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"Daddy!"

The shrill of childish excitement lights up the surgery department in an instant, eyes and ears cutting through the sterile floor towards the sound, eager for a reaction from someone, anyone.

It's even more satisfying when Brendon Park, the Shark of orthopedics, stops mid sentence, turning swiftly to the sound, his blank expression curling into a gentle smile as he bends down to pick up the three year old in his gigantic arms.

"What're you doing here, guppy?" he teases. Brendon Park jokes, and glances get thrown between residents, interns and nurses alike.

Ah gossip, the great equalizer.

"Wanted to see you."

The little girl manhandles him, pulling and squeezing his cheeks like he's not a great white but rather a pliable flounder, reducing him to nothing more than a sucker for his kid.

"Oh yeah, where's—?"

"Jesus trouble, how do you run so fast?"

The way Brendon Park lights up for the second time practically blinds everyone. Oh this is definitely making the rumor mill rounds today. So long boring ten hour surgery to come.

"I didn't run!" the child huffs. "I ski...skiddered."

"Skipped?" Brendon looks to you for confirmation.

You roll your eyes at her antics, nodding your head towards her father, gracing him with a smile that makes everyone understand exactly why their big, mean, scary boss is acting the way he is.

The floor returns to its normal shuffle after that, one more second of inaction and the Shark would've definitely snapped.

"Hey," Brendon greets you, a little reserved, definitely surgical in nature.

"Hey Mr. Park," you beam and he instantly stills.

"How many times do I have to tell you," he starts to chide. "At least call me doctor Park."

You sigh out a laugh at that, rolling your eyes playfully as you instinctively step closer. He can smell the faint sweetness of your perfume, the spilled apple sauce on your shirt, the hint of laundry detergent on your fingers.

"I'm glad we caught you," you tell him. "We didn't know if you'd started on time today."

"Just about to go in."

You nod, clinical, like you're absorbing information and processing how you're going to get out of his hair in the next twenty seconds.

"Gotcha, well, you got what you wanted trouble," you hum, moving to grab the child in his arms.

She knows what's coming and so she throws herself onto her dad, tiny hands fisting the purple scrubs, cheek pressed tightly over his chest.

"No! I wanna stay with daddy."

Brendon opens his mouth to speak, to defuse the situation before the guilt eats him alive. But you're no sucker, unlike him.

"Really?" you frown. "You wanna stay with your daddy while he does his surgery instead of going to the park to get ice cream with me?"

In all honesty, he stopped listening to you the second the word daddy left your lips. He's certain his kid can feel his heart beating uncomfortably fast, rattling against this ribcage and threatening to burst out of his chest.

All he registers is the toddler flinging herself out of his loose embrace, almost face planting against the sterile floors and practically buzzing with excitement.

"Brendon?" you turn to him, smile turning into a frown quickly.

He springs back into reality when your hand lands over his forearm, light and grounding, like an anchor he didn't know he needed.

"Yeah, yeah," he responds, pretends, shifts out of your touch like he's already late for something that isn't even remotely time for. "I'll see you for dinner, okay guppy?"

But she doesn't care anymore.

"Okay! Bye dad."

Instead, she grabs your hand, demanding and pushy, and pulls you down the hall.

"Bye doctor Park," you tease. "See you later."

And just like that, calm and cold return to the surgery department, and Brendon Park snaps back into the sharpness that defines him.

It's late by the time he makes it home.

Too late, too tired, too...everything.

He sneaks into his own home like a teenager, light steps, a soft touch as he turns the key, even takes off his shoes by the door before he even makes it into the house.

It's not the first time either, not gonna be the last.

He shouldn't feel bad, this is what he pays you the big bucks for at the end of the day.

It's when he peeks into his daughter's room, catching the two of you snuggled together in her tiny bed, butterfly printed comforter covering her and not you, a book forgotten, Mr. Stuffles the rabbit on the floor that it hits him.

Hard.

He'd been miserable that first year after his girlfriend left him. They'd been planning a wedding, the baby being just another blessing in the string of goodness that they had been experiencing.

At least it had been to him.

It took her a year to leave, to finally crack under the pressure and run away. He didn't know how to be a dad alone, much less navigate co-parenting with the woman who had torn his heart out of his chest with her bare hands.

If it hadn't been for his mother, sisters and brothers, Brendon would not have made it through it.

But even they could only get him so far. He needed to go back to work, needed to find something to keep him going, needed...help. Professional help.

And that's when he'd found you.

Frank Langdon's occasional babysitter, full time student looking for a summer job while you got yourself situated for your master's program.

The little guppy was two at that point and Brendon simply couldn't be there for her all the time. So he poached you away from the ED doctor.

To say the dynamic had started out a little toxic would be...an understatement.

Once Brendon returned to the OR with full force, he fell hard into it, into the love and thrill and control that he could exert over his patients, his work, his process.

All the control he'd lost, the scared man that he had become—frantic and powerless—disappeared the second he got back in those scrubs.

And so did the loving and caring father that had put his kid first.

You ripped him a new one about eight days after first meeting him, a night like this, one where he came back home buzzing from a procedure well done, pupils dilated and ego through the roof.

She was young enough to not remember then, but she was definitely old enough to hold onto broken promises now, and that is what tugged at his heartstrings.

Now, tea parties and recitals were just as, if not more important than getting to do a risky procedure no one at PTMC had done before.

Of course, this time around he'd texted, let you know there had been a complication with the surgery. The shaky intern typing out the message practically stopped breathing every time Brendon asked him to erase everything and start from scratch.

They all thought it was cute how he wanted it to be perfect and gentle for his daughter, but the truth is, he needed it to be for you.

Brendon steps into the room softly, bending down to pick up the stuffy and placing it in between his kid's arms before he closes the picture book and sets it on the nightstand.

Neither of you startle at the movement, the soft glow from the salt lamp casting shadows that you knew were never meant to harm you.

It's only when Brendon places a hand over your shoulder, squeezing gently that you blink awake.

"Hi," you whisper, barely turning back to look at him.

"Hi," he smiles softly. "Are you comfy?"

You scoff out a laugh, soft enough not to wake up the kid but loud enough to make his smile grow twice the size.

"Let's get you to bed then," he places a hand under your neck then, pushing you up by supporting your back with his forearm while you tangle your hands around his other arm and pulling yourself into a sitting position.

Certain you're awake enough not to topple over, he leans over you and places a kiss to his kid's temple, watching her nose scrunch ever so slightly before settling back into comfortable sleep.

You smirk at his antics, using his body as leverage to get up to your feet, hands clumsily digging into the muscles of his back.

He groans lightly, old man that he is, and quickly retaliates, holding onto you so that you'll hoist him up with you.

"So heavy," you joke, straining to keep the two of you upright.

Brendon shrugs. "Just full of love."

"Booo," you chuckle, making your way out of her room, Brendon's hands over your shoulders to steady you. "There's leftovers in the microwave if you want them."

He hums in acknowledgment, letting you go as you make it out to the hallway.

"Eat, then shower?" he asks you.

"I'll take advantage then."

He nods. "Yours is still busted?"

"Yeah, guy said earliest he could come is next week."

"Damn plumbers."

"Indeed."

He stares at you for a long second after the conversation settles.

He's...comfortable. Too comfortable with you.

The past year has been a whirlwind. One summer quickly turning into you deferring your master's program so you could finish out the year with them. Then one semester turned into two, into you moving in, into...this.

Don't get him wrong, Brendon knows where the two of you stand. It's not necessarily healthy, but it's innocent, it's professional, it's...just a pathetic crush, nothing more. A fantasy he'll never allow himself to indulge in.

And yet, he cannot stop himself every time his eyes fall on your lips, the plumpness calling to him, beckoning him forward, demanding attention, truth.

"Goodnight then," he manages, rough and exhausted, desperate yet...not enough. Never enough.

You smile dopily at him. "Goodnight Brendon."

It's his own fault really, he should've knocked. But it's his house for fuck's sake, why should he?

So that's how he gets a complete eyeful of you taking a shower the next morning.

He got a late start which meant making breakfast, taking his guppy to school and then going to the gym, all before nine.

Unfortunately for him, earbuds in, distracted as all hell, he completely misses all the warning signs, the closed door, the steam, your clothes on the floor, the music blaring from the speaker.

He's certain he's dead and this is both heaven and hell simultaneously when he finally dares to look up and—

Jesus fucking Christ.

He should look away, he needs to look away...but he physically can't, his hungry gaze taking in every inch of skin visible through the condensation of the glass shower.

If only he would've reacted a second earlier...

You turn in slow motion, your reaction catching up late. You yelp, hands coming up to wrap around your chest, only aiding in pushing your boobs up further.

He instantly snaps into action, blush taking over every inch of his face and neck as he curses out a long string of apologies, blood pumping through his heart and his...yeah, he needs to get the fuck out of there.

"I'm sorry, so sorry," he stumbles out of the bathroom ungracefully, fast enough that he doesn't catch your own reaction, the way your chest constricts, the way your legs rub together.

Brendon manages to hurriedly hide in the kitchen, heart hammering against his ribcage, eyes wide and mind absolutely running a million miles an hour.

He needs to forget he ever saw that, needs to erase it from his brain...but his stupid erection won't let him.

The tent in his pants becomes painful the second he gives it attention, the flimsy material of his work out shorts just not helping his case at all. He needs to take care of this, needs to stop being such a weirdo before you come out.

So he rushes into your bathroom, locks the door like a sane human being does, and pulls himself out of his boxers methodically.

This isn't pleasurable, no, not at all, never. This is necessity. Emotionless, cold and surgical. He spits on his hand, wrapping it around himself without much preamble, thinking of nothing, searching for only one thing, release.

But he looks down at himself and his brain betrays him.

Imagine her on her knees.

"Fuck no."

How beautiful does she look, skin wet, hair stuck to her neck, eyes wide, mouth open?

"Shut the fuck up."

Her mouth would be so hot, come on, Brendon, give into her—

"Go away."

And yet he groans, the mere thought of you knowing what he's doing two doors away, the way you pushed up your chest, the need to paint it—paint you—white with his spend—

He's biting down on his other hand quickly after as he cums loudly, making sure to aim for the toilet while does.

You're no longer in the shower when he comes back out, your movements confined to your room. He doesn't have the courage to seek you out, so instead he just showers in silence.

The two of you don't interact at all before he's making his way into work.

You left his food prepped on the dining room table, disappearing out of the house the second you did to run some errands.

The tinge of shame and embarrassment linger deep in his bones all throughout the day, following him around like an unwanted shadow.

How would he even start to apologize? You have to talk about it, there's just no other way around it, but...how could he ever tell you it was a mistake when a part of him wanted nothing more than for it to happen again—to get a better look?

Since he made it to work late, he leaves even later. As he makes his way into his home, the same stillness from the night before greets him, only this time, it's heavy, like a breath that's been held in too long.

He goes through his routine quietly, dropping his bag by the door, checking in on his kid before walking down the hallway towards his bedroom.

But before he can make it, something catches his attention.

A breath. A gasp. A moan.

He freezes in front of your closed door, body going rigid with goosebumps, head turning almost robotically as his senses sharpen.

Your light is still on, peeking through the bottom slit of the door. Not uncommon, you like staying up to wait for him before you go to sleep.

No, what catches his attention is the distant...humming.

He steps forward, tentatively pressing his ear to the wood. It's not just a humming, it's vibrations, soft and steady.

Another shaky breath escapes you, louder than you would've liked, and you readjust the toy.

A shiver passes through Brendon as realization hits.

His cock twitches painfully against his underwear. Fuck this cannot be happening right now.

His head falls against your door, stabilizing, grounding. He can't, he will not—

Another moan from you. You're close.

Whatever resolve Brendon has snaps as he pulls himself out of his pants, hot, heavy and leaking.

"Jesus fucking Christ," he whispers as he takes himself into his hand. He begins to pump quickly, the pace excruciating and borderline painful, but he doesn't care, he needs to—

"Brendon," you huff, a breathy moan curling around his name. "Please I'm—Motherfucker!" you curse through gritted teeth, the vibrations stopping abruptly.

Brendon's heart does a leap in his chest.

Oh my god.

He can feel how frustrated you are, can hear how you shift uncomfortably over your sheets, can practically taste how wet you are as you toss the toy with a thump on the mattress next to you.

And Brendon doesn't think. Can't think, can't process a logical thought to save his life as he lifts his unoccupied hand and—

Knocks.

Says your name in that soft, saccharine voice of his that he uses when his child is throwing a tantrum.

Oh how he wishes he could see your face pale in horror at the knowledge of your boss being on the other side of the door.

