#1 romcomrry advocate

You should be put off by the violence. You should be scared of the ruthless brutality that Andrew doles out so easily, the cruel, pointless shedding of blood that Andrew doesn't give pause to consider in the cage, but you're not. You're not put off by any of it, because if you were, you wouldn't be Pope's girl. You wouldn't be at every match cheering him on in your little outfits, you wouldn't be practically salivating at the easy display of his strength, you wouldn't flounce around the field afterwards warm with pride that your boyfriend won all those fights.

You like it. You like when he fights. You like when he's sweaty and shirtless and beating the fuck out of someone, you like the spread of his lips over his thick mouth guard, you like the way he easily overpowers anyone that's unlucky enough to go up against him in a fight. You like watching his bicep bulge as he chokes someone in a head lock, you like watching the spread of his thick thighs as he traps someone on the floor and pummels them without thought, you like watching the focused look take control of his face as he simply waits for the ref to call the fight in his favor.

You like the way his sweaty curls stick to his temples and the nape of his neck after a day of matches, you like the way his skin is sun-warmed when he meets you after his matches and pulls you against his chest, you like the way the tape around his knuckles feels against the sensitive skin of your cheeks as he kisses you in front of the lingering crowd. You like the way he's so gentle with you after he's spent the day drowning in that powerful, brutal violence he embodies with fraught.

You like when he comes home with bruises that you kiss better before you sit in his lap and rub arnica cream into his raw skin as you tell him how good he was during the fight, how proud of him you are that he won the fight. You like when he gets that wide eyed, pleading look in his eyes as he arches into the gentle press of your fingers against his bruises and silently begs for more of your praise. You like when you can give him everything he wants and needs from you, when you can soothe him with your gentle and loving hands after he's been handled so harshly.

Currently, you like having a front row seat to Andrew straddling his opponent and punching him in the face, his shorts riding up his thighs every time he's forced to shift on top of his opponent and lock his legs tighter around his body to stop him from moving. He's laser focused on his opponent, eyes narrowed from more than the stinging rays of sun as he beats his fists into his opponent until they crack open, his freckled arms and shoulders swinging with brute force as his thick muscles power his every move.

You really shouldn't like this as much as you do. "Let's go, Andy! End it, c'mon, you got this!" You scream, rattling the fence as you sense that the fight will be over soon when you see his opponent start to fade into unconsciousness. "It's yours, Andy, take him, c'mon!"

Andrew's head picks up for a second, his fists pausing their assault as you accidentally draw his attention away from the fight and lock eyes. You stare at him with wide eyes, your mouth quickly parting around a quick inhale and your throat clicking as you swallow forcefully, all the air suddenly ripped from your lungs as you lock eyes with Andrew in the middle of his fight. You didn't think you were loud enough to take Andrew's attention away from the fight, that your nonsensical cheering would ever break through his focused precision, but you guess you were wrong.

Your heart pounds against your chest as Andrew continues to stare at you, some of the haze clearing from his eyes as he looks at you, his eyes sparking to life as he scans your body and sees your hands clinging to the fence, your body pressed up against the chain links, your skin flushed with pride and the thrill of the fight. You want to scream at him to keep going, to not stop during the middle of a fight and give his opponent an opportunity to regain some control, but you suddenly feel immobile under Andrew's burning gaze.

All of your words were stolen from you, all of your sense was stolen from you, while you were taken underneath Andrew's gaze. He heard your voice through a loud, aggressive crowd and immediately locked onto the sound. He heard your voice through the crowd, heard your voice cheering him on and believing in him above everything else, and deemed it worthy enough to pause the fight for. Your voice was powerful enough to break through the crowd and distract Andrew in the middle of a fight, powerful enough to stop Andrew in his tracks and drive him toward the temptation of you.

He heard your voice and his first reaction was to stop everything he was doing and lock eyes with you. He heard your voice and decided it was worth risking the fight for. He heard your voice and he just had to look at you, had to see for himself the sight of you cheering him on above all the other spectators.

