It started with you writing little notes when he got off probation and was allowed to return to work. Shockingly, he didn't lose his job since he complied with the FBI, and the Stark County Police Department was under completely different jurisdiction now. It meant that he was stuck doing paperwork and desk duty for the foreseeable future, but it was a job that had nothing to do with Roy and for that, he was grateful.

At first, the notes were a surprise. Tucked into the backpack he took the work and shoved in his locker, always dotted with messy x's and o's, signed with your name at the bottom. But he refused to get rid of a single one. They were special to him, because no one had ever displayed such apparent love for him before. So, he kept a small stack of them in his work locker, and on bad days, he would grab them and stuff them in his pants pocket, rushing off to the bathroom to read through them just to get himself through the day.

When you started staying over at Gator's place more often, you also started leaving little things behind. Whether it was a hair tie or a tee-shirt, there seemed to be an ever-growing pile of things that belonged to you. You could never keep track of where they were, either, always texting him to ask if he'd seen your favorite sleep shirt or your nude strapless bra. (He couldn't be assed to figure that one out if you paid him.)

The smaller things came with him, though. A scrunchie, a key ring. You had a Polaroid camera that you adored bothering him with, and the few times he convinced you to get in front of the camera instead of behind it, he stole those pictures, too. One went in his wallet for safe keeping, another on his fridge, a third on his night stand.

Nothing could ever replace your physical presence, of course. Gator's absolute favorite was when you met him at the station when his shift was ending. He'd be packing up his things, shrugging his jacket on, and there'd you be in the lobby, sitting on one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs. You'd always busy yourself with a book or your phone, never looking bored or annoyed if he took too long. You've always been patient with him as he's found his footing and for that, he couldn't be more grateful.

When Gator meets you out in the lobby this evening, you immediately look up from your book, a wide smile spreading across your face as you close the swollen spine.

"Hey, you," you grin, standing up and zipping your jacket. "You're right on time today."

"Couldn't wait to see ya."

Your cheeks warm and you put your book in your tote bag. Gator reaches for your hand, intertwining your fingers together with a small squeeze, and you walk out of station together, into the evening's spring chill.

You round you arm around his wrist, sidling up to his warmth. Glancing down, your eyebrows furrow.

"Is that my hair tie?" you ask, raising your joined arms.

Gator, ever the avoidant, shrugs his shoulders.

"Yeah," he says curtly as you reach your car together. "Wear 'em sometimes when I miss you. 's that so bad?"

You grin, wide and toothy. "Not at all, baby."

You each get on your side — Gator on the driver's side and you on the passenger's, even though it's your vehicle — and he starts the ignition, immediately pumping the heat. He makes quick work to grab your hands, cupping them into his larger ones and blowing warm air into them. You smile.

"I wear your stuff all the time, you know," you say. Gator peers over your joined hands, like a little boy who's in trouble. "Especially when I miss you. It's the worst when you have an overnight shift."

You watch as his throat bobs with a swallow.

"Really?"

"Mhm. Love your sweats the most. They're so comfy and they always smell like you."

You watch as he considers that. He gently places your hands back in your lap, then clears his throat as he puts the car in drive.

"I would like it if you left more things at my place, then," he says, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "I like having your stuff around. Actually, I love it. A lot."

You smile and reach out, placing a hand on his knee and giving it a small squeeze.

"D'I know you?"

He asked it like it was an accusation. As if you were somehow in the wrong for accessing a public library.

You'd never been questioned by a police officer before, let alone even interacted with one. Swallowing harshly, you leaned your weight on your other foot, clutching the hardcover book in your hand.

"Um... no?"

Your answer comes out like a guess.

"I know everybody in Stark County," he garbled his syllables, and you only just noticed the way his bottom lip protrudes slightly, an indicator of the small glob of tobacco carefully placed there. "Saw your car outside. Don' know you."

You furrowed your eyebrows. "Is there... a problem with me being here?"

The officer shrugged. "Depends on what you're here for."

"Uh... books," you say, lifting the hardcover in your arms. His hand flies to the gun holstered at his side, and your eyes widen. "What are— I'm a college student, I'm just here to use the library. Was I supposed to, like, call ahead or something?"

His eyes narrow at you, flickering from the textbook back to your face. He scans you, and you suddenly feel even smaller as he pins you beneath his gaze. And then, he smiles. Not a real one, though. You can't quite read it, can't tell if it's sarcastic or menacing or what this guy's deal is, but he crosses his arms over his chest, and your body relaxes just a bit.