"Are you okay?" he keeps poking.

You swallow thickly, shame mixing with terror.

"Mhmm."

"Can I come in?"

A broken sound leaves your chest, unprompted and definitely surprising you just as much as it does him.

"Um...no?"

He says your name again, stern and fatherly. He hears you moving around frantically, hiding all evidence of what you were just doing.

"Okay."

"Okay." A Cheshire smile curls at his lips, a thrill of satisfaction coursing through him as he tucks himself into his pants, the outline of his still rock hard dick on full display.

It's now or never.

He opens the door. You never seem to lock it, fucking adorable.

He has to physically hold himself back from pouncing on you as his eyes land on your heated cheeks, on your slightly tussled hair, on how you're gripping your comforter to save your life.

He shoots you a calming smile, boyish and embarrassed, as he steps into your room and closes the door behind him. Locking it.

He hears you gulp loudly as you notice his final movement.

"How was your day?" you barely manage to ask, your throat hoarse, your breathing broken.

He settles down on the bed by your feet, close enough to make your heart beat out of your throat, far away enough that he won't overwhelm you entirely.

"Good, good," he sighs, one hand tentatively inching closer and closer to you. "Lot of injuries today."

"I bet."

He smirks, a huff of a laugh cutting through the tension in the room.

"Listen—" he starts, looking up at you before continuing. You choke on your own breath, body becoming a statue with shame. "I'm sorry, I should've realized you were in the shower. It was very inappropriate of me and it will not happen again."

You let out a shaky breath, settling into the false sense of security, choosing to believe that he definitely did not hear you...yeah.

Brendon has to bite the inside of his cheek to stop from grinning like an idiot. God, you're just so adorable.

You nod, shifting forward, closer to him. "It's okay, I know you didn't do it on purpose. It was just...weird I guess."

You laugh, awkwardly, because what a silly predicament the two of you have found yourselves in, clearly.

Brendon doesn't follow your lead, not at all. He just keeps watching you, eyes darkening as he leans into you as well, his hand finally coming up to grab ahold of your foot over the comforter.

He squeezes enough to punctuate the moment, the tension, the heat. Your gaze snaps towards his hand, towards him, towards—

Your eyes widen without your consent as they land on his crotch, on the straining in his scrubs, on his still practically throbbing erection.

"Brendon," you exhale, confusion and desire blending together excruciatingly.

He shivers over you, his grip tightening on you.

"Don't," he warns. "Don't start something you won't finish, sweetheart."

Your gaze meets his then. He looks like a caged animal, practically vibrating as he holds himself back.

Emboldened by your lust, by the pent up frustration left coiling in your lower stomach, you get up on your knees, letting the comforter fall around your waist, the slightest sliver of skin peeking through.

"Oh I intend to finish it," you whisper.

"Unlike your vibrator?"

That breaks the spell quickly, heat rushing up to your face, neck, back instantly.

"Oh my god, Brendon!" you smack his arm, falling back down on your heels.

He smiles dopily, his hand sliding up your thigh as your brain processes all this new information. Distracted, you don't even notice when he slides beneath the fabric. It's only when the backs of his fingers graze your dripping folds that your breathing hitches.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he groans. "You're so wet."

You whimper at the feather light contact, hips bucking towards his touch.

"Please," you're no longer thinking, finally. "I need...make me cum, Bren."

The smirk that adorns his face then, all self-righteous and proud, only gets you wetter.

"Is this what you need, baby?" he leans in, breath hot against your ear as he presses a kiss just below it. "Needed my fingers to get yourself to cum?"

You moan, hands coming up to grab a hold of him, nails digging into the toughness of his arms.

In response, Brendon presses his thumb over your clit, slowly moving the pad in torturous circles. You pull him closer, opening your legs so that he has better access.

"Tell me what you need," he commands. "Tell daddy how to make you feel good."

Oh your head is spinning. A tear falls down your cheek, frustration rocking you out of control.

"Need your fingers," you pant.

He grins against your skin. "You already have 'em."

You whine, patience wearing thin. Who would've ever thought, his good girl, so demanding.

"In me, please," you choke, swallowing the drool that has gathered in your mouth before continuing. "Please daddy."

It breaks him, his ring and middle finger thrusting into you in one swift movement as his thumb picks up the pace.

You instantly hide your face agains the crook of his neck, your breathy moan muffled against him as he hooks his fingers into you, curling them over and over again against you until your legs are shaking beneath him.

"That's it, baby, such a good girl for me."

You shiver against him, melting against his warmth.

"Help daddy out, baby, wanna—" he groans. "Wanna cum with you."

He slows down his movements, keeping you right on the edge between putty and alert.

You nod against him, timid hands grazing down his torso towards his pants. The second your hand slides under his waistband, a hiss escapes him, causing a shiver of praise to boost your ego.

You manage to pull him out, long and thick and hot and heavy against your palm, you can't help but salivate at the sight. You let your drool drip down on him, his hips jerking as the wetness lands over his sensitive tip.

You giggle, overly amused by his reactions, emboldened by how easy it is to tame the Shark with just a simple swipe of your hand over his leaking head.

"Fucking hell, baby," he groans, picking up his own pace in retaliation.

You pull back to look at him then, gazes locking in silent competition.

He looks completely disheveled, broken and almost...reverent. Gratification blooms in your stomach, your hand pumping his length in tandem with his own fingers inside of you, the pace causing the two of you to slowly start to unravel together.

Your mouth hangs open in a silent moan as your body clenches around him, so close to the edge, so, so, so perfect—

"Daddy," you warn. "I'm gonna—"

He grunts, grabbing your hand and pulling it back up to his tip, urging you to focus your efforts there.

It takes him no time to catch up to you, his own body tensing in anticipation.

"C'mon baby," he implores. "Let go for me, cum with me."

A choked moan ripples through you as the coil snaps. Your legs quake, your vision blurs from pleasure, your hand stills over him as you feel his own release take over.

It's overwhelming to say the least, his hot moans heavy in your ear, his spend spurting onto your hand, painting his scrubs and your delicate skin, his warmth...oh my god he's so everywhere.

You can't think straight. Can't breathe right. Can't—

You groan as he removes his hand from inside of you, wetness running down your inner thighs as he does. Pleasure clouds your brain as you watch him bring his hand up to his mouth, his tongue lapping up your release, humming contently at the sweet taste.

Hunger flares in your belly as you do the same, lifting your hand up towards your mouth and sucking down on the spot covered by his cum.

You can feel the moan that ripples through him, his body tensing up with lust once more as he watches you.

"Fuck sweetheart, who would've thought..." he smirks, leaning down to smash his lips with your own, mouth desperately seeking to combine your tastes into one sloppy, searing kiss.

You oblige instantly, opening up for him to take whatever he pleases.

He pushes you down onto the mattress, his imposing body slotting itself perfectly in between your open thighs.

He's about to join you on the bed when you break the kiss.

"Outside clothes," you grumble, sleepy and spent.

It tugs at his heartstrings, his mouth curling into a loving smile as he strips down to his boxers before slipping back into bed with you, pulling your body to nestle snugly against his.

"I'm sorry, baby," he kisses your temple, watching you settle into sleep beside him, completely oblivious to how he licks and cleans your skin before finally allowing himself to succumb to the darkness.

You're woken up by laughter.

Soft and airy, like a gust of wind rustling outside your window.

Your curtains are still drawn, only slivers of light peeking through into your room, the warmth from outside starting to become overwhelming as you toss the comforter aside.

You sit up with a start, memories from the night before crashing through you like a downpour.

You almost, almost could've pretended it had all been a dream. Almost, if not for the stickiness lingering between your thighs, for the Brendon sized dip in your mattress that he left behind.

It's impossible not to feel his lingering presence in your bed, the way the sheets molded to accommodate him, the way his woodsy scent mixed with hospital antiseptic lingers on the cotton.

Fuck!

You're so close to spiraling, to having your chest cave in from the pressure of guilt, but then you hear it again.

That laugh, like a tug, a spark, a lifeline.

School, you're supposed to up to help with drop-off today.

You're quick to dress, pulling on your sleep shorts, hastily forgoing underwear because you simply aren't thinking straight.

It's late, too late to be thinking instead of moving.

You burst into the kitchen, ready to hastily put together breakfast and Brendon's lunch when—

"Noooooo!" the toddler screams at you from her high chair. "Go back!”

You frown at her, moving slowly around the kitchen island to catch her dad, sweatpants low on his hips, topless for added effect, just finishing up at the stove.

Behind him, a plate with a mountain of pancakes, and beside it, a tray, decked out with cut fruit, a cup of coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, even a cup with a little flower from the backyard.

He must see the flurry of emotions taking a hold of you, so he softens instantly.

"Morning," he steps forward slightly. "We were just coming to surprise you."

Your gaze snaps up to his, searching, panicked, overwhelmed and then...grateful.

Your cheeks heat up softly, not instantly, not rushed, just comfortable, safe, loved.

"I'm sorry bug," you lean over and plant a kiss on her head, unruly curls frizzy from sleep. "But now we can have breakfast together, yeah?"

She sighs, dramatically, before she turns to you, arms high up so that you'll pick her up.

You roll your eyes, obviously doing exactly what the princess wants.

You're about to walk out into the living room when you turn back to Brendon, the expression you manage to catch across his features just barely shy of adoration.

You've done this plenty of times before but it's never felt this...domestic. And you can't help how your stomach twists, how your heart blooms—you like this.

Breakfast continues on in that same way. Stolen glances, confusing feelings and an overly energetic toddler that get maple syrup over everything, especially her hair.

One rushed bath time later, you're putting her hair up into ponytail braids, her request, when his imposing frame slides up to lean against his daughter's open door, purple scrubs hugging his body deliciously.

"Ready to go, guppy?"

The kid nods, bashful, as she takes in the little hair clips in her hair, the beads from her ponytails.

"You look beautiful, trouble," you kiss her cheek and she responds by throwing herself around you, a hug so tight it melts you right into her.

"Thank you!"

"You're so welcome."

When she finally lets you go and runs towards her dad, you catch his stare through the mirror. It's...everything. Stormy, bright, hopeful, sorrowful, angry, pleading, you can't look away.

Later, he mouths. We'll talk.

You nod, shooting him a timid smile before he's being dragged out of the house.

Your brain is fuzzy for the next half hour, your movements slow and sluggish.

You focus on tidying up around the house, going through routine out of muscle memory. Cause the truth is, your mind is far away, stuck on the night before, on his lips, his fingers, his hot breath—

Jesus fuck you have got to get it together.

The postman comes through at the perfect time, envelopes snapping you out of inaction. You sort through them absentmindedly still—energy bill, invitation to the annual hospital gala, ortho research magazine, University of Pittsburg—

Your name.

His address.

Your heart constricts, your throat tightens.

Shaky fingers tear through the sticky adhesive, almost tearing the letter within its confines.

Rabid eyes scan the corporate jargon.

Final notice. Unable to push back start date another semester. Confirm attendance or forfeit spot. And then, a deadline.

Sink or swim.

Reality pounding at the door of your carefully crafted fantasy.

It all crumbles instantly.

You've grown attached, complacent, lost yourself as you found a new place, comfortable, easy, simple. You love your life, you love how easy it is to not have to think, to just do, to soak up the joy and the tantrums and the late nights and...

Him.

He's your fucking boss for crying out loud! He can't...he doesn't...you live in his house, you eat his food, you take care of his kid.

How can you take his money and be with him romantically?

You're taking advantage of him, this is so wrong, how could you ever do that to him? To them? To yourself?

But if you leave...if you leave you lose everything you've grown attached to, everything that makes up who you are now, everything—everyone—you love.

This isn't fair. This isn't how it's supposed to go. How could you have been so stupid to—

Your phone blares, a reminder alarm goes off, effectively cutting off your spiraling but only making you even more panicked.

You're late for pick up.

You don't remember much, just that you're driving a little more on edge than you usually are. The lunch traffic is easing down, luckily, but it's just a reminder that you're late.

The school calls, you tell them you're on your way.

He texts, you ignore it.

The green light turns red after you cross—

And it all goes dark.

You're so out of it that your name doesn't sound real.

There's overlapping voices, bright lights, too many hands touching your sweaty skin.

You try to push them off, try to close your eyes for them to be pulled open, try to complain but your throat is so dry nothing remotely close to words spill out.

You know where you are before the nurses have a chance to ease your discomfort.

You can't be here. Nope, not here, bad place to be cause he's here.

You try to get up the second they transfer you into a bed, even manage to sit before Langdon's hands are pulling you back down against the pillow.

"No, nope, none of that," he chides.

