girls, will you please take the wheel?

Currently, you're most unsure of why you're still at the hockey house. They won their game tonight. Another easy accomplishment for the university's team, unsurprisingly led by Steve, their superstar player and shoo-in for captain next year. You've heard that he's already getting scouted by NHL teams, but his golden boy repute means that he'll finish his degree before heading off to a fruitful career as a professional hockey player.

You scoff at the thought. You try not to let the jealousy build in your body, but you can't help it — Steve's gotten everything he's wanted since the beginning of time. You don't need to know him to prove your point; he just radiates that very fact.

So, again. Why are you laying on a lounge chair in the backyard of the hockey house, fully knowing the party is dead and there's nothing left for you to do but go home?

You know you could go inside, make eye contact, and flirt with any one of the remaining players who are sober enough to make a conscious decision, and find enough warmth for the night to get by.

But you don't want to do that.

For some stupid, pathetic reason, you're holding out for him, and you have no idea why.

You sigh and pull the cigarette from behind your ear, then grab the lighter from your bra. You feel like you've made an idiot of yourself over the past few weeks. Ever since Steve initially propositioned you, you've slept with three of his teammates, for no reason other than wanting him to know what it feels like to want something. But each time you fucked them, it was boring, wearisome, and you thought about Steve the entire time.

You hate it.

You think you hate Steve, too, but you know that's not true, either.

You're taking a drag and staring at your shoes when the man who's been haunting your thoughts finally makes an appearance in the dark backyard. There's still a string of lights up, a pitiful attempt at college students making their outdoor space look presentable, not to mention the litter of empty, crushed beer cans and solo cups.

Steve furrows his eyebrows when he recognizes you, immediately worrying that you're passed out with a lit cigarette in your hand, or too drunk to get home. When he approaches you, you smirk lazily at him. He swallows.

"Harrington," you greet, your throat dry from its lack of use. You don't know how long ago you came out here, but you do know that at some point, you decided you'd had enough of the loud speakers and beer pong, and the guy on the basketball team who kept pawing at your short skirt was getting seriously old.

"Are you alright?" Steve asks, gesturing to your sluggish profile. You shrug your shoulders before taking another drag from your cigarette, then wordlessly offer it to Steve. He shakes his head.

"Fine," you murmur, sitting up so your back is against the length of the chair, "You?"

"Just doing a sweep before heading to bed. Making sure there's no one lingering from the party."

"Am I a lingerer?" you ask, tossing your cigarette in the grass and crushing it with your shoe.

Steve lifts a hand to run it through his messy hair. He's exhausted. You can see it in the bags beneath his eyes.

"You don't live here, so by definition, you're lingering, yeah."

You hum. You can take a hint. You know when you're not wanted somewhere.

"I'll get out of here, then." you say, preparing to stand. Steve reaches out and clasps a hand around your wrist — gently, like you could still pull yourself away if you wanted to.

"Why are you still here?"

Your tongue pokes out to lick your lips. Steve watches, unabashedly, and feels his pants tighten at the sight of it. You want to smirk, because he's one of the easier and more enjoyable men you've played with.

"Isn't this what you wanted?" you purr, leaning towards him, batting your eyelashes. "You were begging to fuck me just a few weeks ago."

Steve laughs, all breathy and without the humor. It's an immediate shot to your ego.

"Are you drunk?" he asks, and you shake your head too quickly. You're not; the shots you had when you got here had worn off hours ago. "Then why are you... I think I'm just a little... confused."

You snort. Try not to roll your eyes. Maybe the golden boy nickname isn't so far anyway.

"You're gonna turn down fucking me when you were all but ready to pay me for it, like, a month ago?"

"I'm not that desperate," Steve mumbles, scrubbing a hand over his face, "You were so uninterested then, I don't understand what changed."

You shrug. "Does it matter?"

"Yes," Steve says stubbornly, "It does. It matters a lot, actually."

You sigh loudly, then shake your head.

"This is stupid," you mutter, standing up. He doesn't stop you this time. "Don't come to me for that shit ever again."

When you start to walk away, Steve's right behind you, and you wish you're strong enough to push him.

"C'mon, don't do this," you hear him say as you're approaching the sliding glass door. "It's late. Just stay here for the night."

You stop, then turn to look at him with a quirked brow.

He shakes his head. "We're not doing anything though. Not tonight, anyway."

"I don't understand what your problem is, Harrington."

He laughs, tilting his head back to expose his neck. You want to lean forward and mouth at his skin, pressing messy kisses to the length of it all the way down to his chest.