"Goody two-shoes type, huh?" he presses, tongue licking over his lips. "Alright then. Long as you're not causin' any trouble, we won't have anything to worry about."

After that interaction, you never wanted to come back.

But a week later, you were still thinking about him.

You didn't know why. His looming presence made you nervous, but when you played the conversation back in your head, it all felt so... ridiculous. It was a public library, for christ's sake! You had every right to be there — in fact, you were helping to support a small, likely underfunded branch that probably didn't get very much traffic.

So, you went back.

And he came in again.

And it just... kept happening.

You realized that any time your car was parked in the library's lot, he would come in, pretending not to look for you. With every interaction, you learned a little bit more about each other. He'd act as if he wasn't intrigued by your studies, and in turn, you'd ask him questions about his day-to-day. He didn't like answering them very much, though. You weren't sure why.

Today is no exception.

Gator follows you to your table, pulling a chair out and sitting across from you. You pretend not to notice him as you start flipping through the first textbook you grabbed.

He clears his throat.

You peer up at him.

"Y'didn't come by on Monday."

Your eyebrows furrow.

He sighs, looks around — as if he's waiting for someone to come and grab him, forcing him out of a public space — and then inches forward, closer to you. Your breath catches when you get a hint of his cologne.

Woody. Masculine. Typical, and yet... comforting.

"You're usually here on Mondays," he explains, his voice low. "I came by lookin' for you."

"Oh," you say, drawing a circle with your finger on the glossy page of the book, "It was snowing pretty bad. I was kinda scared to drive so far."

Gator makes a hmph sound. You suppose that's as much of a response you'll get from him, so you continue flipping through the index.

Then, he's reaching forward, grabbing one of your pens and the notebook in front of you. You pretend not to watch him as he clicks the pink gel pen, scrawling out a series of digits on the top of the page. Beneath it, he writes G.T.

"'s my number," he mutters, pushing it back towards you, "You ever need a ride, you text me, okay?"

You blink. Your eyes stay on his messy handwriting, and then back up to him. He's staring at you. Your face warms.

"Okay," you answer softly. "I will."

Gator nods, then stands up, and walks away.

When you're running your finger along the numbers scribbled into the paper, you don't see Gator turn back around to look at you. You miss when he smiles to himself, too.

Gator's sound asleep when he's woken up by the incessant sound of his phone vibrating on his nightstand.

He rouses with a groan, prepared to answer an angry call from Roy or another one of his minions. He barely looks at the screen before he taps the green answer button, pressing the phone to his ear.

"What?" he croaks out, eyes still bleary with sleep.

"Gator?"

He snaps up. It's you.

"Gator, are y'there?"

He throws the blankets off of him — he doesn't know why, but he does — and stands up, coughing into the receiver to clear his throat.

"Uh, yeah— y-you good? Sorry, I was sleepin', thought someone else was calling."

"I'm sorry," you mumble. "I didn't know who else to call."

The sadness in your voice almost sends him into a tizzy. He's grabbing his pants off the floor and wedging his phone between his shoulder and cheek before you have a chance to explain.

"What's wrong, sweetheart?" Gator asks, his chest cracking. He thinks he hears you crying, but he can't be sure.

Gator doesn't like when people cry. He usually doesn't know what to do. But when he hears you break down over the phone, his stomach drops.

"I-I'm a-at a party and I d-don't want to be h-here anymore," you blubber. He's grabbing his keys and jacket now. "I d-don't know where m-my friend went. I w-wanna g-go home."

"Okay, alright," Gator coos, hurriedly pulling open the door to his room and jogging down the stairs, "You did the right thing, y'know that? Callin' me? That was good thinkin'. Smart girl."

"I f-feel s-so bad, it's s-so late a-and you were s-sleeping—"

"'nough with that," he says, his tone teetering on a scold, "I'm already gettin' in my truck, sweetheart. Can you share your location with me? So I can come get ya?"

You sniffle as he throws his keys into the ignition, starting up his truck. He feels his phone buzz and glances down at it, seeing an incoming text from an unknown number.

"Alright, you're not too far from me. I'll be there in 15, 'kay? Can y'handle that?"

It was actually more of a 25 minute drive, but he was already speeding as he drove off the ranch.

"Uh-huh," you answer, swallowing the lump in your throat. "You'll be here soon?"