"Frank—" your voice sounds so broken it scares you.

"You're okay, let us take care of you," he stares deep into your eyes, his baby blues reminding you of the exact person you're desperate to avoid. "Please."

Before you can continue protesting, they drug you. Yeah, not their finest moment, not yours either. Lorazepam, just enough to calm you down, to finish their exam.

You're lucid, you think, just...softer. It's only then that your body comes back to you, the weight of your bones, the exhaustion in your muscles.

You don't complain again, only answer questions when they're asked.

You're fast tracked to CT, nothing abnormal though you definitely have a concussion. Your body is littered with little cuts and bruises from impact, apparently a motorcyclist who decided to accelerate to sixty without thinking twice. He's being treated at Westbridge so you'll know more later.

Now...now you're just a guilty, crying mess, injuries wrapped, IV almost done, waiting for an ortho consult because everyone in the ED knows you.

But he's not here yet.

It's been hours and he hasn't shown his face.

Logically, you know why.

He had to go pick her up when you didn't know. He had to call out of work because you weren't reliable, he had to—

The curtain is drawn and a child's voice says your name.

You can't help but burst into tears again, desperately trying to hide away, to brace yourself for the impact that follows her around.

But it only makes her more afraid, more distressed, and it breaks your heart.

With your eyes shut, tears streaking down your face, you don't see him, but you hear him.

Hear how he steps into the room, how he refrains from speaking your name, how he pulls the curtain closed again, how he picks up his kid and settles down on the stool beside your bed.

And then you feel tiny, cold hands press over your cheeks, gently poking at you until you break, calling out your name over and over and over until he says it.

Low and soft, pleading.

You open your eyes, a fresh waterfall dripping onto her fingers, causing her to recoil adorably.

"Yucky," she shivers, wiping your tears on her father's shirt.

That gets a laugh out of you.

"There she is," Brendon's voice is heavy, like the emotional weight has solidified into his body and is crushing over his chest.

You finally look up at him then, relinquishing your fears and staring directly into the place you know is both salvation and ruin.

"Well hello baby shark," Dana's signature snark breaks the moment. "Y'wanna come with me and let the boring grownups talk? I got apple sauce and crayons."

Wow she's so easy to lure away it's a wonder she's still in one piece. Well...who wouldn't be, with a dad like that and a nanny who would kill anyone that even thought about breathing near her with wrong intentions.

She winks at you and shoots a stern look at Brendon before leaving the two of you alone.

He doesn't even let the room settle before he's pouncing, lips on yours simply to prove to himself that you're alive, that you're breathing, that you're still here.

You can't stop crying, can't stop shaking, can't—

He shushes you gently, warm hands cupping your cheeks and wiping away the wetness as it falls.

You choke out a half-hearted laugh. "Not yucky?"

He smiles against your mouth, kissing you one last time before he pulls back to look at you.

"I was so worried," the confession is a mere whisper but it hangs thick in the room, suspended in a web of all the things you've both left unsaid. "When Dana called—" he chokes on a breath. "Fuck, sweetheart I almost—I couldn't think, couldn't breathe, I was resetting someone's fucking shoulder and..." he chuckles at the memory. "Almost made it worse."

"The great Brendon Park, almost ruined by one phone call," you try to joke, try to lighten the mood but...it's impossible. The way he stares at you, his gaze searing, his hands holding onto you as if he's afraid if he lets go you'll disappear—"Brendon."

"I know," he murmurs. "I'm sorry, we should've—I should've—"

You shake your head as much as the concussion will allow, your hands coming up to lace with his own.

"It's my fault," you sob. "I wasn't thinking—I...I got scared."

His brow furrows but he doesn't prod, doesn't force you to speak. He just waits, patiently, like you've seen him do plenty times before with a snotty, emotionally confused toddler.

So you take a steadying breath, grab his hand tighter, and tell him everything. The letter, your panic attack, your uncertainty, your fears, your...hopefulness.

It doesn't matter that your brain doesn't feel comfortable baring your soul to him, your heart does. With each word, the clutches of doubt and panic ease off, your grip lightening until you're unashamedly fiddling with his fingers, tracing lazy patterns over his skin like he...like he belongs to you.

He sits with your confession for a while, a few seconds turning into a few minutes but he doesn't pull away, doesn't make you feel unwanted. So you don't panic either, you just trace his nails with your fingers over and over and over agains until—

He lifts your hand up to his mouth and places a soft kiss onto your knuckles.

"What do you wanna do, baby?"

Baby, like it's simple. Baby, like it's normal. Baby, like you're his.

You search his eyes for malice, for a truth that you desperately need to push on him so that you can focus on a broken heart and not the overwhelming reality of choice, of making it work.

But all you find is patience, kindness, openness.

Fucking girl dad ortho bros that are emotionally intelligent—they're the worst.

You sigh, honest and raw. "I don't know. I just don't want to lose you."

He hums in understanding, rolling closer to the bed.

"I don't want to lose you either," he states, unflinching. "We can take this however you need, you can still live with us, you can..."

He trails off as he notices the hesitancy in your eyes.

"You don't want that?"

He doesn't say it maliciously, but it still sucker punches you all the same.

"I don't know...what about trouble? She's young but she's not stupid. I don't...I don't want her to think that I'm...that I don't love her because it's not the same—"

"She's a smart kid, she'll understand," he's too quick to catch your lie. "Now if you're afraid of things changing..." he catches your guilt flash through your eyes. "Then that's okay. We can go slow. We don't have to figure it all out right now."

You nod, accepting the easy way out.

One step at a time.

You can live with that.

Recovery is...boring as all hell.

The motorcycle guy lived, your insurance companies settled out of court, nothing to worry about according to Brendon who's been fussing over you for the past five days.

He's taken a temporary leave to nurse you back to health and "take care of his girls" as he put it, settling some stupid bet that the surgery department started a few days ago.

The little bug is practically glued to you, helping out her dad in whatever way she can, which isn't much, but it's always appreciated. She's even started reading you bedtime stories, but in truth she's just making things up as she points to the pictures.

At night, when she finally knocks herself out, Brendon settles into bed next to you, those first couple of days unable to get you into bed with him but finally, after much groaning and moaning, claiming he needed the extra room from his king for his back—which is a fucking lie since he always just sleeps tangled around you—he finally comes out victorious.

It's a Saturday when it happens.

No school, no early alarms, no nothing except his steady breathing, his safe embrace keeping you flush against his front, your leg straddled over his hip so that he can pull you in closer—

It's his own damn fault honestly.

You blink awake as a hardness pressed against your front. His heat pulls you in, your sleepy brain not thinking anything other than closer, warmer...so you roll your hips and a jolt of pleasure courses through you.

You're suddenly extremely aware of everything, frustration rearing its ugly head as memories flash from that night again.

You haven't touched yourself since then. Haven't wanted or been able to. But now, this morning you're just...very aware of how much you need it.

You roll your hips again, hoping to wake him up and have him take care of you. You can feel how much he needs it too, how much his body craves yours. If you can just—

"Baby," he groans against your temple, grip on you tightening, pulling you further into him. "What're you doing?"

You huff, desperate, sliding a hand in between your bodies and accidentally on purpose raking your nails along his length.

He hisses against your skin, question answered instantly as his eyes snap open.

"Oh sweetheart," he coos, merciful it seems. "Did you wake up needy, baby? Need me to take care of you?"

You nod, pathetically honestly, but you can’t care less.

He's got you sprawled under him in the blink of an eye, his mouth connecting with yours in a searing kiss before his lips begin to trail a path downward.

You're doing much better today. The cuts have scabbed over, the bruises are starting to fade from purple to brown, movement doesn't make you dizzy, if anything, it makes you just the right amount of lightheaded.

You feel his touch everywhere. Feather light grazes over your abdomen, nails raking up towards your breasts under his obnoxiously soft cotton t-shirt.

He removes his mouth off you so he can pull the shirt off your body, the offending fabric getting tossed to the side as his mouth latches onto your nipple.

You arch into his mouth, strangled moans escaping before his hand comes up to slide his fingers inside. He presses them against your tongue and you instantly suck on them as he too continues his assault.

When he's finally satisfied, he trails lower, hot tongue licking down your stomach until he reaches your pubic bone. His hand slips out from between your lips so he can hold your legs open for him before settling his mouth over your panties, taking a deep breath in and relishing in the way your breathing hitches.

Fuck he's so beautiful like this.

"Thank you baby," he grins against you. Fuck did you say that out loud?

He doesn't let you think on it as his mouth opens up, wide and predatory, and bites down on your mound, his tongue pressing against your clothed clit, working it through the fabric.

"Bren—please, I need—" you pant, already delirious.

"What do you need baby, tell daddy what you need."

Your head spins, heat blooms everywhere.

"Your mouth," you try, hoarse and needy. "Need your mouth."

He doesn't force you to beg, it's not the time for that. Instead, he shows you mercy, pulling your underwear to the side and diving right in.

His tongue is ravenous, licking a powerful stripe from your entrance up to your clit, groaning against your folds at the gathered wetness.

"So fucking good," he mumbles into your skin before his puffy lips latch onto your clit. He sucks and licks and pulls and tugs, all the while your body thrusts into his mouth. You almost hit him before his grip on your thighs tightens and he reminds you swiftly that he's much stronger than you.

You bite down on your tongue, hard enough to feel the sting, the faintness of copper lacing your taste buds. You know you have to be quiet but fuck do you want to scream.

"Bren fuck oh my god," you whimper, your hands threading through his soft waves, the lack of gel sending another shiver down your spine. No one else gets to see him like this.

He bites down on your clit then, pulling slightly before he slides down again, his nose perfectly hitting your bundle of nerves as his tongue and mouth fuck your entrance.

He feels you cumming before you even know what's happening, the coil in your abdomen snapping without even giving you a heads up. Your hands come up to muffle your screams while your body rocks, a tidal wave crashing through you as he does his best to hold you down, to work you through it.

He's gentle, diligent, devout almost as his mouth continues to kiss and lick and suck until you twitch from overstimulation. Only then does he detach himself from you, the bottom half of his face glistening with your release.

You look at him with the most gleeful expression, so proud of yourself, of his smugness.

He settles in between your legs again, pulling them tight around his waist, just reveling in being able to hold you against his naked front.

You're so blissed out, grateful and happy, planting your lips over every inch of skin he'll let you. But you're greedy now, you need more, want more.

You press your front against the bulge in his sweats and he hisses.

"We don't have to—"

"I want to," you kiss him again, your lingering taste euphoric. "Please."

You don't need to tell him twice. He rolls over towards his bedside table instantly, pulling out a silver wrapper and discarding his pants in what feels like seconds.

You can't help but giggle, the boyish smile on his lips and the way his cheeks tinge pink quickly sending you into overdrive.

You need this man inside of you right now.

You watch in awe as he tears the wrapper with his teeth, rolling on the slick condom over his impressive length.

Yeah, he's perfect, and he's yours, there's not a shred of doubt in your mind. You don't know how everything will fall into place but you don't have to, because you'll figure it out together.

He settles in between your thighs again, his chest pressing down against yours, desperate to be as close to you as possible before he lines himself up with your entrance and slowly thrusts himself inside.

You're wet enough that with the lube, he slides right in, your ass flush with his thighs in a dizzying, all consuming instant. He's perfectly snug, fitting so perfectly inside of you that neither of you can help the moan of satisfaction that spills.

It quickly turns into a fit of laughter, easy and shy, like you're both making love instead of having sex. And that just feels right.

He kisses you softly, tentatively, letting you get used to him before he begins to move. But you're impatient, your hips rolling on their own as you seek some friction.

He groans into your mouth. "Fuck baby, trying to kill me."

You smirk against his kiss, cocky for exactly three seconds before he meets your movement with a thrust of his hips. With the air getting knocked out of your lungs, he begins to move, slow and unhurried, all the way out before he thrusts right back to the hilt.

You hold onto him like your life depends on it, pressing further into his skin, his warmth, his safety. You can't get enough of him, of the excitement of tomorrow, of the need that comes from wanting nothing more than to be close to him.

"Such a good girl for me," he praises into your ear. "Letting me take care of you, only complaining a couple times."

You huff out a laugh, remembering the first time he'd helped you to the bathroom and then waited imposingly on the other side of the door until you were done. He's lucky he never tried to get in with you otherwise you would've hit him.

His thrusts pick up the pace in response.

"Let me take care of you, baby," he pleads then. "Whatever you decide, let me help you, please."

You blink back tears, nodding against his cheek, nails digging into his chiseled back.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," you moan. "Please daddy—"

You don't get to finish as he groans, hoisting your bottom half off the bed as his mercifulness finally snaps.

