#fargo

You reach around him and press three buttons in a row, clearing out whatever nonsense he’d punched in. The microwave beeps obediently and starts to whir. Gator exhales through his nose. You hear him shift, the scuffed heel of his boot scraping across the cracked linoleum as he steps back.

"You always this bossy with your patients?"

You grab a dishrag and toss it over your shoulder, not looking at him. "Only the ones who almost set fire to their drapes last week."

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. It sounds like something trying to crawl up a dry throat and dying halfway.

"I didn’t ask for you."

"No. The state did. Big difference."

That gets him quiet. The microwave hums louder than it should. This place makes noise like it’s protesting every breath. The fridge rattles. The AC groans but doesn’t blow. Somewhere in the bathroom, a slow drip ticks like a clock.

You hear Gator shift again, arms folding. "Used to come through County sometimes. Victim reports and shit. Back when you were still in scrubs. Didn’t peg you for the mothering type."

You glance at him. His face is the same as you remember, minus the way it used to carry too much smugness and swagger. His jaw’s still sharp but there’s tension in it that wasn’t there before. Maybe it's the slight beard starting to grow in, maybe it's the scars, or maybe it's just the fact that he doesn’t have his eyes anymore. That tends to shift the dynamic.

"I’m not," you say. "But I am paid to keep you alive, which means making sure you don’t blow yourself up for the third time this month."

"Third?" he echoes, lifting his brows. "Thought it was only twice."

"You don't always hear about the ones I catch in time."

The microwave dings and you open it before he can try. The bowl’s too hot, so you use a towel and grab a spoon. You set it on the table where he usually eats, pushing aside the mess of newspapers and empty cans.

He waits until your footsteps pass him before moving. You can hear the way he tests the space with his foot, like he doesn’t trust the floor to stay where it was yesterday. You almost reach out, almost guide him like you would one of the other clients, but you don’t. He’d hate that. He’s already gripping the edge of the counter like he’s daring himself to make it across the six feet of floor without help.

He does. Barely. His chair scrapes back as he sits down.

“Still got it,” he mutters under his breath.

You don’t reply. You pull open the window above the sink instead, let in some fresh air that doesn’t smell like reheated TV dinners and humid bitterness.

Gator takes a spoonful and immediately hisses, half-coughs.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “You tryin’ to skin my tongue off?”

You glance back. “Didn’t think I needed to remind you soup gets hot. My mistake.”

He says nothing, just sits there fuming, going for the second bite like it offended him personally.

You lean your hip against the counter, arms crossed. “You ever think about saying thank you?”

His head tilts slightly. “You ever think about mindin’ your own damn business?”

“Every day,” you reply. “But then you do something stupid again.”

There’s a silence. Not a loud one. Not angry, either. Just... there. Sitting heavy between you. You watch him take another bite, slower this time. He looks like he’s chewing memory more than food.

"You were different back then," you say finally.

He swallows. “Back when?”

“Back when you were a deputy. Still had that dumb truck. Used to roll up like a Hot Wheels car.”

You expect another jab. Another smart-ass deflection. But Gator doesn’t smile. His spoon hovers in midair.

"Yeah," he says softly. "I liked driving fast. Or at all."

You nod. “I remember.”

He sets the spoon down. Reaches for the can of soda you left near the edge of the table. He misses it by an inch. Your hand beats his, pushing it gently toward him until his fingers close around the rim.

He doesn't say thank you.

He doesn’t have to.

Because he knows you’ll be there.

Even when he’s acting like a bastard.

Especially then.

The bathroom is just wide enough for your knee to brush the edge of the tub when you sit him down on the closed toilet seat. The counter digs into your hip, and the mirror above the sink is fogged from the old radiator’s steam pipe that runs along the back wall. It always runs too hot in here, even when it’s cold outside.

“You could’ve told me you were growing a beard,” you mutter, soaking the rag in warm water. “Would’ve saved me from bringing the razor.”

“I wasn’t,” he says flatly. “Just forgot.”

You wring out the rag and lean in, pressing it against the curve of his jaw. His skin twitches, but he doesn’t pull back. The stubble is rougher than usual. Thicker. It smells like his soap, the kind you buy because he doesn’t care enough to notice brands.

“Well,” you say, voice lighter now, “you forget for another week and I’m charging double. I don’t do lumberjack grooming for free.”

Gator smirks faintly, lips barely moving. “Ain’t like I’m tryin’ to impress anybody.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” you say. “Still handsome. Stubborn, moody, difficult, but handsome.”

His brows twitch like he’s not sure if you’re joking. You are. Mostly. But it’s true, too. Even with the band of fabric he wears across what’s left of his eyes, even with the scar cutting down his cheekbone, even with that worn flannel pulled loose at the collar. He’s still himself. Still Gator Tillman. Just quieter now. Bruised around the edges.

You grab the razor and lather his face with a little of the cheap shaving cream he keeps under the sink. Your fingers are gentle but quick. He lets you touch him like this, like he’s used to it now. Like it’s normal.

“You ever nick me,” he says, “I swear—”

“You’ll what?” You lift a brow. “Scowl in my general direction?”

He exhales, and it almost sounds like a laugh. Almost.

You start on his jaw, slow strokes with the razor, careful to mind the curve near the scar. Your hand steadies against his chin. The blade whispers down skin. He doesn’t flinch.

“You know,” you say after a minute, “this is probably one of the parts of this job I enjoy.”

“You enjoy shaving me?”

“Yeah.” You rinse the blade. “It’s quiet. Focused. And you stop talking.”

“Convenient.”

“And,” you add, “you’ve got a good face. Nice jaw. Would be a crime to let it get buried under all this gristle.”

“You flirt like a truck stop waitress,” he says.

“Damn right I do.”

He’s quiet again. You move to the other side of his face, press your fingers lightly to tilt his chin. His pulse is steady under the skin. You don’t say anything else. The room doesn’t need it.

You finish, wiping away the last of the lather with the cloth. His skin is warm beneath it. Those few familiar moles and freckles are visible again. You reach to rinse your hands and toss the towel in the laundry bin tucked under the sink.

But before you can turn away, his hand reaches out. Finds yours.

He’s slow about it, like he’s not sure he has the right. Like he’s not sure if you’ll pull back.

You don’t.

His fingers wrap around your wrist, and he guides your hand back to his cheek. Presses it there. Just rests it. Your palm against his newly smooth skin. The tiniest tremble in his jaw.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe for a second.

It isn’t flirty. It isn’t seductive. It’s just... quiet. Needy in a way that aches.

And even though he doesn’t say a word, you know exactly what this is.

You leave your hand there a little longer than you should.

Because he doesn’t get this often. Not anymore.

Because you don’t mind the quiet moments either.

Because it’s the one time he lets you touch him without biting back.

He’s still Gator. Still hard-edged, still impossible. But this? This is the part of him that he never lets anyone else see.

And you’re still here.

Even when he doesn’t ask.

Especially then.

You don’t have to check the peephole to know who it is. The knock has a kind of rhythm to it. Measured. Familiar. You open the door and find Nadine standing there with a container in her hands and a smile that means she’s brought something dangerous.

"Oatmeal raisin," she says before you even ask, lifting the Tupperware like a peace offering. "Still his favorite, right?"

You breathe in the smell and nod, already reaching for it. “You spoil him.”

“Somebody has to,” she replies, stepping inside without waiting for more invitation.

She’s dressed like always, some kind of floral blouse under a light jacket, gold studs in her ears, her hair pulled back into a bun that’s starting to loosen in the front. She smells like the kind of department store perfume that clings to coat collars and car seats for days.

You close the door behind her and follow her into the kitchen, popping the lid on the cookies before your shoes even leave the mat.

“He’s gonna inhale these,” you mutter, already grabbing a small plate from the cabinet. “And then act like he doesn’t have a sweet tooth.”

“He’ll grumble through the whole first one,” Nadine says, “but I guarantee you he’ll have three gone before I get a word in.”

You like her. You always have. She’s one of the few people who knows how to talk to Gator like he’s still human, even when he’s acting like a closed door. She doesn’t tiptoe. Doesn’t baby him. She also doesn’t bullshit, which you appreciate.

She watches you for a moment while you arrange the cookies on the plate, and you know that look. It’s the same one she gives him when she knows he’s full of it.

“You heading out?” she asks gently.

“That was the plan,” you say. “Usually give you two the apartment. It’s kind of your time.”

Nadine steps closer and reaches out, setting one hand lightly on your forearm. Her grip is soft, but there’s something in the way she holds it that makes you pause.

“Stay,” she says. “Just for a bit. Not on the clock. Just cookies and coffee and a little conversation.”

You hesitate. You’ve never stayed during one of her visits. You usually use the window to grab groceries or take a break, let them have this. But her tone isn’t casual, and her eyes are steady on yours.

“I’d like you to sit with us today,” she adds, quieter now. “It’s good for him. And frankly, you could use a break too.”

You don’t argue. Not with her. You nod, slow and small, and she smiles like she’s been waiting for you to agree since she pulled into the driveway.

She walks into the living room ahead of you, calling out as she goes. “It’s me, Gator. Brought cookies.”

He doesn’t answer right away, but you hear him shift on the couch. The leather creaks under him as he turns toward the sound of her voice.

“Took you long enough,” he mutters. “Thought you got lost.”

“Please,” Nadine snorts. “I’ve been navigating this godforsaken town longer than you’ve been breathing. Don’t sass me.”

You follow them in, quieter. Normally, your footsteps would head toward the door. This time they carry you back across the living room, and the moment you cross into his space, you feel it. He knows you stayed. Of course he does. His head tips, just slightly, in your direction, and even though the cloth he wears keeps you from seeing what’s left of his eyes, you feel his attention land on you all the same.

You sit down on the armrest of the chair across from him, legs tucked close, hands folded in your lap. Nadine takes the couch next to Gator, passing him a cookie and patting his arm when his fingers fumble for the plate.

The three of you sit like that, sharing the space in silence for a few moments while he chews through the first bite and makes a face like it’s too sweet, even though everyone knows it isn’t.

“Still soft,” he says grudgingly, like it’s a complaint.

“You’re welcome,” Nadine replies, taking one for herself. “I’d ask for an actual ‘thank you’, but I know that’s not your style.”

“I don’t say thank you,” he grumbles, “I eat the damn cookie.”

“Good enough,” she says, biting into hers with a grin.

You lean back a little, letting their conversation wash over you. There’s history here. Most of it is dark, but Nadine feels like sunshine even through the dark times. You like that about her.

And even though you’re not saying anything, you feel his awareness of you like gravity. Every time you shift in your seat, every time your fingers drum against your knee, his head turns just a little. He doesn’t say it, doesn’t ask, but you know he’s listening to you the way other people watch with their eyes.

The plate of cookies sits between them. Nadine talks about the new pastor at the Lutheran church and how the coffee’s gotten worse somehow. Gator grunts responses that are half amusement and half disinterest. You stay quiet, sipping from the mug she pressed into your hands without asking.

And you’re not on the clock. You’re not checking your watch or cleaning up the fridge or reminding him to take his meds.

You’re just there.

And he knows it.

Even when he won’t say it.

Especially then.

The door sticks a little when you open it, just like it always does. You push through with your hip and call out a low greeting, already juggling the day’s supplies in your arms. The air smells like toast and the faint trace of whatever cologne he still insists on using, like anyone but you is ever close enough to notice.

He’s sitting in his usual spot on the couch, arms folded across his chest like someone tried to tell him how to live. His head lifts slightly when he hears the keys jingle.

“Thought that old lady was comin’ today,” he mutters, not quite facing you yet. “The one who won’t shut up about her grandkids.”

You let the door close behind you with your foot and drop your bag on the counter. “Beverly?”

He grimaces. “Yeah. Beverly. She always brings me sugar-free snacks and tries to get me to do chair yoga. Last week she told me her grandson’s ‘learning percussion’ and made me listen to a recording of him beating on a bucket. Swear to God.”

You laugh into your sleeve. “I’m surprised you didn’t fake a seizure.”

“Came close,” he mutters.

You start unpacking the bottles, setting them in their little row near the sink. One of them rattles too loud and you shake it gently to check how low it is.

“So what, you’re happy to see me instead?”

He doesn’t answer right away, but you catch the way his chin tips slightly toward your voice, just enough to count as a yes.

You smile at his silence. He doesn’t say things like that out loud. He doesn’t have to.

“You know what day it is,” you say, already gathering the gauze and gloves.

“Yeah, yeah,” he grumbles. “Therapy.”

“And before that…”

He groans. “Med check.”

You’re already walking over. “Face check.”

“I hate this part,” he says.

“I know.”

But he lets you do it anyway.

You sit on the ottoman across from him and snap the gloves on. The sound makes him flinch a little. He never says why. You just know it gets in his head. You grab the small flashlight and tilt your chin toward him.

“You ready?”

“Do I get a lollipop if I’m good?” It comes out like bait, a hook for you to latch onto, even if he knows you never fully will.

“No, but I’ll say something nice about your hair.”

He snorts. “That’s a lie.”

