at the chateau

When you arrive at the house, he's already out of his work uniform and in a pair of sweats he's had for years. There's a tear in the fabric at his wrist from when you'd gotten a little too excited trying to pull it from his body last winter, but he won't let you fix it. He's hovering between the edge of the living room and the hallway leading to the front door, a beer sweating in his hand and his eyes on the TV. His body is turned towards you, which counts as a greeting during game season. 

"Hey, kid," he calls out as you drop your bag on the table with your keys, then shouts, "FOUL!" at the game blasting from the entertainment system.  

Basketball season, maybe. Or football. It doesn't even matter because half the time it's not even his team playing. 

He tries to kiss you as you walk past, his free hand finding your hip and dragging you close, but his lips barely brush over yours before his attention is pulled away and he starts yelling at the TV again. You roll your eyes, squeeze his bicep, and keep moving towards the kitchen. There's a fresh bottle of red on the counter, the cork already popped and a single glass next to it, waiting for you.  

The pour is probably a little too heavy-handed, as the liquid sloshes over the rim when you kick your shoes off, your heels flying somewhere underneath the dining table, but you'll clean it up later. In the bedroom, the sheets are rumpled, most likely from Gator's nap earlier—the one he swears he never takes—and his work clothes are thrown somewhat near the hamper, but never quite make it inside.  

You've barely unbuttoned your blouse when two hands grab your face, making you squeak. Gator crushes his mouth against yours and tastes like Coors and spicy jerky. He pulls back just long enough to steal another kiss from your mouth before dropping one against your neck, pushing your hair over your shoulder.  

"Hi," he whispers, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.  

"You're missing the game," you smile.  

"Halftime," he grins, all teeth and roguish charm.  

"Stupid," you mutter, shoving him back lightly.  

Gator drops himself at the end of the bed, leaning back on his elbows and appreciating the view in front of him as you drag off your work clothes. They're not particularly sexy—a long wool skirt because the office is always freezing and a white button-up that gives you little to no shape—but you could be wearing a garbage bag, and he'd still stare openly at you like this. His eyes drag across every new inch of skin exposed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips and his breath hitching quietly when the straps of your bra fall down your arms.  

He looks like a predator. Like he can't decide between eating you alive or keeping you forever.  

When you're totally bare in front of him, you take another long sip from your glass and let him make the choice.  

~ ~ ~ 

Gator barely catches the last few minutes of play by the time you leave the bedroom. He grabs another beer from the fridge and the bottle of wine from the counter, pouring you another glass. He twists the cap off his bottle, tossing it towards the garbage can in the kitchen without looking.  

"Go, baby, go!" he shouts, pacing behind the couch shirtless because you're wearing his sweater now, torn cuff and all.  

He lets out a loud "Fuck!" when the final whistle blows, and you figure the team he's picked for the night has lost. He leaps over the back of the couch, dropping beside you and throwing an arm over your lap, squeezing at your thigh that's still warm from the shower. You've looked forward to this moment all day, being next to him and letting the day fade away as you fade into him instead. 

He watches you for a second, his thumb moving absently across your skin. 

"How was work?" He gulps back another mouthful, wiping at the beer that escaped his lips and is headed towards his chin.  

"Oh?" You mock gasp. "You're paying attention to me now?"  

"I think I paid you plenty of attention back there." He jerks his head towards the bedroom with that stupid grin of his—the one that can get you to do anything and always lands you in trouble. 

He keeps looking though at you, waiting for an answer. 

A heavy sigh slips out of you. 

"Work was..." It takes too long to gather the right words.  

"I should've bought you a second bottle," he snorts.  

"This is the only one?" You frown, looking at the side table and eyeballing what must be maybe half a glass left inside it. His head falls back against the couch cushion as he barks out a loud laugh.  

"Don't worry, there's a case in the back of the truck." He pointedly ignores your excited expression. "Couldn't be fucked luggin' it in."  

You throw your arms around his shoulders and press a few smacking kisses against his cheek. He shoves the remote into your lap.  

"Yeah, yeah, I'm the best, I know." He's being sarcastic, but he isn't leaning away from you either. "Pick a damn movie while I get us some dinner." 

~ ~ ~ 

The heels of your feet bounce off the cabinets as you sit on the counter and tell him about your day. He's stirring pasta in the pot on the stove, and there's a jar of home-brand sauce open beside you, waiting to be added.  

He nods at the right moments and laughs as you recall how one of the new temps jammed the copier, even though the story isn't actually funny. 

"I just like the way you tell it." He shrugs. "And I like the ugly little vein that pops out on your forehead when you think someone is stupid and you're trying to be nice about it."  

Your jaw drops open, and your heels stop bouncing. Bursting out laughing, he doubles over so hard that it makes you smile too. 

"Gator!" You pout. "It's not ugly." 

"Aw." He mocks, slipping between your knees and pressing his lips against yours before you can stop him. "It's a little ugly, but it's okay."  

"You're ugly." You kiss him again.  

"Ooft." He slaps a hand against his chest, stepping away from you to stir the pasta again. "You got me, kid."  

You smack him with the tea towel, and he flicks a wet noodle back in return. 

