Thinking about writing a college-era Stan Rosado fic, but I need help choosing the premise.
Option One: Stan immediately falls for the studious, academically driven girl in his class who is completely unimpressed by his flirting and refuses to fall for his usual charm, which, naturally, only makes him want her more.
Option Two: Stan begins struggling academically and gets paired with a quiet, shy tutor who patiently helps him. Somewhere between late-night study sessions and slowly getting her to open up, they fall ridiculously hard for each other.
Either way: party-jock Stan Rosado falling hopelessly in love with the academic girl 💌
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Summary: A carnival. An ugly bear. A Ferris wheel. One summer neither of you is supposed to take too seriously.
Warnings: Fluff, mutual pining, young Jack Abbot, summer romance, kissing, emotional conversations about impending separation, brief suggestive make-out scene, Reader is Robby’s sister
Author’s Note: Welcome to the carnival date, lovelies. Featuring: young Jack Abbot spending entirely too much money on an ugly bear, one emotionally loaded Ferris wheel ride, fireworks by the lake, and the photograph that changes everything. And yes, Jack keeps the photo strip. Thank you @hellcatxspngld for the lovely idea for the carnival date!
Xoxo, Del
| Prologue | Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 | Chpt. 3 |
The carnival came into view before the lake did.
Colored lights flickered between the trees, bright against the deepening blue of the evening sky. Music drifted across the road in uneven bursts, tangled with distant laughter and the metallic creak of rides turning somewhere beyond the boardwalk.
You sat forward in the passenger seat, one sneaker braced against the floor.
You had changed before leaving the club, trading your work polo and tennis skirt for jean shorts and the worn band T-shirt you had stuffed into your bag that morning.
At the time, it had only been about getting comfortable for the ride home.
Now, with Jack freshly showered beside you and carnival lights appearing through the trees, you were suddenly very glad you had.
“You really meant carnival,” you said.
Jack glanced toward you.
“I told you I did,” he replied.
You looked through the windshield at the Ferris wheel rising above the trees.
“I thought it would be smaller,” you admitted.
Jack turned the Jeep into the gravel parking lot.
“We can still leave,” he offered.
You looked toward him.
“Do you want to?” you asked.
Jack’s hand paused on the steering wheel.
“No,” he answered.
The single word sent warmth creeping into your cheeks.
You reached down for your bag.
“Good,” you said. “I’m hungry.”
Jack’s mouth curved.
“That doesn’t surprise me,” he replied.
You looked at him.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked.
Jack guided the Jeep into an open space near the edge of the lot.
“You’ve mentioned food three times since we left the club,” he explained.
You counted backward in your head.
“I mentioned dinner once,” you argued.
Jack shifted the Jeep into park.
“You mentioned dinner, fries, and whether the gas station still sells those chocolate-covered pretzels,” he reminded you.
You opened your door.
“That was one ongoing conversation,” you insisted.
Jack shut off the engine.
“It lasted fifteen minutes,” he pointed out.
You climbed out of the Jeep and swung your bag over one shoulder.
“It was an important conversation,” you said.
Jack came around the front of the Jeep to join you.
“I could tell,” he replied.
The carnival spread along the edge of the lake, crowded with food stands, game booths, and rides that looked only slightly more secure than they sounded.
Strings of lights hung above the boardwalk. Children darted between adults with prizes clutched beneath their arms, and music from three different rides competed over the noise of the crowd.
You slowed near the entrance.
Jack stopped beside you.
You reached into your bag for your wallet.
“How much are the tickets?” you asked.
Jack had already pulled out a few bills. “I’ve got it,” he said.
You looked toward him.
“You don’t have to pay for me,” you reminded him.
Jack stepped toward the booth.
“I know,” he replied.
The attendant glanced between you before accepting Jack’s money.
“How many?” the attendant asked.
“Ten, please,” Jack replied.
The attendant counted them out and slid them beneath the window.
Jack split the tickets into two even stacks and handed you five.
“Thank you,” you said.
“You bought me lunch all week,” Jack reminded you.
You folded the tickets into your palm.
“That was mostly stolen,” you admitted.
Jack nodded once. “Then we’re even.”
You stepped away from the booth with him.
The crowd had thickened around the entrance. A family stopped directly in front of you to reorganize three children and an overloaded stroller.
You moved to step around them.
Jack’s hand settled against your lower back. The touch was light at first, meant only to guide you around the stroller and into the narrow opening beside him.
Then it stayed.
His palm remained warm through the thin fabric of your T-shirt as he steered you closer to his side.
You looked toward him.
Jack kept his attention on the path ahead. He did not seem to realize he was still touching you.
Or he realized and had decided not to move.
You faced forward before he could catch you staring.
A ride swung high above the crowd nearby, turning its passengers upside down before dropping them toward the boardwalk.
You tipped your head back to watch it.
Jack followed your gaze.
“I’m not getting on that,” he said.
You turned toward him.
“I didn’t ask you to,” you pointed out.
Jack studied the ride.
“You were thinking about it,” he replied.
“I was watching,” you corrected.
Jack guided you around another group of people, his hand shifting slightly against the curve of your back.
“That thing arrived on the back of a truck yesterday,” he said.
You laughed.
Jack glanced toward you.
His attention lingered long enough that his expression softened. His hand remained exactly where it was.
A few steps later, you nodded toward the Ferris wheel turning slowly over the lake.
“What about that one?” you asked.
Jack looked toward the enclosed cars.
“That one isn’t trying to throw anyone into the water,” he replied.
You smiled. “Is that a yes?”
Jack looked back at you.
“That’s a yes,” he confirmed.
You turned toward the boardwalk again.
A lemonade stand sat just ahead, its painted sign promising drinks large enough to require two hands.
You slowed.
Jack noticed immediately.
“Already?” he asked.
You pointed toward the enormous cups lined across the counter.
“Walking is thirsty work,” you explained.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
“We’ve made it twenty feet,” he replied.
You looked at him.
“And I’ve done very well,” you said.
Jack shook his head, but his hand slid from your lower back only so he could reach for his wallet again.
You caught his wrist before he could pull it free. “I’m buying the lemonade.”
Jack looked down at your hand around his wrist.
“You can buy something later,” he said.
You tightened your fingers slightly.
“You already bought the tickets,” you reminded him.
Jack looked back at you. “And now I’m buying the lemonade,” he replied.
You pulled his hand away from his pocket.
“That is not how taking turns works,” you argued.
Jack’s mouth curved. “We’re taking turns?”
“We are now,” you decided.
Jack let you keep hold of his wrist as the two of you stepped into line.
“Good to know,” he said.
The vendor leaned across the counter.
“What can I get you?” the vendor asked.
You looked toward the row of cups.
“One large lemonade, please,” you ordered.
Jack glanced at the size of the cup pictured on the sign.
“One?” he asked.
You looked toward him.
“You planning to drink an entire one by yourself?” you asked.
Jack folded his arms. “I could.”
You smiled.
“I believe you,” you said.
The vendor filled a clear plastic cup with ice and pale yellow lemonade before pressing a lid into place.
“Two straws?” the vendor asked.
You looked toward Jack.
Jack was already looking at you.
“Two, please,” you answered.
The vendor pushed both straws through the lid and held the cup across the counter.
You paid before Jack could interfere and accepted the lemonade with both hands.
Jack watched you take the first drink.
“Well?” he asked.
You swallowed and considered it. “It tastes like sugar with a lemon nearby.”
Jack held out one hand.
“Let me try,” he replied.
You passed him the cup.
Jack bent toward the second straw and took a drink while you continued holding it. His face remained carefully neutral. You studied him.
“You hate it,” you said.
Jack straightened. “I didn’t say that,” he replied.
“You made a face,” you accused.
Jack looked toward the cup.
“It’s aggressive,” he decided.
You laughed.
“It’s lemonade,” you said.
Jack took the cup from you and carried it in one hand.
“It’s syrup,” he corrected.
“You’re still drinking it,” you pointed out.
Jack leaned toward his straw again.
“I’m making sure you didn’t waste your money,” he said.
You stared at him.
“That is very generous of you,” you replied.
Jack took another drink.
“Thank you,” he said.
You accepted the cup and fell into step beside him.
The crowd pressed close again as you moved deeper onto the boardwalk.
Jack’s hand returned to your lower back without hesitation.
You took another drink from your straw.
Jack leaned toward the other at the same time.
Your shoulders bumped.
Both of you stopped.
Your faces hovered over the lid, close enough that you could feel his breath beneath the sharp sweetness of the lemonade.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours.
For one suspended second, neither of you drank.
A child darted between you and the nearby booth, knocking lightly into Jack’s side.
Jack caught the lemonade before it tipped.
You stepped back, laughing under your breath.
“That was close,” you said.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Was it?” he asked.
Jack’s mouth curved.
He kept his hand against your back as the two of you continued down the boardwalk.
The boardwalk opened ahead of you in a blur of blinking signs, spinning rides, and game attendants calling out promises neither of you believed. You carried the lemonade between you. Jack leaned down for his straw whenever he wanted another drink, forcing you to slow so the cup would not tilt.
Each time, his shoulder brushed yours.
Each time, you became a little more aware of how close he was.
The smell of fried dough reached you before you saw the stand.
You stopped walking.
Jack nearly bumped into you. He followed your gaze toward a paper plate disappearing beneath a cloud of powdered sugar.
“That?” he asked.
You nodded without looking away. “That,” you confirmed.
Jack reached for his wallet.
“My turn,” he said. “We’re taking turns, remember?”
You looked toward him.
“I’m glad you’re learning,” you replied.
Jack’s mouth curved.
He stepped up to the counter while you found an empty bench near the railing.
The lake stretched beyond the boardwalk, darkening beneath the last streaks of evening light. The carnival lights reflected across the surface in broken trails of red, yellow, and blue.
Jack returned with one funnel cake buried beneath far too much powdered sugar.
You shifted over to make room for him.
Jack sat beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours immediately.
Neither of you moved away.
He balanced the plate across both your knees and set the lemonade beside him.
You tore off a piece of funnel cake and took a bite.
The dough was still warm, and powdered sugar scattered across your fingers.
You reached for another piece.
Jack reached toward the plate at the same time.
Your hands brushed. Both of you paused. You looked down at the piece already pinched between your fingers, then toward Jack.
“Here,” you offered.
You held the piece toward him. Jack looked at your hand. Then he looked at you.
“What?” you asked.
Jack’s mouth curved slightly.
“Nothing,” he replied.
He leaned closer and took the bite from your fingers.
His lips brushed your fingertips.
You forgot to pull your hand away.
Jack noticed. His eyes lifted to yours as he sat back.
Neither of you spoke.
His thigh remained pressed against yours. Your fingertips tingled where his mouth had touched them. You lowered your hand slowly.
Jack reached for the lemonade, but his attention stayed on you.
You looked out toward the lake before he could see how badly one small touch had affected you.
The boardwalk moved around you.
A ride rattled overhead. Someone won a game nearby, and a bell rang through the noise. Jack took another piece of funnel cake from the plate.
You glanced toward him.
He was still sitting close. His arm rested behind you along the back of the bench, not quite touching your shoulders.
The thought that had followed you from the Jeep pressed against the back of your teeth.
You tore a small piece from the edge of the funnel cake.
“Is this a date?” you asked.
Jack’s expression shifted. Not much. Just enough. His eyes remained on yours while the carnival carried on around you.
“Does it feel like one?” he asked.
You glanced at the shared lemonade, the powdered sugar across both your hands, and the way his thigh remained pressed firmly against yours.
“Yes,” you answered.
Jack nodded once.
“Then I guess it is,” he said.
Warmth climbed into your face.
You looked toward the lake again.
Jack gave you a few seconds to recover before he reached for another piece of funnel cake.
Neither of you mentioned the word again.
You did not need to.
By the time the plate held nothing but powdered sugar and a few broken pieces of dough, the sky had deepened from blue to violet.
Jack gathered the empty plate and stood.
You reached for the lemonade and took the last drink.
Jack held one hand toward you.
You looked at it for half a second before placing yours in his.
He helped you to your feet.
You tossed the empty cup into the nearest trash can.
The practical reason for touching ended as soon as you were standing.
Jack did not let go.
His fingers shifted around yours instead, fitting between them as the two of you stepped back into the crowd.
You looked down at your joined hands.
Jack’s thumb moved once across your knuckles.
You tightened your fingers around his.
A few booths later, you spotted a striped cart with clouds of pink and blue cotton candy turning slowly behind the glass.
A soft, delighted sound escaped you before you could stop it.
Jack stopped immediately. “What happened?” he asked.
You pointed toward the cart. “Cotton candy,” you said.
Jack followed your finger. The concern left his face.
“That was the emergency?” he asked.
You looked toward him.
“I haven’t had it in years,” you explained.
Jack’s mouth curved as he led you toward the cart. The vendor pulled a fresh paper cone from beneath the counter.
“Pink or blue?” the vendor asked.
“Both, please,” you answered.
Jack looked toward you.
“You couldn’t choose?” he asked.
You shook your head.
“They don’t taste the same,” you explained.
Jack glanced at the sugar spinning inside the machine.
“They’re both sugar,” he pointed out.
You looked at him sharply.
“That is an incredibly uninformed opinion,” you said.
Jack folded his arms.
“I’m willing to be educated,” he replied.
The vendor built the cotton candy into a large, uneven cloud, blue on one side and pink on the other. Jack reached for his wallet before you could open your bag.
“It’s my turn,” you reminded him.
Jack looked toward you. “Not after that noise,” he said.
You stared at him. “What noise?” you asked.
Jack’s smile widened. “The happy one,” he replied.
Heat climbed into your face.
“I did not make a noise,” you insisted.
Jack handed the vendor a few bills.
“You did,” he said.
You accepted the cotton candy with both hands.
“You imagined it,” you argued.
Jack stepped closer.
“I liked it,” he admitted.
Heat rushed into your face before you could stop it. You looked down at the cotton candy, suddenly far too interested in the way the blue side had begun to pull apart in the warm evening air.
Jack did not say anything else. He did not have to.
You pinched off a piece and held it toward him.
“Try this,” you told him.
Jack looked at the sugar between your fingers.
“I know what cotton candy tastes like,” he said.
You moved the piece closer. “Not this one,” you insisted.
Jack glanced from the cotton candy to you.
“What’s different about it?” he asked.
“Blue tastes better than pink,” you explained.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
“They’re the same flavor,” he said.
You frowned at him. “They absolutely are not,” you argued.
Jack looked amused, but he leaned down and took the blue cotton candy from your fingers. The sugar dissolved almost immediately. You watched his face.
“Well?” you asked.
Jack considered it with more seriousness than the question deserved.
“It tastes blue,” he decided.
Your smile widened.
“Exactly,” you said.
Jack looked toward the pink side of the cotton candy.
“I should probably compare them,” he said.
You pinched off a piece of pink. “For accuracy?” you asked.
Jack nodded solemnly.
“For accuracy,” he confirmed.
You held it toward him.
Jack took that piece from your fingers too, his lips brushing your fingertips just enough to send the memory of the funnel cake rushing back through you.
He noticed the way your hand paused. His eyes lifted to yours. You swallowed.
“Well?” you asked.
Jack remained close.
“You were right,” he admitted. “Blue is better.”
You smiled in triumph.
“I knew it,” you said.
Jack took the paper cone from you before reaching for your hand again.
His fingers threaded through yours as the two of you continued down the boardwalk. He carried the cotton candy in his free hand, holding it between you whenever you reached for another piece.
Every few steps, you tore one off and offered it to him.
Every time, Jack leaned down and accepted it.
The game booths began a few yards ahead.
Brightly painted signs promised oversized prizes for deceptively simple tasks. Stuffed animals hung from every awning, most of them cheap, lopsided, and aggressively colorful.
You stopped so suddenly that Jack nearly walked into you.
“Oh my God,” you breathed. “Look at him.”
Jack followed your gaze.
A stuffed animal dangled from the corner of a ring-toss booth. It might have been a bear. Its eyes were sewn so far apart that they appeared to be looking in opposite directions. Its nose sat strangely high on its forehead, one ear folded forward, and its arms were two different lengths.
Jack stared at it. “Yeah,” he said slowly.
You turned toward him.
“Isn’t he perfect?” you asked.
Jack looked back at the animal. “What is he?”
You frowned at him.
“He’s obviously a bear,” you said.
Jack tilted his head.
“Is he?” Jack asked.
You looked toward the prize again.
The bear’s uneven eyes stared vaguely past both of you.
“He’s trying his best,” you defended.
Jack’s mouth twitched. You stepped closer to the booth.
“Look at his little face,” you said. “He’s so ugly.”
Jack reached into his back pocket. You glanced toward him. He was already pulling out his wallet.
“Jack,” you said.
Jack handed the cotton candy to you before passing a few bills to the attendant.
“What?” he asked.
“You don’t have to play,” you told him.
Jack accepted three rings from the attendant.
“I know,” he replied.
You looked from the rings to him.
“You don’t even like him,” you pointed out.
Jack glanced toward the crooked bear.
“I don’t know what he is,” he corrected.
You laughed.
Jack looked at you, his expression softening at the sound.
“You like him,” Jack added.
The answer made your smile turn quieter.
Jack faced the bottles before you could respond. The attendant slid the bottles into place. Jack picked up the first ring and turned it between his fingers. You stepped beside him, still holding the cotton candy.
“This is completely rigged,” you warned.
Jack narrowed his eyes at the bottles.
“Probably,” he agreed.
“You could stop now,” you told him.
Jack adjusted the ring between his fingers.
“You said he was perfect,” he reminded you.
You looked toward the bear. “He is,” you said.
Jack threw the first ring.
It bounced off the neck of a bottle and landed on the floor. Jack reached for the second. The ring clipped another bottle and skittered away. You pressed your lips together. Jack glanced toward you.
“Don’t,” he warned.
You lifted both hands, the cotton candy wobbling between them.
“I didn’t say anything,” you replied.
“You were about to,” Jack said.
Jack picked up the final ring. The cheap little bear swayed above him in the lake breeze. Jack looked at you once. Then he threw. The final ring struck the neck of a bottle, spun around the glass, and dropped to the floor.
You winced.
Jack stared at the bottles. The attendant gathered the rings without looking remotely surprised.
“Another round?” the attendant asked.
Jack reached toward his wallet. You caught his wrist.
“No,” you told him. “He’s not worth your entire paycheck.”
Jack looked toward the misshapen bear.
“He’s barely worth what I’ve already spent,” Jack agreed.
You laughed and tugged gently at his arm.
“Come on,” you said. “You tried.”
Jack let you lead him away from the booth.
He looked back at the bear once.
You did not notice. A few booths farther down, a bell rang sharply above the crowd. You turned toward the sound. A tall wooden high striker stood at the edge of the boardwalk, its painted ruler stretching toward a brass bell at the top. A heavy wooden mallet rested beside the metal platform at its base. Jack stopped walking. You felt his hand leave yours.
“No,” you said immediately.
Jack looked toward you.
“I didn’t say anything,” he replied.
“You stopped,” you pointed out.
Jack glanced back at the high striker.
“I was looking,” he said.
“You were thinking about it,” you corrected.
Jack’s mouth curved slightly. “Maybe,” he admitted.
The attendant lifted the mallet and rested it across the counter.
“Ring the bell and pick any prize,” the attendant announced.
Your eyes moved toward the prizes hanging behind him.
The crooked bear dangled from one of the hooks.
You looked at Jack.
Jack was already reaching for his wallet.
“You cannot be serious,” you said.
Jack glanced toward the crooked bear.
“You wanted the bear,” he reminded you.
“I also wanted you to stop spending money,” you pointed out.
Jack passed a few bills to the attendant.
“I’m not leaving without it,” he said.
The attendant pushed the mallet toward him.
Jack wrapped both hands around the handle and tested its weight.
You tightened your fingers around the cotton candy.
He rolled his shoulders once, then pushed the sleeves of his faded T-shirt higher along his arms. That was unnecessary. It was also extremely distracting. Jack glanced toward you.
“You all right?” he asked.
You dragged your attention back to his face.
“Fine,” you answered.
Jack’s mouth twitched. He knew you were lying. He stepped onto the platform and spread his feet beside the metal plate. The attendant gestured toward the bell.
“You’ve got one swing,” the attendant explained.
Jack adjusted his grip on the mallet.
“Only need one,” he replied.
Your stomach dipped.
Jack said it without looking at you, his attention fixed on the striker as he adjusted his stance.
That somehow made it worse.
Or better.
Definitely better.
“You’re very confident for someone who just lost at ring toss,” you called.
Jack looked over his shoulder at you. “This one makes sense,” he said.
He turned back toward the striker and lifted the mallet over his shoulder.
Then he swung.
The wooden head struck the plate with a crack that vibrated through the boardwalk.
The metal puck shot up the painted ruler.
It hit the bell hard enough to send the sharp ring across the carnival.
You startled, then laughed.
Jack straightened slowly and looked toward you. The satisfaction on his face was immediate and completely unguarded.
The attendant pointed toward the prizes.
“Pick one,” the attendant instructed.
Jack did not look at the display. He pointed straight toward the crooked bear.
“That one,” Jack said.
The attendant stared at him.
“The bear?” the attendant clarified.
Jack nodded. “The ugly one,” he confirmed.
You pressed your lips together, failing to contain your smile.
The attendant unhooked the bear and handed it to Jack.
Up close, it looked even worse. One eye sat noticeably higher than the other. Its nose had been sewn almost between its eyebrows, and one arm hung lower than the other. Jack held it in front of himself and studied its face.
“I think it got worse,” he said.
You stepped closer. “He’s beautiful,” you insisted.
Jack looked from the bear to you. Then he held it out.
“He’s yours,” Jack said.
You accepted it carefully, tucking the crooked creature against your chest. The cheap fur scratched faintly beneath your chin.
You looked up at Jack.
“Thank you,” you said.
Jack watched your face rather than the prize. His expression softened.
“Worth it,” he replied.
Your smile widened.
You tucked the bear beneath one arm while Jack took the nearly empty cotton-candy cone from you.
He pulled off the last piece of blue and held it toward your mouth.
You accepted it, smiling as the sugar dissolved against your tongue.
Jack crumpled the empty paper cone and dropped it into a nearby trash can.
His hand returned to your lower back as the two of you stepped into the crowd.
The Ferris wheel rose above the boardwalk ahead, its lights reflecting across the lake.
You looked toward it.
Jack followed your gaze.
“Still want to go?” he asked.
“You said that one was safe,” you reminded him.
Jack studied the cars turning slowly overhead. “Safer,” he corrected.
You smiled. “Good enough.”
Jack pulled two tickets from the strip and handed them to the attendant.
The attendant opened the door to the next car and gestured for you to get inside.
You stepped onto the platform with the bear tucked against your chest. The car shifted beneath your weight. Jack caught your elbow.
“I’ve got you,” he said.
You looked down at his hand around your arm.
“I thought this was the safe one,” you teased.
Jack steadied the car while you slid across the bench.
“Safer,” he corrected.
You settled the bear in your lap. Jack climbed in beside you, and the attendant lowered the metal bar across your legs. The car rocked as the wheel began to move. You gripped the bar with one hand. Jack looked toward you.
“You scared?” he asked.
“No,” you answered too quickly.
Jack glanced at your fingers wrapped around the bar.
“Right,” he said.
You loosened your grip. “I’m adjusting,” you explained.
Jack stretched one arm across the back of the seat behind you.
“To the safe ride?” he asked.
You turned toward him.
“You’re being very smug for someone who refused to ride anything that moves faster than walking speed,” you pointed out.
Jack looked toward the boardwalk below.
“I know my limits,” he replied.
The car climbed higher. Beneath you, the carnival shrank into strings of colored lights. The music softened, swallowed by the wind and the slow mechanical creak of the wheel. Beyond the boardwalk, the lake stretched dark and quiet beneath the last traces of sunset. You rested your arms over the bear. For a moment, both of you looked out across the water.
“What made you decide to enlist?” you asked.
Jack’s attention remained on the lake. He was quiet long enough that you wondered whether the question had been too personal.
“Because of what comes after,” he finally said.
You turned slightly toward him.
“What comes after?” you asked.
Jack rubbed his thumb along the edge of the seat.
“Medical school,” he answered.
Your eyebrows lifted.
“You want to be a doctor?” you asked.
Jack glanced toward you.
“Eventually,” he replied.
You studied him. The answer should have surprised you. It did not.
“You’d be good at it,” you said.
Jack’s expression shifted with faint amusement.
“You got all that from watching me lose at ring toss?” he asked.
You smiled.
“I know you,” you replied.
The amusement faded from his face. Jack held your gaze. Something warmer replaced it.
“You think you do?” he asked.
“I do,” you said.
Jack looked out over the lake again, but the corner of his mouth lifted.
“The Army will help pay for school,” he explained. “I figured I could do both.”
You nodded slowly.
“So you leave at the end of August,” you said.
Jack’s jaw tightened slightly.
“Yeah,” he answered.
The Ferris wheel carried you higher.
You looked down at the bear in your lap.
“That’s not very far away,” you said.
“No,” Jack agreed.
You turned toward him.
“Then we better stop wasting time,” you said.
Jack went still. His eyes searched yours. For one suspended second, neither of you moved. Then his gaze dropped to your mouth. Your breath caught. Jack leaned closer. Slowly enough that you knew what he was doing. Slowly enough that you could have moved away. You stayed exactly where you were. His hand shifted from the back of the seat. His fingers brushed the side of your neck.
The Ferris wheel jolted.
The car swung sharply beneath you.
You grabbed the bar.
The bear slipped from your lap.
Jack caught it by one uneven arm before it fell through the gap beside the seat.
You stared at him.
Jack stared at the bear dangling from his hand.
“He almost didn’t make it,” Jack said.
You pressed one hand against your chest.
“That would’ve been tragic,” you replied.
Jack pulled the bear safely back into the car.
“After everything I went through?” he said. “Yes, it would’ve been.”
You laughed.
Jack settled the bear in your lap again.
His hand covered yours for a beat longer than necessary. The wheel resumed its slow turn. Neither of you mentioned the kiss that almost happened. Jack’s knee remained pressed against yours for the rest of the ride. His arm returned to the seat behind you. This time, his fingertips rested lightly against your shoulder.
The wheel completed another slow turn before your car reached the platform.
Jack stepped out first.
He tucked the bear beneath one arm, then held his free hand toward you as the car shifted beneath your feet. You placed your hand in his. Jack helped you onto the platform. His fingers remained wrapped around yours after you were standing.
Neither of you acknowledged it.
The boardwalk felt louder after the quiet at the top of the wheel. Music spilled from the rides. Bells rang from the game booths. Children darted through the crowd with glowing bracelets wrapped around their wrists.
Jack guided you past the line, keeping the bear tucked securely against his side. You glanced toward it.
“He survived,” you said.
Jack looked down at the bear. “Barely,” he replied.
You smiled.
Jack’s thumb moved once across the back of your hand. The two of you continued past the last row of game booths and away from the brightest carnival lights. The crowd thinned as the boardwalk gave way to a paved path that followed the edge of the lake.
Behind you, the carnival continued in a blur of music and color.
Ahead, the path disappeared between trees and stretches of open grass along the shoreline. The lake was darker here. Only the distant glow of the rides reached the water, breaking into faint streaks whenever the breeze moved across the surface.
Jack slowed beside you.
His shoulder brushed yours as you walked. Neither of you mentioned what had nearly happened on the Ferris wheel.
At first, the silence felt easy.
Your hand remained in his. The bear swung slightly beneath Jack’s other arm with each step. You could still feel the ghost of his fingers against the side of your neck. After another minute, you glanced toward him.
Jack’s gaze stayed fixed on the path ahead. The smile he had worn on the ride had faded. His thumb had stopped moving over your hand. You watched him for a few more steps.
“Are you okay?” you asked.
Jack looked toward you. “Yeah,” he answered.
You waited. Jack looked ahead again. You squeezed his hand.
“You got quiet,” you said.
Jack released a slow breath.
“I’m thinking,” he admitted.
You tilted your head. “About what?” you asked.
Jack was silent for another few steps. His hand tightened slightly around yours.
“Leaving,” he answered.
The word settled between you. You looked toward the water.
“At the end of August,” you said.
Jack nodded once. “Yeah,” he replied.
You kept walking, but the silence had changed. It no longer felt easy. Jack glanced down at your joined hands.
“And about starting something with you when I already know I’m going,” he added.
You slowed. Jack stopped with you near the edge of the path. The carnival lights were faint from here, softened by the trees and reflected in broken streaks across the lake. You turned toward him.
“You think that means we shouldn’t?” you asked.
Jack shifted the bear beneath his arm.
“I think it means I should be careful,” he said.
“With me?” you asked.
Jack lifted his eyes to yours. “Yeah,” he answered.
You studied his face. He looked more serious than he had all evening.
“You did say this was a date,” you reminded him.
Jack looked down at your joined hands.
“I did,” he agreed.
“And you’re still holding my hand,” you added.
Jack’s thumb moved once across your knuckles. “I am,” he said.
You stepped a little closer.
“So maybe you’ve already started something,” you said.
Jack lifted his eyes to yours. His expression softened, but the worry did not leave it.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” he admitted.
You tightened your fingers around his.
“You don’t know how it finishes,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted.
“I know I leave,” he replied.
“And I go back to school,” you said. “Neither of those things changed tonight.”
“No,” Jack agreed.
You held his gaze.
“But you knew that when you asked me out,” you reminded him.
Jack looked down at your joined hands.
“I did,” he admitted.
“So you must think tonight is worth something,” you said.
Jack lifted his eyes to yours.
“It is,” he answered.
His certainty made your chest tighten.
“Then let it be worth something,” you said.
Jack’s grip tightened around yours.
“I don’t want you thinking I’m promising something I can’t give you,” he said.
“I’m not asking you to promise me anything,” you replied.
Jack held your gaze.
“No,” he said quietly. “You’re not.”
A firework cracked above the lake before either of you could say more.
You startled and looked toward the sky. A burst of gold opened over the water, its reflection trembling across the dark surface before fading. Another followed almost immediately, blooming red above the shoreline. People farther down the path began moving toward the lake. Jack glanced toward the open stretch of grass near the water.
“Come on,” he said.
He kept hold of your hand as he guided you off the path. The grass sloped gently toward the shoreline, far enough from the boardwalk that the carnival music had softened beneath the fireworks. Jack lowered himself onto the ground and set the bear beside him. He held one hand up toward you.
“Here,” he said.
You placed your hand in his and let him guide you down beside him. Jack shifted closer almost immediately. His arm settled behind you, his hand resting lightly against your waist. You looked down at it. Jack’s fingers flexed once against your side.
“Okay?” he asked.
You leaned into him.
“Yeah,” you answered.
Jack’s arm tightened around your waist.
You rested your head against his shoulder. Neither of you spoke. Fireworks opened above the lake in bursts of red, blue, and gold. Each one lit the water for a few seconds before dissolving into smoke.
Jack’s thumb moved slowly against your side. Your hand found his where it rested at your waist. You threaded your fingers through his. The bear sat crookedly beside Jack, one uneven arm resting against his leg. You glanced toward it.
“He likes the fireworks,” you said.
Jack followed your gaze.
“He doesn’t know where to look,” he replied.
You laughed softly. Jack’s shoulder moved beneath your cheek. When you lifted your head, he was watching you instead of the sky. The next firework burst behind him, outlining his face in gold.
Jack did not look away.
Neither did you.
His hand remained warm at your waist. Your fingers stayed linked over it. The conversation about August was still there.
It had not disappeared.
For the moment, neither of you asked it to.
You rested your head against his shoulder again. Jack leaned his cheek lightly against the top of your head. The fireworks continued above the lake.
By the time the final burst faded, the air had cooled and the crowd along the shoreline had begun to move again. Jack lifted his head.
“You ready?” he asked.
You looked toward the dark water one last time.
“Not really,” you admitted.
Jack’s mouth curved.
“Me neither,” he said.
He stood first, then offered you his hand. You placed yours in his. Jack pulled you carefully to your feet. The bear remained where he had set it. You looked down at it. Jack followed your gaze.
“He made it through another crisis,” he said.
You bent to pick it up.
“He’s resilient,” you replied.
Jack took the bear from you and tucked it beneath one arm. His free hand found yours again.
Together, you started back toward the carnival lights.
The boardwalk grew louder with every step. Music drifted through the trees. Ride machinery rattled overhead. Attendants called out from the game booths as the crowd folded around you again. Jack kept the bear tucked beneath one arm. His other hand stayed wrapped around yours. You were passing the edge of the midway when you spotted the photo booth wedged between an arcade game and a stand selling caramel apples.
You stopped.
Jack took another step before your joined hands pulled him back. He turned toward you.
“What?” he asked.
You nodded toward the booth.
“We need evidence,” you said.
Jack followed your gaze. “Of what?” he asked.
You smiled.
“The best first date I’ve ever had,” you answered.
Jack looked back at you.
For one quiet beat, he said nothing. Then the corner of his mouth lifted.
“That’s a lot of pressure for four pictures,” he said.
“You survived ring toss,” you reminded him. “You can handle it.”
Jack glanced down at the crooked bear beneath his arm.
“Barely,” he replied.
You pulled him toward the booth.
The faded curtain hung half-open, and the narrow bench inside looked barely wide enough for one person, let alone two. Jack stopped at the entrance.
“You first,” he said.
You ducked beneath the curtain and slid across the bench. Jack handed you the bear before squeezing in beside you. His thigh pressed firmly against yours. His shoulder filled most of the remaining space. You settled the bear across both your laps while Jack pulled the curtain closed. The carnival disappeared behind the thin fabric. The booth suddenly felt much smaller. Jack looked toward the screen.
“How does this work?” he asked.
You pointed toward the coin slot.
“You put money in,” you explained.
Jack reached for his wallet. You caught his wrist.
“No,” you said.
Jack looked down at your hand.
“Your turn?” he asked.
You released him and opened your bag.
“My idea,” you replied.
Jack leaned back against the wall.
“Fair,” he said.
You fed a few bills into the machine.
The screen flashed. A countdown appeared. You straightened quickly.
“What are we doing?” Jack asked.
You turned toward the camera as the numbers dropped.
“Just follow my lead,” you instructed.
The first flash went off as you stuck out your tongue.
Jack laughed beside you.
The screen reset. A second countdown began.
You looked toward him.
“That was terrible,” Jack said.
“You laughed,” you pointed out.
“I was caught off guard,” he argued.
The second flash went off.
You faced the camera. Jack did not. He was looking at you. The screen reset again. You glanced toward him.
“What?” you asked.
Jack blinked, as though he had forgotten where he was.
“Nothing,” he replied.
The third countdown began. You smiled. Before Jack could turn toward the camera, you leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek.
The flash went off.
Jack went completely still.
You drew back just far enough to see his face.
His eyes found yours.
The booth seemed to shrink around you.
The final countdown began.
Neither of you looked toward the screen.
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth.
Your fingers tightened around the bear.
He turned toward you.
He did not say anything.
He simply leaned in and kissed you.
The bear slipped from your lap and landed facedown on the floor.
You barely noticed.
Your hand caught the front of Jack’s shirt as his mouth moved against yours.
The first touch was careful. Warm. Almost cautious.
Then you kissed him back.
Jack’s hand slid to the side of your neck, his thumb settling beneath your jaw.
His other hand found your waist and pulled you closer across the narrow bench.
The fourth flash filled the booth with white light.
Neither of you stopped.
Your fingers curled more tightly into his shirt.
Jack angled his head and kissed you deeper, the careful restraint disappearing as soon as he felt you lean into him.
Your knee pressed between his.
His hand tightened at your waist.
The booth was too small. The bench was too narrow. Neither of you seemed to care.
The machine whirred loudly beside you.
Jack slowed the kiss, but he did not pull away completely.
His forehead rested against yours.
Both of you were breathing harder than the moment should have warranted.
The photo strip dropped into the tray with a soft click.
Neither of you moved.
Someone knocked against the outside of the booth.
“You done in there?” a voice called.
Jack closed his eyes briefly.
“Apparently,” he answered.
You bit back a laugh.
Jack opened his eyes and looked at you.
His thumb moved once along your jaw before he finally let you go.
You looked down.
The bear lay facedown between your feet. Jack followed your gaze. He bent and picked it up by one uneven arm.
“After everything I went through,” he muttered.
You took the bear from him and straightened its crooked ear.
“He saw too much,” you said.
Jack reached toward the tray.
“He can keep a secret,” he replied.
Jack pulled out the warm photo strip.
You leaned closer to look.
The first picture caught you with your tongue out and Jack laughing beside you.
In the second, you were looking at the camera.
Jack was looking at you.
The third captured your mouth against his cheek and the startled stillness in his face.
The fourth showed Jack kissing you, one hand at your neck and the other already reaching for your waist.
Your stomach turned over.
“Evidence,” you said softly.
Jack’s eyes stayed on the last photograph.
“Of the date?” he asked.
You looked toward him.
“Of the best one,” you answered.
Jack ran his thumb carefully along the edge of the strip.
“I’m keeping this,” he said.
You blinked. “You are?” you asked.
Jack met your eyes. “Yeah,” he replied.
Jack slid the photo strip carefully into his wallet. Then he looked at your mouth again.
A second knock struck the outside of the booth.
Jack glanced toward the curtain.
“We should probably go,” he said.
You looked down at the bear tucked against your chest.
“He ruined the moment,” you whispered.
Jack reached for the curtain.
“He’s had a difficult night,” he replied.
You laughed as Jack pushed the curtain aside.
He stepped out first, then held one hand back toward you.
You placed your hand in his.
Jack helped you out of the booth, his fingers closing around yours as soon as your feet reached the boardwalk.
The carnival had begun to thin.
Some of the younger families were already heading toward the parking lot. Vendors wiped down counters between customers, and the lines for the rides had shortened beneath the glowing signs.
Jack looked toward the path leading away from the midway.
“You ready to head back?” he asked.
You glanced over your shoulder at the Ferris wheel, the game booths, and the distant edge of the lake.
“We probably should,” you admitted.
Jack’s thumb brushed over your knuckles.
“You don’t sound convinced,” he said.
You looked up at him.
“I don’t want the date to be over,” you confessed.
Jack’s expression softened.
“It’s not over yet,” he replied.
He kept hold of your hand as the two of you walked toward the parking lot.
The bear remained tucked beneath your free arm.
Every few steps, your shoulder bumped against Jack’s.
Neither of you apologized.
By the time you reached the Jeep, most of the carnival noise had faded behind you. Jack opened the passenger door. You settled the bear on the seat before climbing in. Jack rested one hand against the top of the door.
“He gets the seat?” he asked.
You pulled the bear into your lap.
“He’s emotionally fragile,” you explained.
Jack looked at its uneven face.
“He’ll recover,” he said.
You smiled.
Jack closed the door and walked around the Jeep.
The drive back to the cabin was quieter than the drive there.
Not awkward. Just full. The radio played low beneath the sound of the tires moving over the road. The bear sat between you on the bench seat, its crooked head leaning against your leg. Jack kept one hand on the wheel. His other rested near the gearshift.
For several miles, you watched the dark road move through the windshield.
Then you let your hand fall beside his.
Your little finger brushed his.
Jack glanced down. He turned his hand over without taking his eyes from the road. You slipped your fingers through his. Jack’s hand closed around yours.
Neither of you spoke.
The cabin came into view through the trees too soon.
Jack pulled into the drive and shut off the engine. The radio disappeared. The sudden silence settled around you. Neither of you reached for the door. Jack looked toward the dark windows of the cabin.
“Robby’s still at the club,” he said.
You nodded. “For another hour, probably.”
Jack looked down at your joined hands.
His thumb moved across yours. You turned toward him. Jack lifted his eyes. The distance between you felt smaller than it had in the photo booth.
You looked at his mouth.
Jack noticed.
He leaned across the seat and kissed you.
There was nothing cautious about it this time.
Your hand caught the front of his shirt as his mouth pressed firmly against yours.
Jack’s hand slid behind your neck, drawing you closer.
The bear tipped sideways between you.
You pushed it out of the way without looking.
Jack made a quiet sound against your mouth.
You climbed closer across the seat, one knee pressing against his thigh.
His free hand found your waist.
The kiss deepened immediately.
All the restraint from the photo booth disappeared.
Jack kissed you like he had been thinking about it for the entire drive home.
You kissed him back just as hard.
Your fingers moved into the curls at the nape of his neck.
Jack’s grip tightened at your waist.
He pulled you closer until the gearshift pressed awkwardly between you.
You broke the kiss with a breathless laugh.
Jack rested his forehead against yours.
“This Jeep is not helping,” you whispered.
Jack glanced down at the gearshift.
“No,” he agreed.
You laughed again.
Jack kissed the corner of your mouth.
Then his expression changed.
The hunger remained, but something more careful returned beneath it.
You felt it before he spoke.
Jack’s hand stayed at your waist.
“I leave in August,” he said.
You held his gaze.
“I know,” you replied.
Jack’s thumb moved against your side.
“And you go back to school,” he added.
“I know that too,” you said.
Jack looked down for a moment.
When he met your eyes again, the carefulness in his expression remained.
“So what are we doing?” he asked.
You glanced toward the bear lying facedown near the passenger door.
Then you looked back at Jack.
“We have the summer,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted.
“Just the summer?” he asked.
You knew what he was offering.
A boundary.
An ending decided before either of you had the chance to want more.
You also knew you were not ready to walk away.
“That’s what we’re saying,” you replied.
Jack watched you carefully.
“Just the summer,” he repeated.
You nodded once.
“Just the summer,” you agreed.
Neither of you sounded convinced.
Jack’s hand slid from your waist to the side of your neck.
He kissed you again.
And this time, he kissed you like the summer had already started running out.
okay lovelies, my brain is apparently stuck on young Jack Abbot and I fear I am not strong enough to fight it.
So if anyone has any ideas for bonus chapters / extra scenes for The One Point Difference or literally any young Jack thoughts, please send them my way 👀
Literally any trope, any scenario, any “hear me out” idea — hit me with it.
No guarantees, of course, but if you have something living in your brain, I would love to see it because apparently young Jack has moved into my head and started paying rent in unresolved tension.
Summary: We’re going back to the summer that started it all. Long before Carter’s matchmaking scheme, you, Jack, and Robby spent one life-changing summer together at the family cabin, and we finally begin to see how you and Jack fell in love and why the two of you never ended up together.
Warnings: age gap, mutual pining, brother’s best friend, references to Jack joining the Army, protective Robby, mild jealousy, flirting, nostalgic young love, eventual heartbreak, Reader is nineteen, and Jack is twenty-one
Author’s Note: Surprise! Flashback chapter! We’re stepping away from the present for a few chapters so we can finally experience Jack and Reader’s summer together instead of only hearing about it. This is where everything began: the cabin, the country club, the Jeep, and two people falling much harder than either of them intended. And yes, we are finally going to learn why they aren’t together now.
Xoxo, Del
| Prologue | Chpt. 1 | Chpt. 2 |
The Robinavitch cabin appeared between the trees at the end of a narrow gravel road, exactly as you remembered it.
Small. Weathered. Slightly crooked.
The dark green shutters needed repainting, one corner of the screened porch sagged lower than the other, and the wooden steps leading to the front door had faded silver beneath years of sun and lake water.
Beyond the cabin, the lake flashed between the trees.
You leaned closer to the passenger-side window as Robby slowed the car.
“Home sweet structural hazard,” Robby announced.
You glanced toward him.
His dark hair had grown long enough to fall across his forehead, and the beard he had cultivated during the semester made him look older, right up until he opened his mouth.
“You say that like you haven’t been talking about this summer for months,” you said.
Robby kept his attention on the gravel road.
“I was talking about the lake,” he clarified. “The cabin remains a death trap.”
You looked into the back seat.
Two suitcases, a duffel bag, several grocery sacks, and an unreasonable number of Robby’s textbooks had been wedged together with no recognizable system.
“You packed your entire pre-med program,” you observed.
Robby pulled into the clearing beside the cabin.
“I’m trying not to forget everything before fall,” Robby explained.
“You brought three anatomy books,” you said.
Robby shifted the car into park.
“One is physiology,” he corrected.
“That does not improve the situation,” you replied.
Robby removed the keys from the ignition and looked toward you.
“You mocked me when I failed my first organic chemistry exam,” he reminded you.
You unfastened your seat belt.
“I mocked you because you said carbon had a personal vendetta against you,” you corrected.
“It did,” Robby insisted.
You opened your door and stepped into the warm afternoon air.
The smell reached you first.
Sun-warmed pine. Damp earth. Lake water. The faint, familiar trace of old wood baking beneath the summer heat.
For the first time since finishing your final exams, something inside you loosened.
You closed the car door and looked past the cabin toward the narrow dock.
The aluminum fishing boat was still tied beside it, knocking gently against one of the posts.
“You think the boat runs?” you asked.
Robby climbed out on the other side of the car.
“It barely ran last summer,” he answered.
“So no,” you concluded.
Robby opened the back door.
“I didn’t say that,” he argued.
“You didn’t have to,” you replied.
Robby pulled one of the grocery boxes toward him. The bottom immediately bowed. He tightened his grip around it.
“You could help,” he suggested.
You walked around the car and reached for your suitcase.
“I’m emotionally supporting you,” you told him.
“The pasta sauce is about to fall through the bottom,” Robby warned.
“You should have packed better,” you replied.
Robby stared at you over the roof of the car.
“You’ve been here thirty seconds,” he said.
“And I’ve already identified the problem,” you pointed out.
Robby adjusted the box against his chest.
“I’m going to make you sleep outside,” he threatened.
You pulled your suitcase free.
“You need me,” you reminded him.
Robby started toward the porch.
“For what?” he asked.
You dragged your suitcase over the gravel behind him.
“Someone has to make sure you eat something besides bar peanuts and whatever the kitchen sends back,” you explained.
Robby glanced over his shoulder.
“I survived an entire school year without you,” he argued.
“You called me because you forgot how long chicken lasts in the refrigerator,” you reminded him.
Robby stopped at the bottom step and turned toward you.
“It smelled fine,” he defended.
“It was gray,” you said.
“That doesn’t automatically mean bad,” Robby replied.
“It was chicken, Michael,” you emphasized.
Robby pointed one finger at you.
“Do not use my government name before we’ve even unpacked,” he warned.
You smiled and pulled the suitcase toward the porch.
The front screen door stood open behind him.
You stopped.
It had always scraped against the porch floor, usually requiring one hard pull and a carefully placed shoulder to open. Now it hung straight in the frame.
“You fixed the door?” you asked.
Robby glanced back at it.
“No,” he answered.
You looked along the porch.
Several of the loose boards had been replaced. The steps no longer tilted beneath Robby’s weight, and the path leading around the side of the cabin had been cleared of the branches that had fallen during the spring.
“The railing too?” you asked.
Robby climbed the first step.
“Jack’s been here since Monday,” he explained.
Your hand tightened around the suitcase handle.
You tried to make the reaction invisible.
Robby looked back at you.
It had not been invisible.
“Don’t,” he warned.
You frowned at him.
“Don’t what?” you asked.
Robby shifted the grocery box against his chest.
“Whatever your face just did,” he answered.
“My face didn’t do anything,” you argued.
Robby stared at you.
“You’re nineteen now,” he said. “This has to stop eventually.”
You pulled the suitcase toward the porch.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you replied.
“You’ve known exactly what I’m talking about since you were sixteen,” Robby said.
“I don’t have a crush on Jack,” you said, passing him on the steps.
Robby followed you onto the porch.
“You asked whether he was coming before you agreed to spend the summer here,” he reminded you.
“I asked who was staying at the cabin,” you argued.
“You asked about Jack specifically,” Robby countered.
“Because you two are attached at the hip,” you said.
“We are not,” Robby replied, pushing the screen door open with his shoulder.
“You study together even though he isn’t in school yet,” you reminded him.
“He wants to be prepared,” Robby said.
“He wants free tutoring,” you corrected.
Robby stepped into the cabin.
“Same difference,” he replied.
You followed him inside as he placed the grocery box on the small kitchen table.
The cabin had not changed much.
The kitchen still occupied one corner of the main room, its cabinets painted the same dull cream they had been for years. The living room held an old plaid couch and two mismatched chairs facing the wall of windows overlooking the lake.
Sunlight spilled across the worn wooden floor.
A hallway beside the kitchen led to the two small bedrooms and the bathroom. Through the living room, the screened porch stretched across the back of the cabin, its door propped open to let in the breeze.
A dark duffel bag sat beside the porch futon.
A pair of work boots had been lined neatly beneath the small table beside it.
Jack’s paperback lay facedown on one of the cushions.
You looked toward the porch.
“He’s sleeping out there?” you asked.
Robby began unloading cans from the grocery box.
“When the weather’s good,” he answered.
“And when it isn’t?” you asked.
Robby nodded toward the faded couch.
“That pulls out,” he explained.
You looked at the cushions.
“That thing has a mattress?” you asked.
“Technically,” Robby replied.
“You invited someone to sleep on that?” you questioned.
“He volunteered,” Robby said.
“Why?” you asked.
Robby set a jar of pasta sauce on the counter.
“He likes the porch,” he answered.
You looked through the screens toward the water.
The futon faced the lake. A standing fan occupied one corner, and several clean work shirts hung over the back of a chair beside the screen door.
It already looked like Jack’s space.
Not temporary. Not as though he had come up for a weekend.
He was living here.
With you.
For the entire summer.
Robby opened another grocery sack.
“You’re doing it again,” he said.
You turned toward him. “Doing what?”
“Thinking too loudly,” Robby answered.
You picked up a box of cereal.
“I’m wondering why you bought this,” you said.
Robby looked at the brightly colored cartoon printed across the front.
“It was on sale,” he explained.
“You’re twenty-four,” you pointed out.
“I’m saving for medical school,” Robby replied.
“That is not a nutritional defense,” you said.
Before Robby could answer, the sharp strike of a hammer sounded from behind the cabin.
You looked toward the open porch door.
Another strike followed. Then came the scrape of wood against wood.
Robby continued unpacking.
“He’s fixing the railing by the dock,” he explained.
“Jack?” you asked.
Robby looked toward you.
“No, the other man living on our porch,” he replied.
You ignored him and crossed the living room.
The screened porch was several degrees cooler than the rest of the cabin. Lake air moved through the mesh walls, carrying the sound of water against the shore.
You pushed through the outer door and stepped onto the narrow deck.
The hammering stopped. Footsteps sounded below.
Then Jack came around the side of the cabin.
He was shirtless.
Faded work pants sat low on his hips, one knee streaked with dirt. His dark curls were damp from the heat and flattened slightly where he had pushed his hand through them. A hammer hung loosely from one hand, and his discarded gray T-shirt had been tucked through the back of his waistband.
The summer had already begun settling into his skin, darkening his shoulders and the bridge of his nose.
You had spent most of your first year of college convincing yourself that your crush on Jack Abbot had been a teenage affliction.
It returned before he reached the porch.
Jack looked up.
His steps slowed.
For one quiet second, he simply stared at you.
Not through you. Not past you toward Robby.
At you.
His eyes moved over your face before dipping briefly toward the rest of you. The look was quick enough to remain polite, but not quick enough to miss.
Something shifted low in your stomach.
Jack stopped at the bottom of the steps. His mouth curved.
“Hey, Robinavitch,” he greeted.
You tightened your fingers around the porch railing.
“Hey, Abbot,” you replied.
Jack rested the hammer against his shoulder.
“When did you get here?” he asked.
“About five minutes ago,” you answered.
Jack glanced toward the open door behind you.
“And Robby already made you unload the car?” he asked.
“He’s very committed to traditional gender roles when boxes are heavy,” you explained.
Robby’s voice carried from inside the cabin.
“I can hear you,” he called.
Jack looked past you.
“That sounds like a personal problem,” he called back.
Robby appeared in the porch doorway.
His gaze moved from you to Jack. Then down to Jack’s bare chest. Then back to you.
Robby closed his eyes.
“No,” he said.
Jack frowned at him. “No what?”
Robby opened his eyes and pointed toward him.
“Put a shirt on,” he ordered.
Jack looked down at himself.
“It’s ninety degrees,” he replied.
“I don’t care,” Robby said.
You folded your arms.
“He’s working outside,” you pointed out.
Robby turned toward you.
“You stay out of this,” he told you.
Jack’s eyebrows lifted.
“She’s been here five minutes,” he observed.
Robby looked between the two of you.
“That is already five minutes too long,” he replied.
You stared at your brother.
“You are being incredibly weird,” you said.
Robby stepped onto the porch.
“I’m preventing an incident,” he explained.
Jack lowered the hammer.
“What incident?” Jack asked.
Robby looked toward you.
“She once walked into a door because you took your shirt off,” Robby answered.
You pointed toward him.
“I was sixteen,” you argued.
Robby folded his arms.
“And the door was visible,” he replied.
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You looked toward him.
“Don’t encourage him,” you warned.
“I haven’t said anything,” Jack replied.
“You’re smiling,” you accused.
Jack held your gaze.
“I’m happy to see you,” he said.
The words came easily. Too easily.
Your pulse stumbled.
Robby looked toward the ceiling of the porch as though requesting patience from a higher power.
Jack glanced toward your suitcase near the front door.
“You need help bringing things in?” he asked.
“I can carry my own bags,” you replied.
Jack stepped onto the first stair.
“I know,” he said.
He passed close enough that his shoulder nearly brushed yours. You caught the faint scent of lake water, cut wood, and sweat. Jack reached the porch and looked down at you. Up close, he seemed broader than you remembered.
Or maybe you had simply never allowed yourself to notice before.
He nodded toward the cabin.
“Show me which bags are yours,” he said.
Robby made a strangled sound behind you.
Jack looked toward him.
“What?” he asked.
Robby pointed toward Jack’s discarded shirt.
“Put that on before you say another sentence,” he ordered.
Jack pulled it from his waistband.
“You’ve gotten strange,” he observed.
“You’ve gotten shirtless,” Robby replied.
“It’s summer,” Jack pointed out.
“It’s my sister,” Robby countered.
You covered your face with one hand.
Jack stared at Robby. Then his gaze shifted toward you again. His smile returned, quieter this time.
“Glad you’re here, Robinavitch,” he said.
You lowered your hand.
The lake glittered behind him. The porch screens hummed faintly in the breeze. Somewhere inside, Robby muttered under his breath about regretting the entire arrangement.
You looked at Jack.
“Thanks,” you replied.
You had been there less than ten minutes.
You were already in trouble.
By the end of the afternoon, your clothes had been folded into the narrow dresser in your childhood bedroom, Robby’s textbooks had consumed half the kitchen table, and Jack had repaired another two boards along the dock.
He had also remained shirtless.
Robby had complained three more times.
Jack had ignored him three more times.
Dinner came from a pot of pasta balanced between Robby’s flashcards and a stack of unopened mail their father had left on the counter.
Jack sat across from you, one arm resting along the back of his chair. He had finally put on a faded T-shirt, although the sleeves had been cut away so thoroughly that Robby’s efforts felt largely symbolic.
Robby stabbed his fork into his pasta.
“Grounds starts at five tomorrow,” Robby told Jack.
Jack reached for the parmesan.
“Four-thirty,” Jack corrected. “We’re finishing the back nine before the members come in this weekend.”
You looked toward him.
“You start work at four-thirty in the morning?” you asked.
Jack shook parmesan over his plate.
“I start regretting my choices at four-thirty,” Jack clarified. “Work starts at five.”
Robby pushed one of his textbooks aside to make room for his glass.
“He volunteered for it,” Robby told you.
Jack looked toward him.
“I volunteered for a paycheck,” Jack corrected.
You rested your forearms against the table.
“How long have you been working there?” you asked.
Jack set the parmesan between you.
“Since Monday,” Jack answered. “They bring grounds in early to get everything ready.”
Robby gestured vaguely toward the lake with his fork.
“He’s been coming back here and fixing this place after every shift,” Robby explained.
Jack glanced toward the loose cabinet hinge beside the sink.
“Someone had to,” Jack replied.
