sad girl

Jack Abbot was known as a lot of things.

He didn’t let most of them bother him, ignored the whispers of him being too strict of a boss that were somehow paired with criticisms of being too lax. The harmless quips about his dangerous hobbies that still burrowed their way deep into his chest or the occasional judgmental look he got from people when his leg caught on a step or stiffened behind him.

There was the care taking side of him, giving a granola bar in passing to a med student so exhausted they could barely stand and making sure to remind Robby everyday in the most casual way possible that he cared about him.

He could be cynical and sarcastic, a little hard to understand and almost impossible to gauge the mood of on those days he needed to end up on the roof to even attempt at grounding himself.

Jack was a veteran, a night shift attending, a friend and an enemy.

But he had absolutely no plans of ever being known as a widower.

There had been a new label for him as he entered his thirties, proudly wearing the badge of husband and announcing it to anybody who was around to listen.

“I’m just dropping off her lunch, I’m her husband.”

“My wife loves this flavor, I’m glad you keep it in stock.”

“Sorry I can’t tonight, it’s me and my wife’s anniversary.”

Jack was well aware that he was the luckiest man on earth to have married you.

It was straight out of a fairy tale and went against every single pessimistic bone in his body, truly love at first sight for the both of you.

He’d fallen ridiculously hard for you the moment you’d walked past him on campus, scarf around your neck and a pretty smile on your face as you waved at your friends across the field. You were warmth personified for him and he’d been so distracted, he took a football straight to the face.

Then you were suddenly a lot closer, kneeling down on the grass despite the fact you were wearing pretty white tights, face full of concern as your gloved hands hovered over his nose that was most certainly bleeding.

You’d gotten upset immediately and asked him over and over again if he was alright while he stared dumbly up at you from his place on the ground, only snapping out of it when you gasped that it must be broken.

He had interrupted and finally gotten the courage to speak, telling you he’s a med student and he didn’t think it was that severe, and nearly falling flat onto his back when your eyes sparked with interest.

You were inseparable from the moment you met each other, abandoning your friends who watched curiously as you helped him up and walked with him to the nearest corner store. You stood a little too close for his sanity after buying a cold drink, encouraging him to press it lightly to his face and giving him a pleased smile when he did so.

Jack decided that for the rest of his life he would do anything in his power to see you smile like that every day.

He was in your dorm room almost nightly with stacks of books between you, ankles tangling under library tables, and soft giggles leaving you as you leaned against his shoulder in the courtyard

There was no point in pretending to be friends for more than a few weeks, unable to keep your hands or eyes off of each other long enough for it to be believable. Everyone around you knew exactly what it was and so did the two of you, blushing softly when your friends teased you for being completely smitten but making no move to deny it.

Jack asked you to be his girlfriend after the first snow fall of the school year.

He had made a plan in his head that was far more romantic, including candles and cheesy rose petals his roommate had told him would definitely do the trick. He ended up just blurting it out outside of your dorm building, unable to resist when he saw how the cold had made the tip of your nose turn pink and the way your eyes shone as you wished him a goodnight.

There was a small disbelieving part of him that kept waiting for the honeymoon phase to end, but it never did.

Not when he felt like he needed a change in his career and started to get addicted to a more dangerous feeling, not even when he enlisted and you had to spend some excruciating time apart.

He had felt like the biggest idiot in the world most nights during that time, alone in his tent as he flipped through letters you’d sent him or when he was out in the field and kissing one of the many photos of you he kept in his uniform.

Jack had wrote you over a thousand times and in most of his writings, he ended up apologizing.

He’d tell you that he didn’t know why he needed to chase this thrill and he couldn’t really explain why his skin would start to crawl when he was safe for too long. He knew he was an adrenaline junkie and it wasn’t just an ironic phrase when he was actually in battle, your face the last thing he knew he would remember if anything happened to him.

Along with the heavy guilt of leaving you alone, waiting for another letter that wouldn’t come.

It kept him going every single day and he always reminded you that he would understand if you left him. There would be no anger if you didn’t want to spend the next few years loving a man you couldn’t see, couldn’t touch or hold on the hard nights.

Once, he had written to you saying that he almost hoped you’d meet somebody else while he was away. He had went on and on for too many pages about how he would be a happy man to know you were out there with somebody who could love you in a less painful way.

You’d gone silent for a week after that and it was the worst week of his entire life, unable to sleep or eat properly as the regret hit him hard.

He knew then, if he hadn’t already before, that he could never lose you. He couldn’t stomach you walking away from him or leaving you on this earth after he’d left it far too early.

Jack finally heard from you on the ninth day but it wasn’t through a letter.

You had somehow reached out to one of his higher ups and arranged a phone call, making up a lie that you had a family emergency just so he could hear your voice for the first time in many painful months. He’d tried his best not to cry in the office, face still dusty from the field training exercise he’d been yanked out of.

He had been terrified when they told him somebody was on the phone for him, fearing the worst.

You’d wiped the fear right out of him when you softly laughed and told him to make sure he kept his best poker face before launching into a full scale scolding for him ever even thinking about you leaving him for somebody else. He sat there and tried to hide a smile as you berated the mere suggestion, ending the brief phone call with a deep reminder of how much you loved him.

Jack knew that when the next rotation of sign ups came along, his name wouldn’t be on the list.

He was happy for the experience, the opportunity to further his degree in such a unique form of medicine, but he wouldn’t spend a minute longer away from you than he had to.

The bliss of knowing he’d come home to you shortly was ended about as quick as it arrived.

Not too long after your impromptu phone call, they were sent back out and things moved so fast from there on out that Jack couldn’t even remember the events that led up the accident.

He remembered lots of noise and then lots of warmth, yelling voices around him and the feeling of his limp body being dragged through trees and dirt. Then came the pain, both from his lower section and from his throat as he screamed it raw all the way back to the medical tent.

The final thing Jack remembered was just as he had thought his last moments would be like.

Your voice and your smile as you looked at him back in the college field, so far removed from the terror and pain of his current situation. You’d never have to experience a trauma like this as long as he could help it but he was scared the pain you’d feel when you got the call he died could almost be worse.

Jack laid there stiffly on the small bed, bleeding out on the dirty white sheets, and still only could think about you and how he hoped you weren’t alone when the phone rang.

It felt like years passed before his eyes opened again and now he was certain he had died because there you were.

Sitting in a chair next to his bedside with your head in your folded arms, tapping your foot anxiously and lightly shaking his bed from the movement. You were sniffing harshly like you’d just finished crying, whispering something under your breath that he thought sounded like a prayer despite knowing you weren’t religious.

He wasn’t surprised that if heaven existed his would start with you at the gates.

He only startled when he went to touch your hair lightly, straining his stiff fingers to try and even feel a strand, and your body shot up in surprise. Your eyes were wide with confusion and then your entire frame sagged in relief before you were standing up abruptly and starting to scream for the doctors.

The understanding that he wasn’t dreaming, wasn’t dead or in some sort of afterlife, only hit him when he saw you start to collapse with sobs.

Because Jack knew that you would never feel any type of sadness in any perfect reality he could imagine.

He didn’t necessarily process anything the doctors were saying to him now that he was awake, words about his amputation and what the healing timeline would look like going right past him as he stared at your face. You were holding his hand then, sending him gentle warning looks that were silently telling him to listen properly.

All Jack could focus on was you, the fact your hair was a little shorter now and your hands were still shaking as you squeezed his even tighter when the doctors started talking about his limitations.

There was still a lack of denial about his new disability until it started to affect your relationship.

Jack didn’t see himself as a traditional man in any sense, he didn’t feel like he needed to do things for you out of necessity but simply because you were the love of his life and he was devoted to you.

He didn’t realize how many little things he had taken for granted until he finally was discharged from the hospital and was forced to adjust to his new normal.

There was no more carrying you through the doorway after a wine filled date, racing with you along the shore of the beach and listening to you giggle when he caught you by the waist and brought you into the water.

It was a painful build of all the small habits he no longer could follow, an inability to take care of you in the ways he felt like he had promised you when you started to build your life together.

Jack felt like he was holding it together fairly well despite the obvious fact he was pulling away from you without meaning to.

He was spending more nights in his study as he prepared to go back to a more routine level of schooling, determined to live life as normal as possible despite the ache in his leg when he sat at his desk for too long and the dizziness his medications would occasionally cause.

There was the times he woke up with nightmares so realistic he’d shoot up in bed, sweat around his shirt collar and his chest heaving so harshly it would cause you to stir too. You’d wake up with him and not sleep again until he was able to, even if it took hours before he could remind himself he was safe in your bedroom.

So he started to sleep on the couch more often than not.

Jack could see the toll it was taking on you but he couldn’t get himself to let you get too close, scared you’d see what your future was going to look like now and decide it wasn’t worth it anymore.

He finally broke down one random weekday in the middle of a chilly fall, similar weather to the first time you’d met all those years ago.

You’d been having car troubles for weeks apparently and keeping it hidden from him, softly whispering that you didn’t want to burden him with any more bills. The hospital was sending letters nonstop, you both had debt from your schooling, and his disability checks were barely enough to cover rent and the groceries.

He didn’t even become aware of the problem until you stormed back in the house only a few minutes after you’d left it, tears running down your cheeks as you gasped and cried to him that your car wouldn’t start.

You had an important meeting at work that would undoubtedly land you a promotion, one that could really help you both live more comfortably. You’d been talking about it for weeks, preparing yourself endlessly and going through your presentation over and over with him each night.

Jack hadn’t hesitated to get up on his crutches and head outside with you, barely throwing on a coat before he was settling himself in the drivers seat of his truck and being hit with the realization that he hadn’t driven since losing his leg.

It was muscle memory to jump at the opportunity to help you, such a simple solution of just getting in his truck and bringing you to work before you were late.

You both sat there in silence, windows still wet from the morning dew and his chest beginning to heave painfully.

Jack drove a manual truck, something he hadn’t even considered since he’d been holing himself up in the house. You had no idea how to drive a stick shift and, not for the first time since his accident, he felt utterly useless in your relationship.

He’d cried for the first time since he had lost his leg in the quiet car, not because of the pain or because his entire life had changed forever, but because of the sole fact he had let you down again.

The therapy started after that, both physical and mental.

You’d climbed into his lap that day and did your best to reassure him that you didn’t love him any less, telling him that you would be with him for eternity in any circumstance, but your words hadn’t been enough and you both knew that.

Things were better after that, not perfect, but Jack was learning to cope with his grief surrounding his own body and you were able to get some pointers on how to be there for him in the littlest ways.

He didn’t think you needed any advice because you were as perfect as always in his eyes, spending extra time out in the yard with him the first fall he tried to rake the leaves again and softly massaging his stump and scars in a warm bath after a bad flare up.

You were still the love of his life and you were the sole reason he was able to continue it after going through something so awful.

There was a light at the end of his tunnel that he would chase forever, even if it was a little slower than he had planned for. You’d never wavered or made him doubt your love for him despite how much he thought he didn’t deserve it.

Jack and you got through the next few years with alot of effort and patience, feeling like you could finally take a deep breath when he graduated and then getting a clean start when he was relocating to Pittsburgh.

By then, his leg was a secondary thought to him despite his disability still being a big part of his story. He didn’t let it define him and he barely felt the need to inform people about it, feeling a surge of confidence as he entered his thirties and got to become more than the guy who had lost his leg.

Becoming your husband only made that so much easier.

Jack had never wanted to be anything more and he would have married you the day he met you if you were willing but he selfishly needed it to be perfect.

He didn’t want you to swear yourself to a broken man or one still doing the work to build a life for the two of you, he wanted you to hear him ask that question and be able to look around and see the stability around you.

And Jack was stable.

The house you two bought was beautiful with enough space to grow your family when you were ready, a topic you were talking about more and more through the years. You loved your job and felt secure and happy in your career and both of you had a perfectly healthy balance of work and life.

There was no extra shifts picked up or late nights that left your feet dragging as you came home because you prioritized each other.

Jack would get a wave of pride over him whenever somebody would ask him the secret to such a happy marriage, especially since he didn’t really have one to offer them.

He could only smile and pull you closer while telling them that marrying your best friend made it that much easier.

You were his soulmate, the only woman he had ever loved and the only one he needed for the rest of his life.

The rest of the world seemed to love you just as much as he did which was no surprise. Showing you off was his favorite thing to do, bringing you to every work function possible and beaming as he watched his coworkers automatically fall for your pretty smile and gentle nature.

He’d get pats on his back from Robby as he told him he was a lucky man and soft nods of approval from Dana who had a knowing gleam in her eye.

You’d sneak off with him to the roof of the hospital on his lunch breaks, the nurses affectionately rolling their eyes when they saw the two of you giggling together like teenagers ditching class.

Sometimes he still felt like the bumbling idiot back in the courtyard, so thrown by your beauty that he let himself get knocked to the ground.

You would lean against him as the wind blew your hair back, looking out at the city you’d made your home together with a fond look.

He could tell you were happy and that made it so much more magical for him.

Jack sometimes felt like he was bragging when he’d talk about your life together, his therapist even occasionally pushed him to really search deep down and find something to complain about.

She’d tell him it was healthy for marriages to have issues, that small disagreements didn’t mean you loved each other less. Jack would earnestly confess to her that he couldn’t think of a single thing he disliked about you.

You didn’t fight over money or snap at each other after a hard shift, there was no chance of infidelity or even wandering eyes, and your date nights were more frequent than not.

Your relationship didn’t grow stale and you didn’t get sick of each other, there was absolutely no settling and you hadn’t made adjustments to yourselves individually to fit better as a pair.

You just did naturally.

He was forty five the first time he noticed anything was changing about you.

There was lot of nights he spent in recent years thinking about how stupid he was, blaming himself for not realizing something was wrong before it was too late to stop it.

He’d sit in an empty exam room for hours and read through your old files, look at bloodwork papers and medication lists and try to figure out why he had missed the signs. He blamed himself more than anything despite the people around him begging him not to go down that dark path.

Jack was a doctor, and a fucking good one.

So how was it possible you’d gotten so sick right under his nose?

It was slow at first and then a suddenly drop off towards the end.

You’d complained about being tired more than usual so Jack pulled back on your date nights out and started to keep them centered around your house, movie marathons on the couch and home made dinners he spent hours perfecting.

Then you would drift off in the middle of conversations, still present and alert but your eyes a little dazed like you weren’t fully there.

He’d stroke your hand softly and say your name in a gentle whisper until your gaze went back to his face, a little confused and sometimes panicked before he quietly repeated himself.

You woke up and threw up once at the end of summer and Jack had been stupid enough to believe you were pregnant. You both were excited at the idea, rushing to the nearest pharmacy to pick up a handful of pregnancy test and standing anxiously in the bathroom as you waited for the results.

Your shoulders had slumped with disappointment when they all came out as negative and he’d been halfway through reassuring you that you could keep trying when you threw up again.

So you changed your diets together.

You started to eat healthier and really stretch out your walks so you could stay active. You’d laugh together about your old age, smiling in the bathroom mirror as you brushed your teeth side by side and counted your ash colored hairs.

You’d told him in bed one night how much you loved growing old with him. He stayed silent as he listened to you whisper about how happy it made you, how you weren’t at all scared of what it might bring if it meant you got to be together through it.

Jack couldn’t stop thinking about that exact conversation at your funeral.

He’d told himself beforehand that he wasn’t going to look at you, lying in that traditional brown casket that made his stomach turn. He wasn’t sure he’d even make it into the building, was certain he’d run out to throw up before the service began.

Robby had been there through it, hand tight on his forearm whenever he shifted like he was planning to leave and a supportive glance when he would start to sob randomly through the kind words people said about you.

Which there was only ever kind words.

His feet had naturally led him up to the front of the room after most people had already filed out of the doors. He knew Robby was still there, somewhere behind him and most likely keeping a watchful eye as Jack stared down at you.

The first thing he thought was that you had significantly less gray hairs than him.

Then he wondered if you would have made fun of him for that, probably kissed his softly on the cheek as you ran your fingers through his curls like you used to do.

You did it all through your doctor’s appointments, naturally comforting him despite the constant bad news you received.

The treatment wasn’t working. Your body wouldn’t respond to medication the way it was supposed to. You had a lot less time than you thought.

He thought the last one was particularly obnoxious to hear and he had wanted to interrupt and scream at the doctor, tell him that of course this was less time than they thought because you had figured you’d be together forever.

Jack had spent a lot of time thinking about leaving you behind. In his tent out in the middle of battle, when he laid there bleeding out and thought for sure he was dead, and almost every night before sleep when he registered the stiffness in his joints and the wrinkles on his skin.

He’d set up some plans for you just in case, money in different places and insurances on his life you’d scold him about if you knew. He’d talked to Robby and your family and just about anybody he could about making sure you were taken care of after he was gone.

There’d never been a time where he considered you would go before him.

Especially not like this.

With your hair only starting to turn colors and your face so youthful even under the powdery makeup and stiffness of your skin. Jack didn’t actually feel much pain looking down in your casket because he refused to even process that as you.

You’d died the second your eyes had fluttered shut in the hospital bed, holding his hand tightly and whispering that you loved him before you fell asleep. You didn’t wake up again, never kissed him good morning, and you certainly didn’t put yourself in this dress and enter this room.

Jack loved you so completely that most of him died when you did.

He was sure it wasn’t too apparent to the newest rotation of med students that came in only a few months after he lost you.

They saw a man who was short with his words and sarcastic, harsh when he was tired and so closed off he almost felt impenetrable. He was suddenly the boss you had to desperately seek approval from and the no nonsense type of doctor he had hated during his first few years of residency.

There was no comparison they could make but he could tell it was hurting the people around him.

Robby especially, who only knew the version of Jack that was loved by you.

The Jack that came to work each day with a lipstick stain on his cheek accompanied by a bright smile, a lunchbox full of love notes and cheesy heart shaped fruit you’d cut up for him. They remembered the Jack that paced himself during his shift to make sure he had energy for your dates and took long breaks when you stopped by to visit just so he could sneak a few deep kisses in before you’d go.

Your shared friends and conjoined families had no choice but to grieve both of you.

Jack buried you in the ground and then buried himself in his work to the point of exhaustion, picking up dangerous hobbies and neglecting his health.

He’d find himself up on that roof top most nights, both trying to relive those days you’d sneak off together and also trying to get as close to you as he possibly could. He wasn’t sure if that meant figuratively or if by putting himself on the other side of the railing and letting himself close his eyes and wait for a sign he should fall away from it.

You’d be furious with him if he did anything to himself so he didn’t but he thought about it almost constantly.

It was almost passive, just the lingering belief that he would be better off.

He’d be with you and that was all he wanted.

There was no room for anything else in his head, a constant rotation of what you would have done or said if you were here and then the pain when he had to remember over and over again that you weren’t.

He sold your house, far below its actual value and that was even tougher considering it was priceless to him. He figured if he didn’t get out of it then he would end up doing something drastic like burning it down just to escape the scent of you and the memories bouncing off the walls.

He could hear your laughter when he passed the living room and feel your eyes on him when he ate dinner alone, the echoes of dishes clanking as you bumped your hip against his teasingly and your shoes still sitting by the door.

Your toothbrush was dried out on the sinks countertop and your soap bottles hadn’t gone down an inch, unfinished laundry still sitting down there dirty in your basket and the last carton of milk you’d bought getting more and more rotten by the day.

Jack gave your car to your nephew next and then cried his entire drive home, pulling over in some random parking lot and then punching the buttons off his radio when a song you used to hum came through the speakers.

He’d gotten out of his truck and left it there, crooked and barely between the lines as he limped the six miles back home. It was dark by the time he made it and his leg hurt so bad he was positive it was bleeding but he couldn’t be bothered to check or take care of himself, throwing his aching body and heart down on the couch.

Robby had eyed him harshly the next day, the cuts on his knuckles and the obvious discomfort in the way he moved despite his shift not even starting yet.

It got a little easier over the years, bad habits sticking and personality shifting in the way someone’s did when they went through something horrible.

Jack Abbot was known as a lot of things.

But before his newfound labels, he was a romantic and half of a perfect relationship. He was a partner, a caring friend and the type of guy you could call whenever you needed a shoulder (or two considering you’d always be a few steps behind him).

Jack was a husband long before he was a widower.

You should've known something was amiss with all the muttered pet names, sly touches when no one else was looking, and compliments toward your dresses when all he actually seemed able to focus on were your physical assets. It made your hair prickle on occasion, but you had been naïve—of the innocent belief that no one would be able to climb so far if they were corrupt; dirty. In the end, that's exactly why he managed such a feat.

Makes things easier when you have the right people paid off or indebted to you, turns out.

"Thought I was the only one here," Charlie remarks from behind you.

Turning this way and that, you glance over your shoulder and study the sight of the deputy chief casually leaned against the doorway of his office with crossed arms and a devious smile painted across his lips. Pushing off it, he stalks toward you with steady strides; his heavy department-issued boots thumping across polished tiles. "Pulling a late one, huh?"

You turn back to the illuminated desktop in front of you and blink away the blurriness overtaking your tired eyes. "Just trying to finish a few things up," you explain quietly.

Dragging over a chair from the desk across from yours, the wooden legs scrape across the floor like nails on a chalkboard. You grit your teeth until he finally spins it around and straddles the back of it.

"My girl," he purrs while sliding a palm along the curve of your neck. "Working hard for her chief. Knew I made the right choice when I hand-picked you."

You force a wavering smile and continue typing.

Massaging the sides of your neck with his fingertips, he speaks again. "You like working under me?" Charlie inquires with tilted lips and darkling eyes.

You swallow. "I do."

He hums in satisfaction. "Hell of a lot better than the Traffic Division," he rumbles. "Nice desk right by my corner office," he continues while sliding his hand lower, to your shoulder. "Breaks. Hour long lunch."