You lean in. Carefully, you reach up and unfasten the cloth wrap that sits where his eyes used to be. You try to keep your face neutral, like always, but it never stops hitting you. The damage is still raw in places, though the burns have healed over into pink, shiny skin with ragged edges where his brow used to be. The scarring is faded but still angry. You’ve seen worse, but somehow this one gets to you more.

Maybe because it was done on purpose. Maybe because you know who he used to be.

He sits still, like he trusts you more than he lets on. The flashlight flicks over the tissue. You check the edges for inflammation, infection, irritation from the cloth or the heat. You wipe around the scars with a warm cloth, slow and careful.

“You’ve still got good skin,” you say without thinking. “Takes care of itself, even when you don’t.”

He makes a noise low in his throat. “You hittin’ on me again?”

You grin, focused on the last patch of scar near his temple. “Maybe.”

He shifts, the corner of his mouth tugging upward. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice lazy and rough. “I might not have eyes, but my hands still work just fine.”

You freeze for half a second, cloth still against his skin, before answering too quickly.

“Didn’t say they didn’t.”

That comes out more breathless than intended. You both go still, the air between you suddenly different. 

You clear your throat, fold up the cloth, and snap the gloves off. Your hands feel too warm now as you settle the wrap back over his face. You move back to the counter, pretending to be busy with the pill organizer.

He shifts again, the couch creaking under him, but doesn’t break the silence.

Finally, you turn. “We should head out soon. Your appointment’s at ten.”

“I know,” he says.

You grab your keys, the bag, and the Tupperware of snacks you packed for him earlier that morning. He doesn’t ask what’s inside, but you know he’ll eat them anyway.

The door clicks shut behind you both, and for a while, neither of you say anything.

But as you help him into the passenger seat of your car, he brushes your hand by accident, and you swear he lingers there just a second longer than necessary.

He won’t say what that means.

You don’t ask.

Especially then.

The chair squeaked under him in a way that always made it sound like it was going to break, like one more hour in this place and the legs would just give out beneath the weight of his bullshit. He shifted anyway, leaned back farther than necessary, arms crossed over his chest like he had something to protect.

He couldn’t see the guy sitting across from him, but he’d built enough of a picture over the last few sessions to feel confident about the assumptions he made. Gator could smell the cologne he used — one of those cheap ones that thought it smelled like wood but really just stung the nose like pine-scented antiseptic.

“Morning, Gator,” the therapist said, voice warm and calm like it always was. Like they hadn’t been through this same dance for six weeks now.

“Sure,” Gator said, not moving. “Let’s call it that.”

The man, Todd was his name, didn’t bite at the sarcasm. He just scribbled something on his clipboard, which Gator had told him on week two was annoying as shit. Clearly, it didn’t stick.

“How was the last week?” He asked. “Anything new come up?”

Gator shrugged. “Didn’t die. Didn’t kill anyone. Banner week.”

More scribbling. Gator hated the sound of that pen. He knew the guy did it on purpose, kept the silence going so Gator would fill it, but he wasn’t in the mood to play nice.

“You getting out of the house at all?” the therapist asked after a beat.

“You mean besides this circus?”

“Yes.”

Gator scratched at the seam of the cloth over his face, just near the temple. “I walk. Sometimes.”

“Where to?”

“Nowhere. Just… ‘round.”

“Alone?”

Gator didn’t answer. Not right away. The truth was, he hated going anywhere with people, but he hated being seen walking alone more. The blind guy stumbling down the sidewalk with a cane and a band over his face wasn’t exactly blending in.

“Mostly,” he muttered.

The therapist nodded, Gator could tell from the subtle shift of his clothes. “We talked before about connection, Gator. About letting people in. You’ve made real progress on your mindset. You’ve unpacked a lot about how you were raised, about your father’s influence, about what was expected of you. You’ve been doing the hard work. But what we haven’t really explored yet is how to form new relationships — ones that aren’t built on power, or fear, or control.”

Gator’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t interrupt. Not yet.

The therapist continued, carefully. “Are there people in your life you’d call close? People you care about, or trust?”

There it was. The question they’d been circling for three sessions. Gator let the silence hang for a long moment, just to make a point.

“Not many,” he said finally. “Most people don’t wanna… get too close to the guy who lit the family name on fire.”

“You aren't responsible for your generational trauma.”

“I know that,” Gator snapped, sharper than he meant to. They'd gone over that shit time and time again, but it still slipped out. He rubbed the heel of his palm against his thigh and exhaled. “Nadine still comes by. She brings cookies. Bitches about her book club. It’s fine.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It’s loud. But yeah. I guess it’s… somethin’.”

“Anyone else?”

Gator hesitated.

“My nurse,” he said after a moment. “Caretaker. Whatever she’s called on the paperwork. The young one. She’s ‘round my age.”

“I'm familiar. What’s that like?”

Gator shifted again, scratched at the side of his neck.

“She’s annoying,” he said flatly. “Talks too much. Makes fun of my microwave technique. Smells like clean laundry and peppermint. Keeps tryin’ to feed me shit I don’t wanna eat. Tells me when I’m being a prick.”

The therapist didn’t speak.

“She’s fine,” Gator added, quieter. “Good at her job. Better than Beverly. Beverly tells me about her grandkid’s little league games like I give a damn.”

“But this one… you let her close.”

“I let her do her job,” Gator snapped, then exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “It ain’t like that.”

Todd was silent again, just long enough to make Gator grit his teeth.

“What?” Gator growled.

“You talk about her differently.”

“Jesus,” Gator muttered, throwing his head back against the cushion. “This the part where you ask if I’ve got romantic feelings like we’re in a high school counseling session?”

“No,” he said calmly. “But I am going to ask if you’ve considered the difference between isolation and independence. You’ve been alone for a long time. And it sounds like this person is someone you let in more than most.”

Gator didn’t respond. His jaw clenched. His hands curled into fists, then uncurled.

After a beat, he smirked.

“Most folks don’t want to fuck up their insurance benefits getting involved with someone who looks like a half-melted action figure,” he muttered.

Todd sighed, more amused than exasperated. “You’re not disfigured, Gator.”

“Says the guy with a functioning face.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Damn right I am.”

“You ever try not doing that?”

Gator leaned back again, his voice dry. “What’s the fun in that?”

And the silence returned.

Like it always did.

Especially then.

You finish lining up his meds on the counter like always, labeled for morning and night, the little clack of each cap clicking into place while he sits in the armchair by the window pretending he’s not paying attention. You’ve already made the bed, opened the window just enough to keep the room from getting stale, laid out his water and snacks on the table like you always do on Fridays in case he gets restless after you’re gone. You’re halfway out the door before he finally says something.

“You smell different.”

You pause, fingers still wrapped around your keys. “What?”

He shifts like he’s not sure if he wants to repeat himself, but then he sits forward and mutters it again, slower this time. “I said you smell different.”

You blink and glance down at your dress, then back toward him. “Okay, creep.”

“I ain’t bein’ creepy,” he says, scowling like he’s already annoyed you made him clarify. “You don’t smell like peppermint.”

“That’s what this is about?” you laugh, stepping back into the room. “You miss the peppermint oil?”

“I don’t miss shit,” he grumbles. “I’m just sayin’. It ain’t what you usually wear.”

You lift an eyebrow. “So what do I smell like?”

He sniffs once, face twisting like he doesn’t really want to say it out loud. “Cherry. And somethin’ else.”

“Bergamot.”

There’s a long pause before he snorts. “The hell is that?”

“It’s… I don’t know. It’s just in the perfume.”

He mutters something that sounds like “fancy bullshit” under his breath, but you catch it and smirk. You move closer to grab your jacket from the chair where you left it earlier. That’s when he reaches out, fingers brushing your arm — just for balance, you think, or maybe not — his palm presses against the bare curve of your shoulder.

His hand goes still.

It’s clear the second he notices.

You aren’t wearing your usual scrub top or hoodie. No soft cotton or oversized sleeves. His thumb drags lightly across the edge of your strap, and it’s quiet for just a little too long.

“You wearin’ a dress?” he asks, already knowing the answer. There’s something sharp behind the words, dulled down with effort but still biting around the edges.

You hesitate. “Yeah.”

“Huh.”

You glance at him, at the way his jaw’s set like he’s grinding down something behind his teeth. “I have plans.”

“You goin’ to a funeral or somethin’?”

“No,” you say. “I have a date.”

He leans back a little like the chair just got less comfortable. “Huh,” he says again, but it comes out lower this time. “So that’s what this is.”

“Not that it’s any of your business,” you add, pulling your hair back and twisting it into a clip, “but yeah. First date.”

“Who is he?”

You turn halfway toward him, narrowing your eyes. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he lies. “Just curious what kinda guy gets you smellin’ like fruit and soap.”

You don’t respond. The silence stretches until he fills it himself.

“He got two workin’ eyes?”

You blink, slow. “Jesus, Gator.”

“What? That a requirement now?”

“You’re being a dick.”

“I’m just sayin’. I got some questions.”

“He’s a nurse. I met him last month. It’s a drink and maybe a movie. That’s it.”

He shrugs like it doesn’t bother him, but you can tell by the way his foot bounces once against the floor and then stops. His jaw flexes. He folds his arms tighter.

“Must be nice.”

You sigh and head toward the door again. “I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“I ain’t stoppin’ you from leaving.”

You pause again at the threshold, hand resting on the knob, the weight of the night pressing in against the back of your neck.

Behind you, his voice cuts through — louder now, sharper than before, riding the edge of anger even though it’s dressed up like a joke.

“You better not come back here tomorrow all sex-drunk and forgetting shit.”

You turn slowly, eyes narrowing, pulse climbing in a way you don’t like.

“I’m not gonna be… sex drunk.”

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do you.

You just stare at him, both of you standing your ground, both of you pretending that nothing got said that wasn’t supposed to.

You open the door and step out into the night.

You don’t slam it.

But you don’t close it softly either.

Especially then.

The voice in the audiobook was too smooth. It irritated him more than anything. Some guy reading a western like he had ever stepped foot on cracked earth or held anything heavier than a coffee cup. Gator let it drone in the background, something about two brothers and a land dispute, but none of it stuck. His mind wandered. His jaw ached from clenching. He had turned the volume down twice already and didn’t know why he kept turning it back up again.

The apartment was too quiet. Not silent — the fan still clicked every now and then from the corner, the fridge kicked on and off in its usual stubborn rhythm — but it felt like the walls were waiting for something. The kind of waiting that pressed in behind the ribs.

He leaned back on the couch, legs stretched out, socked feet resting near the edge of the table. The blanket you’d folded for him sat untouched, the faint scent of whatever soap you used still clinging to it. Not the peppermint. The cherry and whatever-the-hell it was. Something citrusy and light, like lotion in a bottle too expensive for anyone normal to buy.

Bergamot. That’s what you said.

Gator scoffed quietly to himself and rubbed a hand across his face.

Fucking bergamot.

You were probably at some bar by now. Sitting across from a man who didn’t know you liked your coffee strong or that you hummed under your breath when you organized his pills. Some guy with decent shoes and clean hands, maybe a little cologne rubbed into his neck, probably wore button-ups that actually fit. Some guy who didn’t need a ride to the damn clinic every week or a guide to find the damn light switch.

The thought made him shift, restless. His fingers curled into the edge of the throw pillow beneath his elbow.

He didn’t care. He didn’t.

But the idea of that guy, this nurse or whatever he was,  trying to understand you, trying to keep up with you, trying to figure out how you worked… it grated. He doubted that pretty boy had ever had to listen, not really. Bet he thought quiet was just silence and not the weight of it. Bet he thought soft touches were enough to keep a woman like you interested.

Gator knew better. Knew it in the way your voice changed when you were serious. Knew it in how you let him hear your breath catch when his hand landed on your shoulder, skin bare and warm beneath his palm. You hadn’t moved. You hadn’t pulled away. He had felt the curve of your neck and the shift of muscle under his thumb. That moment had been short but it had happened. He hadn’t imagined it.

He tried to shake the thought but it followed him as he stood, slowly, body stiff from sitting too long. He took his pills with warm water and stood at the sink longer than necessary, fingers braced against the counter, chin tipped forward like gravity was trying to press him into the floor.

The apartment still smelled like you.

Even now. That scent mix clinging to the air like it was trying to haunt him. He swore he could feel it in the fibers of the carpet. His fingers twitched like they remembered the feeling of your arm. The dress. The way your voice sounded when you said first date like it wasn’t anything worth worrying about.

He turned off the audiobook and left the speaker on the table.

His bedroom was dark, only the hallway light bleeding through the cracked door. He didn’t bother undressing. He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time before lying back, hands folded behind his head. He tried not to think about where you were. Who you were with. If this guy would touch you the way he would. If he’d even know how.

You didn’t wear that scent for just anyone. That wasn’t a work perfume. That was a look-at-me kind of perfume.

His hand slid over his stomach, fingers brushing the waistband of his sweatpants before resting lower.

He hadn’t meant to think about it. But now it was there and it wasn’t leaving.

He thought about how soft your skin had felt under his palm. About the sound of your voice when you laughed at him. How your perfume clung to your collarbones. How your thighs probably looked sitting across from some other man. How your legs crossed. How you leaned in when you were listening.

