Lan

It didn't matter. You weren't feeling particularly chatty. Frankly, you needed to decompress. You curled your feet up under you, and zoned out, the wine thrumming in your veins. It was a comfortable silence, neither of you feeling pressured to fill it with small talk.

When you woke up, it was completely dark out. Craig and Deran were still in the backyard, smoking. You didn't even realize you had fallen asleep, let alone know how long you were out, but it couldn't have been long. The movie wasn't over yet.

More alarming was how you found yourself. You and Pope had somehow drifted together. You were curled against him, head on his shoulder, while he leaned against you. And more surprising, he was asleep, too.

You didn't know what to do. Knowing that Pope didn't get much sleep, the last thing you wanted to do was wake him up. Besides, you were...pretty comfortable. Pope was solid and warm, and made for a good pillow. You watched his chest rise and fall, the rhythm of deep sleep holding onto him. This was the closest the two of you had ever been physically, and you let yourself sit in it for a moment longer.

Craig let out a loud, boisterous laugh that reached the living room and jolted Pope awake. You froze and shut your eyes, not wanting him to know that you were awake and watching him.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, obviously noticing the sleeping arrangement.

Pope moved his arm slowly, trying to gauge just how asleep you were. You pretended you were completely out. "Come on, pretty girl," Pope whispered, easing you down to lay on the couch, no longer on top of him.

You heard his heavy footsteps fade towards the sliding door, matching the way your heart thudded in your chest. Pretty girl? Did he- Pope thought you were pretty?

The man hardly ever spoke to you. You weren't even sure he liked that Deran kept bringing you around. There was no way that he was remotely interested in you. Right?

"Your girl's passed out on the couch," you heard Pope mutter out the Deran. Conveniently leaving out the fact that you passed out on him.

"Oh shit, really? She told me she had too much to drink."

Soon, Deran was crouched in front of you, his hand on your shoulder. "Hey buddy," he said gently. You pretended to come to, and looked around the living room, narrow eyes, disoriented, really selling the sleepiness.

"Fuck, I fell asleep," you rubbed the sleep from your eyes.

"Yeah, no shit," Deran chuckled. "You need a ride? You want to crash here? It's no problem."

"No, no," you shook your head, standing up. "I'm good. Thanks, Deran."

Deran walked you out to your car. But not before you looked back and saw Pope in the kitchen, watching you leave. When you made eye contact, he looked away. You heart was still pounding.

Then, there was the dream a few days later. The dream where Pope picked you up by the waist and set you on the bar. He didn't say much, only to whisper in your ear that you were a "good girl" and "so pretty" and "so wet, just for me."

His voice was low and gravelly, and thick with need. His hands were everywhere, and ended between your legs.

"Andrew, I need you," you whimpered. Your fingers tangled in his curls, pulling him closer.

You woke up in a cold sweat, your thighs slick. After that, you could barely look at him, let alone listen to him talk without hearing him say "good girl" in the back of your mind.

It was brutal. You didn't want to distrupt the routine you had built for yourself, or start pulling away from your friendship with Deran, lest he ask you about your standoffishness. And he would ask. What the hell would you say?

You first met Deran after stopping at the bar for a drink after work. Or three drinks. He noticed you were having a rough day, and kept coming back to check in in you. And when you kept coming back, after work or just because, he kept checking in on you.

Conversations became longer, about whatever you wanted to talk about, and soon you became good friends. He listened to you, and actually cared about what you thought. And you found yourself caring about what he thought, too. You knew he would always tell you the truth.

His brothers would often swing by. Just one, or all at once. Whenever it was all of them at once, the conversations were hushed and hurried. You weren't a part of it, and didn't ask.

And sometimes when you came in, Pope would already be there, fixing something that Deran was too cheap to replace. He would look at you, stare at you, like he was trying to figure you out. The stare wasn't unnerving, it was not knowing what he was thinking that got you.

"You and Deran sleeping together or what?" Craig slid onto the stool next to you only the second time meeting him.

"Are you capable of having girl friends you don't want to fuck?" You rolled your eyes.

"No." Craig smiled, "Sounds like she's available to me." Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Pope at the other end of the bar still suddenly.

"Fuck off, Craig, she doesn't want any of what you've got to offer," Deran set a drink in front of Craig.

Once the brothers decided they liked you, and Craig was finally put off from hitting on you (for now, at least), Deran started inviting you around the house for parties, and sometimes just to hang out.

Which is why you're sitting out on the patio in your swim suit, trying to get some sun in peace.

"You enjoying yourself over there?" Deran calls from the other side of the pool.

"Very much," you call back without looking at him.

"Are you gonna come inside at all? Or are you just gonna stay out here?"

"Sweet Deran," you finally look at him over your sunglasses, "I'm literally only friends with you for access to your pool."

"And here I thought it was my loyalty and shoulder to cry on," he counters. He makes his way around the pool and stops at your lounge chair. "I'm going to head out and see if I can get some surf time in," Deran scratches behind his neck. "You going to be okay here?"

"Are you saying I have to leave?" you ask.

"No," Deran shakes his head. "I don't care what you do. Stay as long as you want."

"Then I will stay until I'm tired, or I fry, whichever comes first," you lean back on the lounge chair. "Have fun," you smile.

"Thank you, I will. Good luck with," he gestures vaguely to your bikini-clad body, "that."

You shake your head as he walks off, back into the house. Thirty minutes later, a shadow comes over you. You don't even have to open your eyes to know who would just walk up to you that quietly.

"Hi, Pope," you open your eyes to see him standing over you, blocking your sun. You try to act calm, like the first thing you're thinking of isn't sleeping on his chest.

"Hey," he mutters. "You seen Deran?"

"He's at the beach," you shrug. And it's right about now that you wish you had left when he did. Because now, you're alone with Pope and his gruff voice and his hazel eyes. Idiot.

"Right." Pope replies. You watch from behind your sunglasses as his eyes quickly rake over your body, then snap up to your face. It's a two-piece, so most of your body is out. Every stretch mark, the fold of your tummy, and the tops of your breasts are exposed. You weren't conscious of it until now. How else are you supposed to get an even tan?

Pope's hands flex at his sides, and you have to clear your throat to get your heart to stop racing. Pope looks down at you.

"Uh- you wanna sit down or something?" you gesture to the lounge chair next to you. Cool, collected, not weird at all.

"No, I'm good," he shakes his head quickly. Right. Why would he want to hang out with you? But he doesn't walk away. And fuck, you wish he would.

The only reason you haven't gone completely mad at this point is because you're hardly ever alone with Pope. When it's you and Deran, or a house full of drunk people, it's easy to focus on something else. Anything else.

But Pope doesn't leave. You look at him out of the corner of your eye, and see that he's just looking out at the pool. At least his hands are in his pockets, so you don't have to see them, and then think about where on your body you'd like them and-

"Gotta get someone out to clean the pool," Pope mutters passively. Like he's not talking to you, but he kind of wants you to hear it.

It makes you smirk. "Probably a good idea," you reply.

Pope turns to you. "You want water or something?"

"Uh-" With his eyes on you again, your brain forgets how to form sentences. "Yeah, sure, that would be great."

He returns moments later with a cold water bottle in hand. "You gotta stay hydrated," he says, handing it to you. "You'll get heat exhaustion."

You bite back a smile as you take the water bottle and crack it open immediately. "Thank you," you say, earnestly.

Pope shoves his hands back in his pockets, "If you see Deran, let him know I'm looking for him. Idiot's not picking up his phone."

"I will," you nod. He turns to talk away without another word.

Before you can think better of it, you call his name. He tilts his head back to you.

"Can you, uhm, can you get my back?"

"Your back?" He repeats, slowly. You almost regret asking. No, you absolutely regret it. But now you have, and you're not going to backtrack now.

"The sunscreen," you wave the bottle at him. "I was going to flip over, but I wasn't able to reach, so..."

"Yeah, right," Pope walks back to you. He kneels on the ground next to your lounge chair. "Wouldn't want you to burn," he mutters.

You hand him the sunscreen, dying inside at using the oldest trick in the book just to get a few moments more with him. A part of you just wants to know if his hands are as strong and capable as they were in your dream. If this is awkward and stupid, at least it can replace the imaginary version of him. Ladyboner gone.

Your plan backfires with he actually starts applying it to your back. His hands are firm, and his thumbs work into your neck and pressure points as he rubs the sunscreen in. You have to but your lip to hold a moan back. Thank fuck he can't see your face right now.

"This okay?" he asks softly.

"Yeah," you breathe.

His hands slip under the straps of your bikini top and around the folds of your belly, making sure not to miss a single spot.

"There," he whispers. "All done. Protected."

You blink several times, trying everything in your power to come back to yourself and ignore the wet spot that has surely formed between your legs.

"Thank you, Pope," you tilt your head back to him.

"'Course," he mutters.

And then he's gone. Couldn't get out of there fast enough. You scrunch your nose and chastise yourself internally. What the fuck is wrong with you? He doesn't really like talking to you, and you ask him to apply sun screen? Are you that desperate? Besides, what would Deran say if you started pining after his brother? Then he would actually start to think you're just using him.