Andrew blinks once, his hands still lifeless as they hang above his opponent's face, and smiles at you. He fucking smiles at you in the middle of a fight, his mouth splitting around his mouth guard as the crowd pointlessly taunts and scoffs at him to finish the fight already. All Andrew was focused on anymore was his sweet smile all for you in the middle of a brutal fight, so sure of himself that he wasn't worried about losing the control he had as he paused for you, his chest heaving as his mouth split around his mouth guard without a care. He looks so-- so impossibly cute and sexy, his mouth guard making his grin silly and misshapen, his skin pink and flushed from the sun and the rare hit he took, his eyes wild as he fucking smiles at you in the middle of a Goddamn fight.

He was unbelievable, sometimes, in the best, most surprising ways. He heard your voice cheering for him and his first reaction was to stop everything he was doing and smile at you. He was grinning at you in the middle of a fight because your screaming and cheering was so fucking loud that you distracted him. He was smiling at you in the middle of a fight because he heard your voice and he wanted to see you.

You're helpless but to smile back at him, your cheeks aching with the force of your smile in response to his. Your heart continues to pound against your chest, but this time with the force of your affection for Andrew, your blood rushing and heavy from a simple smile at a truly inappropriate time. Your body sings at the sight of his smile, and while you know the moment must only drag on for a few seconds at most, it feels endless inside your mind, the seconds stretching long and slow as Andrew's smile makes your chest swell with a level of tenderness and warmth that doesn't belong in a place like this.

"Finish it, Andy, c'mon." You tell him, clear through the fence, and Andrew acts as if you whispered the words against the shell of his ear.

He winks at you before he finally drops his gaze, his fist swinging in a wide arc before it lands firmly on his opponent's face, the match over at the ref's whistle and the crowd's overbearing excitement. You scream in celebration on the other side of the fence, Andrew's gaze finding yours again when the ref pulls him off his opponent and lifts his arm above his head to signal his win. He doesn't smile at you this time, but you see the happiness in his eyes, and it's enough for you.

When the day is called and Andrew is released from the cage and the crowd starts to disperse, you immediately make your way to the exit and meet him as he jumps down from the stage inside the fence. You throw your arms around his neck when you finally reach him, feeling up his shoulders and back a little once you finally get your hands on his sweaty skin, Andrew easily catching you with hands on your lower back as you waste no time in pulling him into a messy kiss, brushing your tongue against his lower lip as Andrew groans into your open mouth and meets your tongue as it slides against his own.

"So good. You did so good." You mumble against his lips, unable to decide if you'd rather talk to him or kiss him right now. You try and accomplish both, whispering little bits of praise in the middle of your kisses, sliding your hands from behind Andrew's neck to grip his face, attempting to control the kiss a little more so you could talk to him. Andrew lets you loosely hinge his jaw into place with your thumbs, lets you slow the kiss to an agonizing pace as your lips drag against his and you finally tell him every thought that's consumed you while you watched him fight. "So good to watch you, so good for me. You won, did so good. So good, love you so much."

Andrew moans against your mouth, sliding his lips over yours and backing you up against the fence of the cage, tightening his hands on your lower back and pulling your hips flush against his as he officially shuts you up and diverts all of your focus to your kisses. His skin is tacky and sweaty against your own, warmed by the sun just like you knew it would be, and you moan into his mouth as his bare legs brush against your own, his hips and hard cock pressing against your thigh, overeager with adrenaline and your praise.

Andrew backs you up further against the cage as you try and roll your hips against his cock, presses you deeper into the pressure of the fence as he traps your body and effectively immobilizes you, his hands on your lower back and his thick body in front of you locking you into place against the fence and forcing you to stop squirming and grinding against him. You whine pathetically into your kiss at the clear denial, the sound vibrating weakly in your throat and across Andrew's lips, who apparently has no problem rocking his cock against your thigh while he keeps your hips still and cunt untouched.

