the pumpkin whore

Twisting soft strands around his fingers. Scratching lightly against your scalp. Pushing hair back away from your face whenever it falls forward.

Steve likes touching you. This is not exactly new information.

What is new is the fact your voice suddenly cuts off halfway through a sentence.

Steve glances down.

You’re asleep.

Completely asleep.

Mouth slightly parted against his shoulder, breathing slow and even, one hand still loosely curled in the fabric of his t-shirt.

Steve blinks once.

“…seriously?”

You do not respond, mostly because you are unconscious.

Steve stares at you for another few seconds before looking down at his hand still buried in your hair.

Interesting.

The second time it happens, he starts suspecting a pattern.

You’re sitting between his legs on the floor of his bedroom while he half watches a movie over your shoulder and half messes with your hair mindlessly. You’d insisted you weren’t tired less than ten minutes earlier.

“You literally slept till eleven,” Steve reminds you while separating sections of your hair carefully.

“I know,” you mumble. “That’s why I’m not tired.”

“Hm.”

“You’re so annoying.”

“You like me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Steve grins slightly to himself before dragging his nails lightly across your scalp again.

Your shoulders loosen immediately.

Another few minutes pass.

Then, nothing.

No response to his last comment. No movement either.

Steve leans slightly sideways to look at your face properly.

Dead asleep.

Again.

Still sitting upright between his legs.

Steve laughs so suddenly he nearly wakes you back up.

“Oh my god,” he mutters quietly.

By the fourth or fifth occurrence, it becomes less of a coincidence and more of a genuinely ridiculous amount of power for one person to hold.

Especially because Steve starts testing it.

Not maliciously.

Scientifically.

“You’re doing it on purpose now,” you mumble one afternoon, already sounding half asleep despite having argued thirty seconds earlier that you were “definitely awake.”

Steve, stretched out beside you on his bed, continues scratching softly through your hair with an expression of complete innocence.

“Doing what?”

“The hair thing.”

“What hair thing?”

“The…” You frown weakly. “The sleepy thing.”

Steve bites the inside of his cheek hard trying not to laugh.

Because it really is absurd.

You could be fully awake, actively talking, even complaining about not being tired at all, and within ten minutes of Steve touching your hair for long enough you’re suddenly fighting for your life trying to keep your eyes open.

“You’re being dramatic,” he says.

You squint at him suspiciously through obvious exhaustion. “You’re evil.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re like…” Another yawn interrupts you completely. “Like a tranquiliser gun.”

Steve loses it completely at that.

You fall asleep less than five minutes later with your face squashed into his chest while he quietly laughs into your hair.

After that, it becomes sort of unavoidable.

Steve starts noticing all the tiny signs before you even realise you’re tired.

The slower blinking. The way your body gradually gets heavier against him. The increasingly delayed responses during conversations.

And every single time, without fail, the second his fingers slide into your hair properly, you melt.

On the couch.

In bed.

Once in the passenger seat of his car while he waited for Robin to come out of Family Video after locking up.

Another time at the Wheeler’s house with your head in his lap while everyone else argued loudly over a board game around you.

“You cannot be serious,” Dustin says, staring at your sleeping form in disbelief. “How does she keep doing that?”

Steve barely looks up from where he’s still lazily playing with your hair. “Doing what?”

“She was literally talking.”

“Yeah?”

“And now she’s unconscious.”

Steve shrugs like this is completely normal behaviour.

Robin narrows her eyes immediately from the opposite couch.

“Oh, this is definitely psychological.”

Steve scoffs. “What does that even mean?”

“She’s associated you with sleep now.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is,” Robin says. “You Pavlov’d your girlfriend.”

“I did not Pavlov my girlfriend.”

“You basically turned yourself into a human melatonin gummy.”

Steve rolls his eyes, but his hand never stops moving gently through your hair.

Mostly because Robin’s not entirely wrong.

There’s something about the trust of it that affects him more than he expects. The fact you fall asleep so easily against him. The way your whole body relaxes the second he touches you softly enough.

Like some part of you recognises him as safe before you even consciously think about it.

That part gets to him a little if he thinks about it too long.

Which is why he tries not to.

Unfortunately for him, you make this extremely difficult one rainy afternoon a few weeks later.

You’re both curled together in his bed while thunder rumbles softly outside, Steve lazily tracing shapes against your scalp while you blink sleepily up at him.

“You know,” you mumble eventually, “I think my body’s accidentally been trained.”

Steve grins immediately. “Finally admitting it?”

“This is your fault.”

“My fault you’re always sleepy?”

“My fault for trusting you enough to fall asleep this much.”

The smile slips slightly from Steve’s face at that.

You notice immediately, even half asleep.

“What?”

Steve looks down at you quietly for a second before shrugging one shoulder.

“Nothing.”

“Steve.”

His fingers slow slightly in your hair.

“It’s just…” He huffs softly through his nose. “I dunno. Kinda nice, I guess.”

Your expression softens immediately.

Because there it is.

The actual thing sitting underneath all the teasing.

Steve likes being trusted.

Likes being needed in these tiny quiet ways that nobody else really notices.

The way you automatically reach for his hand crossing roads. The way you sleep better beside him. The way you unconsciously move closer every time you’re tired.

You shift upwards slightly against his chest until you can kiss him properly.

Steve kisses you back slowly, one hand still tangled gently in your hair.

“I genuinely think this is my favourite thing.”

Your lips twitch.

“Me falling asleep?”

“No.” Steve smiles faintly. “You trusting me enough to.”

Something warm twists painfully through your chest.

You kiss him again before you can think too hard about it.

Steve’s fingers slide slowly through your hair once more afterwards, scratching lightly against your scalp in that familiar absentminded rhythm.

Dangerous.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“You know exactly what.”

Steve looks deeply unconvincing. “I’m just touching your hair.”

“You’re literally weaponising affection.”

Steve starts laughing quietly while you attempt to glare at him through increasingly heavy eyelids.

“You’re already falling asleep,” he says.

“No I’m not.”

“You just blinked for like six seconds.”

“That means nothing.”

Steve grins down at you, still gently combing his fingers through your hair.

“You’re done for, sweetheart.”

You open your mouth to argue.

Then immediately yawn instead.

Steve looks so unbearably pleased with himself that you weakly shove at his chest in protest.

It does absolutely nothing.

Mostly because less than ten minutes later, you’re asleep against him again.

And Steve, unfortunately, looks far too happy about it.

You lay against the pillows in one of Gator’s hoodies and a pair of sleep shorts, half-buried beneath the duvet despite the warmth of the room. Gator had gone to make tea maybe five minutes ago, though time had become strange lately. Slow and soft around the edges.

The last two days had mostly been spent exactly like this. Bundled up in bed together watching films on your laptop or talking for hours in the dim quiet between them. Sometimes Gator would stretch out beside you with one arm hooked beneath his head while you rested against his chest. Sometimes he would disappear long enough to make you tea or something to eat, before returning to your little bubble of peace.

The soreness had faded slowly. Your ribs no longer felt bruised every time you shifted and the ache in your chest had dulled into something manageable, surfacing only if you laughed too hard or twisted awkwardly in bed.

It should have felt frightening, the isolation and in some ways it did. You were effectively under house arrest without any real understanding of what was happening outside the ranch gates. But at the same time there was Gator and somehow he had made this whole bizarre little isolation feel easier than it probably should have.

You had barely touched your phone since Sunday. You hadn’t needed to. The only people you wanted to talk to were already here. Still, sitting alone now in the quiet while you waited for Gator to come back, you reached toward the nightstand and picked it up.

The group chat sat at the top of your notifications like a natural disaster. Three hundred and fifty-two unread messages. You let out a startled laugh under your breath; there was no universe in which you were reading all of that.

Underneath it, though, sat a separate message from Hannah sent Monday morning.

Hannah: Hey, mom said she saw u @ work last night. Is everything ok with u?

Hannah’s mom had worked at the medical centre for years now. Nurse, local gossip pipeline, unofficial auntie to about half of Stark County. If she had seen you there Sunday night, there was no chance Hannah hadn’t immediately started worrying.

Hannah had always been like that though. Gentle-hearted. Out of all the girls, she was the one most likely to message you separately just to check in. A little knot of guilt twisted in your stomach for leaving your phone untouched this long. You typed back quickly.

You: Sorry 4 late reply! Yeah im ok, just me being a drama queen. wtf is going on in chat?

The message barely delivered before the read receipt appeared underneath it. Then typing.

Hannah: u sure? Joe said Tucker and Walker arent @ school either?

You sighed softly through your nose. Joe was Hannah’s younger brother and played football with the twins. Of course people had noticed they were absent. Still, you knew Tucker and Walker wouldn’t have said anything. Maggie had made the cover story very clear Monday morning and nobody in this family was stupid enough to go freelancing after that. You typed back anyway.

You: Yeah, Ford is letting them break early for summer.

The lie sat awkwardly in your chest. But there was no reason to drag her into any of this or scare her more than she already clearly was. Three little dots appeared again.

Hannah: Chat is all Paige drama. Come 4 a smoothie soon and I will fill u in.

You: Sounds good. thanks 4 checking on me :)

Hannah: Always <3

You set the phone back onto the bedside table just as a soft knock sounded against your bedroom door.

“Come in.”

The door cracked open and Maggie leaned her head around it, platinum bob immaculate as ever.

“Baby,” she said, “I know you’re resting but I can’t open this file on my laptop and I’m about three seconds from throwing it out of the window.”

You laughed softly and pushed yourself upright against the pillows.

“Okay, let’s not assault the electronics. I’m coming.”

You shoved the blankets back and slid carefully out of bed before following Maggie out into the hallway toward her office.

You moved around the side of the desk and dropped into Maggie’s chair while she hovered behind you, one hand resting on the back of it.

“There,” she said, pointing sharply at the laptop screen. “That bloody thing.”

Her email inbox sat open. One message already selected. You barely read the contents at first, too focused on the attachment Maggie had evidently been trying and failing to open for the last several minutes. You double-clicked it once. Error message. Clicked again. Different error. Maggie made an aggravated noise somewhere over your shoulder.

“I hate computers,” she muttered. “Nothing good has happened since people stopped using filing cabinets.”

You smiled faintly to yourself and clicked through another menu.

“Patience.”

“That’s never been my strongest quality.”

“No,” you agreed absently. “I’ve noticed.”

Another click. A permissions window opened this time instead of an error and you adjusted the settings quickly before reopening the file. This time the file loaded properly, a spreadsheet filling the screen.

At first you only skimmed it, your eyes catching disconnected fragments of information without really processing them; site numbers, lease IDs, pipe routing maps, buyers, shipping allocations. Then your brain caught up to what you were actually looking at. Blackridge. Not just one or two sites either, but every single one of them.

Your eyes flicked rapidly down the sheet now, suddenly fully awake. North Dakota. Montana. Lease holders, transport routes, processing stations, private buyers. Every connected branch of the operation laid bare in neat little columns across the screen. Their entire network.

A strange little chill moved through you. Slowly, you looked back over your shoulder at Maggie.

“How did you get this?”

Maggie’s expression barely shifted.

“I have my ways.”

Which was not an answer at all.

She tapped your shoulder lightly and you stood, still staring at the spreadsheet as Maggie slid smoothly into her chair. As you stepped aside, movement in the doorway caught your attention.

Gator stood there holding a mug of tea.

He had clearly paused halfway in after hearing voices, broad shoulder leaning against the doorframe with his eyes on you. You nodded toward the mug, and he crossed the room, handing it over carefully, before his attention shifted toward Maggie.

“You two workin’ on somethin’?”

Maggie looked up from the laptop then, sharp-eyed and composed behind the glow of the screen.

“Your contact at the State Commission?”

Gator frowned slightly, caught off guard by the sudden question.

“Leland Gilltand.”

“Did he say how the audit of the Blackridge pads went?”

“Um… freeze was lifted, but last I checked the full report weren’t back.”

Maggie nodded once.

“What’s the likelihood he’ll find something?”

Gator gave a small shrug.

“Ain’t got m’hopes up. I was jus’ tryna hold ‘em off a bit. Dunno if there was actually a problem.”

Maggie leaned back slowly in her chair, one hand resting against the armrest as she considered the screen in front of her.

“And if I were to give him an incentive to find a problem?”

You looked at her properly then, your brow furrowing as the meaning landed. She was talking about bribing him. Gator barely reacted, gaze shifting briefly toward Maggie like this conversation was not nearly as shocking to him as it was to you.

“He’s got two kids an’ a gamblin’ problem.”

“Excellent.”

Before you could even process her response, she leaned forward to retrieve her phone from the desk, already unlocking it with brisk efficiency.

“I have a contact at the EPA,” she said, eyes fixed on the screen while her thumbs moved across the keyboard. “All I need is Mr Gilltand to make a contamination report.”

You stared at her in open disbelief for a second, waiting for the punchline that never came.

“Maggie? We can’t bribe government officials.”

She lifted her eyes from the phone and looked at you steadily across the desk before lowering it slowly into her lap.

“Baby, there are many things you know about me,” she said calmly, “And I think today you might learn a few new ones.”

Maggie gestured toward the armchair opposite the desk.

“Sit.”

Then she looked past you toward Gator.

“Gator, close the door.” Her tone stayed even. Controlled. “Take a seat.”

Gator closed the office door with a quiet click before crossing the room to the second armchair beside yours. The armchair breathed softly beneath his weight as he sat down, forearms resting against his knees. Behind the desk, Maggie closed the laptop slowly.

“The world isn’t black and white, or maybe it is for everyone else. But I don’t see it that way.” Her eyes lifted to yours. “There’s a little sliver of grey in the middle where I like to operate.”

Maggie tilted her head slightly.

“How much is the Hawthorn costing?”

The question caught you off guard enough that you blinked at her.

“What?”

“The Hawthorn project.”

“Oh.” You frowned faintly, mentally pulling up the figures. “Um… last report I saw, I think it was just over three million.”

“And where do you think that money comes from, baby?”

You looked between her and Gator uncertainly. Truthfully, you had never thought much about it before.

You worked for the Grace Foundation. You helped design shelters and housing projects and rehabilitation centres. You dealt with contractors and materials and layouts and permits and furniture samples and endless administrative details, but the money itself had always just… existed. Projects appeared and somehow everything needed to make them happen appeared too.

The permits were always approved. The funding was always secured. Problems dissolved almost as quickly as Maggie learned about them.

You swallowed lightly.

“I-I don’t know,” you admitted. “I guess I just thought you, like… invested or something.”

A slow smirk pulled at Maggie’s mouth.

“Sure, baby. I invest. I invest my time, my temper, and my soul on occasion. But I also do a bunch of other shit I’m not exactly meant to do.”

Slowly, you lowered your mug onto the desk beside you.

“Like…?”

“I make good deals with bad people, sometimes I make bad deals with good people.” One shoulder lifted slightly as she held your gaze. “You think our building permits just fall out of the sky? That we never hit red tape because the government likes the name of a charity? No. They fall because I know whose mortgage is underwater, or whose kid needs a scholarship to Yale. So yes, I might test the limitations of the word legal now and then, but it protects this family, and I sleep just fine at night.”

You sat there staring at her, trying to reconcile the woman in front of you with the grandmother who kissed your head and spent hours debating wallpaper samples for women’s shelters because she believed traumatised people deserved beautiful places to heal. Did your grandmother just admit to being some kind of criminal? Your eyes drifted vaguely around the office.

“So you’re saying…” You gestured weakly around you. “All this? The house, the Foundation projects…”

“Some of it’s funded by property,” Maggie replied calmly. “Some by investments, some by donations, and some of it by things you’d rather not know about. But it all does some good. That’s what matters.”

You thought suddenly of all the things that had never quite made sense to you. The hushed phone calls behind closed office doors. The abrupt trips Maggie took for “meetings.” The way permits appeared impossibly quickly. The way men with important jobs always seemed eager to return her calls. Roy Tillman personally delivering paperwork to the house like a damn courier.

Things that had always felt unusual suddenly rearranged themselves into something else entirely. Not just social influence or wealth, but power.

“You okay with that, baby?”

You leaned back slowly into the armchair, trying to sit with the weight of it. The strange thing was, maybe you should have felt frightened. Maybe you should have been horrified. Instead, somewhere beneath the shock, you mostly felt… safer.

Like suddenly the shape of the world made more sense than it had an hour ago.

“Um… yeah.” Your voice came quieter than intended. “I guess I am. Why did you never--”

“Say anything?” Maggie finished easily.

You nodded.

“Plausible deniability.”

The answer came without hesitation. Then Maggie straightened slightly in her chair, all softness disappearing beneath sharp focus once again.

“Now,” she said briskly, “to the matter at hand. I’ve got my hands on Blackridge’s files. The attorney is already making a few of the land lease holders some irresistible offers, so at the bare minimum we’re about to put a hole in their finances. But if we can get the Environmental Agency to open an investigation, that hole becomes a crater.”

Maggie sat quietly for a moment after speaking, fingers resting lightly against the closed laptop before her attention shifted toward Gator.

“I also looked into that… thing you told me about.”

As she said it, her eyes flicked briefly toward you, deliberate in their vagueness. Before you could ask what she meant, Gator spoke first.

“Ain’t no need f'the secrecy,” he said evenly. “Y’can tell her now or I’ll tell her after. I ain’t keepin’ secrets from her.”

Your eyes moved to him automatically. Something warm unfurled quietly at the certainty in his voice. Across the desk, Maggie’s brow quirked slightly, though you caught the faint curl at the corner of her mouth a second later. Approval, in Maggie language.

Gator looked at you then.

“Told Maggie ‘bout them bikers,” he explained. “Ones watchin’ ya at the cake place.”

You frowned faintly as the memory surfaced again.

“Yeah. There were two of them. Kept staring.”

“Well,” Maggie said smoothly, “I found them. ‘The Hanged Men.’ Biker group operating out of a club called The Iron Pit. I’m still waiting on a few more details, but I’ve got reason to believe they’re providing security for the Blackridge crews. Hired hands, essentially.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound good,” you muttered.

“On the contrary,” Maggie replied calmly. “It means they can be bought. My pockets run deep and my patience runs thin.”

“I know a deputy works organised crime outta Bismarck,” Gator said. “Can give y’his number. See if he can help y’with it?”