He fucks into you like he needs to show you just how much your words affect him. The bed rattles, the mattress squeaks awkwardly but neither of you cares. You need this, need each other.

"Come on, pretty girl," he pants. "Cum with me, cum with daddy."

You're just as affected as him, your second peak slowly but surely sneaking up on you again as he sneaks a hand in between your bodies, pressing the pad of his thumb over your clit.

You clench around him and he hisses, leaning down to capture your lips with his in a searing kiss as warmth floods you both. Your moans get tangled in between hungry tongues and teeth, your bodies vibrate against each other in bursts of pleasure and care and...love.

You're unsure how long you're stuck there, in between real life and whatever the fuck you're feeling, but finally when your body pushes him out of you, he rolls over and goes into the bathroom.

You watch him through hazy eyes as he cleans himself up, his adonis like body always such a sight to gaze upon. He blushes crimson when he catches you watching him, the apex predator reduced to a blubbering mess by just one simple look.

But it's not simple, and you both know that.

Pride swells up in your chest as he runs a wet towel in between your legs, leaning down to kiss you over and over again before he finally deigns the day worthy enough to begin, or rather, three soft knocks on his bedroom door startle you back into reality.

"Can we have ice cream for breakfast?"

You roll your eyes, sharing a glance with him that warms your heart.

Yeah, you're gonna be alright.

You’re slouched on the sofa, remote in hand, idly flipping through cooking shows and late-night reruns on your new flat-screen - Pope’s birthday gift to you - when your phone vibrates against the cushion. Only one name makes you answer.

“Hey, Pope. What’s - “ You stop when you hear ragged sobs and heavy sniffs cracking through the line. “Andrew?” you whisper. “What happened?”

“Need you at Baz’s. Now.”

“Is Lena - “

“Lena’s fine. Just…please. Come.”

You fling yourself up without changing out of your oversized t-shirt and pyjama shorts. You tug on your scuffed Converse, lace them tight, and run the two blocks beneath the pale streetlights.

Baz’s front door is half-open. Inside, the living room is quiet. Pope sits on the sofa, shoulders hunched, head in his hands. You drop beside him, gripping his arms until he moves his trembling fingers from his face. Tear tracks glisten on his cheeks.

“Andrew,” you say softly.

He presses his lips together. “I had to…to protect them. I - I had to.”

“Protect who? What did you do?” you press, but he won’t meet your eyes. 

You rise and walk down the hall. In Lena’s room, a dim nightlight casts a gentle glow on her sleeping form as relief flares in your chest. At the next door, you pause and push it open. Inside, Cath lies motionless, tangled in rumpled sheets, a pillow pressed over her face. Your heart thuds so loudly you almost turn back.

Instead, you step forward, sliding the pillow away and brush Cath’s dark hair from her forehead. Her skin is cool to the touch. Without thinking, you wrap her slender frame in the duvet, shielding her from sight.

“What are you doing?” Pope’s voice is think from the doorway.

“I’m not letting you end up back in a cell,” you say, voice low as you tuck corners of the duvet under her body. “We have to move her.”

“No - stop,” he stammers, hand grazing the bed. “I didn’t mean to - “

“I can’t move her alone.” You meet his eyes. “Help me get her into your truck, then go stay with Lena. I’ll handle the rest.”

He hesitates, gaze flicking to the ceiling, as though searching for a way out.

“Who else knows?”

His jaw tightens. “No one.”

“Smurf?” you whisper, naming the only person who might have forced his hand. Pope stiffens but stays silent.

Gently, you press your palm to his cheek, turning his face so your foreheads touch. His breath is hot against your skin. “It’s gonna be okay. We’ll be okay,” you murmur. “Right now, just help me move her.”

Hours later, dawn filters through slats of the living room blinds. You step in, blinking at the soft yellow light. In the adjoining kitchen, Lena sits on a high stool, syrup bottle tipped over a stack of pancakes. Steam curls from each fluffy layer, pooling around a melting pat of butter.

Pope stands beside her, muscles rippling under a gray t-shirt as he takes the bottle from her and screws the lid back on. Even after everything, the sight of his forearms - corded veins shifting beneath skin - makes your chest tighten.

You clear your throat. “Morning.”

He nods, his voice quiet. “Morning.”

Lena swallows and wipes syrup from her chin. “Hi,” she says. “Are you here to see Uncle Pope?”

You smile, masking the secret behind your eyes. “Yeah. We’ve got a few errands to run once your dad gets home.”

She beams, satisfied with the answer, as you settle onto the edge of the couch, heart pounding with relief and dread all at once as you brush away dirt from your jeans, the only clue to what you did to her mother.

For the first forty‐eight hours, Baz never asks a single question. Instead, he burns through every second of daylight hunting for Cath. You watch him drive, jaw clenched, knuckles white on the steering wheel, as he crosses Oceanside. He checks every rundown motel she ever mentioned, calls friends she hasn’t spoken to in years, chases lead after lead that peters out, his black SUV rolling on long after dusk blurs into night.

You almost feel guilty - almost. But you remember Baz’s girl in Mexico - the secret trips, the rumor of a whole other life he’s kept tucked across the border. You remember Pope’s voice on the phone, rough and cracking, the tears tracking down cheekbones. You’d walk through fire for him, so you decide you’d make the same choice if you had to do it all over again.

A week later, morning light turns the kitchen counters of Smurf’s kitchen a pale gold. You’re leaning against the sink, half‐listening to Craig’s banter and Deran’s low laughter, when the front door slams like a gun shot. The room falls silent. Smurf doesn’t stir from her seat at the table; she lifts her coffee mug only as far as her eyes. Craig looks up from his phone, eyebrows raised. Deran mutters something under his breath. Pope freezes beside the counter, hands splayed where he stands.

Baz doesn’t even glance around the room, eyes locked immediately on Pope. His voice rips through the quiet. “Cops found Cath’s car.”

Pope doesn’t flinch. “And?”

Baz takes a step closer; the floorboards creak beneath him. “And,” he repeats, voice low and hard, “they’re saying she didn’t leave voluntarily.”

You watch Pope’s fingers tighten around his coffee mug, knuckles paling. His jaw shifts to one side, breathing shallow and measured - too measured. He’s trying too hard to seem calm.

Baz leans in, nostrils flaring. “You know something.”

Pope’s face smooths into his usual impassive mask. “I don’t.”

Baz laughs, but there’s no humor. “You do. You’ve been off since she disappeared.”

Pope’s eyes harden. “I’m always off.”

Craig snorts; Smurf’s lips twitch. But Baz doesn’t smile. He stares at Pope until the silence thickens.

“Is this a joke to you?” Baz’s words hang in the air.

Pope’s heart pounds so loud you think you can hear it. Baz closes the gap, so close you can count the dark stubble on his chin. “You know where she is.”

“No, I don’t.” Pope’s voice is flat but not unsteady.

Baz’s next question comes out in a furious whisper. “You kill her?” Craig straightens, Deran’s eyes flick between them. Smurf sets her coffee down with a soft clink. Pope’s face blanks entirely. It’s the same look he wore when you wrapped Cath in those sheets in Baz’s bedroom.

“I didn’t kill Cath,” Pope says. The lie slides off his tongue smooth as silk.

Baz studies him, nostrils flaring, then shifts his stare to you. You realize you’ve stepped forward, unconsciously positioning yourself beside Pope.

“You his bodyguard now or something?” Baz spits at you, contempt dripping from each word.

You fold your arms over your chest. “I haven’t said a word.”

“My wife is missing.” He jabs a finger at Pope; it trembles.

“I know.”

“My kid’s asking where her mom is.”

“I know.”

“He’s the last person who saw her,” Baz growls, jabbing the air at his brother. “And you’re awfully quick to defend him.”

You shrug, annoyed by the implication. “Because I know him.”

Baz laughs - a hollow, echoing sound. “You think you do. But you don’t. Not really.”

You uncross your arms and slide your back against the marble counter, watching his chest rise and fall in jagged breaths.

“You think he tells you everything?” Baz leans so far forward his forehead nearly touches yours.

“No,” you say quietly. “But I know he wouldn’t hurt Cath.” The words tumble free before you can second‐guess them.

Pope turns his head, eyes asking a question you won’t need to hear aloud. Baz’s glare snaps from Pope back to you, suspicion etched in every line of his face.

“You sure about that?” he says.

“I stand by it.”

Baz’s stare drills into you, then abruptly shifts. “Where were you the night she disappeared?”

The question hits you cold, like someone dumping a bucket of ice water over your head. You force your shoulders to stay squared. “Home. Alone.”

He leans back a fraction. “What time did you go to bed?”

“How the fuck should I know?” You shrug. “It was over a week ago, Baz.”

His gaze narrows. “You’ve been spending a lot of time with Pope lately.”

You roll your eyes. “Lately? We’ve been friends since we were kids.”

“Exactly.”

“What’s your point?”

“My point is,” he says, stepping forward again until you can feel the warmth of his anger like a low roar, “I’ve never seen two people this loyal to each other unless they’ve got a shared secret.”

The air thickens. Pope moves on muscle memory, sliding between you and his brother without thought. “Back off.”

Baz locks eyes with his brother. “There it is.”

Andrew’s voice drops to a dangerous whisper. “I said - back. Off.”

Baz snorts. “What are you gonna do? Kill me, too?”

Smurf’s voice slices through the tension. “Enough. Unless you’ve got proof, stop accusing your family.”

“She’s not family,” Baz shoots at you.

“Close enough,” Smurf says, offering you a gentle, reassuring smile.

Baz shakes his head. “You’re all unbelievable.” With that he storms out, the front door banging against the wall as he leaves. Even after his car roars down the driveway, the silence in the kitchen hangs heavier than before.

“I should go,” you mutter to nobody in particular.

“Don’t let him get to you, Baby,” Smurf says, her tone soft as she rises to head out to the pool with Craig and Deran.

Pope’s shoulders slump, the tight wire of his stance slackening. “‘M sorry,” he says, voice low.

“For what?” you ask, frowning.

“For dragging you into this.”

“You needed help,” you remind him with a small, sad smile.

“You could go to prison.”

You shrug. “I know.”

He looks down at his coffee mug, steam swirling. “You didn’t even ask me why.”

“I didn’t need to.”

His head snaps up, eyes searching yours for a reason. You answer the question he didn’t ask without hesitation. “Because it was you.”

Pope freezes, the world shrinking until it’s just the two of you in that still kitchen, your words hanging in the warm morning light. Because it was him - no “if,” no “maybe,” just pure unguarded trust. Not innocence, not proof, just faith.

You reach out and smooth the collar of his shirt, more from habit than anything else. His breath catches when your fingers brush against his neck, then he nods, wordless. You step back, heart thudding, and whisper, “I’ll see you tomorrow, Andrew.”

He stands in the hallway long after you’ve closed the front door, staring at the empty threshold. In the quiet that follows, he thinks about the way you never hesitated - how you looked Baz in the eye and defended him, even after seeing the worst thing he’d ever done. The way you’d carried Cath’s weight and buried her body. You helped him cross every line - but instead of feeling worried or anxious, his chest tightens at the memory of your touch. It’s something other than lust or possession. 

Trust. And for the first time, Andrew wonders if what’s blooming inside him might be more dangerous than any obsession he’s known.

The next morning, you wake just before the third firm knock rattles your door. You curl one leg beneath you, listening. You already know who it is. Rolling out of bed, you shrug a soft gray sweatshirt over your tank top and shuffle down the narrow hallway, the wood floors creaking under your feet.

You open the door to find Pope on the battered welcome mat, two paper coffee cups in his hands. 

“I got yours with vanilla,” he says, voice low.

You blink at him, surprised. “You remembered?”

He cracks a small smile. “You always get vanilla.” He lifts his brow like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

“Still,” you whisper, and he just shrugs. It’s a casual gesture, but to you it feels huge.

Inside, you settle at your tiny kitchen table with the newspaper, as Pope pulls a screwdriver from your junk drawer and begins to methodically dismantle the toaster that broke last week.

“You know,” you say after a while, folding a page, “I can just buy a new one.”

He doesn’t look up. His fingers twist a screw with care. “It still works.”

“I saw flames last time I used it.”

“Liar.”

“Okay, fine - there weren’t actual flames. But there were sparks.”

He tightens a screw and finally glances at you, concentration etched in the line of his jaw. You’ve always admired the way the rest of the world seems to vanish when he fixes something. It can be dangerous - his focus is total - but in moments like this it just makes him look…peaceful.

“What?” he asks, leaning back.