Robby pointed his fork toward him.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” Robby reminded him.
Jack looked at the anatomy book beside Robby’s elbow.
“You brought homework on vacation,” Jack pointed out.
Robby straightened in his chair.
“I’m not on vacation,” Robby argued. “I’m working.”
Jack leaned back.
“You make drinks beside a lake,” Jack said.
Robby narrowed his eyes.
“You cut grass beside the same lake,” Robby countered.
Jack lifted one shoulder.
“I also fix things,” Jack replied.
You smiled into your glass.
“Is this what the last three days have been like?” you asked.
Jack turned his attention toward you.
“Quiet, mostly,” Jack answered.
Robby leaned back in his chair.
“And now she’s here,” Robby added.
You pointed your fork at him.
“You invited me,” you reminded him.
Robby looked toward Jack.
“I’m beginning to question several of my decisions,” Robby said.
Jack’s mouth curved.
You caught the expression before he lowered his gaze to his plate.
The three of you ate for another moment while the last sunlight stretched across the kitchen floor.
You looked at Jack again.
“What are you doing after summer?” you asked.
Jack’s fork paused against his plate.
Robby’s attention shifted toward him.
Jack set the fork down.
“I leave for basic training in August,” Jack answered.
You stared at him.
“You enlisted?” you asked.
Jack nodded once.
“A few months ago,” Jack replied.
The answer should not have surprised you. Jack had been working since high school, taking whatever jobs he could find while trying to decide how to afford the future he wanted.
Still, the thought of him leaving settled heavily in your chest.
“For how long?” you asked.
Jack leaned back in his chair.
“Basic is a few months,” Jack explained. “After that, it depends where they send me.”
You looked down at your plate.
“And then medical school?” you asked.
Jack rubbed his thumb along the edge of his fork.
“That’s the plan,” Jack answered.
Robby reached for his glass.
“The Army will help pay for it,” Robby explained.
Jack glanced toward him.
“If I survive basic without punching anyone,” Jack added.
Robby took a drink.
“That remains a significant concern,” Robby replied.
You looked back at Jack.
“When were you going to tell me?” you asked.
Jack held your gaze.
“I just did,” Jack answered.
You frowned at him.
“You know what I mean,” you said.
Jack’s expression softened.
“I haven’t seen you since Christmas, Robinavitch,” Jack reminded you.
The quiet way he said your name made it difficult to stay irritated.
You lowered your eyes to your plate.
“Well, now you’re stuck with me all summer,” you said.
Jack watched you for one long beat.
“There are worse things,” Jack replied.
Robby dropped his fork against his plate.
The metal struck the ceramic with a sharp clatter.
You looked toward him.
“What?” you asked.
Robby reached for the fallen fork.
“Nothing,” Robby muttered. “I’m just realizing how long summer is.”
By ten the next morning, you had learned three things about being the country club’s newest beverage-cart girl.
The cart pulled sharply to the left.
The club polo trapped heat like punishment.
And the little white tennis skirt earned significantly better tips than the khaki shorts folded inside your locker.
You had just finished restocking the cooler when the beverage manager handed you a cash box and pointed toward the course.
“Follow the paved path, stay clear of the greens, and check in after the ninth hole,” she instructed. “The grounds crew is still finishing a few areas, so listen if they tell you not to drive somewhere.”
You slid your sunglasses onto your face.
“Understood,” you replied.
Ten minutes later, you turned onto the path beside the fourth fairway and found Jack waiting near a maintenance cart.
His work shirt was already damp at the collar. Dirt marked his forearms, and a shovel rested against one shoulder.
Jack’s gaze found you first.
Then it dropped to the tennis skirt.
The beverage cart veered toward the grass.
You corrected the wheel sharply.
Jack’s mouth curved.
You stopped beside him and folded your arms over the steering wheel.
“Not one word,” you warned.
Jack rested one hand against the roof of the cart.
“I didn’t say anything,” Jack replied.
“You were about to,” you accused.
Jack looked down at the tires.
“You’re driving crooked,” Jack observed.
You tightened your hands around the steering wheel.
“It pulls to the left,” you insisted.
Jack lifted his eyes to yours.
“Maybe you got distracted,” Jack suggested.
You stared at him.
Jack’s smile deepened.
The summer had officially begun.
You reached into the cooler and pulled out a bottle of water.
“Do you want one?” you asked.
Jack shifted the shovel against his shoulder.
“Are you offering?” Jack asked.
You held the bottle against your chest.
“You have money,” you pointed out.
Jack rested one forearm against the roof of the cart.
“You’re charging the grounds crew?” Jack asked.
You looked toward the maintenance cart behind him.
“Do I get free rides?” you asked.
Jack glanced at the empty passenger seat.
“Maybe,” Jack replied.
You extended the bottle toward him.
“Then maybe this is free,” you said.
Jack reached for it. His fingers closed around yours instead.
The contact lasted only a second.
It still sent a warm jolt up your arm.
Jack felt it too.
You knew because his eyes lifted sharply to yours.
Neither of you moved.
A groundskeeper shouted Jack’s name from farther down the fairway. Jack released your hand.
“Coming,” Jack called over his shoulder.
You pulled your arm back into the cart. Jack twisted the cap from the bottle.
“Thanks, Robinavitch,” Jack said.
You reached for the steering wheel.
“You owe me,” you told him.
Jack took a drink.
“I’ll think of something,” Jack promised.
You drove away before he could see the effect that had on you.
The cart still pulled to the left.
That was the only reason you nearly clipped the edge of the path.
It had nothing to do with Jack watching you leave.
At least, that was what you told yourself.
By the end of your first week, you had learned the route well enough to drive it without thinking.
You had also learned exactly where Jack’s crew would be working each morning.
He was usually somewhere between the fourth and seventh holes when you made your first round. By the second, he had dirt on his shirt and sweat at his temples. By the third, he was hungry enough to accept whatever sandwich you had managed to steal from the clubhouse kitchen.
You never admitted that you began packing an extra one.
Jack never asked why you always had his favorite.
On Friday afternoon, you found him kneeling beside a sprinkler head near the sixth green.
His sleeves were rolled above his forearms, and the back of his work shirt had darkened beneath the afternoon sun.
You slowed beside him.
Jack looked up at the sound of the engine.
His gaze moved over you slowly enough to make the heat feel worse.
“You’re late,” Jack said.
You stopped the cart beside him.
“You’re not on my schedule,” you reminded him.
Jack sat back on his heels.
“You came through here at one-fifteen yesterday,” Jack said.
You checked the small watch on your wrist.
“It’s one-twenty,” you pointed out.
Jack looked at you.
“Late,” Jack repeated.
You opened the cooler.
“I could keep driving,” you warned.
Jack stood. Water darkened the knees of his work pants, and a smear of soil crossed one side of his jaw.
“You won’t,” Jack said.
You pulled out a bottle of sports drink.
“You sound confident,” you observed.
Jack stepped closer to the cart. His faded work shirt clung slightly across his chest, darkened by the afternoon heat. Dirt streaked his forearms beneath the rolled sleeves.
“You packed me lunch,” Jack replied.
You glanced toward the wrapped sandwich beside the cash box.
“That could be for anyone,” you argued.
Jack reached past you and picked it up. His arm brushed yours.
“You hate turkey,” Jack said.
You looked at him.
“You remember that?” you asked.
Jack’s expression changed. The teasing softened into something warmer.
“I remember things about you,” Jack answered.
Your hand tightened around the bottle.
For one dangerous second, neither of you looked away.
A golf cart approached along the path behind you.
The man driving it slowed when he saw you. He was young for a club member, probably not much older than Jack, with expensive sunglasses and the kind of confidence that came from never being told no.
“There she is,” the golfer called. “I was starting to think you were avoiding us.”
You turned toward him.
“I’m making my rounds,” you explained.
The golfer rested one arm across the steering wheel.
“You could make an extra stop at the clubhouse when we finish,” he suggested.
Jack went still beside you.
You had already dealt with three versions of this conversation that morning. You gave the golfer the same polite smile you had given the others.
“I’ll make sure the bar knows you’re coming,” you replied.
The golfer grinned. “I was thinking you could join me,” he clarified.
Jack stepped closer to the beverage cart.
“She’s working,” Jack said.
The golfer looked toward him.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” the golfer replied.
Jack folded his arms across his chest. “I noticed.”
You looked between them.
“I can handle it, Jack,” you told him.
Jack kept his attention on the golfer.
“I know,” Jack replied.
The golfer glanced at the tools scattered beside the sprinkler.
“You should probably get back to the grass,” he told Jack.
Jack’s jaw tightened.
You reached over and placed one hand against his forearm. The muscle shifted beneath your palm. Jack looked down at your hand. Then he looked at you.
“I’m fine,” you assured him.
Jack held your gaze for another beat.
“All right,” Jack said.
You turned back toward the golfer.
“I’m not interested,” you told him.
The golfer lifted both hands from the wheel.
“Worth a try,” he replied.
He drove away.
You watched until his cart disappeared around the bend. Then you looked toward Jack.
“You scared off a paying customer,” you said.
Jack picked up the sandwich.
“He’ll live,” Jack replied.
“You were glaring at him,” you accused.
Jack peeled back the paper around his lunch.
“He was bothering you,” Jack said.
“I was handling it,” you reminded him.
Jack looked at you.
“I know,” Jack repeated.
You folded your arms over the steering wheel.
“You do that for every beverage-cart girl?” you asked.
Jack took another bite of the sandwich.
“Do what?” Jack asked.
You tipped your head toward the disappearing golf cart.
“Scare off anyone who asks her out,” you clarified.
Jack looked down at the sandwich.
“He wasn’t taking the hint,” Jack replied.
You smiled.
“Was that bothering me,” you asked, “or was it bothering you?”
Jack pointed the sandwich toward the path.
“You have other customers,” Jack reminded you.
You started the cart.
“You’re jealous,” you said.
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly.
“You’re Robby’s sister,” Jack replied.
You leaned one elbow against the steering wheel.
“That wasn’t a denial,” you pointed out.
Jack stared at you.
You smiled and pressed the accelerator.
This time, when you drove away, the cart stayed perfectly centered on the path.
By the time you reached the next hole, your pulse still had not settled.
Neither had Jack’s.
You knew because when you glanced back, he was standing exactly where you had left him.
Still holding the sandwich.
Still watching you.
It should have embarrassed you.
Instead, you smiled for the rest of your route.
Over the next few days, the sixth hole quietly became your longest stop.
Jack began appearing beside the path before you reached it, usually with some excuse about needing water or checking the cart’s unreliable front tire. You started keeping an extra sandwich beside the cash box without admitting who it was for.
Neither of you mentioned the golfer again.
You did not have to.
Jack watched every cart that slowed beside you.
You watched for him around every bend.
By Friday, you knew what time his crew reached the back nine.
Jack knew when you made your final round.
Robby knew neither of those things.
You preferred to keep it that way.
That afternoon, you pulled alongside the maintenance cart and found Jack alone, loading tools into the back.
Jack glanced toward the beverage cart.
“You’re almost done,” Jack observed.
You rested your arms across the steering wheel.
“You memorized my schedule?” you asked.
Jack placed a wrench inside the toolbox.
“You drive past me four times a day,” Jack replied.
“That wasn’t my question,” you pointed out.
Jack closed the toolbox and looked at you.
“You’re almost done,” Jack repeated.
You smiled despite yourself.
“In twenty minutes,” you answered.
Jack leaned one hand against the side of your cart.
“Robby closes tonight,” Jack said.
“I know,” you replied.
Jack held your gaze.
“I can take you back,” Jack offered.
You looked down at the cash box and straightened the bills inside it.
“You could leave when your shift ends,” you said.
Jack’s fingers tapped once against the cart.
“I could,” Jack agreed.
You lifted your eyes to his.
“But you’re going to wait?” you asked.
Jack’s mouth curved.
“Looks that way,” Jack replied.
You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your smile.
“You’ll be waiting twenty minutes,” you warned.
Jack picked up the toolbox.
“I know,” Jack said. “I’ll be out front.”
You pressed the accelerator before your smile could become humiliating.
Twenty minutes later, you stepped through the employee entrance and found Jack waiting beside the Jeep.
He had showered.
That was the first thing you noticed.
His grounds-crew shirt was gone, replaced by a faded gray T-shirt and clean jeans. His dark curls were still damp, drying unevenly in the evening heat.
Jack pushed away from the driver’s door when he saw you.
“Ready?” Jack asked.
You adjusted the strap of your bag over your shoulder.
“You cleaned up,” you observed.
Jack glanced down at himself.
“I was covered in dirt,” Jack explained.
You looked at his damp hair.
“You washed your hair,” you pointed out.
Jack opened the passenger door.
“It was also covered in dirt,” Jack replied.
You tried not to smile as you stepped closer.
“Very thorough,” you said.
Jack rested one arm along the top of the open door.
“I take hygiene seriously,” Jack told you.
You climbed into the Jeep and placed your bag at your feet.
“I’m learning so much about you,” you replied.
Jack’s mouth curved.
He closed your door, walked around the hood, and climbed behind the wheel.
The Jeep rolled away from the country club with the windows down and warm evening air moving through the open cabin.
You settled into the passenger seat as Jack turned onto the familiar road toward the cabin.
For several minutes, neither of you said much.
Jack drove one-handed, his wrist loose over the steering wheel.
You tried not to notice his forearm.
You failed.
Jack reached the intersection that led back to the cabin.
Then he drove straight past it.
You looked over your shoulder at the disappearing turn.
“You missed it,” you told him.
Jack kept his attention on the road.
“I know,” Jack replied.
You turned toward him.
“Where are we going?” you asked.
Jack shifted his hand along the steering wheel.
“There’s a carnival at the boardwalk,” Jack explained. “I thought we could get something to eat.”
You stared at him for a moment.
“The carnival?” you repeated.
Jack glanced toward you.
“Unless you’d rather go back and wait for Robby to bring home bar food,” Jack added.
You felt warmth rise into your cheeks.
“The carnival sounds better,” you decided.
Jack’s gaze lingered on your face before returning to the road.
“Good,” Jack said.
You looked through the windshield before he could see your smile deepen.
Neither of you called it a date.
Jack had not asked you on one.
You had not agreed to one.
But he had showered, changed his clothes, waited for your shift to end, and driven straight past the turn home.
It was a date.
And you were already wondering whether he planned to kiss you.
del omg! im on a summer trip with some friends and we were at the boardwalk for fireworks and ice cream and all the rides, music, games and treats had me and my one friend talking about abbot taking reader on a summer boardwalk date 🥺
sharing ice cream, him going hard to win a prize at the games but never admitting it, maybe a cute ferris wheel moment, night time beach stroll, sharing a funnel cake and boardwalk lemonade, and obviously a cute photo booth kiss 😋
i just think its such a classic date and there’s something about a summer night on the boardwalk that makes coupley things feel like they do when u have ur first real crush in high school or as a teen in general 🥺
LOVE this so much!! I’m actually working it into The Nephew Trap because it fits Jack and Reader’s young-love summer romance perfectly—the boardwalk, the games, the shared treats, the Ferris wheel, the photo booth kiss… all of it feels exactly like the kind of night they would remember for years 🥹💕
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You had been awake for almost an hour before you texted him.
Not because you had anywhere to be.
You didn’t.
For once, there was no alarm dragging you out of sleep. No uniform to pull on. No apron. No name tag. No rush to get to Harbor Scoops before the first line of tourists started pressing their hands and faces against the glass.
You had the day off.
A whole day.
No scooping ice cream until your wrist hurt. No sticky counters. No customers asking for samples of flavors they already knew they wouldn't order.
No class either.
Not today.
You had one summer course left before graduation.
One last box to check before the thing you had been working toward became real enough to put on paper.
You had not told many people.
It felt safer that way. Quieter. No expectations. No speeches. No questions about who was coming or whether your family knew or whether you were excited.
You were excited.
You were.
You just did not know how to celebrate something you had learned to reach on your own.
So you showered. Got dressed. Made coffee. Drank half of it standing in your tiny kitchen before forgetting about the rest.
Then you moved through your apartment with no real purpose at all.
You folded the blanket on the couch. Opened the curtains. Closed them halfway again when the light came in too bright. Rinsed one spoon. Left the mug.
Your apartment was quiet in the softest way.
The kind of quiet you had chosen. The kind of quiet that did not ask anything from you.
Eventually, you picked up your phone.
Pope’s thread was already close to the top. You opened it. The last messages were still there from the night before.
You: Home.
Pope: Good.
Three minutes later, another bubble had appeared.
Pope: Goodnight.
You had stared at that one for too long.
Goodnight. One word. Not much, probably, to anyone else.
But from Pope, it had felt like him standing in the doorway until your cab disappeared. Like the deadbolt turning. Like the hall light left on. You had typed back:
You: Goodnight, Andrew.
He had not answered after that.
You had not expected him to.
Still, you had fallen asleep with your phone beside your pillow.
Now, standing barefoot in your kitchen with your day off stretching wide and empty ahead of you, you looked at the thread again. You typed one thing. Deleted it. Typed another. Deleted that too. Then, before you could turn it into something smaller, you sent:
You: I have the day off.
The message delivered. You set the phone on the counter. Walked away from it.
Made it three steps.
Then came back. Nothing. That was fine. It was fine.
Pope had Lena. Pope had his own morning. Pope did not live inside his phone, and you liked that about him most of the time. This was not most of the time. The phone buzzed.
Pope: Good.
You stared at it.
Good.
That was all. You could hear him saying it too, low and careful, like the word had more in it than he knew how to send. You smiled despite yourself. Then your thumb moved before your courage could leave.
You: Do you want to come over?
This time, the typing bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared. Your stomach dipped. Then it buzzed.
Pope: Yeah.
A second later:
Pope: Now?
Your smile got worse.
You: If you want.
The answer came faster this time.
Pope: I do.
You stopped smiling.
Not because it was bad.
Because it was not.
Because those two words looked too bare on your screen. Too honest. Too much like Pope standing in the middle of a sentence with nowhere to hide. Another message appeared before you could answer.
Pope: Dropped Lena off.
Then:
Pope: I’m close.
Your stomach flipped.
You looked toward your front door. Then down at yourself. Soft clothes. Bare feet. No uniform. No apron. No Harbor Scoops name tag.
Just you.
You typed back with your thumb.
You: Okay.
Your thumb hovered. Then you added:
You: Text me when you’re here. I’ll come down.
Pope: Okay.
You set the phone down. Then picked it up again. Then set it down for real. Your apartment suddenly felt different with him on the way to it.
Not bad.
Just aware.
Like the rooms had heard you invite him and were waiting too.
You looked around.
The tiny kitchen to the right of the front door. The living room straight ahead. The bedroom and bathroom tucked off from there. Small. Clean. Warm.
Yours.
A book sat at an angle on the end table. The kitchen towel hung crooked from the oven handle. Your coffee mug sat in the sink, a ring of brown at the bottom.
You noticed them only because you were trying not to notice yourself.
The way your heart kept lifting.
The way your mouth kept wanting to smile.
The way this felt less like inviting someone over and more like opening a door you had kept closed for a long time.
Fourteen minutes later, your phone buzzed again.
Pope: Here.
You stared at the word. Here. Not outside the beach house. Not in the truck waiting to take you somewhere else. Here. At your building. Your day off. Your life.
You slipped on shoes and grabbed your keys before you could think too hard about what that meant.
Pope was waiting outside the front entrance when you pushed through the glass door.
He stood a few feet back from the building, hands loose at his sides, shoulders slightly rounded like he was trying not to take up the whole sidewalk.
He looked up when he saw you.
For one second, neither of you said anything.
It was strange seeing him there.
Not at the beach house.
Not standing under porch light or kitchen light or the thin blue dark before morning.
Here.
Outside your building. In the middle of your ordinary day.
“Hi,” you said.
Pope looked at you.
“Hi,” he said.
“You got here fast,” you said.
“Wasn’t far,” Pope said.
His eyes moved over your face. Then down, briefly. Not in a way that made you feel inspected. In a way that made you feel noticed.
“You look different,” Pope said.
You glanced down at yourself. “Different bad?”
“No,” Pope said.
The answer came too fast.
Your mouth softened. “Different good?”
Pope looked at you again.
“Yeah,” he said.
The word landed warm and low in your stomach. You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to. Then you stepped back and held the door open.
“You don’t have to come up if you don’t want to,” you said.
Pope’s eyes came back to yours.
“I didn’t say I didn’t want to,” Pope said.
Your fingers tightened slightly around the door handle.
“Okay,” you said.
Pope watched your face. Quiet. Still. Like he was waiting for the smile you gave him to become something else.
It didn’t.
You only tipped your head toward the lobby.
“Come on,” you said.
Pope stepped inside.
The lobby was small and smelled faintly like laundry detergent and old carpet. Mailboxes lined one wall. The light above the stairwell hummed softly.
You started up the stairs first.
Pope followed one step behind you.
Close enough that you could feel him there. Not touching. Not crowding.
Just there.
The stairs creaked beneath your feet. Somewhere behind a closed door, a television murmured. A dog barked once, then went quiet.
“You’re quiet,” you said.
“I’m quiet,” Pope said.
You looked back over your shoulder.
The corner of your mouth lifted. “That is true.”
Pope’s eyes held yours for half a second.
Then dropped to the stairs.
You kept walking before either of you had to decide what to do with that.
At your door, you fit the key into the lock.
Pope stood beside you, close enough that your shoulder almost brushed his arm.
For the first time all morning, you felt nervous.
Not afraid.
Not unsure.
Just aware of the apartment on the other side.
The mug in the sink. The crooked towel. The book on the end table. The bed you had made too quickly that morning.
Your life.
Small and ordinary and yours.
You opened the door. Then you looked at him.
“You sure?” Pope asked.
Your chest softened.
“Yeah,” you said. “I’m sure.”
Pope stepped inside. One foot first. Then the other.
Like crossing the threshold mattered.
You closed the door behind him and turned the lock. The click was small. Still, you heard it. Pope did too.
His eyes moved once to the lock, then back to the apartment.
You slipped your keys into the little bowl on the counter.
For a second, neither of you moved.
He was really inside now. Not waiting outside. Not dropping you off. Not standing at the edge of your life with the truck running.
Inside.
Your tiny kitchen sat immediately to his right, small enough that two people standing in it would have to notice each other. The living room was straight ahead, warm with half-closed curtains and soft morning light across the floor.
Your couch. Your blanket. Your books. Your plants near the window. The bedroom and bathroom tucked off from there. Small. Ordinary.
Yours.
Pope looked around quietly. Not rude. Not judging.
Just taking it in.
You watched him see it.
Then you glanced down, suddenly aware of the coffee mug still in the sink and the towel hanging crooked from the oven handle and the fact that your apartment was clean, but not perfect.
“It’s not much,” you said.
Pope looked back at you. You shrugged a little.
“But I’ve tried to make it feel like home,” you said.
Pope’s eyes moved around the apartment again. Slower this time. The couch. The lamp. The books stacked on the coffee table. The blanket folded over the arm. Then back to you.
“It does,” Pope said.
Your chest went soft in a way you had not prepared for.
“Oh,” you said quietly.
Pope looked away first. You let him. You moved toward the kitchen.
“Do you want coffee?” you asked.
Pope glanced toward the mug in the sink. Then back to you.
“I’m good,” Pope said.
You rested one hand against the counter.
“Water?” you asked.
“I’m good,” Pope said again.
You nodded. “Okay.”
You stood there for one more second, hands loose at your sides, trying to remember what people did when they invited someone into their apartment because they wanted them there and not because something was wrong.
Then you moved toward the couch.
Pope watched you go.
You sat down on one end, tucking one leg beneath you.
The couch was small. Not so small there was nowhere for him to sit. Small enough that wherever he sat would mean something. You looked up at him.
“You can sit,” you said.
Pope’s eyes moved to the couch. Then to you. Then to the end table beside him. The book. It sat at an angle near the lamp, turned just slightly away from the table’s edge.
Not messy.
Not anything, really. Just a book you had set down without thinking too hard about it.
But Pope was thinking about it.
You could tell by the stillness in him. The way his fingers moved once at his side. The way his gaze caught, left, then came back. You looked at the book. Then at him.
“The book?” you asked.
Pope’s eyes cut to yours. “What?”
“You can fix it,” you said.
His face closed a little.
“I wasn’t,” Pope said.
“You were,” you said gently.
Pope looked away.
For a second, you thought you had gone too close to something. Thought maybe naming it had made the room too small. So you did not smile. You only kept your voice soft.
“It’s okay,” you said.
Pope looked at you then.
The apartment was quiet around both of you. The mug was still in the sink. The towel was still crooked. You were still sitting on the couch, giving him room to decide what to do.
“It is?” Pope asked.
Your chest softened.
“Yeah,” you said. “It is.”
Pope looked back at the book.
Then, slowly, like he expected the permission to disappear if he moved too fast, he reached down and straightened it.
The spine lined up with the edge of the table.
Exact. Clean. Right.
His hand stayed there for one extra second. Then he pulled it back. You looked at the book. Then at him.
“Better?” you asked.
Pope swallowed. “Yeah.”
You nodded. “Good.”
That was all.
No joke. No question. No asking him why.
Pope stood there for one second longer.
The book was straight. The mug was still in the sink. The towel was still crooked. Nothing had changed except one small thing.
Then Pope moved to the couch.
He sat beside you carefully, leaving a little space between your knee and his thigh. Not much. Enough to ask without asking. You looked down at the space. Then at him. Pope’s hands rested between his knees. His shoulders were still too tight. His eyes were on the straightened book.
You did not reach for him right away. You let the room settle around him. Let the book stay straight. Let the silence stay kind.
Then Pope looked at you.
There was something different in his face now. Not relaxed. Not easy. Pope did not seem built for easy. But softer. Like you had seen something and left the lights on anyway.
You smiled a little.
“Hi,” you said.
Pope looked at your mouth. Then back at your eyes.
“You said that already,” Pope said.
Your smile grew.
“So did you,” you said.
His mouth shifted. Almost. You held onto it.
Then, slowly, you reached for his hand.
You did not grab. You did not pull. You only turned your palm up in the small space between you and waited.
Pope looked down.
Your hand rested open on the couch cushion, close enough that his fingers could reach yours if he wanted.
For a second, he did nothing.
Then his hand moved. Careful. Almost stiff. His fingers slid over yours, then stopped, like he had reached the edge of what he knew how to do.
You closed your hand around his.
Pope looked at the place where you were touching.
The book was straight. The room was warm. Your fingers were between his. He looked like all three things had become too much at once.
You let your thumb move once over his knuckles.
Pope’s breath caught. Barely. Enough.
You looked up at him. “You okay?”
Pope’s eyes lifted to yours.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
The answer came too fast.
You did not challenge it. You only lifted his hand. Pope went still. Completely still.
You brought his hand to your mouth and kissed his knuckles.
Once. Soft. Then again.
His fingers flexed in yours. Not pulling away. Not holding on yet either. Just reacting.
When you lowered his hand, Pope was staring at you.
Not at your mouth. Not anymore. At you.
Like he had no idea what to do with being touched gently when nothing was wrong.
Your throat tightened.
“Andrew,” you said softly.
Pope blinked once. His eyes dropped then. Your mouth. Your chin. Your hand still holding his.
He shifted closer before he seemed to know he was doing it.
Not much.
Enough that your knee touched his thigh. Enough that the air between you changed. You did not move away. Pope noticed that too.
Of course he did.
“You do that,” Pope said.
You looked at him. “Do what?”
His thumb moved once against your hand.
“Make things feel…” Pope started.
He stopped.
The words went somewhere he could not follow. You waited. Pope looked toward the straightened book. Then back to you.
“Quiet,” Pope said.
Your chest softened.
You remembered the way he had looked at the apartment. The book. The mug. The crooked towel. The way he had stepped through the door like he was entering somewhere he had not been sure would let him stay.
“Quiet good?” you asked.
Pope looked at you. “Yeah.”
The word was low. Almost rough. Like it had cost him more than it should have.
You nodded. “Good.”
Pope’s eyes dropped to your mouth again.
This time, he did not look away fast enough.
You saw it. The want. The hesitation. The way he could stare directly at you and still somehow look like he was asking permission. Your thumb brushed over his hand.
“Do you want to kiss me?” you asked.
Pope’s eyes came back to yours. The answer was immediate.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
No smile. No charm. No smoothness. Just want. Plain and heavy and almost confused by itself.
You leaned in first.
Pope met you halfway.
The kiss was soft for one breath.
Then he made a low sound in his throat and leaned closer, like softness had not settled him at all.
Like it had only shown him another thing to want.
His free hand hovered near your waist. Not touching. Waiting. You felt it there, the heat of his palm through the narrow space between you. You pulled back just enough to look at him.
“You can touch me,” you said.
Pope’s eyes searched yours. “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” you said.
His hand settled at your waist. Careful at first. Then firmer when you did not tense. When you did not flinch. When you leaned into him instead.
Pope kissed you again.
Deeper this time. Still careful. Still him. But hungrier. Your hand slid to the side of his neck, and Pope went tense under your palm.
Then closer.
Like he could not decide whether tenderness was something to survive or something to chase.
You chased it for him.
You kissed him until his shoulders started to drop.
Until his hand stopped hovering and held. Until the small space he had left between your knee and his thigh disappeared. The couch dipped beneath his weight as he shifted closer. Your back touched the armrest.
Pope stopped immediately.
His hand loosened at your waist. You smiled against his mouth.
“I’m okay,” you whispered.
Pope opened his eyes. “You sure?”
You nodded.
“I’m sure,” you said.
His gaze moved over your face.
Not inspecting. Checking. Always checking. You touched his cheek.
“I like this,” you said.
Pope’s face changed. Open for one dangerous second. Like the words had hit him somewhere too bare to guard.
“You do?” Pope asked.
Your thumb brushed along his cheekbone.
“Yeah,” you said. “I do.”
Pope stared at you.
Then he kissed you again.
And this time, there was nothing uncertain about the way he wanted.
Still gentle. Still careful. But certain.
His hand moved from your waist to the couch beside your hip, bracing there, giving you room even as he leaned over you.
You caught the front of his shirt. Not to pull him down. Just to keep him close.
Pope noticed.
His mouth slowed against yours. His forehead touched yours. For a second, both of you breathed there. Close. Warm. Quiet.
Your apartment hummed around you.
The refrigerator. The distant television through the wall. A car passing outside. The soft click of the cooling coffee maker. Normal sounds. Life sounds.
Nothing breaking.
Nothing waiting to punish the silence.
Pope’s eyes stayed closed longer than yours did.
You watched him.
The hard line of his mouth had softened. His hand was still braced beside you. His thumb moved once against the couch cushion, like his body still needed repetition, even here.
“Andrew,” you whispered.
His eyes opened.
“You’re here,” you said.
Pope looked at you. The words landed. You saw them land. His throat worked once.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
You smiled a little.
His mouth shifted. Almost. Almost a smile.
Then his eyes dropped to yours again.
“You keep saying my name,” Pope said.
Your smile softened. “You don’t like it?”
Pope looked back at your eyes.
“I didn’t say that,” Pope said.
Warmth spread through your chest.
“No,” you said quietly. “You didn’t.”
His gaze held yours. Direct. Still.
Too intense to be called flirting by anyone who knew how flirting was supposed to look.
But you were starting to learn his version of flirting.
The looking. The stillness. The careful answers. The way he shifted closer before he knew what he planned to do when he got there.
You lifted your hand from his shirt and touched the side of his face again.
Pope leaned into it. Barely. So little someone else might have missed it.
You did not.
Your breath caught. Pope saw. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Again. This time, you smiled.
“Again?” you asked.
Pope did not pretend not to understand.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
So you kissed him again.
Pope answered faster this time.
Not rough. But less startled by himself. His hand stayed at your waist, careful but firmer now, like he was starting to understand that you were not going to vanish because he wanted to touch you. You leaned into him. Pope’s fingers flexed once. Then held.
The couch was too small for pretending there was space between you. Your knee pressed against his thigh. His shoulder blocked out half the room. His mouth moved over yours with careful pressure, then more when your hand slid to the back of his neck.
Pope went still under your palm.
Only for a second.
Then his breath left him through his nose, warm against your face. You felt it happen. The moment he stopped thinking about whether he should want this and started wanting it.
Your stomach dipped.
Pope shifted closer.
You made a small sound against his mouth. Pope stopped immediately. His head lifted just enough for his eyes to find yours. You opened your eyes.
“I’m okay,” you whispered.
Pope searched your face. “You made a sound.”
Your chest warmed at how serious he looked.
“I know,” you said softly.
Pope did not move. You squeezed the front of his shirt lightly.
“It was a good sound,” you said.
His face changed. Barely. Enough.
“Oh,” Pope said.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
“Yeah,” you said. “Oh.”
Pope looked down. Not embarrassed exactly. Caught. You lifted one hand and touched his cheek. His eyes came back to you slowly, like he had no defense for that.
“You can keep kissing me,” you said.
Pope stared at you for one second. Then he did. This kiss was slower. Still hungry, but different now. Less like he was trying to survive the want.
More like he was trying to learn it.
His mouth moved over yours with careful pressure. His hand stayed on your waist, thumb still at first, then moving once when you leaned toward him. You let your fingers slip into his hair.
Pope made a sound this time. Low. Almost nothing. But you felt it against your mouth. Your heart kicked hard. Pope pulled back before you could. His eyes were wide enough that you knew he had heard himself. You kept your hand in his hair. Gentle. Still.
“You’re okay,” you said.
Pope swallowed.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
His voice had gone rough. You touched the side of his neck with your thumb. The pulse there was fast. Very fast. You looked at him. Pope looked back. There was no charm in his face. No practiced line. No easy grin to soften the room.
Just want. And restraint. And something almost confused by both.
It made your chest ache.
You shifted back slightly, enough to give both of you room to breathe.
Pope moved with you for half an inch. Then caught himself. Stopped.
Your mouth softened.
“You can come with me,” you said.
Pope’s eyes lifted to yours.
“Where?” Pope asked.
You smiled a little.
“Back against the couch,” you said.
His gaze dropped to the space between you. Then back up.
“Okay,” Pope said.
You moved first, settling into the corner of the couch with your shoulder against the back cushion and your knee bent between you.
Pope followed carefully.
So carefully it almost hurt. He sat turned toward you, one arm along the back of the couch, not touching your shoulders, not claiming the space behind you, just there. Waiting. Always waiting. You looked at his arm. Then at him.
“You can,” you said.
His jaw shifted. “What?”
You glanced toward his arm.
“Put it around me,” you said softly.
Pope went still. You watched the words move through him. You watched him want. You watched him check.
“You sure?” Pope asked.
“I’m sure,” you said.
Pope’s arm moved around your shoulders. Slow. Careful. Like he had been handed something breakable. You leaned into his side before he could hold himself too far away. His whole body tensed.
Then, little by little, he settled.
Not relaxed. Not exactly. But present. Warm against you. Solid. Your cheek rested near his shoulder. His hand hovered near your upper arm for a second before it finally settled there. Light.
You closed your eyes.
The room was quiet again. Not empty quiet. Not lonely quiet. Chosen quiet. The kind that lived in the half-closed curtains, the cooling coffee, the book now lined perfectly with the table’s edge.
Pope’s thumb moved once against your sleeve.
Small. Then again. You smiled without opening your eyes.
“What?” Pope asked.
You tipped your face toward him. “Nothing.”
Pope looked at you.
“You smiled,” Pope said.
“I did,” you said.
His eyes stayed on your face. “Why?”
You let your gaze move over him.
The serious set of his mouth. The uncertainty still gathered in his brow. The way he held you like he was trying to memorize the exact amount of pressure that would be enough without being too much.
“Because you’re sweet,” you said.
Pope’s face closed immediately.
Not angry. Reflexive. Like the word had gone somewhere too tender and touched a bruise.
“I’m not,” Pope said.
You did not argue fast. You only reached up and touched his jaw.
“You are to me,” you said.
Pope looked at you.
His eyes were so still it made your throat tighten. For a second, you thought he might kiss you again just to avoid answering. He didn’t. He looked away first. But his hand tightened very slightly around your arm.
You let that be his answer.
For a little while, neither of you spoke. A car passed outside. The refrigerator clicked on. Someone laughed faintly somewhere beyond the wall, then the sound disappeared.
Pope’s thumb kept moving against your sleeve. Once. Pause. Again.
You looked at the straightened book on the end table.
Then the crooked towel across the room. Then the mug in the sink. The room held all of it. The fixed thing. The unfinished things. The two of you on the couch, trying to learn what to do with a soft morning that had not asked either of you to bleed for it.
Pope looked around the apartment again.
Not the way he had when he first came in. Not scanning this time. Looking. At the couch. The tiny kitchen. The plants near the window. The stack of school books on the coffee table. The mug still in the sink. Then his eyes came back to you.
“How long have you lived here?” Pope asked.
You tipped your head against his shoulder. “A while.”
Pope’s thumb moved once against your sleeve.
“How long is a while?” Pope asked.
You sighed softly. “Since after high school.”
Pope’s thumb stopped. “Right after?”
You nodded against his shoulder. “Pretty much.”
Pope looked toward the kitchen again.
“You moved here alone?” Pope asked.
“Yeah,” you said.
His hand tightened slightly around your arm. Not enough to pull. Enough to answer. You looked at the crooked towel across the room.
“I worked all through high school,” you said. “Every shift I could get. Weekends. Summers. After class.”
Pope listened. Still. Focused. Like if he held himself quiet enough, he could catch every piece of what you were giving him.
“I saved almost everything,” you said.
Pope’s gaze moved back to you. “For this?”
You looked around your apartment. The couch. The little kitchen. The window. The door that locked because you wanted it to.
“Yeah,” you said. “For this.”
Pope was quiet for a second. Then he nodded once.
“Good,” Pope said.
Your throat tightened at the simple certainty of it. You looked down at your hand resting near his thigh.
“It didn’t feel good at first,” you said.
Pope watched you. “No?”
You shook your head. “No. It felt scary.”
The words sat there. Not too heavy yet. Not light either. Pope’s hand stayed on your arm.
“Why?” Pope asked.
You huffed a small breath through your nose.
“Because I wanted it so badly,” you said.
Pope looked at you. You glanced up at him.
“That probably sounds stupid,” you said.
Pope shook his head. “No.”
The answer came flat. Certain. You believed him because he did not try to make it pretty. You looked back toward the kitchen.
“My mom left when I was little,” you said.
Pope went very still beside you. You kept your eyes on the mug in the sink.
“I don’t remember a lot before that,” you said. “I remember after.”
Pope did not ask right away. He waited. You could feel the waiting in him. Patient, but rigid. Like listening was something he could do right if he did not move.
“After was rules,” you said.
Pope’s jaw shifted. “Rules?”
You nodded. “My dad’s rules.”
Pope’s hand tightened once around your arm. You noticed. You kept going before he could decide whether to apologize for it.
“He liked things a certain way,” you said.
Pope looked toward the straightened book. Then back to you.
You saw the thought cross his face.
“Not like you,” you said.
His eyes held on yours.
You lifted your head from his shoulder so you could look at him more fully.
“Not like the book,” you said.
Pope looked away. You let him.
“My dad wanted things perfect because it made him feel powerful,” you said.
Pope’s face went harder. Not at you. But the anger started somewhere in his jaw and moved down into the hand still resting carefully on your arm.
“If a mug was in the sink, it meant something,” you said. “If a towel was crooked, it meant something. If a door closed too loudly, it meant something.”
Pope looked toward the kitchen.
The mug. The towel. Then back to you.
“What did it mean?” Pope asked.
You gave a small shrug. It did not feel small.
“That I was lazy,” you said. “Or disrespectful. Or ungrateful. Or trying to make him mad.”
Pope’s mouth tightened. You looked at your apartment instead of him.
“Everything in that house had a second meaning,” you said.
Pope did not answer.
The room felt quieter now. Still warm. But quieter.
You swallowed.
“That’s why this place mattered,” you said.
Pope looked around the apartment again. “Because it’s yours.”
You nodded. “Because it’s mine.”
Your voice softened.
“If I leave a mug in the sink now, it’s just a mug,” you said.
Pope’s eyes came back to you.
“If the towel hangs crooked now, it’s allowed to hang crooked,” you said.
You breathed out slowly.
“If I shut a door, it’s just a door,” you said.
Pope looked at the end table. At the book. Then he looked at you.
“The book,” Pope said.
You knew immediately what he meant.
“I let you fix it,” you said.
Pope’s jaw shifted.
“I didn’t know,” Pope said.
“I know,” you said.
Pope looked at you.
“I wouldn’t have,” Pope said.
“I know,” you said again.
You reached for his hand where it rested against your arm. Your fingers slid over his.
“I know you weren’t trying to take anything from me,” you said.
Pope looked down at your hand.
“You just needed it straight,” you said.
The words sat between you. Small. Heavy. True.
Pope’s throat worked once.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
You squeezed his hand lightly.
“That’s different,” you said.
Pope did not look convinced. Not fully. But his hand stayed in yours.
That felt like something.
Pope’s eyes moved toward the kitchen. The mug. The towel. Then back to you.
“What happened?” Pope asked.
His voice was flat. Too flat. You looked down.
“Depends on the day,” you said.
Pope did not move. You could feel the focus in him sharpen.
“Sometimes yelling,” you said.
His hand stayed in yours.
“Sometimes no dinner,” you said.
Pope stopped breathing for half a second. You felt that too.
“No dinner?” Pope asked.
“If he decided I didn’t deserve it,” you said.
Pope’s face changed. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But all the softness left his mouth. You looked away before you had to watch him understand too much.
“Sometimes a slap,” you said.
The room went colder.
“Sometimes the back of his hand,” you said.
Pope’s hand left yours.
For one awful second, you thought he was pulling away from you.
Then he stood.
Not fast. Not explosive. Just up. Like his body had too much feeling in it to keep sitting still.
“Andrew,” you said.
Pope walked three steps into the living room and stopped near the end table. Near the straightened book. His hands curled once at his sides. Then opened. Then curled again.
You sat up slowly.
The apartment was quiet around him. Your quiet. Your chosen quiet.
And now his anger was standing in the middle of it, silent and careful and trying very hard not to touch anything.
You watched his back.
“Andrew,” you said again.
Pope looked toward the window. Not at you.
“You were a kid,” Pope said.
Your throat tightened. “Yeah.”
Pope’s jaw worked once.
“You were a kid,” Pope said again.
This time, quieter. Worse.
You stood from the couch.
Pope turned his head slightly when he heard you move.
You did not walk all the way to him. Not yet. You stopped a few feet away.
“I left,” you said. “I’m here.”
Pope closed his eyes. Only for a second. Then he opened them again.
“You see him?” Pope asked.
“No,” you said.
Pope looked at you then.
“Ever?” Pope asked.
“No,” you said. “Not anymore.”
Pope stared at you. Then he nodded once.
“Good,” Pope said.
The word landed hard.
Protective. Angry. Relieved. All of it at once.
You looked at his hands. Still curled. Still empty. Still careful.
Once, that kind of anger would have made you start counting exits.
With Pope, you counted his breathing instead.
In. Out. Held too long. Released through his nose.
You stepped closer.
Pope’s eyes dropped to your feet. Then lifted to your face.
“You’re angry,” you said.
Pope looked away. “Yeah.”
“At me?” you asked.
His eyes snapped back. “No.”
The answer came so fast it almost hurt.
You nodded.
Pope’s expression shifted.
You stepped closer again. Close enough now to reach him. You did not touch him yet.
“I spent a lot of time trying not to give him reasons,” you said.
Pope watched you.
You kept your voice low. “A mug. A towel. A door closing too loud.”
His eyes stayed on yours. You looked at him.
“Smurf does that to you,” you said.
His face closed. Not all the way. Enough.
You stayed still.
“You don’t have to answer,” you said.
Pope looked down. The silence stretched. Then he said one word.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Your chest hurt.
You did not ask for more. You did not need all of it right then.
You only reached for his hand. Slow. Open.
Pope watched you do it.
For a second, he did not move. Then his fingers opened. You slid your hand into his. His palm was warm. Tense. There.
“She says things,” Pope said.
You looked up at him. Pope’s eyes stayed on your joined hands.
“She says them like she’s helping,” Pope said.
Your thumb moved once over his knuckles.
“That’s worse sometimes,” you said.
Pope looked at you then.
No quick glance. No hiding fast enough to save himself. Just you, standing in front of him in the middle of your apartment, your hand still in his after he had given you one ugly piece of himself.
You had not asked for another. You had not stepped back. You had not looked at him like he had become harder to want.
His eyes dropped to your mouth.
Then lifted again. Trying. Always trying.
You almost smiled.
Not because it was funny. Because it was him.
“Andrew,” you said softly.
His fingers tightened around yours.
“You want to kiss me?” you asked.
His answer came immediately.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
No charm. No smile. No practiced line. Just the truth, blunt and heavy between you.
So you kissed him.
Pope’s hand tightened around yours before his mouth reached you.
Like even now, even after asking, some part of him still needed something to hold onto.
The kiss was soft at first.
Then deeper.
Not enough to make the room disappear. Just enough to make staying inside feel dangerous.
You pulled back first.
Pope followed you for half an inch before he stopped himself. You saw it.
His eyes dropped. Then lifted again.
You breathed out against his mouth.
“We should probably eat something,” you said.
Pope looked at you. “Eat?”
You smiled a little.
“Yes,” you said. “People do that.”
Pope looked toward the kitchen. Then back at you.
“Okay,” Pope said.
It should have been awkward after that.
Maybe part of it was.
Maybe all new things were awkward if they mattered enough.
But the day kept going anyway.
You made sandwiches in the tiny kitchen with Pope standing beside you, too large for the space and too careful with everything in it. He handed you plates when you reached for them. He opened the bag of chips without being asked. He wiped a crumb from the counter with his thumb, then stopped like he had been caught doing something wrong.
You looked at him. Pope looked back at you.
“It’s okay,” you said.
Pope’s jaw shifted once. Then he nodded.
You kept making lunch. The mug stayed in the sink. The towel stayed crooked. The room stayed warm. You ate on the couch because the table was covered in books.
Pope sat beside you with his knees apart and his plate balanced in one hand, watching you talk about your summer class and the professor who assigned too much reading and the customer at Harbor Scoops who always asked for samples and then ordered vanilla anyway.
Pope listened.
That was what he did.
He listened like it was work. Like it mattered. Like every word had a place he was putting it.
Sometimes he answered.
Small things. Flat things. Things that made you smile because they were so plainly him.
“That’s stupid,” Pope said when you told him about the professor changing the deadline twice.
“It is,” you said.
“He shouldn’t do that,” Pope said.
“No,” you said. “He shouldn’t.”
Pope nodded once, satisfied that the matter had been judged correctly.
You laughed then. Not much. Enough.
Pope looked at you when you did.
Like he wanted to keep the sound somewhere.
After lunch, you walked.
Not far.
Just around the path behind your building, past the mailboxes, the thin strip of grass, the little pond with leaves gathered near the edge.
You told him you walked when your head got loud.
Pope looked at the path.
Then at the fence. Then at the narrow space between two garages.
“I clean,” Pope said.
You looked over at him.
“Yeah,” you said. “I know.”
Pope’s eyes stayed on the path. “And work out.”
Your mouth softened before you could stop it.
“I appreciate that part,” you said.
Pope looked at you then.
The glance was quick. Sharp. Caught somewhere between confusion and heat.
You lifted one shoulder. “What?”
Pope looked away.
“Nothing,” Pope said.
“It’s not nothing,” you said.
Pope’s jaw shifted.
“You said you appreciate it,” Pope said.
“I do,” you said.
His eyes cut back to you.
For the first time all afternoon, the silence was not heavy. It was warm.
A little dangerous.
You let your gaze move over him once. Not long. Not subtle enough.
“Respectfully,” you said.
Pope stared at you.
Then his eyes dropped to your mouth.
This time, you did not fill the silence for him.
You let him sit with it.
Let him understand exactly what you meant.
Pope looked ahead again, but his hand flexed once at his side.
You saw it.
You reached for him.
Pope let you take his hand. No hesitation this time. Or less hesitation.
That felt like something.
You kept walking beside him.
“Sometimes I can’t stop,” Pope said.
The words came out quiet. Flat.
A door opened only an inch.
You did not push it wider.
“Sometimes I can’t either,” you said.
Pope looked over at you.
You nodded toward the path. “That’s why I know exactly how long this walk is.”
His mouth shifted. Almost. You held onto it.
The two of you walked the loop once.
Then again.
Then half of it a third time before either of you seemed to realize you had no reason to still be out there except that neither of you wanted to stop being next to each other.
When you went back upstairs, Pope paused at your door like he remembered the first time he had crossed it.
You unlocked it.
He followed you inside.
The apartment looked the same. Small. Warm. Yours.
But different now because he had been in it for hours and nothing had broken.
You talked some more.
Or you talked.
Pope listened.
Sometimes he said things. Sometimes he kissed you instead of answering. Sometimes he reached for your hand like he was testing whether he was allowed to want something simple twice.
By the time the afternoon light started to shift across the floor, you realized the whole day had happened without either of you bracing for the next bad thing.
Lunch. A walk. The couch.
Your fingers in his.
His shoulder against yours.
A crooked towel.
A mug in the sink.
Pope in your apartment, quiet and watchful and there.
Normal things.
Normal couple things.
The kind of things you had never trusted because normal had always felt like a trick with a timer hidden inside it.
But there had been no trick.
Not yet.
Pope checked his watch.
The softness changed. Not gone. Just interrupted.
You looked at him.
“Lena?” you asked.
Pope nodded. “Pickup.”
You sat up straighter.
“Do you want me to come?” you asked.
Pope looked at you.
The answer sat on his face before he said it.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
So you went with him.
The drive to Lena’s school was quiet, but not uncomfortable.
Pope kept both hands on the wheel.
You watched the streets move past the passenger window, still feeling the shape of his hand in yours.
By the time Pope pulled up to Lena’s school, the afternoon had gone loud and ordinary.
Kids spilled through the front entrance in clusters, backpacks bouncing, voices sharp with end-of-day energy.
Parents waited along the curb. A teacher lifted one hand to wave a car forward. Someone laughed. Someone shouted for a child to slow down.
Pope parked two spaces down from the crosswalk. You unbuckled your seatbelt. Pope was already looking toward the entrance.
There were too many kids. Too much movement. Too many small bodies weaving around each other.
Then Pope stopped moving. His hand stayed on the door handle.
You looked at him. “Andrew?”
Pope did not answer.
His eyes moved over the sidewalk. The entrance. The line of children by the classroom doors. The teacher with the whistle around her neck.
“No Lena,” Pope said.
Your stomach tightened. “She might still be inside.”
Pope got out of the truck.
You followed him. He walked fast. Not running. Not yet.
The teacher near the front doors looked up when she saw him approach.
“Hi,” the teacher said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m here for Lena Blackwell,” Pope said.
The teacher looked toward the children still moving through the front doors. Then she looked back at Pope.
“I’m sorry, which classroom?” the teacher asked.
Pope’s jaw tightened. “Mrs. Hanley.”
The teacher glanced behind her toward the office.
“You’ll want to check inside,” the teacher said. “They’ll have the sign-out sheet.”
Pope was already moving before she finished the sentence.
You stayed close behind him.
Inside, the school office smelled like paper, floor cleaner, and something sweet from a bowl of candy on the counter.
A copier hummed behind a half wall.
Somewhere deeper in the building, a child laughed too loudly and was shushed by an adult voice.
The receptionist looked up from her computer. Her face changed when she saw Pope. Not fear.
Recognition.
“Oh,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Cody.”
Pope stopped at the counter. His hands went flat on the edge of it. You saw his fingers press down. Too hard.
“I’m here for Lena,” Pope said.
The receptionist’s smile faded.
“Lena Blackwell?” the receptionist asked.
“Yes,” Pope said.
The receptionist glanced at you. Then back at Pope.
“One moment,” the receptionist said.
She clicked something on the computer. Then reached for a binder on the desk beside her.
Pope’s breathing changed. Small. Sharp. His shoulders rose once. You stepped closer, close enough that your arm nearly brushed his. The receptionist flipped through the pages. Pope leaned forward.
“She’s not outside,” Pope said.
The receptionist kept looking through the binder.
“No,” the receptionist said carefully. “She wouldn’t be.”
Pope went still. You felt it beside you. The dangerous kind.
“What does that mean?” Pope asked.
The receptionist looked up. “She was signed out earlier.”
Pope’s voice dropped. “By who?”
The receptionist looked back down at the page.
“Her grandmother,” the receptionist said. “Janine Cody.”
Your heart dropped.
Pope did not blink.
The receptionist’s eyes flicked to him. Then back to the binder.
The office sounds kept going. The copier. The phone ringing once. A child laughing somewhere down the hall. The whole world moving like nothing had happened.
Beside you, Pope’s hands curled against the counter.
“She’s not allowed to do that,” Pope said.
The receptionist’s mouth parted slightly.
“She was listed as family,” the receptionist said.
“I didn’t say she could take her,” Pope said.
His voice was not loud yet. That made it worse. The receptionist straightened a little.
“I understand,” the receptionist said.
Pope leaned in another inch.
“No,” Pope said. “You don’t.”
You stepped closer. Not in front of him. Not blocking him. Beside him.
“Andrew,” you said softly.
Pope did not look at you. His eyes stayed on the receptionist.
“You let her leave with Smurf?” Pope asked.
The receptionist blinked.
“Janine,” you said gently.
Pope’s jaw flexed.
You touched the back of his wrist. Not holding him back. Just there. His eyes cut to your hand. Then to you.
You shook your head once. Small. Not now. Not like this.
Pope stared at you.
For one awful second, you thought he might not be able to stop. Then he looked away. His hands stayed on the counter, but his fingers opened.
You looked at the receptionist. “What time was Lena signed out?”
The receptionist looked relieved to have a question she could answer. She looked down at the binder.
“Just after lunch,” the receptionist said.
The words hit you slowly. Then all at once. Lunch. Hours ago. You felt Pope go even stiller beside you.
“At lunch?” Pope asked.
His voice sounded scraped raw.
The receptionist nodded. “Eleven thirty-seven.”
Pope’s hand hit the counter once. Not hard enough to break anything. Hard enough that the candy bowl jumped. The receptionist flinched.
You did too.
Pope saw it.
His face changed. Pain flashed across it so quickly you almost missed it. Then he looked down.
“Andrew,” you said.
His throat worked once. You turned back to the receptionist before the moment could swallow him.
“He wasn’t informed,” you said.
The receptionist looked between you and Pope.
“I’m sorry?” the receptionist asked.
“Andrew wasn’t informed that Lena was being picked up by her grandmother,” you said.
The receptionist blinked at the name. Then nodded once, like she remembered hearing it before.
“Right,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Cody.”
Pope’s eyes stayed on the counter. You kept your voice even.
“Is he listed as her primary contact?” you asked.
The receptionist looked back at the computer. “Yes.”
“Then next time someone tries to sign Lena out early, will the school call him first?” you asked.
The receptionist hesitated. “It depends on the authorized pickup list.”
Pope’s head lifted. “She’s seven.”
His voice was low. Too low.
“How does she leave this school and nobody tells me?” Pope asked.
The receptionist’s hands stilled on the keyboard.
You touched Pope’s wrist again.
This time, he did not look at you. But he did stop.
You looked at the receptionist.
“We need the authorized pickup list updated,” you said.
The receptionist nodded quickly.
“Of course,” the receptionist said. “Her guardian can update that.”
Pope looked at her. “I am her guardian.”
The receptionist’s face softened with recognition and discomfort.
“Yes,” the receptionist said. “I know.”
“Then update it,” Pope said.
“Andrew,” you said quietly.
Pope’s mouth shut. Hard. You looked at the receptionist.
“Can he remove Janine Cody from the list today?” you asked.
The receptionist glanced toward the office door behind her.
“I’ll have to get the principal,” the receptionist said.
“Get him,” Pope said.
The receptionist stood. “I’ll be right back.”
She disappeared through the door behind the desk.
