sabrina

There’s no way the universe should be this insistent on fucking you over.

Your shitbox of a car died a day before you were set to present your research at a conference in upstate New York in the middle of January. It was the biggest opportunity of your medical school career so far, and was going to secure your residency. But you couldn’t afford to fix it or buy plane tickets and there was no bus that could get you from Pittsburgh to Syracuse in time.

So when your program advisor called you into his office to say he found another student driving to the conference that would be willing to carpool, you nearly jumped for joy. Until the next words out of his mouth put a bullet in the brain of your newfound hope.

“-Jack Abbot! You’ve met him, right? You’re in the same year.”

Yes, you had met Jack Abbot. Several, miserable times. 

Every interaction you’d had with Jack ended with you seething and him smirking. He seemed to be addicted to pushing your buttons every chance he could.

But you didn’t have a choice. And you’d definitely made sure to verify that Jack was your only option. You must have asked every other student you had classes with, but they were either flying or not going at all. So you were stuck with him.

Stuck in the confined space of the cab of his small truck, side by side on the bench seat, for five and a half hours.

Everything about him pissed you off. His perfect curls were irritating, especially since you were sure he used 15-in-1 soap to wash it, the woodsy scent of his aftershave made every breath feel agonizing, and the way his legs were spread wide was obscene. It was his car, you had no right to complain that he was taking up so much space. But god did you wish he was cowering against the door like you were. You wished he put more space between the two of you, but the small cab left about a foot between you, even with you folding your body into the farthest corner your seatbelt allowed. It was entirely too close for comfort.

You’d made it a point to avoid looking at him as much as possible since this disastrous ride had begun 2 hours ago. So far, you’ve managed to mostly succeed, focusing on the falling snow and the freezing scenery outside. But you felt his eyes on you every few miles. His gaze was hot whenever it landed on you. You could feel it, even through your thick sweatshirt and jeans. 

But Jack didn’t say anything. He hadn’t said a single word since you’d met him in front of your apartment building at 1 pm and loaded up your bags into the covered bed. It was unusual for him. Normally, he liked to goad you into a reaction, sending barbs your way constantly. So the silence unnerved you. You didn’t know how to exist in a space with Jack Abbot when you weren’t on the defensive.

And then the universe decided to fuck you even harder.

The snow was falling even harder as Jack pulled off the freeway and onto a smaller back road. You wanted to question him, but you didn’t want to be the one to break the silence. Plus, you didn’t know where you were. For all you knew, Jack had driven through this area a thousand times before. 

But the farther you got down the road, the heavier the snow was getting and the slower Jack was driving. You hadn’t seen another car or building for the past 30 minutes and the plows clearly weren’t running out here. 

And then - truly the cherry on top- the engine started sputtering.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Jack braked hard, the tires slipping slightly as he pulled off the road onto the shoulder.

“What the fuck?” You looked over at him for the first time in an hour.

Jack threw the truck in park before he was grabbing his coat. “Stay here.”

Where the fuck did he think you were going to go? You were in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of a snowstorm. The cab of the truck was pleasantly warm, and the burst of cold air when Jack opened his door convinced you even more that you were not going to get out.

You watched him round the front. He popped the hood of the truck, hiding him from view. What the hood didn’t hide, though, was the cloud of smoke that billowed out.

“Oh fuck me,” there was no way you were making it to the convention. You checked your phone. No service. Of course.

The hood slammed shut and you jumped, looking up to watch Jack walk back around to the drivers side. He slid back in, shutting the door hard behind him and scrubbing a hand over his face. 

“We’re fucked.”

“What are we going to do?” You chewed on your bottom lip as you looked at the land around you. “I do not want to die of hypothermia in your shitty truck.”

“My truck isn’t shitty,” he sounded like a petulant child.

“It just fucking died on us,” you leveled a glare at him. “I’d say that makes it shitty.”

He grumbled something under his breath.

Both of you sat in silence for a moment.

“We need to find somewhere to shelter,” Jack was looking out the windows.

“There is nothing out - ”

“There,” he was pointing into the trees at something that you could not see. Everything blended together in the dim lighting and haze of falling snow.

“What?”

“There,” Jack started gathering a few things scattered around. His phone, his water bottle, and the keys made the cut, all being stuffed into the pocket of his heavy duty coat. “There’s a cabin.”

“Bullshit there's a cabin. I don’t see anything,” you really didn’t. All you could see was a mass of black and gray and green.

“There is,” he opened his door again. “Are you coming or are you going to freeze to death here?”

There wasn’t much of a choice. You could already feel the chill creeping in through the thin glass of the windows now that the engine was dead. You could follow Jack into the woods and either find shelter or freeze to death in the snow, or stay in the truck and freeze to death in the carcass of his shitbox.

No matter what, the threat of hypothermia was real and, even though you weren’t officially a doctor yet, you knew the risks. So you gave one last long suffering sigh, and opened your door. 

You were immediately thankful you’d put leggings on beneath your jeans that morning. The temperature change slapped you in the face as soon as you stepped out into the ankle deep snow.

Jack was rifling through the bed of the truck, pulling out his duffel bag. You watched him hesitate for a minute, before abandoning the garment bag containing the suit he’d packed. You tried not to think about just how good he’d look in a formal get up.

“Grab your shit,” Jack was pulling on a pair of gloves. His cheeks were already rosy from the freezing wind. “We’ve gotta get there fast.”

You gathered your things, yanking your own gloves and coat out of your bag. You left your own garment bag containing the gown you’d thrifted for the final banquet in the bed alongside the covered poster board for your research. It was going to be ruined if you and Jack ever made it back to the truck alive, given that there was not a chance you’d be making it to the conference, you didn’t bother trying to save it.

“Lead the way,” you slung your bag over your shoulder, pulling the hood up over your head to try and shield you as much as possible from the chill.

Jack led you across the frozen road and down into the treeline. The snow came up to mid calf, soaking your feet through your boots. Very quickly, you started to shiver, trying to curl into yourself as you walked.

You were both grateful and pissed to see the shape of the cabin come into view. You needed to get warm, but you did not want to admit Jack was right. 

It took about 20 minutes for you to reach the front porch. By now, the snow was falling so hard that you couldn’t see the road or the truck through the haze.

“C’mon, c’mon,” Jack tried the door handle, sighing with relief when it swung open. 

The inside of the cabin was simple. About the same size as your studio apartment back in Pittsburgh. It was dark, but you could see a fireplace against one wall, across from a full sized bed. There was a small kitchenette and a small bathroom you could see through a half open door. The whole place was dusty and looked like it hadn’t been used since last summer, but it would have to do.

Both you and Jack tumbled in. It was cold, but at least the sturdy wooden walls kept the wind chill out.

“You got a lighter?” Jack was already moving towards the fireplace, inspecting a few of the logs piled next to it. He seemed to approve of a few of them, piling them up.

“Yeah, here,” you fished a lighter out of your jacket pocket, tossing it to him as you set your bag down on the bed. 

You watched him for a moment. He shed his coat, pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt up as he set a few scraps of newspaper alight. With a gentle few breaths, he grew the flame before placing it under the pile of logs he’d formed in the fireplace. It took a moment, but gradually the flames grew until there was a bright, flickering fire lighting up the small room. 

You could feel the warmth it was putting off starting to seep into you, but it wasn’t enough. Your coat was still on, but you were shivering beneath it. 

Jack noticed, doing a double take over his shoulder when he saw you still standing by the bed.

“Come over here.”

“I’m fine,” your voice was unsteady.

“You need to get warm,” Jack was untying his boots, digging through his bag for a new pair of socks as he discarded the damp pair he’d been wearing. “You’re gonna get frostbite.”

“No, I’m not,” but you were moving towards him, crossing the small room to stand beside him in front of the fireplace.

“Take off your clothes.”

You looked over at Jack like he’d grown a second head, ready to tell him off. But the words died in your throat when you saw he was stripping his shirt and hoodie off, leaving him bare from the waist up. You froze for a moment, eyes wide and brain buffering, until his hands grabbed for the zipper of his jeans.

“What the fuck?!” You spun around, trying to will your blush away.

“We need to get into dry clothes and get warm,” the shuffling sounds of his clothes hitting the floor was tempting you to turn around. You wanted just a little peak.

“I’ll be fine.”

“No, you won’t.”

And then Jack’s hands were at your waist, pulling up your sweatshirt.

“Woah!” You spun away from him, putting distance between you and begging your heart to slow down its rapid beating.

“I’m not letting you blame me when your toes fall off,” Jack crossed his arms over his chest. He’d changed into a plain black t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and thick wool socks. God damn it, he looked good. “I won’t look, but you need to change.”

“Fine,” you walked back towards your bag. “Don’t look.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Jack’s eyes raked over you once before he was turning back to face the fire.

You moved quickly, stripping out of your layers. You’d been planning on being in a nice, cosy hotel and convention center, tucked safely away from the cold, so you’d only brought jeans, slacks, and your comfortable sleep shorts. Tight, spandex shorts that left very little to the imagination. The leggings you wore under your jeans were soaked up to the thighs with melted snow and unwearable.

So you grabbed your most modest shorts, although ‘modest’ was a stretch. They were tight and short, covered completely by the oversized crewneck you pulled on after. You didn’t have too many options for socks, stuck with a relatively thin pair of white ankle length ones. Your nice, insulating ones were soaked from your trek through the snow.

“Is it safe yet?”

You glanced over at Jack, silhouetted against the fire. His shoulders looked a hell of a lot broader than you’d realized, the muscles of his arms standing out. God fucking damnit.

“Yeah, it’s safe,” you cleared your throat, looking away from him as you moved your bag away from the bed, setting it on the floor by the nightstand.

“That’s what you’re wearing to not freeze?”

His judgmental tone made you bristle, reminding your traitorous mind that you did, in fact, hate this man.

“I didn’t have a lot of options,” you unnecessarily straightened your duffel, looking anywhere but at him. “I didn’t plan for you to get us stranded in the fucking woods. I packed for a fancy hotel and a conference, which is where we would be if you didn’t try to kill us.”

“I didn’t try to kill us,” he scoffed. You risked a glance at him. He was digging through his own bag. “I took a shortcut to go around the traffic on the interstate. Here.” 

He wadded up a pair of flannel pants and threw them at you. You caught them, trying not to take a deep breath. They smelled like detergent and that addicting smell of his cologne.

“These are fucking ugly,” the idea of wearing his clothes and being stuck in such a small space with him triggered your fight or flight instinct. Seeing as flight wasn’t a reasonable option with a blizzard outside, you decided to fight. 

“By all means,” Jack rolled his eyes. “Freeze to death because my pants are ugly. I’d finally get some peace and quiet.”

“The fuck do you mean ‘peace and quiet’? I didn’t say a fucking thing the whole car ride!”

“Yeah, and it was fantastic.”

Grumbling to yourself about what a dick he was, you gave in. You were fully aware he was trying to get you to wear the stupid pants. You could sacrifice your pride to put them on and deny him the satisfaction of you going silent.

“Maybe if I’d said something, we wouldn’t be stuck here,” you tugged the god awful pants up over your shorts, having to double know the waistband to keep them up around your hips.

“Oh so you agree, this is your fault,” Jack looked smug. He sat down on the rug in front of the fireplace, his legs spread out before him. His feet were blisteringly close to the flames. You hoped his stupid socks caught on fire.

“How is this my fault? I didn’t tell you to drive off the main road in the middle of a snowstorm. This is your fault,” begrudgingly, you made your way towards him. You sat down 3 feet away from him, relishing the wave of heat that greeted you once you were close to the fire. The rest of the space was slowly warming up, but the cold still seeped in through the fogged over windows and wooden walls.

“Well I wouldn’t be stuck out here if I didn’t have to drive you to this stupid convention,” Jack leaned back on his palms. He looked calm and relaxed, and that made you even more irritated.

“Oh, so you only took this backroad because of me,” you stretched out your hands to warm your frigid fingers. “Glad you admitted this was attempted murder.”

“‘Attempted murder’ my ass,” he shook his head, narrowing his eyes. His gaze scanned you from head to toe. You told yourself the shiver that ran through your body was from the cold. “I would be nice and cosy in my apartment if it wasn’t for you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“I only agreed to go to the conference because you needed a ride.”

“Bullshit,” you scoffed. That didn’t make any sense. Why the hell would Jack do that? He’d been a massive dick since you met him. Every group project or hospital rotation you ended up on with him was hell. He pushed your buttons, poking and prodding at you with sharp little quips until you snapped.

Jack didn’t say anything. He turned his face back towards the fire, focusing on the flickering flames.

“Jack…?”

He stayed silent. 

You didn’t know what to say. You were confused. He hates you, so why would he agree to be locked in a car with you for an extended amount of time. Maybe he truly did want to lure you out into the woods and kill you. 

But why? Sure, you were classmates, both competing for residency spots in a technical sense, but that wasn’t strictly true. It pained you to admit it, but Jack was in a league of his own. He was smart. Annoyingly so. He was constantly at the top of your class, leading test scores by a mile. You weren’t stupid, not at all, but Jack was something else. You weren’t competition for him.

“Did you…” How do you ask a classmate if he planned to kill you? You swallowed hard, suddenly very nervous. “Did you bring me out here to - to get rid - ”

“Jesus Christ, [name],” he finally looked at you again, sitting up and resting his elbows on his outstretched legs. He looked horrified. “You think I agreed to drive you, took a shortcut, and sabotaged my truck to - to what? Kill you?”

“Then why did you agree to drive me?” You couldn’t wrap your head around it.

“Just drop it, ok?” He scrubbed a hand down his face, rubbing at his jaw and looking away.

“Just doesn’t make sense,” you were mumbling. You scanned him, reading the tension in his shoulders.

“Drop. It.” This was the most emotion you’d seen him exhibit in all four years you’d been in school together. His jaw was clenched.

In the flickering light, it was hard to tell if his cheeks were flushed from the rising heat of the fire or if he was actually blushing.

“No, I’m not going to drop it,” you finally had a chance to push his buttons, but you also wanted to know why he’d go out of his way to drive 12+ hours round trip if he wasn’t presenting or trying to network at the conference. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“I like you, alright?” He buried his face in his hands. “I’ve liked you for years. I wanted to do something nice for you. I wanted to spend time with you. I like being near you, I like talking to you when you’re not being a bitch - ”

“Don’t you fucking dare call me a bitch, Jack Abbot,” you were still trying to process his confession, the wheels in your brain turning at a snails pace.

“Fuck, fuck, you’re right. I’m so sorry, I’m fucking this up,” Jack took a deep breath, lifting his head to look at you. His expression was pained. “I like talking to you when you’re not trying to piss me off, and even when you are, I still enjoy it. You’re smart, you’re gorgeous - incredibly gorgeous. And we’re about to graduate soon, we’re both leaving for residency in a few months and I couldn’t - I couldn’t not say anything.”

You didn’t know how to respond. Jack paused for a moment at your silence, but then he carried on like he couldn’t stop.

“I practiced this whole little speech for the gala at the end of the weekend,” he laughed sardonically, running a hand through his curls. “I was gonna pull you to the side, somewhere pretty and romantic and tell you how amazing I thought you were, how beautiful you looked in whatever dress you brought. I was gonna ask you out on a date when we got back to Pittsburgh. And then I fucked it up. I swear, I didn’t know my truck was going to die.”

He was definitely blushing now. “And I didn’t take a shortcut. I went the long way around to get more time with you since I knew you’d ignore me as soon as we got to the hotel. But I really was trying to avoid traffic on the interstate! I just didn’t expect it to start snowing so hard.”

For a second, you were quiet. You still didn’t know how to respond, but words fell from your lips before you could stop them.

“The car ride back would have been awkward as fuck if I said no.”

Jack laughed, eyes crinkling as he shook his head. 

“Yeah, it would have been,” he sobered up, hope sparking in his eyes. “But I was willing to risk the humiliation if there was a chance you’d give me a shot.”

Would you have given him a shot? You didn’t know. For years you’d been so insistent that you hated him, but you couldn’t deny that you’d been attracted to him since day 1. You’d noticed him immediately at orientation, but you hadn’t gotten a chance to speak to him until the first randomly assigned group project in your cadaver lab. He’d been a know-it-all, correcting your technique with a scalpel, raising one of those condescending eyebrows and judging every move you’d made. It rubbed you the wrong way, and clouded your perception of him.

You’d written him off after that, but the two of you kept being forced together. Same professor assigned group projects, similar friend circles, same hospital rotations. Every interaction just reinforced your view of him. It pissed you off every time you caught him staring at you, every time he sat next to you in lectures, asked to share your notes, when he poked and prodded and teased you.

But everything looked very different with the knowledge that he’d been into you since the beginning. Now, he looked less like a piece of shit that wanted to torment you and more like a lovesick puppy that wanted your attention. Either way, it wasn’t a flattering look for him, but the latter option was much more forgivable than the former.

“So?”

You jumped, ripped out of your thoughts to find Jack staring at you again. 

“So…?”

“Do I get a chance?” He looked terrified of what your response would be.

“I - ” you didn’t know. Your mind was spinning, trying to parse out your feelings and figure out exactly how you were feeling about the situation.

“It’s ok if you don’t feel the same way,” his hand ran through his hair again, tugging at his curls as he went. “I get it, I’ve been a dick - ”

“No - I mean, yes you have been, but,” you took a deep breath. “I - I don’t know. I had no clue you felt this way. I’m just… trying to process this.”

“Ok, yeah, yeah that’s ok,” Jack was nodding, his eyes fixed on the floor. “Yeah, I mean, you don’t owe me an answer. And you can say no.”

He laughed again, but it was gruff and self deprecating.

“I swear I’m not going to kill you if you say no.”

“Gee, that makes me feel so much better.”

Both of you were quiet for a moment, and then you burst out laughing. A real laugh, not the sad imitation Jack had let out previously. You felt hysterical, the situation did not call for the intensity of the laughter spilling from you, but it did help to diffuse the tension that had been rising in the confined space.

When you were able to calm yourself, both of you gasping for breath and staring into the flames, your thoughts turned back to everything. You were hesitant to just accept, still struggling to reframe the last 3 ½ years now that you had more context. But you were curious. 

“If we live,” you broke the silence that had fallen over the room. “If we make it out of this fucking murder cabin, I’ll give you a chance.”

Jack snorted, a smile tugging at his lips.

“Then we better survive.”

The two of you sat there in front of the fire for a few more hours, passing bags of chips and candies back and forth, trying to make the time go by and conserve the batteries of your phones. You drifted in and out of conversation and silence. Surprisingly, you found yourself enjoying talking to him. For the first time since you’d been introduced, you had a pleasant conversation. Neither of you brought up his confession or your tentative acceptance.

Instead, you asked about him. And you learned a lot, shockingly. You knew the basics; he was a few months older than you, he was too smart for his own good, and he’d sold his soul to the Army and would be doing his residency at a military hospital. You almost envied the fact that he got to skip the stress of match day. Almost. You would absolutely not trade that stress in exchange for the next 10 years of your life.

Jack was from Maryland, and he was getting to go back to do his residency at Walter Reed. You saw his eyes light up with hope when you told him your first choice for residency was John Hopkins, but he didn’t say anything. You’d be pretty damn close to each other if you got lucky, but you didn’t dwell on that.

His first name was actually John, and he looked disgusted by it, but his expression softened when you laughed after he revealed he was actually John Andrew Abbot III. You pretended not to notice that, too.

You shared information of your own, also. Jack smiled when you told him about your childhood pets. He laughed when you told him silly stories from undergrad. He stayed quiet, letting you speak when you shared about struggling to make ends meet while still in school.

It endeared you but also pissed you off that he knew just how to react. He was empathetic and sweet when he wasn’t pushing your buttons.

You liked talking to Jack, you realized. You liked getting to know him.

The two of you had started yawning about an hour ago, but neither of you were ready to stop talking. It was only when the conversation finally lulled and you found yourself fighting against your increasingly heavy eyelids.

“We should get some sleep,” Jack was pushing himself up from the floor, dusting off his hands and sweats as he went. He extended a hand to you, and you found yourself not hesitating to take it, allowing him to pull you to your feet. His hand was warm and steady, and you found yourself fighting off a twinge of disappointment when he let go. “You can take the bed.”

“What? No,” there was only one bed in the one room cabin. It was so small, there wasn’t even room for a couch. The only other furniture in the space was a small kitchen table and two chairs, and a beaten up armchair covered by a thin white sheet. “Where are you going to sleep?”

He shrugged, shifting his duffel closer and moving the clothes in it around until he seemed satisfied with the shape. “Here, in front of the fire. I can make sure it keeps going all night.”

“No,” you grabbed his arm, stopping him from moving towards a small linen closet neither of you had bothered to peek into so far. “No, you’re not sleeping on the floor. We…” 

He raised an eyebrow, gaze flicking between your face and your hand still holding onto his bicep. You let go, taking a step back.

“We can share the bed,” you glanced over your shoulder. The bed was small, probably full sized. Just barely big enough to fit the two of you, although you’d have to scoot pretty close to the edge to avoid touching. 

“I’m not complaining about sharing a bed with you,” Jack looked at the bed too. “I think I’ve made myself clear about that - ”

You swallowed hard. You hadn’t let yourself think about that aspect of his confession. In fact, you’d beaten it back into the shadowy corners of your mind as aggressively as you could. You wouldn’t survive however long your confinement was going to be if you let yourself think about the more physical implications of Jack being into you.

 He looked down at you. The light from the fire was dancing across the planes of his face, knocking the breath out of your lungs with how ethereal he looked. He was handsome everyday, but he looked unreal in this lighting. 

“ - but I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. You haven’t told me how you feel, and you haven’t agreed to go out with me - not that that means you have to… y’know…” he seemed to be struggling to find the words. He was blushing again. “Be… be that close to me.”

“I - ” you paused, searching for the right words. You really were starting to be willing to give him a chance, especially with how well your conversations had gone. And yes, fine, maybe you’d been physically attracted to him from the beginning, but when you’d found yourself in moments of weakness before, you’d imagined any sort of physical or intimate encounter being… well, not nearly so emotionally charged. In those late night fantasies, it was rough, aggressive, something born out of hate and frustration. But now, he looked nervous, his eyes soft and apprehensive. You once again didn’t know how to handle this type of interaction with him. 

So, you decided to be an adult about it. For fucks sake, you were 26. You could share a bed with a man who just confessed he’d been in love with you for years and who you’d been fantasizing about for just as long.

You cleared your throat, taking your hand off his arm. “We can share a bed without… without it being anything more.”

“Right, right, of course,” Jack let out a breath. “As long as you’re ok, then yeah.”

“Yeah,” you were a big fat liar. “It’ll be fine.”

So the two of you got ready for your doom. You gathered your toiletries as Jack threw a few more logs on the fire to hopefully keep it going all night.

The bathroom thankfully had running water, even if the rest of the cabin had no electricity, so you were able to take turns brushing your teeth. You went first, taking many deep breaths and giving yourself a silent pep talk in the small, dark room. 

“All yours!” Your smile and chipper attitude felt forced when you let him have his turn. You sat on the side of the bed with your bag, digging through it, searching for nothing to give your anxious hands something to do.

“You ready for bed?” 

Jack came out of the bathroom, crossing to the other side of the bed and starting to pull back the covers. You stook, giving him a nod and pulling back the ones on your side. Both of you slipped in silently.

“Good night,” Jack rolled over, his back to you, facing the front door.

You followed his lead, turning your back to him and trying to snuggle in underneath the thin blankets. “Good night.”

Jack’s pants and the residual warmth in your clothes from sitting in front of the fire for so long helped lull you to sleep, and quickly, you found yourself falling under.

When you woke, it was to a warm presence at your back and freezing air nipping at the exposed skin of your face. It was completely dark in the room, no light coming in through the windows or from the now extinguished fireplace.

You pushed back, chasing the heat behind you. That’s when you became aware of several things at once. 

That warmth behind you was Jack. The entire length of his body was pressed against yours and his arms were wrapped tightly around your waist, one above and one below, keeping you firmly in place. Those arms were underneath your sweatshirt, one palm resting just below your breasts and the other right above the waistband of your borrowed pants. His face was nuzzled in the crook of your neck, breath hot against the sensitive skin.

You tried to shift, to move out of his hold and restart the fire so that you didn’t have to confront exactly how hot the skin on skin contact was making you deep inside.

Jack didn’t let you move, though. His arm tightened around you, tugging you back against him even more firmly. That was when you really felt him. The hard length of his cock was pressed against your ass.

He was still asleep, but that didn’t stop his hips from grinding forward. You gasped, clenching your thighs together. Involuntarily, you pressed back against him again. His hand shifted up, sliding over your breast and loosely squeezing the flesh.

“Jack,” your voice was quiet and broken around another gasp as he pushed his length against your ass again.

He mumbled something incoherent, before squeezing your breast again. The hand on your stomach dipped lower, his fingers just beginning to slide underneath your bottoms.

You were existing between sleep and waking, half convinced this was some sort of extremely vivid dream.Your pulse was racing, hips pushing back to meet his at every sleepy movement. Both of you were breathing harder, the cold seemingly beaten back by the rising heat between you. 

“[Name],” you could just barely make out the slurred groan of your name breathed against your neck. It sparked even more heat in your core to hear him say your name.

“Jack?”

God, you sounded fucked out already. Jack’s hand was pushing even farther into your pants and under the shorts you wore beneath.

The first brush of his fingers over your folds had you whining, and that was when Jack finally woke up.

You felt him freeze behind you, his hands tightening on reflex, dragging his fingers through your folds and against your clit. It ripped an embarrassing moan out of you, your hips pushing back against his cock in response to the jolt of pleasure.

“[Name]?” Jack’s voice was sleepy and confused. 

“Jack,” you whined in response.

“Oh fuck,” he pulled back, hands leaving you. “Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

“Wait - ” but Jack wasn’t listening

“Fuck, I told you I wouldn’t try anything, I’m so fucking sorry. That - I can’t believe I did that. Fuck.”

“Jack, stop,” he was sitting up, elbows on his knees and hands in his hair. The heat in you died when you saw him so upset. “Jack, look at me.”

“I’m sorry - ”

“Stop apologizing,” you pushed him flat onto his back, swinging a leg over his hips and leaning over him. Your hair created a curtain, closing the two of you into a little bubble.

“But I - ”

“Shut up!”

And then you kissed him. He froze for a moment, but he quickly melted into you, his hands coming up to grab your waist. He let you lead for a moment, his lips following the slow, languid rhythm you set.

Until your tongue swiped over the seam of his lips. Then, his hold on you tightened and with a firm buck of his hips, he was rolling you onto your back. He settled between your legs, grinding his length against you as his tongue stroked against yours, licking into your mouth and swallowing the noises that leaked out of you. Your hands tangled in his hair, holding him to you.

“Fuck,” Jack pulled back, gasping for air. His forehead rested against yours. “Are you sure - ”

“Yes, I’m fucking sure,” you bucked your hips up against his, tugging on his hair as you did. He groaned, meeting your thrust. “Wanted this for a long time.”

“I thought you hated me,” Jack’s hand was slipping back underneath your sweatshirt to push it up. His thumb dragged over your newly exposed pebbled nipple.

“Yeah, I did,” your back arched, pushing your chest even further into his hand. “Doesn’t mean you’re not hot, though.”

“Yeah?” He was smirking, his lips ghosting over yours. “I’m just that irresistible?”

“Shut the fuck up,” you pressed your lips against his, drawing him into a filthy kiss. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him back down so you could chase your own pleasure with his body. One of your hands slipped under his shirt, dragging your nails down over his chest and abs.

He moaned, grabbing your hand on his chest and pinning it to the mattress beside your head. He broke the kiss, nipping at your lower lip as he went.

“Unless you want this to end way too soon, you better fucking stop that,” his voice was low and ragged, fingers flexing against your wrist.

“Stop what?” You wanted to both know exactly what was driving him crazy, and to play dumb and rile him up.

“Touching me,” he ducked his head, nipping and sucking at the skin of your neck. “Looking so fucking good underneath me, all of it.”

“See,” you bit back a whimper. “I don’t think you really want me to stop.”

Your back arched and your hips bucked up again as he sucked a dark mark into the skin below your jaw.

“I don’t, but I don’t want to cum in my pants, either,” he moved lower, to a new, unblemished patch of skin. “So either take your pants off or tell me to go take a cold shower.”

“Gotta let go of my hand first,” your teeth dug into your lower lip as he licked a stripe up your neck.

“Are you gonna keep it to yourself?” Jack pulled back to look down at you. You grinned back up at him and he rolled his eyes.

“No.”

He laughed, releasing you and sitting back on his knees between your spread thighs. His hands came down to the drawstring, undoing the bow at lightning speed, pushing the pants down your hips. Jack groaned as your shorts came back into view.

“These little fucking shorts,” he stripped the pants off you, lifting your legs into the air as he did. “Made me hard earlier.”

His hand trailed over your hip, brushing across the fabric until he was stroking a finger over your covered slit. Your teeth bit into your lip even harder to smother the whine that he was drawing out of you.

“You’re fucking soaked,” that little smile tugging at his lips was smug and self satisfied. He pressed into you a little harder, circling your covered clit through the spandex. “Is this all for me?”

“You’re an ass,” your teeth were gritted. Every circle he made had your hips twitching up, little sparks shooting from the light touch.

“I think you like that about me,” Jack’s hand left you for just a minute, long enough for it to slip beneath the waistband of your shorts. For the second time tonight, the first with both of you fully aware, his fingers dipped below your soaking folds.

Jack leaned forward, his unoccupied hand braced against the bed by your head. His eyes fixed on yours, chest heaving as he watched every shift of your face while his hand moved. He was exploring, teasing, fingers wandering through every soaked inch of you, the tips just barely dipping into your entrance and then moving back up to circle your clit.

“Fuck,” you were panting, trying to move your hips against his hand, guiding him to the right spot. But every time his fingers found where you needed him, he’d move them away, smiling as he worked you up.

“Jack, I swear to god, I’ll - ”

“You’ll what? Hmm?” He slowed to a stop, his index and middle finger sandwiching your clit between them, pressing down to keep you from rocking into them and chasing your pleasure. “C’mon, tell me what you’ll do.”

“If you don’t make me cum in the next 2 minutes,” his cocky demeanor made you want to simultaneously punch him and kiss him. You hated it, but it fueled the heat and desire curling low in your stomach. Judging from the hard length of him you can just barely make out through his sweats, he was enjoying it, too. “I’ll never let you touch me again.”

His face fell, hardening into determination. “Is that so?”

“Yes - ”

Jack’s fingers pressed directly against your clit, rapidly drawing tight circles around your clit. It was like an electric shock to your body after so much of his teasing. Your back arched, eyes falling shut as your moans filled the air.

“How’s that? Is that what you wanted?”

“Shut - fuck - shut up!”

You were impossibly close, already wound so tightly that you were dangerously close to snapping beneath him.

“I thought you liked it when I was a dick?” Jack leaned even farther over you, his lips closing around your nipple, flicking the bud with his tongue and scraping over it with his teeth. 

“Stop fucking talking, Jack!” You felt him laugh against your skin, sending vibrations through your breast. 

Your hand tangled in his hair, yanking at the strands. He groaned, switching to your other breast and sucking hard.

You cracked, thighs trying to snap closed around his hand and hips. He didn’t let you, pushing his body even farther into yours to keep them open as he worked you through it. Your legs shook and your hips jerked against his fingers that were still going, drawing even more tremors and cries out of your lips.

You writhed beneath him, forced to let each wave crash over you as Jack held you through it.

“Fuck - no more,” it was nearly impossible to get air into your lungs, but as the sensations died down and overstimulation, Jack backed off.

He pushed back up, easing his hand out of your shorts. He let you breath for a moment, his hands rubbing over your thighs until their trembling slowed to a stop.

“You good?”

“Yeah,” your voice was breathy.

“Can I fuck you now?” 

You cracked your eyes open to look at Jack. There was a small wet patch on his sweats, right over the head of his cock. Fuck, he looked long and thick.

“Yes, please,” your hands found the waistband of your shorts, pushing them down.

Jack laughed, his hands joining yours to help remove the shorts from your legs. 

“I should have made you cum 3 years ago,” he threw the shorts over his shoulder once he got them free from your ankles. “So nice and polite.”

“Shut up and get naked, asshole,” you sat up, reaching for his sweats, tugging them down his hips. 

Suddenly, you were face to face with his cock. He was bigger than you though. The flushed length of his cock slapped against his stomach when it was freed, the leaking head smearing clear fluid against his abs.

You couldn’t help yourself. You leaned forward, licking a stripe up the length from base to tip. The skin was smooth and soft, his cock twitching beneath your touch.

“Fuck!” Jack’s hand grabbed your hair, pulled your head back and away from him as he hissed. “Don’t do that. You’re gonna make me cum.”

“Isn’t that the goal of sex?” You smiled up at him, straining against the hold he had on you to try and get your tongue back on him. 

“Yeah, but I’m trying not to embarrass myself and end this way too soon,” Jack guided you by your hair, easing you down onto your back again. “You can blow me later, right now, I think I might die if I don’t get inside you.”

“Then hurry up,” you lifted your legs, hooking them around his waist and pulling him down onto you.

“Alright, alright,” Jack slipped a hand between your bodies, grabbing himself by the base. You forced yourself to breathe as his tip swiped through your folds, coating his cock in your fluids before he was lining himself up. He pressed in slowly. You felt yourself part around him, your walls stretching around the crown of his head. You were impossibly full, and he was barely in you.

He kept pushing in, both of you panting and looking down, eyes locked on where you were joined. You didn’t think you could take anymore, but he kept going, your walls sucking him in and pulling him into your depths.

“Fuck,” your head dropped back when he bottomed out. He ground forward, staying fully seated inside you and letting you adjust.

“Oh shit,” Jack sat up between your legs, hands gripping your hips, keeping them pressed fully against his. The shift in angle had you keening. “Look at that.”

Your eyes cracked open, trying to figure out what he was talking about.

“Can fucking see myself, holy shit,” one of his hands left your hips, tracing around the very visible sight of his cock outlined in your lower stomach. You were transfixed, watching with bated breath as his fingertips brushed against your skin. Goosebumps broke out across your body at the sensation.

“I wonder…” Jack trailed off, eyes still focused on your stomach. His hand moved, gently laying over the outline of his cock. He let it sit there for just a moment, palming his length through your skin.

And then he pushed down. 

Both of you cried out at once. You’d already felt full, but the added pressure of his hand made his length feel even bigger. He was everywhere, completely consuming you from the inside out.

“Holy fuck!” His hips jerked into you, snapping against a spot deep inside you that had you arching in his hold.

“Oh fuck, Jack!”

“Yeah? You feel that?” Jack started moving, his hips withdrawing and punching back into you, rapidly working his way up to a punishing pace. You couldn’t answer with words. He was pushing the breath out of your lungs with every thrust. “God, you’re so full of me, baby.”

And then Jack hiked your legs up over his shoulders, releasing the pressure on your stomach in exchange for keeping your thighs pressed tight to his chest. It opened you up even more to him.

“Oh my god,” Jack bent forward, burying his face back in your neck, pushing your legs into your chest, folding you in half. He was rutting into you, groaning as he chased his pleasure.

You were getting close again, too. Every thrust had the neatly trimmed hairs at the base of his cock grinding over your clit as his tip slammed home against your g-spot. Your eyes were closed, lost in the pleasure. You couldn’t move, completely pinned beneath him and forced to take the overwhelming pleasure.

“Jack! Please!” Your hand tangled in his hair again, holding the strands tightly. It was your only lifeline and you used it to tether yourself to reality. 

“Oh fuck,” Jack was panting into the skin of your shoulder. “Fuck, I’m close. C’mon, cum for me. Please, need to feel you.”

You were so close, only a hair's breadth from your peak.

When Jack bit down on your shoulder and his hips stuttered, you came again. You clamped around him, walls spasming and squeezing while he rutted even deeper into you. Jack was groaning your name while he spilled deep inside of you. The hot pusles of his release propelled your own, the two of you pushing each other even higher.

He finally let go of your legs, helping to ease them down until they were resting on the mattress on either side of his hips. He didn’t move to pull out, though. The two of you stayed wrapped around each other, his softening length buried inside you, until the cold was too much to bear.

“So,” Jack gingerly climbed off of you, the cold air rushing in. “Can I take you on a real date now?”

“If you get me a washcloth to clean up with and get the fire started, I’ll marry you as soon as we get out of here,” you were shivering now.

Jack grinned, leaning back down to press a quick kiss to your lips. “Promise?” 

Pope is here because Smurf told him the property needs checking on. At least that’s the story he’s feeding himself.

And it makes sense. There’s water damage in one of the downstairs units and some dipshit’s been stripping cooper out of the laundry room again. If it’s not one thing going wrong, it’s another.

This building’s always two steps away from falling apart. Someone has to stop it from going to hell completely.

Plenty of good, rational reasons to be here. 

None of which do a thing to explain why he does not move from being propped on the hood of his truck just yet.

He stays at the curb as he watches the building’s familiar pulse of seedy activity.

It’s not even the worst spot owned by the Codys, not by far, but that doesn’t make it good. It’s definitely not good enough for you, not by a long shot. Run-down. Full of people who loiter outside longer than they should and pay too much attention to things that aren’t theirs.

A woman argues fervently on the stoop, body tense enough he can see the harsh jut of her collarbone from here. Two boys pretend to clean their bikes by the courtyard, their hands moving in repetitive, meaningless circles, rags never actually removing any grime.

And then there’s the smoker, with a long beard and crooked nose, leaning near the stairs, smoke rising around him.

Pope watches his sleepy gaze harden suddenly, tracking something straight ahead.

Pope’s neck cranes as his vision tunnels into pinpoint clarity, finding what the man found first: you.

Walking up the sidewalk with two grocery bags hooked over your wrists, pink flats picking their way carefully over the buckled concrete, skirt the same shade catching around your knees every time the breeze shifts. White cardigan buttoned all the way up over your chest despite the heat.

You don’t hurry. That bothers him.

You move through the courtyard with no care in the world. Unaware of the eyes that linger on your body, the curiosity you unwittingly ignite.

God he hates this place most when you’re in it. Without you, it’s just brick and mortar. But with you here, everything is suddenly hostile. A million scenarios blooming in his head. Someone following you from your car, someone hiding just around the corner waiting for you to pass by, a neighbor deciding your door lock doesn’t look so hard to force open.

He has tried to get you to stay at Smurf’s countless times now, using different tactics each time. Gentle coaxing, stubborn demands, pushing you into the kind of corner where the only real choice was already decided for you.

And those all work most nights. 

Still, every now and then, for reasons unbeknownst to him, you insist on sleeping here.

