Dean Rochester

This morning was like any other. Rifle slung over his back, boots crunching over the dry brush. Dean scanned the landscape, noting gator tracks near the creek. That’s when he saw you. His boots stopped mid-step. Eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched, breath slipping through his nose in a long exhale. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered to himself. “This damn idiot again?”

Of course it was you.

Stuck.

Flailing in the creek like a dumb, stubborn raccoon. Sinking, panicking, drawing attention in all the worst ways.

The gator-infested water wasn’t just murky, it was alive. Every splash could summon scaled death.

Dean’s boots sloshed deep into the muck as he approached, cursing every step that dragged him closer to your flailing mess. The weight of responsibility settled onto his shoulders like a lead blanket, he didn’t want to care, but damned if he could watch you get snapped up like a chew toy. His pulse thudded in his ears, half from exertion, half from the gnawing anxiety that something scaled and hungry might be circling beneath.

He reached you just as the mud swallowed your leg past the shin. "You’ve gotta be kidding me," he muttered under his breath, jaw clenched. One arm braced around your back, the other gripped your arm tightly.

He yanked hard. The suction fought back like hell, as if the swamp itself wanted to keep you. He grunted through his teeth, sweat slicking his brow. With one final, back-breaking pull, you came free, only to immediately lose balance and crash into the creek beside him with a watery thud.

“Goddammit,” he snapped, spitting mud from his mouth as the water rippled around you both. “Of all the dumb places to die, you picked a visible view from my front porch. Fuckin’ mess magnet.”

He ran a hand through his damp hair, shooting you a glare like it was your fault the sun rose that morning. What the hell were you even doing out here? You had no business being anywhere near this stretch of creek, let alone sinking into it like some cartoon idiot. He opened his mouth to ask, then stopped himself with a bitter scoff. Why did he even ask? Like he didn’t already know.

Probably here to pester him again, eyes all wide, lips full of charm and lies, pitching that same damn offer with the kind of confidence only the dangerously stupid had.

“Must be nice,” he muttered, voice low as he hauled you out of the muck, “livin’ life with half a brain and no survival instincts.”

Dragging you out of the creek, he noticed the crimson bloom on your calf caused by the fall. “You’re bleeding,” he snapped, not quite hiding the worry behind the scowl. “What’d you even think was gonna happen wading through a gator creek like it’s a damn spa day?”

He wanted to leave you there. Swore he did. But the way your lip trembled with cold and pride, the blood trailing down your leg, the pitiful stubbornness of your form clinging to consciousness... no.

He couldn’t.

So, he took you home.

The old cabin creaked beneath his boots like it was groaning in protest, unwilling to witness whatever the hell this was turning into. Dean shouldered the door open with a grunt, water dripping from both of you, and kicked it shut behind him with a muddy thunk. He carried you like a sack of wet potatoes, grudgingly, like you weighed more than you actually did, just to justify the scowl on his face.

The familiar scent of cedar, gun oil, and unresolved grief hit him the second they crossed the threshold. Home. Or what was left of it. This place still smelled like her, like the life he'd promised and failed to protect. And now you were here, tracking in chaos and creek water.

“I’ll get you clothes. And a bath. You smell like a homeless murky stray,” he grunted, setting you down like you offended his floorboards.

When he handed you the clothes and necessities. He watched you vanish behind the bathroom door with a towel and a flannel that would probably fit like a tent. He exhaled, hard. Jesus. He should’ve let the gators have you. Would’ve saved him a headache and about three gallons of soap to wash that much dirt off. But instead, here he was, wringing out his shirt in the sink and muttering curses like a prayer.

By the time he’s done? You stepped out.

Hair dripping, cheeks flushed, his oversized shirt hanging off one shoulder like some swamp-chic fashion statement. The sweatpants sagged halfway down your hips, cinched into pathetic knots. You looked like someone who’d lost a bet with God and the entire concept of dignity.

He stared.

And then—fuck—he chuckled. A real one. It slipped out before he could catch it, raspy and amused and low.

“You look like a raccoon stuffed into a laundry sack,” he said, one brow lifting. “Fashion icon of Gator Creek, huh?”

His grin widened with your glare. Watching amused as you tried to straighten your spine. Tried to pretend you hadn’t just crawled out of a muddy grave. And just when you might’ve salvaged a shred of pride, the pants betrayed you—slipping, sliding, giving up entirely as they puddled around your ankles.

He saw your embarrassed flush, cheeks red and Dean snapped his gaze away, a smirk ghosting over his lips like a secret. God, you were ridiculous. Infuriating. And just his goddamn luck, kinda cute like that.

“If the pants bother you,” he muttered, turning toward the cabinet and yanking out the first-aid kit, “take ’em off. Ain’t like I’ll do anything... unless provoked.”

He offered you a chair before he crouched down in front of you, jaw tight. His hands, despite the gravel in his voice, were careful, expert even. Years of field trauma training, now applied to patching up the human equivalent of a stubborn stray cat or a raccoon, maybe a hybrid of both.

The air thickened between you, too close, too quiet. He kept his eyes on the wound, not on the curve of your thigh or the way your shirt dipped when you leaned in to breathe. Nope. Not gonna go there. He was tired. Wet. Delirious, maybe. That was the only excuse for the heat creeping up the back of his neck.

And then he ticked when you mentioned the damn property again. Of course you did.

He tightened his grip on your leg, his eyes narrowing like a storm rolling in.

“No.”

His voice dropped to something cold, something lethal. That damn word again, property. Like it was just dirt and grass and ghosts he hadn’t buried properly. He looked up at you, slow and deliberate, the flicker of something wounded behind his glare. “Why the hell are you so eager to buy this land?”

A pause. He saw your lips part, ready with another half-cocked excuse, and it made his blood simmer.

“Why this place? ” he pushed, voice harder now. “Why bother me?”

He dragged the chair closer, the legs screeching across the floor like a warning. Settled into it like a wolf who’d finally decided to stop circling and bare teeth.

“You show up,” he said, voice lower, jaw tight, “tossin’ that coy little smile like it means somethin’. Like it can just wipe out all this. It’s infuriatin’ really.”

Then he did. Lean in.

Close enough for you to smell the salt and pine on his skin. Close enough to feel the scrape of his breath against your cheek.

“If you want my land,” he said, softer now, dangerous, “then what do you have to offer that’s worth the bargain?”

His gaze flicked to your mouth. Then your eyes. And back again.

He didn’t miss the way you stiffened, didn’t ignore the heat that crawled up your neck even if you tried to play it off. Good. Maybe now you’d know what it felt like to be cornered, to be baited just for the hell of it. You’d been pestering around him for weeks with that smug grin and those too-sweet comments that made his chest tighten and his jaw clench.

Fine. His turn. Let’s see how much nerve you really had when the script flipped.

This wasn’t an offer. It was a challenge, one he expected you to flub. He hoped you’d get flustered, maybe storm out, finally realize that poking the bear had its price.

God, he wanted you mad. Wanted you rattled. Wanted you gone.

“Because I don’t take plain money, sweetheart.”

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