𐙚⋆.˚Jo

Picking Aidy up, you hesitated for a moment at the threshold of the smaller bedroom, in case the front door opened, but it didn’t. You crossed the hall to the bathroom, closed the door, and went about feeding her. She purred the whole time, and after she was finished you sat for a few minutes on the closed toilet lid, petting her, tickling her tummy, putting your index fingertips against her tiny paws and playing with them, all while she let you, her small body wriggling where she was laid out atop your thighs pressing together.

You heard the stairs creaking outside the bathroom door, and glanced up just as the knock came.

“You takin’ another fuckin’ shower?” Gator asked.

“No,” you said back.

There was a pause. “You…wanna move anything around out here?”

“What?” you said back, and then, in an attempt to make him leave, flushed the toilet.

He didn’t. “I asked if you’re lookin’ t’move any furniture around. Up here or downstairs.”

You were running out of time in the bathroom. You’d flushed, which meant next you would wash your hands and then open the door, at which point Gator clearly expected to talk to you again. So, you lied.

“Yeah, actually,” you said, running the water in the sink as you did. “In the living room.” The only furniture in there was a couch and a coffee table, but you wouldn’t be able to move either of them easily on your own. “I’ll be right down.”

Gator didn’t reply, but you heard his footsteps move away from the door and then down the stairs.

You poked your head out of the bathroom, then returned Aidy to her spot on your bed, closing the door behind you as you left the small bedroom. Heading toward Gator at the foot of the stairs, you looked down at him as he watched you descend, one hand on the banister and the other curled into the hem of your sweatshirt.

“What’re we movin’?” he asked, and you just looked. There was plenty of room for other furniture—like a loveseat, or a TV. Some shelves, maybe. If you wanted to buy into the delusion of what Roy wanted this place to be to you, anyway.

“Let’s put the couch under the window,” you said, just to have something to do, and pointed to the side window at the far end of the room.

Gator moved to the side of the couch, reading himself to move it, then looked back at you, still standing by the stairs. “You helpin’ me or what?”

“Wasn’t gonna, no,” you said, and instead of responding, Gator just scoffed. “What? Moving heavy stuff is a man’s job, right? I’m just supposed to cook dinner and look pretty.”

“‘Nd ya ain’t doin’ neither,” Gator said, pushing the couch over the hardwood floor. It slid, for the most part, easily into the new location you’d requested for it. “Yer gonna help if I ask ya to, y’know.” He met your eyes as he said it.

“You didn’t ask,” you said.

Gator’s mouth almost quirked into a crooked smile. “Didn’t need ya.” He strolled back over, then picked up the coffee table and placed that in front of the couch as well.

You surveyed the room. “Looks great,” you said. “I sure love getting to feng shui my prison cell.”

“A’right, enough’a that,” Gator said. “It ain’t a fuckin’ prison.”

“Not for you,” you snapped. “You can leave. I get locked in, remember?”

He clamped his jaw shut. “Yeah. ‘Cause you don’t know when the fuck to quit.”

“Yeah,” you said, nodding your head condescendingly. “It’s definitely my fault that I’m not allowed to go outside without a leash. You’re so right.”

“They’d go easier on ya if ya followed orders.”

“Like Karen?” you asked.

“Yeah, like—” Gator was halfway through the sentence before he realized what you were actually saying, and the scowl was back on his face. “I’m just tryin’ ta show ya how t’make all this easier on everyone.”

“I don’t want to make a goddamn thing easier for any of you people. I want you all to be sitting on edge, waiting for the next thing I do to ruin your fucking day. I want you to see me coming and dread it.”

Gator held your gaze, the two of you squaring up from opposite ends of the room. “You sure picked a hell of a place for yer car t’break down.”

“Roy picked a hell of a girl to kidnap.”

Gator reacted almost the same way that Karen and Roy had: A slight flinch, the scowl turning into a thin line. You could still hear Roy’s words at the back of your mind: "I'd be careful about levelin' accusations in this house." You wondered if Gator would feel the same, and lifted your chin a little higher, like you were daring him to argue with you.

But—“He sure as hell did.”

You stood still, didn’t move, eyes locked on Gator’s even as he strode toward you. He stopped about a foot in front of you, but off to the side, and you both kept your gaze on each other at the off angle.

He broke first. “Gonna take a shower before dinner.”

You swallowed. It had to be getting close to the time Bowman, or Karen, would come get you to help cook if that was their intention. So, to Gator, you just nodded.

“You…took one before.” That wasn’t a question, but the second thing he said was. “Why?”

Biting back a retort, you gave him a real answer, which you hoped would hurt more than just you being snippy again about his intellect or lack thereof. “Your house, it—that house,” you corrected, because the carriage house was his house now. “Being in there,” you said, crossing your arms, trying not to seem like you were hugging yourself for comfort even though that was exactly what you were doing. “It makes me feel. Like. Tainted.” You were getting a little too real, revealing too much. “I had to wash the fucking filth of that place off me.”

“Filth,” Gator repeated, looking you over. Then, he huffed. “Karen’s gonna want y’in somethin’ nicer’n that for dinner. Might wanna go change.”

He looked from your face to your crossed arms, eyes dipping down before rising back up, and then he stepped past you, climbing the stairs at a quick pace. You waited, listening, as he went into the linen closet and then into the bathroom, and didn’t take a step toward the staircase until you heard the water kick on.

You ran up the stairs on your tiptoes, closing yourself into your bedroom and first checking on Aidy before going through the clothing in the closet. The sound of Gator’s shower droned on the entire time you were looking, and you forced yourself to stop listening to try and discern what song he was singing to himself in there. The jeans you were wearing probably wouldn’t pass Karen’s scrutinization, but they were clean and fitted, a little long but would work just as well cuffed. You flipped between two different shirts, but finally changed out the sweatshirt you had on for an actual sweater, one that was a little dressier to counteract the jeans, and as you made a mental note to inform Karen that you wanted a hamper for your room, you realized that the upstairs was now silent, which meant Gator was out of the shower, which meant you had to get out of this room lest he somehow find Aidy.

But that was fine. He had to get dressed himself, too. You had time. You had plenty of time to head downstairs and draw him away from the contraband kitten nestled in between two pillows on your bed.

The timing, you had to admit, was fucking impeccable. As soon as your fingertips brushed the doorknob, Gator knocked on the door. You held the knob tightly, in case he tried to open it from the other side without waiting for permission.

“Y’in there?” he asked, and your voice caught in your throat. You felt cornered, trapped. Even moreso than usual. For some reason, being in a room with no ways out other than the one currently blocked by Gator was triggering your fight or flight. Downstairs, at least, you could go into the kitchen or the mudroom, you could vacate the space if you needed room. Up here, there was nowhere to go and no way to get past him.

“Yeah,” you said, so quietly you had to wonder if he even heard you.

Gator waited a beat, and then spoke again. “Can ya open the door?” he asked.

You took a breath. He wasn’t forcing his way in. He was asking. You’d said no to him twice just today and he’d accepted it. You exhaled slowly, took another breath in. Then moving to the side to block his view of the bed, you twisted the knob and opened the door.

He was dressed, you noticed. His hair was still damp, hanging down over his forehead. You blinked at the sight of it, because it softened him in a way that you hadn’t wanted to know about or consider.

“What?” you asked.

“I—” he cleared his throat. “I wanted t’ask. Just.” He looked past you into the room. “Yer…stickin’ ta this room?”

Anger flared up in your stomach like flames. “Well I’m not moving in to that room with you,” you said, words dripping with vitriol. “Do you really think I would—”

“Fuckin’ relax,” he said, speaking over you and fanning the flames licking at you even hotter. “I was gonna say I’d fuckin’ switch if y’wanted the better bedroom, but you can fuck right off now. Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he said, reaching out to grab the doorknob and wrenching the door out of your grasp, pushing it further open. Your heart leapt into your chest, fear for Aidy taking precedence over the rage-inducing demeanor Gator had, and you resisted the urge to look at her and give up where she was hiding. “Downstairs,” he said. “Now. Yer helpin’ cook t’night, Bowman’ll be here any second t’grab ya.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours, and even as you watched him frown at you, you saw his eyes retain that same look, the one that didn’t quite harden the way Roy’s did, the way Bowman’s or even Karen’s did. He stood there, chest heaving just a little as he watched you step past him, watched you take one step at a time until you were back in the living room, and you didn’t see him again at all before you left the house with Bowman, crossing the desolate ground to the main residence of the ranch.

&&

Dinner was fried chicken cutlets, green beans, and potatoes. Karen put you in charge of frying the meat, a big step forward in your culinary responsibilities, because theretofore you'd been on side dishes exclusively.

Roy entered the kitchen just as you were setting the table, the huge amount of chicken draining on paper towels, and at the sight of you in your apron, he positively beamed, the smirk carving a piece of you off. You wanted to shrivel up and die just like you'd said to Gator not even six hours ago.

“Learnin' yer place, little miss?” he said, almost conversationally, like he knew how pissed off you would get and was trying to get a rise out of you.

You thought of Aidy, you thought of the bruise still healing on your face. You thought of the way he'd lied to your parents, and kept your mouth shut, not answering.

Which Roy seemed to take as an answer in itself. He hummed, contended, and looked over to Karen. “Seems like it finally sunk in, doesn't it, K?”

“Sure does,” she replied, eyes on you, as you folded napkins in half and tucked one beside each plate.

Slowly but surely the rest of the ranch's residents filtered into the kitchen, hands and wives and finally, Bowman and Gator, together, Gator tucking his vape away into his pocket. You watched him from the stove, feeling a little shock as he looked up and his eyes found yours right away, not looking at Roy even as the sheriff was speaking to him. Over the rest of the chatter, you couldn't hear what they were saying, but Gator was nodding, not looking away from you for what felt like a long stretch but was probably only a handful of seconds.