Maggie smiled then, slow and genuinely pleased as she leaned back into her chair.

“I always did like you, Gator. Your daddy never does give you enough credit.”

Something unreadable flickered briefly across Gator’s face at the mention of Roy, though it vanished almost immediately. Maggie reached for a notepad and pen from the corner of the desk and slid them across toward him.

“Give me his number,” she said, “and your guy at the State Commission. I’ll make some calls.”

Gator took the pad and started writing. While he did, Maggie’s gaze settled back on you, softer now than it had been during the rest of the conversation.

“I didn’t want you involved in the bad stuff, baby. I never did. I didn’t tell you because you do the good. You handle the Grace Foundation, and you do a damn good job at it.” Her expression held steady on yours. “I needed you to stay good for me. Let me be the one everyone’s afraid of.”

Beside you, Gator tore the page neatly from the pad and handed it back across the desk. Maggie accepted it with a satisfied nod and tucked it beside her phone. Then, just as quickly, some of the heaviness lifted from her expression again.

“Besides,” she added dryly, “someone in this family has to be able to walk into a church without the pews catching fire.” Her eyes flicked toward you. “That’s your job, Baby. Mine’s just making sure the church stays standing.”

A short laugh escaped you before you could stop it.

“And performing acts of God apparently.”

Maggie chuckled softly.

“You’re giving me a little too much credit there.”

You looked between them both for a long moment before slowly pushing yourself to your feet. The truth sat strangely in your chest now. Heavy, yes. But clarifying too. All this time, you had kept your head buried in the sand because it had been easier that way. Easier not to ask questions. Easier not to examine the machinery underneath the life Maggie had built around all of you.

But you didn’t want that anymore.

“When all this is over,” you said carefully, “I want to know. All of it.”

For a second, her face searched yours like she was deciding whether you really understood what you were asking for. When you didn’t look away, she finally gave a small nod.

“Let me fix this mess,” she said quietly. “Then we’ll talk.”

You nodded back. Beside you, Gator rose to his feet too, falling into step at your side as the two of you left the office together and headed back down the hallway toward your bedroom.

Inside, the room still carried the soft warmth of the afternoon sun. The blankets remained tangled where you had left them earlier, your laptop abandoned open-faced on the bed. Gator crossed automatically toward the nightstand on the right side of the mattress, fishing his charger from the wall before plugging his phone in.

His side of the bed.

It was strange how naturally that had happened. A week ago you had barely let yourself think too hard about him at all. Now his boots sat beside yours near the door. His hoodie hung over the back of your chair. His phone charged beside your lamp like it belonged there.

This was happening fast. Maybe too fast. The last week had been so chaotic that you had barely stopped moving long enough to think about it properly. About what this actually was. About whether Gator even wanted all of this or whether circumstances had simply swept the two of you into something neither of you had paused long enough to question.

You had never really asked him, not properly. A strange nervousness tightened low in your stomach. Without saying anything, you crossed the room toward the porch door and stepped outside.

The afternoon air was cooler out there. You lowered yourself carefully onto the edge of the porch deck, bare feet against the wood as your gaze drifted out across the front pasture toward the gravel drive. The gate at the end of it was shut, you can’t remember the last time you had seen it closed.

A minute later the porch door opened again behind you. Gator stepped outside and settled beside you without speaking, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours briefly before he leaned forward, forearms resting against his knees. You kept your eyes fixed ahead.

“Thanks for that,” you said quietly after a moment.

“What’d I do?”

“You didn’t hide it from me, about the bikers.”

“Told ya,” he said. “I ain’t keepin’ secrets. Not from you.”

You looked at him then; he was already watching you. A small smile tugged faintly at your mouth before you turned your attention back toward the closed gate again.

After a moment, Gator spoke again.

“Maggie ain’t a bad person.”

“Oh, I know. Weirdly, I’m okay with it.” Your mouth curved slightly. “I think on some level I always knew she was sorta sketchy.”

Gator huffed a laugh beside you. Your tone turned teasing as you nudged his shoulder gently with yours.

“I mean… she does work with your dad.”

That got a proper laugh out of him, low and rough and warm enough to loosen something in your chest.

“And I know she does what she does to keep people safe,” you continued more quietly. “Everything with the Foundation… it’s about helping people. And she keeps us safe too. Just… I dunno. I’m kinda mad at myself for never asking.”

“I get that.”

Simple. He always did that. He never rushed to smooth your feelings over or tell you why you shouldn’t have them. Never tried to wrestle them into something smaller or easier to manage. He just met you where you were and stayed there beside you until you found your footing again. Just I hear you. You stared out at the gate again, thinking about how much you liked that about him.

The silence stretched comfortably between you for a while before you spoke again.

“Do you think… This is too fast? Us, I mean.” You swallowed lightly. “This has been a crazy week. I didn’t really give you a choice in any of it. I kinda just pulled you into the middle of the street in front of a speeding car and made you hold my hand. If you’re sitting there thinking this isn’t what you wanted, that it’s way too much… getting dragged into a stupid war…” Your fingers tightened together. “I’d understand. I really would.”

When you finally looked at him again, Gator’s brows had pulled together faintly.

“You’ve known me f’how long?” he asked softly. “I’m a Tillman. M’always in someone else’s war.”

There was no bitterness in the words. Just honesty.

“But this? With you?” A small shake of his head. “S’the first time I actually wanna be in the fight.”

Your breath caught slightly. Gator lifted one hand slowly, rough thumb brushing gently across your cheek before his palm settled there fully.

“I know how I feel ‘bout you,” he said quietly. “Ain’t been a week. I’ve felt like this f’years.”

A smile cracked softly across your face, his hand warm against your skin.

“Y’didn’t drag me anywhere,” he murmured. “M’exactly where I wanna be.”

Emotion tightened unexpectedly in your chest. You turned your head slightly and pressed a kiss into the centre of his palm.

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I really like having you around.”

Something softened in Gator’s expression then, subtle but unmistakable, before he leaned toward you and kissed you slow and sure, one hand still resting warm against your cheek while the wind moved quietly through the grass around the porch.

You and Gator stayed out on the porch until the sun started dipping lower behind the trees and the evening chill crept into the air. At some point Ford poked his head around the bedroom door to inform you dinner was ready. By the time you made it into the kitchen, the whole family had gathered around the dining table.

Despite everything hanging over the ranch right now, it was… nice. How every night since Sunday the house had filled up for dinner and stayed full afterwards too. Movies in the living room, kids half-asleep against adults, bowls of popcorn passed around, blankets dragged out from cupboards. Even Logan had been coming up from the Cabin and staying for it all, stretched across the opposite end of the sofa trading sarcastic comments with Gator during movies like they were teenagers again.

Maybe it was because Gator was here. Maybe it was because whatever weird tension had existed between you and Logan for years had finally cracked open and aired out. Either way, you had found yourself enjoying his company again in a way you hadn't for a long time.

Brooks had started lingering too, staying for dinner instead of disappearing back to the Cabin afterwards. Noah less so, but Noah had always drifted at the edges of things even when everyone else crowded together.

Tonight had been no different. Dinner stretched long and noisy around the table before eventually dissolving into another movie night sprawled across the living room. By the time the credits rolled, Josie was asleep on Ford’s chest, Rhodes was out cold against Tucker’s shoulder, and Nicky had fallen asleep halfway off your side of the couch with one sock missing.

Eventually, though, you and Gator slipped away. The shower together had become another thing you had quietly started looking forward to every evening. Domestic in the same dangerous, intimate way everything else between you seemed to be. Warm steam, tired conversation, Gator’s hands settling at your waist while you stood beneath the water together.

By the time you returned to the bedroom, your skin still carried the lingering warmth of it. You sat cross-legged on the edge of the bed in one of Gator’s old t-shirts, slowly dragging a brush through your damp hair while Gator stood nearby in nothing but his boxers, roughing a towel through his own hair with absolutely no care whatsoever.

A gentle knock sounded against the bedroom door. Gator paused mid-motion. You glanced up and your eyes caught briefly on the outline beneath his boxers before you could stop yourself. Gator noticed, a slow smirk spread across his face as he lowered the towel strategically in front of himself.

You rolled your eyes despite the smile tugging at your mouth.

“Come in.”

The door opened and Maggie stepped inside, closing it quietly behind her. As she moved further into the room, her eyes landed squarely on Gator standing there half-naked. One perfectly shaped brow lifted.

“Thought I sent you home for clothes.”

Gator sheepishly reached down to grab a pair of shorts from the floor beside the bed.

“Leave him alone, Mags,” you said, laughing softly.

Gator pulled the shorts on quickly before stepping closer toward the end of the bed while Maggie leaned back against the dresser. The humour faded from her expression a moment later.

“Both your contacts came through, Gator,” she said. “I’ve got EPA moving on their sites.”

Gator nodded, attentive immediately.

“As for our friends on bikes,” Maggie continued, “organised crime didn’t have much. Couple members with convictions, nothing substantial. But I pulled on a few strings and managed to set a meeting with them.”

You lowered the hairbrush slowly into your lap.

“Is that… When?” You stuttered.

 “Tomorrow night.”

“Where?” Gator asked.

“Their club.”

“Shouldn’t it be somewhere… neutral?” You frowned.

Maggie’s mouth curved faintly, calm and utterly unbothered.

“I’ll be fine, baby. I’ve got a plan.”

“Okay…” You set the brush aside fully now. “So what do you need from us?”

Maggie’s eyes shifted toward Gator then.

“From Gator, actually.”

Gator’s brows drew together slightly, confusion flickering across his face.

“I need someone with me. Someone who knows how to read a room.” Maggie’s tone stayed calm, matter-of-fact. “It’s been made very clear to me that neither of my sons, nor our dear Sheriff, are capable of keeping their emotions in check or their egos under control. They’re useless to me in that regard. But you, you’ve got your wits about you, Gator.”

“Me?” Gator asked in disbelief.

“I ain’t your daddy, Gator. I’m asking, not telling. If you say no, that’s fine, I’m not barking orders. You’ve got the choice. But yes, I’d like you with me.”

For a moment he didn’t know what to say, stuck somewhere between disbelief and something warmer he did not quite know how to handle. Maggie Heaton trusted him. Wanted him there specifically. Not Brooks. Not Roy. Him.

Most of Gator’s life had been spent with people expecting the worst from him long before he’d opened his mouth. Roy especially. To his father, Gator was tolerable when he was obedient, embarrassing when he wasn’t, and rarely much else besides. Even now, at nearly thirty, some part of him still braced instinctively for criticism before praise.

So hearing Maggie speak about him like that did something uncomfortable to his ribs.

But uncertainty followed quickly behind it.  

Because this wasn’t some harmless favour. Maggie was talking about walking into a biker club tied to Blackridge crews and sitting down across from dangerous people neither of them knew. Things could go wrong fast in places like that.

And then there was you.

His mind drifted once again, back to the kitchen after the bar fight, to you standing between his knees cleaning blood from his face while frustration and worry trembled beneath every careful touch. You’d looked at him like he was something worth being angry for. Worth protecting. Told him he was always throwing himself into reckless situations without thinking what happened afterwards and he didn’t want to be that man, not for you.

Maggie was still watching him patiently.

“It’s your choice, Gator.”

Slowly, he turned his head toward you where you sat cross-legged on the bed watching him.

“M’not doin’ it unless you’re okay with it.”

“Me?”

“Yeah. You told me t’stop bein’ reckless. T’actually think ‘bout stuff. M’thinkin’. An’ if you don’t want me goin’, or y’want me here with you instead…” He shrugged faintly. “Then m’not goin’.”

And he meant it.

Sure, there was a part of him that liked hearing Maggie say she trusted him. Liked being chosen for something other than his last name or his willingness to throw himself into ugly situations. But that feeling faded pretty quickly when weighed against you.

At the end of the day, there was only one person in this room, on this earth, whose opinion actually mattered to him.

Both Maggie and Gator were looking at you now, you suddenly felt very aware of how quiet the room had become.

Truthfully, you didn't know what the right answer was.

Some strange part of you felt almost proud that Maggie had picked Gator. Out of everyone she could have chosen, she trusted him. Trusted him to keep his head, trusted him to stand beside her if things got dangerous.

And if you were honest, there was something else warming quietly beneath that too; the fact Gator had listened to you. Really listened. What you had said to him that night in the kitchen after the bar fight had stayed with him enough that now, standing here, he was stopping to think before charging headfirst into something.

But none of that changed the fact this was dangerous. Neither of them truly knew what they were walking into tomorrow night. Maybe that was exactly why Gator needed to be there.

Slowly, you stood from the bed and crossed the short distance between you. Your fingers found the edge of his hand first, tracing lightly along his knuckles before curling gently against his palm.

“I don’t like it,” you admitted quietly. “I hate the idea of you in that club. Either of you. But Maggie’s right. You’re the only one I trust to keep it together and come back in one piece.”

His hand rose slowly to your cheek, thumb brushing warm against your skin.

“Y’sure?”

You looked back to where Maggie was still standing by the dresser.

“You’ll keep him safe?” Your voice tightened slightly despite yourself. “You both come home in one piece?”

For the first time since stepping into the room, something in Maggie’s expression softened completely. The sharp strategist disappeared for a moment and all you could see was your grandmother understanding exactly what you were asking her. Not about the meeting. About him.

Her eyes flicked briefly toward Gator before returning to you.

“That’s the plan,” she said quietly, and you believed she meant it.

You held her gaze another second before finally nodding.

“Okay.”

The moment the word left your mouth, Gator stepped forward and pulled you into him. Your cheek pressed against the solid warmth of his chest, his arms wrapping around you firmly enough that some of the tension sitting beneath your ribs eased. You could hear his heartbeat beneath your ear, steady.

Behind you, Maggie pushed herself away from the dresser.

“I’ll let them know we’re coming.”

You felt rather than saw Gator nod. A second later the bedroom door opened and closed quietly again, leaving the two of you alone. Only then did Gator loosen his hold enough to look down at you properly.

“You’re sure?” he asked softly. “Y’not worried?”

A tired little laugh escaped you.

“I’m terrified. But I think I’d worry more knowing Maggie was there alone.” You looked up at him steadily. “I know you’ll keep her safe.”

“Course I will.” His hand slid up and down your back once before stilling. “Jus’ don’t want y’gettin’ yourself into a stress. Y’scared the shit outta me the other day. Need you t’be okay. If anythin’ happens to you…”

You cut him off gently by rising onto your toes and pressing a soft kiss against his mouth.

“I’ll be okay.”

He kissed you again, one hand settling at the back of your neck while your arms looped around his shoulders. And as you held onto him, you tried very hard to ignore the small uneven jump your heart kept making every few beats.

・❥・

The Hellcat tore down the empty highway, fields blurred black beyond the windows, broken only by the occasional wash of headlights from passing trucks or the distant glow of farmhouses sitting alone against the dark prairie. The engine growled constantly beneath them; Gator could feel it through the floorboards.

Maggie drove like a woman with absolutely no fear of death.

One hand rested lightly at the top of the steering wheel while the other tapped sharp acrylic nails against the leather in time with some unheard rhythm in her head, expensive heels digging into the gas pedal of eight hundred horsepower.

Gator had never been in a vehicle with Maggie before, he was beginning to think that had been intentional on God’s part. He kept one hand braced against the passenger door while trying not to visibly react every time Maggie took a corner ten miles faster than any sane person should.

His thoughts kept drifting back to you. To your face in the doorway of the Big House when he and Maggie left. You’d tried so hard to look calm, but right before he climbed into the car he’d glanced back and caught your thumb already finding its way to your mouth, worrying at the edge of your nail in that nervous little way you did.

The image had stayed lodged in his chest ever since. Part of him was still wondering if this had been a mistake, not because he thought Maggie couldn’t handle herself. After the last few days he was half convinced Maggie Heaton could probably overthrow a small country if she felt motivated enough. But this still had the potential to go sideways fast, and if it did…

He scrubbed one hand briefly over his jaw. You’d told him it was okay. Told him you wanted him there with Maggie. Wanted him keeping her safe. And he was gonna do exactly that. Assuming Maggie’s driving didn’t kill them both first.

Maggie glanced toward him briefly before returning her attention to the road.

“You nervous?”

Gator thought about it honestly for a second. He’d been in rooms like this before. Rooms full of men looking for reasons to start throwing hands. Roy had dragged him into situations like that since he was damn near still a kid. He wasn’t sure that made him feel any less nervous though.

“We’ll be fine, I don’t walk into any room without knowing I’ve got the upper hand.” Maggie’s eyes flicked toward him again. “Just let me do the talking.”

A short huff escaped him before he could stop it. Yeah. He knew that line. Roy used to say the exact same thing before meetings, backroom deals, and intimidation runs all across the county. Gator already knew his role in rooms like that. Two steps behind.  It was all Roy ever really wanted from him anyway; Gator knew his place. He was there for the badge, the name, to look mean. A six foot deputy with a chip on his broad shoulders.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I know. M’two steps back ‘til someone makes a move.”

“No.”

The answer came sharp enough that he looked over at her. Maggie met his eyes only briefly before focusing back on the road again, headlights streaking pale across her face.

“If you’re coming with me, you stand with me, not behind me. I told you already; I ain’t your daddy and you’re not a child. I didn’t ask you to come because you’re a bit of muscle. I didn’t ask because you wear a badge. And I certainly didn’t ask because of whose son you are.” A dry scoff left her. “God knows that name’s more liability than asset most days.”

Gator stayed quiet but his eyes stayed trained on Maggie.

“I asked you because I trust you,” Maggie said simply. “You’ve got eyes. You read a room before most people have even found the light switch. I don’t need a guard dog, Gator. I need somebody looking for the shit I miss.”

For a second he genuinely didn’t know what to do with that.

Nobody talked about him like that. Hell, most days Gator figured people barely saw him at all underneath the Tillman name and the badge and the reputation attached to both.

But a compliment? Coming from Maggie Heaton? That meant something.

She could’ve brought anybody tonight. Roy. Brooks. Ford. Logan. Noah. One of the security guys she’d hired. Half the damn county probably would’ve shown up if Maggie snapped her fingers hard enough. But she chose him.

Maggie’s gaze flicked toward him again.

