#aecd

He could never be. Every girl that looked his way had a stronger chance than you ever did. You weren't the type of girl he went after—not even close. Given your track record, you could barely even call yourself desirable.

No matter how close you felt to him, you would never be like Steve Harrington.

You would never know what it was like to grow up beautiful. To become someone's object of affection. To go through life with the safety net that was beauty. You were never the town's "golden girl." You were never so popular you had your own moniker. You were never meant to be the girl who got the guy.

So you could never fall for Steve Harrington.

Because you knew you would crash.

The doorbell to Family Video felt like a knot spawning in your throat.

“Welcome to Family Video,” Steve sighed, his voice monotone and bored, gaze focused on the counter's computer.

“Well, hello to you, too,” you retorted, tilting your head.

It was almost unfair how he glowed upon seeing you. As if the light in his eyes was specifically dedicated to making you weak for him.

“Hey!” Steve smiled, his attention automatically directed to you instead. “Didn't expect to see you here.”

You smirked back at him. “You either, Harrington," you stepped closer, leaning your elbows on the counter.

Steve mirrored the action, his gaze flickering over you before refocusing on your face.

“What are you doing here?” He inquired softly, as if his voice was meant just for you at this moment.

You felt that smile he brought out in you trying to give way before catching yourself, remembering how far the ground was from up in the clouds—the crushing impact you were inviting in. You took a step away from the cliff, glancing down as your arms left the counter.

"Apparently, the party is hosting a campaign at the Henderson house tonight," you cleared your throat, "I just came to ask Robin if I could stay with her tonight," you said quietly, reeling yourself back into your own space.

You looked back at him to see his eyes focused on your arms, a frown forming—barely noticeable. Imperceptive enough that no one else would recognize it, but you had practically memorized every inch of his face.

Every change in his features had been neatly cataloged in your mind. Labeled, filed, and kept away for moments like these.

"Oh, she didn't come in today," he cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head. "She called in sick," Steve clarified.

You deflated at the news, your head hanging. "Shit..." you cursed under your breath. "Okay, thanks for letting me know, I guess. I'll figure out something."

Steve opened his mouth as if to say something before the bell to Family Video rang out again. You watched as his eyes focused behind you. That's when you turned and saw her.

Olivia Taylor, the once head cheerleader of Hawkins High, here for one thing only. "Hi, Steve," she sang, flashing him one of her famous smiles. Shy, flirtatious, and captivating.

You wanted to hate her. That would be easier—to call her a tryhard, to drag her name through the dirt, to say she wasn't beautiful. But no matter how hard you tried, there was nothing about her to criticize.

That was the pattern you noticed with Steve. All of the girls who were blessed to have his attention were perfect.

The same petite bodies, flawless hairstyles, crystal clear skins. They had everything you didn't. Every girl in Hawkins could pass for an angel—a figure of unimaginable beauty. Except for you. You would be better on the sidelines.

The sick feeling you felt just from those two words tumbled in your stomach. You couldn't tell if you wanted to run, cry, or throw up. The tone of her voice left nothing to interpret. You could hear the want. The desire to be noticed by Steve. It was disgusting how familiar it sounded.

"Welcome to Family Video," Steve called out. You turned back to see him smiling at her. "I'll be right with you." You watched his gaze return back to you. The light you had previously seen in his eyes was gone. A bright, beautiful, blonde shadow had casted, completely erasing the sunshine that was solely yours a second ago.

"There's some movies in the back Robin wanted you to check out." He suggested, kindly shooing you away. "Why don't you go take a look at them?" You knew what he was doing. Brushing you off so you couldn't get in the way of his new opportunity.

But it was Steve, so you went down without a fight.

You quietly traveled over in between the aisles like a shadow, leaving him to charm his way into another girl's pants. "What can I do for you?" You heard him ask, his signature King Steve voice making an appearance. The one that he used to wield to get girls like it was a competition he needed to win.

You could practically feel Olivia tilt her head. Probably twirling her hair with a smile. "Do you have any good movies for a first date?" she asked

Wow. She wasn't wasting any time, then.

"Absolutely." You heard him clap his hands before the sound of feet shuffling came closer. "What does he like?" he asked as you crossed over to another aisle.

"Oh, I'm not sure," she said innocently. "I'm sure a handsome guy like you would know just what to watch. What would you recommend?"

You fought the urge to roll your eyes. God, this was torture.

"Well, it depends…" he muttered to himself. You could see in your mind the furrow between his brows as he thought it over.

You briefly wondered to yourself if he could see it. The flashing sign in front of him trying to get his attention. Could he not tell that she wanted him? Impossible. Steve Harrington had the looks to believe any girl wanted him, and the asshole that he was, he was usually right.

"Well, there's Back to the Future. That's always a good one. Or— Oh! Ferris Bueller's Day Off!" You could hear the excited smile in his voice. It reminded you of the one he had when he watched it with you last month. "That's a classic first date movie."

You could hear Olivia giggle sweetly, probably tilting her head again. "Sold."

"Great, let me ring you up." He passed your aisle as he made his way to the counter. He looked at you, giving you the briefest smile—one you had come to recognize as his way of silently apologizing.

You couldn't help but return the smile, unable to help the way he could bring one out of you just by looking your way. You returned your focus back to the tapes in front of you as the cash register chimed quietly.

"That'll be $10.80," Steve said. You could hear the rumbling of Olivia's purse.

"Thank you, you know. You're a total lifesaver."

Steve smiled back at her. "Just doing my job."

She handed him her change. "Are you doing anything tonight?" She asked. Her voice had grown lower, deeper. Your eyes were on the two of them before you could process it.

"Not currently, no," he answered as he carefully filed away her payment.

"Would you like to be?"

Steve's head flicked up instantly. Olivia smirked at him, a knowing look in her eye. She had him right where she wanted him. "You. Me. A classic first date movie…" she batted her eyelashes at him. You could hear Steve struggle to form words as he attempted to gather her change.

"I've- I've already watched Ferris Bueller's Day Off," he responded cautiously. You caught the nervousness laced in his voice. The swallow in his throat. Great. Not only was Olivia the ideal dream girl, but she made him nervous.

"Oh, don't worry," she lowered her voice even further, looking at his lips seductively. "I wouldn't want your attention on the movie, anyway…"

You couldn't take it any more. You rushed your way inside the backroom, trying to keep down the bile in your throat. Your breath caught as you shut the door, desperately trying to pause the movie you had seen a million times before. The film that always interrupted your daydreams. You sat down on the nearest stool, your head falling into your hands.

Why did you do this to yourself? You knew not to fall for Steve Harrington. You knew that you would only get hurt. Romance had never favored you. Cupid's arrows were never sharp enough to convince someone they would die without you.

God, you were so stupid. Of course this was how the movie ended. You knew that as soon as Steve "The Goddamn Hair" Harrington stumbled into your heart like it was just a tourist spot to visit. You wished he would have never walked into your life. Never met your brother. Never—

"Hey, where'd you go?" Steve's gentle voice you never heard him use with anyone else whispered as he opened the door. "You know only employees are supposed to be back here, right?" The joke fell flat amongst the static that channeled in your ears.

"Since when do you care, Harrington?" You bit back. You knew it was mean—that he didn't deserve your anger, but there was no one around to be mad at but him.

"I care when you're trying to get away from me."

A heavy silence fell in the room with that. You looked down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers. Steve sighed, sitting down on the stool across from you.

"Did you still need somewhere to go tonight?" Steve asked you softly.

You looked up at him, an anger still in your eyes. "Yeah, why?"

He met your eyes, wielding your favorite smile of his. The one that reminded you of a shy little boy—nothing but love and kindness in his heart. Not the teenage boy who broke hearts and left without a trace, or the king who had fallen from grace. Just a young boy looking at you like you meant something in his big world.

"Why don't you stay at my place tonight?"

You rolled your eyes at the suggestion. Like you would crash at his place while he "watched a movie" with Olivia at her house. Just the idea of being in his house all alone was enough to have your chest constricting. "I'm not gonna spend the night in an empty house, Harrington."

"I'd be there?" His response took you aback, apparently just as yours did him.

"Aren't you—busy now?" You gestured towards the door—the movie you had paused.

"I'd like to be."

Your eyebrows inched closer together. "What are you talking about?"

"You can stay at my house tonight," Steve offered again, leaning closer. "My folks aren't there. You could keep me company. "

You tilted your head. His boyish smile had probably disoriented you into some kind of hallucinatory state.

"I- I thought—"

Steve seemed to catch onto your thought process with a subtle smirk. "What, Olivia?" he shook his head, smiling. "Nah," he responded. "I said no."

You blinked at him. Well, that was a plot twist if you had ever seen one.

"So… my house tonight?" Steve reminded you. "You in?"

You should say no. You knew you should. Saying yes to Steve Harrington was like jumping from a ship into siren infested waters.

But how were you supposed to resist the tempting waves that sparkled in his eyes? How were you supposed to ignore the living marble statue before you?

No. You could see the sharp teeth of rejection whirling beneath the water. You had learned to filter through the siren's call and turn the steering wheel before you could crash. You wouldn't be fooled into jumping—

"Okay."

Idiot.

If the doorbell to Family Video felt like a knot in your throat, the chime announcing Steve Harrington was at your front door was the noose.

"Coming!" Dustin hollered from downstairs. You could hear him violently stomping as you zipped your backpack, closing your closet on your way out. You hurried down the stairs just in time to see Dustin opening the front door.

The presence of Steve standing on your front porch was enough to make time stop still. You couldn't help the way your eyes fell on the strands of his hair that always landed perfectly, framing his gentle eyes. The unfairly beautiful smile that graced his face so easily—

"Why are you wearing your nice jacket?" Steve's smile quicly turned into annoyance at Dustin's skeptical tone.

"Shut it, Henderson," Steve shoved at his shoulder, his eyes on you as you met Dustin's side.

Dustin turned to you, squinting. "Where are you going?"

"I'm letting her stay with me tonight so she doesn't have to deal with you shits keeping her up all night." Steve supplied, glaring at your brother. "Call it a rescue."

"Down, boy," you quipped at Steve, joining his side with a smile.

Dustin scoffed. "For your information, there is nothing about our campaign that she needs rescuing from! If anything, you both could be enjoying a great night of adven—!"

"Night, shitbird." Steve smirked triumphantly as he closed the door in his face. "Jeez, that kid's relentless," he sighed.

You walked right by his side. "You're the one who's friends with him," you remind him, "I just live with him."

Steve rolled his eyes at you, opening the passenger side door for you. "Exactly, which is why I'm currently saving you, right now. You're welcome."

You smiled as you got in your seat, setting your backpack down. You watched him through the window as he made his way to the driver's side.

Steve opened the door, getting in while looking at you, smiling giddily. "You ready?" He asked, bucking his seat belt.

Once again, you could sense the incoming implosion getting closer and closer every second you were with him. The ticking of a clock counting down until you lost this fragile fantasy of having his attention—

"Always."

The universe was just taunting you now.

Steve was looking up at you from his pool—smiling without a care in the world despite being fully clothed. Under the night sky, though, every beautiful thing about him was practically magnified—the night stars reflecting on the water.

The fucker.

"You coming in, or what, Henderson?" He smiled at you.

You shook your head at him, rolling your eyes. "I'm not getting in there without a swimsuit."

Steve grinned, swimming closer to the edge you were at. "Come on," he folded his arms on the edge. "Live a little, Henderson."

His voice was lower, eyes shining like glittering waters. You felt yourself leaning in closer to his call, the water tempting you more and more—

"Nope," you shook your head. "I'm not getting these clothes wet."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine," he gave up, extending his arm out towards you. "Help me up then?"

You took his hand with a smirk. "Can't even get up on your own, Harrin—?" Steve pulled you in before you could even finish your sentence.

Despite the warm temperature of the pool, you felt the water surround you like a cold plunge. You climbed to the surface to find Steve beaming at you like he was a kid again.

You couldn't help but bark a laugh out of shock, immediately splashing water his way. "Asshole!" He laughed at your dramatics—the sound flying you up into the clouds—before splashing you right back.

Regardless of how angry you could have been, you felt so alive for once you couldn't be bothered to care.

You charged right for him. Steve shoved water at you while trying to get away. "Can't catch me!" He retorted like a child, beaming as he avoided you.

You were both caught in a fit of laughter when you finally reached him, lunging on top of him. The two of you sunk below the surface for the briefest second before you came back up for air.

That second underwater was the most free you'd felt in a long time. You were terrified of drowning—even before you met Steve. You would stay on land as you watched your brother and his friends splash around. It wasn't until Steve offered to give you swimming lessons a year ago that you started enjoying going to the pool.

But you hated spending too much time underwater—afraid of drowning, that feeling where you're unable to reach the surface in time cause you had overestimated your chances and gone too far.

But you weren't scared just now. You were too busy holding onto Steve to remember why you should've been scared. You knew he wouldn't let you drown, anyway. He would go down with you. He would save you every time.

You were busy laughing and combing your hair back once you returned to the surface. "I'm gonna get you back for that, Harrington."

When your eyes finally met his, you saw something there you hadn’t cataloged yet. His gaze was focused on your lips, filled with something you were too scared to call desire.

It was only then that you realized how close he was—one of his hands set on your waist. You could count every one of his eyelashes, the subtle freckles on his cheeks.

You swallowed quietly, the tension making your skin hot. "Steve—?"

You were cut off by the pull of his hand on the back of your neck, his lips suddenly on yours.

Your surprise was enough to render you frozen—long enough for Steve to pull back. His eyes opened to see yours had never closed.

The sight must have scared him. "Shit—sorry. I just—I thought–"

This time, you were the one to cut him off, locking your lips with his before you could talk yourself out of it.

His lips felt like a heaven you had been denying yourself for far too long. The pearly gates you didn't believe a God would be kind enough to let you see. Steve's kiss was your road to Damascus—a blinding heavenly light that you had spent forever cursing its existence of.

At the same time, you could taste the forbidden fruit in his teeth—the temptation you had fallen for. Even devoted and wise, Steve Harrington could fool you into falling from grace.

You tore apart from him—the taste of your sin still on your lips. His eyes were still closed, his lips still parted as if he expected you to come back. After a second too long, Steve opened his eyes. The drumming in your ears distracted you from noticing the dilation of his pupils or the weight of his breaths.

You once again felt his hand on the back of your neck, his fingers half mindedly combing through the soft strands he could reach.

"Why'd you stop?" The ragged texture in his voice wasn't helping. The hoarse quality made your knees weak. You wanted to fall, to let him catch you, to sink into his arms—

No, something was wrong with this. Steve Harrington is not the type of guy who falls for you. And you're not the type of girl who can afford to fall for him.

You shook your head. "You don't know what you're doing," you murmured, pulling back.

Steve's brows furrowed, catching up to your hesitation. "Hey," he pulled you closer, "what are you talking about?"

"I'm not—Steve—this isn't—you don't know what you're doing."