“Bring that over,” Karen said to you, and without a word you just obeyed, picking up the platter of chicken as she placed two serving bowls each of beans and potatoes at either end of the table. You settled the meat in the center of the table, then waited as Karen filled Roy's plate, Jessica's, Maude's, and then her own. Still silent, you served Gator, then yourself. Roy seemed appeased, but you'd started to realize the importance of picking your battles, and this wasn't one you needed to fight. You were living with one of them now, in close quarters—you had more important fights to focus on.

Roy lifted his hands and the rest of the table followed suit, everyone joining him in prayer. You chanced a look at Gator, his hand wrapped around yours, your fingers resting between his—he had his head bowed, just like his father, eyes closed, lips occasionally moving to mouth along with whatever Roy was saying. When the group—except you—gave a resounding “Amen,” Gator's eyes fluttered open, and out of the corner of his eye, he noticed you looking. He turned to you, not releasing your hand until you pulled at it—Bowman had released you once the group had uttered the second syllable of the word—and once your hands were no longer joined, you watched as he lowered his hand to his thigh and rubbed his palm against the denim of his pants before picking up his utensils. You weren't sure what meaning to assign that.

Most of the meal was spent listening to Karen, with the twins interjecting where they saw fit, about how helpful you'd been that morning in the house, and then it was Gator's turn to detail the completion of the bathroom.

“And how's the rest of the house?” Roy asked you, tilting his head to the side. “Getting comfortable?”

“It's fine,” you said, as noncommittal as you could get.

Roy waited, a smirk playing at his lips but not his eyes, and when you didn't add anything on to it, he just nodded to himself. “Fine,” he said. “Fine?”

You looked at him, meeting his ice blue eyes, but didn't speak or nod, not answering his question.

“I have my men go out of my way to fix the place up for you,” he said. “And all you've done so far is act ungrateful. We've given you shelter, food, and stability.”

“I had those things before,” you said. “And—”

“Tell me which,” Roy said, challenging you. The conversation to your right had died down, and you wished that they would all just leave the kitchen, because having these arguments with the Tillmans in front of an audience was getting to be exhausting. “You had just dropped out of college. You were in your car—and you weren't heading home, were ya? No—you were driving through my county without a home, room and board at school, or a plan. Isn't that right?”

“No,” you said.

“Yes,” Roy spoke over you. “You were plumb outta luck when your car broke down and my deputies found you, you understand that, don't you? If they hadn't you'd have died out on that highway.”

“Better than being here,” you snapped, and before Roy could, Gator turned to you.

“Shut the fuck up,” he muttered, and while his delivery left a bit to be desired, you could see in the look he was giving you that it wasn't an order, it was a plaintive request for you to just stop, because you wouldn't win.

“Better than being given a second chance?” Roy said, planting his hands on the table, readying himself to stand.

“A second chance at what?” you said, ignoring Gator, because there was just something about Roy that got under your skin, that wheedled at you until you couldn't take it anymore and had to talk back. “Being a fucking braindead baby factory?”

When you swore, the girls covered their ears, and when you finished the sentence, Karen looked like she wanted to hit you herself. But she didn't.

Roy did.

In one fluid motion, he stood up from the table, raised his arm, and let the back of his hand strike you across the face. Hard, but not hard enough to move you or your chair, certainly not hard enough to send it backward or anything of the sort, but hard enough to make the point.

You pressed your palm to your stinging cheek, eyes watering, the right side of your face now marred just like the left side. Half of the table had a reaction, and the other half looked like they didn’t want to get involved in whatever this was. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw one of the hands nudge his wife, leave their plates, and then leave the room.

Across from you, Jessica had covered her face with her hands, and Maude was blatantly staring. Karen, for as much fuel had been thrown onto her fire, was looking down at her plate, then turning her attention to the girls, ushering them to just keep eating.

Your breath was thin but you were inhaling deeply, and even though everything in you told you not to look away from Roy, you couldn’t stop yourself from glancing at Gator beside you.

His jaw was clenched, his shoulders raised in tension, his eyes on his father. You could tell, again, he was holding himself from speaking or standing or striking back.

Roy laid his palms flat against the table, and looked down his nose at you. “I warned you the last time you spoke out of turn that you'd face repercussions. Are you starting to understand?”

You pressed your palm against the heated skin of your face, not wanting to uncover it, to show a bruise or even just a red mark from where he’d backhanded you.

“I need to know it’s sinking in, little miss,” Roy said, and lifted one of his hands from the table. You flinched back, your shoulder hitting into Bowman, who had no reaction other than to stiffen up until you moved away from him. “I need to know we’re not just wasting resources here.” He moved his hand to take hold of the glass you’d set out for him, looking at it, then at Karen, who hurried to take it from him and get him more to drink. “So, are we?” Roy asked, leaning over the table again, leaning past Gator, who moved back out of his way. There was too much distance between you for Roy to properly get into your space, but you still leaned back despite yourself. “Words, sweetheart.”

“No,” you said, because you knew that was what he wanted you to say.

Roy didn’t respond, just studying your face, the hot throbbing of your cheek juxtaposed with the ice shooting down your spine, until Karen placed his glass down again beside his plate and took her seat. He broke eye contact with you, looked down at the glass she’d filled for him, and then back up at you. This time, he had a faint, cold smile on his lips.

“We’ll see about that,” he said, then looked at Gator, who was still scowling. “Take her home.”

Roy sat back down and resumed his meal, though most of the rest of the staff were finished. You lowered your hands to your lap, trying to compose yourself a moment, and then you did, your wrist bumped into—you glanced down, only to see Gator retracting his hand from where it had been hovering over your leg. For what?

“Let’s go,” Gator said, pushing his chair back from the table, then standing and holding the back of yours. When you stood, he pulled the chair out for you. You didn’t acknowledge him, or anyone at the table, even when the girls kept staring at you as you pushed past Bowman and made your way to the front door. You had your shoes on even before Gator made his way out of the kitchen, had your hand on the doorknob before he’d even gotten his coat in hand.

He said nothing, even as you threw the door open and rushed out onto the porch. The cold air felt good on your heated cheek, and it took you three steps off the porch to realize that it was snowing.

You stopped, because the white flurries had already started to accumulate on the ground, and your pausing allowed Gator to catch up to you.

His footsteps crunched over the frozen ground, and when you felt his presence behind you, you stepped away, but didn’t move further than that. Lifting a hand, you watched as a few snowflakes landed on your palm, melting into little droplets just from the heat of your skin.

“C’mon,” Gator said. “Getcha outta the cold.”

“Don’t—” you started to say, cutting yourself off. “Talk to me like you give a shit.” You turned to look at him, at the way his shoulders were dusted with snow, the way his scowl was softer than it used to be, or maybe that was just the light.

He, in turn, took you in, the way the snow was scattering in your hair, the bruise still discoloring your face on one side, the slight swell of the other. 

“Well, I don’t wanna stand here in the fuckin’ snow neither, so move.” He didn’t touch you, but held out his arm, gesturing for you to start walking, and so you did. You led him to the carriage house, waiting for him to open the door before you realized—the handle was different. What had previously been lockable only from the outside, now had the handle replaced with a normal one, that you or Gator could lock from inside the house—or so you thought, until you ripped the door open and examined it.

“Yeah,” Gator said, looking at the handle over your shoulder. “Still need a key to get out.” 

He was right. There was a regular front door handle, but above it, they’d installed a deadbolt with the keyhole facing inward. So you could be locked in from outside and inside.

“I hope you know what a piece of shit you are for going along with this,” you said, leaving the door open and stepping up into the house, tearing your coat off and kicking off your shoes. “You’re worse than he is.”

“How’s that?” Gator asked, immediately rising to the bait, pulling the door closed behind him. He kept his eyes on you as he turned the key in the deadbolt lock and pocketed his whole keyring.

“Your father is pure fucking evil. You’re worse for just letting him do it.”

Gator’s tongue peeked out of his mouth, barely licking over his lower lip as he took a breath, trying not to react off the cuff but failing. He stalked over to you, invading your space just like that day in the bathroom, the morning after you’d woken up with a shiner, and leaned down to your eye level.

“I been fuckin’ tryin’ ta keep ya from getting smacked,” he said. “How many times do ya need ta be told not ta fuckin’ talk back? Ya think I just like hearin’ myself say it?”

“Kind of,” you said, but he ignored it, let it slide off his back.

“I ain’t just sayin’ this shit ‘cause I’m—” he broke off, like he was going to change his mind about what he was going to say, but then continued anyway. “‘Cause I’m like him, a’right? I been in your fuckin’ shoes.”

“Oh, you mean abducted? Held against your will? Forced under constant surveillance because you’re a flight risk?”

“I been—” He stopped himself again. “He’s—” Words failed him a second time. He took a short, sharp breath in through his nose. “When I said—” 

You hardened your gaze, not wanting to give him an inch, but you had the distinct impression that whatever he was trying to say was legitimately hard for him. Like he’d never told anyone about it before, like he couldn’t or wouldn’t. 

“Spit it out,” you said, curious but not wanting to be nice about it. Your face hurt and you wanted nothing more than to go get the rest of the ice he’d made for you after the first time his father hit you, and hold it to your cheek. 

He fixed you with a severe look, like he wanted to snap back at you but didn’t want to let himself get sidetracked. “I told ya, he never stopped at one fer me.” The words left his mouth like it hurt him to say them a second time. “So I’m—I wasn’t fuckin’ around wi’that. I was fuckin’ warnin’ ya.”

“So I’m the new punching bag?” you asked.

Gator snickered like you’d made a real joke. He met your eyes. “If you don’t fuckin’ learn, yeah.”

You lifted your hand, rubbing at your cheek, and said nothing, then just sighed and turned away, making your way toward the kitchen.

