Broken & Rising... Hopefully

You look at her. She doesn’t even blink. You know what she means, and you do your fucking best to keep your eyes from trailing over to the man beside you.

Still, you find yourself echoing Pope’s words.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about keeping Lena out of the system. Both of her parents are gone. Pope may be taking care of her, but with his record? Social services is going to be coming by any day now, baby.”

You swallow, and grit your teeth as you search for a comeback. For any kind of answer or solution that isn’t…

“One day at the courthouse, one little party to make it look real, and Lena is safe.” Smurf’s words sound tinny through the phone. The rest doesn’t need to be said. Can’t be said, because every phone call is recorded. No foster care. No fighting the courts. Adoption.

Adoption because you’re married.

“Okay.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, but it sounds…firm. The decision isn’t hard, though it probably should be.

Just a piece of paper. That’s all. It’s just a piece of paper, and you can protect Lena from the foster system.

Pope does look at you now, but you don’t break your gaze from Smurf’s. Still, you can almost feel the surprise on his face. The intensity of his stare on the side of your head.

Smurf nods, smiling in that pleased, shark-like way she has when she gets her way.

And, quietly, this time to yourself, you repeat the word.

“Okay.”

-

“You’re gonna give up your whole life for the kid you nanny for?”

“Your niece.”

“Your whole life.”

“It’s not my whole life. It’s just…paper.”

Craig stares at you. You stare at the pool.

“You’re gonna be raising her. With Pope.”

“I don’t know if you remember, but I kind of have been raising her.” It’s not like Baz has been there for fucking anything but dropping off a paycheck with an extra couple hundred bucks and an apology for being gone a few more days than promised.

Pope was there. For ice cream at the beach. To help you out on nights you were exhausted and couldn’t get a hold of Baz. To sit with you on the couch. Always so quiet, but…there. A comforting presence amidst the chaos of caring for and worrying about a little girl that isn’t even yours.

Pope was there, and he’ll be there now. You have no doubt about that.

-

The ride back is dead silent.

So silent, in fact, that you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise when Pope speaks.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, or his hands off of the wheel.

“I know.” You kind of do have to. Smurf has a pretty uncanny ability to get her way, and it was more than obvious that this is what she wants you to do.

But even despite that, it’s for Lena. Lena who you all-but raised. Who you love. You would adopt her in a heartbeat, and you know Pope would too.

His hands grip the wheel a little tighter. You see a muscle jump in his jaw. “If you don’t want to-“

“I want to.” You interrupt, finally turning to him. “It’s Lena. If you think for one second that I’m going to let her get lost in the fucking foster system, you’re insane.”

“Smurf-“

“I don’t care about that. She’s right. This will work. Because right now, you paying me to help you take care of her isn’t exactly working. And if adoption is the way you wanna go, then that’s what we have to do.”

Pope doesn’t speak. He just nods, and stares at the road.

-

“This is different. This is… this is forever. This is like, building up a college fund-“

“Can’t be too hard, with your lifestyle-“

“Stop joking. I’m not kidding.”

You look at him, now. “I’m not kidding. She gets a cut. Every job, Lena gets a cut.”

“You really want to do this. Legally raise a kid that isn’t yours with fucking Pope.”

“I want her to be safe.” You finally snap, pulling your legs out of the pool so fast that you think it might splash him a little. “Why the fuck don’t you get that? Why doesn’t anyone else seem to care about this fucking kid?”

“Why do you care about her so much that you’re going to throw away your life?!”

“What life? I’m already wrapped up in this shit, and Smurf said-“

“You can’t trust Smurf.”

“She likes me. I’m not a threat to her. She has no reason to lie.”

“She always has a reason to lie.”

“Not about this. She wants Lena to be safe just as much as we do.”

Craig runs his hands through his hair again. Mumbles something about you being insane.

“I’ve watched this kid grow up. I love her.”

“More than yourself?”

“I mean…yeah.” Isn’t that what love is? You don’t think you know any other kind. “It’ll be the same as it always was. I’ll just have a rock on my finger, right?”

“This is legit marriage. And adoption. This is like, piles and piles of paperwork and shit. Plus, it’s gonna be a whole lot of lying.”

“Oh yeah, I’m really not used to lying. Where would I even start?”

Craig snorts into his beer, and you take the laughter as a win.

-

It’s a small ceremony. Just you and the Codys, save for Smuf for…obvious reasons.

There are no wide grins. No giddy family members. No flower girls or teary vows. The minister is monotone when he marries you, and Pope’s intense eyes don’t leave your face for a second.

It isn’t that you don’t like Pope. In fact, you get along with him better than anyone else in the family, save for maybe Craig, and that friendship still shocks the hell out of you sometimes. You aren’t sure when you started actually becoming friends with Craig Cody, but somewhere between him constantly hitting on you when you first started watching Lena and you rejecting his offer of drugs almost every damn night, you started actually getting along. There’s something about him that’s real, and maybe a little (or a lot) lost, and for some reason it seems to make you more patient with him than most.

But Pope. You’ve always gotten along with Pope really fucking well.

Since you started watching Lena, before he went to prison and before her parents died, you and Pope just seemed to…well, harmonize. You wash the sponges in the way he seems to like. You can sit with him in silence, and even get him to talk about things if it feels like the right time. Hell, you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder when sitting together on Baz’s couch, and woken to him in the exact same position, like he was afraid that any movement might disturb you.

So maybe this won’t be so bad. It’s for Lena. To keep her out of the system. To keep her with the people who love her.

You expect your hand to shake a little when you exchange rings, but it’s surprisingly steady. Pope is still looking at you.

When it’s time to kiss the bride - Christ, the bride. You’re really fucking doing this - his hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing absently over your skin as he gives you a questioning look that is so sweet you almost laugh out loud because you’ve seen this man come home with bruised knuckles and bloodstains on his shirt. You nod, and he nods back as he ducks down and presses his lips to yours.

It’s a simple, gentle kiss - he doesn’t slam you against the wall and devour you or anything - and yet you feel a zing shoot down your spine and to your toes at the mere touch of his lips against yours. The sensation is so shocking, so good, that when he pulls away you almost reach up to pull him back to you just to see if you can feel it again.

You don’t, of course. You just meet his eyes, and try to smile.

And then you’re married. Just like that. One kiss. A couple signatures. And you’re just…married.

-

Andrew Cody has a terrible secret.

He is deeply, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with his wife.

Wife. Wife. Wife. You’re his fucking wife now. If it were any other circumstance, he might call this a dream come true. If he could just call you that for real, without the knowledge that you’re only married to protect Lena, he would be the happiest man in the fucking world.

And yet, as you all arrive back at the house and he watches that ring glimmer on your finger, remembers how your lips felt against his own even for just that one too-brief moment, he wonders if it would be fucked up to…pretend. Like he did in prison, when he kept a photo of you on the wall of his bunk and told his cellmates that the beautiful woman in the picture was his wife.

That was fucked up of him. He knows that. He knew that. But how would anyone have been able to check? He had gone to prison to protect his brother. He was serving a sentence that could potentially last much longer than three years. He was alone, and he was in love, and when someone asked him to explain the picture it just…happened. The fantasy he’d kept tucked safely away in the back of his mind had spilled past his lips, and talking about you had helped get him through the horror and monotony of those three years. In prison, you were his wife. The warm and sweet smile he would come home to, one day.

You’d visited him, too. You hadn’t taken Lena, but you’d come. Just a few times, always against Smurf’s wishes, but you’d checked on him. And he had wished with every part of his fucking being that you had come because he wasn’t just your friend, he wasn’t just Lena’s uncle, but because you cared about him. Because you missed him as much as he missed you. And he missed you and your lovely eyes and your gorgeous smile every. Fucking. Day.

This is for Lena. You’re both here for Lena.

And yes, he is almost positive that Smurf has an ulterior motive. That she knows exactly how Pope feels about you and that she’s going to use this to control him or even you, somehow. She’ll see this arrangement as her ‘giving’ you to him, as horrible as it may be. He’ll owe her for it.

But Lena will be safe. You’ll be safe. He can make sure of that.

And you won’t ever know how often he thinks about tilting your head back and sliding his lips over yours. About the noises he daydreams of hearing you make as his hands move over your body. Those hands have caused so much damage and pain for so long, but when they touch you they won’t be weapons. They’ll be as gentle as he can possibly make them as they slide over every perfect inch of soft skin he can reach.

And if he could just fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with you wrapped safely in his arms, with the smell of your perfume in his nose and the feeling of your steady breathing against his chest, he would truly be the happiest man in the world. You came close, once. When he sat with you for a while after Lena went to bed and he watched you fight yawn after yawn as you watched some random TV show together. Your head had finally thunked against his shoulder, and he had been too afraid to breathe lest he wake you and you stop touching him for even a second.

He had allowed himself to turn his nose into the top of your head. Had allowed himself one deep inhale.

He’d chased that memory for weeks, had felt so fucked up as he groaned your name into his pillow and imagined burying his nose into your hair and catching that scent of perfume and shampoo as you writhed beneath him. In those moments, alone in the dark of his empty house, his imagination would replace his own hand with you. His own labored breaths with the sound of your voice, breathing his name and begging for more as he made you feel so fucking good you would never be able to think of anyone else.

And then he would see you again the next day. He’d buy you and Lena ice cream and melt a little at the sight of your smile. He’d feel ashamed of the thoughts he had just the night before as his eyes lingered on the way your mouth wrapped around that little plastic spoon and he would nearly have to excuse himself and leave mid-conversation before he broke and slammed you into a picnic table to lick the mint chocolate chip from your lips himself.

And now you’re his fucking wife. You’re going to be living with him. Raising Lena with him. How the fuck is he supposed to keep himself together? How is he supposed to keep himself in check to be good for you?

And yet, despite how insane and wrong it might be, he’ll take this. He will wear the title of your husband, fake as it may be, like a badge of fucking honor that he will never deserve. He’ll think about kissing you, and touching you, and hold himself back from doing either of those things every single day of his life.

But he will be your husband. You’ll be his wife.

And maybe, secretly, horribly, he’ll pretend.

-

The after party, unlike the ceremony, is not small.

It’s loud. Chaotic. Takes over the entire backyard of the Cody house and makes you feel like you want to cave in on yourself. You don’t mind parties. You know Pope doesn’t like them. Even now, he’s sitting in the corner and nursing a beer, eyes still locked on you as you take a shot with Craig and do your absolute best to follow the plan. This party isn’t about having fun, at least not for you and Pope. It’s about optics. It’s about making it clear that you are now a complete, unarguable member of the Cody family.

For what might be the hundredth time tonight, your eyes drift to Pope’s. His remain locked on yours. You take a deep breath, and take another shot.

You aren’t drunk when he approaches you, but you are buzzed enough to be giggling at one of Deran’s jokes.

And then his voice is by your ear, low and soft. When his arm slides around your waist, tugs you back against him, you almost wonder if this is supposed to be part of the plan.

“You okay?” He asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear and voice so low you know you’re the only one who can hear him.

“And finally,” Craig shouts, raising another shot into the air and immediately drawing the attention of the group of people around you, “here comes the blushing groom!”

The room is suddenly filled with loud, drunken cheers. You tilt your head back, relaxing against Pope and leaning up to brush your lips over his jaw. You don’t imagine the way his arm tightens around you at the movement, but you plaster a wide grin on your face as you murmur back to him, “do you think we did enough? Can we leave?” Leave isn’t a very fitting word - the two of you are staying here tonight, but you’ll take anything that gets you away from the strangers and the chaos.

Pope smiles, and it doesn’t look entirely fake.

In a second, he’s reaching down and hooking his free arm behind your knees, lifting you against him and beginning to make his way into the back room without a word. Your own laugh is genuine, and you’re followed by cheers and whoops and some very suggestive noises as you disappear down the hallway.

-

“Are you…okay?” He keeps asking you that. You still don’t know how to answer.

Your head tilts toward his, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m in a sham marriage to ensure that a little girl I love doesn’t get forgotten by the system. I’ve had less weird days.”

“I mean…with me? Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”

“Would you? If I asked?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds uncomfortable.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.” Right. Prison. Shit.

“I didn’t know you even slept.”

He ignores your joke, your awkward attempt at deflection, and asks again. “Do you want me to move?”

“I…no.” You don’t. It surprises you how much you don’t.

You roll onto your side, tuck an arm beneath your head, and meet his stare. You’re both fully clothed, lying atop the covers of a large bed in a guest room, and you’re pretty sure that everyone at the party thinks you’re going at each other like bunny rabbits.

It’s quiet in here. It’s comfortable. Being around Pope Cody is always so comfortable. You genuinely don’t get why people are always so unnerved by him. He’s quiet, sure. Dangerous, maybe. But he has a presence that, at least to you, is calming and warm in a way you’ve never felt with anyone else before.

“Do you think this was a bad idea?”

He frowns. Furrows his brow. He rolls on his side to face you, too, and you see his hand twitch, just barely, like he might reach up and touch you.

“No. It was for Lena.” He pauses, brow crinkling again. “Do you regret it?”

“No.” For some reason, with the way the moonlight is hitting his face and alighting on the worried expression in his eyes, you can’t help but reach up, your new ring catching in the low light of the bedroom as you brush your fingers over his cheek. The gesture feels too intimate for your current arrangement. More than a little confusing. And yet, Pope blows out a shuddered breath, and leans into your touch.

After a moment, he returns the gesture, his own calloused fingers brushing the hair from your face, even as his eyes remain locked on yours.

You’re not sure how it happens, not sure who moves first, but in what feels like the span of a second and a thousand years all at the same time, his forehead is resting against your own, large hand still cradling your cheek and warm breath whispering over your lips on every barely-there exhale.

“Pope…” you murmur, and he leans helplessly closer.

“Andrew.” He murmurs back, noses bumping, brown eyes fluttering closed. “My name is Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You repeat, and you’ve hardly ever used his real name. Only hours ago, you said it in your ‘vows’, and even then it felt foreign on your tongue.

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow, careful like he’s worried he might break you with any too-sudden movements, and still it makes your heart hammer in your chest and drop to your stomach. He kisses you so slowly, so deeply, that you lose all track of time and thought. His hands are on your face, cradling you against him like you’re a delicate piece of glass that he may shatter at any moment if he holds it too tightly, and yet he kisses you like he’s dying. Like every movement of your lips against his is something he’s never even allowed himself to want, but now that he has it he’s going to cherish every fucking moment.

You stop thinking. You stop regretting. Stop worrying. You just let yourself…feel.

Your fingers curl in his hair as the kiss deepens, as he rolls atop you until you’re pressed between his body and the sheets and it feels so good you think you might pass out.

“Andrew.” You whisper again, the name nearly swallowed by his lips, and he groans so deeply at the sound that you can feel it in your fucking toes.

Your fingers fly up to the buttons of his shirt, desperation for more coursing through your veins like liquid fire. His own skate reverently up your thigh, pulling your simple white dress up with them, and he breaks away from you just long enough to duck his face down into the hollow of your throat.

“Tell me to stop.” He half whispers, and the sound of his voice alone pulls a whimper from your throat that has him groaning again as he rocks his hips against yours, hand slamming up to the headboard behind your head like he’s trying to keep himself still above you. “If we…I don’t think I can hold back.”

“Don’t.” You breathe, and this is stupid. This is a bad idea. “Don’t stop. Don’t hold back.”

He pauses, like he’s trying to collect himself.

If he is, he fails at it.

His mouth crushes against yours, and you give up on undoing his shirt and simply yank it apart, hearing buttons scatter as he reaches up to help you pull it off of him. He grabs the back of your thigh, all-but manhandling you beneath him in one swift movement as he pushes the hem of your dress up over your thighs and presses your body between the mattress and his own.

You reach up, trying to help him unclasp the back of the dress, and he makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he catches your wrists in one hand and slams them back against the pillows above you.

“I’ll do it.”

You meet his eyes, and they’re fucking burning. Dark and starved in a way that should probably make your survival instincts explode with some kind of trepidation. They don’t. Instead, your breath catches in your throat, and you nod.

His hand releases your wrists, sliding around your back until he’s pulling you up with him and you’re straddling his lap, nearly shaking with something between anticipation and restraint as he unbuttons your dress and slides it over your shoulders with a shaky exhale.

And then he’s kissing you again. Kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, only pulling back far enough to slide the garment up and over your head before his mouth is on yours once more, and your hands are tugging him out of his pants, and his own hand tangles in your hair as he lowers you onto your back.

He’s usually so…awkward, so quiet and still that his movements in this moment shock you to your fucking core. He moves atop you like he was born to, traces over your jaw with his tongue like he’s desperate for the taste of you. He just spent three years in prison, and you’re not sure what kind of human connection he’s had since then, but he still takes the time to slide his hand down your stomach and work you apart until every breath you draw is a sharp and desperate gasp into his mouth. Still crawls down your body and drags his blunt teeth up the inside of your thigh without ever once breaking eye contact like it’s a form of fucking worship.

The distant sound of the party still raging down the hall vanishes, taking every ounce of anxiety with it as he makes you fall apart once. Twice. Drags himself back up you and pulls your hand away from where it’s covering your mouth in a weak attempt to keep you from screaming his name.

“Don’t. Let me hear you.” He growls against your ear, and when he pushes inside of you for the first time you make a noise that has him snapping his hips forward so roughly that your nails might dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.

His groan vibrates through your entire body, but he still reaches up to brush the hair from your face, angling your head back to kiss you again even as he murmurs, “sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”

You forget everything that isn’t him as Andrew Cody pulls you apart piece by piece with his lips and tongue and words. Words spoken so softly against your skin that you would barely be able to hear them if he hadn’t made himself the center of your fucking universe tonight. If you could even dream of focusing on anything other than his mouth against your skin, his soft praise as you move with him, his growled expletives as your nails drag down over his back, his whisper of your name in your ear as he takes you like you are every vice ever created and he is ready to drown himself in the addiction.

And when it’s over, after you’ve nearly sobbed his name until you forgot your own and he bit down on your collarbone and pressed your joined hands into the pillow beside your head with a groan that ingrained itself into your very bones, you can’t remember how to pull yourself back to earth.

“That…” you try, and fail, “I’m…woah.”

Pope huffs a soft laugh against your neck, and pulls you into his arms until he’s on his back and your head is resting against his chest.

“Your legs are shaking.” He observes, sounding a little too proud of himself in that quiet way he has, as his fingers skate through your messy hair.

“Shut up.” You try, and he laughs again. The sound of it is so reserved, so soft and warm, that it makes you hum as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.

You’re asleep within minutes. Exhausted, sweaty, and more content than you can remember being in a very long time.

-

You wake before him.

You have no idea what time it is, but you know it must be early. Early enough, at least, for you to be the first one up. Everyone still hanging around after the party will likely sleep until the afternoon, but Pope usually wakes at dawn. And yet, now, his chest is rising and falling in a slow and steady rhythm beneath your ear.

You’ve never seen him sleep before.

You’re about to pull back to look at him, to drink in whatever expression may be on his face, when something else catches your attention.

There, on his bare stomach, your hands are joined together. Your wedding ring blinks up at you, and his own simple band rests just above it.

Married. You’re married. For Lena.

What happens if the two of you start something, and it doesn’t work out? All that kid has lost, all of the drama and horror she’s endured in her young life, and she would just be…abandoned again.

Shit.

You shift your head, just barely, and feel Pope stir. Light sleeper, then. Makes sense.

His fingers curl a little more tightly around yours, like he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it, and you feel a soft breath against the top of your head as he realizes that you’re awake, too.

For a moment, he’s silent. It isn’t uncomfortable, just his usual version of quiet.

“Do you want to…borrow clothes?” He finally asks, lips brushing against the top of your head, and you almost laugh. Because this is how Andrew Cody works. He isn’t exactly one to wax poetic, even after a night like last night. He just takes care of you, like he always tries to take care of everyone, in his silent and sweet way.

His hand skates up over your bare back, the touch warm and reverent, and you allow yourself to lie with him for a moment. To enjoy this.

“I don’t think I can pull off one of those buttoned up shirts.” You joke, resting your chin against his chest and blinking sleepily up at him. Something in his brown eyes goes very, very soft as he looks down at you, and a part of you melts at the sight.

“I have t-shirts.”

You do laugh, now. “I know. Just kidding.”

“Do you…like the shirts?”

“I do, yeah.” You slide your fingers over his stomach, wrap your arms around him like he’s an oversized teddy-bear, and he responds with a hum as he pulls you closer to him.

And, despite your decision, despite the fact that you need to cut this off before it really starts, every muscle in your body relaxes as his lips find yours. As he kisses you so slowly, so languidly, so sweetly that you lose all track of time and space.

He feels so good, and this feels so right that it would scare you even if it weren’t for Lena. If it weren’t for all of the other fucking factors pulling you apart.

“I think…” his lips are on your neck, and his fingers are sliding up the inside of your bare thigh, and you can’t think. “We…shit, we shouldn’t do this.,” you reach down to stop his hand, and he acquiesces immediately, pulling back to look down at you with those lovely brown eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. Swallow. “I don’t… if we start something, and it doesn’t work, Lena will get hurt. She’ll feel abandoned again.”

He pauses, and reaches up to smooth your hair back again, like he’s just trying to…touch you. Somehow. Any way he can. “You think it won’t work?”

“I…no.” You admit, almost instinctively turning your face into his palm. “But we can’t know for sure. I don’t want to risk it. Not right now.”

He frowns, thumb brushing your cheek, and nods. “Okay.”

And God help you, you lean up to kiss him again.

He makes a soft noise, somewhere between desperation and torture, and the feeling of his body pressing helplessly against yours makes any thoughts of responsibility fly out the damn window.

And when you pull back, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath ghost over your lips, it is very very hard to convince yourself that this is the right decision.

-

Pope Cody isn’t sure if he’s living in heaven or hell.

Heaven. Surely. Most of the time, he’s absolutely convinced it’s heaven. Because you’re with him all the time. He gets to hear your laugh. See your smile. Feel your presence every single day. He gets to sit with you on the couch with Lena, and watch the two of you as you help her color or do a puzzle or something equally…peaceful. It’s peaceful, this life. Sure, there are still the jobs. There’s still the guilt. But he gets to come home to you and Lena and he gets to smell your perfume on his pillow and watch your relaxed expression as you sleep beside him.

And sometimes, it’s hell. Because he wants more so selfishly that it feels like a fucking sickness. Maybe it was better before. Before he knew what you tasted like. What you felt like, moving beneath him and with him and moaning his name into his ear like the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. He knows what it feels like to wake up with you, naked in his arms, soft skin against his own and contentment like nothing he’s ever known swelling in his chest.

And he can’t have that again. Because you’re right. He loves you so, so much, but you’re right. If anything were to happen, Lena would be hurt by it. He’ll never stop loving you - he knows that more than he knows how to breathe - but something could happen. His life is chaos. Dangerous. He never knows what horror might come his way next.

But he can have you now, like this, and sometimes he can pretend. He can keep up appearances with you. Get to slide his fingers between yours and feel the ring on your finger when you meet with Lena’s teachers. Murmur something in your ear at one of the parties at Smurf’s house and feel you smile in response.

And he wants to kiss you. When you’re laughing at dinner, he wants to stand up from the table and stalk over to you and press his mouth to yours. He wants to make his way into the bathroom when you’re showering, and stand beneath the water with you until the sounds of your pleasure echo off of the tile. He wants to nuzzle his nose into your hair and inhale the scent of your shampoo when you sit on the couch with him. He wants to pull you into his arms in the mornings and whisper how much he loves you as you wake up. He wants you more, and it’s selfish and shitty because what he has now is already more than he could ever fucking deserve.

So he suffers, and is simultaneously the happiest he has ever fucking been. And he endures, and he loves you.

-

Your first fight happens on a Tuesday.

“She doesn’t need a therapist.” Pope says, in that low and intense way he always has, as he stands over the sink and meticulously scrubs the dishes.

Your eyes snap up, and you have to stop the incredulous laugh that nearly bursts from you at his statement. “Yes, she fucking does.”

“She’s fine.” He looks at you. Drops his eyes to the ring on your finger. Looks back up at your face. “She’s got us.”

He looks at the ring a lot. Like when the two of you take Lena for ice cream on the beach, and he wordlessly hands you a cup of your favorite flavor. Or when he makes Lena’s lunch for school in the morning, meticulously laying out the cheese on top of the ham on top of the lettuce like he’s performing some kind of surgery while you get so wrapped up in conversation with him that you don’t even notice that he’s made you one too until he’s handing you a little brown paper bag.

You curl your fingers a little, and do your best to keep your eyes from trailing down to your hand. To keep from looking at the gold band on his own.

“She needs more than just us.”

“What does that mean?” He’s still scrubbing the same plate.

“Her parents are gone, Pope. She lost them both in a year. And now she’s being raised by her nanny and a fucking bank robber and-“

Pope freezes, and turns to you, and the look in his eyes shuts you right the hell up.

“A what?”

You should probably take it back. Or at the very least, backtrack a little, but you’ve been married a month and social workers are already showing up to talk to you both and the adoption process is going fucking nowhere and you’re honestly sick and fucking tired of pretending to be more in the dark than you are.

“Come on, of course I know what you do. I’m not stupid. Or blind. Or fucking deaf.” And Craig has always been very stupidly candid with you about being stressed about a job or being pushed around by Baz and Pope and even Jay. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Lena-“

“How much do you know.” He doesn’t say it like a question, he says it like a command, and that pisses you off a little more than you want to admit.

“Enough, but not everything. I don’t want to know everything.”

He moves to the other side of the counter, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as he repeats the question. “How much do you know?”

You don’t back down. “Not. Everything.” You grit out, pushing back from your chair to plant your hands on the counter and stare him down. “I don’t need to. I know you rob places. I watch the news. I don’t need to know anything else.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt.” You snap, frustrated. “I don’t need to know anything that could endanger any one of you if the wrong people ask. Keep me in the fucking dark. But if you’re gonna be so damn secretive maybe stop mentioning jobs and banks and carrying fucking guns around the fucking nanny.”

“You’re not the nanny anymore.” His eyes drop to the ring again, before they dart back up to your face.

“And what am I then? Because the adoption process isn’t exactly going our way.” You lean closer, and you can feel your own eyes burning into his. “Safe and okay are two very different things, Pope. She’s neither of those right now. And shockingly, the ex-con marrying the former nanny isn’t tossing us to the top of the Good Future Parent list.”

To your surprise, Pope’s eyes drop to your mouth. And yet, his voice is still a furious rasp when he speaks again.

“Andrew.”

You blink. His gaze does not falter.

“My name is Andrew.”

For a moment, you can’t remember why you’re mad. All you can think about is the way he murmured that on your wedding night, the way his fingers tangled in your hair and he pressed his body against yours until you were moaning that name. Until you forgot every name that wasn’t Andrew.

“She needs therapy.” You try again, but the intensity of his gaze on your mouth feels like a kiss all on its own and you can’t remember how to breathe right.

“She doesn’t.”

“She will be taken away from us.” Your palm slaps against the counter. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away from you.

He just frowns, and his eyebrows do that little twitchy thing, before his gaze flickers back up to your eyes.

“It didn’t work for me.”

“But it might for her.” You try, meeting his eyes. Fuck, he’s beautiful. “Andrew, we can love her, but we can’t help her. Not like that. It’s not enough.”

He stays quiet. He moves back to the sink, and starts scrubbing the dish again.

You move over from behind the counter, and catch his arm.

“Stop that.” Your voice is firm, and he doesn’t look up again. “Please.”

His eyes finally rise to yours, and he goes very still.

“Fight with me.” Your voice is too soft for this argument, but you don’t care. “I need you to fight with me. You have opinions. I do too. Stop scrubbing the paint off of that thing, and argue.”

His eyes drop to your mouth again, before they move back up to your own.

“I don’t want to get angry.”

“You’re already angry.” You don’t break his gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” You’ve never been more confident of anything in your life.

He sets the plate down, moves forward, and cages you in against the counter so quickly that you gasp. The air shifts, and his eyes are so dark that you wonder if you should be afraid. Better yet, if there’s something wrong with you because you don’t feel afraid.

“I don’t want to lose Lena.” When did the air in here get so thin? Why can’t you draw breath right? His nose ducks down, moving slowly up over your throat until he’s face to face with you again, gaze burning into yours. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.” You swallow. “You won’t. She just needs-“

His hand is at the small of your back, forehead against yours and an intensity in his eyes that is so heavy it makes your knees wobble.

“She needs help.”

“She’ll think something is wrong with her.” He presses even closer, like he’s not aware that he’s doing it, and you can’t tell if he’s frustrated or seeking comfort. If this is how he gets frustrated with you, you aren’t sure if this or any argument is going to get very far.

“Did you think something was wrong with you?”

His lips are almost brushing your own. His hand slides up beneath your shirt, feeling the skin of your back. He doesn’t answer for a long, tense moment. Your skin burns beneath his touch and it feels way, way too good.

“There’s a lot wrong with me.”

You want him so badly it hurts. “This isn’t what I meant by fighting.”

“I can’t fight with you.” His lips brush yours for the briefest of seconds as his nose skates over your cheek. As his fingers curl against your back. “I want to. I’m trying. I can’t…”

You can’t remember how to breathe right for the life of you. Your hand moves up as if of its own accord, and your fingers slide through his hair. This is the closest you’ve been to each other since your wedding night. Sure, you sleep in the same bed, but he’s usually in bed after you and awake before you. He doesn’t linger. You wonder now if he’s been doing that on purpose. If this is what he’s been trying to avoid. If he was really so close to snapping that all it took was high emotions and you coming into his space for five fucking seconds.

The thought makes you shiver, and hand moves up over your back again, like he senses the silent question and his touch is the answer. His lips find the hollow of your throat. Just one soft, simple kiss, but it makes you feel like you’re on fucking fire.

“I…” you start, seconds away from pulling him back and slamming your mouth to his, when a soft voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“Can I watch TV?”

Pope releases you, stepping back, and you wonder how flushed your face must be as you look down to see Lena standing in the doorway, holding a stuffed bunny.

You blink, and try to focus on anything but the absence of Pope’s hands on your skin.

“Nightmares again?” You ask, and she nods.

And just like that, it’s over, and you spend the next hour sitting with Lena and watching cartoons as Pope returns to the dishes, gaze like a physical touch against your back.

And, not for the first time, you wonder how the fuck you’re going to manage this marriage.

-

Lena is gone.

And you kept it together. You kept it all together. You didn’t cry or scream or even try to fight with Pope after the social workers took her away. When she went into the system and you just had to sit there, helpless, and watch her get into that car.

And you showed up, when Pope went down to the office and made a scene. You all-but dragged him out of there, followed closely by security guards, and let him wrap his arms around you in the parking lot as you both shook with grief and worry and pain. You buried your face in his shoulder, and promised you would get her back. You both would. You’ll figure it out, because you love her, and you’re going to fight tooth and nail to make sure she knows how much you do.

And then Smurf, fucking fresh-out-of-prison Smurf, actually got her back. And it all went to shit.

“Why…” you pause, eyes scanning the room. The movers. The pink. She doesn’t even like pink. Why is there so much pink? “Why is it…here?”

“It’s just for now.” Smurf answers, flippant. “You just got her taken away. Andrew is an ex-convict. The courts will be a lot more lenient if she stays with me for a while.”

You feel cold. You fight the urge to fidget with your ring.

“But we’re…” married. You and Pope got married. That was supposed to help. She told you that.