So every now and then, he comes and sits off to the side, his truck parked discreetly out of view. Always staying within striking distance should anyone dare to try anything stupid.

Thankfully he hasn’t had to act yet, people know better, whispers exchanged in doorways and hallways: that pretty little thing tucked away in apartment 2B is Cody territory. Off limits.

It takes him four long strides to reach you. 

He comes up behind you without saying anything, partly because he doesn’t want to startle you and partly because he wants to see how long it takes before you notice a man his size coming up behind you. Too long, apparently. 

You don’t notice him when his shadow cuts across the pavement beside yours, not when his boots hit the concrete close enough you should hear him, not even when he’s right behind you, inhaling the faint sweet drift of your perfume over the dirty air of the courtyard.

You just keep walking, grocery bags bumping into your legs every second step, head angled down as you watch your feet over the cracked walkway. 

Then you stop so suddenly he nearly runs into you, boots scuffing against the ground in the process.

Nearly turns into definitely when you move again, bending at the waist to grab a little carton that had tumbled out of your bag and rolled near your shoe.

He can’t dodge you fast enough before he’s crashing against you, the ample of your backside pressed flush against him, your skirt skimming his denim-clad thighs.

He grits his teeth, swallowing down the groan lodged somewhere in his throat, and his hands shoot out to grip at your waist. Half to steady you, half to hold himself back.

You jump, a sharp little gasp tearing out of you as you twist in his hold, eyes wide, lips parted.

But the fear vanishes when you realize it’s him. Dissolves so quickly into relief, then blossoming into that lovely smile of yours Pope spends half his days obsessing over. Lip gloss glistens like honey under the afternoon sun, squinting at him through the harsh glare.

“Pope,” you breathe, like he’s something good that happened to you rather than the man who decided to follow you through a parking lot to prove a point.

His fingers flex once before he makes them let go.

“You don’t pay attention,” he tells you plainly.

You smile pinches at the edges a little, like you’re trying to decide whether he’s teasing you or scolding you. You seem to assume the later. A good assumption.

“I do pay attention,” you insist, the words coming out with the stubborn certainty of someone who has already decided they're right. Then you glance down at the sidewalk as though it might testify on your behalf. One of the grocery bags slips lower on your wrist, plastic stretching, and you hitch it back up with a small huff of effort. “I was paying attention to the ground. Because last week I almost twisted my ankle right there.”

Pope follows the line of your finger.

Without a word, he reaches for the bags. His hand closes around the handles and lifts them clean off your arm before you can object. You make a small noise of surprise, letting him take them.

“What if it wasn’t me coming up behind you?” 

Your brows pull together. “But it was you.”

“Yeah, but what if it wasn’t?”

You hesitate visibly, your fingers weaving together, rocking onto the tips of your shoes. You look almost apologetic when you speak. “I dunno.”

Exactly, he thinks.

He breathes out very slowly through his nose to keep the worst of his frustration from showing. It still sits heavy on his face, he’s sure. In the hard line of his mouth, in the way his hands tighten around the plastic bags until the handles stretch thin. 

“You gotta be more aware,” he says, dipping his face towards yours, almost pleading. His gaze flickers anxiously over your face, desperate for more reassurance. “Can you do that for me? Check around when you get out of the car, look before you walk up the stairs, take a second before you open your door.” 

You open your mouth to speak, something potentially defensive at the tip of your tongue, before you reconsider, shoulders sinking just a fraction. 

“For me,” Pope urges again. No room for misunderstanding.

And because you are you, you give a gentle, almost reluctant nod in surrender. You have a hard time fighting him on anything.

He returns the gesture with his own stiff nod. He knows you don’t fully understand the fuss, not completely, but you’re trying, and that has to be enough for now. He’ll shoulder the rest.

He moves towards the staircase, leaving you to catch up. You hurry to follow behind him. 

“Why’re you here anyway?” you voice after him. “Did I miss rent or something?”

Pope doesn’t turn around; doesn’t trust himself to look at you without giving too much away.

“No,” he replies, casual, like it’s not something he thinks about every single month.

You would never be late. You are a meticulously precise creature. Keeping track of everything, neat little numbers, due dates, confirmations, all of it lined up exactly the way you like, and then you get that pleased look on your face when you send the payment, like you’ve done something worth being proud of.

Which you have. He lets you have that. But he can’t stand taking your money.

So every month he waits until that little deposit appears, waits another day or two to avoid suspicion, then finds a way to get it back to you.

Sometimes it’s hidden in elaborate Cody business expenses; other times Craig’s buddy does some invisible computer shit to push numbers back into your account, nothing ever traced to pope.

And occasionally, he just leaves cash in places he knows you’ll find it. In your purse, between pages of a book you’ve left out, tucked behind a coffee mug. 

He loves hearing you puzzle over it. You always chalk it up to luck, or fate, or some karmic gift from the universe. Never once suspecting Pope’s fingerprints on every cent.

It all sounds more complicated than it actually is.

Really, it’s just logical. You need the money. Pope has the money. Problem solved.

At the steps, Pope pauses, gently nudging you ahead of him.

It’s a selfish move. He’s got a bad feeling you don’t have shorts under that skirt, and he’s not in the mood to have that confirmed by anyone standing behind you. Better him at your back than anyone else. Better him blocking the view.

As if to confirm his fears, someone over his shoulder lets out a short laugh. “Man, a girl that pretty oughta let me buy her dinner. Hell, maybe I’d even send her home wearing a pearl necklace.”

Pope looks back and finds the bearded cigarette smoker slouched against the vending machine, filter hanging loose between two fingers, eyes still fixed on you with that same open, filthy interest. He’s got a buddy with him now, some wiry little shit standing half a step to the side, not looking too sure of himself now that Pope’s facing him. 

Pope thinks about how easy it would be. Pin the guy up against the machine, forearm to windpipe, watching the smartass shine drain out of his eyes. Pictures crushing the cigarette into the soft part of his cheek. But he can’t do that without scaring you off.

So he crouches just enough to place the bags on the stairs without jostling them, eggs and bread and whatever else cushioned upright where it won’t tip. 

When he rises, he goes back the way he came, jerking his head in your direction. “You talkin’ about her?”

“Just complimenting her.”

“No,” Pope says. “You weren’t.”

The wiry friend shifts back half a step. Smart. 

The bearded man tries to recover, but it’s too late, Pope can already see the little glint of fear sputtering in his eyes, igniting as he sizes him up.

He lifts the cigarette to his mouth. “Ain’t that serious, man.”

Pope reaches out and plucks the cigarette from his fingers before it gets there. Drops it to the concrete. Crushes it under his boot. 

“Look at her again, talk about her again, I’ll make sure the next thing I crush under my boot is your throat.”

The bearded man opens his mouth. 

“Don’t. I’m tryin’ real hard not to scare her,” Pope growls. “Don’t make that difficult for me.”

The man’s eyes flick once past Pope, towards the stairs, toward you, then snap back fast like even that was a mistake.

“Alright,” he mutters finally, hands lifting a little. “Didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

A lie. A terrible one, at that. But Pope doesn’t spare the man another look. Just turns, grabs the grocery bags, and comes back up the steps to where you’re perched on the landing, watching him with that dazed little expression of yours. 

“I don’t even like pearls,” you whisper to him the second he gets close enough. “They’re kinda old-ladyish.”

Pope shuts his eyes for half a beat.

“Yeah,” he finally sputters, tips of his ears burning a little. He ushers you towards 2B. “C’mon. Inside.”

The inside of your apartment is cute. Small as it looks from the outside and from what he can see through your window at night, but it’s cute, all pinks and whites and soft little girlish details scattered across every surface.

There’s a coffee table crowded with tiny trinkets he can’t make heads or tails of, glossy little objects with no obvious purpose except that you liked them enough to bring them home. 

And it’s clean. He likes that it’s clean. Clean means he won’t spend the time here distracted by dust in the corners and fingerprints on glass, trying not to imagine bleaching every inch of it.

He carries the bags into the kitchen and sets them on the counter one by one. Behind him, you wobble a little taking off your shoes and catch yourself on his shoulder.

It leaves a searing brand behind when you pull away. 

“What was that out there?” you ask.

Pope shrugs. “Nothin’. Guy’s just a dick.”

He winces inwardly as soon as he says it. Dick feels too crude aimed anywhere near you, and he has to resist the urge to take it back and replace it with something nicer.

“It’s not like he said anything really bad or anything,” you say, shrugging in a way that suggests you’re used to it. 

Used to being stared at, cat called, talked about. And maybe it shouldn’t surprise him, given who you are.

He’s seen it before, at Smurf’s parties, men practically stumbling over themselves to offer you a drink, eyes tracking every movement you make. Drivers nearly wrapping their cars around telephone poles because their heads turn too fast when you walk down the street. 

You’re beautiful. Beautiful enough that people can’t help staring at you. But Pope’s never been forced to hear it firsthand, never had to stand there while some pervert talked about putting a pearl necklace across your throat and chest. And you don’t even understand what he was saying. 

He could handle it. He could handle it right now. If the guy’s still lingering around when Pope leaves, he might just have to. The asshole will be out of this building tomorrow regardless, he’ll will make damn sure of it.

Your hand touching his arm snaps him out of it. He looks down and sees your painted fingers resting there, cautious like you’re not sure what’s going on in his head. 

“Pope?”

The heat cools just enough for him to breathe. He rubs a hand over his jaw. “He said somethin’ bad enough.”

You cock your head to one side. “Taking me to dinner isn’t exactly the worst offer I’ve ever had. And like I said, pearls aren’t really my thing, but it’s a nice sentiment, I guess?”

Pope shoves his hand through his hair, forced to take a step back because standing this close to your face is messing with him. 

“Look a pearl necklace isn’t… it’s not jewelry, okay? It’s not fuckin’ nice. Do you hear what I’m saying?”

You fold your arms over your chest, your hair slipping forward and partly covering your face. Pope’s fingers twitch at his sides, fighting the impulse to reach out and brush it back into place. 

“Not really… I— well,” you pause, fingers drumming along your left arm. “What else could a pearl necklace be, if it’s not jewelry?”

His blood pressure ticks up exponentially. Why must you make everything so difficult?

“I’m not gonna explain it. Just trust me, it’s not somethin’ appropriate for anyone to say to you.”

“What happened to ‘I’m an adult’ and ‘it’s my call if I wanna know stuff’?”

Shit. He did say that, didn’t he?

Pope takes a deep, irritated breath, wishing he could turn back time and rip his own vocal chords out. This must be his own purgatory. Cursed to answer all your sex related questions for all of eternity and unable to do anything about it.

You trust him. That much is obvious. He doesn’t want to abuse that trust. A Sisyphean task. Endless. Futile.

“Alright, look. It’s slang for a guy… finishin’ on you. On your throat, your chest, wherever.” His voice is strained, worried he might break something delicate in you just by saying it. “It’s disrespectful. Sleazy.”

You blink, eyes huge as you look up at him, clearly stunned by what you just heard. You shake your head slightly, trying to puzzle it out. “So it’s… disrespectful if someone does that to you?”

Pope cracks his neck, wincing slightly, as if the right words are somewhere trapped there and refusing to come out easy. 

“Christ — yes,” he grumbles. Then quickly, backtracking, “I mean no — no, it ain’t disrespectful if it’s something you, uh, wanted someone to do, but it’s disrespectful for someone to say shit like that to you unprompted.”

“Oh, well, yeah, that was gross,” you agree, wrinkling your nose.

Then you turn away from him, starting to put away the groceries with a distracted, absent-minded care. He thinks he’s in the clear, that you’re satisfied with his sparks note version of the definition.

He’s eyeing the door, when you pause again, bottom lip caught between your teeth, a bag of carrots dangling in your hand.

“Why would someone even want to do that to someone? The guy, I mean? Not him specifically, just, like, any guy? Is that something… you think about? Like a lot?”

He coughs, almost choking, and a hot flush creeps up the back of his neck.

There’s an instant headache pulsing behind he eyes as he tries desperately not to picture exactly what you just asked him.

Is it something he thinks about? Not until this moment. Not until he imagines those same wide and trusting eyes looking up at him as he spills milky white ropes of cum across your bare chest.

Christ. He’s no better than that asshole downstairs, thinking shit like that about you. 

He presses two fingers to his temple. “No, it’s not like I sit around thinking about stuff like that.”

It feels like a fib now.

“So why would someone wanna do that at all?”

Because it would feel good, he thinks. Immediately. The act itself, yes, but the claim in the aftermath. The evidence left behind.

The way people are always trying to leave marks on things they like. Names carved into desks. Initials scratched into trees. Dogs pissing on fire hydrants. 

You stare at him expectantly, waiting for an answer. 

He looks at the wall behind you, at the cheap paint and the little crooked shelf you’ve decorated with candles and a tiny ceramic flower.

Anything but your face. Anything but the curve of your throat. Anything but the where your shirt dips when you shift closer. 

“It’s…” He cuts himself off, jaw ticking. “It’s visual.” The word sounds dragged out of him. “That’s part of it. Men are wired like that. And part of it’s ego. They wanna see you messy like that. Wanna see that you let ‘em do it.” His mouth flattens. “It’s not always romantic. A lotta the time it’s just selfish.”

“But maybe it depends on who it is? Like doing it to you?” You continue to worry your bottom lip between your teeth. “Like… if it was someone safe. Someone you trusted a lot.” A tiny crease forms between your brows. “And if it was something you wanted too, couldn’t it be kind of romantic?” 

Pope goes still. All his blood seeming to rush downwards as the question lands between you like something lit, something rolling close to dry brush.

He can feel the conversation slipping somewhere it shouldn’t. He needs to reign it back in, regain control.

Instead he says, “Could be. If you trusted ‘em. If it was somethin’ you were askin’ for, or… into. Not somethin’ that’s being pushed on you.”

You go quiet, turning that over.

Then, in that soft, absentminded way of yours, like you don’t realize you’re lighting a match in a room full of gas, you say, “I guess that makes sense. A lot of things probably feel different with a person you trust.”

You’re looking at him so intensely he has to take another step back. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He doesn’t say anything for a minute. Can’t. Your gaze moves back down into the grocery bag with a shrug, sweet and unaware that you’ve just handed his imagination enough to ruin the rest of his night.

He’s corrupt for wanting to be that person for you. The one you trust enough to paint your body. To teach you all this dumb shit, but with his hands, with his mouth, with his cock.

He clears his throat hard, grabs the last bag off the counter even though it’s already empty, then sets it right back down like he forgot what he was doing in the first place.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice flat in that way it only gets when he’s holding too much under it. “Maybe.”

He leaves not long after that. Before you ask anything else. Before he can give into his urges and contaminate you with his darkness.  

By the next afternoon, the guy downstairs is gone.

Smurf’s property manager tells the tenants it was a lease violation. Some issue with unauthorized guests, late rent, maybe smoking too close to the building. Nobody asks too many questions. Nobody wants to.

And a few days later, you mention in passing that the creepy man by the vending machine must’ve gotten into some kind of accident.

“His face looked weird when he was packing up all his stuff,” you say, frowning a little. “Like he burned himself or something.”

Pope just hums, eyes on the road.

He doesn’t tell you cigarette burns heal terribly.

You've never ridden in a helicopter before. 

It's much louder than you anticipated and it smells of oil and old coffee. Frankie says if it was his own helicopter it would be spotless. But as this is a work one he borrowed for the day, beggars can't be choosers. 

You can't stop sneaking looks at him as he flies. There's so much that goes into flying - one hand rests on the controls while the other makes precise adjustments. And as he always was in his youth, he does everything with a calm focus.  He isn't showing off for you, he just knows exactly what he he's doing. Every motion is like second nature, and you muse that some people are just meant for certain things. 

Frankie was meant for flying. 

Your stomach is still a little jumpy from the start of the flight, your heart still pattering a bit quicker than normal, even though you trust Frankie with your life. It was still strange to see the world grow smaller and smaller beneath you, to hear the swop wop wop of the blades cutting through the sky. 

Your headset sits comfortably over your ears and you hear a crackle and then Frankie's raspy voice coming through. 

"You doing okay, Pip?" 

You look his way, nodding. You're doing okay; you just wish that Hilary was with you today. 

The entire idea of flying out here was Frankie's idea, a suggestion brought to you and Hilary the day before the official funeral. 

The three of you sat around the kitchen table sharing the brownies Frankie brought. They sat on plates, untouched in front of all of you. 

“I can’t wait until all of this is over,” Hilary sighed, taking a drag of her cigarette.

“Tell me about it,” you mumbled, your eyes red from crying all night.

Frankie’s shoulder touched yours, a silent reminder that he was there for you if you should need him.

“Well, we can take your mom's ashes to Blue Heron like she wanted when you’re ready,” Frankie told you both quietly, fingers absently playing with his fork. “No rush.”

“No we can’t,” Hilary frowned. “It’s condemned plus all that road deterioration means we’d never manage to get up there.”

Your heart sank as you thought of failing in the one thing your mother requested. You found yourself surprised that Frankie didn’t seem deterred.

"I know, Pip told me. But we can get there by helicopter. I talked to my boss and I can rent one for the day. You just tell me when.”

You burst into grateful tears as Hilary just sat there at the table, eyes wide in disbelief. 

It wasn’t until later that night when you and Hilary were alone that she gave you a solemn look.

"Will you do it? I just ... Can't. I don't like heights.”

Hillary had never had issues with heights. But did have issues with drawn out farewells. You knew it was too emotional for her. Too hard to do that final step and say goodbye and for once, you came to her aid. 

"Of course." 

So it's just Frankie and you touching down into Blue Heron with your mother's ashes in a metal urn held securely in your lap. 

Frankie sneaks a glance your way, can see the nerves in you and you knowi this was the truck he'd be reaching over to squeeze your knee, to quickly press a kiss to your cheek at a stop sign. However, behind this beast of a helicopter, his focus needs to remain on the task at hand. 

But that doesn't stop him from shooting you a soft smile before turning his attention back to the console. 

"There it is, baby." 

Through the curved windshield the abandoned camp appears below as a dark patch of collapsed docks and overgrown trails swallowed by green. Isolated and forgotten, many areas patchy from lack of growth. But there is a large section big enough for his chopper.

You glance Frankie's way, eyes meeting briefly before he's focused back on guiding you both down. As the helicopter descends, the lake's surface ripples outward beneath the downdraft. Tall grass begins to bend flat, leaves and pine needles spiraling into the air like mini tornados. 

Even as the winds nudge the helicopter on your descent, Frankie remains completely composed, dark eyes scanning the instruments and horizon with steady focus. The helicopter finally touches down with a soft bump on the earth below you hold your breath. The rotors gradually slow and the blades thundering chops stutter to a stop.  

You remove your headphones and all that's left is the quiet sound of the birdsong and a gentle lapping of the lake against a weathered and collapsed dock. 

You don't move right away, the weight of the urn heavy on your lap. You just stare out the windshield, looking at the still campground. You’re scared of this next step.

“No rush, Pip. We can go when you’re ready.”

You look over to see your boyfriend gazing at you with concern. Of course Frankie knows without you saying a word. 

"I'm ready." 

You climb out, Frankie's hands at your waist, boots sinking briefly into damp moss. It's hard to imagine this place once overrun by happy tourists. He takes the urn from you, carrying it in one arm, the other snaking around your middle.

"You got this, Pip," he tells you. His lips brush yours. "I'm here every step of the way." 

The two of you move through the trails, the green canopies of shivering treetops. The sun is warm on your shoulders but the breeze fragrant from the flowers that grow in wild directions. 

When you come to the lake you suddenly understand your mother's love for it. The sun makes the surface of the water glitter and you can imagine her here, her youthful face tipped to the sun, her shoulders bare.

The dock is rotted away, unable to be tred on. But the shoreline is pristine, welcoming as you move towards it. You wonder if your mother ever jumped off the deck in a cannon ball formation or a sleek dive. 

"I'm gonna give you some space," Frankie murmurs as you take the urn from him. "Unless you need me."

The afternoon light streams through the trees, catching the strong lines of his face and brim of his cap. You fall a little bit more in love with him in that moment.

Yes, you do need Frankie. You need him in your life, in your bed, in your thoughts. But for now, you want time with your mom. 

"I've got it." 

Turning from him you make your way to the water, eyes stuck on the beautiful serenity.  The lake is so beautiful, the day so perfect. The wind is soft it's a caress against your cheek. 

You stare down at the urn you hold and find it strange to think of how a person with all their huge experiences and big feelings can somehow fit into such a small totem. 

You remember the way your mother smiled when you got into college, how her hugs felt when you were sick. You remember the way she rubbed your back and told you she loved you. 

You unscrew the lid of the urn as you think of her. How she too was doing life for the first time. 

Thank you for bringing me into the world.

Thank you for always having open arms. 

Thank you for trying your best. 

"Goodbye, mom," you whisper, gingerly tipping the urn over. You watch as the ashes pour slowly from the lip, carried on the wind and out onto the lake. 

Thank you for being my mom. 

The ashes scatter into the water and wind, a swirl of memory and life and body committed to the earth and water. And there's something so poetic in that, to be returned to the world in this form. 

"I'll take care of Hilary," you promise her. "And she'll take care of me." 

You take a few minutes of quiet, head bowed, hands holding the empty urn at your waist. 

Finally, with tears dried you raise your head. You look over at the trees to where Frankie balances his shoulder against a tree, thick arms crossed, just watching you.  When he sees you look his way, his brows twitch up. You motion for him to join you and he does so quickly, arms outstretched to gather you against him when he approaches. 

"Thank you," you say, breathing in the warmth of the sun on his clothes. "For the flight and for being here and just.... Thank you, Frankie." 

The two of you walk hand in hand back to the helicopter, a strange feeling of bliss found in the quiet of this moment, a comedown. It's a good sensation, you observe.

 Like the end of one book and the start of another. 

“Are you insane?”

You sit with Hilary at the kitchen table with bleary eyes swollen from the tears you two can't seem to stop. Fragrant coffee steam wafts from chipped mugs, but both remain untouched.  

The dividing of your mother's assets was quick and adroit. She didn't have much, a few pieces of jewelry from her own grandparents (A necklace of which was given to Rosalita, despite her initial refusal), your mother's meager savings and a few odds and ends. 

The house however, is mortgage free. A true asset having been bought long before the increasing surge in real estate prices. The manila folder holding the deed to the house, and your ownership stake signed over to your sister. 

"Seriously, have you lost it? I can't accept an entire fucking house," Hilary says with a shake of her head, pushing the folder towards you across the kitchen table. 

"Why not?"

"Because it's not fair to you."

Your folded hands remain unchanged, your temperament serene. You knew the second the deed was in your hand that it would be passed to your sister. 

"It's not fair that you stayed home and took care of Mom for most of your life," you correct. 

Your voices are hushed in the early morning, faces painted amber from the gaps between windows curtains. A stripe of it cuts your sister's concerned expression in half. 

"I didn't do it for that. She was our mom."

"Of course you didn't," you say. "Hilary, for all you did, please take this with my gratitude and my love. No strings." 

She balks, mouth opening, brows pointing before something stops her. It makes her body relax back into the chair. "You don't want me to buy you out or something?" 

You both know she has no money to do that. But having lived here these months you realize the emotional and physical Burtons you placed upon your older sister, assuming she could hold the weight of it all. A house still doesn't seem enough for all she did. 

"No. I just want you to have it."

Her eyes sweep up along the corners of the kitchen, to the faded linoleum and the sink that never quite stopped dripping. It's nowhere near a perfect home, but there's safety in the familiarity for her. 

You can see it in Hilary's face, the sudden realization she will no longer be un-moored. The freedom in this ownership. 

"This whole house just for me?" She says, and when she looks at you for a moment, you see a flicker of the headstrong teenage girl she was. You're taken back to the times when that bravado would fall, like a mask slipping down. 

She gives you a raw, naked look of concern. A girl worried she's going to do the wrong thing because she has always done the wrong thing. 

"Yeah," you nod before reaching across the table. You squeeze her limp palm tightly before retracting. "And Justin, if that's what you want."

Justin is still sleeping in Hilary's old room, and at the mention of him your sister lets a smile twist one side of her mouth. 

"Yeah. I want that if he does." 

Ever since Justin flew in, the two of you have become fast friends. You love the way he looks at your sister, with this constant adoration that Hilary pretends to hate. Maybe she did hate it at one time, considering that kindness was a weakness. You think she sees this differently now.

You hope she does. 

Because in the quiet moments when they think they're being unobserved, you watch as your sister rests her head upon his shoulder, the way he brushes the hair from her eyes and kisses her slowly. 

And you know then that Justin will love your sister with all he has, that he will continue to doggedly pursue her until she understands that love can come quietly, that it can be constant. 

That it's never too late. 

At home the following evening you sit on Frankie's porch swing, the night dark and the stars twinkling. You feel a chill to your upper arm as Frankie presses a chilled glass of lemonade to it. 

You take it with thanks, shifting to get closer to him when he joins you on the porch swing. He puts an arm around you, pulling you close. Every day it seems the two of you want to melt more and more into one another. 

You feel that Frankie's eyes are trained on you and you look up to see he's got those big, brown, puppy dog eyes; the ones that give away every emotion he possesses the second he feels them. 

And right now they look anxious. 

"So, guess you'll be heading back to Seattle soon." 

It's a topic the two of you have been dancing around recently. Between the late nights talking, meeting Justin, the reminiscing of good times, your mom's passing, any thoughts of the future seem to have been put on hold. 

But now as you think of your mother's ashes dancing in the wind, you're affronted with one singular realization. 

Home is wherever Frankie is. 

"I dunno about that," you shrug, snuggling up closer to him. "I can work remote so I don't necessarily have to go back." 

His body is tensed and, you feel his heavy arm band tighter against your middle. 

"But you love Seattle," Frankie says, his chest rumbling as he speaks. "You keep reminding me how crappy our coffee is here. How gators outnumber the humans." 

You giggle softly, cheeks swollen, eyes squinting. "Well, it's true." 

He pulls you closer as he chuckles, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. He's contemplative, you can feel it in how he holds you a little tighter. 

"But, it's not so bad here," you offer, reveling in the light night breeze against your skin. 

"Pip, you hate Florida," Frankie says as he pulls back, eyes casting your way. You stare up at him, eyes limpid. 

"But a lot of people I love are here," you say softly. "One in particular I have no intention of saying goodbye to."

This pleases him, cheeks pink and mouth hitching into a grin. Despite the shield of his hat, you don't miss the dimple in his cheek as he nods. 

"Then you shouldn't have to say goodbye." 

You nod at him before snuggling closer. You inhale the scent of his cologne and fresh sweat, of old spice and the wind. Of Frankie. 

No, you shouldn't have to say goodbye. 

And you won't. 

"About time!" Santi calls over the heads of the bar patrons. Some look your way as you, Hilary and Justin enter. 

Santi is already at the table with Benny and Will, a jug of beer and several glasses waiting for the three of you. Justin and Hilary slide into the booth, Santi giving a good-natured shake of his head. 

"What the hell took you so long? And where's Fish?"

You can't tell him the real reason. That it was because Frankie had his mouth between your legs all afternoon, coaxing pleasure from you for so long that the two of you lost track of time. 

"Had to run some errands and Frankie said he was giving Tom a ride," you shrug. "I'm just gonna grab a drink.”

You weave through the bodies of people until you get to the bar. The man working is distracted by several other patrons so you wait, glancing over at the table. 

Justin is fitting in already. His arm around Hilary as he clicks bottles with the group. He says something and the group laughs uproariously. You smile when you see the way Hilary gazes up at him, a pleased smile on her face. She's so gone for this guy, the sight warms you. 

"No way! Hey babe!"

Fuck. 

Christy is there at your side, drink in hand. She moves with a shuffle, her long legs slightly wobbly. You force a polite smile. 

"Hi Christy." 

She smiles widely when she comes to stand opposite of you. She smells like cigarettes covered by perfume. She's still gorgeous, but her makeup is smudged, hair dishevelled

"You've been back all this time and we still haven't had a catch up!"

“Yeah, been busy.”

She starts to talk about the drinks here, how they’re overpriced and how she misses going to the beach with a six-pack and having a great time.

How are you going to avoid this interaction in the future? You forgot that when you move back here you're moving back into a world of characters you don't particularly enjoy. Into a history you tried to forget.

"There you are." 

Your eyes go over your shoulder to see Frankie approaching with Tom who gives a wave your way before going to join the rest of the table. 

"Hey," you smile, feeling yourself melt when Frankie comes to stand next to you. 

He's wearing that cologne that you love his dark grey t-shirt straining over his shoulders and biceps. His hair curls under his hat and when he smiles that dimple on one side deepens. Basically sex on legs. 

"Hi Frankie," Christy offers with a slur, eyes raking over his body. "S'good to see you." 

"Hey Christy," Frankie says politely, but his gaze never leaves yours. 

Christy watches over her glass as his hand slips around your waist to draw you closer. 

"Sorry I'm late." 

"No problem." 

He gets a heated look on his face before his warm breath on your ear, raspy voice dipped so only you can hear. 

"You look so good right now," he says, hand sliding along the hips of your jeans. "Forget hanging out with the guys. I wanna take you back to bed and ma-" 

You smirk, mouth meeting his in a short peck to stop his dirty thoughts from finishing before you whisper back. 

"Waiting is half the fun, Morales." 

"Not for me it isn't," he growls gently, his beard rasping against your cheek. 

You give him a playful shove before he can start saying more things that turn your insides to jelly.

"I'll be patient," he promises.  

He gives you a wink, patting your ass gently before moving towards the booth where everyone is chatting and drinking. He's halfway there before he turns around, brows raised.

"Coke with a lime," you say before he can speak. "I know." 

He grins from under his cap, teeth a slab of white against the bronze of his skin. 

"Thanks, baby." 

You watch him move to join the group, smiling when they cheer his arrival. You remember that Christy is there when you hear her sharp little gasp. 

"Holy shit! No way! When did that happen?" 

Now you feel your cheeks warming. "The first time?" 

Christy's eyes are blown wide, a grin slicing her face in half. "First time?! Girl, tell me everything!" 

With any other topic you'd skillfully avoid answering. But Frankie is a topic you never tire of. 

"We were pretty quiet about it," you admit with a shy look at the floor. "Back before I left for college."

Christy gives a squeak of delight, fingers finding yours on the bar top. She squeezes gently, her hands warm. "No fucking way!" 

She surprises you, going from looking elated to sobering, her already flushed cheeks pinking further. The man behind the bar takes your order and when he leaves, Christy is looking at you with an anguished expression. 

“What’s wrong?”

"I just remembered how I used to throw myself at him." She surprises you by crooking her slender arms around your neck, pulling you tightly against her for a hug.  "I'm so sorry. You must've thought I was such a bitch!" 

For a minute you stay still, confused at the action before slowly banding your arms around her narrow middle. 

"We were teenagers, Christy," you say with a sincere shrug as she pulls back, eyes wet. 

She places an order for another beer, her empty glass slid onto the bar top. 

"I swear if I'd known I never would have been so... Aggressive. I just thought he was just shy you know?"

"He was," you say, taking your drink from the bartender with a nod. Christy is still staring at you when you turn back. 

"Francisco was one of the few guys that was nice to me," she admits. "And like, not just so he could get in my pants."

Your heart clenches at her vulnerability. 

"Unlike Travis," she adds with a grimace before wincing. "I'm sorry, I know he was your friend-"

"Barely," you say with a disgusted curl of your lip. "Do you ever talk to him?" 

Christy gives a humorless chuckle 

"I saw him on Tindr last week. He's bald and his entire bio is just Taylor Swift lyrics." 

"I thought he was married?"

"Divorce was finalized a while ago," she says before thanking the bartender for her beer. She turns her attention back to you. "According to my Facebook stalking." 

You give a sharp, unexpected laugh at this, flashing a look at Frankie and the rest of the group. You can't wait to tell him this piece of gossip later.   

"I think he cheated on his wife," Christy continues in a stage whisper. "I mean, I'm not shocked...Anyway, I should let you get back to your group," Christy says, observing your attention on the table. "It was nice seeing you."

You look at Christy with her smudged lipstick and glassy eyes. At the outfit far too tight and her hair disheveled.  It would be so easy to hate her. To blame her for everything that happened, but how can you? She was a teenage girl desperate for connection. And it seems she's a grown woman looking for the same. 

You smile warmly, motioning over to the table of your laughing friends. 

"Hey Christy, why don't you join us?" 

You look around at your childhood bedroom, a cardboard box in your arms. There isn't much you're taking with you. A box of mementos, pictures, movie stubs...a keychain with a shell attached to it. 

"Hey, Pip."

Santi strides into your bedroom, his smile muted. He misses your mom, even if it's harder for him to admit out loud. He was the son she never had. 

"How you holding up?" 

You shrug, exhausted and sad and emotional. You lower the box to your dresser, walking over to give your cousin a tight hug. 

"Thank you for everything you did for her," you say into his shoulder. "And for me."

The two of you remain like this for a moment, transported into your childhood bodies. The way he would comfort you when your mom was too drunk. The way you would welcome him into your room after his dad started to beat him regularly. 

"Sometimes I wish we could go back to when it was simple," Santi whispers in a thick voice. "Before we knew our parents weren't perfect. Back when summers were forever and the world was just waiting to be discovered." 

"I know." 

"But I'm happy now too," he amends. "I love my job and my friends and ... Plus now you and Frankie are finally together. Finally." 

You smile against the collar of his jacket, so wide your cheeks hurt. 

"Yeah." 

You squeeze one another before stepping back. For a change, your cousin doesn't look like the confident man you normally see. He looks big-eyed and anxious. 

"Frankie says you're staying in Florida?" 

"Yeah." 

He gives you a hard look, one you've seen before. A look that challenges your answer. It makes you feel nervous, exposed and unsure. The room seems warmer, smaller, tighter. 

"Well, Hilary is here," you say when he remains silent. 

"So?" 

"She's my sister, Santi, and we're getting along." 

He crosses his arms over his chest, a move of bravado. He's getting irritated. 

"She never wanted you to end up here, Pip. You know that."

"Things change," you say as your mind drifts to Frankie. "People change." 

But you think about that conversation with Hilary that night. 

I knew your future wasn't here in the same town we grew up in.

But then as if by magic, the image of your boyfriend's face comes to mind. And with it, a flood of adoration then nearly takes your breath away. 

"And Frankie is here, his house is here," you say, eyes bright. "And that's enough for me. More than enough, actually." 

"Yeah?" 

You nod, eyes limpid. "Yeah." 

He's quiet for a lingering moment, eyes tracing your face as if trying to read your mind before he finally gives a tight smile. 

"I better go. My flight's coming in early tomorrow." 

He kisses your forehead, murmuring that he wants to keep in touch better. Knowing Santi you don't think it'll happen, but it sounds very nice in theory. 

You enter the kitchen, passing Hilary and Justin chatting quietly over the table. They glance up, smiling your way. 

"Boxes are all packed," you announce, giving a dramatic wipe of your brow. “Just need to do the suitcase.”

You move to pour a glass of water, Hilary tracking your moves. 

"You didn't have to rush through that," Hilary insists, mouth thinned. "I hope you didn't feel pressured."

"What? Not at all. I'm just excited to be moving into Frankie's place." 

Hilary doesn't reply, but you think you see a bit of concern there before she turns back to Justin. 

"What're you guys up to?"

"Justin got his managerial job back at the bar," Hilary says proudly nudging him. "The place was falling apart without him."

Justin gives a shy laugh, face pink. He's impossibly humble, and he'd never admit that the place is a dump ever since he left.

"How do your parents feel about you moving back to the US?" 

"They don't love the political situation," Justin admits. 

"That's fair," Hilary says exchanging a knowing look with you. You clink glasses before Justin continues. 

"But they love Hilary and they know I love her so they're happy for us. We might go visit them next summer."  

"That's fantastic," you say, grinning. You take a seat at the table with them, looking at the notes and sketches they've been scribbling. 

"What's all this?"

"We're talking about some renovations we might be able to do this year," Hilary says carefully scanning your face. "Maybe starting in here. What do you think about that?" 

"I think that's awesome," you say before taking a sip of your water.

"Really?" 

"Yeah," you nod, motioning to the far wall. "If that isn't load-bearing, you could knock it out and have a totally open concept main space." 

Hilary still looks troubled. "You're sure about that?"

You turn her way, brows rising. "Why wouldn't I be?" 

"Because we both grew up here," she reasons, blinking quickly. "And because I don't want you to think that this isn't your home anymore-"

"Hilary," you say softly placing a hand over hers. "I don't want it to be my home anymore." 

She looks confused, as does Justin. You feel your heart clenching as you gaze around the kitchen and remember some of the past. The good times, the bad. 

"It hasn’t been my home for a long time," you finally explain to them. "It’s just a house I used to live in. You have memories here I never will. Good ones. You lived here so long; it's a part of you. That's why I want you to have it and that's why I want you to do anything you want to it." 

Her eyes are watery. "But-"

"I mean it, Hil. All I ask is that you make good memories in this place from now on." You stand and extend a hand. "Deal?" 

You see the way she rubs at her eye before she stands as well, shaking your hand briefly as she grins. 

"Deal."

You're packing your suitcase later that day when the bedroom door creaks open behind you. You don't even hear Frankie approach; you just smile when he embraces you from behind, gentle kiss planted behind your ear. 

"Hey baby." 

"You're early," you say as he releases you and takes a seat on the edge of your old bed. "I just have a few more things to pop into my suitcase and then we can go."

"Yeah, it's about that. I wanted to talk you before we head to mine." 

"Why?" You smirk. "Changed your mind about me moving in, Morales?" 

You stop folding a pair of jeans halfway when he doesn't reply. You look up and your stomach plummets when you see the strange look he's wearing. 

"Wait…Are you?"

"It's just, my place isn't very big," he says. 

"I don't need a lot of space." 

"Well, you'll need an office and everything for work."

No no no. 

Didn't you already talk about this? Wasn't Frankie the one so eager for you to move in as soon as you felt ready? What made him change his mind? 

He gives a soft exhale before patting the space on the mattress next to him. You move slowly, lowering yourself without looking away from him. 

"I remember you telling me your apartment in Seattle is pretty nice. Two bedrooms and an office, right?" 

You nod dumbly. "Yeah."

"You haven't put it on the market yet, have you?" 

You shake your head, not trusting your voice to remain even as the truth makes itself apparent. 

He wants you to move back to Seattle. He wants you gone.  

"I don't understand... We agreed on me moving in today." 

"I just don't think it's a good idea moving all your stuff into my place."

Your stomach bottoms out, limbs trembling. He's leaving you. Dumping you. Forgetting you. It's like being thrown back through time into the body of that hurt and confused girl at the party. 