His thick chest and muscled belly continue to press you into the fence as he uses your body, and while there's no where else you'd rather be, while you feel so good trapped underneath Andrew and knowing that he's using you to get off, you want more. You want to feel him hard and thick against your cunt and not your thigh, you want him to grind against your cunt and rub the seam of your shorts mercilessly against your clit, and it wouldn't even matter if he was thinking about your orgasm, it wouldn't matter if he was just using you to feel good if he rubbed himself off on your dripping cunt, begging for him with everything but your words and still ignored, you just needed him--

You pull back from your kiss and drop your forehead into the curve of his neck, pulling his head closer to yours so you could hide in his body easier. You take a second to pant against his skin, inhaling the deep and primal scent of his sweat, but all it does it rile you up more, all it does it make you pointlessly buck your hips against Andrew's body and ache when you can barely move because Andrew's trapped you in place and decided to use you for his pleasure. "Don't be mean." You beg into his neck.

"Not. I'm not." Andrew gasps against your ear, even as he continues to fuck his cock against your thigh as you mournfully whine against his throat, desperate whimpers escaping your mouth as you feel Andrew's cock twitch through his thin athletic shorts while you can do nothing but stay still and be a warm body for him to rub his cock against, as you can do nothing but pulse and clench for a cock that was somehow content to use your thigh instead of your needy cunt. "Just wanna fuck you at home."

You groan loudly, the sound ripped from someplace deep in your chest, as you scrape your teeth against the sensitive skin of his throat and finally drop your hands from his head and take hold of his hips, stilling his messy grinding against your thigh immediately. You know you don't actually have the strength to stop Andrew, to stop his body from doing anything, so the pathetic way he whines when he lets himself be stopped feels like apology enough for you.

Once you're certain that he won't start fucking his cock against your leg again, you slowly slide your hands off his hips and up his back, smirking against his neck as you scrape your nails against his muscled back rough and mean on the way up, satisfied when Andrew grunts deeply at the feeling you don't let him chase. You gentle your touch once you reach his neck, straightening his head as you do the same to yours, so the two of you were facing each other as Andrew continued to press you up against the fence.

You smile softly up at him, taking in his flushed face and swollen lips and heavy eyes, the edges of desire that haven't fully faded from his features yet making you rethink your move to stop him from grinding against your thigh until he came in his shorts. But he wanted to fuck you at home, so that's what he'll get today.

"Can't believe you heard me cheering for you." You whisper, shifting a hand to trace around his mouth with your thumb, the pressure gentle and light, sliding your thumb against his wet lower lip when his lips part around a silent gasp. "Can't believe you stopped fighting to smile at me." You tell him, letting a drop of frustration diffuse through your tone. You're not genuinely frustrated or upset with him for it, but you still feel the need to bring it up, still feel need to chastise him for his sweet stupidity.

"I thought you liked it." Andrew whispers against your thumb, confusion making a wrinkle form in the middle of his eyebrows.

"I did. Of course I did." You reassure him immediately, moving your thumb to his cheekbone, softly stroking along his cheek in case the bright pink spot that you knew would form into a bruise had started to hurt yet. When Andrew shows no sign of flinching, you continue to softly rub against his face. "I just didn't want you to get distracted because of me. I didn't want to be the reason you got hit or lost."

Andrew immediately shakes his head, his wrinkle of confusion not fading even after your reassurance. You tilt your head at him and barely tighten your hand on his face, signaling for him to explain while he was still confused or upset so you could help him through it. Maybe you shouldn't have even brought it up, shouldn't have tried to make it into a problem that it wasn't.

"I win for you. I'm good at this for you." Andrew eventually admits, but only after he flexes his fingers against your lower back and opens and closes his mouth a few times while he was piecing together the words.

That wasn't what you were trying to say. It was now your turn to furrow your eyebrows deep enough to form a wrinkle. He's good at fighting and wins fights because he's strong, he's good at this and is good enough to win because he's been fighting since he was too young to know any better. "'Cause it makes me want to fuck you?" You ask him genuinely, thinking that's where he was going with this, but you shut your mouth again when Andrew sputters and shakes his head.

