this is a love song, isnt it?

“Goddamn disgraceful,” Roy calls from the other side of the truck, where he’s packing his own fishing gear. “Nice young lady with that attitude toward her daddy. He oughta smack it outta ‘ya.”

Your frown deepens, but you wisely don’t reply. Your dad’s never hit you– you’ve always thought he just lacked the guts– but that doesn’t stop his best friend from suggesting it any time he sees you. So what if you’ve always been unruly, always balked against the town’s expectation you be perfectly quiet and chaste? It’s only a few more years till you’re out of here for good, and you won’t have to worry about Roy Tillman and his sycophantic male fantasies anymore. Or, arguably worse, his disgusting, intolerable, pain-in-the-ass son. 

As if your thoughts have summoned him, a black truck pulls up to the curb outside your house, and your mood darkens even further. You don’t mind your dad leaving for the weekend– you prefer it, actually. The issue, though, is that he’s decided you won’t be spending it alone. Instead, mostly because the last time you were left home unsupervised, you might have taken the opportunity to spend a couple hours with your then-boyfriend, and your dad might have found out from the neighbors, this time, you’re going to have a babysitter. 

The door of the black truck opens, and you watch as Gator’s heavy combat boots hit the concrete. He’s dressed ridiculously for the hot weather in a black t-shirt and that weighted tactical vest, his beige cargos thick and creased from the drive. His hair is gelled back, like he actually bothered to make himself presentable for this bullshit job. To top it off, he’s already taking a pull from his neon-tropical-vomit-flavored vape, blowing a pungent cloud into the air.

Your nose wrinkles almost unwittingly. You think dimly that you must hate him more every time you see him. 

Gator slams his door, and his eyes land on your stiff form immediately. “Hey, sweetheart,” he calls to you, a grin pulling at his mouth as he stalks up your driveway toward you. 

You freeze in place, willing your frown and your crossed arms into stone before him. It’s a practice you’ve perfected when dealing with Gator– a survival tactic, really. You’ve learned over the years just how many miles he’ll take if you relinquish that first inch. 

Roy catches the nickname, which Gator’s been teasing you with since you were fifteen, and frowns, too. Crossing around the truck to his son, he grips him by the shirt and warns him loudly, “No funny business. You hear me, boy?”

Gator raises his hands in surrender, and you can’t help your amusement as his tough-guy facade cracks a little under his father’s scrutiny. It’s maybe his truest weakness you’ve ever been able to detect. “Relax, Dad, I was just kiddin’ around,” Gator complains.

Roy releases him and turns to you, pointing one finger at you. “And you– honor thy father and mother. You know what that’s from?”

“Hamlet?” you guess innocently, ignoring the look your dad shoots you in response.

Roy’s jaw clenches, displeased by how he’s failed to intimidate you. “Be good,” he barks. “Gator here’ll make sure you behave.”

The shit-eating smirk is back on Gator’s face, and you fight not to let your face burn. You’re almost twenty– you don’t need a goddamn babysitter. This whole thing is ludicrous.

Your father calls his goodbyes to you, and without saying anything further, you turn on your heel and head back into the house. You don’t need to check behind you to know Gator’s following you.

You’ve probably hated Gator Tillman since he’d first learned to walk and talk and pull your hair.

The town of Lehigh is just small enough to get uncomfortable when you find someone you truly detest. And ever since that first moment you can’t remember, some family barbecue or church picnic too far back to recollect, whatever moment you first met Gator, you’ve known he was someone you were engineered to despise.

He’s loud and lewd and completely unapologetic about it. When he’s not shovelling food into it like he’s been starving for years, he’s got the foulest mouth of anyone you know. When the opportunity has presented itself, he’s never once failed to make a comment about how your ass looks. 

He’s despicable. Disgusting. He chews up women and spits them out, barbie after barbie, in and out of his tacky, red-pill bedroom at the ranch. He was the first one on the playground to call you names and the only one in the class to boo your presentations in high school English. Even if it weren’t for his crippling nicotine addiction, the ridiculous way he wears his hair, and the superiority complex that’s only worsened since he got his license to work as a deputy for his father, he’d still be the same arrogant, sexist prick you’ve grown up barely tolerating. 

In some ways, you think Gator might be even worse than his father. Roy’s an unbelievable asshole, it’s true. Apart from his insane, puritanical beliefs about women, the cruelty and abuse he levels at everyone around him, he’s got one thing and one thing only going for him: he’s honest. He might be evil, but it’s what he is.

Gator’s different. Gator isn’t evil, not to the core of who he is. And that’s what makes him worse– he could be different if he ever pulled his head out of his ass and stopped trying to be Roy. He could learn to love women instead of using them, to handle things softly, to speak gently despite that tough-guy voice in his puny brain. But he won’t do it– won’t make that choice. That, you think, might be weaker and more pathetic than anything.

And no matter how much you hate him, no matter how many times you’ve screamed into your pillow with frustration after a fight or stormed out of his truck when your dad has forced him to pick you up from some school event or another, Gator’s stuck to you like flies on shit. He seems to think it’s funny– some sick little game in his head to keep coming back for more. He’ll keep mocking you with flirting, teasing you about your hair or your clothes. He’ll keep threatening the guys you’re seeing to scare them off, thinking it’ll never get back to you. He’ll keep provoking a fight, even when you shove at his chest and fire insults right back at him. 

That’s just Gator. He’s never known how to leave well enough alone, how to keep his hands from clenching in a vice grip. Everything he’s once owned has bruises on it.

As you make your way to your living room, you hear him shut your front door, probably with a little more force than necessary, and drop his overnight duffel bag in the entryway. “What, no hello for me?” he mocks you, not bothering to take off his shoes as he follows after you. 

Set on ignoring him, you flop onto the couch and pull over the magazine you’d been flipping through idly.

You watch those idiotic combat boots stop a few feet before you on the living room rug. 

“You know, if you wanted to know ten ways to drive a man crazy, you could just ask me.”

You snort, not lifting your eyes from your magazine. “Yeah, I’ll pass. Repulsion’s really more your area, isn’t it?”

“You sure?” Gator goads you, and you don’t need to look at him to be able to tell he’s grinning down at you. “Bet I’ve got a tip you could use, sweetheart.”

You lower the magazine, finally meeting his stare with all the ire you can muster. “I’d rather stick my hand down a garbage disposal, thanks.”

Gator’s grin is absolutely feral. Quicker than you can avoid, he leans down and snatches the magazine out of your hands, and a fresh wave of fury rises in your gut as you scramble for it back.

“Now, what are you ‘n I gonna get up to this weekend?” he asks you, thumbing through the pages of the magazine as he strolls away from you. 

You leap up from the couch, going after him. “I have plans,” you inform him sharply. “You can do whatever the hell you want. Your bedroom’s in the doghouse out back.”

“Nuh-uh,” he shakes his head solemnly, closing the magazine and chucking it onto the dining table. “Your daddy said you’re under house arrest. That means no going out, little miss.”

“Oh, blow me, Gator. We’re the same age.” you spit back, face twisting.

“Well, sure, but someone still can’t stay home alone without gettin’ into trouble, now can she?” Gator teases. “Heard you had your lil’ boyfriend over last time. What’d you do, huh? Suck him off while your folks were gone?”

Your face goes brilliantly, vibrantly red. “You’re a pig from hell,” you fire at him, planting both your hands on his chest and shoving him back. “It’s none of your damn business.”

“We’re friends, aren’t we?” Gator goes on crudely, his eyes tracing over your burning face. “Friends tell friends what they’re gettin’ up to. ‘Specially when they’re whorin’ around and need lookin’ after.”

He knows exactly what to say to get to you– he always has. If Gator Tillman ever had a talent, it was knowing the precise formula of words to lay down to make you go white with rage. 

“You’re just jealous,” you shoot at him. “I bet no one’ll come near yours. I doubt you’ve gotten head since Lottie Jameson during seven minutes in heaven.”

Gator steps closer, his eyes sparking with temper and challenge. “You wanna settle that bet, baby?”

You scoff, lost for a comeback at his heated expression, at the nickname that’s always completely disarmed you. “I can’t believe my dad thinks you’ll keep me out of trouble. He’d have better luck having me stay with a crack addict.”

“You got a dirty fuckin’ mouth on you, you know that?” Gator drawls, nonplussed. You watch as he digs in his tactical vest and pulls free his vape, and your brows shoot up. 

“Do not fucking puff that in my house, Gator,” you warn him, pointing a finger threateningly at his hand. 

Gator’s smile spreads slowly. “Oh, yeah? What are you gonna do about it?”

“I’m not kidding,” you threaten him. “Those things are fucking disgusting. I don’t need this house to smell like you.”

Gator raises it halfway to his lips, and you take two sharp steps toward him, telling him just how quick you’ll make good on your promise of violence. He halts at your motion, amused, then smiles wider as he lifts the vape up to his mouth.

Unable to kill your temper, you lunge at him. 

Gator dodges your first attack, swerving out of the way of your hand as it grabs for the stupid pen. The second time you reach for him, he’s not as fast, and your nails dig into the skin of his hand as you wrest the vape from his fingers, pulling it free and quickly pitching it out the wide-open living room window. 

Gator’s eyes flare in shock as he tracks the precise throw, then turns back to you, now only inches from your face. “That one was a spare,” he goads you, reaching into his vest again and pulling out another, even more disgusting bar of e-cancer. 

“Give me that,” you spit, hands digging into his again. 

Gator growls as you wrestle with him, trying to pull away. “Quit fuckin’ scratching me– ow!” 

His free hand grabs for your wrist, and you work your elbow into him to try to wedge your way out, grunting with the effort. It lands somewhere against his ribs, but with the heavy vest, it probably hurts you more than him. 

The vape in Gator’s other hand clatters to the floor as he grabs for your wrists again. “Would you fuckin’ quit it?”

“Let go,” you hiss, twisting your arms to get him to loosen his grip on you. The wrestling match devolves between you, more frantic, less fair. You stomp your heel down onto his foot, and he swears, grabbing for your arms to try to pin them to your sides. To his credit, Gator doesn’t try to hurt you– just get you to stop laying into him, like he knows somehow it’d be wrong to rough up a woman who, despite her temper, still isn’t as strong as him. It must be the influence of the one loose brain cell rattling around in his head that hasn’t yet been corrupted by his father. Still, his hands are rough and his grip strength is completely ridiculous, so the dig of his thumbs into your biceps will probably bruise.

“Christ, stop thrashin’, woman!” he yells at you as you try to twist away from him, accidentally pinning yourself against his chest. “You’re like a wild fuckin’ animal. Will you– ow, fuck!”

Gator’s finally had enough– wresting his hands free, he grips your waist and hauls you into his arms, making you loose an aggravated yell. 

“Put me down, you fucking asshole!” You yell at him, slapping at his shoulders as he carries you back through the living room.

“Calm the hell down!” he barks at you, his hands a vice on your legs as heaves you up, throwing you over his shoulder completely. “Goddammit, woman, you’re fuckin’ relentless.”

You thrash against him, writhing against the unbending pressure of his arms. 

“Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t put me down–”

He reaches the couch and chucks you down onto it, and you yelp as your back hits the plush cushions. Gator comes over you, knees on either side of your thighs to keep you in place. Your hands reach up, probably to claw his eyes out or something, but you settle for slapping at him like you used to do when you two would fight like this as kids, the blows weak but sufficiently annoying. 

Gator’s hands try to still your attacks, fighting for control of your wrists again. “No, no– ah, fuck. Hold still, will you? There– hah. Gotcha.” His hands clamp down on your arms, finally pinning you to the cushions. 

“What the fuck?” you spit, blowing hair out of your face as you wriggle against him. 

Gator pants above you, triumphant. “You done?” he asks, brow raising. You loosened his hair of some of its gel when you yanked it, and strands hang down over his forehead as he looms over you. 

Something twists in your gut– unnamable, but so close to that same rage you always feel when you see him. 

“Get off of me, you bastard,” you tell him, fuming. 

Gator just smirks, his breaths evening. “Guess you’ll do anything to get me on top of ‘ya, huh?” 

The teasing makes you see red, and you move before you have a chance to think, driving your knee up between his legs. 

Gator blocks you with his thigh just in time, his eyes widening in shock and outrage. “Jesus, you’re a real piece of work,” he huffs, his breath ruffling your hair. “What the hell is wrong with you, woman?”

“Get off of me,” you say again through your teeth, thrashing again. “And don’t call me that shit.”

He finally releases you, sitting back on his heels as you scramble upright. He examines his hands, now sporting red lines from your scratching. “Cut your fucking nails,” he orders you. “You’re like a dragon.”

You push off the couch, rubbing at your sore forearms. “Don’t touch me, Gator,” you bite, stalking away. Your cheeks are red, your heart is pounding, and you’re absolutely humming with anger. And you have a feeling it’ll stay that way for a while yet.

A few hours alone in your room cool you off significantly. 

Despite the fact that you can hear the noise of the TV blaring whatever inane hunting show Gator’s put on while he lounges around doing fuck all, you spend the first hours of what was supposed to be your blissful, solitary weekend hunkered in on your bed painting your nails and calling your friends. All of them are outraged but unsurprised when you tell them about your fight with Gator, and none of them can admit to ever having come to blows with a man before. You tell them, of course they haven’t– and neither have you. Gator’s not a man, he’s a weasel.

You’re on speaker with your friend Emmie while you finish up painting your toenails, only just beginning to feel the hunger you’ve been dreading. Hunger means you have to get dinner. Dinner would require stepping out of this room and seeing the amoeba that’s taken residence on your couch. 

Emmie’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts. “Come on, babe. It won’t be that long.”

“Easy for you to say,” you huff. “You’re not the one hearing the dulcet tones of Duck Dynasty through the walls.”

“Oh, please,” Emmie snorts. “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying the view a little bit.”

You color despite yourself, your eyes flicking to your door, as if Gator will appear there and scare the hell out of you. It’d be in character. “I am not.”

Emmie laughs into the receiver. “Face it, hon. Gator Tillman might be the biggest asshole ever to walk the earth, but he’s hot. You’ve always thought he was hot.”

