catalina

One had been asking if you needed help moving equipment.

One had been asking where Dr Mohan was.

The third had been an exhausted "Morning" at six-thirty after twenty straight hours in the hospital.

That was the extent of it.

Just another coworker.

Polar opposites. 

Day and night. 

Park. 

Your relation to the intimidating ortho surgeon wasn’t unknown to the entirety of the ED. 

Perhaps not common knowledge to those who clung to the day shift. But to those who frequented the nights in the ED. 

They all knew who your brother was. 

And it came as no surprise to them when they saw you side by side. 

The way you both held yourselves. It was eerily similar. Almost identical in the way you behaved. 

Work oriented and blunt, straight to the point. 

Though this was a fact that Mateo had yet to discover. 

Not until he had switched over to the ‘dark side’ as he had jokingly named it when talking with Javadi. 

From afar at times you appeared calm. 

Approachable even. 

Which Mateo would come to understand was not to be mistaken for friendliness.

‘Oh, look, a friendly little dolphin – It's a shark! It's a shark, and it ain't friendly! It looks like a dolphin. Tricky fish! Tricky fish!’ 

At least that was how it seemed when Mateo had begun working nights. 

When he was figuring out how it all worked. How everyone worked together. 

The environment was the same and yet the dynamic of it all was drastically different from anything he’d known from the day shift. 

Like they had warned him, the nights could certainly get…wild.

And then there was you. 

Level headed, calm and collected. 

It was well after midnight by now, and thankfully was quiet…not that anyone would say that aloud. 

So you were taking the opportunity to filter through the imaging requests. Ranking what was most to least urgent.   

Ensuring that everything was in order. Cross checking what had been left over from the day shift. 

Lips pulled tight into a thin line. Brows furrowed whilst you worked. Patience wearing thin. 

And no one knew that better than those on the night shift. They’d worked enough shifts with you to know that when the coffee wore off. 

Your tone would become clipped. 

Short. 

The way your eyebrow would begin twitching whenever someone interrupted you for something stupid. 

So to mitigate that. It would be routine for someone on staff to drop a coffee off for you. 

Tonight that was Abbot’s duty, while he had walked up to you with a fresh coffee in hand, placing it right before you with a small nod. 

As you shot him a thumbs up whilst you took a sip. A small smile forming on your face as a sigh slips from your lips. 

Letting the warmth of the coffee slip in. 

Those on the night shift shared an understanding that so long as you were caffeinated he could stop you from biting someone’s head off until at least 4 am… 

Definitely made it easier to request imaging when you were in a more agreeable mood. 

And from a far, Mateo had looked up catching a glimpse of your smile. 

The rarity of it all. 

Not once had he ever seen you smile before. And then–

He heard your laugh. 

Melodic and almost displaced coming from you. Moreso a chuckle, but it was a laugh nonetheless. 

As Abbot joked with you, just trying to pass the time until the ED would inevitably be thrown into chaos once more. 

But then your demeanour shifted once more. Whilst Abbot walked away headed onto the next case. 

You were headed towards yours. 

Shoulders pushed back. Steely eyes. 

An air surrounding you. One that screamed do not disturb. A woman on a mission. 

No longer smiling, just simply there, working. 

“Did you check the vitals for– Mateo?” the faint clicking of fingers snap in his face, “Mateo”

“Yeah?” he’s broken from his daze, gaze drifting down to meet Lena’s. Her brow raised as she looked at him expectantly. 

“Barely midnight and you’re already dozing off”

He grins with a shake of his head. 

“Well good, can’t have you shifting back onto days, they’ll start thinking we did something terrible to you,” she continued to joke. 

He rolled his eyes. Before changing the conversation, “So what’s Y/N’s deal?”

“Y/N? Oh, you mean Park?” Her eyes follow to find you across the room, as you wheel in a portable x-ray machine. Professional and polite as you work diligently. 

He questioned, “Park?” catching the attention of Ellis as she passed by. 

“You didn’t know?” Lena tilted her head. 

“Know what?” Mateo’s brows knitted together. 

Ellis grinned, jutting her head towards you, “Y/N’s our very own resident shark” 

“Shark as in, ortho’s shark”

“That’s the one,” Ellis and Lena nod. 

“No”

Ellis nods, “Oh yes” 

“But–”

She shrugs, “But what? Haven’t you seen them, they’re almost carbon copies of each other” 

While Lena heads back to the nurses station with a small smile. 

Ellis lets out a small chuckle, clasping her hand on Mateo’s shoulder, “Just be lucky our shark’s more agreeable with a bit of coffee in her, and just hope she won’t bite your head off” 

And so. Mateo had developed a little personal goal. 

A goal to make you smile. 

He knew it was possible. He had seen it done. 

He just didn’t know how. 

One evening he had simply come up to you, cheerful as usual. The exhaustion of the night had yet to seep in. 

“What do you want?” you asked, barely even looking up from the scans you were assessing. 

Stunned by your clipped tone, he tries to shrug it off, “Nothing, just wanted to say hi”

You look up at him. 

Unimpressed. 

You hum with a small nod. 

“Well, hi,” he follows up awkwardly. 

“Hello,” your voice was steady. As your attention turns back to your work. 

That attempt had quickly been determined an utter failure. 

Unaware of you flipping the fuck out inside...

No matter what he tried, he was never quite able to push past your boundaries. 

Not that he didn't try.

God, he tried.

You weren't rude.

That was the thing. 

People assumed you were rude.

They assumed the clipped responses and professional distance meant you disliked everyone equally.

But Mateo had learned that wasn't true.

You were polite.

Helpful.

Reliable.

You'd answer questions.

Show your colleagues and explain how the equipment worked. You’d help them track down scans.

But the second things threatened to become personal? Your guard went straight up. 

There was no getting through.

At least not for most people. 

Your resolve only ever cracking for a select view, and only ever briefly. Whether it be Shen passing by with a sarcastic remark. Or when Ellis would come by to tease you whilst you worked. Abbot would always check in, his humour never failed to make you crack a smile. 

Especially when Abbot would drop off a coffee to you. 

With that in mind. 

Mateo had convinced himself he could speed up the process.

One particularly miserable shift, Abbot had been making his usual coffee delivery rounds.

A sacred ritual at this point.

Everyone knew your caffeine schedule better than some of the patients' medication lists.

Mateo had looked up from his charting, catching Abbot before he could walk past, "Let me take it."

Abbot blinked, "What?"

"The coffee,” Mateo gestured to the cup in his hand. 

"...Why?" Jack raised a brow while he looked towards you. 

Mateo immediately regretted asking. Several heads lifted from nearby computers. Nurses exchanging looks.

Mateo ignored them. While Abbot’s grin widened.

Dangerously so.

"Mateo."

"Just give me the coffee."

"Mateo," Abbot probed once more, with a knowing look in his eyes. 

Mateo does his best to ignore Abbot’s tone, while he asks once more, "Give me the coffee."

The look Abbot gave him could only be described as deeply entertained. Still, he'd handed it over.

Mateo walked across the department.

Coffee in hand.

Trying very hard not to feel like everyone was watching. Because they absolutely were.

You barely looked up when he arrived.

"Abbot's outsourcing now?" you asked dryly. 

He set the cup down beside you, "He was busy."

A lie.

A terrible lie.

You looked up at him. Just for a second. Then at the coffee. Then back to your work.

"Thank you," you nodded. Hand curling around the cup as you take a sip. 

That was it.

No smile.

No conversation.

Nothing.

Shoulders slumped in defeat, Mateo returned to the nurses' station under a chorus of barely concealed laughter.

Abbot looked insufferably pleased.

And somehow that almost made Mateo more determined.

Because there had to be something under all that professionalism.

There had to be.

Turns out the answer was sleep deprivation.

Or maybe shared suffering.

Possibly both.

The shift had been horrific. One of those nights where every ambulance in Pittsburgh seemed determined to arrive simultaneously. 

Too much had happened that night. Too many things that had piled up. A sea of chaos that you all worked to control. 

Until soon it steadied. Adrenaline wearing thin, the coffee barely able to tackle the fatigue from your bones. 

That was when Mateo had started humming, quiet enough that it didn’t disturb anyone, just amusing his tired mind. Something to take it off the shit it just went through. 

Even for just a moment. 

It just so happened that his humming had coincided with you passing by, the squeak of the rolling wheels and the shuffle of your feet filling the air. 

Then the tune hits your ears. 

Familiar. 

Iconic. 

"Dun... dun... dun... dun... dun-dun-dun-dun…”

Mateo hummed with a small grin. 

And instead of snapping or telling him to quit it. He had instead caught a glimpse of the quirk of your lip. 

The small airy laugh slipping from your lips with a shake of your head. 

And that was his way in. 

After that, the joke never died. 

Each time you passed him, or entered the room. Mateo would flash you a smile as he’d start humming the tune of Jaws. 

And it never failed to bring a smile to your face. 

Even as you groaned when you heard the first dun, leave his lips. 

Even as you grumbled to complain. 

“I’m literally carrying imaging equipment,” you said. 

“Dun–dun, dun” 

“You’re how old again?” 

He shrugs, “What’s it matter, you can’t tell me its not catchy”

You’d huff, biting back the grin forming on your face. Even as you complained. Deep down, his humming never failed to amuse you. 

He didn’t know what to expect from you. 

All he had known when starting was that you were;

The radiology tech on the night shift. 

Park the Shark’s sister. 

And well. 

You had a beautiful smile. Whenever it appeared. 

Especially when he was the one to make it happen, it elicited a feeling of warmth to settle into his chest. 

It was surprising to him the way you affected him

But the thing that surprised Mateo the most wasn't your smile. It wasn’t the fact that the theme tune of Jaws made you laugh. 

No, the most surprising thing he had discovered was just how funny you were.

Because nobody warned him about that. Not a single person on the night shift had given him a heads up, that you were hilarious. 

But only with those you let into your inner circle. 

The first time it happened he nearly choked.

Someone was complaining loudly.

Being dramatic. Making everyone's shift harder. Making their problems, everyone else’s problem.

The second they walked away Mateo sighed, "Difficult patient."

Without missing a beat you retorted, "Patient implies patience."

Mateo laughed so hard he snorted.

You looked mildly horrified. Then immediately started laughing too.

After that he began paying attention.

And realized you'd been making jokes the entire time.

Jokes that were dry.

Sharp.

So perfectly timed.

The kind that arrived so deadpan people needed a second to realize you'd said something funny.

You'd mutter things under your breath.

Offer one-liners that made his belly ache from laughter.

Completely dismantle someone's nonsense with a single sentence.

And every time. Mateo laughed.

Every single time.

The sound echoing through the department.

Warm and genuine.

Which only encouraged you.

Though you'd never admit it. You were developing a soft spot for the nurse. Each time you saw him now, it took everything within you to stifle the smile that threatened to grow. 

The changes between you had happened so gradually. 

Shifting. 

From mere colleagues. 

To friends. 

To something that neither of you could quite name. 

You’d let yourself linger for a few moments after your conversations. Seeking him out if something made you laugh. Tucking little stories into the corner of your mind for the next time you’d see him. 

With each coffee delivery, instead of Abbot or Lena, it would now be Mateo’s smiling face that would greet you in the twilight hours. Warm coffee in hand. 

It did not go unnoticed by those that worked with you. 

Watching as you’d soften around Mateo. 

How your eye lines would drift over to meet the other. 

It was obvious. 

That you two were catching feelings for each other. 

Even those from the day shift had begun to catch on. In the overlapping of shifts, as you waved goodbye, curt, a small nod towards your colleagues. 

But Cassie noticed how you wouldn’t leave. Not until you said your goodbye with Mateo. 

And she grinned from afar as she watched you two talk, how Mateo seemed to have this look in his eyes. Sparkling. Alight. 

There was something there. 

And one evening, as he walked in to start his shift, just as Cassie was ending hers. 

She decided to let him know just what she thought was happening. 

“Anything you want to tell me?” she has questioned, with a small arch of her brow. 

He looked at her in confusion, “Uh–No?” 

“You sure?” she continued. 

“What’s this about?” 

She hums with a small shrug, “Just noticed you’ve gotten pretty cosy with Y/N and was wondering if anything was happening–but if not, just tell me to back off and I will” 

His mouth twists, mind racing as it flicks through the memories he shares with you. 

“Ok. Maybe,” he relents. 

“And?” 

“And there’s nothing else. Really”

“But you’d like there to be,” she follows up. 

He takes a moment, unable to verbalise the mess of feelings cultivating inside, how you had managed to make his head spin. 

“Just don’t know if she’s interested”

Truly, he still couldn’t get a read on you. Not able to decipher whether your friendliness could lead to anything more. 

At first he'd dismissed it. Dismissing how your presence made his heart race. How he’d turn in an instant at the sound of your voice. 

You were his friend.

One of his favorite people to work with.

The person who could make a twelve-hour night shift feel manageable.

The person whose dry comments could have him laughing in the middle of absolute chaos.

That was enough.

It should’ve been enough. 

And yet. 

Mateo couldn’t help but wonder…what if it could be something more….

Cassie elbows his side, as she praises him softly, “Don’t sell yourself short. You’re funny, kind and completely into her–look the most you can do is try, otherwise you’ll never know”

He nods, taking her words to heart. 

“You should get home, get some sleep before those eye bags become permanent,” he joked. Trying to alleviate the emotions he was feeling. 

Cassie let out a small huff in laughter, rolling her eyes. “Have a good night”

“Always do,” he grinned, while she walked away. 

That conversation had planted a seed in his mind. 

Perhaps. 

With every passing moment as you and he grew closer, the conversation would creep back into his mind. The possibility. Growing more and more appealing. 

Until he had finally said it out loud. 

He had rushed to catch up with you, as the morning sun hung in the sky, the air crisp. A slight chill still lingering from the night. Not yet warmed by the sun. 

As you shrug on your jacket. 

“Hey, wait up–” 

Mateo’s voice slipped past your headphones, just as you were about to pop them in. You turn around, tilting your head at the sound of his voice. 

Brows furrowing as he comes to stop before you, “Did I forget something?” 

“What–No. I just.” 

You asked, “What?” 

Why was this so hard? It really shouldn’t feel this difficult.

He dealt with trauma patients. Critical emergencies. Life or death situations. And yet somehow. 

This was so much harder. 

Here goes nothing.

“I was wondering if…” His voice cracked. Great. Fantastic.

You tried very hard not to smile, amused and curious all at once, “If?” 

Taking in a deep breath, he built his courage once more. 

“If you’d maybe like to go out sometime…With me?” 

Silence. 

Not a long silence. But long enough for panic to brew within Mateo. Preparing for rejection. 

You blink. 

Surprise flooding your features. 

For once your calm, controlled expression cracks. Fracturing into one of complete shock. 

“Oh” 

Oh. Mateo’s stomach sank. 

Your eyes flickering down before meeting his once more, “You’re asking me out?” 

“Yes,” he swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat. All confidence dwindles with each passing moment.

“Like–” your mind races as you try to process this all, your hand gestures between you both, “on a date?” 

“I’m hoping so, yes,” he nods. “Unless you don’t–”

You cut him off, “No, no, it’s not that. It’s just. Uh–”

You were speechless. 

Your cold demeanour kept most people at arms length. Had made most people double guess themselves. 

It meant that most of the time you were left alone. 

Never once really being the first choice. 

Not until now. 

“I’m just surprised. I’m not usually the one people ask out,” the words came out so casually, almost jokingly. And yet there was an undertone of something deeper to the words, something honest. Raw. 

Mateo stared at you. 

Then frowned. 

“What?” 

All you can muster is a small shrug, “I don’t know” 

“You don’t know?” 

His question only makes a small laugh bubble from you, airy with no weight to it, tone dry as you remark, “Guys don’t exactly line up”

His response had come out instantaneously. 

He simply couldn’t help it, as he replied, “Then it's their loss” his voice soft. 

Your eyes snapped back up to his.

He hadn't meant to say it so quickly. Hadn't meant for it to sound so sincere.

But it was.

Every word.

"Because you're smart."

You blinked, "Mateo–"

"And funny."

You laughed.

He kept going, "And you somehow make the worst shifts bearable."

"That's a low bar."

"Still counts,” The smile threatening your lips grew.

“So–how about that date?” he smiled, “Is it still an ‘I don’t know’? Or is it a yes? Because I really hope it's the latter”

“Yeah” 

“Yeah?” The look in his eye was so hopeful. 

“Yeah,” you confirmed once more. 

The grin that broke out across his face was immediate. Unrestrained. 

And in light of that. It had made the soft smile on your face widen. 

It was the beginning of something new for you. He balanced out your sharp edges. Breaking past your steely facade. Knowing the real you, with each passing date. 

And just as he learnt more about you.

You learnt more about him. 

More than simply the happy guy that looked out for those he worked with, more than just a nurse who took the extra mile when it came to his work. More than just the guy that never failed to leap at an opportunity to make a joke. 

No. Mateo was more complex than that. 

And you were privy to learning about it all. 

It felt natural. Familiar. 

Like you had both somehow been building towards this for months without ever realising it. 

You learned Mateo talked with his hands when he got excited.

That he sang terribly in the car.

That he could never remember where he parked. Despite that he was always so reliable. 

And so much more. 

All of which you were growing to love. 

While you’d catch his eye from across the room, already looking at you with a softness that made your stomach flutter.

Already wondering how he'd gotten so lucky.

Because somewhere between humming the Jaws theme and sharing coffee after night shifts–

You had become his favorite part of the week.

And judging by the way your smile appeared whenever he walked into a room. 

He was becoming yours too.

There was just one thing you hadn’t quite arranged yet. 

While Mateo was growing to love you. And all that made you, you. 

You hadn’t quite managed to arrange for him to meet your brother…in fact. You were definitely avoiding that. 

While you knew you could be clipped at times. 

Could be blunt. 

Standoffish. 

Your brother was in a whole other league. 

And the ED certainly had stories to tell when it came to your fearsome brother. 

In fact the topic of your brother had taken up a good chunk of one of your dates with Mateo, as you worked to reassure him that–

“Brendon won’t kill you for dating me,” you had huffed, leaning against him as you laid across the couch, brows furrowing as you tilted to look up at Mateo, “–It feels like we’re a few too many dates into this to only now be talking about it.”

To which Mateo replied, “Just thought I should check, baby–I don’t really want to become a patient in the ED, because your brother decided I’m not good enough for you”

That had earned him a shove from you from his joke. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you huffed. 

He argued, voice muffled as he buried his face into the top of your head, "I'm serious."

"You work in emergency medicine," you said with a raised brow. 

"Exactly"

"You see horrible things every day," you added.l 

“Yup,” he agreed. 

Shifting slightly, you move to face him, "And you're scared of my brother?"

"Have you met your brother?"

You opened your mouth.

Paused.

Closed it again.

It had done very little to quell his worries when it came to your brother. 

He remembered crossing paths with him during his time on the day shift. How easily he could reduce a med student’s confidence into complete rubble. 

And that was to someone who wasn’t dating his sister. 

The man could reduce someone's confidence to dust with a single raised eyebrow.

And somehow he rarely raised his voice.

Which made it worse.

Far worse.

So it was fair to say that you weren't necessarily eager to throw your boyfriend into that particular shark tank.

But sooner or later. 

Mateo was to be thrown into the deep end. 

The department was in the midst of a shift change, as the slough of day shifters stepped into the ED, those on the night shift just starting to hand over. 

When all of a sudden. 

An MVC was called through. 

A report of only one victim. Thankfully just one.

But it was certainly a very close call. 

A female, conscious. Barely. 

Suspected femur fracture and multiple orthopedic injuries. 

Everyone moved with practiced ease, a trait that came with far too many shifts dealing with this sort of chaos. 

Mateo found himself assigned to the incoming patient alongside Abbot.

The woman arrived pale and shaking, tears streaking down her face as EMS rolled her through the trauma bay.

Pain radiated from every movement.

One leg visibly deformed.

The possibility of additional fractures hanging over everything.

"Alright, ma'am, we're going to take care of you," Abbot’s voice was steady as always. 

The patient nodded weakly. A small cry broke out from her. 

Going through the motions as they checked everything. 

Ensuring she was stabalised. 

“Page ortho,” Abbot called out. 

Robby slipped to work alongside him, “and get Y/N in here”  

From the moment your name was called, you were hot on their heels, as you wheeled in the portable imaging unit, slipping in as you tug a set of gloves on. 

Eyes assessing, observant. 

Analytical as you pin point what was needed of you. 

Efficient as you do your job while they do theirs. 

Mateo always loved watching you work. How you moved with certainty. Confidence rolling off of you in waves. 

As the chaos began to settle ever so slightly. Mateo shuffled by your side, with a small quirk of his lips as he hummed lowly. 

But his little tune got caught in his throat when he looked up. 

Meeting the piercing eyes of your brother. 

Brows furrowed while he met Mateo’s eyes. 

You stifled the grin threatening to form on your face, biting the inside of your cheek, looking back down at the scans to hide your face. 

Brendon clicked his tongue before observing the scene before him, gloves pulled onto his hands. 

Firing off questions, straight to the point. 

Barely wasting any time. 

Before striding to stand beside you, sending Mateo a pointed look. Whilst you discreetly elbowed Brendon. 

A narrowing of your eyes as you looked at Brendon. 

He relented, ever so slightly, bending to your will. Eyes shifting to scan over the imagings. 

And that was when Mateo really saw it.

Not just the resemblance.

But the similarities between you both. 

The way both of you carried yourselves.

Your posture, the pushed back shoulders. The expressions, near identical analytical focus.

The way neither of you tolerated unnecessary nonsense once work started.

Standing side by side, nobody could have mistaken you for anything but siblings.

The same sharpness.

The same intensity.

The same tendency to cut straight to the point. The way you both behaved as though anticipating the other’s next move. 

Everyone knew of Park’s reputation. They knew of his fierce domineering presence. The way the room would silence as he entered, voices hushed when he moved through the room. 

But in this moment now. 

Mateo watched as Brendon’s demeanor shifted, almost imperceptibly. 

How his sharp edges softened. Tone not quite warm, but lacking a biting edge when speaking with you. 

Even your own behaviour morphed from your usual clean cut approach, to something a little more akin to what Mateo had seen outside of work. 

“It’ll need surgery,” Brendon commented, eyes flicking between the scans and the woman’s leg. Whilst Mateo does his best to calm her nerves. 

Stood beside Brendon, you muttered ever so quietly, “No shit, sherlock” 

He scoffed at your words.  

“That femurs halfway to another zip code,” you added. Quiet enough that it doesn’t reach the patient’s ears, but it doesn’t go amiss by Mateo. 

A small lilt of his lips holding back the chuckle from your little joke. 

An icy demeanor slipping back into place, professionalism taking over once more, as he directs the shift for them to prepare for surgery. 

As the other ready the patient for surgery, Brendon begins to exit the room before turning to Mateo, pointing at him, “You–”

Mateo points at himself with a raise of his brow. 

“–With me,” Brendon jutted his head. 

As a low hum of oohs, sound out from those nearby. 

You roll your eyes, packing up your equipment, reaching for Mateo’s hand as he passes, murmuring softly, “You’re going to be fine”

Your encouraging words do little to stifle his growing nerves, but he does his best to conceal it, while his feet carry him out of the trauma room. 

Finding Brendon standing by the elevator. 

Eyes observing him. 

Silence stagnant between them. 

His arms crossed over his chest as he simply watched Mateo, waiting. 

Mateo wouldn’t say he was easily intimidated. But right now. Standing before Brendon, Park the Shark – your older brother. 

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous. 

He almost flinched when Brendon opened his mouth. 

“How serious are you?” 

Standing straighter he replied, “Very serious,” the instinct to say sir was definitely one he had to suppress. 

For a moment all Brendon did was look at him. 

Eyes narrowed. 

Lips pulled taut. 

“Good”

Brendon offered a small nod. Satisfied by what he saw. There had been many conversations between you and Brendon before this moment, and he had heard the way you softened when speaking of Mateo. 

How Mateo had made you feel so comfortable. 

How he made you feel free to be yourself. 

How you loved the way he made you feel. 

Mateo paused, blinking in surprise "...That's it?"

"No"

Of course not. Of course it wasn't. Of course there was more–

Brendon sighed, his cold resolve shifting whilst he scratches at his jaw, "Look."

His tone softened slightly. Not by much.

But just enough.

"My sister doesn't let people in."

Mateo smiled faintly, the memory of when he first met you coming to mind, "Yeah."

"You know that now."

"I do."

Brendon nodded. For a moment his gaze drifted back toward the department. Toward where you had disappeared. 

"She's always been like that,” A small smile graced his face. 

It almost felt out of place to see the man smile. The kind of look siblings got when remembering someone long before anyone else knew them.

Catching Mateo off guard. 

"Even when we were kids."

Mateo listened quietly, taking in Brendon’s words.

"If she trusts someone, it's because they've earned it,” Brendon glanced back at him, tone sincere, "And she trusts you."

That one hit harder than Mateo expected.

Because coming from you, it would've meant something. Something soft and so revealing. 

But coming from your brother–

The person who'd known you your entire life–

It somehow meant something even more profound. 

Especially when Brendon was only ever known for his blunt roughness. 

However Brendon immediately ruined the tender moment, "If you break her heart, though–" the firmness in his voice reappearing. 

As Mateo chuckled sheepishly, with a nod. “Yeah, yeah. I understand, you’ll probably break my bones”

Brendon only hummed in agreement, before disappearing into the lift. 

You slip beside Mateo, arm wrapping around his waist, while he tilts his head down to press a kiss to your temple. 

“Told you he wouldn’t kill you,” you grinned cheekily. 

He let out a small chuckle, as he pulled you closer to his side, feet moving as you begin to walk towards the lockers. 

“He did threaten to break my bones”

You scoffed, “Yeah, but he’d be the one who’d have to fix them–besides, I wouldn’t let him hurt you”

Mateo smiled softly, remarking, “Glad I’ve got one shark by my side at least”

“You’re lucky you’re cute,” You roll your eyes from his words.

He nods, “I am pretty lucky”

You let your lips curl up into a smile, twisting him as your hands shift to reach around his neck, fingers twisting through the ends of his soft curls.

Reaching up to place a soft peck upon his lips before pulling away.  

“How does getting some breakfast sound?” 

“Sounds perfect” 

Leading you and Mateo to leave the ED.

Hand in hand. Your composure softens just for him. Just for Mateo. Admiring him in the early sunlight as the city awakens. 

Happy that your brother approved. 

Not that his disapproval would’ve stopped you anyway. 

Not when Mateo never failed to make you smile. 

Not when he made your heart flutter in your chest while his hand intertwined with yours. 

Not with the sweetness of his voice, or how he never failed to make you laugh. 

Pushing past your steely facade. 

And Mateo wasn’t going to be dissuaded from seeing you – even if your brother could be intimidating. 

He just wanted to be the one to make you smile. 

That was all he could ask for.

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed my very first fic featuring Mateo, tried to keep it quite sweet. Also loved the idea of him knowing your relation to Brendon and still trying his luck anyway, unafraid of your brother. (I imagine it's a sweet thought for you) and these Park siblings are total softies deep down. Let me know what you thought ✨

There will be more to come for the Shiver Collection!! Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist ♥️

Next up will feature Jesse Van Horn x Reader: Just Keep Swimming

Comments, Reblogs and Likes are welcomed and appreciated 💕 Or check out my overall Masterlist here

There is exactly one sound on earth known to make Emergency Department attending physicians with decades of experience under their belt run for the hills and cower under cover – and that’s high heels.

Your high heels, specifically.

It’s not a common sound in the emergency room or the hospital as a whole; most healthcare employees are in sneakers, clogs, or boots the entire time they’re clocked in. But not you. Always dressed pristinely – today it’s high-waisted tailored slacks and a mock-neck sleeveless blouse, effortless and simple with legs that go on for miles and miles – you stalk through the hospital with a mission.

Robby spots you first, strolling in from the offices with eyeliner sharp enough to slice. As his eyes widen, he flips around, briefly touches Abbot and Park on their backs, and hisses, “Find cover, gentlemen. It’s the Viper.”

Abbot breaks into a near run toward the closest open patient room he can find. While Robby scans the area for his hiding place, Park asks, “What the hell’s going on?”

Robby hustles in the opposite direction with a shrug. “Every man for himself, Shark.”

Then a bright, clear, loud woman’s voice bowls down the ED like an oncoming storm. “Dr. Park, just the man I’ve been looking for.”

Even Al-Hashimi claps him on the back and runs off with a whispered, “Good luck.”

You join him in the next second. In your heels, which aren’t even that tall, you’re looking him square in the eyes. Smiling through lips coated in a deep maroon, you ask him, “How’s the transfer to the ED treating you, doctor?”

Arms crossed over his chest, Brendon eyes you suspiciously. “Ah, good, so far. I prefer trauma to ortho. The stakes are higher. Feels good at the end of the day. Accomplished.”

“Glad to hear it. I just need a couple minutes; I know you’re busy. Can we talk here or would you like to go to my office?”

Not noticing the way every single doctor and nurse is nervously glancing in your direction, Brendon mutters, “Here’s fine if it’s quick.”

“Great!” You unlock your briefcase on the nurse’s station and remove a binder as thick as a textbook. Voice still sweet and teasing, you tut at him, “You’ve made yourself very difficult for me to find, Brendon Park.”

“I’m usually in surgery,” he replies, confused and suspicious. He vaguely recognizes you from somewhere, but he can’t quite place it. Probably just flitting around the ED when he’s been here for consults, but it’s entirely possible you’re the hot woman on PTMC’s billboard over I-376. “What’s this about?”

You introduce yourself, shaking his massive hand with yours (blood red stiletto manicure and all), and explain, “I’m the Emergency Department’s Patient Advocate Supervisor.”

“Ah,” Park sighs, eyes raking up and down your accentuated curves, “you’re my new Kevin. He was a huge pain in my ass; I hope our relationship will be better.”

“No, Kevin is a patient advocate and a damn good one, considering he had to deal with your mountain of issues; ortho’s equivalent of me is an idiot who lets the monkeys run the circus,” you correct with harsh eyes. All pretense of pleasantness gone. Brendon looks at you like you’re speaking Klingon, so you slow down your words like he’s a child and explain, “The patient advocates give their evaluations to me. I analyze them and write reports on each and every doctor in the department.”

His brows furrow. “I thought that was Gloria’s-”

“I don’t work for the hospital,” you say, offended by the very idea. “Hospital employees are beholden to the board and the bottom line. I’m a medical malpractice lawyer that the hospital contracts from a private firm to whip their doctors into shape. I don’t care about anything but how patients get treated while they’re here in the ED. I’m more than happy to testify against you in court, recommend probations and suspensions, advocate for salary cuts, or whatever else you might need to be a little more motivated to do your fucking job.”

He lets out a defensive half-chuckle sound, not quite believing the way you’re speaking to him when he’s used to nothing but deference from his coworkers. “I do my job just fine.”

You tap the thick binder and say, “This is your disciplinary folder, Dr. Park. You cut up patients just fine – and that’s an apt description, considering your outcomes aren’t any better than the other surgeons you treat like imbeciles despite doing identical work to yours.” He scoffs and goes to argue, but you barrel ahead, “Don’t ever interrupt me and don’t ever try to correct me; I don’t say things unless I’m completely certain they’re backed up by the data.”

With wide eyes, Brendon confirms, “That’s my file?”

“Yes. You have more patient complaints than any other surgeon in the hospital. I had to switch it from a folder because it has so many entries your previous PAS didn’t go through, so now I have to deal with a two-year backlog. She didn’t do her job of keeping you in line and I won’t be repeating her mistake. Your luck has run out; I expect you in my office at five this Friday for a comprehensive review of your existing file and every Friday after that until your performance improves.”

With his mind reeling, all Brendon can get out is, “Ah, I usually head out early on Fridays. Do a long surgery in the morning and get home by three or four.”

“I know that; I have your schedule history.” With a pat to his shoulder, you smile and tell him, “I want you to spend every weekend from now on thinking about how fucking annoying it is that some bitch from legal won’t let you leave the hospital until seven – and remember that it’s your own fault for being an asshole to patients and it’ll end as soon as you try to be nice and smile for once.”

Slack-jawed, Brendon just watches as you turn on your red-soled heels and head toward your next victim. After a couple of steps, though, you turn back toward him and add, “Oh, and welcome to the Emergency Department. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”

And all that’s left of you is a waft of warm, citrusy perfume. Park leans against the nurse’s station and breathes out slowly as the other attendings gradually reappear. Baffled, he just shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “What the fuck?”

Robby slaps him on the back. “A good public reaming by the Viper is a rite of passage in the Pitt; you were bound to get your first one sometime. You’re one of us now.”

Feeling dizzy and breathless, Brendon says softly but confidently, “I’m gonna marry that woman.”

Robby shakes his head and snorts out a laugh, “That’s a fucked up thing to say.”

“No, no, I can see it,” Jack cuts in, chuckling too. “You’d have the tallest, smartest, meanest children around.”

“I’m serious,” Park insists. A smile threatens his lips. “Give me six months, boys, and I’ll have a ring on that finger.”

“Not a chance in hell,” Robby replies simply. “I heard she dumped her last boyfriend because he polished her shoes with the wrong rag. She doesn’t want a man; she wants a whipping boy.”

Brendon looks between them both and sighs almost wistfully. “A girl like that? I’d let her whip me any time she wanted to, especially if I ruined her $1,000 heels.”

It’s Jack’s turn to laugh. Shaking his head as he grabs a new chart, he mutters, “Something is deeply wrong with you, man.”

That evening, Park waits around your office for you to leave, hustling behind you when you stroll past in your stylish knee-length coat, ready to brave the autumn air. You see him in the corner of your eye and hold up a hand. “Whatever it is, it can wait until morning.”

“No, no, I don’t need anything,” he assures, quickening his pace to match step with your relentless one. “I think we got off on the wrong foot back there, Ms. Viper.”

You cut him a smirk. “Based on your file, I have a sneaking suspicion that’s how things usually go for you.”

“Well, I’d like to apologize for making your life so difficult over dinner and expensive wine.”

You stop in your tracks and turn around; he nearly barrels into you as he stops short. “Are you seriously asking me out on a date right now?”

“Yeah, I absolutely am. Are you saying yes?”

“Wow, you really do have all the social grace of a baboon.” With your hand on his chest, you give him the cruelest and most effortlessly dismissive laugh he’s ever heard, like he’s a snail by your foot and not an attractive, successful doctor. It makes him shiver. “You’re punching above your weight class, Dr. Park.”

But he just gives you a hunky grin, undeterred. “I can bench almost twice what I weigh; how much bigger do I need to get to take you out?”

You chuckle and reply, “Lift a thousand pounds with one hand.”

“No problem; give me two days.”

Trying to push down how charming he is, you turn at the entrance to the parking garage and tell him simply, “I’ll see you on Friday for your review.”

“Perfect.” He nods and, like it’s an assignment, confirms, “I’ll be done by then for sure.”

Friday afternoon, right on time, Brendon knocks on your office door. He pushes it open when you call for him to and slips inside with the air of a child who knows he’s in trouble.

“Sit,” you order, nodding to the chairs on the opposite side of your desk. He does so right away, clearly waiting to hear what you have to say instead of jumping into something himself. You set the contents of his disciplinary file on the desk and gesture to the piles. “Well, your reputation certainly precedes you, Dr. Park.”

He tries out a smirk to keep some semblance of confidence. “Not the first time I’ve heard that.”

You tilt your head and narrow your eyes. “Been a bully your whole life, then?”

“I meant more that-”

“Yeah, I’m not stupid.” You show him each of the three piles of paperwork and explain, “Since you started in the ED, I’ve been sorting through the complaints against you. This tallest stack is complaints I can handle myself without your help or where your help would only make things worse.”

“What does that mean?”

You level him with a gaze so stern it makes him squirm. “Ones where the problem was your personality, basically.”

“Brutal.”

“Like you.” When he hears himself in your words, Brendon doesn’t like it. For maybe the first time in his life, he questions his own behavior. So it sounds like an opportunity when you go on, “This one is complaints that I’ll have to pass on to the review board if you refuse to help me resolve the problems.”

After pinching the bridge of his nose, he taps the smallest stack of two thick documents held together by binder clips. “And this one?”

You sigh and tell him, “These two are going to the review board no matter what.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, turns out that-” you show him the cover page of each complaint “-pressuring parents into high-risk surgeries for their child isn’t very nice.”

“Well,” he bites back, still pushing up against his over-groomed ego, “being a good doctor isn’t about being nice.”

“You’re right.” You match his intensity. “It’s about effective patient care, which is impossible if your patients don’t trust you.”

Gesturing like he’s trying to find the right words to grab, he argues, “The kid would’ve died without the surgery.”

You let out a harsh laugh. “And when you gave a blood transfusion to a Jehovah’s Witness?”

“They came in unconscious and had no identification of their religious status.” He throws his hands up defensively. “Could not possibly be construed as misconduct.”

“Clearly the complainant disagrees.” You sigh and lean back in your chair, fuse burning short at his constant belligerence. “Look, Brendon. Your surgical work is fine – good, even – but your bedside manner is nothing short of atrocious. You don’t spend enough time getting informed consent, you don’t listen to concerns, and you regularly exhibit disrespect to patients and other doctors. Now, I understand that surgeons receive more complaints than other specialties – less face time with patients, uncertainty about post-op results, all that. But you, doctor, are a true outlier among outliers. And if you want to keep your job at this hospital, then you need to cooperate with me in resolving these complaints.”

Your words hang heavy in the air for a minute. Brendon hates that you know exactly how to deliver a monologue that makes him feel like he’s in the time-out corner and absolutely deserves it. There’s never been a coworker – or a woman, frankly – who’s put him in his place like this. Finally sounding on the border of humble, he asks, “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

“Whatever I say.”

“In practical terms, please.”

You can’t help but let out a laugh at his pouty tone. “You’re going to take mornings off surgery for the next two weeks to meet with aggrieved former patients. You will listen, you will sincerely apologize, and you will agree with every single thing I say to convince them not to escalate.”

His eyes widen and he balks, “You seriously expect me to not do surgery?”

“My proposal has already been cleared by hospital administration and the meetings are scheduled. I’ll add them to your calendar.”

Reaching for anything to get out of what he imagines would be the worst thing on earth – trapped with a gorgeous, cruel woman who hates him and a jilted patient – Brendon mutters pathetically, “I thought we weren’t supposed to apologize to patients for fuckups.”

“That’s a myth and one that makes my life way more annoying on a regular basis.” You rifle through some papers on the cabinet behind your desk and hand him a pamphlet on malpractice, explaining, “Physician apologies cannot be used to demonstrate guilt in a court of law and they’re actually the number one reason patients agree to mediation and ultimately drop complaints.”

Brendon absently flips through the pamphlet, trying to resign himself to his fate. “What do I do, then?”

“Come to my office first thing in the morning,” you start, giving him a ‘don’t you dare’ look when he opens his mouth to crack a joke about that. “Wear a light-colored button-down and your white coat. Mousse your hair instead of gelling it so it’s soft. Practice looking like a human being in the mirror.”

Once again, his expression turns to a mix of offense and dread, scoffing, “What, like I’m a murderer trying to convince a jury I’m not a psycho? The damn Menendez brothers in their pastel fucking sweaters?”

You can’t help laughing at the irony. “Brendon, listen to yourself.”

He sighs heavily and runs his fingers through his end-of-day-loose hair. “Christ, I really am an asshole, aren’t I?”

“Acceptance is the first step in recovery,” you lilt. Then you pick up a few of the files and say, “Now, let’s go over the meetings I have lined up for Monday morning. The more prepared you are for what they’re going to say, the better we can handle it.” Watching him tentatively take the first file and read over it with furrowed brows, you go on, much softer, “I know everyone at the hospital thinks I’m a bitch – and, to be fair, I am – but it’s only because I want your patients to have a good experience with you. When your patients view you as competent and trustworthy, they’ll return to you for care, they’ll follow instructions better, and ultimately your outcomes will improve. So just work with me here and we’ll get this figured out.”

He nods slowly, guilt trickling into his veins as he actually reads over the details of the complaints for the first time. Patients who felt dismissed, who didn’t understand his decisions, who ended up with post-op complications they didn’t feel comfortable bringing up. After what feels like forever, his voice lowers and you see a flicker of humility in his eyes. “Yeah, okay. I trust you. I don’t-” He swallows hard, averts his eyes, and manages to admit, “I don’t want to be the kind of doctor people avoid. I want to be better.”

You reach across the desk and give his forearm and small, affirming squeeze. When you smile at him earnestly for the first time, it makes his heart flutter a little too embarrassingly for him to acknowledge. “That’s all I need to hear for us to work together.”

The two of you make it through reviewing the first week’s-worth of low-level complaints by seven, going back and forth to understand his perspective, the patient’s, and the advocate’s. You hate to admit it, but when Brendon actually accepts that there’s a problem and gets determined to fix it, he’s…good. He cares. He has the work ethic of an ox and you can tell he’s the kind of man who needs to right his wrongs.

It doesn’t hurt that most of the complaints against him have to do with him being hard-headed, not incompetent or malicious, usually bulldozing patients because he’s right and wants to do the best he can. Not like some of the ED doctors who have fewer complaints that are much more serious. You know he just needs to find the balance of that skill and confidence with communication and understanding. He’ll be the best of the hospital if he can do that.

Your watch beeps at seven, interrupting the flow of your conversation. You stand up first to make it clear that Brendon’s officially free, saying, “Thank you for coming in and for your understanding. You can do this.”

As you collect your things and he does the same, he ensures, “So we’re done for now?”

“Yeah, we are. You can head out.”

“Great.” He opens up your office door to let you walk through and says seriously, “Let’s circle back on that conversation we had earlier this week now that we’re off the clock. Would you like to go on a date with me?”

You laugh and shake your head. “Your biceps aren’t looking any stronger since we last went over this; sure you’re ready to lift that thousand pounds for me?”

All cocky again, he whistles and muses, “So you have noticed how big my arms are.”

You nudge him in the arm with your elbow as he falls into step next to you. “I’ve noticed your scrub tops are a size too small, yes.”

“God, you are far and away the most brutal, beautiful  woman I’ve ever seen and I can tell you’d sucker punch a bear if it didn’t mind its manners,” he absolutely swoons. While you try not to smile, he goes on, looking for all the world like he’s about to break into song, “I’m smitten over here. I’ll take you somewhere nice, dress up like a gentleman, the whole damn thing. What do you say?”

“I only date doctors with a patient satisfaction score in the double digits, Brendon.”

“God, my name sounds so good in your mouth it’s like this is the first time I’m hearing it. You can make the meanest insult sound like a song. What a gift.” While you laugh and push out of the hospital’s front door toward the parking garages, he follows behind you like a puppy and goes on, “Plus, I know for a fact my patient satisfaction score is 51 because Robby was thrilled to have a doctor who scored lower than his 65. I’m proud of that.”

With an eye roll, you remind him, “You really shouldn’t be.”

“And you really should go on a date with me. I’d treat you so well; you have no idea,” he insists as you walk through the parking garage toward your reserved spot halfway down the first row. “I’d lick this garage floor right now if you’d let me open your car door for you.”

You stop next to a sexy little silver Miata and snicker, “I’ll let you do that today, but only because I have my hands full.” Brendon immediately drops to his knees and bends toward the ground with his tongue out, making you shriek out a laugh and smack him with your purse. You cover your smile with your hand and chastise, “You’re horrifying.”

“And you’re just a few more interactions from falling in love with me.” He stands up with a satisfied, goofy grin that’s far too boyishly charming for his features and opens your car door, stepping back and gesturing with a flourish. “Get home safe, beautiful.”

You slide into the front seat, settle your belongings, and tell him, “If you smile like that at your patients, you might actually have a chance with me, big guy.”

He salutes and promises, “I’ll spend the whole weekend practicing for you.”

The whole ride home, you have to keep forcibly wiping the school-girl smile from your face. You’re totally aware that Brendon Park can 1000% wear you down. Definitely not your usual type with his wolfish smile and domineering attitude, but gorgeous, broad, and just cocky enough to turn you on without intimidating you.