"What made you change your mind?" You force your voice to stay steady.

Frankie looks at his hands. You feel your temper rising when he won't make eye contact. 

"I've been doing a lot of thinking," he says quietly, eyes narrowed on the ground. "Realized it wasn't the best plan." 

You feel your insides quivering as you take in the nervous smoothing of his hair under his baseball cap.

"I thought about it," Frankie says, breath shaky as his eyes finally sail to your face. "And I talked to Tom last week and he thinks he can get me a good price for my place." 

A beat. 

"Huh?"

"Apparently it's a seller's market, whatever that means," Frankie shrugs. "But I need to get it stage ready by next week. So we might have to leave your big stuff here for a bit so I can get the place looking presentable. You think Hilary would mind?" 

A beat passes as you try to make sense of what Frankie is saying. 

“But…Frankie why?”

"Because when I sell it I’ll have the money to start over somewhere else..." Frankie's cheeks flush as he gives you a crooked grin. "Like, with my girlfriend in Seattle." 

Confusion floods your body as he talks.

"... Seattle?"

"Yeah, they have a lot of opportunities for a pilot out there," he says as if he hasn't just dropped a huge bomb on you. "The helicopter academy, places like that. I already talked to them and they want me for an interview in two weeks."  

"You want to move to Seattle with me?" You say, needing it spelled out for you. "Like, to live. Permanently?"

"Unless we decide we want to move somewhere else," he shrugs. "Who knows where we'll be staying in five years. Maybe we'll pick up and fuck off to Italy." 

He chuckles warmly at this, his hand finding your knee and squeezing. 

You can only stare at him.

"Is Hilary making you do this?" 

"Huh?"

"She never wanted me to stay here in Florida," you say, voice rising. “Did she make you do this?”

Frankie almost looks amused. "Pip, you know I think your sister is great, but there's no chance I'd let her tell me what to do."

"So you just came up with this yourself? Uprooting your life to Seattle?" 

"Yeah." 

His eyes are gentle and soft at the edges and you realize you've read this entire situation wrong. 

And suddenly there's this great big adventure in front of you, this world that you never thought possible. A city you love a man you love. 

You think of walking hand in hand with him through Pike Place Market, stopping to look at produce, Frankie buying you flowers when you're not looking.  You think of fresh coffee sipped on your apartment balcony with Frankie behind you, one arm around your waist, chin propped over your shoulder, murmuring about how happy he is. You imagine the light patter of rain on the rooftop as you and Frankie make slow and tender love under the sheets, blanketed in the serene gray blue of an overcast sky. 

Bliss. 

But then this excitement gives way to guilt, something that you can't shake off when you look at him. Because for a minute there's that shy boy with oversized T-shirts, who lost his parents that you remember so well. 

You think of that house he grew up in, how the echoes of his past are in every nook and cranny. The bedroom where he took your virginity, the kitchen where he gave you your first kiss. 

It's asking too much of him. 

He draws closer to you on the mattress, urging you under his arm so you can burrow tightly against his side, but your mind is going everywhere. 

"If that's what you want," he rasps. "I don't want to pressure you." 

You jerk your chin up, eyes wide. 

"Of course I want you and that life, Frankie. But y-you can't give your house up for me," you stammer, guilt and excitement all building within your belly. "You can't- You grew up there. It's the only constant home you've ever known. You're saying you want to give that up? Plus the job you just got back?" 

His dimple deepens, a serene look crossing his face

"You're acting like I'll get nothing in return by doing it," Frankie murmurs. "Baby, I get a future with you. Who gives a shit about an old house?" 

Sometimes Frankie says the most amazing things, things that take your breath away, and this is no exception.

"And I can work anywhere with an airport," he assures you. "Might be nice to go work somewhere that doesn't have staff gossiping about my suspension." 

You're stunned into silence, any response, any refusal completely wiped from your mind. Frankie seems to know this, his dark eyes scanning yours.

"It's time, Pip," he says gently, warm hand squeezing yours. He lifts it to his mouth and you feel the soft plush of his lips kissing the center of your palm sweetly. "I'm done living in the past. I want a future with you full of the good memories we'll make together. A new start." 

"A new start," you echo. 

He shoots you a crooked grin, a bundle of nervous excitement. "So? What do you say?"  

Your heart squeezes with love for him. Love for the boy he was and love for the man he is now. Love for the future he's offering and the sacrifices he makes without question. 

Your glossy gaze is caught in Frankie's, smile mirroring his as you lean in for a kiss. And just as his lips are about to press against yours, your answer is given. 

"Yes." 

I am gonna miss these two HARD.

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He liked it there despite everything, the calm, the sound of the waves crashing against the damp wood of the aged pier, the seagulls in the distance gurgling and the wind howling as if whispering secrets along the beach. For a brief moment Andrew closed his eyes, moving his always restless fingers on the wooden edge that protected whoever it might be, sighing audibly.

The sun burned intensely, but Andrew didn't mind, his golden skin absorbed the heat as if it could, for a brief moment, push away the cold that had settled in his bones since childhood. He could hear in the distance the laughter of Craig and Deran, given over to the euphoria of the waves and completely oblivious to the storm that always haunted the older brother. They had the lightness that Andrew had never known, the ability to shake off the weight that Smurf had placed on each of their shoulders, but in Andrew it had settled like an anchor, like a blind knot he had never known how to undo.

With his eyes still closed, he tilted his head back slightly, the smell of salt mixed with the pungent odor of diesel from the anchored boats composed the essence of his existence, of all his days. Andrew Cody, the firstborn, the protector, the executor, the son that Smurf had molded to be her extension, her tool and shield. And yet, in that moment of stillness, he was just a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders and the emptiness of a life that had never belonged to him.

It was then that he felt a presence, something that altered the density of the air around him, a subtle displacement that made every muscle in his body contract in alert. His jaw, already tense, hardened even more, and his eyes opened with the slowness of someone who had learned not to show surprise. He didn't turn around immediately, instead, he allowed his gaze to scan the horizon line, the infinite blue where the sea kissed the sky, as if he could find there the explanation for the sudden acceleration of his heart.

When he finally turned his head, you were there and the world suddenly seemed to slow down.

Andrew didn't know what was more overwhelming: the way the sunlight danced in your hair, creating a golden halo that reminded him of the images of saints he had seen during the period he attended church, or the way your eyes met his with a frankness he had never learned to endure. People always looked away from Pope Cody, whether out of fear, respect, or survival instinct. But you didn't. You stared at him as if he weren't a predator, as if he weren't the monster Smurf had created, as if he were just... Andrew.

His body went rigid and his heart beating wildly against his ribs, like a caged bird. The older man's mouth went dry, and he had to swallow hard before he could articulate any word, any sound that wouldn't betray the turmoil that had settled in his chest.

"What are you doing here?" The question came out harsher than he intended, a defense mechanism as automatic as breathing itself. His tone was a wall, a barricade erected by years of distrust and pain.

But you didn't back down. Instead, a shy and almost hesitant smile curved your lips, making Andrew feel as if he had taken a direct blow to the stomach.

"Deran said you'd be here" you replied, your voice softer than the wind that howled around. "And I thought... well, I thought someone should keep you company."

You were a ray of sunshine, a saintly divinity that settled on the refined street of the coastal city of Oceanside. You were kind to everyone in the neighborhood, never even complained about the party messes that Andrew's younger brothers made. Always compassionate and won the admiration of the Cody men, but of course you couldn't captivate the family matriarch. Annoyed by your natural way of altering the environment to something bittersweet and soft. You had become a constant shadow in the Codys' lives, gradually present for each one. Pope, in contrast, only observed from afar and dodged your approaches, but of course that didn't last long, you already had him in the palm of your hand.

Andrew frowned, confused. Company. The word echoed in his mind as something supernatural, a concept so distant from his reality that he almost laughed. Company was for ordinary people, for those who didn't carry the burden of being a Cody, for those whose hands weren't stained with blood and whose souls hadn't been sold to the devil in exchange for survival.

"I don't need company" he replied warily, but his voice faltered, betraying him.

You took a step to the side, getting closer, and Andrew smelled your perfume mingling with the sea salt, something sweet and floral, like the promise of a spring he had never experienced. His heart tightened as a dull, familiar pain grew inside him, now impossible to ignore.

"I know" you said, and there was an understanding in your eyes that completely disarmed him. "But I wanted to be here. With you."

The words fell like stones in a still pond, creating ripples that spread throughout Andrew's entire being. He didn't know how to process that, how to accept that someone, someone so pure and luminous, could desire his presence. For years, Smurf had taught him that he was unworthy of love, that his only use was to serve, protect, execute. That any true affection would be a weakness, a vulnerable point that enemies could exploit.

But you were there, defying everything he knew, everything he was.

"You shouldn't be near me" Andrew murmured, finally looking away to the sea, unable to sustain the weight of your sincerity. "It's not safe. I'm not... I'm not good for you."

The soft laugh that escaped your lips was like music to his ears, a melody he didn't know he longed to hear.

"Who decided that, Andrew?" you asked, and there was a challenge in your words, a courage he rarely found. "You? Your mother? Because, from what I see, you're just a man who never had the chance to be who he really is."

Andrew felt the air escape his lungs as if he had been struck. His hand, still resting on the pier's wood, had clenched into such a tight fist that his nails dug into his palm, surely marking it. Your words pierced the rigid man's defenses with surgical precision, finding the fissure in his armor that he had spent his entire life trying to hide.

"You don't know me" he whispered, and there was a desperation in his voice that he hated, a vulnerability he had sworn never to expose again.

"But I'm trying" you replied, your head tilting to the side without ever looking away from him as you took another step, now so close he could feel the heat radiating from your body, warmer than the coastal heat. "I'm trying to know you, Andrew. The real you. Not Smurf's son, the older brother, or the man everyone fears... I want to know you."

The final word hung in the air between them, charged with possibilities. Andrew felt his eyes burn, a sensation he hadn't experienced since childhood, since the last time he cried before learning that tears were a weakness Smurf would not tolerate. He blinked rapidly, forcing the moisture to recede, and when he opened his eyes again, you were there, so close he could count the lashes that framed your bright eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" the question escaped as a hoarse whisper. "Why waste your time with someone like me?"

You raised your hand then, a gesture so slow and deliberate, afraid he would recoil like a frightened animal, that Andrew could have pulled away, could have raised his defenses and put distance between you. But he didn't move, just stood paralyzed, watching as your fingers approached his face with a tenderness he had never known.

The touch of your digits against Andrew's rough, freckled skin was like an electric shock, a spark that ran through his entire body and ignited something he had long believed extinct. Your fingers slid along his tense jaw, tracing the line of his jawline with a lightness that contrasted with all the brutality his life had been.

"Because I see you, Andrew" you said, and your words were as soft as your touch. "I see beyond everything you've done, beyond everything they've done to you. And... I believe you deserve to be loved."

The world seemed to stop. The sound of the waves, the seagulls, the distant shouts of his brothers, everything faded into a muffled buzz. Andrew felt the tears he had sworn never to shed again begin to form in the corners of his eyes, and he squeezed his eyelids shut, fighting the tide that threatened to overflow.

"You don't know what you're saying," he managed to articulate, but his voice was broken like the shards of glass he had already picked up so many times after Smurf's and his own outbursts of anger.

"I know enough," you insisted, and in an act of courage, you pushed your body up and toward the taller one, then your lips touched his cheek, a kiss so light and pure that Andrew felt as if a piece of his soul, long asleep, had finally awakened.

It was the first time someone kissed him with love, even if it wasn't on the lips. After all, the kisses Andrew had known until then always carried intentions, manipulation, negotiation, desire, and transaction. But your kiss was different, like an offering, a gift, something that demanded nothing in return. And he, who had never known what it was like to receive something without a price to pay, felt himself crumbling inside.

His body moved, turning toward your smaller one, and his strong arms, driven by an instinct he didn't recognize, rose and wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him with a desperate urgency. Andrew buried his face in your hair, inhaling your perfume as if it were the air he needed to survive, and for the first time in his life, Andrew Cody allowed himself to cry.

The tears came in a silent stream, warm against your skin, and the big, strong man felt your arms tighten around him, offering the comfort he never knew he needed. His body trembled with contained sobs, with years of pain and loneliness finally finding a release valve.

"I don't want to hurt you" Andrew murmured against your hair, his voice choked. "I don't want you to become part of this life. This hell."

"You won't hurt me" you replied, and there was so much conviction in your words that Andrew almost believed it. "You protect me, huh? That's what you always do, isn't it? Protect the people you love. Even if it means sacrificing yourself."

Andrew pulled back enough to look into your bright irises, and what he saw there completely disarmed him. There was no fear, no judgment, no pity, there was only love, a love so vast and unconditional that he couldn't understand how he deserved it or when it arose from you to him.

"How can you be so sure?" he asked, his hand rising to touch your face, tracing the curve of your cheek with a tenderness that rivaled yours. "How can you believe in me when even I don't believe in myself?"

You tilted your head, pressing your face against his warm palm, and smiled, a smile that illuminated your entire face and made Andrew's heart race.

"Because I chose to believe" you said, simply. "And because, when I look at you, I don't see the monster you insist you are. I see a man who deserves to be saved, and I'm here to show you that, Andrew. If you'll let me."

The promise hung in the air, fragile and precious as a soap bubble. Andrew felt his heart open, the defenses he had spent a lifetime building crumbling before your determination. He didn't know if he deserved that, didn't know if he could truly accept the love you offered, but in that moment, in that instant of vulnerability and truth, he decided to try.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender, a silent promise that he would try, that he would fight against all the demons that haunted him to be worthy of the love you offered him. Andrew's hands slid down your back, pulling you even closer as if he feared you might disappear if he relaxed his embrace.

The kiss deepened, charged with all the years of loneliness and longing he had repressed. You responded with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his brown, curly hair, pulling him closer as if you too feared losing him, and in that moment, on that forgotten pier with the setting sun painting the sky orange and pink, Andrew felt for the first time complete.

"I... I love you" he whispered against your lips, the words escaping before he could contain them, a confession laid bare for you and the sea, while Andrew felt his own heart race upon realizing what he had just confessed, closing his eyes with his forehead pressed against yours while shaking his head vehemently, an internal battle. "I shouldn't... I can't... but I love you."

You pulled back just enough to face him, your noses brushing, and Andrew saw the tears shining in your eyes, tears of joy that mirrored the ones still wetting his own face.

"Hey... I love you too, Andrew" you replied, and the words were like a blessing, like the absolution he had spent his entire life seeking. "Since the moment I saw you, and I'll keep loving you, no matter what happens."

Andrew pulled you against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart against his, and in that instant he allowed himself to believe that he could be saved, that he could escape the hell Smurf had created, that he could build a different life, a life where love wasn't a weakness, but a strength.

The following months were the happiest of Andrew's life. Every moment by your side was a gift, a small death of the man he had been and the birth of someone new. He had learned to truly smile, to laugh at silly things, to sleep with the tranquility of someone who knew he wasn't alone. You had taught him to trust, to lower his guard, to believe that there could be more to life than pain and survival. The older man would abandon the life he led, renouncing his mother's plans and following his own heart with you.

Meanwhile Andrew remembered the afternoons on the beach, when you would lie on the sand and count the stars that began to appear in the twilight sky. Andrew traced imaginary constellations on your skin, his fingers drawing paths only he knew, and you would laugh softly and comfortably against him, a sound so pure and joyful that he felt his chest overflow.

He remembered the nights he cooked for you, learning simple recipes that Smurf had never taught him because cooking was "women's work" or "a waste of time." He tried his best, always asking if you preferred your sandwich cut diagonally or horizontally, and you loved that care.

Andrew also remembered the times you would wake him in the middle of the night, startled by a nightmare, and instead of asking what happened, you would simply hug him and whisper that everything was okay, that he was safe, and that you were there for him. Andrew learned to believe those words, to allow them to envelop him like a warm blanket against the cold of his soul.

Smurf, however, never approved. From the first moment she learned of the involvement between you both, Andrew saw the dangerous glint in his mother's eyes, the same expression she used when planning to destroy something that threatened her control. He tried to keep you a secret, to protect your relationship from Smurf's claws, but she always found out. She always knew.

"She's going to destroy you" Smurf told her son one night, her voice soft as poison. "You think she loves you, Pope? She loves the idea of saving you, but when she finds out who you really are, when she sees the blood on your hands, she'll run. Like with Cath, with Julia, with Amy, like all of them."

Andrew clenched his fists, feeling the rage bubble in his veins like the most dangerous acid in the world.

"She's not like the others" the brown haired man replied, spitting the words like an insult. "She never will be."

Smurf laughed, a chilling sound that echoed through the hallways of the house.

"Poor Pope..." the matriarch crooned, shaking her head with false pity. "You really believe that, don't you? But don't worry, my son. I'll show you, I'll show you who she really is."

Andrew should have heeded the warning. Should have seen the threat hidden behind Smurf's words, but he was so blinded by love, so drunk on the happiness he had found, that he chose to ignore it. He chose to believe he could win, that he could protect you, that he could finally escape.

But then the night everything ended began like any other. You were in the small apartment Andrew had rented, a modest space he called home because it was where you were. The yellowish light danced on the walls, creating shadows that seemed to dance to the music playing softly on the speaker you turned on as soon as you entered the house.

Every now and then I get a little bit terrified, but then I see the look in your eyes...

"I'll never get tired of this song" you said, nestled against his chest, embraced in the living room just enjoying each other's warmth.

Every now and then I fall apart...

Andrew smiled, tilting his head to kiss your hair. "Neither will I" he murmured. "It reminds me of you."

And I need you now, tonight...

You laughed, lifting your face to look at him. "Hmm, are you flattering me, Andy?"

And I need you more than ever...

He was going to answer, was going to say something about how you deserved all the flattery in the world, but he couldn't when he heard the noise. A door opening, and he was sure he had locked the lock when you both entered. Then footsteps in the hallway. The unmistakable sound of Smurf's voice echoing through the apartment.

Andrew's blood ran cold.

"What is she doing here?" he whispered, pulling away from you with a sharp movement. His body went into alert mode, every instinct screaming danger.

You frowned in confusion, reaching out your arm and pausing the music, and before you could ask, Smurf appeared in the room. She was impeccable, as always, her smile sharp as a blade.

"What a pleasant surprise" she said, her eyes scanning the apartment with disdain. "Pope, darling, you didn't tell me you were in such a... picturesque place."

Andrew positioned himself between you and Smurf, his body a protective barrier. Ignoring the false sympathy in the voice of the woman who had conceived him.

"What do you want?" His voice was low, controlled, but he could feel the tremor of rage running through his limbs. Smurf tilted her head, pretending to consider the question.

"Just a visit" the older woman in the room replied, adjusting her blonde hair in a snobbish way, her predatory and dangerous eyes fixed on you behind him. "I wanted to see the little girl who stole my son from me."

"She didn't steal anything from you" Andrew retorted, his teeth grinding. "You never really had me, Smurf, you're nothing but a manipulator."

Smurf's smile widened upon hearing that, and Andrew felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Oh, Pope... Always so dramatic." Smurf took a step forward, making the couple instinctively step back, but Andrew always staying between her and you. "No need to be so aggressive, it hurts mommy," she finished cynically, placing her aged palm above her chest in false upset.

"Get out of here" Andrew ordered, his voice a low growl. "Now."

Smurf laughed, a sound that seemed to tear the air, putting her sunglasses on her face, the noise of her bracelets being an omen sound.

"So protective. So passionate. It's almost cute" the Cody mother shook her head, her expression shifting to something darker even covered by the dark glasses. "But you know this won't last, don't you? She's going to leave you. As soon as she finds out what you did. What you are."

"Enough!" Andrew shouted, the anger finally exploding. His fist rose, but before he could take a step forward, you placed your hand on his arm, restraining him.

"Andy, honey, stop" you said, your voice calm despite the chaos. "Don't let her do this to you."

He looked at you and saw the trust in your eyes, the certainty that he was better than the anger Smurf provoked. Slowly, he lowered his fist, forcing himself to breathe.

Smurf watched the interaction with a satisfied smile.

"How beautiful" the blonde said. "The two of you against the world. But the world is a cruel place, and you know that better than anyone." She turned, walking toward the door. "I just came to warn you."

And so, Smurf left, leaving a heavy silence behind her. Andrew felt his heart race, the adrenaline still running through his veins. He turned to you, his eyes searching for signs of fear, of hesitation.

"Are you okay?" he asked hoarsely, both trembling hands rising to hold the sides of your face. You nodded, but Andrew saw the shadow that passed through your eyes.

"She's trying to scare you" you said, controlling the tremor that wanted to escape you. Not wanting to leave your Andy anxious, but deep in your core something alarming ignited like gunpowder in dry brush. "Don't let her win."

Andrew pulled you into a hug, burying his face in your hair. Breathing and feeling you. You extended your arms, wrapping around his robust back and pressing Andrew's large body against yours.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you" he whispered. "Never." And he believed it, clung to it with all his being.

But Smurf was cunning. Smurf always won.

And I need you now, tonight...

And I need you more than ever...

Two weeks later, Andrew arrived at the apartment and immediately felt something was wrong. The silence was too heavy, the absence of light in the windows a sentence. He ran, his footsteps echoing through the hallways, and when he opened the door, his heart stopped.

And if you only hold me tight...

We'll be holding on forever...

And we'll only be making it right...

You were on the floor, motionless. Your skin, once golden from the California sun, looked so opaque and cold. Andrew screamed, the sound that escaped his lips was primal, a cry of pain so deep it seemed to come from someone else.

'Cause we'll never be wrong

Together, we can take it to the end of the line...

He fell to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he touched your face, searching for a sign of life he knew he wouldn't find. You were so cold.

"No" Andrew whispered, his voice broken. "No, no, no. Please, baby, no..."

Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time...

But you didn't respond. Your eyes were open, without that sparkle the older man loved, now fallen on that floor as cold as your skin, your inert irises were fixed on some distant point, and the lack of life in them was an accusation. Andrew took your body in his arms, pulling it close and hugging it tight against his own chest.

I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark...

We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks...

Andrew rocked himself and your dead body, both abandoned in the middle of the apartment. He knew, knew who had done it, but his mind and body found the situation unreal, so he cried. Cried as he hadn't cried since childhood, with uncontrolled sobs that shook his entire body.

I really need you tonight...

Forever's gonna start tonight...

"I love you..." he murmured against your hair, repeating the words like a prayer, as if God or any deity could have mercy on this poor suffering man. "I love you so much. Please, don't leave me. Don't leave me alone..."

But you were already gone, and nothing he said or did could bring you back.

The following days were a blur. Andrew buried you with his own hands, choosing a spot by the sea, where the waves sang a melody you loved. He spent hours sitting by your grave, talking to you as if you could still hear.

"You saved me" Andrew said, his voice hoarse from crying, drying his tear-wet cheeks. "You showed me I could be more. I couldn't protect you..."

The wind howled, and Andrew heard the echo of your voice in every gust, the sound of your laughter in every wave. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he almost managed to feel you beside him, almost managed to hear the music you used to listen to together. Andrew almost managed to believe that love could defeat hate.

But the truth was cruel. Smurf won. She tore from him the only thing he truly loved, the only light in his darkness, and Andrew knew he would never be the same again.

He stood up, his shadow stretching across the sand like a black stain, and walked toward the sea. The waves kissed his feet, he felt the cold of the water rise up his legs, an invitation to surrender, to finally find the peace that life had denied him. But Andrew didn't surrender. He couldn't. You would have wanted him to continue, would have wanted him to fight, to honor the memory of the love you shared. And for you, he would fight. Even if it meant living with a broken heart for the rest of his days.

Once upon a time, I was falling in love...

But now I'm only falling apart...

"I will love you forever" Andrew whispered to the radiant horizon. "And I will live. For you. For us."

There's nothing I can do...

A total eclipse of the heart...

He liked it there despite everything, the calm, the sound of the waves crashing against the damp wood of the aged pier, the seagulls in the distance gurgling and the wind howling as if whispering secrets along the beach. For a brief moment Andrew closed his eyes, moving his always restless fingers on the wooden edge that protected whoever it might be, sighing audibly.

The sun burned intensely, but Andrew didn't mind, his golden skin absorbed the heat as if it could, for a brief moment, push away the cold that had settled in his bones since childhood. He could hear in the distance the laughter of Craig and Deran, given over to the euphoria of the waves and completely oblivious to the storm that always haunted the older brother. They had the lightness that Andrew had never known, the ability to shake off the weight that Smurf had placed on each of their shoulders, but in Andrew it had settled like an anchor, like a blind knot he had never known how to undo.

With his eyes still closed, he tilted his head back slightly, the smell of salt mixed with the pungent odor of diesel from the anchored boats composed the essence of his existence, of all his days. Andrew Cody, the firstborn, the protector, the executor, the son that Smurf had molded to be her extension, her tool and shield. And yet, in that moment of stillness, he was just a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders and the emptiness of a life that had never belonged to him.

It was then that he felt a presence, something that altered the density of the air around him, a subtle displacement that made every muscle in his body contract in alert. His jaw, already tense, hardened even more, and his eyes opened with the slowness of someone who had learned not to show surprise. He didn't turn around immediately, instead, he allowed his gaze to scan the horizon line, the infinite blue where the sea kissed the sky, as if he could find there the explanation for the sudden acceleration of his heart.

When he finally turned his head, you were there and the world suddenly seemed to slow down.

Andrew didn't know what was more overwhelming: the way the sunlight danced in your hair, creating a golden halo that reminded him of the images of saints he had seen during the period he attended church, or the way your eyes met his with a frankness he had never learned to endure. People always looked away from Pope Cody, whether out of fear, respect, or survival instinct. But you didn't. You stared at him as if he weren't a predator, as if he weren't the monster Smurf had created, as if he were just... Andrew.

His body went rigid and his heart beating wildly against his ribs, like a caged bird. The older man's mouth went dry, and he had to swallow hard before he could articulate any word, any sound that wouldn't betray the turmoil that had settled in his chest.

"What are you doing here?" The question came out harsher than he intended, a defense mechanism as automatic as breathing itself. His tone was a wall, a barricade erected by years of distrust and pain.

But you didn't back down. Instead, a shy and almost hesitant smile curved your lips, making Andrew feel as if he had taken a direct blow to the stomach.

"Deran said you'd be here" you replied, your voice softer than the wind that howled around. "And I thought... well, I thought someone should keep you company."

You were a ray of sunshine, a saintly divinity that settled on the refined street of the coastal city of Oceanside. You were kind to everyone in the neighborhood, never even complained about the party messes that Andrew's younger brothers made. Always compassionate and won the admiration of the Cody men, but of course you couldn't captivate the family matriarch. Annoyed by your natural way of altering the environment to something bittersweet and soft. You had become a constant shadow in the Codys' lives, gradually present for each one. Pope, in contrast, only observed from afar and dodged your approaches, but of course that didn't last long, you already had him in the palm of your hand.

Andrew frowned, confused. Company. The word echoed in his mind as something supernatural, a concept so distant from his reality that he almost laughed. Company was for ordinary people, for those who didn't carry the burden of being a Cody, for those whose hands weren't stained with blood and whose souls hadn't been sold to the devil in exchange for survival.

"I don't need company" he replied warily, but his voice faltered, betraying him.

You took a step to the side, getting closer, and Andrew smelled your perfume mingling with the sea salt, something sweet and floral, like the promise of a spring he had never experienced. His heart tightened as a dull, familiar pain grew inside him, now impossible to ignore.

"I know" you said, and there was an understanding in your eyes that completely disarmed him. "But I wanted to be here. With you."

The words fell like stones in a still pond, creating ripples that spread throughout Andrew's entire being. He didn't know how to process that, how to accept that someone, someone so pure and luminous, could desire his presence. For years, Smurf had taught him that he was unworthy of love, that his only use was to serve, protect, execute. That any true affection would be a weakness, a vulnerable point that enemies could exploit.

But you were there, defying everything he knew, everything he was.

"You shouldn't be near me" Andrew murmured, finally looking away to the sea, unable to sustain the weight of your sincerity. "It's not safe. I'm not... I'm not good for you."

The soft laugh that escaped your lips was like music to his ears, a melody he didn't know he longed to hear.

"Who decided that, Andrew?" you asked, and there was a challenge in your words, a courage he rarely found. "You? Your mother? Because, from what I see, you're just a man who never had the chance to be who he really is."

Andrew felt the air escape his lungs as if he had been struck. His hand, still resting on the pier's wood, had clenched into such a tight fist that his nails dug into his palm, surely marking it. Your words pierced the rigid man's defenses with surgical precision, finding the fissure in his armor that he had spent his entire life trying to hide.

"You don't know me" he whispered, and there was a desperation in his voice that he hated, a vulnerability he had sworn never to expose again.

"But I'm trying" you replied, your head tilting to the side without ever looking away from him as you took another step, now so close he could feel the heat radiating from your body, warmer than the coastal heat. "I'm trying to know you, Andrew. The real you. Not Smurf's son, the older brother, or the man everyone fears... I want to know you."

The final word hung in the air between them, charged with possibilities. Andrew felt his eyes burn, a sensation he hadn't experienced since childhood, since the last time he cried before learning that tears were a weakness Smurf would not tolerate. He blinked rapidly, forcing the moisture to recede, and when he opened his eyes again, you were there, so close he could count the lashes that framed your bright eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" the question escaped as a hoarse whisper. "Why waste your time with someone like me?"

You raised your hand then, a gesture so slow and deliberate, afraid he would recoil like a frightened animal, that Andrew could have pulled away, could have raised his defenses and put distance between you. But he didn't move, just stood paralyzed, watching as your fingers approached his face with a tenderness he had never known.

The touch of your digits against Andrew's rough, freckled skin was like an electric shock, a spark that ran through his entire body and ignited something he had long believed extinct. Your fingers slid along his tense jaw, tracing the line of his jawline with a lightness that contrasted with all the brutality his life had been.

"Because I see you, Andrew" you said, and your words were as soft as your touch. "I see beyond everything you've done, beyond everything they've done to you. And... I believe you deserve to be loved."

The world seemed to stop. The sound of the waves, the seagulls, the distant shouts of his brothers, everything faded into a muffled buzz. Andrew felt the tears he had sworn never to shed again begin to form in the corners of his eyes, and he squeezed his eyelids shut, fighting the tide that threatened to overflow.

"You don't know what you're saying," he managed to articulate, but his voice was broken like the shards of glass he had already picked up so many times after Smurf's and his own outbursts of anger.

"I know enough," you insisted, and in an act of courage, you pushed your body up and toward the taller one, then your lips touched his cheek, a kiss so light and pure that Andrew felt as if a piece of his soul, long asleep, had finally awakened.

It was the first time someone kissed him with love, even if it wasn't on the lips. After all, the kisses Andrew had known until then always carried intentions, manipulation, negotiation, desire, and transaction. But your kiss was different, like an offering, a gift, something that demanded nothing in return. And he, who had never known what it was like to receive something without a price to pay, felt himself crumbling inside.

His body moved, turning toward your smaller one, and his strong arms, driven by an instinct he didn't recognize, rose and wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him with a desperate urgency. Andrew buried his face in your hair, inhaling your perfume as if it were the air he needed to survive, and for the first time in his life, Andrew Cody allowed himself to cry.

The tears came in a silent stream, warm against your skin, and the big, strong man felt your arms tighten around him, offering the comfort he never knew he needed. His body trembled with contained sobs, with years of pain and loneliness finally finding a release valve.

"I don't want to hurt you" Andrew murmured against your hair, his voice choked. "I don't want you to become part of this life. This hell."

"You won't hurt me" you replied, and there was so much conviction in your words that Andrew almost believed it. "You protect me, huh? That's what you always do, isn't it? Protect the people you love. Even if it means sacrificing yourself."

Andrew pulled back enough to look into your bright irises, and what he saw there completely disarmed him. There was no fear, no judgment, no pity, there was only love, a love so vast and unconditional that he couldn't understand how he deserved it or when it arose from you to him.

"How can you be so sure?" he asked, his hand rising to touch your face, tracing the curve of your cheek with a tenderness that rivaled yours. "How can you believe in me when even I don't believe in myself?"

You tilted your head, pressing your face against his warm palm, and smiled, a smile that illuminated your entire face and made Andrew's heart race.

"Because I chose to believe" you said, simply. "And because, when I look at you, I don't see the monster you insist you are. I see a man who deserves to be saved, and I'm here to show you that, Andrew. If you'll let me."

The promise hung in the air, fragile and precious as a soap bubble. Andrew felt his heart open, the defenses he had spent a lifetime building crumbling before your determination. He didn't know if he deserved that, didn't know if he could truly accept the love you offered, but in that moment, in that instant of vulnerability and truth, he decided to try.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender, a silent promise that he would try, that he would fight against all the demons that haunted him to be worthy of the love you offered him. Andrew's hands slid down your back, pulling you even closer as if he feared you might disappear if he relaxed his embrace.

The kiss deepened, charged with all the years of loneliness and longing he had repressed. You responded with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his brown, curly hair, pulling him closer as if you too feared losing him, and in that moment, on that forgotten pier with the setting sun painting the sky orange and pink, Andrew felt for the first time complete.

"I... I love you" he whispered against your lips, the words escaping before he could contain them, a confession laid bare for you and the sea, while Andrew felt his own heart race upon realizing what he had just confessed, closing his eyes with his forehead pressed against yours while shaking his head vehemently, an internal battle. "I shouldn't... I can't... but I love you."

You pulled back just enough to face him, your noses brushing, and Andrew saw the tears shining in your eyes, tears of joy that mirrored the ones still wetting his own face.

"Hey... I love you too, Andrew" you replied, and the words were like a blessing, like the absolution he had spent his entire life seeking. "Since the moment I saw you, and I'll keep loving you, no matter what happens."

Andrew pulled you against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart against his, and in that instant he allowed himself to believe that he could be saved, that he could escape the hell Smurf had created, that he could build a different life, a life where love wasn't a weakness, but a strength.

The following months were the happiest of Andrew's life. Every moment by your side was a gift, a small death of the man he had been and the birth of someone new. He had learned to truly smile, to laugh at silly things, to sleep with the tranquility of someone who knew he wasn't alone. You had taught him to trust, to lower his guard, to believe that there could be more to life than pain and survival. The older man would abandon the life he led, renouncing his mother's plans and following his own heart with you.

Meanwhile Andrew remembered the afternoons on the beach, when you would lie on the sand and count the stars that began to appear in the twilight sky. Andrew traced imaginary constellations on your skin, his fingers drawing paths only he knew, and you would laugh softly and comfortably against him, a sound so pure and joyful that he felt his chest overflow.

He remembered the nights he cooked for you, learning simple recipes that Smurf had never taught him because cooking was "women's work" or "a waste of time." He tried his best, always asking if you preferred your sandwich cut diagonally or horizontally, and you loved that care.

Andrew also remembered the times you would wake him in the middle of the night, startled by a nightmare, and instead of asking what happened, you would simply hug him and whisper that everything was okay, that he was safe, and that you were there for him. Andrew learned to believe those words, to allow them to envelop him like a warm blanket against the cold of his soul.

Smurf, however, never approved. From the first moment she learned of the involvement between you both, Andrew saw the dangerous glint in his mother's eyes, the same expression she used when planning to destroy something that threatened her control. He tried to keep you a secret, to protect your relationship from Smurf's claws, but she always found out. She always knew.

"She's going to destroy you" Smurf told her son one night, her voice soft as poison. "You think she loves you, Pope? She loves the idea of saving you, but when she finds out who you really are, when she sees the blood on your hands, she'll run. Like with Cath, with Julia, with Amy, like all of them."

Andrew clenched his fists, feeling the rage bubble in his veins like the most dangerous acid in the world.

"She's not like the others" the brown haired man replied, spitting the words like an insult. "She never will be."

Smurf laughed, a chilling sound that echoed through the hallways of the house.

"Poor Pope..." the matriarch crooned, shaking her head with false pity. "You really believe that, don't you? But don't worry, my son. I'll show you, I'll show you who she really is."

Andrew should have heeded the warning. Should have seen the threat hidden behind Smurf's words, but he was so blinded by love, so drunk on the happiness he had found, that he chose to ignore it. He chose to believe he could win, that he could protect you, that he could finally escape.

But then the night everything ended began like any other. You were in the small apartment Andrew had rented, a modest space he called home because it was where you were. The yellowish light danced on the walls, creating shadows that seemed to dance to the music playing softly on the speaker you turned on as soon as you entered the house.

Every now and then I get a little bit terrified, but then I see the look in your eyes...

"I'll never get tired of this song" you said, nestled against his chest, embraced in the living room just enjoying each other's warmth.

Every now and then I fall apart...

Andrew smiled, tilting his head to kiss your hair. "Neither will I" he murmured. "It reminds me of you."

And I need you now, tonight...

You laughed, lifting your face to look at him. "Hmm, are you flattering me, Andy?"

And I need you more than ever...

He was going to answer, was going to say something about how you deserved all the flattery in the world, but he couldn't when he heard the noise. A door opening, and he was sure he had locked the lock when you both entered. Then footsteps in the hallway. The unmistakable sound of Smurf's voice echoing through the apartment.

Andrew's blood ran cold.

"What is she doing here?" he whispered, pulling away from you with a sharp movement. His body went into alert mode, every instinct screaming danger.

You frowned in confusion, reaching out your arm and pausing the music, and before you could ask, Smurf appeared in the room. She was impeccable, as always, her smile sharp as a blade.

"What a pleasant surprise" she said, her eyes scanning the apartment with disdain. "Pope, darling, you didn't tell me you were in such a... picturesque place."

Andrew positioned himself between you and Smurf, his body a protective barrier. Ignoring the false sympathy in the voice of the woman who had conceived him.

"What do you want?" His voice was low, controlled, but he could feel the tremor of rage running through his limbs. Smurf tilted her head, pretending to consider the question.

"Just a visit" the older woman in the room replied, adjusting her blonde hair in a snobbish way, her predatory and dangerous eyes fixed on you behind him. "I wanted to see the little girl who stole my son from me."

"She didn't steal anything from you" Andrew retorted, his teeth grinding. "You never really had me, Smurf, you're nothing but a manipulator."

Smurf's smile widened upon hearing that, and Andrew felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Oh, Pope... Always so dramatic." Smurf took a step forward, making the couple instinctively step back, but Andrew always staying between her and you. "No need to be so aggressive, it hurts mommy," she finished cynically, placing her aged palm above her chest in false upset.

"Get out of here" Andrew ordered, his voice a low growl. "Now."

Smurf laughed, a sound that seemed to tear the air, putting her sunglasses on her face, the noise of her bracelets being an omen sound.

