#1 romcomrry advocate

Deep breath. Grip the steering wheel a little tighter. Focus on the parking lot. Bite down the anxiety that feels like it’s ripping your stomach lining apart.

Five.

You shouldn’t be here. You know that. But…

Four.

You promised him you would never get involved. Not in any of this shit.

Three.

You kind of wish you had a coffee or something. Maybe a shot. The amount of adrenaline coursing through your system is nearly unbearable and you haven’t even started moving yet.

Two.

The passenger door is ripped open, and Craig Cody nearly knocks you into the window with how quickly he barrels into the car.

“Drive!”

“Nope.” Your voice is steady. Firm.

“What?!” What, indeed. You don’t care how they usually do this, but no one is jumping into a moving car today.

One.

Pope moves into the backseat like a wraith, sliding in with a duffel bag over his shoulder and Deran and Jay right behind him.

He opens his mouth, the word ‘move’ a sharp crack from his lips before his dark eyes land right. The fuck. Onto you.

“No.”

“Hey, honey.” Your voice is tight. Too bright. “Long day?”

He’s looking at Craig, now. Oh boy, he might kill him before he kills you.

“She’s obviously gonna get a cut.” Craig says, like that helps, and you grip the steering wheel a little more tightly. Check the rearview again.

“Get out of the car.” He’s speaking to you, and you don’t have time to tell him he’s being overprotective.

“Seatbelts.”

“Are you serious right-“

“Shut up, Craig. Seatbelts.”

You hear four clicks. A few grumbles. You feel Pope’s eyes burning into the back of your head.

You slam your foot on the gas.

-

Within about four minutes, the smell of burning rubber is making your eyes water. The flash of blue lights is making them burn. The feeling of your husband’s eyes locked onto the back of your head is making your skin prickle.

“Fucking - stop it!” You finally shout, whipping around another corner and risking two seconds of releasing the wheel in favor of putting your hand over his face. It’s a childish move, sure, but the weight of his gaze is too heavy and you’re moving too fast to deal with it right now. He catches your hand, squeezes it once in an almost painfully instinctive way, and releases it just before you whip around another corner.

“Jesus Christ! Where did you learn to drive like this?!” Deran shouts, hands braced on the backseat to keep himself steady and eyes blown wide as he looks at you like you just grew a second head.

“I don’t know! Grand Theft Auto?” You try, and you sound a little more shrill than you would like to.

Craig is laughing. Jay is silent. You think Pope might have an aneurism.

“Wall! Wall!” He suddenly shouts, and grabs at you like he might shield you from the inevitable crash.

You swerve out of the way with less than a second to spare, feel his arm locked around your chest from behind your seat, and giggle like an absolute lunatic.

This time, when he looks at you in the rearview mirror, you can barely read his expression. His eyes are wide, filled with panic and surprise, and you giggle again, the fear and adrenaline overflowing from you in what might be the worst form possible.

Yeah, he’s definitely gonna kill you.

-

The moment the car stops, Pope launches out of the back, and you know what’s about to happen before he even makes it to your door.

“You think he’s gonna kill me?” Craig asks, still grinning, still riding the same adrenaline high that’s making your blood hum in your veins.

You look at him, and grin right back. “Oh yeah. You’re dead, dude.”

Your car door rips open, and Craig even reaches forward to unbuckle your seatbelt for you before Pope Cody lifts you right out of the fucking car.

He carries you around to the other side of the building like you weigh less than a paperweight, placing you on your feet in the alley and caging you against the brick wall. His eyes are burning into yours, so intense you can feel the weight of his gaze like a fucking anvil on your shoulders.

“I know you’re mad, but-“

To your surprise, he kisses you. He kisses you so hard that, if it weren’t for his hand flying up to protect the back of your head, the force of it might slam you back against the wall hard enough to concuss you.

His body envelops yours. His hands slide over your cheeks to cradle your face in a way that’s almost more possessive than adoring, lips moving against your own with a desperation that has your knees shaking.

“I…” It is painfully difficult to think when his teeth are scraping over your lower lip, when his tongue is tracing the sting of it like it’s second nature. “Mm, I thought you were mad.”

His hands skate down your body, wrapping around the backs of your thighs and lifting you against him so he can press you more tightly against the wall and kiss you even harder.

“Furious.” He growls, pulling back to brush his nose over the hollow of your throat. “I’m fucking furious.”

“You’re sending some very mixed signals about it.”

His hips grind against yours, and he swallows your gasp of pleasure with another kiss. It’s all tongues and teeth, like he’s trying to taste the lingering adrenaline on your tongue while still trying to cling to his anger that you were driving the car in the first place.

“If Craig calls you on a job,” his hand is sliding up beneath your shirt, supporting you with one arm and still kissing you like you’re the only source of oxygen he’s ever tasted, “don’t fucking answer.”

“He said it was an emergency.”

“I don’t care.”

He hikes you up a little higher, hips grinding against yours, and cuts off your gasp with another rough kiss.

You smile against his lips, and his hands grip your thighs a little more tightly.

“I did good, though.”

He growls at that, pressing you tighter against the wall.

“I could have lost you.”

“But I did good.”

He kisses you again, like he’s trying to change the subject, and you catch his chin to keep him in place.

Because you know damn well why you’re up against this wall, and it isn’t just because he was worried about your safety. You can feel it in the quickness of his breath. In the tight grip on your thighs.

He likes to take care of you, but he knows you’re not delicate. Not breakable. And as protective as he can be, he fucking loves it.

“Say it.” You murmur, a smile still tugging on the corners of your lips. “I kicked ass.”

His eyes burn into yours, pushing forward to press his forehead against your own.

“You did…” oh, he doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to encourage this, but he knows you’re right and he doesn’t want to admit how much it’s turning him the fuck on, “…you did good.”

“I kicked ass.” Your lips brush over his. His hands tighten even more on your body.

“Don’t push it.”

You grin, and when you kiss him again he groans so low that you can feel it in your bones.

And he really might take you right there in the alley, if it weren’t for Craig.

“Yo, put your dick away for five minutes. We gotta get this shit packed up.”

You both turn your heads, both breathless, and whatever look Pope gives his brother has the larger man raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Just sayin’, a public indecency charge isn’t gonna make the rest of this shit look good.”

“Cockblock.” You grumble.

“Adrenaline junkie.” He quips back, smile widening.

Your husband makes a frustrated noise, lowering you to your feet and pressing his nose into your temple in that odd affectionate way he has. You smile, turn your head to kiss cheek, and feel him brush his fingers over your waist one last time before he reluctantly pulls back.

As you walk with him back into the alley, Craig throws his arm over your shoulder, squeezing you hard enough to make you nearly stumble. “You kicked ass.”

You laugh, and lean into his side as Pope turns to glare at him. “Do not encourage her.”

Craig ignores him. Squeezes your shoulders again. “Wanna help load up the car?”

“What’s my cut?”

“Atta girl.”

And, though Pope doesn’t turn around again, still emanating pure rage, you can see the corners of his lips twitch in the smallest hint of a smile.

Well, he may not have killed you, but you’re definitely in for it later, and you’re pretty confident you won’t be complaining.

A girl your age doesn't know any better. Naive little thing. All you see is the handsome man that stands in front of you, who foots the bill when he takes you out to a nice restaurant or on a shopping spree. You see the way he stares down a guy who looks in your general direction a little too long and the way he walks just a step in front of you in a public setting, clearing a path of safety.

What young girl wouldn't want a man like that?

But what they don't see is the way you don't even flinch when you're riding shotgun in his truck and Andrew sets his pistol in your lap. They don't see the blade he'd bought for you—sharp and small, wedged right between your breasts every time you leave the house without him.

They don't see the way your skin prickles when he teaches you the proper way to shoot a gun, standing in front of the bathroom mirror, pointing the barrel at your reflection.

His hands are at your hips, thumbs resting at the elastic band of your pretty, red panties. Andrew's voice is low and slow in your ear. "Mm. Tuck your elbow in. Squeeze the handle a little harder. Yeah, there you go. Now put your finger on the trigger, baby. Just like that. And when you're ready, you just gotta pull it."

You breathe in slowly, and your finger presses down on the exhale.

The gun clicks.

"Yeah, that's it," he says, sliding his hands lower, beneath the crimson fabric. What he finds is unsurprising to him, of course. Arousal pooling between your thighs, your clit slick and swollen and desperate to be touched. He circles it slowly, tentatively, lovingly. "Again, sweetheart."

Andrew doesn't speak much on the rumors that go around about the two of you. He's sure even his brothers believe some of them.

It's to be expected, really, with that mousy demeanor of yours.

You put your hair up a different way one day and when Craig compliments you on it you get all shy, hiding behind Andrew's shoulder with your cheeks flaming.

He thinks it's real cute. The way you act all timid in front of them, murmuring a thank you with that soft voice of yours, unable to meet Craig's eyes all because he complimented you.

But only an hour later, Pope's undoing the clips in your hair while you look up at him from down on your knees, saying—begging, "Hit me."

And Pope does. Smacks you hard, one good time with his palm against your cheek. The sound is like lightning through the open air. He doesn't do it because he wants to, he does it because of that misty look in your eye, because of the way you moan at the impact.

Because of the way you look up at him through your lashes and smile real wide, giggles falling off your kiss-swollen lips, like there's no place you'd rather be.

He gives you just what you need, fucking your mouth until you're crying for it, burying himself at the back of your throat.

Each little gasp for air you make pushes him closer and closer to release, but what really does him in is the way your hand finds his thigh, tracing a little heart-shape into the denim of his jeans while you choke on his length.

Andrew finishes at the back of your mouth without warning, filling you until his release spills from the corners of your plush lips.

His cock still aches when he pulls himself out of you. Your pretty makeup that you spent all that time doing this morning runs down your cheeks now, and sticky webs of saliva and cum connect his cock to your tongue.

"You look so pretty, swallowing me down like that. My beautiful girl. Say it."

Your eyes are bloodshot and watery but filled with love as you look up at him. "I'm your beautiful girl," you say, smiling wide, sticking out your tongue to show him the mess he's made of you before swallowing hard.

"Yeah you are," he murmurs. "My sweetheart."

You've even got Smurf fooled.