The second she was gone, Pope pushed away from the counter. He turned once toward the front doors. Then stopped. His hand went to his pocket. Phone.
You saw it before he pulled it out.
“Andrew,” you said.
Pope looked at the screen. Not at you.
“She’s had her since lunch,” Pope said.
“I know,” you said.
“She’s had her for hours,” Pope said.
“I know,” you said again.
His thumb moved over the phone. Fast. Too fast. You stepped closer.
“Andrew,” you said.
Pope’s eyes snapped to yours.
“Lena first,” you said.
His jaw worked once. You held his gaze.
“We get Lena first,” you said.
Pope stared at you.
His hand tightened around the phone. Then loosened. Not enough.
But something.
The receptionist came back with a man in a button-down shirt and tie. The principal, probably. His expression was already careful. Professional. Prepared.
“Mr. Cody,” the principal said. “Let’s talk in my office.”
Pope stared at him. For one second, no one moved. Then Pope looked toward the front doors.
“No,” Pope said.
The principal blinked. “Mr. Cody—”
“I’m going to get her,” Pope said.
His voice was low. Final. You believed him immediately.
The principal looked at the receptionist, then back at Pope.
“I understand you’re upset,” the principal said.
Pope’s head turned back. The room changed with it.
“You don’t,” Pope said.
The principal’s mouth shut. You stepped closer before Pope could say anything else.
“Andrew,” you said quietly.
Pope did not look at you. His eyes stayed on the principal. You touched the back of his wrist. Just once. His fingers flexed. Then stilled. You looked at the receptionist.
“We need the pickup list changed,” you said.
The receptionist nodded quickly. “Of course.”
“Today,” you said.
“Yes,” the receptionist said. “Today.”
Pope’s jaw worked once.
You kept your voice even because one of you had to.
“And from now on, if anyone tries to sign Lena out early, you call him first,” you said.
The principal straightened. “If Mr. Cody is her primary guardian, then yes.”
“I am,” Pope said.
The principal nodded.
Pope looked at you then. A quick glance. Sharp. Not grateful exactly. But there.
The principal nodded.
“We can make a note on the file,” the principal said.
“Not a note,” Pope said.
Everyone looked at him. Pope’s hand curled at his side.
“A rule,” Pope said.
The principal’s expression shifted. You saw him deciding how carefully to answer.
The principal hesitated.
Then he nodded.
“Yes,” the principal said. “A rule.”
Pope looked toward the doors again. You looked at the receptionist.
“Please change the list now,” you said.
The receptionist nodded. “We will.”
You followed Pope out before anyone could ask you to stay. He was already halfway to the truck. Not running. But every step looked like restraint.
You caught up to him at the passenger side.
“Andrew,” you said.
Pope unlocked the truck. “She’s at Smurf’s.”
It was not a question. You opened the passenger door.
“Then let’s go to Smurf’s,” you said.
Pope looked at you over the roof of the truck. His face was hard. Too still.
“She took her,” Pope said.
“I know,” you said.
“She came here,” Pope said. “Signed her out. Took her.”
You nodded once.
Pope stared at you. For one second, all the anger cracked enough for the fear underneath to show.
“She’s had her all day,” Pope said.
Your chest hurt. You nodded once.
“Then let’s go get her,” you said.
Pope got in the truck. You got in beside him. He shut his door harder than he needed to. Not a slam. Not quite. But close.
The engine turned over.
Pope pulled out of the school parking lot with both hands locked on the wheel. Too careful. Too controlled.
That scared you more than speed would have.
You looked at his phone in the cup holder.
“Call her before we get there,” you said.
Pope’s eyes stayed on the road.
“I know where she lives,” Pope said.
“I know,” you said. “Call her anyway.”
His jaw flexed.
“She’ll play with it,” Pope said.
“Maybe,” you said.
Pope glanced at you. You kept your voice steady.
“But we need to know if Lena is there,” you said.
Pope looked back at the road.
The truck went quiet except for the tires and the engine. You watched his hands tighten on the wheel. Then loosen. Then tighten again.
Finally, Pope reached for the phone. He handed it to you without looking.
“Call,” Pope said.
Your fingers closed around it. The screen felt warm from his hand.
You found Smurf’s number.
For one second, your thumb hovered. Then you called. The line rang once. Twice.
Then Smurf answered.
“Hi, baby,” Smurf said.
Pope’s hands tightened on the wheel.
You looked at him. His face did not move. But the truck felt smaller.
Smurf’s voice came through the speaker, soft and sweet and poisonous.
Summary: Jack wins by one point. Unfortunately, he knows exactly what to do with it.
Warnings: 18+ only, minors dni, explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, birth control mention, oral sex, fingering, overstimulation, praise, teasing, consensual control, “do what the winner says” dynamic, check-ins, no condom by mutual choice, emotional vulnerability, first “I love you,” Jack being devastatingly patient, Reader being a menace, academic rivals to lovers, established relationship.
Author's Note: Alternate ending because Jack winning by one point deserved its own consequences.
For one second, you only saw numbers. Your score. His score.
Then your brain did the math.
One point. One. Single. Perfect. Point.
Jack beat you by one point.
Your mouth fell open.
Jack looked at the papers. Then at you. Very slowly.
You inhaled.
A long, slow inhale.
Then another one.
Jack watched you carefully.
You nodded once. “Okay.”
His brow lifted. “Okay?”
You folded your receipt with extreme precision. “I am going to be very mature about this.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “Are you?”
“Yes,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours. “That sounded mature.”
“Thank you,” you said.
You creased the receipt again. Very carefully.
Very aggressively.
Because Jack would be good about it.
That was the problem.
If you had won, he would have sat there and let you gloat. He would have rolled his eyes, maybe. He would have made one dry comment about your lack of grace. But he would have smiled through it because he would have been proud of you.
Jack glanced at the receipt in your hand. “You’re folding that very hard.”
You looked down.
The receipt was already creased into a tiny, furious square.
You looked back at him. “Respectfully.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You pointed at him. “Do not smile.”
“I’m not,” Jack said.
“You’re thinking about smiling,” you said.
“I’m thinking a lot of things,” he said.
Your pulse jumped.
That was worse.
You narrowed your eyes. “You won by one point.”
Jack glanced at his score again, then back at you. “I did.”
“The one point,” you said.
His mouth curved slowly. “Apparently.”
You stared at him.
You opened your eyes. “Congratulations.”
Jack went still.
Only slightly.
But you saw it.
His expression changed, the smugness easing into something softer.
You swallowed. “You did really well.”
Jack looked at you for a long second.
Then his voice came quieter. “So did you.”
Your throat tightened.
Jack set his schedule on the coffee table beside your aggressively folded receipt.
“Dinner choice,” Jack said.
Your eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
“Movie choice,” he said.
You groaned. “Abbot.”
“Laundry,” Jack said.
You pointed at him. “I will fold everything badly.”
His mouth barely moved. “I know.”
Your breath caught when his gaze moved over you, slower now.
“And one night where the loser has to do what the winner says,” Jack said.
The air changed. Immediately. Your pulse jumped in your throat.
You swallowed. “Within reason.”
Jack’s eyes softened, but his voice stayed low. “Within reason.”
For a second, neither of you moved.
The bet had sounded dangerous before.
It sounded different now.
Because Jack had won.
Because he was looking at you like he had every intention of being patient.
Like he was already deciding exactly how to use that patience against you.
You lifted your chin. “You’re enjoying this too much.”
Jack stood from the couch. Slowly.
Your stomach flipped.
“I’m enjoying it the correct amount,” he said.
You stared at him. “That is not a real measurement.”
“It is now,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not invent terminology while I’m vulnerable.”
His eyes warmed. “You don’t look vulnerable.”
“I am academically wounded,” you said.
Jack stepped closer. “You agreed to the terms.”
“I agreed under the assumption that justice existed,” you said.
His mouth barely moved. “That was your first mistake.”
You stared at him. “What was my second?”
Jack stopped in front of you, close enough that you had to tip your head back.
His hand lifted, slow enough that you could move away.
You did not.
His fingers touched your chin. Barely.
“Thinking I wouldn’t enjoy this,” Jack said.
Your breath caught.
Jack heard it.
His thumb moved once along your jaw. “Still okay?”
You nodded.
His gaze held yours. “Words.”
You swallowed. “Yes. I’m okay.”
His expression softened for half a second. Then his mouth curved.
“Good,” Jack said.
Your stomach dropped.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
You narrowed your eyes. “I hate you.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “No, you don’t.”
“No,” you admitted. “I don’t.”
For one second, he only looked at you.
Then his face changed.
Barely.
Like something had landed before he could stop it.
“I love you,” Jack said.
The apartment went quiet.
Your breath caught.
Jack went still.
Not like he was taking it back.
Like he had surprised himself with the timing and nothing else.
You stared at him. “You’re saying that now?”
His mouth twitched, faint and helpless. “Apparently.”
“I just lost,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said.
“I was aggressively folding a receipt,” you said.
“I noticed,” Jack said.
“I said I hated you,” you said.
“You corrected it,” Jack said.
A laugh broke out of you, sharp and disbelieving, and your eyes burned at the same time.
Jack’s hand slipped from your chin to your cheek. “Sorry.”
You shook your head quickly. “Don’t apologize.”
His expression steadied. “Okay.”
You looked at him, your heart beating too hard. “You love me?”
Jack’s eyes softened. “Yes.”
Oh.
Your lips parted, but nothing clever arrived in time to save you.
Jack did not push.
He just stayed there, hand warm against your cheek, eyes steady on yours, letting the words exist between you.
You stepped closer.
Jack’s breath caught.
You touched the front of his shirt, fingers curling lightly in the fabric.
“I love you too,” you said.
Jack went very still.
Then his hand slid around your waist, pulling you into him, and he kissed you.
Not carefully.
Not at first.
He kissed you like the words had broken something open in him.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you.
His eyes were darker now. Softer too.
“Just to be clear,” you said, breathless, “I am still handling this maturely.”
Jack huffed a laugh and dropped his forehead briefly to yours. “Of course.”
“You won by one point,” you said.
“I did,” Jack said.
“You are being very calm about it,” you murmured.
His hand moved slowly at your waist. “I’m not calm.”
Your pulse jumped.
You swallowed. “No?”
Jack lifted his head. His eyes stayed on yours.
“No,” he said.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Then you touched his jaw. “So?”
Jack’s brow lifted slightly. “So?”
You tried to make your voice steady. “What are you going to do with your prize?”
His thumb moved once at your waist. Slow. Thoughtful. Terrible.
“Go put on my shirt,” Jack said.
Your pulse jumped.
You stared at him. “What?”
“The navy one,” he said.
Your breath caught.
The faded navy T-shirt.
The old battalion medic course shirt.
The one he had given you after the first night you slept together.
The one he remembered too.
“That’s your first demand?” you asked.
Jack’s mouth curved. “You complaining?”
“No,” you said.
His brows lifted slightly.
You lifted your chin. “I’m preparing.”
Jack’s gaze darkened. “For what?”
You stepped back, smiling now. Slowly. Dramatically. Dangerously.
“Defeat,” you said.
Jack watched you.
The corner of his mouth moved. Barely. But enough.
“My room after,” he said.
Your stomach dropped.
You tried to recover by narrowing your eyes. “That’s it?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “For now.”
You pointed at him. “I am handling this beautifully.”
His mouth curved. “Of course.”
“No commentary,” you said.
Jack stayed exactly where he was. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He absolutely would.
You turned and walked into your bedroom before he could see exactly how much his first command had gotten to you.
You changed in your room with the door mostly closed.
Not fully.
Mostly.
The faded navy T-shirt slipped over your shoulders, soft from age and too many washes, the cracked lettering stretched faintly across your chest.
It fell low on your thighs.
Loose enough to feel casual if you ignored the lace underneath.
You did not ignore the lace underneath.
Then you walked across the hall.
His door was open.
Jack was sitting on his bed, back against the wall, one knee bent, one leg stretched out.
Casual.
Relaxed.
Patient.
Then his eyes lifted to you.
And he stopped looking casual.
You leaned against the doorframe. “That is not fair.”
Jack’s brow lifted slightly. “What isn’t?”
You gestured at him. “That.”
His mouth barely moved. “Me sitting?”
“You sitting like that,” you said. “Like you didn’t plan this.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I did plan this.”
Your breath caught.
He watched it happen.
You narrowed your eyes. “You are playing dirty.”
His mouth curved, slow and private. “I won.”
You hated how much that worked.
You hated it so much you stepped farther into the room.
Jack’s gaze dropped again. Briefly. Deliberately.
Then his eyes came back to yours.
“You put on the shirt,” he said.
You glanced down at yourself. “You told me to.”
“I did,” Jack said.
You shrugged a shoulder. “You didn’t specify pants.”
His jaw shifted.
You smiled.
Jack looked at you for one long second.
Then he lifted one hand from his thigh and held it out.
“Come here,” he said.
Your stomach flipped.
You walked to him slowly, with as much dignity as a person could have while wearing no pants and losing a bet.
When you reached the bed, Jack’s fingers closed around your hand.
Warm. Firm. Gentle enough to remind you that you could stop this at any second.
That almost made it worse.
His thumb moved once across your knuckles. “Still okay?”
You looked down at him. “Yes.”
Jack nodded once.
Then he pulled you closer.
You expected him to tug you into his lap.
You expected a kiss.
You expected slow, because that was the entire problem with Jack Abbot when he had time and permission and a point to prove.
Instead, he moved.
One second, you were standing between his knees.
The next, Jack had turned you onto your back against the mattress, one hand braced beside your head, the other at your waist, his body hovering over yours.
Not rough. Not careless.
Just immediate. Controlled. Certain.
Your breath left you all at once.
Jack looked down at you. His face was close enough now that you could see the warmth in his eyes beneath all that focus.
“You were saying?” Jack asked.
You stared up at him. “That was rude.”
His mouth curved. “Was it?”
“Yes,” you said. “I was being dignified.”
Jack’s hand moved slowly at your waist, thumb brushing the hem of the shirt. “Were you?”
“I was attempting dignity,” you corrected.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “How was that going?”
“Beautifully,” you said.
Jack leaned down, stopping just before his mouth touched yours. “You’re lying.”
You swallowed. “You’re smug.”
“I won,” he said.
You opened your mouth to argue.
Jack kissed you before you could.
Slow.
Deep.
Devastatingly patient.
Like he had all night and every intention of making you feel each second of it.
At first, you let him.
Mostly.
His mouth moved over yours with maddening control, his hand still braced beside your head, his other hand low at your waist beneath the hem of his shirt. His thumb dragged once over your skin, and your whole body answered before you could stop it.
Your hips lifted. Just slightly. Enough to chase him. Enough to look for pressure.
Jack felt it immediately.
His mouth paused against yours.
You froze.
Jack lifted his head just enough to look down at you.
“You’re rushing,” he said.
Your breath came out unevenly. “I am responding.”
His mouth barely moved. “You’re rushing.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That sounds subjective.”
Jack’s hand moved from your waist to your hip, pressing you gently back into the mattress.
The pressure was not enough. That was the problem. It was nowhere near enough.
“Jack,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours. “What?”
You swallowed. “You’re being difficult.”
“I won,” Jack said.
You sighed. “You keep saying that like it excuses everything.”
His thumb moved once over your hip. “Tonight it excuses a lot.”
Your pulse jumped.
You hated how much you liked that.
You reached for him.
Not even subtly.
Your fingers slid up his arm, searching for his shoulder, his neck, the back of his shirt, anything solid enough to pull him down where you needed him.
Jack caught your wrist before you got very far. Gently. Immediately.
Your breath caught.
His eyes did not leave yours.
“Hands up,” Jack said.
Your stomach flipped.
You stared at him. “What?”
He guided your wrist above your head and laid it against the pillow.
Not forced. Placed.
Like he was giving you time to decide if you wanted to leave it there.
“Both of them,” Jack said.
Your mouth went dry.
“You’re serious,” you said.
His gaze flicked over your face. “Yes.”
You lifted your other hand slowly and set it beside the first.
Jack’s eyes darkened. Just a little. Enough.
He wrapped his fingers around both of your wrists, holding them there with one hand while his other palm settled warm against your ribs beneath the shirt.
“These stay here,” Jack said, voice low, “until I say so.”
Your breath caught hard.
The room seemed to shrink around him. Around his hand. Around the weight of his body over yours.
“You’re enjoying this,” you whispered.
Jack’s thumb brushed once over the inside of your wrist. “Yes.”
Your stomach dropped.
The honesty hit worse than teasing would have.
Jack leaned down again, but he did not kiss your mouth.
He kissed the corner of your jaw instead.
Soft.
Then lower.
Your throat.
The place beneath your ear that made your fingers curl helplessly against the pillow.
You shifted beneath him.
Jack’s hand tightened lightly around your wrists.
Not enough to hurt.
Enough to remind.
You exhaled through your teeth.
Jack noticed.
His mouth moved lower, slow against the side of your neck, then to the hollow beneath your throat. He kissed you there once, open-mouthed and warm, before his teeth grazed lightly over your skin.
Your hips tried to lift again.
Jack pressed them down with his thigh.
You made a sound you would have denied under oath.
His mouth curved against your collarbone.
“Jack,” you said, strained.
He lifted his eyes without lifting his mouth. “What?”
“You are taking forever,” you breathed.
His gaze stayed steady on yours. “I know.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You know?”
“Yes,” Jack said.
Then he kissed lower.
Over the faded lettering on his own shirt.
The cracked navy fabric shifted beneath his mouth as he moved down your chest, kissing through cotton like the shirt itself deserved attention. Like he remembered exactly what it meant. Like seeing you in it had done something quiet and irreversible to him.
Your hands flexed above your head.
Jack saw that too.
“Keep them there,” he said.
Your breath hitched. “I am.”
His mouth brushed lower. “Good.”
You closed your eyes.
“That word,” you said.
Jack kissed the soft curve beneath your breast through the shirt. “What about it?”
“You’re weaponizing it,” you replied.
His hand slid from your ribs to your waist, pushing the shirt up slowly.
Inch by inch.
“Am I?” Jack asked.
You opened your eyes and glared down at him.
Or tried to.
It was difficult to glare at a man who was kissing your stomach like he had made a study of it.
“Yes,” you said.
Jack’s mouth touched bare skin just above your navel.
Your sentence disappeared.
He kissed there once.
Then again. Then lower. Slow enough to be cruel. Careful enough to make the cruelty feel like devotion.
Your back arched despite you.
Jack’s hand moved immediately to your hip, grounding you, holding you still while his mouth kept traveling lower.
“Jack,” you breathed.
He looked up from your stomach. “Still okay?”
Your hands curled into the pillow.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m okay.”
His eyes held yours for one steady second.
Then his mouth lowered again.
He kissed across your hip, over the edge of lace, then to the inside of your thigh.
Your knees shifted.
Jack’s hand slid to one of them, opening you wider with slow, patient pressure.
“You’re very quiet,” Jack said against your thigh.
You swallowed hard. “I am trying not to lose my mind.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “How’s that going?”
“Poorly,” you said.
Jack kissed higher.
You squirmed, and he stopped immediately.
You made a frustrated sound. “Why did you stop?”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “You moved your hands.”
You looked up.
One of your hands had slipped halfway down the pillow.
Betrayal.
You put it back.
“There,” you said.
His gaze stayed on yours. “Thank you.”
That should not have worked.
It did.
Jack’s mouth moved higher again, dragging slow warmth along your thigh until your hips shifted, chasing anything he would give you.
His palm pressed flat to your lower stomach.
“Slow,” Jack said.
Your breath broke. “I can’t.”
“Yes, you can,” Jack said. “You’re going to let me take my time.”
Jack waited.
Of course he waited.
You swallowed. “Yes. I’ll let you take your time.”
His fingers hooked into the lace at your hip.
“Still okay?” Jack asked.
You nodded quickly. “Yes.”
His fingers stopped.
You swallowed. “Yes. I’m okay.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Can I?”
“Yes,” you said. “Please.”
That did something to him.
You saw it in the slight shift of his jaw before he eased the lace down your legs with that same maddening patience.
When he settled between your thighs again, your breathing had already gone uneven.
His hands moved slowly up your legs until you let them fall open for him.
“Good,” Jack said quietly.
Your hands twisted in the pillow. “You’re doing it again.”
His eyes lifted. “Doing what?”
“You know what,” you said.
Jack kissed the inside of your knee. “Use your words.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You are impossible,” you said.
His mouth moved higher. “You said that already.”
“I meant it,” you said.
Jack’s smile brushed your thigh.
Then his mouth followed.
Slow.
Warm.
Higher.
Your breath caught hard when he finally kissed you where you wanted him.
Not enough.
Barely enough.
“Oh,” you breathed.
Jack’s hand slid over your hip, holding you down before you could chase more.
He looked up at you. “Hands.”
Your fingers had left the pillow again.
Barely.
Just enough.
You made a helpless sound and put them back.
Jack waited until both hands were above your head.
Then he lowered his mouth again.
This time, he did not stop at barely.
His tongue moved slow and deliberate, giving you just enough to make your back arch before he pulled back and kissed the inside of your thigh again.
Your breath broke.
Your fingers twisted in the pillow.
You kept them there.
Barely.
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “Good.”
The word hit low.
“Jack,” you said, voice breaking.
His mouth paused against your thigh. “What?”
You swallowed hard. “Please.”
Jack’s expression changed. “Please what?”
Your breath caught.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
“Please let me touch you,” you said.
Jack went still.
Then his mouth softened.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “You can touch me.”
Your hands left the pillow immediately.
Jack’s mouth curved. “Fast.”
“You said yes,” you said.
“I did,” Jack said.
Your fingers slid into his hair.
Finally.
His eyes closed for half a second like he had been waiting for that too.
Your chest pulled tight.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Jack opened his eyes. “What?”
You tugged lightly at his hair.
His breath changed.
Your pulse jumped. “You like that.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Yes.”
The honesty ruined you.
Completely.
Then his mouth lowered again.
This time, when your hands tightened in his hair, he let you keep them there.
He worked you slowly at first, patient enough to feel almost cruel, giving you just enough, then more, then more again.
A sound slipped out of you before you could stop it.
Jack paused just enough for you to feel the absence.
Your eyes opened. “No.”
His gaze lifted to yours. “No?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Don’t stop.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly against you. “Then don’t hide from me.”
Your breath caught hard.
Then his mouth returned.
You broke slowly after that.
A little more with every pass of his tongue, every careful press of his mouth, every sound he drew out of you and rewarded with more.
“Jack,” you said, breathless.
His hand flexed against your thigh.
So you said it again.
Softer this time. “Jack.”
His breath changed against you.
Then he gave you more.
Your back arched off the bed.
“There,” you gasped.
Jack’s hand moved to your stomach, pressing you back down with steady warmth while his mouth kept its rhythm.
You stopped trying to stay quiet.
You said his name again, then something less coherent, then his name once more.
“That’s it,” Jack said against you, voice rough. “Let me hear you.”
Your whole body clenched.
Your hands tightened in his hair. “Jack.”
“I’ve got you,” he said.
You believed him.
That was what did it.
Your breath broke.
“Jack,” you gasped.
His hand pressed flat against your stomach.
Steady.
Grounding.
There.
“Come for me,” Jack said.
You did.
Hard.
With his name caught in your mouth and your fingers locked in his hair, your body arching into his hold while he kept you exactly where he wanted you.
Jack did not stop immediately.
He worked you through it slowly, softer now, until you were shaking beneath him and tugging weakly at his hair.
“Jack,” you said, wrecked.
He lifted his head at once.
His mouth was soft.
His eyes were darker than before.
“Too much?” Jack asked.
You shook your head, still trying to remember how breathing worked.
His thumb moved once over your hip. “Words.”
You swallowed. “No. Not too much.”
Jack’s expression softened.
Then he kissed the inside of your thigh, gentle now.
“You are terrible,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved against your skin. “You were very loud for someone having a terrible time.”
Your hand slipped from his hair to cover your face. “I hate you again.”
Jack kissed your hip. “No, you don’t.”
“No,” you said from behind your hand. “I don’t.”
Jack kissed your hip once more.
Then he pushed himself up slowly, moving over you again until his body covered yours and his face hovered above yours.
You lowered your hand from your face.
His eyes moved over you. Soft. Dark. A little wrecked now, despite all that control.
You liked that. Probably too much.
Jack brushed his thumb along your waist beneath the hem of his shirt. “Still with me?”
You exhaled. “Yes. I’m with you.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Good.”
Your eyes narrowed. “You are abusing that word.”
His mouth brushed yours. “I know.”
You kissed him before he could look too pleased with himself.
Jack let you.
For a second, he let the kiss turn hungry, let your hands slide from his hair to his shoulders, let your fingers grip the fabric of his T-shirt like you had been waiting all night for permission to touch him properly. Then you tugged once. Jack lifted his head.
Your fingers stayed twisted in his shirt. “Can I?”
His eyes searched yours. “Can you what?”
You pulled lightly at the hem. “Take this off.”
Jack went still for half a second. Not hesitation. Attention. Like the question mattered because you had asked it.
“Yeah,” Jack said. “You can.”
Your chest warmed.
You pushed at his shirt, and Jack sat back on his knees to help you drag it over his head. His hair caught in the collar for one ridiculous second, already mussed from your hands, and you almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the shirt cleared his head. And you forgot what was funny. Jack looked down at you from between your thighs, bare-chested now, his jeans low on his hips, his hair a mess, his mouth still soft from you.
Your throat went dry.
He noticed.
His brow lifted slightly. “Problem?”
You swallowed. “You are very annoying.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “That’s not what you were thinking.”
“No,” you said. “But it is what I’m willing to say out loud.”
His eyes warmed.
You sat up before he could answer, pushing yourself onto your knees in front of him. The movement brought you close enough that your shirt brushed his stomach.
His shirt. Still on you. Jack’s gaze dropped to the cracked lettering across your chest.
His jaw shifted once.
You saw it. You loved it.
Your fingers went to the button of his jeans. “Can I?”
Jack’s eyes returned to yours. “Yes.”
Your breath caught at how simple he made it.
No joke. No smug comment. Just yes.
You worked the button open, then the zipper, slower than necessary because his attention had gone quiet and focused in a way that made your pulse misbehave.
Jack did not stop you. He only watched.
When your fingers hooked into the waistband, you glanced up at him. “Still okay?”
Something in his expression softened.
Then his hand came up, brushing your hair back from your face with maddening tenderness.
“Yes,” Jack said. “I’m okay.”
You nodded.
Then you eased his jeans down.
Jack shifted to help you, careful and practical even now, lifting his hips when you needed him to, moving when you guided him. The prosthetic came next, handled with the same familiar privacy you had learned belonged to him and trusted you enough to share.
You did not make it a moment.
You did not look away like it was something to avoid.
You just helped him the way he let you. Steady. Quiet. Together.
Jack watched your face the whole time.
By the time he was bare beneath you, your breathing had changed again.
His had too.
You looked at him. “What?”
Jack shook his head once. “Nothing.”
You lifted your brows. “That was not nothing.”
His hand settled at your waist, thumb brushing the hem of his shirt. “I like watching you take care of me.”
Your chest tightened. That was unfair. Deeply unfair.
You looked down, because looking at him directly suddenly felt dangerous. “You won. I’m supposed to be doing what you say.”
Jack’s hand slid to your hip. “You are.”
You looked back at him. His eyes stayed on yours.
Then he shifted back against the pillows, stretching out beneath you like he had all the time in the world. Like he had not just said something that made your heart ache. Like he was not still completely in control.
You stared at him. “What are you doing?”
Jack settled one hand behind his head, the other resting low on your thigh. “Enjoying my win.”
Your stomach flipped.
“You’re lying down,” you said.
His mouth barely curved. “I noticed.”
You narrowed your eyes. “That does not look like enjoying your win.”
His hand tightened once on your thigh. Not hard. Enough.
“It will,” Jack said.
Your breath caught.
Then his gaze moved over you slowly.
“I want you on top,” Jack said.
Your breath stopped. For one second, you only stared at him.
Then your eyes narrowed. “That sounds like work.”
Jack’s gaze moved over you slowly. “You’re very capable.”
“I can barely hold myself up,” you said.
Jack’s hands settled at your hips. “I’ve got you.”
Your pulse jumped.
“That is not the point,” you said.
His mouth barely moved. “It’s part of the point.”
Oh.
Your breath caught.
“You planned this,” you said.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I won.”
You stared at him.
Then his hand slid up your thigh, slow and warm, stopping at your hip.
“I’m still going to make you go slow,” Jack said.
Your pulse jumped.
There it was. The win. The trap. The terrible, patient point of him.
You looked down at him, trying very hard to appear unaffected while wearing his shirt and no underwear in his bed.
“You are enjoying this,” you said.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Yes.”
Your fingers curled against your own thighs.
His gaze dropped to the movement.
Then lifted again.
“Come here,” Jack said.
Your breath came out unevenly. “You keep saying that.”
His mouth barely moved. “You keep listening.”
That was unfortunately true.
You moved over him, one knee on either side of his hips, careful as you settled your weight above him. Jack’s hands came to your thighs immediately, warm and steady, grounding you before you could even pretend you did not need it.
You looked down at him.
He looked up at you.
For one second, neither of you moved.
Then Jack’s thumb brushed over your hip beneath the hem of his shirt.
“Still okay?” Jack asked.
You nodded. “Yes.”
His brow lifted slightly.
You exhaled. “Yes. I’m okay.”
Jack’s expression softened.
Then his hands settled more firmly at your hips.
“Good,” he said. “Slow.”
Your breath caught.
Then his hand stilled. His eyes stayed on yours. “Condom?”
The word cut through the heat just enough to make you pause. You looked down at him, your hands braced lightly against his chest.
“I’m on the pill,” you said.
Jack’s expression did not change. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
Your throat tightened. Of course. Careful, even now. Especially now.
“I know,” you said.
His thumb moved once against your hip. “What do you want?”
You swallowed.
You could feel him beneath you. Warm. Still. Waiting. Not moving until you answered him.
“I want you,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Without one?”
Your pulse jumped. You nodded.
His hands stayed exactly where they were. “Words.”
You exhaled. “Yes. Without one.”
Jack watched you for a long second.
Long enough that your nerves started to flicker beneath the want.
“You’re sure?” Jack asked.
You nodded again. “I’m sure.”
His gaze stayed steady. “If that changes, we stop.”
Your chest tightened. You touched his jaw. “I know.”
Jack’s voice stayed low. “Say it.”
You swallowed. “If that changes, we stop.”
Only then did his hands move again. Slow over your hips. Steady. Warm.
His eyes never left yours.
“Okay,” Jack said.
Your breath caught at the simplicity of it.
At the trust inside it.
At the way he could make one word feel like a promise.
Then his hands guided you closer.
Your breath caught as he lined himself up beneath you, one hand steady at your hip, the other firm around your thigh.
He did not pull you down.
He waited. Of course he waited.
You looked down at him.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “Slow.”
Your pulse jumped.
“You really are going to make everything slow,” you said.
His thumb moved once against your hip. “Yes.”
You swallowed hard.
Then you sank down onto him. Slowly. Inch by inch.
Because his hands held you steady. Because his eyes never left yours. Because rushing suddenly felt impossible with him beneath you, watching every breath you took.
Your mouth parted.
Jack’s jaw tightened. Just enough.
You saw it. Felt it. Loved it.
When you finally settled fully against him, your hands spread over his chest, your body trembling with the effort of staying still.
Jack’s hands flexed at your hips. Not pulling. Not rushing. Holding. Waiting.
“Still okay?” Jack asked.
You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”
Jack’s expression softened. Then his thumb brushed once over your hip.
“Good,” he said. “Now move.”
Your breath caught.
That should not have sounded like praise.
It did.
You tried to move like a person with dignity. Slowly. Carefully.
Like you were in control of yourself.
Like Jack was not lying beneath you, bare and warm and watching you with the kind of focus that made your thoughts scatter before they had a chance to form.
The first roll of your hips made your hands press harder into his chest.
Jack’s breath left him through his nose. Controlled. Barely.
You saw that too. Your mouth curved. “You’re very quiet.”
Jack’s hands tightened once on your hips. “So are you.”
You were not, actually. Not really. But you were trying. That counted for something.
You rolled your hips again, a little less steady this time, and Jack’s jaw shifted beneath you.
There. That was better. Your pride came back for approximately half a second.
Then you tried to move faster.
Jack stopped you immediately. Both hands firm at your hips. Your body stilled above his.
You stared down at him. “Jack.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Slow.”
“You said move,” you said.
“I did,” Jack said.
Your breath came out unevenly. “You are impossible.”
His thumb moved once over your hip. “And you’re impatient.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I am responsive.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to where his hands held you. Then back to your face.
“You’re rushing,” Jack said.
“I am enthusiastic,” you said.
His eyes warmed. “You’re rushing.”
You huffed out a breath, but your body obeyed before your mouth could argue.
You moved again. Slower this time. A careful lift. A controlled sink. A rhythm so unhurried it made you feel every inch of him, every drag of your body against his, every small flex of his fingers when he had to remind himself not to take over yet.
Your eyes nearly closed. Jack’s hand slid up your side beneath his shirt.
“Look at me,” Jack said.
Your eyes opened. He was still watching you.
You swallowed hard. “You’re making this very difficult.”
His palm spread warm over your ribs. “I know.”
“You keep admitting things,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m not hiding either.”
Your next breath caught.
“You are infuriating,” you said.
Jack’s hand slid back down to your hip. “You said impossible.”
“I’m expanding the list,” you said.
His smile came slow. Then his hips shifted beneath you. Just slightly. A controlled upward press that changed the angle enough to make your whole body jerk.
“Oh,” you gasped.
Jack went still. Your fingers dug into his chest. He watched your face. Too closely. Far too closely.
“There?” Jack asked.
Your mouth opened. Nothing came out.
His hands tightened at your hips. “Words.”
You swallowed hard. “Yes.”
Jack’s eyes darkened. “There.”
You nodded quickly. “There.”
Something in his expression settled. Like he had found the answer he wanted. Then he did it again. Slow. Precise. His hips lifted into you at the same angle, and his hands guided you down to meet him. Your arms nearly gave out.
“Jack,” you said, voice breaking.
His hand slid to your waist, steadying you. “I’ve got you.”
You believed him.
That was the problem.
You believed him so completely your body forgot how to brace against it.
He helped you move again, and this time his rhythm joined yours more fully.
Still slow. Still controlled. But deeper now.
Each careful thrust up met the downward roll of your hips until you could not tell which one of you had started moving first. Only that he was guiding it. Only that he knew exactly what he was doing. Your breathing turned shallow. Your thighs started to shake.
Jack noticed immediately. His hands moved to your hips, holding you more securely. “Stay with me.”
You nodded, but your body was already losing the fight.
“I’m trying,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said.
His voice was rougher now. Less calm.
That almost ruined you by itself.
He thrust up again, hitting that same spot, and your head dropped forward with a broken sound.
Jack’s hand came up to the back of your neck, warm and steady.
“Look at me,” he said.
You lifted your head with effort.
His eyes held yours. Dark. Focused. Barely controlled now.
“Good,” Jack said.
Your body clenched around him.
Jack’s breath caught. There. Finally. A crack.
You felt it move through him, quick and sharp, before he recovered.
Your mouth curved, breathless and shaky. “You felt that.”
His jaw shifted. “Yes.”
“You liked it,” you said.
Jack’s hands tightened at your hips. “Yes.”
Your pulse jumped.
Then he thrust up again, harder this time. Not rough. Not careless. Just enough to steal the next breath out of your lungs. Your hands slipped against his chest. Jack caught you before you could collapse fully forward. His arm came around your waist.
You breathed against his mouth. “Done going slow?”
Jack looked at you for one long second. Then his mouth brushed yours.
“Almost,” he said.
Your stomach flipped.
Almost.
The word barely had time to settle before he moved.
One second, you were above him, shaking and breathless, your hands braced against his chest.
The next, Jack had turned you beneath him, his arm firm around your waist, his other hand cradling the back of your head so you never hit the pillow too hard.
Your breath left you all at once.
Jack hovered over you, still inside you, his body covering yours, his eyes locked on your face.
“Still with me?” Jack asked.
You nodded quickly.
His gaze sharpened. “Words.”
“Yes,” you said, breathless. “I’m with you.”
His expression softened for half a second. Then his mouth lowered to yours.
“Good,” Jack said against your lips.
And then he took over.
The first thrust made your hands fly to his shoulders.
Jack let you hold on.
More than that, he seemed to want it.
His body moved over yours with a rhythm that was still controlled, still careful, but no longer patient in the same way.
The slow restraint shifted into something deeper. Hotter. More certain.
He had made you wait. He had made you ask. He had made you feel every second of it.
Now he was letting you have him.
Your fingers dug into his shoulders as he moved, and Jack’s mouth found your jaw, your throat, the corner of your mouth.
Not staying anywhere for long.
Not gentle enough to let you recover.
Every kiss landed like proof that he was still with you. Still watching. Still holding you through every breathless sound you made.
“Jack,” you gasped.
His arm slid beneath you, pulling you closer. “I know.”
“You don’t,” you said, voice breaking.
His mouth brushed your ear. “I do.”
Then his hips shifted again. That angle. That exact, devastating angle. Your whole body went tight beneath him. Jack felt it immediately.
His forehead dropped against yours. “There?”
You could barely nod.
His voice was rough. “Tell me.”
“There,” you said, almost helpless. “Right there.”
Jack’s breath changed.
Then he gave it to you. Steady. Deep.
Again and again until the room narrowed to his body over yours, his hand at your hip, his mouth at your throat, the old navy shirt pushed high between you but still on, still his, still somehow part of the whole unbearable intimacy of it.
You were shaking now. Not a little. Not subtly.
Jack’s hand moved to your thigh, lifting it higher against his side, and the change made your back arch hard off the mattress.
“Jack,” you cried.
His mouth found yours. “I’ve got you.”
Your nails pressed into his shoulders.
“I can’t,” you said.
His hips slowed immediately. Not stopping. Checking.
His eyes found yours. “Can’t what?”
You swallowed around a breath that would not settle. “I can’t stay quiet.”
Jack’s expression changed. Slowly. Dangerously. Then his mouth curved, faint and wrecked.
“I didn’t ask you to,” he said.
Your body clenched around him again.
Jack’s control slipped for one visible second. His head dropped. His breath left him rough against your neck.
You felt the satisfaction of that somewhere deep and vicious and warm.
Then he lifted his head.
“Let me hear you,” Jack said.
That was all it took.
Your restraint snapped.
You stopped swallowing the sounds. Stopped trying to make them pretty. Stopped trying to make any of it manageable.
Jack rewarded it immediately.
A harder thrust. A deeper one. His hand tightening at your hip, his mouth catching yours, his body pressing you into the mattress like he wanted to feel every bit of what he was doing to you.
“There you go,” Jack said, voice low.
Your eyes squeezed shut.
His mouth brushed yours. “No hiding.”
You forced your eyes open.
He was right there. Close. Focused. Yours.
You touched his face with shaking fingers. “I love you.”
Jack went still for half a beat.
Then his expression broke open in the smallest way. Like the words still hit him fresh. Like they always would.
“I love you too,” Jack said.
Then he kissed you.
And the kiss was what undid you.
Not just the rhythm. Not just the angle. Not just the way his body moved into yours with all that careful, devastating certainty.
It was the kiss.
The hand at your hip. The words. The fact that he had won by one point and somehow used it to make you feel wanted beyond reason.
Your breath caught. Your body went tight.
Jack felt it. His voice dropped. “That’s it.”
Your hands clutched at him.
“Jack,” you said, wrecked.
“I’ve got you,” he said again.
You came apart beneath him.
Hard.
Shaking.
Loud enough that you would have been embarrassed if you had any room left in your body for anything except him.
Jack held you through it, his rhythm slowing but not stopping, his mouth pressed to your cheek, your temple, your jaw. He kept you grounded with one hand at your hip and the other braced beside your head, giving you somewhere to fall without ever letting you feel like you were falling alone.
When the last wave pulled through you, you sagged into the mattress, breathless and boneless beneath him.
Jack stilled. Immediately. His forehead rested against yours.
“Too much?” Jack asked.
You shook your head weakly. “No.”
His gaze held yours. “Words.”
You dragged in a breath. “No. Not too much.”
His thumb moved once at your hip. “You okay?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack’s eyes searched your face.
You lifted one shaking hand to his hair. “Don’t stop because of me.”
His jaw tightened. There it was again. That crack in his control.
“You sure?” Jack asked.
You nodded, fingers curling in his hair. “Yes.”
His voice dropped. “Tell me if that changes.”
“I will,” you said.
Jack kissed you once. Soft. A promise more than a kiss.
Then he moved again.
Slow at first. Careful. Like he was giving you time to come back to yourself before he let go of the rest of his control.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Jack.”
His breath left him unevenly. “I know.”
This time, he sounded less certain. Less in command.
That did something terrible to your heart. You lifted your hips to meet him, still trembling, still sensitive, still wrapped around him in every possible way.
Jack’s forehead dropped to yours. His rhythm faltered once. Then again.
Your hand slid from his hair to the side of his neck. “It’s okay.”
His eyes opened. Dark. Unsteady.
“You’re sure?” Jack asked.
You nodded, your thumb brushing his jaw. “Yes, I want you.”
Jack’s control broke on the inhale.
Not all at once. Not carelessly. But enough that you felt the shift everywhere. His hand tightened at your hip. His mouth found yours.
And this time, when he moved, it was not slow.
It was deep. Focused. A little desperate. Still Jack. Still careful. But no longer pretending patience was easy.
Your arms wrapped around his shoulders.
His body pressed yours into the mattress, the old navy shirt caught between you, pushed high over your ribs but still on.
Still his.
Still yours now too.
Jack’s mouth left yours only because he needed to breathe. His face buried against your neck. You felt every rough exhale against your skin. Every break in his rhythm. Every place where his control tried to hold and failed by inches.
Your fingers slid into his hair again. “Jack.”
His hips stuttered.
Your breath caught.
You pressed your mouth near his ear. “I love you.”
Jack broke.
Immediately.
His hand tightened hard at your hip. His mouth pressed to your shoulder, and your name left him in a rough, wrecked sound as he came. No warning. No slow unraveling.
Just that.
Your voice.
Those words.
And Jack losing the last of his control like he had been holding himself together by a thread and you had cut straight through it. You held onto him as his rhythm faltered, his body tense over yours, every rough breath buried against your skin. Your fingers stayed in his hair. Your cheek pressed to his.
You whispered his name once. Then again. Softer the second time.
Jack shuddered against you. Not loudly. Not dramatically. But completely. Enough that you felt it everywhere. In the grip of his hand. In the tremor through his shoulders. In the way he stayed close, like pulling away too quickly might undo him all over again.
You kept holding him until the tension finally started to leave him.
Slowly. Piece by piece. Jack stayed over you afterward, breathing hard, careful not to let his weight settle fully even though you could feel how badly he wanted to.
Still careful. Always careful.
You turned your face and kissed his temple.
His eyes closed.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The room was warm. Quiet. Too quiet after all of that.
Jack’s thumb moved once against your hip. Then again. Like he was checking that you were still there. Like he needed the reminder too.
You brushed your fingers through his hair. “You okay?”
A breath left him. Almost a laugh.
Jack lifted his head enough to look at you. “You’re asking me?”
You smiled faintly. “You looked a little ruined.”
His mouth barely moved. “I was.”
You touched his jaw. “Good.”
Jack’s eyes softened. Then narrowed slightly. “That’s my word.”
You smiled. “I won it in the divorce.”
His brow lifted. “What divorce?”
“The academic one,” you said.
Jack stared at you for one second.
Then he laughed. Quiet. Warm. Still breathless.
The sound went straight through you. You smiled up at him, unbearably pleased with yourself.
Jack shook his head once, but his mouth stayed soft.
“You’re ridiculous,” he said.
“You love me,” you said.
His expression changed. Not dramatically. Not enough to make the room tilt again. Just enough.
“Yes,” Jack said. “I do.”
Your smile softened.
He leaned down and kissed you.
Slow this time. Gentle. Almost unbearably tender after everything else.
When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours again. “Still not too much?”
You shook your head. “No.”
His gaze stayed on yours.
You exhaled. “No. Not too much.”
Jack nodded once.
Then he kissed your forehead and shifted carefully, easing away from you with a low breath.
The loss of him made you shiver.
Jack noticed immediately.
His hand settled on your thigh. “Cold?”
You looked back at him. “I am many things right now.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “Cold was the question.”
You sighed. “A little.”
He pulled the blanket over you before you could make a joke about him being bossy.
You made it anyway.
“Bossy,” you murmured.
Jack tucked the blanket around your side. “Responsive.”
He moved over the bed and came back to you.
The mattress dipped under his weight.
You shifted closer before he had even settled.
His arm came around you immediately. Warm. Solid. Yours.
You tucked your face against his chest.
Jack’s hand moved over your back beneath the blanket, slow and steady, like he could smooth you back into yourself by touch alone.
For a while, that was enough.
Then you smiled against his skin.
Jack’s hand paused. “What?”
You lifted your head. “You still have to pick dinner.”
His mouth barely moved. “I do.”
“And the movie,” you said.
“Yes,” Jack said.
“And I have to do laundry,” you added.
His eyes warmed. “Badly, apparently.”
You nodded solemnly. “Terribly.”
Jack’s thumb moved once along your back. “I’ll supervise.”
You stared at him. “That is not part of the prize.”
“It is now,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “You are becoming drunk with power.”
His mouth curved. “I won by one point.”
You groaned and dropped your face back against his chest. “I hate the one point.”
Jack kissed the top of your head. “No, you don’t.”
Summary: Smurf finds the soft place and presses. Pope hears one version. You hear another. But after work, you come back anyway.
Warnings: canon-typical Cody family tension, Smurf being manipulative, emotional manipulation, implied intimidation, anxiety, Pope struggling with self-worth, minor references to family/criminal pressure, and a child being caught in adult tension.
Author’s Note: Chapter ten is where Smurf starts to understand what you mean to Pope and Lena, and naturally she handles that in the healthiest possible way. Which is to say, not at all. This one is tense, soft, mean in places, and very much about the difference between leaving and leaving forever.
Not your alarm. Not traffic outside your apartment. Not the radiator knocking in the wall or someone’s door shutting too hard down the hall.
The ocean.
Low and steady beneath the house. For a second, you did not know where you were. Then you felt the weight across your shoulders. An arm. Warm. Heavy. Still.
Your eyes opened slowly. The living room was gray with morning. The TV was dark. The blanket had slipped halfway off your lap. Your cheek was pressed against Pope’s chest.
His shirt was wrinkled beneath your hand. His bandaged knuckles rested near your hip, his fingers loose against the blanket like he had finally fallen asleep before he could decide not to. You stayed still.
Because his arm was around you, and his breathing was slow beneath your ear, and for one strange, fragile second, the night before felt like something the house had swallowed whole and kept quiet for you. Then Pope moved. Not much.
A shift of his shoulder. A deeper breath. His arm tightened around you before he was fully awake. Reflex. Panic. Protection. You lifted your head.
“Hey,” you whispered.
Pope’s eyes opened. For half a second, he did not know where he was either. You watched it happen.
The sleep leaving. The room returning. The couch. The blanket. You. His arm around you. His body went still. Then his eyes moved past you. Toward the hall.
“Lena,” Pope said.
His voice was rough with sleep.
“She’s okay,” you whispered.
Pope looked back at you. You did not know that for sure. Not yet. But the house was quiet. The hall light was still on. No crying. No small feet. No door opening. Pope swallowed.
His arm loosened like he had just realized he was holding you. You felt him start to pull away. You lifted your head and looked at him.
Pope looked back. Still half asleep. Already afraid. You did not say anything. You only settled against him again. Slow. Careful.
Pope’s arm stayed loose around you. But it stayed. The front door was locked. Your bag sat beside the couch. The kitchen waited in the soft gray light, dish towel folded over the sink where you had left it.
For one breath, no one asked anything of him. Then Lena’s door creaked. Pope sat up so fast the blanket slid to the floor.
You sat up too. Lena stood in the hallway in her pajamas, hair wild from sleep, Soup tucked under one arm. Bunny hung from her other hand by one soft ear.
She looked at Pope. Then at you. Then at the couch. Her face was still puffy with sleep.
“You stayed,” Lena said.
Your chest tightened. Pope did not answer right away. Like the words had touched something sore.
You pushed the blanket down from your lap and sat a little straighter.
“I did,” you said.
Lena looked at Pope.
“You came back,” Lena said.
Pope’s face changed. Barely. But you saw it.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena stood there for another second. Then she walked into the living room and climbed onto the couch between you like that was where the morning belonged. Pope shifted back to make room.
You lifted the blanket before thinking. Lena tucked herself under it, Soup pressed to her stomach, Bunny trapped between her knees and the cushion. For a little while, no one moved.
Pope’s arm stayed along the back of the couch. Not around you anymore. Not exactly.
But close enough that his hand brushed your shoulder if either of you shifted wrong. You did not shift away. The morning light softened the living room.
Made it look different than it had the night before. Less like a place that had almost broken. More like a place that had survived.
Lena leaned heavier against Pope’s side. Then her head tipped against your arm too. You looked down at her. Her eyes were half closed again.
“You hungry?” you asked softly.
Lena shook her head.
“No,” Lena mumbled.
Pope looked at her.
“You have to eat,” Pope said.
“Later,” Lena said.
Pope’s mouth tightened like he wanted to argue. You glanced at him.
“Toast later?” you asked.
Lena thought about it.
“With butter?” Lena asked.
“With butter,” you said.
“And cinnamon?” Lena asked.
You looked at Pope. Pope’s eyes moved to you. For half a second, the room almost felt normal. Then he looked back at Lena.
“Yeah,” Pope said. “Cinnamon.”
Lena accepted that by closing her eyes again. Your chest warmed. Then you saw the clock on the wall.
The warmth thinned. You sat up a little. Pope noticed immediately.
“What?” Pope asked.
“I have work,” you said.
His face changed. Not much. Just enough. Like he had forgotten the outside world existed and hated it for coming back. You looked toward your bag beside the couch.
“I have to go home and change first,” you said.
Lena’s eyes opened.
“You’re leaving?” Lena asked.
Your heart pulled tight.
“Soon,” you said.
Lena sat up more fully, Soup slipping against the blanket.
“But you stayed,” Lena said.
“I did,” you said. “And I’m really glad I did.”
Lena looked at Pope.
“Is she coming back?” Lena asked.
Pope’s jaw flexed. You answered before the silence could scare her.
“Yes,” you said.
Lena looked back at you.
“When?” Lena asked.
You smiled gently.
“I work today,” you said. “But I can come by after, if Uncle Pope says it’s okay.”
Lena turned to Pope again. Pope looked at you. There was something careful in his face now.
Something from last night still there under the morning. His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a second. Then to your hand near Lena’s blanket. Then back to your face.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
The word was quiet. Lena nodded like that settled it.
“After work,” Lena said.
“After work,” you promised.
Pope heard the word promise even though you had not said it. It moved through him anyway. His phone buzzed on the coffee table.
All three of you looked at it. Craig. Pope did not pick it up. The phone went silent. Then buzzed again.
Craig. Lena’s shoulders tightened. You saw it. So did Pope. He reached for the phone and turned it face down.
“Eat first,” Pope said.
Lena looked at him.
“Is Grandma Smurf calling?” Lena asked.
Pope went still. The house changed around the question. Not loudly. Not enough for Lena to understand what she had done. But you felt it.
Pope’s eyes moved to yours. Then away.
“No,” Pope said.
It was not quite a lie. Not quite enough truth. Lena looked down at Soup.
“Are we going there?” Lena asked.
Pope did not answer fast enough. Your chest tightened. Lena already knew. Not the details. Not the why. But the shape of the day. The pull of that house. The way everyone eventually had to go where Smurf wanted them. Pope picked up his phone.
The screen lit again in his hand. This time, it was Deran. Pope stared at it. Then answered.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
You could hear Deran’s voice on the other end, low and faint. Not the words. Just the tone. Pope’s jaw tightened. Lena watched him. You watched Lena.
Pope looked toward the kitchen. Then toward the hall. Then at you.
“I know,” Pope said into the phone.
A pause.
Then, sharper, “I said I know.”
Lena pressed Soup closer. You shifted your hand under the blanket and touched her knee lightly. Lena leaned into it.
Pope saw. His expression flickered. Then closed again.
“I’ll bring her,” Pope said.
Your stomach dropped. He hung up. No one spoke for a second. Lena looked at him.
“We have to go to Grandma Smurf’s?” Lena asked.
Pope rubbed one hand over his mouth. His bandaged knuckles flashed white in the morning light.
“Just for a little while,” Pope said.
Lena’s face fell.
“But she stayed,” Lena said.
Pope looked at her. Then at you. The sentence landed hard because all of you knew who she meant. You were here. The night had made room for you. And still, morning had come with somewhere else to be.
“I have work,” you said softly.
Lena looked at you.
“I know,” Lena said.
She did not sound angry. That was worse. She sounded like a child trying to understand the rules of adults.
Pope stood. The blanket slid from his legs.
“Breakfast,” Pope said.
His voice had gone practical. Too practical. Like if he made toast, if he found shoes, if he packed Lena’s bag, then none of this would have to be felt all at once. You stood too.
Pope looked at you immediately.
“You don’t have to—” Pope said.
“I know,” you said.
He stopped. You folded the blanket and laid it over the back of the couch. Lena watched you do it. Then you crouched in front of her.
“Hey,” you said.
Lena looked at you.
“I’ll see you after work,” you said.
Lena held Soup tighter.
“At this house?” Lena asked.
You glanced up at Pope. His face was unreadable. But his eyes were not. You looked back at Lena.
“If Uncle Pope says yes,” you said.
Lena turned to him. Pope swallowed.
“Yeah,” Pope said. “This house.”
Lena nodded. Then, suddenly, she leaned forward and hugged you. You froze for only half a second. Then your arms came around her carefully. Soup pressed between you. Bunny bumped against your side. Lena’s voice was small near your shoulder.
“You didn’t go before morning,” Lena said.
Your throat tightened.
“No,” you whispered. “I didn’t.”
Pope looked away. Toward the kitchen. Toward the sink. Toward anywhere that was not you holding Lena on his couch like it was the easiest thing in the world and the most dangerous thing he had ever let happen.
Lena pulled back first. You tucked a piece of hair away from her cheek.
“Toast,” you said softly.
“With cinnamon,” Lena reminded you.
“With cinnamon,” you said.
Pope moved toward the kitchen. You followed only far enough to grab your bag from beside the couch. He noticed.
His eyes dropped to it. Then to you.
“I can drive you,” Pope said.
“You have to take Lena,” you said.
“I can do both,” Pope said.
His voice was clipped. Too quick. Like he needed one more task that kept you inside his reach. You shook your head gently.
“I can get home,” you said.
Pope’s mouth tightened. He did not like it. You knew he did not like it. But he had Lena to get ready. And Smurf waiting.
And a phone that had not stopped pulling at him since the night before. You stepped closer, keeping your voice low enough that Lena would not hear.
“I’ll text you when I get to work,” you said.
Pope looked at you. Something moved in his face. That first night, in reverse.
Text when you’re home. Now you offering him the same kind of proof. A small way to say: I left, but I am not gone.
Pope nodded once.
“Okay,” Pope said.
You held his eyes for one second longer. Then you glanced toward Lena, who was dragging the blanket off the couch again to wrap around herself. Your mouth softened.
Pope watched that too. Watched you see Lena. Watched Lena look up when she felt your attention. Watched the line between you both stretch across his living room like something visible. Something Smurf would see if she ever stood in the doorway long enough.
His phone buzzed again. Pope did not look at it. You did. Then back at him. The morning had fully arrived now.
Work. Smurf. Lena’s shoes. Toast. Leaving. All of it pressing into the house that had kept one night quiet.
You picked up your bag. This time, he did not tell you to go. This time, you did not ask him to tell Lena goodbye.
