.

How are you feeling about Christmas and New Years? Any plans? You and the guys in the home going out on the town?

Flynn appreciated the scratch.  I appreciated the email.

Talk to you later.

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected] 

Date: 16 Dec 2025

The coast getting clean - I like that. It sounds like exactly the right way to think about it.

I hope someone found the box in the basement. Things should get to keep being useful.

Christmas. I’m going to Dot’s - that was settled at Thanksgiving, her idea, I said yes before I’d finished thinking about it which seems to be a pattern when I’m with her. Wayne is already in some kind of pre-Christmas cooking preparation phase that Dot says is both impressive and exhausting. The playlist situation has escalated. I’ve been asked to weigh in and I’ve declined. I’m staying out of it. This is not my battle.

Mikey is going back to his family in Duluth for the week. Dom is moving out soon. Britt is taking some time off. The house will be quiet for a few days between Christmas and New Year, just me and the overnight staff. I don’t mind quiet. I’ve gotten used to quiet.

It’s been a while since I’ve done Christmas properly. A long while. I don’t really know what to expect from it, if I’m honest. Dot will make it okay. She’s good at that, making things okay without making a thing of making them okay. I’m grateful for that, even if I don’t always tell her.

Legally I am not permitted to go out on the town in any capacity. Strict ten pm curfew and regular drug and alcohol testing. I’ve dealt with it fine since May. 

What about you? Esha and Kim again?

Stay dry. Gator.

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected] 

Date: 21 Dec 2025

Hi Gator,

May is a long time to have dealt with it all fine. I’m proud that you’ve done that.

Esha and Kim are hosting Christmas Eve this year - their place is bigger than mine and Kim cooks so much you’d think twenty people were invited. She fills the whole kitchen with food, and we basically graze on it all night even after the elaborate meal she cooks to go with the snacks. There’s a loose group of friends they always invite for these things, some of them I haven’t seen for months. It’ll be good. It always is.

After that I’ll be on my own, which is exactly how I like it. I don’t fly home for Christmas - my mother is in Ohio now and going back invites questions I don’t have good answers for, and I’d rather not spend the holiday explaining myself or the last few years to people who knew me before. Flynn and I will stay here. I’ve taken some PTO over the holidays, and I’m looking forward to the time off. I’ll cook something good, drink something good, walk the beach on Christmas morning if the weather holds. 

There’s a real nice quality to the coast at Christmas when there’s no-one around - the sea doesn’t know it’s a holiday, the logs on the shore don’t know, Flynn doesn’t know or doesn’t care. Everything just continues. I find that comforting rather than lonely, which I know sounds strange but I think you might understand it.

New Year’s Eve I’ll pop into Tom and June Henderson’s place for an hour - they live nearby and always have people over, it’s warm and easy and I don’t have to stay long. New Year’s Day Kim drags us all out for a walk in the woods, which is non-negotiable and actually very good once you’re out there.

I’m glad Dot will make your holiday okay. She sounds like someone special.

Happy Christmas, Gator. I hope it’s a good one.

****************

You wake at nine, which is late for you, Flynn already at the bedroom door with the mournful whine of a dog who has decided that nine o’clock is a frankly unreasonable hour and he’s bored of waiting for you.

Your head is making its feelings known. Not badly - you’d had the sense to drink water before bed, which was the right call - but enough that the light through the curtains is doing something unhelpful and you lie still for a moment, taking stock.

Merry Christmas to you.

Kim and Esha’s last night had been exactly what it was supposed to be - too much food and too much wine and the bright warmth of a room full of people who’ve chosen each other, the fire going, someone’s mixtape doing its best work. Gabriel had been there, back from Stockholm for the holidays, easy and warm and exactly as he’d always been. You’d hugged him hello and talked for a while and somewhere in the middle of it you’d noticed - registered, filed, made note of - that there was nothing there. Not absence exactly, just… nothing new. He felt like someone you’d known a long time, comfortably, without a hint of a spark left between you. He felt like a friend and nothing more. You’d noticed that and moved on and had another glass of wine and danced badly in Kim’s kitchen at midnight, which was the right thing to do.