“He used to hit my mom, too,” Gator said, voice low, quiet. “And my steps—stepmom.” You stopped walking, listening but not looking at him. You felt very, very certain that if you looked at him, he wouldn’t continue speaking. “Saw that shit ‘nd didn’t—I mean, I’ll pop a motherfucker if need be, but I ain’t hittin’ no one ain’t gonna swing back.”

You resisted the urge to remind him that you’d been the one to swing on his father and instead shifted a little, half facing him in the wan lighting in the living room, which felt exponentially empty now that you’d made him move the stupid couch. He was just standing there, head bowed, a slight slump to his posture, hands in his pockets. He wasn’t looking up at you. He looked like a lost little boy.

“Is Karen your…step mom?” you asked.

“Fuck no,” he said, lifting his face toward you, and you realized you’d asked the wrong question. Whatever door you’d gotten to partially open was closed again. “Fuckin’...barely older’n I am.” He scoffed. “Just—get yer fuckin’ ice already.” He waved his hand at you, dismissing you to the kitchen.

Turning yourself fully, you watched as he stomped up the stairs, then heard the door to the master bedroom slam shut.

Your footsteps were muffled by the thick socks you wore as you made for the freezer in the kitchen.

Dating with Steve Harrington was bliss, it truly was. He was a kind man, always a loyal gentleman. He was protective and was always there for you – physically and emotionally. He was funny and so incredibly charming.

By definition, he was the perfect man.

But with all of his perfections, he had one singular flaw. His stubbornness.

Steve Harrington was as hard headed as a brick wall.

And you? Well, you could almost give him a run for his money.

Any normal day for you two was loving. Except for today.

Today, Steve seemed to have woken up on the wrong side of the bed. He claimed you hogged the blankets all night, even though it was his monster feet who kicked them to the floor.

At first it felt like tired bickering. Once the sleep washed away from him and he got a little bit of food in his tummy, all would be well.

Wrong.

At breakfast, you argued about who’s turn it was to do the dishes. You told him everything in the sink was left by him the night before – he argued that your name was next on the chore list.

You argued about how he forgot to make the coffee for the morning. He argued that you could’ve done it too – even though he’s always done it.

You argued over his misplaced keys. Over what time Nancy said to meet at the station. Over who gets to drive – this one was entirely your fault considering you don’t even like to drive, but he was really pissing you off.

The car ride there was spent with your arms crossed tight and your legs tucked into the passenger door – away from his touch – and his fingers gripping the wheel so tight, his knuckles whitened. By the time you two made it into the station, you both angrily agreed not to talk to each other.

It’s pettiness and stress masked as arguments about nothing. The tension between you two was palpable and the group picks up on it quickly.

You’re all standing around the common room, ready to disperse into your own jobs. You and Steve always go with Dustin to monitor Hopper – leaving everyone else back at the station to take care of things.

You’re dreading the idea of sitting in the pre-existing  tension between Steve and Dustin, and it doesn’t help the fact that you’re now arguing with him too.

You move to grab your jacket when he speaks up.

“Not you.” Steve says, his voice firm but cold. You blink up at him. “Byers is taking your spot tonight,”  

You laugh incredulously. “Wha – Jonathan?”

He nods down at you, zipping up his own jacket. “He knows how to handle the navigation,”

Your face pinches at his answer. “So do I,”

Steve avoids your eyes as he gathers the rest of his things. It’s not because of shame or fear, but from annoyance. “Do you?”

Your eyes narrow and you can feel the fury bubbling in your chest. “Do I?” You repeat. “You know what Steve, you really have to get over whatever bug crawled up your ass today, alright? You’re acting like –.”

Steve cuts you off before you can finish.

“No, do you know what?” He slams his walkie down on the cushion of the couch. When his eyes meet yours, they’re dark and clouded. There’s not a trace of patience or love in them and for a moment, that scares you. “This isn’t about you. Who knows how many more chances we’re gonna get if this goes wrong and the last thing I need is you fucking up the navigation. So for once, I need you to listen to what I’m saying and quit nagging me, alright?”

Everything around you seems to still.

All that you can focus on is the irritation covering your boyfriends face and for the first time, maybe ever, it’s all aimed at you. For whatever reason, he seems to think you’re the root cause of his sour mood today.

So what if you don’t have the best track record with reading the map? Steve’s lived in his town his entire damn life, he should know the streets by now.

It’s not just frustration you feel anymore. Now it’s shame and insecurity and embarrassment. Shame because apparently, you nag him enough for him to remember. Insecure because you couldn’t even guess how long he’s been holding this in. And embarrassed because everyone around you has also stilled – now staring at the two of you like you’re a pair of animals in a cage.

That thought angers you even more.

Your jaw clenches so hard you can almost hear your teeth grinding against each other and you can feel the way your nails dig into the skin of your palms as a way to calm yourself down.

Steve stares back down at you and after a beat of silence, he seems to register exactly what he said. His eyes flutter shut and he sighs, raising his hand to gently grasp your hand.

Your face is steel as you take a step back before he can reach you. You won’t cause a scene and you also won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much he hurt you just now.

“You should go then.” You tell him. He grimaces at your cold tone and makes no move to leave.

He says your name gently. “I didn’t mean it like that. Just – just come with and we can –.”

You cut him off this time. “No thanks, I wouldn’t want to fuck up the navigation again.”

Steve’s shoulders deflate when you echo his earlier words.

It looks like he’s ready to say something else but before he can, you’re spinning on your heels and downstairs to the basement to meet with Joyce at the intercom. You can feel his eyes following you as you disappear but not once do you turn or falter.

It didn’t matter what was causing his sudden attitude change. You were done trying to be empathetic and understanding. He wasn’t about to use you as an emotional punching bag – if he didn’t want to be around you then you would give him that.

It’s hours later when Steve finally arrives back at the station. In that time, his voice cracked over the intercom a few times with updates about movements and any military activity. Each time you ignored the pang in your chest and let Robin respond.

The crawl ended up being just another tally mark under the dead end section and you all began to filter home, completely defeated.

Steve didn’t offer any words as you climbed into the car together, but neither did you. It was still tense but not as tense as when he left. His foul mood is still obvious but it’s no longer white hot anger. It gives you a little bit of hope.

When you finally make it home, it’s after 10. He still hasn’t spoken to you but he lets you shower first, and you take the opportunity to try and get rid of your own anger.

You weren’t sure if he really cared it wasn’t your voice he was hearing. It didn’t seem like he cared about your absence in the van, but then again it wasn’t the focus of the night. His earlier words rang in your head.

It’s not about you.

Yet here you were, making it about you.

You’re smart enough to realize his blow up had little to do with you. It was a culmination of stress of the crawls, stress from his newly strained relationship with Dustin, stress from everything. You were just the only constant in his life and it seemed like you were the best thing to take it out on.

It doesn’t make it right, but at least you understand.

Still, you’re annoyed at the very least.

But you two have made a promise years ago – to never fall asleep mad and with the way exhaustion is clawing at you, you’re ready to climb into bed and apologize for arguing all day. It’s nothing a few sweet words and a few more sweeter kisses can’t fix and the more you think about it, the more you crave it.

Fighting with Steve was one of your least favorite things in the world.

You quickly clean your mess in the bathroom and change for bed but when you step out of the bathroom and into your shared room, you freeze.

It’s not the darkness or the quietness that stops you. It’s the fact that Steve is already on his side of the bed, his back turned towards your side and asleep.

That asshole actually fell asleep.

You stand there, five feet away from him, in complete disbelief. It was his stupid idea to promise that and he’s the one who broke it first.

Your newly dissolved anger reignites and this time, it’s scorching. You have to fight the urge to abuse him with your pillow as you look at his sleeping frame. You’ve spent the last few hours trying to think of ways to make up with him and he’s just sleeping.

Your body is tense as you finally climb into bed. You make it a point to leave as much distance between your bodies you can without falling off the bed.

Steve is unmoving as you settle on your side and it angers you even more.

Now it’s not just the arguments from today. It’s everything.

It’s the arguing, it’s his careless words from earlier, it’s the coldness you’ve been getting from him all day, it’s the short temper he’s met you with.

You feel small and almost like you mean nothing to him. It’s a stretch considering all he actually did was fall asleep but damnnit, it’s the principle of it all.

Before you know it, tears are slipping from your eyes and soaking the pillow beneath your cheek. You bite your lip to keep the sounds as muffled as possible because the last thing you want is for him to see you cry.

For the first night in your entire relationship, you don’t want to be anywhere near him.

You’re not sure how much time passes when you finally stop crying.

You feel pathetic for it but it’s not out of sadness – because he didn’t hurt your feelings (he did) – it’s because you’re just frustrated about the whole thing.

He’s laid beside you, peaceful and still as he lets his body loosen and forget all its troubles. All the while, you’ve been lying here crying.

There hasn’t been a second where your frustration has even slightly dwindled. Instead, it keeps building and your exhaustion isn’t helping matters.

The sound of Steve’s slow and even breathing behind you is enough to make you break. You don’t take a second to rethink things before you’re shoving the blankets off of you and snatching your pillow in one hand.

You trudge into the darkness downstairs and throw your pillow against the couch. You pull the blanket that rests over the back cushion and settle into the couch.

It’s achingly lonely down here but somehow it feels better than trying to stay beside Steve. You know you’ll wake up in an even worse mood because of how uncomfortable the couch is. The cushions are lumpy, it’s almost too short for your body, it’s colder down here without the warmth of Steve comforting you.

Still, you force yourself comfortable and take another chance at sleep.

Upstairs, Steve’s subconscious has him flipping over in his sleep and his arms instinctively reach out for you. His hand slides across your side of the bed, ready to grab your waist and pull you into his chest but he feels nothing.

His eyes flutter open at the feeling of emptiness beneath his palm. It takes him a few seconds to adjust to the darkness of the room but when he finally does, he sees your side of the bed is empty and cold.