You make a silent vow to stop embarrassing yourself. No more being with him alone, no more saying stupid shit, not until this-whatever this is simmering inside you- has passed. This desire in you has to be temporary.

Deran invites you over for a party a few days later. Perfect, you think, the house will be full of people. You can hang out with Deran, drain your social battery, and be on your way.

It's a bigger party than normal, if that's even possible. There are people literally everywhere, the music seems louder, and the alcohol is flowing very freely. You find yourself in the kitchen, emboldened by the two beers you've downed in the last twenty minutes. You've got the munchies.

When you turn towards the living room, you see him. Pope is sitting on the couch, nursing a drink of his own. He's quiet, like usual, just surveying the crowd, counting heads, making sure no one goes where they aren't supposed to be.

The alcohol is making your mind fuzzy. You lean back on the counter, zoning out, focused on his hands wrapped around the beer bottle.

His hands that applied the sunscreen so carefully. How his hands would grip your thighs, prying them apart. How your hands would tangle in his curls, tugging on them gently. How his mouth would feel, hovering over your covered cunt. The sounds he would make as you writhe under him. How he would coo and call you "pretty girl" again. You're so in your own head that you don't realize he's...standing right next to you now.

"You okay?" he drops his head next you your ear.

It makes you jump out of your skin. "Fuck, Pope," you hold onto your chest.

"Sorry," he holds a hand out. "Didn't mean to scare ya."

"You didn't," you shake your head and grab his wrist, clearly forgetting yourself. "I was just- thinking."

Pope's eyes drop down to where you're holding onto him, and snap back up at you. You drop him immediately, sobering up.

"What were you thinking about?" he asks.

Instead of responding, you look around the room, "I honestly didn't think you'd be here tonight."

"Me neither," Pope deadpans.

"It's good to see you," you turn to look him in the eyes, and find him already staring at you. The two of you hold eye contact for a moment, and a lump forms in your throat. This is pathetic.

"You too," he drops his mouth down to your ear again, to make sure you hear him.

It’s the closeness that’s make you ache. That he insists on dropping his mouth to the shell of your ear, making sure that you can hear the words meant for only you.

You bring your hand up to his cheek and quickly press a light kiss to the opposite side. It could be the dim lighting playing a trick on you, but is he...blushing? No, probably not. You were just being totally inappropriate with your good friend's brother and you need to leave the conversation. You smile gently and wander off, looking for Deran. Or literally anything else to occupy your mind.

You end up crashing on Deran's bed that night, after quickly downing three more beers to try to forget how much of an idiot you made out of yourself. You sleep on top of the covers, there's no telling when the last time he washed the sheets.

When you wake up, it's not so early that the sun is barely up, but early enough that the house is still quiet. Quiet and disgusting.

You yawn and pad out to the living room, confronted with the aftermath. There is shit everywhere, and it makes you shudder. You're not exactly a neat freak, but unnecessary clutter makes your skin itchy. It's probably clinical, you don't think too much about it.

After going to the bathroom to wipe off the excess mascara under your eyes and splash water in your face, you go to the cabinet under the sink in the kitchen and fish around for a trash bag. You're collecting beer bottles and empty chip bags when you here the front door open and close softly.

"Deran, that you?" You call behind you, thinking he's coming back from an early surf. "Dude, I think you need a new mattress."

"I'll let him know," Pope responds, standing awkardly in the hall.

Of course it's Pope. Because as much as you say you don't want to be alone with him, your subconscious loves putting you in situations where you are, in fact, alone with him.

"Oh, sorry, I thought you were Deran. For some reason," you shake your head. Wishful thinking, probably. You bend down to pick up some crushed beer cans.

"You stay here last night?" Pope asks, making his way to the kitchen. He visibly recoils at the mess.

"Yeah," you shrug. "I'll be out of your hair soon, don't worry."

"I'm not." Pope replies. You two don't say anything for a moment. You tie up the trash bag, and he makes peace with whatever God left him a sink of disgusting dishes.

"Hey," he nods at you, "once I get this cleaned up, I can make you something to eat. If you want."

"You wanna make me breakfast?" you ask. You pass through to the kitchen. Standing just a few feet away now.

"I assume you eat," he says. "Unless you're not hungry."

It takes everything in you to shake your head. You can’t let yourself linger with him. "I'm good, Pope. Thank you, though," you say with a soft smile.

He opens his mouth to say something, clearly thinks better of it, then closes it again. You look around at the empty house. "Something on your mind?" You edge forward.

"Deran's lucky to have someone like you around," he says. "I don't know what you see in him but. You're good. For him."

Heat blooms in your chest. "I'm actually just using him for your pool," you scrunch your nose, echoing the joke you made to Deran just a few days prior.

"Right, that makes sense," Pope nods. After a beat, he adds, “You can call me Andrew, by the way.”

It catches you off guard. “I thought- I thought you hated being called Andrew.”

"My brothers just.. don't." He crosses his arms and leans against the counter, just looking at you.

This permission, this closeness, weirdly changes things for you. A lot. You start to replay every interaction in your mind over the last two weeks. Hell, the last few months of knowing Pope. Did you get him wrong? Was he being weirdly standoffish not because he didn’t like you around, but-

Pope drops his hands to his side and inches closer to you. “You alright?” He asks, his voice low. You’re lost in your thoughts, mind reeling.

Your gaze drops down to his mouth, and back up to his eyes. His beautiful eyes. That are looking right at you.

You're standing too close to him now, you know it. But you can't step back, and apparently neither can Pope. He drops his head down, his mouth hovering over yours. Your noses graze gently, but he’s holding back. He's waiting for you. Waiting for you to give him permission.

This is something you can’t run from anymore. You have to get in front of this, whatever it is. Deep down, you know you can’t go on like this, just wondering and panicking every time he so much as looks at you. You need to know. Confront the elephant in the room.

“Tell me you don’t want me,” you say without looking at him. Your voice is barely a whisper, the words fighting their way out. “Tell me to stop.” You don’t dare breathe too deeply. There’s a tightness in your chest.

Pope brings one hand to your cheek, his thumb gently rubbing across your flushed skin. “I would never lie to you.”

In an instant, Pope's mouth is on yours. You drop the trash bag and bring your hands up to his shirt, clutching the fabric. His hands are strong, his grip firm, but his kiss is soft. Like he has to hold onto you tightly, or you'll fade away.

You kiss him back, urgently, feverishly, like he holds the air you need to breathe. Kissing him feels good, it feels almost freeing.

Your tongue traces his bottom lip, and it's enough to make him push you against the kitchen counter. Your hands find the nape of his neck, as his drop down to your hips, gripping you so firmly, you feel like it'll bruise. You don't care. You want the mark. It makes you whimper softly, a sound swallowed immediately by Pope.

A door opens somewhere in the distance, and closes. You and Pope spring apart, the sound acting like a proverbial splash of cold water and reminding you that you were not, in fact, alone, and people would be waking up now. You're panting, and you look at Pope, whose gaze is burning into yours.

"I'll, uhm," you start, wiping your mouth. "I'm gonna go. I need to get cleaned up."

"Yeah, of course," Pope nods. He looks around at the state of the house, "I should take care of this."

You pick up the trash bag and look around desperately for your belongings, which you had stashed in one of the kitchen cabinets.

"Smart," Pope nods, twisting his mouth to fight a smile.

You press a kiss to his cheek, like you did last night, only this one lingers. You need Pope to know that you're not running away from him, just this fucking crowded house. It's like a hostel. Any minute some hungover girl will stumble out of Craig's room, or worse- Deran will walk in on you two. And you are not ready for that conversation.

"I'll text Deran," you nod. "Let him know I made it home."

"Okay," is all Pope says before you leave. To be fair, your brain is also short circuiting.

You have no idea how you make it home. There were probably traffic lights involved, maybe a rolling stop, and suddenly you were outside your apartment. All you could think about the entire drive was Pope. How his hands actually felt. On you. And how he put them there himself. How he wanted you. You.

You have to take an extremely cold shower just to get your head on right. After stuffing last night's outfit in the hamper to be dealt with later- they smell like chlorine and Pope's cologne- you pull on sleep shorts and a tshirt, ready to crash for a few hours and sleep off your confused emotions.

But there's a heavy knock at your door. Thinking that it may be a mistake, you almost don't open it, but when you look out the window of your bedroom, you see Pope standing there.

You nearly wipe out on the hard wood, skittering faster than your feet can take you. After taking a moment to regain your composure, and even out your breathing, you open the front door.

"Andrew," you say, mildly shocked. He almost looks surprised, too. You can't tell if he's shocked you actually live here, or shocked you answered the door. Or by the fact that you just called him Andrew for the first time.

"Hi," he says, taking a deep breath. After a beat, he shakes his head, coming back to himself. "You forgot your sweater," he holds out a grey zip up hoodie that you have never seen before in your life.

"I don't think that's mine," you smirk, unable to hide how unfortunately charming you're finding this. You lean against the door frame, and his eyes follow you.

