Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Gator Golf was, for lack of a better term, a lot.

From the second you stepped inside, you were bombarded with overstimulation in every possible sense—sounds, smells, colors, movement, even temperature. It was like walking face-first into a Florida swamp that had been curated by a theme park executive on a sugar high.

Thick plastic ferns lined the walls like camouflage, practically sprouting from the fake rockwork. Gushing water from man-made streams and babbling brooks ran along the edges of the turf, the scent of chlorine mixing with the oddly persistent smell of corn dogs. And then there were the gator heads—big, mechanical things with bulging eyes and overly white teeth, popping out from ponds and bushes with mechanical hissing sounds every time someone walked by. One even sprayed mist for added ambiance, which would've been cool if it didn’t also short out every third Tuesday, leaving it stuck in a loop of ominous whirring.

In the middle of this chaotic paradise stood a lone wooden cabin, styled like it belonged in the bayou. It was surrounded on all sides by bright neon golf balls zipping across the turf and kids chasing each other with half-eaten ice cream sandwiches. Parents hovered nearby, sweaty and exhausted, nursing lukewarm sodas and pretending their child wasn’t currently screaming because they got a five on a par three. Occasionally, someone wandered over to the rickety food stand or the vending machine that only took FazTokens—a form of currency that had all the purchasing power of a suggestion box wish.

The soundscape of Gator Golf was just as layered. Crickets chirped from hidden speakers, blending with the low rumble of prerecorded gator growls that echoed across the fake bayou. Overhead, a tinny speaker system looped a handful of peppy swamp-rock tracks that clearly hadn’t been updated since the place opened, and judging by the crackle in the audio, they’d never be updated again. Somewhere in the distance, a child screamed. Somewhere else, someone definitely slipped and fell.

The lighting was... dark in a fun way, apparently. Just enough to keep you from going blind, but not quite enough to read the mini-golf rules without squinting. The entire place was strung up with green neon lights and those fake bioluminescent fireflies that flickered on and off like a dying Wi-Fi signal. Signs glowed faintly in the dim: "NO CLIMBING ON THE GATOR BOTS", "WATCH FOR WATER HAZARDS", and most importantly, a large glow-in-the-dark sign posted next to the main stream: "PLEASE DO NOT SWIM IN THE WATER FEATURES"—which implied that someone definitely had.

And despite it all—the mess, the noise, the sensory overload—Gator Golf had a weird kind of charm. Like if a fever dream had a budget. It was easy to get lost in the maze of fake swampland and animatronic cheer, but not in a bad way. More like you wandered into something ridiculous and decided, Yeah, okay, I’ll vibe with this.

Luckily, (Name) didn’t have to navigate the wilds of Gator Golf today. Her domain was the much-less-glamorous Gator Gifts—a small, humid box of a gift shop tucked inconveniently close to the first hole.

It was painted a garish shade of dark green and had no actual door, just a wide archway that funneled in every scream, splash, and wandering bug. The entire shop reeked of old plushies, stale air conditioning, and commercial desperation. The walls were stuffed with Monty-themed merch: keychains, t-shirts, plastic sunglasses, and at least three different kinds of plushies. There was a rack of Glamrock-themed posters that curled at the edges, a bowl of Sundrop candies that had clearly melted and resolidified more than once, and a shelf of mugs stacked so poorly it felt like a lawsuit waiting to happen.

On top of that? The shirt.

(Name) was currently sporting the standard employee uniform, which was to say—nothing flattering. A size-too-big staff tee that screamed “GATOR GOLF ROCKS!” in sparkly green bubble letters across the front, with Montgomery Gator’s giant grinning face printed right between the shoulder blades. The shirt had personality, sure, but the kind that made you consider quitting on the first day.

She’d started her shift this morning with all the optimism of someone who had no idea what they were getting into—bright-eyed, mildly caffeinated, and regretting all of her life choices.

The job offer had come from her friend Ryan, who was currently trying to hold the food stand together with little more than elbow grease and trauma. He had begged her to apply after the last gift shop employee ran off mid-shift during the infamous “Nacho Cheese Incident.” Ryan had pleaded with her like a man on the brink—big, sad puppy eyes, exaggerated pout, voice just one notch away from cracking. She caved. Of course she did.

She applied half-jokingly, mostly because rent was due and the online application form was so broken it barely asked more than her name. She figured there’d be some kind of process. A background check. A reference call. Maybe a personality quiz. But nope—she walked into the interview and walked out five minutes later with a name badge (spelled wrong), a novelty headband that screamed that it was a joke rather than the uniform, and a schedule that started the very next day.

Now here she was, a few hours into her very first shift, slumped behind the counter of Gator Gifts and silently begging for a customer who wasn’t just looking for the bathrooms.

Her headband drooped over her brow, dangling in her line of sight like a taunt. Her arms were folded over the countertop. She stared blankly at a precariously stacked tower of Monty plushies, convinced they were plotting to collapse the moment she looked away.

So far today, she’d had two customers. One just wanted directions—something she could not provide. She’d shrugged with an unbothered, “Beats me,” and earned herself a look of profound disappointment.

The other was a little kid who had wandered too close to the hissing gator head and lost her absolute mind. Screamed, cried, bolted—straight into the gift shop—where she then promptly knocked over a display of mugs and fled again.

(Name) had felt bad at first, she really had. Until she had to pick up twelve shattered mugs and sweep up the ones that didn’t survive. Then, she just felt resigned.

With a sigh, she leaned harder against the counter, glaring at the barely-functioning wall fan across the room and listening to the slow loop of swamp-rock overhead. She wondered if anyone would notice if she just... disappeared. Walked into the misty foliage and never came back. Let the gator bots hiss her name into the night like some kind of urban legend.

But nah. She was too broke to be mysterious.

So she stayed. Watching. Waiting. Listening to the hissing of animatronic reptiles and the occasional distant splash. Welcome to Gator Golf. God help her.

The rest of her time was filled with ambient swamp sounds leaking in from the course, a background track of droning cicadas and bubbling water features, broken only by the occasional shriek of laughter as someone managed to sink their first ball into Hole One, followed by the Hurricane Bucket exploding and raining its many plastic balls down from above. From where she sat behind the gift shop counter, she had a mostly clear view from the archway and the excessive foliage—enough to catch the blur of people walking in, excited and sun-dazed, clutching neon golf balls and cheap plastic putters.

Just outside, families were making memories, snapping blurry pictures with half-charged phones. Kids darted around with sticky fingers and sugar highs, dragging exhausted parents behind them. The whole entrance pulsed with life, energy, chaos. And she? She was just barely adjacent to it. Close enough to hear it, almost close enough to feel it—but not quite close enough to be a part of it. Like watching a party through a peephole. She might as well have been on another planet.

She sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Theatrically, even. And then, just for good measure, reached out and flicked the nearest Monty plush on the nose.

It squeaked.

Of course it squeaked.

She stared at it for a second, expression flat, the kind of deadpan disappointment reserved for people who had just realized this was their actual life now. A plushie babysitter. A glorified merch guardian. The gatekeeper of Gator Golf's least interesting treasure trove.

Not that she was ungrateful—well, okay, she was, a little—but the upside of having absolutely nothing to do was that it gave her a whole lot of time to think. To sit in the lukewarm A/C, surrounded by plush reptiles and dusty t-shirts, and reflect on her life choices like she was in a low-budget coming-of-age film.

And more importantly?

To process the absolutely wild fact that she was now, technically, employed in the same building as Montgomery freaking Gator.

Her gaze slowly dragged upward to the life-sized cardboard standee stationed near the window like it was watching over the store. Monty, mid-shred on his bass, one foot perched on a broken speaker, sunglasses askew in a way that definitely wasn’t up to code. He wore a grin that was all teeth and rebellion, and even though he was literally made of glossy cardstock, her stomach did a little flip-flop anyway.

She swallowed hard. Cool. Totally fine. Normal reaction. Definitely not spiraling.

Montgomery Gator was infamous around the Pizzaplex. Known for smashing stages, breaking bots, and having a temper like a wildfire in a fireworks factory. Guests either loved him or feared him. Or both. He was loud. He was chaotic. He broke at least one thing per shift, sometimes two if he was in a mood. Half the staff said he was an egomaniac. The other half swore he had a soft side buried under all the leather and teeth.

She didn’t know which camp she fell into. Because she hadn’t actually met him yet. Not really. He didn’t exactly stroll into the gift shop for a chat. He was the Pizzaplex’s rockstar mascot—he had a schedule, a fanbase, a whole dang arena.

What she had were scraps. Glimpses. Teases.

His voice crackling over the intercom during crowd calls: loud, cocky, unmistakable.

A burst of laughter echoing across the course, deep and wild and a little too real to be pre-recorded.

Or sometimes, if she was really lucky, the thunderous clomp clomp of his massive boots stomping across the upper catwalk during one of his dramatic exits, always followed by silence and the faint buzzing of a blown fuse somewhere.

And still. Still.

Every time she heard that distant, throaty growl of his signature "YEAH!" reverberating through the air like a battle cry, her brain just... broke. Total system failure. Static across all frequencies. Goodbye executive function. Hello hopeless Glamrock crush.

It was bad. So bad. And she hadn’t even spoken to him yet.

She thunked her forehead against the counter, letting it rest there with a quiet thud that echoed off the plexiglass display case like a sad little drum.

“This is fine,” she muttered into the faux-wood laminate. “Totally, completely fine. I’m a functioning adult and this is a perfectly healthy reaction.”

She reached blindly to the side, grabbing one of the Monty plushies and yanking it into her arms with the desperation of someone trying to ground themselves with a stress toy. It stared up at her with wide, googly eyes and a crooked little grin, stitched fangs barely poking out from its felt mouth.

She held it tighter. Like it might somehow absorb the mess of thoughts and feelings currently playing bumper cars inside her skull.

It did not.

The plush, much like her coping skills, was woefully unequipped for the situation.

So she sat there, forehead still pressed to the counter, hugging a Monty plush to her chest while swamp sounds and distant rock music swirled together outside the doors.

And somewhere out in the chaos, Montgomery Gator probably didn’t even know she existed.

Which was fine.

Totally.

Fine.

Chapter Text

Somewhere around midday, she assumed—time had stopped having meaning after the third loop of swamp-rock and the second child meltdown—(Name) felt her Fazwatch buzz against her hip.

She fished it out of her back pocket with all the enthusiasm of someone scraping gum off the bottom of their shoe. The screen lit up cheerfully.

“BREAK TIME!” Staff Mandated: 15 Minutes :)”

She stared at it. Blinked. Processed.

Then she scoffed like it had personally offended her, and shoved it right back into her pocket.

“Thanks, I guess. Real generous of you, Surveillance Overlords,” she muttered, half to herself, half to the Monty standee that was still silently judging her from the corner.

Fifteen minutes. Like that was gonna undo the psychological damage of babysitting plushies and sweeping up mug shards all morning. Still, she wasn’t gonna argue with a chance to get out of the swamp-themed sweatbox for a few.

She took one last dramatic glance at the counter—her domain, her prison, her scented candle of despair—and shuffled out of the gift shop like a woman on a mission.

This was her chance to explore a little. Not, like, escape-the-Pizzaplex explore, but at least wander more than ten feet from the plushie tower without getting yelled at by a toddler. She hustled toward the food court area, weaving through the fake shrubbery and dodging families all the while. She wanted a snack, and she was gonna get it—for better or worse.

She didn’t have a lot of time, according to her incessant Fazwatch. It kept buzzing with minutely reminders, and currently, she was sitting at fourteen minutes. Well, thirteen, now, since it took her a second to fish it back out of her pocket and proceed to judge it. Not that she was bitter. She just wanted a granola bar and maybe a place to sit that didn’t smell like rubber and sadness.

“Ryan better take pity on me,” she muttered under her breath, sidestepping a group of kids wielding golf clubs like swords. “If I don’t get a pity snack, I’m filing for emotional damages.”

The path toward the staff-only door curved just behind the rickety food stand, the smell of hot grease and artificial nacho cheese growing stronger with every step. The door itself was tucked behind a faded cardboard cutout of Chica holding a corndog like a microphone--it had seen things. You could tell by the war in its eyes.

She reached for the handle, already mentally drafting her snack wishlist—granola bar, soda, and maybe an actual conversation that didn’t end in a lingering silence since they would actually talk back.

She pushed the door open with a grunt.

And immediately regretted every decision that led her to this moment.

“GET THE TRAY! GET THE–NO, NOT THAT ONE–OH MY GOD HE’S GOT THE LADLE–”

Ryan’s voice hit her like a slap to the soul. Inside the staff room, all hell had broken loose. A staff bot was whirring in panicked circles, clutching a tray of bubbling nacho cheese like it was sacred. Ryan was ducking behind the snack shelf, covered in what could only be described as a tragic dairy incident. Cheese dripped from his hat. His apron had surrendered to the chaos long ago.

The bot locked eyes—sensors, maybe—on (Name) the moment she stepped through the door.

“HELLO VALUED GUEST,” it blared, voice warbling like a dying kazoo. “ENJOY YOUR CHEESE PRODUCT–PRODUCT–PRODUCT–”

It flung the tray.

(Name) yelped and ducked just in time, the tray clattering against the wall and splattering the floor in a molten mess.

“What the ACTUAL fuck is happening?!” she shrieked, diving behind the nearest counter.

“Cheesus has gone rogue!” Ryan called from under the sink.

“YOU NAMED HIM??!”

“SOMEONE HAS TO!!” he yelled back, eyes wild behind his glasses—surprisingly not smudged or dirty, which felt deeply unfair given the amount of cheese trauma currently unfolding around him.

“WHAT IS IT DOING?” she shrieked, ducking another splatter of molten cheese as it whizzed past her ear. It smacked the wall behind her with a wet schlop.

“I DON’T KNOW!! ROBOT MIDLIFE CRISIS??” Ryan hissed, army-crawling toward her like they were in the middle of a war film. He did it surprisingly well. “He glitched during the lunch rush and now he’s holding the cheese hostage. He has good aim."

“WHY DID YOU EVEN GIVE HIM CHEESE?!”

“I DIDN’T! HE FOUND IT!”

The bot spun in slow, menacing circles in the middle of the room, one servomotor clearly giving out with each turn. It twitched. A single arm raised, holding what might’ve once been a ladle but now looked more like a dairy-coated weapon.

“SAVOR… THE FLAVOR…” it intoned ominously. A low bzzzzzzzzt came from its chest as a few sparks fizzled out of its casing.

(Name) stared, eyeing the bot with well placed wariness, then turned to Ryan.

“Okay, I’m leaving.”

“You can’t leave me here!”

“I was promised a break, Ryan. Not a cheese involved warzone that we’re fully capable of losing.”

“Okay… but here me out—you’re taller, so you can probably reach the circuit kill switch without getting splattered!”

“I’ll kill you first!”

The bot shuddered, paused, then, with the intensity of a Shakespearean villain mid-silioguy, began chanting in a rising tone:

“HOT. CHEESE. HOT. CHEESE. HOT. CHEESE—”

“WHY IS HE CHANTING?!” (Name) cried, throwing a roll of paper towels like it might do something. Yet, all it managed to do was bounce harmlessly off the bot’s dome.

“HE DOES THAT WHEN HE’S ABOUT TO—”

The cheese valve burst.

A steam of sticky yellow horror launched from the bot’s serving nozzle and coated the floor like a fire hose of regret. (Name) and Ryan screamed. Cheesus also let out something close to one, but it was unclear. Maybe it glitched? Either way, someone was definitely crying.

She launched herself behind a crate, panting, hair now streaked with orange.

She tilted her head back, let it thunk against the wood and groaned. “I hate this job.”

“Join the club,” Ryan wheezed, flopping dramatically beside her. “There’s a support group. We meet Tuesdays. Right after Cheesus’ reboot.”

“I’d rather not.”

“That’s fine too.”

A moment of silence passed. Heavy. Reverent. The kind of silence born only from mutual suffering—and the faint drip… drip… drip of cheese slowly sliding down the vending machine in the corner.

Then they both broke.

It started with a snort—hers. Then Ryan cracked, and within seconds, they were wheezing, laughing so hard it hurt. They doubled over behind the crate like they’d just survived an apocalypse made of nacho cheese.

“We’re gonna end up dying in here,” Ryan gasped, wiping at his face with the edge of his already-ruined shirt. It only succeeded in smearing the mess more.

“And it’s gonna smell so bad,” (Name) wheezed. “Tell my family I loved them.”

“Tell my therapist I tried.”

“You don’t have a therapist.”

“...Tell Cheesus, then.”

They collapsed again, laughter echoing through the small food stand, covered in artificial cheese goo. The bot in the background continued to make small jerking movements, spinning on occasion, softly repeating: “...cheese product… delicious… thank you…”

Just outside the door, the chaos of Gator Golf carried on—music looping, kids screaming, golf balls flying—but inside? In this shared moment of madness?

They were comrades. Battle-worn, united. Possibly traumatized forever.

And her fifteen-minute break? Yeah, that was long gone.

The yelling must’ve drawn attention, because, yeah, of course it did. They’d been screeching like two feral racoons in a Chuck E. Cheese dumpster fire. Probably scared a few customers, or scarred them. Probably both.

Luckily, Ryan had the one brain cell between them and actually used it—having yanked the metal shutter down over the food counter window just before Cheesus had reached peak aggression. The sizzling cheese stream had hit the shutter with a dramatic splat instead of a guest’s face, which honestly? A win.

So when a sharp, heavy knock rattled the metal from the other side, both (Name) and Ryan flinched like they just got shot.

THUNK THUNK THUNK.

“Customer?” Ryan whispered.

“Customer with a vengeance," (Name) whispered back, now clutching onto a bag of croutons like a weapon—where she found it, the mystery shall forever remain unsolved.

They both froze, staring at the shutter like it might explode. Cheesus had quieted—still twitching in the corner, softly mumbling about “flavor profiles” and “spice integration,” but neither of them dared move.

Then, from behind them, the staff-only door slowly swung open. It creaked out a groan that was kind of dramatic and usually reserved for haunted mansions or final girls about to make bad choices.

Ryan yelped.

(Name) spun, heart leaping directly into her throat, and promptly threw the croutons.

Standing in the doorway was Rico—the daytime security guard. Bright orange vest, half-lidded eyes. The expression of “I don’t care enough to stop you, but I will judge you for it.”

He watched as the croutons hit his chest and fell to a heap onto the disgustingly coated floor. He looked around the room like he’d just walked in on a crime scene. A… greasy, lactose-laced crime scene.

His gaze flicked from the cheese splatter on the walls, to Cheesus—who had begun slowly rotating in place and chanting “Nacho… Nacho… Nacho…” like a cult leader—then landed on (Name), whose hair now looked like it had been styled by a mozzarella cannon.

They all froze.

Rico opened his mouth like he had a question, then paused. He closed his mouth again.

Then, without breaking eye contact—

“Nope. Not today.”

He stepped back out. The door clicked shut behind him.

Ryan and (Name) sat there in stunned silence, still halfway hiding behind the crate, then slowly turned to each other.

“...Honestly fair,” Ryan muttered.

“I would’ve left too,” (Name) agreed.

The quiet couldn’t have lasted more than a minute—filled with questions of “How are we going to clean this up?” from Ryan, and an indifferent “We?” from (Name)---when the door slammed open again like it was kicked.

Yet, this time, it wasn’t Rico.

It was Montgomery Gator.

Six feet of green, muscle-bound gator beefcake, standing there framed in the dim, swampy glow of Gator Golf’s neon like he’d just spawned in for a mid-level boss fight. His shades were pushed high on his snout, jaw set in a way that said somebody here is about to regret their life choices, claws flexing at his sides with the slow precision of someone very aware of his own intimidation factor.

And the worst part? He looked like he’d been summoned.

Rico followed him in, dragging his feet and wearing an expression like he’d been personally wronged by the universe. He tossed a limp shrug toward the chaos, muttering something that could be roughly translated as Don’t look at me. He was bored anyway.

Monty’s yellow eyes swept the room with a slow, deliberate weight.

First, they paused on Ryan, standing there, somehow both cheese-slick and wide-eyed, his glasses crooked on his face like they’d given up halfway through the battle.

Then they landed on (Name), who, honestly, looked wrecked in the truest sense—shirt clinging in ways it was never meant to, hair matted with dairy shrapnel, cheeks blotchy from effort and humiliation. She was currently trying to scrape processed cheese out of her ear canal with the kind of casualness that was fooling exactly no one.

And finally, they paused on Cheesus—the bot had stopped spinning entirely. Its head tilted slightly to one side, mouth hanging open just enough to release a faint, haunting Gregorian hum.

“...what the hell am I looking at.”

(Name) made a sound—somewhere between a cough and a splutter—and went rigid, like embarrassment had frozen her in place. First came the blush, hot and rapid; then came the sweat, beading along her hairline in a way that felt cruelly timed.

She whirled around, instinctively trying to hide her mussed up self from Monty’s gaze.

Unfortunately, all that did was reveal the back of her uniform—the one with his face printed in bold cartoon style across the shoulders. And, because fate was in a particularly funny mood today, that section was the only part of her not painted in orange cheese.

A silence stretched long enough for her to feel it in her bones.

Ryan broke it with a casual wave. “Sup, Monts.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Monty’s voice was low, gravelly—like thunder that wasn’t sure if it wanted to roll in or just pass overhead. Not angry, exactly. Just vaguely irritated, the way someone might sound if they knew they were the coolest person in the room and didn’t have to try proving it.

He stepped in, boots thumping against the floor, tail lightly hitting the near forgotten bag of croutons, and glanced around like he couldn’t decide if this was hilarious or beneath him.

“Why’s there cheese on… everything.”

“Ask Cheesus,” Ryan said with a straight face, gesturing to the bot—who continued its spinning, now slowly spinning in a puddle of its own goo, whispering a glitched “Say cheese… say cheese… say cheeeeeeese…”

Monty turned his eyes back to (Name).

She was trying to subtly scrub a glob of cheese off her forehead using a napkin that was also—tragically—covered in more cheese.

He pushed his shades down just far enough to peer over the top.

(Name) went utterly still. She could feel him looking at her—like her heartbeat had just decided to set up camp in her throat.

Then, in a tone that sounded dangerously close to amused—

“...Nice shirt.”

(Name) wanted to die. Immediately. Preferably in a way that erased all memory of this from everyone present.

She tried—really tried—to pull herself together. To act like she was chill. Like she wasn’t dripping in queso and emotional damage.

She straightened up, wiped her hands on the least sticky part of her pants, and managed to stammer, “You, uh—you always come in this hot?”

What.

She blinked, Ryan choked, even Cheesus gave a mechanical wheeze like it was trying not to laugh.

Monty raised a brow so high it nearly launched off his head. The pause that followed felt like an eternity—long enough for (Name) to fantasize about quitting on the spot and starting a new life in some place where gators were outlawed.

And then… he snorted.

Like, actually snorted. A low, rumbly, barely-contained laugh that escaped before he could stop it. He looked away, smirking, sharp teeth flashing under his shades.

“Yeah,” he said. “Guess I do.”

Ryan coughed into his palm, struggling not to laugh at the scene he was witnessing. She glared at him with a nasty looking side eye, and watched in silent satisfaction as he turned away slightly.

Rico, who had been watching this entire thing like it physically hurt him, pinched the bridge of his nose. He muttered something under his breath and shook his head before he looked back up.

Monty was still watching (Name) as she floundered for a second, his tail flicking ever so slightly as she avoided eye contact. Ryan coughed again, and Rico had enough.

He was getting too old for this shit.

“Ya done yet?”

Monty just shrugged, already turning back toward the door like the whole ordeal had been a minor Tuesday inconvenience. He kicked the crouton bag to the side before he crossed the threshold. “Sure, don't really like this stuff anyway.”

Rico took a step back, getting ready to retreat himself when Monty stopped. The gator looked over his shoulder, head tilted just slightly as his hair flopped into his eyes. He smirked.

“Careful, darlin’. Ya might melt faster than the cheese.”

(Name) stared wide eyed at the Glamrock, mouth propped open just enough as she was pushed into speechlessness. It was silent for a whole second.

Then: internal screaming.

EXTERNAL screaming, maybe. Couldn’t be sure. Everything was heat and shame and Cheesus please take the wheel.

She blinked up at him. Couldn’t form words. Her brain had been scrambled like a Denny’s special and all she could do was stand there, face bright red and eyes wide, as he walked out like he didn’t just wreck her entire nervous system.

Ryan watched her short circuit in real time, watched as she buried her face in her hands and let out a long suffering groan, and watched as she sunk further into herself. He piped up, “That was… something.”

She promptly collapsed behind the counter.

While her fifteen-minute break had been a bust—and her snack dreams shattered beyond repair—(Name) came to a grim conclusion: she was never going to be able to eat, smell, or even think about cheese ever again without breaking into a cold sweat.

Apparently, the Nacho Cheese Incident was a well-known hazard in Gator Golf’s residential food court. A recurring tragedy. A workplace legend passed down like a cursed folktale. And the gift shop attendants? Always the chosen sacrifices.

Now, reeking faintly of processed dairy and the crushing weight of defeat, hair still strung with half-dried goo, and clothes just barely better than before, she was once again chained to the counter of Gator Gifts—an unwilling cheese martyr to the cause.

She was stuck in a mental loop, and not the fun kind.

Oh my god, I just spoke to Monty.

…Oh my god, I just spoke to Monty.

Same words, entirely different vibes. One was the high-pitched squeal of her inner fangirl, the other was the mortifying reality of having done it while dressed like a rejected pizza topping.

Her face was still warm—borderline feverish—and the embarrassment sat heavy in her stomach like a bad carnival hot dog. If there had been any chance of friendship to be had between her and the gator before, it had now been dragged to the bottom of the barrel, rolled around in the mud, and then set on fire for good measure. She let out a long, slow sigh, the kind that deflated her whole posture, and tuned into the sound of a group of kids shuffling past the gift shop archway.

Their sneakers squeaked against the tile. Someone giggled. A golf club clinked against a railing. The normal chaos of Gator Golf carried on as if she hadn’t just lived through a cheese-based war crime.

After Monty had sauntered out like he hadn’t just delivered the verbal equivalent of a cardiac arrest, Rico stood in the doorway, arms folded, staring at the aftermath. He didn’t look impressed. He didn’t even look surprised. Just… tired. Like a man who had seen far too much for one Tuesday.

He shook his head slowly, the movement small but loaded with judgment, and glanced between the two of them.

Ryan offered him a close-lipped smile and an innocent shrug—the same kind of expression you’d give after knocking over a vase in a store and pretending it was already like that.

“…Can I call in a custodian bot?” Ryan asked after a beat, like it was a normal request and not an immediate cause for concern.

The moment the words custodian bot hit the air, (Name) snapped upright like she’d been hit with a taser.

“Ohhh no,” she blurted, already backing toward the exit. “Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope—”

And then she was gone—darting out of the staff room in a brisk, cheese-slicked march, tossing a quick wave over her shoulder toward Ryan without even slowing down.

Rico tracked her with his eyes, squinting slightly as he watched her disappear around the corner. His gaze then dropped to the floor.

There, smeared in vivid, tragic streaks, was the trail she’d left behind—faint orange boot prints marking every step of her escape like some bizarre dairy crime scene.

He exhaled through his nose, low and weary. “…Gonna need more than a mop for that.”

She stomped her way back toward her little nook of a gift shop, every step a mix between a march and an accidental ice-skating routine. The cheese-slick soles of her shoes betrayed her with every shift of weight, making her slip and slide like the floor was conspiring against her.

She muttered curses under her breath the whole way—low, sharp ones when she almost lost her balance, louder ones when she actually did. A couple of parents glanced her way with polite disapproval, the kind that said this is a family environment, while passing kids broke into giggles, clearly enjoying the spectacle of the cheese-covered staff lady skating her way down the path.

By the time she reached the archway into Gator Gifts, she was breathing a little harder than she wanted to admit and more than ready to pretend the last fifteen minutes of her life hadn’t happened.

She slipped inside, scanned the shop to make sure no one was paying attention, and made a beeline for one of the clothing racks. Without hesitation, she plucked a clean Monty T-shirt from its hanger, ducked behind the counter, and changed with the speed and stealth of someone committing a crime they knew would be forgiven if they just didn’t get caught in the act.

Halfway through yanking the cheese-slick fabric over her head, she heard it.

That voice. Low. Smooth. A little too smug.

Careful, darlin’. Ya might melt faster than the cheese.

Her face went hot all over again—cheeks, ears, even the back of her neck—and she nearly got herself tangled in the clean shirt just trying to rush it on.

The old shirt—damp, sticky, and reeking faintly of nacho purgatory—got balled up and tossed somewhere across the room. She didn’t care where it landed.

Out of sight, out of mind. Preferably out of her life forever.

Chapter Text

Monty lined up his shot like it was the most natural thing in the world—as if this little slice of Gator Golf was his personal kingdom, and the club was an extension of his own claws. The grip felt perfect in his hands: balanced, solid, familiar. He could feel the weight of the moment in his bones, the subtle hum of adrenaline buzzing just beneath the surface.

Just off to his right, a small crowd of kids had gathered—wide eyes glued to him, whispers floating on the air like some kind of urban legend unfolding in real time. Monty was on fire tonight. Every putt had sunk clean. Every swing had that razor-sharp precision that made jaws drop. The kind of flawless streak that could turn a casual game into a performance worthy of its own fan club.

And yeah, he was absolutely leaning into it. Who wouldn’t? He caught a kid muttering, “Dude, he’s undefeated.” Another swore Monty was “better than that YouTube golf guy,” the one with the trick shots and viral hits. Monty smirked, fangs catching the neon light as he adjusted his stance, tail flicking lazily behind him like a metronome keeping perfect time.

Shoulders loose, eyes narrowed but calm, he lined up his next shot. The little white ball gleamed against the green, waiting to obey. He took a slow, smooth inhale, filling his lungs with the humid air of the Plex. The exhale was even smoother—controlled, steady.

Then—

“Yo.”

The voice crashed through his focus like a fire alarm in a library. Sharp, jarring, and way too close for comfort.

Monty’s hand twitched instantly. His grip shifted just a fraction, enough to disrupt his carefully cultivated rhythm. He glanced sideways—

Rico was standing there, all bright orange vest and deadpan expression, way too close, like he’d just popped into existence from thin air. The guy had zero chill, and zero sense of personal space tonight.

Monty’s brain caught up a half-second too late.

The club swung forward—

Whiff.

Not just a miss, but a complete disaster. The ball sailed wide, missing the hole by a mile, bouncing off the edge of the green and rolling straight into the fake swamp grass. It settled there, limp and defeated, like a tiny white turtle refusing to move.

The kids gasped, the sound sharp and surprised—like they’d just watched their hero trip on stage or botch a flawless solo.

Monty froze mid-swing, jaw tight, trying to swallow the sudden wave of embarrassment flooding his circuits. He could practically feel the mental recording devices lining up—this was gonna be TikTok gold.

Monty shot Rico a look that was half annoyed, half “Really, man?” before muttering under his breath, “…The hell you doin’ sneakin’ up on me like that?” His voice carried a lazy drawl, thick with the kind of irritation that only came from having your perfect rhythm interrupted.

He straightened up, letting the weight of his club settle comfortably on his shoulder, and glared at Rico over the top of his shades, those sharp, reptilian eyes narrowing like twin lasers. The kids gathered nearby let out a quiet “ooh,” the sort of impressed gasp reserved for minor curses from their favorite glamrocker. Monty didn’t bother to acknowledge it.

Rico, for his part, didn’t even flinch. No sign of guilt or hesitation. Just a casual shrug and a jerk of his thumb toward the food stand. “We’ve got… a situation,” he said, voice deadpan like he was announcing the weather rather than an urgent problem.

Monty arched a brow, genuinely confused. Why was the security guard coming to him about this? “What kinda situation?” he asked, crossing his arms and shifting his weight to one leg.

Rico’s eyes narrowed with that slow, deliberate intensity he always got when he was trying to pawn off trouble. “…The cheesy kind.”

Monty rolled his eyes so hard it felt like they might pop right out of his skull. Then, with a long-suffering sigh, he huffed and grinned like he was already resigning himself to whatever ridiculous mess awaited.

“Alright, lil’ hotshots—got somethin’ else for ya,” Monty drawled, leaning casually on his club like this interruption was just another part of the show. He launched into a lazy, half-baked story about some “secret treasure” supposedly hidden between the pirate ship hole and the windmill. He tossed out vague clues, mysterious hints, and just enough intrigue to hook the kids. The quest was barely even a quest—more like an excuse to keep the little troublemakers occupied while the “cheese situation” sorted itself out.

The kids lit up like fireworks, scrambling off with sneakers pounding the floor, their laughter and excited chatter echoing around the room. Monty caught snippets of their conversation as they disappeared—“Did you see his face?!” and “He never misses!”—and his tail gave an involuntary twitch of irritation.

His eyes locked on Rico with a slow, lingering stare that promised retribution.

Rico, as usual, was maddeningly unbothered. The man stood there like a rock—unshaken, unbothered, and entirely unapologetic for crashing Monty’s flawless streak. If anything, his smirk was a challenge: come at me again, I dare you.

Monty let out a long breath, trudging forward with deliberate, heavy steps. The sound of his boots echoed against the fake rock walls, a steady rhythm that mirrored the irritation thrumming through him.

Without bothering to look, he dropped his club into the nearest stand, the sharp clang punctuating the moment like a drumbeat of frustration.

Crossing his arms, he planted himself firmly in front of Rico and waited. If the guy had barged in mid-swing and ruined his perfect run, the least he could do was explain exactly what the hell this “cheese incident” was all about.

Rico didn’t even take the bait. No explanations, no teasing hints—just a slow tilt of his head toward the path ahead, like a silent command. “C’mon,” he muttered, voice flat as ever. No details. No follow-up. Just a simple, curt invitation to follow him and figure it out on the go.

What a load of bull.

Monty’s tail flicked sharply in annoyance, the irritation bubbling just beneath the surface. But he knew better than to argue—so he fell into step behind Rico without a word.

Together, they made their way toward the food stand, the pace measured and unhurried. Not because there was any real rush to get there, but because neither of them wanted to be the one to speed things up. It was a slow, stubborn shuffle, the kind of quiet march that said I’m not thrilled, but I’m here anyway.

It was an unlikely pair, for sure: Rico, the perpetually tired security guard, dragging his feet like he’d already been through ten lifetimes today, and Monty—the rockstar gator, shoulders slouched just enough to mask the tension under his skin, wearing that familiar default scowl. Not quite a full-on scowl, unless you caught him in the wrong mood.

Which, admittedly, happened more often than anyone liked to admit.

But right now? He was definitely scowling. Deep in that grumpy, brooding way that made people want to give him space—unless they were brave enough to deal with the fire.

As they passed through the atrium, families milled around, oblivious to the undercurrents brewing between the two men. Monty couldn’t help but notice the subtle shifts in the atmosphere around him. Parents whispered quietly to each other, casting furtive glances in his direction, like he was some sort of celebrity sighting. Which, technically, wasn’t wrong—he was a star here at the Plex—but it was a spotlight he didn’t always enjoy.

A handful of kids squealed excitedly as he passed, bouncing on their toes and shouting his name like they’d just seen their hero. Others shrank back behind their parents, wide-eyed and unsure about the giant gator clomping past them with an aura of cool indifference.

Monty gave them the bare minimum: an acknowledging grunt here, a lazy flick of his claws in a half-wave there. But he never slowed down. He wasn’t in the mood to play the good-natured mascot right now—especially not after Rico had torpedoed his flawless streak and stolen the spotlight for all the wrong reasons.

Monty could already hear the rumor mill gearing up in his head—“Did you see Monty totally blow that shot?” “No way he’s undefeated now!” His reputation, his livelihood, on the line. And for what? A dumb cheese situation?

He grunted, a low, frustrated sound that echoed in the hall. His teeth clenched tighter than usual.

Rico glanced back, eyebrow raised like, You good, man?

Monty just glared back through his dark shades, wordlessly saying, This is on you.

And with that, they kept moving, the weight of unspoken tension thick enough to fill the whole damn Plex.

By the time Monty and Rico finally reached the food stand, the air had turned thick with that unmistakable, sharp, almost biting scent of cheddar. It clung to everything—like a fog made of cheese dust that got into your nostrils and refused to leave. Monty’s nose wrinkled instinctively, jaw tightening against the urge to scrunch up his face in disgust. Just breathing near it felt like swallowing a brick of processed cheese.

He glanced down at Rico, silently begging for some kind of explanation or at least a clue as to what kind of disaster they were walking into. But Rico’s expression stayed as deadpan as ever, eyes narrowed in that familiar “figure it out yourself” look. His hand flicked lazily toward the door, a gesture that screamed, Well?

Monty rolled his eyes with a sharp snap of irritation.

He kicked open the door like it owed him money, boots thudding hard against the floor as he strode inside with all the subtlety of a freight train.

The room hit him like a wall—smells swirling in a noxious cocktail of burnt plastic, fryer grease, and something he hoped was actually cheese but smelled suspiciously like an industrial chemical. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, flickering just enough to make the chaos look even more dramatic.

His eyes scanned the mess—scattered food wrappers, a tipped-over soda cup, some suspiciously sticky stains trailing across the floor like a map of the chaos.

And then they landed on her.

Not the culprit, Monty was almost certain—he’d bet his bass guitar that she wasn’t the one who blew whatever disaster had just gone down in this tiny food kingdom. But definitely the most interesting thing in the room.

She was tucked halfway behind the counter, trying like hell to disappear into the shadows as if that would make Monty’s glare pass right through her. She might’ve pulled off the vanishing act if it weren’t for one glaring detail—she was wearing his face.

Not literally, of course. But on her shirt, right where everyone could see it, was a giant, graphic print of Monty’s own face—teeth bared in that signature, slightly cocky grin. And beneath it, bold black letters screamed STAFF, marking her as one of the crew, part of the system he was supposed to trust.

Monty’s jaw clenched tight, eyes narrowing with a mix of disbelief and reluctant amusement.

Well, this just got a whole lot more interesting.

Monty’s smirk curled slow and sharp, that signature grin stretching across his snout like he’d just found the perfect punchline. Oh, he knew exactly where that shirt came from—someone had to have swiped it from the merch closet or snagged it during one of those “staff appreciation” giveaways. It was just his luck that someone was actually wearing it while hiding behind a counter like a startled critter.

“...Nice shirt,” he drawled, letting the words hang in the thick air between them long enough to watch her reaction. The way her eyes flickered away, the faint flush creeping up her cheeks, told him he’d struck a chord.

Monty didn’t expect her to talk back—not really. But when she did, it was all awkward and stumbling, like she’d tripped over her own tongue.

“You—do you—always, uh… come in this hot?” she stammered, voice barely more than a nervous squeak.

Monty blinked.

What the hell?

For a solid beat, his brain just… blue-screened. No one talked to him like that. Fans screamed his name or shrieked when he messed up. Coworkers rolled their eyes or grumbled under their breath. Security barked orders and cracked jokes—but nobody just said something like that, especially not someone like her.

Then it clicked, slow and satisfying. She was flustered. Flustered because of him.

Oh yeah, Monty could absolutely work with that.

He snorted softly, shaking his head with an amused roll of his eyes and a tilt of his head that said, You’re gonna regret that question, sugar.

“Yeah,” he drawled, dragging the word out like a challenge, voice low and teasing, the kind that could melt ice or spark a fire. “Guess I do.”

Somewhere behind him, Rico muttered something under his breath—probably a snide comment about the whole scene. Monty didn’t even bother to catch it. And Ryan? Well, Ryan had his own voice too, apparently, but neither one was worth his attention.

No, his focus stayed locked on her—the girl hiding behind the counter with a shirt that wore his face like a secret badge.

Monty leaned just a little closer, claws tapping idly against the counter, eyes sparkling with a mix of mischief and something softer beneath the bravado.

Monty’s tail flicked in slow, lazy arcs behind him, each movement deliberate and unhurried—like he had all the time in the world to stand there and watch her squirm. The way her cheeks flushed deeper with every passing second was downright mesmerizing, that rosy bloom spreading across her skin like wildfire. It was the kind of reaction he could savor, a delicious little victory wrapped in embarrassment and something that almost looked like admiration.

She was staring at the floor, eyes wide and flickering nervously, half hiding and half just existing in this awkward space between them. Her posture was tense, shoulders hunched slightly as if trying to make herself smaller, and yet, out of the corner of her eye, Monty caught the sharp glare she was throwing at Ryan, who was standing just beyond her reach. That mix of embarrassment tangled with irritation painted a perfect picture—like she was half ready to bolt, and half ready to snap back with a sharp comeback.

Monty’s mouth twitched into a subtle smirk, the kind that only came from watching a scene play out exactly how he wanted it to. It was perfect.

When she didn’t say a word back, didn’t even try to retort, he gave a casual shrug and spun on his heel. His boot connected with a bag of croutons lying near the edge of the counter, sending it skittering across the floor with a satisfying rustle as it tumbled into the shadows.

“Sure,” he said over his shoulder, voice dripping with playful sarcasm. “Don’t really like this stuff anyway.”

He paused mid-step, casting a quick glance back over his shoulder. The light caught his shades just enough to hide his eyes, but she knew—knew without a doubt—that he was looking right at her.

And just like that, she froze again. Like she’d been caught doing something she definitely shouldn’t be doing.

Monty’s smirk deepened, widening with the kind of teasing promise that made the air between them crackle.

With that, he turned and walked away before the moment could stretch any longer, leaving the air thick with unspoken tension. The door clicked shut behind him, Rico following silently. The two of them stepped away from the food stand, the quiet hum of the Plex swallowing the lingering buzz of what had just happened.

The mini golf course was still alive with noise—families scattered here and there, kids laughing as they lined up their shots, parents exchanging tired smiles and tired glances, some clutching half-eaten snacks while others hovered just long enough to throw curious looks toward the food stand they’d just left behind. The faint clink of golf balls rolling over plastic turf mixed with distant chatter and the occasional shriek of excitement. It was the kind of busy, chaotic scene that made the whole place feel alive and buzzing, even late into the afternoon.

Monty glanced sideways at Rico, who had suddenly come to a halt mid-stride. The security guard was already absorbed in his phone, thumbs tapping away like the world outside this little corner of the Plex didn’t exist. Monty wondered, half to himself, if whatever they’d just ‘handled’ could even be called handled—since, technically, neither of them had really done much besides exchange a few words and stir the pot.

“Who was that?” Monty asked, voice low and rough, his gaze drifting back toward the food stand, where the aftermath of the mess still lingered like an unanswered question.

Rico didn’t even look up, fingers still flying across the screen. “No idea,” he muttered, tone casual but with a hint of curiosity underneath. “Never seen her before. But yeah, looked pretty chummy—like she wasn’t exactly hiding from me, if you catch my drift.”

There was a story here. A weird, tangled story wrapped up in awkward glances, half-formed sentences, and that ridiculous shirt with his face on it. Monty’s tail flicked once, slow and deliberate, like a pendulum marking a new tick in his mind’s clock. He let out a thoughtful hum as they continued walking away from the food stand, the faint sounds of laughter and bouncing golf balls fading behind them.

Monty figured that was that—just some random staffer, probably fresh to the Plex, the kind who’d blend into the background like faded wallpaper and forgotten birthday balloons. No name stuck in his brain, and honestly, not worth wasting precious brain cells on. He had bigger things to focus on, like keeping his streak alive on the mini golf course and dodging whatever weirdness this place threw his way next.

But then, next day? There she was again.

Not close-up, no chance for a proper introduction or even a glance that said more than “hey, I exist.” She was way across the concourse, carefully threading her way toward the carousel, balancing a tray stacked high with sodas. Not just balancing, but like a seasoned pro, weaving smoothly through a sugar-fueled herd of kids who looked like they might bounce into orbit any second. Monty wasn’t even paying her much mind—until their eyes locked for a fraction of a second.

And then she did this weird little half-freeze, like her brain hiccupped and short-circuited at once. It was like watching a glitch in the matrix. Without missing a beat, she pivoted hard, slicing through a crowd of parents like she had a secret mission, then poof—vanished into the sea of people.

Monty blinked slowly behind his shades, the gears in his head clicking into overdrive.

“…Huh,” he muttered to himself, tail flicking in quiet amusement.

The next day, she popped up again. This time near the gift shop, a box at her feet looking heavy enough to crush a small animal. The same oversized shirt hung on her shoulders like she was trying to disappear into it. Her hands cradled a soft gator plush, like it was a secret weapon or some kind of emotional shield.

She stood in front of an empty shelf, eyes scanning and calculating how to arrange the merch in the most eye-catching way possible. After a brief hesitation, she plopped the plush on the shelf with zero finesse—half-haphazard, half-desperate—and took a cautious step back.

That’s when her eyes caught his—peeking over a display of plush gators.

And immediately—instantly—she decided the most urgent, earth-shattering event in her life was suddenly happening in the farthest corner of the store.

Monty didn’t move. Didn’t call out. Just leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, tail curling slow and lazy behind him like he was settling in for a long watch.

And the way she scrambled, almost tripping over a rack of keychains to get away? Yeah, that caught his attention.

By the third time, Monty wasn’t just noticing. He was looking for it.

She was rolling down the main drag with another employee, both of them pushing a cart stacked high with boxes headed toward the food court. The sound of the wheels clattering against the tiled floor was steady, a rhythmic backdrop to the buzzing atmosphere of the Plex during its busiest hours. Monty was parked nearby, leaning casually against a sturdy column, killing time before sound check. One claw tapped absentmindedly, keeping the beat of the bassline humming through his mind—deep, steady, like the pulse of the whole place.

His eyes flicked up just in time to catch her glance his way. The moment their eyes met, something shifted. Her mouth did this quick little press—tight and deliberate, like she was biting back words or feelings she wasn’t ready to spill. It wasn’t a smile, and it sure as hell wasn’t a frown. It was… something else. Something complicated, layered, like a secret held just beneath the surface.

Then, almost on instinct, she spun the cart sharply in a whole new direction—away from him. The other employee with her let out a startled shout, surprised by the sudden detour. Monty’s brow shot up, the muscles twitching with mild amusement and intrigue. His tail swished wide and slow along the polished tiles, each movement deliberate, like a predator circling a mystery it was dying to unravel.

He wasn’t fooled by what this wasn’t. It wasn’t simple shyness—Monty knew shyness when he smelled it, that jittery little nervous hum that fluttered like trapped butterflies. Yeah, she still had that nervous energy, the same as before, but now there were layers under it. Threads of something deeper, something sharp and tangled that made his claws twitch with curiosity and maybe, just maybe, a little bit of something else. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on yet.

She kept moving out of his way, avoiding his path like she was trying to disappear, but Monty couldn’t tear his eyes away. It was like watching a secret dance, one she wasn’t even fully aware she was performing. Each time she dodged him, his interest only grew sharper, his instincts telling him there was more beneath the surface than she was willing to show.

And for some reason—some stubborn part of him that refused to let it go—he couldn’t stop watching.

By the fourth sighting, things had officially jumped off the “weird” train and were barreling straight into “what-the-heck-is-going-on” territory.

Monty was cruising down the side hallway near Gator Golf, one ear tuned to his phone’s playlist, the other riding the rumble of some sticky bass riff that seemed to echo through his bones. His boots thudded against the tile in sync with the music, every step lazy but sure, like he owned the whole place.

Then, out of nowhere, she was coming toward him, head down, fingers flying over her phone screen like she was trying to swipe away the entire world all at once. The energy around her was frantic but focused—like she was dodging invisible bullets or running from a ghost only she could see.

And then—bam—she looked up. Right at him. Just like that, like she’d accidentally run into a wall she never saw coming.

His heart stuttered for a split second—okay, maybe it skipped a beat, or two. Probably more from the surprise than anything else, but still. His boots slowed their steady rhythm, clacking a little louder on the tile as he instinctively paused, caught off guard by the directness of her gaze.

No hesitation, no stammer, no panicked darting of eyes—just this smooth, sharp pivot to the right. Like a dancer hitting a perfectly timed turn, she slipped straight into an unlocked supply closet as if she’d rehearsed that exact move a million times before. The door closed behind her with a soft click that seemed way too final.

Monty froze mid-step, every muscle tensing, eyes locked on that door like it held the answers to some secret he’d been hunting without knowing it. The hallway’s usual hum dropped away, and the silence around him felt louder than any bass drop.

He blinked slowly, once. Twice. Then just stared, tail twitching with impatient curiosity, wondering exactly what the hell he’d just witnessed.

A few days later, there she was again—this time balancing a tray piled high with hot, fresh churros. They looked like little golden sticks of pure, cinnamon-sugar bliss, still steaming, the smell practically wafting over the whole food court. Monty’s mouth watered on instinct, his tail twitching with low-key hunger. A churro was no joke—sacrilegious to bail on one without a damn good reason.

He let a slow, crooked grin spread across his face, half hoping to snag one, half just wanting an excuse to talk to her. Maybe offer a friendly “Hey, those look fire” or a cheeky “Save me one, yeah?”

But then, as she moved past the food court, her eyes suddenly locked onto him—leaning cool and casual against a pillar like he owned the place. And the instant she caught sight of him, everything about her tensed up.

She stiffened like she’d just seen a ghost—or, in Monty’s case, a six-foot tall gator with an ego as big as his smile. Her gaze flicked to her wrist, like she was checking a watch she didn’t even wear, just to buy herself a moment.

And then, without missing a beat, she spun on her heel and went the exact opposite way from the churro stand, as if the mere presence of those cinnamon sticks and him in the same vicinity was some kind of conspiracy.

Monty’s jaw actually dropped.

By now, he was keeping score. Every weird dodge, every tight little press of her lips, every sudden disappearance—it all added up to something bigger. And curiosity was officially lighting a fire in his gut.

The very next day, he was walking out of rehearsal when he spotted her again, this time at the far end of the atrium. She spotted him too—and instantly ducked behind a giant inflatable Freddy.

Monty stood there, arms folded, tail curling in this slow, lazy spiral behind him. The big Freddy bobbed slightly as she shuffled her sneakers side to side, trying to squeeze herself out of view, blending into the ridiculous mascot’s oversized grin.

He could see every little twitch of her foot, every breath she held as she tried not to get caught.

Monty’s teeth flashed in a slow, amused grin.

This wasn’t just skittishness anymore. Nah, this was a full-on pattern—like a dance she was trying not to be part of. And Monty? He absolutely hated patterns he didn’t understand.

The nervous energy was still there—sharp and unmistakable, like the constant sizzle of fryer grease hanging heavy in the air near the food court. Monty could pick it up from a mile away. But beneath that jittery hum? It wasn’t fear. Definitely not dislike. No, this was something else entirely. Like she was trying not to get caught—like she was playing a game where every glance, every step away from him was a calculated move in a slow, invisible chess match.

By the seventh time he caught her slipping away, dodging, disappearing like some kind of shadow, Monty stopped pretending it was just a random coincidence. Nah, this wasn’t happenstance anymore. This was deliberate.

Now, he was hunting for it. Not in some creepy way, no. More like a gator’s natural instinct when curiosity sinks its teeth in deep and won’t let go. Once Monty got locked onto something, it clung to him like scales on skin—impossible to shake loose.

She could keep running if she wanted. He’d keep watching. Watching until she slipped up, or maybe until she decided to stop running at all.

Because sooner or later, Monty was gonna find out why.

And knowing Monty? Once he’s got his claws in a mystery, he doesn’t back down. Not until he gets the whole story.

Soon enough, it happened again.

She was weaving through the Saturday rush in the atrium like she was trying to disappear into the chaos itself. Crowds of families, kids dragging oversized balloons, couples laughing over cotton candy—none of it seemed to slow her down. Monty watched from the mezzanine above, leaning casually on the railing, his gaze locked on her every move.

She glanced up, caught sight of him, and—just like before—her whole body froze for a heartbeat, like someone flipped a switch inside her brain. Then, like a reflex, she whipped out her phone as if she’d just gotten the most urgent text of her life. Her fingers moved fast, thumb swiping through the screen, but her eyes stayed sharp, darting around.