“Need you watching all of it,” she said. “You’re not my shadow. You’re my eyes. Got it?”

He nodded slowly.

“Yeah. Got it.”

The Iron Pit appeared out of the dark gradually. Maggie turned the Hellcat off the highway onto a long dirt road. A battered sign leaned crooked near the entrance.

THE IRON PIT HANGED MEN MC

One of the bulbs had burned out long ago, leaving half the lettering swallowed in shadow.

There was a parking lot off to the back side of the club house. The lot itself was crowded with motorcycles packed tightly together in uneven rows, chrome and black paint gleaming beneath the lights. The only vehicle among them was an old Chevy truck sitting crooked near the edge of the fence line, rust creeping along the wheel arches.

Maggie eased the Hellcat into a space near the edge of the lot and killed the engine. She leaned over the chair to reach her purse from the backseat and as she pulled it free from between the seats she looked at him.

“Leave the glock in the car.”

Gator’s eyebrows knitted. There was nothing casual in her expression. No humour either.  Slowly, he reached behind himself and pulled the .22 from the back of his waistband before leaning forward to slide it carefully into the glove compartment. The lid clicked shut softly between them.

Maggie’s hand was already resting on the door handle.

“Ready?”

Gator nodded.

The evening air hit cool against his face as they stepped out of the car. At first the place seemed empty, but the second they rounded the side of the building and entered the main yard, he felt attention settle onto them from every direction.

The yard was enclosed on two sides by buildings; the clubhouse and opposite a mechanic garage, the rest of it was walled by chain-link fencing. The place was full of men.

Big bastards too. Heavy across the shoulders, leather cuts stretched over thick backs and tattooed arms, the same skeletal insignia stitched across nearly every jacket in the yard. The whole place smelled like gasoline, cigarette smoke and sweat.

Above them the sky had darkened into deep bruised blue, the yard illuminated by lights mounted above the garage bays. Despite the hour, the mechanic shop was still running. One man crouched beside a stripped motorcycle with grease blackening both hands while another worked beneath a car raised high on a hydraulic lift, boots visible beneath the undercarriage.

Conversation had not stopped when Maggie and Gator entered the yard, but it had shifted. Eyes tracking them openly. Maggie either didn’t notice or didn’t care, Gator assumed it was the latter.

She walked straight through the middle of it in towering heels that pressed cleanly into the packed dirt, platinum hair shining beneath the industrial lights and an expensive handbag resting lightly against her wrist like she was arriving at a dinner reservation instead of a biker clubhouse in the middle of nowhere.

Beside her, Gator kept his attention moving constantly without appearing to. Faces. Hands. Exits. Distances.

Maggie walked straight up to the man guarding the door without slowing. The guy was well over six feet with shoulders like a damn refrigerator, huge and broad with a thick beard spilling down the front of his leather cut. A black bandana sat low across his forehead and tattoos disappeared beneath his sleeves all the way down to his knuckles. He stared down at Maggie like most men did when they underestimated her for the first time.

Maggie didn’t so much as blink. Gator let his attention drift briefly back across the yard. The men in the garage still appeared occupied with their work, but he knew better than to assume that meant relaxed. Nobody had stopped watching them since they arrived.

His eyes tracked upward. Two cameras mounted outside; one positioned above the garage bays and another pointed directly toward the entrance road. When he turned back toward the clubhouse, he spotted a third fixed high above the metal door, angled to cover anyone entering or leaving.

“You wanna let your boss know I’m here?” Maggie asked calmly.

The big man grunted but didn’t move. Maggie tilted her head slightly.

“Hurry it up, honey. My time is significantly more expensive than yours.”

The man’s stare hardened a fraction, though whether from irritation or amusement Gator couldn’t tell. Without taking his eyes off Maggie, the biker reached back and hammered a heavy fist against the metal door behind him.

A second later it swung inward and the guy moved aside.

Gator glanced through the doorway first. The entrance opened directly into the main bar area, dimly lit and mostly empty except for a handful of men wearing leather cuts gathered near the back of the room. One sat alone at a table while the others lingered standing around him.

Gator looked once toward Maggie and gave a small nod. She stepped inside, heels clicking sharply across the hardwood floor while the smell of smoke and stale beer settled thick in the air. Gator followed behind her and heard the heavy door slam shut at his back. Before Maggie could reach the table, two men moved to block their path.

“Search ‘em,” the seated man said.

The voice was rough and low, carrying easily through the quiet room.

One of the bikers stepped toward Gator, shorter than him by a few inches but built thick through the chest and shoulders. A worn name patch reading HARLAN was sewn onto the front of his leather cut above the pocket.

Gator looked at him steadily.

Harlan tapped lightly against his shoulder in silent instruction and Gator simply lifted his arms, letting the man pat him down. At the same time, another biker moved in front of Maggie and began patting her down too.

Something ugly flickered instinctively through Gator’s chest watching it. Some grease-covered asshole with dirt beneath his fingernails running his hands over her. But Maggie remained completely unbothered. Calm and still with an almost humoured look on her face, like she was letting children play out a routine.

Once the searches were finished, both men stepped back and looked toward the figure seated at the table.

“They’re unarmed,” Harlan said.

The man at the table chuckled softly.

“Not sure if that’s brave or stupid.”

Gator studied him properly. Older. Maybe mid-forties, long dark hair pulled back into a thick braid and a goatee framing a mouth that looked more amused than threatened. A faded black leather cut hung over a black vest, old tattoos disappearing across his chest and down both arms. Heavy silver rings wrapped nearly every finger. Similar name patch read BRIGGS.

Unbothered by the little performance surrounding her, Maggie stepped forward.

“I don’t need a gun to prove my point,” she said smoothly. “If I wanted you dead, you’d already be decomposing.”

For the first time since they entered, Briggs gave a genuine laugh. Beside the table, Gator reached down and pulled out a chair for Maggie. He waited until she sat, placing her handbag carefully beside her chair before taking the seat next to her.

Gator let his eyes travel slowly around the room while the silence settled across the table.

The place looked exactly like he expected a biker clubhouse in rural North Dakota to look; dark, stale and worn half to death. The hardwood floors were scuffed deep from years of boots dragging over them and the bar running along the far wall had cigarette burns scattered across the lacquer. Neon beer signs buzzed faintly overhead, one flickering every few seconds like it was on the verge of giving up. It was industrial, dirty, barely functional.

The two men who had searched them drifted toward the bar and perched on stools near the table without fully sitting back. Harlan stayed broad and still, arms folded heavily across his chest, while the other man lounged looser beside him. PIKE. Gator read the name off the worn patch sewn onto his cut.

He watched them both quietly while Maggie spoke, paying more attention to how they moved than what they looked like. People told on themselves in their movements long before they did with words.

“You need to work on the hospitality,” Maggie said smoothly. “The gargoyle on the door could do with some manners.”

Briggs snorted.

“We don’t keep ‘im around for ‘is manners.”

“Must be his shining personality then.”

The sarcasm in Maggie’s voice was dry enough to peel paint. Across from them, Briggs leaned back further in his chair like he was trying to occupy as much space as physically possible.

“I gotta say, I heard rumours of the infamous Maggie Heaton. Thought you was smart.” His eyes slid briefly toward Gator. “Walkin’ into the lion’s den with just a pup for protection. Bold move.”

“You suggesting I need protection?” Maggie asked lightly. “Thought this was a conversation.”

Gator barely reacted to the comment. Men like Briggs always did the same thing first; chest puffing, little dominance games, seeing who flinched earliest. Instead, he kept scanning. Pike caught his attention, the guy’s eyes kept shifting toward the back room every time Briggs spoke, subtle enough most people probably wouldn’t notice but frequent enough to matter. Nervous, possibly. Waiting for approval maybe. Or worried someone else was listening.

Gator’s gaze drifted back toward Briggs.

The man sat cocky. Legs spread wide beneath the table; one arm hooked lazily over the back of the chair. Every inch of him screamed practiced intimidation. Gator’s eyes moved over the patches on the front of the leather cut. BISMARCK over the left breast above the name patch, while the right side carried two more titles in black and dark red thread. FIRST 9. VICE PRESIDENT.

Gator’s brow furrowed slightly. Vice President. Not the man in charge. And judging by Maggie’s posture, she hadn’t clocked it yet.

“Not sure we’ve got much to talk about,” Briggs said.

“You can cut the crap. You know why I’m here.” Maggie leaned back slightly. “Blackridge. What do they want?”

“Never heard of ‘em.” Briggs shrugged lazily.

Under the table, Gator nudged the back leg of Maggie’s chair lightly with the heel of his boot. When she glanced sideways toward him, he tapped twice against the right side of his own chest without fully looking at her, subtle enough the others would miss it if they weren’t paying attention. Then he brushed imaginary lint from his shirt and resumed scanning the room like nothing had happened. A second later Maggie laughed softly.

“Okay, I’m not playing games with the help.”

Briggs’ face darkened instantly, Maggie continued before he could speak.

“Alright, I’m done with the children. Why don’t we let the grown-ups talk before your Vice President here gets himself into a situation he can’t unfuck?” She said, voice carrying louder now through the clubhouse.

Briggs shoved his chair backward hard enough that the legs screeched against the floor. Gator turned instantly, assessing distance, hands, angles. But before Briggs could say a word, the door behind him creaked open.

“Sit down, Briggs. You’re giving the lady a headache.”

The voice rolled through the room rough as grinding stones. Every biker in the room straightened.

The man stepping from the back room was older than Briggs and carried himself cleaner. Still broad, still dangerous looking. But deliberate where Briggs was loud. Bright white hair combed back at his temples and his beard was trimmed neat instead of wild. His leather cut carried only one patch across the front. PRESIDENT.

He dragged a chair over for himself and sat at the table without hurry. Gator watched him closely; calm eyes, controlled movements, no wasted energy. This was the actual threat in the room.

“Are we done with the dramatics now?” Maggie glanced around the clubhouse. “Feel like I’m sat in community theatre.”

The man smiled slightly.

“My apologies, ma’am. My Vice President sometimes forgets how we speak to guests.”

He shot Briggs a warning look sharp enough that Briggs immediately sat back down without argument. Interesting, thought Gator. There was tension there.

“I’m Cal,” he said. “Presuming you’re Maggie.” His eyes flicked to Gator. “Who’s the boy?”

“Gator,” Gator grunted.

One corner of Cal’s mouth twitched.

“Interesting name.”

“Great,” Maggie cut in. “Now we’re all introduced, are you going to give me some answers?”

Cal leaned back slightly in the chair.

“Well. That depends what you wanna know.”

“Blackridge.” Maggie folded one leg neatly over the other. “What do they want?”

“Unfortunately, I’m not at liberty to tell you that.” Cal shrugged lightly. “See, I was paid to do a job and keep quiet about it.”

Gator looked toward Maggie then and caught the slight curl at the edge of her mouth. Not angry. No, this was… satisfaction.

“I want it on record, Cal, that I tried to do this the neighbourly way.” She gestured lightly around the room. “I sat here. I entertained the posturing. I’ve been patient and polite. I really do try to lead with the carrot. But sometimes people are just too stubborn to see what’s good for them.”

She reached into her handbag then and withdrew a thin manila folder. Gator watched every biker in the room track the movement. Maggie slid the folder across the scarred tabletop until it stopped directly in front of Cal’s folded hands.

“So,” she said softly, “let’s introduce the stick.”

Cal looked down at the folder, then back at Maggie, searching her face carefully for a bluff. Apparently he didn’t find one. He opened it and Gator watched as his eyes move across the pages.

“What’s this?” Cal frowned slightly. “Land leases?”

“I spent my morning buying up the ground beneath your feet, Mr Calvin Dorsey.”

That got a reaction, Cal’s eyes lifted immediately at the sound of his full name. Maggie smiled politely.

“This clubhouse. The garages. The bar in Dickinson. I own it all.” A slight tilt of her head. “Every square inch of dirt you’re currently occupying… it’s mine.”

To Gator’s left, Briggs visibly tensed. The man started to speak, but Cal lifted one hand slightly without even looking at him. Briggs shut up instantly. Cal never took his eyes off Maggie, his face gave away almost nothing, but Gator could still see it. The moment the balance shifted.

Maggie had won.

“So here’s the reality,” Maggie continued evenly. “You can keep your deal with Blackridge. Stay quiet, keep cashing their checks. And by Monday morning I’ll have sold this place to a developer who wants to tear it down and build a strip mall. A king with no kingdom, Mr Dorsey.”

Gator watched Cal’s hands then, not his face, the hands told the truth first. Knuckles tightening slightly against the edge of the folder.

“Or,” Maggie continued, “you can give me the answers I’m looking for, cut your ties with Blackridge and come work for me. You see, I’m a much better friend than I am an enemy.”

Her fingers tapped lightly against the file.

“According to this, we’re business partners now. And I do like when my businesses thrive. You want those garage books full? Want the bar filled every night? Want to…” her gaze swept the clubhouse, “spruce the place up a little? I can make that happen. Or you can keep playing foot soldier for the other team and I can liquidate the whole lot and buy myself a nice new purse.” Her eyes locked onto Cal’s. “Choice is yours.”

Cal closed the file carefully and slid it back across the table using a single finger. For the first time since sitting down, some of the ease had disappeared from his face, his jaw tightened slightly as he turned his head toward Briggs.

“Out. Take them with you.”

Gator watched Briggs’ expression harden for half a second before he pushed himself away from the table. Pike and Harlan followed after him without argument, stools scraping against the floorboards as all three men moved toward the front door. A second later the heavy metal door swung open and slammed shut behind them.

Cal’s eyes returned to Maggie.

“I was warned about you, Ms Heaton,” he admitted. “Seems I shoulda listened. What d’you wanna know?”

“I want to know what you know,” Maggie replied calmly. “Who they are, what they want, and why they’re hiring bikers to stalk my family.”

Cal exhaled once through his nose before standing from the table. He crossed toward the bar without hurry, reached over it for three glasses and a bottle of whiskey, then carried them back. The glasses clinked softly against the tabletop as he poured.

“They started small, over in Montana under a different name. Logistics mostly. Trucking.” He slid one of the glasses toward Maggie and another toward Gator. “But they weren’t moving much oil back then.”

The whiskey bottle knocked lightly against the table as he set it down.

“They were moving weight. Coke. Crystal. Smack.” A shrug. “Hell, probably all of it. Oil was just camouflage. Half a truck full of crude, half a truck full of drugs.”

Maggie’s expression remained unreadable.

“So why move the operation here?”

“Access.” Cal rubbed a hand over his jaw. “Montana’s fine until border crossings start tightening up. They were having trouble moving product.”

“So why are they attacking my sites?”

“They got a tip. Some informant told ‘em about the boom in the Bakken.” He took a sip of whiskey. “So they rebranded, got themselves a new name and started setting up shop here. They run fleets of tankers across the border, no questions asked. Nobody’s checking for heroin in the middle of an oil shortage.”

The room fell quiet for a beat.

“But then Blackridge started seeing the numbers.” Cal’s mouth twitched slightly. “An’ what’s that saying about money an’ evil?”

“The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil.”

The verse left Gator’s mouth automatically, too many Sundays spent trapped in church pews as a kid. Cal looked at him with faint amusement.

“Don’t look like the bible bashing kind, Gator.”

Gator didn’t answer. Just held the man’s gaze steadily until Cal looked away first, taking another sip of his whiskey. Maggie and Gator’s glasses remained untouched in front of them.

“So Blackridge started as a front,” she said, “and now the front’s become the business.”

“Essentially. They run twice the number of trucks now; twice the oil, twice the drugs, twice the money.” Cal rolled the whiskey glass slowly between his fingers. “We were told to put the pressure on you and your guys, get you to back off, cause you issues that would pause your output and have Blackridge overtaking your spot as the Bakken’s supplier. Guess they hadn’t factored in your… tenacity.”,

Maggie smiled.

“And this informant? Who was he?”

“Never got a name.” Cal shrugged. “Guy got himself buried in drug debt and needed a way out. Had industry contacts, knew the oil business. Opened the door for ‘em.”

Slowly, Maggie lifted her whiskey glass at last and downed the entire thing in one smooth swallow before setting it back onto the table.

“Here’s how this goes,” she said calmly. “You and your boys cut the cord with Blackridge tonight. You block their numbers, burn the burner phones and get rid of every connection you have to them.”

Cal stayed quiet.

“You stop touching my crews. You stop touching my sites.” Her voice sharpened slightly. “And you don’t so much as breathe in the direction of my family again.”

“They’re gonna notice when their security disappears,” Cal pointed out. “And I’ve taken their money.”

“Keep it. By tomorrow, getting a refund from you will be the least of their problems.”

Maggie folded her hands together neatly atop the table. Gator watched Cal carefully while she spoke. The man looked wary now but interested too.

“You work for me now. My offer stands,” Maggie continued. “We clean those garages up; I’ll make sure the bar is the only place in the county where the law doesn’t come knocking. You can have legitimate, thriving businesses.”

For a second nobody spoke, then Cal slowly raised his whiskey glass toward her. Maggie clicked hers gently against it.

“But there’s a price for my friendship,” she added before drinking. “When the time comes, I’m going to need you signing testimony for the state.”

Cal sets his glass down, his face now visibly concerned.

“You want me talking to the feds? That’s a death sentence.”

“You underestimate me, Cal.” Maggie’s tone stayed perfectly even. “I’m going to bury Blackridge so deep they’ll forget what the sun looks like. We’re friends now. Business partners. And you’ll learn quickly I’m a very good friend to have.”

Gator sat there quietly watching her and honestly, he felt a little awed by it. The control she had over a room was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. Roy ruled through intimidation, through fear and noise.

Maggie never raised her voice once. She didn’t need to. Her power sat quietly beneath every word she spoke, elegant and terrifying all at once. She walked into rooms already holding enough information to bribe, blackmail or bury every person inside them and somehow she still managed to sound polite doing it.

A small twitch pulled briefly at the corner of Gator’s mouth. Maggie pushed herself smoothly to her feet, clearly satisfied she had everything she came for. She slid the file back into her handbag before looking down at Cal once more.

“I want the name of that informant,” she said. “Then you cut the cord with Blackridge. I’ll be back Monday and I want every file you’ve got on your businesses waiting for me. I want a list of what’s working and what ain’t.”