He stands and you mistakenly hit an incorrect key.

Coming round to stand behind you, he plants each of his calloused palms atop your tensed shoulders. Bearing down and kneading knotted muscles from you being hunched over all day, he keeps talking. "Holiday bonus." He leans down close to the shell of your ear. "Had to pull a few strings to get the last one on your paycheck, so I hope you appreciate my efforts."

"I-I do," you stutter.

With every violent coronary contraction that thumps between your breasts, your breathing grows more shallow. You should've left along with everyone else hours ago. The work constantly flows; it's never-ending. As such, it could've waited until morning.

"Thank you," you tack on quickly.

"Thank you for being polite," he whispers.

"Now, I hope you don't take this as me being greedy," he begins while releasing you to instead flip his previously abandoned chair back around. Seating himself upon it with spread legs, he slaps his palms against his thighs. "But I have been hoping for a little something in return."

Acid roils in your stomach and crawls its way up the back of your throat.

"Sweet young thing that you are, I'd hate to see you fall into the wrong hands," Charlie croons while moving a hand to your thigh. "It can just...be too much to carry sometimes, y'know? All the pressure weighing on me."

With fingers left hovering above the keyboard, you glance down to where he's made contact and watch as he verges closer and closer to your inner thigh.

"I just need a way to relax," he finishes.

"I—I think I should head home now," you whimper while making to grab for your bag.

He clamps down with a pinching squeeze. "Be polite," he growls. "Mind your manners."

Falling back against your chair with stinging tears brimming in your eyes, you consider breaking one of his fingers, or stabbing him in the eye with a sharp, metal letter opener. The first would be no good—he's so much bigger and stronger. You'd never make it to the door.

As for the second... Would anyone believe you if you told them why you had to do it?

He leans in close; close enough for you to inhale the warm, heavy scent of his cologne. "Considering a way out?" Charlie asks quietly.

You remain still.

"Feels rather insulting," he jeers. "Thought you liked me," he finishes with a feigned pout.

You don't justify what he's said with a response. He's like a wolf playing with its food before inevitably chomping down on an artery—every bit of struggle you display only spurs him on all the more.

"I want you to listen to me," he grates while inching closer to the hem of your dress. "You're not going to tell anyone what I'm about to do to you. If you do—look at me!" he suddenly shouts, causing you to shriek in terror.

Jerking your head in his direction, he grips your chin painfully tight to keep you steady. "Eyes on me," Charlie commands while prodding against your panties with his fingertips. "If you think to tell, just remember what kind of power I have. I own this department now. I have other cops, judges, and criminals alike in my back pocket."

He curves a finger and shoves it toward your covered opening. "I'll get you blackballed throughout the entire fucking justice system. And where you've been here for a few years..." he purses his lips and shrugs. "You'll be damned either way. Leave the PD off your resume, and questions'll be asked about such a considerable gap in your work history. Put it on, and they'll be contacting me for a reference."

He tangles his fingers in your hair and tugs your head back. "But don't you think for one second that I'm letting you go anywhere." He cups you over your panties. "This?" Charlie leans in ever closer. "You? Belong to me now."

A quiet sob spills past your lips and he grins. "We have an understanding, sweetheart?"

You nod vigorously.

He releases you and kicks his chair back and sends it skidding across the floor in the direction he took it from. "Good."

Grabbing your upper arm, he wrenches you out of your seat and sends you staggering into his sturdy side before leading you into his office.

"W-What're you—" you try to pull away. "P-Please don't."

"I get what I want," he mutters before dragging you over the threshold and shouldering the door shut behind him.

Shoving you in the direction of his desk, he surveys you with ravenous hunger, teeming in eyes which have bled from brown to black in the lack of lighting. "Why're... Why're you doing this?!" you screech while searching the space for his utility belt.

You need to get his gun!

"I've wanted this for so fucking long," he says huskily before pinning your squirming waist to the edge of the desk. Gripping your chin in the space between his thumb and forefinger, Charlie trails wet, searing kisses up your sensitive neck. "If you fight me, it'll only make things worse for you. So just do as you're told and it'll all be over soon. Got it?"

You begin to sob hysterically. Broken cries interrupted by choking hiccups that get caught in your restricted airway block out the sound of a small fan whirring in the corner and the hum of a computer tower beneath his desk. Your terror is all which remains in this suffocating room.

Grabbing your hips, he situates you atop the desk, then pulls a switchblade from his pocket.

You wail harder.

Shoving your dress up to your stomach, he grabs the waistline of your underwear and slices through the material in one fluid motion on either side. Once he's yanked them free from your bottom, the thin material flutters toward the floor.

"You don't get some cut-and-dry narrative about tonight," he murmurs while planting each of your feet atop the desk to give him plenty of room to work. "One where you call me a monster and claimed I forced myself on you."

Sinking to his knees, Charlie closes his mouth for a moment, then puckers his lips and spits on your exposed cunt. "You're going to come, and then the real fun begins."

Dragging the pad of his thumb through your folds, you buck your hips and wonder what you might accomplish if you went toppling over the desk backwards. If you hit your head, would it be at an end? Would he rush you to the ER? Would you find a shotgun in the space under it and be able to rack a load in time to use it on him?

"Are you clean?"

Interrupted from your deliberations, your brows furrow. "What?"

He circles your clit next. "Are you clean?" he repeats exasperatedly.

Clean? What does he mean clean? You shower every night. What is he—

Oh.

"Yes."

"Thought so," he utters before diving between your legs.

You squeeze your eyes shut when he drags his tongue through your slick folds, and dig your nails into the carved wooden edge of the desk to maintain composure. You refute the warm feeling which blooms between your spread thighs when he sucks on your clit; ignore how your fleshy walls squeeze tightly around his thick fingers when he eases them inside you.

You project from your body and into another room when it begins to respond with rocking hips and moans falling from your lips in an act of betrayal.

Bearing witness to Biblical temptation from afar, you watch through shaded windows as you keep your legs spread like a greedy whore, wanting for more of what he's offering.

If you're so very willing, then maybe this is deserved.

Looping his arms around your thighs, Charlie rests them over his over his shoulders and his face disappears entirely until all you see is a field of silver curls just below your belly. "God," you groan with your head throw back.

Slurping your arousal and smacking his lips against your own second set, your body begins to calm from its earlier erratic state. Circling your sensitive bundle with a speared tongue, Charlie doesn't see fit to stop until your orgasm bursts through you cataclysmically—complete with trembling legs, sweaty skin, and mewling whimpers escaping your mouth as your head spins and your body goes numb from a sense of euphoria.

When he rises, it's with a contained groan and hands planted upon aging joints.

You watch quietly as he pops the shiny tines on his leather belt loose while staring directly between your legs and licking his shimmering lips.

Covering your mouth, you start to cry again. Oh God, what if it makes him angry? "I'm—" you try to muffle yourself. "'M sorry," you whimper while dipping your chin.

"Don't be," he says while swiping away a salty tear with the pad of his thumb. He smiles affectionately. "I want you to."

Planting a hand against your shoulder, Charlie pushes you back. Before you can react, he shoves his cock inside you with a single thrust.

At some point—rather, after you began slapping and kicking him in protest of your own assault—he pulled you off the desk, flipped you around, and began pounding into you from behind. That was after he pinned your wrists above your head and threatened to make your life here a living hell if you didn't behave yourself.

Like it won't be anyway now.

You're also completely naked and have jumped up, onto your tiptoes to make his ministrations easier to take.

Your bunched-up dress lies balled-up in a corner somewhere, mocking you from afar for giving up and in so easily to his wicked whims. With your breasts pressed flat against the desktop, you're also left feeling a bit cold.

Your body trembles.

Charlie's grip around your hips has grown so tight that it's sure to leave bruising come the morn, but perhaps that's part of his design—an unspoken reminder of where he's been; what he's done to you.

Grunting as he snaps his hips against your ass, it sends ripples through the plump skin.

You tried counting the thrusts to make the time pass faster, but he's rather quick about it. You lost track after 20.

You wish he'd hurry the fuck up and be done already.

Like your prayers have finally been answered, his hips stutter and his breaths become ragged. "Oh f—Oh fuck. Mm, I'm gonna come," he groans.

You stare at a dying plant on the widowsill.

You should save the poor thing.

"Fuck—fuck," he utters before clutching a handful of your hair and wrenching you back against his bare chest where he's left his shirt unbuttoned. Wrapping one hand around your throat and the other around your waist to keep your body flush against his, Charlie's cock begins to twitch, and just as thick spurts of cum begin to fill you, he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, causing you to scream in frenzied anguish.

You claw at his hand to try and free yourself, but it's no good. He has you right where he wants you.

Eventually, his breathing slows, his mouth retracts, and his hold loosens.

Once it's finally over, the chief pulls out of you—leaving semen to run down both your thighs as you slump lifelessly over his desk. He tosses a box of tissues at you and commands you to clean yourself up while he wipes off his girthy, soiled cock.

You quietly excused yourself to the restroom after. You took your time washing away the evidence of what he did.

You can't tell.

You had considered it, though. If someone came, he'd be caught red-handed. Even if he tried to argue that it was consensual, he would still be disbanded from the force for having sex with a subordinate.

But you forgot your phone at your desk.

Once you've peed, his cum has stopped dribbling out of you, and you've scrubbed the tears from your face, you return to gather your things.

You never look at your broken reflection.

One by one—with stiff limbs—you tuck your personal belongings away. Cellphone, charger, lip balm, hair band.

You briefly forget how to get yourself home when you begin to think on it.

You don't feel like yourself.

It's like he's still buried inside you, stretching you in half until your cunt melds perfectly around his every vein and ventricle.

"I'll walk you out," Charlie states while locking his office up for the night, causing you to jump quietly; you'd forgot he was here. "Not safe out there alone," he jests with a wink while sidling close and wrapping an arm around your shoulders.

You remain hauntingly silent as the quiet clicking of your shoes echo across an empty building you never wish to return to.

"Just so you know," Charlie begins while leaning against the driver side door of your vehicle to prevent your escape, "I don't plan on sharing my new stress toy. You'll soon come to learn that I'm a jealous man."

You clutch your bag close to your chest and merely nod. You're not even a person now, but instead something to be played with.

You'd been right about the animal analogy after all.

Resting the heels of his palms against the windowsill, he tilts his head while studying your withdrawn, sullen expression. If you mean for it to be a deterrent, it's having the exact opposite effect. The erection stretching across his upper thigh is proof enough of that. "While you were in the restroom, I put an app on your phone to track your location."

Your eyes meet with his.

"Before you try to go searching for it, though, it's fairly well hidden." He shrugs indifferently. "Right electronic shop could locate it, but... Minute I find out you've uninstalled it, or deactivated the device, you can kiss your job here goodbye."

You sniffle and take a small step back. "Could just leave it at home," you sneer.

He grins. "Same goes for your car." Charlie pats the door. "Don't go searching the undercarriage unless you want trouble."

When... When did he—

"Since I can already see the cogs turning: right after making you my secretary." He chuckles. "Told you, I'm possessive."

Taking you suddenly into his arms, Charlie brings you against his chest and brushes a kiss over the crown of your head. "You just do what your new boss tells you and everything'll be fine. I promise, sweetheart."

Turning your face toward the crook of his shoulder, you start to cry.

He clicks his tongue, then softly shooshes you while running a palm down the back of your head. "Aw, my little cuddlebug tired?" he taunts.

You nod while nuzzling against his chest. "Do you get off on humiliating me?" you mumble.

He snorts. "That's so cute: you already starting to figure out how I work."

While you'd like very much to hurt him in truly horrific ways... Your only option right now is to remain plaint and agreeable. Otherwise, he could bring your entire world to a standstill. More than he already has.

After he bent you over his desk, you just wanted to be held. Comforted.

He's the only one who knows what happened, so he's the only one who can provide what you need. Isn't he?

An image of a finely sharpened #2 pencil stabbed through his jugular flits through your mind and you take solace in it.

Winding your arms around his waist, you shuffle your feet to stand closer.

"You be good to me," he whispers. "And I'll be good to you," he finishes with a kiss on the tip of your nose. "Since I have every intention of continuing on like this, I need to ask: are you on anything?"

You slowly blink bloodshot eyes open. "Like what?" you ask numbly.

He cards his fingers in your hair. "To prevent any unwanted consequences."

Oh. That.

"Yes."

Charlie scoffs. "Didn't take you for the type of girl who gets around."

"It helps with my periods," you spit. "Makes the flow not so heavy."

Dumbass.

He hums. "Didn't know that." He runs a hand down your back. "Just make sure to keep on top of it."

Your eyes flit around the empty parking lot. "But... Birth control doesn't always work—"

"Well, I have always wanted a family," he coos. "Could always benefit you if it did happen. Just think: you'd get to stay home barefoot and pregnant, and never have to work again. With my salary, you'd be well taken care of. What sort of young woman wouldn't want that for herself?"

Misogynistic bastard.

Peeling you away from the warmth his body momentarily provided, he pops your door open. "Something to consider," he states while resting his forearms atop the seal and his chin atop them as he studies you with sparkling eyes.

You toss your bag inside.

"See you tomorrow," the wolf says to the lamb.

you're immediately fussy and grumpy at being woken up just to be pawed at. "nooo," you grumble.

he hums with amusement at that whining, the way you sound all groggy and bitchy and adorable. he knows you can get cranky when he wakes you up so early, but he can't resist the urge to rile you up right now. he squeezes the bare skin of your side, the one that he knows is a little ticklish. "come on, princess, wake up for daddy."

"whyyy?" you whine, burying your face in his neck as your legs kick in frustration.

"'cause daddy said so," he rumbles against your ear before nipping gently at the shell of it with his teeth. "he wants your sweet pussy right now."

"why now?" you whine again, petulant and overtired as you writhe in his arms.

"because i've been waiting for this all night," he seethes, his patience with your protests growing thin. his hand drags up to pinch at the soft curve of your ass through the fabric of your panties before adding gruffly: "... and 'cause i know my little one likes it when her daddy tells her what to do."

and it's true. you can't really deny that at all, that you're loving this as much as he is. "... okay," you acquiesce limply.

"good girl," jack practically growls, triumphant and impatient, his fingers hooking into the waistband of your panties and yanking them down your thighs. "that wasn't so hard now, was it? bein' all bitchy for no reason, lemme show you what i want." his palm smacks against your bare ass once, making you yelp, before sliding between your thighs with a deep groan.

"goddamn," he mutters as his thumb drags between your dripping folds, the wet squelch louder somehow in the dim room. "why the fuck were you bein' such a brat n puttin' up a fight? you're beggin' for me."

"daddy," you whine, overstimulated already.

"yeah?" jack rasps, watching your face closely as he finds your clit with his thumb, rubbing slow circles over that sweet little spot. "you like it when daddy touches you like this? when i tease my angel 'til she's all messy and needy?"

you huff, kicking against the mattress in indignation. "i'm tired!"

your little kicks just make his grip on you tighten. "yeah, you're tired," he agrees as the edge in his voice darkens into a hypnotic command. "but you're gonna be a good girl and make daddy feel good right now. okay, baby?"

you huff again irritably, feeling a protest form in your throat. jack knows that sound, the way your shoulders tense as you get frustrated, the way your pretty little mouth starts to pout out into a sulk. his hand tightens on your hip.

"hey," he snaps, his tone suddenly rougher, more authoritative. "i asked you a question, little one. you gonna be a good girl for daddy and let him have that sweet pussy?"

"...yeah," you mumble back reluctantly, and that's enough for him. his thumb immediately drags down your slit and nudges at your fluttering cunt, just teasing, before sliding back up to your throbbing clit.

"there's my girl," he mutters as he feels just how wet and sensitive you are for him. his other hand grips your chin to tilt your face up toward his. his gaze is dark, prideful. "now keep them pretty eyes on daddy while i make 'em leak."

jack loves the way you look at him with those wide eyes, all needy and submissive and obedient. he's obsessed with you. your hips begin to rock into his touch, and when you let out those soft, sleepy, shy moans of not daddy, but dada, he grins.

"you gonna make a mess for dada?" he coos, his thumb still circling your achy clit as his eyes burn into yours. he is so madly in love. he leans in close, his lips so close to yours that his breath brushes against your mouth as he speaks. "you gonna make dada proud, little one?"

your whole body shivers. he's making you feel so good that all you're capable of replying is a whimpered "mmmn..."

he lets out a huff of a breath that's almost a laugh as his thumb speeds up, mercifully bringing you closer to your orgasm.

"use your words, baby," he murmurs, the roughness gone from his voice, replaced by something more tender as your body start to shake. "tell dada if you're gonna make him proud."

It was weird, but you didn’t think much of it when you pushed the front door open. The second you stepped inside, you heard yelling coming from the kitchen. You froze immediately.

“You said no one saw anything.” Baz said angrily.

“No one did, dude,” Deran shot back, setting his beer down hard on the island.

“Then why are the cops asking questions?” Smurf asked sharply.

“Maybe because Pope had to go and tell the cops he was her boyfriend,” Deran said bitterly, still very obviously hating the idea of the two of you being together in any capacity. No matter how happy his older brother seemed with you, Deran couldn’t shake the constant dread sitting in the back of his mind. He kept waiting for the moment you figured out what his family really was. Waiting for the moment you looked at all of them differently and walked away. And selfishly, he didn’t know what the hell he’d do if he lost you too. “Of course they’d come here looking for her.”

“They’re looking for her because of the tapes,” Pope said flatly. You shifted quietly, moving closer to interrupt them before Craig spoke.

“Shouldn’t matter, Pope. Cops can’t prove shit anyway.”

“And what happens when our girl finds out her two boys killed Nate and his father?” Smurf asked calmly.

You froze completely, the bag of takeout slipping from your hand and hitting the floor loudly. Every single head in the room snapped toward you. You were positive all the blood had drained from your face.

Pope said your name quietly, immediately taking a careful step toward you. You took one back for every step he took toward you.

Your eyes burned instantly as they left Pope and landed on Deran. Sweet, reckless Deran. Your best friend. The guy who took you flying down the coast on the back of his bike while you screamed and laughed into the ocean wind. The guy who blasted music too loud and drove too fast just to make you smile after a bad day. The guy who always let you crash at his place no questions asked after fights with Nate. The guy who never once hesitated to stand between you and your boyfriend when things got ugly. You’d seen how angry Deran could get before. You’d seen how protective he became over the people he loved. But murder?

And maybe you should’ve been more horrified about the man you were sleeping with killing someone. But the truth was, you weren’t even sure you actually knew Pope the way you thought you did. He was always gentle with you. Always patient. Always weirdly careful with you, like you were something fragile he didn’t trust the world with. But you weren’t really his girlfriend. Sure, he’d told you the first time you slept together that you were his now. But how much did words like that actually mean coming from someone like Pope Cody?

“Bambi…” Deran said carefully as he stepped forward.

“You killed Nate?” you whispered, taking another step backward until your back hit the front door. Your stomach dropped when you saw Baz instinctively reach behind his back before Craig bumped his shoulder slightly, shooting him a warning look that made Baz stop.

Pope couldn’t look at you.

You couldn’t stop looking at him.

“It’s not what it sounds like,” Deran said, though even he didn’t sound convinced by that.

“Okay,” you breathed out shakily before looking back at Pope. “Andrew?”

His eyes finally lifted to yours and your heart cracked at the insecurity written all over his face. Like he already knew the second you walked out that front door, he’d never see you again.

“They hurt you.”

“They didn’t deserve to die,” you whispered, wiping quickly at the tear that slipped down your face.

“Everybody dies, baby,” Smurf said smoothly. “Our actions always have consequences.”

You heard the threat underneath her words instantly. It sounded sweet enough on the surface, but you weren’t stupid. Keep your mouth shut and you’d be fine.

“Is that what this is?” you sniffled, looking around at all of them. You noticed J couldn’t even meet your eyes either, and somehow that hurt almost as much as everything else. “You… you kill people?” you whispered. “Is that why you were in prison?” You laughed bitterly to yourself, shaking your head. “Of course I slept with another murderer.”

You missed the stunned looks that flashed across everyone’s faces at the confession.

Deran stepped forward immediately, grabbing Pope roughly by the shoulder. “You slept with her?” he snapped, shoving him hard. Pope shoved him back instantly.

You stared at them in disbelief. “That’s what you’re mad about right now?”

Neither of them answered.

You scoffed loudly before storming forward and shoving Deran away from Pope yourself. You almost missed Craig muttering “oh shit” under his breath as you pushed Deran again.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” you yelled at him before turning toward Pope. “You too, Pope. What the hell?”

Pope’s head snapped up so fast at the name it almost startled you. You’d never called him Pope before. Not once. Not to his face. And judging by the way his entire body seemed to tense, he hated hearing it come from you. It made him look sick. Like hearing you call him that suddenly made him feel exactly like the criminal everyone else saw him as.

Neither of them said anything.

You laughed bitterly, throwing your hands into the air. “I’m done,” you said finally, looking directly at Deran. “I quit the bar.”

Deran looked genuinely panicked at that.

You grabbed your bag before looking back at Pope one last time. “Don’t call me. Either of you.”

“Now baby,” Smurf said smoothly as she stepped in front of the door, “you’re smart enough to know I can’t let you walk out of here that easy.”

You laughed quietly at that, tears still running down your face. “Yeah actually, I’m more than aware of that.” You looked around the room again slowly. “You think I don’t understand what this is? I hear all of you casually talking about murder and suddenly I’m just supposed to trust you’ll let me leave?”

“No one’s gonna hurt you,” Deran said immediately.

You looked at him so fast it almost made him flinch. “You killed two people.”

Silence filled the room again.

Your chest heaved painfully as your eyes found Pope once more. He still couldn’t fully look at you. Like seeing fear on your face was physically destroying him.