They're having a family meeting one afternoon, planning out the details on how to rob a marijuana dispensary that pays its employees exclusively in cash.

While you're moving around easily in the kitchen, Smurf watches you from the living room with a drink in her hand.

Craig and Deran are bickering, trying to figure out a way to distract the night shift security guards that stand watch at the front entrance.

And then Smurf suddenly says, pointing with the rim of her crystal glass, "Her."

Pope shakes his head. "No. Not happening."

"Think about it," Smurf says. "You go in right as the last employee walks out. She walks up, begging to be let in, and says she'll pay extra. Girl like her? They won't expect anything. Just a pretty sweetheart looking to end her day with a little indica."

His brothers are quiet, looking between you and Pope, toeing the line of choice.

In the end, Andrew lets you choose. Makes it clear that if working a job with them makes you feel uncomfortable in any way, they'll figure something else out. He lays out the risks and the reward and reminds you to be honest about your feelings.

But you agree almost immediately and no amount of talking on Andrew's part sways you. It's over the moment you take his big hand, press his palm to your cheek and say, "I love you, Andrew. Even this part of you. Especially this part."

It melts his heart and fills him with this almost uncomfortable level of tenderness. He would kill for you, die for you—all to keep you here by his side.

The job goes perfectly. Andrew and his brothers are able to slip through the ceiling vents unseen, all because you're batting your eyelashes and making your shy little jokes to the guards out front.

They leave the warehouse with duffel bags full of cash and get away clean and undetected.

You're waiting three blocks away in Pope's truck, sitting casually behind the wheel, coating your lips in that pretty lipgloss while looking in the rearview mirror. But your phone is clutched tight in your hand waiting on a text of confirmation.

Pope makes Deran drop him off so he can set his eyes on you sooner rather than later.

And the moment you see him, your eyes light up in this way he knows all too well. Pope nods, adrenaline high as he lifts the clear plastic mask over his face just enough to set it on the top of his head. "We're good," he says.

The hesitant look on your face turns into a grin, soft giggles flitting off your tongue. You slide back across the cab to make room for Pope behind the wheel. You look past him, to Craig and Deran in the car with no plates full of stolen cash. "We'll see you at home," you tell them.

And maybe they don't understand at first, but Pope does. Of course he does—he can feel the way that wanting, lustful energy buzzes beneath your skin.

He puts the truck in drive and pulls out of the lot, but he doesn't make it two blocks before you're wrapping those sharp, painted nails around his bicep.

Pope just smiles as you kiss his shoulder repeatedly, nuzzling the cords of muscle through the fabric of his black hoodie. It seems like such an innocent, sweet touch. But he knows the truth—knows it's not only sweetness in your heart, it's hunger.

"Hang on, baby," he says, hand resting on the inside of your thigh, squeezing tightly. "Lemme pull over."

He finds a secluded alleyway that offers just enough darkness to remain undetected. And the minute he puts his truck in park, you're climbing into his lap.

Pope welcomes the taste of your hungry tongue. Lets you slide it into his mouth, over his teeth, licking and sucking like your life depends on it. He's already half hard in his jeans, but the second you tilt your hips, grinding yourself down against his bulge, he's done for.

"You look—god, you look so good," you whimper, hands around his neck. You don't squeeze, but rather just rest them there, thumbs feeling the quickening beat of his pulse through his jugular.

"Did such a great job today," Andrew says, fingers flexing hard around your hips. "My perfect girl. Such a sweetheart."

You whimper at the namesake, a term he'd coined just for you, his shy, gentle girl. "Andrew, please."

He knows what you're asking for. And who is he, after all, to deny a girl like you? Someone good and soft and so very desperate.

He reaches beneath you, between your legs to find the buckle of his belt. In one swift movement, he undoes it with a clink, and pushes his jeans and boxers down.

"Wait."

Andrew freezes.

At first he fears he might've done something wrong. Assumed wrong or maybe gone too far or pushed too hard. Like usual. Like usual.

His mind starts to spiral, because who could ever hurt you if not a monster? Sweet girl. Sweet heart.

He's a monster. He's a fucking—

And then you smile, and those invasive thoughts disappear as quickly as they'd manifested.

You bat your eyelashes at him with this innocent look on your face, and tug the plastic mask on the top of his head down.

Pope understands then. Of course he does—because you're his filthy, sweet girl. His.

Your clit pulses and he can feel it against his cock, even through the cotton barrier of your underwear.

Andrew tilts his head, watching you through slightly plastic-obstructed vision. He waits for you to move first.

And you do so by leaning forward and laying a wet, open-mouthed kiss against the mask, right over his lips.

It's the most erotic thing Pope has ever experienced.

Because he knows you want him—the awkward, quiet Andrew.

But right now, you're asking for a different version of him. A much more violent version of him; you want Pope.

The part that thieves and breaks and kills. The very worst of him. And not only do you want it, you're twitching for it. Breath coming out like a sigh, hands clutched tight, pussy aching for him.

And the realization—God. He could die. He could fucking die from how much he loves you.

He takes you right then and there. Pulls your underwear to the side beneath your skirt and sinks his cock into you in one hard, claiming thrust.

Pope holds your wrists together tightly behind your back and makes it hurt, because he knows good and well that's what you want. All the while your tongue laves against the plastic of his mask, breath fogging up the surface, a sick, perverted indulgence that drives him insane.

He circles your clit with his free hand, reveling in the way it throbs beneath his rough hands.

It doesn't take long. It never does. He feels the slick velvet of your center squeeze his cock like a vice. Pope doesn't let up, rubbing your clit until you lean back with your eyes squeezed tightly closed, chasing the release you've needed since the moment he'd asked you to help them on this job.

"Look at me," he demands. It's not a request but an order.

You do, mouth open to make room for the cute moans that echo in the cab of his truck. "I'm gonna—god, please please I'm gonna fucking cum—fuck—"

He doesn't say anything. Just tilts his head and watches you.

It hits a second later, and it's beautiful. The way you fall apart in his lap, thighs shaking, fingers flexing beneath his hold, fighting desperately to keep your brain tethered to the earth.

Andrew fucks you through it. Circles your clit until you're squeezing your thighs together, running from the sensitivity.

He finishes inside you a moment later, cock twitching as his orgasm settles low in his belly. And when he's finished, spasming with the aftershocks, you lift the plastic mask from his face and discard it on the floor of the passenger seat.

You smile and kiss him softly and say, "Let's go home. I'm hungry now."

Andrew knows the two of you will take one step into that house and they'll all know what you've gotten caught up doing. They'll see the mess of his curls and the flush on his face. They'll see your swollen lips and the spit drying at the corners and they'll think, 'Jesus, Pope. You can't get off that poor girl for even ten minutes?'

And he won't say anything, of course. He'll just let them go on believing the rumors, believing that he's the one who's insatiable for the shy girl who's gotten caught up in his gravitational pull.

Comfort. Safety. Things Andrew has spent most of his life circling without ever quite touching.

When his body finally stirs into consciousness, he doesn't open his eyes. Instead, he feels. 

Under the soft heat of the morning, something warm pressed against his side. Soft, familiar. It’s your body tucked against him, an arm draped around his waist, a leg over his, your face resting in the crook of his neck. 

He can feel your soft breaths on his skin.

In, out. In, out. 

He counts each one, eyes still closed. 

One, two. One, two.

He isn't entirely sure how much time passes. A minute. Ten. Maybe more.

The rhythm settles somewhere deep beneath him, in that place where, over these last few months, something soft and molten has taken residence in his chest, unfurling beneath his ribs, spreading to heart. Finding solace there. 

Andrew does not consider himself to be a man that smiles, that shows happiness through the muscles on face very often, not that he used to feel much of the emotion in the first place. Happiness was something that was something fragile, something transactional, something that could disappear the second he looked directly at it. 

But now, he feels it. That flutter of joy he rarely ever felt with Julia, then momentarily with Cath, with Lena. And it’s brought on, by you.

The woman who lies tucked against him, trusting, her body pressed into his.

The course of the past few months has brought about stolen smiles, hidden beneath a soft snort, or pressed into your lips, smiling against your mouth.

He remembers your voice, the first time he'd let the muscles in his face soften, let them hold that gentle upturn.

“You’re so, so pretty Andrew.”

He'd fluttered his lashes, looking down, a pink hue spreading across his cheeks. Blushing. 

Now, smiling is that much easier. Natural. The way it always seems to be around you.

Slowly, Andrew shifts closer, just enough that he can feel more of your warmth. He inhales the scent of your hair, of your skin. Pockets of intimacy he only allows himself when your eyes are closed.

Andrew closes his eyes and rests, lets your breathing guide him into that soft space between sleeping and being awake, that quiet place where warmth glows steadily beneath his chest.

In, out. In, out.

You feel his chest rising and falling under you, his breathing even, as you open your eyes.  Seeing the peace on his face. The permanent tension that usually sits across his shoulders has disappeared, his jaw relaxed, mouth slightly parted.

You feel it bloom in your chest, love, swelling and beating. This man, who's spent every waking moment surrounded by violence and pain, is allowing you to rest against him, an arm wrapped protectively around you even in his sleep.

Carefully, you lift your head, brush a curl from his head. 

Then, unable to help yourself, you lean forward and press a soft kiss against his temple. 

Then the creases near his eyes.

Across his cheek.

His jaw. 

You detangle yourself from his arms, shifting yourself over him, one hand resting on the bed beside him, hovering over his face. The other remains in his curls, thumb brushing gently against his temple.

His nose scrunches slightly, brows furrowing.  

You smile, pressing a kiss in that crease.  

His eyes finally begin to flicker open, tinged with sleepiness, the sort that's rested, calm.

They find yours immediately, your face hovering over his, close. 

The furrow disappears, lips tilting up. Both his broad palms come up to encase your waist.

"What're you doin'?" he asks, voice gravelly and rough with sleep. 

You grin wider. 

"Counting your freckles.”

His eyes widen, morphing into that puppy-eyed confusion you adore. Your heart aches softly at the fact that he has never been privy to such mundane intimacy.

"Yeah?" 

You nod. 

"You have so many. They’re so pretty, Andrew."

And there it is again, that word only you seem to use to describe him with. Pretty. 