The problem is that his very existence is an annoyance to you. If you were going to date a doctor in the ED, it would be Abbot, who seems to actually give a shit about making your job easier and treating his patients like people and not puzzles. Shen is by far too happy and Al Hashimi is too sweet. Robby repulses you on a visceral level for more reasons than you can name.

But Brendon Park? He’s a big question mark for you. All you know about him is from his file, which doesn’t paint a particularly flattering picture. When he talks and smiles, though, you can sense a sweetness in him that he doesn’t show often. Maybe that means he can open up and be better – but you doubt it.

That flicker of hope in your gut? You aren’t sure whether to stoke it or blow it out.

You fully expect Brendon to drop his crusade to go out with you after a couple of rejections. He could have any girl he wanted with a snap of his fingers, you’re sure, so there’s no way he’d keep going for someone as off-putting and crass as you. Especially after two full weeks of morning meetings that essentially consist of you bending him over and letting patients spank him red, you’d guessed that his interest would fizzle out into something more akin to begrudging tolerance.

But no.

Brendon Park is not a man easily dissuaded.

Every time you spend two hours on Friday afternoon verbally beating the shit out of him so he’ll become a better doctor, he inevitably goes through the same routine.

“Go out with me, gorgeous, I’m begging you,” he tries again. His latest addition to the song and dance is insisting on carrying your file box and briefcase out to your car because, quote, ‘your manicure is too sexy to risk chipping.’ Sticking right by your side, he swears, “I’ll get on my knees right now if you just say yes.”

You meet his too-pretty blue eyes and insist, knowing it’s only about 40% true now, “Not in a million years.”

“No problem,” he beams, “I’ll wait a million and one just to sweep the floor in front of you so you don’t get any scuffs on those designer shoes.”

“Cute, but how about you start working on that list of calls for me instead? Give me an update the next time you see me.”

“Oh, I’m already on it,” he assures like a dog showing off a new trick and hoping for a cookie, “but if it gets me another single solitary second breathing in that perfume of yours, I’ll go double time.”

You roll your eyes and ignore it – but you’re smiling, and that’s enough for Brendon.

By the time you and Brendon are on the last week of his patient apology tour, your resolve is about as strong as a toothpick. He’s bringing you coffee and pastries every single morning, just setting them on your desk without a word while the two of you prep. He always compliments not only what you’re wearing but the little details alongside it – your perfume’s top notes, the shade of your lipstick, the way your earrings catch the light. With every ounce of his earnest affection, he can tell your resolve is wearing very, very thin, but it’s definitely still there. He can smell the blood in the water even if he isn’t quite sure when or how to make the final strike.

Brendon figures out his plan of attack because of the wisdom of one Dana Evans.

You’re working on the floor of the ED today because a nasty bug has taken out two of your patient advocates. In picking up their workload, you end up floating through Brendon’s peripheral vision all day. For everyone else, you’re the viper who might bite their neck at any turn. But, for Brendon, it’s like, well, the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen is just there for him to gaze at in between surgeries.

While going over plans with him and a few nurses, Garcia turns to him and offers, “One of my friends wants me to set her up with a doctor and I said I’d try. Park, you’re single, right? She’s funny, pretty, successful. Maybe a little nice for you, but you never know.”

Brendon smirks, glancing in your direction, and answers, “I’m single, but I’m not available.”

Princess rolls her eyes and cuts in for the sake of the gossip: “What the hell does that mean, Shark?”

“I’ve got a girl in mind,” he replies easily, voice smooth and cool as a saxophone. “Got a feeling she’s finally gonna give me a shot soon.”

Garcia faux-gasps. “You’re groveling for a girl? You know you’re, like, eight feet tall, buff, and rich, right?”

“And that means there’s nothing sexier than a woman who needs to be courted.”

“Ew.”

Absently listening to the exchange, Dana glances up at him over the rims of her glasses. “You’re cock-blocking yourself with her, Park, you know that, right?”

Princess looks between Park and Dana, beyond nose, and presses, “With who, exactly? This girl works at the hospital?”

“The Viper,” Dana explains like that’s not some top-shelf, high-value chisme. “He’s been trying to get her to go out with him for weeks now. It’s obvious.”

Garcia’s mouth falls open in horror. “You like her?!”

“Shut up,” Brendon hisses, nervous about the potential of you overhearing just a few feet over. He narrows in on Dana and demands, “What do you mean? I’ve never put more effort into trying to convince a girl to date me.”

“Kid, she likes you already. She laughs at your bad jokes and she squeezes your arm like it’s a prize tenderloin she’s thinking about buying. She wants to go out with you.” Staring him down from over her glasses, Dana explains, “But you know what’s not attractive? Being the reason she had to work overtime almost every day this month. You wanna go on a date with someone after you spend four hours defending them to angry patients and lawyers?

This isn’t some playground back in the ‘90s when we tried to convince girls it was cute for a boy to pull her pigtails or tease her. A lady like that expects better for herself. You’re clearing all these complaints for her, but, in the meantime, you’re collecting plenty of new ones. Bring her all the coffees and donuts you want, but until you’re a guy she can actually rely on to make her life better instead of worse, it’s a lost cause.”

“Damn, Evans.” Brendon lets out a long, slow breath, watching you talk with a patient using those soft eyes you don’t give to anyone else. God, you’re so beautiful it aches. The harshness of you and the softness, too. With a sharp nod, plan solidifying in his mind, Brendon claps Dana on the shoulder and says, “Heard.”

After the very last patient from the backlog of Brendon’s complaint file leaves your office, you stretch your arms above your head, down the last of your coffee, and tell him, “Congratulations, Dr. Park. You’re officially rid of me until you get a brand new complaint – so, I’m guessing I’ll see you this afternoon?”

With a shit-eating grin, he muses, “Oh, you haven’t heard?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Heard what?”

Shrugging like it’s easy and obvious, he explains, “I’m not gonna get a single complaint this month.”

You bark out a sharp laugh and start preparing for your next meeting. “For the first time in your career? Is that so?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he vows, almost somber in his conviction. “I’ve got a brand new wave of motivation.”

You lean forward and balance your chin in your hands like you’re tuning in for a gossip session. “Do tell.”

“Turns out my bad behavior has a direct negative effect on the girl I like, so I’ve gotta shape up if I want to make her mine.”

Your heart flutters and you unintentionally bite your lower lip before catching yourself and admonishing your brain for responding to something so…so…charming. As he leans in your doorway, lingering instead of leaving, you ask, “And what do you think the odds are on that?”

“Oh, they’re astronomical.” Sounding positively wistful, he gazes at you affectionately and continues, “She never gives me the time of day and she scares the shit out of me; it’s the most amazing thing that she still absolutely knocks my socks off. I’ve got no idea what the hell’s wrong with me when it comes to her.”

“Yeah, me neither,” you giggle. Fuck, you didn’t mean for it to come out as a giggle. Shaking your head and averting your eyes to your computer because the embarrassment of being caught feeling all flirty and cute is too much, you say,  “Get back to the ED, Brendon; I’ve got my next meathead doctor in a few minutes.”

“No problem, gorgeous, but I’ve gotta tell you one more thing, though.”

You look back at him, careful to keep your face together and not too wooed. “What’s that?”

He steps forward and leans over your desk, hands planted on the tabletop. His eyes bore into yours. “My odds may not be good, but they’re not zero. And that minuscule chance? That keeps me going. You’ve just gotta give me a single second and you’ll fall in love for the rest of your life, I promise you that.”

A little breathless, you meet his baby blues. “Do you?”

“I’m gonna treat you so well and make your life so much easier; it’ll be impossible not to fall for me.” Then, so confident it steals whatever’s left of your breath, he cups your cheek and says, “I’m gonna fix this whole department’s patient satisfaction scores starting with my own and then I’m gonna learn how to shine your shoes just how you like. I’d do nothing but sit in your closet with a dehumidifier to make sure the humidity for your leather heels is just right if that’s what you wanted.”

You swallow hard as his touch stays on your face long after he withdraws his hand. “Sounds a little scary.”

Brendon shrugs, smiles, and backs toward the door once more, always reluctant to leave you. “Then you’ll just have to give me something else to do to make you happy. Let me change your oil; you don’t even have to be there while I do it. Or I can mow your lawn, bring over my own push mower and everything to make sure I get the stripes just right how you want them. I’ll hand wash your floors with my toothbrush. Anything.”

You shake your head and sigh tenderly, “What am I gonna do with you, Brendon?”

“Whatever you want, whenever you want. Have I not made that clear enough?” Brendon’s eyes rake over you once more like he’s memorizing the sight of you to savor for the rest of the day. “Man, even when you’re rejecting me, you’re just about the loveliest thing I’ve ever set my eyes on. The things I would do for you if you’d even brush a hair off my shoulder.”

“That would be the most action a man’s gotten from me in a very long time.”

“Yeah? How long?”

“I’ll see you later, Dr. Park.”

“See you soon, Viper.”

Brendon makes absolutely zero attempts to ask you out for the next 30 days straight. You’re honestly starting to believe he may have lost interest until he waltzes into your office at 5PM on a Friday, the last day of the month. He knocks dramatically on the door frame even though it’s propped open.

In the middle of collecting your things, you shrug on your jacket and sigh, “Can I help you with something, Dr. Park.”

Standing with his hands suspiciously bashfully behind his back, Brendon steps into the office and informs you seriously, “You should sit down for this, gorgeous.”

You lean against your desk and nudge, “Why’s that?”

“Because,” he announces, voice grand like he’s about to call an auction, “you, the Viper of the Emergency Department, are about to agree to go out with me, your humble subject, and, after your many rejections, I have to imagine that’ll be so shocking for you that you might pass out.”

With your stomach full of butterflies you can’t deny, you hop up on your desk dramatically and gesture broadly like a queen for her jester. “Alright, Sharkie, go ahead.”

Brendon’s smile only grows at your teasing. He takes a deep breath and explains, “Dana told me this morning that I had to check my mailbox because it had gotten too full. The whole time I worked in ortho, I think I checked my box maybe once. When you get served, they put the notice right in your hand, so why bother? But I go to the mailroom and she’s right; my cubby’s got a million fucking envelopes in it.” From behind his back, he hands you a stack of cards. “They’re from patients. My patients.”

He lets it hang as you inspect the papers he’s handed over. Like he said, they’re all cards and they’re all from patients. There are hand-drawn ones from kids with pictures of sharks, sentimental ones from old ladies, ones with shitty jokes from the convenience store. There have to be twenty of them here, each one telling a story of a doctor who truly made them feel seen and cared for.

The last of your resolve crumbles into dust.

Brendon steps forward, studying your expression carefully, and says softly, “Turns out that while I’ve just been trying to impress you, I actually became a better doctor for my patients. And a better man, I hope. So, first and foremost, I wanted to thank you for that.”

When he doesn’t launch into another attempt to ask you out immediately, you let the silence linger for a moment. Thumbing through the cards, you make your mind up once and for all. You meet his baby blue eyes, let a small smile part your lips, and reply, “Okay.”

His eyebrows go up. “Okay?”

You nod and sigh out, “I’ll go on a date with you.”

He fist pumps the air in a way so dorky and adorable you almost back out and lets out a dramatic whoop, “Fuck, yes! Jesus, I really didn’t think that would work.”

You roll your eyes at him even though it’s become physically impossible to suppress your delighted smile that matches his. “Alright, slugger, calm down. I’m just a woman.”

Brendon shakes his head and scoffs, “Au contraire. You aren’t ‘just’ anything.”

“Well, regardless, you win.” You take a Post-It from your desk, scribble your phone numbers on it, and hand it over to him. “Text me your address. Make me dinner tomorrow night.”

“Make you dinner? You know I could get us a table at any restaurant you wanted.”

You cross your arms over your chest and challenge, “And I want you to cook for me. It’s the perfect test for a man.”

Staring down at your phone number in your swoopy handwriting like it’s made of diamonds, Brendon absently asks, “Yeah? Why’s that?”

“It means one of the three things.” You explain seriously, “He can already cook, which is a green flag. He can follow a recipe, which means he’s teachable, or he utterly fails and that means he can handle being humbled, which is sexy.”

“It’s sexy when a man gets humbled?”

“What exactly do you think has been going on between us?”

“Honestly, I haven’t heard a single word since you agreed to date me.”

—

her fingers faltered at the tablet, trying to keep her mind on the patient as she waited. ogilvie stood off to the side. eyeing her as he himself waited. dana had told him to assist. insisted on it apparently. from what ogilvie told the resident.

and when robby came by to see where things were at, looking to samira for an answer on why the student was in there—without actually asking—she carefully explains. “dana thought it’d be a good opportunity for him to—”

“I don’t know why- i was looking to get in on the trauma that came in. I wanted to practice my intubation for my medical procedure log but I was told I’d be learning a lot if I were to help dr. mohan.” the med student interrupts. robby and samira share a quick look before robby clasps his hands together and nods. albeit not being okay with the charge nurse assigning his students to cases without letting him know, he sees…why she did it.

the attending bites his lower lip. “I think dana is right. you’ll learn from this so just uh—” he scratches his beard. “wait for peds. dr.park is an exceptional pediatrician—”

“dr. park?” ogilvie asked looking to samira then back to robby.

“yes, she's—” “a child was abandoned?” your gloves snapped on as you walked in.

“dr.park.” robby acknowledged. you spare a side glance and a lifted hand. a wave. “present the case.”

ogilvie speaks as samira opens her mouth, "sats 99 on room air, normal bp, normal pulse…” your eyes brief them over, before shifting your attention to the small patient.

“well hydrated.” robby says from behind.

“how’s she doing?” you asked as you adjusted the blanket.

“she's seems happy enough. we got a quick a point-of-care CBC.” samira said softly. patiently waiting for you to examine baby jane doe.

“we don’t know the birth history and—” he speaks again.

“I’m aware.” you interrupt this time. sparing the kid a look. “you said so in the case presentation and it’s the indication you gave me. unless you—” “I know I just wanted to validate.” samira and robby don’t say a thing.

your head tilts as you stare at him. eyes sharpen. “student?” you question.

“dr. ogilvie. I’m actually a student doctor,” “I didn’t ask. it was a yes or no.”

that seemed to shut him up pretty quick.

“are you aware that you interrupt, doctor ogilvie?” not even looking at him when you speak as you go back to checking the child. it wasn’t even said as a correction to his introduction moments ago. but rather a bite to his need to have that acknowledgment. you look at him. expectantly. waiting for an answer that has seemed to fall on deaf ears.

“I was just telling you.” it’s a poor attempt to explain.

robby shakes his head, hands behind his neck. lips pressed tightly together. this is why dana was insistent.

“and I’m telling you.” you correct him. your tone hard. no room for arguments.

you look back to the baby, offering a smile to her before dropping it when you turn to those standing off to the side. “she looks good, no obvious source of infection, there’s a possibility of it being benign but since we don't know her history," your eyes find ogilvie's. “let’s get labs done.”

you give your orders as the gloves come off.

“I’ll be back in a few to check in.” you walk around and begin to leave. “and doctor?” you direct to ogilvie, your hand on the handle of the door. the young man turns to you.

“I get wanting to learn, but this isn’t a competition. so few words of advice—considering it is a teaching hospital— learn a thing or two about respect. do not to interrupt when someone is talking to you.”you grit and push at the door. “—even my kids know that.”

it quiet for a minute after you leave, the only noise comes from the small patient as she coos.

“that was dr. park. she's one of our attending pediatricians.” robby starts off slowly, picking up from earlier. his head tipping toward where you just walked out.

the student stands there, looking startled. “she works with kids?"

samira gives a tight lipped smile and robby laughs before he himself walks out. “just you wait.”

—

the med student stared at the man, who was assessing the amputation in front of him. shocked. because that was not the doctor he saw earlier.

“—clean wound. no crush injury. rapid transport time. replantation is a go. I'll book an OR. irrigate the hell out of this with 3 liters."

"3 liters?"

"of saline, genius."

"thanks, shark."

the surgeon walks out but not before giving a side eye— glaring— at the two young men.

"I thought dr. park was a pediatrician?" ogilvie questioned. eyes on robby for clarification.

"dr. park is pediatrics." robby slowly nodded "dr. brendon park, her husband, is orthopedics." the students' eyes widened when he finally caught up to his words.

“there’s two of them?”

—

Your first morning at PTMC, you don your favorite baby pink scrubs like armor and load all the kids into their respective cars. You’ll take Theo and Felix straight to the hospital’s daycare while Brendon takes the older three to their day camp. You haven’t used the hospital’s child care program before, but it seems silly not to now that you’re both there all day and it’s just one floor up from the Pitt.

In the hall just outside of the rainbow daycare check-in suite, you kneel down in front of Theo and lift up your pinky. “Swear you’ll be nice to the other kids today? Mommy and Daddy are gonna be in this same building all day, so if you aren’t we’re gonna hear about it right away.”

Theo sets his jaw the same way his dad does. He tentatively lifts his pinky, too, and then counters with narrowing eyes, “Ice cweam after.”

You shake your head. “You’ll have to ask daddy; he’s picking you up.”

Next to his big brother, Felix’s eyes water. His lip wobbles. “No mommy?”

Your little mama’s boy. You wrap him up in one more big hug and explain to him, “You’ll see mommy at home, just not the drive there.”

Still skeptical, he nods.

You turn your attention back to your insanely strong-willed four-year-old and offer, “How about if you play nice, eat your snack, take your nap, and learn the name of one new friend, you can stay up late and watch a movie with me and daddy before bed?”

His face absolutely glows. As much of a troublemaker as Theo can be, there’s no bigger reward to him than getting to feel like he’s a big kid. You know he’ll fall asleep long before he’s even a third of the way through whatever ‘boring grown-up stuff’ you and Brendon put on, anyway. He links pinkies with you and then you both lean in to kiss your joined fists. Then he announces, “I’ll be good.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” You kiss the top of his head and smooth his hair before standing up. With Felix on your hip and Theo’s hand in yours, you pull in a steadying deep breath and take them to the check-in desk.

“Good morning, everybody!” Dr. Robby claps his hands together to get the attention of anybody not actively dealing with a patient once you’ve settled into the shift. He announces solemnly, “The prophecy has been fulfilled: A supportive and friendly attending has arrived to deliver you from mean-ass Robinavitch and Al Hashimi. Dr. Park joins us from Allegheny General, which means she’s been taught by some of the best. You’re all lucky to learn from her and I know she’ll be a great addition to our team. Dr. Park, anything you want to say?”

You look out on the sea of faces – some familiar from Trinity’s Instagram or Brendon’s complaints – and put on your best, most teacherly smile. “Like Dr. Robby said, I do pride myself on being supportive and friendly. That means I’ll listen to you, I’ll go out of my way for you, and I’ll stand up for you. It also means I have high standards because support and friendliness are earned. Take those traits for granted and we’re going to have a problem. I don’t tolerate arrogant doctors. Ever. From any specialty. I expect you to have a strong, compassionate bedside manner and I expect you to be respectful to your colleagues. If you can do that, we won’t have any problems. If anybody has questions for me, I’m almost always the one in the cutest scrubs. Let’s have a great first day together!”

It’s easier to hop into the flow of things that you’d expected. Dana, who’s an absolute saint, walks you through the department so you have a lay of the land and points out which faces match the names on your med student list. For the first day, you mainly stick near Dr. Al Hashimi, who you’re immediately obsessed with, and get a sense of how the attendings usually operate. By the second, you’ve introduced yourself face-to-face with everyone on the day shift, sure to memorize their roles and connect with them personally as much as you can. You breeze through running codes, triaging traumas, and making your presence known around the hospital.

By the time you tuck your backpack into your locker on Friday morning, the general opinion has been settled. It’s not like ‘Park’ is a particularly uncommon last name. After all, there are around 100,000 people with the last name in the US, which means there are a thousand in Pittsburgh alone. Hell, there are already three Dr. Parks at PTMC when you transfer over from Allegheny General as a junior attending, so your last name doesn’t raise eyebrows. The idea that you might have any connection at all with Park the Shark is ridiculous, especially considering the way you bounce around with that chipper smile, sparkly stickers on your badge reel, and those special-order pastel-patterned scrubs.

You’re also always ready to take out the pictures of your five children to show off to your coworkers and patients. As far as anyone in the Pitt knows, the Shark doesn’t have any kids. Or a wife. Or any sort of personal life outside of going to the gym and, presumably, glaring at puppies before kicking them. Brendon’s easily the most private person in the hospital and his demeanor doesn’t exactly encourage people to push back on getting to know him. Plus, all his ED consults during your first week come from other doctors, so you never exchange more than a quick half-smile as you rush past one another.

The first time the two of you are put together for a consult, it’s in the early afternoon that Friday right after a conversation you don’t have the pleasure of overhearing.

“New doc says she doesn’t tolerate arrogant doctors,” Langdon murmurs with a menacing little smirk on his lips as he watches you practically skipping across the ED from patient to patient. He’s talking with Ogilvie as Samira listens in while charting. “Maybe we put that theory to the test. Throw her to the sharks, y’know?”

Samira rolls her eyes. “You can be such a douche, Frank. Just let her find her footing.”

He balks and counters, “You mean you really don’t wanna see Dr. Sparkly Stethoscope interact with Park the Shark?”

“No, but I'd love to see Park the Shark hurt your feelings,” she corrects easily, “and find out if the new doctor is willing to do the same. Could be fun for me.”

“Whatever,” Frank scoffs. He looks at Ogilvie and orders, “First broken bone you get, page me, alright?”

Ogilvie, mostly desperate to get some acceptance from one of his bosses, nods and gives a flat smile.

That time comes within the hour, of course. With kids on summer break, they’re all dropping things on their care feet, snapping wrists during cartwheels, and vaulting off bikes. Ogilvie pages Langdon, who immediately pages you.

When your pager goes off, you’re just washing your hands after leaving a flu-stricken baby’s room. You check it, scan your mental map for the right room, and head over to where Langdon and Ogilvie are waiting right outside the door. You can see Samira through the small glass panel, a pleasant smile on her features as she talks to a nervous mother. You give the boys a quick nod and say, “Hey, guys. Go ahead and get me up to speed.”

Langdon gives Ogilvie a ‘go on’ look,’ so he hastily tells you, “Liam Ferrell, eight year old male, presents with a tibial fracture after an accident on the playground at recess. Vitals are normal. He reports some anxiety. We took X-Rays to confirm the break.”

You tilt your head to the side, wheels starting to turn suspiciously. But you figure Ogilvie is just one of those students who needs a little extra support, so you push, “With pediatric cases, make sure to include who’s accompanying the patient.”

“Right, yeah. He’s accompanied by his parents, Jim and Lisa, who met the ambulance here after a teacher called 911.”

“Good. Any relevant medical history?”

“No prior bone injuries, no conditions that would affect bone health.”

One eyebrow ticked up just a bit, you ask them both, “Any areas of the case you’re uncomfortable or not familiar with?”

When Ogilvie shrinks, not sure how to avoid admitting that he’s just following Langdon’s orders to test you, Frank cuts in, “Ah, no, but I called an orthopedic surgery consult just to be certain. Better safe than sorry with pedes, right?”

You eye him carefully. It’s not that he’s done anything wrong, necessarily, but it’s definitely weird. Still, you don’t have any reason for the alarm bells to go up, so you push through the patient’s door with your practiced but genuine smile.

“Hey, buddy,” you say, introducing yourself both to Liam and the parents, “looks like you took a pretty nasty fall. Let me guess: Monkey bars?”

He nods and sniffles, gingerly cradling his arm.

“They’re the usual culprit,” you reply with a sweet laugh that puts everyone at ease. “My oldest had a break just like this when he was your age. Then he got a cast in his favorite color that all his friends signed and thought it was the coolest thing ever.”

Liam asks hopefully, “He’s okay now?”

“He’s the best pitcher for the Pittsburgh Pythons’ little league.” You glance up at his parents, too, and offer as warmly as you can since Langdon’s definitely made them nervous with the whole surgical consult thing, “This is a very common, very low-complication type of fracture. We’ll get you a splint and soft cast today, then, when the swelling goes down in a few days, you’ll get to meet our super awesome pediatric orthopedic specialist upstairs for your hard cast, so your homework is to think about what color you want to get. They’ve got everything. I heard she’ll even do patterns if you’re cool. You’ll be back on the monkey bars in no time.”

The mother, who’s still holding a tissue to her nose and blinking back worried tears, asks, “Will you do the splint yourself? Dr. Langdon says you’re an attending and we’d love for him to have the most senior doctor possible.”

“Of course I will,” you assure. To make sure you don’t freak them out, you tell Liam, “We’re going to have one of our big bad bone surgeons come down to take a look just so our medical student can learn some more first. You get to help teach a doctor; isn’t that cool?”

Liam gives you a wobbly smile and nods.

“Alright, good. I’ll go grab a kit and we’ll be right back.” You look up at Frank, Samira, and Ogilvie with eyes they can already tell hold murder in them. “Team, why don’t you join me?”

They all make eye contact and follow you out obediently, both men looking particularly nervous all of a sudden. The moment the door’s closed, you cross your arms over your chest and hiss, “Why the hell are there two senior residents and a fourth-year student calling an attending and an ortho consult for a greenstick fracture?”

Frank elbows Ogilvie in the ribs and he quickly sputters out, “I just wanted to have an attending check my work before the surgeon came down. The ortho guy can be kind of intense. Don’t really want to be on his bad side again.”

“But why would you call him in the first place?” You’re giving him a meaner look than any of them thought you capable of. No nonsense. “There’s absolutely no indication that this type of injury would require a surgical approach and you’re definitely expected to know that at this stage in your career.”

He stammers, “I, ah, I wasn’t sure about the displacement.”

Dumbfounded to the point of near laughter, you ask, “You can’t read a basic X-Ray? You can see that the alignment’s fine. With your functioning set of eyes.” While Ogilvie’s sputtering to come up with a good explanation, you turn to Samira. “And you, Dr. Mohan? I know for a fact you could splint this in your sleep. During a quick afternoon nap, even.”

She shrugs and admits, “I had a lull. Came in so I could watch you yell at Langdon.” Before you can fulfill her dream by putting Langdon’s head through a wall for disrespecting your position, you see Brendon’s familiar hulking form approaching from the elevators, scanning the ED like a predator on the prowl. You sigh, pinch the bridge of your nose, and tell Mohan, “Your reward is prepping my splint kit. Nothing I’d rather do with a decade of medical training than place an eight-year-old’s splint for his crying mom. Thanks.”

She scurries off to the nearest supply closet as your husband joins you and the two men. It’s not the first time you’ve seen him work – he’s done some consulting with you back at Allegheny – but it’s definitely the first time you’ve seen the famous ‘Park the Shark,’ his eyes already narrowed in annoyance with a stance like the military man he’s often mistaken for. He barely spares you a glance since you’ve agreed not to change the way you act at work with each other.

“Ken doll and gunner, my favorite duo,” he groans immediately. Then he looks you up and down as if he’s being a douchebag coworker, letting his eyes devour your hips and waist until he catches you squirming; you’re never sexier to him than in your scrubs. Voice a bit softer, he greets, “And the ED’s new attending.” Then he yanks the chart from Langdon’s hands, briefly scans it, and moves right along, “What’ve you got for me today?”

“Hi, Dr. Park, I apologize for the bother,” you tell him right away, genuinely not wanting to waste his time when you know he has a full slate of afternoon surgeries already. “We don’t need an ortho consult for this patient; Langdon was a little over-eager in calling you down to help teach Ogilvie.”

Catching your drift, Brendon rolls his shoulders, stares Langdon down, and says, “No worries; I can take a look now that I’m here anyway. Show these two why it’s not needed.”

You gesture at the door, deeply amused because you know he’s about to absolutely eviscerate them, and offer, “Go right ahead, doctor. I appreciate your time.” Since he doesn’t introduce himself on entering the room, you do it for him: “Brendon Park, one of the hospital’s best orthopedic surgeons.”

Brendon takes the X-Ray from the cart and nearly snorts out an annoyed laugh. He cuts a baffled look at Langdon and Ogilvie, who now seem to be cowering in the doorway as they realize their mistake. “A greenstick fracture? Seriously? Yeah, this is non-surgical.” You clear your throat and nod toward the worried family and child. He sighs, smiles, and puts on his best teacher voice to tell Ogilvie, “In a partial break, surgery would only be necessary if there were significant displacement or an open fracture, which you won’t usually see in pediatric cases outside of major traumas. In that case, we may use pins for internal fixation. Does that make sense or do you have any other questions I can answer?”

Cheeks flaming red, Ogilvie nods. “I understand. Thank you, Dr. Park.”

“No problem, kid.” Absolutely glaring since the family can’t see from this angle, he claps a hand on Ogilvie’s shoulder and seethes, “Always happy to teach.” Then he turns to Langdon, who you know he doesn’t particularly care for, and asks, “How about you, pal? I know reading X-Rays isn’t your strong suit; come on over here and I’ll give you the run down. If you don’t mind us taking the teaching moment, Mr. and Mrs. Ferrell.”

Mr. Ferrell gives an enthusiastic nod. “No problem at all; Liam’s interested in all this medical stuff.”

With his eyes trained on his sneakers, Langdon mutters, “That’s alright, Dr. Park, I’m sure that, ah, that one of my attendings can walk me through it later.”

“No, no, I insist.” Brendon puts his hand on Langdon’s mid back and nearly shoves him forward. Mohan just about chokes on her suppressed laughter as she lays out the splint kit for you. Brendon points at the displayed X-Ray – maybe the simplest and most direct partial fracture you’ve ever seen – and explains with a chipper tone, the parents nodding along like this is a real med school lecture,  “This here is the tibia and this one’s the fibula; I know it can be a little confusing when we display them mirrored like this, but we do it so that it’s like the patient is standing in front of us.” He gestures to the bending bone and goes on, including the parents too, “Now, a greenstick fracture is what we call it when a child’s flexible bones break on one side but bend on the other, sort of how a young tree branch would move under pressure. Kind of a clever name, right?”

Frank swallows and replies through gritted teeth, “Yes, Dr. Park.”

“And why do you think we wouldn’t see that in an adult?” He turns back to Ogilvie, eyes made of ice, and presses, “Ogilvie, any ideas?”

Ogilvie mutters pathetically, “Because bones continue to harden as we age.”

“Which means?” He turns back to Langdon and asks, “Frank? Any clue?”

Frank chews the inside of his cheek. “The bones break cleanly instead of bending.”

“That’s exactly right. Good job, guys.” Then he kneels down next to Liam, looking much more like your Brendon with his five perfect babies, even with his surgical cap and scrubs. With a genuinely affirming smile, he meets the kid’s eyes and tells him, “Don’t worry; you definitely just need a cast, bud. Probably only gonna have it six weeks, might be able to get it off before summer break’s over. And I highly recommend fire-engine red; that’s what I got when I broke my ankle a couple years ago.” He throws a wink in your direction and adds, “The ladies love it.”

Liam’s mom smiles and perks up then. “Dr. Park and Dr. Park. Are the two of you married?”

Brendon smiles fondly as Langdon’s and Ogilvie’s eyes widen in true horror. “Yes, ma’am. Love of my life.”

Gazing all lovey-dovey between the two of you, she coos, “How sweet that you get to work at the same hospital.”

“It’s what we’ve been hoping for,” he confirms with a nod. Then he offers Liam a high-five and says, “Don’t let one break scare you off the monkey bars after it’s healed, alright?”

Liam smacks his free hand against your husband’s and replies seriously, “Yes, sir.”

Brendon stands up and nods at the parents. “Cute kid.” He shakes both their hands – firm, professional – and says, “Hopefully this is the last time you’ll see me here in the hospital. Enjoy the rest of your week.”

Liam’s dad gives a truly grateful smile. “Thank you, Dr. Park. It’s great to see such an enthusiastic teacher. Gives me hope for the future of medicine.”

You give Brendon a quick squeeze on the shoulder before sitting on the stool next to Liam’s bed and telling him, “Let’s get this splint taken care of so you can get out of here. Langdon, Ogilvie, how about you accompany Dr. Park out so he can answer any more of your questions?”

They nod like kicked puppies and follow him out, leaving Mohan to assist you with the basic procedure.

Back in the hall, Brendon looks between Langdon and Ogilvie in disbelief. “Alright, what the fuck? You seriously expected me to believe an MS4 and a senior resident don’t understand how to prep an incomplete break on their own? Thought you were a gunner, James; you’re gonna let a boy like Langdon boss you around?”

“No, Dr. Park, it’s-” He flounders for anything to say, not sure who he wants to piss off the least. “We, ah, we thought that maybe-”

Langdon tries to step in on his behalf, “We just like to have a second set of eyes before committing to a call down here.”

“She is your second set of eyes. She’s your attending.” Exasperated, he goes on, “Do I really need to explain hospital chain of command here? Ogilvie calls you as his resident, you call your attending, she makes the call on whether a consult is needed.”

“Well, yeah, I meant-”

Brendon cuts him off right there.“I know what you meant.”

“I’m just trying to make sure our students learn-”

“Learn this, pretty boy,” Brendon spits. None of them notice you slipping out of the patient’s room, leaving Samira to do the discharge paperwork. You listen in from the side as he digs into them, “If you ever try to use me in some stupid-ass scheme to teach another doctor a lesson or whatever the fuck this has been, I’ll be personally requesting that you do all of the paperwork for every single orthopedic emergency that comes through this place.”

Langdon nods sharply. “Got it.”

“You’d better.”

Brendon lets out a harsh sigh and turns on his heel to get back to work.

“She’s his wife?” Ogilvie scoffs under his breath to Langdon, “Glad to see how far you can get sleeping with a million-dollar surgeon.”

Brendon flips around fast, before Langdon can tell him that’s too far.  “What was that, son?”

“Ah, nothing.”

“No, say it again.” The Shark comes back out in front of you and it’s a little diabolical how sexy it is. When he stands up completely straight, blue eyes trained mercilessly on his victim, muscles especially taut with his arms crossed, your husband is nothing short of a hunk. “Go ahead. Don’t be shy on my account.”

Ogilvie whimpers, suddenly praying for the ceiling to collapse above him, “I’m sorry, Dr. Park.”

“Hey, you’ve gotta have your first HR writeup sometime, right?” Then, as Ogilvie curses under his breath, Brendon adds to them both, “And don’t tell anyone about us; if you screw me out of a betting pool that’s going to get up to a thousand bucks by the end, it won’t go well for you.”

You have to practically chase Brendon down with the speed he moves toward the stairs when he’s pissed off. You know he’s going there instead of the elevator because taking a brisk jog up eight floors will calm him down. But you’ve got a better method, so you grab him by the elbow and yank him into the closest supply closet.

Before he can even process, your lips are on his. A pleased grunt slips from his throat as he relaxes into your touch, turning you around to push you against the door because he can’t resist any small moments to dominate. You push up onto your toes so you can deepen the kiss and wrap your arms around the back of his neck. Before his dick can start twitching to life, he pulls back, shakes his head, and grins. “What the hell are you doing, baby?”

“You shouldn’t operate angry.” You press a kiss to the tip of his nose and lilt, “Thought you might need a pick-me-up. Plus, your whole ‘knight in shining armor being mean to my subordinates’ thing really gets me going.”

“Yeah?” Brendon drops his lips to your neck, taking a moment to suck gently open-mouthed kisses over your pulse, not quite hard enough to leave marks but definitely enough to make your clit throb just a bit between your legs. Against your ear, he breathes, “I think I like this whole ‘working at the same hospital’ idea.”

You giggle, “Almost as much as Liam’s mom liked it.”

“They’re a sweet family,” he agrees with a chuckle. Then he grips your ass hard for a second and grumps, “We’ve gotta get back to work, sweetheart.”

You nod reluctantly and kiss the side of his jaw. “What’ve you got next?”

“Simple knee replacement. I’ll be done a few hours before you.”

Waggling your eyebrows, you ask, “Does that mean you’re cooking dinner?”

“We’ve still got those pork chops and chicken thighs my mom brought over; I’ll grill those up, throw on some corn and peppers. How about I pick up some potato salad, too, and maybe swing by that bakery you like? Maybe pick up cupcakes or something to celebrate being done with your first week?”

You lightly smack his chest. “Come on, you don’t have to do all that. It’s just a job.”

“No, no, I’ll get decorations, too. A big banner and streamers, maybe give the kids sparklers, the whole nine yards.”

You roll your eyes and stand on your toes to kiss him. “Get back to work.”

He pouts, “Okay, okay. Killjoy.”

Of course, Brendon was being completely serious.

He only brought it up jokingly to throw you off his scent. By the time you clock out at 5:30, Brendon has his gaggle of children in full prep mode. While Benji sets the table, including a vase of your favorite orange and pink lilies, Margot artfully arranges your gift bag, Nora adds sprinkles to the bakery-ordered cupcakes, Theo ‘decorates’ the house by throwing streamers around, and Felix…Well, Felix is busy sitting on his dad’s back in his carrier while Brendon grills since he’s two. But, if you asked him, he’d say he’s being very helpful by pulling Brendon’s hair to control him like the rat in Ratatouille. Really, he’s the brains behind the entire operation.

Just as Brendon’s pulling the proteins off the grill to rest (he’s mentally complimenting himself for the timing already), Margot fulfills her main job as lookout when she hears the garage door opening. She flings open the screen door to the patio and hisses, “Dad, she’s home!”

Brendon quickly brings the platter of meat inside, sets it on the counter, and then gathers the kids up in the living room, where you’ll walk through in a few moments after kicking off your shoes in the mudroom. Your voice comes through the door before you do, calling out like you always do, “I’m home; where are my beautiful babies?”

As the doorknob turns, Brendon stage-whispers, “Okay, everybody, like we practiced.”

Exhausted and hungry and frustrated with your day, you push through into the living room – and the rest of the world melts away. In one chorus, your family, all in matching pink outfits, sings out, “Happy first Friday, mommy!”

Tears sting at your eyes as they swarm you, all wrapping you up in a huge hug that makes time stop turning so fast for a moment.

“Now just how did your dad get you all dressed up so cute when I can’t even brush your hair for picture day?”

Theo rats immediately: “Candy!”

Your eyes drift up to Brendon’s. “Oh?”

“There may have been sugar-based promises involved,” he admits with an unapologetic shrug. Felix is squirming to get over to you, so Brendon frees him from the carrier and hands him over, stopping to give you a hug during the transfer.

Smooshing your toddler’s cheeks with a big kiss, you step onto your toes to kiss Brendon, too, and say, “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re perfect,” he purrs gently, quiet and tender as he kisses you again. Then he gets louder and instructs, “Now, since you’re coincidentally matching us, how about we take a family picture?”

Brendon knows just how much you love having photos of the little moments of being a family, so he goes out of his way to make them happen. It’s one of your favorite, most precious things about him. Thankfully, your kids are 1) used to it, and 2) not yet in those ‘no pictures of me should ever exist’ stages. So they bunch up around you with Brendon’s assistance, Felix on your hip, Nora holding your hand, Margo planting a kiss on your cheek on her tiptoes, Benji with his head on your shoulder. Brendon sets up his phone camera on a timer, hoists Theo onto his shoulders so he’ll cooperate (being the tallest is his favorite), and stands just to the side of you.

Brendon hollers, “Everyone smile and you can have two cupcakes after dinner!” You roll your eyes but can’t suppress your grin as everyone poses nicely for five solid seconds to make sure Brendon captures a burst of decent pictures. Then he scampers forward, double-checks that the pictures are good, and announces, “Alright, break! Everyone go sit at the table.”

Brendon insists that you sit down at one head of the table instead of helping him get everything ready, so you just get to bask in hanging out with your kids for a few minutes. Meanwhile, Brendon curates platters of chicken and pork chops, corn and peppers, potato salad, and mac and cheese. He’s even picked up your favorite fluffy rolls and whipped butter.

When he sits at the table opposite from you, the kids flanking either side, he gives you a quick wink that makes your heart flutter like it’s your first night seeing him again. You help get everyone’s plate sorted and start to cut up Felix’s food into tiny pieces while Brendon does the same for Theo. While everyone digs in, Brendon clears his throat and says, “Who’s ready for their interrogation?”

The ‘interrogation’ is when you and Brendon make sure the kids actually tell you about their day meaningfully, not just ‘it was fine.’ You’ve been doing it their whole lives, though, so it’s less of a chore and more of a time that they bounce off the walls to get their turn. Benji and Nora had water day at their summer camp while Margot’s theater program had its first on-stage rehearsal. Theo and Felix are both buzzing about their respective crafts from daycare, which you promise to look at after dinner.

When all the kids have gone, you and Brendon tell them all about the hospital, which is usually their highlight because, when both your parents are doctors, hearing about X-Rays and surgeries is cool instead of boring or gross. They especially love the drama between the doctors, which is probably your fault for always binge watching Grey’s during your pregnancies.

“I still can’t believe they call you the Shark, Bren” you giggle as you wipe Felix’s chin with a napkin. You cut him a pointed glance and tease, “That’s so stupid, love.”

Margot tilts her head to the side and asks, “Why do they call you that, dad?”

“Yeah,” Theo scoffs around a full mouth of food, “you’re not scawy like a shark.”

“Swallow before you talk,” Brendon reminds him. Then he answers, a little pouty, “It’s because I’m laser-focused on my work, the way a shark hunts.”

“No,” you correct with a laugh, “it’s because they think you’re gonna bite everyone’s head off. Daddy acts like a big scary Shark at work.”

Felix claps his hands together and proclaims, “Daddy’s Baby Shark!”

“That’s right, bud,” you tell him seriously, “daddy’s just like Baby Shark.”As all three of the boys break into a chorus of doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo, Brendon jokingly knocks his forehead on the dining table and wails, “Please, god, not this again.”

He could stop it. He’s your superior, he could just tell you to assist him with a patient, he’d even take the scraps of your attention if it was just to discuss something medical. All he’d have to do is say your name in that tone and you’d come over, all professional and tight around the edges, and help him like you’re supposed to. 

He doesn’t, though.

Which is its own kind of pathetic.

Because apparently the possibility of you looking at him like he’s something you’d rather not touch is enough to keep him quiet. Enough to have him standing there, fully aware of what’s happening, and letting it happen anyway.

He knows why you’re doing it. There’s no mystery there, no confusion or theories he could hide behind. He crossed a line. A very clear, very avoidable line, and he crossed it like he wasn’t thinking. 

His hand should’ve never ended up between your thighs. 

For a lot of reasons. One, because he’s had the temptation for months and somehow managed to keep it under control until now, which makes this feel less like a mistake and more like a failure of character. And two, because he knew—knew—it was never going to be a one-off for him, no matter what the two of you said at the time.

You’re not the kind of girl who should settle for something casual, and he’s too damn old to be the kind of man who makes you come and sends you on your way, like that’s all there is to it. He’d want to make you breakfast, take you out to dinner, make space for you. Literally. A drawer at the very least. 

Which, when he actually thinks about it, is a problem in itself.

The whole thing was a bad idea from the start.

And judging by the way you’ve been treating him since, you’ve come to your own conclusion about it. Pretend it didn’t happen, and hope it quietly dies if you starve it of attention. 

And it pains him that you seem to be doing that so effortlessly. 

Because he can’t get away from it. Not at work, especially not at home, not even in the stupid in between moments where his brain should be empty for once. 

His kitchen, for example, is now completely unusable in any normal, mentally stable way. Even when he’s making his coffee, all he can seem to hear are the breaths and whimpers of you coming on his fingers, and not at all the beans being ground.

His shower is something else entirely. He can’t even wash in peace anymore, which feels like a new low. All it takes is one stray thought and he’s right back there, stuck on you admitting  that you touched yourself in there. 

He can’t even pretend these thoughts are occasional either. They’re constant. Always there. Even when he tries his hardest to drown them out. Which, again, is not ideal, given his job requires a baseline level of focus he is currently failing to maintain.

“Earth to Abbot. What do you want to do?” Shen asks, eyebrows raised, elbows and gown smeared with blood. “You’ve just completely dissociated on me, man.”