“You promised me you’d never hurt me,” you whispered.

“I won’t,” Pope said instantly, finally forcing himself to meet your eyes again. The desperation in them almost made your stomach twist. “Bambi, I swear to god I would never hurt you.”

“But other people?” you asked shakily. “That’s okay?”

Pope’s jaw tightened hard. “They hurt you.”

“Stop saying that like it makes this better!” you cried. “You don’t get to just kill people because they hurt me!”

“They would’ve kept hurting you,” Pope snapped back, his voice suddenly louder and rougher than you’d ever heard it. “You think Nate would’ve stopped?”

“That wasn’t your decision to make!”

“No one else was doing anything!”

The room went dead silent after that.

Because that was the truth.

Nate hit you for years. Controlled you for years. And every single time you tried to leave, he dragged you back in somehow.

And Andrew… strange, obsessive Andrew, saw bruises on you once and decided no one would ever touch you again.

The realization made you feel sick. Because some part of you understood it. And that terrified you more than anything else.

You looked away from him quickly, shaking your head. “I can’t do this.”

“Bambi-”

“No,” you whispered sharply. “No. I can’t.”

Smurf watched the entire interaction carefully before speaking again. “Like I said sweetheart, actions have consequences.”

You looked at her slowly. “You know what’s funny?”

The room went quiet again.

“You stand there acting like some sweet concerned mother, but they’re the ones doing all your dirty work.”

Smurf’s expression hardened instantly.

J muttered quietly, “Oh no.”

“No really,” you laughed bitterly. “You threaten people while your sons get blood on their hands for you. You don’t scare me, Smurf. You’re just a coward with people willing to do your violence for you.”

“Watch your mouth,” Baz warned immediately.

“Or what?” you snapped. “You’ll kill me too?”

“Enough,” Pope said sharply.

You looked at him immediately. And somehow he looked more devastated than angry. Like every word coming out of your mouth was tearing him apart piece by piece.

“I can promise you the last thing I want right now is to be a part of this fucked up family. So if you’ll excuse me,” you said, shouldering past Smurf before slamming the door hard behind you.

Smurf watched you slam the door, a slow smirk spreading across her face. “What’d I tell you, baby?” she said, turning toward Baz like she’d just won an argument the two of them had been having privately for months now.

Baz leaned back against the counter, eyes lingering on the front door for another second before finally looking at Smurf. “Girl’s got balls, I’ll give her that.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Deran snapped immediately.

Smurf looked almost entertained by his reaction. “Oh relax, baby. I’m complimenting your little friend.”

“She just found out we killed two people!” Deran yelled. “And you’re standing there fucking smiling?”

“She’s not going to run to the cops,” Smurf pointed out calmly. “Didn’t threaten us. Didn’t scream she was gonna turn us in. Didn’t even ask for proof. Most of the girls you boys drag through this house would’ve been hysterical.”

“Maybe because she’s in shock at how horrible her taste in men is,” Craig scoffed, rubbing a hand over his jaw as he leaned back in his chair.

“No,” Baz interrupted quietly. “Smurf’s right.”

Deran stared at him in disbelief. “Seriously?”

Baz shrugged slightly. “Normal people hear that kinda shit and panic. Cry. Throw up. She stood there and called Smurf a coward to her face.”

A small smile tugged at Smurf’s mouth again. “Just like Julia used to.”

The room went still instantly.

J’s expression hardened immediately from where he stood near the hallway, his jaw tightening so fast it almost clicked. Even Craig looked uncomfortable after that one.

Deran looked disgusted. “Don’t do that.”

“What?” Smurf asked innocently.

“You don’t get to compare her to Julia,” Pope said flatly. “She’s nothing like her.”

Smurf ignored him completely, moving slowly toward the island. “Pretty little thing. Sweet. Naive. Always trying to see the good in people.” She laughed softly to herself. “I mean hell, after all this she’ll probably still think there’s something redeemable about you, baby.” Her eyes flicked toward Pope before she continued. “But push her hard enough and suddenly those claws come out. Same exact look Julia used to get when somebody backed her into a corner. That little fire under all the sweetness.”

J abruptly shoved himself away from the wall. “Stop talking about my mom like that.”

Smurf looked at him calmly. “I loved your mother, J.”

J laughed once bitterly, shaking his head. “Yeah. Sure you did.”

Nobody said anything as he grabbed jacket off the counter. The tension in the room shifted instantly watching him move toward the door.

“J-” Craig started carefully.

But J ignored him completely.

“She’s nothing like her,” he muttered angrily, more to himself than anyone else before yanking the front door open. “And maybe leave dead people the fuck alone for once.”

Then he was gone, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the windows.

Pope still hadn’t moved. He stood staring at the front door like if he looked hard enough you might suddenly walk back through it. His breathing looked uneven now. Too sharp. Too controlled. Like he was barely holding himself together in front of everybody.

Smurf noticed immediately. Of course she did.

“She’ll come back, baby. Don’t you worry.”

Pope finally looked at her. “You don’t know her.”

“Yes I do.” Smurf smiled slightly. “That girl’s already attached to this family whether she likes it or not.”

“She’s not like us,” Deran said immediately.

Baz glanced toward him. “You sure about that?”

“She’s a good person.”

“So was Julia once,” Smurf said softly.

Deran scoffed angrily. “Jesus Christ, will you stop doing that?”

“No one thinks this is funny,” Baz said calmly when Deran looked at him too.

“The girl just found out you psychos murdered her ex-boyfriend and you’re all standing around talking about her like she’s some fucking recruit!” Craig snapped, almost defensive of you even though you weren’t there anymore. He’d genuinely liked having you around. The way you always poured his drinks exactly right without him asking. The way you always had something smart to say back when he talked shit. The way the house felt lighter when you were in it.

“She didn’t leave because she was scared of us,” Smurf said calmly.

“Oh c’mon,” Deran scoffed. “She absolutely was scared.”

“She was scared of herself.”

Deran stared at her in disbelief. “Do you even hear yourself? She’s scared of herself? She’s done nothing wrong here.”

Everybody in that kitchen saw it though. You were horrified. Shocked. Upset. But underneath all of it was something else. Something that made the entire situation worse. Understanding.

Pope suddenly moved fast enough that everybody looked at him.

“I’m going out.”

Smurf’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Pope.”

“I can’t listen to this shit right now.”

And there it was. Not anger. Pain. Real fucking pain. Pope looked wrecked. Completely hollowed out by it. Like every second you were gone was physically scraping him apart from the inside out.

Deran immediately followed him out of the house. “Pope,” he called after him.

Pope stopped beside his truck without turning around. “She called me Pope,” he said suddenly, almost like he was talking to himself instead of Deran.

Deran sighed quietly. You always called him Andrew. Always. The fact that you switched back the second you looked at him differently clearly tore straight through him.

Deran softened slightly as he stopped beside the truck. “Hey-”

“No.” Pope shook his head hard, finally turning enough for Deran to see how destroyed he looked. “She looked scared of me.”

The sentence landed heavily between them.

Pope never wanted to sound vulnerable. But right now he sounded devastated.

Deran rubbed both hands down his face roughly before leaning against the truck. “I told you this was gonna happen.”

“What’s wrong with me?” Pope mumbled quietly to himself.

Deran swallowed hard at that because he genuinely didn’t know how to answer. “She’s too good for this family,” he muttered finally. “For us.”

You stared at the ceiling of your apartment, the same one Pope and the boys had helped you move into a week ago. There were still boxes scattered everywhere and unfinished furniture lying about. None of that seemed important anymore. What seemed important was figuring out how you were supposed to go about your life now.

You’d quit your job at the bar, which was single-handedly paying for you to live, and now the money felt dirty. You’d thought it was weird after a few months of working there that Deran had upped your pay. Clearly, he was getting money from somewhere. Was it blood money? You had half a mind to take it out of your bank, wrap it up in a neat envelope, and send it on its merry way back to him with a little note that said, “Fuck you.”

You could. You knew you could. You could call your dad right now, put on your best pastel Sunday dress, and play the perfect daughter he’d beat into you.

You stared at his name in your contacts when you heard a knock on your door. Your phone fell onto your face as you jumped.

“Fuck,” you said, getting up.

You were nervous as you approached the door, worried it was Baz and Craig just so happened not to be around to tell him to cool it. Worried it was Smurf and she was angry about what you said.

Regardless, you opened the door cautiously. J was the last person you expected to see. Your eyes softened at his upset expression.

“J?” you said, opening the door wider. You looked down the hallway before motioning for him to come in. “Are you okay?”

He walked into your apartment, not saying much at first. His silence unnerved you.

“Um, are you hungry?” you said, locking the door behind you. “I was trying to think of what to make for dinner.”

“I’ll eat whatever,” he said, looking around your apartment. “Didn’t unpack much since we brought all this stuff in,” he added, sitting on your makeshift couch that consisted of couch cushions on the floor.

You laughed lightly. “Might not need to unpack.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” J asked, watching you move around the kitchen.

His mind had been in an internal battle the whole bike ride over here. J didn’t like Smurf romanticizing or weaponizing his mother’s memory, especially when it was used to explain or justify his family’s behavior. He was angry because you reminded him of her in the parts he didn’t get to keep. Smurf was wrong about you. You weren’t naive in the way she thought. You were observant. You were choosing kindness, not lacking awareness. His mom had been like that too. She just kept choosing the wrong people.

You stopped for a second before turning around and putting a pot of water on the stove. You shrugged, glancing back at him.

“I was thinking about moving home.”

“I thought you grew up here?” he asked.

“I did, with my mom,” you said, sorting through grocery bags by the fridge and pulling out pasta. “My parents were separated so I, uh, lived here during the school year, spent summers with my dad in LA.”

J frowned at the new information. “How come you never talk about them?”

“My parents?” you clarified, and when he nodded, you continued with a helpless shrug. “My mom died when I was sixteen and she made sure my dad wasn’t really around before she died. He remarried, had other kids. His housekeeper took care of me most of the time when I was over. After my mom died, he bought her apartment in Oceanside so I didn’t have to live with him full time.” You paused. “I think having a daughter who reminded him of everything he hates ruined his new perfect family image.”

“Was your mom good?” he asked, quieter now, like he wanted to know everything.

“She tried to be. She got dealt a shitty hand. Was an addict, so when she wasn’t using she was searching, and when she was using she was too far gone to really know I was there. But she never missed my birthdays,” you said, pouring the pasta into boiling water.

“My mom was like that,” J said, not elaborating. “I watched her die. Watched them try to save her.”

You nodded. “Same.” You swallowed. “It’s a horrible feeling, you know? Not being able to save them. But once they’re gone, you can’t help but wonder if they’re at peace now.”

J looked up, his eyes shining with understanding. Real understanding for the first time since his mom died.

Maybe he hadn’t known why he came to you after Smurf’s comparison, or maybe he’d agreed with it. He knew Smurf was already mentally slotting you into the family, and he understood exactly what that process looked like before you even realized it was happening.

“You shouldn’t leave town,” he said suddenly. “But you also shouldn’t hang around my family.”

“Yeah, I’m starting to realize that,” you muttered, draining the pasta.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” he started, choosing his words carefully. But his heart hurt. You reminded him of his mom. The better parts of her. The parts he saw so rarely it almost didn’t feel real. Sitting here with you, it felt selfishly like he was getting something back. A connection he lost. He knew he couldn’t keep it. He knew you might not listen. But he’d sleep better knowing he warned you.

“But you need to understand what they are.”

That made you look at him fully.

“They’re not good people,” he continued. “And it’s not just individual stuff. It’s all of them. Together. That’s what makes it worse.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, like he was forcing himself to stay grounded in what he was saying.

“Smurf doesn’t just control them,” he said. “She built them. She decides what matters and what doesn’t. And they listen, even when they act like they don’t.”

You stayed quiet.

“Baz and Craig…” he continued, hesitating only briefly. “They’re involved in things they don’t talk about. Not just shady business. Things they keep off the table because if you say it out loud, it becomes real.”

Your stomach tightened slightly at that, but you didn’t interrupt.

“Deran…” J exhaled through his nose. “He’s volatile. He’s fine until he’s not. And when pressure hits, he doesn’t ease off. He breaks things. People. Whatever’s closest.”

You looked down at your hands for a second, then back up. “And Pope?” you asked quietly.

J’s silence lasted longer than with the others. That alone answered you more than words could’ve.

“When he thinks he’s protecting someone,” J said finally, “it escalates fast. There’s no middle ground. It’s either nothing… or too much.” The room felt smaller after that. “And it’s not separate,” he added, voice tightening slightly. “That’s the part you need to understand. They don’t switch it off. It’s how they function. It’s the whole system. Smurf, them, all of it. It’s not individual choices. It’s how they survive.”

You nodded slowly, absorbing it in pieces instead of all at once.

J stood up like he’d already said more than he meant to.

At the doorway, he stopped. You didn’t push him. That mattered more than anything else. But something in him stayed stuck there anyway.

Not what Smurf had said out loud. What she meant. Because when he looked at you, he didn’t see someone naive. He saw someone who kept choosing the wrong people. People who needed more than they could ever give back cleanly. And it hit him, sharp and quiet, that his mom had been the same.

Not in the same way. But enough. Enough that it lingered. Enough that it hurt. And something else followed it, darker and more certain. If Smurf thought she could shape you into another version of that story, she was wrong. Because he wasn’t going to let it happen again. Not with you. Not with anyone she decided belonged to her. He didn’t say it out loud.

But it settled anyway, firm and irreversible. When he finally took Smurf down, when he stripped everything she built apart piece by piece, you wouldn’t be left behind in it.

You’d come with him. Not as part of their world. Not as something to be claimed. But as someone he was going to get out before the house swallowed you the way it swallowed everyone else. A life Julia didn’t get. A life you hadn’t even realized you were already in danger of losing.

He left without saying anything else. And for the first time since everything started, the silence in your apartment didn’t feel like uncertainty. Just space. And somewhere outside it, J Cody decided he was done watching it happen twice.

Deran wiped down the bartop slowly as his brothers talked over one another nearby, the familiar rhythm of the bar carrying on around them like nothing had changed. Music hummed low through the speakers, glasses clinked somewhere near the pool tables, and the smell of beer, salt air, and fried food clung heavily to the room. Normally it grounded him. Tonight it just made him feel tired.

It had been a few weeks since the night you found out about him and Pope.

A few weeks since everything cracked open.

Deran hadn’t quite felt right since then. None of them had, really, though everybody handled it differently. Craig buried it beneath jokes and women and enough weed to sedate a horse. J had pulled away almost entirely, quieter now in a way that felt colder than before. Not that any of them blamed him. Smurf dragging Julia into things had crossed a line even by Cody standards. But Pope was taking it the worst. Deran glanced down the bar toward him automatically.Pope sat hunched slightly over his beer in complete silence, fingers wrapped around the bottle while his eyes tracked the grain of the wooden countertop beneath him like he could disappear into it if he stared hard enough. He’d barely spoken since they got there. Barely moved either. Just drinking slowly and stewing inside his own head.

At least he’d finally left the house tonight. That alone had taken effort. Deran knew Pope had been driving by your apartment. Knew because Craig saw his truck parked outside twice already. Knew because Pope got this specific look on his face anytime somebody mentioned your name now. Like wanting you and resenting you had started living side by side inside him.

Unlike Pope, Baz and Craig had mostly moved on from the whole thing. The cops never came around asking questions again. Smurf wasn’t worried anymore, and if Smurf wasn’t worried, the rest of the family usually followed suit whether they should or not.

You, meanwhile, had disappeared. You stayed true to your word to J about not leaving town, but that was about it.

You hadn’t shown up for work since quitting. Hadn’t answered half their texts. Hadn’t come by the bar. Deran never officially replaced you anyway, stubbornly keeping your name penciled into schedules he knew damn well you weren’t coming back for. Every week he’d rewrite it again out of habit. Out of hope maybe.

He knew you needed money. Knew your pride wouldn’t let you call your father unless things got really bad.

“Hi Deran,” a bright voice chirped beside Craig suddenly, yanking him from his thoughts.

Deran looked up to see Kelsey and Stefani stumbling toward the bar already tipsy, both of them smiling too brightly in that way girls did when they were halfway drunk and fully committed to making it everybody else’s problem. He was so used to seeing them attached to your hip every weekend that the sight of them without you made something uncomfortable settle in his stomach immediately. “Kelsey…” he greeted cautiously.

Craig stood behind them raising his eyebrows dramatically before giving Deran an exaggerated thumbs up behind their backs. Baz smirked into his drink while Pope didn’t even bother looking up.

“I know things are like totally weird between you and Bambi right now for whatever reason,” Kelsey started dramatically, leaning against the bar, “but I really hope that doesn’t affect our free drink policy.”

“Let it go, Kels, you’re not his type.”

They all looked up instantly at the sound of your voice. Pope’s head lifted first. His eyes found you immediately. And stayed there.

You stood near the front entrance with a scowl already painted across your face like you regretted coming the second you walked through the door. You looked gorgeous in a way that made Pope feel physically irritated. Not soft gorgeous. Dangerous gorgeous. Like you’d gotten dressed with the sole intention of proving to yourself you were still desirable despite everything that happened.

Tight black lacey top. Tiny skirt. Heels that made your legs look endless. And his jacket.

You were wearing his fucking jacket.

Pope felt his jaw tighten instantly seeing it wrapped around you.

You walked toward the bar with narrowed eyes. “Can we please go next door to the Rip instead?”

“Why would we do that when we can drink for free here?” Stefani complained. “Right, Deran?”

“Drinks are on me,” Deran muttered automatically, already reaching for three beers.

You stepped forward immediately and pushed them back toward him with a tight fake smile. “Mm, I don’t want your pity drinks, Deran.”

“Damn,” Craig snorted loudly. “Who the hell is this and what’ve you done with Bambi?”

“Oh wow, I didn’t even see you there,” Stefani said dramatically toward Craig.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost looked painful. “Whatever.”

Then you moved past them toward the back of the bar.

Deran looked after you immediately. Hopeful despite himself. “Hey ba-”

“Don’t,” you interrupted sharply, holding one hand up before turning toward the wall of liquor behind the bar.

The entire group went quiet. You reached for the most expensive bottle of whiskey Deran had sitting on the shelf before holding it up slightly toward him with raised eyebrows. “It’s on the house right?”

“Uh yeah,” Deran answered, visibly stunned.

He’d genuinely never seen you like this before. Not in the three years he’d known you. Even during your worst moments you usually stayed soft around the edges. Nervous laughter. Awkward smiles. Constant caretaking.

But tonight you looked hurt in a way that had started hardening into anger. And somehow that worried him more.

“Great!” you cheered sarcastically before taking a long swig straight from the bottle.

Craig whistled under his breath. Pope looked furious. Not at you. At himself. At the family. At the fact you looked at all of them now like you finally understood exactly what they were.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand before turning and walking straight out the back door toward the beach.

Nobody stopped you. At least not immediately. Maybe you were dumb. Maybe you really were naive the way Smurf kept saying.

But you couldn’t stop yourself from walking downhill toward the shoreline anyway, whiskey bottle dangling loosely from your fingertips while your heels sank unevenly into the sand. The cold night air whipped around you harshly, carrying saltwater and fog with it as waves crashed violently against the rocks below.

Your chest still hurt. You hated that they still affected you this much.

You took another swig from the bottle, face twisting bitterly at the burn before climbing over the stone wall separating the beach path from the rocks below. Your heels nearly slipped once, forcing you to steady yourself with one hand before finally dropping down onto a large rock near the shoreline.

The ocean stretched endlessly in front of you, black and violent beneath the moonlight. You stared at it quietly. Then laughed once to yourself. Because somehow this was your life now.

Falling in love with Pope Cody.

What a fucking disaster.

You stared up at the moon hanging low over the ocean, bright enough to silver the waves beneath it. Its beauty struck something ugly and jealous inside you. It was ironic really, how alone you felt while looking at something so permanently isolated. The moon had nobody. Nothing. Just endless distance and people admiring it from far away without ever truly touching it.

Maybe that was why it hurt to look at. This whole situation was so fucked up. You were in love with a murderer. And the worst part was you’d tried so hard not to repeat the same patterns that had ruined your life before. You’d promised yourself years ago that you wouldn’t keep ending up tangled up with emotionally volatile men. Men who exploded. Men who scared you. Men who made you feel like you constantly had to monitor the room before speaking.

Yet somehow you’d landed here anyway.

With Pope.

Maybe your life was just meant to derail itself around men who didn’t know how to hold their own emotions without crushing everyone around them in the process.

You watched the waves slam violently against the rocks below you, sea spray misting across your bare legs and dampening the tips of your heels. Somewhere farther up the beach you could still hear faint music drifting from the bar, muffled laughter carried by the wind. Your friends were up there getting drunk and dancing and pretending life was simple.

Meanwhile you sat alone on a rock spiraling over whether the man you loved would eventually become the thing that destroyed you.

Everything good lately had started curdling into something painful. And somehow almost every road led back to Smurf and the Codys.

You took another long sip from the whiskey bottle, wiping aggressively at your eyes afterward like you could physically shove the emotion away before it settled too deep. Why did you always do this to yourself? Why did every bad situation somehow end with you blaming yourself for not handling it better?

You didn’t even know exactly what the Codys did. Not fully. But murder was definitely somewhere on the list now.

You were curious. Of course you were. Anybody would be. But every time you imagined finally knowing the truth, really knowing it, your stomach twisted hard enough to hurt. Because once you knew, there was no pretending anymore.

Another swig burned down your throat and your vision softened slightly around the edges. The cold wind rolled off the water harder now, making you pull the jacket tighter around yourself automatically.

“You shouldn’t be down here.”