~ ~ ~ 

Some shitty horror movie plays on the television, but you're not really paying attention. You're tired now, the clock pushing past midnight, stomach full and the second bottle of red wine making everything hazy. There's an old scratchy blanket thrown over your tangled legs, and you're practically melting into Gator, your head against his collarbone and arms wrapped around his waist. His fingers have been tangled in the back of your hair since the film started, and it's lulling you to sleep.  

"She ran up the stairs instead of out the front door. Point to me," he mutters against your temple, his lips brushing your skin softly.  

You have this game that you play together. You try to predict what's going to happen in every single one of these B-grade movies.  

A point for when the character goes down into whatever creepy-ass basement they very obviously shouldn't be going down into. A point for guessing which two characters will have sex and inevitably die. A point for guessing the murderer.  

And yes, a point for when the characters run up the stairs instead of out the front door.  

Gator claims he's the reigning champion, but you never keep track of the score anyway. You still let him have the win.  

The October chill has started to creep its way inside the house. Snow hasn't hit the ground yet, but it feels like it's only days away now. The rain has been heavy, pouring consistently over the plains and drenching everything in its path. There's a mop bucket in the hallway catching drops of water from the leak in the roof that Gator can't seem to find.  

"I thought you were getting a guy to come out and fix that?"  

He turns his head to look down the hallway for a moment, watching the drops fall before turning back to you.  

"Forgot about it. I'll call someone tomorrow."  

"Uh huh."  

"I will."  

A scream erupts from the sound system as the characters on the screen meet their untimely demise, and you both jump.  

"I picked the virgins. Two points to me," you mumble.  

"Only one of them was a virgin. One point."  

You huff, and he pulls gently on your hair to tilt your head back, slanting his lips over yours.  

"Wanna go to bed?"  

"No. Wanna stay here with you."  

"Okay."  

He presses his lips against yours again, and you close your eyes. 

~ ~ ~ 

Saturday morning light breaks through the threadbare curtains in the bedroom as you wake up alone. Gator’s side of the bed is cool, but the laundry thrown around the room from the night before is gone, along with the hamper that sat in the corner. Your work heels are placed neatly beside his boots by the wardrobe, and there’s Tylenol and a glass of water on the bedside table for you. 

His sleep is always a bit screwed up on the weeks he works nights. He gets exhausted but struggles to keep his eyes closed, too restless to settle, too anxious to do anything except think. He doesn’t often talk about what happens during his shifts—sometimes a story about drunk arrests or spoiled brats speeding around in daddy’s Mercedes. 

But then there are the weeks when asking about work shuts him down immediately. Not subtly. He goes still in a way that feels wrong, like a caged animal, feral and sharp. So, you stop asking and start reading the signs instead. 

When it's been harder than usual, he keeps himself busy. You hadn't noticed it last night, too wine drunk and too Gator drunk to realize, but assessing the house now, you can see it. He cooked dinner, did all the dishes, and didn't let you lift a finger. You thought it was romantic how he wanted to take care of you after your shitty day. 

Something heavy settles in your stomach. 

Your bare feet hit the floorboards, and his sweater drops to the middle of your thighs as you stand. There's coffee in the pot on the kitchen counter, and the TV is muted with sports highlights rolling across the screen. The case of wine he promised sits on the dining table, but Gator isn't anywhere to be found. 

The backdoor is slightly open; a frigid breeze rolls through the house and curls its way around your bare ankles. He sits on the old picnic bench on the porch—the one that’s been there longer than they’ve probably been alive—vape in one hand, phone in the other. His empty coffee mug sits on the railing, and the door clicks behind you as you step out. 

He turns toward you, already halfway into whatever version of himself he uses when nothing is wrong. His face changes—subtle, practiced, wrong in a way you can always tell now. 

"Don't." 

You don't exactly know what it is that you're telling him to stop doing, but he seems to understand anyway because his face drops, and he looks over the plains again. It's raining in the fields a few miles away. Theres a shimmer in the air and the white noise of the rumbling water hitting the ground. It'll probably be pouring over them within the hour, creeping its way across the land until it swallows them whole. 

You still drop next to Gator anyway, pulling your knees up to your chest and curling into his side. You take his hand, dropping a kiss to the back of it before holding onto it with both of yours. Neither of you move until the rain washes you inside. 

~ ~ ~ 

You indulge him and get in the shower together when he asks. The cubicle is too small for two people, and the taps dig into your back, and Gator never has the water hot enough, but seeing you naked in front of him makes him act like a teenager again. So, you can ignore the quiet, unnecessary fear that he might drop you mid-thrust if it means you can make him forget about everything for a while. 

(And really, sex with Gator has never been a chore.) 

He steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist and you can finally turn the cold tap off and hot tap up. Steam billows through the bathroom enough that Gator mumbles about it "being hotter than Satan's asshole in here" before disappearing into the bedroom. 

You make grilled cheese for lunch using the good cheddar that he claims he can't taste the difference between but always reaches for at the supermarket now. After pouring yourself a cup, you also tip what's in the coffee pot down the sink and replace it with the decaf blend that you keep hidden in the back of the pantry. 