"I don't have a problem."

"Most guys would never shut me down," you say, crossing your arms. "I could go in there and ask any one of your teammates to pound me into their mattress and—"

Suddenly, Steve's hand is on your mouth, a warning look in his eyes. You grin. Even if he can't see it, you know he can feel it from behind his palm.

"Lower your voice," he mumbles. "Will you please just stay? You can take my bed, I'll sleep on the floor, I'll send you off with some breakfast in the morning and everyone will think that we fucked, and it'll be fine and dandy. Yeah? That good enough for you?"

You dart your tongue out to lick his hand. He flinches and instantly retreats, making you laugh.

"God, you're such a baby. Afraid you're gonna get cooties?"

"No."

"Take me upstairs," you say, and Steve's eyes brighten. He must really have some kind of white knight complex and it makes you sigh. "But you're not sleeping on the floor, because we're not 12 years old, and just for the record, I'm not doing this for some kind of reputation maintenance thing."

Steve hums as his hand politely finds the small of your back, guiding you up the stairs and to his bedroom.

"We can sleep in the same bed as long as you promise not to make a move." he murmurs. You stop in front of a wooden door in the middle of the long hallway, waiting as Steve pulls a key from his pocket and unlocks it.

"I would never do that," you whisper. "Seriously, do you think I'm a monster?"

Steve doesn't say anything to that, and instead just leads you into his room. He locks the door behind you and you glance at him. He's already moved on to emptying his pockets onto his desk, getting rid of his wallet and keys. There's not much to Steve's bedroom, just a bed, a dresser, and a desk, but it's clean enough for a college athlete. Your eyes glaze over the small collection of pictures tacked up on the wall over his desk, then some of the hockey paraphernalia throughout the room.

"You want something to wear to bed?"

You look to Steve and nod, and he tosses you a large, worn tee-shirt. You bite your lip as you start to strip your clothes off and you hear Steve curse to himself, making you smirk.

"You could've gone to the bathroom for that, you know," he borderline whines. You grin at him in your bra. He groans and turns around.

When you've shed the rest of your clothing and slipped his shirt on, you tell him he's in the clear. He rolls his eyes and quickly puts his own sweats on, then joins you in the bed.

It's not quite awkward, but you're not exactly going straight for cuddling, not that you had anticipated Steve to be the type. He clicks the light off and lays down next to you, both of you silent as the late hour finally catches up to you.

A few minutes later, Steve breaks the silence.

"Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me tonight?" he whispers.

You blink your eyes open and think for a moment.

You don't have the courage to be honest with yourself, which means you most definitely don't have the courage to be honest with Steve.

You roll onto your side to face him. He does the same, and you lick your lips.

"No," you murmur, hands resting between your cheek and the pillow. "Are you ever gonna tell me why you wanted to sleep with me the night of that party?"

Steve closes his eyes and scooches closer to you, wrapping an arm around your waist. You're a little surprised by the contact, but you tell yourself you let it happen because you're tired and it feels nice.

&&

steve would have you holding yourself open. he’d guide your hands down behind your knees and gently press your own fingers into your legs, moving your body with you as he let you spread your own legs for him.

he’d lean in close and you’d hold your breath, because his mouth is soclose to you, but he doesn’t do anything other than give a kiss to your thigh and then inhale your scent, mouth open like he wants to try and taste you too from inches away. you make a small noise in your throat and then he turns, shifts a little, sucks in his cheeks and then spits right onto your open core, the glob of saliva dripping down the seam of your lips, rolling over your slit down to your slit, where it settles, shiny, warm; you shudder.

and then he’s up on his knees, hovering above you, his hands exploring your body, caressing your tits and your sides and your stomach, settling in your waist as he leans in, the heavy weight of his cock settling on top of you, nestled against your thigh. he reaches one hand down, correcting the placement—he lets it lay across your quivering folds, and rolls his hips. you feel the pass of his cock lightly, because he’s just laying on you, no pressure, nothing holding him against you—and then he starts in.

he takes hold of his cock and strokes himself, thumb smoothing over the head, focusing on the slit like you do, and you watch transfixed until he slides his hand to the base and holds himself, erect, flushed at the tip, over you. then, with one quick, clean movement—he slaps the head against your clit.

you’re not worked up enough—yet—to have much of a reaction but that doesn’t deter him. he just does it again, every now and then smoothing his palm over your pussy, rubbing at your clit with the pads of his fingers, working you up to it gradually, and every time you get close he just uses his cock on you again, like it’s a toy, not part of him. like it’s only good for looking pretty and giving you something to suck on and bat away at your clit with the spongy head until you come from the play.