Your eyes closed briefly at the sound of his voice.

“Go away pope,” you muttered bitterly before taking another drink. The soft swish of liquor settling inside the bottle sounded weirdly comforting now.

He hated when you called him that. It made something vicious crawl beneath his skin every single time. He let out a slow breath through his nose before stepping closer. “Your friends are looking for you.”

You scoffed loudly before standing too fast, the sudden movement making the world tilt dangerously beneath you. Your heel slipped against the damp rock and Pope lunged forward instantly, hands already reaching for you before you could fall.

But your palm shot out first, catching yourself against the stone.

You burst into laughter immediately afterward, loud and breathless and just drunk enough to find the whole thing hilarious.

Pope didn’t laugh. His chest was still tight from almost watching you crack your skull open on the rocks.

You gathered yourself carefully, stepping down from the rocks one at a time until you finally planted your feet firmly on the sand directly in front of him.

“You’re drunk,” Pope said, reaching for the bottle automatically.

You pulled it back against your chest immediately. “Nu uh.”

He stared at you flatly.

You shove against his chest a second later barely moved him at all. It was almost embarrassing honestly. His body didn’t budge an inch beneath your hands. Still, you turned around and started walking back toward the bar anyway. You could feel him following behind you the entire way.

Every few seconds his eyes flicked away from your body just long enough to scan the street around you before landing right back on you again. Watching your heels carefully on the pavement. Watching the sway of your hips beneath his jacket. Watching to make sure you didn’t trip or stumble or disappear out of his sight for even a second. Possessive. Protective. Obsessive.

All tangled together so tightly inside him now there barely seemed to be a difference anymore.

Your heels clicked sharply against the sidewalk, steadier now than they’d been on the rocks because truthfully you weren’t nearly as drunk as he thought you were. Buzzed, definitely. Emotional, absolutely. But not incapable.

“I would like for you to leave me alone,” you said suddenly, stopping so abruptly Pope nearly walked into you. You turned to face him fully beneath the dim streetlight.

The wind pushed your hair across your face while his jacket hung off one shoulder slightly, exposing the thin strap of your top. Pope’s eyes dropped there automatically before dragging slowly back up toward your face.

“You don’t mean that,” he said quietly.

“I do.”

“No you don’t.” The certainty in his voice irritated you instantly.

You laughed once under your breath. “See, that’s exactly the problem with you.”

Pope frowned slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You decide what i’m feeling before I even say it.”

“I know you.”

“No. You know parts of me.”

His jaw flexed hard at that.

You stepped closer before you could stop yourself, whiskey bottle dangling loosely from your fingertips while you tilted your head up toward him. “And you know what’s really annoying?” you murmured softly.

Pope went completely still.

“What?”

“You follow me around like you’re angry at me,” you whispered, eyes flicking briefly toward his mouth, “but you look at me like you wanna ruin my life.”

Something dark shifted behind his eyes immediately.

His hand moved before he seemed to think better of it, fingers brushing lightly against your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself.

“You shouldn’t say shit like that,” he muttered.

“Why?” you asked innocently. “Makes you wanna do something stupid?”

Pope stepped closer instantly, crowding into your space until the whiskey bottle pressed lightly between both your bodies. His breathing had changed again. Slower now. Heavier. “You’re drunk,” he said again, though it sounded rougher this time.

“And you’re staring.”

“You’re wearing my jacket.”

Your mouth twitched slightly despite yourself. “You noticed?”

Pope looked at you like he wanted to bite you.

Your stomach flipped hard. For one dangerous second you almost let yourself lean into him. Almost let him kiss you. Almost let yourself forget why you were angry in the first place.

Because this was the problem with Pope. Even at his worst he could still make your body betray you. His hand tightened slightly against your waist before sliding upward just enough to brush beneath your hair at the back of your neck. Like he was trying not to scare you while simultaneously wanting to consume you whole.

“Andy,” you whispered softly.

The sound of it nearly undid him.

His forehead dipped briefly against yours and for a second neither of you moved. The ocean crashing behind you. Your breathing uneven between you both. Him smelling like beer and cigarettes and salt air.

Then reality crashed back in hard enough to hurt. You stepped backward abruptly. Pope’s hand dropped immediately.

“No,” you said quieter this time, shaking your head once like you were trying to convince yourself too. “No, I’m still mad at you.”

Pope’s expression darkened instantly.

You swallowed thickly before forcing yourself to step around him. “I meant it. Leave me alone.”

Then you walked back toward the bar without looking back again.

This time he let you go.

But he still followed you inside anyway.

Of course he did.

The noise of the bar swallowed you immediately once the door opened again, warm air crashing against your cold skin while music vibrated through the walls. Nobody stopped you as you crossed the room and slid onto an empty stool at the far end of the bar by yourself.

Deran noticed immediately. Craig too.

You ignored both of them. Instead you stole another sip straight from the whiskey bottle before setting it heavily on the bartop.

A minute later Pope returned to his original seat like nothing had happened. Silent again. Beer in hand. Eyes fixed on the counter. But every few seconds you still caught him looking at you from across the bar.

Drinking your sorrows had seemed like a great idea at first. Just enough whiskey to quiet your thoughts down for a few hours. Just enough noise and smoke and music to drown out the sick feeling that had been living in your chest ever since everything fell apart.

But the second your phone lit up against the bartop with your father’s contact photo glowing across the screen, the idea shifted from casual self-destruction into something dangerously real.

The bright light from the screen reflected against the whiskey bottle in front of you, sharp enough to sting your eyes a little. For a second you just stared at it ringing there while the noise of the bar blurred into background static. Your stomach twisted hard. Because of course he was calling now. Not when you were struggling quietly. Not when you quit your job. Not when your life first started spiraling.

Deran shouldn’t have been paying as much attention to you as he was. He knew that.

But guilt had a way of keeping his eyes locked on you no matter how hard he tried to act unaffected. Not guilt over Nate. Never that. Nate deserved worse than what happened to him. No, the guilt sat heavier than that. Dirtier. Because despite everything, he knew the Codys had hurt you. Maybe not intentionally at first, maybe not all at once, but they had. They’d dragged you into their orbit and watched you slowly start drowning in it. And Deran knew he helped pull you under.

So he definitely shouldn’t have noticed your phone lighting up from halfway down the bar. And he definitely shouldn’t have slammed the glass he was drying onto the counter hard enough to make everybody look over when he saw who was calling you.

“Jesus dude,” Baz muttered, following Deran’s line of sight toward you with a slight frown.

You picked your phone up slowly, watching it ring for another second before flipping it face down and immediately taking another long swig straight from the whiskey bottle instead. The liquor burned all the way down your throat, harsh and familiar, but not enough to stop the tight feeling building behind your ribs.

“Not going to answer him?” Deran asked, voice edged with something that sounded almost bitter.

You laughed softly under your breath before turning slightly on your stool to look at him. “Why do you care?”

Deran started wiping down the bartop again, movements rougher now. More aggressive. Craig was still distracted by Stefani practically hanging off his shoulder and trying to steal sips from his drink, leaving only Baz and Pope paying close attention to the conversation unfolding.

Pope hadn’t taken his eyes off you once since you came back inside.

You could feel it even without looking at him directly. That heavy stare sitting against your skin like a hand.

“Your dad is a dick,” Deran said flatly.

“Wow okay,” you replied dryly. “Thank you. Thank you so much Deran for always being honest with me.”

Your father was one of the only things you never really talked about. Not deeply anyway. But Deran knew enough. Knew enough to hate him. You’d told him pieces over the years during late nights closing the bar together. Tiny ugly truths slipped carelessly into conversation that painted enough of a picture without ever needing the full story. Stories about screaming matches. About impossible expectations. About all the scary things he’d do to you. And somewhere along the way Deran developed a genuine hatred for the man without ever even meeting him.

To say your father was Deran’s least favorite person in your life would’ve been an understatement.

“I’m just saying maybe you shouldn’t run back to daddy’s money the second your life gets a little hard,” Deran shrugged, pretending the words weren’t intentionally cruel.

Like he wasn’t trying to provoke you. Like he didn’t know exactly where to stab. Craig’s attention snapped toward the conversation immediately at that, mostly because both your friends whipped around in visible shock at what Deran had said. Even Baz winced slightly.

“God, I hate you,” you whispered, shaking your head slowly in disbelief.

The hurt in your voice made Deran immediately pause his movements. Like he regretted it the second it came out.

The silence after that felt awful.

You wiped furiously at your cheek before anybody could see the tears gathering there, refusing to look at any of them now. Instead your eyes fixed on the neon beer signs glowing against the opposite wall while embarrassment crawled hotly up your throat.

You felt humiliated suddenly. Like everybody could see right through you. Without another word you grabbed your purse and walked straight out of the bar.

Pope’s eyes followed you immediately.

You barely made it a few storefronts down before collapsing into the first empty chair you found outside another little beachside spot. A mildly attractive guy sat nearby smoking alone, and honestly you probably were bothering him, but you were too emotionally exhausted to care anymore.

“Sorry, I don’t mean to impose I just-” you dragged both hands down your face tiredly before pointing vaguely back toward the bar, “do not want to be in there right now.”

The guy looked you up and down slowly enough to make your eyes roll almost immediately. Still, you said nothing.

“You look sad.”

That was not what you expected him to say.

You blinked once before watching him bring the joint between his lips again. A second later he held it out toward you in offering.

“I’m okay,” you declined gently, opening your purse instead and pulling out your own joint. “Do you have a light?”

The guy handed you his lighter and your fingers brushed briefly against his as you took it. You sparked the joint carefully before taking a long drag, shoulders finally loosening the slightest bit as smoke filled your lungs. Then you leaned back in the chair, staring out toward the dark street ahead of you while the buzz in your head softened around the edges.

“Thanks.”

“You from around here?” the guy asked.

You laughed softly, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. “Yup. You?”

“No just visiting.”

You hummed in response before taking another hit, smoke curling from your lips slowly as ocean air mixed with the smell of weed and saltwater around you.

Silence settled between you both for a second.

“I’m not sad.”

“Huh?” the guy asked, slightly confused.

“You said I looked sad, I’m not sad.” You stared out at the streetlights ahead of you. “Do you ever feel like you have no idea what the fuck you’re doing with your life?”

Maybe it was the alcohol. Maybe it was the weed. Maybe it was the emotional exhaustion finally catching up to you. But you knew you’d probably never see this guy again, which weirdly made honesty easier.

“Every day,” he admitted. “But you know what helps?”

You hummed lightly taking another hit.

“Living in the moment, so I raise you this question.” the guy said turning to face you.

You tilted your head to look at him, your eyes undoubtedly bloodshot and glassy. Your crossfade thrummed pleasantly through your veins now, warm and fuzzy and dangerous in the way only substances and loneliness together could be.

“What is it you want right now?” he asked, waiting for your answer.

You thought for maybe two seconds before saying, “I want to forget everything.”

The man held his joint up in cheers to which you giggled and tapped your own against his.

The man stood up, joint in between his lips as he stared down at you and held his hands out. “Then let’s fucking forget everything!”

You laughed loudly as you took his hand, letting your joint fall to the ground as you stomped it out. You let him lead you back into Deran’s bar not even caring about who you’d see in there anymore. It was only a bit later now, late enough that the bar had turned into a madhouse of tourists who wanted to get high on drugs you couldn’t pronounce and find someone to fuck before sunrise. Music pounded through the walls hard enough to feel in your chest, lights flashing across sweaty bodies packed too tightly together.

He wrapped his arm around your shoulder pulling you into his side as he opened the door. “After you,” he said.

“And they say chivalry is dead,” you snarked.

“Well that’s just the Wisconsin farm boy in me.”

Of course Pope noticed you enter. But he kept his mouth shut when he saw you tucked beneath someone else’s arm. He felt the overwhelming need to pull you away from him immediately, to drag you right back outside and ask what the fuck you thought you were doing. But you’d made it very clear you wanted nothing to do with him tonight. So instead he sat there silently unraveling.

“Wisconsin huh?” you said pulling away from the guy slightly to look up at him. Deran came to take your orders but you ignored him completely. “America’s dairyland,” you whistled.

The guy gave you a weird look before smiling and looking at Deran. “Yea i’ll have a beer and whatever she wants.”

He looked down at you expecting you to tell Deran what you wanted but you just batted your eyelashes as Deran silently placed your usual old fashioned on the bar in front of you.

His jaw was tight the entire time.

“So are you like farm royalty or…” you said, your finger running over the edge of the glass lazily.

“Farm royalty huh?” he asked holding up his beer to cheers. “To forgetting.”

You smiled brightly. “To forgetting!!”

You clinked your glass against his and took another long sip while Pope watched from the other end of the bar with a look in his eyes that should’ve probably terrified you more than it did.

The two of you talked for a few more drinks while you tried not to let Pope’s stare bother you. Tried not to notice how still he’d gotten. How tense. Like he was holding himself together by force.

When the song suddenly shifted into a Pitbull song you gasped dramatically.

“Oh my gosh I love this song,” you said excitedly grabbing the guy’s shoulders. “Let’s dance!”

Without hesitation you grabbed his hand and led him to the dance floor, your high definitely letting you let go more than usual. Weed always made you more outgoing, more touchy, more reckless. And with this man standing behind you as you danced wildly with your hands in the air and your hips swaying freely, for a few blissfully stupid minutes you couldn’t find a care in the world.

If only Pope felt the same. From where he sat it was like watching you in slow motion. He couldn’t look away from the man’s hands as they slowly worked their way beneath your jacket. His jacket. You looked happy.

“Holy shit,” one of your friends yelled, slapping the other’s arm. “Look at her go!”

“GO BITCH!!!”

You threw your head back and laughed loudly before turning around in the guy’s arms, your foreheads resting against each other as you closed your eyes for a moment.

Maybe it was when he leaned in.

Or when you leaned in.

But suddenly the guy was ripped off you so violently he slammed backward into a booth hard enough to rattle the table.

“What the fuck?” you yelled at Pope immediately, shoving him away from the guy.

Your heart was pounding now, anger crashing through the haze of alcohol instantly. You rushed over toward the guy. “I’m so sorry, are you okay?”

The guy stood up and even though he was taller than Pope, he wasn’t more intimidating. Not even close.

“You didn’t say you had a boyfriend,” the guy cleared his throat awkwardly.

“No I don’t,” you said quickly, looking over your shoulder toward Pope. “I really don’t.”

Pope gave you a blank stare that made heat pool low in your stomach despite yourself. Like he was testing you. Waiting. Watching to see what you’d choose.

“Maybe,” the guy said backing away slightly, “but I don’t think I wanna deal with that.”

The guy moved behind you with his hands raised slightly as you watched him leave through the crowd. Then you turned around so fast your hands slammed hard into Pope’s chest. “You always ruin everything!” you shouted angrily before storming out of the bar again.

Pope followed immediately. “You can’t just let people touch you like that.”

“UGH,” you snapped angrily, spinning around in front of him beneath the neon glow outside. “I can do whatever I want pope I don’t belong to you.”

You looked at him then. At the way he stood there breathing too hard like every nerve in his body had been set on fire since the second he saw another man touch you. At the way his hands flexed at his sides like he physically didn’t know what to do with them. At the darkness sitting behind his eyes now, deep and ugly and possessive in a way that should’ve scared you more than it did. But you were angry, humiliated and crossfaded enough to stop making good decisions. And maybe some cruel little part of you wanted to see just how far you could push Pope Cody before he finally snapped.

“Don’t you?” he repeated quieter this time, stepping even closer.

The street behind him buzzed with noise from the bars and tourists stumbling down the sidewalks, but suddenly all you could hear was your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

You laughed once under your breath. Not because anything was funny. Because you knew exactly what you were about to do “This is your problem!” you said softly.

Pope’s jaw tightened. “What.”

“You get obsessed, you think you have this right to me that you don’t. You don’t even ask what I want.”

“I’m not asking, I know.”

“No,” you agreed, eyes dragging slowly over his face. “You usually just take.”

Something dangerous flickered across his expression at that. His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth before lifting again. And there it was. That tension again. Hot and sharp and unbearable.

You stepped closer deliberately until your chest almost brushed his. “You dragged that guy off me like I did something wrong.”

Pope leaned down slightly, voice low enough to make heat crawl up your spine. “Maybe he should’ve stopped touching what’s mine.”

Your stomach twisted hard. God. You hated how much that did for you.

“You don’t own me,” you whispered.

Pope stared at you for one long second before saying, “I think your body is saying otherwise.”

That pissed you off immediately. Because he was right. You shoved him hard in the chest, but he barely moved. “Get in the fucking car.”

Pope blinked once. The command clearly caught him off guard. “What?”

“You heard me.” You started walking toward his truck without checking if he followed because honestly you already knew he would. “Unless you wanna keep having this conversation in public.”

By the time you reached the truck your pulse was racing so fast it hurt. Pope rounded the driver side but before he could even unlock it properly you grabbed the front of his shirt and slammed him back against the door hard enough to make the truck shake slightly.

Pope looked genuinely stunned for maybe half a second. Then your mouth crashed into his. Violent. Desperate. Mean. You kissed him like you were trying to punish him for ruining your night while simultaneously giving him exactly what he wanted. Your fingers tangled hard into his curls, tugging just enough to pull a rough sound from deep in his throat.

“Fuck,” Pope breathed against your mouth.

You kissed him harder. Your body pressed flush against his now, trapping him between you and the truck while his hands finally landed on your waist like he physically couldn’t stop himself anymore.

“No,” you snapped breathlessly when one of his hands started sliding lower. “You don’t get to be in control right now.”

Pope’s eyes darkened immediately. That should’ve warned you to stop. Instead you climbed right into his lap the second he got the passenger door open, knees settling on either side of him as the truck door slammed shut behind you.

The truck cab instantly felt too small. Too hot. Pope stared up at you breathing heavily, hands gripping your thighs so tightly it almost hurt. And you loved it. Loved having him beneath you for once instead of towering over you like he usually did.

“You know,” you murmured against his mouth while slowly rolling your hips down into his lap, “you get really fucking scary when you’re jealous.”

Pope’s head fell back briefly against the seat with a strained groan. You smiled sweetly. Then kissed down his throat just to feel him tense beneath you.

“You followed me around all night,” you whispered against his skin. “Watched me dance with somebody else. Watched another man touch me. Pope’s grip on your thighs tightened painfully. “And you hated it.”

“I still hate it.”

You hummed softly before biting his jaw hard enough to make him curse. The sound went straight through you “You know what I think?” you whispered. Pope dragged his eyes back up to yours slowly. “I think you like when I’m mean to you.” That got a reaction. A real one.

Something in Pope’s expression shifted instantly, restraint thinning dangerously.

“You should stop talking.”

“Why?” you taunted softly, rocking against him again intentionally. “Hit a nerve?”

Pope suddenly grabbed the back of your neck and kissed you hard enough to shut you up. All tongue and teeth and frustration.

His other hand slid up your spine, pulling you tighter against him while your breathing turned uneven almost immediately. You could feel exactly how affected he was beneath you now and the realization sent a vicious thrill through your chest.

Because this was Pope. Quite terrifying Pope. And you had him losing his mind.

You pulled away just enough to breathe, lips swollen, hair messy from his hands. Pope looked wrecked already. Eyes dark. Chest heaving. Hands gripping you like he thought you might disappear.

You smiled softly then. Fake sweet. Then you climbed off his lap.

Pope blinked up at you, visibly disoriented. “What’re you doing?”

You fixed your skirt slowly like you hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes driving him insane on purpose. “I’m leaving.”

His expression hardened immediately. “Don’t start this shit.”

“Oh relax,” you said lightly, reaching forward to smooth his curls back teasingly. “You’ll survive.”

Pope grabbed your wrist before you could pull away. “Don’t fuck with me.”

And there it was. That edge underneath him again. That dangerous little crack in control.

You looked down at his hand on you before meeting his eyes innocently. Then you leaned down and kissed him one last time. Slow this time. Soft enough to confuse him.

Your lips barely brushed his when you whispered: “I told you to leave me alone.”

Then you patted his cheek twice. And climbed out of the truck before he could stop you.

Pope stayed frozen in the passenger’s seat watching you walk away in his jacket with swollen lips and shaky legs while every violent thought in his head fought for dominance.

You didn’t even look back. Just strutted straight toward the bar entrance before throwing the door open dramatically “Ladies!” you called loudly to your friends like nothing had happened. “We’re going home.”

You’d done a fine job at avoiding the Codys like the plague. Almost four weeks now.

Four weeks of ignoring texts from Craig, dodging Deran’s calls, pretending you didn’t notice Pope’s absence in your life. Four weeks of throwing yourself into unpacking boxes you’d already unpacked and reorganizing cabinets that didn’t need reorganizing just so you wouldn’t have to sit alone with your own thoughts for too long.

Pope hadn’t called since the night at the bar. Which somehow felt worse. Because Pope wasn’t the type to back off unless something inside him had changed. And every time you thought about that night, about the way you climbed into his lap just to wind him tighter and tighter before leaving him there frustrated and humiliated, it made you want to crawl into a hole and die.

You were so mean to Pope. You always got this way. It was like the second you felt betrayed by someone you loved, some uglier version of yourself clawed its way to the surface desperate to regain control before they could hurt you first. You pushed and tested and provoked until the other person snapped or left or proved exactly why loving them had been a bad idea to begin with. And then afterward you sat alone trying to convince yourself you’d won the imaginary battle in your head.

You hadn’t though. You never did.

The realization sat heavily in your chest as you stared blankly out your apartment window, knees pulled up against your chest on the couch while rain tapped softly against the glass outside. Because if you were being honest with yourself, really honest, you knew exactly where it came from. Your father. Everything always circled back to him eventually.