Without hesitation, she spun sharply toward the escalators, blending with the flow of people rushing past.

Monty straightened up, feeling the tension in his joints echo beneath the mezzanine. His tail flicked once, sharp and deliberate—a predator locking focus.

Alright. That was it.

“What the hell is goin’ on with you?” he muttered under his breath, voice low enough that only he could hear it.

Without waiting for her to vanish again, Monty pushed off the railing and took the stairs two at a time. His boots thudded a steady rhythm against the metal steps, deliberate and measured. He didn’t rush, didn’t need to—there was a weight behind every step, like he already knew this time she wasn’t slipping away.

She was halfway to the escalators by the time he hit the main floor. She didn’t even glance back—too busy pretending that the glowing rectangle in her hand was the most important thing in the world.

“Hey.”

Monty’s voice cut through the noise of the atrium like a blade—low, rough, and calm, but impossible to ignore. He didn’t need to shout; his presence was enough to command attention.

She froze mid-stride, the sudden interruption hitting her like a shockwave.

Monty watched as she glanced over her shoulder, and there it was: that wide-eyed, deer-in-the-headlights look, like she’d been caught red-handed doing something she couldn’t explain or maybe didn’t want to explain. Her fingers tightened around the phone, knuckles whitening.

Closing the distance in a few easy strides, Monty stopped just close enough that his shadow spilled over her like a curtain. The scent of cinnamon churros and faint traces of nervous energy mixed in the air between them.

“Y’been avoidin’ me.” His voice was a low growl, more statement than question, carrying that unmistakable edge of both challenge and curiosity.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The cacophony of the crowd blurred into white noise, everything else fading out except the space between them.

Monty’s eyes didn’t waver. He was waiting—waiting for her to say something, to explain, or to run.

But this time, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Her mouth opened, then closed, then opened again like she was searching for the right words but the right words were playing hard to get. “I—what? No, I just—uh—” She stumbled over herself, cheeks flushing a soft pink that made her look even more out of breath than she was.

Monty didn’t rush her. He just let the silence hang for a beat, tail flicking lazily behind him as if it had a mind of its own. His shades dipped just low enough to pin her with the full weight of his gaze—sharp, steady, impossible to dodge.

“Yeah, ya have.” His voice wasn’t accusing, more like stating a fact nobody could argue with. “Pretty sure I lost count after the giant inflatable Freddy stunt.”

She let out this strangled noise that hovered somewhere between a laugh and a choke, like she couldn’t decide if she should be embarrassed or amused. “That—okay, that wasn’t—that was—”

“Uh-huh.” Monty’s smirk crept slow and sharp, that perfect blend of cocky and amused. “You ducked into a supply closet, sweetheart.”

Her face went a shade redder than the neon lights they were standing next to. She looked down, and fiddled with the hem of her shirt like she was trying to disappear into it. “That was—different!” she finally blurted out, voice a little higher than usual.

“How different?” Monty prodded, stepping just a fraction closer, letting the space shrink until she could practically feel the heat from his grin.

“I—” She faltered, fingers twitching as if she had a dozen explanations queued up but none quite ready for prime time. Finally, she shrugged helplessly. “I don’t know!”

Monty chuckled low, the sound rumbling deep in his chest as he leaned down, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial murmur meant just for her. “See, here’s the thing… I don’t think you don’t like me.”

Her breath hitched, caught off guard like he’d just called her bluff. “I—never said I—”

“Mm.” He gave her that slow, knowing look, eyes glinting beneath the shades like he was reading a book she hadn’t even written yet. “Pretty sure I’d smell it if ya did.”

His grin widened, smug and just this side of predatory, like a cat watching a mouse try to keep its cool. “Nah… I think you’re just tryin’ real hard not to stare.”

She bit her lip, cheeks burning hotter now, and for a second, the whole world shrunk down to just the two of them—their breaths mingling, the low buzz of the atrium fading to a distant hum.

Monty felt the shift, that subtle spark of something unspoken sparking between them, like the very air had thickened with possibility.

And just like that, the game changed.

Her eyes darted away, flicking to the floor for a split second before snapping back up to meet his gaze—like she was caught between wanting to argue back and wanting to spontaneously combust on the spot. The kind of look that screams, I swear, I’m not trying to cause trouble… but also, what do I even say?

“That’s—th-that’s not—” she started, her voice trembling just a little, like the words were fighting their way out.

Monty straightened up, his shadow stretching long and deep, swallowing her whole in a quiet kind of power. His grin didn’t falter, but the smirk sharpened just a touch, teasing and deliberate.

“Careful, darlin’,” he drawled, voice low and slow, dragging the words out like velvet. “Keep dodgin’ me like that, and I’m gonna start thinkin’ you’re up to somethin’.”

The way he said it wasn’t a threat—it was more like a challenge, a slow burn that hung in the air between them, daring her to deny it, daring her to stay on the run.

Monty shifted his weight, then stepped aside just enough to let her pass, but he didn’t lose that smug, self-satisfied smirk that said, Yeah, I’m onto you.

Her steps faltered as she moved past him—just a little stumble, like her brain was racing to catch up with her feet.

Monty watched her go, catching the flicker of her eyes darting back for a second before she disappeared into the crowd.

He knew, without a doubt, that she’d be replaying this whole conversation in her head for the rest of the day—every word, every glance, every little smirk.

And honestly? He probably was going to, too.

Chapter Text

(Name) wasn’t sure if she was going crazy, or if Montgomery Gator was actually following her.

It didn’t matter where she went—ducking down side hallways, cutting sharp corners, slipping behind displays—he was there. Not in a jump-scare way, not lurking like some horror movie villain, just… hovering. Always at the edge of her vision, sunglasses tipped just low enough that, if she caught the angle right, she’d see that flicker of red eyes over the rims. A glance so quick she could almost convince herself she imagined it. Almost.

And—okay—it wasn’t bad. Not in the “he’s going to murder me in the storage closet” way. More like… distracting. Unsettling in the way a song gets stuck in your head—not enough to ruin your day, but enough to make you want to punt it straight off a mental cliff. The more she tried to ignore it, the more her brain insisted on replaying it in high definition.

The escalator had been the worst. A slow, mechanical climb to nowhere, the hum of the belt loud in her ears, his presence right there behind her. Too close, too cornered. She’d felt that tight twist in her stomach—the one that makes you blurt something dumb before your common sense catches up. Maybe she had. Maybe she’d said something stupid. Or did something stupid. Or both. She didn’t stick around long enough to find out. The moment they reached the top, she bolted like the Plex was on fire. Smooth. Real smooth.

Since then? No breathing room. The second she thought she’d finally lost him—bam. Monty again. The sunglasses, the posture, the casual I just happen to be here act. She was starting to wonder if she was starring in some hidden camera show.

Ryan, of course, was useless.

“You’re reading into it too much,” he said, stacking plush Freddy’s into a wobbly pyramid without even glancing at her. “He’s probably just doing laps or something.”

When she didn’t answer, he added, “Or maybe he is following you. Maybe he thinks you’ve got something shady going on. Which, honestly? Same. Especially since you basically combust whenever he’s around. You do have that ‘dangerously close to unhinged’ vibe—”

The slap to his arm was immediate and satisfying.

“OW! I’m just saying!” He staggered back, clutching his elbow like she’d dislocated it. Which was rich, coming from someone who should’ve been prepping for the lunch rush instead of sabotaging her plush pyramid.

She shook her head, dragged the stool out from storage, and collapsed behind the counter with all the grace of a dropped marionette. Elbows on the surface, she let her forehead thunk against the fake wood laminate. The sound was dull but oddly satisfying.

Time passed in fuzzy, indistinct chunks. Long enough for her thoughts to spiral—picking apart every glance, every shadow, every flicker of movement in her periphery. Long enough for Ryan’s off-key humming to worm its way under her skin while he happily dismantled what was left of her careful display.

Eventually, she chased him off with a series of sharp glares and a sugar-sweet “Don’t you have a job?” that dripped venom under the surface. He wandered off to whatever department had the misfortune of claiming him today, leaving her alone with the chaos he’d left behind.

No customers yet. Which could mean two things: either she was getting a blessed moment of peace, or the universe was winding up to throw a full day of unpaid therapy sessions at her. She tried not to guess which.

There was plenty to do anyway—mainly undoing the plushy apocalypse Ryan had left behind. She worked her way along the shelves, nudging rows into straight lines, fixing gaps, and trying not to think too hard. The repetitive motions helped.

Her Fazwatch pinged with a cheerful little boop. She glanced down, already bracing for bad news. Sure enough—management. Not in person, of course. Never in person. Management existed in the Plex the way ghosts did—rarely seen, occasionally heard, and always, always a harbinger of trouble.

The message was short. A staff bot was on its way with “a few new pieces of merch” she was to display “in an unmissable location.” Which, in Plex-speak, meant “somewhere a toddler can immediately drool on it.”

She sighed, scanning the shop for prime drool zones, already wondering which shelf was about to be sacrificed. And, because her brain couldn’t leave her alone for even five seconds, the thought crept in: what if Monty “just happened” to pass by again while she was rearranging? What if this was all connected?

She shook it off and went back to lining plushies. Better to focus on the mess in front of her than the one circling the edges of her thoughts in sunglasses.

She speculated on what it could possibly be—more Monty shirts, maybe? The ones with his smirk printed so large it felt like he was personally judging you from the laundry basket? Or a classic Monty mug, big enough to double as a cereal bowl. Maybe another round of those painfully cheerful personalized keychains. She groaned at that one, instantly flashing back to the last time she’d tripped over an entire rack of them during a mid–high-speed getaway from Monty’s overbearing, sunglasses-hidden stare. It had been a perfect storm of humiliation—keys clattering everywhere, the rack tilting like a ship going under, and Monty watching like he was front-row at a comedy show.

She huffed at the memory, muttering something sharp under her breath that would absolutely get her written up if a Staff Bot had the capacity to snitch.

Whatever this new shipment was, she told herself it had to be an upgrade. At the very least, it would give her something to focus on other than replaying that stupid escalator scene in her head for the thousandth time. It was like a bad sitcom rerun she never asked to watch, the laugh track stuck on a loop, every awkward glance and half-baked escape attempt highlighted in HD.

If the universe had any sense of humor—and it usually did, exclusively at her expense—it would probably be something designed to make her life harder, not easier. Something that screamed Look, it’s Monty again! without actually having to say it. Still, she clung stubbornly to the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, a box of overpriced, badly marketed merch could pull her out of her own head for a while.

Even if, deep down, she knew better.

Soon enough, a staff bot clanked its way through the concourse, wheeling in a cart piled so high with new merch it looked like a parade float designed by someone who’d only ever heard of Monty through vague rumors. The bot’s metal joints squealed with every turn of the wheels, its glowing eyes fixed forward like it was on some noble quest to deliver the goods.

Monty water bottles gleamed under the harsh fluorescent lights, the cheap plastic catching every glare like they were trying to blind her into buying one. Posters—dozens of them—fluttered with every puff of air from the ceiling vents, each one showing Monty in a different ridiculous pose: sunglasses tipped down, toothy grin turned up to eleven, claws spread wide like he’d just nailed a solo on stage. There were miniature Monty sunglasses too, clearly designed for children but almost too tiny even for that—like someone had gotten bored at the factory and hit shrink just to see what would happen.

And then… the real curveball. A mountain of tiny top hats. Dozens upon dozens, stacked like they were ready for a tea party for squirrels. Small enough to fit on a soda can, seriously. She stared at them, completely still for a moment, wondering if she’d finally lost her grip on reality. No one knew why these existed. No one had asked for them. They were just here now, part of the ever-growing shrine to Monty’s questionable brand.

Her eyebrows shot up, the kind of reflexive reaction usually reserved for spotting a snake in the gift shop or finding out soda prices had gone up again. She tilted her head, squinting at the bizarre little hats like they might explain themselves if she stared long enough. Were they supposed to be a gag? Some viral marketing stunt she wasn’t privy to? Or had the merch team just pressed a big “random” button on their supplier’s website and called it a day?

She could almost hear the pitch meeting in her head.

"What’s hot right now? Hydration, sunglasses, and… tiny formalwear accessories."

"Genius. Put it in the budget."

It didn’t help that the whole cart felt… mismatched. The water bottles were fine—practical, even. The posters were obnoxious but made sense for fans. But then you had those mini sunglasses and the absurd top hats, and the whole thing started feeling less like a curated merch drop and more like a garage sale for Monty’s alter ego.

She rubbed the back of her neck, waiting for the punchline—half-expecting Freddy or some marketing rep to leap out from behind a display and shout, “Surprise! It’s performance art!” But no. Just her, the staff bot, and a cart full of existentially confusing product.

Eventually, after staring it down like it might vanish if she ignored it long enough, she let out a long, slow sigh. Trying to figure out the logic here was like trying to solve a Rubik’s cube blindfolded, underwater, and with Monty heckling from the sidelines.

Fine. Whatever.

She set to work, rearranging the shop for what had to be the hundredth time this week. The water bottles went into neat rows, each label turned forward with retail-robot precision. The posters got stacked so their corners wouldn’t curl—because of course she’d be the one fixing that when no one else cared. The sunglasses got their own spot, angled just right to catch the light without looking like they were daring kids to pocket them. And the tiny top hats? She ended up making a little pyramid out of them, figuring if they were going to be ridiculous, she might as well lean into it.

When she finally stepped back, she took in the display with a tired half-smile tugging at her lips. Maybe this mess of merch would sell. Maybe it’d just be another disaster she’d have to fix tomorrow. Either way, at least it kept her hands busy—and her mind off the much bigger chaos currently swirling in her head.

What she definitely didn’t expect was Freddy himself to just casually stroll in during her shift, like he owned the place—or maybe because, in a way, he kinda did.

There she was, slouched behind the counter in the cramped little shop, elbow propped up and chin resting in her palm like she was halfway through serving a life sentence. The magazine in front of her wasn’t even that interesting—some fun facts here and there that she’d already read a hundred times and could probably recite off the top of her head. She flipped through the pages lazily, not actually absorbing any of the words, just turning them for something to do.

The air was heavy with the faint, ever-present scent of popcorn and cheap plastic, and in the background, that same loop of swamp rock played over the speakers. Twangy guitars. Lazy drum beats. The same four bars over and over again until she swore she could hear them in her sleep. Her fingers drummed idly against the countertop, her other hand twitching toward her pocket every few seconds as she fought the urge to pull out her phone and hijack the sound system. If she had to hear this track one more time, she might actually lose it.

And then, without warning, Freddy.

Not a grand entrance. Not a booming announcement. Just… Freddy Fazbear himself, all soft looking fur, and warm colors, walking in like the world’s most confident plot twist. His towering frame filled the doorway, the lights from the hall catching the golden accents of his suit in a way that made him look like a movie poster come to life.

He moved with an easy rhythm—confident, but not in a way that demanded attention. His gloved hand tapped a slow, almost melodic knock on the counter, the kind of sound meant to get her attention without startling her. Well, in theory.

What caught him off guard was the fact that she didn’t look up immediately. Usually, people noticed Freddy before he even stepped in the room—his footsteps alone carried a certain weight, the sound of polished soles against tile echoing in a way you couldn’t miss. And then there was that faint hum he always had, like a deep, comforting note thrumming in his core, almost a background track of his own. Yet here she was, head still bent toward her magazine, not a single twitch to suggest she’d registered his presence.

Freddy’s brow arched in quiet amusement. Alright then. If she was going to pretend she hadn’t noticed the literal face of the Pizzaplex standing five feet away, he’d just have to dial it up. He inhaled slightly, prepping that familiar, smooth line he used on guests—something along the lines of, Good afternoon, superstar!—that perfect blend of charm and warmth.

But before the words could even make it out of his mouth, she suddenly flinched like someone had fired a starter pistol right next to her ear.

The magazine slipped from her hand as she let out a sharp, startled screech, her stool tilting dangerously backward as she flailed to catch her balance. For a second, it was like watching a cartoon character in slow motion—arms pinwheeling, legs tensing, the stool creaking ominously under her.

Freddy’s eyes widened, his heart jolting with something close to a warning like whoa, careful! before shifting to something closer to bemused disbelief. He hadn’t even said anything yet, and she was already halfway to falling over. He would’ve smirked if he wasn’t worried she would hurt herself in the process of her flailing. This was not the reaction he’d been expecting, but—he had to admit—it was kind of hilarious.

He stepped forward quickly, hands raised in a harmless, almost cartoonish “no harm done” gesture, his fingers splayed like he’d just startled a cat. His movements were too smooth for someone his size—quiet, careful, but still impossible to ignore. A flicker of amusement danced behind his wide eyes, and though he was clearly trying to be sympathetic, the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth threatened to ruin the whole effect.

“Whoa, hey—you good?” he asked, voice low and gentle, touched with warmth. A grin still lingered, like he was holding back a laugh and losing the battle.

Across the room, she had only just managed to get her balance back, one hand braced on the edge of the counter like it might keep her tethered to reality. The other was clutched to her chest, as if she could physically restrain her heart from jackhammering through her ribs.

"Freddy! Holy shit," she gasped, the words coming out more breath than sound. Her eyes were wide and wild, a flush rising to her cheeks that was part adrenaline, part embarrassment. “You cannot just sneak up on people like that—Jesus!”

Freddy raised one eyebrow, the gesture oddly prim, and gave a polite tilt of his head. “I am sorry, superstar! But please refrain from the foul language.”

A pause stretched between them like a held breath.

Her hand finally dropped from her chest, fingers loosening as she stared at him, blinking slowly.

They locked eyes in silence. Somewhere behind them, the swamp rock playlist sputtered back to life with a tiny guitar riff, as if it, too, was trying to pretend this wasn’t weird. The room felt heavy, humid with tension—or maybe that was just the malfunctioning AC again.

Before Freddy could say anything else, she tilted her head, eyes flicking around wildly, like she was scanning for a reason, any reason, for his presence.

“Do you… need anything?” she asked, words careful. “A drink? A… tiny top hat?”

Freddy’s chest lit up with a warm, almost fond chuckle that rumbled like distant thunder. “No,” he said, voice thoughtful. “But I do appreciate the gesture.”

For a moment, it seemed like he was genuinely considering whether an extra top hat might help. His gaze drifted upward, posture straightening just a bit, and for a flicker of a second, she swore he was visualizing it. One on his head, one on the spare. For emergencies, probably.

And then—nothing.

No elaboration. No punchline.

She stood frozen, blinking at him like he’d just recited a poem backwards. Then she peeked around him, squinting into the corners of the room as if expecting a hidden camera crew or maybe someone from PR crouched behind a rack of overpriced Monty keychains.

Was this a prank? Was she being evaluated? Was this one of those loyalty tests that came with a 12-page debrief and a gift card to Fazbean's if you passed?

Her voice wobbled slightly. “...Then...?”

Freddy wiggled his ears.

Just… wiggled them. Like that explained everything.

Then, like gravity had simply shifted in his favor, he dragged the long-forgotten vinyl stool out from the corner. It screeched against the tile like a dying animal. Without ceremony, he plopped himself onto it—legs awkwardly folded, arms delicately resting on his lap—like this was the most normal place in the world for a too-tall rockstar bear to post up for casual conversation.

His sheer presence swallowed the room. It was like someone had installed a statue in a broom closet and just left it there.

She stared at him. Her eyebrows climbed her forehead and stayed there.

This was weird. Objectively weird. And not in the usual Fazbear “the soda’s bleeding again” kind of way. This was a whole new brand of unsettling.

She didn’t have a frame of reference for how Freddy usually acted—he was the headline act, the one kids lined up for, the one the staff only dealt with on strict schedules and specific clearance. But she was pretty sure this wasn’t it.

It felt like she’d wandered into someone else’s dream. Or maybe—more realistically—like someone had been slipping stuff into the gift shop's complimentary mints again.

Was this a message? Was she in trouble? Was this some corporate psychological warfare disguised as polite conversation?

Her throat tightened. Her heart gave one solid thump like a fire alarm in her chest. And then—

“…Is this corporate’s way of firing me?” she blurted, the words tumbling out like loose screws before she could stop them.

Freddy blinked. Slowly. His head tilted—not menacing, just curious. His ears twitched once.

“Firing you?” he echoed, like the very idea was foreign. “No, superstar. You are not being fired.”

He said it with such calm, genuine certainty that—for a second—she almost believed him. There was no edge to it, no joke hidden under the words. Just simple, honest Freddy logic. The kind that couldn’t lie even if he tried.

“If you were being terminated,” he added after a thoughtful pause, “it would not be handled this way.”

That somehow made her feel worse.

“Oh,” she muttered. “Cool. Cool cool cool. Just… making sure.”

Freddy nodded once, like they’d just cleared something up in a meeting. Then he turned his head and began casually scanning the room—like someone evaluating real estate. His gaze drifted over the dim security monitor, the dust-caked corners, the half-finished soda on the shelf, the clearance bin with an unsettling number of Chica socks.

The silence stretched again. Long. Uncomfortable. A bit too aware.

She stared down at her chipped nails, then glanced around nervously, lowering her voice.

“So… corporate has no idea about the… cheese?”

Freddy’s head tilted just slightly. “...The cheese?” he echoed, hesitant.

She straightened suddenly. “Nevermind that!”

There was her answer.

Still, the paranoia lingered. Her shoulders curled in, defensive, like maybe someone from HR would rappel from the ceiling with a cease-and-desist.

“So,” she said again—louder this time, just to cut the silence, just to give her spiraling thoughts somewhere to land. “If you’re not here to fire me, and you don’t want a drink or, uh, a hat… then what are you doing here?”

Freddy’s eyes found her again. Something shifted behind them—just a little. They softened and dulled to something warmer, more sincere.

“Were you not informed at all?” he asked.

She let out a groan that came from deep in her soul, then practically collapsed onto the paint-chipped stool behind the counter. Her arms drooped over her knees, her head thunked onto the cool laminate again. She stayed there, forehead pressed to the surface like she might will herself through it.

“Is this a joke?” she mumbled into the counter, voice muffled and miserable.

Freddy chuckled. A low, warm hum of a sound that vibrated faintly through the air. It sounded like it came from his chest.

“Not at all, superstar.”

She groaned again—less frustrated this time, more exasperated. But there was a little bit of laughter hiding under it, the kind that came out when your brain had just… given up. There was something so deeply surreal about being denied answers by a glorified, chivalrous boy scout with perfect posture.

Sure, she thought. Why not end the shift this way?

Freddy shifted slightly on his seat beside her, the old stool creaking under his weight like it was seconds from giving up. He hummed absently to himself, the tune unrecognizable but soothing, and adjusted his posture like he was trying to be polite about how large he was in a space far too small.

(Name) peeked over at him from her slumped position, cheek now pressed sideways against the counter. Her gaze tracked the slow, quiet motion of his tail sweeping back and forth behind him. It wasn’t frantic—just a steady, calm rhythm. Kind of like a dog wagging when it didn’t know it was being watched.

Weirdly cute.

Freddy reached up and adjusted his red bowtie, fingers fussing with it like he couldn’t quite get it to sit right. The gesture was small, subtle—fidgety, even. He tugged at one side, then the other. She blinked. Was… Freddy nervous?

“Freddy,” she said, lifting her head slightly. Her tone was half a plea, half a demand. “Please just tell me why you're here.”

His head snapped up so quickly she flinched. Eyes wide. Ears perked like satellite dishes suddenly catching a signal.

“Oh dear,” he muttered, already shifting forward on the stool. The motion was oddly fluid for someone made of metal and servos, and a little too fast for her liking. He leaned across the counter before she could react, narrowing the distance between them. She instinctively leaned back, brows raised, trying to put a safe inch or two of personal space between her and two hundred pounds of unexpectedly intense curiosity.

His fingers moved lightly along the countertop, claws tapping gently over the fake laminate surface with the sound of soft clicking. A moment later, he spotted the magazine she’d abandoned earlier and slid it toward himself in a smooth, practiced motion.

He read the cover aloud, voice amused. “‘Ways to Get Your Crush to Notice You.’” He paused. “With pictures.”

She froze.

He raised a brow at her slowly, pointedly.

She waved a hand, fast and dismissive, like shooing a fly. “Don’t. Just—don’t.”

But Freddy’s expression only grew more curious, and maybe just a bit smug. He flipped the magazine open casually and began skimming the garish pages. Every few seconds his optics flicked across one of the bullet points—each worse than the last—and the illustrations, which looked like they'd been ripped from a bootleg WikiHow parody.

“I’m pretty sure these suggestions violate multiple health codes,” he murmured, flipping to another page with a soft rustle.

“Can we not,” she muttered, face already halfway back in her hands. “Focus, please?”

Freddy finally closed the little booklet with a crisp snap and slid it back across the counter toward her like a detective returning evidence. His head tilted again, ears twitching slightly.

“You should have received an email earlier today detailing everything,” he said matter-of-factly.

She sat up a little straighter, still red-faced. “Yeah, I did… The new merch line that came in this morning, right? I unpacked it and put the stuff on display.”

He clapped his hands once. “Exactly that!”

“…So?” She squinted at him, suspicious.

“So?” Freddy echoed, blinking.

“Why are you here, Freddy?”

The question hung in the air like the sound of a dropped mic. Freddy stared at her as if she’d just asked him to explain gravity.

He slowly pushed the magazine back toward her, fingers splaying as he did so. “You said you read the email, yes?”

“Yeah,” she drawled. “Kinda.”

“Then you know why I’m here.”

She folded her arms, glaring now. “Nope. Still lost.”

Freddy looked baffled, as if it physically pained him that this conversation was still happening. He blinked once, very slowly. Then again, a little faster. His mouth opened, closed, then let out a small sigh before looking at her with intent.

She got the hint, begrudgingly, and attempted to figure it out.

“…It was about the merch.”

“Yep,” Freddy confirmed, nodding solemnly. “And?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, already tired. “...The merch?”

Freddy blinked, slowly. “Yes.”

That was it. That was all she was getting.

(Name) let out a long, soul-weary groan and dropped her face into her hands. This was going nowhere. As much as she enjoyed talking to Freddy—and genuinely liked meeting the rest of the Glamrocks when and if they wandered in—she did not have the mental bandwidth for riddles from the company mascot today.

The truth was, she'd only skimmed the first paragraph of the email. Something about a new product line, experimental branding push, test run of themed inventory. “Display it somewhere visible,” it said, “ideally where children can drool on it.” Classic Fazbear strategy. She’d gotten the gist—put the shiny new junk on the shelves—and the moment a staff bot rolled up with the boxes, she got to work.

So yeah. She hadn’t read the rest of the email. Or any of it after that first paragraph. As small as it was... or seemed to be.

And she had absolutely no clue why Freddy Freakin’ Fazbear himself was loitering in Gator Golf’s gift shop like he owned the place.

“I didn’t read the email all the way!” she blurted, exasperated.

Freddy looked at her like she’d just admitted water was wet. Calm. Patient. Wholly unsurprised. He opened his mouth, about to offer one of his polite, guest service explanations—

—and then a low, gravel-rough chuckle rolled in from the doorway like a bass drop.

“Knew ya’d be a slacker, sweetheart.”

Her soul left her body.

She whipped around so fast she nearly twisted her neck. Leaning in the archway, one shoulder braced lazily against the frame, was none other than Montgomery Gator himself. His arms were crossed, the edges of his scales catching the overhead lighting just enough to gleam. His sunglasses were pushed low enough on his snout to show a glint of red eyes beneath them—sharp, amused, and unmistakably entertained by the chaos unfolding.

She yelped like a startled cat, actually flinching back, and—without thinking—flung the cursed magazine behind her as if it had personally betrayed her.

It hit a shelf, knocked over two Monty-themed plushies, bounced once, and landed facedown on the floor with a muted whump.

She froze.

Both Freddy and Monty raised their eyebrows in perfect sync. Like a coordinated team. Like they did this often.

Trying to pretend the last five seconds hadn’t happened, she turned slowly, resting both elbows on the counter and lowering herself like she could become one with the particle board. With a smile so sheepish it could’ve won ribbons at a 4H fair, she tried to sound cool, casual, normal.

“Monty! My guy! What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

Monty’s grin widened—slow and full of teeth. It was the kind of smile that said I know something you don’t, and he was going to enjoy watching her figure it out.

He took a slow step inside, boots thudding heavily against the laminate floor. “Ya’d know if ya read the email, sugar.”

She stared.

He stared back.

Freddy politely looked at the ceiling, clearly trying not to make this worse.

“...You’re part of this, too?” she asked, voice rising a little.

Freddy chuckled, a warm, low sound that filled the space like sunshine through fog. He rose from the poor stool with a mechanical groan, and the chair immediately responded with its own dying wheeze of relief—like it had just survived something traumatic.

“Easy now,” Freddy said with a light pat to the seat. “Things happen!”

“Sure they do, Fatbear,” Monty drawled with a smirk, casually strutting forward like he owned the entire block. He barely waited for Freddy to fully vacate the spot before sliding right in, claiming the seat like it was his and always had been. “Lil Miss Thing over here should know that by now.”

Her brain short-circuited the moment he sat down—legs spread just enough that his knee brushed against hers under the counter. The stool groaned under his weight, a deep, spine-chilling creak that sounded disturbingly final. She wasn’t sure whether it was threatening structural collapse or just voicing its discomfort at the absurd level of tension suddenly hanging in the air.

Panic. Immediate. Absolute. She broke into a cold sweat, heartbeat thumping a little too fast in her ears.

Monty was close. Too close.

And worse?

He smelled good.

Like warm leather, faint citrus, and a hint of something smoky that shouldn’t be allowed to smell that good on him. She half expected to smell nothing but swamp water and hard plastic from the near constant foliage cluttered around the golf course. Her brain tried to form a coherent sentence, but all it managed was static. She stared straight ahead, refusing to look at him, because she could feel his gaze—lazy but focused, like a crocodile sunbathing one second and lunging the next.

Then—flick. Something brushed lightly against her shin beneath the counter. Not aggressive, not an accident. Smooth. Deliberate.

His tail.

Her entire spine lit up like a malfunctioning console. She bit the inside of her cheek and locked her eyes somewhere safe—which landed them directly on Freddy, who was, for some godforsaken reason, holding a miniature top hat and inspecting it with the gravity of a man studying a priceless artifact.

“Hey! Don’t mess that up!” she blurted, louder than she meant to.

Freddy jolted, ears flattening in immediate guilt like a scolded dog caught chewing on the couch.

“Apologies, superstar—” he started, carefully lowering the hat.

Monty scoffed. “Dork.”

Freddy, unfazed, turned the hat gently in his hands. “It’s just… these are adorable.”

She gave a weak snort, trying to shake the tension out of her shoulders. “Yeah, okay. Just—put it back where you found it before you bend the brim or something.”

Freddy saluted her like a child returning a stolen cookie to the jar. “Of course.” He returned to the display, humming as he adjusted the little hats into perfect alignment.

Monty huffed and dropped his chin onto the counter with a heavy thud, sprawling across the space like a cat claiming territory. His elbow brushed her arm. “Pushover…”

She drummed her fingers nervously on the laminate. Her mind scrambled for neutral conversation, literally anything that didn’t acknowledge the fact that his knee was still touching hers. “Sooo…” she started, voice a little too high, “about why you guys are here?”

Monty didn’t look at her fully—just slid a glance in her direction, eyes glinting from beneath the shades. His grin stretched wider, too full of teeth to be comforting.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he said, drawl smooth as molasses. “You really think I’d let the merch sell itself?”

She blinked.

What.

Freddy’s cheerful voice piped in from somewhere further in the store. “We’re your advertising team for the day!”

She turned slightly to look at him. He was giving her the biggest, brightest, most helpful smile she’d ever seen.

Her stomach dropped. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope!” Freddy chirped. “We’ve been scheduled for promotional modeling. Staff was supposed to coordinate outfits, poses, and—oh! Photo tagging protocols. I have the checklist!”

He pulled a laminated card from somewhere—probably his pocket, hopefully his pocket—and waved it proudly like a student eager to present a group project no one else prepared for.

Her face must’ve looked gaunt, a touch too pale to be normal, because Monty leaned in just a traction closer, tail flicking against her leg again just barely, and her pulse spiked.

“Next time, sugar,” he said, low and smug, breath hitting the side of her face. “Read the whole email.”

Shit.

Chapter Text

The gift shop had been gutted.

Not completely—most of the shelves still stood inside—but the “big promo” meant someone had dragged half the merch outside to a folding table just across from the entrance to Gator Golf.

So much for the restocking job she attempted to do earlier in the day.

Now (Name) was stationed there, front-and-center, exposed to the entire atrium like a sad carnival worker who hadn’t gotten the memo about wearing clown makeup—and was now just standing there, selling mystery prizes to an audience that didn’t exist. The table was a battlefield of crooked stacks and slumped piles, sun from the skylights cutting sharp rectangles over the cheap plastic wrap.

Her anxiety was already buzzing under her skin, but the real problem was about twenty feet away.

Monty was leaning against one of the giant faux-gator statues near the golf entrance, arms crossed, sunglasses perched high in his hair. Every so often, a burst of light from the Plex skylights caught on his shades, just enough to make it look like he was sparkling. Like some kind of dangerous Disney prince who’d been told the ball was actually a knife fight. The gator statue behind him looked like it was guarding him, but the reality was probably the other way around.

And he was staring.

(Name) ducked her head, pretending the t-shirt she was folding was the most fascinating thing in existence. She fussed with the seams like they were life-or-death important, because if she didn’t look up, she couldn’t possibly confirm he was watching her like a predator deciding which angle to pounce from—every muscle in her back tensed, already bracing for teeth.

Didn’t work. She could feel the weight of his gaze, heavy and warm, like someone standing just behind her even though he hadn’t moved. It prickled along her shoulders, coiled low in her stomach, and made her grip the fabric tighter.

Freddy was beside her at the table, lining up stacks of mugs and muttering to himself about display symmetry. “Smile for the guests,” he said cheerfully, though there were no guests in sight. “They might arrive any minute!” He straightened a mug like it was a royal crown, utterly unbothered by the silent standoff happening across the atrium.

“Uh-huh,” she murmured, still not looking up.

A low chuckle rolled across the space, warm and smug, and she knew—knew—it was aimed at her.

“Yer foldin’ real slow there, sugar,” Monty called out, his voice carrying with that lazy, dangerous ease that made it feel personal. “That for me?”

Her spine went rigid. “No,” she shot back, without daring to glance over.

“Mhm,” he hummed, clearly unconvinced.

His footsteps were unhurried but deliberate, the kind of pace that said I’ve got all day and you’re not going anywhere. Each heavy step echoed against the tile, sliding into her peripheral until his shape filled it—broad shoulders, lazy gait, tail swinging just enough to remind her he could snap it like a whip if he wanted.

By the time he stopped, he was leaning casually against the edge of her table, claws drumming lightly against the wood. The sound was slow and rhythmic, like he was setting the beat to a song only he could hear.

“Coulda fooled me,” he murmured, voice dipping low like it was meant to be a secret, just for her.

She risked a glance up—and instantly regretted it.

Monty was grinning down at her like he had all the time in the world to mess with her, the kind of slow, deliberate grin that said he was enjoying every second she squirmed. His eyes were half-lidded and intense, sunglasses catching the light again like some kind of flashing warning signal.

Freddy didn’t even glance up from his careful mug pyramid, fingers adjusting the handles with surgical precision. “Montgomery, if you are here to assist—”

“’Course I’m helpin’,” Monty interrupted smoothly, voice a low rumble that somehow seemed to curl around her spine. His gaze never wavered, pinning her like he’d decided she was the only thing worth focusing on in the entire atrium. “Kinda nice, ain’t it? No one else showin’ up. Means I get ya all t’myself.”

Her hands moved automatically, folding the shirt seam with all the grace of someone trying to perform brain surgery in an earthquake. “That’s… not how promo events work,” she mumbled, eyes locked firmly on the fabric so she wouldn’t have to watch his smirk deepen.

He leaned in slightly, a shadow stretching across the table until the stack of shirts and mugs felt like they were under a spotlight of him. His scent—faint leather and whatever synthetic cologne the Pizzaplex stocked for their animatronic stars—seeped into the space between them. “Then maybe they should,” he murmured, and it sounded less like a suggestion and more like a promise.

Her breath caught, a sharp little hitch that she immediately tried to cover by straightening the shirt again. “You’re impossible,” she said, voice steadier than she felt.

His smirk tilted into something more dangerous, a glint in his eye like he’d just been handed the next move in a game only he knew the rules to. “Yeah,” he drawled, claws tapping the table in a lazy rhythm, “but I’m fun.”

Somewhere to her left, Freddy sighed quietly, like a teacher watching two students pass notes in the middle of class—but he didn’t say a word.

(Name) wasn’t sure how it had gotten to this point.

She wasn’t complaining, per se—well, her brain wasn’t—but her heart was pretty sure it had about three beats left before it gave out. Every nerve in her body felt like it was leaning in, waiting for the inevitable moment he’d pounce—metaphorically, of course. Probably.

Her mind kept flicking back to the past couple weeks, replaying every stupid little run-in with him. That time on the escalator, when he’d blocked her path with all the smug confidence of a cat who’d just found a trapped mouse, tail swaying lazily like he had nowhere else to be. The way he seemed to just… appear wherever she went—side hallways, merch runs, even the employee break room once, leaning against the vending machine like it was a throne.

And the worst part? He looked like he enjoyed it.

Now here she was, standing behind a lonely little merch table parked outside Gator Golf’s entrance, the sound of the mini-fountain trickling nearby doing absolutely nothing to hide the pounding in her chest. The table felt ridiculously small, like one good shove from him could send it skidding away and leave her completely exposed.

Her eyes darted around the empty stretch of the atrium, scanning for anyone—anyone—who was supposed to be manning this thing with her. Where the hell was the actual staff for this? Had they just abandoned her here like live bait?

Because if they had, she was 90% sure Monty had already taken the hook.

She was so tangled up in her own head—rewinding old encounters, mentally cursing whoever bailed on their shift—that she didn’t even notice the shadow creeping over the table at first. It was slow and deliberate, like a storm cloud swallowing sunlight inch by inch.

By the time she looked up, Monty was already there, leaning down just enough for his sunglasses to slip down from his hair to sit on the bridge of his nose. It managed to wink under the lights, seemingly for the thousandth time, and the faint scent of citrus and something masculine clung to him like a second skin. The space between them seemed to shrink without him even moving.

Freddy, a few feet away, was busy pretending to organize keychains—lining them up, shuffling them around, doing anything to look occupied—but the wary glance he shot over practically screamed Careful, Monty.

She jolted when his voice slid in low, all lazy drawl and teeth.

“I sure am glad ya haven’t run away from me yet.”

Her brain promptly blue-screened. “I—uh—well, I’m not—uh—”

He grinned wider, clearly savoring the way she tripped over her own mouth. His claws drummed once against the table, slow and deliberate, like he was setting a tempo only she could hear. “That’s real good to know,” he murmured, tilting his head just enough to make it clear he wasn’t going anywhere.

“I—uh—maybe—?” she tried, but the words came out like she’d just been handed a foreign language mid-sentence and told to wing it. Her voice cracked in a way that made her want to crawl under the table and live there forever.

Monty just chuckled, low and warm, tilting his head to the right in a way that felt a little too intentional. “Ain’t gotta talk if ya don’t want to, sugar,” he drawled, and it was the kind of voice that knew it could fill a silence without asking permission. “I’ll do all the talkin’ for both of us.”

And, oh, he did.

He launched straight into some half-flirty, half-rambling story about his last Gator Golf score, leaning one elbow on the table like this was the most natural place in the world for him to be. He described each hole like it was a war story—how he’d “absolutely destroyed” the windmill course, how some poor kid had dropped their putter in the water hazard, how he’d hit a shot so perfect it “oughta be in the rulebook as illegal.”

She stood there clutching a t-shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright, fingers wrinkling the fabric while she tried not to melt into the floor. Her brain wasn’t following half of what he was saying; she was too busy trying to focus on anything other than the fact that his voice was close enough to feel against her skin.

Somewhere between bragging about his “perfect putting arm” and describing how he once sank a ball in from across the green—through a gator head, over a ramp, and off the edge of a waterfall, swear to God—the conversation tunneled into Monty inviting her to a game of mini golf. Not the cocky, “hey, come watch me crush the high score” kind of invite she might’ve expected, but a real, direct offer. Just him and her. Like this was a thing normal coworkers did on their breaks, not a move loaded with enough implication to make her pulse skip.

Freddy, standing nearby with an armful of plushies, paused mid-adjustment to give the both of them a long, unimpressed look. He didn’t even bother hiding the eye roll that followed, and it was so heavy it was a miracle his eyes didn’t fall out in protest.

Monty, blissfully unaware—or maybe just pretending to be—kept going, grin widening. “C’mon, darlin’,” he coaxed, voice dipping into that dangerous, syrupy tone that made the words feel like they were aimed right past her ears and straight into her chest. “I’ll even let ya win… maybe.”

She tried to swallow, but her throat felt dry. Breathing was a conscious effort, the kind you had to remind yourself to do. Somewhere in the background, the mini-fountain kept trickling like the world wasn’t collapsing into this weird, charged bubble between them.

Freddy didn’t miss the way her pupils had gone slightly glassy about three minutes ago. She’d been checked out of this conversation since the moment Monty had leaned in with, I sure am glad ya haven’t run away from me yet. And Monty—well, Monty was either too dense to notice, or enjoying every last second of watching her scramble to keep up.

He opened his mouth to finally tell Monty to back up a little, when the elevator doors dinged open and a flustered staff member stumbled out, nearly colliding with a cardboard display of neon visors. She clutched a clipboard like it was a security blanket, eyes wide and hair slightly windblown, breathing as if she’d just sprinted the length of the food court.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, you guys!” she blurted, her words tumbling out in a single breath. Her cheeks were flushed, and the strap of her staff badge hung askew across her chest like it had been slapped there mid-run.

“Oh! No worries,” Freddy said smoothly, his tone flipping from casual coworker to polished spokesperson in an instant. Shoulders squared, voice warm, every syllable neatly packaged for maximum professionalism. “We just finished setting up.”

“Awesome.” The woman exhaled hard, brushing stray hair from her face with a quick, slightly shaky motion. “My name’s Hannah! I’ll be in charge of overseeing how this promotional goes.” She glanced between them like she was trying to gauge how the vibe was going—if only she knew.

Monty leaned back slightly, giving Hannah a slow, almost lazy once-over that wasn’t unfriendly but definitely assessing. Then his gaze slid right back to (Name) like a magnet snapping to metal, as if to confirm she hadn’t been pulled away by the interruption.

Spoiler: she hadn’t.

Her fingers were still locked around the t-shirt she’d been “folding” for the past five minutes, knuckles pale, heart still ricocheting against her ribs. Monty’s attention, even divided for half a second, hadn’t lessened the heat buzzing under her skin.

“Promotional, huh?” Monty drawled, shifting his weight just enough to prop one elbow on the merch table like it was his own personal lounge. The movement made his chain swing slightly against his jeans, catching another shard of light. “Ya golf, Hannah?”

She blinked, clearly not expecting to be addressed so directly. “Uh… not really?”

Monty’s grin widened slowly, like a camera flash stretching across his face, as if she’d just confessed to a tragic life-shortening habit.

“Shame,” he said, voice low and unhurried, tasting the word before letting it drop. “Coulda given ya a few pointers. I’m a pretty good teacher… if ya don’t mind learnin’ the hard way.”

The silence that followed was just long enough for Hannah’s polite smile to falter. Her eyebrows drew together, somewhere between confused and oh-god-do-I-laugh-at-this.

Freddy—ever the perfect host—stepped neatly into the space with a clap of his hands sharp enough to redirect the moment. “Ah, well! We’ll have plenty of time to discuss hobbies later,” he said, the edges of his cheerfulness just firm enough to suggest please don’t make this weird, Montgomery. “Right now, we should—”

(Name) didn’t hear the rest.

Her pulse was still flipping like a gymnast with no sense of self-preservation, somersault after somersault. Monty’s attention had already slid right back to her, his eyes catching hers for half a second before wandering deliberately downward—like Hannah had never walked in, like nothing else in the room existed but her and whatever game he thought they were playing.

The worst part was that she couldn’t even convince herself to look away.

By the time the event was in full swing, (Name) had burned through her patience, her personal space, and possibly her last functioning brain cell. She had wrestled it back from Ryan a few hours ago, but now she wasn’t sure she’d ever get it to fully reboot.

Freddy and Hannah moved through the crowd like they were born for this—bright smiles, warm handshakes, chatter bouncing off them like a practiced performance. Every guest who wandered by left with some bit of merch and a little spark of happiness.

She had tried to match their energy. Really, she had. She forced a smile, twisted it into something vaguely human, and leaned over the table to suggest a shirt to a family browsing the mishmash of hats, mugs, and keychains. Her words came out in little stutters, too fast and too unsure, as if they were tripping over themselves to escape. The smile she offered looked more like a grimace, and her voice—oh, her voice—sounded guilty, like it knew it was failing some unspoken test of human social function.

It didn’t help that Monty had decided to personally supervise every single customer interaction she had.

“Ya golf?” he asked a kid holding a mug, his drawl somehow making it seem like a challenge. The kid blinked and mumbled something about mini golf with their uncle once. Monty leaned down to their level, grinning slowly. “Bet I could beat ya.”

The mug clinked nervously onto the table. The family walked away a little faster than they came, and Monty just shrugged like he hadn’t done anything at all.

Later, a teenage girl approached, clearly working up the courage to ask (Name) a question about merch. Monty tilted his sunglasses down just enough to meet her eyes over the rim, and whatever words she’d been about to say vanished into a squeak. She bought a sticker and fled.

Eventually, a pity sale from a family who didn’t even make eye contact left the table empty. (Name) sank into her chair, relief and humiliation mixing into one heavy lump in her chest.

Monty laughed. Low, easy, exactly the kind of laugh that made her pulse skip.

He made it impossible to focus—especially when he was that close. Always there. Looming like a sun she couldn’t look away from. The faint scrape of his tail brushed against the edge of her awareness every few seconds, a subtle, constant reminder that he was still present. Shift left, and he shifted; leaned forward, and his shadow stretched closer. Like some smug, six-foot-something sentinel, Monty was right there, and she couldn’t figure out whether to be terrified, annoyed, or completely flustered. Probably all three.

Her hands fumbled with a mug she was supposed to be straightening, and she realized the ridiculous truth: she wasn’t just running a promo table anymore. She was running a Monty Gator awareness campaign, whether she liked it or not.

Gathering the courage to speak up—something that wasn’t a stutter, or a muttered apology, or one of those half-assed squeaks she’d been passing off as words—(Name) finally addressed Monty for the first time all day.

“Do you… mind?” she managed, the words coming out softer than she’d intended. Her pulse thudded in her ears, but she squared her shoulders and held her ground anyway.

Monty tilted his head, slow and deliberate, like she’d just asked him to take up knitting or some equally absurd hobby. “Mind what?” he drawled, each word curling lazily, effortless and teasing.

She forced herself to meet his eyes—big mistake. “Hovering. Standing so close. Scaring off—” she waved vaguely at the near-empty merch table “—literally everyone.”

His grin sharpened, that infuriating kind that made her brain short-circuit mid-thought. “Darlin’, I ain’t scarin’ nobody. ‘Sides…” He leaned in just a fraction, his voice dropping lower, smooth and deliberate. “…wouldn’t wanna leave ya all alone out here.”

Her heart gave an entirely unhelpful lurch, and she tore her gaze away, muttering something about him being impossible. But the heat in her cheeks refused to fade, stubborn and relentless.

Monty watched her for a beat, slow and casual, like he hadn’t been monitoring her every twitch all day. He leaned his head on his hand, elbow planted firmly on the still half-full table. Her eyes flicked to him every few seconds, like she was double-checking he wasn’t about to vanish in that fraction of a second. His tail twitched in response, brushing lightly against her ankle, a subtle signal that drew her attention without overwhelming her.

A lull stretched between them, strangely comfortable despite the circumstances. The sun from the skylights had dipped lower, painting the atrium in warm orange tones that softened the harsh fluorescent glare. The looping daytime playlist had faded into the softer, evening tracks that hummed quietly across the mall. (Name) resisted the urge to check her phone for the time, trusting that her colleagues would handle it if it got too late.

She slouched further into her chair, the exhaustion of the day settling into her bones. Her eyes felt heavy, her stomach a low growl of protest—a reminder she’d skipped lunch while manning the “oh-so-urgent” promotional table. She berated herself silently for not convincing Ryan to sneak her some food.

Lost in her thoughts, she didn’t immediately realize Monty’s tail had curled completely around her ankle. The touch was deliberate but gentle. It was a quiet, intimate kind of presence, the kind that made the world shrink down to just them, the fading light, and the lazy hum of the atrium around them.

Monty had opened his mouth, shades pushed up into his hair once again, like he was bracing for impact. His voice came out hesitant, quiet, careful—like he wasn’t sure she’d say yes. “Hey, uh,” he cleared his throat, eyes flicking away for a moment as she gave him a tentative glance. “About that golf game…”

(Name) tilted her head, a faint nod encouraging him to keep going, heart thumping just a little faster than was probably safe.

He shifted slightly, claws drumming lightly against the edge of the table, tail twitching just slightly in that slow, deliberate rhythm he always had after it unraveled from her leg. “Would… ya want to play one with me?” His words were soft, almost vulnerable, and for a second the confident, teasing Monty she knew so well seemed to fade, leaving just this one moment of quiet earnestness between them. “Like… one on one, just us?”

Her pulse spiked. She wanted to laugh, shake her head, and maybe even squeak out a flustered “no,” but the warmth in his gaze held her in place. It wasn’t just an invite—it was a nudge, a personal gesture that somehow made the chaos of the day shrink to a manageable, almost sweet size.

She flushed, opening her mouth to answer Monty, when a shadow fell across the table. Both of them looked up as a man in a rumpled golf visor ambled closer. She straightened automatically, body sliding into “customer service” mode even as he made no attempt at pleasantries. He jabbed a finger at a stack of shirts, voice rough and impatient. “These on sale or what?”

It was clear he’d already decided he didn’t like the answer before he even got it.

(Name) plastered on her best retail smile, the kind that made her own cheeks ache from forcing it into place. “They’re part of the promo—twenty percent off today only,” she said, voice sweet and steady despite the knot of irritation in her stomach.

The man snorted, waving a hand dismissively. “Yeah, well, they’re still overpriced for what they are. Bet I could get the same thing at a thrift store for two bucks.”

Something in her chest snapped. She tilted her head slightly, smile still in place but eyes sharp. “Cool,” she said, crossing her arms. “Let me know when the thrift store starts throwing in free autographs and not smelling like a basement filled with moth balls.”

The man blinked, taken aback by the sass, muttered something under his breath, and shuffled away, leaving her standing victorious behind the table. Satisfaction bloomed inside her, warm and ridiculous, like she’d won a tiny, meaningless battle—but one that felt huge in the moment.

Then she remembered Monty.

Her eyes flicked back to him, and he was smirking, tail flicking lazily against the floor near her ankle. Head propped on his hand, eyes half-lidded, expression smug as though he’d been given front-row seats to the best show in town. The teasing glint in his gaze made her stomach flutter, and she realized, with a flush she couldn’t hide, that she had been performing for him the whole time.

His claws drummed softly against the table, the slow, deliberate rhythm a silent accompaniment to the chaos of the afternoon. And somehow, despite the noise, the hovering crowd, and the ever-present buzz of the atrium, it felt like it was just the two of them, caught in this little orbit of laughter, teasing, and that inexplicable, slightly dangerous tension.

“Oh?” he drawled, eyes glinting like he’d just spotted a hidden spark in the chaos. “Kitty’s got claws?”

She hesitated, pulse hammering, then—on a wild, heartbeat-driven impulse—tilted her head and let out a soft, teasing, “Meow.”