Gator's on the couch, staring at nothing with one arm folded behind his head and the other thrown over his stomach, fingers digging into the scar that sits above his hip. It's still pink, new, and you're not sure how he got it, but you know it's tender sometimes, especially when it's cold. 

You balance his coffee mug on his plate and do the same for yours, walking slowly across the living room to not spill anything. He sits up as you step closer, reaching up and grabbing both plates from your hands so you can sit down next to him. 

"Thanks, kid," he offers quietly, as he passes your plate back. 

He takes a sip from his mug and a wrinkle forms between his eyes as the bitter taste hits his tongue. 

"Fucking decaf," he grumbles, not looking at you and placing it on the side table. 

He complains, but he’ll be asleep on the couch before his plate is empty. You’ll put on some stupid reality show he pretends to hate, and he won’t move. Not to the bedroom. Not anywhere. His hand will stay on your thigh, and he’ll snore into the cushions like he hasn’t slept all week. He probably hasn’t. 

~ ~ ~ 

You open another bottle of red wine while you make dinner. The TV is finally off and the radio hums in the corner. Gator still has bedhead; the strands flattened on one side and puffy on the other, but he doesn't care. He's too busy laughing at you singing a terrible version of a Britney Spears classic with a southern accent. 

“She’s from Louisiana!” you laugh. “She’d sound like that!” 

He fiddles with the dial and changes the station to something more country. Old school. 

"Now, this is music!" He boasts as something that's older than either of you plays softly. 

You point the wooden spoon in your hand at him. "What happened to the guy who used to drive me around, blasting Limp Bizkit?!" 

He huffs a laugh at the memory of being sixteen, just getting his license, thinking he owned the world in his first car. 

"We grew up, kid." 

"OK, old timer." 

You dip the spoon back into the pot, stirring the stew quietly, when Gator's arms wrap around your middle. His lips press against your neck, once, twice, a third time, before his teeth nip at your jaw. 

"Dance with me." 

He's not asking. 

You turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, fingers scratching through the short hairs there. He sways you back and forth to the John Denver track playing before he lifts one of your hands and spins you around. It's hard to wipe the smile off your face when the same one is reflected in his. The song comes to an end, and he dips you back low. 

"Don't you dare drop me!" You warn through your grin. 

"What? Like this?" 

He pretends to let go, dropping you even further towards the kitchen floor and laughter spills out of you. 

~ ~ ~ 

The lights are off, and the television throws shifting shadows across the walls. 

Your clothes, and Gator's, are gone, thrown around the room in your shared haste to have nothing between you. Your hands press against the back of the couch as your hips do all the work, rolling against him and pulling tiny moans from the back of his throat as you work him over. Two fingers swirl around one nipple while his teeth bite and suck sweetly on the other. You run a hand over the sweat curling at his hairline, and he snaps his hips to meet yours, making the air leave your lungs. 

"Like that?" he gasps, doing it again. 

Your eyes roll back into your head, and you move one of your hands between your legs. He bats it away before you can get there, though, pressing his thumb onto the bundle of nerves. The cry that rips out of you is loud, and the proud smirk that covers his face makes you want to smack him, but then he pushes his hips up again and you swear you'll never think again because he's fucking you stupid. 

"So perfect for me," he breathes, his eyes blown so dark that you can barely see the color in them anymore. 

He pulls out suddenly, and your back hits the sofa. Gator pushes your thighs apart, hitches one leg over his arm, and thrusts back inside you. There's no time for adjustment. You grab his shoulders, and your back arches, your jaw dropping in a silent scream as he moves his hips fast and hard against you. The pace is relentless, and everything outside of him starts to disappear. His tongue is in your mouth, his fingers are working over your clit, his cock is hitting every spot that makes you see stars, and he's everywhere. 

You're not even sure what you're saying anymore, but you can't stop. 

"Gator! Need you! Don't stop! Right there—God!" 

A high-pitched whine sneaks its way out of your throat, and everything crescendos. You're feverish and electrified, your skin ablaze. Hot white pleasure strikes the deepest parts of you, and he grunts as you impossibly tighten around him. Gator follows quickly after, thrusting until his own release takes over, spilling inside you with a groan. 

He collapses on top of your body, his cock still lingering inside you, and you close your eyes as you both try to catch your breath. You can feel his cum leaking out of you and the sweat that's pooled at the bottom of his back, but you don't mind. 

The movie is still playing. The ragtag crew on the screen makes it out of the forest alive. 

Except one. 

"I picked the murderer. One point to me," you breathe out. 

Gator laughs exhaustedly into your neck. 

~ ~ ~ 

Sunday morning rolls in slowly, like fog. There's a heavy arm around your waist, a stubbly jaw against the back of your shoulder, and warmth around your body that makes sleep hard to break out of. His discarded T-shirt is hanging off the footboard, and there's an ache between your legs and a soreness in your stomach from how much laughter you've shared since the weekend began. 

Gator's still asleep when you turn over, looking younger than he is with no worry lines carved into his face. You brush the hair that's fallen across his face away and trace your fingers over his features: his nose, the arches of his brows, the sharpness of his jaw. When your thumb traces over his bottom lip, his mouth parts, and even with his eyes closed, he tries to bite it. 

