Night shift wasn’t a place for the weak. 

Despite how insufferably tender most of the shift was, their kindness wasn’t a product of their environment. It was simply a testament to how well they could hold their heads on straight. The people never got nicer, the cases never got tamer, but they kept each other standing through conditions most would buckle under. 

And an infinitesimally small part of you ached to join that solidarity. 

It only made itself apparent when you watched. When you saw them band together on a particularly rough shift, or the steady hands on tense shoulders, the jokes, the shared coffee. 

It was kinship. A type of bond you purposefully refused indulgence in. 

They’d invited you many times, asking you to join on off-day barhops, or checking in when your steps were too fast through the hallways. 

It was rather easy for the rest of them to take a hint. The cold dismissals or indifferent responses you gave at their questions left little room for interpretation. You never asked after them, even when you knew they needed it. 

You weren’t warm. You weren’t friendly. You were an exceptional doctor and a tolerable teammate and that was enough for everyone. They knew if you were requested, you’d show up and you’d solve. And that was where your hospitality ended. 

The only good-natured boot that you could never quite force off your throat was Jack’s.

Enhanced Genome Activity Disorder hardly affected anyone anymore. After the war had ended, numbers plummeted as the mutation died off, became recessive. Jack was one of the only names in the medical field who had presented. The only one in the hospital, too. 

Until you were hired. 

The hormonal fluxes, the strength, the senses, they all posed possible issues unless disclosed. Every individual with EGAD had their status collectively shared, marked, and accommodated if needed. People looked at him like he’d hung the stars. The father-figure attending who spoke to all with a soft voice and stupid jokes. He was the poster boy for teamwork, and nobody had been alarmed when learning he was affected, that he was an alpha. 

The Alpha, Beta, Omega sub-divisions shouldn’t have mattered as much in modernity with such a tiny pool of people, but it didn’t stop people from having their biases. A lot of them feared the Alphas. They’d been the most aggressive group in the heyday of the mutation, infamous for hostility and a lack of control. Soldiers in this class had left messes of people so unidentifiable that, on some of the old battlefields, bone shards are being dug up like fossils. There’d been a lot of families with closed-casket funerals.  

People didn’t extend the courtesy to you. They’d seen Jack defensive before, but never angry. All his rigidity had always been facing the opposite direction, sticking up for the honor of his workers like any good leader would. They felt safe around him, protected, in a way you knew they didn’t with you. 

You’d also been introduced as an alpha. Though, people who hadn’t gotten the announcement often guessed it before you broke the news. It didn’t matter that meeting someone with EGAD was a statistical rarity, people were always confident in their assumptions. You were headstrong, you argued, you didn’t feel welcoming. Betas had been the first to be phased out, and the choice between Alpha and Omega led nobody to the latter. Omegas were painted as the most pristine submissives, parental to their core and sweet enough to hurt. They were horribly infantilized in the great minds of the general public. And since you were so standoffish, you simply couldn’t be something so saccharine. 

It wasn’t true. But they had no way of telling if you were careful enough. So you played into it. 

You weren’t supposed to be in this genetic dispute at all. You’d presented in your mid twenties, which by all scientific standpoints, should have been impossible. You’d simply keeled over at the end of a lab in med school, and were reborn on the grimy floor of an apartment you could barely afford. 

You’d seen a specialist, knowing firsthand that the medical information about such a condition was practical, focused more on suppression and endurance than the change itself. You didn’t develop properly, didn’t get as strong, didn’t get as fast. Your sight didn’t advance at all and your sense of smell had compensated for it. You’d been warned of complication, of infertility, even of death if it got bad enough. It was more symbiote than mutation. A quiet sickness you’d be living with until the end.  

During hormonal peaks, where your eyes buzzed with pigment and your canines protruded further, you’d seen the full damage of your stunted growth. The blue was hardly there, drifting behind the normal color like murky water. Your fangs were stubby, extending far enough to be abnormal but not enough to pose a threat. 

And it hurt. So bad that it’d knocked you out. So bad that you doubted you’d come back from it. 

You followed procedure. You got your papers, answered questions, bought scent sticks and heat suppressants, and served your sentence diligently because you still had aspirations. You still had residency, and your career, and your passion, and your love. 

It’d stolen something from you, undoubtedly. You pulled away from people, you got too focused on going forward so that the present couldn’t reach you. 

It’d brought you to The Pitt, to the place you loved. It’d brought you to people you burned when they got close and admired when they were far enough away to not feel it. Jack was the only other enhanced person you’d met, and though you knew you weren’t his, you still understood his inability to give up on you. 

The others were denied a friendship with you. It was nothing they couldn’t find in other sources. 

Jack was being denied community. Harshly, at that. He didn’t get the steadfast denial. He didn’t get why you rejected everyone around you. 

He could read arrogance if it was offered, if you thought yourself above your coworkers. He would have accepted fear, too. Shyness, exhaustion, anything with some give. Something he could push into instead of against. 

He’d seen you with your patients before, forgiving and pliable. Gentle to a fault. You demonstrated you wanted to be here, were good at what you did. Half of you just shut off when faced with peer bonding. 

His brain functioned in a pack mentality, had since he was fourteen. He could categorize hard refusal. If someone wanted no part of what he did, that was fine by him. You existed too heavily in the gray area for him to decode. You weren’t aggravated, you weren’t outwardly cruel. You came when called, you did what needed doing without complaint. You were perfectly reliable. And that clashed heavily with his desire to know you, to exchange stories and understanding. It clashed heavily with the chipped stone of your demeanor. 

You’d hardly been here a month, but when he thought too hard about your established position, his stomach tightened. Nervous at the thought of never growing, of having another person with EGAD in such close proximity and having them choose to slip right through the cracks of his open hands. 

He blames this notion for the depth of his distress. 

You’d brought a man in from the waiting room ten minutes ago. The sun was up, your shift should have been over but the day crew was still trickling in. You’d said you were taking one last patient, and he couldn’t stop you if he tried. He’d watched it happen in the same unsure way he tracks your placement throughout the night. He writes it off as being a good attending. He never manages to fully convince himself.

The man had been eyeing you oddly, working his gaze over you in a way that was too analytical to be docile. He’d looked subtly upset, like words of offense were hiding just behind his teeth, waiting for the moment he was alone enough to spit them out. 

You’d sat him down once beyond the curtain, inquiring about his pain level and his reason for visitation. He’d given you nothing but silence back. 

You re-checked his chart, presuming you must have missed a note of deafness or difficulty with processing. You saw nothing. 

His eyes left yours and drooped down to the collar of your scrubs. He’d finally chimed in, asking after the small pin that sat on it. 

EGAD markers weren’t lawful policy. They differed based on the hospital you were in, with no set look and some not requiring them at all. The Pitt did. And the protocols dealing with the disorder required transparency. If someone within your care requested the information, you had to fork it over. 

Trying to burst the apprehensive bubble that had risen in your throat, you cleared it. You gave him a simple, ‘I have Enhanced Genome Activity Disorder, sir. The pin signifies that.’ 

You weren’t forced to share your class. You weren’t forced to say anything beyond what you had, really. But he’d angered when you wouldn’t disclose your status. 

He’d shouted about his distaste for freaks treating him, for being able to work and live instead of being detained, of alpha scum pretending they were people and not monsters. 

You had stood up in the moment. Trying harder than you should have to calm him down, to hold steady when he shot up in response. He’d assumed your place on the podium, placing you where the rest of them had. He held the impression that alphas were violent, and still he squared up. You had no strength to flex, no bells and whistles that might scare him off. You just had his incorrect ideas about your place in the world and what it meant. It wasn’t enough. You knew it wasn’t enough. 

You heard footsteps rushing towards you at the same second he hit you. 

It was a clean hook against your jaw, jolting you sideways but not knocking you down. Your hands found the wall to steady yourself as the curtain was ripped open. Two security guards were restricting his arms, dragging him towards the main entrance before you even registered the third presence in the space. 

You heard his breathing; and, even through the three huffs of your scent stick you’d done today, you smelled the muddied smoke and melted sugar that you always spent the day trying to ignore. You straightened your shoulders, retreating from the wall when he tried to get closer to you.

You watched how it stung when you did it, your distrust like a rusty nail hammered straight into his rib. He wanted to help. He wanted to make you feel safe. And you backed away like his proximity was painful. 

“I won’t move, promise.” He put his hands up while he spoke, just for a second. A signal of peace. An assurance he meant to harm. “You’re hurt. Let me check your head.”

His voice dragged like thunder over mountains, settling in the deepest parts of your bones and washing out the shame that took home there. And, horrifyingly, the longer you soaked in it, the tighter your stomach wound. 

His insistence on your comfort, the way the scrub sleeves dug into his arms when he’d raised them, his tone, his words, how he’d said them. That god-awful pin on his collar, beaming like he’d saved a star and stuck in through his uniform. A reminder that you and him shared something innate, that nobody else for miles felt what you and him did. That regardless of whatever childish denial you projected, the two of you were connected by something more demanding than consciousness, than decision. 

It was too much. It was too fast. 

It was your heat, raking against you upon it’s arrival and stronger than you’d experienced in all the months you’d been having them. One you were completely unprepared for and entirely defenseless against. 

The choice you made next was reckless, surging forward and around him as he spun and trailed after you. Your incident seemed to happen at the perfect time between old and new, where night shift was too far away to witness and day shift was too busy to have seen the severity of what occurred. They saw security and the semi-chase of two tired adults and figured they’d get the details later if there was a stall. They couldn’t afford the spectacle, especially not when they were still missing staff members. 

You ignored the few times he’d said your name, asked you to stop, to talk to him. You led him into the lockers, desolate and too sterile for your sensitivity. You tried to bask in the neutrality, knowing that him in such a confined space meant a room flooded before long. 

“Please, can you talk to me? What happened in there?” 

You yanked open the door to your allotted number, biting down on your tongue when a fresh pain coiled warmly around the nerves of your abdomen. This would be your undoing. This would be how you lost your appearances, your reputation.

You were endlessly questioning why he had to have been here, why he still persisted with you, why he wanted it so badly. You could feel yourself shaking your head in response to everything he’d asked and was continuing to ask, your lips beginning to tremble from the pure weight of restraint and composure. You hoarded your stuff into your shaky grip, leaving all but necessities there to be collected another day. You needed to leave. 

He could smell something was wrong, fear and anguish leaking from every pore you had. He’d had an alpha buddy in the military, and even in uncertain times, his unease had never invoked what Jack felt with you. Every one of his instincts was alight, burning with the fight between rationality and biology. He was engineered to protect, he knew that, but this was something else entirely. 

“Hey, hey -” His legs moved before his mind could, grabbing your arm as you started leaving. He shouldn’t have, he knew immediately that he shouldn’t have, but he couldn’t let you go. He couldn’t let you go unless he was going with you. 

Something guttural tore out of you at the feeling of heat. Of pressure. Of his skin on yours. 

Your body tensed, flinching away and wrenching out of his grasp. Your brain wrestled with itself in endless circles, the need of giving in and the want of strength in solitude. 

You finally looked at him, holding your mask up with desperate fingers and an insufficient will. 

“I don’t…” You had to stop your sentence to heave, the air doing nothing to quell the pain but the absence worsening it. “I don’t need you to protect me.” 

Something shifted in the set of his expression. His lips tightened a bit, the silken interlace of concern and confusion wrapping around his blown pupils. “I know that.”

He was so eager to be on your side. It split the foundation of your resistance at the base, cracks splintering up the sides until it could barely hold you anymore. It’d be so easy to tell him. To stop struggling against the man who asked for nothing but the chance to make you comfortable. 

“I don’t think you need anything from me. I see how you handle things. I know it’s not easy.” He moves the tiniest bit closer, not wanting to repel you more but not being able to stop himself. “You’re extremely respected here, but I just…I can tell you’re not safe. And that’s important to me.” 

You felt your eyes harbor tears before you could halt their gathering. You wouldn’t cry in front of him. You couldn’t.

“I want to protect you. You don’t need it, but you’re a part of my team.” He was inches away now. Too near and too calming and too sturdy for how intangible you were. “And, more than that - you know, we’re…we share something. Just the two of us. That’s important to me too.” 

It’s such a direct claim that your structure fully breaks, the steady tightrope you’d been balancing on for a month severing completely before him. It sparks a pain that makes you double, guiding your back to grate down the lockers. Your hands try to stop it, but it’s so unyielding that it strips you of any power you possessed. Any attempts of grounding are useless with him there. You can see nothing but him. Feel nothing but him. Breathe nothing but him. Every baseless voice in your head yelling to submit, to allow, to give. 

His body jerks towards yours, trying to overwrite his politeness and rush him into action. He gets caught between his cognition and his instinct, not meeting you where you are but moving like he wants to. 

Your head is tilted down in an attempt to hide your shortcomings. You can feel the fledgling visibility of your late blooming. Nobody’s ever seen it. You vowed nobody ever would. 

And, as the floodgates break for the first time, you hear your own voice smaller than it’s ever been. 

“I’m not an alpha.” 

The words are a rush, singeing your vocal cords as the venom you’ve carried for years is expelled at his feet. He feels the heaviness of the confession. The responsibility of it. 

He crouches down, leveling the playing field and getting somewhere the two of you could return to being equals. He sighs out any lingering extremism, knowing what you need now, more than anything, is acceptance. Is leadership. 

“Look at me.” 

Your fingernails dig into the meat of your palm. You couldn’t make your head move. The command echoed like gospel, but you couldn’t make yourself abide despite your desire to. Your chest rose and fell in harsher beats. More war. 

“It’s ok.” 

The scuffed pads of his fingers made featherlight contact with the side of your jaw furthest from him. The imagery of his hand, one that had taken and given life alike, pressing into the mostly-healed bruise gifted to you by an aggressor felt almost pornographic. Such a simple statement, but one with so much promise. Acceptance and leadership. 

He turned your head, revealing the grotesque underdevelopment like it was the first sunrise he’d seen in decades. He studied the band of muted blue lit up inside your irises, iridescent and somehow indecent with how vulnerable it was. It made your eye color look sparkly, like a child had spun a ring of glitter glue inside and let it sink to the bottom. 

His thumb moved to your top lip, feeling it twitch beneath the touch. You almost leapt to warn him, to run away. But, deep down, you think you’ve wanted him like this for a while. You hadn’t let anyone touch you since you’d presented. You’d never even dreamed of being had like this. So entirely unabashed. 

He pushed up on the soft of your mouth, raising it in the spot that covered your canine, staring at your gums and teeth like you were a dog and he was your owner. It was mortifying. It was dehumanizing, surely. It was helping the pain. 

You heard the breathiest laugh leak out, as though it’d slipped through his system of defense holding together his decency. “Cute.” 

That was certainly dehumanizing. You felt the word boil, sinking into the endless heat that’d been building inside of you, on top of your skin. You’re sure he could smell it now, The half-baked thing that was a defective’s heat slurred with the arousal sprouting quickly in your lower stomach. You swear you tried for a rebuttal, to say anything that would preserve the facade you’d crafted. All that sounded out was a whimper, maimed and animal-like in a way you always swore you weren’t. 

You grabbed the arm that was close to your face, fingers squeezing his forearm. The life of it was obscene, how his skin caved to accommodate yours. How you could feel the muscle flex with the surprise of the pressure. “Don’t be mean, Jack.” 

“‘M not being mean, kid.” You’d never heard him sound like this. His voice was as wrecked as you felt. “You should have told me.” 

You nodded your head. You didn’t agree. You shouldn’t have told him because you shouldn’t have told anyone. This was your secret, your life. Your body agreed with him. And that was infuriating as it was irrefutable. 

He stood up, a large part of you panicking under the guise that he was leaving, that you’d created a false sense of security where there wasn’t one. That sense was null when he opened his own locker, the sound of keys against metal sounding out and silencing the drop of doubt. 

“Come on.” 

He pulled you up by the shoulders, his strength prevalent in the effortlessness with which he hoisted you to your feet. That did little to extinguish the flame. 

“I’m taking you home.” 

His car, you think, could have been a preview of the scent his house would have been filled with. He didn’t take you to his. He took you to yours, despite you never telling him your address. You tried to be only slightly disappointed once you were inside your place. 

It’d been a silent ride there, your body tense and leaned against the door as the intimacy of it all made you dizzy. His presence had helped with the pain at first, but the longer you spent near him, the more it was coming back in waves.

The sound of the door closing is deathly, punctuation to the blurriest of lines. You’re sweating, head tilted against the back of the wood. It’s eating you alive now, charring your soft innards and begging to be given access to your bones, your skin. You teeter on cohesion, all thoughts of suppressants, of sense, officially departing with a wave. 

He goes to make a move, presumably to pull you to the bed, to urge you into rest. Once he’s close enough, you twist your fingers into the fabric of his scrubs. Neither of you had changed as you’d slipped out the side door. Lacking both the time and the energy. 

“Jack,” you whisper. It’s disgustingly timid, faux acidity coating your mouth as the cowardly tone. You weren’t above it anymore. If anything, you were prepared to sink much lower. “I need you to make it stop.” 

Before you even finished the request, he felt the certainty of it stir in his stomach. Subconscious things he had no control of reading you like an open book. You needed him. That was the beginning and end of everything. 

“Kid, you’re not thinking right - “ 

“I am. I am.” Your hold on his scrubs tightened, nudging him even closer towards you. Urgency was evident in the way you tugged at him, in the way your features practically bent around the plea on your face. “You can fix it. You can help me, Jack. Please. I need you to help me.” 

You’d never begged for something this intently and this audibly in your life. But the ache was stifling, and you’d never wanted anything more than him in this moment. You’d chastise others when they’d talk about connection, about hormones and soul and desire. But you understood now. You understood everything. 

It was him who’d take the fall for it. He knew what kind of man it’d make him when he gave in. Fucking an omega he wasn’t with when they’re knee-deep in a heat he was only making worse. He knew the pretty picture he was painting of discipline and good intentioned care was proved wrong by how hard he was, by how bad he wanted to feel you.

“Please, Jack.”

It was that moment that snapped his resolve. You were so desperate for him, so unlike the version of you that bickered with him over everything in the ER. He used to live for those times, the chances he got to push, to make your jaw clench and your eyes narrow as you stood your ground against him. The breathy way you’d said his name, the tightness of your fist on his shirt, your scent, the begging. It was all so sweet, so good, so impossibly pure in the face of absolute debauchery. 

He didn’t know if this was corruption in it’s typical form, but he was a bad man for doing it. And he’d take it all if it came hand in hand with you. 

The collision of your mouths was lethal. He pressed you further into the door, using his stature as leverage to pin you upright. 

You dove in just as hard, lips meeting his with the force of a supernova, metaphorical horns clashing against his as you fought just for the notion of knowing he’d subdue you in the end. 

Your hands were beneath his shirt in an instant, pushing the fabric up high enough for him to pull back and part with it. He was an unfair sight so up close, so heated and real. You thought the frenzy would drive you into confidence, but you found yourself unable to touch him when the time came. You just stared for a moment, pain and ache fading into obscurity as the gravity of the situation began to tip the scales. 

As though attuned to you, he takes your wrist and brings it up to his bare chest, enveloping the back of your hand and holding it over his beating heart. You feel his nose beneath your jawbone, the ghost of his lips on your throat, the scrape of his teeth. His other hand digs into the fat of your hip. There’s nothing else outside of him, an endless abyss with no option but to drown in it. 

“Don’t start thinking, pup.” 

It’s so demeaning how it makes you preen. Unwillingly arching more into his touch and failing to denounce how good it feels. You don’t recognize the sound you make, some moaned insult that makes his shoulders sway in a soft laughter. He’s laughing at you. At how poor your attempt was. And it just makes you wetter. 

“Can smell how bad you need it.” The words rumble against your skin, and your face heats in embarrassment. This disorder didn’t make people crass. This was all him. “Lean into it. You know what to do.” 

You’re so far gone that you just nod, dragging his mouth back to yours and starting to push down the waistband of his scrubs. You get them down to his mid thigh before reaching back down to repeat with his underwear. 

He does one better, grasping the hem of your pants and tearing down the seams. It’s so easy for him, so primal that it forces a gasp from you. You know somewhere in the back of your mind that was irresponsible. That an already underfunded hospital is down a uniform now. You’ll find care for it at another time. It’s the last sensible promise you’ll make today. 

He glances down, your panties hugging your tummy and hips in a way he swears could kill him. The gusset is completely soaked through, the top of the wet spot like a beacon above the place where your thighs meet. He skims his hand over the soft bulge of your stomach, feeling the pliancy of flesh and fabric in a way that goes straight to his cock.

“Take them off. ‘M not gonna ruin them.” 

It’s half exhale, half statement. You follow, shoving them down until they’re baggy enough to fall on their own. Your movements are quick, his are quicker as he gets out of his own. He’s back on you as soon as it’s done. 

Your obedience does him in. Hooking your leg around his waist, he doesn’t tease, doesn’t taunt, he can’t stand the distance it’d take to do so. He presses into you with a single, aching thrust. He knows he should have warmed you up, should have done many things differently. But carnality is a beast in it’s own right, and your grabbing hands and coaxing sounds lured him into a quickness he wouldn’t have been able to stomach at any other time. 

The top of your skull met the back of the door with a hollow, lulling sound. He felt your hand against his pelvis, as though you wanted to stop him but put no amount of force into doing so. Your lips were slightly parted, the tips of your fangs prominent through the gap. He wanted to run his tongue against their sharpness, test just how lethal you could be. 

Like he’d done before, he took hold of the wrist that was making contact, this time bringing it up to his mouth. He kissed just below your palm, silently marking the scent gland that resided there. He felt how hard you clenched at that, starting to move in and out through the tension. 

“Always smell so good, you know that?” He’d always wondered why another alpha had such an enticing aroma. Most alpha on alpha pairings had been by choice, way back when. Scent had always drawn opposite to opposite. He can’t believe he hadn’t had this revelation sooner. “If the others could feel it like I do, kid. God, they’d never leave you alone.” 

You sobbed, outright and appalling. You joined your mouths again purely in an attempt to stop him from talking more. You had no capacity for denial right now, simply acting as an open book, sapping up whatever ink found it’s way onto your pages. And he knew that. He had to. 

His hand reaches down, thumb starting a matching pace on your clit as he drags you towards the end with him. It’s entirely too much. You’re so sensitive and it hurts but he’s so addicting that you feel nothing but complacency. You’d always used suppressants during your heats. You’d never felt anything with this kind of intensity. 

“Can feel you’re close, pup. Come on.” He’s like a metronome, pumping in and out and rubbing and talking until you’re not sure you could deny him anything at all. “Want you to cum on me. Do it for me.” 

He says it nose to nose with you, mumbling against your lips so clearly that you’re positive you can taste your own sin reflected back. And it works. That incessant reminder that he’s in control right now, that you’ll do it because it’s for him. 

You tense up hard, leaping past all acceptable boundaries because he’d asked you to. Your back arches off the wall, nails biting blunt marks into his shoulders. 

Your name leaves him in the prettiest, deconstructed way. It wrecks you and for the first time tonight, he follows your lead. The base of him swells up, warmth and wet locked in place as he helps hold you steady. 

You can feel his breath against the mating gland on your neck, chests heaving in sync.

And, for the most fleeting of seconds, you allow yourself the fantasy of being his.  

Despite the late hour, the waiting room had been packed and any glance your way felt like something intrusive and prodding. You had been fully ready to wait the whole night before you could be seen but after your vitals had been taken and triaged, the doctor had pushed you to the front of the line and into the next available room.

So here you sit, the paper beneath you crinkling every time you squirm and try to find a far more comfortable position before giving in entirely and leaning over to your side. You support yourself with your elbow and try to ignore the prodding pain in your backside.

"Good evening, I'm Dr. Abbot, what seems to be the problem?"

Your stomach drops; just your luck that the doctor assigned to help you fish out your newest toy is panty-dropping handsome. A silver fox through and through, he looks downright delectable with those large freckled arms that seem to be bursting through those black scrubs. If it had been any other day, you might've turned on the charm, flirt your way to a dinner date or more.

But it's 1:37 AM, you have a fuzzy, bunnytail plug stuck inside you and you're desperate to just get home without your asshole gaping.

"Um." You glance at the iPad in his hand, hoping that whoever saw you first recorded it in your chart so you wouldn't have to repeat yourself. But the handsome doctor is waiting patiently. "I have something… stuck inside me."

"Ah. I'll see what I can do. Roll over for me, sweetheart."

The night shift always brings on the weirdest cases that after all his years of working, nothing could phase him at this point. Seeing you, looking so uncomfortable and startled on the exam table, ranks so low on said weird cases that he misses the note Crus had left on your chart and went right in on the usual greeting.

"… what seems to be the problem—?"

Butt plug lodged in anus, patient reports mild pain and heavy discomfort.

Jack rereads the sentence a few times before he looks up at you. Pretty albeit shy, your cheeks flushed and your gaze seemingly land anywhere but him. When you listen and roll over onto your stomach, he swallows the instinctive 'good girl' that threatens to spill from his lips.

He tugs on a fresh pair of gloves, strengthening his spine and fortifying the usual mask of professionalism he wears. You're laid out on your stomach now, the blankets of the exam table tugged down to right below your ass. Before he could ask you to lift your hips, you do so on your own, knees spread apart.

Face down, ass up.

He swallows thickly as he gently nudges the seam of the hospital gown apart at your spine. What greets him has heat boiling in his gut: a fuzzy pink, bunny cottontail buttplug nestled right in between your asscheeks.

"Alright, I'm gonna touch you back here, see how deep it's in there before we try extraction," he murmurs. You whimper when he gives an experimental but gentle tug. "Is there any stinging sensation?"

"Nuh-uh," you mumble into the pillow.

Jack swallows again as the cottontail plug gives beneath his grip, his other hand pushing your left asscheek aside. "Let me know if I pull too hard, alright?"

You nod and he sees the way your moves against the pillow.

"Words, please."

Your thighs clench as you fight off the simmering heat that your frustratingly hot doctor starts with those two simple words. "Yes, I will." An honorific sits behind your teeth (daddy? sir? whichever, it seems to fit him regardless of what you use) but you swallow it down.

Meanwhile, Jack tries to ignore the tell-tale sheen between your thighs, keeps his gloved hands where they need to be. His mind races through horrific, bloody accidents of the week prior to keep his other head from wandering. "Good," he mutters.

Silence falls between you two as Jack gently adds medical-grade lubricant, apologizing at the cool temperature of it against your heated skin. After a few rotations of the plug, you clamp your teeth around the hospital gown to stifle any wayward moans.

"Mm—" You whimper anyways and Jack stills. "I'm okay—! Just, uh— is it almost out?"

Jack clears his throat; he's grateful you can't see him or the creeping blush up his neck. "Almost. I gotta take it slow to avoid any possible injuries."

The thought makes you lightheaded but you ground yourself back into reality before your mind can start jumping to worst case scenarios. "That makes sense."

He twists the plug and a flare of arousal blooms in your core, more pleasure than pain now. "So," he clears his throat again, an attempt at normalcy. "What do you do for work?" He mentally pats himself on the back at the inane question, hoping it'll be enough to distract you as he attempts at another tug.

You squeak anyways as your ring of muscles expand at the widest part of the plug. Jack adds more lubricant. "This," you manage to say.

Jack's dick gives a willfull throb but he forces it down with the degloving case from the night before. "O-Oh?"

"I… stream? I'm an adult streamer, oh fuck—!"

Your ass is gaping slightly as Jack inadvertently tugs the whole plug out with little warning, an involuntary reaction from your reveal. "Shit— sorry, sweetheart. Don't move—"

The silicone toy hits the metal tray beside you in a dull thud, the fluffy end of it peeking above the lip of the tray, while you feel his gloved digits gently probe around the ring. "Just making sure there aren't any abrasions, any cuts or irritation before we finish up here." He sees your head nod against the pillows so he continues on with his examination.

Your ass is firm beneath his touch. Pilates, maybe. Or strength training. His jaw clenches as he forces his mind to the present again, resumes the exam before carefully covering you up with the hospital gown again. "You're all good, sweetheart, you can turn onto your back now."

A part of him feels a sick sense of satisfaction at the way you squirm from the easy use of petnames. He's always been a natural flirt, that roguish charm that calms patients enough for him to diagnose, but it's a touch more fun when it works on someone as pretty as you.

"Thank you, Dr. Abbot."

But the gentle cadence of your voice cuts through him and shame trickles in like molasses. When did he turn out to be such a perv? Maybe the night shift is getting to him. He clears his throat, assuming his professional stance, but your smile turns wicked and there's something mischievous in your gaze that he can't quite place.

"Really, I can't thank you enough," you say as you carefully roll over to settle in an upright position. "But, um… is it possible if I can keep the toy?"

He lets out a little laugh and nods. With his hands still gloved, he retrieves a plastic bag from one of the cabinets and places the toy in before handing it to you. "'course you can. Just make sure you prep yourself better next time."

Jack nearly winces at the crass statement but you reward him with a bemused giggle. "Don't worry, I learned my lesson. It's a good thing I'm testing it out first before a stream. It'd be so embarrassing if I got it stuck inside me while I was live," you share and he tries not to look too eager as you share more about your unorthodox occupation.

"Do you… do that often?" The question falls flat and he makes up for it with an embarrassed chuckle, discarding his gloves in the nearby waste basket. "Jesus, tell me if I'm overstepping here."

You laugh again and Jack's positive he isn't as funny as you make him to be but he'd gladly make a fool of himself if he got to hear that sound again. "You're fine. Trust me, I've heard worse."

"What if I want to be the best you've heard?"

Your brow rises up in mild surprise. "Was that a line, Dr. Abbot?"

"Maybe."

"It's not very good."

"It's also 2 AM, sweetheart."

You cross your arms, tilt yout head to the side and it feels like he's being taken apart. "Do you make it a habit to flirt with your patients?"

"Just the pretty ones— oh, yikes. Yeah, that one was bad," he concedes with a light laugh. "I may be a flirt, but you're trouble. Now… think you can behave while I go grab your discharge papers?"

Your smile is saccharine sweet. "Of course."

He chuckles and shakes his head, nudging the door open with his hip before he exits. The rest of the evening goes by routinely: you sign off on a few papers before changing back into your clothes. Dr. Abbot is nowhere to be seen until you're walking towards the exit, your gait a tad bit crooked, and he's leaning against the counter by the nurses' station.

"Thanks again, doctor."

The wink you give him nearly stops his heart, your easy demeanor returning now that you aren't battling the embarrassment of having a butt plug stuck inside you. When the door shuts behind you and the chaos of the emergency department resumes around him, Crus Henderson cackles behind his chart.

"What?" Jack frowns.

The smile Henderson gives him is downright sinister. "You're not slick, old man."

"It's fine." Shen materializes beside him with an obnoxiously loud slurp of his perpetually full iced coffee. "Technically, she isn't your patient anymore. And Crus and I won't tell."

"There's nothing to tell—!"

The two share knowing grins before walking off. "Sure, Abbot. Sure. Wait 'til you're off to look her up though."

Jack splutters. "I'm not going to look her up—"

In the quiet of his bedroom, Jack looks you up.

The sun's already filtering through his window blinds and it feels like some social transgression to be searching up porn during the day. But he's showered and clean with his prosthetic off, tucked under his covers and leaned against his headboard. The cursor's blinking up at him, taunting him. He doesn't even know where to begin but he's got your full name, wonders if it's enough to even catch a trace of you on social media.

He types your name in anyway on instagram and his breath leaves him in a rush when your profile sits at the top of the search results. Your profile pic is innocent enough, smiling brightly, but upon further inspection, your shoulders and collarbone is exposed right where the photo is cut off; an implication that you've got nothing on below the edge of your profile. Once he manages to tear his gaze away, his eyes snag onto the amount of followers you have. Four million. An impressed whistle escapes him as he starts to scroll.

Your photos are still pretty tame, nothing more risque than a bikini shot of you at the beach. To anyone that isn't regularly watching adult streamers, you look like any other influencer of the modern age. Wholesome photos of you are attached as well, displaying your interests and hobbies that has Jack falling deeper and deeper into your orbit.

It's nearly noon when he realized he may have spent the previous hours just looking up your social media sites. One thing that did stick out like a sore thumb (aside from your jaw-dropping photos) had been the lack of use of your real name. He understands the reasoning, knows its for safety especially with the kind of career you're in, but the affectionate nickname you use for yourself and what your subscribers use has a lick of jealousy flaring in his chest.

Dollface. Doll. Dolly.

He scrolls back up before the little monster in his chest grows and a nondescript url catches his eye, the hyperlink sitting pretty beneath your bio. Before he could secondguess himself, he taps it and his phone brings him out of instagram and into his browser app where your website loads on his screen.

While Jack isn't some tech-savvy genius, he's confident enough to say that your page must've been done by a professional. Summer pastels greet him, a variation of your profile pic on instagram (more skin, more sultry—) sitting on the top left of the screen with 'DOLL'S CORNER' splashed on the top of the page and a drop down menu that he decides to explore later.

It's arranged like some sort of blog, your most recent status marked as eight hours ago where you're complaining about some ache. He bites back a smirk before he scrolls down your older posts. There's many videos, ranging from 'get ready with me!'s and 'shopping hauls' with pretty thumbnails, but the one that steals his attention are the ones that are grayed out — almost pixelated with a pink heart-lock graphic in the center.

[ UPGRADE YOUR TIER LEVEL TO ACCESS THIS VIDEO! ♡ ]

His thumb hovers over the lock-graphic before he gives in.

The screen loads and he's taken to a new page, marked by different tiers and different price points.

BESTIES — free! access includes: - get ready with me - weekly vlogs - shopping hauls SWEETHEARTS — weekly subscription. ($) - everything besties has to offer! - short-form lewd content - locked photos from the vault - audios LOVERS — monthly subscription. ($$$) - everything sweethearts and besties has to offer! - midnight live-streams - personalized short-form videos - personalized audios

Jack blinks twice. He continues to scroll before he catches a three-day free trial for all the paid tiers. He bypasses it and taps a single month purchase for access to the LOVERS' vault (after creating a profile and naming it simply with his initials). His dick stirs in his pajamas as the screen loads before it confirms his payment.

All the grayed-out videos are unlocked but rather than an aesthetic thumbnail with pretty collages like your free content, they're blurred out images of you within the video — enough to imply exactly what's going on in each one.

He scrolls on to see another video of you trying on outfits, specifically lingerie. Figuring this is as close as it'll get to dipping his toes in the metaphorical pond of your NSFW content for now, he hits play.

The video starts off with your pretty face adjusting the camera before you settle back on a white rug, surrounded by opened boxes. You greet the camera and it feels like a blow to the gut to see you in your element. If he thought you were pretty in the emergency room, under the garish lighting of the bright fluorescents, you're a goddamn bombshell with perfect makeup and flattering lighting.

As you address the camera, he begins to wonder how exactly you could be an adult streamer when you have content like this until you bring out the haul for the video. White ivory boxes detailed with cream ribbons, baby pink boxes wrapped nicely with ebony lace and tulle. He catches a name on one of the boxes: La Perla.

Jack shifts in his seat, bats away the creeping guilt of watching a young woman try on lingerie, but the charge was confirmed on his card already; it's too late for regret.

(He fears there isn't any regret in the first place.)

Fortunately for his heart (or unfortunately for his twitching cock), you had edited the videos to cut through the actual process of changing into them and rather just show off the full sets.

You didn't seem to have a preference for color, each piece ranging from a monochromatic black to butter yellow lace. Either way, you look gorgeous in all of them and Jack isn't ashamed to admit he's about to blow in his boxers, untouched, at just the sight of you in lingerie.

When the video ends, he replays it but makes it a point to keep his hands out of his pants for now. Instead, he drops a like and a simple comment:

@.swatdoc. — You're magnificent.

Confident in the anonymity of his profile, he puts his phone away to finally catch up on sleep.

Across the city, your phone buzzes with a new notification as you have breakfast on your island counter. Despite the waves of engagement you get on your content, you still keep the notifications on and the newest one brings forth a flutter in your stomach. Compliments are a nickel apiece when it comes to your career but the simplicity of this one and the lack of crudeness that follows steals your attention.

You take a bite of your food as you tap the notif, bringing on the new account profile. While most are kept blank, this man has a profile pic of his back facing a gorgeous sunset. Despite the fact his face is unseen, you recognize those salt and pepper curls.

In the following days, Jack begins to make it a habit to check on your daily statuses. You don't post daily on instagram but you post stories and he enjoys your little activities, likes how everyone seems to be so kind to you. It makes him wonder if your followers are aware of your evening activities, of your content tucked safely away behind a paywall.

Even in the comments section in both the SFW and NSFW side of your content, he realizes you've amassed a loyal following comprised of women that it nearly hides the lewd and desperate remarks from your male subscribers.

@deathreverse : that top is gorggggg!!! ♡

@pearlessance : your makeup is stunning, drop a routine next babes!!

@enam3l: absolutely obsessed w you!! ♡

@mariasont: that shade of pink suits you BEAUTIFULLY

In your last NSFW video, it's you in bed, a thin blanket draped loosely along your frame. There isn't an intro like your lingerie haul, just getting right into it as if the viewer catches you in the middle of the act: your hand sliding beneath the fabric, the camera shaking slightly as you rearrange your position to lay back against the mountain of pillows.

Jack's mimicking the position on his day off, his own back cushioned against his headboard as he watches in rapt attention. His readers are sliding off his nose but he adjusts them as he hits the volume increase button twice. He wants to hear you, addicted to the way you sound so sweet whimpering around your fingers.

Obsessed with the way your moans can sound so goddamn endearing.

He doesn't let the video play on, his hand still sitting obediently above the waist band of his sweatpants as he tries to catch his breath. He scrolls onward instead, stops at a tamer video of you shopping at a boutique.

@.swatdoc. — Gorgeous as always, bunny.

The cursor blinks as he secondguesses the petname. No one's called you anything other than 'doll' or 'dolly' or some iteration of baby or babe. Bunny's innocuous enough, Jack decides, and taps 'comment'. It'll be an inside joke for himself, for the evening you may as well tipped his world upside down when you'd come into the pitt for a stuck bunny buttplug. You get thousands of comments a day, the likelihood of you recognizing him is abysmally low.

The little pep talk he gives himself soothe the minor anxiety spike as he continues to scroll on, amusing himself with the way your bright personality seems to shine through even with the nasty videos that has his cock twitching to life.

He distracts himself with the comments section instead of exiting the video.

@.deathreverse — jesuuus christ, ur so fucking hot

@.deathreverse — let me rip that gorgeous top off you plsplspls

@.pearlessance — let me make your moans my ringtone and i'll never miss a call

The women commenting are far more entertaining to read through, the creativity of it all always taking him aback, despite the usual stab of jealousy. At this point, his parasocial streak of possessiveness is something he's learned to ignore, to let sit beneath a layer of faux indifference.

He's just a fan now among millions, he'll bask in the anonymity your popularity affords him.

You might be obsessed with your most latest subscriber. A Mr. Swatdoc with the silver curls.

Realistically, it may be the hot doctor that had seen you through the most mortifying ordeal of taking out a buttplug at two in the morning but the profile pic doesn't give you much and his profile is blank aside from his chosen screen name (swatdoc) and his age (48).

Regardless, your heart does a funny little twist whenever he appears in your notifications (only on your SFW posts, interestingly enough) whether it's a like or an extra tip but your stomach drops when his newest comment adds a new petname.

Bunny.

You sit up in bed when the notification comes through. Gorgeous as always, bunny. The fucking bunny, cotton-tail buttplug. The same one that Dr. Abbot had all but talked you through it as he gently removed it from your asshole. You glance up to see the damned toy sitting on your dresser right across from your bed, mocking you.

The bed dips beneath as you shift your weight, rolling around in bed as you reread that goddamn nickname over and over again. Bunny.

As your eyes bore into your screen, your phone buzzes.

[@.swatdoc liked your vlog!]

[@.swatdoc commented: Can't get enough of you, bunny.]

A sudden wave of confidence (or perhaps impulsiveness) washes through you and you tap his comment. And in quick succession, you like his comment and tap on his profile. Then his inbox. And finally:

doll : doctor abbot???

Jack drops his phone like it burned him. He sits up, nearly kicks off his blankets in his chaos as his heart falls right out of his ass. He didn't even know there was a messaging system on your website but there it is, that red notification bubble on the top right. He taps it and there's the chatbox.

He contemplates on lying, on playing dumb but he respects you far too much to lie to you. A heavy sigh escapes him as he resettles back into his bed and his cock sheepishly sits limp against his inner thigh.

swatdoc : How did you know it was me?

doll : i'd recognize those silver curls anywhere ♡

Huh. The little heart emoticon blinks up at him, maybe even glows. His cock gives a hopeful twitch.

swatdoc : Let me get this right. You aren't weirded out by me finding your website?

doll : you pulled my buttplug out of my ass, doctor. i think we're even.

swatdoc : Sounds fair.

doll : i do want to ask, strictly as a survey yknow, just to make sure i'm reaching subscriber satisfaction expectations. but is my nsfw stuff not hot enough?

swatdoc : I don't know how to answer that.

doll : you aren't liking any of my nsfw videos…….. am i not your type?

He can imagine it, that wry little grin when you tease the camera, makes him want to fuck it out of you—

swatdoc : Just trying to be respectful. Or as respectful as I can be given the circumstances, sweetheart.

doll : i think you're super respectful, i see the tips you've been leaving….. thank you btw ♡

swatdoc : You're welcome, bunny. doll liked your message!

The activity light near your name goes off and he figures you might've logged off. His thumb drags up the screen to exit the page, sets his phone down and attempt at sleeping. But in the midst of his dark bedroom, there's a stirring in his gut that he can't seem to shake. An itch he needs scratching.

Time fluctuates, slips through his fingers as he finds himself on a popular porn website, the light of his phone illuminating his hazel eyes. He scrolls and scrolls past countless videos, the thumbnails made to entice anyone in his position, and yet frustration starts to grow larger than the lust that's been simmering beneath his heated skin.

None of the actresses look like you.

The thought floors him and he pauses when he finds a woman with a similar body type as you, wears her hair the same way you do. Her moans are a bit too pitchy but he punches the volume down and when his hand slides beneath his sweatpants, he doesn't feel guilt. And when he cums, it's your name spilling from his lips.

"You seeing anyone?"

Jack doesn't look up from the iPad as Robby settles in beside him, ready to take over for day shift as night shift starts to filter out. "What are you talking about?"

"Y'know. Dating? Getting out there? 'cuz Peaches has someone—"

"Not interested, brother, but I thank you for your service." Jack smiles but it's forced, halfway towards a grimace, and places the iPad down with a little too much force. He stomps off to the locker room. Robby and Dana watch his retreating back before they share a look.

"What's his problem?" Dana mutters, her glasses sitting low on the slope of her nose.

Robby chuckles and shakes his head. "No idea."

The truth is— Jack does have a problem. That problem is you.

He thought he'd been good, kept his hands to himself when he gets to his usual routine of stalking your website, and lets his fantasies run wild when he switches over to another porn site to find an actress that looks like you.