"Oh, right," he looks down at it, like it personally offended him. "Sorry, I probably shouldn't have just shown up-"

You pull him in by his face and kiss him deeply. He walks you back into your apartment, kicking the door shut behind him. The sweater falls away from his grasp, forgotten already.

"I'm glad you're here," you say in between kisses.

"Yeah?" he asks, dropping his mouth to your jaw. You shudder.

Pope pushes you against the nearby wall and holds his arms out on either side of you. His mouth nips at the crook of your neck, and you let out a low moan.

"Andrew," your voice is low.

"Again," he mutters against your skin.

"Hm?"

Pope comes up for air, his chest rising in falling in deep breaths. He presses his forehead to yours. "Say my name again."

"Andrew," you say, biting your lip. "Andrew, Andrew, Andrew," his name comes out low and sweet, in between gentle kisses from the corner of his mouth to his jaw, and his ear. "Andrew."

Pope shudders. "Fuck, what are you doing to me," he mutters.

You take his hand and lace his fingers with yours, pressing light kisses along the back. Something has snapped inside you. After weeks of holding back, repressing your emotions, trying to cover up how you're feeling, you're tired. You don't want to pretend anymore. Not when Pope is standing in your apartment, practically begging for you.

"I want you," he breathes. "I know I don't deserve you but I-"

"Stop it," you cup his face with your free hand. "You have me. You've had me for longer than you think."

He tilts his head inquisitively, narrowing his eyes slightly. You lean your head back against the wall and sigh, unable to avoid your embarrassment anymore. "You didn't think anything about me literally asking you to rub sunscreen on my back? Or the way that I somehow always find myself alone with you? Subconsciously moving closer?"

"If you're trying to tell me I'm an idiot, I already know that," Pope bites his bottom lip. "But you are an evil woman. I haven't been able to stop thinking about you in that fucking swimsuit."

"I know, that was mean," you scrunch your nose.

His hand presses against your waist, pulling you close to him, your bodies pressed together. It moves slowly down the curve of your ass, right above your thigh. "Evil, evil woman," he mutters, leaning in again. "Evil woman with the most beautiful smile, perfect body, perfect laugh."

"Andrew," you whimper as his hand grips the fat of your thigh, fingers digging in. You take his hand and move it between your legs, right where you feel the most heat. "Please touch me. I need you to touch me."

Pope lets out a low groan and shoves his hand down the front of your sleep shorts, finding no panties, just your wet heat. "Fuck, all this for me?"

"Mhmm," you whine. When a teasing finger makes its way over your clit, you open your mouth in a silent gasp. The way you squirm is enough for Pope to press fully inside you, one finger, then two. You grip his shoulders as he moves slowly, drawing out hushed whines and lustful whimpers.

"Fuck this," Pope pulls his hands out suddenly. With his hands firmly around your ass, he lifts you with ease, wrapping your legs around his waist. You lean down and kiss him, tongues sliding together.

When you lead him back to your bedroom, he sits on the edge of the mattress. Your knees settle on either side of him, straddling his hips and holding you over the growing bulge in his jeans. You move against him, chasing any kind of relief from the pressure building in your belly.

Pope's hands hold your waist, slipping under the hem of your shirt to make contact with your bare skin. You slip the fabric over your head, discarding it on the floor. You pull at the fabric of Pope's shirt and slide his off, too.

You run your hands over his shoulders, down his chest, marveling at his sun-kissed, freckled skin. You want to gnaw on his biceps. Your eyes fall down to a fading bruise on his side, right at the top of his ribcage. Curious, and admittedly a little heartbroken, your fingers gently graze his skin there.

"Hey," he whispers, taking your hand and bringing it to his mouth, gently kissing the pads of your fingers. "Old news, don't worry about it."

"I'm always worried about you," you sigh.

"Not right now." Pope buries his face in the crook of your neck, sucking at the skin hard enough to leave a mark. "This is about you."

His mouth travels down to your collarbone and below, leaving small nips and kisses in his wake. You want to press, to ask what's really going on, and what he doesn't want to talk about, but your brain clouds over. Later, defintely later.

"You're perfect," he mutters, mouth pressed against the lace over your nipple.

You rock against his hand, the one slipping under your shorts and teasing your clit. The feeling sends shocks up your spine. You whimper, looking for release.

"Tell me what you want," Pope holds your low back with a firm grip, holding you close.

"Inside," you whine, "I need you inside me. Please."

The second that please slips out, Pope presses his fingers inside you, his thumb circling your clit. He watches your face, eyes closed in bliss, as you rock your hips against his hand.

"So pretty while you ride my fingers," he kisses your collarbone.

"'s good," your head falls back, giving him more room. His fingers curl inside you, hitting the exact right spot. You inhale sharply, "There, right there. Andrew please."

It's obscene and desperate, the way your body bucks against him. His fingers move faster and deeper, hitting the same sensitive nerves over and over again. Pope nudges the straps of your bra down, lowering them just enough to free your tits for him to devour.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling gently to bring his face back to you. His pupils are blown, eyes wild with desire. It’s making you borderline feral.

Thighs quivering, sweat beading on your brow, he brings you right over the edge, jaw slack as you come on his fingers.

Pope removes his fingers slowly, and you can hear how wet you are. He brings his fingers to his mouth, tasting you, savoring you.

"Shit," you look down at the wet spot on the front of his jeans, right on top of how growing bulge. “I made kind of a mess on you..."

"S'fine," Pope says, “should probably take them off now anyway.” He helps you remove your bra completely before lowering you onto the bed.

You slip your shorts off, trying to will your heart to stop beating so fast. Watching from the bed, your hands resting on your low belly, as Pope undresses fully for you.

His eyes don’t leave yours as his jeans and boxers come off all at once. Your breath catches in your throat. His dick is hard and thick, veins throbbing. Of course, figures.

"You are so beautiful," he marvels at your body, hands caressing your curves as he settles on top of you.

“Andrew,” you purr, running you hands over his toned back, letting your nails just barely graze him. It lights you up inside, how sensitive he is to your touch.

“Fuck,” he groans. He rubs his dick over your soaking pussy.

"You like this?" you ask, dragging your hands down his shoulders.

"Yes. Very much, yes," he moans. "I'm going to fuck you so good, I promise."

You pull his face to look at you, "I know."

Pope backs away from you just long enough to line himself up and sink this thick cock inside of you. The moan that slips out of you is borderline lewd. Your jaw goes slack, vision spotty.

“You okay pretty girl?” Pope huffs above you, clearly taking this just as well as you are. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

You nod wordlessly, your legs moving to wrap around his waist, bringing him closer.

“Talk to me,” he says, firm but desperate.

“It’s-,” you whine, “so good. Feels so good.”

Pope bends down to kiss you, his tongue messy and desperate in your mouth. When he moves, he starts slow, but it’s like he can’t help himself. He holds back until he physically can't any more, his thrusts become fast and deep. Hitting a place inside of you that you didn’t know could feel so right.

“God, you’re squeezing me so good,” Pope huffs.

“I think- ah- I think you’re just stretching me out,” you smile.

If you weren’t smiling like a dope, Pope would have thought he was hurting you. But your little moans and whimpers just egg him on further.

Pope takes your hands and pins them above your head, trapping you below him. His entire body is pressed against you, his hips grinding against you as he hits that pressure point again and again. You're at his mercy, and it makes your body light up.

“So perfect,” he mutters. “You look so perfect under me like this.”

“Andrew please,” you moan, “you’re right against my clit. Fuck, I’m going to come again.”

“Go ahead, baby,” he says right into your ear, nipping at your earlobe. “Let me feel you come on my dick. You can do it.”

With both of your wrists trapped under one of his strong hands, he uses the other to reach down and knead your tit, twisting the nipple.

“Ohmygod,” your words are jumbled, pleasure clouding your mind.

Your orgasm is stronger than the first, lasts longer, and Pope fucks you through it. Your pussy pulses around him and his breathing grows ragged.

"That's it, pretty girl. You feel so good around me. Shit, I’m going to come,” Pope huffs.

“My mouth,” you whimper, your overly sensitive clit making you writhe. “Let me take you in my mouth."

He doesn't hesitate, just pulls out of you quickly, his dick wet with evidence of your orgasm. You move to your knees in front of Pope as he sits back at the head of the bed. You squeeze his cock gently, swirling the tip around with your tongue to collect the precum gathered there.

“Good girl,” Pope’s head drops back. “So good to me. Fuck.”

You drag your tongue up the length of him before taking him all the way to the back of your throat. Pope gathers your hair in his hand, pulling it out of your face. You bob up and down relentlessly, chasing the release he gave you.

“This good?” You look up at him through your eyelashes. Sliding your tongue up the side of his dick again.

“I’m so close baby.” His grip in your hair tightens, and it encourages you.

Suddenly, he lets out a low groan, and you feel him release in the back of your throat. You hold yourself at his base until his dick stops pulsing. When you let off with a pop, you don’t lose a single drop.

“Holy shit,” Pope’s breath still hasn’t come back to him.

Your mouth curves into a soft smile and you press your body against his, kissing him deeply.