You noticed it again, briefly, walking home.

You’re noticing it now, and then you’re not, because Flynn is making a sound that means the situation has become urgent.

Alright, you tell him. Alright.

**

The beach is wild.

The wind is coming off the water hard and fast, the kind that gets inside your coat regardless of how well you’ve zipped and fastened it, and the waves are enormous - not dangerous, not today, but impressive, the kind of waves that make you feel appropriately small. The logs on the shore are half-buried in sand and stones from the recent storms. Flynn’s usual log is barely visible.

Today, Flynn doesn’t care. There are no canine protests today. Flynn is magnificent in this weather, bounding along the waterline with the loose joyful energy of a dog who has decided that wind is just more air and more air is always good. You watch him and feel, despite your sore head and the cold and the spray coming off the waves, something uncomplicated and good.

Happy.

The beach is completely empty. Just you and Flynn and the old logs and the sea, all of you exactly where you should be.

You walk further than usual. The cold is helping, the salt air cleansing, the cobwebs clearing with each gust. By the time you turn back you’re properly awake and your sore head has receded to a distant suggestion and Flynn is running circles around you with the enthusiasm of a dog who has thoroughly enjoyed himself and wants you to know it. He barks like he’s telling you all about it.

Good boy, you tell him. Good Christmas.

**

The shower is long and hot. You stand under it until the bathroom is entirely steam and then you stay a little longer. Then you put on the clothes you’d laid out the night before - the big soft jumper, the oldest pair of sweatpants, the thick socks - and you pad downstairs and feed Flynn and put the kettle on and survey the contents of the fridge.

Pastries. The canapés you’d made yesterday and wrapped in foil. The good cheese, saved for today. The bottle of something fizzy that’s been in the fridge since Tuesday.

You put the pastries and canapés in the oven. You make coffee. You find the tv remote.

This is your Christmas. You built it over three years, incrementally, one decision at a time - the walk, the shower, the movies, the food, the simple pleasure of a whole day with nowhere to be and no-one to perform okayness for. You love it. You love every quiet hour of it.

Flynn settles comfortably on the couch beside you, which he’s still not supposed to do, and you don’t say anything about it.

**

By lunchtime you’re two movies in and the pastries are gone and Flynn is asleep with his head on your thigh and outside the wind has picked up fiercely, the trees visible through the kitchen window moving in long slow sweeps.

The movie catches your attention again, and you laugh out loud, loud enough that Flynn lifts his head, half awake, before flopping back down to your thigh, and you reach for your phone before you’ve consciously decided to.

You stop, and put your phone back down.

You look at the television, where the scene is still playing, and you think to yourself, he’d find that funny. Not a general he. A specific one. You’d wanted to send him a message, a quick one, the kind you’d send to Kim or Esha without thinking - do you remember this, this bit, listen to this - and the impulse had arrived so naturally that you’d already had the phone in your hand before you’d caught it.

That’s not what he is to you, is he?

Flynn shifts in his sleep, his legs twitching, chasing something. You put your hand on him and feel the warmth of his chest rising and falling.

Outside the wind gusts through the trees and the coast roars somewhere below the cliffs and the movie continues, the scene already past, and you think, I could just email him. Not a text - you don’t have his number, he doesn’t have yours, that’s not what this is (is it?). But you could email him. Later, perhaps, when you’ve thought about what to say. Or you could not - you could just watch the movie, and tell him about it next time you write anyway.

You watch the movie.

You’re smiling, a little. You notice that too.

****************

New Year’s Eve he spends alone, which is what he wanted.

Mikey is in Duluth. Dom’s somewhere else. Britt is on vacation. The overnight worker - a newer guy named Pete who he’s met twice and likes - does his checks and leaves him to it. The house is the quietest it’s been since May, just the sounds of the street outside, cars and distant music and at some point the sound of people who have decided New Years Eve fireworks are worth standing outside for.