But then you had kept texting him, messaging him on your website that the line he's drawn between staying respectful and admiring you from afar against his baseless desire of wanting to fuck you 'til you cry is starting to blur. Of course you have no idea of this line, no clue of the existence of the boundaries Jack's made for himself.

You have no idea that Jack wants more than a physical interaction with you and he has no idea how to ask you out without coming off like a complete pervert.

doll: dr abbot?? swatdoc: You know you can call me Jack, sweetheart. doll: take me out first then i'll feel comfortable enough to call you whatever you want.

Jack nearly shortcircuits at your reply and he fights the urge to hide his phone, shove it in his pocket to deal with later. It'd just look too suspicious and with Shen's eyes on him, he knows he'd blab straight to Lena who'd definitely gossip with Dana. While Dana's known to keep a secret, anything involving him and a potential partner is a surefire way for her to tell Robby.

swatdoc: You mean it, bunny? doll: spending time with you? of course ♡

Jack chuckles and swipes his palm across his stubbly mouth, absolutely incredulous at your gumption.

swatdoc: I meant a date. Not just one night. This old man isn't built for casual. doll: okay old man. take me out to dinner then ♡ it'd give me a chance to redo the first impression you have of me swatdoc: I think it was a perfect first impression, bunny. doll: you saw my ass, of course you thought so!!! swatdoc: I was actually enamored by your charming personality. Your ass was a bonus. doll: … flirt. you're smooth dr abbot. doll: so when's our date? swatdoc: My next day off is in a couple days. How's saturday night looking for you? doll: i'm free !!! gonna come pick me up? swatdoc: If you're comfortable with it, I'd love to. So, saturday at 7? doll: i trust you ♡ and yes, i'll see you then.

He gets a text from you the following day (you'd admitted filching his number from the profile he's made on your website) and after a brief facetime call to prove your identity, he receives your address with a playful tag of: don't be late, dr. abbot.

Saturday's only a couple days away and yet he's fidgeting. He's got a night shift to get his mind off things but even Lena can see he's distracted. While he managed to wave away his colleagues' concerns, he wonders if he's the only one this anxious or nervous for the date.

[ Doll updated her status! ] — 2 secs ago. — Butterflies. ♡

A wave of notifications flood your phone despite the simple status update but you couldn't care less— not when you've got every possible combination of a date outfit laid out on your bed and nothing looks good. You have time, of course, there's nothing stopping you from going out shopping but the extra options might just exacerbate your indecision.

A pitiful whine escapes you as the paralysis of all your options land you flat on your back atop your mattress, clothing wrinkles be damned.

Whether or not the both of you are ready, Saturday evening arrives quickly.

The only information Jack had given you about the date aside from taking you out for a nice, classic dinner was to 'look nice'. As charming and handsome as he is, you resent the fact that he's like every other man his age: allergic to details. Somehow you manage to put on something simple but flattering, a black cocktail dress with a hemline that skims above your knee and a sweetheart neckline that teases your cleavage along with a bold, red pair of stilettos. Pairing it with a matching clutch, you deem yourself ready after a final swipe of lip gloss across your pouty lips.

"Here we go…" you murmur to yourself. Just as you dab at your lower lip with the pad of your ring finger, your doorbell rings. Seven on the dot.

Your heels click against the floor as you open your door to be greeted with Jack in slacks and a navy blue button down… as well as a bouquet of your favorite flowers. You gasp first, greetings momentarily forgotten in favor of taking the offered bouquet for a sweet sniff. Jack's compliments die on his tongue when he truly sees you, nose buried in the petals.

"How'd you know these were my favorite?" You ask as you step back, head tipping to wordlessly invite him in as you seek out a vase.

"I watched your vlogs," he shrugs with a shameless little smile. "I picked up a few details."

Maybe he shouldn't be as stunned as he is now — he's seen you in various states of dressed and undressed at this point — but you've truly left him speechless when you had opened the door, wearing that little black dress that hugs your body perfectly.

He's grateful that you notice the flowers first, cooing and gasping at the curated arrangement rather than noticing his thunderstruck stupor. It gives him a moment to clear his throat, admire the way you smile at the bouquet.

"You look divine," he murmurs as he follows you inside, watches you putter around your open space kitchen to place the flowers in water. And maybe it's his ego that's got him this taken by you; knowing that perhaps only he alone gets to see this side of you, bashful and charming. When you blush at his compliment, he feels like the king of the world.

"You don't look so bad yourself," you tease with a playful wink, taking his offered hand as he leads you out the door.

Jack's a gentleman when he helps you into his car, glancing aside momentarily when your dress rides up upon seating. He's a gentleman when you make it to the fine-dining restaurant ("Heard the new executive chef just received two Michelin stars!" you share excitedly), opening doors for you and keeping a respecful hand at the small of your back. He pulls your chair out for you, too. Perhaps the bar is in hell but you're undoubtedly impressed and giddy, basking in his undivided attention as you wear your heart on your sleeve for the rest of the evening.

"… and they all looked at it like it was something alien. It was a fax machine—!" Jack laughs, regaling you with the infamous July 4 analog nightmare from hell at the pitt. Dessert is lain between you two, half-eaten and momentarily forgotten as the two of you had been lost in conversation. He'd been worried that he might gross you out or bore you with his job as an ER physician but you had asked and prodded for more gory details, nose scrunching adorably when he explained what a degloving was.

"Okay, fax machines are basically obsolete," you counter with a giggle, lips parting as he feeds you a bite of cake. He waits patiently for you to chew before you continue on. "No one uses them anymore!"

Jack shakes his head in mock disappointment before you return the favor and feed him a bite from your own fork. "Sweetheart, these are vital skills!" Something warm flutters in his chest when you reach up to absentmindedly wipe away a bit of frosting from the corner of his lips, your painted nail skimming across his skin with the movement.

"How about this, I'll call you on the off chance I'll ever need to use a fax machine," you say dryly. A chuckle escapes Jack, low and grumbly that it has your thighs clenching together beneath the table.

"Sure. Or call me whenever, I'll always answer."

The ease of his flirting never fails to make you flustered and Jack capitalizes on it whenever he gets the chance. Like clockwork, you giggle and glance aside, a pretty blush on your cheeks as you look anywhere but his eyes. It's a wonderful side of you that he's steadily growing obsessed with. Yes, your online persona in your SFW space is charming and enchanting while you're essentially a succubus — sex incarnate — when the sun drops low.

But this is you, unabashedly you, and Jack can't get enough of it. He wants more than what you probably expect from him, a warm body to occupy his bed (judging from the stories you've shared about past experiences), and he's ready to go above and beyond to prove to you that he's willing to do whatever it takes so that he could call all of you his.

"Hey, how are we doing? Dessert's good?" The head-of-house manager of the restaurant cuts in seamlessly; he seems to have a good sense of when to enter a conversation.

You smile brightly and Jack nods. "It's delicious, thank you. Every dish has been fantastic," you gush.

"Wonderful, that's what I like to hear," the manager crows before he straightens out his tie. "You two are a beautiful couple. Are we celebrating an anniversary?"

Now it's Jack's turn to get bashful. "Uh, no, a first date, actually."

The manager looks taken aback but he bounces back with a low chuckle, two hands on his chest in subtle apology. "If it helps, the chemistry you two have is undeniable. Truly. But anyways, I came by to ask if you two would like to join us in the garden party out back or maybe a nice little kitchen tour?"

Your eyes shimmer with excitement and Jack gives a yes, offering his hand for you to take. The manager smiles and claps once. "Perfect, let me take you to where the magic happens."

After meeting the famed head chefs and even sampling a few of the desserts at the pastry station, you're positively glowing as the two of you step out to where a small get together of other guests mingle by picnic tables. A few guys that may be the line cooks are handing out beer and soda, giving off a more relaxed vibe than the one inside. It's pleasant and when you feel a chill, Jack's draping his jacket along your shoulders without a word.

"Thanks," you hum, eyes fluttering as you take in his warm and musky cologne that seeps in from the collar. He chuckles and places a hand on the bottom of your spine.

"Of course," he murmurs then tips his head to wear the drinks are being passed around. "Did you want any—?"

"No, I think I'm stuffed. Did you…?"

Jack shakes his head and the nerves from before the date nearly come back in full force. You aren't naive, you know what kind of expectations your job gives people whenever you go on dates. While Jack's been a gentleman the entire evening, you can't deny the fact that him being a subscriber to your NSFW content does skew the way he must see you.

The drive back to your place is quiet and calm, your hand folded delicately in his as he drives. He walks you to your door but much to your surprise, he doesn't step past the threshold.

"I had an amazing time," he says first, his lined eyes crinkling as he gives you a warm smile. "I'd really like to see you again."

You nod, leaning against your doorway as you realize his hand has found yours again. Your joined fingers sway slightly. "Me too. I… I really liked tonight."

He smiles wider as if you've erased any doubts he's had. "Good. I'll, um. I'll let you get some rest. I'll call you when I get my next day off, alright?"

"Yeah, sounds good."

"Great." And with a smooth and unhurried motion, he leans in for a kiss to your cheek, chaste and sweet. "By the way, I want you to know I'm all in. I'm not trying to waste your time or make you think I'm here for the physical aspect. I like you, sweetheart. Truly."

And with a final pinch of your chin, he steps away and bids you good night before walking off. Later that night, you realize you haven't stopped smiling until you climb into bed, alone but completely content.

When morning comes, Jack sends you a good morning text before he cleans up around the house, settle in before his shift later that evening. He doesn't check his phone 'til noon and when he does, he sees a text back from you and a notification from your website.

[Doll just posted a video!] — 3 hours ago.

His stomach drops. While he truly has no issue with you continuing your camgirl career, something twists inside him at the thought of you getting off the night before without him. Is it that feeling of missing out or is it the fact that he hadn't been there to fulfill that need of yours?

Regardless, his heart is pounding when he taps the notification. The video loads and a breath of relief leaves him in a rush.

[New video!] Get un-ready with me! — Skincare Routine.

He chuckles and leans against the kitchen counter, turns his phone sideways to see you fill his screen in the same dress from the night before. You must be in your bathroom, he notes, as you relay your steps carefully to your audience.

"I know everyone will be asking but I just came back from a wonderful dinner. Food was absolutely divine, I'm already considering going back soon. But…" A bashful smile curls onto your lips and Jack's beaming. "The company was even better. Anyways— moving onto the foam cleanser…"

Your routine ends after you apply your serums and creams, signing off on the camera. The comments section pop up immediately.

@.mariasont — your skin looks so good but you look GLOWINGGG

@.pearlessance — were you on a date?? that dress is fantastic!!

Jack chuckles when he sees that you've dropped a like on that commenter about a date but nothing more. Fan the rumors without confirming anything, looks like you're a tease in more ways than one.

Unable to help himself, he scrolls down his contacts and taps yours. The phone rings once, twice, then—

"Jack?"

"Hey, sweetheart. Is this a bad time?"

You sound a tad bit out of breath but you reassure him nonetheless. "No, no, you're fine. What's up?"

"Well, I—" He interrupts himself with a shy laugh. "I don't know if it's too soon but I'd like to take you out again. My next day off is next week on Friday."

"Oh!" You sound positively pleased and Jack can picture you biting your lower lip to hide that smile he's obsessed with. "Yeah, I can make that happen. Are we doing dinner?"

"No, I was thinking of visiting the aquarium this time around."

"The aquarium…"

He bites back a grin, can picture the excitement simmering beneath the slight trepidation of your words. "That's right. Unless there's something else—"

"No, it's perfect!" You cut in with a little giggle. "Jack, did you watch all my vlogs?"

"Of course I did. And it truly can't be that much of a hardship to learn how much you love the place when you've got vlogs of you there nearly every month," he teases. "But if it's something you like to do on your own—"

"No, no, it's fine, Jack, I'd love to." He can hear the way your voice softens. "I can't wait."

"Alright, it's a date. I'll see you next Friday, sweetheart."

Friday doesn't come fast enough this time around. You've got an outfit bought and ready to go, a simple skirt with a blouse that you might've picked to match his eyes. Jack's on time yet again, two PM on the dot, and while he still keeps his hands to himself, he basks in the way your hand constantly seeks out the crook of his elbow.

You regale him with fish facts throughout each wing of the aquarium and he watches with besotted eyes when you basically glow at the sight of the jellyfish. Conversation ebbs and flows and he's pressing soft kisses into your hair like he can't quite help himself.

By the time you've both made it back to his car, he helps you in while placing the massive jellyfish plushy he bought you at the gift shop onto your lap. It's silly and absolutely wholesome.

It's made you undeniably horny for him.

You appreciate it though, you see how he's gone above and beyond to show you that he wants a relationship out of this. He doesn't expect you to be 'easier' because of your job as a camgirl nor does he think he's entitled to anything more than a kiss on the cheek because of what you show online.

And it's making you want him so bad that you feel like the pervert in this situation.

At your doorway, he's got a hand on your waist this time and your arms are draped loosely around his neck while still holding onto the jellyfish plush that's dangling behind his back.

"Today was lots of fun," you say first, nearly chest to chest with him. He nods, feeling the way you shiver when his thumb rubs circles against your hip bones. Above the fabric of your shirt.

"It was," he agrees as he basks in the sweet scent of your perfume. This close, you're practically intoxicating. "I enjoyed the little fish facts too, didn't know my date was a lovely encyclopedia—"

Your eyes roll playfully at the teasing jab, exaggerating your movements as you unwind your arms to step out of his embrace. "If you hate me, just say so—"

"Now hold on, I never said it was a bad thing," he chuckles and you let out a quiet squeal when his grip tightens, pulling you back into his arms. "Thought it was cute."

"Sure you do," you tease back and you realize he's pulled you even closer now. His voice is a rumble, low and gravelly as the distance between your lips is beginning to diminish.

"I do." He murmurs, his nose brushing against yours. "This okay?"

You nod, throat bobbing. "More than okay," you whisper.

His gaze drops from your eyes, back to your lips, before they close the distance. Your heart thunders in your chest as your arms tighten around his neck to pull him lower. He goes easily, smiling against your lips. He doesn't deepen it, though, just steals a handful of more feather-light kisses that elicits a string of giggles from you, your foot popping up and your back bending slightly backwards as he dips you and showers you in affection.

Eventually, he reluctantly pulls away but not without giving you one more kiss. "Have a good rest of your evening, sweetheart," he murmurs. "Make sure you lock the door behind you, yeah?"

You nod, sighing dramatically as you lean against the back of your door as he steps out to the hallway. "I will. Can I see you again soon, Jack?"

His poor little heart thunders wildly at your adorable expression, half-pleading and half-fond. "Of course, princess. Maybe we can do something like this again, maybe a museum or that fair?"

You perk up with a nod. "That sounds like fun."

"Good. I'll see you soon, darling."

You sigh dreamily and blow him a kiss before shutting the door. You lean against the paneling and groan into your hands.

In the silence of your apartment, you wail— "Why won't he fuck me?!"

The time between your last date to the aquarium to your next one at the museum, you and Jack continue to text. Whether it's you giving him advice for a dish he's making or asking his opinion on which top would look well for a brunch you're attending with your girlfriends, the conversations never slow nor do they ever bore.

And in between those texts, Jack is happily gorging himself on your content while only getting off on actresses that hold resemblance to you. It's twisted and he knows it's wrong but he pictures your face in the shower sometimes, thinks of the way your teeth sink in your plush lower lip as his hand tugs at his cock.

You, however, hold no qualms as you drive the dildo deep in your cunt on late evenings, whimpering for the camera you've got set up. You always make it a habit to just plead, whine and beg more than you might naturally would with a partner, but when Jack's on your mind, you have nothing to exaggerate; you just get way more vocal as you think of his strong hands on your waist. The way he had commanded that kiss without being overbearing.

That kiss alone had wrung out three orgasms from you without the camera on.

Maybe it should've been enough to tide you over but as you start your usual midnight livestream the evening before your next date with Jack, a new title spills past your lips in the throes of your first climax. It shouldn't be a surprise at how easily the name comes to you, especially with how natural it seemed for Jack to take care of you—

"'m cumming, daddy—!"

The pings on your laptop nearby that you use for monitoring the chats go wild, the bell ringing that signified the amount of tips that just flooded your inbox from the title alone. You slump over as you catch your breath from where you've been riding your suction dildo, whining softly to yourself as the toy slides out of you. Your inner thighs are quivering as you lift your gaze to the laptop screen.

"Thanks for stopping by," you croon to the camera before shutting off the stream.

Across the city, Jack palms at his bulge, mouth slightly agape as he tries not to cum in his sweatpants like a teenager. "Fuck."

"I didn't really take you to be a museum kind of guy."

"I'm not. Not really… My friend's fiancée recommended it to us, thought we might like the new exhibit," Jack shrugs as he keeps you near with a hand around your waist. The new exhibit had garnered a sizable crowd and the last thing he wants is to lose you. Especially since you seem preoccupied with the information pamplet, both hands holding it open to read while relying heavily on Jack's firm hand. He likes it, the thought of you trusting him so readily.

You hum in acknowledgment before peering above the page. "The map says the new Caravaggio exhibit is that way… I think." Jack chuckles and peers over your shoulder, both of his hands firmly on your waist. You hold the pamphlet up higher for him.

"You aren't wrong," he muses as he reads over the map. You swallow nervously, you can feel the heat of his body seep against your backless top, the way his voice gets all low and gravelly when he's talking just to you. "It's past the abstract wing. Can you fold that up for me, sweetheart? I wouldn't want you to trip over your feet if you can't see where you're going."

You nod instinctively. "Yes—" You swallow back that title that sits at the back of your throat whenever Jack gets so… passively dominant. "Yeah, of course."

He chuckles and lets his arm fall along your lower back, a hand at the dip of your waist as he leads you towards the exhibit. The entire time as you two parade around the wing, Jack keeps you close. It sparks a light in your core, your inner thighs clenching with need when he unwittingly turns on your desire to be taken care of. But he seems so unbothered by it, humming to himself as his thumb slips beneath your blouse to rub your skin while he reads the information beside the painting.

The two of you are admiring Caravaggio's Narcissus when something comes to mind. "Why'd you call me 'bunny'? In my comments?"

He glances down at you, taken aback by the sudden question. "I… thought it'd be nice to have a nickname of my own for you. It reminded me of our first meeting."

A fond smile curls upon your lips. "Why haven't you called me that since we started dating?"

Something fond crosses over Jack's face, leaves as quickly as it came. His hand squeezes your side. "I didn't think it was appropriate. Thought it might make you uncomfortable if I called you that in public."

"I liked it. Like it. I still do," you trip over your words with a flustered smile. "It's like our own little inside thing. Um—no pun intended."

Jack chuckles and that wide smile he gives you has you pushing against your toes to press your lips to his. He hums fondly, nips at your lower lip. "Alright, I'll keep that in mind, bunny."

You kiss him again.

For the next couple of months, you start to see Jack regularly. Dinner dates (whether it's at the first restaurant he's taken you to or he cooks for you at his place) or movie nights, or even him just coming over to unwind after a long shift. Your posting schedule doesn't shift, only rearranges itself to make room for Jack.

A month in, you'd sat him down and tentatively but firmly told him that you wouldn't be stopping just because of your dates. Jack had accepted it without question, took it as if it was what he expected in the first place.

So you continue your usual schedule. Vlogs and short-form content for your SFW socials and full streams for your NSFW audience. Suggestive photos to tide your subscribers over 'til the next full video.

Jack, on the other hand, looks positively giddy with himself. Sure, he's cumming in his fist nearly every night but he's determined to make sure you know that he wants more with you. Fuck. He sounds like a broken record but he's obsessed; the last thing he wants is his dick to ruin this for his heart.

But his good mood is translated into his night shifts, cracking jokes even with angry patients. It has Shen watching over in confused concern, always taking a double-take when he has the chance. Parker and Crus decide that it's just Jack going through a new wave, a new fixation that's probably tiding him over.

Or a girl— but that's Robby's problem to mull over, not theirs.

They get their chance when Jack's scheduled for a double (something he makes up to you with another extravagant VIP dinner the day before), dropping a hint to their chief that their night-shift attending's been weird all week.

The ambulance bay doors slide open in a 'whoosh' for Dr. Robinavitch, passing by Javadi who's talking to Trinity about making mutuals with some big-shot on her Tiktok and Dennis catching up with Perlah about his weekend, to get to Jack in the locker room.

"So. Shen's said you've been weird."

Jack chuckles lightly, throws his stethescope around his neck, and shuts his locker. "I'm seeing someone."

Robby startles. "Oh. That's— brother, that's great."

"What, didn't think I'd admit it so quickly?" Jack grins and pats his shoulder as he steps around his friend.

"No, not really." Robby follows him out, tugging on both ends of his stethoscope. "I'm happy for you. What's her name?"

"Nah, that's all you're getting out of me, Robinavitch."

The sun's setting as Jack turns the page on the novel he's been reading to you. You're sitting between his legs and your back against his warm chest, stretching out on the gingham blanket you've brought as the two of you find cover beneath the large tree.

Today's date had been completely spontaneous. When his schedule had been unwittingly cleared up, he had driven straight to you to take you out for a late lunch picnic at the small fair that's set up for the weekend. With the sandwiches finished off and you'd run off to buy cotton candy for the both of you to share, Jack had fished out a novel in his back seat to pass the time and enjoy the nice weather.

His hand is absentmindedly rubbing your exposed thigh, the skirt of your sundress riding up just enough for him to explore the smooth skin. His cheek is pressed against the top of your hair while you absentmindedly trace shapes atop his jean-clad thighs.

"Feelin' restless, bunny?"

"Hm?" Jack's question draws you out of your stupor, so content in his arms that it takes him a few attempts to get your attention. "No, just… really cozy."

"Yeah?" He presses a line of kisses down your jaw and neck, eliciting a soft squeal from you. Jack would've continued showering you in kisses but he grunts, reluctantly pulling away to rub at his aching prosthesis.

You frown. He's mentioned losing a limb before, knows that he wears a prosthetic leg, but you've never seen him this uncomfortable. "Jack, we could head home if it's hurting—"

"I'm fine—"

"Jack." He pauses and turns his attention to you, your brows furrowed and your lips in a line. "Come on, we can just take it easy at your place. You said you're more comfortable in your crutches, right?"

"Yeah." You can see when he finally gives in, his shoulders rounding out as he presses a kiss to your shoulder. "Yeah, alright. Let's go."

Once the both of you get to your feet, you hold out your hand. "Gimme the keys, I'll drive to give your leg a break."

"I don't think so."

"Jack."

"Bunny."

It takes a second but he concedes there too, pulling you in by the shoulders for a swift kiss to your lips. "You're lucky you're cute, sweetheart."

Jack's place is almost as familiar as yours now. He watches you saunter around his place, dropping his keys into the dish bowl on the table by the door, place your things on the loveseat before rummaging through his fridge for a beer.

When you reach him where he's seated on his couch, prosthesis set aside to hand him a beer, he gently tugs you onto his lap before popping the tab open for your can first. "Thanks," you hum, taking a sip while he opens his. His arm is strong around your waist and the easy strength he holds for you, the possessive touch he's got whenever you're near... it sparks a flicker of heat inside you and as you turn, straddling his lap to kiss along his jaw. His scruff is rough against your glossy lips but it only has you mewling.

"Bunny…" he groans as his large hand splays along the expanse of your back, supporting your weight while you tip back just enough for him to place his beer behind you on the coffee table. His eyes flutter shut, basking in your sweet kisses, as temptation guides his hand lower to cup your perky ass. It's your moan, drawn out and desperate, that pulls him out of the heat that's settling thick in his head. Reluctantly, his hands rise back up and an indignant whine spills from your throat—

"Jack, why won't you fuck me?"

He nearly chokes on his spit at your question and when he looks up, you look adorably put out, lower lip jutting out. Your gaze is glassy, lips kiss-swollen. His thumb comes up, presses against your mouth to drag down your lip slowly. "Bunny, why do you think I won't fuck you?"

"You— you've only ever kissed me. You've only liked my non-sexual content. You—"

"Baby," he shushes you gently, releases your lip to cradle your jaw. "It's not that I'm uninterested in you. Trust me— I am. I just didn't want you to think this was all some ploy to just get you in bed with me."

Another whine rises up within you. "But it's been months, Jack."

"Sweetheart, I wanted to make sure you know I was serious. It wasn't just for you, but for me, too. Had to make it known to you that I'm here for the long haul," he murmurs and when you nod in understanding, his lips find yours for a kiss that's got you clenching your thighs. Your back arches back when he leans further in, lips parting to let his tongue probe against yours.

"Gonna… mm— fuck me now?" You pant against his mouth, lashes kissing the tops of your cheeks when his lips drag down your neck to mark your collarbone with marks.

His chuckle is raspy against your skin. "I'm gonna make love to you, bunny. Come on—"

"Why not here?" You whimper, giving your hips a slow roll against his. You can feel his bulge, stiff through his jeans, against your panties.

"I'm not having you on my couch, darling. Not for our first time. We can defile the rest of my house later."

You giggle as you reluctantly get to your feet, knees nearly knocking together while Jack goes for his crutches. "Do you promise?"

"I promise," he chuckles, following you into his bedroom. His mouth goes dry, easy dominance deflating momentarily when he watches you crawl onto the center of his bed, your sundress hemline rucked up to reveal the pretty white lace panties you've got on beneath. His eyes follow the fabric, disappearing in between your ass cheeks, before they flit back up when you turn and lean against his headboard.

You're in your doll mindset now, your hands dancing across your body to give him a show. But while your videos are choreographed, almost clinical to a certain degree to entertain an audience, Jack sees the way your hand trembles just before you drag the neckline of your dress down, tempting him to just rip the fabric off you.

But he's a patient man, understands that this is just as much for you as it is for him. He can see the way your arousal heightens with each teasing touch. "Take it off for me, bunny, just for me."

He must've said the right thing because a broken moan spills from your lips, nodding as you cross your arms and drag the hem of your dress up to reveal a matching bralette to your panties. The bed dips beneath his weight when he joins you, settling down onto the mattress just as you toss a leg over to straddle his waist again.

"Ah, shit," he hisses when he glances down, sees the way the fabric of your panties are nearly translucent with your slick. His hand creeps down to rub your swollen clit through the damp fabric, tilting his head back up to watch your reaction. He doesn't shut his eyes when your open mouth drags along his cheek, a poor approximation of a kiss as you shut your eyes to savor the way his fingers deftly tug the panties aside to dip within your folds. A pathetic moan escapes you. "This all for me, bunny?"

"Mhm, yes—"

"She's drippin' just for me, fuck," he chuckles as his middle finger teases your entrance, enamored by the way your hips rock clumsily against your palm. "Mm, look at that."

It's filthy, the way Jack leans back against the headboard with his head ducked down to watch your cunt practically suck in his fingers, his other hand keeping your panties tugged aside for his viewing. "Please, I wanna feel you," you beg, voice hitching high in a way he's never heard before.

"You sound so sweet for me, bunny," he murmurs as he redraws his fingers from you, tasting you with a voracity that makes you even wetter. "You've been so good for me, pretty girl, don't worry… I'll give you what you want."

And while Jack sounds so benevolent, your lips finding his in a grateful kiss before you're scrambling off to lay on your back under his guidance while he undresses next, it's all a facade to conceal the way he's barely able to hold it together now that he's got you: heart, soul, and now body.

He settles on top of you, lips finding your shoulder for a brief moment of sweet affection despite the filth that's fallen from his lips from earlier, and makes a home between your thighs. You might've teased him for picking missionary as your first time, giggle at how insistent he is on keeping things old fashioned despite your unorthodox relationship, but then the tip of his cock prods against your entrance, mouth dropping slightly as your head falls back against the pillows— he's huge.

"Ngh— Jack…" you whimper as the stretch leans more towards pain than pleasure at first, eyes shut as you feel Jack's lips skim across the side of your neck. "S'too big…"

His chest rumbling, he chuckles in your ear, nips at your jugular. "Don't worry, bunny. I can make it fit."

Lust and adoration intertwine in your core as he pushes deeper, your walls adjusting for his girth while your nails dig into his freckled shoulders. After what feels like an eternity, Jack's fully sheathed in you, pressing kisses along your brow and temple.

"So fuckin' tight—" he grunts, attempting a shallow thrust that has you two moaning in unison. "You ready for me, bunny? Gonna start movin'."

You feel absolutely full, can feel Jack in your gut, but you nod, legs hooking around his waist. "Ready," you manage to say, releasing one shoulder to cradle his jaw for a searing kiss. He pulls out and thrusts in without hesitation, his lips parting for his tongue to taste yours. The two of you make out like teenagers, sloppy and uncoordinated, while his cock drives into you slowly, your body shifting higher up the bed until his hand comes up to cradle the top of your head before it hits the headboard.

He swallows your moans with a grunt of his own, tasting your desperation with each rock of his hips. But when his lungs start to burn for oxygen, he reluctantly pulls back only to be rewarded with your vocal cries for more. He's heard your noises before, almost four million people have, but he's never witnessed you like this, so gorgeously needy on his cock, your moans more like broken whimpers and hiccups interlaced with his name. So unbelievably vulnerable, laid out just for him.

It has him driving his cock even deeper into you, eager to hear the way your mouth sounds around his name whenever he hits that specific spot.

"No, no, no— don't get shy on me now, bunny," he coos, dropping a hand to cup your cheek to guide your eyes on him. "You sound so sweet for me, let me hear you…"

His words elicit another gasp of his name as one particular thrust has you seeing stars, the coil in your core tightening as his hand comes down to rub your clit in time with each rock of his hips. He can feel his own climax but he keeps it at bay, laser focused on your own pleasure.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck… Jack—!" You wail as the coil snaps, his cock buried to the hilt before he fucks you slow and deep to carry you through your climax. With you taken care of, he chases after his pleasure next, hips snapping against yours in a brutal pace that has your toes curling in sweet ecstasy.

His forehead drops to rest on yours, breaths mingling while his own moans pitch into a needier grunt, veering into whimpers while he talks you through it. "Feels so fuckin' good, bunny… s'like your pretty cunt was made just for me… oh fuck— she's just sucking me in," he pants.

The string of dirty talk kickstarts something inside you and you feel that familiar tightness in your core, hiccuping moans bubbling past your kiss-swollen lips as he drives his cock deeper. "Jack— 'm… hah— gonna cum—!"

"Yeah?" He huffs, a cocky half-grin in his lips as he drags his scruffy jaw along your cheek. "Gonna give me another, bunny? Come on… gimme one more," he coos while his pace starts to falter, losing its steady rhythm as he gets closer and closer to his own edge.

When you cum for the second time, he's quick to follow right after, your convulsing walls eliciting his own release right into your waiting cunt. A part of him panics — he didn't wear a condom nor did you say anything about being on any kind of contraceptive — but he feels your heels dig into his lower spine to keep him from moving. The concern still sits at the back of his mind but he lets himself get lost in the sensation of finishing inside you, his thrusts slowing to a halt before carefully laying on you.

"Holy shit," you breathe out, a blissful smile on your lips with your eyes fluttering shut. When Jack pulls out, you offer a slight wince but curl onto his chest as he rolls over onto his back. Your head nestles onto his pec, his arm winding around your bare shoulders. When you turn your head to kiss his freckled collarbone, he chuckles and squeezes you gently.

Jack hums wordlessly. Basking in the moment, he lets himself sink into the warmth of you beside him. There really isn't any need to talk for now and the both of you would've been content to let the moment settle in…

Had it not been for your growling stomach.

His laughter cuts through your embarrased whine, rolling over to hide your face into his chest completely. "Don't laugh—" you pout but he just jostles you gently, gets you to look up at him where he can kiss your nose.

"Stay here, I'll clean you up first," he promises and rolls out of bed. Grabbing his crutches, he heads over to his attached bathroom for a warm, dampened towelette. He cleans you between the thighs, gentle and careful as he drops a kiss to your knee. "About earlier—"

"I'm clean," you interject. "I don't have any partners and I'm on the pill."

He nods, relieved as he tosses the towelette into his laundry basket. "I'm clean, too. I haven't… not since my late wife."

Your smile is heartachingly tender. He's spoken about his late wife before, wears the ring on a chain close to his heart, and how he and his therapist have decided that he's in the right place to move on.

"We can both get tested if you want," you offer. "I don't want anyone else but you."

It's an invitation to a conversation he's been waiting on for a month now and he dives right in. The bed dips as he sits at the edge, a warm and calloused hand on your thigh. "I only want you, bunny. That's not ever gonna change." He cups your jaw, warm and possessive in a way that'll never fail to light a fire in your heart. "Can I be yours, sweetheart?"

You nod with a giggle bursting past your lips. "Yes—! Of course, yes," you swoon with your arms around his neck, his hand releasing your jaw in favor to hug you 'round the waist.

"Yeah?" His pretty crows' feet deepen when he smiles at you, chuckling when you nod again with an eager bob of your head as you gently scratch at his scruffy jaw. "Gonna go steady with me, bunny?"

A laugh escapes you, nose scrunching up at his dated language. "Always and forever, old man."

Although the months you've spent with Jack before the both of you made it official had you feeling like cloud nine, the next following weeks could only be properly labeled as the honeymoon phase now that you're officially his girlfriend. With Jack's night shift schedule and your unorthodox posting timelines, the two of you manage to make it work.

Speaking of work, you had been adamant that because he's your boyfriend, you had no plans on stopping the camgirl site and told him so the morning after. Jack had blinked and nodded as if it'd been something he had already expected. His only caveat was that you'd at least make your new relationship status public knowledge to your subscribers whether it's as simple as a status post on your website. You went above and beyond by posting a selfie with Jack's arm around your neck, his bicep smushing your cheeks while you grinned dopily at the camera.

While your followers had fawned over your new man, occasionally posting faceless boyfriend pics of Jack, you made sure to keep his identity secret as your highest priority whenever he'd make some sort of cameo in your SFW videos.

"Babe, you gotta stop jumping in the frame, I'll have to edit you out—!" You laugh in your most current video, holding out the camera high and up just enough to capture your hand crooked around Jack's arm as the two of you walk the aisles of the farmer's market.

He chuckles and dutifully stops ducking his head. "Just move the camera when I kiss your cheek, bunny. And even if my face shows, I thought you could just slap on an emoji or something on my face when your assistant edits them."

The camera captures the way you look up, a playfully deadpan expression on your features. "You wanna put more work on Francine?"

"You're right, I'll behave."

The clip ends there and the views skyrocket, nearly matching your most infamous videos on your NSFW side. It's gotten so popular that Victoria's talking about it during work hours, in awe of the fact that she's mutuals with you despite the fact that she's gone viral on Tiktok herself.

For once the pitt has a handle on chairs and triage, allowing Victoria to show Dennis her newest editing style, inspired by Doll's Corner. He perks up, recognizes the voice through the walls of the apartment he shares with Trinity.

"Oh, I think Santos is also subscribed to her," he grins.

Victoria frowns. "Subscribed…? Her website's free, Dennis."

Trinity walks past before circling back. "What's free?"

"Oh, um— Doll's corner." Victoria holds out her phone, displaying your instagram profile. "She has her own website but Dennis mentioned that you're subscribed to her…?"

"She avoids her SFW content, probably because it'd feed the parasocialism since Doll seems to be exactly her type," he grins, always eager to have something over his lovable but prickly roommate.

"She's not my type, she's just hot—"

"Hold on, what do you mean SFW content? Isn't all her stuff SFW…?" Victoria cuts in, eyes wide as she scrolls up and down the webpage. Trinity snatches the phone and taps the top right menu button of the page, scrolls towards the 'PRICING' tab before offering the phone back.

Dennis interrupts. "She doesn't really advertise her adult content, it's more of a… if-you-know-you-know situation. You're cool with that, right?"

Victoria swallows, goes through the 'free' content of your camgirl side while her mind races with the blurred and suggestive content, before nodding with a wide-eyed grin. "'Course I'm cool with it. Just— I didn't expect it. Yeah, I'm cool. Dennis, are you subscribed—?"

"No, no—" Dennis startles with a flustered laugh. "It's not really my thing, but I know Dr. Ellis had found her account too. She's popular."

The youngest MS4 merely nods and wanders off, looking very scandalized. Dennis and Trinity watch her go before shrugging, unaware that the true reason why Victoria's so shocked is that she had suspected Doll's newest boyfriend might be Dr. Jack Abbot.

Your SFW content views continue to skyrocket (especially the shortform video where you had Jack flex his bicep for the camera before placing a piece of dessert on top, eating right off his freckled arm before he's pulling you out of frame for a kiss).

There's already been a few questions asking if your boyfriend (lovingly dubbed as Mr. Doll by your subscribers) would ever participate in your content. You haven't gotten around to answering them, leaving them untouched as you post your usual photos and videos for your loyal subscribers.

The truth is, you aren't even sure how to bring up the topic to Jack nor would you know how to figure out the logistics of including your boyfriend without jeopardizing his identity. But the problem is solved a week later where you're in your bedroom, filming a toy haul with a new PR package from a sex toy company.

You're in the throes of your orgasm, nothing on but a bunny tail plug nestled in your ass while you ride a massive silicone pink dildo with some device that literally creampies you. You've got your back to the camera, the cute plug front and center, when your knees drop and you bottom out on the toy with a final moan.

You'd been so lost in your 'review' that you didn't realize Jack had come by early, leaning against the doorway with a dark little grin that you've come to associate with 'playtime'.

"Havin' fun, bunny?" he asks, the camera picking up on his voice sounding like velvet over gravel.

Your giggle is breathy and sweet. The camera captures the way your neck arches, looking over your shoulder to meet Jack's eyes who stays firmly out of the shot. "Mhm, I am."

"Did that thing… finish in you?" When you give him another resounding giggle and nod, he shakes his head with a fond chuckle. "I'll give you five minutes to catch your breath before it's my turn, sweetheart."

When you'd given the video to Francine, your assistant, to edit, she had sent over the last clip where Jack had come in and asked if you wanted it out. Deciding that it seems safe enough to keep since he's not even within the frame and that people have heard his voice before, you told Francine to keep it in.

Later that night, you receive an tsunami of positive comments, most of them fawning over the way Mr. Doll seems to adore you even while making content for the rest of your depraved audience.

@.pearlessance: holy shit HIS VOICE???

@.deathreverse: i bet he talks you through it omfg

@.mariasont: i just KNOW your man is fine

@.enam3l: give us one audio file of him cumming PLEASE

You're wrapped up in Jack's arms later that evening, your back settled against his chest as you read over the comments with him. He's got his strong arms around your middle, lazy kisses pressed to your bare shoulder as the cold edge of his readers bump along your jaw.

"You're stealing my fans, Jack."

"No, they like the way I make you flustered, bunny. There's a difference."

"Maybe," you hum as you swap apps to your instagram, scrolling mindlessly before you pause. "Jack?"

"Yeah, sweetheart?"

"Would you… want to be in my cam videos? Just as your voice," you clarify with a shy smile. The curve of his smile is pressed against your neck.

"I'd be honored," he croons. "Maybe you could play with yourself for the camera, let me talk you through your orgasms."

Your cheeks burn, thighs clenching as you rub them together. "Mhm."

"Use your words, bunny."

"I'd like that a lot, sir."

That had been a new revelation. You've called Jack 'daddy' jokingly outside of the bedroom before, just something to steal his attention whenever you're particularly needy (whether it's for something sexual or not). And while he liked it, judging by the fond and flustered grin on his lips, he had sat you down and told you what title actually does it for him.

Sir.

It never did anything for you, thought it might've been too simple or even too formal to ever be used in bed, but it fits Jack perfectly. An older man with his experience and status along with a natural inclination to dominance doesn't need something as desperate as 'daddy' to insert control in the bedroom.

"Good girl," he rasps and takes your chin to turn your head, planting a heated kiss onto your lips. "How about we pick a day for it, hm? Put it on your calendar."

When you nod again, he chuckles and nips at your lower lip. "Can we do it now?"

Despite your eagerness, you and Jack had decided on a Sunday evening the following week, opting for a pre-recorded video rather than a live show.

Like always, you've got your tripod set up at the foot of your bed with you front and center. You have mood lighting set up, nothing too garish and bright and classically 'porno' but rather something warm to get you comfortable. The only difference is Jack seated behind the camera, manspreading like it's his fucking job in those grey sweats you've moaned about a week ago.

"You ready, baby?" Jack's voice is caramel sweet but you know it'll dip lower when he hits the record button. When you give a nod, he reaches up to press the button.

The red light blinks at you but Jack clears his throat. "Eyes on me, bunny."

Your gaze is magnetized to your boyfriend's, feeling deliciously exposed with the way his eyes drink you in. Tonight, you've got on a lingerie set he had bought just for you: a babydoll pink bralette with a matching thong and garters. In the hollow of your neck is a delicate, cursive 'j' on a chain.

"You look gorgeous, sit up for me, sweetheart. Let the camera see your new outfit," he drawls lazily and your eyes drop down to his large hand, gripping his bulge through the sweats.

The camera captures the way you look behind it, your gaze unfocused and your cheeks flustered, but you never disobey sir's words as you sit up on your knees. Your hands dance along the lacy straps, brushing across the sheer panels that hold up your tits. Jack's attention is fixed on you, his teeth digging into his lower lip as he strokes himself through his sweatpants.

"That's it, bunny. Play with those pretty titties for the camera," Jack murmurs.

He continues to take the lead and it's almost alarming at how good he is, how easy it is for you to completely forget you're still filming. He eventually has you propped up against your mountain of pillows, knees bent and thighs spread out.

"Add another finger for me, bunny."

You've already got two in, your middle and your ring finger, while your other hand is groping at your exposed tit. "Sir, I can't—"

"Sure you can, pretty girl. You've taken my cock, haven't you?" Jack chuckles meanly, his hand tugging at his cock now. Your eyes are locked on his length and he capitalizes on it, rubbing his thumb across his tip.

"Yes, but—"

"Come on, bunny, one more. You can do it."

The camera captures the way you whimper, gasping around nothing when you add your index finger into your sopping cunt. Even the lighting catches the shine of your slick against your inner thighs; Jack's got you edging yourself and you're ready to beg.

The stretch burns in the best way, not in the same breadth as Jack's cock, but enough that it has you plunging your fingers so fast that it sounds lewd against the camera.

"Can I cum, sir, please—" You choke out, hand beginning to cramp from the speed and angle you have that Jack notices it immediately. If you've been a bit less preoccupied with your own impending orgasm, you would've noticed that your boyfriend had been staving off his own climax, gripping the base of his length until he's finally given you permission.

Behind the camera, he continues to talk you through it but his voice isn't as measured, it's strained and a tad bit pitchy — his tell-tale sign that he's about to cum soon.

"Cum for me, bunny, let me see you make a mess on yourself," he coaxes and once you take the final fall, he's quick to follow, white ropes of his release painting his thighs and the floor beneath. "So fuckin' hot, Jesus Christ—"

Your cramping hand drops from between your legs as you slump against the pillows completely, legs splayed out for the camera to watch the way your clit throbs from the overstimulation. Jack tucks himself back in and takes the camera, detaches it from the tripod mount to approach your bedside.