She doesn’t even look up from where she’s folding yet another small pile of pink clothes. “You know, it would probably be best for you two to stay here, too. To keep her comfortable.”

Oh.

Oh fuck, you’re an idiot.

And then Lena is dropped off, and she’s miserable, and she wants to go home. Not home with you and Pope. Not home to the house. Home to her foster family, and her new sister.

And it all hits you like a fucking brick to the face.

This. This whole life is not safe for her. She has the opportunity to thrive, and grow, and live in a world where she will never be a pawn in someone else’s schemes. As much as you love her, as much as Pope loves her, this world is never going to be safe or healthy for her.

She’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna break your fucking heart, but she’s gonna be okay.

So you find Pope, and you fight your tears back, and you both take her back to her foster house. You take her home.

The car ride back to Smurf’s is silent.

It takes six minutes for you to break.

“Pull over.”

He does.

You lurch out of the truck, wondering if you’re going to be sick, and nearly stumble off of the side of a cliff before he catches you.

And he holds you too tightly. Tries to murmur something too sweet against your hair as the tears try to fight their way free. His arms feel too good around you. His touch is too comforting. You want to melt into him, and you can’t.

“This was all so fucking stupid.” You breathe, ragged and pained, and he holds you closer.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” You whirl on him, try to shove him back, and he lifts you and spins you back towards the car and away from the cliff before he lets you go. “This whole fucking thing was just…we were just…” breathe. You can’t breathe right. “She tricked us. Don’t you get it? She fucking made me a Cody so she can control you through Lena and she can control me somehow and this is all so fucked up, Pope-“

“Andrew.”

You pause, momentarily distracted despite your horror and anger. “Why do you do that?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Why do you correct me when we’re fighting? Or…” Memories of your wedding night rip through you, threatening to overwhelm you even more. You push them back so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.

He doesn’t answer again, and you glare so hard you think your eyes might actually be burning.

“It makes me feel better, when you say it. I don’t like it when you’re upset with me.”

“Why the fuck aren’t you upset?”

“I am.” His head ducks, and tilts to the side a little as he looks at you with that familiar intensity. And then, quieter, he repeats, “I am.”

You pause at the pain in his voice. Feel your heart constrict so hard it hurts.

“It didn’t work.” You finally say, agony and grief ripping through you like your soul has been tossed into a fucking wood chipper. “It didn’t work, and I’m… I’m not going to be a fucking pawn in whatever game Smurf is playing.”

“I won’t let you.” Pope says, fingers flexing like he might move towards you. “I won’t let her hurt you.”

“She already has. All of this shit is…it’s too…” you sniffle, to your humiliation, and run a hand through your hair. “It’s over. It didn’t work. This is done. It needs to be done.” Because you’re all that’s left, and she is going to use you to hurt him now, and you can’t let that happen.

It needs to be done.

-

You show up, of all places, at Craig Cody’s place with a duffel under your arm and tears in your eyes.

“Oh shit.” He has a bottle of tequila in his hand. He’s shirtless, and there are people inside.

“I’m…interrupting.” You mumble, suddenly feeling oddly small. Oddly pathetic. But that’s why you’re here, because he has never made you feel that way. Never spoken down to you, never shown you anything but respect despite his ridiculous lifestyle and poor decision making skills. Even when you were just the nanny, and he hit on you so much it was borderline ridiculous, there was something about him that was…good. Lost, of course, but good.

You turn to go.

“Nuh uh. Hey, c’mere.” He spins you, and suddenly crushes you to him so tightly that your noise of surprise is muffled by his chest.

“You smell like sweat.” You mumble, miserable, and he laughs so hard that you shake in his dumb gigantic arms.

“Just got back from the water.” His hand comes up to the back of your head, an odd brotherly touch that makes you actually start to fucking cry. He holds you tighter, smushing you even more against him, and drops his chin against the top of your hair.

“Want me to beat Pope’s ass?”

You shake your head.

“Want some coke?”

You puff an irritated breath, and he laughs again.

“Okay, okay.” He pats your back, and pulls back a little. “How ‘bout a shot?”

You take the bottle from his hand, and take a swig.

“There ya go.” You sputter a little, and he pats your back. “C’mon. You stayin’ here for a bit?”

You nod, and take another swig from the bottle.

“You’re lucky I’ve got a guest room.” Craig ruffles your hair, and you frown as he takes the bottle back from you. “My couch is uncomfortable as fuck.”

“Well, better than - wait, what are you - hey!”

He crouches, grabs you, and tosses you over his shoulder, duffel bag and all, and as he walks back into his house with a shouted announcement of his ‘new roommate’, you decide that maybe the Codys aren’t all bad.

-

“Ow. Ow. Ow.” You mumble, curled into a chair in the corner of Craig’s kitchen with your head in your hands.

“Pope’s freakin’ out, by the way.”

“Thank you. You’re really helping.” You cross your arms on the counter, and bury your face in them, muffling your next words. “How’re you not hungover?”

“I’m hungover as shit.” You hear the fridge open, and hear the frown in Craig’s voice as he examines whatever is inside. “We should get something delivered.”

“We should burn this place to the ground. Might be the only way to get it clean.”

“You sound like your husband.”

“Don’t call him that.”

You don’t lift your head, but you feel Craig lean against the other side of the counter. He chuckles, and ruffles your hair until you groan and try to squirm away. “Damn, I knew you didn’t party, but a few shots of tequila took you out.”

“Shut up.” It was more than a few. Actually, you vaguely remember him holding your hair back in the front yard at some point.

He ruffles your hair again, presumably just to mess with you, and you swat him away.

“Gotta go to Smurf’s in a few.” He finally says, popping open a beer as you peek an eye open to glare at him. “Want me to tell Pope that you’re here?”

You frown, and shake your head.

He frowns back. “He’s freaking out.”

“Why? Lena’s gone. Doesn’t matter.”

“You know you’re being a dick, right?”

“Rude.”

“And you know he’s like, obsessed with you.”

Your heart twists, and you narrow your eyes. “He’s not.”

He puffs a laugh, and takes a swig of his beer. “Sure, sure.” He pats your cheek until you look up at him, eyes squinted and head pounding.

“Damn, you still look hot hungover.” He says, grinning, and you glare harder. “Shoulda got to you first. You wouldn’t have gone for me, though. You’re fuckin’ perfect for Pope.”

“M’not-“

“Go back to bed. Sleep all day. Not like you’ve got anything to do if you’re gonna be in hiding.” Craig cuts you off, already moving to the door to pull his boots on.

“You’re a tool.” You grouch, settling your aching head back into your arms.

“You came to me.” He retorts, and you groan again as you hear the door shut behind him.

-

You don’t talk to Pope Cody for two months.

You don’t take the ring off.

Deran gives you a job at the bar, and you’re good at it. You work too hard, too much, just to shut your brain off for as long as humanly possible before you have to go home and think about Lena. About Pope.

Weirdly enough, living with Craig isn’t too bad. Sure, you have to deal with the parties, have to clean up beer bottles in the mornings and kick him awake sometimes as his phone blows up with calls from his brothers.

But even when he’s fucked up, even when he’s acting like an asshole, he’s always there for you. Sometimes he sits and watches TV with you, rather than going out. Sometimes you manage to drag him to the grocery store, or even get him to clean the house as he grumbles about how ridiculous and uptight you are.

One day, he comes home, and doesn’t joke. Doesn’t comment about you being a neat-freak (you’re not, but you’re not about to let him leave dishes in the sink for a fucking month), and sits on the coffee table across from where you lay on the couch.

You raise your eyebrows, having just flopped down onto the cushions, still in your work uniform and aching with exhaustion.

“You gotta go over there.” His voice is serious, and his eyes are doing that crazy intense thing. Kind of like Pope, but different. You’ve always blamed the drugs, but now you wonder if it’s a familial trait.

“To Smurf’s?” You frown. “Why?”

“He’s fuckin’ losing it, that’s why.” Craig doesn’t snap at you, but the tone of his voice is sharp enough to catch your attention. “All he ever does is sit in front of the TV or stand in the yard and break shit. It’s fucking creepy.”

“You always call him creepy.” And yet, your resolve is already cracking. Shit.

“I don’t get this. You married him. You get along great. Like, better than I’ve ever seen him get along with anyone. He’s obsessed with you. You fucked on your wedding night, but you tell me you haven’t done anything since and with all that damn staring I believe you- hey!”

You swat at him, eyes wide with horror. “How the fuck did you know that?”

“Jesus, chill. You hit me a lot, you know that?”

“Craig!”

“Dude, my room was right next door to that guest room. I was trying to hook up too, but the sound of my brother getting off is kind of a boner killer.”

“That and the pounds of coke.” You grouch, still trying and failing to hide your mortification.

“That’s never been a problem. I’m built different.”

“You’re the fucking worst. Seriously, I’m gonna-“

“Smurf’s got him fighting.”

And there it goes. The last bit of hesitation. Your eyes snap upwards, concern curling in your stomach.

“What?”

“Yeah. Boxing matches and shit.” Craig looks genuinely earnest. “He’s fucked up, dude. Something’s not right. He’s got this look in his eyes like…like he doesn’t give a shit what happens to him.”

That’s all it takes.

You’re out the door in five minutes.

-

When you find him, he’s sitting in the yard, staring at the moon.

You don’t think he even notices your approach as you make your way around the pool, but when you get closer, he turns to look up at you so slowly that you wonder if he’s been aware of your presence since you pulled into the driveway.

His eyes are dark. His face is bruised and cut and you can’t hold back a sharp breath at the sight. Fuck. He looks like he got put through a fucking meat grinder.

“Holy shit.” You whisper, crouching down beside him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his eyes away from you. Doesn’t even blink.

“Are you real?” His voice a whisper of gravel, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel that fell from heaven and landed in the grass before him. Like he’s living up to his nickname and fucking worshipping you.

You nearly burst into tears. You feel something crack in your chest. Something deeper and more vital than your heart.

You reach out, and brush your fingers over a healing cut below his eye. And then, like a woman possessed, you move until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and press your forehead against his.

“I’m real.” You whisper back, fingers sliding into his hair. “I’m real, Andrew.”

His breath rattles in his lungs. His hand shakes as it comes up to move over your back, pulling you closer to him when you don’t vanish with a gentle, aching desperation.

His head drops down to your shoulder, and he turns to bury his face in your neck. Your fingers continue to skate through his soft curls, and the sob that rips its way from his throat makes that final piece of your soul shatter like broken glass.

You hold each other like that for some time, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as Pope holds you like you could disappear any moment.

“Don’t leave again.” He finally whispers, and you hold him a little tighter.

“I won’t.” You murmur. “Not tonight.”

“Don’t leave ever. Please. Please, I’ll…I’ll do anything. Stay. Stay with me.” He crushes you to him almost too tightly, now, and your heart breaks.

“Andrew...” You whisper, but whatever you may have said is quickly cut off by his mouth as he kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Rough.

And you kiss him back.

The moment you do, he makes a noise that sounds almost pained, one large hand moving up to tangle in your hair as your breath stops in your throat. He shifts beneath you, lowering you until your back hits the grass as he slides his body atop yours and holds you to him like a mere inch of distance might kill him.

This is a bad idea. He’s clearly out of his mind. You’re both hurting too much.

And yet, it feels so fucking good you can’t think straight. Like this, this is everything you’ve been missing for all these weeks. You want to drown yourself in it. You want him to make it all better. You want to make it all better for him.

But you can’t. Even as you catch his lip between your teeth, arch your back beneath him, and hear him almost whimper as he presses you down against the grass, you can’t do this. Not now. Not like this.

You pull back, and he nearly sobs as he pushes you back down. As he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back so he can trace his tongue over your jaw.

“P-Pope-“ you try, and he shakes his head, nuzzling closer and rocking his hips against yours.

“Don’t. Don’t make me stop. Please.” His voice is low. Desperate. “Let me touch you. I-I’ll make it better. I’ll fix everything. Everything. Just stay with me.”

Everything in you screams to keep going. To never stop chasing this feeling. He senses your hesitation, and kisses you again like he knows that your brain is short-circuiting and he’s just too desperate to care. Like he can convince you if he just keeps trying.

“Stop…” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as his hand moves down your side, up beneath your shirt, trailing sparks behind the touch that make you bite back a whimper.

He hears it, and he doesn’t stop.

“You want me. I know you do. I know you. I can…I can fix this. Please. Please, let me fix this.”

Your body betrays you, back arching a little beneath him again, and he makes a soft noise of approval as his fingers begin to work the button of your jeans.

This isn’t right. He’s out of his fucking mind right now. This isn’t right.

“Pope.” You try again, hand reaching down to catch his wrist as his fingers begin to skate beneath your waistband.

“Call me Andrew. Say my name.” He pleads, breath warm and ragged against your ear, and it takes every ounce of strength in your heart to pull at his wrist as his fingers slide lower. Lower.

“Stop.” You try again, and when he pulls back to kiss you, you turn your head away. “Pope. Stop.”

Finally, he freezes. His hand pauses, and you can feel his entire body shake with restraint and hunger above you. “Don’t make me.” One last, desperate plea.

“Stop.” You say again, and he moves back with a subtle, heartbroken little nod.

You re-button your jeans, and push yourself away as he pulls back a little more. He’s breathless. His eyes are still dark as they look over you, still pained and lacking clarity, and you nearly start to cry at the horrified tone of his voice when he asks his next question.

“Did I hurt you?”

No. God, no. You’re about to fall apart with how badly you want him. With how hard it is to keep from flinging yourself into his embrace again. But he’s asking, because he’s so out of it that he doesn’t know. And you’re fucked up for letting it get this far.

“I have to go.” You whisper, pulling yourself upright on shaky feet. “I’m sorry. I…I have to go.”

He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t follow. He just watches you as you walk to the gate, and you feel his gaze linger like the soft prickle of frost until he’s out of sight.

And even then, when you get home, you still feel it. And you cry.

-

You’re shutting down the bar when he comes in.

“We’re closed.” You say, barely bothering to raise your gaze as the stranger pushes himself through the door, and you’re a little surprised to be met with silence. No drunken apologies or insistence that they’ll ‘jus’ be here f’r one.”

You look up.

The man before you is smiling. And it isn’t a good smile.

“Cody.” He says, like a predatory growl, and you freeze as he moves closer. Even with a foot of bar between you, the way his gaze is raking over your body feels like a physical touch. “Right? You’re Pope’s wife.”

You don’t back up. Remind yourself not to show weakness. “…Yeah. I am.”

On paper, yeah. But you’ve been in and around this family long enough to know that the title holds a certain amount of power. Pope Cody’s wife. A member of the Cody family. Maybe the confirmation will make this asshole-

“Good.” He says, and snatches your wrist faster than you can form your next thought. He yanks you half over the bar, grabs the back of your head, and slams you onto it.

You’re out cold the moment your head makes contact with the wooden surface, and you don’t even have a quarter of a second to realize that you are absolutely fucked.

-

Your head is pounding. You taste blood. There’s warmth trickling down from your temple.

You’re on the ground, cold concrete pressed against your swollen cheek. Not good. Not good not good not good.

Somewhat shakily, you try to push yourself up, and a booted foot meets the small of your back to slam you back down hard enough that it pulls a sharp yelp from your throat.

“The fucking Codys…” the man grumbles, and you hear the pop of a beer bottle cap above you. Great. You just did inventory. Though that should probably be the least of your concerns right now. “They fucked me over, ya know? Met Pope in prison, he says when we get out we’ll do jobs, and then nothing. Not a fuckin’ word. He just comes home to his pretty wife and family and leaves me on the streets like a fuckin’ dog.”

You try to sit up again. The boot meets your back again. Your head screams with pain, and you have to fight the urge to curl in on yourself like a wounded animal.

“Gotta leave a message, sweetheart. You know how it is.”

Your focus is still swimming. Think. Think think think.

“Knew you’d be pretty, too. He talked about ya all the time. Gonna feel bad messing up that sweet face, though.”

You start to drag yourself up for a third time, but the man grabs your hair and yanks you quickly to your feet. It hurts. Everything hurts already, and you know that’s not a good sign. That it’s gonna hurt a lot more when the adrenaline wears off.

He slams you back against the bar, and his hand wraps around your throat until you can’t breathe.

He’s still holding your hair, hard enough that your eyes sting with tears of pain, and you can see a thousand horrible plans forming in his eyes as he looks you up and down. Your fingers scramble uselessly at the ones locked around your neck, and you blindly reach out to feel around the bar beside you with your free hand as your vision starts to swim with black spots.

“Thinkin’ I break those fingers first, sugar.” You can smell the whiskey and beer on his breath, a rancid mix that would probably make you choke if you weren’t already suffocating. You grit your teeth. You can feel consciousness slipping away, and you have maybe seconds before you pass out again from lack of oxygen. God knows how you’ll wake up after that. “Then we work down to that pretty little-“

Your fingers close around something metal, and you don’t think before you slam it hard into his neck.

He stumbles backward, hand flying up to where a fork now protrudes from his jugular, and you have never seen a man die before.

You don’t move. You watch every second. The way he falls to the ground. The way he convulses. The way his eyes begin to fog over and he stops trying to tug the fork out of his neck, body going limp before you.

You sink to the floor.

You can’t look away. For too long, you just stare at him. Watch the shaky rise and fall of his chest come to a shuddered halt as blood begins to pool beneath his body. So much blood. Too much blood. There’s no way a human body can have that much blood, is there?

Shock is cold and numbing. You can’t feel your fingertips. You can’t think. You don’t think you’re breathing, either.

He definitely isn’t breathing. He’s dead. You killed him.

Oh, fuck.

-

You should call the police. You should call Deran, the owner of the damn bar. Maybe Craig.

You don’t. You don’t even think to.

You call your husband.

He answers on the first ring. He’s on a job. They all are. You know better than to call any of them when they’re on a job.

The river of blood is spreading, and you kick away before it can reach your sneakers, until your back is pressed against the bottom part of the bar.

“Hey.” He sounds a little breathless. You hear a furious shout, and he mumbles a curse. “I’ll call you back in-“

“A-Andrew I…” Words. Words. You have to remember how to say words. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“What happened?” Pope’s voice is low. Gentle. Your ears are ringing.

“I-I don’t…I’m at the bar. I…he…” you shouldn’t say anything over the phone, right? You know that much. You can’t confess to killing someone over the phone. Oh God, you killed someone.

“Are you safe?”

No. Yes. You nod, before you realize that he can’t actually see you. “I think so.” You can’t stop staring at the body. You might be sick.

“I’ll be there.” Silence. A muffled argument. The slamming of a car door. And then, softer. “Don’t move, okay?”

You nod again.

It might take five minutes. It might take an hour. You haven’t moved. You’re not sure if you’ve even blinked. The phone is still pressed to you ear. You don’t remember when he hung up.

But Andrew Cody is suddenly crouching before you, hands painfully gentle as he reaches up to guide your hand and the phone gripped in it down into your lap. His jaw is tight, dark eyes more intense than you’ve ever seen them as he tilts your head to inspect what must be a nasty wound on your forehead. One side of your face hurts. You probably have a black eye, and your cheek feels warm with what is very likely blood.

“The body.” You whisper, eyes still locked on man on the ground, and this time he turns your face towards his own.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me.” Gentle. Soft. His voice can be so, so soft. He’s wearing what looks like a security guard uniform, with a heavy jacket and boots and backwards ballcap. It’s probably not appropriate right now to think that he looks unfairly good like this, and you wonder what they were robbing before you called him. You almost ask, still in too much shock to remember that you told him you don’t want to know.

But when you look at his face, and feel the way his thumb is brushing featherlight over your cheek, you almost reel back at the rage in his expression. It isn’t directed at you, but it’s burning so deeply that you can’t make yourself look away. His hands are gentle on you, yes, but everything else about him is screaming danger.

Oh. That’s why people are so fucking scared of him, huh? You’ve never seen it before. Never really understood it until now. Still, you couldn’t be less afraid of him if you tried.

You feel really cold, and really numb in a way that scares you, and you don’t think you ever want him to stop touching you.

When you inhale, he nods, like he’s acknowledging that you’re doing a good job, and brushes his fingers through your bloody hair as you wince.

“Where else did he hurt you?” He asks, and you feel those fingers curl a little against the back of your head. His eyes fall down to your neck, which aches and burns in a way that tells you that you probably have angry red marks from the man’s fingers around your throat.

Slammed to the floor. Boot on your back. Fork in his neck. So much blood. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” And you do, and you swallow.

Your shaky fingers come up to your throat. Neck. Fork in neck. Dead body and you’re the one that killed him.

“Can you stand?”

You nod again, and he lifts you to your feet, pulling you to him. He smells like gunpowder and bleach, and you press your nose into his shoulder and try to inhale the scent that you know better. The one that is soft and a little spicy and very much him.

He presses gently on the back of your head. “Here?”

You shake your head.

Lower, to your back. This time, you jump a little in his arms.

He nods, gentle and careful, and turns you to lift your shirt and inspect the wound.

You can’t see him, but you hear his breath get a little harsher. A little more shallow.

“Is it bad?” You ask, quiet and hoarse, and you feel him pull your shirt back down before he turns you and pulls you into his chest again. He’s breathing too shallowly. He’s holding you too tightly. He’s trying to keep himself calm, and it isn’t working.

“There’s a boot print. On your back.” He murmurs, and you wince at the memory of that boot kicking you back down.

You reach up, and slide your hands over his back, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, soothing him even as you seek comfort from him.

For a while, he holds you. Careful. Tight. Like if he loosens his grip even the smallest bit, something might rip you away.

Finally, he takes a deep breath, and presses his lips to the side of your head. Still gentle. Still soft.

“I’m gonna call Craig, okay? He’s gonna take you home, and then I’m gonna…take care of this.” The words are murmured into your hair, and you wince. Tense.

“No.” You feel so…weak. You fucking hate it, but you can’t think straight and the idea of Pope leaving you or even letting you go in this moment makes you feel fucking sick. “Don’t. Don’t go. Not right now.”

He goes impossibly more still, before he pulls back to trace his fingers over your bruised cheek, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your toes curl despite the situation.

“Okay.” His head tilts a little, in the direction of the back room. “Go in the back. Sit down.”

And you do.

You hear a few noises in the front room, the low sound of Pope’s voice on the phone, something being pulled from a storage closet, and then he’s crouching before you on the couch, fingers reaching up to brush over your neck once again before he pauses, like it just occurred to him that you might not want to be touched.

“Is this…okay?”

You nod. It hurts to speak, so you don’t bother to try. You don’t need to, with him. You never have.

He tilts your head to the side, fingers tightening imperceptibly on your chin as he sees the bruises once again, and for a moment you both just sit there in silence, staring at each other.

And maybe…maybe it’s because you’re alive. Maybe it’s because you just fucking killed a man. Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen him in over a month. Maybe it’s because you miss Lena and you miss him but…

But you pull him up with a hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, and you kiss him like you’re fucking drowning.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, but he kisses you back. He kisses you back like he’s fucking drowning, too. Like he missed you just as much as you missed him.

His hands slide up to your cheeks, so gentle it almost hurts more than your wounds, and you drag him down with you onto the couch. He comes like he’s magnetized to you, lays you back beneath him like you’re made of glass and every millimeter of his skin against yours is heaven on fucking earth.

He braces himself atop you, pulling back to meet your eyes, and you grab his face in your hands and drag his mouth back to yours and it is incredible. He feels incredible and you missed him so much you finally feel like you’re breathing again.

He parts your lips with his own, groans as tongue sweeps into your mouth like the taste of you is a drug, and you arch against him as he presses you down into the couch, the feeling of his own need quickly making itself evident against your thigh. This. This this this. The feeling of his control cracking, of his desperation to touch you making him walk the line between gentle and rough until every touch sends sparks through your body, this is what you need. What you missed. This is making it all better.

You whimper, and he kisses you harder, and you are on fucking fire as his teeth catch your bottom lip, hand sliding up to your cheek as you begin fumbling with his belt and he rocks his hips against yours and-

And then his calloused fingers press a little too hard against your bruised cheek, and you jump as pain shoots down your spine, and he pulls back like you just burned him.

“No. No no no-“ you start, out of your mind with lust and the desperate need to forget. Just for a minute. When he’s kissing you, when he’s against you, you feel so much better when all you’ve felt is emptiness and pain for months.

Let me forget. Let me forget please don’t make me think about what just happened and Lena and how much I missed you please please please just-

“Stop.” He rasps, breath ragged as his hand slides beneath your head, cradling it as his nose brushes over your cheek. He’s shaking with restraint, and you’re sure that if you can just get his damn belt off he’ll cave but his free hand comes down to catch your wrists and you almost fucking cry. “You’re hurt.” And then, softer, closer to your ear and dripping with guilt and regret, “you’re hurt.”

“I don’t care.” And you don’t. And it’s a little scary how much you don’t care. You just want him. You haven’t even seen him in weeks, since that night in the backyard, and you feel like everything might be better if he just keeps touching you.

You reach up to scrape your fingers through his hair, and his forehead drops against yours, his hold tightening on your hip.

“I can’t.” His voice is a low rasp, nose bumping against your own as his eyes fall closed like the mere feeling of you touching him may be all that he needs.

“Please, Andrew.”

He grips you tighter, and leans back down.

And then the door to the bar slams open, loudly enough that the sound echoes into the back room, and he pulls away like he’s just fallen back to earth.

You almost protest, but then Deran and Craig are pushing their way into the back, and Craig is crouching before you.

“Oh, fuck. You look like shit.”

You laugh, and then, to your horror, you start to cry.

“Fuck. Fuck, okay. I’ve gotcha.”  He pulls your face into his shoulder, like he might hide your ridiculous weeping, and turns his head to look at Pope. “You didn’t do any of this, right?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The level of danger in the other man’s voice nearly sends a chill down your spine.

“Chill, just checking.” Your head is pushed back again, surprisingly gently, and Deran hisses as he takes in the sight of you.

“Christ.” And then he’s beside you, touching the wound on your head. “She might need to go to Tijuana or some shit.”

“That’s for bullet wounds.” Pope snaps, eyes still on yours and body angled towards you like he might shove the two other men away at any moment. “She needs a few stitches. I’ve got her.”

“You’ve gotta take care of the…“

Body. The body. The body you made because you stabbed that guy in the neck and he-

“Take her home. I’ll be there soon.”

Craig nods, beginning to pull you to your feet. “Okay, c’mon. We can watch that dumb reality show you like. Just-“ he starts, and Pope stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Take her home.” He says, and the implication would make you frown if you weren’t still in shock. “Not to your place.”

Craig looks at you. You look at him. You look at Pope.

You turn back to Craig, and nod.

He steps back, and Pope moves forward to press his lips against your forehead, pulling back to tilt your chin up and look you in the eyes.

“I’ll be there soon. Is that okay?”

Always, always asking if you’re okay. Always checking on you. Always putting you first.

“Yeah.”

And when he leaves, and Craig takes you home, you feel his loss like a phantom limb.

-

Pope is gone for hours.

Craig fusses over your head for all three of those fucking hours.

“Fucking-ow!” You hiss, as he pulls the needle through your skin again, instinctively trying to shove him back for maybe the fiftieth time.

“Sorry. Shit, I usually have this done to me. Hang on.”

You sputter as he spills a shot of tequila over the wound again, and shove him some more.

“Knock it off. I’m disinfecting.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Will you relax?”

“You’re definitely not doing it right.”

“Well it’s not every fuckin’ day I have to stitch up my best friend’s open forehead wound while she sits on my brother’s couch with a fucking boot print on her back.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t seen weirder shit.”

He stops, and crouches in front of you, one hand still holding the needle while the other rests on your shoulder.

“That’s it. C’mon, look at me for a sec.”

You do, and you’re still trying to glare, but with your puffy, red-rimmed 

 eyes and bruised face, you know it doesn’t hold much weight.

“You saved your own life tonight. You know that?”

“I killed someone.” Your voice sounds too small.

“He was gonna kill you. Probably worse.” Craig doesn’t get…intense, often. The way he’s looking at you now only proves just how dire the situation was tonight, and you have to grit your teeth to keep from shaking. He squeezes your shoulder, and offers you a small smile.

“You make a hell of a Cody, ya know that?”

Ugh. You might start crying again.

You hug him instead, stitches be damned, and he barely has time to maneuver the needle so it doesn’t rip your forehead apart before he’s hugging you right back.

“And,” he adds, one large hand rubbing soothingly over your bruised back, “if Pope doesn’t kill everyone that guy’s ever known, I will. No one’s gonna hurt you again. Promise.”

You laugh, as fucked up as it is, and you feel a whole lot better.

-

You’re leaning against Craig’s shoulder on the couch, aching all over and trying to lose yourself in the conversation, when Pope Cody comes through the door and sits down in front of you faster than you can even register that he’s home.

There’s blood on his face. Dirt on his hands.

“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet, fingers skating through your hair in that wonderfully familiar way as he inspects your wound.

“No.” There’s no need to lie. He’ll see right through it, anyway.

“Okay.” He traces a gentle, calloused touch over your cheek. Down to your neck, where the barely there pressure on the bruises on your throat make you flinch, less from pain than from memory.

Craig leaves with one more gentle ruffle of your hair, and then you’re alone. You let Pope touch you, let him move his eyes and fingertips over every single wound on your face and body. Watch the rage build in his eyes again as he takes in the state of you.

“I should have done your stitches. Craig never ties them right.” He pulls back, earnest like his next words might matter to you. “This is gonna scar.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

What a truly fucked up thing for you to say right now. You just killed a guy. Pope just hid the body for you. He’s your fake husband and you’ve barely spoken in months.

He pauses, and pulls back to look at you. And then he looks at your head, like he’s inspecting the wound again.

“Stop. I’m not concussed. I mean, I don’t think I am.” You frown, and reach up to catch his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said-“

“I love you.” He interrupts, and curls his fingers around yours. “I love you so much I can’t think. I can’t sleep without you. I can’t breathe right. You…” his eyes are intense, locked onto yours, but he’s fighting for the words. “You’re everything to me. You have been since I met you.”

That catches your attention. You blink at him, opening your mouth to try to find something to say, but he keeps going.

“I would die for you. I would kill for you. Sometimes I want you to ask me to kill for you, just so I can show you how much…” your eyes widen, and he frowns. “I won’t, though. But I…I would.”

“I think the way you measure love is a little fucked up.”

His lips quirk, like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m fucked up.”

“Yeah, you are.” You concede, and offer him a smile of your own. “But I love you.”

His smile falls, but his thumb is still doing that sweet thing where it brushes over your cheek. “I’ve killed people before.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to kill that guy tonight. I was hoping he wasn’t dead yet, so that I could kill him.”

“You’re not gonna scare me off, Pope.”

“Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You smile, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. “You’re not gonna scare me off, Andrew.”

This time, when he kisses you, he doesn’t stop.

-

EPILOGUE - SOME TIME LATER

“I’ve literally never seen a baby look so pissed off all the time.” Craig’s hand drops to Pope’s shoulder, giving him a friendly little shake. “Congrats, dude. Definitely yours.”

“I think that’s just his poop face.” You cock your head down at the baby in question. “And his hungry face. And his…happy face.”

Pope makes a quiet noise, and moves forward to lift the dour-faced child into his arms. There’s something about watching him, scarred face and gigantic muscles and all, hold such a small bundle with so much fondness that it still makes you grin every time.