He’s in bed by ten.

He lies in the dark and listens to the house settle and thinks about nothing in particular, which he’s gotten better at. The year ending. The year that contained May, and the bus route, and the halfway mark, and Joshua, and Dot, and the group, and Marie’s yellow door, and the omelettes, and the emails. All of it fitting into the last seven months of one year, which seems impossible and is nonetheless true.

He doesn’t remember much about last New Year, and what he does remember he’d rather not. He knows where he was - Larson Unit, North Dakota, his second facility, the one that had decided early on that Roy Tillman’s blind son was worth making an example of. He knows what he’d taken to get him through the night, something that cost him more commissary credits than he had and had left him somewhere between sleep and not, and he knows what came after - the door, the hands, the fierceness of the things done to him by men who knew they wouldn’t be stopped, and others who let it happen. He’s learned, with Joshua’s help, not to follow that particular thread any further than he has to. He takes a long breath, counts to twenty, and comes back to tonight. The quiet house. Pete doing his rounds downstairs. Tomorrow, and Dot picking him up at two. It’s the end of a very long year.

He doesn’t need to see it through to midnight. He’s asleep before it arrives.

**

Dot picks him up at two pm the next day, which she’d arranged the week before, the way she does when she’s decided on something and he doesn’t really have a say in the matter. The curfew exemption had required phone calls and paperwork that she hadn’t mentioned to him until it was done, which is exactly how Dot operates. 

You didn’t have to do all that, he’d said, when she told him.

I know, she’d replied with a chuckle. Pack a bag, I’m bustin’ you out for the night.

The drive to Scandia takes the usual thirty minutes, no detours or diversions today. Dot has something on the radio - not the humming this time, just listening, comfortable in the car with someone else and not needing to fill it. He sits in the passenger seat with his bag at his feet and feels the new year begin through the window he can’t see out of, which is a thought he has and then lets go of, the way Joshua has taught him to let go of things that aren’t useful.

How was last night? Dot asks him, somewhere on the highway.

Quiet, he says. Good quiet.

That’s nice, hon, she says, with a gentle pat on his leg.

That’s the end of it.

**

The house smells different in January - woodsmoke and something baked, the dusty heat of the central heating doing battle against the cold coming in from outside. Wayne meets them at the door as usual, with the easy welcome of a man who is genuinely glad to see him arrive, which is one of the things he’s come to understand about Wayne - that the welcome is always real, never faked for his or Dot’s benefit.

Scotty is on the couch with her phone - he hears Dot chastising her for it as he’s hanging up his coat - and the huff of annoyance when Dot takes the phone from her hand and puts it on the table with a thud is as familiar as it is amusing. She reminds him of himself.

Hey Gator, she says.

Hey, Scotty.

They’ve gotten better at this, the two of them. The subtle calibration of how much space to take up around each other, how much to say and when to say nothing. She’s still cautious, still watching, still filing things away with the determined attention of someone who takes people seriously. But the caution has a different aspect now than it did at the first dinner. It’s not wariness. It’s just attention.

Wayne has made a casserole, which has been going since morning apparently, the smell of it meeting them at the door alongside the woodsmoke. Dot had told him this in the car with the satisfied tone of someone who knows Wayne’s beef casserole is worth driving thirty minutes for, which it turns out it is.

They eat at the table, the four of them, the new year settling around them. The conversation is easy - Wayne’s fishing plans for spring, Scotty’s band resuming practice next week, the incompetence of their bassist which Scotty describes with the exasperation of a girl who is fully baffled by the situation. Dot tells them about a book she’s been reading, the latest from the local book group she joined in the summer. He listens and contributes when he has something to contribute, which is more often than it used to be.

They’re talking about pets - Scotty wants to get a cat, which Wayne is open to but Dot is more cautious about, something about shedding and litter boxes giving her the dry heaves.