It hit him like a surprise punch. His laugh burst out—low, startled, and genuinely amused—leaning back just slightly as if he needed a second to recover from the unexpected attack on his composure. The sound was rich and warm, reverberating through the little space they’d carved out around the table.

Her cheeks flared hot, but she couldn’t help matching him with a soft giggle, the tension that had been threading through her all day melting into something light, warm, and stupidly fun. For a few perfect moments, it was just the two of them—locked into a tiny orbit of shared amusement, the noise and bustle of the promotional event fading into the background like static.

Even the mundane world around them couldn’t break the bubble: the hum of the atrium lights, the clatter of merch being rearranged, the low murmur of passing guests—all of it blurred into insignificance.

Off to the side, Freddy and Hannah exchanged a knowing look, their movements efficient and silent as they started packing up the table. No words were needed—their expressions said it all: Ah, looks like these two are done for the day.

And in that quiet, golden-hued moment, (Name) realized she didn’t mind at all that Monty was still there, smirking like he owned every inch of her attention—and maybe, for once, she wanted him to.

She didn’t even realize she never answered his question.

Chapter Text

By the time the last box was taped shut and the mountain of merch carted back to the shop, (Name) felt like her soul had evaporated somewhere between Monty’s relentless smirks, the chaos of the crowd, and pretending to have stellar customer service energy on an empty stomach. Her head spun every time she blinked.

Maybe she needed food. Or a gallon of water. Or a full system reboot. Or—more realistically—just five minutes without being in the blast radius of Montgomery Gator, because if he kept looking at her the way he had been all day, she was actually going to keel over in front of a pile of novelty sunglasses.

Nearby, Freddy had wandered over to Monty. The two were deep in conversation, voices pitched low, though every few seconds one of them got a little too animated and the volume spiked. From what little she caught—Monty’s growl, Freddy’s sharp hand gestures—it was not exactly casual water-cooler chatter.

Before she could linger on that, Hannah appeared at her side, clipboard tucked against her chest and a bright, encouraging smile plastered firmly in place.

“So!” Hannah began, chipper, like the last hour hadn’t been a live stress test. “That wasn’t so bad for the first phase!”

“…Excuse me, what?” The words slipped out before she could stop them.

Hannah startled, then let out a laugh. “Yeah! Phase one done. Next on our list is… photo ops!”

Her stomach plummeted. Photo ops? With Monty? She was going to faint right here and now, and corporate would probably file it under “guest engagement mishap.”

“It’s scheduled for tomorrow though,” Hannah added quickly, flicking her wrist to glance at her watch. “This one ran a little longer than expected, but!”

She paused dramatically.

(Name) braced, expecting a bombshell.

“It went well!” Hannah finished brightly, her smile never faltering. “Exactly as projected.”

Internally, (Name) rolled her eyes so hard she was surprised they didn’t just eject from her skull. Corporate brain. Always so obsessed with things being “as projected.” What if it hadn’t, huh? What if she had collapsed in the middle of selling tiny top hats? Would that have been “on brand?”

Hannah hummed, then shifted a step back, tilting her head like she was admiring the stacked boxes. Except her gaze wasn’t on the boxes at all—it was zeroed in just over (Name)’s shoulder. Too pointed. Too knowing.

And then she leaned in, dropping her voice into something more conspiratorial. “You and Montgomery seemed pretty close today.”

The words hit like a gut punch. (Name) jolted so hard she nearly toppled the nearest stack. “WHAT!” she yelped, hands flailing like she could physically smack the accusation out of the air. “No—we—uh, no. Absolutely not. Nope. Negative.”

Her face went nuclear, heat crawling so fast she swore she might spontaneously combust. Perfect. She’d die right here in a blaze of embarrassment while Monty argued with Freddy ten feet away.

Hannah’s lips curved into a tiny smirk, one eyebrow arched with the quiet confidence of someone who had seen things.

(Name) scrambled to backpedal, words tumbling out at random. “We weren’t—it’s not—we’re not—it’s literally nothing. Less than nothing. Like, the opposite of something.”

Somewhere behind them, Monty’s voice spiked—“…ain’t your business, Freddy!”—before it dropped back into a low growl.

Yeah. Fantastic. The universe really knew how to set the soundtrack for her public humiliation.

“Mmhm.” Hannah’s tone was maddeningly unconvinced, her clipboard hugged to her chest like it doubled as a personal gossip diary. Her brows lifted ever so slightly, her smirk settling in with the stubbornness of someone who absolutely knew they’d struck gold. “Of course.”

And that smirk didn’t budge. Not one inch.

(Name) groaned, the sound coming out halfway between a whimper and static noise, before throwing up her hands in defeat. Clearly, this wasn’t worth the energy. As much as she wanted to insist otherwise, to deny the heat crawling up her neck, to paint this whole day as “professional, nothing to see here,” Hannah had already clocked her. Probably from the first time Monty had leaned over the table with that too-wide grin and called her darlin’ in front of half the atrium.

Hannah, ever merciless in her kindness, laughed at the sight of (Name)’s mortified face and waved her free hand airily, as if brushing the whole thing off. “No need to worry! Honestly, I think it’s cute.”

“Mmhm.” (Name) muttered, voice flat as she rolled her eyes. She finally shuffled a step back, forcing on a half-hearted smile. Enough was enough. She was fried—crispy, battered, deep-fried like one of Monty’s gator bites from the concession stand. The day had been too long, she’d skipped lunch, her brain was running on fumes, and she didn’t have the stamina for this line of interrogation. She wanted to go home, collapse face-first into her pillow, and not think about the way a smug, six-foot gator had spent the entire afternoon hovering at her elbow like a shadow with biceps.

“Yeah,” she sighed, glancing at Hannah’s infuriatingly smug expression. “Not worried.”

The words had barely left her mouth when she backed straight into something solid. Not just solid—unmovable.

Her body went rigid, every muscle locking up. Slowly—painfully slowly—she tilted her head up.

Montgomery Gator loomed over her, every inch of him radiating satisfaction. His grin stretched wide, sharp teeth glinting under the atrium lights like polished ivory. His sunglasses had slipped just enough down the bridge of his nose to reveal the wicked gleam in his eyes—eyes that said he’d heard everything.

“Well, darlin’,” he drawled, voice rumbling low in his chest, smooth enough to crawl straight down her spine, “I’m real glad t’hear it.”

Her stomach dropped so fast she thought it might’ve left her body entirely. Heat roared back into her cheeks, her throat closing up around any coherent sound.

Behind her, Hannah was choking on laughter so violently she had to duck behind her clipboard, shoulders shaking. She managed to squeak out a wheezy, “I’ll leave ya to it!” before making her escape, heels clicking a little too fast against the tile as she disappeared into the crowd.

Which, of course, left (Name) pinned in place, trapped between the towering wall of smug gator and the echo of Hannah’s retreating giggles. Monty didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. He just leaned down the tiniest fraction, grin curling even wider as if he was savoring every second of her meltdown.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. The universe had officially conspired against her.

From further down the hall, Freddy’s smooth voice drifted back, carrying polite goodbyes as he helped a pair of staff bots maneuver the last heavy crate into storage. His tone was cheerful, efficient, already moving on to the next task.

Which meant (Name) was stranded. Cornered. Doomed. Left entirely in the clutches of one Montgomery Gator, who hadn’t budged an inch since she’d backed into him. His grin lingered like a spotlight, sharp teeth flashing under the fluorescent lights, and—god help her—there was something both infuriating and stupidly endearing about it.

“Ya always this jumpy?” Monty finally drawled, tilting his head down at her. His shades caught the glow of the overheads, but his eyes flicked over the rims just enough to pin her in place. Behind him, his tail swished lazily against the tiled floor, a steady rhythm that screamed patience he didn’t actually have. “Or d’you just save it all up for me?”

Her throat went dry. She opened her mouth—surely, surely she had some sort of retort in her arsenal—but all that came out was a soft click of her tongue before she shut it again. Then opened it once more. Shut it. She looked like a goldfish dumped on land, searching for words that weren’t there.

Monty’s chest rumbled with a chuckle, low and deep, a sound that traveled straight through her ribs. “Careful, sugar,” he teased, leaning just a little closer, enough that she caught the faint musk of leather and stage makeup clinging to him. “Keep backin’ into me like that, I’m gonna start thinkin’ ya like it.”

Her entire face went nuclear, a heat so intense it made her vision blur at the edges. She shoved at his chest with both palms, though it was a half-hearted push at best—like shoving a brick wall for show. “You—! You’re impossible.”

“Mm.” Monty tilted his head again, lowering his sunglasses all the way now so she got the full brunt of those bright, sharp eyes. His grin widened, smug and devastating. “Lucky for ya, impossible’s my best feature.”

That was it. She was going to collapse into a puddle of humiliation right there on the floor. Her brain was fried, scrambled eggs sizzling on a hot pan.

Monty watched her expression climb from crimson to full-on cherry tomato and finally took pity. Straightening up, he softened his posture, hands lifting in a mock gesture of surrender. “Relax, sugar,” he rumbled, his grin easing just a hair. “Just teasin’.”

He tipped his chin toward the far end of the hall, thumb hooking lazily over his shoulder. “Tell ya what. If it ain’t too much for ya, how ‘bout we grab a bite?”

Her brain screeched to a grinding halt. A bite? With him? Bite as in food? Bite as in date? Bite as in… oh god, was she about to pass out on the spot?

“I—uh—” Her voice cracked embarrassingly high, and she cleared her throat hard enough to make her chest ache. “I was, um… yeah. I was actually gonna, y’know. Eat. Food. At some point. Soon. Just… food.”

Monty’s grin widened again, but this time his tone softened, warm in a way that made her knees wobble. “Then it’s settled.”

He leaned back a fraction, posture easy, hands slipping onto his belt like he wasn’t currently detonating her brain with casual suggestions. “C’mon, darlin’. I ain’t gonna bite.” His smirk twisted slyly as he added, “Not unless ya ask.”

The noise that tore out of her throat was not human. Some awful, high-pitched squeak that she immediately regretted as her ears burned. With all the dignity of a malfunctioning robot, she stiffly spun on her heel, refusing to meet his eyes, and stormed three steps away as if distance alone might save her.

Monty arched a brow, tail flicking with amusement. He lifted a single clawed thumb in a questioning gesture, expression tilting sly. “Was that a yes?”

He didn’t get words in return. Just her hand shooting up over her shoulder, middle finger raised in a silent, desperate answer as she marched faster down the corridor.

Monty blinked once, twice. Then his grin broke wide, teeth flashing under the lights as a chuckle thundered from his chest.

“Oh, sugar,” he murmured to himself, tail lashing once with satisfaction. “That’s a yes if I ever heard one.”

He didn’t let her storm off in peace. Of course he didn’t. Heavy footsteps echoed against the tile as Monty jogged forward, closing the distance in just a few long strides until he was right back at her side. He dipped down just enough so his grin hovered at her ear level, sunglasses glinting in the overhead light.

“Sugar,” he drawled, every syllable soaked in smug amusement, “ya coulda just said maybe.”

Her whole body jolted like his words had short-circuited her nervous system. The sound she made in response wasn’t anything close to human speech—something between a strangled groan and a muffled scream into the crook of her sleeve, muffled enough to keep from alerting the rest of the atrium but loud enough to make Monty snort.

That snort turned into full-blown laughter, a rough, delighted cackle that rattled the air around them. He threw his head back, shoulders shaking, his tail swiping against the wall with each step as he kept pace with her retreat.

(Name) yanked her sleeve down and muttered something under her breath—probably a curse, probably directed at him—but her stride only quickened.

Monty didn’t let up. He followed her down the hall like her own personal storm cloud, laughter chasing at her heels. “Darlin’,” he managed between fits of cackling, “ya make it too easy.”

He was still laughing when they rounded the corner, the sound carrying after her like a spotlight she couldn’t shake, until she finally snapped over her shoulder—“Monty, shut up!”—which, of course, only made him laugh harder.

The next day came far too quickly for her liking.

(Name), still reluctant but tethered to her shift, rolled into the parking lot just as the sun was barely creeping over the horizon. Her car engine cut off with a sigh that mirrored her own. Before she could even grab her bag from the passenger seat, her phone buzzed against the dashboard.

Hannah [7:03 AM]: Don’t forget! Today’s photo ops!! :D

She groaned, forehead thunking against the steering wheel hard enough to make the horn squeak. “Perfect,” she muttered into the vinyl. “Just perfect.”

Dragging herself inside, she repeated a silent mantra: prepared this time. Totally prepared. No excuses. Snacks in her bag. Water bottle full. Her mental armor strapped on and bolted tight. She was not—absolutely not—going to be caught lightheaded, tongue-tied, or producing random feral-animal noises in front of Montgomery Gator again.

…She hoped.

By the time she and Monty crossed the main concourse and spilled into the food court, the place looked like it was getting ready to go to sleep. Chairs stacked in tidy pyramids on tabletops. The tile gleamed from the evening mop sweep, reflecting the dull glow of overhead fluorescents. A faint mix of fried oil and syrupy soda clung stubbornly to the air, a ghost of the day’s chaos.

Her stomach chose that exact moment to let out a loud, painful growl that ricocheted across the cavernous, empty space.

Monty froze mid-step, head swiveling down toward her. One scaled brow ridge arched high, the corner of his mouth already twitching up into a smirk.

“…Was that you?” he asked, his voice all gravel and amusement. “Ya growlin’ at me?”

She snapped her gaze up at him, glaring daggers, but that only seemed to egg him on.

Monty leaned down, closing the space between them until his sharp grin hovered just shy of her ear. He dropped his voice into a stage-whisper, teeth flashing. “Wouldn’t be shocked, sugar. Last time ya flat-out meowed at me. Kinda set a precedent, don’t ya think?”

Heat shot up her neck so fast she thought she might combust on the spot. The memory of that particular noise burned bright in her mind, as humiliating as it had been. Her hands clenched at her sides.

“Eat your sunglasses, Gator,” she hissed through her teeth.

Monty’s laugh erupted like a thunderclap. He threw his head back, shoulders shaking, the booming sound bouncing around the food court and rattling the stacked chairs. Even the flickering neon sign above the pizza counter seemed to buzz a little louder in response.

And despite herself—despite her cheeks glowing hotter than a furnace—(Name) felt the corner of her mouth twitch. A reluctant, traitorous smile threatened to break free.

Monty caught it instantly. He leaned his weight to one side, arms folding over his chest, smug satisfaction radiating from every inch of him. “Knew ya had some spunk in ya,” he rumbled, tossing her a wink that made her heart lurch uncomfortably against her ribs.

(Name) groaned, rolling her eyes so dramatically it was a miracle they didn’t rocket right out of her skull and into orbit. She sped up her stride, heading for the shop entrance like a woman on a mission.

Monty followed easily, his heavy boots thudding against the polished tile, tail swishing behind him in a lazy arc. He didn’t need to rush—his legs were long enough that two of his strides matched five of hers, keeping him right at her shoulder without breaking a sweat.

She finally reached the shop door and yanked it open with enough force to rattle the hinges, the bell above it giving a startled jingle. Muttering something about “giant reptiles and their giant egos,” she stormed inside.

Behind her, Monty’s low chuckle followed, curling around her like smoke. “Careful with them doors, sugar. Don’t want folks thinkin’ you’re mad at me already.”

She didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice not to betray her.

Inside, Ryan was humming to himself—badly off-key, broom in hand, swaying like he was auditioning to be the next forgotten Disney sidekick. He spun in a full circle, did a mock twirl with the broom like it was a dance partner, and struck a ridiculous pose.

Then the front door slammed open like someone had kicked it off the hinges.

“AAAHHH!”

Ryan shrieked like a fire alarm, flailing so hard he let go of the broom entirely. It sailed through the air with all the grace of a penguin trying to fly—flipping once, then landing a pathetic clack exactly one foot away. It didn’t even bounce.

Frozen in the doorway stood (Name), eyebrows drawn together, her mouth half open in horrified disbelief. One foot behind her loomed Monty—the Montgomery Gator himself—built like a brick wall with fangs. His broad shoulders practically filled the entire doorframe, blocking out the late afternoon sun like some six foot something Grim Reaper.

Ryan took one look at that towering reptilian shadow—and shrieked again, higher this time, like someone had turned the volume knob on his terror way past 11.

Monty tilted his head slightly, unamused. “Y’done?”

Ryan held up a finger and cleared his throat.

He let out a third screech, this one so shrill it actually made the fluorescent lights above flicker. His back hit the counter with a soft thud, arms splayed like a T-pose of pure panic.

Monty, utterly unfazed, leaned one elbow on the doorframe and slid his sunglasses down the bridge of his snout just far enough to peer over them. His smirk was pure rockstar mischief—half charm, half menace.

“Aw, c’mon now,” he drawled, voice low and lazy, like he had all the time in the world. “Ain’t gotta scream like that, rockstar. You want an autograph or somethin’? Poster? Shirt?” He gave a slow tap of his claw against his scaly chest. “Forehead?”

Ryan blinked. Once. Twice. Still pressed against the counter like it might absorb him if he held still long enough. Then, with the wide-eyed expression of someone desperately trying to reboot his brain, he raised a trembling arm and pointed.

At Monty.

Then at (Name).

Then back at Monty.

“What. Is. THIS?!” he choked out, voice cracking so hard he sounded like a middle school choir soloist on the worst day of his life.

(Name) didn’t even glance up. She shoved past them both with the force of someone who had exactly zero time for nonsense today.

“Don’t start,” she muttered, already bee-lining toward the back storage room. “I swear to god, I left chips back here. Where. Is. The. FOOD.”

Monty stepped inside after her, unbothered, still grinning like the cover of a glam-metal album. He tossed a wink over his shoulder at Ryan.

“Don’t sweat it, kid. Happens all the time. Can’t blame her for fallin’ for a superstar.”

From somewhere in the back, (Name) groaned—long and loud—like the sound of a haunted vending machine giving up on life. The candy rack actually rattled.

Ryan hadn’t moved an inch. His arms were still half-raised, mouth hanging open, looking like a low-budget staff bot that had just run a fatal error.

Then came the sound of a cabinet slamming shut.

“If you say one more word about posters or autographs or whatever the hell,” (Name) snapped, storming back into the main area with a crumpled snack bag in one hand, “Monty, I swear, I will take the nearest bag of chips and strangle you with it.”

Monty leaned lazily across the counter now, claws drumming a slow rhythm on the laminate surface. The shades were still low on his nose. The smirk? Absolutely unkillable.

“Kinda hard t’strangle me with somethin’ that small, sugar,” he purred. “Might need at least two bags.”

(Name) deadpanned back at him, unmoved. “Don’t tempt me. I will find a Costco-sized variety pack.”

From the other side of the room, Ryan let out a weak whimper. “I just wanted to sweep.”

Before (Name) could launch into Round Two—voice loaded like a slingshot—Monty casually reached to the side, plucked a snack bag off the shelf without even looking, and lobbed it underhand toward her.

“Here,” he said smoothly. “Before ya bite me.”

She fumbled the catch—momentary panic flashing across her face—but managed to trap the bag awkwardly against her chest with both hands. Her eyes snapped to his in disbelief, like she couldn’t quite tell if that had just happened.

Monty chuckled low in his throat. “Knew ya had quick reflexes. Must be all that meowin’ practice.”

Ryan, slumped dramatically near the floor like a broken marionette, let out the longest, most exhausted groan of his life. “I hate this timeline,” he muttered, and then let himself slide fully to the ground. His broom lay tragically nearby, forgotten and still sad.

(Name) stood frozen for a second, snack bag still clutched like a thrown gauntlet. Then she blinked hard and gave her head a sharp shake—so sharp her ponytail actually smacked her in the cheek. She winced, then gave herself a light slap across the face for good measure.

Nope. Not helpful.

God, she couldn’t believe she’d actually snapped at him. Full-on hangry goblin mode, no filter. As if she’d just challenged Montgomery freaking Gator to a dominance contest over Chex Mix.

It hadn’t been planned. It hadn’t even been rational. It was pure human survival instinct: stomach empty, patience gone, threat detected.

Except the threat had smiled, tossed her snacks, and said something stupidly flirtatious like it was something that happened everyday.

Now the moment was burned into her brain in horrifying 4K: the lazy arc of the chip bag, the flick of his claw, the glint of that smirk. And her—arms flailing, cheeks red, catching it like an absolute clown.

“Get it together,” she hissed under her breath.

She grabbed her bag from the passenger seat, gripping it tightly, and yanked the door open like it had personally offended her, then practically launched herself out. Her boots hit the pavement with more force than necessary. Slammed the door. Adjusted the bag slung across her back like it might stabilize her dignity if she wore it high enough.

Her movements were stiff, mechanical. A one-woman march of forced momentum.

Because if she just kept walking—kept moving forward, kept not thinking—then maybe the sheer awkwardness of that moment wouldn’t catch up to her.

Not today.

Better to just get this cursed day over with.

The inside of the Plex was quiet.

Not eerily so, but that kind of stillness that only came before chaos—the charged hush of a place not quite awake. Soon it would be flooded with shrieking kids, stressed-out parents, and staff scrambling to survive another day of animatronic madness. But for now, it rested. Dim lights flickered in the hallway. A soda machine hummed in the distance. Somewhere, a ventilation fan clicked with a soft, mechanical rhythm.

(Name) clutched the strap of her bag a little tighter, trying not to let her nerves crawl too far up her spine.

Hannah’s message. It rang in the back of her head like a smoke alarm.

Photo ops. Photo ops. Photo ops.

She bit her lip, anxiety twisting her stomach.

What even was that supposed to mean? Was she just there to hand out merch? Help set up props? Play glorified cosplay assistant to the Gator and the Bear?

Honestly, they'd probably be better off without her. She could just slink off into her safe little corner of the building—Gator Golf’s personal gift shop—where things made sense. Where she was in control.

But no. The universe never seemed interested in letting her have that.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, a sharp little beep that made her flinch. She groaned and fished it out, swiping the screen with one thumb. The brightness made her squint.

Hannah [7:12 AM]: We’re meeting in the lobby of Gator Golf! This is gonna be so much fun! 😊

(Name) stared at the screen.

Her eyes narrowed.

Fun? For who exactly?

Because from where she stood—awkwardly caught between corporate obligation and full-body cringe—it was starting to feel like this day had zero fun in store for her.

She slid her phone back into her pocket with the resigned air of someone being marched to the guillotine.

Monty leaned into the artificial greenery that framed the glowing sign above—Gator Golf—arms crossed, tail twitching against the glossy tile floor with slow, irritated sweeps.

Above him, the screen flickered to life every few seconds, cycling through digital ads and stills from the park’s attractions. His eyes flicked up just in time to catch the current one: himself. Lazy-eyed smirk, golf club balanced behind his neck like a baseball bat, one clawed thumb raised in a practiced "cool guy" gesture.

He scoffed under his breath.

Yeah. He remembered that shoot.

Back when they first opened Gator Golf, they made him pose for all kinds of promo material. Props, backdrops, camera flashes in his face like he was some fashion model instead of a walking, talking wrecking ball. He’d stood right here for hours while they tried to make his scales “shine” better under the lights. They even tried powder once.

Didn’t work. Just made him sneeze on the intern.

And now here they were again. Same setup. Same fake smiles. Same dumb hats.

Speaking of dumb hats, Freddy was holding one now—one of those tiny tophats that (Name) had very loudly told them not to mess with yesterday. Monty watched with half-lidded eyes as Freddy turned it gently in his hands, like he was hearing her voice in his head too. The poor guy was built like a brick wall with the soul of a golden retriever.

Next to Freddy stood Hannah, clipboard in hand, chirping instructions at the photographer—Richard? Randall? Something with an R. It didn't matter.

Monty rolled his eyes and let out a low, rumbling sigh. The longer he stood here, the more his patience thinned. And knowing he’d have to actually participate in this little PR circus?

He’d rather eat his own tail.

He could be in his room right now, shredding on his bass, playing something loud enough to crack the drywall. Or even better—he could be out on the course, shaving another stroke off his already-perfect golf score. That bunker on Hole 6 still owed him a rematch.

The thought actually made him straighten, claws twitching with the urge to leave—just ghost the whole thing.

But then:

“Montgomery!” Hannah’s voice rang out like a bell. “Be a dear and help me straighten this?”

He turned his head slowly toward her, his expression flat as pond water.

With a grunt, he pushed off the wall, tail giving one final, disgruntled swipe. His boots clunked dully against the tile as he trudged over.

“What’s the point ta all this anyway?” he muttered, dragging the words like they tasted sour.

Freddy, ever the helpful golden boy, chimed in with that practiced cheerfulness that somehow didn’t feel entirely forced.

“Hannah here was instructed to help advertise the different sections of the Plex,” he explained, giving a light grunt as he nudged a heavy box just a few inches out of the way with surprising grace for someone as big as he was.

“First stop was Gator Golf—”

Monty rolled his eyes before Freddy could even finish, pushing his shades up into the ridges of his brow with a clawed thumb. The lenses settled in his hair like a crown, catching the light. He glanced down at the box next to his foot and gave it a lazy kick, just hard enough to slide it an inch across the tile.

Gator Golf didn’t need help.

It already had swamp lights, a killer soundtrack, and the best damn mini-golf experience this side of Florida. Who didn’t like sinking a hole-in-one next to a glowing animatronic croc skull?

He loved it. The whole thing was practically his baby.

Freddy kept talking.

“—and the gift shop seemed to be lacking a little.”

Monty’s head jerked up like someone had snapped a rubber band at him. His brows dropped, expression sharpening into something halfway between offended and ready to throw hands.

“Run that by me again?”

Freddy blinked. His big blue eyes flicked from Monty to Hannah and back again, like he wasn’t entirely sure what part had triggered the reaction.

He offered a sheepish shrug, ears twitching with the intention of regret.

“The gift shop,” he repeated, slowly, “seems to be… lacking in sales!”

Monty stared at him.

Then turned to Hannah.

Then back to Freddy.

“You mean my gift shop?” he asked, voice dropping a full octave, claws tapping rhythmically against his bicep where his arms were crossed again.

“The one with the neon signs? The sunglasses rack? The gator-shaped candy? That gift shop?”

Freddy smiled nervously. “Yes! That one!”

Monty’s jaw worked silently for a second.

Then: “The nerve,” he muttered, tail flicking once behind him like a whip. “We got plushies with fangs, Freddy. Fangs. Y’tellin’ me kids ain’t buyin’ that?”

Hannah, sensing the brewing storm, quickly stepped in with a tight smile and a clipboard held like a shield.

“We’re just aiming to give the area a little marketing boost, Monty. Visual presence, social engagement—photo ops, remember? It’s not a punishment.”

“Feels like one,” he grumbled.

She cleared her throat, not unkindly. “It’s more about giving your attraction a little extra polish.”

Monty snorted, and not in a friendly way. “My attraction’s already shiny, honey.”

Freddy patted his shoulder like he was comforting a very offended toddler. “Think of it as a spotlight, not a critique.”

Monty grunted again, muttering under his breath. But he didn’t storm off. Not yet.

From down the hall, the quiet shuffle of boots echoed—measured steps, sharp and deliberate. (Name) adjusted the strap of her bag as she approached, the muted buzz of conversation growing clearer with every step.

She rounded the corner just in time to hear Freddy’s hopeful tone:
“—Think of it as a spotlight, not a critique.”

Monty let out a dismissive snort, one claw running through his mohawk like he was trying to tame more than just his temper.

“Right. Well, far as I see it,” he said, voice low and grumbling, “ain’t her fault the higher-ups don’t know how t’count numbers right.”

Freddy blinked. “Pardon?”

Monty gestured vaguely in the air, irritation flickering across his face.

“The girl runnin’ that shop works harder than half the crew in this dump,” he muttered. “Ain’t her problem folks don’t stop long enough t’appreciate it. She's got the whole place lookin’ clean, stocked, themed—hell, she even makes those dumb little bowtie bags for the merch.”

His tail thumped once against the floor, agitated but focused.

“If the sales’re low, that ain’t on her. That’s on whoever decided to stick the best part of Gator Golf behind a neon wall an’ call it subtle.”

A heavy pause followed. Not defensive. Not loud. Just… firm. Quiet. Honest.

(Name) stood frozen in the entrance, caught mid-step. Her grip on her bag loosened slightly, shoulders relaxing despite herself.

He hadn’t seen her.

But Freddy had.

And so had Hannah.

The two exchanged a look over Monty’s shoulder—Freddy’s expression somewhere between knowing and surprised, Hannah’s eyebrows arched so high they nearly vanished into her bangs.

Neither said a word.

Monty, unaware, shifted his weight and crossed his arms again, his tail giving another idle flick. His scowl had softened just a hair, but the simmer was still there—like he was ready to start swinging if someone said the wrong thing.

(Name) cleared her throat lightly, finally stepping fully into the room.

Three heads turned.

“Morning,” she said, cool and neutral, even though her heart was doing its best impression of a drumline. “Didn’t mean to interrupt the board meeting.”

Monty glanced at her, then immediately went back to his usual posture—leaning slightly to one side, shades sliding back down over his eyes, smirk halfway in place.

“‘Bout time you showed up,” he muttered, voice back to casual and gravel-lined. “They were plannin’ a total makeover of your gift shop. Sparkles. Balloons. Maybe a fog machine.”

She blinked, arching a brow. “I will set this building on fire if they bring in a fog machine.”

Freddy made a soft, distressed hum.

Hannah, recovering fast, stepped forward with a clipboard and a PR smile. “Don’t worry, no fog machines. Probably.”

But her eyes flicked once more toward Monty—quietly thoughtful.

(Name) side-eyed Monty, just for a second.

The tiniest of smirks tugged at the corner of her mouth before it fully bloomed into a small, genuine smile—soft, quiet, and entirely undeserved.

Monty caught it out of the corner of his eye.

He stiffened, like someone had yanked an invisible wire in his spine. His tail gave a sharp thump against the tile, betraying him before he could shove the emotion back down into wherever he kept all that attitude and bass-line rage. But he played it off, turning his head slightly and offering her a casual, toothy grin—like it cost him nothing.

It absolutely cost him something.

Her gaze drifted toward the half-finished setup in the middle of the lobby—fabric backdrop strung between two light stands, a fake putting green rolled out, camera lenses glinting under the flickering overhead light. Props littered the floor: visors, foam fingers, novelty sunglasses shaped like gator eyes.

She raised an eyebrow. “So…” Her voice cut through the quiet like the flick of a switchblade. “We doing this thing or what?”

Hannah clapped her hands once. “Yes! Finally. Everyone in position.”

Freddy perked up immediately, adjusting the top hat on his head like it was a crown and gently picking up a foam golf club with all the drama of Shakespearean theater.

Monty, meanwhile, looked like he’d just been sentenced to jury duty.

(Name) exhaled and gripped her bag tighter. As she decided to hold onto it, she shot Monty one last glance—just enough of a smirk this time to challenge him.

He rolled his eyes, but the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away.

Yeah. They were doing this thing—whether Monty liked it or not.

Chapter Text

“Okay, guys,” the photographer—Richy? Ramone? Randy?—called out, waving one hand in the air like he was trying to land a plane. His camera stand wobbled as he nudged it with the toe of his sneaker, squinting down at the unfamiliar controls. “We’re gonna start small and work our way up, alright? Loosen up, have fun with it.”

Hannah clutched her clipboard like it was the last life raft on the Titanic, her whole face lit up in a wattage far too intense for seven-something in the morning. She practically bounced on her toes, heels clicking faintly on the glossy studio floor.

The photographer glanced at her—one quick, sideways look that screamed please chill—but wisely didn’t comment.

“If I could get Freddy to—” he started.

The crash of something hollow and plasticky hitting the ground cut him off. Freddy’s sheepish “Oops!” followed half a second later.

Monty crossed his arms and tuned the rest out. He’d been through this song and dance enough times to know the first twenty minutes of a shoot were gonna be a circus of bad posing and worse jokes. He leaned back on one heel, the overhead fluorescents throwing sharp reflections across the lenses of his shades, and let his gaze wander.

It landed on the girl standing a little ways to his left.

(Name) wasn’t mingling with the mess of props or bouncing like Hannah; she hung back, hands sunk deep into her pockets, her bag still slung over one shoulder. Canvas, overstuffed, the strap digging into her shirt in a way that looked downright uncomfortable. She narrowed her eyes at the setup like she was trying to figure out if someone was pranking her.

Monty tilted his head, slow.

“Hey,” he muttered, pitched low enough that it didn’t carry past her. Freddy knocked over something else behind them, the noise filling the pause. “You want me ta hold that for ya?”

Her head turned fast, brows lifting. For a beat, she just stared, like she couldn’t tell if he was joking.

Monty’s expression didn’t shift—no smirk, no teasing grin. Just an easy offer, casual and quiet, like it had come out before he’d even thought about it. He nodded at the strap on her shoulder. “Looks heavy.”

She blinked, the corner of her mouth twitching upward into a crooked almost-smile. “What, you think I can’t hold it myself?”

Monty let the grin bloom then. Slow, unbothered, confident. He leaned a little closer—not enough to crowd her, but enough for her to feel the weight of his attention.

“Nah, sugar,” he drawled, his voice dropping warm and low. “Ain’t never thought that.”

The shine of his shades caught the lights again as he tilted his head, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug that was anything but careless.

“Just figured I’d do somethin’ nice for ya. Y’know…” His mouth quirked, teeth flashing sharp and amused. “Bein’ a gentleman ’n all.”

There was a beat.

The kind of silence that didn’t really belong in a room this noisy. Somewhere across the set, something clattered to the ground—Freddy again, probably, knocking into another foam-finger display with all the grace of a wrecking ball—but neither of them so much as twitched. The sound came and went like background static. The world had shrunk down, narrowing until it was just the two of them caught in the same pocket of stillness.

(Name) gave him a look. Long, steady, deliberate. Not flustered, not even particularly annoyed. Just measuring him with her eyes like she was trying to pin him down, figure out what angle he was working. Monty had a reputation—too smug, too wild, always ready with a joke sharp enough to cut. But this wasn’t quite that. And she could feel herself wondering, against her better judgment, if maybe there was something else sitting under all that swagger. Something she might want to get close enough to see.

“…Gentleman?” she echoed finally, her voice dry as sandpaper, one brow sliding upward. “That’s what we’re calling this now?”

Monty’s smirk curved deeper, the corners of his mouth ticking upward just enough to show teeth. “Hey, I offered to carry your bag, not set fire to the place.”

Her lips twitched, a spark of amusement she didn’t mean to show. “That’s next week’s plan, I’m guessing?”

His chuckle rolled low in his chest, warm and unhurried. His tail flicked once, lazy and sharp, the sound of it brushing the floor almost lost under the photographer’s endless, muffled instructions. “Gotta leave somethin’ to look forward to.”

That earned him a laugh. Small, quiet, barely more than a breath of sound, but undeniably real. It slipped out before she could stop it, curling the corner of her mouth into a reluctant half-smile that made her want to look anywhere but at him.

From somewhere behind them came Hannah’s shrill squeal of delight. “Yes! That one! Freddy, hold that pose—don’t move, don’t breathe!”

The words sliced the air, high-pitched and grating, but Monty didn’t even blink. Neither did she. Their moment stayed untouched, cocooned against the chaos thrumming in the background.

Her gaze drifted up almost without her permission, finding his eyes behind the flash of his lenses—and found, to her surprise, that he was already watching her. Not in the usual way. Not that big-stage bravado, not the cocky smirk he liked to wear like armor. He still leaned casual against his weight, tail twitching now and again like he had energy to burn, but his face… his face had softened. His smirk was muted, tempered into something quieter, more intent. Less performance, more… curiosity.

The realization sent a strange jolt through her chest. Not fear, not exactly—but sharp enough to steal her breath for a second. Like waking up a heartbeat too late from a dream you didn’t want to end. That’s when it sank in, who she was talking to. Who she was letting close.

Her cheeks heated fast, blooming with warmth she couldn’t will away, and she broke eye contact, throat tightening. She shifted the strap of her bag higher on her shoulder as if to remind herself it was still there, grounding her.

“You don’t have to,” she said quietly, voice low enough that the words felt fragile. It was steadier than she felt inside, but not by much.

Monty tilted his head, studying her again, like she was a puzzle piece he’d just found under the couch after weeks of searching. The kind of attention that didn’t weigh heavy but lingered, like he actually cared to get it right.

“Nah,” he said at last, his voice softer than she’d expected. A pause. Then, with finality: “But I wanna.”

And he didn’t grin after saying it. Didn’t lean back, didn’t dress it up with swagger. He just let the words settle in the air between them, steady and unshaken.

That was somehow worse. Or better. She couldn’t quite decide. All she knew was that the space around them felt different now—charged, precarious, a wire strung tight between two points neither of them had planned on connecting.

She opened her mouth—half a breath away from saying it.

If you really want to insist, then… fine.

The words hovered on the tip of her tongue, ready to tumble out, when the photographer’s voice split the air like a whipcrack:

“Monty! Let’s get a shot of you next—trade places with Freddy, would you?”

The sound carried too loud, too bright, bouncing off the walls of the lobby and shattering the bubble they’d been standing in. The fragile hush between them cracked apart, brittle as glass.

Her lips pressed shut. The half-born words dissolved into nothing, swallowed back down with a tightness that scraped at her throat. Somehow, keeping quiet weighed heavier than speaking ever would have. The silence pressed into her chest, filling her ribs, making her heart thud against the constraint of it.

Monty didn’t move.

Not right away.

For a stretched, impossible beat, he just stood there, the world clamoring around them but his focus still locked steady on her. His eyes—amber, steady, catching the light like molten glass—didn’t shift. Unreadable, maybe, but not cold. Not mocking. Just fixed, like he was still listening to the words she hadn’t spoken.

Her pulse ticked loud in her ears, each second stretching longer than it should. For one reckless moment, she thought he might actually ignore the call—that he’d just stay where he was, rooted to her, refusing to break what they’d almost had.

Then he blinked, slow and deliberate, and drew a breath. The tiniest slip in his posture as he turned his head, shoulders rolling back into that familiar armor of swagger.

“Yeah, yeah,” he called lazily, his drawl slipping back into place like a mask, smooth and careless. “Don’t rush perfection.”

The photographer chuckled at that, oblivious. The moment—their moment—was already gone.

Monty finally pushed off the wall, each step unhurried, his tail swaying with practiced rhythm. But even as he turned, even as the stage version of him took over again, his gaze lingered on her. Only at the last possible second did he pull his eyes away.

She tracked him until he was out of reach, her hand shifting at her side. Fingers curled tighter around the strap of her bag, the rough canvas biting into her palm. A quiet anchor, something to hold onto when her chest felt too full.

Whatever she’d almost said, whatever had hovered right there on the edge of her tongue—it stayed locked behind her teeth. Tucked deep in her chest where he couldn’t hear it. At least, not yet.

Freddy ambled over, big strides loose and easy, his frame practically soaking up the glow of the lobby lights until he looked like he’d been built to live on a stage. His grin spread wide and effortless, ears flicking with every step like they had their own rhythm, little antennae bouncing to some cheerful tune only he could hear.

“This is so much fun!” he declared, laughter booming out of him in a way that ricocheted off the tiles and the glossy props. It wasn’t sharp or loud enough to startle—just warm, filling the space the way sunlight spills into an open room. “I can’t wait for the other attractions—Fazcade, Bonnie Bowl, maybe even Monty’s green room! Ooh, we could try different hats for each theme!”

He slowed as he reached her, coming to a stop with a kind of natural poise that made him feel taller than he was. His shoulders squared without effort, his presence soft but commanding, like he couldn’t help but cast a little shadow even when he didn’t mean to. His head tipped, blue eyes flicking down, and in an instant that playful energy folded into concern.

“Oh, dear!” His voice dropped low, softer now, the words rounded with genuine alarm. His hand lifted as though he’d spotted something fragile on her. “Superstar, that looks awfully heavy. Do you mind if I…?”

His fingers flexed in midair, careful and delicate, the way someone might reach for fine china in a shop window.

It took her a second to bridge the gap between moments. To reconcile the lingering echo of Monty’s “But I wanna” with Freddy’s earnest, eager-to-help offer. Both different. Both sincere. One playful and burning at the edges, the other open and steady, solid as an anchor.

Her breath hitched on the pause as she looked down at the strap biting into her shoulder, then back at Freddy’s outstretched hand, and then—because she couldn’t help it—toward where Monty had just stepped into the photographer’s frame.

Monty’s whole posture screamed disinterest, one hip cocked in practiced arrogance, shades tipped low as if the world couldn’t touch him. But the tilt of those sunglasses—just a little too far down his snout—betrayed the possibility that maybe, just maybe, he’d been watching her longer than he wanted to admit.

She swallowed lightly and turned back to Freddy, letting a soft smile break across her lips. “I’ve got it, but… thanks, Freddy.”

His grin bloomed wider, practically glowing with how much he seemed to enjoy even the smallest kindness returned to him. “Of course! Just say the word.”

With that, he turned away, moving to Hannah’s side where she was fussing over a display. He bent easily to her height, shifting props with careful precision, though his size made every small motion look dramatic.

But her eyes didn’t follow him for long. They drifted back—unbidden, traitorous—toward Monty.

He hadn’t turned his head, not once, not yet. But the air still vibrated faintly with the same tension as before, humming in her ribs like a note struck on a piano that hadn’t fully faded. Something unfinished. Something waiting.

It felt like the photo op would never end—dragging on and on under the buzz of fluorescents and the photographer’s too-loud voice bouncing off the tile. Hannah chirped commentary like she was on her fifth energy drink, and Freddy clapped after every other shot like the world’s most wholesome hype-man. Riley—yeah, Riley, that was the guy’s name—kept barking cheerful commands, shoving props into their arms, shifting them like pawns on a game board, cackling at his own jokes like they were comedy gold.

Monty was over it.

He’d hated this kind of garbage from the start. Flashy “branding.” Plastic smiles. Corporate clowns talking about engagement and fun for the kiddies. None of it mattered. Not to him. He wasn’t meant to be a mascot with props stuck in his claws—he was a star, damn it. And all these goofy accessories, all these fake poses and empty laughs, they stripped him down until he felt like a hollow imitation of himself.

The flash popped again, stabbing white into his eyes, spots burning his vision. He grunted, head turning slightly away, and waited for Riley’s little thumbs-up. The second it came, Monty let the props in his hands tumble to the floor with a loud clatter. No grace. No care.

Freddy gasped like someone had just dropped a baby. “Monty! Careful!!” His voice rang out, half-panicked, ears jerking upward.

Monty rolled his eyes, tail lashing with irritation, the end of it smacking against the tile with a faint thud. He was real tired of the bear’s constant nagging.

Because this wasn’t new.

Yesterday, Freddy had dragged him aside near the merch table, like some self-appointed hall monitor. His posture had been stiff, ears pinned back, that disappointment practically dripping from him. Freddy at his most “serious.” The kind of serious that made Monty feel like he was about to get grounded.

“Monty…” Freddy had started, arms crossing over his chest in that parental way, voice pitched low and firm. “Are you aware of what you’re doing?”

Monty had clicked his tongue, squaring up with his own arms crossed, mirror-image but sharper, defiant.

“Ain’t no idea what yer yammerin’ on about, fatbear.”

Freddy’s jaw had worked, teeth grinding behind his polite expression, before he exhaled heavy through his nose. One of those long, world-weary sighs that rattled the air between them. His ears drooped just slightly.

“You and (Name),” he muttered.

Monty’s shades tipped down, just far enough to show the narrow slice of amber eyes beneath. His tail had gone still, mid-swing, locked in place.

“…And what about it?” The words had come out low, edged, like a growl waiting to happen.

Freddy’s ears flicked back. His hands lifted, his whole frame bristling with the rare crackle of his temper. “You’re suffocating the girl, Montgomery!”

The words hit harder than Monty expected. Sharp, cutting deeper because it was Freddy—sunshine, Mr. “Superstar!” himself—raising his voice.

Monty’s jaw had flexed, heat flashing under his skin. He barked out a laugh, too harsh, too forced. “Pft. Yeah right.” His tail flicked sharp, betraying the irritation rolling off him. “I ain’t—” He gestured vaguely with one claw. “—I ain’t suffocatin’ nobody.”

Freddy’s gaze hadn’t budged. Those steady blue eyes pinned him, soft but unyielding. Concern, not anger, and that somehow burned worse.

“She needs space,” Freddy had said, gentler now, ears twitching once. “You loom over her every chance you get. You follow her through the concourse, you cut into her conversations—half the time, she doesn’t even know what to do with you there.”

Monty’s smirk had faltered. Just for a second. A crack.

Then he’d shoved his shades back into place, grin snapping on sharp and defiant. “Yeah? Well maybe she don’t mind.”

But in the pit of his chest, Monty wasn’t sure. Not really.

Freddy had laughed then, but it wasn’t the usual laugh. It was dry. Flat. A sound that had no business coming from him. And it unsettled Monty more than if the bear had flat-out yelled.

“Right,” Freddy said, voice even. “And when she finally says something about it?”

Monty’s jaw tightened, his growl low and rolling in his chest. “What happens is none of yer business, Freddy.”

The words snapped in the air, sharp enough to spark.

They stared each other down—Monty’s amber glare burning hot from beneath his tipped shades, Freddy’s steady blue gaze holding firm. Monty’s teeth ground together until the faint squeak of enamel filled the silence.

Then Freddy broke first. His ears flicked back, one hand coming up to rub at the side of his neck. His voice rumbled quieter, but the edge in it didn’t fade. “Fine. Fine. Just… be careful, Monty.”

Monty scoffed, baring his teeth in a grin that didn’t reach his eyes. “‘M always careful. Maybe you oughta heed yer own advice.” His tail lashed again, betraying the irritation he was trying to bury.

Freddy didn’t move, didn’t soften. He shook his head once, gaze steady, voice dropping into something heavier than all the clapping and cheer he usually wore.

“I’m serious.”

The air shifted with those words—like the lights had dimmed, like the stage curtains had dropped. No sarcasm. No scolding. No performance. Just a warning, plain and solid, meant to stick.

And for once… Monty didn’t have a smart comeback.

He remembered Freddy ambling off, that maddeningly casual wave over his shoulder making it feel like the whole argument had been nothing more than small talk.

Monty’s growl rumbled low, deep in his chest, vibrating against ribs and echoing faintly through his tail. One clawed hand lifted, deliberate and subtle, flipping the bear off before he let out a sharp groan, rolling his head back against the stiff muscles of his neck.

“Damn fatbear,” he muttered under his breath, teeth flashing in the dim light.

The tension in his shoulders lingered, coiled tight like loaded springs, but he shoved it down. Adjusted his shades, rolling his neck until it cracked with satisfying relief. Then he shoved his hands into his pockets, stepping out with that purposeful, hunting stride he wore so well—softened just enough to look casual, to blend into the chaos. Toward the merch table. Toward her.

Yeah. That was better.

He didn’t need Freddy’s lectures rattling in his skull. Didn’t need the endless reminders, the concern, the dad voice. He was careful. Always careful. At least, that’s what he told himself.

Monty’s eyes slid past the blinding flashes, Hannah’s high-pitched squeals, the rustle of props being shuffled around, and finally settled on her.

She wasn’t anywhere near the backdrop circus, wasn’t swept up in the staged chaos. She lingered in a sliver of shadow just outside the spotlight, small and purposeful, tucked against the wall like she’d claimed the space for herself. Away from the noise. Away from Freddy’s relentless clapping.

Her bag—canvas, overstuffed, the strap dug into her shoulder—was finally set down by her feet. She crouched slightly, shoulders curling forward, hands diving into it with quiet intent. The faint crinkle of plastic rose over the muffled chaos around them, a tiny, deliberate soundtrack that made Monty’s smirk stretch slow and easy across his snout.

Of course she’d brought snacks. Figures.

He leaned back on his heels, arms folding across his chest, letting the thought settle. Freddy’s voice still lurked at the back of his mind, all warnings and weight, but Monty shoved it down hard. Let the grin linger, lazy and sharp.

Careful? Yeah. He was careful.

Besides… what harm could there be in seeing what she’d pulled out of that bag?

His tail twitched once, impatient, eager, ready to close the distance. The air between them buzzed faintly, charged with the quiet promise of something unsaid. And for once, Monty didn’t care who noticed.

Monty shifted his weight, tail flicking once with a lazy snap behind him before he pushed off the wall.

He didn’t make a beeline for her—too obvious. Nah, he had to keep it casual, effortless. He ambled, slow and deliberate, like he just happened to drift her way, chains jingling faintly with each step, claws clicking against the tile, echoing softly in the chaos of the lobby.

By the time she finally noticed him, he was close enough that his shadow spilled across hers, stretching long and sharp.

“Somethin’ smells good,” he drawled, tilting his chin toward the bag at her feet. The smirk on his snout widened, teeth flashing briefly in the light. “Whatcha got hidin’ in there, sugar? Don’t tell me you’re holdin’ out on me.”

She glanced up at him, unconcerned by the teeth, the height, the looming frame, or the dark shades hiding his eyes. One brow arched, unimpressed.

“…You always sneak up on people like this?” she muttered, pulling something free from the depths of her bag. The plastic crinkled under her fingers, faint at first, then louder as she tugged it free.

Monty leaned in, just enough for the sound to reach him, one claw tapping lazily against the strap dangling from the bag. “Depends,” he said, smooth, teasing. “You always smuggle snacks like you’re runnin’ a black market?”

She gave him a flat look, then tore the corner of the wrapper with her teeth.

The scent hit him immediately—saccharine and cheap, the kind of candy kids begged for in the gift shop. Sweetness wrapped in waxed paper, cloying and familiar. His grin sharpened, slow and deliberate.

“Knew it,” he rumbled. “Knew you were hidin’ somethin’.”

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered, chewing at the plastic around the candy, but the corner of her mouth twitched, betraying her amusement despite herself.

Monty caught it. A tiny victory, filed away and tucked neatly behind that sly smirk.

And for all of Freddy’s warnings about “suffocating” her, Monty told himself this was harmless. Careful. He was being careful.

…Wasn’t he?

She popped the candy into her mouth, the crinkled wrapper dangling loosely from her fingers. She leaned back against the wall, shoulders brushing the cool surface, and the quiet snap of the wrapper seemed louder than it should have been in the chaos around them.

Monty didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just stayed there, arms folded, tail swishing slow and deliberate behind him. Shades hiding most of his eyes, but his head tilted slightly—not fully at her, not fully at the floor—somewhere in between, like his attention was wandering down its own crooked path.

She noticed.

Her chewing slowed, eyes narrowing faintly, scanning him as if trying to figure out the game he was playing. And then, without a word, she tore another piece free from the bag and held it out toward him, the crinkle of the wrapper crisp in the quiet pocket they’d carved out for themselves.

Monty’s head snapped just slightly, attention dropping to her outstretched hand, then flicking back up to meet her eyes. The movement was subtle, practiced—like he was trying not to make it obvious how much he wanted to look, but failing anyway.

“…What’s this for?” His voice was low, casual, but there was a hint of curiosity tucked underneath the lazy drawl, a thread of something he didn’t quite want to acknowledge.

“You were staring,” she said simply, her tone flat but not unkind. “Figured you wanted one.”

His smirk twitched back into place, slow, lazy, sharp, the kind of expression that could slice through a quiet room if he wanted it to. But beneath it, there was a flicker—something hot, electric, coiling like a current he hadn’t planned for, something he couldn’t shove down no matter how much he tried.

“Well, darlin’, if you’re handin’ ‘em out…” His claws extended just far enough to brush against the edge of the wrapper, careful, deliberate, like he didn’t want to crush it. “Be rude t’ say no,” he rumbled, low and smooth, the sound vibrating through his chest.

She rolled her eyes at him, a tiny, exasperated gesture—but her mouth curved anyway, reluctant, teasing, betraying her own amusement.

“Don’t get used to it,” she murmured, though her voice lacked real bite.