Pope after sex is shockingly concerned for your well being. It’s not that you thought he’d roll over and go to sleep. There’s no way Pope would do that. But you didn’t think he’d make you go to the bathroom and get water. The domesticity of Pope after sex is almost as hot as the fervor before.

Pope quietly gets up to reach for his boxers, but you grab his hand and yank him back to the bed. He is a brick wall, and could easily overpower you. Instead, Pope lets you drag him back down.

“Where do you think you’re going?” you mutter.

“Uhm, nowhere now.” Pope settles next to you. You’re face to face, close under the covers.

"This was better than my dream," you say offhandedly, not thinking about the words until you've already said them. And you can't take them back. You have got to start watching your mouth.

"Dream?" he props his head up with his hand to get a better look at you.

You squeeze your eyes shut. "Forget I said anything."

"No no," he teases, a rare, toothy smile lighting up his face. His hand rests on your bare hip, thumb moving back and forth, trapping you in the conversation. "What kind of dream are we talking here?"

"Please don't look at me right now, I think I'm going to die of embarrassment." You blush deeply, moving to cover your face with your hands.

"Hey," he takes one of your hands away, lacing your fingers with his. "It's okay, there's nothing to be embarrassed about." And then, after a long pause, he keeps going. "So you had a wet dream about me, there's nothing to be ashamed of."

His voice is flat and sincere, but you know he's still teasing you. You should be more irritated, and you would be, but this is the most relaxed you have ever seen him. And you want to memorize the way he's looking at you right now.

"Alright," you concede. "I did. I had a wet dream about you a couple of weeks ago."

"You gonna tell me what happened? Was I good, at least?"

You bite your lip and slide over his hips, pushing him to his back and straddling him. "I couldn't look at you without thinking about your hands on me. You were very good. Almost as good as the real thing." You lean down and give him a single, lingering kiss.

"Almost," he repeats the word with emphasis. "I think I know about when that was," he says. "I thought you were mad at me. You wouldn't talk to me at all."

"Because I was afraid that if I started talking to you, I would only hear you moaning profanities in my ear," you push your hair over your shoulder. “I couldn’t even look at you without getting wet.”

Pope gets quiet, contemplative. Eyes dropping, his hands rest on your thighs.

“Hey,” you nudge him gently, “what’s going on? Where’d you go?”

“I hate that you felt like you couldn’t talk to me,” he says quietly.

“Uh-uh,” you lean down, nudging your nose with his. “None of that.”

“I’m not good at- the guys are usually-“

“Am I naked on top of Craig right now?” You shoot out.

“Over my dead body,” Pope snorts.

“Exactly,” you grin and kiss him.

You’re painfully that the damn has burst, and none of these feelings can be bottled back up. You’re going to have to tell Deran eventually. But none of that matters right now. All you can focus on is Pope’s hands on your thighs, and all the places he’ll put them.

Later, when you're dressed again and Pope is making you lunch, you bend down and pick up the discarded sweater.

"Andrew, who's is this, anyway?" You bring it over to the kitchen.

“I hate when they do this,” he muttered, and you didn’t respond, knowing he wasn’t really talking to you. Just out loud so he could try to regulate himself before he got really angry. 

When he stayed quiet too long, you looked up and found him standing by the island. Face pinched with as close to visible anger as you’d seen in a while.

“Smurf will forgive them soon,” you reassured. His eyes shot up to yours, and you offered a weak smile. “The novelty of raiding their big brother’s house will wear off.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, and you bit back a smile as he walked over to help you with the bags. “I think that couch you ordered will look really nice with the blankets you got,” you told him, cutting off the tags to throw them in the wash. 

“You picked them,” he reminded you, eyes darting up to meet yours before looking away. You hummed to yourself, a proud smile on your face as you realized that your touch would always be a part of what he called home. 

The peaceful bubble you’d surrounded yourself with shattered as his sliding glass door opened. “Oh.” Your shoulders tensed as you recognized the voice. “You’re home.” Cath offered a stilted smile to Andrew as he froze where he was standing. 

You walked out of the laundry room and shot her a grin you hoped passed as friendly and not sick to your stomach. “We went shopping today. I’m trying to make this place look less like a psych ward.”

Cath’s eyes narrowed as you loaded Andrew’s new dishes into the dishwasher. He remained still beside you, fist clenched on the granite counter while he looked anywhere but at Cath. 

“I didn’t realize you moved in,” she offered, something about her tone making you defensive. When you looked up, her brows were raised, a knowing look on her face that needled at your skin. 

“She didn’t,” Andrew interjected before you could. Your jaw snapped shut with a click as Cath scoffed. 

“I figured,” she muttered, cutting you a look that had you clenching your fists so you didn’t hit her. 

The sliding door opened again and Craig lumbered in, brows raising when he saw the stand-off happening. He let out a low whistle, wet feet slapping across the floor as pool water dripped off him.

“What’s going on?” He chuckled, the shithead knowing exactly what was happening. 

He took a drag from the blunt in his hand, grin widening when he saw how Andrew’s jaw clenched at the smoke billowing in his house. “Want some?” He offered, holding it out.

You took it before Andrew could, needing something to calm you down. “You know he’s a dick about this shit,” you snapped, taking a long drag.

It was cruel, you knew that. But nobody ever claimed hanging around the Cody men made someone less emotionally volatile. 

You headed toward the door, stripping off your clothes. You’d learned a while ago that it was better to just keep a bathing suit on underneath if you were hanging out with Andrew that day. You usually ended up at the pool or the beach; there was little in between. 

Craig chuckled behind you as you walked outside. “Yeah, he’s the dick,” he muttered. You forced yourself to ignore the dig and headed down to the pool. You threw yourself onto the chair closest to Deran. He tended to just leave you alone, and his typically miserable demeanor deterred others from approaching, as well. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you clenched your eyes shut and tried to pretend you were just tanning. Of course, Deran decided today was the day to test out being chatty. “How was the little shopping spree with Pope?”

Rolling your eyes, you tilted your head to look over at him. There was a knowing smirk on his face that had you tensing up. “Fine,” you grit out, hoping he might take the hint. 

“You run into Cath?” He taunts, clearly knowing the answer. The Cody family skill seems to be pissing you off. 

Flicking your sunglasses up, you shoot him a glare. “What’re you getting at, Deran?”

He shrugs and relaxes back on his chair. “That my brother’s a fucking idiot,” he shoots back, tone casual. 

“Am I that obvious?”

The snort he lets out is an answer enough. With a small smile, you lean back on the chair and shake your head. “I don’t get it, man,” Deran continues; clearly, he’s taken something that’s loosened his tongue. He’s not typically cold toward you, but the pair of you aren’t exactly close. 

“Get what?” you mutter, trying to relax the tenseness in your muscles. 

“You hang around him all the time. Put up with all his weird shit. You even do fucking shopping trips together.” You peek an eye open and catch him shaking his head in disbelief. “Cath can’t even look him in the eye.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “I don’t know what goes on in his head.”

“I don’t think anyone does,” you scoff, biting back the burn rising in your throat. 

“No, but you’ve come the closest.” You don’t think Deran understands just how much it hurts hearing him say all of this. It’s easy enough, lying to yourself and pretending you’re not obvious. That the reason Andrew doesn’t reciprocate is that you haven’t shown him how you feel. 

But when Deran- hell, when even Craig picks up on your hints- you know it has nothing to do with how obvious you are and everything to do with the fact that you are simply not the woman he wants. 

A minute later, a shadow descends over you. Frowning, you look up and see Andrew hovering, mouth pinched as he stares. Your nose wrinkles at the smell of Craig’s weed wafting off him.

“Did you smoke?”

He nods and you frown. “You don’t smoke,” you point out. Andrew takes the conversation as an invitation to perch at the end of your chair. 

“Why not?” He shrugs and it only serves to confuse you further. He holds the blunt out to you. You suck your teeth, but it only takes a second for you to accept. Some ridiculous part of you thinks about how his lips had been wrapped around it only a second before as you take a puff. 

That’s how it happened the first time. You’d been pissy about his infatuation with Cath. He’d probably been hurt by a comment you hadn’t meant. You got high off weed, and you’re sure Craig had laced it with something else. The next morning, your head felt fuzzy, and memories of the day before came back to you slowly. 

It had taken you longer than you’d like to admit to realize there was an arm slung around your waist. Then, Andrew had woken up, both of you frozen as you realized what you’d done the night before. 

“Holy shit,” you whispered, sheets pulled up around your naked chest as you stared down at your lap. 

Andrew flexed his hands, eyes not meeting yours as he glared at his comforter. “I don’t remember,” he muttered. 

You shook your head, “I don’t either,” but it was undeniable, considering that was your underwear thrown on his floor. 

“We should try again.” Your head whipped up and you ignored how it made your vision swim. He held your gaze, face deadly serious. Your jaw dropped, lips parting as you struggled for words. 

“What?” You squeaked out.

“We should try again,” he repeated, just as blunt as he was the first time around. “Neither of us remembers anything.” You don’t know why you almost said no. Almost denied what you’d wanted since the day you met him. But something seemed to think this wasn’t right. 