“There’s grease on your face.” He reaches up to brush a dark smudge from his cheek. He wipes at it, hands shaking off the grime, but the second wipe misses.

“Nope,” you say with a teasing lilt. 

He rolls his eyes, half-annoyed, half-amused - the same look he gave you when you were kids and he beat you at every game. You step closer, wrapping his jaw in the corner of a dish towel and tracing it gently across his skin. Your fingers linger, and the morning light catches in his hazel eyes, making the gold flecks shimmer. Time stills for a heartbeat. You’re nearer than you realized, and the warmth in his gaze thumps through your chest.

“There,” you say softly, stepping back. He murmurs a quick, “Thanks,” and dives right back into the toaster with the ease of someone who’s always known exactly what he’s doing - except, you realize, with you.

By afternoon you’re both perched on your couch with grilled cheese sandwiches when a heavy pounding on the front door makes Andrew leap to his feet, muscles coiling like a spring.

“It’ll get - ” you begin, but he cuts you off with a sharp, “No. I’ll answer it.”

When he opens the door, Baz stands framed in the doorway, expression hard. He glances past Pope and his gaze settles on you.

“We need to talk,” Baz says.

Pope squares his shoulders. “You can talk here,” he replies, voice steady.

Baz’s eyes flick to him. “I wasn’t talking to you.” He doesn’t back down.

You slip between them, heart hammering. “It’s fine,” you say, though Pope’s jaw stays tense.

Baz steps inside and folds his arms. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been working,” you answer, trying to keep your tone light.

“You don’t have a job.” His voice is a challenge.

“What do you want, Baz?”

He steps closer. “I want to know why Pope called you the night Cath disappeared.”

All movement in the room halts. You feel Pope tense behind you.

“Lena said she woke up and he was on the phone, calling your name over and over.”

Andrew’s fists clench. You force yourself to meet Baz’s eyes. “He calls me all the time.”

“At two in the morning?”

“When he’s having a hard time.” Your voice softens. “He trusts me.”

Baz studies your face as though it’s a puzzle he can’t quite solve. “Why you?”

“Because I’m his friend,” you reply, and even you can feel the firmness in your words.

Baz laughs, low. “You know, when we were teenagers, I used to think he was in love with Cath.” He shakes his head. “But now I’m starting to wonder if I’d been looking at the wrong person. He follows you around, watches you, listens when you tell him to calm down.”

Andrew’s gaze flickers between you and Baz - something raw and uncertain in his eyes. He steps forward, voice tight. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Yeah,” Baz says, walking back to the front door. “I don’t think you do either.” Before leaving, he turns back to you. “If I find out you’re lying to me…” He doesn’t finish the threat before he brushes past Pope, shoulder bumping into his, and slams the door behind him.

You breathe out. “Well.”

Pope turns to you, eyes wide. “What did he mean - when he said that look?”

You force a laugh. “Baz was just trying to get under your skin.”

Pope’s gaze drops to the floor, and for the first time you hear the unsteady catch in his voice. “I do watch you,” he says, his voice softer than you’ve ever heard. “I know when you’re tired. I know when you’re pretending you’re okay. I know you hate driving after dark. I know you bite the inside of your cheek when you’re worried. You always tuck your feet underneath you on the couch…” His voice trails off as though he’s surprised to realize how many little details he’s stored away.

Your heart hammers so loudly you’re sure he can hear it. Before you can reply, he steps away. “I should go.” His hand hits the doorknob, and then the door clicks shut behind him.

You stand alone, the echo of Baz’s words and Pope’s confession swirling around you like dust motes in sunlight.

Across the street, Andrew sits in his truck, hands resting on the steering wheel, staring at your window. The afternoon hum of traffic goes on without him. He closes his eyes and lets himself wonder - when did he stop thinking of you as just his best friend?

Pope doesn’t come by the next day, or the day after that. You tell yourself he’s busy, that Smurf always has him running errands. But by the third morning, you’re pacing your living room whenever a truck rumbles past. When none of them is his, you decide to stop waiting.

Smurf’s house is alive with noise when you push open the door. Craig and Deran are shouting at each other over the couch cushions, Smurf’s voice crackles through a phone in the kitchen, and Lena’s tiny frame is curled on the floor with crayons and paper. When she sees you, her face lights up.

“You’re here!” she exclaims, holding up a drawing of a dolphin that looks more like a slug with fins, but she beams with pride.

“It’s beautiful,” you tell her, ruffling her hair. You lean in. “Where’s Uncle Pope?”

Her smile wavers. “He got hurt,” she says, voice small. “Grandma Smurf made him rest.”

Your pulse quickens as you slip down the hall, the air growing cooler as you approach his bedroom. The door is cracked open so narrowly that you pause to knock. No answer. You push it open.

He’s perched on the edge of the bed, shirt halfway off, shoulders hunched against the bruise that blooms across his ribs in violent shades of purple and blue. A raw scrape mars his chest, the edges still pink. His breath jerks when you step in.

“What happened?”

He starts, as if he thought no one would notice. “Nothin’.”

You cross your arms. “Liar. That bruise is the size of California.”

His lips twitch in spite of himself. “California?”

“Well, it’s big.”

You disappear into the bathroom and reappear with a washcloth damp with antiseptic, gauze, and a battered first-aid kit.

He lifts one shoulder in a half-hearted attempt to stop you. “You don’t have to - “

You cut him off and kneel in front of him anyway. “Take your shirt off.”

He hesitates, vulnerable in a way he never allows anyone but you to see. Finally he slides the fabric over his head, and you take in the full view of the cut and bruise. 

“This is gonna sting,” you warn.

He closes his eyes and tenses, throat bobbing. You press the cloth to his scrape, and he inhales sharply, clenching his jaw.

“You can say ‘ow,’ you know.”

He exhales, voice rough. “It’s fine.”

You dab antiseptic along the scrape, then slip a sterile strip of gauze over it. Next, you lay the cool cloth on the worst of the bruising, fingertips barely grazing his skin. He flinches, drawing in a breath, and you drop your hand. “Sorry.”

“S’okay,” he whispers.

You wrap a soft bandage around his ribs as tenderly as if you’re cradling glass. “There.”

He surveys your handiwork in the mirror behind you. “Looks stupid.”

“You’re welcome,” you grin, knowing he doesn’t mean it. “Stay off your feet for a day or two.”

He shakes his head, voice muffled. “I can’t.”

“Smurf will survive one afternoon without you.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but when you hold out your hand, he slips his into yours. Together you rise, and he lets you guide him down the hallway. As you lower him into a kitchen chair for water and painkillers, you realize that caring for him feels as natural as breathing. And somewhere, deep in both of you, something has shifted for good.

You coax Pope onto your sofa with the only promise you can muster,  “Sit here and I promise I’ll stop fussing over you.” 

He arches an eyebrow, voice low and clipped. “You’ve said that three times.” You stick out your tongue, voice lighter than you feel. “Well, I mean it this time.”

He sinks onto the cushion beside you, shoulders hunched as if the weight of the world sits there. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The muted drone of the television murmurs through the air, but your eyes remain fixed on the way sunlight pools around his boots, drapes across his forearms, and settles in the dark circles beneath his eyes.

“You tired?” you ask softly.

“No.” The word tumbles out too sharp, too quick. You can already feel the tremor at the edge of his voice.

“You look exhausted,” you say gently. “ When was the last time you slept more than a couple of hours?”

He says nothing, and the silence answers for him.

On impulse, you pat your thigh. “Come here.”

Andrew’s hazel eyes narrow in confusion. “What?”

“Lay down.”

He hesitates, head tilting to one side. “… Why?”

“Because you look like you’re gonna fall asleep sitting up.”

With a slow nod, he eases himself across the length of the couch, and you slip your hand under the back of his neck, guiding his head into the cradle of your lap, your fingers itching to do what they’ve done so many times before.

You begin to comb your fingertips through his hair, tracing the gentle curve of his skull just like you did the night he staggered in after the prison gates closed behind him, just like you did when he first learned Cath and Baz were together. You feel the tension unfurl from his shoulders, imagine it pooling on the floor between you, leaving him a little lighter. His breathing slows, each exhale deeper than the last.

“You know,” you murmur, your voice low as a breeze through dry leaves, “you don’t always have to be the strong one.”

The silence stretches, warm and fragile, until he finally whispers, “I don’t know how not to.” The words are so soft you almost miss them.

Your fingers keep drawing slow, small circles at his scalp. You feel the soft rise and fall of his chest against your thigh, the tranquil rhythm of someone beginning to unburden their soul. Lines that usually crease his brow smooth out, and one of his arms drifts across your waist, his fingers curling lightly into the cotton of your shirt.

You let yourself smile down at him, content to stay exactly where you are. Your legs have gone numb, pins and needles prickling through them, but you don’t shift. For the first time in years, Andrew looks genuinely peaceful.

He wakes a few hours later to the weight of your fingers still nestled in his hair. He lifts his head an inch and sees you asleep, head tipped to the side, elbow propped on the armrest. A stray lock of hair curls across your forehead, catching the last glow of sun.

He doesn’t move. He knows you must be uncomfortable - your leg must be numb, your neck stiff - but you haven’t stirred. You stayed right here so you wouldn’t wake him.

He watches your breathing, slow and even, the faint rise of your chest beneath your shirt. His thumb hovers, uncertain, then he reaches behind you for the soft throw blanket draped over the couch back. He drapes it across your shoulders with reverence, the fabric settling around you with care.

You sigh softly in your sleep, and his chest tightens with something he can’t name. Looking at you like this doesn’t make him feel restless or desperate. It makes him want to protect you, to shield you from every worry that aches inside you. To earn the kindness you’ve given him.

He isn’t sure he can ever be worthy.

Still, he carefully shifts back onto your lap, his head finding its familiar nook. He closes his eyes again without waking you, and in that quiet moment, he realizes something with startling clarity -  he doesn’t come to you just because you’re the only one who understands him. He comes to you because, somewhere along the way, you became the place that feels most like home.

Andrew shifts against you on the couch, the rough weave of your sweatshirt rubbing against his bruised ribs as he tilts his face toward your stomach. His breath is shallow when his lids flutter open and he pushes himself up slowly, every movement stained with pain. His hand hovers at his side before he presses it to his ribcage, teeth clenched against the dull ache there.

“Easy,” you murmur, fingertips grazing the curve of his scalp. You pull back at the first wince.

“I should go,” he says, voice rough as gravel.

“Okay. Try not to get into any fights tonight,” you answer, brushing a stray lock of hair off his forehead.

“I won’t.” He rubs at his temple.

“But if you do…”

“I’ll call,” he finishes.

You give him a small, tired smile. “Good.”

He pauses, hand on the doorknob, reluctant. He lifts his gaze to yours. “…Thank you…for today.”

“You don’t ever have to thank me for taking care of you,” you say honestly. “That’s what friends do.” The word lingers between you, unfamiliar on your tongue, carrying an odd weight.

He nods once, stiffly. “Yeah.”

By the time he arrives back at Smurf’s, she’s there, standing at the kitchen sink, a wine glass in one hand and a white cloth in the other. She twists the glass stem in patient, practiced motions. The low light glints off her gold bracelet.

“Where’ve you been?” Her voice is cool and measured, trying not to reveal her annoyed state.

“Out.”

“With her.” She doesn’t bother to ask, her tone making it clear she already knows.

Pope shrugs, eyes downcast. “She has a name.”

Smurf steps forward, trailing the cloth across the rim of the glass so that it squeaks in protest. “You spend more time with her now.”

“So?” he says, but his voice is flat.

She lifts a hand and smooths the front of his shirt. “You’ve started looking at her differently. When she walks into a room, your eyes follow her.” Her voice softens. “And when you got hurt this afternoon…who took care of you?”

He stands silent, shoulders squared, as though braced against something stronger than pain. 

Smurf allows herself a small, triumphant smile. “I thought so.”

He squares his shoulders and crosses the room to the hallway. She calls after him, voice low and final. “Andrew, remember…people become weaknesses.”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw tightens, then he disappears into the gloom of the bedroom, leaving only the click of the door behind him.

Pope lies on his back in the darkness, every twist of his body sending pulses of fire through his ribs, but he barely notices. Instead, memory rises in harsh, vivid shapes -  the softness of your palm resting on his temple, your fingers tugging at the knot of hair above his collar, the way you frowned when he drew in breath too sharply.

He was fifteen, sitting on the porch steps after Smurf’s latest furious tirade. He’d sat alone, knees drawn up, cold night air nipping at his ankles. You emerged wordless and pressed the bigger half of your peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich into his hand.