"God, I love waking up to you." His voice is hoarse, and his hand travels up your torso, brushing over your nipples and squeezing gently. He sighs like all he's ever needed in life is a handful of tit and he could die happy. 

"What time is it?" 

"Early, I think?" You lean back to grab your phone from the charger, and he groans as you move away. 

He squints one eye open, and you show him the time. 

"You got a lotta messages," he mumbles, pulling you back to his side tightly. 

"Nothing important," you promise, pressing your lips against the bottom of his jaw. 

He settles back against the pillow, eyes already drifting shut again. You feel a twitch underneath your thigh and grin. 

"That all it takes?" 

"Don't start nothin' you ain't gonna finish," he warns softly, his eyes still closed. 

"You're practically asleep still!" 

"Wake me up then." 

~ ~ ~ 

Sundays always feel off. The wind-down from the weekend, the preparations to go back to work. Gator puts the wine you didn't drink into the rack in the corner of the kitchen and tosses the empties into the garbage can outside. All the dishes from the last few days have been loaded into the dishwasher, and the bathroom gets deep-cleaned. The bed sheets are in the washer, and all the windows are open, ridding the furniture of the smell of sex and leftover beef stew. 

You sit on the porch bench with the last of the coffee still warm in your hands and Gator's head in your lap. 

"Are you on lates or earlies this week?" you ask quietly, your fingers dragging through the two clean lines shaved into the side of his head by his temples. He must have had it cut again in the last few days. 

"Lates," he mumbles, and you sigh, trying hard not to be annoyed. 

Overnight shifts mean you'll barely hear from him, or if you do, you'll already be asleep. Conversations will be dragged out across days. He'll be exhausted, and you'll miss him more than you already do when he's not around. 

Water drips into the bucket in the hallway, and before you can even say anything about it, Gator beats you to it. 

"I'm gonna call the guy," he insists. His hand reaches up to yours, still twisting through his hair, and pulls it to his mouth. "Stop worrying. Just be here with me." 

"I am here with you," you frown. 

He hums, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again. "You're thinking too much." 

"You don't think enough," you huff. 

"I think I love you." 

Crimson blooms in your chest, crawling up your neck towards your face. It feels like the first time, every time he says it. 

"I love you too." 

There's a TV show the guys at the station keep talking about that he wants to start. You mention a movie you've been seeing clips of all week. 

A shopping list goes onto the fridge. Leftovers go into the freezer. 

The sheets are finally dry, and Gator helps you fold them back into neat squares, kissing you every time the corners meet. The mattress is bare, and the bedroom is freezing, but you both still pull your clothes off anyway, delaying the inevitable and pushing your time together as far as you can. 

Because once you're dressed and your bags are packed, thrown into the trunks of your cars, you only have a few moments left to kiss each other goodbye properly. His tongue slips over yours, and your hands tuck under his shirt, feeling the muscles of his stomach contract and the ridges of the scar by his hip. It's indulgent because this part never gets easier. 

"Drive safe," he whispers, ignoring the tears welling at the bottom of your lashes. "I'll see you soon, okay?" 

You nod silently, your forehead pressed against him, because he will. One weekend a month, for the last however many years. But until then, you'll go home to your husband, and he'll go back to his wife.

The unfortunate thing about Gator Tillman was that avoiding him became nearly impossible once you had the displeasure of having him get under your skin for the first time.

Not because he was the sheriff's deputy or Roy Tillman's son. Not even because he seemed to possess an almost supernatural ability to appear wherever he wasn't wanted.

The real problem was that once you became aware of Gator Tillman, it became increasingly difficult not to notice him everywhere, even if he wasn't in close proximity.

You noticed his Jeep before you noticed anyone else's vehicle in town, before your boss's pickup, your neighbours' cars or even their kids' piano teachers, all of which would've made considerably more sense to you. You noticed his arrogant chuckle across crowded rooms, paired with the smell of his godawful vapes. You noticed the way people stiffened when he walked into certain places and relaxed when he walked out again.

You also noticed the stories people told about him when they thought nobody important was listening. Some were funny and some were concerning, but most were entirely believable. They never painted him in a good light.

And perhaps most unfortunately of all, Gator was irritatingly attractive.

Not in the polished, charming way men in romance books were attractive. There was nothing polished about him. He was rough around the edges and impulsive and entirely too comfortable throwing his weight around whenever it suited him. Half the time he seemed to operate on a level of confidence you couldn't quite understand the origin of, because from where you were standing, Gator Tillman spent most of his life being played for a fool by the one man whose approval he seemed incapable of living without. Roy Tillman pulled his strings whenever it suited him, pointed him in whichever direction he pleased and then got furious when Gator ended up exactly where he'd been told to stand, which should have made him easy to dismiss.

Instead, it only made him more frustrating.

Because despite everything you knew about him, despite every reason you had to stay away from him, your eyes still followed him whenever he walked into a room.

You hated it, because you wanted to hate him. It's why seeing his Jeep roll into the gas station parking lot that morning immediately put you in a bad mood.

You just returned to your car after paying for fuel, coffee in one hand and receipt crumpled in the other, when the familiar vehicle pulled into the space beside yours with all the confidence of a man who never once worried about whether or not he was welcome somewhere.