"I..." Andrew starts and stops, and you just wait him out, wait for him to gather the right words to express himself the way he wants to. "You don't distract me. I win for you." Andrew repeats, eyeing you closely, begging you to understand him this time so he doesn't have to keep talking, and thankfully you do understand him this time. You understand what he's trying to say this time.

You were never really distracting him, when you were screaming and cheering him on loud enough to be heard over the crowd surrounding you. You weren't distracting him, because he wasn't distracted by your voice, he was fueled by your voice, he was driven with a fierce need to win when he heard your voice through the crowd of people. Your voice, your cheering, your praise wasn't a distraction to him, it was what lit a fire underneath him, it was what filled him with purpose and passion and a desperate intensity to win.

You would let that fact rest softly in the space between your bodies for now. He had a hard enough time admitting it to you in such vague terms, so you could let it be for now. You could smile up at him, the corners of your lips ticking up in a soft, barely there smile, and hope that Andrew can see all the love you're keeping safe for him right now.

Lena shrugged without looking up. "I guess."

He was about to stand when a kid appeared at their table like he'd been launched from a cannon, all forward momentum and zero awareness of personal space. Small, maybe Lena's age, with a gap-toothed smile and trainers that lit up when he moved.

"Hi," the kid said, looking directly at Lena. "I like your shirt. Is that a dolphin?"

Lena blinked at him, startled out of whatever private world she'd been occupying. "It's a whale."

"Oh." The kid considered this seriously. "Whales are cool too. I'm Jude."

"Lena."

Pope watched his daughter's face do something it hadn't done in weeks, soften, just slightly, into something that might become a smile if given enough time.

The kid, Jude, was still talking, something about a documentary he'd watched about orcas, and Lena was listening in that intent way she had when something actually interested her.

"Jude, baby, you can't just—" You appeared behind the kid, slightly out of breath, holding a tray with two drinks and a bag of food. You looked at Pope first, apologetic, then at Jude. "I'm so sorry, he just took off."

"It's fine," Pope said, because it was. Lena was talking now, explaining the difference between toothed whales and baleen whales with the kind of authority she usually reserved for correcting him about things he'd gotten wrong.

You looked at your son, then at Lena, then back at Pope with an expression he recognized because he'd worn it himself a hundred times: the calculation of whether this was a safe situation or one that required extraction.

He kept his hands visible on the table, his posture open. Non-threatening. He'd learned how to do that too.

"They're both seven," you said after a moment, like that explained something. Maybe it did.

"Yeah."

"Jude doesn't usually—" You stopped, recalibrated. "He's pretty shy, actually. This is new."

Pope glanced at Jude, who was now sitting in the booth next to Lena without having been invited, pointing at something on her tray. "Doesn't look shy."

"He isn't when he's talking about animals." You were still standing there with your tray, caught between sitting down and leaving, and Pope realized with something close to panic that you were waiting for permission. 

He wasn't good at this. The social calculus of normal interactions, the unspoken rules that everyone else seemed to know instinctively.

"You can sit," he said, then immediately wondered if that sounded like an order. "I mean, if you want. They're—" He gestured at the kids, who were now deep in conversation about whether dolphins were better than whales.

You sat across from him, setting your tray down carefully. "I'm sorry, really. We can go if—"

"It's fine," Pope said again, and meant it. Lena looked happier than she had in days, which was worth the discomfort of small talk with a stranger. He could do small talk. Probably. "She doesn't usually talk to people either."

You smiled at that, something genuine breaking through the apologetic politeness. "The animal thing?"

"The everything thing." He watched Lena steal one of Jude's fries without asking, watched Jude not even notice. "She's been—it's been a rough year."

He didn't know why he said that. He didn't talk about Lena with strangers, didn't talk about the custody arrangement or Smurf or the way Lena looked at him sometimes like she was waiting for him to disappoint her. But you just nodded, like you understood something about rough years.