Abbot blinks. “Right,” he clears his throat. “Okay—no, we’re not happy with that. Suction.”

Shen passes it without comment, though there’s a look there. Curiosity? Mild concern? 

“BP?” Abbot asks.

“Eighty-five systolic and dropping.”

He exhales through his nose, refocusing. “We’ve still got a slow bleed somewhere. Pack that for a second—no, properly, you’re not putting enough pressure on it. There.” He adjusts Shen’s hand without thinking. “Hold it like you mean it.”

Abbot was getting increasingly irritated as the night dragged on. 

Usually that irritation worked in his favour, making him quicker and more precise, less tolerant of mistakes, including his own. It was useful. 

Not tonight though. 

Tonight that irritation sat under his skin, and refused to morph into anything productive. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, but nothing felt right either. And on top of that, there was an endless stream of patients, the usual rotation of problems that should be routine by now, but somehow tonight they felt entirely foreign. His hands didn’t even feel like they were attached to him properly. 

And his thoughts, all they seemed to do was circle back to you. 

The worst part of it all was that you were the one who said it was a one-off, implying you could both return to some sense of normalcy after that night, but you were doing everything that made him feel the opposite.

“Come get me if anything changes,” he says, voice clipped enough that Diaz doesn’t even try to say anything back, just nods like he knows better. 

His gown comes off in a rough pull, fabric sticking slightly before it gives, not even close to white anymore. Gloves go next, snapped off quick, dropped wherever.

He doesn’t even really think about where he’s going until he spots you. Your back’s turned, which means you haven’t had the chance to clock him and disappear yet. There’s a second where he considers leaving it. Just walking the other way. But he’s never really been particularly good at making sensible decisions when it comes to you. 

“You got a sec?” he calls out. 

You turn, distracted at first, and then do a double take when it clicks that, yes, he’s actually talking to you. “Me?” you ask, pointing at yourself. “Surgery has already been paged twice for my patient in bay one.”

He almost sighs at that. Not because it’s wrong, but because of course it’s something that’s already spiralled into multiple specialties and escalating calls and everyone pretending they’re not responsible for it.

“Yeah,” he says anyway, stepping closer before he can overthink it, then lowers his voice. “Not about that.”

“Right,” you drag out slowly, like you’re trying to decide whether that’s better or worse. 

A trolley clatters somewhere behind you, someone swears, an alarm rings before it’s quickly switched off. The department keeps on moving like it always does, indifferent to anything happening between the two of you. 

Abbot looks down the corridor, exhales through his nose and looks back at you. “Just—five minutes. Somewhere that isn’t here.”

You nod, fingers drifting up without thinking, fidgeting with a necklace tucked under your scrubs. You’re wearing a yellow undershirt today. He tries not to think about that too much.

“Bathroom?” 

You nod again. “Yeah, okay. Lead the way.”

He does just that, hoping you don’t vanish the second he turns his back to you.

You don’t.

That alone feels like a small victory. 

He pushes the door open, holds it long enough for you to slip in first, then follows after you, turning the lock. 

Suddenly it feels a lot more intimate than Abbot intended, especially considering what happened the last time the two of you were left to your own devices. You’re leaning against the sink and counter, thighs shifting slightly from the pressure of it, filling out your scrubs in a way that makes his mouth go dry for a second before he can stop it.

He drags his eyes back up to your face, hand scratching at his stubble. “You’ve been avoiding me.” It’s meant to sound like an accusation, but it doesn’t land as one. Instead it sounds like something he’s been holding in his mouth too long, wrong shaped and stripped of any pride. 

“I—not intentionally. It’s just been a busy week.”

“Please don’t lie to me.”

You break eye contact, hand falling from your necklace as you let out a small sigh. 

“Okay,” you admit eventually, softer. “Maybe I have been.”

“Why?”

“You know why.”

He nods, swallowing. “Do you regret what happened that night?” he asks and you still can’t quite meet his gaze. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. 

“Do you?” he presses, a little quicker now, like if he doesn’t keep moving the question forward it’ll get stuck in him. “Because that’s the only reason I can think of you going out of your way to avoid me. We can’t even act professional at work?”

“I have been professional,” you argue reflexively. 

“Are you going to answer my first question?”

He watches your face like he can find the answer there before you say it, like he’s already halfway convinced he’s not going to like it but needs you to say it anyway.

“Because if you do,” he adds reluctantly, “then I need to know. So I can stop making it worse for you.”

“Of course I don’t regret it,” you answer like it’s the most obvious thing and he feels his chest loosen. “We said it’d be a one-off and I’m just trying to find the best way to work around that.”

“And you think this is the best solution?”

“Obviously not if you’re cornering me in the bathroom.”

It’s meant to be a joke but neither of you laugh. 

“I’m sorry,” he says immediately. “I crossed a line that night and I shouldn’t have done it and it’s completely my fault for even putting us in this position, I—”

“Don’t do that,” you cut him off and he raises his brow at the interruption. “Don’t make this out to be something it’s not. It wasn’t just you that crossed a line, I did too, more than you. Please stop making it sound like something I was forced into.” You pause, taking in a breath, wiping your palms on your thighs. “I don’t regret what happened. The only regret I have is that it clearly can’t happen again. And I'm sorry that I’ve been avoiding you. It's obviously not working in the way I intended.”

Clearly can’t happen again.

You’re not wrong. You’re not. It can’t happen, there are actual rules about this, policies written in language so dry it makes your eyes glaze over but still very real, still very much enforceable, and it would completely jeopardise your future if anyone got wind of the two of you. Whether it turned into something serious or stayed exactly what it was that night in his kitchen two weeks ago, it wouldn’t matter. It would still be a problem. A big one.

He knows that. Of course he knows that.

Yet his brain doesn’t quite…stop there. Doesn’t neatly file it under sensible and move on like it should. Instead it lingers on the wording, on the way you said it.

Can’t.

Not don’t want to. Not even shouldn’t.

Your only regret is that you can’t do it again. 

Which might actually make him go clinically insane. Manic. Deranged. Because it’s clear now, isn’t it—the both of you want this, but can’t have it without consequences that would only land on you. 

“Yeah…you’re right.” Is all he manages at first, then scratches the back of his neck, and when he looks back up you’re actually meeting his gaze and holding it properly. Longer than you have in the past two weeks.  “Can we find a way to move past it without you ignoring me?”

Your face warps slightly, an immediate telltale thing you do when you’re trying to bite back a smile.

“What is it?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. 

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“You’re laughing at me.”

You shrug. “If I’d known giving you the silent treatment was this effective, I would’ve enforced it months ago.”

“Good to see you’re back to making jokes at my expense again.”

“Clearly you missed it.”

There’s silence again, and if he’s serious about getting the two of you back to something resembling normal, he’s going to have to stop doing that—letting every word you say lodge somewhere in his head and sit there, overanalysed to death. Because he did miss it, and he needs to stop acting so…weird about it. 

“Maybe.”

You smile at him, pushing yourself off the sink. “You going to Ellis’s housewarming this weekend?”

“Wasn’t planning to.”

“Why not?”

He pulls a face, turning towards the door. “Not really my thing.”

“Well why don’t you come,” you press lightly, “we could hang. Be normal about things.”

His head tilts a fraction, like he’s checking he heard you right and also like he’s trying not to read into it at the same time. “Hang?” 

“Yes. Hang. That’s what friends slash work colleagues do. Hang out socially with other people.”

He nods, fingers finding the lock. “I’ll try and stop by.” 

Even as he says it, there’s still a brief sliver of doubt, because it’s probably not wise, but then again, what could possibly go wrong this time? What line could the two of you cross in a house full of people, full of noise and movement, nowhere private, nowhere for anything to accidentally tip into something else?

When Saturday finally came, Abbot didn’t really get a chance to second-guess going because Shen was already outside his place, leaning on the horn like he couldn’t cope with even a second of silence. Which would make sense if they were running late. They weren’t…Shen just got the time wrong. 

Ellis didn’t seem to mind when the two of them turned up an hour before everyone else was meant to arrive though, not with how quickly she put both men to work helping her set up.

In fact, when people did start showing up, it sort of worked in Abbot’s favour. He could stay long enough for you to see he’d made an appearance, then slip out early with a perfectly reasonable excuse of being there early and helping set up. 

It’s a win-win, all thanks to Shen’s poor time management for once lining up in his favour. 

He’s halfway through nursing a lukewarm beer that’s gone as flat as a puncture by the time you show up, a large basket balanced in your hands.

Everyone else had brought the usual, bottles and more bottles, nothing you have to think about too hard. But from where Abbot’s standing your basket was filled to the brim with actual things you’d need when moving into a new place. Blanket, food, cleaning supplies, probably an overpriced scented candle nestled somewhere in there. 

He’s not surprised. You’re always showing up over-prepared for even the smallest of things. He takes another sip of the beer and quickly regrets it, eyes drifting back to you before he can stop them.

You don’t notice him straight away, too busy unpacking the basket and explaining everything you brought to Ellis. She looks genuinely grateful, keeps nodding along, but about halfway through she cuts you off, takes the basket from you and dumps it on the counter, then grabs your wrist and drags you towards the drinks like she’s saving you from yourself.

And he just…watches. 

Not in a weird way. He tells himself that at record speed. He just can’t seem to help the habit that’s formed of tracking you in every room. 

Ellis pours you a glass of whatever Shen’s attempted to pass off as sangria, watching you take a sip, face scrunching up almost immediately. 

He huffs quietly to himself, shifting his weight, fully aware of how this must look from the outside. Him standing off to the side, completely blanking Robby who’s right there, still talking, mouth moving, hands doing something vaguely animated, and Abbot hasn’t caught a single word of it. Not one. 

“We don’t sleep with the residents, man.” 

Abbot does a double take, like he’s been caught mid-thought and dragged back too fast. “What?”

Robby doesn’t even look at him, just tips his beer in your direction. “You’re practically fucking her with your eyes and she hasn’t even put her bag down.”

He scoffs, taking a sip of beer to buy him some time. 

“I’ve already got Gloria breathing down my neck about budgets and patient satisfaction,” Robby goes on, “I don’t need her adding fraternisation to the list.”

“Nothing’s happening.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Shame,” Robby adds, almost idly. “Because if this is you not doing anything, I’d hate to see what it looks like when you actually are.”

“What, now you’re encouraging me?” 

Robby snorts, shaking his head. “No. I’m just saying—if there is anything happening, keep it the hell out of the ER.”

“There’s nothing going on, man. You can drop it,” he mutters, knocking back the rest of his beer as he spots you walking over, unsure whether that’s the best decision with what Robby’s currently insinuating. 

“Okay, well, I don’t need to be privy to this conversation,” Robby sighs, noticing you heading their way. “I’d like some plausible deniability.”

Robby gives you a quick nod as you pass him, then veers off towards Dana without another word, leaving Abbot standing there with absolutely nothing to hide behind, nowhere to look except you. 

You’re wearing a sundress again. 

And his brain just…malfunctions for a second. There’s a slight lag when his eyes fixate on the way the material sits against your hips, the neckline lower, the hem shorter than the one he’s seen you in before. It’s stupid how quickly he notices it, how it registers before he can even think to stop it.

This is exactly what Robby was talking about, and he’s stood here proving him right, fully incapable of acting like a normal person for five seconds when you’re in front of him.

“Ellis said you helped set up,” you say, coming up beside him. “That was nice of you.”

“Didn’t really have a choice, she had us working the second we stepped through the front door. Didn’t even get a tour or anything.”

“Is that why you decided to give everyone alcohol poisoning with the sangria?”

Abbot laughs, setting his drink down on the fireplace. “That was all Shen.”

There’s a stench of silence and it makes him realise how bad the two of you are now at this whole normalcy thing. There never used to be silences like this, not ones that felt like either person was thinking about something else. The obvious elephant in the room, even to Robby apparently.

“We’re setting up a round of beer pong,” Shen announces, appearing out of nowhere with a red cup filled to the brim with his sangria. “Next round is me and Ellis against you two—” he points between you and Abbot. “Be there or be square.”

Abbot glances at the cup, then back at Shen. “How about you be sober since you’re my ride?”

“You can just catch a ride with Robby,” Shen shrugs. “He drove.”

He shakes his head because he knew this would happen. Shen is the least reliable method of transport known to man. Abbot’s half surprised he even makes it to his shifts on time.

“You playing?” you ask, glancing between him and Shen.

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

Shen groans. “You’re both playing. I’ve already decided.”

Abbot has come to realise that you’re actually really good at beer pong. Whether that’s down to your aim or just sheer desperation to avoid drinking whatever the hell Shen’s made, he’s not entirely sure. Either way, the two of you are winning.

Which should be what he’s focusing on.

It isn’t.

Because you keep leaning forward to line up your shots, bending over the table, one hand braced against the edge, the other hovering with the ball, squinting like it’s a matter of life or death. And it’s endearing how focused you get, how your tongue presses against your teeth, how you don’t even seem aware of anything else when you’re aiming.

And he’s meant to be watching the cups. The game. Literally anything else. 

Instead his eyes keep catching on the same things. The way the hem of your dress shifts when you bend, the brief flash of skin at the back of your thighs when you straighten and then lean again, the way your legs move when you step forward to grab the ball. 

He drags his gaze back to the table just as you release the ball. It arcs cleanly and drops straight into one of Shen’s cups with a splash. 

“No fucking way,” Shen scoffs. “We need to step our game up.” He nudges Ellis like she’s personally responsible.

“You need to step your game up,” she shoots back, grabbing the cup. “I’ve been carrying you this whole time.”

Abbot can feel eyes burning into the side of his head. He turns enough to see Robby watching him with a smirk, shaking his head, as though Abbot’s hitting every milestone on a very predictable recovery plan, like a patient progressing exactly as expected. Which is irritating, because Abbot is not, in fact, improving.

He rolls his eyes at him and turns back to face you. “Nice shot.”

“Yeah?” You glance over at him, mouth tipping at the corner. “You sure you saw it? You seem a little distracted.”

“Distracted? No, not at all,” he manages, which makes him sound like he was, indeed, distracted. 

You don’t comment though, just take a small step back so you’re beside him, shoulder brushing his as the two of you watch Ellis down the drink with visible regret before she’s reaches for another ball. 

“Jesus,” you mumble under your breath. “She’s going to hate us in the morning.”

“I already hate you,” she calls back, giving herself a dramatic shake like that might undo the damage. Ellis aims her ball like she’s about to shoot, but Abbot sees you stepping to the side. 

“El, your foot’s over the line,” you call out, all sweet and helpful.

She freezes mid-aim. “What?”

“Your foot,” you repeat, pointing vaguely. “You’re fully cheating.”

“I am not—” Ellis glances down, shifting her stance to check.

The second she looks away from the cups, you go still beside him, lips pressing together like you’re trying not to laugh.

“Just shoot,” Shen groans. “I’m ageing.”

“I was about to—” Ellis snaps, readjusting, rushing it now. She throws the ball too quickly. It hits the rim and bounces straight off the table.

“You’re full of shit,” Abbot mutters, just to you, eyes still on the table. “Her foot was not over the line.”

“I’m driving tonight.” You shrug, giving him a smile. “A girl’s got to do what she has to do.”

Ellis and Shen argue in front of you two, voices overlapping, something about angles, and you rushed me and you distracted me. 

Abbot scoffs, looking at you. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone cheat at beer pong.”

“It’s okay to say you’re impressed. I won’t tell anyone.”

“I prefer to win fairly.”

“Oh yeah,” you hum tauntingly. “I forgot you’re such a rule stickler. Always doing the right thing. Never crossing any lines.”

“Ouch,” he clicks his tongue. “You always get like this when you’re caught cheating at frat boy games?”

“Like what?”

He tilts his head, crossing his arms as he studies you. “I think there’s a vein of rage popping on your forehead.”

“Yeah? Nice of you to notice instead of trying to look up my dress all evening.” You give him a bratty smile, grabbing a ball and pressing it to his chest. 

“There she is,” Abbot hums, satisfied, because this version of you is exactly what he was waiting for. With this version there’s no awkward push to get back to normal, no weird pauses where it feels like one of you should say something just to prove everything’s fine. This is easier. You push, he pushes back. You get sharp, he gets worse.

You’re too nice at work. Too polite. Too put together, all neat edges and carefully chosen words and that calm voice you use with patients that makes everything sound under control even when it’s not. And he likes that, he does, but this…this is better. This is you slipping a little, dropping it, letting him see the part that doesn’t behave, doesn’t follow the rules you keep going on about. 

“Your turn,” you say, pressing the ball into his chest again. “Try not to miss.”

He takes it from you, hand covering yours before the ball settles in his grip. “Lots of attitude for someone who needed to cheat two minutes ago.”

“I didn’t need to,” you correct promptly, following him as he steps up to the table. “I just wanted to.”

“Right. That definitely makes it better.” 

“My eyes are up here,” you remind him, tapping two fingers from your chest up to your face.

He wasn’t actually gawking this time, but that’s a weak defence considering every other time he has been, so he doesn’t bother arguing with you.

“Wouldn’t want you getting distracted and making us lose.”

Several hours later, you’re pulling into Abbot’s driveway, the solar lights along the path flicking on like they’ve been waiting for him specifically. The engine idles for a second before you switch it off. 

“There you go.”

He unclips his seatbelt, keeping a hold of it as it slides back into the mechanism, his thumb pressing into the fabric. “Thanks,” he says, glancing at you. “You didn’t have to.”

“Well it would’ve been rude not to. Shen’s asleep on Ellis’s kitchen floor and Robby disappeared without saying goodbye.”

“Yeah. Hope Ellis doesn’t trip over him in the morning.”

It was meant to be quick. In and out. Show face, have a drink and leave early. But the opposite of that ended up happening, the majority of the night crew sticking around longer than the day shift. Now it’s later than he planned, and you’re here, in his driveway, with neither of you moving.

He should get out.

But you’re genuinely smiling at him, and he’s not sure he has the willpower to leave. 

“You had fun,” he notes, quieter than before.

“I did,” you confirm blithely. “You?”

“Mm.” He nods once, like that’s enough of an answer. He glances down without meaning to, tracking the line of your milkmaid neckline where it dips as you move in your seat, and that’s when he catches it. 

A black card with a white outline peeking above the fabric. Something that looks suspiciously like one of the UNO cards Whitaker had insisted everyone play with. A game you somehow won three times in a row. 

He huffs out a breath, not sure whether to be amused or surprised that you’d go that far to win a cards game meant for eight year olds. “You’re unbelievable.”

 “What?”

“You’re absolutely unbelievable,” he laughs dryly, turning towards you in the passenger seat. “You cheated.”

You raise your brows, and he watches you physically fight the grin trying to break through. “At beer pong?”

“Yes, that too.” he replies, narrowing his eyes. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I don’t quite know what you mean.”

He gestures vaguely towards you, unsure how to phrase it without sounding insane. “You’ve got a card tucked in your—” he cuts himself off, dragging a hand over his jaw. “You know what I mean.”

“Bra?” you supply for him.

“Yes.”

“Funny, I don't seem to be wearing one.”

“Jesus Christ you need to stop doing that,” he hisses, words coming out harsher than he intends. You have to be doing it on purpose at this point, there’s no way you’re not aware of what you’re saying, what that does to him, how it lands and then just sits there in his head, repeating, expanding, getting worse the more he tries to ignore it.

Because now that’s all he can think about, not the card, not the game, not anything remotely normal, just that. The fact you said it so casually, like it’s nothing, like it doesn’t drag his attention right back down again, like he hasn’t already had to physically pull his eyes back up to your face several times tonight.

“You’re accusing me of hiding cards in a piece of clothing I’m not wearing.”

“I saw it. Don’t try and twist it.”

“I’m not twisting anything,” you reply, but there’s that look again that tells him you know exactly what you’re doing to him. And, frankly, it's cruel. 

“You cheated,” he repeats, leaning in. “Everyone thinks you’re all nice and polite and—” he lets out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. “You’re a cheater. A serial cheater.”

Your brows lift, but instead of being offended, there’s something else there, something that almost looks like interest. You undo your seatbelt, tilting your head. “Yeah? What else?”

“You’re manipulative.”

“What are you going to do? Pull my dress down and check?”

“Is that what you want?”

“I don’t think that’s a normal activity friends slash work colleagues do—”

“You know damn well nothing’s been normal between us since that night. You’re the one who said it was a one-off,” he goes on, because it’s been sitting there waiting to come out. “But then you look at me like this and say things like that and expect me to just—what, ignore it?”

Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip and his hand tightens where it’s resting against his leg, fingers pressing into his own palm. “I didn’t say ignore it.”

“Then what did you say?”

“That it couldn’t happen again.”

“Right. And this is you… sticking to that?”

You don’t answer him, but you’re breathing has picked up. 

“Yeah,” he mutters to himself. “Thought so.”

And then he just moves, like a car running every red light. His hand comes up, fingers firm at your jaw as he pulls you in, rougher than he means to be. The kiss lands messily, noses knocking, teeth catching because neither of you slow down enough to make it neat. It starts all wrong, rushed and badly aimed, with no patience from either of you to do it properly.

There’s a moment where he registers what he’s doing, where his brain catches up enough to go this is a bad idea, but then you’re kissing him back, deepening it, and that thought doesn’t stand a chance. 

He exhales against your mouth, thumb pressing into your jaw as he pulls you closer, like the extra inch matters, and it does, because the angle changes and your mouths fit better this time. 

“Come here,” he murmurs, one hand sliding from your jaw to your neck while the other drops to your waist as he shifts, pulling you towards him. You let him, moving over the console, the whole thing awkward and uncoordinated, things getting knocked in the process, your knee bumping into him, his elbow catching against the door.

He makes a frustrated sound when you finally settle into his lap, like the movement wasn’t fast enough, like even now he’s impatient, still pulling you closer once you’re there, his cock aching for friction. 

“Still think this is a one-off?” he mumbles, words uneven, breaking between kisses as they drop from your mouth to your jaw, then lower.

Your fingers bunch in the fabric of his shirt, tugging it up, chasing the heat of his skin. You pull it over his head, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders as his dig into your hips.

“You’re not very good at sticking to your own rules,” he adds, leaning in to press another wet kiss beneath your jaw. He sucks at the delicate skin before swiping his tongue over it to soothe. 

“We—we both—” you start, breath catching when his hand comes to palm your breast, “—agreed it’d be a one off.”

“Nu-uh,” he tuts. “You said you’d be able to move past it. I told you I couldn’t.” His fingers hook into your dress, tugging it down, the off-the-shoulder sleeves giving just enough for the fabric to slip, exposing your chest to him.

He’s imagined you like this more times than he’d ever admit, and he’s almost surprised he even registers the small cascade of UNO cards slipping free. The cards hit him, light taps against his stomach before they’re sliding down between the both of you. 

“You’re fucking joking.” 

You just shrug, like it’s nothing, like you’re not currently straddling him with evidence of your cheating scattered in his lap. You shift to reposition yourself, and he feels it immediately, his cock aching to be inside of you.

“Unbelievable.” His hand lifts, coming up to your chest, fingers closing around your nipple as he pinches it between his thumb and index finger, his eyes dragging over you, taking you in like he doesn’t know where to look first, like he wants all of it at once. “You cheat, you lie, and then you just—what—sit here like this?”

You tip your head back at the feeling, and he follows, bringing his mouth closer, tongue swiping over the nub as he watches you through his lashes.

“You don’t seem that upset,” you slur, hand digging into his shoulder as you roll your hips against him.

“Baby, with the view I have right now, I don’t think I’d notice if someone dropped dead in front of me.”

A soft sound slips out of you, half laugh, half moan, and it only makes his jeans tighten. He swears under his breath, pressing his forehead against your shoulder like that might help. He needs to control himself. He has to. He’s already finished in his pants prematurely like some horny teenager once before, and he really doesn’t fancy doing it again unless it’s inside you.

“Need your jeans off,” you mumble, hands reaching for his waistband, fingers deftly working the buttons. 

“Yeah? Think we might struggle in here.”

You shake your head, lifting yourself, balancing on your knees, the absence hitting him, a brief void he feels but doesn’t dwell on, not when your hands are right there, working each button open one by one.

Without warning, your hand dips under the denim, and Abbot inhales sharply as you palm him through his boxers.

“Huh,” you breathe, a smug edge to it, and he already knows what you’re about to say, can feel it in the way his precum has soaked through the fabric. “Have you been this worked up the whole night?”

He lets out a strained laugh because he’s been caught out and doesn’t have the energy or focus to deny it. His head tips back against the seat, eyes squeezing shut before he looks back at you. 

“Answer the question,” you press, your hand slipping underneath his boxers. There’s not much room for you to move, but the second your hand wraps around his cock, his breathing turns frantic, his hands digging harder into your hips.

“Yeah,” he grunts. “Been like this since you walked in.”

Your brows lift, impressed, like you weren’t expecting him to actually say it. “Good.” 

You lean in to kiss him, and he tries his best to reciprocate, but all he manages are sloppy pants because your hand is still doing its best to pump him and he can’t concentrate.

“Help me out,” you murmur, biting his lip as you pull away. Your hands move to the waistband at his hips as you tug, and Abbot pushes himself up, giving you just enough space to drag his jeans and boxers down halfway to his thighs.

Your hand grips him properly now, sliding up and down his length, your thumb brushing over the tip. Your mouth parts as you do it, like you’re getting drunk on the sight of it, on getting him off. He finds himself thinking—briefly, unhelpfully—about what it would feel like to have your mouth on him instead. Whether you’d look the same. Whether you’d get that same faraway, intent expression.

But there’s no space for that in your cramped car.

And he’d rather feel your pussy swallowing his cock instead. 

His hand closes around your wrist, stopping your ministrations in one decisive move. “Wait,” he says, though he doesn’t actually give you time to respond.

Because then his mouth is on you instead.

Your dress is already pushed up, bunched carelessly at your waist, and his hands follow without needing to think about it, sliding underneath the fabric, mapping their way upward along your thighs with a familiarity that feels…earned.

He finds what he’s looking for.

Hooks his fingers into it.

Then pulls.

It gives immediately, the rip louder than it should be in the enclosed space. 

“Abbot!” you gasp. “What the hell?”

“They were in my way. Sorry, baby.”

You blink at him, still catching up. “They were expensive.”

“I’ll get you new ones.”

“How am I meant to drive home?”

That—apparently—is the wrong question.

He pulls back to look at you, and then he scoffs, quiet and disbelieving, like you’ve said something so wildly off-base it doesn’t even deserve a serious response.

“Drive home?” he repeats.

There’s a beat.

“You think you get to just leave?” The question isn’t really a question. “Not a chance.” His thumb finds your clit, applying light, deliberate pressure. His mouth follows, pressing a tender kiss to your neck. “You’re spending the night,” he murmurs against your skin. “I’ve got plenty of boxers.”

Another kiss. Slower this time.

“Or,” he adds, like he’s genuinely considering alternatives, “you can walk around without anything at all.” His thumb circles your clit again. “I don’t mind.”

You wither against him, your body registering the touch before your brain has had a chance to catch up. “Jack,” you start, but it falls apart halfway through, the rest of it never quite assembling into anything usable.

He hums delicately against your neck, like he’s listening, like he might even care.

He doesn’t stop, his thumb moving in an achingly slow rhythm. “You’re thinking too much.”

“M’not—”

“You are.”

You shake your head anyway and he doesn’t accept that. His free hand comes up to your face, settling at your jaw, thumb just beneath your cheekbone. Not rough but not optional either. “Look at me.”

You do. A little slower than usual. A little softer around the edges. Like you’re already halfway gone somewhere else and he’s pulling you back just enough to see it.

“You are,” he repeats, nodding once like that settles it. As though it’s something observable, not arguable. His thumb picks up the pace and he watches the moment it lands. The way your expression shifts around it. The delay. The way your focus slips, then tries to come back.

Interesting. 

There’s something almost clinical in the way he tracks it, the small details, the cause and effect. Detached, if it weren’t for the fact that his own breathing has started to change, slower but heavier, like he’s not as removed from it as he’d maybe prefer to be.

“That feel good?”

You nod. 

“See?” he says, voice dropping. His other thumb drags slowly across your lips, catching on the slight part of them. He stops there, just for a second, feeling the warmth of your breath, the softness of it, like he’s deciding something.

“Stop arguing with me.”

There’s a pause.

Then he presses his thumb into your mouth.

He feels the moment you take it, the way your lips close around it, the faint pressure of your teeth as you bite down.

“Sit up for me, baby.” He reluctantly pulls his hand away from your warmth, only for it to settle on your hip instead, guiding you up gently. You meet him halfway, lifting yourself and grabbing him again, both of you glancing down as you line him up.

You press the head of his cock against your clit, rocking yourself against it. 

“Jesus,” he bites out, his thumb slipping out from your mouth with a thin string of drool stretching between. “Slowly—go slow.”

You nod, as you ease down, taking him in bit by bit.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, sharp enough to make him suck in a breath, and for a second he thinks about telling you to keep going until you draw blood but he’s not sure that’s wise in your dazed state. 

“Fuck,” you grit, stopping yourself before you’re even halfway down him.

“Too much?”

“Mhm.”

“S’okay,” he slurs, focusing on your puffy clit again, drawing slow circles, helping you take all of him. “You can do it.”

His grip tightens at your hip, thumb pressing in harder as he watches you, completely locked in, like if he looks away for even a second he might miss something important. The way your face pinches. The way your breathing shifts. 

“That’s it,” he murmurs, softer now, coaxing more than anything. “You’ve got it.” He watches every inch of it, the slow give, the way your body takes him, the hesitation that never quite turns into stopping.

“Yeah… there you go.”

You’ve bottomed out now, all of him deep inside you, gripping him so tight he’s not even sure how much longer he can last, and you haven’t even started moving yet. He goes still, in an attempt to chase composure.

“Don’t—” he starts when he feels you shift,  then stops, jaw tightening as he recalibrates. “Just—stay there a second.”

His forehead dips forward, almost brushing yours, his eyes half-lidded as he tries to steady himself through it.

“Tell me when,” you whisper. 

That nearly undoes him more than anything else.

There’s something about the way you say it. Gentle. Willing. Like you’re handing the control back to him without even thinking about it. Trusting him with it. 

He leans in for a kiss, and it’s slower than the ones before. Thought-out. Intentional. All that earlier hunger still there, but pulled tight beneath the surface now, tempered by the fact that he’s already inside you.

It changes things.

Makes it heavier.

He presses in deeper, tongue sliding against yours, and you let out a broken whimper into his mouth. “Go ahead,” he says, pulling back enough to take in the way you’re looking at him now. 

You lift your hips, then lower yourself again, and he can feel the way your body adjusts around him—your walls clinging to his cock as you start to find a pace that works for you. 

Abbot searches for your hips, guiding you, pushing you down onto him when you reach the base again, the curls there brushing against your clit. 

Your eyes are screwed shut and he takes this time to watch you shamelessly, The sheen of sweat starting to gather along your forehead, the way your breath hitches every time he pushes you down just a bit further.

It’s fucking euphoric. 

You keep moving, whining—half-words, curses, his name slipping in and out—as you pick up the pace, losing whatever rhythm you started with in favour of something needier.

“Such a greedy girl,” he mutters, watching the way a slick ring of wetness gathers and drags along his cock as you bounce up and down, your cunt squeezing him so tight he’s grasping at straws to make sure you finish before him.

His thumb finds that sweet spot, making you go limp against him, your forehead sprawling against his shoulder.

“Yes—keep doing that,” you mewl, and he’s the kind of man who follows orders, even when he’s not sure he’s got anything left to give.

Your teeth sink into his shoulder, and it pulls a husked sound out of him.

“Yeah? That’s what you do?” His hips meet yours, as he plunges in and out of you, feeling your thighs tighten and shake around him. “Didn’t take you for a biter,” he mocks, but there’s no surprise in it, in fact he sounds pleased. 

You say something incoherent back and he just laughs. “Go on,” he encourages, tilting his head to the side to give you better access. “If you’re going to do it, don’t half—”

He cuts himself off with a sharp exhale when you do, the pressure of it shutting him up completely.

“Christ—”

“M’close, Jack—so close.”

His head drops again, eyes finding you like he needs to see it, needs to confirm it’s actually happening and not something he’s made up to torture himself with later. “You like that? That’s what gets you going?”

“Yes—fuck, yes.” 

Abbot feels you tense around him, your movements losing whatever shape they had, turning messy as the two of you dissolve into nothing but a tangle of limbs and half-formed sentences. Fragments of words, sounds that don’t even belong to language anymore.

You come undone with a cry, muffled against his skin that’s probably raw and marked now, something he’ll notice later. Your whole body tightens, then gives, your grip on him turning desperate while it rushes through you. 

It hardly takes Abbot a minute before he follows, the sight of you—like this, because of him—pushing him past whatever control he thought he still had. His hips jerk with a force that pulls a string of curses from him that are grunted into your hair, his cock twitching inside you as he thrusts into you one last time.

There’s no other sound for a few minutes, other than the two of you trying to catch your breath. Abbot can hear your heartbeat where you’re pressed against him, feel his own still thudding hard in his chest.

He leans back, resting his head against the seat, eyes closing.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry.”

His eyes open immediately at that because you sound horrified, like something’s gone wrong, and his stomach drops at the off chance you’re regretting all of this already.

“What?” he starts, already bracing for the worst. 

He then follows your line of sight, your gaze fixed on his shoulder and immediately relaxes. “...That?” he asks, glancing back at you. 

You wince, reaching up like you’re not sure whether to touch it or not. “I didn’t mean to—I just—”

“Hey—it’s fine.”

You look unconvinced.

“It’s not fine, I—Jack, I think I actually made you bleed—”

“I know. I was there.”

That earns him an embarrassed huff. “I didn’t even realise I was doing it.”

“I did,” he replies smugly. “Didn’t hate it either.”

There’s a pause as you study him, like you’re trying to figure out if he’s serious or just trying to make you feel better. “...You’re weird.”

“Yeah, says the one who was doing all the chomping.”

Your mouth drops open. “Okay. I’m leaving.” You pull your dress back up over your chest and try to shift up, since he’s still inside you, but Abbot’s hands clamp around your hips, holding you in place.

“Not a chance. I already told you you’re spending the night.”

You catch the inside of your cheek between your teeth. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“Probably not,” he admits. “But I’m still not changing my mind.” He leans in, placing a kiss on your shoulder. “Plus you’re not exactly in a state to go anywhere.”

“I could,” you mutter.

He raises a brow.

“…I could try.”

He shakes his head, an amused exhale leaving him “Stay. Just for tonight. We’ll figure the rest out tomorrow.”

Your body sags against him, the fight easing out of you as your fingers brush lightly over the his raw skin. “Just for tonight,” you repeat.

Though neither of you can really pretend this is just a one-off anymore.

➜ find my abbot masterlist here ⋆˚꩜｡

......fancy fussing over a different old man?

So, despite the red flags and klaxon alarms, you took the keys and ignored the pitying way the people across the street watched you. You’d researched the neighborhood, it didn’t have any higher crime rates than your old one. You hadn’t read any headlines in the news that would make you regret your choice. 

It wasn’t until your second night there that you realized why, exactly, everyone had treated you like a kicked stray. 

You have your pillow wrapped as tightly as possible around your head without actually suffocating yourself. The house right beside you has its music blaring on obnoxious speakers, girls screaming the lyrics, and guys cheering as they jump off the roof into your neighbor’s pool. 

Despite the fact that everyone over there looks, at the very least, thirty, they’re partying like it’s Y2K and the world’s about to end. 

So, this is why the house was so fucking cheap. Figures. 

You let out a low groan and bury your face into the mattress. You have your TV on, white noise playing, even music blaring from your phone. It doesn't even put a goddamn dent in the howling happening in the next house over. 

The universe really just did not feel like giving you a break. Dating Colin wasn’t enough punishment for the sins of your past life. Now you had to live next to the goddamn Playboy Manor. 

The number of women who had streamed in there in thongs and barely-there bikinis had been concerning, to say the least. And the fact that half of them received payment on entry was even more disturbing. 

Admittedly, you probably shouldn’t have been posted at your window, glaring down at the neighbor’s house. But, really, you didn’t have a choice. At least that’s what you tell your nosy ass. 

Tomorrow, you swear to yourself. You will march over there, demand an explanation, and then politely ask them to shut the fuck up. Tonight, though, you were too damn exhausted to do anything but bask in your own misery. 

Fix the bitch face, you remind yourself, forcing a half-pleasant smile on your face as your neighbor opens her door. The smile slips into a slightly awed expression as you take in the older woman. Her hair perfectly tousled, boobs right in your face with that bikini, and a silk robe wrapped around her like a second skin. Holy shit. You’d been expecting some finance ass in his thirties, not a hot mom in her fifties. 

“Hi,” you draw out uncertainly. Her eyes narrow, flitting up and down your form as she appraises you. Your shoulders straighten, chin jutting out under her judgment. 

“Can I help you, baby?” The rasp of her voice should have been expected, but it still takes you off guard. 

You hold out your plate of (poorly-baked) cookies and adjust your smile. “Yes, hi,” you give her your name. “I just moved in next door,” you tell her, nodding toward your house. “I thought I would introduce myself to my new neighbors.”

And politely ask you all to shut. The. Fuck. Up. On weeknights. You’re a reasonable woman.

The stern look on her face makes way for something you wouldn’t describe as soft, but at least it didn’t look like she was about to pull a gun on you. “Well, isn’t that sweet?” She opens the door and motions you inside. You almost protest but the sharp look on her face has you stepping forward with your tail tucked. 

“You know,” her hand hovers over your lower back as she leads you deeper inside. “Not enough girls are like you, anymore. No manners,” she scoffs, voice airy like she’s already a world away from your conversation. 

“Why don’t you change, we’re having a little party by the pool.” Of course you are, the only reason you don’t roll your eyes is because you’re 90% sure she would spank you like a child. 

“Oh,” you flounder. “I just wanted to introduce myself, that’s all. Besides, I don’t have a suit.”

She laughs, the noise unkind, and turns you toward a bedroom. “You know the great thing about string bikinis,” she rasps into your ear. “They look good on anyone. Bottom drawer,” with a slight shove, you’re stumbling into the room and the door is closing behind you. 

That woman is a witch, you’re so sure of it. Not only did you obey, picking through different sizes of bikinis until you found your own, you found yourself waiting for her next instructions. Standing outside the bedroom in your heels and half naked, you feel ridiculous but that doesn’t stop you from smiling when she lets out a low whistle at the sight of you. 

“Smurf,” she offers, holding out her hand. You repeat your name again and follow her through the glass doors of her patio. 

“Let me introduce you to the boys.”

Your eyes widen as you trip slightly. “Boys?” You croak. Meeting Smurf was bad enough, especially now that she’s got you half-naked prancing around her pool. You had no interest in meeting any of the rowdy assholes screwing around in her backyard. 

She hums and sends you a smug smirk, “My boys.” Great, more of her. You’d hit your quota of mama-boys in your life after your ex. You had no interest in meeting any more, but there wasn’t much of a choice as she shouted, “Boys, get over here!”

Four messy heads of hair whip toward her and suddenly, four grown men are racing toward you. Your nails bite into the palm of your hand as you swallow down the urge to turn tail and run back home. 

“Craig,” she motions toward the tallest and the one eyeing up your body like you’re a slab of meat at the butcher’s. You’ve never wanted to crawl out of your skin more. “Baz,” he offers his hand. You take it tentatively. His gaze isn’t any better. Only Deran and J, the other two, seem to be looking at you like you’re a human being.

“She brought us some cookies,” Smurf holds out the plate and you frown at the condescending tone of her voice. 

“Who are you?” Craig mutters around a mouthful of chocolate chips.

“New neighbor,” Smurf answers for you. Baz’s gaze darts to her and you don’t like the narrow-eyed look they share. 

“Really?” Baz asks. The interest in his stare is entirely different now. So unsettling you almost wish he would go back to objectifying you. It feels like he’s trying to crawl under your skin, pick you apart until he’s got your inner workings memorized.  

Smurf hums and places the plate down on a nearby table. “I thought we should keep her around, maybe have her for dinner. Get to know her,” the men’s eyes widen slightly and you know that they’re hearing something you’re not. Your stomach rolls unpleasantly. 

“Well,” your voice cracks as you take a shaky step back. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Baz steps toward you, herding around you until you’re being pushed toward a lounge chair. “No intrusion,” he insists as you pretend not to notice the woman doing a line off her hand beside you. You sit stiff and straight, praying as desperately as you can that you’re not about to be trafficked. 

“Stick around,” he instructs. “I want to get to know our new neighbor.” You offer nothing more than a squeaky hum. He walks back toward his family and suddenly you’re a deer caught in a fox's den as they stare at you, whispering amongst themselves. 

God, you really stepped in it this time. 

You’ve had three drinks shoved in your hand in under an hour. Each of them has gone untouched, passed off to whatever partygoer walked by you. Smurf doesn’t speak to you, just sits in her chair and watches everyone. J and Deran asked you brief questions about yourself, but it’s been Baz who’s truly been hounding you. 

Every ten minutes, he’ll stop beside you, ask you some “innocent” questions about yourself. You keep your answers brief, each response feeling like a test that you have no luck in passing. Your limit for strangers and loud music is about ten minutes and by this point, you feel ready to pass out or throw up. 

Not only is Smurf’s family disturbing and intimidating. The people all around you have been snorting, sniffing, and smoking illicit substances that you want no part in. You actually don’t care how loud they are at night, now, you just want to get out of this party alive. 

So, when Baz gets held up breaking up a fight between Craig and Deran, you take your chance. Your heels click against the stone path as you make your way toward one of the doors. Smurf’s blocking the one she led you through, so you end up finding your way into someone’s bedroom. 

Just as you’re sliding the glass door shut, the one behind you clicks open. “Fuck,” you hiss. 

“Who are you?” The voice is gruff, sharp in a way that has chills breaking out along your body. With a tight smile, you whip around, back pressed to the cold glass. 

Hazel eyes are narrowed in your direction, cold and emotionless. “Hi-”

“Who’s that?” A little girl pops up behind him, head tilted curiously.

“Don’t know,” he replies. The man turns, pushing her out of the room. “Find your dad,” he tells her. He waits until she runs off to close the door and you realize how well and truly fucked you are. Because not only are you in a stranger’s house, you’re now being cornered against a bed by a man who looks like he hasn’t felt remorse in years. 

“Who are you?” He asks again. He doesn’t raise his voice, but you still feel a shock of fear regardless. 

“Neighbor,” you stutter out. His eyes dip down your body, not admiring, assessing. Still, you find your arms wrapping tightly around your stomach, wishing you were in more than, essentially, a bra and thong. 

“We don’t have neighbors,” he takes a step closer, rolling up his sleeves in a way that has your breakfast coming up your throat. 

“Now you do,” you offer weakly, hands splayed like you’re some sort of surprise. “I, um, brought cookies and Smurf told me to stay. Gave me a bathing suit and…” you trail off as he comes to a stop. His shoulders roll back and for a moment, you feel a little bit of your anxiety ease. 

“I was trying to figure out how to sneak out of here. I didn’t realize this was your room, I’m sorry.” He nods once, eyes still roaming across your body. Finally, he steps back, opening up the door and nodding you forward. 

You hesitate just a moment before he lets out a slight huff. “Get out.” He doesn’t say it unkindly, just bluntly. It’s enough to get you hightailing your way through the rest of the house. You feel him following behind you, rather than hear him. His presence is looming despite his size, broad and an imitation of your own shadow. 

When you pause at the entrance of the bedroom you’d first walked into, he comes up beside you, arms crossed. “What?”

You startle at his sudden appearance and wrap your arms around yourself once more. His eyes narrow on the movement but he says nothing. “My clothes are gone.”

“Clearly,” you’re so caught off guard by what could, almost, be a joke that you forget to take offense. 

“No,” you stutter over his audacity and glare. “Smurf put me in this. I left my dress in here. It’s gone.”

The patio door opens behind you both and he shoots you a sharp look. “Go home.”

You glance down at your half-naked body and then back at him. “Like this?”