You opened the door yourself. The morning air came in cool and bright. You looked back once.
Lena stood by the couch with Soup under one arm and Bunny in the other. Pope stood between the kitchen and living room, still in yesterday’s clothes, his hair sleep-mussed, his bandaged hand curled at his side. You smiled a little.
Not enough to make it easy. Enough to mean it.
“I’ll see you after work,” you said.
Lena nodded. Pope did too. One sharp little movement. Like it cost him. You did not leave yet.
You closed the door behind you and stepped back inside. First to Lena. You crouched in front of her.
“Cinnamon toast,” you said softly.
Lena nodded again. “I’ll see you after work.”
“After work,” you promised.
Then you stood. Pope watched you come closer. His body went still before you even reached him.
You did not touch his hand. Not with Lena watching. Not with the morning already pulling him somewhere else.
You only leaned in and pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. Soft. Brief. Careful enough to look like goodbye. Tender enough that he felt it everywhere.
Pope did not move. Not until you pulled back. Then his eyes found yours.
For half a second, the whole night was there again. The kitchen. Your hand on his wrist.
The door. Don’t go. Stay. Please. You held his gaze.
“I’ll text you,” you said quietly.
Pope swallowed.
“Okay,” Pope said.
You moved back toward the door and stepped out into the morning sun. The door closed behind you. Pope stood there for a second, listening to your footsteps fade from the porch.
Lena looked up at him.
“She kissed you,” Lena said.
Pope’s eyes stayed on the door.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena considered that.
“On the cheek,” Lena said.
Pope looked down at her.
“Yeah,” Pope said again.
Lena hugged Soup closer.
“That’s allowed,” Lena said.
Pope’s throat worked. He looked back at the closed door.
“Yeah,” Pope said quietly. “It is.”
Then his phone buzzed again. The sound cut through the room. Pope looked at the screen.
Craig. This time, he answered.
“What?” Pope said.
Craig’s voice came loud enough through the phone for Lena to look over. Pope turned away from her. His jaw tightened.
“Yeah,” Pope said. “We’re coming.”
Smurf’s house was too bright. That was the first thing Pope noticed when he pulled into the driveway. Sun on the windows.
Blue sky over the roof. Lena sat quietly in the back seat. Soup was tucked under one arm. Bunny sat beside her, buckled in because she had insisted. Pope turned the engine off.
For a second, neither of them moved. Then Lena looked at him in the rearview mirror.
“How long?” Lena asked.
Pope’s hand tightened around the keys.
“Not long,” Pope said.
Lena looked toward the house.
“That’s what you said last time,” Lena said.
Pope looked back at her. Her face was serious. Not accusing. Just remembering. That was worse.
“I know,” Pope said.
Lena pressed Soup closer to her chest.
“Do I have to go in?” Lena asked.
Pope’s jaw flexed. He wanted to say no. Wanted to put the truck in reverse. Wanted to drive back to the beach house, lock the door, turn his phone off, make cinnamon toast, and wait for your text. Instead, he looked at the open front door.
Smurf was already moving around somewhere inside. Craig’s bike was in the drive. Deran’s truck was parked crooked near the curb. There was a job. There was always a job.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena looked down at Bunny. Pope opened his door. Then hers.
He helped her out, even though she did not need help, and let her take Bunny in one hand and Soup in the other. She stood beside the truck and looked smaller than she had at the beach house. Pope hated that.
“Stay by me,” Pope said.
Lena nodded. They walked up the path together. Smurf appeared in the doorway before they reached the porch.
“There she is,” Smurf said.
Her smile spread warm and bright across her face. Too warm. Too bright.
“My girl,” Smurf said.
Lena stepped a little closer to Pope’s leg. Smurf saw it. Her smile did not move.
“Come here, baby,” Smurf said.
Lena looked up at Pope. Pope looked down at her. His throat worked.
“It’s okay,” Pope said.
It was not. Not really. But there were too many eyes already.
Lena crossed the porch slowly. Smurf bent and kissed the top of her head. Lena let her. She did not lean in. Smurf’s hand smoothed over Lena’s hair.
“You bring all your little friends today?” Smurf asked.
Lena looked at Soup.
“And Bunny,” Lena said.
Smurf smiled.
“And Bunny,” Smurf said. “Of course.”
Pope stepped into the house behind them. The smell hit him first. Coffee. Bacon. Something sweet in the oven. Smurf always made the house smell like someone was being taken care of.
That was part of it. Craig was on the couch with a bowl in his hand. Deran stood near the kitchen island with a beer he had not opened. His eyes went to Pope first. Then Lena. Then the bandage on Pope’s hand. He said nothing.
Craig looked over.
“Damn,” Craig said. “You look like shit.”
Pope stared at him. Craig lifted his spoon.
“What?” Craig asked.
“Craig,” Deran said.
Smurf’s eyes moved to Pope’s hand. Then his face. Then Lena.
“You hungry, baby?” Smurf asked Lena.
Lena looked at the kitchen. “Uncle Pope said toast.”
Smurf’s eyebrows lifted.
“Toast?” Smurf asked. “I can do better than toast.”
Lena did not answer. Pope’s jaw tightened.
“She wants toast,” Pope said.
Smurf looked at him. Then smiled.
“Then toast it is,” Smurf said.
She turned into the kitchen.
“Butter and cinnamon?” Lena asked.
Smurf paused. Pope went still. Deran looked down. Craig shoveled cereal into his mouth. Smurf turned back slowly.
“Butter and cinnamon,” Smurf repeated.
Lena nodded.
“That’s how she said it,” Lena said.
Then she used your name. The room changed. Not much. Not enough for Lena to notice.
Enough.
Pope felt Deran look at him. Pope kept his eyes on Smurf. Smurf’s smile stayed soft. She repeated your name. Carefully. Like she was testing how it felt in her mouth. Craig looked up from his bowl.
“What, that girl from the ice cream shop?” Craig asked.
Pope’s body went still. Deran’s head turned toward Craig. Too fast. Craig noticed that.
“What?” Craig asked.
Smurf looked from Craig to Pope. Something sharpened behind her eyes.
“The one who was at the house when I stopped by?” Smurf asked.
Pope did not answer. Lena looked between them.
Craig pointed his spoon toward Pope.
“She still hanging around?” Craig asked.
“Craig,” Deran said.
Craig frowned. “What? I’m asking.”
Pope looked at Craig.
“Don’t,” Pope said.
Craig lifted both hands, cereal bowl balanced in one palm.
“Jesus, man,” Craig said.
Smurf leaned against the counter. Still smiling. Still sweet.
“She watches Lena sometimes,” Pope said.
The words came out flat. Fast. Too fast. Smurf’s eyes stayed on him.
“She watches Lena,” Smurf repeated.
Pope said nothing. Lena looked down at Soup.
“She stayed,” Lena said.
Pope’s stomach dropped. Deran’s jaw tightened. Craig’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. Smurf turned her face toward Lena.
“She did?” Smurf asked.
Lena nodded.
“Uncle Pope had to go with Uncle Deran,” Lena said. “So she stayed with me until he came back.”
The room went quiet. Pope could hear the refrigerator hum. The small clink of Craig setting his spoon back into the bowl.
Deran did not move. Smurf looked at Pope. Only Pope.
“All night?” Smurf asked.
Pope’s face stayed blank. It had to.
“She helped,” Pope said.
Smurf’s smile softened.
“That’s nice,” Smurf said.
Pope did not blink. Lena shifted her weight beside him.
“She was on the floor,” Lena said.
Pope looked down at her. Lena looked back up at him, uncertain now. Like she knew she had said too much but did not know which part.
“She stayed until I fell asleep,” Lena said more quietly.
Pope’s chest tightened. He wanted to kneel down. Tell her she had not done anything wrong. Tell her she was not in trouble. Tell everyone in the room to stop looking at her like she had opened something. Smurf got there first.
“That was very sweet of her,” Smurf said.
Lena nodded once.
“She said she’d come back after work,” Lena said.
Craig looked at Pope.
“She works today?” Craig asked.
Pope’s eyes cut to him.
Craig blinked. “What?”
“Can we talk about the job?” Deran asked.
Smurf did not look at him. Her eyes stayed on Pope.
“What time is she off?” Smurf asked.
Pope’s jaw flexed.
“She’s a babysitter,” Pope said.
The lie sat ugly in the room. Not because it was fully untrue. Because it was nowhere near enough.
Smurf smiled.
“Of course,” Smurf said.
Lena looked confused.
“She works at Harbor Scoops,” Lena said.
Pope closed his eyes for half a second. Not because of Lena. Because every true thing in that house turned into a weapon the second Smurf heard it.
Lena’s voice got smaller.
“Right?” Lena asked.
Pope opened his eyes and looked down at her. His face softened immediately.
“Yeah,” Pope said. “Right.”
Lena relaxed a little. Smurf watched that too. The softening. The speed of it. The way Pope could go from stone to something else when Lena needed him. The way Lena looked at him like she expected him to make the room safe.
Smurf turned back toward the toaster.
“Butter and cinnamon,” Smurf said lightly. “Coming right up.”
The room started moving again. Craig went back to his cereal. Deran looked at Pope.
Pope did not look back. He could feel Smurf behind him. Could feel her adding things together.
You at the house. You staying with Lena. You leaving for work. You coming back after. Lena saying your name like you belonged somewhere in the middle of all of it. Pope’s phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out before he thought better of it. Your name lit the screen.
You: Made it to work. I’m here until 4.
Proof.
That was what it felt like. Proof that you had left and still existed somewhere he could reach. Pope stared at the words for one second too long.
Deran saw. Smurf saw. Pope locked the phone and put it back in his pocket.
Smurf set bread into the toaster.
“Everything okay, baby?” Smurf asked.
Pope looked at her.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Smurf smiled.
“No,” Smurf said softly. “It isn’t.”
Pope did not answer. Lena stood by his side with Soup pressed to her chest and Bunny hanging from one hand. Pope put his palm lightly on the back of her head.
Smurf watched his hand. Then she looked at him again.
“That’s a lot of trust,” Smurf said.
Pope’s fingers stilled against Lena’s hair. Deran looked at Smurf. Craig looked between all of them like he was finally starting to understand he had missed something. Smurf’s smile stayed warm.
“Leaving Lena with someone like that,” Smurf said. “Someone new.”
Pope’s voice came out low.
“She’s not new to Lena,” Pope said.
Smurf’s eyes brightened. Just a little. There. She had found another piece.
“No,” Smurf said. “I guess she isn’t.”
Pope stared at her. Deran stepped closer to the counter.
“Job,” Deran said again.
This time, his voice had an edge. Smurf looked at him. Then at Pope. Then down at Lena.
“Toast first,” Smurf said.
She turned away. The conversation ended because she wanted it to. Not because it was over.
Pope looked toward the front door. For one second, he wanted to take Lena and leave. Then his phone buzzed again. Another message.
He did not check it. He knew better now. Smurf had already seen enough.
Maybe more than enough. Lena leaned lightly against his leg. Pope looked down at her.
She was watching the toaster. Waiting for cinnamon toast in a house where every soft thing had teeth. Pope rested his bandaged hand carefully on her shoulder.
Not too tight. Just enough. And across the kitchen, Smurf smiled like she had not found exactly what she had been looking for.
Lena sat at the kitchen table with her toast cut into four squares. Butter. Cinnamon. Exactly how she had asked. Craig had somehow ended up beside her, eating the corner piece she did not want while Lena explained that Soup did not like too much cinnamon.
Craig nodded like that made sense.
“Yeah,” Craig said. “Too much cinnamon is aggressive.”
Lena looked at him.
“Soup is a turtle,” Lena said.
Craig shrugged.
“Still,” Craig said.
Pope stood near the counter. Deran leaned against the island with his arms crossed. Smurf watched all of it.
The toast. The stuffed animals. The way Pope’s eyes kept moving back to Lena like he expected the room to change if he looked away too long. Then Lena looked toward the sliding doors. The pool glittered blue through the glass.
“Can Soup see the pool?” Lena asked.
Pope looked at her.
“You’re eating,” Pope said.
“I can bring toast,” Lena said.
“No,” Pope said.
Craig looked toward the pool, then back at Lena.
“I can show him,” Craig said.
Pope’s eyes cut to him. Craig lifted one hand.
“The turtle,” Craig said. “Not the toast.”
Lena slid down from the chair with Soup under one arm and Bunny in her other hand.
Craig opened the sliding door. Lena stepped outside with Soup pressed to her chest, Bunny held carefully away from the sun, as if he had delicate skin. Deran followed them out.
He paused at the door and looked back at Pope. A warning. Or an apology. Maybe both. Then he slid the door shut.
The kitchen went quiet. Too quiet. Smurf rinsed the butter knife at the sink. She did not look at Pope right away. That was how he knew it was coming.
“The girl seems sweet,” Smurf said.
Pope said nothing. Smurf set the knife in the sink.
“Innocent,” she added.
Pope’s jaw tightened.
Smurf dried her hands on a towel.
“I can see why Lena likes her,” Smurf said.
Pope looked toward the sliding door. Outside, Lena held Soup up so the turtle could look at the pool. Craig stood beside her, saying something Pope could not hear. Deran watched from a few feet back. Pope kept his eyes on Lena.
“She’s good with her,” Pope said.
Smurf smiled faintly.
“I’m sure she is,” Smurf said.
Pope looked back at her. That was the wrong thing to do. Smurf’s eyes stayed soft. Too soft.
“Girls like that like being good,” Smurf said.
Pope’s hand flexed once at his side.
“They like being the safe place,” Smurf said. “The soft place.”
Pope’s voice dropped.
“Stop,” Pope said.
Smurf tilted her head.
“I’m not saying anything bad, baby,” Smurf said.
“No,” Pope said.
Smurf stepped closer. Not enough to crowd him. Enough that he had to feel the room shrink. Pope stared at her. His face stayed blank. It had to. Smurf watched anyway.
“Girls like that think they can fix boys like you,” Smurf said.
Pope’s mouth tightened.
“Make you softer,” Smurf said. “Make you good.”
His eyes flicked toward Lena again. A mistake. Smurf saw it.
Her voice went gentler.
“She likes Lena needing her,” Smurf said. “And maybe she likes you looking at her like she’s something good, something clean.”
Pope looked back at her.
“She is,” Pope said.
The words came out before he could stop them. Smurf’s smile softened. For a second, she almost looked sad. Almost.
“Oh, baby,” Smurf said.
Pope went still. That was worse than if she had laughed.
“She might be,” Smurf said. “For now.”
Pope’s throat worked.
“But it doesn’t last,” Smurf said. “Not when it turns ugly. Not when it stops being cute.”
The kitchen went still. Through the glass, Lena held Soup toward the water while Craig pointed at one of the pool floats. Deran looked back toward the kitchen.
Like he could feel the temperature change from outside. Smurf reached out and touched Pope’s cheek with the back of her fingers. He let her because not letting her would give her too much.
“One day she’s going to look around and realize this isn’t cinnamon toast and bedtime and helping out after work,” Smurf said. “This is your life.”
Pope did not move.
“She’ll see this family,” Smurf said.
Then Smurf’s voice went softer.
“She’ll see you,” Smurf said.
Pope’s face stayed blank. But something behind it went cold. Smurf’s thumb brushed his jaw.
“She’ll leave,” Smurf said. “And you’ll blame yourself like you always do.”
The sliding door opened before Pope could answer. Lena came in first, clutching Soup to her stomach. Craig followed behind her.
Deran came in last, eyes moving immediately between Pope and Smurf. Lena looked up at Pope.
His voice sounded normal enough that Lena believed it. Smurf looked at him across the kitchen. Still smiling.
Pope did not look back. By three-thirty, your feet hurt. That was the thing about Harbor Scoops no one told you before you started working there.
It looked cute from the outside. Striped awning. Chalkboard specials.
Little kids pressing both hands to the glass while they tried to decide between birthday cake and mint chocolate chip.
Inside, it was sticky counters, aching calves, freezer burn across your knuckles, and the same song playing through the overhead speaker for the sixth time in two hours.
You were wiping melted strawberry from the edge of the toppings station when the bell above the door rang.
“Be right with you,” you called.
You finished the counter first. One last swipe. Then you turned. Smurf stood on the other side of the glass. White blouse. Gold jewelry. Soft smile. Like she had wandered in because the day was warm and she wanted something sweet.
Your hand tightened around the rag. Only for a second. Then you set it down beside the sink.
“Hi,” you said.
Smurf smiled wider.
“Hi, sweetheart,” Smurf said.
The word landed wrong. You stepped behind the counter.
“What can I get for you?” you asked.
Smurf looked over the flavors slowly. Too slowly. Like she had not already decided before she walked in.
“You work here,” Smurf said.
You kept your face pleasant.
“I do,” you said.
Smurf’s eyes moved from the menu to you.
“Lena said,” Smurf said.
Your stomach tightened. You reached for the metal scoop because your hands needed something to do.
“She’s a great kid,” you said.
Smurf smiled.
“She is,” Smurf said.
There was something in the way she agreed. Like Lena being great belonged to her. Like everything did. Smurf looked back at the case.
“What’s good?” Smurf asked.
You looked at the rows of ice cream between you.
“Depends what you like,” you said.
Smurf’s eyes returned to your face.
“What do you like?” Smurf asked.
You smiled because that was easier than answering the question underneath it.
“Coffee crunch is popular,” you said.
Smurf hummed.
“I’ll do vanilla,” Smurf said.
Of course.
“Cup or cone?” you asked.
“Cup,” Smurf said. “Small.”
You grabbed the cup. Your hand was steady. You were proud of that. Smurf watched you scoop.
“You were at the house last night,” Smurf said.
You did not look up.
“I was,” you said.
Smurf leaned one hip against the counter.
“With Lena,” Smurf said.
You dragged the scoop through the vanilla.
“Yes,” you said.
Smurf’s bracelets clicked softly when she folded her hands.
“That was kind of you,” Smurf said.
“She shouldn’t have been alone,” you said.
Smurf’s smile stayed in place.
“No,” Smurf said. “She shouldn’t.”
You set the scoop back into the metal well and closed the freezer case. Smurf did not look at the ice cream. Not once.
That was when you knew. Not thought. Knew. She had not come in for vanilla. You set the cup on the counter between you.
“Your total is $3.42,” you said.
Smurf did not reach for her purse yet.
“Andrew trusts you,” Smurf said.
The name hit different from her mouth. Not soft. Not private. Not earned. Your hand stilled beside the register. Half a second. Maybe less.
Smurf saw it. You tapped the total on the screen.
“Cash or card?” you asked.
Smurf’s smile deepened.
“That name means something to you,” Smurf said.
You looked at the register instead of her.
“Cash or card?” you asked again.
Smurf opened her purse slowly.
“You know, he’s always been sensitive,” Smurf said.
You finally looked at her. Smurf’s face was gentle. That was the worst part.
“He feels things too much,” Smurf said. “Always has.”
You held her gaze.
“Do you want a lid with that?” you asked.
For the first time, Smurf’s smile changed. Only slightly. A small tightening at one corner.
“No lid,” Smurf said.
You nodded and set a spoon beside the cup. Smurf pulled out a five and placed it on the counter.
“He gets attached,” Smurf said.
You took the bill. The register drawer slid open with a sharp little click.
“He always has,” Smurf said.
You counted her change.
Smurf tapped her finger against the counter.
“Some people mistake that for something else,” Smurf said.
You set the coins on the counter instead of placing them in her hand.
“Here’s your change,” you said.
Smurf looked down at the coins. Then back at you.
“You’re careful,” Smurf said.
You folded the receipt and placed it beside the change.
“I’m working,” you said.
Smurf smiled.
“Mm,” Smurf said. “You are.”
You picked up the rag and wiped a clean spot on the counter. Smurf did not move.
“He likes things quiet sometimes,” Smurf said.
You kept wiping.
“Soft,” Smurf said.
Your hand slowed. Smurf saw.
“He likes pretending,” Smurf said.
You looked at her then. Smurf’s face stayed gentle. Like she was trying to spare you.
“That little house by the water,” Smurf said. “Lena with her stuffed animals. You staying for dinner. Everyone tucked in safe for the night.”
Your fingers tightened around the rag. Smurf’s eyes dropped to your hand. Then lifted again.
“It’s sweet,” Smurf said.
The word did not sound sweet at all. You held her gaze. Smurf tilted her head.
“Andrew’s had a hard life,” Smurf said.
You said nothing.
“And sometimes hard men like soft things,” Smurf said. “For a little while.”
The shop felt too quiet. The music hummed overhead. The vanilla sat untouched between you.
Smurf smiled.
“You’re a pretty little distraction,” Smurf said. “A way to play house without having to look too closely at what’s real.”
Your stomach dropped. You did not let it show on your face. Not all of it.
Smurf leaned closer.
“Don’t mistake that for forever, sweetheart,” Smurf said.
For a second, you could not hear anything but your own pulse. Then you looked down at the cup of vanilla. Untouched. Melting at the edges. You picked it up and slid it half an inch closer to her.
“Your ice cream is melting,” you said.
Smurf’s smile thinned. You looked back at her.
“Did you need anything else?” you asked.
Smurf studied you. Something colder moved behind her eyes.
“No,” Smurf said. “That’s all.”
You nodded.
“Have a good day,” you said.
Smurf looked at you for another second. Then she stepped back from the counter. At the door, she paused. Her hand rested lightly against the frame.
“Tell Andrew I said hello,” Smurf said.
Your grip tightened around the rag. This time, you did not care if she saw.
“I’m sure he’ll hear from you,” you said.
Smurf’s eyes sharpened. Briefly. Then the smile returned. She pushed the door open. The bell rang above her.
You watched her step out onto the sidewalk with the untouched vanilla in her hand. You stood behind the counter and watched through the front window until she crossed the street.
Until she reached her car. Until she got in. Until the car pulled away from the curb and disappeared into traffic. Only then did your breath leave you. Slow. Shaky. You looked down.
Your hand was still wrapped around the rag. Too tight. Your knuckles ached.
You forced your fingers to open one at a time. The rag fell onto the counter. There was a cold ring where the cup had sat. Vanilla. Sticky and pale.
You wiped it away. Then wiped it again. The spot was already clean. You wiped it anyway.
From the back room, your coworker Tara called your name. “You good out there?”
You looked toward the doorway. Your voice took a second to arrive.
“Yeah,” you called back. “I’m good.”
The lie came out clean. That was something. You turned back to the register. The screen had gone dark. You tapped it awake.
Your reflection stared back at you in the black glass for half a second before the order screen returned. You looked normal. That almost made you laugh.
You looked normal, and your stomach felt like it had dropped through the floor. A little boy came up to the counter with his mother behind him. He stood on his toes and pointed at the case.
“Can I have blue moon?” he asked.
His mother touched his shoulder.
“What do we say?” his mother asked.
The boy looked up at you. “Please,” he added.
Your hands were cold. Your heart was still beating too fast. But you smiled.
“Cup or cone?” you asked.
The boy grinned.
“Cone,” the boy said.
You grabbed one from the stack. It cracked slightly beneath your fingers. You stopped.
The boy did not notice. His mother did not notice. You set the broken cone aside and reached for another. This one held.
You scooped blue moon carefully. One round scoop. Then another, smaller one on top. You handed it over the glass.
“There you go,” you said.
The boy’s whole face lit up.
“Thank you,” the boy said.
“You’re welcome,” you said.
The mother paid. You made change. You smiled. You wiped the counter. You did your job.
One customer. Then another. Then another. The whole time, Smurf’s voice stayed in your head. Pretty little distraction. Play house. For a little while.
You hated that she had found somewhere to put the words. You hated more that they fit into fears you had not said out loud. By the time four o’clock came, your apron felt too tight around your waist.
The second Tara stepped out of the back to take over the register, you untied it.
“You sure you’re okay?” Tara asked.
You folded the apron over your arm.
“Long shift,” you said.
Tara studied your face. You could tell she did not fully believe you. You appreciated that she did not push.
“Go home,” Tara said. “I’ve got it.”
“Thanks,” you said.
You grabbed your bag from the back room. Your phone was at the bottom, beneath your keys and a crushed granola bar wrapper. You pulled it out.
Pope had not texted again. For a second, that hurt. Then you remembered where he was.
Smurf’s house. Smurf’s voice. Smurf’s hands. Smurf saying things softly enough that they sounded like love if you did not know better. You stood in the back room with your phone in your hand. Your thumb hovered over his name.
You almost typed three different things. I’m off. Smurf came in. Are you okay? All of them felt too small. All of them felt like too much. Finally, you typed.
You: I’m off.
You stared at it. Then added the rest before you could talk yourself out of it.
You: I can still come over if that’s okay.
Your thumb hesitated. The back room hummed around you. Freezer. Fluorescent light. Your own pulse. Then you typed one more message.
You: Also, Smurf came into work.
You sent it. For three seconds, nothing happened. Then your phone rang in your hand.
Pope.
You stared at his name for half a breath. Then you answered.
“Hi,” you said.
“What happened?” Pope asked.
His voice came through low. Too low. You closed your eyes. He was not angry. He was scared. You knew the difference now.
“I’m okay,” you said.
Pope did not answer right away. You stepped farther into the back room and lowered your voice.
“She just talked,” you said.
“What did she say?” Pope asked.
You leaned back against the wall beside the freezer and closed your eyes.
“I don’t want to talk about it over the phone,” you said.
The line went quiet. Something moved in the background. A car door. Lena’s voice, muffled and small.
“You have Lena?” you asked.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
“Is she okay?” you asked.
“She’s okay,” Pope said.
You leaned back against the wall beside the freezer.
“I can still come over,” you said. “If that’s okay.”
“Yeah,” Pope said.
The answer came too fast. Then his voice dropped.
“Yeah. Come over,” Pope said.
You pushed away from the wall.
“I’ll pick you up,” Pope said.
“Don’t tell me,” you said.
The line was quiet. You softened your voice before he could pull away from it.
“Ask me, please,” you said.
For one second, you thought he might not understand. Then Pope exhaled.
“Can I pick you up?” Pope asked.
Your eyes burned suddenly. Stupidly.
“Yes,” you said.
Lena’s voice came closer through the phone.
“Is that her?” Lena asked.
Pope’s voice softened when he answered her. “Yeah.”
There was a muffled sound. Then Lena was closer.
“Are you coming back?” Lena asked.
You pressed your free hand over your mouth for one second. Then you dropped it.
“I’m coming back,” you said.
Pope was quiet. Lena was not.
“Uncle Pope said we can get you,” Lena said.
You smiled even though your hands were still cold.
“That’s good,” you said. “My feet hurt.”
“From work?” Lena asked.
“From work,” you said.
“We have toast,” Lena said.
Your smile softened.
“That sounds perfect,” you said.
Pope’s voice came back, closer to the phone.
“Ten minutes,” Pope said.
You nodded even though he could not see you. “Okay.”
“Stay inside,” Pope said.
Your mouth softened.
He caught himself before you could answer.
“Please,” Pope said.
“I’ll stay inside,” you said.
The call ended a few seconds later. Not because either of you said everything. Because neither of you could. Not yet. Ten minutes later, Pope’s truck pulled up outside Harbor Scoops.
Lena waved from the back seat with Soup pressed to the window. You waved back. Pope did not.
He sat behind the wheel with both hands on it, eyes fixed on you like he had been counting every second since the call ended. You crossed the sidewalk and opened the passenger door. The truck smelled like salt air and cinnamon.
Lena leaned forward as far as her seatbelt allowed.
“You came back,” Lena said.
You climbed in and shut the door.
“I said I would,” you said.
Pope looked at you. Only for a second. Then he put the truck in drive. No one talked about Smurf. Not with Lena in the back seat.
Instead, Lena told you that Soup had seen the pool. You listened. You asked if Soup liked it. Lena said he did, but Bunny did not swim. Pope drove quietly. Tense. Careful. At the first red light, his hand shifted near the center console.
Palm up. Not reaching. Just there. You looked at it. Then you placed your hand in his. Pope’s fingers closed around yours immediately.
The light turned green. Lena kept talking. Pope kept driving. And neither of you let go.
By the time Lena fell asleep, the house felt tired. Not peaceful. Not exactly. Tired. Like the day had walked through every room and touched everything. Soup was tucked under Lena’s arm.
Bunny was on the outside edge of the bed. The hall light was on. The door was cracked. You pulled the blanket up over Lena’s shoulder, then stepped back carefully.
Pope stood in the doorway, watching. He had been quiet through dinner. Quiet through cinnamon toast.
Quiet while Lena told you the pool story again with more details this time, including the part where Craig had apparently apologized to Soup for not knowing turtles could have opinions. He had laughed once. Barely. For Lena. Then gone quiet again.
You moved toward the door. Pope stepped back to let you pass. Neither of you spoke until you were in the hall. The door stayed cracked behind you. The house settled around the two of you. Ocean outside. Hall light behind you. Living room dark ahead.
You looked at Pope. He looked exhausted. Not just tired. Hit somewhere deep.
“She’s asleep,” you whispered.
Pope nodded. His eyes stayed on Lena’s door.
“She okay?” Pope asked.
You looked back at the crack of light.
“She was tired,” you said. “But yeah. I think so.”
Pope nodded again. Still staring at the door. You waited. He did not move. So you stepped closer.
“Andrew,” you said softly.
His eyes closed for half a second. Then opened. He looked at you then. Really looked. And you knew, before either of you said a word, that the thing you had avoided in the truck had followed you home.
You kept your voice low.
“Do you want to sit down?” you asked.
Pope looked toward the living room. Then back at Lena’s door. Like he was measuring distance. Like sitting down meant letting go of watch. Only a little. Only enough to breathe.
“She’s asleep,” you said.
Pope nodded once.
“I know,” Pope said.
But he did not move. You touched his wrist. Careful. Light. His eyes dropped to your hand. Then to your face.
“She’s safe,” you said.
Pope swallowed. His hand turned under yours, slow enough that you could have pulled away. You didn’t. His fingers curled around yours.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
It did not sound like he believed it yet.
But he let you lead him down the hall anyway. The living room was dim. Only the kitchen light reached it, soft and weak around the edges. You sat on the couch first. Pope sat beside you. Not touching at first. Close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.
Far enough that he could still pretend he was leaving space. You looked at his profile. The tension in his mouth. The way his eyes stayed lowered, as if looking at you might make something worse.
“She came in right before I got off,” you said.
Pope’s hand tightened around yours.
“What did she say?” Pope asked.
You looked down at your joined hands.
“She wanted me to know she knew who I was,” you said.
Pope’s jaw moved.
“She wanted me to know she knew where I worked,” you said. “That she could walk in whenever she wanted.”
Pope stared at the floor.
“I’m sorry,” Pope said.
You looked at him.
“You didn’t send her,” you said.
Pope did not answer. That was not agreement. That was guilt finding somewhere familiar to sit. You squeezed his hand.
“Andrew,” you said.
His eyes closed again. This time, longer. When he opened them, he looked at you.
“She said I was a distraction,” you said.
Pope went still. You watched his face carefully.
“Something pretty and soft for you to play house with,” you said.
Pope’s eyes changed. Anger first. Then shame. Then something worse. The quiet, awful flicker of someone hearing a fear said out loud.
You felt his hand start to pull away. You let it. His fingers slipped from yours slowly. Carefully. Like even leaving your hand was something he was trying not to do too hard. Your palm felt cold without him.
Pope looked down at the space between you. You looked at him.
“Don’t,” you said softly.
Pope’s eyes lifted.
You shook your head. “Don’t let go of me just because of something she said.”
His face tightened. You kept your hand where it was. Open. Waiting. Not grabbing. Not asking him to prove anything with force. Just there.
Pope looked at your hand. Then at your face. For a second, he did not move. Then his hand came back to yours. Slowly. Like it cost him something. His fingers slid into yours again.
Pope looked at you then. His face was raw. Open in a way he probably hated.
“She said you’d leave,” Pope said.
Your throat tightened. There it was. You already knew somehow. Still, hearing it hurt.
“What else?” you asked.
Pope looked away. You waited. He stared toward the dark kitchen.
“She said girls like you think they can fix boys like me,” Pope said.
Your chest hurt. Both sides of the same blade. Smurf had held it carefully.
Turned it once. Cut both of you where she thought you were softest. You looked down at his hand in yours.
“She’s good,” you whispered.
Pope’s head turned.
“No,” Pope said.
You looked at him. His eyes were dark.
“She’s practiced,” Pope said.
That was worse. You nodded slowly.
“Yeah,” you whispered. “She is.”
Pope looked back toward the hallway.
His voice came out low.
“I should’ve kept her away from you,” Pope said.
You shook your head.
“You don’t get to decide that by yourself,” you said.
Pope’s mouth tightened.
“I brought you into it,” Pope said.
“I walked in,” you said.
His eyes lifted to yours. You held his gaze.
“I knew being close to you wasn’t simple,” you said. “Maybe I didn’t know all of it. But I knew enough.”
Pope said nothing. You shifted closer.
“I’m not here because I think you’re easy,” you said.
His throat worked.
“And I’m not here because I think you’re broken,” you said.
Pope looked like he wanted to believe you and had no idea how. You squeezed his hand once.
“I’m here because I want to be,” you said.
The words landed between you. Quiet. Simple. Too big for how softly you said them. Pope stared at you. Like the sentence had nowhere safe to land. So you gave it somewhere.
You leaned in and kissed him. The kiss was supposed to be soft. It was, at first.
Your mouth on his. His hand still near yours. A quiet thing in the living room while Lena slept behind a cracked door. Then Pope exhaled against you, and something in the day broke loose.
His hand slid to your waist. Your fingers caught in the front of his shirt. Not pulling. Holding. Pope kissed you again.
Deeper this time. Less careful. Not rough. Just not pretending he did not want more. Your hand moved to his jaw. The scratch of stubble caught softly beneath your palm.
Pope made a sound against your mouth. Low. Almost nothing. Enough. Your stomach tightened. You shifted closer. His fingers flexed at your waist. Then stopped. You felt him catch himself.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were dark. Focused. Afraid.
“Okay?” you whispered.
Pope stared at you. Then he nodded once.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
His voice was rough. You believed him. So you kissed him again.
This time, he met you halfway. His hand moved up your back. Slow. Careful. Like he had to learn the shape of permission one inch at a time. You let him. More than that.
You wanted him to. Your fingers slid into his hair. Pope’s breath changed. You felt it. So did he. His forehead pressed briefly to yours.
“We should stop,” Pope said.
He did not move away. You smiled a little, breathless.
“Is that what you want?” you asked.
Pope’s eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to yours.
“No,” Pope said.
The answer came too fast. Too honest. It made your chest ache. You kissed him again because you had to. Because he had said no like it cost him something.
Because Smurf had spent all day trying to make this feel foolish and temporary and doomed, and Pope’s hand on your back felt like none of those things. It felt scared. It felt careful. It felt real. His mouth moved against yours.
Your hand tightened in his hair. Pope’s fingers pressed into your waist. Not too much. Enough that heat moved through you, low and sudden. You pulled back first.
Not because you wanted to. Because if you did not, you were not sure either of you would. Pope followed half an inch before he stopped himself. That almost undid you.
You rested your forehead against his. Both of you were breathing too hard for how little had happened. Or maybe a lot had happened. Maybe this was a lot.
“I should go home,” you whispered.
Pope went still. You felt it immediately. His hand loosened at your waist. You opened your eyes.
“Not like that,” you said quickly.
Pope looked at you. You touched his cheek.
“We both need sleep,” you said.
Pope said nothing. His face had closed just enough to hurt. You brushed your thumb along his cheekbone.
“I’m coming back,” you said.
His eyes searched yours. You held his gaze.
“I’m not leaving because of her,” you said.
Pope’s throat worked. You leaned in and kissed him once. Soft. Certain.
“I’m going home because I have been awake forever,” you whispered, “and you look like you’re about to fall over.”
Pope blinked. Then, barely, his mouth shifted. Almost.
“You too,” Pope said.
You smiled.
“Wow,” you said. “Charming.”
His eyes dropped. The almost-smile stayed for half a second longer than he meant it to. Then it was gone. But you had seen it. Pope reached for his keys on the coffee table.
“I’ll drive you,” Pope said.
You looked toward the hall. He followed your gaze. Lena’s door was cracked. The hall light glowed softly over the carpet. He could not leave. You both knew it.
His hand tightened around the keys anyway.
“You can’t,” you said gently.
Pope looked down at them.
“I can call a cab,” you said.
“I’ll call it,” Pope said.
You let him have that. He pulled out his phone. He still had your address from the first night. That should not have made your throat tight. It did. Pope tapped the screen. Then he looked at the estimate.
“Eight minutes,” Pope said.
You nodded.
“Okay,” you said.
Neither of you moved. Then Pope looked toward the hall.
“I’m gonna check her,” Pope said.
You nodded again.
“I’ll wait,” you said.
Pope looked at you. Like he needed to make sure. You softened.
“I’ll wait,” you said again.
Pope went down the hall. You stood in the living room with your bag by your feet and your lips still warm from his. The house was quiet. The ocean moved beyond the deck.
For the first time all day, no one was asking you to prove what you were doing there. You were just there. Pope came back a minute later.
“She’s asleep,” Pope said.
“Good,” you said.
Headlights swept briefly across the front window. The cab. Pope looked at the door. Then at you. You picked up your bag.
He walked you to the front door. Not outside. Not all the way. He stayed inside the threshold because Lena was inside. Because the house was his to hold. Because tonight, that had to matter too. You opened the door.
Cool night air moved between you. Pope looked at you like he was trying to memorize the fact that you were leaving and staying at the same time. You stepped onto the porch.
Then you turned back.
“I’ll text you when I’m home,” you said.
Pope nodded.
“Okay,” Pope said.
You should have gone. You did not. Neither did he. So Pope leaned forward and kissed you. Soft at first. Then not. His hand came up to your cheek. Your fingers curled around the edge of his shirt.
For a second, the cab might as well have been miles away. When you pulled back, Pope stayed close. His thumb moved once along your cheek. You looked up at him, breath still uneven.
“You have to stop kissing me like that,” you whispered.
Pope went still. His eyes searched yours. His hand eased back a fraction from your face.
“What?” Pope asked.
Your mouth softened.
“Or I’m never going to leave,” you said.
For a second, Pope only stared at you. Like he was waiting for the part he had missed. Then it landed. Slow. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your face.
“Oh,” Pope said.
The word came out quiet. Almost startled. Heat rose along his neck. You saw it. And then, just barely, his mouth shifted. Not a smile. Almost. Small enough that anyone else would have missed it. Enough that you wanted to kiss him all over again.
Your smile grew.
“You almost smiled,” you whispered.
Pope looked away. Too late. The color was still there. So was the almost-smile. When he looked back, his face had changed. Still raw. Still afraid.
But softer now. Caught. With you. You stepped closer just enough to press one more kiss to the corner of his mouth. Quick.
Mean, almost, for how soft it was. Then you stepped back before he could follow.
“I’m coming back,” you whispered.
His throat worked. He nodded.
“I know,” Pope said.
It sounded like he was trying to. You walked to the cab. Pope stayed in the doorway while you got in. He stayed there when the door shut. Stayed there when the car pulled away from the curb. Stayed until the taillights disappeared.
Then he stepped back inside and closed the door.
Deadbolt. Chain. Lock.
The house settled around him. Lena asleep down the hall. Soup under her arm. Bunny on the outside edge of the bed. Your warmth still on his mouth. Your words still in the room.
I’m coming back.
Pope stood with his hand on the lock for one more second. Smurf had gotten into the day. Into his head. Into yours. Into the space between leaving and staying.
But you had gone home.
Not gone away.
There was a difference.
Pope turned off the living room lamp. Left the hall light on. And for tonight, because it was the only thing he knew how to believe, he let coming back mean more than leaving.
Do we want an alternative chapter of The Bet from The One Point Difference where Jack beats her by one point? And if so… what does Jack want? Let me know in the comments!
I kind of miss writing for Brendon Park, so hear me out…
Med school Brendon Park x Reader.
They’re third-year medical students starting clinical rotations, academic rivals who already know exactly how to get under each other’s skin. He starts realizing orthopedics is where he belongs. She discovers she was made for trauma surgery.
Long shifts. Competitive rounds. Reluctant study sessions. Seeing each other with real patients for the first time. Falling in love while becoming the doctors they’re meant to be.
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Summary: Pope comes home after midnight to find the house quiet, Lena safe, and you still there. It should make things easier. It doesn’t.
Warnings: canon-typical Cody family tension, emotional conflict, fear, minor injury/blood, Pope struggling with self-worth, Smurf’s influence, and a child waking up scared.
Author’s Note: This chapter is the emotional fallout from Chapter Eight. It is softer in some places, sharper in others, and very much about Pope not knowing what to do when someone sees him clearly and stays anyway.
And Pope knew, before Deran said a word, that the night was over.
“Smurf’s been calling,” Deran said.
Pope’s hand tightened on the edge of the door.
“I know,” Pope said.
Deran looked past him again.
Toward the kitchen. Toward you. Then toward the hall, where Lena’s door stayed cracked, and the light still glowed soft against the floor.
“She asleep?” Deran asked.
Pope’s jaw flexed.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Deran nodded once. His voice dropped.
“I can cover for you,” Deran said.
Pope stared at him.
Deran looked back, flat and tired.
“I’ll tell her I checked the house,” Deran said. “That you weren’t here.”
Pope’s grip tightened on the door.
“She won’t believe that,” Pope said.
“No,” Deran said.
The answer came too fast. Too honest.
Deran glanced toward the driveway, then back at Pope.
“But it buys you tonight,” Deran said.
Pope said nothing.
Behind him, the house was quiet. Too quiet.
Deran leaned a little closer, keeping his voice low.
“She’ll come looking eventually,” Deran said.
Pope knew that.
Of course he knew that.
Smurf did not let silence stay silence. She filled it. With calls. With people. With hands on doors that did not belong to her.
Pope looked toward the hall.
Lena’s door stayed cracked. No sound came from her room. Soup was tucked under her arm. Bunny rested near the outside edge of the bed. The hall light stayed on. All the rules held.
For now.
Deran’s eyes followed his.
“You want her knocking on this door?” Deran asked.
Pope looked back at him.
“No,” Pope said.
Deran nodded once.
“Then come on,” Deran said.
Pope did not move.
He could feel you behind him.
Could feel the deck still clinging to the room.
His hands still on your face.
Your mouth still soft from his.
Andrew.
The name had barely existed for one full minute before the Codys came to take it apart.
Pope turned.
You stood near the kitchen counter, careful and quiet, one hand curled against the edge like you needed something to hold.
Your eyes met his.
Not asking. Not pushing. Waiting. That almost made it harder.
Pope’s throat worked.
“Can you stay?” Pope asked.
Your expression changed. Not surprise exactly. Something softer.
Like you understood what he was really asking.
Not just can you sit in this house. Not just can you listen for Lena.
Can I trust you with the only thing I cannot lose while I go stop the rest of them from reaching her.
You nodded.
“Yes,” you said.
Pope stared at you.
The answer was too fast. Too easy. Too much.
Your voice was soft.
“I’ll stay,” you said.
Deran looked away.
Pope looked toward the hall again. Then back at you.
“Lock the door behind me,” Pope said.
“I will,” you said.
“And don’t open the door for anyone,” Pope said.
“I won’t,” you said.
His eyes held yours.
“Anyone,” Pope said.
You nodded once.
“Anyone,” you said.
Pope swallowed.
There was more. Too much more. None of it safe with Deran standing in the open doorway. None of it shaped right for his mouth.
You seemed to know that too.
You stepped closer. Not enough to touch him. Enough that he felt the choice of it.
Pope’s eyes dropped to your mouth.
Then lifted again.
He could not kiss you now.
Not with Deran there.
Not with Cody blood waiting on the porch.
Not when he had just learned what Andrew sounded like in your mouth and already had to leave it behind.
So he turned.
Because if he stayed another second, he might do something stupid.
Something soft.
Something he could not protect.
Pope stepped onto the porch.
Deran shifted back to let him pass.
Behind him, you moved.
“An—”
Pope stopped. So did you.
The sound barely made it out, barely enough to be a name.
Barely enough to cut him open.
Deran’s eyes flicked toward Pope.
Pope did not look at Deran. He looked back at you.
You stood just inside the house, one hand on the edge of the door.
Your face had gone still.
Not embarrassed. Not afraid. Careful. Protecting it.
Protecting him.
You swallowed.
“Pope,” you said instead.
His chest tightened so hard he almost could not answer.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Your hand curled tighter around the door.
“Be safe,” you said.
Two words. That was all. Not don’t go. Not come back. Not why do they get to take you.
Just be safe.
Like he was something that could be hurt.
Like he was something you wanted returned.
Like Andrew could leave with him, even if you could not say the name out loud.
Pope stared at you.
The porch light cut across your face. The house glowed soft behind you. Lena slept down the hall. The hall light stayed on.
And you stood there, holding the door, keeping his name safe in your mouth.
It ruined him. Completely.
Pope nodded once.
Because he could not speak.
Then he turned and followed Deran down the steps.
You closed the door behind them. The lock turned.
Pope heard it from the porch.
Then heard it turn again. Checking. The way he would have.
Deran glanced at him. Pope did not look back.
For one second, he stood outside the locked door with everything soft on the other side.
Then he walked to Deran’s car.
Deran followed him down the steps.
Neither of them spoke until they reached the driveway.
The porch light stayed on behind them.
Pope hated that.
Hated the way it reached across the yard. Hated the way it made the house look warm from the outside.
Like something anyone could see.
Like something anyone could ruin.
Deran unlocked the car. The lights flashed once. Too bright. Too loud.
Pope got in on the passenger side.
Deran slid behind the wheel. The doors shut hard in the quiet.
For a second, Deran did not start the car. He looked through the windshield at the house.
Pope did not. He kept his eyes forward.
The house was behind him now.
You were behind him. Lena was behind him.
The thought should have made it easier to breathe because the door was locked, because you had stayed, because Smurf was not inside.
It did not.
Deran started the engine.
The car backed out of the driveway.
Pope felt every foot of distance like something being pulled from his ribs.
The beach house slipped past the window. Porch. Steps. Window. Light beneath the door.
Gone.
Pope looked down at his hands.
His fingers were curled against his knees. He made them open.
Deran drove in silence for almost a full minute.
Pope waited for it.
The comment. The joke. The look. Something about you standing in the kitchen. Something about Lena asleep down the hall. Something about the kind of night Pope had clearly been having before Deran knocked.
Deran said nothing.
That made it worse.
The road bent away from the water.
Streetlights moved over the windshield in pale streaks.
Pope watched them instead of thinking about your mouth.
He failed.
Andrew.
Your voice had barely shaped the first sound before you stopped yourself.
Before you protected it.
Before you gave him Pope instead because Deran was standing there and you understood, somehow, that some names could not survive being overheard by a Cody.
Pope’s jaw tightened.
Deran glanced over.
Pope felt it and did not look back.
“You trust her?” Deran asked.
Pope’s hand tightened against his knee.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Deran nodded once.
No joke. No smirk. That made it worse.
Pope looked out the passenger window. The ocean disappeared behind houses and dark side streets. Deran kept both hands loose on the wheel.
“She seems good with Lena,” Deran said.
Pope looked at him then.
Deran kept his eyes on the road.
“She is,” Pope said.
The words came out rougher than he meant.
Deran heard it. He did not push.
For another few blocks, there was only the engine, the tires, and the phone buzzing in Pope’s pocket.
Again. Again. Again.
Pope did not reach for it.
Deran’s eyes flicked toward the sound.
“That’ll be her,” Deran said.
Pope looked forward.
“I know,” Pope said.
The phone stopped. The silence after it felt worse than the buzzing.
Deran turned onto a darker road.
Pope recognized the direction. Smurf. Family. The thing waiting.
The thing he had left you behind to keep away from the house.
His stomach tightened.
Deran rubbed one hand over his mouth, then put it back on the wheel.
“Be careful, man,” Deran said.
Pope looked at him.
Deran’s face stayed forward, unreadable in the passing light.
He did not say it like a threat. Did not say it like a joke. Did not even say it like advice.
Just tired.
Like maybe he knew exactly what Pope had left behind.
Like maybe he knew what it cost to want something where Smurf could see it.
Pope looked back out the windshield.
“I know,” Pope said.
Deran gave a small nod. “Do you?”
Pope’s jaw flexed.
He did.
That was why he was scared.
Not of Smurf. Not only Smurf. He was scared because he had asked you to stay and you had said yes. Scared because Lena might wake up and find you there instead of him. Scared because that might help. Scared because you had told him to be safe, like he was something that could be hurt. Scared because he wanted to go back.
Already.
Before he had even gotten where he was supposed to be.
Pope looked down at his hands again.
There was still warmth there. Your face. Your hair. Your fingers catching his wrist.
Andrew.
He closed his hands into fists.
The car moved farther from the beach house. Farther from the locked door. Farther from the hall light.
Farther from you.
Pope sat in the passenger seat and said nothing.
Because there was nothing to say. Because Deran already knew too much. Because Smurf was waiting.
Because Lena was sleeping.
Because you were inside his house, keeping it safe.
And because, for the first time in a long time, Pope had something to lose that was not already broken.
Inside, you stood with your hand still on the lock.
The house felt different without him in it.
Too quiet. Too open. Too full of everything he had not said.
You listened until the sound of Deran’s car faded down the road.
Then you turned the lock again.
Checked it. Checked the back door. Checked the deck latch.
The way Pope would have.
The living room still held the shape of the evening.
The TV screen dark. The couch blanket crooked. The empty place where Pope had stood before he left.
You stood in the middle of it for a second, arms wrapped loosely around yourself, trying to decide where to put your body now that the house had been handed to you.
Not handed. Trusted.
That felt heavier.
Down the hall, Lena made a sound. Small. Sleepy.
Your whole body went still.
Another second passed.
Then her voice came, rough with sleep. “Uncle Pope?”
You moved before you thought about it.
Not fast enough to scare her.
Fast enough that she would not have to call twice.
The hall light was still on.
You pushed the door open a little wider.
Lena was sitting halfway up in bed, hair mussed from sleep, one hand pressed around Soup’s shell. Her eyes were open but not fully awake, shiny and confused in the dim room.
You kept your voice low.
“Hey,” you whispered.
Lena looked past you. Toward the hall. Toward the space where Pope should have been.
“Where’s Uncle Pope?” Lena asked.
Your chest tightened. You stepped inside but stayed near the door at first.
“He had to go with Uncle Deran for a little while,” you said.
Lena’s fingers tightened around Soup.
“Why?” Lena asked.
You did not answer too fast. That felt important.
“He had to take care of something,” you said.
Lena looked at your face.
You wondered how much she could read there. Probably more than you wanted. Probably more than anyone gave her credit for.
“Because of Grandma Smurf?” Lena asked.
The name sat in the room too loudly.
You swallowed.
“He asked me to stay with you until he comes back,” you said.
Lena stared at you.
The answer was not really an answer. You both knew that. But it was the part that mattered.
“He did?” Lena asked.
You nodded.
“He did,” you said.
Lena looked down at Soup.
Her thumb moved over his shell once. Then again.
“He’s coming back?” Lena asked.
Your throat hurt. You could not promise things you did not control. You could not make the world softer by lying to her. But you could tell her what you knew.
“He said he was,” you whispered.
Lena looked down at Soup again. For a second, she looked very small. Lena shifted under the blanket. Soup stayed tucked against her chest.
“Can you stay until I fall asleep?” Lena asked.
The question was quiet. Careful. Like she already knew adults sometimes had to leave even when they did not want to.
You stepped closer immediately.
“Of course,” you said.
Lena watched you like she needed to make sure the answer stayed true. She lowered herself back onto the pillow, still watching you through sleepy eyes. You adjusted the blanket over her shoulder. Not too high. Not too tight.
The way Pope had done it.
Lena’s hand stayed around Soup.
You looked toward the floor beside the bed, then back at her.
“I can sit right here,” you whispered.
Lena blinked.
“On the floor?” Lena asked.
You nodded once.
“Yeah,” you said.
Lena considered that.
Then she nodded once.
So you slid down carefully, settling with your back against the wall beside her bed. The floor was hard beneath you, cool even through your jeans.
You bent one knee and rested your arm on the edge of the mattress.
Close enough that Lena could see you.
Close enough that she could reach if she wanted.
Not crowding her.
Not leaving.
Lena turned her face toward you on the pillow.
Her eyes were still open.
You smiled softly.
“Hi,” you whispered.
Lena’s mouth barely moved.
“Hi,” Lena whispered.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
The house creaked around you. The ocean moved below it. Somewhere outside, wind pressed against the windows and let go.
Lena’s eyes fluttered, then opened again. You lifted your hand slowly.
“Can I?” you whispered.
Lena looked at your hand. Then nodded.
You touched her hair gently, smoothing the loose strands back from her forehead. Once. Then again. Slow enough that she could stop you. Soft enough that she would not need to.
Lena’s eyes closed.
Your hand kept moving, careful and light. Forehead. Hairline. Temple. Back through the soft mess of sleep-tangled hair.
Lena breathed out.
Soup shifted under her arm.
You kept going.
Nothing big. Nothing that fixed anything. Just one small motion repeated until her body believed the room was safe again.
The room went quiet again. This time, it lasted longer. Lena’s breathing evened out by degrees. Her hand relaxed around Soup, though she did not let go.
You waited.
Kept your hand moving until you were sure. Then a little longer after that. Because Pope had asked you to stay. Because Lena had asked you to stay.
Because some part of you needed to prove to the house that you meant it.
Eventually, your hand slowed.
Then stopped on the edge of the mattress.
Your fingers rested near Lena’s. Not touching. Almost.
Your head tipped back against the wall.
You told yourself you would only close your eyes for a second.
Just until your neck stopped aching.
Just until the room stopped spinning with everything that had happened.
The deck.
His mouth.
His hands.
Andrew.
Pope leaving.
Lena calling for him in the dark.
The locks.
The rules.
The little girl asleep beside you with a turtle tucked under her arm.
You opened your eyes once more.
The hall light glowed through the crack in the door.
Lena slept.
The house held.
The house stayed quiet around you.
So you let your eyes close.
Pope came home a little after midnight.
The house was dark except for the hall light.
For one second, he stood outside the front door and listened.
No voices. No movement. No crying.
Only the ocean below the house and the low shift of wind against the windows.
He unlocked the door as quietly as he could.
The deadbolt turned beneath his hand.
He eased the door open, then stepped inside and closed it behind him.
The house smelled like popcorn. Salt air.
The living room was empty.
Pope stopped.
His eyes moved to the couch. Then to the chair near the table. Your bag was still there.
But you were not.
For one second, everything inside him went cold. Too fast. Too sharp.
Where are you?
His body moved before the thought finished.
He checked the kitchen. Empty.
The back door. Locked.
The deck latch. Locked.
He turned toward the hall. The light stayed on.
Lena’s door was cracked.
Pope pushed the door open with two fingers. Slow. Careful.
Lena was asleep on her side, blanket twisted around her legs, Soup tucked under one arm, Bunny resting near the outside edge of the bed.
And you were on the floor beside her bed.
Pope stopped breathing.
You sat with your back against the wall, knees bent slightly, head tipped awkwardly against your shoulder. One hand rested on the edge of Lena’s mattress, close to Lena’s fingers but not holding them.
Near enough.
There if she reached.
Lena’s hand had drifted toward yours in her sleep.
Pope stood in the doorway and stared.
The cold in him cracked open.
Relief hit so hard he almost had to put a hand on the frame.
You were here.
Lena was asleep.
The house had held.
He stepped into the room. Quiet. Careful.
Your neck had to hurt.
Your shoulder too.
Pope crouched beside you.
For a second, he only looked.
At your hand near Lena’s. At the curve of your body folded awkwardly against the wall. At your face soft with sleep and worry even now.
He reached out slowly.
His fingers touched your shoulder. Barely.
You stirred.
Pope froze.
Lena did not move.
He tried again, softer this time.
“Hey,” Pope whispered.
Your eyes opened slowly.
Unfocused at first. Then they found him. For one quiet second, neither of you moved.