"So protective. So passionate. It's almost cute" the Cody mother shook her head, her expression shifting to something darker even covered by the dark glasses. "But you know this won't last, don't you? She's going to leave you. As soon as she finds out what you did. What you are."

"Enough!" Andrew shouted, the anger finally exploding. His fist rose, but before he could take a step forward, you placed your hand on his arm, restraining him.

"Andy, honey, stop" you said, your voice calm despite the chaos. "Don't let her do this to you."

He looked at you and saw the trust in your eyes, the certainty that he was better than the anger Smurf provoked. Slowly, he lowered his fist, forcing himself to breathe.

Smurf watched the interaction with a satisfied smile.

"How beautiful" the blonde said. "The two of you against the world. But the world is a cruel place, and you know that better than anyone." She turned, walking toward the door. "I just came to warn you."

And so, Smurf left, leaving a heavy silence behind her. Andrew felt his heart race, the adrenaline still running through his veins. He turned to you, his eyes searching for signs of fear, of hesitation.

"Are you okay?" he asked hoarsely, both trembling hands rising to hold the sides of your face. You nodded, but Andrew saw the shadow that passed through your eyes.

"She's trying to scare you" you said, controlling the tremor that wanted to escape you. Not wanting to leave your Andy anxious, but deep in your core something alarming ignited like gunpowder in dry brush. "Don't let her win."

Andrew pulled you into a hug, burying his face in your hair. Breathing and feeling you. You extended your arms, wrapping around his robust back and pressing Andrew's large body against yours.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you" he whispered. "Never." And he believed it, clung to it with all his being.

But Smurf was cunning. Smurf always won.

And I need you now, tonight...

And I need you more than ever...

Two weeks later, Andrew arrived at the apartment and immediately felt something was wrong. The silence was too heavy, the absence of light in the windows a sentence. He ran, his footsteps echoing through the hallways, and when he opened the door, his heart stopped.

And if you only hold me tight...

We'll be holding on forever...

And we'll only be making it right...

You were on the floor, motionless. Your skin, once golden from the California sun, looked so opaque and cold. Andrew screamed, the sound that escaped his lips was primal, a cry of pain so deep it seemed to come from someone else.

'Cause we'll never be wrong

Together, we can take it to the end of the line...

He fell to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he touched your face, searching for a sign of life he knew he wouldn't find. You were so cold.

"No" Andrew whispered, his voice broken. "No, no, no. Please, baby, no..."

Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time...

But you didn't respond. Your eyes were open, without that sparkle the older man loved, now fallen on that floor as cold as your skin, your inert irises were fixed on some distant point, and the lack of life in them was an accusation. Andrew took your body in his arms, pulling it close and hugging it tight against his own chest.

I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark...

We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks...

Andrew rocked himself and your dead body, both abandoned in the middle of the apartment. He knew, knew who had done it, but his mind and body found the situation unreal, so he cried. Cried as he hadn't cried since childhood, with uncontrolled sobs that shook his entire body.

I really need you tonight...

Forever's gonna start tonight...

"I love you..." he murmured against your hair, repeating the words like a prayer, as if God or any deity could have mercy on this poor suffering man. "I love you so much. Please, don't leave me. Don't leave me alone..."

But you were already gone, and nothing he said or did could bring you back.

The following days were a blur. Andrew buried you with his own hands, choosing a spot by the sea, where the waves sang a melody you loved. He spent hours sitting by your grave, talking to you as if you could still hear.

"You saved me" Andrew said, his voice hoarse from crying, drying his tear-wet cheeks. "You showed me I could be more. I couldn't protect you..."

The wind howled, and Andrew heard the echo of your voice in every gust, the sound of your laughter in every wave. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he almost managed to feel you beside him, almost managed to hear the music you used to listen to together. Andrew almost managed to believe that love could defeat hate.

But the truth was cruel. Smurf won. She tore from him the only thing he truly loved, the only light in his darkness, and Andrew knew he would never be the same again.

He stood up, his shadow stretching across the sand like a black stain, and walked toward the sea. The waves kissed his feet, he felt the cold of the water rise up his legs, an invitation to surrender, to finally find the peace that life had denied him. But Andrew didn't surrender. He couldn't. You would have wanted him to continue, would have wanted him to fight, to honor the memory of the love you shared. And for you, he would fight. Even if it meant living with a broken heart for the rest of his days.

Once upon a time, I was falling in love...

But now I'm only falling apart...

"I will love you forever" Andrew whispered to the radiant horizon. "And I will live. For you. For us."

There's nothing I can do...

A total eclipse of the heart...

He liked it there despite everything, the calm, the sound of the waves crashing against the damp wood of the aged pier, the seagulls in the distance gurgling and the wind howling as if whispering secrets along the beach. For a brief moment Andrew closed his eyes, moving his always restless fingers on the wooden edge that protected whoever it might be, sighing audibly.

The sun burned intensely, but Andrew didn't mind, his golden skin absorbed the heat as if it could, for a brief moment, push away the cold that had settled in his bones since childhood. He could hear in the distance the laughter of Craig and Deran, given over to the euphoria of the waves and completely oblivious to the storm that always haunted the older brother. They had the lightness that Andrew had never known, the ability to shake off the weight that Smurf had placed on each of their shoulders, but in Andrew it had settled like an anchor, like a blind knot he had never known how to undo.

With his eyes still closed, he tilted his head back slightly, the smell of salt mixed with the pungent odor of diesel from the anchored boats composed the essence of his existence, of all his days. Andrew Cody, the firstborn, the protector, the executor, the son that Smurf had molded to be her extension, her tool and shield. And yet, in that moment of stillness, he was just a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders and the emptiness of a life that had never belonged to him.

It was then that he felt a presence, something that altered the density of the air around him, a subtle displacement that made every muscle in his body contract in alert. His jaw, already tense, hardened even more, and his eyes opened with the slowness of someone who had learned not to show surprise. He didn't turn around immediately, instead, he allowed his gaze to scan the horizon line, the infinite blue where the sea kissed the sky, as if he could find there the explanation for the sudden acceleration of his heart.

When he finally turned his head, you were there and the world suddenly seemed to slow down.

Andrew didn't know what was more overwhelming: the way the sunlight danced in your hair, creating a golden halo that reminded him of the images of saints he had seen during the period he attended church, or the way your eyes met his with a frankness he had never learned to endure. People always looked away from Pope Cody, whether out of fear, respect, or survival instinct. But you didn't. You stared at him as if he weren't a predator, as if he weren't the monster Smurf had created, as if he were just... Andrew.

His body went rigid and his heart beating wildly against his ribs, like a caged bird. The older man's mouth went dry, and he had to swallow hard before he could articulate any word, any sound that wouldn't betray the turmoil that had settled in his chest.

"What are you doing here?" The question came out harsher than he intended, a defense mechanism as automatic as breathing itself. His tone was a wall, a barricade erected by years of distrust and pain.

But you didn't back down. Instead, a shy and almost hesitant smile curved your lips, making Andrew feel as if he had taken a direct blow to the stomach.

"Deran said you'd be here" you replied, your voice softer than the wind that howled around. "And I thought... well, I thought someone should keep you company."

You were a ray of sunshine, a saintly divinity that settled on the refined street of the coastal city of Oceanside. You were kind to everyone in the neighborhood, never even complained about the party messes that Andrew's younger brothers made. Always compassionate and won the admiration of the Cody men, but of course you couldn't captivate the family matriarch. Annoyed by your natural way of altering the environment to something bittersweet and soft. You had become a constant shadow in the Codys' lives, gradually present for each one. Pope, in contrast, only observed from afar and dodged your approaches, but of course that didn't last long, you already had him in the palm of your hand.

Andrew frowned, confused. Company. The word echoed in his mind as something supernatural, a concept so distant from his reality that he almost laughed. Company was for ordinary people, for those who didn't carry the burden of being a Cody, for those whose hands weren't stained with blood and whose souls hadn't been sold to the devil in exchange for survival.

"I don't need company" he replied warily, but his voice faltered, betraying him.

You took a step to the side, getting closer, and Andrew smelled your perfume mingling with the sea salt, something sweet and floral, like the promise of a spring he had never experienced. His heart tightened as a dull, familiar pain grew inside him, now impossible to ignore.

"I know" you said, and there was an understanding in your eyes that completely disarmed him. "But I wanted to be here. With you."

The words fell like stones in a still pond, creating ripples that spread throughout Andrew's entire being. He didn't know how to process that, how to accept that someone, someone so pure and luminous, could desire his presence. For years, Smurf had taught him that he was unworthy of love, that his only use was to serve, protect, execute. That any true affection would be a weakness, a vulnerable point that enemies could exploit.

But you were there, defying everything he knew, everything he was.

"You shouldn't be near me" Andrew murmured, finally looking away to the sea, unable to sustain the weight of your sincerity. "It's not safe. I'm not... I'm not good for you."

The soft laugh that escaped your lips was like music to his ears, a melody he didn't know he longed to hear.

"Who decided that, Andrew?" you asked, and there was a challenge in your words, a courage he rarely found. "You? Your mother? Because, from what I see, you're just a man who never had the chance to be who he really is."

Andrew felt the air escape his lungs as if he had been struck. His hand, still resting on the pier's wood, had clenched into such a tight fist that his nails dug into his palm, surely marking it. Your words pierced the rigid man's defenses with surgical precision, finding the fissure in his armor that he had spent his entire life trying to hide.

"You don't know me" he whispered, and there was a desperation in his voice that he hated, a vulnerability he had sworn never to expose again.

"But I'm trying" you replied, your head tilting to the side without ever looking away from him as you took another step, now so close he could feel the heat radiating from your body, warmer than the coastal heat. "I'm trying to know you, Andrew. The real you. Not Smurf's son, the older brother, or the man everyone fears... I want to know you."

The final word hung in the air between them, charged with possibilities. Andrew felt his eyes burn, a sensation he hadn't experienced since childhood, since the last time he cried before learning that tears were a weakness Smurf would not tolerate. He blinked rapidly, forcing the moisture to recede, and when he opened his eyes again, you were there, so close he could count the lashes that framed your bright eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" the question escaped as a hoarse whisper. "Why waste your time with someone like me?"

You raised your hand then, a gesture so slow and deliberate, afraid he would recoil like a frightened animal, that Andrew could have pulled away, could have raised his defenses and put distance between you. But he didn't move, just stood paralyzed, watching as your fingers approached his face with a tenderness he had never known.

The touch of your digits against Andrew's rough, freckled skin was like an electric shock, a spark that ran through his entire body and ignited something he had long believed extinct. Your fingers slid along his tense jaw, tracing the line of his jawline with a lightness that contrasted with all the brutality his life had been.

"Because I see you, Andrew" you said, and your words were as soft as your touch. "I see beyond everything you've done, beyond everything they've done to you. And... I believe you deserve to be loved."

The world seemed to stop. The sound of the waves, the seagulls, the distant shouts of his brothers, everything faded into a muffled buzz. Andrew felt the tears he had sworn never to shed again begin to form in the corners of his eyes, and he squeezed his eyelids shut, fighting the tide that threatened to overflow.

"You don't know what you're saying," he managed to articulate, but his voice was broken like the shards of glass he had already picked up so many times after Smurf's and his own outbursts of anger.

"I know enough," you insisted, and in an act of courage, you pushed your body up and toward the taller one, then your lips touched his cheek, a kiss so light and pure that Andrew felt as if a piece of his soul, long asleep, had finally awakened.

It was the first time someone kissed him with love, even if it wasn't on the lips. After all, the kisses Andrew had known until then always carried intentions, manipulation, negotiation, desire, and transaction. But your kiss was different, like an offering, a gift, something that demanded nothing in return. And he, who had never known what it was like to receive something without a price to pay, felt himself crumbling inside.

His body moved, turning toward your smaller one, and his strong arms, driven by an instinct he didn't recognize, rose and wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him with a desperate urgency. Andrew buried his face in your hair, inhaling your perfume as if it were the air he needed to survive, and for the first time in his life, Andrew Cody allowed himself to cry.

The tears came in a silent stream, warm against your skin, and the big, strong man felt your arms tighten around him, offering the comfort he never knew he needed. His body trembled with contained sobs, with years of pain and loneliness finally finding a release valve.

"I don't want to hurt you" Andrew murmured against your hair, his voice choked. "I don't want you to become part of this life. This hell."

"You won't hurt me" you replied, and there was so much conviction in your words that Andrew almost believed it. "You protect me, huh? That's what you always do, isn't it? Protect the people you love. Even if it means sacrificing yourself."

Andrew pulled back enough to look into your bright irises, and what he saw there completely disarmed him. There was no fear, no judgment, no pity, there was only love, a love so vast and unconditional that he couldn't understand how he deserved it or when it arose from you to him.

"How can you be so sure?" he asked, his hand rising to touch your face, tracing the curve of your cheek with a tenderness that rivaled yours. "How can you believe in me when even I don't believe in myself?"

You tilted your head, pressing your face against his warm palm, and smiled, a smile that illuminated your entire face and made Andrew's heart race.

"Because I chose to believe" you said, simply. "And because, when I look at you, I don't see the monster you insist you are. I see a man who deserves to be saved, and I'm here to show you that, Andrew. If you'll let me."

The promise hung in the air, fragile and precious as a soap bubble. Andrew felt his heart open, the defenses he had spent a lifetime building crumbling before your determination. He didn't know if he deserved that, didn't know if he could truly accept the love you offered, but in that moment, in that instant of vulnerability and truth, he decided to try.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender, a silent promise that he would try, that he would fight against all the demons that haunted him to be worthy of the love you offered him. Andrew's hands slid down your back, pulling you even closer as if he feared you might disappear if he relaxed his embrace.

The kiss deepened, charged with all the years of loneliness and longing he had repressed. You responded with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his brown, curly hair, pulling him closer as if you too feared losing him, and in that moment, on that forgotten pier with the setting sun painting the sky orange and pink, Andrew felt for the first time complete.

"I... I love you" he whispered against your lips, the words escaping before he could contain them, a confession laid bare for you and the sea, while Andrew felt his own heart race upon realizing what he had just confessed, closing his eyes with his forehead pressed against yours while shaking his head vehemently, an internal battle. "I shouldn't... I can't... but I love you."

You pulled back just enough to face him, your noses brushing, and Andrew saw the tears shining in your eyes, tears of joy that mirrored the ones still wetting his own face.

"Hey... I love you too, Andrew" you replied, and the words were like a blessing, like the absolution he had spent his entire life seeking. "Since the moment I saw you, and I'll keep loving you, no matter what happens."

Andrew pulled you against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart against his, and in that instant he allowed himself to believe that he could be saved, that he could escape the hell Smurf had created, that he could build a different life, a life where love wasn't a weakness, but a strength.

The following months were the happiest of Andrew's life. Every moment by your side was a gift, a small death of the man he had been and the birth of someone new. He had learned to truly smile, to laugh at silly things, to sleep with the tranquility of someone who knew he wasn't alone. You had taught him to trust, to lower his guard, to believe that there could be more to life than pain and survival. The older man would abandon the life he led, renouncing his mother's plans and following his own heart with you.

Meanwhile Andrew remembered the afternoons on the beach, when you would lie on the sand and count the stars that began to appear in the twilight sky. Andrew traced imaginary constellations on your skin, his fingers drawing paths only he knew, and you would laugh softly and comfortably against him, a sound so pure and joyful that he felt his chest overflow.

He remembered the nights he cooked for you, learning simple recipes that Smurf had never taught him because cooking was "women's work" or "a waste of time." He tried his best, always asking if you preferred your sandwich cut diagonally or horizontally, and you loved that care.

Andrew also remembered the times you would wake him in the middle of the night, startled by a nightmare, and instead of asking what happened, you would simply hug him and whisper that everything was okay, that he was safe, and that you were there for him. Andrew learned to believe those words, to allow them to envelop him like a warm blanket against the cold of his soul.

Smurf, however, never approved. From the first moment she learned of the involvement between you both, Andrew saw the dangerous glint in his mother's eyes, the same expression she used when planning to destroy something that threatened her control. He tried to keep you a secret, to protect your relationship from Smurf's claws, but she always found out. She always knew.

"She's going to destroy you" Smurf told her son one night, her voice soft as poison. "You think she loves you, Pope? She loves the idea of saving you, but when she finds out who you really are, when she sees the blood on your hands, she'll run. Like with Cath, with Julia, with Amy, like all of them."

Andrew clenched his fists, feeling the rage bubble in his veins like the most dangerous acid in the world.

"She's not like the others" the brown haired man replied, spitting the words like an insult. "She never will be."

Smurf laughed, a chilling sound that echoed through the hallways of the house.

"Poor Pope..." the matriarch crooned, shaking her head with false pity. "You really believe that, don't you? But don't worry, my son. I'll show you, I'll show you who she really is."

Andrew should have heeded the warning. Should have seen the threat hidden behind Smurf's words, but he was so blinded by love, so drunk on the happiness he had found, that he chose to ignore it. He chose to believe he could win, that he could protect you, that he could finally escape.

But then the night everything ended began like any other. You were in the small apartment Andrew had rented, a modest space he called home because it was where you were. The yellowish light danced on the walls, creating shadows that seemed to dance to the music playing softly on the speaker you turned on as soon as you entered the house.

Every now and then I get a little bit terrified, but then I see the look in your eyes...

"I'll never get tired of this song" you said, nestled against his chest, embraced in the living room just enjoying each other's warmth.

Every now and then I fall apart...

Andrew smiled, tilting his head to kiss your hair. "Neither will I" he murmured. "It reminds me of you."

And I need you now, tonight...

You laughed, lifting your face to look at him. "Hmm, are you flattering me, Andy?"

And I need you more than ever...

He was going to answer, was going to say something about how you deserved all the flattery in the world, but he couldn't when he heard the noise. A door opening, and he was sure he had locked the lock when you both entered. Then footsteps in the hallway. The unmistakable sound of Smurf's voice echoing through the apartment.

Andrew's blood ran cold.

"What is she doing here?" he whispered, pulling away from you with a sharp movement. His body went into alert mode, every instinct screaming danger.

You frowned in confusion, reaching out your arm and pausing the music, and before you could ask, Smurf appeared in the room. She was impeccable, as always, her smile sharp as a blade.

"What a pleasant surprise" she said, her eyes scanning the apartment with disdain. "Pope, darling, you didn't tell me you were in such a... picturesque place."

Andrew positioned himself between you and Smurf, his body a protective barrier. Ignoring the false sympathy in the voice of the woman who had conceived him.

"What do you want?" His voice was low, controlled, but he could feel the tremor of rage running through his limbs. Smurf tilted her head, pretending to consider the question.

"Just a visit" the older woman in the room replied, adjusting her blonde hair in a snobbish way, her predatory and dangerous eyes fixed on you behind him. "I wanted to see the little girl who stole my son from me."

"She didn't steal anything from you" Andrew retorted, his teeth grinding. "You never really had me, Smurf, you're nothing but a manipulator."

Smurf's smile widened upon hearing that, and Andrew felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Oh, Pope... Always so dramatic." Smurf took a step forward, making the couple instinctively step back, but Andrew always staying between her and you. "No need to be so aggressive, it hurts mommy," she finished cynically, placing her aged palm above her chest in false upset.

"Get out of here" Andrew ordered, his voice a low growl. "Now."

Smurf laughed, a sound that seemed to tear the air, putting her sunglasses on her face, the noise of her bracelets being an omen sound.

"So protective. So passionate. It's almost cute" the Cody mother shook her head, her expression shifting to something darker even covered by the dark glasses. "But you know this won't last, don't you? She's going to leave you. As soon as she finds out what you did. What you are."

"Enough!" Andrew shouted, the anger finally exploding. His fist rose, but before he could take a step forward, you placed your hand on his arm, restraining him.

"Andy, honey, stop" you said, your voice calm despite the chaos. "Don't let her do this to you."

He looked at you and saw the trust in your eyes, the certainty that he was better than the anger Smurf provoked. Slowly, he lowered his fist, forcing himself to breathe.

Smurf watched the interaction with a satisfied smile.

"How beautiful" the blonde said. "The two of you against the world. But the world is a cruel place, and you know that better than anyone." She turned, walking toward the door. "I just came to warn you."

And so, Smurf left, leaving a heavy silence behind her. Andrew felt his heart race, the adrenaline still running through his veins. He turned to you, his eyes searching for signs of fear, of hesitation.

"Are you okay?" he asked hoarsely, both trembling hands rising to hold the sides of your face. You nodded, but Andrew saw the shadow that passed through your eyes.

"She's trying to scare you" you said, controlling the tremor that wanted to escape you. Not wanting to leave your Andy anxious, but deep in your core something alarming ignited like gunpowder in dry brush. "Don't let her win."

Andrew pulled you into a hug, burying his face in your hair. Breathing and feeling you. You extended your arms, wrapping around his robust back and pressing Andrew's large body against yours.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you" he whispered. "Never." And he believed it, clung to it with all his being.

But Smurf was cunning. Smurf always won.

And I need you now, tonight...

And I need you more than ever...

Two weeks later, Andrew arrived at the apartment and immediately felt something was wrong. The silence was too heavy, the absence of light in the windows a sentence. He ran, his footsteps echoing through the hallways, and when he opened the door, his heart stopped.

And if you only hold me tight...

We'll be holding on forever...

And we'll only be making it right...

You were on the floor, motionless. Your skin, once golden from the California sun, looked so opaque and cold. Andrew screamed, the sound that escaped his lips was primal, a cry of pain so deep it seemed to come from someone else.

'Cause we'll never be wrong

Together, we can take it to the end of the line...

He fell to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he touched your face, searching for a sign of life he knew he wouldn't find. You were so cold.

"No" Andrew whispered, his voice broken. "No, no, no. Please, baby, no..."

Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time...

But you didn't respond. Your eyes were open, without that sparkle the older man loved, now fallen on that floor as cold as your skin, your inert irises were fixed on some distant point, and the lack of life in them was an accusation. Andrew took your body in his arms, pulling it close and hugging it tight against his own chest.

I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark...

We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks...

Andrew rocked himself and your dead body, both abandoned in the middle of the apartment. He knew, knew who had done it, but his mind and body found the situation unreal, so he cried. Cried as he hadn't cried since childhood, with uncontrolled sobs that shook his entire body.

I really need you tonight...

Forever's gonna start tonight...

"I love you..." he murmured against your hair, repeating the words like a prayer, as if God or any deity could have mercy on this poor suffering man. "I love you so much. Please, don't leave me. Don't leave me alone..."

But you were already gone, and nothing he said or did could bring you back.

The following days were a blur. Andrew buried you with his own hands, choosing a spot by the sea, where the waves sang a melody you loved. He spent hours sitting by your grave, talking to you as if you could still hear.

"You saved me" Andrew said, his voice hoarse from crying, drying his tear-wet cheeks. "You showed me I could be more. I couldn't protect you..."

The wind howled, and Andrew heard the echo of your voice in every gust, the sound of your laughter in every wave. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he almost managed to feel you beside him, almost managed to hear the music you used to listen to together. Andrew almost managed to believe that love could defeat hate.

But the truth was cruel. Smurf won. She tore from him the only thing he truly loved, the only light in his darkness, and Andrew knew he would never be the same again.

He stood up, his shadow stretching across the sand like a black stain, and walked toward the sea. The waves kissed his feet, he felt the cold of the water rise up his legs, an invitation to surrender, to finally find the peace that life had denied him. But Andrew didn't surrender. He couldn't. You would have wanted him to continue, would have wanted him to fight, to honor the memory of the love you shared. And for you, he would fight. Even if it meant living with a broken heart for the rest of his days.

Once upon a time, I was falling in love...

But now I'm only falling apart...

"I will love you forever" Andrew whispered to the radiant horizon. "And I will live. For you. For us."

There's nothing I can do...

A total eclipse of the heart...

He liked it there despite everything, the calm, the sound of the waves crashing against the damp wood of the aged pier, the seagulls in the distance gurgling and the wind howling as if whispering secrets along the beach. For a brief moment Andrew closed his eyes, moving his always restless fingers on the wooden edge that protected whoever it might be, sighing audibly.

The sun burned intensely, but Andrew didn't mind, his golden skin absorbed the heat as if it could, for a brief moment, push away the cold that had settled in his bones since childhood. He could hear in the distance the laughter of Craig and Deran, given over to the euphoria of the waves and completely oblivious to the storm that always haunted the older brother. They had the lightness that Andrew had never known, the ability to shake off the weight that Smurf had placed on each of their shoulders, but in Andrew it had settled like an anchor, like a blind knot he had never known how to undo.

With his eyes still closed, he tilted his head back slightly, the smell of salt mixed with the pungent odor of diesel from the anchored boats composed the essence of his existence, of all his days. Andrew Cody, the firstborn, the protector, the executor, the son that Smurf had molded to be her extension, her tool and shield. And yet, in that moment of stillness, he was just a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders and the emptiness of a life that had never belonged to him.

It was then that he felt a presence, something that altered the density of the air around him, a subtle displacement that made every muscle in his body contract in alert. His jaw, already tense, hardened even more, and his eyes opened with the slowness of someone who had learned not to show surprise. He didn't turn around immediately, instead, he allowed his gaze to scan the horizon line, the infinite blue where the sea kissed the sky, as if he could find there the explanation for the sudden acceleration of his heart.

When he finally turned his head, you were there and the world suddenly seemed to slow down.

Andrew didn't know what was more overwhelming: the way the sunlight danced in your hair, creating a golden halo that reminded him of the images of saints he had seen during the period he attended church, or the way your eyes met his with a frankness he had never learned to endure. People always looked away from Pope Cody, whether out of fear, respect, or survival instinct. But you didn't. You stared at him as if he weren't a predator, as if he weren't the monster Smurf had created, as if he were just... Andrew.

His body went rigid and his heart beating wildly against his ribs, like a caged bird. The older man's mouth went dry, and he had to swallow hard before he could articulate any word, any sound that wouldn't betray the turmoil that had settled in his chest.

"What are you doing here?" The question came out harsher than he intended, a defense mechanism as automatic as breathing itself. His tone was a wall, a barricade erected by years of distrust and pain.

But you didn't back down. Instead, a shy and almost hesitant smile curved your lips, making Andrew feel as if he had taken a direct blow to the stomach.

"Deran said you'd be here" you replied, your voice softer than the wind that howled around. "And I thought... well, I thought someone should keep you company."

You were a ray of sunshine, a saintly divinity that settled on the refined street of the coastal city of Oceanside. You were kind to everyone in the neighborhood, never even complained about the party messes that Andrew's younger brothers made. Always compassionate and won the admiration of the Cody men, but of course you couldn't captivate the family matriarch. Annoyed by your natural way of altering the environment to something bittersweet and soft. You had become a constant shadow in the Codys' lives, gradually present for each one. Pope, in contrast, only observed from afar and dodged your approaches, but of course that didn't last long, you already had him in the palm of your hand.

Andrew frowned, confused. Company. The word echoed in his mind as something supernatural, a concept so distant from his reality that he almost laughed. Company was for ordinary people, for those who didn't carry the burden of being a Cody, for those whose hands weren't stained with blood and whose souls hadn't been sold to the devil in exchange for survival.

"I don't need company" he replied warily, but his voice faltered, betraying him.

You took a step to the side, getting closer, and Andrew smelled your perfume mingling with the sea salt, something sweet and floral, like the promise of a spring he had never experienced. His heart tightened as a dull, familiar pain grew inside him, now impossible to ignore.

"I know" you said, and there was an understanding in your eyes that completely disarmed him. "But I wanted to be here. With you."

The words fell like stones in a still pond, creating ripples that spread throughout Andrew's entire being. He didn't know how to process that, how to accept that someone, someone so pure and luminous, could desire his presence. For years, Smurf had taught him that he was unworthy of love, that his only use was to serve, protect, execute. That any true affection would be a weakness, a vulnerable point that enemies could exploit.

But you were there, defying everything he knew, everything he was.

"You shouldn't be near me" Andrew murmured, finally looking away to the sea, unable to sustain the weight of your sincerity. "It's not safe. I'm not... I'm not good for you."

The soft laugh that escaped your lips was like music to his ears, a melody he didn't know he longed to hear.

"Who decided that, Andrew?" you asked, and there was a challenge in your words, a courage he rarely found. "You? Your mother? Because, from what I see, you're just a man who never had the chance to be who he really is."

Andrew felt the air escape his lungs as if he had been struck. His hand, still resting on the pier's wood, had clenched into such a tight fist that his nails dug into his palm, surely marking it. Your words pierced the rigid man's defenses with surgical precision, finding the fissure in his armor that he had spent his entire life trying to hide.

"You don't know me" he whispered, and there was a desperation in his voice that he hated, a vulnerability he had sworn never to expose again.

"But I'm trying" you replied, your head tilting to the side without ever looking away from him as you took another step, now so close he could feel the heat radiating from your body, warmer than the coastal heat. "I'm trying to know you, Andrew. The real you. Not Smurf's son, the older brother, or the man everyone fears... I want to know you."

The final word hung in the air between them, charged with possibilities. Andrew felt his eyes burn, a sensation he hadn't experienced since childhood, since the last time he cried before learning that tears were a weakness Smurf would not tolerate. He blinked rapidly, forcing the moisture to recede, and when he opened his eyes again, you were there, so close he could count the lashes that framed your bright eyes.

"Why are you doing this?" the question escaped as a hoarse whisper. "Why waste your time with someone like me?"

You raised your hand then, a gesture so slow and deliberate, afraid he would recoil like a frightened animal, that Andrew could have pulled away, could have raised his defenses and put distance between you. But he didn't move, just stood paralyzed, watching as your fingers approached his face with a tenderness he had never known.

The touch of your digits against Andrew's rough, freckled skin was like an electric shock, a spark that ran through his entire body and ignited something he had long believed extinct. Your fingers slid along his tense jaw, tracing the line of his jawline with a lightness that contrasted with all the brutality his life had been.

"Because I see you, Andrew" you said, and your words were as soft as your touch. "I see beyond everything you've done, beyond everything they've done to you. And... I believe you deserve to be loved."

The world seemed to stop. The sound of the waves, the seagulls, the distant shouts of his brothers, everything faded into a muffled buzz. Andrew felt the tears he had sworn never to shed again begin to form in the corners of his eyes, and he squeezed his eyelids shut, fighting the tide that threatened to overflow.

"You don't know what you're saying," he managed to articulate, but his voice was broken like the shards of glass he had already picked up so many times after Smurf's and his own outbursts of anger.

"I know enough," you insisted, and in an act of courage, you pushed your body up and toward the taller one, then your lips touched his cheek, a kiss so light and pure that Andrew felt as if a piece of his soul, long asleep, had finally awakened.

It was the first time someone kissed him with love, even if it wasn't on the lips. After all, the kisses Andrew had known until then always carried intentions, manipulation, negotiation, desire, and transaction. But your kiss was different, like an offering, a gift, something that demanded nothing in return. And he, who had never known what it was like to receive something without a price to pay, felt himself crumbling inside.

His body moved, turning toward your smaller one, and his strong arms, driven by an instinct he didn't recognize, rose and wrapped around your waist, pulling you against him with a desperate urgency. Andrew buried his face in your hair, inhaling your perfume as if it were the air he needed to survive, and for the first time in his life, Andrew Cody allowed himself to cry.

The tears came in a silent stream, warm against your skin, and the big, strong man felt your arms tighten around him, offering the comfort he never knew he needed. His body trembled with contained sobs, with years of pain and loneliness finally finding a release valve.

"I don't want to hurt you" Andrew murmured against your hair, his voice choked. "I don't want you to become part of this life. This hell."

"You won't hurt me" you replied, and there was so much conviction in your words that Andrew almost believed it. "You protect me, huh? That's what you always do, isn't it? Protect the people you love. Even if it means sacrificing yourself."

Andrew pulled back enough to look into your bright irises, and what he saw there completely disarmed him. There was no fear, no judgment, no pity, there was only love, a love so vast and unconditional that he couldn't understand how he deserved it or when it arose from you to him.

"How can you be so sure?" he asked, his hand rising to touch your face, tracing the curve of your cheek with a tenderness that rivaled yours. "How can you believe in me when even I don't believe in myself?"

You tilted your head, pressing your face against his warm palm, and smiled, a smile that illuminated your entire face and made Andrew's heart race.

"Because I chose to believe" you said, simply. "And because, when I look at you, I don't see the monster you insist you are. I see a man who deserves to be saved, and I'm here to show you that, Andrew. If you'll let me."

The promise hung in the air, fragile and precious as a soap bubble. Andrew felt his heart open, the defenses he had spent a lifetime building crumbling before your determination. He didn't know if he deserved that, didn't know if he could truly accept the love you offered, but in that moment, in that instant of vulnerability and truth, he decided to try.

His lips met yours in a kiss that was both desperate and tender, a silent promise that he would try, that he would fight against all the demons that haunted him to be worthy of the love you offered him. Andrew's hands slid down your back, pulling you even closer as if he feared you might disappear if he relaxed his embrace.

The kiss deepened, charged with all the years of loneliness and longing he had repressed. You responded with equal fervor, your fingers tangling in his brown, curly hair, pulling him closer as if you too feared losing him, and in that moment, on that forgotten pier with the setting sun painting the sky orange and pink, Andrew felt for the first time complete.

"I... I love you" he whispered against your lips, the words escaping before he could contain them, a confession laid bare for you and the sea, while Andrew felt his own heart race upon realizing what he had just confessed, closing his eyes with his forehead pressed against yours while shaking his head vehemently, an internal battle. "I shouldn't... I can't... but I love you."

You pulled back just enough to face him, your noses brushing, and Andrew saw the tears shining in your eyes, tears of joy that mirrored the ones still wetting his own face.

"Hey... I love you too, Andrew" you replied, and the words were like a blessing, like the absolution he had spent his entire life seeking. "Since the moment I saw you, and I'll keep loving you, no matter what happens."

Andrew pulled you against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of your heart against his, and in that instant he allowed himself to believe that he could be saved, that he could escape the hell Smurf had created, that he could build a different life, a life where love wasn't a weakness, but a strength.

The following months were the happiest of Andrew's life. Every moment by your side was a gift, a small death of the man he had been and the birth of someone new. He had learned to truly smile, to laugh at silly things, to sleep with the tranquility of someone who knew he wasn't alone. You had taught him to trust, to lower his guard, to believe that there could be more to life than pain and survival. The older man would abandon the life he led, renouncing his mother's plans and following his own heart with you.

Meanwhile Andrew remembered the afternoons on the beach, when you would lie on the sand and count the stars that began to appear in the twilight sky. Andrew traced imaginary constellations on your skin, his fingers drawing paths only he knew, and you would laugh softly and comfortably against him, a sound so pure and joyful that he felt his chest overflow.

He remembered the nights he cooked for you, learning simple recipes that Smurf had never taught him because cooking was "women's work" or "a waste of time." He tried his best, always asking if you preferred your sandwich cut diagonally or horizontally, and you loved that care.

Andrew also remembered the times you would wake him in the middle of the night, startled by a nightmare, and instead of asking what happened, you would simply hug him and whisper that everything was okay, that he was safe, and that you were there for him. Andrew learned to believe those words, to allow them to envelop him like a warm blanket against the cold of his soul.

Smurf, however, never approved. From the first moment she learned of the involvement between you both, Andrew saw the dangerous glint in his mother's eyes, the same expression she used when planning to destroy something that threatened her control. He tried to keep you a secret, to protect your relationship from Smurf's claws, but she always found out. She always knew.

"She's going to destroy you" Smurf told her son one night, her voice soft as poison. "You think she loves you, Pope? She loves the idea of saving you, but when she finds out who you really are, when she sees the blood on your hands, she'll run. Like with Cath, with Julia, with Amy, like all of them."

Andrew clenched his fists, feeling the rage bubble in his veins like the most dangerous acid in the world.

"She's not like the others" the brown haired man replied, spitting the words like an insult. "She never will be."

Smurf laughed, a chilling sound that echoed through the hallways of the house.

"Poor Pope..." the matriarch crooned, shaking her head with false pity. "You really believe that, don't you? But don't worry, my son. I'll show you, I'll show you who she really is."

Andrew should have heeded the warning. Should have seen the threat hidden behind Smurf's words, but he was so blinded by love, so drunk on the happiness he had found, that he chose to ignore it. He chose to believe he could win, that he could protect you, that he could finally escape.

But then the night everything ended began like any other. You were in the small apartment Andrew had rented, a modest space he called home because it was where you were. The yellowish light danced on the walls, creating shadows that seemed to dance to the music playing softly on the speaker you turned on as soon as you entered the house.

Every now and then I get a little bit terrified, but then I see the look in your eyes...

"I'll never get tired of this song" you said, nestled against his chest, embraced in the living room just enjoying each other's warmth.

Every now and then I fall apart...

Andrew smiled, tilting his head to kiss your hair. "Neither will I" he murmured. "It reminds me of you."

And I need you now, tonight...

You laughed, lifting your face to look at him. "Hmm, are you flattering me, Andy?"

And I need you more than ever...

He was going to answer, was going to say something about how you deserved all the flattery in the world, but he couldn't when he heard the noise. A door opening, and he was sure he had locked the lock when you both entered. Then footsteps in the hallway. The unmistakable sound of Smurf's voice echoing through the apartment.

Andrew's blood ran cold.

"What is she doing here?" he whispered, pulling away from you with a sharp movement. His body went into alert mode, every instinct screaming danger.

You frowned in confusion, reaching out your arm and pausing the music, and before you could ask, Smurf appeared in the room. She was impeccable, as always, her smile sharp as a blade.

"What a pleasant surprise" she said, her eyes scanning the apartment with disdain. "Pope, darling, you didn't tell me you were in such a... picturesque place."

Andrew positioned himself between you and Smurf, his body a protective barrier. Ignoring the false sympathy in the voice of the woman who had conceived him.

"What do you want?" His voice was low, controlled, but he could feel the tremor of rage running through his limbs. Smurf tilted her head, pretending to consider the question.

"Just a visit" the older woman in the room replied, adjusting her blonde hair in a snobbish way, her predatory and dangerous eyes fixed on you behind him. "I wanted to see the little girl who stole my son from me."

"She didn't steal anything from you" Andrew retorted, his teeth grinding. "You never really had me, Smurf, you're nothing but a manipulator."

Smurf's smile widened upon hearing that, and Andrew felt a shiver run down his spine.

"Oh, Pope... Always so dramatic." Smurf took a step forward, making the couple instinctively step back, but Andrew always staying between her and you. "No need to be so aggressive, it hurts mommy," she finished cynically, placing her aged palm above her chest in false upset.

"Get out of here" Andrew ordered, his voice a low growl. "Now."

Smurf laughed, a sound that seemed to tear the air, putting her sunglasses on her face, the noise of her bracelets being an omen sound.

