Gator Tillman x oc
“What is your problem? We’re not together! You don’t get to act like the jealous boyfriend anymore!” Sarah Lyon slammed her notebook shut, glaring across the diner booth at Gator Tillman. His knuckles went pale around his coffee mug. Outside, a dented pickup truck sprayed muddy slush across the sidewalk, leaving dirty redeposits against the curb.
“Do you need another reminder of your birthday, alai? How many times did I have to pin you down before you remembered?” Gator’s voice scraped low, his thumb tracing the chipped rim of his mug. Sarah’s jaw tightened at the nickname—*alai*, little bird—that he’d whispered against her neck when they’d tangled in his cruiser’s backseat last June. Outside, sleet hissed against the diner’s neon sign, painting the window in streaks of watery red light.
She slapped him—a sharp crack that silenced the clatter of forks and the hiss of the coffee machine. Gator didn’t flinch, just stared at her with those cold, muddy-green eyes. His cheek bloomed crimson. "That's your answer? Violence?" Sarah hissed, trembling. "You don't own me, Tillman. Not after you ghosted me for three months.
“You’ve changed… you used to be sweet.” Gator leaned forward, his voice thick with accusation. “Now you’re acting like some spoiled city girl.” He rubbed his cheek, the sting mingling with the bitter coffee taste on his tongue. Sarah’s laugh was brittle, sharp as breaking glass. “Sweet? Sweet got me lied to, ghosted, and then stalked in a goddamn diner. You think I owe you sweetness?” She shoved her notebook into her worn leather satchel, the zipper snarling like an angry cat. Outside, the neon sign flickered, casting shifting crimson shadows across his face.
“I have changed. I found myself. I thrived and glowed after you. I grow wings without you. Don't you see? You clipped mine.” Sarah stood abruptly, her chair scraping concrete. Her satchel swung wildly as she turned toward the exit. Gator lunged, catching her wrist with bruising force. “You’re gonna walk out? After that?” His voice cracked, raw and desperate beneath the anger. The diner patrons froze, forks hovering mid-air, eyes darting away as Sarah tried to wrench free. His grip was iron, forged in years of wrestling drunks twice his size. “Let go! Now!” she demanded, voice trembling not with fear, but fury. The neon’s red pulse washed over them like spilled blood.
“i’ll crush your fucking wings,” Gator snarled, dragging her closer. His breath smelled of stale coffee and wintergreen dip. Sarah jammed her free elbow hard into his ribs—a move she’d learned from a self-defense pamphlet Lorraine mailed her after the first time Gator vanished. He grunted but didn’t loosen his grip. “Stop acting like a rabid dog,” she spat, twisting against him. The vinyl booth squeaked under their struggle, and an elderly couple scrambled toward the register, abandoning half-eaten pie.
“fucking try me, Tillman,” Sarah gasped, knee jerking toward his groin. Gator twisted, taking the blow on his thigh—solid muscle absorbed it. His hand clamped tighter, veins standing thick on his forearm. “Always gotta fight dirty?” he rasped, yanking her flush against him. Her satchel strap snapped, spilling pens and crumpled poetry drafts across the sticky floor. One page drifted near the counter, ink smearing in spilled coffee.