"Let's see the mess you made, gorgeous," he murmurs, his voice wrecked as he props a knee up to hover above your overstimulated frame. You giggle up at the camera, taking his free hand (the same one that had been wrapped around his cock moments ago) and gently lick the traces of his release clean off his fingers. He curses under his breath before he affectionately pinches your chin. It elicits a soft laugh from you and the look you give him beyond the camera does something to his chest, a word that tastes something sticky sweet (and maybe starts with the letter 'L'), that he suddenly wishes this part is just for him.

But he moves lower, the camera panning down to where your panties are tugged loosely aside where your puffy, slick cunt is on display. It's lewd and nasty, the way his free hand strokes through your folds before he's bringing up his fingers for a taste. The satisfactory moan he lets out sends a thrill up your spine.

His hand travels to the swell of your thigh, to your hip where he tugs your panties off. The camera jostles as he shoves the soiled, lacy fabric into the back pocket of his pants, before he pulls away.

"I think your fans earned enough of you. Say goodbye, bunny, it's my turn for a taste."

The last thing the camera sees is a wave of your hand before it's set aside roughly, filming your ceiling and capturing the way your giggle melts into a breathy moan before the video and audio cuts.

—

"So when are we meeting the lucky lady?"

The sun sits high as Jack lounges on the roof on a chair that he's brought up a few months back. Robby had brought his own chair a week later, pleased to see his best friend behind the railing this time. The two are relaxing, stealing a few moments of solitude before handoffs are completed.

"Not yet," Jack grunts as he takes a sip of the pressed juice you've packed for him. You've been given a massive PR package of some health brand and he'd been willing to take half of the crate off your hands. "Soon."

Robby gives him a sidelong glance. "Are you ashamed of her or somethin'?"

"No. No, definitely not. I just want to keep her to myself a bit longer before you and Peaches poach her off me." Jack chuckles. "Relax, brother. I'll bring her around soon."

"Alright, I'm holding you to that," Robby chortles before he gets to his feet, back cracking while he stretches. "Go home, Abbot."

Before, Jack would've kneedled, maybe dragged his feet a bit longer to keep from returning to an empty house. He's always craved company, even moreso at the passing of his late wife. But this time, he grabs his backpack and rucks it over his shoulder, offering a casual wave of his hand.

"Ain't gotta tell me twice. I got a pretty girl waiting for me at home."

—

Later that evening, Victoria Javadi's sitting outside on the benches with the rest of day shift, drinking a beer she hopes would taste better after every sip. After turning twenty one, she still didn't see the appeal of drinking beer but after her sneaking suspicion that her night shift attending might be dating the influencer she's admired for so long, she realizes she might need it.

Her thumb punches the 'low' volume button on the side of her phone as she pulls up your tiktok account. Your account has only grown since you've started including your mystery man; the tiktok trends that center around playful pranks or cute videos snipped from longer vlogs with your partner are the ones that hit a million views first.

She takes a deep breath and taps your most recent one, a clip that looks like it had been cut from your last get-ready-with-me vlog, judging by the outfit you have on. You greet the camera as usual, holding out two different purses before leaning this way and that to get all angles of your outfit. Your attention is stolen, however, when the voice of 'Mr. Doll' cuts in from behind the camera.

"You ready, sweetheart?"

You pout, your gaze looking beyond the camera. "I don't know which bag to bring."

"What do you need a bag for?"

"My lip gloss…" you reply sheepishly and a throaty chuckle from Mr. Doll follows, soft and fond.

"The second one, bunny. Come on, let's go."

The video loops and Victoria lets it play before her thumb rewinds the video back herself, listening to that voice before her gasp gets caught in her throat.

Mr. Doll is Jack Abbot.

—

In another apartment across the city, Trinity takes advantage of the empty home and hunkers down in bed. It's a guilty pleasure, she knows, but with the stress of residency along with Garcia's emotional unavailability, she figures a bit of her wage going to one of the most hottest camgirls couldn't be the worst vice in the world.

She scrolls through the paid content of yours with a soft sigh, sinking deeper into her mattress before opting for one of the newer POV content. It's a new series you've started, something that kicked up in popularity from a couple weeks ago when your partner had taken the camera to film you himself after he talked you through your orgasm.

Trinity hasn't had the chance to check it out herself, a bit hesitant considering the POV shots may ick her out if she actually sees a penis when she's been thinking of inserting herself as the viewer on top of you. But curiosity kicks in as she plays the most recent one, heat simmering low in her core as it starts out with you undressing as always, straddling your partner this time as he films you from below.

"I can feel you—" you gasp, your hands braced on the stomach beneath you as it pushes your tits together. Your hips roll, sinfully smooth while the strap of your sheer tanktop drops off one shoulder. It keeps falling, revealing a single breast, but you pay it no mind, too busy dry-humping the body beneath you.

"You're soaked for me, bunny… am I gonna feel you through my boxers?" The man grunts and something tugs at the back of Trinity's mind, a sick sense of deja vu or familiarity. She ignores it, eyes straining to try and focus only on you.

You giggle. "Maybe… can't help it, daddy gets me so wet—" You pause, eyes wide at your little slip.

"'Daddy'?" The familiar male voice repeats and the camera catches the man's hands travel up, sliding between the valley of your breasts to curl around your throat possessively. A ditzy grin spreads across your lips, eyes nearly rolling back as you lean your neck forwards into his palm.. "Is that my name now, bunny? Want me to be your daddy?"

The video plays on but Trinity couldn't focus, not when horror sets in alongside disgust and mortification when her brain finally places where she's heard that voice before. Once it clicks, she gags and pauses the video, tosses her phone across the room as full-body shudders wrack her whole frame.

When Dennis comes home late, it's to find Trinity on the couch, spacing out with a security blanket swaddling her prone frame. Panic sets in and he rushes forward, his fist rubbing her chest out of habit tp see if there's any response to pain—

"Ow, fuckin' quit it—!" Trinity snaps, smacking his hand away as she glares up at him.

He lets out a sigh of relief before crossing his arms. "What the hell happened to you? Was it Garcia—"

"No." A haunted look passes over his roommate's eyes. "Worse. I think I found Dr. Abbot's girlfriend."

—

With your six-month-iversary fast approaching, you and Jack are running out of excuses to keep putting off the inevitable 'meeting of the friends' ceremony. Your own friends are eager to meet the older man that's been starring in most of your content and Robby's starting to threaten break-ins and impromptu dinners if he doesn't get to meet the woman that's made his best friend so happy.

It isn't that you're scared Jack's friends and colleagues won't like you or that he's ashamed of you— it's just the fact that the two of you are becoming grossly codependent, refusing to let the other one out of each other's sight for too long. Inviting friends into your circle would only lessen the amount of time you two have for each other and the two of you would much rather prefer extending your honeymoon period first.

Unfortunately, the decision is taken out of yours and Jack's hands when you wake in the morning to an abnormal amount of bleeding. Your period's supposed to start soon but with the sudden heavy flow and the sharp pain in your abdominal, fear licks up your spine.

Something isn't right.

You carefully bring yourself out of Jack's bed, whimpering at the massive stain you've left, before hobbling over to your phone. What awful timing— your actual doctor boyfriend isn't in to check you out himself but rather he's stuck at the ER working a double.

With the amount of time you've spent with Jack, he's ingrained it into you to always listen to your body, to get help rather than attempting to self-diagnose or to undermine your pain level, so you call 9-1-1 with a shaky voice.

When the operator confirms that an ambulance is on the way, you remember to add one final thing: "Can you take me to PTMC, please?"

—

"Female, mid to late 20s, heavy vaginal bleeding and sharp abdominal pain. Reports of nausea and vomiting with a fever of 102 degrees," the EMT barks out, pushing your gurney through the ambulance bay as the cacophany of the emergency department greets you. When the ambulance had arrived at Jack's place, you'd been barely able to stand upright, chills racking your frame.

Your mind is fuzzy, the fluorescent lights above you spinning like soup while you're pushed into an available room. A couple of nurses trail after a doctor, a penlight flashing in your eyes as said doctor introduces herself.

"Hi, I'm Dr. King, are you taking any kind of birth control or—"

"My IUD," you whimper, eyes squeezing shut as you try to fight through the pain that seems to steadily increase with each passing moment. "Is it—I heard it can be displaced?"

Fast paced conversation erupts around you, swapping differentials and possible diagnoses before scissors are cutting through your pajamas to reveal your bloody panties. A hand presses against your upper abdomen, a gentle palpating movement that tears out a cry of pain from you.

"Order a CT," a doctor barks. "Can't do much until we see what's going on in there."

Dr. King nods and promises to take care of you after you've been pushed some painkillers to tide you over until it's your turn. As you get wheeled off, she notices a delicate cursive 'j' tattooed right above your hip bone.

—

After some time, you're dressed in a hospital gown, waiting for your CT results as the painkillers they've given you keep the pain at bay for the meantime. Your phone sits in your lap, screen on to your text thread with Jack. You know he's somewhere in the department, most likely saving lives, but your texts are unread and it's gnawing at the pit of your stomach.

"Hi," a voice calls out and it's a sweet looking young man, around your age as he rubs in the hand sanitizer. "I'm Dr. Whitaker. We have your CT results and it looks like a displaced IUD. Did anything happen recently or…?"

Your cheeks burn bright red. "Um. Rough sex, I guess?"

Dr. Whitaker's face colors red as well. "Oh—! Um, well, yeah. That'll do it. The CT scans revealed some slight perforation in your uterine lining so we'll go ahead and get that out for you, it'd be a minor procedure so you'll be up and walking in just a few hours."

"Great, thank you," you sigh in quiet relief but as you ponder something, Whitaker sticks around, like he knows you've got a request. "Um, is there a Dr. Abbot in?"

He nods. "Yeah, he's one of my attendings. Has he treated you before?"

"No, actually—"

"Bunny—?!" The curtains slide open and Jack rushes in, concern choking up his syllables when he sees you looking slightly gaunt and exhausted in a hospital gown. Dennis' eyes widen as he steps aside; he's never seen his attending look so disheveled and unkempt. "What happened?"

"Jack, I'm fine, it was my IUD," you explain, looking up while he checks over your vitals. "It… got displaced. I wonder whose fault is that." Your dry tone has Jack looking sheepish and Whitaker looking everywhere but the both of you. It's already taken all of his professionalism to keep from reacting when he recognized you as Trinity's past obsession. She still wouldn't say why she unsubscribed until he realizes the secret boyfriend is Dr. Abbot.

"Sorry, sweetheart," Jack murmurs into your hair as he kisses your forehead. "I'll make sure they'll bump you forward so you can get out of here faster."

You nod and your lower lip juts out, slipping into that sweet mindset that Jack can't get enough of; cotton candy delicate and adorably delectable. "Promise?"

"Yeah, I promise, bunny." His voice takes on that gravelly tone that you've become obsessed with and when you tip your head up, he closes the distance and kisses you briefly.

At that moment, the curtain slides open again. "Whoa— sorry for interrupting, folks." You pull away, fiery cheeks on display, to see another taller doctor enter. "Dr. Whitaker, can you go help Dr. Santos in Central 13? I'm Dr. Robinavitch, you can call me Dr. Robby. You must be the infamous 'Bunny'."

Jack groans and playfully hides his face into the top of your hair as the name registers as your boyfriend's best friend. You smile prettily and offer your hand to shake when Dr. Robby approaches, giving your name instead. The man seems nice but only Jack has the privilege of calling you 'bunny'. "It's nice to meet you, Dr. Robby."

"Just Robby," he insists before he flips through your chart. "Looks like you're up next for the laparascopy. Do I wanna know what happened?"

Your blush deepens. "No, not really. This is an awful first impression."

Robby chuckles, scratches the back of his head. "It's not so bad, all things considered. But now that I finally have both of you here, what do you say to dinner with my partner and I? She's been eager to meet you."

You give Jack a sidelong glance. "Who else did you tell about me?"

"Nearly everyone," Robby cuts in while Jack gives a shrug.

"I didn't give details. I just liked talking about you, sweetheart. That so bad?"

A pleased smile curves upon your lips. "Not at all. I love how obsessed you are with me," you tease. Your boyfriend's eyes roll before patting his friend's chest.

"Alright, come on. Let's get her rolled into the OR so I can take my girl home."

—

As promised, recovery goes by swiftly and a new IUD is put in place. Discharge is expedited when you're dating one of the attendings and soon, Jack's coming into your room with a fresh set of clothes from his locker.

"I liked those panties," you huff as you step into Jack's black sweatpants, leaning against the bed as he kneels down to roll the legs up for you.

When he stands to full height, he helps you into the faded 'ARMY' sweater. "I'll buy you more, bunny." He tugs you in by the waist to steal a few more kisses. "Just glad you're okay. You almost gave me a heart attack when I saw your name on the board."

"Sorry," you pout as Jack sweeps a thumb across your cheekbone. "I tried texting but I—"

"No, baby, you're fine." He hushes you with another soft kiss. "It's good you came in when you did. Come on, I'll take you home."

His arm is thrown around your shoulder as he guides you out through the ambulance bay. The both of you are lost in your own little world, exchanging soft laughter and playful kisses, that you don't see the haunted look in Santos' eyes as she scurries out of the way or Javadi watching in the way someone can't look away from a car crash.

When the ambulance doors shut, Dana leans over the counter to address Robby.

"That the girlfriend?"

"Sure is."

An amused grin curls onto the nurse's lips. "I think I remember her. I see where the nickname 'bunny' comes from."

"What's it mean?"

"I'm not saying a damn thing, Robinavitch."

You hated Pittsburgh. 

Compared to sunny Oceanside, the Pennsylvania city was all smog and despair. You, technically, weren’t even supposed to be there, but being a dutiful wife, you followed your husband and his brothers wherever they went. Being a part of a crime family (whose favorite pastime was robbing banks) had its perks, one of them being the first-class tickets they al splurged on. The other being the large house that they rented during your stay. If you closed your eyes long enough, the pool could almost transform into the ocean waves. 

But that had been at the beginning of your stay when you believed the job would go right. 

You should have known that the job wasn’t as simple as it had seemed. The plan was to rob a bank; simple enough for men who’d been doing it for more than half their lives. However, Pittsburgh wasn’t Oceanside that seemed to be stuck in the early 2010’s with beach shops that had sub-par security systems and workers who cared more for their lives than pressing the emergency button. 

Andrew hadn’t wanted you there . . . as in, inside the bank when it all went down. He knew how fast jobs could go south; he knew the risks better than anyone. Three years and nineteen days in prison had shown him that truth. Yet, since the city remained foreign, they needed eyes and ears in the lobby. 

That was where you had come in dressed as a civilian with an earpiece tucked strategically behind your hair. 

For fifteen minutes, the plan went smoothly. Andrew and the boys came in, guns raised with masks over their faces. You played your part as the hostage, hands in the air, stomach to the floor while they demanded money to be shoved in their bags. 

For fifteen minutes, you believed that you all would get out of there unscathed. 

By minute seventeen, the emergency alarm went off three minutes early; a result of a forgotten clerk who was already bent behind the counter before the boys had even walked through the glass doors. 

You watched them panic behind their otherwise cool demeanor. Instead of running, they waited for the rest of the cash before sinking out the back. Andrew, still going according to plan, picked you up by the arm and pushed the butt of his empty gun to your temple. He dragged you along, and you kicked and screamed the entire way again as the perfect hostage. 

It wasn’t until freedom was in sight, twenty-seven minutes after the plan went into motion, when the first wave of cops rushed in. You could hear them yell all the way from where Andrew held you close. And for what you believed to be the first time ever, you felt Andrew freeze at your back. Your hands that gripped his forearm tightened. 

“You need to leave,” you hissed quietly. “Now.” 

“No,” he replied, voice so low it left no room for debate.  

You shook your head. “You cannot go back to prison; I won’t let you. Drop me and find me later.” 

Andrew whispered your name in that soft tone he used to always get his way when the two of you argued. If you turned, you knew you’d see his soft and pleading hazel eyes. Andrew may have been a hardened criminal to most people, but he never failed to show that he reserved a special softness specifically for you. With the quickest kiss in history to the back of your hair, lips pushing through the strands, he shoved you forward and ran. 

Your hands scraped against the ground while your mind raced. To everyone else, you’d been taken hostage, but the lack of injuries would probably look suspicious. Not knowing what else to do, you sucked in a breath, curled your fist, and started hitting yourself. 

The first punch landed against your cheekbone. The second managed to catch the divot of your eye. The third made a cut by your lip, curtesy of your engagement ring and wedding band. After that, you lost yourself in the motions until your face pulsed with extra blood in painful beats. 

Voices grew louder, and in one final attempt at making yourself look beaten and bruised, you threw yourself back down to the ground. Your head rested and rolled against the cold, scratchy concrete. It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds before the back door burst open with men drenched in SWAT uniforms. You pushed a desperate, overexaggerated whimper from your lungs. 

“We got one over here!” you heard one of them yell. “We need a medic! Abbot!” 

Footsteps thudded in your ears, adding to the rush of blood and the dizzying feeling that was threatening to swallow you whole. Your self-given hits might have been a bit overboard, but Andrew had been the one to teach you how after giving a whole lesson as to why self-defense was important to learn. You let your eyes flutter closed after the footsteps seemed to grow louder. 

“Ma’am? Can you hear me?” a voice asked right above your head as hands gently rolled you onto your back. “Ma’am? Can you open your eyes for me?” 

No you wanted to say, but really all that came out was another pained noise. Blood from the lip cut already drenched your teeth and trickled down the side of your chin. 

“Victim is unresponsive. Calling in a 10-52.” 

Ambulance needed your brain provided, and your heart raced below your sternum. Ambulance meant hospital, and a hospital meant questions. Your eyes flew open while you pushed out a sound of disagreement. Your hands shuffled below your body and began to push your top half up, but that same gentle hand pressed you back down. 

“Nope; you gotta stay down for me. You’ve been in a heist and hostage situation. Can you tell me your name?” 

You mumbled it out, body giving up any fight since you knew it was pointless. They were going to take you in anyway. 

“Okay, that’s good. Glad to be acquainted with you,” he said while his hands ran over your face, checking your injuries. 

Through slotted eyelids, you glanced at his blurry face and frowned. Slowly, your hand raised and tried to touch his face, but the motion was more of a swat, and Jack was quick to push it back down next to your side. Your brows furrowed. 

“Andrew?” you muttered in confusion.

Andrew wasn’t supposed to be dressed up as a SWAT medic. Even if he’d donned other uniforms, wearing one now wasn’t part of the plan. He should have been long gone with your brothers-in-law. If this was a deviation, you were going to give Craig and Deran a stern talking to the moment you found them again. 

“There’s no Andrew here, ma’am. My name’s Jack.” He met your eyes before sighing, face turning towards the radio clipped to near his shoulder. “Victim is disoriented. What’s the status for my 10-52?” 

He had just finished asking when the wail of an ambulance suddenly rattled your skull. It was so loud, it could have been right on top of you. The sound gulped you down until all you could hear was the cry of the siren. Your eyes blinked lazily as you looked around. More feet joined near Jack, and the next thing you knew, you were being slid over onto a gurney. You grunted when they lifted the gurney into the ambulance. Jack used both hands to haul him in after you. 

“All right,” he said once the doors closed. “We’re going to take you to Pittsburgh Medical Trauma Center to get you looked over.” 

The paramedics placed leads under your shirt and followed with a quick check of your vitals. You squinted when they flashed a penlight across your eyes. 

“Pupils are equally reactive. No signs of concussion.” 

Jack pursed his lips. He knew you had to have been “down” for at least five minutes, and looking at the severeness of his injuries, he was confused. You were giving him the textbook symptoms of a Grade 1 Concussion: mild confusion, slow blinking, wincing at the noise. 

“Let’s get her hooked to an IV,” he ordered. “And I want a CT ordered.” Jack rubbed a hand on your arm when your eyes closed again and said your name loud enough to get your attention. “Do you have an emergency contact we can get a hold of?” 

You were silent for two breaths. “My husband, Andrew. Phone’s in my pocket . . .” you trailed. 

“We’ll make sure to get him called,” one of the paramedics reassured. 

“Thank you.” 

After another round of vital checks, the ambulance screeched to a halt. The doors swung open, and instantly, there was another group of people waiting for intake. You jolted with the gurney as it dropped down from the ambulance. Your chest expanded in a sharp inhale when the sliding doors opened. With men all around you, the oncoming emergency department devoured you into the belly filled with people who, if they asked enough questions, might be able to put your family into prison. 

_______________________

Andrew had never felt such pure terror than when he pushed you to the ground and ran without a second look goodbye. 

You were his wife, his life, and his reason for living all wrapped into one, and he had left you behind after promising that nothing would go wrong. He had to swallow every single curse word and insult under the sun in order to not spew them at his brothers, especially Craig who was supposed to be the one who counted the employees. His knuckles were white against the steering wheel as he drove them around and around, waiting and praying that his phone would ring with you telling him where to pick you up. 

But with every lap that you didn’t call, his panic grew and grew until it wrapped around his throat. 

“Dude, a watched pot never boils. Stop looking at your phone,” Craig muttered from the passenger seat. “She’ll call when she gets somewhere safe.” 

“She should already be gone by now,” Andrew barked back. 

Deran shook his head, hands gripping the backs of both seats. “And she’s smart. If they kept her longer for questioning, it might be a couple of minutes.” 

Suddenly, Andrew’s phone began to ring, yet Craig was the one to pick it up and put it on speaker. When the call went through, they waited for you to be the first one to speak, however, their concern and confusion grew when your voice wasn’t the one to flood the speaker. 

“Hello? Is this Andrew Cody?” 

The three of them glanced around before Andrew spoke. 

“This is he? Who are you, and why do you have my wife’s phone?” he questioned, fingers gripping the wheel even tighter because he knew if he let go, his hands would be shaking. 

“Hi Mr. Cody. My name’s Dana Evans, and I am the charge nurse at the Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Mr. Cody, have you spoken to your wife recently?” 

Andrew’s heart thudded in his chest. Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center? What happened after he left you? Why were you at the hospital? Were you hurt? 

He cleared his voice. “She was supposed to be coming back from the bank.” He swallowed a gripe. “Is my wife okay?” 

“Unfortunately, it looks like your wife here was held up during a bank heist earlier this morning. SWAT officers picked her up after finding her out back with some injuries that needed to be looked at.” 

Injuries? Andrew’s brows pinched. “Injuries?” 

“Yes, sir. Looks like one of the suspects beat her up before fleeing.” 

Deran sat up and leaned between the front seats, looking equally confused as Craig and Andrew. They both knew that, while Andrew wouldn’t hesitate to rough up someone, he’d never touch you. 

“Is she okay?” Andrew asked once he knew he could talk without his voice breaking. 

“Right now we’re holding her while we wait for a CT, she’s already given a statement, so if the CT comes back just fine, she’s good to go home.” 

“Am I able to come sit with her while she waits?”

“That would be perfectly fine, Mr. Cody.” 

Craig pulled out his own phone and quickly typed in the address while Andrew spun the wheel to turn the car around. He quickly wrapped up the phone call and stomped on the gas. At one point, Deran had to remind him to slow down; they couldn’t afford to be pulled over with the guns and bags of cash in the back. Hesitantly, Andrew released the pedal just a bit but kept a steady speed. His heart never once calmed down during the entire drive, and it seemed to race even more when he pulled up to the front. 

Andrew didn’t even say anything before he jumped out of the driver’s seat and stalked up to the door. If Deran and Craig were smart, they’d drive off and go back to the rental to lie low while Andrew stayed with you until the scan was finished.

All at once, his senses overloaded the minute he stepped foot into the waiting room. Blood tanged the air, babies wailed, and adults yelled at a patient woman sitting behind Plexi glass. Andrew hated every moment of it while he stood in line, and he desperately wished he remembered to grab his earplugs from the car door. 

“Next please?” 

He stepped forward and wrung his hands. The woman looked up and smiled at him, an action that made his chest ache. 

“How can I help you, sir?” she asked. 

Andrew looked around before holding eye contact. “I got a call about my wife being here. I’d like to sit with her.” His voice stayed monotone and held a wave of anxious feelings. 

The woman typed something into her computer. “First name?” 

He said your name before spelling it. 

“Last name?” 

“Cody. C-O-D-Y.” 

Her eyebrows rose. “Ah, there she is. You can come around back. She’ll be in Room 3.”

To his right, he heard the door hiss and unlock. He gave the woman a silent nod before slipping through the door. Again, he hates the way the next room is crowded, even if he knows that rushing doctors and nurses are necessary in an ER. Without much thought, his hazel eyes lock onto Room Number 3. 

You were behind that door. 

Andrew knocked once before entering and paused in the threshold. Every nerve in his body fired at the sight of your face. He noted the cut on your lip, the mottled bruise that spanned from your eye to your cheek bone, and the matching shade on the opposite side near your temple. He was going to kill whoever did this to you. 

You, on the other hand, perked right up when Andrew walked through the door. 

“Andy,” you said, holding out your hand. 

Andrew stayed put, and his hands curled by his sides while he continued to watch you. He tracked the wires sticking out of your shirt and up to the heart monitor in the corner. The rhythmic beeping did little to settle him, but it also helped him know that you weren’t dying. 

“Andy.” 

He tore his eyes away and looked back at you. 

“Come here.” 

Almost like a trained dog, he obeyed. It took him two steps to get to the side of your bed, and you grabbed his hand once he was close enough. With a small tug, you made him sit down. Your hand rose and settled against his cheek, thumb rubbing in a back-and-forth motion under his eye. He continued staring as he took in your face now that he was closer. 

“Who hurt you?” he whispered, tone baring a viciousness you hadn’t heard in a while. 

Your face scrunched in a wince. “You’re going to think this is silly,” you said, and your casualness made him jolt. 

Andrew swallowed thickly around his tongue. “You’re hurt. How is that silly?” He raised his hands and cupped your face but remained careful of your injuries. 

“You shouldn’t have taught me to punch so hard,” you muttered. “I guess I didn’t know my own strength. That’s what’s silly.” 

“What?” His eyes took another lap around your face before he realized the meaning of your words. 

Sure you had bruising, but the locations didn’t make much sense. When Andrew punched, he drove his fists into the middle of someone’s face since it was the largest area that he could reach. He rarely ever went for a lip or the high cheek bone unless whoever he was after kept squirming. His chest finally loosened a bit when a small chuckle pushed past his lips at the ridiculousness of it all. 

“You did this?” he asked, lips curling ever so slightly. 

You nodded slowly before speaking in a low tone. “Thought it’d look suspicious if I was taken and came out unharmed.” 

Andrew leaned forward, placed his lips to your forehead, and held them there for a few seconds. He couldn’t help but think about how perfect you were. Unasked, you had injured yourself so that they could get away, and cops were always too concerned to press for more questions. When he pulled back, he placed kiss on your lips. 

While you kissed back, your hands trailed until they covered his. Your fingers rubbed against his knuckles until you felt a roughness across the skin. 

“Did you punch Craig or something?” you asked against him. 

“No. Punched the steering wheel.” 

“Andy—” 

“You didn’t call; I got mad.” 

“Doesn’t mean you need to punch the poor rental.” 

Andrew grumbled, and you leaned back enough to look fully at his face until you remembered something important about the emergency department you were currently at. However, before you could speak, someone knocked at the door. Andrew instantly pushed up and stood near the top of the bed next to where you were propped up acting like a guard dog waiting for his next order. 

In the next breath, two people entered the room. You recognized the first woman since she had already been in once to go over your plan of car, but the tall man next to her looked utterly surprised when his eyes looked past your shoulder to where Andrew was standing. He quickly composed himself as he shut the door behind him. 

“Sorry about that wait for the CT. The line is backed up like no other. I’m Dr. Robinavitch, the senior attending on shift,” he introduced himself, trying to keep his eyes on you. 

However, you caught the way his gaze shifted towards your husband more than you liked. 

“All good, doc,” you cooly responded. “The only thing I’m missing is pool time at our house.”

He chuckled at the joke. “Sounds to me like you’re feeling better, which coincides with your all-clear scan.” 

Your shoulders loosened at the news. “Does this mean I get to leave soon?”  

The woman—Dr. Trinity Santos—nodded this time. “Yep. We just have to run one more test if possible.” 

“One more test?” you echoed. “I’m sure a couple of bruises don’t need more testing if the CT came back clear.” 

Andrew’s hand lifted and rested against your shoulder, but he continued to stay quiet. You looked up at him and softly smiled before looking back at the two doctors. 

“I think I should be fine, yes?” 

Trinity bit her lip, and her fingers played with the tablet that she held to her chest. “We just want to make sure that everything is perfectly fine before we get you your discharge papers. If we could just have your—” She took a quick glance at the tablet screen. “—husband step out, we’ll have you out of here in no time.” 

Oh. 

You knew exactly what was happening, and you felt like an idiot for not realizing sooner that they were probably thinking that Andrew was the one to put you in this hospital bed even though you’d told them that you were roughed up by the “bank suspects.”

Andrew surprised you by speaking first. “I’m not leaving my wife while she’s already hurt.”

Dr. Robinavitch slightly stood up taller. “I can assure you that it’s just precaution and standard protocols for patients.” 

The hand on your shoulder gripped you tighter, but you knew that was just Andrew’s fear of leaving you flooding out of his system. You needed to think of something fast before they even thought of calling security. 

“I know exactly what you’re going to ask if he were to step out,” you stated. “And I can assure you that my bruises were caused by the men that robbed the bank.” 

The two doctor’s eyes widened.

“Ma’am, that’s not—” 

You held up a hand. “Please. I can see the way you’re both looking at him with apprehension. To an outsider, it does make sense. I have bruises all over my face, and his knuckles happen to be split. And I understand that so many can say this was all some coincidence, but sometimes that’s the truth. My husband boxes; that’s actually why we’re in town.” 

Andrew caught on to what you were saying. “Yeah. One of my buddies was plannin’ a tourney for later this week over at Conn-Greb Boxing Club. Thought I’d come visit and help out.” 

You giggled slightly to ease the tension in the room. “His gloves didn’t fit in the bags because . . . well, I think I got excited when he told me he got us a house with a pool, and I packed way too many swimsuits.” 

Trinity and Dr. Robinavitch glanced at each other before Trinity looked back down at the tablet. You knew that she wanted to keep pressing, and a part of you was thankful that she did. You’d known of so many women who had to go back to abusive households because their doctors didn’t want to deal with the paperwork. 

“Is Dr. Abbot still here?” you asked instead. “He was the one who found me, and other than this morning, I’ve been away from Andrew all day. Maybe he can convince you two.” 

Dr. Robinavitch seemed to mull your words over before he twisted and opened the door. His voice was muffled a bit, but that didn’t really matter since he pulled back in after a few words. The door remained open until a familiar man walked through the doors. You couldn’t help but smirk when the doctors’ eyes went back to Andrew before moving onto one of their own. 

Jack gave you a once before looking at the man over your shoulder. “Well, glad to see it wasn’t a concussion talking.” 

You looked up to Andrew and laughed softly. “Andy, when Dr. Abbot found me outside the bank, I thought you were there instead. Thought I finally got to see you in something other than your button up polos.” 

At your try of a jest, Andrew pouted. “I thought you liked my button ups.” 

“I do; I do,” you reassured before turning back to the group of three doctors. “On the other hand, I more than understand the need for caution, but I think I can say that Dr. Abbot is 100% certain these bruises were not there before I went to the bank.” 

Jack’s eyebrows rose in understanding. He’d done enough extra testing for women with signs of abuse to know what was going on even before he walked in.  

“Yeah,” he agreed with you. “Bruises were fresh when we got to her, and the cut on her lip was still bleeding as well. If CT came back clean, she’s all good to go. Definitely no need for one more test.” He shot a wink your way. 

“But it’s good that you wanted to follow up, Dr. Santos. I know so many people need a doctor like you who’s not afraid to get more information.” 

At your words, Trinity smiled. “Then I will go get your discharge papers. I hope your bruises heal and fade quickly, Mrs. Cody.” 

Dr. Robinavitch didn’t say anything else, and the two of them left the room. Jack gave you one more smile, shook his head in amusement after glancing back at Andrew, and followed them out of the room. 

It was silent until Andrew spoke up. 

“Can’t believe they’d think I’d hit you,” he muttered. “I’d rather die.” 

“I know, Andy,” you said before dropping your voice into a lower pitch. “But I had to do something. Like I said, you are not going back to jail and leaving me alone, Andrew Cody. You understand me?” 

Andrew nodded. “Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good.” You leaned back against the bed. “Should probably call your brothers. I’m sick of these white walls. And tell Craig that if he ate my leftovers, he might be the one to experience the best trauma center in Pittsburgh.” 

_______________________

“No, literally, the guy was an exact copy of Dr. Abbot,” Trinity’s voice carried across the nurses’ station. “He was giving off this don’t look at me vibe, and honestly, I think that’s exactly the type of man his wife wants.” 

Jack laughed as he looked over another tablet. “While I’m flattered you think he looked like me, Santos, I definitely didn’t see it. Poor woman was so confused, and I think she just wanted her husband in her time of need.” 

Trinity huffed, her eyes finding Robby’s figure over on the other side of the counter. “Dr. Robby, you saw it right?” 

Robby looked up from his computer. “Saw what right?” 

“That husband with the lady earlier after the bank heist. He looked like a younger Dr. Abbot; the resemblance was uncanny.” 

“She has you there, brother,” Robby replied. “Thought I was going crazy.” 

“Man, I want to see Dr. Abbot’s doppelganger,” Victoria chimed in. “You know that there are at least seven people in the world who look like you? It’s crazy that you found one of them!” 

“What were they here for anyway?” Jack questioned. “Her insurance statement came in from Oceanside, California.” 

Trinity thought for a second. “I think he said a boxing tournament over the Conn-Greb Club. The dude was a tank.” 

Jack cocked his head to the side. “Can’t be Conn-Greb. It’s closed for renovations. I had to find a new gym because of it, and now I’m down another fifty for a second membership.” 

“Mmmm, pretty sure he said Conn-Greb.” 

Victoria took out her phone. “What was their last name?” 

“Cody.” 

The med student went silent while she typed “Cody Oceanside, California” into a search engine. Her eyes widened when her screen flooded with multiple different news reports. “Oh.” 

Trinity was instantly curious. “What’s oh, Crash?” 

Victoria turned her phone around wordlessly, and an air of shock engulfed the station. Everyone stood silently as they read the first few headlines. 

Andrew “Pope” Cody Released From Folsom Three Years After Bank Robbery 

Heist Charges Dropped Against Cody Family

Cody Family Not Named in Recent Cartel Bust 

Your name stood highlighted in the short blurbs that trailed off after a few words. 

Trinity nodded slowly. “So Dr. Abbot’s doppelganger . . . is a part of a crime syndicate? The universe must have been laughing when that happened.” She shook her head. “Small world, right?” 

Jack blinked slowly, taking it all in that he might have just let you two walk free now knowing that you were probably in on everything and it was too late to do anything. He leaned against the counter and sighed heavily. 

“Small world indeed, Santos. Small world indeed.” 

Baz was dead.

And you had killed him.

The thought should have devastated him. Baz had been family, had been there since they were kids. But all Pope felt was a cold, seething rage that had nothing to do with grief and everything to do with the woman waiting inside those concrete walls.

He knew. He fucking knew what Smurf had done.

Pope slammed out of the truck and stalked toward the entrance, the institutional gray building looming ahead like a monument to everything wrong in his life. The security process was degrading, empty his pockets, walk through the metal detector, get patted down by a guard who looked at him like he was already guilty of something. Sign in. Wait. Get buzzed through one locked door, then another, then another. Each one clanging shut behind him with a finality that made his chest tight.

The visiting room was exactly what he expected: fluorescent lights humming overhead, plastic chairs bolted to the floor, metal tables screwed down so nobody could flip them in a rage. Guards stationed at each corner, watching everything. The smell of industrial cleaner and desperation hung in the air. Other inmates sat with their visitors, husbands, kids, lawyers, all of them speaking in hushed tones under the watchful eyes of the COs.

And then there was Smurf.

She sat at a table in the corner, blue jumpsuit somehow looking like a power suit on her. Her hair was pulled back, no makeup, no jewelry, stripped of everything that had made her Smurf Cody on the outside. But it didn't matter. She looked more dangerous here than she ever had in her own kitchen. The prison hadn't diminished her, it had distilled her down to pure, concentrated control.

She watched him approach with those calculating eyes, a slight smile playing at her lips. Like she'd been expecting him. Like this was all going exactly according to plan.

Pope dropped into the chair across from her, the metal cold even through his jeans. He wanted to explode, wanted to scream at her, but the guards were watching and Smurf knew it. She'd orchestrated this perfectly, even the setting was designed to keep him in check.

“Pope.” Her voice was smooth, measured, like they were having coffee instead of sitting in a prison visiting room. “I was wondering when you'd show up.”

“You sent him.” Pope kept his voice low, dangerous, every muscle in his body coiled tight. His hands flexed on the table between them. “You sent Baz to kill her.”

Smurf leaned back in her chair, as much as the bolted-down furniture would allow, and regarded him with that infuriating calm. “Baz made his own choices.”

“Bullshit!” Pope's voice rose slightly, and a guard shifted his weight. Pope forced himself to lower it again, leaning forward. “You sent him to my apartment while she was sleeping. You thought she'd be an easy target. You thought-“

“I thought,” Smurf interrupted, her voice cutting through his rage like a blade, “that we had a problem that needed solving.” She met his eyes, unflinching. “I was right, wasn't I? Look at you. Look at what she's done to you.”

“What you've done!” Pope was shaking now, fury and something else, something that felt too much like fear, warring inside him. “She’s got a body now, Smurf. She killed him in self-defense, and now she's got a fucking body because of you!”

Smurf glanced around the visiting room, at the other inmates and their families, then back to Pope. When she spoke, her voice was even quieter, forcing him to lean in to hear her. “She killed Baz. Your family. And you're here defending her?”

“She killed him because he broke into our apartment to murder her!” Pope's voice cracked. “What the fuck was she supposed to do?”

“She was supposed to die.” Smurf said it so simply, so matter-of-factly, that for a moment Pope couldn't breathe. “That was the plan, baby. Clean, simple. She disappears, you grieve, you move on. But she couldn't even do that right.”

Pope stared at his mother across the metal table, really seeing her for the first time in a long time. The cold calculation in her eyes. The complete absence of remorse. The blue jumpsuit that should have made her look powerless but somehow made her look more terrifying, because she'd orchestrated a murder from inside a fucking prison cell. “You're insane.”

“I'm practical.” Smurf's hands were folded on the table, perfectly still. “That girl has been poison since the day she ran up my driveway. She's shown you boys things, a life, possibilities, that you were never meant to want. She's made you soft, baby. Made you question this family.”

“She made me happy.” The words came out raw, honest. “For the first time in my life, I was-“

“Weak.” Smurf's voice was gentle, almost tender, which made it worse. “She made you weak, baby. And weakness gets people killed in our world. You know that.”

Pope's jaw clenched. “So you tried to kill her instead. From in here. You're locked up and you still-“

“I tried to protect this family.” Smurf's voice hardened. “I tried to protect you. But now we've got a bigger problem, don't we? Baz is dead. Bambi killed him. And you're sitting here, torn between your blood and some girl who's going to destroy everything we've built.”

“She's not-“

“She already has!” For just a moment, Smurf's composure cracked, her voice rising enough that a guard took a step forward. She caught herself, smoothed it over, lowered her voice again. But Pope had seen it, the rage beneath the control. “Look at you. You're here, in a prison visiting room, confronting your mother, defending the woman who killed your family. She's already turned you against us, Pope. Can't you see that?”

Pope's hands were fists on the table. “You turned me against you when you sent someone to murder my girlfriend.”

Smurf was quiet for a long moment, studying him. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere in the room, a child started crying. When she spoke again, her voice had returned to that dangerous calm. “You love her.”

It wasn't a question, but Pope answered anyway. “Yes.”

“More than you love this family?”

“That's not-it's not the same thing.”

“Isn't it?” Smurf leaned forward, and Pope found himself unable to look away. “You have to choose, baby. Her or me. Because I promise you, as long as she's in your life, she's a threat to everything we are.”

“You're the threat.” But even as Pope said it, he could feel something shifting inside him. Old patterns, old loyalties, the weight of a lifetime under Smurf's thumb. The visiting room felt smaller suddenly, the walls closing in.

She sat back, and her expression was almost sad. Almost. “I'm your mother. I've kept you safe, kept you fed, kept you alive in a world that would have chewed you up and spit you out. Everything I've done, I've done for you boys.” She gestured around the visiting room, at the prison beyond. “Even this. You think I'm still in here by accident? I'm in here protecting you. Taking the fall so you stay free.”

“You tried to have her killed.”

“And I'll try again.” Smurf said it so casually, so quietly that only Pope could hear. “If you stay with her, I'll keep trying. Because that's what mothers do, Andrew. We protect our children, even from themselves. Even from in here.”

The words hit Pope like a physical blow. “You're threatening her.”

“I'm stating facts.” Smurf's eyes were cold, calculating. “You want to be with this girl? Fine. But understand what that means. It means I can't stop. It means every day she's in your life, she's in danger. From me, from the family, from the consequences of what she's done.” She paused, letting that sink in. “She killed Baz. You think that doesn't have repercussions? You think the people Baz was connected to are just going to let that slide?”

Pope's stomach dropped. He hadn't thought about that. Hadn't thought past his rage and his fear for you.

Smurf saw the realization on his face and pressed her advantage. “But if you walk away... if you end it clean, make it clear she's not part of this family... then maybe I can make this go away. Maybe I can protect her from what's coming.”

“By leaving her.” Pope's voice was hollow.

“By saving her life.” Smurf leaned forward again, her voice barely above a whisper. “You love her? Then let her go. Let her have a chance at the normal life she showed you. Because baby, you and I both know, you're not built for normal. You're built for this. For violence. For us. For the family.”

Pope's hands were shaking. He thought about you, The way you believed in him, believed he could be something more than what Smurf had made him.

But he also thought about Baz's body, about the blood on your hands, about the target Smurf had painted on your back. About the fact that his mother had orchestrated a murder from inside a prison cell-if she could do that, what else could she do? What couldn't she reach?

“If I leave her,” Pope said slowly, “you'll leave her alone?”

“If you leave her, I'll make sure she's safe.” Smurf's voice was soft, maternal, monstrous. “I'll make the Baz thing disappear. I'll make sure no one comes after her for it. She can go back to her normal life, and you can come home where you belong.”

“And if I don't?”

Smurf's smile was cold. “Then I'll keep trying to kill her until I succeed. And baby, eventually, I will succeed. You know I will.” She gestured around the visiting room again. “These walls don't stop me. Nothing stops me when it comes to protecting my boys.”

Pope closed his eyes. He did know. Smurf always got what she wanted, one way or another. And if she could orchestrate a hit from inside a prison, there was nowhere you could hide. If he stayed with you, if he chose you over the family, Smurf would make sure you paid the price.