you’re so wet from him touching you that you can hear it when he taps the head repeatedly against you, his thumb stretched along the top so you really feel it when he pushes the head into your clit, circling it over you, and when he pulls away there’s an obscene wet, almost sucking sound like your fluids and his precome were keeping you stuck together, like your body and his didn’t want to part but for the force of him pulling away.

you sigh—the one he knows, where you like it but want more, and so he gives you one last flick of his wrist, the head popping against your clit again, before he lowers his mouth to you instead, broad shoulders against the backs of your hands as he licks at you, tonguing your clit and sucking it. and that’s about all it takes—a couple soft pulls with his lips, some long quick strokes with his tongue, and you come apart against his mouth, releasing your knees and curling your hands into his hair instead, holding on for dear life as you ride your orgasm out on his face.

&&

gator would definitely make use of his cuffs and have you laying there with your arms up above your head, not able to move while he has one of your legs up against his front, your calf resting on his shoulder. he’d just gently kiss your ankle which would be such a stark contrast to the way that he’s holding your other leg down flat, palm splayed out against your thigh so you’re spread open. he’d probably have you like that for what feels like hours, playing with your pussy almost idly, like he doesn’t care, like he’s not affected, like his cock isn’t rock hard and dripping precome.

he’d use his other hand to hold onto himself and just bat the head against you, nudging your clit with the tip, curling his hips forward so the underside rubs against your swollen, desperate clit, your lips puffy with all the attention he’s been giving them. he’d swap out and use his hand on you every couple passes of his dick, and you’d watch as he pulls away, not able to touch anything but keeping your fingers tangled together. the bottom of his cock is shiny with you, and he’d slap your pussy and dig his fingers into your cunt, scissoring them apart before pulling them out once you start squirming, enjoying it too much—and then he’d just smear your arousal over himself and take hold of his shaft again.

he’d sidle closer on his knees, looming over you and snap his wrist downward, his cock hitting against your clit and you’d twitch, because you’re so worked up and fucked out and the only part of him that’s been inside you is two of his fingers. you’d push your hips up, try to widen your legs, his fingertips pressing divots into your thigh, and he brings his cock down against you. your whole body jumps, and even he gasps as your pussy spasms. he meets your eyes and you nod, whining, so he does it again, and again, your whimpers turning to mewls turning to simpering moans and then he’s slotting his cock between your lips and fucking through them, between them, the slide slick and easy and the pressure and hard ridge of his cock dragging over your soaking folds, his hand rough on your leg, is what pushes you over.

your cunt clamps down on itself, empty, empty, emp—

gator bullies his cock into you as you come, your orgasm drawn out, lasting forever, and your whole body kicks again, your toes curling as he fucks into you, winding you up again, stomach tensing as you feel him inside you, deep, moving in and letting you milk his come from his cock. he fills you up, his arm tight around your leg, holding it to his chest, flooding you with his release, until you both relax and he pulls out and his spunk dribbles out after him

That’s how everyone’s told you it’ll be with your first. There’s been no end to the stories you’ve heard about how you and Gator are destined to fumble along blind in this. 

Gator rounds the corner, your daughter tucked tight into his chest in a hold that looks suspiciously similar to how you’ve seen him carry a football. “Baby– babe, where am I takin’ her?” 

You trail behind him, peering over his shoulder to check that your daughter’s face is still caught in that sleepy, contented expression you already adore. “Just– just go to the living room, I guess,” you offer helplessly. “I don’t know, Gator. She’s not asleep yet.”

“Okay. Okay,” he repeats, a renewed focus in his step as he ever-so-carefully treads toward the living room. 

Your daughter June was born at 6:14 on a Monday morning. June like June Carter, the one country artist you and Gator can ever compromise on; June like your favorite month of the year, sticky-sweet, playful, full of tall, emerald grasses and rope swings suspended over creek beds and barbecue smoke in the air. Gator had joked that she must have had the basics of life down already, waking your asses up right before the start of the week. Tillmans were always good at being difficult. 

When they make it to the sofa, Gator hesitates, looking back at you. “Here— sit down, mama. I’ll bring in the bags.” With the care of someone diffusing a bomb, he hands you your daughter, ushering you back toward the couch. You accept the baby and sit down, grunting a little at the strain on your sore body. “Forget the bags, Gate. Just come sit with us for a second.”

“I’ll be right back,” he promises, shaking his head. You frown a little at the speed with which he abandons the two of you, like he can’t stare at your daughter for too long or she’ll somehow combust. He’s always hated to feel like a coward, but he's fleeing the room right now.