A faint blush creeps across his face, pinkening the apples of his cheeks. 

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to."

The simplicity of the answer catches him off guard, loosens something tight in his chest. You say it as though it's obvious. As though spending your morning sprawled over him, counting freckles and pressing kisses into his skin, is the easiest choice in the world.

The hand buried in his curls moves gently, slow circles against his scalp. His eyes flutter. He lets out something resembling a whimper.

"How many?" he asks quietly.

"Hmm." You tilt your head, pretending to think. "Maybe a hundred."

His eyes drop down to your mouth, his palms gripping your waist tighter. 

"Think there's more than that.”

The words come out soft, shy. Hesitant. Still unfamiliar with this kind of intimacy even after all these months. But you've learned him. You've learned the language beneath his words, the way he hides meanings behind mundane words and questions, things he wants but struggles to ask for.

And right now what he wants is obvious.

So, you lean down and kiss his forehead again. 

Then his cheeks. 

His nose. 

The corners of his mouth.

Your hand trails down to cup his jaw.

Immediately Andrew leans into it, nuzzling deeper into your palm, eyes staying on yours. He exhales softly, the sound almost a sigh.

Your heart aches, the good kind. 

"My Andrew," you murmur, the words slipping out softly.

Andrew goes still. His lips press together tightly the way they do when he feels too much, that burst of something uncontrollable inside his chest. Too much. Usually anger, or jealousy, or grief.  

For the first time, he allows himself to recognise it for what it is. Adoration.

He’s never been anyone’s before, not in the way you call him yours. 

He's been Pope - the man who's Smurf’s son, his brothers' older brother, Julia's twin. Pieces of himself given away his entire life, bound by blood or circumstance.

But this is different. This is the first time somebody has come along and chosen him. Chosen him to be theirs.  

Out of everybody in the world, you looked at Andrew, at his bruised hands, his scars, at everything broken and battered inside him, and said mine.

The realisation settles warmly inside his chest, in that space only you occupy, spreading until he can feel it beneath every rib, in his heart. 

He tilts his head up, bringing a hand to the back of your head and guiding you closer, until your mouth is hovering just above his.

“Yeah?” he whispers. "Yours?"

You smile softly. 

“Yeah, Andrew. Mine.”

Then he kisses you, a slow press of his lips against yours, lazy and unhurried, but filled with all the tenderness he can't make his mouth utter aloud.

You sigh into his mouth. He smiles into your lips. 

And for the first time in his life, Andrew finds that he doesn't mind belonging to someone at all.

Throughout Andrew’s life, many people have come and gone through the doors of Smurf’s house. It would take another lifetime just to count them all. 

The parties started when he was young and never ended. The faces blurred together for Andrew now, not that he could really bring himself to care all that much in the first place. Just like Craig’s girlfriends or Smurf’s boyfriends, nobody was ever really a permanent fixture in Andrew’s life. Not if they weren’t family.

He knows that everyone thinks that he’s different. That he’s weird. He notices their looks when he lingers around the pool, in the kitchen, when he’s just sitting on the couch. His own brothers even, a lot of the time. Everyone eyes him like a ticking time bomb, just waiting for him to go off.

Andrew doesn’t really mind, though. Or, if he did, he'd become numb to the feeling a long time ago. In fact, he’s probably become numb to a lot of feelings. But Andrew doesn’t know any other way to be. He’s just Pope and he has been for a very long time.

This party in the Cody household wasn’t different from any other. Booze, drugs, and a big mess Andrew would definitely have to clean up later. The music is loud, bass turned up too high, and Craig is attempting to jump off the roof into the pool again. Amidst the cheers, Andrew thinks about the rest of his brothers and wonders for a moment where exactly it went so differently for him, or if he was just simply born that way.

His brothers seem okay with being in the spotlight. Even his nephew seemed to fare better than him, assimilating perfectly into every situation that arose, especially when people were involved. Andrew was never like that.

J must have gotten it from Julia.

Andrew was never a people person. He was always out of place, like the Cody that just didn’t quite belong, all jagged edges. The parties always send him into the corners of his mind that he didn’t really like venturing into.

The pounding of the bass is getting to him.

He pulls open the door to his bedroom hoping for a moment of silence, when he’s greeted with a pair of bare feet hanging off the edge of his bed. The figure doesn’t stir when he enters, so he creeps in further and shuts the door quietly. He turns his head, scanning now that he has a better view of who exactly is in his room.

You’re laid on his bed, eyes shut, hugging your phone to your chest like a stuffed animal. You’ve clearly come to escape the crowds of the party, same as him. Andrew can’t help as his eyes drag up your legs all the way up to where your short dress shows just a little too much of your thighs. He notices your heels as well, placed nice and neat beside the bed.

“Who are you?” It comes out a bit more gruff than Andrew anticipated and your eyes finally flutter open. It takes you a minute to notice him but when you do you’re shooting up to your feet, spine rigid. It’s cute, he thinks, the way you panic. You startle like a small puppy.

“Oh my god,” you squeak, clearly embarrassed. Your hands fall to adjust the hem of your short dress, much to Andrew’s disappointment. He gives you a once over; it’s half assessing what exactly you’re doing in his room and half just taking you and your skimpy outfit. “I’m so sorry. Is this your room?”

Andrew gives a small nod and you wring your hands nervously. You’re taking him in now, a Cody brother here in front of you, live and in the flesh.

“So which one are you?” you ask, head cocked. Now that you know this is his room, he notices you assessing him in a different light. People always do —it didn’t bother Andrew much anymore but with you he feels a twinge of shame in his stomach. “Deran? Or, um…”

Andrew knows that you’re searching for his name. His nickname. It had to be since there was a short list of people who called him by his real name. Pope Cody is known by everyone in Oceanside. Andrew Cody, on the other hand, is not.

“Andrew.” he supplies, voice softer than before. Now you’ve been added to that very exclusive list. You repeat his name back to him, voice a little warm, no doubt from one of the many drinks that the Cody’s provided. Then you introduce yourself and Andrew attempts to burn your name into his memory.

“Okay, Andrew. Are you hiding too?” Now that he hasn’t kicked you out, you take a seat on the edge of his bed. He notices the compression of where your body laid just a few minutes before on his neatly made and pressed sheets but doesn’t say anything. He likes the sound of your voice too much to interrupt you. “Or just making sure nobody is defiling your room.”

“I’m not hiding,” he replies, crossing his arm over his chest. The strap of your dress falls and Andrew tries not to get distracted. “This is my house. I’m free to go where I please.”

“Fair enough. I’m hiding,” you shrug. A beat of silence passes and you pat the spot next to you, inviting him to sit on his own bed. Andrew is curious enough to oblige, sitting on the other end of the bed, putting distance between you. He doesn’t miss how your shoulders drop slightly in disappointment. “My friend is here with Craig and they’ve conveniently disappeared... I don’t even want to know what they’re doing.”

“I have a few guesses.” Another one of Craig’s girlfriends. The giggle of a girl coming from Craig’s room that Andrew had heard when he was walking by suddenly made a lot more sense. 

He wills himself not to flinch when you scoot closer to him, closing the distance he deliberately put between the two of you. Andrew was interested, too interested, and that worried him.

Pope Cody wasn’t allowed to want.

“Is it okay if I stay here with you?” you ask, and Andrew’s heart flips. He clears his throat, hoping that you don’t see the blush that’s creeping it’s way up his neck. “I’m just not really sure how long it’s going to take and I would much rather be in here.”

With you, hangs unspoken in the air.

“Sure.” Andrew likes the way you smile when he answers, a small flash of teeth. You scoot even closer and tuck your bare feet under you. You’re so close now that your knee is nudging his thigh. He can smell your perfume from here and it’s heavenly compared to the sweat and chlorine laced air outside. “I don’t really want to be out there either.”

“So, Andrew,” His name sounds like honey when it’s falling from your lips and he wonders how often he can make you say it. The feeling that settles in his chest when you say it is too addicting for him to live without it now. “Not really a party person?”

“No. But my brothers are.” He gestures vaguely to the door, the music pounding on the other side of the wall and then his hands retreat back to his lap. He can feel your eyes on him, but not in the usual way he always tends to notice. You scan him with a kind of curiosity that he hasn’t felt in a long time.

“I’m not really a party person either,” you agree, glancing at the door he had just gestured towards. You look a little sad, even. It makes Andrew’s fingers twitch.“My friend said she needed some moral support coming to meet this guy. So I came, and then she ditched me like an hour ago.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a shitty friend.” Andrew says plainly and he’s caught off guard when you let out a laugh. 

“Yeah, I guess,” You shrug, shoulders still shaking with remnants of laughter. Andrew has turned his head fully now to look at you but he doesn’t really understand why you’re laughing. “But maybe it’s like fate, or something.”

“Fate?” Andrew echoes, even more confused than before. You lock eyes with him and he has to resist the urge to break it, enthralled enough by your gaze to ignore the awkward feeling settling in his chest.

“Yeah. Like maybe it’s fate that she left? Because then I wouldn’t have hidden in a cute guy’s room and got to talk to him.” He can tell that your mind is elsewhere, but his eyes are still on you. There’s a dreamy look painted on your face and he’s so distracted he almost misses the fact that you called him cute. Almost.

He opens his mouth to respond but your phone beats him to it, the shrill sound of your ringer filling the empty room. You look at him sheepishly and turn your head to answer as if that would give you the privacy you were looking for. It doesn’t work because as soon as you hit accept, he can hear what he assumes is your friend’s voice on the other side of the line. 

You get up and he watches you nod along to the conversation. You’re not doing a lot of talking, but your friend definitely is; he can tell by the murmur of her drunken chatter and the sound of the music pulsing on the other side of the line. You’re kind enough to let her continue on for a bit longer before you let her know that you’re coming, don’t move! 

Then you’ve turned back to Andrew, tapping your phone on your palm as you try to find the right words to say. You look genuinely apologetic —for what, Andrew doesn’t know. The silence stretches long, and Andrew is the first one to break it.

“You don’t have to stay,” he says plainly. You don’t really owe him anything, although the look on your face makes him feel otherwise. You take a step closer, poised like you want to take a seat next to him again. Andrew wants you to, but he won’t admit that part out loud.