"So protective. So passionate. It's almost cute" the Cody mother shook her head, her expression shifting to something darker even covered by the dark glasses. "But you know this won't last, don't you? She's going to leave you. As soon as she finds out what you did. What you are."

"Enough!" Andrew shouted, the anger finally exploding. His fist rose, but before he could take a step forward, you placed your hand on his arm, restraining him.

"Andy, honey, stop" you said, your voice calm despite the chaos. "Don't let her do this to you."

He looked at you and saw the trust in your eyes, the certainty that he was better than the anger Smurf provoked. Slowly, he lowered his fist, forcing himself to breathe.

Smurf watched the interaction with a satisfied smile.

"How beautiful" the blonde said. "The two of you against the world. But the world is a cruel place, and you know that better than anyone." She turned, walking toward the door. "I just came to warn you."

And so, Smurf left, leaving a heavy silence behind her. Andrew felt his heart race, the adrenaline still running through his veins. He turned to you, his eyes searching for signs of fear, of hesitation.

"Are you okay?" he asked hoarsely, both trembling hands rising to hold the sides of your face. You nodded, but Andrew saw the shadow that passed through your eyes.

"She's trying to scare you" you said, controlling the tremor that wanted to escape you. Not wanting to leave your Andy anxious, but deep in your core something alarming ignited like gunpowder in dry brush. "Don't let her win."

Andrew pulled you into a hug, burying his face in your hair. Breathing and feeling you. You extended your arms, wrapping around his robust back and pressing Andrew's large body against yours.

"I'll never let anyone hurt you" he whispered. "Never." And he believed it, clung to it with all his being.

But Smurf was cunning. Smurf always won.

And I need you now, tonight...

And I need you more than ever...

Two weeks later, Andrew arrived at the apartment and immediately felt something was wrong. The silence was too heavy, the absence of light in the windows a sentence. He ran, his footsteps echoing through the hallways, and when he opened the door, his heart stopped.

And if you only hold me tight...

We'll be holding on forever...

And we'll only be making it right...

You were on the floor, motionless. Your skin, once golden from the California sun, looked so opaque and cold. Andrew screamed, the sound that escaped his lips was primal, a cry of pain so deep it seemed to come from someone else.

'Cause we'll never be wrong

Together, we can take it to the end of the line...

He fell to his knees beside you, his hands trembling as he touched your face, searching for a sign of life he knew he wouldn't find. You were so cold.

"No" Andrew whispered, his voice broken. "No, no, no. Please, baby, no..."

Your love is like a shadow on me all of the time...

But you didn't respond. Your eyes were open, without that sparkle the older man loved, now fallen on that floor as cold as your skin, your inert irises were fixed on some distant point, and the lack of life in them was an accusation. Andrew took your body in his arms, pulling it close and hugging it tight against his own chest.

I don't know what to do and I'm always in the dark...

We're living in a powder keg and giving off sparks...

Andrew rocked himself and your dead body, both abandoned in the middle of the apartment. He knew, knew who had done it, but his mind and body found the situation unreal, so he cried. Cried as he hadn't cried since childhood, with uncontrolled sobs that shook his entire body.

I really need you tonight...

Forever's gonna start tonight...

"I love you..." he murmured against your hair, repeating the words like a prayer, as if God or any deity could have mercy on this poor suffering man. "I love you so much. Please, don't leave me. Don't leave me alone..."

But you were already gone, and nothing he said or did could bring you back.

The following days were a blur. Andrew buried you with his own hands, choosing a spot by the sea, where the waves sang a melody you loved. He spent hours sitting by your grave, talking to you as if you could still hear.

"You saved me" Andrew said, his voice hoarse from crying, drying his tear-wet cheeks. "You showed me I could be more. I couldn't protect you..."

The wind howled, and Andrew heard the echo of your voice in every gust, the sound of your laughter in every wave. He closed his eyes, and for a moment, he almost managed to feel you beside him, almost managed to hear the music you used to listen to together. Andrew almost managed to believe that love could defeat hate.

But the truth was cruel. Smurf won. She tore from him the only thing he truly loved, the only light in his darkness, and Andrew knew he would never be the same again.

He stood up, his shadow stretching across the sand like a black stain, and walked toward the sea. The waves kissed his feet, he felt the cold of the water rise up his legs, an invitation to surrender, to finally find the peace that life had denied him. But Andrew didn't surrender. He couldn't. You would have wanted him to continue, would have wanted him to fight, to honor the memory of the love you shared. And for you, he would fight. Even if it meant living with a broken heart for the rest of his days.

Once upon a time, I was falling in love...

But now I'm only falling apart...

"I will love you forever" Andrew whispered to the radiant horizon. "And I will live. For you. For us."

There's nothing I can do...

A total eclipse of the heart...

Majorie Deacons, 83. Survived by her husband, Harold, of 62 years, her three children–Mary, Thomas, and Steven–and 10 grandchildren. Worked as a paralegal for 48 years before retiring to the Poconos with Harold. Moved back to Pittsburgh when she got sick. Died from sepsis as a result of her cancer-weakened immune system.  

That was all you knew of the woman laying in front of you, her skin pale and body unnaturally still. You thought about her life as you removed her engagement and wedding ring, the crucifix pendant around her neck, the diamond bracelet around her frail wrist–all logged securely for the family to pick up at their convenience. 

You thought about her life, about the 83 years she spent on this earth. Where did she grow up? Was Harold her high-school sweetheart, or did they meet in college, or a bar? Did they travel? What sights did they see, how many sunsets did they share? Did she remember exactly where she was when Kennedy was assassinated, like most older folks did? Did she like red lipstick or pink? When did her hair turn white–did she hate it or did she embrace it? 

Did she feel welcomed by death, or did she fight it kicking and screaming? 

83 years, such a long life and yet still not long enough for the people who loved her. 

You spent a lot of time grieving people you’d never met before as a morgue technician. It was a tough job–one spent with people on the worst days of their lives. Sure, you weren’t the one responsible for saving lives–didn’t have a relationship with the patient while they were living–but sometimes you thought maybe it was worse in a way. You learned about these people from their families, from the people so deeply grieving their loved one that often all you felt was gut-wrenching sadness for the hole that now lived in these people’s hearts. You didn’t get the benefit of seeing them interact with their loved ones, didn’t get to know their personality or see their quirks. All you experienced was the grief their loss wrought, not the joy their life had created. 

You liked being there for people, though. Death is not something Americans are accustomed to talking about openly, the aftermath of losing a loved one often impersonal and shrouded in mystery. Especially at the hospital, it often felt more clinical than anything else, with procedure and policy often taking center stage over the deceased.  

You liked bringing a sense of humanity to the process; liked to have the families reminisce about their loved ones, liked getting to know them through the people who cherished them the most despite the deep ache it sometimes left in your chest. 

You learned about Marjorie upstairs, from the family as you collected the body, and you’re looking forward to learning more about her when the family comes to collect her effects. You found that getting people to talk about the person they lost made it easier to discuss funeral and transport arrangements. You didn’t want them to feel like they were just another box to check off your to-do list. 

A knock on the door pulled you from your thoughts. 

“Hey, we got another one upstairs. Transport’s been taking forever tonight,” Elise, your boss, said, rolling her eyes. “They have one job: get the body from point A to point B. What gives?” 

You shrugged, sighing as you finished cataloging all of Marjorie's effects. “I’ll be back soon,” you said, squeezing her hand gently before making your way to the elevators, up to the emergency department. 

Transport was supposed to, well, transport the body. But they were often backed up for one reason or another, and delays in moving the body meant a valuable room remained occupied when it could otherwise be used for another patient. So, more often than not, Elise sent you up to grab the body and bring it back down for processing. It was faster that way, and often gave the family some peace knowing that their loved one wasn’t just sitting in the emergency room. 

You didn’t mind, exactly. As much as you enjoyed the quiet and solitude of the mortuary, you liked peaking your head up in the ED and seeing the hustle and bustle there, the way it teemed with life as well as death, even at night.  

And it didn’t hurt that the senior night shift attending was perhaps the most handsome man you’d ever laid eyes on. You’d had a crush on him since you met him, your introduction being maybe one of the most embarrassing moments of your life. 

It was your first time up in the emergency department, the incessant beeping and constant chatter a stark difference to the quiet morgue–if people were talking down there, something was seriously wrong. 

You’d been taken on a brief tour by the charge nurse, Lena, who gave you a rundown of the transport procedure. You met a few of the residents, Dr. Ellis and Dr. Crus, and a handful of nurses, all of whom seemed nice enough.  

But you almost stopped dead in your tracks when you met the kind hazel eyes of the graying, curly-haired man standing at the nurses station. 

“And this is Dr. Abbot, senior night shift attending. You’ll need his or Dr. Shen’s signature whenever you transport a body,” Lena introduced you, “Dr. Abbot, this is the new morgue technician. She graciously offered to help with transport.” 

You held your hand out, brain nearly turning to mush when he shook it. His palm was rough, calloused from many years of working with his hands, and unbelievably warm. His hand also dwarfed yours, which sent a tingle down your spine. 

“New morgue technician?” he asked, “Well, no offense, but I hope we don’t see you too much around here,” he joked with an easy smile on his face.  

“I guess that remains to be seen,” you said, and followed it up with a ‘ba dum tss’ sound effect and finger guns. Yes, you really did that. 

The joke didn’t land; they never did. Jack cocked his head to the side, an almost-smile gracing his lips, and shot you an inquisitive look, like he was trying to figure you out. 

His intense stare made your cheeks heat and your tummy swirl. You weren’t sure if you were aroused or uncomfortable, or some combination of both.  

You couldn’t get out of there sooner. 

It felt like you could never get your foot out of your mouth when Jack Abbot was around. And so the cycle began: get called up to retrieve a body, make an ill-timed joke, embarrass the hell out of yourself, and return back to the safety of the morgue as quickly as possible. 

You never made jokes in front of patients or families; you knew that it was something strictly reserved for your peers, people you thought understood the challenges you all face in healthcare–and deathcare. 

You weren’t sure why it seemed physically impossible for you not to use humor as a defense mechanism. Part of it was the nature of your job–gallows humor was a coping mechanism you latched onto and couldn’t seem to shake off. It was the same way some people laughed when they were nervous or panicked–a reaction to pent up emotions and stress that manifested as humor instead of as tears. 

But you’d also always been like this, trying to diffuse uncomfortable situations with humor instead of meeting them head on, or making a joke at your own expense before someone else could. It hurt less that way, if you could subvert something painful into something lighthearted.

You’d always been admonished for it, by your parents, friends, partners. Had been told that it was inappropriate and that you were too crass, too loud, too much. Which was probably true. It confused you, though, how some people did bond over humor, in the occasional callousness of it, when you were criticized for it. That was something you’d never been able to work out, how it was always wrong when you did it; why you’d never been able to bond with people the same way others did. Well, there was a reason you worked the night shift at a morgue, after all. 

You pushed those thoughts away and instead tried to talk yourself up as you stood in the elevator, willing yourself not to be weird. 

“Hey, Lena, heard you got another customer for me?” you grinned at her, leaning against the nurses station. 

“Sure do, sweets. Her name is Cary West,” she replied with a soft smile. Lena, at least, seemed to like you. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

She pointed you to the correct room, where Mateo was cleaning up the body. You stood silently as he finished, taking a moment to honor the person they were and the people they’re leaving behind. These moments always felt weird–liminal, in a way. No longer a patient, but not yet ready for the funeral home–they were entrusted in your care in the meantime. 

There was no family in the room, which wasn’t abnormal for night shift. Folks had gone home, to sleep or cry or do whatever else one does to process the grief. You always hope you’ll meet the family of the deceased, but you’re not holding on hope on this one. It was 4am, the family would likely be back during the day to take care of funeral arrangements and Ms. West would be long gone by then. Still, though, you thought about her life, her wants, her dreams–tried to insert some humanity where it had been lost.  

“Sorry you had to come back up so soon, I know you just got down there with Ms. Deacons,” Mateo said quietly, pulling the sheet over her head. 

“Oh no worries, I don’t mind. It's not like she’s gonna talk my ear off.” 

He just shook his head at your joke, unimpressed and unamused. 

“Looks like Dr. Abbot is at the nurses station. C’mon, and we’ll get the transfer paperwork signed,” he said, holding the door open for you to push the gurney through. 

Dr. Abbot looked worn out. His eyes were tired, and the kind smile he usually sported was replaced by a slight frown and a furrow between his brows. His shoulders were drawn up tight, the tension built up there almost looking painful. It must have been a rough night. 

You greeted him with a soft smile, and handed over the clipboard for his signature, which he promptly filled out. 

He handed you the clipboard before turning his attention back to the gurney. His jaw was clenched tight, a pained look on his face as he squeezed Ms. West’s hand peeking out from the blanket. 

“Treat her well for us, please,” he said, voice hoarse. 

“Always do, I wouldn’t want to know what the reaper-cussions would be if I didn’t,” you joked before you could think better of it, cringing internally at your lack of tact. 

There was a split second of silence, the tension simmering hotly before fully boiling over. 

“Jesus fucking christ, can you be serious for one fucking second? This is a hospital, not a fucking comedy club. There are people grieving here. You need to learn to be an adult and keep your fucknig mouth shut,” he boomed, his face red and chest heaving. 

He was looming over you now as he spit out, “get the fuck out of my ED.” 

Your ears were ringing. You weren’t sure if the department had actually fallen silent or if you’d just temporarily lost the ability to hear.

You couldn’t breathe, oxygen not flowing properly into your lungs. It felt like you’d been punched in the gut, all the air sucked out and replaced with lead.  

“S-sorry,” you stuttered out, cheeks burning and throat closing in on itself. Tears were building up quickly in your eyes, but you weren’t going to cry in front of these people; you weren’t going to give them the satisfaction. 

You gripped the edge of the gurney and pushed ahead, desperate to get out of there as fast as humanly possible. No one stopped you, no one offered any apologies or sympathies, just watched your humiliated form disappear into the elevator. 

The minute the elevator doors closed the tears fell, the hot trails burning your face as you tried to conceal your sobs. 

“I’m s-sorry, Ms. West, I shouldn’t be crying like this. I don’t really have much to be upset about in comparison,” you apologized to the corpse, feeling guilty for being so upset when you were literally transporting a dead woman. 

You managed to calm yourself down before you reached the morgue. You didn’t want to explain what happened to Elise, didn’t want to recount every embarrassing detail that was already replaying in your head. 

You soothed yourself with routine, with the repetitive motions of logging personal effects, filling out reports, and contacting the funeral home to make arrangements. 

By the time 7AM rolled around, you were more than ready to get the hell out of there.

The sun is blinding against your puffy eyes. The past two days were a blur, mostly spent crying and replaying the incident over and over. You called out of work, citing a stomach bug. Which wasn’t all that untrue–the thought of encountering anyone in the hospital did make you feel violently ill. 

You had already put in for a transfer to day shift, feigning some excuse about your school schedule changing. You couldn’t wait to finish your studies and officially become a mortician. You’d leave the hospital and start your own business, helping people through the grieving and burial process in your own way. 

And maybe you’d never have to see Jack Abbot ever again. The thought was as relieving as it was devastating, because you liked him. And you were starting to think maybe he liked you too–at least as a friend or acquaintance. 

It was a slow night, which you were thankful for. It meant there weren’t any bodies in the morgue–that there weren’t any deaths so far tonight. So you weren’t too bent out of shape when you got shipped up to the ED to collect a body. 

You found Dr. Abbot quickly, signed the necessary paperwork, and wheeled the body out to central. 

“Thanks for picking up, I don’t know what the hell’s going on with transpo tonight,” he said.

“Don’t worry about it, we’re actually empty right now. There’s no body there,” you said, a cheeky grin crossing your lips. 

And Jack laughed. A full-on, deep-throated laugh. It was one of the most beautiful sounds you’d ever heard. Your chest swelled with pride, and all you could think about was making him do it again. 

He shook his head at you, smile still lingering on his face, “what makes a girl like you want to work night shift at the morgue?”  

“Girl like me?” you asked coyly, raising your eyebrow at him. 

He assessed you, eyes flitting over your face, “yeah, young, smart… pretty.”

You flushed at that, your body getting all warm and tingly, “well, I’m not a mourning person, for one,” you joked, earning another laugh from Jack. 

“I, uh, I’m in school for mortuary science,” you continued, giving him a real answer, “I want to be a mortician when I’m done.” 

“That’s… admirable,” he said, “you don’t get the glory of saving lives but you do get all the dirty work. Good for you.” 

Jack’s attention made you feel like you were on fire–like a white hot ball of flame that would spread given the littlest bit of ammunition. His stare was brazen, unapologetic–you couldn’t look away if you tried. 

You cleared your throat, breaking some of the tension, “I guess I should probably get him downstairs,” you said, gesturing to the gurney in front of you. 

“I’ll walk you to the elevator,” Jack said, moving to stand by your side. He rested his hand on the small of your back as he guided you to the elevators. The touch was electrifying–you could feel the warmth radiating from him through the layers of scrubs. He was close enough now that you could smell the warm amber of his cologne mixed with his own musky scent. You felt dizzy, and all you wanted to do was press yourself against him, to nestle yourself in the crook of his neck and inhale. 

He pressed the button for the elevator when you arrived and helped you wheel the gurney in. 

“It was good seein’ you, pretty girl,” he said, and just as the elevator doors were closing, he winked at you. 

You were surprised you didn’t turn into a puddle right then and there. 

Your chest twisted at the memory. Maybe that’s why his words hurt so much–why they’d sunk into the marrow of your bones, confirming that he thought as lowly of you as you already thought of yourself. He’d given you hope, shown you kindness where no one else in the ED had. 

It was stupid, anyway. Thinking that a man like Jack Abbot could feel anything other than disdain for someone like you. Of course the hot, older, accomplished attending wouldn’t want anything to do with the awkward morgue technician. 

Every time you thought about it, your heart ached, a dull pang ringing through your chest and reverberating through your body. Tears pooled in your eyes at the mere thought of the incident. It felt like you were back in high school, asking Alex Williams to the school dance just to have him laugh in your face and say he wasn’t going to go with a freak. 

You couldn’t dwell on it, though. You had a job to do, bills to pay. You could only hope that day shift was better, or that you could whip yourself into shape and keep your comments to yourself.

“Jesus, why is the body in north 2 still there?” Jack asked, eyes trained on the board ahead of him. Wait times were astronomical and chairs was full to the brim–the sooner they moved the deceased out, the sooner they could move a new patient in. 

“Not sure, I called transpo an hour ago, but you know how concerned they are with being timely,” Lena responded. 

“What about the morgue? Why haven’t they sent anyone to collect the body?” 

Lena looked at him over the top of her glasses, an unimpressed look on her face. 

“Oh, you mean that sweet girl who helps us out by transporting bodies when transpo is dicking around? The one you screamed at in front of the entire department? Gosh, I can’t think of a reason she’s not chomping at the bit to come up here,” she deadpanned, fixing Jack with a glare. “Last I heard she switched to day shift. Said she had some personal schedule conflicts, but I think we both know that’s not true.”   

Jack winced, guilt coursing through him. He hadn’t meant to make such a scene, to be so cruel. It had just been such a monumentally horrible day, his chest wound so tight and hackles raised that your little joke set him off. It was stupid, too, because Jack had easily made far worse jokes at far more inappropriate times. 

It could have easily been anyone else that he snapped at, would have been, if you weren’t there. But you were, and so you bore the brunt of his wrath. 

He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t been replaying the look on your face, the way it crumpled and tears welled up in your pretty eyes. He remembered how your breath hitched, how you shrunk in on yourself and ran away as fast as you could. 

It made his chest ache to think about. He wanted to find you, to apologize, but he thought he might just make it worse. And selfishly, he wasn’t sure he was ready for the conversation that would ensue. He assumed he’d see you up here at some point, where he could take you aside and beg for forgiveness–he didn’t think you’d rearrange your entire work schedule just to avoid seeing him. 

He wasn’t sure why he acted so indifferently toward you. Or rather, he did–he just didn’t want to acknowledge the way you made him feel. You made him feel giddy–made his face warm and his heart race, like a teenage boy flirting with a pretty girl for the first time. He briefly tried flirting with you, but he was pretty sure you were oblivious to it–either that or you didn’t feel the same. He was hoping for the former.  

He hadn’t felt this way about someone since he started dating his wife. Frankly, it made him uncomfortable to think about, made him feel like he was betraying her in some way. He knew that wasn’t true, knew that his wife would want him to be happy, but he just couldn’t shake the feeling. 

He’d been talking about it with his therapist, trying to cope with these feelings–trying to get up the courage to ask you out.

And the kicker was he was going to, he was getting bolder, complimenting you and finding any excuse to, respectfully, put his hands on you. And now he’s fucked it all up. 

“Shit,” he muttered, scrubbing his hands down his face.  

“Yeah, shit. I suggest you take your ass down there and apologize. Properly.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll handle it,” he said absent-mindedly, already wracking his brain for the right words to say to you.

The change to day shift was brutal. Your body wasn’t used to waking up when you were supposed to be going to bed, and vice versa. You were also working less hours to accommodate your school schedule, which was the reason you were on night shift to begin with. But you took it in stride the best you could. Lemonade out of lemons, and all that. 

You’d been up to the ED a couple times since the incident, feeling as awkward as ever even though most of them weren’t on shift when Dr. Abbot berated you. You covered day shift a few times, so you weren’t completely unfamiliar with the staff. Dr. Robby seemed nice enough, though you never stuck around long enough to build rapport. It was in and out from now on, speaking as little as you could before you retreated back to the morgue. 

You wished you could flat out refuse to go up there, but you didn’t want to punish innocent people just waiting for a bed. The sooner you got the bodies to the morgue, the sooner someone else could be seen by a doctor. 

Right now, though, you were sat at your desk, filling out log reports and finishing up paperwork before you inevitably got another body. It was monotonous work, yes, but calming in a way. The mindless action gave your brain a break between decedents–gave you a chance to mourn the person and compartmentalize it away before it ate away at you. 

You faintly heard the door at the end of the hall open and close, and assumed Elise was taking her lunch break. 

That is, until you heard a painfully familiar voice call out, “Hello? Anybody in here?” 

Oh no, why is he here? Attendings rarely visited the morgue–usually only if there was a particularly complex cause of death that they wanted to further examine. But there were no such cases right now, the only bodies currently in custody being a run of the mill STEMI and a GSW to the head–both pretty self-explanatory. 

And the night shift hadn’t started yet, the clock reading 5:34pm. There’s no plausible reason for Jack Abbot to be down here right now. 

His steps were getting louder–he was almost at your office now. 

You panicked. That is the only explanation you have for scrambling up from your desk and darting into the small storage closet to your left. You pressed yourself against the wall to the side, out of view of the frosted glass window. Was this the mature course of action? Absolutely not. But you weren’t sure you could handle seeing him right now. You hadn’t seen him since the incident, had done everything in your power to avoid any and all interactions. 

He called out again, and you could see his silhouette standing in the doorway of your office. 

Eyes closed, you took deep breaths to try and calm your rapidly beating heart. Hopefully he’d see the empty room and take his leave quickly.  

It was quiet, and for a moment you thought he’d left until–knock knock. 

“I could be crazy, but I’m pretty sure I heard someone stumble into this closet and slam the door shut,” he said, a hint of amusement in his tone. 

You didn’t answer, hoping maybe you could convince him he was crazy. 

The doorknob rattled, and you instinctively grabbed it, pulling it with all the force you could muster to keep it closed. You weren’t sure why–surely he was much stronger than you and could rip the door open if he really wanted to. And god, why was thinking about how strong he was making you flustered?  

It’s not that you were scared of him, you were just… woefully unprepared for this conversation. Despite ruminating over the incident itself, you hadn’t actually pictured a scenario where you’d ever speak to him again. Hadn’t had time to go over it a million times in your head, coming up with the best comeback and constructing the perfect barb to lodge in his soft underbelly, the way he’d done to you. 

He sighed, resting his forehead against the glass. “Look, I just wanted to apologize for the other day, if you’ll give me the chance.” 

You chewed on the inside of your cheek, considering. You’re not sure that an apology will do much for you, not sure that it’ll quell the pit in your stomach that’s opened and doesn’t show any sign of closing. 

You nodded to yourself anyway, letting out a quiet, “go ahead.” 

He chucked lightly, “face-to-face, if you don’t mind.” 

Damn him, you groaned internally. Taking a deep breath, you slowly opened the door. Jack stood opposite you, hands tucked into the pockets of his scrubs. You crossed your arms and fixed your gaze on your scuffed up shoes, the thought of looking him in the eye daunting and exciting at the same time.  

He let out a deep breath, “I’m really sorry for how I acted the other night. It was an exceptionally shitty night, and it wasn’t your fault but I took it out on you when I shouldn’t have.” 

You nodded, appreciated the effort it took to come down here and apologize. It did little to soothe your bruised heart, though. There was still a painful twinge in your chest, his words having already wormed their way into your brain and confirmed every worst thought you had about yourself. 

“Thank you, Dr. Abbot, apology accepted,” you said curtly, moving past him to get back to your desk. 

He stopped you, his hand resting on the bare skin just above your elbow. Goosebumps prickled against your skin from the roughness of his palm. You hated how your body craved more, how you wanted him to slide his hand up to your neck, tilt your head back and kiss you. Traitor. 

He sighed, rubbing a hand over his jaw, “that woman that night, the one you picked up, she died of ovarian cancer,” he said. He looked conflicted, eyes flinty and mouth twisted to the side like he was warring with himself as he bit out the next words, “that’s how–my wife–she died of ovarian cancer.” 

Oh. You didn’t know that, didn’t even know he had a wife. Your eyes drifted to his left hand and saw the slightly lighter patch of skin there. Your heart ached and your defenses softened just a tad at the revelation. You could only imagine what it would feel like to lose a patient in the same manner you lost the person closest to you, could imagine the ugly emotions it would pull out of you. It didn’t make what he said okay, but you understood the circumstances that led him to say it. 

“And before that we had a kid who died from drowning, and a couple close calls, and a bunch of Dr. Google bullshit. And your joke was just… the straw that broke the camel’s back. But I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, not like that and not in front of everybody. That wasn’t fair to you, and I’m truly sorry,” he said, and you could feel the sincerity dripping from his words. His eyes were soft and pleading as he looked at you, and once again you found yourself unable to look away. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t know that–about your wife,” you said softly, not wanting to make it any more painful than it already was, “and I’m sorry about the joke. I know it’s not appropriate, and I’ve been trying to stop, but you know how hard it is to quit unhealthy coping mechanisms,” a small smile lifting the corner of your lips. 

He shook his head, “please don’t, you have nothing to apologize for. Gallows humor is how we all get by; I can’t tell you how many off-color jokes I’ve told in my day. It was really the pot calling the kettle black, if I'm being honest,” he said, “If it wasn’t you who set me off, it would’ve been Ellis or Shen, or some other unsuspecting person. I promise you it had so much more to do with me than it did with you.” 

You nodded, accepting his explanation. You felt a little lighter, a little less burdened by his words.    

“I’d like to make it up to you, if you’ll let me,” he said, “maybe coffee or dinner, if you’re up for it?” 

You shook your head, “That’s really not necessary, Dr. Abbot. I meant it, I accept your apology, you don’t have to do anything else.” 

He nodded at that, looking a little deflated but otherwise satisfied that you’d accepted his apology. 

Jack felt the need to make it up to you anyway. 

It started with coffee after his shift ended. The first time, he brought you the most insane coffee order you’d ever seen–a mocha cappuccino with 5 extra shots of espresso, pistachio syrup, vanilla cold foam,  caramel AND white mocha drizzle, and salted caramel topping–a monstrosity borne from a recommendation from the woman ahead of him in line. You’re not sure how you didn’t immediately get cavities in all of your teeth. 

You couldn’t lie, though, the fact that he made the effort to go out and get coffee after his 12 hour shift was endearing, and once you gave him your coffee order, he got it right each and every time. 

It became routine over the next month for Jack to bring you coffee, and even though you didn’t have much time to talk in the morning, you began looking forward to the 10-15 minutes of conversation you shared with him each morning. You never discussed what this was, if it meant anything or if it was just a kind gesture between friends. You certainly hoped it meant something, but you weren’t going to get your hopes up. 

You were catching up on paperwork when his text came through. 

Jack: Can’t make it for coffee this morning, sweetheart, how about I bring you lunch later? 

Your cheeks heated at the pet name. He hadn’t called you that before, and you hoped you weren’t reading into it. 

You: sounds great, see you later :) 

You spend the morning counting down the minutes until Jack showed up. It only slightly hindered your progress on your paperwork, your mind only occasionally wandering off to think about his pretty pink lips.

It’s noon before you know it, and someone’s rapping their knuckles on the door frame to your office. 

“Knock, knock,” Jack said, shooting you a smile as he walked over to your desk. He set down a truly alarming amount of food. You laughed as he took out container after container, the sack resembling a clown car more than a fast food bag. 

“I wasn’t sure what you liked, so I got a variety,” he said, a little bashfully, “you can take home whatever’s left for dinner or lunch tomorrow.” 

You selected what you wanted from the smorgasbord he presented you with, and settled into the chair next to him. 

It was a little awkward at first. Most of the conversations you’d had with him up to this point were pretty surface level. Even your coffee chats were light-hearted affairs that didn’t really go deeper than what you did over the weekend. 

But Jack didn’t let it stay awkward for long, as if he knew that once you started talking, he’d be hard-pressed to get you to stop. 

“So, I realized that despite our coffee talks, I don’t really know that much about you. How long have you been a mortuary tech?” 

“About a year and a half. I got the job after I started school for mortuary science. Before that I taught for a little bit, but I didn’t really like it and I don’t think I was much good at it. I was a bartender for a long time too.” 

“So what made you make the jump to mortuary school?”

“I studied anthropology in college and death culture always really fascinated me, especially the way different cultures deal with grief and the burial process. America is so sanitized, so averse to looking at death straight on. We think death needs to be palatable, that the deceased need to look exactly as they did in life to avoid accepting the fact that our bodies are fundamentally different after death–that they are on their way to being absorbed back into the earth.

“I think the way we treat people in death is just as important as how we treat them in life. To some people, that person on the table is just an assemblage of bones and flesh, but to others that was a friend, a mother or daughter, father or son. And I figured as a mortician, I’d be in a position to offer families the kind of support that helps them work through their grief, not just hide it behind pretty floral arrangements.” 

You felt a little shy at the rapt expression on Jack’s face. He was giving you his undivided attention, listening intently to every word that came out of your mouth. You’re not sure any man has ever listened to you as attentively as he was now. Yes, the bar was in hell, but it didn’t make it any less hot.  

“Sorry, that was a lot, I didn’t mean to info dump on you,” you said sheepishly. 

He shook his head, “Please info dump, I could listen to you talk all day,” he said honestly, “do you want to continue working at the hospital when you’re done or do you want to start your own practice?” 

“I don’t think I’ll stay here. I mean, I like helping people through the immediate grief, but I think I just want to help grieving families lay their loved ones to rest in a way that honors the life they lived. I don’t care about selling fancy caskets or high-dollar cemetery plots, I just want to narrow it down to what really matters to preserving and celebrating the individual that was lost.”   

Jack nodded, “I don’t remember a lot about planning my wife’s funeral–Robby helped a lot with that–but I do remember it being really… almost commercial, in a way? Like, ‘do you want cedar or oak for the coffin? Do you want the casket lined in silk or velvet?’” he said, laughing bitterly, “like it was a fashion show or something, not the vessel my wife was going to be buried in. I couldn’t give less of a fuck what the damn thing was lined in.” 

You laid your hand on top of his, giving it a comforting squeeze as he continued. It made your heart swell that he felt comfortable enough to talk about his wife with you. 

“I mean, they were very compassionate, but it always felt like a business–which I get, we’re a capitalist society, but that’s not exactly what you want to feel when you’re burying someone,”  

You nodded, “that’s probably the thing that bothers me the most about this industry. Sometimes it seems like profit is the priority, and the real, hurting people come second.” 

Jack just looked at you with soft eyes, the wrinkles around his eyes crinkling as he smiled at you. He turned your hand over in his, tracing the lines of your palm with his thumb.

“I think you’re going to be an amazing mortician,” he said, without an ounce of amusement or teasing, just pure honesty. “I think you’re exactly the kind of person that people want around them when they're going through the worst days of their lives.”  

You couldn’t help the tears that pricked at the corners of your eyes. It was the kindest thing someone had said to you about your career path, except maybe Elise. And it was nice to shed happy tears over something Jack Abbot said instead of embarrassed ones. 

You talked long after your lunch break was over, but Elise was out and you didn’t have any pressing work to get to at the moment, so you figured there was no harm, no foul. 

But eventually he had to leave to get ready for his shift, and you did have work to do, though you’d gladly forsake it for a few more minutes with him. 

You got up to dispose of your trash and walked him to the door. 

“Lunch was really nice,” he murmured, resting his hand on your arm, right above your elbow. 

Your breath hitched at the contact and goosebumps prickled up and down your arms. You gaze was locked on his, unable to look away, “yeah, I really enjoyed it,” you said breathily, your heart already racing. 

He moved closer, settling his hands on your waist, and backed you up slowly until the back of your knees hit your desk. 

You leaned back against your desk, widening your stance to allow Jack to step between your legs. His body was warm against you, his hands running up and down your sides soothingly. 

“Is this okay, sweetheart?” he asked, his hand coming up to cradle your jaw. You could feel his breath against your lips, so close but still so far away. 

You nodded, a pathetic mewl leaving your lips without permission. It was embarrassing how badly you wanted to kiss this man.  

He pressed closer, his lips just barely grazing yours, his nose slightly bumping your cheek. You wrapped your arms loosely around his neck, eyes fluttering shut as you moved to close the miniscule distance between your lips–

CLANG! 

The door down the hall slammed shut, and hurried footsteps approached your office.  

You nearly jumped out of your skin and stumbled back onto the desk, out of Jack’s grasp. He seemed just as shocked, his hand clutching his chest in surprise. 

A second later Elise came rushing into the room, saying something about a mass casualty event and how you needed to make as much room down here as you could to prepare for the inevitable. You nodded, turning to Jack to apologize, but he beat you to it. 

“Shit, I gotta go, sweetheart, they’re probably gonna call all-hands-on-deck,” he said, a genuinely mournful look on his face. 

“Yeah, of course. I hope it’s not too bad,” you said, equally as disappointed, but understanding. Duty calls.  

He wrapped you up in a tight hug, your cheek resting against his firm chest. You closed your eyes and allowed yourself to savor his embrace for a moment before he had to go.

“We’ll finish this later, yeah?” he asked against your hair, his hand rubbing circles on your back. 

You smiled against his chest and nodded, “yes, please.” 

He pulled away and planted a chaste kiss to your cheek before heading out. 

“What was that all about?” Elise questioned, raising her eyebrows at you.  

You didn’t say anything–your hot cheeks and dopey grin were worth a thousand words.

You were called up to the ED several times, each time worse than the last by the looks of the staff. It still felt a little awkward being in the emergency department. Even though most of the people here weren’t on shift when Jack yelled at you, it still felt like the department went still when you walked in, people stopping and staring like you were some sideshow circus freak. 

You were back up here collecting yet another soul, waiting for someone to sign off on the transfer. It seemed like things had calmed down, the worst of it over now. You were lost in thought at the nurses station, picking at the skin around your nails anxiously. 

You hoped Jack would be the one to come over and sign the paperwork–hoped you’d catch another glimpse of him before your shift was over. All you could think about all day was that almost-kiss you shared with him. You couldn’t help the smile that made its way onto your face every time you thought about it, which meant you basically had a permanent grin affixed to your face. 

You’re only pulled out of your thoughts by the sound of hushed voices to your left. You glanced over and saw two nurses you didn’t recognize taking a break and engaging in some friendly workplace gossip. Or so you thought. 

“–so happy about?” a nurse whispered incredulously. 

“Probably daydreaming about Dr. Abbot,” another said, her tone most likely accompanied by an eye roll.  

“God, when is she going to get a grip? Her fawning over him is not cute.” 

“Yeah, I think he just doesn’t know how to let her down… I mean when he yelled at her she changed her whole schedule, he probably feels guilty.” 

“True. Maybe she’ll realize how embarrassing it is to be so down bad for a man she has no chance with.” 

You stopped listening after that, crestfallen and heartbroken all over again. The illusion of the past month shattered and the feelings from before came roaring back full force. 

Your chest twisted painfully–like someone had grabbed ahold of your heart and squeezed, the squishy flesh bulging between their fingers. Your throat ached, tears surely not far behind. 

You knew you shouldn’t put too much stock in what these two random nurses were saying. You knew that they likely had no idea what they were talking about, that they were just mean girls blowing off steam and you seemed to be the target of it–like always. 

But there was the little gremlin in the back of your brain, the one that told you everything they said was true. That Jack just felt guilty, that he was making himself feel better for the way he treated you. Insecurity wrapped itself around you like a vise, squeezing around you like a boa constrictor, until it was the only thing you could feel. 

And that almost-kiss? Well, he was a man, after all. Maybe he was just overcome with the physical urge to kiss you, get in your pants if he could. But he wasn’t that kind of man, was he? You didn’t want to think so, but all rational thought was obscured by the hurt blooming in your chest that you couldn’t be sure. 

You startled at the hand on your shoulder. You looked up to see Dr. Robby standing there, brows furrowed in concern. Squeaking out an apology, you handed him the transfer paperwork. 

“I called your name three times, you okay?” he asked, flipping through the pages and signing where appropriate. 

“Fine,” you smiled, not trusting your voice not to break. 

He looked skeptical, but didn’t push. 

“Alright, all done. Hopefully that’ll be it, at least from the mass cas,” he said, handing back the paperwork. “We have a trauma counsellor available if you need to talk to someone,” he said before backing away to move onto the next patient. 

You chuckled at that. Of course he thought you were troubled by the amount of death that occurred today. But no, here you were, post mass casualty, and you were more concerned about a man than you were about the people that had died tonight. How fucked up were you? 

Jack showed up with coffee the next morning like usual, setting the paper cup down on your desk, “here you go, sweetheart.” 

“Thank you,” you said without looking up from your paperwork. You tasted acid in your throat, the words from the nurses station echoing in your head in an ugly cacophony. You’d memorized them by heart over the past 12 hours, twisting and turning in bed as they invaded your mind against your will. 

He just doesn’t know how to let her down.

He probably feels guilty.

Her fawning over him is not cute.

You cleared your throat, “you really don’t have to do this anymore, you know,” you said nonchalantly, like it wasn’t tearing your heart out to say. 

