storms are less fickle; seas less capricious.

As has this– the first, aching moments of the morning, when he rises promptly every day at 6 AM. It’s another habit that’s been quite literally beaten into him. 

Gator’s eyes open groggily, and he extracts one of his arms to reach over and slap the stop button on the alarm. He misses it the first time, and it disturbs you. You turn slightly, your sleeping face already pulling in a frown, and hit the back of your hand against Gator’s chest to tell him to kill the noise. 

He fights his amusement and finally gets the damn alarm off. 

You make a half-conscious noise of approval and roll back over. Gator can’t help but follow you, spend even one more minute burrowed into the heat of the bed together. He slips his arms around your waist again, nosing his way into the crook of your neck. Places a gentle kiss there, soft enough not to wake you.

Your skin is blazing with sleep, your hair fanned out across the pillow. Right now, he wants nothing more than to bury himself in that warmth, back into the gentle scent of your faded perfume, tucking you against his chest where he knows for certain you’ll be safe.

But that’s a dangerous game– and if he lets himself indulge in it, he’ll never be able to drag himself out of bed and into his day. So, reluctantly, he presses another kiss to your neck, then one each to your jaw and your temple, and slips out from under the covers. 

You make another garbled noise at the loss of warmth, flopping around a little to make yourself comfortable again. You’re an active sleeper, to Gator’s endless amusement. He fights his laugh and sets about getting ready.

When he emerges from the closet dressed in his cargos and a black t-shirt, shrugging on his vest, you’ve moved again. Overheated now, you’ve shoved the covers off, one leg thrown over them. The movement has rucked up your sleep shorts, exposing the long line of your thigh and your ass. It’s no shock where Gator’s eye goes as he drinks you in. 

He swallows, eyes tracing your supple curves, the way you’re so blissfully unaware of what you’re doing to him first thing in the goddamn morning. Fighting heat in his abdomen, he traipses over to your end of the bed and bends down, ignoring the noise his combat boots make against the squeaky old hardwoods. Gently, he brushes back a few stray pieces of your hair and presses one last kiss to your cheek. “Love you,” he murmurs into your skin.

Here in this bedroom, he almost feels like a different man. 

A man exempt from hardness. A man who can’t stand to be anything but what he’s been trained not to be– a man fitted into your grooves, melted like butter, softness in every fiber of his muscles. When he touches you, kisses you, fucks you, it’s like this, wrapped in spell-binding sheets that drain every last scrap of depravity out of him. There’s nothing in him anymore but desperate, gentle hands, pawing for affection, giving it out readily in return. In the warm, hazy spell of the morning, it’s the only thing he is. He’s gone soft, just like his daddy warned him, and somehow, he can’t get enough of it.

Gator rises, the image of you captured and preserved in his mind to antagonize him for the rest of his day. With one glance back at you, arousal and affection melding in his gut, he leaves for work.

---

Nancy had been talking for going on ten minutes straight, and while Jonathan was listening with rapt attention, the other three of them weren’t having as easy of a time. Necessary though these once-weekly station meetings might have been, there was nothing even remotely interesting to Ava about their viewer demographics or the cost of improvements to the radio tower. She just wanted to be done with this and go home. 

“Can I get a read on that, Ava?” Nancy asked her, snapping her out of her daze.

Ava blinked. “Sorry?”

Nancy hid her annoyance well, but it still showed. “I need the estimated run times for broadcasts next week,” she repeated.

Ava shook herself and stood from her chair. “Yeah– yeah, right. Sorry.” She made her way to the wall of cabinets, on the top of which she had stacked the binders where she logged all of that kind of information. She grimaced at the height and stretched to grab them, but the short skirt she was wearing was making that a little difficult. How the hell had she gotten them up there in the first place?

She reached for it once more, ignoring that her friends might end up seeing a little more of her ass than usual as she pressed up onto her tiptoes. And then she felt someone appear behind her, and Steve’s hand came into view, his corded forearm flexing as he grabbed the binders down for her. 

Ava turned to thank him and found him inches from her face. He was standing directly in the way of her line of vision to everyone else. As if he’d been blocking them from seeing her in that skirt. As if he’d been thinking about it like she had. 

“Thanks,” she said, a little bewildered and fighting a blush. 

He gave a tight smile, no fondness to be found in it. There was an unmistakable intensity in his eyes as he looked at her– an intensity that made her think acutely about the fingertip-shaped bruises that were currently scattered along her hips and thighs. She’d only noticed the marks when she’d arrived at the station, and it had made her wish desperately she’d chosen to wear pants that would cover them today. It would have been humiliating had Robin or Nancy caught on to how, exactly, she’d gotten them, but thankfully, they remained oblivious for now. 

She cleared her throat and returned to her armchair and the meeting, rattling off numbers for Nancy to analyze. Steve leaned up against the wall, arms crossed.

Ava tried not to watch him, but he made it hard sometimes. There was a strange kind of intimacy to seeing someone whose body you could map out in perfect detail fully clothed. Like it was a barrier only she was able to pass, some sacred knowledge that she and only she possessed. Like later, if she wanted, she could rip that shirt off of him and kiss her way over the pattern of moles on his strong shoulders, and nobody but the two of them knew it. 

In that small way, he belonged to her.

Eventually, Nancy asked for some other piece of information she didn’t have on hand, and she was forced to head down to the basement to gather it, grumbling on the way. How these archival lists mattered to her job, she had no idea. Her role was mostly pulling music and organizing the board– and fighting off Steve’s attempts to redo it for her.

She leant over the table in the basement, sifting unsuccessfully through papers to find what she was looking for.

“I want to see you,” came a voice from behind her. 

She jumped, although she recognized Steve’s voice. “Jesus. You scared me.”

“After this,” he insisted, ignoring her and stepping closer. 

Ava didn’t turn from the desk– wouldn’t let him know she was intimidated by the heat in his tone. “I might have plans tonight,” she hummed, though it was a bald-faced lie and they both knew it.

She couldn’t tell if he was ordering or begging her as he said, “Cancel them.”

She sighed. “I shouldn’t, Steve. I have to walk home, and I don’t want to do that in the dark.”

“I’ll drive you home,” he promised her. “I’m locking up tonight, anyway. Come on. Promise I’ll make it worth it.”

Warmth coiled in Ava’s gut, and she knew there was no way in hell she was turning this down. “Why the sudden urge?” she pushed him, unsurprised when she heard his footsteps, then felt his body come flush to hers. 

Steve pressed his hands against her hips, finding one of the bruises there and adding just enough pressure for her to feel a tinge of pain. “This skirt is really working for me,” he murmured in her ear. “I’d like to see what it’d look like on the floor.”

Ava turned around, and Steve’s hands adjusted to land on her lower back, one of them sliding down slightly. The total hunger in his eyes made her surge forward and capture his lips with hers, cupping his face. She didn’t dare run her hands up into his hair and muss it before the two of them had to walk back out there, but the way he was pushing her body back into the desk was driving her so insane she thought about trying it anyway. 

“Easy,” she breathed, pulling back. “We’ve still gotta make it through this meeting.”

“Is that a yes?” he asked.

She pushed against his chest, ignoring the pounding of her heart. “It’s a maybe,” she bluffed. “As in, maybe I keep this skirt on the whole time and go to work on you instead.”

Steve kissed her again, hard and pressing. 

Ava pulled back, peeling herself out of his grip and making for the door. And when he was out of sight, she might have tugged her skirt up an extra inch.

Ava busied herself with shoving records back onto the shelves in her corner, biding her time. Nancy and Jonathan had taken off moments ago, and now it was only a matter of not shouting at Robin to pack up her things quicker before she’d be alone. Well– alone, except for one other person, who’d been shooting her barely-disguised hungry looks from across the station all day. 

“Hey, you need a ride?” Robin asked, appearing in the doorway. “Vickie’s outside.”

Ava smiled at her. “I’m fine. My dad’s picking me up tonight.”

“Suit yourself,” Robin called, waving a hand in goodbye. “Don’t stay too late. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Bye,” Ava called, fingers stilling on the last record. She made herself wait a minute, then two, and then she followed Robin out, making it all the way to the front door of the station so she could lock it and draw the blinds down.

Steve looked up from where he was working in the sound box, stacking tapes. 

Ava’s eyes found his, and that was all it took for him to be moving for her, pushing open the glass door between them and crossing the main room quickly. 

Ava met him stride for stride, and they crashed into each other in the middle of the room, mouths already slanting together. 

Steve’s hands were all over her, moving up and down her back, tugging her close to him. He loved to kiss– always had. It was probably his biggest turn-on. He never wanted to stop kissing her, right up until the very end. 

Ava curled her hands in the front of his shirt and grabbed him closer to her, almost just to have something to hold onto. She was making frantic noises into his mouth, and that seemed only to energize him further. 

He walked her backward toward the couch, stopping when her legs bumped against it. “Needed you so bad,” he mumbled against her mouth. “You’ve been driving me crazy all day.”

She let out a noise. “Clothes. I want to touch you.”

He pulled back enough to shuck his shirt off in one easy motion, tossing it aside. Her hands found his bare chest, smoothing over his shoulders, over his pecs, down his abdomen. They landed on his belt, and she yanked him back toward her. 

“I want everything off,” he breathed. “I need to see you, sweetheart.”

“All of it?” she asked, panting. He almost never asked for that from her– they always moved too fast. With the exception of a few longer nights in the van, it was fairly rare for her to be completely naked in front of him.

“All of it,” he nodded. “You need help?”

A small, stubborn part of her wanted to tell him she didn’t. But her fingers weren’t as steady as usual, and her legs felt like they were about to give out, so she just nodded. 

Steve let out a noise and tore his lips from hers, hands moving down her body. He gripped the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head gently so it didn’t catch on her chin or her nose. When it was gone, discarded with his, he took a moment to smooth down her hair, running his fingers down it softly. Ava shivered at the touch. 

Steve reached around her and unhooked her bra, which was the part she always had a hard time with once her coordination was gone. But his fingers moved expertly, assuredly. Years of experience, and weeks of training with her. He pulled the straps down her arms as she attacked his neck with kisses, moving down his chest. 

Steve pulled away, holding her by the arms so he could see her. He let out a groan. “Fuck.”

“It’s been a while since you’ve gotten to second base with me,” she mocked, letting him take it in. 

He nodded, all seriousness. “Too long. Too goddamn long.”

His lips returned to hers, and then, just as she had thought he would, he began to kiss a line down her middle, over her sternum, down her stomach. His hands moved, sweeping, to stroke her body, over her ribs and across her breasts in ways that made her skin tingle. 

“And this,” he made out, hands settling onto her hips again as he dropped to his knees in front of her, staring at the waistband of her skirt. “I can’t believe you wore this in front of other people.”

“What’s wrong with it?” she asked breathlessly, staring down at him. She loved seeing him like this– completely desperate, staring at her like he wanted to devour her. He usually did.

Steve’s eyes flicked up to meet hers. “It’s obscene. Your whole ass was out today.”

Ava’s cheeks burned. “It was not.” It was. She just so happened to be incapable of conceding to him.

“You’re not allowed to wear this out anymore,” Steve told her, his thumb skimming under the waistband. “This is only for me from now on. You hear me?”

Ava’s pulse spiked at the order, at the audacity in his tone. “I like this skirt,” she said defensively.