His hand, rough and calloused, is already wrapped around your arm and dragging you to the front door. “Either that or stay for dinner.” Even if you did want to stay, he gave you no choice. With a light nudge, you’re stumbling down their front steps and the door is slamming behind you. 

Before any other neighbors see you, you book it toward your home and throw yourself inside. Tomorrow, you’ll mourn the loss of that dress. Right now, you’re just thankful for the shark-eyed stranger who hustled you out of there. 

“Again, Mr. Murray, I’m not allowed to date our clients.” You offer the eighty-year-old man in front of you a forced smile. He laughs you off and leans against the counter. There’s a distinct pop that you’re sure is his hip slipping out of place. 

“Nonsense, sweetheart, it’s just a little lunch.” Normally, the older clients are sweet, a little touchy. But they just want someone to talk to, to have someone listen to them, since their kids gave up on them years ago. Mr. Murray, however, is nothing more than a pushy nuisance who thinks sexual harassment is a PC snowflake term invented by prudes. 

You glance around him and groan at the long line forming behind his hunched back. “Mr. Murray, you’re flattering me, really, but I have a lot of people waiting.”

His brows draw in and you brace yourself for a temper tantrum when a frighteningly familiar voice interrupts. “Are you done?” Mr. Murray turns and you find a man with shark-eyes and auburn curls watching you. Jerking back slightly, your hand smooths over your hair, primping, as your neighbor moves beside the old man. 

Mr. Murray draws back with a why-I-oughta look but he cowers under the younger man’s intense gaze. It’s not even a glare, just the kind of stare that makes you completely rethink who you are as a person. 

“Just a joke,” Mr. Murray grunts as he wanders off. 

It’s just you and shark-eyes now, you can’t tell if you’re excited or dreadful. “Hi, again.” He says nothing and you scratch the back of your neck. “Nice to see you while I’m fully clothed.” It takes everything in you not to drop your head to your desk, because what compelled you to say that?

A small noise leaves him, nowhere close to a laugh but you think it’s the best you’ll get. “Need to open an account,” it’s all he says before sliding a large pile of hundreds toward you. 

“Oh,” your eyes widen as you gape at the obnoxiously large amount of money. You’re used to working at credit unions. They’re homely, poorly furnished, and not used by the richest people. This new job is cushy, a bank so fancy it’s even got a chandelier dangling from the ceiling. 

You haven’t had much time to grow accustomed to people with real money working with you. Still, though, this seems like an obscene amount. “Uh,” you clear your throat and tidy the bills into two piles. “My manager opens accounts, just give me a moment.”

His hands ball into fists and he lets out another sharp huff. “I’d prefer if you did it,” he insists and your brows turn in. 

“I don’t think I’m-”

“What’s going on over here?” Your manager comes up behind you, hand trailing across your shoulders as he leans against your desk. Shark-eyes tracks the movement and how you shudder. Your manager’s attention falls to the stacks of cash and his breath stutters. 

“He wants me to open his account.”

“Why aren’t you?” He demands sharply, pulling back. 

Your eyes dart between the two men and you shrink back. Switching jobs was supposed to help you regain control over your life, not put you under the thumb of another poorly developed man-child. 

“I’m not supposed to,” you grit out. “You said that, Mike.”

He rubs his hands together and lets out a nervous laugh, “Good day to start.” He collects the other man’s cash and pulls out your chair. He says your name and places his hand on your lower back. “She’ll take you to one of our offices and help you get set up.” 

With a huff, you jerk away from Mike’s hand and motion for your neighbor to follow you. He’s eerily silent as he trails behind you. Opening up an empty office, you motion him inside, letting the door shut quietly behind him. 

Situating yourself behind the desk, you pull out the new account paperwork. “Alright,” you hum to yourself, leafing through the papers. 

“Is he always like that?” 

Your eyes widen as you glance up. “Sorry?”

He leans back in his chair, elbows on the armrests and body stiff with tension. “Your boss. Is he always like that?”

You scoff and log in to the bank’s system. “If you mean domineering and a pain in my ass, then yes.” Somehow, his lips fall even flatter at your blunt admission. “It’s a new job,” you find yourself explaining for some reason. “Once the ‘fresh meat’ interest wears off, I’m sure he’ll back off.”

He hums but doesn’t offer you anything else. “Okay,” you draw the word out and slide him the papers. “First things first, need your name.”

He picks up the pen and scribbles it down, you tilt your head in curiosity. “Andrew,” you muse. His shoulders stiffen but he says nothing. “I thought Smurf only had four sons.” It’s an innocent enough inquiry, but from the glare he sends you, you’d think you’d told him you ran over his dog. 

“Sorry,” you back off, sliding the papers back toward yourself. Your nails click against the keyboard, struggling to figure out the alien system as you try and finish this as quickly as possible. 

“Three,” he suddenly announces. 

You hum absentmindedly. “What was that?”

Andrew clears his throat and shifts slightly, but his stare remains strong. Practically burning into you. “She’s got three sons. Deran, Craig, and me. Baz and J aren’t hers.”

You glance over at him and your brows furrow at just how uncomfortable he looks at such a small admission. Further confirmation that you should probably stay as far away from the Codys as possible. 

He clears his throat, shifting around again. “What about you?” 

You count his money and cast your eyes briefly toward him. Each question he asks sounds like someone’s pulling teeth to force it out of him. He hasn’t looked away, not once, but you’re wondering if that’s just a different sort of stress tic. As if taking his eyes off you means leaving himself vulnerable. 

“Nope,” you click your tongue and pass him more forms to sign. “All on my own.”

He straightens and lazily scribbles out his signature. “No family? Boyfriend? You moved into that big house on your own?”

Your fingers still on the keyboard as your shoulders stiffen. From anyone else it could just be a hopeful ploy to see if you’re single. But this is the same man whose mother practically kidnapped you last night and all of a sudden, he’s popping up at your place of work. 

With a sly grin you don’t truly mean, you turn to him, arms crossed on the desk. He doesn’t falter, eyes never wavering. “Are you trying to ask me out, Andrew?”

For the first time, you get a true reaction out of him. He blinks rapidly, lips parting as he pulls back from you. “No,” he sounds incredulous and you can’t help but laugh. 

“Relax, I’m messing with you. Because, honestly, you sound like I’m going to find you waiting at my house for me tonight.”

He settles and crosses his arms. “I am your neighbor.” If you could read anything about him at all, you might have recognized it as a joke. But it feels more like a threat to you. Stiffening, you draw back and place his money in a bag. 

“I’ll just go deposit this for you.” You rush out of the room before he can say anything else. 

Andrew turns and watches as you practically run down the hall. He sinks back into his chair with a heavy sigh. He hadn’t even wanted to do this. It's not like he was exactly eager to be back in banks again. 

But Smurf and Baz got on his ass about checking out the new neighbor. Making sure she wasn’t a plant or going to cause any trouble. He’d watched you all morning up until now. From all he could tell you were on your own, working a boring nine-to-five, and there was absolutely nothing interesting about you. 

You also seemed pretty smart, already aware of just how far you should be staying away from his family. Even more reason you’re not going to be causing any trouble for them. Hopefully, this meant Smurf would get off his back and his day wouldn’t have to revolve around some harassed bank teller. 

The low murmur of conversation catches his attention and he turns back toward the glass door. Your manager has stopped you in the hall, hand cupping your elbow as he stands far too close. 

You’re actively shrinking back, face curled with displeasure as Mike only gets closer. Pope’s lips curl slightly as he watches you jerk away. You rush down the hall, bag clutched tightly to your chest. Mike glowers until he turns to find Pope watching him. 

With a lazy smile, he approaches your office and takes a seat behind the desk. He steeples his fingers, eyes eager as he watches Pope. “Is she treating you alright?” 

“She’s fine,” he grits out.

Mike shrugs and gives him a smile like they’re sharing a secret. “No need to cover. We’ve gotten quite a few complaints about her already. There’s only really one reason we hired her, you know?”

Pope doesn’t feel like entertaining the conversation anymore. He wants Mike gone, he wants you gone. He wants to leave. But Smurf always knows when he’s lying and he doesn’t have the option of bullshitting his way out of this ridiculous errand. 

“No, I don’t know,” he’s speaking through clenched teeth and, still, Mike is incapable of taking the hint. 

“Well,” Mike clears his throat, trying to find a way around a harassment suit. “It’s always nice to have something pretty to look at, you know? Decor’s just meant to be attractive, doesn’t have to be smart.”

“Neither does the manager, apparently.” It takes a moment for the insult to settle. Mike’s wide eyes only further prove Pope’s point. 

He clears his throat uncomfortably and shifts, “Right. Well, I’ll just let her finish up here.” Pope says nothing, just watches the old man as he walks out with his tail tucked. He can hear you bump into him in the hallway, Mike snaps at you, taking his frustration out on the first easy target. 

Pope turns again and when Mike catches his eye he shoves past you and storms his way back to the front. You watch him go with an awed expression and shake your head. Pope hears you mutter, “Jackass,” as you make your way inside the office. 

You settle into your chair with a loud huff. “Here are your checks. It’s just a few, you’ll receive the book in the mail.” He takes it wordlessly, eyes darting to your phone as it lights up on the desk. 

🚫drunk texting shows on your screen for a split second before you offer him a sheepish smile and turn it off. “Sorry about that.”

“Who is it?” He’s being invasive, that’s the whole point, but he almost hopes you don’t tell him. If you’re the type to just spill so easily, it’s going to cause trouble for you in the future. 

“A mistake,” you bite out, not meeting his eyes. Pope lets out a small sigh as you shove his papers haphazardly into a file. “There you go, Mr. Cody. Please let us know if there’s anything else you might need.” 

Your smile is tight, sharp at the edges, your tone is practiced. The same voice you’d given the old man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. You’re dismissing him and wordlessly making it clear that should he ever need anything you want nothing to do with it. Pope’s lips curl ever so slightly but they drop when he catches the surprise on your face at his expression. 

He takes the folder from your hands and leaves the office without another word. Making his way through the lobby, he finds himself sitting in his truck, just watching. You never take a lunch break, not leaving your stall unless it’s to deposit money. Pope finds himself growing more and more irritated the longer he has to watch this. 

You’re harmless, worth nothing to Smurf. Yet, every time he tries to get her to let this go, she insists he stays. The entire day is wasted on you. Finally, at 5:30, you make your way from the bank. You don’t wave goodbye to your coworkers, effectively ignored as they brush past you. You don’t even linger in the parking lot, just get started going down the sidewalk. 

Pope’s brows furrow as he watches you go. “Fuck’s sake,” he mutters. You walk home. And it’s not like he can just trail beside you in his truck. Getting out, he follows after you, lingering behind just enough for you not to notice him. 

He keeps his hands stuffed in his pockets, feeling more like a pervert than ever before. J or Craig should be doing this shit, not him. This is so far below him it's infuriating. After tonight, Baz better get that stick out of his ass about you. 

You pause and Pope ducks back. You dig around through your purse, letting out a soft curse as your head drops to hang between your shoulders. “Dammit.” Pope has no warning as you pivot around, eyes widening as they land on him. 

“Oh,” you let out a shrill sound that might have been a laugh and take a large step back from him. “You. Again.” Your eyes dart over his form and he can see as fear settles on you. “I really want to think this is a coincidence.”

Pope’s prolonged silence probably isn’t helping anything. But he genuinely has no excuse that could explain this away. And he knows what he looks like, unblinking, odd, something women don’t want to see following them home. 

“You shouldn’t walk home alone,” he finally settles on. The disturbed look on your face doesn’t abate, but you’re also not running. 

“Clearly,” you snap. “I knew your family was weird,” you settle on the word carefully and Pope almost laughs. Weird doesn’t even come close to explaining the Codys. He’s not sure any one word could. “But this is a lot.”

Pope shrugs and takes a step closer to you. You don’t move, eyeing him warily. “Do you want a ride back?”

“Are you going to kill me?” He gives you a flat look and you deflate. “Fine. I accidentally left my keys in the bank anyway.” This time, when you walk it’s beside him. Though you keep your purse clutched tightly to your chest, shooting him a wary look every so often. 

“Do you want to tell me why you were following me?”

Pope watches you and you don’t shrink away like he expects. You face him head-on, lips set in irritation. “Wanted to check out the new neighbor.” He knows you understand what he means. He’s not looking for a good time, he’s checking out that you’re not going to be a problem. 

Finally, you break away from his stare. “I’m boring,” you mutter and he couldn’t agree more. When you reach the parking lot, he waits in the truck while you head back into the bank. He’s shocked you don’t try to make a run for it and, instead, beeline straight toward him. 

“Thanks,” you tell him, almost sounding like you mean it. It’s concerning, how easy it was to get you in his car. 

Pope doesn’t say anything and you keep quiet all the way back to your house. When you get out, you shoot him a wary look. “Am I going to see you tomorrow?”

“No,” he responds. Baz and Smurf should feel better after all this. You give him a curt nod and he watches as you rush into your house before backing into his own driveway. In the house, everyone's waiting at the table, a family meeting that he hadn’t been warned about. 

“Hey, baby,” Smurf smiles and puts a plate of food in front of him as he sits. “You hungry?” He just nods, eyes boring across the table into Baz’s. 

“Well?” He prods. 

Pope shakes his head. “Harmless, like I said. Works a bank job and goes straight home. It’s just her.”

Baz’s brows lift as Smurf hovers behind him. “Bank job?” She asks, the question anything but innocent. Pope’s stomach turns as his grip tightens around his fork. He just fucked himself right into another week of stalking. 

“Could be useful,” Baz mutters. Smurf squeezes his shoulder and nods. Pope doesn’t need to hear the order to know what she wants from him. 

For the first time in a week, you find yourself actually taking a lunch break. You rarely have the time for it and you know it’s a bad habit. You’re trying to break it, but with Mike always breathing down your neck, it’s difficult to do so. 

Today, though, you’re settled in a sticky booth of the diner closest to the bank. Your nails drum against the table as you wait for your food. Your phone lights up once again, your ex calling you for the fifth time in an hour. The sudden influx of communication is making you wonder if his mom cut him off again. 

The door’s bell jingles and you glance up, caught off guard as Andrew walks in. Your eyes narrow and you cross your arms. It’s been a week since you’ve seen him. You figured after that night he tried to follow you home, that was it. Maybe this is just a coincidence, he doesn’t seem to be looking for you. 

“Andrew!” Your mouth clamps shut as you curse yourself out. You’re not sure what possessed you to actively vie for his attention, but you’ve got it. He turns toward you, eyes narrowed as he glances at you warily. Maybe he really wasn’t looking for you. 

Slowly, he strides toward your table, hands in his pockets as he looms over you. “Want to join me?” You offer. 

He seems caught off guard by the invitation, but sits nonetheless. “Fancy seeing you here,” you joke, your laughter trailing off as he remains quiet. You clear your throat and go back to tearing up the paper from your straw. “Do you come here a lot?”

“Why?” The suspicion in his voice is jarring, but you really shouldn’t be surprised. 

“Just trying to make conversation,” you toss your hands up and lean back in the booth. Silence permeates the air between you and you shift restlessly. 

“I… don’t.” He finally answers, voice stilted. “First time.” You suck your teeth and nod, nails once again drumming against the table. Blessedly, the waitress walks over with your food. Her eyes settle on Andrew as she sets down your plate. 

“Can I get you something to eat?”

He shakes his head, “Not hungry.” Your eyes narrow on him as the waitress walks away. 

“Don't tell me that you’re still following me.”

“Smurf wants you to come over tonight.” He slips out of the booth and briefly turns to you. “I’ll drive you home.” It’s not a question, there’s no room for argument as he leaves the diner. Your head thunks against the booth’s seat, your appetite suddenly diminished. 

True to his word, Andrew had driven you home. He didn’t walk you to your door or wait to make sure you got inside, but you could appreciate that you didn’t have to walk all the way home tonight. 

Now, you stand in front of Smurf’s door with a bathing suit on and a fishnet cover-up that makes you feel slightly better about being half-naked around her sons. She opens the door, wearing a similar style bikini to the one you’d first met her in. 

“Glad you could make it, sweetheart.” As if you had any choice. You only offer her a tense smile, following as she gestures you inside. “I know Baz wanted to talk to you,” she glances over her shoulder and you force yourself not to grimace. 

“Really?” She hums and you both step out toward the pool. Sure enough, Baz is right at the door, pretending to just casually bump into you. 

“Hey there, neighbor.” It’s disconcerting how quickly his hand makes itself comfortable on the small of your back. You shoot him a sharp look but he ignores you, urging you toward the bar at the other end of the pool.

Any other setting, any other man, you would shove him off and tell him to leave you alone. But you’re not stupid, you know that there’s something off about these people. However Andrew made all the money he deposited, it wasn’t through any honest means. There’s a gut feeling screaming at you to run away and it just makes you all the more terrified of what might happen should you piss them off. 

“I’ve been meaning to check in on you,” Baz says, passing you a beer that you hold with no intention of drinking. Getting drunk around these sorts of people seems like an invitation for life long trauma. “How’re you settling in?”

“Fine,” you tell him, pretending to believe he actually gives a shit about your life and isn’t just pressing you for information. “It’s different from my last place, but it’s not bad.”

“No?” He smirks and some distant part of your brain recognizes that its meant to be charming, but it just makes your skin crawl. “We’re not keeping you up with these parties, are we?”

Yes, “No, I sleep like a rock.” His eyes widen, lips parting with interest, and you suddenly wish you hadn’t said anything at all. 

“Really?” He muses, the interest in his tone absolutely nauseating. Luckily, someone calls his name from across the pool and he lets out a sharp breath. “One second, sweetheart, don’t move.” You can hear the underlying threat in his voice but you really could not care at this point. Ditching the beer, you grab a water and take a quick look around the pool. 

Almost every lounge chair is filled with multiple people, some doing drugs, others grinding in a way that makes acid burn in your stomach. But there is one shadowed corner, a small perimeter around it like people are afraid to toe their way past. Andrew stands in that little bubble, arms crossed as he glares across the pool. 

It takes you a moment to realize that it’s you he’s focused on. It doesn’t unsettle you the way Baz’s poor attempts at charm had. Instead, you find yourself gravitating toward him, hoping for some form of peace in this god-awful party. He straightens as you approach, watching you warily. Or maybe watching you normally. You’re still struggling to figure out the nuances of his glares. 

“Mind if I join you?” He says nothing and you take it as an invitation. 

“Thought you would be stuck by Baz,” he mutters. There’s something in his tone that has your brows peaking with interest, but you can’t quite decipher his meaning. 

You shake your head, placing your glass on a nearby table as you move to stand slightly in front of him. “You know, I think I liked your approach a lot better than his.” He raises a brow and you snort. “I mean, I’d prefer you following me home than having to deal with whatever bullshit was coming out of his mouth.”

Andrew shrugs, but you swear you see his lips curl up slightly. “He comes on too strong.”

A man rams into you before you can respond. You let out a sharp gasp and trip forward. Andrew’s arms shoot up instantly, grabbing you before you can crash into him. The other man lets out a drunken apology as Andrew works to right you. 

“Sorry,” you mutter, hands lingering on his chest a moment longer than they should. He’s firm, beefier than you had expected. The slight thrill that shoots through you is cause enough for concern. You already knew your taste in men was bad, but this might be a new low if a chest is what’s getting you hot and bothered now. 

“You alright?” He asks and you nod, letting your hands slowly slip away from him. You reach over for your water, frowning at the slightly metallic taste it leaves coated on your tongue. “Hate these things,” he mutters and you’re sure he hadn’t meant for you to hear that. 

“Yeah,” you scoff. “So do I. I bet it’s worse for you, though, being at your house and all. You don’t really have any choice but to be here.”

The look he gives you now isn’t assessing or the same blank stare. He seems intrigued, if that’s the right word for it. “Used to have my own place,” he tells you. “They sold it while I was away.”

Your brows furrow and he watches as you work to connect the dots. Away? You think, but then you take in the sort of people you’re surrounded by and only one destination comes to mind. But you’re not about to outright ask the man if he’s been to prison. 

You’ll just google it later. 

“Damn, that’s brutal,” you mutter. Taking another sip of your water, you find the metallic taste has only grown worse. Sticking your tongue out slightly, you shake your head as you drop it back on the table. 

“Is something wrong?” Andrew asks, eyes darting between you and the drink. 

“Water just tastes off,” you tell him, shrugging. 

His eyes narrow and he begins to reach for it when there’s a loud screech. You jump, whipping around to find a pile-up of bodies, each of them throwing punches as the sound of flesh breaking bone echoes through the party. “Hold on,” he tells you, rushing forward. 

You’re not as compelled to leave like you were with Baz. No, you think you might even like to sit down. Your eyes droop as your head begins to grow heavy. Sinking onto a lounge chair you fight off the sudden urge for sleep, confusion fogging your brain as the world around you spins. 

“Oh, Jesus,” you mutter, rubbing weakly at your brow. This doesn’t feel right. It’s like you’re floating outside of your body, just barely managing enough control to keep you upright. 

“Hey,” Andrew’s voice materializes in front of you. He’s back quicker than you thought he would be. Or maybe time’s just passing by while you’re slowing down. The thought makes an odd-sounding giggle slip past your lips. 

Andrew’s face appears before yours as he kneels down, rough hands cupping your cheeks and jerking your head up. You whine at the roughness while his eyes dart across your face. “How much have you had to drink?”

You feel like he knows, he’s been watching you this whole time, after all. Still, you manage to slur out your answer in a slightly comprehensible sentence. “Just the water,” your voice sounds like you're underwater. 

Andrew’s thumbs tug at the skin below your eyes, trying to gauge the size of your pupils, the sudden bloodshot look about them. “Fuck,” he hisses and you try to move back, worried it’s you he’s mad at. His grip is firm, though, his hands insistent as he throws your arm over his shoulder and drags you to your feet. 

“Come on,” he grits out, carrying the majority of your weight as your feet trip over each other. 

“Andrew,” his name comes out wrong, garbled and barely comprehensible. But he manages to understand you, humming in answer as he pulls you through the house. “I feel weird,” you whisper, breath becoming harder to find. 

“Yeah, I know you do.” A man whistles as Andrew carries you past, slapping him on the back like he’s just won a prize. Andrew stops and you wonder, briefly, if he’s going to drop you so he can fight the guy. But the other man just goes running off, recognizing his mistake in time. 

He keeps going, pushing through the bodies until the cold night air is biting at your cheeks and he’s walking up your driveway. He’s gentler than you expected as he props you against your front door. 

“Keys,” he demands, hands gripping your waist so you don’t topple straight into the bushes. 

You shake your head, the movement making you painfully nauseous. “Didn’t lock it,” you reach for the handle, palm slipping across it uselessly. 

His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing further as he clicks his tongue at you. “Always lock it,” he snaps, tugging you back into his side as he pushes the door open. “What if it wasn’t me walking in here?”

Your eyes narrow, vision blurring. Despite whatever you were slipped, you manage just enough cognitive functioning for an attitude. “How,” you slur, “are you any better than someone else?”

Andrew pauses at that, hesitating at the base of your stairs as you wait for an answer. He stares into your drooping eyes and only huffs before practically carrying you to your bedroom. It’s gentle, the way he sets you down, back pushed against the pillows so you don’t just flop back. But it only takes the brief second he steps away for your eyes to close completely and your body to go limp against your mattress. By the time he returns with a change of clothes, you’re already out. 

It’s the sun that wakes you up. Normally, you remember to close your curtains before you pass out. But they’re wide open this morning, blinds pulled up, sun beaming down on you like it’s shaming you. 

“Damn,” you drag yourself up, head throbbing as you try to remember what exactly happened last night. You know you went over to the pool, Baz had creeped you out. Briefly, you think you might have spoken to Andrew but that’s where it gets fuzzy. 

Glancing up, you would scream if your throat didn’t hurt so much. Andrew sits in the chair by your dresser. His eyes are boring right into you, no malice behind the look, just careful consideration. 

You clutch your chest, heart racing under your palm. “Whoo,” you breathe out, giving him an awkward smile. “Give a girl some warning next time,” you attempt to tease but your croaking voice impedes you. 

Looking down, you find yourself in one of your sleeping shirts and different underwear. Bile rises in your throat as your mind races to remember even one thing that got you in bed. 

“I didn’t look,” he tells you, finally getting to his feet. “But you kept complaining about wanting to change.” He walks toward you, brows set in concern as he takes you in. 

Any other man and you probably wouldn’t believe him. You’re not even sure how he could have gotten you out of that suit without a little flash of skin. But you don’t really mind, better him than anyone else in that family. He seems to be the only one who understands the concept of morals. 

“What happened?” You ask, grimacing as a pain akin to an ice pick digs its way through your temple. 

Hesitantly, as if you might shout at him to get away, he perches at the end of your bed. His hands rest near you, he’s probably waiting for you to keel over. 

“Think someone slipped you something,” he mutters, head tilting as his eyes trace over your pained expression. No shit. “I don’t know what it was, wanted to make sure you didn’t asphyxiate in your sleep.”

You look at him, frowning, and he nods toward something by your nightstand. You find a bucket by your feet, filled with what seems to be fresh vomit. “Oh god,” you groan, body crumpling under the weight of your mortification. 

“I’m so sorry.” The thought of him having to stay up all night taking care of you makes you feel even worse than you do now. But beneath the shame and embarrassment, there is the smallest semblance of appreciation. Most guys would dump you at home and leave, Andrew’s practically a stranger and he took better care of you than your ex ever did. 

“Why are you apologizing?” Blunt, like always, he gives you a sharp look. “It’s not your fault.”

“Feels like it,” you grumble. Hesitantly, you get to your feet, weak knees buckling slightly beneath you. Andrew stands, hand outstretched as you pick up the bucket and hobble toward your bathroom. “I should know better than to just leave my drink unattended like that.”

Andrew scoffs as you struggle to dump and clean the bucket. “Maybe people should just know better than to slip you something,” he mutters. He comes up beside you, taking the bucket from your hands and washing it out for you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning against your bathroom counter as another wave of nausea builds up in your stomach. “You know, I’ve been roofied before,” his head whips up and you offer a wry grin. “Don’t remember it feeling like this.”

You think it’s the casualness of your statement that catches him so off guard. But mickied drinks had practically been a rite of passage at your university. Doesn’t make it good, but it softens the sharp edge of disappointment in humanity when you grow so used to it. 

You let out a low groan and clamp your hand over your mouth, absolutely refusing to throw up in front of him. Again. Andrew drops the bucket in your tub and takes quick steps toward you. His hands wrap around your waist, head ducking to see the off-colored pallor of your skin. 

“I think you should lie back down.”

Shaking your head, you let out another whine of discomfort. “I can’t,” you object. “I’ll be late to work.” Glancing at your nightstand’s clock, your stomach plummets. “Dammit, later than I already am.” 

Andrew’s brows furrow and he shakes his head incredulously. “You’re not going in.”

“If only it were that simple,” you let out a low laugh. As reluctant as you are, you push his hands away, already missing the warmth he’d provided. “Mike already wants to fire me, I can’t give him any more ammo.”

His eyes narrow and he backs off. For a second, you think he’s actually going to listen. Then his hands are wrapping around your biceps and you’re letting out a surprised gasp. “Andrew!” You object, absolutely too weak to fight him as he wrestles you back toward your bed. 

“I can’t,” you snap, futilely pushing at his arms. He says nothing, just lifts you up and plants you stubbornly on the mattress. 

“Stay here,” he tells you, finger in your face like you’re a misbehaving dog. 

You slap his hand away with a glare. “I’m going to miss the bus, Andrew. I can’t just stay home.” 

He crosses his arms, completely silent as he stares down at you. For some reason, you can feel guilt bubbling in your gut and shrink back into your pillows. There’s also a shameful heat brewing between your legs at how easily he manhandled you back to bed. How firm he is in making sure you’re okay. 

After years of nothing but men who wanted to be coddled and taken care of, you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be on the receiving end of someone’s concern. 

You like it a little too much.

“Stay,” is all he says as he walks out of your room, door shut firmly behind him. Your eyes narrow and you debate, for a moment, simply ignoring him and going to work. 

You think being on the receiving end of his frustration might be even more interesting than this side of him. But some ridiculous part of you wants to listen, to do what he says so you might finally get something wriggled from that cold exterior of his. 

With a dramatic huff, you toss yourself on your pillows. Prepared to stew for the rest of the day, you’re completely caught off guard by the sudden wave of exhaustion coming over you. Sighing, you promise to just let your eyes rest for a few minutes. 

You’re out like a light in thirty seconds. 

When you wake up it’s already four and you know there is no hope of making it to work. It’s not like you’re eager to deal with irritated clients all day while nursing the effects of getting drugged. But you are truly worried Mike is going to hold this over your head. 

With nothing better to do, you take a shower and change your sheets to get rid of the smell of mistakes and vomit. As you’re transferring your comforter to the dryer, you hear the distinct click of your front door opening and closing. 

Your hands freeze on your wet sheets while your body goes stiff. 

Slowly, you creep out of the laundry room and tilt your head down the stairs. Plastic crinkles in your kitchen, cabinets opening and closing as dishes are retrieved. Despite the fact that you should be terrified, at the very least be grabbing some sort of weapon, you find yourself walking down the stairs without a care in the world. Subconsciously, you know who it is, and you should be afraid of him but you can’t find it in you. 

“Hi,” you say dumbly, watching as Andrew dumps what looks like wonton soup into a bowl for you. 

His head lifts and he lets out a huff. “You need to start locking your door.”

You shrug, taking a seat at your island and watching him move through your kitchen like he’s been here before. “How would you have gotten in?” 

Andrew’s shoulders tense as he sets your bowl in front of you, slamming it harder than necessary. “Lock your door,” he warns. Rolling your eyes, you take the spoon he offers you and frown. He balls up the take-out bag, trashing it, and you realize he hasn’t brought anything for himself. 

With a sigh, you hop out of your seat and grab another bowl. He watches as you split the soup between the two of you with a displeased look. “I’m not hungry,” he tells you. 

“I don’t care,” you reply offhandedly, sliding him a bowl like you didn’t google him and figure out he was in jail for three years for armed robbery. Sentenced to six, apparently, but got out early on good behavior. At the very least, it wasn’t for murder. 

Andrew glares down at the bowl, arms crossed and your tentative smile falls. “Please,” you implore, “I don’t like eating alone.”

He takes it, though you know he doesn’t want to. “I got it for you.”

You shrug, taking your seat once more. “Why did you, anyway?” You don’t usually look a gift horse in the mouth, but it’s hard to believe that a reformed felon is just going around fetching his neighbors' soup. 

Andrew wraps his hand around the spoon, but doesn’t make any move to eat. Your head tilts as you take in the scars along his knuckles, spots where the skin has split and healed over one too many times. It should just push you further from him but you find yourself more enticed. After all, why would a man like him have any interest in taking care of you?

“You don’t eat,” his voice is low, the words a shameful secret he wasn’t ready to admit. 

Your brows furrow as you process what he said. Glancing over at him, a wry smile finds its way to your lips at the little splotch of color you spot on his cheeks. “Are you still watching me?” You laugh off a sentiment that should have you calling his parole officer. 

Andrew rubs the back of his neck, gaze pointed down at the soup. “Not really,” he says awkwardly, not even believing himself. 

Giving him a break, you go back to eating. “Well, you’re right. I was probably just going to eat some saltines and call it a night.” The huff he lets out shocks a laugh out of you. Slowly, Andrew picks the spoon up and starts to eat. You’ll count it as progress to thawing him out. 

At 8:30, you’re already running late to catch the bus. Tugging on your heels, you let out an aggrieved sigh as someone knocks on your door. Frowning, you double-check the time and throw open the door. 

Andrew stands there, scowl disapproving as you give him a small smile. “Did you even check who was at the door?” 

You consider lying but the way his eyes narrow into slits swats the idea away. “No.” You grab your bag and usher him back as you close the door. “What’s up?”

“I’m giving you a ride,” it’s all he says. Blunt, concise, not even an offer. Heat flushes through you as he takes your keys from your hand and pointedly locks your door. You almost wish he would scold you again. 

His hand hovers over the small of your back as he guides you to his truck. You fight back a shudder at the warmth he emanates while he’s not even touching you. 

You’re slightly taken aback when Andrew opens up the truck door for you, even offering you a hand up when your heel slips. The brush of his calloused hand against yours is enough to send warmth flooding your body, an ache settling between your legs. 

As he rounds the front of his truck, you resist banging your head against the dashboard. You only just got out of a bad relationship a few months ago. You should not be so fucking eager to jump some man’s bones. Especially not when that man is a known felon and his family is probably full of them. 

Andrew gets in and you jolt up, forcing your back straight and a strained smile on your face. The last few times you were in his truck, you had been more worried about what he was going to do with you to pay attention to the interior. But as you look around now, you’re taken aback by how clean it is. It’s practically spotless, not a speck of dust on the dashboard or even an abandoned bag of chips on the floorboard. It could be new, but you’re certain that Andrew just knows how to take care of his things. 

Is it completely wrong that it only makes you hotter for him?

The drive is quiet, as it has been the last few times you’ve been with him. You’re surprised when you turn the radio on and he doesn’t object. You were starting to wonder if he’s quiet just because he prefers the silence or if it’s because he doesn’t know anything else anymore. 

He was in prison, you’re certain he was probably thrown in solitary a few times. You can imagine silence became a habit rather than comfort. 

When he parks and gets out of the truck, you’re just surprised enough to allow him time to make it to your side and open the door for you. The sudden surge of gentlemanly conduct is odd, to say the least, but you won’t pretend it doesn’t endear him to you further. 

You wonder if this is how men in the 1800s felt when they saw a flash of ankle as you slip your hand into Andrew’s again and practically salivate at the feeling. “Thank you,” you murmur quietly. He only nods, not stepping back, letting your hand rest in his. But you grow worried about your palm being clammy and pull back before he can feel it. 

Andrew glances at your hand and you swear you almost see disappointment on his face. “Um,” you clear your throat. “My lunch break is at one. Do you have any plans?”

You’re not the type to make the first move. You learned a while ago that if you’re the one who has to start the relationship, you’re going to be the only one participating in it. But something about Andrew gives you a boost of assurance you’ve never experienced before. 

His eyes meet yours, lips in a flat line as you struggle to read the intricacies of his expression. “Can’t. Family meeting,” he explains vaguely. Your eyes widen as mortification draws the color from your skin. 

“Right, right,” you clear your throat and back away from him, suddenly desperate to get inside the bank and have Mike yelling at you. “Well, uh, thanks for the ride.” He nods and you’re quick to rush into the bank, your lonely stall calling for you as you try and toss Andrew Cody from your mind. 

Pope watches you go, he almost laughs at how quickly you run off. He probably should have clarified that he would like to have lunch with you, he wasn’t outright rejecting you. But, he figures he can just explain that to you when he picks you up after work today. 

His phone buzzes and he rolls his eyes as Baz’s name invades his messages. 

Get some info about the security switch-off from her

We don’t want to wait much longer but you’re taking a while here Pope

Pope considers responding when another message comes through. 

Don’t forget to act like a human, don’t want you scaring her off too early

With a discontent huff, he shoves his phone back in his pocket and climbs back into his truck. He can just barely make you out through the bank's window. That old man from the other day is right back at the front of your line. You’re not great at hiding how you’re feeling and Pope almost laughs at the way your lips are curled up in disgust. He debates going in there and getting rid of him for you, but it would seem suspicious. 

You already caught him watching you once. He needs you to think this is something else. Something more intimate. It's the best way to get your guard down, to get the information that Baz and Smurf want so this job can be over and done with. 

So that you can be over and done with. 

You’re getting used to the sight of Andrew’s car and what should scare you only serves to further excite you. As you wave goodbye to the security guard, John, you see Andrew get out and wait for you on the passenger side. 

“If you don’t stop, I’m going to start getting used to this,” you warn him as you walk up. 

He only shrugs, holding open the door for you, offering you a hand. “You shouldn’t be walking home alone,” his tone sounds like admonishment. 

You almost ask him about his day when he gets in, but he beats you to the punch. “Did you eat today?”

You purse your lips and shake your head, receiving a barely-there scowl in return. “Mike had me work through lunch to make up for my no-show yesterday.” In response, Andrew doesn’t take the left turn back to your neighborhood, he goes right instead. 

Narrowing your eyes, you stare at him suspiciously. “Kidnapping me?”

He only shakes his head, shooting you what you desperately want to be a playful glare. “Feeding you,” he clarifies. “Would’ve gone to lunch with you if Baz hadn’t been up my ass.” He mutters it under his breath, quiet in a way you know you’re not meant to hear. 

“What did he want?” You find yourself asking, curiosity winning out over survival instincts. 

Andrew stiffens, fingers tightening imperceptibly around the wheel as he shrugs. “Nothing important,” he dismisses, tone closed off in a way you know means the conversation is over. 

Something tightens in your chest, the first real warning of threat you’ve felt around him. You dismiss it as nerves and shift uncomfortably in your seat. “Where are we heading?” You ask, attempting to gauge what his intention is here. 

It’s pretty simple, a quiet, intimate restaurant and you know he means it as a date. Somewhere loud, however, slightly crowded and better for beer with buddies than going out with a woman, you know he’s just being strangely friendly. 

“Here,” he nods and your stomach plummets as you watch him pull into Larry’s parking lot. A pub you’d grown acquainted with quite intimately when you were still with Colin. The same place he always liked to ditch you to get drunk with his buddies. The atmosphere inside dashes any hope of Andrew caring about you outside of your general welfare. 

With a disappointed sigh, you help yourself out of the truck before Andrew can. He scowls and you ignore him, trying to tamp down any sharp jabs. It’s not his fault that he got your hopes up. That he got you all hot and bothered after showing you that half-decent men still do exist. 

Andrew trails slightly behind you as you walk inside. “Oh,” the host’s eyes light up and you offer a brief smile. “I haven't seen you in forever.” Robby rounds the stand to give you a side hug that you barely return. 

In a second, Andrew’s at your side, gaze darting between the two of you suspiciously. Robby pulls back with an awkward chuckle and grabs menus for both of you. “Come on,” he nods. You shoot Andrew an odd look but he doesn’t offer any explanation as Robby seats you both. 

The second you’re seated, the atmosphere floods over your table. Loud, drunken conversations fill the air, five different sports commentary blasts on the TV. It’s so much that you nearly jump out of your seat and just book it home. Your fingers clench around the menu as you force yourself to stay seated and just remain calm. 

Andrew grimaces as he looks around, seemingly regretting his choice. “Have you not been here before?” You ask. 

He glances back at you and shakes his head. You’re honestly shocked he actually heard you. “I’m assuming you have.”

You nod and prop your head on your hand. “My ex used to drag me here all the time.” Andrew’s knuckles whiten as his grip goes deathly tight around his menu. With a low breath, he sets the menu down and his features soften into something you can’t place. 

“I didn’t know it was going to be like this,” he tells you. Your eyes narrow and a little bit of hope blooms inside of you. 

“Can I be honest with you?” He nods, leaning further over the table so he can actually hear you. You don’t have to, but you find yourself inching closer until your noses are nearly touching. You can feel the heat radiating off his cheeks and it only provokes you. 

“I thought this was going to be a date.” Andrew pulls away slightly and you bite back a laugh at the first real emotion you’ve wrenched from him. He’s flustered, clearly, but he also seems incredibly caught off guard. 

“You did?” You let out a low hum and nod, slowly sinking back into your seat. “Did you want it to be a date?” He asks, hesitant and completely unsure of himself. 

There’s a slight crack to his voice, vulnerability shining through in a way that makes your chest ache. “Yeah,” you huff out a laugh. “I wanted it to be a date.” Slipping out of the booth, you hold out your hand to him. 

His eyes dart between you and your open palm before he, very slowly, places his calloused hand in yours. “What are you doing?” You roll your eyes and tug him out of the booth. You know that if he wanted to, he could have just planted his feet and stayed where he was. But he lets you drag him out of the restaurant, hand squeezing yours slightly as you head back to the truck. 

“I’ll make us dinner,” you tell him. “Then we can have a proper date.” You stop, lingering by the passenger door. His eyes are boring into yours and you swallow, some of your bravado slipping away. “That is, if that’s what you want?” 

When his lips curl up, the first real sign of any semblance to a smile you’ve gotten, you know you have your answer. 

It becomes a habit. Andrew picks you up, drops you off, sometimes he brings you lunch or you just see him at the end of the day when he drives you back home. Most of the time, he stays. Coming inside and helping you make dinner since your last attempt ended with you somehow managing to burn spaghetti. 

It’s been innocent, a kiss on the cheek, or you reaching across the console to hold his hand while he drives. The majority of the time, you initiate the touch and he just reciprocates. You worry sometimes that you’re projecting your own desires onto him, not taking into account what he might want. 

But he hasn’t objected, hasn’t ever pulled his hand away or told you to stop. You hope that means he doesn’t mind how affectionate you can be when you really care about someone. 

You’re completely unaware of just how much the small kindnesses mean to him. Unaware that when he’s around you, he’s not Pope or a Cody, he’s just Andrew. He almost feels normal around you, like he’s just some regular guy who got lucky when he asked the pretty bank teller out. 

Every time you touch him, kiss his cheek, and are just willingly in his presence without being intimidated, he thinks that he might be worth something. The feeling never lasts long, fading every time he goes back to his own house. It’s completely wrenched away by Baz or Smurf demanding updates, seeing if he’s gotten any decent information out of you. 

He has, not that he’s told them yet. You let it slip that there was a transport coming through on Thursday, lots of cash that Mike will probably want to take a dive in. And then, when he’d come in to bring you lunch, you complained that the security guard was late. Let it slip that there’s a ten-minute gap every day at one when they switch shifts. 

It’s enough for Smurf and Baz. He could tell them all of this and they’d relent, tell him to ditch you. Make sure you’re oblivious as he ghosts you and they take what they want. But he doesn’t want that. He wants to keep standing next to you and making dinner. To pick you up and drop you off like you’re actually something real that he has to look forward to. 

Andrew pulls into your driveway, the routine becoming more familiar to him than when he goes into his actual home. As always, he opens the door for you, takes your hand and leads you up the steps of your porch. He likes to linger on nights like tonight when he can’t come in. Baz and Smurf want him home tonight and he knows they’re not going to be giving him any leeway. 

But he’s almost tempted to say screw it when you turn toward him, eyes shining under your porch light, expression earnest as you smile up at him. “Do you want to come inside?”

It’s completely innocent, your question, something you’ve asked a hundred times before. That doesn’t abate the ache in his jeans and that tight feeling in his chest every time you look at him like this. Like he’s actually someone you want around and aren’t just using. 

Not like he’s using you. 

A hot flush of shame shoots through him and he shakes his head. “I can’t tonight.” Your lips turn down in disappointment and he wants to take it back immediately, but he forces his mouth shut. 

“Alright,” you take his hands in yours and lean up toward him. He expects the usual kiss on the cheek, even looks forward to it. What he doesn’t expect is your lips brushing against his, arms winding around his neck as you pull back with a smile like you didn’t just stun him into silence. 

His eyes narrow and when you let that breathy little laugh of yours slip out, he loses any semblance of self-control. Not that he had much to begin with. 

Your shocked gasp against his mouth is enough for him to trace his tongue along the seam of your lips. And when you practically moan, body sinking against his, he can’t help himself. His hand cups the back of your head, pushing you up against your front door and slotting his thigh between yours. 

Something warm stabs through him, slightly unpleasant and completely unfamiliar. It’s a feeling he only ever experiences around you and it never stops being overwhelming. Never stops drowning out any thoughts except ones that revolve around you, how you feel, how you make him feel. 

You pull back, laughing when he chases your lips. “Andrew,” there’s a low purr in your voice when you say his name, has his hands tightening around your waist. When you ask, “Would you like to come inside?” He doesn’t say no, just opens the door, lifting you into his arms and not stopping until you’re breathless and smiling up at him on your bed. 