Monty chuckled softly, flicking the candy into his mouth with a practiced, lazy motion. The sugar hit hard—sweet, cheap, ridiculously artificial—and for a heartbeat it was almost laughable, a little chaotic spark in his system, so far removed from the carefully measured diet he usually maintained. He could feel the rush prickling at the edges of his senses, warm and electric.

“That’s dangerous,” he said after a beat, tail flicking with restless energy, brushing against the floor in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

She blinked at him, expression faintly incredulous. “Candy?”

“Nah.” He leaned just a fraction closer, tilting his head like he was studying her more than the treat in his mouth, letting the words linger between them. “You’re spoilin’ me.”

Her laugh slipped out before she could stop it, soft, genuine, spilling around the edges like sunlight breaking through a crack. It wasn’t loud, not even fully audible over the muffled chaos of the photo op, but it hit him square in the chest, reverberating deep and low, like the kick of a bassline he didn’t expect.

And, of course, Freddy’s warning echoed faintly somewhere in the back of his skull. Careful.

Monty’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second, smirk frozen like armor, sharp and deliberate, even as the warmth of her laugh brushed past it, nagging at the edges of his carefully constructed cool.

(Name) plopped another piece of candy into her mouth, humming softly around it as though savoring a secret only she knew. Monty’s gaze tracked every motion before he even realized it—watched the wrapper crinkle, the corner of it disappearing between her lips, the faint flick of her tongue as she savored the sugar.

His throat worked hard, thick with tension, and he tore his eyes away almost violently, forcing himself to pretend he was adjusting the strap of his bass—even though he wasn’t even wearing it. Smooth. Real smooth.

From across the backdrop, Riley threw Freddy a thumbs-up like he’d just won some grand prize, the gesture crisp and exaggerated under the harsh, buzzing studio lights. Freddy, ever the good sport, returned it with that proud, golden-boy grin, ears wiggling slightly as if even his fur was cheering. Hannah scribbled furiously on her clipboard, the tip of her pen scratching against paper, her face practically glowing with the sort of elation only someone who truly loved chaos could muster. Her eyes darted between them, her smile never faltering, every motion radiating enthusiasm that felt almost too much for seven-something in the morning.

Monty’s eyes narrowed, jaw tightening, a low growl rumbling quietly in his chest. He could feel the tension coil tighter, muscles under his scales knotting as if bracing for another round of staged smiles and awkward poses.

Then Hannah’s voice cut across the room, sharp and gleeful, slicing through the haze of fluorescent lights and clinking props.

“We just have a few more pictures to take and we’ll be done for the day!”

Monty’s insides twisted into knots, curling up like barbed wire. A few more. Just what he needed—more blinding flashes piercing his eyes, more foam props shoved into his claws, more forced smiles while someone barked instructions as if he were a puppet.

He let out a mental groan, rolling his broad shoulders in an attempt to shake off the irritation that had been building like steam in a kettle. His tail flicked sharply against the smooth tile, the sound crisp and startling in the otherwise chaotic background. Under his breath, he muttered, low and rough, “Hell, this day’s never gonna end.”

She tossed him a glance, playful, bright, and teasing. “Aw, c’mon. It’s not that bad, drama king.”

Monty rolled his eyes, tail flicking once more with a subtle thump. He shifted his weight, leaning heavy on one leg, boots shifting lightly against the polished floor as he let out a low, sarcastic hum that carried more attitude than sound. “Says the one who’s been watchin’ the whole time.”

She shrugged, unbothered, shoulders brushing lightly against the cool wall as she leaned back, claiming the corner as her own quiet territory amidst the chaos. “And it hasn’t been that bad for me,” she replied evenly, voice calm yet threaded with amusement, like she’d known this would rattle him from the start.

Monty’s jaw flexed, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the effort to keep his scowl intact. He opened his mouth, ready to launch into some witty retort, but nothing came out, not the words he wanted anyway. His shades hid the subtle twitch of amber beneath, but his tail betrayed him, swaying forward almost imperceptibly, a quiet rhythm of irritation—or maybe anticipation.

“…Yeah, well,” he muttered finally, leaning just a fraction closer, claws idly tapping against the crinkled candy wrapper she held in her hand, the soft sound punctuating the tension. “Guess some of us just have bad taste in fun.”

Her smirk widened faintly, corner of her mouth tilting upward, eyes sparkling just enough to catch the light. “Or maybe you’re just dramatic,” she said softly, voice teasing, drawing out each syllable as if daring him to react.

Monty growled low, tail flicking with sharper rhythm this time, the vibration rolling through the tile beneath them. And yet, despite his protest, the corner of his mouth twitched, betraying the faintest hint of a smile. “…Could be,” he admitted, voice rough, a notch softer than before, almost conceding, almost letting the barrier drop.

Her chest fluttered suddenly, like it had sprouted wings, each beat a small, chaotic tumble. She forced her expression into neutrality, face steady as she cleared her throat softly, whispering just enough to let him hear: “Definitely.”

Monty’s grin widened slowly, stretching across his snout like he’d scored a tiny, private victory no one else could see. His tail gave a subtle, satisfied flick—a silent purr of contentment hidden beneath his usual bravado. For a moment, the world narrowed down to the two of them, the chaos of lights, cameras, and clattering props fading into the background, leaving just the faint hum of energy, the quiet rustle of wrappers, and the slow, deliberate satisfaction of a connection neither one had planned but both were savoring.

From the far side of the room, Hannah tapped her pen against the clipboard in her hand, the faint clicking punctuating the low hum of fluorescent lights and distant chatter. Almost every line on her carefully curated list was checked off, little boxes filled in neat black ink, except for one glaring omission: Guest Relation Photo Promotion. That last item seemed to vibrate with the promise of chaos, teasing her with the potential for something—someone—to go off-script.

She hummed a little tune, soft and airy, almost like she was keeping time with the thrum of energy in the room. Her lips curled into a subtle smile as she leaned slightly on one leg, watching from her perch in the shadows. Her gaze swept over the crowded floor, landing first on the gift shop attendant tucked near the edge of the commotion, then slowly drifting to the gator right next to her.

Her brow arched slightly.

It didn’t escape her attention how close they had gotten—too close to be casual, but not close enough to be outright flirtation. Their smiles were hesitant, shy in a way that suggested neither wanted to admit how much they were enjoying each other’s company. She felt a faint warmth creeping into her own cheeks, an almost guilty delight at witnessing the subtle dance of attention and reaction.

Hannah’s lips quirked into a small, knowing smile. She leaned back lightly against the wall, clipboard tapping softly against her thigh, almost imperceptibly.

“Showtime,” she murmured under her breath, the words barely carrying over the distant chatter and occasional squeak of props being shifted around.

Then she was striding toward them, heels clicking sharply against the tile, the rhythm demanding attention as if the floor itself had become her stage. “Oh, lovebirds!” she chirped, voice loud and teasing, full of energy that seemed to ricochet off the walls. Monty groaned at the sound of her voice, his own was echoed by a light smack and a quiet, “Hush.”

The crinkle of (Name)’s candy bag echoed like a fire alarm as she hastily shoved it back into her overloaded canvas bag, cheeks flushing pink. Monty’s tail flicked in time with the noise, restless and impatient.

Hannah’s eyes sparkled as she approached, scanning between them with the practiced gaze of someone who already knew the punchline before the joke was even made. “So, a few things,” she began, hands on her hips, voice brimming with energy, her enthusiasm so tangible it practically buzzed in the air around them.

(Name) lifted an eyebrow, expression cool and unimpressed, the shadow of a smirk tugging at her lips. “For me or for him?” she asked, voice laced with dry curiosity, the faint rustle of her bag under her hand punctuating her question.

“For both of you!” Hannah replied, eyes gleaming as she gave a small triumphant wiggle, barely able to contain her victory at this tiny moment of drama.

Monty and (Name) exchanged a glance, silent communication running fast between them—half suspicion, half amusement—but neither spoke. The tension hung in the air, palpable, charged, almost crackling like static before a storm.

Hannah moved faster, bouncing slightly on the balls of her heels, her excitement spilling over. She flipped her clipboard around with a flourish, the edges catching the overhead light, and jabbed at the final unchecked item with a perfectly manicured nail.

(Name) leaned in slightly, squinting, candy crinkling between her fingers as she chewed slowly, deliberately. Her eyes tracked the motion of Hannah’s finger on the clipboard, then subtly shifted—just barely—to the gator beside her, gauging his reaction without making it obvious.

“So you need Monty and… who? Ryan? Rico, even?” she asked, voice cautious, threaded with humor, like she was testing the waters of a joke only she fully understood.

Hannah laughed, tilting her head, the sound bright and infectious, as though the answer were obvious to anyone paying attention. Monty huffed softly, tail flicking, and nudged her gently with his elbow, the motion slow, deliberate, commanding a reaction without force.

“She means ya, sugar,” he said, grin spreading across his snout, slow and teasing, shades catching the light just enough to glint.

And just like that, Hannah witnessed a blush bloom across (Name)’s cheeks, sudden and vivid, enough to light up the whole corner of the room. She practically clapped her hands in delight, the sound sharp and crisp, echoing just slightly against the tile. Monty’s tail flicked once, and for a heartbeat, the chaos around them seemed to fade, leaving only the faint hum of lights, the rustle of wrappers, and the charged, playful energy of the two at the center of it all.

In the span of three chaotic minutes, (Name) had been thoroughly transformed into some sort of unwilling prop, plucked from the sidelines and thrust into the center of the stage. Hannah practically herded her and Monty under the harsh glare of the overhead lights, bouncing on her toes like a hyperactive storm in heels, earning a crisp nod from Riley and an exaggerated thumbs-up from Freddy. The floor practically hummed under the weight of the energy, a mix of squeaking shoes, distant chatter, and the occasional clatter of props.

Before she could even protest, Hannah had plopped a pair of glittering star-shaped sunglasses onto (Name)’s face, the frames catching the lights and scattering tiny reflections across the room. Not content with just that, she shoved a miniature golden golf club into her arms, holding it like it was the crown jewel of the entire shoot. The absurdity of it all made (Name)’s shoulders stiffen, her arms aching from gripping the unwieldy prop. The sunglasses sat crooked on her nose, forcing her to squint at the blinding overhead glare.

“Smile like you’re having fun! Look loose!” Hannah chirped, practically vibrating with energy, her heels clicking sharp against the tile with each emphatic hop.

(Name) forced her lips into something approximating a grin, tension coiling in her jaw. Her knuckles whitened around the club, a faint tremor betraying the rigidity of her posture. She was painfully aware of the ridiculousness of the situation, yet part of her couldn’t help the flicker of amusement tugging at the corner of her mouth.

Monty, by contrast, leaned back on one leg, tail swishing in quiet, mocking amusement. Shades tipped just low enough to glare over the chaos, his jaw flexing in a way that said, I’m better than this. Even he, though, wasn’t immune to the absurdity—the glittered club caught awkwardly in his claws, and he fought the urge to roll his eyes so violently it might have dislocated them.

“Relax, sugar,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for her to hear, the low rumble carrying a thread of reassurance beneath the sarcasm. “The jitters’ll go ‘way soon.”

Her lips twitched involuntarily, almost choking on the stiff grin she was holding. “I’m… fine,” she replied, voice tight, though the brief twitch of her mouth betrayed the faintest spark of humor at his comment.

Hannah clapped again, loud and insistent, and took a small step back to admire her handiwork, her eyes glittering with glee at the two reluctant models before her. “Perfect! Now let’s swing those clubs, strike some poses, and smile like you’re actually having fun!”

Freddy, standing a few feet away, tilted his head with that familiar mix of charm and concern. His blue eyes glinted under the overhead lights, warm and attentive. “You okay, (Name)? You’re looking… red.”

Her grip on the golf club tightened slightly, knuckles whitening. A stray strand of hair fell across her face, and she tugged it back with a small, irritated tug. The star-shaped shades slipped a little on her nose as she muttered, “Peachy,” voice clipped, hiding the faint quiver in her chest.

Riley’s clap snapped through the room, cutting their attention back to the task at hand. “Right, we’re cutting close to time. Let’s get this over with.”

Hannah mirrored the gesture, stepping back with exaggerated cheer, while Freddy gave (Name) a soft, encouraging smile that had the exact effect of making her blush hotter than before.

Riley gestured sharply toward Monty, impatience hiding behind practiced composure. “C’mon, you two. Act like you actually like each other.”

Monty chuffed low, casual and deliberate, yet the corner of his smirk betrayed him—funny, teasing, a spark just for her. “We like each other plenty,” he said, voice smooth, confident, tail flicking just enough behind him to punctuate the statement, a silent challenge wrapped in charm.

(Name) felt her cheeks flare, a mixture of embarrassment and warmth flooding through her as she glanced at him, sensing that under all the staged chaos, the sparks were real—even if the props and glittered sunglasses made them ridiculous.

Her gaze flicked up to his, and for a heartbeat, the endless flashes, clattering props, and Hannah’s frantic energy seemed to blur into the background. Her chest tightened slightly, heartbeat thudding faster against ribs that suddenly felt too small for all the tension.

Riley clapped sharply again, voice cutting through the haze. “And… action!”

Monty straightened, spine rolling into a slow, deliberate posture, that lazy grin tugging wider across his snout. (Name) shifted the golf club in her hands, forcing herself to hold it steady, knuckles tightening just enough to remind her she was still human—or as human as this particular moment allowed her to feel.

The first few poses were awkward, stiff. Each flash of the camera stabbed light into their eyes, making them blink and squint reflexively. The clicks and whirrs of shutters merged into a kind of mechanical rhythm, almost hypnotic against the chaos of Hannah buzzing nearby.

But as the seconds stretched, they began to fall into something resembling flow. A slight tilt of a head here, a gentle lean there, subtle adjustments that spoke more than the staged “fun” Hannah demanded. Movement started to sync naturally between them, an unspoken duet threading its way through the flash, the glitter, the noise.

Monty couldn’t resist adding a touch of his own theatrics. A lazy flick of his tail, a dramatic lean back, and he swung the glittered golf club like he’d just nailed the final hole in a championship tournament. His grin sharpened, teeth catching the flash of light, and his eyebrows arched high enough they nearly disappeared behind the shades. The room might have been chaos, but in that moment, he looked impossibly, absurdly in command.

(Name) caught it instantly, a small, unrestrained laugh escaping her. The sound felt bright, sudden, like a spark in the middle of fluorescent monotony. Her hair slipped into her eyes, falling across her cheeks as she shook her head, trying to mask how thoroughly entertained she was.

The camera clicked again, preserving the moment: him, triumphant and ridiculous, and her, bemused and delightfully human.

Monty’s tail flicked in what could almost be mistaken for a victory dance. He leaned subtly toward her, letting the glimmer of his amber eyes peek from beneath the shades. “Told ya I had game,” he murmured, low and teasing, the rumble of his voice threading warmth through the words.

She smirked, tugging her star-shaped sunglasses slightly lower in mock exasperation. “You’re insufferable,” she said, though the light lift at the corners of her mouth betrayed her amusement.

Monty chuckled, shifting closer under the guise of adjusting his stance. The camera snapped again, catching both of them—him posing like a rockstar, her laughing like she couldn’t quite stop herself. The air between them thickened, charged with a quiet, electric tension that hovered just beneath the comedy of the shoot.

They froze for a heartbeat, suspended in the flash-lit world. Monty’s tail flicked lazily behind him, his shades tipped low, and that grin stretched slow across his snout, relaxed but sharp.

“Those shades look awfully pretty on ya, darlin’,” he murmured, low and intimate, the bravado in his tone softening just enough to feel personal.

The camera clicked again, bright light flaring across the room. She blinked rapidly against it, and the tiny hitch in her breath caught his attention immediately. Lips parted, cheeks warming in a rush of color, and for the briefest flicker of a second, she forgot the proper hold on the golf club. Monty noticed. Oh, he noticed—and the small, imperceptible shift in her presence sent a satisfying jolt through him, one he let linger, silent and deliberate.

He leaned just a fraction closer, careful not to crowd her, letting the air between them thrum with the quiet weight of unspoken words. His grin was slow, lazy, like he owned the room, but his amber eyes sharpened, curious and amused in a way that made it impossible to look away. Every twitch of his tail, every subtle flick of his lip, carried the kind of deliberate ease that drew attention without demanding it.

(Name) averted her gaze, tugging the star-shaped shades back up over her nose as if the mere act could restore some semblance of composure. Her fingers tightened slightly around the golf club, knuckles paling, the tension humming up through her arms. She exhaled softly, caught somewhere between wanting to laugh at the absurdity of it all and wishing she could disappear entirely.

“Monty…” she murmured, voice low, more a breath than a word. There wasn’t irritation there, just a fluttering sense of being caught off guard—like someone had flicked a switch she didn’t know existed.

His grin deepened, teeth glinting just beneath the edge of the shades. “Yeah, sugar?” His voice dropped to that smooth, warm drawl, teasing yet edged with a dangerous undertone, like he could read every hesitation and thought before she even had the chance to hide it.

Hannah squealed something from the sidelines, but Monty didn’t flinch. Not a single twitch. His attention was entirely on her—the subtle way she shifted with the camera flashes, the faint hitch in her breathing, the slow, creeping flush along her cheeks. Every small motion registered, tucked away behind that smug, effortless facade.

(Name) swallowed, dry throat suddenly betraying her, eyes darting for any hint of escape—but there wasn’t one. Just the harsh glare of overhead lights, the relentless clicking of the camera, and Monty leaning just close enough that the moment felt deliberate without being overbearing.

The shutter snapped again, sharp and blinding. She blinked reflexively, tightening her grip on the golf club as if holding it might anchor her somewhere in reality.

Riley’s voice drifted from behind the lens, casual but approving. “Oh… that was a good one.”

Monty’s tail flicked lazily. He shifted the angle of his shades slightly, catching her in the corner of his vision. She froze, caught somewhere between embarrassment, awareness, and that strange, unnamable flutter that ran through her chest.

His smirk remained, effortless and cool, but the gleam in his eyes was sharper now, attentive. He noticed every nuance: the quick blink, the slight flush, the way she leaned imperceptibly into—or away from—the space he occupied. Each small motion folded into the rhythm he was quietly setting.

She let out a soft, unintentional breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, and for a moment, the world contracted. It wasn’t Hannah, or the glittering props, or the harsh studio lights—it was just them. Glittering shades, absurdly small golf clubs, and Monty’s slow, knowing grin that seemed to claim the space between them as his own.

Finally, Hannah checked off the last item on her clipboard, beaming triumphantly. “Great job, guys! You all did spectacular today!”

Freddy mirrored her grin, eyes bright blue, waving cheerfully before starting to help Riley pack up the camera gear. Riley, camera slung over his shoulder, promised to send the edited photos along soon, his movement punctuating the subtle shift toward post-shoot calm.

The room hummed with residual energy: the scraping of chairs, faint laughter, casual chatter bouncing across the tile floors. Everyone seemed to bask in the satisfied glow of a chaotic session wrapped up successfully.

Monty, however, remained untouched by the residual buzz. His tail flicked with subtle energy, head tilted just slightly, and his amber eyes followed her every small movement. The noise, the packing, the chatter—it all faded to background static. He was focused. Entirely. On her.

He leaned against the wall next to the entrance of Gator Golf with that effortless ease that made it look like he owned every inch of the room, though his eyes never strayed from her. The overhead lights caught the polished surface of the golf club he held, glinting off the metal, but that was only an excuse. Every subtle movement she made—a flick of her hair, a shift in weight, even the quiet inhale before she spoke—registered in the amber depths of his gaze.

A soft, low rumble slid out from him, something between a contented sigh and a growl of warning, vibrating faintly through the floor tiles beneath their feet. He kept the tone casual, letting it hover just at the edge of the noise of the room, intimate enough that only she could catch it.

“Hey, darlin',” he murmured, leaning slightly closer, voice smooth, a slow drawl that seemed to curl around her like smoke. “Got a minute?”

Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide for a fraction of a second before she caught herself, cheeks warming in a slow burn. The chaos of the photoshoot—the flashing cameras, Hannah’s bouncing energy, Freddy’s lingering presence—had faded into a quieter space, a charged pocket in the middle of all the noise. Monty didn’t move away. Didn’t look anywhere else. He stayed, letting the moment stretch.

“Yeah, um…” she cleared her throat, fingers fiddling nervously with the strap of her bag, knuckles tightening. “Yeah, of course.”

Monty shifted his weight, the tip of his tail dragging across the floor in a faint swish. One claw tapped idly on the edge of the wall, a rhythm almost playful, almost teasing, though his posture remained casual, deceptively effortless. “Ya doin’ anything later?” he asked, voice low, measured, but carrying that subtle undercurrent that made it feel like a question loaded with possibilities.

Her eyebrow lifted, a flicker of surprise she couldn’t hide, and her chest fluttered with that strange, quick pulse that had become familiar whenever she was near him. “Uh… other than… working?” she said, voice uneven despite her attempt at casualness.

Monty’s eyes glimmered beneath the shades, amber catching the light as he rolled them lazily. He leaned a fraction closer, just enough to make the air between them feel warmer, almost electric. “After ya done workin’, loser,” he teased, claws brushing the edge of the table with that same deliberate, lazy motion.

Her fingers danced over her shirt and bag strap, the small fidgets betraying her composure. “Oh… not really… was probably going to go straight home,” she admitted, her voice dropping slightly, embarrassed.

A grin stretched across Monty’s face, slow and deliberate, teeth glinting beneath the harsh light. His tail flicked once, a small, precise motion that mirrored the smug satisfaction curling through him. A faint, low rumble rolled from his chest. “Perfect.”

Her cheeks flared hotter, warmth spilling up her neck, a gentle heat that seemed to linger there. She tried to mask it with casual movements, a quick adjustment of her bag strap, a tiny tug at a stray strand of hair. But Monty noticed—oh, he noticed. Every quick glance, every slight hitch of her breath, every small shift that betrayed her. He catalogued it all like a private observer, grin never fading.

(Name) licked her bottom lip unconsciously, a fleeting motion that drew a subtle, knowing tilt of his head and a flick of his tail in response. “What are you planning, gator?” she asked, voice low, teasing, though her tone carried an almost imperceptible thread of nervous curiosity.

Monty shrugged lazily, claws tapping idly against the merch table, eyes locked on her face. “Ya never answered me ‘bout that game of golf,” he murmured, voice smooth, low, mischievous.

Her pupils widened slightly, caught off guard by the tone. Heat crept up her neck, a flush she couldn’t quite hide. “Well, uh,” she swallowed, fingers brushing at her bag strap again. “You were serious?”

“As a heart attack, sugar.” He leaned in just a fraction closer, careful not to crowd her, letting the air thrum between them with a kind of tension that made the back of her neck prickle. His amber eyes glimmered beneath the shades, teasing, sharp, warm—all at once.

Her breath hitched, a soft, barely audible sound. She adjusted the strap again, forcing herself to appear casual. “…sure,” she murmured.

Monty’s grin stretched wider, tail swinging lazily like a pendulum behind him, claws tapping lightly in a rhythm of quiet anticipation. “Atta girl,” he rumbled, voice low and approving, as if rewarding her for the simple act of agreeing.

Unbeknownst to them, Freddy’s blue gaze lingered from across the room, silent, observant, and not entirely pleased with the subtle tension growing in the corner. But for Monty and her, none of that existed. All that mattered was the quiet, charged space between them, the teasing warmth that danced in the air like it had a pulse of its own, and the slow, steady rhythm of shared glances that promised more than either of them dared voice aloud.

Chapter Text

Monty pushed through the entrance of Gator Golf, tail swishing lazily behind him as he hummed a low, rumbling tune that no one else seemed to hear. A few staff waved, and he nodded absentmindedly, unaware—or maybe uncaring—of the bewildered looks he was getting.

His mind drifted back to the photo-op, to that ridiculous swirl of props, star-shaped glasses, and flashes. And… how light he’d felt. For once, he’d actually had fun.

He couldn’t help but grin at the memory—her laugh, the way she’d caught him off guard with those little flares of amusement. Yeah… (Name) had something to do with it.

And now, the game later today. He let a slow, low chuckle escape, tail flicking in time with his steps. Couldn’t wait to see if she actually held up on the course, or if he’d have to gently destroy her. All in good fun, of course.

Reaching his green room, he nudged the door open with the tip of his clawed foot and let out a soft grunt. Forgot again. His sanctuary—his personal space—was an absolute disaster. Clubs stacked like leaning towers, old jerseys draped over chairs, a few unopened boxes scattered across the floor, and somewhere, probably, a leftover snack or three.

He stepped in anyway, tail brushing against a pile of paper and somehow sending it fluttering across the room. “Ah… home sweet chaos,” he muttered to himself, shaking his head with a grin.

He leaned back against the doorframe for a second, humming again, letting himself soak in the quiet after the whirlwind of the photo-op. And, of course… thinking just a little too much about later.

Monty shuffled further into the room, sideswiping a pile of shirts and pants off the couch with the sweep of his arm. They tumbled to the floor in a heap, but he didn’t care. With a grunt, he dropped himself onto the cushion, tail landing with a lazy thud beside him.

He leaned his head back against the couch, gaze finding the star-shaped cutout on his ceiling. He stretched his arms wide over the back of the couch, claws tapping idly against the worn leather, and let out a long exhale.

This was his time—the brief lull before the Plex opened and swallowed him whole in music, lights, and screaming kids. A thin slice of quiet before the chaos.

Still, even in the quiet, his thoughts weren’t quiet. His mind replayed the way (Name) had laughed earlier, the quick little spark in her eyes when she loosened up. He caught himself grinning again, broad and unrestrained, before rolling his head to the side with a huff, trying to play it cool even though nobody was there to see him.

The thought of later—actually getting her out on the course—set a little buzz in his chest, almost the same as pre-show adrenaline. He wasn’t sure if he was looking forward more to the game itself… or to seeing her again.

Monty narrowed his eyes at the ceiling, glaring at nothing in particular as his tail flicked against the couch. A low grunt rumbled out of him, like maybe he could growl the thoughts right out of his skull.

It had to be the game. That was what had him all wound up—thinking about golf, thinking about showing off, thinking about finally getting to play outside the staged performances. Not her laugh. Not the way those star-shaped shades had slipped down her nose just right. Definitely not that.

“Just the game,” he muttered under his breath, like saying it out loud might make it true.

But then Freddy’s voice drifted back into his head—steady, careful, annoyingly reasonable. Be careful.

Monty scrubbed a hand over his snout, teeth clicking faintly together. He was trying. Really, he was. It wasn’t like he could help the way his chest tightened whenever she looked at him. He just had to… keep it in check.

Easier said than done.

The longer he sat there, the louder it all got—those same three thoughts circling like vultures. Golf. Her laugh. Freddy’s damn warning. Over and over until it felt like the walls of his green room were pressing in.

His claws tapped against the couch, light at first, then sharper. Harder. A steady thunk-thunk-thunk until even that grated on his nerves.

“Enough,” he growled, pushing himself up.

Suddenly he had energy buzzing under his scales, an itch crawling through his muscles. He couldn’t just sit here, not if he wanted to keep from climbing the walls. He needed to move.

He started pacing, weaving a sloppy path through the minefield of discarded clothes and half-busted gear. Every so often, the tip of his boot caught the edge of a bass case, sending it skidding a few inches with a dull scrape. His tail lashed behind him, sharp and impatient, knocking into the couch, the wall, whatever was unlucky enough to be in reach.

The low grumble in his chest hadn’t stopped, either. It came out under his breath—half words, half noise—like the sound alone might bleed off the static buzzing through him.

But after a few laps, even that lost its spark. The pacing felt dumb. Pointless. With a sharp exhale, he let himself drop into the floor by a junk pile he hadn’t touched in months.

With a sidelong glance, he ran a clawed hand through his mullet, strands sticking out worse than before. A sharp huff puffed out his chest.

“What do I even got in ’ere, anyway,” he muttered, low and gravelly.

He shoved a hand into the heap, the rings on his fingers clinking against plastic and fabric alike. Old wristbands from past events. A tangle of neon shoelaces. A cracked visor from some promo stunt that didn’t go right. He pulled each thing up, stared at it a second like it held answers, then tossed it back into the pile with a dull thunk.

Half-empty cans of MegaFizz rolled free, one fizzing faintly when it hit the ground. He dug deeper, producing a pair of broken sunglasses, one arm bent clean off. He snorted, lips curling.

“Real treasure trove, Monty,” he grumbled.

Digging further, he found nothing but more junk. A half-torn flyer, a bent drumstick, even what looked like a mystery sock he didn’t remember owning. Monty rolled his eyes, his tail flicking with annoyance.

“Whole lotta garbage…” he muttered, pushing deeper into the pile.

Then his claws hit something solid. Smooth. Small. Different. He paused, fingers curling around it, and pulled it free.

A golf ball. Not just any golf ball—his first one. The scuffed white surface was still faintly marked with the green Sharpie star someone had drawn on it the day he made his debut match.

His brow furrowed. “The hell’re you doin’ in here?”

He turned it over in his palm, staring like it had crawled out of the past to mock him. He didn’t even remember losing it—thought maybe it got tossed or swapped out ages ago. Yet here it was, buried under the chaos.

Monty sat back on his haunches, rolled the ball between his claws and watched as the light caught on the scuffed surface. For a second, the restless thrum in his chest eased.

A slow smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Well, ain’t that somethin’…” he muttered.

He leaned back against the pile, twirling the ball like it was a coin. The memory of (Name) laughing during the photo op drifted in, clear as if she was right there in the room. That little wrinkle at the corner of her eyes, the way her voice cracked on a snort—hell, it’d been stuck in his head all morning.

Now here was his first ball, just happenin’ to pop up when he had a game lined up later.

Monty smirked wider, tapping the ball against his palm. “Guess the universe wants me to show off a lil’, darlin’.”

He could practically hear her groan already, calling him insufferable, rolling her eyes… but maybe—just maybe—smiling too.

The restless buzz in his chest shifted, lightening into something sharper. Excited.

Monty twirled the golf ball between his claws, rolling it until the scuffed surface squeaked faintly against the ridges of his scales. His grin spread wide enough that his fangs caught the overhead light, flashing like a warning sign. Felt like the universe had tossed him a wink. He flicked the ball up, caught it with a lazy snap of his palm, and slid it into the pocket of his jeans. Later. Oh yeah. That was gonna be fun.

Still humming under his breath—low, gravelly, almost like an engine idling—he pushed himself upright and stretched until his spine cracked in a clean pop. His shoulders rolled back with a heavy clunk, muscles easing as his tail swept wide behind him, knocking dust motes loose from the cluttered floor. The restlessness didn’t bite so sharp anymore; it was more like a charge crawling beneath his scales, the same hum he got waiting backstage before the lights hit.

“Alright… let’s see what’s goin’ on,” he muttered, shaking his claws loose until the joints clicked. He shoved out the door, boots thudding in a steady, deliberate rhythm.

The hallway swallowed him in its usual din—bot chatter clicking in tinny voices, tools clanking as maintenance units fussed over exposed wires, and somewhere deeper in the Plex, the muffled bassline of whatever track was looping for the early crowd. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant layered over grease, the kind of mix that clung to the walls no matter how many times they scrubbed it. Monty cut through it all like he owned the place, head high, pace confident. The staff he passed shot him those usual wary half-smiles—polite, unsure, like they weren’t sure if he’d sign their shirt or snap it in half. He barely noticed.

The double doors to the rehearsal room groaned as he shoved them open, hinges squealing. The place hit him with a wall of scents—sharp hairspray tang mixing with fryer grease drifting in from the food court, cut through by the faint ozone of hot stage lights left on too long.

Chica sat perched on a stool near the mirrors, one knee bouncing as she strummed an unplugged guitar. Her fingers picked absent chords, tinny in the quiet room, and her reflection caught the shimmer of the stage bulbs above. She glanced up, beak curving into a sunny grin.

“Monty! Hey, big guy!” she chirped, voice like bright brass.

He rumbled back, a gravel-deep grunt of acknowledgement, and kept moving. Didn’t need more words than that.

But his eyes slid anyway—straight to the far wall, where Roxy lounged like a storm cloud. Her arms crossed tight, claws clicking a steady rhythm against her elbow. The moment his gaze met hers, her ears flicked back and her eyes narrowed, pupils like slits of cold fire.

Her tail snapped once behind her, deliberate.

Monty’s grin stretched slow and smug, the kind of smirk meant to sting. He tilted his chin, dragging the word out just enough to draw blood.

“Afternoon, princess.”

Her lip curled, sharp teeth catching the light. “Don’t call me that.”

He only chuckled, low and unbothered, rolling his shoulders as he stalked across the floor. The stage was already set—mics lined up, cables snaking underfoot, amps humming faintly with static—but no Freddy.

Monty paused mid-step, frown tugging down at the corners of his mouth before he smoothed it away. Strange. The bear was never late.

His claws twitched against his thigh, clicking faintly. He forced his grin back in place, tail flicking behind him like punctuation. Didn’t matter. Freddy bein’ missing could wait. He had later on his mind.

Chica strummed a playful chord, too bright and bouncy for the tension in the room. Wings fluffing, she glanced between the two of them like she could pretend it wasn’t there.

“Didn’t think I’d see the day where you’d beat Freddy, Monts!” Chica chirped, her beak tipping into a grin.

Monty barked out a scoff, sharp and sudden, tail giving a snap across the floor.

“To hell with that guy,” he shot back, arms folding over his chest like it was the simplest truth in the world.

Chica laughed—a bright, ringing sound that bounced off the rehearsal mirrors. But Roxy? She didn’t budge. Just rolled her eyes, arms still locked tight across her chest, claws tapping an impatient staccato against her bicep.

“Typical,” she muttered, voice like broken glass.

Monty’s smirk widened, fangs catching the light. He made it look effortless, like her jab rolled right off him. But his gaze flicked—quick, sharp—to Freddy’s empty space. The mic stand was untouched. No heavy footsteps. No low, steady hum of the bear’s voice filling the air.

Weird.

Monty cracked his knuckles, a sharp pop-pop that cut through the silence, then forced the thought away with a low chuckle. “What’s the matter, princess? Jealous I finally got one up on ol’ golden boy?”

Roxy’s glare only sharpened, but she didn’t rise to the bait.

Chica strummed a lazy chord, the sound rippling out like she was trying to oil the gears in the room. Her feathers fluffed, head tilting.

“Hey,” she said lightly, all sunshine but with a curious edge. “Where have you been recently?”

Monty paused, halfway through reaching for his bass. His brow ticked up, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “…Huh?”

“You’ve been gone a lot!” she chirped, sing-song, like she wasn’t poking at something sharp.

His claws flexed on the bass neck, strings letting out a faint sour twang. He scoffed, rolling his shoulders like her question slid right off him.

“Mindin’ my own business, that’s where.”

Chica blinked, a smile still perched easily on her face, but her eyes—just a little narrower. Roxy snorted under her breath, the sound low and knowing, like she’d been waiting for him to trip on this exact chord.

Monty grinned wide and toothy, leaning into bravado to cover the pinch in his chest. “What, you takin’ attendance now? Didn’t think you were keepin’ track, Chickadee.”

Roxy’s growl cut through the air like claws on glass.

“We haven’t,” she snapped, ears twitching back tight. “But Freddy has.”

Monty froze—not long, just a heartbeat—but his grip on the bass neck tightened until the strings whined under his claws.

Chica giggled, strumming a jaunty little chord like she was scoring the moment.

“Yeah! He’s been a huge gossip as of late!” she chirped, beak clicking with laughter.

Monty’s jaw flexed hard enough that a vein ticked at his temple. He plastered on a grin anyway, sharp and smug, but the muscle jumping in his cheek betrayed the strain.

“Figures,” he muttered, voice gravelly as he plucked a single low note from his bass, the string vibrating under his claws. The sound thrummed deep in his chest, masking the heat crawling up the back of his neck. “Freddy’s always had a big mouth.”

The note hung in the air for a second, thick and sour, before fading. Roxy caught it—caught him—and her smirk tilted into something cold and satisfied, like she’d just hit gold by accident. Her ears twitched forward, her sharp eyes gleaming. She didn’t need to say it out loud; the curl of her mouth said enough. She knew.

Monty scoffed, rolling his shoulders like he could shake the weight of her stare off, and dragged his claws across the strings in a lazy, offhand line. The bass rumbled, careless, like he was just fooling around.

“Pfft. Freddy’s just talkin’ ‘cause he’s jealous,” he drawled, smirk spreading toothy and dangerous. “Can’t blame him, though—I’ve had… better company than him lately.”

The words oozed slick, smooth as oil on his tongue. In his head, it sounded easy. Cool. But the second they were out in the open, hanging there between him and the others, he felt the hitch. Too sharp. Too pointed. His gut twisted, and for half a second he wanted to snatch the words back, choke them down before anyone could get their teeth into them.

Roxy’s ears perked. Her grin spread slowly, deliberate, full of fang and fire. “Ohhh,” she purred, voice dripping with mockery, “better company, huh?”

Chica giggled immediately, bright and unbothered as ever. Her beak clicked, her fingers strummed a teasing, upbeat chord that bounced cheerfully against the heavy tension. “Ooooh, Monty’s got a secret~!” she sang, her voice playful and sing-song, cutting through the room like stage lights.

Monty’s smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second—small enough most wouldn’t notice. But these two? They were predators. They saw the crack, and they went for the throat. He doubled down fast, leaning into bravado, plucking the strings louder, heavier, drowning out the sound of his own heartbeat.

“Y’all hearin’ things,” he muttered, tail giving a sharp thump against the floorboards. The bass buzzed in his hands, his claws working harder than they needed to.

But the heat under his scales betrayed him, a burn crawling up his throat and across his jaw. He knew it. And worse—he knew they knew it.

Chica leaned forward, wings folded across her knees, her grin bubbling wider as her claws danced across the strings. She teased out a playful little riff, airy and mocking, not music so much as taunting.

“So who is it, huh?” she pressed, voice sweet as sugar but sharp underneath. “C’mon, Monts, you can’t just drop better company and then clam up! Spill!”

Monty’s claws stuttered mid-pluck, and the bass squealed a sour, screeching note that made him grit his teeth. He masked it with a heavy thrum, his jaw tightening until his fangs clicked faintly together.

“Ain’t nothin’,” he grumbled, forcing his smirk back into place like it was armor. He rolled his shoulders, puffing himself up. “Y’just makin’ stuff up.”

The words sounded flat even to him.

Roxy still didn’t bother to speak. She didn’t need to. Arms crossed tight, she leaned heavier into the wall, her smirk slow and curling. Her golden eyes pinned him, steady and sharp, peeling away every layer he tried to hide behind. That smug curve of her mouth set his scales prickling. She could see it. She could see him.

Chica gasped theatrically, feathers fluffing out with delight. Her beak clacked shut and then opened wide again in a gleeful grin.

“Ohhh, you’re blushing!” she squealed, bouncing on her stool. Her wings flared just a little, feathers scattering the light from the mirrors. “You totally are!”

The bass strings buzzed under Monty’s claws as his grip tightened. He ducked his head, hiding behind his shades, but he could feel it—the warmth crawling higher, spreading across his cheekbones. His smirk strained, stubborn, but the burn under his scales was a dead giveaway.

And the way Chica was beaming, and the way Roxy’s smirk just sat there, sharp as a blade? They weren’t gonna let it go. Not tonight.

“I ain’t!” Monty snapped, tail slamming the floor with a heavy thunk that rattled the stools. His voice rumbled low, sharp with warning, teeth bared in a flash of white. “Drop it. Both of ya.”

But the heat crawling up his throat gave him away, no matter how he snarled. The harder he pressed, the wider Chica’s grin grew. Even Roxy let out a low, cutting chuckle that sliced through him worse than words.

Monty groaned, dragging a hand down his snout, claws scraping against the scales. “Let. It. Go.”

The tension in the room stretched tight, ready to snap—

—and that’s when the door slammed open.

Freddy all but stumbled inside. His massive frame lurched forward, shoulders heaving, bowtie twisted sideways. Chest heaving with every ragged breath, the sound too loud in the stunned quiet. He braced one broad hand against the doorframe, the other clutching at his side like he’d run the length of the Plex.

“Montgomery—!” he rasped, his deep voice rougher than Monty had ever heard it. “We need to talk.”

Monty froze mid-pluck, claws still hooked against the strings. The smug grin slid right off his face, leaving only a wary scowl in its place. For once, even Chica’s feathers stilled and Roxy’s smirk thinned into silence.

Monty blinked, still raw from the teasing. He tilted his head, brow furrowed. “…What is it then?” His bass hung heavy against his chest, strings humming faintly with leftover vibration.

Freddy didn’t answer. He just lifted one trembling claw and jabbed it toward the air, breath wheezing too hard to form words.

Monty stared at him, deadpan. “…What, you need a minute? Seriously?”

Chica snorted, muffling her giggles behind her wing as she strummed a dramatic dum dum duuuum chord for flair. Roxy rolled her eyes, muttering, “Unbelievable,” under her breath.

Freddy shook his head furiously, hand waving like wait, wait. He dragged in another sharp inhale, nose whistling just barely.

Monty’s tail gave a sharp thud. “Spit it out, Fazbear. Ain’t got all day.”

“Just—” Freddy wheezed, straightening an inch, then hunching again. “Hold on.”

Monty rolled his eyes so hard his shades nearly slipped. With a grunt, he dragged his claws across his strings, a lazy mocking riff buzzing through the room. “Take yer time, superstar.”

Chica was giggling openly now, plucking along like they were turning Freddy’s wheezes into a duet. Even Roxy’s smirk returned, head shaking as if this was peak ridiculousness.

Finally, Freddy pushed upright with a grunt, his massive chest heaving. He smoothed his bowtie with trembling claws, forced his shoulders square, and cleared his throat until the rasp evened out. Slowly, the usual gravity returned to his posture. He stood tall again, eyes locking on Monty.

Monty arched a brow, still leaning into his bass. “There. Ya done?”

Freddy gave him a look—flat, steady. But there was weight under it this time. Serious. Heavy. The kind of look that drained every last trace of humor out of the room.

The Pizzaplex was alive in the way only a Saturday night could make it—arcade lights pulsing like neon veins, the bass from a distant speaker thrumming faintly through the tiled floors, and the faint smell of pizza grease clinging stubbornly to the air. Yet inside the rehearsal room, the noise of the outside world was shut out, replaced by the buzz of a single overhead light and the faint hum of equipment as it stood idle.

Freddy stood front and center, hands tapping in a way that spoke more of control than vanity. His chest rose and fell in deep, measured breaths, and his eyes never drifted from Monty.

“What’s this I hear,” Freddy began, voice calm but deliberate, “about a one-on-one golf game with (Name)?”

The words detonated like a firecracker.

Chica’s beak dropped open, a gasp bursting from her throat as her feathers puffed out. She looked ready to spring into the air, wings fluttering in disbelief. “(Name)?!” she squealed, her voice bouncing off the walls with enough force to make the strings of her guitar vibrate.

Roxy’s reaction was no less dramatic. Her ears shot upright, golden eyes widening as her smirk broke into raw shock. “Wait—you’re serious?” she barked, the disbelief in her tone almost drowning out Chica’s squeals.

Then—like they’d rehearsed it—their shock doubled back, both of them snapping their gazes onto Monty.

Monty’s claws dug into the thick strings of his bass with a sound like teeth grinding on steel. A low, guttural growl rattled out of his chest as his brows knitted tight. His tail lashed once, striking a stool hard enough to make it screech against the floor.

“…And who told ya that?” His voice was gravel and venom, sharpened by the flicker of his eyes behind his shades.

But Freddy didn’t move, didn’t so much as twitch. Arms folding across his chest, he stood like a statue of brass and iron, his voice steady as a drumbeat.

“Doesn’t matter who. What matters is it’s true, isn’t it?”

The tension cracked open again—Chica hopping down from her stool with a squeal, her wings flapping wildly as though the news had given her flight.

“(Name)?! Monty, you sly gator!” she shrieked, bouncing on her claws. “When were you gonna tell us?!”

Roxy pushed off the wall, her smirk snapping back into place, sharp and wolfish.

“Better company, huh?” she drawled, eyes glinting. “Guess we finally know who you were talking about.”

Their voices tangled into a storm—Chica’s chirps firing rapid questions like arrows, “Is it a date?!” while Roxy cut in with barbs: “Think she’ll actually last through a round without getting bored of you?”

But Monty didn’t so much as flinch. He didn’t look at them, didn’t even acknowledge their voices. His gaze was locked on Freddy, pupils narrowing to reptilian slits. The bass hung silent against his chest, his claws flexing over the strings as though one wrong word might snap them in half.

Chica and Roxy’s noise became nothing more than static, a wall of sound fading to the background hum of the Plex.

All Monty saw was Freddy.

His growl deepened, vibrating in the floorboards, a low thunder rolling out of his chest.

“You best watch where you’re goin’, Fazbear,” he rumbled, each word heavy enough to taste in the air. “Ain’t wise, stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong.”

The warning sat in the air like smoke.

Freddy didn’t flinch. He tilted his head slightly, one brow rising, his stance unyielding. His shadow cut across the floor, stretching long, encroaching into Monty’s space.

The laughter died. Chica’s feathers settled, her eyes flicking nervously between them. Roxy’s smirk faltered, her ears twitching as though she were bracing for the crash.

The room stilled, thick and heavy, every sound muted but the faint electric buzz above.

Monty’s tail swished once, sharp and deliberate, cracking the silence like a whip. His voice dropped even lower, dangerous enough to scrape the edges of the room.

“Ya hear me, Fred? Careful.”

And still, Freddy didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t budge.

The only thing alive in him was the fire simmering behind his eyes.

Freddy’s stance was immaculate—shoulders squared, bowtie smoothed until it gleamed, chin lifted with all the composure of a performer who’d lived his whole existence beneath a spotlight. But the sharpness in his gaze betrayed him. That quiet fire in his eyes said he wasn’t backing down, not tonight, not with Monty wound so tight across the room.

Monty stood like a storm about to break, claws curved dangerously over the frets of his bass, tail lashing restless arcs against the wooden floor. Every flick of it cracked like a whip, rattling stools and drawing a twitch from Chica’s feathers. His shades had slipped just low enough to reveal the molten glare beneath, pupils shrunk to predatory slits. He looked less like a bandmate and more like a beast holding himself back from lunging.

Freddy saw it all—the heaving shoulders, the tremor of restraint in Monty’s arms—and chose his next breath with care. He adjusted his bowtie once more, a subtle ritual to steady himself, and parted his lips to speak.

But Monty beat him there.

The growl rolled out of him like thunder crawling across the ground, low and guttural, vibrating in the floorboards beneath their feet.

“Don’t.”

One word, but it smothered the room. The echo of it clung to the walls, humming in the silence like static after a storm.

Chica’s wings twitched restlessly at her sides, eyes darting between them. She pressed her beak shut so tightly the edges quivered. Roxy, usually smirking, had lost the curve of her mouth—her ears stood rigid, eyes narrowed, like a predator weighing whether she was about to witness a fight or stop one.

Freddy let the sound pass, his own chest rising with slow, deliberate calm. He did not yield, did not blink. When Monty’s glare finally gave him space to breathe, Freddy spoke with a voice that was quiet but filled the room all the same.

“There is always something that needs explaining,” he said evenly, his tone smooth, measured. “Even silence explains.”

Monty’s teeth flashed. His grip on the bass tightened so hard the strings thrummed in protest, a raw note buzzing sharp before dying. His tail struck the floor again, a louder crack that made Chica flinch.

“I said,” Monty ground out, his voice gravel and fire, “ain’t a damn thing here that needs explainin’.”

The words hit like a slammed door. For a moment, nobody moved. The Pizzaplex lights hummed overhead, too bright, too sterile against the thick heat that had settled between them.

Freddy’s eyes softened only slightly, enough for his tone to shift, low and almost conciliatory—but edged like glass beneath velvet.

“Montgomery,” he said slowly, “when someone feels smothered—when they feel cornered—it leads to rumors. To misunderstandings. Those kinds of shadows don’t stay hidden. They follow, they spread, and they can drag down not just you, but all of us.”

Chica’s feathers bristled, a nervous flutter of gold against her frame. Roxy’s claws tapped rhythm against her thigh, tension snapping in the motion like she was itching to cut through the silence.

Freddy’s voice hardened, final, the last note of a speech delivered on stage. “I will not see this family broken because of carelessness. I won’t allow it.”

Monty’s chest rose sharply, his growl a raw engine building. He took one slow step forward, tail swiping the floor, eyes burning holes into Freddy’s unshaken figure.

“Yer treadin’ dangerous ground, bear,” he rumbled, voice shaking the air between them.

Freddy tilted his head, just slightly, the faint arch of a brow his only answer. He did not move back.

“So are you.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. Chica’s talons tapped nervously against her stool, her beak parting as if to say something, then snapping shut again. Roxy finally exhaled sharply, breaking the air like glass, muttering under her breath, “…we should just start the damn set before one of you breaks the stage in half.”

Monty’s snarl answered her, teeth glinting as he jerked his bass strap higher on his shoulder. The sound was feral, but it shifted—directed into the instrument instead of the bear. His claws struck a discordant string, a sharp growl of music that filled the room like smoke.

“Fine,” he spat, each letter bitten off.

But his eyes never left Freddy. Not once.

The sound still hung in the air, vibrating through the floor and crawling up the walls like static, long after Monty’s claws left the strings. His head stayed bowed, jaw tight, the neon lights overhead painting jagged shadows across his snarl. Every breath that rattled out of him carried that edge of restraint—like he was barely holding himself inside his own skin.

Chica shuffled her wings, feathers bristling with the instinct to do something, anything, but she only hugged her guitar tighter, talons fidgeting against the neck. Roxy’s ears flicked, her claws tapping restlessly against her thigh before she gave in with a quiet curse under her breath. Neither of them tried to speak. They knew better. They’d seen it too many times before—how poking the storm only made it rip wider.

Monty’s tail cracked once more against the stage floor, the sound sharp enough to sting, and then—mercifully—he froze. His chest rose and fell like a metronome stuck on overdrive, each inhale sharp, each exhale heavier than the last. The bass in his hands still hummed faintly, one lone string trembling from the force of his last strike.

Across from him, Freddy smoothed his bowtie with slow, deliberate precision, like he could iron the jagged edges out of the air with the motion alone. He inhaled deeply, chest expanding with a performer’s discipline, then released it in silence before flashing that pristine, camera-ready grin.

His palms met in a single clap that cracked like a cue for the curtains.

“Showtime!” Freddy boomed, his voice a shade too bright, too rehearsed, the cheerfulness ringing false but determined. His words bounced off the rafters, filling the suffocating quiet with something polished, something safe.

Monty’s shades tilted just enough to catch the stage lights as he finally lifted his head, eyes glinting with molten fury that hadn’t burned out in the slightest. The smile Freddy wore didn’t falter, though his shoulders remained set, his stance unyielding.

Behind them, Chica strummed a cautious chord, light and shaky, a test to see if the air would shatter. Roxy rolled her eyes, muttering, “Guess we’re doin’ this,” before dragging her claws over her keys with a sharper edge than usual.

And slowly—like thunder giving way to rain—the sound of a band warming up filled the room, burying the cracks in the foundation under the only thing that could hold them together: the music.

The last note of rehearsal rattled through the speakers, shrieking off the empty seats before bleeding into silence. Chica set her guitar down with a careful clunk, feathers puffing faint in relief. Roxy stretched her arms overhead, jaw cracking with the kind of dramatic sigh that begged to be noticed. And Freddy—ever the optimist—spread his arms with that blinding grin and offered a bright, “Good work, team!” that nobody really bought.

Monty didn’t stick around.

He slammed his bass into its stand hard enough that the metal frame quivered, then stalked off without a word. Chica’s feathers fluffed in quiet concern, Roxy’s ears twitched after him, but neither dared stop him. The door banged shut behind his shoulders, swallowing their muted chatter in favor of the low electric hum of the backstage halls.