“Yeah,” Cal said. “I can do that.”

“But if I see any of your boys near my family again,” Maggie warned, “the deal’s off and I’ll wrecking-ball this place myself.”

By then Gator had already stood, moving instinctively alongside her as she headed toward the door. Then Maggie paused and turned back once more.

“And Cal?”

“Yes ma’am?”

“Teach your boys some damn manners.” Her mouth curved sharply. “I’ll overlook the disrespect today, but that Vice President of yours tries swinging his dick in front of me again and I’ll cut it the fuck off.”

Without another word, Maggie turned and headed for the door. Gator overtook her in a few long strides to pull it open for her and followed her back outside into the night air.

The yard had changed while they were inside. The mechanic bays were shuttered now and the floodlights buzzed harshly against the darkness overhead. Further down the building, Briggs and the others stood smoking against the wall, conversation stopping briefly as Maggie passed them. She didn’t spare a single one of them a glance, just kept walking across the packed dirt toward the waiting Hellcat.

Maggie climbed into the driver’s seat; Gator slid into the passenger side beside her and buckled himself in while the engine roared back to life. The Hellcat rolled out of the lot in a spray of dust and loose gravel before Maggie turned them back toward the highway.

For a few minutes neither of them spoke. Gator kept thinking about the meeting, replaying pieces of it over in his head while the dark fields streaked past outside the windows.

“You really gonna fix up their businesses?” he asked eventually.

“Technically they’re my businesses now,” she corrected lightly. “And yes. I am.”

“Dad woulda just burnt the place down. Probably with them still in it.”

Maggie gave a quiet hum of amusement.

“Well, your daddy’s always been a fool. His way of doing things is incredibly inefficient. Junior thinks if you beat a head long enough, eventually you own the mind inside it.” She shook her head faintly. “That’s not how people work.”

The highway lights flashed intermittently across her face as she drove.

“You keep beating,” she said calmly, “and eventually all you leave behind is a broken man plotting revenge.”

Gator stared out through the windshield quietly. Once again, Maggie was right. Everybody feared Roy. But nobody loved him. Nobody respected him either, not really. They pretended to because they were scared of what happened if they didn’t, but that wasn’t the same thing. Roy had spent his entire life demanding obedience through force and intimidation while Maggie achieved more than he ever could by simply walking into a room and letting people realise she was already ten steps ahead of them.

That was why Roy always needed her. Why even he listened when Maggie spoke. She didn’t have to raise her voice to command a room. The room just naturally quietened around her.

Beside him, Maggie spoke again.

“You did good tonight, Gator. That catch with the patches? I wouldn’t have spotted it. Thank you.”

Something tightened unexpectedly in Gator’s chest at the words. Pride. It felt stupid almost, how much that simple bit of praise affected him. Nobody had ever really told him he’d done a good job before. Definitely not Roy. Hell, half the time his father only noticed him when he’d fucked something up. But hearing it from Maggie, that meant something.

Maggie’s mouth curved slightly as if she could see the effect it had anyway.

“Now,” she said, settling back more comfortably behind the wheel, “let’s get you home to your girl, huh? Bet she’s chewed a hole clean through her thumb by now.”

The image of you waiting back at the ranch rose immediately in his mind. Curled up somewhere in one of his hoodies, anxious and trying not to show it, probably still awake despite the hour.

Maggie pressed harder on the gas pedal and the Hellcat surged violently forward down the highway, Gator grabbed the door handle and honestly, he was just hoping he survived the drive home.

・❥・

An uneasy feeling had been sitting low in your stomach since the moment you woke up that morning. At first it had been manageable, just a quiet kind of anxiety. But by the time Maggie and Gator were actually leaving the ranch, the feeling had worsened to something sharp and restless beneath your ribs.

You had tried not to let either of them see it. You stood in the doorway of the Big House while Maggie climbed into the Hellcat and Gator lingered long enough to kiss you goodbye, his hand warm against your cheek while he quietly promised he would be back before you knew it. You kissed him back, told him to be careful.

You had smiled, you had waved, you had held yourself together right up until the Hellcat vanished through the front gate and the sound of the engine disappeared into the distance. Then you stepped back inside the house and the hold slipped immediately.

You had been in your room ever since. At some point you had curled yourself into the pillows of the bed.

Dinner had come and gone a while ago, but the thought of food had turned your stomach so badly you nearly felt sick. You had told Ford no through the door and listened until his footsteps disappeared again.

Your phone lay beside you on the bed, lighting up every few minutes as you checked the time despite already knowing exactly how long they had been gone. Texting Gator was pointless, his phone sat abandoned on the bedside table where he had left it.

Every few minutes your fingers found your pulse point, checking and rechecking your heart rate until you no longer trusted your own judgement of it. Sometimes it felt normal, other times it seemed too fast, or uneven, or just wrong somehow.

The drive to Bismarck would take roughly an hour and twenty minutes, maybe less with Maggie driving. Then however long the meeting itself lasted. An hour maybe. Two if things got complicated. Then another hour and twenty minutes back to the ranch. Close to four hours total. Unless something had gone wrong.

By the time the clock crept past midnight, you had worked yourself into such a state that you barely trusted your own body anymore.

You were still sat upright against the headboard, not remotely comfortable despite the mountain of pillows behind you. One knee was drawn tight against your chest while your thumb stayed trapped between your teeth, worrying relentlessly at the torn skin around the nail until the metallic taste of blood spread across your tongue.

Your other hand remained pressed against the side of your neck. Checking. Always checking. thump-thump-thumpthump-^-thump. There. That skip again.

You pressed harder against your pulse point and started counting over from the beginning, breathing shallow without meaning to while you focused entirely on the rhythm beneath your skin. thump-thump-thumpthump-^-thump.

Wait. Was it getting faster?

Your fingers shifted slightly.

thumpthumpthump^thump

Okay. That definitely felt wrong. Panic crawled sharply up your spine as you squeezed tighter against your neck, already preparing to count again when a soft knock sounded suddenly against your bedroom door.

The door cracked open before you answered and Ford leaned his head around it.

“Baby?” His voice stayed gentle. “Just wanted to check on you. You’ve been super quiet.”

The second he saw you sitting there with your thumb in your mouth and your fingers pressed anxiously against your neck, his expression changed completely.

“Baby…”

Worry etched in his face as he crossed the room quickly and sat down on the edge of the bed beside you, the mattress dipping carefully beneath his weight.

“Baby? Shit, you’re bleeding.”

He reached carefully for your hand, tugging your thumb gently away from your mouth so he could inspect it properly. The skin around the nail was torn, but you barely cared about that. Instead you grabbed Ford’s free hand and pressed it against the side of your neck.

“Does this feel weird to you?”

Ford looked at you, for a second concern sharpened his features, but then his fingers settled properly over your pulse point while he concentrated. You watched his face anxiously while he counted silently, after a moment he lowered his hand.

“Feels normal,” he said calmly. “Little quick, but you’ve got yourself into a state so that’s to be expected.”

“Felt weird.”

“Probably because you’ve been checking it every two minutes.”

Your brow furrowed. How did he know? The faintest flicker of amusement slipped from Ford despite the worry still lingering in his eyes.

“I know you, baby.”

Ford gave your injured thumb another look before pushing himself upright from the bed.

“C’mon,” he said gently. “Kids are asleep. Let’s go get your thumb fixed up and we’ll wait on the couch together till they get back.”

You let him pull you to your feet and he kept hold of your hand the whole way out of the bedroom, your chewed-up thumb lifted carefully between his fingers while he guided you toward the kitchen.

Ford hooked an arm around your waist and lifted you up onto the counter beside the sink. He switched on the tap and carefully guided your hand beneath the stream of cool water. The skin stung, but even that hardly registered over everything else spiralling through your chest.

“Has Maggie text you?”

“No,” he admitted. “But you know she doesn’t text and really, the last thing we need is Maggie texting and driving. Woman’s already lethal behind the wheel.”

A weak little smile pulled at your mouth. He shut off the water and reached for a dish towel, drying your hand with exaggerated care. His large hands stayed impossibly gentle while he wrapped a band aid neatly around your thumb.

“They’ll be home soon, I promise. C’mon, kid.”

He slipped an arm around your waist again and lifted you back down from the counter before steering you gently toward the living room with his arm draped around your shoulders.

When you reached the couch, he dropped heavily into the corner cushion and tugged you into his side. You let yourself fold against him bonelessly, your head tucked beneath his chin while he reached for the remote.

The television flickered on. Ford scrolled aimlessly through channels for a minute before eventually settling on a rerun of Friends.

The bright apartment colours blurred together while the canned laugh track echoed through the room. Your mind kept drifting, circling, spiralling. Without thinking, your hand started lifting toward your mouth again.

Ford caught it halfway there. He grabbed both your wrists gently, pulling your hands down into your lap before wrapping his arms more securely around you.

“Stop chewing or I’m gonna put you in one of those cones they put dogs in at the vet.”

“Sorry.”

Ford loosened his grip on your wrists slowly but kept one arm looped tightly around you, his other hand drifted up into your hair. He smoothed it back from your face in long absent strokes.

“They’ll be home soon,” he repeated quietly.

His fingers continued moving through your hair while you tried to focus on that instead of the panic still crawling restlessly beneath your skin. After a while Ford spoke again, his voice lighter this time.

“I hope you would’ve been this worried if Maggie had taken me as her bodyguard.”

You let out a small laugh against his shoulder.

“She never would’ve taken you. Doesn’t look very professional if your bodyguard has a black eye.”

Ford gave you a gentle poke in the ribs.

“Still got jokes, huh? Don’t you think it makes me look rugged? Little mysterious. Dangerous, maybe.”

You tipped your head back enough to look at him.

“Ford, you are a forty-year-old father of five. I don’t think you need to look dangerous.”

“You’re mean when you’re worried.”

You shoved lightly at the side of his head and tucked yourself closer into his side again while your eyes drifted back toward the television. Onscreen, Monica, Rachel and Phoebe sat crowded together in wedding dresses inside Monica’s apartment while the laugh track played over the top of them.

Ford managed to keep you distracted for a while. Every now and then he laughed quietly at something happening on the television and nudged you until you half-smiled too.

But when you see headlights seep through the front window and hear the familiar pop of tyres over gravel, your entire body reacted before your brain did.

You shot upright off the couch so fast Ford barely had time to move out of the way before you were across the living room.  You yanked the front door open just as Maggie and Gator stepped out of the Hellcat. The cold night air rushed against your skin as you bolted across the yard.

“Jesus--”

Gator barely got the word out before you collided with him full force. Your arms wrapped around his neck and your legs locked around his waist while he caught you with a low grunt, both arms hooking securely beneath you to stop the momentum from knocking you both sideways.

Behind you, Ford had wandered out onto the porch in time to witness the entire thing. Maggie glanced toward him while shutting the car door.

“Don’t you run at me like that,” she called dryly. “Not a chance I’m catching your big ass.”

Ford snorted.

“Thanks, Ma. So glad you’re home.”

Your face stayed buried against Gator’s neck while he adjusted his grip beneath your thighs and started carrying you back toward the house across the gravel.

“Miss me?” he murmured, voice rough with amusement close to your ear.

“Mhm.”

The answer came muffled into the side of his throat. Gator huffed softly through his nose and pressed a kiss against your temple.

“M’back now,” he said quietly. “S’alright.”

Gator carried you all the way up the porch steps and through the front door without putting you down, one hand spread securely against your lower back while he rounded the corner toward the kitchen. Only once he reached the counter did he finally ease you down onto it. Even then he stayed standing between your knees, your arms remained looped stubbornly around his shoulders like letting go might somehow make him disappear again.

Ford and Maggie followed in a moment later.

The kitchen lights flicked brighter overhead and Ford moved toward the kettle out of pure habit, switching it on before Maggie walked past him, reached over, and clicked it back off again, opting for the bottle of wine in the fridge.

Ford laughed quietly under his breath and reached up into the top cabinet for a wine glass. Maggie accepted it with a satisfied hum before pouring herself a generous amount.

“I’ve got a few calls to make,” she said after taking the first long sip, “but all in all I’d say it was a rather successful evening.”

Ford leaned back against the island.

“Yeah?”

“Our new biker friends gave us enough information to do a great deal more than simply push Blackridge off our land.” Her mouth curved faintly. “I’m wiping them off the map. By Monday, that company won’t be able to buy a gallon of gas in this country, let alone drill for it.”

You still had your arms around Gator’s shoulders, but you smiled softly at Maggie across the kitchen.

“I’ve also acquired a few new businesses that I’ll be needing your help with, Ford.”

Ford barked out a laugh.

“Trust you to walk into a thieves’ den and leave owning part of the treasure.”

“I like to seize opportunities when they present themselves.”

Ford just shook his head fondly while Maggie took another drink of wine. Then her attention shifted toward Gator.

“I can’t take all the credit tonight though. Gator was… impressive. He’s got a knack for finding the rot in a room. Saved me a great deal of time and a fair amount of breath.” A small smile touched the edge of her mouth. “I think we’re going to make quite the team, Gator.”

Gator felt the heat rise into his face, a small, crooked smile on his face as his eyes dropped briefly to the kitchen floor. Impressive. Not a word he was used to hearing about himself. Your arms tightened gently around his neck in a quiet supportive squeeze, like you understood exactly what the moment meant to him.

Maggie drained the last of her wine and set the empty glass down onto the counter with a soft clink.

“Right,” she announced. “I’m gonna go make these calls. See you all in the morning.”

“Ma, it’s late. Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Ford frowned.

“I like to skin my corpses while the flesh is still warm, Ford.”

As Maggie passed, she gave Gator a brief pat against the arm, he moved aside, watching as you leaned toward her and wrapped your arms briefly around her shoulders.

“Glad you sorted it,” you murmured. “And that you’re home in one piece.”

For a second Maggie’s expression softened completely, every inch of the cold, calculated person he had just witnessed in the clubhouse disappearing as she hugged you back.

While you embraced, Gator drifted quietly closer to Ford near the counter. His voice dropped to a whisper.

“She alright?”

Ford’s expression changed instantly, the teasing ease slipped away, replaced by something heavier.

“Stayed locked in her room all night, refused to eat, torn her thumb to shreds. I managed to pull her into the living room about an hour ago, but honestly she was borderline catatonic when I went to get her.”,

“Shit.”

The word left Gator before he could stop it. Guilt hit him hard and immediate now, sinking low in his chest as his eyes flicked instinctively back toward you on the counter.

“Thought she’d be alright. She said it was okay t’go.”

Ford looked at him for a long second, not accusing, just tired and understanding.

“She was scared. It’s been a fucking insane week,” he said simply. “And she loves you, Tillman.”

Gator looked at him properly then. You had already said the words to him yourself, but hearing somebody else say it so casually, like it was obvious enough for everyone around you to notice, sent something warm and almost dizzying through his chest.

Ford caught the expression and smirked.

“God knows why,” he muttered. “Really should’ve raised her with better taste.”

A quiet laugh escaped Gator. When he looked back toward you, Maggie had slipped away and you were watching them both with narrowed eyes like you already knew they had been talking about you.

Gator crossed the kitchen and scooped you straight back into his arms. Your arms returned to his shoulders; legs hooked instinctively around his waist. You could have walked yourself but that wasn’t the point. Gator simply wanted you as close to him as physically possible.

You murmured a quiet goodnight to Ford over Gator’s shoulder as he carried you out of the kitchen and down the hallway toward your bedroom.

The second the bedroom door shut behind you, Gator kissed you. Deep and immediate and almost desperate in the way his mouth found yours while he still held you against him, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers tangled into the hair at the back of his neck.

And just like that, the panic dissolved. All the spiralling thoughts, the counting, the sick dread that had been sitting in your chest for hours seemed to finally loosen and fall away the second his lips found yours.

Gator broke away slowly, his forehead resting against yours while both of you breathed the same air for a moment.

“Hey,” he murmured softly.

“Hey,” you smiled weakly.

Still holding you easily, he carried you over to the bed before finally setting you down gently on the edge of the mattress. Then, instead of stepping away, he crouched down in front of you. Your chest tightened slightly at the sight of him there between your knees, big hands carefully taking yours while he looked down at the band-aid wrapped around your thumb.

“Ford says y’didn’t eat,” he said quietly. “Been holed up in here all night.”

Guilt sat heavily in his voice.

“I didn’t want y’worryin’ like that.” His thumb brushed lightly over the bandage. “If I’d known… If you’d told me not t’go, I wouldn’t’ve gone.”

The distress in his eyes made your heart ache. You reached out, hand settling against his cheek while your thumb brushed softly through the roughness of his stubble.

“I’m okay now,” you whispered. “You’re back. You’re okay. That’s all that matters.”

Gator shook his head slightly and leaned into your touch like he needed it.

“I don’t like it when y’get like that. Don’t want y’panickin’ over me an’ chewin’ yourself t’pieces when I ain’t there.” His eyes stayed fixed on yours. “I love you too much t’be the reason you’re hurtin’ yourself.”

“Well,” you murmured softly, “I love you too much not to worry about you.”

A dry little laugh escaped him then, tired and fond all at once, and he lowered his forehead briefly against your knee.

“Guess we’re jus’ fucked then?”

You smiled for real this time and leaned down enough to press a soft kiss against the back of his neck.

“But at least we’re fucked together.”

Gator laughed quietly beneath his breath and stayed there for another moment while your fingers stroked slowly through his hair. Eventually he pushed himself back to his feet and kissed you again.

He only stepped away long enough to change out of his clothes, stripping down to his boxers before crossing to his side of the bed. He pulled back the duvet and climbed beneath it before leaning across the mattress toward you where you still sat near the end of the bed.

Without warning, both his arms wrapped around your waist. You let out a startled squeal as he hauled you bodily backward up the mattress toward him, laughing softly against your shoulder while you squirmed uselessly in his grip.

He settled you securely against his chest, your back tucked into the solid warmth of his body while one arm draped heavily across your waist beneath the blankets, his breath brushing softly against the back of your neck and for the first time all day, you finally relaxed.

・❥・

By the next afternoon, the atmosphere inside the Big House had shifted completely. Not normal exactly. But the suffocating tension that had been hanging over the ranch for days had eased.