He doesn’t make it home until after he’s dropped you off the next morning. He’d ignored all the missed calls last night, shutting off his phone so he could enjoy the feeling of your arms around him. It was surreal, waking up beside someone who his mother hadn’t paid off or he’d gotten drunk with and didn’t remember her name. 

You’d held him in a way no one ever has before and it only made that piercing pain of guilt thicken in his chest. It’s practically suffocating as he steps inside, finds Smurf waiting for him with crossed arms and an expectant look. 

“You didn’t come home last night, baby.” She says, watching as he brushes past her and grabs water from the fridge. He needs something to do with his hands, anything to not look up at her and see that she knows what he’s done. His hands flex, twisting the bottle cap around as the plastic creaks beneath his grip. 

“Have fun with the neighbor?” She asks, tone innocent as she begins plating up the breakfast he’d missed. He doesn’t tell her that you already fed him, had taken care of him without expecting anything in return. 

Again, Andrew stays silent, he’s already given too much away just by coming home late. “If I didn't know any better, baby, I’d say you actually like her.” She drops the plate in front of him, crossing her arms as she leans against the island. “But I know my baby boy, don’t I?”

It’s an effort not to jerk away as she drags her hand across his shoulders, smiling at him. “You’re taking too long, hun. I had to stop Baz from going over there last night, just getting the information he wanted and getting rid of the girl.”

Andrew’s hands tighten around the bottle, water seeping from the top. White hot rage flashes through him and he imagines the bottle is Baz’s neck for a moment. Smurf laughs, already knowing what he’s thinking. 

“I’m not going to be able to control him much longer.” She could, she just doesn’t want to. “I’d hate for anything to happen to that sweet girl.” Her tone is laced with venom and Andrew’s head drops, knuckles white as he grips the counter. “Do you have what I need, baby?”

It’s because he cares about you so much that he tells her what he’s learned. He knows her words are never empty threats. Baz will hurt you, she will hurt you, if he doesn’t give them what he wants. He knows he’s trying to protect you, but that doesn’t lessen the weight of guilt. 

It’s almost one, right around the time Andrew usually stops by if he’s decided to bring you lunch that day. You figure, after last night, he probably will visit. The thought sends a thrill up your spine that makes you giddy. 

You really hadn’t intended for last night to go in the direction it did, but you weren’t complaining. And he hadn’t been either. Still warmed by the memories of the night, you check your watch. 

The second hand ticks and it’s exactly one. John gets up, heading to the back to take his break while Nathan will take his time coming back from his lunch. The paperwork from yesterday’s delivery has finally been completed and you stand up from your stall, getting ready to pass it off to Sheila so she can look it over. 

At exactly 1:01, the doors to the bank burst open and three masked men rush in. “Everybody down!” It’s shock, you think, that’s why you’re standing frozen. Why you’re not just doing what the big men with even larger guns say. 

Then, he’s pulling the trigger, bullets embedding themself into the ceiling as the chandelier creaks dangerously above you all. Finally, your system shocks itself back to life and you’re dropping to the floor. Your fingers itch to press the emergency button beneath your stall, but one of the men has already found his way behind the divider. 

“You!” He points at you and your heart beats an erratic rhythm against your ribs. He stomps over, grabbing your arm and wrenching you to your feet. A strangled noise slips through your lips, your coworkers cower as they watch you with misty eyes. 

The tallest of all of them keeps his guns pointed at those on the ground. Then the shortest man comes running over, trailing behind you and the one holding you. He drags you to the vault and shoves you into the metal door. 

Your palms sting as you catch yourself and it takes every iota of survival instinct you have not to give him a nasty glare. “You know the drill,” and he chuckles, the noise muffled beneath his hood. As if this is all one big joke. 

Your fingers tremble over the lock pad as you shake your head. You try and step back but there’s a firm hand, almost familiar, easing you forward again. Your gaze shoots to the short one and he nods at the vault. “We’re not gonna hurt you if you just let us in. There doesn’t have to be any trouble.” 

His voice is off, as if he’s purposely speaking strangely. Maybe it’s a way for them to mask their identity further. All it does now is serve to unsettle you even worse. 

Then, there’s a cold plunge in your body, everything going still when you feel something dull and metal pressing into your side. 

“Or,” the other one drawls. “I shoot you right here and we just go get one of your friends to open this for us.” The short one’s hand tightens around your shoulder and you grimace. He releases you instantly. 

“Come on,” that sleazy voice is almost familiar to you. But maybe it’s just your mind playing tricks. “I’ve seen you take the money in here, sweetheart. I know you know how to get in.”

Your breath stutters, terror wraps tight around your throat and blocks any further air. “You’ve been watching me,” you whisper, already reaching forward to punch in the code. The taller one hums with delight, gun easing as you slip your key from your blazer’s pocket. It doesn’t take long for the vault door to pop open. 

The shorter man grabs the handle before you can, letting out a low groan as he tugs the heavy door open further. “Alright, come on,” the other one’s got his hands on you again. Your skin feels like it's going to rip under his tight grip, but you don’t say a word, just follow obediently behind him. 

This all feels wrong. Like this is someone else’s life and you’ve just accidentally walked into it. You have poor luck, sure, but not this bad. This can’t be real, you swear to yourself. And it’s all you repeat as they open their bags, forcing you to stuff them full as you empty the safety deposit boxes. 

 They call the other one in the vault but there’s a dull buzzing in your ears and you barely hear what they say at all. The only thing you can truly focus on is the gun still pointed at your chest. “Alright,” he shoulders his bags and you can almost feel him grinning at you. 

“On your knees, sweetheart.” Your stomach twists, bile racing up your throat as cold panic wraps around you. 

“Hey!” The short one barks, but the other man just holds up his hand. 

“Come on,” he urges, lifting his gun and leveling it with your face. Slowly, you drop to your knees the dull thud of cement is a welcome shock to your body. He kneels in front of you but you refuse to meet his eyes through the holes of his mask. You just bite your lip, stare boring into the ground beneath you and pray you wake up from one long nightmare. 

“Let’s go, man!” Sirens begin to sound closer and you would be relieved if this man wasn’t still in front of you. 

He doesn’t listen to his partner, just tips your chin up with the end of his gun. “You say a goddamn word about any of this, I will find you and I will hurt you, sweetheart.” 

What could you possibly say?

Finally, you lift your head, meeting sharp blue eyes. Something stutters in your chest, mind racing to shove down the sudden familiarity you see in this man’s gaze. Slowly, you nod and he finally backs off, racing through the vault door. The shorter man lingers a second longer but when you don’t move he follows after his partner. 

It isn’t until you hear the police rush into the bank that you finally collapse against the ground. Pained sobs wrack your body as you struggle to breathe deeply enough to get your heart rate under control. 

Your name flashes on Andrew’s screen and Baz sends him a sharp look. “Don’t want to look suspicious now, do we?”

Andrew rips his mask off and glares at Baz. “If you’d stuck to the fucking plan, we wouldn’t have anything to worry about.” Craig glances between them both, looking at them like he doesn’t feel like breaking up a fight today. 

Baz glares and pushes off the wall of the semi-trailer they’d hid themselves in. “Maybe if you hadn’t done that reassuring bullshit, I wouldn’t have had to threaten her.”

Rage surges through Andrew’s body, your ringtone going off over and over again as he and Baz stare at one another. “You wanted to,” Andrew grits out. “I got you the info you wanted, did what you asked, but you still wanted to hurt her.”

Baz sees the way Andrew takes a step forward and knows this is a fight he won’t win. Again, he nods to Andrew’s phone. “Answer the fucking call, Pope.”

If it weren’t you, if it were anyone else calling, Andrew would have just drilled Baz into the fucking ground. But he’s right, this will look suspicious if he just keeps ignoring your calls. Besides, after the shit Baz pulled, you’re probably terrified. 

With one last glare at Baz, he picks up the phone, turning his back to the other men. “Hey, what’s going on?”

Your voice is tight and panicked on the other end, tone clogged like you’ve been crying. It just makes that ache in his chest burn worse and he hates himself a little bit more. For letting you get wrapped up in this. For ever pretending like he wasn’t going to get selfishly attached to you. 

“Andrew! The bank was just-” you suck in a sharp breath and his anger only intensifies as your voice cracks. “Can you come get me, please? I need you.” 

This is what he’s wanted this whole time. For Smurf and Baz to be appeased. For you to need him so badly you don’t have the choice of leaving. So why does he feel so shitty? “I’m pretty far away, it’ll take me a little bit.”

You blubber, another sob drowning out your voice. “Okay,” you finally whisper and Andrew hangs up, knowing he doesn’t deserve you. He doesn’t deserve those small moments of kindness you’d gifted him, where he’d felt like a person again. Not some attack dog or errand boy. You made him feel real and he’d just held you at gunpoint. 

By the time he picks up his truck and drives back to the bank, you’re gone. He wanted to ask the people still there if they’d seen you leave. But he doesn’t need the cops seeing his face right after a freshly robbed bank. 

His chest is tight with panic as he peels out of the lot. You hadn’t called him that long ago. Thirty minutes, maybe. If he’s lucky, one of your coworkers offered you a ride and you just didn’t feel like waiting anymore. He knows he’s never lucky, though. He thought he had been with you and he’s already tainted this fragile thing you had between each other. 

The dread that’s been brewing since you called is only worsened when he pulls into your driveway and sees you waiting on your front steps. He barely manages to get the truck in park before he jumps out. 

You don’t twitch, don’t move an inch as he runs toward you. And that aching, festering feeling that burns inside him, it’s telling him a truth he’s not ready to admit. This is it. You’re too smart not to know what happened. And Baz was too much of a dumbass to just keep quiet and stay distant. 

This is what he wanted, Andrew is sure, to get you away from him so Smurf has her dog back. 

“Hey,” his hands cup your cheeks and a little piece of him finds hope when you don’t push him away. “What happened? You weren’t at the bank.”

Finally, you lift your gaze to meet his. The color of your eyes is dulled, face flat in an infuriating way he can’t read. “I didn’t want to wait. Walked home.” Andrew’s eyes dip to the heels resting beside your feet, the red backs of your ankles. 

“Why?” He already knows why, but that doesn’t stop his hands from drifting down your legs, trying to soothe away the ache he knows has settled in your calves. 

You let him just kneel before you for a little while. He can’t find the courage to meet your eye, hands just moving over your soft skin because he knows that this is it. Subconsciously, he can recognize that this sudden emptiness in your eyes isn’t because of what happened today. It's because of who was there. You’re keeping yourself hidden from him and he wonders if this is how you always feel around him. 

“Andrew,” you whisper and his hands tighten around your leg. “Look at me,” your voice is so disarmingly soft and he knows it's a trap, but he obeys because he doesn’t know what else to do. 

“I’m going to ask this once,” you tell him, hand lifting to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch, soaking it up greedily as your thumb smooths over the planes of his face. “Were you there today?”

It’s like everything goes cold. Your hand stops moving, grip tightening around his jaw as your eyes flatten into something sharp. His heart skips a beat once before he’s sucking in a sharp breath. He can’t lie to you, he doesn’t want to, but he can’t hurt his family and outright admit his guilt. 

Silence lingers between you before you’re ripping your hand away and he’s trying to chase after your warmth. Your legs kick out, gently getting rid of his hands as you finally stand. Andrew follows, palms outstretched, unsure of what he’s supposed to do with himself when you’re right there and he isn’t allowed to hold you. 

“Oh,” you whisper and there’s a grin on your face that’s cold and slightly panicked. “I fucking knew it. I knew it and I still gave you a chance!” 

Andrew shakes his head, but you just wave him off, not interested in anything he might have to say to you. “I was nothing but a mark to you, right? An easy way to get access to the vault, to figure out the quickest way in and out. Jesus, I just handed it to you, I actually fell for your bullshit.”

“No,” Andrew objects, following you as you climb up your stairs. “It wasn’t bullshit, none of it was.”

You whip around on him, eyes glassy as you stare at him with something that looks painfully like hatred. “You got what you wanted, Pope,” you hiss the name out and it breaks something inside of him. “Tell Baz he doesn’t have to worry, I won’t be calling the cops. I don’t want anything to do with you people anymore. Got it? Stay the hell away from me.”

Andrew tries to follow you, but you slam the door in his face. He lingers there longer than he should, eyes boring into the wood like you might change your mind and open it. But he heard the lock click a while ago and he knows you meant every word. He can’t blame you, shouldn’t blame you. Honestly, not calling the cops is more than he ever could have asked of you. 

But logic doesn’t abate the anger, the sharp, barbed pain inside his chest. You hadn’t given him a chance to explain. You didn’t believe how much you meant to him and he had tried to show you constantly. You just tossed it all aside like it meant nothing. But it wasn’t nothing. 

Andrew knows that. 

It meant something. It meant everything to him and he can’t just let you pretend it never happened. 

The bed dips behind you and you grumble tiredly, flipping over as you try to yank the blankets up to your chin. There’s a weight on them, though, pulling them down and away from you. Ever so slowly, the fogginess of sleep begins to fade and your brain shocks itself awake. 

There is someone on the bed behind you. 

Trying not to breathe too loudly, you lift your head and peer over your shoulder. You aren’t surprised when you recognize Andrew’s hunched form, the moonlight from your open window giving a good enough view. 

With a loud huff, you flip on your lamp and leap out of bed. His shoulders jump but he doesn’t turn to face you. “What the fuck do you not get about staying away from me?” You snap. Your anger only grows when he remains silent. 

“Fucker,” you mutter under your breath, rounding your bed so you can see his face. Your feet still, anger abating for a moment as you take in the redness along his cheeks. As if he’s been crying. But you’ve never seen Andrew cry before, you weren’t even sure he was capable of it. 

At his prolonged silence, something wedges itself into your chest, apprehension and nervousness. He’s quiet but this isn’t normal. Baz’s threat from earlier rings in your head as you slowly approach him. Andrew doesn’t meet your eye until you drop to your knees in front of him. 

Bloodshot and weary, you know he really has been crying. It tugs on something in you. That soft, weak part of yourself that’s so used to caring for other people, you can hardly resist the urge now. Your hands lift and cup his cheeks, brows furrowing as you take in the devastation on his face. 

“Andrew…” You trail off, speechless as he nuzzles into your hand, eyes falling shut. “What’s wrong?”

It takes a long while for him to speak, but you just wait, dread building with every second. Passively, you smooth your hands over his cheeks, attempting to keep him calm. The last thing you need is Andrew snapping and you being the nearest target. 

“She’s doing it again,” he finally whispers, hands coming up to trap your own. 

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you ask, “Doing what, honey?”

He shudders at the pet name, melting further into you until he’s nearly on the floor with you. “Smurf, what she did with Cath…” He shakes his head and you can feel it, the slight buildup before someone begins to cry. Slowly, you creep forward, arms winding around his neck as you pull him into your embrace. 

Andrew clings to you instantly, head buried in your shoulder as you drag your fingers through his curls. You hope he can’t feel how your heart is racing against your ribs, that he can’t sense just how scared you are right now. 

You’re not scared of him, not really. But you know what Smurf is capable of. You know how deep mothers like that can embed themselves in their son’s head. It’s her that’s terrifying to you. “Who’s Cath, sweetheart?”

He shudders again, arm winding tight around your waist. “I loved her,” he whispers the admission into your skin and it feels like something no one was ever meant to hear. “Smurf, she told me Cath talked to the cops, I,” he cuts himself off and you feel your breath catch in your chest. “I hurt her,” he finally settles on. But that’s not the whole truth. You can feel it, can hear it in how his voice cracks. 

He killed her. 

You jerk back, jumping to your feet. Andrew lets out a low noise, eyes cloudy and cheeks ruddy. He stares up at you, hurt by how quickly you pulled away from him. “Andrew,” it’s a Herculean effort to keep your voice steady. “Is that why you’re here? Did Smurf send you to hurt me?”

His eyes drop to the floor, posture slipping under the weight of shame. “Yes,” he finally whispers.

This time you can’t stop the way your voice cracks. “Are you going to?” 

Andrew’s head whips up, eyes wide as he stares up at you. “No,” his voice breaks around the word. You step forward as his hands reach out, wrapping around your hips and tugging you closer to him. “No, I’m not,” he insists and you really want to believe him. 

He sees it, the fear in your eyes. In the one person he never wants to see looking at him like that. “You don’t believe me,” he mutters, head falling forward as his forehead rests against the softness of your stomach. 

Your hands go to his back, scratching through his hair and trying to use your touch to ground him. “I believe you, Andrew. I just,” you hesitate, eyes darting around the room like you might be able to find an escape. “I don’t know why you’re here if you’re not going to listen to her.” 

He sucks in a deep breath, face nuzzling into the softness you provide before he pulls back. You startle as he stands, eyes wide as he keeps his grip on your hips and tugs you even closer. His eyes lose the softness of sorrow, narrow into something harsher. 

“You can’t stay here. Smurf expects you gone and if you’re not, she’s just gonna send Baz.” You tense under his grip and his thumbs draw circles into your skin, as if that would calm you after threat of death. 

Andrew reaches into his back pocket and you watch as he pulls out a large envelope. He passes it off to you, slightly reluctant to release it as you take it from him. You move away from him, dumping the contents on the bed. An ID, a passport, and a thick stack of cash sit in front of you. 

“Got you a new license plate, too. I already put it on.” He stands beside you, eyes boring into the side of your head. You can hardly breathe, let alone try and muster up a response. Tentatively, his hand lands on your back, the touch is enough to have you jolting back. 

“Andrew, what is this?” You know. You know what it is, no part of you wants to admit, though. 

“You have to go,” he whispers your name and you shake your head, body going numb. “Yes,” he insists. “It’s that or Smurf sends someone else to deal with you.” 

“And,” you stutter slightly, scrubbing your hands down your face. Not only were you held at gunpoint today by your boyfriend, and then broke up with him. Now, he’s standing here telling you his mother wants you dead. 

Death or change your identity. 

This is why you had sworn to yourself no more mama’s boys. Now look where you are. 

“Are you coming?” You ask, noticing that the only identification there is for you. Andrew pulls back and your heart drops. “Tell me you’re joking,” you snap.

That sad look in his eyes is all the confirmation you need. Swallowing down tears, you try to turn from him. His hands snap up, grabbing your jaw and forcing you to meet his eye. “I can’t just leave,” his tone is desperate, eyes imploring you to understand. “I’m sorry but I can’t.”

“Fine,” you whisper, reality settling like a stone in your gut. “If I’m doing this right, then I guess this is it.” His brows furrow and you let out a shaky exhale. “Goodbye, Andrew,” you tell him, pushing up to press a light kiss on his cheek. 

Despite the fact that it’s his mother getting rid of you, his fault you got wrapped up in this, he can’t let you go. You try to back away but his grip is firm as he drags you back and presses his lips to yours. 

It’s the sort of desperate, dramatic kiss you thought you would only ever experience through movies. Tears are hot as they race down your cheeks, salty as they drip between your lips and you find yourself melting into him. He’s not kissing you like he’s saying goodbye. He’s kissing you as if he holds you close enough, this might not happen. 

It’s you who pulls back, chest too tight to continue without taking a breath. Your forehead rests against his, hands sliding down to cover the ones on your cheeks. He lets out a small noise that rips through your chest as you finally pull him away from you. 

“Thank you,” you whisper, incapable of looking at the passport on the bed, the new name you’ll be stuck with while you get away from the Codys.  He tries to keep his hand in yours but you force yourself to break away, to put enough space between you so you can breathe again. 

Without a word, you go into your closet to grab a suitcase. When you return, Andrew’s already gone. Another sob rips through your chest, but you force yourself through it, swallowing roughly as you start packing your life away. 

You wait. It’s stupid, you know. Just a few hours ago, you were shouting at Andrew to stay out of your life, to forget you so you could forget him. But now, you’re sitting in your car, forehead resting on your steering wheel. 

He told you he wouldn’t leave. That he couldn’t. And you know why. He feels obligated to his family, feels like their burdens are his to carry, even if they aren’t. He’d taken the fall for Baz once, and now he was doing it all over again. 

Sitting up, your head thumps against the headrest as you suck in a sharp breath. You drag your hand down your cheeks, forcing away any remaining tears. You can’t wait for him forever. Smurf probably already thinks you’re dead. You know she’s got connections, like any good leader would, it wouldn't take her long to catch up to you. You have to leave now, while you still have the advantage of night. 

“Alright,” you click your garage opener and finally force yourself to turn the ignition in your car. The car that Andrew had fixed for you, even if he still insisted on giving you rides after. The thought sends a stabbing pain in your stomach that you force yourself to ignore. 

The headlights flick on, illuminating your driveway, and you bite your tongue to tamp down a scream. It takes a moment for the shock to wear off and for you to realize that the man standing in front of you is Andrew. Brows furrowed, you watch as he walks up to your car and tugs open the passenger door. 

You’re left speechless when he just stares straight ahead, not looking at you once. “I need to make sure you get settled safely,” he tells you. You nod dumbly, trying not to let the relief on your face show so plainly. “Just for a few days,” he warns, trying to keep the hope in your eyes dimmed. 

You both end up in Nevada. First, Andrew says just a few more days while he tries to help you find a place to stay. He tells you that when Cath happened, he’d gone AWOL for a while. Smurf wouldn’t go looking for him anytime soon. You hadn’t said anything to that, just shown him another listing for an apartment you could barely afford. 

Days turn into two weeks as he gets some cash for you so he knows that you’re going to be able to settle in comfortably. You don’t ask where he gets the money from and he doesn’t offer you any sort of explanation. 

Conveniently, the very night he swears he’s going to leave, the apartment below you gets broken into. It’s not hard to call up the waterworks, to blubber and cry in his arms about how scared you are. He promises you a few more days, just until you feel better. 

By then, you’re getting better at catching his family’s calls before he does. Dismissing the notifications and deleting the messages trying to figure out where he is. With less distractions, he starts to forget just how many days he’s promised to stay. 

Then it gets easy. You distract him simply by caring for him. Holding him at night and making him feel human rather than an animal. His days blur into weeks until it’s been two months and he’s got clothes in your new closet. 

“How was your day?” You ask as he walks into the apartment. He’s got the shirt of a local HVAC company on. Just something on the side he picked up for some extra cash, he told you. But he’s been asking for more hours and suddenly it’s almost like he’s got a full-time job. 

“Hot,” he grumbles, cheeks flushed from the sun. You turn the heat down on the stove and finally turn to face him. You open your arms and he falls into them like he’s been trained to do it. Maybe he has, maybe you’ve both been conditioned to shower each other in as much affection as you can. 

“Wanna take a shower?” You ask, running your hands through his curls and smiling at how his body sinks into yours. 

He lifts his head and a smile that’s almost become frequent shows in his eyes. “Alone?”

You snort and reach over to turn the stove off completely. “Don’t blame me if your meal gets cold.”

There’s no warning as he hefts you up, you let out a short squeal, hands tightening around his shirt as he carries you up the stairs. “Got my meal right here.”

“Oh my god,” you roll your eyes, but there's a grin so big on your face that your cheeks hurt. 

You’d once sworn off man-children, mama’s boys who were too reliant on their mothers to be emotionally stable. But Andrew was never so bad, he just needed Smurf’s leash cut so he could finally breathe. He’s fully reformed, you think, as he shuts the bathroom door and helps you strip out of your clothes. 

Andrew deserves something good in his life. He deserves to know what it feels like to be loved without conditions attached to your affection. And you don’t deserve to be alone because of what his family did to you. 

So, by god, you’re keeping him. 

𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘊𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘥

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                  ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 And I swear they choose me, I'm not choosing them 💿

end. — I do not own the characters or the show Animal Kingdom, but this writing is my own all rights reserved © not-neverland06 2026. do not copy, repost, translate & recommend elsewhere.

Your job before stripping was at an office. You were a receptionist, and it was a fantastic gig. The people were nice. Your hours were set, nine to five with weekends off. The women were lovely, regularly inviting you out to lunch with them. The men didn’t bat an eye at you. 

You didn’t have to worry about begging your landlord to give you a few more days to make rent. You didn’t have to fret about maxing out a credit card for all the necessities of your pets. You always had the money in your savings to pay it all back, thanks to holiday pays and overtime.

And for the first time in your life, you were happy. You were prepared for the future. You loved driving to work in your new car, lunch packed to exchange with your colleagues. 

Until one of your coworkers found an old webcam of yours. It started with one email that snowballed into everyone in the office watching you dirty talk to your camera. It was humiliating. No one looked your way any longer. You sat alone, often having to eat in your car to avoid the judgemental glares from the women and the perverted looks from the men. 

You’re not smart. You’re pathetic. You won’t amount to anything. You’re meant for one thing only. You’re meant for one thing only. You’re meant for one thing only. 

You’re meant for one thing only. 

You quit a week later, grabbed your belongings at the end of your shift and never returned. Your boss didn’t bother calling to ask if you were coming in. You were a stain on the business and they were glad to be rid of you. 

You met Geronimo a month later. You were putting in resume after resume into every company you found, even tried for cashier gigs. No one wanted you. You were resting on a bus bench, sobbing. You looked ridiculous, face puffy, snot falling down, and breaths hard and uneven. You thought little  of him sitting next to you. It is a public bus stop. You pulled out your pocket knife when he claimed he had a proposition for you. 

You were at his club a week later. The girls weren’t the nicest. It was clear the new girls were bad for their business, but they didn’t detest you. They helped you practice on the pole. You grinned when Yuri told you that you were made for stripping, crying about it later that night. 

You were dancing a week and a half later. You didn’t get as many clientele as the old girls, still stumbling in your comfortable pleasers. Yuri, the only girl who wouldn’t ignore you, advised you to be more confident. Men are attracted to that single attribute. Walk around like you own the place, show them who’s in charge. It was easy to do so when you realized the men who showed up at this place were all losers not deserving of much respect.

So, it’s not a shock that you agreed to Pope’s proposition. You’ve never been wanted. Not that he wanted you, he was using you like the others, and you realize this. You recognize that the sex is for him. The roleplay is for him. You perfect the role of the woman you’ve yet to meet, for him. All to keep him. 

You can’t explain why you want him. Why you search for him every single night, why you want to make him laugh when he drives you home after your shift at the club, or why you yearn for those moments of tenderness when he finishes and is pressing soft kisses to your face.  Why. Why. Why. It’s a never-ending stream of soul-crushing questions. 

“Another rump in the hay?” His voice pulls you out of your deep trance. You turn to him as he runs his fingers up and down your spine. His cool sheets are rumpled at your ass, over his own legs as well. 

You chuckle at his words, nose scrunched in disgust. “Rump in the hay? What the fuck?”

He scoffs, but it’s visible he’s not upset as he drops himself to lie back on his bed. “What do you want me to say?”

“Literally anything else.” He lightly smacks your ass as he gets up out of bed. “you are not leaving me here alone.” You sit up, using the sheet to cover your bare chest. “Last time you left me alone, I had to put up with Craig asking for a peek.” 

He huffs out a laugh as he grabs a t-shirt, throwing it on. “I’m assuming you didn’t give him one?” 

You roll your eyes. “Um, no? I’m a classy woman.” He looks over his shoulder. his expression makes you snag a pillow and throw it at his backside. “I’m a classy woman outside of work.” 

“Still not true.” 

“Asshole.” You huff as you put your clothes back on. “Give me a ride home.” 

“Get your own ride.” 

You snatch his keys, walking past him. “Shut up. Let’s go.” 

“You’re bossy.” He hums, following you and shutting his door behind him. 

“You like it.” His keys are being tossed back to him, sliding into the passenger seat when he unlocks it. His truck, despite being a neat freak, is peppered with a multitude of your items. Hair ties, hair clips, one of your necklaces wrapped around his rearview mirror, a few perfume oils in the center console, and glitter. Glitter on his seats, his car mats, and even on his steering wheel. He tried to clean it off when you first started getting rides from him, but he gave up. And you had to hide your content when you realized how much it looks like he has a girl. 

The drive to your apartment doesn’t take very long. Which saddens you, as now he’ll be off doig god-knows-what for days, not reaching out until he needs to release what he has pent up for Catherine. He parks in the parking lot of your apartment building. You sit there for a few moments. And embarrassingly so, you speak. “Are you free tomorrow?”

This doesn’t stun him. A part of you wishes it did because he’s used to this. He’s used to you asking for his plans in the upcoming days while he doesn’t ask about yours, nor does he truthfully answer you. 

“No.” Is his plain response. Nothing more, nothing less, like always. The sting of it would awaken any self-respecting woman. You’re not one of those. 

“Right,” you clear yout throat awkwardly. “Well, tell your brother it’s happy hour tomorrow at the club.”

“You can’t tell him?”

Your eyebrows furrow at the attitude in his words. As if what you're asking from him is such a drag. “No, I blocked him.”

He huffs, “then why invite him?”

“Because he tips well. What the fuck is your problem?” Like always, it turns sour. Something is always said or done. Someone always leaves upset for the night after an argument. Things are fine until they aren’t. You give him the sex he wants, with the act and name he wants and he makes it weird. His fantasy clearly upsets him but he won’t stop. 

And you won’t either. You do threaten it though. “So, what, Pope? Do you want to stop this because I'm more than happy to if it means I wont have to put up with this weird guilt thing that you make everyone’s problem.”

His scoff is loud and incredulous. “Not this again. It’s not fucking guilt. You're the one making it weird by making me your messenger.”

“Oh, get the fuck over yourself.” You angrily swing his truck door open, slamming it as he rolls his window.

“Come on, you’re being dramatic.” He calls out to you. 

“Wrap yourself around a tree for all I care!”

Happy hour comes along and while Geronimo doesn’t like it when his girls are high, you decide that's the only way you’d get through your shift without crashing out. Still, you try to compose yourself as best as you can, keeping up sober appearances around the customers and your boss. 

“And here is the entire reason why happy hour exists.” the tray of drinks in your hands spill a little at the sides with the way you jump at the booming voice. Craig sure knows how to make an entrance. 

You grin, “and why does that accomplishment belong to me?”  

“Cause youre the hottest piece of ass in this building for the next hour.”

Your laugh is an ugly snort, “yeah? So im ugly after the hour is up?”

He nods, taking your tray of drinks, "that's exactly it.”

“Asshole. That's for table three.” You chastise as you walk after him, surprised that Baz or Deran aren’t following after him tonight. “Where are the two gums at the soles of your shoes?”

He leaves the tray at table three and doesn’t let you apologize to them because the giant man is dragging you away. “Ah, is that your sneaky way of asking for Pope?”

You scoff, rolling your eyes at the mention of his oldest brother, even if you are itching to ask how he’s doing. You and Craig just aren’t that close to discuss this with. “No. I'm asking about Baz and Deran.”

He shrugs as he plops down on his seat, grabbing you to sit on his lap. He motions at the familiar server to bring him his usual, patting your bare thigh mindlessly. “They have some business to attend to. Pope too.”

“I didn’t ask about Pope.”

“But you wanted to, ballerina.” He uses the awful nickname he’s given you recently. “What the hell is going on between you two? I know you’re fucking. Which, by the way, I'm completely offended. Why the fuck did you give it up to him and not me?”

“You have this musty thing going on that completely turns me off.” He laughs, head thrown back, as if you made the funniest joke he’a ever heard. You're not joking but you won't burst his bubble.

“Whatever he did, I’m sure he's sorry. He's been a sulking mess around our moms. Being a fucking buzzkill.”

You haven’t gotten a lot out of Pope but you know his relationship with his mother is tricky. Which, story of your life. Mothers are nothing but narcissistic parasites who feed off the misery of their children. But this is different. You don't speak much of your mother but you’ve let him know that she's an alcoholic that you don't speak to. He tenses up at the mention of her, nothing like Craig like when his eyes softly turn distant but ends up laughing it off. You know better than to ask though. He refuses to tell you about his day, much less will he tell you about his mommy issues. 

“What do you know about Catherine?” you ask suddenly. 

This drags his eyes off the show on the stage and back to you with an inquisitive look. “My sister-in-law?”

You nod, confirming. “Yeah, what's she like?”

“Um,” he clears his throat as he adjusts you on his lap. “Shes cool, I guess. A ball buster. She's always on Baz’s ass about our family business. Good mother though. Lena’s great, she's my booger.”

You disregard all else, “family business? Your mother’s buildings?”

He snorts, nodding. “Yeah, ballerina, our real estate.”

“The fuck does that mean?” He’s about to respond but you see the realization of what he's said, cross his face.

Instead, “know she was Pope’s childhood best friend. Don't remember her much from then, didn't pay her any attention. Our mom and Baz tell me he was in love with her.”

Your blood runs cold. You know this, of course it does but no one else has ever confirmed this. And Baz knows? This throws you for a loop. “Baz knows?”

He nods, “yeah. He doesn't care. It was a long time ago. Not like he’s still into her, that’d be fucking weird, man.”

You want to yell. You want to spill it all to him but if there’s one thing the Cody's are, is loyal. To each other, blood is thicker than water. It’s a code of honor between them. So you stay quiet. 

“It's his birthday.”

You almost gasp at his words, “what?”

He downs his drink, “yeah. We usually do paintball, skydive, and go to a club but he’s on his fucking period or something.” He pauses. “He has a twin. Had a twin. Maybe he misses her. I don't know. He's not exactly the forthcoming type.”

—

He’s washing his truck when you get to his home. His dark grey t-shirt is form fitting, darker where he’s wet from the soapy suds. 

You’re wearing a pair of too baggy sweatpants and Craig’s hoodie that you stole from his car, not caring that your slutty outfit is still digging into you beneath it. All you can focus on is Pope. Pope and his birthday and how you snapped at him yesterday. 

“Washing your car at night isn’t the brightest idea.” He had been so wrapped up in scrubbing away the muck that he hadn’t noticed you were there. His head snaps up to your smiling face, holding up a box, presenting it to him. “A little birdie told me it’s your birthday.” 

He eyes the cake carefully before his eyes meet yours again. “I don’t celebrate.” 

You scoff, “you weren’t able to, there’s a difference.” You put the cake down, sliding up the sleeves to Craig’s sweatshirt. You’re glad to be wearing your sketchers as you grab a sponge from the metal bucket, letting the soapy suds cover your hands. “I’ll help. The quicker you finish, the sooner we get to eat cake.” 

You plop the sponge down, wiping once before his hand grabs the wrist, stopping you. “Stop.” He mutters out. “It’s too cold.” 

“You’re doing it.” You retort. “Double standard—“ 

“You’re not seriously going to argue with me on my birthday.” 

You laugh, shaking your head. “Fine. I won’t argue with you today. But once that clock turns twelve, it’s fair game.” You nod at the cake, “grab it. I eyed it the entire bus ride here.” 

He does as told, picking the box up and following after you as you walk into his familiar home. He locks it behind him as you settle into his kitchen. Two plates, two forks, and a knife. 

“Sit.” He usually makes a snarky remark but he’s listening well. You realize he must be really out of it, he hasn't been this way with you since this entire ordeal began. 

You place it all down to his table, where the chip at the corner seems to be the most important thing around, his eyes stuck on it. You wish you could reach out and comfort him. But you still feel silly for snapping at him yesterday. 

You open the thin cardboard box of the cake and plop two candles into the blue and pink frosting. “The bakery only had a gender reveal cake left… no one picked it up.” You reach your hand out to him. “Lighter.” Because he always carries his own, you tease him about it. Now is not the time though. 

You light both the birthday candles, “one for you,” you light the next one. “One for your sister.” 

“What did you just say?” His voice is rough but not angry. Emotional, maybe. You can’t read him very well. 

“It’s your sister's birthday too.” You hum. “My sister and I are ten days apart. My mom was too cheap to celebrate separately so we always blew out candles together.”

He’s silent for a moment as you put the lighter down. “Where is she? Your sister…” 

“She died.” The smile on your face is sad but it’s there and that’s what matters. Or, that’s what Geronimo tells you when he’s trying to help his girls from their saddened moods. Strippers, as it turns out, are very sad people. “So I blow out two candles. Well, four in total. Two on mine. Two on hers. You’re lucky. You only do it once a year, I never know what to do with so much cake.” 

The candles are lit up between the two of you, his eyes watching them flicker for a moment. “Okay…” he’s about to blow but you instantly wave your hands. 

“Woah, woah!” You stop him. “You have to make a wish!” His expression seems slightly annoyed but you can’t care. “I’m serious. Birthday wishes are real. And you have two! I’m sure your sister won’t mind you taking hers.” 

He huffs, thinking for a second. “Fine. I wish—“

“Oh my god, you’re terrible at this.” You stop him from talking. “You can’t say it out loud! God, have you ever had a birthday? It won’t come true if you—“ 

“I wish you would shut up.” 

“Okay, well, now I’m never shutting up. That’s the birthday law.” 

He groans, “fine. I won’t say it out loud.” He blows the candles quickly, not giving you any room to interrupt him again. 

You grin, holding the knife out to him. “Want to see what the Walkers are having?”

He hesitates for a moment, sighing dramatically as he slices into the cake, the knife comes out brown. Your eyebrows furrow as he pushes the slice onto the plate. It’s a chocolate cake. No pink or blue. You huff, “what the fuck? Are they having a brown baby?” You cut up the cake some more after snatching the knife from him. “This is a fucking rip off. This shit was thirty-five bucks!” 

You finally look up at Pope to see his hands covering his face and his shoulders shaking. You’re immediately concerned, scooting your chair closer to him. “Are you…” you clear your throat, placing a single hand on his bicep. “Are you crying?” 

“I’m not crying.” He speaks in his fit of laughter, finally pulling his hands away. Your breath catches at the sight of him. His place is dim, too dark for you to see much of anything. But you can’t look away from the way his soft eyes crease as he laughs, face completely relaxed. 

You scoff, embarrassed to have read the situation wrong. And to be noticing him so tenderly. You replace your soft caress with a smack to his bicep. “Screw you. I was scared I did something wrong!” 

“You did!” He laughs. “They’re having a brown baby? Who the fuck talks like that?” 

You’re frowning, flushed with embarrassment. You look away from him, “shut up, asshole.” 

His laughter quiets down but you can still feel the amusement wafting off of him. His hand gently grasps your chin, making you look back at him. “Stop pouting.” A pause. “Is that the only gift you’ve got for me?”

You cackle, shoving his hand off of you. “You are not hitting this tonight.” 

He groans. “Come on. It’s my birthday! Birthday sex is a very real thing.”

You roll your eyes, shoving a fork into his slice of cake. “Nope. Ask Catherine.” You throw. 

“You’re my Catherine.” You hope the way you flinch isn’t noticeable. Of course it isn’t, Pope isn’t attentive to you in any way, and you’re slowly learning to live with it. He lightly pats your thigh. “Come on.”

You sigh, speaking with a bored tone. “Hey, Andrew. It’s me, Catherine! Want to have birthday sex?” 

He flicks your forehead, “Hello, Catherine. It is me, Andrew,” he adds to the joke. “I would love to have birthday sex with you.”

You laugh, “okay, Andrew, it is still me, Catherine. Let us have sex.”

He’s grabbing the sides of your chair, pulling you closer into him, lips meeting yours with a heavy and shaky breath. Your own body doesn’t hesitate, lips moving against his with vigor, fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. His own hands slide down your body, gripping onto your hips and sliding you on his lap. 

The playful atmosphere melts away within seconds, his rough hands feeling you up. It’s how this always goes. Some days, all he wants is to bury his face in your cunt but those are becoming more and more rare as the days go on. 

It doesn’t take long for you to end up on his clean and fitted bed. His place is spotless, nothing like yours. You know that’s why he avoids your place. You don’t live in filth but you’re not tidy. One of the handful of times he’s been to yours, you were too worn out to notice him crawl out of your bed and clean your place. It went back to clean clothes hanging off chairs and your bed and makeup and water bottles everywhere. Now, you’re pretty much only at his. 

“That’s weird,” you huff, leaning on your arms to look up at him. “What could possibly turn you on about leaving my pleasers on?”

He gets slightly pouty, “what are pleasers? I said heels.” 

“Common misconception, rookie.” You hum, wiggling your foot clad in the black and silver accessorized pleaser. “While a form of heels, these are much better and weirdly, more comfortable.” 

He rolls his eyes, not entertained. “I love it when you tell me things I don’t care for. Please, keep going.” 

You laugh, head thrown back. “I don’t like this comfort you’re feeling with me. It’s made you mean. Where’s my shy Pope?” 

“Dead.” He tugs your sweats off, tossing them behind him. 

It’s your turn to roll your eyes, “you always speak to your Catherine’s like this?” 

He groans, letting his head fall to your shoulder. “Can you be quiet for a moment?” You can feel him wiggling atop of you, the clink of his belt, hand tugging once and he’s lining himself up into you. 

Before he pushes in, his voice is shaky, hands beside your face as he holds himself up. As usual, he looks vulnerable. Not only does he look vulnerable, he sounds it. His voice cracks, begs, even goes as far as whimpering. “Can you… you say the thing?” 

The thing.

The thing is what gets him off lately. What makes him moan louder and louder as he grinds into you. You nod, legs wrapping around his hips, pushing him into you, the intrusion making a breath of air shudder out of you. Your arms wrap around his neck, a hand threading into his head of hair. 

“Missed you, Pope.” It’s a switch. Your voice turns soft, your touch comforting against his back as your hands trail down. “I’m always thinking about you, my love.” You’ve only been guessing as to how Catherine would act with him. It makes you cringe if you think about it too hard, like you’re violating the poor woman. Not that you’re fond of her, with the way Craig speaks of her, you can’t believe anyone would like her. Calls her crazy, says she hinders Baz, whatever that means. Usually, you would know better than to believe a drug addict's words but you’re too blinded with jealousy. How could a woman have Pope and not want him? 

He’s breathing heavily into your ear as he moves tentatively. This is how it always starts. He needs to gather himself properly, let the roleplay settle. Some days, he’s quick and accepting of what you two are doing, others, it’s hard for him to focus, too ashamed. You can’t tell what he’s feeling yet. Not until his heavy breathing turns into moans.

Small gasps leave you as he pushes deep inside of you, his hips moving faster and harder as he gets it together. He likes it tonight, you decide. “Pope,” you moan, face twisted up in that familiar pleasure. You should have waited. You should have left those words until the end, until you got your own relief. “Happy birthday, Pope. I love you.” 

He’s spilling inside of you, a loud groan leaving him, hips stuttering into you as he fills you up. “Cath, oh, fuck, Cath!” You shut your eyes tight at the name being moaned into your ear. You don’t care for your orgasm then, you just wish it was your name. 

He’s lying back now, fully relaxed an hour later. You were too stuck. Your mind is hazy. Not from an intense orgasm like he is. You’re too upset. You’re aching from the absolute need you feel for him. You’re trying and trying to understand what it is that has got you hooked on him, why you can’t let this go even when all you want is to never see him again. 

You’re watching him. The slow rise and fall of his chest. The speckled freckles across his neck, no doubt from the Oceanside sun. His arm is strewn across his face, covering his eyes from the soft, cascading moonlight streaming in through his window. “Pope?” 

He hums, a rough one. It’s your sign to keep going. 

“Do you miss your sister?” 

You two sit in silence for a minute. “Yes.” 

“We could be at my place right now,” Pope sighs dramatically from his spot on the ground, looking up at you as you crawl around the stage. The club is completely empty. Which is extremely rare, Geronimo never closes. But half of his girls caught the stomach flu that’s going around and after one tried to tough it out, spilling their guts on a customer who demanded payment for his expensive shoes, he deemed the club a hazard. “Eating our meals.” 

You scoff from the stage, palms pressing against the black boards. “I got a meal. You got a fucking hamster meal. Who gets a protein style burger? Wack ass fucking hamburger.” 

“You’re just mad you can’t find your earring.” 

And it’s true. Your food was sitting cold in the back of his truck. You were frantic when you reached up to tug on your ear in an anxious tic, only to feel it empty. You made him pull over and search the vehicle with you. His truck was turned inside and out, seat covers yanked off harshly. You even grabbed his flashlight in his toolbox to search every dark nook and cranny. You were getting more and more frustrated. 

You threw the dressing rooms apart, even dug around in the bathroom. You searched behind the bar. Around the tables. Now on the stage. Nowhere. Absolutely nowhere. And you’re angry. 