His boots thudded heavy against the tiles, each step ringing hollow in the cavernous quiet. Shoulders hunched, fists jammed deep into his pockets, Monty rolled something smooth and cool between his claws—the golf ball, still hidden like contraband. He spun it, tapped it, pressed the dimples into his palm until the sharp pattern bit his skin. A nervous tick. A secret tether.

A low growl rattled out of his chest, sharp and unsatisfied. Meet-and-greets were coming up—screaming kids, flashing cameras, endless handshakes. That fake grin Freddy wore like a second skin. Monty’s jaw ached just thinking about it. The last thing he wanted to do after that train wreck of a rehearsal was smile for anyone.

Still, the ball turned round and round in his claws, promising something he couldn’t name.

His breath hitched, too shallow, scraping against his lungs. Every muscle itched with the urge to break something—rip down a poster, snap a mic stand, maybe even take a swing at Freddy’s porcelain-perfect face. But he didn’t. He knew what came next if he did. Chica’s worried stare. Roxy’s forced laughter to mask her nerves. Freddy, lecturing again with that patient, paternal tone Monty hated more than silence.

So he kept walking, tail lashing, jaw locked, claws biting crescents into the golf ball in his pocket.

The corner came up faster than he expected and—

Wham.

Monty staggered back a step, lip curling, almost snarling—until his eyes landed on a smaller figure blinking up at him. Rico rubbed his nose with a wince, his phone dangling from his hand like a dropped shield.

“Dude, what the hell?” Rico groaned, muffled through his sleeve. “You’re built like a fuckin’ tank.”

Monty loomed, all sharp shoulders and bristling energy, still half-ready to snap at something—anything. His claws flexed around the golf ball like he could crush it into powder. But Rico’s flat, pained look knocked some of the fight out of him. Monty exhaled hard through his nose, voice low and gravelly. “Watch where you’re goin’, kid.”

Rico squinted, eyes narrowed like he was weighing the mood in front of him. “…You okay?”

Monty froze. The words hung there, too blunt, too simple. No one had asked him that all damn day.

For a beat, silence stretched—just the clack clack of claws tapping against the golf ball in his pocket, sharp in the empty hallway. His chest rose and fell too fast, too hot. He bared his teeth in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “…The hell kinda question is that?”

Rico shifted his weight, phone swinging loosely from his fingers. “The kind you ask when somebody looks like they’re about to punch a hole through the drywall.” His tone was flat, deadpan, but his gaze lingered longer than a joke should. A flicker of something—concern, maybe—was buried under the usual sarcasm.

Monty’s tail flicked sharp, betraying him. He turned his head away, muttering, “Mind yer business.”

“Yeah, sure,” Rico muttered, stuffing his phone in his hoodie pocket. “Not like you nearly bowled me over with your ‘angsty stomp through the hall’ walk or anything.”

Monty shot him a glare, molten gold burning behind his shades. Rico didn’t flinch. If anything, the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was fighting back a smirk.

Silence stretched again, thick and expectant. Rico waited, like he wanted Monty to crack. But Monty only clenched the golf ball harder, claws digging until the ridges pressed deep into his palm. His jaw worked, words dragging out like gravel. “Freddy… an’ rehearsal…”

Rico paused mid-step, half-turning, eyes catching Monty’s hunched shoulders before the gator moved on, growl still rumbling low under his breath.

“…Huh,” Rico muttered, too soft for anyone but the walls to hear. He didn’t chase it. Just shoved his hands into his hoodie, shook his head, and kept walking—filing the moment away like a note he’d read again later.

The meet-and-greets came and went without him. Chica basked in the squeals of kids tugging at her feathers, Roxy posed with practiced ease beneath flashing cameras, and Freddy turned on that perfect, practiced smile that made it look like nothing in the world could ever go wrong. They played their roles flawlessly, their energy bouncing off the walls in carefully manufactured bursts of cheer.

Monty was nowhere to be seen.

He lingered in the shadows instead, ghosting through maintenance doors and slipping behind signage whenever staff or security strolled by. He moved like a predator keeping to the edges of the light, tail twitching sharp and restless behind him. Every cheer from the crowd felt like a thorn in his chest, each camera flash another reminder of the mask he couldn’t bring himself to wear tonight. He wasn’t built for pretending—not when his head was still full of Freddy’s well-meaning words, the girls’ sidelong glances, and Rico’s quiet, cutting question.

So he hid.

Hours blurred together until the neon haze softened, until the families streamed out in one noisy tidal wave, their voices fading into the night. Laughter dwindled, footsteps scattered, and one by one the Pizzaplex doors sealed shut with a series of heavy, metallic clunks. The silence that followed pressed in on him like a weight, but it wasn’t suffocating. Not tonight.

Tonight, silence meant freedom.

Monty’s claws turned the golf ball over and over in his palm as he prowled down the dim corridors toward Gator Golf. His boots echoed against the floor, steady, deliberate. His chest was still tight, but the tension had shifted—no longer just rage and frustration, but something humming with possibility. Maybe she’d be there. Maybe she hadn’t forgotten.

The closer he got, the more his steps picked up, like he couldn’t stop himself.

The moment he shoved open the doors, humid swamp air rolled over him, thick with the faint scent of chlorine and the neon-lit mist curling over the course. And then his heart jolted, skipping a beat, because—

There she was.

Leaning against one of the railings, bag tossed carelessly at her feet, putter balanced loosely in her hand. The glow of the faux water rippled beneath her, lighting her edges in shades of blue and green. She tilted her head back toward the lights, hair catching the neon glow, eyes half-lidded but bright. She looked like she belonged here, like the space had been waiting for her.

Monty froze in the doorway, claws tightening around the golf ball until the ridges dug into his palm. His breath hitched, chest rattling with a growl he swallowed down before it could escape. For a second, he couldn’t believe it—he’d spent the whole day gnashing his teeth, chewing on his own anger like it was the only thing keeping him upright, and yet the second he saw her… it all just burned off, gone in an instant.

“…you came,” he rumbled, the words rough but softer than anything he’d spoken all day. His voice sounded almost stunned, like he hadn’t really believed she would.

Her grin widened as she glanced over at him, leaning on the putter with casual ease. “Of course I did. What, you thought I was gonna stand you up?”

The teasing lilt in her tone hit him square in the chest, knocking the air out of him more effectively than any punch ever could. His tail flicked sharp behind him, betraying the rush of energy rising fast in his veins.

The golf ball slipped from his claws, bouncing once against the concrete before clattering across the floor. For a beat, he just stared at her, his throat tight and his grin tugging unwillingly at the corner of his mouth.

And then—for the first time all day—Monty laughed.

It was low and rough, chest-deep, the kind of laugh that cracked through the tension like sunlight breaking storm clouds. His shoulders eased, his jaw unclenched, and for the first time since rehearsal, he didn’t feel like he was one second away from snapping.

Here, in his swamp, with her waiting—Monty finally felt like he could breathe.

Chapter Text

Monty didn’t even notice the exact second his scowl cracked apart. One heartbeat he was wound tighter than guitar strings—shoulders hunched up to his jaw, teeth grit, claws drumming on the putter like he was daring the world to give him one more reason to snap. The next, he was grinning like a damn fool. All because she was laughing. At him.

The shot had been a disaster. His ball launched off-course, ricocheted off the fiberglass alligator’s teeth with a hollow clack, and cannonballed into the swampy glow of the water hazard. The splash sent up a sharp chemical tang of chlorine mixed with mildew, clogging his throat. The fog machine wheezed in the corner, pumping out mist that curled ghostlike around their ankles. But none of that mattered, because her laugh cut clean through it all—bright and sharp, shattering the static in his chest like glass.

“Real smooth, hotshot,” she teased, bracing herself on her putter with that maddening little cock of an eyebrow. Blacklight neon snared in her hair, catching like lightning and painting her edges electric blue.

Monty felt the back of his neck heat until it was all he could do not to tug at it. He scratched awkwardly at the back of his head, a gravelly chuckle rattling up from his chest. “Heh. Ain’t supposed to be good at my own game, darlin’. That’d be unfair.”

The nickname landed like a spark. Her chest squeezed tight, the flutter of it sharp and embarrassing. She smothered it fast behind an exaggerated eye roll, but it was no use—the crush chewing at her ribs had teeth tonight. Here, in the haze of fake fog and gaudy glow paint, he didn’t feel like Montgomery Gator, rockstar menace of the Pizzaplex. He was just Monty. Too tall for the space, clumsy in a way that softened his edges, magnetic without even trying.

He watched her crouch to line up her shot, shoulders loose, lashes lowered. The sight smoothed him out too. His claws toyed absentmindedly with the extra ball in his pocket, tail flicking slow instead of snapping sharp. His jaw unclenched for the first time all night.

“…You make this too easy,” he muttered, not even aware he’d said it.

Her head jerked up. “What?”

Monty coughed, gaze snapping to the fake stone wall like that would somehow erase the slip. “Nothin’. Just—uh—good shot.”

The ball rolled in neat as butter, dropping into the hole with a satisfying little thunk. She straightened, glowing in the dim light, her quiet triumph filling the whole cave. Something steady lodged in Monty’s chest. For once, she wasn’t fidgeting or calculating escape routes. And for once, neither was he.

Still, Freddy’s warning clung to him like damp fog. Breathing room, Montgomery. You’ll smother her if you aren’t careful. His tail twitched against the AstroTurf, dragging his mood down.

“Hey, uh… sugar?” His voice came out lower than he meant, rumbling in the small cave.

She looked back over her shoulder, brows raised. “What’s up?”

Monty scratched at his neck again, feeling too wide for the blacklight cave, like the walls had shrunk. “You, uh… mind me hangin’ ‘round like this? Ain’t… too much, is it?”

Her blink was quick, then she laughed—light, startled, not mocking. “Too much? Monty, you’re literally the only reason this game’s fun right now.”

Relief punched through his chest so hard it nearly staggered him. He ducked his head, grin threatening to split him in two. “Heh. Just checkin’. Don’t want ya thinkin’ I’m… y’know. Overdo’n it.”

Her smile softened, tugging slow at the corners. “If anything, you’re underdoing it. Now quit worrying and watch me destroy you at mini golf.”

Monty chuckled low, the sound rumbling like thunder in his chest, tail flicking smug despite his pounding heart. “Careful, darlin’. Words like that’ll get ya in trouble.”

She only smirked and swung. The ball smacked off the obstacle, bounced once, and rolled perfect into the cup like the whole thing had been choreographed. She twirled her putter like a baton, grinning wicked. “You losing on purpose, gator?”

Monty blinked, caught between exasperated and dazzled. Then he barked out a sharp laugh, flashing a grin all fangs and crooked charm. “Sugar, if I were losin’ on purpose, I’d at least make it look good.”

Her laughter ricocheted off fiberglass rocks, filling the cave with warmth that no spotlight could ever touch. Freddy’s doubts got shoved into the back of his skull, drowned under the electric buzz sparking between them.

He swaggered up for his turn like he owned the place, claws drumming on his putter with the rhythm of a drum solo, tail flicking behind him in restless arcs that stirred the fake fog curling low across the turf. His shades caught the blacklight, flashing violet for a heartbeat as he smirked over his shoulder.

“But don’t worry,” he drawled, voice low and rough as gravel, “I’ll give ya somethin’ to sweat over.”

(Name) should’ve looked away, should’ve rolled her eyes and focused on her own swing—but she didn’t. Couldn’t. Her heart thudded too loud for a silly game of mini golf, each beat echoing up into her throat. Monty looked every inch the cocky showman, posture screaming confidence, tail swaggering like punctuation. But under the swagger, little cracks flickered: the twitch in his stance, the slip in his grin, the way his words sometimes dipped uncertain like he wasn’t sure if he meant them.

Now, as he hunched over the ball, claws twitching at the grip and tail flicking sharp like a metronome, she saw it again. His jaw worked, eyes locked so fiercely on the ball it was like he was staring down an enemy instead of a glowing plastic orb.

Her lips curled sly, voice cutting through the neon hush. “I think you’re the one sweating, Monty.”

He froze mid-breath. His shoulders ticked once, betraying the hit, before he huffed out a rough laugh and straightened his back like he hadn’t slipped at all. “Sugar,” he rumbled, teeth flashing, “I don’t sweat—I shine.”

He swung with a flourish, claws glinting, the motion all bravado. The ball clattered against the obstacle, ricocheted, and went skittering wide into the shadows. Not even close.

Her hand flew up to smother her laugh, but it betrayed her anyway, spilling through her eyes—bright, fond, fixed on him instead of the miss. For the first time, she saw the crack in his armor plain as day. Her chest squeezed tight, both giddy and aching.

Monty stared at his club like it had turned traitor. His tail lashed once, sharp enough to rattle the fiberglass wall behind him. A low growl crawled up his throat before he forced it down. Why the hell am I butchering this? He was Monty Gator—his name was plastered all over this damn attraction. Kids lined up for hours to see him. And here he was, flubbing shots like a rookie. Couldn’t even land the ball through a plastic mouth. So much for the ego boost his first golf ball he found earlier gave him.

Her grin only widened, sharper now but softened by the warmth blooming in her chest. She stepped into his storm without hesitation, the faint citrus-clean smell of her hair brushing against the chlorine haze as she closed the space. With a playful sway, she bumped her hip against his.

“Watch out, hotshot,” she teased, voice glittering in the dark.

The touch jolted him like a live wire. His grin came back on instinct—wide, toothy, sharp—but it faltered almost instantly, his claws tapping nervously against the putter like they were trying to bleed off the spark.

“…You ain’t playin’ fair, sugar,” he muttered, barely above a whisper. The words were rougher than a joke, heavy in their honesty.

The air between them went taut.

(Name) tilted her head, savoring the rare crack in his showmanship, the way the curtain had slipped just enough to show the man beneath the menace. Her grin spread slow, sly, triumphant.

“Never do,” she murmured back, leaning in close enough for the words to buzz warm against his chest.

And before he could gather his breath, she spun away with a laugh, darting toward the next glowing obstacle, leaving him planted in the fog with his pulse hammering and his tail betraying every inch of him.

Monty blinked, tail twitching sharp, chest flipping like he’d swallowed fireworks that had nowhere to go but up. The sparks rattled through him, and before he could stop it, a grin crept slow and dangerous across his snout—fangs flashing bright in the blacklight.

“Aw, now you’re askin’ for it…” he rumbled, stalking after her with a predator’s swagger, his gait lazy and deliberate. But his chest? His chest was sprinting a mile a minute, thundering like it couldn’t keep up.

The game spun forward the same way it had started—chaotic, playful, messy in the best way. Laughter bounced hard off fiberglass rocks, ricocheted through the glowing cavern like music, braided with their teasing quips disguised as trash talk. Her cheeks ached from grinning. His stomach cramped from chuckling. At some point between the neon fog, the gaudy obstacles, and the clack of too many wayward golf balls, the scorecard had stopped mattering at all.

When they rounded the bend, the last hole loomed—gaudier, louder, brighter than the rest. A glowing gator mouth stretched wide at the end, its fiberglass teeth snapping open and shut, daring anyone to try. The air itself seemed charged, buzzing with chlorine sting, the electric hum of the neon fixtures, and that other thing—that warmer, subtler thing humming between them.

Monty crouched, claws loose around the putter, but he wasn’t aiming anymore. Hell, he wasn’t even pretending. His chest felt lighter than it had in years, his thoughts quiet, his whole body breathing in rhythm with this tiny kingdom of fog and swamp glow. For once, the noise of the world was locked outside. It was just him. Just her.

Across the turf, she had the scorecard dangling from her fingers, doodling on the back with her pen, lips pursed in concentration. Neon light drenched her skin, painted her hair electric as her tongue poked against the corner of her lip. She hummed absently under her breath—something tuneless, maybe nervous.

Monty’s tail flicked once, lazy and hypnotic against the turf, as he lined up his shot.

Then—her voice. Cutting through everything soft but steady.

“I’m really happy you invited me to play with you.”

He froze mid-swing. The ball sat untouched, mocking him. Slowly, stiffly, he lifted his head, glancing back over his shoulder. His throat worked around a swallow, words catching rough in his chest.

“Yeah? Why you sayin’ that?”

She didn’t look up at first, just kept scribbling on the paper, shoulders lifting in a casual shrug that was too casual to be real. “I don’t really get to do too much for myself, y’know? Work, sleep, repeat…”

Her voice tapered, softer, more vulnerable now—like a thread she wasn’t sure she should pull. At last, she lifted her gaze, and under the glow of the swamp lights, their eyes caught.

Her smile was small. But steady. “This feels… really good.”

Monty’s chest hummed before his voice even followed. A low, rough vibration rumbled up his throat, spilling out like an engine idling. His gaze fell to the ball again, but his cheeks burned so hot the blacklight picked them up, faint purple-pink against green scales—like he’d swallowed a spotlight whole.

“…I think so too, sweetheart,” he rumbled, and it came out softer than anything he’d ever said into a mic.

For a beat, the whole world stilled. Just the hum of neon overhead. The lazy trickle of recycled swamp water. The hiss of fog machines, breathing in and out. And somewhere, fiberglass gator jaws creaked open and shut, slow and mechanical. But none of it touched them. Not here. Not now.

Monty drew in a slow breath, steadying, claws tightening on the handle. He lined up the putt again, tail falling quiet behind him. One clean shot—that was all it’d take.

And then—her voice again, soft, uncertain, hitting harder than any spotlight.

“You think we could, um… maybe, do this again sometime?”

Monty’s whole chest seized like a bad chord. His arms moved before his brain caught up, the putter swinging down with a sharp, decisive clack.

The ball shot forward, bounced once, twice—then rolled smooth as glass, straight through the gator’s glowing teeth, dropping into the hole with a perfect, ringing thunk. His first clean shot of the night.

Monty stared down at it, stunned. Fingertips buzzing, chest slamming.

“…Huh,” he rasped, voice cracking a little under the weight in it. His grin ghosted wide. “…Guess that answers that.”

(Name) handed him the scorecard as they wrapped up, her grin a little too triumphant for someone who’d just sent her last shot skittering off into plastic reeds. Monty squinted down at the card, expecting numbers, maybe even some smug tally marks. Instead, the back was plastered in doodles—rows of jagged little gator teeth, wobbly stars, and a cartoonish scribble that looked unmistakably like him with sunglasses twice the size of his head.

His gaze lifted slow, unimpressed brow arched, mouth set in a deadpan line.

She only shrugged, all wide-eyed innocence, lips quirking like she knew exactly what she’d done. “What? I was keeping score… in spirit.”

Monty huffed through his nose, a sharp exhale that sounded more like a growl than a laugh. He tried to keep his mouth in a straight line, but the corner twitched anyway, betraying him. With a slow shake of his head, he folded the card once, then twice, tucking it neatly into his back pocket. The move was casual, but the way his claws pressed it flat said otherwise—like maybe it wasn’t just some silly scrap of paper. Like maybe it was worth keeping.

“C’mon then,” he drawled, hefting his putter onto his shoulder like it was a bass guitar, his whole stance pure showman. “Bet you’re hungry.”

Her head tilted, caught off guard by the sudden shift. “How’d you know?”

Monty rolled his eyes, sharp grin finally breaking loose. “That sad little bag of candy you had earlier? Don’t tell me you thought that counted.”

Her face went hot in an instant, the fluster creeping from her ears down to her throat, written plain as day. Monty’s grin sharpened, smug but warm, like he was drinking in her reaction as if it were the sweetest prize of the night. Without waiting for an answer, he turned on his heel, tail swishing lazily behind him like he already knew she’d follow.

The putters clattered when they dropped them into the rack by the counter, the metallic sound echoing in the empty course. Monty, thinking he was slick, palmed the golf ball from the last hole and slid it into his jeans. It was anything but subtle—his claws were too big, his movements too casual—but he didn’t bother trying to cover it up. He just shoved his hands deep in his pockets and kept walking, chin tilted high like the king of the swamp.

(Name) caught it. Of course she caught it. But she bit her tongue, tucking away her smirk. Let him think he’d gotten away with it.

Together, they pushed out of the swampy glow of Gator Golf, trading the pulsing blacklights and buzzing fog machines for the hushed openness of the atrium. The shift was almost jarring—the air cooler, thinner, the fake swamp sounds replaced with the faint hum of escalators and the faraway chatter of security bots drifting up into the glass dome above. The neon haze gave way to the softer spill of overhead lights, clean and pale compared to the saturated glow they’d just left behind.

Monty, without breaking stride, stepped ahead just enough to shove the heavy door open for her. The motion was unthinking, practiced, his broad frame filling the doorway as he dipped his head slightly. A low rumble sounded in his chest—instinctive, rough, the kind of noise that spoke louder than words.

She brushed past, the faintest smile tugging at her lips, before falling back into step beside him. Her shoulder bumped lightly against his arm, an accidental touch she didn’t bother apologizing for.

“What are you gonna eat, then?” she asked, looking up at him, eyes curious and playful.

Monty tilted his head, considering it, his claws hooked comfortably in his pockets. He played it off like nothing, like he hadn’t already been sneaking glances at the food court signs flickering in the distance. His tail flicked once, betraying him, a small tell he didn’t bother hiding.

“Somethin’ spicy,” he rumbled at last, the word drawn out like a promise.

Her eyebrows shot up, surprised but amused. “Spicy? Really?”

Monty glanced down at her from behind his shades, his smirk sliding wider, sharp as a blade but soft with amusement. “Course. Gator don’t settle for bland, sugar.”

The words hung between them, playful but heavy with something else. His grin lingered, and the echo of it followed them as their footsteps carried them deeper into the quiet halls.

“Figures,” she huffed out a laugh, shaking her head. Her hair shifted with the motion, catching faint streaks of neon from a flickering sign overhead. “Well, what’s spicy here, then?”

Monty’s hum rolled low in his chest, like the purr of an idling engine. “Yer gonna have to find out.”

Her jaw dropped in exaggerated offense, lips parting with a sharp gasp. “No fair!”

He only shrugged, his shoulders cutting a lazy arc as he sidestepped a passing bot, the neon wash sliding over the curve of his shades. His smug grin lingered like it had all the time in the world, curling sharp at the corner of his mouth.

After that, silence slipped between them—not heavy, but easy. The kind of quiet that didn’t need filling. The riot of neon chaos from Gator Golf felt like a distant fever dream now, replaced by gentler sounds: the low whirr of cleaning bots polishing tile, the faint echo of laughter drifting from the far-off food court, the soft scuff of their footsteps weaving in time. The air smelled faintly of fryer oil and sweet soda syrup, a reminder of the day gone still. Their companionship stretched into that space, warm and steady, doing most of the talking for them.

But eventually, her throat tightened, and she cleared it, the sound small against the open hallway. Her voice came out softer this time, a note of hesitation tucked into the edges. “It’s… weird being here after door lock. Is it okay if I’m here?”

Monty slowed, his weight shifting heavy against the tile. A rumble stirred in his chest before he even realized it, that instinctive growl rolling like distant thunder. Freddy’s words flashed through his mind, a bitter warning light he couldn’t shake, sparking irritation that had nowhere to go.

He glanced down at her, jaw tight, the food court’s neon catching sharp across his grin. “Long as yer with me,” he drawled at last, his voice roughened with gravel, “you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about.”

The growl slipped through, low and unshakable—less a reassurance than a vow. A promise carved into stone.

But it was the sound, not the words, that hit her hardest. That guttural undertone, protective yet edged with something heavier. Possessive. It prickled against her skin, an electric warning that tangled in her ribs. Her steps faltered.

Her hand rose, fingers curling tight into her sleeve as though she needed something to hold onto, her confidence folding inward. “Uh…” The word stumbled out as she searched his face, torn between meeting his eyes or looking anywhere else. “If you’re sure…”

Monty’s head was still swimming with Freddy’s voice, sharp and echoing, when her hesitant reply finally slipped into his awareness. He didn’t register it at first, not until the air between them thickened, weighted in a way silence shouldn’t be.

When he looked back—he froze. She wasn’t walking at his side anymore. Her shoulders had drawn in, her frame smaller, her hand gripping her arm like she needed to anchor herself against something unseen.

Shock cut through him like a blade, his chest tightening, his stride faltering. The cocky smirk drained from his face, replaced by something startled and raw. Almost guilty.

She was pulling back. From him.

Panic tripped over his tongue before he could choke it back.

“I didn’t—look, that weren’t—I wasn’t—” The words tumbled out in a garbled heap, half-growled, half-muttered, every syllable jagged and useless. His hand raked over his snout like he could scrub his thoughts into order, but it only dragged the silence longer, stretching it taut between them.

Finally, he gave up. A sharp huff blasted from his nose, his shoulders rigid with the strain of holding it all in. His jaw flexed once, twice, before he turned away with something that sounded too much like retreat.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he rumbled, voice gravel-rough, too quick, too final. He didn’t notice the way her smile wilted behind him, the way her steps faltered. “Food court’s waitin’.”

They drifted into the glow of a stall still clinging to life after hours—its neon sign stuttered out Rampaging Rodeo in sputtering letters. The smell hit them like a wall: smoke, grease, a sweet tang of barbecue thick enough to cling to their clothes and crawl down their throats. Everything on the menu was beef, fat, or some combination of both.

Monty didn’t hesitate. He jabbed a claw toward the spiciest thing in sight, but when (Name) tried to step forward to pay, he cut her off without thinking. His bulk slid in front of her, broad shoulder crowding the counter until she was boxed out.

“Just make it.” The command came sharp and clipped, no room left for argument.

Minutes later, they claimed a booth tucked deep in the food court’s corner. The shadow there swallowed them whole, hiding them from the patrol of security bots and the sterile atrium glow. The trays clattered down with a hollow sound, steam rising in slow curls, but even the promise of food couldn’t cut through the heaviness that hung between them.

Monty leaned back, claws drumming lightly against the table’s edge, the rhythm too quick, too restless. The smell of charred meat made his stomach twist, but it wasn’t hunger clawing at him—it was guilt, bitter and gnawing. His gaze kept darting across the table despite himself, stealing quick looks at her posture, at the way her shoulders stayed hunched, pulled tight. She poked halfheartedly at her food, pushing pieces around like they might rearrange into answers. Every time her eyes even brushed against his, they flicked away again.

The silence roared. Louder than the hiss of the kitchen vents, louder than the clatter of bots cleaning somewhere out of sight.

Monty swallowed hard, the sound rough in his throat. He cleared it once, then again, his claws scraping a restless line along the table before he curled them back into his lap.

“Look—uh…” His voice came out low, raw, gravel rolling over stone. “’Bout earlier. That… that growl. Weren’t at you. I jus’—” He stopped, brow furrowed, jaw clenched as if he could bite words into shape. “Hell, I dunno how t’say it right. My head just—”

His hands jerked in the air, clawed fingers flailing like he could physically scoop the mess into something neat. Heat flushed dark under his scales, spreading like wildfire up his neck and cheeks. The harder he tried, the more his explanation tangled into nothing but frayed threads.

“Didn’t mean t’scare ya, darlin’. Didn’t mean t’make ya… pull back.” His nose huffed hard, frustration burning sharp in the sound. His eyes skittered everywhere but her—over the scratched tabletop, over the flickering neon bleeding in from the court, over the untouched food. Anywhere but the quiet weight of her face. “I ain’t—dammit—I ain’t good at this.”

When he finally forced himself to look, braced for the wince, the rejection, he froze.

She wasn’t recoiling. She wasn’t even upset. She was watching him—steady, soft, and almost amused, like she’d been waiting for him to stop tripping over his own claws. Her fork lay abandoned on her plate.

“Monty,” she said gently, and the fondness in his name hit harder than any scolding.

“It’s okay, hotshot.” Her smile was small, but steady. She ducked her gaze, turning back to her food with a quiet nudge of her fork. “Just got into my head a little, is all.”

Monty sat there, watching her. The knot in his chest loosened a notch, though guilt still clung stubborn as swamp muck. She wasn’t pushing him away, wasn’t shutting down completely—if anything, she was handing him an out, letting him breathe.

His jaw unclenched. He leaned back into the booth, arms folding across his chest, his gaze lingering on her. The slope of her shoulders, the subtle curve of her mouth—like she didn’t even know she was smiling.

The corner of his own mouth twitched, almost betraying him.

“…Ya shouldn’t hafta get in your head when you’re with me, sweetheart,” he murmured at last, voice softer than usual, as if it slipped out by accident.

“…And why’s that?” she asked, tilting toward him just a fraction, curiosity sparking in her eyes. She nipped at the inside of her cheek, fighting the grin that wanted to give her away.

Her gaze flicked down, following the line of his throat as he swallowed hard. Neon light painted faint color across his cheeks, and his claws tapped a restless beat against the table’s edge. She could almost feel his tail twitching under the chair, betraying the composure he worked so hard to keep.

Her chest warmed in answer, a flutter rising sharp and sweet. Every scrape of chair, every clink of cutlery in the food court suddenly felt amplified against the hush between them. The booth seemed too small to hold all that heavy, charged air.

Monty’s jaw flexed, his lips parting like he was trying to force the words into something clean. But instead, what came out was a low, rolling rumble—half amusement, half something hotter he hadn’t meant to show.

Her cheeks warmed under his gaze, heart fluttering frantic, like a hummingbird trapped in her chest. Still, she held his stare—forced herself to, even as the heat climbed higher.

The tension between them pressed close, thick and electric, teetering somewhere between dangerous and safe. His presence wrapped around her, heavy and grounding, the kind of warmth that should’ve steadied her but instead had her insides threatening to melt.

She swallowed hard, the sound loud to her own ears, and let her fork slip from her fingers. It clattered against the plate, sharp in the quiet, but she didn’t look away.

His tail brushed her leg, slow and deliberate, the scaled tip curling just enough to remind her it wasn’t an accident. The jolt that shot through her body had her spine snapping straight, a shiver racing up to the back of her neck.

Monty only smirked, sharp teeth flashing for half a second before he ducked his head, spearing a bite of food like nothing happened. His shades slipped a fraction lower on his nose, and she swore he was watching her out of the corner of his eye, smug as a cat who’d knocked over a glass on purpose.

Her throat went dry. She snatched her fork like it was a lifeline, shoving food into her mouth with mechanical determination, anything to distract from the wildfire spreading across her cheeks.

Get it together, she scolded herself, chewing too fast, heat burning down to her chest. The taste of spice and smoke hit, but it barely registered over the pounding of her pulse.

Across from her, Monty rumbled low in his chest—half amusement, half satisfaction—and casually leaned back in his chair, like rebooting her entire nervous system was just another part of the meal.

Her fork scraped against porcelain with a sharp clatter, far too loud in the hush of the booth. She narrowed her eyes at him, voice slipping into a dangerous whisper that sliced through the hum of kitchen vents. “You think you’re subtle, huh?”

Monty didn’t even flinch. He chewed slow, swallowed like he had all the time in the world, then tipped forward onto his elbows. A lazy smirk pulled at his mouth, the neon glow cutting sharp across the line of his jaw. “Darlin’, I am subtle.” Under the table, his tail brushed her ankle again—slow, deliberate, teasing proof of his point.

Heat shot straight up her spine. She kicked him lightly in retaliation, though her foot met nothing but stubborn muscle. “Subtle like a fire alarm,” she shot back, cheeks betraying her with their sudden burn.

He chuckled, the sound low and rough, vibrating all the way through the booth until it seemed to hum in her bones. “Ain’t my fault ya light up so easy.”

Her fork wobbled in her hand. “Do not,” she insisted, but the crack in her voice betrayed her, thin and breathless.

Monty’s grin stretched wider for a heartbeat—then softened. The mischief in his eyes dimmed, replaced by something steadier, heavier. He noticed the quick flick of her gaze, the hitch in her breath. His tail stilled beneath the table.

“…I ain’t tryna make ya uncomfortable,” he said at last, his voice dropping lower, raspier. His claws tapped the table’s edge, restless. “Just… feels good, makin’ ya laugh. Feels good knowin’ I ain’t just… y’know. Noise an’ claws.”

Her chest tightened at the words, the sudden weight of honesty hanging between them. Slowly, she set her fork aside. Before she could second-guess it, her hand reached across the table, fingertips brushing the back of his—warm skin against cool scales. “You don’t,” she whispered.

A beat, fragile as glass. “You should start giving yourself more credit, Monty.”

The neon glow caught the angle of his cheekbone as he lifted his head. His shades had slipped, and for the first time tonight she saw him clearly—no smirk, no armor. Just molten amber eyes staring straight through her, unguarded.

He didn’t pull away. His claws curled faintly, like he was holding himself back from turning his hand to meet hers fully.

“…Maybe,” he murmured. His gaze flickered down to her mouth, then snapped back up, jaw tight. “But I don’t wanna mess this up.”

Her pulse thundered. “You’re not messing it up.”

The booth seemed to shrink around them, air charged and heavy. The buzz of neon lights blurred into static, fading until all she could hear was the slow, uneven rhythm of his breathing—mirroring hers.

Monty’s mouth twitched, almost a smile, though his voice came low and rough, scraping against the silence. “If ya say so, sweetheart.”

Neither of them moved, but the tension wound tight between them, fragile and sparking. An inch closer, and it would all come undone.

Chapter Text

Freddy burst out of the birthday room like a firework—hands tacky with frosting, sugar dust clinging to his fur, and confetti glittering in his hair like some chaotic crown. The sugary air still clung to his lungs, the echo of children’s squeals bouncing down the hallway behind him. Another party conquered, another superstar properly celebrated!

He hummed low in his chest, tail swishing in time with the peppy daycare playlist that spilled faintly from the ceiling speakers. The scent of popcorn and melted chocolate wafted in from the atrium, sharp and sweet. Families passed him in bright, noisy clusters, and Freddy returned every wave, every squeal, every flash of delight with a grin so big it crinkled his eyes. Each little spark of recognition was a spotlight on his heart.

Then—thump. A cane snagged on the themed carpet. An elderly woman pitched forward, breath catching. Freddy moved before he thought—frosting-slick hands steadying her arms with a gasp. “Oh! I’m so sorry—let me help!” Crumbs and confetti smudged her sleeve as he righted her, ears drooping in flustered panic.

Her laugh came warm and papery, a gentle pat on his arm. “It’s okay, honey. Thank you.”

Relief washed over him in a fizzing wave, his grin exploding back twice as bright. “Are you sure you don’t need me to help you somewhere? Anywhere?” His voice bounced with earnestness, but she just waved him off, shuffling on, cane tapping a steady beat down the hall.

Freddy lingered anyway, ears tilted forward, eyes following until she was safely swallowed by the crowd. Only when she disappeared did his tail swish in satisfied relief. Mission complete. Guest secure.

A firm nod sealed it. Back to work.

Rockstar Row called—clean hands, clean suit, clean stage presence. The chaos of the Pizzaplex never stopped for long: kids chattering like songbirds, arcades shrieking, neon lights strobing across every corner. Boredom didn’t exist here, and Freddy loved it. He loved the pulse of it—the sugar in the air, the popcorn crunch underfoot, the way children’s laughter rattled the walls like applause. Every sparkle-eyed reaction, every frantic wave, made his chest buzz like an amplifier turned up to eleven.

So when corporate flagged him down—crisp suits, sharp smiles, laminated sheet in hand—Freddy didn’t just nod politely. He straightened like a spotlight had found him. Their orders gleamed in the light, a glossy card full of bullet points and bold letters. Gator Golf gift shop, this afternoon. Merchandise needed attention. Montgomery would be there. The last line, written in tiny italics, politely suggested not to expect too much.

Freddy’s ears shot up, tail twitching once, twice, like it had a mind of its own. His grin nearly split his face. “Got it! Will do! Have a wonderful rest of your day!” he called after them, voice booming down the hallway.

The laminated sheet slid into his vest pocket like a secret mission dossier. Freddy practically skipped to his green room, humming, shaking off stray confetti. He wiped sugar grit from his palms, swapped frosting-stained sleeves for a crisp new outfit, smoothed the fabric down over his broad chest with exaggerated care. His top hat landed in place with a satisfying plop, brim tilted just so.

In the mirror, his reflection gleamed—eyes bright, grin dazzling, not a crumb or sprinkle left in sight. He gave himself a little salute, ears twitching with pride.

Then, with a bounce in his step and a cheerful tune spilling out of his throat, Freddy marched toward Gator Golf. Eager. Ready. Determined to bring a burst of stage-light sunshine into Monty’s swampy little corner—whether the gator liked it or not.

The gift shop attendant—(Name), though her nametag was bent just enough to look half-fake—jumped at the smallest sounds. That wasn’t what made Freddy’s jaw grind.

It was Monty.

Already there. Already leaning in the doorway like he owned the place. On time. Freddy’s stomach twisted at the words. Monty being punctual shouldn’t have mattered, but somehow it did—like a dissonant note humming under a song.

Freddy stood from the stool he’d been sitting on, watched as Monty swooped in immediately after. Montgomery was angled too close to her, voice pitched low, drawling in that teasing rhythm that always sounded like he was halfway between a joke and a dare. The air shifted around him, heavy, confident—territorial. Freddy’s usual optimism faltered, a strange static crawling along the back of his neck.

He blinked hard, trying to reset, but the protective tug in his chest refused to let go. Every line of Monty’s body screamed casual ownership: the way he leaned in, claws resting loose but deliberate on the counter, tail twitching just enough to brush the floor in lazy arcs. Freddy caught the flicker of (Name)’s hesitation—the slight flinch when Monty’s muzzle tipped closer, the heat flushing her face as words Freddy couldn’t hear brushed past her ear. She looked flustered. Off-balance.

Warning signs. Every one of them.

Freddy told himself to be reasonable. Maybe Monty was trying—reaching out to staff, easing into more than golf swings and basslines. Maybe this was his way of making nice. But the knot in Freddy’s gut only cinched tighter with each beat of silence.

They moved to prep the merch table, cardboard and cellophane crackling as Freddy set things in neat, tidy rows. Monty didn’t lift a claw. He lingered at the edge instead, leaning back in that lazy sprawl that wasn’t lazy at all. His eyes stayed locked on her—too sharp, too focused, a predator’s patience wrapped in sunglasses and swagger.

Freddy’s chest vibrated with a low, involuntary hum. The Pizzaplex buzzed outside, kids laughing, machines chiming, the ever-present hum of neon lights—but Freddy barely heard it. His attention tunneled, ears swiveling, tail flicking in a subtle, restless rhythm.

Something was wrong. He didn’t know what, not yet. But his instincts whispered in steady, pulsing beats: watch him.

Hannah swooped in just in time, sliding between them with a practiced grin, her hands busying themselves with her clipboard and casual introductions. The distraction worked—sort of. Montgomery tossed out an offhand comment about golf, casual as a yawn, but something in his tone landed wrong. Hannah froze mid-motion, the smile on her lips faltering for half a heartbeat.

Freddy caught it. His gaze snapped to Monty, sharp, ears angled forward in a silent warning: Chill.

Monty only shrugged, all lazy arrogance, and let his attention slide right back to (Name). Hannah might as well have been wallpaper. Freddy’s ears drooped, that low, restless hum of unease crawling deeper into his chest. His throat clicked dry when he swallowed, tail flicking against his seat in little, unconscious ticks.

He glanced at Hannah, desperate for an anchor. Her eyes met his—steady, sharp. Where his brimmed with worry, hers sparked with something knowing, almost smug, as if she was three steps ahead in a game he hadn’t realized they were playing.

A prickle of doubt slid down Freddy’s spine. What am I missing?

The hours stretched long, the day broken into tidy duos hustling merch. Buttons clinked, posters rustled, receipts curled warm from the printer. The hum of chatter and the squeals of kids made a cheerful backdrop, like the whole Plex had agreed to play along with the performance of “everything’s fine.”

But Freddy’s gaze kept circling back. Always back.

Monty and (Name) leaned in too close over the table, voices dipping into low exchanges. Monty’s head tilted just so, his shades catching the light in sharp glints, eyes trained with that hunter’s focus that never softened. His claws flexed against the countertop every time she shifted, like he had to stop himself from reaching.

The sight twisted Freddy’s stomach into knots, winding tighter with each stolen glance. It was nervousness, yes—but something sharper threaded through it, something prickly he couldn’t quite name and didn’t dare examine too closely.

The Plex roared around him, a blur of cheer and color, but Freddy’s attention narrowed into a tunnel, locked on the way Monty occupied her space as if it were his stage.

He wanted to be glad—really, he did. Seeing Monty branch out, mingle with staff instead of hiding behind riffs and golf clubs, warmed Freddy’s chest. It was progress. It was good.

But that warmth carried a tremor, a quiver of unease that tugged insistently. Because no matter how hard he tried to frame it as pride, Freddy couldn’t unsee the closeness. Couldn’t unhear the soft laugh (Name) let slip when Monty leaned just an inch too close. Couldn’t ignore the way his own fur bristled at it.

And the longer it went on, the more Freddy’s instincts whispered: this wasn’t right. Not at all.

So Freddy did what he always did best: coached from the sidelines. His voice slipped in like background music, steady and calm, a soft current meant to steer without being noticed. He didn’t bark orders or cut across conversations; he eased words into place with the gentle authority of someone who lived for guidance. “Maybe try this instead,” or “That looks good, keep going.” Nothing sharp, nothing demanding—just enough encouragement to shift the energy without rattling anyone.

But his body betrayed him. His tail flicked with restless tension, tapping a rhythm against the tile as if trying to work out the unease he refused to show. His ears flicked too, twitching every time Monty’s tone dipped too low or his posture edged too close to (Name). Freddy’s eyes never strayed for long, always sliding back to track them with quiet vigilance.

He told himself it was fine, that it was under control. He’d balance encouragement with a watchful eye, make sure Monty didn’t push too far. But Freddy should’ve known better—Monty’s temper was a spark in dry grass, easy to catch and impossible to smother.

The flare came quick, just a comment, nothing earth-shattering. But Monty’s pride rose like it always did, sharp-edged, defensive. Freddy felt his own chest vibrate in answer, a low growl curling there even as he kept his voice smooth. He didn’t want to escalate—he wanted to protect, to steady, to keep the ground level for everyone involved.

“Be careful, Montgomery,” he said finally, letting the words roll out low and deliberate, his tone softer than the warning really felt.

The glare Monty shot back was immediate—razor-sharp, unrepentant, the kind of look that made the fur at the back of Freddy’s neck bristle. For a moment their gazes locked, heavy with tension neither wanted to voice. Freddy’s protective instincts clawed to the surface, but he forced them down, tamped them into a steady hum that he carried with him as he turned away.

He didn’t leave in a huff, didn’t storm off. Every step was measured, every swing of his tail controlled. He let his ears tilt back just enough to catch the sounds behind him, ready to pivot at the faintest sign of trouble. It was a retreat, yes—but a deliberate one, the kind made not out of weakness, but from an unwillingness to let his temper match Monty’s.

Freddy told himself that was the end of it. A warning given, a line drawn. Monty wasn’t reckless, not completely; he’d take heed, eventually. The tension would ease, the day would smooth itself out. That was what Freddy expected.

But Montgomery wasn’t the type to listen.

The very next morning, long before the Pizzaplex was fully awake, Freddy walked into the photo-op space prepared to help. The smell of fresh popcorn hadn’t even hit the air yet, lights still buzzing low in standby mode, the whole Plex caught in that early-hour quiet before chaos. Freddy’s stride was steady, composure polished, ready to bring structure to another day of work.

Monty met him with a snap.

The subject wasn’t even new—it was Hannah’s observation from the previous day, sales numbers pointing to a dip. Freddy had only repeated it, steady as ever, but Monty’s pride flared instantly. The gator bristled, defending not just his shop, but the way he stood in it, the attention he gave, the magnetism he insisted was his alone. And beneath it all, Freddy heard what wasn’t being said: a defense of his closeness to (Name).

The retort hit Freddy harder than he wanted to admit. His composure faltered just for a moment, a hitch in the smooth performance. His jaw tightened, teeth grinding quietly as the protective hum in his chest threatened to rise to a full growl. His fingertips buzzed with the restless urge to intervene, to anchor the situation before it tipped further.

But before Freddy could speak, Hannah stepped in. Her presence slipped into the space like cool water over hot stone—gentle words, soft gestures, an ease that balanced Monty’s aggression without challenging it directly. Her eyes flicked briefly over Monty’s shoulder, catching Freddy’s with the same steady spark as before. And just like that, the tension loosened, if only by degrees.

Then (Name) arrived, energy bright as sunlight cutting through the stale morning air. The shift was immediate. Monty’s posture altered, his snapping edge softening in the presence of a new audience. Freddy drew in a slow breath, held it, then exhaled with practiced control. The tension that had threatened to rattle through his whole frame ebbed just enough to be bearable.

But it didn’t disappear.

The protective coil under his fur never fully let go. It thrummed there, alive and insistent, a reminder that even in the Plex’s cheerful chaos—even with the day starting fresh and new—his vigilance was far from over. And as the morning picked up, as the campaign churned forward, Freddy carried it with him like a silent metronome, every beat reminding him: watch, protect, endure.

Because Montgomery might not listen—but Freddy would never stop paying attention.

Freddy wasn’t sure if Montgomery’s sharpness was still aimed at him or if it had burned itself out already, but he chose not to poke at it. He smoothed it over the way he always did, letting his grin stay fixed, tail swishing in practiced rhythm as if nothing had happened. Better to keep the mood light, keep the photos rolling, let his usual golden cheer fill the cracks.

And it worked—mostly. The camera flashed and costumes were worn and Freddy hammed it up with exaggerated poses, props tipped just so, his booming voice carrying over the chatter like a spotlight on a stage. He was good at this part—great at it, actually. If joy was a job, Freddy Fazbear was the hardest worker in the Plex.

But in the quiet moments between flashes, when the cameras reset and Riley shifted, his eyes kept drifting back.

(Name).

She was easy to enjoy—sharp in wit, quick with humor, never brittle, never bitter. Sweet in the right doses, biting when she needed to be, with just enough edge that Freddy found himself quietly admiring the balance. She fit the Plex’s chaos like she belonged there, moving through it without ever looking overwhelmed. Every now and then, when her quips tipped a little too sharp, Freddy gave her a soft scold—gentle, not chastising, just enough to smooth the edge. She always smirked in answer, and something warm buzzed low in his chest.

Still, no amount of sunshine could bleach away the knot he carried.

Because even while his top hat tilted just right, while his hands waved with playful grandeur, Freddy never stopped watching. Behind the cheer, behind the poses and the friendly thunder of his laugh, one ear stayed tuned, one eye fixed.

Monty.

The gator moved through the room with that same lazy, coiled swagger, a predator in a place made for applause. He leaned close, too close, words slipping under the din in a tone meant for only her ears. They passed candy like it was nothing, fingers brushing in the dim corners of the room. Their heads tipped together, laughter shared like secrets.

Every subtle gesture made Freddy’s fur prickle. His tail twitched restlessly. A coil wound itself deep in his chest, tighter and tighter, a spring ready to snap.

He repeated it to himself—like a mantra, like a prayer. She’s a good girl. She wouldn’t hurt Monty. She wouldn’t. He forced reason into every syllable, clinging to it like it was the only thing keeping him grounded.

And yet the knot never loosened. It stayed curled under his ribs, stubborn and heavy, thrumming with every laugh, every sidelong glance they traded. Hannah’s delighted squeals over his most ridiculous poses barely reached him. The compliments from Riley blurred into static. His focus tunneled, anchored to the dark corner, to the too-close shapes of Monty and (Name).

When the chaos finally ebbed, when the photos were finished and the noise dulled, Freddy should’ve felt relief. Instead, he stood rooted, smile stretched too wide, ears tilted sharp toward the sound of their voices as they lingered.

A game of golf was planned.

The promise of something more threaded through the air, subtle but undeniable. Freddy’s stomach twisted, his chest tightening around it like a warning he didn’t know how to voice. He turned away, tail flicking in tight, little twitches, but the hum of vigilance stayed, a low growl muffled under all his sunshine.

Because he couldn’t stop watching. Not now. Not ever.

Freddy’s claws tapped against the arm of the chair in a restless rhythm, the sound faint but sharp in the quiet of the Parts and Service room. His golden fur caught the harsh fluorescent light in dull glints, shoulders hunched forward as though the weight of his own thoughts pressed him down. He dragged a paw over his muzzle, exhaling slowly, ears flicking in small, frustrated motions. The knot in his chest only seemed to grow tighter with every attempt to ignore it.

Carly leaned back in her chair, goggles pushed up to her forehead now, the faint squeak of leather and metal filling the pause between them. She looked at him the way someone might study a stubborn lock—patience layered over quiet amusement, tempered with the knowledge she’d eventually get it open. “Freddy,” she said, her tone warm but lined with steel, “you can’t sit there chewing yourself up like this. It’s not good for your mind—or your fur.”

Freddy’s ears tipped back, embarrassed, though the corner of his mouth twitched with the faintest shadow of a smile. He clasped his paws together again, claws scraping against one another as though he needed the sensation to ground himself.

When Carly cut to the heart of it—“jealous or worried about the band?”—his whole body stiffened. The thought of jealousy landed like a stone in his stomach, and he shook his head sharply, though not with much conviction.

“I don’t…” he began, voice rough, catching halfway through. He swallowed the words, tried again, quieter. “I don’t want to feel that. I’m supposed to… support him. Support all of them.”

Carly tilted her head, grey hair slipping out of its tie. Her smile softened as she asked, “So why does it feel so different when it’s her?”

The question lingered. Freddy pressed his knuckles against his jaw, his tail curling tight against the chair leg. He couldn’t find an answer that fit neatly, so he clung to the truth he could admit. “I don’t want him hurt.” The words came out low, earnest, with that protective rumble buried in his chest like distant thunder.

Carly’s gaze gentled further, her voice dipping into the cadence of someone who’d patched more than broken wires. “That’s the piece you can trust. Everything else? Noise. Fear. Instinct running wild.”

Freddy’s chest rose and fell as he tried to accept that. But then his voice wavered, thick with the tangle inside him. “It’s the way he looks at her. The way she laughs at his jokes. The way they—” he broke off, shaking his head as his claws flexed open and shut. “Every little thing twists me up. Even when I tell myself it’s harmless. Even when I know she’s kind. It doesn’t matter. My chest still knots, my ears still strain for their voices. I can’t switch it off, Carly.”

For a moment, his usual cheer, his polished showman shine, was nowhere to be found. Just Freddy—anxious, protective, and more vulnerable than he’d let anyone see in a long time.

Carly leaned forward, resting her grease-marked hand over his restless paw. “Then don’t try to switch it off,” she said simply. “Listen to it. Not the part that makes you spin, but the part that tells you why. That’s where you’ll find your answer.”

The silence stretched, heavy but not unwelcome, as Freddy drew in a deep, shaky breath. The coil in his chest didn’t vanish, but for the first time, he let himself sit with it—ears drooped low, but no longer fighting to pretend it wasn’t there.

Carly leaned back in her chair, the wheels squeaking softly against the tiled floor. Her goggles dangled from one hand, grease smudged across her knuckles. She gave Freddy space to think, but her voice cut through the haze like a steady hand on his shoulder. “You’re protective. That’s okay. Recognizing it is the first step. Now…” She tipped her chin toward him. “What are you going to do with it?”

Freddy’s throat worked around the silence. His jaw clenched, unclenched. Ears twitched restlessly, betraying the storm inside him. He wanted to answer right away, to put it into neat words—but the truth didn’t come in neat words. It came jagged, uneven, like gears catching before they found their rhythm.

He couldn’t control Monty. He couldn’t control (Name). The thought pressed against his chest like a vice, squeezing harder with every heartbeat. His claws scraped faint lines into the armrest as he wrestled with it.

But then he breathed—deep, shaky, steadying—and found the thread. He could control himself.

He could keep watch. Stay present. Be the steady one when Monty wasn’t. He could trust the restless coil in his chest not as an enemy, but as a warning bell. His instincts weren’t broken, even if they were messy. They were his. They had a purpose.

Freddy lifted his head, eyes catching the sterile light. A low rumble stirred in his chest—not unease this time, but resolve. “Then I’ll stay vigilant,” he said finally, voice steady, the edge of determination cutting through. “If I can’t stop the worry… then I’ll use it. I’ll make sure nothing happens to him.”