You narrow your eyes, picking your phone up to hiss into the receiver, “If there was ever a sliver of attractiveness in him, it was immediately overruled by how completely and totally revolting he is. I do not think he’s hot.”

“Yeah, right,” Emmie teases, unperturbed. “He had you pinned to the couch today.”

You scowl, though she can’t see it. “Shut up, Emmie. It’s not like I have a crush on him. I mean, I’m not thirteen anymore.”

You can hardly stand to recall those few months you’d had a teeny-tiny thing for Gator– right up until he made out with Mandy Collins in front of you and stomped your heart into the dirt. You knew better now than to let yourself fall for any kind of lie he told you. No part of Gator Tillman was worth the torture that was spending any amount of time around him. 

A creak of the floorboards in the hallway makes your head shoot up. Your eyes narrow, but when there’s no more noise following it, you relent and turn your attention back to convincing Emmie you’re still sane.

You talk for a while more, but eventually, your stomach starts growling louder than you can ignore any longer. You sigh and tell Emmie you have to go, then hang up and reluctantly rise from your bed. 

You open your door cautiously, looking left and right for any sign of him. Then, shaking yourself, you remember it’s your house, too, and you don’t have any reason to hide from him. In fact, if anyone should be embarrassed of your fight earlier, it’s sure as hell not you.

Without another thought, you make your way down the hallway, your nose in the air and your eyes forward. 

Gator’s not in the living room– in fact, he’s placed himself exactly where you’re going. The fridge is open, and he’s picking up containers from within it and throwing them down aimlessly, unimpressed. He must find one he likes– some kind of leftovers your dad must have stuck in there– because he takes it out and pitches it onto the counter. 

“Don’t eat that,” you snap. “I already made pasta for tonight.”

Gator turns, brows raised at your tone. He hasn’t fixed his hair since your fight, and you brush aside how much better he looks when he’s a little disheveled like this, his t-shirt rucked up a bit around his waist from lounging on the couch. “You cook for me, sweetheart? That’s cute.”

Your nose wrinkles. “I must have gotten you confused for a homeless person. Feeding you is kinda like doing charity.”

“Nah, I bet you made it special,” he teases you, rifling through the fridge to find the container you’re talking about. “You put my name on the label, too?”

“Just move out of the way,” you spit, knocking your hip into his to shove him over before he completely wrecks your organization of the fridge. “God, do you have to destroy everything you get your hands on?”

He shrugs, nonplussed, as he steps back and leans against the counter. “Lotta girls like what I do with my hands.”

You hiss at the joke and don’t reply as you find the container of pasta and set it on the counter, pulling down two bowls from the cabinets and moving for the forks. 

“Kinda sweet, you makin’ dinner for me,” he hums.

“I did not make dinner for you,” you repeat bitterly. “My dad said I was responsible for cooking this weekend. This was completely forced.”

“Whatever you say,” Gator replies mildly. “Doesn’t look that way, though. Almost looks like you have a crush on me, or something.”

Your fingers freeze over the silverware, your heart leaping into your throat. “The fuck did you just say?”

You turn over your shoulder to find Gator smirking at your back, utterly triumphant. “You heard me,” he insists. “You got a crush on me, sweetheart?”

Your fingers close around the two forks tight enough to hurt. “You were eavesdropping?” you ask in outrage.

“Kinda hard not to when you talk so fuckin’ loud,” Gator drawls.

Anger roils in your gut again, that quickly. You toss the forks onto the counter and glare at him. “Well, if you were listening at my door, you little pervert, you would have heard me say how deeply I don’t have a crush on you.”

“But you did,” Gator corrects you, a grin spreading across his face.

You fight the redness blooming in your cheeks. “I was thirteen and deluded,” you defend yourself. “I also thought I was gonna marry Justin Bieber."

“How bad did you like me, huh?” Gator asks, his voice needling deeper at an old wound you didn’t realize was still capable of hurting. “You write ‘Mrs. Tillman’ on all your notebooks?”

“God, do you need an ego boost that bad, that you’re digging at middle school me?” you scoff in challenge, refusing to let him humiliate you. “Why the hell do you care, Gator? Times have clearly changed.”

Gator pushes off the counter, something settling even and dangerous in his eyes. His voice is a low rumble as he tells you, “Maybe I’ve got a crush on you, too.”

Your heart pounds harder in your chest– so hard it’s embarrassing. So hard that for a stupid moment, you worry he might be able to hear it. 

“Yeah, right,” you make out roughly. You refuse to let yourself fall for it. This boy has burned you too many times for you to believe him now. “You don’t have a crush on anything that can say words with more than one syllable.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself,” he murmurs, stepping closer until he’s towering over you, his face slightly bent towards yours. Your breath hitches just the slightest bit, caught off guard by the close proximity. You pray he didn’t notice, but know somehow he did anyway.

“You’re insane,” you tell him, your voice weaker than you mean it to be. “I hate you. You hate me. You just don’t like that you can’t control me, so you play this game with me instead.”

“Maybe,” he hums, his eyes half lidded as they drop to your lips. “Or maybe I’m thinkin’ about you every time I get a minute alone. Maybe I’m makin’ some girl scream, and I’m picturin’ the way you’re lookin’ at me right now.”

Your chest feels tight, your heart beating an odd, off-kilter rhythm. “You’re repugnant,” you breathe. “You’re sick, Gator.” For some reason, your emotion feels almost too big to come to terms with. “I fucking hate it when you do this. It’s like sex is some competition to stoke your ego.”

His hand comes up slowly, and your eyes track the movement. Gently, he presses his thumb to the corner of your lips, his eyes studying the touch with rapt attention. “You have no idea what I’ve been thinkin’ about doin’ with this pretty little mouth.”

The touch entrances you, catches you in a cloying spell. It only breaks when his smirk returns, irreverent as always. 

His fingers drop away from your face, and before he can say another word, you put both hands on his chest and shove him backward. “Fuck you, Gator.”

His lips twitch upward. He knows he’s won. “You wish,” he mocks you.

Abandoning the food on the counter, you flee from the kitchen, fire alight in your belly. “Make your own damn dinner. I’ll eat in my room.”

“Come on, baby. Don’t be like that,” he calls after you, that smartass humor still lingering in his tone. 

You don’t care. You’re already gone. 

It’s only a few minutes later, when your noise-cancelling headphones are set firmly over your ears and you’re sulking to your moodiest playlist, that your bedroom door swings open and Gator reappears. 

“Knock, much?” You snap at him, already scowling. 

Gator stays in your doorway and snorts, waving a hand at you. “Like you’d be able to hear me with those huge fuckin’ things on.”

“Get out of my room, Gator,” you spit harshly. 

He reveals his other hand, which holds a steaming bowl of the pasta you made. Without ceremony, he throws the bowl onto your desk and sticks a fork in it. 

You blink. Gator Tillman sort of made you dinner. That’s fucking new.

“Here,” he drawls, giving you a flat look. “You women get cranky when you’re hungry.”

“Get out,” you yell, grabbing one of the pillows on your bed and chucking it at him. 

He laughs as he dodges it. “Have a good night, sweetheart. Don’t try to sneak out your window– I’ll know.”

“Why don’t you go blow yourself?” you yell after him. “It’s all you’re good at, anyway!”

His chuckle echoes down the hall.

The next morning, you don’t emerge from your room until you’re fully dressed and ready. 

Unfortunately for you, Gator’s always been an early riser.

“Cute outfit,” he calls from his place leaning against the kitchen counter. He’s showered since you last saw him, and he’s dressed more casually in jeans and a rock t-shirt, a baseball cap set backwards atop his ungelled hair. You guess he’s not going into the station today– probably no need, without his dad there for him to impress.

“Bite me,” you fire back, not looking at him. You’re still furious about the shit he pulled last night. You spent hours tossing back and forth in bed over it, actually– completely revolted at what he’d implied. Your sheets had been cloying and burning against your skin. And, petulantly, you’d hoped that somewhere in the house, in whatever room of the house Gator had finally crashed, he was sleeping even worse.

You can’t put your finger on why it bothered you so much that he said what he did. Gator’s always been that way– teasing, mocking, pushing entirely too far over the line of basic decency. He’s always used sex against you, whether you’ve been getting any lately or not. Maybe it’s that you’ve been single for a few weeks now, and the aloneness is starting to feel a hell lot like a dry spell. The last thing you need in the midst of all of that is Gator fucking Tillman telling you he jerks off thinking about you.

You shove that thought aside before it can torture you any further this morning. It’s all a game– it always has been. You just need to keep a grip on your anger and a firmer one on your composure and get through this godforsaken weekend.

The killer thing, you think as you stroll through the kitchen, feigning being unbothered by his presence, is that your outfit really is cute– an olive green tank and your shortest denim skirt, your nicest sunglasses pushing back your hair. No part of it is for him, however. In fact, today, you’re planning on putting as much distance between you and Gator as possible.

“So where we goin’ today, sweetheart?” he asks as you near him in the kitchen.

You grab an apple out of the fruit bowl and a bagel from the breadbox. “We are not going anywhere.”

“Now, don’t be like that,” he chides you, pushing off the counter and moving closer. “You and I could have some fun this weekend if we really tried.”

You ignore him and his innuendos as you nab the cream cheese from the fridge and start spreading it on your bagel, untoasted. “I’d hate to interrupt your busy schedule of kicking puppies and stealing candy from babies.”

He grins again. “I can raincheck it till next weekend.”

When you don’t respond, he moves closer. “Come on,” he presses you. “You got all dressed up for me. Can’t let it be for nothin’.” His hand slips toward you and tugs at the hem of your skirt, his knuckles skimming along your thigh. 

You go ramrod straight, your knee jerking forward and knocking against the cabinet in front of you, hard enough to make you wince. “It’s not for you,” you fire back when you regain control of your words. “I’m going out. Now get your hands off me before I find another use for this butterknife.”

“You’re goin’ out?” he repeats, disbelieving.

“Yes,” you spit, finishing with your bagel and moving away from him. 

Gator laughs dryly. “You’re not goin’ out.”

“The hell I’m not,” you scoff. “Emmie’s gonna be here in ten minutes. I’m getting the fuck away from you for a while.”

“Emmie,” he repeats, laughing again. “Yeah fuckin’ right. You think I’m dumb?”

You let out an incredulous laugh. “You really want me to answer that?”

“You’re sneakin’ out to go see your fuckin’ boyfriend,” Gator says in challenge, moving an inch closer. “And you think I won’t find out.”

“I don’t have a boyfriend, you idiot,” you spit at him, taking a bite of your bagel.

“Then whoever you’re givin’ it out to this week,” Gator suggests, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter so much to me.”

“Oh, yeah?” you scoff, meeting his eyes with fire in yours. “‘Cause you seem pretty damn interested in where and when I’m putting out. You jealous, Gator?”

Something shifts in his eyes as he watches you, his eyes dipping to your mouth as you chew your food slowly. “You gonna give me a reason to be?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

His eyes sweep down your body, then back up. “It means I don’t see what I have to be jealous about when I’m the only one you’re always screamin’ at.”

“Oh my God,” you snort, though you feel none of the casual indifference you project. “You are so full of shit. I think your ego’s actually starting to infect the rest of your brain.”

“You’re not goin’ out,” Gator says with finality. “Pops told me to watch you, and that’s exactly what I’m gonna do.”

“You can’t keep me under house arrest, Gator,” you challenge, panic flaring within you at the thought of him actually trapping you in here with him all weekend.

“The fuck I can’t,” he snorts. “I’m the babysitter, ain’t I?”

“You’re not my babysitter,” you fire at him, your temper kicking up again.

“Oh, yeah?” he hums. “What am I, then?”

“My local parasite?” you offer, mockingly sweet.

Gator doesn’t take the bait– just smirks at you. “You try and leave here without me, sweetheart, and I’ll just have to call your daddy and see what he has to say about it.”

“There’s nothing to do in here,” you argue, trying desperately to make him see reason. “I’m gonna be bored out of my skull, and so are you.”

“Alright, then let’s find somethin’ to do,” Gator suggests. “You and me. Not Emmie or whatever fuckin’ guy you were gonna let put his hands on you all afternoon.”

“You’re such a fucking pig!” you nearly yell in aggravation.

“Come on,” he goads you. “You wanna play a board game? Want me to braid your hair?”

“I want to get as far away from you as possible before I catch something contagious.” You ditch the rest of your food and make for your room again, dimly aware that it’s becoming something of a fortress.

“It’s a small house, sweetheart,” he tells you as he follows you, right on your heels. “You can’t avoid me forever.”

You whip around and stick a finger into his chest. “I want you out of here, Gator. I want you gone. I don’t care where you go. Just get out of my fucking house and leave me alone.”

“I can’t do that,” he tells you, intensity back in his expression.

“I don’t care,” you repeat, shaking your head. You’re almost trembling with anger, your fists clenched. “I don’t care what our dads say about it. I’d rather be grounded until I’m dead than spend another moment with you.”

For a second, Gator doesn’t speak. And then, voice low, he mutters, “You weren’t kiddin’ yesterday, were you?” he asks, his eyes scanning your face. “You really do hate me.”

“I do,” you agree– probably the only time you ever have. “And you hate me.”

“But you think about me,” he murmurs without answering you. His voice takes on a low, dangerous edge, and you become aware again of how little space there is left between your faces. “Don’t you, pretty?”

“You’re delusional,” you hiss, the words coming out on a whisper.

“Nah,” he brushes you off. “I can tell, baby. When you’re all hot and bothered like this, when you get this fired up…” he lets out a breathy laugh. “I bet you toss and turn all night, too riled up to get to sleep ‘cause all you can think about is me.”

The words hit too close. They make your breath hitch, and like always, he can tell. It’s like he knew what you were doing in your bedroom last night– knew how long it took you to finally settle down, and only after you’d taken care of yourself a few times, just to pull some stress out of your brain. It’s like he knew what you’d been thinking about when you had.

Gator sees it on your face– that vulnerability, open and ready for him to exploit. And you can’t let him have it. And you’re running on five hours of sleep. And you’d rather die than let Gator win one over you like he has all your life. 

And you tell yourself that’s why you grip him by the neck of his shirt and haul his lips to yours.

The kiss is hard, abrasive, and pressing. You don’t give Gator a second to adjust, swallowing his breath of surprise, your hand fisted in his shirt.