"I know what I'm doing—"

"No! You don't!" You protested, your eyes looking everywhere but him, your breath coming quicker. "You're—you're making a mistake—you're not thinking clearly."

"Hey." Steve refocused your attention onto him. "Look at me, baby. Take a breath," he encouraged, wiping a loose strand of hair out of your eyes, your chest heaving.

He nodded as you tried to calm down, breathing like he had told you. "That's it, honey. There you go," he breathed with you. "You're okay, yeah? Everything's fine."

You nodded back, closing your eyes so you wouldn't have to see the way he was looking at you.

"What's going on, sweetheart? Need you to talk to me."

Your breath caught again as you shook your head. "This—This isn't real."

"Why is it not real?" he asked you softly.

You almost scoffed through your flustered state. "Cause you're you," you reminded him incredulously. "You're you, Steve, and I'm not the type of girl you—I'm not the type of girl you can do this with."

He head tilted subtly. "Do what with?" he questioned gently, deep doe eyes looking at you intently.

"Kiss me like this," you stated, "Like—like it means nothing."

Steve shook his head, his other hand cupping your cheek. "Who said it means nothing?"

You could barely contain the roll of your eyes. "Are you kidding? Steve, I'm not—I'm not the type of girl you fall for," you muttered, eyes cast downwards.

"The type of—? What?" Steve sounded unbelievably confused for someone so beautiful. "Baby, you're not making sense."

You sighed, biting your lip so you wouldn't do something stupid.

"Why did you kiss me?"

"Because I thought it was the right moment?" he answered, blinking at you like you were the crazy one. "I've been wanting to do that since I met you, sweetheart."

You shook your head, denying the possibility. "Why? Just to add another girl to your roster or something—?"

"Hey, stop it with that." His voice was firm then. It almost sounded like he was scolding you for even thinking that. You shrunk in on yourself out of shame.

Steve sighed. "You're not another girl for me," he promised.

"Then what am I?"

"You're the girl for me, sweetheart."

The conviction of his tone would've swept you off your feet if he wasn't holding you like an anchor. Steve leaned his face closer to yours, brushing your nose with his.

"I'd—I'd like you to be mine," he continued, eyes reflecting the glowing lights that brightened the pool. "My girl."

You weren't sure you were alive anymore. The only proof of life you had was the angel of a man in front of you.

"Your—Your girl?" you stuttered helplessly.

Steve chuckled at you breathlessly. "If you'll let me."

Your eyebrows furrowed, causing him to laugh again. He brought his finger up to soothe the crease between them. "You're cute like this, you know."

You didn't have it in you to argue. You just continued to stare at him. "Wh—why me?" You asked. "Everybody wants you."

Steve smirked at you, tilting his head at you. "Doesn't mean I want them," he replied. "I only want you."

You're sure you could've stopped breathing. Perhaps you already had, and this was just some sick dream to transition you into death.

Steve grinned, leaning in to press a kiss on your cheek. "You really had no idea?" He asked, still smiling as he pulled back.

You fumbled for words as you blinked at him.

He chuckled at your stunned silence. "I like you, pretty girl," he tells you softly, cupping your face in his hands once again. His voice gets low before leaning in, "Always have."

Your eyes closed from the feeling of his lips on yours again. Steve proceeded to coaxe you into parting your lips for him, weakening your resolve into nothing. You couldn't process anything other than the taste of his tongue—a flavor you would rather die in vain than lose.

Goosebumps trailed down your skin as his hand returned to your waist, firmer than before as his jaw moved with yours

Your hands carefully traveled to his shoulders, holding tight to this moment. You inched back from his mouth. "Steve—?" Your departure didn't seem to stop Steve as he took the break as an excuse to kiss your face.

He hummed in response, the vibration on your skin making you feel warm.

"You—You really like me?"

Steve kept kissing the side of your face, roaming his lips over to your ear. "Mhmm," he responded. "I really, really like you, beautiful girl."

You blushed at the name, making him smile. "Yeah? You like when I call you beautiful?" Steve teased.

"Shut up, Harrington," you shoved his shoulder, rolling your eyes at him. It only made him grin wider.

"There's the girl I know and love."

You mirrored his smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. "Yeah? You love me, Harrington?"

Steve nodded, not an ounce of shame or hesitation to be found. "Since I met you."

You looked down at his lips. "Me too," you replied softly. Steve's smile grew impossibly wider. Ridiculously, he ended up lifting you up and spinning you around in his arms, as happy as can be.

You laughed with him as he set you back down, standing you on the solid ground of the pool floor.

"So..." you started, tilting your head, "what now?"

Steve held you close in his arms with the look of a man who's never known beauty, such as the one before him.

He shrugged. "It's whatever you want, baby."

And like you had done in a million daydreams before, you kissed Steve Harrington, just because you could—just because you were the one he chose.

You pulled back, whispering against his lips.

"You want to watch Ferris Bueller's Day Off?”

masterlist

You were terrified he would find out—that one day he would catch on to how fast your heart beat around him, how shy you got when he was near. You would freeze like a deer in headlights every time he looked at you for too long, reading your thoughts like he was strategizing the best mode of attack.

You wouldn't survive Steve figuring out even half of the things you thought about when it came to him.

He could never know that he was the reason for the bags under your eyes—that the sound of his voice kept you up at night, endlessly singing a lullaby you were too in love with to fall asleep to. He couldn't know that he existed in every thought you had. There was no benefit in him knowing that you would picture him at your side everywhere you went.

This wasn't healthy anymore—your obsession. It didn't take a doctor's diagnosis for you to know your time was limited—that his eyes would be the death of you. You would die as you lived: flying too close to the sun that was Steve Harrington.

But Steve didn't know he was killing you.

Sometimes, you surmised that he did—that he consciously wielded his smile against you, a calculated attack.

But Steve wasn't cruel; he was just clueless.

Steve Harrington had ruined you and everything you were on accident. He had unintentionally destroyed your chance of ever finding happiness in anyone else. He had unknowingly shaped your heart into something new—something that fed you warmth instead of blood, life instead of survival.

So giving him the chance to break it?

That would be suicide.

You weren't sure how many drinks you had emptied tonight. Somewhere between the second glass and the club lights turning into Steve's eyes, you stopped counting. You weren't even that big of a drinker. You didn't care for the paint thinner like taste or the way it would stain your tongue, a permanent aftertaste you couldn't force out. 

But the other option was having Steve Harrington plague your sober thoughts.

And you were never much of a masochist.

Every drink felt like a way to flush him out of your system, every shot a means to detox. But Steve Harrington was turning out to be the worst virus you had the horror of contracting.

Steve was in everything around you—every drop of rain that swarmed outside the club, every bitter flavor on your tongue, and every fear coursing through your veins.

You were scared that he would never want you back. You were scared of how he would look at you if he knew the truth.

But most importantly, you were scared to death that you would never stop loving him—that even his rejection wouldn't be enough to deter your foolish heart. Every star you saw, every eyelash that fell, and every dandelion you crossed knew all about Steve Harrington by now.

The reason for your misery as well as the beating of your pulse.

You heard your name being called, ripping you out of your daydream into a new problem: Steve Harrington in the distance.

You blinked at his approaching figure. God, he had the biggest smile on his face—like a child with a crooked grin, he beamed at you, chuckling to himself.

This was in your head, right? A figment of your imagination? You figured you must have knocked yourself out a while back—

"What are you doing here?" Steve's scent invaded your senses as he joined your side at the bar. Now, your dreams with him were more lifelike than you cared to admit, but even in your most vivid dreams you had never smelled him before—his signature cologne that he would take to his grave, his hairspray that lingered in his absence. This was real. Steve Harrington. Here. Live and in person for your viewing pleasure.

You guessed you should've realized by now that the universe had a sick sense of humor.

It wasn't until you saw the tilt of his head that you realized you never responded.

“Hi!" Your voice came out louder than you had anticipated startling Steve. Since when did you sound like that?

"I'm—I’m uh, drinking,” you answered somewhat quieter. Your off-putting and awkward laughter was still doing enough to embarrass you.

Steve nodded, glancing down at your drink. “I see that,” he teased. You blushed, your eyes shifting down at your drink, a sheepish curve on your lips.

Fuck, if only he knew how shy he made you. Steve Harrington had a way of making you feel like you were back to being eight years old, getting quiet around the cute boy in your class, knowing full well he never gave you a second glance.

“You been here a while?” Steve asked. You didn't need to see him to know he was tilting his head at you. 

“Maybe,” you murmured, looking back at him. Big mistake. What were you saying again?

“I lost track of time a—a while back.”

“Yeah?” Steve glanced down at the amount of glasses you had collected. “Drowning your sorrows?” He smirked at you. You saw right through it—the blurry state of your mind wasn't enough to keep you from noticing the pinch in his eyebrows, the concern in his voice. That classic Steve Harrington attentiveness he hid under layers of charisma.

“Oh, this? No! No, I'm fine!” You sounded anything but, laughing at a nonexistent joke that may have just been yourself. “Just, um, you know... got thirsty,” you supplied shyly.

Something in your tone seemed to settle with Steve. “How about we get you home, yeah?”

Your eyebrows shot up. Jesus, were you that big of a mess? “Oh, no! No, I—I couldn't ask you to do that.”

“You're not asking,” Steve shook his head, touching your arm gently. The contact could've melted you into nothing if you weren't sitting down. “I'm offering. Come on, I'll give you a ride home.”

Your throat felt dry. You couldn't stop looking at his lips, his hair and the way it fell in his stupid, mesmerizing eyes. 

“O—Okay." You tried to get up from your seat, quickly stumbling over your feet as you stood. Since when did those get there?

“Hey, there,” Steve steadied you, his hand on your waist. “Careful now. Don't want you hurting yourself.” 

Everything in your head was static with him so close to you. “Think you can walk?” You peered down towards your feet, stepping one foot forward, only to trip on the next step. 

“Okay!” Steve immediately caught you. You whined out of embarrassment. Christ, you were pathetic. “It's okay, sweetheart, I got you.” Steve promised, supporting you at his side, his arm draped around your shoulders.

Sweetheart.

You wondered if that could count as attempted murder in a court of law.

Somewhere along the way to your place, everything had gotten a lot more amusing. The silly vocals on the radio, the people walking across the street, and you could swear there were suddenly faces on the backs of the cars. 

“Steve! I'm serious, look! That one's smiling!” You enthusiastically pointed in front of you, way too upbeat for this late at night.

Steve nodded along. “I know, sweetheart. You told me two minutes ago.”

“No, that was the mean car!"

"The one that was going to follow us and kill you when you least expect it?" Steve teased.

"It had teeth, Steve!"

Steve laughed at your vivacity. Despite your love for him feeling immeasurable, an argument could be made that you loved making him laugh even more.

You rolled your eyes. "Fine! Laugh all you want, but I'm onto something here."

Steve shook his head, unable to erase the smile you brought out in him. "I'm sure you are, sweetheart, The car's long gone, though, yeah?" Steve smiled, glancing over at you. "No one's killing you tonight. Not on my watch."

You watched the corners of Steve's mouth lift, the subtle change in his features making your heart feel tighter, your thoughts looser—

“You'd be a cute car,” you murmured.

Steve's eyebrow raised. If you weren't so out of it, you might've caught the way the car briefly shifted off-center, his grip on the wheel faltering.

“Would I, now?” Steve questioned, his voice somewhat strained by a stutter you didn't pick up.

“Yeah…” you sighed. You should really stop talking— “You have the most pretty smile.” 

Damn it.

Steve cleared his throat. The dark of the night covered up the tips of his ears turning pink. “Th—Thank you, sweetheart,” he stammered. “You—You have a pretty smile, too.”

You felt warmth quickly travel from your neck to your cheeks, the corners of your mouth curving into a shy and nervous smile as your hands fiddled with each other. “Really?”

Steve smiled again. “The prettiest," he glanced over at you, giving you a wink.

If you didn't wake up in the morning, you were sure Steve Harrington would be the prime suspect.

Right under the scary car.

“Okay, there we go. One more step.” Steve carefully guided you into the apartment, each of your steps getting looser and looser. “Just like that, you're almost there.”

With one wrong step, you collapsed to the ground before Steve could stop you. You burst out into a fit of laughter. Steve loomed over you, exasperated. “Having fun down there?”

Steve's question went one ear and out the other. You were full on cackling on the ground, tears springing in your eyes, hunching over, stomach hurting—the kind of laugh that felt like freedom. “I'm on the ground,” you wheezed, running out of breath.

You heard Steve crack up from above. "So I noticed." God, the sound of his laugh made you feel so giddy inside, as if you were the one thing that made him happy. You wanted to be the only thing he required to be happy. You prayed every night to be needed by him—to be craved for once in your life. You wanted to be the one thing Steve Harrington needed to feel alive. 

You rolled about to see him smirking over you. Looking up at him like this,—the ceiling light framing his head—you could've very well mistaken him for an angel descended from the heavens, lowered only for you to worship.

"Hi," you whispered.

Steve chuckled under his breath, "Hi, sweetheart."

The moment lingered between you the way memory foam sinks: a subtle, calming descent, luring you deeper and deeper—

"Come on," Steve sighed, extending his hand out for you to take, "Let's get you off the ground."

“No,” you whined, turning away from his hand like a petulant child. "It's cozy down here.”

“Yeah, and dirty,” Steve insisted, reaching for your hand anyway. “And I know you well enough to know you're gonna be pissed in the morning when I tell you you were rolling on the ground.”

You couldn't argue with his logic, but that didn't stop you from pouting as he pulled you up.

Steve shook his head. “Aht, don't give me that look,” he warned. His actions contradicted his father-like tone as he cupped your head in his hands with a featherlight gentleness—one you had never received from yours.

Steve turned your head side to side. “I don't see anything…” he mumbled to himself. You let him bow your head as he checked your roots. “All good, pretty girl." Steve tilted you back up to face him.

The rhythm of your heart faltered. Steve's mouth was curved in a soft smile, his lips soft and kind. You peeked at his eyes only to find them directed towards your mouth.

Time stilled in the space between you. The world continued as normal—cars honked, children slept, insects buzzed in the night—but the air the two of you shared froze, sacred between your bodies. Only when you redirected your gaze to his lips did the space blaze again.

Steve cleared his throat, taking a step back from you, as if the heat your heart emmited burned him backward. “Off to bed, yeah?” Steve sighed, wearing a tighter smile than before. 

“O—Okay.” Your euphoric nature had softened. Steve nodded, supporting you with his arm around you again. You whined as Steve attempted to guide you again. “No more steps, Steve. Please…” 

Steve huffed. “What, you want me to carry you on my back?” The mischievous gleam in your eyes—that spawned in record time—told him he had made a mistake.

“Yes!” Your excitement came back full force. “Please?”

You stepped closer to him before quickly fumbling on your feet again. Your misstep seemed to convince Steve that carrying you would be simpler than watching you continue to toddle around for another fifteen minutes. 