"Yeah, I'll be there soon."

When Gator's stupidly large truck pulls up, you're sitting outside the house party with your knees pulled to your chest.

He doesn't even bother taking his keys out, just throws it in park, before he's clamoring out and shucking his jacket off.

"Now why the hell are you at a party in the middle of North Dakota without a damn jacket on?" he mutters, leaning down to pull his coat around your shoulders without a second thought. You're only in a long-sleeve shirt and jeans, and you're quick to welcome the much-needed warmth. "C'mon, up ya get. In the truck."

He helps you into the passenger's seat before he's rounding the front, climbing back in, and hightailing it away from whoever's house you were at.

"Y'gonna tell me why you were at a Stark County house party?"

You swallow, then pull his jacket closer to your body. It smells like him.

And then: "Are you mad at me?"

Gator's eyebrows furrow as he glances over to you. And then, he realizes it. He sees the glassy look in your eyes, the worried expression on your face.

You're scared to death.

"Not mad at ya, sweetheart," he replies, keeping his hand wrapped around the gear shift, "Not one bit. Told ya you did the right thing, huh? Callin' me?"

You nod, keeping your gaze set on him.

"Just worried about you s'all. Scared me with that call."

"'m sorry."

"Stop apologizin'," he says, glancing back over at you. "Where am I taking you?"

You pause. The lull in conversation is only intercepted by the row rumble of the engine.

"Can I come back with you?" you ask in a small voice.

Gator's throat bobs. He can think of 10 more places he'd rather take you to than his dad's ranch. But when he looks at you, and how tired you are, and how nervous you sounded on the phone — he doesn't think he can reject a single thing you ask for.

"Yeah," he nods, "Yeah. Just gotta drive you back early, alright?"

You nod.

Gator's room looks exactly what you would imagine it to be.

If you're being honest with yourself, you've spent a decent amount of time thinking about Gator lately. He's a bit of a mystery. He doesn't reveal much about his personal life or how he got his job, though you do know his father is the county sheriff, so you're able to put two and two together on that front. But when Gator quietly shuffles you into the ranch-style home, miming at you to be silent, and then walks you up the stairs and into his room like you're some kind of delicate prize, your heart simultaneously breaks for him, and blooms for you.

"Sorry 'bout the mess," he mumbles, kicking his boots off once he locks the bedroom door behind him. You both take a moment to look around — you at the posters of bikini-clad women on the walls, him at the piles of clothing on the floor — and he swallows nervously. "Uh, you want somethin' to change into? You feelin' okay?"

You realize you haven't said anything since the car, and you nod your head, the adrenaline from the night finally tapering off.

"Yeah, I'm okay," you say softly, leaning down to shuck your boots off. "I can just wear a pair of sweats or something you have them."

"Sure, yeah. 'Course."

Gator busies himself with sorting through his dresser while you stand in the middle of his room, hands wrung together like a child who just got in trouble. You bite your lip as anxiety begins to crawl at your stomach. Was this a mistake, asking Gator to bring you back to his? You didn't want to be alone, but now you feel like you're intruding. Maybe you should've just—

"Here," Gator tosses you a pair of sweatpants and a sweatshirt and they fall at your feet. He snorts. "You sure you're good?"

"Yeah. I just... feel bad. Making you bring me here."

He shrugs. "Told y'you did the right thing, callin' me. I wouldn't have brought you back if I didn't want you here."

Your heart stutters.

"Stop makin' yourself feel guilty," he utters defiantly, like it's a command and not a suggestion. "Gonna go take a leak and then we can figure out the sleeping situation."

You change while Gator's in the bathroom, neatly folding your clothes from tonight next to your boots in the corner. When he returns, it's with a glass of water and two aspirin pills.

"Not sure how much you drank tonight, but just in case you need 'em for the morning."

You accept them graciously.

Gator tidies up his bed while you chug your water, and then he clears his throat.

"Right. Well, I'm not some kinda creep or nothing, so I can take the floor or the couch downstairs if you want. Bed's all yours."

You blink. "You don't have to do that. It's your bed."

"Well, you're not sleepin' on the floor."

"Then I'll sleep on the couch."

"You wanna wake up with a shotgun in your face?"

Your mouth forms around an oh.

"Yeah, oh," he mocks you playfully. "Fine, you think you can sleep in the same bed as me without jumpin' my bones?"

Your face flushes with warmth and Gator snickers.