“You're a monster,” he whispered.

“I'm your mother.” Smurf's voice was gentle, final. “And I'm giving you a choice. Save her by leaving her, or watch her die because you were too selfish to let her go.”

Pope stood there, trapped between the woman who'd raised him and the woman who'd tried to save him, knowing that either choice would destroy him. The visiting room felt like a cage. The guards watched. The fluorescent lights hummed. And Smurf sat there in her blue jumpsuit, more powerful than she'd ever been.

But only one choice would keep you alive.

“Okay,” he finally said, the word tasting like ash in his mouth. “Okay. I'll end it.”

Smurf's smile was triumphant. “That's my good boy.”

A guard announced that visiting hours were ending in five minutes. Pope stood, the chair scraping against the floor. Smurf remained seated, watching him with those calculating eyes.

Pope turned and walked toward the exit, each step feeling like a betrayal. Behind him, he heard the guards telling Smurf to stand, preparing to escort her back to her cell. But he didn't look back.

He'd saved your life.

He'd just had to break both your hearts to do it.

present

The courtroom was disappointingly ordinary. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting everything in that institutional pallor that made even hope look sickly. Polished wood benches. A flag in the corner. The seal of California mounted behind the judge's bench like it meant something.

Lena sat beside you in an oversized chair, legs swinging beneath her, not quite reaching the floor. She'd insisted on the yellow dress, the one you'd bought her two weeks ago at Target after she'd stood in front of it for ten minutes, touching the fabric like it was made of something precious.

“It makes me look brave,” she'd whispered this morning while you'd helped her with the buttons.

You'd kissed the top of her head, throat tight. She had no idea how brave she'd already been.

Four months. Four months of having your life dissected by strangers with clipboards and kind smiles that never quite reached their eyes. Home studies. Interviews. Background checks so thorough they'd probably known what you ate for breakfast in third grade. Financial records. Psychological evaluations. Letters from professors who'd written about your “exceptional sense of responsibility” and “remarkable maturity.” Letters from neighbors. Letters from Lena's teachers describing how she'd blossomed, how she smiled now, how she'd stopped flinching when adults raised their voices.

The social worker had visited your apartment so many times you'd started keeping her favorite tea stocked. She'd watched you help Lena with homework at the kitchen table. Watched you cook dinner while Lena set the table without being asked. Watched Pope braid Lena's hair after he'd insisted on learning because “she likes the two French braids better, and I should know how to do them.”

She'd seen a family. Even if it hadn't started the conventional way. The judge adjusted his glasses, shuffling through the final stack of paperwork. Your heart hammered against your ribs. Lena's small hand found yours, squeezed tight.

“Miss-“ He said your name, and the sound of it in this room, in this moment, made it feel like someone else's. “You understand the responsibilities that accompany legal guardianship?”

“Yes, Your Honor.” Your voice came out steadier than you felt.

“They are significant.” He looked at you over the rim of his glasses. “You will be responsible for her education. Medical decisions. Her financial wellbeing. Her emotional development. These are not temporary obligations.”

“I understand.”

“You are currently enrolled in medical school.”

“Yes, Your Honor.”

“And employed.”

“I work at my boyfriend's brother's bar while I'm in school.” The words felt strange. Clinical. Like they could somehow capture the reality of your life-studying pharmacology at 2 AM while Lena slept in the next room, working shifts at the bar, making sure there was always food in the fridge and clean clothes in the drawers.

The judge nodded once, made a note. “The court has reviewed your academic records. The letters submitted by your professors describe you as exceptionally responsible. Dedicated.” He paused. “The Department of Children and Family Services has also noted the remarkable bond that has developed between you and Lena over the past four months.”

Lena's fingers tightened around yours. You squeezed back, not trusting yourself to look at her.

“The court has also considered Mr. Cody.”

Your heart stopped. Pope sat one row behind you, silent as a ghost. You could feel him there, the weight of his presence, his hands folded together, his eyes fixed on Lena like she was the only thing in the world worth looking at.

“Mr. Cody has demonstrated genuine love and commitment toward his niece,” the judge continued. “The evidence presented shows a man who has made significant efforts to provide stability and care.” The room held its breath. “However.” The word fell like a gavel. “His criminal history prevents this court from awarding him legal custody at this time.”

You felt it, the way Pope's gaze dropped to the floor. Not surprised. He'd known this was coming. You'd both known. But knowing didn't make it hurt less.

“Fortunately,” the judge said, and something in his tone shifted, “this court is not making its decision based solely on love. It is making its decision based upon the child's best interests.”

Your throat closed. You couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. The fluorescent lights were too bright. The room was too small. Lena's hand was too small in yours.

“The evidence presented over the past seven months consistently demonstrates that you have provided Lena with a stable, loving, and secure home. You have shown remarkable commitment to her wellbeing. You have proven yourself capable of meeting her needs, emotional, physical, educational, and otherwise.”

Your vision blurred.

“The court therefore grants your petition for legal custody.”

For a second, nothing happened. The words hung in the air, too big to be real. You heard them, but they didn't land. Didn't connect. The fluorescent lights kept humming. Someone coughed. A chair creaked.

Then Lena looked up at you.

“Does that mean...?” Her voice was so small, so fragile, barely carrying across the space between you.

You looked down at her. Tried to speak. Couldn't. Your throat had closed completely, tears burning hot behind your eyes.

The judge smiled, actually smiled, something warm and human breaking through the judicial facade. “It means you get to come home.”

Lena burst into tears.

She threw both arms around your neck with enough force to nearly knock you backward, the chair scraping against the floor. “We get to stay?” Her voice broke on the words, muffled against your shoulder. “We get to stay together?”

You laughed, and it came out as a sob. “Yeah, bug.” Your voice cracked, broke completely. “We get to stay.”

“I don't have to leave?” She was crying so hard she could barely get the words out. “I don't have to go?”

“No.” You kissed the top of her head, her hair, her temple. “No, sweetheart. You're not going anywhere.”

She sobbed harder, her small body shaking against yours. Four months of fear, of uncertainty, of not knowing if this fragile thing you'd built together would be allowed to survive, it all came pouring out of her in great, heaving gasps.

Across the room, someone sniffed. Craig. You'd almost forgotten they were there, the whole family crammed into the back row. Deran looked suspiciously emotional, his jaw tight. Even J had turned toward the window, his shoulders tense.

Pope hadn't moved. He was still sitting exactly where he'd been, hands clasped together, head bowed. When you turned to look at him, you saw his eyes were wet. He wasn't crying, not really. Not the way Lena was crying. But his eyes were wet, and he was looking at the two of you like he couldn't quite believe the universe had allowed something good to happen. Like he was afraid to blink in case it all disappeared.

Lena suddenly twisted in your arms. “Uncle Pope!”

He looked up, and something in his expression cracked.

“You get to come home too!” She reached one hand toward him, her face streaked with tears and joy and relief.

The entire courtroom softened. Even the bailiff looked away.

Pope smiled. It was small, disbelieving, like he'd forgotten how. “I do.”

Lena reached for him with both hands now, demanding. Without thinking, Pope stood and crossed the room. He knelt beside your chair, and Lena immediately wrapped one arm around your neck, the other around his, pulling you both together with all the fierce determination only a child could possess.

“There.” She smiled through her tears, proud and certain. “Our family.”

Pope looked at you. You looked back. Neither of you spoke. You didn't have to. His eyes said everything, gratitude and grief and something that looked like hope, all tangled together in a way that made your chest ache.

After everything that had happened, every loss, every fight, every moment you'd thought this would fall apart, this wasn't just a court order. It was proof that somehow, against every odd imaginable, the three of you had found your way home.

The phone call came at 6:47 AM.

Pope was already awake, had been for hours, actually, lying beside you in the dark while you slept. Watching the ceiling. Counting his breaths. Trying not to think about the fact that this was the fifth call this week.

He slipped out of bed before the second ring, grabbing his phone off the nightstand and moving into the hallway. Closed the bedroom door softly behind him. Lena's door was still shut, she'd sleep for another hour at least.

He answered without saying anything.

“Andrew.” Smurf's voice was calm. Pleasant, even. Like she was calling to check in on the weather. “Good morning, baby.”

Pope's jaw tightened. He moved into the kitchen, keeping his voice low. “What do you want?”

“That's no way to talk to your mother.” A pause. “Have you done it yet?”

His stomach twisted. “I'm working on it.”

“Working on it.” She repeated the words slowly, like she was tasting them. “That's what you said four months ago. And again on Monday. And Tuesday. And Wednesday.”

“It's not that simple-“

“It's very simple, Pope.” Her voice hardened. “You leave her, or I make sure she doesn't make it to the end of the month.”

Pope closed his eyes. Pressed his palm flat against the counter. “She hasn't done anything to you.”

“She took my son from me.” Smurf's tone was matter-of-fact. “Despite everything that's enough.”

“I'm still here-“

“No, you're not.” The words were sharp. Final. “You're in her bed. In her apartment. Playing house with a little girl who isn't even yours. You think I don't see what's happening? You think I'm going to sit in here and watch you build a life that doesn't include me?”

“You're in prison because of your own choices-“

“And you'll be at her funeral because of yours.” Smurf let the silence stretch. “End of the week, Andrew. That's your deadline. You walk away, or I send someone who won't fail like Baz did.”

The line went dead.

Pope stood there for a long moment, phone still pressed to his ear. His hand was shaking. He set the phone down on the counter, gripped the edge with both hands, and tried to breathe.

End of the week.

Three days.

Behind him, he heard the bedroom door open. Your footsteps, soft on the hardwood. You appeared in the doorway wearing one of his old shirts, hair messy from sleep, eyes still half-closed.

“You okay?” Your voice was rough. Concerned.

Pope turned, forced his expression into something neutral. “Yeah. Couldn't sleep.”

You moved closer, wrapping your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. “You've been weird all week.”

“I'm fine.”

“Liar.” You kissed his shoulder blade through his shirt. “Come back to bed.”

He wanted to. God, he wanted to. Wanted to crawl back under the covers and pretend the last five phone calls hadn't happened. Pretend Smurf was just a bad dream. Pretend he had more than three days left before he had to destroy the only good thing he'd ever built.

“In a minute,” he said.

You squeezed him once, then let go. “Coffee?”

“Yeah.”

You moved to the coffee maker, and Pope watched you, the easy way you moved through the space, the way you knew where everything was, the way this place had become home. For both of you.

Three days.

He was going to lose his mind.

~~~

Lena saw the mail carrier through the window first. “Mail's here!”

You were at the kitchen table, laptop open, reviewing notes for your pharmacology exam. Pope was on the couch, pretending to read but really just staring at the same page he'd been staring at for twenty minutes.

Lena bolted to the door before you could even stand up. “Lena, wait for me-“

But she was already yanking the door open, grabbing the small stack of envelopes from the carrier with a breathless “Thank you!” before slamming the door shut again.

She brought the mail to you like a retriever, proud of herself. “Here!”

You took the stack, flipping through it absently. Bills. Junk mail. A flyer for a pizza place. And then-

You stopped.

The envelope was thick. Cream-colored. Expensive-looking. The return address made your heart stop.

Children's Hospital of Philadelphia Department of Pediatrics Residency Program

Your hands started shaking.

“What is it?” Lena leaned over your shoulder, trying to see.

You couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. You just stared at the envelope like it might disappear if you blinked.

Pope looked up from the couch. “Sweetheart?”

You met his eyes. “It's from Philadelphia children’s.”

The room went still.

Lena's eyes went wide. “The doctor program?”

You nodded, not trusting your voice.

“Open it!” Lena was bouncing now, practically vibrating with excitement. “Open it open it open it-“

Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely get the envelope open. You tore at the seal, pulled out the folded letter inside, and-“

Dear Doctor, We are pleased to offer you a position in our Pediatric Residency Program...

You stopped reading. The words blurred. You couldn't breathe.

“What does it say?” Lena grabbed your arm. “What does it say?!”

You looked at her. Then at Pope. Your voice came out as a whisper. “I got in.”

For a second, nobody moved.

Then Lena screamed.

She launched herself at you, nearly knocking you out of the chair, wrapping both arms around your neck and shrieking with joy. “You got in! You got in you got in you got in-“

You laughed, tears streaming down your face, holding her tight. “I got in.”

“You're gonna be a doctor!” Lena pulled back, her face glowing. “A real doctor!”

“I'm gonna be a doctor.” You were crying now, full-on sobbing, and you didn't even care. Four years of pre-med. Four years of medical school. Endless nights studying. Endless shifts at the bar. Endless moments of doubt, of exhaustion, of wondering if you were insane for even trying-

And you'd done it.

You'd actually done it.

Lena was still bouncing. “Can I come? To Philadelphia? Can I come with you?”

You cupped her face in both hands. “Of course you're coming. We're a package deal, remember?”

“We're going to Philadelphia!” Lena spun in a circle, arms out. “We're moving to Philadelphia!”

You looked at Pope.

He was still sitting on the couch. Still holding the book. But he wasn't reading anymore. He was looking at you with an expression you couldn't quite read, something caught between pride and pain.

“Andy.” Your voice was soft. “Did you hear?”

He blinked. Stood. Crossed the room in three strides and pulled you into his arms. “I heard.”

You buried your face in his chest. “I can't believe it.”

“I can.” His voice was rough. “You worked your ass off for this.”

“We're going to Philadelphia.” You pulled back to look at him, grinning through your tears. “All three of us. Fresh start. New city. You, me, and Lena.”

Something flickered across his face. Too fast to catch.

“Yeah,” he said. “Fresh start.”

You kissed him. Hard. Desperate. Grateful. “I love you.”

“I love you too.” The words came out strained.

Lena grabbed both your hands. “We have to tell Uncle Deran! And Uncle Craig! And J!”

You laughed. “Okay, okay. Let me call them-“

“No!” Lena was already running for the door. “We have to go tell them in person! This is big news!”

You looked at Pope. He was smiling, but it didn't reach his eyes.

“You okay?” you asked quietly.

“Yeah.” He kissed your forehead. “I'm proud of you.”

“We're really doing this.” You squeezed his hand. “We're really getting out.”

Pope's smile cracked at the edges.

“Yeah,” he said. “We're getting out.”

~~~

The celebration at Deran's bar lasted three hours.

Craig bought a round for the entire place. Deran kept hugging you and saying “Holy shit” over and over like he couldn't believe it. Even J cracked a smile, clapping you on the shoulder and muttering something about “making it out.”

Lena was in heaven. She sat at the bar, on a stool, like a grown-up, she kept saying, drinking Shirley Temples and telling anyone who would listen that you were going to be a doctor and she was moving to Philadelphia.

Pope stood at the edge of it all. Watching.

Smiling when someone looked at him. Nodding when Craig made a toast. Laughing when Lena dragged him onto the makeshift dance floor and insisted he spin her around.

But inside, he was falling apart. Every time you smiled, it felt like a knife. Every time Lena talked about Philadelphia, the blade twisted deeper.

Every time someone said “fresh start,” he wanted to scream.

Because he knew. He knew what was coming.

Deran appeared beside him, beer in hand. “You good, man?”

Pope nodded. “Yeah.”

“You don't look good.”

“I'm fine.”

Deran studied him for a long moment. “She's really doing it. Getting out.”

“Yeah.”

“You're going with her, right?”

Pope didn't answer.

Deran's expression shifted. “Pope. You're going with her.”

“I don't know.”

“What the fuck do you mean you don't know?” Deran's voice dropped.

“Plans change.”

“Not this one.” Deran grabbed his arm. “Don't do this to her.”

Pope pulled away. “Do what?”

“Whatever the fuck you're thinking right now.” Deran's jaw was tight. “I know that look. That's your ‘I'm about to do something stupid to protect someone’ look. Don't.”

“You don't know what you're talking about-“

“Smurf got to you.” It wasn't a question.

Pope's silence was answer enough.

Deran swore under his breath. “What did she say?”

“Doesn't matter.”

“It matters if you're about to blow up her life because of it.” Deran stepped closer. “Pope. Listen to me. Smurf is in prison. She can't touch you. She can't touch Bambi. She's just trying to fuck with your head-“

“She said she'd kill her.” Pope's voice was flat. “If I don't leave her by the end of the week, she'll send someone. Someone who won't fail.”

Deran stared at him. “You believe her.”

“You think she won't try again?”

“So what's your plan? Walk away? Break her heart? Pretend you don't love her?” Deran shook his head. “That's not protecting her, man. That's just letting Smurf win.”

“If it keeps her alive, I don't care who wins.”

Across the bar, you laughed at something Craig said. Lena was on your hip, arms around your neck, face pressed against your shoulder. You looked so happy. So free.

Pope's chest ached.

“She'll be better off without me,” he said quietly.

“That's bullshit and you know it.”

“She's going to Philadelphia. Starting over. She doesn't need me dragging her down-“

“She loves you.” Deran's voice was hard. “And you love her. And that little girl over there? She thinks you hung the fucking moon. You walk away now, you destroy all three of you.”

Pope looked at him. “Better destroyed than dead.”

Deran opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked like he wanted to hit something.

“You're making a mistake,” he said finally.

“Probably,” Pope took a long drink. “But it's mine to make.”

Later that night, back at the apartment, Lena fell asleep on the couch halfway through a movie. You carried her to bed, tucking her in and kissing her forehead. When you came back to the living room, Pope was standing at the window, staring out at the street below.

You wrapped your arms around him from behind. “Hey.”

He didn't turn around. “Hey.”

“You've been quiet tonight.”

“Just thinking.”

“About Philadelphia?”

“Yeah.”

You rested your cheek against his back. “I know it's a big change. But it's going to be good. For all of us. New city. Better opportunities. Lena will love it there, they have amazing schools. And the residency program is one of the best in the country.” You squeezed him. “We're really doing this. We're really getting out.”

Pope closed his eyes.

Three days.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “You're getting out.”

You didn't catch the distinction.

You just held him tighter, already dreaming of Philadelphia.

And Pope stood there, memorizing the feeling of your arms around him.

Because he knew.

In three days, this would be gone.

In three days, he'd have to look you in the eye and destroy everything.

In three days, he'd have to walk away from the only family he'd ever wanted.

But you'd be alive.

You'd be in Philadelphia with Lena, starting your residency, building the life you deserved.

And he'd be here. Alone.

Keeping you safe the only way he knew how.

Even if it killed him.

You were in the kitchen making lunch, grilled cheese for Lena, who was at the table coloring a picture of what she imagined Philadelphia would look like. Lots of tall buildings. A park. Three stick figures holding hands.

The knock on the door made you look up.

“I'll get it!” Lena was already scrambling off her chair.

“Wait-“ But she was faster, yanking the door open before you could stop her. She has got to stop doing that.

A delivery guy stood there holding an enormous bouquet. White lilies. Dozens of them. Elegant. Expensive. The kind of arrangement that cost more than your weekly grocery budget.

“Delivery for...” He checked the card. “Bambi?”

Your stomach dropped.

“That's her!” Lena pointed at you, delighted. “Someone sent you flowers!”

You crossed the room slowly, dread pooling in your chest. “Who are they from?”

The delivery guy shrugged. “No idea. Just says to deliver them here.” He handed you the bouquet. “Have a nice day.”

He was gone before you could ask anything else. You stood there holding the flowers, staring at the small white envelope tucked between the lilies. Your hands were shaking.

“Open it!” Lena bounced beside you. “Who sent them?”

You pulled the card out with numb fingers.

The handwriting was elegant. Feminine. Precise.

Did you miss me?

That was it.

No signature.

No name.

Just four words that made your blood run cold.

“Who's it from?” Lena tried to peek at the card.

You closed your fist around it. “Nobody. Just... a mistake.”

“A mistake?” Lena frowned. “But they're so pretty-“

“Go finish your picture, bug.” Your voice came out sharper than you intended. “I'll bring your lunch in a minute.”

Lena's face fell, but she went back to the table without arguing.

You carried the flowers to the kitchen counter, set them down, and stared at the card again.

Did you miss me?

Smurf.

It had to be Smurf.

But she was in prison. How the hell-

Your phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number.

Check your mailbox.

Your heart stopped.

You looked at Lena. She was focused on her coloring, humming softly to herself.

“I'll be right back,” you said.

“Where are you going?”

“Just checking the mail. Two minutes.”

You grabbed your keys and stepped into the hallway, closing the door behind you. Your hands were shaking so badly you could barely get the mailbox key into the lock.

Inside was a single manila envelope. No return address. No postage. Hand-delivered.

You tore it open right there in the hallway. Photographs spilled out. Your knees nearly gave out.

The first photo: you and Lena walking to the park. Three days ago. You remembered that day, Lena had insisted on wearing her new sneakers.

The second photo: you leaving the apartment building. Yesterday morning. Coffee in hand. Backpack over your shoulder.

The third: Lena getting off the school bus. Alone. Smiling. Unaware someone was watching her.

The fourth: you and Pope in the parking lot outside Deran's bar. Last week. His arm around your waist. Your head on his shoulder.

There were more.

So many more.

Someone had been following you. For weeks. Maybe longer. Someone had been watching Lena.

Your vision blurred. Your chest tightened. You couldn't breathe.

The hallway tilted.

You grabbed the wall to steady yourself, photographs clutched in your shaking hands.

Smurf.

Smurf had sent someone to watch you. To follow you. To prove that even from prison, she could reach you. She could reach Lena.

The message was clear: I can get to you anytime I want.

You shoved the photos back into the envelope and stumbled back to the apartment. Locked the door behind you. Checked the deadbolt twice. Then checked it again.

“You okay?” Lena looked up from her drawing.

“Yeah.” Your voice cracked. “I'm fine.”

You weren't fine. You were the furthest thing from fine.

You pulled out your phone and called Pope.

He answered on the first ring. “Hey-“

“Where are you?”

Something in your voice made him pause. “At the house. Why? What's wrong?”

“Come home. Now.”

“Sweetheart-“

“Now, Andrew.”

You hung up.

Lena was staring at you. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, sweetheart.” You forced a smile. “Uncle Pope's coming home early.”

“Is he in trouble?”

“No. Nobody's in trouble.”