“Okay,” Steve relented. He couldn't shield his smile as you jumped upon his back, squealing with excitement. He settled you up higher, locking his arms around your knees securely. “Hang on tight.”

You let your chin rest on his shoulder as he carried you to your bedroom. Wrapped around his body, you felt safer than ever, encompassed in an illusion where Steve was yours—his body the solace you'd been chasing since you were little, the kind that—

“—Off you go,” Steve huffed as he rolled you onto your mattress, making you squeal again. 

You gasped upon feeling your bed under your skin again—as if the covers had secretly turned into clouds in your departure. 

“Oh my God!” You snuggled further in the softness of your pillows, your eyes shutting in bliss. “I'm never leaving you again.” 

“Not so fast,” Steve called from afar. Your eyes peeked open to see him returning from your closet. “You gotta change, sweet girl.” 

It was almost annoying that Steve remembered how much you detested wearing outside clothes on your bed. That fact didn't stop you from pouting with a brief whimper, unable to stand the idea of leaving your newfound paradise—or at least, the only one you could keep.

“I know, I know,” Steve cooed. “Just this one last thing, and then I'll let you stay in bed forever, alright?”

It wasn't long before you caved, outstretching your arms to him. Even intoxicated, you were unable to say no to Steve.

“Wrap your arms around my neck, sweetheart,” Steve muttered before he lifted your body in his arms, carrying you bridal style. 

“Where we going?” Your voice came out small as you rested in his arms.

“Bathroom,” he murmured softly to you. You hummed in acknowledgement.

The next thing you knew, Steve was setting you down on the toilet seat. He handled you with such care that it felt like you were fragile—like you were his.

“I'll go get your clothes." He disappeared out the door before you could protest.

His absence felt heavier than you expected. Like there was a weight he was carrying just for you, now abandoned on your bathroom floor.

Your eyes shut, head tilting back. This was ridiculous. Steve had been gone for only a minute, but already you felt like dying if you didn't see him again. Like an addict going through withdrawals.

“Steve?”

“Yeah?” Steve returned shortly, a change of clothes gathered in his arms. “What's wrong?” The tips of your ears turned pink from the sound of his voice, the devotion in it

“I missed you...” you confessed.

You were being too honest. You needed to leave it alone. Steve and you were friends. You wouldn't take that back for the world—not even the one you wanted. Not even the one you were looking at right now.

“Well, I'm back,” Steve grinned. “You think you can change on your own?” 

His smile burdened the weight again, lightening the atmosphere. You nodded, standing up with Steve's help.

“Alright, I'll be just outside, okay? Holler if you need me.” He winked at you, leaving the bathroom to give you your privacy. 

As you stepped out of your clothes, you couldn't stop yourself from picturing him next to you, his voice, his smile. Why did he have to be so beautiful? Didn't he know how unfair it was? To be plagued by his eyes every minute of your life? You didn't know if you would ever move on from the fantasy that was Steve Har—

Your shirt was stuck

You had tangled your arms on the way out, rendering them uselessly flailing about. You attempted to escape to no avail, making yourself laugh at the absurdity of it all.

“Steve!” You called, giggling. 

“What's wrong?” He called from the other side of the door, immediately on alert. “Are you okay?”

“I'm stuck,” you answered, once again trying with no luck.

Steve's voice paused. “Stuck?” 

“My shirt!” You started to laugh fuller. Steve opened the door. You felt his hand struggle to find your shoulder. Once he got a grip on your shirt, he carefully helped you get it off, leaving you to find his eyes shut tight.

“Got it?” You vaguely heard the swallow in his throat. 

“Yep. Thank you, Steve.”

Steve delivered you a brief nod before tentatively spinning around, trying to find his way back to the door without opening his eyes.

Once you finally got done getting ready for the night, you had enough strength to open the bathroom door without falling over. Steve was leaned back against the wall of the hallway, his eyes focused on your old shirt in his hands—the lacy fabric in his fingers. 

He quickly caught your eyes. You would have been more embarrassed if you were sober—your makeup wiped off, hair a mess, and in your old, stained pajamas—but something about the look in Steve's eyes made you feel secure, as if he would never look at you as anything other than beautiful.

“Hi,” you rocked on the soles of your feet, hands swinging about. 

“Hi,” Steve replied breathlessly. “You look beautiful.” You giggled at his compliment, taking a few wobbly steps towards him until you were leaning against his chest. He carefully cradled you in his arms once again, bringing you to bed like a husband would a wife.

In this moment, all you could think about was how much you loved him—how it felt like it could burst out of your chest, spill from your heart—you were in so deep, you could've been labeled as drowning.

“I have something to tell you,” you whispered, grinning up at him. 

Steve mirrored your expression, glancing down at you. “Yeah, what's that?”

You shook your head. “Can't tell ya. It's a secret,” you answered. 

Steve's head tilted to one side. “A secret? Since when do you hide things from me?”

You giggled again, confusing Steve further. “You're not supposed to know!”

“Why?” Steve wondered.

“It's important,” you clarified, dizzy with delight.

“Don't you think I should know, if it's so important then?” Steve asked as he set you down on your bed.

You bit your lip in thought as Steve tucked you in for bed. “Maybe…” you mumbled to yourself. Steve sat down next to you as you pondered. “Okay! But I'll only tell you if you promise me I can take it back.” 

“Wh—What do you mean take it back?”

“You know,” you waved your hand, “in case you don't like it.” You just barely caught the pinch between Steve's brows return. 

You searched his face. “I just don't want you to get upset with me,” you slurred, trying to explain to Steve that you couldn't dare to risk losing him.

He sighed before tucking back a lock of your hair that had fallen out of place. “I could never be upset with you,” he answered softly. “Okay, I promise whatever you say, you can take it back. No being upset.” Steve vowed, hand over his heart.

Your smile warmed at the gesture. So simple, and yet so Steve. It made your heart flutter.

“Go ahead, then.” Steve encouraged you, obviously eager to hear.

“I like you,” you admitted, chuckling through the sentence.

Steve nodded along, chuckling too. “I like you too, sweetheart.”

“No,” you shook your head, drawing closer. “I like you, Steve.”

Steve froze, his anticipation from before gone in a flash.

“I—I like you so much it's ridiculous,” you confessed, sighing as you fell back against your sheets. “I think about you all the time... What you're doing, what you're thinking, if you're interested in me too.” Everything was pouring out of you now, a dam that was flooding too quick to patch. “But I'm so scared you'll hate me if I tell you. That I'll lose you…” You looked back at Steve, his mouth open but still. “I would rather die without telling you than live a life without you in it, Steve.”

Steve didn't move for a solid thirty seconds. The only sign he was even still alive was the delayed blinking of his eyelids, his thoughts practically audible. The silence dragged like quicksand, sinking you deeper and deeper until it becomes easier to accept your fate rather than claw out of the bed you made.

 "Steve—?"

"You should go to sleep." He moved quick, rising from the bed like it was a trap.

"Wait, no. Steve—"

"I'll sleep on the couch," he interrupted. "I'll see you in the morning, yeah? Once you sleep this off?"

Your tongue felt heavy. You wanted to tell him no. That no amount of sleep would keep you from waking up to the thought of his eyes. That he didn't need to leave and abandon you like a problem. It didn't matter if he was in the other room. Mere feet away, his departure would still cut into your heart.

You wanted to scream. To cry. To die in a ditch. But there was no other option than the one he chose for you.

"Okay."

The defeated rejection in your voice gave you deja vu, so familiar you could trace it back to every nightmare that ended this way—with your cards on the table and Steve leaving the game.

"Goodnight, Steve." You felt broken, shattered like the illusion your drunken state had fooled you into trusting. There was nothing in this world that felt as sacred as your relationship with Steve, and you had ruined it within a minute. A new record.

Steve paused in the doorway, turning off your lights with hesitant caution. "Goodnight, sweeth—" He cut himself off. "—dreams," he corrected. "Sweet dreams."

Sweetheart. That beautiful name he handed to you one day, knocking your world off balance, the one thing your worst nightmares couldn't take away from you, and he denied you from hearing it again.

All because you finally told him.

For the first time since you had met Steve, in the dark of your room, seconds away from sleep, Steve's voice wasn't singing you to sleep; the shut of your door scoring your thoughts instead.

In the empty space he had just occupied, you whispered to no one.

"I take it back."

The pounding in your head when you woke up wasn't enough to drown out the ache in your heart.

You wished you had forgotten, but within seconds, everything played back like a horror movie you couldn't get out of your head. You remembered everything—the stumbling of your feet, the symphony of Steve's laughter, the eyes that had fell on your lips—

The way Steve froze, the way he stepped back like you had hurt him, the look of betrayal you saw in his face.

You had ruined everything.

And you couldn't take it back.

The walk from your bedroom to the living room was more treacherous than the one you took last night. Each fall of your feet marching to the rhythm of your broken heart. You couldn't blame the knot in your stomach on Steve. This time, it was all on you.

You hesitantly stepped forward until you could see him. Steve was wide awake, seated on the couch. You could see the stiffness in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders. He looked anything but comfortable, silently waiting for something you knew you couldn't give him.

When he finally caught sight of you, everything between the two of you stopped again. But this time the space wasn't watching the tension unfold—it was glaring.

"You're awake." Steve's voice gave nothing away. You recognized the softness in it—the gentle tone you associated with Steve—but you recognized it was a disguise.

You nodded, standing as still as a statue.

"Sleep well?"

You didn't know whether or not to lie. You had already destroyed the way he thought of you by being honest last night.

"No," you admitted, quietly enough it could be mistaken for a breath.

Steve only nodded back, looking down at his hands. "Yeah, me neither."

Everything was burning like a forest fire. Your heart, your body, your eyes—it was all torching before you could say you didn't mean to light the match.

"I'm sorry," you whispered.

You watched as Steve sighed before facing you again. "Come here," he patted the cushion beside him.

You tentatively came to his side, unable to resist his call. Steve watched you as you moved closer, his eyes never once leaving you as you joined him on the couch. But you couldn't return his gaze—your eyes solely focused on the floor.

“Take these,” Steve handed you the pills that he had left on the table, along with a glass of water. “They'll help with the hangover.” Steve muttered.

As you drank, you wished that he was crueler— that he hadn't been kind enough to make you fall in love with him. That he hadn't let you. It wasn't fair—to make someone fall in love with you if it does nothing more than hurt. 

"Will you look at me?" Steve's voice broke you out of your prayer.

You cursed inside your head. If only you were strong enough to resist the flute that continuously charmed you into dancing.

You turned to face him, bruised and defeated. Steve's face crumbled into something sadder, something broken. He sighed under his breath, turning away from you now.

"Are you mad at me?" You finally asked, breaking your vow of silence. Steve immediately denied it, shaking his head.

"No, never. I told you that last night." You bowed your head, falling silent again. This was worse than anger; this was brutal disappointment—something you never wanted to see from Steve.

"Are you gonna take it back?"

Your head shot up at his question. Steve was looking at you now.

"What?"

"Are you gonna take it back?" Steve repeated. "Last night, you made me promise you could take it back."

The memory was as fresh as a wound and yet his reminder made the pain cut deeper.

"Steve—"

“Why?” he begged. “Why would you make me promise that?”

“Because I didn't want this to happen—”

"What, me to ask you if you meant it?" Steve interrupted again.

You scofffed. As if you could've not meant it with your entire being. "Obviously, I meant it, Steve."

"Then why would you want to take it back?"

You shut your eyes, hanging your head. You couldn't tell if your head hurt more from the hangover or the confrontation. This was the last thing you ever wanted. "Well, you're clearly not taking the news well," you pointed out.

Steve went silent. You opened your eyes again to see him looking at you with something that resembled betrayal too much for your comfort. No hangover could numb the shame that pooled behind your eyes.

"I'm leaving, then." Steve shot up from the couch—as if he had just heard his exit line.

"Wait, Steve. No," you took hold of his forearm before he could abandon you again. You didn't want to be a part of this play. You were tired of playing the fool—the pathetic side character who watched him from afar. "Please, don't leave."

The strain in your voice that only came from the shame of crying caught Steve's attention. You watched as he fought a silent battle with himself, warring between you and himself.

"I'm sorry, okay? Please, Steve—" Tears broke free from your eyes like prisoners escaping their cells. "I can't lose you. Please."

The blinding blur in your eyes combined with the steel poker in your head kept you from noticing Steve's arms forming around you, holding you close to his chest as you sobbed out broken apologies.

"I'm sorry. I'll take it back, I promise—"

Steve shushed you gently, kinder than anyone trying to break your heart should be. "It's okay, just breathe."

You couldn't stop crumbling in front of him. You had taken a wrecking ball to everything that made you feel alive. How else were you supposed to feel?

Steve ran his fingers through his hair, still attempting to soothe you. "Please, sweetheart. You're breaking my heart."

"I'm sorry—"

"Stop apologizing," he whispered desperately. "I don't want you to be sorry."

You tried to focus on Steve's heartbeat below your ear, a rhythm that was slowly getting stuck in your head.

"I just want to know why..." he confessed.

You pulled back to face him, wiping your face with the cuff of your sleeve. Steve took over for you, gently wiping away your tears. "Please?" He whispered.

The pleading in his eyes melted every wall you had so carefully built around your heart. You knew you couldn't lose him, but you also knew you couldn't lie to him.

"Is it that you're scared of me?"

His question fired at your heart. "No," you shook your head. "Not you."

Steve tilted his head. He wiped your cheek again, breaking your silence. "But you are scared?"

You exhaled before you reached out for Steve's wrist. If you were gonna do this, you were gonna feel his pulse under your skin—just to prove he was there.

"…I think about you all the time." You finally confessed. Hungover, teary-eyed, and a mess, but you didn't care. "And I want you... So much that it scares me, 'cause I know I won't be able to handle you telling me you don't want me back—"

Steve tilted your head to look at you, halting your train of thought. "What makes you think I would say that?"

You wished you could've answered him, but you were still, lips parted and clueless. "Be—Because we're supposed to be just friends."

"When have I ever looked at you like we're just friends?"

To say you were speechless would be insulting. You weren't yourself anymore. You had changed entirely in a matter of seconds.

Steve just stared at you, as if he expected you to answer any question after flipping your world upside down—some kind of alternate universe where you weren't you and Steve wasn't Steve.

"L—Last night?" You offered hesitantly, trying your best to come up with something, anything for him.

Steve smiled at you, laughing under his breath. "Sweetheart, you were drunk," he pointed out. "I can't make a move on you when you can barely stand up on your own."

You blinked, rendered completely still. Steve smirked at your silence.

"If you wanted me so badly, you could've just said so, you know." The smugness in his voice made your heart ache.

He was teasing you now. Asshole.

"Steve, it's not funny."

"I'm not trying to be funny." His smirk was gone, replaced by long, pleading eyes that asked you for the world. "I—I don't know how else I can tell you I want you."