"Mornin, mama"

The familiar drawl alone was enough to make you pause with one hand gripping the seatbelt, already feeling the beginnings of a headache settle in. Somewhere along the way, Gator decided the nickname got just enough of a rise out of you to continue using it.

"Stop calling me that", you hissed, finally managing to tug the stubborn seatbelt into place. You didn't like the nickname for obvious reasons, but what annoyed you the most was that innocent bystanders could actual get the wrong impression of you two.

Gator was leaning across the centre console of his Jeep when his attention snagged on the babydoll top you were wearing. White, frilly, slightly see through when the light hit the fabric at the right angle. Immediately, he found himself wondering if you'd paired it with those little cut off shorts he'd been jerking off to for months.

The expression that formed on his face at the mere thought of seeing you in them that day was enough to make you roll your eyes.

"You roll your pretty eyes every time ya see me."

"Because you're usually saying something stupid", you quip, gifting him a sarcastic smile and his own smirk widened immediately, having expected such a response from you.

"Careful, might think ya payin' attention to me now", Gator teased and you let out a long suffering groan the second he pulled the bright green vape from his pocket. It was an immediate assault on your patience and ironically, one of your least favorite flavours for him to smoke.

Somehow, despite being a grown man, he managed to look like a teenager showing off whenever he took a drag from that thing, his gaze fixed on you as if waiting for a reaction he was never going to stop chasing.

"Have a nice day, Gator", you sighed, deciding you'd already dedicated enough of your morning to Deputy Tillman, you shook your head and started the engine.

Beside you, he let out a laugh and tilted his head back slightly, smoke curling up from his lips while his smug expression refused to budge.

"You too, mama."

The interaction lasted less than a minute, but managed to annoy you for the next several hours, even if it shouldn't have.

The bakery was busy enough to keep you occupied. There were deliveries to sort, trays to clean and enough customers coming through the front door to ensure you barely had any time to sit down.

Still, the encounter at the gas station refused to leave you alone for the rest of the day. It would sneak back into your thoughts at the most random moments. Despite the brief run in that morning, Gator never showed up at the bakery that day.

He had a habit of doing that. Usually.

Sometimes he'd stop by for coffee during his shift. Sometimes he'd come back for a second cup a few hours later with an excuse so flimsy it barely qualified as one. Other times he'd simply stroll past the storefront, glance through the enormous windows and continue walking, only to double back the second he processed spotting you behind the counter.

You were sure the guy didn't even like half the things he bought.

More than once you'd watched him leave with coffee he'd barely touched or pastries he claimed he was taking for somebody else. Whether those people actually existed remained highly questionable.

A day without Gator Tillman though, was generally considered a successful day, so you didn't question it further.

By the time closing approached and the last of your coworkers headed home, leaving you alone to finish inventory before locking up, you'd become reasonably convinced that you were safe.

The bakery settled into that familiar quiet you loved so much and all that remained was the smell of sourdoughs fermenting, fresh coffee beans and the gentle, citrusy scent of the cleaning products you'd used in the café. The ovens had cooled, the display cases were covered and the fading sunset stretched across the floor in long golden strips. It was peaceful in a way daytime never managed to be.

You were standing in the stockroom with a clipboard balanced against your hip now, counting the big bags of flour stacked against a wall and mentally calculating whether another order needed to be placed before the end of the week.

The sound of the back door opening pulled your attention away from the clipboard for a moment, but soon after, you'd gone back to counting and stacking the flour bags with a little more force than necessary.

His heavy combat boots gave him away long before Gator opened his mouth. Not that he seemed particularly concerned with hiding his identity. If anything, the silence felt intentional, as though he was waiting for the realization to settle before making his presence known properly.

He was a cocky bastard after all.

If you bothered looking over your shoulder, you would've found him standing in the doorway with his fingers hooked through his belt loops, gazing at the way your shorts rode up on your thighs with every movement. Gator treated staring at your ass less like something to be embarrassed about and more like a hobby.

"Employee area", you informed him without turning around to look at him.

"Aw, ain't stopped me yet", he drawled and a second later you caught the faint shift of leather and metal as he adjusted his weight. It was a small sound that most people wouldn't pay any mind to, the quiet creak of his duty belt and the equipment hanging from it. It painted the picture of him leaning against the doorframe now, arms crossed in front of him as he smirked.

"You're unbelievable, Tillman", you huff, checking another box on your clipboard and almost ruining the entire sheet with the pressure you've kept on the pen.

"So I've heard."

It was truly a testament to how often Gator annoyed you that you no longer needed to see him to know what expression he wore right now. The smirk was practically audible.

"What are you doing here? We're closed", you finally whipped around, an irritated frown on your own face as you dropped the clipboard onto the metal shelf beside you.

"Wanted to see ya."

The answer arrived with such casual charm that it bothered you far more than a dumb joke would have. Because he wasn't kidding.

"Well, congratulations. You saw me. Now leave, I have work to do"

His smile deepened.

"What?"

"Ya get all mean around me. Makes me feel all special, knowin' only I can wind ya up without even doin anything"

He wasn't entirely wrong. You weren't mean per se. Impatient sometimes and more than capable of putting somebody in their place when they deserved it, but most people would've described you as kind before anything else. Soft-hearted too, if the number of times you'd stayed late to help a coworker or gone out of your way for a regular customer was anything to go by. It was a reputation you'd earned honestly.