At some point, semi-related, he says, “…my friend has a dog. A German Shepherd. The dog does therapy work - visits care homes, that kind of thing.”

He’s smiling before he’s finished the sentence. He can feel it arriving on his face without his permission, the gentle joy of it, and he lets it stay because by the time he’s noticed it it’s already there and there’s not much to be done.

He hears Dot make a sound - not quite a gasp, something in the region of one - and then the small deliberate click of her teeth hitting her glass as she drinks.

Wayne says nothing. He chews on his casserole, deliberately, and Gator’s sure he hears Dot kick out at his leg under the table.

“Wait, hold on -” Scotty, out of the blue, her fork tapping the edge of her plate idly.

He turns his head towards her voice, hoping for the best.

“- you have a friend?”

She sounds even more bemused than when she was talking about her wayward bassist.

”Yeah,” he tells her, with more nonchalance than he thought he was capable of. He feels a younger version of himself smirk, somewhere deep inside.

“Like an actual friend? That you talk to regularly?”

“Every week or so, yeah.”

He can almost hear the cogs in her mind turning.

“What kind of friend?” she asks him, eventually. “Like - is this a blind friend or a crime friend?”

Dot makes another sound, less ambiguous than the first. “Scotty Lyon, that’s - that is enough -”

”What? It’s a reasonable question. It’s not like Gator’s got that many options -”

He hears both Dot and Wayne erupt, in their own quiet way, trying to shut down any more insensitive remarks and that’s quite enough Scotty and you can’t just ask someone if their friend is blind or a criminal - that’s not how things work!

He sits with it for a moment, then bursts out laughing, loud and loose with it. The table around him falls suddenly quiet, their familial bickering forgotten. He can feel all three of them - Dot with her wine glass, Wayne with whatever expression Wayne is wearing, and Scotty, indignant and prepared to wait for his answer - turning to look at him.

“Neither,” he says once the laughter has settled. “She’s just a friend.”

“She.” Of course Scotty picked up on that.

“Yeah. She.”

”Your friend with a dog. What’s the dog’s name?”

Someone’s fork scrapes on a plate.

“Flynn. He’s a German Shepherd.”

He hears her repeat the name under her breath, trying it out. “That’s a good name.”

He smiles again, deliberately this time.  “Yeah, that’s what I said too.”

He hears her go back to her food. He hears Dot set her wine glass down with great care. Wayne says something about the casserole that nobody quite responds to, which Wayne accepts with his usual equanimity.

The dinner continues, and New Year’s Day continues with it. And he sits at the table in the warm house in Scandia and thinks about a German Shepherd on a Pacific Northwest beach and a woman who told him the coast gets clean in the rain, and he lets himself smile about it because Scotty has already seen it and there’s no point pretending otherwise.

**

Dot shows him to the guest room later, long after dinner.

The room has been prepared - he can tell from the freshness of the air, the slight lavender hint to it, the way the space is clear around the bed, the nightstand accessible, his phone charger already in place within easy reach. Dot would have thought about all of this. Dot would have moved the furniture slightly, checked the route from door to bed to bathroom, done it quietly without making it a big deal. That’s who she is.

He doesn’t say anything about it. Saying anything would make it a thing, but he squeezes her hand once, then twice, and she says his name, just his name, before she goes.

She leaves him to get comfortable, and he finds the edge of the bed. The sheets are crisp and slightly cool the way guest room sheets always are, and the house settles around him - Wayne’s television playing low somewhere downstairs, Scotty’s music through the wall, the January snow coming down hard against the windows.

He gets changed, slips into bed, pulls the thick quilt up to his ears and thinks, this is a good place to be.

He sleeps.

****************

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected] 

To: [email protected] 

Date: 06 Jan 2026

Hi Gator,

Happy New Year. I hope the house was okay on New Year’s Eve - I thought about you, when the fireworks started going off along the coast. Flynn was unimpressed by the noise and spent the evening sitting on my feet, which I appreciated. How was dinner with Dot and her family? Any more music fights or has that all calmed down? The more you talk about Scotty, the more I like her. I think teenage me would have wanted to be friends with her.