“You’ve gotta bounce him a little.” He says, in his rough and quiet voice, before doing exactly that, and then…

A quiet, cooing giggle. A tiny hand reaching up to grab at his father’s nose. And finally, brightest of all, Pope Cody grinning from ear to fucking ear.

“See, he smiles.” Pope reaches up to catch the baby’s hand, tiny fingers wrapping around his pointer, and you think your heart might explode.

“You look fucking scary like that, dude.”

“Oh, shut up.” You catch Pope’s chin, and pull him down for a quick kiss. He’s still smiling, and you smile back, and Craig groans. “He hasn’t slept in like, three days. He’s out of his mind. It makes him more smiley than usual.”

“I’ve slept.” He mumbles, turning back to the baby.

“You have not. You keep waking me up with your fingers on my pulse. Or standing over his crib.”

“The birth was traumatic.”

“The birth was three months ago.”

He grunts, and the baby coos, and he smiles again.

All jokes aside, he’s been doing that a lot lately.

And, a month or two back, when Lena’s now-parents let the two of you come over to the house to show her her new cousin, she had seen that smile, looked up, and smiled right back.

“What?” Pope had asked, looking down at the little girl the two of you had come together to raise so long ago. The little girl who also smiles more openly, now. Who giggles and comes to life more easily and is so excited to show the two of you her drawings from school and the new swing in the backyard.

“You guys don’t look sad anymore.” She said, simply, and you had burst into fucking tears, hormonal and happy and sleep-deprived as you were, and Pope had laughed out loud as he’d pulled you into his arms, sandwiching your baby between the two of you.

Now, you stand beside him by the pool, heart swelling in your chest again as you watch him smile, and he leans over to press his lips to the side of your head.

“We should renew our vows.” He hums, and you laugh.

“You really wanna throw another party?”

He smiles again, and kisses your cheek. “No. I want to marry you again. The right way.”

He’s said the same thing a few times, now. When you got pregnant, when you were pregnant, complaining about your swollen ankles and aching back, when you were lying in the hospital bed and half awake after the birth, when you were both half awake again holding your crying two week old on the couch…

And now, you finally answer.

“Ask me.”

He smiles again. The baby slaps fitfully at his cheek.

“Will you marry me?”

You grin right back at him, and lean up to press your lips to his.

you were sitting by the poolside while lena was testing to see how far she could make it across the pool in one breath. you applauded as she made it at least halfway across, her little legs kicking her through the water with all their might. her smile is triumphant as she beams up at you.

"i got so far!"

she exclaims as she swims over to the edge of the pool by you, her arms resting on the warm pavement.

"you sure did! keep on practicing and you'll make it all the way across in no time at all."

you speak encouragingly, watching her eyes light up with hope. a throat is cleared behind you, causing both you and lena to look over in the direction of the gate. you both spot a stern-looking pope, but his face seems to soften as soon as his eyes land on lena in the pool. it wasn't easy for him, taking lena under his wing after what happened to her parents. he sees the smile on the little girl's face, then glances at you, then back at her, and he feels something shift within him.

"she'll be out in the ocean learning how to surf like you guys soon."

you smile softly as you talk to him, which causes an unfamiliar sense of warmth to settle in his chest. he nods at you before walking over to lena, he crouches down as he meets her gaze.

"ten more minutes, then shower before dinner's ready."

his voice was rough, but it had an uncharacteristic softness to it as he spoke to lena. she nodded, her big eyes staring at him like he hung the stars in the sky. it made your heart swell, seeing how the two of them bonded so well, especially given all the shit they'd been through. pope cody wasn't comforting to anyone except for lena, at least that's what you'd thought at first. as lena swims away and busies herself, pope stands to his full height and turns around to look at you.

"what are you doing here?"

he hadn't meant for the question to sound so harsh and bothered. he saw the way your face scrunched a bit at his tone and immediately regretted his choice of words.

"i'm watching over lena while you take care of your personal things."

"i didn't ask you to do that."

"deran said you could use the extra help."

he stands there for a moment, blinking at you. he hadn't realized that it wasn't realistic for deran and craig to watch lena when pope couldn't, especially since they were often away from home more than he was. he nods slowly, now that everything was starting to make sense once again. he glances over his shoulder at lena, who's now wearing a particularly suspicious grin as she watches the two of you interact. he turns back to you, eyes briefly drifting toward your light green tank top. he could just barely see inside your shirt, the shadow almost highlighting your cleavage. he snaps himself out of the trance and meets your gaze again.

"how much do you want for it?"

you shrug at his question, glancing over at lena who has started cleaning up her pool toys. you clearly hadn't thought about it yet, not really worried about the money as much as you were about lena.

"i don't need to be paid, i have a job. i'm just here to watch lena when you aren't able to."

he looks slightly taken aback by your answer. why were you so willing to help them out without being paid? he searches your expression for any sort of hint otherwise, but he finds nothing.

"i mean- being fed would be nice."

a slight scoff escapes his lips at your words. he just nods and makes his way back inside. a couple minutes later, lena goes inside to wash up before dinner. you make your way inside, your nostrils immediately filled with the smell of something delicious. you watch as pope busies himself in the kitchen, making what looked to be lasagna.

"looks good..."

you try to talk casually, but are met with a deadpan look.

"haven't cooked any of it yet."

his tone was flat, almost questioning as he looked at you. you let out a heavy sigh and made your way toward the living room to rest on the couch. pope mentally slaps himself for being so cut and dry with you. he'd never admit it out loud, but he wanted you to be around. he wanted to know more about you. he'd seen you here and there whenever you were helping deran with something or attending one of his pool parties. he'd always thought you were pretty, probably too young for him, but that never stopped his mind from wandering.

he continues to work on making dinner, his mind lost in a sea of thoughts that all revolved around you. especially how happy lena had looked while being with you. it almost mirrored the way she looked when she was with pope. he wondered what it would be like, if maybe you and him could be her new and improved parents. no... you were basically a stranger to him he can't be thinking of starting a family like this. lena's soft voice jars him out of his mind.

"can i have a soda with dinner?"

"yeah, but that's your only one for the day."

she nods, a giddy smile on her face as she bounces off toward the living room, presumably to join you. she plops down next to you on the couch, resting her head on your arm as she watches the cartoon you're playing on the TV. she glances up at you, a toothy grin spreading across her face. you look down at her, a bit wary at what this could mean.

"what's that look for?"

you watch as she tries to hold back the giggles.

"uncle pope thinks you're really pretty."

you can't help but roll your eyes and laugh at the little girl. part of you wondered if she was telling the truth. kids were always more perceptive than anyone liked to give them credit for.

"yeah? did he tell you that?"

you chuckle at her while her eyes are fixated on the cartoon.

"yeah... he told me one day on the way to school."

you pause at that. because now this was all starting to sound real. did he really think you were pretty? hell, you'd always been attracted to him too, but never in a million years did you think it would be a mutual feeling. before you have any more time to think about it, pope is calling you guys into the kitchen for dinner. you and lena set the dining room table while pope brings out the lasagna dish. lena sits between you and pope at the table, unable to help herself as she steals glances at both of you while eating.

"uncle pope, we talked about starting a garden today."

pope looks curiously at his niece, then up at you.

"what kind of garden?"

his eyebrows are furrowed like he's almost a bit hesitant to know the answer.

"i thought that maybe we could try a vegetable or fruit garden, make some of our own stuff. it's fun and could mean less money spent on groceries."

you chime in, watching as lena's eyes light up. she looks over at you with a bright smile.

"does that mean we can grow lemons?"

you blink, raising an eyebrow at her.

"that's what you want to grow first?"

"to make lemonade! if we have lemons we'll never run out of lemonade!"

this time, you and pope both chuckle at her exclamation.

"we'll have to buy the tree, otherwise it'll take forever to grow from the seed. that just means lemons will come first."

you smile at the little girl who happily bounces in her seat while finishing her dinner. you glance up at pope, who can't decide if he wants to see lena's excited expression, or your soft one as you think about how to start the garden.

"i mean- as long as it's okay with you."

you nod at him, forgetting that you guys likely needed his approval before creating a garden.

"just don't make me water it. and i'm not being blamed if anything in there dies or gets eaten by rabbits."

you smirk at him, knowing damn well that if lena asked he would help you out with the garden. or maybe, she'd use it as an attempt to get you and pope alone so everything can go according to her little master plan.

after about a week of planting and rearranging soil, lena's garden was finally starting to come together. you'd been around every day to help her with, teaching her the best watering techniques. you let her pick out what she wanted to grow, and then helped her organize based on what plants needed more sunlight. the whole time, pope busies himself with watching over the two of you. his rationalization is that gardening can be very dangerous, and he doesn't want either of you getting hurt. the real reason was because watching you with lena, the way you brought out the brightest in the little girl, it felt right to him. like you were meant to be here with the two of them, nowhere else.

lena notices him and waves him over to show him the final product. he steps out of the sliding glass door and makes his way over to the new garden.

"we did it, uncle pope! we have our own garden!"

lena jumps up and down excitedly, pointing at the freshly laid soil and some of the pre-grown trees you had helped her plant.

"you guys did great."

he nods slowly, looking over at you. your face was glistening with sweat after working in the heat for the past couple hours. he couldn't take his eyes off of you, you were glowing. then he saw your genuine smile as you watched lena get excited about the garden. he wanted to be another reason that you could smile like that. he watches from nearby as you help lena water for the first time. you were patient with her, letting her do most of it on her own and only helping when she asked. lena looks over at pope with the brightest smile he's seen from her in a long time. looks like they both really needed to keep you around.

once you were finished watering, pope ushered the two of you inside. he was getting worried that you were out in the sun for too long. earlier, he had definitely hounded the two of you about wearing enough sunscreen. he gives you both a glass of water, watching shamelessly as you lift the glass to your lips and take a few swallows of the cold liquid. it was like he was in a trance every time he watched you, unable to peel his eyes away, even if you were doing the most mundane things. lena's giggles bring him back to center, he glances over at her and sees the knowing look in her eyes.

"c'mon, stinker... let's go get washed up. i'll help you pick out your clothes."

she nods, hopping out of the stool and walking off toward her room with you. once you help her find her clothes, you walk back out to the kitchen, now alone with the man you found yourself growing increasingly fond of.

"you can use mine."

he spoke gruffly, watching as you rested against the countertop.

"use your what?"

you look up at him curiously.

"my shower... i'll get you a towel and stuff."

he walks off toward the bathroom and grabs you a towel and washcloth. you also see a pair of old gym shorts and a t-shirt folded neatly next to them. you smile and thank him as you step into the bathroom. he stands there for a moment, looking at you. you are also just standing there, and you're unsure if the room was filled with tension or awkwardness at this point.

"thank you..."

you tell him again, and he seems to get the hint. but right before he can step out of the bathroom, he turns to you.

"lena... really likes having you around."

"i like being around... with both of you."

you nod slowly, and you can see the small hint of surprise on his face at your words. it was true, you'd gotten used to being around both of them all the time. it felt like more of a routine than you'd ever had before, but best of all, it felt like home. he could see the way your expressioned softened completely, feeling his cheeks heat because of how much he enjoyed the sight. you finally look up at him, breath hitching slightly when you see the dazed, wanting look in his eyes. you step closer to him and he doesn't back away. but before he allows himself to give in, pope clears his throat.

"i'll make lunch while you get cleaned up."

he doesn't miss the flicker of disappointment in your eyes, but he ultimately leaves the room anyway. you sigh, stripping out of your clothes and stepping into a nice, cool shower. once you're finished you step out of the shower and slip into his clothes he left for you. they smelled like him, which made you feel a little hotter than you cared to admit. you look at yourself in the mirror, chuckling at the way his old clothes looked on you. it didn't really matter, you weren't sweaty and gross anymore. you walk back out toward the kitchen, smiling when you see lena eating on the couch.

"come back and sit with me, please!"

she calls out to you, you nod, and continue until you're in the kitchen. pope's back was to you, but when he heard your footsteps, he turned around. he froze, not expecting you to look so... domestic... in his clothes like that. he started to imagine how you'd look in his clothes, post-shower after you two just had the most mind-blowing sex of all time. a soft smile appears on his lips as he slides your plate across the counter to you.

"you should come hang out with me and lena."

you lean against the counter as you take the plate. he just nods and follows you to the living room where lena was. you both sit on either side of her, causing her to smile while she's mid-bite into her sandwich. you glance over at pope, who's already looking at you. you feel your skin heat at the eye contact, quickly looking back at the TV. he also faces forward, leaving everyone to eat their lunch in comfortable silence. after a while, lena yawns and snuggles into pope's side. he wraps an arm around her and holds her close, watching as her breath starts to even out. you smile at the sight, quietly taking out your phone and snapping a picture when he wasn't looking.

eventually, he carries lena to her room and lays her in her bed. he shuts the door quietly before returning to the living room with you. you look over at him, eyes tracing along his strong jawline and the slope of his nose. fuck, he'd be trouble if he ever realized how beautiful he was. his dark auburn curls looked soft, and you found yourself wanting to run your hands through them. he finally looks at you, catching you right in the act of staring. his hardened hazel eyes almost seemed to soften when they landed on you, but you were sure that was just your imagination. you stand up from the couch, grabbing your plate and lena's. pope follows suit, following you out to the kitchen.

"i'll wash these."

his gruff voice sends a shiver down your spine, but you nod. you set the dishes in the sink and move out of his way.

"so i was thinking..."

you speak up, resting against the counter next to the sink. he glances up at you for a moment, freezing when he realized how close you were standing to him.

"what if we took lena out to dinner tonight? maybe somewhere on the shore or something so we can watch the sunset?"

he ponders for a moment, thinking about how beautiful you would look in the warm and bright colors of the setting sun. he's nodding almost enthusiastically now, going back to washing the dishes. you smile and watch as he goes back to work. damn those stupid yellow gloves for hiding the way his fingers were probably gripping and flexing over the dishes. you were beginning to feel like a victorian man seeing a woman's ankle for the first time. you stand there, enjoying this somewhat intimate moment between the two of you. once he's finished, he looks over at you while sliding off the gloves. you can hardly focus as you watch the yellow rubber fall from his hands, revealing the tantalizing digits that you dreamed about quite often.

he holds one of his hands out to you, palm facing upward. you blink, unsure of what to do. he lets out an unsteady breath, reaching further until his hand wraps around your wrist ever so gently. you let him pull you toward his bedroom, your heart rate picking up the closer you get. he walks you inside, letting go of your wrists as he walks over to the closet. you stand still, afraid to move. you watch as he opens his closet, then he looks back to you.

"i wanna wear something nice. i need help finding it."

you let out a breath of relief you didn't know you were holding, walking over to the closet. you gently sift through his closet, most of his clothes being the same style and color shirt, same with the pants. however, you did manage to find a black polo that seemed to stand out. you take it out, finding the lightest pair of blue jeans he owned (which were still pretty dark) and pairing them together. you hand him the clothes and he assesses them skeptically. finally, he gives a nod of approval and lays them down on his bed. he turns back to face you, noticing the small smile on your face.

"what's funny?"

he glares at you, waiting for you to tease him about his wardrobe, or lack thereof.

"nothing's funny, i just think it's cool that you came to me for fashion advice."

he rolls his eyes at you, but he's not truly annoyed. he'd wanted to ask you for more than just fashion advice, but he wasn't feeling brave enough. a soft sigh escapes his lips as he walks toward the door.

"gonna clean the pool and work on the car some before we go."

you nod and watch him walk out without another word. you go off to the living room and find some way to pass the next couple hours.

you all were on the way to dinner, pope was driving his truck while you were in the passenger seat and lena was in the back. she was glancing out the window, watching the building on the street go by with a smile on her face.

"come on... can you please tell me where we're going?"

lena whines at you, causing you to chuckle. pope glances in the rearview, his eyes crinkling just a bit.

"we're almost there, lee. i told you it's a surprise!"

she groans in protest, flopping her head back against the car seat. but, as you promised, you shortly afterwards pulled into the parking lot of the restaurant. pope got out, helping lena from her carseat. he frowns at you when he sees that you got out of the car by yourself, which makes you laugh. he grunts, watching lena take your hand as you walk toward the front door. he holds the door for you two, his hand ghosting the small of your back before he walks in behind you. you're all seated outside on the patio of the restaurant, admiring the view of the ocean from there. lena's eyes are wide with excitement as she takes in the view of the setting sun.

"best surprise ever!"

she wraps her little arms around you with a big grin. you return the embrace, running a hand over her hair. she sits back in her seat when it's time to order food. pope sits across from you and lena, meaning he could just watch you two interact for the next couple hours. you looked even more beautiful than he could imagine, the way the colors of the sunset made your skin glow. the way it all reflected in your eyes, he couldn't get enough of the view. he'd hardly even thought about the sunset when he had you right in front of him. as suspected, dinner went swimmingly and lena was already getting sleepy again.

"wanna walk on the beach for a couple minutes?"

you look over at lena, whose head is resting on your arm. she nods sleepily, little hands wrapped around your arm. you chuckle, looking over at pope who looked the most calm he ever had since you met him. he nods as well, getting up from his chair. he walks around the table to lena, gently lifting her into his arms, holding out his free hand to you. you smile and take his hand, walking down the wooden steps and into the sand. you walk closer to the shore, the view stealing the breath from your lungs. you look over at pope and lena, watching the way their expressions almost matched in awe. pope was still holding onto your hand tightly, the other firmly holding lena. these were the moments that pope thought he'd only be able to dream of, but yet here the three of you were.

lena's eventually fast asleep in his arms, head resting on his shoulder. he gently squeezed your hand, causing you to look over at him. he's closer than you remember, and before you can second guess yourself, you lean in and plant a soft kiss on his lips. he returns it almost immediately, although it was a bit haphazard. you pull away, rubbing your free hand along his bicep and resting your chin on his shoulder.

"should probably head back before sleeping beauty gets cranky."

he nods at your words, leading you all back toward the truck. he gets lena into the carseat without her waking up. this time, he doesn't let go of you, meaning he could open the passenger side door for you. you laugh at him again, climbing into the seat and buckling your seatbelt. he shuts the door gently and rounds the car to get into the driver's side. you make it back to the house and get out of the car while pope grabs lena again. you hold the door for him this time as he carries her off to her bed. you wait in the kitchen for him, sitting at one of the stools. he returns a couple minutes later, standing next to your stool. he's the one to lean in this time, kissing you with more intention than the previous time. his arms slip around your waist while your hands rest on his chest.

you sigh into the kiss, pulling him in closer by his shoulders. he leans into you, clearly not willing to pull away any time soon. you stand from the stool pressing him back against the counter as your tongue slips into his mouth. a soft groan escapes from him, but his tongue begins to tangle with yours soon after. his hands slip lower, over the curve of your ass, causing you to smirk against his lips. one of your hands slides through his soft curls, and they felt even better than you'd imagined. he sighs against you, continuing to kiss you with all of his effort. he whimpers when you pull away from him, the sound sending a tingly feeling all over your body. you walk toward his bedroom and he immediately follows behind you like a puppy.

once you're in his room, he pulls you back against him, kissing you again with a renewed sense of hunger. you moan into his mouth, reaching down and sliding his shirt over his head. your hands slide all over his muscular chest, earning yourself soft groans from his lips. he pushes you backwards until you fall back onto the bed with a small yelp. he removes your shoes for you, then climbs on top of you. he gently rests his weight onto you, pressing soft kisses along the corners of your mouth and your jawline. you gently trace your nails along the skin of his back, the sensation making his hard cock strain even more through his jeans. you feel his erection pressing against your thigh, and it only adds to the heat pooling low in your belly. you weren't sure how you and pope had even gotten to this point, but you surely weren't going to complain either.

he removes your clothes for you, followed by taking off his jeans. he starts trailing kisses lower, down your neck and over the swell of your breasts. you feel your back arch off the bed when he takes one of your sensitive nipples into his mouth and sucks lightly before rubbing it with his tongue. he moves over to the other side, groaning against you as he feels how worked up you're getting. then, he moves lower, kissing over your soft tummy. he pauses right at the hem of your panties, glancing up at you as if for approval. you sit up on your elbows, looking down at him with a lustful haze in your eyes. you nod slowly and shiver as he slides your panties down your legs. he feels his brain go fuzzy at the mere sight and smell of your arousal. not wasting a second, he leans in and licks a long stripe up your aching cunt. your fingers grip the sheets with a soft whine. your noises encourage him to do more, he starts sucking at your clit. you thought it couldn't get any better until he slipped his middle finger inside of you. you moan softly, falling back against the bed as he adds another finger. how the fuck was he so good at this? wasn't he supposed to be super inexperienced?

well- he was relatively inexperienced. but once he was for sure about wanting to be with you, he'd definitely started doing his research. his (now deleted) search history would be very incriminating, but you didn't have to know about it just yet. he continues to work at you, now whining lowly against your slick folds while his fingers worked into you gently. he could feel the way you squirmed beneath him and it filled him with pride. he would do whatever it took to make sure you were fully satisfied.

"a-andrew... i'm gonna-"

he moans loudly against you at the sound of his real name on your lips. he speeds up and changes the angle just right to have you coming hard on his tongue and fingers. he withdraws his fingers, leaning back over you to kiss you again. you feel goosebumps erupt over your skin as you taste your essence on his tongue. he pulls back just enough to suck your juices off of his fingers, a sight you'd be thinking about before bed for a *long* time. while kissing you, he nudges his boxers down just enough for his leaking cock to spring out. you gasp at the sight of it when he pulls back to grab a condom from his nightstand. you were quite sure he was packing heat, but you weren't expecting the absolute girth of his cock. he rolls the condom on before lining up with you entrance.

"you okay...?"

he asks quietly as he looks down at you. you nod and watch where your bodies are about to meet. he slides the tip in, groaning at how tight you were. his hands rest on your hips, thumbs trying to rub soothingly over the soft skin in hopes that you can relax for him a little bit. he leans over, kissing you gently enough that he finally feels you loosen up so he can push all the way in. you both moan as he bottoms out inside you. you'd never felt this full of anything in your entire life, but it was a welcomed feeling. one hand slips beneath your head while the other rests on your waist as he starts to slowly move in and out of you. the drag of his thick cock against your walls made you whine with need. he rests his forehead against yours, thrusts speeding up just enough to set a steady pace.

"feels good..."

he rasps against your skin, his fingers gently rubbing against your scalp as he held you. this intimate moment made you wonder how you ever able to stay away from him in the first place. this time, you lean up and kiss him, moving your hips to meet his thrusts. his hips stutter slightly as he already feels himself getting close. to make sure you were getting close as well, his hand slips between your bodies and rubs circles into your sensitive clit. your thighs begin to tremble around him, so he grabs onto them tightly and thrusts into you harder than before. the feeling of him so deep in you has your eyes rolling back into your head. his name echoes against the wall as you moan it continuously. he doesn't stop until you're clenching him so tightly he might be forced to slip out. you come with a ragged cry, nails digging into his shoulders. he spills inside the condom at the same time, thrusting a couple more times to help you ride out your high.

he leans down again, kissing you softly before collapsing beside you and pulling you against him. he grabs one of your thighs and drapes it over his waist, keeping you close. your breath starts to calm as you rest against him, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek. he stares at you, seeing the way your eyes were becoming heavy. he really wasn't interested in letting you go, so he tosses the covers over your bodies. he watches as you fall asleep in his arms, and suddenly everything felt as if it was all falling into place. at some point, even he falls asleep against you.

when you wake up the next morning, he's still next to you, but his eyes are open. he was clearly admiring you while you slept, but that didn't bother you in the slightest. you groan softly, feeling the soft ache between your legs as you move to stretch out your limbs. he runs a gentle hand over your hair, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before sitting up and getting out of the bed.

"i'll start breakfast..."

he spoke quietly and you nodded, getting out of the bed as well. you desperately wanted a shower, so you walk into the bathroom and do so. when you emerge from the bathroom, you walk into the kitchen and see a freshly woken lena sitting at one of the stools. she gets up and hugs you tightly, asking if you'd eat outside with her. you nodded with a soft smile and helped pope carry the food out to the picnic table in the backyard. you all enjoyed your meal in a comfortable silence. lena sat between the two of you, but pope still managed to rub your back every now and again. you smiled, feeling warm inside, like you could definitely get used to this family life with pope and lena.

a/n: IT'S SO FLUFFY I'M GONNA DIE!!!! sorry if this plot was buns guys i tried my best, but it felt off. maybe i'll write something similar to this in the future when i'm feeling more inspired. but anyway, THANK YOU FOR READING, LOVE YOU LOTS, AND STAY SEXAAAYYY!!!!!! <333

this was requested by these two lovely people: @mimiviolette and @nightpitt !!! thank you so much cuties <3

taglist: @nyxmoretti @popecodysgirl @romantic-insomniac @sunbonesss @in-ky @thedivinegirlyp0p @uncassettodiricordi

No curtains, no shades. There's not even a half-effort of an old sheet hung up over the glass pane. And at night? When he can't sleep, and the moths circle the flickering porch lights, and you've got those blue or red or purple LED lights on…well.

Pope can see right into your apartment.

Can see you, watching TV on the couch or cooking boxed macaroni in nothing but a loose tank top and a pair of lace underwear.

He thinks you might be the only good thing about the apartment that Smurf forced him into only three days after he was released from prison.

It's been a long time since he's looked at a woman, you know. Longer since he's seen one as pretty as you.

He's not lacking self awareness or anything. Pope knows your open windows and ever changing LEDs aren't an invitation to stare, but…sometimes it feels like one.

You fall asleep on the couch most nights. Which is good for him, because Pope can't see into your bedroom.

Some things, he begins to realize, are a sort of chaotic routine.

You tend to fall asleep with your phone in your hand and scramble to find it each morning (it's always under the couch, beneath the hot pink throw pillow you kick off in your sleep).

You don't eat breakfast because you don't wake up early enough to (don't you know it's the most important meal of the day?). Most mornings, you wake up with just enough time to doll yourself up in the bathroom, prioritizing glittery eyeshadow and shimmering lip gloss rather than the sustenance of a bowl of cereal.

He doesn't know what you do for work, but it's something with an inconsistent schedule. You sleep until noon on your days off, which could be any day of the week, Pope learns.

Work doesn't stop you from going out, though. Saturday nights are reserved for those miniskirts and stiletto heels and all your giggling girlfriends who get ready on your living room floor with a hand mirror. You share perfume and makeup and clothes with them before you all climb into a shared uber.

A few times, Andrew finds himself tempted to follow you. He tells himself it's not like he'd be doing it for his own satisfaction. He'd just be doing it to keep an eye on you, that's all. You're a young girl (too young for someone his age). Don't you know there are predators out there?

But he never does. Because that would be weird, right? You don't even know him. But…he certainly starts to feel like he knows you.

You and your friends always stumble back to your apartment, sometimes falling up the concrete steps to the second floor. One of them will make pizza rolls or messy peanut butter sandwiches and you'll pass around cold bottles of water and spill electrolyte drink mixes on the kitchen counter.

You'll share your things with them even after the club, selfless girl. Passing out hair ties and makeup removing wipes and big t-shirts for them to sleep in. On one particular night, when most of them are passed out on the couch, legs and arms tangled together, Pope even watches you you share a kiss with one of them under pink LEDs.

That night, Andrew has to force his attention away. It feels way too close to the beginning of that porno Craig left open on the family computer years ago.

But this doesn't feel erotic. Watching your mouth move against someone else's doesn't elicit any warmth beneath the fabric of his jeans.

No, it makes Andrew...upset. Angry, even.

It makes him jealous.

He tries not to think about it again. Tries even harder (and fails, repeatedly) to give you some privacy on Saturday nights.

But Sundays…Sundays are sacred.

Both for you and for him.

So much so that he pulls out on a job when his brothers plan it for a Sunday. Tells them he has to check in with his parole officer that day. Lies to their faces, because he doesn't want to miss out on you.

Because every Sunday, without fail, Andrew gets to see you naked.

You start by cleaning your apartment. Wiping down the counters and vacuuming the carpet and dusting the top of the cabinets. Then you light the candle on the coffee table (pink champagne, he's pretty sure, after looking endlessly online to match up the glass container. Twenty six dollars. Four day shipping. Currently sitting unlit on his nightstand).

And when you're ready, you strip off all your clothes and discard them in the bathroom.

You put oil in your hair and nineties R&B on your bluetooth speaker. You paint your toes (usually white or black, occasionally an electric blue) and glue artificial nails with sparkling gems onto your fingers.

Sunday showers are the longest, Pope knows. Sometimes thirty minutes. And when you emerge from the bathroom, steam rolls out from the open door and you've got your hair wrapped up in a towel. You balance yourself with a foot on the edge of the couch and massage lotion into your skin first.

From top to bottom, moisturizing your entire body. And then you repeat the motion with an oil, and it's during this particular step that Andrew starts feeling a little lightheaded.

He'd bet you feel all smooth and soft and smell so fucking good. Maybe like vanilla or cherry or coconut. And, god. He wants to touch you. He wants to touch himself.

But he resists.

The first three times, anyway.

By the fourth Sunday, though…well. His cock gets so fucking hard in his jeans that it's leaking. Making a big fucking mess in his boxers. It hurts, you know?

And it's not like you'll know he's doing it. He's had a little over a month to perfect his setup—lights off, chair angled perfectly so if anyone glanced into his apartment they'd have to really look in order to see him.

So, he takes his cock in his hand and imagines it's your delicate fingers wrapped around him instead. Imagines it's his hands rubbing oil into your shoulders, over the swell of your breasts, pressing into your hips, squeezing at the supple flesh of your thighs.

He'd make sure to do it just how you like. And Pope wouldn't need to be told how to, either. Because he's spent so much time watching you now that he would just know.

He wonders if your head would fall back, wet hair clinging to your slick skin. He wonders if he pressed just right into that tender spot at the small of your back that you're always so gentle with if you'd moan or whine or whimper. Maybe even say his name.

Andrew cums at the thought alone, grunting low, lips parted, his release spilling over his hand and down the hard length of his cock.

The shame doesn't take hold of him for a while.

Not until later that night, when your hair is blow dried and you're dressed in a pretty silk pajama set. You've got some trashy reality show on the TV, and you're eating the pizza you had delivered right out of the box.

Andrew takes the moment to clean himself up. To change out of his clothes and into something more comfortable. He brushes his teeth and climbs in bed, but lays with his head propped up by an extra pillow so he can still see clearly out of his window.

He knows it's weird. He knows he shouldn't be staring at a naked girl who's probably half his age and doesn't know there's some fucking creep across the courtyard who watches her every fucking day. He knows he shouldn't be fucking his fist watching you put lotion on your skin. He knows he shouldn't be changing his plans with family or friends around your schedule, just so he can watch you a little longer.

He knows he should stop.

The problem, however, lies in the wanting.

Andrew's never had much. Not when it comes to women. But you…god. You're so beautiful, and so pure and so different from anything he's ever seen. You don't belong to anyone but yourself, and once he sees you, he finds it impossible to look away.

Things change late one Friday night.

Andrew gets sloppy. He gets comfortable, here in this routine he's created around you.

There's music coming from your apartment, some electronic pop ballad that's at a volume so loud he can hear it from across the courtyard (there will be complaints to the office manager tomorrow morning, he knows. But you don't have to worry. Pope will take care of it for you, baby. He'll make sure you can keep having your fun).

You're wearing just a lacy bra and a pair of linen sleep shorts. There's a seltzer in your hand, and you're singing and dancing like you've somehow summoned all the energy from the club right there in your apartment.