But Gator Tillman pushed any and all of your buttons.

"You ever consider that might be a you problem?"

The huff of laughter that followed was immediate. Most people would have taken the hint by now. Most people would've probably recognized your irritation for what it was and backed off accordingly. Gator, on the other hand, treated every sarcastic remark and eye roll as encouragement, collecting them with an enthusiasm that should be studied.

"Nah", he replied easily, the word accompanied by a lazy shrug of his shoulder. Your stare flattened instantly.

"You know", he added, voice lower now, "I think ya like me."

You actually laughed, no, cackled.

The sound escaped before you could consider whether you should be embarrassed by it, filling the stockroom in a way that immediately made you wish you could take it back.

"Gator", you scoff with a shake of your head, hoping the gesture might disguise the sudden flush of your cheeks, "you're delusional. Now stop bothering me and leave. I won't tell you again."

The problem was that neither of you seemed particularly convinced by the threat, because somewhere along the way, your annoyance had become tangled up with something far more inconvenient.

And something told you that Gator knew so.

"You thought about me today, sugar?"

The question caught you off guard, because the answer was embarrassingly obvious no matter how much you would've argued against it. Your eyes flickered up for a second and you immediately regretted it.

The shift in his posture was subtle, little more than a slight straightening of his shoulders, but it carried the satisfaction of somebody whose suspicions had been confirmed.

Your stomach tightened.

"C'mon, mama", he mused and to your surprise, Gator was still lingering by the doorway. The realisation had hit you suddenly.

It shouldn't be noteworthy, yet somehow it was. Patience was not one of his defining qualities. Usually he would've wandered over already, unable or unwilling to leave well enough alone for more than a few minutes. Yet for once he'd remained where he was, content to watch from afar.

Or perhaps not content at all. The thought had barely finished forming when he pushed himself away from the doorframe with a timing that had you believing in manifestation for a second.

"Ya don't gotta keep pretendin'", he reached you in seconds, what took longer to process though, was the feeling of his hand settling on your ass.

The audacity of it registered before anything else. His hand wasn't groping you, wasn't grabbing or squeezing, it slid down your lower back like he had every right to touch you, every right to close the distance between you whenever he pleased.

For a second after, the world narrowed to the space between you, to Gator's turned head and your own ragged pulse hammering in your ears.

Then your palm began to sting. And suddenly the reality of what you'd just done came rushing in.

You just slapped Gator Tillman. Hotheaded, impulsive Deputy Tillman, or more like the last person on earth who should've taken that well.

You expected anger, not the look that actually crossed his face, one that seemed to belong to a man who just stumbled upon something he liked far more than he should have.

You blinked, searching his face for any indication that you somehow misunderstood the situation, that there was another explanation for the strange look in his eyes and the complete absence of outrage.

"What?", you asked again, because apparently confusion had become the defining emotion of your evening.

"Huh. Ain't nobody done that before", the answer came easily, accompanied by a low chuckle that sounded far too thoughtful for a man who'd just been slapped across the face.

And suddenly everything clicked.

You felt it happen, felt your irritation, your confusion and your disbelief rearrange themselves into something far more alarming as the pieces finally connected.

"Oh my God", you blurt out, "you liked that."

The accusation sounded ridiculous the moment it left your mouth, yet the longer you looked at him, the less ridiculous it became, because it seemed as if the same realisation struck Gator too.

It unfolded across his face in real time, slow enough that you could practically watch him working through it.

Then, because apparently the universe decided you hadn't suffered enough already, he tilted his head at you. "Wanna do it again?"

Every sensible thought you'd ever had regarding Gator Tillman immediately began fighting for its life.

This was the man you complained about to your coworkers, the man who irritated you on purpose and the man whose name alone was capable of making you roll your eyes.

But he was also the man standing far too close to you with a faint mark on his cheek and a challenge in his eyes, close enough that the familiar scent of his vape was no longer overpowering everything else. Now it mixed with the natural scent of him and the result was frustratingly pleasant, enough to make you resent your own brain for paying attention to it at all.

Convincing yourself that being attracted to somebody didn't actually matter as long as you were smart enough not to act on it always seemed reasonable enough in theory. Attraction came and went. Crushes faded. People got over things all the time. You'd spent months assuming whatever unfortunate fixation your brain had developed on Gator Tillman would eventually do the same, worn down by familiarity and all the reasons you knew better.

The problem was that every time you thought it was finally happening, he'd smirk at you, lean too close or say something that made your pulse betray you all over again.

The flaw in that plan also became painfully obvious when you realized you were already moving.

Because nothing could've prepared you for the way your stomach flipped at the realization that Gator liked it. The fact that he'd gotten turned on by being slapped should have been absurd, yet watching that realization settle over him only seemed to send a rush of heat through you in return.

Your hand closed around the front of his tactical vest, fingers tightening in the fabric.

Then you pulled him down and kissed him, all clashing teeth and fleeting sounds you couldn't be sure came from him or you. It got messy fast, because you always assumed Gator would be, with tongues meeting and noses bumping.