He was quiet for a moment. “I know… I do it because I want to, because I like spending time with you,” he said, head cocked and brow furrowed.  

“Sure,” you muttered under your breath. 

“What was that?” 

You sighed and set your pen down, shifting your full attention to him, “I’m just saying you don’t have to prostrate yourself in front of me because you feel guilty, Jack. You’ve done your penance, if that’s all this is. You’re forgiven, no hard feelings.” 

Your throat was tight, but your voice didn’t waver. You blinked back tears furiously as he stared at you, mouth agape. He looked a little more disheveled than usual, his eyes tired and the lines on his face a little more pronounced, like he’d been frowning all night. Obviously, he worked like 16 hours last night. You felt another wave of guilt rush over you–he was wasting his much needed rest time to come placate you. 

He crossed his arms, shaking his head in confusion, “What the hell are you talking about? Where is this coming from?” 

You stood up and started behind your desk, feeling restless and hurt and foolish. 

“You just–you don’t have to hang around me because you feel bad or something,” you said, “you’ve more than apologized. I just wish you didn’t make me feel like–like…” you trailed off, ragged breaths tearing through your chest. It was getting harder to force the words out, tears falling down your cheeks in earnest now. 

“Like what?” 

“Like this means something!” you choked out. God, you felt so silly. Aw, is someone upset that their crush doesn’t like them back? 

He looked at you in disbelief, “It does mean something,” he said, rounding your desk and stopping in front of you–effectively ceasing your pacing. 

“Please don’t lie to me,” you hiccuped, your bottom lip trembling violently, “I know I’m too much, I know no one at the Pitt likes me–you don’t have to pretend you do.” You fixed your gaze to the floor–you didn’t think you could handle the pitying look that was undoubtedly in his eyes. 

“Hey, hey, look at me,” he said, cupping your face between his large hands. You tried to wiggle away, but his grip was unwavering–he wasn’t going to let you look away from him. He brushed away your tears, “I don’t know what ideas you’ve gotten into that pretty little head of yours, but if you think I’m anything but smitten with you, you’re dead wrong.” 

You laughed weakly, “who’s making bad jokes now?” 

He didn’t take the bait, didn’t let you deflect from the topic at hand. He pinned you with his eyes, his gaze steady as he delivered his next words. 

“I’m serious. I need you to know that I’m being honest with you when I say this: I’ve been scared for a long time to make a move on you, and I’m not letting anything–not even you–get in the way now, okay?

“I’ve liked you for a while now, pretty girl. You’re the best part of my day, the only thing keepin’ me going some days. I love your smile, your laugh, the way your face lights up when you talk about something you’re passionate about. I love the way you care about people, alive and dead, and I love your jokes, even if they can be a little off color. 

“And I can’t tell you how much I regret how I treated you. The only silver lining is that it kicked my ass into gear, made me realize I’ve been an idiot for waiting so long to make you mine. You’re not too much, and even if you were, I’d want more–I want everything you’re willing to give me.” 

You almost couldn’t comprehend the words coming out of his mouth, but he was nothing but sincere. His eyes pleaded with you to believe him, to give him a chance–and you desperately wanted to. 

“You mean that?” you asked, gnawing at your lip anxiously. You didn’t want to get your hopes up just to have them crushed again. 

“With all my heart,” he said, grabbing your hand and placing it over his heart. It was racing just as fast as yours was. “This is how I feel every time I see you, sweetheart. Feel like I should be hooked up to a monitor sometimes,” he joked. 

“I…I like you too. I have since the day I met you. But I’m scared,” you swallowed thickly, voice small as you finished, “I don’t want to get hurt.” 

“I know, sweetheart, I am too. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this–haven’t since my wife–and I don’t want to fuck it up. We’re in this together, as long as you’ll have me,” 

“I want you,” you whispered, placing your hand on the side of his neck tentatively. 

He grabbed your waist and backed you up against your desk, replicating your previous position from yesterday. 

“Can I kiss you now, sweetheart? Haven’t been able to stop thinking about it since we were interrupted,” he asked, thumb stroking your cheek. 

You nodded, “me either,” you said, heart pounding as he leaned in. 

His lips were soft when they met yours. It was tentative–just a slow, gentle press of his lips against yours, like he was trying to maintain some level of decorum.

He started to pull back, and you whined at the loss of contact. You fisted your hands in his scrub top and pulled him back in, your mouths meeting in an uncoordinated mash of teeth. He chuckled against you, “greedy girl,” he murmured, steadying your head in his hands and deepening the kiss. 

He tamped down your eagerness but didn’t erase any of the heat building between you–just kept you right where he wanted you. His tongue swiped across your bottom lip and you readily opened your mouth for him, desperate to taste him. He licked into your mouth, tongue hot as it tangled with yours. You were greedy, sucking and lapping and nipping at his tongue and lips, getting messy with it and thoroughly forgetting where you were and how inappropriate a setting this was. 

You were like horny teenagers, hands grabbing at whatever bits of flesh they could reach, tangling in each other’s hair, and moaning louder than was appropriate. 

When you finally pulled back, you were both gasping for air, chests heaving against each other. Jack rested his forehead against yours as he caught his breath. You didn’t want to waste another moment not kissing him, though, so you began peppering his face with kisses–to his nose, cheeks, chin, wherever you could reach. 

He laughed at the onslaught, craning his head to the side to give you access to his neck, which you happily latched onto, “you’re insatiable, aren’t you?” 

“I guess you’ll have to find out,” you replied as you pulled away, biting your lip and batting your eyelashes at him. 

He shook his head fondly at you, “Now, as much as I’d like to do very, very inappropriate things to you right now, I came here this morning planning to ask you out to dinner. Would you allow me to ask you out properly now, sweetheart? Let me be a gentleman?” he asked, thumbs stroking your jaw. 

You nodded, still dizzy from his kiss–still reeling from the fact that Jack actually liked you. 

“Would you please make me the happiest man in the world, and accompany me to dinner at Altius tomorrow night at 7?” 

“I’d love to,” you grinned, pulling him in for another kiss. 

“And after, we'll see just how insatiable you are.” 

A/N: shoutout to my fellow anthropology majors lol glad that my degree is coming in handy for something cause its certainly not a job

after the- to put it plainly- shitty fourth of July shift yourself and many of your coworkers had suffered through last year, a surprisingly large group of staff (whom you were fairly certain had been led by trinity) had swindled Gloria into giving a ridiculous amount of people the day off. usually at least a quarter of the people who were currently crammed into Dana's backyard were on call, if they weren't already in the trenches of a shift. but your coworkers at the Pitt were nothing if not persistent, trinity the most of all. and so here you all were, at the evening that had been advertised as a "casual staff barbecue" but was indeed a full blown holiday party with tablecloths and little sparkly blue and red decorations at each place setting and papers plates with fireworks on them.

you were very glad that you'd made the executive decision to bring more than the single bowl of potato salad that you'd been signed up for- opting instead for two large dishes (you knew your coworkers could eat) along with a few packs of beer that you'd picked up on the way. half of the attendees were still in the i'm a resident that can barely afford to feed myself one meal a day phase, and you'd been there not too long ago. you enjoyed being able to do things like this now that you weren't drowning in your own loans. and if you just so happened to know that the beer was a certain attending's favorite, well that was just a happy accident, wasn't it?

the heat was blissfully light, brushing against your face and through your hair in the way that made you happy it was summer, thankful to feel the warmth shining on your skin but not too hot, not too sweaty. you were wearing birkenstocks, a choice that made you laugh a bit to yourself when you'd walked out of the door and thought of how little your coworkers saw of you in regular clothes, and a gingham sundress that swished around above your knees. dana had told everyone to feel free to bring their swim suits, but something about splashing around half dressed in a pool with the adults you worked in a grueling emergency department with wasn't appealing to you.

you drove up to dana's gorgeous white home, which you'd been to only once before. it was a bit far from your apartment, a bit outside of the city. there was a big paper sign tacked to her fence that read come on in with a bold arrow toward the open gate. you could hear the distant thrum of voices as you ducked out of your car, then frowned at the piled full front passenger seat. there was no way you'd be able to carry all this in one trip. you grabbed the two large containers of potato salad, bumping the car door closed with your hip and making you way up the driveway and into the backyard.

cassie sees you first, and from behind her legs a head of wild brown hair peeks out too. harrison smiles at you brightly and bounds over, throwing his arms around your middle in greeting.

"hi buddy." you grunt at the impact but smile down at the boy softly. you'd babysat for cassie a handful of times over the past few years, usually when she needed some last minute help or her regular sitter fell through.

"hi honey." he grinned up at you, and you couldn't help but laugh softly at the nickname. the young boy hadn't been able to remember your name the first few times you'd hung out with him, but his mom always came home and relieved you with a thank you honey or you're a life saver honey, so harrison had decided that was close enough. you didn't want him to stop thinking you were cool, so you always tried to hide how the endearing name made your heart swell.

from a few feet away cassie gestured for harrison to take one of the bowls from you and he did, leading the way toward the table of food across the yard while trying to peek under the plastic lid to see what you'd brought. distracted and preoccupied, harrison misses the divot in the grass and goes tumbling, knees and face smacking down to the ground and potato salad flying.

quite literally flying. you watch as your prized vintage pyrex arches through the air and goes tumbling across the lawn. you vaguely register the lid popping off a few bumps in, but your eyes are fixed on harrison as you rush over to where he’s sprawled on the floor.

“OW!” the boy shouts dramatically, rolling over and looking down at a pair of bloody hands and knees. he’s also sporting a gnarly gash on his chin.

“you okay?” you ask with concern, though you must admit your stifling a laugh at the absolute commotion he’s caused. it was like something out of cheaper by the dozen; and a handful of your coworkers were now crowding around you.

“what the hell dude?” cassie’s voice calls from behind you as she jogs up.

“i fell!” he huffs at his mom, but you can see the tears the boy is desperately trying to keep in as he looks hopelessly at your ruined potato salad and his sore knees.

“hey, it’s okay bud.” you hum, a gentle hand coming to his back. “that’s why i brought two.” you give harrison a quiet smile and nod of reassurance, then lift him up gently by his tender scraped up hand. “i have some bandaids in my car, want to come with me?” his head bobs up and down a few times and you nod again, quickly standing to stow the bowl you’d been carrying on the table a few feet away and then doubling back with a wave for harrison to follow you. cassie give you a soft smile and silent thank you as you go, to which you simply shake your head. you loved harrison, and getting to care for a kid outside the often terrible circumstances of your workplace was something that truly brought you joy. you’d considered going into pedes for most of your rotation period before you’d landed in the pitt.

the two of you tread back out through the open gate and down dana's driveway, and you can hear harrison's faint sniffs from behind you.

"m'sorry." he calls, and you shake your head again.

"don't worry about it dude. it's just potatoes." your sandals skid against the sidewalk as you come to a stop at you car, popping the trunk to retrieve the small first aid kit stowed there. you nod your head in a gesture for him to sit, and he hops up to rest in the trunk with his bloody legs swinging below.

you stay like that for a few minutes, humming and nodding in attention as harrison tells you about school, and skateboarding with mateo yesterday, and the movie he went to see with his dad (who you hate, but continue nodding along with a smile anyway) last weekend. once you've washed the cuts on his hands and knees off, and dabbed his chin with hydrogen peroxide, you hand him a box of bandaids to put on as you go about tenderly taping some gauze to his still bleeding chin. the momentary silence, as you work in concentration and harrison creates a pile of crumpled up bandaid wrappers in your car trunk, is broken by a voice speaking up from behind you.

"woah. you get in a fight killer?"

doctor abbot.

your head jerks up over your shoulder, hands stalling by harrison's jaw as your eyes land on the man approaching. jack abbot is walking toward you in a faded grey t-shirt and jeans, which would be a completely boring and ordinary outfit if anyone else was wearing it. you have to tear your gaze away quickly, feigning focus on your task to hide the blush flaring as abbot comes up behind you.

"no." harrison says with a bashful laugh.

"you should see the other guy." you mutter, smirking up at him slyly and making the boy laugh again. from the corner of your eye you see jack sporting his own curious smile. "alright." you add with a huff, brushing your hands on your legs as you stand. "all patched up."

harrison hops down from his seat in your car. "thanks honey." he grins, turning to jog back up to the yard without missing a beat. you huff a quiet laugh at the pile of bandaid trash he'd left behind, tossing the first aid kit back in with it and slamming the trunk shut. dr. abbot is still standing there. you, though you know it likely comes across as completely rude, turn and make your way to the passenger side door of your car in silence. you don't mean to be unfriendly, but where jack abbot was concerned, you were not the one in control of how you acted.

"what happened?" he asks, taking a few leisurely steps to follow you around the car. you glance at him again as he tucks his hands into his jeans pockets.

"oh, nothing. he took a tumble carrying a big container of potato salad." you wave a hand in the air as you explain, ducking into you car to fetch the cases of beer you'd left behind. "the salad had it much worse to be honest." you say jokingly, standing up straight again and smiling shyly over at abbot. his gaze makes your skin prickle a bit, and it all but erupts in flames when he reaches out, knuckles brushing your bare arms as he takes the boxes wordlessly. "oh- you really don't have to do that." you stutter, shaking your head a bit. abbot doesn't even respond, just smiles at you. unable to keep standing there staring at his stupidly handsome smiling face, you quickly reach back into the car and retrieve the final case of beer, then shut the door.

"this is my favorite." abbot hums, lifting one of the boxes a bit as the two of you begin walking up the driveway. you're both going slow, nearly dragging your feet in the kind of way that makes it obvious neither of you want the opportunity to be alone together to end too quickly.

"oh, really? that's great!" you smile in response, voice a bit too high. dr. abbot just laughs softly.

"how are you doing? haven't seen you in a while." he goes on.

"i'm fine. i'm good." you nod. "things have been pretty normal. working too much, not doing anything else enough." you laugh quietly. abbot joins you. "how have you been doctor abbot?"

"please call me jack, we're not at the hospital." he says kindly, and you know you're blushing again. you could call him jack. no big deal. for sure. "by the way... honey? a nickname, or?" he trails off in curiosity. you laugh a bit, and explain the origin of the silly title. jack smiles fondly as you do. you both slow to a stop as you round the corner and reenter the festivity. you can already see robby approaching to greet his friend in your peripheral. before parting, jack speaks softly.

"it's fitting."

your eyes dart up, wide and surprised, to see him smiling down at you warmly.

"cause you're so sweet." the smile pulls up into a cheeky smirk, and he silently lifts the case of beer from your hand and leaves you standing there in stunned silence, cheeks burning.

you're thankfully pulled out of your trance by victoria, who comes up beside you and pulls you by the arm toward a group across the lawn. you settle down on a beach towel with her, along with mel, dennis, langdon, samira, and mateo- who offers you a seltzer that is apparently "firecracker flavored". you take it with a hesitant laugh, though have to admit it's much better than you'd expect.

it's nice than you would think to hang out with your coworkers outside of work. you truly did enjoy being with all of them, though the ED was obviously not an ideal social environment. you'd roomed with harper for a bit after med school, but ever since she'd moved to Oregon your social life outside of work had been nearly non-existent aside from events like this, which were few and far between. you were pretty sure the last time more than a handful of you had had time off together and were energized enough to actually utilize it was trinity's birthday a few months ago- and you honestly couldn't remember much at all from that night. it was really nice.

dana's husband was grilling more hot dogs and burger patties than you'd ever seen in one place, and people were even starting to jump in the pool. harrison had led the charge, unsurprisingly, and it only took a few seconds of convincing for mateo to jump in after him. the rest of you group was quick to either follow or wander off toward the food table, and you were now left sitting at the pool edge, legs dangling languidly in the water as your friends splashed around. you laughed as mateo performed a particularly dramatic canon ball, which of course prompted harrison to attempt to outdo him. it went on in a cycle of ridiculous jumps and poses, and you really weren't sure who was having the most fun.

you're alerted by someone coming up behind you, and turn to see sneakers and jeans and your eyes keep trailing up and up and up until you meet the eyes of jack abbot staring down at you.

"hi." you greet softly.

"hi."

you realize all at once that he likely doesn't want to sit here, the logistics of the pool and his prosthetic and the terrible sensation of wet jeans all working together, and push to stand. water droplets pool around the ground from your legs.

"not getting in on the canon ball competition?" he asks smoothly, and your brain is still trying to catch up to having a second conversation with him as you try to formulate a response.

"i'm taking my role as a judge very seriously." you say back, and your heart skips an embarrassing beat as he laughs softly.

"of course." jack nods, taking a sip of his beer. another skip of satisfaction as you realize it's the one you brought. you almost think he can tell. "can I get you a drink?"

"oh, i'm fine. I drank one of mateo's weird concoctions and it was way stronger than I expected." you laugh a bit.

"a water then?" he asks with a smile.

"sure, actually. that'd be great." you nod, and the two of you make your way over to the ice chest near the deck. there are groups of conversation and even some lawn games sprawled out all across the yard, but you feel as if you're alone in a room with jack abbot as he cracks the cap of a water bottle off and hands it to you, the icy condensation dripping. "thank you." you hum quietly. he just nods.

after taking a sip he hands the cap over, and you screw it on with slightly shaky hands.

"so." you hum. you really needed to work on your ability to sit in awkward silence.

"so?" he asks in amusement. that stupid smirk was going to make you pass out in dana's backyard.

"soo... what's new with you?" you laugh at your own clunky delivery and jack laughs too, but graciously moves on and answers.

"not much. night shift, swat shifts, the usual." you nod, brows pinching a bit when he mentions his insane hobby in a way that he can't help but notice. "you don't approve?" jack asks with a chuckle. you feel your face heating again.

"oh, no, sorry. sorry. I didn't mean to be rude, I just... it just worries me is all. I mean, it doesn't worry me it's just- it's worrisome, like-" he cuts you off, thank God.

"you're fine." the man laughs, hand tapping your shoulder gently. "worrisome is one of the nicest things people have had to say about it." it trails of with a sigh, looking away for a moment. his face grazes over with something serious and far away that you haven't seen on the man before. "I don't know. keeps me busy." he hums quietly, taking another slow sip of his drink.

you nod. it must be hard, you know, being jack abbot. having lived a life so full of things you can never truly put down, never leave in your past. his time in the service, his youth, his wife... he carried those memories every day- they were as much a part of him as his leg or the wedding ring he still wore. it couldn't be easy to go from active service in the military to trying something dumb like golf or fishing on his days off. just because you didn't love the idea of him running around in a swat uniform (not that it was your place to think anything about it at all) didn't mean you didn't get it.

you understand, you really do. and you know jack abbot is a smart man, it's not as if he doesn't understand the danger and risk in what he does, as if he doesn't understand his own life. you tell him as much.

"I know it's not my place to have any sort of opinion. I just meant it seems...very hard. all of it." you say decidedly, and his deep, thoughtful gaze is back on you.

"it's your place to have an opinion on whatever you want." jack says, and it's casual and matter of fact but he's looking at you like he really means it. "and I care." he adds, and you look up at him in question. "I care what you think."

this gives you pause, gets the words stuck in your mouth as you blink up at the man. you aren't sure what to make of the words, just as you commonly weren't sure to make of jack abbot and his warm smiles and lingering touches and too kind eyes.

"that's nice." is all you can manage, and you feel stupid hearing your own voice. he just smiles down at you and laughs, a short soft thing.

"you're nice." he hums. "honey."

he adds the name quietly, as if in afterthought, something he was only speaking in his mind for himself, something you weren't sure you were even supposed to hear. you pretend you didn't.

you sit together for dinner and smile to yourself when your knees bump under the table. you blush when jack rests his arm on the back of his chair as he talks to robby. your chest burns fondly when he offers you the watermelon he doesn't finish but keeps stealing chips from your plate. you breath deeply and think that you could live a life full of moments just like this and nothing could make you happier.

a/n: thank you for reading lovies!! I love writing shorter fluffy stuff like this .. I think I'll do more one shots of jack and this (honey) reader every so often because why have the become so very precious to me in the span of writing this!! please let me know what you thought! love youuUUUuu - reef <3

anyway, happy lana del ray miss americana steve rogers superman jack abbot day girlies. here's a little shortie of your favorite sexy veteran. times are very sad but grateful for everyone who truly represents the values of love and acceptance and belonging and freedom for ALLLLL!

you had a mega watt smile on your face as you reached the table. jack tried to ignore the slack jaws that his buddies were sporting as you smacked a kiss to his lips and rubbed his chest gently. "sorry jackie, but you forgot to put on sunscreen when you left and i can't have you burning up." you pouted as you added, "you know your freckles are extra sensitive in this heat."

jack abbot, military veteran and swat physician, fought a giddy smile as you batted your lashes while worrying over the fact that he could potentially burn up on the public parks basketball black top.

one of the guys coughed a laugh and you turned your attention towards all the weathered veterans that were missing limbs and marred with scars. and just like you had done with jack, you didn't tone your bubbliness down to match whatever hypothetical grief you thought they carried, you just kept that pretty smile on your face. "hi boys! jack has told me sooo much about you all! does anyone else need sunscreen after i apply his?"

you popped off the bottle cap and squirted some onto your hands while brightly introducing yourself, then started to rub the white paste on jacks already pink cheeks to between the creases of his crows feet with a tenderness that made his chest twinge. you had them all say their names one by one and what positions they played on the court.

"back court? that sounds like a tough one, do you play that too jackie?" you asked him innocently while you covered his freckled shoulders that were exposed from his muscle tee, your tongue cutely poking out of the corner of your mouth in concentration.

one of jacks friends opened his mouth with a clearly crude intention at the ready, jack cut him off with a glare. "don't even think about it." jack raised a hand to point at him in warning, not realizing that he still gripped the pills in his hand.

your eyes snagged on the viagra bottle and your brows raised. "what's that?" jack tried to answer but it was too late, the vet with one arm and half a leg cut in swiftly, smuggly. "just a gift from us guys. from a few old timers to another, we thought abbot could benefit from some... alone time assistance." he winked at you.

you frowned in confusion. "but, jack and i have sex all the time."

jack choked on air, eyes widening instantly. "baby! you don't have to—" all the guys started to chuckle, half disbelief half pure amusement. "all the time?" someone chirped. "go on hon, tell us what you mean!"

you cocked your head to the side, truly not understanding that they were goading you. "well, he's never had to use any kind of pills if thats what you're asking. he can do it anywhere, anytime really. which we do"— jacks beet red face was not from sunburn as you started to list out examples on your fingers "—we've done it both of our cars—" his hand clutched at his chest, one guy spat out his water. "—we've done it in a few different elevators—"

the next few guys turned to gawk at jack, he felt faint all of a sudden as you just kept on talking "—oh! one time, i dropped him off thirty minutes early by accident and he was the first one here so we did it up against that tree over—"

"SWEETHEART!" everyone flinched at jack's shout. your pretty eyes simply blinked at him, innocent as a lamb, "w-what jackie?" he started to sputter, brain malfunctioning at the fact that you'd just shared more about his life to these guys than he had in the past twenty years. all the vets started to make their way to the court, patting jack on the back with congratulations and howling with laughter as they went, leaving the two of you alone.

jack exhaled when his heart rate was finally regulated, he didn't want you to know he was slightly mortified, you would've felt terrible. "just... i think they got the picture baby." he chuckled then placed a kiss to your forehead. the timbre of his voice dropped low, raising a suggestive brow as he added "you just had to add the time against the tree, huh?"

you bit your lip as you shrugged sweetly, "what? it's a personal favorite." jack shook his head as he pulled you into a deep kiss, the kind that had led to the tree rendezvous. only when you started to inappropriately paw at him did he pull back. "thanks for the sunscreen and a stroll down memory lane sweetheart." you rubbed in a stray streak of sunscreen on his stubbled chin. " 'course jackie."

Who would have thought that Andrew Cody would have what he fantasized about for years! It seemed like madness every time he woke up in the morning and looked to the side and there you were, tangled in soft sheets while instinctively moving closer to her husband's warm body. He always spent a good few minutes admiring you, observing and cataloging your breathing, until you mumbled something unintelligible and blinked your brown eyes and smiled at the older man. Now it wouldn't be different, but somehow it was different, you smiled more, bright eyes and soft cheeks.

"Good morning... Birthday boy!" you congratulated excitedly, jumping on him while still half-lying down. Andrew automatically wrapped his arms around your waist and buried his face in your fragrant hair, smiling against the waves tousled by sleep. He had gotten used to your tactile displays of affection, learned to like them and to reciprocate in his own time.

It was good to feel hugged and caressed with love without intention by someone who truly matters and loves him as he is, without that fear or obligation. It was also good to feel appreciated and important, that just your presence was enough.

"Good morning..." he replied in his voice hoarse from recent sleep, letting his lips slide from your hair to your warm neck, leaving a lingering seal on the dermis that tingled with the touch. "Thank you, my dear."

You pulled away, your eyes roaming over your husband's mature face, smiling slightly as your fingers slid over the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the imperceptible stubble, the lower lip that was dry.

"Look at you..." you whispered, lovingly. "Another full year of life... I'm happy you're here" you concluded with an emotional voice, after all there were implications in that sentence. Andrew almost hadn't been here, but fortunately he survived to now be turning forty-nine and by your side.

"Who would have thought, uh" Andrew replied, bringing your body closer as his large palms slipped surreptitiously under your pajamas, taking hold of your hip and pulling you against him.

You smiled tightly, your slender fingers caressing the dark curls with some already gray-streaked spots. "We have a lot to do today."

Andrew grumbled theatrically, pressing your body against his. "You'll make me work on my birthday, what a cruel woman."

You let out a little laugh, pulling away slightly and sealing your mouths before continuing, pulling away completely and listening to Cody's grumbles. "No, no, just plans I have for us, your birthday is special. Get up, take a shower while I prepare breakfast, uh."

Andrew obeyed, though with the slowness of someone who didn't want to break free from the warmth of his wife's body. He watched you out of the corner of his eye as you moved around the room, picking up the clothes you had set aside the night before, a floral dress he particularly liked, as it accentuated the curve of your shoulders and made you look like a summer painting. You were different, he noticed. There was a sparkle in your eyes that went beyond usual excitement, something deeper, as if you were keeping a sweet secret and were about to burst with happiness for him.

But Andrew didn't ask. He had learned, over the years of therapy and the long nightly dialogues with his wife, that trust was also built in silence and waiting. If you wanted to tell him, you would. He just smiled, his reflection in the bathroom mirror showing a man who still found it hard to believe in his own luck.

The shower was quick and meticulous, as always. Andrew was a man of habits, and the years of instability had made him methodical, but now it was the methodicalness of someone who appreciated small rituals, the hot water running down his shoulders, the smell of lavender soap you had bought especially for him, the fluffy towel that had warmed on the line. When he came out of the bathroom, already dressed in a light linen shirt and beige pants, the aroma of fresh coffee and pancakes invaded his sense of smell.

The kitchen was his private sanctuary, but he loved seeing you there dominating the stove with the confidence of someone who cooked with love. You were with your back to him, humming softly a song he recognized as one of those that played on the car radio when you went out for aimless drives, and the movement of your shoulders as you flipped the pancakes in the skillet was almost a dance.

Andrew approached silently, his arms encircling your waist from behind and his chin resting on your shoulder. You leaned slightly against him, the hand holding the spatula pausing for a moment on his, interlacing fingers.

"Smells good" he murmured against your ear, his voice hoarse from someone who hadn't quite swallowed the brightness of the morning. "You're going to spoil me, you know? I'll want breakfast like this every day."

"And who says you don't have it?" you wrinkled your nose, turning your face just enough to brush your lips against the tip of your husband's chin. "You deserve to be pampered, Andrew Cody. Every day of the year, but today is a special day for us to show how important you are."

He didn't know what to say. It was still hard to accept that he deserved that. His dark eyes roamed your face, the way the morning light spilled over you, creating an even more golden tone on your skin. At that moment, it was as if time stopped and all the scars of the past became just distant memories.

"You're the best thing that ever happened to me" he whispered, his voice rough with emotion. "You know that, don't you?"

You left the spatula on the counter and turned in his arms, your hands rising to encircle his neck. There, with your fingers buried in Andrew's still-damp hair, your brown eyes shining with an intensity only he knew, you pulled him into a slow, deep kiss. There was no hurry, just the certainty of two bodies that had learned to find each other in darkness and in light.

"I know" you replied as you pulled away, your forehead resting against his. "Just as you know that you are the best thing that ever happened to me."

Breakfast passed in comfortable silences and muffled laughter. You served pancakes with honey and red fruits, steaming coffee in ceramic mugs you received as a wedding gift from Deran, in an awkward gesture of peace. Andrew ate as if each forkful were a piece of heaven, and you watched with a heart tight with love and anxiety for what was still to come during the day.

After washing the dishes together, you led him to the bedroom. On the bed was a box wrapped in blue gift wrap, Andrew's favorite color, and a golden bow that shone under the morning sunlight. He frowned, a hesitant smile on his lips.

"Gift? You didn't have to, love."

"I know I didn't have to," you replied, sitting on the edge of the bed next to the boxes, pulling him to sit as well. "But I wanted to. Open it, open it."

Andrew obeyed, with the same patience of someone who unwrapped each layer of paper as if it were a treasure. Inside, there was a navy blue cotton dress shirt, with discreet embroidered details on the cuffs. He held it up, admiring the soft fabric and the small hand-sewn stitches. He didn't need to ask, he knew you had made that for him, as you did with so many other things, transforming the ordinary into something special.

"It's beautiful, honey" he said, kissing your forehead. "I'll wear it today."

You smiled, your eyes bright, you had so many things to say and do with your husband today.

"I'm glad you liked it, love!" you watched as Andrew caressed the shirt fabric with his fingertips, that almost reverent gesture he always made when he received something that touched him deeply. The morning sun filtered through the white linen curtains, drawing golden rectangles over the duvet and over his face, illuminating the subtle lines around his eyes that you knew so well, each one a story, a shared worry, a fear.

"You have no idea how much I love it when you do these things" he murmured, still admiring the small embroidery stitches on the cuffs, the navy blue. "Each stitch, every detail... It's like you put a piece of yourself into everything you give me."

You felt your heart race, your hands slightly trembling in your lap. There was so much more you wanted to say, so much more that was kept inside you like a precious secret, waiting for the right moment to be revealed. But it wasn't time yet. First, there was another gift, another layer of meaning you wanted to share before the big revelation.

"It's not over yet" you said, your voice softer than you intended, betrayed by the emotion already beginning to build in your throat. "There's one more thing, but we'll only know at lunchtime. I prepared a picnic at the skate park near the boardwalk."

Andrew parted his lips slightly, you were a little box of surprises and every day the older man spent by your side he loved you more and more.

"You always surprise me" he said with affection, pulling you into a tight hug and placing a lingering kiss on your side.

The afternoon sun in Oceanside, California, was dense, the blue sky stretching for miles while some gusts of wind gave relief from the scorching heat. You got into the jeep and gave instructions on exactly where you were going, the route was calm and silent, that comfortable silence you knew Andrew loved, his hands were over yours on the car's gearshift, both wearing sunglasses and knowing smiles on their faces.

The older Cody was sure this was by far the most special birthday he'd ever had, the amount of love he received from his wife made the certainty in his chest grow more each day, rooted like a garden of the most beautiful and rare flowers, that everything he left behind was worth it.

When the car stopped, you leaned over the seat and kissed Andrew's cheek, barely containing your own excitement as you unbuckled your seatbelt and jumped out, going to the back to get the things for the picnic lunch. You both walked to the quiet part of the track, where they had a view of the sea and felt the sea breeze. It was a place covered by large coconut trees and not so frequented by skaters, you had chosen it because you knew that during Andrew's lost youth, he loved to skate, so despite having given up the hobby, you made a point of going there with him from time to time, making it special with you.

You arranged everything quickly, spread a checkered towel on the concrete floor, placed the basket and unpacked the simple lunch, placing them with the plates and cutlery, Andrew was admiring your effort, he knew that you always tried to make that day as special and light as possible, especially when he remembered his twin sister, who had passed away a few years ago due to an overdose. You knew he blamed himself, especially when he withdrew in the days leading up to his birthday, they lost so much time apart and when he got out of prison he got the tragic news that Julia was dead. Knowing this, you did everything to make the date lighter and of course, you always succeeded.

You had lunch calmly, sharing moments, laughter and memories, until you wiped your mouth with a napkin and ran to the car, leaving a curious Andrew behind, but you came back quickly with something hidden behind your back and an anxious smile on your lips.

Andrew raised his eyebrows, tilting his head in a surprised expression that made him look younger.

"What do you have there?" he asked, finishing swallowing his food and putting the plate in the basket.

"The second gift!" your tone was so excited and barely contained, you loved giving gifts, especially to the man you loved most.

"More? Love, you've already done so much. The shirt was already enough and perfect."

"This one is different" you insisted, leaning in to hand him the second box, sitting so close that your thighs touched. The box was smaller than the first, wrapped in white tissue paper with a light blue satin ribbon. You saw him hold it in his hands for a moment, his eyes going from the wrapping to your face, feeling the weight, not just physical, but symbolic, of what he was about to open. "I wanted to give you something that... that showed how much this moment means to me. To us."

Andrew settled better, he turned all his attention back to you, as he always did when something really mattered. It was one of the things you loved most about him: the ability to be entirely present, to make you feel like the only person in the world when he looked at you that way.

"I'm curious" he admitted, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. "What else could you have planned, my little artisan?"

You laughed softly, motioning toward the box. "Open it and find out."

He undid the ribbon with the same patience as before, sliding the satin ribbon between his fingers as if every second of that moment deserved to be prolonged. The tissue paper made a soft rustle as it was pulled away, revealing the contents of the box.

Inside, there was a light wood picture frame, but it wasn't the frame that made him hold his breath. It was the photograph inside it.

It was an image of the two of you, taken a few months ago, during one of the rare afternoons off that you managed to share with him. You were at the nearby park, where the trees formed a green tunnel over the stone path. An amateur photographer passing by had offered to record the moment, and you accepted without thinking much, without imagining that that image would become so precious.

In the photo, Andrew was laughing at something you said, his head slightly tilted back, his eyes almost closed from the intensity of the laughter. You were beside him, your face turned toward his, your smile illuminated by a happiness so pure it hurt to look at. The wind tousled both of your hair, and the late afternoon light bathed the scene in an almost unreal golden tone, as if the universe had conspired to make that moment perfect.

Andrew held the picture frame with both hands, his eyes fixed on the image. For a long moment, he said nothing. You watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed hard, the gleam that appeared in his eyes, the way his lips parted as if he wanted to speak, but the words refused to come out.

"I remember that day" he finally managed to say, his voice choked. "It was one of the best days. We were so tired, but you insisted on going out. You said we needed fresh air, sun, something to remind us that life existed outside the rooms of the house."

"And you grumbled the whole way" you completed, a soft smile on your lips, memories dancing in your eyes. "Said you'd rather stay in bed, that you were too old to stroll in the park like a teenager."

"And you completely ignored me." He laughed, a short, wet laugh, wiping the corner of his eye with the back of his hand. "You always ignore me when you know you're right. You dragged me outside, made me walk for two hours, forced me to have ice cream..."

"And you thanked me afterward" you reminded, your voice lower now, more intimate, poking your husband's side. "Said I was right, that you really needed that. That if it weren't for me, you would have forgotten what it was like to feel the sun on your face."

Andrew lowered the picture frame, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart stumble in your chest. There was so much love in that look, so much gratitude, so much that words couldn't fully express.

"You are the reason I remember" he said, his voice steady despite the emotion. "Feeling the sun, breathing, living something beyond what had been traced for me. Before you, my life was... You know." His voice faltered. "I didn't know there was something more. I didn't know I deserved something more."

You felt tears welling up in your own eyes, Andrew's vision becoming blurry through the veil of salt water. You took his hand in yours, fingers intertwining as they had so many times before, that simple gesture that contained all the intimacy you had built over the years.

"You deserve everything, Andrew" you whispered, your voice trembling. "Everything good that life can offer. And I... I want to give you everything. Every moment, every memory, every little happiness we can build together."

He brought your hand to his lips, kissing each knuckle of your fingers. The loving wife. The dedicated and talented woman, who transformed fabric into art and ordinary moments into eternal memories.

"You've already given me more than I ever dreamed of," he murmured against your skin, his warm and familiar breath. "Just waking up beside you every day, just knowing you exist, that you chose me, that you love me... that's already more than I deserve."

You shook your head slowly, a mysterious smile curving your lips. The words you kept, the secret growing inside you, seemed to want to escape at any moment. But you held them in, taking a deep breath, letting Andrew's perfume, that aroma of coconut soap and coffee, anchor you in the present.

"There's still one more thing" you said, and your voice sounded different now, laden with an expectation that made Andrew frown, his curiosity piqued again. "But this one... this one I can't give you yet. Not exactly now."

"What do you mean?" He straightened his posture, his eyes scanning your face as if he could decipher the enigma you had become. "Is there something else going on? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine" you replied quickly, squeezing his hand to reassure him, he was always so vigilant and protective. "I'm more than fine, actually. I'm... happy, Andrew. So happy that sometimes I'm afraid it's a dream."

"It's not a dream" he stated with conviction, his free hand touching your face, his thumb caressing your cheek with infinite tenderness. "If it is a dream, then we're dreaming together and I never want to wake up."

You closed your eyes for a moment, surrendering to his touch, the warmth of his palm against your skin, the security he had always conveyed to you even in the most chaotic moments. You thought about what was to come, the words that would change everything, the revelation that would transform both of your lives in an irreversible and wonderful way.

The tears finally escaped, a single drop running down your face until it met his thumb, which caught it delicately.

The end of the afternoon was gradually approaching and you couldn't wait to tell Andrew the secret you had waited for almost two months.

"Let's go home?" your tone whispered in an intimate tone, foreheads touching and noses brushing. "We have to sing happy birthday."

When you got home, you put away and washed the utensils used in the picnic, Andrew was like a shadow behind you and couldn't help but let out a little laugh when you turned around at the counter and he was there, his caramel eyes fixed on you. You bit your lips and sighed, your skin warming under his admiration, then his robust body came towards you, enveloping you with his warmth, his large palm finding a home on your jaw with his thumb brushing your skin.

"Andrew..." he didn't even let you finish, sealing his lips on yours. Cody's hand was so warm against your jaw, his thumb tracing slow circles on your skin.

It wasn't the patient kiss of the morning, full of silent promises. This one was different. It was a kiss that came from somewhere deep, from a need he had been holding since early morning when he saw you preparing breakfast. The hand warming your face slid to your nape, fingers curling in your strands, pulling you gently closer while the other wrapped around your waist with a firmness that pressed you against his body.