Maybe you wanted it to be more romantic. Or for this to have happened after a date when you were actually sure he really cared about you as more than just a quick lay. But a part of you, deep down, knew that was likely to never happen. So you’d nodded, eyes closing as he dipped his head, lips meeting yours hesitantly. 

It only took a slight tilt of your head, hands dropping the sheets from your chest as you moved toward him, for him to fully give in. His hands gripped your waist, tugging you onto his lap as you slung your arms over his shoulders. That’s how the first time you actually remember happened. 

And then, it kept happening. Your friendship continued as it always had. You’d go out for lunch and dinner. Breakfast sometimes if you stayed the night.

The pair of you might go shopping for his new house or just to get away from his mother. Occasionally, it ended with sex. But that wasn’t always consistent. 

It both hurt and was reassuring. On the one hand, you wished he would want you as much as you wanted him. Not just when he needed a moment of reprieve.

But, at the very least, that meant he didn’t just see you as some sex toy now. He still cared about you the same way he did before. You’re not sure if it made you happy or upset how little the sex changed your relationship with Andrew. 

When it did happen, you’d pretend he wasn’t thinking about another woman. That it was just you in his mind, that he was okay, that it was you in his arms and not Cath. You could lie to yourself that it didn’t bother you. That you were okay with this as long as you had some piece of him. 

It was never enough to stop the hurt from seeping through. 

You remember one time, a few months after this new thing with Andrew started, Smurf invited you out. It was clear enough that Smurf didn’t like you. But she hadn’t minded as much when you were just an occasional presence in her house. 

However, when you and Andrew got more physical, you were at her place a lot more than you had been before. The sex had changed little about your relationship except that you became clingier than you would have liked to be.

You started hanging around with him more, waiting for that little extra bit of attention he occasionally spared you. It was pathetic; you knew that, but you were hopeless when it came to Andrew. You always had been. 

His arm was slung around you while you watched some brutal animal documentary on some beast called a Shoebill. You’d been cringing at the way it was staring down the lens of the camera when Smurf had walked in. 

“Well,” she rasped, a tight smile on her face. “Isn’t this cute?”

Andrew’s arm had tensed around you as he drew you closer, eyes pointedly kept on the screen. Her glare narrowed as she walked down the steps to the living room. “You’ve been around a bit more, hun.”

You shifted uncomfortably under her stare, hand tightening in Andrew’s shirt as you shrugged, offering a half-hearted smile. “I guess so.”

Her head tilted and she kept walking until she was standing just right to block the TV. “Are you two finally dating?”

“No,” Andrew was quick to answer. You bit your lip, swallowing down the hurt as you tried to shift away. He didn’t seem to notice, his arm just as tight around you as he straightened up.

“We’re not dating,” he doubled down, and you resisted the urge to crawl away and hide in some dark corner. 

Smurf hummed, clearly unconvinced. “‘Course not,” she reassured, her voice sickeningly sweet. Her attention drifted back to you.

You grit your teeth, pretending like you weren’t just the slightest bit afraid. Not necessarily of her, but of the hold you knew she had on Andrew. It wouldn’t take much for her to wrench the two of you apart. 

“You have plans this Saturday, sweetie?”

You grew cold as Andrew withdrew his touch. He leaned forward, his glare steady on his mother, and you frowned. “Don't,” he warned, his lips a tense line of irritation. 

Her gaze snapped to his, brows furrowing with consideration before she redirected her attention. “Well?”

“Uh,” you swallowed roughly and spared Andrew a glance before shaking your head. “No, no plans.”

“Perfect,” she hummed. “You can join Pope and me then.”

“Smurf,” he tried again, getting to his feet. You stared up at him in surprise. He didn’t typically butt heads with her like this. 

“That’s enough, baby. Don’t be rude.” Smurf fixed him with a firm look before stalking back out of the room. Your brows furrowed as you waited for him to sit back down. Instead, he glared down at the coffee table, fists clenched at his sides. 

“Andrew,” you tried, getting to your feet. You reached for his arm, but he jerked away. 

“Let’s go,” he demanded, already heading to the front door. You followed after him, but he didn’t give you any more answers. Just drove you to his house. 

He still seemed out of character when he took you to his bed that night. Strangely desperate, more handsy than usual. Like he was afraid you might slip away in the middle of the night, change your mind about the whole deal. 

Like you ever would. The idea was laughable. 

Andrew drove you on Saturday. To where, you couldn’t say. You got lost when paved roads turned to gravel, and it started to look like he was driving you out to some warehouse to be murdered in. 

When he’d stopped on a random cemented piece of land with trucks and bikes scatteringly parked, you almost didn’t get out. But you trusted him. As much as you probably shouldn’t. So, you’d let him open your door, help you out of the car, and followed behind. 

He didn’t speak. He hadn’t the whole morning. Just kept his eyes pointed anywhere but your face. Still, he seemed to linger more than normal. Hand staying wrapped around yours. Walking closer than he typically does. 

The odd behavior, even from an already odd man, had you on edge. Smurf being behind this whole thing didn’t help soothe you at all. No, the closer you got to what sounded like loud, drunken cheering, the more your stomach soured. 

“When are you going to tell me what we’re doing?” 

Andrew paused, head dipping between his shoulders as he sucked in a sharp breath. You waited with bated breath, the prolonged silence making you antsy to just get the hell out of there. “I need you to-”

“There you are!” Smurf walked up, a malicious grin on her face. Her oversized sunglasses hid her eyes, but you still felt the ill intent in her gaze.

“Here I thought you weren’t going to show. I should’ve known better.” She reached forward and squeezed Andrew’s shoulder, drawing him away from you as she draped herself over him. Your nose wrinkled with poorly hidden disgust. “My baby boy doesn’t disappoint.”

You offered a weak chuckle to try to disguise the visceral hatred you felt toward the woman. It only got worse when you saw how Andrew couldn’t meet your eyes, unable to get out from under her touch. 

It didn’t matter if it was a stranger, a friend, even her own daughter; Smurf didn’t play nice with other women. Desperate to be the only one in her boys’ lives. Whatever she had planned for you today was certain to be an attempt at kicking you out of Andrew’s. 

Sucking in a sharp breath, you motioned for her to lead the way. You were determined not to let her win this time. 

Andrew needed a win; you weren’t about to be another disappointment. 

Though that conviction of yours weakened the closer you got to the cheering. It was gone by the time you realized what exactly she was having him do today. Inside a metal cage, two men were beating each other bloody, the people watching screaming insults as cash was traded between different hands. 

“God dammit,” you muttered, ripping your gaze away at the sound of a wet crunch as one of the men dropped to the ground. 

“Weak stomach?” Smurf taunted, shoving Pope forward before he could say anything to you. A burly man covered in tattoos jerked him forward by the neck, bending to whisper something in his ear. 

You bit your lip and turned toward Smurf. She had seated herself in a foldable chair. It could have been confused for a throne with how comfortable she looked in it. “No,” you responded, refusing to let her twisted little games beat you out. 

“You’ll have one by the end,” she promised, taking a swig from her flask as she turned her attention toward the cage match. Seeing as she hadn’t deigned to provide you a place to sit, you moved closer to the crowd. You weren’t keen on being so close to her, anyway. You’d rather be in the spray-zone of blood than have to stomach her company much longer. 

Pope walked into the ring, knuckles wrapped and eyes boring only into his opponent. He didn’t look outside the cage, not to you, not to his mother. You supposed it was for the best that neither of you got in his head while he was beating another man to a pulp. 

You closed your eyes for a moment, jumping as a bell rang and the small crowd started cheering. You kept them closed, right up until you heard the first sound of flesh breaking against flesh. With a rough swallow, you forced yourself to look as Andrew was shoved into the metal chain, ducking just before the other man’s fist connected with his face. 

Taking a step back, you tried not to grimace as he spit blood onto the cage floor. You could do this for him. You could handle a little while of blood and violence, if only to make sure Smurf doesn’t get to enjoy the victory of chasing you away. 

Nails biting into your palms, you forced yourself to be still. To not react to the blood and teeth that went flying. Or the way you could already see welts and bruises forming along Andrew’s ribs. You made your way through it, right up until the end of the match, when Andrew was standing over the other man, chest heaving and bare chest covered in marks that made you hurt for him. 

Then, in your peripheral, you saw Smurf walking up to the man running the match. Her gaze met yours as she whispered something to him. Your heart dropped as you realized she wasn’t going to let this stop until you or Andrew tapped out. 

Head whipping back to him, you felt yourself go light-headed as an even bigger man than the last walked in. He hardly waited for the bell to ring before he was swinging at Andrew. You watched as he dropped to the ground, shaking the ringing from his ears as he ducked away from another punch. 

You didn’t want to give Smurf the satisfaction of seeing you run scared. But you also weren’t going to be the reason Andrew was beaten bloody just so she could prove a point. With the best terrified expression you could muster, you went running, ignoring the barb of fury as Smurf smirked, completely victorious. You didn’t stop until you reached Andrew’s truck. 