"Then why were you trying to leave?" You finally asked.

Steve sighed. Scanning the planes of your face with a reverent smile—soft in its curve—he tucked your hair back, handling it like it was precious. Like you were precious.

"I couldn't handle you taking it back," he confessed, "I couldn't accept a confession that you were too scared to commit to."

You were sure the heartbreak Steve had faced because of Nancy Wheeler was resurfacing.

"I don't want you to be scared when it comes to wanting me," Steve whispered, drawing an intimate moment between the two of you. "...And maybe I just wanted to hear you say that you liked me when you weren't drunk off your ass."

Your subsequent laugh brightened Steve's demeanor like sunshine after a storm, casting a beautiful rainbow that lived in his smile.

Your cheeks felt tight as you grinned, ducking your head. "I like you, Steve."

Steve mirrored your expression, beaming like a dog wagging its tail. "Yeah? You like me?" You caught his smug King Steve persona coming back into play.

You rolled your eyes as he began to smirk. You shoved his shoulder. "Don't make me take it back."

Steve chuckled. "Wouldn't dream of it, baby."

You felt your heart soar in your chest, completely overshadowing your headache.

A squeal escaped you as Steve suddenly picked you up like he had last night, cradling you in his arms.

"Steve! Put me down!"

Steve shook his head, smiling as he walked. "Nope. You and I are going to spend the rest of the day in bed while you get over your hangover."

You tilted your head as he entered your room. "Oh, are we now?"

"Yep, we are" Steve declared, setting you down on your bed with a dizzying delicacy. He stood upright. "I'm gonna go find some clothes to change into."

You tilted your head, brows furrowing in confusion. "Why? Is there a dress code I didn't know about?" You teased, making Steve roll his eyes playfully.

"No," he shook his head at you, scrunching his nose, "I didn't want to get into your bed with outside clothes on."

Your heart warmed. He really was the most thoughtful man you could ever ask for. You caught his wrist before he could leave, eyes hooded as you looked up at him.

"You don't have to get changed to do that..." Steve's breath caught at the low tone of your voice, intention clear.

"Sweetheart, I—"

"Please?" You whispered, almost pouting. You may not have been able to call Steve yours before, but that didn't mean you didn't fantasize about him night and day—enough to know just how to get your way with him.

The tension in his shoulders melted away as he caved. "Fine, but just my shirt and pants, okay?" You beamed up at him, nodding eagerly.

Steve shrugged off his clothes, unable to contain his smile as you watched him excitedly. Facing you with that pretty smile you saw in everything, he joined you under the covers carefully. He wrapped his arms around you, holding you as close as two people could ever get.

You had been through a lot in your life. Heartbreak, love, loss—but nothing could have ever prepared you for the feeling of Steve Harrington's skin on yours. If your heart wasn't already racing at the speed of light, you might've died on the spot. The warmth he emitted blazed into you—a fire only he could ignite.

The moment felt like a dream. You could have been easily convinced you died of rejection last night and were transitioning into a painful death, being shown the life you lost. But the pain in your skull was enough to assure you of your consciousness. This was real, just like last night at the bar, the universe had finally acted in your favor, granting you the life you begged for where Steve Harrington was yours, to want, to need, to love.

You couldn't be happier next to him—staring at him like he hung the stars you wished upon for this very moment.

"I love you," you blurted out to Steve, catching the both of you off guard.

But Steve didn't freeze like last night. Not even a second passed before his face broke out into the most lovestruck smile—one you had never seen directed in your direction.

"I love you, too," Steve confessed, without an ounce of hesitation. He leaned closer, nudging your nose with his. "Always have, always will."

Your eyes widened before you found your eyebrows furrowing on instinct.

"Really—?"

Steve wasted no time bringing his lips to yours, capturing all of the insecurity that lived on your tongue. His kiss robbed you of your breath, as if he would rather you stop breathing than live in a world where you doubted his love for you.

You attempted to chase his lips as he pulled away to meet your eyes.

"I promise."

And for once in your life, with your lips returning to their rightful home, you believed someone wanted you to love them.

And you weren't going to take it back now.

masterlist

Come hell or high water, if Gator Tillman wanted something, he would get it. More often than not, Gator found that his iron-like willpower was reserved for making his father happy—or at least trying to.

He didn't think he worked for anything more than making his father proud of him. Whether Roy had told him to or not, Gator did anything to please him—planting evidence, tracking down Dot, hell, even going after Ole Munch? Gator did it without question.

With all of his determination, he didn't have room for fear—for hesitation. Why would he? It wasn't like he had anything to lose. After all, he was the law—untouchable, invincible.

But being the law couldn't save him this time.

Truth be told, Gator was convinced losing his sight was worse than dying.

He would be able to handle dying. Maybe he would die a martyr and finally earn his father's approval. Even if he died foolishly, he would still be dead. He wouldn't have to live with the guilt, the shame of dying as he lived. Nothing more than a disappointment.

As far as Gator was concerned, dying would be a mercy.

But Gator didn't like thinking about what would happen next. Not spiritually. Not with his soul, or whatever—truth be told, he didn't believe in the afterlife. Heaven, hell, it was all bullshit to him. He had lived in purgatory long enough to know the only fate for him was the one where he would never wake up.

No, Gator was worried about more than where his soul would end up. He was worried about what they would do with his corpse.

Gator already knew he wouldn't be buried with his family. His name would ruin the perfect image casted generations ago—matching headstones all marked with Roy Tillman. Even in his death, Gator would be a burden. Something to be ashamed of rather than cherished.

That was all he knew—how to be a failure.

Even before the incident, Roy's words used to cycle through Gator's mind constantly, punishing Gator for daring to breathe—to live, to be his son in the first place. Despite the torture, Gator remained strong, refusing to let the pain get to him.

As he grew up, Gator learned to think of his heart as a soldier. A soldier needs armour. Protection. Without protection, you allow vulnerability, and a war isn't won with vulnerability.

So Gator lived his life with a bulletproof vest—one he had spent a lifetime weaving into perfection. It was the one thing he hadn't messed up, and Gator would have rather died than allow anyone to see it. He would be damned if he let someone ruin it for him.

If he kept it to himself, no one could scoff in his face and test it out, firing until they found the weak spot.

There were days Gator couldn't handle the weight of the bullets. He was tired of the battlefield, of standing on the frontlines, of this war he was born into—a war of shame and blood that he couldn't wash off for it lived under his skin.

But there was no other option than to live.

It wasn't until he had lost everything that his vest failed. Blind, tortured, and broken down to nothing, his father delivered the fatal blow.

“If there was any use for you, it's gone now.”

Gator could still remember that moment down to the taste of his tears—rare and broken. Discarded on the ground—blind, hopeless, and abandoned by his father—he realized that sight must be the first thing you lose when you die.

When the bullet sinks too far. When you can taste the blood travelling from your gut up to your mouth, iron lingering in between your teeth.

But like everything else, death didn't want Gator. Instead, he was given a life sentence—the punishment the darkness.

Gator didn't know what monster he was in his past life, but if he didn't know any better, he was sure God had taken it out on him in this one—for Gator didn't believe in a devil so cruel.

Now, all he had was his father's voice in his ear.

“If there was any use for you, it's gone now.”

As much as the words killed him—stabbing him in the lung—the twist of the knife was the horror that kept him up at night.

Roy was right.

He was utterly useless now. More incompetent than his father ever claimed he was before. Anything he ever had before was gone—his heart purple now. Injured in the line of duty and sent home to rot.

Gator would never have anything ever again.

And you were proof.

Gator didn't know what torture truly was until he met you. It had been almost two months of knowing you and Gator still wasn't sure how he was breathing.

It was the second of November when he had his first brush with an angel.

He had heard rummaging sounds from his front lawn, catching his attention as he collected the mail from his entryway. It had taken him—well, his parole officer—forever to find a house that met Gator's needs. He had only been there for five months, half of which he spent trying to adjust to his surroundings. Blind and bitter, he stayed inside, resigning himself to a life of isolation. It was better for everyone.

He listened in on the sound from the other side of the door, trying to decipher whether or not it was an animal, or even worse—a person. It wasn't until he had heard a whispered "Goddamn it" that he sprang into action.

Gator rushed to unlock his door, hurtling the door open with all his strength. "The fuck are y'doin' on my lawn!" His shout echoed across the lawn. Damn, he had forgotten how loud he could be—especially in the open, nauseous air. Was it just him, or did something smell?

The gasp that followed quickly refreshed his memory as to why he never went outside. He hated people seeing him, even with his sunglasses, he still felt like a freak show. He heard the same voice from before stutter. "Sorry! Shit, I didn't realize anyone was home—"

"Someone's home. Get off my lawn."

"Sorry, I was just trying to clean up the mess—" Gator's brows furrowed. The mess?

"Fuck y'talkin' 'bout?"

Your voice struggled again. "The—the eggs?"

Gator promptly came to realize what had been invading his senses. "Eggs?" He questioned, covering his nose as he came to recognize the odor.

"Yeah, and the toilet paper? They've been here since Halloween," you answered.

Gator felt anger wash over him before a tsunami of embarrassment took over.

"I'm sorry. I know I should've knocked, but I didn't see a car, so I assumed you were out of town—I'm sorry. It's just I have a thing with smells, and it's been giving me a headache—I didn't mean to overstep or anything…"

Gator couldn't tell if it was out of guilt, annoyance, or some sort of siren song he was trying to avoid that caused him to stop you.

"Stop. Just—stop," he sighed. You immediately went quiet. The silence lingered like static—dragging on until you can't discern whether or not it's getting louder or you're starting to go insane. "How bad is it?" Gator asked.

He could practically hear your following wince. "It's not… good."

Gator groaned, rolling his head. "For fuck's sake—"

"Listen, with the two of us working together, I'm sure we can get it done a lot faster."

Gator scowled. "Two of us? The fuck y'think I need you for?" He spat. Somewhere deep in Gator, he knew he was being unfair—that he was lashing out. You didn't deserve his anger over offering to help.

"I—I don't—" you fumbled for an answer before Gator picked up on you swallowing, as if you were pulling yourself together. "You're right, I'm sorry. I'll go."

The dejected tone in your voice made something in Gator falter. He could practically hear his court-ordered shrink in his head.

"Shutting people out won't prevent the criticism you're scared of."

Scared. The word had lingered where Gator kept his anger, the new vest around his heart—fragile and weak—rippling from the shot.

Gator Tillman was not scared.

He felt the vest absorb the bullet, warping around his soldier.

"Wait," he sighed. "You don't need to go. Just—give me a second." Gator begrudgingly threw his mail in the basket by his shoerack, smoothly swung a nearby baseball cap on his head, and unhooked his cane. He rolled the tip on the ground beneath him, checking for the metal threshold.

Gator felt the static grow louder in his ears as he guided himself down to the grassy lawn. You hadn't said a word since he grabbed his cane.

"What?" He barked, already irritated. His back straightened, his shoulders squaring up, ready to intimidate. Gator Tillman was not scared. Gator Tillman was n—

"You sure you don't wanna put on shoes?"

Gator froze.

What?

No pity? No comment on his cane? Not even a hesitant stutter? He wasn't prepared for someone to be blind to his faults. It felt like his heart had stopped, struggling to adapt to a new atmosphere—one where he wasn't criticized for living.

"I hardly think it's comfortable," you continued, filling in the silence.

Gator cleared his throat, trying to unclog his airways so he could fucking breathe.

"It, er—I… It helps me feel the terrain better." His voice had lost all of its bite. Pathetic. You had him bowing down to you in seconds.

You clicked your tongue, most likely nodding at the explanation. "Fair enough." You replied.

Gator didn't know what to say. Now that he thought about it, he might've been better prepared for social interactions had he not isolated himself for months. You went quiet. He couldn't tell if you expected to reply or not—

"Well, I don't know how we're gonna do this anymore," you sighed. His brows furrowed.

"What d'ya mean?"

He picked up on a second worth of hesitation before you answered. "Well, frankly, I'm not sure how you can help clean up something you can't see." Your response caught Gator off guard. Not because it was mean or cruel—no, he would've expected that, anyway. But it wasn't laced with pity, either. You didn't say it like you were walking on eggshells.

It was… casual. Like you were just saying what you thought instead of carefully arranging your words. It felt refreshing and overwhelming—like the first breath you take after almost drowning.

"I—I can still feel just fine." Gator's throat burned. The words scratched on their way out, clawing against his throat the same way his lies used to. "Y'said there was toilet paper, yeah? I use m'cane to find the toilet paper, you clean up the eggs, done."

"Really, huh?" Your tone sounded lighter. "And how do I know you're not just putting me on egg duty 'cause you don't want to do it?" You teased.

Gator's smile broke across his face like it was a new expression for him, his heart warming despite the chilled air.

"Think that lowly of me already, huh?" Gator teased back. He could feel something inside of him opening, loosening.

"How about we just see how good you are with your cane, hmm?"

"And then?" He inquired, stepping closer to you with a smirk. He didn't even care about your choice of words. If you were anyone else, he probably would've cursed at you for saying "we". But with your warmth radiating so strong he could feel his cheeks flush—he found he didn't have it in himself to care.

"We'll go from there…" you answered. The smile Gator could hear in your voice made his heart feel like it was beating to the rhythm of a song instead of a fistfight for the first time in his life.

"You got it, sweetheart."

"Hold your hand out," you told him. Gator's brow raised curiously at your demand. Nevertheless, he extended his palm outwards for you.

Warm fingers met his hand. A match—gentle and giving—landing in a pool of gasoline—violent and taking. You rotated his hand vertically, shaking it once you did as you introduced yourself. The sound of your name felt like a prayer.

Gator fumbled for words—the touch of your hand rewiring his brain. "Um, Gator." He waited for the teasing, the questioning—it was as familiar for him as his name was to damnation.

"Nice to officially meet you, Gator."

His grip on your hand loosened from surprise before tightening, as if he could hold on to how you treated him.

"You too, neighbor." Gator only pulled his hand back when he realized every second of contact was counting down on a time bomb—rigged to explode like everything in his life before. "Let's get to work, then."

With a lot of trial and error, both you and Gator had finally found a rhythm. Gator had struggled for longer than he'd ever admit, but he couldn't lie to himself—his determination to impress you had overridden his insecurity, allowing him to slowly find a technique to his work great enough to have him finish before you.

Gator raked his cane through the lawn one last time for good measure before directing his attention to his front door where he could hear you muttering to yourself.

"Think 'm all done, sweetheart." He called, complacent in his victory.

Your reply came out too low for him to pick up—muttered under your breath as if you didn't want him to hear you.

With no response, he carefully guided himself to his porch. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Good job," you spat at him.

"'M pretty sure most folks'd say it's wrong to lie to a blind man, sweetheart." He heard a sigh fall from your lips. He had heard enough sighs of annoyance or impatience to last him a lifetime—yours wasn't one. "…Have a feeling you're not angry 'cause of me."