You let out a loud yell, dropping yourself onto the cold floor. “This is the worst!” 

Pope leans over on the stage, watching as you flop around on the ground. “Was it expensive or something?” A pause before he continues. “I’ll just get you new ones. Better ones.” 

You turn to lie on your stomach, leaning your chin in the palm of your hand. “As much as that turns me on… it's the sentimental value that makes them important.” 

A single eyebrow of his raises, watching you carefully. “Sentimental?” The shock in his voice is evident and this makes you peek up. 

“What? What’s wrong with that?” 

He shrugs, hands drumming against the boards of the stage. “You’re not really a sentimental person.” 

The face you make shows how offended you are by his words. “What? Yes I am.” 

He shakes his head, “emotional? Sure. Sentimental? Nope.” 

You huff, sitting up on your ass and glaring at him. “Do you even know what you’re saying? You sound stupid.” 

The way he sighs makes your blood boil. “It’s always a fight with you.” His words make it worse. 

“Excuse me, you shrimp dick loser?” He was right on the emotional front. You let your feelings win constantly. You can never not have the last word in an argument. If something so much as slightly offends you, you pounce. You argue. You scratch. It’s how you survive against men. 

“There you go. I’m just saying you—“ 

“You,” you interrupt him, eyebrows furrowed in complete anger and disdain for him. “You don’t know me—“ 

“Because you don’t let me—“ 

“Because you don’t ask—“ 

“When am I supposed to ask—“ 

“When you’re not moaning another bitches name in my ear!” You’re standing up, pacing back and forth. “God, do you even hear yourself?! I’m not sentimental? You don’t know shit! You are so fucking stupid, it astounds me how  you get through your day to day life—“ 

“You done?” 

“No!” You seethe. “You are such a fucking loser pining after  a woman who doesn’t want you! I’m the emotional one?! You’re the one begging me for sex so you can rock your jollies off to the thought of your sister-in-law—“ 

“I found your earring.” 

You gasp, jumping off the stage and rushing to him. You grab the fake diamond earring, immediately inspecting it for any scratches. “Oh my god, my baby.” 

“Your baby?” You can hear the amusement in his tone but you’re wiping at your earring with care

You roll your eyes at him, “I know I'm not sentimental enough for you but my moms ex-boyfriend got me this.” 

“Your moms ex-boyfriend?”

You don’t care for the judgment in his tone as you speak, “yeah. He was… important to me. He was the only one who really cared for me. Obviously I changed the part that goes in my ear. I went to a jewelry store and had to pay extra but… I love them.” You don’t care for the silence as you tuck the earring safely into the zippered slot in your bag. 

“Tell me more.” You freeze, fingers fumbling with the zipper of your bag as you secure the strap. You fix it on your shoulder, looking back up at Pope. 

“About?” 

He shrugs, his hands in the front pocket of his jeans as he leans against the stage, watching you. “I know you have a dead sister. Your mother was kind of slutty. And you have a favorite father figure.” 

You huff out a laugh, taking a seat on one of the soft cushioned seats in the club, you two seemingly forgetting about your argument less than a minute ago. “He wasn’t really a father figure. They dated for eight months.” 

“Okay, so… tell me about those eight months.” 

And for the first time, you do. You tell him about Thomas Peterson and how you still have the low quality photos of you and him. Your cheek pressed up to his, the two of you grinning up at the cheap camera he bought at a random pharmacy. How he helped you, even when he was gone, even when he forgot about you. You tell him about the other men, the nice ones and the ones who ignored you. You tell him about the gifts you received. About your sister. Your other siblings you haven’t spoken to in years. All of it. 

By the end of it, you two are completely wrapped up in the conversation. He’s putting in his own two cents, how his mother was with men as well. How she treated them all growing up. He hesitates during some retellings, hiding something deeper, but you don’t pry. He’s already giving you enough. 

“And then?” You’ve never seen his posture not be perfect but he’s leaning on the table at your story. “What happened then?” 

You raise your arms, motioning to the club around you. “Now… I’m a stripper.” 

He taps his fingers against the table, nodding. He’s looking around the room, taking in the room with its full lighting on. The fluorescent lights show off every nook and cranny of the usually dim place. “This place is ugly.” 

You snort, walking over to the stage and hopping on. “You think? We see it like this before shift all the time. Sometimes it’s hard to get in the mood.” You lift your sleeves. “Have you ever danced on a pole?” 

He chuckles, watching you from his seat. “Can’t say that I have.” He settles into the seat, arms crossed over his chest, thick arms bulging through his top. “Gonna show me?”

Your hands grips onto the pole, letting yourself twirl slowly. “You’ve seen my performances plenty.” You grin. “And then some.” 

“Yes, but those are for everyone.” He begins as you place your other hand onto the silver pole. “Give me something for me.” 

“I do give you something that’s just for you.” You try, lifting your feet as you twirl yourself gracefully. 

“Stop stalling.” 

You place your feet back onto the floor, watching as he sits back. His eyes are hooded as he watches you. And the growing tent in his jeans is very visible. “We have In-n-out in the car.” 

“Rather watch you.” 

You laugh easily, zipping your sweater down teasingly. “Yeah? What do you want to watch, Mr. Cody?” 

He adjusts himself in his jeans, hand gripping his cock through the rough material. “Anything.” 

You roll your eyes as you tug the material off, leaving you naked from the waist up. You find it pointless to wear a bra around him, better to be comfortable. “Jeans too, baby.” 

“How bossy.” You hum but do as told, leaving you in your panties. “This is extremely unhygienic. And now your cock is out of your jeans? How naughty. The cameras don’t scare you?” 

He shakes his head, hand tugging at himself as he watches you. “Don’t work.” 

“And how do you know that?” You’ve lifted yourself completely off the floor and you begin with your show for him. Twirling, spreading your legs, giving him a view of your ass. 

“Part of my job.” 

“Ah, the mysterious career of yours,” his chest is rising and falling, breathing labored, dripping some spit to lather on his pretty and pink cock to keep stroking himself to you as you dance for him. “Want me to stop talking?” 

He groans, “no. Fuck, no. Keep talking. Like listening to you.” 

“Well, now I don’t know what to say.” You giggle, pulling off of the pole, leaning your backside on it to watch him as he undoes himself. 

“Get on your knees.” He commands, voice rough as his hand jerks around him. 

You’re usually a brat with him but you decide today isn’t the day to test him. You slowly fall to your knees, legs spread, showing off the way your panties stick to your wet cunt like a second skin. The sight of him turned on, touching himself to you, it turns you on more than you ever would have cared to admit. 

“Like this?” You ask sweetly. Unlike your normal fiery self. “That good enough for you, Pope-y?”

He groans, nodding hastily. You can tell he’s teetering over the edge, “yeah. Good. So fucking good. Look good…” 

You really thought this was for you. The way he was pumping at his cock was for you. The way his eyes danced on your tits was for you. You just had a heart to heart with him. You spilled each other's guts out to one another. 

“Look so good, Cath.” He moans. 

You’re frozen in your spot. Your blood runs cold and pounds loud in your ears. Your confidence washes away instantly, feeling more naked than ever before. He doesn’t see you. 

He will never see you. 

You pull away slowly. You can’t meet him here. You can’t go there. His place is too far and you have an early morning. A vet appointment for one of your many cats. A coworker needs a lift to the airport. Geronimo needs you to watch surveillance after shift. You’re too tired. You’re on your period. 

He doesn’t show up to the club. He hates it there, it’s m too noisy. Too many men tossing their money. Too many women wanting his money tossed at them. It’s an overstimulating nightmare for Andrew Cody. 

Not for Craig Cody. 

“Gonna shake that ass for me?” He grins, leaning on the counter of the bar you’re standing behind. 

You had just gotten off the stage, your trash bag full of money beside you and your dark purple thong riding up your ass. You still feel hot from the performance too, a sheen of sweat over your cleavage and smooth chest. Usually, you’d be calming down in the dressing room but the bartender is heavily pregnant and peeing every second. 

You turn, scoffing at the man. “Talk about my ass again and I’ll get you trespassed.” 

“Nah,” he drums his hands against the table. “I’m Gero’s best customer. Ain’t that right, old man?” He calls out to Geronimo as the fat man walks past them. 

“Leave me alone.” He mumbles as he keeps walking off, barking orders at the next girl that’s on. 

And back to Craig, “what are you doing here? It’s a Wednesday. The freaks come out on Wednesday’s.” 

“Well, shit, you should’ve told me that. Would’ve been here way sooner.” He humps the air. 

You grimace at the sight, throwing a wet rag at him. “Ew, you’re disgusting!” 

He grabs the rag and tosses it back at you, “no. I’m here because your dog is hanging around me more than usual.” 

“My dog?” You question, genuinely confused by this mention. “I don’t get it.” 

“My brother.” 

You roll your eyes, annoyed by the thought of Pope. So you joke, “Aw, Deran misses me?”

“Oh, please, you’re the last woman he would ever miss.” 

The way he emphasizes the word piques your interest. “Wait… so you know?” 

He hums, a small smile on his lips. “Know what?” He feigns. 

You eye him carefully as you wipe a cup clean with a new rag. “Hmm… you know, Craig, when you’re not high out of your mind and not trying to motorboat me, you’re actually quite nice.” 

“I cannot stop staring at your tits.” 

You groan, putting the glass cup down. “You ruined it.” 

He laughs, “aw, come on! They’re in my face. Okay! Okay! Fuck, stop!” He can’t grab the limes you’re throwing his way any longer. “I’m kidding. You know I totally respect you as a woman.” 

“That doesn't even sound right coming from you.” You scoff. “There’s something else.” 

“Yeah, he’s miserable without you.” 

Now this really makes you laugh. “Right.” It takes everything in you to not explain why he misses you. Explain why Pope needs you so much. “Well, I need new dick. Getting tired of what I had.” You wipe the counter, trying to distract yourself. “Don’t suppose you want to volunteer?” 

“I will fuck you on this counter right now, you know this.” He downs a random shot that was forgotten on the table. “You’re Pope’s girl now, though.” 

“I’m not Pope’s anything.” You snap at Craig. “Seriously, all we do is hookup. That’s not special.” 

“Have you two emotionally fucked?”

You let out an incredulous laugh, “what?” 

“Have you two bared your souls to one another?” He rolls his eyes, as if exasperated by you. 

“Uhm… sorta?” 

“That’s it!” He slams his hand on the table making you jump, scolding him softly. “He fucked you emotionally and now he can’t get enough.” 

He can’t be more wrong. But you can’t exactly tell him that. So, you sigh dramatically instead. “Yeah. Maybe that’s it. Want your usual?”

—

“You are leaving me?” You caught Geronimo at his car before he could leave the clubs parking lot. 

The night is cold, the air biting your skin. Yet again, you had stolen Craig’s hoodie, using one of his old pair of sweats as well. “No, I’m not leaving. My sister needs help with her new baby—“

“You leave me!” The Russian man groans. “I need you. You not leave me!” 

It’s your turn to groan, “listen to me, fat man. I am not leaving you completely. I’m only going to Sacramento for a few weeks. I’ll still be back.” 

“I can feel this breaking.” He places his hand over his heart. “You okay with this? The breaking of my heart?” 

“Gero, you’re being dramatic. I’m coming back.” 

“You leave, you fired!”

“Gero, listen to me.” 

“No, you fired now!” 

“Gero, shut the fuck up and let me talk!” 

He nods, looking behind you. “Little man here.” 

You stiffen for a second but don’t bother turning. “Just… we’ll talk tomorrow, okay?” 

The Russian scoffs, “no, you fired.” And he gets into his car angrily, driving out of the parking lot with a screech. 

You turn to finally come face to face with Pope. “Andrew Cody,” you hum. “What brings you here?” 

“Are you really fired?” He questions. “I can help you. You wouldn’t have to work here again.” 

Your eyebrows raise in amusement at this, “what?” 

“I can help… maintain you.” 

You cackle, “Shut the fuck up, Pope.” It’s truly the last thing you expected to hear from him. “He fires me twice a day. He’s just butthurt he won’t be making money from me for a while.” 

“Okay…” he’s struggling to speak again. He hasn’t done that with you in a while. “What does that mean?” 

You wrap the hoodie tighter around you as another soft breeze hits. “What does what mean?” 

“Why won’t he be making money from you?” 

You hesitate being honest with him. The last thing you need is Andrew Cody knowing where you’re going. This won’t be a relaxing break, since you’ll be spending all of your free time helping your sister with a newborn but it’ll be a break from him. From him and his drama. Or, really, from him and the drama you bring to this. He’s never really given you an issue, not unless you start one first. But you can’t stop making issues that stem from the insecurity and jealousy embedded in you. 

You try to hold back. You really do, but he’s looking at you with those soft brown eyes of his. You’ve been able to see them angry, hurt, pleasured, confused and on rare occasions, soft in the way he’s being now. “I’m going to Sacramento for a few weeks.” 

“What?” He seems perturbed by this information. “Why are you going out there?” 

“My sister’s giving birth in a week. She needs my help.” 

His eyes widened for a fraction of a second, no doubt surprised at the mention of your sister. “You’re speaking with your sister?” 

You nod, shoving your hands into the pockets of Craig’s hoodie. “Yeah… I reached out to her last week. She got knocked up by some bum. Needs help. I think it’ll be nice for us.” 

“What about your cats?” 

You laugh, “what about my cats?” 

“What are you doing with them? You can’t leave them.” 

“No shit,” you snort. “I’m taking them with me.” 

“I can watch them.” 

“You don’t like animals.” You point out to him. 

He shrugs, “they’re cats. They don’t need much attention, right?” 

“That’s completely false. They need as much attention as dogs.” You huff, tucking your blowing hair behind your ear. “That’s your worst nightmare… litter changes.” 

“I can do it.” He sounds determined. 

Your face scrunches in confusion. “What is up with you? Why do you want to watch them so badly?” 

“Can’t I help out a friend?” 

You eye him carefully, unsure of what he’s trying to do here. It’s off-putting. “You’re being weird.” 

“That’s just my personality.” 

You don’t speak again. You’re standing there, arms crossed over your shivering body. You can’t figure out what to say to him. Looking at him, you know there’s no one else you want more. And that’s why you can’t be near him much longer. It’s why you need this break from him. It’s why you need to fight against these pathetic feelings that he’ll never reciprocate. 

“You’re coming back?” He asks, too soft. 

“Yeah.” Is your bored and lacking response. 

“I just don’t get why I can’t just watch your cats.” He starts again. 

“What the fuck is your issue, Pope?” You’re frustrated now, not understanding what’s going on. 

“Why won’t you let me watch them?” A pause, his fists clench and unclench. “If you’re coming back, it shouldn’t be an issue.” 

You scoff, shaking your head. “You’re not making any sense, Pope. I’m going back inside if you have nothing meaningful to add he—“ you’re trying to walk past him when his bigger and rough hand grabs your forearm, pulling you into him. 

Your breath stutters at the way his nose nudges against yours, his rising and falling chest pressed to yours. “What are you—“ 

“I need to make sure you’re coming back.” 

You can’t look at him. You’re looking at anything but the parts that make you want to reach out and keep giving him your all. Instead, you watch the tiny scar that dances on his cheek with every word he speaks. Not his eyes. Not his lips. “And you keeping my cats is going to ensure that?” 

He nods, nose rubbing against yours. Your eyes shut for a moment. You have to gather yourself. This isn't the life for you, it can’t be. This pathetic back and forth. The way he makes you want to crawl into a hole and wither away. The way your blood boils and you snap at him mindlessly, snarling the cruelest words you can conjure up at him. 

Instead, you pull your arm from his hand. “I don’t need to do that, Pope. I’ll be back and whether you believe me or not is none of my concern.” You’re hoping your words are harsh but you can’t hear much of anything as you avoid looking at him. “We’re less than friends. Remember that.” 

You’re gone for two months. And you don’t want to pull away. You’ve fallen completely in love with your niece. You never understood parents when they said a child changed their world. Getting to be there for your sister, cutting that child’s umbilical cord, and caring for the baby did change your world. 

So, when the time comes, you’re standing across from Geronimo, handing him a month’s notice. He doesn’t believe you at first. He tosses it into the trash and tells you to go back out there. But you remind him every single day that comes. 

You don’t see much of Craig during your first two weeks back. Or any of the brothers, really. You don’t call or text Pope, not like you used to when you were begging for his attention. And you want to, badly. But you hold back. You’re proud of yourself for the time in your long life. 

Fatima calls out sick your last week in Oceanside. So you’re behind the bar this shift. It's not as much money as performing but it’s something until you’re out of here. Geronimo’s upset with you so he gives you Fatima’s gig, a sort of punishment for leaving him. But he’s not an evil man, he knows a guy up in Sacramento, getting you a secured dancer position at another club. You pressed a kiss to his scratchy cheek, thanking him. 

You’ve packed all that you own into a rented U-Haul. It’s not much, but it’s all you’ve worked for while performing at the club. And you’ve been living on scraps for something like this. For the move. You never dreamt it would be to move in with your estranged older sister and her newborn all the way up to Sacramento but you’ve got enough to secure a bigger space for the three of you. You don’t know much about children but you figure she’ll need space. 

“Woah, do my eyes deceive me? Is that the hottest woman in all of Oceanside?” You’re pulled out of your thoughts, glancing up at Craig who’s leaning against the bar again, just like he was almost three months ago. “Missed you, ballerina.” 

You smack his hand that’s sprawled on the counter, “I’ve been here. Where have you been?” 

He shrugs, running a hand through his greasy hair. “Around. Working on a big project with my mother.” 

“Ah,” you hum knowingly. “A top secret mission. You Cody’s are full of mystery.”

He agrees with a nod as he watches a new dancer walk past, blatantly staring at her ass. “Could’ve had all this.” He turns back to you. “My body. My heart. My business mind. But you chose Pope.” 

“I didn’t choose anyone.” You deny vehemently. “Haven’t spoken to him.” You bite your tongue but it still comes out. “How’s he doing?” 

“Weird.” He shrugs. “Hey, is the new girl single?”

“What do you mean weird?” 

“Weird. Just weird. He’s always weird though. Is she?” 

“As far as I can tell, yeah.” 

You get to your empty apartment that night with his words eating away at you. Weird. Pope is being weird. You know that’s who he is. You know that Pope being weird isn’t out of the ordinary. But you can’t help but wonder what’s going on in that fucked up brain of his. If something is gnawing away at him. 

You sigh, dropping your bag onto your countertop. Shake it off. You have to shake it off. You’ve got a single week left here and once you’re gone, you won’t have to think twice about your life here. It’s done. It’s over. Ties with everyone need to be severed. 

You miss your cats but you left them behind when you decided Sacramento was the way to go for the next step of your life. You’re lonely. Too lonely. You groan loudly into your pillow, frustrated with your need to fill the void with a guy. Not just any guy, Andrew. The worst you know. Did a prison stint, cheated with his brother's wife, still daydreams about sleeping with his brother's wife. You're not sure which is worse, his record or lack of loyalty to his brother.

The only thing you have in your fridge are carrots, ranch, and a bottle of sweet and cheap wine. So, deciding that the last thing your car needs is more miles on it after fourteen plus hours of driving, you realize this is the best it’s going to get. Ordering-in costs too much money too, especially since you've decided most of your money will now go to your new niece. 

The ring camera hooked onto your door rings annoyingly, the familiar tune ringing through the door and the notification through your phone. “Geez, fucking psychos–” your words are cut off when you open the notification and see a distraught looking Pope. 

You should ignore him. You were going to ignore him, pretend you weren't home even though you had just yelled. But you can see the tears in his eyes even through your shitty camera quality. And this worries you. 

Your door is swung open quickly, eyes frantically searching his body. He gets into fights sometimes, from that mysterious Cody work of his, but he's never cried over it. There's no visible blood, no open wounds that need tending to– whatever it is that's got him like this, it's not physical. 

“Fuck,” your breath is shaky as you take him in, “what’s wrong, Pope? Talk to me.” Your hands are on his face, thumbs wiping at the streaks of tears rolling down his freckled cheeks. 

The sob that leaves him makes your heart ache, and before you can think, he's pressing his face to your shoulder, crying into you. “I fucked up…” you dont hesitate to wrap your arms around him. “Bad. I fucked up, I fucked up…” he’s repeating into you. 

You're asking what's wrong in the softest tone you've ever carried for him. Your own eyes are tearing up, hands rubbing up and down at his back, trying your best to soothe him. But nothing is working. He's repeating the same phrases, calling himself a monster, that he’s going to hell after what he's done. You didn't peg him as the religious type but you can't question that now. “Shit, Pope, you aint…” you release a shaky and fearful breath, "I gotta know what you did in order to–”

His lips meet yours hastily, his salty tears mixing into the heavy kiss you're sharing. You fall into him for a moment, missing the way he felt and tasted. That familiar scotch and mint. But the sob he cries against your lips makes you crash back into reality. 

You pull your lips from his, shaking your head as you wipe him off your skin. “Pope, stop. We can't do this, you're not okay.” 

His hands are on your face, pulling you back in. “We can, we can," his voice cracks and you can't tell if it's because of how terrible he is or if he desperately needs you. “I need you… please…”

You're turning over a new leaf. You're making a move you didn't think you'd ever have the balls to make. No more trashy men, no more loneliness, and no more destructive tendencies. It’s definitely easier said than done, of course.

You realize just how fucked up you truly are when you let him press up into you, groaning as he tugs your jeans down, mouth sucking bruises into your neck. “Fuck, fuck, fuck…” your breathing is heavy as his thumb rubs at your clit. Your lips desperately search for him, moaning into his mouth when you two meet. 

You're pushed onto the couch, letting him toss your jeans to the side, panties off as well. “Wait, Pope, you don't have to–” 

He doesn't let you finish as he sucks your clit into his mouth, “I need to. Fuck, I need to…” he groans into your heat, the vibrations running through your body. “Let me have this, please,” he's begging. Not completely unusual, but the name he moans is. Since starting this tryst with him, he's always moaned out for Catherine. Instead, it's your name he's repeating as he laps away at you. 

This pushes you into your orgasm sooner than you'd like. He eats away at you like a starved man, tongue flat and drinking up every drop of you. He only pulls back when your writhing turns uncomfortable, lips glistening and staring down at you, his breathing ragged.

He doesn't seem to notice your empty apartment, tugging his cock out of his jeans. Before he can move again, you place your hand on his wrist that’s tugging at his cock. “Wait, Pope. Talk to me.”

He refuses, shaking his head, “no. just… let me fuck you, please.”

You sigh, about to deny him but you won't. Maybe you can, maybe you've finally learned how to say no to Andrew Cody. But you won't do it. Instead, you let his cock nudge into you, let him fill you up like before. You watch him carefully as his face twists up in pleasure at the grip you have on him. “Pope, I–” 

He shuts you down again, “stop, just stop. Don't ask me again.” He whimpers in your ear as he slides in and out of you, arms shaking as he holds himself up. “Tell me… tell me… please…”

You're not playing as Catherine but the only way you can tell him such a thing is by pretending to be her. You're not sure that you can act this time. Even if your feelings for him are confusing and vary on the day, you know it's not love. A fucked up version of it maybe, but you’ve debased yourself too much around him. You're unsure if you can handle more. 

The words slip out easily when a single one of his tears falls to your chest, “I l-love you, Pope. I love you, fuck, love you.”

His hips are stuttering, and he’s crying into your neck. “Promise… promise you won’t leave me too.” 

Too. That sticks out. You won’t leave me too. Someone’s left him. It’s why he’s distraught. Your legs wrap around his waist, moving him to push deeper into you. You nod, agreeing in your hazy thoughts. “Promise, I promise, Pope. I’ll never- fuck, I’ll never leave you.” 

You two cum together that night. And you hold him for hours after. He’s too wrapped up in whatever trauma he’s reeling from, to take note of your apartment. How empty it is. How you’re leaving it all behind. 

He’s facing you, thumb caressing your cheek. For the first time all night, he looks calm. At peace. “Feeling better?” You ask softly, letting yourself fall into his touch. 

His voice is rough from his previous sobbing as he answers. “Yeah, yeah… feeling better.” He presses a warm kiss to the tip of your nose, lying his forehead against yours. “Thank you… you always make me… make me feel better.” 

You hum in content, letting him hold you on your couch. “Of course, Pope. I…” you clear your throat gently. “I care about you. Whenever you want to talk about it, I’m here.” A lie. You won't be here. You’ll never be there for him. And the thought makes you want to cry. 

He falls asleep, giving you the chance to slip out of his hold. You wrap your fluffy robe around your naked body as you slide into the bathroom. 

You don’t recognize yourself. You never have, really. There are deep bags under your eyes, skin having lost that glow of yours. Not that it was ever truly vibrant but it was never this dull. You’ve never been this dull. He’s sucking the life out of you. You’re letting him suck the life out of you. 

He wants you now that someone’s left him. Now that you’ve found even a tiny semblance of footing in your life, a reason for being— he wants you. 

You wonder if this is how your mother felt late at night after a long days of letting men use her. You wonder if she went from man after man to pull away from the one she really wanted. You wonder if she ever, at least once in her cruel life, wished you’d never be crying over your bathroom sink over a man. You remembered seeing her crying like this. Hiccuping silent sobs, gripping onto her chest, as if begging her heart to stop. 

You’ve never felt closer to your mother than you do now. 

—-

Leaving for your final shift is hard. It’s not supposed to be your final shift. You have three more in the books but you can’t handle any more of this. You need to leave sooner rather than later. 

Pope is sleeping like a log when you leave, not a single finger twitching. His long nights have caught up to him, which is helping you. You’ve packed the last of your stuff in your car, nothing but wrappers and the man who’s ruined you in your apartment. 

You mess up on countless drinks behind the bar. Most of the men scold you but a handful of them pity you. You’re not sure which is worse. One too many complaints to Geronimo and he tells you to go home. He doesn’t need the hassle of an emotional server. He’s confused when you wrap your arms around him, thanking him. He shoves you off, tells you to stop being such a crybaby. 

You’re on your way to your car when Craig’s familiar voice calls out to you. You turn, smiling softly at him. “Hey, Craig.”

His eyebrows furrow, “the hell is wrong with you?” 

You realize then that you haven’t told him you’re leaving. You sigh, grip tight around your bag. “I’m leaving.” 

“Well, duh. But this is really early for you.” 

You roll your eyes, “no, I mean, I’m leaving Oceanside.” You admit, wording yourself better. 

This stuns him. “What? Why? Where?” 

You nod with a small yawn, “yeah. Uhm, I have family out in Sacramento. Came to realize that’s what I need. It’s too… lonely out here.”

It takes a second but he eventually nods, “I get it. I’d go crazy without mine. When are you leaving?”

You glance down at your phone, it’s almost five and all you need to do is fill up your car and go. “Right now, actually.” 

“Geez,” he nudges your shoulder. “Late notice.” He pauses and the smile he shares with you is genuine. “Take care of yourself out there, ballerina. Always got a friend if you’re ever back in the city.”

“We’re friends?” You tease, nodding. “Thank you, Craig.” But this is too sentimental for the two of you. “Want to motorboat me before I go?” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He gasps. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.” 

“I’m kidding, pervert.” You punch his arm as you walk past him. “Bye, Craig.” 

Before you can climb into the driver's seat, he asks. “Pope doesn’t know?” 

You don’t hesitate. “No. He doesn’t.” 

He lets out a troubled whistle. “Sheesh. Did he screw up that bad?”

You laugh, “nah. I did.” 

“Find that hard to believe.” 

“Yeah, well,” you climb into your car with a sigh. “You’ve never had sex with me.” 

“Not for lack of trying!” He calls out as you reverse, flipping him off. 

The tall man waves his arms dramatically as you drive off, blowing kisses as he gets smaller and smaller until you can’t see him any longer. 

It’s not the Cody you wanted a goodbye from, but you’re also content it’s not the one who's broken you.

Well, you and the men he brings home on occasion.

You spit a mouthful of foamy toothpaste into the sink and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand. “What makes you think that?”

Deran shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I was just talking to Adrian on the beach this afternoon and I noticed Craig looking at us like…I don’t even know. Just feel like he suspects something.”

You sigh, turning around to lean against the bathroom counter and crossing your arms over your chest. “Were you giving Adrian a handjob on the beach?”

“What the fuck?” He exclaims, face distorting in indignant horror. “No. Of course not. We were just talking.”

“Then Craig doesn’t know shit.” You shrug, bumping him with your shoulder as you move past him out of the small bathroom. “You’re being paranoid. Again.”

This is the third time he’s claimed that Craig is growing suspicious of his sexuality in the last month. Normally, you would have realized what he meant by Craig is onto me right away, but you’re practically brain dead after working back to back double shifts at the bar.

That’s the only logical explanation for why the following words leave your mouth.

“You should just tell Craig that we’re dating.”

You hear footsteps and laughter follow you down the hallway. “Us? Dating?” Deran snorts. “Yeah, right. Like he’d believe that.”

“Why not?” You shrug, plopping down on the couch in the living room of your shared house to turn on the television. “We live together. Spend the vast majority of our free time together. We even work together, since you bought the bar. You’re single. I’m single. A lot of people already assume we’re together. It makes sense.”

“Well, yeah, but—” He comes to an abrupt pause, like he’s racking his brain for a reason why your idea might not work. He sits down on the ottoman in front of you, forearms braced on his thighs. “Huh,” he hums, clarity blooming across his face. “Maybe it isn’t the worst idea you’ve ever had.”

“Thanks.”

You definitely had not given it any real thought before making the suggestion, but he’s right - maybe it isn’t the worst idea. At least now you’ll have a somewhat kinda true excuse when rejecting the advances of all of your bar regulars that just can’t get the hint that you aren’t interested in them.

Deran clasps his hands together in front of him. “Okay, but seriously. How would this even work? What are the rules or whatever?”

You stare at him and try not to laugh. “You’re overthinking it. There doesn’t need to be rules. We just keep doing what we’re already doing. We go out to eat sometimes, yeah? Go to the beach and the movies? Run errands together? Friends do those things, but so do couples.” You shrug. “So we just keep doing those things, and when anyone asks, we call it dating.”

“Boyfriend and girlfriend,” he clarifies.

You nod. “Boyfriend and girlfriend.”

He squints, shaking his head. “We don’t really act like boyfriend and girlfriend, though. We would need to make it believable. At least around Craig and our other friends. You know, hold hands, cuddle, maybe kiss—”

You cut him off with an exaggerated gagging nose.

“That’s a little harsh.”

You toss a throw pillow at his head that he catches just in time. “I’m fucking with you,” you laugh. “You’re right. There does need to be a little physical affection to make it believable. There’s no reason to stick our tongues down each other’s throats in front of your brothers and our friends, though.” It’s his turn to grimace dramatically at the mental image of that. “Just keep it casual. Holding hands is good, an arm around my shoulder every now and then won’t hurt, and the occasional kiss on the cheek should suffice.”

He tilts his head in consideration. Your words seem to appease some of his uncertainty, though you still get the feeling that he isn’t completely sold on the idea.

“Look, if you aren’t on board, just say so. It was just a suggestion. You won’t hurt my feelings at all if—”

“No, no,” he interjects. “It isn’t that. It’s just…” He trails off, pursing his lips in contemplation. You wait for him to continue with raised brows. “What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

You don’t have a quick-witted response for that.

That hasn’t crossed your mind in ages. You’ve been single for so long that you don’t even remember how it feels to truly want to date someone. Your last boyfriend left you with quite the sour taste in your mouth for relationships that still lingers more than two years later.

You’ve gone on the occasional first date here and there, and had a few mostly unsatisfactory hook-ups over the last couple of years, but nothing has ever come from any of them. The thought of a real relationship is at the very bottom of your list of priorities, and you can’t see that changing anytime soon.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

Deran considers that for a moment, then shrugs. “Alright. If you’re good with it, I’m good with it.” His words try to play off how much it means that you’d be willing to do something like this, but you know him. His smile and his eyes say what his mouth won’t.

You nudge his thigh with your foot. “Then congratulations, dude. You officially have a girlfriend.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope doesn’t know all that much about romantic relationships.

Not healthy ones, anyway.

He can’t say that he’s ever even been in one. At least not anything serious - nothing that didn’t fizzle out after a couple months or end in some argument that he can’t remember now.

Everything he really knows about romantic relationships comes from movies and books and the toxicity that he’s witnessed in his personal life. His mother and her goddamn three baby daddies. Baz and Cath. Craig and his ever changing girls of the month.

He can admit that these aren’t the best examples of romantic love, and maybe that’s why he’s having a hard time understanding the dynamic between Deran and his girlfriend.

There’s no screaming. No cursing each other out on a regular basis. As far as Pope can tell, the two of you never even get into minor disagreements.

And there’s no cheating.

One morning, just a few days after Pope gets out of prison, he’s making himself breakfast when he overhears Craig trying to convince Deran to go with him to a party later that night.

“Come on, man,” Craig whines. “Just swing by for a couple hours. Renn’s cousin is going to be there. You know she has a thing for you.”

Pope looks up in time to catch the disgusted grimace on Deran’s face.

“I have a fucking girlfriend, dude. You know that.”

“I keep forgetting you two are serious now,” Craig sighs. “Bring her too, then.”

When Pope meets you the very next day, he understands why Deran had seemed so repulsed at the mere suggestion of going to a party to hang out with some girl who isn’t you.

He stops dead in his tracks when he walks into the backyard and finds you laying by the pool. Strappy bikini a size too small, perfectly polished toenails, and skin glistening in the sun - he can’t help but stare at you until you realize he is standing still as a statue just feet away, watching wordlessly. You didn’t even hear him come out, your eyes closed and music pouring softly from a Bluetooth speaker.

“Shit,” you hiss as soon as you notice his presence, taken off guard. “Uhm - hey,” you laugh awkwardly, sitting up from your position on the foldable lounge chair and pausing whatever upbeat song you’re listening to. “I take it that you’re Pope? Deran told me you might be around today.”

Pope is silent for a moment as he pieces together who you are. His gaze trails over your bare shoulders and down to your thighs before looking you in the eye again.

“You’re Deran’s girlfriend?” He tries to keep his tone neutral, but he can’t hide the incredulity that slips through.

“That’s me.” Another awkward laugh, though you don’t seem offended by the question. You offer a soft smile, but he thinks something about it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Deran should be here pretty soon, but I was about to make myself some lunch. Do you…want a sandwich or something?”

He isn’t hungry. He already ate. But for some reason, he says yes anyway.

You yank on a pair of blue jean shorts over your bikini bottoms and he follows you into the house where you insist on making him a sandwich while he tries not to ogle you too hard.

(At the time, he told himself that he would have taken the opportunity to hang around any pretty girl because he had just spent three fucking years in prison. But that wasn’t it. It was you. He wanted to be around you, even after just meeting you).

“So,” you start, spreading mustard across a piece of bread with a butter knife, “Would you prefer if I called you Andrew or Pope? Deran always calls you Pope, but I guess that’s kind of a family nickname, right?”

The question takes him by surprise. He hasn’t heard anyone call him Pope much in years. It still sounds weird to hear the nickname again. It feels like it’s been forever since anyone has even called him Andrew, too - it’s mostly been “Cody” or “Inmate 87286-923” for the last three years.

He’d forgotten how his name - government name or otherwise - sounds when it isn’t being barked at him. Coming from you, both names sound like music.

You glance up when he doesn’t answer right away, your expression hesitant as if worried you said something wrong.

“Either is fine,” he answers when he remembers how to string two words together. “Call me whatever you want.”

And he meant that. He doesn’t really have a preference. He would be fine with you calling him anything, as long as you call him something - but he got the best of both worlds when you decided that you would call him Pope in the presence of his family but Andrew anytime the two of you find yourselves alone.

It isn’t the lack of fighting or infidelity that perplexes him the most, though. It’s the fact that in the now six months since he’s been back home, he’s never once seen Deran kiss you.

Only ever a peck on the cheek here and there. He’s seen his arm slung around your shoulder, and your feet propped up in his lap when the two of you lounge on the couch at Smurf’s. He’s seen you rub sunscreen on Deran’s shoulders and watched him swim around the pool with you on his back plenty of times.

But in the last half year, he’s never seen either of you kiss the other on the lips.

Not that Pope is complaining. The last thing he wants is to watch you kiss his brother. He experiences more than enough unwelcome thoughts anytime he sees the two of you so much as hold hands.

He just doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand how Deran doesn’t kiss you every chance he gets. You’re over at Smurf’s often enough that he should have witnessed it at least once by now.

He hates that he even pays attention to such a thing. It’s really not any of his business how you two choose to show your affection, but he can’t help the way he feels the slightest jolt of jealousy when you kiss Deran on the forehead anytime you’re leaving Smurf’s - and then relief that’s all it is. A kiss on the forehead and nothing more.

Because if you were his - and he’s painfully aware of the fact that you’re very much not - he wouldn’t be able to keep his hands off you as easily as Deran does.

It takes everything in him to stop himself as is.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“You look like you’re having a blast.”

The familiar voice pulls you out of your trance over the roar of rap music. You glance up from where you sit on the edge of the pool, your legs dangling over and into the lukewarm water. Pope stares down at you, his expression as neutral as ever and beer bottle in hand.

“And you look like you’re going to church instead of a pool party,” you snort. You aren’t surprised in the slightest that he’s wearing one of his typical short sleeve button-ups instead of swim trunks, but you are a little surprised that he’s here right now. Parties with dozens of half-naked shit-faced drunks aren’t really Pope’s thing.

Then again, they aren’t really your thing either, yet here you are - nursing the same piss flavored beer Deran had handed you over an hour ago as you watch him and Craig shotgun beers across the yard.

“What are you doing here?” You ask, patting the concrete beside you in invitation for him to sit down. “Where’s Lena? I thought she was with you tonight.”

“She’s at home. With the sitter.” He crouches down, albeit a little awkwardly due to the fact he’s wearing pants and shoes and can’t dip his feet into the pool like you. Even with his legs bent at the knees and his arms resting across them, he seems stiff. Uncomfortable. Like he’d rather be anywhere else than here. “I had a few things I needed to take care of before the job tomorrow.”

Ah, yes. The job. The job that you definitely don’t know anything about - as far as Smurf and the others are concerned, anyway.

You may not get involved, but you aren’t oblivious to what Pope and his family do to make money. Piecing it together hadn’t exactly been rocket science. Every time a major robbery, heist, or hit-and-run occurs within a fifty mile radius of Oceanside, Deran suddenly seems to have an abundance of cash.

What really made the pieces click into place was the time he asked you to cover his half of the rent and then mysteriously had the funds to completely pay your car off for you less than forty-eight hours later.

“Do I even wanna know where you got this money?” You ask when he hands you a thick envelope with over six thousand dollars in it. The exact amount you need to pay your car loan off.

Deran sighs. “No. You really don’t.”

The following morning, you turned on the news at work and watched coverage of a casino that got hit for over a half million just two towns over.

You aren’t a fucking idiot. His flesh and blood brother was in prison for a bank robbery at the time. Two plus two is four.

Pope’s not an idiot, either. He knows that you know. But you don’t ask questions you don’t want the answers to, and he doesn’t volunteer any information that could potentially put you in danger.

“And?” You ask, leaning back on the palms of your hands. You turn your head to look at him and find that he seems particularly interested in the beer bottle in his hand. “Did you get everything taken care of?”

A curt nod. “Everything should be good to go.”

And that’s that. You don’t pry any further.

“I would’ve watched Lena tonight if I had known,” you say lightly.

That gets him to look at you. “It’s your first night off in five days,” he says lowly, bringing the rim of the bottle to his lips. “Didn’t wanna ask that of you.”

“I wouldn't mind,” you murmur, looking away to play off the heat rising on the back of your neck at the realization that he knew it was your first night off this week. “I like spending time with Lena.”

Pope hums, the corners of his lips quirking. “Yeah. She likes spending time with you, too.”

“And I’d much rather be hanging out with her than be…here right now,” you grumble as Deran and Craig emerge from the house with another keg.

“What?” Pope chirps. “You don’t think holding your boyfriend’s hair back as he pukes into Smurf’s three hundred dollar orchid is fun?”

You snort a laugh, but you can’t help the way your fingers clench around the neck of your beer bottle at the word boyfriend. “You saw that, huh?”

“At least a dozen people saw that.”

“Good,” you huff. “That’s what he gets for thinking he can drink all of that on an empty stomach.”

At that exact moment, one of Deran and Craig’s surfer buddies yells “CANNONBALL!” from the roof of the house a second before you and Pope both get drenched in pool water. You’re in a bathing suit, so no big deal - annoying, but not a big deal. Pope, on the other hand, looks like he’s seconds away from jumping in the pool and drowning the guy for soaking his jeans and button-up.

“Jesus,” you grunt. “I’m over this. Wanna get out of here?”

Pope’s expression morphs from annoyance to surprise. He glances around like he isn’t one hundred percent sure you’re talking to him. Then, you stand and offer him a hand up. He hesitates a second longer, staring in Deran’s direction before accepting your hand and getting up.

“Where’re we going?” He asks, a step behind you.

“It’s a surprise.”

It’s not a surprise. You just didn’t think that far ahead before making the proposition - you just know that you want to be somewhere else. Somewhere that you aren’t surrounded by drunk, obnoxious assholes. Somewhere that you don’t look up and see a girl practically humping some douchebag’s leg. Somewhere that you can actually relax on your first Friday off in two months.

And, for reasons that you won’t let yourself dwell on right now, somewhere that you and Pope can be alone.

Somewhere you don’t have to worry that people are looking at you and wondering why is she spending so much time with her boyfriend’s brother while her boyfriend gets plastered twenty feet away?

The answer to that is quite simple, actually. Deran isn’t really your boyfriend. But no one knows that except for you and him. Not even Pope.

As far as he and everyone else knows, you and Deran have been in a committed relationship for well over half a year now.

“Don’t you want to let Deran know that you’re leaving?” He murmurs low enough that only you hear as the two of you make your way through a throng of people near the back door to the house. Deran stands several yards away with his back to you, talking animatedly with Craig and a few of their friends. “I’m sure he’ll worry if you dip without saying anything.”

You have to refrain from laughing at that. You stop to grab your tank top and shorts off the table by the back entrance, quickly cramming your feet into your sandals. “He looks a little occupied at the moment. I’ll send him a text and let him know I decided to head out early.”

You have no real intention of doing so, but Pope doesn’t need to worry about that.

He follows you to your car, gets in the passenger seat, and doesn’t question you any further until you park your car at the first somewhat calm, quiet place that comes to mind.

A quaint cliffside pull-off overlooking the ocean on the outskirts of town. It’s no more than a ten minute drive from the Cody house, but it’s so serene that it feels hundreds of miles away. You roll down both the driver and passenger side windows before turning your car off, and for a moment the only thing you can hear is the crashing of waves against the rocks below.

“Do you come up here often?” Pope murmurs, voice filling the silence.

You shake your head, not taking your eyes off of the moonlight that dances across the water. “I used to. A long time ago. Before Deran.”

From your peripheral vision, you can tell that he’s turned his head to look at you. “How did you two meet, anyway?” He asks after an extended silence.

You huff a humorless laugh. “It’s not exactly a cute story.”

He unbuckles his seatbelt, turning to face you more fully. “Well, now I’m really curious.”

You finally look at him. He’s staring at you with that same look that you’ve been trying and failing to get a read on since the first time you met him six months ago. He looks at you now exactly how he looked at you then, that day by Smurf’s pool.

You exhale, looking back to the black horizon so you might stand a chance of regaining the ability to think clearly. “We met about three years ago. I was still dating my ex boyfriend at the time. I was working the bar one evening when my ex stumbled in drunk and decided to pick a fight with some poor guy he thought was hitting on me. I tried to intervene, and my ex shoved me so hard I fell backwards and hit my head on the counter…” You trail off, shaking your head at the memory. Pope waits silently for you to continue.

“And Deran,” you continue with a soft laugh, “was sitting just two stools down. He didn’t even hesitate. Just grabbed my ex and started beating the ever-loving fuck out of him right in the middle of the bar until he was unconscious. That wasn’t the first time my ex put hands on me but it was the last.”