But you were lying. You were all in so much trouble.

~~~

Pope arrived fourteen minutes later. You heard his truck pull up outside. Heard his footsteps on the stairs. Heard his key in the lock.

The second he stepped through the door, you shoved the envelope into his hands.

“Look.”

He frowned. “What-“

“Just look.”

He opened the envelope. Pulled out the photos. His entire body went rigid.

“When did you get these?”

“Twenty minutes ago. Someone left them in my mailbox.” You crossed your arms, trying to hold yourself together. “And before that, someone delivered flowers. With a card.”

You handed him the card.

Pope read it. His jaw tightened. “Smurf.”

“She's been having us followed.” Your voice shook. “For weeks, Andy. Someone's been watching us. Watching Lena.”

Pope flipped through the photos again, his expression darkening with each one. When he got to the picture of Lena getting off the school bus, his hands started shaking.

“She's in prison,” you said. “How is she doing this?”

Pope didn't answer. He just stared at the photo of Lena, his face pale.

“Andy.” You grabbed his arm. “How is she doing this?”

“She has people.” His voice was flat. “She's always had people.”

“Then we go to the police-“

“And tell them what?” He looked at you. “That my mother sent flowers and took some pictures? They're not going to do anything.”

“She's threatening us-“

“She's not threatening you.” Pope's voice was hollow. “She's threatening me.”

You stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

He didn't answer.

“Andy.” Your voice hardened. “What are you talking about?”

He set the photos down on the counter. Ran both hands through his hair. Turned away from you.

“She's been calling me,” he said quietly.

Your stomach dropped. “What?”

“Every day for months. From prison. Telling me to leave you.”

The room tilted.

“You-“ You couldn't form words. “You've been talking to her?”

“She said if I didn't end it, she'd send someone after you.” Pope's voice cracked. “Someone who wouldn't fail like Baz did.”

Everything stopped.

“How long?” Your voice was barely a whisper. “How long have you known?”

“Four months.”

“Four months.” You repeated the word like it was foreign. “You've for four months that she was threatening to kill me, and you didn't tell me?”

“I was trying to protect you-“

“By lying to me?” Your voice rose. “By keeping this from me?”

“I didn't want you to be scared-“

“I'm fucking terrified, Andrew!” You were shaking now. “Someone's been following me. Following Lena. Taking pictures of us like we're-like we're targets-“

“You are targets.” Pope's voice was raw. “As long as you're with me, you're targets.”

The words hung in the air.

You stared at him. “What are you saying?”

Pope looked at you. His eyes were red. Devastated.

“I'm saying I have to leave.”

“No.” The word came out sharp. Final. “No, you don't.”

“She's not going to stop-“

“Then we'll figure it out-“

“There's nothing to figure out!” Pope's voice rose for the first time. “She's in prison and she still got to you! She still found a way! What do you think happens when you're in Philadelphia? When you're alone with Lena and I'm not there to-“

He stopped.

Closed his eyes.

“You think leaving is going to keep us safe?” Your voice shook. “You think walking away is going to make her stop?”

“I think it's the only chance you have.”

“That's bullshit-“

“She wants me to choose!” Pope's voice cracked. “She wants me to choose between her and you, and if I choose you, she'll kill you just to prove she can!”

“So you're choosing her?”

“I'm choosing to keep you alive!”

“By abandoning us?”

“Yes!” The word came out like a roar.

The apartment went silent.

From the living room, you heard a small, frightened sound.

You both turned.

Lena was standing in the doorway. Her coloring book was on the floor. Her face was pale. Her eyes were wide and wet.

“Uncle Pope?” Her voice was tiny. Scared.

Pope's expression shattered.

“Lena-“ He took a step toward her.

She took a step back.

“Why are you yelling?”

“I'm not-“ Pope stopped. Lowered his voice. “I'm sorry, bug. I didn't mean to scare you.”

“Are you leaving?” Lena's chin trembled. “Are you leaving us?”

Pope looked at you.

Then back at Lena.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “I am.”

Lena's face crumpled. “Why?”

“Because I have to.”

“But you said-“ Her voice broke. “You said we were a family. You said we were staying together.”

“I know.” Pope crouched down to her level. “I know what I said.”

“Then why are you leaving?” Tears streamed down her face. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” Pope's voice cracked. “No, sweetheart. You didn't do anything wrong.”

“Then stay.” Lena grabbed his hand with both of hers. “Please stay.”

Pope closed his eyes. “I can't.”

“Yes, you can!” Lena was sobbing now. “You can stay! You can stay with us!”

“Lena-“

“Please don't go!” She threw her arms around his neck. “Please, Uncle Pope. Please don't leave.”

Pope held her. His shoulders shook. He pressed his face against her hair and just held her while she cried.

You stood there watching, your heart breaking into pieces.

After a long moment, Pope gently pulled Lena's arms from around his neck. He kissed her forehead. Stood up.

“I love you,” he said. “You know that, right?”

Lena nodded, still crying.

“I'm always going to love you.” Pope's voice was barely holding together. “But I have to go.”

He turned to you.

You were crying too now. Silent tears streaming down your face.

“Don't do this,” you whispered.

“I have to.”

“No, you don't.” You crossed the room, grabbed his arm. “We can fight this. Together. We can-“

“She'll kill you.” Pope's voice broke. “She'll kill you and I'll have to live with that. I can't-“ He stopped. Swallowed hard. “I can't lose you like that.”

“So you're losing me like this instead?”

Pope didn't answer.

He just looked at you. Memorizing your face. Like he was trying to hold onto something that was already gone.

Then he pulled away.

He walked to the bedroom. You heard drawers opening. Closing. The sound of a duffel bag being zipped.

When he came back out, he had the bag over his shoulder.

He stopped in front of Lena. Crouched down one more time.

“You're going to be okay,” he said softly. “You're going to go to Philadelphia and you're going to have the best life. And she-“ He nodded toward you. “She's going to take care of you. Better than I ever could.”

“I don't want just her to take care of me.” Lena's voice was small. Broken. “I want you.”

Pope's face crumpled. He kissed her forehead one last time. “I love you, bug.”

Then he stood.

He looked at you.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

You didn't respond.

You just stood there, arms wrapped around yourself, watching the man you loved walk toward the door.

He stopped with his hand on the knob.

“This is my apartment,” he said quietly. “Lease is in my name. You and Lena stay here as long as you need. I'll keep paying rent until you leave for Philadelphia.”

“I don't want your money.”

“I know.” Pope opened the door. “But you're getting it anyway.”

He stepped into the hallway.

“Pope.” Your voice stopped him.

He turned.

“If you walk out that door,” you said, “don't come back.”

Something flickered across his face. Pain. Regret. Resignation.

“I won't,” he said.

And then he was gone.

The door closed. The lock clicked. And you stood there in the apartment that wasn't yours, holding a little girl who was sobbing into your shoulder, staring at the space where Pope had been.

He was gone. He'd actually left.

Behind you, the white lilies sat on the counter. Beautiful. Elegant. Poisonous.

A reminder that Smurf had won.

Sun warmed salt water laps at your legs, your surfboard allowing a soft rock with each wave. Your heart pounds as you glance at your best friend, unsure you'd heard him correctly.

"You're trying to corral me to one of Craig's parties?" You clarify, brow raised.

Deran just shrugs at this, his own board parallel to yours in the water.

"Listen, all I'm saying is if you want to see me this weekend, that's how it's going to happen. Craig's got me on beer duty," he adds with an eye roll.

You both know this will leave Deran blowing three jobs' worth of money on alcohol. This is not your first rodeo when it comes to the Pope family, or rather, your lifelong neighbors.

Growing up in one of the richest neighborhoods in California had been daunting for you- a meek, sullen child with pointy ears and crooked teeth. You did not fit into the posh corporate world you'd been brought into, your parents both a CEO power team.

Deran had taken you in, though, on the first day of kindergarten. You'd been sniffling quietly in the corner after your nanny had dropped you off. tempted to place a thumb between your lips when a scruffy, shaggy boy lined your vision.

You'd been inseparable ever since, but as you got older, you'd chosen to stay far away from his brother's antics. Burrowing away for most of high school, you recall hearing loud whoops and pool splashes late into most weekend nights.

You also recall the times where your eyes would linger out of the window, falling on the elusive, oldest brother. When it came to him, that voice in the back of your head telling you to look away you fucking creep was utterly silenced.

Even if all you did was stand there, so small through your giant window that it wouldn't matter even if you were spotted, there was a pounding chant of guilt echoing in your mind.

He doesn't even notice you, he's in love with someone else. Get over it.

Now that you're an adult, you're thankful you didn't act on such impulses. You can only imagine the havoc a middle-aged-situationship would have wrecked on your teenage self, let alone at the hands of a Cody.

Though, you suspect that Pope's different, that he wouldn't have ever thought it. Your previous thoughts weren't wrong, either. He really didn't know who you were.

Because he's so much older, your paths rarely crossed during your time spent in the Cody house. All you'd ever had was an elusive idea of who he was, of what he's turned into.

It drove Deran crazy, too, your near-psychotic whining at moaning. All for someone who, truly, did not know you existed.

Then, he got out of prison.

Things were different after that. He was home more, just watching and lingering at first. This soon turned into some brief, light conversation.

A shiver runs down your spine just at the memories of his terse questions, his one worded replies. You can only imagine what he'd be like this weekend, loosened by alcohol and the sun's warmth. A thread of compulsion stitches itself in your chest, and you act before you can think.

"Fine, I'll be there," you seal your fate, sparing Deran a sneaky glance. Sue you if your curiosity beats logic just this once.

Confusion furrows his brows at this, shock parting his lips. The longer he looks at you, the quicker he's going to figure out

"Are you sure?" He asks, eyes darting toward an incoming wave.

It's far off, you guys have a little bit more time until it really hits, but you get a head start anyway.

You paddle with your arms, eager to get away from his knowing gaze. Nodding, you turn to look back at him over your shoulder.

"I'm positive," it's shaky, and utterly unconvincing.

He raises a brow at you, still wading behind you.

"And this has nothing to do with rekindling your old love for a certain brother of mine?" He asks, though you ignore him.

Finally, the wave is close enough for you to prop yourself on your two feet, your core acting as your built in balance beam.

"What'd you say?" You call to him, and you both know damn well you're full of shit.

A few days later, you're out of your skin, a marionette bound by tight bikini strings and pure anxiety. The bass of some shitty rock song Craig likes vibrates through the entire pool deck, tickling your feet.

Glancing around, you're eager to find Deran, the only person you know at this godforsaken party. It's lawless, and you're thoroughly shocked at the intimate details you've found at this party.

You thought you'd seen it all, spending essentially your entire life with this family. You do have to say, the angle in your window is nothing compared to the close and personal view you have of some girl's ass, perched high up in her thong bikini as she does a bump off a key Craig's lifting to her nose.

You're not stupid, you know what the deal is with this family. You knew what you were getting into when you'd accepted this invite, but this was maybe the fifth party you've ever attended, college years included.

Your eyes eventually fall on the one Cody brother you'd been most anxious to see, though you're not entirely complaining. Pope is nearly parallel to you across the deck, his hardened gaze already burning into you.

His stare is like an electric shock, an impenetrable force nestling itself deep in your chest. Lips tightening, you give him an awkward wave. You try not to focus too hard on the skip of your heart when he returns your niceties.

Averting your gaze toward the sliding glass door, you long to escape into the quieter confines of the Cody household. Though it's not empty. the crowd in there is smaller, less mimicking of sardines in the metal tin of this backyard.

The walls call to you like an old church hymn. One that's been lost to the crevices of your mind, but the realization is instant all the same.

Just as you move to stand, water droplets prick you like a million tiny icicles, piercing into your warm skin. Your jaw drops upon impact, whipping your head just in time to see Craig emerge from the water.

The waves of his cannonball ripple throughout the water, an instant giveaway- aka the physical proof you'd need to avoid his denial.

"Craig!" You squeal, cheeks burning at the heads that turned to land on you.

"Sorry, sorry, baby," he laughs, the flow of your pet name an easy stream from his lips. "Guess you have no excuse now, hm? C'mon in!"

He waves a hand, once again splashing you. You shiver at the small sprinkles he subjects you to, rubbing your hands up and down your arms.

"Not right now," you shake your head. "I was actually going to go to the kitchen. Do you want anything?" You ask, praying the idea of another beer distracts him from his prodding.

You're lucky you're you, because Craig just gives you a sad smile, eyes darting behind you, just for the briefest moment.

"Nah, I'm good," he replies. "Make sure you drink some water."

You nod, unsure of what exactly he saw to really make him back down. As much as the Cody boys love you, they love teasing you even more.

You're met with your answer, though, when you turn to see the sliding glass door propped open halfway. Pope stands over the threshold, stance wide and intimidating.

His arms cross over his chest like a bouncer, ad you almost feel like asking if you're allowed to go in.

The eye contact you share on the short journey from the edge of the pool to the door is agonizing. You exist in a weird, Pope Cody purgatory for a moment as you near.

The air is thick around you, neither of you taking the leap to speak first. You raise your empty seltzer can, silent permission to do what you so please.

He grants you this access, quite happily, if the gleam in his eye wasn't pure delusion your end. Angling his body to the side, it's just enough room to squeeze through, but not without grazing your bikini-clad chest over his bare one.

It takes everything in you to stay focused on his face, and to not drift down to the plush muscle of his pecs, his abs, illuminated by the late afternoon sun.

Once you're in, it's an immediate bee line to the kitchen, where you crack another seltzer in record speed. You're not really a drinker, and this is officially your third drink before dinner.

You're not drunk drunk, a pleasant buzz humming its way through you. The rapid speed with which you're drinking, however? This could lead to a problem.

Cracking your can, you're eager to let your eyes fall closed as you allow the fizzy drink on your taste buds, into your liver. Before you can reach such peace, though, you spot something in your peripheral. Rather, someone.

You jump, lips jerking from the can in your grasp, little bubbles spilling over the spout. Pope is there. Just standing. You're not sure how long he's been there, if he was looking at the way you'd bent over in your swimsuit to get another drink from the cooler.

"Pope!" You squeal, your fingertips a delicate graze along your bottom lip. You can't help but notice the way he follow the action. "I didn't realize you were in here!"

There were a few other party-goers roaming throughout the house, some moans echoing in a far off room. A pretty typical Saturday for this family.

"Sorry," he deadpans, yet there is a soft gleam in his eye as he takes you in. "Just wanted to make sure you're okay. You're drinking pretty fast, y'know that?"

He settles further in, resting his lower against his back, arms folding over his bare chest. His brows quirk in concern, and you have to tell yourself that it's his brotherly instinct. That even though he sees you now, that you'll never be much more than his little brother's friend.

His stupid, idiotic friend, who forgets every word in the English language the second a shirtless man flexes his biceps in front of her.

"Uhm-I- I'm not," your cheeks are burning, heart pounding in your ears as Pope leans closer.

His hand reaches out, and you're paralyzed in fear. Your breath hitches in your throat as your hands meet, all he for him to pluck the can from your fingers and pour it out in the sink.

"Hey!" You scoff, stomping a petulant foot. "I was drinking that!"

"And now you're not," he replies, matter of fact. He turns to you, walking the short distance from the sink to where you are, tucked into the corner of the counter.

He stops, a breath away from you, and looks you up and down. Your blood hums in your veins at the proximity, the warm air of his breathing enticing enough to write an entire song about it.

His hand climbs up slowly, long, thick fingers grazing over your forearm, your bicep, your shoulder. A shiver unzips your spine at the proximity, and you can't help but reach your own hand up, now hovering over his touch.

He locks in on your jaw, two fingers latching at the bone there, turning your gaze up to meet his. His eyes are piercing, though the wink of hazel peeking through is enough to turn your knees into jelly.

"You'll thank me when you're not up at 3 am, with Deran holding your hair back over the toilet," he murmurs, and then he walks out of the kitchen.

A rush of air flees your lungs, into all this newfound space. Chest heaving with deep, heavy breaths, you snap your head to watch him walk out, sliding the glass door sliding closed before you can say,

"That was just one time!"

He's gone by the time it leaves your lips, your airy defense of your behavior at Baz and Cath's wedding getting stuck in your throat. You were surprised he'd remembered you then- you'd just graduated college, and Craig had convinced you to go hard.

Of course, you both had very different definitions of what that meant.

You opt for a water bottle before sliding out, suddenly eager for the relief of the pool in this aching heat.

Setting your water down on your chaise lounge, you kick your flip flops off, happy to see Deran splashing around with your other surfer friends.

"There she is!!" Craig calls, wolf whistling to punctuate his excitement.

You roll your eyes, taking a tentative step onto the stairs. The cold is shocking at first, and you fight the urge to flip your toes out of the water, to retreat back to your solitude.

You're here now, and Craig isn't the only Cody boy burning a whole through your bikini top.

Pope is, once again, just out of your line of vision, his curls fluffing the edges of your peripheral.

Though you can confirm he's there, you think you'd be able to tell just on feeling alone. The intensity of his stare is enough to burn a hole through you.

You picture it now, his wide eyes making a laser-like icicle in your middle, where it would fall off like a wall in a cartoon movie. It's a pretty good comparison, you think, as Pope Cody has you completely hollow, empty to roam through you as he pleases.

"Stop being a baby!" Deran yells, snapping you out of your thoughts.

You give him a nervous smile, taking another sheepish step.

"God! You're so boring!" He groans, swimming over to offer you a hand.

If you hadn't known Deran your entire life, you'd be wary of accepting the hand of a Cody boy. He leads you down another step, but you don't make it very far until Craig proves your point.

"Come on you two!" He yells, reaching his own hand out to encircle yours, tugging you in before you can react.

A scream falls from your lips as you tumble into the water, the muffled whoops of other party goers echoing above you. You gasp as you breach the surface, smoothing your hair out of your face as you fight the urge to deck Craig in his stupid, smirking face.

He cocks his head to the side, not unlike a dog, a pout jutting out his bottom lip.

"Aww, come on, baby, I'm sorry," he croons, attempting to swim closer to you.

All this does is disrupt the water more, waves now bobbing up to your chin as you float.

"Don't you dare!" You hold a finger up, dodging out of his way as he closes in on you. He jumps at you a moment too late, flopping onto an empty pocket of water.

The damage is still done, though, his now third splash related offense in the past twenty minutes.

You're lucky, as you're now on the other edge of the pool, not too far from where Pope was sitting earlier. He'd be behind you, if he's still there, but you're too scared to check.

"Craig! You better get away from me, you freak!" You yelp as he nears you once again, thoroughly caged in between groups of boys drinking beers to the right, and girls on floats to the left. He's relentless, shaking his voluminous head of hair out, all over you. "Gross! You're like a wet dog!"

This elicits laughter from the parties on either side of you, the boys undoubtedly some of Craig's friends. They clap him on the back in congratulations once they realize what's going on, and the incorrect conclusion they've clearly drawn makes you feel nauseous.

"Don't act like you don't like it!" He teases, though he's dialed it up a few notches, putting on a performance for his bros.

You roll your eyes. This is classic Craig, and the entire reason why, in all your years of knowing this family, you've never fucked him. You attempt to be nonchalant as you freestyle your way to the front of the pool.

As you climb the steps, you're subjected to some more whoops, some more whistles. Your cheeks burn as you desperately attempt to ignore the spotlight you've been thrust under.

You're quick to grab a towel, wrapping it around you and settling into your chair once again. This allows you another glance at Pope, his gaze still on you, now hardened, angry.

The contrast pricks your skin like ice, suddenly very uncomfortable, upset, even, at the possibility of Pope being mad at you. What could you even had done to piss him off this much?

You recount the past 15 minutes in your mind- nothing in your little pool excursion had anything to do with him, so you give up on solving that mystery.

Allowing yourself some reprieve, you dry off in the sun, towel now splayed long behind you, catching the droplets that fall from your hair. You take in the music, a rap song now, one you vaguely recall hearing through your window many a night.

Slipping on your shoes, you pad back into the house. It's emptier now, the early evening sun warding off the extras, the people with little to no connection with the Codys.

You take advantage of this situation, making your way to the kitchen once more. A peek in the cooler proves unfruitful, so you swing open the fridge.

There's a slight arch to your back as you search on the lower shelves, gasping in delight at the sight of your favorite canned cocktail, an entire row of them, in fact.

Popping up from the fridge, you turn to return outside. Except, you can't.

The sight of Pope, just, standing there, in front of the door jolts your nervous system, shaking you from head to toe. Your adrenaline surges, if only for a brief moment, placing a hand on your heart.

"Jesus Christ, Pope!" You gasp, breathing heavy. "You scared me!"

"I'm sorry," he mutters, and your heart churns.

That's what has always gotten you about Pope- his authenticity is bare in the face of his simplicity. It's never rude, it's never fake. It's just Pope.

"I didn't mean to," he continues, and you take a few steps closer. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay, it didn't really seem like you actually wanted to go swimming."

You're a bit shocked at this, but it's a pleasant surprise more than anything. You wouldn't have guessed that's what he was scowling about, still having a bit of a hard time swallowing that pill.

"I'm fine," you smile, feeling an odd ease at his concern. "Thank you, Pope."

His eyes light up just a tad at your words, and your heart flutters.

"You're welcome," he drawls, heat blooming in your cheeks. "How many is that?"

He nods to the drink in your hand, and you glance down, jaw slack for a moment before saying,

"Oh! Three. I haven't had any more until now. Someone brought a whole pack of my favorite, so, I'm gonna have to pay them back," you joke, but he quirks a brow.

"I'm going to be drinking it all night," you explain, your words tugging the corner of his lip. "I have to compensate!"

He chuckles at that, shaking his head and taking a swig of his own beer.

"On me, don't worry about it," he shrugs, and this time, you're not sure what exactly he's implying.

"You mean, you'll pay that person back?" You prompt. He shakes his head.

"Nah, I paid Deran already. Had him get extra when he told me they were your favorite," he says, like it's the most normal thing in the world.

Butterflies ricochet around your tummy, fluttery and excited and brutal and sharp.

"You got my favorite drink?" You clarify, needing that last bit of validation.

"Well, technically, Deran did," he says, and you're not sure if he can tell what the look in your eye is desperate to say. "But it was my idea, yeah. I was happy when he told me you agreed to come."

Your heart positively drops at this, your eyes going wide. Heat blooms deep in your belly, unsure what to do with all this attention.

"You were?" You choke out, absolutely dumbfounded.

"I was," he replies with ease. "Is that okay?"

His eyes are also wide as he asks this, and it's a Pope you've never seen before— vulnerable and soft, if only for a moment.

You can't help the urge to meet all of his Popes, every version of him. Even the ones that scare you.

"Ye-yeah," you stutter, cheeks on fire. "I just wasn't expecting it, I guess."

"I've been known to be full of surprises,"he deadpans, and you can't help the laugh bursting from your chest.

This gets him, too, his own chest shaking, cheeks bunched in a sweet, small smile.

"Thanks, Pope," you say one last time before finally making your way past him. You look back before you open the door, placing a delicate hand on his bicep. "I appreciate you."

With a quick squeeze, you turn, and walk out the door.

One hour and quite a few drinks later, you're a perfect tipsy, perched on your same chair. You smile, pleasantly enjoying the sloppy, makeshift dance floor a group of girls formed earlier in the night.

One of them had taken over the aux, and soon enough, echoes of Megan Thee Stallion and Sabrina Carpenter flooded the backyard. Craig wants to sleep with, virtually, all of them, so he lets it happen. He lets it happen with a shit eating smile on his face, too.

"Hey," a voice comes in from your left.

You glance over your shoulder, happy to see Deran approach. Slinging an arm over your shoulder, he asks,

"You gonna get out there? I think there's a certain someone who'd happily join you," he asks, giving you a small nudge.

"Ew," you scoff, "I'm not dancing with Craig. Nice try, though."

He chuckles, but nods his head.

"No, bug," he says. "Pope."

You whip your head to face him, eyes bugging out of your head.

"Are you kidding?" You ask. He shakes his head no.

"I'm not dancing with Pope," you whisper-yell, and Deran looks at you as if you're deranged.

"He's been looking at you all day! He's been asking if you were coming all week! He made me get those fuckin' fruity drinks you like…" he trails off, and you can't help but sink your teeth into your bottom lip.

"He was asking about me?" You ask, and Deran's head falls back.

"God!" He groans. "This is so gross, you don't even know," you giggle, and he continues with a reluctant smile. "But, yeah. He was so excited to see you."

"Good to know," you muse, returning your attention to the dance floor. A truly underrated way to people watch, you think.

"So…" he prompts, and you raise a brow. "Are you gonna get up there?" He points, and you shake your head once again.

"Still no, sorry, bub," you smile at his annoyed expression.

"Come on!" He eggs. "I'll go queue up your favorite song!"

"I didn't realize you cared this much," you tease.

He rolls his eyes, pressing his lips together.

"I don't," he barks, and you give him a look. "Fine, I do. But only because Pope won't shut the fuck up about you, and it's getting to be embarrassing, almost."

You light up from the inside out, sitting up a bit straighter.

"Really?" You coo, and he backs away from you, holding a finger out in front of him.

"Okay," he resigns, "you're making me do this. Don't say you didn't make me."

"Do what?" You shout after him, but he's gone.

You smile as you watch your friend maneuver the crowd, very natural in such a social element. You're a bit envious, as you'd never been one to take to this so easily. It's not that you can't, but it's the ease with which Deran's able to woo that you long for.

Maybe if you were, you might actually have a boyfriend here with you, instead of longing for the same man since high school. You afford yourself the smallest glance, and the sight of him is like propane to your heart's open flame.

He's still looking at you, nothing different now except that Craig's joined him, happily taking in the large group of bikini-clad girls dance in his yard.

You can't help but let the eye contact wash over you, consuming you like a warm balm, slow and melting and soft, nothing like almost disciplinary look in his eye.

God, are you fucked up?

The thought sparks a flicker of shame, and you dart your gaze back to Deran, very familiar, poppy chords reverberating through the backyard.

Your eyes are wide, and he beckons you up there. You're not sure if it's the alcohol, or the day in the sun, or just, Pope, but you go.

You're on your feet, light, flowy steps over to Deran, eager to cling to him in this strange environment.

He holds his hand out, helps you find comfort and rhythm in your favorite song. You have to admit, it helps, and soon you're loose, not entirely sure where Deran is, but you know he's near.

Spinning through the dance floor, you feel the last little bits of your insecurity fly away. Your body sways to the beat, natural and effortless.

You feel the stares from the party goers, and it's scary at first, different. Though your vision is a bit hazy, you can spot the heads swiveled in your direction.

It's mostly guys, and you're not too worried about that. Of course they're looking, you're a girl dancing drunk in a bikini. It's not terribly unexpected.

What is, though, is the large figure that settles in behind you. You fight the urge for panic to take over, body rigid until you recognize the hand gripping your hip.

"Pope!" You breathe, relaxing into him upon realization. "You can't keep scaring me like this!" You tease, and if you're not mistaken, there's a small hint of a blush on his cheeks.

"Sorry, baby," he mutters into your neck, swaying with you. "Is this okay?"

You nod, and he pinches your bare hip.

"Words," he demands, and it's embarrassing how fast you obey.

"Yes," you breathe. "It's okay."

He takes this as permission, your word to feel more of you, fingers trailing from the small strings of your bathing suit to the bare skin of your hips, your thighs, your ass.

He's a torch to your flame, his hands sensual and sweet all at the same time. The sway of his hips against yours makes you dizzy, your head falling back on his shoulder.

Your arm comes up to cup his jaw, fondling the sharp bone as he leans down, peppering kisses all along your neck. It's slow, sloppy, almost, his lips wide and wet and wanting.

"Pope-" you choke out, and a growl cuts you off.

Heat pools in your lower belly as something hard pokes against your ass, your own slick coating your bikini bottoms.

"Too many guys were looking at you, baby," he mutters in your ear. "Couldn't stand it. Was the most horrible thing I've had to see all night. Worse than when Craig caged you in the pool. Wanted to fucking kill him."

His words are breathy, your own catching in your throat.

"Pope-" you whisper, squeezing your legs together in a sad attempt to quell the rising heat.

"I know, honey," he whispers, pressing a sweet kiss to your cheek. "Let's do this for a little longer, hm? Listen to the rest of your song and then I'll fuck you. Don't worry, baby, just let go. Have fun."

A strangled moan wrestles from your chest at his words, and you listen. You obey, because what else would you be doing for Pope Cody?

The rest of the song truly could have been a master class in sexual tension, grinding and touching and just barely kissing. It was damn near pornographic, and by the time the final beat played out, you were jelly.

There's no words as he escorts you into the house, his body bracketing yours the entire journey to his room. The quiet settles over you, then, as does the seriousness of what you're about to do.

"Hey," he says, getting you to look at him. "Are you super drunk?" He asks, and you shake your head no. He raises a brow, and you justify.

"I'm a little tipsy, but it's nothing crazy. I can say the alphabet backwards, if you'd like," you smile, and this gets his own going.

"Maybe another time, baby," he sits down on the bed, patting his knee for you to sit. "You sure you wanna do this?" His voice is low, smooth.

"Yes," you mutter, pressing your forehead against his. "Want this so bad, Popey."

He squeezes his eyes shut, a groan escaping through gritted teeth.

"Fuck, you can't call me that, baby," he laughs despite himself.

You smile, your arms looping around his shoulders. He seizes the opportunity to rest his own hands on your waist, thumb running over the skin there.

"Any time you want to stop, you tell me, got it?" He asks, and you nod.

"Words," he orders, again. You obey, again.

"Got it," you smile, leaning in to kiss him.

The feeling of his lips on yours is indescribable, sweet and sultry and sloppy. His lips immediately slot open, his tongue darting into your mouth to explore as much of you as he can.

"Taste so good baby," he mutters, and you turn your body to straddle him.

He pulls back, letting you work, very clearly enjoying the show you've put on in his lap.

"So fucking pretty…"he trails off, hands once again resting on your waist.

"You too, Popey," you murmur, and you feel him twitch in his swim shorts.

"Dammit," he exhales, pressing his forehead to your tummy. "Do I need to prep you, baby? Or can I just fuck you?" He asks, and you're a bit taken aback,

"You ca-"

"Don't fuckin' lie to me," it's a quiet demand, though his grip on your jaw was anything but. "You gonna fuckin' lie to me or do I need to stretch your pussy out?"

"Just fuck me," you manage through squished cheeks and a big pout. He brings your lips to his, a sloppy desperate kiss before he flips you. "I need you, Popey, needed you all day. Needed you since you got home from prison."

This got him, an eager tug at your top exposing your tits. He groans at this, a wet, desperate, 'fuck', pressing his head into the valley between them.

"Please, Pope," you whisper, grinding your hips up into him. "These, too, gotta feel how wet you got me out there."

He's nearly in tears as he uses both hands to reveal your pussy to him. You're pretty sure a tear actually falls at this sight, a soft laugh shaking your chest as he presses slow, sensual kissers there.

"You're so fucking beautiful, fuck!" He exclaims, desperate and whiny, almost.

You're leaking— from his special attention, to his drinks, to his dancing, to this. Pope Cody just feels that fucking good.

While he has his moment, you tug at the waistband of his swimsuit, tugging the rest of the way after he gives you the ok.

Cock springing free, your jaw goes slack. It's…big. The red, angry tip curves upward, nearly hitting his belly button. A sweet hand reaches down to touch it, and he jerks at the contact.

"Y'sure I don't need to stretch you, baby?" He whispers, and you scoff.

"I want your fingers even less, now, actually," you remark, and are rewarded with a little bead of pre-cum.

You rub your thumb over the slit, collecting the clear liquid and bringing it to your lips. You close your eyes, sighing around your digit.

"So yummy, Popey," you cradle his face in your hands as you tell him. "Can't wait to taste it next time."

He absolutely crumbles at this, repeating it as a mantra to himself as he lines up his cock with your entrance.

"Next time, next time, next time, next ti- FUCK!" He shouts, cutting himself off as his tip breaches your entrance.

Your own jaw goes slack at the intrusion, head falling back onto the pillow. He adds another inch, and you shiver, a stark contrast to the fire brewing deep in your belly.

He licks his lips as he gazes down at you. He gives you one more inch.

"Pope!" You squeal, gripping his bicep and kicking your legs.

"Almost there, baby, you got it," he coos, smoothing your hair back with his big palm.

"That's not all?!" You wail, wide eyed and shaky.

He has the audacity to laugh at this, and you let out a long whine.

"Stop bein' a brat," he quips, adding another inch. "Told you to not fuckin' lie to me."

You whine, tears pricking the back of your lids at your earlier decision. Pouting your lip, you give him wide eyes. It's these that earn you his entire length, sinking into you the second he sees them.

"Oh, baby," he coos. "Don't cry, don't wanna cum yet."

You whine, clenching around him at his words. He stays there for a moment, forehead pressed against your shoulder while you both catch your breath.

"Pope," you whisper. "Move, please."

He listens, giving his hips a short rock back and forth, back and forth.

Each thrust punches a cute squeak from you, a sound that soon gets him addicted. He grips your hips, pulling them up to meet his as his thrusts grow longer, deeper.

He's throbbing inside you, his own breath shaky with each pulse. You dig your nails into his shoulders, reveling in the hiss as you bring your lips to ghost over his ear.

"You can go harder, Popey," you suggest, nipping the shell of his ear. "Not gonna break, y'know."

He lets out a near feral groan at this, pulling all the way out and teasing you with his tip, all to slide it back in with a brutal force.

He repeats this, then again, then again, until he's built a rhythm that has you shaking, whining for more.

And you do. You whine, you thrash, you clutch his biceps. He loves that, you've found, it's a sweet spot for him.

"Just like that, Pope, 's perfect," you whisper, raking your nails through his hair.

A strangled moan escapes him, and he manages to go even faster, even deeper at your words.

"Am I doing good?" He asks, face buried in your neck.

You continue to dance your fingers along his scalp, eager to provide some desperately needed comfort.

"So good, honey," you tell him, bringing his face to yours. "You're so good, making me feel incredible."

"Fuck-" he grunts, balls slapping your ass in quick, wet plaps. "I'm gonna cum, honey," he says, shoving his hand between you to find your clit. "Say you're there with me, yeah?"

The over-stimulation is instant, your eyes rolling in the back of your head at the feeling.

You nod, at a loss for words. You know who you're dealing with, though, and you scramble to find them anyway.

"Yeeess…" you trail off, jaw slack with the pleasure. "Fuck yes, keep doing that and you're gonna make me cum, Pope."

Your tongue lolls out of your mouth, eagerly chasing his mouth in a sloppy kiss as you both chase your release.

"All for me, baby?" He asks, desperate and sweet. "You're gonna cum for me?"

You grip his cheeks at this, forcing him to look at you for what feels like the hundredth time today.

"All for you, Andrew," you say, and he just, breaks.

The groan that wrangles itself from his chest is almost angry, violent as he twitches inside you, spurring your own release around him.

It's intense, a blinding, white hot light that bursts all around you. Back arching off the bed, you moan as your core squeezes, retaining all the pleasure for you before releasing. Small waves still ripple over you, shaky and sweet.

His gasps are raspy as you work each other out, his thumb not slowing until you fall limp on his bed, hand tapping his out of the way.

He collapses on top of you, desperate breaths wracking through him as you both come down. He can't stop pressing kisses over your body, small, quiet, 'thank you's echoing against your skin.

"Don't have to thank me, baby," you reassure him, scratching his scalp once again. This causes him to jerk his hips inside you, eliciting more moans from the pair of you. "Just have to let me do that again."

He lifts his head up, finally, a large smile on his face. He leans down, and plants a kiss on you. A real one, this time. Not a lustful kiss, not a 'get-me-to-orgasm' kiss, but a real kiss. You could kiss him for a lifetime.

“Not possible.” Andrew’s been trying his hand at being more playful recently. “He likes the customer service here.”

“He does or you do?”

“Same thing.” 

“You know it’s not.”

He shrugs, mouth pulled into his version of a full smile. 

When you hand him the order in two full paper bags, he makes sure to take them from you in such a way that your fingers could almost tangle. The sun is almost done setting, the last warm light of the day touching everything gently.

“I’ll come back to pick you up?” It’s not a question coming from him, it’s a statement. 

You look from him to the bags he’s now holding.

“Not if you’re about to have dinner.”

“I will have dinner. With you.” 

“You’re allowed to be busy, you know.”

“I know.” He starts towards the door. “I’ll come back.”

There’s nothing for you to do but finish your shift and think about Andrew some more. 

X

The first time Andrew drove you home it was spring and the ground was soaked. It had been raining on and off all that day, a cool wind coming off of the water. You were huddled outside the shop under its awning when his truck pulled in. You gave him a sheepish smile when he came around. His eyes were doing that thing that used to make you feel like you were in trouble.

“My ride bailed. I’m just waiting for the rain to stop.” You told him. 

He looked at you then, your hands deep in your pockets, the hood of your sweater already wet, and he handed you his keys, no questions.

“Get in.” 

You blinked at him. He nudged you towards his truck, his big hand overly gentle where it touched you.

“I’ll be right back.” He promised.

So you got in his truck and he got Craig’s sandwiches and he came back, turning up the heat as soon as the truck was started. You didn’t say much but neither did he. He parked in front of your building after a short drive and you both sat there in silence until you felt brave. 

You asked him about his day and his answer was stilted and terse. He wanted to ask about your week but he wasn’t sure how. You asked him how long he’d been living in Oceanside and he said his whole life. He asked you if you liked cats and you looked down at the hello kitty charm on your bag and laughed. It was nice. Really nice. 

He drives you home most nights as long as he’s around, and he always tries to be around. He feeds you now, too. You asked him one time if he minded picking something up on the way to your place, told him you would pay and that he could come in for a movie if he wanted. Now he moves like that’s always the plan; buying you something you’re craving and sitting by you until you get tired. He doesn’t deviate, wouldn’t give up this routine for anything.

It’s such a strange pleasure watching you eat. He stared that first time, he knows it, and he still stares now. The way your mouth moves, the way you hold your hands when they’re messy, the way your posture loosens by degrees as you get full. Knowing you’re comfortable and cared for and worry free while you’re with him gives him a sense of satisfaction that is mostly wholesome and only a little perverse. You get so sleepy some nights, eyes blinking closed, breathing slowing beside him. So vulnerable to all possible danger, Pope Cody included. He’d never hurt you. He’d never dream of touching your pretty throat or soft stomach to be violent. You could ask him for anything and he would say yes. 

X

“Shit, Deran, man, can you go pick up my order?” Craig looks at the clock after coming up from another line.

Deran doesn’t look up from his phone.

“I’ll go.” Andrew says, finishing his last visual sweep of the kitchen.

He had been thinking of you then, while his brothers were fucking around and he was wiping down the counters. He thinks about you more than he should. He thinks a lot of things and gets away with most of them, nobody usually asks how he is or where he’s been or what he’s been up to. Unless he’s working a job, he has a kind of freedom that comes from being forgotten.

He’s been trying to build a life away from Smurf. Away from this house and this work and this looming feeling of inevitable disaster. He has his own place now, something that’s his alone. He reads books and buys candles and watches the ocean at night. He sees you.

Craig sniffs roughly, eyes narrowing at Andrew. Something’s been different, he’s noticed.

“You hate running my errands.”

“I want some air.”

“Then go out back.”

“Smells like pot.”

“That’s never bothered you before.”

“It’s always bothered me.”

“What’s with you, man.” 

Andrew’s steady eyes meet Craig’s blown ones. Andrew says nothing. Craig’s mouth firms then splits into a shit-eating grin.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for shop girl.”

“Do you want your sandwiches or not.”

“You totally do! Deran,” Craig kicks half blindly with his foot. “Pope has a total crush on my sandwich girl.”

“Whatever, man.” Deran does not care.

“You have to bring her by the bar sometime, man. Let us get a good look at her.”

Andrew decides he’s finished with this conversation. 

“Come on, Pope. I mean it, let’s meet your girlfriend.” Craig calls after him, laughing. 

Andrew can’t tell if Craig is laughing at the idea of him having a girlfriend because Craig thinks he’s unloveable or incapable of love. Andrew hasn’t managed to disprove either account yet. 

On his way to you he thinks about what might happen if you met his family. Not Smurf, absolutely not Smurf, but maybe Deran, maybe Craig. It’s what normal people do, isn’t it? He decides against it for the near future. Not yet, he thinks, meaning maybe not ever.

X

“Should we start cooking?” You ask, your order of Thai food on your lap.

Andrew catches the we and tucks it away somewhere in his chest. He considers your question.

“Do you want to?”

“Usually no.” You think about it. “But I saw a recipe I think would be really nice. And plus your kitchen is to die for.”

You like Andrew’s apartment for how fancy it is. He knows you must notice how bare it is, the minimal comforts and decorations. But things he doesn’t think twice about are novel to you: the flatscreen in his bedroom, the nice espresso machine in his kitchen, the beach access out the back door. And you don’t mind the minimalism, you really don’t. You know what Andrew is like and his apartment just makes sense. It’s a continuation of the reserved efficiency he operates with.

He’s still not used to another body in his space. He likes that it’s yours though. He likes the control having you in his apartment gives him. Having you so near, so visible and readable, it allows him to be able to enforce a certain kind of order. When something is wrong he can see it, he can hear it, and he can fix it. You’re hungry? He’ll make sure you eat something. You’re cold? He’ll turn down the A/C. You want something? It’s yours and he’ll get it to you the moment you ask. He understands that you have a life to live. A job and an apartment and friends that you love. But he can’t help the way he wants for you when you’re not within reach. 

If he could be with you always, he thinks that’s something he would want. It’s not currently possible on his end either, he has jobs to plan and a family to wrangle and “properties” to “manage”. He keeps all of that away from you, and will continue to do so until the end of time if he gets his way. If he has his way you’ll never know, you’ll never get hurt, you’ll never be in danger. It’s not quite a pipe dream but it’s a beautiful thought, one he’ll cling to for as long as possible.

You lick sauce from the side of your thumb before wiping your hands off on a napkin. Andrew knows he’s staring again. 

“We can start cooking if you want to.”

You seem pleased by this.

The night moves quietly, waves crashing somewhere out of sight, the stars rotating above you. There’s a solace in having you under his roof. He thinks this as he tidies your leftovers and refills your water.

You’re meant to be picking a movie but you’re not flipping through anything when Andrew returns to your side. You hold the remote lightly in your hand, head tilting towards him.

“Andrew,” You start.

You look almost shy. You’ve been on best behaviour in the two times you’ve been over to his apartment, no snooping or wandering whatsoever. You’re careful with him, he knows this. But he can recognize that it doesn’t come from a place of fear. You approach him the same way he would approach a stray; soft touch and gentle tones, waiting instead of advancing.

“Would it be okay if we watched the TV in your bedroom?”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Not like that!” Your skin starts to flush. “It’s just that I never had one in my bedroom. When I was a kid I always used to dream about, like, watching movies in a pillow fort.”

“We’re building a fort now, too?”

“No! No, I just–” You look sideways.

“I’m kidding.” He says mercifully. “We can do anything you want.”

You pause, sheepish.

“Even the fort?”

“Even that.”

He looks at you, all sweet and shy, and he thinks he could eat you whole.

“No fort today, but could I maybe borrow something comfortable?”

“Of course.”

He lets you get changed while he pretends to wash dishes he’s already cleaned. He breathes over the sink, focusing on the sound of running water instead of the sounds you’re making in his bedroom. Feet on wood, fabric on fabric. You come back out to find him and ask Andrew if he’s going to change, too. He wasn’t, but you’re asking like you want him to so he will. 

And then you’re on top of his covers and he’s on top of his covers and for the first time in his life a California King feels too big. He lets you mess with his pillows, all eight of them, creating some sort of semi-structured pile against his headboard. He leans against them, trying to look relaxed. You make a quick decision about what you’d like to watch and then you’re leaning back too, shifting and sinking into the space you made. 

“Good?” He asks across the measly inches between you.

“Yeah.” You hum like you’re happy.

He can’t look at you for very long, not without his heart rate spiking or his dick hardening when he doesn’t mean it to. So he watches your movie and tries not to notice when you give up on subtlety, settling yourself gently against his side. Arm to arm, your head on his shoulder.

“Is this okay?” You ask, your hands pressing together in your lap.

His head comes down to rest against yours, vision tilted at an angle that makes watching the television a little unpleasant.

“Of course.” He says, closing his eyes because he knows you can’t see him.

Your hands loosen. His shoulders drop. He tries not to imagine more of you in his clothes, in his bed, in his kitchen. He fails.

X

Andrew has spent his morning and most of his afternoon pouring over maps and blueprints, planning and checking and marking. A convenient opportunity fell into Smurf’s lap so there’s a job on the horizon. Not the biggest they’ve ever pulled but not a small one by any means. There’s a lot to do. Casing and timing and talking and arranging. If Andrew were to ever find above board employment, he thinks he would do well in logistics.

He and his brothers move around each other, around Smurf, as they each take care of their given responsibilities. Andrew is as present and careful as he always is. He knows Smurf hovers more intensely the closer to a job they get. 

He doesn’t call you until he’s back at his place. He doesn’t leave meetings early to pick you up. He wants to, god he’d love to, but this was a small sacrifice in the name of your safety. 

He doesn’t lay claim to much, but that which he claims as his own is kept as far away from this life as possible. Smurf does not come to his house. He does not tell his brothers about his favourite places to eat. He leaves the phone Smurf gave him at home when he’s with you. He hoards his scraps of freedom with a kind of desperation.

He goes over the timeline for the new job in his head as he drives home, slotting events and goalposts into their appropriate dates. The calendar in his head already has your schedule on it, when you work and the plans you tell him about. Things like your friend’s birthday and the opening day of a movie you said you want to go see. It’s only ever one or the other; either he’s working or he’s seeing you. He wishes for something different, for a life less fragmented. He would let you and everything you are consume him if he thought it were feasible. 

When he gets home and checks his personal phone, there’s a text from you waiting for him. It hasn’t been too long since you sent it. He doesn’t like keeping you waiting, not for anything.

are you free on thursday?

He’s not but he’ll fix that. He’d pick you every time if he could. For now, he’ll make every concession he’s able.

X

Andrew had never been to a farmer’s market before. It’s like a mini street fair. The market in Oceanside happens on Thursday mornings, in a parking lot close to the Surf Museum. The sun is already warm across his shoulders as he walks with you into the morning crowd.

You’re looking at garden flowers and he’s trailing behind you. You pick up a small nursery pot and hold it towards him after you’ve already taken a sniff. He does as you did, the smell of petals and greens cutting through the smell of grill smoke in the air. He smiles because you’re smiling. You keep looking, he keeps following. 

There are a lot of people here. Not so many that he’s worried but enough that it takes a moment before the woman at a fruit stall can help you. She overturns a punnet of nectarines into a bag before handing it back to you. He hands her a few bills before you can even get your wallet out. 

“I have my own money.” You tell him as you step to the side, tucking the fruit into the tote on your shoulder.

“Exactly. Keep it.” He says, reaching for the bag straps before they’re settled.

“Let me carry my own produce at least.” You turn away from his reach and he almost laughs at how indignant you are.

“Come on,” He coaxes. “That’s my job.”

He still hasn’t called himself your boyfriend. Hasn’t asked for the pleasure. But he’s yours and he wants to show you every chance he gets. 

“You’re going to make me feel useless. You can hold my hand, final offer.”

He takes it with a smile. 

He’s noticed that you like when he touches you. You sat very still when he removed an eyelash from your cheek a few days ago, you lean towards him when he puts a hand on your back or your arm, your face lights up whenever he sits himself right beside you. When he reaches for you, you move to meet him halfway. He doesn’t think you know you’re doing it. 

Walking beside him you look pleased. He feels exceedingly normal. It’s nice to spend time with someone and feel like he can breathe.

Craig has been riding him harder than usual, being mean just to be mean. It’s not personal, despite the way it feels. Andrew has just always been available to absorb hits like that from his family. He doesn’t like it but he does it. 

Deran has been kinder though, balancing Craig in the way they all seem to balance each other. Scales tipped equally, his siblings’ temperaments mirrored graphs of each other's. There’s something mundane about it if he ignores the crime and the drugs of it all. 

Deran’s having a theme night at his bar this week, told his brothers to bring friends. Andrew thought of you, because who else was he going to think of. Deran does vulnerability best out of all of them, so Andrew wasn’t surprised when he later said that he’d like to meet you, said he was happy to see Andrew doing things away from Smurf.

He’s been weighing it. The idea of bringing you to the bar. He buys you a lemonade and thinks about what it would be like to buy you a cocktail, to watch your skin flush after a few of them. Standing in the shade cast by a tent off to the side of the lot, he watches as you survey the vendors you haven’t visited yet. He bets you’ll want to look at the honey and bread just down the way.

He tries his luck.

“My brothers want to meet you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pauses.

“Well, do you want me to meet them?”

He doesn’t have an answer right away. His head turns to watch a parent pull their child in a wagon filled with carrots and ginger.

“My family is not…nice.” He tries. “We aren’t traditional.”

“Andrew, I know who the Codys are.”

Of course you do, you’re far from stupid and Craig has been a regular at your shop for a long time. He dips his head once in a nod. 

“I still had to say it.”

What Andrew doesn’t know is what you might have heard about him, about Pope Cody specifically. He doesn’t ask. He won’t, or maybe he can’t.