“I know. I want to-” you start, but your phone starts buzzing like it’s possessed, cutting you off. A quick glance is all it gets; you’re quickly scanning the messages before returning your attention to him. Your phone doesn’t stop vibrating. “It’s hard to leave when you’re looking at me like a lost puppy.”

Andrew chooses to ignore that comment, instead turning to grab your shoes from the side of the bed next to him. He offers your heels to you, arms outstretched, closing the distance between you just like you had before. You give him a small smile as you take them from him, fingers brushing his just a beat too long. The way it sets his nerves alight is also something that he chooses to ignore.

“Thank you,” you say, slipping your strappy heels back on. Andrew looks everywhere but you as you bend down to tie them up, feeling the blush creeping up once again. Once you’re straightened up he gives you a small smile in return, watching as you pull your phone back out again. “Sorry for messing up your bed. I’ll make it up to you next time.”

You say it so definitively, like you somehow know there will be a next time. Before he can reply, you’re giving him a shy wave goodbye, sliding out the door. The music leaks in for a moment when you open it, blending in with the cheers of partygoers outside. When you close it he’s back to the silence of his room, alone. He had come in there looking for a moment to himself but now that you’re gone, he can’t help but want the opposite.

Andrew really hopes that there will be.

—

The next time Andrew met you, it was in Deran’s bar.

He could count on one hand the amount of times he actually sat at Deran’s bar for any other reason besides work. It was rare that he ever got to enjoy a beer, much less have a moment of free time. But between Deran’s insistence and Craig’s staggering frame, Andrew agreed to stay for one drink.

He’s on the dregs of his beer when he notices Craig straighten up in his seat and saunter over to the front door of the bar. Andrew’s head turns and suddenly he’s glad he came, perking up the same way his brother had just moments ago. A girl comes out to greet Craig, looking like his usual type, and he slings an arm over her shoulders, steering her towards the bar with a sly smile.

Then you walk in and Andrew almost falls off his stool in surprise. You’re dressed differently than when he first met you, softer and more casual. Both of you look like you’ve just come from the beach, donned in shorts and tanks, hair curled from the salt water in the air. It makes his heart skip a beat.

You walk in far more hesitantly than your friend, like you’re not too sure if you belong or where to put yourself. Andrew can empathize with the feeling. He watches as you scan the bar; maybe for your friend, or maybe for another place to hide. You lock eyes with him once you finally notice his presence at the bar and you begin to make your way over. Andrew isn’t sure if he should break eye contact but he can’t help it, eyes darting away before they make their way back to yours.

“Fancy meeting you here,” You take the seat next to him, flashing him a grin. Andrew mumbles something under his breath, but you’re not deterred. In fact, you scoot your stool closer to his. You’re laying it on real thick, but he has to admit that he kind of likes it. “You come here often?”

“You know Pope?” The moment is interrupted by Deran, who sets down a full glass of beer in front of you. He’s got a bemused look on his face, eyes darting between you and his brother. Andrew tries his best not to frown, especially at the use of his nickname when you only know him by Andrew. From the expression on your face, he can tell that he’s failing. Your eyes flicker with some kind of recognition, like you were suddenly recalling the name that you had forgotten the last time you met.

“Yeah, I do,” you nod, not even acknowledging the fact that his own brother had just called him by a completely different name. You gesture to his empty glass, the one that he had set aside to fully focus on you when you approached. “And I think I owe him a drink.”

“You do?” It slips out of both Deran and Andrew’s mouths, disbelief on both their faces. It comes out a bit rougher for Andrew, while Deran inquires like you just told him that unicorns were real. You handle both questions with grace.

“Well, I said I’d make it up to you next time,” You smile, pulling the glass that Deran set down closer to you. His brother leans in closer, clearly interested in what exactly was going on between the two of you. Andrew tries to shoot his brother a glare before you look back at him but he doesn’t have enough time. “So, are you going to have a drink with me, or what?”

“Yeah.” Andrew says, perhaps a bit too eagerly as Deran snickers under his breath. He slides him a beer as well, a knowing look painted all over his features. Andrew takes it with a scowl, but his expression softens when he looks back at you. You bring the beer to your lips with a smile and Andrew can’t help but smile back. 

Two and a half beers later, Andrew’s face is a lot warmer and you are a lot closer. You’re so close that he can feel your shoes scuffing the edge of his newly polished boots, but he can’t bring himself to care. He likes when you giggle at his jokes; the way that your eyes shine. Andrew can feel his brothers’ eyes on the two of you; he even catches his nephew looking his way a few times. 

But for the first time in a while, Andrew doesn’t really want to shrink away. He’s tuned out the background noise, even your friend’s obnoxious drunk laughter at Craig’s pretty mediocre jokes. Because, in reality, Andrew is not the type of guy that a lot of girls like. And Pope especially, is not. But here with you, he lets himself believe that maybe just this once, he’s allowed to have something just for him.

“I like your smile,” You break the silence the two of you were sharing once the conversation you were having earlier came to an end. Andrew hadn’t even realized that he was smiling. He had really just been using the silence to soak in your presence; you still smell the same as you did when you met the first time. Wearing the same perfume that you left on his sheets and pillows just a few weeks ago. He didn’t want to admit how many times he shoved his face into them, chasing your scent before it faded. “It’s cute. I like your teeth.”

There it was again. That word. Cute. It’s not a word anyone used to describe Andrew, probably not since childhood. Or possibly maybe never. He almost wants to swing his head around to see if the rest of his family had heard.

“You really think I’m cute?” He can’t help but ask. It might be the beers or the way you look at him or the fact that he can feel your body heat, but his brain is a bit fuzzy. You look over at him, eyes a bit glazed over from the alcohol. Now he can feel you examining him again, looking him up and down.

“I guess cute isn’t really the word for a guy like you.” His heart sinks at that, wondering what you really think about him now that you know Pope and not just Andrew. He knows the stories that circle around Oceanside about him and he’s not sure if he’s ready to hear the ones that you’ve heard.

“A guy like me?” Andrew echoes, trying his best not to sound so sad. His mood perks up when he feels the heat of your gaze taking him in, seemingly a bit unguarded, presumably from all the alcohol.

“Yeah. You’re all built and…” You look around, trying to place a word to describe him. Then you lay a hand on his arm and Andrew stiffens for a moment but he softens quickly, leaning into your touch. You look pleased that he allowed you to do that, smiling like you’re ready to take a bite of him right then and there. “I don’t know. Strong. Thick. Handsome.”

Andrew is sure that he’s red all the way up to the tips of his ears. He’s also pretty sure that he saw Craig choke on his drink at your comment a few stools down from you, but he decides that’s a later problem. 

“Thanks,” he says gruffly and it’s really the only word that he can get out of his mouth, embarrassingly. You shoot him a smile, and it’s all sweet and a little too enticing. Andrew wouldn’t be surprised if he was leaning into you, ass halfway off his stool.

“Sorry, I’m being a bit forward, aren’t I?” you say, swirling whatever was left of your beer. He tries to shrug nonchalantly but it doesn’t really work. “I just get flirty when I’m tipsy.”

“So you don’t think us meeting again is fate?” He’s teasing, half smile tugging on the edge of lips. You giggle and Andrew basks in the sound. He can’t remember the last time someone made him feel like this. The last time he wanted to be so close to someone.

“I never said that,” You’re hiding a cheeky grin behind your glass and Andrew desperately wishes that he could see it. “You do believe in fate then?” 

Andrew has to think about it for a moment. He’s not sure, really. Lots of fucked up shit has happened in his life and it would be cruel world if that was the fate that the universe had in store for him. Then again, he’s done some terrible things as well, so maybe it was what he deserved.

“I don’t know,” he answers truthfully. Andrew stares into his drink and reflects on all of the things he’s done, the crimes he committed. Julia. Cath. They swirl around in his mind, weighing on his conscience. Then he looks at you and they all seem to float away. “Maybe.”

“Well, let me know when you decide.” He thinks that you can probably sense his hesitancy or the spiral that it sends him down when he thinks about it too hard, so you pump the breaks. He almost can’t stand the way you’re looking at him, eyes wide open and curious. Andrew is unsure of which version of him that you’re seeing or what exactly is going through your head. He doesn’t have the courage to ask.

“Okay.” he says, a bit too distracted by the pieces of hair that have fallen in front of your face as you turned to take another sip, shielding his view. His hand flexes as he resists the urge to push them away.

Then, like you could read his mind, you tuck them behind your ear and shoot him another look. You open your mouth to say something, but you’re interrupted by Craig, who is steering your friend in your direction. Andrew’s hand flexes again as this time he suppresses the urge to hit Craig for cutting in.

“She just puked in the plant over there, and I’m pretty fucked up, so…” Craig isn’t subtle in what he’s asking and Andrew notices the worry flicker across your face as you take in your friend, who can barely stand up on her own without his brother gripping her shoulders. You mutter under your breath and he thinks he hears you basically cursing out Craig.

“Okay, just… take her outside. I’ll be out in two minutes.” you say, and Craig stumbles off, your friend in tow. Then you turn to Andrew, an apologetic look on your face that’s becoming all too familiar to him now.

“Is she going to be okay?” His gaze wanders to the door swinging shut behind the pair. You wring your hands nervously, standing up from the stool. Gathering your things a little frantically, you shrug. Andrew deflates a bit as he watches.

“Yeah, I think so. She’ll probably just puke into her purse on the way home or something,” Once you’ve gathered everything in your arms you give a deep sigh, turning your full attention towards him. He notes that you seem a little deflated too, but he’s not sure if it’s because you’re leaving him or because your friend and Craig seem to be deeply irresponsible individuals. “I’m sorry. Again.”

“It’s okay.” Your lips curl with a small smile, still tinged with a bit of anxiety. It’s cute when you lift your free hand up in a small wave, the same way you did last time, and then you’re gone. Your perfume is still lingering in the air when Andrew turns back around and it’s his turn to smile. It melts when he sees Deran standing behind the bar, a smug look on his face.

“You got it bad, man.”

—

After that, Andrew sees you a lot more often.

Your friend and Craig seemed to have made things very exclusive, because now she’s basically living at Smurf’s house. Which means that, since you’re her best friend, she invites you over quite frequently.