Your first example of love had been a man who made you afraid of breathing too loudly in your own house. A man who treated affection like a privilege that could disappear the second you disappointed him. One minute he’d buy you expensive gifts and kiss the top of your head and call you his perfect girl. The next he’d smash plates against walls because you looked at him wrong. And somehow those two versions of him always existed at once. That was the confusing part.

People always thought abusive men were monsters every second of every day. Like there weren’t moments where they smiled softly at you across the dinner table. Moments where they tucked blankets around your shoulders when you fell asleep on the couch. Moments that made you stay. Your father specialized in those moments. He made you feel loved right before making you feel terrified. And that fucked you up more than if he’d just been cruel all the time. Because then maybe you would’ve stopped craving his approval.

Instead you spent your entire childhood trying to earn softness from a man who only gave it out in scraps. The memory hit you suddenly. it was Unwelcome, you hated thinking on it, but it was the most prominent memory you had with your father. You were eight years old sitting cross-legged on the floor of his office while he drank whiskey straight from the bottle after another fight with your mother. You remembered the smell first. Cigarettes and bourbon and expensive cologne. You remembered how wildly his mood had swung that night, laughing one second and dead-eyed the next.

You remembered the gun. God. You could still see it so clearly. The heavy silver revolver spinning across his desk while your stomach twisted itself into knots.

“You know what Russian roulette is?” he’d asked casually like he was explaining a board game.

You remembered trying to laugh nervously because you thought he was joking. He wasn’t. You remembered the sound your own heartbeat made when he pressed the gun into your small trembling hands. Remembered him smiling while you cried.

“C’mon baby,” he’d said gently. “Trust me.”

Trust me. The words made bile rise in your throat even now.

You’d spent your entire life being taught that love looked like fear. That loving somebody meant managing them carefully enough to survive them. Appeasing them. Fixing them. Calming them before they exploded. And worse, a horrible part of you equated instability with depth. Because safe men never felt real to you. Safe men felt temporary. But men like your father? Men like Pope? They consumed space. They made your pulse jump.

Made you feel chosen in terrifying overwhelming ways that rewired your entire nervous system. That was the problem.

Pope terrified you sometimes. Not because you thought he’d wake up one day and hit you. It was deeper than that. You were scared of how completely he could consume you if you let him. Scared because Pope loved like a drowning man grabbing onto something solid. Desperate. Devoted. Possessive in ways that should’ve sent you running but instead made something damaged inside you feel wanted. Needed. And that was dangerous for somebody like you.

Because you’d been raised to believe your value came from how much pain you could endure for other people. How much you could fix. How much you could save.

You thought about the look on Pope’s face the night at the bar after you climbed out of his truck. Not angry. Not really. Wounded. And suddenly the shame hit you harder. Because underneath all your teasing and cruelty that night, underneath the little power games and the way you intentionally pushed him until he unraveled, the truth was embarrassingly simple.

You wanted proof. Proof he’d chase you. Proof he cared enough to lose control over you. Proof that somebody could want you so badly they’d stay even after you acted awful. It was toxic. Manipulative even. And you hated that part of yourself. But it was hard to unlearn survival tactics you built as a child. Your father taught you that men only paid attention when things became explosive. So now part of you created explosions without even realizing it.

You closed your eyes hard. Because the worst part was you loved Pope. Really loved him. Not the fantasy version. Not the idea of saving him. Him.

The awkwardness. The intensity. The way he watched people too closely because he was constantly trying to understand how to be normal. The way he touched you like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go too long. The terrifying parts too. The violence living under his skin. The paranoia. The damage. You saw all of it. And somehow you loved him anyway. Maybe that made you insane. But for the first time in your life, loving somebody didn’t feel conditional.

Pope didn’t love you because you were useful. Or pretty. Or obedient. He loved you because you were you. Messy and emotional and difficult. And maybe nobody had ever loved him like that either. That realization cracked something open inside your chest.

Because underneath all his anger and possessiveness and volatility, Pope was still just a man desperately trying to figure out how to be loved without fearing it would disappear. And you understood that feeling more than anyone probably should. You rubbed both hands over your face tiredly.

Because if this was going to work, if you were really going to love somebody like Andrew Cody, you couldn’t keep approaching him from a place of fear and pettiness every time you felt vulnerable.

You couldn’t weaponize affection. Couldn’t keep testing him until he broke just to reassure yourself he cared. Pope already lived his whole life believing love only came attached to violence and manipulation.

You refused to become another person who reinforced that.

And maybe that meant accepting something terrifying too. You couldn’t fix him. No matter how badly you wanted to. No matter how deeply you loved him. You couldn’t heal wounds that old for him. But maybe you could love him enough that he stopped believing he was impossible to love at all.

And maybe that was the real difference between you and your father. Your father loved people like possessions. You wanted to love Pope like he was human.

Deran was getting real fucking tired of hearing Pope hit things. The gym Smurf had him fighting out of sat tucked behind an auto shop, hidden enough that cops only showed up when somebody forgot to pay them off. Illegal cage fights. Bare knuckles sometimes. MMA other nights. Cash-heavy crowds packed shoulder to shoulder around chainlink fencing while men beat each other bloody for entertainment and quick money.

Smurf called it “productive.” Said it kept Pope focused. Deran called bullshit.

Because Pope wasn’t coming home calmer anymore. He was coming home worse. Meaner. Quieter. Walking around with split knuckles and bruised ribs and that terrifying empty look in his eyes like he’d left parts of himself in those cages and forgot how to get them back. And Smurf kept feeding it.

Every time Pope got restless. Every time he got too attached. Every time his moods started centering around you again. Another fight. Another envelope of cash. Another reminder that violence was the only thing he’d ever really been useful for in that family.

Craig leaned against the bar counter watching Deran slam his phone down for the fourth time in ten minutes. “She’s still not answering?”

“No shit she’s not answering,” Deran snapped. “I basically told her to fuck off last time we talked.”

Craig winced slightly. “Nah what you said was worse bro.”

Deran dragged a hand down his face aggressively before grabbing the phone again.

Craig looked toward the office where Pope had locked himself in an hour ago after coming back from the fights with a busted lip and somebody else’s blood dried across his shirt. “You think he’s gonna go tonight?”

Deran’s jaw tightened. “Yeah.” Because Pope always went when Smurf asked. That was the problem.

The office door suddenly slammed open hard enough to shake the wall. Both brothers looked up immediately. Pope walked past them without a word, movements sharp and twitchy, already wrapping fresh tape around his knuckles again despite the bruising underneath. His face looked wrecked. Split eyebrow. Swelling across his jaw. There was fresh blood staining the white tape around his hands like he’d reopened cuts that never healed properly. And the scariest part was how calm he looked. Not angry. Not yelling. Just… gone somewhere deep inside himself.

Craig watched him disappear toward the back exit before muttering quietly, “Yeah, this is getting bad.”

Deran didn’t answer. Because he knew. He was close with Pope. He knew the difference between angry Pope and detached Pope. Detached was always worse.

Across town, you were elbow deep in espresso grounds and oat milk when your phone buzzed again inside your apron pocket. The coffee shop smelled like vanilla syrup and burnt coffee beans, soft indie music humming overhead while customers typed away on laptops pretending to work.

Your life had felt almost painfully normal the past few weeks. You’d clung to that. You wiped your hands on a towel before pulling your phone out during a lull between customers.

DERAN (12 missed calls)

DERAN: answer your fucking phone

DERAN: seriously bambi

DERAN: i know you’re ignoring me

DERAN: please call me

The last message had been sent two minutes ago. Something uncomfortable twisted in your stomach immediately. Because Deran didn’t say please. Not unless something was wrong. You waited until your manager disappeared into the back before slipping outside through the alley beside the shop and calling him.

He answered before the first ring finished “Finally.”

You frowned instantly. “Jesus Christ, what happened?”

Deran leaned back against the counter hard enough to hurt. Relief hit him embarrassingly fast hearing your voice. “Are you busy?”

“Yeah,” you said cautiously. “Why are you calling me like somebody died?”

Craig watched from nearby while Deran rubbed at his forehead. “Pope’s getting bad again.”

Your stomach tightened immediately at the name. You hadn’t heard from him once since the bar. Not one call. Not one text. Part of you had been relieved. Another part had hated it.

“What do you mean bad?” you asked slowly.

Deran hesitated. Because how the fuck was he supposed to explain this to somebody still halfway outside their world? “He’s fighting again.”

You frowned. “Like… fighting with people?”

Craig snorted quietly in the background. Deran shot him a glare before continuing. “No. Like actual fights.”

“What does that mean?”

Deran exhaled sharply through his nose. “Smurf’s got him doing cage fights again. Illegal MMA shit.”

“What?” You genuinely sounded horrified.

Deran stared out toward the empty beach beyond the windows before speaking again. “He’s been going almost every night.”

“Why would she do that?”

Because violence made Pope easier to control. Because bloody and exhausted meant obedient. Because Smurf knew exactly how to weaponize every broken thing inside her oldest son. But Deran couldn’t exactly say that out loud. “It makes money,” he muttered instead.

You leaned back against the brick wall outside the coffee shop, trying to process that image in your head. Pope in a cage somewhere beating people bloody while strangers screamed around him. Your chest hurt unexpectedly. “Is he okay?”

Craig barked out a humorless laugh from somewhere near the phone. “No,” Deran answered flatly. “He’s not.”

Your eyes closed briefly. You hated how immediate your concern still was. How quickly your brain shoved aside your own anger the second you realized he was hurting. “Why are you calling me?” you asked quietly.

Deran went silent for a second. Because he hated the answer. Hated admitting it. “You’re the only person he’d listen to right now.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is.” Deran’s voice sharpened slightly. “I don’t like it either, alright? But every time you’re around he calms the fuck down.”

You swallowed hard. “That’s not my responsibility.”

“I know.” And the fucked up thing was Deran actually meant it. None of this should’ve been your responsibility. But because of him you’d gotten tangled into all of them anyway.

You slid down the alley wall slightly until you were crouched against the brick. “What exactly do you want me to do?”

Deran looked toward the back exit Pope had disappeared into earlier. “Just… come talk to him.”

Your expression tightened immediately. You laughed softly under your breath, exhausted already. “Deran, I don’t even think he wants to see me.”

“You’d be surprised.”

Something about the way he said it made your stomach twist harder.

“He’s getting worse without you around,” Deran admitted finally, quieter now. “And if Smurf keeps feeding into this shit…” He stopped himself roughly before finishing. “I don’t know.”

The silence that followed felt heavy. Because you didn’t know either.

The address Deran texted you looked abandoned. That should’ve been your first clue to turn around and go home.

You sat in your car for almost five full minutes staring at the warehouse across the street, fingers gripping the steering wheel tighter every time another person disappeared through the rusted side entrance. Music thumped faintly through the walls hard enough to vibrate the pavement beneath your shoes when you finally stepped out of the car. Everything about the place felt wrong. Not dangerous in an obvious way. Worse. Like everyone here already understood the rules except you.

Your stomach twisted harder with every step toward the entrance. Men twice your size brushed past you carrying stacks of cash and cheap beer bottles, cigarette smoke thick enough outside the building to sting your eyes. Nobody stopped you at the door. Nobody asked questions. One guy just glanced at you briefly before waving you through like girls wandering into underground fight rings happened every day.

The second you stepped inside, the noise hit you all at once. Screaming. Music. Bodies packed shoulder to shoulder around a massive chainlink cage set up in the center of the warehouse floor beneath blinding industrial lights. Your chest tightened instantly. Blood. There was blood everywhere. On the mat. On people’s shirts. On the guy currently being dragged half-conscious from the cage while the crowd screamed for more. You stood frozen near the back wall trying to process what the hell you were even looking at. This wasn’t some shitty little bar fight. This wasn’t drunk guys throwing punches in parking lots.

This was way too organized. People were betting and Yelling odds. Passing around stacks of money while another fighter climbed into the cage. Your heart pounded harder when you spotted Craig first leaning against a railing near the front. Then Deran. Then Smurf. She sat calmly near the cage wearing cream linen and gold jewelry like this was some fucking charity event instead of an illegal bloodsport. Her expression stayed perfectly composed as she spoke quietly to a man beside her, entirely unbothered by the violence happening ten feet away. Your skin crawled. Your breath caught violently in your throat as Pope stepped into the cage.

For a second your brain genuinely refused to connect him with the man walking beneath those lights. Because this wasn’t your Andrew. Not the one who sat beside Lena’s bed at night. Not the one who let you play with his curls while he looked at you like touching you hurt him. Not the man who kissed you like he was starving for softness.

This version of him looked terrifying. Shirtless beneath the fluorescent lights, sweat already glistening across bruised skin layered with old scars you’d never fully seen before. His knuckles were taped bloody white. Fresh bruises bloomed purple across his ribs and jaw from previous fights. There was a split healing cut across his eyebrow that reopened slightly the second he flexed his face. But it was his expression that scared you most. Blank. Not hyped up like the other fighters. Just empty. Like violence switched something off in him instead of on.

“Oh my god,” you whispered without realizing it.

Deran turned immediately at the sound of your voice. Relief crossed his face so fast it almost disappeared before you could fully register it. He pushed through the crowd toward you quickly. “You actually came.”

“What the fuck is this?” you hissed immediately, horrified eyes darting back toward the cage. “Deran what the fuck is he doing?”

Deran rubbed a hand over his mouth roughly. “I told you.”

“No, you said fighting. You didn’t say…” Your voice trailed off helplessly as the bell rang.

The fight started violently. The other guy swung first and Pope barely reacted before driving a fist directly into his ribs hard enough you heard the crack from where you stood. The crowd erupted. You flinched back into Deran instinctively. It was obvious you weren’t meant to be here.

Pope didn’t hesitate. He just kept going, Hit after hit after hit. Like he’d done this too many times to even think about it anymore.

You watched in horror as the other fighter stumbled backward bleeding heavily from his mouth while Pope followed without mercy, slamming him against the cage hard enough the fencing rattled violently. “Oh my god,” you whispered hand coming you to your mouth.

Deran stayed quiet beside you. Because there was really nothing to say.

Pope ducked another swing before driving his elbow into the man’s jaw with a sickening crack. The guy dropped instantly to one knee. The crowd screamed louder, But Pope didn’t stop. Even after the man clearly couldn’t defend himself anymore. after blood started pouring across the mat.

Something ugly twisted in your stomach as Pope grabbed him again and drove another punch into his face hard enough the man collapsed fully this time.

People around you were cheering. Smiling. Betting more money. And all you could think was, this man held you like you were fragile. This man let you trace freckles across his shoulders while he fell asleep beside you. And now you were watching him nearly beat another human being to death without changing expression once.

“Why isn’t anyone stopping it?” you asked quietly.

Deran’s jaw tightened. Because he knew that tone in your voice. The fear. “The ref will stop it.”

“He’s unconscious.”

As if on cue, the fight was finally called. Too late. Way too fucking late. The crowd exploded into cheers while Pope stepped backward breathing heavily, blood smeared across his chest and fists. He barely acknowledged the screaming around him. Didn’t celebrate. Didn’t react. Just stood there staring blankly at the body being dragged away. Then his eyes lifted. And landed directly on you. Everything in him stopped.

You saw it happen instantly. That terrifying detached expression cracked apart so fast it almost gave you whiplash. Pope stared at you through the cage like he genuinely thought he might be hallucinating.

His chest still heaved from the fight. Blood dripped slowly from his knuckles onto the mat. And somehow he looked more vulnerable in that exact second than he had the entire time you’d known him.

You didn’t realize you were moving until you were already pushing through the crowd. People shouted around you as you shoved them. Someone tried handing Pope money through the fencing. But all you could focus on was him.

Pope climbed out of the cage slowly without taking his eyes off you once. Up close it looked even worse. His mouth was bleeding. One eye already swelling. There was blood across his shoulder that definitely wasn’t all his.

You stopped directly in front of him. For a second neither of you spoke.

Pope stood in front of you breathing hard enough his chest still rose unevenly. The warehouse still screamed around you, but Pope looked completely disconnected from all of it now. Like the second he saw you, he came crashing violently back into himself.

Your anger dissolved almost immediately. Not because what you’d just witnessed wasn’t horrifying. It was. You couldn’t get the sound of bone cracking out of your head. But standing this close to him now, seeing the blood dripping slowly from his split knuckles, seeing the way his pupils still looked blown wide and unfocused beneath the fluorescent lights, you realized something awful.

Pope wasn’t enjoying this. He looked hollow. Used up. Like somebody had wound him up too tight and pointed him at another human being until there was nothing left inside him except instinct and adrenaline.

Your expression softened before you could stop it. “Hey,” you said quietly.

Pope swallowed hard. His eyes moved frantically across your face like he was checking whether you were scared of him now. Whether this finally changed things. Whether seeing him like this ruined whatever still existed between you. And maybe it should’ve. Maybe any sane person would’ve run. But instead your hand lifted carefully toward his face.

Pope went completely still when your fingers brushed lightly beneath his bruised jaw. The crowd disappeared around him.

“You’re hurt,” you whispered.

Pope stared down at you with something dangerously close to panic buried beneath the numbness. “You shouldn’t be here,” he said finally, voice rough and wrecked from disuse.

“I know.”

Behind him the cage door slammed shut again. Another fight starting. Another round of screaming. You barely noticed.

“Andy,” you said softly, “let’s go home.”

Something in his expression cracked slightly at the word home.

“Well there she is.” Smurf’s voice cut smoothly through the noise as she approached from behind.

Your shoulders stiffened instantly. Pope’s entire body tightened beneath your touch on instinct alone.

Smurf looked immaculate compared to the carnage surrounding her. Her eyes drifted briefly over Pope first. Then settled on you.

“You missed a good night, baby,” she said lightly.

Your stomach twisted. Because somehow that sentence felt far more disturbing than the fight itself.

Pope stepped subtly closer to you without seeming to realize he was doing it. Smurf noticed that too. Of course she did.

“He’s done,” you said before Pope could speak.

Smurf’s gaze slid back toward you slowly “Excuse me?”

“He’s hurt.”

Smurf smiled faintly. “He’s fine.”

“No,” you said more firmly this time, “he’s leaving.”

Deran stilled somewhere behind you. Craig looked away immediately. Because nobody talked over Smurf like that. Especially not over business. And this was business. Money. A lot of it. Pope had become the main event again these past few weeks. People came specifically to watch him fight because Pope didn’t fight like other men. There was something terrifying about the way he detached during it. Something brutal people paid good money to witness. And you were pulling him out early.

Smurf’s expression barely changed. But in her head- Oh. There it was. Not just attachment. Influence. You weren’t just distracting Pope anymore. You were disrupting control. Her eyes flicked toward Pope, fully expecting him to correct you. To stay. To obey.

Instead Pope looked at the floor and muttered quietly “I wanna go.”

The realization settled cold and immediate inside Smurf’s chest.

You had become more dangerous than she originally thought. Not because you were manipulative. Not because you were lying. But because Pope listened to you.

And men like Pope only truly listened to people they loved. Smurf smiled anyway.

“Well,” she said gently, “if that’s what you want, baby.”

Pope didn’t answer her. You reached carefully for his hand instead. His fingers immediately closed around yours so tightly it almost hurt. Like he thought if he let go, somebody would drag him back into that cage.

The drive to Pope’s place was painfully quiet. You drove because his hands were too wrecked and swollen to grip the wheel properly anymore.

Pope sat in the passenger seat with his head leaned back against the window, blood drying across his skin in dark streaks beneath passing streetlights. He hadn’t spoken once since leaving the warehouse.

You kept glancing over at him at red lights anyway. Every time you did, he looked further away somehow. You didn’t know this version of him. The silence in the truck didn’t feel angry. It felt exhausted. Like whatever kept Pope stitched together finally started tearing at the seams. When you finally pulled into the driveway of his apartment, Pope still didn’t move.

The engine ticked softly after you shut it off. Neither of you said anything. Then quietly he mumbled “I scared you.”

Your chest tightened immediately. You turned toward him fully. “Andy-”

“I saw your face.”

His voice sounded distant. Like he already decided the answer before asking the question. “You looked scared of me.”

You swallowed hard because lying to him suddenly felt cruel. “I was scared,” you admitted softly.

Pope nodded once. Like that confirmed something terrible inside him. Then suddenly he laughed. A horrible sound. Small and broken and completely humorless. “Smurf likes it,” he muttered staring out the windshield. “When I fight.” You stayed quiet. Because you didn’t know what to say to that. “She says it helps me.” Another laugh. “Gets the bad shit out.” Your throat tightened painfully. Pope finally looked at you then and the expression on his face nearly shattered you. Because there he was. Not Pope. Andrew. The deeply damaged little boy buried underneath all that violence and blood and terror. “She keeps putting me back in there,” he whispered. “And I keep doing it.”

The confession sounded accidental. Like he didn’t even mean to say it aloud. You reached for him immediately. Pope broke apart the second you touched him. He folded into himself silently, forehead dropping against your shoulder while one shaking hand gripped your jacket hard enough to wrinkle the fabric beneath his fingers. You felt the first harsh breath leave him. Then another. Then suddenly he was falling apart against you completely. Years of rage and confusion and manipulation bleeding out silently in the front seat of your car while he tried desperately not to make noise. It was devastating. And yet here he was shaking against you like he physically did not know how to hold himself together anymore.

Your own eyes burned instantly. “Oh, Andy,” you whispered, wrapping both arms around him carefully despite the blood. “Honey…”

Pope made this awful broken sound against your neck like the nickname hurt him. Like your kindness hurt him. You held him tighter anyway.

Inside Pope’s apartment was quiet in a way the Cody house never was. You didn’t realize how badly Pope needed that silence until the second you got him inside. The door barely shut before he started pacing. Not aggressively. Restlessly. Like his skin didn’t fit right anymore. You stood near the kitchen watching him move back and forth across the small living room. He dragged both hands through his curls hard enough to yank at the roots, breathing uneven beneath the fluorescent kitchen light.