"I'm not a perv, Gator!" you hiss, batting his chest. It only makes him laugh even harder.

"Now you're just comin' up with any old excuse to touch me, huh? Classic perv move," he smirks, climbing into his bed. "C'mon, stop bein' weird and get in. You've had a shit fuckin' night."

You hum, agreeing, and Gator reaches over to click off the lamp. Somehow, in the inky darkness, it feels less intimidating to be in the same bed as Gator Tillman.

It takes a few moments for you each to get comfortable. First, he hogs all the blankets, to which you immediately complain about and he calls you a baby for, but you can hear the grin in his voice. Then he gets too hot and has to shed his sweatshirt for the tee-shirt underneath, and you teasingly call him a pervert ("oh, not this bullshit again"). Finally, neither of you can find a position that feels right — you're both tossing and turning, eventually settling on your sides and facing one another as you talk about nothing, just until sleep finally takes over.

"Y'know I was so scared of you those first few times you talked to me at the library?"

Gator chuckles, his hands tucked between his cheek and the pillow.

"Yeah, I had a feeling," he mumbles. "You would hold your books real close to your chest. Never got too close to me. 's cute."

Your mouth goes dry. "Cute?"

He nods. The sheets crinkle beneath him.

"'course," he says it like it's the easiest thing in the world. "Cutest thing I've ever seen."

"You don't really think that."

His brows furrow. "Why wouldn't I?"

You shrug.

"Exactly," Gator mutters, letting his eyes fall closed. "Second I saw ya, I knew I wanted to get to know y'better. That's why I kept comin' by. Librarian kept telling me to fuck off, but..."

"But what?"

He opens his eyes, then looks beyond you to a small stack of books on his desk.

"At first I was just pullin' the deputy sheriff card. But Mrs. Stephanie taught me in kindergarten so... she don't really care for all that and she knows I won't throw her in jail for somethin' that stupid. She said I needed to be a 'participatin' user of the library' if I was gonna be there."

Your eyes widen. "So you started checking books out?"

"Well, I needed a library card first."

You think your heart may actually burst on the spot.

With a rosy smile on your face, you reach forward to where his hand sits in the middle of the bed, chancing a small bit of affection. Gently, you let your palm cover his. He allows it.

"What books did you borrow?" you ask.

Gator shrugs. "I was fuckin' around at the start. Taking kids books out for my, uh... my dad's wife's kids. But then Mrs. Stephanie started suggestin' some other stuff."

"Like what?"

He clears his throat and maneuvers onto his back, still keeping your hands intertwined.

"Just some novels and stuff. I think a few are books I was supposed to read in high school but I was too busy fuckin' around, playin' football and whatever... um, first one was The Giver? After that she had me take out To Kill a Mockingbird and Animal Farm."

"Oh, I love Animal Farm!"

Gator wrinkles his nose, "I didn't really get that one. But I liked To Kill a Mockingbird."

You nod, giving his hand a small squeeze.

"Do you have any others she recommended?"

"Yeah, she said she'd hold Catcher in the Rye for me next time I come in."

"I have to return a book next week," you murmur dozily.

"Maybe I'll meet ya there then."

Even as fatigue finally begins to catch up to you, you find yourself mumbling, "that'd be nice."

Monday, 8:34 a.m.

You had to convince yourself five different times to drive out to the Stark County Police Department this morning.

You came up with a number of very valid excuses not to, including:

What if Gator's not even working right now?

What if he's severely weirded out by you showing up to his job?

What if the banana chocolate chip muffins you baked for him are terrible? (Well, scratch that — you ate one, you know they're not. But what if he's allergic to bananas? What if hates them?)

What if, between yesterday morning when he dropped you off at home and this morning, when you drove here, he had some kind of freak accident and lost all his memories and has no recollection of you staying over at his house?

You're running through every possible scenario, clutching the plastic tub of muffins in your lap, when there's a tap on your window. You yelp loudly, making the offender cackle, and you immediately grumble when you see it's the exact person you're there for: Gator.

He motions for you to roll your window down and you do, albeit quite reluctantly.

"The fuck are you doin' here at 8:30 a.m.?" he asks, a toothy grin on his face. "Though, seeing you nearly jump outta your skin did give me a good laugh."

"Shut up," you mutter, shoving the muffins at him. "I was originally here to give these to you as a thank you for the other night, but now I want to take them back."

"Whaaaaaaat?" Gator immediately pops the lid open and grabs one. "Girly, I might just damn well be in love with you."