Carly’s tired smile warmed, faint but proud. “There’s the bear I know.”

Freddy’s gaze flicked to the clock on the wall—then his whole body jolted like someone had flipped a switch. The stool screeched against the tile as he shot upright, nearly toppling it in the process. “Oh! Goodness!!” he exclaimed, ears snapping straight up.

Carly yelped, nearly tumbling out of her chair. Her hand slapped against her chest on instinct, smearing a perfect greasy handprint across her shirt. “Calm down, boy!” she barked, breathless, goggles sliding crooked on her face.

Freddy was already halfway to the door, movements jittery with urgency. “I’m so sorry, Miss Carly! Thank you for your guidance—I must really go now!!” His words came out in a tumble, pitched with both panic and excitement, his claws clacking against the frame as he bolted into the hall.

For a beat, Carly just stared after him, wide-eyed, hair slightly askew from the commotion. Then she exhaled, slow and steady, the tension melting from her shoulders. A small, knowing smile tugged at her mouth as she nudged her goggles back into place and turned back to the stubborn bot on her bench.

“That boy’s gonna be just fine,” she muttered, half to herself, as the S.T.A.F.F. bot sparked defiantly in reply.

Freddy barreled through the Plex like a runaway train, weaving between staff and guests with practiced politeness that didn’t quite hide the frantic edge in his voice. Every “Hello, superstar!” came out too sharp, too rushed, bouncing off the atrium walls as he powered forward. Normally, Freddy moved with a stately composure, every step measured. Now? Now he looked like panic crammed into a three-piece suit.

His chest felt tight, breath ragged as he pounded down the hall. He couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down—not until Monty heard him. Carly had helped him untangle the knot in his chest, given him the words to finally say it. And Monty needed to hear it.

But first… rehearsal. Freddy couldn’t be late, not when the whole band was waiting.

He slammed through the rehearsal room doors with a thunderclap of metal on wood. The girls shrieked, Monty jerked mid-strum, and Freddy doubled over on the threshold, clutching his knees as his lungs fought to keep up. His ears flicked wildly, tail twitching behind him like an unspooled wire.

“We… need… to talk,” he panted, words tumbling out ragged and desperate.

The noise in the room ebbed like water sucked into undertow. The girls giggled nervously behind Monty, their chatter bubbling up again in startled squeals, but Freddy barely registered them. His whole world had tunneled down to the gator in the center of the stage.

Monty didn’t move at first, except for his claws flexing on the bass strings. Then his jaw tightened, the muscles working slow and deliberate.

“What’s this I hear,” Freddy forced out, chest still heaving, “about a one-on-one golf game with (Name)?”

The words cracked through the air like a whip.

Monty froze. His shades didn’t shift, but Freddy could feel the weight of his stare even through the tinted glass. The bass gave a sharp, ugly twang under his grip. Behind him, the girls squealed again, their voices rising in delighted, oblivious chorus. Freddy’s ears twitched at the sound, but he didn’t waver. His gaze locked on Monty, claws curling tight against his palms.

“…And who told ya that?” Monty’s voice was a growl of gravel and thunder, low enough to rattle in Freddy’s ribs.

The bear swallowed hard. His fur prickled, a static crawl along his spine, but he forced his shoulders square. “Doesn’t matter who,” he said, voice pitched steady despite the quiver coiled in his chest. “What matters is—it’s true, isn’t it?”

Monty’s growl deepened, dangerous enough that even the girls quieted. He leaned forward just slightly, but the threat was all there—in the whip of his tail against the floor, in the iron tension lining his shoulders.

“You best watch where you’re goin’, Fazbear,” Monty rumbled, the warning vibrating through the floorboards. Freddy’s heart stuttered, claws flexing helplessly at his sides. “Ain’t wise, stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong.”

The air was thick enough to choke on.

Freddy swallowed again, throat tight. “Careful,” Monty hissed, the word dragging out like a blade pulled across stone.

Freddy’s breath caught. Every instinct screamed at him to retreat, to back down, but his feet rooted themselves to the floor. He couldn’t move. Wouldn’t. His gaze stayed locked, his chest rising and falling in ragged determination as he clung to the one thing he knew for sure—this mattered.

He smoothed a trembling hand over his tie, fingers fumbling, and drew in a shaky breath. “Monty, I—”

“Don’t.”

The word hit like steel slamming shut. Freddy froze mid-sentence, lungs burning, ears ringing with the weight of it. Monty’s growl lingered in the silence, a dark current thrumming through the room, and Freddy stood there—caught between the need to speak and the suffocating wall Monty had just dropped between them.

Freddy opened his mouth anyway, ignoring the razor-sharp narrowing of Monty’s eyes. His words tumbled out like loose wires sparking, rushed and uneven, a jumble of pleading and explanation that clattered against the tense silence. His hands moved with them, broad and expressive, as if sculpting some fragile truth in the air between them. But the careful shape of it shattered when Monty’s growl cut through the moment—low, guttural, and laced with warning.

“I said,” Monty rumbled, hot air hissing out between his fangs, claws flexing against the neck of his bass, “ain’t a damn thing here that needs explainin’.”

The sound vibrated through the room, heavy and final. Freddy felt it sink into his chest like a weight. His ears drooped slightly, posture softening, his voice lowering to something gentler, deliberate, careful not to prod at the jagged edges Monty wore like armor.

“Montgomery…” Freddy’s throat tightened around the word, his voice catching with sincerity. He swallowed, forcing the knot down, his hands lowering until they pressed softly to his chest. “I won’t see this… family… broken because of carelessness. I won’t allow it.”

The phrase landed harder than he’d intended, the air shifting almost immediately. Freddy felt the wrongness of it the moment it left his tongue—the way “broken” seemed to scrape against every wall in Monty’s chest. The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was dense. Choking.

Monty stepped forward, not quickly, but with the precision of a predator stalking through shallow water. Each heavy step thudded against the stage, tail cutting sharp swipes through the air behind him. His gaze burned with intensity, pupils narrowing to slits, every inch of his frame coiled and dangerous. “Yer treadin’ on dangerous ground, bear,” he hissed, voice low but layered with menace. His claws tapped once against the bass, flexing, a gesture as much about restraint as it was about warning.

Freddy’s heart hammered so loud he swore the others could hear it. His fur bristled with static tension, ears twitching involuntarily. He straightened just enough to hold his own ground, though the tremor in his paws betrayed the adrenaline racing through him. He should’ve stopped—should’ve let the silence bury what he’d already said—but the words slipped free anyway, raw and instinctual.

“So… are you.”

The sentence hit the room like a flare. For a fraction of a second, Monty froze. His stance stuttered—barely noticeable, but there. Freddy caught it, and the realization almost made his breath hitch. But then Monty’s tail lashed again, sharper, a warning crack of tension that snapped the air taut between them.

Silence pressed down on them like a physical weight. Freddy’s own thoughts spiraled, tumbling and frantic: he hadn’t meant to accuse, only to protect. He hadn’t meant to wound, only to warn. But the line was crossed now, burned into the floor beneath their feet, and every second it hung unspoken made his chest squeeze tighter.

It was Roxy, sharp-voiced and impatient, who broke the standoff with an offhand remark about rehearsal time. Her voice sliced the tension just enough for Monty’s growl to roll through—one word, jagged and final: “Fine.” The sound thrummed in Freddy’s bones, heavy with a reluctant concession, but concession all the same.

Freddy exhaled in a rush, smoothing down his tie with trembling paws as though neatness could disguise the panic still rattling his insides. His shoulders rolled back with forced bravado, his voice rising, bright and firm though the edges quivered.

“Showtime!” he declared, the word cracking through the air like the strike of a cymbal. He clapped his paws together—loud, decisive—hoping the sound would scatter the lingering storm cloud in his chest.

But as the rehearsal began, as the lights swelled and the instruments picked up, Freddy felt Monty’s gaze sear into him. It was molten, unrelenting, watching with a weight that pinned him in place no matter how wide his smile stretched. Every strum, every cue, every motion he made on stage came with the prickle of fur at his nape, the awareness of Monty’s eyes tracking his every breath.

He pushed through it—smiling for the girls, calling cues, twirling the mic stand with practiced flourish—but beneath it all, his claws flexed subconsciously, tail twitching in nervous sync with his pounding heart. Monty wasn’t just watching. He was testing, daring him to falter, daring him to let the storm inside spill out.

The music roared, lights flashing in brilliant colors, voices cheering from the side. Freddy gave them his polished showman’s grin, all dazzling teeth and gleaming eyes. But under the glittering surface, the weight of Monty’s gaze smoldered like a coal pressed against his chest—hot, unyielding, and impossible to ignore.

The slam of the door still echoed in Freddy’s bones long after Monty was gone. The sound hadn’t just rattled the room—it had split it wide open, leaving behind a jagged silence that buzzed like static in his ears. He sat frozen for a moment, claws curled tight against his knees, staring at the spot where Monty had vanished. His chest felt hollow, like the gator had taken all the air with him.

The quiet was almost unbearable. Too heavy. Too telling.

Chica and Roxy stood rooted for a beat, the tension still vibrating through the stage room like a struck chord. Then, slowly, their eyes flicked to each other—one quick glance, loaded and sharp, the kind that said more than words could. They’d both seen it: the way Freddy’s shoulders had dipped when Monty’s growl cut him down, the way his voice had trembled against that stubborn silence.

Chica crossed the space first. Her footsteps were light, careful, deliberate, like approaching a wounded animal. She set her guitar aside and rested one hand on Freddy’s shoulder. The weight was steady, warm, enough to ground him even as every muscle in his body still thrummed from the storm.

“Hey,” she murmured, tone low, coaxing. “That… was something.”

Freddy’s ears folded down, and he let out a sound that was half a laugh, half a groan. It was bitter and soft all at once, muffled into his palms as he pressed his face against them. “I… I messed up.”

From across the room, Roxy let out a bark of laughter. Her tone was sharp, teasing, but not unkind—more of a jab to keep him from sinking too far. “No, no. That was worse than messing up.” She slung her keytar strap over one shoulder, Chica’s guitar tucked casually in her other arm, as if she were already carrying the weight of all of them without saying it out loud.

Freddy winced, ears flattening further. “Roxy, please,” he mumbled, voice muffled, every syllable sagging with defeat.

Chica shot her a look, then leaned in closer, her hand giving Freddy’s shoulder the gentlest squeeze. “Ignore her,” she said, her voice steady, a little exasperated but still kind. “You’re lucky he’s Monty. He might snarl, he might slam doors, but he respects people who give a damn. Don’t tear yourself apart over this.”

Freddy peeked through his fingers, eyes dim, ears still twitching like they couldn’t shake the echo of Monty’s growl. Chica’s reassurance was a thread he wanted to hold onto, but it didn’t stop the knot pulling tight in his chest.

“Still,” he whispered, almost to himself. “I was meddling where I shouldn’t. He… he was right about that.”

Roxy raised a brow, leaning her weight onto one hip. “You call that meddling? Please. That was practically gentle compared to what I’ve seen.”

Chica gave her another look, sharper this time, but Roxy only shrugged, smirking.

Freddy’s gaze dropped. His tail flicked restlessly against the floor, claws flexing at his sides. The image of Monty’s glare burned hot behind his eyes, all teeth and fire and a tail snapping like a whip. Freddy still felt it in the air, like smoke lingering after a blaze, suffocating in its weight. He wanted to tell himself it was just Monty being Monty—but deep down, he knew it had been more than that. He’d struck something raw, crossed a line, and the sting of it still clung to him.

The silence stretched, loaded with the questions the girls weren’t voicing. Freddy could feel it pressing in, unspoken but heavy: How much is too much? How far do you push before something breaks?

Chica broke it first, her voice softer now, carrying a little shrug. “I’ve meddled a bit in my day.”

Roxy rolled her eyes so hard it was almost audible. “A bit? Try a lot. Don’t let her act like she’s some saint.”

Chica ignored her, focus fixed on Freddy. “All I’m saying is… maybe you give Monts some time. He’ll cool off. He always does.”

Freddy finally lifted his head, just enough to meet her gaze. There was no judgment there—just a calm, steady sort of warmth. Something to steady himself against, like a lighthouse in a storm.

He swallowed hard, one paw curling against his middle as if to hold in everything he couldn’t say. “Time,” he echoed, the word fragile on his tongue.

Chica nodded, simple, firm. “Yeah. He’ll come around.”

Freddy let himself believe it for a second. Not because he was convinced, but because he needed to. He smoothed his tie with shaking claws, took one long breath, and sat just a little taller, even if the ache in his chest still hadn’t faded.

He wasn’t sure if Monty would come around. But for now—just for now—he’d hold onto Chica’s words like they were true.

Chapter Text

The morning had the kind of soft, hazy glow that made everything feel like it was dipped in honey—slow, golden, unreal. (Name) was slumped across Ryan’s snack counter like she’d melted there overnight, cheek pressed against her folded arms, fingers reaching blindly toward a pile of wrapped candy. Every time Ryan smacked her hand away with a sharp thwack, she made a pitiful little noise, somewhere between a whine and a sigh.

“Coffee,” she mumbled, voice muffled against her arms.

Ryan didn’t even glance at her. He was knee-deep in reorganizing a box of granola bars, shoving them into neat, aggressive rows like the very concept of oats had personally wronged him. “Break room. Go get it yourself.”

She let out a sound like air leaking from a balloon. “Don’t wanna move.”

Ryan’s head snapped around, ready to unleash the patented death glare that had sent grown adults scurrying from his counter before. But the glare faltered the second he caught sight of her. Her face was soft pink, lips curved in the tiniest smile, eyes glazed like she wasn’t really here at all. He squinted, leaned closer, peered down at her like she’d grown a second head.

“…What’s wrong with you?” he grumbled.

She hummed a vague, questioning noise.

“You got this… look on your face.” His glasses slid down his nose, and he pushed them back up with all the force of a man solving a crime.

She tilted her head against her arms, blinking up at him with lazy confusion. Her gaze was unfocused, distant, dreamy.

Ryan opened his mouth to press harder, to interrogate, when movement behind her caught his attention. His eyes flicked up—and then froze.

There, leaning casual against a support beam like it had been staged, was Monty. Baggy jeans. Spiked bracelets flashing under the lights. Boots planted wide like he owned the floor under him. And—Ryan’s jaw dropped—a steaming to-go cup in one clawed hand. The rich, warm scent of caramel and vanilla curled through the air, thick and sweet.

Monty caught Ryan’s stunned stare and—smiled. A grin tired at the edges but still cocky, still him. He lifted a free finger to his lips in a silent shhh.

The realization hit Ryan like a truck. His expression cracked open into the smuggest grin in recorded history. He leaned onto the counter, propped his chin on one hand, and looked down at (Name) like she was the dumbest riddle he had ever solved.

“Ohhh,” he drawled, slow and deliberate. “Ohhhhhh.”

(Name) blinked up at him, squinting through the fog in her head. “…What?”

“Nothing,” Ryan said far too quickly, his grin stretching wider. He shot another glance at Monty, who hadn’t moved—still holding the coffee like some knight in spiked armor, still watching.

Ryan leaned closer to her, lowering his voice. “You got it bad, huh?”

She blinked at him, uncomprehending. Then, like the thought didn’t stick at all, she sighed dreamily and let her head flop back onto her arms.

Ryan slapped a hand over his face. “Oh my god. You’re whipped.”

“I am not,” she said, voice limp.

Even she didn’t sound convinced.

Ryan’s eyes flicked up again, and she followed his gaze just in time to see Monty still standing there, grin curling softer now, tilted like it was just for her. The caramel scent curled heavier around them.

Monty’s chest rumbled with a low chuckle. “Then why’m I bringin’ ya coffee, sugar?”

Her head snapped toward him, and her breath stuttered. The cup was inches from her face now, warm steam curling up in lazy tendrils, vanilla sweet and rich. His clawed hand held it steady, offered it to her like it wasn’t the biggest deal in the world—but god, it felt like it.

Ryan choked back a wheeze. “Ohhh this is so good. Don’t mind me, folks, just third-wheeling at my own counter.”

Her mouth opened, closed, then opened again like her brain had cut power to the speech center. She waved a hand weakly, aiming for casual. “M-maybe you just… felt like playin’ barista.”

Her lips tugged upward into the faintest smile, soft and helpless. Monty caught it instantly. His grin spread slow, sharp teeth flashing like he’d just won something. His tail gave a thud against the pillar, loud and heavy.

Ryan doubled over the counter, laughing into his sleeve. “Unbelievable. You’re so gone for him. And his lizard ass knows it.”

Monty only chuckled again, low and smug, before finally offering the cup fully.

She reached out with both hands. Her fingers brushed his claws—warm and careful—and the heat jolted through her chest like a spark. The coffee was hot, caramel-sweet, but nowhere near as hot as the way Monty’s eyes tracked her.

“Don’t mind fetchin’ for ya, darlin’,” he murmured, almost absent, almost too soft to be on purpose.

The words wrapped around her ribs like a hug. She nearly choked on her first sip, turning away quickly, but Monty caught the twitch of her smile anyway. His grin deepened, tail thudding again.

Ryan groaned. “Ugh, disgusting.”

She whipped her glare at him over the rim of her cup, voice sharp and hissy. “Don’t you have somewhere better to be?”

Ryan slammed a hand on the counter. “You’re at my station?!”

Monty snorted, rolling his eyes. “Ya sound jealous, man.”

Ryan froze. Then made a noise like a dying animal, burying his face in his hands. “I’m gonna be sick.”

Monty smirked, flicking his tail once, basking in it.

(Name) ignored them both, sipping her coffee. But her gaze flicked up—and lingered. The sweater stretched snug over Monty’s arms as he leaned back against the pillar, biceps pulling the fabric tight. Her throat went dry.

He caught her staring. The second his gaze cut back to hers, sharp and unblinking, she sputtered into her drink with an undignified choke.

Ryan whipped his head up. “Oh my god, are you dying?”

Monty didn’t move. Just grinned, slow and smug, while heat bloomed all the way to her ears.

By the time she finally escaped Ryan’s counter, coffee in hand, Monty was already behind her. Heavy boot steps trailing hers like it was natural, like he’d decided long before she thought to ask.

Her heart stuttered, warmth fizzing through her chest. She risked a glance up at him, shy smile tugging at her lips. He caught it instantly. His grin widened, teeth flashing like he’d follow her anywhere.

The walk was quiet except for the scuff of her shoes and his boots echoing against the floor. That soft buzz in her chest hadn’t faded. It only thrummed stronger with every step.

Finally, Monty broke it. His voice dropped low, casual but edged with a grin. “So… what was that ‘googly eyes at Ryan’ thing back there?”

Her head whipped around. “I was not—”

“Mhm.” He grinned down at her. “Ya looked like he was the last snack in the stand.”

Her face burned hotter. “I was not! Don’t give him that kind of ego.”

Monty chuckled, low in his chest. His tail swayed behind him, brushing the air. “Last night too much for ya, then? Left ya dazed, darlin’?”

Her steps faltered. The question landed heavy, slow. She scrambled, forced her voice steady. “No.” A pause, softer: “I had fun.”

Monty’s grin softened, satisfaction plain across his face. “Yeah? Really?” His voice dipped low again, shy despite the swagger. He scratched at his neck, claws dragging along the fabric of his sweater. “If ya wanted… we could… do somethin’ else?”

Her brows lifted, eyes wide. “Like… what?”

Monty froze. Tail twitched, air nearly ringing with silence. His mouth opened—closed—then opened again. All that came out was a strangled laugh. He rubbed at his neck harder, sunglasses slipping down his nose.

“Uh. Somethin’ normal. Like… uh… Fazer-Blast?”

“…Fazer-Blast?” Her lips curled upward, teasing. “Don’t you hate that game?”

“…No?” He hesitated. “…Yes…?”

The way it came out so unsure had her laughing before she could stop herself, warm and bright.

Monty muttered, flustered, “Ain’t that funny…”

But she was already giggling into her cup, eyes sparkling as she looked up at him. “Maybe I’ll have to see how bad you are at it first hand.”

Monty huffed, tail thumping once. “Darlin’, I ain’t bad at nothin’.”

Her eyes glinted, daring. “We’ll see.”

He leaned closer, dropping his voice. “Then I guess you’ll have to stick close. Make sure I aim right.”

Her breath caught. She tried to scoff, but it came out thin. “Y-you’re impossible.”

Monty grinned wider, sharp teeth flashing. “Yeah. But you’re smilin’.”

Her blush nearly glowed. The words slipped out before she could catch them—soft, honest, unguarded.

“…I like your impossible side.”

Monty stopped cold. His grin faltered like he’d just been struck. His tail lashed against the floor with a loud thunk. His mouth opened, no words coming out.

Her face went nuclear red. Nervous laughter bubbled out of her as she spun away, bolting toward her gift shop with coffee clutched tight.

Monty stared after her, frozen in the concourse, tail smacking the floor in erratic beats. His jaw worked uselessly, brain short-circuited.

Finally, his voice cracked down the hall, raw and loud.

“Hey!”

It was safe to say that (Name) definitely had it bad—if her thoughts of Monty before didn’t consume her every spare moment, thoughts of him now absolutely swallowed her whole.

And it wasn’t even her fault. Truly. She didn’t tell Montgomery Gator to invite her to mini golf and make her laugh so hard her sides hurt. She didn’t tell him to drag her off to get food, then stare at her across the table with that stupidly soft grin that made the world go fuzzy. She especially didn’t tell him to rest his warm, heavy hand against the small of her back while they wandered the Plex, aimless, like he had all the time in the world just to know her.

No, none of that was her fault. She was innocent. Victim of circumstance.

And yet—his face was etched into her skull like an oil painting hung in a museum. The soft, half-lidded eyes. The careless fall of his hair. The lazy way he carried himself, grin always tugging at his mouth like he knew a secret she didn’t. A muse. A spark. A walking piece of art that had the audacity to look at her like that.

His voice, low and rich, still hummed through her bones if she closed her eyes. The memory of his hand lingered on her back long after it was gone, like her body refused to forget. Even his teasing—infuriating, warm, threaded with fondness—looped in her head until she caught herself grinning at empty walls.

Montgomery Gator drove her crazy. Absolutely insane. And worst of all? She was positive he knew it.

But even beyond that… she loved the feeling. The weight of his attention locked solely on her, sharp as a spotlight and just as warm. The way his tail sometimes coiled lazily around her ankle—not tight, never forceful, but enough to tether her in place, a quiet anchor that whispered mine without a single word. The way his breath brushed the side of her cheek when he dipped close to murmur something—low, amused, soft enough that it buzzed right against her skin.

It was getting worse by the day, too. Before, she could pretend it was manageable. She could dodge hallways, cut corners, avoid the dangerous game of holding his gaze for longer than two seconds. Back then, just one look—sharp eyes over the rim of his sunglasses—was enough to send her sprinting in the opposite direction, lungs in her throat, heart clawing at her ribs.

But now? Now he sought her out. Went out of his way—the rockstar, the headline, the whole damn showstopper—to track her down. To lean on her counter. To tease. To talk. To see her.

And every time he did, her body revolted against her. It was chaos inside her chest—like a stampede of wildebeests were tearing through her ribs, a thousand frantic butterflies thrashing against a net, every single organ threatening to liquefy under the heat of his grin.

Her head spun, her skin burned, her heart tripped over itself like it wanted to be closer faster.

And god help her, she loved it. Every dizzying, overwhelming second of it.

But sometimes, even when emotions swarmed her every time she was caught in his orbit—gravitational, relentless—she couldn’t help but wonder… why her?

Monty surely had better things to worry about. More responsibility. Bigger, shinier priorities. He hardly should’ve looked in her direction after their first interaction—cheese-smudged staff shirt with his own face plastered across it, a malfunctioning bot, and poor, exhausted Rico trying to untangle the mess—but he had.

And that was enough to send (Name) into a spiraling tizzy of uncertainty.

Why had he? And why did he keep wanting to?

She slumped against the counter of her gift shop, the swamp rock playlist looping again for the thousandth time. The Glamrock plushies on the shelf glared at her with their beady little felt eyes, and the cardboard Monty cutout in the window mocked her with its smug, frozen smirk.

Her leg shook restlessly under the register, rattling the change tray until the coins jangled against each other like nerves in a tin can. Her fingers drummed a frantic rhythm against the faux wood laminate. Jaw tight. Shoulders tight. Eyes flicking across the rack of keychains like maybe she could find a different version of herself hidden in the digital name tags.

The coffee Monty had oh-so-generously gifted her that morning? Gone before she even made it to her station. Its empty cup sat abandoned in the Chica-themed trashcan by the archway, utterly useless except for the faint trace of him it had carried. Not enough caffeine to revive her after a long night with the gator, but still—he’d thought of her. That counted for something. (Too much, maybe.)

Monty had taken her off guard that morning. The way he’d blurted out, flustered, that they should play Fazer-Blast together. She’d been flattered, shocked, and entirely unprepared. Guys didn’t usually ask twice with her—if at all. She wasn’t the type people put in “contender” territory. She was the type people tolerated until they found someone easier.

But he had asked. And she’d watched with wide eyes as Montgomery Gator—the loud, cocky rockstar—fumbled with his hands like he didn’t know what to do with them, cheeks blooming pink under those ridiculous shades.

She’d responded the only way she knew how: awkwardly, with a joke to cover the free-fall panic clawing at her chest.

And then he’d teased her back—low voice, sly grin, every inch of him dangerous in the way that made her brain short-circuit—and she’d blurted it out.

I like your impossible side.

WHO SAYS THAT?!

Her leg bounced harder, teeth grinding until they squeaked. Heat flared across her cheeks, her ears, her whole face. Every time she thought of it, her chest squeezed like she’d swallowed a fist.

Monty’s laugh played on loop in her head, that low rumble reverberating in her bones. His smirk. The gleam in his eyes when she panicked. The memory of him—of all of him—rushed in uninvited, until she was groaning, forehead thunking against the laminate.

“Fuck this.”

“Uh… should I come back…?”

Her eyes snapped open. She was still face-down on the counter, and her soul immediately evacuated her body. Oh shit. Oh shit.

Slowly, with the grace of a corpse rising from a grave, she lifted her head.

Standing there with her trusty clipboard was Hannah, one eyebrow raised and concern softening her features. “You okay, pumpkin? That sounded like it hurt.”

(Name)’s blood drained cold, then rushed hot, and she let out a strained, raspy sigh. “…Great. I’m great.”

“Great!” Hannah chirped, swinging her clipboard up with a flourish like she was hosting a game show. “Special delivery!”

Balanced neatly on the board was a fat manila envelope.

(Name) blinked at it, frowning. “…What’s this? More flyers we have to push?”

Hannah laughed, sing-song and conspiratorial. “No, silly! These are the edited photos.”

Still, (Name) hesitated, staring like the envelope might bite.

“Go on, go on!” Hannah encouraged, wiggling the clipboard closer. “It’s not gonna explode.”

(Name) reached out like the thing was radioactive, her fingertips brushing the stiff edge before finally tugging it free. It felt heavier than it should.

“These came back quick,” she muttered, almost stalling.

Hannah hummed knowingly, rocking back on her heels. “Ohhh yes. We had so many volunteers this round. Practically a full house! Wonder what made this batch so popular…”

She leaned in, eyes glittering, like she held a secret (Name) didn’t want unearthed.

(Name) leaned back, clutching the envelope to her chest like a shield. “Uh… no idea.”

“I think you do.”

(Name) didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Her face burned too hot, her chest too tight, the weight of the envelope like it contained the truth itself.

Hannah continued like she hadn’t just casually tossed another thought grenade into (Name)’s overworked brain. “Corporate wanted these to be printed and sent out ASAP—they loved them!”

“What’s so exciting about a mini golf shoot…?” (Name) asked, trying to sound bored, but her voice came out thinner than she meant.

Hannah’s laugh bubbled out, bright and teasing. “Oh, pumpkin! It’s not the shoot itself that caught their attention.”

A frown tugged at (Name)’s lips, and she swallowed hard. Her fingers curled tighter around the envelope until the edges dug into her palms. The weight of it felt heavier, like whatever was inside might shatter her chest wide open if she dared to look.

“Then… what was it?” she asked, barely above a whisper.

Hannah leaned on the counter, chin in hand, watching her with the smug patience of someone dangling a treat just out of reach. “Let’s just say one of the models had a very enthusiastic presence. The camera adored him.”

And instantly, her stomach plummeted.

Her mind conjured the memory before she could shove it away: Monty leaning against the neon set-piece, sunglasses tipped low, his grin sharp and lazy like he owned the room. His tail flicking with restless energy as he posed casually like this was normal. The way her hands had grasped onto her bag so tight that her palms nearly had permanent grooves from the design.

(Name) tore her eyes from Hannah, cheeks blazing, pulse hammering in her ears. She tried to laugh, but it came out strangled, like she was choking on the truth. “…Right. Of course. Him.”

Hannah hummed, way too pleased. “Mhm. Him.”

The silence that followed made (Name) hyper-aware of everything—the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the air conditioner clicking to life, the rough texture of the envelope threatening to slice her fingertips open with every nervous shift of her grip.

“But…” Hannah added, her smirk widening as she tilted her head, “there was also some… enthusiastic support for the supporting lead in some of them, too.”

The words hit like a thunderclap.

She could already see it—herself caught on film, standing too close to Monty, her face tilted up toward him, eyes wide, lips parted like she was the star of a romance drama and not, you know, just an unfortunate bystander in his spotlight.

Her stomach flipped, embarrassment curling tight and hot in her chest. She clutched the envelope closer, as if she could squeeze the evidence into dust before Hannah could pry it open.

She was ninety percent sure if she cracked open that envelope right now, she’d either combust into dust or sink through the floor.

“…Oh,” was all she managed to squeak out, voice small, strangled, caught between mortification and a fluttering, dizzy kind of thrill she refused to name.

Hannah’s smirk turned knowing. “Oh,” she echoed, delight dripping from the single syllable.

They stared at each other for a beat too long, the silence only broken by the distant squeal of a kid and the hollow crash of the Hurricane Bucket tipping over in the atrium.

Hannah leaned in just a fraction, close enough that (Name) could feel the heat of her breath against her ear. “Open it,” she whispered, voice silky and way too amused.

(Name) jolted, clutching the envelope tighter against her chest like it was a holy artifact. “No.”

Hannah’s brows lifted, faux-shocked. “No?”

She swallowed hard, throat clicking audibly. “I… am not mentally prepared.”

“Oh, well… okay!”

“…okay.”

“You have my number,” Hannah sing-songed, straightening back up with the smugness of someone who’d just detonated a bomb and was already walking away from the wreckage.

Her grin curled sharper as she added, “And, just so we’re clear, I know.”

(Name) blinked, heat surging instantly to her face. “Know what?”

Hannah only winked, the movement maddeningly casual, before plucking her clipboard off the counter and throwing a lazy little wave. “Bye, pumpkin!”

And just like that, she was gone—heels clicking against the tile as she disappeared through the doors of Gator Gift’s, leaving behind the faint smell of her perfume and enough chaos to fuel (Name)’s spiraling for the next six years.

(Name) stared at the space she’d been in a second ago, pulse hammering, trying to process. Her thoughts whirred like a broken fan, throwing sparks everywhere, making no sense.

Did she… hallucinate that? Did Hannah really just say all of that and then leave like she hadn’t just detonated her entire nervous system?

But no—her hands ached from how tightly she was clutching the envelope, the sharp paper edges digging crescents into her skin. Proof. It was real. Hannah was real. The words were real.

Her knees felt like jelly. Her chest felt like it was caving in. Her brain felt like it was trying to climb out of her skull.

What the fuck.

Halfway across the Pizzaplex, Freddy sat perched on the edge of his couch, leg bouncing a mile a minute. His claws tapped a restless rhythm on his knee as he waited, practically vibrating with anticipation. The advertisement photos! Oh, how thrilling!

He hadn’t even been the star of the show, not really—just a silly little extra thrown in for fun—but the thought of seeing the final product had his fur fluffed out around his neck and his ears twitching like they were picking up a secret frequency. His tail gave an eager flick against the cushions.

He loved this part.

Someone from upper management had promised him the final edits would be delivered today, and his paws already itched to hold them, to pore over every glossy page, to hand out copies to his bandmates like a proud papa showing off report cards.

The shoot itself had been… comical, to say the least. Hannah and Riley had tossed him props far too small for his frame—a golf club that looked like a toy in his paw, a teeny tiny top hat he had to balance on his head, and sunglasses that squeezed comically against his broad muzzle. And oh, the poses! Big, silly, exaggerated things. He’d felt ridiculous and yet—it had been so much fun.

And now? Now he’d get to see if all that fun translated into success for Gator Golf and the gift shop. His chest practically swelled with pride.

A sharp knock startled him upright, ears perking. He cleared his throat quickly, trying to compose himself, and pressed the button to unlock his door.

The panel slid open with a soft hiss, and in swept Hannah, clipboard under one arm, an envelope tucked under the other. She grinned ear-to-ear like she’d just come from stirring up trouble elsewhere.

“Hey, Fredbutt! How’ve you been?”

Freddy blinked at the nickname, head tilting just slightly. “Uh—oh! Very well, thank you. And you?”

“Awesome!” Hannah sang, already pulling the envelope free and giving it a little shake like it was a present. Her grin widened. “Sooo… are you ready to see these bad boys?”

His ears wiggled again, betraying the excitement he tried so hard to temper. “Yes! I’ve been waiting all morning!”

Hannah leaned closer, lowering her voice like they were sharing some scandal. “They are very nice,” she whispered, the words laced with smug amusement. “Our very own costars have had quite the… astonishing welcome party with these.”

Freddy’s ears twitched, confusion flickering across his friendly face. He tilted his head, hat tilting just the slightest. “What does that mean?”

Hannah’s grin only widened, shark-like in its mischief. She tapped the envelope against her clipboard, drawing out the suspense. “It means, my dear Fredbutt, that your gator friend has officially been turned into a marketing darling. These photos are already being put on display—yes, the big billboards.” She gave a theatrical pause, eyes glittering. “Corporate executives have had an absolute field day seeing Big Bad Montgomery looking… let’s just say, more humanized.”

Freddy blinked, his fuzzy brow furrowing. “Humanized? But… Monty is already very personable! Why, just the other day he—”

“Mhmm! But it’s not just him!”

Freddy leaned back a smidge, ears dipping, the tips twitching like they always did when his thoughts were caught between hope and worry. “Me?”

Hannah shook her head, her smile blooming like she’d been waiting for this setup. “(Name) is a certified gator wrangler to the higher-ups.”

And suddenly, Freddy’s jovial mood—warm, golden, almost childlike—plummeted straight to the pits of his stomach. His claws flexed against his knees, that dark, protective thrum taking root in his chest. It was the same feeling that he felt when he talked to Carly. “Oh,” he said softly, his tone dipping several degrees below cheerful.

Hannah, either oblivious or enjoying the tension she stirred, let out a bubbling laugh as she tugged at the envelope, prying open the little metal prong with dramatic flair. “Isn’t that great?!” she chirped, like she was announcing good news on a game show. “The photos don’t live up to the real thing at all, but I think they captured their dynamic really well.”

“Their… dynamic?” Freddy echoed, ears pinning slightly. His voice was careful, weighed down.

“Yes!” Hannah sang, eyes gleaming as she fanned the photos just enough to peek. “You saw it the other day, right? Their cute little push and pull—oh, how darling these two are.”

Freddy’s chest tightened, humming with unease. Darling, she’d said. Darling, when it was Monty—with all his sharp grins, rough edges, and unpredictable outbursts—and (Name), who had wandered into the Pizzaplex with so much fragile trust clinging to her like glass threads. Freddy’s jaw worked silently before he managed a thin smile. “Darling,” he repeated, as though testing the word and finding it ill-fitting.

Hannah just nodded happily, completely unconcerned with the way Freddy’s entire frame had stiffened.

She pulled out a glossy photo, her nails clicking against the sheen as she held it up to the light. Hannah let out a delighted squeal that could’ve rivaled Chica on a sugar rush. “I can’t wait to see these two as headliners!”

Freddy leaned, just enough to steal a peek, and the second his eyes landed on it, his chest tightened as if someone had reached inside and clenched his heart with an iron paw.

He swallowed hard, forcing the knot down into his throat, and painted a smile across his muzzle so bright it could’ve fooled a stadium. “That is exactly as you’ve described it!” His voice pitched a little too high, but he powered through. “Darling.”

The photo glowed under the fluorescent light, cruel in its clarity. Montgomery and (Name), both dressed in kitschy little mirrored sunglasses and twinning golden golf clubs. (Name) wasn’t even looking at the camera—her head was tilted just slightly aside, caught mid-laugh, teeth flashing, cheeks flushed the kind of pink that made her look like she belonged to the moment and nowhere else.

And Monty… Monty wasn’t looking at the camera either. His eyes were fixed on her, softened in a way Freddy rarely saw. His grin was small, easy, unguarded—the golf club resting on his shoulder like an afterthought. They were close. Too close. Barely an inch of space between them, shoulders tipping as if magnetized.

Clearly drawn to each other.

Freddy’s heart gave another sharp squeeze, almost painful this time, his ears twitching back as if to block out Hannah’s happy hum. The photo was glossy, but to Freddy, it might as well have been sharp glass pressed to his ribs.

“Darling,” he repeated again, quieter now, as if by softening the word he could make it sting less.

Freddy’s smile stayed fixed, but the corners trembled just slightly, like they were holding up something heavy. His tail had gone still, not even the faintest flick.

It was fine. Perfectly fine. Monty was her coworker. Her… teammate. That was all. They had to be comfortable together—comfortable enough to sell the brand, to sell the dream. Of course they would laugh together, stand close together. That’s what the photos demanded. That’s what marketing demanded.

He nodded along as Hannah gushed, ears twitching, trying to swallow down the strange tightness in his chest. He wasn’t bothered. Not at all.

It wasn’t jealousy—heavens no. Freddy Fazbear was not jealous. He was… concerned. Protective. Yes, that was the word. Someone had to be, and who better than him? After all, Montgomery could be reckless—thoughtless, even. His temper was legendary, his impulses wild. Freddy had seen it firsthand, the way Monty pushed and pulled at boundaries like they weren’t even there.

That smile in the photo—it could have been an act. Just another bit of charisma, just another way to charm his way into someone’s space without them realizing until it was too late.

Freddy’s claws pressed faintly against his palm, and he flexed them out before Hannah could notice. Yes, that was it. His worry was rational. Reasonable. The kind of worry any good friend—any good leader—would feel.

The way Monty looked at her in the photo meant nothing. Absolutely nothing.

But he knew how they acted outside of the photos, knew how they leaned into each other just as naturally as they did in it. He knew how they laughed like they were constantly in on an inside joke. How they looked at each other like no one else existed except for them.

Like they were meant to be in each other's orbit.

Still, Freddy couldn’t tear his eyes away from it. The ease in Monty’s expression was not one Freddy often saw, not even backstage. And the way (Name) leaned, unconsciously maybe, it made Freddy’s throat dry.

Protective. That was all this was. Just protective.

Then why, when Hannah slid the glossy print into his paw, did his chest ache with something far sharper than simple concern?

He swallowed harshly, suddenly feeling like he was going to throw up.

As politely as he could, he asked if Hannah could give him a moment—and Hannah being Hannah agreed with enthusiasm, “Of course! Hey, we have another advertising campaign coming up next week at Roxy’s Raceway—see you there, yeah?”

He nodded halfheartedly and gave her a withering smile, photo still grasped in his hand.

She waved, and the door closed behind her with finality.

The silence after the door closed was deafening. Freddy sat there, rigid, the photo burning in his paw like it carried a heat all its own. His throat bobbed, but nothing went down—just that sour, restless churn rising higher in his chest until he thought it might spill out of him.

He let out a shaky laugh, the sound hollow. Protective. Yes. That was all it was. He was the responsible one, the steady one. It was his job to keep everyone safe, to make sure nothing got out of hand. He wasn’t jealous—he couldn’t be jealous.

But his gaze betrayed him. It kept wandering back to Monty’s expression in the photo, the quiet wonder written all over the gator’s face as he looked at her. It wasn’t staged, not entirely. That softness was real.

Freddy’s paw tightened on the glossy edge until it bowed, threatening to crease.

That look—he remembered it. Once, long ago, he’d seen it turned his way. Back when Bonnie still stood beside him. Back when their rehearsals stretched late into the night, filled with laughter that made the long hours worthwhile. Back when the world seemed brighter simply because someone saw him.

He shut his eyes, the ache in his chest clawing deeper. That part of his life was gone. Bonnie was gone. The echoes of it still haunted the edges of his memory, but the warmth had vanished with him. Freddy had accepted that—or at least, he’d told himself he had.

So why now, staring at this picture, did the loss feel fresh?

Because Monty was experiencing it. Because Monty—loud, reckless Monty—got to be the one standing close to her, soaking up her laugh, basking in the light Freddy himself could no longer reach.

It wasn’t just jealousy—it was mourning. Mourning what he would never have again. What he would never be allowed to have again.

His claws slipped against the photo’s slick surface, smudging the ink where Monty’s shoulder brushed hers. Freddy dragged his paw back, ashamed, ears flicking with guilt even though no one was there to see him.

“Protective,” he whispered to the empty room, the word tasting bitter. “That’s all it is.”

But the hollow inside him said otherwise. And the photo, still glowing faintly under the overhead light, mocked him with its proof: there was a kind of closeness, a kind of joy, that Freddy had lost the chance to hold forever. And he didn’t know how to stop wanting it back.

Chapter Text

A few days later, when the hum of the Plex had settled into something ordinary but the air still held that heavy, unspoken tension, word spread like static along the halls. Montgomery didn’t catch it from Hannah, or some manager, or even a fellow bandmate—he heard it from Rico. Rico, of all people.

Monty had been mid-step, his boots echoing sharp on the tile, when Rico leaned half-heartedly against a wall with his orange vest slouched off one shoulder and muttered it out like it was nothing: the photos from that dumb shoot were about to be everywhere. Posters in the Plex. Ads online. Billboards along the highway.

Monty froze. The air conditioning vents above pushed out a low hum, and from somewhere deep in the building came the faint thrum of bass from a speaker test. Rico’s head was bent over his phone, thumbs moving without pause, as if he hadn’t just dropped a bomb.

Monty’s shades slid a fraction down his nose as he fixed the guard with a stare, one brow lifting in disbelief. He wasn’t even sure Rico realized he’d just set off a storm in Monty’s chest.

When he’d stood in front of that camera, it hadn’t been serious. He hadn’t been serious. He’d leaned into the poses only to mess with her—to see the look she’d give when he flexed a little too hard, or tilted his grin just crooked enough to needle her. The whole thing had been a game, and he hadn’t thought twice once it was over. Now, the thought of his face blown up thirty feet high on the side of a highway made something twist tight inside him. Restless. Uneasy.

The sleeves of his black sweater stretched taut across his arms when he folded them, the knit pulling tight enough to itch. He resisted the urge to scratch, claws flexing instead. His chin tipped up, feigning calm.

“Where’d ya hear alla this?” His voice had that lazy rasp, the kind that usually made people think he didn’t care. But he did. He cared more than he wanted to admit. “No offense, but… you ain’t exactly the gossipin’ type.”

Rico finally glanced up, hair falling into his eyes, unimpressed as ever. “You think I wanted to know? Hannah couldn’t track you down, so she dumped the job on me.”

Monty hummed, low and even, like the sound of a bass string plucked slow. Yeah. That tracked. Hannah pawning the news off was the least surprising thing about this whole mess.

“That’s… cool, I guess.”

Rico stilled, finally pocketing his phone and straightening from the wall. His expression said everything: That’s your big reaction? “Just cool?”

Monty rolled his eyes, sliding his shades back up as though they might cover the twitch of doubt flickering behind them. “Yeah. I dunno. It’s all… great and shit. Just don’t know how I’m s’posed to feel ‘bout it.”

On paper, it was good news. Hell, it was great news. Gator Golf would get a boost, the Plex would rake in cash, and his name would be plastered all over the place. According to Rico—well, Hannah, really—corporate hadn’t hesitated once they’d seen the shots. They’d fast-tracked everything.

But the more he thought about it, the less it sat right. His tail beat a slow rhythm on the floor, restless, betraying him even as he leaned casual against the cool pillar. Neon light from a sign flickered in his shades, making him look collected. He wasn’t.

Because the truth was simple: he didn’t even know which picture they’d picked.

Rico, apparently, found that hilarious. “You mean to tell me,” he said, dragging it out like savoring the punchline, “you strutted through that whole shoot, threw yourself around like you were center stage, and you didn’t bother to look at a single shot?”

Monty bristled, jaw tight, shoulder grinding harder against the pillar. He tried to look nonchalant, like the whole conversation was beneath him. “Nah. You’re the messenger, kid.”

The guard barked a laugh and shook his head, adjusting his vest. Monty shoved his shades higher, but the gesture didn’t cover the flicker of dread working its way up his spine. What if they picked one of the dumb ones? The shots where he leaned too far into the joke, smirking crooked, eyes half-shut, or worse—the ones where his expression had slipped, unguarded for a second too long. He could already imagine it: thirty feet tall, billboard bright, his face twisted into something the whole damn highway could laugh at.

“You’re hopeless, dude.”

“Oh, shut up.” Monty’s tail snapped sideways, curling around Rico’s legs and giving a sharp shove. The guard stumbled, boots squealing across the Plex floor, his laugh bouncing through the atrium before he caught himself.

“That’s why yer a guard and not in marketin’,” Monty muttered, smug on the surface. He tipped his head, adjusting his shades with all the swagger he could summon.

Rico jabbed him back with a bony elbow, sharp against his ribs. Monty grunted, the sound more annoyed than hurt.

“I hope they use one where you’re mid-blink,” Rico fired back, grinning. “Or one where it looks like you’re about to eat the camera. Imagine that, thirty feet high. Nightmare fuel.”

Monty scoffed, a sound so hard it bordered on a growl. He flicked his shades up to glare, eyes sharp. “Screw you.”

“Love you too, champ.”

Monty’s shoulders rolled, tension rippling down his arms, his tail swishing a sharp arc behind him. He pushed off the pillar, boots clicking with each step as he strode away, sweater stretched tight with every swing of his arms. His tail caught a maintenance cone and sent it skittering across the tiles with a hollow clatter.

“Real graceful exit!” Rico’s voice rang after him, laughter chasing the words.

Monty didn’t turn. He didn’t slow. Just raised one clawed hand in a lazy middle-finger salute before the hallway swallowed him up, neon light flickering over his retreating figure until he was gone.

And in the empty silence that followed, the thought lingered—uneasy, insistent: which picture had they chosen?

It felt like no matter where Monty went, the damn news of the mini golf photo shoot—and its supposed “success”—was right on his heels. The chatter followed him through the Plex like a bad smell, a buzz of voices that clung to the air vents, the halls, the backstage corridors.

Sure, it made sense that Rico had been the first—Hannah had shoved the task on him, after all. But now it was everyone. Staff who normally wouldn’t say more than a half-hearted “hey” or nod suddenly had things to say. Things Monty wasn’t ready to hear.

“Hey, Montgomery! That photo shoot was really something, man!”

He stopped mid-hallway. His shades slid low on the bridge of his snout, just enough for his eyes to peek out. The custodian with the mop bucket looked way too chipper for someone pushing around gray water.

“Oh, uh… thanks,” Monty muttered, scratching at his jaw as he slipped past.

He thought that would be the end of it. One weird little blip. But by the time he was halfway to his green room, the compliments swarmed him like gnats.

“Congratulations! This is huge!”

Monty’s laugh came out choked, more like a cough dragged over gravel. “Yep. Sure is.” His tail thudded against the wall behind him, sharp and impatient.

Even the vending machine betrayed him. He’d barely punched the button for an energy drink when a technician strolled by, all smiles.

“You looked so good! So soft!”

Monty froze, claw hovering over the slot where the can rattled down. His whole body stilled, head jerking sideways.

“What…?” His voice cracked sharp across the word. Soft? What the hell was that supposed to mean? Soft like… approachable? Soft like a pillow? Soft like he’d been caught mid-blink, slack-jawed and dopey? His sweater stretched across his shoulders as he turned, but the tech was already vanishing down the hallway, humming like they hadn’t just sucker-punched him with the world’s worst adjective.

The weirdness snowballed. After a meet and greet, Monty crouched down to fist-bump a kid. The kid bolted off all smiles, but their parent lingered long enough to beam at him.

“You must be so proud. Those pictures were perfect.”

Monty blinked, dumbfounded, claws frozen mid-wave as the pair drifted away into the crowd. His jaw worked silently, no words forming, just the echo of perfect? rattling in his skull.

By the time he straightened, his patience was running on fumes. The bass from the main stage thumped through the walls, steady and grounding, but all he could hear were those voices replaying in his head. Soft. Perfect. Proud. Everyone had seen the photos. Everyone had an opinion. Everyone knew what thirty-foot-tall Monty looked like on a billboard—everyone but Monty himself.

He raked his claws back through his hair, tugging at the strands until his shades slipped further down his snout. His tail lashed once, snapping loud against the wall. His thoughts spiraled faster than he could rein them in. What if it was one of the dumb ones? The poses I did just to piss her off. The crooked grin. The tongue-out one. Hell, what if it IS the shot where I leaned too close, lookin’ like I’m tryin’ to eat the damn camera? Thirty feet tall on I-95, starin’ down at cars like I’m the mascot of a bad horror flick.

Every snicker in the halls felt directed at him now. A couple of staff ducked past with wide eyes and stifled laughs, and Monty’s stomach dropped straight to the floor. Were they laughing at him? Or at whatever picture corporate had plastered everywhere?

His claws clenched around the energy drink until the aluminum squealed. This wasn’t funny anymore. This wasn’t “casual” or “just marketing.” It was a setup. It had to be.

“Hell no,” he muttered under his breath, voice low and tight. His shades clicked back up the bridge of his nose, but it didn’t hide the storm brewing in his eyes.

He needed answers. He needed to find Hannah. Now.

Because if one more person told him he looked soft without showing him why, he was going to tear every damn billboard down with his own claws.

Monty shoved Hannah’s office door open so hard the hinges shrieked, the sound echoing sharp against the Plex’s sterile walls. He filled the doorway like a storm about to break—broad shoulders squared, boots planted, tail lashing against the frame with a hollow thwack that made the blinds in the corner window rattle.

Hannah didn’t so much as twitch. She sat in her chair with the unhurried grace of someone who had expected this exact moment, ankles crossed neatly, one elbow propped on her desk, chin balanced in her palm. The overhead light hummed faintly above, tracing a pale halo over her dark hair and the faint smirk carving deeper at the corner of her lips when she caught the hard scowl under Monty’s shades.

“Well, well,” she drawled, her voice smooth as polished glass. “Guess the star finally came to collect.”

Monty stomped inside, each step a heavy thud that made the tile quake under his boots. He came to a stop in front of her desk, claws flexing against the fabric of his sweater. “Cut the crap. Everyone in this damn Plex has seen those photos but me.” His voice rasped low, edged with barely checked frustration. “So where are they?”

Hannah leaned back in her chair slowly, deliberately, steepling her fingers like a chess player about to make the winning move. She had the air of someone savoring a long game that had finally reached its punchline. “Oh,” she said, all false innocence, “I don’t have any copies on me.”

Monty’s head snapped toward her, shades sliding halfway down his nose to reveal eyes narrowing into dangerous slits. His jaw flexed once, tight. “…What?”

She shrugged, casual, shoulders rising and falling as if they were discussing the weather. “Must’ve handed them all out already.”

The low click of Monty’s claws tapping against his folded arms filled the silence. His chest rumbled deep, like the growl of an amp warming before a show. “Handed them out?” His voice dropped lower. “To who?”

Her grin sharpened, all teeth and knowing mischief. “Why do you think so many people already know about the shoot?”

The realization hit like a bassline drop—thick, sudden, impossible to ignore. Monty’s eyes narrowed further, a dangerous gleam catching in them. His jaw locked, every muscle along his frame drawing taut. “…Freddy.”