Pope looked wrecked. Like seeing you at the fight forced him to finally look at himself clearly for the first time in weeks.

“Andrew,” you said softly.

Pope stopped moving immediately. His back stayed toward you though. “I shouldn’t’ve let you see that.”

Your chest tightened. “You didn’t let me see anything.”

“Yes I did.” His voice turned rougher now. “I knew Deran called you.”

That surprised you. You frowned slightly. “Then why didn’t you stop him?”

Pope laughed once under his breath. A miserable sound. “Cause part of me wanted you there.”

You stepped closer carefully. “Come sit down.”

Pope stood still another second before finally obeying quietly, lowering himself onto the couch like his body suddenly weighed too much to carry anymore.

You disappeared briefly into the bathroom before returning with a first aid kit and a damp washcloth. Pope watched you silently the entire time. You sat beside him gently, knees brushing his thigh as you soaked the cloth with warm water. “Hands,” you murmured.

Pope immediately held them out toward you. The sight almost broke your heart. His knuckles looked destroyed. Skin split open across swollen bone, dried blood gathered beneath his nails. You cleaned them carefully anyway, your touch impossibly soft despite the damage. Pope flinched once.

“Sorry,” you whispered immediately.

“I’m okay.”

You looked up at him then. At the bruising blooming beneath his eye, the emptiness sitting behind those hazel eyes tonight.

At the shame. God, there was so much shame in him.

“You don’t have to look at me like that,” Pope muttered quietly.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m hurt.”

Your expression softened painfully. “You are hurt.”

“No.” He shook his head once frustrated. “I mean wrong. Like there’s something wrong with me.”

You carefully wrapped gauze around his hand before answering. “Andy,” you said softly, “there are a lot of things wrong with everybody in your family.” That actually got the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was gone almost instantly. “But you?” You glanced back down at his injuries. “You’re not evil.”

Pope’s jaw flexed hard immediately. “Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m not.”

“You saw what I did to that guy.”

Your hands paused briefly. Then continued cleaning blood from his wrist. “Yes.”

Pope stared at you in disbelief. “You should be scared of me.”

“I’m not.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Maybe.”

Pope shook his head harder now, frustration bleeding through the numbness. “You don’t get it.”

“Then explain it to me.”

His breathing changed. Faster now. Agitated. “That wasn’t fighting,” he muttered. “I couldn’t stop.” You stayed quiet. Pope rubbed a hand violently over his face before continuing. “When it starts I just…” He swallowed thickly. “Everything goes quiet.” He said pointing at his head harshly. Your chest ached listening to him. “And then I hurt people.”

The words sounded less like a confession and more like a punishment. Like he needed you to hear the ugliest parts of him before deciding whether to stay. You set the first aid kit aside slowly. Then reached up carefully and touched his face. Pope immediately went silent. “You know what I saw tonight?” you whispered. His eyes lifted toward yours reluctantly. “I saw a man everyone keeps using until he doesn’t know who he is anymore.” Pope’s expression cracked slightly. “She keeps putting you in situations that make you hate yourself,” you continued softly. “And then she convinces you that hate is proof you deserve it.”

“Don’t,” Pope said immediately, tension returning to his shoulders. “Don’t talk about Smurf like that.” He wasn’t angry. He was Conditioned. You recognized it instantly. The automatic defense. The fear underneath it.

Your thumb brushed lightly beneath his swollen cheekbone. “She hurts you.” Pope looked away sharply. You knew then. Not because he admitted it. Because he couldn’t. His silence said enough. Your eyes burned suddenly. “Oh, Andy…”

Pope looked exhausted by the sound of his own name. “She says I’m broken,” he whispered finally. “She says people like me ruin things.”

Your throat tightened so painfully you almost couldn’t speak. “Well,” you whispered, “I love you.”

Pope froze. The apartment went dead silent. You felt his entire body tense beneath your hand like the words physically struck him. And maybe they did. Because nobody had probably ever said that to Andrew Cody without conditions attached. You swallowed thickly before saying it again softer this time. “I love you.”

Pope stared at you like he genuinely didn’t understand the sentence. Then suddenly his eyes filled so fast it nearly shattered you “No,” he said immediately, voice breaking apart. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Say stuff you don’t mean.”

“I mean it.”

“You can’t.”

Your face crumpled slightly. “Why?”

“Cause you saw me.”

The devastation in his voice made your own tears spill instantly. You moved closer without thinking, both hands cupping his face carefully despite the bruises. “Yes,” you whispered fiercely. “I saw you. I saw all of you.” Pope’s breathing turned uneven again “I’m still here.” He looked completely lost now. Like love felt more frightening than violence ever could. “I’m gonna take care of you,” you whispered, forehead pressing gently against his. “Okay?” Pope shut his eyes hard. “And if you want,” you continued shakily, “we’ll leave.” That made his eyes open immediately. You brushed your thumb against his cheek gently. “We’ll get out of here. Away from Smurf. Away from all of this.” Your voice cracked slightly. “I don’t care where we go.”

Pope looked almost frightened by the idea. Not because he didn’t want it. Because he did. You could see it all over his face. The desperate starving want of it. Freedom. Softness. Someone choosing him over the family for once. But Smurf had spent his entire life making sure freedom felt impossible. “She won’t let me,” he whispered.

The words made something cold settle in your stomach. Not she won’t like it. She won’t let me.

You wrapped your arms around him immediately. “Yes she will,” you whispered fiercely into his hair. “Because I’m not leaving you here to die for her.”

Pope broke again completely after that. One second he was holding himself together by threads. The next he was burying his face against your neck with both arms wrapped around your waist so tightly it almost hurt, shaking hard enough the couch creaked beneath both of you. You held him through all of it. Through every ugly broken piece.

The next few days had been tough. It was like Pope was going through withdrawals from every emotion he’d spent his entire life burying. Every feeling that had been shoved down, ignored, beaten back, or weaponized against him seemed determined to claw its way to the surface all at once. Some days he was angry. Some days he was numb. Some days he barely spoke at all. Other days he talked until his voice grew hoarse, as if years of silence were finally catching up to him.

You’d been there for every moment of it, never pushing him, never judging him, never making him feel bad for falling apart. You simply sat with him through it. Sometimes that meant sitting on opposite ends of the couch in complete silence while he stared at a wall for three hours.

Sometimes it meant listening to him talk until two in the morning. Sometimes it meant waking up because you’d rolled over in bed and realized his side was empty, only to find him smoking on the balcony while the rest of Oceanside slept. It broke your heart every single time, because for the first time you were seeing just how much pain one person could carry before it started crushing them beneath its weight.

Things would be okay. You kept telling yourself that. Even after he told you all his ugly truths. How he killed Cath for Smurf. How his family pulled robberies, heists, and laundered money through businesses that looked legitimate from the outside.

It didn’t take you long to realize Pope had never really been treated like a son or a brother. He’d been treated like a weapon. The muscle. The enforcer. The executioner. The one they pointed at problems until those problems disappeared. Looking back, suddenly so many things made sense. The way his brothers instinctively looked at him whenever things got dangerous. The way Smurf spoke to him. The way people reacted when he entered a room. You realized his blank stare wasn’t actually blank at all. It never had been. It was full of things. Fear. Shame. Grief. Loneliness. Guilt. A lifetime of desperately wanting somebody to choose him over what he could do for them.

He told you about Julia more than anyone else. Every story somehow found its way back to her eventually. He told you how he wasn’t there for her. How he should’ve protected her. How he should’ve left with her when she asked. How he still wasn’t there for J now. The guilt sat inside him like a living thing. Then he told you about Smurf. Really told you. Not the vague comments or half-finished explanations he’d offered before. The truth. The whole ugly truth. You sat beside him on the couch while he stared at the floor and explained things in a detached voice that somehow made everything worse. He talked about her touching him. About how confused he’d been. About how nobody noticed. Or maybe they did and just didn’t care enough to stop it. He told you about being the weird kid growing up, the one everybody whispered about when they thought he couldn’t hear them. The one who never quite fit. The one who only ever really belonged beside Julia. He told you how he got his nickname. Told you about every fight he’d ever lost and every fight he’d ever won. Every mistake. Every regret. Every horrible thing he’d done because somebody told him it was necessary.

Then he told you why he killed Nate. Why he killed Nate’s father. Why he’d never once regretted it. And somehow, you didn’t hate him. Maybe there was something wrong with you. Maybe there was some deeply damaged part of your brain that should’ve been more alarmed than it was. But every time he talked about it, all you could focus on was the reason behind it. The absolute certainty he’d had that nobody would ever hurt you again if he had anything to say about it. It was terrifying. It was unhealthy. It was probably one of the biggest red flags a person could wave. Yet every time you thought about it, your chest hurt with affection. Because nobody had ever protected you before. Not really.

Certainly not your father. Your father had spent your childhood teaching you that love and fear were the same thing. That safety was temporary. That the people who were supposed to protect you could become the people you feared most.

Pope had learned the exact same lesson. Just from a different monster. Maybe that was why you understood him so well. Maybe it was why you couldn’t bring yourself to run, even now. The two of you were damaged in ways that fit together a little too neatly.

The apartment had slowly started feeling different. Lighter somehow. Not because the problems were gone. If anything, there were more problems than ever. Smurf still existed. The family still existed. The crimes still existed. Everything ugly and dangerous was still waiting outside the front door. But inside the apartment there was something else now. Peace. Tiny moments of it. Enough to make a difference. You started noticing changes in Pope. Small things at first. The way he actually slept through the night sometimes. The way he occasionally smiled without immediately looking guilty afterward. The way he’d stopped flinching every time his phone rang. The way he’d started reaching for you without thinking. A hand finding your knee while you watched television. His fingers brushing yours while you cooked. His arm settling around your waist in bed while he slept. As if somewhere deep down he was finally starting to believe you weren’t going anywhere.

That morning, you stood barefoot in the kitchen making breakfast. Sunlight spilled through the window above the sink, turning the entire apartment gold. The smell of coffee filled the room while bacon crackled softly on the stove beside you. Pope had left before sunrise, which wasn’t unusual anymore. You didn’t ask where he went. That conversation had happened days ago.

“If it’s illegal,” you’d told him while pointing a spatula directly at his chest, “I don’t want to know.”

Pope had looked genuinely conflicted by that. “What if it’s important?”

“It probably isn’t.”

“What if it is?”

“Andy.”

His mouth had immediately snapped shut. You’d pointed the spatula at him again.

“If it’s illegal, I don’t want to know.”

“What if it’s only a little illegal?”

You’d laughed so hard you’d nearly dropped the coffee pot.

Now, standing alone in the kitchen, the memory made you smile despite yourself. You were halfway through flipping a pancake when you heard the front door open. Without turning around, you called out, “You remembered coffee, right?” No answer. You frowned slightly. “Andy?” Still nothing. Finally, you glanced over your shoulder.

Pope stood frozen in the doorway between the kitchen and living room. He wasn’t carrying coffee. His hair was a mess from the ocean wind. His shoulders looked tense. Exhausted. Not physically exhausted. Emotionally exhausted. Like he’d spent the entire morning fighting some invisible battle and barely made it home afterward. Your smile softened immediately.

“What happened?” He didn’t answer. Just stared at you. For several long seconds neither of you moved.

Then suddenly he crossed the room.

You barely had enough time to put the spatula down before his arms wrapped around your waist. Hard. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to tell you exactly how badly he needed this. Your breath caught as he buried his face against your shoulder and simply stood there. Holding you. Like you’d become the only place he knew how to rest. You immediately covered his forearms with your hands. “Oh.”

His grip tightened.

“What happened?” you asked softly.

A long silence followed. Then finally “Nothing.”

You rolled your eyes. “That’s a lie.”

Another pause. “Maybe.”

Despite yourself, you smiled. Pope’s face remained buried against your shoulder. “You wanna talk about it?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

The answer seemed to surprise him. You felt him shift slightly, like he’d been expecting you to push harder. To pry. To demand answers. Instead you simply stood there with him while the kitchen filled with the smell of burnt pancakes.

Several minutes passed before he finally spoke again. “You gonna keep making breakfast?”

“No.”

His head lifted slightly. “Why?”

“Because you’re hugging me.”

Pope actually thought about that for a second. Then nodded. “Okay.”

He made absolutely no effort to let go. A laugh escaped you.

“Andy.”

“Hm.”

“The pancakes are burning.”

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yeah.”

You shook your head, smiling helplessly as you looked down at the man currently holding onto you like you were the only thing keeping him together. For years Pope Cody had been everybody else’s weapon. Everybody else’s problem solver. Everybody else’s monster. Standing here in the middle of his kitchen, with sunlight warming the apartment and his arms wrapped around your waist, he didn’t look like a monster at all. He looked tired. He looked lost. He looked like somebody who had spent his entire life surviving and had no idea what to do now that somebody was finally offering him a place to rest. You reached behind you, turning the stove off holding Popes face in your hands. “Tell me what you need,” you said softly.

Pope leaned forward, leaning his head into your hand. “Need to know I can do something good.”

You thought for a second, your hands running through his curls. “You make me feel good,” you said suddenly.

He looked at you, and you watched the way his shoulders sagged at your words, a breath leaving him like he'd been holding it for years. His hands came up to rest on your hips, thumbs rubbing slow circles through the thin cotton.

“Yeah?” His voice was rough, almost a whisper against.

“Yeah, Andy.” You let his name hang soft in the air between you. “You always make me feel good. Every time.”

He looked at you again, and there it was, that flicker of doubt he tried so hard to hide. Pope Cody, the man everyone whispered about, the one they called a monster, a killer, something wrong. But here, in the dim light of your kitchen, he was just a man who needed to hear he could be good at something. That something.

You cupped his face tighter, thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “Come here, Honey.”

He let you guide him, sinking to his knees on the worn rug in front of the couch. His hands slid up your thighs, pushing the hem of your sleep shirt higher. You stepped back until your calves hit the couch cushion, then let yourself fall onto it, legs parting naturally.

Pope didn't wait for an invitation. He leaned in, mouth pressing a wet kiss to the inside of your thigh, then another, working his way up. His stubble scraped against your sensitive skin, and you shivered, letting your head fall back against the cushion.

“That's it,” you breathed. “Just like that, Andrew.”

He grunted in response, a low sound that vibrated against your skin. His hands gripped your hips, pulling you to the edge of the couch, and then his mouth was on you, right where you needed him.

The first swipe of his tongue was slow, deliberate. He wasn't rushing. He was learning. You felt him explore, taste, test what made you gasp and what made you sigh. Your fingers found his curls again, threading through the auburn curls, tugging gently.

“Oh, fuck,” you whispered. “That's good, Honey. That's so good.”

He looked up at you, eyes dark and focused, his mouth still working. He didn't stop, but he pulled back just enough to murmur, “Yeah? Am I-am I doing good?”

Your heart clenched. You tugged his hair lightly, making him look at you fully. “You're doing perfect, Andy. You're making me feel so good. Don't stop.”

He didn't. He buried his face deeper, tongue circling your clit with a steady rhythm, then flattening and dragging up slow. Your hips rocked against his mouth, and he let you, one arm wrapping around your thigh to keep you open, the other hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast.

“That's it,” you said, voice breathy. “You know exactly what I need. You always do.”

He groaned against you, the sound muffled but eager. His fingers found your nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger, and you arched into his touch.

“You're so good at this, Andrew.” You were babbling now, but you meant every word. “You make me feel so safe, so fucking good. No one else-god, right there, Honey-”

His tongue moved faster, more insistent, and you felt the coil tightening low in your belly. Your grip on his hair tightened, and you panted, “Don't stop, don't stop, I'm-I'm gonna-”

He doubled down, sucking your clit into his mouth while his fingers worked you open, and you let go, crying out his name as the orgasm washed over you in waves. You pulsed against his mouth, and he drank it all in, licking you through it until you were oversensitive and trembling.

When you finally stilled, he pulled back, chin glistening, and looked up at you with something raw and vulnerable in his eyes. His lips were slick, his breathing heavy.

You reached down, pulling him up by his shirt until he was hovering over you, his weight a familiar comfort. You kissed him slow, tasting yourself on his lips.

“That was perfect, Honey,” you murmured, stroking his jaw. “But I need more.”

His eyes darkened, a low grunt rumbling in his chest. “Whatever you need.”

You shifted beneath him, guiding him to lie back on the couch, you on top now, straddling his hips. His hands immediately found your waist, thumbs tracing the curve of your hipbones. You could feel him hard through his jeans, pressing against your damp core.

“Let me take care of you now, Andrew,” you said softly, reaching between you to unbuckle his belt. He watched you, breath held, as you tugged his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his cock. It stood thick and hard, pre-cum beading at the tip.

You lined yourself up, sinking down onto him slowly, an inch, then another, your walls stretching to take him in. He let out a shaky groan, his head falling back against the cushion.

“Fuck,” he breathed, the word rough and reverent.

You paused when he was fully seated, giving yourself a moment to adjust. His hands roamed up your back, slipping under your shirt, gripping your skin like he was afraid you'd disappear.

“Am I doing good?” he asked again, quieter this time, searching your face.

You leaned forward, pressing your forehead to his. “You're doing so good, Andy. You feel so good inside me. So deep.”

He grunted, hips twitching up involuntarily, and you moaned at the movement.

“That's it,” you whispered. “Let me feel you.”

You started to move, slow, deliberate rolls of your hips, grinding against him in a rhythm that made both of you gasp. His hands slid down to grip your ass, guiding you, helping you find the angle that made your breath hitch.

“Right there?” he asked, his voice strained.

“Yes, Honey, right there. Don't stop.”

He thrust up to meet you, each motion deep and unhurried, filling you completely. The sound of skin against skin mixed with your soft moans and his guttural groans. You could feel the orgasm building again, slow and sweet this time, not the sharp peak from before but a warm, rolling wave.

“You feel so good,” you said, your voice trembling. “You make me feel so full. So loved.”

His eyes locked on yours, and there it was, that desperate need to believe you. “Say it again.”

“You're good, Andrew. You're so good to me.”

He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest, and buried his face in your neck as he fucked up into you, his rhythm losing control as he neared his own edge.

“I'm close,” he muttered against your throat, his voice cracking. “Can I, please, can I-“

“Come for me, Honey,” you whispered, kissing his temple. “Let go. I've got you.”

He groaned your name, a broken, desperate sound, and spilled inside you, his body shuddering beneath you. The feeling of him pulsing, of his warmth flooding you, pushed you over the edge too, and you cried out, clenching around him as your second orgasm rippled through you.

You collapsed against him, both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat. His arms stayed locked around you, holding you close. After a long moment, he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said, barely audible.

You lifted your head, brushing the hair from his forehead. “For what?”

“For letting me be good.”

Your chest tightened. You cupped his face, making him look at you. “You are good, Andy. You always were. You just needed someone to see it.”

He dropped his forehead to yours, breath ragged. “I see it when I'm with you.”

You stayed like that, tangled together on the couch, the apartment still warm, the morning soft around you. And for a little while, the weight of the world didn't touch either of you.

Disclaimer: YOU DO NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO REPOST MY WRITING ANYWHERE ELSE WITHOUT MY CONSENT. REBLOGS ARE ENCOURAGED THOUGH. YOU MAY NOT FEED MY WORK TO ANY AI DATABASES OF ANY KIND, USE MY WORKS TO TRAIN AI OR USE AI TO TRANSLATE MY WORK. FUCK AI.

The first time it happens it's an accident.

There’s people in his house when there shouldn't be.

The music is too loud, the bodies too hot and sweaty.

He’s standing in the kitchen like a weirdo, even he can acknowledge it.

But he truly doesn’t know what to do. Where to go.

He’s been gone for three years. He doesn’t recognize anyone anymore. Where the fuck is he even supposed to start?

It’s your meek “excuse me” that breaks him out of the spell he’s under, gaze finally sharpening as he comes back down to the present moment.

Everything rushes back to him, overwhelmingly. He’s suddenly too aware of it all, especially your timid grip on his bicep as you try to move him out of the way.

The touch doesn’t linger. It’s fleeting, unlike the reality that Pope finds himself in.

You side step around his imposing frame, a shy smile on your lips, one that makes his head spin.

You shouldn’t be nice to him, hell, you shouldn’t be nice to any asshole you don’t know. Did no one teach you—

And then you turn on the kitchen sink, gently cleaning the glass you’ve been using unlike everyone’s disposable, plastic ones.

An air of familiarity courses through him. You’re…comfortable in his home. You’re taking care of the space that no one, not even his brothers, could give two fucks about.

He can’t help but stare, his thoughts rendering him unable to look the other way, to go back to being stoic and uninterested.

If you feel him glaring you don’t let him know it, your body language remaining relaxed all the way through wiping the glass dry and standing on your tip toes to place it back on the shelf above you.

That’s when he moves.

It’s instinctual. His mother’s voice clear in his ear, urging him to help a lady in need.

He steps up, crowds your personal space yet gives you room to escape if you feel uncomfortable.

You turn to him then, your bright eyes meeting his as your fingers barely touch. He instantly forces himself to look away, afraid that he’s going to let the glass fall if he loses himself in your gaze.

“Thanks,” you mumble, shooting him another smile as you settle back down on your feet, the movement shifting you closer against his chest.

It honestly makes Pope dizzy. Feeling your warmth, smelling the faint softness of your perfume.

You don’t turn to move for the millisecond it takes for him to finish pushing the glass into place, perfectly aligned with the others.

It’s only when he too settles back down that you turn to him expectantly.

“You’re welcome.”

Pope guesses that’s what you’re looking for and he’s proven correct instantly as you bless him with another blinding smile.