You sat cross-legged on the living room rug with Josie settled happily between your legs, helping her with one of her shape sorter toys while the television played quietly in the background. Every few seconds she would grab a brightly coloured block and attempt to jam it violently into whatever hole happened to be closest. Most of the time unsuccessfully.

Behind you, Gator and Ford occupied opposite corners of the sofa, half watching the television while talking over the top of it. Gator’s socked foot rubbed absently against your hip every now and then where you sat on the floor between them.

Upstairs, the sound of the kids thundered intermittently through the ceiling.

The twins had been surprisingly good all week about keeping Nicky and Rhodes occupied while they were off school. Video games, movies, wrestling matches that inevitably ended with Tucker being bundled on the floor. The younger boys had barely left Tucker and Walker’s orbit since Monday, following them around the ranch like devoted little shadows.

At your knees, Josie made an increasingly furious sound as she repeatedly tried shoving a square block into a triangular hole.

“No, Josie-jo,” you laughed softly. “Wrong one.”

She scowled at the toy as you reached around her and rotated the sorter slightly, so the square opening faced her instead, not that it seemed to help much. You barely noticed Maggie entering the room until the television abruptly changed channels and Ford let out an offended noise from the couch.

“Ma,” he complained, “I was watching that.”

But Maggie ignored him completely, her attention fixed on the screen while a news channel replaced the documentary.

A helicopter shot swept across the television screen showing County 22 from above, but instead of the usual slow crawl of oil traffic and tanker routes, the roads were clogged with armoured BearCats and blacked-out federal SUVs stretching in a line across the valley. Men in olive-drab tactical gear moved between the vehicles carrying rifles across their chests.

Maggie turned the volume up so you could hear the reporter.

“…massive coordinated enforcement action is currently underway against Blackridge Extraction in what appears to be a multi-agency operation led by the DEA. We’re hearing reports of federal indictments and involvement in racketeering and Schedule One narcotics trafficking.”

The footage switched suddenly to Dickinson. Blackridge headquarters stood surrounded by police vehicles while shattered glass glittered across the pavement outside the building entrance. Federal agents swarmed the site while another smaller video frame appeared in the corner showing suited executives being marched out in handcuffs earlier that morning.

“…sources close to the investigation suggest that the oil giant has been operating as a front for a multi-state narcotics distribution network. Federal agents spent the morning breaching Blackridge sites across the Bakken region and there have already been dozens of arrests, including company CEO Lukas Donovan…”

Maggie lowered the volume again as she rounded the couch and sat down beside Ford like she had merely switched on the weather report.

“Ain’t ever seen a strike team move that fast,” Gator muttered. “Takes ‘em months of red tape usually.”

Maggie crossed one leg neatly over the other.

“Well, it only takes about…” she said calmly, glancing at her watch, “…eight hours if you happen to have the Regional Director’s personal cell phone number.”

You looked between Maggie and the television in disbelief. At this point you genuinely were beginning to wonder just how many terrifyingly powerful people Maggie Heaton had on speed dial.

“But won’t this screw Brooks over too?” you asked. “What if they padlock the whole valley while they investigate? He’ll lose access to the shared pipelines.”

And the last thing Brooks needed right now was more financial damage while federal agents squeezed the entire oil region into paralysis. But Maggie only waved one dismissive hand lightly through the air.

“I already handled it.”

Of course she had.

“The Blackridge sites along the 22 are being cleared as low-risk assets. State wants production operational again as quickly as possible to avoid an energy crisis in the county.” Her mouth curved slightly. “Which means they’re currently searching for a reputable local operator willing to manage the seizure sites under temporary receivership.”

“And let me guess,” Ford chuckled, “you’ve already got Brooks’ name sitting at the top of their list?”

“I’ve already drafted the intent to buy. While Blackridge are busy hiring criminal defence attorneys, we’ll be purchasing their most profitable leases for pennies on the dollar. All while maintaining the cleanest books in the country. Work smarter, not harder, Ford.”

Ford barked out a laugh.

You sat there looking at Maggie in quiet disbelief. Because somehow, impossibly, she always won. Only now you were finally beginning to understand why. All these years you had thought Maggie’s power came from money. But that was only part of it. The real truth sat deeper than that.

Maggie Heaton was a viper wearing designer heels. Everyone underestimated her, too busy looking at the shine of her scales to notice the length of her fangs.

Everyone sat watching the coverage for another few minutes. Eventually the segment ended and shifted into the local weather report, the screen now filled with a smiling meteorologist.

“So,” Ford said, “no more house arrest?”

“You make it sound like Guantanamo, Ford. Privileged problem to be on house arrest in a multimillion-dollar ranch in rural North Dakota.” A faint smile curved at the edge of Maggie’s mouth. “But yes, you’ve got early release for good behaviour. Make sure you stop by the gift shop for a souvenir on your way out.”

Ford snorted a laugh. On the rug, Josie had apparently grown bored of even trying and was now repeatedly slapping the shape sorter against the floor hard enough to make plastic blocks scatter across the rug. You scooped her up beneath the arms and passed her backward toward Ford. He settled her bouncing on his knee as you shifted on the rug to face Maggie.

“And what about the bikers?”

“Actually,” Maggie said, “I wanted to ask you about that.”

You frowned faintly.

“I’ve scheduled a meeting with their president, Cal, on Monday, we’re going to go over everything they have and what needs work. I was wondering if you would like to work on it, lead the project. You can liaise with Ford about the construction, work with Cal and his crew to make a plan.”

You stared at her for a second. Maggie wanted you in on this? Sure, you had worked on Grace Foundation projects for years. But this was different. These were actual profiting businesses. A corporate portfolio.

“You want me…” You blinked slightly. “To lead it?”

“Can’t think of anyone better. I’ll come with you Monday and make introductions,” Maggie said. “We’ll assess what we’re working with and I’ll help however you need me to. But I think it’s time you took the reins on something. You in?”

You kept looking at her for another second, still trying to process the fact she was offering this to you so casually, like she had no doubt you could do it. Slowly, you nodded.

“Yeah,” you said, a little breathless. “Yeah… I’d love that.”

Maggie smiled faintly and leaned back against the couch cushions again, looking entirely unsurprised by your answer.

“Good.”

Beside her, Ford reclaimed the remote from Josie’s sticky hands and switched the channel back over. The nature documentary somehow managed to pull all of you; one minute the television was background noise and the next all four of you were silently watching two lions stalk a zebra through tall grass while a softly spoken British narrator explained the brutal social hierarchy of the Serengeti.

Josie had fallen half asleep across Ford’s chest by then, one small hand still clinging loosely to the television remote while Gator’s fingers drifted absently through the ends of your hair where you leaned back against the sofa between his knees.

Then Maggie’s phone pinged, she reached into the pocket of her cardigan and pulled the phone free, unlocking it with one hand while her attention shifted to the screen. Ford glanced over lazily.

“Plotting more hostile takeovers, Ma?” he teased. “You make these lions look friendly.”

Maggie barely looked up, her eyes moved steadily across the message.

“No. It’s Cal. I asked him to do some digging into Blackridge’s informant.”

“Informant?” Ford frowned.

“Yeah,” Gator answered before Maggie could. “Some little junkie led ‘em our way.”

“Cal said whoever it was had oil knowledge, basically pinpointed on a map where to set up shop.” Maggie elaborated.

Ford shifted slightly beneath Josie’s weight.

“So what’s he saying now?”

“He’s got a name,” Maggie read from the screen. “Max Porter.”

“Max Porter?” Ford shook his head slightly. “Never heard of him.”

“Me neither,” Gator muttered.

Maggie’s eyes narrowed faintly at another notification appearing.

“Hang on, he says he’s got a photo.”

You all waited while the little typing bubble flickered on Maggie’s screen, then another message came through and suddenly Maggie went completely still.

You watched the colour drain from her face so quickly it was almost comical, her eyes locked onto the screen.

“Ma?”

Maggie didn’t answer. The silence stretched, all you could hear was the hushed narration from the television.

“What is it?” Ford asked again, quieter this time.

Slowly, Maggie turned the phone around toward the rest of you.

The photo was grainy. Clearly taken from a distance and probably without the subject knowing. A young man stood in the open doorway of a truck somewhere beneath harsh daylight, sunglasses pushed up into messy hair, faded denim jacket hanging open over a plain white t-shirt. His face looked tired, drawn. But it was unmistakable.

Noah.

Your heart lurched so violently it almost hurt.

“That’s…”

Beside you, Ford stared at the screen in complete disbelief.

“This can’t be right,” he mumbled.

Nobody moved, nobody even seemed to breathe. Then Maggie quietly took the phone back into her hand and rose smoothly to her feet. Her face had gone unreadable again now, every trace of emotion locked back down.

“I need to make another call.”

Note II: So this was supposed to end in a neatly wrapped little bow, like all of my fics and when I started writing it, it did, I had the ending planned. But as I wrote it I just fell more and more in love with these characters and wanted to explore them all more, SO, this ends here, on a cliffhanger. But Part Two is already planned and half-written, another 12 part series of Baby x Gator! The catch is, i'm on vacation for two whole weeks, so be patient with me- it's coming, you'll just have to wait a little bit....

From the reception hall to the party favors left out on the tables, there hasn’t been a single thing that’s escaped the judgement of the people of this miniscule, insipid town. They’ve dropped by your house with fabric samples; stopped you in the grocery store and absolutely insisted you use their cousin’s flower shop for your arrangements. Roy had even been so bold as to write the entire guest list himself and pass it off to you like a memo. And no matter how many nights you spent sitting between Gator’s legs crying to him about the mountainous stress on your shoulders while he listened and wiped your face of tears, there was nothing either of you could do about it. Lehigh was Lehigh. Everyone was entitled to their opinion, and what was worse was that they knew it.

You couldn’t help but feel a little bitter about it, even now. This was supposed to be your wedding– theoretically, the happiest day of your life. So why were everyone else’s hands all over it?

You knew Gator felt the same way, evidenced by how many times he’d grumbled in your ear over the past weeks that the next person to approach you and give you a direction was about to be told in no uncertain terms to fuck off. He’d even offered to help with some of the planning, which had made you loose an exhausted laugh– Gator planning anything would have been more of a hindrance than a help at this point. You hardly needed the man who couldn’t tell the difference between a rose and a chrysanthemum to be picking out dinnerware with you.

But you got through it– little by little, meltdown by meltdown, you forged forward, slapping away the helping hands clamped onto your shoulders, all with your eyes on this day and this boy and everything everyone told you you were doing wrong about it.

So why is there still a knot in your gut?

You stare back at the dolled-up version of yourself in the vanity mirror of the room you’ve secured for the bridal party, and you hardly recognize your own face. It’s the first moment you’ve had alone all day, and you only barely managed to force your bridesmaids and your mother and Karen out of the room, but it’s less peaceful than you’d thought it would be. Your makeup is flawless, your hair swept halfway up with sprigs of tiny white flowers. Your dress is perfect– just the way you pictured it. And you’re exhausted by all of it.

For a moment, a memory flashes through your mind. One perfect night, some eons ago– right at the beginning of all of this, back when you hadn’t ever pictured you and Gator might be built to last. It was late, and dark, and you were still in your pretty white sundress and the cowboy boots you’d been dancing all night with him in. He was reckless driving, drifting around corners and kicking up dust behind his truck. Country music was blaring from the radio, and you were screaming at the sharp turns, cackling with laughter as you grappled for purchase on the door handles, your hair flying in your face from the wind coming off the open windows. 

And Gator was looking over at you, his face split ear to ear in a grin. So consumed with happiness it felt like it was piercing your chest, driving itself straight into your heart, so foolishly open and waiting. And you thought, nobody makes me laugh like this boy. 

It didn’t matter that you’d lost track of the number of times you’d been told to stay away from him for your own good. It didn’t matter how many fights you’d already had, even just at the beginning of things between you. It didn’t matter that he called you a tease, mocked you for playing hard to get, just because you were insistent upon hiding your heart from him until you were sure he deserved it. In that moment, country lights blurring by, stretching your legs out into his lap so he could grip your shin, nothing Gator Tillman had been before he met you meant a thing. What mattered was who he could be– who he became on a perfect night, when you got him alone, when he sagged into your arms and admitted his bravado was defeated. You could see it happening, day by day, that change. He was growing toward you slowly, cautiously, like a houseplant that had never learned how to face the sun. 

That was the night you finally gave in. You loved him. You’d loved him always. You’d love him forever.

You leaned across the car and tugged his face toward yours for one brief, searing kiss. Gator laughed against you, the noise rasping in his throat. The sound transformed him into a different person– a person he might have been long before he met you, if only life had dealt him a different hand. But he was here now– alive and sweet and grinning. And you grinned right back, unashamed and unhidden.

The memory flutters in your chest, soft and aching. That joy isn’t gone now– you know better than to think that. It’s just buried under miles and miles of stress and anxiety and shit people have been shoving on you for months. It’s too easy sometimes to forget why you wanted all this in the first place. 

The door opens somewhere behind you, and you’re glad for the changing screen that stands between you and the doorway– you need a moment to school your face back into bland enthusiasm for whatever new visitor wants to impose upon your time.

“Baby?”

You whip around on your vanity stool, your heart leaping. That’s not Karen, and that’s not your bridesmaids, either. You’d recognize that voice anywhere. “Gator?”

“Hey, mama,” he returns, satisfied. “Where are you?”

“Gate, you can’t be in here,” you hiss. “It’s bad luck– we talked about this.”

“Yeah, and that’s why I couldn’t stay with you last night, either,” he gripes, and you hear his footsteps as he nears. “Stupidest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard.”

You shoot off your stool, equal parts exasperated by his ongoing irreverence with wedding traditions and thrilled he’s actually here. You haven’t seen him all day, or for most of yesterday, and damn it, but you’ve missed him like hell. “It’s not stupid,” you say again, although considering how much you wanted him next to you in bed last night, that argument is a little weak. 

“Come out and let me see you,” he says, thankfully staying put on the other side of the screen.

“I can’t,” you tell him, heart pounding in your chest. Something about the one person you’ve been dying to see all day standing feet away from you and not being able to touch him is getting to you. “You can’t see me. We’ll be cursed, or something.”

“You tryin’ to kill me, woman?” he tosses at you. “You’re about to be my wife. I’m gonna see you every damn day. Now get out here and let me look at ‘ya.”

You roll your eyes and loose a reluctant laugh, and mostly because you can’t stand to do anything else, you step gradually out from behind the screen. 

Gator looks unfairly good.

His hair is neat, but still loose the way you like it. His brown suit jacket sits crisply over his black dress shirt, the leafy boutonniere with white flowers pinned to his lapel expertly enough you know immediately he didn’t do it himself. There’s a formality to him, a stiffness that betrays how foreign these clothes feel on his body, but he still wears it exceptionally well. And when his dark eyes find you, he smiles at you in the way nobody else ever could. 

He reaches out for you immediately, taking both of your hands in his. “Look at you,” he nearly whistles, spreading your hands so he can see you better. “Spin around for me, baby.”

You feel a little silly, but you do as he asks, a blush high on your cheeks. The gauzy, petal-like skirts of your dress swish against your legs as you turn, the short, flowy sleeves tickling your arms. Gator’s hands slip around your waist as you come back to him, and yours find his arms, smoothing over his pristinely ironed sleeves. 

“You’re perfect,” he tells you, his eyes glittering as he smiles wider at you.

“Yeah?” you ask gently, a little ashamed to still need the assurance. 

“Most beautiful woman in the world,” he affirms, and leans in to press a lingering kiss to your lips. “You make a pretty fuckin’ bride.”

The words send another flutter through your chest, and some of your nerves dissipate. “Karen said the dress makes me look promiscuous,” you inform him sardonically. You’d thought it was absolutely beautiful until she said something, and despite how you joked it off, the comment had been needling at the back of your mind all day.

“Karen’s a bitch from hell,” Gator retorts evenly. 

Your lips press together to hide your laugh, your self-consciousness slipping away. “Gate, she’s your stepmother.”

“So?” he intones, dipping his head to kiss the side of your throat. “She’s still a bitch. She’s just jealous.”

“Jealous of me?” you snort. 

“Mm,” he agrees, the vibrations travelling along your neck. “You’re younger and prettier and have a tighter ass.”

You huff a breathy laugh, still fighting your sour mood. It’s easier now that Gator’s hands are on you– now that you’re back in his grip. People have never understood how much he lifts your temper, but then, they’ve never been in love with Gator Tillman like you have. You’d take this boy over any of them– over anything in the world.

Gator pulls back, noticing the dryness in your tone. He lifts a hand and pokes your cheek with his knuckle. “What’s with the face, huh?” he asks, and even though he’s still teasing you, a flash of concern is in his eyes. “You thinkin’ ‘bout backing out?”

“You wish,” you joke back, your hands lifting to thread behind his neck.

Gator grins at you. “Come on. You gettin’ cold feet, or what?”

You heave a long sigh, borne on the exhaustion and clamor and stress of the day. “I hate everyone,” you admit, defeated, staring up at him guiltily. “I only like you. And I just want everyone else to fuck off.”

“That’s my girl,” he laughs, pushing in to kiss you again. “You tell ‘em, baby.”

“They don’t listen to me,” you protest weakly, letting him mess up the makeup on your cheek as he nuzzles into it. What the hell– you have time to fix it later, anyway. “Nobody does. I feel like this whole stupid thing is more for them than us.”

“That’s ‘cause it is,” he agrees into your skin. Finally, he pulls back to look at you again, his eyes sweeping down your face and back up. The mischief and humor haven’t left his expression, and they certainly don’t leave when he slips his hand back into yours and retreats a step back toward the door. “Come on.”

You frown, your brow knitting as he pulls you along. “I can’t go out there. Karen’s probably guarding that door like a pitbull.”

“Relax,” Gator intones, dragging you out the door and into the thankfully empty hallway. “How d’you think I got in here?” His head turns left and right, checking for members of your bridal party. He doesn’t find any, and the two of you forge ahead. 

You’re amused but compliant as he tugs you down the hallway and towards the front door. You don’t know what insane idea has worked its way into his head, but you’ve learned over the years that it’s always best with Gator to just let it play out. “Where are we going?” you finally ask him as you make it out of the house unnoticed, spearing for his truck, parked in the driveway. 