His palm moved lower, breath hitching with it, the fan above clicking like it was counting the seconds between every drag of his fingers. The room felt warmer than it should have, sweat already gathering beneath his shirt. He didn’t bother peeling it off. Just let his hand slip down over his stomach, rough skin catching on the waistband of his sweats, the movement automatic now, familiar. But tonight it felt like more than a routine. Tonight it felt like punishment.

That scent clung to everything you’d touched.

His hand gripped tighter, breath shallow now, pulled through gritted teeth.

He couldn’t see you anymore, sure, but that didn’t mean he forgot. He remembered how you looked when he’d see you at the hospital if he stopped in for a case. Scrubs, sure, but nothing could hide the way you were built. Not dainty, not delicate. You were soft in the way a man could hold onto, something that filled both hands and then some. You moved like you knew how much space you took up, like you didn’t care who noticed. Your hips always shifted before your voice did. Your arms had weight when you reached past him. Your thighs always brushed against the couch cushion when you sat near.

And your tits — fuck. He hadn’t seen them, of course not, but he remembered the way your shirt used to stretch a little across it when you leaned. The sound of fabric shifting when you adjusted the neckline without thinking. He used to steal glances, back when he still had the option. Now all he had were those stored-away pieces, pulled forward with every breath you left behind.

He hated that he couldn’t see you. Hated that all he had was memory and scent and the way your voice got tight when you were trying not to argue. Hated the way your shoulder felt under his hand earlier, warm and bare and real, just for a second before you pulled away.

His grip stuttered, hips pushing up toward his hand as the pressure built sharp and low in his gut. You, somewhere else, maybe laughing at someone else’s dumb joke. Maybe sitting across from some guy who didn’t even know how you liked your tea, or how to tell the difference between your annoyed silence and your tired one. Probably didn’t know how it felt to have your fingers graze his skin and not look at him like he was broken.

Even without his sight, he knew you never looked at him like that. 

The thought hit hard, and he came with a rough sound caught in his throat, more breath than voice, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached.

His hand stayed where it was for a minute, chest rising fast beneath it, cooling sweat clinging to his collarbone.

He didn’t say your name.

But his mind did.

Again and again.

The room felt too quiet when it was over. Too empty. The fan kept turning overhead like nothing had happened.

He pulled the blanket up past his stomach and let his arm fall across his eyes, not that it mattered.

All he could smell was you.

And all he could think about was what he’d never get to see.

And what someone else might be seeing now.

He didn’t say it out loud.

Especially then.

You come back around six from doing errands, arms full, the smell of browned meat and tater tots still clinging to your jacket. The casserole dish is wrapped in foil and still hot enough that you have to shift it from hand to hand as you move toward the kitchen. Gator’s already in his chair, angled just slightly away from the television like he’s listening but not watching anything. You’re not sure he even knows what’s on. The remote is resting on the arm of the couch untouched, and the news is just cycling quietly, background noise for a day where you haven’t really talked.

Not that anything’s wrong. Not exactly. You’d come in earlier like usual, checked his meds, done the daily routine. But it had all been mechanical. His tone had been even. Yours too. Everything said had been about what needed to be said, nothing more. You’d caught him listening hard every time you moved though. You knew the silence had weight.

You slide the dish into the oven to keep warm and set the table without asking. He doesn’t offer to help, not that he usually does, but today feels different. Tighter. The quiet clings to the corners of the room. He doesn’t ask about your night. You don’t bring it up.

Dinner is easy, solid, the kind of food that fills without needing much conversation. You set the plate down in front of him, spooned out carefully, hotdish bubbling at the edges, and he mutters a thanks like it caught in his throat.

He eats like he always does, slow but steady, like he’s thinking while chewing, like there’s something behind every bite he doesn’t want to name.

Halfway through, he sets his fork down, not dramatically, but enough that you glance up from your own plate. He wipes his mouth on a napkin, clears his throat, and then says it like he didn’t mean to but couldn’t help it.

“You don’t gotta stay here all the time, you know.”

You pause, chewing slower, then set your own fork down gently beside the plate. “What are you talking about?”

“You got a life out there. Friends. People. Shit to do.” His voice is too casual. Too careful. “I’m not your whole goddamn schedule.”

“I know that.”

His head tilts slightly like he’s trying to catch your expression. “Just sayin’. People might start to talk. Wonder what you’re doing here every night.”

“You think I care what people think?”

“I think you should,” he snaps, too fast, too sharp. He softens it a second later. “I just mean… don’t wanna be the reason you stop showin’ up somewhere else.”

You study him for a moment. His jaw is set. The muscle near his temple keeps twitching. He was fishing for how your date went in the most Gator way possible.

“You’re jealous,” you say plainly.

He scoffs. “Of what?”

You don’t answer. Neither does he.

You clear the dishes in silence, scraping the plates and rinsing them slowly. Behind you, you hear the creak of the chair as he stands. You listen to the shuffle of his steps, slow and searching. You already know he’s heading toward the fridge before you hear the clumsy sound of the door being pulled open and something rattling inside.

“What are you looking for?” you ask over your shoulder.

He doesn’t answer at first. Then, frustrated, “Beer.”

You sigh and dry your hands quickly on the towel, walking over and nudging him slightly out of the way. His fingers are tight around the door handle, jaw clenched, annoyed at himself more than anything else.

“It’s behind the ginger ale,” you say, reaching in and grabbing one from the back. You twist the cap off and press it into his hand.

He mutters a quiet thanks that barely reaches your ears.

“You want one?” he asks, fingers already curling around the bottle like he needs the weight of it.

“I’m working.”

“Pretty sure your shift ends in an hour,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow, half-smiling. “That so?”

He nods. “You can cut out early if you want. Boss says it’s fine.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Just something simmering under the surface you don’t want to touch yet.

He takes a long drink, standing there by the fridge like it took effort to get that far. His head tips toward you again, just slightly. He can’t see the look on your face, but he knows something’s changed. He always does.

You glance at the clock, then back at him.

You grab a beer from the fridge and twist it open without saying anything.

“You wanna watch a movie?” you ask, voice quieter now.

He turns his head toward you like he’s glaring, and even without eyes, you can feel the way it would land if he could actually see you.

You walk past him into the living room without waiting for an answer.

He follows.

You put something on. It doesn’t matter what.

And then, for a little while, the silence between you feels like something else entirely.

Especially then.

The couch dipped a little when you sat back down with the beers, one in each hand, your hip brushing his as you passed him his. He took it without saying anything, fingers brushing yours, the bottle already slick from condensation. The movie was still going, volume turned low enough that he had to listen close, but he didn’t mind. He liked the way your voice filled in the gaps.

You’d been narrating parts of it for him. Not the whole thing, just the stupid parts, which was most of it. You’d tell him when one of the girls made a dumb face, or when the monster puppet looked like it came out of a pizza box. He didn’t ask you to, not really, but you did it anyway, casual, soft, like it was for your own entertainment as much as his.

It wasn’t a good movie. He figured that out from the music alone. It had that warbly synth stuff underneath the dialogue, everything sounding like it was filmed in someone’s basement on a camcorder with a dirty lens. But you laughed at it like you’d seen it before, and that did something to him. Made it easier to listen. Made him forget how close your leg was to his.

Your arm had brushed his earlier, and you hadn’t moved away. He hadn’t either. That was two brushes in twenty minutes. He was keeping count now, apparently.

The movie shifted tone around the halfway mark. The music changed. He heard the moaning before anything else. Heard it in that fake, breathy way actresses used to do when they were trying to sound hot and not bored out of their minds. You went quiet, which made it louder.

He lifted his beer, sipped once, then turned his head toward your voice, even though he couldn’t see your face.

“You gonna describe this part too?” he asked, letting the words roll out slow, just a little smug.

You made a sound in your throat like you might actually consider it.

“I mean,” you said, laughing, “I could.”

He turned his face forward again, shoulders relaxed but jaw tight. “Go on then.”

You hesitated, but then, with a breath, you actually did it.

“She’s got her shirt off. Lotta bounce. Hair’s big. Too much lip gloss.”

He grunted, amused. “Classic.”

“Guy’s not even hot. Looks like he borrowed his dad’s chest hair.”

Gator snorted. “You’d think they’d at least cast someone worth lookin’ at.”

“They didn’t cast for that. They cast for screaming volume and tit-to-waist ratio.”

He smirked. “Sounds like you’ve thought about this.”

“I’ve watched more bad horror than you, probably.”

“You say that like it’s a challenge.”

You didn’t answer right away, but you kept describing.

“She’s on top now. Moaning way too loud. It’s mostly shadow but you can tell the guy’s doing jack shit.”

“Christ,” Gator muttered, lifting his beer again. “Stop.”

You laughed. “You asked.”

He shook his head, the grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, didn’t expect a play-by-play.”

“You’re lucky I’m keeping it tasteful.”

“Sure.”

You kept talking for a little while after the sex scene faded out, your voice soft and steady as you described the next girl on screen. You didn’t always narrate like this. Just tonight. Just enough. He could tell by the way you spoke that this one wasn’t your favorite. You called her a knockoff Barbie with hair teased too high and makeup caked on like stage paint. You said she moved like a paper cutout and screamed like someone trying too hard to be hot. You described her as tall, fake-tanned, long-legged in a way that didn’t look real.

He didn’t say anything at first, just drank his beer and let your voice fill in the blanks. But you went quiet after a while. You stopped talking somewhere around the time she bent over in slow motion and let her shirt ride up. The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable, not exactly, but different. Like something was sitting in it, watching both of you.

He turned his head toward you, didn’t need to see you to know what you were thinking. He could hear it in the way your breath caught a little. In the way you shifted your leg but didn’t move away. In the way you didn’t ask anything, but you wanted to. He felt it in the space between your words.

So he said it, casual, low.

“Never been into girls like that.”

You didn’t respond. Not right away. But he could hear you thinking.

“Nothin’ wrong with ’em,” he went on, setting the beer on the table, voice steady now. “But it ain’t what really does it for me. Sure did for a while. Had enough bikini posters in my room back at my dad's ranch. Well into my 20s. You would have given me shit for it.”

Still quiet from your side. He could tell you weren’t blinking. Probably staring straight ahead, pretending not to hear it. Wondering why he was saying this.

Hell, he wondered too.

“I like soft,” he said. “I want hips I can grab onto. A body I can fuckin’ hold, not worry I’m gonna snap.”

He heard your breath catch again. Not like before. Not annoyed. Just caught. Like you hadn’t expected him to keep going.

“Wanna feel her chest press up when she’s on top. I wanna know she’s really there. I don’t like dainty. Don’t want someone I can pick up with one arm. I want someone who’ll ride me until the couch breaks.”

He let that one sit.

Then, quieter, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud, “You know what I mean.”

You hadn’t moved, not really. But everything about your body had shifted. He could feel the tension in the way your knee stayed against his. The way your next breath came through your nose instead of your mouth. The way your beer bottle didn’t clink against the table yet, even though you’d stopped drinking five minutes ago.

He didn’t need eyes for this part.

He could hear it. In the air. In your silence. In your body betraying your mouth.

And it was doing something to him too.

Especially then.

You’re halfway through some garbage midnight rerun on the fuzzy local station. Something about mutant turtles, maybe? You aren’t even sure anymore. You’re just there. Still sitting too close on the couch. Still holding half a beer you forgot you were drinking.

It’s later than you’ve ever stayed. Quiet in that way that starts to feel like it means something. You’re stretched out beside him, feet resting against the coffee table, arm close enough to feel the heat of his skin. And for once, it’s not awkward. Not tense. Just easy.

You don’t even know how it comes up. Something dumb on screen. Some residual tension from his earlier words. Some bad pickup line in a parking lot scene. You snort. He scoffs. And then somehow you’re saying,

“Can I ask you something weird?”

He grunts in a way that means yes.

“Have you…” you hesitate, then push past it. “Have you had sex since you’ve been, y’know. Blind?”

Gator doesn’t turn his head, but you can feel the shift in him. The low flick of a breath from his nose.

“Wouldn’t you know? You’re here all the damn time.”

You let out a short laugh. “I mean, I’m not here when Beverly’s here.”

He lets out a sound between a scoff and a cough. “Yeah, okay. We’ll I’m sure as shit not fuckin’ Beverly.”

You frown. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Well what’d you mean then? You think I got a fuckin’ lineup out the door? You think that’s what I’m after now? Walking around with a cane and a fuckin’ scarred up face looking for someone to pity-fuck me? Ain’t exactly in the market.”

You blink, a little stunned by the sharpness of it. But he doesn’t seem mad. Just honest. Tired.

“Wasn’t getting much play before anyway,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Half the time it was just about the badge. And I ain’t him anymore.”9

You don’t say anything to that. But your fingers flex on the bottle, and he hears it. You know he hears it.

He exhales again, like he’s dragging the memory out with him. “Cop buddies tried to take me to Bare Assets after I got out. Thought they were doing me a favor. Got me a dance in a private room. One where it ain't ever just a dance. One of those real feel-good, you-earned-this kind of things.”