His stomach does another flip.

Who the fuck are you?

Before he can ask, what he believes to be your name is called because you instantly turn towards the sound.

He commits your name to memory, such a fitting one for such a—

“Angel! There you are!” Daren breaks through the crowd like a lifeline, one that you instantly take, stepping away from Pope and towards him like a magnet.

You settle against his side like you’re meant to be there, his arm leisurely draping over your shoulders in a familiarity that makes Pope’s blood boil with a flurry of emotions he simply cannot pinpoint.

“See you’ve met Pope,” Deran notes and you turn back to Pope with wide eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” you start, tone remorseful. “I had no idea you were Deran’s brother, I would’ve introduced myself.”

You genuinely mean it and it almost causes Pope to snap at you. You don’t owe him anything.

“’s okay,” Pope mumbles instead, his gaze piercing.

“Well it’s really nice to meet you,” you hold out your hand for him to take.

Pope’s jaw clenches. He makes no effort to move, to reciprocate your kind gesture. He can see the disappointment in your face, how it falls instantly. You’re not used to being denied, to being told no, and for a second Pope almost cracks.

But he can’t. He won’t let himself do it.

No, because he knows that the second you give him even an inch of familiarity he will devour you whole.

“Don’t take it personally, angel,” Deran practically glares daggers at him. “He’s not really into that.”

Your mouth curls into a silent oh and Pope shrugs in response.

It’s all he can do to not come across as a complete weirdo instantly upon meeting you, more than he already has.

You copy him, shrugging like you’re unbothered but he knows for a fact you aren’t as your hand instantly retracts back towards you, seeking Deran’s instead.

His fingers interlace with yours like it’s second nature, overly intimate. Pope’s brows scrunch in confusion, barely. Are the two of you…a couple?

“Anyway, I’ll see you around.”

Pope gives you one last grunt of acknowledgement before Deran is pulling you away, back towards the backyard where all the action is happening.

He obviously keeps his eyes trained on you as you leave, on how your jean shorts hug your ass, how your body is sun-kissed and a little burnt from the summer heat wave, how your hair flows effortlessly.

And then you turn to glance back at him for what feels like minutes, your eyes filled with nothing but curiosity. 

His eyes force him to blink then and he loses you to the crowd.

Fuck.

The next time Pope sees you, you’re back at the house for a pool day with his family. It’s a small gathering this time around, just their inner circle which apparently now includes you too.

You’re in a striking blue bikini, the color contrasting beautifully against your skin. You’re sitting on one of the lounge chairs, your legs open so a hyper Lena can settle in between them.

You can barely contain your laughter as the young girl tells you a silly story from school, your fingers working overtime to braid her long hair in one of those fancy styles that Pope could never name so that it won’t get too tangled from the pool.

Your laughter hits him like a disorienting grenade. It’s like he's never heard anyone feel joy the way you do. It's infectious, making him wonder if he’s ever actually felt a real emotion in his life.

“There, all done,” you tie up Lena’s hair and give her back a little pat before the girl practically bolts from your embrace, yelling a swift thank you before cannonballing into the pool as everyone cheers.

Andrew’s about to move forward, to settle down beside you, a pull to be near you clouding his senses.

But then Craig has to go and ruin it.

“Me next,” the oaf practically towers over you, settling down between your legs like Lena had, taking advantage of how you haven't moved.

You roll your eyes playfully but don’t complain.

Pope watches as you take his hair out of the messy bun that he’s got it in, gently scratching his scalp. His younger brother moans, causing you to stop and smack the side of his head.

Pope’s lips quirk up into a smirk. Good, set his brother’s straight.

But Craig is not deterred, simply reaching back and squeezing your thigh cockily.

It takes everything in Pope not to lunge forward. He doesn’t understand it, how protectiveness practically flares up in his chest at the sight of someone else’s grubby hands on your soft flesh.

He honestly doesn’t know how Deran lets it happen. They both know his brother so why is he letting Craig be so chummy with you?

Unless…you’re not actually together, together.

Is it possible that you’re just like this with everyone?

You finish braiding his hair then, meanly tossing it over his shoulder so that the tail end of it smacks him on the face.

“There princess,” you tease. “All done.”

Craig flinches as the band hits him, bursting out into a fit of laughter as he stands up and follows Lena’s example, splashing into the pool so hard that he ends up soaking you completely.

Lena laughs as you gasp dramatically. “You meanie!”

“Payback’s a bitch—” Craig starts, quickly correcting himself as you glare at him. “Payback, angel.”

Deran snorts, taking a swig of his beer from his spot at the other side of the pool. A spark of something is set ablaze in your gaze, a playfulness that borders on mischief. 

“Oh yeah?” It takes them a few seconds to process what you’re doing as you sprint towards them, throwing yourself in the pool as close to Deran as possible.

Pope audibly snickers as you drench his youngest brother.

The backyard is set ablaze with teasing soon after, every single member of his family sans him and his mother engaging in a water fight for the ages.

Pope settles on the lounge chair that you’ve vacated, your warmth still lingering on the fabric beneath him.

He’s transfixed by you. By the ease in which you can bring lightness to his family, as though you can lift the weight they all carry on their shoulders, even if it’s just for a little while.

Another thought crosses Pope’s mind then — is it possible that you could be like this with him too?

Laughter only turns even more boisterous as you enter the living room, a baking dish in hand.

“Angel!” Both Deran and Craig greet you, your smile beaming as you round the table to say hi to Smurf first. You know the rules of this house well by now, a genuine comfort to Pope who at least doesn’t have to worry about you with his family.

He watches intently as you chat with the older woman, handing her the dish, humble enough to tell her it’s not something as grandiose as the roast she has prepared but you didn’t want to show up empty handed.

His mother smiles at you, her ego fed enough as she stands up and goes to heat it up in the kitchen.

You don’t let her comments get to you, instead you go around the table, saying hello to everyone, your touch always lingering, always soft and playful.

Deran gives you a hug, Craig kisses your cheek affectionately, Baz only gives you a nod in acknowledgement and Pope can’t help but smirk satisfactorily against his beer. You ruffle J’s hair and give Nicky a kiss to her temple.

You’re comfortable, confident, secure in your place within their family. You don’t back down to his mother, you don’t shrink away to Baz’s hesitancy, you—

Your eyes catch him staring from across the room. He’s subconsciously backed away the second he saw you come in, practically hiding in the threshold.

You give him a shy wave over Nicky’s shoulder, a gesture he reciprocates with a grunt and a barely there head bob.

Fuck, he’s even worse than Baz.

But you don’t look at him with the same disdain as you do his half-brother. Instead, something else ignites in your eyes. A challenge, almost, to chip away at the ice around his heart. But little do you know that it’s already melting away, and neither of you can stop it.

You eagerly help Smurf bring the rest of the food out before the entire family sits down around the overflowing table.

You make it a point to sit next to him, to never once let him think that his presence is unwanted, even if he refuses to give you the type of relationship that you want, that you crave.

You fill up his plate without asking him and if you weren’t so damn adorable he’d be angry about it. But he simply cannot be. He just lets you, watching silently as you tell the room a story from a crazy class you had to experience the week before.

Your hands move in tandem with your voice, making it a point to not draw attention to what you’re doing, as if serving Pope food is somehow normal. And for a second he can let himself believe that it is, that you taking care of him is how things are meant to be.

It’s only when Deran whispers something to Craig that has the two snickering that Pope finally breaks free from your spell, mumbling a quick thank you under his breath before you settle down to eat as Lena tells the table what she got up to in school over the week now.

You hum in acknowledgement, listening to his niece intently, like you actually care about her babbling, because you do.

After lunch, the crowd disperses throughout the house, the kitchen settling into a comfortable silence where Pope can finally breathe again.

He’s always relegated to clean up duty, mostly because he likes it that way, it’s something he can control.

“Where do you want these?” You ask, causing him to turn to face you from his spot in front of the sink.

He stammers for a second, blinking away the brain fog that you always seem to bring with you every time you bless him with your undivided attention.

He crooks his head towards the left side of the sink and you move swiftly, placing the stack of plates you’ve gathered into the space.

You don’t linger this time, no, you make it a point to step away as soon as you can but not before Pope feels his body shifting towards you.

Oh, you definitely know what you’re doing.

He shakes his head as he returns to his task of dishwashing. You return periodically, bringing by glasses, cutlery, baking dishes and everything else his family could’ve thought to leave behind like the animals they are.

Once the entire table is cleared, you settle beside Pope, dish towel in hand and begin drying what he's just washed.

It’s…nice.

Pope’s not used to someone actually wanting to help him but he finds himself quickly falling into the rhythm of your comforting presence.

“I never really asked,” you start conversation after what feels like a small eternity, turning to face Pope curiously. “Do you prefer Pope or Andrew?”

You ask as if it’s not a loaded question. Well, to you it isn’t, there’s no way for you to know about the weight his name carries over him. To you it’s just about making sure you’re calling him by the name he wants to be called, nothing more, nothing less.

But to Pope it’s…euphoric.

He stays silent for a while, thinking, and you let him without an ounce of judgment. You return to your repetitive motions, to working side by side, in tandem, coordinated.

Meanwhile, a storm rages waste in his brain. He’s never allowed himself to want, to put himself first, and for the first time in his life, someone is allowing himself to do just that. 

But is it real? Do you actually mean it?

It’s only when he’s finished washing the last plate, handing it over to you that he finally allows himself to look your way.

“Andrew,” he mumbles before he loses the courage to. “Call me Andrew.”

You turn to him, setting down the plate atop the mountain you’ve created, nodding your understanding. 

“Andrew,” you repeat back to him. “It suits you more.”

He can’t help the blush that creeps up his neck and to his ears, the heat that blooms in his chest, the way his intense gaze falters like a lovesick teenager as his mouth devolves into a dopey smile.

You don’t make fun of him for it, don’t even acknowledge it. You just stay there with him, following through with your help and leaving the kitchen spotless.

A few hours later he finds himself protectively escorting you out to your car, much to the snickers and teasing of his brothers which, thankfully, you’re not privy to as you say your goodbye to Lena and Cath. 

“Bye Andrew,” you call out to him, and like a moth to a flame, he can’t help but step towards you, almost expectantly.

You hugged everyone else in his family, maybe—

Your eyes sparkle with delight as his body leans towards your again, a reaction neither of you was expecting.

You close the distance without hesitation, getting back up on your tip toes to plant a soft kiss to his cheek.

It’s over as quickly as it started, no lingering, no invading his space more than needed. 

He’s certain he stops breathing, his brain short circuiting as you settle into the driver’s seat and follow Baz out of the family compound.

You’re not special. He reminds himself. She’s like this with everyone.

And yet reason doesn’t quell the pounding of his heart, the way his breathing hitches as he finally wills himself to take in a deep breath, the need to see you again.

He doesn’t see you for a while, exam season taking over most of your time and planning a new job taking up most of his.

He’s just had a disagreement with his brothers, it’s the only reason why he finds himself out by the pier, supposedly clearing his head with a walk like normal people do, but instead the voices are just getting louder and louder.

“Uncle Pope!”

Lena’s voice cuts through the noise. His gaze sharpens towards it, his frame lowering, arms opening, making space for her.

She doesn’t shy away from him, embracing him lovingly because to her, he’s just her uncle, a little weird but never dangerous.

It’s only when she steps back that Pope notices you.

You walk towards them leisurely, not wanting to break apart the cute display happening before you.

“Hi,” it’s the only thing that flows from his lips.

“Hi yourself,” you reply, placing your hands on Lena’s shoulders to keep her close to the two of you. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a family meeting all afternoon.”

Pope blinks back the shock. How close are you to his family? How much do you know?

“Ended early.”

You nod, Lena squirming in your embrace, gasping as realization dawns on her.

“Can Uncle Pope get ice cream with us?”

You chuckle at her impatience, causing Pope to huff playfully at just how adorable his niece is being.

“That’s up to him, sweetie.”

And how is he supposed to say no when his niece looks up to him with the most adorable eyes ever. “Please Uncle Pope!”

He nods. “Okay.”

Lena practically jumps into him out of joy, her tiny hand wrapping around his as she drags him towards the boardwalk shops.

You laugh behind them, jogging to catch up as she pulls you towards them, wrapping her other hand in yours.

Lena’s a bubblegum flavor fiend, extra sprinkles and gummy bears. You’re classic, rich and decadent, chocolate in a cup. Pope almost feels bad for getting a simple vanilla scoop in a waffle cone.

“Tell them to dip it in chocolate,” you whisper to him. “Trust me.”

He doesn’t know how to answer, blinking at you in surprise.

Trust me. Such a simple concept and yet…there’s still something that doesn’t let him take that leap.

But what does he know about ice cream.

So he does, he tries something new.

You smile brightly as you turn to receive your sweet treats, making sure Lena’s sitting down on one of the benches before you go up to pay.

But Pope’s quicker, pulling out a bill from his pocket and taking care of it before you can even ask the cashier how much it’s gonna be.

You roll your eyes at him when she tells you you’re too late and he can’t help but smirk victoriously.

“Thank you Andrew,” you relent, accepting your cup from his outstretched hand, your fingers gently grazing as you do.

The spark of electricity that snaps down Pope’s body is life inducing.

“You’re welcome.”

You settle next to Lena who’s munching ecstatically at her sugary confection, pink already staining her shirt.

Pope takes a seat on the other side of his niece.

He settles into the simplicity of intimacy with ease again, the gentle waves crashing up ahead, the cool afternoon air filling his senses with the comfort of saltwater.

Existing has never felt as easy as this. As something pleasant and unhurried, not having to pretend to be anything other than who he is. 

Pope can’t help watch the two of you in complete awe. How you dote on Lena and how she reciprocates the action, something he’s never seen her do in the months since he’s been back.

She feels free here, not like the little girl who’s quiet and reserved with her now estranged parents. No, she’s alert and alive, playful and aloof. It makes Pope’s heart soar as he watches the two of you so effortlessly blend together, his own ice cream melting and making a mess of him soon enough. 

The house is uncharacteristically quiet.

He’s the only one there, he’s sure of it. Smurf left the second she got the call that the job had gone sour and they had to split up, rushing to Baz’s because she knows Pope is too spiteful to die on her. Meanwhile J has gotten really injured and Smurf’s new baby comes first now.

It doesn’t matter to Pope. At least he tells himself he doesn’t hate himself a little more the second he hears his mother’s heels retreat down the hall, her car soon only a phantom noise as she speeds off.

Alone in the house, the quiet gets to him quickly. The typically bright and spacious home constricting in on him as he struggles down the hall to his old room.

He tries not to think about how the rough concrete walls feel against his sensitive fingertips, how the familiar pain in his side hums with the pressure of painful memories, how he’s definitely not back in that tiny jail cell after he had another psychotic break in prison and got himself thrown in solitary for another week.

No, he definitely does not think about how he was left struggling with his sanity, floating aimlessly, stuck inside his own head trying to desperately find some comfort to cling to as he curled in on himself to find a position where it didn’t hurt him to breathe.

He swings the door to his room open without thinking twice about it.

It’s early in the morning, no one’s been home since the night before, and yet, the second he comes inside, he instantly notices the way the air smells different, sweeter.

He stills, his hand not clutched to his side slowly sliding to the back of his jeans to feel the comforting weight of his gun handle. Meanwhile his eyes rake over the room, the unmade bed, the clothes—his clothes—scattered on the floor.

“Andy?” Your sweet, sleepy voice calls to him from his ensuite bathroom and he turns to it like an idiot boy with a childlike crush, eyes wide and heart practically beating out of his chest as if he isn’t currently in such devastating pain but he doesn’t dare make you uncomfortable.

Fuck, why does he feel like such a creep?

A sharp inhale springs you into action, crossing into the unlit room to take him in, suddenly wide awake it seems.

He doesn’t have the heart to stop you as your soft hands come up to inspect the gash on his brow, the purpling under his eye. Timid fingertips trace a path down his chest, landing softly over the hand at his abdomen.

You don’t say anything, don’t lash out at him, don’t flinch back in fear as you slowly lift his palm, assessing the damage. He doesn’t know why he lets you, it doesn’t make any logical sense, and yet he just melts into your hands, lets you maneuver him however you desire as he finally lets the dam crack.

You remain silent as tears stain his cheeks, as you gently pull him into the bathroom and sit him down on the edge of the tub, as you wrap your hands on the hem of his shirt and pull it over his head.

He knows you feel the gun tucked into his pants but you don’t let the shock show on your face. Instead, when you turn to discard his shirt behind you, he simply pulls it out himself, placing it on top of the counter, safety on always.

You turn to assess him then. Luckily the switchblade didn’t do too much damage, just one long enough gash that has since stopped bleeding, deep enough to hurt but not deep enough to kill him.

You settle on your knees in front of him and he’s certain his heart skips a beat. You smile up at him, so unbelievably soft, like you’re trying to comfort him without touching him because you know just how uncomfortable it makes him.

And yet, he can’t help but crave your touch, like a reminder that he’s still alive, that he’s still here, with you.

He knows he can just ask. Knows he can put together a sentence, or not, just muster the courage and say please. But how can he? When not even his mother deigned him worthy of fussing over? 

“You don’t have to—” another sob breaks through him and it takes everything in him not to curse and scream and scare you.

His body begins to shake, shame bubbling from his stomach across his body until he’s nothing but a quivering mess before you.

He wants to run, to hide away and never have you see him like this ever again. This was a mistake, staying here, letting you see him this vulnerable. He needs—

He’s turned to stone as you pull yourself up from sitting on your heels and lean up towards him, invading his personal space now, all the voices in his head suddenly quiet. Your hands come up to cup his face, thumbs dutifully wiping away the tears that fall.

He feels pathetic, disgusted with himself at the sight you’re beholden to. But then your sweet voice begins to shush him softly, to tell him that he’s okay, that you’ve got him, that he can let it all out, and for a second he allows himself to believe it.

Andrew Pope Cody allows himself to feel, to not hide behind what he’s been groomed to be all of his life. He breaks down and you patiently wait for him to finish so you can help him pick up all the pieces.

It’s only when you no longer feel the wetness drip against your flesh that you pull back enough to take him all in. He forces himself to make eye contact with you, to show you as much as he can that he’s alright, that he appreciates you.

You swiftly rummage through his bathroom cabinets, searching for the first aid kit you know he has. He watches you intently as you clean him up with a wet rag first, removing all the blood from his abdomen, his hands turning white as he holds onto the side of the tub for dear life.

Your tongue pokes out between your lips as you lose yourself to the task, using that glue Baz got them in Mexico to close his wound. He can’t help but smile softly at the sight, finally allowing himself to rake his gaze over your body.

For one, you’re clad in one of his old shirts, the ones that no longer fit him after prison hardened his body into a bigger size. Maybe he’s not special, but he’ll be damned if possessiveness doesn’t boil over at the mere sight of you in his clothes.

He’s already slowly losing his mind, desire threatening to make him take a leap over that invisible line he’s drawn between the two of you in his mind, and then you shift a little, showing off his boxers underneath, your bare things practically causing him to salivate.

The decision settles with him with ease, dragging him down into the depths comfortably, like a sailor that has accepted his fate because it means he’ll at least get to kiss the siren.

“There,” you hum, tracing the outline of the bandage with your fingertips before you turn to look up at him. “All done.”

“Thank you,” he manages to choke out.

“My pleasure, Andy.”

Letting you go is the hardest thing Pope has ever done. You’d insisted he needed to rest after the trauma that he’d experienced and, not wanting to be an annoying patient, he’d conceded, settling down where you had just been sleeping, the sheets still slightly warm and smelling of you.

For the first time in a long time, Pope actually slept and slept good. But the second he’d woken up, you were no longer in the house.

He thought about calling, about making sure he hadn’t scared you off, but part of him preferred it this way. He was scared of his feelings towards you, so he chose indifference.

His mood soured, however. Every little thing his brother did made him snap, every time they brought you up in conversation, every time your name entered his orbit but your body didn’t made him go crazy.

He’s aware that it’s all his fault for not checking in, for disappearing into radio silence. But in his defense, you’ve never texted before, you’ve never even given him your number for fuck’s sake! It would’ve been weird to contact you out of the blue right?

Summer is coming to an end when you finally deign him worthy of your presence again.

Deran and Craig are throwing a party. Big surprise.

The house is packed, hot and sweaty. Everyone is scantily clad, if covered up at all. Even Smurf has left the premises for the weekend so it’s just a cluster of debauchery and substance abuse.

He should’ve left, he thought about it many times. But he knows you’ll show, even if it’s just to say hello, see how quickly things are devolving, and leaving immediately.

His eyes have been trained on the entrance all night, impatiently waiting for you to walk in. It’s nearing eleven and his palms are starting to get itchy with anxiety. What if you don’t show? He hadn’t even thought about that possibility.

It’s been a few days since Deran’s mentioned you. Even longer since you’ve babysat Lena. Could something be wrong? Are you okay?

His entire body bursts with uncomfortable heat. He needs to find Deran right now, needs him to tell him your address so he can go check on you himself, needs—

A loud squeal catches his attention, swiftly turning towards the backyard to catch you swung over Craig’s shoulder, your tiny jean shorts riding further up your ass as he spins you around.

You giggle brightly, not attention seeking, just pulling everyone’s gaze towards you with the ease in which you feel joyful. He watches, entranced, as his younger brother puts you down.

Pope moves instinctively, stalking towards the living room to get a better line of sight on you. You’re at least wearing a shirt over your bikini, your beautiful skin covered from the hungry gazes of those around you. If you realize just how many men are salivating after you, you don’t let it show, not as Craig lights up a joint and passes it on to you instantly.

Something constricts against Pope’s heart as he watches you inhale deeply, a primal urge to burst through the doors, grab the joint from your hand and toss it away before bringing you into the house and hiding you away.

