moon

The boy stammers, pales at the sight of the gigantic, tattooed man beside you, and takes maybe a full twenty seconds to stammer out his next words.

“I-I…are you her…”

“Oh yeah, I’m her husband. Fresh outta the psych ward and everything. Now beat it, before I smash your head against the table.”

The boy bolts like Craig set the booth on fire, and you glare up at him.

“I was on a date.”

Craig laughs, like you were genuinely joking. “Not exactly your type.”

“You don’t know what my type is.”

“Pretty sure I do. I shared a wall with your type for most of my life.”

You clench your jaw. “What do you want, Craig?”

He sits across from you, all friendly familiarity, and smiles. “I need your help.”

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

He raises his eyebrow, and glances pointedly towards Ethan in the corner of the bar, trying to save face by ordering himself another drink.

“I told you, that was a date.”

“C’mon, don’t lie to me. You think I don’t know when you’re working an angle?”

You narrow your eyes a little. “Okay, fine. I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore.”

Craig’s smile falls a little.

Burning rubber in your nose. Panic in your throat. The shriek of the tires drowned out by your own voice as you grab frantically at the wheel.

“Baz what the fuck are you doing? What are you doing? Turn around!”

Baz’s hand darts out, and he slams you back against the seat so hard your teeth knock together. “It’s too late.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? We can’t just leave him-“

“We have to. He was too late. You know the rules. It’s him or all of us.”

You’re frantic. Panicked. You even start to yank at your own car door, like you might jump out and run back to the bank on your own two feet, and Baz slams you backwards again.

When he makes it to the house, you punch him in the face before you even get out of the car. He takes it, head whipping to the side like he expected this reaction from you. When you get out, you punch him again. It takes both Craig and Deran to pull you away.

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

You take a sip of your drink. “Good for him.”

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

Craig sucks his teeth, and seems to decide to pick a different battle.

“So, it’s a good job. You barely have to do anything. We just need your help with-“

“I don’t do jobs with the Codys anymore, Craig. Also, I don’t know if you realize this, but using my ex as an incentive to help you isn’t really boosting my interest.” Ex. Your ex. It still feels so weird to think of him like that.

Because he’s just…Pope. Andrew Cody. The love of your life since you were a teenager. Even when you were together, ‘boyfriend’ felt like too simple of a word to describe what he was to you. It was too intense for such a lame title. Too full of a love so deep it bordered on obsession.

And then it was all over. Just like that.

Craig is making a face. You frown back at him. “What?”

“It’s my job, okay?” He runs a hand through his hair, flexes his fingers on his beer. “And it’s good. I’ve worked my ass off at planning it, and Baz is out, so I just…I need it to go well. And it will go well if you help.”

You grip your drink a little tighter. Fucking Craig. Fucking asshole with the terrible decision making skills and good heart. Fuck him for being your friend. For making you care about him. For giving you that look that’s making you feel like-

“Fuck. Fine.” God help you. “Fine. Fine. Okay. Fine.” He grins at you, and you glare back at him. “But I don’t want to see Pope.”

Now it’s Craig’s turn to give you a look. “About that…”

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

Okay, maybe it’s not the outfit. Maybe it’s the anxiety twisting in your stomach so intensely you think you might vomit in the driveway of the Cody house.

You’ve been here since he went to prison. Since you broke up. Not for long - you haven’t exactly been in the habit of hanging out by the pool or anything - but whether you’re here for a minute or an hour this damn driveway always whips the memory of that horrible day back into your mind more violently than a slap.

-

“Put me down. Put me the fuck down I’m gonna-“

“Jesus, relax!” Baz throws his hands up, angry and defensive and so very punchable right now. Deran’s got you locked against him, feet kicking in the air like you might be able to land a blow if you just try hard enough. “I had to go! He got held up or some shit, and if the cops caught us the whole family would have gone down.”

“You just fucking left him there! We could have-“

“We didn’t have a choice. I made a decision. I saved our asses. We knew this was a risk. It always is.”

“Fuck you.”

“Yeah, yeah. Fuck me.” Baz runs a hand through his hair, and you know he’s heartbroken too but you couldn’t give less of a shit right now. His nose is still bleeding from where you clocked him a minute ago. “Fuck me for making the hard decisions for this family.”

Rage rises up in your throat again, threatening to choke you as you kick harder. “Boo fucking hoo. You left him! You fucking left him and-“

“Calm down.” It’s Deran’s voice now. Deran, who sounds choked up and is still holding you locked in a vice grip. The sound of it makes you look up at Craig, whose eyes are shining with tears, and…

Your feet drop back to the pavement, the sound and sight of the boys’ pain deflating you almost alarmingly quickly, and you pat the arm around you in both comfort and reassurance.

“Okay.” You breathe, shaky, and Baz’s shoulders drop.

“Okay.” He repeats, and the sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth. “Now that we’re all calm, we need to figure out what to do.”

-

He’s in the yard.

Three years later, and he’s just… in the yard. Standing there. Staring at you. And what did you expect? That he would drag himself out of a grave? Appear before you in an explosion of fire and blood?

He looks at you. You look at him. He doesn’t move an inch.

He looks good. Just as beautiful as the day you lost him. You hate him for it.

“Hi.” His voice sounds even lower than it used to. He looks bigger. Like he worked out a lot in prison.

You raise your eyebrows. Something curls deep in your core at the sight of him. Three years later, and you still can’t look at this man without feeling a physical reaction. “Hi.”

-

“You’re bleeding.”

You reach up, swiping the back of your hand over your lip and frowning at the smear of red across your skin, illuminated by the moonlight reflecting off the pool.

“You’re not the only one who can get into fights.”

Andrew Cody looks at you, with those dark eyes that always seems to see through whatever lie you try to  tell him or even yourself, but you meet his gaze with the defiance of a teenage girl who really doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Are you…staying here again?” He asks, standing still from his spot beside the pool. You’re on a chair. Your face hurts. Your body aches. You nod.

“Smurf says I can crash for a few days.” In exchange for help, of course. Help with jobs. Connections. Money. You don’t mind. It’s better than being home, or hiding out on the beach again.

He still hasn’t moved. “Are you…gonna stay in Craig’s room? With him?”

You almost laugh out loud. Craig, big and rowdy and often immature even for a teenager, is closest to you in age. He might be your best friend. He definitely has a crush on you, and you’re almost positive that Smurf is angling for the two of you to get together.

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

You look up at him. He looks down at you. Slowly, almost unaware that you’re doing it, scoot over on your chair to make room, and he takes the invitation. Your heart hammers in your chest.

His hand comes up. Fingers brushing over a bruise on your cheek and eyebrows twitching with…

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

He’s close. His thumb is still brushing over your cheek, and his eyes fall to your lips. You think he might kiss you. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted anything more.

But this…this house, as chaotic and dangerous as it may be, is the only somewhat stable thing you have right now. The only safe place to go when things get too fucked up at home. When your petty criminal of a father takes things too far, or debt collectors come banging on the door. Smurf lets you stay here, and Smurf is always working an angle. You’ve told yourself a thousand times that, in exchange for this, you’ll go along with whatever plan she has for you.

This is not that plan.

And yet, as his face ducks closer to yours, fingers curling in your hair, you wonder what it would be like. To feel Pope’s lips against your own. To feel his body against yours as he lies you down right here on this pool chair. You think, despite his violent tendencies and episodes of something your uneducated mind can only call insanity, that he would be gentle with you. Like he always is. You don’t have much experience with boys, but you think he would make sure that you felt comfortable. He’d probably kiss you through any nervousness, whisper reassurances into your skin as he peels off your clothing, make you feel safe the whole time and-

His lips brush over your own, and you pull back.

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

He searches your face, and you know that his observant eyes see the want there. Still, he nods, and stays where he is as you pull yourself to your feet.

-

“We should talk.”

You laugh, humorless, and push past him into the house. You don’t get far before you feel his hand on your arm, turning you towards him.

“Let go of me.”

He does, but he tilts his head and furrows his brow in that intense way he has. The familiar sight makes you ache. “We should talk.”

“I think the time for talking passed somewhere around three years ago, Andrew.” You grumble, and he fixes you with an expression so filled with helplessness and pain that you almost crumble right then and there.

You ignore him, and push your way into the house. Craig whistles at the sight of your too-tight dress and heels, and Deran greets you with a familiar smile.

As you start to plan, to prepare for the day ahead, you don’t turn around. You don’t look at Pope. His eyes don’t leave you the entire time, and it’s almost physically impossible to keep yourself from leaning back against him like you have a million times, over the course of a million similar meetings.

But you don’t look at him, and when it’s time to leave, you storm out of the house before he has a chance to catch your arm again.

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

You lost your virginity to Craig Cody two weeks after you and Pope nearly kissed by the pool.

You don’t know why you did it. Well, you do. It’s what Smurf wants. It’s what Craig wants. It’s what you should want. You and Craig are well matched. You love him in whatever way you do. He’s your best friend. You know how to keep him in check when he acts like an idiot, and he knows how to make you laugh when the weight of everything feels like it’s going to fucking crush you.

So you had a couple of beers at a party. You grabbed his hand before he could get too wasted. Even for a teenager, he’s already fucking huge. Handsome, too. You know the other girls stare at him. You should feel proud that he follows you like a lost puppy the moment you start tugging him towards his room.

It was awkward. And messy. And nothing like the movies say it’s supposed to be like. You know he tried to make it…special, or whatever. He was gentle. He asked if you were okay between kisses as he laid you back on his unmade bed and helped you out of your clothes. When he pushed in, you’d gasped and clawed at his back, and he’d mumbled apologies into your neck and waited until you nodded that you were okay, but he still moved just a little too fast. A little too clumsily. It didn’t hurt too badly, and it wasn’t exactly unpleasant the whole time, but you didn’t feel fireworks or any of the overwhelming pleasure you thought you were supposed to.

When it was over, he’d kissed you, and you’d smiled up at him, and then he’d rolled over and pulled you into his chest and laughed.

“That was awesome.” He breathed, and you nodded. “You’re awesome. Was it…did you?”

“Yeah.” You think you did. There was a minute, somewhere towards the end, when it had felt pretty good. Not the explosion of pleasure you’ve always heard about, but that’s fine.

“Awesome.” He kissed your forehead, and sat up a little. “Wanna beer?”

You’d smiled, heart swelling with affection that should definitely feel more…romantic than it does. But it’s still affection. You still care about him a lot. Maybe this is supposed to be right. “Yeah.”

~

Pope Cody hasn’t looked at you in a week.

Smurf seems more than happy with you sleeping in Craig’s room. With him wrapping an arm around you when you all sit on the couch together. He’s even developed a habit of ducking down and pressing a kiss to your cheek when you’re standing in the kitchen, or before he does a backflip into the pool. It’s fun. You think you can get used to it.

You haven’t had sex again. He’s asked, almost every night, but you’ve always come up with some kind of excuse and he’s always responded with nothing harsher than a disappointed smile. And yet, you both stay up almost all night every night, talking and laughing and playing video games like you always have since the day he first brought you to this house. This family.

But Pope won’t look at you, and you can’t ignore it anymore.

Because he came home from a job with a black eye and bruised knuckles, and now he’s standing in the yard and Smurf’s chastising him for being reckless is still ringing in the air. He didn’t talk. He didn’t argue. He just stared at the pool and refused to look at her. At you.

And now you’re alone with him, and everyone has left to go regroup or party or whatever, and he still. Won’t. Look. At. You.

“Andrew.” You rarely use his real name. He tenses, but he doesn’t turn around.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

“Why won’t you look at me?” You grab his arm, and turn him toward you, and he pulls it away.

“Stop it.”

“No.” You grab him again, and this time he catches your arm, fingers around your wrist in a vice grip that is firm but nowhere close to painful. His eyes remain on the pavement.

“You haven’t talked to me since I got with Craig.” You say, and his jaw clenches at your words. You can see his cold expression, now, if not his eyes. He’s older than you, but his face still holds the smooth roundness of youth. He’s just as handsome as always. Your heart stutters a little, like it’s supposed to with Craig.

When he still doesn’t answer, you shove at his chest. The sudden movement makes him release your wrist, but he doesn’t budge. “Fucking look at me! Why won’t you at least look at me? Are you seriously this pissed off because I hooked up with him? Stop being an asshole and tell me why you’re acting like this!”

“Because it should have been me!” He finally snaps, finally looks at you, and the sharpness of his voice paired with the intensity behind his dark eyes is enough to nearly make you stumble backwards. “It should have been me. You know it should have.”

He looks almost crazed, now, shoulders hunched and fists clenched and feet moving towards you until you take an instinctive step backwards. The movement doesn’t stop him. He still comes closer.

“You…you let him touch you. And kiss you. And do all of the things I’ve…” he trails off, and your breath freezes in your lungs, “the things I’ve wanted to do since I met you.” His eyes drop to your mouth, back up to your eyes, and he’s close. So close. “It should have been me.”

You don’t move back again. You can feel the warmth of his proximity in the chilly night air. Your voice is too quiet to your own ears. “That’s…not the plan.”

He’s not breathing regularly. His hands are still clenched at his sides. He looks you over, like he’s trying to fight it, before something finally breaks.

“Fuck the plan.” His voice is almost a growl, and you don’t have time to respond before his hand is on the back of your head and his mouth is against yours.

The world explodes.

His lips are warm and rough, demanding and desperate and sending fire through every vein and pore in your body. You choke on a whimper, surprising yourself with the sound, and Pope groans in response as his tongue sweeps its way into your mouth. Your hands fly up, curling in the fabric of his shirt before moving up to his hair like you don’t know how to touch all of him at once. His own hands move down, lips only leaving yours long enough for him to grab the backs of your thighs to lift you against him before he’s kissing you again.

You don’t even register that you’re moving, too caught up in the desperation and the feeling of something hot burning in your core. He presses you against a wall, trails his lips down your throat until you’re gasping for air, before he kisses you again and moves deeper into the empty house.

And then he’s lowering you back onto his bed, crisp sheets smooth against your back, and you barely let him pull away enough to crawl over you before you’re kissing him again with so much need that it’s almost embarrassing.

His rough palms are sliding up beneath your shirt, breath turning shaky at the feeling of your skin against his, and it feels so good you think you might die.

“Is this okay?” He whispers, lips against your cheek, and you nod.

“Please.” You don’t know what you’re begging for, but the sound of it makes him moan as he pulls your t-shirt over your head and trails his mouth down over your collarbone.

His own shirt comes next. You roll on top of him, and kiss and bite down his chest until he’s tangling his fingers in your hair and pulling your mouth back up to his, rolling you both once more until you’re on your back and your hands are fumbling with his belt, unpracticed and clumsy, until he shushes you gently and reaches down to help you with a lingering kiss to your cheek.

“Tell me if it’s too much.” He rasps after a while, and you can barely breathe enough to tell him that you will. You settle for a nod, and his rough palm slides over your stomach, up over your body until he’s cradling your cheek.

“I’ve got you.” He whispers, and the soft words are almost comical with how hard he’s trembling with restraint. With how dark his eyes are, how intense his touch feels. “Breathe. I’ve got you.”

You nod, and when you smile he smiles back, shy and nervous behind that starved expression, and that one look alone makes you feel like you’re floating.

It’s nothing like Craig. It isn’t like Pope is a whole lot more practiced, or some kind of sex god or anything, but every movement feels so much more…right. He slides his hand beneath your thigh, guiding it around his waist and watching your face as your bodies join together for the first time, and the noise that pulls its way out of your throat barely sounds human.

His breath comes on a shaky exhale, eyes never leaving yours as he searches your face for signs of pain or discomfort, and when he finally starts to move you feel something coiling so tightly in your stomach it almost hurts.

Every slow thrust, every reverent touch, tightens that coil. Every kiss. Every whispered word against your skin as his fingers catch your own and he presses your joined hands into the pillow above your head.

You reach the edge so quickly it shocks you, free hand clawing at his back as you bite down on his shoulder and fireworks explode behind your vision.

The feeling is so intense that, for a moment, you forget where you even are. You forget your own name. All you know, all you feel, is Pope moving with you. Whispering praise and promises of adoration against your lips and throat. When he follows you into oblivion, it’s with a breathless moan of your name.

After, he holds you like you’re the most precious thing he’s ever touched. He traces his hands over your skin. He follows the caresses with his lips. And, when you finally remember how to breathe again, you giggle.

He pulls back from your throat with a raised eyebrow, a smile curling on his own lips, and nuzzles his nose into your cheek. “What?”

“I didn’t…” you didn’t know it could feel that good. You didn’t know anything could feel that good. “I…wow.”

He really does smile, now. He tucks you closer to him, barely letting you go as he pulls you beneath the blankets with him and curls his body around yours. Protective. Possessive, even. “Yeah.” He murmurs, pressing his lips to the side of your head. “Wow.”

-

The future Mr. and Mrs. Franklin need to be convincing. Happy. Overwhelmingly in love.

Your heels click against the dock. It takes years of practice and training from Smurf to keep yourself from fidgeting in your expensive dress. Pope’s eyes are on you, burning holes into your head from behind his sunglasses.

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

The door to the yacht opens, and you don’t have time to keep the argument going. Pope slides his arm around you, you grin wide, and he tugs you almost too-tightly into his side.

“Welcome!” The woman on the other side of the door is smiling in that fake and familiar way that people do when they’re trying to get a whole lotta money from rich people. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, right?”

“Soon to be.” Pope says, all confidence and practiced casualness. He catches your hand in his, the expensive ring glittering obnoxiously on your finger, and raises the back of your hand to his lips. You giggle like an airhead, tilt your head onto his shoulder, and grin up at him.

“Adorable.” The woman says, too emphatically, and you don’t miss the way her eyes rake over your ‘fiance’. You shouldn’t care. This isn’t real. He’s not… yours anymore. And yet, it’s hard to shake off the surge of possessiveness that nearly has you yanking him down and pressing your lips to his.

When she turns to lead you both into the yacht, you try to pull your hand out of Pope’s. He doesn’t let you go. You turn to glare, and he offers you a small smile and a squeeze of his fingers through your own.

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

“I…” you blink, shake your head, and tell yourself you heard the guard wrong. “What?”

“Believe it or not, even prisoners have a right to refuse visitation. He said he doesn’t want to see you.”

You blink again. “That’s…that’s not true. That can’t be true.”

“You can try again next week, but in my experience you’ll probably have the same reaction.”

-

You try again the next week. And the next. You stop sleeping. You stop eating. You wait for a phone call. An explanation. You go to Smurf. You go back to the prison.

Six weeks later, he finally fucking agrees to see you.

You nearly rip the phone off of the wall. He doesn’t look right in a prison uniform. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. “What the fuck, Andrew?”

At your use of his name, his real name, you swear you can see something like relief flicker in his eyes, like the sound of your voice is a drug he’s been deprived of for over a month. You’re about to keep talking, or even press your hand against the glass like some lame fucking cliche, the sight of his face lifting something heavy off of your soul.