It was far from delicate or romantic, nothing like the kisses you were used to having, though admittedly, it's been a while since you've kissed anyone at all. There wasn't anything polished about it, nothing that belonged in the kind of love stories people liked to tell.

Instead, it felt impulsive and a little reckless, born from months of tension that neither of you handled particularly well. Every sarcastic remark, every lingering look and every argument seemed to have led here somehow, leaving the two of you with no idea what to do now that the line has finally been crossed.

The strangest part was how natural it felt, how far from angry you were now that his lips were on yours and his tongue fought its way into your mouth.

Gator never pretended to be anything he wasn't. It's one thing you could admire about him if someone forced you to pick something.

There was something strangely honest about the way he wanted you, wearing his interest so openly that half the town probably knew about it. Minus his father, obviously, because if there was one thing you knew about Sheriff Tillman, it was that men like Roy rarely enjoyed sharing control over the people they considered theirs.

Gator pushed you up against the wall, one hand tangled in your hair as the other landed on your ass once more. He pushed himself into you, no space left between you as he started rubbing himself against your front.

There was something almost dizzying about finally experiencing the reality of the shared attraction after spending so long pretending it wasn't there.

"Shit, mama", he muttered the second he pulled back, sounding almost offended by his own reaction. "That slap got me damn near hard. Ya got any idea what ya just did to me?"

You felt embarrassed by how little control you had over the moan that escaped you.

But to Gator, it sounded like a damn symphony.

"Yeah, that's right. Knew I'd get ya eventually", he teased, one hand fumbling with the button on your jean shorts. The wall pressed against your back as Gator crowded your space and instead of pushing him away like you did every time he got too close, you found yourself grabbing fistfuls of his shirt just to keep him there instead.

The kisses grew sloppy, your tongues tangling in a way that would've looked obscene to anyone else, but maybe it was just right for the two of you.

Your breathing stalled for several seconds as soon as you felt his hand slip into your panties and Gator watched every little reaction flash across your face, his smirk deepening as soon as he realised how wet you were.

A shaky, needy breath slipped past your lips as his fingers slipped past your folds, circling them and going as far as to roll them between his fingers once or twice.

He leaned in close, his lips pressing against the shell of your ear as two of his fingers continued playing with your pussy. The way he pressed against you, cupped your mound and played with you in short intervals, had you trembling in anticipation.

"This good? Hm, mama?", he mused and your moan seemed to be enough confirmation for him to let out a self-satisfied chuckle, leaning back again to watch your expressions.

"Not so mouthy now, huh", he pumped two fingers inside you slowly, your hips bucking to meet them as your eyes locked. You bit your lip, not wanting another moan to slip from your lips and feed into his ego. You were stubborn like that, but your body betrayed you in more ways than one.

"Gotta admit", he started again, his fingers finding a rhythm now you couldn't deny worked you just right. It didn't stop you from feeling absolutely filthy, having a deputy finger you in the back of your workplace. Having Gator finger you in the back of your workplace.

"Wouldn't really mind ya slapping me again. Come on, mama. Mark me up, won't ya. Show me how much ya really hate me", he kept pushing, both verbally and physically too, his fingers pumping in and out in a way that had you clinging to him with your legs trembling and your arms slung around his neck.

The smirk seemed permanently etched into his face at this point, though you hiding your face in his chest spared you the knowledge for now. All you could concentrate on was how good it felt to have his fingers inside you and his words groaned into your ear.

"Fuck, Gator you're...", you finally whimpered out in response, trailing off. It was the first thing you could muster with all the pleasure washing over you. "I'm here, mama, ain't going nowhere"

That godforsaken nickname shouldn't turn you on the way it did. But paired with the newfound knowledge of Gator getting rock hard by you slapping him, without ever demanding to be pleasured first? Yeah that did it for you. Thoroughly.

"Oh, I'm getting ya there, ain't I? Can feel ya soaking sugar. Fuck, you're literally sucking me in"

You wanted to tell him to shut up, to speed up and leave the premises of the bakery all at the same damn time, but your climax washed over you before you could, drawing another long, involuntary moan from you. By now, most of your weight was resting on him, your legs were shaking and your panties were absolutely soaked, much to Gators's enjoyment.

His heavy breathing matched yours in perfect sync and he pumped his fingers a few more times, guiding you through your orgasm with the sort of triumphant satisfaction that came from finally seeing you give in after months of insisting you never would.

He circled your clit a few more times, teasing you relentlessly, especially once he realized how sensitive and overwhelmed you were becoming.

By the time he finally pulled his hand out of your shorts, a breathless sound escaped you and your head knocked against the wall behind you, the impact barely registering beneath everything else you were trying, and failing, to process.

Gator didn't reach out to steady you. Didn't soften the impact or fuss over whether you'd hit your head. Then again, that would've felt strange coming from him.

The two of you never really knew how to handle each other gently. Every conversation turned into an argument, every argument into a challenge and somehow, neither of you ever seemed interested in backing down.

"You're an asshole", you huffed, still trying to catch your breath, but the insult sounded weak even to your own ears.

The male didn't even argue, Gator knew he was an asshole through and through. "Damn right", he chuckled.