You look back to Pope to find he’s still staring at you, his jaw clenched and hazel eyes sharp even in the dimly lit car. For once, you’re able to tell exactly what he’s thinking and it sends a shiver up your spine. Without even saying a word, you know that if Deran hadn’t already pulverized your ex, you’d have to stop Pope from going and doing the same.

“Anyway,” you shrug, trying to break the tension brewing in your passenger seat. “That’s how we met. Deran stayed even after the cops showed up to make sure I was okay, walked me to my car when I was leaving…and just kinda stuck around after that, I guess. Been best friends ever since.”

The last words slip out before you can stop them. Best friends. It isn’t a lie. You are best friends - have been ever since that night. But sitting here now, alone with his brother, it’s too easy for you to forget that you’re supposed to be more than just best friends.

If Pope thinks anything of your choice of words, he doesn’t point it out. “Sounds like it was a good thing he was there that night,” he says lowly, his voice clipped. “I’m glad you got away from that.”

You give a small nod. “Yeah. Me too.”

“And Deran…” He starts, trailing off until you glance at him. “He’s good to you?”

You blink, taken off guard by the question. “Deran?” You snort. “Yeah, he’s…I mean, he’s Deran.” You shrug. “He doesn’t show up shit-faced at my job and pick fights with random men, if that’s what you’re asking.”

You laugh, but Pope doesn’t. “No,” he says slowly. “I’m asking if he makes you happy.”

You swallow. The space inside your car suddenly seems infinitely smaller. Even with the windows rolled down, it feels suffocating.

It’s a simple question. It should have a simple answer.

“Yeah,” you breathe. You force a tightlipped smile that feels completely unnatural. “Of course. Like I said, he’s my best friend.”

Those fucking words again. It’s as if you physically can’t stop yourself from saying them. Best friend, best friend, best friend. Not partner, not boyfriend, not lover. Just best friend.

The most fucked up part is that if it were anyone else sitting here beside you, you know you could force yourself to spew some fabricated bullshit about how in love you are. About how Deran makes you the happiest girl in the world and you’re going to spend the rest of your lives together.

But not Pope. Pope, who you most wish you could blurt out the truth to. Pope, who looks at you so intensely that you have to wonder if he can read your mind and already knows.

“Best friend,” he repeats. It doesn’t sound like a question. “That’s sweet.”

The silence that follows is brief but heavy. Then, your phone chimes with a text message, and you’ve never felt more grateful for an interruption in your life.

“It’s Deran,” you mumble, typing back a quick reply. “Just making sure I’m alright.” You press send, then place your phone back in an empty cup holder. “I should probably get home,” you sigh before Pope has the chance to press the subject of you and Deran any further. “I’ve gotta open the bar in the morning.”

He nods, but there’s something about the look on his face that makes you hesitate. You squint at him. “What?”

Pope shakes his head, the ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nothing.”

It doesn’t hit you until later - when you’re lying in bed and failing miserably to keep your thoughts from wandering to Pope Cody - that Deran wouldn’t have texted to ask if you were alright if you had messaged him to let him know that you were leaving the party like you had told Pope you were going to.

That peculiar look on Pope’s face that you hadn’t understood at the time suddenly makes sense to you. He had realized, in that moment, that you never bothered to text Deran and tell him you were leaving.

And what kind of girlfriend doesn’t even take two seconds to let her boyfriend know she’s leaving a party they’re both at?

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope barely slept a wink last night.

He spent half the night going over the details for today’s heist, and the other half replaying and overanalyzing everything you had said during the short time spent together in your car.

One question. Pope had asked you one fucking question. How did you two meet, anyway?

And you had answered him - somehow leaving him with even more questions than before you whisked him away from the party and took him to some remote cliffside pull-off on the outskirts of town.

Questions he can’t ask quite so casually.

Why didn’t you say goodbye to Deran when we were leaving the party? Why do you seem so reluctant to call him your boyfriend? Why didn’t you text him like you said you were going to?

Add those to the list of questions he already had - the biggest of which being why doesn’t he ever kiss you like I fucking want to kiss you?

He may not have the answers to those questions, but he knows one thing: he’s not crazy.

Well, he supposes that’s debatable. A lot of people would argue otherwise. But he’s not imagining things. Not this time. It’s not just wishful thinking on his part. There’s more than meets the eye to your and Deran’s relationship.

Maybe you don’t feel for Pope what he feels for you. But he doesn’t think you feel it for Deran, either.

But he can’t dwell on that anymore right now. Not when Lena’s babysitter is texting him one hour before he’s supposed to leave for a huge job to tell him that she had something unexpected come up and can’t watch Lena tonight.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he grumbles under his breath. He’s got less than an hour to figure out somewhere safe for Lena to stay tonight.

The last thing he wants is to leave her with Smurf and give her the satisfaction of being needed for anything, and he wouldn’t trust Nicky or Renn either one to watch a fucking dog - so he packs Lena an overnight bag and heads to find one of the only people on the planet that he truly trusts with her.

He breathes a small sigh of relief when he pulls into the parking lot of the bar and sees your car.

“What are we doing here?” Lena asks from the backseat.

“I have to go to work,” he explains gently. “Allison is busy tonight so we’re here to see if you can hang out with uncle Deran’s girlfriend for a while.” He turns around to look at Lena - she’s staring at him with those wide doe eyes that Pope has gotten used to seeing filled with disappointment. “Is that okay with you?”

Lena nods, her face perking up a bit.

Pope had figured she wouldn’t mind. He hadn’t been lying when he told you that Lena enjoys spending time with you. Really, he’d far rather Lena spend time with you than her regular babysitter, but he knows that for whatever reason, you enjoy your job.

(He would be more than willing to pay you significantly more than what you make as a bartender, but that’s besides the point).

Lena practically runs towards you the second that she sees you wiping down a corner booth in the nearly empty bar. Pope trails a few feet behind, carrying her overnight bag on his shoulder. He watches as you glance up when Lena calls your name. You instantly open your arms to her, letting her jump into your embrace. The smile on your face when you realize it’s her lights up the whole damn dingy room, Pope thinks.

You and Pope lock eyes with Lena still in your arms. Your gaze lands on the bright pink bag hanging off of his shoulder, and he looks at you apologetically. Without him even saying a word, he can tell that you already know exactly why he and Lena are here.

“Hey, are you hungry?” You ask Lena, placing her back down on the floor. “You want some cheesy fries?” She nods, a somewhat shy but excited smile growing on her face. “I’ll get you cheesy fries and a lemonade. Just go sit in that little booth while I talk to your uncle Pope for a minute, okay?”

Pope waits until Lena is out of earshot before speaking lowly. “I’m sorry,” he starts, but you’re already shaking your head. “Her sitter canceled at the very last second. I’ve gotta meet Deran and Craig in less than an hour. I just don’t wanna leave her with Smurf—”

“Andrew,” you interrupt him, effectively ending his rambling by simply saying his first name. “It’s okay. Really. I’m only working opening shift today, so I get off soon. It isn’t a big deal.”

Pope glances to where Lena sits in the corner booth, watching something on her iPad, and then back to you. “You’re sure?”

“Of course,” you say, soft but sure. You hold out a hand to take Lena’s bag. “Do what you need to do. Me and Lena will find something fun to do this evening.”

He hesitates a second longer, then hands you the bag. “There’s some money in the side pocket for you two to get dinner.” Then, lowly so the few people sitting at the bar can’t hear, “I should be back no later than eleven o’clock, max. Her bedtime is usually eight but it’s Saturday, so she can stay up a little bit later, if she wants. It’s up to you.”

You smirk. “I’ll try not to keep her up too late.”

He can’t help but think that you look so fucking pretty right now. Even in a simple black t-shirt with the bar’s logo and a server’s apron on. He wonders if Deran has told you how pretty you look today.

Or if Deran has even seen you today. Knowing him, he likely crashed at Smurf’s after the party or stayed out until the sun came up and was too hungover to wake up when you left for work.

“She’ll be fine,” you assure him delicately, seemingly taking his silence for hesitation. “Take your time and just…be safe, okay?” You look like you want to say more, but you bite your bottom lip, crossing your arms over your chest.

Pope gives a brief nod. “I will.”

He starts to walk past you to say goodbye to Lena when you grab him by the forearm. His gaze drops to where your hand grips him and then back up to your worried eyes.

“Promise me,” you whisper. “You won’t take any unnecessary risks. You won’t do anything to get yourself locked back up. Or worse.”

There’s a small, petty part of him that wants to ask if you made Deran make you a similar promise. But he knows how mean that would sound, and he knows he would regret it as soon as the words left his lips.

He settles for a simple I promise instead.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Spending time with Lena doesn’t feel like spending time with a child. It’s more like spending time with an adult trapped in a child’s body.

She’s more reserved and guarded than any seven year old should ever have to be. Hesitant to get close to anyone for fear that they’ll be the next person that she loses.

It never takes you too long to bring her out of her shell, though. All you had to do was ask if she wanted to go get her nails done, and glimpses of the bright little girl beneath the trauma began to peek through.

Any color she wants, you had told her. Multiple colors. A different color for each finger and toenail. She had said that would look silly - ultimately choosing a bright yellow for her toes and a baby pink for her fingernails.

When you asked if she wanted to come back for another manicure in a few weeks, she looked like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to be excited. She hesitated, asking “really?” in a tiny voice that broke your heart.

You had assured her you were confident that her uncle Pope wouldn’t mind.

Afterwards, it started to rain, so your original plan to take her to the beach got scrapped. You had been driving down the road, trying to brainstorm something else to do to pass the time for a couple hours, when you drove past an arcade that you hadn’t been to in years.

Lena hadn’t, either.

Air hockey, skee ball, Whac-A-Mole, pinball, and every claw machine in the building. With all of her tickets (and yours), she picked out a small stuffed bunny that she is now cuddling in your bed - fast asleep, with a belly full of the pizza that you picked up on your way home.

You tucked her into your bed hours ago and she fell asleep within minutes. You wish you could say the same for yourself.

Right now, it’s a quarter til midnight and you’re trying your hardest not to spiral - and the fact that Pope had said he would be back no later than eleven o'clock and you’ve yet to hear a word from him, Deran, or anyone else is only the second half of the reason why.

The first half is an innocent observation made by a seven year old.

“Why are you uncle Deran’s girlfriend and not uncle Pope’s girlfriend?”

You nearly spit out your drink at the question. It’s so random that at first, you think you must have heard her wrong. The two of you are sitting on your living room couch, eating dinner and watching some cute animated movie on Netflix that Lena chose.

“What - why do you ask that?” You laugh.

She isn’t even looking at you, her attention on the screen in front of her. She gives a small shrug and glances at you. “I don’t know,” she says in a small voice. “Sometimes I just wish you were uncle Pope’s girlfriend instead. Is that bad?”

What the hell are you supposed to say to that? Yeah kid, I wish that, too. All the time, actually. But your uncle Deran is actually gay and if I break up with him to get with his fucking brother then people are going to assume that Pope stole his girl and that I cheated on him. But I can’t say that I didn’t actually cheat on him, because then we’d have to admit to the fact that our relationship has been fake this entire time, and Deran would have to come out before he’s ready, and and and—-

Lena is staring at you.

“No,” you say softly. “I don’t think that’s bad. Sometimes we can’t help what we want. But…you don’t have to wish for your uncle Pope and I to be boyfriend and girlfriend. If you want the three of us to spend more time together, or if you want you and I to spend more time together, we can try to make that happen.”

“It’s not that,” she says meekly, looking down at her hands in her lap.

You tuck a lock of her hair behind her ear. “Then what is it, kiddo?”

She hesitates for a moment. You’re going to drop the subject, because ultimately, it doesn’t really matter - what she wants or what you want - but then she opens her mouth.

“Uncle Deran doesn’t look at you the way uncle Pope does.” She looks up at you with those wide, earnest eyes. It’s at this moment that you have to remind yourself that she has no true blood relation to Pope - because just like him, you think she can see right through you. “And you don’t look at uncle Deran the way you look at uncle Pope.”

“Wow,” you laugh, a little too quickly. “Remind me to never play poker with you.” She scrunches her brows together in confusion. Then, you scoot a bit closer to her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder. “Grown-ups are complicated sometimes. But I promise you don’t need to worry about me, or Uncle Pope, or uncle Deran. That’s between us. All that matters is that we all love you. Okay?”

She nods, accepting that answer far more easily than you expect. She doesn’t press, doesn’t question, just leans into your embrace and goes back to watching her movie.

But her words continue to echo in your mind hours after she has fallen asleep and the small house has gone quiet.

Are you really so transparent that a fucking seven year old can read you like that? And if she’s right about the way you look at Pope…could she be right about the way he looks at you, too?

You’ve never let yourself think about it long enough for it to matter. Pope has never been a possibility.

Even if you wish he was.

And then there’s the more obvious and pressing matter at hand - it’s nearly midnight and you have no idea if the boys are okay.

None of them are answering their phones. After Pope and Deran, you even try to call Craig. All go straight to voicemail. You even send Nicky a short, inconspicuous text - simply asking if she’s heard from J. She has not.

You force yourself to put your phone down after that. If their phones are turned off, there’s nothing else you can do for the time being except wait.

You don’t even realize you’ve dozed off until the sound of a car door slamming shut jolts you awake.

You practically sprint to the door, unlocking and opening it before they have a chance to wake Lena up. Your knees almost give out in relief when you see both Deran and Pope standing upright, walking up the front porch steps.

Then you see a cut across Deran’s cheekbone.

“Oh my god,” you breathe, stepping outside. You reach out on instinct, your fingers hovering over the dried blood smeared across his skin. It’s not deep, but it’s ugly. “Are you okay?”

“It’s nothing,” he mutters, brushing it off but letting you inspect the wound. “It’s already stopped bleeding—”

You can’t help but glance past him to where Pope still stands at the top of the porch steps a few feet away. Your eyes are instantly drawn to a large stain on the side of his shirt, just under his ribcage. Dark red and wet looking. Undeniably blood.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, already stepping past Deran without thinking. “Jesus, what happened to you?”

Before you can think twice, your hands are on him, tugging his shirt up. Your stomach drops when you see the bloody gash across his ribs.

“You got shot,” you hiss.

“I got grazed,” he corrects gently, watching you with an unreadable expression. “I promised you I wouldn’t do anything to get locked up or worse, right? I didn’t break that promise. This is just a flesh wound.”

Behind you, Deran clears his throat. “Don’t worry about me, babe. I’m totally fine. In case you were concerned.”

“I know you’re fine, Deran. You’re not the one bleeding onto our porch.”

Deran is silent for a moment as you crouch down to get a better look at the still-oozing wound on Pope’s side. Then, he sighs, muttering something about going to take a shower.

“Don’t wake Lena up,” you call over your shoulder in a whisper-shout as he disappears into the house without another word.

And then it’s just you and Pope. Pope, with his abdomen still halfway exposed and blood dripping down his side.

“Come on,” you tell him. “Let’s get you patched up.”

He follows you into the house without any protest.

“Shirt off,” you command without looking at him as you gather whatever you can find from around the kitchen and small hallway bathroom.

You’re a bartender - not a doctor. Not a nurse. Not even a CNA. But you have been best friends with Deran Cody for a couple years now, so this isn’t your first time having to patch up a gaping, bloody wound.

It is, however, your first time patching up Pope.

Urgent care or the ER is out of the question, so you have to make do with what you have. A clean washcloth, hydrogen peroxide, Neosporin, gauze pads and tape.

Pope takes a silent seat on the couch and lets you examine the wound up close when you sit down beside him. You hear Deran turn on the shower from the master bathroom down the hallway as you begin wiping the mostly dried blood off of his skin with a damp washcloth.

“So,” you start, your face warming under his stare, “other than the obvious, did everything go okay? Are Craig and J alright?”

“Yeah,” Pope grunts. “They’re fine. Me and Deran got the worst of it.”

“Clearly,” you grumble. “Should’ve made you promise specifically to not get shot.” You glance up at him. “I’ll remember that next time.”

He looks down to where you carefully clean the skin of his abdomen. “How was Lena?” He murmurs. “Did she behave for you?”

“Of course,” you snort. “She always does. We had fun. Got our nails done, went to the arcade, got pizza for dinner, watched a movie about a fox and a bunny who are cops…”

“Wow. Sounds like your evening was far more relaxing than mine.” He pauses. “Did you use the money I put in Lena’s bag?”

You roll your eyes but don’t look away from the task at hand. “Yeah. Five hundred dollars was more than enough for dinner, you know.”

He lets out a low, rough laugh at that. You feel it more than you hear it. It rumbles through his chest beneath your hands, the muscles there jumping with the motion of it. Your eyes drift without meaning to, suddenly very aware of how close you’re sitting to him and the steady rise and fall of his bare, bulky chest only inches away. You force your attention away from the thick muscles, grabbing the hydrogen peroxide.

“This will probably sting,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. He nods, just visible enough to confirm he heard you before you carefully squirt the clear liquid over the gash.

“So, where’s she sleeping?” He asks, barely even wincing.

Your brows scrunch together. “In my bedroom?”

A pause. “And where were you sleeping?” You’re too distracted, and too tired, to pick up on the subtle, curious shift in his tone. With one hand, he pats one of your pillows that you had brought from your room along with a large throw blanket to assemble a makeshift bed on the couch. “Here?”

“Yeah?” You snort. “I let Lena sleep in my bedroom and I took the couch…”

“I thought this place had two bedrooms.”

You shake your head, still not entirely sure what he’s getting at. “It does. My room and Der…”

The words die in your throat. You completely freeze as you blot the clean wound dry with a paper towel.

Shit.

Your room…and Deran’s room.

“I mean—” You clear your throat, tossing the paper towel aside and grabbing the tube of Neosporin and a gauze pad to avoid looking him in the eye while your brain is scrambling to think of some excuse as to why a happy couple would be sleeping in separate bedrooms. You say the very first thing that comes to mind. “Deran snores. Like, really loud. And I’m a light sleeper, so…sometimes I crash in the guest room. It was my bedroom before we started dating.”

It’s a shit excuse. It doesn’t at all address why you didn’t just sleep in your and Deran’s shared bedroom tonight, but it’s the best you can come up with on the spot - with him staring at you like he can read your mind.

Pope doesn’t respond right away. You can practically feel his eyes on you, daring you to look up.

“I didn’t know that Deran snores,” he muses lowly.

Does Deran actually snore? Maybe? Sometimes?

You tear off a piece of cheap medical tape you found in the first aid kit. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one who shares a bed with him.”

The room feels impossibly small and suffocating. You hold the gauze pad up to the wound, your hands trembling more than you’d like as you try to make quick work of securing the bandage to his side.

You start to pull away, to tell him that should be good enough for now, to leave the room and attempt to regain your composure after all but blatantly admitting that your relationship is a sham, when Pope grabs your wrist.

At first, he says nothing. Just stares at you, as intense and unyielding as ever. His hand dwarfs your own, his skin like wildfire against yours.

You know you should pull away - should try your hardest to convince him that yes, of course your brother and I sleep in the same bed. Why wouldn’t we? We’re boyfriend and girlfriend. That’s what boyfriends and girlfriends do when they live together—

But all the words catch and pile up in your throat, making you feel like you’re going into anaphylactic shock.

“No, I don’t share a bed with him,” Pope drawls. “But you don’t share a bed with him, either. Do you?”

Your mouth goes dry. There’s no point in even trying to deny it. The truth may as well be written across your forehead.

Pope releases your wrist. You almost think he’s going to let it go - that he isn’t going to press this subject right here, right now, where Deran could so easily overhear. Instead, his hand settles on the exposed skin of your thigh, just above your knee. His calloused thumb applies just enough pressure to the flesh of your inner thigh to make your stomach knot.

“Not only do I think you don’t share a bed,” he murmurs, voice rough, “but I also think you don’t like calling him your boyfriend very much either, for some reason.”

Your heart is beating so hard you’re sure he can feel it through your skin. His hand slides the slightest bit higher.

“And I don’t think he kisses you,” he continues, leaning closer. “At least not the way I think about kissing you.”

Air leaves your lungs in a shaky breath. Your eyes drop to his lips before you can stop yourself.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath.

Your hand moves before your brain can catch up, coming up to cup his jaw. The rough scrape of stubble against your palm sends a shiver down your spine as your lips hover no more than an inch away from his.

He’s shirtless and wounded. Lena’s sleeping in the next room and Deran is showering just down the hall. You’re supposed to be in a relationship with his brother, but right now you can’t remember why you ever thought that was a good idea.

Right now, you don’t really give a shit about any of that because Pope is right. He’s right about it all. You and Deran don’t share a bed. You do struggle calling him your boyfriend. He doesn’t kiss you, and you don’t kiss him.

Never have. Not in the way that every fiber of your being screams to kiss Pope right now.

“No.”

You aren’t quite sure whether he kisses you or you kiss him. You just know within seconds of your lips touching his, the restraint that you’ve been fighting to maintain for months crumbles. His mouth moves against yours with the kind of urgency that both shows and tells just how much he’s been holding himself back all this time, too.

He exhales against your lips, one hand coming up instinctively to grip your waist while the other tightens on your thigh. The pull of it drags you closer to him on the couch and before you know it, you’re straddling his lap, your hands braced on his broad, freckled shoulders for balance. He fists the hem of your t-shirt, bunching the fabric at your waist just enough for his knuckles to graze the exposed skin of your sides.

The unmistakable flavor of menthol on his tongue from a cigarette he undoubtedly smoked on the drive home with Deran tells you that he couldn’t have predicted this happening right now anymore than you could have.

Your fingers glide over the planes of his shoulders and up the sides of his neck until they weave through his short brunet curls that you’ve longed to run your hands through for longer than you care to admit. You give a gentle tug to the hair at the base of his skull and the sound that vibrates from deep within his chest shoots straight to your core.

It’s nothing short of a miracle that your brain is somehow able to register that Deran has turned the shower off.

As much as it equally physically and emotionally pains you to do so, you scramble off of Pope’s lap, adjusting your t-shirt back into a proper position and wiping any evidence of his kiss from your mouth with the back of your hand. As you scoot to the opposite end of the couch from him, you can’t help but take in the current state of him - lips kiss swollen, chest and neck flushed pink, and clad only in the pair of jeans that he attempts to adjust to conceal the bulge you were able to feel through your sleep pants.

If it weren’t for the fact that you can hear Deran exiting the bathroom at this precise moment, you don’t think you’d be able to stop yourself from taking him right here on this couch.

And that’s a very dangerous thought.

Deran enters the living room wearing only a pair of basketball shorts, sandy blond hair still dripping and his own skin flushed pink for reasons entirely different from Pope. Luckily, he barely spares a glance in your direction, walking past you and Pope to get to the kitchen.

“Bleed out on my couch yet? Or are you gonna make it?” Deran calls from where he rummages through an open fridge. You look to Pope, mentally urging him to play off what had just transpired not even ten seconds before Deran walked in the room.

He doesn’t. He stares at the back of Deran’s head, his jaw clenched so tight that you’re surprised he doesn’t break a tooth.

You answer before the silence can turn (more) weird.

“He’s patched up well enough for now,” you say, voice unnaturally high. Then, as casually as you can manage, “there’s leftover pizza from dinner in there, if you’re hungry.”

“Sick,” Deran grunts. “What about you, man? You hungry?”

You raise your brows at him, shooting him a look that clearly says fucking answer him, act normal, I swear to God if you don’t eat that leftover pizza—

He doesn’t take his eyes off of you when he answers with a singular, emotionless word. “Starving.”

Deran has no reaction, but something about the way he says it while looking at you makes it feel like the back of your neck is on fire.

You clear your throat. “Well, I have to open in the morning, so I should probably get some sleep…” You turn to Pope, trying not to completely melt under his stare. “Um - Lena can just sleep here tonight, if you don’t wanna wake her up this late. You can come back and get her in the morning, or you sleep here on the couch if you want—”

It won’t kill you to actually share a bed with Deran for one night. He is your best friend, after all.

“No, that’s okay.” He shakes his head and reaches for the blood soaked shirt on the coffee table. “It’s probably best if I come back in the morning.” He doesn’t elaborate as he starts to put the stained button-up back on.

“At least let me give you one of Deran’s t-shirts to wear for the time being. That thing is covered in blood.” You don’t wait for a response before you’re rising from the couch and walking down the hallway to Deran’s bedroom.

The second the door shuts behind you, you lean against it - fingertips touching your bottom lip that still tingles from where his mouth had moved so desperately with yours. You take a few deep, steadying breaths before you’re able to force yourself to look for a clean t-shirt in the absolute shit show that is Deran’s bedroom.

Part of you feels relieved that Pope is insisting on coming back to get Lena in the morning so that you won’t have to actually sleep in this mess. As much as you love Deran, you can’t say with confidence that he’s changed his bedsheets anytime in the last six months.

Another part of you is glad that Pope won’t be occupying your couch tonight because you know you wouldn’t stand a chance of getting a decent night’s sleep if he were a mere short walk down the hallway.

At least when Pope leaves you can take the couch and try to process the fact that you straddled his lap, stuck your tongue in his mouth and felt the very obvious evidence of his arousal with only walls separating the two of you from Deran and Lena.

You rummage through Deran’s closet until you find the first t-shirt that passes a sniff test while trying not to spiral until you’re fully alone.

“Here’s a t-shirt. If you want to leave your shirt I can try to get the blood out of it—”

You look around the small living room and kitchen to find that Pope is nowhere to be found. Deran leans against the counter, taking a bite of a slice of leftover pizza.

“Where’s Pope?”

Deran shrugs. “I heated a piece of pizza up for him but he muttered something about going home and dipped.”

“He’s the one wearing a bloody shirt, not me,” you sigh, tossing the t-shirt onto the couch and trying to play off the disappointment you feel at his sudden departure.

“Do you think he was acting kinda strange?”

Your stomach flip flops at the question. You can’t bring yourself to look Deran in the eye, so you take your place on the couch once more, your back turned to him. “I mean, he did technically get shot. I guess anyone would be a little on edge after that.”

The excuse feels sour on your tongue, but it’s all you’ve got.

“I guess,” he agrees with a mouthful of pizza. An awkward pause. “Seemed fine enough on the drive here, though.”

You shrug, grateful that Deran can’t see your face at the moment. “Probably just a combination of blood loss and an adrenaline crash after the job. How did that go, by the way?”

Much to your relief, Deran doesn’t press the subject of Pope any further before telling you he’s going to bed after he’s finished eating.

Unfortunately, that does very little to quiet the chaos in your mind.

When you finally turn off the lights and curl up under your blanket on the couch, you know that sleep won’t come easily. Not with the ghost of Pope’s hands still burning against the skin of your waist, not with the taste of a menthol cigarette still lingering on your tongue, and definitely not with the impossible to ignore realization that you have no earthly idea what the fuck you’re supposed to do now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has no issue being celibate. He got used to it during his three years in prison.

Then, almost immediately upon being released, his brothers all but forced him to go to a strip club for his birthday, where he ended up having the most unsatisfactory hook-up of his life. He’s sure the woman - whose name he doesn’t even remember - would say the same of the experience.

All it took was that one brief and underwhelming sexual encounter for him to decide that he would rather remain celibate than have sex that feels so…meaningless and unfulfilling.

Coincidentally or not, he had just met you when he came to that decision.

You, his baby brother’s girlfriend, who patched up his wound as if he’s made of glass one moment and then climbed onto his lap and kissed him breathless the next. You, whose lips taste so honey sweet that you got him hard with just one kiss. You, who whimpered as you broke away from him just seconds before Deran entered the room, leaving him desperate to do whatever necessary to keep drawing sounds like that from you.

It all replayed on a loop the entire drive back to his place.

The way you tasted, the feeling of your skin, and how it took every bit of his self restraint to resist laying you down just so he could feel you squirm beneath him.

He wishes he could say this is the first time that he’s thought of you as he gets himself off in the shower, but that would be a lie. It’s far from it, but it is the first time doing so knowing how it feels to have your hands in his hair and the weight of you grinding down right where he most wants you.

Tonight, it takes him no time at all - all he has to do is think of the sweet smell of your perfume and how good it felt to have your fingers in his hair while your lips moved in synchronicity with his own, and he’s finishing with a groan of your name as warm, white liquid follows the water down the drain.

When he lays down in his bed, he finds it difficult to feel guilty about any of it.

He knows that he should. He doesn’t want to hurt his brother. But he felt every ounce of how you had kissed him. There’s no doubt in his mind that you want him as bad as he wants you. That’s not something a person can fake.

Not you, anyway. Pope knows you. You aren’t a good liar.

If he believed that he was intruding on a happy, healthy relationship, he may feel a shred of remorse. But there’s no part of him that believes that to be the case.

You may care about Deran, but no part of Pope believes that you’ve ever kissed Deran the way you kissed him. You may spend most of your time with him, but Pope knows who’s really on your mind the whole time. And you may have love for his brother, but Pope is more sure than ever you aren’t in love with him.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

That morning, you wake far earlier than you need to.

Lena likes to sleep in on days she doesn’t have school, and you don’t have to be at the bar until eleven, but you still find yourself awake at the crack of dawn.

Busying yourself does little to keep your brain from wandering to Pope. You bake blueberry muffins for when Lena wakes up, start a load of laundry, and clean the kitchen and living room all while thinking about what the hell you’re going to say and do whenever he comes to get Lena.

Should you tell him that last night was a mistake and that it can’t happen again? Probably. That would make everything a lot fucking simpler. Nip it in the bud, before either of you get too invested, someone finds out, and people get hurt.

But you’re already invested. Your heart has been invested in Pope Cody since the day you met him by Smurf’s pool. Kissing him last night was just the dam finally breaking.

So what do you tell him, then? The truth? And completely betray Deran’s trust?

Other than Adrian, and a couple nameless men before him, you’re the only person he’s ever told the truth to. You are the only person he’s ever told who he hasn’t also slept with.

You’re the only person he’s ever told simply out of trust, and you won’t blatantly betray that.

You’re drinking coffee on the front porch when Pope parks in front of your house. Equal parts excitement and anticipation bloom in your gut the second that he gets out of his truck and begins walking in your direction.

He pauses when he reaches the top step. He looks at you like he isn’t sure if he’s allowed to do anything other than look at you.

“Good morning,” you hum, coffee mug pressed against your lips. “How’s your side?”

“Sore. Fine,” he murmurs, hesitantly taking the seat on the opposite side of the small patio table. “I changed the bandage this morning. Lena sleep okay?”

“She’s still snoring,” you say fondly.

“She does that,” he sighs, looking around like he’s expecting to see someone else. “Where’s your boyfriend at?”

You roll your eyes. “Your brother,” you correct, placing your mug on the table but not taking your hands off the sides just so you have something to occupy them, “is out surfing. About that, though…” You trail off, going silent. Pope waits, patient but as expressionless as ever.

Not even ten minutes ago, you swore to yourself that you’d only kiss him again if you also give him some kind of explanation that assures him you’re not actually committing infidelity by doing so.

And fuck, you really want to kiss him again, so it’s now or never.

You nod your head in the direction of the front door. “Let’s go inside.”

He quirks a brow, but doesn’t question or object as he stands to follow you into the house. When he enters, you close the door quietly so as to not wake Lena - she’s a deep sleeper, but you really need her to stay asleep for a little bit longer. Just long enough for you to get this off your chest before you chicken out.

You hesitate in the kitchen. You consider sitting down on the couch, but one vivid flashback of what happened last time the two of you sat on that couch together makes you think twice about that, and you settle for leaning against the counter with your arms crossed over your chest instead.

You’re both silent for a moment, but Pope is the first to break.

“Look, I don’t regret last night,” he says, low. He takes a tentative step towards you. “Not at all. But if you do, it’s okay. We can pretend it never happened, if that’s what you—”

“You were right.”

He freezes. Then, takes another small step, leaving only a few inches of space between you. “About which part?”

You lift your shoulders in a half shrug. “All of it. Me and Deran. We don’t share a bed. We don’t kiss. Never have. Not like you and I did. Not even close.”

He doesn’t look surprised. You didn’t expect him to. He had already said it all himself. You’re only confirming what he already believes to be true.

“I’m not in love with Dean. And he isn’t in love with me, either.”

No, he doesn’t look surprised, but you can’t help but think he does look a little bit relieved - even just to hear you say it out loud. But that tiny smidge of relief written in his features is quickly replaced with confusion.

“Then why the hell are you guys together? What am I missing?”

You look down at the floor, your stare locking onto a blueberry you had dropped while making muffins. This is the part that you know you can’t answer honestly. At least not in a way that will make sense to him. He’s going to have questions…ones that you can’t answer in complete honesty without outing Deran.

“Hey,” Pope says, voice uncharacteristically soft. He closes the remaining bit of distance between you and places a tentative hand on your waist, causing you to look up at him. He braces his other hand against the ledge of the counter that you lean against, caging you between it and his body. His hazel eyes bore into yours, searching for whatever it is that you aren’t saying. “You can talk to me. I’m just…trying to understand.”

“I know,” you whisper. You uncross your arms, placing your palms against his chest. Your gaze drops to the chipped polish on one of your fingernails.

“I do love Deran. A lot. And he loves me, too. But we aren’t in love.” You take a breath. “Our relationship is fake.”

His eyes narrow ever so slightly. “Fake.” He repeats the word, his voice unreadable.

“Mm-hm.” You nod, even though you can tell it wasn’t really a question. “Fake.”

“Why?”

You can’t help but snort a laugh at the bewilderment in his tone. You sigh, rubbing your thumb absentmindedly against the front of his shirt where your hand rests on his chest.

“I know it sounds crazy,” you admit. “But it made sense at the time.” Pope waits, silently giving you the opportunity to keep going. “It was my idea. As you know, I work at a busy bar. Men hit on me…pretty much constantly. Some don’t take no for an answer the first time. Or the second time.”

His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt.

“So being able to say that I have a boyfriend helps,” you continue with a shrug. “Most guys back off quicker if they believe there’s another man involved. And at the time…I wasn’t interested in being with anyone for real anyway. A lot of people already assumed me and Deran were together. I mean, we hang out all the time, we live together…it didn’t really come as a shock to most people.”

You pause, then add more firmly, “As for Deran…he has his own reasons for agreeing to the arrangement. But that’s for him to share, when and if he ever feels ready.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then a slow look of realization settles over his face. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” you breathe. “Oh.”

He doesn’t ask for clarification. Doesn’t push the boundary. But Pope’s smarter than most people give him credit for. You can see the gears turning behind those hazel eyes and you have no doubt he can read between the lines of what you are saying, and what you aren’t.

His grip on your waist tightens and his gaze intensifies. The air in the kitchen seems to grow heavier. “And what about now?”

Your words come out as a breathy whisper. “What do you mean?”

“You said you weren’t interested in being with anyone. What about now?”

You swallow. “Now…”

Now, you see the pretty hazel eyes that are staring at you in your dreams every night. Now, when the boys go out on jobs, you’re a mess until you know that not only Deran is okay, but Pope, too. Now, you struggle to call Deran your boyfriend when people ask, because you’re secretly wishing it was Pope you were calling your boyfriend instead. Now, you know how Pope tastes and you aren’t really sure how you managed to go so long not knowing how he tastes. Now, you’re staring at his lips and can’t remember how to form a coherent thought, much less a coherent sentence.

So instead of answering him with words, you grab his face in your hands and pull his face to yours.

For a fraction of a second, he freezes. Then, when your tongue sweeps his bottom lip, a sound releases from deep in his chest and he’s kissing you back. He’s kissing you back like Deran won’t be home any given moment and Lena won’t be waking up any minute now.

His hands rub up and down your sides and yours go to his hair, subconsciously remembering how much he seemed to like your fingers tugging on his curls last night. His lips part for you, his tongue quick to dance with yours. He brings one hand to cup your jaw, tilting your head to deepen the kiss.

Everything that follows happens fast. One second, you’re leaning against the counter kissing, and the next, he’s easing your sleep shorts and panties down your thighs and lifting you onto the edge of the counter before kneeling in front of you.

“Andrew,” you breathe. He takes a calf in each calloused hand, parting your legs just far enough to plant kisses on your inner thighs, the light stubble on his jaw tickling the sensitive skin. “We can’t—Lena’s right down the hallway—”

“It’s gonna be fine,” He murmurs the words against your skin in between trailing kisses up your thighs. He stops when his face is only a few inches from your exposed cunt, looking up at you in a way that makes you fight against the urge to clench your thighs around his head.

“Just stay quiet. Can you do that for me?”

You nod. You nod because you know if you speak, you’ll sound every bit as eager and desperate as you are. Three damn years that you’ve been single, and the last time you even had so much as a disappointing one night stand was months before you and Deran began your fake relationship, so it goes without saying that…touch-starved is a bit of an understatement.

You could have fucked someone at any point if you had wanted to. God knows Deran has. But the truth is, you haven’t wanted to. The last few hook-ups you had prior to you and Deran getting “together” had been so underwhelming that you’ve been repulsed at the thought of sex for the longest time.

Then you met Pope. And now here you are, with his head between your legs in the middle of your kitchen.

He all but moans into you when his lips settle over the bundle of nerves at the apex of your folds. You fight the urge to surge forward, bracing yourself on the countertop with one hand as the other shoots to his hair. You have to purse your lips tightly to keep from releasing the noises that threaten to pour from your throat as he tentatively explores you with his mouth.

Strong arms wrap around your thighs, supporting you from below. His fingers dig into the flesh with just enough pressure that you know you’ll later be able to feel tiny, tender bruises in the exact spots where his fingertips press into your skin.

You glance down at him. It’s the kind of sight that would bring you to your knees if you weren’t already perched on the edge of the countertop - the kind of sight that makes you grateful that he’s helping support your weight right now because it turns your legs to jelly.

His eyes are closed and he’s lost in you - alternating between soft strokes of his tongue up your center and sucking your clit between his pretty lips that are wet with you.

Heat rapidly pools low in your belly and your thighs flex around the sides of his head as you inch closer and closer to release. You croon his name, instantly slapping your own hand over your mouth as soon as the word slips out. He chuckles low against you, the vibration of it shooting through you.

The familiar feeling of a hot coil dangerously close to snapping begins to overtake your senses. Your eyes snap shut and your head rolls back, bracing for the climax that is seconds away from washing over you—

Deran’s voice. Craig’s obnoxious fucking laugh. Both coming from directly outside the house.

“Fuck,” you hiss, ignoring the screaming ache between your legs and practically pushing Pope off you. “Fuck, where’s my—”

Pope reacts even quicker than you. He’s grabbing your sleep shorts and panties from where they lay on the floor, shoving your feet into the holes of both at the same time. He stands, face flushed pink and glistening with your slick, and then darts down the hallway without a word, leaving you to pull your clothing into place just moments before Deran and Craig enter the house in their wetsuits.

You turn in the opposite direction of them, unable to look either one in the eye. You grab the hand towel in front of you and pretend to busy yourself with an imaginary spill on the counter.

“Morning,” Deran calls as he makes a beeline for the fridge. “Smells good in here.”

You clear your throat. “Oh, yeah. I made blueberry muffins. They’re on the dining table. Help yourselves.” Your voice comes out too high-pitched and you mentally recoil.

“Where’s Pope?” Craig asks. “I saw his truck out front.”

“Yeah, he’s here,” you say, forcefully casual. You turn to face them, leaning against the counter and hoping your face looks neutral. “He’s in the bathroom. Or…waking Lena up, maybe. Not sure.”

Really smooth, idiot.

Craig nods in response, seemingly oblivious as he grabs a muffin from the tin on the dining room table.

“What are you guys doing back so early?” Then, fearing the questions sounds more accusatory than curious, you add, “I figured you’d be in the water until lunch time.”

A…curious? Suspicious? Look comes over Deran’s face as he takes a step toward you, leaning in to place a hand on your waist and a kiss on your cheek. “We’re gonna go back out. Just wanted to grab a quick bite to eat.” He retreats, joining Craig at the table. “That okay with you?”

Your cheeks warm and you force a laugh. “Yeah, of course.”

For the next few minutes, you attempt to keep yourself busy by unloading clean dishes from the dishwasher. And by attempt to keep yourself busy, you actually mean try to ignore how uncomfortably sticky wet your underwear are.

After what feels like forever but in actuality was likely no more than ten minutes, Pope and Lena appear from the hallway.

“Hey Lena,” Craig greets her with a smile. Then, eyes trailing over Pope he adds, “How you feeling, man? Heard that bullet grazed you pretty damn good last night.”

Pope shrugs, face giving nothing away. “Never been better.”

The three of them converse while eating, but you can’t help but notice the way that Pope barely says a word to Deran. Hardly even looks at him, really. You try to tell yourself that he’s just being…well, Pope, but deep down you know it’s the fact that he had his fucking tongue buried inside you seconds before Deran got home.

And even though Pope knows that Deran isn’t actually your boyfriend, they’re still brothers. He’s still lying to his brother, and that can’t come easily.

It doesn’t come easily to you, either. Even just being here in this room with all of them right now, you feel like if you open your mouth, you’re surely going to blurt out the truth.

“Everything okay with you?” Deran asks, pulling you out of a trancelike state.

You had been staring at Pope’s side profile.

“Me? I’m fine,” you answer a bit too quickly. “I didn’t get much sleep last night. Not looking forward to this shift today.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence, which Pope is the first to break. “Lena? Isn’t there something you wanted to ask?”

You glance from Pope to Lena. She’s staring at Pope with a shy smile on her face, like she isn’t totally sure if she wants to speak or not.

“Go on,” Pope encourages. “You can ask her.”

She looks at you…and then briefly at Deran before back to you once more. “Do you and uncle Deran want to come to my house for dinner tonight?”

You can’t stop your eyes from going wide at the question. You aren’t sure what you were expecting, but Pope encouraging Lena to ask you and Deran over for dinner wasn’t anywhere on the list of possibilities.

Your foot twitches with the urge to kick Pope from beneath the table.

“Oh—”

“Ah, I’m sorry, Lena,” Deran interrupts you. “I’d love to come over but I have to cover a shift at the bar tonight because we’re short staffed.” Deran looks at you, brows slightly raised. “But you’re more than welcome to go, if you want.”

Lena’s looking at you hopefully. “Uncle Pope’s going to make spaghetti.”

“Oh, is he?” You quip, glancing at Pope, who has been staring at you the whole time with an impassive expression. “Well, I do love spaghetti. Of course I’ll come.”

That earns a toothy grin from Lena, and something like a smirk from Pope.

Dinner. It’s just dinner. Lena will be there. And Deran knows about it, too. Even gave you his blessing to go, so it’s not like you’re being secretive.

Dinner is good. Dinner is fine. So why is your heart racing at the thought of it?

When Pope and Lena say their goodbyes and head out to his truck, you spot the small purple bunny that Lena had won at the arcade last night on the kitchen counter. You could just bring it with you to dinner tonight and give it back to her then, but you’re going to take this as an opportunity to interrogate Pope.

By the time you slip on your flip flops and run outside, Lena is already buckled into the backseat and Pope is opening the driver’s door.

“Wait a sec!” You call. He freezes, looking back over his shoulder. “She forgot this.” You toss him the bunny and he catches it. You wait for him to shut the door before you speak again. “What the hell was that?”

“What was what?” He starts to take a step closer to you, but stops himself after a quick glance in the direction of the house.

“That,” you whisper-hiss. “Inviting me and Deran to dinner after eating me ou—” Now it’s your turn to stop yourself. You shake your head. “You’re lucky he’s busy at the bar tonight.”

Pope smirks, the apples of his cheeks turning pink as he appears to be fighting off laughter. “I already knew that Deran is busy tonight. He was complaining last night about being understaffed and having to work tonight.”

“Oh. That’s…oh. That makes sense.”

He shrugs. “Just figured it would be less weird if Lena invited both of you.”

You cock a brow. “So you put her up to that, then?”

“I needed an excuse to see you tonight,” he says simply, opening the door to his truck again. “Do you…actually like spaghetti?”