He shakes his head, like he can still hear the music. “Was just sad. Couldn’t even get hard. All that perfume and fake giggles and hands on my legs and nothin’. Felt like they were feeding a dog scraps just to watch him beg.”

You blink again. “Oh. Uh. Wow.”

He turns his head slightly. “Not sayin’ I can’t get hard. Just sayin’—”

“I didn’t ask.”

“Yeah, well. I can.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it.”

You laugh softly, nervous. “I believe you.”

“It’s just…” He shrugs. “It takes certain things now. More about the other senses than just imagining a good pair of tits. Like I gotta actually pay attention to shit now. Voices, tone, smell. Touch. Not that I get much of that now.”

Silence again. Longer this time. Thicker.

Then—

“Pretty sure I’m halfway there right now.”

You turn your head slowly, eyes wide, and he doesn’t need to see your face to know you’re stunned.

You see him grinning then, it's not as smug as usual. It's almost nervous then. 

Especially then.

He could tell the second you stood up that you were rattled. The shift in your weight, the scrape of your knee against the cushion, the way you cleared your throat like it might buy you a second.

“I should go,” you said. Light. Dismissive. Trying to pass it off like it was nothing.

He didn’t move. Just cocked his head. “Thought you weren’t on the clock.”

You let out a sharp little laugh, the kind that barely reached your throat. “I’m not, but I also can’t believe you’re propositioning me right now. Real classy.”

He huffed, slightly offended. “Ain’t proposin’ nothin’.”

You kept talking anyway. “I mean, I know Beverly says this job can be uncomfortable sometimes, but I didn’t realize bedside handjobs were part of the care routine.”

He grinned, just barely, but didn’t rise to it. Not all the way. Because he could hear it in you now. That edge. Not just your usual bite. This one was shakier. Like you were trying to push something away before it stuck.

He waited until your steps circled back toward him. Until he knew you were close. Then he reached out, slow and sure, and caught your wrist in his hand.

“Hey,” he said. Quiet, but firm. “Don't go.”

You froze. He had never asked to directly like this.

He could feel your pulse skip under his fingers.

But then it came, sharp as ever. “What is this, Gator? You think I’m just gonna stick around and what, crawl into your lap ‘cause you’re lonely? You think I need this job that bad?”

His jaw twitched. He let go of your wrist, hands up like he’d touched something too hot.

“That's not what I meant,” he muttered.

“Then what did you mean?” you snapped. “Because that’s what it sounds like. You flirt and tease and say shit and then when I react, suddenly I’m the one who’s reading too much into it?”

He didn’t answer right away. He sat there, back against the couch, mouth tight, fists loose on his knees. He could still feel the shape of your wrist in his palm.

“You're not reading into it too much.” He muttered it like it was forcing its way out of his mouth.

His therapist’s voice surfaced, unwanted, in the back of his head. Telling him to make meaningful connections and shit.

Dammit, Todd.

He rubbed at his jaw, annoyed with himself. “Look. You wanna know what it is?” he said. “It’s that I like you. Alright? Not in some sad broken man way. Not ‘cause you wipe my counters and cook me shit. I like you.”

You didn’t speak. He kept going.

“I think about you when you’re not here. Wonderin’ what smartass thing you’d say about whatever trash’s on the TV. Thinkin’ what you smell like when you’re out on a date with some douche. I listen to you hummin’ while you fold towels and I swear to God it makes me feel like my fuckin’ ribs are cracked open.”

Your breath hitched. Just a little.

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and reached for your wrist again, slower this time. Not pulling, just holding.

“And I know it ain’t your job to listen to this shit. I'm a bastard most of the time and I know you got no reason to care. But if I don’t say it now, I’m gonna choke on it.”

You didn’t pull away. Not this time.

So he held on.

And you stood there in front of him, too close to pretend you didn’t hear him, close enough that he could smell your shampoo, soft under all the heat.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, slow.

"I think about you other ways too. At other times. When I shouldn't." He cleared his throat, the words rough, the honesty rougher. "Think about how you'd sound. How it'd feel to have you on top of me. I've thought about it."

Your breathing was louder, unsteady, like it had to push its way through. His thumb slid slowly along your inner wrist. Up and down, tracing a gentle arc over the thin skin.

"You don't look at me like I'm broken. I mean..." he let out a breath of a laugh. "I can't fuckin' see it. But I know you don't."

"You're not. Broken, I mean." You finally say. The words feel like a secret, a quiet confession.

He nods, slow, and turns his head a little, just enough that you can see the shape of his profile against the pale yellow light spilling in from the kitchen. The edges of his jaw and chin and throat. The shadow of his mouth. His thumb keeps moving. Up and down. Over your wrist, then the side of your hand, and then back.

"You're always callin' me handsome and shit. Which is fuckin' wild, by the way. You must be goddamn delusional. But I get it. I hear the tone in your voice when you say it. I can tell the difference. I know it ain't a joke. So that's somethin'. I still got some parts worth lookin' at."

Your chest is so tight it hurts to breathe.

"Gator."

"I do. By the way." He smirks in a way he hasn't done in a while. "Got other parts worth lookin' at. Ones you haven't seen yet."

You let out a breath that could have been a laugh if it was a little stronger. Your voice is quieter now. Less angry. Less annoyed. Just a little... something else.

"I've seen your dick, Gator. I had to make sure you didn't fall in the shower the first couple weeks."

He knows that and he's a little mortified by being reminded of it in this moment. "Okay, well you haven't seen it hard."

That bit of crass boyish humor and defiance were definitely still in him. Todd couldn't cure everything in therapy.

"You think I'd want to?"

"I know you do."

Silence.

"You ever think about me?" he asks. "Beyond the flirting you do every damn day and then try to say it's for my ego. Do you?"

You swallow hard.

"Do I what?"

"Do you ever think about me like that?"

It's your turn to smirk now. "Do you really want me to answer that, or are you just asking to hear yourself talk?"

"I'm blind. Not deaf. And yeah. I want an answer."

He stands, letting go of your hand. You take a step back.

"You're a good-looking guy, Gator."

"That ain't what I asked."

"You're right."

"So."

"So what?"

He reaches for your hand again, fingers searching for a second before finding the shape of it. "I remember what you look like."

It hits you harder than you realize when he says that. And he notices. You know he does. He doesn't miss a single fucking thing.

"Your skin. Your hair. The curve of your waist. How big your eyes are. I remember it.."

Your mouth is dry. Your pulse is racing. You want to kiss him and run away and hide and scream all at once.

"Your scrub tops when you worked at County? Fuckin' hell. All stretched across your tits. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, the shit that did to me. Be in the hospital takin' witness statements while half hard." He let out air through his nose, shaking his head. "Then found out you moved on to outpatient stuff and I didn't see you anymore. Then that fucker burnt my eyes out. Sure there's a fuckton more in between everything, but that ain't important right now. The real torture of it all is you're around me everyday now and I can't even fuckin' see you."

He said the last part like it pissed him off more than he could admit. More than he had the words to.

"You can hear me." You say, whispered.

He lifts his head up more, confused look on his face. "Yeah. I can."

You move his hand to your hip, where you have soft sweatpants on. "You can feel me."

Still in that whisper soft tone. It was undoing him. Was this...?

"And you can definitely smell me.. Won't shut up about my scent half the time."

His thumb brushes your hip. "You're wearing that cherry shit again."

"Then use those, Gator. If this is what you want. Then take it."

You didn't mean for it to come out like a challenge. But it does. And you can tell he likes it. Likes that tone. The one where you're daring him.

He's always liked a woman that would talk back to him, he can admit that now.

He slides his hand across the curve of your waist. Fingers spread out and pressing into your skin. The shirt you're wearing is thin, so he can feel your warmth. He pulls your body closer.

"I don't wanna be a joke to you." He whispers.

"You're not." You reply.

He slides his hand down your ass. "Or a pity fuck."

"It's not."

"Then what am I?"

"You're a guy I care about. Who has been hurt and needs someone who cares enough not to hurt him anymore."

His breath hitches and he grabs your ass more firmly, pulling you to his lap. You're straddling him now. His hands are on either side of your hips, still grabbing.

"And what are you gonna do?" he asks, voice a deep growl.

You're both breathing hard, his forehead pressed to yours. You reach out, running a hand through his hair.

"Whatever you want me to."

He kisses you. Hard and hot and desperate. His hands are on your back, holding you to him. Your fingers are still threaded through his hair. He groans into your mouth, hips bucking up.

"Fuck, I need you," he pants, pulling away. "You feel so fuckin' good."

"We should go to your bed, this couch is awful."

"Yeah."

You stand up and take his hand, leading him. He follows, and he's glad the house isn't big. He'd hate to get lost now.

You close the door behind him. He's sitting on the edge of the bed. You walk toward him, stopping between his legs.

"Lie down." You say.

He does.

You climb onto the bed, straddling him. You grab the hem of your shirt and pull it up and over your head. It lands somewhere across the room.

Gator hears the material hit the floor. He can feel your body hovering over him.

You lean forward, kissing his lips. Then his cheek. Down his jaw. His throat. He can feel your bare tits against him, heavy and warm. He lets out a low moan.

Your hands are on his chest, roaming, reaching for the hem of his black t-shirt.

"You ain't wearing a bra when you're workin'?" He pants out.

"You can't see me. What's it matter?"

He groans. "It matters."

You laugh, pulling his shirt up. "Then let's get this off."

He sits up slightly, arms over his head, and you slide the shirt off. It falls to the floor, joining your own.

The dark chest hair and beauty marks strewn across his toned chest are even more handsome up close. You trail your hands down his torso and he makes the prettiest sound.

"Fuck. You touch me like you fuckin' love it."

"Because I do." You confess, and press a kiss to his shoulder.

He shudders. You can't tell if it's from the touch or your words.

You reach for the button of his jeans.

"Do you want these off too?"

"Fuck yeah. Take 'em off."

His cock strains against the fabric of his black boxer briefs once his jeans are off. His hands reach out, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your sweatpants. "So no bra..." he says, sitting up a little. "Any panties?"

"You'd have to find that out yourself, wouldn't you?"

He smirks, hands tugging the sweats down, exposing your naked thighs. His hands roam from your waist to the crease at your hips where your tummy meets your thighs, searching for a bit of fabric. He finds none. 

"No panties," he whispers. "Fuck."

You kick your sweatpants all the way off, now just completely naked on top of him.

"This is gonna sound fucked up..." you start, a nervous laugh spilling out. "But I'm kind of happy you can't see me right now. I always feel...self conscious? When I'm on top."

He can hear the vulnerability. The softness.

"Why?" he asks.

"I don't know. I mean, I'm not perfect. Always worried the view is going to disappoint."

"Oh, so I'm the blind one and you're the fuckin' deaf one. Got it." He says with a little snort.

You can't help but laugh. "What?"

"I spent the last half hour tellin’ you what I liked."

"Yeah, but.."

"No fuckin' buts." His hands grip the plush softness of your ass. "You think this doesn't turn me on? You think I don't wanna squeeze your hips and thighs and feel those fuckin' tits bounce while you're riding my cock? You think I can't imagine how you look when you're panting and wet? Or how pretty you'll sound moaning my name?"

You're taken aback, but you still manage to clear your throat with a small laugh and tease him. "How do you know I'll moan your name?"

He growls, squeezing you a little harder, and bucks his hips up, grinding against you. You gasp at how good the friction feels.

"I'll make you," he pants. "Trust me, I'll make you."

He's kissing you again, his hands roaming your back. He grips your ass again, hard, pulling you against his cock, just the fabric of his boxer briefs between you.

"Take 'em off," he grunts. "I need you to take these fuckin' things off."

You sit up, moving off him and grabbing the waistband of his boxer briefs. "Lift your hips."

He does and you pull them down, tossing them aside.

"Get on top of me," he commands.

"Bossy." You reply, but you get a good look at his cock as you do and, fuck, he wasn't lying. It's thick and hard, a pretty pink at the tip that matches his plush lips.

You climb back on top of him, settling over his hips.

"Fuck," he groans, feeling your heat. "I wanna touch you."

"You are touching me," you say, breathless.

"Not like that." He replies. "Let me feel you."

You guide his hands to your chest. His fingers brush over your nipples, and he hisses a low curse as he palms your tits.

"These things shouldn’t be fuckin' legal," he groans. "Spillin’ over my hands."

You moan softly. He squeezes them a little harder, teasing your nipples, and you whimper.

"Yeah, that's it. I wanna hear you," he growls, and sits up. "Want these in my mouth."

You lean forward, bringing your tits to his lips, and he groans, laving at them. His hands are on your waist, then your ass, squeezing. He looks so good like this, his mouth on you, sucking, licking, grabbing, moaning.

"Think about these every day," he mumbles, voice muffled by your chest.

"Yeah?" You ask, and he hums, nodding, pulling his head back.

"Always had a thing for 'em. Love a woman with a good pair. Wanna bury my face between 'em."

He kisses you, hot and hungry.

"You're a fuckin' wet dream. God this shit feels like a dream. You know your senses get heightened and shit when you can't fuckin see?"

"I went nursing school, yes." You laugh against his mouth. "But it's more like you develop your other senses more over time like--"

"I'm gonna develop my dick into you, okay? Not the time for anatomy lessons."