Gator doesn’t glance behind him as he says, “We’re goin’ to get married.”

You snort. “Yeah, I think you’re jumping the gun a little, Alligator. Ceremony’s not till five.”

You reach the truck, and he drops your hand to open the passenger side door for you. He’s grinning again— ear to ear. “Who said anything ‘bout a ceremony?”

Your eyes widen as you stare back at him. “What are you talking about?”

He nods to your seat, not budging. “Get in the car, sweetheart.”

The order leaves no room for debate. A little thrill runs through you at the words– at the realization of what, exactly, his batshit-crazy plan is. You give in quicker than you mean to and climb into the car, and he reaches over to tuck in your dress before shutting the door behind you. 

As Gator backs the truck out of its spot in the driveway, you worry your hands, nerves and excitement indistinguishable inside you. “This is so stupid.”

“I can always drop you back off,” Gator threatens mildly, pulling onto the main road and gunning the accelerator.

“It’s our wedding, Gator!” you protest, though an anxious smile is already growing on your face. “We’re running away from our wedding. People are gonna care when they figure out we’re missing.”

“The hell are they gonna do about it?” he deadpans. “You’re my woman. You’re gonna be my wife. I can do what I want with ‘ya.”

“They’re probably gonna come after us on horseback,” you propose, biting at the skin beside your manicured nail.

Gator notices and grabs your hand away from your face, pulling it over to him and wrapping his fingers around it. “Relax, mama. You’re too stressed all the damn time.”

As the landscape of the ranch fades behind you, your smile grows and grows on your face. You can almost feel the expectations lifting one by one off your shoulders, kicked up like the dust behind Gator’s truck. 

Gator glances over at you, glimpsing your expression. His own grin spreads, his eyes alight. “Hey, there she is.”

You press your lips together, but it’s a useless endeavor. You feel lighter than you have in months, that bubbling joy of being with him back in your chest with a vengeance. “This is so stupid,” you say again, shaking your head. 

Gator huffs a laugh and reaches over to pull your head toward him, planting a kiss on your temple. He ruffles your perfectly-done hair as he lets you go, and you bat him away, your crinkling eyes on the open road.

By the time the truck skids to a stop outside a church you’ve only been to once in the middle of town, the ground is slick with rain. 

“Alright, let’s go,” Gator announces plainly, throwing the truck in park and popping his door as casually as if you’re stopped outside a megamart. He comes around the truck and opens your door, too, and you stare past his shoulder at the drizzling rain.

“Gator–” you protest a little. “Gate, it’s raining.”

“So?” he drawls. “You’re not gonna melt like that chick in that stupid movie you showed me.”

“The Wizard of Oz?” You correct him flatly. “You don’t remember the name of The Wizard of– oh!”

Gator cuts you off by planting his hands on your waist and lifting you out of the truck. His arms bunch around your middle, carrying you over the puddle on the ground he sloshes through, uncaring. You yelp as you land unsteadily back on your feet, the icy rain already peppering your skin as he steadies you. 

“I’m gonna look like a drowned rat,” you giggle, gripping his arms.

“Y’think that’s gonna stop me?” he teases, then slips his hand into yours again. 

Your eyes flick back to the building before you, tall and white and imposing. 

“This was the church you wanted, right?” Gator asks, voice low.

You glance over, surprised. “You remember that?”

Gator rolls his eyes. “I listen to you sometimes.”

In the early days of wedding planning, you’d scoured the area for chapels that might meet Gator’s father’s requirements, and this place had checked every single box. 

It was large enough to hold all your guests, but not so much as to intimidate; it was close enough to the middle of town that no one would have complained about the commute like they did now with the chapel near the ranch. The pastor was an amenable type of man who would have let you have your wedding any day of the year you wanted. 

And, perhaps selfishly, it was stunningly beautiful. Clean white walls, dark oak pews. Stained glass windows cut kaleidoscopically into the walls, and a stark gold crucifix at the altar.

It had been perfect– that is, perfect until Roy determined that he wouldn’t accept anything other than his home parish for the two of you. That decision, more than perhaps anything else these long months, had broken your heart the hardest. It had been the first night you’d cried to Gator about all of this, his fists clenching as he thrashed against that feeling he hated the most– being useless to you.

You shove down the emotion rising in you at the sight of the church– the one real ask you’d had, and the one thing you’d resigned yourself to lose. Emotion at the fact Gator had known what it meant to you, committed it to memory– and brought you here anyway, damning what anyone else thought. This was where he wanted to marry you. This was what he wanted to do: make you happy. Simple, unspoken, and rawer and more passionate for it.

He had always loved big, your Gator. It didn’t matter to you if he couldn’t say it well.

You grin at him again, eyes fighting tears as your voice falls back on teasing. “Boy, I’ve really got you whipped, huh?” 

Gator shoots you a look. “I can still turn and run, baby.”

You cackle, slipping your hand into his again. “Aw, I’d like to see you try. Come on. Time’s wasting.”

When you stumble through the tall wooden doors of the church, you let out a breath at the opulence. It’s exactly as you remember from that one, heartbreaking visit– more beautiful like this, even, now that it’s empty of people and sunlight.

You aren’t really the religious sort– never have been. But when you and Gator walk through those doors, slick with rain and unable to kill your rowdy laughter, you’re sure for a moment that something different is in the air. In the shadows growing against the walls, the hazy overcast pushing dull light through the multicolored glass, there is a reverence, a meaning you hadn’t anticipated cloaking the quiet space. 

Gator pulls you through the church, rapping his knuckles on the door of the pastor’s office. It takes some negotiating to get the man to come out, to make him understand that you’re not both crazy people, that you really do have a marriage license, but eventually, he relents and lets Gator drag him up the aisle to the altar.

You stand in front of the pastor resolutely as you wait impatiently for him to agree to marry you, the sight of Gator’s wet hair dripping in his face and your makeup smearing under your eyes not helping in convincing him you’re taking this seriously. He recognizes you from your visit, at least, but Gator’s pushiness has a way of getting under people’s skin, and the man doesn’t look as though he’s inclined to give in.

The pastor glances between you, skeptical. “I assume you have the rings?”

Gator pats his breast pocket. “Right here. She won’t get away that easy.”

“And you’re sure this marriage is made of your own free will?” The pastor clarifies with you, studying your face with mild concern. 

You give Gator a look. “What should I say?”

Gator’s eyes flatten. “You think you’re so damn funny.”

You laugh, turning back to the pastor. “Yeah, I guess I love him pretty bad. Might as well.”

The pastor heaves a resigned breath. “And you wouldn’t like to invite anyone else to bear witness?”

Gator turns back to you, and you exchange a brief, incredulous look. 

“Fuck no,” Gator barks, and you have to press a hand to your mouth to stifle your laughter. 

Gator’s lips twitch at your expression, and he corrects himself. “Sorry– I mean, no. It’s just us.”

“Just us,” you affirm, eyes dancing.

The pastor sighs and goes to collect his book of rites. 

Gator leans forward, his freshly-shaven face brushing your cheek as he whispers in your ear, “This is how it should have been this whole time– me and you and that dress. And whatever’s under that dress.”

You burst into laughter again, quieting yourself when the pastor turns slightly. “We’re in church, you cretin.”

Gator presses a kiss to your cheek and pulls back, smiling at you. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you repeat, etching that smile, that sweetness, into your memory forever.

Gator holds your hands as the pastor reads through the marriage rites– the shortcut version, at Gator’s impatient request. The quiet, rain-soaked church stares down at you, empty of judgement and opinion and objection. It’s only you and Gator and Gator and you, the mud flecks on your white skirt and the wilt of his boutonniere the only evidence it was a struggle getting here at all. And you think for a moment that whatever sealed you together to begin with, tangled you together like snarled fishing line, must be with you for this second in this church.

You’ve given a thousand furious words to this boy. He’s hurled hundreds right back at you, razor-sharp and meant to cut the both of you free from each other. It’s never worked. And the two that you utter, alone at the altar, are somehow the easiest to say.

You’re forty-five minutes late to your own wedding. Neither of you can bring yourselves to care.

By the time you make it back to the right chapel, the one with all of your flower arrangements and bridesmaids and overbearing relatives stacked up inside, the parking lot is so full Gator has to pull his truck over on the side of the road. The rain hasn’t stopped, seeping into your white dress and all but destroying your meticulously-styled hair. Gator isn’t in much better shape. His blazer is discarded in the backseat after he tried to make you use it as a canopy. His black dress shirt is sticking to his skin.

“Get your ass in gear and let’s go, woman!” Gator yells at you, waiting as you stumble away from the truck and run toward him again, pushing your sopping hair out of your eyes.

“It’s these fucking shoes!” you argue, yelping as your heels sink into the muddied grass. “I can’t exactly sprint in these things, Gator!”

Gator rolls his eyes and comes back for you, grabbing your hand and tugging you along once more. “Goddammit, you’re slow. Hope our kids don’t get that from you.”

“Not all of us played quarterback in high school,” you snap at him, though everything lacks its usual bite. You haven’t stopped grinning like an idiot since you left the empty church, and neither has Gator, much as he tries to hide it. 

He all but drags you across the lawn in a shortcut to the church, laughing when the mud catches you again and you’re pulled out of one of your shoes. He goes back for it, and for the other one when you lose that, too, and then you’re booking it toward the church barefoot, your white pumps clutched in Gator’s free hand. 

“We are in such deep shit,” you giggle, staring at the nearing chapel doors, which are suspiciously flung wide open despite the rain. They’re all waiting for you– probably furious and worried sick.

“That’s mud, stupid,” Gator teases, not slowing his pace. “And it’s on your face, by the way.”

“Better than looking like– whoop!”

Gator catches you just before you slide and eat shit on the slippery ground, and he hauls you upright with a laugh so infectious you wouldn’t have believed it came from him if you hadn’t seen it for yourself. 

Finally, you make it to the chapel, skidding to a stop in front of the bleached wood of the old, white stairs. 

Standing at the top of them is Roy Tillman, dressed and dry, staring down at you with twenty-seven years of disappointment and unchecked anger.

The humor drains out of you, Gator’s hand in yours the only thing keeping you from trembling with icy fear.

“Look at the two of you,” Roy drawls, still in that careful tone you’ve come to realize means he’s still holding back. “You keep these good people waiting, run off to do fuck all on the day a’your wedding?”

Neither you nor Gator offer an explanation– just wait. 

“It’s a goddamn fuckin’ disgrace.” Roy shakes his head at you, his eyes simmering. “Now get your asses in there, clean yourselves up, and do what you’re fuckin’ told.” With that, he turns on his heel and makes his way back into the chapel, leaving you to soak in his disappointed hopes. 

Your eyes slide to Gator, examining his reaction. 

He’s already looking at you, mollified. But then his lips curl up, and he shrugs, guilty but uncaring. 

You burst into laughter, and he clamps a hand over your mouth to shut you up, his shit-eating grin the same as that first day in his truck. Humor, elation, and not one ounce of regret. 

“You heard him,” Gator mutters in your ear. “Better get in there, huh?”

You giggle again, pressing your lips together to hide it, and Gator loops your clasped hands over your head and around your waist, hurrying you both inside after his father.

By the end of the night, both you and Gator are exhausted.

Your clothes dry and your face wiped of mud and makeup, you sit in Gator’s lap in a chair in the reception hall, one of his arms tucked tight around you and the other resting on your leg. You’re ignoring the dirty looks Karen is shooting you from across the venue at the gall you have to be sitting in the same seat. People are making idiots of themselves dancing drunkenly, the lights are low and the candles in the centerpieces are glowing gently, and everything is almost exactly how you pictured it— except for one thing. You’re happier. Much happier than you would have been had things gone to plan today.

You lean back against Gator’s chest, heads pressed together in a comforting weight.

“It is pretty damn beautiful,” he admits, staring past your central table and toward the dance floor that’s only just starting to wind down. 

“All that planning had to count for something,” you agree mildly. “And people aren’t nearly as mad at us as I thought they’d be.”

“They’re drunk,” Gator replies, snorting. “Trust me, when they sober up, they’ll be pissed.”

You huff a light laugh, his cheek resting on your head. “I don’t care,” you tell him.

Gator lets out a small, contented breath. “Yeah, me neither.”

“How’s it feel to be a husband?” You ask him, fingers rubbing up and down on his forearm. One of your hands finds the gold ring now sitting on his ring finger, and you fiddle with it, turning it around and around.

“The same,” he huffs, then snorts again when you pinch his arm. “How’s it feel to be a wife?”

“A wife?” you hum, lazy and contented. “Feels like I’ve gotta step up my casserole game. Your wife?” You pull back, turning to smile at him. “Feels pretty fuckin’ great.”

“Mm,” he smiles back, prodding his nose into your cheek, nuzzling at your skin. “My wife. Sounds kinda nice.”

You give him a flat look, amused. “Oh, you think so?”

“Yeah,” he murmurs against your cheek. “I like you bein’ mine. All this bein’ mine. Think I’ll probably stick with it for a while.”

Your smile spreads at his teasing, and your hands smooth up his arms as he begins to place kisses across your face. “Hate to break it to you, Alligator, but all this has been yours for a long time.”

The words make something shift in him, evidenced by the tightening of his hands on your body, the deepening of his kisses. “I’m gonna take real good care of you, you know that?” he tells you, the words gentle. “I know,” you murmur, the noise of the reception hall fading into nothing in your head. 

“Every damn day,” he promises, his voice muffled by your jaw. “Gonna give you anything you want, pretty.”

“I really do have you whipped,” you laugh lightly, scratching your nails gently against his arm.

Gator pulls back and meets your eyes, his expression so serious, so overwhelmingly focused on your face. “You gonna put up with me? Even when I’m a total shitbag?” 

Your eyes crinkle as you smile at him, one of your hands coming up to touch his face. “Till I’m nothin’ but bones, baby.”

His lips curve upward, an unbelievable softness entering his dark eyes. “You know I’m gonna love you forever, right?”

“I’m pretty much banking on it,” you whisper, your thumb stroking over his cheek. “It’s a good thing I love you more.”

Gator leans forward and kisses you, so gentle it makes your chest hurt. “Sorry, stupid. Not possible.”

When he kisses you again, you feel that declaration sink into you, melt into your bones, seep into the very core of you. And for a moment, you can’t tell where he ends and you begin. You’re too tangled.

That feeling stays in your chest, tucked away like the secret you etched into stone today, hidden and sacred and beautiful. And it remains there, pressed somewhere between your intertwined arms, deep down where no one else can ever touch it.

---

She jumps out of bed, runs to her window and opens it. Looking out, she sees Steve. He’s wearing a beanie, his facial hair is overgrown, like he hasn’t shaved in a while. He sees her, his face lights up. Her stomach turns. 

“Let me in,” Steve calls up and it’s clear how angry he is. Cute. Very cute but angry. 

“Are you crazy?” Olive yells down to him.

“Damn right,” Steve tells her, “you won’t let me in? I’ll just sit and press the buzzers until someone does.”

“Steve, no,” Olive scolds, “Just go home.”

Steve walks towards the door and Olive’s buzzer goes off, repeatedly. She buzzes him in because she really doesn’t want him waking her neighbors. She swings her door open, hearing Steve coming in the lobby and walking up the stairs. The closer he gets the more her stomach erupts in butterflies. God, she’s missed him. She’s missed him so much. And this scruff he has… patchy, sure, but god it looks sexy on him. She looks up at him as he walks past her into her apartment. 

“Hi,” she chokes out, closing her door and leaning against it. 

Fuck, he looks gorgeous, she thinks. As he whips around and says, “Hi? That’s what you have to say to me? Hi?!”

And yeah, Olive’s kind of speechless. His hair is shorter, like he cut it. Where it used to practically reach his shoulders, now the bit sticking out of his beanie looks about three inches shorter. He’s wearing his wire frame glasses, a black and white striped t-shirt that’s obviously well loved, it’s covered in holes. She just keeps staring at him. 

“Well, I… I think you owe me, like a real explanation. That’s why I’m here,” he exhales, looking down at her. “Your pajamas are cute.”

“Thanks,” she looks down at her pink striped satin set and looks back up at him.

“Can you just tell me why?” Steve asks, “I can’t fucking take it anymore, Olive. I’ve been a fucking mess and it’s because the way you fucking did it. You didn’t explain shit to me and you ran off like a coward and that’s not fucking fair to me! You know, that’s not fair!”

Olive watches as Steve gets more heated, the way his eyes move and his cheeks flush as his lips move around his words, rising in volume. And there’s something sick about her, she knows that, but she likes when Steve raises his voice at her. Maybe she likes him standing up for himself. 

“I did run off. If I didn’t, you would’ve talked me out of ending it,” she says, softly. 

Steve laughs, that cruel one he does when he’s upset, “Do you even have a reason? Did you just want to hurt me? Were you fucking bored of me?”

Olive crosses her arms, part of her wants to make Steve leave but a bigger part of her can’t let him leave. That part wants to jump on him, tell him she takes it back and she needs him. She’s stubborn, though. 

“Yeah. You hurt me, so I hurt you,” she says, finally admitting that this was because he slept with someone else.

Steve rubs his hand against his mouth and chin and Olive can’t help but take note of how big his hands are. It’s one of her favorite things about him physically. He shakes his head before he speaks again, “Biggest mistake of my fucking life.” 

“Yeah,” Olive mumbles, “I told you that you could, but I didn’t really want you to.”

“I shouldn’t have, even if you said it was okay. I wish I didn’t,” he whispers back, “but I guess part of me… felt like I was getting back at you. Because I’m your second choice, I’m the—“

“Are you joking? Second choice, Steve, you were—,” she swallows because that’s not true and she knows it. 

“I was what?” Steve says, “I was a secret. Kind of a horribly kept secret but a secret.”

Olive can’t say anything, she just shakes her head as her stomach turns. 

“So like one time, I fucked up yes, but like you’ve been with someone else this whole time and I never gave you an ultimatum or anything. I’m like a fucking obedient dog for you, Olive. I just do whatever the fuck you want, I put up with being treated like shit just to be with you,” Steve laments, “That’s not fair. Do you think that’s what I deserve? That’s how much I mean to you?”