And something in you, something you’ve been ignoring for your entire life, something that tortures you on nights like last night and days like today when you really can’t shove him out of your mind, settles and clicks into place. That dooming, disastrous secret you’ve pretended all these years you haven’t yet discovered. 

Heat licks up inside you, seeping into your belly. You want more, you realize– more than the slide of your lips against his, more than Gator still and receiving. You want hands and tongues and teeth. You want him to move, but for once in his pathetic life, Gator Tillman seems frozen.

With the hand still gripping his shirt, you shove him back, sucking in a breath. 

His face is torn in shock. He’s panting slightly, his shining lips just beginning to turn pink. His dark eyes rove over your face, wider and more focused than you’ve ever seen. 

Your stare traces from the few hairs sticking out of his ballcap down to his lips that were plusher than you’d thought possible for a man like him. And then you laugh, low and harsh. 

Without another look at Gator, your heart in your throat, you turn on your heel and disappear behind your bedroom door. 

You’re sitting at the high table of a coffeeshop next to Emmie, your feet propped up on the bar between your stool legs, when the sight of a black truck pulling up to the curb outside makes your heart drop through your shoes. 

It would be fair to say that, in the heat of anger, you did something pretty fucking stupid. 

After you’d kissed Gator and left him standing in the hallway, the retreat to your room hadn’t felt any less stifling than being in his presence. With Emmie still on her way to pick you up and the elephant sitting between you and your next interaction with Gator, you’d thought that then would be the perfect time to manufacture an escape. 

Ironically, Gator had given you the idea by himself. Your window was ground-level, and your dad had never bothered to stick a screen on it to keep out the summer bugs. Today, that would work in your favor. 

You left your music blaring out of your speaker and snuck out the window as gracefully as you could once Emmie had texted and informed you she was parked around the block. And then you’d driven into town and filled your friend in on everything you still couldn’t believe had just happened. 

Emmie had laughed herself sick when you’d told her you kissed Gator. You supposed it was fairly ridiculous, really– a stupid, uncharacteristic, poorly-thought-through move. It would cast a pall between you– that much, you knew. But you’d been too tired of him playing that game, holding feelings and attractions over you like you were the only affected one. So, there. Now, at least you’d shown him what you were made of. 

Emmie notices you staring out the window, and her eyes widen as she realizes why. “Is that–”

Gator jumps down from his truck and slams the door, his expression already awash with anger. You swallow as you watch him stomp toward the café and rip open the door, his eyes landing on you immediately. 

A jolt runs down your spine at that look– the total rage that’s directed only at you. He must have driven around looking for Emmie’s car– guessing at the spots you two frequent together. You wish you could say you’re surprised he found you so quickly, but Gator’s always had a good memory when it comes to cataloguing how best to drive you insane. Including but not limited to memorizing the name of your favorite coffeeshop.

Gator stalks toward you, and you register dimly that his hair is a wreck beneath his cap, his mouth set in a grim line. Oh, he’s furious you ran out on him. This was his one job, the one promise he made his dad for these two days– and you made him fail.

He stops in front of you where you still clutch your mug, not sparing Emmie a second glance. “Let’s go,” is all he says– not a request.

Swallowing, realizing you’ve pushed him to the limit, you rise from your stool and turn back to Emmie.

She’s watching the encounter with wide, skeptical eyes. “Babe,” she starts, her voice quiet. “Are you gonna be okay?”

You know what’s on her mind– what’s probably running through the minds of everyone in this café. They know Gator’s reputation, and they know his daddy. Worse, they know what it means when a woman upsets a man from the Tillman family. 

But you’re different for one reason– you know Gator. And no matter how hard you push, no matter the bullshit he spits at you, you know one thing about him for certain– he will not hurt you. You used to call it pathetic, just like with your father, but now you think differently. Gator wouldn’t hurt a woman because he doesn’t have it in him. And he won’t hurt you because all he wants to do is the opposite, even in his weird, twisted way.

“I’ll be fine,” you tell Emmie, pushing off your stool. “I’ll get you back for the coffee later, yeah?”

Emmie nods, watching as you turn back to Gator. 

He’s no less full of ire, but you can tell he’s satisfied by your compliance. He lets you walk toward the truck first, and you wonder if it’s so he can catch you if you try to run off again. 

When you reach the passenger side door that he holds open for you, you start, “Gator–”

“Get in the fucking car,” he snaps.

You clamp your mouth shut, still riling internally against his order, and climb into the seat.

The drive back to your house is wordless, but you can tell he’s still steaming about this. It’s only when you’re back in the house, the door slammed behind you and your jacket thrown over the hook again, that he finally pipes up. 

“You’re a real fuckin’ brat, you know that?”

“You wouldn’t let me go,” you argue flatly. 

“What are you, fuckin’ twelve years old?” he shoots back. “Climbin’ out your window? They weren’t kiddin’ when they said you needed a goddamn babysitter.”

“It’s my house.” Your expression contorts with frustration. “I should be able to leave it when I want to. And I don’t need some overgrown manchild guarding my door.”

He storms over to you, his expression stony. “Well, clearly, you fuckin’ do. I come in there to check on you, and you’re just gone. That’s real mature, sweetheart.”

“Check on me?” you scoff. “Oh, please. You were probably just worried I’d tell your daddy what you’ve been saying to me all weekend.”

“What I’ve been saying?” he huffs, outraged. “How ‘bout what you’ve been doing? You’re nothin’ better than a fuckin’ preteen, stompin’ around and escapin’ outta your room.”

You meet his stare, your brow set and low. “You think you can just keep me here– that I’ll just do whatever you want. You’re wrong, Gator.”

“It is my job to take care of you this weekend,” he snaps.

“No, it’s your job to watch me,” you correct him. “I can take care of myself.”

“I’m supposed to know where you are. I’m supposed to keep tabs on you, woman. ‘Nd I don’t need you climbin’ out your window and runnin’ off ‘cause you want to fuckin’ rebel.”

You round on him, his attitude only feeding yours. “I told you I was gonna go crazy in here. You can’t lock me up, Gator. You’re not in charge of me.”

“Right now, I am,” he spits back. “Right now, you answer to me. And when I tell you to do something, you fuckin’ do it.”

“You’re a prick,” you breathe. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met. Why the hell would I listen to you?”

He crosses the rest of the room toward you in three long steps. “Say that again.”

“You’re not mad about this,” You shake your head, meeting his eyes. “You’re not mad I ran off or got you in trouble.” You let your eyes scrape down over his face, then back up. “You’re mad because I did it after I kissed you. You’re mad I didn’t just fall at your feet like everyone else does.”

“You really wanna talk about the shit you pulled back there?” he asks threateningly, eyes widening. He looks crazed like this– almost feral. “You wanna go there? ‘Cause you don’t tend to like it when you ‘n I talk dirty.”

You will a smirk onto your face. “You liked it, didn’t you?”

Gator’s expression shifts. He’s almost shaking with anger. You’ve never seen him like this– never once. You’ve never seen him when he’s losing before.

“When you thought I meant it,” you clarify. “For a second there, I made you believe it.”

Gator doesn’t say anything, his eyes boring into yours. And that’s how you know– you won. It just doesn’t feel as sweet as it should.

“You don’t like me,” you shake your head, finally seeing the full picture. “You just don’t like that you can’t have me. That’s what I am to you– something you can’t stand for anyone else to put their hands on.”

He snorts, tries to wave it off. It’s not as convincing as he tries to make it. “‘Cause you know everything about what I think now?”

“Yeah,” you challenge. “Yeah I do know you, Gator. And what you’re doing here? It’s fucked.”

“Yeah, well I know you, too,” he spits out, his glare so hard it could chip rock. “I know you tell yourself you’re throwin’ yourself at all those douchebags ‘cause you’re rebelling, but really you just can’t stand anybody rejecting you. I know you take shit from your dad and my dad and everyone else ‘cause you don’t have enough of a spine to stand up to ‘em.”

“You don’t know me,” you say gutturally, the words landing sharp as gravel in your chest. “You don’t know anything. Least of all how to want something without hurting it.”

Gator’s fists are clenched to hide his shaking. “Fuck. You.”

“You wish,” you throw back, and you don’t need to say it harshly. Because for once, the words you pitch at him are true, and the both of you know it now.

Gator rips his eyes away and stalks back toward the living room. “Go hide in your room again. Do whatever the hell you want. You always do, anyway.”

You watch him walk away, and in your head, beneath the rushing anger, you make a decision. 

You’re not going to hide. You’re not going to slink away and let him have this– let him avoid what you’ve made him feel today, tonight, maybe for longer than you know. He doesn’t get to give up the game now that he’s lost the upper hand. 

So, that night, you don’t go back to your room. 

You do your summer homework at the counter with your headphones on while Gator fires off curt emails at the dining table. You eat a wordless dinner side by side, the leftovers somehow tasting worse than they had yesterday– but maybe that was the aftertaste of the fight in your mouth. Gradually, things even out, some of the tension slipping out of the air. Maybe it’s that it’s all on the table now– nothing left unsaid between you, and nothing to say that could possibly be worse.

You and Gator settle into a rhythm, the fizzing, livid frustration soothing between you as you move side by side, unspeaking, for the entirety of the night. The first time you exchange words again, it almost feels like things are back to how they were before.

Gator’s on the couch in front of the TV, but he’s not watching it. Instead, he’s observing you as you emerge from your room, where you’d changed into a baggy sweatshirt with your high school’s name on it and a pair of athletic shorts you’ve probably grown out of by about two years. Gator’s eyes track you as you make your way back into the living room, running up and down your body.

“What?” you snap, sick of his scrutiny.

“Nothin’,” he replies, not tearing his eyes away as he smirks. “Real sexy outfit, that’s all.”

You roll your eyes, though you might be secretly glad the two of you are any kind of back to normal. “I’m in my own living room. I'm allowed to wear what I want.” You flop down onto the other end of the couch from him unceremoniously and pick up the discarded remote. “You probably sleep in your jeans, you cretin.” 

Gator hasn’t changed out of his day-clothes yet, but his hair is sticking out further from the front of his cap. He adjusts it on his head, and you have to pull your eyes away from the way his arms flex with the motion.

Adjusting to be more comfortable on your end of the couch, your back against the armrest and your legs stretched out across the cushions, you change the channel, and Gator makes a noise of protest. “I was watching that.”

“You were watching 10 Things I Hate About You?” you deadpan, giving him a look. “Really?”

Gator fumbles a little for words. “It’s the guy from The Joker. I don’t know.”

You snort, clicking through channels. “Didn’t know you were such a fan of rom-coms.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” he gripes, turning his eyes back to the screen.

When a few minutes have passed and you still haven’t settled on an evening feature, he makes a noise of exasperation and throws a hand out at the TV. “Will you just pick something already?”

“It’s my house,” you remind him imperiously. “It’s my TV. I'll take my damn time.”

“I’m gonna be dead by the time you land on a movie.”

“All the better for me,” you answer sweetly.

“Just give me the fuckin’ remote,” he insists, sitting up and reaching out for it.

“No, thanks,” you huff, holding the remote away from him in case he decides to snatch it out of your hands. “I have very little interest in watching Swamp People or whatever the hell it is you find entertaining.”

“Well, you’re gonna pick some girly crap, and I don’t wanna sit through that,” he argues.

“Then go to bed,” you propose, not looking at him as you keep clicking. “Nothing’s keeping you here.”

With no warning, a large hand clamps around your ankle, and you yelp as Gator drags you toward him by your leg until you’re staring up at his smirking face, your sweatshirt hitched up around your waist. The action, the audacity of it, steals the breath from you, and for whatever reason, you don’t fight him as his hand spans your calf to keep you in place.

Gator leans over you, and there’s none of the playfulness of the last words you spoke in his eyes. Instead, he’s staring down at you with such unbelievable focus it makes your heart pound in your throat. 

 It doesn’t even surprise you when he kisses you.

Gator’s lips are as plush as they were this morning, but this time, he doesn’t freeze. He pushes against you, hard and claiming, his head bowed over yours and his hands loosening their grip on your legs. The kiss is messy, his tongue pushing past your lips and sweeping your mouth, like he knows neither one of you can stand to do anything halfway anymore. 

You don’t even notice that he’s wrested the remote from your hand until he pulls back and smirks at you. 

You stare up into his face– his stupid, arrogant, triumphant face– as he holds the remote over you in victory, just like he’s held everything over you, every little thing he’s ever won. 

It’s less than a moment before you snake your hand around the back of his neck and pull him back down toward you. 

You kiss him again, harder this time, the push and pull of your lips igniting something in your gut you didn’t ever think Gator Tillman would be capable of eliciting. It’s intoxicating, that feeling– so close and intimate. You nip at his bottom lip, and Gator groans.

You have just enough sense left in your dazed brain to pull the remote from his fingers again, and he lets it go almost willingly. This time, you’re the one who pulls back, relishing in that last second of victory. 

The two of you hang there for a moment, staring back into each other’s faces. 

And then, in one brief, intoxicating second, the dam breaks, and all bets are off. 

The remote clatters to the floor. Gator’s hands surge for you, wrap around your back and band around you to pull you upright. Your lips lock together, messy and desperate, and the noises you’re making are absolutely indecent as he licks into your mouth like he wants to steal the sounds from you. You break the kiss only long enough to push yourself fully upright and onto your knees, swinging one leg over his lap and straddling him, your loose hair falling down between you. 

Gator looks ravenous as you loom over him, hunger baked into his expression, so intense it makes your breath catch. You don’t pause long enough for him to mock you for it. 

You grab his face in both of your hands and pull him toward you again, teeth scraping against lips. You take a second to knock the cap off his head and pitch it away, and then you’re tugging his hair and he’s panting against your mouth as his hands squeeze harder than necessary at your waist and hips. 

You’re surprised– honestly shocked– he hasn’t made a move to grope at you yet. His fingertips press into you so harshly you think they might bruise– so rough and needy, like it’s been years of waiting for him to paw at you like this. Maybe it has.

Your hands run down his body, over his shoulders and pecs and tensed abdomen. You don’t break the kiss while your fingers grip his belt tightly, and Gator lets out another groan into your mouth. 