He settles for sitting down on the loveseat. He can keep you safe from in here, from far away, from a distance.

The house only becomes more crowded as the night goes on and he unfortunately loses track of you two hours in, only noticing the second that annoying couple in front of him moves out of the way, the warm summer air hitting him in contrast to the air conditioned interior.

He panics instantly, his eyes jumping through the hazy bodies outside as he desperately tries to find you again. He’s about to stand up, to finally make a move and search for you when your body plops down on his lap instead.

“Andy!” You shriek, an airy happiness enveloping you as you settle over this lap. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you everywhere.”

Pope swallows thickly, feeling everything all at once, his brain having trouble processing your hands over his chest, your core pressed against the bulge in his pants, your hot breath on his face.

He’s certain he’s blushing crimson but maybe you’re too intoxicated to notice.

“Were you hiding from me?”

He doesn’t answer right away, causing your pretty little mouth to get upturned into a pout.

“I knew it,” you whimper. “You do hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, angel,” the words spill out of his mouth instantly, unfiltered since his stupid brain isn’t working anymore.

Wide eyes stare at him adorably. “You don’t?”

He shakes his head.

“Then…” you huff, clearly exhausted from all the mental gymnastics you’ve been doing too. “Why didn’t you call?”

He opens his mouth to answer.

I didn’t have your number.

I didn’t know I had to.

Why didn’t you call?

But he knows it’s all lies. He knows he deliberately didn’t call.

Didn’t text.

Didn’t anything.

Your eyes flicker down to his open mouth, your own hanging open as you stare hungrily at him, your hips grinding down against him involuntarily. 

He hisses at the contact, the sound so broken and foreign to him. His brows scrunch in desperation, his head angling without him noticing. And so you take the leap for him.

Your lips settle on his like a sip of water after wandering in the desert for an entire lifetime.

It takes everything in him not to kiss you back, not to run his hands over your back, not thrust his hips up into you.

He knows how high you are, knows your actions, while yours, aren’t sober ones. And he’d much rather kill himself than take advantage of you.

“Andy,” you whine into his mouth again, needy and desperate. “Please.”

 He stiffens beneath you, once again gripping the chair handles like his life depends on it. You frown as the wood creaks, a wicked smile curling your lips as you realize just how much he’s holding back right now.

“You can touch me, Andy,” you whisper, your lips starting their descent from his own down to his jaw and neck.

He shakes his head softly, not cruel, not rejecting, simply stating.

If anything, it spurs you on, determined to prove him wrong, to provoke him.

He can tell as your lips lock into the base of his neck, teeth nipping meanly at his skin, desperate to leave a mark on him.

He should stop you, should pick you up and tuck you into bed. But he doesn’t. He can’t.

Instead, his eyes close in pleasure, his fists practically snapping the wood between his fingers.

You’re hungry, having been kept from touching him for so long. He’s given you an inch and you’ll be damned if you don’t steal a mile. And he honestly doesn’t care, can’t care, when the realization that you were looking for him finally catches up.

You want him.

Desperately.

Your hands roam down his arms in tandem with your hip movements, your lips trailing back up to his mouth, but instead of diving in, taking the plunge, you hover above them, your hot breath taunting him.

“You’re so pretty, Andy,” you whisper. “Need you—” you huff, frustrated. “to touch me, please.”

He shakes his head again, this time accidentally brushing his lips with yours, groaning at the fleeting contact.

“‘M not gonna take advantage of you, angel,” he presses his forehead to your cheek, almost reverent.

You let out a sigh, deep and weirdly understanding, stopping your mindless torture as his words sink in. He stares at you, his heart finally pumping blood to the rest of his body normally as it sinks with your own, the raging storm calming into a consistent thundering.

“‘M sorry,” you mumble against his chest, settling down to rest your head against the crook on his neck. “I just…” you sigh, melancholic, the words not coming to you.

“I know,” he finally lets his hands break free from his self-imposed restraints, sliding them up your legs, taking his time feeling the warmth of your exposed thighs, the comforting weight of your clothes against your skin. You hum contently, like a cat finally being given attention, practically purring against him.

He settles his touch around your body, pressing you tightly against him as you slowly doze in and out of consciousness.

“Is this good enough, angel?” He’s never felt this soft with anyone before, his jagged edges usually too sharp, drawing blood instantly. But it’s as though you’ve smoothed him down, made him into someone that’s worthy of you.

You nod against him, fingers curling into his soft shirt, most definitely wrinkling the perfectly ironed fabric and he could not give two shits about it.

He’s acutely aware of how the two of you ended up asleep together.

All he wanted was to tuck you into bed, kiss your temple and then sit across from the bed, watching you sleep all night, like a messed up version of a guardian angel.

But you’d whined oh so loudly when he tried to peel away from you, your arms wrapping around his neck, your legs tightening around his waist. He couldn’t even get his shoes off, being forced down onto the soft mattress as you rolled over on top of him.

You settled down easy after that, your even breath soothing against his neck, the patterns he kept tracing over your back lulling you even further into the depths of rest.

He’s never fallen asleep this easily before, definitely not after the peak of adrenaline you’d just put him through.

But after exactly one thousand and sixty five seconds of watching your calm face, feeling your chest rising and falling steadily, something pulled him under, his eyelids becoming so heavy he could barely register as he stopped blinking altogether.

Your squirming wakes him up the next morning.

You’ve crawled on top of him, a comforting weight over his body. That is until you started to move, seeking something to put you out of your miserable restlessness.

“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice is deep with sleep.

You lift yourself onto a sitting position, straddling his hips once more, rubbing against the growing tent in his pants.

Part of him snaps awake at the mere inkling that you’re horny, now sober and wanting to torture him for denying you yesterday. But as his eyes focus on you, he finds an even deeper feeling he simply cannot name brewing in your pretty little head.

You scratch at your shirt, the fabric constrictive, your neediness for him overwhelming.

“’s too much,” you whine and he, for some divine reason, understands what you need.

He sits up, causing you to gasp as his erection thrusts up against you.

“Meanie,” you tease, pushing him to action.

He smirks as his hands gently trail over your exposed tummy. His hands grab the hem of your shirt and pull it over your head in one swift movement, quickly untying your bathing suit top and tossing the offending fabric to the floor. He doesn’t give himself the time to stare, not when you’re so desperate and time is of the essence, he’ll have time to properly worship you later.

Your nipples do harden as the cold air hits them, and he cannot fight the urge to take one into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the bud before he detaches so he can pull his own shirt off.

Your breathing gets caught in your throat as you watch him, brain already shutting off at the sight of his bare body. So much more real estate for you to touch, he thinks.

And touch you do, eager hands trailing the hardness of his chest and stomach all the way down to his pants. You make quick work of the button and his zipper and he lifts his hips so he can pull them off, hesitating with his boxers—

“All of it.” You answer for him.

“Yeah?”

“Mhmm,” you whine. “Please.”

And who is he to deny you now?

In one quick movement, he’s complete bare beneath you. But you’re still not content, no, you won’t be until you’re right there with him.

He takes care of your remaining clothes then, urging you up with two quick taps to your outer thigh and just as quickly hooking his thumbs underneath your bikini bottoms.

Your heat is so close to his face, so puffy and needy, he simply must lean forward and place a kiss over your hip bone. You hum contently, body buzzing with excitement as you practically tackle him back down on the bed and return to your earlier position.

At first you don’t want anything other than to feel him, your cheek pressed over his beating heart, legs spread over his lower abdomen, practically purring as his own hands wisp over your back.

You lay like that for a while, enjoying the gentle sounds of crashing waves and birds singing outside his window. But then you turn to look at him with those round, puppy eyes that he’ll be damned to cave to for the rest of his life.

“Andy,” you plead. “Need to be closer to you.”

He knows what you mean without you having to explain yourself. 

There’s just one more thing to do.

So he does, grabbing a hold of his rock hard cock and slowly sinking himself into your entrance. You wince at the stretch, eyes quickly becoming watery as he settles inside of you. He shushes you gently, shifting you slightly so he can reach your lips, crashing them with his in a sloppy, wet kiss that has you instantly melting into him further.

It’s only when he’s sheathed within you completely that you finally relax. But while you’ve found euphoria with such a simple action, Pope is anything but.

He lasts fifty three seconds before his hips begin shifting involuntarily. Your brow scrunches in confusion, pleasure shooting up your body when all you really wanted to feel was peace.

He coos at you softly. “I need to move, angel.”

You sigh, dramatically so, and he can’t help but smile brightly at your theatrics.

“May I move?”

You bury your face in the side of his neck, going limp over him. “I guess.”

He rolls his eyes playfully, wrapping his arms around you before he lifts his hips off the bed and begins to piston in and out of you.

You’re so wet it’s absurdly easy, the room quickly devolving into a choir of wet, slapping sounds and his moans harmonizing with your little whimpers. You hold onto him for dear life, relishing in the closeness that he’s affording you, and he…he’s certain that you’ve just unlocked something he’d buried deep in his psyche long ago.

A desire to long for someone.

An allowance to feel.

A chance to love again.

“An—dy fuck,” you choke. “‘M so close.”

He turns his head to press his cheek against your temple, tightening his hold on your body, possessive and claiming.

“Come for me angel,” he urges. “Let me make you feel good, please.”

You moan loudly, your body responding diligently to his plea. He can feel your body convulse above him, your walls tightening around him as a jolt of electricity snaps and you’re coming undone.

You cry against his shoulder, panting feverishly as he continues to pound into you, seeking his own release while also extending you own.

“In me please, Andy, need you—”

He doesn’t need to be told twice, burying himself as deep as he can inside of you before he’s spilling, locking you tightly against him and enjoying the feeling of joy that washes over his entire body.

He can’t stop kissing your cheek, his lips lapping up the wetness that has streaked like a devout man worshiping a gift from the heavens.

You stay like this until both your heartbeats return to their normal, synced rhythm, your nails scratching deliciously at his scalp while his own return to their soothing patterns against your back.

“Was that okay?” You ask him, finally returning to your senses it seems.

He chuckles lovingly. “It’s perfect, angel.”

“Good,” you hum.

“Good.”

he's blaming himself, you know it. so you do the first thing you can think of: shut him up with your mouth and hands. is it a little manipulative? sure, maybe, but it works— pope's all over you, groping at your tits, your waist, your ass, as he devours you like a wild animal, licking into your open mouth. you manage to murmur a little "take it out on me," against his tongue, and that's exactly what he does.

soon you're getting fucked stupid by pope, impossibly stretched out by his fat cock. you've never had him fuck you this hard before: not when he'd had that phase of trying to breed you full with his kid, not even when you'd worn his favourite pair of heels for the first time.

pope goes full animal, grunting and groaning as he splits your juicy cunt open on every surface in the room. he's got you bent over bookshelves, pressed up against the windows, on all fours on the floor...

he gets you into doggy down on the ground and wraps his big meaty hands round the sides of your throat, squeezing so deliciously and it makes you clench around his dick. your cunt's making these gross slick noises cause you've got a bunch of his loads in you already, and it's all leaking and stringing out around his cock, but it just makes him fuck you faster.

his hips keep driving into you, his heavy balls tapping at your clit. the air in your room is hot and thick with sweat. you're certain the overstimulation must hurt for him, going round after round, but he doesn't seem to mind. maybe he wants it to hurt

you stand near the sliding glass doors, a walking, breathing vibrance of color and sound that completely disrupts the boring stillness of the building. as a public high school art teacher, your personal style leans heavily into a loud, unapologetic alt aesthetic. today, you are wearing an oversized, patch-covered denim jacket over a band tee, fishnets under ripped jeans, and combat boots that click heavily against the linoleum. the faint jingle of your stacked necklaces and piercings accompanies every tilt of your head, and your arms are a living canvas of tattoos that stretch down to your knuckles.

you are waiting to pick samira up from her shift. since her car broke down a couple of days ago you agreed to pick her up. afterall, you shared an apartment and she’d had to drive to work more than once when your own car didn’t want to cooperate, so it was only fair. to pass the time, you pace around, minding the people around you to make sure you don’t bother any of the doctors and nurses around you. you pass the time, humming to the tune blasting through your headphones, entirely oblivious to the stares of the passing staff.

from across the central nurses' station, dr. jack abbott stops mid-sentence.

he is holding a patient chart, his expression usually a mask of calm, focused professionalism. but as his gaze lands on you, his hands freeze. he watches, utterly fascinated, as you throw your head back and laugh at something on your phone, your smile bright enough to cut through the oppressive hospital lighting. you are entirely out of place in his world, yet he cannot seem to look away from your magnetic energy.

"earth to jack," samira says, snapping her fingers in front of his face as she approaches the desk with her own stack of files. "robby said he needs the lab results for the girl in bay five."

jack blinks, clearing his throat as he quickly adjusts his white coat, a subtle flush creeping up his neck. "right. sorry. just... noticed someone near the ambulance bay."

samira follows his gaze, her eyes softening into an immediate, knowing smirk when she sees your familiar figure pacing near the glass doors. "ah. that's my best friend. she's here to pick me up."

jack doesn't say anything else, but his eyes trail after you until you and samira finally exit the building, your loud, animated hand gestures visible even through the glass.

the next day, the hospital is calmer than usual, with few intakes and only few complicated cases, but jack’s mind is entirely elsewhere. he waits until a mutual break in the doctors' lounge before he casually slides into the chair across from samira, holding two cups of fresh coffee.

he hands one to her, offering a practiced, easygoing smile. "rough shift yesterday. did you and your friend manage to get some rest?"

samira takes the cup, her dark eyes flashing with sharp amusement. she leans back, watching him over the rim of her mug. "we did, yeah. though she stayed up until 2:00 am grading watercolor projects. why do you ask?"

jack shifts in his seat, tapping his fingers against his coffee cup. for a man who handles high-stress medical emergencies without breaking a sweat, he looks remarkably nervous right now. "she just... seems very different from you. a bit of a polar opposite."

"she is," samira agrees, enjoying his transparent curiosity. "she teaches art at a local high school. i’ve lost count of how many half-finished sculptures and stray paint supplies i’ve found laying around the apartment. but she's the best person i know."

"an art teacher," jack echoes, a small, genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he pictures your vibrant energy in a classroom full of teenagers. "that fits. she certainly has a presence."

"she does," samira says, leaning forward with a sudden, calculating glint in her eye.

she recognizes that look on jack's face; the clean-cut, professional doctor abbot is completely smitten by a girl who looks like she belongs at a underground rock show.

"in fact, she's been trying to drag me out to this new dive bar downtown for weeks to celebrate the end of the school semester. i think i'm finally going to give in tonight. you should come with us, jack. get out of the scrubs for once."

jack hesitates for a fraction of a second, his usual reservations wrestling with the image of your bright smile. "i wouldn't want to intrude on your friends night."

"trust me," samira says, hiding her grin as she stands up to return to the floor. "you won't be intruding at all."

"i was thinking of getting a new tattoo," you casually comment, adjusting the heavy silver septum ring in your nose as you look at yourself in the mirror of the dive bar’s restroom.

you have fully leaned into your favorite look tonight: all plaid and leather, covered in enamel pins, heavy eyeliner that accentuates your expressive eyes, and your favorite platform boots. 

"cool. where this time?" samira says as she finished retouching her lipstick.

“honestly? no idea. but one of my students drew this beautiful moth the other day and i asked for her permission to get it tattooed.”

samira’s eyebrows lift. “what did she say?”

“she asked me if i had hit my head.” you chuckle. “no, but seriously. it’s really good. girl has talent.”

finally, you slide out of the restroom, instantly absorbing the atmosphere of the bar. they’re playing an old classic rock tune, the neon signs are buzzing, and the air smells faintly of beer and fried food. it’s perfect.

but as you approach the booth samira pointed at, your eyes widen slightly. sitting in one of the cushioned seats, looking incredibly handsome in a casual dark sweater and jeans that show off his broad shoulders, is the doctor you saw briefly at the hospital yesterday. jack abbot.

you’d noticed him moving around, carrying a air of professionalism around him. you noticed the way he respectfully corrected the interns, how he was open to help anyone who approached him for help. and of, course, the fact that he was of the most attractive men you’d seen in a long time also didn’t go unnoticed.

the moment you’d gotten into your car, you couldn't help it nad had asked samira about him. she’d told you how much she admired him, how much she enjoyed working with him.

“why you ask?” she’d questioned, turning to look at you as you drove.

you simply shrugged. “just curious.”

"hey!" now your voice naturally carries over the music as you slide into the booth opposite him, leaning your elbows on the sticky wooden table. "you're samira's coworker, right? jack?"

jack looks up, and for a moment, he forgets how to speak. up close your energy is overwhelming in the best possible way. the sharp contrast of your dark, alternative aura against your warm, animated expression takes his breath away.

"i… yes," jack stammers slightly before catching himself, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiles. "i'm jack."

samira watches the exchange with a playful glint in her eyes and finally sits down next to you.

"it's nice to meet you doc," you laugh, waving a hand casually, the silver rings on your fingers catching the red neon light. "should we order the loaded fries? because if i don't get carbs in my system after dealing with thirty freshman who think drawing dicks on their desks is avant-garde, i am going to pass out."

for the next two hours, the dynamic of the table is entirely driven by you. you are loud, passionate, and hilarious as you recount stories of your high school art students, your absolute disdain for school board budgets, and a bunch of anecdotes involving some of your students' parents.

jack is completely smitten. he doesn't just listen; he hangs on every single word you say. every time you laugh, his entire face lights up. whenever you lean in to emphasize a point, your hand occasionally brushing against his arm, a spark of pure electricity flashes in his eyes. he asks you insightful questions about art theory, about your experience as a teacher, genuinely interested, his deep voice a smooth, grounding anchor to your rapid-fire storytelling.

you, however, are completely, blissfully oblivious.

you think he is just being polite. you assume that a clean-cut, successful doctor like jack abbot is just being a good sport by hanging out with his colleague’s weird, loud friend. you treat him with the easy, teasing familiarity you show everyone, entirely missing the way his gaze lingers on your lips or how his hand hovers near yours on the table.

samira sits back, sipping her drink, watching the entire exchange unfold with the quiet satisfaction of a master chess player. she sees jack practically vibrating with a desire to ask for your number, and she sees you, completely blind to the fact that you have just brought a brilliant medical professional to his knees.

"you know," samira announces suddenly, checking her phone with an incredibly unconvincing look of surprise. "i completely forgot i promised to call the supervisor back about the weekend schedule. i need to step outside where it's quiet. and honestly, i'm exhausted. i might just take a rideshare back to the apartment."

jack knows she's lying, fully knowing the supervisor isn't going to pick up any work calls at this time, but he doesn't say anything. instead, he calmly takes a swig of his beer.

you blink, confused. "wait, really? but we haven't even finished the fries!"

"jack will help you finish them," samira says smoothly, sliding out of the booth before you can protest. she catches jack’s eye, giving him a subtle, encouraging nod that says don't mess this up, before turning to you. "don't stay up too late, babe."

the silence that settles over the booth after samira leaves is suddenly charged with a completely different kind of energy. without her presence acting as a buffer, you suddenly realize how close jack is sitting across from you. the red neon light casts long, dramatic shadows across his face, highlighting his sharp jawline and the intense, focused warmth in his eyes.

"well," you say, laughing a bit nervously as you pop a fry into your mouth. "i guess it’s just us now. sorry if i bored you with all the art talk. samira usually tunes me out after ten minutes."

"you didn't bore me at all," jack says softly. he leans forward, crossing his forearms on the table, closing the distance between you. the noise of the bar seems to fade into the background as he looks at you, his voice dropping to a low, intimate register. "in fact, i don't think i've been this entertained during a conversation in a very long time. you're passionate about what you do. it's... beautiful to watch."

you freeze, a fry halfway to your mouth. your heart does a sudden, erratic skip against your ribs. you look at him, searching his face for any sign of a joke, but his expression is entirely earnest, filled with a raw admiration that makes your cheeks flush hot.

"wait," you say, your loud demeanor suddenly dropping into something softer, a little vulnerable. "are you... are you flirting with me right now, dr. abbot?"

jack lets out a soft, breathless laugh, his eyes fixed entirely on yours. "i've been trying to flirt with you since i sat down. thanks for noticing."

"i don’t usually do subtle, jack," you mutter, a sheepish smile breaking across your face as you fiddle with one of your rings. "if you want my attention, you’re gonna have to be as straightforward as possible."

"good to know," jack says, his smile widening into something incredibly charming. he reaches across the small table, his large, warm hand covering yours, his thumb gently tracing the edge of one of your rings. the contrast of his clean, unblemished skin against your inked hand is striking, and it sends a shiver straight down your spine. "then let me be completely direct. i want to take you out. on a real date. you pick the loud, non-traditional place you want to take me to."

you look down at his hand on yours, then up into his steady, hopeful eyes. the realization that this incredibly handsome, structured man is genuinely captivated by your chaotic, alt self sends a rush of pure excitement through you.

"a real date, huh?" you tease, your usual bold confidence returning as you flip your hand over to interlock your fingers with his, your silver rings clicking against his skin. "you think you can handle a loud art teacher, doc? i don't exactly do quiet dinners."

"i think," jack says, his grip tightening around yours with a fierce certainty, "that i can handle exactly whatever you want to throw at me."

pope cody who's simply amazed by how your skin shines gold in the california sun!! he takes you to the beach all the time so he can stare at you while you're sunbathing

pope cody who keeps a jhumka on his keys so he can feel close to you always :( he thinks they're gorgeous. he loves when you wear them cause they jingle so sweetly when you turn your head

pope cody who is a mutton roll FIEND

pope cody who is better at draping sarees than u will ever be. he does it sooo quickly and meticulously, he says it's just like folding sheets. he has a method!!