He watched you, taking in the way your brows had drawn together and the way your eyes remained shut, as if opening them required more effort than you were currently willing to put in. He couldn't tell whether you were reacting to the slight, throbbing pain in the back of your head or trying to collect yourself after everything that had happened.

He guessed it was a mixture of both. Either way, the sight seemed to successfully shut him up after basically talking you through it and, admittedly so, doing a damn great job getting you there.

When you finally opened your eyes again, you caught Gator watching you with an intensity that suggested he'd never looked away in the first place.

Your gaze drifted lower, landing on the red mark still visible on his cheek. It stood out against his skin now, impossible to miss and fresh in memory.

The expectant look and the way he'd been watching you like a hawk suddenly served a very obvious purpose. It seemed Gator had been waiting to see whether you'd figure it out and, more importantly, whether you'd do it again.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me", you huffed as the corner of his mouth twitched.

Though, in hindsight, you probably should've known. The man literally asked you to slap him again twice.

A laugh escaped you, equal parts disbelief and annoyance, before you shook your head and slapped him without another second to spare. No second guessing, no shame nor sympathy. The second slap landed in nearly the same place as the first one and his head turned with just as much force.

His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, nodding slowly before Gator let out an approving hum.

You dropped your head back against the wall. He enjoyed this one just as much as the first one and you, even if you'd never dare to say it out loud, were starting to enjoy it too.

"Happy now?", you asked, letting out a careful sigh as you tried to gauge his reaction. For a second or two, your gaze shifted down to his pants, his bulge still on full display, but Gator was yet to draw attention to it.

It seemed so out of character for him it almost impressed you.

His eyes tracked your gaze before understanding flickered across his face. He adjusted himself shamelessly, not because he needed to, but because he knew you'd seen. The gesture felt less practical than it did deliberate, another opportunity to get under your skin that he had absolutely no intention of passing up.

The smug son of a bitch looked like he'd just won the lottery and the smirk never left his face as he slowly backed out of the stockroom, taking his sweet time with it. He kept his gaze on you as he stepped backwards, clearly enjoying the fact that you were still standing exactly where he'd left you, your thoughts nowhere near as organized as they had been half an hour ago.

When he finally reached the front counter, something caught his attention. His eyes dropped to the open pastry box you'd left there earlier and you saw the exact moment an idea formed in his head.

Without breaking eye contact, he reached into the box and grabbed one of the powdered jam pastries you'd been planning to take home. There wasn't even a hint of hesitation to the gesture, which somehow only made it worse.

Your mouth fell open as he took a bite.

Powdered sugar dusted his fingers as jam peeked from the side of the pastry. He chewed slowly, taunting you with the knowledge of where that hand had been moments ago. Then, as if he hadn't already done enough damage, he licked the powdered sugar from his thumb first, then the rest of his fingers.

Just Gator, completely aware of what he was doing and enjoying every second of it.

"You're disgusting"

"And you're pretty dang sweet"

Then he flashed you a grin, pushed through the front door and disappeared into the evening, leaving you alone in the bakery with a racing heart, one less pastry in the box and the overwhelming urge to hurl something heavy at the back of his head.

- come to find out, steve’s different now. he tells you in between researching the economic impacts of World War II that he hasn’t heard back from any of the colleges he applied to, so he’s probably going to stick around Hawkins working after graduation

- you tell him your parents really really want you to consider ivy schools but you’d rather split time between a community college and transfer to save them money. they want you to study finance because it’s secure. you want to go in undecided to explore your options. you expect steve to judge you or make some remark, but he just listens and nods and says “that makes sense” with a soft smile

- the last day of your project, presentation day, comes around and you and steve nail it. giddy over the A on your written report, you jump into his arms in the hallway squealing. “I can’t believe we did it!!” Steve hugs you back full force, and when you pull away, rushes out “Will you go on a date with me?” You say yes.

-a few weeks into dating, you decide to formally introduce him to your parents. They’ve been letting you go on dates, but with a strict curfew and 30 minute call length limit. you’re admittedly a little nervous, but steve being steve blows it out of the water. He brings flowers for your mom, comments on your dad’s golf club collection, and coos over the baby photos of you in the hallway. he asks about your background and culture in a way that’s inquisitive, not prying. After he leaves, your mom gives a curt nod. “He’s nice. Handsome. You can have him over more if you want.”

- eventually, you open up to him about your background further, your culture and your experience growing up in a small town looking and being a little different than your peers. The comments in second grade that made you ask your mom for pb&j lunches over her home cooked meals. The rumors, the stereotyping, the way your parents even felt othered by people in your neighborhood in the earlier days. How all of that seems to have gotten better with the times, but that it gets difficult to bear sometimes. Steve just listens, squeezing your hand. He kisses you on the cheek after, telling you that you and your family are braver than he thinks he could ever be.

- over time, he tries your favorite meals growing up, watches the movies you loved growing up, and continues to ask your parents questions about their lives, truly interested to learn more. If anyone does try to treat you differently and he’s around, he’s quick to shut it down with a “what’s that supposed to mean?”

-steve makes you feel accepted for all parts of you, and you constantly find yourself thanking whatever higher power paired the two of you together for the history final all that time ago <3

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