“There’s a lot I haven’t told you.” He avoids your eyes. “I don’t know if I like who I am around them.”

You sit with this together.

“What about when you’re around me?”

“Everything makes sense when I’m around you.” This answer comes to him quickly. It’s the truth at the bottom of the matter. “I can be different.”

There’s a clarity in his eyes when they meet yours again. A kind of acceptance or resignation, or something similar. If you could carry things for him, you would. His anger, his pain. You can’t, not yet, so you insist on holding your own bags for now. You refuse to give him anything that would make him feel any heavier.

“Andrew,” Your hand reaches for the side of his face. “I want what you want. If you want me to meet them, I will. If you don’t, then I won’t, and that’s the end of it.”

He nods, jaw pressing further into your hand. The obvious earnestness of your expression almost hurts to look at. 

“Can I kiss you?” You ask.

Your question is the final nail in the coffin. He was already in it, his heart already beating raw and tender in your hands. But he falls then. Not into love, but into something that could be one day.

“Please.” He says, because he wants that so much.

Your mouth meets his in a gentle press and he goes very still, head tilted to allow you to do as you please. The kiss is short-lived, a soft thing that ends too soon for his liking. But there will be more, he thinks. He hopes. He draws you against him and he melts, his arms clasping around you like a shell around a pearl.

X

Everything is fine until it isn’t. That’s how it always goes. 

Tonight has been good, Andrew thinks. He has qualms with Deran, with the way he runs his bar, with bringing you here, with most things really. But he was trying to be good, Trying to give you every part of himself even if he found them hard to look at. This was something safe, he reasoned. The bar wasn’t Smurf’s house and it wasn’t something Smurf owned. It was a public place with decent drinks and somewhere you wouldn’t end up alone with his brothers. He thought it would only be Deran tonight, but Craig does what he wants and goes where he wants without telling anyone. That was fine. It was still manageable. For one night he could try to be a normal guy bringing his normal date to meet his normal family. A very controlled dose of the Codys.

Deran had greeted you using his manners, asking a few questions before being called away to take another order. He found Andrew’s eyes later and gave him a nod, a quiet approval. Craig was himself, loud and a little sleazy, but he still made an attempt to connect with you.

You look beautiful. You always do. Tonight there’s glitter on your cheeks, on your eyelids, stuck to the silk soft skin under your eyes, too. He doesn’t know the first thing about makeup or how it’s supposed to look but he’s dead certain you’re always doing it the right way.

You drift towards him and away from him, finding a coworker or a familiar face in the crowd, but always returning back to his side. He doesn’t have a name for how it feels to know he’s a place you want to come back to. His back straightens every time you leave his arm’s reach. He’s brooding, he knows he is. He knows his brothers are watching his posture, his temperament. He can’t feign casualty on a regular day, much less when you’re around. He sits, tense on his bar stool, eyes tracking your movements, the way you smile, the way you laugh. How long you let people touch you for, how long you look into someone’s eyes.

Craig barks loudly into his ear and he doesn’t flinch, just tilts away from the noise. Craig keeps barking until he gets a reaction.

“What.” Andrew’s affect is flat.

“You make a great guard dog, man. She collar you in the bedroom?”

Andrew doesn’t react. He knows how it will go if he does. Craig cackles anyways.

“Lighten up,” Craig chides, clapping a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Tell her if she wants a hit she knows where to find me.”

Something ugly flares inside of Andrew. A kind of dry heat flashing in his stomach. Craig should know better than to try giving you anything, and he does. Andrew had already made the mistake of trying to assert a boundary, trying to enforce distance between you and his brothers.

“What, Pope’s girl is too much of a perfect angel for a line?” 

“She’s not like you, Craig.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not like you either.”

Andrew tries, every day, to not let his family get under his skin. It’s hard when they know exactly where the gaps in his armour are.

You’re back before he realizes, smiling up at him with those eyes of yours. 

Everything is fine. Until it isn’t.

There’s a subtle shift in the room, something that few people can notice. Andrew always notices. He knows when things are headed south long before they start turning that way. Voices get louder, chairs start scraping against the floor. No-one is yelling yet, and there’s still more laughter in the air than anything else. But something sours all the same and Andrew figures he has five minutes or less to remove you before things start escalating.

“Do you want to get some air?” He asks, trying his hand at the beguiling way you speak to him sometimes. Both hands find your waist in a moment of bravery.

“I’d love some air, will you let me bum a smoke?” You lean towards him like you’re melting, movements slowed after a day in the heat and a few drinks.

He sighs and gives you a look but doesn’t say no.

“Yesss,” your voice is soft around the edges, warm and tipsy. You make a small victorious gesture and your nose squishes up with a smile. He thinks you’re fucking adorable. “I’m just gonna get another drink first, take a shot with me?”

“Can we do it after, honey?” He winces, knowing he’s laying it on way too thick but you don’t seem to notice.

“Please?” You reach for his biceps with both hands, giving them a small squeeze. He would fold under any other circumstance.

“Let’s get some air, okay?” 

You pout but nod your consent and Andrew scans the room once more.

It’s too late. Three men are standing near the front now, staring each other down, surrounded by a few others posturing. Several hands are inching towards inner pockets and waistbands.

God-fucking-damnit. This was the last thing he wanted from tonight. He wanted one thing, just one singular night to play boyfriend-girlfriend, to experience the normal milestone of meeting the family. But now there are guns in the same room as you and there will be violence soon and Andrew can’t help but to feel doomed, chained to an ever-sinking ship. He should know better. He should fucking know better.

“Come on,” He murmurs, taking you by the wrist and leading you around the bar. You stumble after him, confusion creeping over you.

“Andrew, wait.” His name comes out a little breathless, followed by a giggle that should not make his heart stutter as hard as it does. 

“Slow down, Andrew, please.” There it is again, his name in your mouth. “You know I’m wearing stupid shoes today.”

He does. He knows this. You’d called them stupid earlier when he picked you up but he hadn’t thought so. He liked the heel, the curve of your feet in them. He forces his shoulders to relax, his grip on your wrist to loosen.

“Just trust me– please. We need to go.” His voice is low and steady. 

To your credit, your expression sobers some immediately, nodding as his eyes hold yours. You slip your fingers down to fit between his. He turns to keep pulling you behind him as soon as he feels your hand is settled in his. He leads you into the kitchen, through the back and helps you up into his truck. He hears the first gunshot as he closes your door. Understanding dawns on you as you buckle in.

He wheels the car backwards out of his parking spot and takes off, riding the curb as he pulls away from it. You clear the first few stoplights in silence.

“Are your brothers going to be mad?”

“What?” 

Your question almost startles him. Both of his hands hold the steering wheel with exactitude, his jaw tight as he stares down the road ahead of him like it might open beneath you.

“Will they be mad that you left?”

“I don’t care.” He’s clipped.

You’re not sure what to say to that.

The drive is otherwise silent. You climb the stairs to your apartment together and you turn to talk to him outside your door.

“Inside.” He directs you before you can speak.

So you unlock your door and step inside, Andrew following. You slip off your shoes and turn to face him in the tight space of your entryway. His hands hang at his sides, awkward and unsure. You look a little tired, he thinks, but you don’t look afraid.

“You won’t be in trouble?”

You’re still worrying about him even though you shouldn’t. There’s no need, and he’s not sure he deserves it. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He says. “You are more important than whatever mess my brothers are in. Than whatever messes I get dragged into. I will always take care of you first, got it?”

You nod, eyes wide in the low light.

“I’m going to go now, I have to fix it. Lock your door.”

He stands for a moment, a breath between you. Selfishly, you wish he didn’t have to go. Selfishly you wish you could keep him, absolve him of everything he holds on to and carries like a cross.

His hand smooths your hair back and he kisses your temple before he’s gone. 

He texts you after you’ve fallen asleep to let you know he’s safe. You don’t hear from him again for a few days.

X

In the week that follows, Andrew is quiet on the communication front. It’s not unusual for him to be busy, taking a few days further away from you when he’s working. There’s no job this week, though. There won’t be for at least another two, the shooting the other night having delayed the timeline. He doesn’t know what to say to you. He doesn’t know if he’s still allowed to take up space in your periphery, in your mind, in your phone. He feels guilty. Entirely at fault for something he doesn’t know how to articulate yet. Something he knows has barely started to pan out.

You should never have been at the bar the other night, he sees that now. It was a mistake to bring you up against the border of his life. He’d been good before then. He’d held anything that could hurt you behind a very thick line, never allowing anything to spill or ooze or explode beyond it.

It was optimism, maybe. A delusion. An impossible dream that you might be able to meet his family and walk away untouched. You hadn’t even met Smurf that night but now she knows about you. She’s always been aware, omniscient in her way, but now her sights are on you properly. The risks were undertaken and for what? Certainly not for any apparent reward. 

You call him on a Thursday in the afternoon. Andrew knows he’s going to pick up but he makes himself wait. Makes himself count out the first ring, the second, the seventh. You don’t sound different. You don’t sound like you’ve decided the fabric of your relationship with Andrew has been torn asunder. You sound normal. Happy, even, to be talking to him. 

“Take me on a drive?”

There was no world in which he would have ever said no. 

You don’t tell him there’s somewhere you want to go, only that you want him to pick you up tomorrow morning. After your call he looks up “where to take a girl on a drive reddit”. He spends a few hours on his phone, looking at google maps and trip advisor. He wants to take you somewhere you’ll like, obviously somewhere half local and quiet. By the end of the night he’s looked at all the public parks, beaches and lookout points in a six hour radius. He doesn’t need to take you that far, but he needs to know what to do if you ask him to go for food or find another market. He makes a shortlist in his mind, picking four places that were pretty enough for you to take pictures, had enough flat ground for you to spread your blanket on, were close enough to the kind of cafes he knows you like, and that were accessible by backroads so that you could take the scenic route. 

He’ll have to play it by ear, perform spontaneity well. He wants you to feel like you stumbled upon a hidden gem together. He wants to spin gold for you, make something out of the very little he feels he has to offer you.

In the morning your eyes are tired. You let him in while you finish gathering your things for the day. The early air blows cool through the windows of his truck, lifting the loose neck of your dress, fluttering through the curls against his forehead. The roads are quiet, the two of you cutting across country and open spaces.

Andrew doesn’t love being at the beach. It’s sandy, it can be windy, it can be loud, there could be seaweed. He likes looking at the waves, usually from the rocks or the pier, but he’s never really made an afternoon of it. Not until you anyway. You make more of a fuss out of going to the beach than Andrew ever has. It makes him feel almost pampered. You have a big blanket to spread half in the shade and half in the sun, you pack a tote bag full of water and cut fruit and crackers, and you always bring him an extra book, just in case he wants something to read. He doesn’t think you would make him swim if he didn’t want to, but he would if you asked.

The spot you choose along the shore is quiet. Both of your shoes sit to the side of your blanket, pressed together in alignment. You show him the books you brought and he gets you to tell him about them. He makes sure you drink water and reminds you to reapply your sunscreen.

“Do you think I could manage a nap here?” You wonder.

“Probably.” He answers.

You don’t ask him for anything explicitly, not even implicitly, but he wants to rearrange the world to your whim. 

Andrew makes a choice then, decides he will hold you if you want to rest. He moves over, slightly behind you, and gathers you the rest of the way. He makes a resting place on his chest for your back, a space for you to be held between his legs.

Nothing about you resists. No tension, no protests. His arms rest over your stomach and you sigh into him. A small breeze comes off the water, rustling the leaves and the tall grass.

“So, about the other night.” You start. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You’re the one to bring it up. You still seem unshaken, unbothered by what Andrew feels was a significant series of failures on his part.

“No.”

You accept this, returning to a silence you’re comfortable in. Waves swell, birds call.

“Were you scared?” He asks eventually, tentatively.

“No.” You answer. “We were gone before I could be.”

You feel him nod against the side of your head. Clouds move slowly. Andrew speaks eventually.

“Do you still want to keep seeing me?”

“I do. Do you still want to see me?”

He does, very badly, but that’s not the issue. The issue is that Andrew Cody is a dangerous man who has no right to hold you the way he wants to, who has no right to any of your affection when all he has to offer is blood money and his own trauma. He can see things starting to unravel. He feels himself beginning to fray. He wishes he had done things differently but he can’t take back the other night, what’s done is done. You said you knew who the Codys are, but that doesn’t mean you understand the extent of what they do, the damage they’re able to cause. It’s like he’s watching you put your foot in a bear trap. It hasn’t snapped shut yet, but it will.

“I do.” He says, because he’d want you to be the very last thing he ever saw if he died. 

You seem at ease, as if this conversation had smoothed over every cautious thought in your head. You don’t get it, he thinks. There’s no way you do. 

“Will you read to me?” He asks. He needs to hear something other than his own voice in his head.

Andrew doesn’t ask for much. Not for more of your time, not for any favours, not for things you know he’d like. You wish he would ask you for more. You think it escapes him that you want to give him the world, too. So you read. Of course you read. Your book is something pastoral and meandering, one you’ve finished more than once.

As you speak, your words become woven between the crashing of the waves. Andrew doesn’t pay attention to the actual words so much as the sound of them coming out of your mouth. The way you hold vowels between your lips, the way consonants get softened when you read too quickly. He presses a lingering kiss against the side of your head. You settle against him just that fraction of an inch more. 

You doze off a little once you’ve finished your chapter. The heat of the afternoon has made you both soft and pliable. In Andrew’s head, the boundaries between your skin and his have started blurring, coalescing at the surface. Your head turns a little, adjusting against him. If he could gather you further into himself he would. His arms are already solid around you, your hands resting over them. He dips his head, nosing against your shoulder, up your neck, wanting nothing but to smell the salt stuck to your skin, feel the heat coming off of you. Your hands squeeze a little, maybe an encouragement, maybe a thank you. He thinks he might be overheating. He doesn’t move.

X

“Where have you been?” Smurf asks as soon as he’s through her door. 

It’s been a few days since he’s been back here, not any longer than usual. He’s not stupid. He knows what Smurf is fishing for. But he won’t roll over so easily. It’s been years since he obeyed every trick on command. 

“At home.” He says. Simple.

“That’s it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You know the job is soon, right baby?”

“I know. I’ve been to every meeting.”

“Good.” She says. “I just wouldn’t want anyone to get distracted.”

He stays quiet. There’s nothing else to say. 

That same week, Andrew pulls his truck into the far end of the small parking lot in front of your job. He settles in, crossing his arms to wait an hour for you to text him you were close to clocking out. He doesn’t tell you how long he likes to wait for you. He lets you think he leaves his driveway only after you send him a message. In his head this waiting counts as time spent with you.

His eyes scan the lot, the usual cars parked in their places. The owner’s, the cook’s, the man with a regular Friday order. His eyes catch on a white car just in front of the door. That one, he notices, is new. That one looks an awful lot like one of Smurf’s cars.

His stomach drops. He was sure he had done everything right– done all he was asked, showed up every time he was called, obeyed every time he was given an order. It should have been enough to keep Smurf happy. It should have been enough to keep you safe.

He’s moving before he’s certain, pulling open the door to your shop with poorly concealed urgency. And he sees her. Smurf is there by the small shelves tucked by the side wall, asking you about muffuletta and olives of all things. You’re talking to her like you would any other customer, soft-spoken and informative. She has a pair of big sunglasses between her fingers and she’s smiling at you in a way that he knows means she might bite. Andrew isn’t sure how he’s going to handle this situation, just that he needs to. 

Smurf notices him too soon, he’s at a disadvantage. She turns her head to watch him approach with a kind of boredom on her face. Your head follows, finding him not long after. 

“Smurf.” He says, choosing to stand beside you.

You look up at him with a shine in your eyes you can’t help and he knows his mother sees it.

“Andrew.” She says, putting on a kind of syrup over her words. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Just stopping by.”

“Oh, this isn’t the girl you were telling me about, is it?” A well acted realization takes place on her face. She turns back to you. “It’s nice to officially meet you honey, call me Smurf.”

Her hand sticks out and waits for yours. Pope’s fingers twitch watching you shake hands, hating that his mother would touch you. It’s something so small and calculated, so inane to any onlooker or outsider. Touch, to Smurf, means access. Access means ownership.

“Did you both want to take a seat?” You offer, polite and without motive.

“No, that’s okay.” Smurf says with a smile. “I should probably head out. You take care, I’ll see you at home Andrew.”

She turns almost lazily, meandering back out the door. Andrew stays standing straight and tall until it closes behind her. 

“Hi,” You offer.

“Hi.” 

You wait. He shifts over his feet, trying to shake what’s settled over his shoulders.

“You’re early.”

“I was in the area.”

You hum. He doesn’t think you believe him but you let it go.

“Sit. Want a sandwich?”

“No, thank you.”

He settles stiffly into one of the wrought iron chairs at the little table furthest into the corner. You go about the rest of your shift as if he weren’t there. Taking orders, wiping counters, getting the store ready for the girl who takes over after eight. His shoulders fall a fraction as he watches you, just enough for him to feel a difference.

When he drops you off that night he doesn’t stay. He goes home to sit on his bed and spiral, down and down and down. He doesn’t sleep. 

X

He’s there the next day to drive you home again. He isn’t sure that he should. He doesn’t know what to do, not at all, so he sticks with the routine he knows. Something will give soon, things can’t stay as they are. But he still wants to see you. He can’t quite say no to himself yet. 

He’s quiet on the drive. He’s quiet sitting on your couch. He’s quiet as you eat. You’re giving him so much grace. But a way through feels impossible.

You shower and he stays where he is, an immoble fixture in your living space. You come back to him, steamed and dewy, and he thinks he should go but he doesn’t. When you ask him if he thinks a shower would help he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he deserves the comfort you offer. He doesn’t think hot water will fix anything. But he showers anyway, because it’s something to do.

While the water doesn’t fix things it makes his neck ache a little less. The smell of your soap soothes him somewhat. His skin feels tight by the time he’s done. He still doesn’t feel clean.

He doesn’t see you when he comes back out into the living room so he doubles back to your bedroom. Your lamps are on, casting the space in a warm glow. You’re a soft thing in your shirt and your shorts, legs bare and feet tucked close to you. There’s something playing softly from a speaker he doesn’t see immediately. You look up from the book you’re reading and smile, something small and sticky-sweet. You nod towards the space beside you. He gets on the bed. He lays down and clasps his hands over his chest. It’s quiet. Andrew can do quiet.

One song passes. Then two, then four.  You close your book to watch him breathe. His eyes stay on the ceiling.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He answers without turning his head.

“You stay with your mom sometimes?” You ask it kindly, like it’s just another thing you want to learn about him. It makes something feel sharp behind his ribs. You make it seem so easy, addressing the things he should be able to on his own.

“Sometimes.”

I’ll see you at home, Andrew. Said by Smurf to stake a claim, to tie a leash. 

“Does she ever come to your place?”

“No.” That was Andrew’s apartment, paid for with his own money. “It’s just mine.”

You hum, filing your new understandings away.

“She seems nice.” You offer, aiming for levity.

“She’s not.” Something about Andrew’s voice sounds unsettled, like something is about to come unhinged.

“Oh.” You piece it together. “So, it’s maybe not good that she came to see me?” 

Andrew shakes his head. It really wasn’t. 

You wait. You don’t know what to ask so you don’t ask anything, letting him decide where to take things, what to share.

“Smurf is… dangerous.” He settles on the simple word. He looks at you, finally. “I didn't want you to meet her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He wants to get that straight.

You’re still waiting, watching him with open eyes. You’re always doing this, creating a space for him and guarding the perimeter. Giving him a freedom that comes from being looked after, not forgotten.

Something comes loose inside of him. He finds himself wanting to talk but not knowing what to say. It starts bubbling out of him. He hears himself telling you about Smurf, using words like touch and forced and hurt, each word mapped both to himself and his mother in a nauseating web. He doesn’t know which things should stay unsaid. He thinks all of it should remain unsaid but you deserve honesty, and he won’t let you stay twined with him without knowing. He probably won’t let you stay twined with him at all. 

There’s a beat. A song ends and another starts. 

“You know it’s not okay, right? The way she treated you?” Your voice reaches him, even as he’s in the distant place inside of himself he uses as safety.

He nods once.

“You know none of it was your fault, right?”

Again.

“I’m sorry,” You say, voice low. You unfold your legs to lay on your side. He can still feel your eyes, a gentle kind of attention on his face.

“It’s okay.” He says, automatic. He turns onto his side, too.

“It’s not.”

It’s really not.

He sits with this, not quite ready to meet your eyes again. But his eyes follow the line of your shoulder, the even rise and fall of your chest, the hem of your shirt at the base of your neck.

Your whole body leans towards him halfway, offering comfort, and then it waits. He still can’t look at you but his hand finds your side, follows it's line towards your lower back. You move to tuck yourself against him fully, sternum to sternum, legs threading together. His fingers spread against your back, his pinky finding the space between your top and your bottoms. It almost makes you shiver, the slow drag of his finger.

Your bare skin is so soft. There’s a heat all over and his hands are tingling where they touch you. He tries to stay in the moment, to stay right where he is, but the thoughts creep up on him. Enjoying this, here, with you, feels like a bad decision.

He’s been so good. He’s been working so hard. Knowing and letting himself be known. Trusting you and trusting himself. He was so close to something like surrender. He’ll have to go. He knows he’ll have to. The hardened, avoidant, pessimistic, realistic voice inside of his head tells him as much, tells him to cut his losses now and give in to what he knows is inevitable. But there’s a whimpering, starving, obsessive, pathetically optimistic voice answering back, speaking from a place he can’t identify. It wants to have you, to keep you, but he’s getting less and less sure he’ll be able to by the day. Smurf standing in front of you was the start and the end of it. It never should have happened, and now that it has, there’s nothing to be done. Smurf was her own kind of death sentence.

Andrew is better at self preservation than absolutely anything else. He’s avoided more for less, resorted to more drastic means for less important ends. But he can’t help himself. He wants to have this before he goes. He wants to give you this one thing, something tender and devoted and his alone to give. He wants you to see him on his knees, soft spots exposed for you to lay your hands over. He wants you to know he’d give you anything, expose his muscle and sinew if you wanted to look, leave the world behind if you asked him to.

Yes, he would kill for you. But he would also take his shirt off. He’d let you touch him, taste him, look into his mouth, listen to him fall apart. 

He can’t tell you what’s going on in his head. He barely has a handle on it most days, and doesn’t know how to show it either. He can try though. God help him, he could try. His forehead meets yours, careful not to hurt you when they collide. He takes a moment, and then he tilts his head further. You share a breath before he finally seeks your mouth with his. He kisses you, a little stiff and a little firm, and you let him.

When he feels your hand come up into his hair, his mouth parts under yours. He takes as deep a breath as he can before returning to the kiss, a thrill running through him as he feels your tongue, your teeth.  

His hand sweeps the length of your spine, up then down before reaching further, hungry for more of you. He doesn’t grab exactly, but there’s an assertiveness to his touch. His hand is heavy and low on your hip, and your leg comes higher up, still curled around his. His hips begin to rock against yours and you make a small sound. He stills.

He hesitates not because he doesn’t want you, but because he wants you so unbearably much. His need is overwhelming and it feels unfair to you.

“We don’t have to do anything else.” You mean this, as breathless and burning as you are.

“I want to.” He says. He can try to be braver than he is, knowing you’ll handle him carefully.

Your mouth finds his then, drawing him back into you. His shoulders crowd over you without meaning to, the broadness of his chest pressing against you and encouraging you onto your back as he leans over you. His mouth comes back down against yours, pressing and pressing and pressing. He slides his tongue against yours, trying to pay attention to the feel and your taste and somehow not fully taking in either. The hand over your hip starts to climb upwards, dragging fabric as it goes. His fingers find the band of your bra from over your shirt and then he repeats the motion, this time against your skin. His hand is hot against you, his palm sweeping back up your ribs to cup the bottom of your breast. 

Your chest pushes up into his hand and he understands he’s doing well. He would spend more time on your tits if he felt more self-assured but he’s nervous here. He only wants to touch you in ways he’s certain will feel good for you. He thinks of his hands, the big, rough things that they are, and he can see himself grabbing you too viciously if he’s not careful. No, he’d rather play it safe, stick to things he knows how to do. He gives you one calculated squeeze before his hand moves back down your stomach, his big fingers just teasing your waistband. You take his wrist, guiding his hand further down, asking him not to hesitate. 

His hand slips into your shorts, touching you over your panties. The fabric of them dampens under his fingers as he presses them against your opening, around your clit. You moan, a small breathy thing, and he’s drunk on it. Careful fingers draw small circles around the bud, being mindful of pressure and friction. You breathe into his mouth between kisses and he wants to share the same air as you forever.

“Take them off.” You tell him. It’s a gentle instruction that reminds him of the hardness straining in his jeans. 

He pauses to fit his thumbs under your waistband, pulling everything down your legs. Your panties stick some where he had pressed them against you and the hunger inside him widens. You kick them off the side of the bed and Andrew takes advantage of the extra space between your legs. Two fingers drag confidently through your folds, running through your slick and spreading it over you. He brings one of them back down to tease your entrance, barely pressing in. You squirm, whining and needy.

“Inside, please.” Your hands find his face to hold him, keeping his eyes on yours, right where you want him.

He obliges.

His first finger sinks in all the way down to the knuckle and you make such a pretty sound, coloured with need and satisfaction. Andrew’s cock twitches in his jeans, the pressure of his erection becoming uncomfortable. His hips find your leg, rubbing his bulge against the outside of your thigh. You feel the size of him and it makes you even whinier. His finger fucks you slowly and he knows he’ll need to brace himself if he’s going to be inside of you. 

“More.” You sound breathy.

He gives you what you’re asking for. He pulls out before adding another finger, the stretch makes your hips lift, chasing the pleasure. You make noise after noise and he feels you getting close. The heat in your stomach draws inwards and crashes over you all at once. His fingers don’t stop moving inside of you until you push his wrist away, your knees drawing up together. 

His hand moves to draw you closer to him, holding you through your comedown. His fingers are wet against your side. When you come back into your body your face is flushed and your pupils are blown. Nobody has ever been more beautiful.

“Will you let me fuck you?” The question comes out smaller than he means it to.

“Are you sure?” You ask, voice soft and eyes watchful.

“Please,” He asks against your mouth.

You nod, nose brushing his. You kiss him then, your touch the softest he’s ever received.

Sitting back on his knees he unbuckles his belt and your desire deepens. He removes his jeans and his boxers before settling back on top of you, hesitant again.

“Okay?” You ask, watching his face.

“Yeah.” He says, as confidently as he can.

You roll your hips up then, catching his tip against your entrance. He makes an embarrassing noise, a high whine from the back of his throat. You don’t seem to mind though, lips chasing his as you move underneath him. His hips jerk enough against you to feel your cunt start to suck him in. He takes a deep breath in and holds it as he pushes all the way into you. He thinks he might pass out.

It’s so much; your tightness, your heat, his balls resting against you.

You kiss along his cheek, his jaw, and tell him gently to breathe. He doesn’t. He can’t, not yet, or else he’ll ruin this for you. He shifts, making a miniscule adjustment of his hips against yours, your comfort at the front of his mind. You sigh, breath warming the skin of his shoulder, and it feels like permission. 

Andrew pulls back before pushing back in once, twice, over and over, slow strokes finding a rhythm he can manage to breathe through. You’re so wet, the slide of your walls easing the tight fit. He makes a broken, depraved sound and you clench around him. He can’t stop himself from doing it again creating a beautiful feedback loop, him falling apart inside of you and you getting off on his desperation. 

You moan his name into his ear, against his neck. Andrew, like a plea. Andrew, like a surrender.

He fucks you faster, breath shakier. It’s overwhelming, the white hot feeling in the pit of his stomach, the cavern of wanting inside his chest.

“I can’t,” It’s distressing, trying to hold out but knowing he won’t be able to. “I need–”

“Give it to me baby,” You encourage, finding your own satisfaction in his pleasure.

It feels like he’s breaking. He’s never felt so undone, so held in his undoing.

“I can’t unless– I won’t–” His eyes are shut tight, breathing through clenched teeth to try and reign himself in even an inch.

“Cum for me Andrew– need it, need you so bad.” 

He wants to be good. He wants to be good but you’re so wet and you’re all he ever thinks about and you’re asking him to cum. He tries slowing his pace but it’s no good. His orgasm hits him like a car crash. His cock is twitches inside of you as he paints your cervix, hips pressed almost painfully hard into yours as he cums, releasing something like a sob. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, swallowing the sounds he makes, keeping him in this moment, tethering him to you.

He feels briefly incoherent, but he comes back to you, forehead once again pressed to yours, chests heaving in tandem. You’re cradling his jaw again, your thumbs wiping at his cheeks. He didn’t know he was crying. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, voice pitching.

You kiss him and shake your head.

“You were perfect.” 

“I didn’t make you cum.” He looks sick with worry above you and your heart breaks a little. 

“I don’t need to, baby. I’ve never been happier.”

His face makes a devastating expression and you gather him against you, keeping your hips locked.

“This is what I want, Andrew. Just this.” Your voice carries a conviction that reaches him through the chemical rush he hasn’t recovered from. “Just this, I promise.”

X

The morning after, Andrew is up before you. You wake up to cold sheets but you hear sound from down the hall. Meyer lemon and fresh air fill your apartment. Dappled sun seeps through your windows, warming your floors. You find Andrew kneeling, rag and cleaner in hand. He looks up when he hears you.

You stand at the edge of the room and you watch each other. He slips off the cleaning gloves, resting them on the coffee table nearby, and presses his palms down against his thighs. He doesn’t know what you would like him to do with himself. He barely knows what to do with himself on his own, other than try to be useful. He’s not under the impression that he’s being normal, he knows cleaning your television stand while you’re asleep is not how he’s supposed to act the morning after having sex with someone for the first time. He wants to be good. He just wants to be good.

Then you’re moving, approaching him with sure steps. And then you’re on the floor with him, kneeling to hug him, murmuring a good morning against his skin. You’re warm from sleep and leaning against him like you’ve decided that’s your spot now. He doesn’t move, letting you rest against him, rubbing your back as you settle. Your hair smells like your detergent, your skin still smells like sex.

Later in the day, after he’s dropped you off at home, he finds a florist shop with good reviews.

“A bouquet.” He said, by way of request and explanation to the florist.

Three dozen red roses are on your step when you get back from your day, dressed with baby’s breath and greens. Arranged in their own vase, they’re a little heavy to bring inside. 

You send him a message and a picture of them on your kitchen counter.

thank you andrew <3

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t think he has to. He’s glad you like them. He still feels sick, though. He doesn’t know whether the flowers were more of a thank you or an apology or a confession or an admission. No matter what they are, he’s just happy you’re happy.

X

It only takes a handful of small things to amount to a big problem on a job. Shit is quickly going sideways. Andrew keeps his cool, reminding his brothers to act before they can think. They’ve done this kind of run so much it’s muscle memory at this point. They make it out with exactly what they came for and a little less blood than they came with. The drive home is silent.

They file into the kitchen, Smurf waiting with desert plates and criticisms.

“What was that.” Smurf says in her way. Questions are never really questions. “You were sloppy.”

Andrew wants to protest, to remind everyone that he was the only one holding the splintering job together. Craig was careless and distracted, Deran was twitchy and eager to bolt the way he always is. But he takes his lashings and then some.

“You were distracted.” She stares at him and him only. “It’s that girl.”

Andrew is quiet. If there’s a lecture attached he just has to let it happen.

“She’s not like us, baby. She doesn’t belong here.”

“I know.” He says, because he does. He’s never wanted you here, not in this house or in this life. He’s held you away from it all because that’s never what he would want for you.

Smurf looks at him, cold and exacting and extractive. She sees exactly what he isn’t able to hide: his stupid, hopeful, bleeding heart.

“You could never be with her, you know that? You don’t belong out there having picnics and picking daisies.” She says, speaking down to the dream Andrew has kept hidden in the very back of his head for months, for his entire life. “This is it for you, Pope.”

His jaw clenches. He’s been told, ad nauseam, that his options are limited. That he’s only good for one thing. His mother, his brothers, his numerous associates and acquaintances; they all treat him with a kind of sad disinterest. A kind of fear and pity he’s never managed to grow a thick skin against.

You had never seen him like that. You had never treated him like that.

“Don’t be stupid.” Smurf murmurs, stepping closer to pull Andrew’s head to her shoulder. “She’ll only get hurt if you’re around.”

His hands are immoble, helpless at the ends of his arms. He knows what Smurf is saying. Andrew is to stop seeing you, or else she’ll be the reason harm will come your way. 

He was stupid for dreaming. Stupid for thinking that maybe there could be something else for him, an out after his years of devoted service. Smurf gets what Smurf wants. Andrew gets what Smurf allows.

His brain tries to solve things that week. He’s aloof and forlorn, noticeably more so than usual. He’s tallying numbers, playing out scenarios, counting odds. He thinks about how he could get out, where he could go, where you might be open to going with him. He considers the cash he has on hand, the money he could get together, what he’d need to get you both set up. He works through the long list of allies and enemies of the Cody family, figuring who would be sent after him, who might already be after him independently. He has ideas. What he does not have is time or secrecy.

Smurf joins him at the patio table one morning.

“I heard something went down over at that place Craig likes.” She offers this as conversation, as if it’s not a loaded gun, a threat being followed through.

Pope just looks at her.

“A robbery. The staff got pretty shaken up.”

He trembles. He feels rage. Very carefully, he stands from the table and turns to walk inside.

“Pope.”

He stops.

“You know what you need to do.”

Not a question.

He keeps walking. 

He stands in his room, feeling like his body is a stranger. As always, he feels more like the family dog instead of a son Smurf could love.

When Andrew punches the wall his knuckles don’t feel the impact. He feels just as dizzy and stupid and useless as when he was a kid. His life is not his own. How dare he entertain the idea that it might be.

X

The bruising around your eye is so much worse in person. You open the door with a smile and his heart drops. He feels ill.

“Andrew!” Your voice is bright, mismatched with the evidence of injury on your face.

Looking over your shoulder he can see that the roses are still on your counter, in the vase he picked because he wasn’t sure you’d have one big enough. They’ve only just now started wilting, after a week and a half.

“Are you okay?”

He keeps his hands firmly in his pockets, refusing to allow himself to hold your face, tilt it towards his.

“Oh, yeah, some guy came into the shop on Friday. It’s happened before, you know what the area can be like.” You look at him, no doubt or suspicion behind your eyes.

You don’t know. You don’t even have any idea that you’re hurt because of him. You don’t think he’s the reason that you and your coworkers were subjected to violence, were forced into a situation that did not ever have to happen.

He wants normalcy for you. He wants afternoon shifts and steady paychecks and flower bouquets and Saturday night dates. Ice cream and dinner and boardwalks, and a normal boyfriend with a normal family and normal problems. He’s not that. As much as he wants to be, he’s not that. Not now and, according to Smurf, likely not ever. 

Andrew opens his mouth.

“I won’t be around.” He says. Bad start. Too vague. 

Your brows pinch like you’re confused.

“You have to go? Like, away?”

He nods.

“Okay, when will you be back?”

He hesitates. “I won’t.”

Your head tilts.

“I can’t see you anymore.” He tries again. Better. Clearer.

“Is everything okay?” You ask in that soft tone, the one he only ever hears coming from you.

He doesn’t answer, eyes stuck on the vase over your shoulder.

“Did I do something?”

Of course you would think it was you. You’re good enough to see the good in Andrew before anything else.

“If I did something or if you feel overwhelmed you can tell me.” 

He feels like a feral animal that you’re offering the back of your hand to.

“I just can’t.”

“I don’t mind, Andrew. Do what you have to do, I’ll be here. I–”

“No.”

“Andrew,” You’re trying to reason with him. He can’t let you. “You– you know how I feel about you.”

He’d spent the last handful of months hoping. Hoping to see you again, hoping you’d let him near you, hoping he could be something to you, hoping you would still like him even after you got to know him. He’s wanted you, so much it hurt. He had hoped, fervently, that you felt any fraction of what he felt for you. He hadn’t dared believe it. And you can’t say it now, you can’t tell him you love him or he’ll make the wrong choice. He needs to go. There’s no other option.

“Whatever you think you feel for me, you don’t. You don’t know me, and you’re nothing like me.”

It’s like you flinch. Your mouth is tight, your eyes go wet.

You’re quiet for a long time. He doesn’t leave.

“This is about her isn’t it.”

“It’s not about Smurf.” He doesn’t look at you when he answers.

An impasse. You both know you’re right.

“What did she say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But she said something.” 

“She always says something, it doesn’t matter.” He forces a deep breath. “You’re not going to see me again.”

Your chin crumples and his stomach begins to cannibalise itself.

“I have to go. Don’t wait around for me.”

“Andrew–”

“I’m serious,” He says, speaking with more bite than he’s ever used with you. “Don’t. I won’t come back.”

“But you said.” Your chest contracts, your throat hot. “You said I was– I thought I was important.”

Your voice lowers on the word important, embarrassed for having to say it. You feel pathetic. You’ve never been closer to begging in your life. You had felt it, you felt the way you were both on the precipice of something beautiful and delicate and binding. You were right there. You thought you had him. You thought it was a sure thing.

He says your name in a way you don’t understand. 

He still hasn’t left. He thinks he’s waiting for you to get angry. To yell or hit him or tell him what a fucking disappointment he is. He wants you to, he wants you to prove he’s right about himself. To prove he’s nothing more than mean and angry and helplessly inept. But you don’t. And that’s so much worse.

You’re still looking at him with gentleness somehow. Like you see him for what he is and you still want him. He doesn’t know how to handle the idea that you still want him. Not even that you might want him, that you do want him, even now while he’s making you cry. 

He takes a step back and your first tears fall. He turns before he loses his conviction, getting back into his truck without showing you his face.

X

You don’t expect to hear from him again. Men like Pope know how to disappear, how to erase fingerprints and traces. You move through the next five days in a daze, expecting to see his truck in front of your shop, your hands moving to call him before you remember. 

He sends you a text two weeks later, just your name and a comma after it, like he had sent the message before he finished writing it.

You don’t know what it means. 

You don’t hear from him again. 

“Not possible.” Andrew’s been trying his hand at being more playful recently. “He likes the customer service here.”

“He does or you do?”

“Same thing.” 

“You know it’s not.”

He shrugs, mouth pulled into his version of a full smile. 

When you hand him the order in two full paper bags, he makes sure to take them from you in such a way that your fingers could almost tangle. The sun is almost done setting, the last warm light of the day touching everything gently.

“I’ll come back to pick you up?” It’s not a question coming from him, it’s a statement. 

You look from him to the bags he’s now holding.

“Not if you’re about to have dinner.”

“I will have dinner. With you.” 

“You’re allowed to be busy, you know.”

“I know.” He starts towards the door. “I’ll come back.”

There’s nothing for you to do but finish your shift and think about Andrew some more. 

X

The first time Andrew drove you home it was spring and the ground was soaked. It had been raining on and off all that day, a cool wind coming off of the water. You were huddled outside the shop under its awning when his truck pulled in. You gave him a sheepish smile when he came around. His eyes were doing that thing that used to make you feel like you were in trouble.

“My ride bailed. I’m just waiting for the rain to stop.” You told him. 

He looked at you then, your hands deep in your pockets, the hood of your sweater already wet, and he handed you his keys, no questions.

“Get in.” 

You blinked at him. He nudged you towards his truck, his big hand overly gentle where it touched you.

“I’ll be right back.” He promised.

So you got in his truck and he got Craig’s sandwiches and he came back, turning up the heat as soon as the truck was started. You didn’t say much but neither did he. He parked in front of your building after a short drive and you both sat there in silence until you felt brave. 

You asked him about his day and his answer was stilted and terse. He wanted to ask about your week but he wasn’t sure how. You asked him how long he’d been living in Oceanside and he said his whole life. He asked you if you liked cats and you looked down at the hello kitty charm on your bag and laughed. It was nice. Really nice. 

He drives you home most nights as long as he’s around, and he always tries to be around. He feeds you now, too. You asked him one time if he minded picking something up on the way to your place, told him you would pay and that he could come in for a movie if he wanted. Now he moves like that’s always the plan; buying you something you’re craving and sitting by you until you get tired. He doesn’t deviate, wouldn’t give up this routine for anything.

It’s such a strange pleasure watching you eat. He stared that first time, he knows it, and he still stares now. The way your mouth moves, the way you hold your hands when they’re messy, the way your posture loosens by degrees as you get full. Knowing you’re comfortable and cared for and worry free while you’re with him gives him a sense of satisfaction that is mostly wholesome and only a little perverse. You get so sleepy some nights, eyes blinking closed, breathing slowing beside him. So vulnerable to all possible danger, Pope Cody included. He’d never hurt you. He’d never dream of touching your pretty throat or soft stomach to be violent. You could ask him for anything and he would say yes. 

X

“Shit, Deran, man, can you go pick up my order?” Craig looks at the clock after coming up from another line.

Deran doesn’t look up from his phone.

“I’ll go.” Andrew says, finishing his last visual sweep of the kitchen.

He had been thinking of you then, while his brothers were fucking around and he was wiping down the counters. He thinks about you more than he should. He thinks a lot of things and gets away with most of them, nobody usually asks how he is or where he’s been or what he’s been up to. Unless he’s working a job, he has a kind of freedom that comes from being forgotten.

He’s been trying to build a life away from Smurf. Away from this house and this work and this looming feeling of inevitable disaster. He has his own place now, something that’s his alone. He reads books and buys candles and watches the ocean at night. He sees you.

Craig sniffs roughly, eyes narrowing at Andrew. Something’s been different, he’s noticed.

“You hate running my errands.”

“I want some air.”

“Then go out back.”

“Smells like pot.”

“That’s never bothered you before.”

“It’s always bothered me.”

“What’s with you, man.” 

Andrew’s steady eyes meet Craig’s blown ones. Andrew says nothing. Craig’s mouth firms then splits into a shit-eating grin.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for shop girl.”

“Do you want your sandwiches or not.”

“You totally do! Deran,” Craig kicks half blindly with his foot. “Pope has a total crush on my sandwich girl.”

“Whatever, man.” Deran does not care.

“You have to bring her by the bar sometime, man. Let us get a good look at her.”

Andrew decides he’s finished with this conversation. 

“Come on, Pope. I mean it, let’s meet your girlfriend.” Craig calls after him, laughing. 

Andrew can’t tell if Craig is laughing at the idea of him having a girlfriend because Craig thinks he’s unloveable or incapable of love. Andrew hasn’t managed to disprove either account yet. 

On his way to you he thinks about what might happen if you met his family. Not Smurf, absolutely not Smurf, but maybe Deran, maybe Craig. It’s what normal people do, isn’t it? He decides against it for the near future. Not yet, he thinks, meaning maybe not ever.

X

“Should we start cooking?” You ask, your order of Thai food on your lap.

Andrew catches the we and tucks it away somewhere in his chest. He considers your question.

“Do you want to?”

“Usually no.” You think about it. “But I saw a recipe I think would be really nice. And plus your kitchen is to die for.”

You like Andrew’s apartment for how fancy it is. He knows you must notice how bare it is, the minimal comforts and decorations. But things he doesn’t think twice about are novel to you: the flatscreen in his bedroom, the nice espresso machine in his kitchen, the beach access out the back door. And you don’t mind the minimalism, you really don’t. You know what Andrew is like and his apartment just makes sense. It’s a continuation of the reserved efficiency he operates with.

He’s still not used to another body in his space. He likes that it’s yours though. He likes the control having you in his apartment gives him. Having you so near, so visible and readable, it allows him to be able to enforce a certain kind of order. When something is wrong he can see it, he can hear it, and he can fix it. You’re hungry? He’ll make sure you eat something. You’re cold? He’ll turn down the A/C. You want something? It’s yours and he’ll get it to you the moment you ask. He understands that you have a life to live. A job and an apartment and friends that you love. But he can’t help the way he wants for you when you’re not within reach. 

If he could be with you always, he thinks that’s something he would want. It’s not currently possible on his end either, he has jobs to plan and a family to wrangle and “properties” to “manage”. He keeps all of that away from you, and will continue to do so until the end of time if he gets his way. If he has his way you’ll never know, you’ll never get hurt, you’ll never be in danger. It’s not quite a pipe dream but it’s a beautiful thought, one he’ll cling to for as long as possible.

You lick sauce from the side of your thumb before wiping your hands off on a napkin. Andrew knows he’s staring again. 

“We can start cooking if you want to.”

You seem pleased by this.

The night moves quietly, waves crashing somewhere out of sight, the stars rotating above you. There’s a solace in having you under his roof. He thinks this as he tidies your leftovers and refills your water.

You’re meant to be picking a movie but you’re not flipping through anything when Andrew returns to your side. You hold the remote lightly in your hand, head tilting towards him.

“Andrew,” You start.

You look almost shy. You’ve been on best behaviour in the two times you’ve been over to his apartment, no snooping or wandering whatsoever. You’re careful with him, he knows this. But he can recognize that it doesn’t come from a place of fear. You approach him the same way he would approach a stray; soft touch and gentle tones, waiting instead of advancing.

“Would it be okay if we watched the TV in your bedroom?”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Not like that!” Your skin starts to flush. “It’s just that I never had one in my bedroom. When I was a kid I always used to dream about, like, watching movies in a pillow fort.”

“We’re building a fort now, too?”

“No! No, I just–” You look sideways.

“I’m kidding.” He says mercifully. “We can do anything you want.”

You pause, sheepish.

“Even the fort?”

“Even that.”

He looks at you, all sweet and shy, and he thinks he could eat you whole.

“No fort today, but could I maybe borrow something comfortable?”

“Of course.”

He lets you get changed while he pretends to wash dishes he’s already cleaned. He breathes over the sink, focusing on the sound of running water instead of the sounds you’re making in his bedroom. Feet on wood, fabric on fabric. You come back out to find him and ask Andrew if he’s going to change, too. He wasn’t, but you’re asking like you want him to so he will. 

And then you’re on top of his covers and he’s on top of his covers and for the first time in his life a California King feels too big. He lets you mess with his pillows, all eight of them, creating some sort of semi-structured pile against his headboard. He leans against them, trying to look relaxed. You make a quick decision about what you’d like to watch and then you’re leaning back too, shifting and sinking into the space you made. 

“Good?” He asks across the measly inches between you.

“Yeah.” You hum like you’re happy.

He can’t look at you for very long, not without his heart rate spiking or his dick hardening when he doesn’t mean it to. So he watches your movie and tries not to notice when you give up on subtlety, settling yourself gently against his side. Arm to arm, your head on his shoulder.

“Is this okay?” You ask, your hands pressing together in your lap.

His head comes down to rest against yours, vision tilted at an angle that makes watching the television a little unpleasant.

“Of course.” He says, closing his eyes because he knows you can’t see him.

Your hands loosen. His shoulders drop. He tries not to imagine more of you in his clothes, in his bed, in his kitchen. He fails.

X

Andrew has spent his morning and most of his afternoon pouring over maps and blueprints, planning and checking and marking. A convenient opportunity fell into Smurf’s lap so there’s a job on the horizon. Not the biggest they’ve ever pulled but not a small one by any means. There’s a lot to do. Casing and timing and talking and arranging. If Andrew were to ever find above board employment, he thinks he would do well in logistics.

He and his brothers move around each other, around Smurf, as they each take care of their given responsibilities. Andrew is as present and careful as he always is. He knows Smurf hovers more intensely the closer to a job they get. 

He doesn’t call you until he’s back at his place. He doesn’t leave meetings early to pick you up. He wants to, god he’d love to, but this was a small sacrifice in the name of your safety. 