His hands dip a little lower, his fingers skimming under the hem of your sweatshirt, but that’s all he does. Fine, then– maybe all his big talk is just that. If you need to be the cleaver of what you’ve spent years convincing yourself is a normal, hate-hate relationship, then so fucking be it. 

Your hands scrabble to undo his belt without looking, the starched denim of his jeans rough against your bare thighs. 

Gator pulls away from you just long enough to catch his breath, his eyes hazy with lust as he looks up at you. “What’re you doin’?”

“Gonna fuck you,” you pant, surging forward to kiss him again. You finally make progress with his belt and nearly tear it open, but Gator’s not finished. 

“Yeah?” he murmurs, one of his hands sliding up beneath your sweatshirt and settling flat on your back. “Thought you hated me.”

“I do,” you correct him, voice strained even now. You tear your lips from his to kiss down his neck, finger still working to pull his belt free. “I hate you so fucking much, Gator.”

You can almost hear his grin in his voice as he says. “Good. Just checking.”

His hands grip your thighs, and suddenly you’re in his arms, your legs wrapping automatically around his waist as he pulls you up with him as he stands. 

“What are you doing?” you ask against the skin of his neck, your attention honed on leaving an obnoxiously big mark there. 

“I’m not fuckin’ you on a couch,” Gator tells you dryly, and begins to carry you toward your bedroom like it’s second nature. 

“Such a gentleman,” you mock him. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“I just want you spread out,” he says bluntly, his nose prodding into your hair as you continue to attack his throat. “Let’s not get things confused, baby.”

You give a muffled laugh against his Adam's apple.

When you make it to your bedroom, Gator actually throws you backward onto the bed, so hard you squeak when you hit the mattress with a bounce. “‘Course you got stuffed animals on here,” he drawls, moving over you on all fours. “You’re such a kid.”

“And you’re a heartless bastard,” you coo, your hands coming to rest on his chest. “They’re cute.”

With one hand, Gator sweeps your stuffed animals off the bed. “‘M not having them watching me.”

“You insecure, or something?” you tease, your voice a high pitch. 

Gator’s eyes narrow into a glare. “Why don’t you put your hand in my pants and find out, sweetheart?”

“Take your shirt off,” you demand, refusing to let him know what the challenge in his eyes is doing to you. With him hanging over you like this, his broad body commanding your attention, you feel like you’re on fire. 

“You’re pretty fuckin’ needy, aren’t you?” he goads, but he sits up and tugs his shirt over his head anyway. 

“And you’re doin’ exactly what I told you to,” you point out, though the effect of the teasing is a little lost when your eyes fall to his bare chest. 

You almost hate him just for looking as good as he does. The unfortunate side effect of the gym-bro identity he’s developed is that Gator’s had serious results. His pecs are sculpted, his stomach lean and toned, and his arms… well, if you weren’t seriously fucked before, you certainly are now. His biceps flex as he moves over you again, pulling you back into a harsh kiss. “Your turn,” he makes out when you break free. “Strip.”

“How romantic,” you croon. “What if I wanna keep everything on?” 

Gator shakes his head. “Nope.”

You give him a look. “Excuse me?”

“Show me your tits,” he orders you. “I’m gonna see every inch of you.” When you still don’t move, he barks, “Now.” 

“You know, your bossiness?” you hiss, fingers moving almost involuntarily to the hem of your sweatshirt, “One of your worst qualities.”

“It works, don’t it?” he huffs, watching as you struggle to free your arms. Impatient, he pulls back again and yanks you upward. “This is the ugliest fuckin’ sweatshirt I’ve ever seen.”

“Fuck you,” you breathe, and he drags it over your head and tosses it aside, baring you to the room. Your nipples perk up from the sudden chill, and the warmth in your gut builds as Gator takes you in hungrily. When he touches you again, he starts by smoothing down the hair he wrecked with your sweatshirt. And then those hands run over your shoulders and down your arms, soothing the goosebumps that haven’t gone away since the second he kissed you. 

“Fuck,” he blurts out, staring unabashedly at your chest.

Your skin prickles under his stare, the vulnerability of it. You’re not afraid of Gator. You just can’t tell what he’ll do when his walls are down, and that’s more thrilling than anything.

Without any more delay, he cups your right breast and squeezes gently, like he’s testing the weight in his palm. You squirm a little, and he tells you, “Hold still.”

“Gator,” you make out, a little put off that this is taking so long. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Just shut the fuck up and let me touch you,” he says back, and kneads at your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple. “It’s the first time, sweetheart. Gotta enjoy it.”

Your breath hitches when he slaps lightly at your tender flesh, watching the movement with a smirk on his face. “You’ve got great tits, you know that?” 

You shoot him a dry look. “What, first time you’ve ever seen a pair?”

He lifts his other hand and presses into both at once, massaging with a care you didn’t know he had in him. “Mouthy,” he observes, frowning. “You should quit that. Pants.”

“What about them?” you ask indignantly, watching the way he remains fascinated by your chest.

Gator’s eyes flick up to yours. “Get them off.”

“I suppose ‘please’ is a foreign concept to you,” you drawl, laying back against the comforter. In the back of your head, you register that you’re letting him order you around, and that under normal circumstances you would be completely revolted with the way you’re giving in. Right now, it feels like the least of your worries.

“I like to have all the manners comin’ from you.” Gator breathes as he moves over you again, his face appearing above yours. He kisses you once, briefly, and then starts drawing a line down the middle of your body with his lips– your chin, your throat, your sternum. He gets distracted at your chest and diverts to suck one of your nipples into his mouth, and you arch up into the touch, letting out an embarrassingly loud gasp. 

Gator hums against your breast, satisfied by the sound. His teeth scrape gently over its peak, and your fingers curl in his hair in response.

“This doesn’t feel like fucking,” you mock him, though it comes out breathy and weak. 

“Be nice,” Gator tells you flatly. “Or I’ll stop being nice.” That’s ironic considering you can’t recall him ever starting. 

Your fingers dip into the waistband of your shorts just as Gator’s lips reach your stomach, and he helps you work them down your legs, his broad hands smoothing over your skin until you’re completely bare and he chucks the shorts away. You shiver, the reality of being so exposed in front of him hitting you beneath the hazy lust. Your legs tense up involuntarily at the realization, your knees locking together.

Gator’s head snaps up, and that sight alone almost rips another moan from your throat. His hair is falling in his eyes, mussed from your grip. “Hey. Don’t fuckin’ hide from me.”

Your jaw clenches. “Why the hell should I trust you?” you ask, the question tearing from you before you can stop it. 

His stare is absolutely wicked. “You spread your legs for all those other guys, don’t you? Doubt you trusted any ‘a them. Bet they didn’t even make you come.”

His mocking does nothing to quell your insecurity. “You’re an asshole, Gator,” you snap, pushing up on your elbows and drawing your legs away from him.

His hand reaches out and grips you around your ankle again, halting you. And then he says, his eyes intent upon your face, “I know you better than anyone. That’s why you should trust me.”

The words relax you without you meaning them to. Gator sees it, and he smiles a little– not quite devoid of arrogance, but something bordering on genuine.

And then he grips you by the ankles and props your legs up, eye-level with your cunt. 

He doesn’t touch you at first– just looks. 

“Gator–” you squirm a little, arching your back. From here, you can see the pleased expression on his face as he examines you, and something about the diligence in it is making it hard to stay focused. “Gator, either move or get back up here. I don’t care.”

“Just let me look at you, baby,” he throws back, nonplussed. One of his thumbs brushes against the skin around the center of you, and you shiver. “You’re so wet it’s unfair.”

“Stop staring at me, you pervert,” you make out, but the light touch is affecting you so much already that your argument sounds weaker than you mean it to. “It’s creepy.”

“Why?” he asks bluntly, that thumb guiding itself through your folds, parting you gently. “It’s pretty.”

Compliments are rare coming from Gator. You can probably count on one hand the number of times he’s legitimately offered you one. Which is probably why you’re trembling before he’s even touched you– not because you want him to so badly right now you can’t think straight. 

“Aren’t you gonna ask me what I like?” you prod him, your voice low. 

Gator’s face dips slightly, his eyes still intent upon the center of you. “Nope.”

You snort. “And they say chivalry’s dead. Do you– oh.”

At the first broad sweep of his tongue, every argument falls from your lips. 

It’s fair to say you’ve been with a number of sexual partners. Not as many as Gator mocks you for, but you’re not what you would call naive to how sex should feel when it’s done right. You’ve had guys go down on you like they’re making out– slow and sensual and unhurried. You’ve had uncomfortable, oblivious experiences that ended in rolled eyes and faked orgasms. And you’ve had a few really stellar players, too– ones that don’t need to brag to tell you they know what they’re doing. 

As in most things, Gator feels different.

It might be the eagerness with which he latches his mouth to your cunt, or the immediate pressure he adds without reprieve. But something about the intensity of the strokes of his tongue, the slight drag of his teeth, the way his nose presses against your clit, is unlike anything you’ve experienced before. Gator goes down on you like he’s starving for it– like he’s trying to consume you, to press himself so deeply against your heat there’s no chance of retrieval. He laps at your wetness, his tongue spearing inside you, and you moan louder, your back arching off the bed and your thighs squeezing either side of his face. 

Harshly, he takes one broad hand and presses your right leg back to the mattress. He removes himself just enough to say, “Gimme some room to work here, alright?”

“Gator,” you breathe, overwhelmed. 

“What?” he responds as he dives back in, sucking your clit into his mouth.

You let out a cry, forgetting what you’d meant to tell him. It was probably something derogatory. You wish you remembered. 

“So fuckin’ responsive,” he laughs, the vibrations travelling along your center. “Can’t believe how wet you are, baby. I really turn you on that much?”

“Fuck off,” you pant, and Gator looks up at you through his brows. 

“What’d I just say?” he goads you, and without preamble, slides one of his fingers inside you. “Be nice.”

You gasp, your hands fisting in the sheets. “Gator– fuck, Gator.”

He pumps his finger inside you, then adds another just as fast. It’s almost annoying how he can tell immediately how to curl them to hit the spot that always makes you writhe, but when you move too much for his taste, he uses his other hand to slide over your lower stomach and pin you to the bed. “Go ‘head and hold onto me, sweetheart,” he tells you, seeing how badly you want to move. “I know– I know. It’s a lot, baby, but you can take it.”

Your cheeks sting at the way he’s talking down to you, but you can’t formulate a scathing enough reply. Instead, you snake your hand down into his hair, clutching at the strands so hard it probably hurts. 

“There you go,” he purrs, eyes on you as he lowers his mouth to your clit again, fingers still moving inside you. “That’s my good girl.”

The worst part is that he’s right– it is a lot. It’s too much, too fast, too far, but Gator doesn’t seem to care, and with the way you’re catapulting toward your orgasm, you can’t bring yourself to, either. Nothing about the way he laves and sucks at you, the way he nips gently at the apex of your core while his fingers make you bow off the bed with their consistent, unrelenting pace, is even pretending to be gentle. That’s not who Gator is– that’s not what he’s willing to give you. He’s always been this and only this– hard, rough, brutal where it hurts the best. What’s killing you even more than the overstimulating pressure is that you’re realizing in the back of your mind that he’s the best lay you’ve ever had.

“Fuck,” Gator mumbles against you, and retracts one of his hands to adjust himself in his jeans. “Jesus Christ, you taste good. Never had pussy this perfect before.”

You groan and grind your hips up against his face, and Gator makes a noise of approval deep in his throat. “Do that again.”

You don’t need to be told twice. Your hips chase his face as he presses harder into you, his fingers pumping faster and faster. “Fuck my face, baby. Come on— there you go. Give it to me.”

“Oh my God,” you pant as the coil inside you tightens and tightens, poised to snap. “Gator— Gator, right there, fuck—“ Your fingers clench in his hair, and he whines against you.

“Go ‘head, baby. Let go. Lemme see your pretty come face.”

Your eyes squeeze shut as your orgasm tears through you, and Gator doesn’t let up for a moment as he works you through it, mumbling how good you’re being, telling you to let him see it. By the time it finally breaks, your entire body is tingling with leftover energy, and Gators tongue is still working at your center.

“Gator,” you plead, your voice a defeated whine. “Too— too much. I’m sensitive.”

“You made a real fuckin’ mess down here,” he says gruffly in return, licking over you— cleaning you up, you realize. “You can do it. Hold still.”

Now that your walls are down again, you find it in you to start disobeying like you’re used to. You squirm against his grip, your hips bucking. Gator uses the hand on your stomach to press you further into the mattress, letting him finish his diligent work. When he’s finally satisfied with himself, he presses a messy kiss to your inner thigh and moves over you again. 

“Still think I’m an asshole?” he asks, his smirk intolerably wide.

“Marginally less so,” you breathe, a little surprised, yourself. 

Gator grins and lowers his head to kiss at your cheek, your neck. “Guess the only reason you’re always bitchin’ at me is you’re too pent up to do anything else, huh?”

Your eyes flatten as he sucks at your neck, your fingers twisting in his hair. “Call me a bitch again. See where it gets you.”

“Aw, don’t feel bad, baby,” he croons. “You’re too stressed, in’t that right? Need someone to work it outta ‘ya?”

“And here I was, thinking my attitude gets you hard,” you drawl, too spent to bother being humiliated by his words.

“Maybe it does,” he offers. “And maybe I like bein’ the one to get you to finally fuckin’ relax.”

“Mm, what every girl dreams about,” you tease him. “Sex being relaxing.”

“You bored?” he challenges, pulling back to raise a brow at you.

“Whole lotta talking going on,” your return evenly, pushing down the thrill his expression sends through you.

“You’re pretty fuckin’ insufferable, you know that?” he gripes, and you grin as your hands slide up his bare chest and push him backward so you can sit up. 

“Says you,” you hum, shifting to sit cross-cross between his legs. “Pretty big talk for a guy who hasn’t pulled his dick out yet.”

“You gonna beg me?” he goads, his own grin growing.

“Over my cold, dead, rotting body,” you reply, your voice low and sultry.

Gator laughs and pushes off the bed, his fingers going for the zipper on his jeans. His eyes are on you as he shucks them down his legs and kicks them away, then follows with his boxers.