“I love this skirt,” he agreed, fingers moving for the buttons. “Doesn’t change that you’re a fucking tease.”

“I’m not a tease,” she gasped out. 

“Promise me,” he bade her, another order in place of a plea. Looking up at her, his brown eyes catching her with that unshakable focus, it almost felt like he wasn’t the one on his knees. 

Promises were dangerous. Promises meant strings. Strings were what the two of them came here to avoid. 

Ava bit her lip and shook her head.

Steve frowned. “You sure about that?” he challenged her, arching a thick brow.

Incapable of tearing her eyes away, Ava felt a reluctant laugh escape her as she shook her head again. Too sex-addled to lie to him now.

A grin spread over Steve’s face– so bright for a moment it made her chest hurt. “Figures. Brat.” He unzipped the skirt and tugged it over her hips, taking her underwear with it. When it hit the floor, she stepped out of it and kicked it away. 

“You’re beautiful,” Steve told her. “So beautiful. Fuck, I need you.”

Ava’s hands tightened on his shoulders, and she stared down at him. “Get back up here.”

He rose to his feet again, and she swallowed as he towered over her. “Steve,” she whispered– just to say it. “How do you want me?”

“I want you everywhere,” he murmured. “I want you for hours.”

She let his kisses, scattered across her neck, over the still-red hickeys, drag another moan from her throat. “Steve,” she breathed again. “The floor.”

He shook his head. “No. I want you to be comfortable, pretty girl.”

“Then–” she let out a shaky breath. “Then the couch. I don’t care. Fuck, Steve.”

“Just hang on a minute, sweetheart,” he told her. “I’ll take care of you. I’ve got you.”

Sweet words– so heartbreakingly gentle. Paired with her ravenous hunger, Ava thought the feeling might swallow her whole. 

She planted her hands on his shoulders and jumped into his arms, knowing he would catch her. His hands spanned her thighs as his mouth moved over hers again, pushing so hard she thought for a moment he might be trying to swallow her. They stayed like that for a moment, her hands wild with movement, desperate to get all of him under her fingers. Steve grunted as she scratched at his shoulders and finally set her gently down on the couch, moving over her. 

Ava had never considered what the two of them did vanilla, exactly, but this had always been Steve’s favorite position. He loved watching her, loved wrenching words from her mouth, loved being able to run his eyes over her entire body as he wished. 

He kissed his way back down her figure again, probably meaning to get her ready, squeeze an orgasm out of her before they started. He’d always eaten her out like it was for his pleasure and not hers– done it like it was a sport he couldn’t stand to lose at. Sometimes she wondered if he could even breathe, he was so immersed in it. 

But not tonight. Ava reached a hand down and pulled his hair, making him look up at her. “No,” she said, chest heaving. “I just want to feel you in me. Nothing else.”

Steve’s expression melted a little, and he moved immediately to accommodate her. Reaching down, he grabbed a discarded pillow off the floor and set it behind her head so she would be comfortable. 

Ava moved to kiss him again, but he stopped her, snagging another. “One more,” he told her, and she lifted her hips so he could place it beneath them. 

“That good?” he asked once she’d settled again. “Are you comfortable?”

She nodded, letting a smile rise to her face. Maybe it wasn’t hot or arousing or whatever else she was supposed to be during these types of moments, but she couldn’t help it. It’s what he drew out of her. And Steve didn’t seem to mind. 

He reached for his belt, and she helped him pull it off of him, shucking his jeans partway down his thighs. She wished he was bare, too– that she could feel the strong muscles in his calves or dig her fingers into the meat of his thighs, but she didn’t want to hear him say no if she asked– even if she knew somewhere deep down that there wasn’t anything she could ask for that he wouldn’t give. 

She reached for him, hand closing around his length, and he gave a sharp hiss. “Your hands are cold, sweetheart.”

“Then how ‘bout you warm me up, baby?” she cooed, the name a weapon in her mouth. 

Steve sat back on his heels to look at her, spread out and waiting. He shook his head. “So pretty. I don’t get to see you like this enough.”

“What, legs open?” she snorted. 

He shook his head again. “Just– all of you.”

The words softened something in her. Somehow, as desperate as she was, tonight felt sweeter than usual. She wondered if it was a product of him ‘working on things’ like he’d told her he would.

Steve leaned over her again and pressed a kiss to her lips, cleaner than the last. He settled in between her thighs easily, like they were working on instinct after so many weeks of this. Reaching one hand down, he tore his lips away to hear her voice as he lined himself up and pushed in. 

Ava gasped again, the fullness as always just the brink of too much. 

Steve choked on his breath, pulling out and plunging in again, a little deeper.

Ava reached down and grabbed for his hips, trying to urge him on. “All the way,” she ordered. 

He shook his head. “I didn’t warm you up. It’ll hurt.”

She ignored him and tried to pull him in again, but he was too strong. 

He groaned. “Ava.”

“I can take it,” She promised. “You won’t hurt me. I need you, baby. Please.”

He squeezed his eyes shut and let out a breath. “Hold on, pretty girl.”

Her fingers tightened on his hips, and he dutifully pulled out and thrust the rest of the way in. 

Ava let out a sound somewhere between a sob and a scream. 

“You okay?” he made sure, thumb brushing the hair at her temple. 

She nodded fervently. “Move.”

“Sweetheart–”

“I said move, Steve,” she snapped. “I can take it.”

He groaned again. “God, you’re bossy.” He began to thrust into her, slow enough she pressed her fingers into his hips, hoping her nails would leave the crescent-shaped marks she never got tired of seeing there.

Steve’s hips snapped into hers, and he kissed her again, insistent. 

She let the timing of his thrusts pull noises from her throat, let herself moan out all kinds of ridiculous sentiments. 

“You have no idea how incredible you feel,” Steve muttered. “You have no idea, sweetheart.”

“I can guess,” she made out. 

He frowned, probably at the fact she still had enough faculty to speak. He started moving faster, changing his angle to be more insistent, and the string of thoughts in Ava’s head became garbled. “Fuck,” she ground out as he hit the spot inside of her that made her writhe. 

Steve took one hand and pressed it down against her lower abdomen, feeling himself through her. It added the perfect amount of pressure, and it was only a few more thrusts before Ava went over the edge, yelling out his name with abandon, tipping her head back.

As she came down, he kissed her again, ripping the last of the sounds from her mouth. “Oh, God. I need you Av. I always need you.”

“I need you, too,” she breathed out, giving him what she knew he needed to follow her over the edge. “I’ve been thinking about it for days. Every time we finish and go home, it’s only minutes before I want you again. I can’t get enough of you, baby.”

“Av– fuck, Av–”

She clenched around him, knowing what kind of reaction that would get from him. 

He yelled out her name and finished inside her, so loud she reached up and tugged his head down toward her, muffling his voice with her shoulder. He grunted and bit at the skin where it met her neck, and she gasped again as he slowed and finally stilled. 

Again, she relished in that feeling. Sweaty and sated and comforted by his weight laid out over her. For a moment, some insane part of her thought she might want to stay here forever, his fingers still tangled in her hair, his breath on her neck. 

She couldn’t help herself– she needed to feel him. So she ran her hands around his back and held him for a moment, palms pressing against the blazing heat of his back. Steve didn’t say anything for a long moment, and neither did she. Completely spent.

Eventually, he murmured, “I’m crushing you,” and pressed himself up onto his forearms again. She gripped his bicep, letting him know she was still sensitive. 

“You ready?” he asked, brushing a hand over her hair again. 

She nodded, squeezing her eyes shut, and tried not to make a noise when he pulled out of her. 

He pressed a final kiss to her temple before climbing off the couch. She watched him wander further toward the staff room, unashamed of his half-nakedness, probably trying to find something for her to drink. At the moment, she didn’t know that she could move even if she wanted to. She yanked the pillow out from underneath her hips and tried to catch her breath, running a hand through her hair. 

Steve came back, bottle of water and a washcloth in hand, and ran his eyes over her where she lay spread out on the couch. She watched him swallow, probably fighting his lingering arousal. 

She tried to push herself up, but her arms were shaky underneath her.

Steve noticed and took her hands, pulling her upward and situating her back so she was seated, handing her the water.

She drank from it greedily, then watched as he did the same. 

“You want help getting dressed?” he asked her, his voice piercing the silence.

“I think I need it,” she admitted, worn-out enough that she couldn’t bear to put up any more pretenses. 

He smiled at her, a little muted but still sweet. Slowly, he started handing her pieces of her clothing, tugging her shirt over her head, helping her stand so she could slide back into her skirt. She didn’t bother with her underwear, knowing it would only add to her sensitivity, so she shoved it in her skirt pocket– an action Steve marked. 

When they had sufficiently cleaned up themselves and the front room, Steve donned his jacket and led her out to his car. Something about the way he held doors open for her was sticking in her mind tonight, but maybe it was just the post-coital haze. Whatever the case, it was loosening her tongue, which felt dangerous. 

When she was seated in the front seat, she finally gave in to her thoughts and asked him, “Do you feel anything when we do that?”

Steve glanced over at her, surprised. “If I didn’t feel anything, I think we’d be doing it wrong, Ava.”

Her brow furrowed. “No, I mean– does it mean anything?”

Steve stilled, his usually hyperactive finger-drumming on the steering wheel halting completely. “What do you mean?”

“Well, sex is supposed to be about connecting or something, right?” she asked. “But do we just do it because you’re bored and I’m available?”

“Do I look like I’m bored?” he asked, sounding genuinely confused. 

Ava shrugged. “I don’t know. I have no idea what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not,” he clarified. “And trust me, it’s not just that you’re a girl and around. I could be having less complicated hookups, believe me.”

“Thanks,” she bit, something in her gut churning. “That makes me feel a lot better.”

“Look, we don’t have to keep doing this,” Steve told her, brow furrowing. “You know you always have an out if you need it, right? No hard feelings. No weirdness.”

“Why do you keep asking to stop?” Ava laughed humorlessly. “Are you not enjoying it anymore?”

“You think that was me not enjoying it?” Steve asked her incredulously. “Ava, what is this about?”

“I was just wondering if this was meaningless to you,” she said harshly, knitting her hands in her lap. “That’s all. I just wanted to know if it– if sex mattered to you.”

Steve quieted. “Yeah, of course it does. Of course sex means something.”

“Well, I’m not always sure,” she admitted. 

He shook his head. “I’m not a guy that can just do one night stands, or whatever. It always means something.”

When she didn’t say anything else, he went on. “Look, if this is about how I’ve been acting this week–”

“It’s not,” she cut him off. 

“If it is, I’m sorry,” he told her. “You know I am. I mean, you know me, Ava. You know I’ll fix it.”

She did know him– and maybe that was the problem. She knew every one of his tells, every twitch and tic his body made, every expression that had ever crossed his face. The one thing she didn’t know was where they stood with each other.

“I know you will,” she told him. “It’s not about that.”

“Look, Av, I really like making you feel good,” Steve told her, glancing over at her. “And I really like how good you make me feel, too. I don’t want out of this unless you do.”

She sighed. “I don’t, either. But…”

“But?”

“But you have to admit things have been weird between us lately,” she pressed him. 

Steve dragged a hand through his hair– another of his tells. He was aggravated. He was hiding something. “Yeah, I know.”