He doesn’t lay claim to much, but that which he claims as his own is kept as far away from this life as possible. Smurf does not come to his house. He does not tell his brothers about his favourite places to eat. He leaves the phone Smurf gave him at home when he’s with you. He hoards his scraps of freedom with a kind of desperation.

He goes over the timeline for the new job in his head as he drives home, slotting events and goalposts into their appropriate dates. The calendar in his head already has your schedule on it, when you work and the plans you tell him about. Things like your friend’s birthday and the opening day of a movie you said you want to go see. It’s only ever one or the other; either he’s working or he’s seeing you. He wishes for something different, for a life less fragmented. He would let you and everything you are consume him if he thought it were feasible. 

When he gets home and checks his personal phone, there’s a text from you waiting for him. It hasn’t been too long since you sent it. He doesn’t like keeping you waiting, not for anything.

are you free on thursday?

He’s not but he’ll fix that. He’d pick you every time if he could. For now, he’ll make every concession he’s able.

X

Andrew had never been to a farmer’s market before. It’s like a mini street fair. The market in Oceanside happens on Thursday mornings, in a parking lot close to the Surf Museum. The sun is already warm across his shoulders as he walks with you into the morning crowd.

You’re looking at garden flowers and he’s trailing behind you. You pick up a small nursery pot and hold it towards him after you’ve already taken a sniff. He does as you did, the smell of petals and greens cutting through the smell of grill smoke in the air. He smiles because you’re smiling. You keep looking, he keeps following. 

There are a lot of people here. Not so many that he’s worried but enough that it takes a moment before the woman at a fruit stall can help you. She overturns a punnet of nectarines into a bag before handing it back to you. He hands her a few bills before you can even get your wallet out. 

“I have my own money.” You tell him as you step to the side, tucking the fruit into the tote on your shoulder.

“Exactly. Keep it.” He says, reaching for the bag straps before they’re settled.

“Let me carry my own produce at least.” You turn away from his reach and he almost laughs at how indignant you are.

“Come on,” He coaxes. “That’s my job.”

He still hasn’t called himself your boyfriend. Hasn’t asked for the pleasure. But he’s yours and he wants to show you every chance he gets. 

“You’re going to make me feel useless. You can hold my hand, final offer.”

He takes it with a smile. 

He’s noticed that you like when he touches you. You sat very still when he removed an eyelash from your cheek a few days ago, you lean towards him when he puts a hand on your back or your arm, your face lights up whenever he sits himself right beside you. When he reaches for you, you move to meet him halfway. He doesn’t think you know you’re doing it. 

Walking beside him you look pleased. He feels exceedingly normal. It’s nice to spend time with someone and feel like he can breathe.

Craig has been riding him harder than usual, being mean just to be mean. It’s not personal, despite the way it feels. Andrew has just always been available to absorb hits like that from his family. He doesn’t like it but he does it. 

Deran has been kinder though, balancing Craig in the way they all seem to balance each other. Scales tipped equally, his siblings’ temperaments mirrored graphs of each other's. There’s something mundane about it if he ignores the crime and the drugs of it all. 

Deran’s having a theme night at his bar this week, told his brothers to bring friends. Andrew thought of you, because who else was he going to think of. Deran does vulnerability best out of all of them, so Andrew wasn’t surprised when he later said that he’d like to meet you, said he was happy to see Andrew doing things away from Smurf.

He’s been weighing it. The idea of bringing you to the bar. He buys you a lemonade and thinks about what it would be like to buy you a cocktail, to watch your skin flush after a few of them. Standing in the shade cast by a tent off to the side of the lot, he watches as you survey the vendors you haven’t visited yet. He bets you’ll want to look at the honey and bread just down the way.

He tries his luck.

“My brothers want to meet you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pauses.

“Well, do you want me to meet them?”

He doesn’t have an answer right away. His head turns to watch a parent pull their child in a wagon filled with carrots and ginger.

“My family is not…nice.” He tries. “We aren’t traditional.”

“Andrew, I know who the Codys are.”

Of course you do, you’re far from stupid and Craig has been a regular at your shop for a long time. He dips his head once in a nod. 

“I still had to say it.”

What Andrew doesn’t know is what you might have heard about him, about Pope Cody specifically. He doesn’t ask. He won’t, or maybe he can’t.

“There’s a lot I haven’t told you.” He avoids your eyes. “I don’t know if I like who I am around them.”

You sit with this together.

“What about when you’re around me?”

“Everything makes sense when I’m around you.” This answer comes to him quickly. It’s the truth at the bottom of the matter. “I can be different.”

There’s a clarity in his eyes when they meet yours again. A kind of acceptance or resignation, or something similar. If you could carry things for him, you would. His anger, his pain. You can’t, not yet, so you insist on holding your own bags for now. You refuse to give him anything that would make him feel any heavier.

“Andrew,” Your hand reaches for the side of his face. “I want what you want. If you want me to meet them, I will. If you don’t, then I won’t, and that’s the end of it.”

He nods, jaw pressing further into your hand. The obvious earnestness of your expression almost hurts to look at. 

“Can I kiss you?” You ask.

Your question is the final nail in the coffin. He was already in it, his heart already beating raw and tender in your hands. But he falls then. Not into love, but into something that could be one day.

“Please.” He says, because he wants that so much.

Your mouth meets his in a gentle press and he goes very still, head tilted to allow you to do as you please. The kiss is short-lived, a soft thing that ends too soon for his liking. But there will be more, he thinks. He hopes. He draws you against him and he melts, his arms clasping around you like a shell around a pearl.

X

Everything is fine until it isn’t. That’s how it always goes. 

Tonight has been good, Andrew thinks. He has qualms with Deran, with the way he runs his bar, with bringing you here, with most things really. But he was trying to be good, Trying to give you every part of himself even if he found them hard to look at. This was something safe, he reasoned. The bar wasn’t Smurf’s house and it wasn’t something Smurf owned. It was a public place with decent drinks and somewhere you wouldn’t end up alone with his brothers. He thought it would only be Deran tonight, but Craig does what he wants and goes where he wants without telling anyone. That was fine. It was still manageable. For one night he could try to be a normal guy bringing his normal date to meet his normal family. A very controlled dose of the Codys.

Deran had greeted you using his manners, asking a few questions before being called away to take another order. He found Andrew’s eyes later and gave him a nod, a quiet approval. Craig was himself, loud and a little sleazy, but he still made an attempt to connect with you.

You look beautiful. You always do. Tonight there’s glitter on your cheeks, on your eyelids, stuck to the silk soft skin under your eyes, too. He doesn’t know the first thing about makeup or how it’s supposed to look but he’s dead certain you’re always doing it the right way.

You drift towards him and away from him, finding a coworker or a familiar face in the crowd, but always returning back to his side. He doesn’t have a name for how it feels to know he’s a place you want to come back to. His back straightens every time you leave his arm’s reach. He’s brooding, he knows he is. He knows his brothers are watching his posture, his temperament. He can’t feign casualty on a regular day, much less when you’re around. He sits, tense on his bar stool, eyes tracking your movements, the way you smile, the way you laugh. How long you let people touch you for, how long you look into someone’s eyes.

Craig barks loudly into his ear and he doesn’t flinch, just tilts away from the noise. Craig keeps barking until he gets a reaction.

“What.” Andrew’s affect is flat.

“You make a great guard dog, man. She collar you in the bedroom?”

Andrew doesn’t react. He knows how it will go if he does. Craig cackles anyways.

“Lighten up,” Craig chides, clapping a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Tell her if she wants a hit she knows where to find me.”

Something ugly flares inside of Andrew. A kind of dry heat flashing in his stomach. Craig should know better than to try giving you anything, and he does. Andrew had already made the mistake of trying to assert a boundary, trying to enforce distance between you and his brothers.

“What, Pope’s girl is too much of a perfect angel for a line?” 

“She’s not like you, Craig.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not like you either.”

Andrew tries, every day, to not let his family get under his skin. It’s hard when they know exactly where the gaps in his armour are.

You’re back before he realizes, smiling up at him with those eyes of yours. 

Everything is fine. Until it isn’t.

There’s a subtle shift in the room, something that few people can notice. Andrew always notices. He knows when things are headed south long before they start turning that way. Voices get louder, chairs start scraping against the floor. No-one is yelling yet, and there’s still more laughter in the air than anything else. But something sours all the same and Andrew figures he has five minutes or less to remove you before things start escalating.

“Do you want to get some air?” He asks, trying his hand at the beguiling way you speak to him sometimes. Both hands find your waist in a moment of bravery.

“I’d love some air, will you let me bum a smoke?” You lean towards him like you’re melting, movements slowed after a day in the heat and a few drinks.

He sighs and gives you a look but doesn’t say no.

“Yesss,” your voice is soft around the edges, warm and tipsy. You make a small victorious gesture and your nose squishes up with a smile. He thinks you’re fucking adorable. “I’m just gonna get another drink first, take a shot with me?”

“Can we do it after, honey?” He winces, knowing he’s laying it on way too thick but you don’t seem to notice.

“Please?” You reach for his biceps with both hands, giving them a small squeeze. He would fold under any other circumstance.

“Let’s get some air, okay?” 

You pout but nod your consent and Andrew scans the room once more.

It’s too late. Three men are standing near the front now, staring each other down, surrounded by a few others posturing. Several hands are inching towards inner pockets and waistbands.

God-fucking-damnit. This was the last thing he wanted from tonight. He wanted one thing, just one singular night to play boyfriend-girlfriend, to experience the normal milestone of meeting the family. But now there are guns in the same room as you and there will be violence soon and Andrew can’t help but to feel doomed, chained to an ever-sinking ship. He should know better. He should fucking know better.

“Come on,” He murmurs, taking you by the wrist and leading you around the bar. You stumble after him, confusion creeping over you.

“Andrew, wait.” His name comes out a little breathless, followed by a giggle that should not make his heart stutter as hard as it does. 

“Slow down, Andrew, please.” There it is again, his name in your mouth. “You know I’m wearing stupid shoes today.”

He does. He knows this. You’d called them stupid earlier when he picked you up but he hadn’t thought so. He liked the heel, the curve of your feet in them. He forces his shoulders to relax, his grip on your wrist to loosen.

“Just trust me– please. We need to go.” His voice is low and steady. 

To your credit, your expression sobers some immediately, nodding as his eyes hold yours. You slip your fingers down to fit between his. He turns to keep pulling you behind him as soon as he feels your hand is settled in his. He leads you into the kitchen, through the back and helps you up into his truck. He hears the first gunshot as he closes your door. Understanding dawns on you as you buckle in.

He wheels the car backwards out of his parking spot and takes off, riding the curb as he pulls away from it. You clear the first few stoplights in silence.

“Are your brothers going to be mad?”

“What?” 

Your question almost startles him. Both of his hands hold the steering wheel with exactitude, his jaw tight as he stares down the road ahead of him like it might open beneath you.

“Will they be mad that you left?”

“I don’t care.” He’s clipped.

You’re not sure what to say to that.

The drive is otherwise silent. You climb the stairs to your apartment together and you turn to talk to him outside your door.

“Inside.” He directs you before you can speak.

So you unlock your door and step inside, Andrew following. You slip off your shoes and turn to face him in the tight space of your entryway. His hands hang at his sides, awkward and unsure. You look a little tired, he thinks, but you don’t look afraid.

“You won’t be in trouble?”

You’re still worrying about him even though you shouldn’t. There’s no need, and he’s not sure he deserves it. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He says. “You are more important than whatever mess my brothers are in. Than whatever messes I get dragged into. I will always take care of you first, got it?”

You nod, eyes wide in the low light.

“I’m going to go now, I have to fix it. Lock your door.”

He stands for a moment, a breath between you. Selfishly, you wish he didn’t have to go. Selfishly you wish you could keep him, absolve him of everything he holds on to and carries like a cross.

His hand smooths your hair back and he kisses your temple before he’s gone. 

He texts you after you’ve fallen asleep to let you know he’s safe. You don’t hear from him again for a few days.

X

In the week that follows, Andrew is quiet on the communication front. It’s not unusual for him to be busy, taking a few days further away from you when he’s working. There’s no job this week, though. There won’t be for at least another two, the shooting the other night having delayed the timeline. He doesn’t know what to say to you. He doesn’t know if he’s still allowed to take up space in your periphery, in your mind, in your phone. He feels guilty. Entirely at fault for something he doesn’t know how to articulate yet. Something he knows has barely started to pan out.

You should never have been at the bar the other night, he sees that now. It was a mistake to bring you up against the border of his life. He’d been good before then. He’d held anything that could hurt you behind a very thick line, never allowing anything to spill or ooze or explode beyond it.

It was optimism, maybe. A delusion. An impossible dream that you might be able to meet his family and walk away untouched. You hadn’t even met Smurf that night but now she knows about you. She’s always been aware, omniscient in her way, but now her sights are on you properly. The risks were undertaken and for what? Certainly not for any apparent reward. 

You call him on a Thursday in the afternoon. Andrew knows he’s going to pick up but he makes himself wait. Makes himself count out the first ring, the second, the seventh. You don’t sound different. You don’t sound like you’ve decided the fabric of your relationship with Andrew has been torn asunder. You sound normal. Happy, even, to be talking to him. 

“Take me on a drive?”

There was no world in which he would have ever said no. 

You don’t tell him there’s somewhere you want to go, only that you want him to pick you up tomorrow morning. After your call he looks up “where to take a girl on a drive reddit”. He spends a few hours on his phone, looking at google maps and trip advisor. He wants to take you somewhere you’ll like, obviously somewhere half local and quiet. By the end of the night he’s looked at all the public parks, beaches and lookout points in a six hour radius. He doesn’t need to take you that far, but he needs to know what to do if you ask him to go for food or find another market. He makes a shortlist in his mind, picking four places that were pretty enough for you to take pictures, had enough flat ground for you to spread your blanket on, were close enough to the kind of cafes he knows you like, and that were accessible by backroads so that you could take the scenic route. 

He’ll have to play it by ear, perform spontaneity well. He wants you to feel like you stumbled upon a hidden gem together. He wants to spin gold for you, make something out of the very little he feels he has to offer you.

In the morning your eyes are tired. You let him in while you finish gathering your things for the day. The early air blows cool through the windows of his truck, lifting the loose neck of your dress, fluttering through the curls against his forehead. The roads are quiet, the two of you cutting across country and open spaces.

Andrew doesn’t love being at the beach. It’s sandy, it can be windy, it can be loud, there could be seaweed. He likes looking at the waves, usually from the rocks or the pier, but he’s never really made an afternoon of it. Not until you anyway. You make more of a fuss out of going to the beach than Andrew ever has. It makes him feel almost pampered. You have a big blanket to spread half in the shade and half in the sun, you pack a tote bag full of water and cut fruit and crackers, and you always bring him an extra book, just in case he wants something to read. He doesn’t think you would make him swim if he didn’t want to, but he would if you asked.

The spot you choose along the shore is quiet. Both of your shoes sit to the side of your blanket, pressed together in alignment. You show him the books you brought and he gets you to tell him about them. He makes sure you drink water and reminds you to reapply your sunscreen.

“Do you think I could manage a nap here?” You wonder.

“Probably.” He answers.

You don’t ask him for anything explicitly, not even implicitly, but he wants to rearrange the world to your whim. 

Andrew makes a choice then, decides he will hold you if you want to rest. He moves over, slightly behind you, and gathers you the rest of the way. He makes a resting place on his chest for your back, a space for you to be held between his legs.

Nothing about you resists. No tension, no protests. His arms rest over your stomach and you sigh into him. A small breeze comes off the water, rustling the leaves and the tall grass.

“So, about the other night.” You start. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You’re the one to bring it up. You still seem unshaken, unbothered by what Andrew feels was a significant series of failures on his part.

“No.”

You accept this, returning to a silence you’re comfortable in. Waves swell, birds call.

“Were you scared?” He asks eventually, tentatively.

“No.” You answer. “We were gone before I could be.”

You feel him nod against the side of your head. Clouds move slowly. Andrew speaks eventually.

“Do you still want to keep seeing me?”

“I do. Do you still want to see me?”

He does, very badly, but that’s not the issue. The issue is that Andrew Cody is a dangerous man who has no right to hold you the way he wants to, who has no right to any of your affection when all he has to offer is blood money and his own trauma. He can see things starting to unravel. He feels himself beginning to fray. He wishes he had done things differently but he can’t take back the other night, what’s done is done. You said you knew who the Codys are, but that doesn’t mean you understand the extent of what they do, the damage they’re able to cause. It’s like he’s watching you put your foot in a bear trap. It hasn’t snapped shut yet, but it will.

“I do.” He says, because he’d want you to be the very last thing he ever saw if he died. 

You seem at ease, as if this conversation had smoothed over every cautious thought in your head. You don’t get it, he thinks. There’s no way you do. 

“Will you read to me?” He asks. He needs to hear something other than his own voice in his head.

Andrew doesn’t ask for much. Not for more of your time, not for any favours, not for things you know he’d like. You wish he would ask you for more. You think it escapes him that you want to give him the world, too. So you read. Of course you read. Your book is something pastoral and meandering, one you’ve finished more than once.

As you speak, your words become woven between the crashing of the waves. Andrew doesn’t pay attention to the actual words so much as the sound of them coming out of your mouth. The way you hold vowels between your lips, the way consonants get softened when you read too quickly. He presses a lingering kiss against the side of your head. You settle against him just that fraction of an inch more. 

You doze off a little once you’ve finished your chapter. The heat of the afternoon has made you both soft and pliable. In Andrew’s head, the boundaries between your skin and his have started blurring, coalescing at the surface. Your head turns a little, adjusting against him. If he could gather you further into himself he would. His arms are already solid around you, your hands resting over them. He dips his head, nosing against your shoulder, up your neck, wanting nothing but to smell the salt stuck to your skin, feel the heat coming off of you. Your hands squeeze a little, maybe an encouragement, maybe a thank you. He thinks he might be overheating. He doesn’t move.

X

“Where have you been?” Smurf asks as soon as he’s through her door. 

It’s been a few days since he’s been back here, not any longer than usual. He’s not stupid. He knows what Smurf is fishing for. But he won’t roll over so easily. It’s been years since he obeyed every trick on command. 

“At home.” He says. Simple.

“That’s it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You know the job is soon, right baby?”

“I know. I’ve been to every meeting.”

“Good.” She says. “I just wouldn’t want anyone to get distracted.”

He stays quiet. There’s nothing else to say. 

That same week, Andrew pulls his truck into the far end of the small parking lot in front of your job. He settles in, crossing his arms to wait an hour for you to text him you were close to clocking out. He doesn’t tell you how long he likes to wait for you. He lets you think he leaves his driveway only after you send him a message. In his head this waiting counts as time spent with you.

His eyes scan the lot, the usual cars parked in their places. The owner’s, the cook’s, the man with a regular Friday order. His eyes catch on a white car just in front of the door. That one, he notices, is new. That one looks an awful lot like one of Smurf’s cars.

His stomach drops. He was sure he had done everything right– done all he was asked, showed up every time he was called, obeyed every time he was given an order. It should have been enough to keep Smurf happy. It should have been enough to keep you safe.

He’s moving before he’s certain, pulling open the door to your shop with poorly concealed urgency. And he sees her. Smurf is there by the small shelves tucked by the side wall, asking you about muffuletta and olives of all things. You’re talking to her like you would any other customer, soft-spoken and informative. She has a pair of big sunglasses between her fingers and she’s smiling at you in a way that he knows means she might bite. Andrew isn’t sure how he’s going to handle this situation, just that he needs to. 

Smurf notices him too soon, he’s at a disadvantage. She turns her head to watch him approach with a kind of boredom on her face. Your head follows, finding him not long after. 

“Smurf.” He says, choosing to stand beside you.

You look up at him with a shine in your eyes you can’t help and he knows his mother sees it.

“Andrew.” She says, putting on a kind of syrup over her words. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Just stopping by.”

“Oh, this isn’t the girl you were telling me about, is it?” A well acted realization takes place on her face. She turns back to you. “It’s nice to officially meet you honey, call me Smurf.”

Her hand sticks out and waits for yours. Pope’s fingers twitch watching you shake hands, hating that his mother would touch you. It’s something so small and calculated, so inane to any onlooker or outsider. Touch, to Smurf, means access. Access means ownership.

“Did you both want to take a seat?” You offer, polite and without motive.

“No, that’s okay.” Smurf says with a smile. “I should probably head out. You take care, I’ll see you at home Andrew.”

She turns almost lazily, meandering back out the door. Andrew stays standing straight and tall until it closes behind her. 

“Hi,” You offer.

“Hi.” 

You wait. He shifts over his feet, trying to shake what’s settled over his shoulders.

“You’re early.”

“I was in the area.”

You hum. He doesn’t think you believe him but you let it go.

“Sit. Want a sandwich?”

“No, thank you.”

He settles stiffly into one of the wrought iron chairs at the little table furthest into the corner. You go about the rest of your shift as if he weren’t there. Taking orders, wiping counters, getting the store ready for the girl who takes over after eight. His shoulders fall a fraction as he watches you, just enough for him to feel a difference.

When he drops you off that night he doesn’t stay. He goes home to sit on his bed and spiral, down and down and down. He doesn’t sleep. 

X

He’s there the next day to drive you home again. He isn’t sure that he should. He doesn’t know what to do, not at all, so he sticks with the routine he knows. Something will give soon, things can’t stay as they are. But he still wants to see you. He can’t quite say no to himself yet. 

He’s quiet on the drive. He’s quiet sitting on your couch. He’s quiet as you eat. You’re giving him so much grace. But a way through feels impossible.

You shower and he stays where he is, an immoble fixture in your living space. You come back to him, steamed and dewy, and he thinks he should go but he doesn’t. When you ask him if he thinks a shower would help he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he deserves the comfort you offer. He doesn’t think hot water will fix anything. But he showers anyway, because it’s something to do.

While the water doesn’t fix things it makes his neck ache a little less. The smell of your soap soothes him somewhat. His skin feels tight by the time he’s done. He still doesn’t feel clean.

He doesn’t see you when he comes back out into the living room so he doubles back to your bedroom. Your lamps are on, casting the space in a warm glow. You’re a soft thing in your shirt and your shorts, legs bare and feet tucked close to you. There’s something playing softly from a speaker he doesn’t see immediately. You look up from the book you’re reading and smile, something small and sticky-sweet. You nod towards the space beside you. He gets on the bed. He lays down and clasps his hands over his chest. It’s quiet. Andrew can do quiet.

One song passes. Then two, then four.  You close your book to watch him breathe. His eyes stay on the ceiling.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He answers without turning his head.

“You stay with your mom sometimes?” You ask it kindly, like it’s just another thing you want to learn about him. It makes something feel sharp behind his ribs. You make it seem so easy, addressing the things he should be able to on his own.

“Sometimes.”

I’ll see you at home, Andrew. Said by Smurf to stake a claim, to tie a leash. 

“Does she ever come to your place?”

“No.” That was Andrew’s apartment, paid for with his own money. “It’s just mine.”

You hum, filing your new understandings away.

“She seems nice.” You offer, aiming for levity.

“She’s not.” Something about Andrew’s voice sounds unsettled, like something is about to come unhinged.

“Oh.” You piece it together. “So, it’s maybe not good that she came to see me?” 

Andrew shakes his head. It really wasn’t. 

You wait. You don’t know what to ask so you don’t ask anything, letting him decide where to take things, what to share.

“Smurf is… dangerous.” He settles on the simple word. He looks at you, finally. “I didn't want you to meet her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He wants to get that straight.

You’re still waiting, watching him with open eyes. You’re always doing this, creating a space for him and guarding the perimeter. Giving him a freedom that comes from being looked after, not forgotten.

Something comes loose inside of him. He finds himself wanting to talk but not knowing what to say. It starts bubbling out of him. He hears himself telling you about Smurf, using words like touch and forced and hurt, each word mapped both to himself and his mother in a nauseating web. He doesn’t know which things should stay unsaid. He thinks all of it should remain unsaid but you deserve honesty, and he won’t let you stay twined with him without knowing. He probably won’t let you stay twined with him at all. 

There’s a beat. A song ends and another starts. 

“You know it’s not okay, right? The way she treated you?” Your voice reaches him, even as he’s in the distant place inside of himself he uses as safety.

He nods once.

“You know none of it was your fault, right?”

Again.

“I’m sorry,” You say, voice low. You unfold your legs to lay on your side. He can still feel your eyes, a gentle kind of attention on his face.

“It’s okay.” He says, automatic. He turns onto his side, too.

“It’s not.”

It’s really not.

He sits with this, not quite ready to meet your eyes again. But his eyes follow the line of your shoulder, the even rise and fall of your chest, the hem of your shirt at the base of your neck.

Your whole body leans towards him halfway, offering comfort, and then it waits. He still can’t look at you but his hand finds your side, follows it's line towards your lower back. You move to tuck yourself against him fully, sternum to sternum, legs threading together. His fingers spread against your back, his pinky finding the space between your top and your bottoms. It almost makes you shiver, the slow drag of his finger.

Your bare skin is so soft. There’s a heat all over and his hands are tingling where they touch you. He tries to stay in the moment, to stay right where he is, but the thoughts creep up on him. Enjoying this, here, with you, feels like a bad decision.

He’s been so good. He’s been working so hard. Knowing and letting himself be known. Trusting you and trusting himself. He was so close to something like surrender. He’ll have to go. He knows he’ll have to. The hardened, avoidant, pessimistic, realistic voice inside of his head tells him as much, tells him to cut his losses now and give in to what he knows is inevitable. But there’s a whimpering, starving, obsessive, pathetically optimistic voice answering back, speaking from a place he can’t identify. It wants to have you, to keep you, but he’s getting less and less sure he’ll be able to by the day. Smurf standing in front of you was the start and the end of it. It never should have happened, and now that it has, there’s nothing to be done. Smurf was her own kind of death sentence.

Andrew is better at self preservation than absolutely anything else. He’s avoided more for less, resorted to more drastic means for less important ends. But he can’t help himself. He wants to have this before he goes. He wants to give you this one thing, something tender and devoted and his alone to give. He wants you to see him on his knees, soft spots exposed for you to lay your hands over. He wants you to know he’d give you anything, expose his muscle and sinew if you wanted to look, leave the world behind if you asked him to.

Yes, he would kill for you. But he would also take his shirt off. He’d let you touch him, taste him, look into his mouth, listen to him fall apart. 

He can’t tell you what’s going on in his head. He barely has a handle on it most days, and doesn’t know how to show it either. He can try though. God help him, he could try. His forehead meets yours, careful not to hurt you when they collide. He takes a moment, and then he tilts his head further. You share a breath before he finally seeks your mouth with his. He kisses you, a little stiff and a little firm, and you let him.

When he feels your hand come up into his hair, his mouth parts under yours. He takes as deep a breath as he can before returning to the kiss, a thrill running through him as he feels your tongue, your teeth.  

His hand sweeps the length of your spine, up then down before reaching further, hungry for more of you. He doesn’t grab exactly, but there’s an assertiveness to his touch. His hand is heavy and low on your hip, and your leg comes higher up, still curled around his. His hips begin to rock against yours and you make a small sound. He stills.

He hesitates not because he doesn’t want you, but because he wants you so unbearably much. His need is overwhelming and it feels unfair to you.

“We don’t have to do anything else.” You mean this, as breathless and burning as you are.

“I want to.” He says. He can try to be braver than he is, knowing you’ll handle him carefully.

Your mouth finds his then, drawing him back into you. His shoulders crowd over you without meaning to, the broadness of his chest pressing against you and encouraging you onto your back as he leans over you. His mouth comes back down against yours, pressing and pressing and pressing. He slides his tongue against yours, trying to pay attention to the feel and your taste and somehow not fully taking in either. The hand over your hip starts to climb upwards, dragging fabric as it goes. His fingers find the band of your bra from over your shirt and then he repeats the motion, this time against your skin. His hand is hot against you, his palm sweeping back up your ribs to cup the bottom of your breast. 

Your chest pushes up into his hand and he understands he’s doing well. He would spend more time on your tits if he felt more self-assured but he’s nervous here. He only wants to touch you in ways he’s certain will feel good for you. He thinks of his hands, the big, rough things that they are, and he can see himself grabbing you too viciously if he’s not careful. No, he’d rather play it safe, stick to things he knows how to do. He gives you one calculated squeeze before his hand moves back down your stomach, his big fingers just teasing your waistband. You take his wrist, guiding his hand further down, asking him not to hesitate. 

His hand slips into your shorts, touching you over your panties. The fabric of them dampens under his fingers as he presses them against your opening, around your clit. You moan, a small breathy thing, and he’s drunk on it. Careful fingers draw small circles around the bud, being mindful of pressure and friction. You breathe into his mouth between kisses and he wants to share the same air as you forever.

“Take them off.” You tell him. It’s a gentle instruction that reminds him of the hardness straining in his jeans. 

He pauses to fit his thumbs under your waistband, pulling everything down your legs. Your panties stick some where he had pressed them against you and the hunger inside him widens. You kick them off the side of the bed and Andrew takes advantage of the extra space between your legs. Two fingers drag confidently through your folds, running through your slick and spreading it over you. He brings one of them back down to tease your entrance, barely pressing in. You squirm, whining and needy.

“Inside, please.” Your hands find his face to hold him, keeping his eyes on yours, right where you want him.

He obliges.

His first finger sinks in all the way down to the knuckle and you make such a pretty sound, coloured with need and satisfaction. Andrew’s cock twitches in his jeans, the pressure of his erection becoming uncomfortable. His hips find your leg, rubbing his bulge against the outside of your thigh. You feel the size of him and it makes you even whinier. His finger fucks you slowly and he knows he’ll need to brace himself if he’s going to be inside of you. 

“More.” You sound breathy.

He gives you what you’re asking for. He pulls out before adding another finger, the stretch makes your hips lift, chasing the pleasure. You make noise after noise and he feels you getting close. The heat in your stomach draws inwards and crashes over you all at once. His fingers don’t stop moving inside of you until you push his wrist away, your knees drawing up together. 

His hand moves to draw you closer to him, holding you through your comedown. His fingers are wet against your side. When you come back into your body your face is flushed and your pupils are blown. Nobody has ever been more beautiful.

“Will you let me fuck you?” The question comes out smaller than he means it to.

“Are you sure?” You ask, voice soft and eyes watchful.

“Please,” He asks against your mouth.

You nod, nose brushing his. You kiss him then, your touch the softest he’s ever received.

Sitting back on his knees he unbuckles his belt and your desire deepens. He removes his jeans and his boxers before settling back on top of you, hesitant again.

“Okay?” You ask, watching his face.

“Yeah.” He says, as confidently as he can.

You roll your hips up then, catching his tip against your entrance. He makes an embarrassing noise, a high whine from the back of his throat. You don’t seem to mind though, lips chasing his as you move underneath him. His hips jerk enough against you to feel your cunt start to suck him in. He takes a deep breath in and holds it as he pushes all the way into you. He thinks he might pass out.

It’s so much; your tightness, your heat, his balls resting against you.

You kiss along his cheek, his jaw, and tell him gently to breathe. He doesn’t. He can’t, not yet, or else he’ll ruin this for you. He shifts, making a miniscule adjustment of his hips against yours, your comfort at the front of his mind. You sigh, breath warming the skin of his shoulder, and it feels like permission. 

Andrew pulls back before pushing back in once, twice, over and over, slow strokes finding a rhythm he can manage to breathe through. You’re so wet, the slide of your walls easing the tight fit. He makes a broken, depraved sound and you clench around him. He can’t stop himself from doing it again creating a beautiful feedback loop, him falling apart inside of you and you getting off on his desperation. 

You moan his name into his ear, against his neck. Andrew, like a plea. Andrew, like a surrender.

He fucks you faster, breath shakier. It’s overwhelming, the white hot feeling in the pit of his stomach, the cavern of wanting inside his chest.

“I can’t,” It’s distressing, trying to hold out but knowing he won’t be able to. “I need–”

“Give it to me baby,” You encourage, finding your own satisfaction in his pleasure.

It feels like he’s breaking. He’s never felt so undone, so held in his undoing.

“I can’t unless– I won’t–” His eyes are shut tight, breathing through clenched teeth to try and reign himself in even an inch.

“Cum for me Andrew– need it, need you so bad.” 

He wants to be good. He wants to be good but you’re so wet and you’re all he ever thinks about and you’re asking him to cum. He tries slowing his pace but it’s no good. His orgasm hits him like a car crash. His cock is twitches inside of you as he paints your cervix, hips pressed almost painfully hard into yours as he cums, releasing something like a sob. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, swallowing the sounds he makes, keeping him in this moment, tethering him to you.

He feels briefly incoherent, but he comes back to you, forehead once again pressed to yours, chests heaving in tandem. You’re cradling his jaw again, your thumbs wiping at his cheeks. He didn’t know he was crying. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, voice pitching.

You kiss him and shake your head.

“You were perfect.” 

“I didn’t make you cum.” He looks sick with worry above you and your heart breaks a little. 

“I don’t need to, baby. I’ve never been happier.”

His face makes a devastating expression and you gather him against you, keeping your hips locked.

“This is what I want, Andrew. Just this.” Your voice carries a conviction that reaches him through the chemical rush he hasn’t recovered from. “Just this, I promise.”

X

The morning after, Andrew is up before you. You wake up to cold sheets but you hear sound from down the hall. Meyer lemon and fresh air fill your apartment. Dappled sun seeps through your windows, warming your floors. You find Andrew kneeling, rag and cleaner in hand. He looks up when he hears you.

You stand at the edge of the room and you watch each other. He slips off the cleaning gloves, resting them on the coffee table nearby, and presses his palms down against his thighs. He doesn’t know what you would like him to do with himself. He barely knows what to do with himself on his own, other than try to be useful. He’s not under the impression that he’s being normal, he knows cleaning your television stand while you’re asleep is not how he’s supposed to act the morning after having sex with someone for the first time. He wants to be good. He just wants to be good.

Then you’re moving, approaching him with sure steps. And then you’re on the floor with him, kneeling to hug him, murmuring a good morning against his skin. You’re warm from sleep and leaning against him like you’ve decided that’s your spot now. He doesn’t move, letting you rest against him, rubbing your back as you settle. Your hair smells like your detergent, your skin still smells like sex.

Later in the day, after he’s dropped you off at home, he finds a florist shop with good reviews.

“A bouquet.” He said, by way of request and explanation to the florist.

Three dozen red roses are on your step when you get back from your day, dressed with baby’s breath and greens. Arranged in their own vase, they’re a little heavy to bring inside. 

You send him a message and a picture of them on your kitchen counter.

thank you andrew <3

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t think he has to. He’s glad you like them. He still feels sick, though. He doesn’t know whether the flowers were more of a thank you or an apology or a confession or an admission. No matter what they are, he’s just happy you’re happy.

X

It only takes a handful of small things to amount to a big problem on a job. Shit is quickly going sideways. Andrew keeps his cool, reminding his brothers to act before they can think. They’ve done this kind of run so much it’s muscle memory at this point. They make it out with exactly what they came for and a little less blood than they came with. The drive home is silent.

They file into the kitchen, Smurf waiting with desert plates and criticisms.

“What was that.” Smurf says in her way. Questions are never really questions. “You were sloppy.”

Andrew wants to protest, to remind everyone that he was the only one holding the splintering job together. Craig was careless and distracted, Deran was twitchy and eager to bolt the way he always is. But he takes his lashings and then some.

“You were distracted.” She stares at him and him only. “It’s that girl.”

Andrew is quiet. If there’s a lecture attached he just has to let it happen.

“She’s not like us, baby. She doesn’t belong here.”

“I know.” He says, because he does. He’s never wanted you here, not in this house or in this life. He’s held you away from it all because that’s never what he would want for you.

Smurf looks at him, cold and exacting and extractive. She sees exactly what he isn’t able to hide: his stupid, hopeful, bleeding heart.

“You could never be with her, you know that? You don’t belong out there having picnics and picking daisies.” She says, speaking down to the dream Andrew has kept hidden in the very back of his head for months, for his entire life. “This is it for you, Pope.”

His jaw clenches. He’s been told, ad nauseam, that his options are limited. That he’s only good for one thing. His mother, his brothers, his numerous associates and acquaintances; they all treat him with a kind of sad disinterest. A kind of fear and pity he’s never managed to grow a thick skin against.

You had never seen him like that. You had never treated him like that.

“Don’t be stupid.” Smurf murmurs, stepping closer to pull Andrew’s head to her shoulder. “She’ll only get hurt if you’re around.”

His hands are immoble, helpless at the ends of his arms. He knows what Smurf is saying. Andrew is to stop seeing you, or else she’ll be the reason harm will come your way. 

He was stupid for dreaming. Stupid for thinking that maybe there could be something else for him, an out after his years of devoted service. Smurf gets what Smurf wants. Andrew gets what Smurf allows.

His brain tries to solve things that week. He’s aloof and forlorn, noticeably more so than usual. He’s tallying numbers, playing out scenarios, counting odds. He thinks about how he could get out, where he could go, where you might be open to going with him. He considers the cash he has on hand, the money he could get together, what he’d need to get you both set up. He works through the long list of allies and enemies of the Cody family, figuring who would be sent after him, who might already be after him independently. He has ideas. What he does not have is time or secrecy.

Smurf joins him at the patio table one morning.

“I heard something went down over at that place Craig likes.” She offers this as conversation, as if it’s not a loaded gun, a threat being followed through.

Pope just looks at her.

“A robbery. The staff got pretty shaken up.”

He trembles. He feels rage. Very carefully, he stands from the table and turns to walk inside.

“Pope.”

He stops.

“You know what you need to do.”

Not a question.

He keeps walking. 

He stands in his room, feeling like his body is a stranger. As always, he feels more like the family dog instead of a son Smurf could love.

When Andrew punches the wall his knuckles don’t feel the impact. He feels just as dizzy and stupid and useless as when he was a kid. His life is not his own. How dare he entertain the idea that it might be.

X

The bruising around your eye is so much worse in person. You open the door with a smile and his heart drops. He feels ill.

“Andrew!” Your voice is bright, mismatched with the evidence of injury on your face.

Looking over your shoulder he can see that the roses are still on your counter, in the vase he picked because he wasn’t sure you’d have one big enough. They’ve only just now started wilting, after a week and a half.

“Are you okay?”

He keeps his hands firmly in his pockets, refusing to allow himself to hold your face, tilt it towards his.

“Oh, yeah, some guy came into the shop on Friday. It’s happened before, you know what the area can be like.” You look at him, no doubt or suspicion behind your eyes.

You don’t know. You don’t even have any idea that you’re hurt because of him. You don’t think he’s the reason that you and your coworkers were subjected to violence, were forced into a situation that did not ever have to happen.

He wants normalcy for you. He wants afternoon shifts and steady paychecks and flower bouquets and Saturday night dates. Ice cream and dinner and boardwalks, and a normal boyfriend with a normal family and normal problems. He’s not that. As much as he wants to be, he’s not that. Not now and, according to Smurf, likely not ever. 

Andrew opens his mouth.

“I won’t be around.” He says. Bad start. Too vague. 

Your brows pinch like you’re confused.

“You have to go? Like, away?”

He nods.

“Okay, when will you be back?”

He hesitates. “I won’t.”

Your head tilts.

“I can’t see you anymore.” He tries again. Better. Clearer.

“Is everything okay?” You ask in that soft tone, the one he only ever hears coming from you.

He doesn’t answer, eyes stuck on the vase over your shoulder.

“Did I do something?”

Of course you would think it was you. You’re good enough to see the good in Andrew before anything else.

“If I did something or if you feel overwhelmed you can tell me.” 

He feels like a feral animal that you’re offering the back of your hand to.

“I just can’t.”

“I don’t mind, Andrew. Do what you have to do, I’ll be here. I–”

“No.”

“Andrew,” You’re trying to reason with him. He can’t let you. “You– you know how I feel about you.”

He’d spent the last handful of months hoping. Hoping to see you again, hoping you’d let him near you, hoping he could be something to you, hoping you would still like him even after you got to know him. He’s wanted you, so much it hurt. He had hoped, fervently, that you felt any fraction of what he felt for you. He hadn’t dared believe it. And you can’t say it now, you can’t tell him you love him or he’ll make the wrong choice. He needs to go. There’s no other option.

“Whatever you think you feel for me, you don’t. You don’t know me, and you’re nothing like me.”

It’s like you flinch. Your mouth is tight, your eyes go wet.

You’re quiet for a long time. He doesn’t leave.

“This is about her isn’t it.”

“It’s not about Smurf.” He doesn’t look at you when he answers.

An impasse. You both know you’re right.

“What did she say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But she said something.” 

“She always says something, it doesn’t matter.” He forces a deep breath. “You’re not going to see me again.”

Your chin crumples and his stomach begins to cannibalise itself.

“I have to go. Don’t wait around for me.”

“Andrew–”

“I’m serious,” He says, speaking with more bite than he’s ever used with you. “Don’t. I won’t come back.”

“But you said.” Your chest contracts, your throat hot. “You said I was– I thought I was important.”

Your voice lowers on the word important, embarrassed for having to say it. You feel pathetic. You’ve never been closer to begging in your life. You had felt it, you felt the way you were both on the precipice of something beautiful and delicate and binding. You were right there. You thought you had him. You thought it was a sure thing.

He says your name in a way you don’t understand. 

He still hasn’t left. He thinks he’s waiting for you to get angry. To yell or hit him or tell him what a fucking disappointment he is. He wants you to, he wants you to prove he’s right about himself. To prove he’s nothing more than mean and angry and helplessly inept. But you don’t. And that’s so much worse.

You’re still looking at him with gentleness somehow. Like you see him for what he is and you still want him. He doesn’t know how to handle the idea that you still want him. Not even that you might want him, that you do want him, even now while he’s making you cry. 

He takes a step back and your first tears fall. He turns before he loses his conviction, getting back into his truck without showing you his face.

X

You don’t expect to hear from him again. Men like Pope know how to disappear, how to erase fingerprints and traces. You move through the next five days in a daze, expecting to see his truck in front of your shop, your hands moving to call him before you remember. 

He sends you a text two weeks later, just your name and a comma after it, like he had sent the message before he finished writing it.

You don’t know what it means. 

You don’t hear from him again. 

⏾ ⋆.˚ TRIGGER WARNINGS .ᐟ lowercase intended!!!! ◞ age gap relationship ( 20s and 40s ) ◞ dbf!jack ◞ toys ◞ emotional manipulation ◞ jack tries to act like he doesnt care and he is a little mean and implies that reader is a fling ( but only bc he scared of commitment ) ◞ mean!dom!jack ◞ brat!reader ◞ multiple orgasms ( like a lot ) ◞ overstimulation ◞ lil bit of oral ( fem!rec ) ◞ clit heavy stimulation

kinktober masterlist ─ ⏾ ✦ ♯ inbox

you’re sprawled across jack’s bed, naked and flushed and utterly wrecked. still catching your breath. your thighs are sticky with him. his cum is cooling on your skin, but you’re too boneless to care.

he’s sitting at the edge of the bed, tugging his prosthetic leg back on like it’s just another tuesday, towel draped over one shoulder, jaw clenched.

you’re watching him, dreamy and dazed. “you good?” he grumbles, without looking back. you hum a lazy mmhmm, shifting onto your side so your cheek squishes against the pillow.

you’re smiling. because why wouldn’t you be? you’re in his bed. you’re full of him. you’re glowing.

and then he says it. “just so we’re clear—there’s not gonna be any of this shit at the lake house this weekend.”

you blink. “what?”

he turns now and levels you with a look. something serious and stern.“i’m not fucking you this weekend.” you laugh—because what the fuck kind of joke is that?

“you’re not—jack, we just—what?”

“i said what i said.”

you sit up, blinking the haze from your eyes. “why the hell not?” he stands. starts wiping himself down like he’s trying to get your scent off of him.

“because it’s your father’s house. and he’s my best friend. and i’ve got enough sins on my conscience without fucking his daughter under his goddamn roof.”

you’re reeling, because how can he go from giving you one of the best orgasms of you life ( only second to the one he gave the day after you were stabbed.) “so being with me is a sin now? we’ve already done it, jack.”

“exactly, you think I’m proud of that?”

you scoff. “yes, actually.”

he tosses the towel onto the floor and stalks over to the dresser, yanking open a drawer like it’s offended him. “i’m not proud. i’m—trying. you get that? this is me trying not to fuck up your life more than i already have.

you tug the sheet up over your chest—not because you’re embarrassed, but because suddenly, you feel exposed in a whole different way.

“you’re not fucking up my life.”

he gives you a long look. one that lands like a hand around your throat. not cruel. just true. “give it time.”

you frown. “you don’t really believe that.”

he doesn’t answer. he just clenches his jaw. shuts the drawer. and you realize—he’s scared. not of your dad. not of being caught. he’s scared of you. scared of how much he wants you. scared of how much he’s already yours.

but he doesn't say another word before leaving the bedroom and stalking towards the bathroom.

the truck tires crunch against gravel, thick pine shadows dancing across the windshield as the late afternoon sun cuts down through the trees.

it’s peaceful out here. quiet. perfect for family time—and perfect for war.

you don’t speak much on the drive up. jack’s in the passenger seat. your father’s driving, tapping the steering wheel to some old country song, completely oblivious to the tension simmering beside him.

you, curled in the backseat with your earbuds in and your legs stretched out—bare thighs on display, foot propped on the cooler between the seats—pretend not to notice the way jack keeps adjusting himself.

the shorts are an inch shorter than they were last summer. the tank top? white and tight fitted. so thin that one breeze would reveal both your hard nipples.

because fuck him.

because when he looked you in the eye two nights ago—naked, sweaty, still shaking from coming on his tongue—and told you he wasn’t going to fuck you this weekend, you almost laughed in his face.

you’ve been livid ever since.

the lake house emerges at the edge of the treeline like some postcard from another life—wraparound porch, old cedar siding, little flag flapping on the dock.

your dad cuts the engine, claps jack on the shoulder.

“c’mon, we’ll unload the truck and get some beers goin’.”

you hop out last. purposefully. you stretch slow—arms overhead, tank pulling up to show your ribs, your stomach, the soft curve of underboob. it's risky as fuck but your father is already stepping into the house with a handful of groceries when you moan just a little as your spine cracks.

and jack—still bent into the truck bed—freezes. he straightens, then looks at you. his jaw clenches like it hurts. “careful,” he says low, voice all gravel. “that shirt’s thin as hell.”

you feign surprise. glance down like you hadn’t noticed the way your nipples harden under the cotton. tilt your head just enough to catch his eye. “then don’t fucking look at me.” you hear him gasp but you don't care.

then you walk away.

jack had already gone upstairs, his duffle slung over his shoulder. you didn’t have to guess where he was headed. you waited for the creak of floorboards, the squeak of hinges, the soft thud of his door shutting. then you picked the room next to his.

your voice echoed up the stairs as you climbed them slowly, fingers dragging along the railing with calculated nonchalance. “oh, just my luck,” you chirped. “looks like we share a bathroom, jackie.”

there was no lock on the bathroom door. you’d checked.

jack emerged from his room just in time to hear it. his jaw was set, lips thinned into something that almost resembled pain. you didn’t give him the satisfaction of eye contact—just breezed past him into the shared bathroom with your overnight bag in tow.

you unpacked in silence, humming a lazy tune under your breath, like you hadn’t already planned every piece of this before you even stepped out of his truck.

the first thing you laid out were your thongs. neatly folded. color coordinated. each one a weapon. the dark red lace pair—his favorite—was placed right at the center like a crown jewel. you didn’t even glance at the mirror, but you felt the weight of jack’s gaze as he passed behind you, pausing just long enough to punish himself.

next came the bra. black. sheer. a little bow in the center. the same one he once tugged between his teeth before you yanked him onto your bed. you didn’t hang it up like a normal person. you draped it over the towel rack—his towel rack. he’d have to move it if he wanted to shower.