In one terrible second, the reason for every speck of arrogance in Gator clicks into place in your mind. He’s hung. Like, the kind of hung that you thought was a joke when rumors started circulating in high school. Every coy, teasing plan you’d had running through your head a moment ago curls up and dies, and your mouth goes dry as you stare at him in outrage.

“You goin’ dumb, sweetheart?” he asks you smugly.

You glare and point a finger toward his length. “Absolutely not.”

“What?”

“I can’t take that,” you shake your head, incredulous.

“Sure you can,” Gator waves you off, ego simmering in his eyes.

“Nuh-uh,” you scoff. “I’ll break. There’s no way that fits inside me.”

“Never know until you try,” he points out, crawling back onto the bed toward you. “I just warmed you up. You’ll be fine.”

“Gator—“

“Just shut up and lay back,” he complains, his face inches from yours. “I’m not gonna hurt you, sweetheart.”

He’s so uncannily good at that– saying things to you that put you immediately at ease, even while he relinquishes none of the control. Gator knows the formula of exactly how and when to push you, and he knows when it tips into too far. You didn’t think he had that sort of emotional intelligence in him, but somehow, even bare and exposed before him now, you’re not nervous.

Gator moves over you, his head lowering to kiss you again– slower and sweeter, like he knows you need the reassurance. There’s still that fire underneath it, that unkillable, tortuous want, but it’s settled somehow in the way he’s pressing your bodies together. 

“Condom?” he mumbles against your lips.

You scour your brain, trying to remember if you replaced the box of rubbers in your nightstand after the last time your dad raided your room looking for contraband. “Mm– I don’t know if I have one.”

Gator pulls back, looking downright appalled. “What?”

You roll your eyes at his expression. “I don’t actually put out that much, Gator.”

“You don’t have a single fuckin’ condom?” he deadpans. “What are you, some kind of virgin?”

“Just check the nightstand,” you snap.

Gator crawls off of you and reaches out to rifle through your top drawer. A laugh escapes his throat, and he withdraws a familiar, bright-purple object. “Now, hang on a sec. What’s all this?”

You groan and press your eyes shut. “Oh my God, just kill me.”

Gator flicks the vibrator on where he kneels straddling you on the bed, studying the way it jumps in his hand. “You think about me when you use this?”

“Gator Tillman is holding my vibrator,” you mumble to yourself. “I’ve died and gone to hell and this is it.”

“It’s kinda cute,” he says observantly. “Little. You want me to help you out with this?”

“Your window for putting on a condom and fucking me is closing,” you inform him dryly. 

He heaves a sigh, mischief in his eyes as he smiles down at you. “Fine. Some other time.” He flicks the vibrator off and sets it on the nightstand, then rifles through your drawer some more until he finds a single foil packet. “Fuckin’ finally.”

“Oh, and whose fault is it for taking so long?” you snap, pressing up onto your elbows as he sits back and tears the wrapper open with his teeth. 

“You know, you’re not real good at this whole ‘patience’ thing, baby,” he tells you mildly. 

You watch as he rolls the condom over his length and pumps himself once, twice. “I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’ll make it fit. You’ll be fine.”

“I mean having sex with you,” you retort flatly. 

“Oh, please,” he huffs. “You know you’ve been dreamin’ about this for years.”

“I fucking hate you,” you remind him, eyes narrowing. “I’ve spent my entire life hating your guts. And now you’re naked in my bed. I feel like I’m on drugs.”

“I’m not that surprised,” he tosses back, staring down at you spread out beneath him. “Been flirtin’ with you since I was twelve. Figured we’d get here one day.”

“You were not flirting with me,” you counter, the words sending color to your cheeks. “I think what you were doing qualifies as harassment.” 

“You think I talk about every girl’s tits like that?” He arches a brow.

“I know you do,” you hiss, slapping his thigh. “That’s what all disgusting, horny, deadbeats do.”

“Uh-huh. I’ve been droolin’ over you for years,” Gator snorts. “You’re pretty fuckin’ dense if you couldn’t tell, baby. Everybody else could. My friends gave me so much shit about it in high school.” Your cheeks burn redder, and he grins. “Yeah, you fuckin’ knew it, too. Your face always went red just like that.”

Determined not to let him hold it over you, you push further upright. One hand curling against his chest, you halt his movement over you and push him back into a seated position. “Is that why you’re so hard right now?” you coo, angling your head. “‘Cause I’m so affected? And you’re so above it all?”

He studies you, his eyes tracking the movement of your lips. “Never said I was.”

“Yeah, you look pretty fuckin’ desperate, too,” you murmur, your hand tracing gently over the lines of his abdomen. “I better help you out, huh?”

“Lay back,” he says again, the words low and gruff.

Your lips curve up into a smile, and slowly, you shake your head. “You had your turn– now let me have mine.”

His brows raise in surprise, but he doesn’t object.

Cautiously, you extract yourself from beneath him, pressing up on your knees to straddle him again. Your hand comes hesitantly down to touch his length, and you watch Gator’s jaw clench as you close your fingers around him. 

“Sensitive, huh?” you croon, and he glares at you. 

“You wanna move your fuckin’ hand?” he drawls. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, I’m not gonna last too long.”

You huff a low laugh and give him a testing squeeze, moving your hand up and down. He really is huge– so big you have no idea if you’re going to be capable of your next step. That tinge of uncertainty finds you again, but it’s just as quickly soothed by the feeling of Gator’s warm hand spanning your thigh, smoothing over it. It’s enough to encourage you to rise higher on your knees and notch him at your entrance, gritting your teeth at the sensation. 

Gator hums at the feeling, too, looking up at you with smug admiration. “You gonna ride me, baby?”

“Shut up right now,” you mumble, eyes squeezing shut. 

He laughs roughly. “Come on– sit down. I’ve got ‘ya.”

With deliberate slowness, you begin to sink down, letting out a pathetic little noise at the stretch. 

“Good girl,” Gator coos, drawing out the word. “You’ve got it. You can take it all.”

You halt your progress to give yourself a moment to adjust, the stretch of him inside you walking the delicate line between pleasure and pain. 

“Breathe,” Gator orders you. “Breathe, baby.” You can hear the smile in his voice as you suck in a bigger breath and let it out. “There she is. Look at you, baby– face all screwed up. All stretched out on my dick. Keep going. I want you lower.”

You whimper and keep going, your hands finding purchase on his shoulders while one of his grips your waist to help you down. For a moment, it’s too much, and you stop again. 

A sharp smack sounds, and the back of your thigh stings as Gator lands a slap to it. When your eyes flutter open in surprise, you find him glaring. 

“Hey. I said lower,” he tells you. “Take it. Don’t make me do it myself, sweetheart.”

“Fuck. You,” you make out, your breath coming in pants. 

He smacks your thigh again, and you cry out. “Drop the fuckin’ attitude,” he snaps. “You don’t want me to flip you around and take care of it for you. Lower.”

“It’ll hurt,” you say through gritted teeth.

“You were built for me,” he murmurs, the hand on your waist coming up to push your hair behind your ears. “You’ll be fine.”

Your hands tighten on his shoulders, and you sink lower, inch by tortuous inch. It drags another sound from your throat, and Gator preens. “Thaaat’s it. Good fuckin’ girl. You’re doin’ so good for me, baby. You’re gonna get it all the way, huh?”

Your face burns, but the challenge gets to you like it always does. Jaw clenching, you shove yourself the rest of the way down, ignoring the jolt of pain and the way you gasp outright. It fades quickly enough into ecstasy at the sheer size of him– the fullness so intense it makes you wonder if any sex will ever be the same again. 

When you manage to come to, finally adjusted to the pleasurable burn, Gator’s hands are brushing over your cheeks, smoothing down your body, keeping you centered. “There she is,” he hums again, a smile blooming all over his face. “Knew you’d fuckin’ do it for me. You’re perfect. So pretty like this– my own little cocksleeve.”  

“‘M not,” you argue, your face falling forward into the crook of his neck and shoulder.

“Sure you are,” he counters, hands slipping around to hold you close. “So proud of you. You took it so well, sweetheart.”

You whimper– at the words or at the stretch of him, you don’t know. You feel a little drunk on it– the headiness of being this close to him, the rush of anger at being so demeaned. You can’t tell if you love it or hate it.

“You’re gonna move now,” he tells you, hands slipping down to your hips. “You’ve got it. Go slow.”

You don’t have the faculty to disagree. Carefully, you begin to roll your hips, Gator’s big hands guiding you as you grind back and forth over him. Desperately, you find his lips and press them to yours, cupping his face like he’s some kind of precious to you. You clench around him, and he moans into your mouth.

The drag of him inside you is just the right side of too much. You move faster, chasing your pleasure and his, letting him push and pull you how he wants to. It feels like worship, your bodies working together like this. The fit is seamless, despite how unfathomable that would have seemed to you a day ago. 

“Your little boyfriends teach you how to do this?” he mocks you breathlessly, one of his hands tangling in your hair and tugging your head back so he can bite at your throat. “Were you this much of a slut for them?”

“Shut up,” you breathe. 

“Bet you learned all on your own,” he goes on. “None ‘a them fucked you like this. They made you do it all yourself, didn’t they? That’s why you’re so perfect for me now.”

You tangle your fingers in his hair and tug, temper flaring in you. “Quit fucking talking about them,” you bite. “I’m fucking you now, aren’t I?”

“Damn straight,” Gator huffs, his breath hot on your throat. “Best fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had. Shoulda been with me the whole time.”

“I’m not with you,” you gasp out. “I’m just– fuck, Gator– I’m just…”

“Just what?” he challenges, nibbling at your pulse point. 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Having a– oh– momentary– lapse of sanity.”

He laughs roughly, pushing his hips up to meet yours. “We’ll see about momentary. Ah, fuck– squeeze me like that again. Jesus, you’re tight.” You let out a keening sound as you do as he asks. “Gate–”

He lets out a groan, arms squeezing tighter around you at the nickname. “Tell me how much you hate me.”

You fumble for words a little, your concentration completely shot. “What?”

“Talk,” he breathes. “Tell me. I know you want to.”

“You don’t know anything,” you pant. “You don’t know me. You don’t have any idea how much I– ah!– how much I hate that we’re doing this.”

“You don’t look like you hate it,” he murmurs.

“I do,” you nod, your eyes squeezing shut. “I fucking hate it. I hate you more than anything. You make my skin crawl.”

Gator groans.

“You’re disgusting,” you go on. “I hate the way you talk to me and the way you treat girls. I hate that you can’t live without your stupid fucking vape. I hate the way you gel your hair.” Your breath hitches as he thrusts up into you, and your rhythm falters. “You’re arrogant. You’re self-serving. You’re– fuck, Gator– you’re a prick. You’re the worst kind of asshole, and I wish I’d never met you.”

“You’re so pretty when you lie,” he moans, reaching a hand up to tweak your nipple.

You take a jagged breath. “I hate that you’re gonna hold this over me till I die.”

“This?” he scoffs, but his voice is a little weak, a little breathy. “Nah, baby. This is just for me. Can’t have anyone else knowin’ I got to see you like this.”

“Gator,” you eke out, his reassurance hitting you somewhere low and deep.

“Yeah, baby?”

You don’t know how to say it– how to get what you want without giving him his. You don’t know how to say that you need to be closer to him, to fuse your bodies together, to go over the brink with him and not care for an hour or two what sharp rocks are at the bottom of this pit you’re willingly throwing yourself into. You need him deeper, harder, more.

“More?” he mumbles, as if taking the words straight out of your head. He’s always been so good at reading you, for better or worse. It’s how he knows now to make sure you’re ready, to hear you say it even in spite of all the dominance, all the insults. It’s that fact that makes you wonder just how meaningless all this really is to him.

You nod frantically, and that’s all it takes for Gator’s hands to grip you again and lay you back down on the covers, still joined. He hitches your legs up to lock around your waist, and then he’s drilling back into you, his hips slamming into yours. 

“Gator!” you gasp out, your nails clawing at his back. 

He moans, taken over just as much as you are by the feeling of you squeezing him. “That’s it, baby. Fuck– so fuckin’ tight. Perfect little doll for me.”

Every thrust into your body drags another cry from your throat as you rake at his back, the drag of him against your walls driving you out of your mind. “Fuck– fuck– fuck, Gate, I need–”

His hand is already there– moving down between you, finding your clit as he keeps at his unrelenting pace. “You beg so– ah– so pretty.” 

You arch your back up into him as his fingers circle your clit. “Gate, I’m close. I’m– oh, fuck.”

“Can’t talk so well, huh?” he goads, pace increasing. You tip your head back at the new pressure, your mouth dropping open. “That’s okay, baby. I know I’m… know I’m fuckin’ you dumb.”

“Come with me,” you whimper, scratching at his shoulders. It’s all you need– all you’ve been able to think about for minutes now.

Gator’s head droops, and he hisses out, “Fuck.”

“Please,” you whisper– the first time you’ve said it all night. “Need it. Need– you.”

Gator kisses you hard, halting your words like he wants to seal them into permanence. His pace increases until you’re panting into each other’s mouths, and the warmth in your core is growing and growing, and you’re spiralling toward your peak–

You throw your head back and cry out his name as your second orgasm hits you, and it’s only seconds before Gator follows after you, spitting out curses with an intensity to match how he’s pounding into you. 

He works you through it, your heart beating in your throat, your bodies getting closer and closer with every slowing thrust. Eventually, you’re chest to chest, Gator’s bare skin pressed to yours, his weight an intoxicating blanket that does nothing to ease your exhaustion. 

Your fingers slowly release their vice grip on the skin of his back, your hands sliding up hesitantly to tangle in his hair. Gator lets out a defeated little noise into your neck as you scratch at his scalp. 

For a single, deluded second, you feel like you want to stay there forever. You know this has to end– know Gator’s bound to pull away any moment now, to toss you some shitty comment about not getting attached, shuck his clothes on, and walk back out of your heart with one more thing to hold over you forever. It’s a problem of yours– you’ve always hoped for more from him. For better. And even if you know this meant nothing, if you’re trying to cement that knowledge into stone in your head, a tiny, insane part of you wouldn’t be upset if maybe he cared, too. 