“The sex is great,” Ava clarified. “It’s always been great. But… I kind of miss just being your friend. The way we used to talk.”

He let out a breath. “I do, too.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “I just… don’t know how we can get back to that. And I don’t think the answer is just to full stop.”

“I guess that’s kind of why I brought all this up,” Ava said, her voice dropping a little. She was nervous– thrumming with nerves, actually. “It’s why I mentioned connecting. I don’t want– this isn’t meaningless to me. I just wanted to know if we’re… connecting. If it’s helping us.”

“I feel… connected,” he offered haltingly, his eyes boring straight ahead. “I mean, when we’re… together like that. I get to feel close to you. It’s my favorite part.”

She watched him carefully. “I do, too,” she replied, careful not to reveal too much. 

Steve gave her that same almost-smile again. “Okay.”

Ava didn’t speak for the rest of the drive. To do so would be to admit too much, to spill her heart out for him, all for him to do whatever he wanted with it. She’d pushed him enough tonight. The rest could be left for later. 

So, as he drove her home, to the address he had memorized, and walked her to the door, and waited till he saw her bedroom light turn on before he drove away, she stayed silent. For now, it would have to be enough.

---

author's note: might turn this chapter into an x reader smut oneshot and repost separately to my page-- lmk if that's of interest!

Her fingers scrabbled at the sleeves on the table. “I don’t know!” she hissed. “It should be here.”

Steve gave her a look– intense or furious, she couldn’t tell. “It’s up next,” he reminded her, every word enunciated. “We have two minutes.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Ava snapped. “Jonathan was supposed to pull it last night. It should be here.”

“Then why isn’t it?” Steve demanded, hanging on the doorframe. 

Ava grit her teeth and rounded the desk, shoving a different song at him. “Here. Message in a Bottle. Robin can still keep most of the bits in.”

“She’s not gonna like that,” Steve warned her. 

“She’s really not gonna like it if we don’t have something to play in two minutes,” Ava retorted. “I’ll keep looking. We can do Roxanne later if I find it.”

“So now you’re okay messing with the queue,” Steve surmised, a bite in his voice. 

“Will you just get back in there and play the song?” Ava ordered him, her temper sparking up inside her. 

Steve shook his head and scoffed. “God, can’t you do anything right?”

All of that hot anger guttered inside her at the words as they struck somewhere low and deep. Ava tried to school her face into something resembling neutrality so he couldn’t see exactly how much that had hurt. “Go fuck yourself, Harrington,” she shot back.

Steve’s expression shifted, too– maybe because he’d seen what was in hers. But he just took the record and left. 

When he was gone, she loosed a long, defeated breath, ignoring the stinging in her eyes.

How had it gotten this bad between them? How had it become this– this growling and snapping, none of the fondness left over from another life they’d once shared, full of fond touches and easy jokes and smiling? It had been a long time since Ava had seen his smile. Not a lusty smirk or a triumphant reaction to getting one over her, but a real, full smile– the kind that had been like second nature to him some eons ago.

It hadn’t been like this when they’d started.

Their fling– if you could even call it that– had begun by accident. A simple reaction, Ava had hypothesized more times than she could admit, to the close proximity, to their easy friendship, to being cooped-up and horny and down to risk anything because nothing ever seemed low-stakes anymore. 

One night in the van, doing quiet surveillance with him while Robin navigated the comms inside the station, Ava had been telling him about the ugly way things had ended between her and the latest guy she’d been out with. And maybe she’d cried, and maybe Steve had reached over to brush the tears off her cheek. And maybe she’d kissed him. 

Steve’s lips had stilled on hers for all of a moment before he pressed back, his hand cupping her cheek, things turning heavier as they moved together, pushing for more and more.

The whole thing had been frantic and sloppy and hot– so hot Ava had felt like she was burning up, her sadness melting away like butter under the weight of his hands. He had pulled her over the center console, lifting her up by the waist and into his lap, their mouths in a tangle. She reached behind him and shoved the seat back, straddling him as his hands roved over her body, his lips devouring hers. She wrapped her fingers in his hair, tugging on it, and the first time she heard that noise he made when she did had set her absolutely alight. 

And then she’d reached for his clothes, tugging at his shirt, and he’d pulled the rubber band from her hair so it fell down between them, and something hard and insistent was pressing against the back of her thigh, so she reached for his belt, and he helped her without looking down, without breaking the kiss. He never wanted to be away from her lips for long. 

She’d ridden him in the front seat of the car, so desperate and uncoordinated, but so good. Although she couldn’t see it, she knew just from the feeling that he was big— big enough it had made her wonder wickedly where else that might cause trouble for her. His hands roved beneath her shirt, pulled at her thighs, her skirt hitched up around her waist. He was relentless, his breath hot on her face.

They didn’t say a word until they were done, spent and panting. He kissed all over her face, down her throat, under the neckline of her shirt, still on. 

And when the clarity sank in, when the meaning of that touch finally hit her–

Ava removed herself carefully, using his strong shoulders to push herself off of him and flop back into the passenger seat. She straightened her clothes, putting herself back together. She didn’t look at him. 

But Steve was staring at her. “Ava.”

“I’m on the pill,” she informed him, adjusting her bra underneath her shirt, finger-combing her hair. “You don’t have to worry about it. And I’m clean. Obviously.”

“W– yeah, I am too,” he made out. “But– hang on. Ava.”

She finally tore her eyes off the dash and looked at him. “What?”

Steve looked absolutely destroyed. His hair was a mess, his brows knit, and he was staring at her with some unintelligible mix of heartbreak and confusion and…

And Ava knew, just from that one look. He regretted it. 

They had just imploded their friendship, all for some pity-fuck he hadn’t ever intended with her. There was no intention, period– just desperation, just loneliness, just pent-up energy. He didn’t want to be with her. At least, nowhere outside this van, nowhere that would change what they were to each other already. He regretted it. That’s what was in his face now– pure regret.

So she took care of it for him. Before he could speak, before he could utter the words that were going to strike a chasm into her heart, she stooped and picked up the shattered pieces of it, holding them tight to her chest, where he couldn’t hurt them further. And she said, “Look, you don’t have to say anything. This was stupid, I know. It’s my fault.”

Something in his eyes shifted, and he blinked. “Yeah. Yeah, stupid. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she shook her head, ignoring the widening rift within her.

“Like I said– my fault. But… thanks. You were good.”

“So were you,” he offered, turning to stare straight ahead. “We… um, we probably shouldn’t tell Robin. She’ll probably make it weird.”

“Agreed,” Ava said, her heart still in her throat. “And… it's not weird. This doesn’t have to be weird.”

“No, it doesn’t,” Steve shook his head. “We could just… pretend nothing happened. Or… I don’t know.”

“Or what?” Ava pressed him, brow furrowing. There was a slight expression on his face she wasn’t used to seeing– a tell she couldn’t detect. 

“Or…” he blew out a breath. “I don’t know, you looked like you needed an outlet today. To blow off some steam. Forget about things for a while.”

Ava stared at him, surprised he’d picked up on it. Even if… even if that hadn’t been the only reason she’d just climbed on top of him. 

“I could just be that, if you want,” Steve offered. The tips of his ears were an adorable shade of red. “An outlet. I mean, I meant it. You were good.”

“An outlet,” Ava repeated, the words foreign on her tongue. “No heavy stuff. Just… this.”

“No heavy stuff,” Steve agreed, something off-color in his voice. “Whatever you need. Or… whenever you need, I guess.”

“Okay,” Ava said, a little taken aback by the wording. “You too, then. Whenever you need. Just–”

He glanced over. “What?”

“No one can know,” Ava told him, her voice low, the confidence drained out of it. “I don’t want our friends to think I’m– whatever. If we’re gonna do this, it has to be our secret, okay?”

“Okay,” he agreed, nodding. “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Okay,” she said, her voice a sigh. She popped the door of the car and got out. “I need to pee.”

She didn’t, actually, although she recognized it was probably a good idea. But she did need out of that van, away from his eyes, away from what they’d just done and admitted. He didn’t stop her.

And now, reorganizing her desk in the music storage room after the broadcast, Ava couldn’t help but think of how much worse things had become since then. 

She and Steve utilized their agreement as much as was possible. There were no beds, no nights staying over, but there was passion, undoubtedly– total dedication to making the other feel as good as possible. And she did feel good. It would be hard not to, with a body like he had, with the way he so clearly knew what he was doing. In cars and back rooms and hidden locations they hoped desperately their friends didn’t know about, they worked on each other, pushed against each other, spent hours and hours worth of hasty completions letting off the very steam he’d been talking about. And over the weeks, it had gotten harder, faster, more. There was less of the kindness, the understanding that he’d always shown with her. He still took care of her, of course– he always did. But there was something more intense to the way he moved or spoke or looked at her in public. Ava didn’t know what had changed, but a part of her wished it hadn’t. 

A figure appeared in her doorway, and she glanced up as Steve rapped his knuckles against the frame. 

“You need something?” she asked flatly, returning her attention to sorting her records.

“Robin told me to come apologize to you,” Steve told her. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. It was too harsh.”

Ava huffed to herself. Of course he was only here because someone had told him to be. “I don’t need an apology. No harm done.”

He rolled his eyes. “Is that why you’re in here pouting?”

She snapped her stare up, eyes flashing. “I don’t need an apology from you, Steve. I don’t care what you think of me.”

“Yeah, you’ve made that pretty clear, Ava,” he scoffed.

She fixed him with a look. “God, what is up your ass, Harrington?”

She could see the temper flare up in his eyes. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve been so mean lately,” Ava fired at him, trying not to let her voice crack. “If you’re just stressed about the crawls, that’s fine, but you should tell me that instead of insulting me all the goddamn time.” She stared down at the records, shifting them around just to have something to do. She finished, voice low enough no one could hear, “If I wanted a hate-fuck, I would have slept with Chris.”

When she looked back up at Steve, he had his hands on his hips, his jaw set. He let out a breath through his nose. “I’m sorry.”

“Whatever,” she snorted.

“No– no, you’re right, Av. I’m sorry,” he repeated. 

The nickname made her pause. He never called her that out here– in public. Where someone other than her could hear it– the familiarity, the intimacy laced into it. 

Steve shook his head. “I’ve had some shit I’m dealing with. It’s not your fault. I’ve just been taking it out on you. And I’m sorry.”

“We’re all dealing with shit, Steve,” she reminded him, reluctant to let him off so easily. 

“I know,” he said. “I’m just trying to explain it to you, Ava. Can you just let me–”

“It’s fine,” she cut him off, turning away. “Like I said, I don’t care what you think about me or what you say or–”

“Jesus Christ, do you have to make it so fucking hard to apologize to you?” he snapped.

“You know, I don’t actually spend my time trying to make your life harder, Steve,” she intoned, lips pressing together.

Steve exhaled again. “I know things have been different lately, Ava. But it’s not all on me. You know that.”

She clenched her jaw. It took her a moment to muster the words, “I know.”

Steve glanced out the door, checking if anyone was around. When he had ascertained no one was, he moved farther into the room, coming closer to her. “Look, if you want to take a break while I sort my shit out, I understand.”

“Do you want that?” Ava asked, trying to hide her surprise behind her flat tone.

“No,” he said baldly. “But I’d get it if you did.”

She thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No. It’s fine.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, angling his head. 

She watched the way a piece of his hair fell over his forehead and fought the urge to reach out and brush it back. “I’m sure.”

“Okay,” he sighed, stepping away. When he got to the doorway, he turned back and said over his shoulder, “I’ll.. I’ll work on it, alright?”

“Alright,” she agreed, and watched him go.

---

author's note: this chapter is a little tamer but the next one is filthy so I don't feel that bad

next part

There was no encrypted code to write, no messages from Hopper to relay, no crawl to announce. The most pressing item on the agenda was helping Robin pick a tribute song for Vickie before her afternoon drive home. But as Ava sat herself down at the table for the station’s thirty-minute lunch break, she was finding that the only thing in this place not committed to the peace and solitude of the day was her dear best friend. 

“I’m just saying,” Robin said, plopping herself onto the beanbag in the corner of the lounge, “It’s gotten so ridiculously hard for you people to date. It’s like the quarantine has sucked all the potential romance out of the air.”

Ava rolled her eyes. “And by you people, you mean myself and the majority of the world, who happen to not be same-sex attracted?”

“Exactly,” Robin agreed, ignoring the ironic tone. “I mean, I think there might really be something to the fact that we are so used to hiding that we get creative about finding each other. But you guys have never felt the repression before, so you’re letting it get to you.”

“That’s a fascinating theory, Robin,” Ava drawled, opening the container of salad she’d rushed to pack at home and frowning at the contents. Wilted lettuce wasn’t exactly what she was craving right now, but it would have to do.

Robin huffed. “You just don’t want to admit that I’m right. That you’re single and lonely and stuck in an epidemic of men who are too chickenshit to ask you out.”

“I am not lonely,” Ava disagreed, spearing a tomato with her fork. A movement caught her eye, and she glanced up.

Steve had finally left the sound box, removing his headphones and setting them down on the coffee table with a sigh. He didn’t pay any mind to either Ava or Robin– such was their familiarity from weeks of working cooped up in the same space with each other. He made his way to the bulletin board hung on the wall and started moving things around, messing with the order. 

“Hey, don’t screw with my queue, Harrington,” Ava warned. 

He didn’t look at her– just shuffled a few papers in his hands. “I’m not doing anything.”

“I can see you messing with it,” Ava argued. “I just got the layout done perfectly. It doesn’t need revising.”

Steve huffed. “Relax. I’m not changing anything.”

Ava bit down on her retort and her annoyance and turned back to Robin. 

“You completely are lonely,” Robin went on. “Not that I blame you. Who wouldn’t be right now?”

“Well, I don’t need a guy to fill some existential void within me, alright?” Ava argued, stabbing at her lettuce. “I’m fine with how things are.”

Robin sighed. “Oh, come on, Ava. You haven’t been out with anyone in months. I mean, when was the last time you had a real date?”

Ava chewed slowly. “I went out with Chris Danielson last week.”

Robin pulled a face. “You went out with Chris? God, that’s almost worse than being alone.”

“Thanks,” Ava huffed, her eyes pointedly cast down so she wouldn’t catch the way Steve turned slightly from his position at the bulletin board to look at her. She refused to meet his eye, still miserably chewing her salad. 

“Well, Chris doesn’t count, seeing as he’s probably part ape.” Robin declared. “Who was the last human male you went out with, Ava?”

When Ava didn’t respond, Robin grinned. “Someone had to have given you those hickeys on your neck, Evelyn. Who was it?”

“A lady never kisses and tells,” Ava said calmly, although every instinct was making her want to cover her neck with a hand and then go die of shame. Not least of the sources of her embarrassment was that Robin was saying all of this in front of Steve. “It doesn’t matter,” she concluded, shoving her salad away in defeat. “I told you, I’m fine with how things are. And we have bigger things to think about than my love life.”

“Yeah, we do,” Steve interjected, still not looking at her. “Like how you have Wham! as the first artist back from the break.”

Ava’s eyes snapped to him, her annoyance growing. “I told you not to mess with my queue.”

He turned back to her, his eyes finding hers evenly, though there was something heavy and pressing in his stare. “You can’t play that. It doesn’t even remotely match the rest of the set.”

“Hey, sound guy,” Ava retorted, not bothering to keep her tone pleasant. “How about you let me do my job and you do yours? I make the setlists.”

He rolled his eyes. “Thought this was supposed to be a democracy. Or are we passed constructive feedback now?”

“Actually, this is a dictatorship,” Robin cut in. “And I’m the leader. The set’s fine, Steve, really. I already checked it.”

He made a noise of annoyance but relented, turning away from the queue to study something else on the board. 

“You’re in a mood,” Robin observed, brows raising. “I thought Linda was keeping you in high spirits lately.”

Ava fought to keep her expression neutral as she discreetly glanced at Steve. She hadn’t heard about Linda– was that the name of his most recent conquest? His face yielded no answers she could detect. 

Steve shot Robin a look. “Don’t be gross, Rob.”

Robin grinned. “I’m just saying. You happen to be biting people’s heads off a little more than usual this morning.” She sighed and rose from the beanbag, moving toward the staff lounge. “I’m grabbing a drink. You guys want anything?”

“I’d take a coke,” Ava told her. 

“I’m fine,” Steve answered. 

When they were alone, Ava didn’t move to speak again. But Steve was watching her, body turned toward her. He looked unfairly good today in that grey sweatshirt, those tight Levi’s, his hair a little mussed from the headphones. He certainly looked better than she did at the moment, having opted for comfort over glamour in her favorite Bowie t-shirt and a pair of old corduroy shorts.

There was a strange kind of intensity to the way Steve was looking at her, face set, no humor to be found in his face. She didn’t like that expression. When he looked like that, she had too difficult a time reading him. 

He tore his eyes away and ran them over the board again. “I need your help with something in the van later. Receiver’s acting up again.”

Ava’s jaw clenched. “Sounds like a problem for Dustin.”

Steve shook his head. “It’s not too complicated. I just need you to hold some things in place while I do repairs. Your hands are smaller.”

“Fine,” Ava agreed, fighting a sigh as she stood and grabbed her salad, heading after Robin. Ignoring how, the entire way to the staff room, she could feel his eyes on her back.

Ava braced her hands on the van ceiling, gasping for breath. 

It was humid in here– so much so that her hair was curling at the nape, her cheeks flushed, her body sticky with sweat. But her breathlessness had another cause– namely, the boy moving underneath her.

Steve drove his hips up into her, his hands planted solidly on hers, guiding her motions as she ground down onto him. He was panting just as hard as her, but it didn’t stop him from taunting her with his words, getting to her in a way only he ever really could. 

“Good. Give me more, Av. Come on, sweetheart. Give me more.”

Ava gasped as he hit something deeper inside her, pressing her hands against the roof to give her leverage to bear down harder. Her clit was catching at exactly the right place on his body– enough to stimulate, but not to bring this to an unbidden, early end. 

One of Steve’s hands slid up underneath her shirt and into her bra, finding her breast and kneading it. “Look at you,” he cooed, his eyes hazy with lust. “I need more, pretty girl. You can do it.”

He knew exactly what kind of effect that nickname had on her, the bastard. She clenched around him, and he groaned through his teeth. But he was right– it wasn’t enough. Ava screwed her eyes shut, gasping out, “I– I can’t–”

“Can’t do it, huh?” Steve mocked her, staring up into her face. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it for you.”

Arrogant ass. Ava glared at him and bent down to take his face in her hands and kiss him fiercely, biting his lip hard enough he gave another groan into her mouth. 

Steve didn’t break the kiss as he banded his arms around her and lifted them both, still joined. One of his hands holding her up by her thighs, he flipped them, laying her down on the cushioned bench of the van they had just been seated on. 

Ava gasped as the cool fabric hit her bare lower back, eyes on Steve as he moved over her and resumed his pace. This was better– deeper. And a small part of her enjoyed not having to work as hard for it as he did. 

She hooked her legs around him, her feet tracing the contours of his legs, still clad in denim. This is how it always was– half-clothed, frantic. None of the vulnerability of being fully skin to skin– and none of the time required to make that a reality, anyway. 

Steve began to thrust harder– hard enough Ava couldn’t keep her voice down any longer, eking out pathetic moans that seemed only to spur him on. 

“Right there?” he asked breathily, skin slapping against hers. 

“Y– oh, fuck. Yes,” Ava made out, eyes fluttering closed in ecstasy.

“Nuh-uh. Look at me,” Steve ordered her, and she snapped them open, finding his haughty expression waiting. “That’s right. Knew you couldn’t do it. Knew I’d have to take care of you like always.”

Ava groaned at the words, trying her hardest to glare at him. She ran a hand into the hair at the back of his head and tugged it, sharp enough to hurt. “God, do you ever– oh!”

Steve hit a new angle in her, surprising her enough she moaned outright, even louder. 

“Do I ever what?” he challenged her. “Were you saying something, sweetheart? I couldn’t hear you.”

It was too good– too fast, too full, too much. “Shut up,” she groaned, barely able to make out even those words.

“Didn’t quite catch that,” he said breathily. “What was that you were sayin’?”

Ava was spiralling toward her peak, a trajectory she was unable and unwilling to stop. She grabbed his face and pulled it to hers, needing the press of his lips as she made all sorts of obscene noises into his mouth. And then, tearing her mouth off of his, she murmured, eyes alight with lust, “Come with me.” The one thing she knew would undo him completely, stop this taunting from setting her absolutely aflame. That bare, vulnerable admission, that thirst to feel his pleasure in tandem with hers.

Steve groaned again, the words getting to him enough that the haughty pretext slipped. “Talk to me,” he bade her. 

“I’m close, baby,” Ava whispered, using the pet name reserved solely for occasions like this, just because she knew how much he liked it. He kissed down her throat, making small noises against it, sucking little marks onto the skin of her neck. The sensation had her clenching down on him again. “You feel that? You feel how close I am?”

Steve moaned against her skin. 

“It’s so good,” she said breathily, her voice almost alien, it was so sultry. “It’s too good. I need you to come with me, baby.”

“Say it,” he begged. “Say–”

“Steve,” she cut him off, already knowing what he needed. “Steve. Oh, fuck– Steve!”

He drove his hips harder into her, breathing growing heavier. And just as Ava found herself almost screaming with pleasure, catapulting into that feeling that had been growing and growing these last minutes, Steve gasped and reached his climax, too. The sensation of him spilling inside her was so indescribably delicate– a sharp contrast to the brutal way he fucked them both through it, making sure she came down from her high completely before his hips stilled and his weight settled comfortingly on top of her. 

She could feel his rampant heartbeat like this, with her arms wrapped around his neck and his bare chest pressed to her clothed one– could feel the way his length twitched inside her, completely spent. A wonderful warmth settled through her, only interrupted by him bracing himself on his forearms and pulling out. Ava gasped again, oversensitive at the retreat. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” Steve panted. For as unforgiving as he usually was during sex, he never wanted her to feel an ounce of discomfort– that much, she knew. He let her lay there, drawing back to sit on the end of the bench while he caught his breath. A small part of Ava wished he'd just lie with her, let his warmth cover her, seep into her, instead of withdrawing like always and letting her recover on her own. But that wasn’t what they did– it wasn’t what they’d agreed to without words when this whole thing had begun. The deal was the deal, and she wouldn’t be the one to break it by asking. 