Hannah didn’t confirm, not verbally. She didn’t need to. The smug sparkle in her gaze was answer enough. She let the silence hang between them like a string pulled tight, waiting for it to snap.

Monty’s growl reverberated through the office, low and guttural, vibrating the cabinet beside him until the stack of papers on top shivered loose. His tail lashed out hard, striking the corner of the desk with a crack that made Hannah’s pen roll lazily across the surface. Without another word, he spun on his heel, boots hammering the tile as he stormed toward the door, muttering a string of curses that came out rough and jagged under his breath.

“Where the hell is that bear—”

“Before you go,” Hannah’s voice cut in, syrup-sweet and sing-song, “you should know something.”

Monty stopped mid-step, the door half-shoved open, his body framed by the stark light of the hallway. His head turned just enough, one eye glinting like molten gold from beneath his tilted shades. “…What now?”

Hannah reclined leisurely in her chair, stretching her legs out as if she had all the time in the world. “(Name) also has the copies.” Her tone dripped with satisfaction, and the smirk that followed was positively wicked. “And unlike Freddy, I bet she’s been enjoying them.”

The words landed like a hook to the ribs. Monty froze in the doorway, his tail twitching once before curling low, the tension coiled tight through every line of his frame. A growl built at the base of his throat, rolling up slow, thick as thunder rumbling over a storm-heavy sky. He didn’t respond—didn’t give her the satisfaction of a retort.

He simply shoved the door wide, hard enough to slam against the wall, and stalked out into the hallway. His boots struck the tile in heavy, echoing beats, each step trailing that low, simmering rumble of irritation in his chest.

Hannah watched him go, lips curving higher as the sound of his storming exit faded down the hall. She reached out, caught her pen, and gave it a thoughtful twirl between her fingers before turning back to her computer screen.

“Showtime,” she murmured to herself, her reflection smirking back in the dark gloss of the monitor.

Monty was livid. Not just mad—boiling. It was one thing for the staff to pat him on the back like he’d won some prize. It was another for Freddy, of all people, to parade those damn photos around like souvenirs. The bear hadn’t even bothered to warn him. Just smiled that dopey smile and passed them along until half the Plex was buzzing about Monty’s “star quality.”

Steam practically snorted out of Monty’s nose every time he thought about it. His claws tapped sharp against his bicep, tail slapping irritably against the wall as he paced.

But what really clawed at him—what made his chest tight and his jaw grind—was Hannah’s little parting shot.

“(Name) also has the copies. And unlike Freddy, I bet she’s been enjoying them.”

Enjoying them.

His brain refused to leave it alone. What did that mean? Was she laughing—showing everyone and cackling at how ridiculous he looked? Or worse, was she holding onto them for… reasons? Admiring them? Hannah’s smug look hadn’t given him a straight answer, and that was exactly the problem.

The whole photo shoot had been a joke, a way to rile her up. He’d flexed, posed, leaned too close, all of it just to get a rise. Now those stupid moments were immortalized on glossy print and thirty feet tall on billboards, and she’d seen them before he had.

Monty dug his claws into his hair, groaning low in his throat. “What the hell am I even doin’?”

He wasn’t supposed to care. He wasn’t supposed to wonder. But the thought of her sitting somewhere, looking at those pictures—whether she was laughing, blushing, or both—had his stomach tied up in knots he couldn’t untangle.

He stomped toward the door, every step loud enough to rattle the floor.

Why was he suddenly in the business of woman hunting today?

There was only one place she’d be—Gator Gifts. She practically lived in that little neon-lit shop when she wasn’t running errands elsewhere, helping stock plushies, tidying shelves, or wrangling kids who wanted three things at once.

Monty knew the route by heart, and today he bulldozed his way through the crowds with single-minded focus. Families waved as he passed, kids bouncing on their toes, calling his name. Normally, he’d linger—flash a grin, ruffle a kid’s hair, maybe sign a golf club or two. Today, he only tossed out quick waves and grunted greetings, never slowing his pace. Nothing was going to stop him from getting to her.

His chest felt tight under his sweater, heat crawling up the back of his neck in a way that had nothing to do with the Plex’s recycled air. His tail flicked restlessly behind him as his boots struck the tile—sharp, heavy beats like a drumline announcing his approach.

He hoped—so damn desperately hoped—that she wouldn’t look at him any differently. That when he rounded the corner into Gator Gifts, she’d still meet him with those same shy, earnest eyes. Eyes that shone like she hadn’t already seen him acting a fool on camera. Eyes that carried a softness he didn’t think he deserved, but craved anyway.

The thought of her laughing at the photos—really laughing—made his stomach twist. But the thought of her liking them… maybe even saving them… that was enough to keep his boots moving.

He reached the entrance, neon gator signage buzzing faintly above. From the corner, he spotted her behind the counter, adjusting a display of plushies. Her head was tilted just so, a loose strand of hair slipping forward, her small smile flashing as she fussed with the lineup like it mattered.

Monty froze, claws flexing at his sides. His heart thudded once, hard.

He really, really hoped she liked the photos. Above all else.

The sound of his tail hitting the Chica themed trashcan announced his presence as Monty ducked into Gator Gifts, the neon hum of the shop wrapping around him like a net. He tried—God, he tried—to look casual. Shoulders loose, shades tipped just right, that lazy swagger in his step. But his palms were damp, claws flexing uselessly at his sides, and his damn tail kept swinging wide in nervous arcs, knocking into a rack of hats and sending them swaying like startled birds.

He muttered a curse under his breath and straightened them with a rough shove, only for his tail to clip a shelf of keychains on the next step. Plastic clattered against plastic, jangling loud enough to make him flinch. Real smooth.

Then she noticed him.

Her head popped up from behind the counter, eyes brightening instantly, and when their gazes met, she smiled—happy, soft, and just a little red in the face.

Monty’s chest tightened.

She looked at him the same way she always did. No judgment, no shift, no edge of laughter at his expense. Just… her.

But he didn’t let himself believe it. Not yet. Not until she said it with her own words.

Monty swallowed hard, throat dry as sandpaper, and forced his boots to keep moving. Every step toward her felt like a damn spotlight was on him. His shades suddenly felt too heavy on his face, the sweater too tight across his chest.

When he finally reached the counter, his tail curled tight behind his legs to keep from betraying him again. He leaned one elbow against the edge, trying for nonchalance, but his voice betrayed the gravel of nerves.

“…Hey, sugar.”

Her smile widened just slightly, pink blooming higher in her cheeks. “Hey, hotshot.”

He searched her face, waiting, heart pounding in his throat. He needed to hear it—whether she liked them, hated them, laughed at them, or… something else.

Until she said it, he wasn’t sure if his whole damn world was about to crack open—or settle into place.

Monty cleared his throat, trying to act like he hadn’t just nearly bulldozed the entire merch wall on the way in. His elbow stayed planted on the counter, claws drumming against the laminate like he was just killing time, like this wasn’t the most important moment of his week.

“So, uh…” His voice caught, and he coughed, adjusting his shades like they’d slipped. “Y’know, uh… folks’ve been, uh, talkin’. Sayin’ things. ’Bout… them pictures.”

Her brows lifted slightly, curiosity sparking, but she didn’t interrupt. Just waited.

Monty shifted his weight, his tail curling tight against the counter leg like it could anchor him. “Guess you, uh… mighta seen ’em too. Maybe.” His words tangled together, coming out in a low rumble, half-muttered, half-pleading. “An’ I was just wonderin’—like—not that it matters, but—hell, I mean—it kinda does matter, but—”

He stopped himself, jaw clicking shut. His claws curled against the counter, the faint scrape of keratin on laminate betraying every nerve he was trying to choke down.

Monty’s throat worked like he’d swallowed gravel. The silence stretched, thick enough to choke on, her eyes steady on his while he fumbled for words. He’d stared down mobs of screaming kids, hecklers in the stands, even Roxy mid-tantrum—and none of it had ever rattled him like this.

His chest rose sharp, a breath too quick, and he dropped his gaze to the counter, tracing a crack in the laminate like it could hold him together. “I just—” His voice came out lower, rougher. “I just need t’know if you… if you thought they were… stupid.”

There it was, laid bare. The ugly kernel of it all.

He’d made the shoot into a game, sure—posing like he was untouchable, flashing teeth and flexing muscle. But under all that, he’d wanted her to look. To notice. To maybe, just maybe, like what she saw. And now that she had—or at least had the chance—it felt like his guts were tied to a pulley, waiting to drop.

She watched him for a moment, lips twitching like she was biting back a smile. Then, slowly, she tilted her head, the soft light from the shop glow catching in her eyes. Without a word, she reached out and laid her hand gently over his.

The warmth of it went straight through him like a live wire. His fingers twitched instinctively under the touch, claws flexing, but he didn’t pull away. Couldn’t.

Her palm was small against the broad spread of his hand, steady where he wasn’t.

Her lips parted like she was about to answer, but she just let the silence hang, her eyes searching his face as though she could see every thought he was wrestling. Monty swore the hum of the neon sign grew louder, like it was mocking him, filling the space with a static that pressed against his eardrums.

He tried not to fidget, but his tail betrayed him again, the tip twitching sharp little arcs against the floor. His throat was so tight it was a miracle the words had even made it out in the first place.

What if she was laughing? What if Hannah had been right, and those pictures were just her new favorite inside joke? Hell, maybe she had them tacked up in the break room, circled in red Sharpie with captions underneath.

But then she tilted her head. Just slightly. The way she always did when he said something dumb—or brave—or both. And her eyes softened.

She wasn’t laughing.

The realization should’ve loosened the knot in his chest, but instead it only pulled tighter, like a rope drawn taut. Because if she wasn’t laughing… what was she?

Her hand brushed a stray strand of hair behind her ear, slow, almost shy. Her lips curved—not the broad grin she gave customers, but something smaller, quieter. Something meant for him.

And Monty?

Monty forgot how to breathe.

The seconds stretched, unbearably long, every tick of the clock on the wall behind her pounding like a countdown. His claws tapped against the counter again, harder this time, betraying his impatience.

He needed her to say it. Needed her to put it into words before he drowned in the not-knowing.

Because right now, standing there with her looking at him like that, Monty realized there were only two options left.

Either he was about to be made the biggest fool in the Plex—

…or he was about to find out she’d been looking at those photos the same way he’d been looking at her.

“Monty,” she began, her tone caught somewhere between teasing and tender, the words brushing the air with an intimacy that made his chest clench. “Calm down. I haven’t even looked at them yet.”

For a split second, everything in him just…stopped. His brain snagged on the sentence like a claw on frayed fabric, and all the restless movement of his body went rigid. His shades slid lower on the bridge of his snout, exposing a sharp flicker of gold in his eyes as he tracked the lazy motion of her hand toward the counter.

And there it was.

A thick manila envelope, bulging at the seams, perched on the register like it had been waiting for this exact moment.

Monty’s jaw dropped. “You—” His voice cracked before he could wrangle it down. “You’ve had ‘em this whole damn time?”

Her smile faltered into something sheepish, a touch of guilt mingling with the warmth coloring her cheeks. She propped her elbow against the counter as if she had nowhere else to be but here, pinned beneath his stare. “Hannah dropped them off this morning. Said they’d be good for marketing.” She gave the envelope a playful tap, the sound light, teasing, while her eyes darted up to gauge his reaction. “So…I’ve been holding onto them all day.”

His claws curled against the countertop, scraping faint grooves into the laminate. The thought of Freddy, of the staff, of anyone else getting their eyes on those photos before him sent something ugly twisting through his chest. But knowing she had them—untouched, waiting, protected—made the heat in his throat unbearable.

Then she said it. Softly, like she was testing the shape of the words. “...We could look at them together. If you want.”

That suggestion hit him like a spark in a dry forest.

His tail lashed, colliding with the display behind him, sending an entire line of plush gators tumbling in a ridiculous cascade. He barely noticed. His shades hid the raw burn in his gaze, but the way his shoulders drew tight and his jaw ground together betrayed him completely.

“Darlin’…” The rasp of his voice scraped over the space between them, meant for her ears alone. He leaned in, close enough that the air shifted with him. “…you don’t even know what you’re askin’.”

Her brows drew together, lips twitching in the effort to hold back a laugh, or maybe the urge to duck under the counter altogether. But she didn’t retreat. She lifted the envelope instead, holding it between both hands like it was heavier than paper had any right to be.

Monty stared. The urge to snatch it away warred violently with the urge to run, to shove it out of sight before she had a chance to peel it open. His throat worked against a swallow that refused to go down, his pulse thundering so hard he swore she could hear it.

The envelope might as well have been ticking. A live charge. Her fingers curved delicately around its edges while his claws flexed on the counter, an inch away, daring himself to close the distance.

“You didn’t even peek?” he managed at last, his voice low and rough, like gravel scraped against metal.

Her head tilted. Slowly, deliberately, she shook it. Her smile softened, losing its teasing edge, turning into something smaller, more intimate. “Nope. Not a single one.”

His chest rose and fell, heavy, uneven. The relief that rolled through him nearly buckled his knees—no judgment yet, no laughter, no admiration—but the panic clamped down just as fast. Because if they opened it now, right here, she would see everything.

He shifted closer, unconsciously, claws brushing the flap of the envelope as if some magnetic pull tethered him to it. To her. The shades on his nose couldn’t disguise the tension thrumming off his frame, sharp enough to buzz in the charged air between them.

“Y’ain’t scared?” he muttered, narrowing his gaze just slightly. His voice had gone rougher, gravel thick with warning. “Might be somethin’ in there you don’t like.”

Her laugh was soft, just a breath of sound, and it steadied her as she nudged the envelope across the counter, closer to him. Her fingers lingered, tightening on the paper as though she were anchoring them both. “Guess we’ll find out,” she whispered.

The world narrowed. Monty swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing sharply, the sound caught halfway between a growl and a groan. Every instinct screamed to rip it open and get it over with, but another, quieter voice—one that scared him more—reminded him that once she saw, there was no undoing it.

And then her hand brushed against his. Feather-light. Deliberate. The contact nearly unraveled him where he stood.

“Together,” she repeated, softer now, steady as stone.

That single word cracked through him like lightning.

Monty exhaled hard through his teeth, a sound that came out tangled—half-sigh, half-growl, all raw edge. His claws hovered over the flap, trembling despite himself. “…Aw, hell,” he muttered, not sure if it was a surrender, a prayer, or both.

The first glossy photo slid free, and Monty blinked. Freddy—mid–golf swing, grinning wide, wearing a pair of neon-pink star glasses that were absolutely not regulation-sized. His ears were half-tucked into the frames, crooked and ridiculous, like some kind of cosmic joke had landed squarely on his head.

She let out a sudden laugh, clapping her hand over her mouth as if that would hold it back. “Oh my god—”

Monty leaned in despite himself, squinting, a sharp snort bursting out of him. “What the hell is he wearin’?” His tone was caught between disbelief and the edge of a chuckle, like his brain hadn’t caught up to the sight yet.

The next was worse—or maybe better, depending on who you asked. Freddy, frozen mid–wink, paw flung up in a theatrical salute, mugging for the camera like a man born to ham it up. His grin had that maddening, showman polish—one Monty had seen work on crowds a thousand times over.

The third: Freddy tipping an oversized cap toward the lens, brim slouched low, grin so wide it could’ve split his face. He looked like some kind of mascot-turned-celebrity, soaking up every second of attention.

By the fifth, Monty had a claw dragging down his snout in weary disbelief. His shoulders shook with restrained laughter he refused to let out. “He ain’t got shame, I’ll give him that.”

She giggled again—softer, less surprised this time, but the smile was radiant, bright enough to light her whole face. The stack of photos grew in a little pile on the counter between them, harmless paper weighed down with more than either wanted to admit. Monty’s chest felt tighter, his stomach twisting itself into knots that only pulled harder the further they went.

Because halfway through—Freddy vanished.

And there he was.

Monty in glossy print. The first shot: him leaning against a railing, shades pushed up into his hair, arms crossed like he’d been born for the spotlight. The smirk curling his mouth was sharp, teeth gleaming under the flash. The light caught the hard angles of his jaw, the coil of muscle through his shoulders, like every part of him had been made for this exact moment.

She inhaled sharply, her hand pausing on the photo. Not moving. Just staring.

Monty’s stomach dropped out, clean and brutal.

The next was worse. Him sprawled across the entrance to Gator Golf, one arm hooked lazily over his knee, head tilted just so, grin painted careless but cocky. His whole frame radiated arrogance, command, the kind of picture Hannah would’ve tucked into a promo reel to make fans scream themselves hoarse.

And she was staring at it too long. Way too long. Her cheeks had flushed, blooming pink under the neon hum of the lights above. Her lips pressed together like she was holding something in, a smile that threatened to break wider if she didn’t bite it back.

Monty coughed, too loud, too sharp, his tail giving him away with a thwack against the display behind him. The sound startled even him. “Y-yeah, nah, uh—these’re… somethin’, huh?” His voice cracked at the edges, gravel rough and uneven.

Her gaze flicked up to him, eyes bright, almost guilty, fingers still grazing the edge of the glossy print like it was something delicate. The smile she gave him—small, shy, glowing—was the kind of thing that could ruin a man. And right then, Monty wasn’t sure if it was relief blooming in his chest or a slow kind of devastation that left him buzzing.

He cleared his throat, dropped his gaze for half a second before tilting his head back with forced ease. What came out was low, almost a growl of satisfaction hidden under feigned casualness. “Uh… reckon the camera… liked me?” It should’ve been rhetorical, but his tone curled upward, hungry for an answer he already thought he knew. His shoulders tilted subtly, posture straightening like the pride was pouring through him without permission.

Her fingers hesitated over the next photo. She looked nervous—like one more glimpse of him might undo her completely. “Y-yeah… I… wow,” she whispered, soft as a secret. Her voice faltered, her face still flushed as she bit her lip, trying and failing to compose herself.

Monty’s tail flicked again, sharp and pleased, betraying him like a cat’s tail twitching in smug amusement. He leaned closer—just a breath, just enough—shades dipping, lips curved into a knowing smirk. “Yeah… that’s what I thought.” His words dripped slow, heavy, and deliberately.

Every shot after seemed worse—or better, depending on where you stood. Confident. Commanding. Carefree. Him caught at every perfect angle, each frame playing up something about him—the set of his shoulders, the coil of his arms, the flash of his teeth, the swagger in his grin. He didn’t need to look at her to feel how her pulse shifted every time she lingered on one. She was glued, caught, cheeks warming with every flick of her eyes down to paper she couldn’t put away.

The envelope sat between them like it weighed a hundred pounds, thick with photographs but heavier with tension. Monty’s ego rumbled like an engine in his chest, low and steady, proud. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t just the star of the show—he was hers in this private, unguarded moment, and it sang through him.

“Guess…” His voice dropped, teasing, soaked with that pride he couldn’t hide, “…I’m not too bad at this whole… posing thing.”

Her laugh was small, shaky, but sweet—breathless, like she didn’t have enough air left in her chest. “Not too bad?” she echoed, voice pitched high, cheeks practically glowing.

Monty’s smirk pulled wider, teeth flashing, tail tapping slow and deliberate against the counter in victory. “Yeah… not too bad at all.”

And still—she kept flipping. Kept lingering. Her fingers trembled slightly as she lifted the next photo into view, holding it like it might burn.

Her breath caught.

Her eyes widened.

“Oh…” she exhaled, almost too soft to hear, but Monty caught it, every syllable hitting his chest like a drum. Her cheeks burned hotter than the neon above, pink flooding all the way down her neck. She fumbled the edge of the envelope, almost dropping the stack altogether. “…Oh wow. Oh my god…”

The sound of it—raw, unguarded awe—hit him harder than any spotlight ever had.

Monty caught the pause like a spark in the dark—instant, undeniable. His tail coiled tight against the counter’s edge, restless energy bottled up in muscle and scale. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned in, shades slipping lower on the bridge of his snout until his golden eyes peeked over the rim. The smile tugging at his mouth wasn’t wide, not yet—it was the kind of smirk that knew it had time.

“What…” his voice rasped low, textured with that growl that lived at the bottom of his chest, “…caught yer eye?”

It wasn’t irritation. It was interest. A hook, baited and cast straight at her.

Her hands fumbled the photo forward, trembling just enough for him to notice. The glossy print wobbled under her fingers. “I—I didn’t know they did photos like… this…” she stammered, words tumbling over themselves as though they were running for cover. Heat flushed across her cheeks so fierce it was almost visible in the fluorescent glow of the gift shop.

Monty’s eyes narrowed, sharp and curious, his tail flicking against the counter in a snap that echoed like punctuation. “And…?” he pressed, leaning in further, not much, just a shift—a tilt of his shoulders, a deliberate adjustment that pressed his presence closer into her space. The air between them thickened, heavy, charged.

Her throat bobbed as she swallowed, gaze darting from the photo back up to him, then down again, caught in a loop. Her blush spread, deeper, hungrier. “It’s… uh…” The rest dissolved on her tongue, unspoken but written all over her face: awe, embarrassment, something darker, sweeter, unnamed.

Monty didn’t need her to spell it out. The smirk curled wider. His claws flexed against the counter, slow, purposeful. Every shade of pink in her cheeks, every second her fingers hovered like they were afraid to touch the print again—it was more honest than words could ever be.

He dipped closer, voice dropping into that deliberate rumble he knew shook the air around him. “Looks like you’re enjoyin’ it, sugar.”

Her hands twitched over the envelope, her body trying to decide whether to shrink away or sink into the heat rolling off him. “…I… maybe a little,” she whispered, breath catching on the admission.

One sharp flick of his tail. Pleased. Hungry. “I thought so.”

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it hummed. It was the kind of silence that swallowed the hum of neon, the buzz of vending machines, the distant chatter of the Plex. It shrank the whole world down to just them, the stack of photos, and the dangerous little current threading between their breaths.

She flipped another photo, lingering, eyes wide. Monty didn’t even glance at the glossy cardstock version of himself. He didn’t need to. He had her face, flushed and unguarded, to study instead. The little hitch of her breath when she lingered too long on a shot. The faint tremble of her hand as if touching the paper was touching him. The sight of it lit something in his chest—a low, rolling rumble spilling out unbidden from his throat.

Unintentional. But not unwelcome.

His tail tapped once against the counter. His head tilted closer, subtle, predatory patience written in every inch. He wanted her focus. Her awe. Not for the cardboard cutout version of him, but for the real thing sitting right in front of her.

He tapped a claw lightly against the stack she clutched. She jolted, eyes flicking up to his.

Monty held her gaze, steady, golden, relentless. The tiny flick upward from her lashes set a thrill racing down his spine. He let another rumble roll out, lower this time, intentional, thrumming through the counter beneath her hands, into her chest, into every charged inch of air between them.

“Like what yer seein’, sugar?” His voice was teasing, sure, but weighty enough to press down on her ribs when she breathed.

Her fingers froze over the envelope, suspended like prey caught mid-step. Her lips parted, eyes shimmering with the kind of heat she was still too flustered to name. “…I… maybe,” she murmured, the words fragile, nearly drowned beneath the static buzz overhead.

Monty leaned in again—fractional, measured, close enough that her skin would pick up the warmth radiating off his frame. His tail twitched, betraying his satisfaction. “Maybe, huh?” he teased, letting the syllables linger, velvet and razor all at once. “Just maybe?”

Her breath hitched audibly this time, chest rising sharp, fingers twitching like they might crumple the photos altogether.

Monty’s grin bared the faintest flash of fang beneath his shades. “Sugar,” he rumbled, voice thick with a satisfaction that curled deep in his chest, “that’s all I needed to hear.”

He stayed casual in posture—claws resting lightly on the counter—but every muscle beneath his scales thrummed with the tension of wanting more. Not the staged shots, not the paper still trembling between her hands. Her. Every pause, every blush, every reluctant inch of truth she gave him fed that hunger.

He didn’t need the stage lights. Didn’t need the cheers or the cameras. Not right now.

All he needed was her attention—and oh, he had it.

The photos sat abandoned on the counter, neon light spilling across the glossy paper, forgotten now that the real thing was so close. Warmth radiated between them, alive, humming, sharp as static in the air.

Her whisper—maybe—wasn’t just a word. It was a spark. It clung to the space between their mouths, soft and reckless, and Monty felt it echo down into his chest, rumbling out of him before he could stop it. Pride and hunger twisted tight in his ribs, his tail flicking sharp behind him as if his body had already decided for him.

He leaned in slowly. Deliberate. The kind of movement that said I know you’re not pulling away. His shades tilted forward, just barely catching the edge of her nose, and her breath fanned against his jaw—sweet, uneven, trembling. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t recoil.

Didn’t want to.

Her hand hovered uselessly over the glossy print, trembling like it no longer mattered, like all her attention had been stolen. And when her eyes lifted—wide, warm, rimmed in pink—her lips parted, just a fraction. Not by accident. Not hesitation. An invitation. A dare.

It yanked something raw out of him. A need, heavy and insistent, that told him to close the gap, to claim that flicker before it burned out. And the way she looked at him—God, she wanted it too. He could see it, clear as stage lights.

So he went.

Monty tilted closer, letting the buzz of the store fade, letting the neon hum and the frantic beat of his own nerves melt away. The only thing real was her—her scent, her heat, her breath brushing his skin. His shades nearly grazed her, close enough to count the flutter of her lashes, close enough that if he breathed any deeper, he’d taste her exhale—

A family entering through the archway echoed loudly.

The sound cut through like a blade, shattering it.

She jolted upright as if doused in cold water, breath torn from her chest, cheeks blazing. Her hand snapped back, and she coughed into it, sharp and uneven, trying to smother the flush that had already betrayed her.

Monty froze, the moment ripped straight out of his hands. His claws twitched, aching with the want still crawling under his skin.

“Hi there!” she blurted, voice too bright, too quick, brittle at the edges. Panic shoved her forward, fingers fumbling with the stack of photos before ramming them hard into Monty’s arms, like smuggling contraband before anyone noticed.

The weight hit him before he could react, heavy, clumsy, wrong. His claws curled instinctively around the envelope, edges bending under his grip as he blinked, thrown by the sudden distance, by her mask snapping into place.

She smiled—plastic, perfect, teeth bared in a customer-service grin that didn’t reach her burning ears. “Welcome to Gator Gifts! Can I help you find anything today?”

Monty just stared. His chest still thundered like a bassline, heat coiling tight under his skin, every nerve lit up from almost-touch that had been yanked away. The stack in his grip felt too heavy, like it wasn’t photos at all but the weight of the moment they’d lost.

Tail coiled tight against his leg, Monty let his shades dip just enough to watch her over the rim. Every tiny movement she made—the way she shifted her weight, the almost imperceptible lift of her shoulders, the faint trembling of her hands—told him everything he needed to know. She was trying so damn hard to act like nothing had happened, like her voice hadn’t just hit that soft, breathless pitch. Like she hadn’t leaned in too, like her body hadn’t betrayed her just as much as his own.

His claws flexed against the edges of the envelope, slow, deliberate, almost savoring the weight of the paper in his grip. One thing was clear: she wasn’t the only one shaking. Every nerve in him was taut, every muscle humming like a coiled spring, ready to snap at the faintest cue.

Monty didn’t move at first. He just stood there, the fat stack of glossy prints pressing heavy in his claws, the neon buzz of the shop wrapping around him louder than the bell that had interrupted their moment. His mind replayed it all in flashes: her breath hitching, her lips parting, the way she’d leaned in toward him, wanting him closer without saying a word. He could still feel the ghost of her heat brushing his jaw, the lingering tremor in her hand as it hovered over the envelope, suspended between daring and hesitation.

Then—ding. Reality.

She was back behind the counter, the mask of cheer restored. Sunshine and service, all bright smiles and helpful hands, guiding some mom toward the right size shirt for her kid. “This one runs a little big, but it’s soft and comfy—see?” Her words were easy, practiced, flawless, but Monty saw the little cracks. The faint tremor in her fingers when she folded the shirt, the quick inhale before she handed it over, the subtle hesitation that betrayed how close she had come to letting him in.

Monty’s grip tightened on the envelope. The pictures weren’t important anymore. Couldn’t be. Not when she was standing ten feet away, still pink-cheeked, still radiating that dangerous mix of warmth and restraint, pretending she hadn’t just nearly let him kiss her.

His tail flicked sharply, hard enough to punctuate his tension. Every twitch, every curl of it, betrayed him more than his voice ever could. And he saw it—every time her eyes flicked back to him, tiny, quick little darts, like she couldn’t help herself, like she needed to know he was still there, watching, waiting.

Monty shifted his weight against a nearby display, trying to appear casual, but every muscle screamed otherwise. His claws drummed against the envelope restlessly, like they were debating whether to rip it open or crush it entirely in one sharp motion.

She laughed softly at something the customer said, a sound sweet as sugar, and Monty felt his chest tighten further, muscles bunching as though he were bracing for impact. She was good at this. Too good. Sliding into that bright, polished, polite voice, all charm and ease, while her eyes betrayed her faint tremor, her pink cheeks, the subtle stammer that still laced her movements. She was performing, but she wasn’t fooling him—not with those quick little glances, not with the falter of her smile whenever their eyes met.

Monty’s jaw flexed under his shades, slow and deliberate, teeth catching faint light. The photos, the glossy paper, the ink—they had lost all importance. What had him hooked, had his heart thundering and his tail twitching, was her. The real thing. Not the billboard-perfect version of him. Not the campaign Hannah had cooked up.

Her.

Behind the counter. Pink-cheeked, still stealing glimpses his way, trembling a little, pretending she wasn’t.

Monty smirked, low and dangerous, letting the subtle curl and flick of his tail mark his claim without a word. Every inch of him was alive with attention, with the pull of her, the tease of proximity. He let his gaze linger just a little too long, letting her feel it, knowing she could.

Yeah, sugar. I see you. And I’ve been seeing you all along.

Chapter Text

His claws tapped the edge of the envelope against the counter in a lazy rhythm, careless, like it was nothing but scrap paper in his hand instead of the one thing that had started all of this. “So…” His voice dropped low, deliberate, smooth as whiskey and just as dangerous. “…where were we, sugar?”

The words hung between them, weighted, threaded with the promise of picking up exactly where that moment had been cut short. He didn’t move closer yet—just tilted his head, shades catching the glow of the overhead lights—but his stance alone said he was ready to close the gap if she gave him the smallest opening.

Her breath hitched. Soft, but audible. Monty’s grin curled sharper at the sound. For one suspended second, he thought she might let him. Thought she might let her hands fall still, let her eyes meet his and stay there, let him step into that sliver of space between them and watch her melt under the weight of it.

But then her lashes fluttered too quickly, and her smile pulled tight, brittle around the edges. She cleared her throat in that bright, too-loud way she always did when she was cornered. “Uh—right. Fazer-Blast.”

Monty blinked, his smirk cracking just enough to show confusion. “…Huh?”

“You said we were gonna, y’know—” her voice pitched higher, falsely chipper, as she fumbled through the stack of leftover shirts like they’d suddenly become the most important thing in the world. “Play a game?”

The air around him shifted. His grin didn’t drop, but it stalled, caught somewhere between disbelief and a growl. Fazer-Blast. That was what she remembered? Out of everything—her cheeks warming, her voice faltering, the silence that had snapped electric between them—that was what she latched onto?

His tail gave a sharp, irritated lash against the polished floor, the sound echoing off the counter. The photos in his palm suddenly felt heavier, digging into the leather of his gloves. Not because of Hannah’s advertising pitch, not because of fans or stages or flashes of cameras—but because holding them was the only thing keeping his claws from reaching across the counter, curling under her chin, and dragging her gaze back to where it belonged.

On him.

Monty leaned forward just enough for his shades to tip down the bridge of his snout, amber eyes cutting through the neon glow like a blade. His grin returned, curling slow and dangerous, unwilling to let her sidestep him completely.

“Darlin’,” he rumbled, voice dipping low, rich heat threading under every syllable, “trust me. I ain’t forgot.”

She froze. Just a flicker—but he saw it. Saw the stutter of her hands, the way her pulse jumped at her throat, the way her lips parted before she snapped them shut again. His smirk tilted sharper, confident, unyielding—the kind of grin that said he’d seen every crack in her armor. She could stack shirts, shuffle receipts, throw up that brittle smile all she wanted. None of it could hide the flush still burning her cheeks or the tremor that betrayed her fingers.

Monty leaned in closer, the edge of his shades sliding lower, close enough that his voice coiled around her like smoke. “Y’know…” he drawled, slow, deliberate, “I was thinkin’ somethin’ a whole lot better than playin’ laser tag.”

His breath ghosted just shy of her ear, hot and deliberate, while his tail gave a slow, measured flick that betrayed just how tightly wound he was. For half a heartbeat, the whole room seemed to shrink to the span of space between them.

Her smile faltered—cracked clean through. Just for a second. Then she blinked fast, scrambling to paste it back together, and forced a laugh that wavered too thin to convince either of them. “Y—you’ll just have to prove that at Fazer-Blast, big guy.”

Monty didn’t move. Not at first. He lingered, claws tapping slow against the envelope like a metronome ticking down the seconds, restless, itching to tip the balance and close that last inch between them. His shoulders tensed, weight pitched forward as if instinct might win this round.

But then—just as quick—he drew back. Straightening tall, dragging himself away from the cliff he’d been balanced on. Reluctance cut sharp through his chest, hot and unsatisfied, but he covered it with a slow tilt of his head, his shades snapping back into place over his eyes.

“Fine,” he drawled, the word heavy with promise, not concession. His smirk lingered, sharp as a blade, cutting one last glance over her pink cheeks and trembling hands. “I’ll see you there.”

And with that, he turned. Every step deliberate, cocky, his tail lashing once—hard, final—before disappearing around the end of the counter.

He left her there, flushed and flustered, hands shaking as she stacked shirts that didn’t need stacking, replaying every word he hadn’t quite said and every inch he hadn’t quite closed. And Monty? He left with a grin tugging at his mouth, heat smoldering under his ribs, already plotting how to make sure the next round left her nowhere to hide.

The looping swamp rock was louder outside of the gift shop, yet it was faint against the heavy thud of his boots. Monty didn’t look back right away—didn’t dare—because he already knew what he’d see. That wide-eyed, too-bright smile she wore like armor, hands twitching over the shirts as if folding them just right would keep her steady. He could feel her eyes on him, though, could feel the way she tracked the sway of his tail and the sharp cut of his shoulders as he strode toward the door.

Outside, the neon glow of the Plex bled into everything, painting the floor in pinks and greens. Monty leaned against the wall just past the threshold, claws flexing tight around the envelope until the edges bent. He hated that he’d let her brush it off, hated that he’d stepped back when every muscle screamed to lean in, to make her admit what was written all over her face.

But damn, she was slippery. Slipping right through his claws every time he thought he had her cornered, ducking behind shirts and stammers, tossing out distractions like laser tag. Laser tag. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding faintly as he muttered the words under his breath with something between a growl and a laugh.

Still… that flush in her cheeks hadn’t lied. Neither had the way her breath had caught, just for him, just in that fraction of a second when he’d been close enough for her to forget how to breathe. He replayed it now, leaning back against the wall, shades tipped down so the hallway lights caught in his eyes. That spark. That little tremor.

Monty’s tail lashed, restless, carving sharp arcs across the polished floor before curling tight around his ankle. He shoved the envelope under his arm, claws flexing as if he could scrape the impatience out of himself, as if that could stop the itch under his skin.

She thought she could dodge him with games. With Fazer-Blast. Cute.

Monty smirked slowly, dangerously, letting it settle deep into his chest like a promise. If that was where she wanted to run, fine. He’d meet her there. And this time, he wasn’t letting her hide behind neon vests or laser guns.

No—the next round was his.

And when the lights dimmed, the doors locked, and it was just the two of them in that arena… she’d find out exactly what he’d meant by something better.

Later that afternoon—when the Pizzaplex had dipped into that strange lull where it wasn’t quite dead but not alive with the evening rush either—Monty came prowling back. The timing was deliberate. Calculated. He waited until she was bent over the counter, register open, keys dangling loose between her fingers as she stretched her back with a groan that carried every ounce of her exhaustion.

He could’ve stood there longer, leaned against the frame and enjoyed the show, but he wasn’t here to lurk. He wasn’t here to watch. He was here to win. To prove something sharp and stupid and entirely necessary to both himself and to her.

By the time she realized he was there, her laugh cracked the quiet. “Seriously? Right now?”

“Right now,” Monty drawled, already tugging her toward Fazer-Blast with a grin that left no room for protest.

The arena swallowed them whole, neon light bending over fog, red and yellow beams cutting through the haze like streaks of fire. The music overhead wasn’t the bouncy arcade track it pretended to be—it had a pulse, low and steady, something that settled deep in Monty’s chest and made him move like he was born in it. The blaster hugged his side, the weight of it effortless in his claws, his tail swaying in rhythm with each crouched step behind cover.

Sweat slicked his scales, but he didn’t falter. Not when the air was sharp with adrenaline, not when his own laughter rumbled in his chest, carrying like a warning across the fog.

He saw her. Quick flash of movement—her shoes pounding against the metal walkway, her shoulders low, her blaster clutched close as she ducked behind a barricade painted in sickly green light.

Monty’s grin cut wide, teeth catching the glow.

Her voice rang out, ricocheting off every wall like a challenge, “You’re too slow, gator boy!”

He let the words roll over him, let them soak into his chest until the taunt burned hot in his blood. His tail lashed once, sharp and eager, before he tipped his shades down just enough to let the red haze catch his eyes.

“Big talk,” he rumbled, letting the laugh drag, rough and cocky, “for someone who’s been hittin’ my armor instead of the sensors.”

He didn’t wait for her comeback. Didn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing him hesitate. Monty slid out from cover in one fluid, predatory movement, the fog curling around him like smoke from a fire. His boots hit the metal with a deliberate weight, every step echoing in the emptying arena.

And he thought—no, knew—that if he wanted, he could track her down by the sound of her heartbeat alone.

He moved through the fog with deliberate steps, tail swaying lazily behind him as though he had all the time in the world. The neon glow painted his scales in flashes of red and gold, shadows bending around his shoulders like he belonged there—like this whole arena was built for him. Every corner, every barricade, every flicker of artificial starlight hummed beneath the steady rhythm of his boots.

It was too quiet. The track overhead bled on, ambient and eerie, a celestial hum that made the silence heavier. He tightened his grip on the blaster, claws flexing against the plastic, his jaw set. She was here—he could feel it, like the weight of her laughter was waiting to pounce before she did.

And then—

“Told you!”

Her voice cracked sharp through the fog, and instinct shoved his body into motion. He jerked his head up, startled just long enough for his reaction to lag. The trigger clicked too slow, the flash of his shot barely sparking before his vest flared red in defeat.

Her laugh followed immediately—loud, unrestrained, triumphant. It bounced through the corridors, sharp enough to cut through the haze, proud enough to sting his ego.

Monty snarled, but it wasn’t anger. It was low, rough, the kind of growl that curved into a grin even as it left his chest. His smirk tilted sideways, his teeth catching the neon glow. “Lucky shot,” he muttered, drawl dripping in defiance.

She was still laughing, head tipped back, shoulders loose with victory, when he struck. The blaster clattered against his hip, forgotten in favor of something far more dangerous. One sudden rush—a blur of scales, boots, and raw intent—and then his body crashed into hers with controlled force.

The wall caught her with a thud, air rushing from her lungs as his claws planted firm on either side of her head. His arms boxed her in, shadows bending around the wide frame of his shoulders, his chest hovering just shy of pressing flush to hers. Heat radiated from him, all sharp edges and breathless intensity.

Her laughter faltered, caught somewhere between exhilaration and the realization of exactly how close he was.

Monty leaned in, the fog curling around the shape of his grin. His shades had slipped low, eyes gleaming under the fractured neon light. When he spoke, his voice dropped into something richer, darker—the Southern drawl thick enough to hang heavy in the air.

“Still think yer quicker than me, darlin’?”

The question lingered, less challenge, more promise, his breath brushing against her skin as the music pulsed on like a countdown waiting for an answer.

Her breath hitched, caught somewhere between a laugh and a gasp, and she wasn’t sure if her nerves or the way his shadow swallowed hers was to blame. The neon glow painted him in shifting shades of crimson and gold, and every flicker seemed to deepen that hungry look in his eyes—sharp, unrelenting, the kind that pinned her harder than the claws braced beside her head.

Her grin faltered, shaky but defiant, lips twitching like she could still play it cool. “This… this kinda feels like cheating,” she murmured, voice thinner than she wanted it to be.

Monty’s smirk broke wider, sharp as a blade but warmer than it should’ve been. He dipped just a fraction closer, enough that the press of his presence wrapped around her like heat seeping through armor, like fire daring her to lean into it. His breath ghosted over her cheek, and the world shrank down to nothing but the space he left her trapped in.

“Maybe,” he drawled, low and dangerous, each syllable dragging with deliberate weight. “But you don’t seem like yer complainin’.”

Her heart jolted, traitorous in its honesty, thundering against her ribs so loud she swore he could hear it. She should’ve shoved him back, should’ve twisted free, should’ve laughed off the way his words made her knees weak—but she didn’t. Couldn’t.

The fog swirled around them, the ambient music echoing like it belonged to another universe entirely. For her, for him, for this moment, there was no game. No scoreboard, no blaster, no neon glow. Just the searing look in his eyes, his grin edged in want, and her pulse hammering harder than any laser tag hit could ever land.

And still, he hadn’t touched her—at least not yet. That was the cruelest part. It wasn’t the cage of his arms or the wall at her back that had her caught. It was the waiting. The weight of what he might do next.

“No… not really.”

The words slipped out before she could think better of them, quiet, shaky, but honest enough to stop the world cold.

Monty went still. It was a rare thing—him freezing like that—like her voice had cut through layers of bluster and bravado and hit something raw beneath. For half a beat, his chest stalled, then his grin faltered into something darker, deeper. His shades caught the neon blaze overhead, reflecting red fire back into her eyes as he leaned closer, gaze dragging over her face with a reverence that bordered on worship. Every shift of his breath mingled with hers, hot and thick in the narrow slice of space left between them.

He wanted to close it. God, he wanted to. Every muscle in his arms strained with the effort of holding back, claws flexing against the wall like they needed somewhere else to dig in. He could picture it too easily—her back arched tight to his chest, her laughter smothered into gasps, her pulse kicking under his jaw. That restraint burned, chewed at him, but he kept it on like it was the only thread holding him together.

Her lashes trembled, heavy, and her eyes flicked down. Just once. Just enough to betray where her thoughts had wandered. And when her tongue darted out to catch her lower lip—slow, hesitant, devastating—something in Monty snapped.

The sound that rumbled up from his chest was rough, dragged out of him like a secret he didn’t mean to give. A growl edged with want, broken into a groan that vibrated in his throat and rolled through the space between them. His tail cracked against the floor once, sharp and heavy, before it went still—like it was even waiting.

He tilted down further, shades sliding, the neon glow etching every sharp line of him into something molten. Close enough now that he could feel the subtle tremor of her body pressed in his shadow, the faintest brush of her heat against his own.

His jaw clenched, words scraped low and dangerous from the back of his throat, roughened by the truth bleeding into them.

“Careful,” he rasped, voice thick, curling around the edge of a purr. “You keep lookin’ at me like that, darlin’… and I won’t be able to stop.”

The air between them felt like it could shatter, fragile and electric all at once. Her chest rose and fell faster than she wanted it to, every inhale brushing her against the heat rolling off him, every exhale catching on the sheer weight of his stare.

She was playing with fire, clearly, as she tilted her head just so—an almost innocent move, if not for the way her flushed face glowed red under the back light. Her lips curved, just barely a smile, more like a dare.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out—just the faintest hitch of breath that seemed to fuel the fire smoldering in his eyes. The neon painted him molten, reds and golds sliding over the sharp lines of his jaw, the dangerous curve of his smirk.

Monty didn’t move right away. He just lingered there, a storm waiting on the edge of breaking, the tension in his body coiled so tight it was a wonder the walls didn’t crack with it. His claws flexed again, metal scraping faint against the wall, like the sound of a leash being tugged against instincts that wanted nothing more than to snap.

Her gaze flicked back up, meeting his eyes head-on, and the sheer audacity of it made his chest rumble again—low, rough, a sound that seemed to vibrate straight through her bones.

“I’m not scared of you,” she whispered, though her voice wavered under the weight of her own pulse.

Monty’s grin curved slowly, dangerous, heat lacing through the drawl when he finally spoke. “Darlin’…” His nose brushed the barest fraction against her cheek, shades slipping lower on the bridge of his snout, until there was nothing left between them but air. “That’s exactly what scares me.”

And still, he didn’t close the distance. He let the silence stretch, let the heat build, let her feel every ounce of the restraint he was breaking himself to keep. The not-kiss was somehow worse than the real thing—because it promised everything, and delivered nothing but hunger.

Every instinct screamed at him to close the gap. To see her unravel beneath him, to watch goosebumps shiver in his wake as his actions spoke louder than any words ever could. His tail twitched, heavy and restless, betraying the storm he was keeping barely caged.

And (Name)? She tilted further into the flames.

Her lashes fluttered, breath catching, and her hand—shaky but delicate—brushed against the front of his vest. “You shouldn’t be.”

The growl that tore from Monty’s throat this time wasn’t restrained. It rumbled through him, deep and primal, vibrating against her ribs where her hand lingered, daring him closer.

The sound swallowed the space between them, rattling through the walls and vibrating in her chest until her knees threatened to give. His snarl softened into something rougher, needier, and when his head dipped, his breath skimmed hot against the shell of her ear.

His claws curled tighter into the wall, leaving faint grooves in the plastic, but his chest pressed forward at last—just barely grazing hers. Enough to make her sharp inhale echo louder than any victory bell.

“Careful what you ask for,” Monty drawled, voice low and dangerous, though the ragged edges betrayed just how close he was to losing control.

Her fingers tightened on his vest, gripping fabric like it was the only thing anchoring her. She tilted her chin up, the neon catching on her lips as she whispered back, defiance flickering under her shiver, “Who says I’m asking?”

That broke him. His tail cracked once against the floor, sharp and final, before it swept low and curled instinctively around her ankle. His grin flashed teeth and hunger all at once, eyes gleaming molten as he leaned that much closer, their breaths colliding, hot and uneven.

For a heartbeat, everything in Fazer-Blast stilled—the fog, the lights, the distant hum of the music. It was just her daring him to fall, and Monty teetering on the edge, one breath away from giving in.

His mouth was right there. The air between them burned molten, trembling with the weight of everything he hadn’t yet taken. His jaw tilted, eyes sliding shut, lips hovering just a fraction from hers—

BZZZT!

His vest lit up in a harsh red flash, buzzing loud enough to snap him out of whatever haze had him pinned in place.

Monty blinked, head jerking down to see the little plastic blaster in her hand, barrel pressed neatly against the glowing target on his chestplate. His final life bar flickered once, then flatlined with a mocking little beep.

“You–” His voice cracked low, more growl than word.

(Name) tilted her head coyly again, cheeks still hot, but her smug grin radiated victory. “Oops… Guess that makes me the winner.”

Monty’s jaw worked, speechless for once, his thoughts lagging between frustration and something far hungrier. His tail smacked the floor in a sharp thud.

(Name) tucked the blaster behind her back, feigning innocence even as her eyes glittered. “What’s the matter, big guy? Weren’t expecting me to play dirty?”

Monty’s laugh came out ragged—half a snarl, half disbelief—shaken loose from somewhere deep in his chest. He leaned back just enough to look at her properly, the neon glow catching on his teeth as his smirk slid sharp again.

“Darlin’, that ain’t playin’ dirty.” His voice was low, molten, dripping with threat and promise in equal measure. “That’s beggin’ for me to even the score.”

Her breath hitched, just barely, but she held her ground, chin tilted high even with him towering over her. The blaster was still tucked coyly behind her back, but the flush in her cheeks gave her away, every bit of bravado tangled with adrenaline.

Monty’s claws flexed against the wall before dragging slow, deliberate lines down the paint, the sound sharp as glass. He leaned in close again, close enough that his breath brushed her ear, hot and taunting.

“Yer real lucky this game’s the only thing keepin’ me from provin’ just how slow you really are.”

Her lips parted, some smart remark sitting on her tongue, but her pulse betrayed her, racing loud enough he swore he could hear it.

And Monty? He grinned like a predator with all the time in the world—because the game wasn’t over. Not even close.

The corner of his mouth twitched, teeth flashing in the neon as his eyes narrowed in slow-burning amusement. The look wasn’t playful anymore—it was sharp, scorching, the kind of gaze that peeled away every layer she tried to hide behind. Her breath caught, chest tightening like the air itself had thickened around her.

For the first time all game, the blaster in her hands felt laughably small. Plastic. Harmless. Useless against six feet of muscle and grit closing her in. His shadow spilled over her in jagged lines of green and violet light, the wall at her back cold and unyielding compared to the heat radiating off him.

Her smug grin wavered, nerves sparking through the cracks. She swallowed hard, throat bobbing, pulse hammering so loud it drowned out the buzz of the neon. His eyes followed every flicker of movement—her lashes trembling, the way her knuckles tightened on the toy gun, even the slight hitch of her breath as he leaned closer.

“...Oh,” she muttered, barely audible, realization cutting in too late—the tides had turned.

His claws tapped against the wall beside her head, each click sharp as a metronome, reverberating in the narrow space. The sound sent a shiver down her spine. That grin of his carved wider, feral, his eyes gleaming with something that made the room feel smaller, hotter.

The air vibrated with his voice when he finally rasped, low and unrelenting, “Ya got ten seconds, sugar.”

Her throat went dry. Ten seconds. The words coiled around her like a fuse burning fast, every heartbeat counting down in place of a clock. Each tick of silence stretched, burning hotter than the last, until even the air between them felt combustible.

Monty didn’t close the gap—not yet. He didn’t need to. His presence pressed in on her like a living cage, chest rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm that only made her pulse race harder. The steady scrape of his tail against the floor was like flint on stone, sparks in the dark, a low promise wound tight in every restless flick.

The toy gun trembled in her hands. Her grip slipped, slick with sweat, and for the first time all game she wasn’t sure if aiming it at him would save her—or just provoke something she wasn’t ready for. The neon glow washed over them in sharp flashes, dancing across the curve of his shades, catching the dangerous glint of sharp teeth as his grin widened. Cruel. Patient. A predator savoring every ounce of her unease.

Her chest rose quick, shallow. The thrum of blood in her ears drowned out everything else, leaving her voice brittle when she finally managed, “W–what happens after ten?”

Monty’s claws, which had been drumming in an unhurried rhythm against the wall, stilled. The sudden stop was deafening. He tapped once more, slow and hollow, the sound ricocheting through the narrow corridor and lodging itself deep in her ribs. Then he leaned in—just enough that she could feel the heat rolling off him, his shadow swallowing the last sliver of distance between them.

His grin cut wider as his voice dropped low, the kind of drawl that lingered heavy in the air like smoke:

“Guess you’ll have to stick around an’ find out.”

The silence after carried weight, like the moment before lightning splits the sky. Every instinct in her screamed to move, to run, to fire—yet her body stayed rooted, trembling with the dangerous knowledge that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t want the countdown to end.

For a half second, she didn’t move. The world narrowed to the sear of his stare, the oppressive weight of his shadow curling over her like it already claimed her next step. Her chest hitched; the silence between them stretched taut, suffocating—until her nerves finally snapped.

She shoved off the wall, palms pressing hard against the solid heat of his chest, and tore herself free, feet carrying her straight into the muggy haze of the arena. The neon fog swallowed her quick, damp and heavy, clinging to her skin like a trap she couldn’t quite shake.

Behind her, it came—the sound of his laugh. Low, dark, threaded with something too raw, too pleased, like a hunter entertained by the very idea of her running. The heavy thud of his tail smacked the floor, sharp as an exclamation point, right before his voice rolled through the air after her:

“Eight… seven…”

The numbers sank into her spine, colder than the fog, hotter than the adrenaline, each one a brand counting down to something inevitable. Every corner of the arena, every flashing light, every beam of artificial glow suddenly felt like it had teeth. Like it didn’t belong to her at all.