When he finally returns, all the bags stowed in your bedroom for the two of you to bother to unpack later, his expression isn’t any less full of that humming, restless anxiousness. He shifts from foot to foot, wringing his hands a little, like he’s waiting for you to assign him another task. Like he needs you to. 

“Gate,” you say again, attempting to soothe him with your voice as you gently bounce your daughter in your arms, “Baby, I don’t think you’ve sat down since this morning. Why don’t you just take a breath– stop moving for a second.”

He shakes his head immediately, clapping his hands together. “Can’t. Can’t sit down.”

“Why not?” you press him.

“Too much to do,” he explains, looking around the living room like he’ll find some sort of chore there. But the house is clean, there's a casserole in the fridge to heat up if you get hungry later, and the only thing left to do is unpack the hospital bags, which shouldn’t take more than ten minutes. You made sure everything was settled before you left, and he knows it.

“There’s nothing to do,” you argue mildly. “She’s not even due for another feeding.”

Gator starts pacing, back and forth and back and forth. He’s not looking at you. “Think I forgot to lock the truck. I should go–”

“Gator,” you interject, your voice stern. “Why won’t you settle down?”

Gator finally turns to you, his lips set in a line. “Because if I take a second to think, I’m gonna start thinking about the fact I have a fuckin’ kid,” he hisses, like the low tone will stop her hearing him.

“Oh, and it’s just sinking in now?” you snap, wishing you could keep your temper even. Damnit, but you’re tired and still sort of in pain and you smell like a hospital. And you wish your husband could get his shit together so you could be the one complaining right now. 

“Yeah, kind of, baby,” Gator fires back, running a hand through his hair. He drops into a crouch suddenly, blowing out a breath. “I’m freakin’ out. I’m freakin’ out, mama.”

“Breathe, Gator,” you order him, grateful he's at least talking about it now. “You freaking out isn’t gonna make her any less… born.”

“I can’t do this,” he heaves. “I can’t be a dad. No fuckin’ way.”

“You’ll figure it out,” you reply dryly, unperturbed. “Better get with the program, cause she’s here.”

“I’m a fuckin’ idiot!” he protests, rising from his crouch to spread his hands and stare at you. “I can’t figure shit out. I’m probably gonna pass that to her.”

“You’re not an idiot.” you say firmly. “You figured out how to be a husband, didn’t you?”

“Barely,” he snaps.

“Gator,” you meet his eyes, turning your baby in your arms to show him her face. “Look at her.”

You watch as his eyes fall slowly to June, and his posture shifts almost imperceptibly— tension melting, expression softening. The panic fades little by little and then altogether.

“Shit or get off the pot,” you tell him. “If you’re gonna get on board and be a dad, now’s the time. Do you want her?”

Gator nods, stare caught on her sleepy face.

“Good,” you finish, eyeing him. “She wants you, too.”

He hesitates. “Can I—“

“Hold her?” you guess. “You don’t have to ask, Gate. She’s yours.”

With hands that you can tell are still shaking slightly, he lifts her out of your arms again, that tiny bundle of blankets and soft limbs, and tucks her into his own. His eyes are locked onto her, his jaw clenching and unclenching. “Hey, girlie,” he musters, his voice low and scratchy. 

Your lips pull upward, your brow knitting. “Is that better?”

Gator nods, biting his lip as he stares down at her. He starts rocking a little, side to side. 

You rise from the couch, getting close enough to peer into his arms and run a finger down June’s soft cheek. You mumble softly to her, “Your dad’s fucking crazy, just so you know.”

“Sorry,” Gator tells you, real emotion in the word.

You run a hand down his arm. “I’m gonna go to the bedroom for a bit. Just take a second with her and breathe, okay, baby?”

He nods again, looking a little lost for words. “You’re not worried I’m gonna break her, or something?” he asks, glancing up as you leave his side. 

You snort, roll your eyes, and don’t bother to reply. And when you glance back at him, that little action looks like it shocks Gator most of all. 

Gator Tillman is going to be killed by his daughter June. He knows it for a fact.

She’s staring up at him right now with that sleepy, wrinkled, barely-awake newborn face. She’s got that baby smell, like warm milk. And her black eyes, the ones that are just learning how to blink, are fixed on his. 

Gator has black eyes. He’s always hated his eyes. They’re too dark, like twin pits in his head, boring into other people’s faces, setting everyone on edge. And he gave them to his daughter. And they don’t look so bad on her, as a matter of fact.