It's a beautiful sight, truly. You're so happy and carefree. The warmest ray of sunshine that he wants to find himself basking under.

Andrew gets comfortable, posture relaxing in the chair that now lives permanently in front of his window. He watches you dance around your apartment, the easy smile on your face reflected back on his own.

He thinks he could really take care of you. Keep you safe. Protect all that girlish whimsy that lives in your heart. He'd make you real happy, Andrew thinks. Would watch you dance with your friends at the club, leaning against the bar. He'd take you shopping and add more of those short dresses into your closet. He'd make you breakfast in the mornings before work and Christ—he'd buy you a set of fucking curtains.

Pope is so lost in the fantasy of it that he doesn't register in time that your dancing has slowed. And you've put your seltzer down on the coffee table.

And you're staring right back at him.

His heart kicks up, pounding against his chest. He knows he should move out of sight, shut his blinds, pass this off as a mistake, maybe even pretend he hadn't seen you.

But he doesn't do any of that.

He's frozen in time, terrified and exhilarated all at once by simply being perceived by you.

Pope just…stares.

It seems to be the only fucking thing he's capable of these days.

He expects you to flip him off or maybe come barreling out of the door and across the courtyard to confront him. Or maybe you'll scurry away into your room. Maybe you'll order a set of curtains online.

But you don't do any of that.

You just stare right back.

Andrew tilts his head curiously. It's an involuntary movement.

In the end, you're the first to look away. You pick up your seltzer, dump it down the drain in the kitchen, and then disappear into the bathroom to brush your teeth.

Your routine remains the exact same. You find your phone beneath the throw blanket on the couch and turn off the TV. You turn the kitchen light off and turn on the light above the stove instead. You grab a water bottle from the fridge, and then go to bed in your room.

It's not rushed, and you don't seem nervous or fearful that there's someone watching you.

And Andrew thinks to himself, see. This is why you need him. This is why you need someone looking out for you. Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

He would never hurt you, Andrew knows. But you don't know that.

He doesn't sleep that night. He doesn't sleep often as it is, but his mind is running too fast. Cataloguing all the potential scenarios in which you cut off all access he has to you, severing the comfort he finds in his new favorite, voyeuristic hobby.

And Andrew wouldn't—couldn't—blame you for it. He thinks that's what you should do.

You don't.

The following morning, your routine changes.

On the nights you fall asleep in your bed, you're usually dressed in a pair of jeans with gems decorating the pockets and a low-cut top by the time you emerge from your room.

But not this time.

No, this time you're still wearing the same clothes you'd fallen asleep in. A lacy bra and cotton shorts.

Andrew watches, freshly emerged from the quickest shower of his life, hair still wet, as you stand in front of the fridge to find the fizzy energy drink you'd brought home with you last night.

He watches you struggle for a moment to crack the seal open (Those pretty nails of yours. He could help you with that, you know). You take a slow sip, put the aluminum can down on the counter, and turn your head just enough to let Pope know you see him.

You know he's there, in the window. You know he's watching.

And then, painfully slow, you drag your shorts down your thighs. The fabric pools at your feet, and Pope loses all train of thought.

Because this is no accident. You want this. You want him to watch you.

Your bra is next. You reach around to unclasp it and soon after the lace joins the linen fabric on the linoleum floor.

Warmth blooms beneath his skin as he watches you press your hands to your abdomen, feeling your skin, running your hands up your chest and over the swell of your breasts.

You try and play it off like a stretch, lifting your arms above your head and arching your back.

Andrew knows it's not.

You get ready the rest of the morning like normal. And Andrew…God. He doesn't know what to think.

He knows he should stop this before it goes too far. He thinks it already has.

It's…it's weird, right?

Everything about it is wrong.

He doesn't want to stop, but he knows he should.

He tries, though. For what little it's worth.

Tries to busy himself building a fountain at Smurf's. Tries to find small jobs he can do himself to pass the time. He still thinks about you all hours of the day, though. Like a thorn stuck beneath his skin, aching when he moves just the wrong way.

He overhears Nicky explaining to Deran what an 'everything shower' is and thinks about your Sunday ritual. He walks into a hungover Craig making boxed macaroni in his boxers and thinks of you. Smurf lights a candle called pink cashmere and even though it's not pink champagne, it still makes him think of you.

The pretty little girl in the apartment across from his, who he finds himself certifiably, insanely, obsessed with.

One Thursday afternoon, Andrew returns home earlier than he'd planned. He tells himself he just wants to get a little glance.

Just one look. You know, to soothe the ache the thought of you brings. To see if maybe he imagined the weight of your stare.

What he finds, though, is somehow more concerning.

You're pacing your living room, cell phone pressed to your ear, still wearing jeans and your sneakers. There's tension in your shoulders and even though he can't hear the conversation you're having with the person on the other end of the phone, he can see that you're shouting.

It drags on for the better half of an hour. The pacing, the frustrated hand waving, the pinching of the bridge of your nose. Whatever it is, Andrew bets he could help with it.

He hates seeing you stressed. Thinks you should be living your fun, carefree life like normal. You shouldn't be burdened with…whatever it is that's got you so upset.

But it's not like he can go over and just ask.

So, he chooses a different path instead.

Gets the key to the office of the apartment complex from Smurf. Rummages through the paper files until he finds the lease contract linked to your apartment number.

Andrew thinks he should've done this weeks ago. He learns an awful lot about you this way. Like your name, which he begins to recite like a mantra in his head. He learns your birthday and, regretfully, your age.

But, most importantly, he discovers (and memorizes) your phone number.

And that same day, he returns to Smurf's with a torn piece of paper with the digits scribbled on it. He hands it to his nephew and says, "Need you to get a few phone call records. Can you do that for me?"

J furrows his brows in confusion. "Who's number?"

Pope shrugs. "No one," he lies. "Can you get the records or not?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah, probably. Anything specific you're looking for?"

"I wanna know about a call that happened today. Around two or so. Lasted almost an hour. Just get me the number of whoever was on the other line."

J hesitates for a single moment, and then nods slowly. "Alright. I'll get back to you on it."

In the meantime, Andrew spirals.

The thought of you having a boyfriend never really crossed his mind until now. You don't really have men over. Just your girl friends.

But there are some Saturday nights you don't come home, stumbling in early Sunday morning instead with sunglasses on and your hair a mess. So, Pope thinks you very well could have a boyfriend and he never would've known it.

Pope tells himself if it is a boyfriend, he won't…he won't do anything. It's not his place to make decisions for you, right?

Still. You shouldn't let a man stress you out so much. Whoever it is, they're not worth it. You deserve better. You deserve more.

You deserve someone who knows you.

Less than two hours later, Pope gets a phone call from J, who explains that the person on the other end of that phone call wasn't a person at all.

It was your phone company.

Your stupid fucking service provider who just so happened to put an extra two hundred dollar fee on your bill this month, claiming data overages.

All that stress wasn't over a boyfriend. It was over money.

And money is something Andrew can provide.

He waits until you leave for work, locking up tight behind you. But that doesn't matter, not now. Andrew has a key to the office, which means he has access to the spare key to your apartment.

He is fully aware that he shouldn't be doing this, but ten minutes after you leave he unlocks the door and steps inside anyway.

Your apartment smells sweet. Like sugar and citrus. He wonders if you smell the same way, and the thought alone makes Andrew's mouth water.

He moves slowly into your space, fingers tracing over the TV stand, feeling the wood beneath his calloused fingertips. He straightens the crooked throw pillow on the couch and puts the lighter for your candle back into the tray on the coffee table.

Andrew knows he should just…leave the cash and go. He shouldn't be snooping around, invading your privacy.

But you left a knife point-side up in the strainer in the sink. And you could get hurt doing something like that.

And once he's already in the kitchen, turning the knife over so the sharp edge is down, well…what will it hurt if he opens a couple of drawers?

None of your silverware matches. Andrew finds this little fact sort of endearing. Messy and chaotic in the same way you are, but that's okay. Maybe he can fix that for you one day, too.

Your bathroom is cluttered. There's makeup products littering the porcelain sink and the cabinet mirror is left wide open. Andrew picks up a few different products to read the labels and finds lip liners and leave-in conditioners and powdered blush with pilled pigment on the counter.

He finds that lotion you're always using on Sundays and opens the lid. Andrew brings the container to his nose, inhales deeply, and feels suddenly too hot.

The scent of it is sweet, like you. There's notes of syrupy amber and warm florals and it has the muscles in his abdomen squeezing tight as he thinks about how potent the scent would be if he were between your legs, freshly oiled, calves resting on his shoulders as he licks and sucks at your clit.

His cock has been half hard since the moment he stepped foot in your apartment, but by the time he makes it to your bedroom?

Pope is aching.

Your clothes are strewn all over. There's t-shirts on the floor and jeans inside out near the hamper and a dress you'd worn two weekends ago lying on the edge of your unmade bed.

It smells like you in here, too. Even more so. There's less perfume, but Andrew swears he can smell the scent of your skin. Sweet and intoxicating, sending sparks of arousal straight to his groin.

Your bedside table has a lamp on it and three half-empty bottles of water. There's one drawer, and he pries it open and gives a slow exhale to see all the silk and lace inside.

Going through your underwear drawer is, quite literally, the very last thing someone like Andrew Cody should be doing.

He does it anyway.

Rummages around until he finds that little black pair you like to sleep in. He runs his fingers over the lace band, feeling the softness beneath the rough pad of his thumb. His cock is throbbing, even before he brings the fabric to his nose and inhales the scent of laundry detergent and faint mahogany from the nightstand and—there. The scent of you.

As close as he can get.

As close as he'll probably ever get.

He needs to leave. Andrew is painfully aware that this is crossing a line of a whole new degree. Levels above simply watching.

This is obsession. This is addiction. Sick and twisted and perverted.

Andrew does not leave.

He climbs into your bed instead. Kicks off his boots and discards his hoodie until he's in nothing but his jeans. He slips beneath your sheets—satin, and pink, and filled with the scent of your shampoo and your skin and—fuck.

His cock is leaking by the time he undoes his belt. Andrew reaches beneath your blankets and shoves his jeans down just enough to free himself.

And it's almost enough to blow his load right fucking there, when the underside of his heavy length brushes against the fabric of your sheets. It's almost too much, being in your room, in your bed, breathing in your scent.

But he resists. Grits his teeth and takes his cock in one hand and uses the other to wrap the soft fabric of your underwear around his aching length.

This time, there's nothing slow about the way he strokes himself to the thought of you. He's desperate for it. Release already clouds the edges of his mind and he needs the relief it'll provide.

His brain feels hazy and his vision blurs, just thinking about you, lying here, hand between your legs. He wonders how you touch yourself, if you just play with your clit or if you fuck yourself on your fingers.

The thought crosses his mind that you might be using more than just your hand, and Pope finds himself sitting up. He leans over the edge of your bed and sticks his hand back into your panty drawer, reaching to the very bottom, feeling around until the tips of his fingers brush over silicone.

His heart is beating fast.

It's a small thing. Pink, of course. With only a small, almost hidden power button.

Pope leans back in your pillows and turns the little vibrator on. It buzzes to life in his hand, and when he pushes the button again, the intensity ratchets even higher.

There's only three settings. He turns it to the highest one and imagines holding it against your swollen clit. He imagines you lying under him, thighs around his waist, hips bucking wildly, chasing the vibration that he gives and gives and then takes away.

He turns so he's lying face down in your sheets now, nose pressed into your pillow. Pope puts the vibrator between his cock and the soft expanse of his abdomen, and he feels the sensation everywhere.

He's still got your underwear wrapped around his cock, and he gives a tentative roll of his hips against the mattress.

The groan he lets out is guttural. With his eyes closed, he can imagine its not your panties he's fucking but you. The tight, wet cunt between your legs. He can imagine it's the curve of your throat he's got his nose buried in and not your pillow. He can imagine that sweet, intense vibration is reverberating through your pelvic bone, little toy pressed hard against your clit.

Pope tells himself he'd make it so fucking good for you. He'd bury his cock so deep you'd never forget the weight of it inside you. He'd whisper how beautiful you are in your ear and make you look him in the eyes while he watches you cum over and over and over.

His release is…embarrassingly fast.

A few rolls of his hips against your mattress and he's cumming into the lace fabric of your panties, the vibration of the toy milking him until he's so overstimulated it almost hurts.

Pope rolls over, turns the toy off, and buries it back in the bottom of your drawer. He gives himself a few more moments to gather himself. To catch his breath, to wipe himself clean (never mind the couple of drops that now stain your satin sheets. That could be from anything, right?).

He tucks himself back into his jeans, pulls on his boots and his hoodie, and tosses your underwear in the pile of clothes next to the laundry bin.

There's a pair of your jeans in the middle of the floor, away from the rest. One leg of the denim is inside out. Pope takes the cash from his wallet and tucks it into the pocket, leaving out just enough that he knows you'll notice it.

He leaves.

Locks the door behind him with the spare key.

Makes it halfway across the courtyard before he doubles back, lets himself back into your apartment and into the bathroom where he pockets one of the many different chapsticks on the sink.

It isn't until he's home, tucked safe back in his own apartment, that he realizes it's strawberries and cream flavored.

Andrew puts it on, swiping the transparent petroleum over his lips. He tells himself it's almost like kissing.

Later that day, Craig calls a family meeting. But you've just gotten home, and he knows you'll find the cash within a few minutes when you go to change out of your clothes.

So Andrew waits at the bottom of the stairs on his side of the courtyard. He can't see into your apartment from here, though. And he decides he'll only wait for thirty minutes.

He responds to text messages and opens his blank, photo-less Instagram (that he definitely didn't make only to look at your profile. The one filled with selfies under neon lights and bikini photos on the beach and mirror pictures in the dressing room at that one boutique in the mall).

Twenty nine minutes later, he hears an apartment door slam shut and looks up to see you.

You've got your bag over one shoulder and a grin on your face and the cash in your hand. Enough to cover the additional charges and a little extra, too.

You notice him at the bottom of the cement stairs and freeze, but you don't look…scared, like he expects. Maybe a little startled at first, but the tension bleeds from your face the moment you recognize him.

He should say something. Talk to you. Apologize, maybe, for staring at you.

But Andrew isn't sorry.

And he's never really been good at talking, anyway.

You tilt your head and give him the sweetest fucking smile he's ever seen. It's somehow innocent and knowing at the same time, and Andrew feels the corners of his mouth lifting in response.

Something passes silently between you. An understanding, maybe. You know he watches you, and he knows you know, but…you don't stop him. You just let it happen.

You smile at him from fifteen feet away.

And then you turn to leave, no doubt making your way to pay off that stupid bill that caused you so much unrest.

Pope watches you go, like always.

But this time, you glance back at him over your shoulder with…something lingering in your pretty eyes. Excitement, maybe. He can't be sure.

He needs to get closer.

During the family meeting, he isn't very present. His mind is so far away, stuck on you, that he just blindly agrees to whatever job they're doing next and trusts that it'll all work out.

When he returns to his apartment, there's a note stuck to his door.

A pink sticky note with nothing but a phone number and a heart with an arrow through it scribbled on the paper.

Your phone number, Pope knows.

He knows he shouldn't text you.

It's stupid and dangerous and god, you really shouldn't be giving your number to random men. He could be a creep. He could be a stalker or something.

His message just says,

Hello.

Your response is immediate, with no capitalization which seems quite…fitting for you. He finds it strangely endearing.

hey

are u the guy from apt 212 ???

Pope can feel that this is a bad idea already. But he's already here, and there's no going back now, is there? He doesn't want to hurt your feelings. He doesn't want to leave you on read and make you think he's not interested when the problem is the exact opposite.

Yes.

The typing bubble pops up, disappears, and appears again three different times before you send another message.

im gonna be home in like an hr

will u be watching ???

Always, he wants to say. Fucking always. He can't take his eyes off you, no matter how hard he tries. No matter how shameful it feels.

Andrew's hands shake as he types out a response.

Do you want me to be?

No hesitation this time. Your message comes through a second later.

uhmmm tbh yeah <3

He exhales a long breath. It doesn't feel real. Like he's imagining the entire thing. How could he not be? Why on earth would the sweetest, prettiest little thing want someone to watch her?

But the weight of his cell phone in his hand is real.

And the text message is real.

And this…this is real.

Then yes. I will be.

You don't reply, and Andrew's heart flutters in his chest as he takes his practiced position in the chair in front of his window and waits.

True to your word, you're skipping up the steps fifty three minutes after the last message is sent. You turn on those LEDs and and move about your apartment like normal, kicking off your sneakers and dropping your bag by the door. You change out of your clothes and put on a worn in t-shirt that's two sizes too big for you, but underneath…

Pope can see the sheer thigh highs you wear and the black, lace edge of them. He can see those strappy garters attached to them, but nothing else. The straps disappear beneath your shirt, leaving him wanting for more.

You're teasing him, Pope realizes.

He watches with bated breath as you lay on the couch, getting comfortable with the throw pillow against the arm.

And then, for the first time, Andrew watches you touch yourself.

You start slowly, hands roaming over your body, on top of the fabric, massaging gently at the inside of your thighs.

His cock's always hard watching you, truth be told. But this…

His skin feels hot. His lungs feel tight.

Your fingers curl around the edge of your t-shirt, and you pull it over your head to discard it on the floor.

Andrew hasn't seen you wear this set before, not even on those sacred Sundays.

It's pretty. Matching black lace. The bra is low cut and pushes your breasts up your chest, the soft flesh swelling over the top. The waistband of the matching panties is decorated in shining silver gems, laying so perfectly against your hips that he feels dizzy just looking at it.

The prettiest package, just begging to be unraveled by his big, mean hands.

You dressed up for him.

You dressed up for him.

Your hands start to move again, palming your breasts, pulling the lace down until they spill out of the top. Your nipples are so pretty that his mouth waters. He wants to kiss them, to feel the shape of them under his tongue. He wants to kneel over top of you and jerk himself off until they're covered in his sticky white release.

You squeeze your breasts until your nipples form pretty little peaks, and then your hands slide lower. Over your abdomen, and your hips, and then your thighs. You bring them slowly back up, only to slide them over the lace fabric of your panties, right down the center of your cunt.

Andrew thinks he could die.

He could fucking die, just looking at you.

Carefully, you unbuckle the chrome latch of your garter. The left side first, and then the right quickly follows. You leave the lace belt on, but hook your thumbs around the bedazzled lace of your panties and pull them down your thighs painfully slowly.

Your knees fall apart.

Pope swallows hard.

He can see everything from here. The seam of your thighs that he's dreamt about. The pretty shape of your pussy. The wetness that's gathered between your folds, slick and shiny with arousal. With want.

For him. It's for him.

His cock throbs so hard it hurts.

Pope doesn't touch himself. He can't. Can he? All you asked of him was that he watched.

That's what you wanted.

But wouldn't it be better if he was there? Wouldn't it be better if he could touch you, if he could taste you, if he could fuck you?

All you'd have to do is let him in.

Your fingers stroke gently over your clit in small circles, and he watches in awe as your lips part and your spine bends.

He can't hear your moans but god does he wish he could. Thinks about putting a little microphone in your lampshade the next time he sneaks into your apartment.

Your fingers drift lower, over your center, and slowly press inside.

Pope wants it to be him so fucking bad.

If not his cock inside you then his fingers. They're bigger. Longer. Thicker. They'd please you more. Reach places your fingers can't.

Maybe his tongue. He'd drink you right from the fucking source and cum in his jeans, probably. But he'd make sure to find that sweet, velvety spot inside you first and he'd spell his full fucking name over it with a pointed tongue.

Silly girl. Don't you know what he could do for you? Don't you know what he could do to you?

Pope squeezes the bulge in his jeans to try and alleviate the pain of his lust.

You fuck yourself with your fingers, stuffing in one and then two and then three, stretching yourself on them, slick dripping down the seam of your cunt. Your back arches when your free hand finds your clit, and he knows you're close.

He knows he shouldn't, but he searches frantically for his phone anyway and sends another text message.

I want to hear you.

You pause only long enough to grab your phone off the coffee table, read the text, and lay your phone on the arm of the couch behind you.

Pope's phone buzzes in his hand.

You're calling him.

He answers on the first ring, and the sounds that greet him are so erotic it steals the breath from his lungs.

You sound so pretty. So sweet and feminine, everything he's imagined yet somehow so, so much more. He's sure you can hear his heavy breaths on the other end of the phone, but Pope can't find it in himself to care. Can't think of much else besides the way you whimper and the sight of your fingers stuffed inside you.

"Oh, god—"

His inhale is shaky.

"I'm gonna cum," you choke out, words hazy with your moans. "I'm so close, I'm so fucking—hmm. Yes. What's your name?"

He almost doesn't hear you, so lost in the sight before him. Immersed in the euphoria of it. But then he says, voice a low, uncertain whisper, "Andrew."

Your spine bends and the fingers on your clit slow. "Oh my god. Fuck, Andrew—I'm cumming, I'm—yes, yes—god."

His cock twitches and when he tries to soothe it with another tight squeeze, he sends himself careening off the precipice of release instead. His head falls back and his once heavy breaths get stuck in his lungs. Pope rubs himself over his jeans, making a sticky, hot mess in his boxers, generating what little friction he can.

He watches you come down in real time. Not his dreams, not his imagination. He watches it happen. Watches that fucked-out, hazy look cross your face. Watches the tension in your muscles melt away, wishing he could kiss the junction of your throat.

Pope wishes he could worship you. Wishes he could clean you up and put on that trashy reality show you like and hold you against his chest, comforting you while your brain comes back to earth.

Instead, you lean up. Grab your phone and press it to your ear, staring right at him through his wide open window.

He doesn't know what he expects you to say, but it's certainly not, "Have you been inside my apartment, Andrew?"

For a second, he thinks about lying. Because there's no way you know, right? Not for sure. It's not like you have cameras or anything (he knows, because he checked).

But he doesn't want to lie. Not to you.

"I…might have been. Once, yes."

"Did you steal my chapstick?"

"You have ten of them."

He hears your laugh for the first time, and the sound is like sunlight in his chest. "You took the best flavor."

"I'm…I'm sorry. I'll return it."

"Keep it. I already got a new one," you say. "Cost me five hundred dollars, though."

So, you know it was him who left the cash, too.

Smart, pretty girl.

He doesn't say anything, too afraid he'll say something stupid or awkward the way he usually does. He doesn't want to ruin this moment. This absolutely perfect moment.

You smile at him, kiss your palm, and blow it towards your window. "Goodnight, Andrew."

He feels his face heat. "Goodnight."

Pope rides the high of it for days.

Can't shake the sight of you open and bare for him. Can't stop thinking about the sound of your moans or the way you'd said his name in the peak of euphoria. He fucks his first to the thought of it more times than he can count.

And Andrew's never been a really sexual person. Not unless it's with someone he loves.

But is that what this is? Love?

You've never met. Not really, not properly. How could it be something so intense? You don't know him. You don't know who he is or what he does. You don't know how he's hurt and maimed and killed.

Would you be afraid, finding out? Would you run to the police if you knew? Would you recoil away from him with terror in your eyes?

All things left unsaid. All things that may, very well, never be said.

Pope feels so uncertain with all of this that he finds himself resorting to fucking google, even. Search history littered with questions and Reddit threads that never provide any real clarity.

Define love.

Define obsession.

How to know if you're in love?

How to ask a girl out?

How to get over a girl.

Define voyeur.

Define fetish.

How big of an age gap is too big?

Apartments for sale on the east coast.

Pink champagne candle.

Strawberries and cream chapstick bulk pack.

You text him again a week after your exhibitionistic display.

do u wanna like go out sometime?? been thinking about u a lot

He's at Smurf's when he reads the message.

Pope doesn't even realize he's smiling until Deran slides a beer across the counter at him and asks, "What's got you all happy today?"

And Pope just shakes his head. Schools his features back into neutrality and says, "Nothing. Just won a bet."

He can tell his brother doesn't believe him, not even for a second. But thankfully, Deran doesn't push any further. He lets the subject go, but the question stays stuck in Andrew's head for hours.

It takes him a while to decide on a response. It's honest, and…mostly true.

We shouldn't. I'm a lot older than you.

Your response is a single, painful letter.

k

He doesn't respond to try his hand at damage control, even though he wants to. It's probably better this way, he thinks. Better that there's some distance between you. Better that you hate him and see him as the creepy neighbor he is.

But that Saturday night, when you return home, it's not with your friends.

Pope watches from his window as you guide a man up the stairs and into your apartment.

He's tall. Dark haired, with bright eyes and white teeth and a good smile. Closer to your age. Handsome like a man allowed into your space should be.

You're fumbling a little with your apartment key and Pope watches as the man stands behind you and slides his hands down the back of your thighs.

Thighs he should be touching. Thighs he's watched for months. Thighs that spread for him, long before this fucking loser ever laid his eyes on you.

He tells himself he won't interfere.

You're your own woman. You deserve to feel good, even if it's with…someone else.

And Pope knows he's just going to have to get the fuck over it.

He did it to himself, really.

He should look away.

But he watches instead.

Watches the two of you fall onto the couch. Watches another man kiss down the column of your throat and squeeze the supple curve of your ass over your sequined dress.

Your eyes find his from across the courtyard, and Pope's jaw clenches.

Putting on another show for him. Filthy, filthy girl.

And you're just going to give it to some random man? Someone who doesn't know you like Pope does? Someone who doesn't know how you like to be touched?

He needs to look away. Close his own fucking blinds for once.

But he feels frozen. Knowing this time, you're watching him. Looking for him. Goading for a reaction.

Pope watches the slow ascent of the man's hand. Promises himself he won't interfere. He'll just watch to make sure you're safe, that's all.

But the moment that greedy hand disappears beneath your dress, Andrew's moving. Throwing open his door and slamming it closed behind him. He crosses the courtyard and takes the steps two at a time.

His fist against your apartment door is incessant. He doesn't stop, even when he hears the uttered, male voice ask, "Who is that?"

When the door opens, it's you who stands in front of him, chin tilted up as you stare at him, pupils flared wide.

The man you'd brought home with you hovers over your shoulder.

Pope doesn't even look at him. He stares only at you as he says, a little snarl in his voice, "Tell him to leave."

"Dude, what the fuck? Who is this guy?"

Your lips curl at the corners. A devilish little smile. "Okay," you say, nodding, your voice soft and pliant. You turn your head to look at the man who stands behind you. "Sorry, but you've gotta go."

"You're joking," he responds flatly. "You said I could—!"

Andrew reaches past you and takes him by the collar, pulling him out of your apartment and slamming him up against the paneled siding. "I ever see you in this apartment again, I'll fucking kill you. You understand me?"

"Jesus fucking—yeah, okay. Alright. Sorry."

Pope isn't joking. Doesn't say it to scare him off but rather as a warning.

He lets him go and watches him scramble down the stairs. He doesn't turn back to face you until the little tool you used for attention gets in his car and drives away.

And when he does finally turn back to you…Christ. Your eyes are half lidded and full of lust. Pope's close enough this time that there's no mistaking it.

He should be a gentleman. Should take you out first. Bring you home and kiss you on your doorstep and leave you untouched.

He knows he should.

What he does instead is curl his hand around the back of your neck and pull you to him. He leans down, mouth hovering over yours, breathing in your panicky exhales. "This what you want?"

Your grin is immediate and undeniable. You nod and breathe out the word, "Please."

Andrew kisses you hard, crowding you back into your apartment. He kicks the door closed behind him and slides his tongue into your mouth, tasting you and groaning at the sweetness. There's mint and strawberry and you, his favorite flavor.

He feels drunk on it. On the taste of your tongue, the glide of your wet lips over his, the way your hands scramble and tug desperately at his belt.

"Fuck," he sighs, pulling back just enough to see you. "Open your mouth, baby. Wide. And stick out your tongue."

The way you immediately obey has his cock twitching. Good girl. So fucking good for him when he gives you exactly what you need.

Andrew licks the flat of your tongue once, delighting in the way you whimper in response, before bringing his hand to your mouth. He slides two fingers behind your teeth and orders, "Suck."

You do, lips closing tight around the digits, wet tongue swirling over his thick knuckles. He pushes them further down your throat, your eyes locked on his as he makes you choke on them.

"So fucking pretty," he tells you. "You always look so pretty."

Andrew pulls the straps of your mini dress over your shoulders, roughly tugging the fabric over your chest down to expose your breasts.

You're wearing the same lace bra you'd worn when you dressed up for him, he realizes. He can see the peaks of your nipples through the semi-sheer fabric, and leans down to lock his lips around the left one over the lace.

The fabric is rough beneath his tongue, a stark contrast to the softness of your skin. He sucks hard, spreading the wetness of his saliva over the lace. You push your dress further down your waist and over your hips.

Andrew slides his fingers out of your mouth, sticky and dripping with your spit. He brings them to his own lips instead and sucks them clean, watching your breath hitch and your eyes grow impossibly more hazy.

He lowers himself to his knees before you and his slick fingers work quickly at the straps of your heels, unbuckling them to free your pretty, white-painted toes.

Your hands find his shoulders for balance. "I like that you watch me," you tell him. "I think about it sometimes and it makes me so…god, Andrew. It gets me so wet."

He looks up at you from his knees, big brown eyes glassy and full of adoration. "Good," he says. "'Cause I'm gonna watch you a little closer tonight."

That pretty smile finds its way to your face again.

Andrew presses a sweet, chaste kiss to the apex of your thighs. Over your panties, right where he knows your clit lies beneath. He then stands to his feet, towering over you now without the added height of your heels, and presses you forward.

You take a careful step back, nearly losing your balance.

Andrew grins, taking another step, crowding you back towards your bedroom. He doesn't stop until the back of your knees hit the edge of your mattress.

You stumble backwards, falling into the plush sheets that he's all too familiar with. Lying on your back, propped up by your elbows, you stare up at him with wide eyes and he's reminded of a timid little animal caught in the trap of a predator.

Don't you know how dangerous he could be?

You don't look afraid. You actually look…eager.

Pope stands tall at the edge of your mattress. "Take off your clothes."

You do. Unclasping your bra first, tossing the fabric into the already existing mess on the floor. And then your panties follow, thumbs hooking around the fabric to drag it down your legs.

Andrew reaches around and fists the collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head. He feels warm all over, watching you greedily drink up the sight of him. He thinks he'd feel a little nervous, in any other setting. If it were anyone but you.

His sweet, filthy girl.

Andrew reaches into the half-open drawer of your nightstand, searching until he finds your vibrator again.

Your brows furrow as you watch him find it with practiced ease. "You went through my underwear drawer, too?"

"Did more than that," he admits.

You inhale like you're going to speak again, but the words melt to nothing when he tosses the small toy onto the bed beside you.

"Use it," Pope orders.

"What?"

He crawls onto the mattress between your legs, spreading them wide, laying your calves on either side of his hips. "Let me watch you."

There's a moment of hesitation, but you don't look nervous. Only…curious.

You pick up the vibrator and slide the pink silicone through your folds, spreading your arousal before you press the power button. You circle your clit with the tip of it a few times, teasing yourself.

When you turn the toy on, he can feel the vibration against his hands that grip your thighs. You let out a syrupy moan and turn the intensity higher, drawing tight circles around your pretty clit.

He watches you, eyes locked on the pink silicone between your legs. He watches your entrance flutter, tightening around nothing, begging to be filled. "Your pussy is so pretty," he mutters. "Do you know that?"