You laugh, your face warming at the hopefulness in his voice. “Yeah. Spaghetti’s good.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

“What happens when you meet someone? Someone you want to be with for real?”

The question Deran asked in response to you proposing a fake relationship nine months ago has echoed in your mind all day long. From the moment that Pope and Lena pulled out of your driveway this morning, throughout your shift at the bar, the entire time you’re getting ready to go over to their place for dinner, and with every bite of spaghetti, the question rings louder and louder.

“In the rather unlikely event that happens, then we simply end our romantic endeavor. We’re still best friends. No harm done. Sound good?”

At the time, it did sound good. It sounded so simple. But you never could have predicted that the person you would meet, the person you would want to be with for real, would be his damn brother.

What kind of luck is that? To genuinely fall for someone for the first time in years and it happens to be your best friend’s brother?

No harm done. You can only fucking hope - hope that Deran doesn’t feel betrayed, hope that he still wants to be your friend, and hope that he isn’t angry with Pope whenever you tell him.

Because you are going to tell him. Soon. You’re just still trying to figure out exactly what it is you’re going to tell him.

Pope’s mouth is on your throat.

Dinner was over a while ago, followed by several games of Connect 4 at Lena’s request. Then, you insisted on cleaning the kitchen while Pope helped her get ready for bed. Now, the house is quiet. The curtains are drawn, the doors are locked, the lights are low, and his mouth is on your throat.

An Animal Planet documentary playing on the TV illuminates the otherwise dark living room. You’re flat on your back on the couch with Pope above you, one arm braced next to your head and his other hand resting just under the hem of your shirt, fingers splayed across the skin of your stomach. Your legs are wrapped around his waist, keeping him pressed as closed as possible while still wearing clothes.

He alternates between peppering wet kisses and sucking tiny love bites along the column of your throat. You feel the hard press of him between your legs, unable to resist arching upwards in an attempt to relieve the rapidly growing ache in your core. He lets out a low, throaty groan at the movement, grinding down with enough pressure to make you gasp out in longing.

“Andrew,” you whisper, voice strained with arousal. Your hands shoot to the sides of his head, delicately urging him back. He pulls away instantly, just enough for his face to hover inches above yours.

“What is it?” He murmurs, worry on his face. He removes his hand from beneath your shirt, smoothing the fabric back into place. The simple gesture makes your stomach flutter. “What’s wrong?”

You shake your head quickly. “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, really. I love this. Being here with you. Spending time with you and Lena. This…” You trail off, breathless, glancing down at the very limited amount of space between his chest and yours. “I just can’t help but feel bad about keeping it from Deran. I know I’m not actually cheating on him…but he’s still my best friend. And your brother. I want to be honest with him before this…goes any further.”

His expression is soft as he nods. He maneuvers off of you, sitting up and helping you into a sitting position beside him, one arm wrapped around your shoulder as he pulls you into his side. “What are you gonna tell him, exactly?” He places a tentative hand on your thigh. “What is…this?”

A shaky laugh slips out. “I was hoping we could figure that out together,” you say, eyes dropping to where his hand rests on your leg. “All I know is I don’t want it to end. I just want to tell him first.”

“There’s nothing for me to figure out. You’re it for me.”

Your eyes shoot back up to his. His thumb brushes over your skin in slow circles. He tilts his head, a faint smirk appearing on his lips. “But I’m not going anywhere. So you do whatever you need to do.”

You start to lean in, to kiss him once more, when the front door rattles sharply from a few feet away. The handle twists back and forth, like whoever is on the other side is fully expecting it to open. Pope goes rigid beside you. There’s a brief pause, then the handle jiggles again, followed by a light knock.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Deran’s voice calls from beyond the door. “You guys in there?”

You’re pulling out of Pope’s embrace in an instant, standing to open the door. “Just act casual,” you murmur low, too quiet for Deran to hear.

You unlock the knob and deadbolt with shaky hands, trying your hardest to erase any signs of unease from your face. You’re going to talk to Deran about all of this, and soon - but not in front of Pope.

Tonight. Once the two of you are back at your place, alone.

“Hey,” you greet him cheerfully when you open the door. “How’d you get off work so early? Thought we were short staffed tonight.” It’s only 8:30 - the bar doesn’t normally close until ten o’clock on Sunday nights.

“We were,” Deran huffs, walking past you to enter the house as you hold the door open for him. “But we were also dead tonight, so I decided to close. Let everyone go home a little early. I was driving home and saw that your car’s still here so I thought I’d stop by.”

Deran pauses next to the recliner, hesitating before sitting down - he glances around the room, seemingly noticing how it’s dark except for the muted under the cabinet lights in the kitchen and the TV playing in the small living room. His gaze lingers on the two half empty beer bottles on the coffee table, one directly in front of Pope and the other in front of where you had been sitting moments prior.

Deran gives an awkward clear of his throat when Pope only stares at him wordlessly. “So, where’s Lena?” He asks, looking around for any sign of the girl.

“Asleep,” Pope answers shortly. “She has school in the morning.”

“Right,” Deran says with a click of his tongue, though there’s something in his voice that makes your stomach twist.

You hover awkwardly by the recliner, not eager to reclaim your original seat next to Pope. “She just laid down a few minutes ago,” you add. “We had been playing Connect 4 and watching a show on Animal Planet.” You gesture vaguely to the television and the red and yellow checkers scattered across the coffee table, evidence of your post-dinner activities. “I was uh - I was just getting ready to leave, actually.”

Deran’s eyes dart back and forth between you and Pope before he responds. “Ah. I see.” He pushes himself off the arms of the recliner with his palms, standing back up. “Well, I guess I’ll see you at home then.”

And whether due it’s the look on his face or the tone of his voice, you have no doubt that he knows something is off.

You nod quickly. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

Deran mumbles an emotionless see ya later to Pope, not waiting for a response before he’s opening the front door and stepping back outside. When the door closes behind him, it echoes in the otherwise quiet room.

“Shit,” you grumble under your breath, looking around for where you had put your shoes. “Well, if he wasn’t already suspicious, he definitely fucking is now. I’ve gotta get home and try to explain—”

You don’t even notice that Pope stands up and walks over to you until he’s taking your face in his hands, tilting your head to look at him.

“He may be upset at first,” he says with a half-shrug and sympathetic look. “Probably will be. I know I don’t know all of the details, but I know you love him. He loves you, too. Everything will be okay.”

You nod meekly, trying to believe his words, but your brain is spiraling with worst-case scenarios. You won’t actually believe that things will be okay until they are okay.

And you know there’s only one way to make that happen.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Deran’s not an idiot, and he sure as hell isn’t blind.

Pope may be a near decade older than him, and he may have spent a good portion of Deran’s twenties in prison, but Deran still knows his brother well.

And he knows you very well.

Well enough to know that in the three years that the two of you have been friends, he’s never seen you look at someone the way that you do Pope.

He doesn’t really understand why you look at Pope the way that you do, but then again, he doesn’t really understand why you’re best friends with him, either. He supposes you see the best in people, even if you could do better.

Whatever the hell is going on between you and his older brother, isn’t a new and shocking revelation to him. He’s noticed Pope staring at you on too many different occasions to count at this point, and he knows you’ve always had a soft spot for Pope.

But he’s noticed a shift over the last few days. Normally, he can ignore Pope’s staring, but it’s more than that now. It’s more than just stolen, longing looks when he thinks you aren’t watching.

Because now, you’re staring back. Maybe not in the exact same creepy, intense way that Pope does, but that’s besides the point.

He accepted that he can no longer play it off as a soft spot when he and Pope got home from their most recent job and you looked like you had seen a ghost when you realized that Pope was bleeding. The second that you noticed the red stain on Pope’s shirt, Deran was suddenly chopped liver.

Maybe he should feel relieved. If you’re going to fall for one of his brothers, at least it isn’t Craig. He loves the guy to death, but he doesn’t exactly have the best track record with women. He’d just cheat on you, or give you some unheard of and incurable STD, or pull a move like he did with Renn and leave you for dead the first chance he gets.

Still. He never expected it to be Pope.

But Deran knows better than most that the heart wants it wants. He can’t fault you for that. He just doesn’t understand why you didn’t tell him.

He’s told you everything. Everything. Things he’s never told anyone else. You know about the family business - well, more or less. He doesn’t exactly try to hide it. You know the truth of what a monster Smurf is. You were the first person he told about his plans to buy the bar you’d been working at for years - the exact place the two of you met. You know he’s gay. He trusts you implicitly, but you’ve kept the fact that you’re seeing his brother from him?

He isn’t angry (he’s trying not to be, anyway) but more than anything else, he’s hurt.

His best friend. His brother. And neither told him.

When you get home less than five minutes after him, he’s nursing a beer on the couch, waiting for you. He doesn’t say anything at first. You enter the house, slowly, leaning against the door and not meeting his eye for a long moment before taking a deep breath in.

“There’s something we need to talk about.”

“Yeah,” Deran snorts a sarcastic laugh. “I’d say so.”

You look up. If you’re surprised by his response, you don’t let it show. You purse your lips, making your way to the living room the two of you have shared for the last few years now, taking a seat on the loveseat directly across from him.

“Listen,” you start, staring down at your hands in your lap. “I should’ve told you. I know that. I’m not gonna sit here and pretend I had some perfect reason, because I didn’t. I was just scared. I didn’t know what this was, or where it was going, and I didn’t want you caught in the middle if it didn’t work out.” You pause, your voice softening. “But still. I’m sorry for not telling you from the start.”

Deran’s silent for a moment, letting your words sink in. The tension in his shoulders eases the slightest bit at the sincerity in your voice.

The two of you never fight. Bicker like children sometimes, sure. Like when he doesn’t rinse his dishes off before putting them in the sink or waits too long to switch the laundry over so it starts to smell musty and you have to restart the load, or when you eat his last protein bar or forget to put the trash on the curb on garbage day.

But you never fight. You’re the one person he never has to fight with. Even now, he doesn’t want to fight with you.

He nods, staring down at the amber colored glass in his hands instead of you. “How long has this been going on?”

You let out a quiet snort of a laugh. “Depends. If you’re asking when the first time we kissed was…not even twenty-four hours ago. If you’re asking how long I’ve had feelings for him, then…I don’t know, really. A while.”

“Not even twenty-four — last night? As in after we got back from the job last night? You mean you guys were sucking face while I was in the shower?”

“Yes,” you moan, hiding your face in your hands. “Oh my god, don’t call it that—”

“I knew it.” Deran shakes his head with a humorless laugh. “I fucking knew he was acting even more off putting than usual last night.”

You spread your fingers apart, peeking out from the cracks. “He is not off putting—”

“Holy shit. You are in love with him.”

You groan dramatically, throwing your head back and staring up at the ceiling. Deran tries not to laugh, but he can’t help it.

You sit up a little, expression completely serious now. “Just so you know, I didn’t…tell Pope. About you. He knows that our relationship is fake, but I only told him my reasons for agreeing to it. Not yours.”

He should feel relieved to hear that, but he doesn’t. He just feels guilt - guilt that you felt you couldn’t confide in him. Guilt that you’ve been in this fake relationship for him all this time while harboring feelings for his brother for “a while.” Guilt that you were willing to prioritize him over your own happiness. Guilt that you and Pope wouldn’t have had to sneak around at all if it weren’t for him.

“Well.” He lifts the beer bottle to his lips, taking one last sip before setting it down. “Guess there’s only one thing left to do.”

Your brows pinch together. “What do you mean?”

“I’m breaking up with you.”

You blink, and then your eyes go wide in surprise. “What? You’re…breaking up with me?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Consider yourself dumped.”

Your jaw drops. “You can’t dump me. We weren’t really even together.”

He waves a hand at you in dismissal. “I think what you’re actually trying to say is thank you, Deran.”

“But—”

“Jesus Christ,” he groans. “Will you just let me give you my blessing? You’re off the hook. We’re good. Go suck face with Pope or whatever nasty shit you two were probably doing before I showed up.”

You roll your eyes, but your expression softens. Then, you stand, walking over to where Deran sits on the couch to take the empty space beside him.

“You’re really not mad?” You ask in a small voice.

He exhales through his nose, grabbing your hand in his and giving it a firm squeeze. “No,” he says simply. “How could I be? I mean, I’m not thrilled that it’s Pope, but…” He shrugs. “You committed to a fake relationship for nearly a fucking year for me. You deserve to be happy. Even if it is with my brother,” he adds, a tad more dryly.

You nod slowly, your gaze locked on where his hand still holds yours. “People are gonna talk, you know.” You turn your head slightly to look at him. “About why we broke up. About how I’m with Pope now. They’ll think that I left you for him, or that he stole your girl, or that—”

“So?” He cuts you off. “If I hear anyone say anything about you, I’ll knock their teeth out. Pope would do worse than that.”

“It’s not me I’m worried about,” you say gently. “I don’t care what people say about me. I know the truth. I just don’t want you to feel pressured to…explain. You know, admit that it was a fake relationship or come out before you’re ready to…”

He shakes his head, shushing you. He wraps his free arm around your shoulder. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m a big boy. You don’t need to worry about protecting me from rumors anymore. Let people think and say whatever they want. I’ll come out when I’m ready. Not because people are being nosey assholes.”

You seem to relax a bit at his reassurance. You lean into his embrace, resting your head against his shoulder.

“And not because you’re doing my brother, either.”

That gets a laugh from you. The kind of laugh that lets him know that nothing has really changed between the two of you.

Deran gives your hand another squeeze before letting go. “Go on,” he mutters, nodding towards the front door. “He’s probably pacing holes in the floor right now.”

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

Pope has typed and erased an embarrassing number of text messages in your chat thread since the moment that you pulled out of his driveway.

Let me know how it goes.

You can come back here for the night, if you need to. You can sleep in the bedroom and I’ll take the couch.

How pissed is he?

He doesn’t send any of them. Instead, he sits on the couch, stares at his phone, and hopes that you’ll text or call or magically reappear beside him.

It’s a good thing that he’s accustomed to running off of very little sleep, because he doubts he’ll be getting much at all tonight. He already knows that his mind will race with thoughts of you until he eventually collapses from exhaustion, and that it’ll probably finally happen just hours before he has to take Lena to school.

Pope tries to pay attention to the documentary about killer whales playing on the screen in front of him, but he can’t control how his thoughts keep drifting to you. He thinks of how badly he wishes to sleep with you curled into his chest.

Sleep. That’s all. You said you wanted to talk to Deran before things went any further between the two of you, and Pope doesn’t mind. He’d be content to hold you all night and nothing more. To be close to you, in any capacity, puts him at ease like nothing else. That’s been true since he first met you by Smurf’s pool the day after he got out of prison.

When you pull back into the driveway no more than an hour after leaving, he’s so zoned out that he doesn’t even hear you until you’re knocking softly on the door.

“Hey,” he greets you lowly, instantly relieved and a little taken aback by the cheeky smile on your face when he opens the door. “Is everything oh—”

But you’re stepping across the threshold and cutting him off by pressing your lips to his before he can get the question out.

He freezes for a split-second and then he’s kissing you back.

It feels familiar and new all at once. Familiar because Pope has already committed the taste and feel of you to memory in less than a full day’s time, and new because the way you’re moving your lips with his is unrestrained in a way that all of the previous kisses have not been. The truth of you and him is out there, now. There’s no second-guessing, no weight on your shoulders, no reason to hesitate, and he can feel the difference.

You urge him backwards with your hands planted on his waist. Without ever breaking the kiss, he pushes the door closed behind you and takes your face in his hands. You guide him backwards until his legs make contact with the couch and gently push him down. He pulls you onto his lap, his hands ghosting down your back as you settle over his thighs.

“Yeah,” you whisper against his lips, breathless as you caress his face in your hands. “Everything’s more than okay.”

“You sure?” He murmurs, looking up at you in the dim blue light of the television. You nod, your nose brushing against his and corners of your lips perking into a soft smile. “What did Deran say?”

“He’s thoroughly repulsed by the thought of us kissing,” you snort. A laugh rumbles deep in Pope’s chest. Your hands drop to his chest, where you smooth the fabric of his button-up before your fingers find the top button. “So we should probably do a lot of that in front of him. Just maybe not right away,” you hum, smirking.

You pop the button, and then move onto the next, and then the next, until each one is undone and you’re pushing the fabric off his shoulders and down his arms.

“He didn’t love the way that he found out,” you answer, more serious now. “But he understands. Just wants me to be happy. And you make me happy.”

His entire body goes warm at the sentiment. He pulls you flush against his chest, his hands slipping beneath your shirt to tease the skin of your back. He holds you, gazes up at you, like you’re worth more than gold to him.

And you are. You, and the little girl asleep in the other room, who will be tickled to wake up and learn that you’re still here. That you aren’t going anywhere, if Pope has any say in it.

He smiles at the thought before capturing your lips in his once more.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

{ Epilogue ~ 2 years later }

“This tie is too tight. It’s cutting off the blood flow to my brain.”

“Oh, come here,” you groan playfully. Pope leans in, letting you adjust the green tie that matches your dress (and complements his eyes) perfectly.

“You didn’t have to wear this, you know.” You give the length of the tie a gentle tug after loosening it. “The dress code is semi-formal. You could have gotten away with just a button-up.”

“I know,” he grumbles. “But I wanted to match you and Lena at least a little bit. And I figured I should probably get used to wearing one before our wedding.”

The response warms you as much as the Southern California summer sun.

A beachfront wedding. Small and intimate, with a total guest count of less than thirty people…you can’t think of anything more perfectly Deran and Adrian.

“You don’t have to wear one at our wedding either,” you snort, raising an arm to play with the curls at the base of his skull in the way that he likes. “If you don’t want to.”

He grabs your other hand in his, glancing down at the ring that glimmers in the midday sun. He’d put it on your finger only a few months ago, and in the general chaos of life - Lena’s spring soccer season and ballet recital, helping Deran plan his wedding, you and Pope closing on your new house and getting settled in - the two of you haven’t had much time to begin planning your own special day yet.

“Thought you said it looks good on me,” he hums low, unserious.

“Oh, it does,” you laugh. “Very much so. But I care that you’re comfortable at our wedding. You’d look good in anything.”

Soft instrumental music begins to pour from speakers at the edges of the makeshift ceremony setup and everyone goes quiet, turning to look down the aisle. Lena appears moments later, wearing a frilly flower girl dress that matches yours in color. She smiles nervously the entire time she walks down the aisle, small wicker basket in hand. Every few steps, she grabs a handful of pink and white petals, scattering them across the sandy path. As soon as she reaches the end of the aisle, she runs to where you and Pope sit in the front row and climbs onto his lap.

And then Deran and Adrian appear. Hand in hand, they walk down the aisle together until they come to where Craig - who became legally ordained in the state of California solely for this occasion - stands beneath the driftwood arch you helped decorate with flowers earlier.

They take turns exchanging handwritten vows. They cry, you cry, even Craig gets misty-eyed. And then they’re pronounced husbands in what you can only think to describe as the most endearingly Craig way possible, and everyone on the beach cheers.

Afterwards, everyone helps themselves to unlimited beer and the taco bar set up back at the bar, which Deran has closed to the public for the day. You’d done what you could to spruce the place up - miniature floral arrangements and tea lights candles on the tables - but it’s still a bar. Deran’s bar, broken surfboards and all.

Low music fills the room as guests mingle and drink into the evening. Pope surprises you when he offers you his hand and guides you to the very small, cramped space carved out in the middle of the room for a makeshift dance floor.

It’s more swaying than slow dancing, but you enjoy it all the same.

“I know you said that I don’t have to wear a tie to our wedding,” Pope murmurs low, “but what about dancing? Do we have to dance in front of everyone at our wedding?”

“We’re dancing in front of everyone right now,” you snort. “What’s the difference?”

He glances around the room. “Yeah, but no one is paying any attention to us right now. Everyone is too drunk and paying attention to Deran and Adrian. At our wedding, all eyes will be on us.”

“As they should be,” you hum. You bring a hand to the side of his face, steering his gaze back to you. “Yes, we’re going to dance at our wedding. But I’ll let you pick the song.”

He smirks, his grip on your waist tightening. “I guess I should take some lessons, then.”

The clinking of silverware against glass draws everyone’s attention to where Deran and Adrian stand side by side. You and Pope pause your swaying as he wraps an arm around you and pulls you into his side.

“Alright,” Deran says, clearing his throat. “I’m supposed to say some heartfelt shit now, so bear with me.” Adrian laughs beside him, bumping their shoulders together.

“Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them. I probably would have tried to fight them.” That earns a few laughs, but you know better than anyone that he isn’t joking.

“I’m sure most of you know that I haven’t always been the easiest person to deal with,” he continues. “But Adrian—” Deran glances at his now husband with a kind of softness that he reserves only for him, “—Adrian never gave up on me. He stuck around when a lot of people would’ve dipped. And I can’t tell you all how glad I am for that.”

Then, his eyes find you. “And speaking of people who stick around…this one right here.” He points to you with his beer bottle. You suddenly feel every eye in the building on you. Pope gives your arm a comforting squeeze. “Best girlfriend I ever had.”

The small crowd laughs, and you cover your face with your hands, but he presses on. “I’m serious. She was the first person to ever tell me that it’s okay to be who I am. That there’s nothing wrong with me. And there’s no way that I would have gotten to this point without her. And now…I get a front row seat to watch her marry my brother.”

By the time he finishes, you’ve dropped your hands from your face. Now, you’re actively blinking back happy tears. You can’t find the words, so you hold up your hands to form a small heart and hope the simple gesture is worth a thousand words.

Later, after the crowd has thinned and the sun is setting, you and Pope head back down to the beach with a handful of others to gather the remaining chairs and decorations. Lena is supposed to be helping, but she has wandered to the shoreline, happily dipping her toes in the water.

You both pause at the same moment to watch her - her feet bare, her hair and flower girl dress both blowing in the slight breeze. You can only hope that feels as at peace as she looks right now.

“Seeing Deran and Adrian today…” Pope starts, then trails off like he’s searching for the right words.

You turn towards him. “What about it?” You ask gently.

He’s still staring out towards Lena. “Makes me excited for ours.”

“Yeah?” You hum. “Even if I make you slow dance in front of everyone?”

“Yeah.” He meets your eye, his normal intensity fully present. “Whenever you’re ready. Doesn’t matter when or where. I just want that with you.”

Deran’s toast echoes in your mind. Two years ago, if someone had told me that I would be standing here today, I wouldn’t have believed them.

The words could have been taken from your own mouth. After everything the two of you have been through as individuals, and everything you’ve been through together, you’re marrying the love of your life and raising a beautiful little girl together. You’ve made the most of a tragic situation; turned it into something safe and secure for her - a forever home for the three of you. Maybe more, someday. You can’t help but picture Pope with a tiny baby all his own, soft curls and hazel eyes.

Only time will tell. And you have all the time in the world, now.

𖦹ׂ ₊˚⊹⋆

and that’s how the show ended….right?? RIGHT???

thank you so much if you read all 18.7k+ words of this. this fic is my baby. i worked on it for well over a month, and i hope you enjoyed reading it as much as i enjoyed writing it.

At first, he doesn’t know why his body feels so different: no jolt, no sharp inhale like he’s surfacing from underwater, and more importantly, no agonizing screams from the ghosts in his head. No echo of Smurf’s voice into his ear, telling him that he only matters when he is useful, no Julia, no Cath, no Baz…just him and the undeniable feeling of warmth and gentleness enveloping his body.

For a disorienting second, he doesn’t move, doesn’t open his eyes. He lies perfectly still, too anxious that the absence of dread might be the sign of another delirium. After all, his mind has built kinder lies than this in the past: mornings where he woke up believing he was out of harm’s way, that somebody was alongside him, that he would at last be spared, only to open his eyes and discover nothing there but air. Andrew implores.

(Please. Not like the other times. Let this be real. May mercy, for once, choose him. He would take every punishment. Trade all he possesses. His remaining years. His blood. His soul. Live an eternity in the noise of his ghosts if he could just keep this single second of bliss untouched.)

Something shifts below him, and only then does he truly register it: the warmth is not a trick of his mind, not another tender cruelty meant to vanish the second he trusts it. It’s…you.  You and your body, receiving him like he has always belonged there. His cheek is pressed just above your breast, his ear resting over your heart, each inhale from your chest lifting his head in small motions. He feels the rhythm: the pulse under his skin, the expansion of your ribs, the heat radiating from you into him.

 (One. Two. Three. Four. Your heart answers his, beating leisurely. Bare skin against bare skin, he feels like a man who is wandering into a cathedral with mud on his boots.)

The longer he lies there, the more details surface: your thigh draped loosely over his hip, one of your hands tangled lazily in his curls, probably falling asleep holding onto them and never loosening your grip. He wants to etch every detail of your body someplace within him where nothing can distort it. He inhales deeply. You don’t smell your usual shampoo and soap, no, that version of you belongs to the sunlight and the outside world. This morning, Andrew gets to know the one that is bare in his sheets. You feel musky, like the earth after a rainstorm when the air turns heavy and thick. It takes him a few more moments to grasp that it’s the scent of sex.

He slowly opens his eyes, bracing for the possibility that the illusion would fracture, leaving him alone once more, but nothing moves. You remain where you are: lashes resting against your cheeks, lips slightly parted in sleep and your hair spilled messily across the pillow. His hand, which had clutched your waist and – he notices with guilt – left a bruise from holding on too tightly in the bliss of last night, shifts now to brush the thin gold chain at your collarbone, thumb sliding along the heart-shaped pendant.  He doesn’t understand how he ended up here. How a man like him gets to wake up like this, to touch you like this.

(Profane hands that have broken things. People. Fingers that know how to stitch wounds closed and how to open them. He feels like he should apologize. Wash and scrub himself raw before touching you again. Impious hands on consecrated skin.)

And yet here they are, resting on you as though designed for this all along. Moving upward by a few inches, pressing his palm into the mattress to lift his weight enough so he doesn’t disturb you, Andrew hovers above your body to study the shape of your face in the morning light that slips in through the blinds. How it paints your features in golden lines like sky itself marvels at his own creation.

He lowers himself until his nose finds the curve of your neck, breathing you in once more, slower. He can distinguish the salt that lingers in the faint traces of sweat and saliva where his tongue had traveled last night along your collarbone and throat. He recalls how, spent and trembling, you had pulled him down, guided him to your breasts and how, overwhelmed by the sentiment of being the one held, he had kissed every inch of skin he could reach. He lets his lips trace a path of unhurried kisses along the delicate line of your bones: where your jaw meets your neck, the smooth curve of the shoulder and the sensitive hollow beneath it, before going downward to your sternum.

(He wants to know you through every sense he has. To map this morning with his lungs and mouth. To memorize the striae of your skin, the birthmark under your left breast that he had found last night. To learn the language of your body. The world can have the composed version of you. He gets this one in his bed.)

He tries not to disturb you, to keep his caresses light, but your body responds anyway with a drowsy protest, brows knitted and fingers tightening unconsciously in his hair. “Mm…Andrew,” you mumble, voice hoarse with sleep, burying your face against his shoulder. “it’s too early.”

He goes perfectly still at the base of your neck, lifting his head just enough to have a look: your eyes are shut, yet there’s a smile threatening at the corners of your mouth. “Sorry,” he whispers.

You crack one eye open, unimpressed. “Liar.”

He huffs a quick breath, no longer attempting to suppress his smirk. “Maybe.”

Squinting up at him, your hand slides from his curls to his chin, thumb stroking sluggishly along his cheek. “Mornin’,” you murmur.

“Morning.” You tug him down by the back of his neck to kiss him, lips already parted in expectation. He stays dumbfounded for a beat, then two. He gets to have this. To experience kisses in the morning with a woman who reaches for him. To have someone in his life who really wants him for the man, not the weapon. To be just like his brothers in this simple, ordinary way. To be loved and to love back. He melts into the embrace, one hand braced against the mattress to keep on crushing you with his weight, the other settling on your ribcage.

Your mouth moves against his lazily, before travelling along his jaw and back to his lips, grinning. “We barely slept,” you breathe in-between, voice low and satisfied, “and I entirely blame you for it.” He feels heat climbing up his neck. “You’re blushing,” you observe, elated, pulling back just enough to see it for yourself. Before he can protest or deny, you shift beneath him and, with a push at his shoulder, roll him onto his back. He lands there, momentarily dazed, curls falling across his forehead as he blinks up at you.

(He could stop you. Reflexes honed by years of training and jobs. He knows how to pin someone. How to reverse leverage. However, the woman he loves is naked. And he is not good at refusing her anything.)

You climb and straddle him, knees on either side of his hips and hands shifting up his chest as you lean, hair spilling around your faces like a curtain, kissing him again. He tilts his head, meeting you, afraid to respond too avidly as his fingers wander along your body, avoiding the breasts. “Andrew…” you murmur against his lips, “you know you can touch me, right?” He nods once quietly, but his hands refuse to budge. “Hey, hey,” you smiled gently, palms coming up to cradle his cheeks, “it’s okay. Just because we made love yesterday doesn’t mean we have to do anything more today.”

(Made love. Not a transaction. Not something timed and watched by Smurf through the half-open door. Made love. Not fuck. The phrase is beautiful. Better than anything he has associated with sex. How you say it easily. Love.)

“There’s no need to rush,” you continue gently. “We can just stay like this.”

He clears his throat, the sound rough. “It’s not that I don’t want it. I just…” He exhales, frustrated with himself, with his body. “I don’t always…it doesn’t always…cooperate.” He braces himself for the awkwardness, the disappointment. Instead, there is only your smile.

“Oh, Andrew,” you say quietly, leaning down to press a peck to his mouth. “Last night was amazing but we kinda strained ourselves. And if we add up that you barely sleep on a regular week…I think your body is allowed to rest.”

“You’re not disappointed?” he asks quietly, still searching your face for pity.

“Disappointed? Andrew. Honey. I’m naked on top of the man I love. I’m pretty sure I won at the lottery of life.”

His throat works to respond but you plant another kiss on his lips. Pulling back, your gaze gravitates to his jaw. “Oh,” you giggle.

“What?”

You reach up and swipe your finger just below his ear, near the hinge of his jaw, shimmers on the pad of your thumb. “Sorry but you’ve got a little souvenir,” you tease.

He frowns. “From what?”

“Me. I kissed you there.” He touches the spot automatically, trying to feel it. “Do you want me to…?”

“No,” he replies quickly before shrugging, eyes lowering for an instant. “I can keep it. It’s fine.”

“Andrew,” you say half amused, half incredulous, “you’ve got my lip-gloss all over you.”

“I don’t mind.” (It’s not about the gloss. It’s about the mark. The mark you left on him. Other people will think and proclaim that you are his. Pope’s girl. The title will shield you from harm and men. The truth they won’t understand is he is yours. Blessed by the simple fact that you chose him.)

“Fine,” you whisper, dragging your thumb gently across his lips to smooth some of the shimmer down so it’s less obvious without erasing it entirely. A faint sheen still catches the light whenever he turns his head. Satisfied, you shift, sliding off his hips and curling into his side instead, tucking yourself against him as his arms close around you. Head resting over his chest, leg draped across his thigh, your fingers trace idle, absent shapes along his skin while you hum contentedly. “You’re very quiet,” you comment, nails scraping lightly over his sternum as you tilt your face up to look at him.

He studies the ceiling for a moment before answering. “I’m always quiet.”

“Not like this.” (He doesn’t ask what you mean. He knows. There is the silence he wears as an armor. Carved from years of swallowing words so they could not be used against him. The one that makes him efficient. And there is this one. The silence when he is full. When he isn’t waiting for something to go wrong.)

He lowers his gaze back to you and your cheek resting on his heartbeat, looking content, serene. He doesn’t know how to explain aloud the way it is brand-new for him. That right now, in this bedroom, he feels like standing in the aftermath of a storm, realizing that the sky has no intention of collapsing. That Smurf won’t ever be able to ruin this. Before he can try, the quietude is interrupted by a small, unmistakable growl that makes you freeze, blood rushing all along your neck and face. “Pretend that you heard nothing.”

“You’re hungry.”

You peek up at him, an embarrassed smile on your face. “Maybe.” (Hungry. You made him happy. Held him. Let him sleep. Fed a part of him he didn’t know how to name. Called it ‘make love’. Now you’re hungry. The equation feels simple. You fed his soul. He will feed your body.)

“I’ll make breakfast,” he responds, already moving deftly beneath you and mentally inventorying what’s in the kitchen.

“Andrew, it’s okay. I’m not going to faint if we wait a bit longer.”

“You’re hungry,” he repeats.

Your body slides off his with a reluctant noise, the air cool against his bare skin. He stands up too, taken aback when you cup his jaw and press your mouth to his softly, lingering for a beat. “Morning,” you murmur once more.

His hand goes instinctively to your waist. “Morning.” Pulling away slowly, his fingers trail down before he turns toward the dresser and opens the top drawer, retrieving a pair of black boxers. He steps into them without ceremony in the same quiet ritual he performs every morning.

You, however, ignore your own clothes on the chair entirely. Instead, you reach past him, your bare arm brushing his back in the process, and grab one of his shirts, softened from years of wear and faded in places. You slip it over your head, the fabric falling down your frame and settling just past your hips. Then you bend, unbothered by his staring, and fish out another pair of his boxers, stepping into those as well. He goes very still. You smooth the shirt down over your hips and look up at him innocently. “What?”

“That’s mine.”

You step closer, barefoot against the floor. “Well,” you whisper, hooking one finger into his waistband, tugging him closer by an inch. “Guess we’re sharing now.”

“You can keep it,” he manages to say. (You can have them. His clothes. His truck. His house. His name. His heart. Lay claim to all of it and he would not protest. Let this be the altar he chooses willingly. Take what is his and make it holy.) “Come on,” he adds quietly.

You narrow your eyes playfully. “You gonna cook?” “Yes.” “Eggs?” “Yes.” “Sunny side up and not letting the bacon touch it?” “Yes.” You beam. “God, I love you.” ────────── Andrew was fourteen. Smurf called him into her bedroom, not raising her voice. She never needed to, each summon traveling through the walls to his spine. “Baby,” she said when he stepped inside, her smile already in place all bright and practiced. She was sitting at her vanity, brushing out her blond hair, gold bracelets chiming at her wrist while her room smelled like a heavy perfume and cigarette smoke. “Close the door.”

He did. He stood straight, hands at his sides, shoulder squared in the way she liked, waiting. There was a man in town who has been “messing the business,” she told him. A supplier who thought he could shave a percentage off the top and not get noticed. A man who forgot who was running this coast. She said it lightly, like it was gossip, like other mothers might mention a neighbor who borrowed sugar and never returned it.

Andrew listened. “I need you to remind him,” she said, meeting his eyes in the mirror, “that we don’t tolerate disrespect.” She turned on her stool, crossing one leg over the other, studying him like she was appraising a weapon she kept polished and hidden under the bed. “You’re my good boy, right?” she asked gently, tilting her head. He nods. “That’s what I thought.”

They drove together in silence, just the two of them. She didn’t explain much more. She didn’t have to. He knew what ‘remind him’ meant. The man was waiting behind a storage unit near the marina, pacing, already defensive when he saw Smurf step out of her car with her oversized sunglasses. “Janine,” he started. “We can talk about this.”

She didn’t even look at him, just at Andrew, her Pope. A slight tilt of her chin and that’s all it took before he stepped forward. The first hit was almost anticlimactic, just a fist to the gut that folded the man in half with a startled wheeze. The second was harder. The third started to make him bleed. There was shouting: from the man, from the seagulls overhead, from somewhere far away. But not from Pope. He knew where to hit to make it hurt, to keep someone conscious long enough to understand what was happening to them. Knew how to stop just short of permanent damage because that was what Smurf preferred: a pain that lasted, a reminder to not fuck with the Cody family. The man went down and Andrew followed. Another strike. And another.

His whole world narrowed down to the impacts and the dull satisfaction of the noise inside his head finally going quiet. When he stopped, the man was bleeding from the mouth, one eye swelling shut, curled on his side in the dust. Andrew stepped back automatically, looking at the ground, waiting.

Smurf approached slowly, heels crunching over the gravel, sunglasses still in place. She crouched beside the man and removed them, folding them neatly before tucking them into her neckline. “You see,” she said conversationally, smoothing a strand of hair behind her ear. “I hate when people mistake my generosity for weakness.” The man tried to speak but it came out wet. She leaned closer, voice lowering. “If I have to do this again, I will.” Her hand brushed along the man’s lips, wiping away a smear of blood with her thumb before deliberately smudging it across his cheek. “And next time,” she added, almost fondly, “my boy won’t stop where he did.” She looked up at Andrew with a radiant smile. “My guard dog is very loyal. Aren’t you baby?”

“Yes.”

Smurf stood, brushing dust from her clothes. “Let’s go,” she said lightly. On the drive home, she hummed along to a cheerful tune on the radio, reaching over to squeeze Andrew’s thigh. “You did good,” she told him. The words felt like a reward, not yet understanding that his mother was building him brick by brick.

Back at the house, Julia was on the couch, Craig perched on her lap and trying to read his first book. She looked up when they entered. Her eyes flicked briefly to Andrew’s knuckles, already reddening, then to Smurf.  She didn’t ask questions. She never did. Andrew washed his hands in the kitchen sink, the water running pink for a few seconds before clearing. He scrubbed harder than necessary, until the skin stung. He didn’t comprehend why he felt like he needed to erase his bones.

That night, Smurf kissed his mouth before bed. “My protector,” she whispered.

He lay awake long after the house went quiet, staring at the ceiling, replaying the afternoon and the man’s face. The sound of the bone cracking under his skin. The way the noise in his head had gone silence when he was hitting. Smurf’s hand on his thigh in the car, how she had called him good.

He wondered if that was what love felt like. ────────── You follow him into the kitchen clothed in nothing but his shirt and your smug smile. The fabric hangs loosely around your waist, collar falling just enough to expose the dim constellation of marks he left along your neckline that you make no attempt to conceal.(no, you’re too pleased of them. that’s why you picked this precise shirt. if he can walk around with your lip-gloss smeared on his mouth and chest, you can fucking parade. fair is fair.)

Andrew moves through the kitchen, already absorbed on his task. He opens the refrigerator, takes out the bacon and the carton of eggs, lining four of them up on the counter in a straight row before he even grabs the pan. You lean against the doorway and simply observe. There’s something nearly ritualistic about the way he acts, hitting each egg on the exact unchanged spot on the post. Same slant, same pressure. Crack. Crack. Crack. Crack.

The shells go neatly into the trash, before he rapidly rinses his fingers under the faucet and dries them thoroughly. The pan gets on the stove, the flame adjusted with precision and lowered right before he adds oil, bottle back into the cabinet the instant he’s done with it. (the more you spend time with him, the more you realize this isn’t just preference. it’s what makes him feel balanced, structured. he likes knowing where things are. that they go back where they belong. that the fridge door closes all the way. that the seal gets checked with an extra push. lining up objects seems to line up his mind.)

You step near him silently, acknowledging the invisible bubble he’s created around the stove. You grab plates and forks from the cupboard, adding paper towels to the pile because you already know he’ll want them and arranging everything on the table.  He doesn’t speak while he cooks. But you can distinguish that silence now and how it’s not dismissal or detachment, he is simply…in it. Entirely absorbed in the task: spacing the bacon strips evenly on the separated pan so they don’t overlap, adapting the heat, glancing back at the eggs to make sure the whites set properly.

You place your hip against the counter, tilting your head to watch him. (he looks outrageously domestic like that. barefoot, making breakfast without being asked. how andrew cody went from ex-convict and criminal to husband of the year is still beyond you. but you know better than to complain.) (also: you’re still a bit glad he hasn’t brought up the wedding dress comment from last night. not that you’re scared. fuck no, you’d marry him yesterday if you could. but this little bubble you’re in right now? you love it.)

And the worst part about the whole breakfast-making thing? He is doing it in nothing but his boxers. Back broad, shoulders eased, curls still mussed from sleep. You don’t hesitate. You step closer and wrap your arms around his waist from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades, your hands flattening on his stomach. He stiffens for half a second at the contact before relaxing. You start drawing kisses along his spine and going upward, until your mouth discovers the spot just behind his ear, making him inhale sharply. “You’re distracting,” he murmurs.

“Oh, am I?” you hum against his skin, utterly unapologetic, fingertips stroking the edge of his boxers.

“Careful,” he stammers, glancing down at the stove. “Hot pan.”

“Mm.” You press another kiss on the same spot watching, delighted, goosebumps ripple across his shoulders. “Seems under control to me.”

The bacon pops abruptly in the pan. Before you even register it, his hand drops to your hip, determined and instinctive, nudging you a few inches to the other side of his body without disrupting the movement of his other hand flipping the bacon. You blink. (oh. okay. that’s actually…hot. you don’t know which 101 boyfriend class he took but it’s definitely not the same one the rest of the male population attended.)

You settle again, undeterred, resting your chin on his shoulder so you can observe what he’s doing. His forearms make most of the work, flexing with each maneuver of the spatula under his freckled skin, making it particularly tough to concentrate on anything remotely close to breakfast. (you might be drooling a little.)

“You know I’m a grown woman, right?” you whisper after a moment.

“Oil pops,” he answers simply, the bacon snapping again to illustrate his point. “Wouldn’t want you to get burn.”

“And…you can’t?”

He shrugs. “I don’t mind it.”

Your fingers, which had been resting loosely at his waistline, start tracing patterns along his stomach with the lightest drag of your pads, refusing to utter another word to this sentence. (you don’t ever want to know why he wouldn’t mind getting burnt. you’ve seen enough of the scars scattered across him to understand that pain is an aspect of his life he learned to accept long before you ever met him.)

He lifts the eggs cautiously with the spatula, sliding them onto the plates with precision so the yolks remain perfectly intact. Same with the bacon, arranged neatly beside them. You step away, retreating to the table so he can have the space to finish his ritual: the stove knob turned off and checked twice, the pan moved to the sink, the quick wipe of the stovetop. Only then does he turn toward you, plates in hand. And suddenly, you grasp that this whole breakfast is him trying. You can see it in the small frown carved between his eyebrows and the tremor in his hands as he sets the plates down on the table like he’s afraid of ruining the moment.

He loves you. Truly. Yes, he told you so last night but that was mid-sex. This, is different. Just him, you and the certainty landing heavy in your chest: Andrew Cody would burn the entire world, including himself if it meant protecting you. (probably not the right moment to tell him you’d do the same. ready to burn and destroy whoever attempts to rip Andrew away from you. which is insane considering you’ve never punched anyone in your life. you’ve seen the guns the Cody brothers keep hidden in the house. never dared touch them. wouldn’t even know where the safety is. still. you would figure something out.)

“Eat,” he orders gently.

“Aye aye, sir,” you reply enthusiastically, your fork going straight into his plate to rob a piece of bacon.

He pauses halfway through sitting down beside you, brows furrowing like he’s struggling to understand the reasoning behind this. “You…you have bacon.”

“I know,” you say brightly, biting into it anyway and chewing with exaggerated satisfaction while keeping your eyes on his face. “Yours tastes way better.”

He studies you for a second longer, still frowning in pure confusion. Then, instead of protesting, he quietly pushes his plate a few inches to the side towards you. The gesture is tentative and careful, like offering without fully knowing if he’s doing it right.  You open your mouth to tell him it’s not necessary, that it was just teasing, that he doesn’t have to surrender his breakfast for this but before the words come out, he picks up his fork and reaches over, stealing one of your own pieces.

You lean back in your chair, observing him with growing amusement as he attempts to act casual about it. Trying very, very hard. You can practically see the gears turning in his head, probably comparing this moment with the way his brothers are around the people they see. But Craig wouldn’t even be here right now. No, he would send the girl home before breakfast while Deran would act like this whole thing was effortless without the intent of calling back. Andrew looks like he’s carefully following instructions from a manual he doesn’t quite understand. And that’s infinitely better. “Good?” you ask.

He swallows. “Yeah.”

“Better from my plate?” A pause. He nods once, more confidently this time. “Wow, look at you.”

“What?”

“Sharing the germs and all,” you tease.

He looks down at the food, then back you. “I don’t mind your germs.”