As much as Roy looked down on the fact that you made Gator too delicate for his liking - he didn’t push him to leave you, because he needed the boy to knock someone up if he wanted the Tillman legacy to continue on. While Roy thought his boy was an idiot, he was still the only boy who carried the name.

You came from a respectable enough family in Roy’s eyes that he often bit his tongue about it - and it’s why Gator was extra eager to get home to you this evening, because Roy had just given him - begrudgingly - permission to ask you to marry him.

It didn’t mean that Roy wasn’t an absolute sexist pig about it - made a comment that he expected grandchildren quickly since that’s all you were good for.

Gator had clenched his teeth at the words, and if he had been younger he would’ve kept his mouth shut - but he was older now, a bit less desperate for his father to love him when he had you.

“We’ll ‘ave ‘em when she’s ready,” Gator mumbled sourly.

“What was that, boy?” Roy’s voice was even, but had an undertone of a threat.

“Nothin’, sir,” Gator responded swiftly, because again, he was a bit less desperate to please - not a lot less.

“That’s what I thought. Now, go propose to that sweet young thing of yours,” Roy smiled and clapped Gator’s shoulder, but all it did was make his stomach roll - sickened by his fathers thoughts about you.

Even so, his mood couldn’t be diminished because he planned to go home and ask you to be his girl for the rest of his life.

Unfortunately, Gator Tillman is known for fucking things up - which he promptly does right before he even gets the chance to pop the question.

Gator was being insanely affectionate with you - which he absolutely could be at times - but not nearly to this extent.

He was practically all over you from the moment he walked through the front door. You had greeted him at the threshold for a kiss, arms snaking around his shoulders - his own hands planted on your hips. You kissed him sweetly, before trying to pull back to ask how his day went.

Gator refused to let you go, deepening the kiss hungrily - nose knocking against yours, teeth biting down on your lower lip, chasing after you when you tried to break away to breathe.

He’s still refusing to let you go, and his tongue slides along the seam of your lips. You gasp - allowing him easy access to slip into your mouth. His hands move from your waist to cradle the back of your head, pulling you impossibly closer.

You finally have to tap his chest, silently letting him know you need a second. He unwillingly gives you some reprieve, moving away from your lips just to press hot kisses along your jaw, mouthing eagerly at your sensitive skin.

“Gat-,” you pant, losing focus when he nips gently at your throat.

“Hmm,” he hums out, hands having a mind of their own as they move back down - gripping the back of your thighs to hike you up, forcing you to wrap your arms around his neck as he hauls you to him - legs bracketing his hips.

“What, what’s gotten into you, Gator?” You finally get out, voice wobbly from the pleasure he’s pulling from you.

“Can’t I jus’ be happy to see my girl?” He questions, walking you towards your shared bedroom - lips still attaching lavishly to your neck, and you know you’ll be littered with marks there tomorrow.

“I’m happy to see you too, baby, but - oh,” your sentence is cut off when he throws your body on the bed, a squeak at the unexpected movement slipping out of your throat.

Gator takes you in, eyes ravishing in appreciation over you - the ring burning a hole in the back pocket of his cargo pants. He sheds himself of his work vest, leaving him in that tight black shirt of his that makes the muscles in his arms bulge.

He crawls over you, knees sinking into the plush of the mattress on either side of your own legs.

“But what, baby girl?” He mocks you, tilting his head to the side - kiss swollen lips now a dark pink pursed in a fake pout.

You swallow hard, cheeks flushing wildly, heart summersaulting - and you feel the familiar heat pooling low inside of you at the sight of him.

You can’t see his whole face because of that stupid hat of his - which frustrates the hell out of you because this man is so damn pretty, and you impulsively decide to knock it off his head. It causes a couple of soft strands of hair to fall forward, no longer held by the gel he uses to slick them back with.

Gator smirks at the action, and God you know you’re about to be in for it.

“Bein’ a bit bratty today, ain’t we, baby,” his tone is low, lust swirling behind those hazel brown eyes of his.

You can’t help but smile at his teasing, and wanting to win this battle - your hand snatches out to pinch playfully at his side, where you found out he’s incredibly ticklish if touched there.

Gator’s jaw drops - makes a high pitched noise that would embarrass the fuck out of him if he made it around anyone else but you. You giggle at his reaction, and your hands continue to torment him.

He’s a lot stronger than you, could easily trap your hands - but he knows you get a kick out of feeling like you’re winning when you fight jokingly with him like this - and he hates denying his baby girl, even if it means your fingers are making him squirm.

You give him a break, letting him catch his breath. When he makes eye contact with you, he gives you a warning look to not try it again. You don’t listen, hand itching to make him laugh, but this time Gator’s faster - decides he’s not letting you win because he wants you pinned beneath him, and he knocks your hand away before you can make contact.

“Gator,” you whine, because he always lets you win - not used to it being the other way around.

“Baby,” he mimics your tone, swatting your hands away once more when you lift them up.

You frown at him, upset that you’re not getting your way and try again. This time, he grabs your wrists, and lifts your hands about your head - pinning them down into the pillow cushioning your head.

Your eyes widen, and an evil smirk pulls at Gator’s lips. You know instantly he’s about to return the favor.

“Wait, no, I’ll be good,” you beg, trying to tug your hands free. Instead, he grips down harder, free hand moving to dig into the back of your knee - your own weak spot.

“Too late, baby,” he chides, tickling the skin and your leg tries to jerk away from him - hysterical laughter being drawn from your lips.

“Stop!” you shriek, noises leaving you that you didn’t know you could make because he hasn’t dished it back to you like this in a long time.