Your only response is a breathy whimper. You click the intensity up again, putting it on the highest setting, and Pope sighs when your legs begin to shake around him.

He wants to watch you make yourself cum. Wants another scene to fuck his fist to in the shower or in his bed or in his truck.

But he's here. Finally, finally here, in your bed, with you, and he can't help himself.

Pope grips your hips hard and pulls you closer, tilting your hips up into his lap. The vibrator falls from your hand at the sudden movement, but he's quick to return it to you. "Keep going."

You press the silicone back to your clit, and Andrew spreads you open with gentle thumbs. He gathers the spit in his mouth and lets it drip from his lips and onto the seam of your cunt.

And then he's sliding his middle finger inside of your entrance, curling it upwards, searching for that sweet spot that makes you writhe.

It doesn't take long. He's watched you. He knows just what you like and what angle to hit. And the second the tip of his finger presses hard against it, you fist your free hand in the sheets and curses fall from your sweet mouth.

Pope slides another thick finger inside, watching the way you squirm, feeling the walls of your cunt flutter around the swell of his knuckles.

"I'm gonna cum, I'm gonna—oh, fuck. Feels so good, feels so fucking—"

A long, throaty moan leaves your mouth, and he feels the warmth of your release pool in his palm. You're so slick that each wet thrust of his fingers echoes against the walls of your room.

He doesn't stop until you're twitching. Until you click the vibrator off and shove it away from you. And even then, he still gives a few, slow curls of his fingers inside of you. Not touching with intent, just…feeling. Memorizing.

Once you catch your breath, you lean up enough to find his eyes again. You say timidly, shyly, "I want…I want to feel you, Andrew. I want you inside me. Do you…do you want to fuck me?"

It's the most asinine question he's ever been asked in his fucking life. Does he want to fuck you?

He's thought of nothing else for months. Every night when he fights for sleep, it's the thought of you under him that puts him to bed.

It's such an impractical concern from his point of view that he laughs. Actually laughs, for the first time in years. "Oh, baby."

Pope takes your hands in his. He presses one to his chest, right over his heart, and the other against the hardness in his jeans.

"I have never wanted another woman as bad as I want you," he says truthfully. "But I…you…you deserve better than this. Better than me. You understand that, don't you?"

You shake your head. "You don't know me, Andrew. Not really. You don't know if—"

"No, no. I do. I know you're the kind of friend who would give the shirt off their back. The kind of girl who'd let her phone get cut off before asking for help. The kind of girl who gets up every morning and just…tries. Every day. And you fucking…you smile about it. You're good. You're so fucking good and I…"

He stops.

Remembers the last time he loved someone like this and how he'd made a stupid confession he should've taken to his grave and how it'd fucked him completely.

"You're what, Andrew?"

Pope swallows. "I'm...I'm a bad man. I've hurt people. I will…hurt people, I—" His voice cracks. He lowers his eyes, trying to turn away, unable to find the strength to face you.

But you take his jaw in your gentle hands and force him to look at you. Sweet, angel of a girl that you are. And then you say without a waver to be found in your voice, "I like who you are. Do you think I gave the man who watches me through my window my phone number because I want some guy I could match with on Tinder?"

He tries to slow the rapid pounding of his heart. He wonders if love is supposed to be like this. To feel like this. All consuming and terrifying and devastatingly hopeful above all.

You shake your head and tuck your legs beneath you, sitting up on your knees. He sits stone still as you lean forward and kiss his cheek, whispering against his ear, "I've been watching you, too, Andrew Cody."

Something shifts inside of him as you say it. Uttering his last name that he'd never given you, that isn't even on his lease because this is a fake apartment under a fake name to launder the money they steal.

Oh—sweet, smart girl. Smarter than he thought.

How silly of him to ever doubt you.

There's a newfound wildness in your eyes when they meet his again. An unveiling. Like he's seeing you for who you truly are for the first time.

And you're…god. So fucking beautiful.

And, yeah. Pope thinks he's been right this whole fucking time.

He's weird and wrong and sickly obsessed.

But you are, too.

Andrew takes you by the back of the neck and kisses you hard, desperate to taste you, to close what little physical space remains between your body and his. He pushes you back against the mattress and follows you down.

Your hands find his belt buckle before he does, and he stares down at you as your deft fingers pry the leather open and unbutton his jeans. He helps you push the denim down his legs until his cock springs free, heavy and leaking. Wanting for you, twitching as you take it carefully in your hand.

A groan reverberates at the back of his mouth. Your hands are so soft. Perfect and pliant. One day, he swears he'll show you how he likes to be touched. He'll let you sit in his lap and watch him stroke his cock for you.

But for now, he lets you touch him slowly. Experimental. Feeling the heavy weight of him in your palm. You spit on your fingertips and spread your saliva over his sensitive tip, flushed red and pulsing beneath your touch.

You lean back and guide him between your thighs, sliding the head of his cock through your syrupy folds and over your clit.

The moment you line him up at your entrance, Pope eases inside and you let out the sweetest fucking sigh he's ever heard in his entire life. Sweet and soft and so, so satisfied.

It's so beautiful. You're so beautiful. And you feel warm and heavenly and wet around him. He pulls out slowly, almost all the way, and then drives his cock back into your cunt.

You squeal and those sharp, acrylic nails dig into his spine. But your legs circle his hips, and so Pope does it again.

He fucks you hard. Claiming that spot at the back of your cunt, pressed right up against your cervix. He rolls his hips and presses his mouth to yours, swallowing up those desperate, carnal sounds he pulls out of our chest.

Sweet girl. Sweet fucking girl. He reaches between you and circles your clit. "My girl now," he says, words spoken against your lips. "You'll never need anyone else, baby. No one but me."

You nod, the velvety walls of your pussy squeezing around the hard length of his cock.

Andrew puts his whole weight on top of you, grinding himself between your thighs, giving you everything he has. Everything he is.

"I'm yours," you choke out. "I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm—"

It becomes a mantra. One that feeds his desire, in perfect sync with the rhythm of his thrusts. He watches your arousal begin to crest, nearing the summit, the muscles in your thighs twitching. "Look at me, baby," he says. "Tell me you love me when I make you cum."

You're so lost in it, head all spacey, that your eyes remain closed until he takes your jaw in a firm grip.

There are pretty tears in your eyes when you open them, but that smile on your face is present, too. He feels you pulse around him and your breath gets all shallow and then—

"I love you, Andrew, I fucking—oh my god please, please—I love you."

The words are music to his ears, tingling down his spine, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He thought the sound of his name in your mouth was beautiful but this…fuck. He could die.

Pope thinks he would. For you, he would.

He fucks you through it. Tastes your moans and says, "Yeah, that's it. Give it to me. Look so pretty when you cum for me."

He doesn't let his pace falter until your muscles loosen, until your nails stroke gently over his spin instead of leaving marks.

You pepper sweet kisses over his jaw, tongue sliding up the shell of his ear. "I want you to cum inside me," you tell him.

He's been fighting it the whole time, trying desperately not to blow his load before he'd at least gotten you there first.

But when you say that?

When you say, "Please, Andrew. Want you to give it to me. Want you to fill me up with your cum. Please. I need it."

He thinks about telling you that you don't have to beg. Not him, not for anything (especially this). But you just sound so pretty, begging for his cum, that he can't bring himself to do it.

So, he gives you what you want instead. Fucks his cum into you, groaning low in your ear, cock pulsing inside you. You feel so good wrapped around him it's euphoric. Otherworldly.

Your pussy grips tight, milking him dry, taking every last drop (he knows you're on birth control. Don't you know the women's clinic downtown keeps a spare key beneath the plant in front of their door?).

Andrew is careful when he slides out of you. And he wastes no time before kicking his jeans the rest of the way off and pulling you against his chest.

He pulls the blanket up around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your hairline. His voice wavers a little as he says, "Sorry if I…if I was a little rough."

You shake your head, pressing your nose to the divot between his pectorals. "It was perfect," you murmur against his skin.

Silence settles between you. Comfortable and easy, the sound of your breathing in perfect synchronization.

After some time you say, "I meant it, you know. Wouldn't have said it if I didn't. I really think I might be in love with you, Andrew. Is that…crazy?"

Yes, he wants to say.

But he feels it, too.

So instead he says, "You know, I don't…I don't have much experience with that sorta thing. Don't really know how to…to navigate it, I guess. But, uhm…yeah. Me, too."

He feels that smile of yours against his chest.

Andrew knows that this dynamic the two of you have created is weird.

He knows that.

But at least, now, he's not alone in it.

You and Deran had become good friends since you started working at his bar. Even though it seemed like you two had nothing in common, you two got along well. Always sharing laughs through the dining room and helping him with what to say to Adrian. He would bring you around the Cody compound. To parties or just to hangout.

You had gotten pretty acquainted with his brothers, always greeting them as you entered the threshold. You always enjoyed how Baz and Craig would be willing to tag along to whatever shenanigans Deran and you had planned.

However, Pope was always reserved, always quiet.

How you’d always reluctantly greet him, always glancing away awkwardly because he was in fact awkward. You always grew shy around his presence, unsure as to why. He would flush pink when you would admire your tight skimpy denim shorts barely covering your thighs.

He thought the reason for your behavior was because of what his brother possibly mentioned to you. How he’d beat up people when he was in high school, how he had a short temper, the fact that he went to prison.

However, he didn’t know that you were completely infatuated with him. You liked how he stared at you regardless of if it was a big t-shirt or a little tube top. He always seemed to be guarding you, always a watchful eye being on you while he was graced with your presence.

You adored his figure as his hands would be tucked into his pockets while he watched you on the sofa, hanging out with his brothers. Or how he would mindlessly hand you a beer at one of the Cody parties, noticing you were running dry as you lounged by the pool.

He’d even stop by the bar sometimes, just to check in.

“Hey, you,” he’d rasp as he placed himself onto the barstool in front of you while you were wiping the counter.

“What are you doing here? We don’t open for another hour.”

“Just checking in on you,” you not knowing he had to be at a job in an hour, always knowing the risk that he might never see you again. “You doing good?”

“Always, Pope,” you said as you turned away from him, not being able to look into his eyes.

His lips would purse then, lost in thought about how you could never make eye contact with him. He would take in his movements, did he look threatening to you?

“Well, I gotta go,” he’d say as he was about to exit. “You’ll be here when I get back, yeah?”

“Of course, Pope,” you sighed as you replaced the empty liquor bottles, not even casting a glance his way. “Gotta work after all.”

It was almost like you were annoyed at him. Like you were completely ignoring his existence. Were you terrified of what you might find seeking below the surface?

Pope would be lost in thought as he sat there while Jay cut the safe out of the floorboards, Craig was posted up next to him. Craig swatted at his bicep. “Dude, where are you?” Craig questioned. “It’s like you’re not even here, man. I need you to help me with his shit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Pope shook his head free of the tormenting thoughts. “I’m here, lemme help you.”

It wasn’t until you were in the kitchen, slightly tipsy, looking for something to munch on. Pope would walk in from the patio where the party resided. He would take in your bikini that hugged the curves of your body.

“Ugh, is there anything in here to eat?” you asked, not knowing who was behind you.

“There’s some cereal on top of the cabinets,” Pope piped up as he uncapped another beer from the fridge.

You turned around, completely frozen at the sight of Pope being alone with you. The liquor burned through your bloodstream, your mind feeling fuzzy, yet totally focused on the man in front of you.

“Um,” Pope muttered as he made his way over to you, knowing your short stance wouldn’t be able to reach for the boxes. “I’ll help you out.”

He stretched, his shirt pulling up, exposing his harsh v-line and tight abdomen. You just sat there as your eyes bored into his tight and rigid abdomen.

“Here you go,” he said as he handed you the box of cereal. You sat still for a moment before absently taking it.

You slowly made routine movements, pouring cereal into the bowl before grabbing the gallon of milk. Pope nursed his beer as he watched you. His nerves bundled into a taught ball in his chest. He set his beer against the counter as you poured the milk, he grabbed a spoon and rested it next to the bowl.

“Y’know,” he started. “I’m sorry if I scare you.”

“You don’t scare me, Pope,” you said flatly.

He wasn’t fully convinced.

“Listen,” he continued. “I see how you avoid me and how you can’t look me in the face, I get it believe me I–”

“Pope,” your big eyes peered into his. “You don’t scare me.”

“T-Then why do you look away when I’m trying to talk to you?” Pope couldn’t understand, he didn’t get it. 

“Because, Pope,” you sighed as you held the spoon in your tight fist. “I like you.”

A pregnant pause held heavy in the room.

“A lot, actually.”

His chest heaved at the sigh of relief.

You liked him. This was a revelation to him, a totally new thing to explore. He couldn’t believe his sharp features, his harsh tone that spilled from him at times, none of it scared you. In fact, you welcomed all of him, all of the trouble and worry.

“I-I- don’t creep you out?” he stuttered. “I really don’t scare you?”

“Listen, Andrew,” you said, taking a step closer, you reached up and placed your hand on his tense jaw. “You’re a guard dog, you bite when people you love or care about are at risk.”

Tears pricked his eyes, he couldn’t believe someone as special as you could be so sweet.

“Personally, I think that’s a great quality to have, even if it scares some people.”

Pope physically relaxed as his forehead pressed against yours, his breaths slowly steadying. You wrapped your arms around his strong shoulders, pulling him into your grasp, your hands raking through the curls at the nape of your neck. His hands shook as they hovered over your hips, unsure if you’d be okay with his touch. You drew your hand down, your hand encircling Pope’s wrist, pulling his palm to your soft flesh of your hips.

The embrace was sobering as well as a revelation. He couldn’t believe how your softness, your innocence, your radiance, complimented the darkness that always hung heavy in his chest.

You set your hands on either side of his head, you pulled his head back to where his gaze met yours. His eyes scanned your pretty face.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked.

You yanked his mouth to yours, pulling him into a feverish kiss. You drew his hips to yours by the belt loops of his jeans, feeling the firmness against the middle of your tummy. You palmed his junk as you slipped your tongue past his lips, he groaned into your mouth. He was slowly losing control.

His hands reached around to your ass peaking from underneath your bikini, his warm palms resting on your cheeks, giving a firm squeeze. Your soft hands made contact with the harsh ridges of his stomach as you snaked your hands under the hem of his t-shirt.The kisses started to grow sloppy, a mixture of saliva coating your lips and chin.

“Bedroom,” Pope heaved between wet kisses. “Now.”

You didn’t even respond to him as your lips trailed over his jaw and neck. He scooped you up and wrapped your legs around his strong middle, continuing to make out with you as he made his way to his bedroom.

He threw you on the bed, giggles pouring from your pretty little mouth. He realized he needed to slow down then, he wanted to enjoy every moment of this. He wanted to kiss every inch of your skin, hug every curve of your soft body.

Pope slowly crawled between your thighs, his body caging you in as he kissed you slowly. He laced your face with sweet kisses, first your forehead, then your warm cheeks, finally meeting your lips once again.

“Andy,” you teased. “What’s with the sudden change of pace, huh?”

“Need to take you in,” he rasped between pecks along your jaw and collar. “Never thought I could have you like this.”

You grinned at his words as you raked your nails through his auburn curls while he kissed down your barely clothed figure. It wasn’t until he was pressing feather light kisses along the edge of your tummy that you giggled, making him pause.

“Everything okay?” he asked, his hazel eyes peering up at you.

“Tickes.”

“M’sorry, sweetheart,” he smirked, returning to your skin. “Just can’t get enough of you.”

You were growing impatient as your slick pooled in your bikini bottoms. Sure, you were enjoying him worshipping every part of you, but you needed him more.

You reached your fingers down to the strings of your bikini bottoms, untying the knots. Your bare pussy became exposed to Pope as he was peppering kisses to your knees, he stopped in his tracks.

“Stop teasing, Andy,” you begged. “Need more of you, please.”

It was almost like he blacked out then, totally enamored by your unadorned sex. He practically pounced to your center, pulling apart your folds and seeing the glittering sweetness.

Slow down.

Pope drew his strong arms around your thighs, enriching your flesh with red hot marks as he nipped and suckled at your stretchmarks that adorned your skin. It made you hiss and wince yet, drawing sweet breathy moans from you.

“Popey,” you whimpered. “Just get on with it.”

“You heard me,” he huffed, just mere centimeters from your warm center, his nails digging into your legs. “I’m taking my sweet time with you.”

And it was working, the teasing and foreplay making your pussy ache and ache.

He finally pressed a kiss to your clit, his tongue swiping into your folds. He teased your hole with his slick tongue, tasting every bit of your insides that he could reach. You would writhe and squirm as his powerful hands held your thighs open.

His tongue moved from your entrance to your clit, swirling, flicking, and sucking around your pearl. His meaty fingers teased and drew into you, your walls sucking him in at the sensation. He pumped in and out of you as he continued to make out with your begging buds.

Your back arched against his mattress, your nipples swelling against the fabric of your swimsuit top. You continued to cry and mewl as your fingers toyed and tugged at his scalp.

“Mm,” he hummed around you, the vibration sending pleasurable waves through your tense body. “Taste s’good, doll.”

The coil in your belly tightened, your thighs jerking in his grasp. 

“Andrew,” you cried. “I’m gonna cum.”

“Good, baby,” he said, continuing to curl his fingers into you. “That’s good, I want you to, cum for me, sweetheart.”

Your thighs shook, your legs squeezing around his head. He hugged his arms tighter around your legs, his tongue pressing slow licks to your folds as your orgasm thrashed through you.

You sat there gasping as he stood up, swiping at his chin and mouth. He returned to your lips once again, his control fleeing from him. His tongue swirled around yours, making you taste yourself. You hummed against his lips as you tugged at the hem of shirt, he pulled back briefly as he took it off. You admired his strong frame, how his veins rose from his flesh in the dim light. He slithered his hands to your back, undoing the knot that held up your bikini top. You quickly slipped out of the fabric as he unbuttoned his jeans.

He needed you now, the fabric of his boxers growing uncomfortably against his rigid length. Your hands snaked to his hips, yanking down the hem of his boxers and jeans until his cock sprung free.

You reached down, your hand drawing long strokes across his solid member. The precum of his flush head dribbled down your fingertips. You pulled your hand to your lips, tasting his teasing release as your tongue twirled around your salty digits.

Pope growled, taking his cock in his hands, running the inches across your wet center. His mouth hovered above yours, feeling his hot breath fan across your face.

“Say you’re okay with this,” he whispered. “Say you’re okay with me taking you like this.”

“I’m okay with it, Andy.”

He thrusted his shaft into your entrance, you begging him to come in. Make yourself at home.

He growled as he felt the barrier of your insides, squelching and squeezing as he continued the slow drive of his hips, getting accommodated to how your walls hug him.

He gazed down at you, his dark eyes scanning every part of your panting figure. You were bare, innocent, and willing. All for him.

It wasn’t his needy pulsating hips drawing into you, or how your boobs bobbed and jiggled with every movement that drew him closer to the edge. It was his emotions. He adored you, he loved every part of you. Your shy personality, your humor, how you were just a ray of sunshine to his family when you were around. Sure, your looks were also everything to him, but as they always say. It’s what’s on the inside that counts.

Your head ran in countless circles, completely mindless while he fucked the living shit out of you. He couldn’t get enough, the tip of his cock meeting your cervix. The mixture of the gasps, whimpers, and whines contradicted the chaotic sound of the party resting beyond the walls of his bedroom. This was sweet, this was sensual. Out there, it was dissonant and messy.

You were perfect, shit, you were both perfect. Both of you meet each other’s desire and every need.

He pressed his strong torso against your bare middle and chest, his hips continuing to rake into your insides. He needed skin on skin contact while he fucked you. He pressed hot sloppy kisses to your mouth between grunts and growls.

“M’gonna come inside you,” his hoarse voice meeting the shell of your ear. “That okay, doll? Say yes.”

“Y-Yes.”

You felt his release spill into you, filling your insides with its warmth and heat. He drew slow thrusts in and out of you as his cum spilled inside of you.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he whispered against your skin as his cock softened inside of you. “You’re so fuckin’ perfect.”

“I hate when they do this,” he muttered, and you didn’t respond, knowing he wasn’t really talking to you. Just out loud so he could try to regulate himself before he got really angry. 

When he stayed quiet too long, you looked up and found him standing by the island. Face pinched with as close to visible anger as you’d seen in a while.

“Smurf will forgive them soon,” you reassured. His eyes shot up to yours, and you offered a weak smile. “The novelty of raiding their big brother’s house will wear off.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, and you bit back a smile as he walked over to help you with the bags. “I think that couch you ordered will look really nice with the blankets you got,” you told him, cutting off the tags to throw them in the wash. 

“You picked them,” he reminded you, eyes darting up to meet yours before looking away. You hummed to yourself, a proud smile on your face as you realized that your touch would always be a part of what he called home. 

The peaceful bubble you’d surrounded yourself with shattered as his sliding glass door opened. “Oh.” Your shoulders tensed as you recognized the voice. “You’re home.” Cath offered a stilted smile to Andrew as he froze where he was standing. 

You walked out of the laundry room and shot her a grin you hoped passed as friendly and not sick to your stomach. “We went shopping today. I’m trying to make this place look less like a psych ward.”

Cath’s eyes narrowed as you loaded Andrew’s new dishes into the dishwasher. He remained still beside you, fist clenched on the granite counter while he looked anywhere but at Cath. 

“I didn’t realize you moved in,” she offered, something about her tone making you defensive. When you looked up, her brows were raised, a knowing look on her face that needled at your skin. 

“She didn’t,” Andrew interjected before you could. Your jaw snapped shut with a click as Cath scoffed. 

“I figured,” she muttered, cutting you a look that had you clenching your fists so you didn’t hit her. 

The sliding door opened again and Craig lumbered in, brows raising when he saw the stand-off happening. He let out a low whistle, wet feet slapping across the floor as pool water dripped off him.

“What’s going on?” He chuckled, the shithead knowing exactly what was happening. 

He took a drag from the blunt in his hand, grin widening when he saw how Andrew’s jaw clenched at the smoke billowing in his house. “Want some?” He offered, holding it out.

You took it before Andrew could, needing something to calm you down. “You know he’s a dick about this shit,” you snapped, taking a long drag.

It was cruel, you knew that. But nobody ever claimed hanging around the Cody men made someone less emotionally volatile. 

You headed toward the door, stripping off your clothes. You’d learned a while ago that it was better to just keep a bathing suit on underneath if you were hanging out with Andrew that day. You usually ended up at the pool or the beach; there was little in between. 

Craig chuckled behind you as you walked outside. “Yeah, he’s the dick,” he muttered. You forced yourself to ignore the dig and headed down to the pool. You threw yourself onto the chair closest to Deran. He tended to just leave you alone, and his typically miserable demeanor deterred others from approaching, as well. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you clenched your eyes shut and tried to pretend you were just tanning. Of course, Deran decided today was the day to test out being chatty. “How was the little shopping spree with Pope?”

Rolling your eyes, you tilted your head to look over at him. There was a knowing smirk on his face that had you tensing up. “Fine,” you grit out, hoping he might take the hint. 

“You run into Cath?” He taunts, clearly knowing the answer. The Cody family skill seems to be pissing you off. 

Flicking your sunglasses up, you shoot him a glare. “What’re you getting at, Deran?”

He shrugs and relaxes back on his chair. “That my brother’s a fucking idiot,” he shoots back, tone casual. 

“Am I that obvious?”

The snort he lets out is an answer enough. With a small smile, you lean back on the chair and shake your head. “I don’t get it, man,” Deran continues; clearly, he’s taken something that’s loosened his tongue. He’s not typically cold toward you, but the pair of you aren’t exactly close. 

“Get what?” you mutter, trying to relax the tenseness in your muscles. 

“You hang around him all the time. Put up with all his weird shit. You even do fucking shopping trips together.” You peek an eye open and catch him shaking his head in disbelief. “Cath can’t even look him in the eye.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t know what goes on in his head.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” you scoff, biting back the burn rising in your throat. 

“No, but you’ve come the closest.” You don’t think Deran understands just how much it hurts hearing him say all of this. It’s easy enough, lying to yourself and pretending you’re not obvious. That the reason Andrew doesn’t reciprocate is that you haven’t shown him how you feel. 

But when Deran- hell, when even Craig picks up on your hints- you know it has nothing to do with how obvious you are and everything to do with the fact that you are simply not the woman he wants. 

A minute later, a shadow descends over you. Frowning, you look up and see Andrew hovering, mouth pinched as he stares. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of Craig’s weed wafting off him.

“Did you smoke?”

He nods and you frown. “You don’t smoke,” you point out. Andrew takes the conversation as an invitation to perch at the end of your chair. 

“Why not?” He shrugs and it only serves to confuse you further. He holds the blunt out to you. You suck your teeth, but it only takes a second for you to accept. Some ridiculous part of you thinks about how his lips had been wrapped around it only a second before as you take a puff. 

That’s how it happened the first time. You’d been pissy about his infatuation with Cath. He’d probably been hurt by a comment you hadn’t meant. You got high off weed, and you’re sure Craig had laced it with something else. The next morning, your head felt fuzzy, and memories of the day before came back to you slowly. 

It had taken you longer than you’d like to admit to realize there was an arm slung around your waist. Then, Andrew had woken up, both of you frozen as you realized what you’d done the night before. 

“Holy shit,” you whispered, sheets pulled up around your naked chest as you stared down at your lap. 

Andrew flexed his hands, eyes not meeting yours as he glared at his comforter. “I don’t remember,” he muttered. 

You shook your head, “I don’t either,” but it was undeniable, considering that was your underwear thrown on his floor. 

“We should try again.” Your head whipped up and you ignored how it made your vision swim. He held your gaze, face deadly serious. Your jaw dropped, lips parting as you struggled for words. 

“What?” You squeaked out.

“We should try again,” he repeated, just as blunt as he was the first time around. “Neither of us remembers anything.” You don’t know why you almost said no. Almost denied what you’d wanted since the day you met him. But something seemed to think this wasn’t right. 

Maybe you wanted it to be more romantic. Or for this to have happened after a date when you were actually sure he really cared about you as more than just a quick lay. But a part of you, deep down, knew that was likely to never happen. So you’d nodded, eyes closing as he dipped his head, lips meeting yours hesitantly. 

It only took a slight tilt of your head, hands dropping the sheets from your chest as you moved toward him, for him to fully give in. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you onto his lap as you slung your arms over his shoulders. That’s how the first time you actually remember happened. 

And then, it kept happening. Your friendship continued as it always had. You’d go out for lunch and dinner. Breakfast sometimes if you stayed the night.

The pair of you might go shopping for his new house or just to get away from his mother. Occasionally, it ended with sex. But that wasn’t always consistent. 

It both hurt and was reassuring. On the one hand, you wished he would want you as much as you wanted him. Not just when he needed a moment of reprieve.

But, at the very least, that meant he didn’t just see you as some sex toy now. He still cared about you the same way he did before. You’re not sure if it made you happy or upset how little the sex changed your relationship with Andrew. 

When it did happen, you’d pretend he wasn’t thinking about another woman. That it was just you in his mind, that he was okay, that it was you in his arms and not Cath. You could lie to yourself that it didn’t bother you. That you were okay with this as long as you had some piece of him. 

It was never enough to stop the hurt from seeping through. 

You remember one time, a few months after this new thing with Andrew started, Smurf invited you out. It was clear enough that Smurf didn’t like you. But she hadn’t minded as much when you were just an occasional presence in her house. 

However, when you and Andrew got more physical, you were at her place a lot more than you had been before. The sex had changed little about your relationship except that you became clingier than you would have liked to be.

You started hanging around with him more, waiting for that little extra bit of attention he occasionally spared you. It was pathetic; you knew that, but you were hopeless when it came to Andrew. You always had been. 

His arm was slung around you while you watched some brutal animal documentary on some beast called a Shoebill. You’d been cringing at the way it was staring down the lens of the camera when Smurf had walked in. 

“Well,” she rasped, a tight smile on her face. “Isn’t this cute?”

Andrew’s arm had tensed around you as he drew you closer, eyes pointedly kept on the screen. Her glare narrowed as she walked down the steps to the living room. “You’ve been around a bit more, hun.”

You shifted uncomfortably under her stare, hand tightening in Andrew’s shirt as you shrugged, offering a half-hearted smile. “I guess so.”

Her head tilted and she kept walking until she was standing just right to block the TV. “Are you two finally dating?”

“No,” Andrew was quick to answer. You bit your lip, swallowing down the hurt as you tried to shift away. He didn’t seem to notice, his arm just as tight around you as he straightened up.

“We’re not dating,” he doubled down, and you resisted the urge to crawl away and hide in some dark corner. 

Smurf hummed, clearly unconvinced. “‘Course not,” she reassured, her voice sickeningly sweet. Her attention drifted back to you.

You grit your teeth, pretending like you weren’t just the slightest bit afraid. Not necessarily of her, but of the hold you knew she had on Andrew. It wouldn’t take much for her to wrench the two of you apart. 

“You have plans this Saturday, sweetie?”

You grew cold as Andrew withdrew his touch. He leaned forward, his glare steady on his mother, and you frowned. “Don't,” he warned, his lips a tense line of irritation. 

Her gaze snapped to his, brows furrowing with consideration before she redirected her attention. “Well?”

“Uh,” you swallowed roughly and spared Andrew a glance before shaking your head. “No, no plans.”

“Perfect,” she hummed. “You can join Pope and me then.”

“Smurf,” he tried again, getting to his feet. You stared up at him in surprise. He didn’t typically butt heads with her like this. 

“That’s enough, baby. Don’t be rude.” Smurf fixed him with a firm look before stalking back out of the room. Your brows furrowed as you waited for him to sit back down. Instead, he glared down at the coffee table, fists clenched at his sides. 

“Andrew,” you tried, getting to your feet. You reached for his arm, but he jerked away. 

“Let’s go,” he demanded, already heading to the front door. You followed after him, but he didn’t give you any more answers. Just drove you to his house. 

He still seemed out of character when he took you to his bed that night. Strangely desperate, more handsy than usual. Like he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night, change your mind about the whole deal. 

Like you ever would. The idea was laughable. 

Andrew drove you on Saturday. To where, you couldn’t say. You got lost when paved roads turned to gravel, and it started to look like he was driving you out to some warehouse to be murdered in. 

When he’d stopped on a random cemented piece of land with trucks and bikes scatteringly parked, you almost didn’t get out. But you trusted him. As much as you probably shouldn’t. So, you’d let him open your door, help you out of the car, and followed behind. 

He didn’t speak. He hadn’t the whole morning. Just kept his eyes pointed anywhere but your face. Still, he seemed to linger more than normal. Hand staying wrapped around yours. Walking closer than he typically does. 

The odd behavior, even from an already odd man, had you on edge. Smurf being behind this whole thing didn’t help soothe you at all. No, the closer you got to what sounded like loud, drunken cheering, the more your stomach soured. 

“When are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” 

Andrew paused, head dipping between his shoulders as he sucked in a sharp breath. You waited with bated breath, the prolonged silence making you antsy to just get the hell out of there. “I need you to-”

“There you are!” Smurf walked up, a malicious grin on her face. Her oversized sunglasses hid her eyes, but you still felt the ill intent in her gaze.

“Here I thought you weren’t going to show. I should’ve known better.” She reached forward and squeezed Andrew’s shoulder, drawing him away from you as she draped herself over him. Your nose wrinkled with poorly hidden disgust. “My baby boy doesn’t disappoint.”