He was seventeen, standing in an alley behind a warehouse, his knuckles split open, blood dripping on the concrete. Instead of going home, he’d gone to you. You saw him through the window, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, shirt soaked through with sweat and blood. Without a question you’d guided him inside, settled him on the bathtub edge, and fished out the first-aid kit. 

He was twenty-five, a job had gone sideways, red and blue lights chasing him down the street. He’d pounded on your door at two in the morning, sweat and adrenaline heavy on his skin. You cracked the door in an old hoodie of his, the fabric smelling faintly of your laundry detergent. “Get in,” you’d said, locking the deadbolt behind him before he could protest. You pulled the curtains closed and passed him a fork before warming him up some leftover spaghetti. No questions. Only the hum of the microwave and the steady thump of his heart in his ears.

Then last week, in Baz’s bedroom. He’d called you, sure you’d recoil at the body on the bed. After all, you’d known Cath most of your life too. Instead, you’d been methodical and unshaken. You wrapped her body with the same efficiency you would use to swaddle an infant. Not once did you flinch or call him a monster.

All these memories fade together, and Andrew sees for the first time that it isn’t only that you’ve been there for him - it’s how you’ve been there. Each time he bled or broke or feared for his life, you opened your door, shut out the night, and pulled him in. Not because you celebrated the Cody family’s bloody business, but because you refused to let him face it alone. 

You and Pope slump onto your sagging couch, heat from the takeout containers warming your thighs. Steam curls as you lift the cardboard and inhale the tang of soy sauce and dumplings. You set your containers on your lap, plastic forks balanced precariously.

“Okay,” you say, leaning back into the cushions, “you’re doing that thing.”

Pope glances up from his sweet and sour chicken, dark eyes narrowed. “What thing?”

“You’ve looked at me six times in the last five minutes. What’s going on?”

He frowns, the plastic fork clattering against the takeout box rim. “Just… thinking.”

“About…?” you prompt

He flips the fork over in his hand, rhythmical, as if weighing his words. “Do you ever… regret it?”

Your smile falters. A knot tightens in your chest. “Regret what?”

“Knowing me.” He meets your eyes at last - earnest, vulnerable.

Your throat goes dry. You reach out, scoop his box off your knees, and set it aside. “Look at me.” You pat the cushion beside you. “You’re my best friend.”

He pulls in a breath, as though bracing himself. “You don’t know the things I’ve done.”

You tilt your head. “Come on, Andrew, I’ve literally buried - ”

“Don’t finish that sentence.”

You sigh, exhaling relief and frustration at once. “My point is, I know who you are. I’ve seen every side of you, and I’m still here.”

He looks stunned. He’s spent a lifetime believing affection has to be earned, that someone as broken as him could never be loved unconditionally. His jaw tightens.

A few days later, you push open your front door and step into a kitchen lit by the soft hum of a flickering bulb above the sink. Pope stands on a wooden chair, hands steady as he unscrews the faulty bulb.

“You know,” you say, setting grocery bags on the counter, the plastic crinkling under your weight, “most people wait until the homeowner gets back before doing repairs for them.”

He glances over his shoulder. “You said it kept flickering.”

“I said I’d get around to changing it.”

“Three weeks ago.”

He steps down, gathering the bags with easy familiarity. Without a word, he lines up your fresh vegetables, the smell of basil mingling with the sharp tang of onion. He unpacks pasta and jars of marinara. You lean against the counter, the granite cool under your palms.

“Leave the pasta out,” you decide. “I’ll make us dinner.”

After dinner, you stand at the sink, warm soapy water lapping at your wrists as you scrub the last plates. Pope drapes a towel over his arm and dries each dish methodically.

He sets the final plate inside and pauses. “Listen, about what I asked the other day… about regretting knowing me…”

You pass him a bowl without looking - soap suds glimmering in the overhead light. “Yeah?”

He takes a breath, voice low. “I wanted to thank you. For saying what you said. And for… always being there.”

The kitchen quiets around you. The refrigerator hums, the faucet drip echoes. You lift your gaze and meet his eyes. “Someone should.”

He stares at you, as if seeing you in a new light. “You’re the only person who ever has.”

Your chest tightens. You lay a hand gently on his forearm—just a brush of skin. Heat flares across his cheeks. “Andrew,” you whisper, “you deserved it.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. He swallows. “So did you.”

You blink, startled. “What?”

He steps closer, the warm scent of him wrapping around you. “When your dad left...”

Shock ripples through you. You haven’t thought about your father in years.

“I remember you pretending it didn’t bother you.” His voice is soft, remorseful. “Making jokes so nobody would know you’d been crying.”

Your eyes burn. You barely whisper, “I didn’t think anyone noticed. You never said anything.”

His shoulders slump. “I didn’t know how. I wanted to. I should have.”

“It’s okay,” you murmur. “You were sixteen.”

He shakes his head, regret in every tremor. “Still.”

The walls seem to close in as you realize he’d been paying attention all along, collecting pieces of you like faded photographs.

“I hated that he left you,” Andrew confesses, voice hushed.

You force a laugh that tastes bitter. “Yeah, me too.”

He inhales sharply. “I wanted to go after him.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “You did?”

He nods once, decisively. “I asked Baz to help me find him.”

A surprised laugh bubbles out. “And then what? What were you going to do?”

He shrugs, genuine uncertainty clouding his eyes. “Dunno. At sixteen, I just knew someone had hurt you. My instinct was to stop it.”

Silence settles like dusk. You trace his jawline with your gaze. “You don’t always have to protect me.”

“I want to.”

Your breath catches. He’s so close, his honest gaze burning into yours.

“I don’t really know what’s happening,” he admits, voice small.

You tilt your head. “What do you mean?”

He searches for the right words, fingertips brushing the cabinet door. “I keep thinking about you. I mean, I always thought about you. I… I’m not good at explaining things.”

You step nearer, the scent of leftover garlic bread still clinging to the air. “It’s okay. Take your time.”

He exhales, as if letting down a barrier. “I miss you.”

You lift the corner of your mouth. “You see me all the time.”

His eyes soften, and for a moment the world beyond your kitchen fades. “I know, but when I leave,” he says, voice dropping to a whisper, “I want to come back.”

Slowly and carefully, you slide your hand from his forearm down until your fingers find his hand. You don’t lace your fingers together, you simply let your hand rest against his, giving him every chance to pull away.

Instead, after a hesitant moment, his fingers curl gently around yours. He looks down at where you’re touching, almost in disbelief. “I’ve never really done this before.”

You smile softly. “Held someone’s hand?”

A faint, self-conscious smile tugs at the corner of his mouth at your teasing. “I’m serious. I don’t wanna hurt you.”

You step closer until only a breath separates you. “We’re two people who’ve known each other most of our lives. You won’t hurt me.”

“You can’t know that.” Guilt flashes across his face, but you reach up to cup his cheek. His eyes immediately close, leaning into your palm as though he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it.

“Andrew.”

He opens his eyes again.

“You’ve spent your whole life believing the worst things you’ve done are the only things people will ever see. But I see the scared little boy who jumped into a swimming pool because someone was hurting me.”

A tear gathers in the corner of his eye, his breathing grows uneven.

“The man who would do anything to protect Lena, who is more of a father to her than her own.”

A tear slips free from his eye.

“And the man who’s standing here looking terrified because he’s afraid of hurting me. I see all of you.”

“...Why?”

The question breaks your heart. You shake your head. “Because I’ve loved all of you.” The words hang in the heavy silence between you. Pope doesn’t move, just stares, his gaze fixed on your face with an intensity that borders on physical weight. The usual sharp. predatory confidence that defines him is stripped away, leaving him raw and exposed. You can see the rapid pulse beating in the hollow of his throat.

“I wasn’t planning on saying it like that,” you admit. You take a small step forward, closing the distance until you can smell him  - remnants of dish soap and musky cologne that feels intoxicating. “But,” you reach up, your fingers trembling slightly as they brush against his jaw. You catch a single tear that has escaped the corner of his eye, wiping it away with the pad of your thumb. “I’ve loved you since we were kids. I watched you fall in love with Cath.”

His face crumples at her name, the muscles around his mouth tightening as if he’s been hit. You see the guilt flash in his eyes, dark and swirling. 

“I watched you choose anyone but me,” you continue. You remember the parties, the dates, the endless parade of women while you sat on the sidelines, aching with a jealousy that ate you alive. 

His lips part, the lower one glistening slightly in the dim light. He tries to speak, but no words come out. He looks wrecked, his composure shattered by the sheer weight of your confession. 

“But I never stopped loving you anyway,” you say, the finality of it settling over the room. You don’t look away. You force him to see the reality of it, the years of longing hidden in plain sight.

Pope looks completely overwhelmed. He blinks rapidly, his chest rising and falling with the effort to draw breath. He swallows hard, the sound audible in the quiet room. “You loved me?”

You nod, unable to speak past the lump in your throat. “For years.”

“I didn’t know,” he breathes out, the words sounding like a prayer and a curse all at once. He shakes his head slowly, his eyes searching yours for any sign of deceit. He looks like a man who has just realized he’s been living in a dream while the world burned down around him.

“I know,” you say softly. You never let him see.

“I would’ve…” He stops himself, the sentence trailing off into nothing. Because he doesn’t know what he would’ve done. The past is a fixed point, immutable and painful. But he knows one thing with absolute certainty now, a realization that hits him with the force of a physical blow - he can’t imagine his life without you. The thought of you walking away, of leaving him here alone with his regrets, is more terrifying than anything he’s ever faced.

“I love you,” he says. His eyes widen slightly, the dark pupils dilating as he stares at you, surprised to hear himself say it. It’s as if the confession has unlocked something inside him, a dam breaking under the pressure of years of unspoken tension.

“I didn’t know that’s what this feeling was,” he admits quietly, his voice rough with emotion. He takes a shuddering breath. “I just…” He trails off, stepping closer to you. The heat radiating from his body is intoxicating, a magnetic pull that you are powerless to resist. He drops his forehead to rest against yours, the contact intimate and grounding. You can feel the dampness of his skin, the slight tremor in his frame.

“I want to be wherever you are,” he whispers, the words ghosting over your lips. It’s a surrender. A total surrender of the control he usually clings to so tightly.

Your eyes close, shutting out the world so there’s only him. He lifts a hand to your face, his fingers threading into your hair, tilting your head back. He brushes his thumb across your cheekbone, the touch light, reverent, as if he’s asking for permission to cross a line he never thought he’d reach.

You don’t answer with words. Words are insufficient now. Instead, you close that inch between you. The kiss is soft, tentative, and gentle. It’s not the aggressive, dominating possession you’ve fantasized about at night - it’s a question.

Pope barely moves at first, his lips molding to yours with a hesitancy that makes your heart ache. He kisses you as though he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he presses any harder, as if you’re made of spun glass and he’s a bull in a china shop. You can feel the restraint in every muscle of his body, the way he holds himself back.

You smile against his lips, a small curve of your mouth that conveys everything you can’t say - I’m not going anywhere. The movement seems to break the spell. His shoulders slowly relax, the tension draining out of them as he realizes you aren’t pulling away. He exhales a shaky breath into your mouth.

His free hand comes to rest carefully at your waist, his fingers splaying wide against your side. Even through the fabric of your shirt, you can feel the heat of his palm, the strength of his grip. It’s possessive, even in its gentleness. 

You lean into him, your body softening against the hard planes of his chest. You can feel the heavy thud of his heart, the steady rhythm that matches your own. You part your lips slightly in invitation, and deepen the kiss just enough for him to understand that this isn’t a mistake. This isn’t a moment of weakness. This is everything.

Andrew doesn’t pull away abruptly, dragging his mouth from yours with a wet, heavy sound, his lips sliding over your shin, grazing the corner of your mouth as if he’s trying to memorize you. He leans back just enough to create a sliver of space, his chest heaving against yours.

When his eyes snap open to meet yours, the vulnerability that washed over him moments ago has been swallowed by something else - something darker, hungrier. The gold of his irises nearly covered by the dilation of his pupils, his gaze dropping to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat before fixing on the fabric covering your chest.

His hand leaves your cheek, trailing down the side of your neck, his thumb dragging over your racing pulse. He lets the silence stretch while his hand continues its descent, skimming over your collarbone, down the center of your chest, until his palm flattens against your ribcage just below your breast. You can feel the heat of his skin radiating through your top, branding you.

“I need to taste you,” he rasps.

The words are low, guttural, vibrating in his chest and transferring straight to yours. It isn’t a question. Before you can process the shiver that races down your spine, Pope’s knees hit the floor. The movement is fluid and powerful. He sinks down before you, his height diminishing until his face is level with your stomach.