June blinks up at him, her face blank. She’s scrutinizing him, judging his reaction– he can tell. Maybe she sees the softness in his face, the way he’s completely crumpled in front of her, and knows already what a loser he is for her. 

But that’s just how it is now– unavoidable. Gator Tillman is a loser. He’s lost. He cares too much, loves too hard, has altogether too many things to lose, and so he’s been defeated in the game he’s been fighting his entire life. The love swarming in his chest is so huge, so unshakable, that he knows instantly this is what his dad always warned him against feeling— devotion to the point of weakness. Loving something so much it could control you— could kill you, just like the look in his daughter’s eyes is. And right now, holding June, he’s struggling to remember why he ever bothered to fight it in the first place.

“You don’t say much, do ya?” he asks her, the words quiet enough that his wife won’t hear him from the bedroom. 

June blinks back. Doesn’t so much as babble. 

“Gonna be an easy baby?” he asks her, bouncing her a little. “No cryin’ all the time? Give your mama a little break?”

Another blink. 

“You’re quiet already,” he observes, jaw ticking. “I was always screamin’ as a baby. You must not be a Tillman after all.”

June’s mouth opens in a little O as she yawns widely– like his self-depreciation is somehow boring to her. She gets that from her mom.

“Bet you’re gonna be the best baby there is,” he murmurs. “Probably gonna beat all the other kids by a mile.” He shifts on his aching feet, his gut twisting a little as his own words ring an old bell in his head. “Aw, who am I fuckin’ kiddin’?” he complains, blowing out a breath. “I’d be fine with it if you were the biggest loser on Earth.”

She stares back up at him, making no move to struggle against her swaddle, the pinning of her tiny arms.

“You don’t know much ‘a anything, do ya?” he realizes. She might have his eyes, but she’s nothing like him– doesn’t have the capacity to be. Nothing’s learned or set in stone. Nothing’s infecting her the way it did him, passed down by each carrier of their last name, willed into being like it was a simple fact of who they were. There’s no evil in her– no cruelty. No violence. He’d see it in her eyes if there was. “That makes two of us,” he huffs.

Slowly, he shifts the baby slightly in his arms so she can see around her, then turns in place. “Chair,” he says, gesturing to the armchair that’s become cemented as his in the time he’s owned this house with you. “Couch,” he tells her. “You can have that seat if you want. Mom likes the left side.”

He goes on naming furniture like a lunatic, letting June’s eyes sweep over it, assessing. She must be smart, he thinks to himself– smart enough to already know what’s happening around her, to look into her dad’s face and read him down the blackened core of who he is. Smart enough not to have gotten her brain from him. 

He doesn’t know what to do about any of it. He doesn’t know what to do now– letting his baby girl judge him, going completely still under his stare, giving him that same look he’s so used to– the one that says, well, kid, you better not fuck this one up. Better be good for her. Better figure it out before he inevitably mars the first perfect thing that’s ever been put in his hands. 

But his panic has faded, pushed back into some crevice of his chest. He’s breathing June in, and that scent, the compact weight of that little bundle, is calming him completely. He stays like that for a long moment, his daughter inches from his face. She lets out a breath through her nose.

“Alright, fine,” he mumbles, softer than he’s ever said anything. “I’ll be your dad.”

He wouldn’t know the first thing about doing it right. When you’d told him you were pregnant in the first place, he’d barely made it through the hugging you and reassuring you and smiling like it felt like good news long enough to get you out of the room– just in time, ‘cause the second you were gone, he’d run to the bathroom and puked his guts up. And he’d spent the following nine months being out-of-his-mind terrified. And two days ago, watching you grip his hand as you bore down, he’d thought that maybe that anxiety attack bullshit you were always goin’ on about might be worth looking into. 

But he’s not thinking about any of that right now. His daughter is in his arms. She weighed 6 pounds, 4 ounces when she came out– so tiny. A fraction of what he’s been training himself for years to lift, and yet every time he holds her, she’s pinning him down. She’s a fragile, delicate little thing. She’s the heaviest thing he’s ever carried. 

And his breathing is even. And his throat has lost its tightness. And he’s staring back into her black eyes and promising himself silently that there isn’t a minute of an hour of a day of the rest of his life that he’ll waste not being the best father on the planet for her. He doesn’t care what it takes– promotions at the station or years of therapy or unravelling the screwed-up neurons in his brain one by one. He’d die for her, easy. He’d do it in a second. But he’d change for her, too. And there’s no violence left in him except for the magnitude of what he feels in his chest for her. 