You offered a weak chuckle to try to disguise the visceral hatred you felt toward the woman. It only got worse when you saw how Andrew couldn’t meet your eyes, unable to get out from under her touch. 

It didn’t matter if it was a stranger, a friend, even her own daughter; Smurf didn’t play nice with other women. Desperate to be the only one in her boys’ lives. Whatever she had planned for you today was certain to be an attempt at kicking you out of Andrew’s. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you motioned for her to lead the way. You were determined not to let her win this time. 

Andrew needed a win; you weren’t about to be another disappointment. 

Though that conviction of yours weakened the closer you got to the cheering. It was gone by the time you realized what exactly she was having him do today. Inside a metal cage, two men were beating each other bloody, the people watching screaming insults as cash was traded between different hands. 

“God dammit,” you muttered, ripping your gaze away at the sound of a wet crunch as one of the men dropped to the ground. 

“Weak stomach?” Smurf taunted, shoving Pope forward before he could say anything to you. A burly man covered in tattoos jerked him forward by the neck, bending to whisper something in his ear. 

You bit your lip and turned toward Smurf. She had seated herself in a foldable chair. It could have been confused for a throne with how comfortable she looked in it. “No,” you responded, refusing to let her twisted little games beat you out. 

“You’ll have one by the end,” she promised, taking a swig from her flask as she turned her attention toward the cage match. Seeing as she hadn’t deigned to provide you a place to sit, you moved closer to the crowd. You weren’t keen on being so close to her, anyway. You’d rather be in the spray-zone of blood than have to stomach her company much longer. 

Pope walked into the ring, knuckles wrapped and eyes boring only into his opponent. He didn’t look outside the cage, not to you, not to his mother. You supposed it was for the best that neither of you got in his head while he was beating another man to a pulp. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, jumping as a bell rang and the small crowd started cheering. You kept them closed, right up until you heard the first sound of flesh breaking against flesh. With a rough swallow, you forced yourself to look as Andrew was shoved into the metal chain, ducking just before the other man’s fist connected with his face. 

Taking a step back, you tried not to grimace as he spit blood onto the cage floor. You could do this for him. You could handle a little while of blood and violence, if only to make sure Smurf doesn’t get to enjoy the victory of chasing you away. 

Nails biting into your palms, you forced yourself to be still. To not react to the blood and teeth that went flying. Or the way you could already see welts and bruises forming along Andrew’s ribs. You made your way through it, right up until the end of the match, when Andrew was standing over the other man, chest heaving and bare chest covered in marks that made you hurt for him. 

Then, in your peripheral, you saw Smurf walking up to the man running the match. Her gaze met yours as she whispered something to him. Your heart dropped as you realized she wasn’t going to let this stop until you or Andrew tapped out. 

Head whipping back to him, you felt yourself go light-headed as an even bigger man than the last walked in. He hardly waited for the bell to ring before he was swinging at Andrew. You watched as he dropped to the ground, shaking the ringing from his ears as he ducked away from another punch. 

You didn’t want to give Smurf the satisfaction of seeing you run scared. But you also weren’t going to be the reason Andrew was beaten bloody just so she could prove a point. With the best terrified expression you could muster, you went running, ignoring the barb of fury as Smurf smirked, completely victorious. You didn’t stop until you reached Andrew’s truck. 

Guilt twisted your stomach into knots. He might not have been looking at you, but it wouldn’t take long to realize you were gone. You knew him, knew that he would be quick to assume the worst. But that was better than having to watch him lie bloody in the cage. 

With a sharp breath, you leaned against his truck, head tipped back as you waited for this to be over. It took about another half hour before you saw him approaching. His head was down, pace furious as he undid the wrap around his knuckles. 

You jolted up, lips pinched as your stomach twisted. He stopped short when he finally saw you waiting, and you offered a tentative smile that probably read more like a grimace. His brows furrowed as he closed the distance between you. Hands flexing at his sides, you felt like he wanted to reach out; maybe you were projecting, but you took the leap anyway. 

“How bad does it hurt?” You asked, taking his hand in yours and frowning at the split skin of his knuckles. 

“I thought you left,” he muttered, stepping even closer. 

You already knew he would expect the worst, but the lack of faith still hurt. “Smurf clearly wanted me gone. I figured she’d be done with it if she thought I ran scared.” 

“But you didn’t.” He stared at you, eyes narrowed like he didn’t quite believe you. 

“I didn’t,” you smiled softly. “Now, keys, I don’t trust that you don’t have a concussion.” He didn’t argue as he placed them in your palm, leaning into you when you reached up to press a kiss to the unmarred spot on his cheek. “Let's get you home,” you murmured, rounding the front of his truck. 

The ride, like that morning, was quiet. You didn’t push, letting him stew until you pulled up his driveway. “Come on,” you motioned him inside, guiding him toward his bathroom so you could clean him up a bit. 

He took a seat on the rim of his tub, eyes intent on tracking you as you dug around under the sink for the first-aid supplies. You spent so much time at his house that it was practically more familiar to you than your own place. 

It was when you were kneeling down in front of him that he finally spoke. “I didn’t want you to see that,” he admitted, eyes glaring down at his bathmat. Your hand hovered over his cheek. 

You dipped your head to meet his gaze and grinned. “Why? Because that second guy knocked you on your ass?” He let out a little huff and you figured that’s the closest to a laugh you’d get today. “I’m not scared of you, Andrew,” you promised, putting the alcohol swab to the side for a moment. 

When he still wouldn’t meet your eye, you lifted your hand, careful of his cuts as you cupped his cheek. Gently, you tilted his face toward yours, imploring him to just listen to you, for once. His eyes darted between yours, expression tightening before it slowly softened. He nodded, letting his weight rest in your hand. 

You stayed the night, slept beside him, his arms tight around you while you held him back. You didn’t have sex, but you think that was better than if you had. Andrew needed something gentle in his life. A relationship that gave without anything expected in return. You never had any problems being that for him. 

“So,” you glanced around the restaurant, feeling more than a little out of place. “Why the change of plans?” You turned your attention back to Andrew, hoping you didn’t look as uncomfortable as you felt. 

Tonight, you were supposed to have dinner at his place. Possibly convince him to watch the new horror movie that just came out so you wouldn’t have to suffer through it alone. Instead, he’d told you to wear something nice and dragged you to a restaurant so fancy there was a chandelier over your table. 

It should be telling you don’t belong here if you think a chandelier is the epitome of class. 

Nails drumming along the table, your eyes dart between the nicely dressed couples and waiters with better posture than your own. The Codys had money, sure, but that didn’t mean class. And you’d known Andrew before they’d made a name for themselves. This wasn’t your sort of place, and you knew it wasn’t Andrew’s. 

“I thought you might like it,” Andrew answered, his voice low as he stared down at the menu. Your brows furrowed, but you decided not to push. He was clearly trying to make an effort. You didn’t want him to feel bad because the judgmental glares of the staff made you want to crawl out of your skin. 

“Well,” you hummed, struggling for a kind word. “It’s nice,” you settled on lamely.  

His brows rose and you let out a stiff chuckle. “You don’t like it.” You must have an even worse poker face than you thought. 

Shrugging, you lean back in your seat. “It just doesn’t seem like your sort of place.”

Andrew frowns and you worry you might have offended him. “I thought you’d be sick of my sort of place.”

Scoffing, you shake your head. “Why would you think that?”

He lets out a hefty sigh, hand scrubbing along his jaw. “It’s just something Baz told me.” Well, his first mistake was ever taking advice from Baz. “When he and Cath started dating, he said she didn’t like just hanging out at the house all the time.”

Jaw tightening, you suck your teeth, forcing your face to remain kind. “I’m not Cath,” you remind him, though you’re sure you’re both bitter about that fact. 

His eyes shoot up to meet yours, his frown deepening at the expression on your face. “I know that-”

“Then don’t try to treat me like her,” you cut in, your tone far more venomous than you’d meant. Andrew draws back, and you suck in a sharp breath. “I want to leave,” you tell him, tossing your napkin on the table and finding it difficult to meet his eyes. You don’t wait for him, getting to your feet and collecting your bag before you’d even had a chance to order. 

Andrew hurries to follow behind you as you storm out of the restaurant. You know you’re too sensitive about these things. But one night with him- where you might even be able to pretend you’re on a date like a proper couple. Is that so much to ask for? Just a night without the reminder you’re barely even a second choice. 

Deciding you need to calm down, you walk off the sidewalk of the restaurant and head down toward the beach. Andrew catches up to you quickly, hovering at your side, unsure what to say. You grab hold of his arm, leaning against him while you undo the straps of your heels. 

“Let’s walk,” you mutter, caught off guard when he reaches over to take your shoes from you. Lifting the hem of your dress, you trudge through the sand. Andrew doesn’t shake off your hold, just lets you use him for balance. 

It’s not uncommon that he allows you to be touchier with him than most people. But he’s not usually this tolerant. He already doesn’t like the feel of sand, the way it pools in his shoes and inevitably ends up trailing through his home.

Normally, he’d have gone stiff, trying to silently tell you to back off. But he’s leaning into you know, hand drifting along your waist as you listen to the soft crash of waves in the distance. 

“I’m sorry.” He finally breaks the silence. 

You bite your lip and shake your head. “I shouldn’t have just left like that. It was nice,” you reluctantly admit. He frowns down at you. With a huff, you clarify, “The restaurant idea was nice. It just wasn’t for me.” It was for the woman you actually want to be with. 

Andrew just nods, gaze pensive as he stares off into the dark waters. “I wasn’t…”

“Hm?”

He shakes his head, hand tightening around your waist as he leads you back toward his home. “Never mind,” he mutters, brows furrowed as he stares down at the sand. You frown but decide it’s better not to push. You’ve already gotten your feelings hurt once tonight; no need to risk any more. 

When you make it to his home, you almost debate asking for a ride home. You’re not hungry anymore; you don’t want to watch a stupid movie with him. He’s made it more than clear that all you are is a placeholder until he gets what he really wants. Now, all you want is to just be left alone. 

“Come on,” he mutters, already opening the door before you muster the backbone to leave. You hover at the threshold and he pauses, turning back with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

You almost back up, almost leave. Instead, you shake your head. “Nothing, never mind. I’m just tired,” you whisper, following after him. The door closes and his hand finds its way to your back. 

He turns you to face him, calloused hand drifting up to push back a strand of hair. You’ve been conditioned to lean in just as he starts to. To push closer as he wraps his arms around you and tugs you toward him. 

You wrap your arm around his shoulders, head tilting as his lips brush softly against yours. Once, twice, you wait for the third pass, when he lets go of his reservations. Grips you tighter and pushes you toward his bedroom, hungry for something only you can give him. 

But it never comes. He stays soft, hands drifting up and down your sides as he holds you by the door. You’re not complaining, enjoying the tender intimacy of the moment. He never changes pace, just takes his time, savors the moment. And you. 

You could get used to feeling so desired by him as he slowly begins leading you back to his bedroom. It’s not that he’s never like this. Occasionally, you get moments of softness with him. But this is different, somehow. Like he really means it, and isn’t just giving you gentleness as a courtesy. 

His hand works on the zipper of your dress, fingers dragging along your spine as you slip your arms from the sleeves. It falls down your body, and he lifts you, picking you up before it trips you. You tighten your legs around him, smiling when he drops you on his bed. 

It’s different that night, the way he is with you. You could almost pretend he loves you just the same as you love him. Pretend that this wasn’t his own desperate need for connection with someone else. Allowing the illusion, just once, couldn’t hurt. 

That was the last night you were together. You didn’t know- he didn’t tell you- about the bank job he and his family had planned for the next day. You couldn’t have known how badly it would’ve gone, that Andrew would end up taking the fall for Baz. 

Because Baz has a family, Deran had explained afterward. Pope doesn’t have anyone. 

He had you. Clearly, though, you didn’t count for anything in their eyes. You almost wonder if Baz had messed up on purpose. If he’d done this to get Andrew out of the way so he could take over. It wouldn’t surprise you, given how quick he was to take Andrew’s place as the eldest son. 

What shocked you the most, though, was that Smurf just let him. Baz wasn’t even hers and she still let him slip into Andrew’s place. Like he’d never been there at all. 

You weren’t allowed at the trial; you’re not even sure if you’d want to be there. But Smurf had made it abundantly clear that with Andrew gone, your place in her home would soon become nonexistent. 

You still hung around, mainly with Deran. Purely for updates on Andrew. Try as you might, each attempt at reaching out seemed to go ignored or just not work out. You sent letters. A lot of letters. At least twice a month. 

Sometimes, you couldn’t believe yourself. Andrew had been sentenced to six years. What? Were you just going to wait around for him that long? How much more pathetic could you possibly get?

A lot more, you thought to yourself, penning another letter for the third time that month. 

Andrew,

I really don’t know if you’re getting any of these. I hope you are. Smurf had me taken off the visitors list, so I can’t come and see you now. I swear, I would if she didn’t hate me so much. 

I’m sorry. Sorry I can’t see you. And sorry about how your family’s acting. They sold your house. I was going to try to buy it with the money you gave me, but Smurf figured out it was me and stopped the deal. 

There’s no guarantee when they’ll let you go. But whenever you’re free, wherever I am, there’ll be a place for you. I’ll leave my key in the plant hanging by my door if you get there before me. 

You continue on, talking about your life, struggling to decide whether or not you should ask about his. He’s in prison; you doubt there’s anything particularly exciting he’d like to share. If there was, surely he would have responded by now. 

But he never did. For two years, you kept up your letters. Kept up hope that, despite the fact he wasn’t responding, some part of him still cares for you. Deran had told you no one else was getting any letters either. But you didn’t think they were sending any or reaching out, either. 

It shouldn’t have been, but it was astounding just how little his brothers seemed to care about his absence. If anything, they seemed more at ease. Big brother wasn’t there to keep them in check anymore. Baz let them just run free, just as eager to be careless as they were. 

For two years, you loved Andrew when everyone else seemed so content with forgetting him. And two years is exactly how long Smurf’s patience lasted before she finally grew sick of you. You weren’t a threat, not anymore, but that didn’t mean she liked you any more than she did before. 

You were lounging at the pool with Deran, prattling on about your new boss while he smoked. She walked up with a cruel smirk on her lips. Which should have been your first sign to cut loose and run. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her jeans and you leapt up. Water dripped from your legs as you climbed the stairs of the pool. “I think this might be for you.”

You hastily dried your hands off on your towel, taking the letter from her with trembling hands. Two years, and he was finally letting you hear from him again. Smurf let out a little laugh, crossing her arms as you eagerly ripped open the envelope. Your second sign that you should have just ignored her. 

It was a letter, but not to you. He didn’t say her name at first. But you caught on quick enough. Mainly, when he started telling her how jealous he was of Baz. How Baz wasn’t good enough for her. She could do so much better. He could treat her so much better. He wouldn’t play around with her; he would take care of her like she deserved. 

Your throat tightened to the point it felt like you were being strangled the longer you read. Tears burned against your lashes, but you refused to let Smurf see them fall. You could barely stomach half of the letter- drawing the line at him declaring his love for Cath- before you were folding it back up. 

“It’s not for me,” you whispered, your voice breaking around the words as Deran finally lifted his head. He frowned at the look on your face while Smurf stepped closer. She took the letter from your hands, cupping your shoulder as she leaned toward your ear. 

“He didn't want anything except what’s between your legs. I don’t want you, and my family doesn’t. Leave, or I’m going to have to make you, honey.”

And you did, just like she ordered. But you didn’t just leave her house; that wasn’t enough for you. You had to leave every reminder of the Codys behind completely. 

Deran helped you, just a little, by giving you some of the money Andrew had stashed away before he was arrested. You didn’t want to take it. How could you start fresh if he was funding your future? 

But you didn’t have a choice. You were working a dead-end job and barely making minimum wage. So, reluctantly, you took the cash and moved a few hours out of Oceanside. A cute place, right by the beach. 

It was a relatively small town, quaint and filled with retirees. The type of quiet you were desperate for. Smurf bought up your old place without you knowing. You’d just made a blind deal, desperate for more money and a quick way out. 

Which meant she got the one letter Andrew ever bothered to send. 

They’re letting me out on good behavior. I want to see you. She’d scoffed as she’d tossed it in her fireplace, smiling as she thought about getting her boy back. Without any distractions in the way. You’d been dealt with. Cath wouldn’t be so hard to get rid of. 

Pope didn’t expect his family to be waiting outside the prison for him. He’d only told one person he was getting out. And he’d been hoping to see you, but he wasn’t surprised when you weren’t there. Just a little disappointed. He was sure there was a reason for it, it’s not like you’d miss something so big on purpose. 

But you hadn’t been waiting for him at Smurf’s either. You’d already warned him they’d sold his home. But you didn’t tell him they’d given his room away to his twin sister’s kid. No one had even bothered to tell him Julia had died. 

He sat in the living room, feeling more out of place than he ever had before. Cath couldn’t look at him. Baz seemed angry that he had even made it out. The kid, J, was just pissing him off more, a painful reminder of the sister he’d lost. Smurf seemed on edge, with tight smiles and cloying words, while she tried to keep him placated. 

There was one person very clearly missing. Someone they were pointedly not bringing up. You were never a huge part of the Cody family, but you were important to him and they knew that. But you weren’t here. And your letters had stopped a year ago. He had never figured out why, but he’d held out hope for a long time that a guard would bring him one again. 

He had never written back. There was never anything more to be said. He couldn’t talk about being shoved in solitary. Or the way the guards used to beat and humiliate him. That was never something he wanted you to know. It wasn't the way he wanted you to think of him.

So he had just greedily accepted your letters, your stories. But he never thought his silence would be enough to finally push you away. 

Pope broke the tense silence of the living room. “Where is she?” He stared down at his hands, knees jumping beneath his arms as he tried to keep himself calm. 

Smurf shook her head and he shot her a glare. She knew exactly who he was talking about. “Oh.” Smurf rolled her eyes, reaching over to stroke his hair. He tried not to grimace, hating the way it felt. The only person he wanted that from right now was you. 

“Forget about her, baby. She ran out a while ago. Took some of our money with her,” her voice tightens, gaze cutting to Deran, who wouldn’t look his way. His eyes narrow at that, his shoulders tensing at the discomfort on his brother's face.

“Just another skank looking for a quick fix,” Smurf callously dismissed. As if you hadn’t been there since they’d rebranded him Pope. Like you weren’t the only constant in his life, the only person he could actually rely on. 

He knew you. You weren’t an addict. You weren’t like Ren, hooked on Craig because they’d both shot each other up one too many times. You’d never cared about the money he might’ve given you. You've only ever dealt with his shit and his family for him. 

Pope refused to believe that you’d just left. That you wouldn’t have sent a letter explaining your absence. Or at least have waited until he got out to say goodbye 

But Pope gave Smurf what she wanted. He nodded, pretending you were just some chick he liked to fuck sometimes. He let her believe the lie until he finally got a minute alone. 

He tried to check all your socials, but you’d deleted them. He went through friends of yours and checked their posts to see if you’d ever popped up in any of them. He paced his room and spoke softly to himself while he tried to figure out where the hell you could have gone. Why would you have left? 

Smurf had a hand in it; he was sure of that. But you’d survived her for years. Why would you suddenly give up, now?

He checked all of the letters you’d sent him. But the return address remained the same right until the last one. Pope racked his mind for any places you mentioned wanting to visit, but none of them seemed feasible for you to simply disappear to. 

When all other options had been exhausted, he went another route.

Deran

He cornered him by the pool, eyes narrowing at the way Deran refused to meet his stare. “Where is she?”

“What the fuck are you talking-“

Pope shoved him back and Deran let out a low hiss as his spine slammed against the corner of the bar. “Don’t play dumb, Deran. You know exactly who I’m fucking talking about.”

Deran shot Pope a harsh glare, rubbing his bruising back. “Look, man, I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Pope tilted his head with a frown. “Even me?”

Deran scoffed and sneered. “You're kidding me? Especially you.”

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

“Do you really want to do this?” Pope snapped, hands balling into fists at his side. He had a lot to work out. The majority of it was anger, most of that directed at his family. He wouldn’t mind making his little brother bleed if it got him what he wanted. 

Deran seemed to realize that, too, disappointingly. “Fucks sake,” he huffed. It’s not like you and Deran were ever very close. Pope's not sure why you thought he would be a good choice to keep your secrets. Or why you were trying to keep secrets from him. But he could figure all that out when he saw you. 

Because he would, now, as Deran wrote down your address and pressed the slip of paper into his palm. 

You’d moved a few hours outside of Oceanside. Clearly desperate to get away. But that hadn’t been something Deran had been able to give a reason for. You kept a few things from him, it seemed. 

The town was small, decent, and safe enough. It seemed to be full of retirees rather than anyone close to your age. He parked downtown, fiddling with the GPS on his phone while he tried to work out the best way to get to your place. 

As luck would have it, he’d parked in front of the store you seem to frequent for groceries. Pope looked up just as you walked out of the store. His hand tightened around the steering wheel until the leather was creaking. 

He’d imagined seeing you again a lot in prison. But the memory of you had begun to fade the longer he went without. 

You seemed surreal as he watched you. Like something he dreamed up as you loaded your car with your bags. His hand dropped to the handle of his door. He wanted to jump out, hound you for an answer on why you left. Kiss you and take you right in the middle of the parking lot. He didn’t give a shit who saw; he just wanted you. 

But he stopped himself. Kept himself locked in his car while he watched you. His chest was tight as you closed your trunk, hopping into your car and pulling out of your parking spot. Andrew started his truck back up, carefully, as he pulled up behind you. 

He forced himself to stay back, to keep enough distance that you didn’t grow suspicious. He watched as you ran your errands. A stop by the general store where you picked up some tools. A few minutes in a boutique before you were walking out with empty hands. He watched it all, growing increasingly more frustrated that you seemed completely unaware someone was following you. 

By the time you made it home, his patience was gone. He watched you head inside. Watched the lights flick on behind your curtains. How your silhouette moved through the house before you turned off the living room lights. You moved through the house, a light flicking off the closer you got to your bedroom. Andrew’s leg bounced as he watched the last one go off. 

Then, he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He jumped from his truck, storming up the steps of your porch. He pulled his pick from his pocket, using his body to block anyone’s view as he pushed it into your lock. 

His hands paused, though, when he remembered one of the first letters you’d sent him. A promise of a place always waiting for him with you. His eyes darted around the porch, chest tightening when he saw a hanging plant in the corner.

He walked over, glancing over his shoulder as his hand dug through the dirt. He’d almost given up hope when he felt the smooth metal of a key beneath his fingers. 

He couldn’t decide whether to be upset or relieved. It was stupid of you to grant such easy access to your home. At the very least, though, this meant you still had to feel something for him. 

He slipped through your door quietly. Toeing off his boots, he took care not to step on any creaking wood as he made his way through the house. 

The interior was what you would expect from a beach bungalow, nice enough. Even with the limited light streaming through the curtains, he still spotted touches of you. Little pieces of color that he had missed while he’d been gone. 

He’s aware this is probably the wrong way to go about the reunion. But he can’t trust that you won’t just avoid him if he tries to approach you naturally. It’s not like you to just disappear without a warning. He couldn’t stand seeing your face as you told him to stay out of your life. He’d rather deal with that rejection in the dark, when he doesn’t have to see the hatred in your eyes. 

At the end of the hall is your bedroom. The door is cracked open slightly. Pope carefully pushes through, taking care to make sure the whining hinges don’t preemptively announce him. 

You don’t move, sprawled across your bed as a sound machine blasts at top volume, and half your face is obscured by an eye mask. He crosses his arms with a scoff. You have made it incredibly easy to break in. 

Pope shakes his head and steps further inside until he’s hovering over you. His brow furrows, his expression softening as he relearns the slopes of your face. There’s a smile growing on his face when you suddenly shoot up in bed. 

He jolts back as your head swivels wildly. Suddenly, you’re ripping off your mask. He grimaces at the shrill scream you let out, slipping across your bed until your body is thudding against the wood. 

He tries to say your name, but you’re jumping back up, a metal bat now in your hands. At least you’re marginally prepared. 

“It’s me,” he calls out. 

“What?” You snap, reaching for your lamp. He squints against the sudden light as you shove your hair out of your eyes. “Andrew?” You gasp, the bat slipping from your fingers. 

“Hey,” he offers. He waits for you to hug him, to yell at him, or maybe to scream at him to get the hell out of your life. But you don’t; you just stand there, jaw dropped. He whispers your name, and you jolt back to life, shaking your head. 

“What- how are you-" You press a hand to your temple and stutter out nonsense. He rounds the bed, slowly taking your hands in his as he leads you to sit back down.

You suck in a sharp breath, hands tensing in his hold, but you don’t jerk away. You also won’t meet his eyes. “Why are you here, Andrew?” He hates that there’s no familiar warmth when you say his name. 

“What do you mean?” Where else would he be?

“I mean,” you snap, finally meeting his eye. But it’s cold, the way you look at him. “Why are you here? In my house,” you grit out, eyes wide as you gesture toward your bedroom. 

Pope rubs the back of his neck. This is a slightly better reaction than what he’d been preparing for. But he can’t tell if catching you off guard was the right call. 

“I told you I was coming back.”

You narrow your eyes and shake your head. “When?” You huff. 

Andrew frowns. “In my letter,” he’s sure he must’ve seen it before you moved. Or, at the very least, one of his family would’ve given it to you. 

“Oh,” you scoff and jump to your feet. “No, I never got a letter from you, Andrew. Just one person did.” You smile as Andrew frowns, shaking his head helplessly. “Cath,” you elaborate, patience running thin. 

“I never sent her a letter,” he insists, not having a goddamn idea what you’re talking about. He just wants you to sit down again. The way you’re eyeing that bat is disconcerting. 

“Are you seriously trying to lie to me right now?” You demand, pacing in front of him. 

He snaps your name and you freeze, forcing yourself to look at him. Pope stands, but you take a step back. It's hard to ignore how much that hurts.

“I never sent anyone any letters, alright? I- I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk about what was happening, so I never sent anything. But I told you I was coming back.”

A part of you softens. You’re still not happy, but you seem more inclined to believe him. “I’m sorry.” You shake your head. “I never got anything. When did you send it?”

“A few months ago.”

“No,” you bite your lip, glaring down at the floor. “I’d already moved. Smurf would’ve-“

You cut yourself off with a low hiss as you slump back into your bed. Pope hovers in front of you, unsure what to do now. “God, that fucking bitch. Goddamn control freak,” you snap. 

Your eyes shoot up to his, “Did you ever, in your life, write Cath a letter?”

Pope grimaced, thinking about it. “Yeah, when we were kids.” You let out a bitter laugh, head falling into your hands. Hesitatingly, he took a seat beside you. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

Your head shoots up and you stare at him for a long time. Long enough for him to grow uncomfortable. “No,” you finally whisper and something inside of him finally relaxes. “No, I’m not mad at you.”

He reaches out, eager to finally hold you again, but you hold up your hand, jerking away. “But I can’t do this again. I’m so glad you’re out, I really am. But I can’t go back to being what we were.”

Pope shakes his head, drawing back into himself. “What we were?”

“You can’t just come back and expect me to be your fuck buddy again, Andrew.”

“That’s not what we were,” he snaps. How could you debase it like that? Just like Smurf had.

“You never called to anything else,” you scoff, brows drawing together with irritation. Were you always so volatile? 

“I never called it anything.”

“Exactly,” you snap. “Andrew, I don’t know how else to make it clear. I wrote to you for two years, without ever getting anything back. I’ve been in love with you for so long. But you don’t get to come back into my life and offer nothing but sex. It’s not fair.”

His chest aches as you cut yourself off, your voice trembling. Is that what you’ve thought? All this time, you just thought that the way he treats you is how he’d ever treat anyone else?

“It was never just sex.” He pauses, completely unsure if he even has the words to properly convey how he feels about you. “I love you,” he admits, and your breath hitches painfully. “I thought you knew that. How could you not know?” It's embarrassing, the way his voice breaks.

“How would I?” You scoff, watery eyes lifting to meet his. “It’s not like we talk about our emotions a lot.”

Pope swallows roughly. This isn’t how he works. He can’t just spew off romantic words of undying love. He just isn’t good at that. Always better at showing others how he feels. Though clearly that isn’t working either. 

“I love you,” he promises. “I’ve waited three years to see you. And when you weren’t at the house today, I thought…” he can’t finish. He’d had a hundred thoughts of the worst possible explanations for your absence. And each one had hurt worse than the last. 

You let out a rough sigh, and Andrew waits for you to tell him to get out. He jolts when he feels your arm around him. You pull him closer and he seeks your warmth immediately, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he winds his arm around you. 

You let out a small laugh, stroking his back as he sinks his weight against you. “I never stopped loving you,” you whisper. “I was pissed off for a while. But, infuriatingly, you’ve always stayed with me.” He pulls back and you nod. “Always,” you swear, frowning at the look in his eyes. 

“Please,” he whispers, hardly even caring he’s this close to getting on his knees and begging. “Can I stay here tonight?” 

You frown and shake your head. “Of course,” you lean down, lips soft as they press against his temple. “As long as you want.” He’s sure you have no idea just how long you're signing up for. 

Or, maybe you were. You seem to have been waiting for this as long as he has. He’s not planning on giving you up anytime soon. Not again. 

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                 ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 Can't call it love then call it quits 💿

chapter two | birthday boy

Two weeks. That’s how much time has passed since Pope was released from Folsom and somehow, your life starts revolving around him more than the arrangement you both agreed to.

You see him everywhere now and fuck him everywhere too. In the back seat of his car beneath the glow of streetlights. In his immaculately spotless hotel suite where messy sheets tangle around both of you in the lingering heat of sweat and sex. Pope spent years starving for intimacy and touch, and now he’s finally found something, or someone, capable of quieting the noise in his head for a little while. And somehow, every single time with him only gets better.

He learns your body quickly. Not easily, exactly. Pope doesn’t do anything with ease. He does it with focus. His hands remember what makes your breath catch, what makes your hips lift, what makes your fingers tighten in his hair before you even realize you’re doing it. He learns the sounds he can pull from you with his hands, his mouth or the gentle scrape of his teeth against the space between your neck and shoulder. He learns how your body reacts whenever his voice drops low enough to vibrate against your skin, especially when he praises you. When he calls you his good girl.

And you? You like how badly he wants you.

Sure, the money is nice. You find yourself worrying less about rent and what you’ll eat during the week, but the real addiction is the hunger behind everything he does. Pope kisses like he wants to consume you, his hands gripping harder every time you kiss him back with the same need, as if some part of him still expects the moment to disappear. Even when he gets rougher, there’s care underneath it. A hand at the back of your head. A pause when your breath catches wrong. His eyes checking yours before his mouth finds you again.

Even after all the nights spent together, Pope never once asks you to stay over.

You know he wants to. Part of you quietly hopes he will. You see it every time you get dressed while he sits silently watching you leave, his eyes following you toward the door like there are words trapped somewhere inside him he doesn’t know how to say out loud. He never reaches for you. He never asks. He only watches, jaw tight, one hand resting against his knee like staying still is something he has to force himself to do.

Pope still barely sleeps, and you can tell just by looking at him. Some nights after sex, while your breathing slowly settles, he stands near the hotel window staring down at the parking lot below with restless energy trapped inside him. His body relaxes around you, but his mind never fully does. You can make him quiet for a little while. You can feel the moment his body gives in beneath your hands.