"Jude's dad left when he was four," you said quietly, unwrapping your burger without looking at it. "So I get it. The rough year thing."

Pope didn't know what to say to that. He settled for nodding, reaching for his coffee even though it had gone cold twenty minutes ago. The silence stretched between you, not quite comfortable but not hostile either.

The kids were laughing now, Jude doing an impression of a whale breaching that involved standing on the booth seat until you told him to sit down.

"Do you live around here?" you asked, and Pope recognized it for what it was: the careful question that determined whether this was a one-time thing or something that might happen again.

"Yeah. Oceanside."

"Us too." You were watching Jude the way Pope watched Lena, with that constant low-level vigilance that came with being the only thing standing between a kid and the world. "We're over on Pacific."

"We're on Hill."

Another silence. Pope was running out of things to say, which was fine because he'd never had many to begin with. But then Lena looked up at him, her face more animated than it had been in weeks, and said, "Dad, can Jude come over sometime? I want to show him my whale book."

Dad. She'd been calling him Pope for the last few months, ever since the last fight with Baz and Smurf, and hearing her say Dad did something to his chest that he didn't have words for.

"Uh," he said, looking at you. "Maybe. If—"

"Can we, Mom?" Jude was looking at you with those big hopeful eyes that probably worked on you every single time. "Please?"

You were looking at Pope, doing that same calculation from earlier, and he tried to look like someone who could be trusted with your kid. He wasn't sure he succeeded. He wasn't sure he could be trusted with his own kid most days.

"Maybe we could exchange numbers," you said finally. "Set something up."

Pope pulled out his phone, old and cracked across the screen, and you did the same. The exchange was quick, efficient, both of you typing with the speed of people who'd learned to do everything one-handed while managing a child with the other. 

When you stood to leave, Jude hugged Lena goodbye like they'd known each other for years instead of twenty minutes, and Lena hugged him back.

"It was nice to meet you," you said, and Pope nodded because he didn't trust himself to say anything that wouldn't sound wrong.

He watched you leave, Jude's hand in yours, the kid talking a mile a minute about whales and dolphins and could they really go to Lena's house, and then Lena was looking at him with something in her face he hadn't seen in a long time.

"She was nice," Lena said.

"Yeah," Pope agreed.

"Are you going to text her?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

Lena picked up another fry, studying it like it held answers. "You should. Jude was cool."

Pope looked at his phone, at your name and number saved in his contacts, and thought about all the ways he could fuck this up. There were a lot of them. He was good at fucking things up, especially things that involved people trusting him with something important.

But Lena was still looking at him, waiting, and he found himself nodding.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

Six months later, Pope was learning that sunscreen was a negotiation.

"I already put some on," Jude said, squirming away from Pope's hands with the kind of full-body resistance that only seven-year-olds could manage.

"That was an hour ago." Pope caught him gently by the shoulder, squeezing a line of sunscreen onto his palm. "You'll burn."

"I don't burn."

"Everyone burns." Pope started with Jude's shoulders, methodical, making sure to get the spots that always got missed—the tops of the ears, the back of the neck, the line where his swim trunks sat.

Jude submitted to this with dramatic sighs, but he didn't pull away. That was progress. In the beginning, he'd flinched every time Pope reached for him, like he was expecting something other than gentleness.

"My dad never made me wear sunscreen," Jude said, and Pope's hands stilled for just a second before continuing.

"Yeah, well." Pope rubbed sunscreen into Jude's face, careful around his eyes. "I'm not your dad."

It came out wrong, harsher than he meant, and he saw Jude's face do something complicated before settling into careful blankness. Pope knew that look. He'd seen it on Lena's face enough times.

"I mean—" Pope sat back on his heels, meeting Jude's eyes. "I just mean I'm going to make you wear it anyway. Because you'll burn, and then you'll be miserable, and then your mom will be pissed at me."

Jude considered this. "She wouldn't be that mad."

"She'd be a little mad."