“Stop calling.” He says simply, and your heart drops to your feet.

“What?”

“Stop calling. Stop showing up here. Stop.”

“I…” what? This isn’t happening. He wouldn’t do this. “What? Pope, Andrew, I didn’t leave you.” That’s almost, almost incriminating. You know that. But it could also mean anything. You’re his girlfriend, after all. He’s in prison. You’ve been trying to see him. You haven’t left him. The last thing they’ll probably assume is that you’re talking about leaving him to be arrested after robbing that fucking bank.

“I know.” He says simply, and meets your eyes. “I don’t care. Leave. Stop coming here. I’m not going to come see you again.”

You don’t know what to say. You don’t know how to breathe anymore. This is so fucking wrong and it doesn’t make sense and-

He places the phone on the receiver, stands up, and leaves.

That’s the last time you see Andrew Cody for three years.

-

“And here we have the reception deck. As you can see, the view will be absolutely spectacular, especially when you’re out on the water…”

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

“I’m so sorry. Is there a bathroom I can use?” You ask brightly, from where you’re hanging off of Pope’s arm. “Or I’m sorry, the head, right? Like they say on boats.” An airheaded giggle, a practiced bat of your eyes.

The moment you’re around the corner, you whip out your phone and start taking notes and pictures. Exits. Entrance points. Doors to the lower deck where Craig can-

“We need to talk.”

You actually yelp, whirling around and stumbling on your heels before Pope’s arm shoots out to curve around your middle and keep you from falling over.

“What the fuck are you doing?” You hiss, wide eyes shooting back towards the hall. “Now? Let me go.”

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

“So you’re gonna fuck up the job? They could be here any second. You’re supposed to be distracting them.” He’s lost his fucking mind. Clearly, prison has warped his brain and made him an irrational asshole who-

The click of heels against the hardwood floor. A familiar, professional voice calling out your fake names with too much curiosity and suspicion.

“Fuck.” You whisper, and start scrambling to pull away and hide your phone. “Fuck.”

In one swift movement, Pope snatches the device out of your hand, slides it into his back pocket, presses you against the wall and slams his mouth to yours.

Like always, even after all of this time, the feeling of his lips against your own sends a jolt of electricity through your entire body.

He kisses you like he hasn’t thought about anything else in the last three years. His lips move hungrily against yours, one large hand coming up to tangle in your perfectly-done hair as his body envelops yours until you can’t think of anything else.

His tongue traces over your lip, and you open for him instinctively until he groans and changes the angle so he can kiss you more deeply and it feels so fucking good you might-

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…interrupt.” A bright, awkward voice breaks you out of your trance, and you gasp as you wrench your mouth away from Pope’s. He doesn’t even turn to the woman, thumb pressing into your cheek as he traces it over your skin like he’s trying to re-memorize the feeling.

It takes a lot more effort than you want to admit to clear your throat and plaster a flustered and embarrassed look on your face. To fall back into the ditzy, wealthy fiance facade. To keep yourself from ignoring her completely and kissing Pope again to chase that euphoric fucking feeling for as long as you can.

“Oh geez. I’m so embarrassed.” You reach up, and pinch Pope’s cheek just a little too hard with one manicured hand, feigning bright affection. “I just can’t keep my hands off of him, you know?”

“It’s so nice to see a couple so…in love.” A tight lipped, professional smile. Another glance at Pope that has irritating possessiveness curling in your chest again. You don’t have a right to feel that way. Not anymore. Not even after…whatever that was. “Would you two like to continue the tour?”

-

When Craig found out, he punched Pope in the face.

Pope punched him back.

When you lurched forward, prepared to jump between them and stop the bullshit macho display, Smurf had stuck her arm out and pushed you back.

“Let them fight. They need it.” She said, voice even, and kept her eyes on her two sons as they wrestled each other near the pool.

“This is bullshit. They-“

“You know,” she interrupts, still not looking at you. “When I took you in off the street, I wasn’t expecting you to stir up so much trouble.”

You freeze, heart stilling in your chest. She could send you back to your family. Your father. Being thrown out on the street would be bad enough on its own, but Smurf doesn’t work that way. If she wanted to really hurt you, she would.

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

She looks at you now, assessing. “I believe you.” She hums, and pulls her arm back. “Go break them up now, baby. See if you can fix your mess.”

-

“What the fuck was that?”

“A distraction.” Pope’s hands are on the steering wheel. His eyes are on the road.

“And before that? Cornering me in the hallway when I’m trying to gather fucking intel?”

He frowns. His fingers flex on the steering wheel. “It’s been three years.”

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

His brow furrows like he genuinely doesn’t understand why you would ask that. “The…U.S. prison system.”

“You know exactly what I mean. Don’t be a dick.”

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

He does look at you, now, and you can see surprise in his eyes from where they’re visible over his shades. “No. Why?”

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

He turns back to the road. One hand drops off the steering wheel, like it might come to rest on your thigh the same way it has in almost every car ride for years, before he catches himself and returns it to its original spot. “You can barely stand in those shoes.”

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

His head drops back against the seat, jaw clenching in frustration, and you feel a surge of pride that you still seem to be the only person who can break through his little bubble of stoicism. Yeah, take that asshole. Be as exasperated as you want.

You don’t speak to him for the rest of the car ride.

-

Craig’s nose is bleeding. His feet are in the pool. He’s holding an ice pack to his eye.

“Do you hate me?” You ask, feeling almost childish for the question.

He laughs. Actually laughs, like you just said something ridiculous.

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

He shrugs, takes a sip of his beer, and smiles at you. “I mean, he did fuck my girlfriend. I’d be a little bitch if I just let him get away with that.”

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

“C’mon. I’ve got a shiner and a broken nose. Don’t hit my ego, too.”

You laugh, and shake your head. “You’re an idiot.”

He holds up his beer in a silent cheers, and there’s nothing but affection in his eyes as he takes a swig. No pining. No longing. Not even hurt or betrayal. Just…affection.

You smile at him, and your heart swells in that way you once tried to convince yourself was romantic attraction.

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

He frowns now, and shakes his head. “She won’t. And if she does, Pope and I’ll just come with you.”

You smile again. You know it doesn’t reach your eyes. Craig leans over, and bumps your shoulder with his own.

“No matter what, that asshole’s not gonna hurt you again. You’re gonna be okay.”

“And if Pope ever fucks up, I’ll be here. I know I’m the best sex you’ve ever had, anyway.”

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

You poke him in the bruised ribs, and he hisses in pain before he laughs again.

You believe him.

-

When you get back to the house, you lurch out of the car before he can even reach for you. You stumble on your heels, kick them off of your feet in the yard, and storm into the house.

“Woah, hey there Hurricane Lady.” Craig’s grin falls the second he sees your face. “Shit. What happened?”

“Nothing. Here’s the phone. It’s got the pictures. Exits. All of that shit.” You want to snap that maybe Craig could have just done this himself, having gotten himself a job there, but you know that he doesn’t get access to the same places you just did. “I’m off the job.”

“What?”

“She’s not off the job.” Pope’s voice, from the door, makes you prickle.

“You don’t get to decide whether I’m on or off the job.” You whirl, and glare. “You don’t get to decide shit about me. Not anymore.”

“Jesus.” Deran blows out a breath, eyes on Pope. “You didn’t tell her, man?”

“Tell me what?”

“She won’t let me tell her.” Pope looks frustrated. Pained, even. Like he has any fucking right to be.

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

“He cut you off in prison because the cops were coming after you.” Craig says, and the words shut you up. “They were investigating your involvement. He had to cut ties so you didn’t incriminate yourself.”

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

“Can I talk to you now?” Pope’s voice is low, and he’s doing the head-tilt thing, and you swear your lips are still tingling from his kiss.

You stare. He stares back. You open your mouth. Close it.

And then you walk into his room.

You don’t even need to turn around to know he’s following you. You hear Craig whistle the wedding march behind you, and you flip him off over your shoulder.

Pope’s old room is empty. The bed is made like it always was before.

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

He whispers the words into the flushed skin of your neck, reverent and laced with gravel as his body moves against yours like it was made to. You gasp his name, and he groans as he moves faster.

Some party rages down the hall. The sounds of it are distant and inconsequential. All you can hear is his shallow breathing. His whispered promises of love between presses of his lips to any part of your skin he can reach. You love him so much it hurts and you’re going to-

You shake the memory off. Clear your throat. When you turn to him, he’s looking at the bed like he’s remembering something similar. Well, there are a lot of memories like that in this house. In the house the two of you shared later. In his truck. By the pool. In the pool. On the beach. At the-

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

“They were looking for a reason to arrest you. The cops thought they might have identified you on that job a few months before. The one at the dispensary.”

You just keep staring at him. He shifts on his feet. “I couldn’t tell you. They were listening to everything. I figured…it was the only way to keep you out of prison.”

“Three years.”

Guilt flickers across his expression. Something like desperation follows. His fingers flex by his side. “I didn’t know when they stopped investigating you. Just when they stopped asking me questions.”

“Three. Years.”

“I missed you every day.” He moves closer, hesitant, like he’s trying to make sure you don’t bolt. “Every fucking minute. I thought about you all the time. It…it killed me, to walk away like that. I still think about the look on your face. I…” his jaw clenches, and he reaches towards you.

You should pull back. You should slap him, maybe. You know he would let you.

“You risked the job.” You try. Try to find something to cling to your anger. Your hurt. You missed him so much and all of that pain doesn’t just go away with one explanation.

“Fuck the job.” He whispers, hand sliding up over your cheek. “It’s been three years.”

And then he’s kissing you. Rough. Hungry. Desperate in a way that makes your knees threaten to give out because holy shit nothing has ever felt as good as Pope Cody’s skin against yours.

For a moment, you forget. You forget to be angry and hurt and painfully confused in favor of tangling your fingers in his curls and dragging him closer to you. He groans, the sound rough and borderline desperate, and his hands drop to your waist, lifting you clean off your bare feet to spin you both until he has you pinned against the wall.

His chest is pressed against yours. His hand is moving down to the hem of your dress, and you think you can feel his fingers shaking as they skate up over your skin and a shiver falls down your spine.

But it isn’t enough. This isn’t enough. It feels so good that it kills you to pull away. But his fingers are sliding up the inside of your thigh and if they reach their intended destination there won’t be anything in the world that will be able to stop you. To stop him, either, if how hungrily he’s kissing you now is any indication.

Because his kiss doesn’t make up for the hours you spent alone, in the house you once shared, staring at a phone that wouldn’t ring. How humiliating it felt to cry yourself to sleep with your mind filled to the brim with questions that you would never have answers to.

His mouth is gliding over your jaw, down over your throat, and his grip on your waist is so wonderfully tight and his fingers are so close to where you need him so badly it hurts and-

You shove him away, breathless and flushed and almost shaking with hunger, and his dark eyes have never looked so predatory.

“You…you can’t do that.” You whisper, and he looks like he’s about to do exactly that again at any moment. You hold up a hand, warding him off, and force yourself to steady your breathing. “No, you don’t get to do that. You don’t get to just show up again and kiss me like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He starts, expression filled with a genuine pain.

“You made me think, for three years, that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I’m sorry.” He moves closer like it’s instinct, and you back up a little more into the wall, and he looks like he’s about to drop to his knees before you. “I’m so fucking sorry. I did it to protect you. I promise. I couldn’t think of any other way.”

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

You’re not here. You haven’t come since he got out. 

“She doesn’t really come around anymore, man.” Craig shrugs, like it’s casual, like your absence isn’t digging a hole into Pope’s soul even as he sits here by the pool and you should be here but you’re not and he fucking hates it. He should have apologized to you ten times over by now. You should be here with him.

“She comes around every now and then. Watches Lena. Grabs a beer with me on Tuesdays and surfs with us if we ask nicely.” Craig leans back, and Pope fights the urge to lean forward and beg for more information. “She doesn’t talk to Baz, though. I think the most I’ve seen them interact is her flipping him off or some shit.”

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

Yes. Of fucking course he is. He’ll be on his knees begging the second you’re in the room.

But you don’t come. You don’t show up at the house anymore. You changed your number, and he can’t call you. Despite what Craig said, it’s almost like you’ve made yourself into some kind of ghost, too far away for him to reach anymore.

When he was in prison, he would fantasize about the day he got out. In most of those fantasies, you were waiting for him at the house. In a good few of them, you weren’t wearing much clothing, but that part can be easily attributed to how long he went without seeing you.

Nevertheless, you were there. And he would take you into his arms, and you would smile and tell him you understood why he had to do what he did, and everything would be perfect.

But now, he has to track down your new house. On the beach, and not too far from his new place, but he doubts you know that.

He watches through your window and doesn’t even register that it might be a little fucked up of him. He makes sure you get home safe. Waits until he sees you climb into bed and flick off your lights, and often spends a good long while imagining all of the times he would be right there with you. How he would tuck you into his chest, and the two of you would have whispered conversations like you were still teenagers living in Smurf’s house and trying not to be overheard.

He doesn’t go to the door. It’s not the right time. Not yet. It isn’t like it has to be perfect, but… but it’s been three years. Three years of torture and an isolation that almost killed him. That may have killed a part of him, somewhere deep down where even he can’t reach. As badly as he wants to stand on your porch and beg and plead for you to understand, to love him again, he isn’t sure he would be able to handle you slamming a door in his face. He’s not sure he would be able to let you, and that thought alone almost frightens him more than anything else.

Not yet. The job. When Craig brings you in on the job, that’s when he’ll see you. Talk to you. Make you forgive him.

Just…not yet.

But that doesn’t mean he can’t keep an eye on you, until then.

-

The effort it took to get Ethan the Finance Bro to talk with you after Craig ruined it the first time is almost making this particular job too much of a pain in the ass.

It’s a little tricky to balance the work you have to put into the boat job with your own plans, but your own jobs are a little less complex than the ones enacted by the Cody boys. Less reward, sure, but it’s safer and easier. Find out a few things about Finance Bro Ethan’s rich dad, get access to an account or two, make a couple of unnoticeable transfers, and bing bang boom. You can afford rent and to fix your car, and maybe even a nice pair of shoes while you’re at it.

He’s jumpy. You have to smile a little more brightly at him, hold his hand across the table and bat your eyelashes as you insist that your friend from before is just terrible at making jokes, and he’s finally relaxing enough to-

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

“Leave.” And that’s Pope’s low, furious voice. It is dripping with danger.

Ethan looks at you. Back at Pope. You smile, wide and sweet, and refuse to turn around. “Ignore him.”

“Do that, and I’ll cut your ears off.”

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

“Don’t.” You say, jaw clenching and smile still forcefully bright.

“Two.”

And he’s gone. Just like that. Out the door and ruining your plans completely.

“Fucking Codys. Do you have any idea how hard it was to get him to talk to me again?”

“Who was that?”

“I had to bend over backwards to keep him from being terrified after Craig’s bullshit. This bra is so uncomfortable. You fucking-“

His hand comes down on the back of your chair, and he leans closer to you with a deadly and dark expression. You don’t flinch. You don’t even come close. In all the time you’ve known him, in all of his scariest moments, he’s never come anywhere close to harming you. The possibility simply doesn’t register in your mind. “Who was that?”

You look at him, deadpan. “My boyfriend.” It couldn’t be farther from the truth, but you may as well piss him off a little.

It works. His jaw clenches, and he leans a little closer. “I’m serious.”

Fine. You give up. “He was a mark. I’m on a job.”

“You’re already on a job.” Pope’s frown deepens, angry eyes moving up to the door again. “That guy was staring down the front of your shirt.”

“That’s kind of the point.” You glance down at your low cut top, at the aforementioned uncomfortable bra, and when Pope does the same you can see something twitch in his jaw. Feel his hand tighten imperceptibly on the booth behind you before he looks back up at your face.

“We’re leaving.”

“No, you’re leaving.” You correct, irritated, and move to turn away from him.

He catches you, turning you back towards him with a look so intense it makes your heart drop. “Come home with me.”

You pause, knocked off-kilter by his proximity and the desperation in his gaze. He looks…dangerous. Like a man in a desert who has been deprived of water for too long, and is starting to lose it enough to follow that water to a bar and ruin her weeks of work.

And yet, it’s annoyingly difficult to care. Not when it would be so easy to bring your hand up, curl your fingers in the soft curls on the back of his neck, and pull his lips down to yours. So, so easy, and yet…

You start to move back, and his hand catches your chin, thumb sliding over your jaw in that familiar and devoted way that always makes your toes curl a little. He saw it. He saw the hesitation. The want in your expression matching his own, and he’s too far gone to let it go.

“Come home with me.” He repeats, soft and close enough that his nose nearly brushes your temple. “We can do jobs together. Like we used to. You don’t have to…do this.”

You spent so long being a team. Being with him. Every job, every move, it was all with Pope and the Codys and while you can do these smaller jobs alone perfectly fine, you want…

Him. God, you want him. Not just sex, either. Though after three years and the way he’s standing so close you can feel the warmth radiating from him, you’re having a hard time not jumping his bones in the middle of this bar. You want to wake up with him in the mornings again. You want to watch him wash the dishes in that particular and concentrated way he has. You want to sit on the beach with him at night, and talk about everything and nothing until the sun peeks over the horizon.

His nose skates down your cheek. The noise of the bar fades away. Your eyes flutter closed as if of their own accord, head tilting to the side, and he makes a low noise as his fingers leave your face to move down your arm.

“I’m sorry.” He murmurs, lips pressing against the line of your jaw, and your next breath comes as a shaky exhale. His hand slides around the curve of your waist, and the angle of his body above yours is intoxicatingly overwhelming. He kisses your jaw again, a little higher, a little closer to your ear, and you melt. “I’ll apologize a thousand fuckin’ times, okay? Just come home with me. Let me show you how sorry I am.”

Your body relaxes beneath his, and you feel his mouth trailing over your skin like he couldn’t give less of a shit about the rest of the world around you. It’s so familiar. So nice. So warm and-

Goddammit.

“Stop.” You push on his chest, and he moves back with a genuinely pained expression. “Stop it, Pope. You just fucked up a month of work for me. I’m not going home with you.”

The look on his face would break your heart, if there was anything left of it to break.

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

The girl sleeping on the couch is the most beautiful girl he’s ever seen.

Craig brought you here a few hours ago. Said something about you taking on three guys by the beach who were trying to rough him up over weed money. You hit the biggest one with a baseball bat. They knocked you out before Craig could take them down.

Smurf hadn’t said much when Craig walked in, eyes bright with lingering adrenaline as he’d placed you on the couch, but she’d seemed impressed when Craig had explained what happened. She’d told him to leave you on the couch for now, and to make sure you didn’t get any blood on her furniture. Your face is bruised. Your sneakers are dirty. You’re wearing a flannel that’s way too big and has holes in it.