But you still can’t make him rest.

The following night, you lie on your side while his fingers lazily trace circles along your bare thigh beneath the sheets. The room smells faintly of sweat, clean linen and salty ocean air drifting through the cracked hotel window.

You light a cigarette before climbing back on top of Pope, offering him a drag from the one still balanced between your fingers. Pope doesn’t take it from you. He only leans up, eyes staying on yours as his mouth closes around the filter.

You hold it there for him, watching his cheeks hollow slightly as he inhales.

Then your eyes drift down, catching on the healing cut near his ribs, half-hidden beneath the sheet. Your fingertips brush lightly against it.

“That from the other night?”

Pope glances down briefly.

“S’nothing.”

But the bruising around it has already turned dark purple and yellow. You lean down without really thinking about it, pressing a soft kiss against the skin beside the cut.

Pope goes still beneath you.

Only for a second.

Then his hand settles against your waist, slower this time, fingers spreading carefully over your skin like tenderness still catches him off guard when it isn’t followed by anything sharp.

Before you can say anything else, his phone starts vibrating loudly on the nightstand beside the bed. Pope doesn’t even look at it. His hand slides to the back of your neck instead, pulling you into a kiss.

The buzzing stops after a few seconds. Then starts all over again.

You laugh softly against his shoulder.

“Someone’s desperate.”

Pope groans under his breath before grabbing the phone.

“What.”

Craig’s voice explodes through the speaker loudly enough for you to hear.

“Happy birthday, asshole!”

You immediately push yourself up off Pope’s body.

“Birthday?” you mouth silently toward him.

Pope winces and pulls the phone away from his ear while Craig keeps rambling loudly about plans tomorrow and how Pope better not disappear all day with “his girl.”

Heat rushes into your cheeks at the nickname while Pope drags a tired hand down his face like Craig is already exhausting him.

“Yeah,” Pope mutters eventually. “I’ll come.”

Pause.

“No, I’m not jumpin’ outta a plane, dipshit.”

You laugh harder at that as Pope shoots you an irritated look. His hand is still on your waist, though, which ruins some of the effect.

He hangs up eventually and tosses the phone back onto the table before laying back down.

“You didn’t tell me it’s your birthday.”

Pope shrugs.

“Didn’t matter.”

You roll onto your side to face him properly.

“Not a fan of birthdays?”

He doesn’t respond.

The silence stretches for a moment before you speak again. You shift onto your back, taking another drag from the cigarette between your fingers.

“My favourite birthday was probably three years ago.”

Pope glances toward you quietly.

“Chrissy snuck us into Disneyland after my ex broke up with me.”

His eyebrows lift slightly in curious amusement.

“Snuck?”

“She was screwing a guy working security,” you say, smiling softly at the memory. “We spent the entire night going on rides and watching fireworks.”

Pope stays quiet for a second before speaking unexpectedly.

“Julia skipped school with me once.”

Your attention shifts back toward him immediately.

Pope never brings up Julia.

“She took me to the beach,” he says, voice lower now. “We split this vanilla cupcake with strawberry filling from some bakery near the pier.”

There it is again. That grief sitting just beneath the surface inside him. You suddenly wonder what Julia would’ve been like. Wonder what kind of person could still make Pope sound this gentle years later.

Pope looks back toward you then, reaching over to take the cigarette from between your fingers before bringing it to his mouth. Smoke leaves slowly through his nose before he speaks again.

“Smurf wants me at the house tomorrow.”

“Oh,” you say, eyes shifting toward the ceiling.

Then Pope says, “Come tomorrow.”

You blink.

“To your birthday?”

His eyes stay on yours.

“Yeah.”

Something in your chest tightens at the invitation. You study him for a moment, waiting for the casual correction, the shrug, the thing that will make it sound smaller than it is.

It never comes.

“You asking me or telling me?” you ask softly.

Pope’s mouth almost moves.

“Asking.”

The answer is quiet enough to feel more intimate than it should.

You take another drag from the cigarette, mostly to give yourself something to do with your hands.

“Okay,” you say softly. “What time?”

The next morning, you dig through your closet until you find a yellow sundress shoved near the back. Soft fabric. Thin straps. Fitted enough around your waist to make Pope look at you a little too long, if you’re lucky.

Chrissy watches from your bed, sitting cross-legged while you change.

“Where the fuck are you going so early in the morning?”

“It’s Pope’s birthday,” you say, adjusting the dress in the mirror.

That gets Chrissy’s attention immediately. Her expression shifts while you tie your hair into a braid, the teasing look on her face giving way to something more careful.

“Pope Cody’s birthday?”

You meet her eyes in the mirror.

“I know the stories too, Chrissy.”

“Okay, but stories don’t usually come from nowhere.”

You soften slightly because Chrissy is genuinely worried, even if she’s trying not to show it.

“I’m okay,” you say. “Promise.”

Chrissy studies you for another second before sighing dramatically and falling back against your pillows.

“You better be. I’m too lazy to make new friends.”

You laugh quietly before grabbing your purse from the doorknob.

“Love you. Don’t wait up,” you say with a wink.

“First of all, gross,” she mutters immediately. “Second, there’s a bachelor party at the club, so I’ll be at work all night. Third, I love you too.”

The Codys love a party, even if it’s just family.

Craig cannonballs into the pool fully clothed while Deran yells at him from the patio. J sits nearby next to Nikki, looking deeply overwhelmed by the entire family. He clings to Baz constantly now, following him around with this desperate need for guidance that seems to irritate Pope more every time he notices it.

The second Pope looks up and sees you standing near the patio doors in the yellow dress, his entire expression changes. His gaze drags over you slowly, lingering just long enough to make heat rush up your neck before settling back on your face. The longer he looks, the less he seems interested in birthday plans and the more he seems interested in getting you alone.

Deran catches Pope watching you from across the patio and mutters something under his breath to Craig, making him laugh. Pope doesn’t even look over. His attention stays on you.

Baz notices you too. His gaze drags slowly over the yellow dress with the kind of familiarity he has no right to anymore. Slow enough to make sure you feel it. Slow enough to make sure Pope sees.

Pope’s jaw tightens immediately. Baz leans back casually in his chair before looking toward you again.

“You never wore dresses like that around me.”

“Maybe you didn’t deserve them.”

Baz’s grin widens, but his eyes flick past you toward Pope.

“What?” he says, lifting his hands. “I’m just saying. I had her first.”

“Baz,” Cath warns sharply from behind him.

You jump slightly, not realizing she heard the entire exchange. Cath stands near the patio door with Lena, her expression tight in a way that makes the moment feel uglier than it did a second ago.

For half a breath, something almost embarrassed flashes across Baz’s face. The smug grin comes back harder, like he’d rather be cruel than caught.

Pope starts walking toward him slowly.

“You got somethin’ else to say?”

Baz stands from his chair and smirks wider, but his shoulders have gone a little tight.

“Just statin’ facts.”

Pope shoves him hard into the pool. Water splashes everywhere as Baz goes under and for one quick second, the patio goes quiet. Then Baz surfaces a moment later, sputtering while Craig bursts out laughing.

Pope stands at the edge of the pool looking down at him, expression flat except for a faint trace of satisfaction at the corner of his mouth.

“Y’know,” Baz laughs while splashing water back toward him, “you can be a real dick, Pope.”

“You started it, asshole,” Pope says and something almost playful flashes across his face. Quick, rare and gone almost immediately.

“Boys,” Smurf snaps sharply from the patio, though amusement lingers underneath her voice. “Stop play fighting.”

Then she motions toward the house.

“Girls, come help me in the kitchen.”

You follow Smurf, Cath, Lena and Nikki inside while the boys stay outside laughing loudly near the pool. As you pass Pope, his eyes find yours again, moving once over the yellow dress before lifting back to your face.

Inside, the kitchen moves around you while Nikki arranges food near the island and Cath cuts strawberries beside the sink. Lena sits colouring quietly at the counter until she looks up and notices your braid.

“I like your hair.”

The sweetness in her voice catches you off guard.

“Thanks, sweetie.”

Lena immediately looks toward Cath.

“Mommy, can you do mine like that?”

Cath pauses briefly before glancing toward you.

“You know what, babe? My hands are really sticky right now. Why don’t you ask her?”

The offer surprises you, but Lena is already climbing onto the stool beside you, excitedly handing over a brush before you can overthink it. You smile softly and start braiding her hair carefully while she continues colouring, her little feet swinging beneath the counter.

Smurf watches quietly from across the kitchen, a cigarette held loosely between her fingers.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with my Andrew lately.”

The way she says my Andrew feels deliberate.

“He likes having me around.”

Smurf smiles faintly.

“Oh, I know he does.” Her eyes drift briefly toward the backyard. “My boys have always liked pretty things.”

Nikki glances awkwardly between you and Cath. The last sentence hangs long enough to sting and Cath’s jaw tightens slightly beside the sink. You keep your hands steady in Lena’s hair.

“Funny,” you say calmly. “Pope’s the only one around here who hasn’t treated me like one.”

Smurf’s smile doesn’t move.

“Maybe not.” Her voice stays honey-sweet. “Andrew’s always been different from his brothers.”

You tie off the first braid carefully.

“He feels things stronger than most people,” Smurf continues. “Doesn’t always know what to do with it.”

Her gaze drifts toward the backyard again, where Pope stands near the pool with Craig and Deran, still not laughing as much as everyone else.

“Family means everything to him. Always has.” She takes a slow drag from her cigarette. “People come and go in this life, sweetie. Women especially.”

She shrugs lightly, like she hasn’t just slid the knife in.

“But Andrew always comes home.”

Something about the last line stays with you longer than you want it to. Nikki raises her glass slowly to her mouth, eyes darting toward you like she’s afraid to miss what comes next. Even Cath looks uncomfortable now. The implication lands exactly how Smurf intends it to.

No matter how much time Pope spends with you, no matter how badly he wants you, he still knows where to go when his mother calls.

You finish the last twist in Lena’s braid before answering.

“Must get tiring,” you say.

Smurf tilts her head.

“What’s that?”

“Always having to come home.”

The room goes still for half a second. Cath looks down like she’s trying not to react. Nikki nearly chokes on her drink.

Smurf smiles then. Not because she likes you. Because even Smurf can admit when someone has teeth.

She steps closer, lifting a hand toward your braid and letting her fingers brush over it like she’s admiring something delicate. Then she moves a loose strand of hair away from your face, examining you closely enough to make your skin prickle.

“You’re a young, beautiful girl,” Smurf says softly. “You’ve got a whole world of options that don’t involve my boys.”

Before you can answer, Lena twists around on the stool to look at her hair.

“Is it done?”

You force your attention back to her and smile.

“Almost.”

Cath clears her throat, setting the knife down beside the strawberries.

“You still looking for work?”

The question cuts through the tension cleanly enough that Nikki looks visibly relieved.

“I’ve been trying,” you admit, tying off Lena’s second braid.

“You ever worked in a bar before?”

“I was a server at a diner for a few years.”

“The Flying Pig’s hiring,” Cath says. “One of the servers left a few weeks ago and they’re trying to find someone to cover.”

The offer catches you completely off guard.

“You serious?”

Cath shrugs lightly, but her eyes stay on yours.

“You’d make good tips.”

You doubt you and Cath will ever become best friends, but you still smile softly at her, quietly acknowledging that maybe, in some strange way, you both understand each other more than either of you wants to admit.

“I’ll think about it.”

Lena reaches up carefully to touch one of the braids.

“Do I look pretty?”

You glance down at her and soften.

“Very.”

Across the kitchen, Smurf watches the whole thing, cigarette smoke curling lazily around her face.

A few moments later, once Nikki settles with Lena in the living room to watch cartoons and Smurf disappears outside to drag the boys back in, the kitchen finally quiets. Cath folds dish towels carefully beside you while tension still lingers between you both, quiet and awkward now that there’s no one else around to hide behind.

“Cath, I…”

The backyard door suddenly slams open before you can finish, and the boys flood back inside loudly while Craig drips pool water across the tile floor. Baz follows behind him mostly dry now, though his shirt still clings slightly at the collar and his hair is messier than it was before.

Pope immediately looks disgusted.

“Jesus Christ, Craig.”

“What?”

“You’re all wet.”

“It’s called a pool, dumbass.”

“There’s fucking footprints everywhere.”

Craig ignores him completely and opens the fridge, grabbing the cake with soaking wet hands. You’ve never seen Pope look genuinely horrified. Deran bursts out laughing from behind him while Baz steps forward and drops both hands onto Pope’s shoulders mockingly.

“He’s gonna want to disinfect the whole kitchen after this.”

Pope shrugs him off without looking at him.

“Don’t touch me.”

Baz only grins, but there’s still a sharpness to it from earlier.

Smurf lights a candle on a large chocolate cake while everybody crowds loosely around the kitchen island. The brothers sing terribly, mostly yelling over each other while Pope stands there looking uncomfortable through the entire thing. Craig sings the loudest, of course, one hand still dripping onto the tile while Deran laughs too hard to stay on key. Baz leans against the counter with that easy grin back in place, like the pool never happened.

You catch yourself smiling and for half a second, it almost feels normal.

Then Smurf motions for Pope to blow out the candle.

J looks at the cake. His expression barely changes, but his voice cuts through the room anyway.

“It’s my mom’s birthday too.”

The silence is immediate.

Craig stops smiling first. Deran’s eyes flick toward Smurf. Baz looks away, jaw tightening like something old just moved under his skin. Pope goes completely still beside the island, his attention fixed on the candle like he’s stopped seeing the room at all.

Even Smurf’s expression shifts. Only for a second. Then the softness comes back, smooth and practised.

“That’s right, baby,” she says gently. “It is.”

She looks at the cake, then at J.

“Happy birthday, Julia.”

Nobody moves.

The candle flame flickers between all of you, small and ridiculous on top of all that chocolate frosting.

You look toward Pope.

He’s already gone somewhere else.

Not physically. He’s still standing there, still close enough for your shoulder to brush his if you moved half a step. But everything in him has pulled inward. His jaw is tight. His eyes are distant. His hands hang at his sides, too still now, like he doesn’t trust them to do anything else.

And all at once, the sadness sitting underneath him all day finally makes sense.

Julia.

Not just his birthday.

Theirs.

Eventually, everybody drifts back outside again. Cath gathers leftovers quietly while Lena tugs sleepily at her hand, her fresh braid coming loose near the ends.

Before leaving, Cath stops beside you, speaking low enough that only you can hear.

“You should be careful.”

You look toward her immediately.

Cath glances briefly toward the backyard where Pope stands near the pool arguing with Craig and Deran, shoulders stiff while Craig gestures too widely with both hands.

“With him?”

Cath’s mouth tightens slightly.

“With all of them.”

Her eyes move toward Smurf next, sitting outside with a cigarette between her fingers, watching her boys like she owns every breath they take.

“Smurf doesn’t like losing track of what belongs to her.”

The warning lands quietly.

“She’ll always find a way to pull them back,” Cath adds, softer now. “I know from experience.”

The sadness underneath her voice hits harder than the warning itself.

“Thank you for looking out for me,” you say quietly.

Cath nods once, like she’s already decided not to make this more sentimental than it needs to be.

You glance toward Baz, who’s laughing too loudly near the pool like nothing in the kitchen ever happened. Then you look back at Cath.

“And for what it’s worth,” you add, voice lower, “I’m sorry.”

Cath studies you for another second. For a moment, you think she might pretend not to understand.

She doesn’t.

Her expression softens slightly, but only slightly.

“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”

Then Lena tugs her hand again.

Cath looks down, brushing a loose piece of hair away from Lena’s face before looking back at you.

“Think about my offer. Let me know.”

Then she leaves quietly with Lena.

You’re alone in the kitchen washing dishes while the remaining houseguests stay outside near the pool. A few seconds later, Pope comes up behind you, quiet enough that you barely hear him until his mouth is near your ear.

“That dress is drivin’ me fuckin’ crazy,” he says low, his hands sliding slowly around your waist.

A smile pulls at your mouth.

“Consider it part of your birthday gift,” you say, leaning your head back until your mouth brushes near his ear. “Although part of it might already be unwrapped.”

He goes completely still behind you.

“You’re lyin’.”

You glance over your shoulder, your eyes lifting to meet his.

“Why don’t you feel for yourself?”

That’s apparently all the permission Pope needs. His breathing changes instantly as his hand slides beneath your dress and finds nothing but bare skin waiting for him.

“Fuck,” he groans against your ear, his hand gripping you firmly. “You have no idea what you’re doin’ to me.”

You bite your lip as your hips shift against his hand.

“Pretty sure I’m starting to.”

His hands move around to the front of you, pushing your legs apart while your fingers tighten around the edge of the sink. One hand settles at your hip to keep you steady while the other disappears beneath your dress again.

The second his fingers find you already slick for him, his breath turns ragged.

“Jesus,” he mutters, almost to himself.

Your head tips back against his shoulder as his touch starts slow and deliberate, focused in that way he gets when he’s learning something he wants to remember. The dishes sit forgotten in the sink, soap sliding down your wrists while your body leans back into his like it already knows where it belongs.

He pulls his fingers away suddenly.

You barely have time to miss the touch before he brings them to his mouth. His eyes stay locked on yours as he licks them clean, and the sight nearly makes your knees give out.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice rough. “You taste good.”

The words nearly undo you, mostly because he says them like he wasn’t trying to praise you at all. Like the truth just slipped out before he could stop it.

You turn quickly to face him, kissing him hard while your damp, soapy hands slide into his hair. Pope makes a quiet sound into your mouth, one hand catching your waist before he backs you against the kitchen island.

He lifts you onto the counter with both hands, a little rougher than necessary, like patience has finally started failing him.

Your breath catches as you lean back on your palms, the counter cool beneath your skin while Pope steps between your legs. His eyes drag slowly over you, over the yellow dress bunched high on your thighs, and the look on his face makes heat rush through you all over again.

Then he lowers himself in front of you.

“Pope—” you breathe, but there’s no warning in it.

His hands slide up your thighs, spreading them wider as his mouth presses against the inside of your knee, then higher, disappearing beneath the soft yellow fabric.

A shaky breath leaves you immediately. Your hips move before he even touches you where you need him, already desperate for his mouth, desperate to feel him taste you again after the way he looked at you moments earlier.

Just then, the backyard door slides open.

“Yo!” Baz yells loudly from outside. “Birthday boy! You comin’ or what?”

Pope’s head lifts from beneath your dress, and he shuts his eyes briefly like he’s genuinely considering murder.

“One minute,” he snaps.

Baz laughs from the patio.

“Hurry the fuck up. Guy’s gonna charge me a late fee if we don’t meet him now.”

Pope stays where he is for another second, breathing hard, his hands still gripping your thighs beneath the dress. For a moment, you think he might ignore Baz completely.

Then his jaw tightens.

He stands slowly.

You grin breathlessly as you hop down from the counter, smoothing your dress back into place.

“Take a rain check?”

His hands find your hips again, fingers digging in for half a second before he forces himself to loosen his grip.

“Hotel. Later.”

You look up at him, still smiling.

“Nowhere else I’d rather be tonight.”

His expression shifts slightly, the frustration giving way to something softer before he leans in and kisses you once, hard and brief.

“Good,” he says against your mouth.

Apparently, the Cody brothers’ brilliant birthday plans involve skydiving, despite Pope repeatedly calling it “stupid as shit.”

You’re curled on your couch later that evening when your phone buzzes with updates from him.

deran and craig got into it

craig pushed deran out of the plane

You stare at the screen.

is deran ok?

yeah

why did craig push deran out of the plane?

because deran and i did the job without him and baz

You blink once.

normal family stuff then

yeah

pope

what

that was sarcasm

i know

A minute passes before curiosity wins.

why didn’t you guys do the job with baz and craig?

baz had to take craig to a doctor in mexico

You sit up a little.

why did craig need a doctor in mexico?

bullet wound

“What the fuck?” you say aloud to your empty apartment.

i should stop asking questions

probably for the best

He doesn’t answer for a while after that.

A few hours later, your phone buzzes again.

at a strip club now

Your eyebrows lift.

poor pope surrounded by beautiful naked women

His response comes almost immediately.

don’t start

You grin to yourself, curling deeper into the couch cushions.

better not forget about me if girls are giving you a lap dance

There’s a longer pause this time.

what makes you think im getting a lap dance

You snort softly.

because baz probably paid for one already

No response comes after that.

You stare at the screen for another second before biting your lip. Then, impulsively, you push yourself off the couch and walk toward your bedroom.

The yellow dress is still on.

You let the straps fall low enough to bare your shoulders, the fabric riding higher along your thighs as you stand with your back toward the mirror. You glance over one shoulder, phone lifted just enough to hide most of your face, though the sly curve of your mouth still shows.

preview for later ;)

Read immediately.

Then nothing.

Your stomach twists.

Maybe his phone died. Maybe Baz dragged him somewhere louder. Maybe Pope looked at the picture in the middle of the club and went completely still, jaw tight, eyes fixed on the screen while some girl tried to get his attention and failed.

That last thought should make you feel smug.

Instead, the silence starts getting under your skin.

Maybe he actually accepted the lap dance.

You hate how much that bothers you.

Almost twenty minutes pass before there’s a knock at your apartment door. You frown slightly before walking over and pulling it open.

Pope stands in the hallway, breathing a little heavier than normal, his dark eyes locking onto you immediately. His gaze drops slowly down your body, taking in the yellow dress. His gaze lingers long enough to make heat rush up your neck before lifting back to your face.

“Chrissy home?”

His eyes flick past you into the apartment, quick and careful, checking corners like he can’t help himself.

You shake your head slowly.

“Working. Won’t be home all night.”

“Good.”

You step aside to let him in and Pope shuts the door behind him immediately.

When he turns back to you, the restraint is almost worse than if he touched you right away. He just stands there for a second, looking at you with the kind of focus that makes it obvious he hasn’t stopped thinking about the picture since the moment he opened it.

“What are you doing here?” you ask softly. “I thought I was supposed to meet you at the hotel later.”

Pope steps closer.

“Couldn’t wait.”

Your stomach tightens.

“No?”

His eyes stay on yours.

“No.”

You take a breath, but he’s already close enough for his hand to find your hip. His other hand slips beneath the edge of your dress, slow enough that you feel every inch of anticipation before his fingers touch skin.

“You can’t send me a picture like that,” he says, voice low, “and expect me to sit there with them like I’m not thinkin’ about this.”

His hand moves higher.

You feel the exact moment he realizes.

Pope goes still and his eyes darken.

“Still no underwear?”

“No.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly. Not a full smile. Barely even close.

It still makes heat pull low in your stomach.

“That why you sent it?”

You swallow, trying not to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much the look on his face affects you.

“Maybe.”

His thumb drags once over your thigh.

“Wanted me to leave?”

Your breath catches.

“Answer me.”

“Yes.”

His hand tightens at your hip.

“Good girl.”

The praise slips through you immediately, fast and embarrassing and impossible to hide. Pope sees it too. His gaze drops to your mouth before he leans closer, his lips brushing the corner of yours without kissing you yet.

“It worked.”

Then he kisses you hard enough to make you stumble backward.

Pope catches you immediately, one arm wrapping around your waist while his other hand slides beneath your thigh. He lifts you easily, your legs locking around him as he carries you farther into the apartment without breaking the kiss. There’s nothing graceful about it. Not really. He moves like patience has already failed him and he’s holding himself together by force.

He sets you down on the table carefully, almost too carefully for how hard he’s breathing.

That gets to you more than it should.

The restraint. The hunger. The way he can look at you like that and still make sure the edge of the table doesn’t catch the back of your thigh.

Pope steps between your knees, his hands sliding along your legs, slow and firm, pushing the yellow dress higher until the fabric bunches around your hips.

For a second, he only looks at you.

“What?” you breathe.

His eyes lift to yours, dark and focused.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about it.”

Your stomach tightens.

“About what?”

His gaze drops between your thighs before coming back to your face.

“The way you taste.”

The words leave him rough, almost like he didn’t mean to say them out loud. Like the truth slips out before he can stop it.

He steps closer, his hands settling at your knees.

“Can I?”

Your breath catches at the question. Even like this, even with his body pressed close and his mouth swollen from kissing you, he still gives you the choice.

You nod.

His eyes narrow slightly.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you breathe. “Taste me again, Pope.”

He lowers himself between your thighs, one arm hooking beneath your leg to pull you closer to the edge. Your hands brace behind you, fingers curling against the tabletop as his mouth presses to the inside of your knee, then higher.

He takes his time for someone who said he couldn’t wait.

That’s the part that nearly undoes you.

The way his mouth moves over your skin with deliberate patience. The way his fingers press into your thigh, not rushing, not careless, holding you open for him like he wants to feel every second of you giving in. The way he watches your face until the dress hides him from view.

Then his mouth finds you.

Your back arches immediately, a broken sound slipping past your lips before you can stop it.

“Fuck, Pope.”

His grip tightens.

The sound of your voice does something to him. You feel it in the way his restraint falters, the way his mouth grows hungrier, the way one hand slides up your thigh and keeps you right there when your hips try to move against him.

He doesn’t let you disappear into it alone.

Every time you gasp, he answers. Every time your fingers tighten in his hair, his breath drags rough against your skin. Every time your body trembles, his hand strokes once along your thigh, grounding you before he takes you apart again.

Your head falls back.

“Oh god,” you whisper. “Pope.”

He makes a low sound against you, like hearing his name like that is almost too much.

You feel yourself getting close too quickly, too sharply, the pleasure gathering low and tight until your legs begin to shake around him.

“I’m gonna come,” you breathe.

Pope lifts his head from beneath your dress.

His mouth is wet, his breathing uneven, his eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them.

“Not yet.”

Your chest rises sharply.

“Pope.”

His hand slides up your stomach, pressing lightly there, not holding you down, just keeping you with him.

“Wait for me,” he says, voice rough with restraint. “Can you do that?”

You nod immediately, too far gone to argue.

A slow curve touches the corner of his mouth, almost wrecked by how quickly you listen to him.

“Good girl.”

The praise moves through you so fast your thighs press tighter around him. His expression changes again, hunger bleeding into something almost tender.

He stands and leans over you, mouth finding yours. You taste yourself on him and the kiss turns deeper, messier, his hand sliding beneath your dress to push it higher.

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

His eyes move over you slowly, taking in the flushed skin, the dress gathered at your waist, the way your chest rises with every shaky breath. Pope looks at you like he’s trying to memorize what wanting can look like when nobody is taking it from him.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says quietly.

The words come out almost uneven and that makes them hit harder.

You reach for him, fingers finding his belt.

“Come here.”

He listens.

His belt comes undone quickly, then his jeans. His boxers get pushed down just enough for you to see how badly the whole day has gotten to him. You lift yourself slightly onto your elbows, watching as he rolls the condom on, his eyes flicking back to yours like he wants to catch every reaction.

Then he steps between your thighs again.

His hands slide beneath your knees, pulling you closer to the edge of the table. The movement drags a soft gasp from you and Pope’s jaw tightens at the sound.

He lines himself up slowly as your fingers grip his shoulders.

“Pope.”

“I know.”

His forehead drops against yours.

The first thrust inside you steals the air from both of you. He pushes in carefully, inch by inch and the sound that leaves him is rough and broken against your mouth. Your eyes close, overwhelmed by the stretch, the heat, the weight of him so close after wanting him all day too.

“Look at me.”

You force your eyes open.

His face is right there, tense with restraint, mouth parted, eyes locked on yours like he needs you to stay with him for this.

“There you go,” he breathes. “That’s my girl.”

Your body tightens around him.

Pope feels it immediately. His eyes shut for half a second.

“Fu—”

He starts moving slowly at first, one hand firm at your waist while the other braces against the table beside you. Every thrust pulls a breathless sound from you and Pope takes each one like it matters. Like he’s listening for what your body wants before his own can take over.

But his patience doesn’t last long.

Not after the picture. Not after the kitchen. Not after being interrupted once and forced to sit through the rest of the day with the thought of you waiting for him in that dress.

His rhythm turns rougher, more desperate, though his hands stay careful, keeping you close without making you feel trapped.

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him against you.

He goes willingly, face burying against your neck, mouth dragging over your skin between uneven breaths.

“I couldn’t think,” he says against your throat.

You make a soft sound, fingers tightening in his hair.

“About me?”

His mouth presses below your ear.

“Yeah.”

A beat.

“Only you.”

Your chest aches at how simple it sounds.

His hand slides beneath your thigh, lifting your leg higher against his hip and the new angle makes your whole body go tight.

“Fuck,” you whisper.

Pope’s breath catches.

“You close?”

You nod.

“Words.”

“Yes.”

“Not yet.”

“Pope—”

“Wait.”

His forehead drops against yours, breath breaking.

“Just… wait.”

A helpless sound breaks from you and something in his expression shifts like he almost can’t stand asking it of you.

“I know,” he murmurs, kissing you once. “I got you.”

His pace grows rougher, more uneven, every movement pulling you closer to the edge while his own control slips piece by piece. His mouth drags along your jaw, his breathing turning ragged near your ear.

“Wait for me,” he says again, rougher this time, almost pleading. “Come with me.”

That’s what does it.

Not just his body or the pressure building so sharply you can barely breathe around it.

It’s the way he says it. Like he doesn’t want to fall apart unless you’re there with him.

Release moves through you hard and sudden, your body tightening around him as Pope follows you over the edge with a rough sound buried against your mouth. His arms lock around you, holding you through it, holding you after, his face pressed into the curve of your neck while both of you shake through the last of it.

For a while, neither of you says anything.

Pope stays there, breathing hard against your skin, his hand moving slowly over your back like he’s trying to keep both of you in one piece.

Then, after a long moment, his mouth brushes your shoulder.

“You okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath.

“Yeah.”

His hand moves once over your back again.

You smile faintly, turning your face toward his.

“You left the strip club pretty fast.”

Pope lifts his head just enough to look at you. His mouth twitches faintly.

“Didn’t wanna be there.”

Your smile softens.

“No?”

His eyes move over your face, warmer now, still a little dark from everything that just happened between you.

“Wanted to be here.”

The words are simple. Almost plain.

Somehow, that makes them worse.

Later, while fixing your dress again in the kitchen, your eyes drift toward the table behind you and you nearly laugh to yourself. If Chrissy ever finds out what happened on her kitchen table, she may actually kill you.

Pope sits silently in one of the chairs nearby, still catching his breath while he watches you move around the apartment. His hair is messy, his shirt half-buttoned, his eyes quieter now that the hunger has burned down into something softer.

“Stay there,” you say.

His brow furrows slightly, but he listens.

A minute later, you return holding a tiny vanilla cupcake with one crooked candle shoved into the top. You light it carefully before setting it down in front of him.

“I couldn’t find the bakery you mentioned,” you say, leaning against the table. “So I stopped at one earlier before I came home. I made sure to ask for strawberry filling.”

The shift is small, but immediate. Pope’s eyes drop to the cupcake and stay there, fixed on the wax beginning to slip down the side of the candle.

“You told me about it after I told you my favourite birthday,” you say softly. “I figured that meant it was worth remembering.”

Pope doesn’t answer.

For a second, you worry you’ve done too much. Maybe taken something private and put it in front of him before he was ready. Maybe made the room too soft for a man who still looks startled every time tenderness comes without a catch.