When they’d both calmed down considerably, Steve crawled back toward the front of the van, grabbing his water bottle and the washcloth they kept in the center console for exactly this purpose. He wet the cloth and handed it to her– another unspoken rule. Afterward, they didn’t touch. He waited for her to clean herself up before handing her the water and working on himself, though she still caught how he watched to make sure she drank out of the corner of his eye. 

He snatched her discarded shorts from the corner of the van and handed them to her, and she gave him the shirt she’d practically torn off his body in her haste to see that broad chest again. 

“So,” she began, shimmying back into her shorts. “Linda, huh?”

Steve glanced over at her, expression once again unreadable. “Not really,” he shook his head. “Robin saw these–” he pulled the neck of his shirt down enough for Ava to see the red nail marks she’d left on his shoulders nearly a week ago, the hickey she’d sucked onto his collarbone– “And I had to improvise.”

Ava nodded, ignoring the twang in her gut that some other woman was getting credit for her handiwork– the marks she took pleasure in leaving on him wherever she could. “Yeah, can’t say yours were as discreet,” she huffed. She’d probably come out of today with a new hickey or two on top of the ones she’d had to cover up this morning with as much foundation as she could spare. Steve loved marking her up even more than she did him– so much it felt impossible to deny him when he really got in the mood, really fixated on her throat or her chest or wherever else he could put his lips. 

He shrugged. “You deflected well enough.”

“Well, I’m a talented woman,” Ava drawled, although the joke lacked her usual humor. As tender as the first few moments after the act were, she hated this part– this scrambling to clean up their indiscretions, trying to wipe away the things they revealed to each other each time in touches and names. Even if it was often the only time she got to talk to him– to really talk, with all their walls down in the wake of pleasure.

“So, Chris, huh?” Steve returned. He handed her one of her socks, leaving her to snag the other that had somehow wound up on the comms table. 

Ava’s eyes flicked to his, and she wished once again that he would tell her what he was thinking with his eyes like he used to. Steve had hardened in the past weeks, cut himself off from her. His expression was always that same state of guardedness, none of the openness and vulnerability he’d once possessed with her, back when everything he felt was plain to see on his face. He’d become good at it– the hiding. Too good.

Ava shrugged. “It was probably a one-time thing.” She donned her socks, watching Steve out of the corner of her eye as he shucked on his sweatshirt again. “We didn’t fuck, if that’s what you’re asking.” “I wasn’t,” he clarified, voice even. He wasn’t meeting her stare.

“Well, I would tell you if I was fucking somebody else,” Ava said, her annoyance finally leaking into her tone. “Like I hope you’d tell me.”

“I’m not fucking anybody else,” Steve told her, voice harder than it had been a moment before. She wondered what he really meant by the words– was it that girls were scarce these days, like Robin had hypothesized, or– rather more dangerously– was it that Ava was enough for him? That he didn’t want to fuck anyone else if he had her at his beck and call?

“Great,” Ava intoned. “Glad we cleared that up.”

“Agreed,” Steve bit. He watched as she began to lace up her shoes.

“So what happens when you get a boyfriend?” 

Ava’s movements halted, her eyes narrowing. “Who says I’m getting a boyfriend?”

“Well, you’re dating around, aren’t you?” Steve waved a hand. “Or were you lying to Robin earlier?”

Ava returned her attention to her shoelaces. “Going on one date does not constitute ‘dating around’,” she argued. “But no, I wasn’t lying.”

“So what happens when you get serious with someone?” Steve pressed. When he saw her expression, he pushed on, “I mean, it’s only a matter of time before someone sticks, Ava. So what do we do then?”

A lump was forming in Ava’s throat. Because she knew the answer– knew she would never enter into a relationship with someone while this was still going on. Knew whatever she was doing with Steve, this ongoing friends-with-benefits bullshit, it wouldn’t be fair to a new boyfriend not to cut it off. But, even if this thing made her ten different kinds of crazy… she didn’t know. A part of her, a part that was almost too big to come to terms with, was terrified to lose it. “I’m not getting a boyfriend anytime soon. So don’t worry about it.”

Steve clenched his jaw. “That’s a bullshit answer, Ava.”

 Her eyes snapped to his, her shoelaces forgotten. “Jesus, can you quit it?” she snapped. “You’re being really goddamn hostile. That’s not fair, considering you were inside me about thirty seconds ago.”

Steve stared her down, some of the anger in him easing. He ran a hand through his hair, looking away. “Sorry.”

“I’ll keep you in the loop,” Ava promised, finishing with her shoes aggressively. “That’s part of the deal. I wouldn’t break it.”

“No,” Steve said, blowing out a frustrated breath. “No, neither would I.”

---

She grits her teeth subtly as her tutor, the esteemed Lady Gendry, circles her once more. The old woman has placed a wide-mouthed carafe of water atop Ava’s head, and is now barking orders for her to walk or curtsy or serve tea without spilling a drop. It is a task that still proves impossible, even after years of coaching. 

“Great mercy, girl. Straighten your back,” Lady Gendry chides her, poking at Ava’s spine with her long, shiny cane. Ava straightens immediately, and suddenly enough that water sloshes over the side of the carafe, splashing the sleeve of her dress on its way to the floor. 

“Apologies,” Ava mumbles, though in reality, she thinks that if the woman hadn’t poked her, she wouldn’t have spilled at all. 

Across the room, a set of golden-brown eyes flash with amusement as they track her, and Ava’s cheeks burn red. 

Sir Steven is posted next to the door, and where the other guards have perfected blending in seamlessly to the walls of the palace, as stony as the architecture, Steven sticks out. Perhaps it is that Ava has become so used to seeing him, or perhaps it is that she might know him blind now from so many hours spent together. Whatever the case, in his polished silver armor, his blue cape designating him the personal guard of the princess, he is as foreign to the furnishings of the room as good taste. He holds his helmet under one arm, indicative of his watch-post, while the other rests on his sword pommel. The only thing unprofessional about him in the least is the smirk he wears as he watches the princess struggle.

Ava yelps as another sheet of water spills from the carafe and onto the floor before her, and her hand comes up to steady it before it can fall off her head. She doesn’t miss Steven’s face twitch, or the way he has to muffle his own laugh and school his face back into neutrality.

Ava can’t help but mutter to herself, “Why don’t you try it yourself, you–”

“What was that?” Lady Gendry snaps, and Ava quiets.

“Nothing,” she returns politely, shooting a vicious glare across the room at Steven, who has to cough discreetly into his fist. 

“Just– enough. Stop,” Lady Gendry finally relents, pressing a hand to her brow in aggravation. She heaves a sigh. “Your highness, you prove as useless at this skill as you did in your toddlerhood.”

Ava waits for further criticism, unphased. When none comes, she returns, “...Thank you.”

“Enough,” Lady Gendry repeats. “We shall divert to your dancing lesson early. I shall call in the musicians.”

Ava fights a sigh as the crone of a tutor strides out of the room, reaching up to remove the water carafe and set it down on the tea table. She can feel Steven’s eyes on her as she rounds the table, situating herself in the middle of the open floor, where she always begins her dance lessons. “I can see that,” she snaps at him when he gives another muffled laugh.

“My apologies, your highness,” Steven says, his voice dancing.

Huffing, she eyes the tea she’d neglected to pour perfectly, the puddles on the floor from her wobbling curtsies. She’s been tutored like this for as long as she can remember, and yet Lady Gendry still believes her utterly inept in poise and etiquette. Surely she should have improved somewhat by now. “How balancing a jug on my head is supposed to make me more marriageable, I have no idea,” she confides in Steven, ignoring the presence of the other guards stationed around the room.

Steven’s lips twitch. “Shall I call a maid to supply you another gown, my lady?”

Ava shoots him another glare as she lifts her long sleeve and wrings it out on the floor. “This one shall do perfectly well.” 

“Very well,” he answers. He still has not moved from his position by the door– has not shifted an inch. It’s curious to her that he can stand so still when she knows how he is always itching to move. 

“Are you not bored standing there watching me?” she asks, the question dropping from her lips before she can think better of it. “It cannot be interesting to observe my lesson in posture.” “Much of the duty of a guard is to stand watch,” he reminds her evenly– a non-answer. “I have become used to it, highness.”

But he is no ordinary guard– he is a knight, gilded and honored in a way the others are not. He has earned his title with valor and sacrifice and blood on the battlefield, elevating him beyond his compatriots in the palace guard. Ava has never asked him what he did to achieve his knighthood– what skirmish or siege he must have fought and won for the kingdom. She wonders if he has the scars to prove it. She wonders if he would show her if she asked.

She hums in reply. “Perhaps you can instruct my posture next time. Maybe then Lady Gendry shall finally have a kind word to say.”

“Perhaps,” he returns, lips twitching. He is always like this with her in public, or in the presence of any others. His usual humor falls away, replaced by that bland, proper speech. Ava hates it. She always wants the totality of him, unbound by convention.

Lady Gendry arrives again, a squadron of three musicians in tow. Amongst them, Ava is pleased to find, is one of her ladies in waiting, and a dear friend besides. Robin raises her brows at her friend in greeting as she settles herself into the corner of the room, taking up her flute. Robin’s talent in music is truly the only reason she remains at court, especially after having repeatedly offended the queen so spectacularly with her utter lack of good manners. Ava is as pleased by her friend’s irreverence to tradition as she is with her mother’s disapproval of it, and that was no small part of why Robin had been so quickly appointed to her inner circle. 

Dancers file in behind the musicians, though whether they are other noble children or apprentices and pages brought in to simulate a ballroom, Ava cannot tell. She looks around for her partner and finds no one who fits the usual description. The princess is usually paired with the tallest and most talented boy, but today, they all seem too uncertain.

“Where is Malcolm?” Lady Gendry snaps, glancing at the dancers with newfound ire. In the time Ava has known her, nothing has ever escaped her attention and scrutiny. It’s no wonder she’s noticed the missing partner, too.

“He took ill this morning, my lady,” answers one of the girls, her voice timid. “He is still abed.”

Lady Gendry exhales through her nose, her annoyance evident. “Very well. Sir Steven, you shall accompany her highness today.”

Ava blinks, thrown by the sudden change. She watches as Steven nods, stepping away from the wall with a carefully blank face. He crosses the room quickly and sets down his helmet on the table, his metal gauntlets following. 

Ava tracks him as he approaches and takes his place before her, his eyes boring into hers while Lady Gendry gives instructions to the musicians. “My lady,” Steven greets her, bowing. 

“Sir,” she returns as she curtsies, her voice a little hoarse. She steals a glance at Robin, who watches the encounter with amusement in her face. Ava hopes her friend is the only one observing them– the halting greetings, the blush still high on her cheeks. She finds herself wishing once more she could be alone here, free of these prying eyes, be they exacting or fond. 

It is nothing untoward for a guard to dance with a lady should the need arise. At a ball, knights like Steven would be sought after, noblewoman chasing them for a dance. But with him standing before her, the noise of the other dancers setting up blurring around them, it feels more illicit than anything in the world.

Ava is more hesitant than she thought she would be as she places her hand in his outstretched palm, feeling his other slide onto her waist. It is rare for her to be so close to him, and a blush stains her cheeks for it. Up close, she can see the flecks of amber in his eyes, the faint scars she’s only observed from a distance. He really is handsome, her knight. 