the bikini came last. tiny black triangles with thread-thin strings that wouldn’t survive a strong breeze. you placed it just barely sticking out of your toiletries bag, the straps arranged carelessly as though you hadn't spent five full minutes getting them just right.

he’d recognize it instantly. because the last time you wore it, his hand had been between your thighs and the water jets had been loud enough to mask your moans.

but it was the final item that made it art.

you placed the vibrator—your vibrator, the one you hadn't touched in months, the one he'd silently replaced without asking—right on the bathroom counter beside the soap. pink. clean. innocent in appearance, but unmistakably yours. you didn’t say a word. just flicked it on for a single second to make sure it still worked—buzz—then turned it off and left it there.

you didn’t look at jack as you walked out of the bathroom. didn’t acknowledge his presence when you passed him in the hall. didn’t close your door when you disappeared into your bedroom.

you didn’t have to. you’d already won.

jack hadn’t meant to linger in the hallway. he’d just needed to wash his hands before supper. that was all. something innocent. quick.

he’d opened the bathroom door and stepped inside. and then he saw it.

at first, it was just your stuff. clothes, toiletries, that peach-scented lotion he knew too well. he could smell you in the steam of the shower that hadn’t even run yet. and that alone was enough to put a knot in his stomach.

but then his eyes dropped.

the thongs. not packed away. not folded into drawers like they should’ve been, but draped—on purpose—like little silk traps across the counter and towel rack. black lace. red satin. pale lilac he remembered pushing to the side with his thumb.

and the bra. jesus christ, the bra.

he was sweating. actually sweating. his jaw clenched so tight it made his head ache. and when his eyes finally landed on the tiny black bikini, that familiar tie-string little thing peeking out of your bag—that was when he realized you were trying to kill him.

you knew what that suit did to him. you knew what you were doing.

but the vibrator?

that was actually an act of war.

there it sat. barely concealed. almost proud in its little pink audacity. like a dare. like a slap in the face. like a reminder that if he wasn’t going to fuck you this weekend, you’d just do it yourself—in the shared bathroom you both had to use. right under his goddamn nose.

he should’ve walked away. should’ve shut the door and taken a cold shower and prayed for deliverance. but instead—he snatched it.

quick. quiet. tucked it into his hoodie pocket like contraband. he didn’t think about why. not yet. he just knew that you weren’t going to win. not that easily.

he stood there for a second longer, hand still curled around the warm shape of it in his pocket, head tipped back as he exhaled through his nose.

“fuck me,” he muttered under his breath.

he adjusted himself through his jeans—painfully—and tried to think about anything else. dead fish. car accidents. your father, who was literally downstairs and making dinner like jack hadn’t just had a full-blown crisis three feet away from his daughter’s panties.

it took every ounce of willpower he had to wipe the look off his face and head downstairs like he wasn’t hiding a sex toy in his hoodie pocket and a near-painful erection behind his fly.

but when he got to the bottom of the stairs, your father clapped a hand on his shoulder, and jack just about died on the spot.

“you alright, brother? look a little flushed.”

jack cleared his throat. “allergies.” your father raised a brow. jack added, “pollen’s a bitch.”

the smell of grilled steak didn’t help.

jack sat stiff as a board at the dinner table, one elbow braced on the arm of the chair, fork untouched, and eyes absolutely anywhere but on you.

because you—you, who had spent the better part of the afternoon parading around in those microscopic shorts, you who had bent over your chair to “plug in your phone” at the perfect angle, you who were now sitting across the table with no bra and that goddamn bikini strap peeking from beneath your neckline—were currently smiling politely while your father passed the potatoes.

“jack, you want some?” your dad asked, mid-scoop.

He blinked. “huh?”

you bit back a grin. your father handed over the bowl. “potatoes,” he said, chuckling. “you alright, brother? you’ve been out of it all day.”

“yeah.” jack cleared his throat. “just—long drive. that’s all.”

he didn’t even like potatoes. but he took a mound anyway.

you leaned over your plate, fork poised, lips parted in that faux-innocent way that made his jaw clench and his thigh twitch under the table.

“so, jack,” you asked sweetly. “did you end up unpacking after your nap?” his eyes lifted. met yours. you knew.

he knew you knew he hadn’t been napping. he’d spent an hour in his room trying not to explode in his jeans and trying even harder not to go back into that bathroom and bend you over the sink like he wanted to.

your father chuckled. “he naps now?”

“apparently,” you said. “Didn’t even hear me making a racket across the hallway.”

jack’s fork scraped his plate a little too hard.

your father didn’t notice.

but you did.

you were buttering a roll now. slow, deliberate. a little swirl of your wrist. a dab of jam. nothing overt. nothing actionable. just subtle enough to look innocent. just slow enough to feel pornographic.

jack bit the inside of his cheek and turned his eyes to the water pitcher.

you sat back in your chair with a soft little hum. crossed your legs under the table. and with the most casual of movements, you dragged your foot across the floor and up his calf.

he choked.

coughed into his fist. hard. tried to cover it with a sip of water. “you alright, man?” your father asked again. you smiled and blinked wide. “oh no, did you choke?”

jack grabbed the water glass again and nodded. “went down wrong.”

you pressed your bare foot higher—up his shin, under the tablecloth, brushing against his knee.

he stared you down like he might kill you. or fuck you. or both. then your father stood. “gotta go check the grill. be right back.” the door hadn’t even shut before jack’s voice dropped low. firm. rough with restraint.

“you’re outta your fuckin’ mind.”

you sipped your drink. “pardon?”

jack gritted his teeth. “keep it up and i swear—”

“what?” you leaned forward just an inch. just enough. “you’ll send me to bed without supper?”

his eye twitched.

you cocked your head, all butter-wouldn’t-melt. “or maybe you’ll finally give me something else to eat?”

jack’s fists clenched under the table.

you gave him one final, devastating smile—the smile, the one that haunted him—and popped a piece of cornbread into your mouth like you hadn’t just given him a boner in front of your actual father.

he was going to kill you.

or fuck you.

maybe both.

you were a saint at dinner.

well, mostly.

you smiled. chewed. didn’t say a word when jack’s fork nearly cracked his plate. you even made polite conversation while trailing your foot up his leg like it wasn’t the same leg that once pinned you to a hospital headboard in a locked on call room.

no funny business this weekend, my ass.

you ascended the stairs with the grace of a girl who absolutely wasn’t done playing this game. not even close. because you had one more move to make before bed. a little personal ritual.

your skincare routine. and then your orgasm.

because jack might be trying to do the right thing, but you? you were doing the right thing for yourself.

you padded into the shared bathroom between your rooms, humming under your breath. the light flicked on soft and gold. your bag was right where you left it—open on the counter, skincare laid out in order like sacred tools. you reached for your cleanser first.

then toner. serum. cream.

your eyes flicked casually to the side. the same spot you left it. but the spot was empty. you froze.

no fucking way.

you pushed aside your bra, the lace barely hiding the ache in your chest. then the hairbrush. then the lip balm. you bent slightly to look underneath the counter.

gone.

you stood up slowly, blinking at your reflection. your jaw tensed. a sudden heat bloomed behind your ribs.

he didn’t.

he didn’t.

he took it.

you stormed into your room, palms clammy with disbelief. you’d left it on purpose. out in the open. strategically placed. because if Jack wasn’t going to touch you this weekend, you at least wanted him to remember how you touched yourself.

but apparently that was too much for his moral code.

apparently withholding orgasms was part of his fucking friendship duties.

you collapsed onto the edge of your bed, vibrating with rage.

“oh, so he’s not fucking me, but i can’t fuck me either?” you whispered sharply to no one, glaring at the wall like it had betrayed you. you rubbed your face with both hands, but the fury didn’t leave. not even close.

in fact, it crystallized.

sharp and glittering and then you smiled because it dawned on you. fine. he wanted war? he just declared it. and boy, he had no idea what he was up against.

you are woman on a mission. you don’t knock. you slam the door open.

"where is it?"

jack doesn’t flinch. not even a little. just lifts his gaze slowly from the book in his lap—his stupid fucking book, glasses perched low on his nose like he’s actually reading and not sitting there with your orgasm in his sock drawer.

he blinks. mild. annoyingly mild.

“evenin’, sweetheart.”

oh hell no.

“don’t you ‘sweetheart’ me. where the fuck is it.”

jack closes the book carefully. precisely. like he’s got all the time in the goddamn world. his forearm flexes as he rests it on the arm of the chair. casual. relaxed. a little, if not a lot, smug.

you want to throttle him.

“i’m gonna need a little more context than that.”

you laugh. one of those high, breathless, hysterical laughs that makes men nervous. “three days, jack.”

he raises an eyebrow. “i haven’t come in three fucking days.”

that gets him. a twitch. barely there—but you know him too well. his jaw ticks. his nostrils flare. the corners of his mouth threaten a smirk. “i didn’t realize that was my problem.”

you lunge.

or at least you start to—until he lifts a single hand, palm up, as if you’re a wild animal he’s trying to settle.

“you’re not gonna find it,” he says calmly.

“so you did take it.”

he shrugs. “didn’t want your father stumbling on it.”

“could close the bathroom door! or put in my night bag that was on the counter?!”

another shrug. “couldn’t risk it.”

“you could’ve put it in my room—”

“could’ve.”

you are vibrating. full body. from your teeth to your thighs. “you are keeping me hostage in my own fucking clit cage,” you whisper furiously, “and for what? some noble cause?”

his eyes glint.

“i told you. no funny business this weekend.”

you stare at him. you want to cry. or scream. or throw something. or ride him until he begs.

instead, you march to the dresser and yank the top drawer open. “uh-uh.” he’s up in a flash, big hand closing over your wrist. “not so fast.”

“you’re out of your mind if you think i’m sleeping tonight without it.”

“you are.” the nerve. it sets you on fire.

you go still, eyes narrow. his voice drops an octave. “you think i don’t know what you’re doing? those little shorts. no bra. sashaying around like you’re trying to make me lose my fucking mind?”

your mouth opens. then shuts. then opens again. he leans in.

“i’m not touching you because i care about you,” he says, low and fierce. “not because i don’t want to. god knows i want to. but if i start again, i’m not stopping. and i’m not making you come on your little toy like some camp counselor with a curfew. you want to come? you wait until the fucking weekend is over.”

silence.

the room spins.

and then you—you, the girl who stormed in ready to commit a federal crime over a stolen vibrator—you whimper.

a pathetic, needy sound. betraying everything. because why was that so fucking frustrating and hot at the same time. and jack just smiles.

for a moment, you don’t blink.

you don’t move.

except your hand.

sliding down. casually and most certainly deliberately. right into your shorts.

jack stiffens. his eyes drop instinctively—then snap back up.

you cock your head, saccharine-sweet. “you really think i need the toy to get off?”

he doesn’t answer, doesn’t breathe. but the muscle in his jaw flexes. hard. you smile because for a moment you think your winning. because then you do it. right there. in front of him.

fingers dip past lace and slick warmth, your breath hitching just a little as you drag through wetness—your wetness—that he caused. all day. all night. every time he looked at you and didn’t touch.

you don’t break eye contact. not once. your voice drops to a whisper. “i’m so fucking wet, jack.” his throat bobs. his knuckles go white on the arm of the chair.

you drag your fingers over your clit once—twice—and gasp like it surprises you. it doesn’t. you knew you’d be close. you’ve been riding this edge for days.

and now he’s watching you do what he refused to. all because he’s noble. because he’s scared. because he thinks staying away is protecting you.

well fuck that.

“bet you wish you had the balls to do it yourself,” you murmur.

jack blinks, slow. then leans back in the chair. “go on, then,” he says. “finish.” it's not a command, its a dare.

your breath catches. “you sure?” you breathe. he nods once. “let’s see it.” you press harder. a endless cycle of circle, grind, moan.

eyes flutter, hips roll and he doesn’t move.

the room is thick with tension. your ragged breaths. the slick sound of your fingers. the sharp bite of your nails in your thigh to keep yourself grounded. balanced. present. because this isn’t just about getting off.

this is a show.

for him.

for the man who’s been edging you with his mouth and then telling you to be good. for the man who pretends he can’t touch you just because he’s scared of who might find out.

you're going to break him.

or you’re going to come trying. either way, you'll win.

you gasp again—high, sweet, strung-out. You’re right there.

you bite your lip, sway slightly as you bite your lip to stifle a whimper. you know you shouldn't. but you just can't help yourself as the coil winds tighter and tighter.

then your coming on your fingers.

right there. on your own fingers. in front of him. without his permission. without his help.

and jack abbott—your dad’s best friend, the man who swore he wouldn’t touch you this weekend, the man who spoiled you rotten with orgasms and praise and everything in between—is livid.

he doesn’t speak. doesn’t blink. doesn’t move. not until your breath finally steadies, your hand slipping slowly from your shorts, slick and trembling, like a ribbon of sin.

not until you smile at him—smug and breathless—and whisper, “see? guess i don’t need you after all."

you don't even know whats happened. that how fast everything changed. the fucking whiplash gets the better of you. because jack moves fast.

the chair screeches as it’s shoved back. the drawer to his nightstand is ripped open. and there it is. your vibrator. held tight in his fist like he’s wielding a goddamn weapon.

"you wanna come so bad?" his voice is low and guttural. he is absolutely wrecked as he grinds out, "fine."

your lips part.

"get. on. the bed."

you move like your body knows better than to disobey.

because something’s shifted. he’s not teasing anymore. not toying. not testing. he is punishing. the toy buzzes to life in his hand with a high, merciless hum.

you’re still in your little sleep shorts and ruined panties, thighs sticky and flushed from your solo stunt, heart pounding like you just summoned the devil.

and jack’s jaw is tight. his glasses still on. his shirt rolled to his elbows. a vein in his neck throbbing. “i told you i wasn’t gonna fuck you this weekend,” he says, tone flat. “didn’t say a damn thing about making you beg.”

you squirm.

he climbs onto the bed, knees caging your thighs, pressing the toy between your folds without preamble—still clothed, right on your clit that is still so fucking angry. "you're done being a little brat, y'hear?"

you cry out. loud. sharp. jack doesn't flinch. "your at one, already," he murmurs. "let’s see how many times it takes before you really learn who you belong to.”

he’s straddling your thighs—not between them, because he’s not giving you that satisfaction. he’s keeping his distance. a reminder that this is punishment.

you squirm under him, hips trying to chase the buzz of the toy as he presses it against your clothed pussy.

the lace barrier does nothing to dull the sensation. in fact, it might be worse. slickness makes the vibrations wet and messy, sends jolts right through your core.

“jack—” you breathe it like a prayer. he leans down, one hand gripping your jaw, the other still holding the toy. “no. you wanted to come so bad. you did. now you’ll come the when i say.”

the vibrator shifts just slightly, angled higher—right back on your clit. you jolt. “mmm—jack, please, i—”

he tsks. “you’re not even trying to be quiet, sweetheart.” your eyes widen. the bedroom walls feel thin. your father is just downstairs.

"guess i'll help," he mutters.

and then he rips your panties down—just enough to get what he needs—and shoves them in your mouth.

soft, damp, silken cotton—stuffed deep, curling over your tongue, your own taste flooding your mouth. “hold that there,” he growls. “you make a sound? i stop. got it?”

you nod, desperate and wrecked.

jack presses the toy back to your clit, this time direct and unfiltered, the hum angrier now. you arch. you whimper—muted by the soaked gag. "it's ok, baby, you can come." your hips buck wildly, legs twitching, thighs squeezing. but he pins you down—big hands braced on your waist—rock solid and relentless.

“that’s two,” he grunts as your climax hits like a freight train.

you scream into the gag, eyes wide and teary, thighs trembling beneath him.

and he doesn't even blink because he's not done. not even close.

you're wrecked. you should be satisfied. two orgasms in and you’re already trembling, thighs soaked and twitching beneath jack’s heavy weight.

but he hasn’t touched you with anything but the toy. not his fingers. not his cock. just that damn vibrator he yanked from your bag and now wields like punishment.

your ruined panties are still packed into your mouth, your own taste bleeding across your tongue.

“ready for number three,” he murmurs. his voice is so low it vibrates through the meat of your thigh where his palm rests.

you try to shake your head—please, it’s too much—but you don’t really mean it.

you’re soaked. you’re crying. and he hasn’t even started the third yet.

he sees your hesitation—your squirming—and it makes him smile. that cruel, smug little half-smirk that says: i knew you’d break first.

and then—he doesn’t give you time to prepare.

he drops the toy between your folds, direct to skin, dragging it slowly along your overstimulated clit for the umpteenth time. not hard. not fast. just enough to tease that raw bundle of nerves back to life.

you arch and shriek into the gag. your hips try to twist away and he grabs you by the waist—holds you down.

“uh-uh,” he growls. “you come on this again. you take it.” tears spill from the corners of your eyes. you’re nodding. you’re whimpering. you'll do anything he says at this point.

the buzz gets meaner. jack shifts it lower, dragging it down your slit, then up again, circling, never giving the same pressure twice.

your legs kick and yo pant. you fucking sob into the gag. and still he doesn’t stop. “you gonna cry about it?” he sneers, voice like sandpaper over honey. “you didn’t need the toy, huh? thought you were in control?”

the toy hits your clit again and stays. your back bows off the mattress. your muffled scream nearly shatters your throat.

“that’s three.”

your whole body shakes. you collapse into the mattress, arms useless, brain foggy, completely gone.

he pulls the toy away, finally a reprieve.

three orgasms in, your limbs like overcooked noodles, your pussy so puffy and swollen you can feel every pulse of blood in your clit.

your panties—still shoved in your mouth—are soaked with saliva and slick. and jack is rock-hard above you. still fully clothed. still not fucking you.

he watches you cry through the high. watches you shiver and gasp and twitch as the aftershocks settle deep in your bones. he lets you come down, just a little.

just enough. then, "one more," he says softly. not cruel this time. not mocking. just final. you blink up at him, dazed. you try to shake your head but you barely manage a whimper.

your eyes plead: no more, please, i can't—

he reaches for the toy again. but this time, he doesn’t go for your clit. your almost relieved but then he parts your thighs with his palm and presses the tip of the vibrator against your entrance. not buzzing. just resting.

your breath stutters in your throat. he meets your gaze.

"color?" you nod. once, then twice. a muffled green around the gag.

and that’s all he needs. he turns it on, just a low hum, and slowly—so slowly—he presses it inside.

the toy glides in smooth. You're so fucking wet that its so easy. so used to him.

but it’s not him.

it's not thick like his fingers.

not curved like his cock.

it’s plastic. cold, cruel, unfair. and you almost want to beg him to put you out of your misery and just fuck you already. it'd be a mercy. but when jack has got him mind set, there is no changing it so you let him have his fun.

your body doesn’t know the difference between him and the toy, at least not right now. you gasp around the panties as he slides it in—inch by inch—then pauses with just the head tucked inside.

his opposite thumb circles your clit and a cry tears from your throat.

then, deeper. he feeds it in until you're stretched wide, cunt throbbing around the firm little toy. "you want it, baby? huh?" he murmurs. “wanna come on this, too? wanna come stuffed full of plastic like some bratty little fuckdoll?”

you sob.

you nod.

you’re so close already.

he starts to fuck it in and out. shallow strokes. just enough to make you twitch.

he presses the toy against your front wall—just right. he knows the spot. your back arches off the bed.

you cry out—

it’s too much—

it’s not enough—

he presses harder. faster. and you scream into the gag as your fourth orgasm crashes through you—body convulsing around the toy inside you.

you come so hard you go numb. stars burst behind your eyes. your toes curl. your pussy spasms around the intruder, greedy and twitching, trying to milk it like it’s him.

jack yanks it out while you’re still shaking. he tosses it on the nightstand and reaches down—finally—pulling the gag from your mouth. you're gasping, sobbing, whimpering his name.

you don’t even notice him at first. you’re too far gone. “Just a taste, sweetheart…”

your body still convulses with aftershocks, little tremors rolling through your thighs. you're boneless. melted into the sheets. whimpering softly as your cunt pulses and flutters around nothing.

you think he’s done. you think he’s walking away.

but jack doesn’t leave. he shifts. you feel the mattress move. and then—a warm breath. between your legs.

your hips jerk.

you manage to lift your head just in time to see it—jack, now on his knees on the floor, the lamp behind him casting his silhouette against your trembling body. his shoulders broad. his hands—large, sure—parting your thighs.

his tongue licks up your slit in one slow, reverent stroke.

you scream—not in volume, but in shock.

“jack—” it’s more of a gasp. a prayer. a warning. a sob. but he doesn’t stop. his fingers dig into your hips to hold you down and he dives back in—tongue flattening, curling, tasting. he groans against you.

“fucking hell,” he rasps into your pussy, voice wrecked with hunger. “you taste so good, baby.” his mouth seals over your clit. you jerk—your legs kick—your body tries to escape the pleasure.

but he holds you there.

“you don’t need to come,” he growls, licking again. “just wanna taste.”

his tongue laps through your folds, over and over, wet and insistent.

and god— the pressure is building again. you didn’t think you had anything left. but with his mouth on you? you could die like this.

you sob into your hand, chest rising and falling, hips trying to roll— jack doesn’t let you.

he licks. he sucks. he groans. he tastes everything he gave you.

you cry his name. he looks up from between your legs—mouth slick with your come. his lips kiss your inner thigh like a benediction.

“m'sorry, needed a taste, baby,” he murmurs.

you're barely coherent.

sweaty, and spent and wrung out. your eyes are glassy. cheeks flushed. your panties are still shoved in your mouth, soaked from where he gagged you—

from where you whimpered and sobbed and came again and again and again.

he’s calm, steady. mean in the quietest ways.

his fingers reach for your jaw, thumb brushing along your cheek. "you're done for tonight."

you nod. and only then does he lean in—pressing a sweet, almost condescending kiss to your forehead as he slowly, slowly pulls the gag from your mouth.

your panties come away damp and sticky, a string of your spit still connecting the fabric to your lip. he watches it fall. watches you breathe.

and then—without a word—he unfolds the ruined lace. gently. like it’s precious.

his fingers find your ankles and he slides the panties back up—pulling them over your thighs, between your legs, covering the mess he made.

not to clean you. oh no. jack wants you marinating in it.

your come. his spit. the sticky vibrations of every orgasm you weren’t supposed to have. he tugs the fabric snug over your puffy cunt, lets it settle against you wet and clinging, then smooths his palm over it once in firm, lingering finality.

"perfect," he murmurs under his breath.

you blink—hazy, confused, boneless. but he’s already moving. you hear the rustle of fabric. a belt unbuckling. pants sliding off. you catch a flash of pale thighs and—

yeah.

he’s hard. so hard. his cock dark and aching and twitching just from watching you unravel.

but he doesn’t touch himself.

he doesn’t need to.

he climbs into bed behind you, pulling the covers up with mechanical precision. then, with all the audacity of a man who’s just ruined you with a toy and his tongue—he spoons you.

and you feel it. god, you feel it. his cock. hot and thick. pressed up against the swell of your ass.

he shifts his hips—subtle—rubs himself against you once. just once. enough to prove a point. enough to make you whimper again, overstimulated and needy.

then he exhales.

you feel his breath against the back of your neck.

“get some sleep, sweetheart, you did a lot tonight.” you jerk slightly in his arms. “but—jack—” his hand flattens over your stomach. he pulls you tighter. his mouth finds the curve of your shoulder, lips warm and infuriating.

“not fucking you this weekend,” he reminds you, gentle and smug. “told you that already.” and he settles. cocksure and satisfied.

meanwhile—you’re wet, shaking, and still clenching around nothing.

and jack sleeps with a boner against your ass and a smirk on his lips like he didn’t just edge and destroy you under your dad’s roof.

he looks up and catches you staring.                                      

you give him a small smile. he holds it for a beat, returns it, quiet and unreadable, and then turns back to the conversation like nothing happened.

“there you are, darling.” your mom finds you before you can register what just happened, pulling you into the huddle. “come meet jack. this is dr. jack abbot, remember? i told you about him. he’s the one who was at the gym with your father when he had that small stroke. kept him stable until the ambulance came.”

you did remember. vaguely. your mom had mentioned him a few times over the phone during those scary first few days, always with this tone like she wanted you to know he was one of the good ones. she’d also, at some point, let slip that he was quite handsome for his age which had made you curious enough to look him up.

you’d found almost nothing. a blurry photo from some hospital gala where he was younger, dark haired, barely recognizable. another from an award ceremony, grainy and poorly lit, his face half turned from the camera. you’d closed the tab and thought nothing more of it.

the man standing in front of you now had not been adequately prepared for.

you reach your hand out. his is warm, large, engulfing your palm easily. the touch moves through you faster than it should.

“nice to meet you,” you say, and you mean it more than is appropriate.

he looks at you the way men his age sometimes do when they’re trying very hard not to. “you as well.”

your dad says something about jack being a veteran, about it being a meaningful weekend for him too. jack doesn’t smile at that. just something solemn moving behind his eyes, confirming that whatever he’d seen hadn’t left him clean.

you think about that look for the rest of the evening.

---

you run into him at the farmer’s market three days later.

you’re standing at a stall debating between two bunches of peonies when you feel someone stop beside you. you glance over and there he is, in a grey henley and dark jeans, looking entirely too good for a saturday morning farmer’s market in suburban new york.

“dr. abbot,” you say, a little surprised.

“just jack,” he says, eyes moving to the flowers and then back to you. “visiting your parents for the weekend?”

“for a little longer than that,” you say. “you live around here?”

“ten minutes that way.” he nods vaguely in a direction. noncommittal. like he’s already deciding how much to give you.

you buy both bunches of peonies just to have something to do with your hands.

he walks with you for a bit, not quite on purpose, or at least that’s how he plays it. the conversation is easy in a way that feels unfair. he asks about your masters, what you studied, what you’re doing now. he listens like he’s genuinely curious about you, takes his time without interruption. you learn he’s been in suburban new york for a few years, that he left his practice in the city after his wife passed, that he has his own little clinic now because apparently that’s what you do when you’re trying to build a quieter life.

he says it nonchalantly and you don’t press for more.

when you reach the end of the market he stops and you stop with him.

“i’ll see you around,” he says. not a question exactly. more like something he’s hoping for.

“probably,” you say.

he almost smiles. almost.

---

you see him twice more before the dinner.

once at your parents’ house when he stops by to drop something off for your dad, catching you in the kitchen in an oversized tee and sleep shorts, hair still messy from bed. he looks at you for exactly one second longer than he should before fixing his expression back to neutral and asking if your father is home.

and then once at the pharmacy, where he’s picking up a prescription and you’re buying face wash, and he ends up standing in line behind you and making a quiet comment about the brand you picked that makes you laugh, and then looks almost annoyed at himself for making you laugh.

he’s trying. you can see it clearly. the deliberate neutrality of him, the way he keeps his eyes from lingering, the way he keeps things brief and polite.

it makes you want to push.

---

the dinner is your mother’s idea. a small thank you, she says, for everything jack did for your father. nothing formal, just the four of you on a friday evening.

you wear a dress that you’d packed for no real reason. silky, short, the kind that sits just high enough on your thigh to be a problem. you tell yourself it’s because you felt like it.

you know that’s not entirely true.

jack arrives at seven. you watch him from the top of the stairs as your dad lets him in, see the moment he looks up and finds you coming down, see him look away just as quickly. his jaw goes tight, a muscle flickering there briefly before he smooths it over.

dinner is pleasant. your mom talks too much, your dad laughs too loud, and jack sits across from you being perfectly polite and perfectly composed and absolutely not looking at you any more than is necessary.

which somehow makes it worse.

you excuse yourself after the main course, slipping down the hall toward the bathroom. you’re washing your hands when you hear him in the hallway.

you step out and find him already there in the narrow hall, and neither of you move. the dinner sounds feel far away. the space between you is close enough to feel the warmth of him, and his cologne reaches you before anything else, something quiet and warm, and he’s looking at you the way he’s been carefully not looking at you all evening.

your pulse does something it has no business doing.

you reach into your pocket slowly, pull out the folded slip of paper you’d put there before dinner, hold it out between two fingers. your eyes stay on his.

he looks down at it. back up at you. and for a second, just one, his gaze drops to your mouth and stays there long enough to make your breath catch.

“i’m your father’s friend,” he says. his voice comes out lower than intended.

“i know,” you say softly.

he should walk away. you can see him thinking it. the war behind his eyes.

he reaches out and takes the paper instead, fingers brushing yours, and then he steps back and clears his throat and goes back down the hall without another word.

you lean against the wall for a moment before you follow.

---

you go back to the table and finish dinner and make conversation and laugh at your dad’s jokes and do not think about the hallway.

you do not think about the way he’d looked at your mouth.

you do not think about the way his fingers had felt brushing yours when he took the paper.

jack stays another hour, polite and easy and perfectly composed, and when he leaves he shakes your dad’s hand and thanks your mom for dinner. he glances at you once on his way out, brief and unreadable, the kind of look that gives nothing and takes everything.

“lovely to meet you properly,” he says.

“you too,” you say.

the door closes and you help your mom clear the table and go to bed and do not think about it at all.

---

a week passes.

you work. that’s the honest answer for what you do with the silence of your phone. you open your laptop early and close it late and fill the hours in between with emails and decks and calls that run long, the familiar rhythm of it steadying in a way you hadn’t expected to need.

it helps, mostly. you’d taken this break to breathe and somehow you’d gone and complicated it spectacularly within the first two weeks, so throwing yourself back into spreadsheets feels like a reasonable correction.

your mom keeps finding reasons to bring him up at dinner. jack mentioned he might come to the farmers market this weekend. jack was asking after your thesis topic, isn’t that sweet. you nod and eat your food and say nothing.

your phone stays quiet.

you start to feel that particular kind of silly that you really hate feeling. the kind that makes you want to be annoyed at yourself more than at anyone else. you’re not a girl who waits around. you’d handed him your number because you’d wanted to, not because you were expecting anything, and it had meant nothing, and you are completely fine.

your phone buzzes on thursday morning and you pick it up embarrassingly fast.

it’s your landlord about a leaking pipe in your city apartment.

you put the phone face down and open another email.

---

you go for a walk thursday afternoon because you need air and because staring at a laptop in your childhood bedroom is making you feel sixteen in a way you don’t appreciate.

the neighborhood is quiet and warm, someone’s sprinkler ticking in a front yard, birds doing their thing in the trees. you have your earbuds in and you’re almost feeling like yourself again when you turn a corner and nearly walk into him.

he’s coming back from a run, slowing to a stop, a little breathless. grey tee, dark shorts, the outline of his prosthetic visible below the hem, silver hair slightly damp. looking entirely too good on a thursday afternoon.

you look straight ahead and keep walking.

you hear him pause then fall into step beside you.

“hey,” he tries.

nothing.

“you’re ignoring me,” he says. there’s a quiet amusement to it that makes it significantly harder to maintain your expression.

you pull one earbud out and look at him with the most neutral expression you own. “can i help you?”

“you walked right past me.”

“i didn’t see you.”

“you saw me,” he says simply.

you stop. turn to face him fully on the pavement, squinting a little in the afternoon sun. “you didn’t text.”

he holds your gaze. “i know.”

“okay,” you say pleasantly, and put your earbud back in.

he reaches out and touches your elbow, gently, and you stop again.

“it’s not right,” he says, when you look at him. his voice is low and even, like he’s explained this to himself many times already. “your father is one of my closest friends. you’re his daughter. there’s an age gap that—”

“i’m aware of my own age,” you say.

“i know that.”

“and i’m aware of yours.”

“that’s not what i—”

“jack.” you say it quietly but clearly. “i have a masters degree. i have a career. i pay my own rent in one of the most expensive cities in the country.” you hold his gaze without flinching. “i don’t need you to decide what i can and can’t handle. i don’t like being put in a box, especially not by someone who looked at me the way you did in that hallway.”

something shifts in his expression. he looks away briefly, jaw working.

“one drink,” he says finally, still not looking at you. “there’s a place on 4th avenue. friday night.”

you look at him.

“no,” you say.

he blinks. looks back at you. “no?”

“dinner,” you say. “and then a drink.”

a beat.

“you’re negotiating.”

“i’m clarifying,” you say pleasantly.

he looks at you for a long moment. you watch him try very hard not to smile and almost succeed.

“dinner,” he says. “and a drink.”

“and you’re paying,” you add.

he exhales through his nose. “obviously.”

you put your earbud back in and start walking. “friday works,” you call back.

you don’t turn around but you’re fairly certain he’s standing there watching you go and doing that almost-smile again.

good.

---

he texts friday morning.

jack: should i pick you up or are you meeting me there.

you stare at your phone for an embarrassing amount of time.

he confirmed. he actually texted to confirm, which means he’d been thinking about it, which means he hadn’t spent the week being perfectly unbothered the way you’d assumed he had. and he’d offered to pick you up. like it was a real date. like he was going to come to your parents’ front door and walk you to his car and—

you put your phone face down on the bed.

get it together, you tell yourself.

you pick it up again.

but he’d offered to pick you up. that’s a thing a gentleman does. a thoughtful person. and he’s thoughtful, you’ve noticed that about him, the way he listens, the way he remembers small things you’ve said, the way he—

and he’s so annoyingly attractive. how does that happen. how does someone get to be that age and look like that and also be like that. it should be one or the other. it’s unfair is what it is.

you realize you’ve been staring at the ceiling for five minutes.

you: i’ll meet you there.

you put the phone down and go get ready and absolutely do not smile at yourself in the mirror.

you smile at yourself in the mirror a little bit.

---

the place on 4th avenue is small and warm, the kind of bar that moonlights as a restaurant. dark wood and low lighting and a chalkboard menu above the bar. he pulls out your chair and you sit and pretend that doesn’t do anything to you.

he orders without looking at the menu. you notice that but don’t say anything.

it starts careful. he already knows the broad strokes of your masters from the farmer’s market, so he asks something different tonight. what you actually want to do next, now that it’s done. where you see yourself going. you tell him honestly, more honestly than you expected to, about the job you’re good at but aren’t sure you love, about the version of your career you’re still trying to build toward. he listens with his glass resting in his hand and his eyes on you and doesn’t once look at his phone.

“and now you’re here,” he says.

“now i’m here,” you agree. “taking a break. or trying to. i’m still working remotely so it’s not quite a break.”

“doesn’t sound like much of a rest.”

you think about it honestly. “it’s getting there.”

he nods like he understands that specific kind of tired. you get the feeling he does.

you ask about medicine, what made him choose it, whether he ever wanted something different. he thinks before he answers, which you like about him, the absence of automatic responses.

“lost a close friend when i was young,” he says simply. “couldn’t do anything. felt like i should have been able to.” he turns his glass once. “so i decided i’d learn how.”

“and the army?”

“enlisted after my first year of pre-med. served as a combat medic for two tours.” a brief pause. “finished my degree when i came back.”

he says it with the flatness of someone who has made peace with something that didn’t deserve it. you don’t push. just let it settle between you the way it needs to.

you talk about other things after that. easier things. he asks about the city, whether you miss it yet, and you tell him honestly that you miss the noise more than you expected to. he tells you he grew up in boston, that new york had always felt like someone else’s city even after years of living there. you ask what suburban new york feels like and he thinks about it for a moment.

“quieter,” he says. “in a way i needed.”

you ask him what he does with the quiet and he says he reads, mostly. medical journals, some fiction. runs in the mornings. you tell him that sounds very disciplined and he looks at you with something dry.

“you say that like it’s an insult.”

“i say it like it’s very you,” you say, and he looks at you for a moment like he’s trying to decide what to do with that.

the conversation moves like that all evening, one thing leading naturally into the next, barely any effort. you forget to check your phone. you forget to be nervous. you just talk, and he talks, and at some point you realize you’re leaning forward with your chin in your hand and he’s leaning forward too and the space between you has gotten smaller without either of you deciding it.

at some point the bar fills in around you. the dinner crowd thinning and the drinks crowd arriving, louder, livelier, music turned up a notch. someone laughs too hard at the bar. a group spills in through the door bringing the warm night air with them.

you and jack don’t notice any of it.

it’s only when he glances around and then back at you that you realize how late it’s gotten.

“i’ll just use the bathroom,” he says, pushing his chair back. “be right back.”

you watch him stop at the bar on the way back. a quiet word with the bartender, something slipped across the counter without a word to you about it.

he comes back and picks up his jacket.

“ready?” he says simply.

you smile a little without meaning to. “yeah,” you say. “let’s go.”

---

the night air is warm with a slight breeze when you step outside. you pull your jacket loosely around your shoulders and say “i had a really good time” and mean it completely and then immediately start wondering if it sounded too eager. you fall into step beside him on the pavement and the silence is comfortable but your brain is doing that thing where it replays the whole evening looking for something to be anxious about and finding too many candidates.

did it go well. it felt like it went well. he paid without making it a thing which was. god that was sweet. but he hasn’t said anything since we left and maybe that means—

“you’ve gone somewhere,” he says.

you blink. look up at him. “what?”

“just now.” he glances at you, steady. “where’d you go?”

your mouth opens. closes. “nowhere,” you say.

he looks at you for a moment in that way he has, like he can see straight through the word, and almost smiles and says nothing and you feel your face go warm.

“do you want to take a walk,” he says instead. “there’s a park just around the corner.”

“yes,” you say, maybe a little too quickly.

he definitely notices. doesn’t say anything.

---

the park is quiet, just the sound of your footsteps and the distant hum of the street. the trees are full and dark against the sky and the path is lit by old iron lampposts and the air smells like cut grass and something floral.

you spot the ice cream stand before he does. a small cart tucked near the park entrance, fairy lights strung around the awning.

you stop walking.

he follows your gaze. looks back at you. that almost smile already happening.

“come on,” you say, already heading over.

he shakes his head slightly and follows.

you get strawberry cheesecake in a cup. he gets dark chocolate pecan, which somehow suits him completely. you both stand under the fairy lights eating ice cream while the warm night moves around you.

“here,” you say, holding your spoon out toward him.

he looks at it. then takes the taste, and his expression does something reluctant and impressed at the same time.

“that’s actually good,” he says.

“i know,” you say smugly.

he holds his own spoon out without a word. you lean in and try it and the dark chocolate hits first and then the pecan and it’s rich and warm and very him somehow.

“okay,” you admit. “that’s also good.”

“i know,” he says, and you laugh, and this time he actually smiles. quiet and real and just for a moment.

you look at him in the lamplight and feel something settle warm in your chest and think. oh. okay. this is a problem.

---

you start walking again when the cups are empty, slower now, no particular direction. the park is mostly yours at this hour, just the occasional dog walker passing with a nod.

you’re not in your head anymore. somewhere between the ice cream and the smiling you’d stopped replaying the evening and landed back in it.

he’s walking close enough that your shoulders brush every few steps and neither of you moves away.

you stop near a lamppost where the path curves and turn to look at him and he’s already looking at you, that careful composure doing very little at this particular moment.

you lean up and kiss him.

he goes still. one second. two. then his hand comes up slow and cups your jaw and he kisses you back, deep and sure, and you forget about the warm night and the lamplight and everything else.

he pulls back first. steps back slightly. shakes his head.

you groan softly. “i’ve never had to ask for things, you know.”

that flicker at the corner of his mouth. “so you’re a spoiled brat.”

“what will it take,” you say, looking up at him. “for you to just give in.”

“i’m not—” he stops. jaw tight. “i’m not relationship material. you should know that going in.”

you hold his gaze. “i’m not looking for a relationship either. it doesn’t have to be more than what it is.” a beat. “we’re adults, jack.”

he looks at you for a long moment. the last argument behind his eyes going quiet.

then he kisses you again. different this time. his hand gripping your face, consuming, and you grip the front of his jacket and let him.

he pulls back just enough to speak, voice low.

“the townhouse is two minutes from here,” he says.

you didn’t know that. you file it away for later.

“okay,” you say.

he takes your hand and you go.

---

the door barely shuts behind you.

his hands find your waist before you’ve taken a step inside, walking you back against the entryway wall, mouth on yours, and the kiss is nothing like the one in the park. that one had been careful, him dipping his toe in. this one is hungry, open mouthed, his tongue sliding against yours slowly, like he’s tasting something he’s been thinking about for a long time. you make a sound against his mouth and feel him exhale hard through his nose like it costs him something.

your fingers find his shirt buttons. his hands push your jacket off your shoulders and it hits the floor somewhere. something knocks off the entryway table, neither of you flinches.

he pulls back just enough to look at you, chest rising and falling, hair slightly messed from your hands, and the composed dr. jack abbot of dinner and parks and careful measured distance is completely gone. what’s left is just him, looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room he’s done being good about.

he takes your hand and walks you backward through the darkened living room and sits down on the couch, pulling you down onto his lap in one smooth motion, hands settling on your hips.

“jack—”

“here,” he murmurs, guiding your hips forward, then back, slow. “like that.”

your breath catches. his jaw is tight, eyes dark, watching your face with an intensity that makes it hard to think straight. his hands grip your hips and move them again, that same slow roll, and a soft sound escapes you before you can stop it.

“you have no idea,” he says, low, almost to himself. his forehead drops to your shoulder for just a moment. “how long i’ve wanted this.” his mouth finds your jaw, your neck. “wanted you.”

you pull back just enough to look at him, chest heaving, lips swollen. his eyes meet yours, dark, pupils blown.

“fuck me,” you breathe against his mouth. “please.”

a groan tears out of him.

he flips you in one smooth motion, your back meeting the couch cushions, him over you, and his hands find the zipper of your skirt, fumbling with it in a way that is deeply satisfying coming from someone so usually composed. you reach down to help and he bats your hands away gently.

“i’ve got it,” he mutters, jaw tight, and you bite your lip to keep from smiling.

he does.

---

you wake up to the smell of coffee.

for a moment you just lie there, ceiling unfamiliar, sheets softer than yours, the morning light coming in through curtains you don’t recognize. then it lands. right. jack’s townhouse. you sit up slowly and push your hair back and look around the room.

it’s neat in the way of someone who lives alone and likes order. dark furniture, minimal, a small stack of books on the nightstand. a glass of water on your side that wasn’t there when you fell asleep.

you stare at the glass of water for a moment.

you find his shirt at the foot of the bed and pull it on and pad downstairs.

he’s in the kitchen. grey tee, dark pants, barefoot. you can hear the faint clink of his prosthetic foot as he moves around the stove with that same leisured pace as always. coffee already poured, two cups. eggs in the pan. toast just popped.

he glances over when you appear in the doorway.

“morning,” he says simply. like this is normal. like you wake up in his house all the time.

“you made breakfast,” you say.

he just smiles in return.

you slide onto the stool at the kitchen island and wrap both hands around the mug he pushes toward you and watch him cook and try not to feel too much about any of this.

you mostly fail.

he plates the eggs without ceremony and sets it in front of you and sits across with his own and you eat together in the quiet morning, the kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling. outside birds are doing their thing in the backyard. somewhere a lawnmower starts up distantly.

“did you sleep okay?” he asks at some point.

“really well actually,” you say, and mean it. the peaceful dreamless kind you’d been craving for months.

---

you leave just after nine. he walks you to the door, and just before you step out he cups the back of your head gently and presses his lips to your forehead.

your insides melt.

“i’ll see you later,” he says.

you look up at him. “yeah,” you say softly. “you will.”

you walk to your car with his shirt smell still on your skin and the ghost of his mouth on your forehead and think. oh you are in so much trouble.

---

it becomes a pattern after that.

stolen minutes, mostly. a look across the room that lasts a beat too long. his hand finding the small of your back when he passes you in the hallway at your parents’, gone before anyone could notice. a text at odd hours that starts as nothing and becomes something by the time you put your phone down.

---

it was gathering at your parents’. a few neighbors gathered in the living room, some rosé for the women, beers for the men, your mom moving between guests with a platter of something she’d spent the morning making. it fills up fast the way your parents’ house always does, loud and warm, someone’s kid running through the hallway.

you’re in a sundress, yellow, the kind that sits light on your shoulders. jack is there when you arrive, talking to one of your dad’s colleagues, and his eyes find you once across the yard, darkening just a fraction.

you go inside for ice an hour in.

the kitchen is quiet after the noise of the backyard, just the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of someone laughing outside. you’re pulling the ice tray when you hear the door behind you.

you don’t turn around. you already know.

his hands find your hips from behind, turning you, and then his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like the usual careful composed kisses. one hand slides into your hair, the other flat against the small of your back pulling you in, and he kisses you the way he does when he’s been watching you from across a yard for an hour and has run out of patience for it. open mouthed, his tongue sliding slow against yours until your fingers curl into his shirt and you forget what you came in here for.

his hand moves under the hem of your dress, palm dragging slow up the inside of your thigh, and he pulls back just enough to look at you.

“is my girl wet for me?” he murmurs, low, meant only for you.

your breath stutters. you don’t answer. he finds out anyway, fingers pressing against the thin fabric of your underwear, and the quiet sound he makes against your temple is deeply unfair.

“jack,” you warn softly.

“shhh,” he says, and drops to his knees.

he pushes your dress up and hooks your underwear down in one smooth motion, tucks it into his pocket, and then his mouth is on you and the world narrows to the warm press of his tongue. your hand flies to your mouth. the other grips the counter behind you hard enough to whiten your knuckles, the noise of the party bleeding through the walls while he takes you apart quietly on the kitchen floor.

he doesn’t rush. that’s the thing about jack. he never rushes.

by the time you come you’re biting down on your own fist, eyes squeezed shut, shaking.

he stands up and fixes the hem of your dress back down like nothing happened. looks at you once, the corner of his lips tilted up in a smirk, while you’re still trying to remember how to breathe.

“i’ll give those back later,” he says, patting his pocket.

“you’re unbelievable,” you manage.

he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. presses a single kiss to your cheek and walks back outside.

you stand in the kitchen for a full minute before you follow.

---

he keeps his eyes on you for the rest of the day. not obviously. just enough that you feel it every time, that quiet heat from across the yard. enough to know he hasn’t forgotten.

you don’t get the underwear back.

what you get instead, after the last guests trickle out and your parents call it a night, is his hand finding yours in the dark hallway and him walking you to the downstairs bathroom and clicking the lock behind you both.

you’re quiet about it. mostly.

---

the dinner is a few of your dad’s colleagues and their wives, jack included, the type of evening that involves good wine and stories you’ve heard versions of before. you sit at the far end of the table and catch him looking at you twice, both times immediately looking away.

you wear something simple. nothing risky. you’re behaving.

mostly.

you say your goodbyes at the door, your coat already on. “i’m heading out to meet a friend,” you tell your dad, kissing his cheek. “i’ll stay over hers. i’ll be back in the morning.”

“i can drop you off,” jack says from behind you, already reaching for his keys. “i’m heading that way.” you were going to meet him anyway.

your dad claps him on the shoulder. “perfect, save her the uber.”

you smile. “thanks, jack.”

the drive starts quiet. lights bleeding past the windows, jack’s hand loose on the wheel, the low hum of the radio filling the space between you. comfortable on the surface. charged underneath.

you watch the road for a while.

then you reach across the console.

“don’t,” he says immediately, his hand closing over yours.

you do it anyway.

he exhales hard. pulls off at the next quiet stretch, a side road that’s dark and empty. he clicks the lock and reaches for the lever at the side of his seat and lets it fall back. then his hands find you and he hauls you over the console and onto his lap before you’ve fully registered the movement.

you land against him and his mouth finds yours, urgent in a way that pulls low in your stomach. you’re both pulling at things, his shirt buttons, your top, the zip of his pants, the graceless urgency of too much want in too small a space.

when he finally pushes inside you, both of you stilling for just a moment at the stretch of it, thick and familiar and so so good, your forehead drops to his shoulder and you exhale shakily.

“okay?” he murmurs.

“yeah,” you breathe. “yeah, move—”

you start to roll your hips and his hands grip your waist, steadying, guiding, letting you find the rhythm. the windows fog at the edges. his jaw is tight, eyes dark, watching your face with that focused intensity that makes you feel like the only thing in the room.

then his feet find the floor and he starts thrusting up to meet you, slow and hard, and your head falls back.

“jack—”

“i’ve got you, darlin’,” he says low, one hand splayed across your lower back holding you close, the other pulling your top aside, unhooking your bra, his mouth replacing it, warm against your hardened peak. you dig your fingers into his shoulders and stop thinking about anything at all.

the radio plays on softly. outside the road stays empty.

neither of you are in any hurry.