"I'm just—I'm just having trouble getting it all off," you admitted. "Fuckin' idiot punks got you good."

Gator almost smirked at your unexpected colorful language. Maybe it was his childhood, or his own propensity for swearing, but you swearing made him feel closer to you—as if he had known you longer than the last forty-five minutes.

You huffed. "It's fine. I'll figure it out—"

"Put me to work."

You paused. "What?"

"I finished my part," he started, pulling closer to you. "J's tell me what you wan'me t'do, and I'll do it."

You didn't respond for a while before he heard a light chuckle.

"Alright then, neighbor," you replied. "You have a mop?"

Gator bowed his head, scratching the back of his neck. "…Kinda," he mumbled.

"Kinda?" You echoed.

He huffed through his nose. "I got a roomba."

"…They make mops?"

"Yea, they, um—have mop attachment things you can put on the bottom…" He explained awkwardly shuffling his feet.

"Really?" He nodded in response. "Huh," you thought out loud.

You were silent for another moment, most likely thinking of a solution. "I got it," you perked up. Gator could hear the pride you were trying not to reveal. He knew that sound like the back of his hand.

"Let's hear it," he encouraged—something he always wanted from someone.

"Go get two towels."

He nodded, bowing the tip of his hat. "Yes, ma'am."

"You're gonna need a bucket of water with soap in it!" You called after him as he walked through the doorway. He gave you a swift thumbs up, making his way to his bathroom.

He came back to your voice greeting him. "Perfect, thank you." Gator couldn't help it, he beamed like a kid on Christmas—receiving the one gift he was too scared to put on his list. Your hand brushed his as you took the bucket from him, setting it down on the ground.

"The towels?" You asked. He grabbed them off his shoulder, holding it out for you. He stood there in the silence, trying to listen for any sign as to what you were doing—only the vague sounds of fabric whooshing to clue him in.

"Alright, now…" you trailed off. "I need your cane."

His eyebrows furrowed. "My cane?"

"Just trust me."

Gator hesitated before tentatively extending it towards you, his shoulders tense with anxiety as you carefully took it from him.

It's not like he even needed it. He wasn't helpless. He could get around just fine on his own. He never wanted a stupid fucking cane, anyway. If anything, he thought it slowed him down. But his heart raced at the idea of you doing something to it. What if you ran away with it? What if you tried to snap it in half? What if you were about to make fun of him for using one in the first place—

"Here you go."

Gator snapped back to reality at the return of your voice. He reached out, scanning the space for his cane until he found your hand, patiently holding it out for him to take. As he held it in his hand again, he noticed the unfamiliar weight, seemingly coming from the bottom.

"Makeshift mop." You said, answering his question before he could even form it on his tongue. He brought his other hand to the end of the cane, noting the bundle of soft fabric.

"How did you…" he trailed off in amazement.

"I balled up one towel, wrapped the other one around it from the center, pulled up the edges, around the end of your cane, dropped a hair tie from the top and used it to tie the edges—" Your explanation left Gator speechless. It was so simple, and yet he felt like he had never heard anything more brilliant.

"—Now you can use your cane to clean the walls, you know? Like you do on the ground, just… on the walls." There was something so beautiful to Gator about the growing shyness in your voice, as if you were nervous to have a solution.

Gator broke out into a smile. "That's fuckin' genius, sweetheart."

"Really?" You asked, making Gator laugh.

"Y'kiddin'? Y'just made a fuckin' makeshift mop fer me." Gator returned his focus to the bottom of the cane again, admiring your handiwork.

"It was no problem, really…" Gator didn't need his eyes to see the flush on your cheeks.

He laughed again, shaking his head. "Well, c'mon then, sweetheart. Go on n' show me where y'want me." Gator picked up on the sweetest laugh he had ever heard as he picked up the bucket of water, ready to go wherever you wanted him to.

You grabbed his arm gently, helping guide him off his porch. Gator wasn't used to having someone else guide him. He had gotten used to the layout of his house a long time ago. Every corner, every light switch, every cabinet had all been mapped out in Gator's mind. In the outside world—whenever he dared to go—he would use his cane to direct him, warning him of every danger he was walking into.

But giving his trust to you? That felt like walking on water.

"Alright, and now turn…" you directed him, delicately spinning him around. "Okay, you'll start with the garage door and the driveway," you told him. "You're facing the middle of the garage right now." Gator couldn't tell you how perfect you were. Not only did you treat him like a regular person, you accommodated him. You guided him, saw for him—Jesus, you turned his cane into a mop. You aided him instead of giving up on him, giving him every chance to do it on his own.

"Thanks, sweetheart."

Gator was never one to thank people. He tried to, after the incident—to be kinder than before, to properly show his appreciation. But the more he thanked people, the more he realized no one was letting him do anything on his own. He had become a charity case instead of a human. A good deed instead of a person.

Eventually, Gator went back to being unappreciative—to not having room in his heart for others. All he had was anger. Fury that masked his misery. It was the easiest version of him he knew how to be.

But you? Something about you made him want to be someone convoluted—someone that would take effort to be. To put his corpse and his last name behind him and dwell on whether or not his soul was headed to the same place yours was. If he deserved a fate like yours.

You patted his arm, letting him know you were still there. "Have fun. I'll just be a few feet from your right cleaning your porch, okay?" Gator smiled as you once again gave him directions.

Your hand fell from his arm. "Try not to finish before me, yeah?" You called from his right. "Or I might just have to leave all the cleaning to you."

Gator chuckled. "Not my fault y'made me a super cane," he teased, hoping to elicit more laughter out of you—more sounds he could store somewhere when it came to you.

You laughed back, filling Gator's heart with warmth. "Don't make me take it back."

Gator smirked again.

"Wouldn't dream of it, sweetheart."

Time flew between the two of you as you both cleaned. Every now and then, Gator would ask you if he had missed a spot, and every time, you had said no, occasionally teasing him.

"You still have to ask?" You had replied after the fourth time, making Gator smile.

"C'mon, darlin'. Humor me."

Gator listened to your nearing footsteps, facing the approaching sound. "So?" He teased. "I pass?"

You tsked your teeth, most likely shaking your head. "I'm afraid not, Gator."

He tilted his head, a coy smile on his face. "Really? Whyever not?" Gator never liked being laughed at in the past, but the beautiful sound that spurred from your lips made Gator want to be responsible for that sound for the rest of his life.

"Seems you missed a spot," you answered. "At the top." Gator turned his head towards the top of the garage door. He extended his cane upwards, reaching the top. "No, a little to the left," you pointed.

Gator followed your direction. "Like this?"

"No, hold on." You joined his side, placing your hand atop his. You maneuvered him, steering him towards the spot he had missed. Gator smirked smugly as your touch electrified him. It seemed your touch was worth Gator being incompetent for once.

"There you go," you validated, letting go of his hand. "Looks like you're all done then."

"Yeah? How'd I do?" He tilted his head innocently, unable to contain his grin.

You chuckled. "No notes. A plus."

Gator beamed in your direction. "Never been a model student before."

"Must have had a great teacher, then."

"Oh, I did." Gator flattered, stepping closer. "Fuckin' genius one if you ask me."

You giggled. "Careful there, handsome. You're gonna get yourself into trouble."

"Oh, I don't doubt it, sweetheart." Gator smirked, leaning closer to your warmth.

Gator picked up on what sounded like you running your fingers through your hair. "So…" you started, "We're finished cleaning now."

"That right?"

You hummed. "Looks as good as new."

Gator nodded solemnly. "Lead me back to the door?" Gator held his hand out for you.

"Of course," you said softly—a lullaby that could soothe him to sleep—as you took his hand.

Gator felt bitterness rising in his chest. He didn't want to stop being with you, yet. How was he supposed to part ways with the one good thing he had ever known? It was when you had led him to his door—his hand on the doorknob—that Gator realized something.

He didn't want to be alone.

But Gator knew there was no other life for him.

He would be destined to a life of solitude—too infuriated with the world to allow himself a chance for happiness—

"Hey," you called before he could shut the door.

"Yeah?" Gator held the door open, unwilling to let you go so soon.

You paused. "Maybe… Maybe I could see you again sometime? When we're not both drowning in eggs and toilet paper?" You chuckled.

Gator went as still as a statue.

"You.. Y'want to see me again?" You must have nodded—a silence lingering before your audible confirmation. "Why?" As much as he wanted to beg for your company, he couldn't find one reason why you should say yes—let alone, want his as well.

"I enjoyed cleaning with you, today." There was a smile in your voice that Gator felt like he had to get rid of—self-sabotage ingrained in his bones.

"Y'enjoyed cleanin' up rotten eggs n toilet paper?"

"Okay, I think you're actively ignoring the with you part," you pointed out, still smiling. Gator couldn't keep back the corners of his lips from lifting at your quip.

"…So?" you asked. "What do you think?"

Every instinct in Gator was telling him to run—that this was a bad idea, that you were a bad idea. For all he knew, you could just be waiting to humiliate him, or worse—pitying him.

"I think you're an idiot, teach."

To Gator's chagrin, you didn't fall for his attempt to push you away.

"And here I thought I was a genius?" You argued back, catching onto him.

Gator didn't respond. He didn't know how to. All his life he had wanted more, and now that he had finally accepted he would never anything ever again, here you were to throw him off. Gator was afraid of losing what he just found.

Gator Tillman was not a coward, but he was a coward for you.

You must have taken his silence for an answer. "That's okay. Maybe I'll see you around, yeah? Who knows? Those punks might come back for more." You sounded awkward, unsure. Gator hated it.

"It was nice meeting you, Gator." Your solemn tone was fading into the distance, leaving him to rot like everything else—

"Wait." Gator stopped you. It was now or never. "I want to see you again, too." With nothing to see, Gator only had the drumming in his ears—pulsing at the speed of darkness, ringing in his ears like a warning bell, signaling the oncoming train—

"Be ready at noon tomorrow."

masterlist

It didn’t take long for Gator’s senses to eventually catch up to him. Honestly, Gator would’ve found it impressive how effective you were in the field if it wasn’t his heart you were fighting upon. It was only four minutes before noon the next day, as Gator drilled a hole into his couch, that he finally realized how asinine he looked. 

There he was, just some lonely, miserable idiot—thinking he even had a chance with you. Why would he? There was no reason for you to come back. He looked like a sad puppy who was kicked to the curb, desperately awaiting someone who would love him—someone who didn’t have a reason to hate him yet. Gator could feel the familiar presence of his father in front of him, enjoyably berating him.

“You really think that bitch likes you? Don’t know shit about her and you’re already waiting for her like some pussy-whipped pup. No wonder you ended up like this. Broken, alone, worthless. It’s all you are, son—all you’ll ever be. You’re lucky if she even remembers your name, let alone cares about you.”

Gator’s hands began to shake as the tick of his watch echoed in the silent room.

11:57 A.M.

“All these years and you haven’t learned nothing about women. Whores like that don’t want nothing more than to use you, hurt you, and leave you to rot. If you don’t remember anything in that lousy head of yours, remember that.”

No. No, Roy was an asshole. Nothing more than a liar, a fraud, and a piece of shit. His word didn’t mean anything. His word didn’t mean shit to Gator. 

Then how come no one else stayed?

Roy’s voice was long gone. Not in his head, not in his life, and certainly not in front of him. There was nothing else but the silence and the ticking of his watch. Once again, Gator was alone. Abandoned and hopeless. 

11:58 A.M.

The more he thought it over, the more sense it made.

Gator didn’t know you.

He had no way of knowing if you were even coming back today. For all he knew, you could’ve been the one who pranked him in the first place. 

No. That didn’t make sense. Why would you have cleaned up your own prank? Gator may not have been an expert on guilt, but he was sure it wasn’t that stupid. Maybe it was all a setup. Some ruse to get inside his house and—quite literally—rob him blind. 

11:59 A.M.

It was settled. There was no way in hell you were coming inside his house. The outside world would have to do. Least then he’d have witnesses. Shit. People. Fuck’s sake, Gator would be better equipped for being mugged than dealing with other people right now.

His watch continued to count down, serving as the background music to his thoughts.

Shit, what if you knew about him already? What if you knew all about his past and were here to collect a bounty? Surely you would have already killed him by then, right? Unless you were in it for the long game. Less worried about the kill and more worried about—

A knock on his front door synced up perfectly with the alarm on his phone. 

12:00 P.M.

It was time. 

Looked like he should’ve spent more time writing his will and less time trying to figure out what he was gonna wear.

Gator got up from his couch like his executioner awaited him on his porch step. Eh, at least he wouldn’t die completely alone. That was worth something. Gator inhaled a sharp breath before unlatching his deadbolt, facing his doom head-on—

“Hey!”

The first thing Gator noticed was the scent of flowers—foreign to him, and yet overwhelmingly nostalgic. Reminiscent of his childhood—of getting caught playing in the dirt of his mother’s garden. Gator couldn't decipher if the fragrance was new or if the absence of eggs and soapy water revealed your usual aroma—

“Um, Gator?” Fuck, he never responded. Five seconds in and he was already fucking this up. Go figure. “...Are you alri—”

“—Y’smell good.”

Really?! That?! That was what he chose to go with? Great, now you were gonna think he was some kind of pervert who sniffed girls' hair like some kind of deranged freak—

“Oh, thanks!” You replied, further perplexing Gator. You didn't… sound freaked out. Weird. Maybe you didn't know how else to respond to him—afraid he would hurt you if you said the wrong thing. 

Gator couldn't help but spiral over whether or not you found him dangerous.

“—It's my favorite perfume, actually,” you continued. “I don't wear it too often—that's why you wouldn't have smelled it on me yesterday—but, well, I thought it'd be a better scent for you to associate with me than salmonella, right?”

The corners of Gator’s lips perked up. “Yeah, I—” Gator swallowed. “I like it.”

An awkward silence lingered between the two of you. Gator used to be better with women. You know, back when he could fucking see. But this was something else. Something more delicate. 

Before, he didn’t have to worry about being too rough—too hard. It didn’t matter. He would get his way in the end. Of course, he couldn’t rely on brute force anymore—on a reputation. Now, it would just work against him, invoking fear instead of safety. 

But then again, maybe it was always like that with Gator.

“Y’wanna come in?” Gator invited, completely forgoing his earlier rule.

“I’d love to, thank you.” As you stepped in, Gator found himself struggling to understand why you were so fucking kind—why you spoke with such a heartwarming smile. The deep, shallow part of Gator wanted to hate you for it. For being so clean with someone so tarnished. It didn’t seem fair.

Your footsteps padded across Gator’s wooden floorboards, faint in their journey. Gator closed the front door, internally debating whether or not to turn the lock. 

His instincts told him to. To seal himself off from the rest of the world, from the rest of the danger. Protect you from everything that could hurt you like it hurt him. But the other part of him—the fragile boy that hid past the Kevlar—didn’t want to scare you. 