"Maybe a little." Jude grinned, gap-toothed and bright, and took off running toward the water where Lena was already waist-deep, diving under waves. Pope watched him go, then looked up to find you watching him from your towel, sunglasses pushed up into your hair.

"You're good at that," you said.

"At what?"

"The dad thing."

Pope didn't know what to do with that, so he just shrugged and lay back on his towel, closing his eyes against the sun. He felt you move closer, your hand finding his, and he laced his fingers through yours without opening his eyes. This was still new enough to feel like something he might break if he thought about it too hard.

Cut to a few days later; The car was a '67 Impala that Pope had picked up for almost nothing because the engine was shot and the previous owner didn't have the patience to fix it. Pope had patience. He had nothing but patience when it came to things that made sense, things that had rules and logic and predictable outcomes.

"Hand me the three-eighths," he said, and felt the weight of the socket wrench placed carefully in his palm.

"This one?" Jude's voice came from somewhere near Pope's left shoulder.

"Yeah, that's it." Pope fitted it onto the bolt, feeling the satisfying click of metal on metal. "Good job."

He'd been under the car for the better part of an hour, Jude sitting cross-legged next to the toolbox, handing him whatever he asked for with the kind of serious concentration that made Pope's chest hurt in a way he was starting to recognize as affection. 

The kid was good at this—patient, careful, asking questions that actually made sense instead of just asking for the sake of noise.

"What's that part do?" Jude asked, pointing at something Pope couldn't see from his current angle.

"That's the oil pan. Holds the oil that keeps the engine from seizing up."

"What happens if it seizes up?"

"Engine's fucked." Pope caught himself. "I mean, it's broken. You'd have to replace the whole thing."

"You can say fucked," Jude said matter-of-factly. "Mom says it all the time when she's cooking."

Pope slid out from under the car to look at Jude, who was grinning at him with that same mischievous expression that meant he knew exactly what he was doing. "I don't think your mom wants me teaching you to swear."

"You're not teaching me. I already know them." Jude started counting on his fingers. "Fuck, shit, damn, ass, bitch—"

"Okay, okay." Pope held up a hand, fighting back a smile. "I get it. You're very educated."

"Mom says education is important."

"She's right." Pope slid back under the car, reaching for the next bolt. "Hand me the half-inch."

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the clink of tools and the distant noise of traffic on the PCH. Pope was tightening the last bolt when Jude spoke again, his voice smaller than before.

"Do you think my dad's ever going to come back?"

Pope's hands stilled. He stared at the underside of the car, at the maze of metal and rubber and fluid lines, and wished desperately that this was a question with a mechanical answer. Something he could fix with the right tool and enough patience.

"I don't know," he said finally, because lying to kids never worked. They always knew.

"Mom says he's not."

"Your mom's probably right."

Another silence, longer this time. Pope slid out from under the car, sitting up and wiping his hands on a rag that was already more oil than cloth. Jude was looking at the toolbox, his face carefully neutral in that way that meant he was trying not to cry.

"You know it's not about you, right?" Pope said. "Him leaving. That's about him, not you."

"That's what Mom says."

"She's right about that too." Pope set down the rag, trying to figure out how to say the next part. "My mom—she wasn't great at the mom thing. And for a long time I thought that was because I wasn't good enough, or I'd done something wrong. But it wasn't. It was just—she was fucked up. And that wasn't my fault."

Jude looked at him, really looked at him, with eyes that were too old for seven. "Is that why Lena's sad sometimes?"

Pope felt something crack open in his chest. "Yeah. Probably."

"But you're still here."

"Yeah."

"That's good." Jude stood up, brushing off his shorts. "Can I try starting it?"

The subject change was so abrupt that Pope almost laughed. But he just nodded, standing and offering Jude his hand to pull him up. "Yeah, come on."

They climbed into the front seat, Jude bouncing with excitement, and Pope guided his hand to the key in the ignition. "Turn it slow," he said, his hand over Jude's, and together they turned the key.