"You're cute when you're horny."

He growls. "Shut up."

You grind down on him and he curses, the feeling taking all the bark out of him. "Fuck. Shit. Yeah. I wanna fuck you so bad. God. Need to be inside you."

He can't see your blush, but he can feel the heat coming off you. 

"I'm on the pill, but I don't have condoms," you say, hoping that it doesn't ruin the mood.

He groans, leaning his forehead against yours.

"I'm clean, swear on my life. Sure you could get that info anyway. Ain't been with anyone since..." He swallows hard, his next words barely audible. "Since before."

He's scared, you can feel it.

"It's fine," you whisper, hands in his hair. "I trust you."

His cock twitches and he hisses.

"Fuck, I want you."

"Then have me," you say. "I'm here."

He reaches down between your bodies, his fingers brushing your pussy. You're wet, slick against his touch, and he groans again. His thumbs finds your clit, circling slowly.

"God..." you whine out before biting your lip. "No man has an excuse for not finding it now."

"No man is gonna have the fuckin’ chance."

You shudder at his possessive tone, and he feels the shift in your hips.

"That's right. You're mine. Just mine." He grunts, pressing the pads of his fingers harder.

He rubs your clit for a moment longer, until you're squirming and gasping and rocking your hips.

Then he grips his cock, stroking it a couple times, before guiding the tip to your entrance. "C'mere."

You sink down on him slow, letting him stretch you open. You both moan, the sound a harmony, his low and raspy, yours soft and sweet. He feels bigger than you expected, but the pleasure is sharp, not painful.

"Oh, fuck." He curses. "Jesus, fuck."

You start moving, rocking your hips against him, taking him deeper each time. He groans, his hands gripping your ass, holding you as you ride him.

"Tell me how it looks," he breathes, his voice strained. "Tell me what you look like. I wanna know."

"I don't...I can't say that shit… what if I sound stupid?" You pant out.

"You won't. Please."

You can't say no to him when he begs.

"Your cock...it's so thick and pretty and hard, and it's sliding into me, and the way my pussy's wrapped around it, God..."

He groans, thrusting up. “You like it? How it looks when I'm fuckin’ you?”

"I love it. Fuck."

You're moving faster, rocking your hips in a rhythm, the room filled with the sound of your skin slapping against his. He's thrusting up to meet your hips, and you can't stop the sounds that spill out.

"Wanna feel your tits bouncing," he pants.

You move one of his hands from your hip to your breast. He squeezes one and groans, hand resting just under to feel them bounce. 

"God, I love the way they move. They're fucking perfect. You're perfect."

He moves his other hand up, feeling your neck, then your jaw.

"Open," he rasps.

You open your mouth, and he slips two fingers past your lips.

"Suck," he orders.

You do, swirling your tongue around them. He hisses.

"Just like that. Jesus. Your mouth's so wet. Like a pussy."

You whimper, and he feels your tongue lap at his fingers. He pulls them out and moves his hand to your face, his thumb brushing your bottom lip. The hand still on your hip digs in harder, moving you faster.

"Ride me harder, baby," he pants.

"Yes," you breathe, and you bounce harder, the angle making him go deeper.

"Oh, fuck." He grits. "Feels so fucking good. Your pussy's so tight. So fucking wet. God, the sounds you're makin'."

His words are particularly special or flowery, but the praise is still doing something to you, making heat pool in your belly. Suddenly you're grateful that he never shuts the fuck up.

"You're close," he pants, and you nod, forgetting he can't see it.

"I am," you reply, voice shaky. "Are you?"

"Yeah, baby. So fuckin' close."

You reach down and rub your clit. Gator feels the movement and lets out a broken moan.

"Oh, fuck, baby. Fuck, yes. God, you touching yourself.?"

"Gator," you cry out, and he can feel how much you're shaking.

"That's it," he pants. "You're gonna come on my cock. You're gonna come all over it, and then I'm gonna fill you up. Fuck. That's what you want, isn't it? My cum so deep in your pretty little pussy."

You whimper, his words and the movement of his cock and the way he's moaning and growling and hissing sending you over the edge.

"Fuck, baby," he grunts, and you're coming, crying out and shaking and rocking your hips, his name on your lips.

"Yes," he groans. "Fuck yes, that's it. Fuck. Keep going. God, you're so wet. I can feel it. You're milking my cock. Fuck, I'm gonna come. Oh, shit. Fuck. I'm gonna come. I'm gonna—"

"Please," you whine.

"Oh, fuck. You're beggin' me. Fuck. Say it again. Beg me."

"Please," you moan. "Please, come inside me."

He's not sure if it's the words or the way you sound when you say them, or the feeling of your pussy pulsing around his cock, but he's coming hard, holding you down on him and filling you up. He's cursing, the word fuck spilling from his mouth over and over, and you're crying out again, your body shaking as you come a second time.

The sound he makes when his cock starts pulsing in you, the way he fills you, it's like nothing you've ever heard before. He's not quiet, not even a little. And you've never felt this kind of release, not from any other man. You feel lightheaded, dizzy almost, the room spinning around you.

He's panting, trying to catch his breath, his hands still gripping your hips. You can feel his cock softening inside you, but it's still buried deep.

You're both silent, trying to recover, the air thick with sweat and sex.

"Jesus Christ," he whispers. "Fucking hell."

"Yeah," you agree.

There isn't much else that can be said. He’s a sightless man who just fucked someone so thoroughly, it was like he could see every inch of her body.

You reach for the nightstand, finding the glass of water he keeps there. You drink half and offer him the rest, bringing it to his lips. He takes it and gulps down the remainder.

You collapse onto the bed next to him, still naked. His arm is thrown over his face, and he's panting.

"I'm gonna get us cleaned up. Then we'll talk," you say.

The arm that isn't over his face reaches over to stop you as you get up. 

"No you're not." He says, his voice hoarse.

"I'm not sleeping like this and neither are you." You say with a lighthearted eyeroll. "I'll be back."

He huffs but he doesn't actually say anything, keeping his hand on you.

"What is your issue?" You ask, confused now.

"I'm supposed to be the one doin' that shit for you!"

He yells it, but there's nothing mean in his voice. Just frustration and something else. Something sad.

"Gator." You whisper, and move the arm from his face.

He doesn’t cry in the usual way. The damage to his tear ducts and lacrimal glands was too severe. You’ve only seen it once before, early on into working with him. His sockets don’t glisten or brim over like other men’s might. The burns left them scarred and hollow, the skin puckered and shiny in places where the grafts took, ragged in others where the heat had eaten too deep.

When emotion breaks through him, it shows as a raw wetness that seeps at the edges. The sound gives him away more than anything — his breath hitching, his voice breaking, the rough sniffling that seems to scrape at the back of his throat.

"Oh."

"Oh," he parrots, even with his voice breaking. "I can't take care of you the way a man should. I can't..." He shakes his head. "Fuck. I really am useless."

You have the words for it because Todd made sure you did. You remember him sitting across from you in that first collateral session, explaining what to watch for if the past shoved its way into the room. The hitch in Gator’s breathing. The lock in his jaw. The way shame can masquerade as anger. You see all of it now, strobing through the dim. And it feels like none of that actually prepared you for this moment.

Useless.

The word lands wrong in your chest because you know where he learned it. You picture the way he told you about his father in clipped notes and hard pauses, a man who measured worth in bruises and obedience, who called softness a weakness and turned love into a job no one could keep. 

The word useless lived in that house like mold, got into the walls, into the food, into the boy who learned to clean his plate even when it tasted like rot.

You know why the word hits you like a thrown glass now. You can see him reaching for it the way someone reaches for an old injury, pressing just to make sure it still hurts.

He fills the silence with a breath that shakes. “Guess the old man was right about—”

“Stop.” You lean in, press your mouth to the strip of skin above his wrap, right where his skin is smooth and warm below his hairline. “Do not put his voice in your mouth. Not here.” You keep your lips there a second longer than necessary, then pull back only far enough to whisper. “You are not useless.”

He lets out a hollow laugh, the sound dry and stubborn. “Yeah. Fine. But, as much as I can’t stand Todd and his perfect hair and golf tan and dumb boat shoes… he has a point.”

You blink, caught off guard by the picture. Todd is all sweaters and salt-and-pepper and lace-up boots that look more library than lake. You almost correct him, almost say he has a gray beard and a tweed problem and probably gets sunburned looking at a window, but you swallow the impulse. Let him have the cardboard villain if it makes the medicine go down.

Gator turns his face toward your voice like he can find you by the heat of it. “Point is, he keeps sayin’ I gotta say things out loud or they fester. So.” He swallows. His hand flexes on the sheet. “I was a real piece of shit before. I know that. I acted like a man who deserved more than he gave. I liked bein’ mean. I liked when people backed up. I thought the badge and the name made it fine.” He pauses. “It didn’t.”

You slide your palm up his forearm, slow and steady, the way Todd told you helps when the edge gets sharp. He doesn't pull away. You hate that the muscles under your hand are tight and trembling, like he is bracing for a hit that never comes.

“I ain’t like him,” Gator says, voice roughening. “I don’t want to be like him. I don’t want to scare women. I don’t want to hurt ’em. I did enough hurtin’ walkin’ around blind to my own bullshit before I lost my eyes.” His mouth flattens. “And that lady I killed… in my head I said it was an accident like it made a difference. Maybe it does on paper. But I still did it. I was still on my way to murder someone that night, just ended up bein’ the wrong person.”

Your thumb moves in slow, steady circles against his skin. You don’t bring up the facts again. Don’t repeat what the report said, or what the lawyer said. You just let him hold the thread in his own hands.

“Now… I wanna take care of somebody,” he says, voice low and raw. “Not own ‘em. Not control ‘em. Just… take care. Bring their coffee the way they like it. Fix the crooked shelf. Keep a hand at their back on the ice so they don’t fall. Sit through the boring shit ‘cause it matters to them. Hold ‘em when they’re sick. Touch ‘em like I know where they’re sore and where they’re strong.” He lets out a breath, soft and wrecked. “And I can’t even see if they’re rollin’ their eyes at me. I gotta ask where the cups are in my own kitchen. Gotta have someone check my goddamn face for infection. It’s funny, in a mean kinda way. Like the universe waited for me to want the right things just so it could get locked behind fuckin’ glass.”

You lean down and kiss the space above his wrap, then the ridge of his temple, then the curve of his cheek where the graft meets the old skin. “You are doing it,” you say. “You’re taking care. Right now. You’re talking. You’re telling me what you want. That counts, a lot more than you realize.”

He breathes like he doesn’t believe you—but maybe wants to. A small laugh escapes, smaller than his pride, shaped like a bruise. “Feels like one of those twisted jokes,” he murmurs. “Soon as I decide I’m ready to be good at somethin’ that actually matters, I’m short a couple tools.”

Your hand slides from his forearm to his bicep, a firmer grip that says don’t run. Don’t look away—even if looking’s different now. He turns his face toward you again, closer this time, like he’s learning you by sound and warmth.

“Yeah,” you say, soft. “Maybe it is a joke.”

You let the beat stretch, then add, calm and sure, “But the punchline’s not that you failed.”

He swallows. Nods once. Your foreheads almost touch.

And you stay like that, his hand still wrapped around your wrist, your mouth on his temple. Both of you listening to the same breath, until the room remembers how to be small and safe again.

Then you tilt your mouth toward his ear.

“Do you want to take care of me,” you ask, quiet but clear. “Right now? ”

He huffs a laugh, trying to pull the moment back to something he can joke about. “Think I could go another round.”

You snort and tap his bicep, gentle. “Not like that.”

There’s a small pause while he tries to figure out what you mean. You can feel him searching the space for you, head turning a little.

“Do you trust me?” you ask.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. Then he adds, dry, “You helped me the week I kept gettin’ turned around in the shower and cussin’ at the faucet like it was personal. Pretty sure I gotta trust you by now.”

You laugh, soft and fond, and squeeze his hand. “Come on.”

You help him sit up, then stand, then you guide him with your palm at his at his elbow. The little bathroom off the bedroom is warm from the radiator, mirror fogged at the edges, tile cool under your feet. You set him lightly against the sink, steadying him until his knuckles find the porcelain. He’s still flushed from before, chest rising slow, hair mussed from your fingers. A line of dried sweat glints along his collarbone. His mouth is a little swollen. He looks wrecked in the best way, a good kind of used.

You take the wrap from his head, careful with the knot, careful with the edges. He holds still, jaw set. When the cloth comes free, he lets out a breath you can feel on your wrist.

“Isn’t it weird,” he says, voice low, “how I still wanna look away or close ‘em when I can tell you’re lookin’ at me like that?”

“Like what?” you ask, already reaching past him to turn the shower on. The pipes knock once, then settle, steam lifting in a thin veil.

“Like I’m somethin’ worth lookin’ at,” he says, almost a whisper.

You test the water with your fingers, then glance back at him, water pattering louder now. “That’s because you are.”