She has tears welling in her eyes, she can’t look at Steve because it just makes it all worse. She just stares at his shoes. It’s not true, she thinks Steve deserves better. That’s part of why she did this. But then having him right here in front of her, she’s completely regretting breaking up with him. She wants to touch him, but she’s scared he’ll push her away. 

“You can’t even look at me,” Steve exhales, “Do you feel bad? Is that why you can’t look at me?”

Olive shakes her head, “Of course I feel bad.”

“You should,” he says, “you should feel bad. You told me you loved me. And I fucking believed it, maybe because I’m an idiot.”

She can’t say anything, she just stares down at his feet. She thinks about the state he’s been in, what Amelia has told her. But he seems to be clean. Then again, he’s wearing a beanie. The point is, she knows she broke him. And she feels awful. Because she does love him.

“I do,” she whispers softly. 

Steve steps closer, puts his fingers under her chin and pulls her face up to look at him. “Look at me, then,” he whispers. 

Their eyes meet and Olive feels herself melt. His eyes are glassy, they’re both on the verge of tears and Olive’s first instinct is to pull away, run from this intensity. But she holds still, eyes scanning over his face. His mustache is thicker than she’s seen before. And the rest of his facial hair is grown out, it’s patchy. Olive reaches up and grazes her fingers against it. A small smile plays on her lips, Steve mirrors it. 

“Still feel bad?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” she whispers, strokes his face gently, “I like all this hair, though.”

“Glad to know me neglecting self care is attractive to you,” he replies with a raised brow. 

Olive sighs, “No, no, I— Amelia told me how you’ve been and I, I’m sorry…”

“Yeah, huge pity party over at my place. But hey, I showered for you,” he says, with a smile. “Couldn’t be bothered to shave.”

“You look hot,” Olive admits. “Like really, really hot…”

Steve puts his hands on her hips, Olive loves how it feels. The familiarity of his hands on her. She wants to kiss him so bad. It doesn’t matter that she broke up with him. She doesn’t care about it right now. She missed him. She missed his touch. Steve pulls her into him, so their hips touch. And then they’re both leaning in. 

When their lips touch, Olive swears there’s fireworks and she feels like a fucking idiot for not listening to those natural tells. She feels incredible when Steve’s around. He never makes her feel insecure or bored. His arms wrap around her waist as he pulls her closer. Olive’s hands push his beanie off his head and her fingers card through his hair. It’s so much shorter, and she mumbles against his lips, “You cut your hair.”

Steve laughs into her mouth and fuck, did she miss that sound. He mumbles back, “Had to. It was bad.”

Olive kisses him again, keeps feeling through his hair as she licks against his lower lip. Steve licks her back and it ignites something in her, feeling true actual arousal for the first time in weeks. Steve’s hands move down to her ass, squeezing momentarily before he’s lifting her up. She wraps her legs around his waist and keeps playing with his hair as he carries her to her bedroom. Lays her back on her mattress and crawls onto her, between her legs. She grabs his shirt and pulls him close, connecting their lips again. Steve moans against her lips, grinding down against her and Olive giggles because she can feel his erection in his jeans. And she’s so flattered that he gets that turned on just by kissing her. 

She drags her hands down his back, grabbing hold of his shirt and pulling it up and over his head. Steve starts unbuttoning Olive’s top, kissing her tenderly. His hands find Olive’s breasts, squeezing her gently. Olive whines, “Steve…”

He smiles, pulling back and looking down at her. Then Olive realizes how he’s cut his hair and she giggles, “You have bangs.”

Steve raises his brows, still smiling as he moves his thumbs against Olive’s nipples. “Is that what it’s called?”

She nods, smiling at him, “I guess it’s like a mod cut. It’s cute. I like it a lot. You look good.”

“Thanks,” he says, leans down and kisses her neck. Olive moans, hand moving to the back of his neck as she tilts her head, exposing her neck more for him. She feels so needy, so desperate for Steve. He sucks against her skin, surely marking her up and before, Olive would’ve stopped him. She doesn’t care, those seven weeks away were brutal and she can’t be without Steve ever again. 

So Olive lets Steve cover her neck in bruises, writhes up against him as he does it. She revels in the sounds he makes against her skin whenever his strained cock manages to catch on Olive’s clothed pussy. He goes lower, kissing across her clavicle and leaving marks there. Then her breasts. He spends his sweet time but Olive is getting eager and she wants to look at his face again, so she tugs him back by his hair and Steve sits up. 

“Sorry,” he chokes out when he looks down at her bruised skin. “Kinda went a little overboard with that, huh?” 

Olive sits up too, reaching for Steve’s pants and starts unbuttoning them. He helps her get them down, leaving him in his briefs and she says, “I don’t care, but I’m gonna have to give you some to make it fair.”

He grins, so wide and so pretty. With his briefs tented. And Olive missed his cock. There’s nothing like it, she thinks. She reaches for it, purely because she can’t help herself. Steve huffs, that gorgeous grin still on his face. So Olive just says it, “Missed him.”

“Are you referring to my penis?” Steve asks with a giggle. 

“I am,” she nods, and Steve purses his lips then. 

“Have you been thinking about it?”

Olive flushes, because of course she has been. She nods slowly, “And other things too. Like the way you smell when you’re asleep, and the way you hum and whistle while you cook, and how you take care of me when I’m sick.” 

Steve leans close to kiss Olive, full of passion and love. Like he’s been waiting to hear her say those words. Like he needs to be told she missed him. And she really, really did. Life went back to boring and mundane without him. She’d forgotten what it felt like to wake up unhappy. To feel like everything she did was dull and pointless. 

His hands find the elastic of her satin shorts and he pulls them down. She wasn’t wearing underwear, and she can feel Steve smile against her when he notices. Olive giggles and goes for his briefs, tugging them down. Gets her hand wrapped around his cock and she sighs, a happy relieved sigh and it makes Steve laugh. 

“I told you I missed him,” she says.

He reaches between her legs and tells her, “I missed her too.”

Olive gasps, feeling his big hand cup her pussy and says, “Fuck, she missed you.”

Steve’s middle finger slips inside Olive’s core, she inhales sharply and squeezes the base of Steve’s cock. His hips stutter and she strokes him slowly, as he fingers her. Their eyes meet, the pair of them breathing heavily as they work each other over. Olive’s heart pounds, she’s gazing at his pretty face and she’s never felt more stupid in her whole life. She can’t believe she almost let him go. She swears she’s never going to do it again. This is the man for her, she’s letting herself realize and accept that. She deserves someone like Steve, she deserves Steve and she swears she’s going to be better for him. She’s going to let him in, she’s going to give him everything. 

Then Steve moves, scoots down the bed like he’s going to eat Olive out. And that’s all fine and dandy but…

“Wait… I want you, I want to suck your cock,” she says and Steve smiles at her.

He wiggles his brows, “69?”

And Olive laughs, nods enthusiastically and lays back down. Steve moves over her. This is a nice view she thinks, looking right up at Steve’s dick and balls. An excited giggle bubbles up from her chest, her hand wrapping around his cock. She strokes him as she tilts her head up and licks against his balls. Steve moans softly, Olive feels his breath fan against her swollen lips. Then she feels his tongue, she cries out. She missed this, he’s so incredibly talented. She remembers that she doesn’t even ask Pilot to eat her out because he’s so bad at it.

But Steve’s so good. He works hard at it, teasing through her folds, focusing on her clit for just a beat before moving back down. Then, he sucks against each of her lips before gliding his tongue down to dip into her core. Olive moans out, so lost in the pleasure that she’s completely forgotten about pleasuring Steve. Though he doesn’t seem to mind. He licks against her hole, moaning like he’s deriving pleasure from it. Then his cock sways from his movements, right in front of Olive’s face and she’s reminded. 

She wraps her lips around his tip and sucks, then circles her tongue around it. Her legs spread a little wider, Steve’s hips jerk forward just a tiny bit but it pushes his balls against Olive’s face. She giggles softly, but Steve’s thrusting again, sinking into her mouth another inch. So she sucks harder, takes him as deep as she can. And he’s just as enthusiastic, works back up to her clit and wraps his lips around it. Sucks and licks until Olive can barely breathe. She’s moaning around him, trying to focus on giving him an incredible blow job that he absolutely deserves. But he’s too good at eating her out, she gets distracted. 

And Steve can tell, he reaches down to hold his cock as he pulls it out of her mouth. Then he sits on the bed and softly laughs, “It’s fun in theory, but ya know…”

“It’s your fault,” Olive turns to him. “You’re so good, I forget what I’m doing.”

He shakes his head, lays next to her and puts his hand on her hip. He nudges his nose against hers and kisses her soft and slow. She puts her hand on his jaw as she kisses back, matching his pace though she wants more. Steve’s unlike anyone. He really takes his time, offers more than enough foreplay, but more than anything… he’s never in a rush. Even when they should be. Their bodies inch closer, his erection grazing against her navel as they make out. But there’s no urgency. He moans softly, could be from the stimulation on his cock but Olive thinks it’s just from the kiss. 

And she’s certain she’s more eager than he is. She tries to tell him as much, sucking on his tongue, making the kiss a little sloppier, grinding against him. Steve takes the hint, smiling as he reaches down and pulls Olive’s leg over his middle before moving his hand to guide his cock to her entrance.

Then she stops him, “Wait—“ she swallows because she’s not trying to ruin the mood, she just has concerns. “With Willow, did you….?”

Steve sighs softly, not like he’s upset with Olive and more like he’s upset with himself but he assures her, “I used protection. Hell, Olive, you’re the only person I haven’t used it with.”

And well, “Me too.” It’s the truth. She makes Pilot wear condoms. 

“Can I? Or we can use one, I.. I don’t have one on me but—“

“No, it’s good. I just had to ask,” she whispers, hand on his cheek. 

Steve nods then, dipping back down to kiss her as he slips his cock inside. She gasps, against his lips as the sensation of him stretching her out fills her with ecstasy. She can’t believe she almost gave this up. She grips onto his shoulder as he sinks in deeper and deeper. 

“Steve!” she moans, “Oh.”

He nuzzles against her face, rolling his hips as she mewls and whines. His hand wraps around her thigh, squeezing the flesh as he pumps into her. Slowly dragging against her walls and Olive is on an entirely different plane of existence. Mouth agape, drawn out moans and cries falling free. 

The tip of his cock rubs against that sensitive spot deep inside, in such a way that has her close to crying. This reconnection is what she’d been longing for, even if she wouldn’t admit it. And Steve mumbling repeatedly how much he loves and missed her against her cheek isn’t helping. 

His voice is so soft, a little raspy and so incredibly needy, “I love you so fucking much… I missed you so bad. Was making me fucking sick, baby. I need you, I need you, I love you, I love you…”

She squeezes his shoulder as she whines back, “Missed… oh, fuck, missed you, too… love you, too… Stevie, oh, God.” 

“Not fucking letting you go again,” he groans, his hand moving to her hip and squeezing rough. Like he’s got to keep her here. 

And well, he never did. She’s the one who let him go. Pushed him out, actually. But she’s absolutely certain she’s never doing that again. So she kisses him, sloppy and messy. Lips not exactly meeting, kisses on his cheek and his chin. Tongue darting out to taste his sweaty skin. Tastes herself on it, too. 

His thrusts get a little rougher then, deeper. Until the position they’re in gets a little too awkward, so he’s pushing her onto her back and moving between her legs. And like this, he’s only that much deeper and Olive’s head tilts back as she gasps out. Her hands find his back, scratching down it as he pounds into her. Then she looks at him, their eyes meet and Olive absolutely fucking melts. The adoration, the lust, the desperation in his hazel eyes makes that knot in her stomach tighten. She’s on the verge of an orgasm, while also being on the verge of tears. And she can’t imagine sharing this kind of experience or emotion with anyone other than Steve. He’s made from her. Olive never quite believed in soulmates. But Steve has Olive believing in the world. 

It creeps up quickly, the rubber band snapping as her orgasm rushes through her. Mouth hanging open as she gasps, eyes trained on Steve’s gorgeous face as she cums. He looks so focused yet so in awe as he watches. His face is flushed. He gives her a moment to come down before he grabs her hands, pins them above her head and crashes his lips into her. His hips quicken, the force of his thrusts increasing as he moans against her lips. They still as he reaches his peak, before offering two more involuntary thrusts. 

The pair of them stay like that for a moment, catching their breath, staring into each other's eyes. Before it gets too uncomfortable and Steve’s pulling off. He offers a quick smooch before he’s off the bed and retrieves a wet towel. 

Steve lays back on the bed after he’s cleaned them up and he turns to her, takes a deep shaky breath and says, “Okay, we gotta really talk about that.”

“About how good that was?” Olive asks with a lifted brow, giggling softly. 

He shakes his head, looks visibly nervous so Olive sits up and turns to him. Her stomach drops with the idea that he might be regretting all of that. She rubs her lips together, patiently waiting for him to talk again. But he doesn’t. Looks like he keeps mulling over what he’s gonna say in his head so Olive has to speak first.

“What do you want to say?” she asks in a quiet, shaking voice. 

Steve looks a little bit like he might cry when he finally opens his mouth, “I have to give you that ultimatum. I probably should have a long time ago. But, fuck, Olive. I’m not doing that again with you. It’s me or him. And that was really fun and amazing and I feel so deeply connected to you when we have sex but… I can’t do it again unless you break up with Pilot and commit to me.”

And she saw this coming. The idea of breaking up with Pilot is deeply terrifying for some reason, yet the thought of losing Steve again is much more daunting. So she nods, looks at him earnestly. 

She must be silent for too long because Steve sighs, “Alright, well… I’m not gonna stay any longer if–”

“Wait, Steve. I’ll do it. I’ll break up with Pilot,” she tells him, hand moving to his arm as he tries to get up. “I can’t spend that long without you again.”

“This time would be longer if you don’t pick me, Olive. Like, forever,” Steve tells her.

“I know,” Olive whispers, “I want you.”

Steve holds her hand, intertwines their fingers, “If it helps, I’ll be a much better boyfriend.” 

Olive giggles then, squeezing his hand as she tells him, “I know you will be. You’re not gonna keep me a prisoner in this city.”

“As long as you come back home to me sometime.”

“Or you could… come with me,” Olive offers with a purse of her lips.

Steve grins, “If that’s a possibility. I’d follow you anywhere.”

Then he grabs her phone and hands it to her, “Better go ahead and text him that it’s over.”

“Steve! I can’t do that!” Olive exclaims. 

His face falls, then turns pensive as he sits up and tilts his head, “I thought we literally just had this conversation about you picking me?”

“We did,” she insists, “but I can’t dump him over text. I have to do it in person. We’ve been together for way too long to break up over a text.” 

“So, when are you gonna do it, then? I don’t want to wake up tomorrow and you changed your mind,” his voice is so stern and it’s kind of turning her on. She pushes him on his back, straddling his waist and lacing their fingers together. Can’t help but grind a little bit on him.

“Promise I’ll do it tomorrow,” she tells him before leaning down and connecting their lips.

Steve can’t argue, his arms wrap around her middle and pulls her closer. He opens his mouth, like he wants her tongue. So she gives it to him, licks into his mouth as she pushes her fingers through his hair. And like magic, she feels his cock start to fill out against her thigh. She wonders why she let him go, because Steve can always keep going. 

But he pulls back from the kiss and says, “I mean it, Olive. If you change your mind tomorrow, I’m done. I really can’t do it anymore. And who knows, I might tell him myself—“

“Steve! I said I will. I really will. I promise,” she says, furrowing her eyebrows. “I don’t think you should tell him. That would be bad.”

“Well, I will,” Steve threatens, “If you don’t, I will tell him myself.”

Olive shakes her head, then rolls her eyes, “You wanna start a whole bunch of drama, don’t you?”

“If I don’t get what I want,” he replies with a playful shrug.

“Oh, wow, you’re such a brat, Steve. I might have to fuck it out of you,” Olive says, seductively. 

Steve’s expression changes. He swallows hard, his cock twitches against her ass. His hands move to his sides as he looks up at her. “I’m going to be an even bigger brat if you change your mind tomorrow.”

“Well, if you’re gonna be such a brat, maybe you need a spanking,” Olive counters.

And Steve scoffs, a laugh falls from his lips as he sits up, holding onto Olive’s hips, “I think actually, if any of us need a spanking, it’s you.”

Olive’s never been more excited in her entire life. She deserves it for sure, but is it really a punishment if she’s going to be enjoying it so much? She pouts, tilts her head and says, “You think I need a spanking?”

Steve nods, “After all that shit you put me through, yeah, absolutely.”

“Well… if you say so…” she says and moves off of him. She stands and looks at him expectantly. He loves to sit on the edge of her bed, looks up at Olive with his brows raised. 

“Bend over my lap,” Steve tells her. The tone of his voice is incredibly arousing, calm yet domineering. Something she hasn’t exactly heard from him. And she thinks how quickly they can make that switch, how she trusts that he won’t push it further than she wants and that it won’t change how they feel about each other has Olive certain of one thing, this is the man she was meant to be with. Forever. 

She easily obeys, bending over his lap. She glances back at him, seeing how his eyes skate over her back and behind. His hand is gentle, rubs against her ass carefully. And the anticipation is killing her. Olive inhales sharply and holds it, eyes dropping to her hardwood floor as she waits. Steve takes his time here too. Fingers tapping along the flesh as he moves his hand, edging close to her soaking entrance. He teases with a ghosting touch, has Olive clenching her fists and curling her toes because she’s not sure what his next move is. Then he tsks, and her head turns to look up at him. 

“Dripping wet… just at the thought of me spanking you…” he sucks against his teeth before continuing, “That’s pretty naughty, Olive.”

“Can’t help it,” she gasps out. His eyes meet hers momentarily. 

“Head down,” he instructs and she listens. 

Fuck, she loves him. He’ll give her everything she’s ever wanted. Even if she doesn’t think she deserves it. 

His fingers move up, light touches against her cheek. And then a particularly sharp smack. The sound of it reverberates through her room. A yelp falls from Olive and Steve’s hand soothes over the sore, hot skin. Between her legs is uncomfortably wet, dripping down her thighs as Steve delivers another harsh slap. Another yelp and this time as Steve rubs the skin, he asks,  “You okay?” 