He leans up on his elbow then, taking a quick glance at the bathroom but the light is off and the door is shut. He scans the rest of the room but is met with nothing. It doesn’t really register for him until he realizes your pillow is also gone.

He feels his stomach twist with nerves before he pulls himself out of bed.

His feet pad against the hardwood floor of your shared home as he makes his way out of the bedroom. The rest of the house is quiet and dark – he almost worries you left entirely.

He makes his way down the steps, into the living room and that’s when he finally sees you.

Steve feels guilt hit him like a truck when he sees your small frame squished uncomfortably on the couch. You’re lying on your side, knees curled into your chest and a small throw blanket covering your body.

He hates seeing you like this and even more, he hates being the cause of it. He knows without a doubt it’s his fault. He knew what he said earlier was cruel and completely uncalled for – and he didn’t blame you for a second when you chose not to talk to him over the radio.

When he got back and saw how angry you still were, he felt like the best thing to do was give you space. He’d been blowing up over the tiniest things all day, the least he could do was give you time to yourself.

So when he climbed into bed, it wasn’t to break his promise – it actually wasn’t even on his mind. He just didn’t want to overwhelm or upset you even more.

Obviously that was the wrong choice.

His feet pull him towards you and he bends down so he can lift you up. He carefully pulls the blanket from you and slides one arm beneath your neck. He’s ready to slide the other under your knees when you begin to stir.

Your head turns, lashes fluttering against the skin of your cheeks as you try to focus on what woke you up. There’s a softness in your eyes, one personally reserved for your boyfriend and he feels his heart ache at the sight.

But just as fast as it appeared, it’s gone when you blink.

You pull away from his hold and Steve lets his arms fall to his sides.

“What?” Sleepiness laces your voice but he picks up on the anger beneath it.

He swallows and kneels beside the couch so he’s eye level with you. “Come back to bed,” He whispers.

“I’m comfortable here,” You lie easily. Your hands grab the blanket at your feet and pull it back up to cover yourself, just before you shift to turn away from him.

Steve stares at the back of your head for a moment, immediately missing the sight of your beautiful face.

“Baby..” He sighs. He’s ready to argue more but you cut him off.

“I don’t want to sleep next to you, Steve.” Your voice is detached and cold.

His heart cracks at your response.

His ego tells him to walk away. To leave you to deal with your temper tantrum and to enjoy the bed to himself.

He’s never ignored a thought so quickly.

“Then let me sleep on the couch. You go to bed, babe,” He offers softly.

Your anger aimed at him and your exhaustion has you groaning into the air. You twist your head just enough to face him.

“Just forget it, Steve. I want to sleep.”

Steve feels his own stubbornness filter back. “I’m not letting you sleep on the couch.” He says your name firmly – like a parent scolding a child.

You glare at him, your eyes so dark, there may as well be daggers shooing out of them.

“Why not? You were sleeping so peacefully a few minutes ago. Go back and do it again,” You huff before turning your head to face the cushion again.

Steve’s jaw clenches, not from anger but from more guilt. He never wanted to make you feel like this – like you didn’t matter.

Carefully, he moves to sit on the couch with you. You grumble something like go away but he ignores it. He brings his hand up to cup your cheek, and you try to pull away but his hold is firm.

“I’m sorry, baby,” He whispers, his thumb stroking over the apple of your cheeks. It’s a little damp and sticky from your earlier tears you didn’t even bother to wipe away. He watches the way you avoid his gaze and the way your jaw ticks. “I shouldn’t have spent all day arguing with you, and I definitely shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. I was pissed off about these crawls and the way Henderson’s been acting lately and I took it out on you,” His voice is so soft and gentle – it’s a dangerous contrast to how he spoke earlier. “You didn’t deserve that, baby and I’m sorry.”

Your eyes gloss over again at his apology and you can slowly feel your resolve break. You’re so tired and all you want is to wrap yourself in his arms again.

But you’re still pissed.

“I’m not your punching bag, Steve.” You say firmly. There’s a hint of a waver in your tone but he doesn’t catch it. He nods, his eyes sad and regretful.

“I know you’re not,”

“And you don’t get to take it out on me every time you’re pissed off.”

He nods again. “I won’t, I promise.”

Your eyes narrow, but it’s not as angry this time. “And you’re not allowed to go to bed without me again.”

Steve breaks a smile at your words but quickly tries to cover it, worried you’re not ready to joke with him again. It technically was meant to be lighthearted but the sentiment was serious.

“I’ll stay awake forever if you asked me too, baby,” He responds, his hand gently stroking your skin.

You roll your eyes at his theatrics, but he doesn’t miss the ghost of a smile on your lips.

He leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a tender kiss. He doesn’t try to deepen it – just lets you both feel the other close and intimate. When he pulls away, he leans his forehead against yours. “I really am sorry, baby.” He whispers.

You nod gently. “I know,” You bring your own palm up to his cheek this time and he plants a kiss to your palm before letting himself lean onto your hold.

It’s quiet for a few seconds as you hold each other before you speak up.

“Can you carry me to bed now?” You breathe out, a smile plastered across your face. Steve grins down at you and within seconds, you’re in his arms bridal style. You gasp in surprise from his swiftness and he’s easily carrying you up the stairs.

“Sure,” the orderly said easily. “Deputy, I know you were supposed to have a private room down here, but unfortunately our hallways are overcrowded and it’s not safe to have so little room to maneuver, particularly with how busy we are tonight.”

“Ok?” Gator asked, already annoyed. You could hear it in his voice.

“We have another patient who will be in your room for a short time—she won’t take up much space. No bed, just a chair.”

There was a pause, during which you found yourself surprised that Gator was actually entertaining it, but then—

“Absolutely fuckin’ not. Hell you think this is?” Gator asked.

“It’s a hospital, sir. She needs to be out of the hallway, and she’ll be in and out.”

“I’ll show ‘er in and out,” Gator quipped, but before either he or you could protest, the orderly exited the room, took hold of the handles of your wheelchair, and pushed you into Gator’s room. The overhead lights were dark, but the light directly above Gator’s bed was on, and you saw him glaring over at you as you entered. “Mind hittin’ that light, Butch?” Gator asked the orderly, and as he left the room he flicked the light switch, bathing you both in cold fluorescent light from above as the door swung shut behind him. “Eh,” Gator intoned.

“Eh?” you repeated, frowning and crossing your arm (well, arm, since the other was basically immobile), squinting a little at the glare of the lights even as your eyes slowly adjusted.

“Ain’t nothin’ too special t’look at,” he said, eyeing you, sling and all. “Coulda left the lights off.”

“Jesus,” you muttered, standing up from the wheelchair and crossing over to turn the lights off again with your good arm. “There, you look a hell of a lot better in the dark too.”

But Gator only chuckled. “Fuckin’ bitch,” he muttered, and then went back to what he’d been doing when the orderly had interrupted him: A book of word search puzzles.

You stared long enough, standing in the middle of the room, that it was noticeable, and Gator looked up at you again, scratching the side of his nose with the pencil he was holding.

“What?”

Caught, you stumbled over your words. “Nothing, I just—I wouldn’t expect to see you doing word puzzles.”

Gator blinked at you, eyes narrowed. “We know each other’r somethin’?”

“Wh—No,” you said. “I just—I know of you.”

His face relaxed into a smirk. “You know of me? Fuck’s that mean?” He sounded amused.

“I mean—The sheriff… Sheriff Tillman. ‘A hard man for hard times.’” You forgot to keep the mocking edge from your voice, so you just spurred on. “You’re his son. Everyone in the county knows you.”

Gator kept his eyes on you, then hummed, noncommittal. “A’right.” He went back to his book.

You sat back down, mostly because you felt awkward standing in the middle of the room, and pushed yourself back and forth a little, rolling the wheelchair to and fro. It went on for a minute or so, probably, until Gator sighed heavily and looked over at you.

“So what happened t’yer arm?” he asked. “Some guy rough y’up?”

You snickered. “Not in the way you think.”

“Hell’s’at mean?”

“We were having a good time, until we weren’t.”

There was a beat of silence, and then he snickered. “So it’s a sex thing?” He laughed. “Damn, how’d you fuck up fuckin’ that bad that ya needed the hospital?”

“I dislocated my shoulder,” you said.

“You did?” Gator asked. “Or he did?”

“Ok, Deputy, relax.” You adjusted your arm a little in the sling. “Everyone was a consenting adult, I just—got the shit end of the stick.”

“So where’s yer guy?” Gator asked. “Bet he’d love knowin’ y’were in here w’me. Since everyone in the county knows me ‘nd all.”

“He—” you said, but cut yourself off. Where was he? Last you’d seen him he was in the drivers’ seat of his pickup, telling you you’d be fine but he had work in the AM so he couldn’t stick around, and if you needed anything, to just let him know. He’d driven away before you realized that he’d never given you his number, so. Where was he indeed. By now, he was probably home, beer drunk and cock jerked, sleeping like a baby before his shift in the morning. “Don’t know, don’t care.”

Gator laughed. “Cold.”

“Well, he left me here and blew me off, so.”

“A’right, that’s worse. ‘Nd after you blew him’n everything too. Damn.”

“Who said I blew him?” you asked, not quite believing you were entertaining this line of conversation.

“Ya look like the type,” Gator said, shrugging.

“Excuse me?” you asked, scowling at him, offended.

“What?” he asked, trying to hide his amusement, but you absolutely heard him snickering. “It’s a compliment.”

“How is that a compliment?”

“Means ya look… givin’. ‘Nd carin’, y’know. Generous and shit.”

“Pig,” you said, turning your wheelchair away from him and facing the door.

“Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that. I meant it. Ya seem like a real nice broad.” You turned to glare at him over your shoulder.

“I don’t want to be in here with you just as much as you don’t want to be in here with me,” you said.

“So we’re even,” he said, then gestured at your arm. “That shit hurt?”