You step him into the tub with you, guide his hand to the tile so he can place his feet, then tug the curtain closed. Warm water finds both of you in a steady sheet. You lift his hand and set it at your hip, then tip your face up and kiss the corner of his mouth. Slow. You kiss his jaw next, then the notch of his throat, then the hollow where his shoulder meets his neck. You tell him what you love as you go, soft against his skin.

“This throat,” you murmur. “How your voice sits low here when you’re bein’ stubborn.”

You kiss the slope of his shoulder. “These shoulders. Big enough to lean on.”

You kiss along his collarbone. “This. Warm. Strong.”

Your mouth trails over the center of his chest, the dark hair gone flat under the spray. “All of this. The way you feel under my hands.”

He breathes out through his nose, steady, like he is letting the words soak in the way the water does. Your palms smooth down his ribs, over the curve of his waist, around to the small of his back. You kiss the flat of his sternum and feel his fingers flex at your hip.

“What happened to me takin’ care of you,” he asks, a half-laugh caught in it, like he is trying not to ruin whatever you are doing.

You smile against his skin and look up at him. “We’re gettin’ there.”

You find the body wash and the little bath pouf tucked on the caddy. “One of those fluffy things,” you say, half laughing.

He makes a face you can hear. “Hate that damn sponge-ball. Feels like bathin’ with a tutu.”

“You’ll live,” you say, smiling as you squeeze a ribbon of soap onto it. You work it until it foams, then curl his fingers around it and lift his hand. “Here. Help me.”

You guide him to your throat first. The puff glides over your skin, slick and warm under the spray. He follows your touch, slow, careful, the lather sliding down to your collarbones. You tip your chin so he can reach, and his breath brushes your cheek when he leans in to keep his balance.

Then his hand drifts lower.

He circles the top of your breasts and you hear the soft sound he makes when the pouf sinks against you, soap clinging, bubbles collecting at the curves. He moves under, patient, thorough, the drag of mesh and his knuckles leaving heat in its wake. You let out a quiet sound you did not mean to make.

“There’s more than those,” you whisper, teasing.

“Yeah, well,” he says, a smile in his voice, “there’s a lot of ‘em. Gotta make sure they’re extra clean.”

You laugh, breath catching when he lifts and cups you from beneath with the pouf, then you tap his wrist and steer him on. He runs over your shoulders and down your arms, slow from biceps to wrists like he is memorizing your shape through foam. You turn to give him your back and he follows the line of your spine to the small of it. His hand settles at your hip before sliding lower. He soaps the curve of your ass, careful and firm, then between your legs with a touch that is reverent more than greedy. You guide him, small nudges at his wrist, and he listens without argument, washing your inner thighs, the backs of your knees, down your calves to your ankles.

“Good,” you murmur, flushed and clean and dizzy. You tug him forward so both of you stand right under the water. The spray warms your face and rinses the lather off your skin in shining sheets.

“My turn,” you tell him, taking the pouf and running it up his chest. The suds cling to dark hair and stick to his sternum. You work the lather over his ribs, his sides, the planes of his stomach. He stands still, trusting your hands, only shifting when you press his hips so you can get everywhere. You soap his shoulders and the cords of his neck. He tips his head for you without being asked.

You turn for the shampoo on the shelf. Your back finds his chest, the weight of him a solid line. You pop the cap, squeeze the clear gel into your palm, and work it through your own hair first. Then you lift his hands and lace his fingers with your sudsy ones, pulling them up into your hair so he can feel it slip and catch as he lathers. His thumbs skim your scalp. His mouth finds your shoulder, a soft kiss against wet skin.

“Thank you,” he whispers into the curve there, barely louder than the water.

You swallow, then turn to face him. You pump more shampoo into your hands and reach up, working it through his hair, massaging his scalp in slow circles. He goes quiet the way men do when something good undoes them. You rinse him with your fingers spread, then step closer and tilt your head with his so the spray catches both of you. You close your eyes while the water runs clean, while the last suds slide off your shoulders and down your bodies.

You stay like that for a while, chest to chest, water drumming on your crowns, the bathroom small and warm around you.

His thumb finds your mouth first, tracing the shape of your bottom lip like he is reading a word he loves. He leans in and kisses you, careful and slow, nothing like the hungry mess from before. You can feel how he is touching you just to memorize you. He pulls you closer, chest to chest under the warm hiss of the shower, and you breathe the same steam.

“See,” you whisper against his mouth, “you can be good at taking care of me.”

He grumbles a little, more embarrassed than annoyed.

“And even better,” you add, smiling so he can hear it, “we can take care of each other.

Another soft mutter, as if he's trying to protest but knows you'll see right through it. 

“It’s pretty obvious you like me taking care of you,” you tease, and he kisses you soft again, a little longer this time, like he is sealing something.

You turn the water off and help him step out. Everything after is a blur of warm towels and dripping hair and the small bathroom’s heat. You put a clean wrap on his eyes. You hand him a fresh pair of boxers. You grab one of his black T-shirts from the dresser and tug it over your head, then stop halfway and catch his hands.

“Help me,” you say, guiding his palms along the hem, over your ribs, up to the collar so he can feel how it hangs on you. He smooths the cotton down your sides. It catches on your curves and you laugh. “Kinda tight… my ass is half out.”

“Not gettin’ any complaints here.”

He finds your fingers, and even though you could guide him, he turns and leads the way to the bed with the surety of someone who knows every inch of his room by heart. You climb in, the sheets cool, his body warm. You tuck yourself against him.

“Is it okay if I stay?” you ask. You already know, but you want to hear it.

He lets out a quiet laugh and hooks an arm around your waist, pulling you close enough to share a breath. That is the answer.

“Ain’t really done the stayin’ thing,” he says after a moment. “Used to just do it and go. Don’t know if I kick in my sleep. Might snore. Could talk, too. No idea.”

“It’s okay,” you say. “We’ll find out.”

He exhales and settles, one hand open on your hip like a promise.

After a long minute he says, almost sheepish, “You probably can’t be my caretaker anymore. Pretty sure this is a violation or whatever.”

“Oh, it’s a violation,” you say, laughing into his chest. “A big one. But I can still be here every day. I’ve got other clients. I’ll be fine.”

“So I’m gonna be seein’ a lot more of Beverly,” he groans.

“You’ll live,” you say. “Just don't end up doing this with her, cause then we’re really screwed.”

He snorts. “Yeah, right.” Then he tips his face toward you. “Ain’t doin’ this with anybody but you.”

You feel his words settle between your ribs. He tucks you closer. You let him.

Theres not much after that. A kiss or two. Maybe a quiet conversation. Something about his father or yours. Something about a dream, or the kind of future you would want if the world was different.

The morning will come and the coffee you make him will be too sweet, but he'll drink it anyway. 

Beverly will show up, late and with another story about her grandkids.

He'll call Karen, just to talk to the girls, and leave another message that goes unanswered.

There will be a text from Todd. A reminder about his appointment.

But right now, in the warmth of his bed, he isn't alone.

And when he wakes up, you'll still be with him and he'll realize, in the small hours before the sun, that it is enough.

The world will go on spinning. But for a moment, right then, everything will feel right.

Especially then.

WOW SORRY FOR THAT EMOTIONAL ROLLERCOASTER!

If you guys haven't placed a fanfic drink order, please do so here! I'm having so much fun with them so I'm extending it until end of October!

"Ha ha." He sat up, leaning his elbows on his knees. "No, seriously. I was thinkin' about us. About how we do all this couple stuff." He gestured vaguely between the two of you. "But we ain't got the lingo down just yet."

You sighed, marking your page and looking at him. "What lingo?"

"Names," he said simply. "Ain't that what couples do? Give each other cringe-ass nicknames that make everyone else wanna gag?"

You stared at him. "You wanna give me a nickname?"

"I think it’s required." He stood up, cracking his neck. "Yeah. Gotta figure it out. The right one."

"You can just call me by my name, Gator."

"Nah. That’s borin’. That’s for strangers. Not someone who’s already seen you naked." He started pacing the small living room area. "I gotta find one that sticks. Somethin’ that fits you."

You rolled your eyes and went back to your book, deciding to ignore him. It was usually the best strategy with Gator when he got like this - wired and looking for entertainment. If you didn't engage beyond an occasional nod, he’d eventually get bored and sit back down.

But he didn't.

You felt him walk behind the couch, leaning over your shoulder. His breath was hot against your ear, smelling of gum and the faint, lingering scent of leather and gun oil from work

"Hey, baby," he whispered. The word was low, gravelly at the edges.

You stiffened slightly, turning the page even though you hadn't read a word of it. "Stop it."

"Sure thing, little lady," he tried again, moving to the other side of the couch so he was leaning over the arm rest to whisper into your other ear. "Kinda sounds like you should be on a horse or somethin’, huh?"

"Gator, knock it off," you said, swatting a hand out to push him away. He dodged it easily, laughing as you stood and retreated to the arm chair.

"What about… Princess?” He murmured, ignoring your hand. "Think you’re a princess? Certainly got the attitude for it, goddamn.”

He moved towards you with a restless, buzzing energy radiating off of him. It was like he was hunting something. If you knew one thing about Gator Tillman, it was that he was like a damn dog with a bone. Once he latched onto something, there was almost nothing you could do to get him to let it go.

"Sugar'," Gator whispered, kneeling down next to the chair, his fingers trailing over the back of your neck. A shiver went down your spine that you tried to suppress. “Ooh, you like that?”

“Shut up.”

"Okay, sweetheart." He was in front of you now, crouching down so his face was level with yours, invading your personal space. "That one's real classic. My old man uses it.”

You looked at him, exasperated. "Are you done yet?"

"Nope." He grinned, showing teeth. "None of 'em feel right yet. I need data."

"Data?" You almost laughed out loud at how seriously he was taking this.

"Yeah. Physical evidence." He stood up abruptly, grabbing your wrist and tugging you out of the chair. You stumbled, dropping your book onto the floor.

"Hey! What the fu-“

Gator didn't let go, steering you backward with surprising strength until your back hit the living room wall with a dull thud. He boxed you in, one hand by your head, the other resting on your hip, his body pressing close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off him.

"Gator," you warned, though your voice lacked the bite you wanted it to have. Your heart was pounding a little harder now, adrenaline spiking.

"Pay attention," he said, his eyes locking onto yours. They were dark, pupils blown wide. "Need to see which one works."

"Works for what?"

"Which one gets you goin'." Gator’s expression was devious at his hand slid from your hip, fingers hooking into the waistband of your sweatpants.

You inhaled sharply, grabbing his wrist to stop him, but he didn't pause. He just pushed his hand down, rough and demanding, sliding past the fabric of your panties until his fingers were pressed against you, right where you were already starting to warm up under his scrutiny and touch.

"Fucking Christ," you breathed, your grip on his wrist tightening, but you didn't pull him away. Not really.

"Relax," he teased, his voice dropping an octave. "Just testing a hypothesis."

“Pretty big word for a guy like you.”

“Think I’m stupid?”

“Just thought you mostly did monosyllables.”

His fingers moved, dragging through your folds, and he hummed in satisfaction when he felt how slick you were. "Well, well. Wouldja look at that. All ‘a this is doin’ somethin’ for you. "

You flushed, your face heating up. "Shut up."

"No, no, this is good." He leaned in closer, his nose brushing against your cheek. "Let's try again."

Gator slid a finger inside you, curling it just enough to make your breath hitch in your throat. He watched your face intently.

"Baby girl," he whispered, the words slow and deliberate. He pumped his finger once, twice, watching your eyelids flutter. "Yeah? You like that one?"

You bit your lip, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but your body betrayed you. Your hips tilted toward his hand instinctively, seeking more friction.

"M’kay. That’s a maybe," he continued, his voice a rough rasp against your ear.

“It’s not anything.”

"Quit lyin’," Gator withdrew his hand slightly, circling your clit with a maddening lightness that made your knees weak. "My sweet girl knows better than to lie to me, right?"

You let out a shaky breath, your head falling back against the wall. "Gator..."

"Say it," he demanded, pressing his thumb harder against you. "Which one?"

"I don't know," you gasped, your resolve crumbling under the steady rhythm of his hand.

"Liars get punished," he said, though there was no true malice in it, just a dark, playfulness. He added a second finger, stretching you, the sudden fullness drawing a low moan from your throat. "Come on. What one made you all like this for me? Or do you just like bein’ told what to do?”

You looked up at him, seeing the smug satisfaction written all over his face. He knew he had you. You felt exposed, pinned against the wall by his hips and his hand, completely at his mercy, and the terrifying part was that you liked it.

"I think," you managed to get out, your voice breathless, "I think you're enjoying this way too much."

"Damn right I am," Gator grinned, leaning in to bite gently at your pulse point. "Now hold still. If you ain’t gonna tell me, I’m gonna find out.”

He didn't give you a chance to recover, his wrist twisting so his palm cupped you possessively, grinding against you in a way that made your vision blur at the edges. The friction was electric, sending jolts of pleasure up your spine that made your knees threaten to buckle.

"You're trembling," he observed, his voice dropping to that low, insinuating rasp he used when he was about to do something reckless. He leaned his weight into you, pinning you harder against the plaster so you couldn't escape the rhythm of his hand. "Means it's working. But which one did it, huh? Was it sweet girl? Or are you just a slut for being manhandled?"