Robin cues the other musicians with a dip of her flute. The song begins, and they are swept into the dance. 

Steven moves with shockingly practiced ease, the thick armor not nearly the impediment she might have thought it would be. His grip is firm on her waist and her hand, and he leads her boldly, anticipating the steps as naturally as breathing. 

Ava whirls when he spins her, feeling lighter on her feet than usual. She has always been a good dancer, mostly thanks to the harsh lessons of Lady Gendry, but she is better today with someone who understands how to push and pull her. “Where did you learn to waltz?” Ava asks, bewildered. She is strangely unable to pull her eyes off his, trusting the sure movement of their feet without looking. 

Steven’s thumb squeezes her hand– or has she imagined that? “All the guards are taught,” he says as though it is obvious. “We receive etiquette lessons of our own when we arrive to work at the palace. Including posture.”

Ava did know that, but she doubts somehow that the guards stationed against the walls would be able to move the way Steven moves now. There is something extraordinary about the grace in his form, even with the creaking metal breastplate fighting his motion. 

“What for?” Ava asks, her brow furrowing slightly. 

The corner of Steven’s lip tugs up. “Occasions such as these. Balls and feasts. Someone must ensure we don’t offend some dignitary or foreign prince.”

“I’ve never seen you dance at a ball.” She shakes her head. Though, more times than she can admit, her eyes had found him lingering at the edge of the ballroom, his dress uniform polished and shining. Found his stare tracking her as she was swept along by the festivities. Found that stare to be immovable throughout the long night.

“My job is too important to risk a dance,” he tells her teasingly.

“If your job is to watch me, it would be better done from a closer post,” she counters slowly, swallowing. “If you danced with me, rescued me from some terrible gentleman, your duty would still be fulfilled.”

His eyes glitter as he stares down at her, a smile still painted on his lips. “I’ve been trained never to mix work and pleasure, princess.”

Ava ignores the fluttering in her chest at the words. “It is a shame,” she admits. “You are a fine dancer, Sir Steven.”

“Thank you,” he replies, spinning her. When she comes back to his arms easily, he asks her in a low voice, “And when your suitors come, will you dance with them like this?”

Her heart is pounding– she wonders if he can hear it. Ava dips her chin in a nod. “All night, until I can scarcely feel my feet.” Steven’s eyes bore into hers. “And will they dance as well as I do?”

Ava stares up at him, pinned under his gaze like an exotic moth. “Only if I am very lucky.”

Whatever he thinks of her answer, he doesn’t let on. The music draws to a close, and turning her once more, Sir Steven kneels, her hand still gripped like a caress. Ava draws out her arm, holding still in the final pose. She tries to catch her breath, but she can feel his eyes on her, feel the blush still high on her face. 

“Well,” Lady Gendry announces, shattering the moment. “It appears her highness can do some things right.”

---

coming soon... three: your sworn knight tells you a love story

You smile politely as the women drone on about neighborhood gossip and recipes they simply have to send you and how they dropped off a snickers salad for the preacher’s wife last night ‘cause she’s had so much trouble cookin’ lately. They’re old women, and they’re multitasking between their card game and keeping you shackled to their conversation. It’s like this every Sunday they can get their hands on you.

Sometimes you think it’s no wonder you and Gator were drawn to each other– despite how much better you mask it in public, you both share the affliction of being easily frustrated by nosy small-town people who won’t shut their traps. And speaking of your boyfriend…

Gator seems trapped in a dialogue of his own across the lawn, Roy standing before him, so clearly laying another lecture onto his son’s shoulders. Gator squirms like a kid when his dad yells at him, and you can see it now, that lack of attention span from the ADHD you keep telling him to get tested for driving Roy even crazier than he already is. Finally, Roy makes his point and relents, and Gator makes his way across the lawn toward you, the set of his shoulders still tense.

“Hey, baby,” he mumbles as he nears, dropping a kiss onto the top of your head. He smiles tightly and nods to the bridge ladies, who coo over his arrival, and slides onto the bench beside you, straddling it to face you. One of his hands goes immediately to your lower back like he needs the contact, or maybe an excuse to cop a feel in the modest sundress you’ve donned for church today. 

“Gator, honey,” one of the ladies– Mrs. Pearson, whose husband runs the hardware store near the diner where you work– greets him. “We were just tellin’ your little missus here ‘bout some recipes she should get her hands on.”

Gator nods and doesn’t reply further, unamused. You press your thigh into his leg, telling him silently to play nice. You know he’s only over here because you are, and that he’d always rather be long gone once the church service ends, but this is what it takes to be a part of a community, and even grudgingly, he knows that. Still, his constant frustration with these people is part of the reason they’ve always liked you more than they like him. He is the town bully who barely grew out of it, still brash and impulsive and rude at times, still hiding that sweetness behind his tough-guy face except when it comes to you. You are the town darling, the one who runs Sunday school when the preacher’s daughter can’t, the model future wife for the sheriff’s son. You always wear your church skirts to your knees, and from your pretty smile, no one can tell it’s Gator who’ll bunch them up to your waist when he bends you over later.

“She’s such a nice girl,” one of the other ladies croons, smiling widely at you. There’s pink lipstick on her teeth. “You know she’ll do a bang-up job as your little wife, mister.”

“That’s right!” Another one chimes in, placing down a card with a wrinkled hand. “I mean, geez Louise, forget about the cookin’! She’ll have that house spick and spam for ya, isn’t that right, sweetiepie?”

You laugh indulgently, although everything in you wants to roll your eyes and find a way to escape this table. Sure, you can cook, and you’ve always kept the house far cleaner than Gator cares to, but you don’t need these women telling him that. If he hasn’t figured out the virtues of keeping you around already, he’s certainly not gonna listen to them tell it.

“I’d say, with how handsome a couple you two are, you’d better get movin’ on those little ones!” Mrs. Pearson adds.

“Little ones?” Gator repeats flatly, and you step on his toe under the table.

“Well, I betcha your daddy wants another baby in the family soon,” Mrs. Pearson explains laughingly, then leans over to touch your cheek. “It’d be a shame to waste those cheekbones, anyway. You two better get crackin’ on those kids before the sheriff has to tell ya to!”

You hear more than see Gator’s jaw grind. He opens his mouth to say something you’re sure won’t be too flattering, but you cut in before he can, slipping your hand over his on his thigh. “You know, you ladies are too right. In fact, I think we’ve got a little business to attend to at home, come to think of it. Can’t let that house go too long without a cleaning, can we?”

The ladies laugh at the scandalous joke, waving you off. 

“You kids!” Mrs. Pearson smiles. “Go, enjoy the day, sweeties!”

You rise to your feet, smiling back at them, and pull Gator up by the hand, dragging him away from the table before he can say something the both of you will regret. He follows behind you, one of his hands sliding over your waist as you cross the grass again. You can tell he’s angry by how quiet he’s gone, the way he tugs at the collar of his crisp black button-up.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” he mutters in your ear. “You put in your damn time.”

“Let me grab my purse,” you tell him gently, smoothing a hand down his chest— already having guessed from his mood you’d be taking off early. “You grab the tupperware from the scones, and I’ll meet you by the truck.”

“Don’t stop to chat,” he says gruffly, hand tightening on your waist. “I’ll blow my brains out if Mrs. Pearson finds me again.”

You bite back a smile and kiss his cheek, heading off swiftly to gather the rest of your belongings. 

You intercept him on the way back, two more of his shirt buttons already undone and his sleeves pushed up to the elbow. You slip your hand into his as you walk back through the parking lot together, not daring to check behind you to see if anyone’s noticed your early exit. 

Gator opens your door for you and waits for you to get in, a muscle in his jaw twitching. You worry about that expression on him– about what his father might have said to him to get him so fired up. 

It’s only when you’re speeding back down the dirt road from the church that you finally ask, reaching over and squeezing his arm as you do. 

“Gate.”

“Hm?” he replies, eyes on the road.

You keep your hand on his forearm, thumb brushing up and down

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’,” he mutters.

You snort. “Convincing.”

He shoots you a dirty look out of the corner of his eye. “Will you leave me alone, woman?”

You roll your eyes, removing your hand and shifting back to your side of the car with a quiet sigh. When he gets grumpy like this, you’ve found over the years it’s best to just leave him to mope.

You drive in silence for a while, staring out the windshield and not bothering to keep your face polite. Eventually, you hear Gator muttering to himself, and your attention snags on the noise.

“Nosy old hags.”

“What?” you ask, brow crinkling. 

Gator doesn’t repeat himself, but you heard him clearly enough the first time.

“You’re upset about Mrs. Pearson and the ladies?” you surmise, voice flat. For goodness’ sake, he could have just told you that.

“They’re sticking their damn noses where they don’t belong,” he finally snaps, the one hand he has on the steering wheel gripping the leather. 

“That’s just what they do, Gator,” you say mildly. “That’s who they are. They gossip about everyone in town, not just us.”

“Yeah, well, they can say what they want about all those other assholes, but not about me ‘n you,” he bites, his jaw ticking again.

You fight another sigh and take his free hand in both of yours, squeezing it. “They’re not being nasty. They’re just old women.”

The words have the opposite of their intended effect of calming him. Gator’s voice rises as he snaps, “Well, what goddamn business of theirs is it when we’re havin’ any fuckin’ kids? We’re not even hitched yet, and they’re breathin’ down our necks.”

You exhale through your nose, wishing silently he wasn’t so sensitive when it came to what other people thought. “Well, when you’ve been together for three years, those are the kind of questions people ask, Gate. Marriage, kids. I mean, we live together, baby. It’s not totally crazy.”

“So you’re on their side, then?” he demands, head whipping between you and the road.

You stare back at him, starting to be irritated. “I’m on your side, always. You know that.”

“Then why are you fuckin’ defending them?”

“I’m just saying they didn’t do anything wrong, Gator,” you huff, withdrawing your hands again. “They’re just nosy. If you don’t wanna hear any gossip, we’re gonna need to find another place to live.”

“Like hell they aren’t doin’ shit wrong,” he fires back at you. “Draggin’ themselves into our business like that, basically asking when I’m finally gonna man up and knock you up–”

“Well, you don’t seem to mind the idea so much when you’re inside me, now do you?” you cut in flatly.

Gator whips his stare to yours. “The hell’s that s’posed to mean?”

You look back at him coolly, your displeasure evident. “I just didn’t think you found the idea of settling down with me so terrible. My mistake.”

“Don’t be like that,” he grunts.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think, Gator?” you challenge him. “You’re practically jumping down my throat for suggesting people aren’t totally crazy when they ask if we’ll ever have kids.” “They’re not askin’, they’re tellin’.” Gator snaps. “And I’m sorry, but I happen to think a man has a right to privacy ‘bout a few things, and puttin’ a baby in his woman is one of ‘em.”

Your lips tighten, and you look back out the windshield. “How romantic.”

“A man should get to decide when he wants all that shit to happen, alright?” he repeats himself loudly. Y’should get to do it in your own time.”

“Fine,” you cut in, now more than a little pissed with him. “Next time, I’ll just tell sweet old Mrs. Pearson to fuck right off.”

“Now that would be bein’ on my fuckin’ team,” he bites.