Gator leans down and presses a gentle kiss to her cheek, fighting the sting in his eyes. “Love you, girlie.”

June blinks, as if satisfied by his words. And then her eyelids lower slowly, and she goes to sleep in his arms.

It’s later and dark outside when the three of you start getting ready for bed. 

June has been passed out since five o’clock, and you and Gator have been trading off holding her while she sleeps since then. You’re already getting rather good at doing things one-handed, to your own pride.

But now, you’ve been sitting in your bedroom for almost fifteen minutes, and you haven’t seen Gator since he left to go set June in her crib in the nursery. Slowly, you ease off the bed and make your way down the hallway toward the room. The door’s slightly ajar, the only light coming from the glowing nightlamp in the corner. You find Gator standing over the crib, his hands braced on the wood as he stares down at a sleeping June. 

You come up behind him and wrap your arms around his middle, pulling him close to you. His hand moves to cover yours, but he doesn’t break his stare.

“Come to bed,” you whisper.

He doesn’t respond. When you peer over his shoulder, trying to glimpse his face, you realize his jaw is clenched tightly, his eyes soft. Like he’s torn between fierce protection and gentle care.

“She’s not going anywhere,” you tell him quietly. 

“I know,” he murmurs back. 

You stay with him like that for a second, your fingers scratching lightly against his stomach.

“She’s so little,” he finally admits, eyes locked onto June’s sleeping face.

You hum in reply, a smile pulling at your face. He says it like it’s shocking to him– like it’s worrying him. Like he thinks if he looks away, that vulnerability that’s always felt like a curse to him will rear up and bite him again, and all the good things in this nursery will disappear. 

“Nothing’s gonna happen to her, Gator,” you assure him, the words soft.

He shakes his head. “It might.”

“The monitor’s on,” You remind him. “We’d hear her cry. You sleep light, anyway.”

“Something might happen,” he repeats, firmer. The way he’s gripping the wood tells you just how terrified he is. 

“You built the crib,” you go on. “You know how sturdy it is. And you set up the alarm system, too.”

He shakes his head again, unconvinced.

Your hands keep scratching at his abdomen, trying to calm him. “You need to sleep, baby. You’ve been up for forever. Come to bed.”

“Can’t.”

You keep holding him, understanding the paralysis that’s keeping him poised here— the protecting hes telling himself he needs to do. Gator had told you once that he’d never felt like he owned much— never had much that was his alone. And the things he did possess— the people he cared most for, his wife and his daughter—those were to be held onto with an iron grip. Those were to be safeguarded at any cost; one that outweighed his own trauma and hurt and self-loathing. That’s who Gator was— iron-fisted. Iron-hearted.

You see it now, in the set of his shoulders, the breathing your daughter has seemed to inexplicably steady. The determination in his stark face turned gentle, turned diligent, filled by devotion. 

“Everything’s gonna be okay,” you promise him. “We’re gonna be good, Gate.”

So many promises are wrapped up in those few words. We’re gonna be safe. We’re gonna do this right. You’re gonna be the dad she needs you to be. You wonder if he hears it, or if it’s another of the sweet nothings you sometimes attempt to utter into the abyss his father carved into him.

But Gator’s hand tightens over yours, and as he squeezes you back, he only says, “Okay.”

---

You click HARRINGTON-5G because the signal is obnoxiously strong, then remember you don’t have the password and click your own instead. The old router the landlord left gives a half-hearted wheeze and flashes its lights at you. You hover over the SSID settings, considering your options as the music thrums at an obnoxiously loud volume.

The bass thuds through the wall again, and someone yells, “CHUG, HARRINGTON, CHUG!”

Through clenched teeth, you rename your network: APT203ULoudAsFuck.

You hit save with a nasty little smile, imagining Party Boy Harrington, your new neighbour, opening his laptop tomorrow, looking for Wi-Fi, and seeing that.

Petty? Yes. Satisfying? Also yes.

. . .

You meet him the next morning in the hallway.

You’re locking up, coveralls rolled to your calves, grease under your nails because you were up at six fixing the misfiring cylinder in your truck. He is… the opposite of you.

Grey sweatpants, old college hoodie hanging off broad shoulders, hair fluffed up in that artfully messy way that has to be deliberate. He’s juggling two trash bags and an empty pizza box, and there are faint purple shadows under his eyes that say he did, in fact, CHUG, HARRINGTON, CHUG last night. He stops when he sees you. Gives you the once-over—boots, coveralls, the wrench sticking out of your back pocket—then glances past you at your door number.

“Morning,” he calls out, voice still rough with sleep. “You, uh… new?”