The engine caught on the first try, rumbling to life with a sound that Pope felt in his bones. Jude's face split into a grin so wide it looked like it might break his face in half, and he threw his arms around Pope's neck without warning.

Pope froze for just a second, he was still learning how to do this, the casual physical affection that came so easily to everyone else, and then he hugged Jude back, careful and sure.

"We fixed it!" Jude squealed into his shoulder.

"Yeah," Pope said. "We did."

The Lego set was some kind of spaceship that had approximately eight thousand pieces and instructions that might as well have been in another language. 

Pope sat on your living room floor, legs spread, the instruction booklet propped against his knee, while Jude sorted pieces by color in a way that Pope recognized from his own childhood.

"I think this one goes here," Jude said, holding up a small grey piece.

Pope checked the instructions. "Yeah, that's right. Good eye."

They'd been at this for over an hour, and Pope's back was starting to hurt from sitting on the floor, but Jude showed no signs of slowing down. Lena had gotten bored twenty minutes in and was now on the couch with you, both of you reading, and Pope could feel you watching him occasionally, though you were trying to be subtle about it.

"Pope?" Jude said, not looking up from the pieces he was sorting.

"Yeah?"

"Are you going to marry mom?"

Pope's hands stilled on the piece he was holding. From the couch, he heard you make a small noise that might have been a laugh or might have been something else entirely.

"Jude," you said, your voice carefully neutral. "That's not—"

"I'm just asking!" Jude retorted, still not looking up. "Because if you are, that would be okay. I think."

Pope looked at you, found you looking back with an expression he couldn't quite read. There was amusement there, and embarrassment, and something else underneath that made his pulse kick up in his throat.

"I don't know," Pope said honestly, looking back at Jude. "We haven't really talked about it."

"But you like her, right?"

"Yeah. I like her."

"And you like me?"

"Yeah," Pope said, and found that it was easier to say than he'd expected. "I like you too."

Jude nodded, satisfied, and went back to sorting pieces. "Okay. Just checking."

Pope caught your eye again, saw you smiling at him with something soft in your face, and felt that same crack in his chest widen a little further. He was learning that this was what it felt like—not the dramatic, overwhelming thing he'd expected, but something quieter. Something that built itself piece by piece, like a Lego spaceship, until one day you looked up and realized you'd made something whole.

"This piece?" Jude held up another small gray piece, and Pope checked the instructions.

"Yeah," he said. "That's the one."

They worked in silence for a while longer, the spaceship slowly taking shape between them, and Pope thought about all the ways he'd expected to fail at this. 

He'd been so sure he would—that he'd say the wrong thing or do the wrong thing or just be wrong in some fundamental way that would make you realize he wasn't worth the risk. 

But Jude's small hands were steady as he placed each piece, and you were still watching from the couch with that soft expression, and Lena was curled up next to you like she belonged there.

Maybe he was still fucking it up. Probably he was. But for right now, sitting on your living room floor with Jude's shoulder pressed against his arm and the smell of your coffee drifting over from the couch, it felt like maybe he was fucking it up a little less than usual.

"We're almost done with this section," Jude said, pointing at the instructions. "Then we get to do the wings."

"Are you torturing me on purpose?" You ask as you flop down onto the couch next to him and collapse against his side. He shuffles, one arm instinctively bringing itself around you.

"I can't control the weather," he grumbles. Huddling up to him isn't exactly helping your situation. You can feel the warmth transferring through the skin to skin contact.

"I'm not talking about that," you say, peeling yourself off of him before moving to the floor in front of him. His eyebrows shoot up. You tip your head lower to brush your lips against his knee, peering up at him through your lashes. "You've had this beautiful tummy on display all day."

"What?" He looks so surprised, as though that's the last thing he expected you to say. It's not like you've been very subtle about your fondness of his stomach in the past, and yet each time he has the nerve to act like it's the most outlandish thing he's ever heard—like he's not the most gorgeous man on the planet.