Which is why, when he finally does move, it surprises you more than anything tonight. 

Gator pulls out carefully and shifts his weight so he’s not crushing you, but his hands don’t relinquish their grip on your body. Instead, they slide slowly over it, spanning your ribs, holding you delicately. And then his mouth lowers, and he presses a soft kiss to your sternum. 

Your breath feels caught in your throat as he begins to place a line of careful kisses down your abdomen, his fingers brushing at your ribs and your waist. He’s touching you reverently, haltingly, like he’s mapping the expanse of your skin, worshipping the warmth of your form. It’s not sexual, and that’s perhaps what shocks you the most. It’s diligent. Curious. Purposeful.

He mumbles something against your stomach that you can’t make out.

“Gator,” you make out, your voice hoarse.

He moves back over you again, finding your face. Drops another kiss to your throat, your jaw, and then your cheek. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper.

He stares down at you, his eyes half-lidded. “Treatin’ you good.” You fight the urge to correct his grammar and focus on the words– the simplicity of them. “Why?”

Gator doesn’t blink. “‘Cause I never said I hated you.”

You reach down and grip his forearms, feeling the corded muscle there. You roll your eyes. “Come on. Be serious.”

“I am,” he insists, voice low. 

The statement drags a scoff from your throat, and you push at his arms to tell him to get off. 

“I am,” he repeats, shifting so you can slide out from beneath him. He remains on your bed, watching as you get unsteadily to your feet and walk across the room to get your robe. 

“This isn’t real, Gator,” you argue, but whether you’re convincing yourself or him is lost on you. “You don’t mean any of this. You’re just… high on sex, or something.”

“I know what the hell I'm talkin’ about,” he snaps. “You’re tryna’ tell me that wasn’t fuckin’ incredible?”

You clench your jaw, finishing off your robe tie harshly. “I’m telling you I’m not gonna fall for this, and neither should you.”

“What’s there to fall for?” he challenges, watching as you scoop his pants off the floor and toss them onto the bed for him. “I’m bein’ serious. Let me take you out tomorrow. We’ll get dinner.”

You huff. “No.”

“Lunch.”

“Gator—“

“Coffee,” he proposes. “Come on, baby. You know you want to.”

“I’m not playing this game with you,” you cut him off. “We’re not together, Gator. We fucked. That’s it. This was a one-time thing.”

“I like you,” he says baldly, rising off the bed to start dressing. “And I know you like me, doll. Don’t see what sense there is fightin’ it.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, heaving a breath. “Don’t call me that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll start thinking you mean it,” you say in challenge.

Gator buttons his jeans and puts his hands on his hips. “Good. Something’s gotta get it through your thick head.”

“Nothing good happens when I let myself believe a word out of your mouth,” you return mildly, not rising to the bait. “Last time I was stupid enough to fall for you, all I got was humiliated and hurt. I won’t do that again.”

“Who says it won’t work out different this time?” he proposes.

“I say it won’t,” you tell him flatly.

He waves a hand. “You’re a cynic. I want a second opinion."

You hold back the aggravation in your tone and say firmly, “I don’t want to date you, Gator. You’d be horrible for me.”

“How do you know?” he fires back. “I’ve never been your boyfriend before.”

“I know because—” you sigh, frustrated. “You just are what you are, Gator. I can’t fix that. You’re always gonna be the guy that put gum in my hair in middle school and crashed my first date.”

He arches a brow. “I’ll also always be the guy that beat up Brian Murphy in senior year ‘cause he called you ugly.”

You flush a little at the memory— the embarrassment. The way Gator had looked as he sat outside the principal’s office, scowling at you like it was your fault he had a bloody lip. You guessed it sort of was.

Gators eyes narrow at your expression. “So what, I just can’t ever grow?”

“You can,” you correct him, tossing him his shirt, “But you won’t.”

“Three years ago, I wouldnt’ve fucked ‘ya like I just did,” he informs you, pointing to your rumpled bed. “That’s fuckin’ growth, sweetheart.”

You fight to keep your tone even. “One orgasm doesn’t just change a person like that. You’re still who you were when you walked into this house. I’m still me.”

“Yeah, and we fit pretty good, don’t we?” he drawls.

“You don’t like me.” You brace your hands on your back, determined to get this point across. “You want to… conquer me.”

Gator walks toward you evenly, sizing you up. He doesn’t stop until he’s towering over you again. “Maybe I like that I can’t.”

“And when you finally do?” you challenge, emotion working its way into your flat tone. “When I finally fall for you again? What are you gonna do when the chase isn’t interesting to you anymore?”

“Then we’ll get a little kinkier in bed,” he offers dryly, lifting a hand to brush a knuckle over your cheek.

The touch stills you for a moment, but it doesn’t quell your aggravation. “Stop it,” you roll your eyes, batting his hand away. “You suck, Gator. Just get out of here and we can pretend this never happened.”

You turn away, but Gator doesn’t let you get far. Gripping your arm, he turns you back toward him and hauls your face to his, locking you in another deep, pressing kiss.

You can’t help it— you’re only so strong. You forget your fight and sink into it, relishing the feeling of his tongue sweeping your mouth— the feeling you can't help but stupidly hope you’ll feel again.

When Gator pulls back, your expression must betray you, because he smirks. “You tell me you didn’t feel anything just then, and I'll let you go.”

“I—“ You fumble for words, shaking your head as you stare up at him.

“Go ahead,” Gator goads you, nodding his head to you. “Say it.”

You wrench your arm out of his grip and glare at him, wishing you had the faculty to just get it over with and lie. “Just because something feels good doesn’t mean it’s right,” you spit. “It’s not a reason to throw yourself into something blindly.”

“It’s the only reason,” he scoffs. “And you’d see that if you weren’t so fuckin’ scared.”

“I’m not–”

“It's alright, baby,” he interrupts you, lifting his hand to your mouth again, brushing at the corner. “I get it. You’re scared I’m gonna make you feel too good, right? Scared to let yourself have what you really want for once?”

You step back, wishing your chin wasn’t trembling as you answer him. “I’m scared you’ll end up just like your daddy, and I’ll be too obsessed with you to see it.”

Gator’s face shifts slightly– hardens. “That’s not gonna happen.”

“How do you know?” you press him. 

“‘Cause I’m not my daddy,” he says firmly, his voice lowering like he can’t bear for anyone else to hear it. “And you’re not like my mom.”

You still. Gator never talks about his mom. He hasn’t once brought her up in the time you’ve known him. But you’ve heard the whispers– everyone in town has. Linda Tillman, who ran off and left her boy– Linda Tillman, who Roy beat on till she just couldn’t take it anymore. Linda Tillman, who was the one and only person Gator might have loved more than his father.

She’s a cautionary tale in the back of your head– a lesson about what happens to women who fall for men like that. But, for all his faults, do you really believe Gator is one of those men? Do you believe there’s a chance in him to care more about something than proving himself– to care about you, in that stupid, deluded way you’d always secretly wished he would?

Gator must see the deliberation in your face, the desperate, feeble hope in you, because his lips soften, turn somehow sweeter as he stares back at you, not waiting for an answer. “Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he explains to you quietly, stepping forward and reaching up to cup your face. This time, you don’t stop him. “I’m gonna take you out. We’re gonna put our weapons down and talk. Really talk, alright? I’ll tell ‘ya whatever the fuck you wanna know. And you can keep bitchin’ about how stupid you think all this is for as long as you want.”

Your lips move to disagree, but he shushes you. 

“And I’m gonna convince you,” he promises. “I’m gonna win you over. Hold out for as long as you want to, doll. I’ll get through to ‘ya eventually.”

“Gator–” you start, but he silences you with another kiss, deep and consuming. 

He doesn’t pull back far. He’s only millimeters from your face when he whispers, “Just lemme take you out, okay?” Let me show you how good I can be to ‘ya.”

You make a noise of disagreement, your eyes shut as you take in the sensation of him– always so abrasive, so difficult to swallow. Gator Tillman has never had any difficulty commanding the entirety of your attention.

“You want me to get on my knees for you, doll?” he offers, his smile spreading as your resistance gives way under his hands and lips. “‘Ya liked that before.”

You can’t help it– you huff a laugh against his lips, and Gator grins. “There she is.”

“You’re so fucking annoying,” you inform him, allowing your hands to come to rest on his bare chest, still blazing with heat. 

Gator kisses you again, his smile searing against you. “Yes?” he surmises, though you’re certain by now he’s already torn the answers from your hands, already seen through your unwillingness and plunged through to the part of you that wants him with a desperation. 

So you stare into Gator’s hard, dark eyes, softened in pursuit of you, and tell him, “Fine.”

Three years.

Three whole years of loving Joe. If someone had told you that the one you keep feeding pastries and the man who accidentally locked himself out of his apartment would become the love of your life, you would've laughed in their face.

Yet here you were.

Three years later. There had been ups and downs, of course. No relationship was perfect. No love story looked like the movies after the credits rolled.

There were days Joe disappeared into recording studios before sunrise and came home long after midnight, smelling like coffee and exhaustion. There were weeks when you practically lived inside your café, testing recipes, managing staff, and running between your two branches.

Sometimes the two of you barely saw each other. Sometimes your schedules collided so badly that dinner together meant eating takeout at one in the morning while sitting on the kitchen floor.

But there were also the quiet moments. The moments that mattered most. Dancing barefoot while pastries cooled on the counter. Falling asleep halfway through a movie. Morning walks with Ponkan, stubbornly refusing to go in the direction either of you wanted. Monthly trips. Rainy days. Lazy afternoons spent tangled together on the couch. The kind of moments that slowly became a life.

The café bell chimed behind you. Your newest employee rushed past carrying a tray of pastries. Three years ago, there had only been one tiny café. Now there were two, two locations, eight employees, hundreds of regular customers. A wall filled with photographs and enough stories to fill a lifetime.

Life was good.

Which was exactly why Joe's recent behavior was driving you insane. For the past few weeks, he'd been acting very suspicious. The kind of suspicious that made you narrow your eyes every time he entered a room.

Phone calls he wouldn't explain. Random disappearances. Whispered conversations. And worst of all, your employees were involved. Every time you walked into the kitchen, someone suddenly changed the subject. Every time Joe visited, your staff exchanged weird looks. Even Ponkan seemed involved, you just had no proof.

But you knew something was going on. Which was why you currently found yourself sitting across from the old man from 6D in his living room, halfway through your weekly chess game.

"You know he's hiding something, right?" you said, moving your bishop.

The old man hummed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"You absolutely do."

"I absolutely don't."

"You smiled."

"I always smile."

"You only smile like that when you're keeping secrets."

The old man moved a piece. "Check."

"You're lying."

"No."

"You're a terrible liar." The old man tried and failed to suppress another grin.

"Oh God." You dropped your head into your hands. "Everybody knows except me."

The old man patted your shoulder. "Maybe."

You groaned. "This is torture."

Five Days Before

The apartment was lively, not loud lively. You were sprawled across the living room floor, a pillow tucked beneath your head while an old Ella Fitzgerald record spun softly in the background. Ponkan was asleep beside you, stretched out dramatically as if he'd worked a double shift at the café. Life was peaceful for exactly three seconds then the front door burst open.

"Honey!" Joe practically stumbled into the apartment. It made you and Ponkan jumped. Joe stood there looking absurdly excited, holding something behind his back.

You narrowed your eyes. "Why do you look like you just discovered gold?"

"Because I found treasure." With a dramatic flourish, he revealed an old recipe book. "I found this at a thrift store."

Immediately, you sat upright. "Oh!"

Joe watched nervously as you took it from his hands. The notebook was beautiful. Cream-colored pages. A floral cover. Tiny handwritten notes tucked between recipes. It looked loved. The kind of book someone spent years using.

"Oh my gosh." You carefully flipped through the pages. "Baby, this is adorable." Relief immediately washed over Joe's face. You smiled up at him. "Thank you."

Joe grinned. "My gift, since apparently I've been acting weird."

You snorted. "Apparently? You whispered something to my barista yesterday."

"Maybe I had business."

"You don't have business with my barista."

Joe was about to say something to counter, but instead, "Fair point."

You laughed and pulled him down beside you. Neither of you noticed Joe sneaking one terrified glance toward the back pages.

Four Days Before

Joe had made a terrible mistake. A horrible mistake. The worst mistake of his entire life. Because you loved the recipe book. You loved it so much that you'd carried it everywhere for the past twenty-four hours. It sat beside you at breakfast. It sat beside you in the café. It sat beside you while watching television. You were currently using it in the kitchen and Joe was suffering.

"You know," he said casually from his spot at the counter, "there are some really good recipes in there."

You glanced up. "There are."

Joe nodded quickly. "You should try the rainbow brownie one."

"Maybe."

"Or page seventy-three."

You squinted. "Why specifically page seventy-three?"

Joe nearly choked. "No reason."

"Hm." You returned to measuring flour.

Joe watched you turn a page then another and then another. His soul briefly left his body. "Joe, my baby."

"Yes?"

"Please stay on the counter."

Joe blinked. "What?"

"Stop hovering."

"I'm not hovering."

"You've followed me around the kitchen for twenty minutes."

Joe glanced at the recipe bookand back at you. "...maybe."

You pointed a wooden spoon at him. "And stop eating the chocolate chips."

Joe froze, one chocolate chip halfway to his mouth. Slowly, he put it back in the bowl. "You hate me."

“You’re dramatic.”

Three Days Before

Joe's stress level had become alarming. You sat comfortably on the couch reading through the recipe book while he pretended to watch television.

Pretended being the important word because he wasn't watching television. He was watching you. Specifically, your hands. Specifically, the pages. Specifically, how close you were getting to the special section. Each page flipped, Joe stopped breathing.

"Huh."

Joe's heart stopped. "What?"

You traced your finger along a handwritten note in the margin. "This handwriting feels familiar."

Joe felt his entire nervous system shut down. "Oh?"

You studied it again. "Yeah, really familiar."

Joe laughed most unnatural laugh ever produced by a human being. "Haha." You stared at him,  he smiled while sweat appeared on his forehead. "I think lots of people have similar handwriting."

"Do they?"

"Sure."

You continued staring. Joe continued sweating. Eventually, you shrugged and turned another page, and Joe nearly fainted.