Guilt twisted your stomach into knots. He might not have been looking at you, but it wouldn’t take long to realize you were gone. You knew him, knew that he would be quick to assume the worst. But that was better than having to watch him lie bloody in the cage. 

With a sharp breath, you leaned against his truck, head tipped back as you waited for this to be over. It took about another half hour before you saw him approaching. His head was down, pace furious as he undid the wrap around his knuckles. 

You jolted up, lips pinched as your stomach twisted. He stopped short when he finally saw you waiting, and you offered a tentative smile that probably read more like a grimace. His brows furrowed as he closed the distance between you. Hands flexing at his sides, you felt like he wanted to reach out; maybe you were projecting, but you took the leap anyway. 

“How bad does it hurt?” You asked, taking his hand in yours and frowning at the split skin of his knuckles. 

“I thought you left,” he muttered, stepping even closer. 

You already knew he would expect the worst, but the lack of faith still hurt. “Smurf clearly wanted me gone. I figured she’d be done with it if she thought I ran scared.” 

“But you didn’t.” He stared at you, eyes narrowed like he didn’t quite believe you. 

“I didn’t,” you smiled softly. “Now, keys, I don’t trust that you don’t have a concussion.” He didn’t argue as he placed them in your palm, leaning into you when you reached up to press a kiss to the unmarred spot on his cheek. “Let's get you home,” you murmured, rounding the front of his truck. 

The ride, like that morning, was quiet. You didn’t push, letting him stew until you pulled up his driveway. “Come on,” you motioned him inside, guiding him toward his bathroom so you could clean him up a bit. 

He took a seat on the rim of his tub, eyes intent on tracking you as you dug around under the sink for the first-aid supplies. You spent so much time at his house that it was practically more familiar to you than your own place. 

It was when you were kneeling down in front of him that he finally spoke. “I didn’t want you to see that,” he admitted, eyes glaring down at his bathmat. Your hand hovered over his cheek. 

You dipped your head to meet his gaze and grinned. “Why? Because that second guy knocked you on your ass?” He let out a little huff and you figured that’s the closest to a laugh you’d get today. “I’m not scared of you, Andrew,” you promised, putting the alcohol swab to the side for a moment. 

When he still wouldn’t meet your eye, you lifted your hand, careful of his cuts as you cupped his cheek. Gently, you tilted his face toward yours, imploring him to just listen to you, for once. His eyes darted between yours, expression tightening before it slowly softened. He nodded, letting his weight rest in your hand. 

You stayed the night, slept beside him, his arms tight around you while you held him back. You didn’t have sex, but you think that was better than if you had. Andrew needed something gentle in his life. A relationship that gave without anything expected in return. You never had any problems being that for him. 

“So,” you glanced around the restaurant, feeling more than a little out of place. “Why the change of plans?” You turned your attention back to Andrew, hoping you didn’t look as uncomfortable as you felt. 

Tonight, you were supposed to have dinner at his place. Possibly convince him to watch the new horror movie that just came out so you wouldn’t have to suffer through it alone. Instead, he’d told you to wear something nice and dragged you to a restaurant so fancy there was a chandelier over your table. 

It should be telling you don’t belong here if you think a chandelier is the epitome of class. 

Nails drumming along the table, your eyes dart between the nicely dressed couples and waiters with better posture than your own. The Codys had money, sure, but that didn’t mean class. And you’d known Andrew before they’d made a name for themselves. This wasn’t your sort of place, and you knew it wasn’t Andrew’s. 

“I thought you might like it,” Andrew answered, his voice low as he stared down at the menu. Your brows furrowed, but you decided not to push. He was clearly trying to make an effort. You didn’t want him to feel bad because the judgmental glares of the staff made you want to crawl out of your skin. 

“Well,” you hummed, struggling for a kind word. “It’s nice,” you settled on lamely.  

His brows rose and you let out a stiff chuckle. “You don’t like it.” You must have an even worse poker face than you thought. 

Shrugging, you lean back in your seat. “It just doesn’t seem like your sort of place.”

Andrew frowns and you worry you might have offended him. “I thought you’d be sick of my sort of place.”

Scoffing, you shake your head. “Why would you think that?”

He lets out a hefty sigh, hand scrubbing along his jaw. “It’s just something Baz told me.” Well, his first mistake was ever taking advice from Baz. “When he and Cath started dating, he said she didn’t like just hanging out at the house all the time.”

Jaw tightening, you suck your teeth, forcing your face to remain kind. “I’m not Cath,” you remind him, though you’re sure you’re both bitter about that fact. 

His eyes shoot up to meet yours, his frown deepening at the expression on your face. “I know that-”

“Then don’t try to treat me like her,” you cut in, your tone far more venomous than you’d meant. Andrew draws back, and you suck in a sharp breath. “I want to leave,” you tell him, tossing your napkin on the table and finding it difficult to meet his eyes. You don’t wait for him, getting to your feet and collecting your bag before you’d even had a chance to order. 

Andrew hurries to follow behind you as you storm out of the restaurant. You know you’re too sensitive about these things. But one night with him- where you might even be able to pretend you’re on a date like a proper couple. Is that so much to ask for? Just a night without the reminder you’re barely even a second choice. 

Deciding you need to calm down, you walk off the sidewalk of the restaurant and head down toward the beach. Andrew catches up to you quickly, hovering at your side, unsure what to say. You grab hold of his arm, leaning against him while you undo the straps of your heels. 

“Let’s walk,” you mutter, caught off guard when he reaches over to take your shoes from you. Lifting the hem of your dress, you trudge through the sand. Andrew doesn’t shake off your hold, just lets you use him for balance. 

It’s not uncommon that he allows you to be touchier with him than most people. But he’s not usually this tolerant. He already doesn’t like the feel of sand, the way it pools in his shoes and inevitably ends up trailing through his home.

Normally, he’d have gone stiff, trying to silently tell you to back off. But he’s leaning into you know, hand drifting along your waist as you listen to the soft crash of waves in the distance. 

“I’m sorry.” He finally breaks the silence. 

You bite your lip and shake your head. “I shouldn’t have just left like that. It was nice,” you reluctantly admit. He frowns down at you. With a huff, you clarify, “The restaurant idea was nice. It just wasn’t for me.” It was for the woman you actually want to be with. 

Andrew just nods, gaze pensive as he stares off into the dark waters. “I wasn’t…”

“Hm?”

He shakes his head, hand tightening around your waist as he leads you back toward his home. “Never mind,” he mutters, brows furrowed as he stares down at the sand. You frown but decide it’s better not to push. You’ve already gotten your feelings hurt once tonight; no need to risk any more. 

When you make it to his home, you almost debate asking for a ride home. You’re not hungry anymore; you don’t want to watch a stupid movie with him. He’s made it more than clear that all you are is a placeholder until he gets what he really wants. Now, all you want is to just be left alone. 

“Come on,” he mutters, already opening the door before you muster the backbone to leave. You hover at the threshold and he pauses, turning back with a frown. “What’s wrong?”

You almost back up, almost leave. Instead, you shake your head. “Nothing, never mind. I’m just tired,” you whisper, following after him. The door closes and his hand finds its way to your back. 

He turns you to face him, calloused hand drifting up to push back a strand of hair. You’ve been conditioned to lean in just as he starts to. To push closer as he wraps his arms around you and tugs you toward him. 

You wrap your arm around his shoulders, head tilting as his lips brush softly against yours. Once, twice, you wait for the third pass, when he lets go of his reservations. Grips you tighter and pushes you toward his bedroom, hungry for something only you can give him. 

But it never comes. He stays soft, hands drifting up and down your sides as he holds you by the door. You’re not complaining, enjoying the tender intimacy of the moment. He never changes pace, just takes his time, savors the moment. And you. 

You could get used to feeling so desired by him as he slowly begins leading you back to his bedroom. It’s not that he’s never like this. Occasionally, you get moments of softness with him. But this is different, somehow. Like he really means it, and isn’t just giving you gentleness as a courtesy. 

His hand works on the zipper of your dress, fingers dragging along your spine as you slip your arms from the sleeves. It falls down your body, and he lifts you, picking you up before it trips you. You tighten your legs around him, smiling when he drops you on his bed. 

It’s different that night, the way he is with you. You could almost pretend he loves you just the same as you love him. Pretend that this wasn’t his own desperate need for connection with someone else. Allowing the illusion, just once, couldn’t hurt. 

That was the last night you were together. You didn’t know- he didn’t tell you- about the bank job he and his family had planned for the next day. You couldn’t have known how badly it would’ve gone, that Andrew would end up taking the fall for Baz. 

Because Baz has a family, Deran had explained afterward. Pope doesn’t have anyone. 

He had you. Clearly, though, you didn’t count for anything in their eyes. You almost wonder if Baz had messed up on purpose. If he’d done this to get Andrew out of the way so he could take over. It wouldn’t surprise you, given how quick he was to take Andrew’s place as the eldest son. 

What shocked you the most, though, was that Smurf just let him. Baz wasn’t even hers and she still let him slip into Andrew’s place. Like he’d never been there at all. 