Looking down, the top of his head comes into view, the dark strands of his hair messy where your fingers are tangled. Your world suddenly narrows down to just him and the heat of his body. 

His hands grip your hips, fingers digging into the flesh there, possessive and grounding. He holds you steady as he leans in, pressing his face against your shirt. He inhales deeply, nose dragging against your stomach, and a low groan rumbles in his throat, a sound of pure need.

“Andrew,” you breathe.

He ignores your plea, or perhaps interprets it as encouragement, because his hands slide from your hips to the waistband of your pants. The button pops open with a sharp, audible click that echoes in the quiet room. The zipper follows, the teeth parting with a metallic hiss that seems deafening. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of both your pants and underwear, tugging them down in one rough, deliberate motion.

The air of the room hits your exposed skin as Pope drags the fabric down your legs, taking his time, palms grazing the sensitive skin behind your knees, calves, ankles. You step out of the pooled clothes, kicking them aside, leaving you bare from the waist down.

He leans back slightly, taking you in. The heat of his gaze is a physical weight, focusing intently on the apex of your thighs. You know what he sees - you can feel the evidence of it. You’re soaked, your lips swollen and glistening with the arousal that has been steadily building. 

“So fucking wet,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice rough with approval. He shifts closer, his hands coming up to grip the backs of your thighs, just below the curve of your ass. He urges you to widen your stance, and you obey, your legs trembling slightly as you shift your weight. The position leaves you completely open to him, vulnerable and exposed, but the rush of adrenaline only heightens the throbbing ache between your legs.

Pope doesn’t dive in immediately. He teases, tormenting you with his proximity. He leans forward, his face inches from you, but he doesn’t touch, just breathes.

The exhale is a gust of air that fans over you. The heat is intense, contrasting sharply with the dampness on your skin, and you gasp, your hips jerking toward him. His grip on your thighs tightens, holding you in place, preventing you from closing the distance.

“Stay still,” he orders, though his voice lacks any real discipline - it sounds wrecked.

He hovers so close, you can almost feel the phantom pressure of his lips. You feel the warmth of his breath washing over your clit, over your entrance, coating your sensitive flesh. It’s maddening, the anticipation coiling tight in your belly, your muscles clenching around nothing.

You look down, watching the top of his head, the way his neck muscles strain as he holds himself back. He’s breathing hard, you can see his shoulders rising and falling with the effort, and you realize he’s savoring this moment - the sight of you, the smell of you, the knowledge that he’s about to ruin you.

He presses his cheek against the inside of your thigh, rubbing his face against your skin. Finally, with a groan that sounds like a man breaking, he presses his mouth to your core.

The contact is electric. His tongue is hot and wet, delving deep into you with a hunger that borders on violence. He doesn’t start slow, there’s no gentle exploration, no tentative testing of the waters. He laps at you, flattening his tongue to drag it through your slit from your entrance to your clit in one long, broad stroke that collects every drop of your arousal.

You gasp, you hips bucking forward, fingers pulling desperately at his hair. “Andrew.”

The sound of his name tearing from your throat seems to spur him on. He seals his lips around you, sucking hard. “Fuck, you taste good,” he mumbles against you. He pulls back slightly, just enough to speak, a string of spit and arousal connecting his lips to your core. “So sweet.”

Before you can catch your breath, he dives back in, this time focusing his attention on your clit, flicking his tongue fast and hard. Your thighs tremble, the muscles straining as the pleasure coils tightly, threatening to snap. You try to close your legs, instinctively trying to protect yourself from the overwhelming intensity, but Pope’s shoulders are wedged firmly between them, holding you open.

“Don’t you dare,” he commands, releasing your clit just long enough to growl the order before burying his face as deep as it can go, his nose bumping against your pubic bone.

The pressure builds to a breaking point, a white-hot wave that starts at your toes and rushes upward. Suddenly, the heat vanishes, as Pope pulls away at the exact second your orgasm was about to take over. You gasp, a broken, desperate sound as your clit throbs with need.

Pope stands without speaking. He doesn’t look at your body with the hunger of a lover anymore. HIs gaze is detached and calculating as me moves with a terrifying calmness that contrasts sharply with the frantic thrumming of your blood. 

You watch through heavy-lidded eyes as he reaches for his belt, the leather creaking softly as he opens the buckle. He pulls the belt through the loops of his waistband, eyes locking onto yours, pinning you to the spot with a gaze that dares you to look away. He holds the belt in his hand for a moment, the heavy leather dangling, before dropping it carelessly onto the floor with a dull thud.

Your breath hitches in your throat. The denial is still singing your veins, making your skin hypersensitive.. You watch his hands move to the button of his jeans, popping it open before lowering his zipper inch by inch. He isn’t undressing - he’s forcing you to wait.

He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and boxers, staring at you, letting the silence stretch until it becomes suffocating, until the only sound in the kitchen is your ragged breathing.

“Get on your knees.” It isn’t a request.

A fresh spike of adrenaline shoots through your system, overriding the lingering frustration of the ruined orgasm. You scramble to obey, not thinking, just moving. Your legs feel clumsy and weak, but you force your body to kneel. The position instantly shifts your perspective. You’re smaller now, lower, looking up at him. 

From this angle, Pope seems massive. He looms over you, his legs spread slightly, his open fly framing the heavy outline of his cock. You sit back on your heels and look up at him, silently begging him to bridge the gap. 

Pope looks down at you, a dark, satisfied smirk touching the corner of his mouth. He sees the flush on your cheeks, the way your lips are parted, the hunger in your eyes that mirrors the wetness between your legs. He steps closer, invading your space until you have to tilt your head back further just to maintain eye contact.

“Good girl,” he mutters, the praise a low rumble in his chest. He lets his hands hang loose at his sides, waiting to see how far you’ll go to reclaim the pleasure he denied you.

You stare up at him from the floor, his smirk, the arrogant curl of his lips, snaps something inside you. The submission evaporates, replaced by a need to turn the tables. You surge upward from your heels, and before he can react, you slam your palms against his chest, shoving him backward with all the strength you have.

Andrew stumbles, his eyes widening in genuine surprise as you force him to walk backward to your bedroom. You don’t stop until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. With a final push, you send him tumbling onto the bed. He bounces slightly, his breath leaving him in a rush, but you’re already moving.

You climb onto the mattress, swinging a leg over his hips to straddle him. You lower your weight, your wet center pressing directly against the rough denim of his jeans. The friction is electric, but you ignore your own pleasure to focus on his reaction.

Your hands find the collar of his shirt, and you don’t bother with the buttons. You grip the fabric and tear, the sound of ripping threads loud in the quiet room. Buttons scatter across the duvet as you expose his chest, your nails raking possessively over his skin. Then you capture his mouth, your lips crashing against his, biting his lower lip hard enough to taste copper, forcing his head back into the pillows.

“Get these fucking things off,” you command, your voice low and ragged, leaving no room for argument. You shift your weight back, giving him just enough space to lift his hips. You yank the denim down his legs, finally stripping him bare.

When his cock springs free, your breath hitches. It’s thick and throbbing, the head flushed dark and leaking. You had every intention of making him wait, of hovering just out of reach until he was begging, but the sight of him makes you abandon your patience.

You lean down, spitting a thick glob of saliva onto the head before giving it a few rough strokes with your hand, mixing the slickness with his own arousal. You rise up, position the head at your dripping entrance, and slam your hips down, taking him to the hilt in one brutal motion.

You both cry out - your voice sharp, his a low groan - at the sudden stretch of him. You immediately take control, slamming down onto his lap in a punishing rhythm. Your thighs burn, slick with sweat, as you chase the friction you need.

“Fuck,” you gasp, digging your nails into his pecs are you ride him. You tilt your hips, grinding down until his cock drags against that electric spot inside you, the one that makes your spine arch and your toes curl against the sheets. Pope’s hands clamp onto your ass, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, his hips snapping up to meet yours in a collision of skin and heat.

You watch his face - the set of his jaw, the bead of sweat at his brow, the wild, glassy pleasure in his eyes - and you let yourself go. Your orgasm slams into you like a riptide, forcing your forward, clamping down around him in a relentless, greedy grip.

Your muscles ripple as you ride it out, the pleasure blurring into pain and back again. Pope arches up, a guttural sound wrenches from his throat as he grabs you harder, holding you in place as he drives up one last time, burying himself as deep as he can go.

You feel him throb, the heat of him spilling into you, and that last sensation - being filled, being claimed - triggers another shuddering spasm in you, an aftershock that makes you collapse against his chest.

You stay that way for a long moment, locked together, his cock still twitching inside you, your breaths mingling in the haze. You don’t want to move, don’t want to break the fragile shell of intimacy you’d built from violence and need.

Pope’s arms loosen around you, his hands trailing up your back, now soothing and gentle where they had been bruising. You realize you’re shaking, small uncontrollable shivers working through your limbs. Andrew holds you until they fade.

You raise your head to look at him, and find he’s already watching you, his expression vulnerable in the aftermath. Neither of you say anything, but a slow grin curves on Pope’s mouth, wry and a little awestruck.

You can’t help but smile in return. “Jesus,” you mutter. Pope huffs a laugh in return.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice hoarse.

You wake slowly, feeling a steady rise and fall beneath your cheek. Your head is resting against Andrew’s bare chest, one of his arms wrapped loosely around your waist, his hand relaxed against the small of your back. 

You smile. You’ve known Andrew Cody most of your life. You’ve seen him angry, terrified, heartbroken. You’ve seen him covered in blood and shaking from panic, but you’ve never seen him look this peaceful.His face is softer in sleep. He isn’t listening for danger, he’s simply resting.

Your fingers absentmindedly trace small circles against his shoulder, and his eyelashes flutter. “You awake?” 

“Think so,” he murmurs, voice rough with sleep. He doesn’t open his eyes right away, pulling you a little closer instead. Finally, he opens his eyes and the two of you simply look at each other. There’s no awkwardness, no regret. Just quiet certainty.

“You okay?” he asks.

“I’ve never been better.” Your response earns you a sleepy smile, one you know is only for you. You suspect you’ll never get tired of seeing it. “You?”

“I was worried that…” He trails off.

“Andrew?”

“Was worried you’d wake up and change your mind.”

Your heart breaks a little. You reach up and brush a strand of hair away from his forehead. “Andrew, I’ve spent half my life wishing we’d end up here.”

He searches your face, looking for even the smallest hint that you’re only saying what he wants to hear. He doesn’t find one. “Nobody’s ever stayed,” he admits quietly.

You shift up onto one elbow so you’re looking directly at him. “Well I’m not nobody.”

He reaches for your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. It still feels almost unbelievable to him that he can do something so simple. That he can hold your hand without wondering if he’s asking too much. “I don’t want to hide this.”

“You mean…us?”

He nods. “Spent my whole life hiding parts of myself,” he says, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I don’t wanna hide the good part.”

Tears sting your eyes, and you lean forward and kiss him. It’s slow, somehow already familiar. When you pull away, his forehead rests against yours. “I love you, Andrew,” you whisper.

He doesn’t look surprised at your admission. “I love you too.”

Later that morning, you walk hand in hand toward Smurf’s house. “You nervous?” you ask.

“A little.” He squeezes your hand. “If this goes bad…”

“It won’t change my mind.”

“If Smurf tries something, or if Baz - “

“We’ll deal with it,” you reassure. You stop walking, tugging his hand until he turns toward you. “So much of your life has been about surviving everyone else. So let’s stop letting them decide what we get to have.”

He studies your face, and for the first time in as long as you’ve known him, Andrew makes a choice that isn’t driven by fear, guilt, or obligation. “We’ll decide,” he affirms, lifting your hand to kiss your knuckles.

“We will.”

You start walking again, not as two friends carrying each other’s burdens, not as two lonely people clinging to familiar ground, but as two people who had spent a lifetime choosing each other long before they ever found the courage to call it love.

Jack who wants you to feel comfortable in your body with him. 

You took your time coming out of your clothes, not uncomfortable but timid. He helped you pull down your underwear once you were laying on his bed, nodding when he asked if he could, and now he’s on his knees between your thighs. Studying you with those pretty eyes that make your entire body tingle.

You’re starting to feel anxious about how he’s looking at your breasts, your tummy, and your bush as he settles onto his elbows and stomach, his gruff hands cupping the backs of your thighs to part them and making you twitch. “You okay?” Jack is asking and you nod again. The last thing he wants is to flare up your anxieties. He wants to sooth you…skimming his nose along your inner thighs and breathing you in. 