“Wow,” you deadpan. “How’d you guess?”

He blinks. A quick huff of a laugh escapes, like you caught him off-guard. “Well, I don’t recognise you, and I’m a very observant guy.”

“Yeah,” you hum. “I noticed. I can recognise your entire playlist through the wall.”

His mouth does an awkward little twist. “That bad, huh?”

“Let’s just say if I never hear Pitbull say ‘Dale’ again, it’ll be too soon.”

He winces. “Okay, in my defence, I did not make the playlist. But, uh.” He shifts the trash bags to one hand and offers the other. “Steve. 203.”

Of course he’s Steve from 203.

You look at his hand, then at his face. He’s unfairly pretty in a boy-next-door, toothpaste-commercial way—warm brown eyes, lashes better than yours, a jaw you could probably cut sheet metal on. The kind of guy high school you would’ve avoided on principle. You wipe your palm on your coveralls, purely to be annoying, then shake his hand firmly. “Mechanic. 204.”

His brows jump. “Wait. Mechanic as in…?”

You tap the name patch stitched over your chest. The garage logo is fraying at the edges. “As in my actual job. It’s not a kink thing.”

Colour rises in his cheeks; you don’t know if it’s from embarrassment or because his brain very briefly went there. “Didn’t say it was.”

“You thought it,” you shoot back knowingly. “I could hear it rattling around in your skull.”

His mouth drops open, outrage mixing with that reluctant interest you’ve seen on guys’ faces your whole life when they realise the girl they’re talking to is both competent and deeply unimpressed by them.

“You’re kinda rude for this early,” he notes, brows still high.

“You’re kinda loud for this early,” you shoot back, stepping around him toward the stairs. “Thin walls. Maybe keep that in mind next time you decide to host the World Cup in your living room.”

Behind you, Steve calls, “It was just a few friends!”

“You have bad friends,” you yell back.

You hear him laugh behind you. You hate to admit it, but it’s a rather nice sound. 

. . .

That night, the Wi-Fi list looks different. You open your laptop, intent on drowning in emails and invoices, and see it immediately.

APT203ULoudAsFuck

Underneath it, new:

Apt???SayItToMyFace#203

You stare. Then you start to laugh, helpless and startled, dropping your forehead to the edge of the table.

“Unbelievable,” you mutter, but you’re still smiling when you connect to your own network.

He must’ve seen it. Must’ve put two and two together—new neighbour, mechanic, attitude problem—and changed his SSID just to spit back.

Say it to my face.

You absolutely will.

You just have to catch him when he’s not surrounded by half the city.

. . .

You don’t have to wait long.

Two days later, you’re in the building’s sad excuse for a laundry room, wedged between humming machines that look older than both of you combined. You’ve got a socket wrench in one hand and the guts of your washing machine in the other; the landlord said, “It’s been making a weird noise”, like you haven't spend your entire life coaxing broken machinery back from the dead.

The door creaks behind you. You glance up absently, still half focused on your task.

Steve freezes in the doorway, laundry basket crooked on his hip. “Wow,” he says. “You really can’t turn it off, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, basic problem-solving skills?”

He steps in, letting the door swing shut behind him. Boxes of detergent and fabric softener shake on their shelf as the machines thud through a spin cycle. The air smells like synthetic lavender and damp concrete, humidity clinging to the walls whenever you inhale.

“And the attitude,” he mutters. “Don’t forget the attitude.”

You go back to checking the belt tension. “Trust me, if you were less annoying, I’d be a delight.”

He laughs softly, sets the basket down on the nearest machine. He’s in jeans and a worn white t-shirt this time, hair damp like he just showered. There’s a fading bruise at his collarbone, the kind that looks suspiciously like teeth.

You ignore it.

Mostly.

“So,” he hedges, a terrible attempt at sounding casual. “You, uh, see any good Wi-Fi names lately?”

You don’t look up. “Can’t imagine what you mean.”

“Oh, c’mon.” You can hear the grin. “APT203ULoudAsFuck? I respect the commitment.”

“That wasn’t about you,” you drawl, still not looking up. “Maybe there’s another 203 in the building, did you think of that?”

Steve’s hand appears in your peripheral vision, offering a small, silver screw you hadn’t realised you’d dropped. “Yeah? ‘Cause my router sure thought it was about me.”

You take it, fingers brushing his. His skin is warm, calloused at the pads in a way that surprises you; he doesn’t look like the type to use his hands for anything other than using a comb. There’s a faint grease smudge on the side of his thumb; you’re ninety percent sure it’s yours.