You weren’t allowed at the trial; you’re not even sure if you’d want to be there. But Smurf had made it abundantly clear that with Andrew gone, your place in her home would soon become nonexistent. 

You still hung around, mainly with Deran. Purely for updates on Andrew. Try as you might, each attempt at reaching out seemed to go ignored or just not work out. You sent letters. A lot of letters. At least twice a month. 

Sometimes, you couldn’t believe yourself. Andrew had been sentenced to six years. What? Were you just going to wait around for him that long? How much more pathetic could you possibly get?

A lot more, you thought to yourself, penning another letter for the third time that month. 

Andrew,

I really don’t know if you’re getting any of these. I hope you are. Smurf had me taken off the visitors list, so I can’t come and see you now. I swear, I would if she didn’t hate me so much. 

I’m sorry. Sorry I can’t see you. And sorry about how your family’s acting. They sold your house. I was going to try to buy it with the money you gave me, but Smurf figured out it was me and stopped the deal. 

There’s no guarantee when they’ll let you go. But whenever you’re free, wherever I am, there’ll be a place for you. I’ll leave my key in the plant hanging by my door if you get there before me. 

You continue on, talking about your life, struggling to decide whether or not you should ask about his. He’s in prison; you doubt there’s anything particularly exciting he’d like to share. If there was, surely he would have responded by now. 

But he never did. For two years, you kept up your letters. Kept up hope that, despite the fact he wasn’t responding, some part of him still cares for you. Deran had told you no one else was getting any letters either. But you didn’t think they were sending any or reaching out, either. 

It shouldn’t have been, but it was astounding just how little his brothers seemed to care about his absence. If anything, they seemed more at ease. Big brother wasn’t there to keep them in check anymore. Baz let them just run free, just as eager to be careless as they were. 

For two years, you loved Andrew when everyone else seemed so content with forgetting him. And two years is exactly how long Smurf’s patience lasted before she finally grew sick of you. You weren’t a threat, not anymore, but that didn’t mean she liked you any more than she did before. 

You were lounging at the pool with Deran, prattling on about your new boss while he smoked. She walked up with a cruel smirk on her lips. Which should have been your first sign to cut loose and run. 

“Hey, sweetheart.” She pulled an envelope from the pocket of her jeans and you leapt up. Water dripped from your legs as you climbed the stairs of the pool. “I think this might be for you.”

You hastily dried your hands off on your towel, taking the letter from her with trembling hands. Two years, and he was finally letting you hear from him again. Smurf let out a little laugh, crossing her arms as you eagerly ripped open the envelope. Your second sign that you should have just ignored her. 

It was a letter, but not to you. He didn’t say her name at first. But you caught on quick enough. Mainly, when he started telling her how jealous he was of Baz. How Baz wasn’t good enough for her. She could do so much better. He could treat her so much better. He wouldn’t play around with her; he would take care of her like she deserved. 

Your throat tightened to the point it felt like you were being strangled the longer you read. Tears burned against your lashes, but you refused to let Smurf see them fall. You could barely stomach half of the letter- drawing the line at him declaring his love for Cath- before you were folding it back up. 

“It’s not for me,” you whispered, your voice breaking around the words as Deran finally lifted his head. He frowned at the look on your face while Smurf stepped closer. She took the letter from your hands, cupping your shoulder as she leaned toward your ear. 

“He didn't want anything except what’s between your legs. I don’t want you, and my family doesn’t. Leave, or I’m going to have to make you, honey.”

And you did, just like she ordered. But you didn’t just leave her house; that wasn’t enough for you. You had to leave every reminder of the Codys behind completely. 

Deran helped you, just a little, by giving you some of the money Andrew had stashed away before he was arrested. You didn’t want to take it. How could you start fresh if he was funding your future? 

But you didn’t have a choice. You were working a dead-end job and barely making minimum wage. So, reluctantly, you took the cash and moved a few hours out of Oceanside. A cute place, right by the beach. 

It was a relatively small town, quaint and filled with retirees. The type of quiet you were desperate for. Smurf bought up your old place without you knowing. You’d just made a blind deal, desperate for more money and a quick way out. 

Which meant she got the one letter Andrew ever bothered to send. 

They’re letting me out on good behavior. I want to see you. She’d scoffed as she’d tossed it in her fireplace, smiling as she thought about getting her boy back. Without any distractions in the way. You’d been dealt with. Cath wouldn’t be so hard to get rid of. 

Pope didn’t expect his family to be waiting outside the prison for him. He’d only told one person he was getting out. And he’d been hoping to see you, but he wasn’t surprised when you weren’t there. Just a little disappointed. He was sure there was a reason for it, it’s not like you’d miss something so big on purpose. 

But you hadn’t been waiting for him at Smurf’s either. You’d already warned him they’d sold his home. But you didn’t tell him they’d given his room away to his twin sister’s kid. No one had even bothered to tell him Julia had died. 

He sat in the living room, feeling more out of place than he ever had before. Cath couldn’t look at him. Baz seemed angry that he had even made it out. The kid, J, was just pissing him off more, a painful reminder of the sister he’d lost. Smurf seemed on edge, with tight smiles and cloying words, while she tried to keep him placated. 

There was one person very clearly missing. Someone they were pointedly not bringing up. You were never a huge part of the Cody family, but you were important to him and they knew that. But you weren’t here. And your letters had stopped a year ago. He had never figured out why, but he’d held out hope for a long time that a guard would bring him one again. 

He had never written back. There was never anything more to be said. He couldn’t talk about being shoved in solitary. Or the way the guards used to beat and humiliate him. That was never something he wanted you to know. It wasn't the way he wanted you to think of him.

So he had just greedily accepted your letters, your stories. But he never thought his silence would be enough to finally push you away. 

Pope broke the tense silence of the living room. “Where is she?” He stared down at his hands, knees jumping beneath his arms as he tried to keep himself calm. 

Smurf shook her head and he shot her a glare. She knew exactly who he was talking about. “Oh.” Smurf rolled her eyes, reaching over to stroke his hair. He tried not to grimace, hating the way it felt. The only person he wanted that from right now was you. 

“Forget about her, baby. She ran out a while ago. Took some of our money with her,” her voice tightens, gaze cutting to Deran, who wouldn’t look his way. His eyes narrow at that, his shoulders tensing at the discomfort on his brother's face.

“Just another skank looking for a quick fix,” Smurf callously dismissed. As if you hadn’t been there since they’d rebranded him Pope. Like you weren’t the only constant in his life, the only person he could actually rely on. 

He knew you. You weren’t an addict. You weren’t like Ren, hooked on Craig because they’d both shot each other up one too many times. You’d never cared about the money he might’ve given you. You've only ever dealt with his shit and his family for him. 

Pope refused to believe that you’d just left. That you wouldn’t have sent a letter explaining your absence. Or at least have waited until he got out to say goodbye 

But Pope gave Smurf what she wanted. He nodded, pretending you were just some chick he liked to fuck sometimes. He let her believe the lie until he finally got a minute alone. 

He tried to check all your socials, but you’d deleted them. He went through friends of yours and checked their posts to see if you’d ever popped up in any of them. He paced his room and spoke softly to himself while he tried to figure out where the hell you could have gone. Why would you have left? 

Smurf had a hand in it; he was sure of that. But you’d survived her for years. Why would you suddenly give up, now?

He checked all of the letters you’d sent him. But the return address remained the same right until the last one. Pope racked his mind for any places you mentioned wanting to visit, but none of them seemed feasible for you to simply disappear to. 

When all other options had been exhausted, he went another route.

Deran

He cornered him by the pool, eyes narrowing at the way Deran refused to meet his stare. “Where is she?”

“What the fuck are you talking-“

Pope shoved him back and Deran let out a low hiss as his spine slammed against the corner of the bar. “Don’t play dumb, Deran. You know exactly who I’m fucking talking about.”

Deran shot Pope a harsh glare, rubbing his bruising back. “Look, man, I promised her I wouldn’t tell anyone.”

Pope tilted his head with a frown. “Even me?”

Deran scoffed and sneered. “You're kidding me? Especially you.”

What the fuck was that supposed to mean?

“Do you really want to do this?” Pope snapped, hands balling into fists at his side. He had a lot to work out. The majority of it was anger, most of that directed at his family. He wouldn’t mind making his little brother bleed if it got him what he wanted. 

Deran seemed to realize that, too, disappointingly. “Fucks sake,” he huffed. It’s not like you and Deran were ever very close. Pope's not sure why you thought he would be a good choice to keep your secrets. Or why you were trying to keep secrets from him. But he could figure all that out when he saw you. 

Because he would, now, as Deran wrote down your address and pressed the slip of paper into his palm. 

You’d moved a few hours outside of Oceanside. Clearly desperate to get away. But that hadn’t been something Deran had been able to give a reason for. You kept a few things from him, it seemed. 

The town was small, decent, and safe enough. It seemed to be full of retirees rather than anyone close to your age. He parked downtown, fiddling with the GPS on his phone while he tried to work out the best way to get to your place. 