You let out a small sound against his lips, a mixture of surprise and pleasure which Andrew took advantage of to deepen the kiss. His tongue brushed yours with a gentleness that contradicted the intensity of the gesture, asking for permission that was granted without hesitation. Your hands, damp from the water in the washed bowl, rose to grip the navy blue shirt, wrinkling the fabric as the kiss intensified.

Andrew pressed you gently against the kitchen counter, his robust body creating a barrier of heat that enveloped you completely. You felt his heartbeat against your chest, fast and irregular, realizing that he too was vulnerable to that storm of emotions. The hand on your nape massaged the base of your skull and a shiver ran down your spine when his lips left yours to trace the path from your jaw to the curve of your neck.

"Andrew" you gasped, his name escaping like a broken whisper. "We... Hm, love... The cake, the happy birthday..."

He laughed against your skin, a warm vibration that made your heart race. "We can do that later," he murmured, his voice husky and low against the sensitive shell of your ear. "I don't care right now."

But you knew he did care. Maybe not about the cake itself, but about the tradition, the meaning of that gesture you had built together, year after year, and there was something more there, between you, something you needed to say, something that made that moment even more precious.

With an immense effort, you placed your hands against his chest, pushing him away enough to meet his eyes. The caramel eyes that watched you were dark with desire, but there was also a sweetness there, a vulnerability that made him even more irresistible.

"Wait" you asked, your voice trembling. "I need to..."

Andrew tilted his head, his thumb still caressing your cheek as he watched you with a patience that seemed to defy the urgency he himself had created. "What do you need, dear?"

You took a deep breath, the air filling your lungs as the words formed in your mind. The moment wasn't what you had planned, in your head you would both take a shower and go down to the dining room, you would put the cake on the table and light the little candles, when Andrew made his wish and blew out the candles, starting the new cycle, you would hand him the little box wrapped in brown paper.

"I just... I made a cake for you and there's one more gift, remember?" it sounded soft, feeling his nose brush against yours repeatedly, his eyelids closed, feeling and listening to you. "So, handsome, go upstairs and take a shower... I'll tidy up here and come up right after, when we come down we'll blow out the candles."

Andrew grumbled but obeyed, always so well-behaved with his beloved wife's instructions. While he was upstairs, you took a deep breath and set the table, the chocolate cake with whipped cream and some fruit on top and the little candles, the glasses and plates with cutlery. You went up right after and saw him already ready, smiled at your husband and went to shower. When you were both dressed and ready, you held your husband's hand and went downstairs, where everything was intimately arranged.

You hugged Andrew for the umpteenth time that day, hugged him tightly and wished him happiness. Then you lit the candles and both looked at the flame as they sang the notorious 'Happy Birthday to you', Cody didn't mind that there were no other relatives or friends, after all you were more than enough, you were his family.

"Make a wish, love!" you said excitedly, watching your husband smile and close his eyes, murmuring words you didn't understand and then blowing out the little candles.

"Forty-nine years" he murmured, as if testing the words on his tongue. "I don't know how I got here. But I know that if I didn't have you, it wouldn't matter how many years I had. They wouldn't be worth anything."

You turned your face to look at him, your eyes meeting the strong line of his jaw, the curve of his nose, the eyelashes that blinked slowly.

"You got here because you're strong" you said, your voice firm. "Because you survived everything life threw at you and still kept your heart open, because you deserve every moment of happiness you're living right now."

He turned his head, meeting your gaze. Andrew Cody seemed to see something that transcended words, his fingers rising to touch your face, tracing the line of your jaw with an almost reverent lightness.

"I love you" he said, and the words weren't new, but they carried the weight of an absolute truth. "I love you more than I can explain. More than anything I've ever felt in my life."

You leaned in, sealing your lips to his in a kiss that was promise and certainty.

"I love you too" you whispered against his lips. Feeling that it was the ideal moment to reveal the secret and the last gift. "And today, more than ever, I want to show you how much."

Andrew smiled, a smile that lit up his whole face and made the wrinkles around his eyes deepen into a map of joy. He pulled you closer, wrapping you in his arms, and they stayed like that for long minutes, before you disentangled yourself from Cody's embrace.

"Wait here!" you asked, running to get the paper package, biting your lips and briefly passing your hand over your still-flat belly, it was now.

You returned, smiling widely, your cheeks pressing against your eyes and Andrew followed the movement with his eyes, one eyebrow raised in curiosity, standing straight next to the cake table.

"I said I had a gift for you" you began, your hands slightly trembling as you untied the package's string. "But it wasn't just the shirt. I know you loved it, and you'll wear it always, and it wasn't that picture either... T-there's a third part. One I saved for the right moment."

Your fingers took out a white cardboard box, the same one Andrew had glimpsed in the bedroom, but hadn't yet opened. You placed it on the tablecloth, between you, and looked at your husband with eyes full of an emotion you could no longer contain.

"Andrew" you began, your voice soft but firm. "What I'm going to show you now... God, it's going to change not just everything, but the two of us."

The older man's gaze alternated between you and the little white box, a furrow of confused questioning forming on his forehead. He sat down slowly, his eyes now fixed on the box, his chest rising and falling in a faster, anxious rhythm. His hand hesitated for a moment over the lid, as if he knew that moment was a turning point.

"You can open it" you encouraged, your eyelashes moist with unshed tears.

Andrew lifted the lid. For a moment, he just looked, not understanding. The paper inside the box, the shape of the black and white printed images, the blurred forms that would only make sense to those who knew what to look for.

But then, like a flash, understanding hit him when he saw the little yellow bootie.

His eyes widened. His mouth opened slightly. The hands holding the box began to tremble and for a long moment, he couldn't breathe. He touched the little shoe.

"This..." he began, his voice failing. "This is..."

"Yes" you confirmed, tears already streaming freely down your face. "Andrew... we're expecting a baby."

The silence that followed was the deepest you had ever experienced. The sea continued to whisper in the distance from the house, the wind continued to blow, but the world seemed to have stopped, spinning around that single instant, that single face.

And then, Andrew Cody, the man who spent years hiding his tears and pain, the man who learned not to expect anything good from life, began to cry.

They were silent tears that ran down his cheeks without him making any effort to stop them. His chest heaved, and his hands trembled so much that the box almost fell. He placed it carefully on the tablecloth, as if holding his own heart, and then raised his eyes to meet yours.

"A baby?" he asked rhetorically, his voice a husky thread of emotion. "We're going to have a family. Our family."

You nodded, unable to speak, the lump in your throat too big to allow any words.

Andrew pulled you to him with a force that surprised you, burying his face in your hair, hugging you as if afraid you would disappear. His shoulders shook and you felt his tears wet your skin.

"Thank you" he whispered, over and over, like a prayer. "Thank you for this. For everything. For giving me a family. For giving me a reason to believe that life can be good."

You hugged him back, your hands tracing slow circles on his back. "You don't have to thank me, Andrew. This isn't a gift I gave you. It's a choice we made together, a life we're going to build together."

He pulled away enough to look into your eyes, his face wet, but a smile so genuine and luminous stamped on his features that you felt your heart overflow.

"I never thought I could have this" he said, his voice still trembling. "After everything, after what I did, what I lost... I never thought I deserved such a beautiful second chance."

You raised your hand to wipe away his tears, your fingers sliding gently over his wet skin. "You deserve it, Andrew. You deserve all the second chances in the world. Because you are good. You've always been good. You just needed someone to show you."

He held your hand, turning it to kiss the ring, your palm, and then your wrist. Each kiss was a promise, an oath that he would be there, that he would fight every day to be the man you and the baby deserved.

"When?" he asked, finally, his voice calmer. "When did you know?"

"It's been almost two months now" you replied, a shy smile on your lips. "I was nauseous, I thought it was food poisoning, but I went to the doctor and he ordered some tests. When he called me into his office and showed me the ultrasound, I couldn't believe it. I spent two days in shock, trying to process it. But then I realized I couldn't think of better news. I couldn't imagine sharing this with anyone but you."

Andrew shook his head slowly, his eyes still teary. "You kept this for almost two months? Alone?"

"I wanted it to be special..." you explained, your voice soft. "I wanted you to know on your birthday, in a moment that was ours. I didn't want it to be just any news, on just any day."

He pulled you into a kiss, long and sweet, with a care that seemed new, as if he were learning to love someone who carried such a precious secret.

"It was special" he said against your lips. "It's the most special gift of my life."

You laughed, the sound wet with tears and joy mixed. "Andrew Cody, you're becoming a card-carrying romantic."

He shrugged with a playful smile on his lips. "It's your fault, you spoiled me."

They stayed there for a long time, embraced, feeling each other while Andrew didn't take his eyes off the image, tracing the contours of the small form with his fingertips, as if memorizing each line.

"It's so small" he murmured, his voice full of wonder.

"The doctor said everything is fine" you confirmed, snuggling against him. "Growing strong and healthy."

Andrew turned his head to look at you, his eyes shining with a different light that you hadn't seen in a long time. "A little human being who will have your smile and my stubbornness."

"And your eyes" you completed, laughing. "I hope they have your eyes."

He squeezed your hand, fingers intertwined with yours. "It doesn't matter what they look like, as long as they're healthy. And as long as they have more of you. Nothing else matters."

You disentangled yourselves and Andrew held the little yellow booties while you cut two slices of cake, a generous one for yourself. He shook his head, a slow, loving smile spreading across his face.

"What?" you asked, licking the filling off your finger, now no longer afraid to hide the pregnancy since the gift of him knowing had already been given.

"Nothing. It's just that... you're here. And I'm here. And we're going to have a baby." He seemed to savor the words. "It's the first time I've said that out loud, it feels like a dream."

You set the little plate aside and approached, wrapping him in a hug in which he just hugged you back, burying his face in your hair.

"It's not a dream" you whispered. "It's our reality and it's just the beginning."

He pulled away only to kiss you, and the kiss tasted of sugar and new promises. And at that moment, Andrew Cody knew, with a certainty that no therapist or medicine could provide, that he was finally home.

Your clothes were packed in a small backpack, and you longed to change out of the uniform stained with coffee and sweat into something comfortable. Your body ached, your eyes burned, and the only thing going through your head was getting home, taking a hot shower, and curling up in Jack's arms, if he had already arrived, of course. You weren't even managing to go home together anymore.

That's when you heard hurried footsteps in the hallway, followed by a familiar voice that made you stop.

"Doctor! Good thing you haven't left yet!"

You turned around and saw Dr. Michael Robinavitch, Robby to his friends, approaching with an expression of relief on his face. He was in an impeccable uniform, after all, the day shift was about to start.

"Robby? What is it?" You adjusted the backpack strap on your shoulder, feeling the fatigue weighing on every muscle. "I was just about to leave."

"I know, I know, and I'm sorry to hold you up. But I needed to talk to you before you left." He stopped in front of you, a little breathless, and rested his hands on his knees for a moment to catch his breath. "Sorry, I ran from the triage sector to get here."

You furrowed your brow, worried. "Is everything okay? Some problem with a patient?"

"No, no, nothing like that." Robby straightened up and ran his hand through his hair, a nervous gesture you knew well. "It's about the schedule."

"Ah." You sighed, narrowing your eyes and already foreseeing what was coming. "Let me guess. You need me to cover another shift."

"Actually, no." Robby shook his head, a somewhat sheepish smile appearing on his lips. "It's the opposite. The human resources coordinator came to see me early today. Dr. Matthews, who was on medical leave, decided to extend her absence for two more weeks. And, since you're the most experienced in the area and Dr. Lena can't cover, they wanted to know if you'd take it for fifteen days."

You blinked, processing the information. "Two weeks? But I'm already doing extra shifts at night. If I stay on the day shift, how do I come in for the night shift?"

"Exactly." Robby crossed his arms, leaning against the hallway wall. "I know it's a lot to ask. You're already exhausted, and I know this means less time with... Dr. Abbott, but Matthews really has no return date and the administration is desperate. You're one of the best we have, and they trust you."

You bit your lower lip, thoughtful. The idea of spending two weeks on the day shift was exhausting, it meant sleeping in opposite hours to Jack's, seeing each other only in the brief moments when one arrived and the other left. But, at the same time, it was part of the job and you had never been one to refuse when they needed you.

"Does Jack know about this?" you asked, your voice lower, wary. He was the chief doctor of the night shift and you were basically his right hand, so, the schedule change meant a change in plans and routine. Jack hated that, even if he didn't show it.

Robby shook his head. "Not yet. I wanted to talk to you first, to find out if you were up for it before making it official. Then you can talk to him."

You nodded slowly. "Alright. Tell them I accept, but let them know that if Matthews comes back earlier, I want my night shift back immediately."

"Of course, of course." Robby smiled, relieved. "You're incredible, you know that? I don't know what we'd do without you."

"It's what needs to be done." You shrugged, trying to disguise the exhaustion. "But, speaking of Jack, is he still here? He finished the night shift a little while ago, didn't he?"

Robby looked at his wristwatch and grimaced. "He officially finished two hours ago, but... well, you know Jack. He's been in the ER since four in the morning. The night was hell and he's trying to organize everything before he leaves."

Your heart clenched. You knew how Jack got when things were difficult. Normally he would shut down, put all the weight of the world on his shoulders, and refuse to ask for help. You also knew how he got when he was at his limit: impatient, irritated, prone to explode.

"I'm going to stop by there before I leave" you said, adjusting your backpack. "I want to see him before I go."

Robby watched you for a moment, something indecipherable passing through his eyes. "Just... be careful when you tell him, okay?" he gestured to reinforce it. "He's at his limit and sometimes when people are at their limit, they say things they don't mean. Things that hurt."

You furrowed your brow, confused. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing specific." Robinavitch raised his hands in a defensive gesture. "Just... patience. He's going through a difficult time in the ER, you know and I know how much that affects him and, well, I don't want things to get bad between you two. Just don't let his exhaustion hurt you, okay?"

You nodded, although a hint of anxiety was already beginning to form in your stomach. "I'll be fine. Thanks for the concern, Robby."

He smiled, a warm and genuine smile. "That's what friends are for. Now go, before I convince you to stay for another shift."

You laughed, a weak and tired sound, and said goodbye with a wave. As you walked toward the ER, the conversation with Robby echoed in your mind. You hoped that wouldn't be the case.

The ER sector was calmer than you expected. Only a few patients in the waiting room, one or another stretcher being wheeled by nurses, the constant sound of cardiac monitors. The day shift hadn't officially started yet and the night team was preparing to leave.

That's when you saw him.

Abbott was standing in front of the reception desk, his navy-blue uniform stained with something dark that you preferred not to identify. The chart tablet was open in front of him and his agile fingers scribbled something with a specific pen that you had given him at some point, his brow furrowed in an expression of concentration so deep that he seemed to have forgotten the world around him.

His hair, normally well-groomed, was messy, as if he had run his hands through it repeatedly while reading reports. The unshaven beard gave him an older and more tired look. And his eyes, when he raised his head and saw you, you saw a fatigue that went far beyond the physical.

"Jack" you called, your voice soft, almost hesitant.

He stared at you for a moment, and you saw something shine in his eyes, relief, perhaps? But it was only for a second, because in the next instant the exhaustion took over again.

"You're still here?" he asked, his voice hoarse and soft, his palm going briefly to your lower back. "I thought you had already left."

"I was going to, but Dr. Robinavitch stopped me in the hallway" you explained, your eyes passing over your boyfriend's tired face. "He needed to talk about the schedule."

Jack furrowed his brow. "Schedule? What about the schedule?"

"They want me to go to the day shift for two weeks" you said, trying to sound casual, but clearly failing as you noticed Jack's movements change. "Dr. Matthews is going to be away for longer."

To your surprise, Jack didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, his eyes dark and indescribable. Something in that expression made your heart speed up.

"Two weeks?" the older man repeated, his voice lower, almost a murmur. "You're going to be on the day shift for two weeks?"

"Yes. I accepted. I thought it would be better to help, since they're short-staffed."

Jack withdrew his hand from your lower back. You felt the absence of the warmth of his palm, then watched him drop the pen onto the counter with more force than necessary. The crack against the marble echoed in the empty hallway.

The night had been long for him, you knew that because you had also been there, working in different wings, but always connected by the same frenetic rhythm of the hospital. You two were part of the night team, the one that faced the darkest hours, the most serious cases, the most difficult decisions, and that was how you met, that was how you fell in love, that was how you built a life together. Between twelve-hour shifts, coffees taken at three in the morning, and hands that found each other in the empty corridors.

His brow was furrowed, a deep wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. You took a step closer, trying to reach his hand. "It's not like it's so different, Jack. I'll still be here, at the same hospital. We'll just see each other at diferent times."

Jack pulled back from your hand before you could touch him. The gesture was subtle, almost imperceptible, but you felt it like a blow to the face.

"You don't understand, do you?" His voice was tense, each word carefully measured. "You don't understand what this means."

"What means what?" You furrowed your brow, confused. "Jack, it's just a shift change. Two weeks. It'll go by fast."

"Go by fast?" He let out a short, bitter, humorless laugh. "You have no idea what going by fast is. We work together, you and I. Every night. That's how it works. That's how it's always worked."

He ran his hand through his hair, the nervous gesture you knew so well. His body posture was so tense now that anyone passing by would clearly notice the argument that was beginning to form.

"You're going to the day shift" he continued, his voice louder, harsher. "And what's left for me? I'll stay here, alone, doing the night shifts without you?"

"Jack, you're not going to be alone. The night team is still there. Shen, Ellis, Dana, and the residents..."

"Shen" Jack interrupted, and the name came out with a disdain that surprised you. "Ah, yes. Shen. The great Dr. John Shen. Fuck him, you're going to spend two weeks working with Robinavitch during the day, while I'm here, in the dark, dealing with everything alone and don't even start repeating about the others, that's not what this is about."

"You're not dealing with everything alone. You're the chief doctor. You have an entire team."

"A team that isn't you!" he shouted, exasperated, drawing the attention of those around, and the words fell between you like a stone in water, creating ripples that you didn't know how to contain.

There was something in his voice, something you had never heard before. A mixture of frustration, fear, and something you could only describe as despair.

"Jack..." you began, trying to find the right words.

"You knew I would be upset about this?" He took a step forward, and you instinctively stepped back half a step. "You knew, and even so you agreed. Without consulting me. Without thinking about what this would do to us."

"Do to us? Jack, it's just a shift. It's not the end of the world." You laughed without humor.

"Maybe not for you." His voice was shaky now and you saw his eyes shine with an intensity that made you hold your breath. "Do you think I endure these nights because I'm strong? Do you think I survive all this shit because I'm a good doctor?"

He got even closer, and you felt the heat of his body, the smell of antiseptic and coffee that had accompanied him since the previous night.

"I survive because you are here, damn it" he said, his voice broken. "Because when everything goes wrong, when a patient dies, when the team is at its limit, I look to the side and I see you. You are my anchor, love. You are the reason I don't lose my mind in this place."

You felt your eyes fill with tears, but you didn't know if it was from emotion or resignation. The intensity of his confession made you feel the weight of being everything to someone.

"And now you're leaving" he continued, his voice softer, but no less pained. "You're going to spend the whole day here, doing shifts with Robby, laughing at his lame jokes, sharing coffee with him, while I'm at home trying to sleep alone. When I come back for my shift, you'll be leaving. We'll cross paths like strangers."

"Jack, you're exaggerating. That's not how it's going to be."

"How do you know? Have you done this before? Have you ever spent two whole weeks without working by my side?"

The question hung in the air and you realized he was right. You had never been separated on shifts since you started dating, since you started working at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Hospital. You had built your entire relationship around that night routine: the shared coffees, the moments of rest in the break room, the hands that secretly found each other in the corridors.

"You're being unfair" you said, your voice firmer than you felt. "I'm not doing this to hurt you. I'm doing this because the hospital needs me."

"The hospital always needs you." The bitterness in his voice was palpable. "And me? Do I need you too, or does that not matter?"

"Of course it matters" you furrowed your eyebrows, somewhat desperate. "You know it matters."

"Then why didn't you ask me? Why did you just accept without talking to me first?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but the words didn't come. Because he was right, you hadn't asked, but you didn't need to, you were above all a doctor who took an oath and that was your job even if Jack was the chief doctor. You simply assumed it would be acceptable, that he would understand, and that it wouldn't be a problem. Now, seeing the pain in his clear irises, you realized how wrong you were, even though you hadn't done anything wrong.

"I... I didn't think" You admitted, your voice choked. "I just saw an opportunity to help and took it. I didn't imagine it would affect you this much."

"Well, it affects me." He took a step back and the space between you seemed to expand infinitely. "It affects me because you are the only thing that keeps me sane. It affects me because without you, these nights are even more unbearable and the idea of spending two weeks without having you by my side during the shifts is... is more than I can bear."

You felt the tears finally stream down, hot and fast, running down your face without you being able to control them. You weren't to blame, you weren't doing this to affect him, damn it, it was your job and it could be him in your place.

"Jack, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Didn't mean to?" He let out a sad laugh. "But you did. You always hurt me when you make decisions alone. You don't realize it, do you? You think you're protecting me, but in reality, you're excluding me."

"I'm not excluding you!"

"Then why didn't you tell me before you accepted? Why am I finding out now, at the end of my shift, of our shift, that I'm going to spend two weeks without you?"

His voice was so loaded with emotion that you felt your heart clench. He seemed so small in that moment, so tired, so fragile, the opposite of the confident and imposing doctor everyone saw.

"Jack, please..."

"I'm tired" he said, his voice abruptly weary, as if all the energy that propelled him had been exhausted.

"You're not the only one, you know. Don't be unfair, you know I care and I care a lot."

"Then prove it." He stared at you with an intensity that made you hold your breath. "Show me that I am more important than a shift, more important than the hospital, more important than everything."

It was dirty. Underhanded, the way he said that, even unethical. A choice? That request was totally unfair and of course you opened your mouth to respond, but the words fled far away due to the total shock with his sentences and his gaze itself, it wasn't your Jack. There was a vulnerability there, a despair so deep that you felt as if you were looking into the abyss and you wanted to jump without thinking, just to put an end to it all.

Like the fight bell that saves them before the decisive punch, the door to the trauma sector opened and Dr. Langdon appeared, his face worried.

"Dr. Abbott, we have a case in room 3, I know your shift has already ended, but it's a polytrauma, car accident."

Jack looked at the doctor, then at you. The vulnerability disappeared, replaced by a mask of professionalism that you knew so well.

"I'm coming" he said, his voice firm, without the tremor from seconds ago.

He picked up the chart tablet, adjusted the stethoscope around his neck, and started walking toward the trauma room. But before leaving, he stopped for a moment and looked over his shoulder, seeing you standing there in a state of shock, and then he was gone, leaving you in the middle of the empty corridor, with the tears still streaming down your face and your heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

You stayed there for a long time, motionless, listening to the echo of his footsteps fading away. The fluorescent light flickered above your head, and the sound of the cardiac monitors seemed like the flapping of distant wings.

When you finally moved, it was toward the locker room. You needed a moment alone, you needed to process what had happened. But as soon as you entered the room, you saw Robinavitch sitting in one of the chairs, a worried expression on his face.

"I heard everything" he said, his voice soft. "It wasn't intentional, I was here when you started arguing and... the wall is thin."

You sat down next to him, the strength suddenly abandoning your body.

"He's so furious" you murmured, your voice hoarse. "I've never seen him like this."

Robby placed his hand on your shoulder, a comforting gesture.

"He's not furious with you" he said. "He's scared. You two built a life around these night shifts and this change threatens that. He's afraid of losing you."

"But he's not going to lose me. It's just two weeks."

"To him, two weeks might feel like an eternity." Michael sighed. "Jack is an intense man, you know that well. He clings to routines, to people, to places. Changes have always been difficult for him after everything."

You lowered your head, your hands trembling slightly.

"He said I'm the only thing that keeps him sane" you confessed. "He said that without me, he can't endure the nights."

"And that's true." The other doctor's voice was gentle and firm. "But it's also an enormous pressure on you. You can't be the only reason he's happy. That's not healthy."

"I know." You raised your eyes to him. "But what do I do now? He's so hurt."

Robby thought for a moment.

"Let him calm down." Robinavitch advised, watching your figure nod slowly, feeling Robby's words echo in your mind.

"Thank you" you said, your voice a little firmer.

"Always." Robby smiled, a warm smile that made you feel a little better. "You two are my friends despite everything. Now go home and rest. You're going to need energy to face him and, of course, the next shift in the morning."

You laughed, a weak but genuine sound.

"You're right."

You got up, picked up your bag, and walked toward the door.

You drove home in silence, the morning sun beginning to warm the horizon. Jack's words echoed in your mind like a painful refrain, each one a reminder of what was at stake.

When you finally arrived at the apartment you shared, you entered and felt the weight of solitude. The place was empty, silent, the curtains still closed from the previous night. You dropped your bag on the couch, took off your coat, and walked to the bedroom.

The bed was unmade, Jack's pillow still with the imprint of his head. You sat on the edge, touching the soft fabric, and felt the tears return.

"Why does everything have to be so difficult?" you murmured to yourself, but there was no answer. Only silence and pain.

You lay down, curled up in the covers that still smelled like him, and let sleep finally take you. But before closing your eyes, you made a promise to yourself: you would fix things with Jack. You would show him that you loved him, that he was important to you.

When Jack arrived an hour later, he found the apartment silent. The kitchen clock marked nine-thirty in the morning and the sunlight was already seeping through the gaps in the curtains, drawing golden stripes on the wooden floor. He even imagined that you had preferred your own place, that small flat you still kept rented, even though you barely set foot there since you started sharing the apartment three months after you began dating. The possibility of you having gone there tightened something in his chest, a dull and uncomfortable pain that he refused to name.

With a resigned sigh, he left his backpack on the entryway hook, the weight of the day finally sliding off his shoulders like water. He massaged his tense neck with tired hands, feeling each muscle knot protest against the abuse of the last eighteen hours. The hospital had been hell, one more patient lost, one more family in tears, one more night where he wondered if any of this made a difference.

The attending physician walked to the bedroom with slow, almost reluctant steps. He didn't know what to expect to find, maybe you awake, sitting on the bed, ready for another argument, maybe you sleeping deeply and as exhausted as he was, or maybe you simply weren't there, which would be the worst possible scenario.

When he opened the door, he could hear the soft sound coming from the bed, your calm and deep breathing, the soft sound he knew so well, the rhythm that had accompanied him every night for over a year. He pressed his lips together, his eyes flying to the bed you both shared, and he felt his heart clench in a way he didn't expect.

You were there. Lying down, hidden under the warm covers and with your face pressed against his pillow, your hair spread over the pillowcase while one hand extended to the empty side of the bed, as if you were searching for him even in sleep.

In that same instant, Jack felt regret like a stab to the chest. He remembered how he had treated you at the end of the night shift upon learning that you would be doing two weeks of day shifts. The harsh words, the accusatory tone, the way he had dumped all his frustration on your shoulders, shoulders that already carried the weight of your own exhaustion, your own battles.

Damn, you were also a doctor and had obligations. You weren't just a girlfriend who existed to comfort him, to be by his side when the nights got difficult. You had a career, a vocation, an oath you had made long before you met him. Abbott couldn't act so irrationally about not having you by his side during the difficult nights in the ER. You always made yourself available, always put your own well-being on the line to help the hospital, your colleagues, the patients. Even he had already been benefited by your inexhaustible generosity and in return, he had been rude to you. More than rude, he had been cruel. He used words like weapons, wounding without hesitation because deep down he knew you would forgive him. Because you always forgave him.

However, Jack Abbott was a difficult man and he himself knew that better than anyone. He had grown up learning that the world was a hostile place, that trusting someone was a risk that wasn't always worth taking, that showing vulnerability was a sign of weakness, and he didn't give in so easily, even more so when the latent pain of "betrayal," because that was how he, in his wounded pride, chose to call it, of you going to the morning shift grew like a weed inside his chest.

It wasn't logical. He knew it wasn't logical. But logic rarely had a place when emotion took over. Jack stood in the bedroom doorway for a long moment, watching you sleep. Your face was calm, your features relaxed, your lips slightly parted in a soft sigh. You seemed so peaceful, so innocent, so different from the woman he had confronted hours earlier in the hospital corridor.

He should lie down beside you. He should wrap you in his arms, bury his face in your hair, and apologize. He should say he was wrong, that illogical fear had made him act like a fool, that you were the most important thing in his life and that he would do anything to fix what he had broken.

But pride was a wall he didn't know how to tear down and his core insisted that he couldn't show weakness. He couldn't admit that the idea of spending two weeks without you by his side during shifts terrified him more than any medical emergency.

Instead, Jack took a step back. He closed the bedroom door carefully, almost silently, as if he were sealing something he didn't want to face. He walked back to the living room, his heavy steps echoing in the silence of the apartment, and looked at the couch.

It was a comfortable couch that you had chosen together on a Saturday afternoon, laughing as you tested different models in the furniture store. You had insisted on one that was big enough for both of you to lie down on, and of course he agreed because he couldn't say no when you smiled that way. But now, in that moment, the couch seemed like a symbol of everything that was wrong between you.

With a tired sigh, Jack grabbed a blanket from the closet and one of the cushions. He arranged himself on the couch, stretching his long body over the seats that barely accommodated his height. The position was uncomfortable, but he didn't care. In truth, a part of him wanted to feel uncomfortable. He wanted to feel the weight of his decision, the price of his pride, the pain of his stubbornness.

He closed his eyes, but sleep didn't come easily. His mind spun around the same questions, the same regrets, the same anger he couldn't name. Why hadn't she asked before accepting? Why had she simply made the decision without considering him? And, more importantly, why did this hurt so much even knowing that he was being immensely unfair to his girlfriend?

The clock marked almost ten in the morning when Jack finally succumbed to exhaustion. His heavy eyes closed, his breathing became deeper, and sleep enveloped him in a dark, dreamless mantle, sensing the storm that was coming when he woke up.

You woke up a few hours later, feeling the sunlight already stronger through the curtains. The clock on the bedside table marked almost two in the afternoon and you stretched slowly, your muscles aching from the previous night and from the argument that still echoed in your mind.

Your hand extended to the empty side of the bed, expecting to find Jack's warm body, the heat of his skin against yours, but you found only cold, empty sheets.

You furrowed your brow, sitting up in bed. The bedroom was silent, the door ajar, and there was no sign of Jack. For a moment, you imagined that he simply hadn't come home, maybe he had stayed at the hospital. But then you heard a sound coming from the living room, a low, constant snore, the kind Jack made when he was too exhausted to control his breathing.

You got out of bed, your bare feet touching the cold floor, and walked to the bedroom door. When you opened the door and looked into the living room, your heart stopped for an instant.

Jack was on the couch.

He was lying there, wrapped in a blanket that barely covered his broad shoulders, his face turned toward the backrest, as if he were hiding from the world.

What you felt in that moment was an overwhelming mixture of hurt and anger. A silent fury that started at the bottom of your stomach and rose like fire, burning every inch of your body.

He preferred to sleep on the couch. He preferred to pull away, to build a physical barrier between you rather than share the bed with you. After everything you had been through, after all the nights he had pulled you close in the dark, after all the moments he had said he couldn't sleep without you, now he chose the couch.

The pain was so sharp that you could barely breathe. Your eyes burned with angry tears, and you felt the lump in your throat forming, tightening like a clenched fist.

"Jack."

His name left your mouth as an icy whisper, but the sound cut through the silence of the room like a blade.

Jack moved slowly, sleep still clinging to his eyes. He blinked a few times, confused, before turning and facing you. For a moment, something like guilt passed over his face, but it was quickly replaced by the mask of indifference he wore so well.

"You're awake" he said, his voice hoarse with sleep. "I didn't want to bother you."

"You didn't want to bother me?" You repeated, your voice trembling with anger. "You slept on the couch, you chose to sleep on the couch instead of coming to bed with me and acting like a decent adult."

He sat up slowly, the blanket falling from his shoulders as he ran his hand through his disheveled hair.

"I didn't want to wake you up" he said, but the excuse sounded hollow, even to him. "You seemed so tired, and I..."

"And you what?" Fists clenched at your sides. "You're avoiding me, Jack. You're punishing me because I accepted a shift and because I dared to do something without your permission."

"You're exaggerating." His voice had a defensive tone that you knew well. "I just needed space."

"Space? Now you need space?" You let out a bitter laugh. "You never needed space before. You always say you can't sleep without me and you always pull me close in the middle of the night. Now, suddenly, you need space?"

Jack fell silent, but you saw the muscles in his jaw contract. He was holding something back, containing some emotion he didn't want to show.

"And all of this because of a day shift of two fucking weeks?" You continued, your voice louder now, the anger bubbling in every word. "Because I'm going to spend some time with Robby and because I won't be here to hold your hand during the shifts." Your voice was venomous but it didn't matter, the older man was being so ridiculous since early on.

"You don't understand." Jack's voice finally came out and it was loaded with a frustration you didn't expect.

"Then explain it to me." You crossed your arms, your body tense. "Explain to me why you're acting like an idiot and explain to me why you preferred to sleep on the couch rather than face me. Explain to me what the hell is going on with you!"

Jack got up from the couch and even barefoot at home, he was an imposing figure. He stared at you for a long moment, you saw something dark pass through his eyes, and it was bitter, foul-smelling... Venomous.

"You want to know what's going on?" His tone was low, controlled, but there was a tension that made you hold your breath. "I'll tell you what's going on. I'm tired. Tired of being the only one who seems to care about this relationship. Tired of being the only one who tries to keep things together."

"What? That's not true. I care too."

"Care? You call this caring? You make decisions without consulting me, you accept shifts without thinking about how this will affect me and affect the team. You act like you're single, like you don't have anyone waiting for you at home."

"Like I'm single?" Your voice rose, the indignation bubbling. "Jack, I spend every night with you, I share my life with you! I wake up every day thinking about you and how dare you say that I act like I'm single?"

"Actions speak louder than words." The eyes of the person in front of you were not the same as the man you loved, they were cutting and each word uttered was like a stab. Before you didn't understand why Jack Abbott was feared in The Pitt's ER or why people avoided getting involved with him, but now you had a vague notion with this new insecure, dependent, and bitter facet that the older man was showing. "You can say you love me, but when it comes time to make a decision, you don't include me, as if my opinion didn't matter."

Jack let out a short, bitter laugh, increasingly malicious. His eyes, which before shone with the exhaustion of eighteen hours of shift, now shone with a cruelty that he himself didn't recognize. It was as if a dark version of himself had taken control, fueled by exhaustion, by wounded pride, and by the fear he refused to name.

"People call this reciprocity?" Your voice faltered, feeling the salty tears running down your skin. You felt like you could vomit from sadness right then and there. "I waited for you to trust me, to support my decisions the way I support yours. But it seems I was wrong."

"You're always right, aren't you?" The words came out like venom, each syllable loaded with a cutting intention. "You never make mistakes, never make an error. You're the perfect doctor, the perfect girlfriend, the perfect person. While I'm just the guy who can't handle his own emotions."

"I never said that!" You sobbed the words, both of you disheveled from sleep, from the hurt and the anger that had accumulated like a storm between you. All because of a damn shift change. A simple change of hours that, in any healthy relationship, would be resolved with a calm conversation and a mutual agreement. But there, in that apartment that had once been a refuge, it had transformed into a battlefield. "You're putting words in my mouth."

"I don't need to put words in your mouth." Jack took a step forward, and the afternoon light coming through the curtains created dramatic shadows on his face, accentuating every line of tension. "Your actions already say everything."

He knew he was wrong. A part of him, the rational part that still remained in some obscured corner of his mind, screamed for him to stop. Screamed that he was turning something small into something gigantic, that he was destroying the most precious relationship he had ever had because of his own sick pride. But Jack lost his limit. He knew he was wrong, he knew he was being cruel and unfair, but he couldn't stop. And, deep down, a perverse voice whispered that he didn't even want to stop.

"You want to know the truth?" His voice was a low growl, loaded with a fury that wasn't directed at you, but at himself. "You're selfish. You think only about yourself. About your career, your shifts, your needs."

Lie. Lie. Lie.

Jack was lying and he knew it. Every word that came out of his mouth was a lie carefully constructed to wound, to push away, to create a distance between you that he, in his state of emotional confusion, believed to be necessary. He wanted to hurt you, and he succeeded.

The sentence hit you like a punch to the stomach. You felt the air leave your lungs, as if you had been knocked down by a physical blow. The tears intensified, streaming hot and fast down your face, without you being able to control them.

"Selfish?" Your voice was barely a whisper, broken and trembling, like glass about to shatter. "I'm selfish? After everything I've done for us? After all the nights we spent together at the hospital, all the coffees I left on your desk, all the hugs I gave you when we both lost a patient... I'm selfish?"

Jack opened his mouth to answer, but the words didn't come. Instead, he just stared at you and you saw something waver in his eyes, a crack in the wall of his anger, a glimpse of the man he really was, of the man who loved you. But it was too late. The knife had already been plunged and the blood was already flowing, unstoppable.

The silence that followed was deafening, filled only by the sound of your muffled sobs and Jack's heavy breathing. The apartment, which before was full of life and love, now seemed like a tomb.

"You know the truth, Dr. Abbott?" You continued, hoarse from the sharp crying and from the anger that burned in your chest like fire. Driven by the pain that was transforming into indignation, you took a step forward, your eyes fixed on his. "You accuse me of being selfish, but who's here throwing a tantrum because I'm going to work a different shift for two weeks? Who's sleeping on the couch because they can't handle the idea of spending a few nights without me? Who's putting their own insecurity above my career?"

Jack furrowed his brow, his expression becoming harder, more closed off. The man you loved seemed to have disappeared, replaced by a stranger who wore his face, his voice, but who didn't have his heart.

"You're twisting everything!" he said, but he faltered slightly, as if he himself didn't believe what he was saying.

"Am I twisting it?" You let out a humorless laugh, the tears still streaming. You ran your palm angrily over your face, drying them with a brusque gesture, as if you could also wipe away the pain you felt. "You don't want to admit it, do you? You don't want to admit that you're scared!"

"Enough." Jack's voice was a low growl, and you saw his hands clench into fists at his sides. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, I do." You stared at him with an intensity that made him step back half a step. "I know you're scared, Jack. I know you're so terrified of losing me that you're doing everything to make that happen. Because it's easier to destroy it yourself than to wait for me to destroy it and all for what? A fucking shift change!"

The words hung in the air, heavy and painful. You saw something break in his eyes, a crack in the armor he had built around himself. But the anger still burned in your chest, you couldn't and didn't want to stop now.

Jack shook his head slowly, you saw his eyes shine not with anger, but with something that looked like desperation.

"You don't understand" he said, his voice hoarse. "You don't understand."