Two Days Before

That night, the recipe book rested on your bedside table. Which, unfortunately for Joe, meant he could see it.

The problem was that only one of you knew there was something hidden inside. The other was happily making her way through the pages one recipe at a time. You climbed beneath the blankets while Joe wrapped an arm around your waist.

You reached for the recipe book and Joe's eyes widened. "You know," you said, opening it, "I'm gonna read this before I sleep."

Joe sat upright. "NO."

You blinked. "Why?"

His expression immediately changed. "I mean—" He cleared his throat. "No pressure."

"...You're weird."

You returned to reading. Joe spent the next twenty minutes pretending to sleep while secretly peeking every time you turned a page.

At one point, you caught him. "Joe."

"Hm?"

"Did you just open one eye?"

"No."

"You absolutely did."

"No proof."

You sighed. Joe nearly had a heart attack when you turned another page. Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.

One Day Before

Joe had reached a level of anxiety previously unknown to mankind. He was standing inside the café kitchen surrounded by your employees, who had collectively decided this was the funniest thing they'd ever witnessed.

Your co-baker leaned against the counter. "So?"

Joe groaned. "So what?"

"So how's it going?"

Joe dropped his forehead onto the prep table. "She's still reading it."

The barista burst out laughing. "You did this to yourself."

"I know."

"How many pages left?"

"Not enough."

Another employee walked by carrying a tray. "You look terrible."

"I haven't slept."

"Because?"

"I might propose tomorrow."

The entire kitchen immediately made sympathetic noises then started laughing again. Joe pointed at all of them. "You people are horrible."

"We love you too."

The back door suddenly opened. The old man from 6D appeared carrying a paper bag, which made everyone immediately straighten.

Joe groaned. "No."

"Oh yes." The old man sat beside him. "How's future husband life treating you?"

Joe covered his face. "Please."

"Has she found the page yet?"

"No."

"Good."

"How is that good?"

The old man shrugged. "Because suffering builds character."

Joe looked genuinely offended and old man laughed. Joe sighed. The old man smiled then his expression softened. "You know she's going to say yes."

The kitchen suddenly became quieter. Joe looked down. A nervous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I know."

The old man patted his shoulder. "Then stop looking like you're being sent to war."

Before Joe could answer, the kitchen door swung open. You walked in holding a broken mug. Everyone froze instantly and suspiciously. The silence was deafening. Your eyes slowly narrowed at everyone.  . "...I don't like this."

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

One employee still held a tray halfway in the air. The old man suddenly became very interested in a muffin. Joe looked one second away from fainting.

D-Day

The day arrived disguised as an ordinary Saturday. Which made it even more dangerous. The morning had started normally with coffee and breakfast, Joe pretending to act casual while internally experiencing the worst anxiety of his entire life.

You had started noticing flowers. A small vase of daisies on Joe's coffee table. A few pink carnations near the window. Some baby's breath on the kitchen counter. It was really odd. Mostly because Joe had never been a flower guy before.

"Did you buy flowers?" you asked one afternoon.

Joe, who was currently moving a vase for the third time in ten minutes, froze. "No."

You blinked. "Then why do you have so many flowers?"

Joe stared at the flowers. "People buy flowers."

By noon, you had completely taken over his kitchen not that Joe minded. You were happiest when you baked. And three years later, watching you move around a kitchen still felt like watching magic.

The recipe book rested beside a bowl of flour. Its pages worn from constant use throughout the week, exactly as Joe had hoped. You stood at the counter measuring ingredients while Joe tied your apron strings behind your back.

His hands lingered for a second. You smiled. "Thank you."

Joe kissed your shoulder. "Anything for you."

The words came out softer than usual. You didn't think much of it. Joe, however, nearly passed out. Because hidden inside that recipe book sat the most important question he would ever ask and every passing minute brought you closer to finding it.

The afternoon drifted by peacefully. Two pastries cooled on the counter. The apartment smelled like vanilla, caramelized sugar, and melted butter. Ella Fitzgerald’s Dream a Little Dream of Me hummed softly through the speakers. Ponkan slept in a patch of sunlight. It felt like home. It felt like every ordinary moment you'd ever loved. Eventually, you wiped your hands on your apron and reached for the recipe book.

"Only a few pages left," you said.

Joe stopped breathing, LITERALLY STOPPED BREATHING.

You flipped another pages. Joe suddenly became very interested in staring at the wall. The ceiling. The floor. Anything except the book. Your eyes moved across the final recipes. Small notes scribbled in the margins. Little reminders. Measurements. Adjustments. Tiny pieces of a story. Then, you reached the last page.

At first, you smiled, it looked like another recipe. Of course it did. The entire book had been recipes. Why would the last page be different?

You read aloud. "Ingredients..."

Ingredients

2 neighboring apartments

1 orange cat named Ponkan

1 very patient old man from 6D

Endless pastries

A thousand walks through Central Park

Several trips around the world

Too many hugs to count

A ridiculous amount of kisses

Three years of choosing each other

One woman who makes every room feel like home

One man hopelessly in love with her

Instructions

Leave baked goods on your neighbor's doorstep.

Accept her invitation to taste pastries. Warning: side effects may include falling completely in love.

Spend every possible excuse together.

Teach her guitar, she never improves at.

Let her teach you that happiness can be found in ordinary days.

Dance in kitchens.

Hold hands in airports.

Adopt every lonely person, cat, and grandpa you meet.

Love her when life is easy.

Love her more when life is hard.

Build a life together one day at a time.

Make sure she never doubts how loved she is.

Spend years trying to give her everything she deserves.

Continue loving her for the rest of your life.

You kept reading ‘til your voice grew quieter, eyes blurring.  Your hand covered your mouth. "Oh, Joe..." The final words sat alone near the bottom of the page. 

You finally understood this wasn't a thrift store find. Joe had made it page by page, recipe by recipe. He had rebuilt something that time had nearly taken away. Something precious. Something irreplaceable. Something that belongs to you. And at the very bottom of the page written in pink glitter pen, were four words.

WILL YOU MARRY ME?

The room disappeared, your tears made everything blurry. The book slipped lower in your hands.

And when you finally looked up, Joe was already there on his both knees. Apparently he'd panicked too much to choose one. His hands trembled. His eyes were red. And he looked even more terrified than you.

“Hi, honey.” Joe looked up at you with watery eyes, letting out a shaky laugh as he wiped his face with the sleeve of his sweater. "I had this whole speech memorized," he admitted. "I practiced it in the shower... in the car... I even made the old man listen to it twice." He laughed through a sniffle. "And now you're standing in front of me, and my brain has completely left my body." 

That earned a teary laugh from you. He smiled, relieved to hear it. "But maybe..." He took a deep breath. "maybe that's okay because everything I've ever wanted to tell you has never been something I needed to memorize."

Joe took a shaky breath more than you count. Trying to steady himself. Trying to put three years of love into words. Trying to explain what you meant to him. Trying to explain the impossible. Finally, he looked directly at you and smiled. The same smile that had first appeared in your hallway years ago.

"Every good thing in my life started after I met you." Fresh tears blurred your vision. "You taught me that ordinary days could be extraordinary. That trying a new recipe on a Tuesday, walking through Central Park with nowhere to be, listening to Ella Fitzgerald while we washed dishes... those are the moments that matter the most."

He laughed softly, his eyes never leaving yours. "You made me believe home isn't a place." his voice trembled. "...it's a person."

You completely lost it. Joe swallowed hard, blinking away his own tears. "Thank you... for loving me when I thought I wasn't always easy to love. Thank you for believing in me even on the days I doubted myself." He smiled, small and impossibly fond.

"Thank you for filling my apartment with the smell of butter and vanilla... for leaving cupcakes outside my door before you even knew me... for inviting me to taste pastries that completely changed my life."

He let out another shaky laugh. "I thought I was moving back to New York." He shook his head. "but I was really moving toward you." A sob escaped your lips.

Joe's own voice cracked. "Thank you for making me feel safe enough to be myself. Thank you for being my quiet after every loud day. My rest after every long flight. My favorite conversation. My favorite hello... and somehow, after all this time, you're still my favorite goodbye, because I know I'll get to see you again."

He sniffed, smiling through tears. "Thank you for leaving the lights on for me." You nodded, crying harder and you were on your knees too, unable to carry yourself anymore.  "Silly," he whispered with a watery laugh. "because you still have this thing about the dark..." His thumb brushed away one of your tears. "But I know that no matter how late I come home... no matter how far work takes me... if the lights are on, I'll find you there."

He looked at the recipe book resting on the floor.

"And that's all I've ever wanted." His eyes found yours again. "A home where you're waiting for me." He took a slow, trembling breath. "So... thank you." A smile broke through his tears. "Thank you for choosing me every single day. And if you'll keep choosing me. I'd like to spend the rest of my life choosing you too."

Joe opened the trinket ring box with pink gems he bought at the thrift store back in Japan.  Inside rested a flower-shaped ring. Six delicate pink diamond petals. Soft rose-colored light catches against the stone.

Beautiful, unique, perfect, just like you, exactly what Joe thought of you. And, incredibly, yours. Joe looked at you. Like you were the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen cause you were. "Can you make me the happiest man in the entire gala—?"

You didn't even let him finish. "YES." You threw yourself at him. The ring box nearly flew across the apartment. Joe barely managed to catch it. "YES, I'LL MARRY YOU."

Joe laughed that comes from pure relief, pure joy, pure love. The ring slid onto your finger perfectly—Joe kissed you. Through tears. Through laughter. Through three years of memories. Through every version of yourselves that had led here. When you finally pulled apart, Joe pressed his forehead against yours, still crying and smiling. 

And, you thought, maybe your grandmother had been right. Someday, someone was going to love you very, very much. She just forgot to mention it would be your neighbor.

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issy talks: i hope i made it clear that joe made a copy of one of her grandma's very very old recipe books, if not i'm gonna find the nearest sharp object and impale myself. kidding.

emoji anon/s #🍪anon

the girl next door (is not a grandma) masterlist

When you arrive at the house, he's already out of his work uniform and in a pair of sweats he's had for years. There's a tear in the fabric at his wrist from when you'd gotten a little too excited trying to pull it from his body last winter, but he won't let you fix it. He's hovering between the edge of the living room and the hallway leading to the front door, a beer sweating in his hand and his eyes on the TV. His body is turned towards you, which counts as a greeting during game season. 

"Hey, kid," he calls out as you drop your bag on the table with your keys, then shouts, "FOUL!" at the game blasting from the entertainment system.  

Basketball season, maybe. Or football. It doesn't even matter because half the time it's not even his team playing. 

He tries to kiss you as you walk past, his free hand finding your hip and dragging you close, but his lips barely brush over yours before his attention is pulled away and he starts yelling at the TV again. You roll your eyes, squeeze his bicep, and keep moving towards the kitchen. There's a fresh bottle of red on the counter, the cork already popped and a single glass next to it, waiting for you.  

The pour is probably a little too heavy-handed, as the liquid sloshes over the rim when you kick your shoes off, your heels flying somewhere underneath the dining table, but you'll clean it up later. In the bedroom, the sheets are rumpled, most likely from Gator's nap earlier—the one he swears he never takes—and his work clothes are thrown somewhat near the hamper, but never quite make it inside.  

You've barely unbuttoned your blouse when two hands grab your face, making you squeak. Gator crushes his mouth against yours and tastes like Coors and spicy jerky. He pulls back just long enough to steal another kiss from your mouth before dropping one against your neck, pushing your hair over your shoulder.  

"Hi," he whispers, his thumb tracing your bottom lip.  

"You're missing the game," you smile.  

"Halftime," he grins, all teeth and roguish charm.  

"Stupid," you mutter, shoving him back lightly.  

Gator drops himself at the end of the bed, leaning back on his elbows and appreciating the view in front of him as you drag off your work clothes. They're not particularly sexy—a long wool skirt because the office is always freezing and a white button-up that gives you little to no shape—but you could be wearing a garbage bag, and he'd still stare openly at you like this. His eyes drag across every new inch of skin exposed, his tongue darting out to wet his lips and his breath hitching quietly when the straps of your bra fall down your arms.  

He looks like a predator. Like he can't decide between eating you alive or keeping you forever.  

When you're totally bare in front of him, you take another long sip from your glass and let him make the choice.  

~ ~ ~ 

Gator barely catches the last few minutes of play by the time you leave the bedroom. He grabs another beer from the fridge and the bottle of wine from the counter, pouring you another glass. He twists the cap off his bottle, tossing it towards the garbage can in the kitchen without looking.  

"Go, baby, go!" he shouts, pacing behind the couch shirtless because you're wearing his sweater now, torn cuff and all.  

He lets out a loud "Fuck!" when the final whistle blows, and you figure the team he's picked for the night has lost. He leaps over the back of the couch, dropping beside you and throwing an arm over your lap, squeezing at your thigh that's still warm from the shower. You've looked forward to this moment all day, being next to him and letting the day fade away as you fade into him instead. 

He watches you for a second, his thumb moving absently across your skin. 

"How was work?" He gulps back another mouthful, wiping at the beer that escaped his lips and is headed towards his chin.  

"Oh?" You mock gasp. "You're paying attention to me now?"  

"I think I paid you plenty of attention back there." He jerks his head towards the bedroom with that stupid grin of his—the one that can get you to do anything and always lands you in trouble. 

He keeps looking though at you, waiting for an answer. 

A heavy sigh slips out of you. 

"Work was..." It takes too long to gather the right words.  

"I should've bought you a second bottle," he snorts.  

"This is the only one?" You frown, looking at the side table and eyeballing what must be maybe half a glass left inside it. His head falls back against the couch cushion as he barks out a loud laugh.  

"Don't worry, there's a case in the back of the truck." He pointedly ignores your excited expression. "Couldn't be fucked luggin' it in."  

You throw your arms around his shoulders and press a few smacking kisses against his cheek. He shoves the remote into your lap.  

"Yeah, yeah, I'm the best, I know." He's being sarcastic, but he isn't leaning away from you either. "Pick a damn movie while I get us some dinner." 

~ ~ ~ 

The heels of your feet bounce off the cabinets as you sit on the counter and tell him about your day. He's stirring pasta in the pot on the stove, and there's a jar of home-brand sauce open beside you, waiting to be added.  