"You. Heard. Me." You punctuate each word with another kiss, each one moving up and up, over his thigh, until you've reached the wide expanse of his abdomen. Warm and supple and damp, a drying layer of sweat having settled over his skin. You bring your lips right below his belly button and place a kiss on his soft skin. The muscles there tense beneath your gentle touch, and when you peer up at him his entire face is red to the tips of his ears.

"Walking around, flaunting how handsome you are," you tease.

"I wasn't… doing that," he murmurs.

His reaction doesn't deter you—it does the opposite—it motivates you. It's endearing how flustered he gets, and addicting to garner that kind of reaction from him. He also makes it something incredibly easy to pull off. You plant a series of kisses over his stomach, stopping to nip a couple of times, and draw the sweetest sounds from him.

Eventually, desire gets the better of you and your tongue darts out to lick a stripe from his navel down to the edge of his shorts. The action details exactly what you want to do next, but don't commit to. Neither of you are in the position to be working up a sweat in this kind of heat.

He lets out a startled sound, and his knee jumps beneath you. You lean back with a cheeky grin, your hands braced on his knees as you push yourself to your feet. An idea has popped into your head.

"A cold shower sounds nice right about now, doesn't it?"

"Please…" He says breathlessly, so easily wound up.

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Several months ago, you and Andrew had struck a deal. He would do only as many jobs as he needed to save up enough money to leave this place and this way of life behind. It gave you hope—a path forward that allowed you to see a real future with him, but if he gest caught out or worse during any one of these jobs it will be for nothing. And that is why you had spent this morning arguing with him, while he moved around the room, getting ready to leave.

You bickered, yelled, pleaded, and cried, but Andrew is one stubborn bastard and he walked out the door anyway. There was no hug or kiss goodbye, you'd been too busy fighting. In the radio silence that proceeds his departure, you regret every moment of the turbulent morning. He said that he would text you as soon as possible, but the day passed you by dreadfully slow, phone kept close by during every waking moment. You waited and waited, but your phone never buzzed. Please, please be okay. That argument cannot be the last exchange.

You wake up to dreary grey morning light cascading over the room. The bed is empty beside you. Instantly, you reach for your phone. Nothing. Panic claws it's way up your throat and wetness stings your eyes. Just as you're about to cave to a flood up tears, you hear the rumble of a truck in the driveway. You jump out of bed and dart down the stairs, flinging the front door open. Your bare feet scrape against the wet concrete. You're still in your pj's, anything else becomes the least of your concerns.

Andrew has just exited his truck when you barrel into him. He catches you with a grunt, stumbling back a step. A split second passes before he registers what is happening, then his strong arms wrap around you. Only then does your brain let relief pour through your system. Rain pelts you, soaking you to the bone, and plastering your clothes to your skin.

"You're gonna catch a cold," he says. A big hand tilts your chin up. Your lashes have clumped together, rivulets roll down your face—a mixture of cold rain and hot tears. You must look like a mess. Sleep deprived and worried sick.

"You're okay…" you breathe out.

"I had to lay low for the night," he says, "I couldn't text you, I'm sorry."

"I'm sorry!" Your voice cracks, a sob that you fail to hold back scrapes the back of your throat. "I thought that the last thing we would ever say to each other was—"

You're cut off by his lips on yours. Warmth blooms where frigid cold has engulfed you, and for awhile you forget the droplets slashing down at you. One hand at the small of your back hauls you close, bringing your chest flush to his. The other remains cradling your face, thumb stroking the apple of your cheek. Stray, dripping curls tickle your skin. He kisses you until the shared warmth can no long stave off the cold, and it begins to settle into your marrow.

His forehead comes to rest against yours, the tips of your noses brushing. The smallest smile touches his lips as he watches your nose scrunch up. Nothing has ever felt as nice as being held in his arms after spending a day thinking you might never get to be again.

"I love you, Andrew."

"I love you too," he rasps. There's a pause. A shudder runs through your body, goosebumps raising along your skin. "Let's get inside before you end up sick."

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