You try not to flush.

"You know banana chocolate chip is my favorite?" he asks, sliding the container on top of your car. You shake your head, trying not to preen too hard as his praise. "You really made these for me?"

You nod. "Of course. I'm really grateful for what you did."

"I'd do it anytime, you know that," he says nonchalantly, "But not just for anyone, y'know?"

The clarification makes your heart stall. Swallowing, you blink as your eyes scan over the deputy patch on his uniform.

"I wouldn't just bake muffins for anyone either," you reply, "But I'd do it anytime."

Gator chuckles. "Yeah?"

You press your lips together and chance a look up at him. "Uh-huh."

"You're too fuckin' cute, y'know that?" he grins, cleaning his hands off before ducking his head through your window. "If I ask you out on a proper date — a real one, not one where we sit at the library with Mrs. Stephanie watchin' me like a hawk to make sure I don't corrupt you or nothin' — can I get a kiss before I go into work?"

You giggle. For the first time in you don't know how long, you feel like a lovesick teenager, all infatuated and moony over a guy who got a library card just to see you. You don't know if you can give him a vocal answer without your voice warbling in some embarrassing way, so you nod with a smile so big it almost hurts, and lean forward to press a kiss to his mouth.

Gator tastes like banana and chocolate, unsurprisingly so, and he reaches up to cradle your cheek in his hand, and maybe he has a little too much chapstick on and you wish you weren't leaning out the driver's side window of your beat-up Toyota, but it still feels so perfect you swear you could lose yourself in it.

With his forehead pressed against yours, he pecks your lips once, twice, and then you're leaning into his grasp like a swooning kitten.

"I'll take you somewhere nice for our date," he promises. "Dinner. Tonight? Tomorrow? Whenever you're free."

You nod. "Okay. Don't forget your muffins."

"Wouldn't dare," Gator grins, squeezing your cheek playfully. "I'll see you, alright? Drive safe."

He scoffs.

"Gonna grab ya some water and a snack. Don't go anywhere."

You don't think you could move if you tried. Your eyes fall shut as you listen to Gator patter around his room, followed by the sound of a door opening and closing. The next thing you know, he's calmly shaking your shoulder, urging you to sit up.

"Drink this," he instructs, forcing a glass of water in your hand. He tosses a granola bar in your lap (chocolate chip, a kid's brand, one probably without any nutritional value, but the sentiment still remains). Then, he sits down across from you, still in his boxer briefs.

You peer at him over the lip of the glass, pausing between sips of water.

"'s there a reason you're staring?"

"Good, you're talkin' again."

You roll your eyes.

"Keep drinkin'."

You do.

When you finish the glass, he pulls it from your grasp and places it on his nightstand, then gestures to the granola bar. You open it and stuff a piece in your mouth.

"You're cute when you're cock dumb, but I don't like when you're damn near passin' out on me," Gator explains, fidgeting with a loose thread on his blanket. "Need to get better at readin' your body during sex, alright? Need to safe word if you need it. Otherwise this ain't gonna work. Got it?"

You nod as you take finish the granola bar.

"Got it," you say, crumpling up the wrapper. "Can we fuck again? You said you were gonna try making me squirt tonight."

you nod, suddenly shy beneath his gaze.

"don't get nervous on me now, sweetheart," gator murmurs, letting the necklace fall from his grasp. he gently places it against your chest, then clasps a hand around the back of your neck and squeezes carefully. you swallow. "you like knowin' you're mine, huh?"

"uh-huh."

"love that about you," he says. he leans forward, ghosting his lips over yours. you can feel his breath and you're nearly salivating over it, desperate for him to close the minuscule gap between you. so much so that you try to do it yourself — nudging forward, you whimper when gator tilts back, chuckling at the frustration apparent in your face. "does my baby need a kiss?"

you nod and he chuckles. you don't know how he does it — how he melts you down into a submissive puddle, ready and willing to do whatever he says, but it feels so good. good enough that you're willing to wear his initial around your neck for the world to see.

gator slots his lips with yours, a satisfied moan freeing itself from your throat. you feel the way his mouth turns upward in a degrading smirk, but you can't find it in yourself to care. strings of spit break between you and gator's hand squeezes your neck again, a reminder of the necklace that hands proudly from your throat. you're prepared to get down on your knees right there in his office when someone bangs on his door, eliciting a low, disgruntled groan from your boyfriend.