“I like the place,” you called, notably farther into the room. “You been here long?”

Gator removed himself from the door, walking closer to the sound of your voice. Gator scoffed, “It that obvious?” His place was pretty bare. Made it easier to travel through the house.

“Mm, usually you can tell when a place is more lived in than… short-term,” you chimed, your melody singing from his kitchen.

“And?” Gator probed, approaching nearer. “What’s yer conclusion?” Gator figured he was closer to you now—mere feet away on account of your breathing.

“...Either you haven’t been here long,” you dragged out. “Or… you’re not planning on staying.”

Gator couldn’t tell whether or not the disappointment he heard was real or wishful thinking. Had to be the latter. Why would you be saddened by his absence? It wasn’t like anyone was before—even when he was useful.

“So?” You questioned. “Which is it?”

Gator took a step closer. “Neither,” he answered. “Mean ‘ve only been here for a few months now, but… ain’t point in decoratin’ when y’can’t- see shit.” Gator cleared his throat. He was being too honest, being too vulnerable.

“Don’t matter, anyway.” He scowled. “I ain’t leavin’ anytime soon, ‘f that’s what y’wanna know.”

Gator could feel the tension in the room had shifted—that he had crushed something fragile.

“...I have a feeling you’re not angry because of me.” You smiled, breaking the tension.

Gator sighed, a subtle smile quickly spreading across his face.

“Ya thirsty?”

To tell the truth, Gator didn’t know shit when it came to hospitality.

Not like father ever cared to teach him manners, or where to set the diningware—that was the women’s job. All he was told whenever company came over was to wash his hands and keep his trap shut. “Got soda and shit.”

“I’ll have some water, if that’s okay.” 

Gator nodded. “That’s just fine, darlin’.” He tried to regain control—find a way to keep a handle on the situation. 

Gator followed the familiar pathway to his fridge. “What ‘bout you?” He called. “Y’from around here?”

You mirrored his earlier scoff. “That obvious?”

Gator smiled, handing you a bottle of water. ”Y’definitely stand out against all the local assholes ‘round here."

“I take that as high praise.” Gator smiled, listening to you uncap your water bottle. “My grandparents used to live in the house across from you,” you answered. “I inherited it when they passed away four months ago.” 

Gator bowed his head respectfully. “Sorry for yer loss.” He heard you set your bottle down, shuffling closer to him. 

“It’s fine. At least I already knew the area, you know.” Gator could tell you didn’t want to get into it right now, something he could easily respect. 

He nodded. “Well, y’got a good neighbor out of it.”

You laughed softly, “Yeah? The one who gave me a nauseating headache to go along with my Halloween hangover?”

Gator smirked. “The one and only.” 

You laughed under your breath again. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know,” you teased, making Gator’s cheeks warm. He hadn’t been subject to this kind of banter in well over a year, making every second with you feel dangerous to his immune system.

“Cute, huh? Thought yesterday y’said I was handsome?” He stepped closer.

You hummed in response. “Oh, you know, that’s right…” You sighed, “Well, I guess you’re just gonna have to be handsome from now on.” 

Gator couldn’t tell you the last time someone made him smile this much.

“Think I can live with that.” Your following laugh felt like a synonym for home. “Think I can live with a lot, y’know… Long as it’s you.”

With one step closer, Gator found your hand atop his counter. Gator couldn’t help but falter as he felt your warm skin against his own, quickly losing his nerve. 

He was pushing too far, moving too fast. His touch would poison you, draw you away from him until you were choking on his burdens. Or worse—he would sink. He would drown in your love like an ocean, pulling him under before he could catch his breath.

You were dangerous. Not because you wanted to be, but because he made you. How could you ever hold him afloat? Keep him from falling into his death just because you said he could trust you. Everyone he trusted played him for a fool—for an idiot starving for love.

Gator felt his soldier tremble as he retreated from your touch. It’s not that Gator was scared. No, he was just being safe. He was trusting reality instead of you—instead of hope. Gator Tillman was not scared. Gator Till-

Your fingers intertwined with Gator’s before he could fully withdraw. They molded with him seamlessly, drawing him a fraction closer—as if calling him closer. ‘Stay with me.' 

Your other hand trailed up to his forearm. “I think I’d like that.” 

Gator’s heart stuttered. He shifted, placing his other hand near your waist. “Really?” Gator felt pathetic asking—for wanting reassurance, but you interrupted his descent before the water could fill his lungs, gripping his hand tighter.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“—How about Coraline?” You offered, continuing to search through Gator’s Roku account.

“That the one wit the button in the eyes ‘nd the scary stepmother ‘n shit?”

You hummed, “More or less.”

Gator kissed his teeth. He remembered the girls putting on that movie once. Not only did it scare the shit out of him—it felt too close to home.

A kid discovering horrifying secrets in their house—ones with bodies and nightmares—unknowingly trapping themself into a world full of danger and darkness, having to escape a cruel and evil parent while the other one remained helpless? 

Yeah. Gator never watched it again.

“Button in the eyes a lil’ too on the nose, dontcha think?” Gator smirked. He found himself amusing. Your silence convinced him otherwise. “‘M just jokin’, sweetheart. We can watch it if y’want—”

“—No, it’s fine. We can find something else to watch.” Gator stayed quiet, listening to your continued clicking of the remote as he tried to ignore the feeling that he had ruined the moment. “Nightmare Before Christmas?”

Okay, this was just a bad idea in the first place.

Gator laughed, strained and false. “Seen it too many times,” he smiled.

It was a lie, complete and utter bullshit—not that he hadn’t watched it too many times. Gator used to love that movie when he was a kid. Something about Jack Skellington being adored and worshipped, separating himself from his reputation and finding out what he liked all on his own, saving the day and getting the girl—Gator wanted all of that.

But there was no way in hell Gator could ever watch that movie again.

That once-harmless movie had stained his subconscious ever since he tried to kidnap Dot. Wearing a stupid mask, Gator had tried to take her life and her family away from her—all in the name of his father. 

After he lost his sight, Dot visited him in jail whenever she could. But Gator’s guilt still festered. Swelling further and further until he would wake up choking on his own screams, no comfort to awake to. His dreams were more vivid than his reality now. More intense, more lifelike, and so much more terrifying.

“There gotta be somethin’ else on, ain’t there?” Gator was sure you were about to give up on him. That you were about to scoff and shrug him off, spend the rest of the time he had with you counting down the minutes until you were done with him—

“Yeah, I’m sure we’ll find something,” you assured him, inching closer to him on the couch. “Don’t worry, we still got plenty of Halloween movies left.” It had been you who insisted on watching something seasonal. ‘Why not?’ you had said.

Gator smiled, once again feeling grateful to have you in his life, even in such a small amount. He tried to shove it down—to be sensible and not get his hopes up—but he had a feeling you wouldn’t be this close to him if you planned on hurting him.

“Oh! What about Corpse Bride?” 

“Corpse what?” Gator laughed, confused as to why you sounded so excited about a dead bride—sounded more tragic to him if anything. 

You gasped. “You’ve never watched it? It’s another Tim Burton movie,” you explained. Gator could hear your smile. “We’re watching it. It’s good, I promise.”

Gator chuckled at how certain you were of this movie. “If you say so, darlin’.” He rested his arm over the back of the couch, leaving enough space for you to get closer if you wanted to. Unfortunately, you stayed on your respective side of the couch, presumably too invested in the movie to take notice of his move. “You seen this movie lot?"

“Only a few times,” you answered. “I just can’t believe you actually have it. I swear, every time I even think about this movie, it’s nowhere to be found. I mean, it’s—” Gator completely stopped listening on account of you making yourself comfortable by curling into his side.

In that moment, Gator briefly considered that he was right—that you were some kind of undercover agent, that you had some ulterior motive here. Because if not? Well, Gator didn’t think it was fair for someone to be that good at rendering someone useless.

Huddled into his side, Gator had lost all rational thought. Everything was gone. The senses that he relied on now were all gone to shit. The odor of his cologne had completely subsided. The texture of the couch had dwindled into atoms. The song from the movie, the audio description’s narrator, even his own breathing? Everything was gone.

Except you. You were all that was left.

Gator had learned what it was like to be left—what it was like to be abandoned. By the time he got close to someone, it didn’t matter how deeply he loved them—how close he felt to them—he knew it was only a matter of time before he was back to square one: betrayed and deserted. 

Gator had spent the last year learning that all he had left was himself. No matter what, at the end of the day, he was going to die as alone as he lived. The only company he had the beat of his heart and the chill of his breath. 

Until you.

In a single blink, you had instantly refuted everything Gator believed. 

He never had himself in the first place. 

Because of you, his breath, his heartbeat—every fiber of him down to the marrow of his bones had forsaken him, too. The pieces of himself that kept him breathing—that told him that he was alive—were never his. They were never meant to last. The fool that he was, Gator had assumed he would at least have one thing to keep him company when he died.

But he didn’t need them anymore.

Gator didn’t need anything else in his life to tell him he was alive than this—than you. You were all the evidence Gator required to know that he was breathing. Everything he had before had been waiting—carrying him upright until he reached his destination. You. His guide in the storm. His deliverer to safety. His savio—

“Gator?”

The call of his name warped him back into reality. “Yeah?”

“Two seconds in and you’re already giving up on me?” You teased, smile audible in your voice. He felt you shake your head. “Thought you had more faith in me.” You settled your head on Gator’s shoulder, attention directing back to the movie. 

Gator smiled, feeling more content than he had ever been in his life. “Trust me, sweetheart,” he muttered, hanging his arm around your shoulders.

“I got every faith in you.”

taglist: @kristywidget97 @dreamerjj @its-a-me-mario-21 @sespe08 @oohgeminii @willyoucry13 @mangowhim

masterlist

It was no surprise that Gator still harbored a deep-seated hatred for social interaction. Even the thought of being amongst strangers was enough to send him back to bed. What could he say? The quiet safety of his own home sounded much better than the monstrous wasteland outside. 

There was nothing more to it. No secret code to crack. No mystery to solve. Gator Tillman liked being alone. Always had, always would.

Unless he was with you.

But that was different—frankly, you didn’t count. You weren’t a part of the danger awaiting him outside his front door. You weren’t affiliated with the mob that was surely tracking him down, or sent by the righteous hand of God to punish him some more.

No, you were the cathedral next door, offering asylum to forsaken sinners like him.

With your help, Gator uncovered sanctuary in the walls of his own home—in the walls of his own mind. You singlehandedly casted away every demon that lived in his head. You washed over his thoughts like holy water, cleansing him of his original sin.

You were Gator’s godsend—the savior he had begged for all his life. 

And he worshipped you every day.

For the first time in his life, he didn’t consider Sunday mornings to be the only time he believed. He no longer found restraint in religion, fear in faith. You didn’t confine him in commandments; you didn’t hold expectations over his head. 

All you asked was that he simply call you each day. It didn’t matter whether it was the first ray in the morning or the last star in the night. You just wanted to hear from him. From what he was doing, to what he was thinking, even to what he dreamed of the night before.

You never pushed him on his past. You didn’t demand details on his backstory. You approached his history like one would a scared animal. You let him come to you, get familiar with your scent before trusting your presence.

Time and time again, Gator convinced himself the next secret he shared would be the final straw—would be the thing that finally pushed you away. But you forgave all of his wrongs. You found the young boy behind all of his sins—the little kid who craved nothing more than love, who was only mean because of his daddy. 

You cherished every new puzzle piece he gave you—as if you were carefully binding every broken shard of him into a resplendent and breathtaking mosaic, one you planned to install on the walls of your heart.  

Gator had never been seen before. Not like this. Not like you did.

That must be why you were able to convince him to crawl out of his cave in the first place. Over a month ago, you managed to invite him over for Thanksgiving. Just you and him. The second you asked, Gator was as good as yours, for he caved immediately—physically incapable of letting you down.

Every instinct he survived on begged him not to go—too terrified of being vulnerable—but the second he knocked? You gave him a tour of your house, holding his elbow as you waded through every corner and hall as if he were there to make it his.

You confessed to having done research when he called you out on showing him where the light switches were—something he never thought about until he was blind. 

“I hope you’re not offended, or anything—I could understand if you were. I just—I thought asking you directly might—I don’t know—piss you off or something? I’m sorry, I just wanted to be prepar—”

“Sweetheart,” Gator interrupted. “Stop stressin’. I appreciate the thought.”

Gator couldn’t begin to tell you how much it actually meant to him that you so visibly cared for him—that you thought about him to begin with. It was more than anyone had before. 

And here you were now—still thinking of him.

Even if you were about to kill him doing it.

Gator’s watch beeped on his wrist, announcing the time.

10:00 P.M.

In sync with his watch, a familiar knock came from his front door. Dressed and ready, Gator unlocked his door, swinging it open with the biggest smile on his face. 

“There she is…”

A squealing set of arms embraced him in no time, invading his senses with that signature perfume that had leaked into his dreams. Another squeal escaped you as you pulled back to admire him. “You look so handsome!!”

He smirked smugly, slowly spinning himself on display for you. 

“Do I now? Gorgeous stylist picked it out fer me.” 

Thanks to you, Gator didn’t have to sweat about his outfit for tonight. The angel that you were, you had raided his closet earlier that week to find a suitable set of clothes to match yours. “Let me feel the dress?”

You sought out Gator's hands and brought them to your waist, letting him touch the sequin dress you were wearing for tonight—black, like his button-up. 

“Like it?” You chimed, no doubt wielding his favorite smile of yours.

“Fuckin’ love it, doll. Bet y’look like a million bucks,” Gator charmed, knowing exactly what to say to make you swoon. 

“Mhmm,” you hummed while Gator's hands trailed to your lower back, shamelessly nearing your ass. “You excited for tonight?”

Gator smiled. He had learned how to hold back his nerves a while ago. “Bet your ass. Can't wait t’show off my favorite girl.” 

That part wasn't a lie. He was fucking thrilled to show you off tonight. To flaunt you around the way someone as beautiful as you deserved. A long time ago, you had done Gator the courtesy of describing everything about yourself, even allowing delicate fingertips to trace your features. Gator carefully filed every detail of you into his memory that day, down to the very shape of your eyes.

Deep down, Gator knew you could've been lying about your appearance. You could've been painting a false picture for him so he wouldn’t be disappointed—so you could be someone you wanted to look like. 

But he didn't care. He wanted any version of you there was. The model, the bad hair day, the sinner, the saint—any iteration of you was celestial to him. 

The issue wasn't you. It was never you. The real reason for the turning of his stomach was none other than himself. 

Gator couldn't help but be mortified about something as simple as a New Year’s Eve party. A new environment filled to the brim with drunken strangers, paired with meeting your friends for the first time? 

Gator wasn't sure you were enough to keep him alive tonight.

But God help him, he wanted you to be. He wanted you to override everything that haunted him—to show him a life where he had nothing to worry about, where it was just the two of you.