“Uh, yeah?” you said. “We can try to recreate what I was doing if you want to see for yourself.”

“Yeah, fuck that,” Gator said, but he was chuckling to himself. He smiled over at you. “Fun as I’m sure it was.”

“So what happened to you?” you asked.

“Waitin’ on some stitches,” he said, then fell silent.

You waited for him to keep talking, but he didn’t. “What happened?”

“This,” Gator said, and curled his hand into the sheets on top of him, pulling them to the side to reveal his leg, thigh draped in the hospital gown. He tugged up the hem of the gown and you saw a thick pad of gauze, not quite bled through but a red sliver was making itself known.

“Um,” you said, because that didn’t quite answer your question in its entirety.

“Some fucker’ got me with a boxcutter,” he said.

“And it was big enough to need stitches?”

Gator fixed you with a look. “Wanna see it?”

“No, I’m good,” you said, but he started peeling the gauze away. “I said I’m good. Gator! I’m good!” 

He’d barely uncovered an inch of it, but you could see that the gash was larger, a decent slice dug into his thigh. “So yeah, need some stitches. Wasn’t too deep, it ain’t still bleedin’ too much or nothin’, but it’s long enough it needed, ah… medical attention.” He turned to look at you, and before you could react he continued. “Got something else long enough y’d need medical attention. ‘Nd as luck should have it we’re both already in the goddamn hospital.”

“You’re disgusting,” you said. “And just to knock you down another peg, you’re not nearly as attractive in a hospital gown as you think you are.”

“Not even with these on?” Gator asked, reaching to the tray table set off to the side. He grabbed something you couldn’t see, then slid his sunglasses onto his face. It was so unexpected and lighthearted that you laughed—genuinely.

“Sorry, no,” you said, shaking your head a little. Sure, you were both trapped in the same room off of the emergency department at the hospital, but Gator Tillman was fucking flirting with you. Badly, but still. Even if he was just doing it to pass the time, he was still coming on to you.

“So—y’know my name,” Gator said. “You gonna tell me yers or do I gotta bust out the badge and ask fer ID?”

“The badge is worse than the shades,” you said, and he lifted them off his eyes and furrowed his brow at you, like he was trying to gauge if you were serious or not. But before he could question you, you’d given him your name.

Gator marked his page in the puzzle book with the pencil, then held out his right hand toward you to shake, reaching out over his own body. You didn’t make a move to stand or wheel closer to him.

“Dammit woman, don’t leave me hangin’,” he said. “Tryna be, uh, upstandin’ here.”

“My arm’s in a sling,” you said, pointing to your right arm with your working left one. “Sorry.”

“Fuckin’ excuses,” he grumbled.

But he wasn’t such terrible company, really, not for the few short minutes you’d spent with him. At least he was entertaining, and he’d rolled with the punches you’d thrown back at him in response to his sexist BS. You stood up, took the two steps to his bedside, and placed your left hand in his, not quite shaking it but trying to, at least. His hand was cold in yours, the skin rough like you’d expected, but still softer than you’d thought it would be. Just as the thought crossed your mind, you pulled your hand away, because you didn’t want to linger and give him any ideas.

“You got any more puzzle books?” you asked, gesturing at the word search book.

“You can take this one,” Gator said. “Was in here already when they dumped my ass on this bed.” He proffered it to you. You took it.

“How long have you been in here?” you asked, sitting back down and opening the book to where he’d marked it. The word searches on the open pages were complete (left) and half-done (right). 

“Got here after you,” Gator said. “Y’said, what—you been here fer three hours?” 

You nodded, looking down at the word search he’d left unfinished. The theme was “Picnic.” You noticed that he did them the same way you did: alphabetically by the word list. That… surprised you. He’d left off at lemonade so you started searching for it, the pencil clutched in your left hand, the book balanced on your lap.

“Yeah, I got here ‘bout… midnight.”

“Surprised you’re still waiting,” you commented, trying to be flippant, but it definitely came out more bitter than you’d intended.

“Why’s’at?” Gator asked.

You circled lemonade in the word search, a little wobbly since you were balancing it on your legs and handling it with just one hand. Now you were looking for napkins. “The name Tillman carries weight around here. Didn’t you know?”

“‘Parently not enough,” Gator said. “Got my ass sittin’ in here with some chick who thinks she can just say whatever’s on her mind like I ain’t gonna take it personal.”

“That’s a fragile ego, Deputy,” you said. Napkins jumped out at you on the page, but when you went to circle it, you dropped the pencil, and when you leaned over to pick it up, the book fell off your lap. You sighed heavily and picked them up.

“Ain’t nothin’ fragile ‘bout me, sweetheart,” Gator said, derisively, watching you.

“Well, from where I’m sitting,” you said, hoisting yourself back into the wheelchair, book and pencil in hand, the puzzle page you were working on lost, “seems like there is.”

“Why? ‘Cause’a my leg? Fucker got the jump on me, ain’t nothin’ more to it.”

“No. Because you care what a chick you just met and probably never will again thinks about you.”

“Whoa. Now just wait a fuckin’ second, who said that?”

“You did,” you said, absently flipping through the pages of the puzzle book, looking for “Picnic” again.

“When the fuck did I say that?”

“Just now,” you said, looking up at him, tucking the pencil behind your ear so you had one less thing to balance while you were looking through the book. “If you’re taking what I’m saying personally, you’re giving it weight. And if me not being a badge bunny and knowing you throw your last name around like it’s an extra six inches is getting to you, then that ego of yours is made of fine china.”

He watched you, eyes narrowed just a little, as you found the page you’d left off on, then reached to untuck the pencil from your ear. As soon as you’d lifted your hand, the book fell to the floor again and you groaned, tossing your head back, and the pencil clattered to the floor behind you.

“God fucking—damn it,” you groaned, and Gator only chuckled.

“Gimme that fuckin’ book,” Gator said, ignoring—or, at the very least not acknowledging—what you’d said. 

“You said I could have it,” you said, mostly to be petulant.

“And they said you’d be ‘in’n’out’,” Gator said, mimicking the orderly’s voice. “‘Nd yet yer still fuckin’ here. Gimme that book, pick up the pencil, ‘nd get yer ass over here.”

As you watched, he reached his left hand out to lower the railing on the side of the bed, then shimmied a little to the side, like he was making room for you to sit beside him.

You shook your head, but stood up to grab the pencil from where it had fallen anyway, then looked at him again, confusion still etched on your face.

“I said git,” Gator said, palm slapping the mattress beside him.

“For what?”

“Only got three workin’ arms ’tween us,” he said. “You wanna do yer fuckin’ word search, you look for ‘em ‘nd I’ll cross ‘em off.”

It felt like a trap, almost. You weren’t the biggest busybody in Dickinson, but you heard everything that women said about the police in this town, especially the Tillmans. And yet, you were with Gator, getting firsthand, empirical evidence that he could, actually, behave himself. You were still more than an arm’s length away, though, so who knew how long that would last?

You picked up the fallen book, then handed it and the pencil to Gator. He took it, opened it, found “Picnic,” then looked at you expectantly, before angling his head toward the bed beside him, looking at it pointedly. You stepped over and climbed onto it beside him, careful not to jostle his injured leg.

“Napkin,” Gator said, and you pointed with your good arm, because you still remembered where you’d seen it. “Fuckin’ crack shot, huh?”

You laughed, despite yourself. “Something like that.”

And after you’d found park and plates in quick succession, Gator shifted the book a little bit away from you.

“Yer too good at this,” he said. “I ain’t even gettin’ a chance t’look myself.”

You paused. “Is this a race?”

He paused too. “Yeah. Think it is.”

“Well you have to let me see it, then,” you said, unable to lean too close to him, your right arm already stiff and sore from being in the sling.

“You seen it enough,” Gator said. “Plus, yer too good, I should get a lil’ advantage.”

“You mean you should get to cheat,” you replied.

Gator turned to you, grinning all smug, and nodded. “Real glad we see eye t’eye on that. ‘Preciate it.” You watched as he circled the next word, which you could barely read due to the angle at which he was holding the book.

“You’re such a dick,” you said, and you just saw his cheek round up even more, his smile widening as he crossed the word off the bottom of the list.

“My dick is one’a the most notable things about me,” Gator said, and you were so used to his crass comments by now that you just sighed in exasperation and rolled your eyes, even though he couldn’t see you.

“Just let me see the puzzle,” you said, shifting so that you were kneeling beside him on the bed, since you couldn’t lean into him with your arm as tender as it was. You leaned over him, taking extreme care not to actually let any part of your body touch his, and reached over with your left hand to try and grab the book. “We can do it together, just let me hold the book. You can keep the pencil.”

Gator switched the book to his right hand, holding it out of your reach before you even got close. “You wanna do it wi’me? Damn, ‘n I thought you were different. But I like ‘em a little mean sometimes.”

“You are such a—” you started to say, but stopped yourself, trying to think of a name to call him that he wouldn’t be able to turn into something sexual or make suggestive. And as you cycled through your choices, his smirk only grew, until he had bent his good leg at the knee, resting his elbow on it and balancing his chin on his hand, watching you with a bemused expression while your mind whirled through the various insults you knew. “Manchild.”

Gator guffawed at that, and you really had to work to suppress your own smile, moving back to sit beside him normally, no longer wanting to play his stupid games.

“First time I heard that one,” Gator said, moving to hold the puzzle book between the two of you, half on your lap, half on his.

“Color me shocked,” you snapped back, but there was no venom in it. “I would’ve guessed that was, like, your middle name.”

“So then what’s yers?” Gator asked. “Smartass?”

“Surprisingly, yes,” you said, and this time, when he laughed, you did too. You hadn’t ever wanted to cross paths with this guy, but being stuck in this room with him—willingly sharing space with him, so close your injured arm and his injured leg were almost brushing against each other—it wasn’t turning out to be the worst part of your night. That, amazingly, was still your shoulder. It wasn’t like you’d let him know he was making things bearable and the time pass quickly. You could keep your gratitude unspoken. And you would.