I went for my usual long walk with the group on Saturday morning. The forest was quiet - it usually is in January, most of the day-trippers are gone and it’s just the regulars, moving through the trees in the cold and the wet. It was good. It’s always good. I looked like someone had turned a hose against me when I got back to the car, and Flynn didn’t look much better, but the wet was worth it.

I was talking to someone, on the walk. She said something that’s been sitting with me since - the details aren’t important, it’d take too much typing to explain and it’s too cold to type that much today. But I’d been talking about our emails, about who you are now and a little about what happened, and she asked me something I couldn’t answer.

So I’ll ask you instead, since you were there too.

Was any of it real? The outpost. Your apartment. That winter. Was any of it real, or was it just… circumstance? Two people stuck somewhere, in a shitty situation, making the best of it.

I’ve been wondering about that for a long time. I think I need to know.

Re: (no subject)

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected] 

Date: 09 Jan 2026

Yes. It was real. Most of it anyway.

The part where I. The diner. What happened there. That wasn’t real in the same way. It was a thing I had to do to get you out of something that would have been bad. Worse. And I know it was bad enough already. I know that, I do. I told you I was sorry for it and I meant it. But it was real, the outpost. The walk. And my place and everything before that. All of it.

It. 

It was the realest thing I’d ever had and it fucking terrified me.

I was in no position to be starting anything with anyone. You know some of what my life was then, maybe not all of it, but you probably know enough or can guess. And I knew that. I knew what it would mean for you to be anywhere near me or any of it and I let it happen anyway because I wanted it. Wanted you. That’s on me. I was selfish and I let it happen and then I had to end it the way I did because it was the only way I knew how to get you clear of what was coming.

I know that’s not an excuse. I’m not offering it as one. You asked me a question and I’m answering it.

It was real. 

And I’m glad you asked.

Gator.

****************

The email alert pings on his phone the next morning, when he’s sitting at the table with Mikey and Britt, listening to them bicker about the way she makes the coffee.

He holds the phone to his ear, and listens as the software reads it out to him.

That’s all I needed to hear.

And then - a string of digits.

I’ve made you use that speech to text software for too long. You can call, or send a voicenote, or text, or whatever.

He pushes his chair back from the table, ignoring Britt’s complaints when it scrapes harshly against the tiled floor. He finds the wall, then the open arch that leads to the hallway, then the bannister, then the stairs. Then his room. He listens to the email again, and again, making absolutely sure she’s given him what he thinks she has.

Her phone number.

He tells the phone to save it as a new contact.

**

He saves her contact as apt3b, not quite trusting himself to add her full name to it yet.

He doesn’t tell anyone.

Not Mikey, who is now echoing Britt’s complaints about the chair scrape when he comes back downstairs, and who doesn’t notice anything different in him because there isn’t anything different to notice, not on the outside. Not Britt, who makes a fresh pot of coffee with great pointed emphasis and slides a mug in his direction, almost goading him into complaining about it.

He doesn’t. Not today. (He finds Britt’s coffee to be better than Greg’s, but that’s no big compliment). 

He doesn’t tell Dot, who calls on Sunday evening to ask how he’s doing and gets the same answer she usually gets - fine, good, yeah I’m eating properly - and who he can hear deciding not to push for anything more, which is the thing about Dot, she always knows when not to push, and he’s grateful for it in a way he couldn’t have articulated six months ago.

He holds her number - the olive branch of it - like he’s shielding a spark from the wind.

That’s the only way he can describe it, even to himself. Something small and certain, cupped in his hands, kept out of the weather. Not fragile exactly - he doesn’t think it’s fragile - but it is private. His. The decision already made, sitting quietly in him, waiting for the right moment the way he’s learned to wait for things since May. Not anxiously. Just knowing it’s coming, and being okay with that, and letting the days be what the days are in the meantime.