Then your gaze flicked toward Lena.
Pope nodded before you could ask. Still asleep. Still safe.
You looked back at him.
Your mouth moved around a whisper. “You’re back.”
Pope swallowed.
“Yeah,” Pope whispered.
Your eyes moved over his face.
Down to his shirt. Then to his hands. Pope saw you see the scrape across two knuckles. He closed that hand slightly.
“Come on,” Pope whispered.
You looked at his hand. Then at him.
Pope held it out.
Waiting.
You slipped your fingers into his.
He closed his hand around yours and helped you stand slowly, careful not to jostle the bed.
You rose stiffly.
Your face tightened before you could hide it.
Pope saw that too. His jaw flexed.
You stepped carefully around the edge of the bed.
Lena shifted.
Both of you froze.
Her fingers brushed the place your hand had been on the mattress.
You held your breath.
Pope did too.
Lena settled again with Soup tucked close to her chest.
Pope’s hand stayed around yours.
You looked down at her.
Then you reached with your free hand and pulled the blanket a little higher over Lena’s shoulder. Soft. Careful.
Pope watched you do it.
Something in his chest hurt.
You stepped back.
Pope guided you toward the door.
Then pulled Lena’s door back to the same narrow crack. The hall light stayed on.
Neither of you spoke until you reached the kitchen.
The house stayed dark behind you. The living room. The hallway. Lena’s cracked door.
The soft line of light beneath it.
Pope stopped beside the counter like he had forgotten why he was there.
You stopped with him.
For a second, he did not look at you.
His eyes went to the sink. The counter. The floor.
Anywhere else.
You looked down at his hand.
The scrape across his knuckles had dried dark at the edges.
Not deep.
Not nothing.
“Can I look?” you asked.
Pope’s jaw shifted.
“It’s fine,” Pope said.
“I know,” you said.
He looked at you then.
Your voice was quiet. Careful. Not pushing.
“Can I look?” you asked again.
Pope stared at you for one long second. Then he opened his hand.
You stepped closer. Slowly.
Like he was something hurt.
Like he was something that might bolt if you moved wrong.
He hated that you knew to move like that.
He hated that it worked.
You took his wrist in your hand and guided his knuckles under the low kitchen light.
Pope watched your face.
That was the mistake.
He should have looked away. He should have pulled back. He should have done anything except stand there and let you look at him like that.
Like the blood was not the first thing you saw.
Like the ugly did not get to be the whole story.
Your thumb moved near the scrape.
His fingers flexed.
You stopped immediately.
“Sorry,” you whispered.
Pope swallowed.
“It’s fine,” he said.
You looked up at him. No it isn’t, your face said.
You did not say it. That was worse. You just held his wrist a little softer.
Pope felt it everywhere.
In his throat. In his chest. In the part of him that had been locked tight since Deran knocked on the door.
Your eyes moved over his face.
The tension in his mouth. The way he was standing too still. The way he had come back wrong and tried to make nothing out of it.
“Andrew,” you said softly.
Pope went still.
The name broke something open in him. Not loud. Not clean. Just a crack straight through the middle.
Because you did not say it like a secret you wanted to keep for yourself.
You said it like you knew it mattered.
Like you knew it was tender.
Like you knew he had handed you something on the deck and you were still holding it carefully.
His breath caught.
You saw that too.
Your fingers loosened around his wrist, but you did not let go all the way.
“What happened?” you asked.
Pope’s mouth tightened. He looked away.
“Nothing,” Pope said.
You were quiet.
He could feel you looking at him. Could feel the care in it. The fear. The want.
He could feel all of it, and it was too much.
Too close. Too good. Too late.
His hand pulled out of yours.
This time, you let it go.
Pope stepped back once.
The space between you opened. Not far. Enough.
“You should go,” Pope said.
Your face changed.
Just a little.
Like the words had hit before you were ready for them.
Pope saw it.
He hated himself for seeing it.
He hated himself more for not taking it back.
You looked at him for one second. Then another.
“Okay,” you said.
The word was soft. Too soft. It landed worse than if you had yelled.
Pope stood there.
You lowered your hand.
The hand that had been holding his wrist. The hand that had been careful with him.
It fell to your side slowly.
Then you turned.
Pope watched you walk out of the kitchen.
One step. Then another.
Past the counter. Past the edge of the couch. Toward the chair where your bag sat.
He told himself this was right.
He told himself this was better.
He told himself this was the only decent thing he had done all night.
You would leave.
You would get away from the house.
Away from the phones. Away from Smurf. Away from the part of him that came home with scraped knuckles and no answers.
You picked up your bag.
The strap slid into your hand.
Pope could not breathe.
You looked toward the hall. Toward Lena’s cracked door.
Your face softened there.
That almost did it. Then you looked back at him.
“Will you tell her I said goodbye?” you asked.
Pope’s chest caved in.
Lena.
Lena waking up and asking. Lena looking for you at breakfast. Lena learning, again, that people disappeared after the house got scary.
And you.
You asking him to carry the goodbye to her because he had told you to go.
Because you were doing what he asked.
Because you believed him enough to leave when he said leave.
You turned toward the door.
Pope moved.
Fast.
Before there was thought. Before there was a better choice. Before you could reach the handle.
His hand caught your wrist.
You stopped.
He turned you back toward him.
Not rough. Not gentle. Desperate.
Your eyes met his.
He kissed you.
Sudden.
Harder than he meant to. Not angry. Not taking.
Just panicked.
His hand came to your face, and his mouth found yours like he could stop the leaving there.
Like he could press the words he did not have into your mouth before you walked out with all of them unsaid.
You made a small sound against him.
Surprise.
His whole body went still for half a beat.
Then your hand came up.
Your fingers caught in his shirt.
Held.
Pope made a rough sound low in his throat and kissed you again.
Still shaken.
But softer now.
Trying to come back from the edge of what he had just done.
Your bag slipped from your hand. It hit the floor by your feet.
The leaving stopped.
The door stayed closed.
Your palm pressed against his chest. Not pushing him away. Just there.
Grounding him.
Feeling the hard, uneven beat beneath his shirt.
Then you turned your face.
The kiss broke.
Pope stopped immediately.
His hand stayed at your cheek. His breathing was rough. His eyes searched your face like he had done something he could not take back.
You looked up at him.
Not afraid.
Not untouched by it either.
Your mouth was soft from his.
Your eyes were wet.
“Andrew,” you whispered.
Pope went still.
The name landed differently here. Not on the deck. Not before Deran. Not before the night came back through the door.
Here.
After the scrape.
After he had told you to go.
After he had turned you around and kissed you because his body had told the truth before his mouth could.
His face changed.
The hard line of his mouth broke first. Then his eyes. He looked like the name hurt.
Like he wanted it anyway.
Your thumb moved against his shirt.
“Talk to me,” you whispered.
Pope swallowed.
His hand shifted on your face.
Careful now.
Like he was remembering where he was. Like he was remembering you were real beneath his palm. Like he was remembering he could hurt you if he got this wrong.
“I don’t know how,” Pope said.
His voice came out low. Rough. Almost gone.
You did not speak.
You let him have the silence. He looked down. Then back at you.
“I don’t know how to want this,” Pope said.
Your fingers tightened slightly in his shirt.
He swallowed hard.
“Want you,” Pope said.
His eyes moved toward the hall.
The light was still there.
Lena was still asleep behind the cracked door.
His throat worked. “You and Lena.”
The words seemed to cost him.
Like each one had to be dragged out of somewhere locked.
“I don’t know how to want that and not—”
He stopped.
His jaw clenched.
You waited.
Pope looked at you helplessly.
Angry at himself.
At the room. At the truth.
“I don’t know how to want it and not ruin it,” Pope said.
There.
The thing.
Not clean. Not fair.
Not something he should have put in your hands.
But true.
Your hand stayed on his chest.
Your bag stayed on the floor.
The door stayed closed behind you.
You looked at him for a long second. Then your voice softened.
“Do you want me to go?” you asked.
Pope’s answer came immediately. “No.”
Bare. Rough. Terrified.
Your thumb shifted once against his shirt.
“Then say that,” you whispered.
Pope stared at you.
His hand trembled once against your cheek. Barely. But you felt it. He knew you felt it.
His voice dropped. “Don’t go.”
You stayed still.
“Stay,” Pope said.
His throat worked. “Please.”
The word scraped out of him. Not pretty. Not easy.
A plea he looked almost ashamed to need.
You looked at him for a long second. Then your hand softened against his chest.
“I’ll stay,” you whispered.
Pope’s forehead lowered to yours.
Slowly.
Like he was afraid you might disappear if he moved too fast.
His eyes closed.
For one second, neither of you moved.
The house stayed quiet.
The hall light stayed on.
Lena slept behind the cracked door.
Your bag sat on the floor by the door.
Pope breathed like he had been holding it since he left.
“I’m here,” you whispered.
His hand moved along your cheek. Careful. Still shaking just enough that you felt it.
You did not mention it.
You just stayed.
Pope pressed his mouth to your forehead. Soft. Held.
An apology this time.
A real one.
The kind he still did not know how to say out loud.
Your eyes closed.
He felt it.
Felt the trust in the way your body softened under his hand.
After the sharpness.
After the sudden kiss.
After him telling you to go.
You still let him touch you gently.
It undid him.
Your fingers curled tighter in his shirt.
“Andrew,” you whispered again.
His mouth moved from your forehead to your temple.
Then stopped there.
His breath moved unevenly against your skin.
You did not mention that either.
You only stayed.
Pope turned his face enough to kiss your cheek.
Soft and careful.
Then he paused.
Like he was asking.
Like he still did not trust himself to take anything you had not offered twice.
You tilted your face toward him.
That was all.
Pope kissed you.
This time, it was soft from the start.
Careful.
Asking.
Your mouth answered him.
And the fear did not leave.
It stayed by the door.
In the scrape across his knuckles. In the hallway where Lena slept. In everything he still did not know how to say.
But it was not the only thing there.
Your hand was on his chest. His thumb was against your cheek. Your mouth was warm beneath his. Your bag was on the floor.
You had stayed.
The house held.
Pope pulled back first.
Not far.
Just enough to breathe.
His thumb stayed at your cheek. Your hand stayed curled in his shirt.
For a second, neither of you moved.
The house was quiet around you. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made him listen harder.
His eyes moved past you. Toward the hall.
“Go check,” you whispered.
Pope looked back at you.
Your hand slipped from his shirt. Not leaving. Letting him.
“It’s okay,” you said.
Pope stared at you for one second.
Then he turned.
He walked down the hall without making a sound.
You stayed where you were, near the front door, your bag still on the floor by your feet.
The hall light cut across his shoulders as he reached Lena’s room. He pushed the door open with two fingers. Slow. Careful. Lena was still asleep. Curled on her side. Soup tucked under her arm. Bunny near the outside edge of the bed. The blanket had slipped again. Pope stepped inside and pulled it back over her shoulder.
Lena made a small sound but did not wake.
Pope froze anyway. Waited. Counted one breath. Then another.
She settled.
His hand hovered near her hair. He did not touch. Then he backed out and pulled the door to the same narrow crack. The light stayed on.
When he came back, you were still there.
Pope stopped at the end of the hall. You had not moved. Your bag was still on the floor. Your eyes were on him.
Like you had known he would need to see it.
Like you had stayed on purpose.
His throat worked.
You bent and picked up your bag.
Pope went still.
Then you carried it away from the door. Not far. Just to the couch. You set it beside the armrest.
Pope watched the whole thing. The door behind you. The couch in front of you. The choice made quietly in the space between them.
You looked back at him.
“Come here,” you said softly.
Pope did.
Slowly at first.
Then not.
You walked back into the kitchen, and he followed. The scrape still sat dark across his knuckles. You looked down at it again. Then back up at him.
“I’m going to clean that,” you whispered.
Pope’s jaw shifted.
“It’s fine,” Pope said.
“You said that last time too,” you said.
That stopped him. Only for a second. But enough.
You turned toward the sink.
Pope stayed where he was as you reached for the tap and ran the water low.
Not loud enough to wake Lena.
You checked the temperature with your fingers.
Warm.
Then you looked back at him.
“Hand,” you said softly.
Pope stared at you.
Then he stepped closer and held it out.
You took his wrist carefully and guided his knuckles under the stream. He hissed through his teeth before he could stop it. You looked up.
“Sorry,” you whispered.
Pope shook his head once.
“It’s fine,” he said.
You gave him a look.
He looked away.
You cleaned around the scrape, careful not to press too hard.
The water ran pink for half a second.
Then clear.
Pope watched it disappear down the drain.
Your hand stayed steady around his wrist.
You turned the water off and patted his knuckles dry with a paper towel.
Then you opened the cabinet under the sink.
Pope’s eyes followed you.
You did not ask where the bandages were. You remembered. From last time.
That did something to his face.
Something small. Something he tried to hide.
You found the box pushed toward the back and brought it up to the counter.
“Still keeping these in the worst possible place,” you murmured.
Pope looked at you.
That almost pulled something from him. Not a smile. Not close. But the room shifted a little.
You opened a bandage and pressed it over the scrape. Your thumb smoothed the edge down gently.
“There,” you whispered.
Pope looked at the bandage. Then at your hand still near his.
“Thanks,” he said.
The word came out rough.
You nodded once.
Then you reached for the kitchen towel and folded it over the edge of the sink.
Pope did not move away.
Neither did you.
For a second, the two of you stood there under the low kitchen light.
His hand between you.
Your fingers still close to his.
The house quiet around the shape of what had almost broken and somehow had not.
Then Pope looked toward the hall again.
You followed his gaze. The light still glowed. Lena still slept.
“She’ll ask in the morning,” Pope said.
His voice was low. You looked back at him.
“What will you tell her?” you asked.
Pope stared toward the hall for another second. Then he looked at you.
“The truth,” Pope said.
You waited. His fingers shifted once beneath yours.
“That you stayed,” he said.
Your chest ached.
You looked down at his bandaged hand.
Then you let your fingers slip between his.
Careful of the scrape.
Pope looked at your joined hands like he did not know what to do with them.
Like he wanted to hold on and did not trust himself to.
You helped him.
You squeezed once. Small. Enough.
“Come sit down,” you whispered.
Pope followed you into the living room.
The dark TV stared back at the room.
The couch blanket was still crooked from the movie.
You sat first, tired now in a way that showed.
The night had finally started to reach you. Your shoulders lowered. Your head tipped back for half a second.
Pope stood in front of you like he did not know where to put himself.
You looked up at him.
“Sit down, Andrew,” you whispered.
His face changed at the name. Not as sharply this time. Still enough.
He sat beside you. Not too close. Then closer.
His knee brushed yours.
Neither of you moved away.
You reached for the blanket and pulled it over your lap.
Then you paused.
Pope looked at your hand.
You lifted the edge of the blanket.
An invitation. Small. Simple.
Something he could understand without having to speak.
Pope stared at it for one second.
Then he shifted closer.
You spread the blanket over his legs too.
The gesture was so ordinary it almost hurt worse than the rest of it.
He looked down at the blanket.
At your hand smoothing the edge once.
At the small bandage across his knuckles.
Neither of you reached for the remote.
Outside, the ocean moved below the house.
Inside, the refrigerator hummed.
The hall light stayed on.
You leaned back against the couch.
After a second, your shoulder touched his.
Pope went still.
You did not move away.
Slowly, carefully, his arm lifted.
Paused.
Then settled around you.
You let yourself lean into him.
Pope looked down at you like he was still waiting for the moment to break.
Like the house might reject this. Like the door might open. Like the phone might start again.
It did not.
You tucked your feet beneath the blanket.
Your hand found his bandaged one.
You did not hold it tightly. Just rested your fingers over his.
Pope stared at your hand.
Then his fingers turned under yours. Careful. Slow. Holding back.
Holding on.
“You should sleep,” Pope said.
His voice was low. You closed your eyes.
“So should you,” you whispered.
Pope did not answer.
You did not make him.
A few minutes passed. Maybe more.
His thumb moved once over your fingers.
Then stopped.
You were almost asleep when he spoke.
“Thank you,” Pope said.
Your eyes opened. You did not lift your head from his shoulder.
“For what?” you whispered.
Pope looked toward the hall.
The cracked door. The light. The small room where Lena slept with Soup and Bunny and one more person in the world who had not left before morning.
His fingers tightened around yours.
“For staying,” Pope said.
You closed your eyes again. Your hand softened around his.
“I told you I would,” you whispered.
Pope looked down at you.
Your breathing slowly evened out against his side.
Your hand stayed in his.
Your bag stayed beside the couch. The door stayed locked. The phone stayed silent. Lena slept down the hall.
And Pope sat there in the dark, afraid of all of it.
Afraid of the morning.
Afraid of Smurf.
Afraid of the way your body fit against his like the house had made room for you before he knew how to ask.
But you were there.
You had stayed.
And for tonight, because he did not know how to ask for more than that, Pope let it be enough.
Summary: A day at the pool leaves you and Jack looking a little too much like a family. Later, Carter’s craving for “exceptional breadsticks” somehow brings Jack directly to the restaurant where you’re having a date. Pure coincidence, obviously.
Warnings: Fluff, romantic tension, meddling nine-year-old, mutual pining, jealousy, references to Jack’s prosthetic, Reader goes on a date with someone else, Carter weaponizes breadsticks, Jack Abbot being deeply incapable of hiding his feelings.
Author's Note: A quick universe note before we begin: Jack is not a widower in this fic. This is an alternate canon created to make his romantic history with Reader work within the story. Thank you for all the love on Chapter One! I hope you enjoy The Breadstick Incident.
Xoxo, Del
| Prologue | Chpt. 1 |
Morning settled quietly over Robby’s house.
You woke before Carter, slipped out of the guest room, and padded downstairs in sleep shorts and an old T-shirt. Pale sunlight stretched across the kitchen floor, and for the first time since you had arrived, the house was completely still.
You filled the coffee maker, pressed the button, and leaned against the counter while it sputtered to life.
Footsteps sounded in the hallway behind you.
You glanced over your shoulder and found Jack standing in the kitchen doorway.
His gray hair was flattened on one side, his glasses sat low on his nose, and a dark T-shirt hung loosely over a pair of sweatpants.
You looked him over.
“You look comfortable,” you said.
Jack dragged one hand through his hair as he entered the kitchen.
“That sounded judgmental,” he replied.
You reached into the cabinet and pulled out two mugs.
“It was observational,” you corrected.
Jack’s mouth curved as he stopped beside the island.
“I’m glad you’re learning,” he said.
You poured the first mug and pulled the creamer from the refrigerator.
Jack watched you add it to your coffee.
“So I remembered correctly,” he observed.
You glanced at the bottle before looking back at him. “You seem very proud of yourself.”
Jack reached for the second mug and slid it toward you.
“I value accuracy,” he replied.
You held the coffee pot above his cup.
“Still black?” you asked.
Jack nodded.
“Still,” he confirmed.
You filled his mug and returned the pot to the machine.
“That remains deeply unpleasant,” you said.
Jack lifted the coffee and took a careful sip. “It’s coffee.”
You carried your mug toward the island.
“It’s punishment,” you corrected.
Jack followed and took the stool beside yours. For a moment, neither of you spoke.
The silence was not awkward. It was simply noticeable without Carter filling it with questions, schemes, or increasingly suspicious observations.
Jack rested both hands around his mug.
“Did you sleep okay?” he asked.
You tucked one leg beneath you on the stool.
“Better than expected,” you answered. “How was the futon?”
Jack stared into his coffee.
“Hostile,” he said.
A laugh slipped out of you.
“You said you’d slept in worse places,” you reminded him.
Jack turned his head toward you.
“I have,” he replied. “That doesn’t make the futon good.”
You smiled into your mug.
“You once slept three hours in a lawn chair with a paperback over your face,” you reminded him.
Jack’s brows lifted.
“That was different,” he said.
You leaned one elbow against the island. “How?”
Jack took another sip of coffee. “I was comfortable.”
You stared at him. “Your neck was bent at a ninety-degree angle.”
Jack lowered the mug. “I was twenty.”
You grinned. “You also had the book stuck to your forehead when you woke up.”
Jack’s mouth tightened as he tried not to smile. “It was hot.”
You laughed softly. “You had the words printed across your face.”
Jack looked at you over the rim of his mug. “And you still took a picture.”
Your smile widened. “Of course I did.”
Jack shook his head. “You were a menace.”
You lifted your mug toward him. “You liked me.”
Jack held your gaze for a beat.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I did.”
The photograph from the night before slipped into your thoughts.
Jack with dark hair. Your head resting on his shoulder. Every letter you had written still sitting somewhere inside his house.
You traced one finger around the edge of your mug.
“You really kept all of them?” you asked.
Jack lowered his coffee. The amusement softened out of his face.
“Yeah,” he answered.
You looked down at the pale swirl of cream inside your cup. “Even the terrible ones?”
Jack leaned his forearms against the island.
“Especially the terrible ones,” he replied.
You looked back at him. “Why?”
Jack held your gaze. His lips parted, but a door opened down the hallway before he could answer.
Small footsteps shuffled toward the kitchen.
Carter appeared in the doorway with his blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his hair sticking up in several directions.
He stopped when he saw the two of you sitting together.
Then he smiled. You narrowed your eyes.
“Don’t,” you warned.
Carter’s smile disappeared with suspicious speed.
“I didn’t do anything,” he replied.
Jack lifted his mug toward him.
“You woke up,” he pointed out. “That’s something.”
Carter crossed the kitchen and climbed onto the empty stool beside you.
“What were you talking about?” he asked.
You lifted your mug toward Jack.
“The time Uncle Jack fell asleep in a lawn chair with a book over his face,” you answered.
Carter’s face lit with recognition. “I saw that picture.”
Jack closed his eyes. “Of course you did.”
Carter pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. “It was in the box in the garage.”
You smiled into your coffee. “It’s a good picture.”
Jack opened his eyes and looked at you. “You let me sleep like that.”
You shrugged. “You looked tired.”
Carter looked between you. “How long was he asleep?”
“Three hours,” you answered.
“It was not three hours,” Jack argued.
You turned toward Carter. “He missed dinner.”
Carter’s eyebrows rose. “You didn’t wake him up?”
You took another sip of coffee. “I put a towel over his legs.”
Jack gave Carter a solemn look. “That was the extent of her compassion.”
You bumped your shoulder against his. “You survived.”
Jack’s gaze lingered on you. “Barely.”
You glanced toward your nephew. “What do you want for breakfast, bud?”
Carter pulled the blanket tighter around himself.
“Pancakes,” he answered.
Jack looked toward the pantry.
“Do we have pancake mix?” he asked.
Carter nodded.
“Dad keeps it above the cereal,” he explained.
You started to slide off the stool, but Jack stood before you could.
“I’ve got it,” he said.
Jack crossed to the cabinet and reached above the cereal boxes.
You watched him pull down the box.
“You know how to make pancakes?” you asked.
Jack glanced back at you.
“I’m a grown man,” he replied.
You lifted your mug. “That wasn’t an answer.”
Jack set the box on the counter. “I can follow directions.”
Carter leaned forward on the island.
“Can we go to the pool today?” he asked.
You glanced toward the bright sunlight filling the kitchen.
“That could be fun,” you answered.
Carter turned toward Jack. “Will you come too?”
Jack opened the box and studied the instructions.
“I thought that was implied,” he replied.
Carter’s face brightened. “All three of us?”
You looked across the kitchen at Jack. Jack met your eyes over the top of the box.
“Looks like it,” you said.
Carter threw off the blanket and slid from his stool.
“I’m getting my swim stuff,” he announced as he hurried toward the hallway.
You watched him disappear.
“He’s very invested in all three of us doing everything together,” you observed.
Jack pulled a mixing bowl from the cabinet.
“He’s subtle about it,” he replied.
You laughed as you carried your coffee toward the counter. “Painfully.”
Jack measured the pancake mix into the bowl.
“Pool, then your date tonight?” he asked, keeping his attention on the box.
You leaned your hip against the counter beside him. “That’s the plan.”
Jack added water to the bowl. “What time?”
You watched him begin stirring the batter. “Seven.”
Jack nodded once. “You know this guy well?”
A smile tugged at your mouth. “You’re asking a lot of questions.”
Jack glanced at you over the top of his glasses. “I’m allowed to be curious.”
You took a sip of coffee. “About my date?”
Jack returned his attention to the bowl. “About your evening.”
You smiled slowly. “That sounded careful.”
Jack kept stirring. “It was meant to.”
Carter’s footsteps thundered down the hallway before you could push any further. He returned carrying his swim trunks, goggles, and one flipper. You looked down at the collection in his arms.
“Where is the other flipper?” you asked.
Carter glanced at the single flipper. “I don’t know.”
Jack set the whisk down.
“We haven’t even finished breakfast,” he said. “How have we already lost equipment?”
Carter looked toward the hallway. “It might be in my room.”
You pointed after him with your mug. “Go find it before breakfast.”
Carter turned and hurried away again.
Jack watched him disappear. Then he looked back at you.
“Seven?” he asked.
You smiled into your coffee. “Still curious?”
Jack picked up the whisk again. “Apparently.”
By the time you reached the pool, Jack had been turned into a pack mule.
He carried the cooler in one hand and a canvas bag stuffed with towels in the other. Carter’s goggles dangled from two fingers, and the inflatable basketball had been wedged beneath his arm. You walked beside him carrying the sunscreen. Jack glanced down at the bottle in your hand.
“Glad we divided the responsibilities evenly,” he said.
You held the sunscreen up between two fingers.
“This is essential equipment,” you replied.
Jack adjusted the cooler against his leg. “I’m carrying everything we own.”
You looked him over. “You seem capable.”
Jack caught the way your gaze moved over him. “Careful, Robinavitch.”
You smiled as you followed Carter through the gate. “Just appreciating the help, Abbot.”
Jack watched you walk ahead of him.
“That didn’t sound like appreciation,” he muttered.
Carter chose a cluster of chairs near the shallow end and immediately dropped his bag onto the concrete.
“I’m going diving,” he announced.
You caught the back of his shirt before he could escape.
“You’re putting on sunscreen first,” you told him.
Carter’s shoulders slumped. “I put it on at home."
Jack deposited the cooler beside one of the chairs.
“That was almost two hours ago,” he reminded him.
Carter looked between the two of you. “You both sound like Dad.”
Jack lowered himself onto the edge of a chair. “That is the most hurtful thing you’ve said to me all weekend.”
You squeezed sunscreen into your palm. “Stand still, bud.”
Carter reluctantly turned his back to you.
While you rubbed sunscreen over his shoulders, Jack removed his sunglasses and placed them carefully inside the cooler bag’s front pocket. Then he caught the hem of his T-shirt and pulled it over his head. You looked up at exactly the wrong moment.
The years had changed him, but not nearly enough to make looking harmless. His shoulders were still broad. His chest was still solid, his body carrying the natural strength of someone who used it rather than sculpted it for display.
You dropped the sunscreen bottle. It struck the concrete beside your foot.
Jack looked toward it. “You okay?”
You bent quickly and picked it up. “Slippery.”
Jack glanced at the dry bottle in your hand. “Right.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Put your sunscreen on.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Yes, ma’am.”
You finished with Carter before straightening and slipping your cover-up over your head.
Jack had just opened the cooler. His hand stopped inside it.
You pretended not to notice his gaze catch on you.
Jack cleared his throat and looked deeper into the cooler as though something critically important had happened among the water bottles.
“We have water,” he announced.
You placed your cover-up over the back of the chair. “Excellent work.”
Jack pulled out one bottle. “And juice.”
You nodded once. “Remarkable.”
Carter pushed his goggles over his eyes and looked between you. “Why are you both acting weird?”
Jack twisted the cap off the water bottle.
“Heat,” he answered.
You nodded gravely. “Very dangerous.”
Carter studied you for another second before apparently deciding the pool was more interesting than either of you.
“Come watch me dive,” he ordered.
Jack pointed toward the walkway. “No running.”
Carter immediately slowed to an exaggerated march.
“I’m not running,” he replied.
“You were about to,” Jack said.
Carter continued his dramatic march toward the deep end. “You can’t prove that.”
Jack followed him. “I saw you.”
Carter glanced over his shoulder. “That’s not proof.”
You fell into step beside Jack. “He might have a future in law."
Jack looked down at you. “He has a future in prison.”
Carter climbed onto the diving board and turned to face you both.
“Watch this!” he called.
You raised one hand. “We’re watching.”
Carter bounced twice before jumping, tucking his knees against his chest and hitting the water with an enormous splash. He surfaced several feet away.
“Did you see it?” he asked.
Jack folded his arms over his chest. “No. Do it again.”
Carter’s mouth dropped open. “You were looking right at me!”
Jack shrugged. “I blinked.”
Carter scrambled toward the ladder. “You can’t blink that long.”
You leaned closer to Jack. “That was cruel.”
Jack watched Carter climb from the pool. “He needs the exercise.”
Carter performed the same dive three more times before deciding he needed a new audience activity. He swam toward the edge and pushed his goggles onto his forehead.
“Race me,” he told Jack.
Jack looked down at him. “That seems unfair.”
Carter gripped the edge. “Because you’re old?”
You pressed your lips together. Jack slowly turned his head toward you.
“Don’t,” he warned.
“I didn’t say anything,” you replied.
Jack looked back at Carter. “I meant unfair to you.”
Carter pushed away from the wall. “You’re scared.”
Jack stepped into the pool. “I’m reconsidering every nice thing I’ve ever done for you.”
Carter paddled toward the lane markers. “First one to the other side and back wins.”
You sat on the edge and lowered your feet into the water. “Try not to humiliate him.”
Jack looked over his shoulder. “Which one?”
You smiled sweetly. “Dealer’s choice.”
Carter and Jack lined up against the wall.
You lifted one hand. “Ready?”
Carter lowered his goggles. “Ready.”
Jack braced one foot against the wall. “Whenever you are.”
You dropped your hand. “Go!”
They launched forward. Jack stayed beside him for the first few strokes before gradually pulling ahead. He touched the opposite wall, turned smoothly, and started back while Carter scrambled into his own turn behind him. Jack reached your side of the pool first and caught the edge beside your knee. Carter arrived several seconds later, slapping one hand against the wall before surfacing with a gasp.
“That didn’t count,” he declared.
Jack wiped water from his eyes. “You lost by half the pool."
Carter pushed his goggles onto his forehead. “You have a secret robot foot.”
Jack stared at him.
“I have a prosthetic,” he corrected. “It does not make me swim faster.”
You slipped into the pool and moved to Carter’s side.
“Can you prove that?” you asked.
Jack turned toward you. “You’re encouraging him.”
You studied Jack’s prosthetic beneath the rippling water. “I’m asking important scientific questions.”
Carter pointed toward Jack’s leg. “It could have a motor.”
Jack looked down at it. “Where would I put the batteries?”
Carter considered the question. “In your pocket,” he answered.
Jack spread both hands. “I’m wearing swim trunks.”
Carter nodded with complete confidence. “A waterproof pocket.”
A laugh escaped you. Jack looked between the two of you. “This is ridiculous.”
You shifted closer to Carter. “We may need to inspect the equipment.”
Jack immediately backed through the water. “You’re not inspecting anything.”
Carter grinned. “That sounds suspicious.”
Jack pointed toward him. “You lost the race.”
Carter lifted his chin. “Because of the robot foot.”
You held out your hand. “I think we have grounds for an appeal.”
Carter slapped his palm against yours.
Jack stared at your joined hands. “I’m surrounded by criminals.”
Carter’s attention shifted toward the basketball hoop at the other end of the pool.
“Let’s play basketball,” he suggested.
Jack glanced at the floating hoop. “Fine.”
Carter retrieved the ball and tucked it against his chest.
“Me and Auntie against Uncle Jack,” he announced.
Jack lifted his eyebrows. “Two against one?”
You moved decisively to Carter’s side. “You have the robot foot.”
Jack closed his eyes. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”
Carter smiled. “Probably not.”
Jack opened his eyes and pointed between you. “No holding. No scratching. No trying to drown me.”
You took the ball from Carter. “You take all the fun out of sports.”
Jack moved backward toward the hoop. “I know how both of you operate.”
Carter leaned closer to you. “I’ll distract him,” he whispered.
Jack stopped. “I can hear you.”
Carter lowered his voice further. “No, you can’t.”
Jack rubbed one hand over his face. “This is going to be a disaster.”
It was. Carter attached himself to Jack’s right arm while you slipped around his other side with the ball. Jack tried to free himself without sending Carter underwater, giving you enough time to shoot. The ball struck the rim and bounced back toward Jack. Jack caught it one-handed.
“That was holding,” he said.
Carter continued hanging from his arm. “No, it wasn’t.”
Jack looked down at him. “You are currently holding me.”
Carter released him. “Not anymore.”
You snatched the ball from Jack’s hand and swam away.
Jack stared after you. “That was theft.”
You cradled the ball against your chest. “You were distracted.”
Jack’s eyes widened. “By the child physically restraining me.”
Carter swam to your side. “That sounds like an excuse.”
Jack pushed his wet hair away from his forehead. “You two deserve each other.”
You passed the ball to Carter. “Thank you.”
Carter threw it toward the hoop. The ball bounced against the rim before dropping through. Carter shouted and threw both arms into the air. You caught him around the middle and lifted him partly out of the water.
“That’s my nephew!” you cheered.
Carter pumped one fist. “We’re winning!”
Jack looked toward the nonexistent scoreboard. “You have one point.”
You lowered Carter into the water. “And you have zero.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Fine.”
You recognized the expression immediately. Carter edged closer to you.
“What does that face mean?” he whispered.
You kept your eyes on Jack. “It means we made a mistake.”
Jack took the ball from beneath the hoop. “You have.”
The next several minutes were ruthless. Jack blocked Carter’s first attempt, stole the ball from you, and scored before either of you reached the other end. When Carter tried to hang from him again, Jack lifted him beneath the arms and deposited him several feet away.
“You can’t move players,” Carter protested.
Jack caught the returning ball. “I just did.”
You lunged for it. Jack moved the ball out of reach.
“You’re cheating,” you accused.
Jack held it above his head. “I’m taller.”
You frowned. “That’s not a skill.”
Jack shrugged a shoulder. “It’s working.”
You splashed water directly into his face.
Jack recoiled and brought one hand to his eyes. “That was a foul.”
You stole the ball from his other hand. “Prove it.”
Jack glared at you. “It was water in my eyes.”
Carter swam beside you. “It’s a pool.”
Jack wiped his face. “That doesn’t make it legal.”
You backed toward the hoop. “Are you going to complain or defend?”
Jack began moving toward you. “I can do both.”
You twisted away, but Jack caught you around the waist before you could reach the hoop.
Your back met his chest.
His arm settled firmly across your middle, warm even beneath the cool water. The laughter caught somewhere inside your throat. For one suspended second, neither of you moved. Jack’s breath touched your temple.
“Got you,” he said quietly.
Your fingers curled around his forearm. “That feels like holding.”
Jack loosened his grip, but he did not release you immediately.
“You were cheating,” he murmured.
You turned your head enough to catch the edge of his profile. “You were losing.”
A wave of water hit both of you. Jack released you as Carter surfaced beside you.
“Are we still playing?” Carter asked.
Jack blinked and cleared his throat. “Apparently.”
You passed the ball directly to Carter. Carter shot while Jack was still recovering. The ball sailed neatly through the hoop. You and Carter erupted.
Jack stared at the basket. “That shouldn’t count.”
You slapped your palm against Carter’s. “It counts twice.”
“Why would it count twice?” Jack demanded.
Carter grinned. “Because you were holding her.”
Jack looked at you as though this were somehow your fault.
You shook your head. “He has eyes.”
Jack pointed toward the stairs. “Both of you. Out of the pool.”
Carter laughed as he swam away. “You’re not the boss.”
Jack followed him. “I have delegated authority.”
You trailed behind them. “Not at the pool.”
Jack looked over his shoulder. “Especially at the pool.”
By the time the three of you returned to the chairs, Carter was exhausted, and Jack had accepted that he had officially lost under whatever rules you and Carter had invented. Carter dropped onto the end of one lounger and reached for a towel.
“We won,” he announced.
Jack handed him the towel. “You committed multiple crimes.”
Carter dried his face. “Still won.”
You sank onto the neighboring chair. “Scoreboard, Abbot.”
Jack picked up his water bottle. “There was no scoreboard.”
“Then you can’t prove we lost,” you replied.
Jack stared at you. “I watched it happen.”
You smiled. “That isn’t proof.”
Carter looked toward you with open admiration. “That’s what I said earlier.”
Jack lowered himself onto the chair between you and Carter. “This alliance needs to end.”
An older woman passed with a small girl walking beside her. She slowed when Carter leaned across Jack to steal a bottle of juice from the cooler. She smiled warmly at the three of you.
“You have a beautiful family,” she said.
You went still. Jack’s hand stopped halfway to his water bottle.
“Thank you,” Carter answered brightly.
The woman continued toward the shallow end before either adult managed to speak. Silence settled over the chairs. You looked toward Jack. Jack stared straight ahead. Carter pushed the straw into his juice pouch.
“She thought we were a family,” he observed.
Jack finally picked up his water. “We heard her.”
Carter took a drink. “She said we were beautiful.”
You reached for your towel. “She was being polite.”
Carter looked at Jack. “She didn’t have to say anything.”
Jack unscrewed the cap from his bottle with unnecessary focus. “Drink your juice, Carter.”
Carter leaned back against the chair, entirely too pleased with himself.
You glanced toward Jack again. His sunglasses hid his eyes now, but the faint color climbing the side of his neck was much harder to conceal. You rubbed the towel over your arms.
“She probably says that to everyone,” you said.
Jack took a long drink. “Probably.”
Carter looked between you. “You’re both being weird again.”
Jack lowered the bottle. “Heat,” he replied.
You nodded solemnly. “Very dangerous.”
The three of you smelled like chlorine by the time you made it back to the house.
Carter abandoned his pool bag just inside the door and started toward the hallway. Jack caught the strap before it hit the floor.
“Absolutely not,” Jack said.
Carter turned around. “What?”
Jack lifted the dripping bag. “You are not leaving this here.”
Carter looked toward you for support. You removed your sunglasses and pushed them onto the top of your head.
“He’s right,” you told him. “Take it to the laundry room.”
Carter’s mouth pulled into a pout. “You’re both bossy.”
Jack handed the bag back to him. “You had plenty of opportunities to choose less responsible adults.”
Carter dragged the bag toward the laundry room. “I didn’t get to choose.”
Jack watched him go. “That explains a lot.”
You laughed and carried the empty water bottles toward the kitchen. Jack followed with the cooler.
“Go get ready,” he said as he placed it beside the sink. “I’ll deal with this.”
You glanced toward the clock above the stove. “I have time.”
Jack opened the cooler and began pulling out the remaining drinks. “You also have pool hair.”
You touched the damp strands near your neck. “Are you saying I don’t look good?”
Jack’s hand paused inside the cooler. You waited. Jack slowly turned his head toward you.
“I’m saying you have somewhere to be,” he answered carefully.
You smiled. “That was not the question.”
Jack looked back into the cooler. “Go shower, Robinavitch.”
You laughed as you headed for the hallway. “Coward.”
Jack pulled out a melting ice pack. “Correct.”
By the time you came back downstairs to retrieve your purse, freshly showered and wrapped in a robe, Carter was lying across the living-room couch with his arms folded. You stopped at the bottom of the stairs.
“What’s wrong with you?” you asked.
Carter looked toward you. “You’re leaving.”
You crossed the room and sat beside his legs. “For a few hours,” you reminded him.
Carter shifted farther into the cushions. “We were supposed to hang out.”
“We spent the entire day together,” you reminded him.
Carter frowned. “That was before.”
You lifted his feet and placed them across your lap. “Before what?”
Carter frowned at the television. “Before you had to go somewhere.”
You rubbed one hand over his shin. “You’re going to be here with Uncle Jack.”
Carter looked toward the kitchen, where Jack was rinsing the cooler in the sink. “That’s not all three of us.”
Something pinched softly inside your chest. You squeezed Carter’s ankle. “I’ll be back tonight.”
Carter remained unconvinced. “How late?”
“I don’t know yet,” you answered.
He studied your face. “Where are you going?”
You glanced toward the kitchen. Jack had his back to you, one hand braced against the counter while the faucet ran.
“Bellini’s,” you answered.
Carter’s pout eased. “The Italian place?”
You nodded. “The one downtown.”
Carter sat up. “The one with the breadsticks?”
You laughed. “Yes, the one with the breadsticks.”
Carter hugged the cushion against his stomach. “Can you bring me some?”
You rose from the couch. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Carter followed you toward the stairs. “And dessert?”
“You’re not coming upstairs,” you told him.
Carter’s brow furrowed. “I’m not.”
You looked at him over your shoulder. “You’re following me.”
“I’m going to my room,” Carter answered.
You stopped. “Your room is downstairs.”
Carter stopped at the first step.
Jack leaned against the kitchen doorway. “She’s got you there.”
Carter looked back at him. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
Jack dried his hands and shrugged.
You started up the stairs. “Stay down here, bud.”
Carter watched you disappear around the landing before moving to the living room. Jack stood near the kitchen island, sorting through the takeout menus Robby kept shoved into one of the drawers. Carter sat on the couch with his knees pulled up beneath him.
“Can we go to Bellini’s?” Carter asked.
Jack looked over. “Why?”
Carter shrugged. “I like the breadsticks.”
Jack studied him. “You’ve been there?”
Carter nodded. “With Dad. They have really good breadsticks.”
He paused, then added, “And cheese pizza.”
Jack narrowed his eyes slightly. “You are making a very passionate case for bread and cheese.”
Carter lifted one shoulder. “I’m hungry.”
Jack looked toward the ceiling, then back at him. “Maybe.”
Carter brightened. “Really?”
Jack pointed one finger at him. “I said maybe.”
Carter settled back into the couch, visibly pleased with the progress he had made. Jack returned his attention to the menus.
“You’re being weird,” he said.
Carter picked up the remote. “I’m being hungry.”
Before Jack could answer, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Carter turned first. You came down with your purse over one shoulder, your phone in your hand, and your shoes clicking softly against the floor. Carter’s face lit up.
“You look really pretty, Auntie,” he said.
Your expression softened. “Thank you, bud.”
Jack looked up. For one quiet second, he forgot what he was doing. His hand remained pressed against the open drawer, one menu caught beneath his fingers. The dress fit you in a way that made looking away feel strangely difficult. Your makeup was finished, your earrings caught the light when you moved, and you looked entirely too good to be leaving with someone else. You glanced toward him. Jack lowered his gaze to the menu. Then immediately looked back at you.
You adjusted the strap of your purse. “Everything okay?”
Jack cleared his throat. “Yeah.”
Carter watched him with open interest. You crossed the room and bent to kiss the top of Carter’s head.
“I’ll be back later,” you told him.
Carter looked up at you. “Bring back dessert.”
You straightened. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Carter grinned, satisfied. Jack closed the drawer and carried the menus into the living room while you adjusted your purse and started toward the door.
Carter lifted one hand. “Bye, Auntie.”
You reached for the doorknob.
“Hey, Robinavitch,” Jack called from the living room.
You paused and looked over your shoulder. Jack stood beside the couch, one hand resting on the back cushion. This time, he let himself look at you without pretending otherwise. The corner of his mouth lifted.
“You still got it,” he said.
The words landed low and warm beneath your ribs. You rolled your eyes before either of them could see it. “Devastatingly romantic, Abbot.”
Jack’s smile deepened. “I wasn’t trying to be romantic.”
“Good,” you replied as you opened the door. “Because you failed.”
Carter looked up at Jack from the couch.
“I thought it sounded romantic,” he said.
Jack glanced down at him. Carter held up one hand. Jack hesitated for only a second before slapping his palm against Carter’s.
You stared at them from the doorway. “Really?”
Carter grinned. “It was romantic.”
You shook your head as you stepped onto the porch. “Goodnight, boys.”
Carter waved from the couch. “Bye, Auntie.”
Jack’s expression softened. “Have fun.”
You looked back at him. “I’ll try.” You closed the door behind you.
Carter waited until your footsteps faded down the walkway. Then he looked up at Jack. “So Bellini’s?”
Jack kept his eyes on the closed door for another second.
“You are really committed to this,” he said.
Carter nodded. “The breadsticks are really good.”
Jack studied him. “You’ve mentioned.”
Carter leaned forward on the couch. “And the cheese pizza.”
Jack sighed and looked down at the T-shirt he had worn home from the pool. “Let me clean up first.”
Carter’s face brightened. “So that’s a yes?”
Jack pointed toward him. “That is a ‘go put your shoes on while I shower.’”
Carter jumped from the couch. “That sounds like a yes.”
Jack watched him hurry toward the hallway. “It sounded like instructions.”
Carter called back from around the corner. “I’m getting my shoes!”
Jack glanced once more toward the front door. Then he rubbed one hand over his face and headed upstairs. “This better be exceptional pizza.”
Bellini’s was warm, busy, and louder than you expected for a Saturday night.
The dining room carried the low hum of conversation beneath soft music, punctuated by silverware against plates and the occasional burst of laughter from the bar. Strings of small lights glowed above the exposed brick walls, making the restaurant feel intimate without trying too hard. David had arrived before you and was already waiting near the host stand when you walked in. He smiled as soon as he saw you.
“You look beautiful,” David said.
You adjusted the strap of your purse and returned the smile.
“Thank you,” you replied. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
David glanced down at his button-down shirt.
“I wore the one without a hospital logo,” he said.
You nodded approvingly. “A bold choice.”
The host led you toward a booth near the center of the dining room. David waited for you to slide in before taking the seat across from you.
So far, there was nothing wrong with him. That was almost the problem. David was kind. He was easy to talk to. He asked questions and listened to the answers instead of waiting for his turn to speak. He had a pleasant smile, a stable job, and apparently no secret history involving your brother, a summer twenty years ago, or a box of letters hidden inside his house.
It should have been relaxing. Instead, you kept thinking about Jack standing beside Robby’s couch. You still got it. You reached for your water. David glanced up from the menu.
“Have you been here before?” he asked.
You shook your head. “No, but my nephew seemed very invested in the breadsticks.”
David smiled. “Smart kid.”
A server appeared beside the table carrying a basket lined with white paper.
“These are dangerous,” she warned as she placed it between you.
David reached for one. “I’m willing to take the risk.”
You laughed and tore a piece from another.
“I promised to bring some home,” you explained. “So I’m going to need a second basket before we leave.”
David lifted his eyebrows. “Already making demands?”
“My nephew is nine,” you said. “His disappointment can be devastating.”
“I have nieces,” David replied. “I understand.”
The conversation moved easily from there.
David told you about a scheduling disaster involving three departments reserving the same conference room. You told him about Robby leaving you in charge of Carter for the weekend and conveniently failing to mention that Jack would be there too. David paused with his glass halfway to his mouth.
“Jack?” he asked.
You reached for another piece of breadstick. “Old family friend.”
The description felt technically accurate and completely inadequate.
David took a drink before setting the glass down. “The uncle your nephew kept mentioning at work?”
You looked at him. “Carter mentioned him to you?”
David smiled. “When I stopped by the unit last week, he was waiting for your brother. He gave me a detailed ranking of every adult in his life.”
You leaned back against the booth. “Should I ask where I placed?”
David shook his head. “You were first.”
You smiled. “That’s correct.”
David reached for another breadstick. “Uncle Jack was a very close second.”
You exhaled a laugh. “That sounds right.”
David studied you for a moment. “He seems important to him.”
“He is,” you replied.
The answer came without hesitation. David nodded, but something thoughtful passed over his expression before he looked down at the menu again. The server returned to take your orders. David chose chicken parmesan. You ordered pasta and asked for an extra basket of breadsticks to take home.
When the server walked away, David rested his forearms against the edge of the table.
“So your brother left you with his son and Uncle Jack for the weekend?”
You smiled. “Carter arranged the Uncle Jack part.”
David’s eyebrows rose. “He arranged it?”
You tore off another piece of breadstick. “He’s nine and apparently developing a dangerous interest in logistics.”
David laughed. “Should I be worried?”
You looked across the table at him. “About Carter?”
David nodded. “He sounds formidable.”
You reached for your water. “Only when he wants something.”
The conversation moved on, but it never quite found the rhythm it had before. David was still easy company. You still enjoyed talking to him. But there was a carefulness now, a quiet awareness sitting between you that neither of you named. You were telling him about a ridiculous argument you and Robby had once had over a family recipe when a familiar voice carried across the dining room.
“Auntie!”
Your eyes closed. Across the table, David stopped with his fork suspended above his plate.
You slowly turned your head.
Carter stood several tables away, his entire face glowing with a level of surprise no child had ever performed convincingly. Jack stood behind him. He had changed into clean jeans and a dark button-down with the sleeves pushed to his forearms. One hand rested firmly on Carter’s shoulder. Jack looked directly at you. Mortification spread across his face.
Carter lifted one hand and waved with enormous enthusiasm.
“Auntie! Hi!” he called. “I didn’t know you were here!”
Jack closed his eyes. You stared at your nephew. David looked from Carter to Jack, then back to you. You did not take your eyes off Carter. Carter slipped free of Jack’s hand and hurried toward the table. Jack caught the back of his shirt after two steps.
“No,” Jack said firmly.
Carter looked over his shoulder. “I’m saying hi.”
Jack shook his head. “You said hi.”
Carter frowned. “She might not have heard me.”
“The entire restaurant heard you,” Jack replied.
Several people at nearby tables were now openly watching. Carter smiled at them. Jack tightened his grip on the back of Carter’s shirt and gave you a helpless look across the room. You knew that look. I swear I did not know.
Carter twisted in Jack’s hold. “Can I go hug her?”
Jack stared down at him. “You can sit at our table and reconsider your choices.”
Carter pointed toward you. “But Auntie’s right there.”
Jack looked toward your table again. “Yes,” he said. “I am painfully aware.”
David pressed his lips together, but you caught the beginning of a smile. Carter ducked beneath Jack’s hand and made it three more steps before Jack caught him around the middle.
“Carter,” Jack warned.
Carter’s legs continued moving uselessly above the floor. “I just want to say hi.”
You finally lifted one hand. “Let him come over before you dislocate something.”
Jack looked at you. “I am trying to remove him.”
“You’re carrying him through a restaurant,” you replied.
Carter grinned as Jack reluctantly set him down. The second his shoes touched the floor, Carter hurried toward you.
“Auntie,” he said brightly as he reached the booth. “What a surprise.”
You looked at him. “Is it?”
Carter’s smile faltered. “A little?”
Jack arrived behind him and shoved both hands into his pockets.
“Hi,” he said.
You held his gaze. “Hi.”
Jack glanced toward David. Then back at you. “For the record,” he said carefully, “I was promised exceptional breadsticks.”
Carter nodded. “They are exceptional.”
You looked down at your nephew. “You knew exactly where I was.” Carter’s mouth opened.
Jack pointed toward him. “Think very carefully before you answer.”
Carter closed his mouth again. David set his fork beside his plate.
“You must be Uncle Jack,” he said.
Jack’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly before he held out one hand.
“Jack Abbot,” he introduced himself.
David shook it. “David Mercer.”
Jack nodded once. “Nice to meet you.”
The words were polite. His grip, you suspected, was equally polite. Carter looked between the two men.
“David is the date,” he explained.
You closed your eyes. “Thank you, Carter.”
David’s smile returned.
Carter turned toward Jack. “Uncle Jack used to be Auntie’s boyfriend.”
Your eyes opened. “No, he didn’t.”
“That was a long time ago,” Jack replied at the same time.
David looked between you. Carter brightened. “See?”
You stared at Jack. “You are not helping.”
Jack rubbed one hand over his face. “I’m sorry.”
David leaned back in the booth. “This is significantly more interesting than the conference-room story.”
Jack looked toward him. “I am so sorry.”
David smiled. “I’m not.”
Carter rested both hands on the edge of the table. “They kissed too.”
Jack placed one hand over Carter’s face. “That’s enough.”
Carter’s voice came muffled beneath his palm. “I’m just explaining.”
Jack looked down at him. “You have explained nothing useful.”
You glanced around at the neighboring tables. Several people were still listening.
“Take him to your table,” you told Jack.
Jack nodded immediately. “That was the plan.”
Carter pulled Jack’s hand away from his mouth. “Can Auntie sit with us?”
“No,” you and Jack answered together.
David laughed. Carter frowned. “Why not?”
Jack placed both hands on Carter’s shoulders and turned him around. “Because she is on a date.”
Carter looked back at you. “Still?”
Jack began steering him away. “Keep walking.”
Carter twisted enough to call over his shoulder. “We’re over there!”
You watched Jack guide him between the tables. Jack glanced back once. He mouthed, I’m sorry. You shook your head, but you could not stop the smile pulling at your mouth. Across from you, David picked up his water.
“So,” he said, “I shouldn’t be worried?”
You looked toward the booth where Carter was already pointing excitedly at something on the menu while Jack stared at him with the exhausted expression of a man reconsidering every decision that had led him there. Then Jack looked up. His eyes found yours from across the restaurant. You turned back toward David.
“It’s complicated,” you admitted.
David’s expression softened. Not offended. Not surprised, either. Just understanding. He glanced once toward Jack’s table before returning his attention to you.
“I had a feeling,” David said.
You looked down at your hands. “I’m sorry.”
David shook his head. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
You gave him a small, apologetic smile. “I went on a date with you while apparently being emotionally complicated.”
David leaned back against the booth. “That describes most adults.”
A laugh escaped you. David smiled, then looked toward Jack again.
“He matters to you,” he said.
You followed his gaze before you could stop yourself. Jack was listening to Carter explain something with both hands, but his attention kept drifting toward your table.
“He’s been part of my life for a long time,” you answered.
David nodded slowly. “That sounds complicated.”
“It is,” you admitted.
David reached for his water. “For what it’s worth, I’ve had a good time.”
“So have I,” you told him honestly.
David smiled faintly. “But there isn’t any chemistry.”
You exhaled in relief. “No. There isn’t.”
David’s mouth curved. “Good.”
Your eyebrows rose. “Good?”
David laughed. “I was trying to find a polite way to say it.”
You pressed one hand to your chest. “And here I was preparing to feel terrible.”
“You can still feel a little terrible,” David offered. “For my ego.”
You smiled. “I’ll schedule five minutes.”
David lifted his glass toward you. “Appreciated.”
You raised your own glass and tapped it lightly against his. “To absolutely no chemistry.”
David nodded solemnly. “To a very pleasant administrative dinner.”
You laughed, and the last of the tension left the table. By the time the server returned with the check, the date had shifted into something easy again. David paid for your dinner despite your attempt to argue, and you gathered the bag of extra breadsticks and the boxed slice of chocolate cake you had promised Carter. David stood beside the booth and reached for his jacket.
“Do you need me to walk you out?” he asked.
You glanced toward Jack and Carter’s table. Carter was already watching you. Jack noticed him watching and followed his gaze. His eyes landed on the takeout bag in your hand, then moved to David standing beside you. You looked back at David.
“I took a car here,” you explained. “I’ll order another one.”
David nodded toward the other booth. “I suspect you may have transportation.”
You followed his gaze again. Carter immediately waved. Jack caught Carter’s wrist and lowered his hand.
You sighed. “I suspect you’re right.”
David smiled. “Good luck.”
You exhaled. “With the nine-year-old or Jack?”
David considered the question. “Yes.”
You laughed as you stepped away from the table. David leaned in and gave you a brief hug.
“It was nice getting to know you,” he said.
“You too,” you replied.
David pulled back and nodded toward the takeout bag. “Protect the breadsticks.”
You held the breadstick bag against your side. “With my life.”
David headed toward the front doors. You watched until he disappeared into the crowd, then turned toward the other side of the restaurant. Carter immediately sat up straighter. Jack looked as though he would prefer to be anywhere else on earth.
You crossed the dining room and stopped beside their booth. Carter looked up from his plate. The breadstick in his hand slowly lowered toward his plate.
“Hi, Auntie,” Carter said carefully.
You folded your arms. “Having a nice dinner?”