You two haven’t been able to have a moment alone since that night at the bar, much to Andrew’s disappointment. The brothers have been busy planning a job, which meant that he was in and out pretty often. His mind was elsewhere though, distracted by the way you brushed arms in the hallway on his way out or when your eye contact lingered longer than usual.

So, maybe that was why the job went a little awry.

They got what they needed to, but not without a fight. The boys trail into the backyard one after the other, everyone bruised and cut up. It always annoyed Andrew when his brothers were impulsive; he was the one that was always suffering the consequences.

He quickly notes that you’re laid out next to the pool in your swimsuit, your body shimmering with sweat under the sweltering sun. Andrew watches a bead of sweat drip from your neck to the valley between your breasts. Time slows as he watches, licking his lips. He barely has time to drag his gaze away before Deran is wheeling on Craig. 

“Why are you always pulling this crap?” Deran almost has a finger in his face, gesturing angrily. Craig just rolls his eyes in response, pushing past him and giving him a glare. Andrew can see the tension tight in their shoulders as they both seethe.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, dude.” Craig shoots back, making his way back to the house. Tension has been high between the two lately, just like always, trapped in a toxic cycle.

It seems to snap for Deran, especially after the job, and he jumps on Craig’s back, knocking him over. The commotion is loud, Craig hitting the ground with a loud thud. Deran throws the first punch and Craig’s skull cracks hard against the pavement. Craig is quick to recover though, probably due to his size, and it’s a full blown fist fight in seconds.

The two exchange blows for a minute before Andrew and J rush forward to pull the two of them apart. They don’t put up much of a fight and the two of them stalk off in different directions; Craig into the house and Deran out of the yard. J shakes his head and follows after Craig, hands shoved into his pockets.

A quick glance proves that the pool chair you were on just moments ago is left empty, your drink still sitting on the ground next to it. He assumes that you snuck out once his brother hit the floor, probably wise enough to know how the situation was going to unfold. He can see your figure in the window padding around the kitchen, blurred from the distance.

Andrew closes the sliding door behind him when he enters the kitchen and he finds you there, skimpy bikini and all. You’re rummaging through the fridge and he takes the opportunity to take in the view before you shut the door.  

You’re holding the carton of orange juice when you turn, finally taking in Andrew’s state. The cut on his eyebrow, the bruise beginning to bloom on his cheek and his torn up knuckles. You make your way towards him, your brow furrowed in concern.

“Are you okay?” He hides his hand instinctively when you ask, which you definitely notice. You rub the back of your neck with your free hand, a bit sheepish. “I heard, uh, your brothers fighting.”

“Oh.” Andrew frowns as embarrassment clouds his thoughts. Will this deter you from coming back? He really hopes not. He’s silent as his eyes follow you as you grab yourself a glass and begin pouring.

“Yeah, oh.” You shoot a glance in the direction of J and Craig’s rooms, eyebrows raised. “So, back to my question. Is everything okay?” 

Andrew contemplates his answer for a second, not sure how much detail to go into. You eye him in the same way that you always do and he is suddenly keenly aware that this is the first moment alone you’ve had together in ages. Pushing that thought aside, he settles on two words: “It’s complicated.”

“Right,” you scoff, making your way around the kitchen island. Andrew can’t help but watch you move, all bare shimmering skin and he shifts a little as all his blood flows downwards. He sucks in a sharp breath as you settle in beside him, resting your arm on the counter. Your sweat and tanning oil smears all over the stone island but he’s too focused on how close you are to be bothered by it. “That’s why you guys all look like shit. Did you guys get in a fight or did you guys do that to each other?”

“Like I said, it’s complicated,” he repeats and you set your glass down, a serious look on your face.

“Andrew, I know who you guys are,” you say and now he’s shifting uncomfortably instead, the sentence shattering any sort of lust filled haze he was just on the precipice of falling into. “I can keep a secret, don’t worry. I just… want you to be careful, okay? That’s all.”

“I’m always careful,” he replies and you huff in disbelief, but it also seems like you can’t help but smile. It’s a nice sight and it even makes him brave enough to take a step closer to you, finally being the first to lessen the gap between you two.

The proximity and the way you look up at him has the haze settling in once more. Andrew wants to reach out and toy with the strings of your bikini bottoms but he thinks better of it. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and he almost has to physically shake his head to rid himself of the thought.

“I’m sure you are,” You scan him up and down, examining his cuts and bruises. Though, Andrew swears that he can feel your gaze linger on his arms and his chest. It makes a shiver run down his spine. “But if this is you careful, I’d hate to see when it gets messy.”

“I don’t do messy,” he emphasises, his mind wandering back to the oily smudge you’ve left on the counter. You give a familiar giggle and your hand comes to rest on his arm, and he immediately forgets all about it again. This is the first time you’ve broken the touch barrier between the two of you on purpose and Andrew’s stomach flips at the thought. The heat of your hand is searing through his shirt and he’s glad you can’t feel the goosebumps that are rising under your palm.

“I know, Andrew. I’ve watched you clean,” you joke. Andrew loves hearing you say his name, his lips parting as you do so. He tries to pull his mind away from all the different things he would do to you to keep hearing it slip from your lips. 

“Where’s your friend?” he asks, desperate to change the topic to anything but him and his family’s line of work. You let out a sigh, making your way back to the fridge. The door swings open and you start rummaging through the freezer like you lived at the house. Really, at this point, you kind of do.

“I’m not sure,” you say, voice a bit muffled from behind the freezer door. “Her and Craig are probably doing lines off each other’s chests or something.” 

You pull out a bag of frozen vegetables, shutting the door behind you and approaching Andrew once more. You hold it out to him and he cocks his head in confusion. Rolling your eyes, you grab his bad hand and place the bag on top of his knuckles, still bloody. The cold dulls the stinging that Andrew had learned to ignore too early on in life.

“Why do you hang out with her?” He all but blurts out, but he can't help it. There was plenty of time for Andrew to watch you two interact when you were over, and you seemed more like a tired mother than a best friend. Plus, Andrew figured that if he could keep you distracted with conversation, you wouldn’t let go of his hand just yet.

“She’s been my best friend since, well, forever…” Pressing the bag into his knuckles further, your hand grips his gently and he can’t help but look at you while you fiddle with the frozen bag. “And if I don’t take care of her, who will?” 

“I know the feeling.” Andrew says sincerely. He can’t remember a time in his life when he wasn’t a protector, an enforcer, a guard dog. You look up at him now, eyes soft. He feels his gaze soften in return, lips parting.

“I can see that,” you hum like you’re contemplating his words. “Is there someone taking care of you?” The question catches him off guard and he almost jerks his hand back reflexively.

“I don't need anyone to take care of me.” It's a statement that doesn't fully ring true; he thinks about the people who have tried and what he’s lost. It's better off this way, perhaps. But he also thinks you probably wouldn't like that answer.

“Everyone needs someone, Andrew.” Coming from anyone else, he thinks he would refuse. But from you, he feels a bit more inclined to agree. You sound sincere, he feels. Or he just likes you too much to think about disagreeing.

Maybe he does need someone, but no one was ever up for the job. At least no one that knew him —all of him.

A door slams in the distance and you flinch at the loud noise. Not a moment later your friend is rushing past the pair of you, clad in a similar bikini to yours. She’s crying though, mascara streaking as she pushes her way into the backyard. Andrew watches as your head turns to follow her, eyebrows pinching in concern. She sits down on one of the lounge chairs outside, shoulders shaking as she cries silently. You look back at Andrew with a frown and just like always, he knows you have to go.

Maybe his fate is that the universe just wants to cockblock him forever?

“She and Craig probably got into another fight,” you sigh, chewing your lip. You take his uninjured hand and place it on top of the bag, looking up at him. Your face is stern as you speak, like he’s a dog that got caught chewing on the couch legs. “Keep it iced, okay? I’ll talk to you soon.”

You pat his hand gently, soft smile on your lips. You always say that. Soon. Like you know that you're going to cross paths again. That he’s a permanent fixture in your life.

He watches you walk away, eyes on your swaying hips in your cheeky swimsuit bottoms. He’s still staring when you sit down next to your friend, rubbing her back comfortingly. 

Andrew stands alone in the kitchen, half hard, frozen bag of vegetables still pressed to his torn knuckles. The worst part is, he’s not even sure what exactly had made him hard; the sight of your body in your tiny swimsuit and the feeling of your hand in his or watching you take care of your friend so tenderly.

Yeah, Deran was right. He is so fucked.

—

If Andrew thought that he couldn't get you off his mind before that afternoon, now you were all he thought about. 

When he was making lunch, when he was cleaning his guns, when he was fisting his cock in the shower, trying to keep quiet. All he could think about was you. Your perfume, your smile, your body. Your touch. He wanted to feel it all over his body, soft skin against the raised bumps of all his scars. 

So the fact that you weren’t around as often anymore made things more difficult for him. Your friend and Craig seemed to be on the rocks, which means she was around less and less. Which means that you were barely around.

You said you’d talk to him soon and then promptly stopped being invited around, and the thought of how exactly he would get to see you again had him pacing. He didn’t want to scare you off, so he had to pivot towards more conventional methods. Which meant waiting around until Craig had finally got bored enough to start texting your friend back again. 

Weeks passed and he rarely saw you, just in flashes; by the pool, walking through the front door, lounging on the couch. He barely had the chance to look in your direction lately, much less have any type of conversation with you. The distance made him hungry, desperate enough to try to flip the odds in his favour.

“What about a party?” He suggests to his family one afternoon, all of the Cody’s crowded in the living room. All three of them turn their heads, looking at him like he’s grown an extra limb. The room is silent as they all try to process the words that came out of his mouth. “What?”

“Pope wants to throw a party.” Deran states, like saying the words out loud may help him truly understand them. “Why?”

“Don’t worry about it,” He crosses his arms over his chest, aware that he’s become a bit too defensive just a beat too late. All pairs of eyes are still on him and he shifts on his feet uncomfortable. “Just do it.”

“You won’t hear me complaining, man.” Craig says on his way out, clapping a hand on Andrew’s shoulder before he goes. The remaining Cody’s watch him go, and then eyes are back on him. He doesn’t want to answer any other questions, so he turns on his heels before they can ask any and follows his brother out.