“I think she’s been sleepin’ on the beach.” Craig says, brow furrowing a little as he looks down at you. You’re so still you could be dead. Pope wonders what color your eyes are, and then wonders why he wondered that.

“Junkie?” He asks, and resists the urge to brush the hair out of your eyes. Like Julia, maybe. Maybe you know her, wherever she might be right now. Maybe you already have that connection to him. Maybe…

Craig shakes his head. “Nah. Not a junkie. I dunno if she’s homeless, either. I just kinda see her around sometimes. She pickpockets tourists. Seems good at figuring out which ones are the L.A. douchebags.”

Pope frowns. Your face twitches a little, but you don’t wake.

“She’s hot.” His younger brother observes, and Pope’s frown deepens. “And badass. You shoulda seen her, dude. She went at them like a fuckin’ demon. She doesn’t even know me.”

You look so angelic, curled in on yourself on the couch with sand in your hair and dirt under your fingernails, that he finds it hard to believe.

Hard, but not impossible. Because there’s something about you, and the bruises on your face that look so much like the ones that often adorn his own, that screams…fighter. Survivor. Protector.

And he hasn’t even spoken to you yet, but there’s something else there. Something deep down and warm and intrinsic that he can’t exactly pinpoint but certainly can’t ignore.

His.

-

When you wake up, he’s watching you. He knows he probably shouldn’t be. He probably looks creepy, or whatever everyone says, but he can’t seem to pull his eyes away from the rise and fall of your breathing. The way your face twitches every now and then in sleep. The way your hair spills over the couch cushion. He wants to brush it away, but he’s afraid to wake you.

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

And those beautiful eyes move dazedly around the room before they land on him, and widen. You bolt up, and hiss in pain as whatever injuries you sustained in that fight no doubt scream in protest.

You look at him. Look around. Look back at him.

Carefully, he passes you the baseball bat from his room. Craig said you had one before. You’re in a strange new place. It might make you feel safe.

You close your fingers around the handle, and watch him like a hawk as you pull it over to you.

“Where am I?” He likes the sound of your voice. Even cracked with sleep and shaky with nerves, it sounds as pretty as the rest of you.

“My house.” He says simply, cocking his head to the side. “Craig brought you here.”

Craig is passed out in his room down the hall. You took a while to wake up. You frown, and rub your head a little.

“Why did you do it?” The question leaves him before he can think, curiosity lying heavy in his chest. People in Oceanside don’t just help other people like that. Not when it could put them in the same state you ended up in.

“Three to one didn’t seem like fair odds.”

Pope takes this information, and holds it close to his heart. Keeps it there like a flame he’ll never let go out.

You sit in silence for a minute before he speaks again.

“Do you want a sandwich?”

You look up, surprised, and your lips quirk upwards just the smallest bit.

“Sure.”

-

The knocking is loud. Very loud. Angry, even.

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

Fuck, it’s like you don’t even know how beautiful you are. He’s always been surprised by that. Sure, you use your looks and pretty smiles to work people on jobs, but when that persona is lowered and you’re just…you, the sight of you could make him drop to his fucking knees.

“You fixed my door.”

He’s shirtless. It’s early. Your eyes drop down to his chest before they fly back up to his face, and he is two seconds away from yanking you into the house and taking you right here in the front hall.

Shit. Three years. Three long, long years of nothing but his hand and memories of you. He’s devolved into a fucking animal. All he can think about is ripping that t-shirt off of you. Of lifting you onto the table right here and dropping to his knees, hearing the noises he can pull from you when he buries his face between your-

“You fixed my door.” You repeat, angrier now, and he furrows his brow as he forces himself out of the fantasy.

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

“Fine, I haven’t told you where I live.” Oh, that’s what you mean. Right.

“It was creaking.”

“How many times have you broken into my house?”

Seven. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Andrew.”

You should know better than to say his name. His real name. The sound of it shoots something molten through his veins, and his hand tightens on the doorframe.

“We’re broken up. You can’t break into my house.”

“We’re not broken up.” The fact comes easily. Simply. There’s no plea behind it. No question at all.

“We’re broken up. You broke up with me.”

“No, I didn’t. I said stop coming around. I didn’t break up with you.”

“Whatever you did, it was three years ago.”

“And you’re not in prison.” He wants to ask why you’re not getting it, but he knows that you do. Even if most wouldn’t, you know how he thinks. You’re just being deliberately obtuse because you’re angry. But he’ll spend the rest of his life apologizing to you, if that’s what you need. “I’m out. We still love each other.”

“You don’t know that I still love you.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Tell me you don’t.”

You open your mouth, like you just might try it, before closing it again and trying another tactic. He’s always found it…cute. The way you try to deflect your feelings like this. And he’ll never try to pretend that he doesn’t love how easily he can call you on it. There are two things in this world that Andrew Cody is absolutely confident in: jobs, and you.

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

Your eyes narrow, and you’re gorgeous when you’re angry. “I don’t have a backup plan anymore. I need the boat job to go well.”

You’re stalling. You don’t want to leave. “It will.” He raises an eyebrow again. Your eyes drop back down to his bare chest, and it sends a thrill through him. “Want some breakfast?”

“No.” You’re still standing here, and he knows you too well to let you leave just yet. The tension crackling through the air, emanating from you and directing itself at him, is so fucking obvious it almost makes him grin.

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

And with that word, you cross the threshold, and kiss him.

-

Your first job with the Cody family went well. Really well.

Smurf shocked all of them by inviting you in, building up her tests of your skills and your loyalty to the family until she suddenly just…made you a part of it. Sat you down at the family meeting with them and told you what your part in the job would be.

Baz protested. Deran was quiet. Craig, however, was thrilled. Pope is pretty sure his brother likes you a little too much, and he hates the way it makes jealousy and possessiveness curl black and vile in his throat. He hates the way Smurf seems to assess this. The way she watches you keep Craig in line and encourages the two of you to spend time together.

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

Pope found you up the street, sitting on a small curve of beach and watching the moon like you were greeting an old friend. He’d hesitated to join you, like he might be interrupting, but…

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

Yes. So fucking badly. He’d do anything in the world to just be close to you. “Do you want me to?”

“Yeah.”

He hesitates. You look back at him, illuminated by moonlight and so gorgeous it stops the breath in his lungs, and pat the sand beside you.

He sits, and you rest your head against his shoulder. Like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

“Are you…okay?” Do you expect him to function correctly right now? Do you expect him to be able to string a thought together? You’re so warm. So soft. He doesn’t have experience with this kind of thing.

“Oh yeah.” You hum, fingers curling in the sand beneath you. “I mean, if you’re asking if I’m upset about you holding an unloaded gun to my head while I pretended to freak out, don’t worry. I’m fine.” You mean it. Smurf would be impressed.

He could cover your hand with his own, right now. You might even let him. You might let him curl his fingers around yours, and even flip your palm to rest it against his. Your soft skin against his rough callouses, pillowed by the sand beneath you…

“So what’s wrong?”

You hum, and he feels it vibrate through his shoulder. “I don’t know. Smurf, the job, everything just feels like it’s going too well.”

“Too well?”

“Things change. They hurt when they change. It’s too…good.” He starts to say something, though he isn’t sure what, before you continue. “That’s why I like coming out here, though. I like looking at the water. It’s why I slept on the beach when things got too shitty at home, you know?”

He turns his head, and it brings his face so close to yours that he almost chokes. You don’t even look up, just keep watching the waves crash on the beach as you continue.

“It sounds kinda cheesy, but the ocean is so…big. And no matter what’s going on with me, no matter how bad things seem, it makes it all feel smaller, you know? All that ocean, everything going on beneath the surface, and whatever bullshit’s happening to me just feels…inconsequential. More manageable, I guess.”

Oh God. Fuck. He loves you. He loves you so much.

His hand, knuckles still bruised from some fight he got into earlier this week and already so much bigger than your own, covers yours. You stop picking at the sand, but you don’t pull away.

“I’ll always be here.” He murmurs, some part of him terrified that you’ll jump away from him. He means it. He really does.

And you mean it too, when you turn your palm and slide your fingers through his, and murmur back. “Thank you.”

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

You don’t know what possessed you. What you were thinking. Just that you are magnetized to this man, and he’s standing there looking at you like he knows every thought in your head and like he loves you more than anything in the world and you can’t spend another second without his lips against your own.

He meets you just as hard, hand coming up to grip at the hair at the base of your skull as you walk him backwards into his house. You realize, vaguely, between the blur of lips and teeth and desperate hands, that you haven’t even seen the inside of it yet. Even now, it’s weird for there to be any aspect of Pope’s life that you don’t know about.

The tour, however, is going to have to wait. Because Pope has you pressed against the counter and you barely have time to gasp his name before he’s lifting you onto it, tugging your shirt up over your head and tossing it aside before ducking down to trail desperate kisses over your neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, and pull his mouth back up to yours, biting down on his lip until he groans and reaches down to start tugging your pants over your hips.

“Bedroom.” You manage, somewhere between a choked moan and a drag of your nails down his muscled back that has him sinking his teeth into your throat.

“Three years.” He replies, the words a starved growl, as he rips your pants and underwear down over your legs. All you can do is nod your understanding and drag his mouth back to yours, hands leaving his face to reach down and tug his sweatpants over his hips.

He pulls back, just enough to press his lips to your ear, and you can’t help but whimper when he murmurs his next words.

“Tell me you want this.”

You curl your fingers in his hair, pull him closer to you, and barely manage to gasp out a soft confirmation of “I want this, Andrew” before he’s pushing into you and it is everything you’ve missed for too long and it feels so good you might fucking die.

You gasp, and hold him tighter, and he breathes a shaky exhale into the hollow of your throat as he goes very very still.

You make a soft noise, needing more, and he understands immediately because he knows every inch of you better than he knows himself.

“Three years.” He murmurs again, hoarse and apologetic as his hands grip the counter on either side of you. You realize what he means through the haze of lust, and a bubble of laughter tears its way out of your throat. The sudden movement makes him hiss, cursing softly against your throat as his hands fly up to grip your hips. You clamp your lips together in an attempt to stop your giggling, and when he pulls back to look at you he starts laughing too.

And then, still smiling, he kisses you slow and deep, and begins to move. The moment he does, all humor flies out the window, and you gasp as you lock your legs around his hips and scramble for purchase against his back.

It’s fast and desperate, like he really and truly can’t help it, and it is absolutely perfect. Fuck, it’s everything you have ever needed in your entire life and more. You cling to him, wrapped in his arms and burying your face in his neck to try to muffle cries that might wake the entire Strand. He doesn’t stop, but his grip tightens as he adjusts his movements to grind deeper, fingers tangling in your hair to pull your head back from his shoulder until you can feel his ragged breaths against the shell of you ear.

“Yeah?” He whispers, hoarse and smiling and already wrecked as the force of his movements makes stars explode behind your vision. Then, closer, his nose against your temple and his grip almost bruising on your skin. “Yeah?”

You just nod, and hold on for dear life as you fall over the edge with a cry of his name, and he follows right after you with a choked moan of yours.

For a moment, you both just try to catch your breath, wrapped in each other’s arms with your legs shaking and Pope’s shoulder warm against your forehead. He kisses the side of your head, soft and loving, and huffs a laugh into your hair as he pulls back to press his lips to yours.

“I missed you.” He whispers, and you’re smiling too.

And then, without warning, he hoists you into his arms and starts walking.

“Where are we going?” You ask, still laughing, still smiling, still blissed out beyond words.

He kisses your forehead, your cheek, and kicks a door open. “Bedroom.”

-

Once the initial violent desperation has faded, Pope takes his time with you. He works you apart piece by piece, like he’s relearning every inch of your skin. He kisses every new scar. Every familiar freckle. He makes you forget every word that isn’t his name, tells you he loves you until he’s hoarse with it, and you do the same to him. In the confines of his room, in this new house on the beach, you forget about every morsel of pain you’ve felt in the past. Every tear you’ve shed. Every lonely moment.

At some point, when he’s trailing slow kisses up the inside of your thigh and your fingers are tangled in his curls, you manage to come back to yourself for half a second.

“We’re not back together.” You murmur, and he looks up long enough to raise a dark eyebrow at you.

“We’re not.” You repeat, and he gives you another look, this time with both eyebrows, before nudging your thigh further aside. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t need to, because in the next five seconds you completely forget how to form coherent thought.

-

The sun is setting by the time you’re both too exhausted to continue. A few minutes ago, you broke apart long enough to make your way to the shower, where you’d lasted about five minutes before he’d slipped in behind you. You managed to hold back long enough to shampoo each other’s hair before lathering off had turned into kissing beneath the stream, which had turned into…well, into you pressed up against the wall, his chest against your back and his teeth buried in your shoulder as your fingers clawed against the tile and your vision turned white for the umpteenth time today.

Now, his fingers card through your still-damp hair, and you wonder vaguely if you’ll ever walk again.

“Holy shit. We haven’t done that since…” you trail off, brain as mushy as your muscles seem to be, and you feel Pope’s proud smile against your forehead.

“Three years and forty nine days.” He supplies, and you can’t hold back your giggle. “Day after the jewelry store job.”

“Right.” Christ, it really is a miracle that you survived three years apart when you used to go at each other like coked out bunny rabbits. “Forgot about that.”

“I didn’t.”

You swat at his chest, and he tucks you closer to him, tilting your chin up to press his lips to yours.

-

For the first time in three years, you wake up in Andrew Cody’s arms.

And he’s asleep. He’s soundly, completely asleep. He’s always been a light sleeper, but despite that there are certain circumstances that have been known to knock him out like a log.

He’s completely out now, arms wrapped tightly around you and deep breaths tickling the top of your head.

There was always so much chaos in your lives. So many things that could go wrong at any moment, so many risks taken every single day. There was Smurf’s manipulations, Craig’s irresponsibility, Deran’s tendency to disappear and worry everyone, Julia being gone, and Baz…well, Baz being a raging douche most of the time. All of it was always so much, but right here, right like this…this was always where you felt safest. All of the insanity would always be a million miles away, blocked out by the circle of Andrew Cody’s arms.

Which is probably why it feels like a physical stab to your chest when you carefully wiggle out of them.

He grunts, one arm reaching out as if searching for you, but he doesn’t wake.

You allow yourself one moment to stare at him. One long, aching moment. He’s so beautiful in the moonlight that he almost hurts to look at.

And then you slip on one of his tshirts, wiggle into your jeans, and disappear out the door.

You don’t bother pulling your shoes back on, letting the sand cushion your feet as you wander down the beach, and listening to the waves crash against the shore.

He’ll wake up soon, and he’ll find you. And when he does, he’ll pull you back into his arms and the two of you will sit on this beach like you used to. Watch the waves and the stars like you used to. You’ll talk, and he’ll apologize, and he isn’t very good with words but you’ll understand him and you’ll forgive him. Just like that.

You’re not ready for that.

So you pull out your phone, and dial the only other number you have on speed dial. The only number besides Pope Cody’s.

“Where the hell have you been?” Craig shouts into the phone, mirth lacing his voice even through the tinny speaker.

You glance down at Pope’s t-shirt. Plain white. Too big for you. Soft and draped over your body like a flag with his name on it.

Oh well. “You’re gonna give me a whole lotta shit for it.”

He laughs, and you hear a bottle clink somewhere on the other side of the phone. “So why’re you callin’ me?”

“Cause I’m crazy, I guess. Or an idiot.”

“Or both.”

You hum, and bend down to scoop some sand into your palm, letting it trickle between your fingers as it falls back to the earth. You’re confused, and still hurting, and your heart aches heavy in your chest. In moments like this, you’ve always wondered what it would be like to have one of those girl best friends in rom-coms. The kind who would split a bottle of wine with you on the couch and talk for hours about boys with you. That must be nice. You wonder if they really exist, somewhere where life is normal.

Well, you don’t have that. You have Craig Cody.

“I’ve gotta go off grid for a minute.” You say, and trail your eyes back towards Pope’s darkened house. You have minutes before that light flicks on, and you cave. “Wanna get drunk?”

Craig blows out a long breath, and you can almost see him raising his eyebrows and resting his elbows on his knees.

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

Deran is the one who called him, frustrated and concerned and grouching about you not being able to handle your liquor.

“It’s weird, dude. The balance is gone. She’s not talking him out of shit anymore. They’re just kinda ramping each other up.” He hears the clink of bottles. Shouting in the background. Maybe, somewhere, your laughter. “Whatever you did, come fix it. Because your girlfriend is doing body shots on my bar and I’m not about to get shut down because those two are acting like fucking idiots.”

“I didn’t do anything.” He’s already grabbing his keys. You fell asleep in his arms, for fucks sake. You spent the entire day letting him whisper apologies and promises of love into your skin. He thought you were good. It felt like everything was back to normal, and then you were just…gone.

Sure, there was a moment where you insisted you weren’t back together, but when that sentence is quickly drowned out by “Oh God oh God Andrew please don’t stop” it’s a little hard to let the words sink in.

He’d searched the beach for hours. Called your phone even when it became blatantly obvious that you’d turned it off. He went to Craig’s house, and his brother wasn’t there. You didn’t take your car when you disappeared. He’s been worried sick about you and now you’ve been on some kind of bender?

“You did something.” Deran doesn’t seem to be grasping the gravity of this situation. Everything was fine. Why are you still upset? “They haven’t done this kind of shit since you dumped her in prison.”

“I didn’t fucking dump her.” He needs to focus on not breaking too many traffic laws, but he senses a few irritated comments coming his way. Annoyed as Deran may be right now, he fucking adores you almost as much as Craig does, and Pope can hear genuine worry in his tone.

“You should probably look up the definition of dumping, dude. Telling her to fuck off and not talking to her for three years is pretty-“

“Just tell me if she’s okay.” The words come out harsh. A snap of anger in the quiet car.

“Just get here.” The phone clicks off, and Pope almost throws it out the window.

-

Everything is nice and fuzzy, and you’re having a very fun time.

You don’t have anywhere near Craig’s tolerance, nor his penchant for anything stronger than alcohol and weed, so this ‘bender’ hasn’t exactly consisted of you partying straight through like he has. In fact, it took until tonight for him to pull you off of his couch and tell you to stop wallowing and have fun.

And you had listened. Oh boy, had you listened.

You started at Craig’s house, letting him amp you up and remind you to get angry between shots of tequila.

“Holy shit, just say it. Say it already!” Craig stands, waving the shot in front of your face before shoving it forward. “Are you mad? Sad? C’mon, quit bein’ such a closed book! Who the fuck is that helping?”

“I’m angry!” You take the shot, down it, and sputter.

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

“There she is!” Craig shouts, enveloping you in a drunken hug, and you let the rage build in the safety of your friend’s arms as you start to giggle like a fucking lunatic.

“Gimme another.”

He whoops, lets you go, and grabs the bottle.