You opened your mouth to snap at him, tell him to get off his fucking high horse, but all that came out was a broken, pathetic moan when he curled his fingers just right, hitting a spot that made your toes curl in your socks. His grin widened, sharp and predatory, like a wolf that had cornered its prey and realized it didn't even need to chase.

"Yeah, that's what I thought," he taunted, pressing his forehead against yours, forcing you to hold his gaze. You could see the calculation in his eyes, the way he was cataloging every gasp and flutter. He didn’t even seem like he was looking for a pet name anymore. "Look at you. Tryin’ to act all tough and independent. Then the second I get my hands on you, you turn into a fuckin’ puddle. It's cute. Or pathetic. Dunno, haven’t decided yet."

"Fuck you, Gator," you gasped, trying to find purchase to push him away, but your hands lacked conviction. Instead of shoving him, you were clinging to his flannel shirt, grounding yourself as he worked you over with ruthless efficiency.

"Language," he chided, though his tone was anything but disapproving. He pulled his fingers back, teasing you with the loss of fullness before sliding them back in, deeper this time, harder. "Think you can talk to me like that when I'm fuckin’ wrist-deep in you? Doesn't seem like you're in a position to negotiate, does it, babydoll?"

He punctuated the question with a rough thrust of his hand, the wet, obscene sound of his movements filling the small apartment. You felt heat flood your face, a mix of embarrassment and arousal that was dizzying. He was right, and you hated it. You were completely at his mercy, pinned to the wall by your own traitorous body.

"Wanna try another one?” Gator murmured, ignoring your frustrated glare. He moved his mouth to your neck, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin over your pulse point, nipping just hard enough to sting.

“No -“

"Darlin'," he drawled out the nickname, letting it hang in the air, thick with mockery. "Sounds real southern. Real gentlemanly. Does it make you feel special? What about honey? Nah, never mind. I don’t like that one.”

Gator didn't wait for a coherent response. He shifted his angle, his thumb finding your clit and circling it with agonizing slowness. Your breath hitched, your head falling back against the wall with a thud as you squeezed your eyes shut. The pleasure was building rapidly, a tight coil in your stomach that was winding tighter with every pass of his fingers.

"Open your damn eyes," he commanded sharply.

You forced your eyes open, vision swimming. He was watching you with an intensity that was almost frightening, like he was dissecting you.

"There she is," he said softly, though the smugness in his voice remained. "Damn, are you actually gonna let me get you off just by talkin’ to you?" He laughed, a breathy sound against your neck. "That’s fuckin' hilarious."

"Shut up," you whimpered, hips bucking involuntarily against his hand, seeking more of that friction, more of that pressure that was threatening to send you over the edge. You didn't care about his taunts anymore; you just needed him to keep going.

"Make me," he challenged, pulling his hand away slightly, denying you what you most wanted.

You let out a frustrated cry, hand flying out to grab his wrist, trying to force him back, but he was too strong. He held his ground, his fingers hovering at a cruel, teasing distance.

"Ask nicely," he said, his eyes dancing with mischief.

"No."

"Guess we're done here." He started to pull his hand out of your pants, the loss of warmth making you shiver.

"Wait," you blurted out, hating yourself for giving in. He stopped, looking at you with a raised eyebrow, waiting.

"Go on," he prompted, his fingers twitching against your skin.

"Please," you gritted out, the word tasting like defeat.

"Please what?" He leaned in closer, his breath hot on your ear. "Please touch you? Please make you come? Or please call you my little princess?"

Gator emphasized the last word, his tone dripping with sarcasm, but as he said it, his hand was already effortlessly back into place and resuming that devastating pace. You groaned, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder, unable to hold yourself up anymore as the pleasure washed over you.

"Yeah, that's it," he crooned, his voice almost gentle now, though the undercurrent of mockery was still there. "Take it. Doin’ so good for me."

Gator’s free hand came up to grip your jaw, tilting your head back so he could look at you again. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded with his own arousal, but the triumph in them was unmistakable. He owned you in this moment, and he knew it.

"You're so desperate," he whispered, his gaze dropping to watch his hand moving inside your sweats. "You really are my sweet girl, aren'tcha? So fuckin’ needy for me."

The combination of his voice in your ear, the grip on your jaw, and the relentless movement of his fingers was too much. The coil in your stomach snapped, sending waves of pleasure crashing through you. You cried out, your body arching off the wall. Gator worked you through it, drawing it out until you were shaking, your breath ragged. When you finally slumped against him, spent, he didn't pull away immediately. He kept his hand where it was, feeling the aftershocks rippling through you, a smug satisfaction radiating off him.

"Well," he said, pulling his hand out slowly a few minutes later, the movement deliberate and lingering. He held your gaze as he brought his fingers up to his mouth, tasting you. "Think we found a winner."

You stared at him, your chest heaving and face burning. "You're an asshole, Gator."

"Yeah," he agreed, wiping his hand on his jeans with a casual disregard that made your flush deepen. "But I'm your asshole. And you know you loved it."

He leaned in, pressing a quick, hard kiss to your lips, stealing your breath before you could formulate a retort.

"So, sweet girl it is?" Gator asked, backing away with a grin that said he already knew the answer.

"Go to hell," you muttered, sliding down the wall until your ass hit the floor, your legs feeling like jelly.

"Awe, boo-hoo. I'll pick you up later," he winked, stepping over your discarded book and heading back to the couch like nothing had happened. "We ain't done watching the show."

You sat on the floor for a minute, letting your heart rate settle while Gator reclaimed his spot, looking entirely too pleased with himself. He kicked his legs up on the coffee table once more, exuding a cocky confidence that made your blood boil - in the best way, but still. He thought he’d won. He thought he was the one in control here.

Pushing yourself off the floor, you smoothed down your sweatpants, wincing slightly at the lingering sensitivity. You walked over to the couch and stood right in front of the TV, blocking his view.

"Move it," he complained. "You make a better door than a window."

You ignored him, straddling his lap before he could react. He grunted in surprise, his hands automatically coming to rest on your hips, but you caught his wrists, wrenching them away from your body and pinning them against the back of the couch.

"Whoa there,” he laughed, looking up at you with a mixture of amusement and intrigue. "What's this? Round two?"

"Something like that," you murmured, leaning down so your face was only an inch or two from his. "You played your game, Gator. Now we're playing mine."

"Oh?" He challenged, though you felt his muscles tense under your grip. He wasn't used to being on this side of the pin. "What’dya want?"

"Remember how you said couples need nicknames?" You traced the line of his jaw with one hand, your touch light and teasing. "I think we need to find one for you, too."

Gator scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I ain't the sweetheart type."

"Didn't think you were," you agreed. You shifted your hips, grinding down against him experimentally as you released his writers. His breath hitched, his eyes narrowing slightly. "But everyone has a button, Gator. And I’m gonna find yours."

"Yeah, good luck with that," he smirked, trying to regain his composure, though you could feel him twitching beneath you. "I'm a simple man."

"We'll see." You leaned in, brushing your lips against his neck, right over the rapid pulse point. "How about... Cowboy?" You whispered, letting the word hang in the air.

He groaned, but it was a sound of annoyance rather than pleasure. "Don't start that shit. My old man called me that as a kid. Kills the mood."

"Noted." You moved lower, nipping at his collarbone. "How about... Handsome?"

"What am I, goin’ to my first communion? Are you my grandma?”

"Okay big guy?" You felt his stomach muscles contract as you laughed softly against his skin. "Tough guy?"

"You're runnin’ out of steam, sweetheart," he taunted, though his grip on your hips tightened, pulling you closer. "Just admit it, you can't fluster me."

You pulled back to look him in the eye, a slow smile spreading across your face. You could see the challenge in his brown eyes, the arrogance that made you want to wipe that smug look right off his face. You leaned in close, your lips ghosting over his ear, taking your time. You felt him tense up, waiting for the strike.

"Bad boy?"

He let out a shaky breath, his fingers digging into your waist. "That's a given. Try harder."

You shifted again, deliberately rolling your hips against the growing hardness in his jeans. He sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his head falling back against the couch cushion. You had him now; you just had to find the right key.

"Daddy?" you suggested, dragging the word out.

"Absolutely not," he choked out, his eyes flying open. "Christ. Don't ever fuckin' say that again. Weirds me out."

"Okay, okay," you soothed, secretly relieved because you didn’t want to have to call him that.

You ran your hands down his chest, feeling the way his heart was beating against his ribs. He was affected, more than he wanted to admit. He liked the chase, but he wasn't used to being the prey.

Then, a thought struck you. All the times you'd seen him with his dad, the way he sought approval, the way he bristled at authority but secretly craved some direction. You thought about the way he looked at you sometimes, like he wanted you to tell him what to do. He talked a big game, but you knew he’d secretly do anything to see a trace of happiness from you.

"Hmm," you hummed, pretending to think. "You try so hard, don't you? Always acting out, always making noise." You leaned in, kissing the corner of his mouth. "But I know what you really are."

"Yeah?" he rasped, his voice rough and husky. "And what's that?"

You moved your mouth to his other ear, tugging at his earlobe lightly with your teeth before your voice dropped to a whisper that was barely audible.

"My good boy."

The reaction was instantaneous. Gator froze, his entire body going rigid beneath you. A sound tore from his throat - half-groan, half-whimper - and his eyes squeezed shut as if he’d been struck with dizziness. You felt him twitch violently against your core, his hardness pressing up against you, undeniable and sudden.

"Awe, you alright there, Gator?" You pulled back to see his face. He was flushed - lips parted and chest heaving. When he opened his eyes, the pupils were blown so wide the chocolatey color was just a thin rim. He looked utterly wrecked, and it delighted you.

"Say it again," he breathed, voice cracking.

You whispered the words once more, watching him shiver.

"Fuck," he hissed, his head falling forward to rest against your shoulder. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath hot and ragged against your skin as he pressed several kisses against you.

"Oh, you like that?" you teased, though you were secretly thrilled by how easily he’d crumbled. You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching his nails lightly against his scalp, and he practically purred. "You like being my good boy?"

"Y-yeah," he admitted, the word muffled against your neck. He was practically nuzzling into you, seeking friction, completely abandoning his earlier bravado. "I like it."

"That's because you are, aren't you?" you cooed, tightening your grip in his hair and pulling his head back so he had to look at you. "Deep down. All that attitude. Your gun and badge... But you just want to be told you're doing good, dontcha?”

He stared up at you, his eyes wide and glassy, looking at you like you were the only thing in the world. The arrogance was gone, replaced by a desperate, pleading need that made your stomach flip. The power rush was intoxicating. You’d never seen him like this - pliable, eager, submissive. It was like finding a secret weapon.

"I am," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'm good. I'll be so good for you."

His hands scrambled for purchase on your hips, his grip bruising as he tried to pull you down harder, but you held back, keeping the pace maddeningly slow.

"Please," he whimpered, actually whimpered. The sound went straight to your core. "Please let me..."

"Let you what?" You asked, enjoying the way he was squirming beneath you.

"Touch you," he gasped. "Fuck you. Don’t care. Anythin’. Just... Say it again."

You leaned down, kissing him deeply, swallowing his moan. When you pulled back, you brushed a stray lock of hair off his forehead.

"Good boy," you whispered.

A soft, yellow glow spilling out from your living room window. He knows that window. Knows it the way you know a face you’ve seen a hundred times without ever really talking to it.

The curtains aren’t fully closed.

You never line them up right. Just that thin, careless seam where the panels don’t quite meet; it makes his jaw creak just thinking about it. He shifts his teeth, works them side to side until he can feel his molars grind. 

When are you gonna fucking learn?

Doesn’t it ever cross your mind that somebody could be out here, watching?

Some creep. Some sick bastard taking that invitation you keep leaving wide fucking open.

He leans forward an inch.

Then another.

If he tilts his head just right, he can see inside.

That room’s as familiar to him as the weight of his sidearm.

He’s practiced the angle enough that it’s muscle memory. Knows exactly how far he can push it before the windshield glare screws him over.

It’s taught him a lot of things.

Like how long you leave the overhead light on before switching over to the lamp. How your soft, beige couch has got that permanent dip in the cushions where you always sit, knees tucked under you.

You’re there now, folded into that spot like usual.

You’re wearing your usual, too. Loose T-shirt and dark cotton shorts.

No lace or ribbons or nothing. It’s so unsexy. Not like those chatroom girls he messes around with some nights. Hell, he’d even take one of those skimpy little silk dresses—Karen’s got a whole closet full of ‘em.

You don’t even try.

And yet... there’s skin.  

Lots of it, he can get a good eyeful of your thighs when you’re sitting there like that with your legs pulled up, the lamplight turning your skin all warm and honey-soft. When you reach sideways for the remote, your shirt rides up just enough to show a strip of stomach.

He swallows, throat clicking loudly in the quiet cruiser.

No bra.

He knows because he watched you take it off earlier.

Watched the straps slide down slow over your arms, one after the other. You tugged it out through your sleeve, tossed it over the back of the couch. Careless. Same way you always leave the curtains open.

Same way you forget to lock your door half the time.

Drives him fucking nuts.