"tillman! 'nough fuckin' around, we need you for a 220!"

gator knocks his forehead against your shoulder, breathing out lowly. you rub your hand down the expanse of his back, trying to ignore the pulsing in your core from your heated makeout session.

"gotta go," he mutters. "will you spend the night t'night? i'm off at 7."

you nod, a small smile on your lips. "yeah. i can do that."

"good," he mirrors the lovesick glow on your face. "one more thing, baby."

"hm?"

"don't ever think about taking that necklace off, okay?"

your neck warms, and gator presses a quick kiss to your forehead.

"got it?" he asks, squeezing your hip.

You scurry off into the direction of the side yard, your flowy skirt picking up some of the spring breeze beneath its lightweight material. Vernal weather somehow found Stark County a bit earlier this year, bringing warmer temperatures than normal. You were grateful to ditch your snow boots and winter jacket, even though Gator still made you keep your gloves and scarf out, just in case it got too cold in the morning when you went to work.

And sure enough, when you round the corner, your boyfriend stands there like some kind of cheesy bad boy in a '90s sitcom, beckoning you over with his finger. You giggle and stick your tongue out at him.

"What's the matter, officer? Am I in trouble?"

"Now, you know damn well it's deputy, little miss," Gator says lowly, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you against his chest. You laugh, pressing a hand to the thin fabric of his black tee-shirt. "Mrs. Beverly let y'get a second alone?"

"Mhmm. Gotta be fast though. Lunch is almost up, anyway."

"You're tellin' me we don't have time for a classroom quickie?"

You narrow your eyes at him, batting your hand against his chest. He only holds you tighter.

"What're you doing here anyway, Tillman?"

Gator hums and pecks your lips. "What, can't come see my girl when I miss 'er?"

"I suppose you can," you reply, running your fingers along the patch on his vest that reads deputy.

He ducks, catching your eyes with his. "You look beautiful today. Missed y'this morning."

A gentle smile forms at your lips. Gator was on the early morning shift today, which meant he had to get to the station at 5 a.m. You'd slept over the night before, but you barely remembered saying goodbye to him.

"Missed you too."

"Yeah? Y'missed me?"

His boyish tone makes you laugh. "Uh-huh. Missed ya, Gator."

"You wanna stay over again t'night?" he asks, giving your hip a small squeeze. Gator used to struggle with this kind of thing — intimacy, communication, verbalizing his wants and needs and being okay with them — but it's been a few months, and you're over the moon that he's finally getting to be more comfortable with it all. "Don't have to work 'til 4 tomorrow, so could wake you up with coffee and breakfast."

You think your eyes must form actual heart eyes, because Gator takes your grin as an enthusiastic yes. You press a kiss to his chin, gently untangling yourself from him.

"I'll meet you at yours tonight, alright? I gotta head back. Mrs. Beverly's gonna be pissed."

"Fuckin' Mrs. Beverly," Gator jokes, but not before beckoning your forward once more. You fall for it. "By the way, all this visitin' you at work... y'think we could do some kind of teacher/student roleplay? You keep me after school for detention? Huh?"

"Gator!" you squeal, laughing loudly. He squeezes your ass through the fabric of your skirt, a wide grin on his face.

"What? Could use my handcuffs, too. Or, maybe you're just a naughty teacher gettin' arrested, eh? That could work for me. Think I just want you in one of those lil plaid skirts—"

"That's enough," you smirk, slowly backing away from your boyfriend. "See you tonight, you perv."

"Yeah, 's nice and warm."

You snort humorlessly and grab the pink throw blanket, tossing it on your lap. You extend the cuddly material to his form and he stiffens. You raise an eyebrow.

"Do you have something against blankets?"

Gator blinks.

And then: "Why's everything so... girly in your house?"

You pause, letting your eyes drag over your living room. You don't think it looks particularly feminine, not that home decor can even be gendered.

"What do you mean?"

He shrugs, but you can see how unsure he feels in his facial expression. A little defeated, even more self-conscious. It makes your stomach twist.

"Everything's real colorful. And there's, like, flowers everywhere. Pictures on the wall and shit."

"Well, the pictures on the wall are of me with the people I love," you remark. "And some art that I like. Colors and flowers aren't inherently 'girly', either, but even if they were, why would it matter?"

He doesn't know how to answer that. You can tell in the way his eyebrows wrinkle, forming a small, unsatisfied crease between them.