Carter glanced toward Jack. Jack immediately shook his head.
“Do not involve me,” Jack warned him. “You did this entirely by yourself.”
Carter turned back toward you. “The pizza is really good,” he offered.
You looked pointedly across the restaurant toward the table you had just left. “What an incredible coincidence that it happened to be here.”
Carter took a small bite of his breadstick. “Pittsburgh isn’t that big.”
Jack stared at him. “That is your defense?”
Carter chewed slowly. “It’s true.”
You held out one hand. “Move over.”
Carter blinked. “You’re sitting with us?”
“For a minute,” you clarified.
Carter immediately scooted toward the wall. Jack watched you slide into the booth beside him, his expression shifting from mortification to cautious curiosity.
You looked toward Jack. “You really didn’t know?”
Jack’s expression shifted immediately. “No,” he said. “I swear.”
You studied him for a moment. The mortification on his face was too genuine to fake.
You let out a breath. “Okay.”
Jack’s shoulders loosened slightly. Then his gaze moved toward the front doors.
“Is David waiting for you?” he asked.
You shook your head. “We had a nice time, but there wasn’t any chemistry.”
Jack went very still. For one brief second, relief threatened to show on his face. Then he pressed his lips together, lowered his eyes to the table, and reached for his water with the careful focus of a man attempting to conceal excellent news. Carter watched him over the top of his breadstick. You watched him too.
“You’re working very hard not to look pleased,” you observed.
Jack lowered the glass and arranged his expression into something sympathetic.
“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” he said.
You stared at him. “That was terrible.”
Jack’s mouth twitched before he could stop it. “I’m doing my best.”
Your eyes narrowed. “Your best looks suspiciously happy.”
Jack glanced toward Carter. “I’ve had a difficult evening.”
Carter bit down on his breadstick to hide his grin.
You sighed and let your gaze move over Jack. “Looks like you’re taking me home, Abbot.”
Jack’s hand stopped halfway to the check. Carter’s eyes moved immediately to him. Jack cleared his throat and picked up the check.
“Apparently I am,” he said, working very hard not to look pleased for the second time in under a minute.
You caught the faint pull at the corner of his mouth. “Try to contain yourself.”
Jack looked at you. “Robinavitch, I’m exercising extraordinary restraint.”
Carter smiled into his breadstick. You pointed toward him. “Not one word.”
Carter swallowed and lifted both hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
Jack reached for his wallet. “He doesn’t have to,” he muttered.
You looked down at Carter. “You knew exactly what you were doing.”
Carter lowered his hands and studied the remains of his pizza.
“I really did want to eat here,” he said.
Jack slid his card into the check holder.
“That does not make bringing me here under false pretenses acceptable,” Jack told him.
Carter twisted his napkin between his fingers.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
You held his gaze. “For what?”
Carter sighed. “For bringing Uncle Jack here because I knew you were here,” he answered.
Jack lifted one finger. “And?”
Carter frowned at him. “There’s more?”
Jack raised his eyebrows.
Carter sighed again. “And for yelling across the restaurant.”
You nodded. “Thank you.”
Carter studied your face. “Am I grounded?”
Jack picked up the check holder. “That is a conversation for your father.”
Carter’s expression brightened. “So no?”
Jack slid from the booth. “That was not what I said.”
You picked up the breadstick bag and balanced the cake box beneath your arm. Jack immediately held out one hand.
“Give me that,” he said.
You tightened your grip on the bag. “I can carry bread.”
Jack looked at the purse hanging from your shoulder, the cake box balanced beneath your arm, and the bag in your hand.
“Clearly,” Jack said.
You surrendered the bag. “Bossy,” you muttered.
Jack tucked it against his side. “Efficient,” he corrected.
Carter climbed out of the booth and glanced toward the front of the restaurant.
“So you’re done with the date?” he asked.
You looked down at him. “Yes.”
Carter nodded slowly.
“Because there wasn’t a spark?” he asked.
You stopped walking. Jack’s hand went still between Carter’s shoulder blades. You and Jack looked at him.
“Where did you learn that?” you both asked at the same time.
Carter glanced between you.
“TV,” he answered.
Jack resumed guiding him toward the exit.
“You have reached your question limit,” Jack told him.
Carter walked reluctantly beneath his hand.
“I only asked one,” he argued.
Jack steered him around another table. “You’ve asked enough for the entire restaurant.”
You followed them through the dining room and out onto the sidewalk. Carter hurried several paces ahead and began searching the rows of cars.
“Where’s the truck?” he called.
Jack pointed toward the far end of the lot. “Under the light.” Carter started to run.
“Walk,” Jack ordered.
Carter slowed without turning around.
“I am walking,” he called back.
You and Jack continued across the parking lot behind him. After several steps, you glanced at Jack’s clean shirt and dark jeans.
“You cleaned up nicely,” you said.
Jack looked down at himself. “You sound surprised.”
“You spent the afternoon being accused of swimming with a motorized foot,” you reminded him.
Jack nodded.
“It was a difficult recovery,” he said.
You smiled.
“The button-down helped,” you added.
Jack looked toward you. His gaze lingered for one quiet beat.
“That dress helps too,” he said.
The teasing response you had prepared disappeared. You looked ahead.
“Careful, Abbot,” you warned.
Jack opened his mouth, but Carter tugged impatiently at the rear door handle.
“It’s locked!” Carter called.
Jack lifted the keys. He unlocked the truck, and Carter climbed into the back seat. Jack reached the passenger side before you did and opened the door. You stopped beside him.
“I can open a door,” you said.
Jack kept one hand on the handle. “I know.”
You looked at him. “Then why are you doing it?”
Jack glanced toward the open cab.
“Because I got here first,” he answered.
You narrowed your eyes but climbed inside. Jack placed the breadsticks carefully on the floor near your feet before closing the door. By the time he rounded the hood and slid behind the wheel, Carter had already leaned forward between the seats.
“Can I have a breadstick now?” Carter asked.
Jack inserted the key into the ignition.
“No,” Jack answered.
Carter looked toward you. “Auntie?”
You buckled your seat belt. “You heard him.”
Carter dropped back against the seat.
“You’re supposed to be nicer,” he complained.
Jack started the engine.
“She’s learning,” Jack said.
You looked toward him.
“I am not,” you replied.
Jack pulled out of the parking space.
“Denial is the first stage,” he said.
Carter was quiet for a moment in the back seat. Then he leaned forward between the seats.
“I’m sorry I ruined your date, Auntie,” Carter said.
You turned slightly in your seat to look at him.
“You didn’t ruin it,” you assured him.
Carter frowned. “I yelled across the restaurant.”
“You definitely did that,” you agreed.
Jack glanced at Carter through the rearview mirror.
“At an impressive volume,” Jack added.
Carter sank lower against the seat. “So I did ruin it.”
You shook your head. “No. David and I probably weren’t going on a second date anyway.”
Jack’s mouth curved before he could stop it. You caught the smirk from the corner of your eye.
“Don’t,” you warned him.
Jack looked toward the road with exaggerated innocence. “I didn’t say anything.”
Carter leaned forward again. “You look happy.”
Jack checked the mirror. “You have lost your observation privileges.”
Carter smiled. “That’s not a real thing.”
Jack adjusted his grip on the steering wheel. “It is now.”
You settled back into your seat. “He’s right, though.”
Jack glanced toward you. “Whose side are you on?”
You smiled. “The truth.”
Carter lifted one hand from the back seat. You reached behind you and slapped your palm against his.
Jack stared straight ahead. “Unbelievable.”
Carter dropped back into his seat, apparently satisfied. The truck grew quiet as Jack drove away from the restaurant. Several minutes passed before Carter spoke again.
“Can I have one of the breadsticks when we get home?” he asked.
You looked over your shoulder. “Tomorrow.”
Carter groaned and rested his head against the window. “That’s forever.”
Jack glanced at him in the mirror. “You’ll survive.”
“I might not,” Carter mumbled.
“You’ve had pizza and three breadsticks,” Jack reminded him.
Carter closed his eyes. “I’m still growing.”
By the time Jack turned onto Robby’s street, Carter’s breathing had evened out. You glanced behind you.
“He’s asleep,” you said softly.
Jack checked the mirror. “Scheming is exhausting.”
You nodded. “He had a busy evening.”
Jack pulled into the driveway and switched off the engine. You reached for the breadstick bag and cake box while Jack looked toward the sleeping child in the back seat.
“You’ve got the food,” Jack said as he opened his door. “I’ll get Carter.”
You looked pointedly toward his prosthetic. “Good plan. You do have a secret robot foot.”
Jack stared at you over the roof of the truck. “Get out, Robinavitch.”
You laughed as you climbed down. Jack opened the back door and carefully unbuckled Carter. Carter stirred as Jack lifted him, one sleepy arm winding around Jack’s neck.
“Did Auntie come home?” Carter mumbled.
You stepped around the truck. “I’m right here, bud.”
Carter’s eyes barely opened. “Good.”
Jack adjusted Carter against his chest. “Glad we cleared that up.”
Carter rested his cheek against Jack’s shoulder. “Uncle Jack took you home.”
You met Jack’s eyes over Carter’s head.
“He did,” you confirmed.
A faint, sleepy smile crossed Carter’s face before his eyes closed again. You unlocked the house and held the door while Jack carried him inside. The two of you moved through the quiet hallway without needing to discuss what came next. You switched on Carter’s bedside lamp. Jack lowered him onto the mattress. You pulled back the blanket while Jack removed his shoes.
Carter stirred when you covered him.
“Breadsticks,” he murmured.
You brushed one hand over his hair. “Tomorrow.”
“And cake?” he whispered, his eyes still closed.
“Tomorrow,” you repeated.
Carter sighed against the pillow. “Okay.”
Jack switched off the lamp, and you followed him into the hallway. You pulled Carter’s door nearly closed behind you.
“He’s going to wake up at six demanding carbohydrates,” Jack whispered.
You started toward the kitchen. “That sounds like your problem.”
Jack followed with the restaurant bag. “How did this become my problem?”
You shrugged. “You agreed to the breadstick expedition.”
“I was deceived,” Jack replied.
You clicked your tongue. “You were outsmarted by a nine-year-old.”
Jack set the bag on the kitchen counter. “I preferred deceived.”
You placed the cake in the refrigerator while Jack leaned one hip against the counter. For the first time since leaving the restaurant, the house was completely quiet. You closed the refrigerator.
“Thank you for bringing me home,” you said.
Jack folded his arms. “We were coming here anyway.”
You nodded, suddenly unsure what to do with your hands. “Still. And thank you for handling Carter.”
Jack glanced toward the hallway. “I’m not sure handling is the word I’d use.”
You smiled. “You tried.”
Jack looked back at you. “I’m sorry he put you in that position.”
“I know,” you said. “It’s okay.”
Jack held your gaze. The silence stretched just long enough to become noticeable.
You stepped toward the hallway, then paused beside him.
“For the record,” you said.
Jack turned his head. “What?”
You let your gaze travel deliberately over the clean button-down before returning to his face.
“You still got it too.”
Jack went very still.
You smiled before he could recover. “Goodnight, Abbot.”
You walked toward the stairs.
Behind you, Jack cleared his throat. “Goodnight, Robinavitch.”
At the foot of the stairs, you glanced back.
Jack stood where you had left him, one hand resting against the counter and the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.
Heat climbed into your cheeks. You shook your head and continued upstairs.
Jack remained in the kitchen beside a bag of contraband breadsticks.
The evening had not gone exactly according to Carter’s plan.
He had been caught. He had been lectured.
He was almost certainly going to hear about it from his father.
But Auntie’s date was over. Uncle Jack had been jealous. And they had come home together.
Carter would have called the breadstick incident a success.
Summary: With finals finally over, you spend the afternoon at the beach house with Pope and Lena. Sandcastles, coloring, dinner, and a movie make the house feel softer than it has in weeks, but the Cody family keeps reaching in through the phone. By the end of the night, Pope gives you something no one else in that house gets to have.
Warnings: grief, complicated family dynamics, emotional manipulation via Smurf, phone harassment/pressure, Pope’s trauma responses, child in grief, slow-burn tension, cliffhanger ending
Author’s Note: This chapter is very soft, very domestic, and very much still a Cody story. I have been waiting to use this title for a while, and I think you’ll understand why by the end.
The house was quiet after Pope dropped Lena off at school.
Too quiet.
He stood in the kitchen for a while with one hand on the counter and nothing to do.
There were dishes in the sink.
Not many, but enough to irritate him.
He washed them. Then he dried them. Then he checked the back door. Then the front. Then Lena’s room, even though Lena was not in it.
Bunny sat near the door where she had left him.
Soup had gone to school in Lena’s backpack because it was “finals day for everyone,” according to Lena.
Pope had not argued.
He went back to the kitchen.
The counselor referral still sat on the counter, half-covered by a grocery receipt.
He looked at it. Then looked away. His phone buzzed. Pope picked it up too fast.
Your name was on the screen.
You: Last final ends at 2.
Another message came through.
You: Then I’m officially done.
Pope stared at the words.
Officially done.
He pictured you walking out of a classroom with your bag on your shoulder, tired and relieved and free for the first time all week.
His thumb hovered over the keyboard.
Pope: Good.
He stared at it. Sent it. Too small. Always too small.
He set the phone down. Picked it back up. He checked the clock. You were done at 2:00. Lena pickup at 3:05. It worked. It worked too well. Pope typed before he could think better of it.
Pope: Want to come pick up Lena with me?
He stared at the message.
Not too open. Not too much. He sent it. The phone stayed quiet. Pope set it facedown on the counter. Then turned it over again. Still nothing. He looked toward the front window. The street outside was bright and empty. Too quiet. Too normal. His phone buzzed. Pope looked down.
You: Yeah.
Then another message came through.
You: I can take the bus to your house and ride with you from there.
Pope looked at the words.
The bus.
You getting yourself there first.
Him waiting at the house like that made sense.
Like he had not already pictured you in the passenger seat before he ever got to Lena’s school. That would have been easier. That would have been safer. He typed before he could make himself stop.
Pope: No.
He stared at it. Too sharp. He added:
Pope: I’ll pick you up.
He sent it.
Then closed his eyes for half a second. Stupid. Too much. But the phone buzzed again before he could get too far into that.
You: Okay.
Then:
You: My apartment at 2:30?
Pope looked at the time again. It still worked.
Pope: Okay.
He sent it.
Then he stood there in the quiet kitchen with his phone in his hand and no idea what to do with the next thirty minutes of his life.
Thirty minutes was nothing. Thirty minutes was a lot.
Pope put his phone down. Then picked it up again. No new message. He put it down harder. The house stayed quiet. He moved because standing still was worse. He wiped the counter even though it was clean. He folded the dish towel over the handle of the oven. Then unfolded it. Then folded it again.
He checked the refrigerator. Pasta. Garlic bread. Salad. Enough for dinner.
Enough for you.
That thought landed badly.
Enough for you.
Like you were something he was allowed to plan for.
Pope shut the refrigerator. His phone buzzed again. He grabbed it. Craig. Pope stared at the name. The screen vibrated in his hand. Once. Twice. Three times. He did not answer. The call stopped.
The kitchen went quiet again. Then the phone buzzed with a text.
Craig: Smurf wants you tonight.
Pope’s jaw tightened. There it was. The hook. The hand on the back of his neck.
The reminder that wanting something did not mean he got to keep it.
He looked at the clock. 2:11.
His thumb hovered over the screen. He could answer. He could ask what she wanted. He could get pulled in before he ever got to your apartment. Before Lena saw you at school. Before dinner. Before the movie. Before whatever stupid, dangerous part of him had started imagining a night that stayed soft all the way through.
Another text came through.
Craig: You there?
Pope locked the phone. The screen went black. He set it facedown on the counter. For a second, he just stood there. Then he picked up his keys.
At 2:18, he left the house.
At 2:28, he parked outside your building. Two minutes early. That irritated him. He sat with both hands on the wheel and looked at the building. The outside lights were off in the afternoon sun. Your window was somewhere above him. He did not look for it. Then he did.
At 2:30, the front door opened.
You came outside with your bag on your shoulder, jeans cuffed at the ankles, a soft T-shirt tucked badly at the front, and your hair loose around your face. You looked tired. Different tired than before. Not buried. Finished.
Pope watched the building door shut behind you. Then you turned and saw his truck.
Your face softened.
That was the part that got him. Not the smile. The softening. Like he was something good to find at the curb.
Pope looked away and unlocked the passenger door.
You climbed in, bringing warm afternoon air with you.
“Hi,” you said.
Pope looked at the steering wheel. “Hi.”
You settled your bag at your feet and pulled the door shut. For a second, neither of you moved. Then you let out a long breath.
“I am never reading another textbook again,” you said.
Pope glanced at you.
Your head had tipped back against the seat, and your eyes closed. You looked exhausted. Relieved. Alive in a way you had not looked with finals hanging over you.
“You passed?” he asked.
Your mouth curved. “I survived.”
Pope looked back at the road. “That’s not what I asked.”
You opened one eye and looked at him.
“Probably,” you said.
Pope nodded once. “Good.”
Your smile softened. “Thank you for picking me up.”
“Yeah,” Pope said.
He pulled away from the curb. For a while, the truck was quiet. Not bad quiet. Not empty. Just quiet. You looked out the window, one hand curled loosely around the strap of your bag.
“You know I really could have met you at the house,” you said.
Pope kept his eyes on the road. “I know.”
You looked at him. He felt it.
“You said no pretty fast,” you said.
Pope’s jaw shifted. The light ahead turned yellow. He slowed.
“Didn’t make sense,” he said.
“What didn’t?” You asked.
Pope kept his eyes forward. “You taking the bus there.”
You were quiet for a second. Then, softer, “So you came to get me.”
Pope looked at the red light. “Yeah.”
You did not tease him. You did not make it bigger. You just looked out the windshield, the corner of your mouth soft.
“I’m glad,” you said.
The light turned green. Pope drove. His hands tightened once on the wheel. He did not answer. You let him not answer. That was worse. His phone buzzed in the cup holder. Pope looked down before he could stop himself. Craig again.
You saw it. He knew you saw it. The name lit the screen between you. Pope kept driving. The call rang twice. Three times. Then stopped. You looked out the windshield. Not asking. Not pushing. Just giving him the space to decide what to do.
The phone buzzed again. A text this time. Pope did not pick it up. He could feel it sitting there anyway. Heavy. Waiting.
The school came into view ahead.
Pope tightened his hand around the wheel. You glanced toward the building. Then back at him.
“Lena doesn’t know I’m coming?” you asked.
Pope shook his head once. “No.”
Your face softened. “She’s going to love that.”
Pope looked toward the pickup line. “Yeah.”
The phone buzzed again in the cup holder. Pope ignored it. So did you.
The school parking lot was crowded.
Parents lined the curb. Kids moved in clusters near the doors, backpacks bouncing, voices bright and loud in the afternoon air.
Pope parked near the end of the line. His attention shifted immediately. Doors. Teachers. The edge of the sidewalk. The kids closest to the street.
You noticed. He felt you notice. You did not say anything.
The bell rang.
Kids started spilling out through the doors. Pope saw Lena before she saw him. Small backpack. One hand gripping Soup. Hair coming loose from the clip he had put in badly that morning. She walked beside her teacher, looking down at the sidewalk.
Then she lifted her head and saw the truck.
Then she saw you through the windshield.
Lena stopped. Completely. Her teacher looked down at her.
Lena did not move.
You lifted one hand slowly. A small wave.
Lena’s whole face opened.
Not a smile first.
Something before that. Recognition. Relief. Then joy.
She ran.
Pope was out of the truck before he thought. “Lena.”
She slowed badly. Barely.
You had stepped out too by then, standing beside the passenger door. Lena looked at you like she had to make sure you were real.
“You came to school,” Lena said.
You smiled. “I did.”
Lena looked at Pope. Then back at you. “With Uncle Pope?”
“With Uncle Pope,” you said.
Lena hugged Soup to her chest. “Because finals are done?”
“Because finals are done,” you said.
Lena nodded once, like the world had finally corrected itself. Then she stepped forward and hugged you around the waist. You froze for half a second. Not because you did not want it. Because you knew enough to let Lena choose the shape of it.
Then your hand settled gently on her back.
“Hi,” you said softly.
Lena pressed her face into your T-shirt.
“Hi,” she said.
Pope looked away. Too late. He had already seen it. Lena choosing you in public. Lena holding on. You holding back just enough to let her decide when to let go.
It hit him harder than it should have.
Everything did now.
Lena pulled back and looked at Pope.
“You didn’t tell me,” she said.
Pope looked at her. “No.”
Lena looked at you again.
“Good surprise,” she said.
You smiled. “I’m glad.”
Lena held Soup up. “He’s glad too.”
“I can tell,” you said.
Pope opened the back door.
“Get in,” he said.
Lena climbed into the back seat, still smiling.
You moved to get into the passenger seat. Pope reached for your door before you could. You paused. He paused too. His hand was on the handle. Yours hovered an inch away.
For one second, the school parking lot disappeared.
Not fully. Not enough. Just enough that Pope saw your eyes drop to his hand. Then lift to his face.
“Thanks,” you said.
Pope opened the door.
“Yeah,” he said.
You climbed in.
Pope shut the door carefully. Not too hard. Not too soft. Lena leaned forward between the seats as soon as Pope got behind the wheel.
“Are we having dinner?” Lena asked.
Pope looked into the rearview mirror. “Yes.”
Lena looked at you. “With garlic bread?”
You glanced at Pope. “Garlic bread?”
Pope kept his eyes forward.
“For finals being done,” Lena said.
You smiled. “That sounds serious.”
“It is,” Lena said.
Pope pulled out of the parking lot.
Your smile came quiet. Soft. Private in the passenger seat.
Pope saw it anyway.
And for the first time since he had typed I’ll pick you up, he admitted it to himself.
Lena did like it.
But he had wanted you beside him when he picked her up. He had wanted to see Lena see you. He had wanted the shape of it. You in the passenger seat. Lena in the back. The road home in front of them.
For one stupid, dangerous second, Pope let himself want exactly what it looked like.
Then his phone rang.
The sound cut through the truck. Pope looked down. Deran. His hand tightened on the wheel. Lena stopped talking in the back seat. You noticed. Pope let it ring. Once. Twice. Three times. Then it stopped. No one said anything. Lena held Soup tighter. Pope kept his eyes on the road.
The phone rang again. Craig.
Pope’s jaw shifted.
You looked at the phone. Then at Pope. Then away again. Not asking. Not pushing. Just seeing.
Pope let that one ring too.
When it stopped, the truck felt too quiet. Then the phone buzzed with a text. Pope looked down because he could not stop himself.
Smurf: Need you tonight.
His stomach went cold.
Lena’s voice came small from the back seat. “Uncle Pope?”
Pope put the phone face down in the cup holder.
“Seatbelt,” he said.
Lena looked down. “It’s on.”
Pope looked at her in the mirror. You sat very still beside him. Pope put both hands on the wheel.
“Dinner,” he said.
Lena blinked. “With garlic bread?”
Pope looked back at the road. “Yeah.”
Lena relaxed by inches. You looked out the windshield.
Your voice was soft when you spoke. “Sounds good.”
Pope drove. The phone stayed facedown. It buzzed once more before they got home. Pope did not pick it up.
At the house, Lena unbuckled before Pope turned the engine off.
“Wait,” Pope said.
“I am,” Lena said, already half-standing.
Pope looked at her in the mirror. Lena sat back down. Mostly. You pressed your lips together in the passenger seat. Pope saw it. He turned the engine off and got out first.
By the time he opened Lena’s door, she was bouncing in place.
“Slow,” Pope said.
“Slow,” Lena repeated, not slowing.
You climbed out on your side with your bag over your shoulder. Lena looked at you over Pope’s arm.
“Do you want to go build sandcastles?” she asked.
You looked toward the water. “I would love to.”
Lena looked at Pope immediately. “Can we?”
Pope glanced toward the house.
Then at the phone in his hand. The screen lit again. Craig. Pope locked it without answering. Lena watched him. You watched Lena. Pope put the phone in his pocket.
“Shoes stay on,” he said.
Lena’s face brightened.
You smiled. “I can follow that rule.”
Pope unlocked the front door long enough for you to set your bag inside. You placed it carefully on the chair near the table. Like you were a guest. Like the whole house had not been waiting for you since 2:00.
Pope looked away.
Then Lena was already heading toward the back door.
“Slow,” Pope said.
“I am,” Lena called back.
She was not.
The beach was cooler than the street.
Afternoon light sat bright on the water, softer than it had been in the parking lot. The tide was low enough to leave a wide stretch of damp sand near the edge, packed smooth and dark.
Lena walked ahead with a plastic cup from the kitchen in one hand.
You followed beside Pope.
Not too close. Close enough.
The wind moved through your hair, and Pope tried very hard not to notice. He failed.
Lena crouched near the wet sand.
“We’re making a castle,” she said.
You crouched beside her. “Okay.”
Lena looked up at you. “You have to use wet sand.”
“I remember,” you said.
Lena nodded once, satisfied. Pope stood behind both of you with his hands in his pockets. Lena looked back at him.
“You can help,” she said.
Pope looked down at the sand. “I’m good.”
Lena stared at him. Then she held out the plastic cup. “You can get water.”
Pope looked at you. You were looking down, but your mouth had softened.
He took the cup. “Water.”
Lena nodded once. “Good job.”
Pope walked to the water.
Behind him, he heard your soft laugh. It did something stupid to his chest. By the time he came back, Lena had made one crooked mound of sand and was explaining to you why dry sand was “not loyal.”
You listened like this was important information. Maybe it was. Pope handed Lena the cup. She took it and poured too much water over the mound. The side collapsed.
Lena froze.
You froze with her.
Pope felt his whole body prepare for something.
Tears. Anger. A small disaster made too large by everything underneath it.
Lena stared at the ruined wall.
Then you picked up a shell and pressed it into the side of what was left.
“Window,” you said.
Lena looked at it.
Pope looked at you.
You did not make a lesson out of it. You did not say mistakes could be fixed. You did not say anything careful and grown-up. You just made a window. Lena picked up another shell.
“Door,” she said.
You nodded. “Good door.”
Pope looked away toward the water. Too late. He had already seen it.
The way you knew how to leave something broken and still make it useful.
The way Lena believed you.
The way his own chest hurt like he was the one with a ruined sandcastle and a shell pressed into the side of it.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. Pope did not move. The buzz stopped. Lena added another shell to the tower. You looked back at him once. You did not ask. That made it worse.
After a while, the castle became a castle only because Lena said it was. There were three towers, one wall, four windows, and a moat that did not go all the way around. Lena sat back on her heels.
“It’s safe,” she said.
You looked at the crooked moat. “It looks safe.”
Lena looked at Pope. “Is it safe?”
Pope looked at the castle. Then at the water. Then at Lena.
“Yeah,” he said.
Lena nodded, satisfied. The wind shifted. You hugged your arms loosely around yourself. Pope saw that too.
He saw everything now.
“We should go in,” he said.
Lena looked at the castle. “But it’s not done.”
“It’ll be here,” Pope said.
Lena frowned. “The water might get it.”
Pope looked at the tide line. “Not yet.”
Lena considered that.
“We can check later,” she said.
Pope nodded once. “Later.”
Back inside, Lena washed her hands for almost no time at all. Pope made her do it again.
“You always say again,” Lena said.
“You always miss spots,” Pope said.
You leaned against the counter, smiling down at the floor. Pope noticed. Lena dried her hands on the towel, then reached for your hand.
“Come color,” Lena said.
You looked down at her. “Right now?”
Lena nodded. “The castle.”
You glanced at Pope. Pope looked at Lena’s hand wrapped around yours. Then at you.
“Go,” he said.
Your mouth softened.
So you went.
Lena pulled you into the living room and dropped to the floor in front of the coffee table. You sat beside her with your legs tucked under you while she dug through the marker bin. Pope stayed in the kitchen.
For a while, the house held there.
Lena coloring. You beside her. The late afternoon sun coming through the windows. His phone heavy in his pocket. The smell of salt air still caught in your hair. Pope moved because standing still was worse. He checked the pasta. Checked the bread. Checked the salad. Checked his phone once and immediately regretted it.
Craig: You ignoring me?
Deran: Call me back.
Smurf: You busy playing house with Lena’s little friend?
Pope locked the screen. His jaw tightened. From the living room, Lena was explaining to you that the castle needed a flag, but not a “regular flag,” because regular flags were boring.
You asked what kind of flag it should have.
Lena said, “A brave one.”
Pope set the phone facedown on the counter. Dinner. He could make dinner. That was a thing with steps. Water. Pot. Salt. Pasta. He reached for the cabinet.
You noticed immediately. You started to stand.
“I can help,” you said.
Pope did not turn around. “No.”
You paused halfway up. “Pope.”
He heard your voice behind him. Not too close. Close enough. He looked over his shoulder. You were still half-standing beside the coffee table, one hand braced on the floor, hair falling forward slightly from where Lena had pulled you into her project.
Soft. Tired. Done with finals. Still here.
Pope turned back to the cabinet.
“You finished finals,” he said.
You nodded once. “I did.”
“You’re done,” Pope said.
Your voice gentled. “That doesn’t mean I can’t help with dinner.”
“I know,” Pope replied.
“Then let me help.” You said.
Pope set the pot on the stove.
His phone buzzed again on the counter.
Both of you looked at it. Neither of you moved. Lena did not notice from the living room. She was too busy making the castle’s brave flag purple. Pope looked back at you.
This time, his voice came lower. “You deserve to relax.”
The words landed in the room. Too soft. Too clear. Too much like the thing he had been trying not to say since he picked you up.
Your expression changed.
Pope looked away. Too late. You had already seen it. You were quiet for a second. Then you nodded.
“Okay,” you said.
Pope looked back at you. You did not sit because he told you to. You did it because you understood what he meant. Because you heard the care under the command. Because you were kind enough not to make him say it better. You sank back down beside Lena.
Lena looked up from the page. “You’re coloring?”
“I’m coloring,” you said.
Lena nodded. “Good.”
Pope stood at the stove with one hand on the pot and the other curled against the counter.
His phone stayed facedown. It buzzed again.
This time, no one looked at it.
Pope filled the pot with water. Turned on the burner. Opened the box of pasta. Simple things. Things with order. Things that did what they were supposed to do if he paid attention.
In the living room, Lena uncapped a marker.
“Do castles have doors?” she asked.
You looked at the drawing. “Usually.”
Lena frowned. “This one has two.”
“Then it’s a good castle,” you said.
Pope poured pasta into the pot before the water had fully boiled. He realized it too late. You noticed. He knew you noticed. You did not say anything. That made him look at you. You were still on the floor beside Lena, one arm resting on the coffee table, purple marker in your hand. Your eyes were on him for only a second before you looked back at the paper.
Not ignoring him. Not watching him too closely. Just there.
Pope stirred the pasta.
His phone stayed facedown on the counter. It did not buzz again. That was worse.
Lena colored a flag at the top of the castle.
“It needs a name,” she said.
You tilted your head. “The castle?”
Lena nodded.
You looked at the drawing like this required serious thought. “Soup’s Castle?”
Lena made a face. “That’s too easy.”
Pope looked toward the living room. You looked back at him.
“What do you think?” you asked.
Pope stared at you. Then at Lena. Lena waited, marker hovering over the paper.
Pope looked at the pot. “Castle.”
Lena frowned. “That’s worse.”
Your mouth twitched. Pope turned back to the stove. Lena sighed like she was disappointed in both of you.
“I’ll think about it,” she said.
“Good,” Pope said.
You laughed softly. Not at him. With the room. With Lena. With the ridiculous castle on the coffee table and the pasta on the stove and the phone neither of you were looking at.
Pope held onto the sound for half a second before he let it go.
By the time dinner was ready, Lena had named the castle twice and rejected both names herself. You helped her cap the markers while Pope drained the pasta. He heard you move behind him. Not standing all the way. Not coming into the kitchen. Just cleaning up the living room because you could not help yourself.
“Leave it,” Pope said.
You froze with three markers in your hand. Lena looked up.
“She’s putting them away,” Lena said.
“I see that,” Pope said.
You looked at him over your shoulder. Your expression was soft. Amused. Careful.
“I can put away markers,” you said.
Pope set the pot back on the stove. “You can sit.”
Lena looked between you. Then she took the markers from your hand.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
You looked down at her. “You sure?”
Lena nodded. “You finished finals.”
Pope looked at Lena. Lena looked back like she had learned this rule and now intended to enforce it. You pressed your lips together.
“Apparently I’m done doing things,” you said.
Pope looked at you. You were smiling. But your eyes had gone soft again. He looked away first.
“Table,” he said.
Lena carried the markers to the bin and dropped them in with too much noise. Then she came to the table and climbed into her chair. You sat beside her. Pope put dinner down in the center. Pasta. Salad. Bread. Nothing special. Still, Lena looked at it like an event.
“You made bread,” she said.
Pope sat across from you. “Heated.”
“That counts,” you said.
Pope looked at you.
You were already reaching for Lena’s plate before stopping yourself. Pope saw that too. The stop. The remembering. The way you waited to see what the rules were here.
Pope picked up the serving spoon and put pasta on Lena’s plate. Then yours. Then his.
You watched his hand for a second.
“Thank you,” you said.
Pope nodded once. Lena picked up her fork. Pope looked at her.
“Salad,” he said.
Lena lowered the fork. “I was going to.”
Pope stared. Lena added one piece of lettuce to her plate. Pope kept staring. She added two more. You reached for the bowl of croutons and set it near Lena.
“Treasure,” you said.
Lena looked at the croutons. Then at you. Then she added four to the salad.
Pope looked at you. You looked innocent. Mostly.
Dinner was almost normal after that. Almost. Lena told you about school. Not all of it. Not the parts that mattered. Just that someone had spilled paint water, and one boy had eaten glue “on purpose but also maybe not,” and the teacher had said Soup could sit on the corner of her desk during reading time because he was being quiet.
“He’s good at quiet,” you said.
Lena nodded. “He’s had practice.”
Pope’s fork stopped for half a second. You did not look at him. You stayed with Lena.
“That makes sense,” you said.
Lena ate another bite of pasta. Pope started moving again. His phone buzzed on the counter. The sound cut through the room. Lena looked at it. Pope did not. You did not. The phone stopped. Lena picked at a piece of pasta with her fork.
“Is that Grandma Smurf?” she asked.
Pope’s hand tightened around his glass.
“Eat,” he said.
Lena looked down. You looked at Pope then. Just once. Not sharp. Not judging. Only there. Pope hated how much that helped. Lena took a bite. The phone buzzed again.
This time, Pope stood. Too fast. Your eyes followed him to the counter. He picked up the phone.
Craig: Where are you?
Deran: Answer.
Smurf: Family comes first, baby.
Pope stared at the screen.
The words went through him cold.
Family.
His eyes moved before he could stop them.
To Lena.
She sat at the table with pasta on her fork and a crouton balanced near the edge of her plate, watching him too carefully for seven years old.
Family.
Not the thing buzzing in his hand. Not the voice that knew how to make a demand sound like love.
Lena.
Lena with Soup waiting in her backpack by the door. Lena with sand still caught in the hem of her pants. Lena who had looked at you outside school like the world had finally corrected itself.
Pope’s hand tightened around the phone.
Then his eyes moved to you.
You were quiet. Still. Not asking him to choose. Not making yourself part of the question.
That somehow made you part of the answer.
Pope locked the phone. The screen went black.
For one second, he did not turn around. He could feel Lena watching. Could feel you watching. Could feel the whole room waiting to see if he was leaving it.
Pope set the phone facedown on the counter. No one had asked a question. Not out loud. But you seemed to understand anyway. Lena’s shoulders lowered by a fraction. You held his eyes from the table. Then you looked away.
Pope came back to the table. He sat down. Picked up his fork.
The room stayed quiet for another second.
Then Lena pushed the crouton bowl toward you.
“You need treasure,” she said.
You looked down at the bowl. Then at Lena. “I do?”
Lena nodded seriously. “Because finals.”
You took one crouton and put it on your salad. “Thank you.”
Lena pushed the bowl toward Pope next. Pope looked at it. Lena looked at him.
“You too,” she said.
Pope stared at her. Then he took one. Lena seemed satisfied. The phone stayed facedown. Dinner kept going. Not smoothly. Not perfectly. But it kept going.
That felt like something.
After dinner, Lena carried her plate to the sink without being asked.
Pope watched her do it. So did you. Lena set it down carefully, then turned around.
“Movie,” she said.
Pope looked at the plate. Then at her. “You asking?”
Lena shook her head. “No.”
You pressed your lips together. Pope saw it.
Lena went to the living room before he could tell her anything else. You stood from the table and reached for your plate. Pope took it before your fingers closed around the edge.
You looked up at him. “I can carry a plate.”
“I know,” Pope said.
Your mouth softened.
The phone stayed facedown on the counter. Neither of you looked at it. That felt like an agreement. Not one either of you had said out loud. Pope put the plates in the sink. You reached for the salad bowl. He looked at you. You paused. Then slowly set your hands on the back of your chair instead.
“Right,” you said softly. “Relaxing.”
Pope’s jaw shifted.
He did not know if you were teasing. Not really. Maybe a little.
It should have bothered him.
It did not.
From the living room, Lena called, “We need popcorn.”
Pope looked toward her voice. Then at you. You lifted both hands.
“Not helping,” you said.
Pope looked away before his mouth could move.
“Good,” he said.
That time, your smile came before he could miss it.
Lena picked the movie.
Then she changed her mind. Then she changed it back. Then she stood in front of the television with the remote in both hands like the decision had cost her something.
“This one,” she said.
Pope came in with the popcorn bowl. “You sure?”
Lena looked offended. “Yes.”
Pope stared at her. Lena stared back.
Then she said, “Probably.”
You laughed softly. Lena looked at you.
“It’s hard,” she said.
“I believe you,” you said.
Lena nodded once, satisfied. Then she turned her attention to the couch. She had opinions about that too.
“You sit there,” she told you, pointing to the middle cushion.
You looked at the couch. Then at Pope. Pope looked at Lena.
“Why there?” you asked.
“Because I sit here,” Lena said, climbing onto your left side. “And Uncle Pope sits there.”
Pope stared at the right end of the couch. There was enough room. Barely.
That was a problem.
He set the popcorn bowl on the coffee table.
“I can sit in the chair,” he said.
Lena looked at him like he had said something unreasonable. “No.”
Pope’s eyebrows lowered. “No?”
“It’s a movie,” Lena said.
Pope waited.
Lena patted the cushion on your other side. “Movie means couch.”
You glanced down, hiding a smile badly. Pope saw it anyway. He sat. Too far away at first. Then Lena reached for the blanket and dragged it across all three of you.
“It has to cover everybody,” she said.
Pope looked at the blanket. Then at you. Your knee was near his under the soft edge of it. Not touching. Almost.
“House rule?” you asked.
Lena shook her head. “Movie rule.”
You nodded seriously. “Important distinction.”
Lena looked pleased that you understood.
The movie started.
For a while, Lena was very awake.
She asked three questions in the first five minutes. Then answered two of them herself. Then told the person on the screen not to go into a dark room because “that’s how bad things start.”
Pope glanced at her. She did not look scared. Just disapproving. You nodded beside her.
“Good note,” you said.
Lena leaned forward for popcorn. Her shoulder pressed into your arm. Your knee brushed Pope’s under the blanket.
Pope went still.
You did not move away. Neither did he.
Lena put one piece of popcorn in her mouth and held another up without looking. You took it from her fingers.
“Thank you,” you whispered.
Lena nodded, eyes on the television. Then she held one out toward Pope.
Pope looked at it. Then at her. She kept staring at the screen.
He took it.
“Thanks,” he said.
Lena nodded again.
The phone buzzed in the kitchen. The sound was quieter from here. Farther away. Still, Pope heard it. So did you. Lena did not turn around. Pope kept his eyes on the television. You kept your hand loose on the blanket near your knee. The phone stopped. The movie kept going.
After a while, Lena got quieter.
Her questions slowed. Then stopped. Her head tipped toward your arm once before she caught herself. You noticed but did not move. Pope noticed you not moving. Lena blinked hard at the screen.
“I’m awake,” she said.
No one had said she was not.
You looked down at her. “Okay.”
Lena shifted closer to you. “I am.”
“I believe you,” you said.
Pope looked at the television and did not see any of it. Lena’s hand loosened around the blanket. Her head settled against your upper arm. Then her cheek found your shoulder.
You went very still. Not stiff. Careful. Your eyes lifted to Pope. A question in them.
Is this okay?
Pope’s throat worked once. He nodded. Barely.
You looked back down at Lena. Your body softened around her by degrees. Not pulling her closer. Just becoming easier to sleep against.
Pope saw it.
The way Lena’s weight slowly trusted you. The way her breathing evened out. The way your cheek lowered until it almost touched the top of her head. Almost.
Then did.
Pope looked away. Too late.
It had already gotten in. Under his ribs.
Behind everything he knew how to protect.
Lena slept. Completely. Not pretending. Not half-alert. Not braced for the door, or the phone, or whatever name might light up on the screen in the kitchen. Asleep against you like her body had decided you were safe before anyone asked it to.
Pope stared at the movie.
He had no idea what was happening.
He did not care.
Your knee was still close to his under the blanket. Lena was asleep against you. The house was quiet. The phone had stopped. For a few minutes, nothing reached for him.
You whispered his name. “Pope.”
He looked at you. You glanced down at Lena.
“She’s out,” you whispered.
Pope nodded. He stood slowly. The blanket shifted. Lena made a small sound. Pope froze. You froze too. Lena settled again, her face turned into your sleeve. Pope let out a breath through his nose. Carefully. He set the popcorn bowl farther back on the coffee table.
Then he moved closer.
He had to.
There was no way to lift Lena without stepping into your space. His knee pressed into the couch beside yours. His hand slid carefully behind Lena’s back.
Your arm was still around her.
For one second, Pope’s fingers brushed your sleeve. Then your wrist.
He stopped.
You looked up at him. Close. Too close. Lena asleep between you. Your voice was barely there.
“It’s okay,” you whispered.
Pope swallowed.
He slipped one arm beneath Lena’s knees, the other behind her back. You eased your arm away slowly, helping without waking her. Your fingers brushed his forearm. Not accidental. Not quite on purpose either.
Something in between.
Pope looked at your hand. Then at your face. You held his eyes for one quiet second.
Then Lena sighed in her sleep.
The moment broke.
Pope lifted her carefully. Lena turned into his chest without waking. Her hand searched blindly near her side.
“Soup,” she mumbled.
You were already holding him.
“Right here,” you whispered.
Pope looked at you.
You held Soup against your chest like he mattered. Because to Lena, he did. Pope noticed that too.
Pope’s phone buzzed again behind you.
No one stopped.
Pope carried Lena to bed. You followed with Soup in your hands.
At Lena’s bedroom door, Pope shifted her carefully against his chest and nudged it open with his shoulder.
The hall light stayed on behind you.
Bunny sat outside the door where he belonged.
You saw him immediately. You crouched, picked Bunny up, and brought him inside too.
Pope laid Lena down on the bed. She curled onto her side the second he let go. Her hand moved again, searching. You stepped closer.
“Soup,” you whispered.
Lena’s fingers closed around him.
Her shoulders loosened. Then you tucked Bunny near the edge of the blanket, close enough for her to see if she woke up, not close enough to break the rule.
Pope stood beside the bed and watched you do it.
Soup inside. Bunny near the door. Hall light on. Door cracked.
All the rules.
You knew them. You remembered. You cared enough to get them right.
Pope stood beside Lena’s bed for another second.
Maybe two.
Long enough to make sure her breathing stayed even. Long enough to make sure her hand stayed curled around Soup. Long enough to make sure the room held.
You stood near the doorway, quiet. Not moving. Not speaking.
Waiting for him to decide what came next.
Pope reached down and pulled the blanket higher over Lena’s shoulder.
She shifted in her sleep.
He froze. So did you. Then Lena settled again, her cheek pressed into the pillow, Soup tucked under one arm.
Pope let out a slow breath.
You stepped back into the hall and left the light on.
You knew.
The hall light stayed on. Bunny stayed outside the door. Soup stayed tucked under Lena’s arm.
All the rules.
All the little things that made the house feel less like a place someone had been left and more like a place someone was being kept.
Pope stepped out of the room.
You stepped back to give him space.
He pulled Lena’s door mostly closed, leaving the same narrow crack he always left.
The hall went quiet. Not empty. Quiet.
You looked at the door for a second longer than you needed to.
“She was really tired,” you whispered.
Pope looked at the cracked door. “She fought it.”
“She lost.” You murmured.
His mouth almost moved.
He looked away before it could.
Neither of you said anything for a moment.
The phone buzzed again. Faint through the hall.
Pope’s shoulders tightened.
You heard it. You did not look toward it.
That helped more than it should have.
Pope started down the hall.
You followed.
In the living room, the movie was still playing quietly to no one. The empty popcorn bowl sat crooked on the coffee table. A purple marker had rolled beneath the edge of the rug. Everything looked lived in.
Used.
Interrupted by sleep instead of fear.
Pope turned off the movie.
The sudden silence made the house feel bigger.
You stepped toward the coffee table and reached for the popcorn bowl.
Pope moved before he thought about it.
“I got it,” he said.
Your fingers had already curled around the edge.
You looked up at him. “I can carry a bowl.”
“I know.” He said.
Pope took it from you anyway.
For a second, your fingers brushed his. Barely. Nothing.
Enough.
You let go.
Pope turned toward the kitchen.
You followed him. Not all the way to the sink. Just close enough. He set the bowl down and turned on the water.
The bowl did not need much.
A few kernels stuck to the bottom. Salt at the rim. Butter on his fingers.
Simple.
Nothing.
His phone sat facedown on the counter near your elbow.
Neither of you looked at it.
You leaned your hip against the counter beside him, arms loosely folded.
Not touching him.
The water hit metal, loud in the quiet kitchen.
Pope rinsed the bowl.
You stayed beside him.
A piece of hair had slipped loose near your cheek again.
Pope saw it immediately.
Of course he did.
It had been there since the couch. Since Lena had slept against you. Since you had bent over her bed with Soup in your hands and knew where the light belonged.
The water kept running.
Pope looked at your hair. Then at the bowl. Then back at your hair.
You noticed.
Your eyes lifted to his.
Pope’s hand tightened around the sponge. He should have looked away.
He did not.
The loose strand moved against your cheek when you breathed.
His fingers flexed once. Useless. Obvious.
You stayed still. Not inviting. Not stopping him.
Just waiting.
Like you were giving him the time to choose.
Pope turned off the water.
The house went quiet around both of you.
Lena asleep down the hall. Hall light on. Door cracked. Phone facedown. Ocean beyond the darkening windows.
Pope dried his hands on the towel. Slowly. Too slowly.
Your eyes dropped to his hands.
Then rose again.
The strand of hair stayed against your cheek.
Pope lifted his hand before he could stop himself.
Only a few inches.
Your breath changed.
He stopped.
His hand hung there between you. Too much. Not enough.
He lowered it.
Coward. Careful. Same thing sometimes.
Your expression softened. Not disappointed.
That was worse.
Then you looked past him, toward the back window. Your face changed.
“Oh,” you said softly.
Pope turned.
Outside, the last light had dropped low over the water, turning the window pale gold at the edges.
You stepped closer to the glass.
“The sunset,” you said.
Pope watched your reflection in the window instead of the sky.
“It’s beautiful.” You whispered.
He looked at the water because you had said to.
It was.
He hated that he would not have noticed without you there.
You turned back to him. “I’m going to step outside for a minute.”
Pope should have said okay.
Should have stayed at the sink.
Should have dried the popcorn bowl, put it away, checked the lock, done any of the normal things a person did when someone stepped outside for a minute.
Instead, he nodded. “Yeah.”
You opened the back door.
Cool air slipped into the kitchen. Salt. Evening.
You stepped onto the deck.
Pope stayed inside for about three seconds.
Then he followed you.
The deck boards creaked under Pope’s feet.
You did not turn around right away.
You stood near the railing with your arms folded loosely over your middle, face tipped toward the water. The last of the sun sat low and thin along the horizon, turning everything softer than it had any right to be.
The ocean moved below the house. Slow and steady.
Like it did not know about phones, or family, or people who made love sound like a debt.
Pope stopped a few feet behind you.
“You didn’t have to come out,” you said.
Pope looked at the back of your head. “I know.”
Your mouth curved a little, but you kept looking at the water.
For a while, neither of you said anything.
Inside, Lena slept. The hall light stayed on. The door stayed cracked. The phone stayed facedown on the counter.
Out here, all of it felt farther away. Not gone.
Just far enough that Pope could breathe around it. You shifted against the railing.
“The castle’s probably gone by now,” you said softly.
Pope looked toward the dark strip of beach below. “Maybe.”
You sighed softly, “Lena will be mad.”
Pope nodded once. “Yeah.”
You turned your head enough to glance at him. “She’ll blame the water.”
Pope’s mouth almost moved. “Water did it.”
You smiled then.
Small and real.
It hit him worse than your laugh had.
You turned back toward the ocean. The wind moved through your hair. The same loose strand slipped across your cheek again.
Pope saw it.
He had been seeing it for too long. In the kitchen. In the hall. On the couch with Lena asleep against you.
It moved again, catching near the corner of your mouth.
Pope’s hand flexed at his side.
He should not. He knew he should not. Not because you would stop him.
Because you might not.
Because if you did not, he would have to know what that meant.
You were quiet at the railing. Still. But not unaware.
Pope stepped closer. One board creaked beneath him.
Your breath changed before you looked at him.
He lifted his hand slowly.
Slow enough for you to move away. Slow enough for you to tell him no. Slow enough that the space between his fingers and your face felt bigger than the ocean.
You did not move.
Pope brushed the hair back from your cheek. Barely. His knuckles grazed your temple. The side of your face.
Warm and impossibly real.
Your eyes lifted to his.
Pope forgot how to breathe.
The wind moved around both of you.
His hand stayed near your cheek, not quite touching anymore.
Like he had already taken too much.
Like the smallest softness had cost more than he knew how to pay back.
Maybe your kiss on his cheek had only been thank you.
Maybe the almost in the kitchen had only been him seeing what he wanted to see.
Maybe this was just another thing he was about to ruin because he did not know how to handle things gently.
Pope started to lower his hand.
You caught his wrist. Not hard. Not sudden. Just enough.
His eyes dropped to your fingers around him.
Then back to your face.
You did not pull him closer. You did not make it easy enough for him to pretend he had been forced. You only held him there.
Then you leaned into his palm.
Pope went still. Completely still.
Your cheek settled against his hand like it belonged there.
Like you were tired of watching him almost touch you and take it back. Like you were answering the question he had not known how to ask.
His thumb moved once.
You closed your eyes.
Pope’s chest tightened until it hurt. He cupped your face more fully. Careful. Still afraid. Still waiting for the moment to break.
Your fingers stayed around his wrist.
Holding him there.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. You saw. You did not look away.
“Pope,” you whispered.
That was all. His name. Soft. Steady.
Pope bent slowly.
His mouth brushed yours.
Barely.
A question more than a kiss.
He stopped there, close enough to feel your breath against his lips, terrified by how much he wanted the answer.
You gave it to him.
You leaned in.
Your mouth found his again, soft and certain.
Pope’s hand tightened at your cheek. Not hard. Just there.
Like he needed one place to put all of it.
Then he kissed you. Truly kissed you.
Not rushed. Not desperate. Not the way he had thought wanting would feel if he ever let himself have it.
It was slower than that.
Worse than that.
Your mouth moved against his, and something in him loosened so sharply it almost felt like pain.
Your hand slid from his wrist to the front of his shirt.
Your fingers curled there.
Like you needed something to hold on to too.
That was what undid him.
Pope made a low sound against your mouth before he could stop it.
You heard it.
He knew you heard it because your fingers tightened in his shirt.
The kiss deepened by one breath. Only one.
Enough. Too much. Not enough.
Pope pulled back first.
Barely.
His forehead did not touch yours, but it almost did.
His hand was still on your face.
Your fingers were still curled in his shirt.
The ocean moved below you. Inside, the house stayed quiet.
You looked at him like he had not done something wrong. Like you were not waiting for him to apologize for wanting you.
Pope could not stand it. He started to take his hand away.
You caught him again.
This time, your hand lifted to his jaw.
Slow.
Giving him every chance to turn his face away.
He did not.
Your palm settled against him.
Then your other hand came up too, gentle on the other side of his face.
Pope stopped breathing for a second.
No one held his face like that.
No one touched him like they thought his jaw unclenching mattered.
Like they were not afraid of what his hands had done.
Like they did not need him to be useful first.
Your thumbs rested near the corners of his mouth.
His eyes closed before he could stop them.
You held him like something precious.
Not breakable.
Not dangerous.
Precious.
“I want this,” you whispered.
Pope opened his eyes.
You kept holding his face. “With you.”
The words landed slow. Deep. Somewhere no one had been gentle in a long time.
Your thumb moved along his cheek. “With you, Pope.”
His chest tightened.
Not because it was wrong.
Because it was not wrong enough.
Pope was the name everyone used.
The name Smurf called from the other end of the phone. The name Craig threw across a room. The name Deran said like a warning. The name Lena trusted because she had to.
But this—
Your hands on his face. Your mouth still close to his. Your eyes soft from kissing him and not afraid of what you had found there.
This could not belong to that name.
Not only that name.
His hand stayed in your hair. Careful and unsteady.
“Andrew,” he said.
Your thumb stilled against his cheek.
For a second, you only looked at him. Not confused. Not pushing.
Waiting.
His throat worked.
“My name,” he said quietly.
The wind moved around both of you.
You searched his face like you understood there was more inside that than two words.
Like you understood he had not corrected you.
He had given you something.
Your thumb moved again. Slow. Gentle.
“Andrew,” you whispered.
His eyes closed.
Like the sound of it in your mouth had gone straight through him.
Not Pope. Not Cody. Not the name people called when they needed him to do something, fix something, carry something, break something, survive something.
Andrew.
The man under all of it. The one no one asked for. The one no one waited for. The one you were holding like he was allowed to exist without earning it first.
He leaned into your hands.
Your breath caught.
His hand shifted in your hair, careful and unsteady.
He kissed you again.
Shorter this time. Softer. Real.
Your hands stayed on his face when he pulled back, like you were not finished reminding him he was allowed to be touched gently.
Pope looked at your mouth. Then your eyes.
He should say something.
He had nothing good enough. Nothing that would not make this smaller.
So he stayed quiet.
Inside the house, the phone buzzed again.
Muffled through the door.
Pope’s body tightened.
Your hands stayed on his face.
Not trapping him.
Holding him.
“It’s okay,” you whispered.
It was not.
Not really.
But he wanted to believe you.
For one second, he did.
The phone stopped.
The quiet came back, thinner than before.
You let your hands slide slowly from his face.
Pope missed them immediately.
He hated that.
Loved it.
Did not know what to do with either thing.
Neither of you moved.
The ocean shifted below the deck.
The last light thinned across your face. Then the wind picked up. Sharp off the water.
You shivered before you could hide it.
Pope saw it.
His hand moved before he thought better of it, brushing once along your arm like he could warm you with the back of his fingers.
Barely enough to count. Enough that you looked at him.
“Let’s go inside,” he said.
Your expression softened. Not disappointed. Not relieved. Something quieter.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Still, neither of you moved right away.
For one more breath, you stayed there with the ocean below you and his name still somewhere between your mouths.
Andrew.
Then you stepped around him.
Your shoulder brushed his chest as you passed.
He let his eyes close for half a second.
Then he followed you back into the house.
The kitchen was dimmer now. The last light had moved off the window.
His phone sat where he had left it, facedown on the counter.
Pope closed the door behind him.
The latch clicked.
For one second, the house held.
Lena slept down the hall. The hall light stayed on. The phone stayed facedown.
Your mouth was still soft from his.
His name was still somewhere in the air.
Andrew.
Then someone knocked on the front door.
Not loud. Not polite either. Three sharp hits.