And then you went to the Cove, and drank margaritas and let Craig convince you to get angrier. Angry because Pope left you. Because it hurt so bad it felt like a piece of you had broken off, and angry because he showed back up and brought all of that pain with him and just expected it all to be better.

And eventually, you ended up in Deran’s bar, hammered and laughing and trying to remember why you were mad in the first place.

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

You’ve seen him look scary before, with that furrowed brow and those shark eyes, but now he looks downright murderous.

That’s okay. You can be angry too. You are angry.

“We’re leaving.” He says, simply, wrapping an arm around you before you shove him off.

“Nuh uh.” You step back, and his frown deepens.

“Dude, lay off. She’s just blowin’ off some steam-“

“What the fuck are you doing, man?” Pope stands too close to Craig. Looks way too angry. He doesn’t get to be mad. He broke your heart. He left you alone.

“What’re you doing?” Craig, larger than Pope and already too drunk and coked out to think rationally, matches the furious energy. “You think you’re cool just walkin’ in here and making her go home?”

Something twinges in your drunken mind. Tells you to step in. To stop this.

But you’re too late.

“Maybe I’m sick and tired of pickin’ her up off the floor because you did some shit to make her bawl her fucking eyes out.” Craig shoves Pope. Hard. “Seriously man, what’s the fuckin’ matter with you? You think she deserves this shit?”

Pope punches him in the face.

You just stand there for a moment, drunk and shocked, and it takes a good moment of them brawling and shoving each other into the bar before you realize that you should get in the middle of this.

Someone, some guy who was flirting with you a while back, tries to grab you and pull you away. You slam your elbow into his face, and he releases you long enough for you to leap onto Craig’s back, yanking him away from Pope just in time to feel your back slam into the corner of the bar hard enough to make you lose your grip.

You fall back, feel something smash beneath you, and groan as a bolt of agony shoots through your body. Fuck. Fuck, that’s gonna leave a mark.

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

Hands pull you up, slurred apologies spilling past Craig’s lips in a panic as he sets you on your feet and looks down at you with a horrified expression. You’ve had worse, sure, but the bruise isn’t gonna be pretty and you know damn well he’s gonna feel guilty about it tomorrow.

You look up at him, reach up to pat his chest…

And puke on his shoes.

You hear him mumble a quiet “oh, fuck” before he’s shoved aside, and Pope is there. Pope, who is scooping you up into his arms without a word and carrying you out of the bar.

“Sorry.” You mumble, and he doesn’t respond, but he squeezes you a little more tightly to him and that feels like enough.

He places you down in the passenger seat of his truck, and presses his lips to your forehead before he moves to the drivers side.

You’re suddenly very, very exhausted. You thunk your head against the window, and close your eyes as the engine starts.

You feel Pope’s hand on your leg, warm and comforting and familiar.

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

Your father’s voice is nails on a chalkboard. A skin-prickling, hatred inducing rasp that makes your entire body tense.

“This isn’t home.” You drop your keys on the counter. It’s not home. It never has been, but now that you have a real home the difference has never been more obvious to you.

You left your home tonight. Left the warmth of Andrew Cody’s arms. He hadn’t woken, as exhausted after the job as you were, but he’d hummed sleepily into your neck and tried to squeeze you closer as you’d wiggled your way out of his embrace.

Your father scoffs, and doesn’t look up from the TV. “You think that place is home? You whore yourself out to that psycho Cody and now you can’t give half a shit about the guy who raised ya?”

It’s your turn to scoff. You don’t answer. He keeps going.

“You think that crazy kid loves you? You think you’ll get to leave and run off into the sunset with him? The ticking time bomb ain’t gonna love you. None of ‘em are. I know Smurf. She’s keepin’ you around because that shithead prefers to fuck you over going berserk and killin’ everyone in the house. They don’t give a shit about you. They use you. S’all you’re good for, anyway.”

That hits you. Harder than it should.

No. No, he’s wrong. He’s an asshole, and he’s wrong. Andrew Cody loves you more than life itself. There’s no question there.

…Right? It’s not like you even know what love is, being raised by this of shit. And Pope’s love is…obsessive. You don’t mind it. You like it, actually. But-

No. Fucking no. You’re not letting him get in your head. You can’t.

Because there’s Craig. And Deran. And even Baz, sometimes. Smurf likes you, and she most certainly sees you as a pawn, but… but Craig is your best friend. Craig laughs at your jokes. Hugs you so tightly your ribs might crack sometimes. Stays up to talk to you for hours by the pool.

And Pope loves you so much that it consumes him. Even you can’t doubt that. The way he looks at you, the way he touches you, the way he kisses you like he’ll never be able to get enough. His shoulders relax when you enter the room. His smile is the brightest thing you’ve ever seen. You even wake up to him watching you sleep, sometimes, tracing his calloused fingers over your skin with his eyes half-open like he’s fighting sleep just so he can look at you a little longer.

And the last time your father took things too far, the last time you came back with bruises…

You’d spent an hour talking Pope down from coming over here. You’d spent longer convincing Craig and even Deran to stop fucking encouraging him to, to stop insisting that they’ll help him end this asshole.

That’s love.

And that gives you the strength, the courage, to move over to your father and lean one hand on the back of the couch, glaring daggers into his eyes.

“The only reason you’re still alive, is because of me.” It sounds like a fucking growl, so angry and unlike you. “Don’t forget that.”

Your father just smiles, like you’re wrong and he knows it. You want to punch him. You want to prove him wrong, and let Andrew kill him.

You walk out the door, instead.

-

He sits you on the edge of his bed, and it’s just like before. Like every time you’ve been drunk or even sick since you were kids. He kisses your cheek, asks if it’s okay, and when you nod he pulls your t-shirt up over your head, quickly replacing it with one of his own. Your pants go next, and then he tucks you beneath the blankets of his bed and brushes your hair from your face.

He hesitates to pull his own shirt off, wonders if you might be too drunk and upset to want him near you. You never have before, but he’s realizing pretty quickly that before is more removed from the present than he expected it to be. Three years in prison, daydreaming every day about coming home to you and explaining why he did that he did and having you forgive him right away was…well, a daydream. He may have been able to lose himself in the fantasy of your unconditional love and forgiveness for three years, but you were here. Alone. Wondering what you did wrong and missing him on a level completely separate from his. He didn’t experience any of the confusion. The lack of understanding. The pain that comes with that.

You reach out, and push the hem of his shirt up. He pulls it over his head, a slave to your needs and whims, and helps you unbuckle his pants until he’s sliding into bed beside you and pulling you into his arms.

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

His heart breaks, eyes softening and hand smoothing over your cheek as he leans closer and presses his forehead against yours.

“Why?” He asks, a genuine desperate pain cracking the word as it leaves his throat. “I thought…I thought we were good.”

You make a soft noise, and lean against him a little more.

He whispers your name, presses a kiss to your cheek, and inhales deep, trying to memorize your scent.

“I’m not good at this. You always tell me.” Another kiss. Fingers curling in your hair. “Tell me what to do. Tell me how to make you stop hurting.”

You curl a little closer.

“You left me.” You finally whisper. “You promised you never would, and then you left. I worried about you for three years.”

He pulls you closer. Feels tears prickle in his eyes and guilt churn in his stomach.

“I went to the beach, and it didn’t feel better, because you weren’t there.” Your fingers curl against his chest, right over his breaking heart. “I thought you didn’t love me anymore. For three years.”

Fuck. “I’ll never stop loving you.” If he holds you any more tightly, it might hurt the bruise on your back. He’s gonna fucking kill Craig for that, accident or not. “Never.”

And then, quietly, almost a whisper as you drift off but just loud enough for him to hear it and almost die right there, “…I don’t know if I believe you, anymore…”

-

The boat job goes well. Really fucking well. Save for Marco cutting a woman’s fucking finger off, everything goes off without a hitch.

And you’re proud. Really fucking proud. Craig was always capable of this kind of thing if he just applied himself, and here you all are. Richer than before and still riding that all-too-familiar adrenaline high.

“Geez, Pope really did a number on you.” You reach up now, poking lightly at his black eye. He flinches, and huffs out a sheepish laugh. You saw this coming when you decided someone would have to beat Craig up, and Pope volunteered a little…emphatically. But still.

“Pretty sure he’s got some pent up anger.” He rubs the back of his neck, eyes scanning over you. “How’s your back?”

You cringe, and resist the urge to rub the still-bruised area. “It’s fine. The hangover was worse.”

Craig looks like he’s about to turn you around inspect the injury himself, but one glance over your shoulder to where Pope is no doubt glaring from across the bar is enough to make him cave with one last guilty look. He’s apologized maybe a hundred times for the mistake, and you’ve forgiven him every time. After all, he didn’t mean it, and you’ve definitely had worse. “Damn, how bad?”

Your head is pounding, and you just barely managed to make it into the bathroom before the rest of last night’s tequila expels itself from your stomach.

Not five seconds later, you feel a large hand curl in your hair, pulling it back into a makeshift ponytail while another palm rubs small circles on your back.

“Oh, the humanity.” You whimper, pulling back to lean against the wall. You flinch at the movement, and give Pope a miserable look. “Christ, did I get hit by a truck last night?”

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

You frown, and try to piece the fuzzy memories together. “Did you kill him?”

“No. He fell back against the bar with you on his back, so I’m going to.”

Ah, that’s where the pain is coming from. You look him over, shirtless and beautiful and achingly familiar, but…

“Have you slept?”

He frowns, and looks like he’s fighting the urge to reach for you. “No.”

Ugh. This is stupid. Bad idea. You should leave. You are not together anymore. You will not-

“Okay. My head hurts. You need to sleep. Back to bed, big guy.” You reach out, and make grabby hands at him, just like you’ve done a million times before. Every time you were hungover, every time you were sick, or even one time when you just twisted your ankle trying to dive into the pool.

His smile is so full of adoration and relief that it nearly makes you cry. He doesn’t hesitate, moving to scoop you into his arms with a soft grunt of “c’mere…”

He lays you down, and you pull him with you, tugging the covers around you both before tucking yourself into his chest and reaching up to scratch your nails lightly over his back in the way that’s always made him melt.

“I love you.” He murmurs, warm fingers brushing through your hair. “I’m sorry-“

“Shhh. Go to sleep.” You press your lips to his shoulder, and feel him shiver a little at the feeling. “Head hurts, and you need to sleep.”

He takes a moment to speak, but then he nuzzles his nose into your hair and drops his arms down to pull you closer to him. “Okay.”

“I’ve had worse.” You smile, and clink your beer against Craig’s. “Thanks, though. You did fucking amazing today.”

Your friend’s smile, despite the damage to his face, lights up the entire room. “Fuck yeah I did. You did, too.”

“Aw, shucks.” You grin, and it’s just like before. Just like when you were kids, riding the adrenaline high together and laughing your way through the car chases and the gunfights despite Pope and Baz and even Deran’s concern. You nudge him, and smile a little wider as you gesture towards the door. “Renn’s here.”

He turns, and the way his eyes light up makes your heart swell impossibly more. That, right there. That’s how you look at Pope. How he looks at you. That little spark behind his eyes is exactly what he’s always deserved.

“You two back together?”

“Nah. I mean, I dunno. Maybe. We’re…you know.”

You clink your beer against his, and meet his eyes. “Just don’t fuck it up again, okay? You’ll be fine. Don’t overthink.”

His eyes trail behind you, to where Pope is most certainly still watching you, and he raises a pointed eyebrow.

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

That’s the problem with good things. They always end.

You’re at the bar, sitting beside Pope like you have after a thousand jobs, and despite your conviction to keep your heart safe you can’t help the way it melts when his hand covers yours, large fingers threading through your own.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You hum, and lean into his side despite yourself. It was a pretty big day, after all, and nothing sounds better than curling up in bed with him and sleeping until noon tomorrow.

You open your mouth to agree, feeling his thumb trace lightly over your knuckles, and-

Your phone dings. A specific ringtone. One that makes you feel like an anvil has been dropped into your stomach.

“I’ll be right back.” You murmur, and when Pope’s brow furrows you lean forward and press your lips to the corner of his mouth. Not quite a kiss, but close enough that his hand squeezes yours one last time. “Just gotta go to the bathroom, first.”

You leave before he can follow.

-

“You look like shit.” You greet the old man in the alley with a frown, crossing your arms and standing a good few feet back. He does. Your father, piece of shit that he is, has probably pissed off a debt collector or two again, judging by the bruises on his face and arms. You have no sympathy for the man who once left similar marks on you.

“Heard your psycho boyfriend is outta prison.” His retort makes you grit your teeth. “Still sluttin’ yourself out to the Codys?”

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

“Just an exchange. Heard about that boat robbery today.” Fuck. “Wouldn’t be too great for good ol’ Dope’s probation if someone were to put in an anonymous tip, would it?”

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

Your father smiles, all stained teeth and greedy eyes. “Shouldn’t be a problem, then.”

“Fuck you.”

“How ‘bout we make a trade? I don’t gotta call nobody, and you help cover my debt.”

You want to kill him. You hate him so much it makes you feel sick. “Like I said, fuck you.”

You turn to walk inside, and the move is a mistake. Fingers close too-tightly on your wrist, and before you know it you’re being slammed against the alley wall with your arm twisted agonizingly tightly behind your back. You bite hard on the inside of your cheek to keep from crying out, and remind yourself to breathe through the pain.

“Thought I raised you better than that.” The fingers on your wrist feel like they’re going to snap it in half. You want to bite something back, preferably something poetically sarcastic, but you can’t let your voice betray the pain you’re in. All these years, and you hate that he can still hurt you. “You got three days, kid. Sure you can spend enough time on your knees to get the money out of the crazy one. Maybe the cokehead, too.”

He lets you go with a shove that makes your cheek scratch against the wall, and you turn to glare defiant daggers as he walks away.

-

“Where did you go?” Pope’s dark eyes are curious, almost innocent as he reaches up to pull you closer to him by your hips.

You move back a little, and his brow furrows with concern. “I need my cut.”

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

He stands, and you step back when he looks you over, but you’re too late. He knows you too well.

His hands are on your waist, tugging you close to him, and his fingers fly up to the scrape on your cheek. Down to pull up your sleeve, exposing angry red marks in the shape of fingerprints.

“Where is he?” He asks, voice dripping with danger, and you try to pull away but he just grips you more firmly. His grip is gentle, and you know he would let you go in a second if you asked, but he’s not letting you run from this. “Is he here?”

“Not anymore.” His fingers are curling around your arm, pulling it up to inspect your wrist. His eyes are almost black, and his jaw is clenched so tightly you’re worried he might crack a damn tooth. “Hey, Andrew. Look at me.”

His eyes don’t leave the bruises on your arm. “I should have killed him.”

“Beating him half to death caused enough problems.” Piece of shit that he is, your father has one too many connections in Oceanside, and the damage control from when Pope snapped on him years ago nearly got all of you arrested or killed.

It’s been proven safer to just give him what he wants, and try to keep it as secretive as possible, lest Pope or even Craig try to pound him into the pavement again.

Speaking of which, Pope is still holding you too tightly. You reach up, and turn his face towards yours. “I’m fine. We’re fine. Let’s…” God, you’re supposed to keep up with this ‘not together anymore’ thing, but “can we just go home?”

He melts. His eyes soften, and his arms slide around you to pull you closer to him. You feel his cheek against the side of your head, his hand sliding gently up over your back, and you melt too.

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

God, everything hurts. That asshole really did a number on you this time.

Bruised if not cracked ribs. A slight limp from where your leg hit weird when you were tossed across the floor. An aching arm that was grabbed a little too hard.

“Holy shit.” Craig. Craig’s voice, as familiar as your own.

“I got hit.” You worked on this lie. Practiced it the whole limping walk down here. “…by a car.” As bad as it is this time, it might be the only thing that’s believable.

“You’re a shit liar.” Now you know that’s not true, but your friend is already by your side, holding you up and helping you walk into the house. “I’m gonna kill him.”

You’ve definitely got a black eye. Your lip is swollen and bleeding. It’s becoming more exhausting to take stock of your injuries than it would be to note what isn’t hurting.

“Don’t. Just…don’t.” You wince on a step, and when Craig huffs and tries to scoop you up you swat him off.

“Fuck that. You look like you’re about to keel the fuck over.” He frowns, concern lacing every one of his features. “You’re not going back there.”

“I hit him with a fuckin’ frying pan.” You mumble, knocking your head against his shoulder. “So I figure I’m not welcome back any time soon.”

“Smurf is gonna shit.” He mumbles, and leans you back against the kitchen counter to inspect your face. “Fuck, Pope is gonna blow a gasket, dude. How are you gonna explain this to him?”

“I don’t know.” You mumble, reaching up to push the hair out of your face. All you want to do right now is see him. To be held by him and to maybe even just lay down in his twin bed and feel him tuck you into his arms. You’ve been with him for a little over a year, now, and it still feels like you’ve been dating for a week. Like your relationship is just one never ending honeymoon phase. Even these last few days, helping your father out with his bullshit scam, you’ve missed him so much it’s almost concerning.

Fuck.

“Beer, please.” You mumble, and when Craig hands it to you you take a moment to rest the cool glass against your bruised cheek. “I don’t know. I’ll tell him I got in an accident.”

Craig’s answer is immediate, lifting your arm to show the bruises in the shape of fingerprints dented into your skin. “Yeah, real fuckin’ believable.”

You pull you arm back, panic rising in your throat. “Okay. I…give me a sweatshirt.”

“He’ll just take it off.”

“Fuck.” He’s right. You shouldn’t have come here. You should have hidden out on the beach for a few days like you used to, and waited for some of these injuries to fade. Fuck. “I’ve gotta go.”

“Fat fuckin’ chance.” Craig grabs you, more firmly than usual, and keeps you still against the counter. “You think I’m gonna let you walk outta this house while that asshole is still breathing? Look, I ain’t Pope, but I’m not gonna let you into a situation where you could-“

You sense him before you see him. You didn’t even hear the door open.

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

“Shit.” Craig releases you, and takes three large steps back like he might be attacked by a mountain lion.

Pope is on you in a second, one large hand cradling your bruised face, and in a moment you can see in his eyes that he’s not entirely there. That line in him has snapped, like it has on those nights you’ve found him in the yard, distant and empty and staring at the moon. When you’ve pulled him from fights, and he took a minute to even remember your name. Took him longer to remember his own.

“Please.” You whisper, reaching up to slide your fingers through his hair and force him to look at you. “Please be okay about this.”

He doesn’t answer you. He just moves his hand over your face, looks at you with those murderous eyes, and presses his forehead against yours.

“Where is he?”

“Pope. Andrew. Please.” Your heart cracks on his name, and he grips you more tightly. “Please, just take me to bed.” You turn his face to yours, squeeze your eyes shut. “I just wanna go to bed.”

And he does.