“You lookin’ or what?” Gator asked, shaking the book a little, and you looked over at him to find him staring at the side of your face, tapping the book with the pencil’s eraser. “I already fuckin found sandwich but I don’t wanna circle it if yer gonna chew me the fuck out about it.”

“Sandwich,” you said, letting your eyes rove over the puzzle. “There.” You pointed and he drew an elongated oval around the letters.

“Very good,” he said, condescendingly.

But instead of rising to it, you just decided to show him up. There were four words left: spring, tablecloth, wasps, and watermelon. You’d already found them—but sandwich had needed to be circled first—so you simply tapped the page in four spots, in order.

“There you go,” you said, repeating the taps so he knew you weren’t bullshitting and had found the remaining four words. “So, what do I win?”

“Win,” Gator repeated, circling each of the four words, then crossing them off the list. He stuck the pencil in the book and closed it. “Fuck makes you think you won somethin’?”

“You said it was a race,” you said. “I found the words faster than you. That means I get a prize.”

“Fuck kinda prize you think this place got? Hold on, lemme page the nurse ‘nd see if I can score ya some ice chips.”

You laughed, a true, hearty laugh, eyes closed and giggles bubbling bright out of your chest, and when you opened your eyes again and let your gaze fall on Gator, you didn’t miss the way he was looking at you, expression soft for the briefest moment, until he remembered himself, remembered who and what he was supposed to be under observation—a Tillman—and let the scowl creep back onto his features. A little too late; you wondered if he ever showed this part of himself to anyone else. Not that you were special—you knew you weren’t, not to Gator Tillman—but here he wasn’t supposed to be anyone, wasn’t beholden to his father or the department. He was just a guy waiting for stitches, messing around with a puzzle book and the woman they’d dumped on him by chance.

“So,” Gator said, clearing his throat a little as though he’d just realized now how close you were to him. “Ya wanna try ta explain how the hell ya dislocated yer arm mid-fuck?”

You sighed. “We weren’t actually… doing anything yet,” you said. “He was kinda—so he was behind me, and he had my arms behind my back.” You gestured, but Gator watched you, a half-smirk playing at his lips, one eyebrow quirked up. “He was holding them behind me, you know.”

“Yeah, I’m followin’,” Gator said, suppressing a grin.

“And I guess he just—I kinda… Twisted the wrong way from how he was moving, and next thing I knew I couldn’t really move my arm. It didn’t hurt that much when it popped out, but moving it back in front of me was really bad. And then add the emotional damage of him having to put my clothes back on...” You grimaced at Gator. “Maybe I lucked out that he just left me here.”

“Prob’ly,” Gator said, lifting his hand to bite at one of his cuticles, though he lowered his hand when you scrunched up your nose at him. “Nah, I’m just sayin’—guy like that ain’t gonna see shit through after he hurts ya? Scumbag.”

You blinked, shaking your head a little in disbelief. “What?” you asked, probably somewhat dumbly, because you hadn’t thought Gator could feel sympathy for the fairer sex.

“Guy fuckin’ dislocates yer damn arm and can’t even stick witcha at least through triage? That’s some lame ass shit.” He glanced over at you and realized you were looking at him like he had six heads. “What, you think I wouldn’t?”

“I mean—everything I’ve ever heard about you points to no, you wouldn’t.”

Gator cocked his head to the side. “‘Nd why’s that?”

You shrugged your good shoulder, but the movement still made you flinch a little. As though it were his fault, Gator moved away from you, like he’d nudged your arm and that was what made you shudder in pain.

“You’re not a… long haul kind of guy,” you said. “Or so I’ve heard.”

“Mm,” Gator hummed, then sucked his teeth. “Gotta say, this whole ‘you knowin’ of me’ thing fuckin’ sucks.”

“Sorry,” you said.

“No you ain’t,” Gator said, but he chuckled a little, darkly, unamused. “You came in here thinkin’ you knew all there was t’know about me and yer still just sayin’ it. Well, if your opinion holds so much weight like ya think I think it does, maybe try watchin’ yer mouth.” He looks over at you. “Or I’ll give ya somethin’ better t’do with it.”

You moved yourself a bit away from him to sit on the edge of the mattress, letting your left leg drape off of it, toes to the floor. “Ok, fair point. I don’t even know you, I shouldn’t judge you.” You looked over at him out of the corner of your eyes, assessing. You decided to be honest and press your luck. “You just don’t exactly give off the most… comforting aura.”

Gator turned to look blankly at you, his expression slowly morphing into disgust. “Don’t say shit like that t’me,” he said, then laughed. “I ain’t tryna be no one’s friend out here. I can’t be seen as… comforting. I’m the law.”

“Oh my god, you really say that? You really say that. I didn’t think—”

“I really say what?” he interrupted you.

You dropped your voice to match his. “‘I’m the law.’ You’re a real piece of work, you know that? ‘I’m the law,’ get the hell out of here.” You laughed and reached across your body with your left hand to shove at his left arm, playful and teasing.

“I don’t know why you think yer so cool, Miss Can’t-Even-Fuck-Right,” Gator said. “Promise ya if y’were with me, you wouldn’t’a dislocated nothin’. ‘Cept maybe yer—”

“Let me guess, my jaw?” you asked. “Because your dick’s so big? I get it, you’re packing. Can we move on?” But you were smiling. Despite yourself, despite his demeanor, you were starting to find the moments in between when he dropped the act actually… charming. Something else you’d keep to yourself, because if he found out you were actually enjoying his company, he’d be even more insufferable.

“Nah,” Gator said, stretching out his injured leg, wincing a little as he did. Surreptitiously, he lifted the hospital gown again, checking the gauze taped to his thigh. The little red sliver you’d seen before was just a touch wider, the wound still oozing. He covered it again quickly, but you’d still seen. “Got m’self.”

You almost didn’t register that he’d spoken, because it didn’t sound like he’d actually said words. “What?”

“With the boxcutter.” He cleared his throat. “I got m’self.”

“You—” you started to say, but stopped yourself. “Oh, my god.”

“Was a fuckin’ accident, a’right?” he said, huffy. “Breakin’ down some shit at the station, lost m’grip on the box, next thing ya know I’m bleedin’ like a stuck pig.”

“That’s so embarrassing for you,” you said, and Gator lifted his left hand, flipping you off. You laughed, but were pleased to see he was smirking too.

“Ain’t no more embarrassing than twistin’ yer arm out of its socket when yer just tryna get it in.”

You nodded your head to the side, conceding the point. “Fair enough.” You paused. “Why… did you tell me that?” you asked.

Gator shrugged. “You told me ‘bout yours. Figure we’re even now.”

“We needed to be even?” you asked.

“Yeah, why not,” Gator said. “Yer cool.”

If it had been five minutes earlier, you’d have ribbed him for that, given him shit for it. But it had happened at exactly the right moment—you felt decent enough even though your shoulder still hurt, and he seemed to have loosened up enough that he could be real, or at least as real as a Tillman could be in these parts.

“You might be cool too,” you said, pulling your leg back up onto the bed, pushing yourself up closer beside him, your knees pressing into his hip as you tried to face him—and then promptly fell sideways into the upright part of the bed because your right arm was in a sling and you had no way to prop yourself up.

“I take it back,” Gator said, absolutely losing his shit at your awkward faceplant, your dislocated arm held in place by the sling. “Nothin’ fuckin’ cool aboutcha, my god, woman.” He reached back to help you up, wrapping his arm around you and holding you securely to his side. “Y’ok?”

When he asked it, his voice was quieter, lighter, brushing against your cheek like the touch of a lover, of someone who cared about you, even though he couldn’t and he didn’t.

“I’m fine,” you said, your cheek burning not only from the impact on the hospital mattress but also embarrassment. You glanced over at him, and noticed: He was a lot closer than you realized, even as he retracted his arm, which was dumb as hell, because you were practically sitting on his lap, and just might be if not for his cut leg and your immobile arm.

“That’s one word fer it,” Gator said, his hand moving over your knee, up your thigh, just enough for you to feel affected by it.

And you shouldn’t. This was Gator Tillman, fundamentally one of the worst people you could get involved with, and yet aside from some locker room talk and all of the rumors and conjecture you’d gathered from living in his vicinity, he hadn’t done anything to truly turn you off. It was the push and pull of flirting with a guy, the little barbs and pokes that made something new into something fun, something brimming with potential. So when his hand skimmed a little further up your thigh, you leaned in and just barely let your lips brush over his.

He kissed you back. Of course he did. You figured he was going to, because you were there and you were making it easy, but what you didn’t count on was how he would do it. With his fingers pressing just enough into your thigh that you could feel it, with his nose bumping against yours as he tilted his head the slightest bit to the side, with his lips closing around your cupid’s bow, keeping it simple and sweet before he pulled back. It was the perfect kind of kiss for the moment, and you never would have expected Gator to read the mood like that. You were starting to think you’d been wrong about him, or maybe everyone else had.

Just as you opened your mouth to speak, the door to the room opened and the orderly marched back in, stopping short when he saw you perched on Gator’s bed. You felt his hand move off of your thigh and instead to your lower back, holding you steady as you hurriedly stood up from the bed.

“Careful,” he muttered, as you slid your legs down over the lowered railing.

“Mr. Tillman,” the orderly said.

“Deputy,” Gator corrected him, and you smirked as you took your seat again.

“Deputy,” the orderly continued. “The doctor is about ready to see you, and since you have a… roommate, we’ll be bringing you to one of the exam rooms for the stitches.” You were wheeled over to the side, while the orderly unlocked the wheels of Gator’s bed and pushed him out of the room.

“See ya,” you said, lifting your good arm to wave.

Gator nodded his chin toward you as he passed by. “Ya just might.”