Monday is quiet, and Tuesday is a full day.

The bus, the halfway mark arriving in the January dark because the days are still short, the icy cold of a Minnesota Tuesday in the second week of January. The group - Marie describing what she heard that morning, the sound of her street, the rhythm of it, less and less of what she might have seen - and him sitting with that the way he always sits with it, present and careful and not naming what he notices. Another kitchen session with Michael, something with fish this time, the smell of it not pleasant but he keeps it to himself. Joshua at four, the session running its usual course, him answering everything honestly except the one thing sitting quietly in his chest, which Joshua probably notices and doesn’t push on, because Joshua also knows when not to push.

He gets home at six. Mikey is watching something loud in the common room, the smell of whatever he and Britt made for dinner is lingering in the kitchen. He makes a plate of the leftovers and eats it at the table and washes up after, the ordinary end of an ordinary Tuesday, and then he goes upstairs.

Greg comes on duty later and sticks his head around the door at eight, the way he always does at the start of his shift. “Doin’ alright Gator?”

“Uh huh,” he says, fingers paused over the Braille book he’s been chipping away at for weeks. “Good day.”

“Nice,” Greg says, with a rap of his knuckles on the doorframe. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The door closes. The house settles. Downstairs the common room television is a low murmur through the floor, and outside the street is quieter, and his room is his room, the desk and the chair and the laptop and the phone on the nightstand where he left it when he picked up the book.

He sits on the edge of the bed.

He picks up the phone.

He tells the phone to open her details - apt3b, sitting there, the number underneath it - and he holds the phone for a moment, just feeling the weight of it, and the Tuesday evening quiet of the house around him.

Before he can think better of it, he tells the phone to make the call.

It rings once. He sits very still on the edge of the bed, both feet flat on the floor, his free hand pressed against his thigh. It rings again. He becomes aware that he’s holding his breath and makes himself stop doing that. It rings a third time and he thinks, she’s not going to -

Hello?

The word lands in the quiet room like something physical. Her voice, real and present and coming through the phone in his hand. He knows this voice. He’s been carrying this voice for six years without knowing that’s what he was doing.

“Hi, uh. Hey. It’s me. Gator.”

He hears her take a breath, sharp and involuntary. Then she swallows.

Gator. It’s really you. God…

Something happens in his chest. Not the breakdown of Dot’s kitchen, not the shaking - something quieter than that, something that arrives without drama and sits down and stays. He presses his free hand harder against his thigh, his fingers digging into the denim of his jeans.

There’s a long moment of quiet, where he just listens to her breathe down the line and knows that she’s doing the same. The house is settled around him - the television a murmur through the floor, cars moving along the January street outside - and none of it matters, none of it is the point, the point is her breathing in his ear and him breathing in hers and the six years between this call and the last time they were in the same space together folding into something smaller than he expected.

I wasn’t sure you’d call, she says. I thought maybe calling would be… I don’t know. I guess I just wasn’t sure you’d use my number. I was going to email you tonight actually, but… She trails off. He hears her swallow again. I’m rambling. Sorry.

“Jesus,” he says, and his voice comes out rougher than he intended, rougher than he was prepared for. “You sound just like I remembered.”

The silence that follows has a different colour to the one before. Warmer, somehow. Fuller.

She smiles. He can hear it in the way her breath changes, the slight shift in the silence on her end, Flynn moving somewhere in the background of wherever she is.

Yeah, she says. So do you.

He stays on the edge of the bed for a long time after the call ends, both feet still flat on the floor, the phone warm in his hand.

He asks HAL for the call duration. Twenty-three minutes and forty-two seconds. If anyone asked him what they’d talked about on the call, he’s not sure he could give a clear answer, but he knows it felt like they spoke for less time and somehow also much more time than twenty-three minutes and forty-two seconds.

He thinks, okay.