Pope went still.
So did you.
The softness left the room so fast it felt like a light going out.
Another knock.
Pope looked toward the hall first.
Lena’s door stayed cracked. No sound from her room.
Then he looked at you.
Your face had gone quiet.
Careful.
You knew enough now to understand this was not a neighbor.
Pope crossed the living room without speaking.
You stayed by the kitchen counter.
His phone buzzed once behind you.
Pope did not look back.
He opened the door only halfway.
Deran stood on the porch.
Hands in his pockets.
Face unreadable in the porch light.
His eyes moved past Pope’s shoulder.
Found you.
Stayed there for half a second.
Then came back to Pope.
And Pope knew, before Deran said a word, that the night was over.
Summary: You asked Jack Abbot for honesty. That may have been ambitious. After the pathology score reveal, the bet, and one very dangerous cliffhanger, you pick up exactly where you left off: on the couch, with too much pride, too much tension, and absolutely no intention of behaving normally about any of it. Someone won. Someone lost. And neither of you is getting out of this with your self-control intact.
Warnings: 18+ only, minors dni, explicit sexual content, oral sex, mutual oral sex, fingering, praise, teasing, power play, winner/loser dynamic, consensual control, established boundaries, check-ins, “do what the winner says” language, soft dom Jack undertones, Reader being a menace, Jack losing his composure, his old shirt, lacy underwear, couch activities, post-sex aftercare, takeout, romcom snuggling, feelings, emotional vulnerability, established relationship, no penetrative sex in this chapter.
Author's Note: Lovelies. Welcome back to the couch. Part one ended with the reader asking for honest Jack, which was bold of her considering Honest Jack Abbot is somehow even more dangerous than Controlled Jack Abbot. This bonus has the payoff of the bet, reader continuing to be a menace in his old battalion medic shirt, Jack being careful and absolutely not fine, a lot of couch-related consequences, and the softest little takeout/romcom aftermath because these two deserve to be stupidly happy for a minute.
You had won the exam score by one point. You had gotten Jack Abbot onto the couch. You had made him put his hands where you told him to put them. You had come out wearing his faded navy T-shirt with the cracked lettering from his old battalion medic course and watched him lose several layers of composure without technically moving from his seat.
You had stretched out beside him.
You had teased him.
You had made him admit it.
Then he had looked at you and asked if you wanted controlled or honest.
You had said honest.
Now you had to survive it.
Jack stayed where he was, hands still braced against the couch cushions, eyes locked on yours. He had not moved closer. He had not touched you. He had not broken the rule.
Somehow, that made it worse.
You were kneeling beside him on the couch, one hand still resting against his chest, his shirt loose on your body, the hem high enough now that you knew he could see the lace underneath if he let himself look.
He did not.
Not yet.
His eyes stayed on your face.
Patient. Careful. Honest.
Terrible.
You swallowed. “How much?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “How much what?”
You leaned closer, because you were brave and victorious and apparently determined to make both of those things everyone’s problem. “How much is it working?”
His hands flexed once against the cushions.
There.
Your pulse jumped.
Jack’s voice stayed low. “You sure you want me to answer that?”
You smiled, even though your stomach had started doing something deeply unhelpful. “I won.”
His eyes moved over your face. “You keep saying that.”
You smiled wickedly. “Because it keeps being true.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “It does.”
You touched his jaw, thumb brushing the place where his control always seemed to gather first. “Answer me.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
Then back to your eyes.
“It’s working enough that I’m sitting here with my hands on the couch because you told me not to touch you,” Jack said. “And all I can think about is how badly I want to.”
Oh.
Your breath caught.
Jack heard it.
His mouth curved faintly, but there was strain at the edge of it now.
Not smug. Affected. Honest.
Your chest went tight.
Jack’s eyes flicked to your mouth.
You forced yourself to smile. “Careful, Abbot.”
His brows lifted slightly. “Careful?”
“You’re supposed to be losing,” you said.
Jack’s gaze stayed steady on yours. “I am.”
Your pulse jumped.
“You asked,” he said.
“I did,” you said, less steadily than you wanted.
His voice dropped. “You wanted honest.”
You swallowed. “I didn’t say I was prepared for it.”
His eyes softened for half a second. “Still okay?”
Your heart tripped.
Still asking. Still careful. Even like this.
You nodded. “I’m okay.”
Jack’s hands stayed where they were. “Yeah?”
You looked down at them, spread open against the couch cushions, obedient because you had asked him to be.
Your stomach flipped.
Then you looked back at him.
“Yeah,” you said. “But you’re not allowed to be sweet yet.”
His mouth twitched. “Yet.”
You shifted closer. “I’m busy.”
Jack watched you. “Doing what?”
You moved closer until your knee pressed against his thigh. “Winning.”
Jack’s eyes darkened. “Thought you already did that.”
“I’m thorough,” you said.
His breath changed when you climbed into his lap.
Barely.
But you felt it.
You felt it in the way his body went still beneath yours, in the way his hands stayed locked to the couch even though every line of him looked like restraint. You settled over his thighs slowly, one knee on either side of him, the hem of his shirt riding higher as you moved.
Jack looked at you.
Then lower.
Only for a second.
This time, he let himself.
His jaw shifted.
Your pulse went bright and sharp.
“There,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted back to yours. “You like that.”
You smiled. “I like a lot of things right now.”
“I noticed,” Jack murmured.
You settled more fully against him, and Jack’s fingers curled into the couch cushions.
You saw it.
Your smile widened.
“Still not touching?” you asked.
Jack’s voice came rougher. “You said not yet.”
The fact that he remembered your exact words did something awful to you.
Wonderful.
Awful.
You leaned in and kissed him.
Slowly at first.
Just enough pressure to make him respond. Just enough to feel the shape of his mouth soften under yours. His hands stayed down, but everything else about him shifted toward you.
His breath. His chest. The faint lift of his chin when you pulled back too soon.
You smiled against his mouth. “You’re very good at following directions.”
His head tipped back a fraction, giving you room when your mouth moved along his jaw, then lower, to the spot beneath his ear that had made him go still before.
You kissed him there.
Then again.
Slower.
Jack’s fingers tightened against the couch.
“Still working?” you asked against his skin.
His breath left him through his nose. “Yes.”
You smiled. “Good.”
Jack’s voice dropped. “Careful with that.”
You lifted your head. “With what?”
His eyes opened, dark and steady on yours. “Using my words against me.”
Your stomach flipped.
You rocked against him once, just enough to make his control pull tight beneath you.
Jack’s jaw clenched.
You saw it.
You felt it.
Every careful inch of it.
“Oh,” you said softly.
His gaze sharpened. “What?”
You touched his jaw again. “You really are trying.”
Jack looked at you for one long second.
Then he said, “Yes.”
No joke. No deflection. Just yes.
Your teasing faltered.
Only for a second.
But Jack caught it.
His expression softened, and that was dangerous too, maybe more dangerous than the heat.
You put a finger against his mouth before he could ask.
“No,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours.
“You’re not allowed to check on me again yet,” you said.
His mouth moved against your finger. “Yet?”
“Yes,” you said. “I’ll tell you when.”
His hand twitched against the couch.
You felt the movement beneath you.
Then you lowered your hand from his mouth to the collar of his shirt.
The one he was wearing.
Not the one on you.
The one still separating you from more of him.
You tugged once.
“Off,” you said.
Jack’s brow lifted. “That an order?”
You smiled. “That is the whole point of the bet.”
His mouth curved, but his hands stayed on the couch. “You told me not to touch.”
You paused.
Then glared, because he was right and that was deeply inconvenient.
Jack’s smile got worse.
“You are enjoying a loophole,” you said.
“I’m following directions,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Smug.”
“Controlled,” Jack said.
You leaned closer, your mouth hovering over his. “Not for long.”
His breath caught.
There.
You smiled.
Then you sat back just enough to look down at him, still straddling his lap, still wearing his shirt, still holding every bit of power he had willingly handed you.
“You can touch me now,” you said.
Jack did not move right away.
Your pulse jumped.
His eyes searched yours. “You sure?”
Your chest tightened.
“Yes,” you said. “I’m sure.”
His hands left the couch immediately.
Not rough. Not frantic. But immediate.
Like he had been waiting on a held breath and had finally been allowed to exhale.
One hand settled at your waist beneath the faded hem of his shirt. The other found the outside of your thigh, warm and firm, fingers spreading over bare skin.
Your breath caught.
Jack noticed.
His thumb moved once at your waist. “Still okay?”
You looked at him.
His control had not vanished.
That was the thing.
It had changed.
He was touching you now, but he was still watching. Still careful. Still Jack.
And somehow that made the wanting worse.
You nodded. “Still okay.”
His hand tightened once on your thigh.
“Good,” Jack said.
Your stomach dropped.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
You kissed him before he could look too pleased about it.
Jack responded immediately, his mouth opening under yours, his hand tightening once at your waist. Not taking over. Not yet. But present now, warm and firm beneath the hem of the faded navy shirt.
You shifted closer in his lap.
His breath caught.
Good.
You kissed him harder.
Jack’s hand slid up your side beneath the shirt, palm dragging slowly over your ribs, careful enough to make you ache and steady enough to remind you that he was still letting you lead.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. “You’re still behaving.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on your mouth. “Barely.”
The honesty went straight through you.
You tried to smile. “Good.”
Jack’s thumb brushed higher along your side.
Your breath hitched.
His gaze lifted to yours immediately. “Still okay?”
You nodded, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Still okay.”
His thumb moved again, slow and deliberate. “Good.”
You hated how much that worked on you.
You hated it enough that you rocked against him again, just to watch his jaw tighten.
Jack’s fingers flexed against your side. “You’re enjoying yourself.”
You kissed the corner of his mouth. “I won.”
Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. “You keep saying that.”
You smiled against his jaw. “You keep reacting to it.”
His breath left him in a quiet, controlled exhale when your mouth moved down his neck.
There.
You kissed the spot again.
Jack’s head tipped back against the couch.
His hand tightened on your thigh, not pulling, not pushing, just holding on.
You smiled against his skin. “There?”
Jack’s voice came rough. “Yes.”
Oh, you liked that.
You liked it too much.
You dragged your mouth back up to his ear. “I like when you answer me.”
Jack’s hand slid higher on your thigh. “I noticed.”
You pulled back and looked at him.
His eyes were dark.
Not composed now.
Not fully.
His control was still there, but it had gone thin enough that you could see the want through it. In his hands. His breathing. The rigid line of his shoulders. The way he kept looking at you like he was waiting for permission and fighting himself for patience.
You touched his jaw. “You’re very pretty like this.”
Jack blinked.
Then his eyes narrowed slightly. “Pretty?”
You nodded solemnly. “Devastatingly.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “That’s not usually what people call me.”
You smiled. “Then people lack imagination.”
Jack’s hand pressed once into your thigh. “You’re dangerous when you win.”
You leaned in until your mouth hovered over his. “You should let me win more often.”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “I’ll take that under advisement.”
You kissed him again before he could say anything else too reasonable.
This time, when his hand moved up your back, you let him. When his fingers found the hem of the shirt, you felt him hesitate.
Jack paused.
Your pulse jumped.
His eyes lifted to yours. “Can I?”
Your throat tightened.
The shirt suddenly felt heavier than it had a second ago.
Not because you wanted it off.
Because it was his. Because he knew that too.
You swallowed. “Not yet.”
Jack’s hands stopped immediately. No hesitation.
“Okay,” he said.
The word was soft. Simple. Devastating.
You looked down at him, your hands still caught lightly in his hair, your knees bracketing his thighs, his shirt loose around you.
“You’re making it really hard to seduce you dramatically when you keep being decent,” you said.
Jack’s mouth curved, small and warm. “Sorry.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You’re not.”
Jack’s smile deepened. “No. I’m not.”
You laughed once, breathless, and kissed him again.
The kiss softened for half a second.
That was dangerous.
Soft was always dangerous with him.
So you fixed it.
You slid backward off his lap and down between his knees.
Jack went still.
Completely.
His hand caught gently at your wrist before you could go any farther. “You don’t have to.”
You looked up at him from between his knees. “I know.”
His throat moved.
You turned your wrist in his hold until your fingers linked briefly with his.
“I want to,” you said.
Jack’s grip loosened, but he did not let go right away.
His eyes searched your face. “You’re sure?”
You squeezed his hand. “I’m sure.”
Jack exhaled slowly.
Then he let you go.
The trust in it hit you harder than you expected.
You had wanted to make him lose control.
Instead, he kept handing it to you.
Carefully. Willingly. Like it mattered that you were the one holding it.
Your chest tightened.
You leaned forward and kissed the inside of his wrist.
Jack’s breath changed.
You looked up at him. “Hands on the couch again.”
His jaw shifted.
Then he obeyed.
Both hands flat against the cushions.
Open.
Visible.
Yours to ruin.
You smiled.
“There,” you said.
Jack’s voice was rough. “You like giving orders.”
You reached for the button of his jeans. “I like when you listen.”
His hands flexed once against the couch.
“I’m listening,” Jack said.
Oh.
That was going to kill you.
You smiled up at him. “Good.”
Jack’s hands stayed flat against the couch cushions.
Open. Visible. Obedient.
You liked that more than you were prepared to admit.
You liked the way his shoulders had gone rigid. The way his jaw kept working like he was trying to keep every reaction behind his teeth. The way his eyes stayed on you, dark and intent, like looking away was no longer an option.
You touched the button of his jeans.
Jack’s breath caught. Not much, but enough.
You looked up at him. “Still okay?”
His mouth curved faintly, but the strain at the edge of it gave him away. “Now you’re asking?”
You tilted your head. “I’m allowed.”
Jack’s eyes softened for half a second. “I’m okay.”
You liked that too.
You liked making him say it.
You liked making Jack Abbot, who always watched, always measured, always decided what the room needed before the room knew itself, sit there with his hands on the couch and answer you because you asked.
You undid the button slowly.
Jack’s fingers flexed against the cushions.
You smiled. “You’re doing very well.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Don’t patronize me.”
You dragged the zipper down. “I’m praising you.”
“That was not praise,” Jack said.
You looked up at him through your lashes. “You want praise?”
Jack went still.
Oh. Interesting. Very interesting.
You paused with your fingers hooked lightly at his waistband.
His eyes stayed on yours.
You smiled slowly. “Abbot.”
Jack’s jaw tightened. “Don’t.”
You widened your eyes. “I didn’t say anything.”
His voice dropped. “You thought it.”
You laughed softly and leaned forward, pressing a kiss just above the open waistband of his jeans.
Jack inhaled sharply.
There.
You kissed him there again.
Slower.
Then you glanced up. “You’re very pretty when you’re trying to behave.”
Jack closed his eyes for half a second. “You are never going to let that go.”
“No,” you said. “Probably not.”
His eyes opened again when your fingers slid beneath the edge of his waistband.
You moved carefully. Slowly. Not because you were unsure.
Because you wanted to watch him survive it.
His hands stayed on the couch.
His breathing did not.
You noticed.
You leaned in and pressed your mouth to the inside of his thigh through the fabric.
Jack’s fingers curled hard into the cushion.
You smiled against him. “Still behaving?”
His voice came rough. “Barely.”
Your pulse jumped.
You liked honest Jack. You liked him too much.
You worked his jeans lower, just enough, and Jack lifted his hips because you guided him to.
Not taking over. Not rushing. Just helping because you asked. You eased the denim down over his hips, then paused when your fingers found the waistband of his underwear.
Jack’s hands stayed on the couch.
You looked up at him. “Still okay?”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Yes.”
You held his gaze. “Still want this?”
His eyes stayed locked on yours. “Yes.”
Your fingers curled lightly into the waistband. “Then lift for me.”
Jack exhaled once. Then he did.
You drew the fabric down slowly, watching his control pull tight with every inch.
That was somehow worse. The trust of it. The ease.
The fact that he was letting you have this, letting you decide the pace, letting you turn his patience into something thin and strained and beautiful.
You swallowed.
Jack saw it.
His voice softened immediately. “Hey.”
You looked up at him.
His hands stayed exactly where you had put them, even though his eyes had gone careful.
“Still with me?” Jack asked.
You nodded. “I’m with you.”
His gaze moved over your face. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” you said. “I just—”
You stopped.
Jack waited.
You looked down, then back up at him, suddenly aware of the faded navy shirt loose on your body, the cracked lettering from his old battalion medic course stretched over your chest, the couch beneath your knees, the laundry basket abandoned beside you.
The day. The score. The words.
I love you.
Your voice came quieter. “I like this.”
Jack’s expression changed. Softened. Opened.
“You do?” he asked.
You nodded, your fingers resting at his hip. “I like that you let me.”
His throat moved.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
Then Jack’s voice came low and steady. “I trust you.”
Oh.
That went through you harder than anything else had.
Your fingers tightened slightly against him.
Jack noticed.
“You okay?” he asked.
You swallowed and nodded. “Yes.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Tell me what you need.”
You smiled faintly. “You to stop being sweet before I lose my dramatic momentum.”
Jack’s mouth curved. There he was.
“There it is,” he said.
You leaned forward. “What?”
His eyes darkened again. “You.”
That almost ruined you.
So you kissed him before it could.
You kissed his hip. His stomach. The edge of his waistband.
You took your time because you could, because he let you, because the bet had become something warmer and sharper than a game. His breath changed with every kiss. His fingers stayed locked against the couch. His restraint was everywhere now, in every still line of him.
And you wanted to reward it.
You wanted to ruin it.
Both.
You looked up at him. “Hands stay there.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.
“Yes,” he said.
You smiled. “Good.”
His jaw shifted at the word.
You saw it.
Then you lowered your mouth to him.
Jack’s reaction was immediate.
His head tipped back against the couch, and the sound he made was low, rough, dragged out of him before he could swallow it.
Your stomach flipped.
Oh.
You wanted to hear that again.
You moved slowly at first, learning what made his breath catch, what made his hands flex, what made his composure fracture by tiny, satisfying degrees. Jack stayed exactly where you had put him, but his whole body gave him away.
The tight line of his throat. The tension in his shoulders. The way his hips wanted to move and did not.
You pulled back just enough to breathe and looked up at him.
Jack was already looking down at you. His eyes were wrecked. Still careful. Still there. But wrecked.
You smiled. “You’re quiet.”
Jack’s laugh came out rough and disbelieving. “Am I?”
You ran your hand along his thigh. “Too quiet.”
His fingers curled harder into the couch. “I’m trying not to rush you.”
Your chest tightened.
God. Him. Always him.
You kissed the inside of his thigh again, softer this time.
“I know,” you said.
Jack’s gaze stayed on yours.
You leaned closer. “You can make noise.”
His breath caught.
You smiled. “That’s also an order.”
Jack’s mouth parted.
For a second, he looked like he wanted to argue.
Then you took him into your mouth again, and whatever he had been about to say disappeared into a broken sound that made heat curl low in your stomach.
There. Better. Much better.
You settled into the rhythm slowly, your hands braced against his thighs, the hem of his shirt brushing your skin every time you moved. Jack’s breathing grew rougher. Less even. Less controlled.
Every time he made a sound, your confidence came back stronger.
Every time his hands twitched and stayed put, you felt it like a victory.
Not the exam. Not the point.
This.
This impossible, careful man coming apart because you asked him to.
Jack said your name. Roughly. Almost a warning.
You pulled back enough to look at him. “What?”
His chest rose and fell beneath his T-shirt. His hands were still on the couch. Barely.
“You’re good at this,” Jack said.
The words landed hot and low.
Your mouth curved. “At this?”
Before he could answer, you lowered your mouth again, just enough to make his fingers dig hard into the cushion.
Jack’s head tipped back. His breath left him rough and broken.
You pulled back, pleased. “That?”
His eyes opened, dark and wrecked.
“At making me lose my fucking mind,” Jack said.
Oh.
Your fingers tightened on his thigh.
Jack noticed.
His mouth curved faintly despite everything. “You like that.”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not sound smug while I’m winning.”
His breath left him in something close to a laugh. “Sorry.”
“You’re not,” you said.
“No,” Jack admitted. “I’m not.”
You smiled.
Then you leaned back in, because you wanted him too affected to be smug. You wanted the rough sound that left him when your mouth closed over him again. You wanted the way his head tipped back, the way one of his hands lifted half an inch from the cushion before he forced it back down.
You saw that. You stopped.
Jack went still. His eyes opened.
You looked pointedly at his hand. “Abbot.”
His hand settled flat again. Immediately.
Jack swallowed. “Sorry.”
Your heart flipped.
You sat back on your heels and looked up at him.
His apology was not playful. Not performative. He meant it.
You softened despite yourself.
“You can ask,” you said.
His throat moved.
You held his gaze. “You can ask to touch me.”
Jack looked at you for one long second.
Then his voice came low. “Can I touch you?”
Your pulse jumped.
You tried to keep your smile slow. Victorious.
It almost worked.
“Where?” you asked.
His eyes darkened.
Your breath caught before he even answered.
Jack’s voice was rough. “Your face.”
That was not what you expected. For some reason, it hit harder.
You nodded. “Yes.”
Jack’s hand left the couch slowly, like he was giving you time to change your mind.
Then his fingers touched your cheek. Gentle. Almost reverent. His thumb moved once near the corner of your mouth.
Your chest tightened so fast it almost hurt.
“You’re killing me,” Jack said. Quietly. Honestly.
Your eyes lifted to his.
The room went soft around the edges for half a second. Then you turned your head and kissed his palm. Jack’s breath caught.
“You’re very dramatic,” you said.
His mouth curved faintly. “Learned from the best.”
You smiled against his hand. “Good answer.”
Then you guided his hand back to the couch.
His eyes stayed on yours.
You leaned forward again.
This time, when you took him into your mouth, his voice broke on your name.
Not loud. Not polished. Just honest.
Exactly what you had asked for.
And you decided, with all the grace and dignity of someone who had won by one point and then abused the privilege immediately, that you loved the sound of Jack Abbot losing control.
You loved it when his breathing changed.
You loved it when his fingers dug into the couch.
You loved it when he said your name like he was asking, warning, and surrendering all at once.
You loved it when he finally said, rough and low, “Wait.”
You pulled back immediately.
Jack’s eyes were closed, his chest rising hard.
You sat back. “Too much?”
His eyes opened at once. “No.”
You watched him carefully. “No?”
Jack’s gaze dropped to your mouth, then returned to your face. “I’m close.”
Your stomach flipped.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Jack saw it.
His eyes narrowed slightly. “Do not look that pleased with yourself.”
You lifted your chin. “I’m extremely pleased with myself.”
“I noticed,” Jack said.
You moved closer again. “Do you want me to stop?”
Jack went still. His throat moved. Then he looked at you. Really looked.
“No,” he said.
Your pulse jumped.
His voice roughened. “But only if you want to keep going.”
You smiled softly. Still careful. Still Jack. Still yours.
“I do,” you said.
Jack’s hand flexed against the couch again, but he kept it there. “Then yes.”
You leaned in and kissed his thigh. “Yes what?”
His jaw tightened. You waited. Jack’s eyes stayed on yours.
“Yes,” he said, voice low and wrecked. “I want you to keep going.”
There. You smiled.
“Good,” you said.
And then you did.
You kept going.
Slow at first, because you liked making him wait. Because you liked the way his body seemed to forget what control was supposed to look like one piece at a time. His breathing broke first, roughening with every careful movement of your mouth, every pass of your tongue, every press of your hands against his thighs.
Jack’s hands stayed on the couch.
Barely.
His fingers dug hard into the cushions, the tendons in his forearms standing out beneath his skin. His head tipped back once, then lifted again, because apparently even now, even like this, he could not stop watching you.
That did something to you.
Something warm and powerful and dangerous.
You looked up at him.
Jack’s eyes were already on yours. Wrecked. Focused. Trying.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. “Still okay?”
Jack’s laugh came out rough and almost helpless. “Yes.”
Good.
You liked that. You liked him answering you. You liked him obeying. You liked that this man, this careful, controlled, impossible man, was sitting there with his hands exactly where you had told him to keep them while you took him apart.
So you leaned in again.
Jack’s breath caught hard.
There. You wanted that sound again.
You worked him slowly, then deeper, then slower again when his hips went tense beneath your hands. He did not move into you. He did not rush you. He only made a low sound in his throat and pressed his hands harder into the couch like the cushions were the only thing keeping him still.
Jack’s voice was strained. “I’m close.”
Your pulse jumped.
You pulled back with a soft breath.
You looked up at him.
His chest rose and fell hard beneath his T-shirt, his mouth parted, his eyes locked on yours with a kind of focus that made the whole room feel smaller.
“I’m close,” Jack said again, rougher this time.
You nodded once, your hand still moving slowly over him.
Jack’s jaw tightened.
Then his eyes sharpened, careful even through the wreckage.
“Where do you want me?” Jack asked.
The question hit low in your stomach.
Not because he asked it crudely.
Because he asked it like it mattered. Like even now, even this close, even when he looked like restraint had become a physical effort, he was still giving you the choice.
Your mouth went dry.
Jack watched your face. “Tell me.”
Your fingers tightened against his thigh.
You swallowed.
Then you leaned closer, your voice softer than you meant it to be.
“In my mouth,” you said.
Jack went still. Completely.
For one second, he looked like the words had knocked the last of the air out of him.
His hands flexed against the couch. His eyes dropped to your mouth. Then back to your face.
“Jesus,” Jack said, voice wrecked.
Your stomach flipped.
You smiled, because you could not help it. “You asked.”
Jack’s jaw shifted hard.
“I did,” he said.
You held his gaze. “And that’s what I want.”
Something in him snapped.
Not his care.
But the last thin thread of composure he had been using to pretend he was fine.
Jack’s head tipped back against the couch, his breath leaving him in a broken exhale as you lowered your mouth to him again.
This time, you did not tease him with almost.
You gave him exactly what he had asked for.
Exactly what you had said you wanted.
Jack said your name. Rough. Low.
Gone.
His hands stayed on the couch, but his whole body gave him away. His thighs tensed under your palms. His breathing turned uneven. His voice broke again, quieter this time, your name pulled out of him like he could not keep it back.
You stayed with him.
And when he came apart, it was because you had asked for it.
Because he had asked where. Because you had answered. Because wanting him like that had been enough to ruin whatever control he had left.
For a few seconds after, neither of you moved.
Jack’s head stayed tipped back against the couch, his chest rising hard beneath his T-shirt. One hand was still curled into the cushion like he had forgotten how to let go.
You sat back slowly, your own breathing uneven now.
The room felt warm.
Quiet.
Completely changed.
Jack opened his eyes.
They found yours immediately.
Still wrecked. Still careful. Still Jack.
“Come here,” Jack said.
You lifted your brows, trying very hard to look smug and not affected. “Bossy for someone who lost.”
Jack’s hand left the couch at last, reaching for you slowly enough that you could refuse if you wanted to.
“I know,” he said, voice rough. “Come here anyway.”
You went.
Of course you went.
Jack caught you the second you climbed back onto the couch, one hand finding your waist, the other sliding along your thigh as you settled beside him. His mouth found yours before you could say anything clever.
The kiss was different now.
Deeper. Hungrier. Less controlled in places, like he had been patient for so long that being allowed to touch you had become its own kind of relief.
You smiled against his mouth.
Jack felt it. His hand tightened at your waist. “What?”
You pulled back just enough to look at him. “My turn.”
Jack went still. Only for half a second.
Then his eyes darkened in a way that made your pulse jump.
“Finally,” Jack said.
Your breath caught.
That was all the warning you got.
Jack moved.
One second you were beside him, smug and pleased and trying to look like you had not been completely wrecked by the sound of his voice. The next, he had guided you beneath him against the couch cushions, one hand braced beside your head, the other at your hip.
Not rough. Not careless. But immediate. Hungry.
Like he had been waiting for permission and permission had finally become a starting gun.
Your back hit the couch, and Jack kissed you hard.
Your fingers flew into his hair.
He made a low sound against your mouth when you pulled, and that sound alone almost made you forget you were supposed to be the winner.
Almost.
Jack’s hand slid beneath the faded navy shirt, palm warm against your side.
You gasped into his mouth.
He pulled back at once, eyes searching yours. “Okay?”
You nodded quickly.
Jack’s gaze stayed locked on yours. “Words.”
Your chest rose hard beneath his shirt. “Yes. I’m okay.”
Something in his expression steadied.
Then his mouth was on yours again. Hard. Deep.
Thorough enough that your thoughts scattered, one by one, until there was nothing left but his weight over you, his hand under your shirt, his mouth moving like he had every intention of making sure winning felt exactly like this.
You arched beneath him.
Jack’s hand tightened at your waist.
“There,” he murmured against your mouth.
You swallowed a sound. “Don’t sound so pleased with yourself.”
Jack kissed the corner of your mouth. “I’m not.”
“You are,” you said, breathless.
His mouth moved to your jaw. “Maybe a little.”
You tried to glare at him.
It did not work, because his lips found the spot beneath your ear, and your eyes closed before you could stop them.
Jack noticed. His mouth curved against your skin.
You felt it.
“You are not allowed to be smug,” you said.
Jack kissed your neck. “I lost.”
“Yes,” you said, your fingers tightening in his hair. “Exactly.”
His hand moved slowly over your ribs beneath the shirt. “Then I’m doing what I was told.”
Your stomach flipped.
Oh. That. That was a problem.
Jack’s mouth traveled lower, over your throat, then to the stretched collar of the faded navy T-shirt. He paused there, breath warm against the cracked lettering from his old battalion medic course.
For one second, the heat shifted.
Softened.
His fingers touched the worn cotton like he was remembering the morning he had given it to you.
Your breath caught for a different reason.
Then he kissed the shirt.
Right over the faded, cracked letters.
Your chest tightened so fast it almost hurt.
“Jack,” you whispered.
His eyes lifted to yours.
He stayed there, mouth against the shirt, one hand at your waist, his body warm over yours.
“What?” he asked.
You swallowed.
You did not have an answer.
Not one that would not expose too much.
Jack waited anyway.
You touched his hair. “Nothing.”
His expression softened. “That wasn’t nothing.”
You managed a faint smile. “I’m still seducing you dramatically.”
Jack’s mouth curved. “From underneath me?”
You narrowed your eyes. “Do not critique my process.”
His smile deepened. Then he kissed lower.
Over the shirt. Down your sternum. Past your ribs.
Slow enough to make you squirm, deliberate enough to make you understand exactly what he was doing. He did not take the shirt off. He worked around it. With it. His hands slid beneath the hem, pushing it up only as far as you let him, his mouth following the path of exposed skin inch by inch.
Your breathing changed.
Jack felt it beneath his hands.
His eyes flicked up to yours. “Still okay?”
You nodded. “Yes.”
His fingers stilled at your waist.
You swallowed hard. “Yes, Jack. I’m okay.”
His thumb moved once against your skin. “Good.”
The word hit low.
You hated him for it. You loved him for it. You still had not recovered from that, either.
Jack kissed your stomach.
Your fingers tightened in his hair.
He did it again, lower this time, his mouth warm against the sensitive skin beneath your navel. The hem of his shirt bunched beneath his hand, the faded navy cotton soft against your ribs.
You looked down at him.
Big mistake.
Jack was looking up at you from between your thighs, his mouth against your stomach, his eyes dark and focused and so intent that your breath caught in your throat.
His hand slid to your hip.
The lace of your underwear shifted beneath his fingers.
You went still.
Jack noticed immediately. He stopped.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Can I?”
Your pulse jumped. You nodded, then remembered who you were dealing with.
“Yes,” you said. “You can.”
Jack’s hand moved again. Slowly. His fingers traced the edge of the lace at your hip, not taking, not rushing, just touching like he had all the time in the world and every intention of using it against you.
Your head tipped back against the couch.
Jack’s mouth brushed your lower stomach. “You’re quiet.”
You let out a breath that barely qualified as a laugh. “I am trying to maintain authority.”
His mouth curved against your skin. “How’s that going?”
You looked down at him. “Do not get cocky.”
Jack’s fingers hooked lightly at the lace. He did not pull. Not yet.
His eyes stayed on yours. “Tell me what you want.”
Your stomach flipped. There it was again. That steady, devastating patience.
Like he could be hungry and still careful. Like he could want you and still make room for you to choose.
You swallowed. “I want your mouth.”
Jack’s expression changed. Barely. But you saw it.
His eyes darkened. “Yeah?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “And your fingers.”
Jack’s thumb pressed once at your hip. Then he nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
Simple. Steady. Absolutely devastating.
He pressed one more kiss to your stomach. Then another, lower.
Your breath caught.
Jack looked up at you. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”
You nodded quickly. “I will.”
His gaze held yours. “Promise.”
The word landed softly. Serious. Very Jack.
Your chest tightened.
“I promise,” you said.
Jack’s expression steadied.
Jack’s mouth lowered again, and whatever remained of your victory speech disappeared completely.
At first, he kissed you through the lace.
Slow. Careful. Mean, actually.
Because he had asked what you wanted, and you had told him, and now he was taking his time like he had misunderstood the entire point of the request.
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Jack.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “What?”
You swallowed hard. “That is not your mouth.”
His mouth curved against the lace. Oh, he was absolutely smug now.
“You sure?” Jack asked.
You glared down at him. “Do not make me regret letting you touch me.”
His hand pressed once at your hip, warm and steady. “Not the goal.”
“Then prove it,” you said.
Jack’s eyes darkened.
For one second, he only looked at you. Then he hooked his fingers into the lace at your hips and paused.
“Still okay?” Jack asked.
Your breath caught.
“Yes,” you said. “Still okay.”
His gaze held yours. “Tell me if that changes.”
“I will,” you said.
Jack nodded once.
Then he drew the lace down your thighs. Slowly. So slowly you almost hated him.
You lifted your hips to help, and his hand slid beneath you, supporting you with irritating competence while he eased the fabric lower. He did not rush. He did not fumble. He was careful with you in a way that made the heat worse, because you could feel the wanting under it.
You could see it in his face when he settled back between your thighs.
Jack Abbot, who had just come apart under your mouth, who had looked wrecked enough to make you feel powerful for the rest of your life, was staring at you now like he had not even started.
Your stomach flipped.
“That is a look,” you said.
Jack’s hand moved slowly along the outside of your thigh. “Yeah?”
You nodded, trying for steady and landing somewhere else entirely. “A concerning one.”
His mouth brushed the inside of your knee. “You asked for my mouth.”
Your breath caught when he kissed higher.
“I did,” you said.
Jack kissed higher again. “And my fingers.”
Your thighs shifted around him before you could stop them.
His eyes flicked up.
You lifted your chin, even from your deeply compromised position. “Are you reciting the terms?”
His mouth curved against your skin. “Making sure I understand the assignment.”
You stared at him. “You are such a medical student.”
Jack kissed the inside of your thigh. “You love me.”
Your heart tripped.
The words were too new. Too warm. Too devastating for him to just put them there while his mouth was moving up your thigh.
You looked down at him. “You are not allowed to use that against me.”
His expression softened, but his eyes stayed dark. “Wasn’t using it.”
“No?” you asked.
Jack shook his head once. “Just liked saying it.”
Your breath left you.
That was unfair. Completely unfair.
You covered your face with one hand. “You are ruining my authority.”
Jack’s mouth pressed to the inside of your thigh, close enough now that your whole body went still. “I can stop.”
Your hand dropped immediately. “Don’t you dare.”
His mouth curved. You saw it.
“You’re enjoying this,” you said.
Jack’s hand tightened once at your hip. “I am.”
The honesty did something to you.
Something sharp and helpless.
Then his mouth finally moved where you wanted him, and the thought disappeared.
Completely.
Your head tipped back against the couch.
“Oh,” you breathed.
Jack’s arm slid under your thigh, anchoring you gently, keeping you open for him without forcing you there. His other hand stayed at your hip, thumb moving once like he was reminding you he was there.
As if you could forget.
His mouth was warm and deliberate and devastatingly patient. Not rushed. Not proving a point.
Learning you.
Again.
Your fingers found his hair, sliding into the soft strands at the back of his head. You did not pull at first. You just held on.
Jack made a low sound against you.
Your hips shifted.
His arm tightened slightly around your thigh.
“There?” he asked, voice rough against your skin.
You nodded quickly. “There.”
His mouth returned immediately.
Your fingers tightened in his hair this time.
Jack noticed.
He did it again, the same way, and your knees drew in around his shoulders before you could stop them. He did not seem to mind. If anything, his hand slid from your hip to your stomach, pressing you gently back into the couch when your body tried to follow him.
You let out a broken breath. “Jack.”
His fingers spread against your stomach beneath the faded navy shirt. “I’ve got you.”
That should not have made it worse. It did. Of course it did.
You tried to stay quiet.
Mostly because you were still pretending to have some control over the situation.
Jack clearly took that personally. His mouth slowed.
Your eyes opened immediately.
You looked down at him. “Why did you stop?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours. “You got quiet.”
You stared at him. Then you realized.
“Oh, you are unbelievable,” you said.
His brow lifted slightly. “Am I?”
“You are withholding because I’m not making enough noise?”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “I’m checking.”
“You are negotiating,” you said.
His hand moved once over your stomach, slow and steady. “Tell me what you want.”
You swallowed.
He was impossible. Terrible.
Perfect.
“I want you to keep going,” you said.
Jack’s gaze stayed locked on yours. “Then don’t hide from me.”
Your pulse jumped.
The words landed with heat and weight and that old, impossible thing between you.
No hiding. Not anymore. Not with his hand on your stomach and his mouth between your thighs and his shirt bunched beneath your ribs.
You nodded. “Okay.”
His expression softened for half a second. “Okay?”
Your fingers tightened in his hair. “Okay, Jack. Please.”
That did it.
His eyes darkened.
Then his mouth was on you again, and this time, you did not try to be quiet.
You could not.
Jack made sure of that.
He learned every reaction like it was something he intended to remember. The angle that made your breath break. The pressure that made your hips lift. The rhythm that made your fingers twist in his hair and your knees pull tighter around him.
Then his hand moved lower.
You felt him pause before he touched you. Even now. Especially now.
“Can I?” Jack asked.
You nodded, breathless. “Yes.”
His fingers slid through you slowly. Your whole body went tight.
Jack watched your face. “Still okay?”
“Yes,” you said quickly. “God, yes.”
His mouth curved against your thigh. “Good.”
You barely had time to hate him for it before his fingers moved again.
Your back arched off the couch.
Jack’s arm held you steady.
His mouth returned to you as his fingers worked in slow, careful strokes, and that was when your control finally gave up entirely. It did not break dramatically. It just left. Quietly. Rudely. Without consulting you.
You said his name. Once. Then again.
Jack answered with his mouth, with his hand, with the steady pressure of his palm against your stomach when you started to squirm.
You tugged at his hair. “Don’t stop.”
His fingers curled. Your breath caught hard.
“That wasn’t a request,” you managed.
Jack’s mouth moved against your thigh. You felt him smile.
“I know,” he said.
Then he did not stop.
He kept you there, pinned by nothing but his mouth and fingers and the unbearable steadiness of his attention. He did not rush you toward it. He did not drag it out to be cruel. He just listened to your body with the same focus he brought to everything else, and somehow that was what undid you.
The couch disappeared. The laundry. The scores. The stupid one point.
All of it narrowed down to Jack between your thighs, his hand beneath his own shirt on your stomach, his mouth giving you exactly what you had asked for.
You came with his name in your mouth and your fingers locked in his hair.
Jack stayed with you through it.
Steady. Careful. Unfairly good.
He softened the pressure slowly, easing you down instead of letting you drop. His hand moved over your stomach, then your side, then your hip, grounding you while your breathing tried to remember how to work.
For a few seconds, you could not move.
You stared at the ceiling.
The room was quiet except for your uneven breaths and the faint sound of traffic outside.
Then Jack pressed one last kiss to the inside of your thigh.
Your eyes closed.
“Too much?” he asked.
You let out a breathless laugh. “I think you know it wasn’t.”
His mouth curved against your skin.
You turned your head and looked down at him.
He was still between your thighs, hair mussed from your hands, mouth soft, eyes dark and careful and pleased in a way that should have been illegal.
You swallowed.
“No,” you said. “Not too much.”
Jack’s thumb moved once against your hip. “Good.”
You pointed weakly at him. “You have got to stop saying it like that.”
His brow lifted. “Like what?”
“Like you know it ruins me,” you said.
Jack’s smile came slow. Warm. Private. Devastating.
“I do know,” he said.
You groaned and covered your face with one hand. “I regret winning.”
Jack kissed your hip. “No, you don’t.”
“No,” you said from behind your hand. “I don’t.”
The takeout containers were open on the coffee table.
The laundry was still unfolded.
The movie was already halfway over, which was fine, because Jack had missed the entire setup and still somehow had questions about the plot.
You were tucked into his side on the couch, warm and loose and thoroughly pleased with yourself. Your underwear was back on, though Jack’s faded navy battalion medic shirt still hung loose over your body, the cracked lettering soft against your chest.
Jack’s arm rested around your waist.
His hand moved absently over your hip beneath the hem.
Not trying to start anything.
Just touching.
Like he could.
Like he was allowed.
Like he liked remembering that.
On the screen, the heroine stormed out of a restaurant after overhearing half of a conversation and apparently deciding that was enough information to ruin her life.
You pointed your fork at the television. “See, this is why communication matters.”
Jack looked at the screen. “That is what you’re taking from this?”
You glanced up at him. “Do you disagree?”
His mouth barely moved. “I think if they communicated, the movie would be twenty minutes long.”
You nodded once. “Efficient.”
“Boring,” Jack said.
You stared at him. “Are you admitting you’re emotionally invested?”
Jack looked down at his noodles. “No.”
“You asked if the sister knew he was lying,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Plot clarification.”
You gasped softly. “Oh my God.”
His eyes flicked to yours. “What?”
“You care,” you said.
Jack set his container on the coffee table. “I care about narrative consistency.”
You pointed your fork at him. “That is worse.”
His mouth curved despite himself.
You laughed and curled closer into his side, your legs folding beneath you. Jack’s hand settled more securely at your waist, thumb moving once beneath the shirt.
The room felt soft now.
Quieter than it had earlier.
The kind of quiet that came after too much laughter, too much heat, too much feeling. The score slips were still on the table, partly hidden under a napkin and a carton of noodles. Proof of the one perfect point that had started all of this.
You looked at them.
Then at the laundry basket.
Then at Jack.
His hair was still a mess from your hands. His mouth was soft. He looked tired and warm and almost too pleased with himself for someone who had technically lost.
Your chest went tight in the sweetest way.
Jack noticed you looking at him.
His chin tipped down toward you. “What?”
You shook your head. “Nothing.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “That wasn’t nothing.”
You let out a slow breath and rested your head against his shoulder.
For once, you did not dodge.
You were too tired.
Too happy.
Too in love with him to make it a fight.
“This is probably the best day ever,” you said quietly.
Jack went still beside you.
Just enough that you felt him hear it.
Then his arm tightened around you. “Yeah?”
You nodded against his shoulder. “Yeah.”
His hand moved slowly over your side. “Because you won?”
You smiled. “Partly.”
“By one point,” Jack said.
“The one point,” you corrected.
His chest moved under your cheek with a quiet laugh.
The movie kept playing.
The takeout went lukewarm.
The laundry remained deeply, impressively unfolded.
Jack’s mouth pressed softly to the top of your head.
“And the rest?” he asked.
Your fingers curled lightly in his shirt.
You thought about the bulletin board.
The walk home.
The couch.
The way he had looked at you when you were celebrating.
The way he had said it.
Like your happiness had made him careless.
Like he had no interest in taking it back.
You tipped your face up to look at him.
Jack was already looking down at you.
Your throat tightened, but this time, you let it.
“The rest is you,” you said.
Jack’s expression softened.
You swallowed and held his gaze. “Because you told me you love me.”
For a second, he just looked at you.
Warm. Private. A little stunned, still, like hearing you say it back to him in pieces was something he had not figured out how to survive.
Then his thumb brushed once over your waist.
“I did,” Jack said.
Your chest warmed.
You smiled faintly. “I love you.”
Jack went still.
Only for a second.
Only long enough for the words to land again.
Then his arm tightened around you, pulling you closer into his side.
“I love you too,” he said.
You settled against him, overwhelmed and warm and still somehow victorious.
His mouth pressed to your forehead.
The movie kept playing.
The takeout went lukewarm.
The laundry remained deeply, impressively unfolded.
You had beaten Jack Abbot by one point.
Somehow, he still looked like the one who had won.
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Summary: The pathology scores are posted, and naturally, you and Jack turn it into a competition. After agreeing to a bet with very specific terms- bragging rights, dinner, movie choice, laundry, and one night where the loser has to do what the winner says- the two of you go to check the results. Neither of you handles what happens next with anything resembling emotional regulation.
Warnings: 18+ series, minors dni, sexual tension, suggestive content, teasing, power play, betting/winner-loser dynamic, “do what the winner says” language, established consent/boundaries, academic rivalry, competitive flirting, dramatic exam score reveal, victory dance, emotional vulnerability, feelings confession, Jack being patient until he very much is not, handholding, kissing, his shirt, lacy underwear, no explicit smut in this chapter, cliffhanger ending.
Author's Note: Lovelies. The poll has spoken, the scores are posted, and somebody is about to become absolutely insufferable. This bonus has academic rivalry nonsense, a dangerous bet, handholding while trying not to commit grade-related crimes, laundry as punishment, Jack’s old shirt, and the reader discovering that making Jack lose control is both fun and extremely dangerous.
Also: feelings happen. At the worst possible time. As they should.
Part two will pick up exactly where this leaves off.
The problem with Jack Abbot was that he was very good at distracting you.
Which was unfair, because historically, that had been your job.
You were supposed to be the distraction. You were supposed to make sharp comments from across lecture halls, steal his pens, argue over margins in shared notes, and say things that made the careful line of his mouth falter by half a centimeter.
That had been the system.
A good system.
A reliable system.
Then Jack had apparently decided to retaliate by kissing you against the kitchen counter before nine in the morning.
And, unfortunately, he was very good at that too.
Your coffee sat abandoned beside the sink, going cold in its mug. Jack’s hands were at your waist, warm beneath the hem of your shirt, his thumbs moving slowly over bare skin in a way that had made your entire argument about leaving on time collapse somewhere around minute two.
You were supposed to be going to the pathology department.
Scores were being posted at nine.
The final pathology scores.
The final pathology scores that would determine, once and for all, which one of you had performed better on the exam you had both pretended not to care about with the least convincing lies ever told.
You knew that.
You remembered that.
Mostly.
Then Jack’s mouth moved lower, brushing along the side of your neck, and your fingers tightened in his shirt.
“Jack,” you said, breath catching on his name.
His mouth paused against your skin. “Mm?”
You swallowed, your eyes half-closed. “What do you think you got on the exam?”
Jack went still.
Completely still.
For one second, the entire apartment stopped with him.
Then he lifted his head.
Slowly.
His eyes found yours, dark and disbelieving, his hand still under your shirt like he had forgotten where he’d left it.
“You cannot possibly be serious,” Jack said.
You blinked at him. “What?”
Jack stared at you. “What?”
You lifted your brows. “What?”
His hand flexed once at your waist. “You want to talk about pathology scores right now?”
You glanced down between you.
At his hand beneath your shirt. At the way he was standing between your knees. At the counter digging into the backs of your thighs.
Then you looked back at him.
“They post in twenty-three minutes,” you said.
Jack closed his eyes.
You smiled.
“Don’t do that,” he said, opening his eyes again.
You tilted your head. “Do what?”
Jack’s expression stayed flat. “Act like that was a normal thing to say.”
“It was relevant,” you said.
“I had my mouth on your neck,” Jack said.
You nodded once. “And I was very supportive of that.”
His jaw shifted.
You liked that. You liked it too much.
His hand moved once at your waist. “Were you?”
“Yes,” you said. “But I can be supportive and curious.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You are not curious.”
You frowned. “Excuse me?”
He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “You’re competitive.”
Your stomach flipped.
Absolutely not.
He did not get to use that voice and be correct at the same time.
You lifted your chin. “I am academically invested.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “You interrupted this for academic investment?”
“You make that sound like a bad thing,” you said.
His eyes dropped to your mouth. “It is a bad thing.”
Your pulse jumped.
Then his hand slid a little higher beneath your shirt, and for half a second, you forgot the entire endocrine chapter.
Which was dangerous.
So you put a hand against his chest.
Jack stopped immediately.
Of course he did.
His eyes came back to yours, attentive now beneath the heat. “You okay?”
That ruined you a little.
You nodded. “I’m okay.”
His thumb moved once against your side. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” you said. “I just think we need terms.”
Jack stared at you.
Then his expression shifted.
Not confusion anymore.
Recognition.
“No,” he said.
You smiled slowly. “No?”
His mouth flattened. “No.”
You widened your eyes. “You don’t even know what I’m going to say.”
Jack gave you a look. “I know exactly what you’re going to say.”
“You do not,” you said.
His hand stayed at your waist. “You want to make a bet.”
Your smile widened.
Jack exhaled through his nose. “Unbelievable.”
You pointed at him. “You’re smiling.”
“I’m not,” Jack said.
“You are,” you said.
“I was kissing you,” Jack said. “That is different.”
You glanced at his mouth. “Was.”
His eyes narrowed.
You felt triumphant for about half a second.
Then Jack leaned closer, one hand still at your waist, the other braced on the counter beside your thigh.
“What are the terms?” he asked.
Your stomach flipped.
You had expected more resistance.
Which was ridiculous, really.
Jack Abbot had never once backed down from a competition in his life.
You tried to look composed.
You probably failed.
“Winner gets bragging rights,” you said.
Jack nodded once. “Assumed.”
“And dinner choice,” you said.
His thumb moved idly against your side. “Fine.”
“And movie choice,” you added.
Jack’s brow lifted. “Dangerous.”
“You can handle it,” you said.
His mouth curved. “Can I?”
“You were a combat medic,” you said. “I believe in you.”
Jack’s expression warmed. “Generous.”
“And loser does laundry,” you said.
His eyes narrowed. “Now you’re getting ambitious.”
You smiled. “I’m negotiating.”
“You’re abusing power you do not currently have,” Jack said.
You leaned back on your hands, still sitting on the counter. “Yet.”
Jack looked at you for one long second.
Then his voice came lower. “Anything else?”
You swallowed.
The kitchen felt suddenly smaller.
His hand was still beneath your shirt, warm against your waist. His body was still between your knees. Your coffee was still going cold beside the sink. And in twenty-two minutes, your pathology score would be taped to a department bulletin board like a public attack.
You looked him dead in the eye.
“One night where the loser has to do what the winner says,” you said.
Jack went very still.
Not like before.
Not annoyed this time.
His eyes stayed on yours, steady and dark and careful enough to make your chest tighten.
“Within reason,” he said.
You nodded. “Within reason.”
Something in his face softened.
Only for a second.
Then the competitive edge came back.
“Deal,” Jack said.
You held out your hand.
Jack looked at it.
Then at you.
“You want to shake on it?” he asked.
“Yes,” you said.
His eyes dropped briefly to where he was still standing between your knees. “You’re sitting on the counter.”
“I’m aware,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “My hand is under your shirt.”
“I’m also aware of that,” you said.
He looked at your offered hand again.
Then he took it.
Warm.
Steady.
A handshake, technically.
Except you were still sitting on the kitchen counter, and he was still standing between your knees, and his thumb brushed once over your knuckles like he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Deal,” he said.
You squeezed his hand once. “Good.”
Jack’s eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.
Then back to yours.
“We have twenty-two minutes,” he said.
Your pulse jumped.
You stared at him. “We have to leave.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Eventually.”
“Jack,” you said, trying for warning and landing somewhere much less stable.
He leaned in, his mouth brushing just beneath your jaw.
“You brought up pathology,” he said against your skin. “Not me.”
Your eyes fluttered.
God.
You hated him.
You hated him so much.
“You are trying to distract me,” you said.
Jack’s mouth moved against your neck. “Is it working?”
You closed your eyes.
The answer was yes.
Obviously. Disastrously.
Then the kitchen clock ticked loudly enough to remind you that the pathology department existed and had chosen violence.
You pushed lightly at his chest.
Jack lifted his head, smug in the quietest possible way.
You pointed toward the hallway. “Shoes. Now.”
His brow lifted. “Now?”
“Scores first,” you said, sliding off the counter before you could make a bad decision. “Then victory.”
Jack caught your waist as your feet hit the floor, steadying you automatically.
His mouth curved. “You’re very confident.”
You looked up at him.
Then you smiled.
“I have to be,” you said. “You’re going to be insufferable if you win.”
Jack’s thumb moved once at your side. “And if you win?”
You stepped out of his hands and headed for your room to grab your shoes.
Then you looked back over your shoulder.
“If I win,” you said, “I’m going to be worse.”
Jack stared at you.
For one second, he looked like he believed you.
Then his smile started.
Slow and devastating.
“Good,” he said.
The hallway outside Dr. Singh’s office was already crowded when you and Jack got there.
Which was exactly what you had expected.
Half the second-year class had gathered around the bulletin board, shoulder to shoulder, everyone pretending not to care while very obviously caring more than they had cared about anything in weeks.
The pathology scores were taped to the board in a neat, devastating grid.
Exam numbers. Raw percentages. Curve-adjusted final grades.
A single sheet of paper with the power to ruin friendships, inflate egos, and make several sleep-deprived medical students start muttering math under their breath.
You stopped at the edge of the crowd. Jack stopped beside you. For one second, neither of you spoke.
Then Jack glanced down at you. “You ready?”
You looked at the bulletin board. “No.”
His mouth barely moved. “Good.”
You turned your head. “Good?”
Jack’s eyes stayed on the crowd. “Means you’re taking it seriously.”
You stared at him. “That is such an annoying answer.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Still true.”
You took a breath, then stepped toward the bulletin board before you could lose your nerve. Jack moved with you. Not touching. Not hovering. Just there.
The crowd shifted enough to let you in, and suddenly the page was right in front of you.
Student ID numbers on the left. Scores on the right.
You found your number halfway down the page.
Your raw score first.
Then your curve-adjusted grade beside it.
Your brain stopped.
Then restarted. Slowly. Dangerously.
Beside you, Jack had gone very still.
You did not look at him. He did not look at you.
Around you, someone swore under their breath. Someone else laughed too loudly. Two people immediately started arguing about the curve like the paper had personally attacked them.
You reached into your bag, pulled out a pen, and wrote your score on the corner of an old receipt.
Jack glanced at your hand.
You folded the receipt before he could see it.
His brow lifted.
You looked at him. “No hallway reveals.”
Jack’s mouth barely moved. “No?”
You shook your head. “No.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Why not?”
You tucked the folded receipt into your palm. “Because I refuse to have this moment in public.”
Jack’s gaze sharpened slightly. “This moment.”
You lifted your chin. “You know exactly what I mean.”
His eyes held yours for one second too long.
Then Jack reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a pen, and wrote something on the back of his folded class schedule.
You tried not to look. You failed a little.
Jack folded the paper once. Then again. Deliberately.
You narrowed your eyes. “That was unnecessary.”
His mouth twitched. “Security.”
You stared at him. “You think I’m going to cheat?”
Jack slid the folded paper into his pocket. “I think you’re going to try.”
You gasped. “I am wounded.”
He looked at you. “Are you?”
You paused. “No.”
Jack’s eyes warmed. “Didn’t think so.”
That warmth was rude. Entirely uncalled for. You clutched your folded receipt tighter.
Jack noticed.
His gaze dropped to your hand, then came back to your face. “Apartment?”
You nodded once. “Apartment.”
Neither of you spoke on the stairs.
Or outside the building.
Or for the first block.
Which was absurd.
You were adults.
You were medical students, at least, which implied some level of emotional regulation even if the evidence was inconsistent.
Still, you walked beside Jack with your score folded in your fist and your entire body buzzing like you were transporting state secrets.
Jack’s folded schedule was tucked in his jacket pocket.
You knew that because you had checked.
Jack glanced down at you. “You’re staring at my pocket.”
You looked straight ahead. “No, I’m not.”
“You are,” he said.