Except when he was brought back to the room to wait for his discharge paperwork, you were gone.

He couldn't be more than a year or two older than you.

Maybe not older at all.

He's got the kind of face rich boys seem to keep well into their thirties: hazel eyes that catch warmth in the low chandelier light, a strong nose and soft, full lips. Thick brown hair that refuses to stay in place, falling forward in a way that looks accidental even though you know it probably took a 300-dollar haircut to make it look that effortless.

He's dressed simply—pale blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and dark slacks—but everything about him is stupidly expensive if you know what you're looking for.   

The watch, the loafers. The clean, understated cologne and the heavy gold signet ring on his left hand.

Old money.

Of course.

Another trust-fund prince getting dragged in by his daddy to “learn the family business.”

You grab the bourbon ordered for seat four—two fingers of Woodford Reserve over fresh ice—and carry it across the room.

He glances up as you set the glass beside him.

Unfortunately...

He's somehow even better-looking up close.

His eyes are stupidly big, lashes stupidly long. There's a scattering of tiny moles across his left cheek, little imperfections that stop him from looking carved out of marble.

Rich boy's got a nice face.

Shame about everything else.

His eyes catch yours for a moment before he gives you a polite nod.

“Thanks, honey.”

Then his attention drops right back to his cards.

You blink.

Honey?

Who the fuck is this guy?

He's your age.

Maybe younger.

You've got seventy-year-old regulars who've been calling waitresses “sweetheart” and “doll” since before you were born, but somehow hearing it from someone who probably still remembers freshman orientation is infinitely more irritating.

You turn on your heel before he catches the expression crossing your face.

Trust-fund asshole.

Probably couldn't tell you what a gallon of milk costs if you put a gun to his head.

Fuck that guy.

· · ·

Well.

Turns out, trust-fund asshole is good at poker.

Disgustingly good.

He’s not loud about it either; that’s what the older men hate most.

For almost an hour, he folds hand after hand, absently spinning that signet ring around his finger while everyone else slowly convinces themselves that he's way out of his depth.

So it's almost funny, when this twenty-something-year-old cleans out someone who's been playing cards since before he was born.

You have to bite back a laugh when one of the regulars slams his cards down hard enough to rattle everyone's glasses.

Serves him right.

By the time you make another round, half the table is bleeding chips.

Everyone's in a foul mood.

Everyone except for seat four.

You set another Woodford beside him.

“Thanks, honey.”

He smiles, this time.

The corners of his hazel eyes pinch with it, little creases fanning outward. It gives him an almost boyish look, rounding out his cheeks, smoothing away the sharp lines of his face until there’s something disarmingly gentle about him.

Huh.

Then he goes right back to looking at his cards.

Asshole.

· · ·

The game finally breaks sometime after midnight.

You're clearing glasses when you notice a thick wad of cash tucked under silver-spoon dickhead's—seat four's—empty tumbler.

You assume it's meant for the cashier... until you pick it up.

It's all hundreds.

A lot of hundreds.

You count it once. Then again. Then a third time because surely, surely, there’s no way.

Your head snaps up toward the entrance and find him standing by the coat room, shrugging into a camel-colored cashmere overcoat that could probably cover your student loans three times over.    

You hurry after him before common sense can stop you.

“Hey! Um, excuse me!”

He turns.

“I think, uh...” You hold up the money. “I think you made a mistake.”

His eyes drift over your face, then flick down to the wad of cash pinched between your fingers—fifty crisp hundred-dollar bills.   

He blinks at you, those ridiculous lashes fanning against his cheeks, his brows drawing together like he honestly can't figure out why you’ve chased him down.  

A tiny little crease appears between his brows, which would almost be cute if he wasn't so disgustingly wealthy.

“Did I?”

“...Yeah.”

He studies the cash for another second before understanding dawns on his face.

“Oh.” He gives a small shrug. “No.”

“No?”

“That wasn’t a mistake. It was for you.”

You laugh, because that's insane.

To someone who just walked away with well over a hundred thousand dollars, five grand probably feels like buying coffee.

To you, it's rent. It's gas, tuition, groceries, bills. An entire semester where you wouldn't have to hold you breath every time you swiped your debit card.

“I... I can't take this.”

His brows pull together again. “Why not?”

You stare at him.

“Because it's... five thousand dollars? That's—” You huff another disbelieving laugh. “I mean, that's just... way too much for a tip.”

He glances back toward the card room, then back at you.

Smiles, just a little.

“Didn't seem like too much from where I was sitting.”

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

And before you can think of another reason to refuse a tip worth more than your savings account, he's already shrugging the rest of his coat on, straightening the lapel with an absent swipe of his thumb.

He turns toward the door, making it only three steps before he pauses.

One hand settled on the brass handle, he glances back over his shoulder.

“You're here Thursdays, right?”

It takes you a second to answer.

“...Yeah?”

His smile comes back.

“Great.”

He tucks his hands into his coat pockets, gives you a little nod, and heads for the door.

“I'll see you next week, honey.”

And then he's gone.

· · ·

He comes back the next Thursday.

And the Thursday after that.

By week five, you've learned his name.

By week six, you've stopped rolling your eyes every time he calls you honey.

By week seven, he starts lingering after the games instead of disappearing the second the last hand is dealt.

One night, you're hauling a crate of empty glasses toward the bar when, without warning, the weight disappears.

You glance up to see a pair of hazel eyes blinking down at you—a warm, boyish smile on those plush lips, almost sheepish, like he's not sure if you're going to let him help or tell him to get lost.  

You raise a brow. “Uh, I'm pretty sure that's not your job.”

“No, it’s not,” he agrees easily.

“Then why are you doing it?”

He shrugs like the answer couldn't possibly be complicated.

“Gets me an extra five minutes.”

“Five minutes?”

“With you.”

He says it so casually that it takes a second for the words to actually land.

And when your face flares with heat, you’re grateful he’s too busy balancing the crate to notice.

· · ·

After that, Thursdays become a little easier.

The job is still the job—the endless dance of dodging wandering hands, stepping away from men who mistake a smile for an invitation and politely slipping your wrist free from people old enough to know better.

But Steve Harrington becomes your bright spot.

He never touches you unless you’re handing him a glass.

He’s the only man in the room who doesn’t let his eyes linger on your ass or snap his fingers to get your attention.  

He always arrives ten minutes early.

Always orders the same Woodford Reserve. Always says thank you.

Always calls you honey.

You learn little things about him.

That he tips everyone far more than necessary.

That he folds cocktail napkins into perfect little squares whenever he’s lost in thought.

That his thumb always finds the gold signet ring on his finger when he’s making a decision.

That he taps it twice against the felt whenever he’s nervous about a bluff.

(You never tell him you figured that one out.)

You learn that Steve doesn’t talk much about his work or his family.  

Instead, he asks about you.

Your classes, your major. The exam you mentioned weeks ago that he somehow remembers without you ever bringing it up again.

You tell yourself he’s probably just like that with everyone.

That Steve Harrington is simply the kind of person who makes people feel noticed.

Special.

You never quite believe it.

· · ·

One Thursday, the game wraps up just before midnight after two of the regulars call it early.

The older men filter out puffing expensive cigars, grumbling about bad beats and rematches.

You're halfway through counting your tips when Steve appears beside the bar.

Hands tucked into the pockets of a navy wool coat, rocking back on his heels.

He waits until you look up.

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

And Steve Harrington—poker prodigy, heir to whatever impossible amount of money his family had sitting around—suddenly looks unsure of himself.

Which is new.

And, admittedly, a little adorable.

You set your money down.

“Everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He answers too quickly, then clears his throat. “Yeah. I just—can I ask you something?”

You eye him suspiciously.

“With you? Depends.”

A small smile pulls at his mouth.

“Fair.”

He pulls his hand from his coat pocket, resting it on the bar between you. His thumb brushes over the gold signet ring on his finger, twisting it slowly.

“Well, I was just wondering, if you're done for the night...”    

Tap. Tap.

Two soft taps against the bar top.

You bite back a smile.

“Would you let me take you to dinner?”

You blink.

“...Right now?”

“Yeah.”

“It's midnight.”

“Late dinner, then?”

His expression is so serious that you have to bite back another laugh.

Steve watches you, a faint smile tugging at his own mouth.

“What?”

You shake your head, reaching for your jacket.

“Nothing.”

“No, what?”

You look back at him, pursing your lips.

“You’re just... so different from what I thought you’d be.”

He tilts his head slightly, a flicker of amusement creasing his expression. He’s not offended in the slightest—if anything, he looks intrigued.

Steve Harrington has never been someone who seemed bothered by other people’s opinions of him.

“In a good way or a bad way?”

You consider him for a moment, taking in the guy you were so sure you had figured out from the second he walked through the door.

This boy you’d dismissed as just another entitled douchebag, who turned out to be so downright strange—awkward where you expected arrogance, thoughtful where you expected indifference.

You can't help but smile.

“Ask me again after dinner.”

He doesn’t make it in the elevator with you but seeing that you got there with no issue calms him a bit. 

He’s pretty sure he can feel you glowering at him through the doors of the elevator as they slide shut in front of him. He’s worried about you. 

You? Oh you could kill him. 

You’re going to kill him until he dies and then you’re going to bring him back so well it becomes some sort of medical marvel that they name after you, and then you’re going to kill him. 

You step out into the ground floor, immediately making a beeline for the locker room where you can shove your bag and calm down enough to start your shift. Thankfully you and Carter aren’t usually paired on cases much while you’re both interns - he goes with Benton and you go with Lewis. Carter’s a surgical resident, you’re an EM resident; your paths cross but you don’t usually work together. 

You’re not even meant to be hanging around her so much now that you’re an intern - especially since Susan’s leaving in a few weeks, but it’s nice to have someone around. You had thought maybe that person could be Carter, but you’re so angry with him right now that you would call in sick if he wouldn’t have to be the one to drive you home. 