One hour later, he leaves that bed. You don’t open your eyes. Keep your breathing slow and steady as you feel him kiss your forehead, then your cheek, sliding his fingers through your hair like pulling away from you is physically painful.

But he does, and you feel him stand. You hear him leave.

And you let him.

Two hours later, he walks through the door of Smurf’s house with blood on his knuckles and sweat on his brow.

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

You look down at his hand. Back up to his eyes.

“Is he dead?” Your voice is quiet. He doesn’t look guilty, but he doesn’t look away from you, either.

“No.”

You just nod, and move forward to slide your hand over his cheek. He leans helplessly closer to you.

“Next time you do that,” you murmur, guiding his lips down to your own as his swollen knuckles curl against the back of your borrowed shirt, tugging you closer to him, “take me with you.”

He releases a shuddering breath, and his kiss is so full of love and devotion that it buckles your knees.

-

A warehouse is a cheesy place to meet. The fact that the asshole brought backup makes it worse. Granted, you brought Pope, Craig, and Deran with you, but…well, they’re more here for emotional support. And because they wouldn’t let you come alone.

When you got home, you told Pope everything. The threats, the money you’ve sent him, the amount of time he’s still been able to keep you under his thumb despite how hard you’ve worked to break away…

To your surprise, he hadn’t snapped. He hadn’t stormed out of his house to find the old man. He’d…

He’d kissed you. He’d wrapped his arms around you, tilted your head back, and kissed you.

You make a muffled noise against his mouth, eyes flying open in surprise before fluttering shut as your body melts into the embrace before your mind can even catch up.

When you finally break for air, still confused but certainly unable to complain, you blink your eyes open again.

“What was that for?”

He just kisses you again. Slow. Warm. Wonderful. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here.” He whispers, lips moving down to your jaw. Your neck. “I’m sorry you had to be so fuckin’ brave on your own.”

“Andrew, I…” this is a much different reaction than you were expecting. You haven’t mentally prepared for it. Your mind is still on the defensive.

He shushes you. Pushes his hands up under your shirt to trace them over your skin. “I love you. You don’t wanna be together? That’s okay. We can do whatever you want.” He kisses the hollow of your throat, scrapes his teeth against the sensitive skin, and you make a soft noise in the back of your throat that has him tightening his grip on you. “I’m not going anywhere, and you’re not dealing with this alone.”

You’re not alone. He’s not going anywhere. Never again.

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

He smiles against your collarbone, and trails his nose up your throat until his lips are hovering over your own. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.” You’re already tugging at his shirt, already pulling him down to kiss you, and he meets you with a hunger that feels like a satisfied craving. “I love you. I trust you.” The words are murmured between kisses, “now please take off your clothes.”

“Christ, it’s like you think you’re Tony Soprano or some shit.” You grumble, feeling surprisingly petulant despite the intensity of the situation. Your father has connections, sure, but you grew up with Smurf Cody. The comparison between the way he operates and what you’re used to is absolutely insane.

Your father is a drunk, and an asshole, and he thinks he’s tough shit. You happen to know what it looks like to actually know what you’re doing. Shocker, that you’re the one who makes the actual fucking money. Even less shocking that he makes most of his income leeching off of you.

Well, not anymore.

“I told you to come alone. You brought your fuckin’ guard dog.”

“Yeah, you’re one to talk.” You gesture to the man beside him, the wall of muscle holding the gun and glaring at you like this is a gangster movie and he genuinely believes himself to be the most badass character. “Did you give your Steroid Humunculus his pay already, or is he gonna be banging on your door in a week looking for it?” You’re guessing the latter, if past experience is anything to go by.

“Enough.” Your father snaps, like he has any authority at all. It makes you furious. “Tell the psycho to leave.”

“Call him a psycho one more time, and this time it won’t be him who beats you to a fucking pulp.”

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

“I should teach you a fuckin’ lesson-“ he starts toward you, only to back up when Pope steps forward. His jaw ticks, fury flashing in his eyes, and you hear the click of something loading in the cavernous room.

It all happens so fast.

In all the times this kind of thing has happened, all of the times he’s made threats, it’s always been diffused. He’s always held up a gun, maybe loaded it, and said some bullshit until money was tossed his way.

This time, he brought the wrong backup. And that backup panics.

The man raises the gun, and aims it at Pope.

You move before you think, jerking instinctively in front of him and pushing him back, already beginning to move towards the money to end this bullshit. They always point the gun. Always shout a threat. Always shut up when they see the money and-

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

Your first instinct is to reach out to the space Pope usually occupies, hand sliding over the cool sheets like you might be able to pull him out of thin air. It’s not morning, and the house is silent. If there was some kind of emergency, he would have woken you.

Huh.

The mystery doesn’t stay a mystery for long. You shuffle into the yard, and there he is.

Naked. Staring at the moon.

He seemed fine last night. Well, as fine as Pope Cody can be. A little more quiet, maybe. A little clingier than usual, and that would be saying something, but fine.

“Hey, handsome.” You hum, casual and sleepy, and move to stand beside him. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t break his eyes from the night sky. “What are we looking at?”

“Everything.” He murmurs, absent, and you can already tell that he isn’t here. Isn’t entirely inside his own head. That’s alright. This isn’t the first time something like this has happened, and it probably won’t be the last. At least he’s not smashing anything with a hammer.

“Sounds like a lot.” You move to stand in front of him, lifting your hand to brush your fingers through the soft curls on the back of his neck and turn his gaze down to yours. “How ‘bout you just look at me instead?”

When his eyes meet your own, still hazy and distant, his breath catches in his lungs. His hand moves up, guiding yours so he can press his cheek into your palm like the touch is some sort of coveted blessing. You smile, soft and gentle, and bring up your other hand to mirror the first and cradle his other cheek.

“You’re an angel.” The words come out as a reverent whisper. He’s not trying to flatter you, not trying for pretty compliments, but rather stating a fact. Like he often does, when he’s in this state.

“Not quite.” You press your lips to the underside of his jaw, and you feel a shiver travel through his entire body. “But I appreciate the compliment.”

Large hands hover over your waist, and his eyes don’t leave you. “Can I…touch you?”

You nod, and bring his forehead down to rest against yours as his arms slide around you, tugging you against him as calloused fingers trail up beneath your sleep shirt, the touch just as familiar as the rest of him.

“Will you come to bed with me?” You ask softly, moving your own hands down to smooth over the skin of his chest. “I’m not an overly jealous person, but I’d prefer to keep this view for myself. Don’t wanna share with the neighbors.”

“I’ll do anything for you.”

“Tell me that again in the morning when I remind you to take your meds, okay?”

He follows you back inside, and allows you to pull him back into bed with you. Allows you to pull the covers up around you both as he envelops you in his arms, and trails his lips along your hairline as he whispers soft words against your skin. You can’t make them out, but you wonder from his tone if they might be some kind of prayer.

“I love you.” You murmur, and his arms tighten around you. “Every part of you. You know that?”

“I don’t deserve it.” He whispers, and you pull back to look at him.

“You do.” You kiss his nose. His cheek. “You really, really do.”

-

For a moment, you think a car might have backfired somewhere nearby.

It’s not like you don’t know what a gun sounds like. Fuck, with your childhood, you could recognize the sound faster than your own voice. And yet, in this moment, your mind can’t seem to keep up. Can’t seem to process exactly what just happened.

You feel like you got punched in the stomach. There’s an intense, knock-the-wind-out-of-you pressure, and then…

Your hand comes up to the point of that pressure, to the dull burn, and comes away red.

“Fuck.” Your father breathes, and then he starts shouting. “Fuck! You idiot! What the fuck did you do?!”

You’ve heard that voice before. When he’s lost an exceptionally lucrative bet. When a deal has gone wrong. That’s the tone of a man who is losing his meal ticket, not even close to the tone of a concerned father.

You didn’t even get to do your little speech. Your whole ‘fuck you, I owe you less than nothing and this is the last time you’re getting a cent from me’ speech. You were kind of looking forward to it.

Your whole body feels a little numb. When your knees finally give out, warm arms wrap around you before you can collapse.

“No. No no no no no!”

Now that…that isn’t concern either. It’s worse. So much worse. It’s the realest and most raw fear you’ve ever heard.

There’s too much blood. Fuck. So much blood. It’s spilling out between your fingers faster than should be possible. Vaguely, you remember when you were small, and the faucet broke at whatever house you and your dad were squatting in at the time. You were so scared of his ire, of him blaming you for the burst, that you’d tried to hold it together with your small hands until your entire body was soaked.

Andrew Cody is gathering you into his arms, lowering you to the ground, and the pain is starting to slice it’s way through the shock and it is absolutely fucking overwhelming.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re gonna be okay. Look at me. C’mon, y-you’ve gotta look at me.”

Your father is still yelling at the guy who shot you. Screaming about the money. Not about you. The sound is loud, cutting through the ringing in your ears, and Andrew’s arms tighten around you.

“Close your eyes.” The words are murmured by your ear. Soft and warm and gentle despite the chaos. When he speaks again, his voice is shaking. “Close your eyes, sweetheart. It’s gonna be okay.” He rarely calls you that. This must be bad.

When you do, you hear a gun fire, and the shouting stops.

Your eyes fly open, and you try to turn towards the sound of two bodies hitting the floor, but Pope is there before you can move, dropping a gun to the pavement and cradling your face in his hands.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me. Look at me, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

He shouts for Craig. For Deran. Everything is still in a sharp, dizzy sort of focus.

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

Craig is hunched over the toilet. There’s a bottle of tequila on the floor.

He turns his face towards you, hair messy and cheek resting against his arm. “Go away.”

“Nah.” You’re already sitting beside him, tugging his hair into a ponytail and tying it off.

“M’a fuckup.” He mumbles. “Jus’ a…drunk idiot. Deran said.”

You hum, and rub a soothing hand over his back. “Definitely acting like one.”

“See?” He tilts his head miserably back into his arm. “Even you say it.”

“Shut up. You know that’s not what I’m saying.” You move over to the bottle, and take a swig before throwing the rest into the trash. “Hey, look at me.”

He does. He looks like he might have been crying.

“You’re one of the smartest people I know, you know that?”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

He looks at you now. Really, really looks at you. “You gotta stop seein’ the best in me.”

“Too late. You done puking?”

He grunts, and you reach down to help him stand with a significant amount of effort and bitching that he weighs a million pounds.

And you get him into bed, and even tuck him in, and before you leave to go back to Pope’s room he catches your wrist.

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

“Not in like, a weird way. M’not tryna fuck you or anything. I don’t even know how…” he frowns, and releases you to rub a hand over his face. “I dunno how to say it.”

Your heart swells, in that familiar way, and you laugh a little as you move over and sit on the edge of his bed. “I think you’re telling me I’m you’re best friend.”

“Well, obviously. S’more than that, though. You don’t…you don’t think I’m a fuckup. You actually like me.”

You think back to that kid on the beach, surrounded by three angry assholes and fully prepared to stand his fucking ground. The kid who you were knocked out defending. Who didn’t think twice before he brought you back to his home. To the only safe space he knew. Who brought you into his family.

Who loved you like you loved him, and wasn’t sure what it meant. Who assumed, as teenagers do, that it might be romantic. Who didn’t think twice when he realized that it wasn’t romantic, and still pushed his pride aside and kept on loving you. And even now, budding your own ways into adulthood together, he’s drunk and still trying to put into words that he loves you platonically.

“You have the biggest heart.” You say, honest and raw, and his hazy blue eyes fill with tears again. “Even if you can be an idiot sometimes.”

He swipes his hand over his eyes, and tries to hide a sniffle. He looks young like this. He’s only in his early twenties, sure, but he looks younger than that. Vulnerable in a way only you ever really get to see.

“Promise you won’t go anywhere.” He mumbles, like he’s nervous to say it.

He smells like puke, and he’s sweaty, but fuck it. You hug him, making sure to flop down on top of him a little so he groans miserably before he wraps a large arm around you to pat your back.

“Can’t get rid of me if you tried, jackass.”

-

Craig is freaking out. He’s in the back of the car, where Pope is still holding you, and he’s freaking out.

Oh, no. That won’t do, will it? You take care of them. You always do. You keep Craig level-headed, and you keep Andrew from freaking out. Or…or is it the other way around? It’s concerningly difficult to think. You feel like you’re floating.

“Almost there. Almost there. Don’t leave me, okay?” God, Andrew Cody’s voice is the best thing you’ve ever heard. You want to sink into it, but he’s shaking and you can hear tears in his voice and you’re supposed to fix that.

“Drive fucking faster!” Craig is pushing on your stomach too hard. It hurts. You wheeze, and he doesn’t let up. “Deran, the IV isn’t working. It’s not working, she’s too fuckin’ pale.”

He’s covered in blood. You can’t see Pope, but you think he is too. Everything is tainted a horrible shade of red, and it’s getting really hard to think.

“M’here.” You try, scratchy and raw. “M’here. You’re okay. Don’t…be a dumbass.”

“Fuck. Fuck, don’t die. Please don’t die. Look at me, okay? Look at me.” You try, but Pope is whispering near-nonsense into your hair and trembling so hard it’s almost starting to hurt more than the pressure on your stomach. Still, Craig brushes the hair from your face, and you can see tears tracking their way down his cheeks. “They’re all dead, okay? All those assholes are dead. You’re not going with them, you hear me? You’re not going with them.”

There’s shouting. There’s panic. It’s all fading. Pope’s lips are warm against your skin, and the sound of his voice is soothing and…

-

“I love you.”

The words are whispered into your hair, so soft that you almost don’t hear them through the haze of sleep. But you’re awake, now. He doesn’t know it, but you’re awake.

You blink, and feel his fingers trace slow, warm patterns over the bare skin of your back.

“I love you.” He whispers again, just as low and just as quiet.

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

“Hi.” You whisper, pulling back, and he looks fucking terrified.

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

You reach up, and turn his face to yours. Feel soft curls between your fingers.

“How long have you been telling me you love me when I’m asleep?”

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

You smile, and the way his eyes spark at the sight makes your heart melt. “I love you, too.”

His hand flies up almost too fast, cradling your cheek and brushing his thumb over your cheekbone as he stares into your eyes with an intensity that makes your blood tingle in your veins. “You do?”

“Yeah.” How could you not? How could he not know? “Of course I do.”

-

A sharp sting brings you back, this time. You think someone might have hit you.

“Fuck, thank God. You looked like…shit, okay. Pope, let her go. You’ve gotta let her go, man.”

“Where were you?” He’s whispering against your cheek, and he’s out of his mind. Shit, he’s really out of his mind. His arms are still around you, and he’s speaking like he used to when things got really bad. When whatever was in his mind snapped, and it would take you hours to bring him back to you. “Where did you go? Don’t go. Take me with you.”

Every instinct, every cell in your body, tells you to fight. To stay here. To be here with him. To make this better.

But you’re losing time, and he’s not letting you go.

“Don’t touch her.” Lips on your temple. Your cheek. Arms tight around you. “Don’t touch her. Don’t take her away.”

You try to speak, but convulse instead. The sight of it seems to trigger something, and Craig starts to yank you out of Pope’s arms in such a panicked rush that you whimper as another bolt of agony fires through you.

Andrew holds you tighter. Your mouth tastes like copper. You feel blood trickling past your lips.

“Fuck it. Fuck it. Deran, hold him down.” Craig says, and he’s still crying and you should fix that, before he reaches forward and slams Pope’s head against the window. The arms around you go limp as he loses consciousness, and then you’re being lifted out of the car.

“I got you. It’s okay.” You choke out a soft noise, grab at his arm, and he just tucks you closer to him. “Pope’s okay, too. Everything’s gonna be fine, yeah? Just…just don’t die. Please, please don’t die.”

You’re so tired. You want Andrew. If you’re going to drift into oblivion, he should be here. But…

-

When you open your eyes, it’s to a cracked ceiling and a heavy, distant pain in your stomach.

You feel the drugs in your system. Blurred and heavy and warm. Tijuana. They managed to get you to Tijuana. And you’re alive. Bullet wound in the gut and all, and you’re alive.

Andrew Cody is beside you, head resting on his hands like he may have been living up to his nickname and praying. When you stir, he does too, red-rimmed eyes blinking open and looking at you like you’re the only other person in the world. There is so much relief in his gaze that the sight makes you feel dizzy.

“Hi.” You murmur, hoarse, and reach up to tap gently at the side of his head. “Are you here?” You remember his mumbled words against your skin. The way he needed to be knocked out before he would let you go. He can go so far away, sometimes. But he looks like he’s here now. He looks like he’s your Andrew.

He nods, and catches your hand to press his lips to your palm. His breath shudders on a silent sob.

“I thought…I thought you were-“

“I think we should get married on the beach.” You cut him off with a gentle squeeze to his hand. “S’that okay?”

He looks at you, at your stomach, and back at your face like he’s trying to judge how full of painkillers you are. “You wanna get married?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.” There’s no hesitation. Not an ounce of it. “But you’re on-“

“I know. Still want to. I can ask you again when I’m off them, if you want.”

“I think you should.” He murmurs, but he’s smiling. It’s a small, hesitant thing. Like he was pretty sure, not too long ago, that he would never smile again. Like he’s already re-learning the expression.

“Mm.” You squeeze his hand, and lean your head back against the pillows. “You wanna marry me?”

“Since I first met you.”

“Softie.” You turn your head, and furrow your brow a little. “You never asked, though.”

“I planned it.” He admits, tracing his thumb over your knuckles. “Bought a ring.”

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

You raise your eyebrows, and say again, “you never asked.”

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

He squeezes your hand, and brings it up to his lips so he can trail kisses over your knuckles. He looks back up at you after a moment, and his dark eyes are so beautiful. “I killed your father.”

Those four words should definitely make you feel something. Anything. Instead, you just feel a surge of love for the man before you. “Okay.”

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

And, like he just can’t help it anymore, he moves forward and presses his lips to yours. You kiss him back, and wrap your arms around his neck even as the movement makes you wince. Worth it.

“Can we get married now?” You ask, the words muffled by his lips, and he smiles down at you.

“When the drugs wear off.”

You frown, and shrug. “Okay. Can we go home?”

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

He laughs. It’s a beautiful sound. “Go to sleep.”

“You’re no fun.”

“Promise I will be.” He kisses your cheek. “For the rest of your life.”

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

“When we get home, I’ll stock the fridge with that ice cream you like.”

“Take me now.”

The love in his eyes is so beautiful, so pure, so raw, that you know without a doubt that those eyes alone were worth living for. “Go to sleep.”

-

You and Pope rent a house in Tijuana for a while. There’s no need to go back to Oceanside. Not yet. Smurf doesn’t love it, but she doesn’t fight it. It wouldn’t be great optics, after all, for her son’s girlfriend to be recovering from a bullet wound while her father, whom Pope has nearly killed before, was recently found dead in a warehouse.