Gator continues his attack on you, grinning like a mad man - warmth flooding his body because you’re the only one he allows himself to be like this with, and he suddenly remembers the whole point of this night.

He doesn’t really have a plan - just a ring and a hope that you’ll say yes. He’s about to stop torturing you with his hands to ask, when it happens.

In the middle of you writhing around to try to get free of the feeling, you had slid further down the bed, making your head align perfectly under his. You’re wiggling around, trying to sit up, and in the process, the bridge of your nose slams into the hard bone of Gator’s jaw.

The pain that radiates from the contact stuns Gator for a second - it hurts like an absolute bitch. He shakes his head, working his jaw - rubbing at the sore spot, before he hears the sharp cry from you.

“Fuck,” you whimper.

Gator panics when he sees blood seeping from your nose, dribbling out over your lips and onto the clean white sheets.

“Shit, shit, baby, ‘m sorry,” he fumbles around, but the sight of your hand coming up to swipe at the blood makes him freeze.

There’s a lot of it, and he knows that it’s because the nose is a sensitive spot - he’s been punched enough there to know. But the rational part of his brain stops working, and all he can focus on is how he had caused that. He caused the tears that are now falling down your cheeks, mixing in with the dark red liquid coating the lower half of your face.

Despite the throbbing in your nose, you notice that Gator has gone still - seemingly in a trance as he stares at you. You scramble up, swinging your legs over and booking it to the bathroom.

Normally, Gator clings to you when you move about the house, trailing you around - you find it strange that he knows you’re hurt and hasn’t followed after you yet. You don’t know what’s wrong with him, but you know you need to clean yourself up - need to wash the pungent copper smell away.

Your nose is tender once you finish taking care of it, so you toss some medication back that will help it - grabbing one for Gator, because you know you smacked into his jaw hard enough for it to hurt him too.

But when you reenter the room, your breath hitches at the sight in front of you. Gator has moved toward the edge of the bed - feet on the floor, elbows on his knees with his hands twisted tightly in his hair. His body is visibly shaking, slightly rocking himself back and forth. You put the pill down on the nightstand and hesitantly move to stand in front of him.

His eyes are glassy, zoning out - and his breathing is erratic.

“Alligator,” you call quietly, easing to your knees in front of him - worry churning inside of you.

Gator closes his eyes at the nickname - you save it only for the safety of your home, and it never fails to make a dull ache bloom under his ribs at how you treat him like he’s worthy of affection.

“‘M not him, swear,” he grits out through his choked inhales.

The words make you pause, realizing why he’s acting this way - feeling like he’s bearing resemblance to his father at hurting you.

“Gator,” you say a bit more firmly, coaxing him to look at you, and your chest nearly caves in at seeing his face full of sorrow - moisture building up in his eyes.

You tentatively move your hands to his wrists, giving him an option to pull away from you. He doesn’t, so you tug daintily because you hate seeing the way his nails are nearly digging into his scalp.

He lets you intertwine your hands with his, and he rasps out, “I, didn’t, didn’t mean to.”

You nod your head rapidly, “I know, Gate. It was an accident - and really, it was my fault, not yours.”

The words don’t seem to soothe him at all - he’s still wearing the blame heavily on his shoulders. You can tell he’s lost - somewhere inside of his mind, in the memories of Roy beating his mother - pushing her away, and in the aftermath, Gator becoming the punching bag.

“Baby,” you breathe out, “need you to come back to me.”

“I,” he gasps, “I can’t.”

Since he’s already letting you hold him, you untangle your hands - reaching up to cup his face lovingly, grounding him just a bit.

“You can, watch me,” you encourage, showing him to take it slow - and he tries, exhaling unevenly, but trying.

“There you go,” you whisper.

He’s calmed down enough to spit out, “I hurt you.”

“You didn't mean to - like I said, it’s actually my fault. I collided into you,” you remind him.

He shakes his head, “Shouldn’ have let it get tha’ far.”

You sit silently back on your heels - unsure what to say to convince him otherwise, and he barrels on, “Still hurt?”

You don’t want to lie to him - know he’d catch your dishonesty anyway, “Yeah, a little.”

“I ruin everythin’,” he swipes harshly at his face because the tears have spilled, and he’s aggravated that he let himself cry.

“Hey,” you chide, forcing him to stop whacking at himself, “don’t be like that.”

“Do though, wanted this night tah be perfect,” he grumbles out, and you look at him curiously - not understanding what he’s talking about.

It’s then that he pulls the ring out from where it’s been hiding - it clicks now, why he was incredibly handsy with you; explains the carefree attitude he had before you stupidly knocked your head into his.

You gaze at the ring, dwarfed by his hands - it’s beautiful, exactly everything you could possibly want, but if you know anything about Gator, then he’ll be upset the rest of the night; and you know he won’t be asking in the same mindset.

You guide his fingers, curling them to cup the ring safely in his hand, “I’m gonna plan a date for us tomorrow, and I want you to ask me then.”

He looks at you from under his eyelashes, lips finally curving up in that smile you love.

He concedes, answering with a simple but final, “Can do that, baby girl.”

You’re leaning back against Gator’s chest, left hand stretched out in front of you to admire the ring that sits snugly on your finger - finally.

Gator’s arms are wrapped around your middle, head tucked into the crook of your neck - watching you as you turn the ring to make the sunlight glint off of it.

A picnic blanket is spread out below the two of you in the grassy field you had dragged him to.

“Not much of a date,” he had quipped when you told him you were taking him there.

You knew he wasn’t being serious but still told him, “No, but it’ll be perfect.”

And it was, just you and him and the North Dakota breeze - splotches of bruising on his jaw and your nose forgotten about when he got on one knee and promised to be yours forever.