So that’s how he ended up here.

This party was the same as the rest. Andrew wasn’t around for most of it; he had some loose ends to tie up for his family and he always elected to be out of the house whenever there was something going on, especially now that he had the choice. When he returns, he sees the same damage as always; trash in the pool, people passed out on the lawn, empty solo cups and wet footprints littered across the hardwood floors.

And Andrew does what he always does. Starts cleaning up. He wasn't really sure what his plan was, if he's being honest. He knew you always liked to linger once the parties were done, to make sure your friend was okay. Andrew was hoping that you were a creature of habit with this idea. Seems like right now, it's just delegated him to the role of janitor with no reward.

He starts out by the pool; toeing the stragglers to wake up and get off his property, sifting the garbage out of the pool and throwing the random discarded bikini tops into the trash bag right after it. It’s already the late hours of the morning when he finishes up outside. The neighbourhood is silent besides the sound of the chlorine water softly lapping at the tiles of the pool. Then he makes his way inside and starts tossing out everything in the kitchen, trying not to think about exactly what was occurring when he was gone to make this sort of mess.

“Do you need some help?” A small voice asks and he whirls around on instinct. He turns to face you and he almost wants to drop the black trash bag he’s holding out of shock. Andrew gives you a once over and you look so similar to the first night that he met you that it makes his heart skip a beat in his chest. A short dress and barefoot, except this time your heels are nowhere to be seen. You seem a bit groggy, dark make up smudged around your eyes. He oscillates between dwelling on how beautiful you are and wanting to get on his knees to see exactly what you got on under your dress.

“It’s late.” Is what he says instead, continuing his job of cleaning up. There’s a thousand unsaid things with those two words and it seems like you somehow know him well enough to answer all of them.

“Craig said I could crash on the couch,” you say, beginning to collect some of the empty cans off the kitchen counter. Andrew tries to level a look at you, to let him do it, but you give him a look straight back and continue. “And I want to help you. Doesn't seem like anyone else is.”

He accepts that and you two clean in silence for a few moments, working alongside each other. His eyes can’t help but follow you as you flounce around the kitchen, picking things up and tossing them into the bag into his hand. And then you speak. “So, why am I the only one helping you?”

He furrows his brows, pausing for a second as your words catch him off guard. Andrew glances over at you once more and you’re looking at him expectantly. He can’t help but feel compelled to answer, although your big fluttery eyes may play a small part in that. Trying to ignore the blood rushing downwards, he answers. “What do you mean?”

“Um, I mean there’s like, at least two or three other people who live in this house,” He can basically hear your frown as you speak, unceremoniously throwing another piece of trash into the bag. “Why am I the only one helping you clean up? The mess of a party that they threw?”

Andrew has never really thought about it before. He supposes this has always been his role, cleaning up after his family. Solving their problems. Making the bad things go away. Doing the messy work.

“I don’t need any help,” he says simply, voice gruff. He tries to ignore the heat of your disappointed eyes on him as he turns around, but he can still hear your loud sigh. You notice that he’s trying to avoid your gaze, so you catch his forearm in your hand. His muscles twitch under your touch, warmth seeping through your skin. Andrew slowly drags his gaze up from your hand on his arm to your face and he can’t help but soften. “I got it.”

“I just meant that you’re always taking care of everyone else, Andrew,” you explain, hand still on his arm. Your voice is soft in the way that he likes; a tone that seems to be reserved just for him. “Cleaning up after everyone. Making sure they don’t kill each other. Craig’s told me that you’ve bailed him out plenty of times.”

Andrew frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of his brothers talking about him when he’s not around, especially to you. He scowls at the thought, tying off the full garbage bag and placing it aside. He tries to pull away to grab another bag and continue, but your grip tightens on his arm.

“I’m serious. Just leave it for them to deal with for once,” You pull him back towards you, but he feels conflicted. He doubts anyone would actually do it if he left it for them to do —he’s seen the state the house gets into when he’s gone. Andrew hesitates for a moment, but all thoughts fade from his mind when your hand slips from his forearm into his palm, fingers twining with his. All he can do is stare while his brain tries to catch up to what’s happening. “Come on.”

You pull him along and it doesn’t take much effort to have him following. Continuing to stare, he’s got half a mind to hope that his mouth isn’t hanging open. He realizes where you’ve taken him in Smurf’s just a beat too slow as he enters the room.

His room.

He turns to face you slowly and the expression on your face is unreadable as you shut the door behind you. It reminds me of the first time that he saw you all that time ago. The room is silent for a moment as you two take each other in. Andrew hopes that you can’t hear the shaky breath that he lets out from across the room.

“Sit,” you command, gesturing to the bed. Andrew doesn’t waste any time obeying, sitting on the edge of the bed, feet planted firmly on the floor. His hands rest on his thighs, clenching and unclenching anxiously. You approach him slowly, closing the distance until he’s face level with your torso. The position has him blushing —he’s sure his face must be red. He tilts his head up to look at you and you take one step closer. His legs part naturally to accommodate you, bracketing your figure.

“Will you let me take care of you, Andrew?” you ask, hand sliding into his hair. He struggles to not let out a groan, blood rushing straight to his dick. He’s so distracted by the feeling of your nails scratching along his scalp as he leans into your touch that he barely even registers the question.

“Okay.” It comes out quiet and breathy, but it feels loud in the silent room. He watches the ends of your lips curl up into a smile, his eyes fluttering. You take the hands that were settled on his thighs and place them on your hips. Taking the opportunity to appreciate your body, his hands run over your curves slowly as he sucks in a sharp breath. He doesn’t break eye contact with you as he does so, too enraptured to take his eyes off you. It makes him twitch in his jeans when you lean a little closer, breath fanning over his face.

A few moments pass as you let him feel your body; he’s practically drooling at the feeling. Once you’ve decided he’s had his fill you climb into his lap, straddling him. He’s sure you can feel how much he wants you, the heat of your clothed pussy on his jeans making him all the more hard.

You barely give him a second to breathe before you’re catching your lips in his, your mouth parting instantly. The kiss is slow and sensual and it has him letting out a broken whimper into your mouth. That seems to spur you on, fingers gripping the front of his shirt to kiss him even deeper. 

Andrew doesn’t even know how many times he imagined doing this with you. At this point he’s lost count, but this was beyond anything that his mind could ever put together. The smell of your perfume envelopes him and your body is so warm under your thin dress that it sets his nerves alight.

He can’t help just taking a bit more, big hands gripping your hips and grinding you against him. The small moan you let out as he does so has his hips bucking. Hands still roaming, he instinctively slips his tongue into the kiss. The fact that you continue to rock your hips against his once he lets go of your waist makes him dizzy. The kiss is wet and desperate and all Andrew wants is to get closer, greedy hands grabbing.

Then he feels your fingers drift to the hem of his shirt and he lifts his arms, allowing you to pull it off. The sensation of your nails dragging across his chest sends a shiver down his spine. His hands had settled on your thighs, gripping so tight that he’s sure he’s leaving marks. He feels bad, but then he decides that he’ll kiss them as an apology later, if you’ll let him.

You stop grinding and scoot backwards a little, moving further down his lap. He opens his mouth to ask why, but then your hands are at his belt buckle and the words die in his throat. You’re quick to undo his jeans, wasting no time in pulling him out and taking him into your hands. Your hands are much softer than his rough and calloused ones, warm against the hot flesh of his length. His head tips back as you begin to stroke him slowly, eyes to the ceiling as he lets out another shaky breath.

He had always imagined what your touch would feel like wrapped around him like this, letting himself imagine it was you touching him instead of himself when he was alone. The way you twist your wrist languidly, like you know exactly just how to get him going, has his mind going blank.

“Do you like that?” You mutter, tucking your face into his neck now that he’s made the space. The way you kiss slowly up the sensitive skin of his neck makes his mind fuzzy. He can’t seem to get the words out, so he gives a slow nod instead. “Good.”

The praise makes his hips stutter, fucking into your fist. You let out a small laugh, presumably at how desperate he is for you. A low moan escapes his mouth as you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, swiping away the precome leaking from the tip. Your touch disappears for a moment and he tips his head back forwards to you, looking at you through hooded lids. He watches as you spit into your palm and resume your actions, his jaw dropping open ever so slightly. Andrew feels drunk, the slick shlick of you stroking him filling the room.

He thinks you can tell that he’s getting close. He knows that his hips won’t stop rising to meet your touch: a dead giveaway. It’s almost embarrassing how fast you get him there, cock leaking in desperation as he whines. Your hand slips away and he groans out loud at the loss of sensation. His mind is still fuzzy and he almost misses your fingers wrapping around his wrist, guiding his hand across your body and under your dress. Looking down at where your hands meet, his breathing almost stops when you dip his fingertips past the waistband of your lacy panties.

“Don’t you want to feel how wet I am for you, Andrew?” you breathe into his ear. The words affect him deeply and he lets out a strangled noise, but he can’t bring himself to be embarrassed with you on top of him like this.

“Yes,” he says, voice hoarse. He sounds absolutely wrecked as he swipes a finger along your wetness, sickly slow, brows furrowing as he watches your lips part at his touch. You’re dripping for him; he can feel the wet patch you’ve left on your panties against his knuckles as he slides a finger into you. It’s your turn to moan, and he swears at the sound, “Fuck.”

He pumps his finger in and out slowly, basking in the feeling of you sucking him right in. You surge forward and capture his lips in yours, kissing him breathlessly. You let out a whimper into his mouth as he slips another finger alongside the first. His breath catches in his throat as he feels you flutter around his digits, velvet walls pulling him in even deeper.

Andrew loves having you like this, your dress bunched around your hips, giving him a full view of your pussy covered in lace as you grind your clit into the palm of his hand. It’s all too much for him; he drops his head to your shoulder, breathing in the scent of your perfume. He thinks of all the times he’s touched himself to the scent of you; whether that be from the sheets from the first time he met you or the way that it lingered in his room after a conversation with you, long after you’ve gone.

His pace quickens and he can feel your legs shaking against his while your hips buck, practically riding his hand. You’re mewling now, coming apart on his fingers the same way you do in his dreams. He feels you clamp down around him and he can tell you’re going to cum seconds before you tell him. He can barely hear it, words lost in your soft whimpers. A rush of wetness is slick against his palm as you let out a moan so loud that Andrew remembers there are other people in the house.