He fusses over you endlessly. He barely lets you stand on your own, even when you’re fully capable of doing so. You wake up to him watching you sleep more often than ever, and he barely spends more than a minute not touching you.

It’s nice. Really nice. Kind of like a honeymoon before the honeymoon. Just with less sex due to an annoying bullet wound, and a little more crankiness from you than usual due to both of the former issues.

But you stay up all night on the beach, talking until the sun rises and making out like teenagers. You try to make breakfast, burn it, and get to ogle him from your spot on the counter as he makes it for the both of you. You plan for the future, count down the days until your wound is healed, and just…enjoy being happy. No jobs, no strings, no stress.

A little over a month later, you wake him up by rolling on top of him, the familiar pain in your stomach reduced to much less than a dull ache.

His eyebrows raise before his eyes even open, a sleepy smile curling on his lips as his hand trails down your back and your lips move to press teasing kisses down his neck.

“Good morning.” You hum, and he seems more than happy to return the sentiment. “I officially think I’m healed enough for…strenuous activities.”

He makes a low noise, and kisses you slowly. Hungrily. You grin, triumphant and happy, and feel his hands come up to shift you on top of him, sitting himself up against the wall and-

And pulling back.

You actually whine, chasing his lips with your own, but he holds you firm with a smile so wide it’s almost silly.

“I have another idea.”

“It’s been over a month, Andrew. I challenge you to name one thing better than sex right now.”

His smile grows impossibly wider. He reaches into the pocket of his sweatpants, mischief sparking in his sleepy eyes like he was hoping you’d say something like that, and…

And pulls out a ring.

“Oh.” You breathe, eyes locked on the little diamond in his palm. It’s simple. Beautiful. Perfect.

“Bought a new one.” He says, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face.

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.

“Not possible.” Andrew’s been trying his hand at being more playful recently. “He likes the customer service here.”

“He does or you do?”

“Same thing.” 

“You know it’s not.”

He shrugs, mouth pulled into his version of a full smile. 

When you hand him the order in two full paper bags, he makes sure to take them from you in such a way that your fingers could almost tangle. The sun is almost done setting, the last warm light of the day touching everything gently.

“I’ll come back to pick you up?” It’s not a question coming from him, it’s a statement. 

You look from him to the bags he’s now holding.

“Not if you’re about to have dinner.”

“I will have dinner. With you.” 

“You’re allowed to be busy, you know.”

“I know.” He starts towards the door. “I’ll come back.”

There’s nothing for you to do but finish your shift and think about Andrew some more. 

X

The first time Andrew drove you home it was spring and the ground was soaked. It had been raining on and off all that day, a cool wind coming off of the water. You were huddled outside the shop under its awning when his truck pulled in. You gave him a sheepish smile when he came around. His eyes were doing that thing that used to make you feel like you were in trouble.

“My ride bailed. I’m just waiting for the rain to stop.” You told him. 

He looked at you then, your hands deep in your pockets, the hood of your sweater already wet, and he handed you his keys, no questions.

“Get in.” 

You blinked at him. He nudged you towards his truck, his big hand overly gentle where it touched you.

“I’ll be right back.” He promised.

So you got in his truck and he got Craig’s sandwiches and he came back, turning up the heat as soon as the truck was started. You didn’t say much but neither did he. He parked in front of your building after a short drive and you both sat there in silence until you felt brave. 

You asked him about his day and his answer was stilted and terse. He wanted to ask about your week but he wasn’t sure how. You asked him how long he’d been living in Oceanside and he said his whole life. He asked you if you liked cats and you looked down at the hello kitty charm on your bag and laughed. It was nice. Really nice. 

He drives you home most nights as long as he’s around, and he always tries to be around. He feeds you now, too. You asked him one time if he minded picking something up on the way to your place, told him you would pay and that he could come in for a movie if he wanted. Now he moves like that’s always the plan; buying you something you’re craving and sitting by you until you get tired. He doesn’t deviate, wouldn’t give up this routine for anything.

It’s such a strange pleasure watching you eat. He stared that first time, he knows it, and he still stares now. The way your mouth moves, the way you hold your hands when they’re messy, the way your posture loosens by degrees as you get full. Knowing you’re comfortable and cared for and worry free while you’re with him gives him a sense of satisfaction that is mostly wholesome and only a little perverse. You get so sleepy some nights, eyes blinking closed, breathing slowing beside him. So vulnerable to all possible danger, Pope Cody included. He’d never hurt you. He’d never dream of touching your pretty throat or soft stomach to be violent. You could ask him for anything and he would say yes. 

X

“Shit, Deran, man, can you go pick up my order?” Craig looks at the clock after coming up from another line.

Deran doesn’t look up from his phone.

“I’ll go.” Andrew says, finishing his last visual sweep of the kitchen.

He had been thinking of you then, while his brothers were fucking around and he was wiping down the counters. He thinks about you more than he should. He thinks a lot of things and gets away with most of them, nobody usually asks how he is or where he’s been or what he’s been up to. Unless he’s working a job, he has a kind of freedom that comes from being forgotten.

He’s been trying to build a life away from Smurf. Away from this house and this work and this looming feeling of inevitable disaster. He has his own place now, something that’s his alone. He reads books and buys candles and watches the ocean at night. He sees you.

Craig sniffs roughly, eyes narrowing at Andrew. Something’s been different, he’s noticed.

“You hate running my errands.”

“I want some air.”

“Then go out back.”

“Smells like pot.”

“That’s never bothered you before.”

“It’s always bothered me.”

“What’s with you, man.” 

Andrew’s steady eyes meet Craig’s blown ones. Andrew says nothing. Craig’s mouth firms then splits into a shit-eating grin.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got a thing for shop girl.”

“Do you want your sandwiches or not.”

“You totally do! Deran,” Craig kicks half blindly with his foot. “Pope has a total crush on my sandwich girl.”

“Whatever, man.” Deran does not care.

“You have to bring her by the bar sometime, man. Let us get a good look at her.”

Andrew decides he’s finished with this conversation. 

“Come on, Pope. I mean it, let’s meet your girlfriend.” Craig calls after him, laughing. 

Andrew can’t tell if Craig is laughing at the idea of him having a girlfriend because Craig thinks he’s unloveable or incapable of love. Andrew hasn’t managed to disprove either account yet. 

On his way to you he thinks about what might happen if you met his family. Not Smurf, absolutely not Smurf, but maybe Deran, maybe Craig. It’s what normal people do, isn’t it? He decides against it for the near future. Not yet, he thinks, meaning maybe not ever.

X

“Should we start cooking?” You ask, your order of Thai food on your lap.

Andrew catches the we and tucks it away somewhere in his chest. He considers your question.

“Do you want to?”

“Usually no.” You think about it. “But I saw a recipe I think would be really nice. And plus your kitchen is to die for.”

You like Andrew’s apartment for how fancy it is. He knows you must notice how bare it is, the minimal comforts and decorations. But things he doesn’t think twice about are novel to you: the flatscreen in his bedroom, the nice espresso machine in his kitchen, the beach access out the back door. And you don’t mind the minimalism, you really don’t. You know what Andrew is like and his apartment just makes sense. It’s a continuation of the reserved efficiency he operates with.

He’s still not used to another body in his space. He likes that it’s yours though. He likes the control having you in his apartment gives him. Having you so near, so visible and readable, it allows him to be able to enforce a certain kind of order. When something is wrong he can see it, he can hear it, and he can fix it. You’re hungry? He’ll make sure you eat something. You’re cold? He’ll turn down the A/C. You want something? It’s yours and he’ll get it to you the moment you ask. He understands that you have a life to live. A job and an apartment and friends that you love. But he can’t help the way he wants for you when you’re not within reach. 

If he could be with you always, he thinks that’s something he would want. It’s not currently possible on his end either, he has jobs to plan and a family to wrangle and “properties” to “manage”. He keeps all of that away from you, and will continue to do so until the end of time if he gets his way. If he has his way you’ll never know, you’ll never get hurt, you’ll never be in danger. It’s not quite a pipe dream but it’s a beautiful thought, one he’ll cling to for as long as possible.

You lick sauce from the side of your thumb before wiping your hands off on a napkin. Andrew knows he’s staring again. 

“We can start cooking if you want to.”

You seem pleased by this.

The night moves quietly, waves crashing somewhere out of sight, the stars rotating above you. There’s a solace in having you under his roof. He thinks this as he tidies your leftovers and refills your water.

You’re meant to be picking a movie but you’re not flipping through anything when Andrew returns to your side. You hold the remote lightly in your hand, head tilting towards him.

“Andrew,” You start.

You look almost shy. You’ve been on best behaviour in the two times you’ve been over to his apartment, no snooping or wandering whatsoever. You’re careful with him, he knows this. But he can recognize that it doesn’t come from a place of fear. You approach him the same way he would approach a stray; soft touch and gentle tones, waiting instead of advancing.

“Would it be okay if we watched the TV in your bedroom?”

He raises his eyebrows.

“Not like that!” Your skin starts to flush. “It’s just that I never had one in my bedroom. When I was a kid I always used to dream about, like, watching movies in a pillow fort.”

“We’re building a fort now, too?”

“No! No, I just–” You look sideways.

“I’m kidding.” He says mercifully. “We can do anything you want.”

You pause, sheepish.

“Even the fort?”

“Even that.”

He looks at you, all sweet and shy, and he thinks he could eat you whole.

“No fort today, but could I maybe borrow something comfortable?”

“Of course.”

He lets you get changed while he pretends to wash dishes he’s already cleaned. He breathes over the sink, focusing on the sound of running water instead of the sounds you’re making in his bedroom. Feet on wood, fabric on fabric. You come back out to find him and ask Andrew if he’s going to change, too. He wasn’t, but you’re asking like you want him to so he will. 

And then you’re on top of his covers and he’s on top of his covers and for the first time in his life a California King feels too big. He lets you mess with his pillows, all eight of them, creating some sort of semi-structured pile against his headboard. He leans against them, trying to look relaxed. You make a quick decision about what you’d like to watch and then you’re leaning back too, shifting and sinking into the space you made. 

“Good?” He asks across the measly inches between you.

“Yeah.” You hum like you’re happy.

He can’t look at you for very long, not without his heart rate spiking or his dick hardening when he doesn’t mean it to. So he watches your movie and tries not to notice when you give up on subtlety, settling yourself gently against his side. Arm to arm, your head on his shoulder.

“Is this okay?” You ask, your hands pressing together in your lap.

His head comes down to rest against yours, vision tilted at an angle that makes watching the television a little unpleasant.

“Of course.” He says, closing his eyes because he knows you can’t see him.

Your hands loosen. His shoulders drop. He tries not to imagine more of you in his clothes, in his bed, in his kitchen. He fails.

X

Andrew has spent his morning and most of his afternoon pouring over maps and blueprints, planning and checking and marking. A convenient opportunity fell into Smurf’s lap so there’s a job on the horizon. Not the biggest they’ve ever pulled but not a small one by any means. There’s a lot to do. Casing and timing and talking and arranging. If Andrew were to ever find above board employment, he thinks he would do well in logistics.

He and his brothers move around each other, around Smurf, as they each take care of their given responsibilities. Andrew is as present and careful as he always is. He knows Smurf hovers more intensely the closer to a job they get. 

He doesn’t call you until he’s back at his place. He doesn’t leave meetings early to pick you up. He wants to, god he’d love to, but this was a small sacrifice in the name of your safety. 

He doesn’t lay claim to much, but that which he claims as his own is kept as far away from this life as possible. Smurf does not come to his house. He does not tell his brothers about his favourite places to eat. He leaves the phone Smurf gave him at home when he’s with you. He hoards his scraps of freedom with a kind of desperation.

He goes over the timeline for the new job in his head as he drives home, slotting events and goalposts into their appropriate dates. The calendar in his head already has your schedule on it, when you work and the plans you tell him about. Things like your friend’s birthday and the opening day of a movie you said you want to go see. It’s only ever one or the other; either he’s working or he’s seeing you. He wishes for something different, for a life less fragmented. He would let you and everything you are consume him if he thought it were feasible. 

When he gets home and checks his personal phone, there’s a text from you waiting for him. It hasn’t been too long since you sent it. He doesn’t like keeping you waiting, not for anything.

are you free on thursday?

He’s not but he’ll fix that. He’d pick you every time if he could. For now, he’ll make every concession he’s able.

X

Andrew had never been to a farmer’s market before. It’s like a mini street fair. The market in Oceanside happens on Thursday mornings, in a parking lot close to the Surf Museum. The sun is already warm across his shoulders as he walks with you into the morning crowd.

You’re looking at garden flowers and he’s trailing behind you. You pick up a small nursery pot and hold it towards him after you’ve already taken a sniff. He does as you did, the smell of petals and greens cutting through the smell of grill smoke in the air. He smiles because you’re smiling. You keep looking, he keeps following. 

There are a lot of people here. Not so many that he’s worried but enough that it takes a moment before the woman at a fruit stall can help you. She overturns a punnet of nectarines into a bag before handing it back to you. He hands her a few bills before you can even get your wallet out. 

“I have my own money.” You tell him as you step to the side, tucking the fruit into the tote on your shoulder.

“Exactly. Keep it.” He says, reaching for the bag straps before they’re settled.

“Let me carry my own produce at least.” You turn away from his reach and he almost laughs at how indignant you are.

“Come on,” He coaxes. “That’s my job.”

He still hasn’t called himself your boyfriend. Hasn’t asked for the pleasure. But he’s yours and he wants to show you every chance he gets. 

“You’re going to make me feel useless. You can hold my hand, final offer.”

He takes it with a smile. 

He’s noticed that you like when he touches you. You sat very still when he removed an eyelash from your cheek a few days ago, you lean towards him when he puts a hand on your back or your arm, your face lights up whenever he sits himself right beside you. When he reaches for you, you move to meet him halfway. He doesn’t think you know you’re doing it. 

Walking beside him you look pleased. He feels exceedingly normal. It’s nice to spend time with someone and feel like he can breathe.

Craig has been riding him harder than usual, being mean just to be mean. It’s not personal, despite the way it feels. Andrew has just always been available to absorb hits like that from his family. He doesn’t like it but he does it. 

Deran has been kinder though, balancing Craig in the way they all seem to balance each other. Scales tipped equally, his siblings’ temperaments mirrored graphs of each other's. There’s something mundane about it if he ignores the crime and the drugs of it all. 

Deran’s having a theme night at his bar this week, told his brothers to bring friends. Andrew thought of you, because who else was he going to think of. Deran does vulnerability best out of all of them, so Andrew wasn’t surprised when he later said that he’d like to meet you, said he was happy to see Andrew doing things away from Smurf.

He’s been weighing it. The idea of bringing you to the bar. He buys you a lemonade and thinks about what it would be like to buy you a cocktail, to watch your skin flush after a few of them. Standing in the shade cast by a tent off to the side of the lot, he watches as you survey the vendors you haven’t visited yet. He bets you’ll want to look at the honey and bread just down the way.

He tries his luck.

“My brothers want to meet you.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.” He pauses.

“Well, do you want me to meet them?”

He doesn’t have an answer right away. His head turns to watch a parent pull their child in a wagon filled with carrots and ginger.

“My family is not…nice.” He tries. “We aren’t traditional.”

“Andrew, I know who the Codys are.”

Of course you do, you’re far from stupid and Craig has been a regular at your shop for a long time. He dips his head once in a nod. 

“I still had to say it.”

What Andrew doesn’t know is what you might have heard about him, about Pope Cody specifically. He doesn’t ask. He won’t, or maybe he can’t.

“There’s a lot I haven’t told you.” He avoids your eyes. “I don’t know if I like who I am around them.”

You sit with this together.

“What about when you’re around me?”

“Everything makes sense when I’m around you.” This answer comes to him quickly. It’s the truth at the bottom of the matter. “I can be different.”

There’s a clarity in his eyes when they meet yours again. A kind of acceptance or resignation, or something similar. If you could carry things for him, you would. His anger, his pain. You can’t, not yet, so you insist on holding your own bags for now. You refuse to give him anything that would make him feel any heavier.

“Andrew,” Your hand reaches for the side of his face. “I want what you want. If you want me to meet them, I will. If you don’t, then I won’t, and that’s the end of it.”

He nods, jaw pressing further into your hand. The obvious earnestness of your expression almost hurts to look at. 

“Can I kiss you?” You ask.

Your question is the final nail in the coffin. He was already in it, his heart already beating raw and tender in your hands. But he falls then. Not into love, but into something that could be one day.

“Please.” He says, because he wants that so much.

Your mouth meets his in a gentle press and he goes very still, head tilted to allow you to do as you please. The kiss is short-lived, a soft thing that ends too soon for his liking. But there will be more, he thinks. He hopes. He draws you against him and he melts, his arms clasping around you like a shell around a pearl.

X

Everything is fine until it isn’t. That’s how it always goes. 

Tonight has been good, Andrew thinks. He has qualms with Deran, with the way he runs his bar, with bringing you here, with most things really. But he was trying to be good, Trying to give you every part of himself even if he found them hard to look at. This was something safe, he reasoned. The bar wasn’t Smurf’s house and it wasn’t something Smurf owned. It was a public place with decent drinks and somewhere you wouldn’t end up alone with his brothers. He thought it would only be Deran tonight, but Craig does what he wants and goes where he wants without telling anyone. That was fine. It was still manageable. For one night he could try to be a normal guy bringing his normal date to meet his normal family. A very controlled dose of the Codys.

Deran had greeted you using his manners, asking a few questions before being called away to take another order. He found Andrew’s eyes later and gave him a nod, a quiet approval. Craig was himself, loud and a little sleazy, but he still made an attempt to connect with you.

You look beautiful. You always do. Tonight there’s glitter on your cheeks, on your eyelids, stuck to the silk soft skin under your eyes, too. He doesn’t know the first thing about makeup or how it’s supposed to look but he’s dead certain you’re always doing it the right way.

You drift towards him and away from him, finding a coworker or a familiar face in the crowd, but always returning back to his side. He doesn’t have a name for how it feels to know he’s a place you want to come back to. His back straightens every time you leave his arm’s reach. He’s brooding, he knows he is. He knows his brothers are watching his posture, his temperament. He can’t feign casualty on a regular day, much less when you’re around. He sits, tense on his bar stool, eyes tracking your movements, the way you smile, the way you laugh. How long you let people touch you for, how long you look into someone’s eyes.

Craig barks loudly into his ear and he doesn’t flinch, just tilts away from the noise. Craig keeps barking until he gets a reaction.

“What.” Andrew’s affect is flat.

“You make a great guard dog, man. She collar you in the bedroom?”

Andrew doesn’t react. He knows how it will go if he does. Craig cackles anyways.

“Lighten up,” Craig chides, clapping a hand on Andrew’s shoulder. “Tell her if she wants a hit she knows where to find me.”