"I understand more than you imagine" you replied, trembling. "But the difference between us is that I choose to trust. I choose to believe that what we have is strong enough to survive two damn weeks. You, instead, are choosing to destroy everything."

You didn't wait for an answer. There was nothing left to say. The words had already been spoken, the wounds had already been opened, and what remained was the empty silence that stretched between you like an abyss.

With a tired sigh you turned around and began walking toward the bedroom. Your steps were heavy, each one demanding a superhuman effort. You entered the bedroom you shared, the bedroom that had once been your refuge, and started gathering your things.

It wasn't much. Some clothes, your personal hygiene products, the phone charger, a few books. The bag you used for the hospital was in the corner and you filled it with the essentials. You didn't want to take everything, you didn't want it to seem like a definitive goodbye. But you needed to leave. You needed air. You needed distance.

Jack appeared at the bedroom door, his eyes wide when he saw what you were doing. The despair that painted itself on his face was almost palpable, a stark contrast to the anger he had shown minutes before.

"What are you doing?" a tone of alarm he couldn't disguise. "What is this?"

"I'm leaving." You were calm, but there was a tremor beneath the surface. "You want time? You'll have time. I'm not going to stay here to be treated as if I'm the villain of the story."

"Love, no..." Jack took a step forward, his hand extended, and the pet names he used so frequently in moments of tenderness finally escaped his lips. "My love, please, don't go. That's not what I meant."

"It's exactly what you said." You closed the bag with a snap, your eyes fixed on him. "You called me selfish. You said I only think about myself. That I don't care about us. You said all that, Jack."

"I didn't mean that." His voice was broken now, the pride that kept him standing slowly crumbling. "Love... please. You know I didn't mean that. I just... I was so tired, so frustrated, so scared of losing you that I..."

"You were scared of losing me, so you decided to hurt me?" You shook your head, the tears threatening to return. "That doesn't make sense, Jack."

"I know." He took another step, and now he was just a meter away. "I know it doesn't make sense. I know I'm being an idiot, a complete idiot. But, please, don't go. Stay here. Let's talk. Let's work this out."

"We already talked." Your voice was soft, but firm. "I already said everything I had to say. Now you're the one who needs to think. You need to decide if you want to trust me or if you're going to let your fear destroy what we have."

"But I love you, baby." The phrase left his lips like a sigh, full of a pain so deep that you felt your heart clench. "I love you more than anything, darling. More than any shift, more than any patient, more than anything in the world. You are my life. I can't imagine my life without you."

"Then show me." You passed by him, feeling the heat of his body for an instant, feeling the familiar scent that always calmed you. "Show me that you trust me. Show me that our love is stronger than your fear."

"Please, darling, don't go." His voice was almost a whisper now and something broke in it. "Don't leave me alone here. Not after everything."

"You won't be alone." You stopped at the living room door, your hand on the doorknob, without looking back. "You'll have time to think. And when you're ready to talk for real, when you're ready to listen to me and to listen to yourself, you know where to find me."

"When are you coming back?" The question was of such raw desperation that it almost made you collapse.

You closed your eyes, feeling the tears burning behind your eyelids, your lashes heavy with the salt of wet tears.

"When you're ready to be the man I know you are. Not the man that fear turned you into."

And then you opened the door and left.

The hallway air was cool against your hot, wet face. You walked toward the elevator with firm steps, even though your legs trembled, even though your heart was shattered.

Don't look back, don't look back.

You didn't look back.

But, on the other side of the door, Jack Abbott fell to his knees in the middle of the living room. The tears he never shed finally came. They streamed silently down his face, marked by exhaustion and regret, while the sound of the elevator door closing echoed in the distance.

He stayed there for a long time, motionless, listening to the silence of the empty apartment. The clock on the wall marked the hours, each tick a reminder of what he had lost.

Now you were talking animatedly with another man, gesturing excitedly about whatever crap that guy was saying to you. You didn't even realize the predatory look of the person you were talking to and that made your boyfriend so irritated. Damn, you were so good that you couldn't even see the malice in the eyes of the disgusting men who surrounded you. Andrew knew he couldn't act impulsively, go up to you and grab your waist or simply punch that idiot's jaw and stop him from talking to his girl.

No, he changed for you. Andrew took a deep breath and counted to ten, a breathing exercise he was accustomed to in those moments or situations that made him tense. You were the lifeline that pulled him out of the darkness, the sun that illuminated his days of darkness, and Pope Cody would not let his only happiness slip through his hands like slippery sand.

Since you met, about a year and a half ago, you had always been sweet to the older man. Treating him well, respectfully and cautiously, respecting his time and space, letting the rigid and distrustful man blossom like a flower under the sunlight. You knew about his past, you knew the family he had and the darkness his surname carried, but you learned to love him, to respect him, to embrace him and realize that he could be understood and, above all, truly loved, without pressure or blackmail.

Andrew thought it was because of this exacerbated understanding of yours towards him that made him so obsessed with you, with your well-being and safety. Cody was always surveying you, you knew it even if you didn't see it, after all he was almost a protective little dog and despite everything you adored his peculiar way of providing security.

It was for this reason that out of the corner of your eyes you saw your boyfriend's movement towards you, the straight posture highlighting the muscles compressed by the tight black shirt he wore, the closed expression that made you drool in indecent places and damn, he didn't take his eyes off you, you felt the heat rising under your nape with his gaze on you.

When the older man was close enough, he wrapped his large, rough palm around your waist, squeezing lightly as he pulled you backwards, crashing your back against his broad, firm chest. You sighed when he bent down enough for his breath to make the little hairs behind your ear stand on end. He looked firmly at the man who was talking to you, while whispering just for you to hear.

"Everything okay over here, darling?" He asked hoarsely, his body pressing more against yours and making you want to tremble. You just nodded positively, afraid to open your mouth and moan softly at the possessive and territorial way he held you.

The man in front of you, whose name you had already forgotten, if you had even really heard it amidst your animated chatter about trips or cars, saw what was happening in front of him. His eyes, previously shining with an interest that you naively mistook for mere friendliness, now faltered. The predatory confidence he emanated moments before evaporated like smoke upon encountering the silent and implacable wall that was Pope Cody.

"Ah, yes, of course" the man stammered, taking an involuntary step back. The hand he had raised, about to touch your arm to emphasize some foolish point of the conversation, fell inert at his side. "We were just... I mean, she's your...?"

He let the question die in the air, without the courage to complete the sentence. He didn't dare use a term like "friend" or "acquaintance." The way Andrew held you, with the silent possession of someone holding something precious, left no doubt, you were not just an acquaintance or a friend.

You were an extension of him, a territory marked not by words, but by the unequivocal body language he displayed over you.

Andrew didn't answer, didn't blink, nor did he look away. He just sustained the eye contact with the stranger, his expression sculpted in granite, his jaw clenched and thin lips compressed into a straight line. His silence was more eloquent and terrifying than any verbal threat, after all, it was a silence that spoke of a past you had helped to bury, an echo of a man who didn't negotiate, only took. The stranger, finally, got the message and with a brusque nod and an unintelligible murmur of apology, turned on his heels and disappeared into the crowd of the event, a rat fleeing the shadow of a bird of prey.

Only then, when the threat had dissipated, did Andrew's hand on your waist relax minimally and the pressure that had previously kept you anchored against his chest transformed into a slow and deliberate caress. His fingers traced a path of fire over the thin fabric of your dress, rising along the curve of your waist and then descending to your hip bone, where he let them rest, warm and heavy, like a mark. You couldn't avoid the slight arching of your back, an almost imperceptible movement that pressed you even more against him. A shiver of pure anticipation snaked down your spine, a mixture of relief and excitement.

"You attract moths to the flame, don't you, my love?" His voice vibrated against the shell of your ear, a rough whisper that was meant to be felt, not just heard. The words were a soft growl, laden with a dark adoration. He didn't blame you. The fault, in his distorted mind, lay with the insects that felt drawn to your brightness. He just saw himself in the eternal role of guardian, ready to ward off those who dared to get too close. "So good... so generous with that smile. And they, idiots, mistake your kindness for an invitation."

You turned your face slowly, the tip of your nose brushing the strong line of his jaw. The unique citrusy scent of his skin enveloped you, a perfume you had forever associated with safety and desire. Your lips almost touched the corner of his mouth as you murmured, your voice a trembling thread of contained pleasure. "You know it's with you I want to be, Andy. Only with you."

Andy. Never Pope or Andrew, to you he was your Andy.

The admission, simple and sincere, seemed to untie something inside him as a deep sigh, which sounded more like a grunt of satisfaction, escaped his lips.

"I know, darling" he replied, his voice still hoarse, but now tinged with a vulnerability that only you had the privilege of witnessing. "That's why I... I just need to be sure. Need to remind myself. And remind them."

The "remind them" was not an empty promise, but a fact consummated with every withering look, every possessive touch. It was the primitive and absolute way with which he loved, a love that terrified him and completed him in equal measures. He pulled away enough so you could turn around, standing face to face with him, but still confined within the protective circle of his arms. His eyes, of that deep and stormy blue, roamed your face as if reading the pages of a sacred book, memorizing every detail, the brightness in your eyes, the slight blush on your cheeks, the way your lips were parted.

"You have no idea what you do to me" he confessed, his voice so low it seemed more like a thought that had escaped from the cages of his self-control. He raised one hand and, with a delicacy that contrasted brutally with the hardness of his body and his reputation, touched your face. The backs of his fingers, calloused and rough, slid along the soft skin of your cheek in a breathtaking caress. "I lived so long in the dark... And then you appeared, my love. Like the dawn, so gradual, patient and inevitable. You didn't try to fix me, you simply... stayed. You saw me entirely and didn't run away."

His voice broke on the last word. The raw emotion in his confession made your heart clench and, at the same time, expand. You covered his hand with yours, keeping it pressed against your face, turning your face to kiss the rough palm. The gesture, so pure and full of affection, made Andrew's pupils dilate, the brownish-green mixture almost completely swallowed by a black of desire and devotion.

"You are my proof that there is something good in the world, and by some miracle, that goodness chose me" he continued, his forehead inclining to touch yours. Your noses touched and the air you shared became rarefied, charged with electricity. "So, yes, I'm going to stay here. I'm going to be the shadow that follows you, the guard dog that growls at anyone who dares to look at you. Because you gave me a second chance and I'm going to spend every second of it ensuring that you feel so safe, so loved, that the idea of belonging to any other world that isn't ours, together, never even crosses your mind."

He paused, his thumb caressing your cupid's bow with hypnotic slowness. A small, dangerous smile, the smile of the predator who found his prey, curved his lips.

"Let's get out of here." It wasn't a request, but a soft command, a command that promised a world of sensations. "I want to feel you close to me, just for me. Today, tomorrow, and always."

The secluded corner where you were was left behind, the people at that party becoming mere blurs the moment Andrew guided you out. All your senses were monopolized by him. Your Andy.

He spun you with an unexpected fluidity for a man of his size, and when he brought you back very close, it was to hold you against himself in a way that left no space for air, much less for any remnant of social decorum. One of his large hands spread on the lower part of your back, the pressure firm and possessive, his fingers insinuating themselves dangerously on the curve where your spine ended, both of you walking away from everyone.

"I don't like sharing your attention" he murmured against your side, his voice a low thunder that reverberated directly in your stomach. "It drives me crazy. Makes me want things I promised myself I wouldn't do anymore." The hand on your back slid and the daring thumb pressed your covered dermis with a firmness that was almost a reprimand. "Primitive things. Things civilized men don't do."

He guided you in a slow movement, his body moving against yours in a way that simulated an intimacy much deeper than the walk to the other end of the room allowed. His muscular thigh insinuated itself between yours, a tangled embrace but so certain that it was questionable the way you moved as if you were one and the friction of the dress fabric against your skin made you hold your breath.

Andrew noticed. Of course he noticed. He noticed every tremor, every sigh, every drop of sweat that sprouted on your nape and the older man fed on your reactions.

"You like it when I talk like that, don't you, darling?" he asked, his voice tinged with a malice that made your face burn. His mouth descended to your temple, depositing a kiss there, warm and lingering. "You like it when I forget the rules and show you the man that still exists inside here. The dirty man."

Cody's lips brushed the curve of your ear and the following words were a profane whisper, a stark contrast to the refined environment around you. "I constantly think about how your skin gets marked under my fingers and everyone sees that you are mine. I think about the sounds you make when you forget to be polite. I think about these beautiful breasts that make me absolutely dumb with desire."

The hand that was on your back rose slowly up your side, his fingers spread, palpating each rib through the fabric until the edge of his thumb brushed, with devastating precision, the lower curve of your breast. It was not an accidental touch, perhaps it was a promise. His breathing became irregular, while an almost inaudible grunt vibrated in his throat and Cody felt the soft weight against his hand, even through the barrier of the dress.

"I would want to spend hours here" he confessed, his voice heavy with an obscene adoration. "Just looking. Just touching. The way they fit in my hand, as if they had been made for me. So soft. So perfect." His thumb moved in a slow and deliberate arc, brushing the exact point where the lace of the bra created a rise under the satin.

You bit your lower lip hard, a futile attempt to contain the moan that threatened to escape. The sensation was exacerbated by the certainty that you were in public, even if more secluded, surrounded by strangers who had no idea of the fire he was lighting in you.

Andrew smiled against your skin, a smile of pure predatory satisfaction. "That's it. Hold the sound for me. Because later, when we're alone, I want to hear all of them. I want you to scream, if necessary. But now, in this moment, your pleasure is mine. Only mine."

He spun you one more time, and when he brought you back to him, you were in a darker corner of the hall, partially hidden by a column and a cascade of floral arrangements. His hand moved from your hip to your nape, his fingers tangling in the hair there, pulling your head back with a firm gentleness that made you expose your throat to him. Andrew's eyes, stormy and hungry, devoured the line of your neck.

"I'm so afraid of losing you" he whispered, and the sudden vulnerability in his voice, mixed with the rawness of desire, was heartbreaking. He kissed you at the base of your throat, a light suction that he soon soothed with his tongue, as if apologizing for the mark he might leave. "This fear consumes me. I need you like I need air. It's desperate and... And it's the only truth I have."

He pulled away only enough to look into your eyes, his hand still on your nape, the other now resting on your racing heart, feeling the erratic beats. "Tell me you're mine. Say it now. I need to hear your voice saying the words."

The raw plea, uttered by that man so powerful and restrained, undid any defense you might still have had. You raised your hands to frame his face, your thumbs caressing the visage marked by life. "I am yours, Andrew. Body and soul. Every piece of me belongs to you."

What happened in his eyes was a controlled implosion. The stormy greenish-brown was flooded by a black wave of possession and relief. He took your mouth in a kiss that was everything but civilized. There was no hesitation, only a voracious and insatiable hunger where his tongue invaded your mouth with urgency. Pope kissed you as if he were trying to find salvation in the depths of your soul, a drowning man who finally found the surface, and in the silence of that corner, cradled by each other's presence, the world outside could wait.

The kiss was broken only by the pressing need for air, but Andrew didn't pull away from you. On the contrary. He remained with his forehead glued to yours, the panting and hot breath mixing with yours, his eyes half-closed as he tried to recover some remnant of control. Control that crumbled with every little tremor that ran through his body, with every accelerated beat of your heart that he still felt.

"I won't be able to wait until we get home" he admitted, his voice so hoarse and deep that it seemed to scrape your skin like fine sandpaper.

He took your hand with urgency, his long fingers intertwining with yours with an almost desperate firmness. Without saying anything else, Andrew led you outside, he didn't look to the sides, didn't care about the curious looks or the raised eyebrows. The world could be on fire and he wouldn't have noticed, because all his attention was focused solely on you.

Andrew took you to a wide staircase that led to the upper floors, your steps echoed on the polished marble, a sound muffled by the music that was getting more and more distant. With each step, the expectation grew, dense and electric, like the air before a summer storm.

You felt the heat of his hand on yours, the pressure of his fingers that was at the same time possessive and comforting, as if he feared you might evaporate if he let you go for even a second.

Despite the neediness, insecurities, and problems, Andrew Cody was a calculating man, a born strategist, and planning an escape route to have you all to himself was as natural to him as breathing. The hallway on the top floor was lined with a thick carpet that completely muffled the steps, the walls adorned with golden light fixtures that projected soft and intimate shadows. Everything was silence and penumbra, a stark contrast to the brightness and bustle of the floor below. Andrew stopped in front of a door at the end of the hallway and took the keycard from the inside pocket of his suit jacket with an agility that betrayed his anxiety.

He unlocked the door and opened it, but instead of simply letting you pass, he pulled you inside with him, his arms enveloping you even before the door closed completely. The sound of the latch clicking into place was muffled by the sound of your panting breath when he pressed you against the solid wood surface.

"Finally" he whispered against your lips, his voice laden with a relief so profound it was almost painful. "No interruptions. Just you and me and everything I want to do to you."

Andrew didn't wait for an answer. His mouth captured yours in a kiss that was everything but delicate. It was a dirty kiss, messy, desperate. His tongue invaded your mouth without asking permission, tangling with yours in a primitive and wet dance. There was too much saliva, teeth, and a hunger so absolute that you felt your knees buckle.

Andrew noticed and used his own body to keep you standing, his hip fitting perfectly against yours, the unmistakable evidence of his desire pressing against your belly in a way that tore a muffled moan from your throat.

His hands didn't stay still. While he kissed you with that devastating intensity, his agile fingers began to work on the buttons of your dress. But the patience, which he had been cultivating with so much effort throughout the entire night, finally ran out. With a grunt of frustration against your lips, he simply pulled the fabric hard, and the sound of the buttons coming loose and bouncing on the wooden floor was muffled by your exclamation of surprise.

"Sorry" he murmured, but there was no regret in his voice, only a raw and animalistic satisfaction. "I'll buy another one. I'll buy a hundred more. But now I need to see you. I need to touch you. Please, let me touch you."

The plea in his voice, mixed with the confession of his almost painful need, made something inside you melt. You let him push the dress off your shoulders, the fabric sliding down your arms and pooling at your feet in a puddle of satin. Andrew took a step back, just enough so his eyes could roam your body now exposed only to the soft light entering through the window.

He remained still for a moment, his breath suspended as his pupils dilated in a way that almost swallowed the iris. Andrew looked at you like a starving man before a banquet, like a devotee before an altar, like a castaway who had finally sighted land.

"My God" he whispered, his voice choked with an almost religious reverence. "You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen in my entire life. And I don't deserve you. I know I don't deserve you. But I'm going to spend every second of this night trying to get close to being worthy."

He knelt before you. Andrew Cody, the man who made grown men tremble with a single look, who had spent years in prison, built on orders and fear, knelt at your feet like a subject before his queen. His large, calloused hands slid up your legs, from your ankles to your thighs, his fingers tangling in the thin straps of your panties.

"Everything about you is perfect" he murmured, his lips depositing open kisses on every inch of skin he revealed as he pushed the intimate piece aside. "Every curve. Every detail. Every little piece of this body."

He kissed the inside of your thighs, your hip bone, and raised his eyes to you. There was an intensity in that look that was almost unbearable, a mixture of adoration, desire, and something deeper, something that bordered on obsession. He didn't look away while he kissed the inside of your thigh again. He didn't look away while his tongue traced a wet and warm path over your skin, he didn't look away when his mouth finally found your center, his lips closing a little below the mons veneris, with a precision that tore a muffled moan from your throat.

"It's..." he murmured against your skin, the vibration of his voice reverberating on your most sensitive spot. "It's this sound that I want to hear. It's like this that I want you for me, my love."

What followed was a slow and meticulous torture. Andrew was in no hurry and savored you as if it were the first and the last meal of his life, his tongue tracing elaborate patterns that brought you to the edge of the abyss and then pulled you back, only to start all over again. His fingers joined the dance, first one, then two, filling you with a rhythmic pressure that matched perfectly with the movements of his mouth.

The hand that held the panties aside, pulled the delicate cloth down and removed it completely from your body. His hungry mouth returning to your dripping center as his rough palms moved up your body, finding your breast and pulling the fabric down with an impatience that contrasted with the meticulousness of what he was doing between your legs, groping the breast so his fingers could massage it, pinch it, venerate it.

"They are so beautiful" he murmured, pulling away only enough to speak, his chin shining with the evidence of the pleasure he was giving you.

With each caress, each touch, Andrew undid the barriers of your body with a patience that bordered on the sacred. Kneeling before you like a devotee he kept his eyes fixed on yours, observing every reaction, every tremor, every little muscle that contracted under the implacable attention of his mouth and his fingers. The sounds that escaped your lips were music to his ears. Every muffled moan, every choppy sigh, every time you held your breath and then released it in a trembling lament, Andrew absorbed it all as if they were the notes of a symphony composed just for him. He felt your taste on his tongue, a flavor he had been addicted to since the first time and that was now as essential as the air he breathed.

Your soft texture against his lips, the moist heat that received him, the way your body responded to his every movement was a sensory experience so overwhelming that it made him forget his own name. Feeling himself getting harder and harder knowing he was giving you pleasure.

"So beautiful," Cody murmured against your skin, his voice vibrating in waves of pleasure that ran through your entire body. His fingers descended once more and now pressed inside you, curved in a movement he already knew by heart, a precise gesture that made you arch your back and dig your nails into his shoulders. "So perfect. So mine."

His free hand went up your side, spreading over your ribcage, feeling each of your breaths as if it were the beating of a frightened bird's wings. His thumb caressed the lower curve of your breast, a light touch that contrasted with the intensity of what his mouth was doing further down. He wanted to feel everything. Every texture, every reaction, every drop of pleasure that came out of you.

With a few more thrusts of his fingers and licks on your slippery folds, you finally came apart against his mouth, a muffled scream escaping through the lips you were biting hard, but of course Andrew didn't stop.

He accompanied you through the waves of pleasure, prolonging each second, sucking your clit and drinking every drop of you like a man who had crossed the desert and finally found an oasis, thrusting his thick fingers, coated with your pleasure, with increasing intensity. Only when your knees gave way and he had to support you with his strong arms did he pull away, his lips shining and his eyes dark with a proud satisfaction.

"I'm here, darling" he whispered, getting up and taking you in his arms as if you weighed nothing.

Pope carried you to the bed and laid you down on the mattress with a reverence that contrasted with the urgency that still pulsed between his legs and vibrated throughout his body. For a moment, he remained there, hovering over you, his eyes roaming your naked body with an adoration so intense it was almost palpable. The soft light drew shadows on the curves of your body, highlighting every detail he loved almost sickly.

"I could spend hours just looking at you" he confessed, his voice hoarse and low, his fingers went to his own shirt with precise movements, but without haste. "I could spend the whole night worshiping every inch of you and it still wouldn't be enough."

The shirt fell to the floor, revealing the muscular torso marked by old scars and freckles that told stories of a past you had helped bury. The muscles contracted when he got rid of his pants and the last piece of clothing, completely revealing the extent of the desire he felt for you. So virile, with that hardness and heat, an impressive contrast with the vulnerability that shone in his eyes whenever they met yours.

Andrew climbed onto the bed, the mattress sinking under his weight as he positioned himself over you, his forearms resting beside your head and his body covering yours like a protective shield. Always so protective. His warm skin against yours was a balm and a torment at the same time, each point of contact a small explosion of pleasure that made your body shudder.

"I love you" the older man said, the words coming out with a disarming simplicity. There was no calculation in them, there were no ulterior motives. It was just the truth, naked and raw, offered to you as an offering. "I love you in a way that sometimes scares me. In a way that makes me want to be a better man, even knowing I will never be good enough for you."

Andrew lowered himself and kissed your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. He kissed your lips with a tenderness that contrasted with the position you were in, with his body pressing yours against the mattress, with the unmistakable evidence of his desire rubbing against your damp thigh from the previous orgasm.

"You saved me" he continued, his lips moving to your neck, depositing open kisses along the warm column of your throat. "You saw me at my worst and decided to stay. You gave me a reason to believe that I could be more than my past, more than my surname, more than my mistakes."

As he spoke, his hand descended your body, his calloused fingers finding your center once more, but now with a different purpose. He wanted to feel if you were ready for him, wanted to make sure he wouldn't hurt you. The touch was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he still couldn't believe he had permission to touch you like this.

"Are you ready for me, my love?" he asked, his voice laden with a controlled expectation. His eyes found yours, seeking confirmation, seeking permission, seeking the certainty that you wanted him as much as he wanted you. "Can I...?"

When you nodded, unable to form coherent words in the face of the intensity of that moment, something transformed in his eyes. The careful restraint gave way to a devastating hunger, a need so profound it was almost painful to witness. He positioned himself at your entrance, the tip of his throbbing member brushing your wetness, and then began to enter you slowly, inch by inch, as if he were memorizing every contraction, every texture, every little sound that escaped your lips.

The world around you dissolved. There was nothing else, there were no more people, there was nothing else but the two of you and the connection that united you in such a deep and visceral way. Andrew filled you completely, a hoarse moan escaping his throat when he finally settled fully inside your body. He remained still for a moment, his forehead resting on yours, his panting breath mixing with yours. His eyes closed, as if he were trying to engrave that sensation in his memory forever.

He began to move. The movements were slow and deep, each thrust a silent declaration of love, claim, and belonging. He was in no hurry and wanted to prolong that moment for as long as possible, wanted to feel every contraction of you around him, every tremor that ran through your body, every fingernail that dug into his back.

His hands roamed your body with an almost religious reverence. His fingers traced the curves of your breasts, descended along your waist, grabbed your hips with a controlled strength that left marks he would kiss later, apologizing for each one. His mouth found yours in kisses that alternated between the purest tenderness and the most absolute hunger, between love and obsession, between devotion and possession. Sometimes your breaths collided hindered by your needy moans, your head turning to the side while your body was propelled deliciously upwards, in a precise rite inside you that felt every vein and pulse of Andrew's cock.

"Do you feel that?" he asked, his voice trembling with contained pleasure. "Do you feel how we fit together perfectly? As if you were made for me?"

The rhythm increased even more. The sound of skin meeting filled the room, mixing with the muffled moans and the words of love he whispered against your skin. Each thrust was deeper than the last, each movement more urgent, each breath more panting. Andrew loved you with all his body, with all his soul, with all the intensity of a man who had spent too long in the darkness and now refused to let go of the light he had found.

"I want to fill you" he confessed, his voice a rough whisper against the shell of your ear, his eyebrows furrowed in a painful need. The movements became more erratic, less controlled, as the tension accumulated at the base of his spine. "I want to feel you from the inside. I want to leave a part of me in you. I want you to know, to feel, to never forget that you are mine."

Your fingers found his, intertwining over the sheet and extending upwards, your thighs wrapped around Cody's waist and squeezing him closer to you, the hairs at the base of Andy's hard cock, wet with pre-cum, rasping against your sensitive clit. Your faces close and panting, you saw your boyfriend's neck and ears in a reddish tone of pleasure.

"Look at me" he pleaded, his voice breaking into a supplication. "Please, my love. I want to see your eyes when you cum for me. I want to see you come undone."

The tension inside you built, grew, expanded until it became unbearable. Every movement of him inside you, every word of love whispered against your skin, every touch of his calloused fingers on the most sensitive points of your body pushed you closer and closer to the abyss. Your body, acting on its own, pressed against his and the wet slaps of your skins meeting became louder and more obscene. When you finally came, when the pleasure exploded in waves that ran through every nerve of your body, Andrew was there to support you.

"That's it, my love," he whispered, his voice choked with an emotion that went far beyond physical pleasure. "Just like that. Let go. I'm here. I'll always be here."

He watched you with an adoration that bordered on fanaticism. You tightening around him while your fingers loosened from Andrew's hands to scratch the older man's muscular back, squeezing and pulling him to you, red welts forming on his tanned and freckled skin.

Every sound that escaped your lips were treasures he kept in his memory. His eyes roamed your face with an almost painful reverence, as if he were witnessing something sacred, something he didn't deserve, but that was given to him anyway.

"So beautiful" he murmured, his voice broken. "So perfect. So mine."

And then, when he could no longer contain himself, when the pleasure became unbearable and the need to surrender completely to you overcame any remnant of control, Andrew allowed himself to fall too. He sank into you with one last deep movement, a hoarse moan escaping his throat as he spilled everything he had inside you. The warmth of the liquid filled you completely, an intimate and primitive sensation that united you in a way that transcended the physical.

"I love you," he whispered against your lips, the words choppy from the spasms of pleasure that still ran through his body. "I love you. I love you. I love you."

He repeated those words like a mantra, like a prayer, like a promise. Each declaration was accompanied by a kiss, a touch, a caress. He remained inside you for long minutes, reluctant to separate, to break that connection that united you in such a deep and complete way.

When he finally lay down beside you, he pulled you close, his arms enveloping your body as if it were the most precious thing in the world. His head found shelter in the curve of your neck, his warm breath caressing your skin as he slowly returned to reality. His fingers traced distracted patterns on your back, an automatic gesture that soothed him as much as it soothed you.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice still hoarse, but now tinged with genuine concern. His eyes found yours, searching for any sign of discomfort. "Wasn't I... too rough?"

The question was so incongruent with the man he was to the rest of the world that it almost made you smile. Andrew Cody, the man who made grown men tremble with a single look, worried about being too rough in bed. But this was the version of him that only you knew and it was this version that you loved with every fiber of your being.

"You were perfect" you replied, your voice still a little shaky. "You always are perfect, Andy."

Something shone in his eyes. It wasn't just satisfaction or male pride. It was something deeper, more vulnerable. It was the gratitude of a man who had spent his entire life believing he didn't deserve to be loved and who now found himself faced with irrefutable proof that he was wrong.

"I don't know what I did to deserve you" he murmured, his fingers still tracing patterns on your back. "But I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy. Trying to make you happy. Trying to be the man you deserve."

Ele beijou sua testa, suas pálpebras, a ponta do seu nariz. Beijou seus lábios com uma ternura que contrastava com a intensidade do que vocês acabavam de compartilhar. E quando finalmente se acomodou ao seu lado, seus braços ainda envolvendo seu corpo como um escudo protetor, ele sussurrou contra sua pele as mesmas palavras que repetiria até o fim de seus dias.

"I love you. Today. Tomorrow. Always.".

You remembered perfectly the first time you saw him smile, not that tight, mechanical smile he used when trying to fit into social situations, but a genuine smile that was born at the corners of his lips and spread slowly, as if his own face was relearning the movement. It was a rainy night, in your small apartment, when he arrived with his hair and clothes wet, in his hands he clutched a bouquet of flowers totally crumpled and equally wet, you bit your lips upon seeing that the big man was embarrassed to show up there so suddenly and in the middle of a storm.

You ended up laughing, but it wasn't a malicious laugh and fortunately Andrew knew how to identify that, because in your laughter there was a sweetness so genuine that it made his hazel eyes shine with an intensity he would never forget.

"I think I never learned how to do this right" he murmured, handing over the flowers as one hands over a piece of oneself. "Giving things and... Receiving affection. Being... normal."

Your eyes widened, full of surprise and affection for that so special man who entered your life and took your heart without intention. You looked at the flowers, at him in front of you, so out of place and insecure. You ignored the flowers and pulled his free hand, bringing Cody inside your apartment, without letting go of the taller man's wrist, you caressed the dermis cold from the rainwater, feeling the roughness and the scars that told stories he wasn't yet ready to share.

"You don't need to be normal, Andrew. You just need to be you."

Four years and Andrew Cody could finally say he had a real family. The traumatized man had found in your arms a place to call home, a refuge where the voices of the past gradually diminished until they became just distant whispers. The therapy sessions, which in the beginning he viewed with skepticism and resistance, became anchors that kept him steady when anxiety threatened to drag him back to the abyss and little by little he learned that asking for help wasn't a weakness, but rather the greatest demonstration of strength a man could have.

Now in the quiet of the night, he watched through the baby monitor the room illuminated by the moonlight filtered through the thin curtains, where the light wooden crib he himself had built creaked softly with the sleepy movements of the baby. The oldest of the house sighed and turned his head in bed, looking at you sleeping, your hair spread across the pillow and your chest rising and falling in a tranquil rhythm that had long ago become his favorite sight.

The fact was, Andrew couldn't sleep. Not when the little one in the next room had had a fever during the afternoon and he had spent hours awake, alternating between cold water cloths and the thermometer, whispering lullabies he himself had composed on the days when anxiety tightened his chest. You had insisted he rest, promising you would take care of the night watch, but Andrew was stubborn and that clearly was a trait he had inherited from Smurf, although he hated to admit it.

The man turned again to the baby monitor, seeing through the dimness the baby move in the little crib. "Daddy's going to take care of you, princess" he whispered to his daughter, even though she couldn't hear him from the other room. "Daddy's always going to take care of you."

It was then that a soft movement beside him caught his attention. You had woken up, your eyes still bleary with sleep, but a smile already forming on your lips at seeing the scene.

"You should be sleeping" you murmured, your voice hoarse from interrupted rest. Andrew turned his face slowly, as if emerging from a dream.

"She seemed restless through the baby monitor. I couldn't..." He hesitated, and you saw the ghost of guilt cross his features for an instant. "I couldn't leave her alone, even from here."

You sat up in bed, the sheet sliding over your shoulders and giving your husband a glimpse of your satin pajamas, but soon his attention went to your fingers, when you extended your hand in his direction. Andrew took it instantly, like someone clinging to a lifeline in a stormy sea. His fingers intertwined with yours, and you felt the slight tremor that ran through his body, a tremor he could never completely hide, no matter how hard he tried.

"She's better now" you said, with the calm that only the certainty of a mother can provide. "The fever went down hours ago. You can rest, darling."

Andrew shook his head, a gentle stubbornness shining in his eyes. "I know. But what if..." He didn't finish the sentence, he didn't need to. You knew the demons that haunted him, the voices that whispered he wasn't good enough, that everything he loved would be torn from his hands as a punishment for his past sins.

You moved closer to your husband, the rustle of the blankets being a comforting sound, but Andrew resisted for a moment, his eyes still fixed on the electronic screen, but after another pull from you and a grumble, he finally gave in, letting himself fall beside you with a sigh that seemed to carry all the weariness in the world.

You wrapped him in your arms, feeling the rigidity of his muscles gradually dissolve against your body.

"Listen to me" you whispered, your mouth close to his ear, both intertwined in bed. "Our daughter is fine. I am fine. You are fine. We are safe, Andrew. No one is going to take us from you."

He closed his eyes and you felt the hot tears that ran silently down his face, wetting the curve of your neck. The old Andrew Cody didn't cry, at least not in front of the family and especially not Smurf, but with you, he had learned that vulnerability wasn't a weakness but rather a way of transcribing his emotions.

"I love you so much it sometimes hurts" he confessed with his voice muffled against your skin. "It hurts to think about everything that could have happened, about everything I did, about all the times I almost..." He swallowed hard, his breathing quickening and you felt the effort he was making to maintain control. Therefore you ran your fingers through the curls at the nape of his neck, massaging to try to relax him. "If I had continued with all that shit... I would never have met you. I would never have had this."

You pulled away just enough to look into his eyes, your hands descending from his nape and finding and caressing the sculpted and flushed face, with a tenderness that disarmed any defense he tried to raise. "But you are here, love. You survived and it wasn't by chance. It was because of you, because of the strength you always had in here." You slid your palm down to the taller man's chest, feeling the beats of your husband's calloused heart. "And that you never knew how to recognize."

He laughed, a low and hoarse sound that vibrated against your chest, bringing your foreheads together and rubbing noses. "You always know what to say, don't you?"

"Four years of practice" you replied, kissing the tip of his nose. "And I still have a lot to learn."

The silence of the night enveloped them again, but now it was a different silence, lighter and more welcoming. You were embraced with Cody, his big hands sliding over your forearm, in a comforting caress that almost made you fall asleep.

"She has your smile" Andrew murmured, his fingers moving up and tracing abstract patterns on your shoulder. "And your eyes. God, she is so perfect."

"She has your nose" you retorted, laughing softly. "And your stubbornness even as a tiny baby. She's already giving trouble, just like daddy."

He feigned an offended look, but the smile that spread across his face was radiant, illuminating the whole room with a beauty that transcended the physical. "Are you saying I'm stubborn?"

"I'm saying you're the most stubborn man I've ever met" you confirmed, kissing his chin, wrinkling your own nose. "And also the most wonderful. Because your stubbornness is what made you fight for us, for this family, for this life we've built together."

Andrew turned completely to face you, everything moving and for the first time that night, you saw genuine peace in his eyes. The anxiety was still there, like an old scar that never completely disappears, but there was something new too, a silent certainty that he had found his place in the world.

"You saved me" he said and the simplicity of the statement carried a weight that no eloquence could match. "Not just from the bad things. You saved me from myself and I'll spend the rest of my life trying to be worthy of that.

You brought your forehead to his again, breathing the same air, sharing the same moment, feeling him even more on top of you. "You don't need to be worthy. You just need to be you and to be here. With me and with your daughter. That is more than enough."

With that, he kissed you. A sweet and deep kiss, that carried all the gratitude and the love that overflowed from his chest. It was a kiss that said thank you and I love you, a kiss that said everything he still couldn't put into words, because for Andrew Cody you were home in the late afternoon, affection like the summer breeze.

When they parted, Andrew had teary eyes again, from a joy so overwhelming he could barely contain it, smiling then.

"I want another one." He whispered suddenly, his hazel eyes cataloging your frown, confused. "A child. Another baby. I want to see you pregnant again, I want to feel our family growing, I want to..."

You placed a finger on his lips, silencing him with a smile. "Let's take it easy, daddy. Our little one next door is still only six months old and you barely sleep since she was born."

"I sleep enough" the brown-haired man protested, but the yawn that escaped next betrayed his statement. You laughed together, a soft sound that filled the room like music.

"Let's sleep now," you decided, pulling him closer to you. "And tomorrow, if you still want to talk about babies, we can talk. But first, you need to rest."

He gave in, letting you wrap him in your arms, his head resting on your chest, listening to the beats of your heart as if it were the most precious melody in the world. Andrew's eyes closed slowly and for the first time in days, he felt true sleep beginning to envelop him.

"Thanks" he murmured, his voice already slurred by tiredness. "For everything. For every day. For every moment."

You kissed the top of his head, feeling the familiar smell of the shampoo he used, the texture of the hair that was beginning to get more gray with time. "Sleep, love. I am here and I'm definitely not going anywhere."

Andrew Cody, o homem que passou a vida inteira sendo usado, manipulado e descartado, finalmente encontrou a paz. Nos braços da mulher que amava, com a filha dormindo a poucos metros de distância, ele se permitiu acreditar que a felicidade era possível e não apenas uma ilusão passageira, mas uma realidade construída dia após dia, com paciência, amor e a coragem de recomeçar.