You tightened your grip on the receipt. “I’m observing.”
His mouth barely moved. “That word bothering you less now?”
You shot him a look. “Do not use my own language against me.”
Jack’s eyes stayed ahead, but the corner of his mouth gave him away. “It’s our language now.”
Your stomach flipped. Rude. Completely unnecessary.
You looked down at the sidewalk before he could see what that did to you.
That was when his hand found yours.
No question. No hesitation.
His fingers slid between yours, warm and familiar, and your entire body reacted like he had done something much worse than hold your hand.
For a second, neither of you said anything.
The tension did not break.
It changed shape.
Became warmer. Closer. Worse.
You looked down at your joined hands, the folded receipt still trapped between your fingers.
Jack’s thumb brushed once over your knuckles.
“You’re nervous,” he said.
You looked up at him. “You’re projecting.”
His mouth almost moved. “Am I?”
“Yes,” you said. “You’re terrified.”
Jack glanced at you. “Of you?”
You smiled. “Of losing to me.”
His thumb moved once over yours again. “That’s a very specific fear.”
“It should be,” you said.
His eyes held yours for half a second.
Then he looked ahead again.
You kept walking. Still holding hands. Still not knowing. Still both absolutely pretending that did not make the whole thing feel more dangerous.
By the second block, you could not take it anymore.
You glanced at him. “Are you going to ask?”
Jack kept his gaze forward. “No.”
You frowned. “No?”
His fingers tightened around yours. “We said apartment.”
You stared at him. “You are so annoying.”
His mouth curved faintly. “Disciplined.”
“Annoying,” you corrected.
“Disciplined,” Jack repeated.
You looked at his pocket again.
“Don’t,” he said.
You looked back up too quickly. “I didn’t do anything.”
“You thought about it,” he said.
You glared at him. “You don’t know that.”
Jack glanced down at you. “I know you.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
There it was again.
The unbearable intimacy of being known by the person you were actively trying to defeat.
You looked away.
Jack did not tease you for it.
That made it worse.
His hand stayed in yours all the way back to the apartment.
Through the last block. Up the stairs. Down the narrow hall. Even while he pulled his keys from his pocket, he did not let go of you until he had to.
And even then, he only released your hand long enough to unlock the door.
The apartment was quiet when you stepped inside, the kind of quiet that made every small sound feel dramatic. Jack’s keys landed on the counter. Your bag slipped from your shoulder. The old floor creaked beneath your shoes.
You still had your folded receipt clenched in one hand.
Jack still had his folded schedule tucked in his jacket pocket.
Neither of you spoke.
Then Jack glanced at the couch. “Sit?”
You looked at him. “Are you asking because you’re nervous?”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m asking because you look like you might fall over.”
You stared at him. “That is rude.”
Jack’s eyes dropped to the receipt in your hand. “Is it inaccurate?”
You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Irritatingly, he was not wrong.
You pointed toward the couch. “Fine. But only because I want you comfortable when you lose.”
Jack’s brow lifted. “Thoughtful.”
“I’m generous,” you said.
“You’re competitive,” Jack said.
You walked toward the couch. “I'm both.”
Jack followed you, his mouth almost curving. You sat on one end of the couch. Jack sat beside you, close enough that his knee nearly brushed yours. You tucked one foot beneath you and held the receipt against your knee.
Jack pulled the folded schedule from his pocket.
Of course it was still neat.
You hated him.
Jack looked at your receipt. “You folded yours badly.”
You looked down at the crumpled paper in your hand. “It has character.”
“It has structural damage,” Jack said.
You narrowed your eyes. “Sounds like something a loser would say.”
His eyes lifted to yours. “You haven’t won yet.”
You smiled. “I can feel it.”
“That’s still not evidence,” Jack said.
“It’s intuition,” you said.
“It’s arrogance,” he said.
You pointed the folded receipt at him. “Careful. In a minute, you might owe me laundry.”
Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “And dinner.”
“And the movie,” you added.
His gaze held yours. “And one night where the loser has to do what the winner says.”
Your pulse jumped.
The words landed differently now that you were sitting beside him on the couch.
Much differently.
You swallowed, but you did not look away.
“Within reason,” you said.
Jack’s expression softened by a fraction. “Within reason.”
For a second, the joke slipped. Not gone. Just quieter.
Jack’s knee brushed yours.
Your folded receipt sat between your fingers.
His folded schedule rested in his hand. Tiny pieces of paper. Ridiculous. Harmless.
Potentially catastrophic.
Jack watched you carefully. “You okay?”
You looked at him. “Do not be sweet to me right now.”
His mouth barely moved. “I’m asking.”
“I know,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours. That made it worse.
You looked down at your receipt. “I’m okay.”
Jack nodded once. “Okay.”
You placed your folded receipt on the cushion between you.
Jack placed his folded schedule beside it.
The two pieces of paper looked absurd there. Like a tiny academic death match. You put your fingers on your receipt. Jack put his fingers on his schedule.
“On three?” you asked.
Jack nodded once. “On three.”
You took a breath. “One.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “Two.”
Your stomach flipped. “Three.”
You both flipped the papers open.
For one second, you only saw numbers. Your score. His score.
Then your brain did the math.
One point.
One.
Single.
Perfect.
Point.
You beat Jack Abbot by one point.
Your mouth fell open.
Jack’s eyes narrowed immediately. “Don’t.”
You looked up at him slowly. “Oh.”
“No,” Jack said.
“Oh, Abbot,” you said.
His jaw shifted. “It was one point.”
You picked up your receipt like it had become a sacred document. “The one point.”
Jack stared at you. “That is not a thing.”
“It is now,” you said.
His mouth flattened. “You’re going to be unbearable.”
You stood from the couch. “I am going to be historical.”
“Historic,” Jack said.
You froze and pointed at him with the receipt. “Losers don’t get to correct winners.”
Jack’s mouth twitched.
You saw it.
That made it worse.
You made a bright, delighted sound and jumped once, score slip clutched in your hand.
“I won,” you said.
Jack leaned back against the couch, arms crossing over his chest. “You did.”
“Against you,” you said.
His brows lifted. “I was there.”
“By one point,” you said.
“Yes,” Jack said.
“The one point,” you said.
Jack closed his eyes for half a second.
So you started dancing.
It was not graceful. It was not rhythmic. It was mostly you bouncing in front of the couch in your socks, waving your score slip like a flag while Jack watched you with a look that made the whole apartment feel warmer.
“I beat Jack Abbot,” you sang under your breath.
Jack opened his eyes. “That is not a song.”
“It is now,” you said.
His mouth curved despite himself. “You’re impossible.”
“I am victorious,” you said, spinning once.
The spin was a mistake.
You nearly clipped your shin on the coffee table. Jack reached out immediately, catching your hip before you could bump into it.
“Careful,” Jack said.
You froze, one hand still in the air, receipt crinkled between your fingers. Then you looked down at his hand on your hip. Then back at him.
“You’re not allowed to tell me to be careful,” you said. “I won.”
Jack’s thumb moved once at your side. His smile softened.
“Yeah,” he said. “You did.”
And there it was. Not teasing. Not competitive. Proud. So proud it almost ruined the whole thing.
Your victory dance faltered.
“Don’t,” you said.
Jack’s brow lifted. “Don’t what?”
You swallowed. “Look at me like that.”
His hand stayed at your hip. “Like what?”
“Like you’re proud of me,” you said.
Jack’s expression did not change.
“I am proud of you,” he said.
Your throat tightened. No. Absolutely not.
You could handle winning. You could handle gloating. You could handle Jack pretending to be devastated because you had beaten him by a single point.
You could not handle him looking at you like that from the couch, morning light on his face, your crumpled score still clutched in your hand.
You looked down at the receipt. “That’s manipulative.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “Being proud of you?”
“Yes,” you said. “I was about to be very mean.”
“You still can be,” Jack said.
“No,” you said. “Now I’ll feel guilty.”
His thumb moved once at your hip. “Good.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You did that on purpose.”
Jack looked at you for one long second.
Still smiling. Still holding your hip. Still looking at you like your joy had done something dangerous to him.
Then his face changed.
Like something had landed before he could stop it.
“I love you,” Jack said.
The apartment went quiet. Completely quiet.
Your breath caught.
Jack went still.
Not like he was taking it back.
Not like he regretted it.
Like he had surprised himself with the timing and nothing else.
Your hand lowered slowly, the receipt crinkling softly at your side.
“What?” you whispered.
Jack’s throat moved. His eyes stayed on yours.
“I love you,” he said again, quieter this time.
Your chest squeezed so hard it almost hurt.
“You’re saying that now?” you asked.
His mouth twitched, faint and helpless. “Apparently.”
“I’m being insufferable,” you said.
“I know,” Jack said.
“I was doing a victory dance,” you said.
“I saw,” Jack said.
“It was a bad victory dance,” you said.
“It was terrible,” Jack said.
A laugh broke out of you, sharp and disbelieving, and your eyes burned at the same time.
Jack’s hand tightened carefully at your hip.
“Sorry,” he said, softer now.
You shook your head quickly. “Don’t apologize.”
His expression steadied. “Okay.”
You looked down at him, your heart beating too hard.
“You love me?” you asked.
Jack’s eyes softened. “Yes.”
Your lips parted, but nothing clever arrived in time to save you.
Jack did not push. He did not ask. He just stayed there, hand warm at your hip, eyes steady on yours, letting the words exist between you.
You stepped closer.
Jack’s breath caught.
You touched the front of his shirt, fingers curling lightly in the fabric.
Then you looked at him.
“I love you too,” you said.
Jack went very still.
Then his hand slid fully around your waist, pulling you down into his lap, and the receipt crumpled between your fingers as he kissed you.
Not carefully.
Not at first.
He kissed you like the words had broken something open in him.
You settled over him and kissed him back, laughing once against his mouth because you were happy.
So happy it felt stupid.
So happy it felt impossible.
Jack pulled back just enough to look at you.
His eyes were darker now.
Softer too.
You lifted the crumpled receipt between you.
“Just to be clear,” you said, breathless, “I still won.”
Jack huffed a laugh.
Then he dropped his forehead briefly to yours.
“I know,” he said.
You smiled. “Say it.”
His mouth curved against yours. “You won.”
“And?” you asked.
Jack pulled back enough to meet your eyes.
“You’re brilliant,” he said.
Your heart tripped.
“And?” you asked, softer this time.
His gaze moved over your face, warm and devastating.
“And I love you,” Jack said.
Oh.
Well.
That was going to be a problem.
A wonderful, terrible, impossible problem.
You swallowed, then forced your chin up because you had a victory to preserve and feelings were not going to ruin your momentum.
“Good,” you said. “Now go fold laundry.”
Jack stared at you.
For one second, nothing happened.
Then his laugh broke free, low and surprised, and you grinned so hard your cheeks hurt.
Jack did, in fact, go fold laundry.
Which was good. It was just. It was fair.
It was also deeply annoying, because he did it competently.
He did not sulk. He did not argue. He did not pretend not to know how to fold a towel, which you personally felt was showing off. He simply gathered the clean clothes from the basket, sat on the couch, and started folding like a man accepting the terms of his defeat with irritating dignity.
You stood in the hallway and watched him for thirty seconds.
Jack looked up from the towel in his hands. “You supervising?”
You leaned one shoulder against the wall. “I’m enjoying my victory.”
His mouth barely moved. “From the hallway?”
You smiled. “I’m deciding how best to use my power.”
Jack’s hands paused around the towel. Only for a second. But you saw it.
His eyes lifted to yours. “Are you?”
You pushed off the wall. “Don’t sound nervous, Abbot.”
Jack went back to folding. “I’m not nervous.”
“You should be,” you said.
Then you turned and walked into your bedroom before he could answer.
You did not close the door all the way.
That was intentional.
You wanted him to know you had left it cracked. You wanted him to sit there on the couch, folding laundry like a responsible adult, knowing you were in your room deciding what to do with him.
That was your right. You had won by one point. The one point. The point, really.
You opened your drawer and found the shirt almost immediately.
His shirt.
The faded navy T-shirt with the cracked lettering from his old battalion medic course.
The one he had given you after the first night you slept together. The one he had told you to keep like either of you had been casual enough for that sentence to survive contact with reality.
You touched the fabric. Soft. Worn. Familiar.
Your confidence wavered for exactly one second.
Then you saw your score slip on the dresser, still crumpled from your victory dance.
Right. No fear. Only victory.
And maybe lace.
You changed before you could talk yourself out of it.
The shirt slipped over your shoulders, loose and soft, falling just low enough to brush the tops of your thighs. The cracked lettering stretched faintly across your chest, faded from years of washing, the navy cotton worn thin in places from use and time and whatever version of Jack had existed before you knew him.
The lacy underwear underneath made the whole thing worse.
Not obvious unless you wanted it to be.
You wanted it to be.
Eventually.
You looked at yourself in the mirror. Then you pointed at your reflection.
“Winner,” you whispered.
It helped. A little. Then you opened the door.
Jack was still on the couch.
Still folding.
Still pretending not to be listening for you.
You knew because his head lifted the second the hinges moved.
Then he stopped.
Completely.
The towel stayed half-folded in his hands.
His eyes moved over you once.
Then again.
Slower.
You leaned against the doorframe and let the moment stretch.
“Problem?” you asked.
Jack’s jaw shifted.
“That’s my shirt,” he said.
You glanced down at yourself. “You told me to keep it.”
His eyes came back to yours.
For one second, the room changed.
Not because of the lace.
Not because of your bare legs.
Because he remembered.
The morning after.
The shirt in his hands.
His voice telling you to keep it like that had not meant anything.
Like either of you had ever been good at that.
Jack set the towel down carefully.
Too carefully.
“I did,” he said.
You swallowed.
Then you forced your mouth to curve, because if you let the moment stay soft too long, you might lose your nerve.
“So technically,” you said, pushing away from the doorframe, “it’s my shirt now.”
Jack’s gaze dropped to the faded lettering.
Then the hem.
Your thighs.
The hint of lace that showed when you moved.
His breath changed.
Barely.
But you heard it.
His voice came lower. “Technically.”
Oh. Good. Very good.
You took one step into the living room. “How’s the laundry coming?”
Jack did not look at the basket. “Fine.”
You tilted your head. “You stopped folding.”
His eyes stayed on yours. “I noticed.”
You clicked your tongue. “That seems inefficient.”
Jack’s mouth barely curved. “You came out here dressed like that to discuss efficiency?”
You widened your eyes. “I came out here to check on your progress.”
His gaze moved over you again. “Did you?”
“Yes,” you said. “And to provide motivation.”
Jack leaned back against the couch.
Slowly.
Dangerously.
The towel stayed abandoned beside him.
“I’m motivated,” he said.
Your pulse jumped.
You tried very hard not to let it show.
You failed.
Jack noticed.
So you leaned down and picked up one of the clean shirts from the basket.
Slowly.
Unnecessarily slowly.
You made sure the hem of his shirt shifted higher when you bent.
Just enough.
Jack went very still.
You straightened and looked at him over your shoulder.
His eyes were on your face.
Very deliberately.
That made you smile.
“Very respectful,” you said.
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Trying.”
You folded the shirt badly and dropped it on the cushion beside him.
“You’re allowed to look,” you said.
His eyes darkened.
“You sure?” he asked.
Your stomach flipped.
Still asking.
Still careful.
Even now.
You nodded. “I’m sure.”
Jack’s gaze dropped.
The hem of his shirt.
Your thighs.
The lace.
Then back to your face.
He looked less composed when his eyes met yours again.
Not broken.
Not yet.
But affected.
You smiled. “There.”
Jack’s brow lifted. “There?”
“You’re getting less smug,” you said.
His mouth barely moved. “You think so?”
“I know so,” you said.
Then you climbed onto the couch beside him.
Not into his lap.
Not yet.
Just close enough that your bare thigh brushed his jeans.
Jack’s hand moved.
Instinctive.
Toward your knee.
You shifted away before he could touch.
Jack stopped.
His eyes lifted slowly.
You smiled at him. “No.”
His brow lifted. “No?”
“You don’t get to touch yet,” you said.
His expression sharpened.
Not upset.
Interested.
Very interested.
“That part of the bet?” Jack asked.
You tucked one leg beneath you and leaned back against the arm of the couch like you had all the time in the world. “It is now.”
Jack looked at you for one long second.
Then he settled back.
Both hands on the couch.
Open.
Visible.
Obedient.
Your stomach flipped so hard it almost ruined your performance.
You swallowed.
Jack noticed that too.
His mouth barely moved. “You okay?”
You pointed at him. “No being sweet. I’m seducing you.”
Jack blinked.
Then his eyes warmed in a way that made your entire plan feel suddenly, terribly fragile.
“You are?” he asked.
You glared. “Do not sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” Jack said.
“You sounded surprised,” you said.
“I sounded interested,” he said.
Oh.
That was unfair.
You sat up straighter. “Well, you should be.”
Jack’s voice stayed steady. “I am.”
The answer came too honest.
You lost your train of thought for half a second.
Which was unacceptable.
You recovered by stretching out along the couch, slow and theatrical, one bare leg extending until your foot brushed his thigh.
Jack’s eyes followed the movement.
This time, he did not pretend not to look.
Good.
You pointed your toes against his leg. “You’re still very controlled.”
His hand flexed once against the cushion. “I’m trying to be respectful.”
You smiled. “I know.”
His gaze stayed on yours. “Is that a problem?”
“Yes,” you said.
Jack’s mouth twitched. “Respect is a problem?”
“Your control is a problem,” you said.
His eyes darkened.
You let your foot drag lightly along his thigh.
Just once.
Jack’s jaw shifted.
You smiled. “I’m trying to break it.”
His hands stayed exactly where they were, but his voice changed.
Lower.
Rougher.
“Careful,” Jack said.
Your pulse jumped.
You sat up slowly, then crawled closer until you were kneeling beside him on the couch.
“See,” you said, touching one finger to the center of his chest, “that would work better if I hadn’t won.”
His eyes dropped to your hand.
Then lifted back to your face.
“You did win,” Jack said.
You nodded solemnly. “I did.”
“By one point,” he said.
You smiled. “The one point.”
His mouth flattened, but the heat in his eyes ruined the effect.
You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.
Not his lips.
Just the corner.
Then his jaw.
Then the spot beneath it that made his fingers curl into the cushion again.
Jack inhaled slowly through his nose.
Your smile widened against his skin.
“There,” you whispered.
Jack’s voice was rough. “There what?”
You kissed beneath his ear. “There you are.”
His whole body went still.
The callback landed.
You felt it.
You pulled back just enough to see his face.
His control was still there.
Of course it was.
Jack Abbot did not fall apart easily.
But it was thinner now.
Drawn tight.
Straining at the edges.
His eyes stayed locked on yours.
“You having fun?” he asked.
You smiled. “So much.”
His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. “Good.”
Your stomach dropped.
That one word still worked.
Even when you were supposed to be in charge.
Especially then, apparently.
Jack saw it.
His smile deepened by a fraction.
You narrowed your eyes. “You are not allowed to weaponize that right now.”
Jack’s brows lifted slightly. “I said one word.”
“You know what you did,” you said.
His eyes stayed on yours. “I know what you’re doing.”
You leaned closer. “Do you?”
His gaze dropped to your mouth. “Trying to make me lose control.”
You touched his jaw. “Is it working?”
Jack did not answer immediately.
That was answer enough.
You smiled.
Then he looked back at you.
Really looked.
“You want controlled,” Jack asked, his voice low, “or honest?”
Your breath caught.
The room went quiet around that question.
His hands were still on the couch.
Still not touching you.
Still obeying the rule you had made because you wanted to drive him wild and had somehow driven yourself there too.
You swallowed.
Then you smiled, because you were brave and victorious and possibly very stupid.
Summary: After Lena decides finals week means you need help too, Pope lets her lead him to the beach, then the store, then your building with a care package he doesn't know how to explain. There are drawings, coffee, colorful pens, snacks, shells, one little pink scalloped shell Pope definitely only picked up because it was there, and one soft kiss on the cheek that he does not know how to survive.
Warnings: slow burn, emotional tension, child grief, complicated family dynamics, caretaking, finals stress, soft hurt/comfort, Pope struggling with feelings, protective Pope, tenderness, emotional vulnerability, cheek kiss, Pope being emotionally wrecked by basic kindness
Author’s Note: This chapter is the emotional payoff to People Need Stuff, and I am unwell. Pope buying coffee was already a problem. Pope remembering the colored pens? Worse. Pope wrapping the pink shell in a napkin because it might break? Absolutely fatal. This is such a quiet chapter, but big for Pope. Not because anyone says anything huge, but because Pope lets himself care out loud in the only way he knows how: coffee, snacks, pens, shells, and standing there while someone thanks him for remembering.
Lena shoved her feet into her sneakers without tying them.
Pope looked down.
“Tie them,” Pope said.
Lena crouched with Soup tucked awkwardly under one arm.
“We need shells first,” Lena said.
Pope paused. “Shells.”
“For finals,” Lena said.
Pope stared at her.
Lena pulled one lace tight.
“She likes shells,” Lena said.
Pope looked toward the front door.
Outside, the sky had started to turn gold at the edges. The store would still be open after.
He should have said they needed useful things. Coffee. Food. Pens. Things that made sense.
Instead, Pope grabbed his keys.
“Beach first,” Pope said.
Lena looked up fast. “Really?”
Pope opened the door.
“Before it gets dark,” Pope said.
The beach was almost empty.
Late sun sat low over the water, turning the wet sand gold in patches. The tide had left thin lines of seaweed behind, little broken shells caught in them like someone had emptied their pockets and walked away.
Lena went ahead with Soup tucked under one arm and a paper bag in the other.
Pope followed two steps behind her.
“Not too close to the water,” Pope said.
Lena stopped before her sneakers touched the darker sand.
“I know,” Lena said.
Pope looked at her feet. Lena looked too. Then she took one careful step back.
Pope said nothing.
That counted as good.
Lena crouched near the tide line and picked up a white shell with a chipped edge.
“This one?” Lena asked.
Pope looked at it. “Yeah.”
Lena put it in the bag.
“She likes scalloped ones best,” Lena said.
Pope’s eyes moved to the water.
“I know,” Pope said.
Lena sifted through the sand with one hand.
“Because they come in colors,” Lena said.
Pope looked down at her. Lena did not look up.
“She said that,” Lena said.
Pope remembered.
Of course he remembered.
You on the beach with Lena beside you, turning a shell in your palm like something small could still deserve attention. Your voice soft. Your hands careful. Lena watching you like you knew a rule about the world she had not learned yet. Scalloped ones are my favorite. They come in all kinds of colors.
Pope looked away.
Lena found another shell.
“This one has stripes,” Lena said.
Pope glanced down. “Good.”
Lena put it in the bag.
They walked a few more feet.
Lena picked up a gray one, then a tan one, then one so small Pope almost told her to leave it until she held it up and said, “This one tried.”
Pope let her keep it.
The light was going fast. He should have turned them around.
Then he saw it.
Half-buried near a strip of seaweed. Small. Scalloped. Pink. Not bright. Soft.
The kind of pink that looked like it would disappear if he held it too hard.
Pope stopped.
Lena turned back. “What?”
Pope bent and picked it up.
The shell sat damp in his palm, ridged beneath his thumb. He stared at it too long. Long enough that Lena came closer.
“That one’s pretty,” Lena said.
Pope closed his fingers around it.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena looked from his hand to his face. “For her?”
Pope should have said it was for the bag. For finals. For Soup’s project. For anything except what it was.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena held the bag open carefully.
Pope did not drop the shell in with the others.
He took a napkin from his pocket, wrapped the pink shell once, then set it inside near the top.
Lena watched him. “That one gets a blanket?”
Pope folded the bag down. “It’ll break.”
Lena nodded like that made perfect sense.
“She’ll be careful,” Lena said.
Pope looked at the bag. Then at the water.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
He did not know why that made his chest hurt.
The grocery store was too bright after the beach.
Lena carried the shell bag against her chest while Pope pushed the cart.
“Coffee,” Pope said.
Lena looked up at him. “For finals?”
“Yeah,” Pope said.
He found the brand you had mentioned once in his living room, half distracted while digging through your tote for a pen. You had laughed after you said it. Something about it being too expensive and probably not worth it.
Pope put the bag in the cart without checking the price.
Lena looked at it.
“She likes that one?” Lena asked.
Pope pushed the cart forward. “Yeah.”
The pens were worse.
There were too many. Black. Blue. Gel. Ballpoint. Fine tip.
Pope stood in front of them until Lena leaned against the cart and sighed.
“She uses colors,” Lena said.
Pope looked down at her.
Lena pointed at a pack. “Like those.”
Pope stared at the pens.
Pink. Purple. Blue. Green. Black.
He remembered your notebook open on his floor. Purple lines under sentences. Pink stars beside things you needed to remember. Blue notes in the margins.
He picked up the pack.
Lena nodded once.
“That one,” Lena said.
Pope put it in the cart.
He did not know why buying pens felt worse than buying coffee.
Coffee kept people awake.
Pens meant he had watched your hands.
Lena added a yellow highlighter before Pope could stop her.
“Yellow helps,” Lena said.
Pope looked at it. “With what?”
Lena shrugged. “Things.”
Pope left it in the cart.
Index cards went in next.
Then peanut butter crackers. Pretzels. A box of granola bars.
Pope stood in the aisle too long, looking at the cart.
Coffee. Pens. Highlighter. Index cards. Food. Shells.
It looked like care.
That irritated him.
Lena hugged Soup tighter. “She needs snacks.”
Pope remembered the unopened granola bar behind the register.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
At checkout, Lena placed the items on the belt one at a time. Very serious. Very careful.
The cashier scanned the coffee. Then the pens. Then the crackers. Then the index cards.
The shell bag stayed tucked under Lena’s arm.
Pope paid in cash.
Outside, the sky had gone darker.
Lena climbed into the truck and set Soup in the seat beside her.
Pope put the grocery bag on the passenger seat.
Lena leaned forward between the seats.
“We need a card,” Lena said.
Pope looked at her in the mirror. “At home.”
“And drawings,” Lena said.
Pope started the truck. “Yeah.”
Lena sat back, satisfied.
Pope looked at the grocery bag. Then at the folded paper bag of shells in Lena’s lap.
The pink one was wrapped in a napkin near the top.
He told himself this was Lena’s idea.
That was true.
It just was not all of it.
At the table, Lena bent over the card with her tongue caught between her teeth.
Soup sat beside the markers like he was supervising.
Pope stood in the kitchen with the grocery bag on the counter and the shell bag folded beside it.
He should have been doing something.
He did not know what.
Lena switched from purple marker to yellow.
“Uncle Pope,” Lena said without looking up.
Pope looked at her.
“What?” Pope asked.
“Stars are good luck,” Lena said.
Pope looked at the card.
Crooked yellow stars covered the front.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena nodded once, satisfied, then went back to drawing.
Pope looked at the grocery bag again.
Coffee. Pens. Highlighter. Index cards. Food.
The pink shell wrapped in a napkin.
It all looked worse under the kitchen light.
More obvious.
He pulled out his phone before he could change his mind.
Your name was still near the top of his messages.
Pope stared at it. Then typed.
Pope: Can we come over?
He looked at the words. Too much. He deleted them.
Pope: Can we stop by?
He stared at that too.
Less.
Still enough.
He sent it.
Lena looked up immediately.
“Did you ask?” Lena asked.
Pope put the phone facedown on the counter.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
“What did she say?” Lena asked.
“Nothing yet,” Pope said.
Lena looked offended by the phone.
“She’s probably doing finals,” Lena said.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena went back to the card.
Pope stayed where he was.
His phone buzzed against the counter. He picked it up too fast.
You: Is everything okay?
Pope looked at the message.
Of course that was your first question.
Because people did not usually ask to come over at night with no reason unless something had happened.
Because with him, something usually had.
He glanced at Lena.
She was drawing a turtle wearing glasses.
Then he looked back at the phone.
Pope: Yeah.
Three dots appeared almost immediately.
Pope watched them.
You: Okay. Yeah, of course.
Pope stared at the screen.
Of course.
Like stopping by was easy.
Like you were tired and busy and still willing to open the door.
Lena capped the yellow marker.
“She said yes?” Lena asked.
Pope put the phone down.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena smiled down at the card.
“She’ll like it,” Lena said.
Pope looked at the grocery bag.
He did not answer.
He did not know what he hoped you would do.
That was not true.
He knew.
That was the problem.
By the time they got back in the truck, Lena had three drawings tucked carefully in a folder.
One was Soup holding a pencil.
One was Soup beside a stack of books bigger than him.
The last one was the zoo.
Lena had drawn herself first, smaller than everyone else, with Soup tucked under one arm. You were beside her, smiling in purple marker. Pope stood on the other side, taller than the trees, with a straight mouth and one hand near Lena’s shoulder.
There was a giraffe in the corner.
There was also a turtle that Lena insisted was not Soup.
“That one lives at the zoo,” Lena said from the back seat.
Pope looked at the drawing in the rearview mirror.
“Okay,” Pope said.
Lena held it carefully so the marker would not smear.
“She’ll know,” Lena said.
Pope looked toward the road.
The grocery bag sat on the passenger seat.
The paper bag of shells sat in Lena’s lap.
The card was tucked on top of everything, folded unevenly, with crooked stars all over the front.
Pope had written one thing on a sticky note.
Eat something.
He had stared at it for too long.
Then he had stuck it to the box of granola bars before he could throw it away.
Pope drove the rest of the way with the streetlights coming on one by one.
Your building was ten minutes away.
Not far.
Still too far.
Still too close.
The outside lights were on when he pulled up.
Your window was lit somewhere above them.
Pope parked at the curb and turned off the engine.
For a second, he did not move.
Lena unbuckled immediately.
Pope looked back.
“Wait,” Pope said.
Lena froze with one hand on the door handle.
“I am,” Lena said.
Pope pulled out his phone.
Your name was already open.
Pope: Outside.
He stared at it for half a second before he sent it.
Lena leaned forward between the seats.
“What did you say?” Lena asked.
Pope put the phone facedown against his thigh.
“Outside,” Pope said.
Lena looked toward the building.
“Will she come down?” Lena asked.
Pope looked at the lit window.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
His phone buzzed.
You: Coming.
One word.
Still, Pope’s chest tightened around it.
Like you were already moving toward them.
Like he had asked and you had answered and that should have been a simple thing.
It was not.
Pope put the phone away and got out first.
He grabbed the grocery bag from the passenger seat and opened Lena’s door.
Lena climbed down with Soup under one arm and the shell bag pressed to her chest.
The folder was tucked carefully under her other arm.
She was trying not to bounce.
She was bad at it.
Pope closed the truck door.
“Slow,” Pope said.
Lena nodded too quickly.
“Slow,” Lena said.
The front door of your building opened before they reached the steps.
You came outside in an oversized sweatshirt and leggings, your hair pulled back badly, a pen still tucked behind your ear.
No pale blue shirt. No counter. No bright shop lights.
Just you.
Tired.
Really tired.
Your eyes moved over Pope first, checking his face, his hands, the set of his shoulders.
Then they went to Lena.
Then the bags.
“Is everything okay?” you asked.
Lena looked up at Pope, waiting.
Pope stood beside her with the grocery bag in his hand and absolutely nothing useful in his mouth.
“Yes,” Pope said.
You looked at him. Then at Lena. Then back at Pope. Your worried expression softened, but not all the way.
“Okay,” you said carefully.
Lena shifted the paper bag higher against her chest. Pope looked down at her. Lena looked up at him. He had no idea how to start.
Lena apparently did.
“We made you something,” Lena said.
Your face changed. “You did?”
Lena nodded quickly, like she had been holding the answer in too long.
“For grown-up school,” Lena said.
Pope looked down at the sidewalk. He still had no idea what to say. You looked at the paper bag tucked against Lena’s chest. Then at the grocery bag in Pope’s hand. Then at Pope. Whatever was left of the worry on your face softened into something else. Something he did not know what to do with.
“For me?” you asked.
Lena nodded again. “Because finals are mean.”
Your mouth parted slightly.
Pope stared at the sidewalk. He should have said something. Anything.
Instead, he held the grocery bag out.
You looked at it. Then at him. Your voice was quieter when you spoke.
“Pope,” you said.
His name in your mouth was worse like that. Soft. Careful. Like you already knew this was not nothing.
“It was Lena’s idea,” Pope said.
Lena looked up at him. “You helped.”
Pope’s jaw tightened. You looked between them. Then you reached for the bag.
“Can I see?” you asked.
You took the grocery bag first.
Pope let go as soon as your fingers closed around the handles.
Too fast.
He knew it.
You noticed.
You did not say anything.
Lena held out the folded card next.
“This first,” Lena said.
You took it carefully.
“Okay,” you said.
The front was covered in crooked stars, purple marker, and a turtle wearing glasses.
Inside, Lena had written in uneven letters.
Good luck on grown-up school.
Soup says eat snack.
For a second, you did not say anything.
Then your hand came up to cover your mouth.
Pope looked back before he could stop himself.
Your eyes were bright. Not crying. Close.
“Oh, Lena,” you said softly.
Lena shifted on her feet.
“He helped,” Lena said.
You looked down at Soup.
“I can tell,” you said. “Very professional.”
Lena smiled, then pushed the folder toward you.
“And these,” Lena said.
You tucked the card carefully against your chest and took the folder.
“More?” you asked.
Lena nodded.
“Drawings,” Lena said.
You opened the folder.
There was Soup holding a pencil, Soup beside a stack of books bigger than him, and one picture of the zoo.
Your fingers paused on the last one.
Pope saw it happen.
The last picture was the zoo.
Lena had drawn herself in the middle with Soup under one arm. You stood beside her in purple marker, smiling wide beneath a crooked sun. Pope stood on Lena’s other side, taller than the trees, with a straight mouth and one hand near Lena’s shoulder.
There was a giraffe in the corner.
There was also a turtle near the bottom that Lena had insisted was not Soup.
“This is the zoo,” you said.
Lena nodded quickly.
“With the giraffe,” Lena said.
“And Soup,” you said.
Lena pointed at the turtle near the bottom.
“That one is not Soup,” Lena said.
You looked closer.
“Oh,” you said. “Different turtle.”
Lena nodded.
“He lives there,” Lena said.
“Important distinction,” you said.
Lena looked pleased that you understood.
You looked at the drawing again, your thumb careful on the edge.
Pope stood very still.
A kid’s picture.
A zoo day.
Three people standing too close to each other under a crooked sun.
“These are going on my fridge,” you said.
Lena’s whole face changed.
“Really?” Lena asked.
“Really,” you said.
Lena looked up at Pope like this was something he needed to hear too.
Pope looked at the grocery bag instead.
You followed his gaze.
“What else is in here?” you asked.
Pope’s jaw tightened.
“Stuff,” Pope said.
Lena bounced once.
“For finals,” Lena said.
You opened the grocery bag.
The coffee came out first.
Your mouth parted.
“Oh,” you said.
Pope stared at the sidewalk.
“You said you liked it,” Pope said.
“I said that once,” you said.
Pope said nothing.
Then came the snacks. Peanut butter crackers. Pretzels. Granola bars.
The sticky note came with them.
Eat something.
Your thumb stopped on the edge of the paper.
Pope looked at the truck. Anywhere but your face.
You were quiet for too long.
Then you gave a small, uneven laugh.
“Subtle,” you said.
Pope glanced at you.
You were smiling down at the note. Not teasing. Not really. Something softer than that.
Lena leaned closer.
“He wrote that,” Lena said.
Pope closed his eyes for half a second.
You looked at him.
“Did he?” you asked.
Lena nodded.
“I wrote the card,” Lena said. “Uncle Pope wrote eat something.”
Your eyes stayed on Pope.
“Good teamwork,” you said.
Pope’s jaw tightened.
“Pens,” Lena said.
You looked back into the bag.
The colorful pack came out next.
Pink. Purple. Blue. Green. Black.
All lined up bright beneath the plastic.
Your thumb moved over them.
Pope watched it before he could stop himself.
You looked at him.
“You got colors,” you said.
Pope’s voice came out rough.
“You use colors,” Pope said.
Your face changed.
The coffee had surprised you.
The note had softened you.
The pens undid you.
You looked down quickly.
Pope pretended not to see.
Lena held up the paper bag.
“We got shells,” Lena said.
You took it from her carefully.
“Shells too?” you asked.
Lena nodded.
“For finals,” Lena said.
You looked inside.
Most of the shells were loose in the bottom of the bag, pale shapes shifting softly against the paper.
But one thing sat tucked near the top.
A folded napkin.
Your fingers paused.
“What’s this?” you asked.
Lena looked at Pope.
Pope said nothing.
You unfolded the napkin carefully.
The little pink scalloped shell sat in the center.
Small. Soft. Ridged.
Pope went very still.
You lifted it out and your breath caught.
Pope looked away too late.
“You found a scalloped one,” you whispered.
Lena leaned closer.
“Uncle Pope found that one,” Lena said.
Pope’s throat worked. Your eyes lifted to his.
“And it’s pink,” you said.
Pope looked at the sidewalk.
“It was there,” Pope said.
Your mouth softened.
“They’re my favorite,” you said.
“I know,” Pope said.
The words came out before he could stop them.
The night went quiet around both of you.
Lena looked between you and Pope, then down at Soup, like maybe Soup knew what was happening better than she did.
You held the shell in your palm for another second.
Then you looked at Lena.
“Can I hug you?” you asked.
Lena blinked. Then she nodded.
“Yes,” Lena said.
You set the pink shell carefully back in the napkin before you crouched and opened your arms.
Lena stepped into them with Soup pressed between both of you.
Your arms wrapped around her gently.
Pope looked away. Then looked back.
He could not help it.
Your cheek rested against Lena’s hair. Lena’s shoulders dropped in small pieces, like her body had been waiting for permission to stop holding itself so tightly.
When Lena pulled back, you brushed one careful hand over her sleeve.
“Thank you,” you said.
Lena nodded once, serious.
Then your eyes lifted to Pope.
The air changed.
He felt it before you said anything.
You stood slowly, the little pink shell held in one hand again.
Pope’s body went tight.
You did not step closer. Not yet.
“Can I hug you?” you asked.
Pope stared at you.
The question landed harder than touch would have. Can I. Not come here. Not it’s fine. Not making the choice for him because you were grateful and soft-eyed and standing too close with a shell he had picked because he remembered what you loved. Can I.
Pope looked at the shell in your palm.
Pink. Small. Breakable.
Then he looked at you.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
His voice came out rough.
You moved slowly. Giving him time. Always giving him time.
Your arms came around him.
Pope went still.
Completely.
Your cheek pressed against his chest, and for one awful second, he did what he always did.
He turned his face away.
Toward the street. Toward the dark. Toward anywhere that was not you.
Then your arms tightened.
Just a little.
Not enough to trap. Not enough to ask for more than he could give. Just enough for him to feel that you meant it.
“Thank you,” you whispered against him.
Pope closed his eyes.
His hands lifted.
Stopped.
Then one settled at your back.
Careful.
Not tight.
Just there.
And without deciding to, without giving himself time to stop it, Pope turned his head back.
Toward you.
His cheek brushed your hair.
Cold night air. Vanilla. Coffee. You.
Your hand tightened once against his back, like you felt the choice in it.
Like it mattered.
Pope swallowed hard.
He had almost kissed you days ago.
He had stopped.
You had let him.
Now you were holding him because he had brought you coffee, colorful pens, and shells in a paper bag.
It was worse than kissing.
Softer.
Harder to defend against.
When you stepped back, you did it slowly. Not like you were afraid he would regret it. Like you wanted to give him time.
Pope missed the contact.
Immediately.
You looked up at him, the pink shell still resting in your palm.
Your eyes were bright. Not crying, but close.
“Thank you,” you said again.
Pope’s hand stayed half-lifted between you for one useless second before he let it drop.
He nodded once.
It was not enough.
It was all he had.
Lena crouched beside the paper bag.
“There’s another one,” Lena said.
You looked down at her.
“Another shell?” you asked.
Lena nodded, already digging carefully through the bag.
“The small one,” Lena said. “It tried.”
You smiled.
“That sounds important,” you said.
Lena kept searching, Soup tucked against her knee.
Pope should have stepped back. He did not.
You looked at him again.
The night felt too quiet. Too close.
Your fingers tightened carefully around the pink shell.
Then you stepped closer.
Pope went still.
You moved slowly enough that he could have stopped you.
He did not.
Your hand touched his arm first.
Light and gentle.
A question.
Then you rose onto your toes and kissed his cheek.
Soft. Quick. Grateful.
Pope closed his eyes.
For one second, he let himself have that.
Just that.
Your mouth left his skin.
You stepped back before he could do anything stupid.
Before he could reach for your wrist.
Before he could turn his head.
Before wanting could get ahead of him.
Pope’s hand flexed once at his side.
You looked down, but not before he saw it. The small, private almost-smile you tried to hide.
“I found it,” Lena said.
Pope looked away. Too fast.
Lena stood with the tiny shell pinched carefully between two fingers.
“This one,” Lena said.
You crouched a little, still holding the pink shell in your palm.
“Oh,” you said softly. “This one did try.”
Lena nodded seriously.
“It’s small,” Lena said.
“But important,” you said.
Pope stared at the sidewalk. His cheek still felt like your mouth.
Lena dropped the tiny shell carefully into your open hand beside the pink one.
You looked down at both of them.
Then, very quietly, you closed your fingers around them.
Lena looked at your closed hand.
“Don’t lose them,” Lena said.
You looked up at her.
“I won’t,” you said.
Lena nodded once, satisfied. Then she looked at the grocery bag.
“Do you have to study now?” Lena asked.
You looked down at her.
“Yeah,” you said. “I probably should.”
Lena nodded seriously.
“You have snacks,” Lena said.
You looked at the bag.
“I do,” you said.
“And coffee,” Lena said.
“And coffee,” you said.
“And pens,” Lena said.
Your mouth softened.
“And pens,” you said.
Lena held Soup up a little.
“And Soup says good luck,” Lena said.
You looked at the turtle.
“Tell Soup thank you,” you said.
Lena turned Soup toward herself.
“She says thank you,” Lena told him.
Pope looked at you.
You were smiling at Lena, the pink shell and the tiny shell still curled safely in your palm.
Then your eyes came back to him, and the smile changed. Not gone. Just quieter.
Pope felt your kiss on his cheek.
One second. Maybe less, but more than enough.
“Thank you again,” you said.
Pope’s jaw shifted.
He wanted to say something.
He did not know what.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
You held his eyes for one more second.
Then you looked down at the shells in your hand.
“I’m going to put these somewhere safe,” you said.
Lena looked relieved.
“Not by the sink,” Lena said.
You blinked.
“Not by the sink,” you agreed.
“They could fall in,” Lena said.
“That would be bad,” you said.
“They don’t swim,” Lena said.
You nodded seriously.
“Right,” you said. “Important safety note.”
Lena hugged Soup against her chest.
Pope watched the corner of your mouth move.
Watched you give Lena something normal again.
Shell safety. Snacks. Coffee. Pens.
Like you had not just kissed his cheek.
You stepped back toward the door, the grocery bag hooked over one arm and the card and drawings held carefully against your chest.
Lena lifted one hand.
“Bye,” Lena said.
You looked at her.
“Bye, Lena,” you said. “Good luck to Soup too.”
Lena looked down at Soup.
“She said good luck,” Lena told him.
Then you looked at Pope.
The whole night seemed to narrow around it.
“Bye, Pope,” you said.
Pope held your eyes.
“Bye,” Pope said.
You went inside.
Pope watched until the door shut behind you.
He stood there for a second longer than he needed to.
The building door stayed closed. Your window was lit somewhere above them.
Lena shifted beside him.
“Uncle Pope,” Lena said.
Pope looked down.
“What?” Pope asked.
Lena held Soup tighter.
“Are we going home now?” Lena asked.
Pope looked once more at the lit window. Then he looked away.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena climbed into the truck with Soup tucked under her arm. Pope opened his door. Lena buckled herself in.
“She liked it,” Lena said.
Pope started the engine.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena looked down at Soup.
“She liked Uncle Pope’s shell,” Lena said.
Pope stared through the windshield.
His cheek still felt warm where your mouth had been.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
He pulled away from the curb with the shape of your hug still on him and the feeling of one soft second he had no idea how to survive.
He had no idea how to put himself back the way he had been.
This time, he was not sure he wanted to.
The house was dark when they got back.
Pope parked in the driveway and turned off the engine.
Lena was half-asleep in the back seat, her head tipped against the side of her car seat, Soup tucked under one arm.
Pope sat there for a second.
The truck ticked softly around them. Lena stirred.
“Are we home?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
She blinked at the house.
“Did she put the shells somewhere safe?” Lena asked.
Pope looked through the windshield. The porch light was still on.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena nodded like that was enough. Pope got out and opened her door.
“Come on,” Pope said.
Lena unbuckled slowly.
Pope reached in to help her down, but she leaned into him more than stepped.
He caught her without thinking. She was warm and heavy with sleep. Pope held still. Lena’s cheek pressed against his shoulder. For one second, he thought about you doing the same thing outside your building.
Your cheek against his chest. Your arms around him. Your mouth on his cheek.
Pope shut that thought down hard.
Too late.
Lena yawned against him.
“Soup’s tired,” she said.
Pope looked at the turtle hanging from her hand.
“Yeah,” he said.
He carried her inside.
Not because she asked. Because she did not. Because her shoes dragged on the floor when he set her down, and she leaned against his leg while he locked the door behind them.
“Shoes,” Pope said.
Lena looked down at her feet like she had never seen shoes before. Pope crouched and untied them himself. Lena watched him with sleepy eyes.
“You’re doing it,” she said.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
“I can do it,” Lena said.
“I know,” Pope said.
He pulled one sneaker off. Then the other. Lena held Soup against her chest.
“She said thank you a lot,” Lena said.
Pope set the shoes by the door. “Yeah.”
“That means she liked it,” Lena said.
Pope stood. “Yeah.”
Lena looked up at him.
“You keep saying yeah,” she said.
Pope looked at her. Lena looked back. His mouth almost curved.
“Bed,” Pope said.
Lena sighed like he had asked her to carry the couch.
“Fine,” she said.
Pope followed her down the hall. She brushed her teeth with one hand while Soup sat on the counter facing the sink. Pope stood in the doorway and watched the hallway behind him. Then the mirror. Then Lena. Then the hallway again.
He still felt the warmth of your lips on his cheek.
He turned away from the mirror.
Lena spit into the sink. “Done.”
Pope checked.
“Again,” he said.
Lena groaned.
“You always say again,” she said.
“Because you always miss the back,” Pope said.
Lena looked offended, but she brushed again.
When she climbed into bed, she put Soup beside Bunny instead of under her arm. Pope noticed.
“Soup there?” he asked.
Lena looked at the turtle. “He’s tired.”
Pope nodded once. He turned on the hall light. Cracked the door. Bunny on the outside. Soup beside her shoulder. Every rule in place. Lena looked at him through the dark.
“Uncle Pope,” she said.
Pope stopped with one hand on the door.
“What?” he asked.
“Are we going to see her again?” Lena asked.
Pope’s throat worked once.
He thought of your hand around the shells.
Your mouth soft on his skin.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena’s eyes drifted shut.
“Good,” she whispered.
Pope stood there until her breathing evened out. Then he stepped into the hall and pulled the door almost closed. Not all the way. Never all the way.
He went back to the living room.
The house was quiet. Not empty. Not exactly. But quiet in a way that made everything louder.
The refrigerator. The ocean outside. His own breathing.
Pope stood near the couch and stared at nothing.
He should have regretted it.
That was the thing.
He should have regretted standing there too long.
He should have regretted letting you step close.
He should have regretted closing his eyes when your mouth touched his cheek.
He should have regretted wanting more with Lena three feet away and the whole world still ugly and complicated around them.
He did not.
That scared him more than regret would have.
His cheek still felt like your mouth.
Soft. Quick. Grateful.
Not enough to be a mistake.
Too much to be nothing.
His phone buzzed. Pope looked down. Your name was on the screen.
For a second, he did not move. Then he picked it up.
You had sent a picture.
Your textbook was open on your table. The coffee sat beside it in a mug. One granola bar wrapper was torn open near your notebook. The colorful pens were scattered across the page, already in use.
And beside the corner of the book, safe on a folded napkin, sat the pink shell and the tiny one that tried.
Pope stared at the picture.
Then the message under it.
You: Study fuel acquired.
Another came through.
You: Please tell Lena her card made the fridge.
Then another.
You: And thank you.
Pope looked at the picture again.
The shells. The pens. The open snack. You had eaten something.
His chest hurt.
He did not know what to do with that either. Pope typed.
Pope: Yeah.
He stared at it. Too small. Again. He sent it anyway.
Then he walked back down the hall. Lena was almost asleep when he opened the door wider. She blinked at him.
“What?” she whispered.
Pope held up the phone.
“Picture,” he said.
Lena pushed herself up on one elbow.
Pope stepped closer and turned the screen toward her.
Lena squinted.
“That’s our pens,” she said.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
“And the snack,” Lena said.
Pope nodded once. “Yeah.”
“She ate it,” Lena said.
“Yeah,” he said again.
Lena’s eyes moved to the folded napkin.
“The shells,” she whispered.
Pope nodded.
“She kept them safe,” Lena said.
Pope looked at the picture.
“Yeah,” he said.
Lena looked at the next picture when he swiped. Her card and drawings were on your fridge. The zoo picture was in the middle. You had put it where anyone could see it. Lena went very still. Pope watched her face change in the blue light of the phone.
“She put it up,” Lena whispered.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena stared at the screen. “On the fridge.”
Pope nodded again. “Yeah.”
“She really did,” Lena said.
Pope looked at the picture again.
You had put Lena’s drawing on your fridge. You had kept the shells safe. You had eaten the food.
You had kissed his cheek.
Pope locked the phone before that thought could show on his face. Lena settled back down slowly.
“I told you she’d like it,” she said.
Pope slipped the phone into his pocket.
“Yeah,” he said.
Lena’s eyes closed.
“You say yeah too much,” she mumbled.
Pope stood beside her bed.
This time, his mouth moved. Almost a smile.
“Go to sleep,” he said.
Lena did.
Pope went back to the living room and sat on the edge of the couch.
He pulled out his phone again. Your last message sat there.
And thank you.
Pope stared at it until the words stopped looking like words. Then he typed.
Pope: Lena likes the fridge.
He sent it.
Your reply came a minute later.
You: I like the fridge too.
Pope read it once. Twice. Then another message appeared.
You: Now go to bed, both of you.
Pope’s thumb hovered over the screen.
There were things he could say. There were things he should not say. There was your kiss on his cheek outside your building, sitting between every word like a lit match. He typed nothing. Then, finally:
Pope: Yeah.
He put the phone facedown on the couch beside him.
The house stayed quiet around him. The hall light stayed on. The door stayed cracked. Lena slept. Soup kept watch.
And somewhere across town, you were awake with his shell beside your notes.
Pope leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and pressed both hands over his mouth.
Like that could make him stop feeling your lips on his cheek.
It did not.
Pope did not sleep much.
He slept some.
Maybe.
Enough that the house went soft and gray around the edges with early morning light. Enough that his head dipped forward once on the couch before he jerked awake with his heart too high in his throat. The phone was still facedown beside him. He did not touch it. Then he did. No new messages. Pope stared at the screen anyway. Your last one was still there.
He should have put the phone down.
Instead, he opened the picture again.
Textbook. Coffee. Open granola bar. Colored pens. Two shells on a folded napkin.
His shell.
Pope stared at it until the sky outside the front windows started to lighten. Then he locked the phone and stood. The house was quiet. The kind of quiet that came before Lena woke up and started asking questions he did not know how to answer.
Pope went to the kitchen.
He made coffee.
He drank half of it standing at the counter.
He could still feel the brush of your lips against his skin.
He hated that.
He did not hate it.
That was the problem.
The hall floor creaked behind him.
Pope turned.
Lena stood in the doorway with her hair smashed on one side and Soup tucked under her arm.
She squinted at him.
“You’re awake,” Lena said.
Pope looked at the coffee pot.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena padded into the kitchen. “Did you sleep?”
Pope picked up his mug.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena looked at him. Then at the couch. Then back at him.
“No, you didn’t,” she said.
Pope stared at her. Lena stared back. She was getting too good at that.
“Breakfast,” Pope said.
Lena climbed into a chair at the table. “Toast?”
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena set Soup on the table facing him. Pope put two slices in the toaster. Lena rested her chin on her hand.
“Can we see the fridge picture again?” she asked.
Pope went still for half a second. Then he reached for his phone. He opened the picture and handed it to her. Lena held it carefully with both hands.
“She put the zoo one in the middle,” Lena said.
Pope leaned against the counter.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
“That means she liked that one best,” Lena said.
Pope looked at the phone in her hands.
Maybe.
Maybe it meant you liked the purple marker.
Maybe it meant you knew Lena would care where it went.
Maybe it meant nothing.
Maybe Pope was the only idiot in the house trying to make every little thing mean more than it should.
“Maybe,” Pope said.
Lena zoomed in by accident. Your fridge filled the screen. The crooked sun. The giraffe. Pope’s straight mouth in marker. His hand near Lena’s shoulder. Lena frowned at the drawing.
“I made you too tall,” she said.
Pope looked at her. “What?”
Lena pointed at the screen. “You’re taller than the trees.”
Pope glanced at the picture.
“Trees are short,” he said.
Lena looked up at him. “No, they’re not.”
Pope took the toast from the toaster.
“These ones are,” he said.
Lena considered that. Then she nodded once.
“Okay,” she said.
Pope set the toast on a plate and put it in front of her. Lena picked up one piece and took a bite. She chewed. Then she looked at him.
“Are you weird because of the shell?” she asked.
Pope’s hand stopped on the back of the chair.
“No,” he said.
Lena kept looking at him. Pope looked back. Lena took another bite of toast.
“Okay,” she said.
It was not an okay that meant she believed him.
Pope sat down across from her because standing suddenly felt worse.
Lena pushed the phone back toward him.
“Can we see her today?” she asked.
Pope picked up the phone but did not look at it. “She has finals.”
Lena frowned. “All day?”
“Probably,” Pope said.
“That’s too many finals,” Lena said.
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena looked down at Soup.
“Maybe she can use the pens,” she said.
Pope thought about your hand moving over the plastic pack.
Your voice. You got colors.
His own answer. You use colors.
He looked at the coffee in his mug.
“Yeah,” he said.
Lena sighed.
“You really do say yeah too much,” she said.
Pope looked at her. Lena looked back, completely serious. His mouth curved slightly. Then his phone buzzed in his hand. Pope looked down too fast. Lena noticed.
Your name was on the screen.
Pope did not open it right away. Lena leaned forward.
“Is it her?” she asked.
Pope looked at the message preview.
You: Study fuel helped.
Another message came through.
You: I’m pretty busy this week, but I hope I can see you both after finals.
Pope read it once. Then again.
You both.
Not just Lena.
Both.
Lena stretched forward in her chair.
“What did she say?” she asked.
Pope turned the phone slightly away.
“She’s busy,” he said.
Lena frowned. “With finals?”
“Yeah,” Pope said.
Lena looked down at Soup sitting beside her plate.
“Still?” she asked.
“Still,” he said.
Lena picked at the edge of her toast. “But after?”
Pope stared at the screen.
I hope I can see you both after finals.
“After,” Pope said.
Lena nodded once, satisfied. Pope typed with one thumb.
Pope: Okay.
He stared at it. Then he added:
Pope: Good luck.
He looked at the two words for too long. They were not much. Still more than he usually gave. He sent them before he could delete them. Your reply came a minute later.
You: Thank you.
Pope looked at the words.
Small. Simple. Still enough to make his chest tight.
Lena leaned forward.
“What did you say?” she asked.
Pope put the phone facedown on the table.
“Eat,” he said.
Lena narrowed her eyes.
“That’s not what I asked,” she said.
Pope looked at her. Lena looked back. Then she took a bite of toast like she was letting him get away with it.