He shifts in the seat, one elbow braced on the door, the other hand hanging loose over the wheel. His thumb rubs slow circles into the worn leather, mouth pulled tight.

If he squints, he can almost make out the shape of your tits underneath the shirt. Can imagine how your nipples would tighten if the room got colder.  

Or if his hands were there instead.

Fuck.

He breathes hard through his nose, leather creaking under his fist.

The hand that’s been resting on his thigh starts inching inward. Toward that thick bulge trapped in his camos, chubbing up beneath the fabric. He drags a rough, heavy palm across the top, squeezing just once, eyes burning a hole through the glass.

You’re playing with your hair again.

You do that a lot when you’re distracted. Just lounging on the couch, remote loose in your hand while the TV screen flickers white and blue lights across your face.  

Most nights go like this. Boring as shit, really.

Sometimes you’ll fold laundry. Sometimes you’ll read, those nerdy little glasses slipping down your nose until you push them back up with your finger. He’ll time it, if he’s really desperate for entertainment. Count how many minutes it takes before they slip again.  

Sometimes you’ll sit there on your phone, thumbs tapping away. He’ll watch you smile at something that lights up your screen and wonder who the fuck is funny enough to make you laugh like that.

You don’t have a boyfriend.

He’d know.

He knows what time your shift ends at the diner. Knows what nights you close. Knows there’s never a second set of headlights behind you when you pull in, never a truck parked here overnight. Never some asshole walking you to your door, hand at the small of your back like he’s got some fucking right.

He would’ve seen it.

Would’ve remembered the plate.

He rubs his thumb across the steering wheel, thinking about that night with the music.

Some godawful, girly pop song blasting loud enough the whole block had to listen while you spun around in the middle of your living room, all alone, wine glass in hand.  

You slammed into the couch, almost ate shit. Wine sloshing over the rim, streaking across your shirt, but you just stood there, staring at the mess, and started laughing. Head thrown back, twirling like you’re performing for an audience of none.

Well—one.

He’d laughed then, too. Shook his head alone in the dark like some goddamn idiot.

He catches himself smiling at the memory as he watches you now, eyes locked on your frame while you flip through the channels mindlessly.

Then he notices your hand.

At first, he thinks you’re just adjusting your shirt. Fingers drifting lazy and aimless, sliding over your stomach.

Your hand slips under the hem, like you’re chasing an itch.

Doesn’t come back out.

He squints, leaning forward until his chest presses against the steering wheel. His breath fogs the glass and he swears under his breath, wiping at it impatiently, smearing it worse before clearing a small circle with the heel of his palm.

And it’s with a well-angled tilt of his head, he’s holding his breath now, that he realizes your fingers are sliding down. Dragging a slow line across your hips, swirling patterns over the skin above the elastic.

Then they hook into the waistband of your shorts.

And disappear.

His cock jolts hard in his briefs.

“No...” he breathes, voice scraping low in his throat. “No fuckin’ way.”

Your wrist sinks deeper. Your shoulders move next, rising and falling in subtle, rhythmic rolls. The fabric between your thighs pulls tight, stretched over the shape of your gliding knuckles.

It takes him another second to catch up.

Then he moves all at once.

“Holy shit. Holy fuckin—”  

He jerks upright, knees slamming into the wheel. The cruiser rocks a little and he freezes, eyes snapping to your window like you might’ve heard that through brick and drywall.

You don’t even look up.

You’re too busy.

His belt’s suddenly suffocating, biting into his stomach. He wrestles with it, hands clumsy, jerking and fumbling. The cab vibrates with frantic rustles, ragged breaths, the scrape of metal dragging against fabric, before—

“Shit! Fuckin’... c’mon!”

His zipper’s stuck; he has to glance down to wrench it free, practically ripping the fabric away from the teeth. The second it gives, he shoves his pants and briefs down in one rough yank. His cock springs free, tip angry red and slick under the dim glow of the dash.

He hisses through his teeth as cool air hits his balls, resting heavy on top of his waistband.

His gaze snaps back up.

You’re still there.

And—oh, fuck.

Your shorts are gone.

Sometime in his fumbling, you kicked them off. They’re pooled on the floor near the couch. You’re bare from the waist down now, shirt rucked up to just under your tits, cotton bunched high on your stomach.

Your thighs are spread wide across the couch. Knees angled open, feet planted at the edge.

Jesus.

It’s more of you than he’s ever seen.

Soft, plush, endless stretches of skin, the swell of your hips sinking deep into the coarse upholstery.

He wraps his hand around his cock. Tests the weight of it, the feel, thumbing over the head, smearing pre-cum until it strings between his fingers.

He narrows his eyes, lips parted in focus as he tries to grasp whatever detail he can.

It’s not much, but when you tilt your hips just right, letting the lamplight kiss your skin, he swears he sees something wet there.

Between your thighs.

Something that fucking glistens.

His vision blurs at the edges.

“Oh fuck me—"

He groans, thumping his head back against the seat once, hard enough to make the springs creak. Then he folds forward fast, spitting a thick glob into his palm. Smears it all over his length and plants his boots on the floorboard, knees splayed wide.

Starts stroking in earnest.

In the window, your arm picks up speed.

So does his.

Obedient as a mirror, precise as a metronome. Hips twitching in the seat as he strokes himself slow, forcing himself to stick to your rhythm, just itching to speed up.

His other hand grips the driver’s side door for purchase, wet schlicks filling the space between his grunts.

“Yeah,” he breathes, teeth flashing in the dark. “Yeah, there you go. That feel good?”

He’s not in the cruiser anymore.

He’s on your couch.  

Spread out beneath you, big hands planted on your waist, thumbs digging into the soft give of your hips.

You’re straddling his lap, knees braced on either side. Shirt shoved up to your collarbones now, tits spilling free, bouncing every time you grind down on his cock.

He ruts up against his fist, makes a loose ‘o’ with his thumb and four fingers to form a makeshift sleeve. His other hand’s gripping the door so tight his knuckles are blanched.

You look like fucking heaven.

Head tipped back, lips parted, neck bare and slick with sweat. He wants to press his mouth to it, sink his teeth in and trace the salt around with his tongue. Sucking, kissing, tasting, leaving marks he won’t ever let fade.

“Fuck yes, ride me. Yeah, yeah—shit, just like that.”

He’s jerking faster now, free hand coming up to grasp at the empty air in front of him. Fingers flexing, curling, like they’re closing around your waist for real. He can feel it, the phantom weight of your hips. That hot, slick drag of your pussy, the squeeze when he bullies his way back inside.

His hips jolt off the seat in a sharp thrust, steering wheel digging into the tops of his thighs.

“Take it,” he pants at the glass, like you can hear him. “Fuckin’ take it. C’mon, baby.”

You sound like fucking heaven.

Fingers buried in his hair, nails scraping against his scalp while you rock yourself on him like you can’t get enough. Eyes rolling to the back of your skull while you drool and bounce on his cock, telling him it feels good, so good, yeah, don’t stop, fuck me harder daddy, oh my god, Gator, you’re so big—!

“Gonna fuck you so good,” he grunts, the sounds of his spit-drenched cock loud and obscene in the echoing silence of the car. He pretends they’re from your pussy instead. “This... this fat cock stretchin’ you out. Swear you won’t... won’t be walkin’ for a week.”

You smell like fucking heaven.

That sharp, sugar-sweet tang of pussy thick in the air, strangling his senses, mixed with the smell of your shampoo—that peachy scent he catches every time you lean over the counter at the diner.

Smiling at him in your tiny little apron, all bright and teasing as you top off his coffee.

Mornin’, deputy. Your usual?

He never knows what to say back. Just smiles, nods. Clears his throat and pretends to glance out the window, eyes landing on anything but you.  

Like he won’t go right back to staring the second you turn your back.  

He always leaves a bigger tip than he means to.

Then he sits in the parking lot afterward, watching you through the dusty glass while you tend to the breakfast rush, palming himself through his pants like some fucking animal, bricked up just from the way you smelled leaning over him. Peach and sugar and warm skin.

Conditioned. Like a goddamn K-9 catching a scent.

He thinks about that one time you brushed his fingers when you handed him his change.

An accident, probably.

He’d thought about that for a week.

Went home that night and stared at his hand like it meant something. Turning it over in the light, sat on the edge of his bed.

Now he drags that same hand over his cock and imagines it’s yours.

Your arm’s moving faster now. Hips bucking against the couch, one hand sliding up to squeeze your tits through your shirt, fingers digging in. He could do that for you. Do that and a whole lot more.

He groans low, hand flying over his cock, grip turned punishingly rough.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he pants, jaw slack, eyes burning. “C’mon. You gonna... gonna come, baby? Huh? Gonna come like that?”

He can’t look away from your face.

He just needs to know.

Needs to know what’s in your head right now.

Who’s in it.

Some faceless guy? Some cook from the diner? Some asshole texting you late at night?

The thought makes his jaw lock.

And then another one slips in, soft and pathetic:

What if it’s him?

What if, when you’re close, when you’re right there on the edge, you think about the way he looks at you across the counter? The way his voice drops low when he thanks you. The way he lingers at the door like he might’ve forgotten something, just to turn back and steal one more glance.

Do you ever think about him when you’re about to come?

Like he thinks about you?

Do you ever think about him when you’re bored at work, when you’re lonely or sad or restless?

Like he thinks about you?

Do you ever lie in bed after a long shift, wondering what it’d feel like to have someone warm there beside you?

Someone who’d remember to lock the doors for you. Fix the crooked curtain rod in your bathroom. Change that burnt-out porch light without being asked.

He thinks about it all the time.

About coming home to you, for real.  

Boots kicked off by the door, badge tossed on the kitchen counter. The whole house smelling warm, like butter and garlic and whatever you’ve been stirring on the stove.

You’re standing there, in one of his old T-shirts.   

“You’re late,” you call out in that half-teasing voice.

He steps up behind you, big hands sliding around your waist, chin dropping to your shoulder.

“Had shit to do,” he mumbles, nose brushing your neck. “Sorry, darlin’. Missed ya.”  

He breathes in your scent, peaches and warm skin, nips at your jaw just to hear that soft, light chime of your laugh.

You pull back and give him a wide smile.

Same one you always give him at the diner.

But now, it’s only for him.

Nobody else ever gets that smile.

Only him.

He stares at your lit window, dragging his thumb over the head of his cock.

“You don’t even know,” he mutters, strokes turning uneven. “Don’t even... don’t even know how good I’d take care of ya.”

He imagines leaving the bedroom he’s slept in his whole life.

Same four walls, same faded photos and knuckle-shaped dents in the plaster.

He imagines building something that’s his.

A house.

A yard.

A woman waiting inside.

Someone who wants him. Wants to keep him.

Who loves hi—

“Shit, shit, shit, shit—fuck!”  

Cum shoots hot and sudden over his fist, splattering across the steering wheel and down his knuckles. He jerks upright with a punched-out groan, boots scraping against the floorboard, the suspension creaking under the sudden shift of his weight. He grips his cock harder, aiming it at the wrong angle—thick, pearly streaks spray up high on his shirt, staining the dark fabric. It drips off the hem, pooling into the crease of his pants.

He groans low, too far gone to care as his hips stutter in time with each heavy spurt, his cock twitching weakly by the time he sinks back into the seat.

He keeps stroking himself through it, oversensitive, hissing at the sting while he ekes out the last few beads that glide slow and sticky down the side of his cock.

By the time he forces his eyes open, his vision is speckled and swimming. He blinks hard, straining to make out your silhouette across the street.

You’re still there.

On the couch. Head tipped back, spine arched, hips moving in that slow, restless rhythm. Your lips are parted around a sound he’ll never get to hear.

It kills him, the not knowing.

How he can see the shape of it, the parted ‘o’ of your lips, the exposed column of your throat and the heaving swell of your chest—but it's never enough to reach him.   

It’d probably have to be something small, he thinks. Something quiet. Something that could hide away in plain sight—taped under the coffee table, maybe tucked behind the hem of the curtain. He'll have to look out for it on his next supply run.

He slumps back in his seat, boneless, absently rubbing his softening cock while he watches your body shudder through the tail end of your orgasm.

He sighs, lashes fluttering with a heavy blink as he glances down at the amount of volume he’s sprayed, spunk cooling all over his clothes, his stomach, the wheel. He shakes his hand off in vague disgust before leaning across to the glovebox, fumbling for tissues. It takes him fucking forever. He swears under his breath; he’s gotta start keeping a sock or some shit in here.

By the time he looks back up, you’re no longer on the couch.

You’re standing at the window.  

Right there. Just behind the glass.

His breath locks in his chest.

The lamplight behind you turns your face into shadow, but the outline of you is unmistakable.   

You stand there for a beat, real still.

Then the curtains snap shut.

“Fuck...” He sags back into the seat, crumpling the cum-soaked tissue in a tight fist. “Shit, that was close.”

He lets his eyes fall closed, pulse hammering in his ears.

Lights off, engine cold. Alone in an empty cruiser, the air thick with the stench of sweat and spunk, drying tacky on his skin.

He sits there for a long time.

Waiting.

He wonders how long it’ll take you to fall asleep tonight.