A small smile pulls at your mouth anyway.

“Make a wish.”

Pope looks up at you then.

Not long.

Just enough.

Then he leans forward and blows out the candle.

Smoke curls between you, thin and quiet. He doesn’t touch the cupcake right away and you don’t ask why. You only stand there with your hip pressed against the table, watching him watch it.

Eventually, his voice comes out low.

“Should’ve called her more.”

The grief underneath the words catches you off guard. It isn’t dramatic and it doesn’t need to be. It sits there between you, heavier than anything else he could’ve said.

You step closer until you’re standing beside him.

“Julia?”

Pope nods once, eyes still on the cupcake.

“She knew you loved her,” you say.

His jaw tightens.

For a second, you think he might argue. Pope looks like the kind of man who trusts guilt more than comfort, like pain makes more sense to him than forgiveness ever could.

But he doesn’t say anything.

When he finally looks up at you, the dim kitchen light makes him look younger somehow. Tired, not just from the day but from years of carrying things no one ever taught him how to put down.

You reach out slowly, giving him time to move away.

He doesn’t.

Your fingers brush once through his hair, careful and soft.

Pope’s eyes lower but he stays still beneath your hand. Maybe that's the part that gets to you most. Not the fact that he lets you touch him, but the way he looks like he has to make himself believe he’s allowed to want it.

After another long moment, he speaks again.

“Can I stay tonight?”

Your eyebrows lift slightly before you can stop yourself.

Pope looks away immediately, something hardening in his expression like he already regrets letting the words out.

“You don’t have to,” he mutters.

The words come fast. Defensive. Almost flat.

Like he’s trying to take the question back before you can make it hurt.

Your expression softens.

“I want you to.”

A little while later, you change into a lace cami while Pope strips down to his boxers near the bed. You try not to stare, but it’s a losing battle. Broad shoulders, thick arms, messy hair from your fingers earlier and sleep-heavy eyes still fixed on you like he can’t stop looking even now.

You climb beneath the blankets slowly and Pope hesitates for half a second before stretching one arm out toward you in a silent invitation.

You pause at the gesture, understanding it for what it is. Pope has never liked being touched unless he decides where the contact begins, so when he reaches for you like this, careful and quiet, something in your chest softens before you can stop it.

You move closer and settle beside him while his arm wraps slowly around your waist. Your hand rests lightly against his chest and beneath your palm, you feel him exhale deeply. Not all at once. Not enough to make the tension disappear completely. Just enough that you feel his body recognize yours beside him.

“Happy birthday, Pope,” you whisper, lifting your head toward his ear before pressing a soft kiss against his cheek.

His arm tightens around you.

Your eyes drift toward the healing cut near his ribs again and your fingertips brush lightly over the bruised skin surrounding it. A quiet anxiety creeps low in your stomach before you can stop it. There are parts of Pope’s life you don’t know how to touch yet. Parts that show up purple and yellow beneath his skin. Parts that make him stand by windows after sex and stare at parking lots like sleep is something he has to earn first.

This is just an agreement, you remind yourself as sleep slowly starts pulling you under.

But sometime later, in the middle of the night, while the apartment stays quiet around you both, Pope’s breathing finally evens beneath your cheek.

No pacing. No hotel window. No restless shadow standing half-dressed in the dark.

Just Pope, asleep with his arm still locked around your waist like he found you there and decided not to let go.

chapter one | homecoming

The bass from the speakers rattles through the Cody backyard hard enough to make the pool water tremble beneath the floating neon lights.

Bodies crowd every inch of the place. Girls in bikinis drape across lounge chairs. Guys you don’t recognize are already drunk before sunset, shouting over music loud enough to shake the windows. Beer bottles clink together near the outdoor kitchen. Someone jumps into the pool fully clothed and comes up laughing while Craig cheers like it’s the greatest thing anyone has ever done.

The party is supposed to be for Joshua. J, as everybody calls him.

Smurf’s long-lost grandson, freshly introduced into the Cody house shortly after his mother overdosed. From what you’ve heard, Julia never talked much about her family while J was growing up, which seems less surprising the longer you stand in the middle of their backyard and watch everyone act like noise is the same thing as celebration.

“Welcome to the family,” you mutter.

Chrissy hears you anyway. She’s beside you in cutoff shorts and sunglasses, lighting a cigarette with one hand cupped against the breeze.

“Try not to sound so excited.”

“I’m thrilled.”

“You look thrilled.”

You move farther into the yard, already regretting letting her talk you into coming. The California heat clings to your skin, sticky and relentless, and the party hasn’t even had the decency to get dark yet.

You spot J almost immediately near the pool. Skinny kid. Borrowed board shorts. Standing awkwardly beside Nikki Belmont while Craig explains something with both hands, loud enough for people three houses over to hear. Nikki laughs too hard anyway, tucking her brunette hair behind her ear as she looks up at J like the whole family is some kind of private ride she got invited onto by mistake.

Kid, you think, then almost laugh at yourself.

In reality, you’re only eight years older than her. That doesn’t sound like much on paper, but in this world, it feels different. Nikki still looks at the Codys like they’re exciting. Untouchable. Like danger is something you get close to for the story instead of something that stays under your skin.

“You’re making that face again,” Chrissy says.

“What face?”

“The one where you act like you’re above everybody here.”

“I am above everybody here.”

Chrissy barks out a laugh and takes a drag from her cigarette.

“No, you’re not. You’re late on rent.”

You reach for the cigarette and steal it from between her fingers.

She isn’t wrong. You’ve been late on rent for almost two months, and Chrissy has been covering more than her fair share without saying much about it. You lost your diner job almost a year ago after the owner cut half the staff without warning. Chrissy told you the club paid better, and at first, it did. It was easy enough once you learned how to turn yourself into whatever men wanted to look at and nothing they could really touch.

Except men always wanted more if they thought they could pay for it. Eventually, desperation did what pride couldn’t afford to stop, and you started saying yes to things you used to swear you wouldn’t.

Even then, money disappears faster than it comes in. Everybody’s struggling these days.

Everybody except the Codys, apparently.

You hand the cigarette back and lean against the fence with your arms crossed loosely over your chest.

“I told you I didn’t wanna come.”

“And I told you rich criminals tip better than businessmen.”

“See Baz yet?”

Your jaw tightens before you can stop it.

“No.”

“Cath here?”

You don’t answer. Which means yes.

Across the yard, Cath sits beside Baz near the outdoor kitchen while Lena rests sleepily against his chest. Cath glances over at you, just once. Not long enough to make a scene. Long enough for you to know she sees you.

You look away first.

Cath knows enough. Maybe not every detail, maybe not every late night or borrowed room or cash folded into your hand like it made any of it cleaner, but she’s smart enough to connect the dots. Baz never hid his habits well. He only smiled through them and trusted people to let him.

Baz catches your eye seconds later and grins. He’s always been good at that. Like every ugly thing can be softened into charm if he tilts his head right and smiles long enough.

You grab a beer from the cooler instead of acknowledging him.

Chrissy nudges your shoulder.

“Still mad about Baz?”

“He’s a pig.”

“You liked the pig.”

“I liked the money.”

Chrissy snorts. “God, I love your honesty.”

You roll your eyes, but a small smile pulls at your mouth anyway.

Then the noise near the gate changes.

Craig’s voice cuts through the music first.

“No fuckin’ way!”

Heads turn. Deran straightens from his chair near the pool. Baz stands slowly, beer still in hand. Even Smurf goes still for half a second before her face opens into something bright.

Across the yard, Cath looks down immediately and pulls Lena a little closer against her chest.

That’s the first thing you notice. Not the noise around the backyard, but the way Cath’s body reacts before anyone says his name.

Then you follow everyone’s gaze.

Andrew Cody.

Pope.

Fresh out of prison.

Tall and broad beneath a white tank top and an open flannel, rough-looking hands hanging at his sides, jaw set tight under the dim backyard lights. You’ve only seen photos of him around the Cody house before, rare ones tucked between pictures of the brothers and old family memories Smurf keeps displayed where everyone can see them.

None of them do him justice.

He looks better in person. Not in the obvious way Baz is good-looking, all easy grin and lazy confidence, or the way Craig takes up space because he assumes the room will make room for him. Pope is rougher than that. Quieter. Built like someone who learned a long time ago that being still could be its own kind of warning.

The years didn’t pass through him cleanly.

You can see it before he says a word.

Maybe that’s what catches you off guard most. Not the size of him. Not the stories. Not the fact that half the party suddenly forgets how to act normal. It’s the way everyone gets louder around him, like they’re trying to drag him back into a version of himself they already understand.

Craig reaches him first and nearly knocks into him with a hug.

“You asshole. You didn’t call?”

Pope barely reacts. One arm lifts late, more out of obligation than ease, while his eyes move over the backyard, careful and quiet, already annoyed by the crowd.

Smurf reaches him next.

“My beautiful boy.”

She wraps both arms around him, holding on longer than he seems ready for. Something crosses Pope’s face before disappearing completely. It’s gone so fast you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Almost.

Sometimes after sex, Baz would talk too much. Little pieces of the family slipping out during lazy pillow talk you never really wanted to hear. Enough for you to understand that Smurf’s love came with conditions attached. She controlled her sons with affection the way other people used fear.

Watching Pope stand there in her arms, you understand that better than you want to.

Baz hands him a beer with an amused grin.

“Well,” Baz says, loud enough for half the party to hear, “guess J’s welcome party turned into a homecoming.”

J stands nearby beside Nikki, overwhelmed and quiet, staring at his mother’s twin brother for the first time in his life.

Pope barely glances at him.

Then his eyes find you.

The world doesn’t stop. The music keeps pounding. Craig says something to Deran that makes him laugh. Someone near the pool drops a bottle and swears. Baz keeps talking, though you lose the words almost immediately.

The noise only falls back enough for you to feel the full weight of Pope Cody looking at you.

Most men look at your body first. That’s easy to read. Easy to manage. You know what to do with that kind of attention. You know how to turn it into money, how to deflect it, how to make it mean less than it does.

Pope looks at your face.

Steady. Unreadable. Like he’s trying to figure out why you are standing apart from the noise instead of disappearing into it. Like he expects fear, or interest, or whatever people usually give men with stories attached to their names.

You give him none of it.

You just look back.

Something in his expression shifts.

Chrissy leans closer immediately.

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“He’s staring at you.”

You keep your face neutral, even though something twists low in your stomach.

“Maybe he stares at everybody like that.”

“No,” Chrissy says, voice lower now. “That man looks like he’s deciding whether to kill somebody or…”

You glance at her.

“Or?”

“I don’t know. Something worse.”

You almost laugh, but it doesn’t make it out.

Because Pope is still looking at you.

And because you’re still looking back.

For the first time since he stepped into the yard, something faint changes in his face. Surprise, maybe. Like he expected you to look away.

Truthfully, you’ve seen men far worse than Pope Cody. Men who smiled while hurting people. Men who cornered girls in apartment hallways. Men who thought money bought affection, gratitude and silence.

Pope looks dangerous.

But not cruel.

There’s a difference.

And against every good instinct you have left, you want to know what it is.

As the night drags on, the party slowly empties.

Cath eventually takes Lena home after a quiet, tense argument with Baz near the kitchen. You don’t catch all of it, only Cath’s low voice and Baz’s laugh cutting through it like he thinks being charming is the same thing as being forgiven. On her way out, Cath pauses beside you for half a second. Neither of you speaks, but her eyes soften slightly.

Not warm exactly.

Tired.

Like maybe you aren’t really the problem anymore.

Then Lena tugs at her hand, and Cath leaves without looking back.

By midnight, only the usual stragglers remain. Half-drunk surfers. Girls floating lazily in the pool. Craig disappears upstairs with two blondes hanging off his shoulders. Deran sits by himself in the living room nursing a beer, one foot propped against the coffee table while he watches everything with the bored irritation of someone who already knows how every Cody night ends.

J and Nikki sit together near the patio steps talking quietly while Nikki leans into him.

Kids, you think again, letting out a small laugh under your breath.

Pope barely says a word all night, but every time you look up, his gaze finds you again. Not casual. Not even subtle. Deliberate enough to stay with you after you look away, leaving heat low in your stomach and a strange awareness crawling over your skin.

Inside the house, Smurf gathers her boys in the living room while the muffled bass from outside vibrates through the walls. You stay near the doorway with your beer in hand, close enough to see them but far enough to avoid getting folded into whatever this is supposed to become.

Then Baz looks over.

“Hey, baby.”

He whistles softly, crooking two fingers toward himself like he’s calling you over from a stage.

You already hate his tone. The way he says baby like money and a few nights together gave him the right to sound familiar in front of his family.

Baz lounges across the couch while Pope sits nearby with his elbows resting on his knees, beer dangling loosely from one hand. Smurf watches from her chair with a drink balanced between her fingers, quiet amusement already settling over her face like she knows something entertaining is about to happen.

“C’mere,” Baz says.

You walk closer slowly, mostly because refusing would make more of a scene than you want to make. As soon as you pass the couch, Baz’s hand brushes the small of your back, lingering too low for comfort. You shift forward before he can touch you properly, slipping out of reach easily enough that his drunk ass doesn’t even seem to notice.

Pope does.

His eyes drop for half a second to the space Baz’s hand almost claimed, then lift back to Baz.

Baz grins wider.

“Got a welcome home gift for Pope.”

Pope’s jaw tightens.

“Baz.”

“What?” Baz laughs, looking around the room like he expects everyone to join him. “Come on, man. You just spent three years locked up. Thought maybe it’s time you got back in the saddle.”

“What I do ain’t your fuckin’ business,” Pope says.

The room quiets faster than you expect.

Not completely. Music still hums through the walls, someone outside still laughs too loudly by the pool, but everything in the living room pulls tighter around Pope’s voice. Deran’s eyes flick from Baz to Pope. Even Smurf goes still, though her expression barely changes.

Baz either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care.

He looks back toward you with that grin you once found charming. Now you mostly want to smash the beer bottle in your hand over his face.

“Show him a good time,” Baz says.

Then he pulls a few hundred-dollar bills from his back pocket and slides them into the small gap between your shorts and bikini bottoms.

Your whole body goes still.

Not because of the money. You’ve taken money before. You’ve taken it from worse men than Baz, in worse rooms, with worse hands on you.

It’s the familiarity.

The way he turns humiliation into a joke and waits for everyone else to laugh so he doesn’t have to admit what he’s doing.

Pope’s eyes flick down, catching the bills tucked against your skin. His fingers tighten around the beer bottle until his knuckles pale.

Then he stands.

“I told you to shut up, Baz.”

You don’t move.

Pope isn’t loud. He just stands perfectly still in the middle of the room, broad shoulders squared, eyes locked on Baz like the rest of you have disappeared. For one second, you understand why people step carefully around him.

“Relax,” Baz says, still grinning. He looks back at you, lifting his hands like he’s being generous. “Don’t be scared of him, babe. He’s just… intense.”

The joke lands wrong.

You see it in Pope’s face. A brief change near his eyes, gone before anyone else could name it. His mouth tightens, then smooths out again. He buries the reaction so fast it almost makes the room feel uglier.

Like he’s used to doing it. Like everybody in this house knows exactly where to press and exactly how much pressure it takes.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you pull the money from your shorts and hold it between two fingers.

Then you step toward Pope.

“Come on,” you say, looking at him and not Baz. “At least this time it’ll be worth it.”

You keep your eyes on Pope.

For half a second, nobody says anything.

Then Craig barks out a laugh somewhere behind you.

Baz points at you, delighted despite himself. “See? This is why I like her.”

Even Smurf laughs softly into her drink.

But Pope doesn’t look at them.

He looks at you.

Then he smiles.

It’s small, quick and gone almost immediately, but it changes his whole face for the brief second you get to see it. Something in him loosens. Not much. Just enough to make your stomach dip.

The room keeps making noise around him, but all you can feel is that look.

Pope takes one step closer.

“We’re not stayin’ here.”

Baz raises his eyebrows, smug again.

“Atta boy.”

Pope’s eyes cut toward him.

Not enough to start something.

Enough to end the joke.

“I got a hotel,” Pope says.

Smurf’s smile warms like the whole thing pleases her now that she gets to call it harmless.

“Suite’s nice and quiet.”

You shrug lightly and turn back to Pope.

“Lead the way.”

The whistles and jeers follow you both out of the living room, through the hall and all the way to the front door. Pope doesn’t touch you until you’re outside.

Then his hand finds the small of your back.

Not where Baz touched you.

Higher.

Steadier.

As if he knows the difference matters.

The drive to the hotel stays quiet.

Pope drives with both hands tight around the wheel while streetlights flash across his face. Every so often, when the car slows at a red light, his eyes shift toward you. Quick, careful glances. Gone the second you notice.

Even with the windows down, the heat still clings to your skin. It gathers at the back of your neck, along the bend of your knees, beneath the waistband of your shorts. You wipe a bead of sweat from your throat before rubbing your palms against your legs.

When you look up again, Pope’s gaze drops lower.

His eyes stay on your thighs before flicking back to the road, his jaw tightening as if the sight costs him something to ignore. He looks too still behind the wheel, too controlled, and for the first time all night, you wonder what it would take to make him stop pretending patience comes easily.

The thought stays with you longer than it should.

You glance around the car, wondering who it belongs to. Baz, maybe. Or Smurf. Maybe she handed Pope the keys before he left.

You want to fill the silence. Usually, you would. Men usually liked easy conversation. Fake intimacy. Something soft enough to make the transaction feel less obvious.

But Pope doesn’t ask you to perform.

He only drives, quiet and watchful, moving through the dark at his own pace.

So you stay quiet too.

The hotel suite surprises you.

It’s bigger than you expected and spotless, almost aggressively so. White sheets pulled tight across the bed. Pillows untouched. Empty surfaces. Nothing out of place except the two of you standing in it.

“Jesus,” you mutter, looking around. “This room’s bigger than my apartment.”

Pope shuts the door behind you and locks it.

“I like it clean,” he says immediately.

His eyes move once around the room, checking everything without seeming to think about it. The lock. The window. The bathroom door left half-open. Then, after a beat, he adds, “Quiet.”

There’s exhaustion buried beneath his voice, deep enough that you hear it before you fully understand why.

You glance around again, taking in the neat white sheets and the empty nightstands. Chrissy always teases you for keeping your apartment Monica-clean, which reminds you that before she dragged you to the party, you had been perfectly content staying home and watching Friends again. Even after seeing the show a thousand times, it still comforts you. You remember sitting at the kitchen table doing homework while your grandma cooked dinner and the laugh track played softly in the background.

His stare pulls you back to the present.

He stands near the foot of the bed, watching you with the same quiet focus he’s had all night. Steady enough that you feel it before you decide what to do with it.

You step closer and reach toward his chest.

His hand catches your wrist instantly.

Not hard.

Fast.

His breathing changes before his expression does.

“I don’t like being touched.”

You study him for a second. There’s no anger in his voice. Just a line drawn so quickly and clearly that you get the feeling people have crossed it before and regretted it.

You nod once.

“Okay.”

Something shifts in his face, almost too quick to catch. Like he expected you to make a joke, push back or take it personally. You do none of those things. You only let your hand fall.

The room goes quiet again.

“You just got out?” you ask softly. “How’s it feel?”

He doesn’t answer. His attention moves over you instead, sharper now, and he steps closer until the air between you changes. Close enough for you to feel the warmth coming off him. Close enough for him to smell the cigarettes, sunscreen and lingering heat from outside still clinging to your skin.

“Take your clothes off,” he says quietly. “Keep your eyes on me.”

The command cuts cleanly through the silence.

You hold his gaze and pull your shirt over your head. Then your shorts. Your fingers find the strings of your bikini, loosening one side, then the other, until the fabric drops to the floor beside the bed.

His breathing changes again.

He watches every movement like he is waiting for hesitation, fear or regret.

None comes.

“On the bed.”

You climb onto the mattress and sit near the edge.

For a moment, he only stares at you. You can see the want in him now, clear and heavy, pressing against whatever control he’s trying to keep in place. His hand flexes once at his side before going still again.

Then he leans down and kisses you.

Your teeth knock together the first time, and for half a second you think he might pull away, embarrassed by it.

He doesn’t.

Pope kisses you again, rougher this time, one hand braced against the mattress beside your thigh, the other hovering near your waist like he wants to touch everywhere at once and doesn’t trust himself to pick a place. There is nothing smooth about him. Nothing rehearsed. Nothing easy. Baz always knew exactly how to touch people. He moved through women with a confidence of someone used to being wanted, used to taking charm and making it feel like generosity.

This isn’t that.

This is instinct. Want. Years of loneliness with nowhere else to go.

Somehow, that makes you kiss him back harder.

A rough sound leaves him when your mouth opens under his. His hand lands on your waist, gripping too tight for half a second before loosening. That tiny correction sends heat through you because he’s trying. Even now. Even with his body leaning into yours like stopping might kill him.

“You okay?” you breathe.

His eyes flick to yours.

“Yeah.”

Pope presses you back against the bed, his body following, heat and weight settling over you. His hand moves down your side, rough palm dragging over your chest, your stomach, your hip, then lower. Not smooth. Not patient. He tries to be, but the hunger keeps breaking through, making his touch uneven in a way that has your breath catching before he even gets where you want him.

“Fu—” The sound breaks off when his fingers find you.

His eyes lift immediately.

“There?”

You nod too quickly.

“Words.”

“Yeah.”

His jaw tightens. His fingers move again, learning the reaction before you can hide it.

“Good?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “So good.”

His mouth drops to your neck, his breathing hot and uneven against your skin while his fingers keep moving with the same pressure. Pope isn’t gentle exactly, not in the way men usually try to be gentle when they want credit for it. He’s careful in pieces. Rough, then checking. Hungry, then holding back. Like he’s fighting himself and losing a little more every time you make a sound.

“Look at you,” he murmurs.

Your body answers before you can stop it.

He feels it.

His hand moves back up your body, lingering against your stomach before travelling higher. When he reaches your mouth, he pauses for half a second, dark eyes locked on yours.

Then he lets you taste yourself on his fingers.

Your lips part around them, and his breathing catches hard enough to make his chest move against yours.

“Good girl,” he whispers near your ear.

The words move through you fast and embarrassing and impossible to hide. Your thighs press together around him.

Pope pulls back suddenly and lifts his shirt over his head. Up close, you notice details you hadn’t before. The size of his arms. The freckles scattered across his skin. The light colour of the fine hair along his forearms beneath the warm glow of the lamp beside the bed.

His belt comes undone too quickly. His jeans get shoved down just enough. He tears open the condom wrapper with his teeth, his eyes cutting back to you as he rolls it on with impatient hands.

“You want me?”

The question catches you off guard because it doesn’t sound cocky.

It sounds like he needs to hear it.

You nod.

His hand finds your jaw.

“Say it.”

Your throat tightens.

“I want you.”

His breath leaves him slowly.

“Again.”

“I want you.”

Something in his face shifts.

He leans down and kisses you again, one hand braced beside your head while the other guides himself closer. When he pushes into you, it’s rougher than he means it to be. You feel the way he tries to slow halfway through, jaw locked, breath breaking against your mouth as if the first tight heat of you almost takes his knees out from under him.

“Fu—” he starts, then stops, forehead dropping near your shoulder.

Your fingers curl into the sheets.

His eyes lift to yours.

He starts slow, but it only lasts a few thrusts. His control breaks in pieces, each one smaller than the last. His hand grips your hip, then your waist, then the sheet beside your head. Every movement feels urgent, almost starved, like his body remembers how long it went without this.

He kisses you hard, then messier, missing your mouth once before finding it again. His breathing keeps catching in the spaces between. You feel him trying to stay present, trying to watch your face, trying not to disappear completely into the heat of you.

Then he shifts, rolling you onto your stomach in one swift movement. His hands grip your hips and pull you back against him, urgent enough to steal your breath. The sharp sting of his palm against your ass makes you gasp, fingers twisting in the sheet.

He stills.

Just for half a second.

You glance back over your shoulder.

The look on his face nearly undoes you. Dark-eyed and breathing hard, all hunger and restraint, still watching for the moment you tell him no.

Instead, you press back against him.

That’s all the permission he needs.

He pushes into you again, deeper this time, and both of you make a broken sound at once. His pace turns rougher. Less controlled. He leans over you, body covering yours, his mouth near your ear.

“Tell me,” he says.

You can barely hear yourself over your own breathing.

“What?”

“Tell me you want it.”

“I want it.”

His hand slides down your arm, finding yours against the mattress. He pins it there, not trapping you, not really. Holding on. Keeping you with him because this already feels like too much and not enough.

“Again.”

“I want this.”

His breath breaks.

“Me.”

Your eyes shut.

“I want you, Pope.”

A rough sound leaves him, low and almost helpless.

After that, the room narrows to heat, pressure and the sound of him losing the fight with himself. His hand stays over yours. His other arm slides beneath your stomach, pulling you back into every thrust, keeping you close enough for his chest to press against your spine. Every time you gasp, he reacts. Every time your body tightens, his rhythm falters.

“Close?” he asks.

You nod into the pillow.

“Words.”

“Yeah.”

“Good.”

You come long and hard with your face buried in the pillow, your body tightening around him as pleasure rushes through you hard enough to make the room blur at the edges. He holds you through it, hips still moving, breathing turning ragged behind you.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “Fuck, I can’t—”

He lets go of your hand only to slide his arm around your waist, pulling you upright against his chest. Your back presses to him, your head falling against his shoulder while his hand spreads wide over your stomach.

“What do you want?” he asks, voice strained and uneven.

You can feel how close he is. How hard he is trying not to finish without hearing it from you first.

You turn your face slightly toward his.

“You.”

His eyes close for half a second.

“All of you.”

That does it.

His mouth presses hard against your shoulder as he comes, body shuddering behind yours, his arm locked around your waist like he needs proof you’re still there. Even through the thin layer of protection between you, you feel the tension leave him in sharp, uneven waves.

For a while, neither of you moves.

His breathing slows against your skin, but his arm stays around you. His hand moves once over your stomach, then stills there, heavy and warm.

Every touch still feels hungry. Possessive, maybe. But underneath that, there’s something else.

Like he needs proof you’re still with him.

Like stopping might leave him with nothing.

Like this, whatever this is, reached some place in him he didn’t mean to show you.

And beneath the roughness, beneath the control, beneath the way he holds on like he doesn’t know what happens when he lets go, you feel the same thing you noticed the second he walked into the party.

Loneliness.

Later, you sit beside him pulling your clothes back on while Pope stays near the edge of the bed by the window, staring down into the parking lot below.

He has pulled his jeans back on but hasn’t bothered with his shirt yet. Not that you mind. You let yourself take one selfish look, something to keep for later when you’re back in your apartment pretending this night hasn’t gotten under your skin.

The warm light from the lamp catches along his shoulders, over the hard line of muscle in his arms, the scattered freckles on his skin, the faint marks you noticed earlier but didn’t ask about. He looks quieter now.

“You and Baz,” he says finally.

Straight to the point.

“Yeah.”

“How long?”

“On and off.”

Pope’s jaw moves once. The reaction is small, but you catch it.

“I stopped after I found out about Lena,” you say quietly. “She deserves better than that.”

That softens something in him.

His eyes move from the window to you, and for a second, the hard line of his mouth eases.

“Haven’t slept with your other brothers,” you add, trying to make the room feel less tight. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”

He glances over at you, expression unreadable.

“And J?”

You blink.

For half a second, you genuinely don’t know what to do with the question. Then you realize he’s joking.

Actually joking.

A small laugh slips out before you can stop it, and Pope looks away like he doesn’t want you to catch the slight shift at the corner of his mouth.

“I just met him tonight,” you say. “Besides, he’s too young for me.”

You tilt your head, letting your eyes move over him just enough for him to notice.

“I like my men older.”

His mouth shifts again, barely there, before he looks back toward the window.

Then his expression closes.

“You see other men?”

You let out a small laugh, but there’s no humour in it.

“I do what I have to do.”

You notice the tension in his jaw, the way his shoulders pull back, the way his whole body seems to hold itself still by force. Beneath all that quiet, there’s jealousy there.

“I don’t like sharing,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow.

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.”

Silence stretches between you.

Then Pope looks at you again.

“What if I was the only one?”

Your breath catches slightly.

“You serious?”

“Yeah.”

No hesitation.

“You got exclusivity money, Pope Cody?”

He reaches into his pocket without looking away and leaves another small stack of cash on the table beside the bed.

“I got enough.”

You look at the money, then back at him.

For a second, neither of you moves.

You know what this is supposed to be. A transaction. A cleaner arrangement than the messy, humiliating thing Baz tried to make of you in front of everyone. Money in exchange for time. For access. For the version of you men are always trying to buy.

But Pope doesn’t look smug.

He looks tense. Focused. Almost exposed. Like this is the only language he trusts enough to use and even he knows it isn’t the right one.

You lean back against the headboard slowly.

“If we do this,” you say carefully, “you don’t own me.”

He stays quiet.

“I come when you call. I see only you. But you don’t treat me like property.”

His eyes stay on yours.

Another pause.

“Okay.”

You study him suspiciously.

“You agreeing that fast is kind of terrifying.”

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly.

“Probably.”

That almost-smile catches you off guard again. The dry honesty. The fact that he can be funny when he isn’t trying to be.

You hold out your hand.

“Phone.”

Pope looks at you.

“Why?”

“So I can give you my number.”

He reaches for the phone on the nightstand and hands it over silently. Your fingers brush for the briefest second.

This time, he doesn’t pull away.

The phone’s brand new, the thin layer of plastic film still clinging to the screen. Another gift from Smurf, no doubt.

You type your number in before calling yourself so you’ll have his saved too. Pope watches quietly the entire time, his eyes following every small movement like he’s trying to memorize you already.

A sly smile pulls at your mouth before you can stop it.

Under contact name, you type: Pope’s Girl

When you hand the phone back, his eyes drop to the screen.

The corner of his mouth shifts, small and private, before he hides it again.

Pope sets the phone beside the money on the table, but his gaze stays on you. For the first time all night, the silence between you doesn’t feel empty.

A few minutes later, you grab your purse from the floor and slip your shoes back on.

Pope looks over immediately.

“You’re leaving?”

The question comes quieter than expected. Not offended. Not angry. Just uncertain enough to make your hand pause on the strap of your purse.

For somebody who looks so dangerous, Pope carries an almost painful kind of loneliness beneath everything else. Like some part of him is always waiting for the door to close.

“I thought I should,” you say gently. “Give you some quiet.”

He watches you for a long moment.

You walk over slowly and stop in front of him, close enough to see the exhaustion sitting behind his eyes, even after everything that happened between you.

“Get some sleep if you can.”

Pope gives a short, humourless laugh.

Neither of you believes it.

Even exhausted, there’s still something restless beneath his skin.

You reach for the money Pope left on the table before pausing near the door. Between that and the cash Baz shoved into your shorts earlier, rent will finally be covered for the month. Maybe there’ll even be enough left over for one of those overpriced tubs of ice cream Chrissy always begs you to buy but can never justify.

You glance back at him.

“You can call me anytime,” you say, keeping your voice light. “Doesn’t have to be for sex either.”

Pope looks at you sharply.

That catches him more than anything else you’ve said all night.

You wonder how often anyone offers him something without making him earn it first.

Then you give him one last look and head toward the door.

As you slip into the hallway, you glance back and catch him staring down at his phone, thumb hovering over the contact you saved yourself under.