You shake your head, knowing arguing with him again about how disagreeing doesn’t diminish how you feel about him would be a moot point. “Whatever.”

“Y’could drop the attitude, you know,” he adds bitterly. “Don’t ‘whatever’ me.”

“Well, I guess I’m not your fuckin’ wife, so there’s no sense in me being all respectful and proper, now is there?” you spit back at him, crossing your arms.

Gator seethes to himself as you pull into your driveway, not looking at each other. 

“I’ve got a shift at the diner,” you inform him flatly, jumping down from the truck without waiting for him to open your door for you– something you know full well will piss him off even more. “I’m off at six. Don’t wait on me to eat dinner.”

“Really?” he snaps, following you into the house. “That’s it?”

“Guess so,” you toss over your shoulder. “Wouldn’t want to actually settle anything, would we?”

Gator lets you slam the door to the bedroom, changing swiftly into your work uniform. As you throw on your clothes, still steaming with anger at your mule-stubborn boyfriend, you can hear him mutter something unflattering at you through the door.

You’re still wearing a frown while pouring coffee three hours later, and nothing at work is helping to lighten your mood. 

Two of your regulars have already told you to put a smile on your face, but you can’t help it. You hate fighting with Gator. As much as things have calmed down in recent years between the two of you, as much as you’ve settled into each other and smoothed over so many dangerous cracks, every now and again, something like this will come up and you’ll feel like the two of you are right back to square one. 

You move back through the diner and behind the counter again, coffee pot in hand. Your eyes sweep the tables for empty cups, which means you catch it when the door opens and the tiny bell above it rings, announcing the presence of your newest customer just as surely as the heavy tread of his combat boots.

Eyes pointedly cast down, you focus on refilling three more mugs as Gator strides up to the counter, sliding into a barstool and leaning on his elbows over the table. 

“Hey, mama,” he greets you, and you can tell from his voice alone he’s already over your fight. He’s grinning, actually, just like he always is when he stops in mid-patrol for a quick pour and a kiss or two from you. He’s always been so good at putting arguments like this behind him– like whatever tiny thing had had him cursing and spitting a few hours ago had faded completely to the back of his mind. You hate that he does that. It’s like he can’t understand how not to move on without resolution. 

“Hey, yourself,” you toss back flatly, still not meeting his eyes. You ignore the way he’s clearly leaned toward you and refill the coffee of the customer to his right. 

Gator’s eyes track you, scanning over your face. “What, you’re not gonna greet your boyfriend?” he asks, that shit-eating grin still painted on his lips. “Gimme a kiss.”

“I only kiss my boyfriends who are nice to me,” you intone, sliding the coffee pot back into the machine. It’s a low blow, and you know it– alluding to your made-up other boyfriends. But it still gets under Gator’s skin every time, that jealousy he can’t seem to stifle.

“So you’re still pissed at me, then,” he surmises, leaning back and digging in the pocket of his tactical vest for something. 

You point a finger at him, that heady anger rushing back to you. “Gator Tillman, if you pull that disgusting vape out of your pocket–”

He pulls free a different pen– one of the fake ones you introduced him to when he finally gave into all your pleading for him to quit nicotine. He holds it up as if in surrender. “Relax, babe. It’s just the bullshit one.” He takes a hit off of it, though if it actually calms him down, you wouldn’t know.

Unimpressed, you move over to the cash register, counting and stacking your receipts just to have something to do. 

“So, what, you never gonna talk to me again?” he teases you, clearly nonplussed by your bad mood. 

It works to piss you off even more– the fact he’s brushing off your annoyance like it means nothing. Like there was no reason for it in the first place. 

“Depends, are you gonna apologize for losing it on me earlier?” you muse, flicking between receipts.

Gator’s amusement finally fades, and he slips off the barstool to come around the cash register. “Don’t see what I’ve gotta apologize for.”

You huff a humorless laugh. “Yeah, you never really do, do you?”

“Hey,” he cuts in, “You were the one defending those old bags.”

You scowl, rounding on him. “Oh, will you just drop that? I wasn’t defending anyone.”

“Yes, you fuckin’ were,” he argues, glaring down at you. 

“Why can’t you ever just admit you were too harsh and apologize?” you demand, shooting daggers at him with your eyes even as he towers over you. 

“Maybe I would if you quit flappin’ your fuckin’ mouth!” he fires back. “God, d’you have to be such a bitch about it?”

Shock flashes through you, and you scoff, bewildered. Dangerously, you ask him, “You wanna rethink a couple of those words?”

“Nah, I don’t think I do,” he spits, looking you up and down. 

You clench your jaw, fighting back the sting in your eyes that’s telling you tears are coming whether you like it or not. God, this man frustrates you so much sometimes you could scream. “Great. Then I guess we don’t have anything else to talk about.”

“Great,” he says back, tone nasty. “I’ll finally get some peace and goddamn quiet.”

You huff an incredulous laugh, turning away. “Have a great shift, Gator,” you tell him bitterly, not meaning a word. 

“I’ll see you at home,” he promises, stalking away. 

You don’t check behind you after the bell rings– you know he’s gone. And you know he won’t look back.

Perched on a stool at the counter of the least shitty dive bar in town, you clutch your drink, the ice biting against your fingers. 

You’ve been here almost an hour, and your mood hasn’t significantly lifted, despite how you’ve been faking smiles with your friends and tossing down liquor to try and stifle the endless repeat track of your boyfriend’s callous words. It’s almost 7:30. He’ll be waiting up at home for you when you get back, and if you know anything about Gator, you know he’ll be furious. 

You don’t care. Let him have a taste of his own medicine– let him be the one getting hurt for a change. If he didn’t care to communicate like an adult, then you shouldn’t have to, either.

“Babe,” one of your friends calls to you, voice raised over the blaring music. “You’re being a total buzzkill. You sure you don’t wanna just head home?”

In times like these, even in your dismal mood, you can’t help but consider yourself exceptionally lucky for your friends. When you pulled the group of waitresses aside after Gator left the diner and asked if they wanted to grab drinks after work, they must have seen your expression and knew you needed it more than you let on. They agreed instantly, and now here you are– utterly failing at distracting yourself despite their best efforts.

You shake yourself, trying to escape your self-pity and lingering resentment. “No, no– sorry. Those shots just haven’t kicked in yet.” Your friend’s face tells you she sees through it, but she just sips from her colorful drink with a rueful smile. “That handsome boyfriend of yours isn’t gonna show up and kill us for stealing you away tonight, is he?”

Knowing Gator, that wasn’t entirely out of the question. You smile behind your glass as you tell her, “Don’t worry about it. If he’s got something to say, he can say it to me.”

“I hope I didn’t just hear the word boyfriend.”

A voice from behind you makes you twist slightly in your seat, and a man you’ve never seen before sidles up to you and slides into the barstool to your left. “Never seen you before, gorgeous. Where’d you come from?”

You flatten your eyes slightly, hoping he’ll take the hint you’re not interested. While you’re usually alright pushing your limits with Gator, appearing to flirt with another clueless guy at a bar would be about four steps over the final line. “My gunowner boyfriend’s house,” you supply mildly. “How ‘bout you?”

The guy points back to the other side of the room, unphased. “I came from over there once I saw that pretty little skirt on you. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Pretty sure my tag says ‘property of Gator Tillman’,” you tell him. The name alone should put some kind of nerves into this guy if he has any sense at all. “If found, please call 1-800-bite me, I’m taken. Nice meeting you.” You turn back to your friend, hoping he’ll just cut his losses and move on.

“Well, hang on a second, sweetheart–” the man goes on, reaching out and grabbing your forearm. 

Your head whips back to him, brows raising in shock he actually touched you. You make to rip your arm away from him, but it turns out, when you’re Gator Tillman’s girlfriend, you don’t have to. 

You watch as the man is yanked forcefully off his barstool and pulled to his feet. Gator’s standing there like an apparition, fury contorting his face as he grips the man’s shirt in his fist and shoves him up against the bar before he can regain his balance. 

“You heard her, shitbird,” he tells him, voice low and face inches from the poor idiot’s. “Now get lost before I put you in the fuckin’ ground.” The man pales, nodding once. Gator releases him with one last shove, watching as he hurries back across the crowded bar. And then he turns back to you, and all that fury finds a new target. 

Between the booze and your lingering anger, seeing him again is a head rush. You can’t tell if you’re grateful for the intervention or annoyed he’s here or anxious about the fight that’s building between you like an oncoming storm. 

Your friend must sense the tension, because she squeezes your shoulder and slips off her barstool with a farewell smile. You can’t bring yourself to care too particularly much when Gator’s still looking at you like that. 

“Been all over fuckin’ town lookin’ for you,” he starts, barely-controlled anger in his voice. “You don’t come home, and this is where you’ve been all night?”

“The girls and I were just getting some drinks after work,” you explain, a little quieter than you mean to. Oh, he’s mad– just about as angry as you’ve ever seen him. You can’t help the little thrill it sends through you. 

“And you didn’t think to call and tell me that?” he challenges, towering over you where you still sit on the barstool, muscles tight with anticipation. “Didn’t think you’d let me know you weren’t fuckin’ kidnapped? You know how worried I’ve been?”

“It’s been an hour,” you drawl, sipping from your drink. “I’m hardly a missing person's case.” 

You can tell from the deepening scowl that that was the wrong answer. Gator points to the bar door, eyes not leaving yours. “Get your ass in gear. Let’s go.”

“I’m not done with my drink,” you tell him stubbornly, fingers tight against the glass.

He rips it out of your hand and knocks the rest of it back, the ice reverberating through it as he slams it back down on the counter. “And now you are.”

You scowl at him, the liquor finally giving you some courage. “I’m not through here, Gator. I want to stay.”

He takes a shallow breath through his nose, in and out. “I wasn’t askin’, mama. Now get in the fuckin’ car.”

“No,” you tell him, firing the word between you.

His brows lift, and he laughs humorlessly, low and harsh. “Some fuckin’ attitude on you tonight. I ain’t gonna say it again, baby. Get in the car.”

The pet name in contrast to the sharp tone does what it always does and riles you. As you stare down your boyfriend, you decide that, today, you might just be angry enough to push back. “No,” you say again, plain and stubborn.

The corner of Gator’s mouth twitches up, his face still hard and set. There’s no humor to be found there, and that particular fact feels more thrilling than the liquor does. 

“I warned ya,” he sighs, like he’s giving in— as if he’s ever once done that.

And then his hands are on you, pawing your waist and throwing you over his shoulder.

You yelp at the sudden movement as he lurches you both to his feet, gripping your thighs as he hauls you back through the bar. 

“Gator!” you yell in shocked protest, not caring how badly the two of you are making a scene. “Put me down, you asshole!”

“Since you don’t wanna listen, guess you need a little help,” he tells you, his voice gratingly calm. His hands are a vice grip on your bare legs, even while you thrash around. You beat at his back, your hair getting in your face and the buzz of alcohol not helping with keeping your head straight any more than the rapid motion. “Gator, I swear to God, if you don’t let me go–”

“Yell all you want, mama,” he muses as he directs you both through the crowded bar tables. “These assholes aren’t gonna do shit. They know you’re with me.”