Nuzzling his nose to your bush and pressing a kiss to it, then another, trailing his mouth to just beneath your tummy to kiss there, too. Looking up at you and feeling your body start to relax in his hands. Looking down at him as he goes to hide his nose in your bush and kiss it again before his eyes meet yours. Hearing him nearly groan the statement, “You’re s’beautiful.”

Jack who takes his time tasting you because it’s the first time you’ve let him. 

You’ve only held hands, cuddled, and kissed before, and if you were both a little drunk after a date…maybe dry humped on your couch. But you’d ultimately tell him you’re not ready for sex and he never pressured you. He knows it’d been a while for you and understands that you want and need to feel safe in that kind of vulnerability when you allow someone inside of you again.

All he wants from you is…you. He likes your smile, your quirks, your thoughts when you share them. Late night rides in his pick-up truck on the weekends after you’d grabbed dinner together or early morning phone calls when you’d set an alarm to be up around when he’s getting home from work so you’re awake when he calls you. He’s never asked you to do that but you like hearing his thoughts, too. About his night, about his strangest cases, about you…and he likes to hear your sleepy voice in his ear. He just likes to spend time with you any way you let him. 

And now that you’re letting him spend as much time as he wants to run his tongue up and down your pussy, nestling it between your slick folds that grow even slicker when he softly spits on your clit and laps it up...you can tell he’s enjoying every single second of this. Especially when you start to twitch on his tongue and fidget in his hands on your hips, giving him broken whines as he suckles and licks a hot, pulsing orgasm from you. 

He keeps licking after you come, fat circles on your tender clit, because he loves how you throb with each trace of his tongue, how your thighs tremble on his shoulders, and how you look as he gazes up at you. Your head tilting on the pillow and eyes squeezing shut as you pull on the sheets to avoid pulling at his hair…but a minute later, you’re tugging on it because he’s suckling you again, wetting the scruff of his chin and smearing kisses on your clit that reveal a peek of his tongue through his lips when he rolls it on you. 

The contrast in texture, prickly beard and soft tongue, and the squelching sound of him making a mess of your pussy with his saliva and your slick is so seductive. Makes you groan when he holds you to his mouth with his forearm now flat on your belly and his hand sliding up your waist to keep you still. But you’re begging him now to stop because you’re starting to feel that white-hot, delicious ache in your core like maybe you’ll come again but too hard and he pulls back an inch to ask sweetly, “Five more minutes?”

Jack who wants to make you feel good. That’s his only mission tonight. 

He’s hungry for you but he was mostly teasing with his question, and when you flash him a weak grin, he smirks back after he removes his mouth from you. He wants you to know you’re in control…whatever brings you pleasure, he will do and what does not, he will not. That’s why he’s peppering kisses on your face to make you grin again after he settles on top of you. Mumbles the question, “How you feeling?” as he kisses your neck and a collarbone. 

You tell him you’re feeling good…blissed out, really…but maybe ready for more. Especially when you can feel his dick resting on your belly and growing hard with a thump every few seconds. That makes you grab his face to kiss his mouth and inhale his quiet moan when you tilt up your hips until his dick slips lower and wedges between your folds. Rocking yourself against him and coating him in your juices, feeling him pulse and listening to him sigh when you lock eyes with him. 

He’s stuck on you, too, watching how your lips part, listening to how you breathe heavier when he presses his hips to you to add a bit more pressure. Then he’s kissing you again and palming the sheets while his other hand reaches underneath you, gripping your ass as he rolls his hips in rhythm with you. No rush to push in because he can feel how this is going to make you come.

Jack who’s about to come just from feeling you come as you grind yourself against his dick.

You’re so warm and silken and soaked that he has to hold still for a moment while you’re bucking against him. Before your eyes close, you catch his face crumbling as he stares down at you as you get off on him. His arms are extended and stiff as the muscles tense and his fingers dig into the sheets as he tries to concrete on anything that isn’t how pretty you look losing yourself…on how good you feel fluttering on him.

He’s still resisting the tug deep in his core to come all over your cute belly, but he can’t help but lean in to kiss you and taste your breathy grunts. You make him grunt back when you lightly run your nails down his back and cup his butt in your hands to pull him closer, kissing the corner of his mouth as you murmur to him, “I want you inside me.” Feeling confident in yourself now, telling him what you want, and knowing he’s eager to deliver. Your words make him shiver and he’s about 89% confident he won’t come as soon as you’re wrapped around him.

Jack who’s going to do everything in his power to make this last for his woman.

He’s dragging the thick tip of his dick up and down your pussy to wet it more and get his breathing under control before he nudges into you. Watching your face again to see how you respond as you feel yourself opening up for him when he gives you a little more. 

Even though you feel him spreading you, it’s not painful, just…challenging. A good challenge. It feels good, he’s making you feel full from just a couple of inches, and it makes you whine to him as you hook your thighs to his waist and bury your face in his chest where you can feel his heart pounding hard against your cheek. 

Your heartbeat is just as erratic because you’ve never felt like you were going to come so soon after an orgasm from just three inches fitting inside you. But he was also pushing up on your spot with each little thrust of his hips and your body was tensing, curling into him as your hands grasp at his lower back. 

Maybe you want to feel him sink in deeper, but right now you couldn’t think straight because he’s lifting and pinning your right thigh to the bed to better angle himself and feeling you shake and you’re about to lose your mind again. And when he purrs above you, “Does it feel good, baby?” and kisses your forehead, you break and sob and come so hard your back arches off the bed. He’s halfway inside you.

Jack milks your pleasure for all it’s worth because he knows you were anxious about all the things he likes about you. He’s pressing hips to yours but barely tapping the depths of you because he doesn’t want to pound you out, not yet. He wants to savor this, you…

He pins your other thigh now, too, palms at the creases of your knees as he finds the right pace to knead your spot and make you feel exposed to another orgasm…you feel it building and smoldering and making you mewl to him. It takes you a while but you let that feeling start to consume you, falling under that fire that he carefully calms with his body covering yours, kissing your lips, and massaging your breast in his hand while the other threads into your hair.

Feeling him gently turn your head to groan softly in your ear, “Is it all for me? Yeah?” when you’re still contracting around him and whimpering. Listening to you breathe back that yes, every moan, every shudder, it’s for him. And the way he works you, asks if you’re ready to change positions, if you want to come for him again…you know that everything he’s doing is all for you.

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--🩷--

Sammy's on a work call at 2am. He was sitting up in bed, listening, scribbling on some paper by his lamp. His back was facing you - that was his first mistake.

'Noooo,' you whine, shaking your head. You didn't want him to go and leave your bed cold again. Sammy shrugs his shoulders apologetically.

You're put your arms around his waist as he listens, your hand roams downwards to his tummy. You loved his tummy.

Sammy stiffens and gave a quick shake of his head. Ignoring him, you carry on, tickling his tummy with your soft fingertips. You were thoroughly enjoying watching him squirming.

'ssstop it,' Sammy half turns and mouths to you.

'Wha-aat?' you whisper, pretending not to understand, your breath against his ear.

You watched a flush on his neck bloom as you leaned your head slightly to suck the spot under his ear.

You can tell it hits by the moan he disguises as a cough. 'Mmmm.. uhhhmf... ahhem.'

Sammy flusters and changes ear. 'No-ooooo, now's a good time,' he hiccups weakly.

'Stay quiet,' you whispered to him. Sammy reached out to touch your face. 'No touching,' you whisper, enjoying the way his face falls.

Your fingers trail slowly down his body, barely a whisper, You slide your free hand up his chest and start running your fingers over his soft plush skin. You feel Sammy start to relax under your touch. Your index and thumb drift towards his closest nipple. It's hardening already and Sammy knows exactly what you're going to do.

Sammy's eyes widened and he was starting with his tell-tale glow.

Sammy is shaking his head at you and squirming. He tries to move away from you but there's nowhere to go. He's trapped with the headboard behind him and the lamp to the side. He goes to put his hands on your shoulders, bring you in closer, but he remembers last second he can't touch you.

You turn in your fingers and scraaatch down his chest with three nails. Blood rushes to the raised welts, and Sammy's cock pulsed erratically.

He was trying so hard to listen to the phone call, offering 'mmhmm's and 'ahuh,'s every now and then, but it was impossible to ignore you.

Your fingers drift under his soft, generous tummy to toy with the waistband of his boxers.

You watch Sammy's cock twitch again beneath the fabric. You hadn't even touched him yet.

Your fingers slipped in and out of the waistband, dancing between his hips, never more than a few inches below. In out in out in out.

Your fingers ran through the soft line of pubic hair which started below his belly button and disappeared into his boxers. Sammy was desperately writing.

Sammy lifted up his note paper to show you a scrawl. please :(

You laughed and shook your head. Your fingers slide in, just above his cock, and felt it pulse. Sammy tried to stifle a low moan at the back of his throat.

You lean up close against him, fingers working their way around his cock, careful not to touch it. There was a sharp intake of breath as Sammy's back stiffens. You flash him a sugary-sweet smile as you scrape the insides of his thick thighs with your nails. You dug in deep, enough for him to bite through his lip, just enough to drive him wild. His thighs were almost as sensitive as his nipples. He was self-conscious about both but you loved toying with him.

Sammy raises his wrist to brush you off. 'No touching,' you remind him in a breathy whisper, down the ear the phone is held to. Sammy drops his hand again, but shakes his head wildly.

He jerks the phone away, but his eyes have dilated and are rolling towards the ceiling.

'Good boy.' You flick his soft thigh along the scearches. The deep flush settling in on his face to stay and his forehead broke out in a light sheen of sweat.

Sammy is scrawling again. He lifts up the pad to show you.

take me out

Sammy had circled the please :( three times.

You reach in and push the front of his boxers down.

Sammy's chubby cock is hanging heavy, flopping out. His big balls spill into the bottom of his boxers, filling them.

He is hard as a rock by now.

You take him in your hand, watching his eyes widen. Sammy tries not to stammer down the phone.

You start slowly pumping him, gently massaging his cock in your palm. Sammy's breath hitches and his hips move, gently chasing the friction.

You know from experience if he carries on fucking up into your fist like that, he's not gonna last.

Good. You want him to cum down the phone. Cum loudly in front of his boss.

Sammy puts his hand over the mic.

'Nooo... s-stop baby. Fuck I'm gonna...'

You stop as he asks, and smirk at the disappointment on his face as his rising orgasm fades.

You slouch down the bed, flashing Sammy another sugary sweet smile.

You see the the exact moment Sammy realises what you're doing.

It's too late.

The second your mouth is on him, Sammy whimpers. Loud.

You keep going, swirling your tongue around the underside of his mushroomy head. You make a tight, wet circle with your lips.

Sammy watches, completely wrecked, as his angry, weeping head pushes into your mouth.

It takes no time.

You gag on it as it hits the back of your throat.

Sammy can't stifle his whine.

His breathing is uneven as you drool all over it. Squelching noises echo in the quiet room as he fucks your face.

Sammy's hand was white-knuckling the phone. He was too far gone to hear a word.

'Sammy,' you whispered. 'Sammy, look at me.'

Sammy's eyes flicked briefly from your sloppy hand.

'Do the thing.'

Sammy blinked slowly at you.

'I want you to do... the thing.'

Sammy gulped.

'I'll try.'

You can see the effect the words had had on him, and his eyes were starting to roll.

's-sorry... fuck - not you, Sal.'

You leaned back on the bed, rolling the shirt of his you always slept in up, freeing your bare tits.

Sammy froze.

You gently squeezed his fist, encouraging Sammy to keep pumping into his hand.

Sammy's mouth fell slack-jawed as he concentrated.

'I can't hold it... oh fuck I ca-can'tttt....'

A bark of 'Sammy?' filtered down the phone.

'Nooooo stop... stop...' He let out a big groan and came.

He was moaning, 'uh huhhh... mmmf,' as he shuddered.

Sammy's meaty hand tried to guide his chubby cock along your stomach.

He managed to paint an m... then an i...

His eyes were rolling into the back of his head.

He painted a very squiggly n... then tailed off with an illegible e. Sammy milked his cock hard. The final sputtering, the last few pathetic drops, ended the word with messy punctuation.

Sammy let out a low, rumbling groan. His guttural keening transferred right down the phone line.

'Sammy!'

Sammy couldn't find it in him to be sorry; it felt too fucking good.

As he was coming down from his high, he bit down hard on his bottom lip. The fading trails of the shooting star left his muscles pulsing. His head spun.

Sammy reached out with his hand, letting his spent cock slap against his thigh. It began curling up, damp against his scratchy pubic hair.

Sammy's hand landed on your stomach, knowing he could finally touch you now he had cum.

He very gently began to spread his cum put across your tummy, swirling it into a big smear.

'Mine,' he whispered.