You must have noticed Gator growing quiet. “Hey, my friends are going to love you. I promise,” you assured him. 

Gator bowed his head. “Y’dont know that.”

You found his cheek. “Yes, I do.” Your vow went deeper than any white lie Gator had grown accustomed to, cutting down every defense he relied on. 

“Hey…” You picked his chin up. “You trust me, right?”

Gator huffed. He hated when you did that.

 “Yes…” he muttered. 

“And you know I wouldn't hurt you?” You continued, running your hand through his hair—ungelled and loose. You once casually told him that you liked it better like this, when he looked more like himself than a drill sergeant. 

Gator's lips twitched in a sheepish smile. “Yea,” he caved, further thawing with your every word.

“So…” you straightened out his collar for him. “Trust me when I tell you tonight is gonna be just fine.”

Against his every instinct—every carefully developed layer of his shield—he believed you.

And come hell or high water, Gator Tillman would make sure that stayed true.

Ironically, the unlocking of the car clicked like securing handcuffs.

“Ya promise we can still run away if shit goes south, right?” Gator muttered as he followed you out of the backseat, his fingers trembling around his cane. Oh, how badly he wanted to ditch it and bolt out of here. 

You settled your fingers over his other hand, calming him before he could panic. “It's your call, Gator,” you promised. “Just say the word, and we’re gone.”

Gator nodded. He knew you well enough to know you would keep your end of the deal, but he also knew how important this night was to you. He couldn't ruin something so special to you. Not tonight. 

Gator used his cane to lead him up to the front door, your hand beside his the entire time. The music from the party was seeping through the door.

You squeezed his hand one last time. “Y’ready?”

Gator turned your way, presenting you with a gentle smile. “Course.”

“Alright then…” You allowed a brief pause between you before opening the door, freeing the music into the night. Right away, a chorus of cheers welcomed you into the party, screaming your name. Chills ran down Gator’s spine. 

Whenever he walked into a room before, he was met with disappointment, annoyance, or fear. He had never experienced what it was like to be celebrated for showing up—let alone by an entire room of people. 

It didn’t matter if the applause was for you; Gator still felt wanted, even through association.

“Hey!! Oh my god, girl! You look so gorgeous!!!” One of your friends squealed as they hugged you, taking your hand away from his. If Gator wasn't so happy to know you were, he was sure her high pitch could've given him a migraine. 

“Hi! Happy New Year's Eve!” You responded enthusiastically, joining Gator's side again. “This is Gator…” you dragged with a smile.

Gator extended his hand towards the voice. “Nice t’meet ya,” he greeted politely. Gator was determined to be on his best behavior. 

Your friend shook his hand kindly. “Gator,” she greeted back, a knowing tone in her voice. “Great to finally meet you! My name’s Drew.” Gator nodded, recalling what you had told him on the car ride there. 

“Drew’s like popularity in a bottle. I’ve known her since freshman year of high school. She's kinda one of those girls you would expect to backstab you in a high school movie, but she's actually one of the most loyal girls you'll ever meet,” you told him. “Oh, and she's always wearing this really sweet perfume—smells like the color pink.”

Shaking her hand, Gator could attest—she did smell pink. He noted the way her charm bracelet clinked as she shook his hand. “Heard a lot about you,” she chimed, letting go of his hand. 

Gator gave her another polite nod. “All good things, I hope.” 

“Oh, definitely,” she smiled. “Did you two want anything to drink? They have the place stocked.” 

You chuckled along with her as you squeezed Gator’s arm. “Sure, thank you.”

“Course, babe. I’ll see you later on the dance floor, kay?”

“You got it,” you agreed, laughing beautifully.

You led Gator to the kitchen island, running past random greetings the further you travelled through the house. 

“So, babe, huh?” Gator teased.

You laughed easily, releasing his hand to start fixing you both a drink. “Yep, that’s Drew for you.”

Gator smiled. “Long as she’s not tryna take ya away from me,” he teased, resituating his hand on your lower back.

“Oh, yeah. You’ve got a lot of competition, Tillman.” You ribbed back, placing a drink in his hand. You clinked your solo cups together. “To the New Year.”

Gator beamed back at you. “To the New Year.”

You both slammed your empty cups down in victory. “I totally won that, by the way,” you challenged.

“Oh, no fuckin’ way, sweetheart.”

“I’m serious!”

The two of you began to play around with each other until a new female voice called your name from far behind you.

“Sophie, hey!” You cheered as the voice came over to hug you.

“Sophie’s my lifelong friend. She’s pretty much my sister at this point,” you had told him. “She can get a little… enthusiastic when she’s drunk. She doesn’t really have a signature scent I can think of, but her voice is rather distinct.”

“Hi!” She screamed back. “When did you get here?! They played all of the good songs already! I had to do Wanna Be all by myself—”

“—No!” You shouted in utter despair. “Are you kidding?!” Gator had no idea what was going on.

“I know! Come on, you gotta get out here before you miss something else!” Sophie insisted, calling away from Gator now.

“Soph!” You laughed, startled. “Give me a second, okay? I’ll be with you in a minute.”

“Okay! Just don’t take too long, or it’s on you if you miss Freek-A-Leek!” Sophie warned before returning to the dance floor.

“Well, we can’t have that,” Gator muttered, speaking for the first time since she came over. You laughed nervously. 

“Are you okay if I go on the dance floor for a little while?” 

The cruel part of Gator wanted to tell you no—to keep you all to himself. But he was trying to be better. He didn’t want to be a dick when it came to you. It didn’t matter if you were for only him to worship—Gator knew he would hate himself if he took you away from the rest of the world, if he was the reason why your smile was gone.

“Course,” he assured, finding your hand. “Have fun.” He pressed a featherlight kiss to your knuckles.

You responded by pressing a kiss to his cheek as you departed. “You’re the best.”

Gator felt the tips of his ears grow warm. He choked on nothing, his heart racing at lightning speed. The declaration, the kiss. You’d think after everything he survived before he met you, he wouldn’t be scared of someone as sweet as you.

Yeah, no. Gator was sure that at any moment he would find himself on a coroner's table, cause of death: you.

Before Gator knew it, it was ten minutes until midnight. Ten minutes before he left this year behind. Ten minutes before he lived in a year where he wasn’t alone. Ten minu—

“Yooo!! My man!” A loud and charismatic male voice howled in his direction—jubilant in a way that was foreign to Gator. A hand clapped him on the back shortly. “Gator, right? Oh my God, it’s so good to meet you, dude. I’m Alex.”

Alex. Right. 

“Alex is my best friend. He always throws the most insane parties. I can’t wait for you to meet him. Oh, and he’s always wearing like really expensive and unnecessary cologne.”

Gator granted him a tight smile, outstretching his hand. “Gator,” he returned politely. Alex’s hand was hefty—his handshake firm and commanding. Seconds into meeting him, and Gator already couldn’t help but feel intimidated by his strong personality.

Alex laughed heartily. “Man, I cannot begin to tell you how stoked I am to finally meet you.” It was as if Alex were a ball of energy, bursting at the seams with excitement. “Let me tell you—you sir, have been all she’s talked about since fucking Halloween, bro.”

Gator smiled briefly, the apples of his cheeks instantly growing warmer. “So!” Alex clapped. “You enjoying the party?!” Gator offered a curt nod to which Alex scoffed, obviously unconvinced. “C'mon, Gator. Hey, you say the word and I got you.” 

Gator couldn’t help but take notice of how Alex was so unashamedly himself—unafraid of anything. 

Gator envied it. 

“Nah. Thank ya, though.” He shook his head, graciously rejecting the offer—or at least, as graciously as he could. 

Alex sighed, notably disappointed at Gator's reluctance to warm up to him. “Not much of a party guy, huh?”

Gator ruffled a hand through his tousled hair. “Guess not,” he muttered.

Alex patted him on the back again. The force behind it felt scarily familiar, enough to set Gator on alert. He couldn’t begin to count the amount of times he had felt that very same hand.  Fortunately, Gator had spent his life discerning between danger and a warning shot. There was no callousness here, no hazard or caution. 

Gator knew he wasn’t in danger with Alex and his lavish cologne. The only danger was his own mind.

“You know, that’s a shame, man. She loves ‘em.”

Gator perked up with the new information. “...Really?” It wasn’t all that shocking to Gator. You were charming and confident. It wasn’t hard to imagine you would thrive in this environment. 

Gator just liked hearing about you. 

Alex snickered. “Uh, yeah, dude. You should see her right now.” Gator—oddly enough—directed his attention to the dance floor. He could vaguely hear you screaming along to the lyrics of whatever song was playing. “I swear, get her a little tipsy and she thinks she’s Britney Spears.” 

Gator snorted at the thought. God, how he wished he could see you right now. To see your hair swinging back and forth. To see you bursting with your unabashed confidence—the very thing that made him fall for you in the first place.

Fuck, he felt ridiculous with how much he wanted to admire you the way everyone else could. He wanted to worship the ground you walked upon. To degrade himself down to nothing more than your disciple—awaiting your every word as if it could grant him an explanation for all this suffering.

As much as he tried, Gator still couldn’t understand why he had been punished so severely—why he had been barred from bearing witness to the angel he was sent. For fuck’s sake, what God could be that heartless to deliver him such a message?

“I will show you everything, my son. Yet, I will deliver you a piece of heaven that you will never bear witness to.”

“—You are one lucky son of a bitch, you know that, Gator?” Gator could’ve laughed—out of everything he had been called, he had never been thought of as lucky. 

But Gator being Gator, took Alex’s statement as a threat—a burning feeling arriving in his chest. “Whadya mean by that?” He instigated, squaring his shoulders.

“Christ, man—” Alex exhaled in something akin to awe. Gator’s clenched jaw quickly turned into a scowl. Fuck it, if he was blind—that wasn’t gonna stop him fro— 

“—I have never seen her this happy.”

Gator halted, stopping in his tracks like a deer in headlights. 

“I swear to God, man—you are all she talks about. Twenty-four seven it’s Gator this, Gator that.” Alex exhaled through his nose in amusement. “She's so obsessed with you, she’s even got my boyfriend asking about you when I come home, wanting to know if there’s any updates on you two.”

“Oh.” Gator was sprawled across the pavement—those headlights seeing him to his death.

Alex didn’t falter, soldiering on with an unshakable smile. “I’m just saying—for someone who's known her since we were kids… I have never seen her fall this hard.” 

Gator’s heart constricted in his chest. His tongue felt dry, suddenly running empty on a tank he just filled.

“Are you?” Alex directed.

Gator stammered. “Am I…?”

“Falling for her,” Alex filled in. 

Gator swallowed roughly. He ducked his head backwards, facing the ceiling as if some merciful God would give him the right answer. How was he to pour out his shielded heart to a man he considered a stranger until two seconds ago?

Alex registered his hesitation. Setting his drink down on the counter next to Gator, Alex leaned closer, his voice coming out lower. “Listen, I don’t know about you, but that girl dancing out there, she loves like its breathing.” The soft statement reverberated somewhere deep in Gator’s chest. 

A sigh escaped Alex. “Gator… don’t let her fall for you if you’re just gonna let her down,” he added, more sincere and direct than he had sounded all night. “You and I both know she doesn’t deserve that.”

“‘S not that—believe me, I’ve…” Gator exhaled, shaking his head. “Never—in my entire life—have I felt so certain ‘bout anyone before. I can’t—I can’t imagine an honest life without her by my side.”

Gator was never one for confessional. When he was a kid, his father once beat him senseless for confessing to his other that Roy was responsible for the bruise on his wrist. He didn’t mean to—he just wanted to tell God he was sorry for breaking his mother’s glass, even if his father already punished him for it.

That was how Gator learned guilt was dangerous—that confession was suicide. After all, when you were a Tillman, secrets led to cemeteries, whether it was yours or someone else’s.

But the words fell from Gator’s lips before the noose could break his windpipe. “I like her so much it scares the shit outta me.”

Alex let out another sigh from beside him. He followed by leaning his shoulder against Gator’s. “Can I ask you something?”

Gator shrugged. Might as well go for broke. Not like his father could hurt him now.

“Why haven’t you kissed her?” 

Gator straightened immediately. “Hey, girls talk,” Alex instantly defended. Gator could almost see his hands up in the air in surrender—the bastard.

Gator swore under his breath. How much did your friends know about him? 

“...I mean, it’s obviously weighing on her,” Alex continued cautiously. “It’s not like she doesn’t want you to—”

“—I.” Gator hesitated. For shit’s sake, why was it so hard to admit something as trivial as the truth—the real reason for all of his hesitance? 

The confession floated in the air delicately, avoiding every point sharp enough to shatter it.

“I’m scared I’ll miss.”

Alex's voice came in closer, hushed amongst the chaos of the party. “What?”

Gator groaned. “I’m scared that I’ll miss,” he repeated, raising his voice enough to stick. “‘M scared I’ll lean in t’kiss her, an’ end up kissin’ her fuckin’ cheek or somethin’.” He stressed.

“I'm sure it's not as bad as you thin—”

“—Y’ever been blind?” Gator challenged, facing Alex straight on now. “Y’ever been so fuckin’ humiliated just existin’? Havin’ t'walk with a fuckin’ cane just t’get around?”

Gator exhaled roughly. “Ion't need eyes t’know everyone's staring at me like ‘m some fuckin’ circus freak.”

Alex had gone silent, obviously not knowing what to say. Gator knew this was a bad idea. There was a reason why he didn’t tell anyone what he was scared of. Gator Tillman was not scared. Gator Til—

“She doesn't.” 

Alex’s interruption caught Gator's attention. “What are ya talkin’ about?” 

Alex puts a hand on Gator's shoulder. “Listen, I—I know a thing or two about what it's like to be… stared at.” Alex started solemnly. “To feel shamed for something you can't control—for something you can't get rid of. Fuck, man. Just—I know what it's like to have something you didn't expect to come onto you change how people will see you for the rest of your life.”

Gator stayed silent. He could only assume what Alex was referring to.

“But, Gator, she doesn't stare at you… She sees you—she sees past what everyone else does. She did with me, and she does with you, too.” 

Gator freed a breath he didn't know he was holding hostage.

“When she looks at you, Gator, I swear—she shines at you.” Alex's voice was warmer than any man’s Gator had ever heard. “I promise you, man. She doesn’t see a freak—she sees a future.”

Gator’s thoughts stalled. Could it really be possible that you looked at him as anything more than a monster? 

Another tap on his shoulder returned him to the moment. “Speaking of…” Alex mused, his voice a step further away than before.

Gator’s eyebrows furrowed. “What—?” Before he knew it, he recognized a tender brush of fingers on his arm. 

“Hey…” 

It was you. You were back. The faint alcohol on your breath contradicted your soft, concerned whisper. “Are you okay? I thought I heard you getting upset—?”

Gator shook his head, smiling on instinct. “Hey… there y’are.” His hands found your forearms. “I’m okay, sweet. Nothin’ to worry ‘bout.”