It belonged to him.

Her lungs burned with each shallow gasp, sneakers scraping the slick, backlit floor as she wove between barricades, the neon haze smearing the arena into a dizzying blur of red and yellow. The ambient celestial track throbbed through the fog, amplifying every heartbeat, every footstep, every scrape of the blaster she gripped too tightly. Monty’s voice rolled over the arena like a low storm, playful yet sharp, threading through the haze and curling around her like smoke.

“Ya can’t hide forever, sweetheart…” The growl lingered in the air, teasing, predator and promise all at once, impossible to pinpoint, impossible to ignore.

Her chest heaved, breaths shallow, ribs pressing tight as she flattened against a glowing barricade, vest buzzing and flickering like a siren screaming her location. Every neon pulse cast fleeting shadows over her, highlighting the fine tremble in her fingers, the small hitch in her shoulders, the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

The scrape of claws against the floor sliced through the music and fog. Tail thudding with deliberate weight, Monty was close—too close—and the tension twisted in her stomach. She tightened her grip on the blaster, knuckles whitening, but deep down she knew it was useless. Not from him.

“I can smell ya, sugar,” his voice dipped lower now, vibrating in her chest, curling around her spine, crawling under her skin. “Yer close.”

Her eyes squeezed shut against the flood of heat, the press of him in every sense. The neon haze painted the floor in dizzying streaks, each flicker of light a pulse of his presence, a reminder that she was trapped in a game that had long since outgrown rules. Her pulse thumped in erratic, uneven beats, each one matched by the scrape of his tail, the faint hiss of his claws against barricades, the almost imperceptible shift of air as he leaned closer.

And then silence swallowed the space between them for a heartbeat—just long enough for her imagination to explode with every possibility of what he might do.

Claws scraped the barricade above her head. The shadow fell. Big, imposing, unyielding. Monty loomed over her, heat radiating from his frame, scent thick with the promise of pursuit, his grin sharp beneath the rim of those shades. The arena—the fog, the neon, the hum of the blasters—vanished. All that existed was the slow, deliberate press of him closer, the thrill of being hunted, and the impossibly sharp pull of wanting to stay, even when every nerve screamed to run.

Her stomach dropped, knees threatening to buckle as the heavy shadow stretched over her, blotting out the neon glow that had been her only guide. The scrape of his claws echoed, sharp and deliberate, rattling her senses, and every instinct in her screamed to run—but there was nowhere left.

Monty’s presence pressed in like heat from a furnace, thick and suffocating. She could feel the faint hum of his breath, low and deliberate, brushing against the nape of her neck even before he spoke. “Found ya,” he rumbled, voice low, playful, edged with something darker that made her shiver despite herself.

The blaster in her hands felt suddenly absurd, a plastic barrier against six feet of raw power and intent. Her fingers curled tight around it, knuckles pale, heart hammering in her throat as the neon haze flickered across his shades, catching the sharp glint of teeth in a grin that promised mischief and maybe more.

His tail scraped once, heavy, deliberate, like punctuation to the silence. She pressed herself flatter against the barricade, trying to shrink, to disappear, but the sound of it vibrated through the floor, through her bones, through the tension between them.

Monty leaned in just enough to let the heat of him brush against her shoulder, a whisper of scales against fabric, and the faint scent of ozone and leather filled her senses. “Nowhere left t’run, sugar,” he murmured, claws tapping lightly against the barricade beside her head, each tap a heartbeat of warning, of promise.

Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, and for a moment, she didn’t dare meet his eyes—didn’t dare acknowledge the way every nerve in her body hummed in unison with his proximity. Every instinct told her to flee, yet every fiber of her body ached to stay, drawn into the orbit of him, caught in the thrill of being hunted, found, and maybe, just maybe… wanted.

For a suspended heartbeat, he didn’t move. Didn’t strike. He just lingered there, looming, letting the tension coil tight around them. She could feel it like static in the air—the pull of him, the weight of his presence, the heat radiating from every scale along his chest and arms. Her breath caught, sharp and uneven, trembling in the cage of his shadow.

A low chuckle rolled out of him, dark and smug, brushing against her ear and making her skin prickle. “Looks like I win,” he murmured, each word deliberate, teasing, the promise in it heavy enough to make her knees weak.

And still—no full contact. Just the tease of proximity, the promise of what would happen if she made the smallest movement, the faintest breath in the wrong direction.

Her throat went dry, and she swallowed hard, the sound painfully loud in the charged space between them. His gaze flicked down, pupils widening to swallow the light of his iris, and all she could see was heat—raw, untamed, unwavering. A deep, vibrating sound rolled from his chest, half growl, half purr, sinking into her bones.

Then his claws moved.

Slow, deliberate, each shift measured as if he were drawing out the moment. The tips hovered just above her skin, teasing, before finally brushing against her. His palm cupped the curve of her neck, warmth flooding through her, the faintest scrape of his claw tracing the line of her jaw. Goosebumps erupted along her arms and shoulders, her breath catching sharp in response to the delicious contrast of his cool scales and the surging heat behind them.

He leaned closer, eyes gleaming under the dim neon, chest vibrating as the rumble spilled into her ribs. His thumb traced her pulse with feather-light precision. “Mm… darlin’,” he murmured, voice low and intimate, “ya feel that? Heart poundin’ like that…”

Every word, every movement, was a razor-edge of tension. She couldn’t tell if he was teasing her, savoring her, or marking her as his own—but she felt it deep in her chest, every nerve singing, every thought caught in the taut web of desire he had spun around them.

His thumb traced her pulse in slow, deliberate circles, feeling the rapid thrum beneath his touch, each beat like a signal only he could read. The heat from his chest pressed into her back, solid and grounding, yet every breath that brushed her hair and cheek carried something more—a whisper of something hungry, something patient, something that made her spine tingle.

His lips hovered just a fraction from hers, close enough she could feel the faint static of his skin, the warmth radiating from his jaw and mouth mingling with the cool air of the arena. Every inhale she took seemed to mingle with his, tiny sparks dancing between them, making it impossible to tell where she ended and he began. His eyes never left hers, heavy and dark, a teasing weight that made her pulse trip and her thoughts scatter like leaves in a storm.

(Name) gripped her blaster tighter, knuckles whitening, but it felt absurdly insignificant now. Every fiber of her body betrayed her—goosebumps crawling over her arms, chest stuttering, lips trembling just a fraction as anticipation coiled low in her stomach. Even her breath felt too loud, too ragged, too aware of the closeness of him.

Monty’s smirk widened, a dark, slow curve that held amusement and intent, eyes gleaming with that low, cruel satisfaction. “What’s the matter, sugar? Cat got yer tongue?” His voice slid over her, a rasping tease that made the hairs on her arms lift.

She swallowed, her throat dry, breath hitching sharply. Heat pooled low in her belly, spreading upward as his presence pressed into her, magnetic and inevitable. Every nerve felt taut, electric, alive in a way that made it impossible to look away or even think clearly. And then, despite herself, a faint, barely audible whimper escaped her—soft and trembling, yet it carried the weight of every unspoken desire, every unacknowledged thought she’d tried to bury.

That sound—so small, so perfect—triggered a deep, vibrating purr from his chest, reverberating through the air and into her bones. His grin sharpened, eyes glittering with triumph and need. “That’s it,” he murmured, low, each word wrapping around her like a tether she had no desire to resist.

Then he closed the distance. His lips claimed hers in a kiss that was sharp and warm, rough and deliberate, fierce with a hunger that ignored all rules, all reason, all the scoreboard that said he’d lost. His claw slid further along her jaw, tilting her head just so, pressing her closer into him, savoring each tremor, each shiver, each silent surrender that said she belonged to this moment as much as he did.

His claw traced further along her jaw, tilting her head just enough to deepen the contact, savoring the tiny shivers that rippled through her, marking every tremor as his victory, his prize. Every gasp, every flutter of breath, became part of the rhythm he dictated, a storm she couldn’t ignore.

The arena—the fog, the neon glow, the distant music—faded to nothing. All that existed was the press of his body, the taste of him, the warmth of his claws and chest, the intoxicating draw of every unspoken promise pressed against her skin. Every inhale, every sigh, every heartbeat between them was magnified, electric, as if the entire world had shrunk to just the two of them, locked in a tension that was impossibly hot, impossibly dangerous, and entirely irresistible.

Chapter Text

The world felt muted, like someone had turned down the volume on reality. After the chaos of being hunted—her pulse in her throat, her breath tearing raw in her lungs—the silence afterward felt wrong. Too quiet. Too gentle.

And yet, caught between the ghost of his touch and the echo of his mouth on hers, (Name) felt like she could float forever. She should’ve been wrecked—hair a disaster, face burning red, knuckles white where her hands strangled the steering wheel—but instead there was this soft, delirious high curling through her chest.

Montgomery was a beast. A predator through and through, from the sharp drag of his claws down her back to the way his laugh could rattle in her bones. But when he kissed her—when his hands cradled her face like she was something fragile—he became something else entirely. Still dangerous. Still overwhelming. But hers, if only for a moment.

The kiss had been fire and teeth, heat devouring her until she couldn’t think straight. His claws grazed her hips, possessive, claiming, before slipping back up to her jaw. When they broke apart, lungs burning, it wasn’t relief that hit her—it was the ache of distance, the unbearable need to close it again.

Their foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, his eyes hooded and wild, pupils blown wide. For one dizzying second, she thought he might devour her all over again. But instead, he kissed her slower. Softer. Like the truth of what he felt was leaking through despite every wall he’d ever built.

Her body betrayed her in every way—goosebumps rising along her arms, lips parting for him without thought, knees threatening to buckle even as her hands clung desperately to his.

And then, impossibly, he let her go.

A sigh slipped from him, warm against her cheek, and his claws threaded gently through her hair to tuck it behind her ear. His voice was rough when he spoke, softened by that southern drawl wrapping around every syllable.

“Go home,” he murmured, brushing his nose against hers in something far too tender for a monster. “Get some rest.”

It should’ve been simple. But without adrenaline screaming through her veins, the exhaustion hit her like a collapse—legs heavy, muscles trembling, her chest fighting to keep steady breaths. She clung to his hands, weak but unwilling to let go, whispering, dazed, “What about you?”

His gaze flickered—sharp, feral, a reminder of the predator he was—before softening again, his thumbs brushing slow circles over her skin, grounding her in the gentlest way he knew how.

“I’ll be here.”

And so she went, the echo of his touch still burning soft against her skin, the ghost of his tail brushing at her ankle even as she walked away. Every step felt unsteady, like her legs weren’t entirely her own.

She glanced back once, unable to stop herself. He was still there—still watching her. That same dazed look sat heavy on his face, a small, crooked smile tugging at his mouth that nearly sent her knees buckling. She lifted a shy hand in a wavering little wave.

His tail flicked once, cheeks darkening under the faint light before he shot her a cheeky wave back, quick and almost bashful, like the moment had caught him off guard.

She carried that image with her into the driver’s seat of her car, the silence inside the cabin ringing almost too loud after the chaos of the night. Her body was wrecked—lungs sore, muscles trembling, lips still tingling from his kisses—and yet her pulse thrummed steady and low, each beat reminding her she was alive, she was here, she was his… if only for now.

Her fingers tightened around the steering wheel, nails biting into the rubber. The wheel felt cold, foreign, too solid compared to the molten heat of his claws. She couldn’t stop her mind from circling, racing with questions that clawed at her chest.

What did this mean for them?

Did this mean anything more?

Or was it already over—just a fleeting night, a stolen moment, destined to dissolve into memory before she even made it home?

The thought hollowed her chest even as his warmth still clung to her skin, as if her body refused to forget. The ghost of his breath still lingered against her cheek, the phantom press of his lips making her mouth ache with longing.

But even with doubt gnawing at her, the pull was still there. Heavy. Magnetic. Inevitable. The kind of gravity that made denial feel impossible. She wasn’t about to let her anxieties drown it out. She knew what she wanted—hell, she’d known from the moment she first laid eyes on the gator, back when she was still new at the Pizzaplex and he was just a legend stomping through its halls.

And now? With fate handing her this night, dropping it into her lap like some cosmic dare? She’d be an idiot to let it slip through her fingers.

Her hands—still trembling, though steadier now with purpose—found the keys. She slid them into the ignition, twisting until the engine rumbled awake beneath her.

Headlights flared to life, spilling across the empty lot in a harsh white flood. They carved through the dark until the Pizzaplex stood silhouetted against them, its towering shape a shadowed monolith in the glow. Waiting. Watching.

And for the first time all night, she didn’t feel afraid of what it held.

The drive home was nothing special. If anything, it was lackluster, almost painfully boring—borderline tiresome. She lived just off the highway, tucked into an apartment complex in a decent neighborhood. Nine minutes, give or take. Close enough to never worry about being late, far enough that she didn’t have to see the Plex hulking in the distance like some neon-lit monster crouched on the horizon.

The radio murmured some upbeat pop song, the volume turned so low it was little more than background noise, just enough to blend into the hum of her engine and the steady rhythm of her tires. Her fingers tapped idly against the center console in time with the beat, nails clicking on plastic. The sound was hypnotic paired with the hypnotic blur of streetlights, flashing over her windshield in slow, steady pulses. She yawned, long and heavy, eyes drooping at the edges.

God, she really had to stop staying overnight at the Plex—it was murder on her sleep schedule. Not to mention her mental health. And… well, if she thought too hard about Monty, maybe her heart health too.

Adjusting the seatbelt strap where it dug uncomfortably across her chest, she lifted her gaze to the rearview mirror. Just a casual glance, the kind she’d done a thousand times before.

And froze.

Because staring back at her, larger than life, was her own face plastered across a billboard.

Her stomach dropped straight to the floor. She blinked, rubbed at her eyes, looked again. Still there.

It was wildly unethical to stop in the middle of a highway—illegal, even. Obstruction of traffic, hazard lights, tickets, the whole nine yards.

But she did it anyway.

The road was quiet at this hour, late enough that no one else was out. A heavy stillness clung to the air, broken only by the faint hum of cicadas in the brush and the faint roar of her car idling. The billboard loomed just far enough down the stretch of highway that she had to squint to make out the details, the twin spotlights at its base casting harsh white beams upward that distorted the image in strange, shadowy ways.

For a moment, she almost convinced herself it was a trick. Exhaustion making her see things. The lights hitting just right, the tired blur of her eyes weaving familiar shapes where none existed.

But curiosity—or maybe dread—sank its claws into her. She swung open the door, sneakers crunching against the gravel shoulder, and stepped out into the night air. The chill bit at her skin, but she barely noticed as she tilted her head back, taking in the whole thing.

And god, she wished it was a trick.

Because there, plastered thirty feet wide and fifty feet high, was her.

Her and Montgomery.

A massive advertisement for Gator Golf and its gift shop.

The photo wasn’t just bad. It wasn’t staged, airbrushed, or fake-smiled like most promo shots she’d seen hung inside the Plex. No—this was real. Too real. A candid, stolen moment blown up for the entire world to see.

Her jaw went slack, heart pounding as her eyes traced every detail: Monty’s arm slung casually but securely around her shoulders, the lazy grin curling his mouth, his sunglasses tilted up just enough to reveal the sharp gleam in his eyes. And her—looking up at him, smile soft and small and devastatingly unguarded.

The kind of expression that screamed intimacy.

The kind of photo that made it impossible to pretend this was just a fling, a fleeting moment, something that could be tucked neatly away and forgotten.

It was her face—her expression—broadcast over the highway like a confession.

Her stomach flipped. Her throat went dry.

Because if she could see it, then anyone could.

The car door thunked shut harder than she meant, the sound ricocheting around the empty stretch of highway like a gunshot. Sliding back into the driver’s seat felt less like a retreat and more like a sentencing. The leather was suddenly too cold, the cabin too small, and the silence too heavy. That damn billboard loomed behind her like a witness, like a judge, like some cosmic joke that had finally landed its punchline.

She gripped the wheel, knuckles paling. If she drove away now, with it blazing over her shoulder like a neon accusation, how the hell was she ever supposed to explain herself? Not that she could. There was nothing to explain—the truth was already plastered thirty feet high, glowing under floodlights, her expression doing all the talking she’d never dared out loud.

Her body folded forward before her brain caught up, forehead dropping against the curve of the steering wheel. Heat surged across her face, down her neck, leaving her ears burning as she pressed her arms up to hide. A pitiful groan tore out of her chest, muffled against her sleeves, half-mortification, half-surrender.

And yet… when her eyes darted up, catching the reflection of that billboard framed perfectly in her rearview, something shifted. A spark. A tiny, treacherous warmth curling in her chest, stubborn as a flame refusing to die.

That was her.

That was Monty.

The two of them caught in a moment too raw to fake, too soft to laugh off, too real to ignore. And despite the flush of embarrassment scorching her skin, she couldn’t quite tamp down the fierce pulse of pride thrumming underneath.

Ryan was going to have a field day with this. She could already hear his smug voice in her head, see the way his eyebrows would shoot up to his hairline, the way he’d drag out every syllable when he said, “Well, well, well.”

She groaned again, louder this time, slumping so far against the wheel she might as well have melted into it.

But the spark didn’t leave. If anything, it glowed brighter.

The morning slammed into her like a brick wall. No gentle sunrise, no soft stretch of time to ease into the day—just the shrill blare of her alarm and the cruel reality that she had to haul herself back to work. Honestly, if she’d had it her way, the sun would’ve called in sick and spared her the suffering.

Her limbs felt made of cement as she dragged herself through the motions—tugging on her uniform, running a brush through her hair that caught more than it smoothed, staring blankly at her reflection like maybe it would answer for her exhaustion. She was halfway through convincing herself she deserved a coffee and a donut for surviving last night when her phone buzzed on the counter, lighting up in rapid-fire bursts.

The screen was a wall of notifications, all from one contact.

[7:04 a.m.]
Rye Bread 🤓☝️: what the fuck
Rye Bread 🤓☝️: WHAT THE FUCK
Rye Bread 🤓☝️: WHY ARE U AND MONTS ON A BILLBOARD?!????

She squinted at the messages, thumb hovering, brain still too foggy to process. Finally, she typed back with the sluggish sarcasm of someone who had been up way too late and didn’t have the energy to care.

(Name): no good morning? no how are you?

The reply was instant, like Ryan had been sitting on the edge of his seat waiting for her to acknowledge him.

Rye Bread 🤓☝️: CUT THE SHIT AND TELL ME WHATS GOING ON

Her stomach twisted, not from guilt—she hadn’t done anything—but from the thought of trying to explain something she barely understood herself.

(Name): dude i dont even know. i found out about it last night on my way home

There was a pause. Just long enough to trick her into thinking maybe he’d drop it. Then:

Rye Bread 🤓☝️: and ur ok with that?!?!

She exhaled through her nose, fingers flying over the keyboard.

(Name): uhhh do i have a choice

The three little dots of his typing bubble appeared, disappeared, then came back with the force of his final judgment.

Rye Bread 🤓☝️: bitch…

Her phone slipped onto the counter with a muted thud. She scrubbed both hands over her face, groaning into her palms. Coffee wasn’t optional anymore—it was a survival tactic.

And knowing Ryan? She was definitely going to need two.

The second her tires hit the parking lot, Ryan was on her like a hawk. Before she could even kill the engine, her door flew open and he was yanking her out by the arm with the sheer force of a man possessed.

“RYAN—!” she squeaked, stumbling, her sneaker skidding against the pavement. His grip clamped down like iron, nearly dislocating her shoulder as he hauled her upright.

His eyes blazed behind skewed glasses, teeth bared like he was seconds from throwing down right there in the lot. “If you don’t explain to me what’s going on—” He shook her once, sharp enough to rattle her teeth. “—then we are NO LONGER friends!”

Her knees buckled in theatrical surrender. She went completely limp, dangling like a toddler refusing to walk. “…Okay, but can we maybe start with good morning first?”

Ryan froze, thrown by her audacity. His voice dropped dangerously quiet, like he couldn’t believe she’d just said that. “Good morning?”

“You didn’t say it earlier.” She gave a limp little shrug, still hanging from his grip. “So I’m still waiting for it.”

He blinked at her, stunned. Then, slowly, muttered, “…Good morning?” His lips curled into the eeriest, most unhinged little smile.

It shattered a second later. “It is NOT a good morning, and I am DONE stalling! WHAT IS HAPPENING?!”

She tried to deflect—something about PR stunts, marketing ploys, literally anything—but the words died on her tongue. Ryan wasn’t buying it. Behind his crooked glasses, his eyes were sharp, pinning her like spotlights.

Like he already knew. Like he was just waiting for her to say it out loud.

Her chest squeezed. Against her better judgment, the words slipped free, softer than she meant, trembling with a sincerity she couldn’t mask. “…I like him, Ry.”

The world stilled. Ryan’s fire snuffed out in an instant, leaving only wide eyes and stunned silence.

“You’re serious.” His voice was flat.

And then he promptly dropped her like a sack of laundry.

She yelped, hitting the asphalt with a graceless oof.

“And you just HAD to post your private, intimate photos on a BILLBOARD?!” Ryan threw his arms skyward, spinning in a full circle like a lawyer presenting evidence to the jury of the gods.

(Name) scrambled upright, brushing dirt from her jeans. “I DIDN’T! I didn’t approve of anything—I just took the pictures!”

Ryan groaned, dragging a hand down his face so dramatically she half-expected him to peel his skin off. “I knew you were helpless, but this is catastrophic.”

“Hey!” she snapped, glaring.

“Listen.” He whirled on her, glasses sliding low on his nose, eyes narrowed like he was trying to read her soul. “I know you like the guy, but if he hurts you, I am not emotionally equipped to fight a beefy gator.”

“…What?”

“AND!” Ryan shouted over her, stabbing a finger in the air. “Also, called it. I’m brilliant.”

She groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose. “What is wrong with you?”

“Nothing.” He smirked, flicking his glasses back into place. “Now! Real talk.”

She braced herself.

“You didn’t approve or even know about the billboard, right?”

“…Right.”

“Okay, so you can talk to someone about it! Get it taken down!”

She hesitated, gaze sliding sideways.

Ryan gasped like he’d just cracked a cold case. “No way.”

“Okay, well, so—” she started, fumbling.

“You don’t want it down?!” His voice cracked so high it echoed off car hoods. “Girl…” He dragged the word out, scandalized and impressed in equal measure.

“Ryan—”

But he was already off, launching into a spiel polished enough to be rehearsed. “You are so gone, it’s sickening. Wait—invite me to the wedding? Double wait—obviously you will. Hold on, can he even get married? Do you want to get married? No—yes you do.”

“Oh my god.” She smacked her palm to her face. “Yeah, we’re registered at Bed Bath & Beyond. Teal towels.”

That blessed him silent for two whole seconds.

Then her sarcasm melted, shoulders curling inward as heat crept up her cheeks. Her hand rubbed nervously at her arm, voice smaller than before.

“Ryan… I like Monty. A lot. Like, a stupid amount.”

Ryan blinked, glasses sliding halfway down his nose, but for once—he didn’t interrupt. The silence stretched, thick with weight.

She bit her lip, gathering herself before finally admitting, voice trembling low—

“We… had a moment. Yesterday.”

A beat of stunned quiet.

Then Ryan detonated. His squeal ripped through the parking lot like a banshee at full volume, sharp enough to send birds exploding off the Pizzaplex sign in a frenzy. (Name) winced, shoulders turtling up to her ears.

“RYAN—”

He slapped both hands over his mouth, eyes wild, then lunged closer until she could see the crooked tilt of his glasses. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, sharp and urgent:

“Tell me everything.”

(Name) flushed hotter. “I’m not—”

“Everything.” His hands clamped onto her shoulders, giving her a firm shake for emphasis. “What did he say? Did he kiss you? Did you kiss him? Was there tongue? Is he a good kisser? Does he want more—”

“RYAN!”

He beamed, completely unbothered. “Don’t you dare leave me hanging, bitch.”

She fought tooth and nail to keep it private, batting Ryan’s hands away and twisting out of his grip before bolting into the Plex. The blast of cool AC smacked her face as the glass doors hissed shut behind her, but there was no relief—her cheeks were already blazing like fire.

Ryan thundered in a half-step behind, sneakers squeaking against polished tile. His voice carried, loud enough to make passing staff whip their heads around. “Y’all totally boned, holy shit! Don’t even lie to me!”

“Ryan—!” she hissed, practically sprinting, weaving through the crush of early guests. The smell of pretzels, pizza grease, and floor wax burned her nose, but none of it could drown out his nonstop stream of commentary.

“I KNEW IT! I called it! The way you’re walking? Girl, that’s a guilty stride if I ever saw one. Give me the details—was it steamy? Were there sparks? Was it—” He dropped his voice to a scandalized whisper that still carried half a room. “—animalistic?”

She slapped a hand over her face, groaning. “I’m going to strangle you in front of children.”

The chaos lasted all the way down the main hall, their footsteps echoing under the neon glow and buzzing arcade lights. By the time they turned toward the winding path to Gator Golf, she was two seconds from throwing herself into a fountain just to escape.

Eventually, reality forced them to split: her to the gift shop, him to the food stand. But Ryan wasn’t about to let her off easy. He slowed his pace only long enough to lean in close, eyebrows raised, smirk curling like he already had her cornered.

Her heart pounded. She could still hear the faint hum of the golf course fans, the laughter of passing staff echoing through the cavernous space, but it all faded under the pressure of his stare. Finally, she snapped, voice low and deliberate, every word sharpened with warning.

“We kissed. And it was the most amazing moment I’ve ever experienced in my life. Now please—shut up.”

Ryan froze. For once, he didn’t have a snappy comeback ready. His grin spread slow, wicked, entirely too smug. “Ohhh. Oh, that’s juicy. I like this development. I love this development.”

She groaned, already regretting her honesty, and turned sharply toward the shop.

But before she could take two steps, a deep, familiar voice rolled in from behind her—smooth, rich, and unshakably certain.

“I could say the same, sweetheart.”

Her whole body jolted, breath catching like her lungs had forgotten their job.

Ryan’s jaw dropped, his eyes practically bugging out of his skull. He swung his head between her and the towering figure approaching with all the calm swagger of a man who definitely knew the effect he had just caused.

“Oh my god,” Ryan whispered, clutching his chest like he’d been shot. “I live for this.”

Ryan practically vibrated on the spot, muffling another laugh into his sleeve, like he was about to start live-tweeting this entire disaster. His giggles bounced off the walls, drawing the side-eye of a passing employee, but nothing could compete with the pounding of her pulse in her ears.

Monty looked like he’d been sculpted straight out of every daydream she’d tried to suppress. The glow from the neon sign above painted a faint green wash across his shoulders, catching on the curve of his grin. He leaned one broad shoulder into the archway, casual as anything, like he hadn’t just knocked the air out of her lungs with a single glance. His eyes tracked only her—warm, golden, patient in a way that made her throat tighten. And that damn tail of his flicked side to side, slow and steady, like a metronome keeping time with her hammering heartbeat.

“Good mornin’, sugar,” he rumbled, voice low enough that it slid under her skin. “Ya look happy.”

Her lips parted, but words completely abandoned her. The only thing she managed was a helpless look toward Ryan, who was already eating it up like gourmet popcorn at a front-row showing. She mouthed furiously, See? He said good morning.

Ryan tilted his head back in mock agony, eyes rolling, but that gleeful smirk stretching across his face made it clear: he was about to dine out on this story for weeks.

(Name) stuttered out a shaky, “Good morning,” before exhaling a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She straightened, subtly shooing Ryan away. He saluted theatrically, giggling as he ran off: “Name your kids after me!”

Monty chuckled, pushing off the wall. “Eventful day so far, huh?”

His tone was playful, soft—not too different from how he normally spoke to her, but it still landed straight in her chest. She swallowed, nerves fluttering.

“Well… I’m sure you heard a bit…”

“I heard that our moment was one of the best ones of yer life.”

“Yeah…”

Monty nudged her gently with his tail, fingers finding the small of her back as he leaned in with his nose. “Seems pretty eventful to me.”

Subconsciously, she leaned into the touch, letting herself savor it, just a little.

“Ryan’s just… a lot.”

Monty chuckled softly. “I gathered.” He paused, voice dropping a notch, warmer now. “‘M sorry I didn’t bring ya a coffee today. Figured ya might actually get some sleep.”

(Name) hummed, tilting her head slightly. “It’s okay… just woke up really abrupt… do I look a mess?”

Monty’s smile was slow, genuine. “Nah, darlin’. Ya look as beautiful as ever.”

Her face went hot so fast it nearly startled her, heat blooming across her cheeks and down the back of her neck. For a second, she swore her knees forgot how to function, the weight of his words anchoring her to the spot. She tried to look anywhere but at him—the scuffed floor tiles, the glowing merch displays, the garish green sign buzzing faintly overhead—but Monty’s eyes drew her back like gravity itself.

“Y-you can’t just say stuff like that so casually,” she muttered, voice small, though the corner of her mouth betrayed her with the tiniest twitch upward.

Monty’s grin widened, lazy and lopsided, fangs catching the light. “Ain’t nothin’ casual about it, sugar. Just tellin’ the truth.”

Her breath hitched again, traitorous. She shifted her weight, hands fidgeting with the hem of her uniform shirt, but Monty didn’t let the space stretch too far. His tail brushed her ankle this time, a whisper of contact that pulled a shiver straight up her spine.

He tilted his head, studying her with a gaze so intent it was almost overwhelming. “Ya look tired,” he said softly, voice dropping to that low rumble that always seemed designed to short-circuit her brain. “But not messy. Never messy.”

She couldn’t decide if she wanted to laugh or bury her face in her hands. “You’re insufferable,” she whispered instead, smiling despite herself.

Monty leaned in, close enough that she caught the faintest hint of motor oil and leather clinging to him, rich and grounding. His voice was quiet now, meant just for her. “Is that so? Guess that makes us even.”

Her chest tightened, caught somewhere between the frantic flutter of nerves and the pull of something steadier, warmer. For the first time all morning, the chaos faded, leaving just the two of them standing in the soft hum of the Plex.

The walk to the counter felt longer than usual—not because of the distance, but because Monty stayed right there beside her, his big frame close enough that she could feel the brush of his arm every so often, his tail occasionally flicking in her direction like it had a mind of its own. Normally, he’d have peeled off by now, tossed a quick joke over his shoulder and gone back to his corner of the Plex. But today? He lingered.

At the counter, she slipped behind it and set her bag down, fingers trembling so slightly she prayed he wouldn’t notice. The laminate under her palms felt cool and sticky from the morning rush she’s had; the faint smell of embarrassment still clung to her clothes.

Monty leaned on the edge, claws tapping a lazy rhythm that echoed faintly against the plastic cups stacked nearby. His grin was softer than she’d ever seen it, the sharpness of his teeth dulled by something warm in his eyes.

“Hope ya have a good day, sugar.” His voice was low and steady, but the way it rumbled through the counter and into her hands made it feel like more than a casual goodbye.

Her chest squeezed tight. Ryan was somewhere across the food court, but it felt like the world had narrowed to just the gator and the low thrum of his voice. Monty didn’t usually say things like that. Not like this. Not looking at her like that.

“Thanks,” she managed, a helpless smile tugging at her lips. “You too.”

He started to turn, slow, almost reluctant, and that was what broke her nerve. Before she could think, her hand darted out and curled around his much larger one.

Monty stilled. His head dipped automatically, instinctive, until his snout hovered inches from hers. She caught the faint scent of citrus and cologne under the sugar-sweet air of the food court. Then, before she could lose her nerve, she pressed her lips to his.

For once, he was the one caught off guard. His eyes went wide, tail going stock-still behind him, his whole frame locked like his brain needed a reboot. She almost pulled back—until a low rumble vibrated through his chest, soft but unmistakable. His fingers tightened gently around hers, grounding her.

The kiss lingered for a heartbeat. When she drew back, her lips still tingled; her pulse drummed in her ears like a second soundtrack.

Monty blinked down at her, a stunned grin spreading across his face like sunrise. “Damn, sugar.” His voice came rougher now, hoarse and warm. “Ya really know how t’ make a gator’s mornin’.”

A shaky laugh escaped her, half adrenaline, half disbelief. “And you really know how to use your words, big guy.”

The way she said it—breathless, soft edges and heat—hit him like a spark to a fuse. His chest rumbled again, low as a bassline, his grin curling sharp but molten. Every muscle in him screamed to scoop her clean off her feet, to carry her somewhere private and show her just how much he liked hearing her say things like that.

He exhaled through his nose, trying to leash himself, his tail flicking against the counter. “Ya don’t make this easy, sugar,” he growled, the sound vibrating straight through her ribs.

Before she could tease him again, the leash snapped. Monty closed the distance and caught her mouth in his once more—deeper, hungrier. His claws ghosted against her back, a whisper of pressure that reminded her how strong he was, how careful he was being.

The kiss left her dizzy, knees weak, like she was floating somewhere between dream and reality. When he finally drew back, his forehead still brushed hers; his grin was wicked and warm all at once.

“Ya better get t’ work, darlin’,” he murmured, thumb still tracing her hip like he wasn’t ready to let go. “Else I’m not lettin’ ya outta my sight.”

“Is that a promise?” Her voice came out breathless, nearly lost under the seventeenth loop of Gator Golf’s theme behind them.

He nuzzled his nose against hers, fingers squeezing hers just slightly. “‘Course it is,” he rumbled.

Then the intercom crackled, a half-jumbled burst of static: “Rehearsal in fifteen! Glamrocks to rehearsal room three!”

Monty huffed a warm breath across her face and eased back a hair. She kept her eyes on him, already missing his presence even though he hadn’t left yet.

“Guess that’s my cue, huh?” he said, tail flicking once as the world outside their bubble rushed back in.

She leaned back too, palms braced against the counter, tilting her head just a little. Warmth still clung to her skin, and a small, helpless smile played on her lips—puffed-up from their kiss. She caught herself before she bit at it, eyes following Monty as he began to retreat, trying to slip out of the charged bubble they’d built.

He misjudged the space and bumped the keychain rack, the metal trinkets clinking together in a chime of cheap plastic and steel. His gaze never left hers as one big hand shot out behind him to steady it.

A laugh tumbled from her, bright and unguarded. She bent her arm and propped her chin into her palm, leaning over the counter like she had all day to watch him squirm. “Better hurry, hotshot.”

Monty’s grin stretched wider, a faint pink creeping up under his scales as he listened to her giggle. He swallowed and drifted backwards until he hit the archway of Gator Gifts, claws curling against the textured wall.

“So, uh…” He cleared his throat, voice dipping into something that almost sounded shy.

She tilted her head, brows raised, waiting.

He tapped a claw against the wall once, twice. “Been thinkin’.”

She rolled her eyes at the familiar preamble.

“Maybe we could…” A flick of his tail betrayed him. “Go on a real date, y’know?”

Her bright smile and flushed cheeks were answer enough, but the breathless, excited “YES!” that burst out of her sealed it like another kiss.

Monty felt something bloom in his chest—warmth, pride, a strange lightness under his ribs. “Great! Uh… yeah. I’ll… see you.”

“I’ll see you!” she echoed, voice lilting, still half-laughing.

He gave her a wide grin and an exaggerated wink before slipping back into his attraction, his tail swaying like he was trying to walk off the energy buzzing through him. Rehearsal room in eleven minutes? Easy. He could totally make it.

(Name), on the other hand, stayed rooted behind the counter, still in a daze. A real date. With Monty. Her heart thudded so hard it felt like it might launch her straight over the counter. Slap her, pinch her, dump a whole soda over her head—she had to be dreaming.

She pressed her face into her hands and squealed, the sound coming out muffled and ridiculous. This couldn’t be real. No way. A real date with Monty? Her brain replayed his grin, his voice, his claws brushing her back, looping like her favorite song.

The sharp buzz of her phone barely registered at first. It took a second text vibration before she blinked and fumbled for it, still smiling like an idiot. The screen lit up:

[9:04 a.m.] Hannah: Big news from Corporate! Involves you and this marketing thing—you seen the billboard yet?

Billboard.

Her stomach dropped. The word cut through the dreamy fog like a cymbal crash. The billboard. The one she’d been roped into last week—the photos, the whole marketing stunt. The one where she nearly had a panic attack over. She’d shoved it to the back of her mind and then promptly lost it somewhere behind Monty’s smile.

She stared at the screen, her reflection faint in the glass, cheeks still flushed. Monty. Billboard. Monty. Billboard. Her heart didn’t know which one to freak out about first.

Fuck. She forgot to tell Monty about it.

Chapter Text

He flexed his claws, metal scraping against the railing. Sparks flickered and fizzled out below like fireflies in the dark, fading before they ever reached the floor. The sound echoed through the empty atrium—sharp, lonely, and loud enough to bounce off the plexiglass displays still scrolling through their endless “Come Back Soon!” ads. The place always felt different after hours, stripped down to its bones. Without the music or the chatter of guests, the silence pressed in like static against his ears.

The air smelled like hot wire and lemon cleaner—sterile, artificial, like someone had tried to wipe away the day but missed all the fingerprints. A low hum vibrated through the catwalk beneath his boots, the sound of machines keeping the lights alive long after everyone else had gone home. Somewhere far below, an animatronic cart rolled itself back to its docking station, wheels squealing before fading into the distance.

Monty exhaled, jaw tightening. He hated quiet. Quiet meant thinking.

And thinking meant her.

“Hell,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face, mussing up his mohawk in the process. His claws snagged briefly on the edge of a spike before falling away. “No wonder I feel like I’m laggin’.”

He slouched against the rail, chin tipping forward, shades hanging low on his snout. His reflection shimmered faintly in the metal surface below—eyes dimmed, posture off. Not exactly the picture of the “star attraction” he was supposed to be. The neon lights from the Gator Golf sign flickered across his back, painting him in swirls of gold and green, and he hated how soft it made everything look.

He could still taste the faint sugar on her lips—sweet and electric, the kind of thing that lingered long after it was gone. He could still feel the tremor in her breath, that heartbeat-fast moment right before she’d leaned in. It had rewired something in him—like his whole body rebooted mid-song and woke up singing a whole new melody. A bad one. A dangerous one.

It wasn’t supposed to hit like that. Not from her. Not after everything. His chest felt too tight, like he’d swallowed a live wire. His stomach churned, a messy tangle of nerves and heat that left him dizzy. If she looked at him again with those bright eyes and that soft, unguarded smile, he was pretty sure his nervous system would fry. His hands still shook when he thought about it—like he’d been zapped by a stun baton straight to the heart.

And the worst part? He liked it.

The way she tilted his world in such a short amount of time, had him wrapped around her finger like it was nothing. Like he’d been waiting for her to. If she told him to jump, he’d ask how high—no hesitation, no shame. And that scared him more than any mishap on stage ever could.

He tried to laugh it off, but the sound came out thin—empty. Pathetic.

He’d taken hits harder than most, both literal and otherwise. He’d been tossed down stairs, through glass, even across a stage once when Roxy’s temper flared. He’d been scolded, patched up, smacked, and warned by management more times than he could count. But none of it—not the fights, not the pain—ever made his skin burn the way she did just by looking at him.

For a guy built to take a hit, it was humiliating how one kiss could knock him flat.

He let out a breath through his teeth and tilted his head back, staring at the maze of pipes and fluorescent lights above. The whole place thrummed softly, alive but empty—a ghost version of the chaos that usually filled it. A single piece of confetti drifted past, caught in an invisible current from the vents before landing near his boot. The sound of its landing was so small he almost didn’t catch it.

Then came the noise—an abrupt clatter from below, metal hitting tile, followed by laughter. A burst of static from a speaker someone forgot to mute crackled overhead, the faint echo of some automated message trying to play on loop. Monty’s tail flicked, relief and irritation tangling together like wires in a short circuit.

The quiet was over.

He straightened, rolling his shoulders as if he could shake off the thoughts clinging to him. The catwalk creaked under his weight, the Plex lights below flickering in rhythm with the beat of his pulse. He told himself to focus—on the next match, the next show, the next distraction. Anything but the ghost of her smile still haunting him like a song stuck in his head.

But even as he tried to tune it out, he swore he could still hear her laugh echoing faintly through the air vents, sweet and distant, like the universe itself was mocking him.

“There you are, big guy!”

Chica’s voice carried up first, bright and brassy as a neon sign, cutting through the heavy hum of the quiet Plex. Her footsteps clanged against the metal stairs, echoing all the way up to where Monty leaned. The sound of Roxy’s boots followed close behind—each step sharp, confident, and unapologetically loud.

Monty didn’t have to look to know who it was. He could practically feel their energy before they even reached him—Chica’s sunny chaos bouncing off the walls, Roxy’s sharp-edged swagger slicing right through it.

“Knew we’d find you brooding up here,” Roxy said as she stepped onto the catwalk, arms crossed, her tone sitting somewhere between amused and exasperated. The lights below cast strips of gold and purple across her face. “You’ve got that whole tragic-rockstar thing down pat.”

Monty groaned, leaning heavier against the railing, claws drumming an uneven rhythm on the steel. “Can’t a guy think in peace?”

“Not when you look like that,” Chica teased, sidling up beside him and elbowing Roxy in the ribs. “He’s practically glowing. Bet it’s about her.”

Roxy smirked, leaning her weight onto one hip. “Oh yeah. He’s got that look. The dumb one.”

Monty shot her a glare over his shades, tail flicking like an irritated cat. “I do not got a look.”

“You do,” Roxy said flatly, her grin widening. “It’s all soft and faraway, like you’re thinkin’ about poetry or some junk. It’s gross.”

Monty huffed and crossed his arms, scales glinting under the fluorescent catwalk lights. “Y’all mind your own business.”

“Oh, we’d love to,” Chica chirped, voice dripping with mischief. “Except you made it everyone’s business.”

Monty froze, already sensing danger. “...How the hell did I do that?”

Chica and Roxy shared a look—one of those wordless exchanges that only spelled trouble. Chica’s grin widened. “There’s a billboard, remember?”

That earned him a double wince and a quiet, “Hell.” His voice came out low, like he was bracing for impact.

Both girls blinked, eyebrows climbing. Roxy tilted her head. “Wait—hold up. You didn’t know?”

“Oh, he knows,” Chica said, eyes sparkling with glee. “Question is—did he see it?”

Monty dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “Unfortunately.”

Roxy leaned forward, smirking. “Oh, this I gotta hear. Where?”

“Downtown,” Monty muttered. “Near the mall entrance. You can’t miss it.”

Chica let out a delighted gasp, practically bouncing on her heels. “Ohhh, so you did see it! Giant ad, big letters, spotlight, the whole nine yards!”

Monty straightened, trying to look unfazed, but his tail gave him away—twitching in embarrassment. “Oh, I saw it. Just… wish I hadn’t.”

He could still picture it—burned into his mind like a bad update. The bright pink lights flashing behind her silhouette, the stupid tagline, the stylized image of her smiling up at him, wearing his shades. His own grin—too fond, too soft—mirrored hers beside the bold white font screaming MONTGOMERY GATOR: Gotta See It to Believe It!

It had been everywhere. The marketing team had gone wild. Posters in the mall, flyers at the ticket booths, and that enormous billboard right above the freeway where every driver could see it. They’d even animated it—her winking, him tossing his shades with a cocky grin, the lights flickering like camera flashes.

He’d almost choked on his churro when he saw it. Dropped the damn thing straight onto his boots and stood there like an idiot while tourists took pictures.

Monty exhaled through his nose, tail flicking harder. “Just a promo,” he said, trying to sound casual. “Nothin’ special.”

But Chica and Roxy weren’t buying it.

“Uh-huh,” Roxy said, crossing her arms. “You look real casual, big guy. Totally not out here thinking about your girlfriend’s smile.”

Monty started to snap back, but the words caught. His voice dropped a notch, lower, quieter. “Still… they got her smile right.”

The sentence slipped out before he could stop it. The way he said it—like he was afraid to breathe too loud and break the memory—hung in the air longer than it should have.

That softness hit before he could shove it down. His shoulders eased. His jaw unclenched. The harsh neon light softened across his face as his eyes unfocused, a faint, stupid grin tugging at his mouth. It wasn’t his usual cocky smirk—it was gentler, unguarded, the kind of look that didn’t belong on someone like him.

Chica froze, blinking.

Then she turned slowly toward Roxy and, without breaking eye contact, nudged her elbow straight into Roxy’s ribs.

Roxy didn’t flinch, didn’t even look away—just stared at Monty with a slow, knowing smirk curling at the edges of her mouth. “Ohhh no,” she said, voice low and amused. “You’re in deep, aren’t ya?”

Monty blinked, caught mid-daydream. “What—nah, I’m just—uh—marketing’s dumb, that’s all.”

“Sure,” Chica said, already pulling out her FazCam. “Tell that to your face, loverboy. You’re blushing like a neon sign.”

“Ain’t blushin’,” Monty grumbled, yanking his shades higher, but the faint pink tinge under his scales gave him away.

Roxy whistled. “He totally is. Look at him. Monty Gator, taken down by a smile. Someone call management—we got a malfunctioning gator here.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Chica said, mock-posing with her FazCam. “‘Monty and Mystery Girl: Electrifying Chemistry!’ Coming soon to a Pizzaplex near you!”

Monty groaned, dragging both hands down his face. “You two are gonna get me fired.”

“For what?” Roxy quipped. “Havin’ feelings?”

He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “hell” or maybe “help,” but neither of them could tell over Chica’s laughter echoing through the rafters.

A sharp clatter of metal boots on the stairs cut through Monty’s muttering. He slouched further over the railing, claws digging against the iron. “What is this? An intervention?” he groaned, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Thought I heard my name,” came a familiar baritone from below, smooth as a power chord.

Roxy’s ears perked immediately, the smirk on her muzzle practically audible. “Oh, look who decided to show up. The big man himself.”

Monty went rigid before he even turned. Freddy rounded the corner of the catwalk, every inch of him polished to perfection, gold trim glinting under the weak purple lighting. His eyes—too calm, too steady—swept the group before settling on Monty. The air shifted, charged like static before a storm.

Monty gritted his teeth. “No one said yer name, Fazfuck.”

Chica’s giggle was sugary-sweet. “We were just talkin’ about someone’s new billboard.”

Freddy’s smile twitched—small, but sharp. “Ah, yes. The one downtown.”

A long pause followed. The hum of the fluorescent lights above suddenly felt louder. Roxy rolled her shoulders, side-eyeing both of them like she’d just walked in on something she didn’t want to unpack. “Alright, lovebirds and backup singers, I’m out. Not stickin’ around for a therapy session.”

“Yeah, same,” Chica added, half-laughing as she turned toward the stairs. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t livestream!”

Their footsteps faded, leaving a heavy silence that settled like dust. The catwalk creaked under their weight; the air smelled faintly of oil, ozone, and burnt metal.

Monty folded his arms, claws clicking softly against his biceps. “You got somethin’ you wanna say, Fazbear?”

Freddy didn’t respond right away. His eyes lowered, just enough to show the faintest downturn in his expression. “Just… surprised,” he said slowly, voice even. “You’ve been rather—” he searched for the right word, fingers flexing against the railing, “—distracted lately.”

Monty snorted. “Yeah, well, maybe I got somethin’ worth bein’ distracted over.”

Freddy’s polite grin faltered—only a fraction, but enough. “I remember when Bonnie used to make me feel that way.”

The name hit like a punch. The neon buzzing overhead seemed to falter for half a beat. Monty’s throat felt tight, the old ghosts of guilt and resentment tangling like wires.

For a moment, the only sounds were the hum of the ventilation fans and the low, rhythmic thump of the stage speakers below, still echoing from some distant rehearsal track.

Freddy’s claws flexed once, twice, before he spoke again—quieter this time. “You know… I used to get jealous. Watching you take his spot on stage. I thought maybe you wanted to replace him.” His gaze lifted, eyes catching the dim purple glow. “But now I see—you were just trying to fill the silence he left behind. You didn’t deserve the blame I threw your way.”

Monty’s jaw tightened. “…Guess we both lost somethin’ back then.”

Freddy nodded slowly, his reflection warping in the sheen of the railing. “And maybe now we’re both finding something new.”

They stood there in silence again—two glamrocks with too much heart, both pretending they hadn’t been built to ache like this. The faint rumble of a generator filled the gap between them. Somewhere far below, a sign flickered, sputtering before going dark.

Freddy’s voice broke through softly, almost hesitant. “You should hold onto it, Monty. That kind of connection—it doesn’t come back once it’s gone.”

Monty side-eyed him, expecting the usual condescension. But Freddy wasn’t smirking this time. His face was open, sincere, his voice carrying a weight Monty didn’t know how to deflect.

“…Yeah,” Monty muttered, his voice rasping like static. “Maybe I will.”

Freddy’s shoulders eased. For the first time in years, he looked less like the pristine frontman and more like someone who’d been carrying too much for too long. “I’m sorry,” he said at last. “For trying to steer you wrong. For thinking you couldn’t handle this.”

Monty huffed a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “Didn’t think you’d be the one dishin’ out love advice.”

Freddy’s mouth curved—small, genuine. “Neither did I.” His gaze softened. “But I’m glad it’s you. After everything that’s happened… you deserve something good.”

That one hit harder than he expected. Monty’s chest felt tight again, but this time it wasn’t guilt—it was gratitude. Awkward, heavy, unspoken.

“…Thanks, Fred,” he said finally, voice low.

Freddy clapped a hand against his shoulder, the sound echoing down the empty catwalk like a promise. The hum of the Plex rose again beneath them, alive and breathing, ready to swallow the moment whole.

They stood there a little longer, saying nothing—two silhouettes against the neon haze, surrounded by ghosts and second chances.

Freddy’s expression softened, the tension melting into something warm and teasing. His voice carried that steady radio-smooth tone, but the edge of affection in it was impossible to miss. “Besides,” he said lightly, eyes glinting beneath the catwalk lights, “it’s nice to see you smile again.”

Monty gave him a look—half scowl, half warning—but the corners of his mouth betrayed him anyway, curling up into a reluctant grin. It was small, crooked, and way too honest for his own comfort.

Freddy’s optics brightened in quiet amusement. “There it is,” he said, stepping back with a little flourish like he’d just finished tuning up an old song. Then, far too cheerfully, he added, “Now—about this date everyone keeps whispering about…”

Monty froze mid-motion, tail stiffening like a struck chord. “…Don’t you dare.”

But Freddy was already leaning over the railing, his voice echoing through the empty Plex like a stage announcement. “Ladies!” he boomed, that showman confidence kicking back in. “We have an event to coordinate!”

From below, chaos detonated instantly.

Chica’s scream could’ve shattered glass. “OHHH, IT’S HAPPENIN’! I KNEW IT!” She jumped up and down so hard her bracelets jingled like tambourines.

Roxy barked a laugh, crossing her arms with a smirk sharp enough to cut steel. “Finally. Took him long enough to do something other than mope.”

“Shut yer traps!” Monty barked back, voice cracking somewhere between embarrassment and pure panic. His claws dug into his hair as he groaned, tail whipping side to side like an agitated cat’s. “I hate this place.”

Freddy chuckled, deep and rich, clapping a hand to Monty’s shoulder again. “Nonsense, my friend. You’ll thank me later.”

Monty peeked through his fingers, glaring up at the rafters like maybe the ceiling would swallow him whole. “Hell,” he muttered under his breath, though the growl couldn’t hide the faint grin tugging at his mouth.

The sound of laughter and teasing echoed around them, bouncing off steel beams and concrete until it almost sounded like music. Freddy lingered a moment longer, watching as Monty’s exasperation faded into quiet amusement, a rare spark of light in his otherwise stormy expression.

“Good,” Freddy said softly, almost to himself. “That’s more like it.”

Monty huffed a laugh and shook his head, trying—and failing—to hide his grin. The Plex hummed back to life around them, neon lights buzzing overhead, and for once, it didn’t feel so damn empty.