Eyes never leaving yours, he pulls his fingers out from your panties and brings them to his mouth. The way you taste has his eyes almost rolling back into his head, licking up the cum that had dripped down his fingers. He wants to get his head between your legs real fucking bad and eat you until the sun comes back up or until you’re begging him to stop. His cock aches with the desperate need to fuck you, eyes trailing down to your chest as you pull off your dress and toss it aside. He decides to save it until later. Maybe round two?

He’s appreciated your body countless times as you tanned by the pool, but the view of you on top of him, being able to touch you the way he wants, has his blood running hot in his veins. He could die under you right now and he’d die a happy man.

You push him down onto the bed with a soft push and his back lands against his freshly pressed sheets. Lifting your hips, you pull his jeans and boxers down, leaving them to pool at his ankles where his feet are still planting firmly on the floor. He kicks them off and moves further up the bed, loving how you giggle as he jostles you.

Your tongue swipes across your lips and you settle yourself into position, the lace of your panties scratching intoxicatingly against his cock. Mesmerized, he watches as you hook your fingers into your panties and pull them aside, not even bothering to remove them before lowering himself down onto his length.

The two of you let out a needy noise as you sink down, taking him to the hilt. You look absolutely beautiful, the sight of you absolutely fucked out for him making his cock impossibly harder. His hands fly to your hips as you begin to grind again, much like you were earlier.

He lets out a sharp inhale through his nose, eyes hungry. You’ve spread your cum across the short hairs at the base of his dick, whining as you chase your high. You get tired of the grinding and lift your hips, bending forward and resting your forehead against his. His eyes are on yours as you slam your hips back down, eyes fluttering shut.

The pace you set is brutal, hips pistoning as you ride him. The force of it has the frame of his bed swaying, headboard making impact with the wall every time you drop your hips. That combined with the volume of both the noises you two make as you ride him is more than enough to hear through the wall or the door. 

“So good, baby. Feels so fucking good,” he coos, lost in the way you fuck him. The wet slap of skin on skin is absolutely sinful, echoing in the room and mingling with the heavy breaths you let out. He’s got one hand on your ass and the other on your breast, overwhelmed with the need to memorize every part of your body. “Been fucking dreaming about your pussy.”

“Oh my god, Andrew,” you whine, hips moving fast. He can feel you clenching around him, trapping him in your cunt like a vice. He can barely keep his eyes open, lids low from the pleasure. You’re squeezing him so fucking tight that he swears his vision is going white. You straighten up and place a hand on his broad chest, using it as leverage to hit a whole new angle.

Andrew feels himself brush against your walls and it has his jaw dropping open as his entire body shaking at the feeling. He’s close but you’re closer, nails digging into his flesh and your moans grow more high pitched, picking up the pace. You don’t stop moving your hips when you cum around him, barely able to keep yourself upright. The feeling of you tightening around him and the sight he catches of your cum glistening around the base of his dick has him moments away from falling over the edge.

“M’gonna cum,” he slurs, hands around your waist to hold you in place as he fucks up into you now. Still sensitive from your second orgasm you squeal, falling even farther forward into his chest. Soft grunts are punched from his chest every time his hips meet yours, taking what he needs from you.

“I want it so bad,” you babble mindlessly, voice dripping with pleasure. He’s never heard you like this before, but now he can’t imagine ever living without it. His thrusts are messy now, determined to hear you beg some more. “Please, I need it.”

“Yeah?” He barely even notices himself speak, too busy fucking into your pussy to think of anything else. He’s so close that his arms are shaking, thick muscles twitching in anticipation. He almost wants to cry, overwhelmed by the way he’s buried so deep inside you. “You want me to pump you full of my cum, baby?”

“Please,” you whine, voice cracking with need. The sound of it has Andrew’s hips faltering as he does exactly that, swearing sharply as he does so. His entire body jerks from the feeling, so wracked in pleasure that he can’t control it. You let out a moan alongside his as he fucks him cum back into you, nice and slow. Once the overstimulation gets to him his hips come to a stop, sweat beading on his forehead.

You fall limp on top of him, the deep rise and fall of your chest matching his. He wraps his two big arms around you instinctively, pulling you closer against him. Andrew basks in the quiet, punctuated by nothing other than your quiet breathing, closing his eyes.

“You okay?” Your voice is muffled against his chest, warm breath fanning over his skin. He’s got a hand running absentmindedly up and down the bare skin of your back, still sticky with sweat. “That wasn’t too much?”

“No,” he rumbles, voice soft. His fingers are still skimming as allows himself to take in the moment for just a beat longer. Then he’s got you under him, flat on your back. He loves the way you look up at him, legs still wrapped around his waist. He noses his way into your neck, noticing that his scent is intermingling with yours the more time you spend with him. His hands begin to roam once more and he can feel his blood rush downwards when you look at him with your big curious eyes. “Not enough.”

If Andrew had any say in it, you two were in for a long night.

—

In the morning, Andrew is the first to wake up. He always had trouble getting to sleep, sometimes staring at his ceiling for hours in the night, but the warmth you brought to his bed had pulled him under within minutes.

He turned his head to face you, eyes flicking over your face as the amber light of the sun painted your face. You were clad in one of his shirts, the plain black looking much better on you than it ever did on him. Andrew shifts slowly so as to not wake you and slides out of bed.

The walk to the kitchen is quiet, like it usually is in the morning considering the fact that the rest of his family regularly kept late hours, so he was surprised to find Craig, already seated at the bar, tucking into a bowl of cereal. He looks up and sees who it is, his face twisting into something much more smug as he takes another bite. 

Andrew is quick to pull a face back, not interested in hashing out his night with Craig, who clearly wants to hear all the details. Instead, he starts to clear the mess that his brother had left out while he assembled his breakfast. Craig waits a beat, like he expects him to change his mind, but Andrew stays silent.

“Pope, man-” he starts, but a door creaks shut in down the hall that distracts him, leaving the unfinished sentence in the air. Then you turn the corner, still only in his shirt, and Andrew realizes that it wasn’t the noise that caught Craig’s attention. Your hair is still mussed and you’re rubbing the sleep out of your eyes when you approach him. You wrap your arms around his wide torso and his arm settles at your waist. Natural as if you’ve done it a million times before. Andrew allows himself to smile at the feeling, not even caring that his brother is watching with a shit eating grin on his face.

You dragged your feet across the tarmac, your trainers scraping lightly, every step requiring a monumental effort of will. When you pulled the passenger door open, the sudden rush of warmth and the familiar, grounding scent of his cologne, woody, clean, and entirely safe, hit you so hard that your throat instantly tightened.

You tumbled into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut to lock the harsh world outside. You hadn't even buckled your seatbelt before the first sob ripped its way out of your chest. It was a violent, involuntary sound that seemed to come from the very bottom of your lungs.

"Oh, sweetheart," Jack murmured immediately, his voice a low, worried rumble.

You dropped your head into your hands, your fingers digging into your temples as the dam broke entirely. The sheer weight of the last twelve hours collapsed on top of you, crushing whatever fragile composure you had managed to maintain for the sake of the patients.

Jack shifted the car into park, switched off the ignition, and unbuckled his own belt so he could turn fully toward you. He reached out, his strong, warm hand gently cupping the back of your neck. His thumb began soothingly rubbing the tense muscle right at the base of your skull.

"Hey, hey, look at me, sweetheart," he pleaded softly, his other hand finding yours and squeezing it tightly. "I've got you. You're safe. Let it out, honey, just breathe for me, okay?”

But the comfort only seemed to unlock more of the misery, the tears flowing freely now, hot and fast down your cheeks. "Robby has been on my fucking ass all day, Jack," you choked out, the words tumbling out in a breathless, frantic rush between heavy, shuddering gasps.

"What did he do, honey?" Jack asked, his jaw clenching as his thumb continued its rhythmic, calming strokes against your neck.

"Every single thing I did was wrong," you sobbed, pulling your knees up toward your chest as much as the small space allowed. "If I was five minutes late with a chart, he was there, breathing down my neck. I think he’s stressed because Trin is falling behind, but that isn’t my fucking problem. He practically fucking yelled at me in front of the nurses' station because a lab result hadn't come back yet."

"He did what?" Jack’s voice darkened, a flash of protective anger crossing his features even at the expense of his friend. "In front of everyone? He's an absolute ass sometimes."

"He acted as if I have any control over what the pathology lab does," you wept, pressing your face into Jack's palm as he brushed a stray tear from your cheek. "I felt so small, so completely useless, and he just wouldn't stop pushing me."

"I love him but Robby can be a miserable bastard who wouldn't know good stress management if it hit him in the face," Jack said softly, his tone shifting back to pure gentleness for your sake. "You are brilliant at your job, and he has no right to take his own incompetence out on you. Don't let him take your peace, love."

You shook your head, cheeks damp with tears. "It wasn't just him, Jack. The patients were just so mean today. I had a man throw a plastic cup of water at me because his pain meds were ten minutes delayed."

"Jesus Christ," Jack muttered, his hand sliding down to rub your arm comfortingly. "Are you alright? He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"No, it was just plastic, but it’s the principle," you cried, your voice cracking with a deep, exhausting sadness. "And another woman spent twenty minutes just shouting at me, calling me incompetent because the wait times were long. I was running between cubicles, trying my absolute hardest, and everyone just looked at me like I was the enemy."

"Shit. You're not the enemy, sweetheart. You're the one saving them," he whispered, leaning across the console to press a soft kiss against your temple.

"I didn't get to sit down once, Jack," you whispered, sniffing heavily as he pulled a clean handkerchief from his jacket and gently began wiping your face. "I didn't even get to eat my lunch because I left it sitting on the kitchen counter this morning, and the cafeteria was closed by the time I had a spare five minutes."

"Oh, my poor girl," Jack’s voice softened even further, filled with a profound, aching sympathy. "You haven't eaten a single thing since this morning? You should’ve called me, sweetheart. No wonder you're absolutely spent. You've been running on empty in hell all day."

"And on top of everything..." You paused, a fresh wave of grief washing over you, making you feel incredibly small and desperately lonely. Your breath came in jagged, uneven hitches as the absolute worst part of the day finally forced its way to the surface.