Carter watches you leave right as he gets to his locker, sighing to himself. 

Carol materialises at his elbow. “What’d you do to the poor girl?”

Carter flinches, both at the words and their suddenness. The two of you have only been roommates for about three months but that hasn’t stopped word from spreading to seemingly the entire department. Carter doesn’t mind it but he knows you loathe the attention. 

“I don’t even know,” he says, already exhausted. He’s only working a twelve hour shift and he’s already ready to throw in the towel. Maybe they’ll let him crash in an on-call room and you can take his car home, he can leave you to stew until you’re ready to tell him what he did wrong. “She just seems so angry with me lately.”

“Have you asked?” Carol prods as they reach the nurse’s station. He rolls his eyes at her stark tone. Carter likes Carol, and he knows she likes him as well. He also knows that for you she’d drop him in the amount of time it takes to blink.

He snarks, grabbing his case assignments from the desk. “No,” his cheeks pink as he admits it. “But she’s not exactly speaking to me right now.”

Carol raises her eyebrows. “Silent treatment? You’re done for. You guys never shut up.”

She’s not wrong. The two of you, despite being professionally separated by nature of your jobs, always seem to find each other in the halls. Whether it’s arguing about what takeout to order once you get home or arguing over a differing diagnosis, there’s rarely a quiet moment between you. 

As annoyed as you get with Carter, you really and genuinely like being around him. He hadn’t been your first choice for a roommate when you’d put up a flyer on the bulletin board behind central, hadn’t even been your fifth choice (he’d been somewhat offended when you’d admitted that, and then you’d had to point out that you had only worked at the hospital for a few months and he was a man you barely knew (that had made him feel a little bad about ripping down the flier right after he’d seen you put it up, he couldn’t lie)). You’d been hoping for one of the nurses, most of them closer to your age. You’d even heard one of them confiding in another about how her lease was up at the end of the week and she still hadn’t found a new place. Carter had been the only one to ask you about the room. 

On the bad days, you forget you’re friends. On the good days, you think you might love him.

Over the next ten hours, Carter somehow sees you too much and also desperately not enough. He catches enough of a glimpse of you; kneeling to speak to a young boy, snickering from behind a file with Lydia and Wendy, even wrist deep in a woman’s throat mid-crike. He sees you enough to kill him, but not enough to bring him back to life. 

Then he gets brought in to do an emergency surgery with Morgenstern and suddenly he’s an hour late to drive you home. 

He insisted on car-pooling, it saves you both gas, and it’s nice to have someone there after the really bad shifts. It also means that you have to sit on the hood of his stupid Jeep waiting for him. 

He’s out of breath by the time he reaches you, like he’d run straight from surgery. He had but he wasn’t going to tell you that. 

“What are you still doing here?” He pants, digging for his keys in his bag. His spare hand comes to take yours without even asking. Carter shrugs it onto his shoulder and keeps an arm up so you can hold onto something while you slide off the car. All done without looking at you, all like he didn’t even realise. 

“You’re my ride,” you say obviously, resisting the urge to tack an idiot on the end. 

He unlocks the car and starts for your side. You step in front of him so he can’t open the door for you, already feeling like he’s done enough for you without even grovelling. You can’t really stay cross with him for very long. Your longest record was 16 hours. 

“You’re mad at me,” he says once you’re both in the car, the radio off even though his fingers itch to turn it on, desperate to fill the silence. You hate the crackling. 

You slump in your chair. “What gave it away? The part where you forgot me or the part where you ate my sandwich.”

Carter blinks, resisting the urge to let his head snap towards you while doing sixty. You regularly make him sandwiches. You meal prep in bulk and will make a couple extra for him in exchange for him waking you up with a coffee most mornings. He’d do it even without the sandwich, but he knows you’d also do it without the coffee. 

“What sandwich?”

“The one you took yesterday!” You frown at him, and if you didn’t live so close he’d honestly pull over. He wants to see your face, first and foremost. He wants to see the way you’re speaking. “It was mine! I was looking forward to it. It had the good cheese.”

It’s stupid, you’re aware, to be so cranky with him over a sandwich. But it did have the good cheese. You had a twenty-four hour shift on Saturday, and you’d made the sandwich in preparation for that. Then, yesterday, you’d stumbled to the fridge at nine, one of the rare days you were off all by yourself, and noticed it missing. 

“The sandwich,” he mutters, more talking to himself than you. Doesn’t change the fact that you can hear it though. “She’s mad about the sandwich.”

“Yes she is!” You insist. 

“I thought it was mine!” He says, voice peaking as he turns onto your street. You’re dreading having to walk up all the stairs and wonder, selfishly, if Carter will still carry your bag even though you’ve snapped at him. “It’s got all the usual stuff you put on them.”

You wait for him to pull into his designated space beside your car before you speak, unclipping your seatbelt angrily and shuffling to face him. “Yes, but I always mark the ones that are for you,” you point out. “The rest are mine. You don’t just get to take your pick of my shit because I sometimes do something nice for you.”

Carter feels his face flush even more. He remembers the sandwich now, it had been slightly nicer than the ones he’d usually take. “I thought…”

You watch him flounder for a bit before rolling your eyes and turning to get out of the car. This time he doesn’t let you get far, coming to stop in front of you before you can even make it five steps. “You thought what? You can just take stuff that doesn’t belong to you?”

“I thought you did mark it,” he admits. He brings a hand up to scratch the back of his neck, and he curses his early morning self for being so goddamn foolish. Of course that’s what it was. “You… You drew…” he coughs, too stunned and humiliated to get the words out. You know what he’s planning on saying though. 

You’d drawn a heart over it to mark it as the nice one. He’d thought it had been for him. 

It wouldn’t have been out of the norm. Carter, honey, can you grab me that jar? Oh you brought me my coat? You’re a sweetheart. Here, baby, eat something, you’ll feel better. 

You’re loving, you’re affectionate, you’re kind, and he’d thought - stupidly - that meant you liked him the way he’d liked you for almost half a year. 

You can’t do anything but stare at him. Because, rather suddenly, you’re not angry - you’re mortified. Something warm and sick and tender curls in your throat all at once. “The heart,” you sound softer than you’d want. 

Carter flinches. “I- I mean, yeah. You do that sometimes. Cute stuff,” he gestures vaguely at nothing. “For me.”

You hate that the blush crawling up his neck makes him look even more endearing, your anger well and truly dissipated. You press the heels of your palms into your eyes so hard you start seeing things. “Oh, my god.”

“I wasn’t trying to take something that wasn’t mine- or just, like, assume you were doing something nice for me for no reason. I just,” the words fall out of his mouth without him meaning to. He can’t see your eyes and that worries him. As embarrassing as it is to admit to you, Carter knows he’d rather you think him lovesick and presumptuous than malicious. “I don’t know what I thought, but I guess I just- I hoped maybe-” he falters. 

He can’t even look at you, which is a shame. He loves looking at you. 

You seem to understand anyway, dropping your hands to let your eyes meet his. His gaze is locked somewhere above your head, but you keep yours trained right on his eyes until they join. 

“Carter…”

“No,” his voice sounds strange even in his own ears. “I’m sorry. I never meant to-”

He thinks maybe you’re not angry with him anymore. “It’s just a sandwich.”

Carter’s face crumples and his heart follows suit, constricting around nothing but hurt and the earth you’ve just brought him back down to. The blue of him and the green of you. Surgery and Emergency. “I know.”

You take a step towards him, rocking awkwardly on your shoes. “No, I mean- It’s just a sandwich. It’s okay.”

He doesn’t quite believe you’ve forgiven him. The sandwich, sure, whatever. Him thinking you liked him? He’s going to have to move out. 

“Can you just tell me if you want me to start sleeping on the couch?” He breathes out. He has no idea where he’s supposed to live now. He’s never really been apartment hunting. 

You crack a smile and he feels deep in his chest that it might be the last time he ever sees you like this so close. “I’d never do that to you, our couch sucks.”

You push off where you’re leaning against the door of the car. His bag is in your hand. You hadn’t even realised you weren’t holding it. You make it all the way up two flights and into the kitchen before you’re speaking again. The walk had given you plenty of time to think, and yet. “ You’d thought he hadn’t cared, that he’d thought your efforts so insignificant he could just do things to upset you. The idea that maybe he’d internalised all of the softness you showed him and finally felt like he’d deserved it made your stomach churn. In a good way, like when you go on a rollercoaster. 

“I’ll make you another sandwich,” he offers. 

You’re shaking your head, folding yourself up on the kitchen counter. He comes to stand directly in front of you despite all the room. He pulls your shoelaces out of their knots without even looking from your face. “We’re out of the good cheese.”

“There’s a 24-Stop like a block away, I can-”

“Carter,” you’re looking right at him. Falling into an argument as easy as breathing. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

He rolls his eyes. “Well, excuse me for trying to do something nice for you.” He’s smiling wider and closer than you’ve ever seen him. 

You like him so much you think it’s made you a little stupid. 

“Good,” it comes out in a whisper. “You should stop.”

He can feel your pinky finger ghosting the backs of his palms as he pulls your shoes off so you can sit cross-legged on the kitchen bench. You’re so lovely, and he thinks you might be flirting with him, and he knows you both have tomorrow off, and he knows he’s not going to be able to take the closeness without everything else after this. 

“Does that mean I can’t kiss you?”

You yank him forward by the hem of his scrub top. He laughs into your mouth, soft as anything against his own. Carter goes to pull away, undoubtedly to say something witty about you clearly not liking him that much if a kiss from him isn’t considered a nice thing. You barely let him catch his breath before you’re kissing him again. 

He’s going to go out tonight after you fall asleep and buy a whole fridge worth of that stupid expensive cheese you like, and then he’s going to make you the best damn sandwich you’ve ever eaten.