Gator imagined a pout on your lips. “You sure?” He nodded, wrapping an arm around you—savoring the closeness.

“‘M all sure, pretty girl…” You pressed closer into his side, warming Gator’s body for reasons that had nothing to do with your body heat. 

“So…” he teased, accent drawling. “Heard y’were havin’ fun on the dance floor?” 

Gator chuckled when your head dipped into his shoulder.

“Shut up,” you muttered into the fabric of his shirt. “You're not supposed to know when I look stupid…”

Gator shook his head, laughing. “What, y’thought bein’ wit a blind guy meant I wouldn't know when yer bein’ cute?” he teased. “Joke's on you, doll. I got eyes everywhere.”

You giggled as he whispered in your ear, making you shiver. “Guess I was mistaken.”

“Sorely,” he affirmed, smirking. You pushed him on the shoulder, making him hold you closer. 

“Countdown’s coming up soon,” you informed him. “Got any resolutions for next year?”

“I got one,” he mumbled, still smiling at you.

“Yeah?” You fished. “What is it?”

He shook his head firmly. “Nope, can't tell ya.” 

You laughed in confusion. “What do you mean you can't tell me?”

He solemnly shook his head again. “Too risky. I tell ya, and it might not come true,” he shrugged—as if his hands were tied. “Sorry, teach. Can't compromise it.”

You huffed. “You know that's not how New Year's resolutions work, right?”

Gator just smiled. 

Someone proceeded to scream from the living room. “Ten seconds, bitches!!” Cheers followed around the room, a giggle falling from your lips.

“Ten seconds…” You repeated lowly. “Better act now, Tillman. Time's running out.”

A sudden feeling of action spurred in Gator’s bones. You were right. Alex was right. Who cared if he missed? He wanted to kiss you at midnight.

“Ten!”

Gator focused in on you. Recalling everything he knew about your features, his hand carefully found your cheek.

“Nine!”

Time stilled between the two of you as he mapped your position, cupping your other cheek as well. You were close. There was no way he could mess this up. All he had to do was lean down. 

“Eight!”

Your fingers morphed around his wrist—gentle as ever. 

“Seven!”

He guided his thumbs to your lips, mapping the corners like a cartographer.

“Six!”

One touch of your lips, and Gator realized all of his dreams were bullshit. 

“Five!”

They weren’t just soft—they were sticky from your lip gloss that no doubt reflected amongst the party lights.

“Four!”

Gator's tongue slipped out to lick his lips. It was now or never.

“Three!”

He cleared his throat, “I wanna—” 

“—Do it.”

“Two!”

Gator smirked at your assertive permission and finally bent down to find your lips.

“One!”

Layered cheers of Happy New Year echoed throughout the house like a drunken cacophony. But nothing got past the drumming in Gator’s ears. 

Everything was boiled down to you. The crowd, the screams, the scents battling for attention—all of it was gone. There was nothing else Gator could’ve been bothered with other than the flavor of your lips.

The alcohol coating your tongue did nothing to overshadow your true taste. You rivalled every vape he ever put to his mouth. Every hit, every puff—nothing could compare to this. He found himself addicted before he could even open his mouth. 

Gator almost choked on nothing when your other hand fisted his collar, heaving him closer—kissing him harder, your tongue breaching past his lips.

Holy fucking shit, you were something else.

He groaned into your mouth as your tongue waltzed with his. Fuck, he hoped you were always this confident when you kissed. One of Gator’s hands forked between the silk strands of your hair, as heavenly as an angel’s.

As Gator slowly began to tune back in to the world around him, he realized the applause that surrounded you both no longer had anything to do with the countdown. 

Your friends were cheering for the two of you. 

Something about the revelation made Gator’s head rush. He kissed you harder, deeper—taking pride in the action. You were his to kiss. Blind or not, you were Gator’s.

You smiled against his lips as you pulled away, clearing your throat. “Was wondering how long it was gonna take you to do tha—”

Gator didn’t dare hesitate before bringing you back, kissing you like it was a mission—like it was a show of faith. 

“Happy New Year, teach,” Gator smirked, the words falling into your open mouth. A soft exhale entered into his own. 

“Happy New Year, Gator…” Gator couldn’t stop himself from kissing you again. Could you blame him? It was you, and he was addicted. Whatever. Fine him, sue him, send him to the chair—he would still die the happiest he'd ever been.

“It was you, you know…” he breathed into your mouth. “Y’were my resolution.”

You tugged on his collar once again, shorting his breath briefly. “Yeah? How so?”

He nodded quickly—as if he was begging for mercy. Or for you to never stop. Honestly, he wasn't sure anymore. “Wanted t’kiss ya,” he muttered, breathless. “And tell ya I like you.”

He could feel your smile in front of him. “Well, you got the first part done…”

Gator almost snorted. God, you were relentless. 

“Might as well knock the second part out, right?” You hung your arms around his shoulders instead, granting relief to Gator's lungs. 

Gator smirked, shaking his head. You knew exactly what you were doing to him.

And he lived off of it.

“I like ya, teach,” he finally admitted. “‘N I wanna be yours.”

“Mine?” You chimed.

“Yes. Yours.” His hands found your waist again, head dipping near your ear. “I want t'be all yours, baby. Wanna worship the ground ya walk on, kiss you senseless every morning’...” Gator relished in your shiver.

“...I want to stop being scared,” he confessed, retreating from your shoulder to face you. 

Your hand brushed through his locks delicately—as if he were the most precious thing you had ever touched. “I want that, too, Gator.”

In all of Gator's dreams—all of his fantasies about this exact moment—he imagined the sounds. He pictured the softness of your voice, the fragrance of your perfume, maybe even the taste of your lips.

The one thing that always stayed the same, though, was the darkness. The lonely void he was sentenced to—as familiar to him as the oxygen in his lungs. 

But he was wrong. There was no more darkness. 

For the first time in what felt like years, he could see again. 

He saw it all. More than he ever saw before—more than he ever knew was there. 

Cleansed of all of his demons, bathed in your faith, he was reborn—the mud washed from his eyes.

It was only you. His start, his end, and every beautiful breath in between.

Gator Tillman was many things. 

But he would never be a coward again.

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His tongue increased its impossible pace as you reached your climax for the third time in a row, licking up and down between your folds like he would find paradise if he searched deeper.

It was all so intense—his hands squeezed around your thighs, pinning them over his shoulders as your back arched, the tightness in your stomach at its peak as he kept lapping at your center. Your fingers twitched in hair, stomach tensing from how tight the muscles held.

“Steve, please…” you begged, your fingers practically urging his head backward. Steve whined in protest, moving back to look at you.

His face was red, the bottom half covered in your slick, his breathing ragged. “Tastes so good, baby,” he groaned, his eyes shining under your gaze.

You fought to catch your breath before Steve started laving kisses on the tight, strained muscles of your stomach. “Think you can give me one more, baby?” He begged, eyes locked on yours. “Please? Just one more on my cock?”

Your breath hitched. The thing was you wanted to. You knew how hard he was—how much he wanted you—but you weren't sure you could physically take anymore.

“I don't know, Steve…” you whispered softly. He slowly moved up, coming to see you face to face. “Please, baby?” Steve whispered, lips traveling over to your ear. “I'll be so good…”

God, he was going to kill you one of these days.

The shake in your thighs pleaded with you to say no—to put a stop to their torment—but you could never say no to Steve Harrington.

Your head found itself nodding before you could say anything else. You felt his smile against your ear, breathing heavy. “That's my girl,” Steve whispered as he lifted himself up.

You couldn't help the way your whole body jerked when you felt his length press against you, your core so sensitive now. Steve smiled at it. “Yeah, she likes me, huh?”

His tip sliding up and down your folds felt like an act of torture. You held back a whimper, trying to keep yourself together for him. He didn't need to know how the pleasure was starting to fade.

“That's it, baby. Gonna make you feel me for weeks.” He started to situate himself at your core, leaning back down to kiss your cheek.

It wasn't until he tasted salt that he noticed you were crying. Steve pulled back, searching your face to find faint tears glazing your cheeks.

His heart stuttered for a second. “Hey, hey,” he called softly, voice gentle as ever. “Sweetheart…”

You covered your face, hiding the state you were in. “Hey, hey, don't hide from me, baby.” Steve carefully removed your hands from your face. “Can you look at me? Please?”

You breathed in roughly, silently gasping for air underwater. “I'm sorry…” You sobbed. Steve immediately shook his head, brows furrowing.

“No, hey, don't do that,” Steve quickly resituated himself. Your safety mattered more than where his dick was right now. He laid on his side, settling next to you. “You're okay, baby. You're safe.” He promised, trying to calm you down.

Steve felt his heart breaking as your breathing seemed to get harsher. “Sweetheart…” he extended his hand before hesitation ran through his bones. “Do… Do you need space, right now?” He whispered gently.

Your heart hurt in your chest. You wished you could give him a clear answer, but everything in you was burning like forest fire.

“I don't know,” you felt pathetic, unsure of what you were feeling, what was going on, what was safe.

Steve understood—well, he didn't exactly, but he knew he was yours, and that wasn't going to change no matter what you were feeling.

“Okay,” he agreed. As hard as it was, he inched away from you on the bed, giving you room without abandoning you entirely. For good measure, Steve kept his hand near your body. Not on it, not hovering. He let his hand rest on the space right next to you.

“I'm right here, baby.” He promised, watching you intently as your breath continued to shake. “I need you to breathe for me, sweetheart,” he whispered.

You tried, you really did, but every spark in your body was igniting right now. Steve hesitated, desperately wanting to make it better.

“Can you—can you try putting your hand on my chest?” He whispered. “Just want you to feel me breathing.”

You carefully let him take your hand, allowing him to guide it over his chest. “That's it, pretty girl. Just focus on my breathing, okay?”

Steve watched as you slowly calmed down. “There you go.” He encouraged. Steve smiled when you turned to face him. “Hi, baby.”

The sweetness in his voice made you feel like crying more. Steve must have noticed because he finally reached out to touch you, holding your face. “You're okay… you're okay, baby. It's just me.”

You nodded. You knew you were safe. You just were having trouble getting your body to understand.

“Can I hold you please, baby?” Steve felt like he was granted mercy by the grace of God when you agreed, moving closer to him. He brought his arms around you, making sure not to overwhelm you. You squeezed his forearm, trying to hold some semblance of control. “...Do you think you can talk now?” He whispered softly.

Your breathing stopped at the thought.

“It's okay if not, baby,” Steve immediately assured you, soothing you with his hand on your back. “You don't have to.

You felt your breath return to you with his promise. But Steve still wanted to know. He needed to know if he had hurt you—if he had scared you. He needed you.

He pressed his lips to your head—not exactly a kiss, but the closest thing he could give you. “You don't have to talk,” he started, “but I want to listen.”

You looked up at him, brows furrowed.

“Can I ask you yes or no questions?” His voice was so unbelievably gentle it felt like falling onto a cloud. You looked away from his eyes, unable to take him looking at you as you nodded. “Okay,” he sighed gratefully. “Okay.”

His first question took a moment to leave his lips, as if it was painful for him to get out. “Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head softly. You could almost feel Steve's following sigh of relief. “Good… Okay, that's good.” It sounded like he was simply thinking out loud at the moment. “Did I scare you?"

You paused for a moment before nodding your head. Steve always told you to be honest with him. You were sure it had something to do with having his heart broken in a relationship he didn't know was failing. You feel his chest stutter as he tried to nod.

“Are—” he took a shaky, shallow breath, “are you still scared?”

“No,” you responded, your voice a hoarse whisper. “Not scared.”

Steve nodded, grateful to hear anything but your sobs.

Steve barely even heard your next words.

“Too much.”

He looked down at you. “What, baby?”

“Too much,” you repeated softly.

“It was too much?”

You nodded. Finally, Steve understood, looking back over it all. You wanted to stop, and he didn't. Steve repeats as much out loud, only to have his heart break when you confirm it with a nod.

“I'm so sorry, baby…” Steve held you closer. “I didn't realize you were that—overwhelmed.” Steve felt something sharp in his stomach. He had ignored the signs, scared you, and now you were crying in his arms. This was the last thing he ever wanted.

“I couldn't take any more…” you confessed in a voice that was too close to shame for Steve's liking. “I didn't mean to start cryin—”

“No, hey,” Steve made you look at him. “Don't do that, okay? It's okay,” he promised you, “I'm not mad at you, honey.”

Steve took your hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “You did nothing wrong. Okay? I don't want you to blame yourself.”

His eyes reminded you of a fireplace, the way they felt like home. Steve took a quiet breath, briefly glancing down at your hand.

“I love you more than anything else in the world, sweetheart.” That got a small smile out of you, something that felt like sunshine at the moment. “...But I can't read minds.”

You looked down as well. Steve took your chin in his hand, wanting to meet your eyes again. “I need you to tell me when it's too much for you like that, okay?” He whispered.

“When we're doing… this, it's not something I want you to stay silent about. I want to hear everything from you, honey. What you like, what's making you feel good, how I'm making you feel…” he listed, making you smile a bit, “...but most importantly I need to know what you don't like—what's not making you feel good—all of that.” Steve explained. “I need to feel that you're able to tell me something you're scared I won't like."

You closed your eyes, breathing carefully as you nod your head. “Okay."

He mirrored your nod, smiling gently. “Okay.” He settled you in closer next to him. Steve soothingly caressed your hair, comforting you. “Can you start by telling me what was wrong just now?”

It took you a moment before you can get the words out. You had to remind yourself that Steve loved you—that he wants to know you.

“You had been going for so long, I was starting to get sore…” you explained slowly. “It's like if I kept sucking you off after you already came in my mouth,” you tried to compare.

Steve winced at the idea. As hot as it sounded, he could see how it could easily become too much.

“And then tried to ride you, too—”

“Okay, okay,” he smiled, “I get it.”

You smiled back at him. “I'm sorry I freaked you out. I didn't want to ruin the mood.”

Steve shook his head. “No. Me doing something you don't like overrides everything, okay? Even my boner.” Your laugh felt like a symphony to Steve's ears.

You moved closer to him, feeling safe like before. You were with Steve, he was with you.

You were okay.

“Next time, I'll tell you,” you promised him. Steve smiled wide, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“Next time, I'll stop,” he agreed.

You lifted your head to kiss him on the lips, gentle, sweet enough you could faintly taste yourself still on his lips.

Steve smiled when you pulled back. He placed one last kiss on your lips. “I love you, honey.” He hugged you close before suddenly hoisting you in his arms, getting up from the bed. “Let's go run you a bath.”

“Steve!” You squealed, barking out a laugh. “I can walk just fine.”

Steve shook his head solemnly. “I'm afraid not, sweetheart. I mean, what kind of boyfriend would I be if I didn't carry you?”

Your smile felt so big you could hold it in your hands. You laid a featherlight kiss on the skin on his neck

“The best one, Steve. You'd always be the best one.”

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