And maybe it breaks the illusion but she’s thrilled he’s concerned. He’s just so attentive. She mumbles a sound of agreement. Wiggles her ass for him to continue. Instead of spanking, his hand dips between her legs and he laughs, deep and soft.

“Yeah, you’re definitely okay.”

Another slap. And another. Surely enough to make her pale skin bright red. Steve makes sure to soothe her skin each time. Then, he moves his hand up her spine. Slides his fingers into the hair at the back of her scalp and pulls her up. Pulls her into his lap and kisses her intensely. She whines into it, falling with him as he lays on his back. Straddling him, she grabs his jaw and kisses him back with fervor. 

His hands are still in her hair, tugging as he writhes against her. 

“I love you,” she babbles out, “I love you so much.”

“We really need to have a talk about why that shit turns you on so much,” he laughs and Olive pulls back to raise her brow. 

“Like that didn’t turn you on?” 

He rolls his eyes and tells her, “I’ll do whatever you want me to. Even if it’s to be mean to you.”  

“It’s not about being mean,” Olive admits, “It’s about trust.”

That seems to intrigue him, his brow lifting, “That turns you on because you trust me?”

She nods, “I trust that you’ll take care of me. You’ll never push it too far. You’ll listen.” 

“Huh,” he says, seeming like he’s realizing something. “You really do love me.”

“I’m sorry I made you question it,” Olive tells him sincerely. 

He moves his hand up, caressing her face and smiles somberly, “I always knew deep down. Think I knew it before you did.”

“I’m scared, a lot of the time… you scared me because I didn’t… I couldn’t like, control it. I was falling and I didn’t have a say. I was—“ Olive stops because she feels the urge to cry crawling up her throat. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay… you’re worth all the effort I have to put in. So if you fucking, if you go back on all this tomorrow, like that’s it… I can’t… I need you to be mine completely, or I can’t have you. For my own good, ya know?” Steve tells her.

“You’ve been talking with Robin about this a lot, huh?” Olive teases. 

Steve rolls his eyes, “If I was listening to her, I wouldn’t even be here. I had a lot of time to think. And I was thinking that… if we happened to not be able to control ourselves, I deserve one last time but if you couldn’t commit to me fully, I don’t deserve to be dragged around. I’m not gonna spend my life being a secret, or second best to some fucking asshole who doesn’t appreciate the woman I love.”

Olive puts her hand on his cheek, tells him earnestly, “You’re the right one for me, Steve. And I’m so sorry I ever made you feel like that wasn’t true—“

“Oh, I knew that,” Steve snorts, “Been waiting for you to realize.”

“And I have,” she smiles. “I promise you, I’m not going to lose you again. I’m going to end things with Pilot and I’m going to commit to you one hundred percent. So much that Robin’s gonna have to find a roommate.”

He smiles at that, big and goofy. “You want me to move in?”

“What? Like you’re not gonna spend every night here?” Olive giggles. “You only ever left my place because I made you. And I only did that because you weren’t my boyfriend. If you’re gonna be my boyfriend, you might as well move in.”

Steve kisses her, smiling as he does. His arms circle her waist. And his erection comes springing back to life, present against her ass. And Olive thinks, what better time than now. She reaches behind her, grabbing his cock as she lifts herself up so she can guide it inside her easily. They moan in unison as she sits, sheathing him inside to the hilt. 

Slowly, she begins grinding down on Steve. His eyes focus on Olive and she swears she sees hearts in them. She puts her hands on his hairy chest, using the leverage to speed up her movements. Steve’s hands hold onto Olive’s hips, squeezing her as he moans out shakily. And she loves how whiny Steve gets whenever she rides him, it makes her feel sexy and powerful. In general that’s how Steve makes her feel. 

Gazing down at him like this, she really gets to appreciate his new haircut. It’s all messed up from her fingers being in it but she really likes how his hair falls on his forehead. And god, the way he’s looking up at her with those big eyes. Olive reaches for his hands, brings them up to her chest and Steve cups her breasts in his hands. Squeezes softly. Grazes his thumbs against her nipples. Olive’s mouth hangs open, she arches her back as she picks up the pace. 

Then Steve blurts out suddenly, “I’m gonna fucking marry you.” 

And Olive laughs, “I was just thinking that.”

He grins, “You were?”

“Amongst other things,” she giggles, motioning down to where their bodies meet. 

Steve licks his lips as he watches, Olive rising up and sinking down, “Why do you think I’m gonna marry you?”

“Just for the sex?” Olive gasps dramatically.

He rolls his eyes, “Yep.”

She grins, leaning down and kissing Steve. Purely to get them to shut up. His hands smooth up Olive’s back, into her hair and he tugs as their tongues meet. They work in tandem for a beat before Steve’s flipping them over. On her back, Olive rises her hands above her head and moans. Steve nuzzles his face against her neck, kissing along the bruises he’s left. 

“You feel so fucking good,” he mumbles.

“Stevie…” she moans out, spreading her legs wide for him. His fingers run along the undersides of her thighs and the sensation makes Olive gasp. She grabs the sheets, her back arching. Steve licks against her neck, then sucks. 

Steve’s pumps get a little quicker and deeper, her eyes roll back as the tip of Steve’s cock hits against her g-spot. Steve squeezes her thighs, pushing them up. Every thrust he presses into her just right. She grabs his face and pulls him into a kiss, but it’s sloppy, uncoordinated. It’s heady, Olive can’t help but giggle and Steve mirrors it. 

“You like that?” he asks, smile in his voice. 

“Yeah,” Olive moans, “feels so good, Steve… just like that, fuck me… you’re so big, fuck!”

His eyes rolls back at that, “Fuck, you’re gonna kill me.”

And Olive laughs, smugly. “I love watching you fall apart for me,” she tells him as she wraps her arms around his neck, giggling. 

“I’m fucking obsessed with you,” he mumbles, kissing her softly. 

“I want you to cum for me, Stevie. Can you do that? Need you to fill me up,” Olive begs, holding the back of his neck. 

“Only if you cum with me,” he chokes out, then licks his fingers before reaching his hand between them and rubbing circles against Olive’s clit. Steve has a gift, truly. Olive’s in awe, he knows exactly how to touch her and she can’t believe she ever let this go. She’s the luckiest woman in the world. 

She gasps and moans, nodding at him before pleading, “Fuck me harder.” 

Steve thrusts harder, working his fingers quick and experienced. He kisses Olive as his orgasm hits him, Olive following suit. They cling to one another, moaning as they ride the waves together. Steve kisses her, “I love you.”

“I love you, Stevie.”

—

The sun peeks in through the curtains, waking Olive slowly. She rolls over, stretching as she looks over to Steve’s side of the bed and finds it empty. She panics momentarily, heart sinking to her stomach. Until she hears Steve’s voice in the kitchen, singing along to music playing from the TV. She slides out of bed, slipping into a nightgown before walking into the kitchen. Steve’s in his briefs, bouncing around and wiggling his hips with a spatula in his hand and the smell of bacon in the air. 

Her heart beats a little faster as her lips spread up into a smile. She watches him in awe, before he notices her standing there. Steve flips an egg, swaying his hips from side to side. Olive giggles and Steve’s head snaps back, a wide open mouthed smile on his face. 

“You’re finally up!” he cheers, “Let me make you some coffee.” 

Steve moves towards the coffee pot and Olive goes to get water from the fridge. She watches him make her coffee exactly how she likes as she takes her morning pills. Then Steve hands her the coffee, kissing her lips softly before then handing over her pack of cigarettes. He returns to cooking and Olive sits at the island counter, lighting up a cigarette and watching him cook. Bacon, eggs, home fries and sourdough toast. He spreads avocado on the toast, then plates Olive’s breakfast. 

They sit and eat, Olive moans at the first bite. Thinks she could get used to Steve living here. Though, she’s going to have to invest in a gym membership. She doesn’t usually eat breakfast, but she’s feeling rather hungry after all the cardio they did last night. 

“How’d you sleep?” Steve asks, piercing a potato with his fork. 

Olive smiles, remembering how cozy she felt with Steve spooning her all night. It was perfect. “Really good. How about you?”

“Best sleep of my whole life,” Steve says with a smile. “So I was thinking, I could like, go home and pack some stuff while you meet with Pilot. And maybe we can go out tonight? Like celebrate. Give me the chance to really show you off.”

Olive raises her brows, flush settling over her cheeks but fear twirling in her stomach. Breaking up with Pilot. That’s going to be hard to do. Pilot can get quite the temper and he’s going to want answers. So Olive is going to have to be honest. 

“You’re scared,” Steve notices, reaching over and putting his hand on Olive’s. “But you haven’t changed your mind, right?”

“Of course not,” she says, “I’m going to do it today. I promise.”

“Are you gonna do it in public?” Steve teases, smirking. 

She rolls her eyes but that was her plan, “He can get pretty explosive.”

Steve hums, watching as Olive reaches for the Tabasco to put on her eggs, then he snatches it from her and does the same to his, “Maybe I should come with.”

“Oh, god, no. That would make it ten times worse,” Olive tells him. 

Steve shrugs, “He did like me, ya know. Maybe he’ll be stoked for us.”

“I think the seven months of us fucking behind his back will put a damper on his fondness of you,” Olive winces. 

“You’re gonna tell him that?” Steve raises his brows, looking shocked. 

She nods, “He’s gonna expect an explanation. I might as well tell him the truth.”

Steve purses his lips, like he’s thinking over it. He sighs and tells her, “I guess that’s fair.”

They finish their breakfast and work on the dishes together. It all feels very domestic, even if there is a tension in the air. They work well together, Olive scrubbing at the dishes while Steve dries and puts them away. 

After, Steve lifts Olive up and places her on the counter. He slips his fingers into her hair, leaning close and tilting her head up towards him. Olive’s heart beats a little faster, she feels her stomach drop as Steve nudges his nose against hers. And she thinks, she’s so deeply in love. Steve’s going to make her feel this way forever. The butterflies will never dull. She’s sure they could be married for fifty years and Steve’ll still be making her feel like this. 

“I love you,” he whispers. 

Olive smiles, her hands moving to grab Steve’s hands and she intertwines their fingers. 

“I love you too, Stevie.”

Their lips meet and they melt into it. Olive tilts her head, Steve kisses her top lip. His hands find her waist, he squeezes as they kiss. It quickly becomes heated, as it usually does with them. There’s this electric deep energy between them, a chemistry that just can’t be ignored. Olive feels like she cannot help herself around him. Her hands move into his hair. 

“Can’t believe you’re my girlfriend,” he says, wrapping his arms around her waist and squeezing her.

Olive giggles, hugging back and says to him, “Finally, eh?”

“Girl of my dreams,” Steve mumbles against her lips, continuing the kiss and Olive feels like she’s floating.

She reaches into his briefs, licks into his mouth as she wraps her legs around Steve’s waist. He pulls the straps of her nightgown down her arms and the slip drops down to expose her breasts. Olive moans into his mouth as his hands touch her breasts. She squeezes his cock, begins to slowly stroke him and Steve whines. His hips jerk forward and he gasps. 

“Love how easy you are for me,” she tells him between kisses.

To which Steve replies, “It’s totally your fault.”

Then he’s licking into her mouth while he fondles her tits. Olive begins stroking him a little faster. Then she hears the door opening and before she can pull away, she hears Pilot’s voice. 

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

They turn to him, Olive pulls her hand out of Steve’s underwear and starts to pull her nightgown back up. But Pilot’s stalking over, his footsteps load on the hardwood floor. Steve takes a step back, lifts his hands up but Pilot’s winding back his fist. 

“Pilot, no! Don’t—“

Olive’s plea is interrupted by the sound of Pilot’s fist cracking into Steve’s face. She jumps off the counter as Steve makes a pained sound and stumbles back. Pilot winds back again but Olive’s grabbing his arm. He turns to her then, “The fucking Dogwalker? I can’t fucking believe you.”

He looks at Steve then, shakes his head and turns to leave. 

“I should’ve fucking believed Ezra,” he says on his way out. 

Olive’s reaching for her robe, slipping it on and a pair of heels. She runs to the door to follow Pilot, but before she leaves, she turns to Steve.

“Don’t leave. I’ll be right back.”

Steve stands, holding his hand over where he was just socked in the face. He lifts the other to wave and Olive runs out. Chases Pilot down the street before she catches up to him.

“Pilot, wait! Let me explain!”

He whips around, “Explain what? That you’ve been fucking this guy you apparently hate behind my back?”

“I know… I shouldn’t have— I—“ Olive swallows. She hadn’t even had time to think about what she was going to say. How she was going to explain this. 

“How long?” Pilot asks her then. 

Olive chews on her lip, looks at the sidewalk and then up at Pilot. “I’m sorry.”

“How long, Olive?”

“Seven months. Pretty much… immediately,” she admits. 

“Wow,” Pilot scoffs. 

Olive sighs, “I… I broke it off, that’s why he kinda disappeared for three months and well… last night he showed up and I…” she swallows hard, feeling like her breakfast might come back up, “I’m really sorry, Pilot. I shouldn’t have let it go on that long.”

“Well, fuck, Olive… I can’t believe you’d do something like this. It’s gonna take a while to forgive you… we’ll work through it but, it’s gonna be work,” Pilot says, “As long as it was just ya know, sex. I know we’ve been pretty stale in that department but—“

“Oh, no… I… Pilot,” she sighs, looks back at him and confesses, “I’m in love with him. Like, really, really in love with him.”

Pilot rubs his hand over his face. Scoffs again and says, “So what? That’s it? It’s over?”

Olive nods softly. Looks over her shoulder, she’s half expecting Steve to come. 

“Why didn’t you just break up with me ten months ago?” Pilot asks.

“I should’ve,” Olive admits, "But, I was terrified… I was in denial. I didn’t realize how deep it had gotten with him… and when I did I broke it off but…”

“But you’re jerking him off in your kitchen this morning, so clearly it didn't stick,” he mumbles. “Ezra told me… and I trusted you and fuck, I had this whole talk with Steve and he fucking lied to me… right to my face.”

“You punched him. He got punished enough. He was only trying to protect me,” she mumbled. “Don’t hate him. Hate me.”

“I hate you both,” Pilot grins, “I’ll pack up all your shit and bring it over soon. Bye.”

He turns and keeps walking. Olive feels like crying. She turns and walks back to her apartment. Inside, Steve’s sitting on her couch holding a bag of frozen peas to his face. Olive kicks out of her shoes and rushes over to him, she sits and grabs the peas. 

“Let me see…” she mumbles.

He lets her pull it off his face, showing her his swollen eyelids and the beginning of bruising. It’s gonna be a pretty gnarly black eye. 

“Aw… baby…” she puts the peas back over it. “I’m so sorry…”

Steve shrugs, “Guess I deserve it. Feel bad that’s how he found out.”

“Shocked it didn’t happen sooner, honestly,” Olive whispers, “I mean… the tent.”

He laughs, pulling Olive into his lap. “I should’ve been punched forever ago.”

Olive kisses Steve’s temple.

—-

Three weeks later, Steve was all moved in. Olive was forcing herself to compromise. Steve’s stuff didn’t exactly fit her aesthetic and now her apartment looked a whole lot more disorganized and cluttered. But, it really was worth it. Spending every single waking and sleeping second with Steve wasn’t as suffocating as she thought it was going to be. Mostly, Olive felt completely relieved. 

Steve handled chores, he planned meals and he expanded his doggy client list so that Olive could have enough alone time to write her articles. He really was the perfect roommate, even if he had a penchant for junk that made Olive think her apartment was ugly.

Sleeping has never been easier, though. She thought the cuddling would wear off, that after enough nights spent together, he wouldn’t cling to her. But he still does, every night. He’s incredibly clingy. And it’s exactly what Olive needed. He softens her edges, she’s in a good mood every morning. Partly because she’s booked the longest, extended “vacation” with a big chunk of her savings. 

Tonight, they’re doing the official new partner dinner with her friends. Even though they already know Steve, it’s still tradition. That’s where Olive will announce her trip. 

“Hey, babe,” Steve greets Olive when he gets through the door, pushing his little old man cart. She teased him but it’s actually brilliant. Olive would only get enough groceries to fit in one bag because she didn’t want to struggle to carry it all. Steve never struggles. And, he brought her flowers. He hands them over and kisses her cheek. 

“So pretty, thank you,” Olive smiles, bringing the flowers up to smell them. “Are you gonna be able to get this all done by the time they arrive, Steve?”

“With your help,” he says, snatching the flowers back from Olive so he can trim them and put them in a vase.

Olive groans, “I don’t wanna ruin it, Steve.” 

“Then, you’re just gonna have to follow my instructions really well,” he lifts his brows and Olive feels her thighs heat up. It’s truly a gift, he can turn her on so easily. He must recognize the look in her eyes because he says, “No. We do not have time for that. Don’t tempt me. Now, start cutting up the veggies.” 

“Yes sir,” Olive says, obeying him and Steve groans.

“You’re such a tease. Knock it off.”

They work together to make dinner and the timing is perfect. Everyone starts to arrive just as they finish. As they all sit at the table, Olive stands to make a toast. 

“First of all, I want to thank all of you guys for coming. This feels like a long time coming, to be honest. You’ve all been so supportive of Steve and I, and I wanted to thank you guys for that,” she says, and turns to Steve, “I also wanted to thank Steve for putting up with all my bullshit for the past year. And I’m looking forward to making up for it…”

“Oh, my god, are you proposing?” Amelia interrupts, her eyes widened.

The smile on Steve’s face grows and Olive has to crush it, “Oh, god, no! Amelia, what is wrong with you?”

“I’m hopeful,” she rolls her eyes. 

“I’m not proposing. God. I am trying to say, I’ve booked a trip. A very extended one. Six months,” she says, smiling ear to ear. It’s all she could think about after the breakup with Pilot. She was finally allowed to leave again.

Steve tilts his head, Olive’s kept him in the dark this whole time about it. “You… huh?”

Robin snorts, “That sick of Steve already?”

Olive gasps, shakes her head, “No! No! Actually… I planned to take him with me.”

“Wait, really?!” Steve asks, excitedly as he jumps up from his seat.

“If you’d go, yeah,” Olive tells him just as he wraps his arms around her tightly, spinning them in a circle which has Olive spilling her wine down his back but he doesn’t seem to care. 

“When do we leave?!”