As luck would have it, he’d parked in front of the store you seem to frequent for groceries. Pope looked up just as you walked out of the store. His hand tightened around the steering wheel until the leather was creaking. 

He’d imagined seeing you again a lot in prison. But the memory of you had begun to fade the longer he went without. 

You seemed surreal as he watched you. Like something he dreamed up as you loaded your car with your bags. His hand dropped to the handle of his door. He wanted to jump out, hound you for an answer on why you left. Kiss you and take you right in the middle of the parking lot. He didn’t give a shit who saw; he just wanted you. 

But he stopped himself. Kept himself locked in his car while he watched you. His chest was tight as you closed your trunk, hopping into your car and pulling out of your parking spot. Andrew started his truck back up, carefully, as he pulled up behind you. 

He forced himself to stay back, to keep enough distance that you didn’t grow suspicious. He watched as you ran your errands. A stop by the general store where you picked up some tools. A few minutes in a boutique before you were walking out with empty hands. He watched it all, growing increasingly more frustrated that you seemed completely unaware someone was following you. 

By the time you made it home, his patience was gone. He watched you head inside. Watched the lights flick on behind your curtains. How your silhouette moved through the house before you turned off the living room lights. You moved through the house, a light flicking off the closer you got to your bedroom. Andrew’s leg bounced as he watched the last one go off. 

Then, he couldn’t hold himself back anymore. He jumped from his truck, storming up the steps of your porch. He pulled his pick from his pocket, using his body to block anyone’s view as he pushed it into your lock. 

His hands paused, though, when he remembered one of the first letters you’d sent him. A promise of a place always waiting for him with you. His eyes darted around the porch, chest tightening when he saw a hanging plant in the corner.

He walked over, glancing over his shoulder as his hand dug through the dirt. He’d almost given up hope when he felt the smooth metal of a key beneath his fingers. 

He couldn’t decide whether to be upset or relieved. It was stupid of you to grant such easy access to your home. At the very least, though, this meant you still had to feel something for him. 

He slipped through your door quietly. Toeing off his boots, he took care not to step on any creaking wood as he made his way through the house. 

The interior was what you would expect from a beach bungalow, nice enough. Even with the limited light streaming through the curtains, he still spotted touches of you. Little pieces of color that he had missed while he’d been gone. 

He’s aware this is probably the wrong way to go about the reunion. But he can’t trust that you won’t just avoid him if he tries to approach you naturally. It’s not like you to just disappear without a warning. He couldn’t stand seeing your face as you told him to stay out of your life. He’d rather deal with that rejection in the dark, when he doesn’t have to see the hatred in your eyes. 

At the end of the hall is your bedroom. The door is cracked open slightly. Pope carefully pushes through, taking care to make sure the whining hinges don’t preemptively announce him. 

You don’t move, sprawled across your bed as a sound machine blasts at top volume, and half your face is obscured by an eye mask. He crosses his arms with a scoff. You have made it incredibly easy to break in. 

Pope shakes his head and steps further inside until he’s hovering over you. His brow furrows, his expression softening as he relearns the slopes of your face. There’s a smile growing on his face when you suddenly shoot up in bed. 

He jolts back as your head swivels wildly. Suddenly, you’re ripping off your mask. He grimaces at the shrill scream you let out, slipping across your bed until your body is thudding against the wood. 

He tries to say your name, but you’re jumping back up, a metal bat now in your hands. At least you’re marginally prepared. 

“It’s me,” he calls out. 

“What?” You snap, reaching for your lamp. He squints against the sudden light as you shove your hair out of your eyes. “Andrew?” You gasp, the bat slipping from your fingers. 

“Hey,” he offers. He waits for you to hug him, to yell at him, or maybe to scream at him to get the hell out of your life. But you don’t; you just stand there, jaw dropped. He whispers your name, and you jolt back to life, shaking your head. 

“What- how are you-" You press a hand to your temple and stutter out nonsense. He rounds the bed, slowly taking your hands in his as he leads you to sit back down.

You suck in a sharp breath, hands tensing in his hold, but you don’t jerk away. You also won’t meet his eyes. “Why are you here, Andrew?” He hates that there’s no familiar warmth when you say his name. 

“What do you mean?” Where else would he be?

“I mean,” you snap, finally meeting his eye. But it’s cold, the way you look at him. “Why are you here? In my house,” you grit out, eyes wide as you gesture toward your bedroom. 

Pope rubs the back of his neck. This is a slightly better reaction than what he’d been preparing for. But he can’t tell if catching you off guard was the right call. 

“I told you I was coming back.”

You narrow your eyes and shake your head. “When?” You huff. 

Andrew frowns. “In my letter,” he’s sure he must’ve seen it before you moved. Or, at the very least, one of his family would’ve given it to you. 

“Oh,” you scoff and jump to your feet. “No, I never got a letter from you, Andrew. Just one person did.” You smile as Andrew frowns, shaking his head helplessly. “Cath,” you elaborate, patience running thin. 

“I never sent her a letter,” he insists, not having a goddamn idea what you’re talking about. He just wants you to sit down again. The way you’re eyeing that bat is disconcerting. 

“Are you seriously trying to lie to me right now?” You demand, pacing in front of him. 

He snaps your name and you freeze, forcing yourself to look at him. Pope stands, but you take a step back. It's hard to ignore how much that hurts.

“I never sent anyone any letters, alright? I- I couldn’t. I couldn’t talk about what was happening, so I never sent anything. But I told you I was coming back.”

A part of you softens. You’re still not happy, but you seem more inclined to believe him. “I’m sorry.” You shake your head. “I never got anything. When did you send it?”

“A few months ago.”

“No,” you bite your lip, glaring down at the floor. “I’d already moved. Smurf would’ve-“

You cut yourself off with a low hiss as you slump back into your bed. Pope hovers in front of you, unsure what to do now. “God, that fucking bitch. Goddamn control freak,” you snap. 

Your eyes shoot up to his, “Did you ever, in your life, write Cath a letter?”

Pope grimaced, thinking about it. “Yeah, when we were kids.” You let out a bitter laugh, head falling into your hands. Hesitatingly, he took a seat beside you. 

“Are you mad at me?” 

Your head shoots up and you stare at him for a long time. Long enough for him to grow uncomfortable. “No,” you finally whisper and something inside of him finally relaxes. “No, I’m not mad at you.”

He reaches out, eager to finally hold you again, but you hold up your hand, jerking away. “But I can’t do this again. I’m so glad you’re out, I really am. But I can’t go back to being what we were.”

Pope shakes his head, drawing back into himself. “What we were?”

“You can’t just come back and expect me to be your fuck buddy again, Andrew.”

“That’s not what we were,” he snaps. How could you debase it like that? Just like Smurf had.

“You never called to anything else,” you scoff, brows drawing together with irritation. Were you always so volatile? 

“I never called it anything.”

“Exactly,” you snap. “Andrew, I don’t know how else to make it clear. I wrote to you for two years, without ever getting anything back. I’ve been in love with you for so long. But you don’t get to come back into my life and offer nothing but sex. It’s not fair.”

His chest aches as you cut yourself off, your voice trembling. Is that what you’ve thought? All this time, you just thought that the way he treats you is how he’d ever treat anyone else?

“It was never just sex.” He pauses, completely unsure if he even has the words to properly convey how he feels about you. “I love you,” he admits, and your breath hitches painfully. “I thought you knew that. How could you not know?” It's embarrassing, the way his voice breaks.

“How would I?” You scoff, watery eyes lifting to meet his. “It’s not like we talk about our emotions a lot.”

Pope swallows roughly. This isn’t how he works. He can’t just spew off romantic words of undying love. He just isn’t good at that. Always better at showing others how he feels. Though clearly that isn’t working either. 

“I love you,” he promises. “I’ve waited three years to see you. And when you weren’t at the house today, I thought…” he can’t finish. He’d had a hundred thoughts of the worst possible explanations for your absence. And each one had hurt worse than the last. 

You let out a rough sigh, and Andrew waits for you to tell him to get out. He jolts when he feels your arm around him. You pull him closer and he seeks your warmth immediately, his head falling into the crook of your neck as he winds his arm around you. 

You let out a small laugh, stroking his back as he sinks his weight against you. “I never stopped loving you,” you whisper. “I was pissed off for a while. But, infuriatingly, you’ve always stayed with me.” He pulls back and you nod. “Always,” you swear, frowning at the look in his eyes. 

“Please,” he whispers, hardly even caring he’s this close to getting on his knees and begging. “Can I stay here tonight?” 

You frown and shake your head. “Of course,” you lean down, lips soft as they press against his temple. “As long as you want.” He’s sure you have no idea just how long you're signing up for. 

Or, maybe you were. You seem to have been waiting for this as long as he has. He’s not planning on giving you up anytime soon. Not again. 

𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦

𝘚𝘢𝘣𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘢 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳                 ♥︎

⇄              ◁◁  I I  ▷▷          ↻

⁰² ⁰⁸ ━━━━━━━━━●━ ⁰⁰ ²⁵

💿 Can't call it love then call it quits 💿