You don't get angry or upset with Gator when his attitude veers on misogyny. It's hard not to sometimes, but you do your best. You know he was raised in an extremely sexist environment, raised to believe that men are the breadwinners with a right to put their wives in their place. It's a wonder that he's even ended up this far, distanced enough from his father's beliefs to learn how to be a supportive, understanding person.

"Y'know, it's okay to like things that you think are traditionally feminine," you say slowly, toeing a line you're not sure he's comfortable with. "You can always ask me, too. Be open with me. But really, Gate, there's no right or wrong way. You can like anything you want and it won't change who you are."

Gator snorts. "Roy would rather disown me than see me in your house, all decorated with flowers and shit."

"Well, Roy's not here," you quip. "Flowers or fun colors or cuddling up in a pink blanket don't make you any less of a person. They're just... they're things that make people happy, Gator. Doesn't it sound a lot more freeing to just like things instead of being afraid it's too 'girly' for you?"

You watch as his throat bobs, the gears clearly turning in his brain. You sigh a shallow breath and pat his knee, getting up from the couch.

"I'm gonna make some tea. Do you want anything? A soda, water?"

Gator scrambles a bit, and the sound of his plush lips parting makes you turn back around.

"I-I'll try tea," he says before clearing his throat, like he's just confessed to something embarrassing. "Never had it before... Roy says it's, um. You know."

You try not to give him a reaction. Try not to run towards him and barrel into his chest, giving him a tight hug with your knees straddling his thighs. You want to kiss his face a million times over and tell him how proud you are for trying, but instead, you bite your lip and flash him a smile.

"Yeah, I know," you murmur. "C'mon, I'll show you what kinds I have."

"There's different flavors?"

You nod, giggling as he gets up and follows you into the kitchen.

"Mhm. All different types."

He looks peaceful like this, you think. Slowly, gently — hesitantly — you reach forward to thumb over the apple of his cheek. He doesn't stir. He must be exhausted, because normally, he wakes from a quiet gust of wind or the sound your home settling at 1 a.m.

Without the protection of his stupid police vest, combat boots, and idiotic camo pants, he's just a normal guy. Your stomach turns from the thought of what could be — what should be — but you hardly allow yourself to go there.

It's why your hamster wheel of thinking stops you from recognizing the sight of Gator's bleary eyes opening.

"Whatcha lookin' so tense for this early in the mornin'?"

He croaks the words out, almost like it hurts him to talk. You flash him a gentle smile, one that teeters on apologetic, before shaking your head against the cool percale pillow sham.

"Not tense," you mumble, palm pressed firmly against his cheek. "You look pretty in the morning."

If he were any less tired, he'd probably snort sarcastically or fire back at you with some snarky comment. Instead, he leans into your touch, batting his eyes closed. His eyelashes, wispy and long, almost reach his cheeks.

"Thank ya, baby," Gator mumbles, words slightly garbled from the sleep thick in his voice. "Lay down on me. Too early for a Saturday."

You hum and shift yourself so your head is on his bare chest, leg hooked around his waist. He lets out a long, slow breath — one that you're certain signifies some sort of peaceful satisfaction, though you're not sure if you're hoping more than you're wondering — and you reach down to find his hand. He intertwines your fingers together and gives your hand three small squeezes.

"Just shut up and let me help you feel better, Gator." you say, grabbing his hip and helping him onto his back. He goes, surprisingly pliantly, his eyes nearly popping out of his skull when he sees your nude upper half.

"Didn't realize I was gettin' this kind of massage," he mumbles, reaching out to squeeze one of your nipples. You slap his hand away before kneeling on the mattress and slowly pressing your skin against his.

"This isn't anything dirty," you explain lowly, winding your arms around his neck, "Skin-to-skin contact can be helpful for calming down after a stressful situation. Just... just try not to make any stupid comments and breathe, okay?"

"Ain't I always breathin'?"

"Like this, Gate," you say, your cheek smushed against his pec. You inhale unhurriedly, hold it for a few seconds, then exhale. You continue doing it, pinching his waistline to encourage him to follow your lead.

You breathe in unison for a few peaceful moments. You can feel Gator's heart rate slow, its rapid pace replaced by a solid sequence of thumps.

"'s better, hm?" you murmur before pressing a light kiss to his chest. He doesn't reply, and you're almost shocked by the lack of snarky reply — that is, until you glance up to see that his eyes have fallen shut.