“Maybe my network just has strong opinions,” you tell him. “You can’t censor her. She’s a free spirit.”

He leans against the machine opposite you, arms folding over his chest, watching you work. “She?”

“My router’s called Judith,” you explain, tightening the last bolt. “She’s temperamental and occasionally bursts into flames.”

“I’m starting to understand your friendship circle,” he jokes.

You sit back on your heels, flick the machine’s side panel closed, and hit the start button. The washer whirs, then roars back to life, no more grinding. Satisfied, you wipe your hands on a rag and finally look at him. He’s already looking at you. Not the polite oh cool you fixed it look you get from customers, either. It’s more assessing. Intrigued. Like he’s trying to figure out which box to put you in and realising none of the usual ones fit.

“You’re good at that,” he states, but doesn’t sound patronising or surprised about it, just mildly thoughtful. “The… fixing things.”

“Yeah, well,” you say. “Someone has to keep this place standing when the landlord’s solution is slapping duct tape on structural problems.”

His mouth quirks. “You talk about everything like it’s a busted machine.”

“Maybe because most things are,” you shoot back. “People, too.”

“Wow.” Steve whistles. “That’s bleak.”

You shrug. 

He tilts his head. “So what am I? Cracked spark plug? Blown head gasket?”

“Overheated engine,” you say without missing a beat. “All noise, very little actual power. Needs constant cooling so it doesn’t explode.”

He blinks, then laughs, bright and disbelieving, a raspy sound you hate to admit is very pleasant. “You’ve known me, like, three days.”

“That’s all it takes,” you inform him gravely, matching the slight smile he wears on his face. “You’re loud. You throw parties on a Tuesday. Your Wi-Fi name is a cry for help.”

“Hey.” He presses a hand to his chest, mock-wounded. “Apt???SayItToMyFace#203 is an iconic clapback.”

“It’s a crime,” you inform him bluntly. “There are too many question marks. It’s all desperation.”

He grins, and there’s something a little sharper at the edges now, something that says he’s enjoying this more than he’d admit. “Maybe I wanted to make sure you saw it.”

“Congratulations,” you say dryly. “Consider me deeply, profoundly, spiritually seen.”

Steve’s eyes skip briefly to your mouth, then away, like he didn’t mean to let them. “You ever do anything without a joke attached?”

“You ever do anything without an audience?” you fire back. “Every time I walk past your door, there’s at least three people in there.”

“Maybe I like people.”

“Maybe you don't like being alone.”

You see the tiny tightening at the corners of his eyes, the way his fingers drum once against the washing machine, then stop. Those words, clearly, have hit a nerve. The room hums around you, all noise and rattling metal. The washer shakes beneath you, the boring, steady rhythm of it filling the silence.

“You really don’t pull punches, do you?” he says finally.

“You asked,” you point out. “You want compliments, talk to your groupies. I’m busy.”

“Busy fixing Judith,” he quips helpfully.

A tiny grin twitches your mouth. “Exactly.”

He watches you for a long moment, something new in his gaze. Less lazy amusement, more… focus. You can feel the weight of it along your skin, a slow slide like he’s cataloguing every sharp edge and deciding not to look away.

“You know,” he says, softer, “you’re kind of annoying.”

The funny part is, it doesn’t sound like an insult. Not really.

You smirk. “Good. Now you know how it feels.”

Steve shakes his head, that small, disbelieving laugh again. “If I turn the music down,” he poses curiously, “am I allowed to keep the Wi-Fi name?”

“You can keep it,” you reply. “But just so you know, Judith’s already working on her response.”

“Oh yeah?” He leans in, entirely too close for someone you met over trash bags and passive-aggressive SSIDs. “What’s she thinking?”

You consider him—the stupidly pretty face, the earnest eyes, the way he keeps stepping closer even as you keep giving him verbal paper cuts.

“Don’t worry about it,” you say, hopping off the machine and grabbing your tool bag. “You’ll see it next time you open your laptop.”

You brush past him, shoulder catching the warm line of his arm. It’s deliberate. So is the way you don’t look back.

Behind you, you hear him exhale, low and a little exasperated. “You’re gonna drive me crazy, you know that?”

“Get in line, Harrington,” you shout back, pushing the door open with your hip.

By the time you’re back in your apartment, Judith’s network is already renamed.

TurnItDownPrettyBoy_203

You grin at the screen, imagine him seeing it, imagine his hand flexing in his hair in that frustrated way.

On the other side of the wall, the bass clicks on, then drops to a much more reasonable volume.

Progress.