Something ugly flares inside of Andrew. A kind of dry heat flashing in his stomach. Craig should know better than to try giving you anything, and he does. Andrew had already made the mistake of trying to assert a boundary, trying to enforce distance between you and his brothers.

“What, Pope’s girl is too much of a perfect angel for a line?” 

“She’s not like you, Craig.”

“Yeah, well, she’s not like you either.”

Andrew tries, every day, to not let his family get under his skin. It’s hard when they know exactly where the gaps in his armour are.

You’re back before he realizes, smiling up at him with those eyes of yours. 

Everything is fine. Until it isn’t.

There’s a subtle shift in the room, something that few people can notice. Andrew always notices. He knows when things are headed south long before they start turning that way. Voices get louder, chairs start scraping against the floor. No-one is yelling yet, and there’s still more laughter in the air than anything else. But something sours all the same and Andrew figures he has five minutes or less to remove you before things start escalating.

“Do you want to get some air?” He asks, trying his hand at the beguiling way you speak to him sometimes. Both hands find your waist in a moment of bravery.

“I’d love some air, will you let me bum a smoke?” You lean towards him like you’re melting, movements slowed after a day in the heat and a few drinks.

He sighs and gives you a look but doesn’t say no.

“Yesss,” your voice is soft around the edges, warm and tipsy. You make a small victorious gesture and your nose squishes up with a smile. He thinks you’re fucking adorable. “I’m just gonna get another drink first, take a shot with me?”

“Can we do it after, honey?” He winces, knowing he’s laying it on way too thick but you don’t seem to notice.

“Please?” You reach for his biceps with both hands, giving them a small squeeze. He would fold under any other circumstance.

“Let’s get some air, okay?” 

You pout but nod your consent and Andrew scans the room once more.

It’s too late. Three men are standing near the front now, staring each other down, surrounded by a few others posturing. Several hands are inching towards inner pockets and waistbands.

God-fucking-damnit. This was the last thing he wanted from tonight. He wanted one thing, just one singular night to play boyfriend-girlfriend, to experience the normal milestone of meeting the family. But now there are guns in the same room as you and there will be violence soon and Andrew can’t help but to feel doomed, chained to an ever-sinking ship. He should know better. He should fucking know better.

“Come on,” He murmurs, taking you by the wrist and leading you around the bar. You stumble after him, confusion creeping over you.

“Andrew, wait.” His name comes out a little breathless, followed by a giggle that should not make his heart stutter as hard as it does. 

“Slow down, Andrew, please.” There it is again, his name in your mouth. “You know I’m wearing stupid shoes today.”

He does. He knows this. You’d called them stupid earlier when he picked you up but he hadn’t thought so. He liked the heel, the curve of your feet in them. He forces his shoulders to relax, his grip on your wrist to loosen.

“Just trust me– please. We need to go.” His voice is low and steady. 

To your credit, your expression sobers some immediately, nodding as his eyes hold yours. You slip your fingers down to fit between his. He turns to keep pulling you behind him as soon as he feels your hand is settled in his. He leads you into the kitchen, through the back and helps you up into his truck. He hears the first gunshot as he closes your door. Understanding dawns on you as you buckle in.

He wheels the car backwards out of his parking spot and takes off, riding the curb as he pulls away from it. You clear the first few stoplights in silence.

“Are your brothers going to be mad?”

“What?” 

Your question almost startles him. Both of his hands hold the steering wheel with exactitude, his jaw tight as he stares down the road ahead of him like it might open beneath you.

“Will they be mad that you left?”

“I don’t care.” He’s clipped.

You’re not sure what to say to that.

The drive is otherwise silent. You climb the stairs to your apartment together and you turn to talk to him outside your door.

“Inside.” He directs you before you can speak.

So you unlock your door and step inside, Andrew following. You slip off your shoes and turn to face him in the tight space of your entryway. His hands hang at his sides, awkward and unsure. You look a little tired, he thinks, but you don’t look afraid.

“You won’t be in trouble?”

You’re still worrying about him even though you shouldn’t. There’s no need, and he’s not sure he deserves it. 

“It doesn’t matter.” He says. “You are more important than whatever mess my brothers are in. Than whatever messes I get dragged into. I will always take care of you first, got it?”

You nod, eyes wide in the low light.

“I’m going to go now, I have to fix it. Lock your door.”

He stands for a moment, a breath between you. Selfishly, you wish he didn’t have to go. Selfishly you wish you could keep him, absolve him of everything he holds on to and carries like a cross.

His hand smooths your hair back and he kisses your temple before he’s gone. 

He texts you after you’ve fallen asleep to let you know he’s safe. You don’t hear from him again for a few days.

X

In the week that follows, Andrew is quiet on the communication front. It’s not unusual for him to be busy, taking a few days further away from you when he’s working. There’s no job this week, though. There won’t be for at least another two, the shooting the other night having delayed the timeline. He doesn’t know what to say to you. He doesn’t know if he’s still allowed to take up space in your periphery, in your mind, in your phone. He feels guilty. Entirely at fault for something he doesn’t know how to articulate yet. Something he knows has barely started to pan out.

You should never have been at the bar the other night, he sees that now. It was a mistake to bring you up against the border of his life. He’d been good before then. He’d held anything that could hurt you behind a very thick line, never allowing anything to spill or ooze or explode beyond it.

It was optimism, maybe. A delusion. An impossible dream that you might be able to meet his family and walk away untouched. You hadn’t even met Smurf that night but now she knows about you. She’s always been aware, omniscient in her way, but now her sights are on you properly. The risks were undertaken and for what? Certainly not for any apparent reward. 

You call him on a Thursday in the afternoon. Andrew knows he’s going to pick up but he makes himself wait. Makes himself count out the first ring, the second, the seventh. You don’t sound different. You don’t sound like you’ve decided the fabric of your relationship with Andrew has been torn asunder. You sound normal. Happy, even, to be talking to him. 

“Take me on a drive?”

There was no world in which he would have ever said no. 

You don’t tell him there’s somewhere you want to go, only that you want him to pick you up tomorrow morning. After your call he looks up “where to take a girl on a drive reddit”. He spends a few hours on his phone, looking at google maps and trip advisor. He wants to take you somewhere you’ll like, obviously somewhere half local and quiet. By the end of the night he’s looked at all the public parks, beaches and lookout points in a six hour radius. He doesn’t need to take you that far, but he needs to know what to do if you ask him to go for food or find another market. He makes a shortlist in his mind, picking four places that were pretty enough for you to take pictures, had enough flat ground for you to spread your blanket on, were close enough to the kind of cafes he knows you like, and that were accessible by backroads so that you could take the scenic route. 

He’ll have to play it by ear, perform spontaneity well. He wants you to feel like you stumbled upon a hidden gem together. He wants to spin gold for you, make something out of the very little he feels he has to offer you.

In the morning your eyes are tired. You let him in while you finish gathering your things for the day. The early air blows cool through the windows of his truck, lifting the loose neck of your dress, fluttering through the curls against his forehead. The roads are quiet, the two of you cutting across country and open spaces.

Andrew doesn’t love being at the beach. It’s sandy, it can be windy, it can be loud, there could be seaweed. He likes looking at the waves, usually from the rocks or the pier, but he’s never really made an afternoon of it. Not until you anyway. You make more of a fuss out of going to the beach than Andrew ever has. It makes him feel almost pampered. You have a big blanket to spread half in the shade and half in the sun, you pack a tote bag full of water and cut fruit and crackers, and you always bring him an extra book, just in case he wants something to read. He doesn’t think you would make him swim if he didn’t want to, but he would if you asked.

The spot you choose along the shore is quiet. Both of your shoes sit to the side of your blanket, pressed together in alignment. You show him the books you brought and he gets you to tell him about them. He makes sure you drink water and reminds you to reapply your sunscreen.

“Do you think I could manage a nap here?” You wonder.

“Probably.” He answers.

You don’t ask him for anything explicitly, not even implicitly, but he wants to rearrange the world to your whim. 

Andrew makes a choice then, decides he will hold you if you want to rest. He moves over, slightly behind you, and gathers you the rest of the way. He makes a resting place on his chest for your back, a space for you to be held between his legs.

Nothing about you resists. No tension, no protests. His arms rest over your stomach and you sigh into him. A small breeze comes off the water, rustling the leaves and the tall grass.

“So, about the other night.” You start. “Do you want to talk about it?”

You’re the one to bring it up. You still seem unshaken, unbothered by what Andrew feels was a significant series of failures on his part.

“No.”

You accept this, returning to a silence you’re comfortable in. Waves swell, birds call.

“Were you scared?” He asks eventually, tentatively.

“No.” You answer. “We were gone before I could be.”

You feel him nod against the side of your head. Clouds move slowly. Andrew speaks eventually.

“Do you still want to keep seeing me?”

“I do. Do you still want to see me?”

He does, very badly, but that’s not the issue. The issue is that Andrew Cody is a dangerous man who has no right to hold you the way he wants to, who has no right to any of your affection when all he has to offer is blood money and his own trauma. He can see things starting to unravel. He feels himself beginning to fray. He wishes he had done things differently but he can’t take back the other night, what’s done is done. You said you knew who the Codys are, but that doesn’t mean you understand the extent of what they do, the damage they’re able to cause. It’s like he’s watching you put your foot in a bear trap. It hasn’t snapped shut yet, but it will.

“I do.” He says, because he’d want you to be the very last thing he ever saw if he died. 

You seem at ease, as if this conversation had smoothed over every cautious thought in your head. You don’t get it, he thinks. There’s no way you do. 

“Will you read to me?” He asks. He needs to hear something other than his own voice in his head.

Andrew doesn’t ask for much. Not for more of your time, not for any favours, not for things you know he’d like. You wish he would ask you for more. You think it escapes him that you want to give him the world, too. So you read. Of course you read. Your book is something pastoral and meandering, one you’ve finished more than once.

As you speak, your words become woven between the crashing of the waves. Andrew doesn’t pay attention to the actual words so much as the sound of them coming out of your mouth. The way you hold vowels between your lips, the way consonants get softened when you read too quickly. He presses a lingering kiss against the side of your head. You settle against him just that fraction of an inch more. 

You doze off a little once you’ve finished your chapter. The heat of the afternoon has made you both soft and pliable. In Andrew’s head, the boundaries between your skin and his have started blurring, coalescing at the surface. Your head turns a little, adjusting against him. If he could gather you further into himself he would. His arms are already solid around you, your hands resting over them. He dips his head, nosing against your shoulder, up your neck, wanting nothing but to smell the salt stuck to your skin, feel the heat coming off of you. Your hands squeeze a little, maybe an encouragement, maybe a thank you. He thinks he might be overheating. He doesn’t move.

X

“Where have you been?” Smurf asks as soon as he’s through her door. 

It’s been a few days since he’s been back here, not any longer than usual. He’s not stupid. He knows what Smurf is fishing for. But he won’t roll over so easily. It’s been years since he obeyed every trick on command. 

“At home.” He says. Simple.

“That’s it?”

He doesn’t answer.

“You know the job is soon, right baby?”

“I know. I’ve been to every meeting.”

“Good.” She says. “I just wouldn’t want anyone to get distracted.”

He stays quiet. There’s nothing else to say. 

That same week, Andrew pulls his truck into the far end of the small parking lot in front of your job. He settles in, crossing his arms to wait an hour for you to text him you were close to clocking out. He doesn’t tell you how long he likes to wait for you. He lets you think he leaves his driveway only after you send him a message. In his head this waiting counts as time spent with you.

His eyes scan the lot, the usual cars parked in their places. The owner’s, the cook’s, the man with a regular Friday order. His eyes catch on a white car just in front of the door. That one, he notices, is new. That one looks an awful lot like one of Smurf’s cars.

His stomach drops. He was sure he had done everything right– done all he was asked, showed up every time he was called, obeyed every time he was given an order. It should have been enough to keep Smurf happy. It should have been enough to keep you safe.

He’s moving before he’s certain, pulling open the door to your shop with poorly concealed urgency. And he sees her. Smurf is there by the small shelves tucked by the side wall, asking you about muffuletta and olives of all things. You’re talking to her like you would any other customer, soft-spoken and informative. She has a pair of big sunglasses between her fingers and she’s smiling at you in a way that he knows means she might bite. Andrew isn’t sure how he’s going to handle this situation, just that he needs to. 

Smurf notices him too soon, he’s at a disadvantage. She turns her head to watch him approach with a kind of boredom on her face. Your head follows, finding him not long after. 

“Smurf.” He says, choosing to stand beside you.

You look up at him with a shine in your eyes you can’t help and he knows his mother sees it.

“Andrew.” She says, putting on a kind of syrup over her words. “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Just stopping by.”

“Oh, this isn’t the girl you were telling me about, is it?” A well acted realization takes place on her face. She turns back to you. “It’s nice to officially meet you honey, call me Smurf.”

Her hand sticks out and waits for yours. Pope’s fingers twitch watching you shake hands, hating that his mother would touch you. It’s something so small and calculated, so inane to any onlooker or outsider. Touch, to Smurf, means access. Access means ownership.

“Did you both want to take a seat?” You offer, polite and without motive.

“No, that’s okay.” Smurf says with a smile. “I should probably head out. You take care, I’ll see you at home Andrew.”

She turns almost lazily, meandering back out the door. Andrew stays standing straight and tall until it closes behind her. 

“Hi,” You offer.

“Hi.” 

You wait. He shifts over his feet, trying to shake what’s settled over his shoulders.

“You’re early.”

“I was in the area.”

You hum. He doesn’t think you believe him but you let it go.

“Sit. Want a sandwich?”

“No, thank you.”

He settles stiffly into one of the wrought iron chairs at the little table furthest into the corner. You go about the rest of your shift as if he weren’t there. Taking orders, wiping counters, getting the store ready for the girl who takes over after eight. His shoulders fall a fraction as he watches you, just enough for him to feel a difference.

When he drops you off that night he doesn’t stay. He goes home to sit on his bed and spiral, down and down and down. He doesn’t sleep. 

X

He’s there the next day to drive you home again. He isn’t sure that he should. He doesn’t know what to do, not at all, so he sticks with the routine he knows. Something will give soon, things can’t stay as they are. But he still wants to see you. He can’t quite say no to himself yet. 

He’s quiet on the drive. He’s quiet sitting on your couch. He’s quiet as you eat. You’re giving him so much grace. But a way through feels impossible.

You shower and he stays where he is, an immoble fixture in your living space. You come back to him, steamed and dewy, and he thinks he should go but he doesn’t. When you ask him if he thinks a shower would help he doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he deserves the comfort you offer. He doesn’t think hot water will fix anything. But he showers anyway, because it’s something to do.

While the water doesn’t fix things it makes his neck ache a little less. The smell of your soap soothes him somewhat. His skin feels tight by the time he’s done. He still doesn’t feel clean.

He doesn’t see you when he comes back out into the living room so he doubles back to your bedroom. Your lamps are on, casting the space in a warm glow. You’re a soft thing in your shirt and your shorts, legs bare and feet tucked close to you. There’s something playing softly from a speaker he doesn’t see immediately. You look up from the book you’re reading and smile, something small and sticky-sweet. You nod towards the space beside you. He gets on the bed. He lays down and clasps his hands over his chest. It’s quiet. Andrew can do quiet.

One song passes. Then two, then four.  You close your book to watch him breathe. His eyes stay on the ceiling.

“You okay?”

“Yeah.” He answers without turning his head.

“You stay with your mom sometimes?” You ask it kindly, like it’s just another thing you want to learn about him. It makes something feel sharp behind his ribs. You make it seem so easy, addressing the things he should be able to on his own.

“Sometimes.”

I’ll see you at home, Andrew. Said by Smurf to stake a claim, to tie a leash. 

“Does she ever come to your place?”

“No.” That was Andrew’s apartment, paid for with his own money. “It’s just mine.”

You hum, filing your new understandings away.

“She seems nice.” You offer, aiming for levity.

“She’s not.” Something about Andrew’s voice sounds unsettled, like something is about to come unhinged.

“Oh.” You piece it together. “So, it’s maybe not good that she came to see me?” 

Andrew shakes his head. It really wasn’t. 

You wait. You don’t know what to ask so you don’t ask anything, letting him decide where to take things, what to share.

“Smurf is… dangerous.” He settles on the simple word. He looks at you, finally. “I didn't want you to meet her.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” He wants to get that straight.

You’re still waiting, watching him with open eyes. You’re always doing this, creating a space for him and guarding the perimeter. Giving him a freedom that comes from being looked after, not forgotten.

Something comes loose inside of him. He finds himself wanting to talk but not knowing what to say. It starts bubbling out of him. He hears himself telling you about Smurf, using words like touch and forced and hurt, each word mapped both to himself and his mother in a nauseating web. He doesn’t know which things should stay unsaid. He thinks all of it should remain unsaid but you deserve honesty, and he won’t let you stay twined with him without knowing. He probably won’t let you stay twined with him at all. 

There’s a beat. A song ends and another starts. 

“You know it’s not okay, right? The way she treated you?” Your voice reaches him, even as he’s in the distant place inside of himself he uses as safety.

He nods once.

“You know none of it was your fault, right?”

Again.

“I’m sorry,” You say, voice low. You unfold your legs to lay on your side. He can still feel your eyes, a gentle kind of attention on his face.

“It’s okay.” He says, automatic. He turns onto his side, too.

“It’s not.”

It’s really not.

He sits with this, not quite ready to meet your eyes again. But his eyes follow the line of your shoulder, the even rise and fall of your chest, the hem of your shirt at the base of your neck.

Your whole body leans towards him halfway, offering comfort, and then it waits. He still can’t look at you but his hand finds your side, follows it's line towards your lower back. You move to tuck yourself against him fully, sternum to sternum, legs threading together. His fingers spread against your back, his pinky finding the space between your top and your bottoms. It almost makes you shiver, the slow drag of his finger.

Your bare skin is so soft. There’s a heat all over and his hands are tingling where they touch you. He tries to stay in the moment, to stay right where he is, but the thoughts creep up on him. Enjoying this, here, with you, feels like a bad decision.

He’s been so good. He’s been working so hard. Knowing and letting himself be known. Trusting you and trusting himself. He was so close to something like surrender. He’ll have to go. He knows he’ll have to. The hardened, avoidant, pessimistic, realistic voice inside of his head tells him as much, tells him to cut his losses now and give in to what he knows is inevitable. But there’s a whimpering, starving, obsessive, pathetically optimistic voice answering back, speaking from a place he can’t identify. It wants to have you, to keep you, but he’s getting less and less sure he’ll be able to by the day. Smurf standing in front of you was the start and the end of it. It never should have happened, and now that it has, there’s nothing to be done. Smurf was her own kind of death sentence.