He nods at the right moments and laughs as you recall how one of the new temps jammed the copier, even though the story isn't actually funny. 

"I just like the way you tell it." He shrugs. "And I like the ugly little vein that pops out on your forehead when you think someone is stupid and you're trying to be nice about it."  

Your jaw drops open, and your heels stop bouncing. Bursting out laughing, he doubles over so hard that it makes you smile too. 

"Gator!" You pout. "It's not ugly." 

"Aw." He mocks, slipping between your knees and pressing his lips against yours before you can stop him. "It's a little ugly, but it's okay."  

"You're ugly." You kiss him again.  

"Ooft." He slaps a hand against his chest, stepping away from you to stir the pasta again. "You got me, kid."  

You smack him with the tea towel, and he flicks a wet noodle back in return. 

~ ~ ~ 

Some shitty horror movie plays on the television, but you're not really paying attention. You're tired now, the clock pushing past midnight, stomach full and the second bottle of red wine making everything hazy. There's an old scratchy blanket thrown over your tangled legs, and you're practically melting into Gator, your head against his collarbone and arms wrapped around his waist. His fingers have been tangled in the back of your hair since the film started, and it's lulling you to sleep.  

"She ran up the stairs instead of out the front door. Point to me," he mutters against your temple, his lips brushing your skin softly.  

You have this game that you play together. You try to predict what's going to happen in every single one of these B-grade movies.  

A point for when the character goes down into whatever creepy-ass basement they very obviously shouldn't be going down into. A point for guessing which two characters will have sex and inevitably die. A point for guessing the murderer.  

And yes, a point for when the characters run up the stairs instead of out the front door.  

Gator claims he's the reigning champion, but you never keep track of the score anyway. You still let him have the win.  

The October chill has started to creep its way inside the house. Snow hasn't hit the ground yet, but it feels like it's only days away now. The rain has been heavy, pouring consistently over the plains and drenching everything in its path. There's a mop bucket in the hallway catching drops of water from the leak in the roof that Gator can't seem to find.  

"I thought you were getting a guy to come out and fix that?"  

He turns his head to look down the hallway for a moment, watching the drops fall before turning back to you.  

"Forgot about it. I'll call someone tomorrow."  

"Uh huh."  

"I will."  

A scream erupts from the sound system as the characters on the screen meet their untimely demise, and you both jump.  

"I picked the virgins. Two points to me," you mumble.  

"Only one of them was a virgin. One point."  

You huff, and he pulls gently on your hair to tilt your head back, slanting his lips over yours.  

"Wanna go to bed?"  

"No. Wanna stay here with you."  

"Okay."  

He presses his lips against yours again, and you close your eyes. 

~ ~ ~ 

Saturday morning light breaks through the threadbare curtains in the bedroom as you wake up alone. Gator’s side of the bed is cool, but the laundry thrown around the room from the night before is gone, along with the hamper that sat in the corner. Your work heels are placed neatly beside his boots by the wardrobe, and there’s Tylenol and a glass of water on the bedside table for you. 

His sleep is always a bit screwed up on the weeks he works nights. He gets exhausted but struggles to keep his eyes closed, too restless to settle, too anxious to do anything except think. He doesn’t often talk about what happens during his shifts—sometimes a story about drunk arrests or spoiled brats speeding around in daddy’s Mercedes. 

But then there are the weeks when asking about work shuts him down immediately. Not subtly. He goes still in a way that feels wrong, like a caged animal, feral and sharp. So, you stop asking and start reading the signs instead. 

When it's been harder than usual, he keeps himself busy. You hadn't noticed it last night, too wine drunk and too Gator drunk to realize, but assessing the house now, you can see it. He cooked dinner, did all the dishes, and didn't let you lift a finger. You thought it was romantic how he wanted to take care of you after your shitty day. 

Something heavy settles in your stomach. 

Your bare feet hit the floorboards, and his sweater drops to the middle of your thighs as you stand. There's coffee in the pot on the kitchen counter, and the TV is muted with sports highlights rolling across the screen. The case of wine he promised sits on the dining table, but Gator isn't anywhere to be found. 

The backdoor is slightly open; a frigid breeze rolls through the house and curls its way around your bare ankles. He sits on the old picnic bench on the porch—the one that’s been there longer than they’ve probably been alive—vape in one hand, phone in the other. His empty coffee mug sits on the railing, and the door clicks behind you as you step out. 

He turns toward you, already halfway into whatever version of himself he uses when nothing is wrong. His face changes—subtle, practiced, wrong in a way you can always tell now. 

"Don't." 

You don't exactly know what it is that you're telling him to stop doing, but he seems to understand anyway because his face drops, and he looks over the plains again. It's raining in the fields a few miles away. Theres a shimmer in the air and the white noise of the rumbling water hitting the ground. It'll probably be pouring over them within the hour, creeping its way across the land until it swallows them whole. 

You still drop next to Gator anyway, pulling your knees up to your chest and curling into his side. You take his hand, dropping a kiss to the back of it before holding onto it with both of yours. Neither of you move until the rain washes you inside. 

~ ~ ~ 

You indulge him and get in the shower together when he asks. The cubicle is too small for two people, and the taps dig into your back, and Gator never has the water hot enough, but seeing you naked in front of him makes him act like a teenager again. So, you can ignore the quiet, unnecessary fear that he might drop you mid-thrust if it means you can make him forget about everything for a while. 

(And really, sex with Gator has never been a chore.) 

He steps out, wrapping a towel around his waist and you can finally turn the cold tap off and hot tap up. Steam billows through the bathroom enough that Gator mumbles about it "being hotter than Satan's asshole in here" before disappearing into the bedroom. 

You make grilled cheese for lunch using the good cheddar that he claims he can't taste the difference between but always reaches for at the supermarket now. After pouring yourself a cup, you also tip what's in the coffee pot down the sink and replace it with the decaf blend that you keep hidden in the back of the pantry. 

Gator's on the couch, staring at nothing with one arm folded behind his head and the other thrown over his stomach, fingers digging into the scar that sits above his hip. It's still pink, new, and you're not sure how he got it, but you know it's tender sometimes, especially when it's cold. 

You balance his coffee mug on his plate and do the same for yours, walking slowly across the living room to not spill anything. He sits up as you step closer, reaching up and grabbing both plates from your hands so you can sit down next to him. 

"Thanks, kid," he offers quietly, as he passes your plate back. 

He takes a sip from his mug and a wrinkle forms between his eyes as the bitter taste hits his tongue. 

"Fucking decaf," he grumbles, not looking at you and placing it on the side table. 

He complains, but he’ll be asleep on the couch before his plate is empty. You’ll put on some stupid reality show he pretends to hate, and he won’t move. Not to the bedroom. Not anywhere. His hand will stay on your thigh, and he’ll snore into the cushions like he hasn’t slept all week. He probably hasn’t. 

~ ~ ~ 

You open another bottle of red wine while you make dinner. The TV is finally off and the radio hums in the corner. Gator still has bedhead; the strands flattened on one side and puffy on the other, but he doesn't care. He's too busy laughing at you singing a terrible version of a Britney Spears classic with a southern accent. 

“She’s from Louisiana!” you laugh. “She’d sound like that!” 

He fiddles with the dial and changes the station to something more country. Old school. 

"Now, this is music!" He boasts as something that's older than either of you plays softly. 

You point the wooden spoon in your hand at him. "What happened to the guy who used to drive me around, blasting Limp Bizkit?!" 

He huffs a laugh at the memory of being sixteen, just getting his license, thinking he owned the world in his first car. 

"We grew up, kid." 

"OK, old timer." 

You dip the spoon back into the pot, stirring the stew quietly, when Gator's arms wrap around your middle. His lips press against your neck, once, twice, a third time, before his teeth nip at your jaw. 

"Dance with me." 

He's not asking. 

You turn around and wrap your arms around his neck, fingers scratching through the short hairs there. He sways you back and forth to the John Denver track playing before he lifts one of your hands and spins you around. It's hard to wipe the smile off your face when the same one is reflected in his. The song comes to an end, and he dips you back low. 

"Don't you dare drop me!" You warn through your grin. 

"What? Like this?" 

He pretends to let go, dropping you even further towards the kitchen floor and laughter spills out of you. 

~ ~ ~ 

The lights are off, and the television throws shifting shadows across the walls. 

Your clothes, and Gator's, are gone, thrown around the room in your shared haste to have nothing between you. Your hands press against the back of the couch as your hips do all the work, rolling against him and pulling tiny moans from the back of his throat as you work him over. Two fingers swirl around one nipple while his teeth bite and suck sweetly on the other. You run a hand over the sweat curling at his hairline, and he snaps his hips to meet yours, making the air leave your lungs. 

"Like that?" he gasps, doing it again. 

Your eyes roll back into your head, and you move one of your hands between your legs. He bats it away before you can get there, though, pressing his thumb onto the bundle of nerves. The cry that rips out of you is loud, and the proud smirk that covers his face makes you want to smack him, but then he pushes his hips up again and you swear you'll never think again because he's fucking you stupid. 

"So perfect for me," he breathes, his eyes blown so dark that you can barely see the color in them anymore. 

He pulls out suddenly, and your back hits the sofa. Gator pushes your thighs apart, hitches one leg over his arm, and thrusts back inside you. There's no time for adjustment. You grab his shoulders, and your back arches, your jaw dropping in a silent scream as he moves his hips fast and hard against you. The pace is relentless, and everything outside of him starts to disappear. His tongue is in your mouth, his fingers are working over your clit, his cock is hitting every spot that makes you see stars, and he's everywhere. 

You're not even sure what you're saying anymore, but you can't stop. 

"Gator! Need you! Don't stop! Right there—God!" 

A high-pitched whine sneaks its way out of your throat, and everything crescendos. You're feverish and electrified, your skin ablaze. Hot white pleasure strikes the deepest parts of you, and he grunts as you impossibly tighten around him. Gator follows quickly after, thrusting until his own release takes over, spilling inside you with a groan. 

He collapses on top of your body, his cock still lingering inside you, and you close your eyes as you both try to catch your breath. You can feel his cum leaking out of you and the sweat that's pooled at the bottom of his back, but you don't mind. 

The movie is still playing. The ragtag crew on the screen makes it out of the forest alive. 

Except one. 

"I picked the murderer. One point to me," you breathe out. 

Gator laughs exhaustedly into your neck. 

~ ~ ~ 

Sunday morning rolls in slowly, like fog. There's a heavy arm around your waist, a stubbly jaw against the back of your shoulder, and warmth around your body that makes sleep hard to break out of. His discarded T-shirt is hanging off the footboard, and there's an ache between your legs and a soreness in your stomach from how much laughter you've shared since the weekend began. 

Gator's still asleep when you turn over, looking younger than he is with no worry lines carved into his face. You brush the hair that's fallen across his face away and trace your fingers over his features: his nose, the arches of his brows, the sharpness of his jaw. When your thumb traces over his bottom lip, his mouth parts, and even with his eyes closed, he tries to bite it. 

"God, I love waking up to you." His voice is hoarse, and his hand travels up your torso, brushing over your nipples and squeezing gently. He sighs like all he's ever needed in life is a handful of tit and he could die happy. 

"What time is it?" 

"Early, I think?" You lean back to grab your phone from the charger, and he groans as you move away. 

He squints one eye open, and you show him the time. 

"You got a lotta messages," he mumbles, pulling you back to his side tightly. 

"Nothing important," you promise, pressing your lips against the bottom of his jaw. 

He settles back against the pillow, eyes already drifting shut again. You feel a twitch underneath your thigh and grin. 

"That all it takes?" 

"Don't start nothin' you ain't gonna finish," he warns softly, his eyes still closed. 

"You're practically asleep still!" 

"Wake me up then." 

~ ~ ~ 

Sundays always feel off. The wind-down from the weekend, the preparations to go back to work. Gator puts the wine you didn't drink into the rack in the corner of the kitchen and tosses the empties into the garbage can outside. All the dishes from the last few days have been loaded into the dishwasher, and the bathroom gets deep-cleaned. The bed sheets are in the washer, and all the windows are open, ridding the furniture of the smell of sex and leftover beef stew. 

You sit on the porch bench with the last of the coffee still warm in your hands and Gator's head in your lap. 

"Are you on lates or earlies this week?" you ask quietly, your fingers dragging through the two clean lines shaved into the side of his head by his temples. He must have had it cut again in the last few days. 

"Lates," he mumbles, and you sigh, trying hard not to be annoyed. 

Overnight shifts mean you'll barely hear from him, or if you do, you'll already be asleep. Conversations will be dragged out across days. He'll be exhausted, and you'll miss him more than you already do when he's not around. 

Water drips into the bucket in the hallway, and before you can even say anything about it, Gator beats you to it. 

"I'm gonna call the guy," he insists. His hand reaches up to yours, still twisting through his hair, and pulls it to his mouth. "Stop worrying. Just be here with me." 

"I am here with you," you frown. 

He hums, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again. "You're thinking too much." 

"You don't think enough," you huff. 

"I think I love you." 

Crimson blooms in your chest, crawling up your neck towards your face. It feels like the first time, every time he says it. 

"I love you too." 

There's a TV show the guys at the station keep talking about that he wants to start. You mention a movie you've been seeing clips of all week. 

A shopping list goes onto the fridge. Leftovers go into the freezer. 

The sheets are finally dry, and Gator helps you fold them back into neat squares, kissing you every time the corners meet. The mattress is bare, and the bedroom is freezing, but you both still pull your clothes off anyway, delaying the inevitable and pushing your time together as far as you can. 

Because once you're dressed and your bags are packed, thrown into the trunks of your cars, you only have a few moments left to kiss each other goodbye properly. His tongue slips over yours, and your hands tuck under his shirt, feeling the muscles of his stomach contract and the ridges of the scar by his hip. It's indulgent because this part never gets easier. 

"Drive safe," he whispers, ignoring the tears welling at the bottom of your lashes. "I'll see you soon, okay?" 

You nod silently, your forehead pressed against him, because he will. One weekend a month, for the last however many years. But until then, you'll go home to your husband, and he'll go back to his wife.