"What is it, sweetheart? Tell me," Jack urged, his fingers gently tangling in your hair, tilting your face up so he could look into your eyes.

"It's my birthday, Jack," you whispered, the admission sounding incredibly pathetic to your own ears, your voice dropping to a miserable, fragile whimper. "It's my birthday, and not a single person at work even noticed. No one said a word. My own team didn't care."

You hid your face in your hands again, your shoulders shaking. "I spent the whole day being shouted at and degraded, and it’s supposed to be my special day, and I just... I felt completely invisible. Like I don't matter to anyone at all."

Jack let out a low, pained breath. Before you could spiral any deeper into that dark thought, he shifted closer, pulling you completely across the center console and tucking you firmly against his chest.

He wrapped his strong arms around you, holding you so tightly that the cold, cruel reality of the hospital seemed to melt away entirely against his warmth. He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm.

"Look at me," Jack commanded gently, pulling back just enough to frame your face with his hands, his thumbs gently wiping away the fresh moisture on your cheeks. "You listen to me very carefully, alright?"

You blinked through your tears, looking into his warm, fiercely sincere eyes.

"You are not invisible, and you matter more than anyone else in my world," Jack said, his voice ringing with absolute certainty. "I am so deeply sorry that today was a nightmare, and I am sorry that the day shift made you feel small on the day you should be celebrated. But you are done with them now."

He pressed a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead, keeping his hands warm against your cheeks. "The shift is over, I’m going to tear Robby a new one another day, and you are coming home with me. I've got you, okay?"

You rested your forehead against his collarbone, the steady, rhythmic thumping of his heart beneath his shirt serving as a perfect contrast to the chaotic franticness of your own head. "I'm just so tired, Jack," you whispered into the fabric of his coat. "I don't want to think anymore. I don't want to be strong."

"You don't have to be strong," he promised, his hands sliding down to rub your back in long, soothing strokes. "You've done enough fighting for one day. From this exact moment, I am taking care of everything."

"What are we going to do?" you asked quietly, your voice muffled against his chest, though you were already feeling the heavy cloud of tension begin to lift.

"We are going straight back to my apartment," he said, his lips brushing your hair as he spoke. "First, you are going to have a proper, long hot bath to wash all of that hospital filth off your skin.”

"And food?" you murmured, your stomach letting out a timely, traitorous rumble that made Jack chuckle softly.

"Yes, lots of food, sweetheart," Jack smiled, kissing the crown of your head. "I'm going to order a ridiculously expensive takeout that you love. We'll get everything you want and a little extra for later. You won't have to lift a finger."

He pulled back slightly, looking down at you with a soft, adoring expression. "And then we are going to pile every single blanket we own onto the couch, and we are going to watch whatever mindless crap you want until you fall asleep in my arms. How does that sound, birthday girl?"

A small, watery breath that was almost a laugh escaped your lips. You nodded against his chest, your muscles finally beginning to unlock, the tension draining out of you now that you had surrendered the burden of your day to him.

"That sounds like heaven," you mumbled, your eyes fluttering shut as the safety of his presence completely enveloped you.

"Then to heaven it is," Jack smiled softly. He kissed your temple one last time before gently guiding you back into your own seat, reaching across you to pull the seatbelt over your shoulder and clicking it securely into place.

He treated you with the kind of delicate, fragile care that you hadn't realised you desperately needed. "Let’s go," he said softly, restarting the engine, the familiar, low purr of the car filling the silence as he pulled out of the hospital car park, leaving the misery of the ER far behind.

The drive back to Jack’s apartment was a quiet, soothing blur. Jack kept one hand firmly on the steering wheel and the other stretched across the center console, his fingers securely entwined with yours. Every time you let out a small, residual sigh, he would gently squeeze your hand, a silent reminder that the hospital was growing further away with every passing mile.

By the time he pulled into the familiar driveway of his building, the sky had turned into a deep, velvety black. Jack rushed around to the passenger side, opening your door and unbuckling your belt before you could even reach for it. He scooped your heavy canvas work bag over his shoulder and wrapped his arm tightly around your waist, practically dragging you up the stairs to his apartment.

The moment the front door clicked shut behind you, the familiar warmth of Jack’s home wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. Jack immediately kicked off his shoes and helped you slide your tired feet out of your stiff trainers.

"Gonna head to the bathroom, honey," Jack murmured softly, pressing a tender kiss to the side of your neck as he unzipped your heavy winter coat and slid it off your shoulders. "Don't worry about a thing. I'm going to go run the water."

After pouring a glass of water, you walked into the bathroom, the tiles warm beneath your socks. Jack was there, sat on his shower chair by the side of the tub. He turned the brass taps, and the soothing, roaring sound of rushing water instantly began to drown out the echoes of the chaotic hospital alarms that had been ringing in your ears all day.

He reached for an expensive-looking jar of lavender and amber bath salts, pouring a generous handful under the running water. The bathroom instantly filled with a thick, fragrant steam that made your chest loosen.

"There we go," Jack said, standing and wiping his hands on a fluffy towel. He stepped over to you, his hands gently finding your waist again. He leaned down, pressing his forehead against yours, his eyes dark with pure devotion. "Strip out of those clothes, sweetheart. Put them right in the laundry basket. I don't want you thinking about that place for the rest of the night."

"Thank you, Jack," you whispered, your voice still a bit raspy from crying.

"You don't ever have to thank me for taking care of you, beautiful," he replied softly, cupping your chin and kissing your lips with a slow, lingering sweetness that tasted like safety. "I'm going to order food now. Take your time in here."

Sinking into the hot water felt like an out-of-body experience. You lowered yourself down until the fragrant, bubbly water reached your chin, letting out a long, shaky breath. For the first twenty minutes, you just closed your eyes, letting the heat sink deep into your aching muscles, washing away the phantom feeling of Robby's critical gaze and the harsh words of the patients. You felt the tight knot in your chest finally begin to dissolve entirely.

By the time you finally stepped out of the bath, your skin was comfortably warm and completely relaxed. Jack had left your thickest, softest pyjamas warming on the radiator, along with a pair of fresh fluffy socks. Slipping into them felt like a massive relief, the soft fabric a stark contrast to the stiff scrubs you had been wearing for twelve hours.

When you walked back into the living room, the flat was dimly lit, illuminated only by the warm, flickering glow of a few scented candles and the soft amber light of the television. The heavy coffee table had been pushed closer to the sofa, and a massive mound of your favourite duvets and pillows covered the cushions.

"Perfect timing," Jack said, walking out of the kitchen carrying a large paper bag that was radiating a heavenly, rich scent. "The food literally just arrived. Come here."

He set the bag down and immediately pulled you into his arms, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the fresh scent of the bath salts. "You smell wonderful. Much better than bleach and stress."

"I feel human again," you admitted, a genuine smile finally touching your lips as you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding him close.

"Good. Because you deserve to feel human, especially today," Jack said, kissing your cheek before guiding you onto the sofa.

He didn't just let you sit. He practically buried you in the blankets, propping pillows behind your back until you were perfectly comfortable. Only after that did Jack adjust himself, taking off his prosthetic with ease and leaning it against the side of the couch. He opened one of the cardboard containers, revealing a massive, steaming portion of your favourite takeout meal.

"Eat up, sweetheart," Jack urged, handing you a fork and settling down right next to you, his thigh pressing firmly against yours. "You need to make up for that lost lunch."

You didn't need to be told twice. The first bite of the rich, comforting food was so good it made you close your eyes in pure bliss. Jack watched you with a soft, satisfied grin, occasionally reaching over to brush a stray lock of hair away from your face or to feed you a bite of his own dish from his fork. He kept one hand resting on your knee under the blanket, his thumb moving in slow, rhythmic circles.

"Is it good, sweetheart?" he asked quietly, his eyes warm as he watched the stress finally wash away from your face.

"It's amazing," you sighed, taking a sip of the ice-cold water he had placed next to you. "I didn't realise how hungry I actually was."

"I know, my poor girl," he murmured, leaning over to kiss your temple. "But I've got you now. No more skipping meals, and no more bastards like fucking Michael Robinavitch ruining your day."

Once the containers were cleared away, Jack shoved them onto the table and immediately pulled you back into his space. He lay back against the corner of the sofa, dragging you with him so that you were lying completely on top of him, your head resting securely on his chest and your legs tangled beneath the heavy duvet.

He grabbed the remote, clicking on a familiar, light-hearted comedy movie you had seen a hundred times before, something that required absolutely zero brainpower to follow.

"Comfortable, love?" Jack whispered, his strong arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you so close that you could feel the vibration of his voice against your cheek.

"Perfect," you mumbled, completely content.

His large hands began a slow, mesmerising pattern across your back, tracing smooth circles up and down your spine, occasionally slipping beneath the hem of your pyjama top to press his warm palms directly against your bare skin. The soothing friction combined with the heavy meal and the warm bath made your eyelids feel incredibly heavy.

"Happy birthday, my beautiful girl," Jack whispered into the darkness, his voice thick with an undeniable, fierce affection. He reached over to the side table, fumbling for a moment before pulling out a small, beautifully wrapped velvet box, sliding it into your view. "I know the day was shit, but I hope this helps a little bit."

You blinked, opening the box to find a delicate, sparkling bracelet, simple enough to wear even during your shifts. Tears pricked your eyes again, but this time, they weren't from sadness.

"Jack... it's beautiful," you choked out, looking up at him through thick lashes. "You didn't have to."

"Of course I did," he said, taking your wrist and gently fastening the clasp, before kissing the inside of your wrist right over your pulse point. "You matter to me. Every single day, but especially today. Don't ever forget that."

You buried your face back into his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt as a profound sense of peace finally settled over you. The mean patients, the unread charts, and the horrible manager didn't matter anymore. Right here, wrapped in Jack's arms, you were completely safe, deeply loved, and exactly where you were supposed to be.

"I love you, Jack," you murmured, your voice growing faint as sleep finally began to pull you under.

"I love you more, sweetheart," Jack whispered back, his chin resting on the top of your head, his hands never stopping their soothing rhythm against your back as he held you tight against his chest, keeping the rest of the world completely at bay.

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