As arrogant as the statement is, he’s probably right. If they didn’t recognize Gator’s face and know better than to interject already, they’d sure recognize the Stark County Sheriff's Deputy badge pinned to his chest. Deep-rooted frustration roils in you, and you squirm even more against the arm he has pinning your legs.

“You’d better knock that off, pretty,” he tells you, a warning in his deep voice.

“Or what?” you spit.

You can almost hear the wicked smile in his voice as he replies, “Or I might just have to take you to the bathroom and fuck that attitude outta ya.”

“Pig,” you hiss at him, scowling even as warmth coils in your gut at the words– at what’s probably waiting for you at home as a punishment for your misbehavior. 

He doesn’t set you down until you’re right next to his truck, haphazardly parked in one of the first open spots in the bar parking lot. You wonder how long he drove around looking for you before he thought to come here– wonder how long he waited in the house pretending old wounds weren’t being poked by your absence. For a second, a flicker of guilt runs through you. Sure, your boyfriend isn’t exactly a paragon of emotional stability. But you could have done better than you have tonight to fight that.

Gator releases you and reaches around you to yank open your door. 

Your cheeks flushed, you stand before him stubbornly and cross your arms, refusing to move. He’s placed himself in between you and any possible escape, fencing you into the truck.

“Get in the car,” he orders you again, face entirely uncompromising. 

You’re a little drunk, and your resolve is cracking, but you still manage to glare up at him. “Isn’t there something you wanna say first?” 

“You want an apology outta me after the shit you just pulled?” he demands, brows shooting up. “You’re lucky I don’t lock you up after a stunt like that.” “You don’t own me, Gator,” you remind him, scowling into his stern face.

“That’s not what you were saying to that idiot back there,” Gator challenges, his dangerous voice purring.

You flush harder, wishing you had more faculty over your words. “I’m not going with you until you apologize.”

His eyes flash, all the pushback getting to him. “We’ll talk when you’re safe at home. Now get in the fuckin’ car.”

You falter slightly at the offer to talk. He’s learning– you know he is. A year ago, he’d have brushed this whole thing under the rug, chalked it up to some kind of female dramatics. But now, even if your ‘talking’ is probably gonna amount to another screaming match and some makeup sex… well, you suppose communication takes many forms.

He sees your hesitation and settles slightly, jerking his head to the seat. “Don’t make me throw you in there.” You shoot him one last dirty look and relent, climbing into the truck and taking your seat indignantly. 

Gator slams the door behind you, telling you through the open window, “S’like wrangling a fuckin’ bobcat with you.”

You’re still sulking when you pull into the driveway of your home, the lights in the living room still on like Gator didn’t bother turning down the house before he left. He must have been worried. That guilt flips through you again. 

Gator walks behind you into the house, and although he doesn’t say it, you know it’s probably so he can catch you if you drunkenly stumble. Always so protective, this one– even when he’s infuriated with you.

You sigh as you pad through the entryway, tossing the bag stuffed with your work clothes by the shoe rack haphazardly. You hear Gator’s keys hit the dish, but you don’t turn back to look at him– just make your way to the kitchen and pull a water bottle from the fridge, drinking from it deeply to clear your throat. 

Gator sheds his leather jacket and throws it over the hook by the door before stalking into the kitchen after you. You eye him coolly as he comes up to the counter, his hands resting on it as he watches you back. 

“So, you gonna tell me what the fuck you thought you were doing tonight?” he starts, his voice already harsh. 

“Drinks,” you tell him again, taking another swig of water. “With my friends. Told you.”

Gator runs a hand through his hair, mussing it. Out of his heavy uniform, when he’s as rumpled as he is now, he’s nowhere near as intimidating as most people find him. “You told me you were off at six,” he barks. “I get home, no call, no text, and you’re out with your fuckin’ girlfriends like it’s goddamn mardi gras.”

“It was one fucking hour,” you gripe, fingers locked around the plastic of your water bottle.

“I don’t give a damn,” Gator snarls, planting his hands on the counter and leaning toward you. “You don’t just run out on me. Plans change, then you call me and let me know and then I come and haul your ass out of the bar.”

You know where this fear comes from– know what he’s getting at, know why he’s ordering you so uncompromisingly. But maybe you’re too drunk and heady with anger to care, because once again, you can’t help but keep pushing. “Maybe I just didn’t want to talk to you, ever think about that?”

“You’re the one always harpin’ on me about communicating, aren’t ya?” he drawls, that dangerous edge still in his tone. 

“Well, forgive me if I don’t have a strong interest in sitting here and letting you call me names over things that aren’t my fault,” you spit, and to your frustration, you feel your eyes start to prick again at the memory of what he called you this morning. 

His jaw ticks, his lips pressing together. “You know damn well I didn’t mean that.”

“I have yet to hear you say so,” you challenge, face twisting. “I guess it’s just fine that you call me a bitch and tell me to shut my mouth? That’s just fine now?”

You see his hackles raise– see frustration and aggression fight for dominance in his expression before he finally relents– retreats just an inch for you. “I’m sorry,” he says firmly. “You bring it outta me when you push me like that. You know that.”

You shake your head, still not satisfied. “You can’t just lash out at me ‘cause you’re pissed with someone else. I’m not your proxy for the bridge ladies, Gator.”

“I know that,” he snaps, some of the softness fading. “I know you’re not sayin’ what they’re sayin’!”

“Then why are you yelling at me?” you spread your hands, incredulous.

He drags his hand through his hair again, aggravated. “I’m not–”

“You are,” you argue. “You are, Gator. I mean, why can’t you just talk to me about it?”

“I’m sick of fuckin’ talkin’ about it!” he yells. “I’m sick of all these people and their pushin’– all the little hints and nudges and tellin’ me what to do!”

“Who’s been saying that?” you plead with him, shaking your head. “It’s a couple of old ladies, Gator. It doesn’t matter what they think.”

“It’s not just them, it’s everyone!” he argues, still steaming. You can almost see that anger bubbling up in him– though, once again, you can tell you’re not its intended target. “Roy was on my ass about it this morning, too,” Gator spits out bitterly. “Talkin’ about makin’ an honest woman outta you. Carryin’ on the family name and all that horseshit.”

You fall quiet, the pieces clicking into place; the true reason for Gator’s bad mood this morning, his reason for coming over to sit with you in the first place. The pressure you can almost see in the set of his shoulders, the burdens he doesn’t realize he willingly takes on, the impossible expectation you’ve tried so hard to teach him to forget. But as long as Roy is here, some things will cut too deep into Gator for even you to mend. And this, the ‘pushing’ he keeps bucking, is about something bigger than the words you’ve thrown at each other tonight.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, and for the first time tonight, you really mean it. “He shouldn’t have said that. You’re right, it’s none of their business.”

You watch as Gator deflates slightly, the calmness of your voice finally working on him. 

“You can’t let it get to you like this,” you go on, brow creasing. “You can’t let him get in your head, baby, it’s—“

“You fucking try it,” he fires at you.

Your expression hardens again. “You don’t see me losing my shit when those people say I'm nothing more than a good housewife in the making.”

“That shit is different and you know it,” he says, thrusting a finger at you. “You know that’s not you. You play that game, but you know that’s not you.”

He’s still pushing— still fighting you. And, just now, it feels as heartbreaking as anything else he’s done, especially when it comes to this— to the little hopes you've fed each other, the plans you’d thought were in the making. That’s what finally gets you— finally makes you blurt it out. “Why is this such an issue for you?” you make out, and your voice cracks as you say it. You're reminded of the fact you’re still a little drunk as tears pool in your eyes, threatening to spill down your face.

Gator sees it, too. His expression creases, and he tears his eyes away, his resolve all but completely breaking. It’s the one thing he’s never been able to stand— you crying. The second he sees he’s pushed you there, the second your voice starts to wobble, he can’t take it– he always relents.

He heaves a sigh, his face falling and his shoulders drooping. “Baby– baby, why are you crying? Come on, don’t– don’t cry.”

The words do nothing to help matters. Tears fall swiftly down your cheeks, and you reach up to brush them away just as quickly. “Do you–” you take a breath, your voice weak with emotion. “I mean, do you… not want that with me?” You feel idiotic– naive. That quiet dream you keep locked away in your chest, that fantasy of a rowdy reception hall blaring music and a carseat in the back of the truck and tiny, sticky hands gripping a camo pant leg… maybe it was only ever that: a beautiful, foolish dream. But after three years, what else could you expect? How could you not have pictured it all with this boy who’s taken possession of you?

His expression contorts, confusion flashing in his eyes. “That’s what you think?” he demands.

“That’s how you make it sound, Gator!” You cry, hands flying to wipe furiously at your face. “That’s what it sounds like when you act like it’s so offensive that people think we’re gonna be a family one day!” You watch as that one word– family– hits him square in the chest. “You’re not gettin’ it,” he shakes his head, his voice infinitely quieter. “You don’t get it, doll.”

“You’re damn fucking right, I don’t!” you snap back, sniffing. 

“I just–” Gator turns from the counter again, frustration choking his voice. “I just can’t listen to any more of these fuckers tell me what to do. Not about this. Not about you.”

You shake your head, tears blurring your vision. 

“Listen,” he tells you, suddenly insistent. Like he can’t stand it any longer, he rounds the counter toward you, stopping just before you. His hand comes up to fit over your jaw, almost covering the lower part of your face. He’s holding you there, forcing you without pain or aggression to look up at him. It’s possessive in its utter gentleness. “I don’t have a lot ‘a shit that’s mine,” he tells you, and something in his eyes shifts, melts a little. “But you? You and me, baby? That’s just mine. That belongs to me, you understand?”

A pathetic noise, a tiny gasping sob, works its way out of your mouth. Gator’s fingers are firm and warm on your face as he holds you, rooting you in place with that one hand. 

“I want this because I want it,” he says, low and clear. “Not ‘cause I'm told to. Not as somethin’ my dad’s makin’ me do for him. I want you ‘cause I love you like nothin’ I’ve ever felt.”

You’re trembling, heart stuttering at the admission. Your hands come up to grip his arms, needing something to stabilize you.

“No one else gets to tell me to love you,” he says fiercely, staring down into your face. “No one gets to tell me what to want. I pick you.” His hand slips into your hair, cupping the back of your head, and he pulls you into him, crushing you into his chest.

You let out another sob, arms coming around him immediately. You clutch him back, your feet nearly lifted off the ground by the strength of his embrace. But you need it– you’ve always needed Gator’s force, his violence. You need his hands, his words, his love imprinted onto your skin in red lines like sleep marks, the intensity existing as the proof that it’s real.

“I love you,” you choke out, eyes fluttering shut. 

Gator’s fingers scratch at your scalp, his strong arms tight around you. “Don’t you ever run out on me again.”

You hear the desperation in his voice, much as he might try to hide it. “Couldn’t if I wanted to,” you whisper, drawing back to look up at him. 

He’s so serious when your eyes meet again– his face drawn and pensive. One of your hands comes up to brush over his cheek, marvelling at the unexpected softness of his skin. “Fuck ‘em all,” you tell him, a smile flitting across your lips. “You and I are on our own timeline.”

He turns his head into your hand, nuzzling your palm. “I love you,” he says again, the words a grumble in his chest.

That naive, perfect dream is back in your chest, stronger and more insistent than before. As you stare up at Gator, his face softer than you might ever have hoped, you feel it softly glow.

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