Andrew is better at self preservation than absolutely anything else. He’s avoided more for less, resorted to more drastic means for less important ends. But he can’t help himself. He wants to have this before he goes. He wants to give you this one thing, something tender and devoted and his alone to give. He wants you to see him on his knees, soft spots exposed for you to lay your hands over. He wants you to know he’d give you anything, expose his muscle and sinew if you wanted to look, leave the world behind if you asked him to.

Yes, he would kill for you. But he would also take his shirt off. He’d let you touch him, taste him, look into his mouth, listen to him fall apart. 

He can’t tell you what’s going on in his head. He barely has a handle on it most days, and doesn’t know how to show it either. He can try though. God help him, he could try. His forehead meets yours, careful not to hurt you when they collide. He takes a moment, and then he tilts his head further. You share a breath before he finally seeks your mouth with his. He kisses you, a little stiff and a little firm, and you let him.

When he feels your hand come up into his hair, his mouth parts under yours. He takes as deep a breath as he can before returning to the kiss, a thrill running through him as he feels your tongue, your teeth.  

His hand sweeps the length of your spine, up then down before reaching further, hungry for more of you. He doesn’t grab exactly, but there’s an assertiveness to his touch. His hand is heavy and low on your hip, and your leg comes higher up, still curled around his. His hips begin to rock against yours and you make a small sound. He stills.

He hesitates not because he doesn’t want you, but because he wants you so unbearably much. His need is overwhelming and it feels unfair to you.

“We don’t have to do anything else.” You mean this, as breathless and burning as you are.

“I want to.” He says. He can try to be braver than he is, knowing you’ll handle him carefully.

Your mouth finds his then, drawing him back into you. His shoulders crowd over you without meaning to, the broadness of his chest pressing against you and encouraging you onto your back as he leans over you. His mouth comes back down against yours, pressing and pressing and pressing. He slides his tongue against yours, trying to pay attention to the feel and your taste and somehow not fully taking in either. The hand over your hip starts to climb upwards, dragging fabric as it goes. His fingers find the band of your bra from over your shirt and then he repeats the motion, this time against your skin. His hand is hot against you, his palm sweeping back up your ribs to cup the bottom of your breast. 

Your chest pushes up into his hand and he understands he’s doing well. He would spend more time on your tits if he felt more self-assured but he’s nervous here. He only wants to touch you in ways he’s certain will feel good for you. He thinks of his hands, the big, rough things that they are, and he can see himself grabbing you too viciously if he’s not careful. No, he’d rather play it safe, stick to things he knows how to do. He gives you one calculated squeeze before his hand moves back down your stomach, his big fingers just teasing your waistband. You take his wrist, guiding his hand further down, asking him not to hesitate. 

His hand slips into your shorts, touching you over your panties. The fabric of them dampens under his fingers as he presses them against your opening, around your clit. You moan, a small breathy thing, and he’s drunk on it. Careful fingers draw small circles around the bud, being mindful of pressure and friction. You breathe into his mouth between kisses and he wants to share the same air as you forever.

“Take them off.” You tell him. It’s a gentle instruction that reminds him of the hardness straining in his jeans. 

He pauses to fit his thumbs under your waistband, pulling everything down your legs. Your panties stick some where he had pressed them against you and the hunger inside him widens. You kick them off the side of the bed and Andrew takes advantage of the extra space between your legs. Two fingers drag confidently through your folds, running through your slick and spreading it over you. He brings one of them back down to tease your entrance, barely pressing in. You squirm, whining and needy.

“Inside, please.” Your hands find his face to hold him, keeping his eyes on yours, right where you want him.

He obliges.

His first finger sinks in all the way down to the knuckle and you make such a pretty sound, coloured with need and satisfaction. Andrew’s cock twitches in his jeans, the pressure of his erection becoming uncomfortable. His hips find your leg, rubbing his bulge against the outside of your thigh. You feel the size of him and it makes you even whinier. His finger fucks you slowly and he knows he’ll need to brace himself if he’s going to be inside of you. 

“More.” You sound breathy.

He gives you what you’re asking for. He pulls out before adding another finger, the stretch makes your hips lift, chasing the pleasure. You make noise after noise and he feels you getting close. The heat in your stomach draws inwards and crashes over you all at once. His fingers don’t stop moving inside of you until you push his wrist away, your knees drawing up together. 

His hand moves to draw you closer to him, holding you through your comedown. His fingers are wet against your side. When you come back into your body your face is flushed and your pupils are blown. Nobody has ever been more beautiful.

“Will you let me fuck you?” The question comes out smaller than he means it to.

“Are you sure?” You ask, voice soft and eyes watchful.

“Please,” He asks against your mouth.

You nod, nose brushing his. You kiss him then, your touch the softest he’s ever received.

Sitting back on his knees he unbuckles his belt and your desire deepens. He removes his jeans and his boxers before settling back on top of you, hesitant again.

“Okay?” You ask, watching his face.

“Yeah.” He says, as confidently as he can.

You roll your hips up then, catching his tip against your entrance. He makes an embarrassing noise, a high whine from the back of his throat. You don’t seem to mind though, lips chasing his as you move underneath him. His hips jerk enough against you to feel your cunt start to suck him in. He takes a deep breath in and holds it as he pushes all the way into you. He thinks he might pass out.

It’s so much; your tightness, your heat, his balls resting against you.

You kiss along his cheek, his jaw, and tell him gently to breathe. He doesn’t. He can’t, not yet, or else he’ll ruin this for you. He shifts, making a miniscule adjustment of his hips against yours, your comfort at the front of his mind. You sigh, breath warming the skin of his shoulder, and it feels like permission. 

Andrew pulls back before pushing back in once, twice, over and over, slow strokes finding a rhythm he can manage to breathe through. You’re so wet, the slide of your walls easing the tight fit. He makes a broken, depraved sound and you clench around him. He can’t stop himself from doing it again creating a beautiful feedback loop, him falling apart inside of you and you getting off on his desperation. 

You moan his name into his ear, against his neck. Andrew, like a plea. Andrew, like a surrender.

He fucks you faster, breath shakier. It’s overwhelming, the white hot feeling in the pit of his stomach, the cavern of wanting inside his chest.

“I can’t,” It’s distressing, trying to hold out but knowing he won’t be able to. “I need–”

“Give it to me baby,” You encourage, finding your own satisfaction in his pleasure.

It feels like he’s breaking. He’s never felt so undone, so held in his undoing.

“I can’t unless– I won’t–” His eyes are shut tight, breathing through clenched teeth to try and reign himself in even an inch.

“Cum for me Andrew– need it, need you so bad.” 

He wants to be good. He wants to be good but you’re so wet and you’re all he ever thinks about and you’re asking him to cum. He tries slowing his pace but it’s no good. His orgasm hits him like a car crash. His cock is twitches inside of you as he paints your cervix, hips pressed almost painfully hard into yours as he cums, releasing something like a sob. You kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, swallowing the sounds he makes, keeping him in this moment, tethering him to you.

He feels briefly incoherent, but he comes back to you, forehead once again pressed to yours, chests heaving in tandem. You’re cradling his jaw again, your thumbs wiping at his cheeks. He didn’t know he was crying. 

“I’m sorry.” He says, voice pitching.

You kiss him and shake your head.

“You were perfect.” 

“I didn’t make you cum.” He looks sick with worry above you and your heart breaks a little. 

“I don’t need to, baby. I’ve never been happier.”

His face makes a devastating expression and you gather him against you, keeping your hips locked.

“This is what I want, Andrew. Just this.” Your voice carries a conviction that reaches him through the chemical rush he hasn’t recovered from. “Just this, I promise.”

X

The morning after, Andrew is up before you. You wake up to cold sheets but you hear sound from down the hall. Meyer lemon and fresh air fill your apartment. Dappled sun seeps through your windows, warming your floors. You find Andrew kneeling, rag and cleaner in hand. He looks up when he hears you.

You stand at the edge of the room and you watch each other. He slips off the cleaning gloves, resting them on the coffee table nearby, and presses his palms down against his thighs. He doesn’t know what you would like him to do with himself. He barely knows what to do with himself on his own, other than try to be useful. He’s not under the impression that he’s being normal, he knows cleaning your television stand while you’re asleep is not how he’s supposed to act the morning after having sex with someone for the first time. He wants to be good. He just wants to be good.

Then you’re moving, approaching him with sure steps. And then you’re on the floor with him, kneeling to hug him, murmuring a good morning against his skin. You’re warm from sleep and leaning against him like you’ve decided that’s your spot now. He doesn’t move, letting you rest against him, rubbing your back as you settle. Your hair smells like your detergent, your skin still smells like sex.

Later in the day, after he’s dropped you off at home, he finds a florist shop with good reviews.

“A bouquet.” He said, by way of request and explanation to the florist.

Three dozen red roses are on your step when you get back from your day, dressed with baby’s breath and greens. Arranged in their own vase, they’re a little heavy to bring inside. 

You send him a message and a picture of them on your kitchen counter.

thank you andrew <3

He doesn’t answer, doesn’t think he has to. He’s glad you like them. He still feels sick, though. He doesn’t know whether the flowers were more of a thank you or an apology or a confession or an admission. No matter what they are, he’s just happy you’re happy.

X

It only takes a handful of small things to amount to a big problem on a job. Shit is quickly going sideways. Andrew keeps his cool, reminding his brothers to act before they can think. They’ve done this kind of run so much it’s muscle memory at this point. They make it out with exactly what they came for and a little less blood than they came with. The drive home is silent.

They file into the kitchen, Smurf waiting with desert plates and criticisms.

“What was that.” Smurf says in her way. Questions are never really questions. “You were sloppy.”

Andrew wants to protest, to remind everyone that he was the only one holding the splintering job together. Craig was careless and distracted, Deran was twitchy and eager to bolt the way he always is. But he takes his lashings and then some.

“You were distracted.” She stares at him and him only. “It’s that girl.”

Andrew is quiet. If there’s a lecture attached he just has to let it happen.

“She’s not like us, baby. She doesn’t belong here.”

“I know.” He says, because he does. He’s never wanted you here, not in this house or in this life. He’s held you away from it all because that’s never what he would want for you.

Smurf looks at him, cold and exacting and extractive. She sees exactly what he isn’t able to hide: his stupid, hopeful, bleeding heart.

“You could never be with her, you know that? You don’t belong out there having picnics and picking daisies.” She says, speaking down to the dream Andrew has kept hidden in the very back of his head for months, for his entire life. “This is it for you, Pope.”

His jaw clenches. He’s been told, ad nauseam, that his options are limited. That he’s only good for one thing. His mother, his brothers, his numerous associates and acquaintances; they all treat him with a kind of sad disinterest. A kind of fear and pity he’s never managed to grow a thick skin against.

You had never seen him like that. You had never treated him like that.

“Don’t be stupid.” Smurf murmurs, stepping closer to pull Andrew’s head to her shoulder. “She’ll only get hurt if you’re around.”

His hands are immoble, helpless at the ends of his arms. He knows what Smurf is saying. Andrew is to stop seeing you, or else she’ll be the reason harm will come your way. 

He was stupid for dreaming. Stupid for thinking that maybe there could be something else for him, an out after his years of devoted service. Smurf gets what Smurf wants. Andrew gets what Smurf allows.

His brain tries to solve things that week. He’s aloof and forlorn, noticeably more so than usual. He’s tallying numbers, playing out scenarios, counting odds. He thinks about how he could get out, where he could go, where you might be open to going with him. He considers the cash he has on hand, the money he could get together, what he’d need to get you both set up. He works through the long list of allies and enemies of the Cody family, figuring who would be sent after him, who might already be after him independently. He has ideas. What he does not have is time or secrecy.

Smurf joins him at the patio table one morning.

“I heard something went down over at that place Craig likes.” She offers this as conversation, as if it’s not a loaded gun, a threat being followed through.

Pope just looks at her.

“A robbery. The staff got pretty shaken up.”

He trembles. He feels rage. Very carefully, he stands from the table and turns to walk inside.

“Pope.”

He stops.

“You know what you need to do.”

Not a question.

He keeps walking. 

He stands in his room, feeling like his body is a stranger. As always, he feels more like the family dog instead of a son Smurf could love.

When Andrew punches the wall his knuckles don’t feel the impact. He feels just as dizzy and stupid and useless as when he was a kid. His life is not his own. How dare he entertain the idea that it might be.

X

The bruising around your eye is so much worse in person. You open the door with a smile and his heart drops. He feels ill.

“Andrew!” Your voice is bright, mismatched with the evidence of injury on your face.

Looking over your shoulder he can see that the roses are still on your counter, in the vase he picked because he wasn’t sure you’d have one big enough. They’ve only just now started wilting, after a week and a half.

“Are you okay?”

He keeps his hands firmly in his pockets, refusing to allow himself to hold your face, tilt it towards his.

“Oh, yeah, some guy came into the shop on Friday. It’s happened before, you know what the area can be like.” You look at him, no doubt or suspicion behind your eyes.

You don’t know. You don’t even have any idea that you’re hurt because of him. You don’t think he’s the reason that you and your coworkers were subjected to violence, were forced into a situation that did not ever have to happen.

He wants normalcy for you. He wants afternoon shifts and steady paychecks and flower bouquets and Saturday night dates. Ice cream and dinner and boardwalks, and a normal boyfriend with a normal family and normal problems. He’s not that. As much as he wants to be, he’s not that. Not now and, according to Smurf, likely not ever. 

Andrew opens his mouth.

“I won’t be around.” He says. Bad start. Too vague. 

Your brows pinch like you’re confused.

“You have to go? Like, away?”

He nods.

“Okay, when will you be back?”

He hesitates. “I won’t.”

Your head tilts.

“I can’t see you anymore.” He tries again. Better. Clearer.

“Is everything okay?” You ask in that soft tone, the one he only ever hears coming from you.

He doesn’t answer, eyes stuck on the vase over your shoulder.

“Did I do something?”

Of course you would think it was you. You’re good enough to see the good in Andrew before anything else.

“If I did something or if you feel overwhelmed you can tell me.” 

He feels like a feral animal that you’re offering the back of your hand to.

“I just can’t.”

“I don’t mind, Andrew. Do what you have to do, I’ll be here. I–”

“No.”

“Andrew,” You’re trying to reason with him. He can’t let you. “You– you know how I feel about you.”

He’d spent the last handful of months hoping. Hoping to see you again, hoping you’d let him near you, hoping he could be something to you, hoping you would still like him even after you got to know him. He’s wanted you, so much it hurt. He had hoped, fervently, that you felt any fraction of what he felt for you. He hadn’t dared believe it. And you can’t say it now, you can’t tell him you love him or he’ll make the wrong choice. He needs to go. There’s no other option.

“Whatever you think you feel for me, you don’t. You don’t know me, and you’re nothing like me.”

It’s like you flinch. Your mouth is tight, your eyes go wet.

You’re quiet for a long time. He doesn’t leave.

“This is about her isn’t it.”

“It’s not about Smurf.” He doesn’t look at you when he answers.

An impasse. You both know you’re right.

“What did she say to you?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But she said something.” 

“She always says something, it doesn’t matter.” He forces a deep breath. “You’re not going to see me again.”

Your chin crumples and his stomach begins to cannibalise itself.

“I have to go. Don’t wait around for me.”

“Andrew–”

“I’m serious,” He says, speaking with more bite than he’s ever used with you. “Don’t. I won’t come back.”

“But you said.” Your chest contracts, your throat hot. “You said I was– I thought I was important.”

Your voice lowers on the word important, embarrassed for having to say it. You feel pathetic. You’ve never been closer to begging in your life. You had felt it, you felt the way you were both on the precipice of something beautiful and delicate and binding. You were right there. You thought you had him. You thought it was a sure thing.

He says your name in a way you don’t understand. 

He still hasn’t left. He thinks he’s waiting for you to get angry. To yell or hit him or tell him what a fucking disappointment he is. He wants you to, he wants you to prove he’s right about himself. To prove he’s nothing more than mean and angry and helplessly inept. But you don’t. And that’s so much worse.

You’re still looking at him with gentleness somehow. Like you see him for what he is and you still want him. He doesn’t know how to handle the idea that you still want him. Not even that you might want him, that you do want him, even now while he’s making you cry. 

He takes a step back and your first tears fall. He turns before he loses his conviction, getting back into his truck without showing you his face.

X

You don’t expect to hear from him again. Men like Pope know how to disappear, how to erase fingerprints and traces. You move through the next five days in a daze, expecting to see his truck in front of your shop, your hands moving to call him before you remember. 

He sends you a text two weeks later, just your name and a comma after it, like he had sent the message before he finished writing it.

You don’t know what it means. 

You don’t hear from him again. 

Andrew knows you aren't flirting, knows you aren't interested in J. He knows, with absolute certainty, that if he walked over there right now, your face would light up the second you saw him. The problem isn't that he thinks you'll leave him for J. The problem is that he understands exactly why somebody would.

Because J is normal. Or at least as normal as any Cody gets.

J can hold a conversation without having to force the words out through gritted teeth, the words clogging at the back of his throat. J doesn’t bore his eyes into someone till the point that they leave. J’s hands don’t twitch when the noise around him gets too loud. J doesn’t scare people. Not in the way that Andrew does. 

Worse, J isn’t in his forties and still trying to figure out how to let somebody love him.

You laugh again, the soft sound carrying across the room to where he stands by the door. Andrew's jaw tightens.

Suddenly he's aware of every year between the two of you.

Maybe somebody your age would understand you better. Maybe somebody who hadn't spent their entire life emotionally stunted would know what to do with all your softness. Maybe somebody without blood permanently dried beneath their fingernails would be able to give you what you deserve.

Someone like J.

He's closer in age to you. He would understand half the words that come tumbling out of your mouth, all those strange little internet references, the videos you show him on your phone that leave him staring blankly while you laugh so hard tears gather in your eyes. 

Sometimes as you're sitting pressed against him on his couch, you'll mention a movie, a song, a memory from your childhood, and Andrew will realise he has absolutely no idea what you're talking about. Because while you were growing up, he was already well into adulthood. While you were discovering who you wanted to become, Andrew was learning how to survive another day. 

The poison bubbles in his chest. 

Andrew has always felt like in a room full of people, there’s some invisible barrier that separates him from them. Their eyes - if not widening in fear - skip past him, as though he isn’t even there. When he was growing up, the eyes used to follow Baz first. People gravitated towards him without effort, while Andrew simply existed beside him; a shadow, an extension, never quite anything on his own. As he grew older, he accepted it, the fact he'll always be on the other side of the window. 

So Andrew became Pope. He let others puppeteer his body.  

And he thinks, he knows, that you're the only person who's ever looked directly at him, through the wall, and seen something worth staying for. 

Which is why the sight of you with J hits him squarely in his chest.

What happens when you finally see him properly?

Not the version that opens doors for you or holds your hand as you enter his truck or kisses your tears when you cry. The real version. The broken and violent one. The one that's spent decades rotting from the inside out.

His jaw clenches so hard at the thought that a muscle pops out. Suddenly, it's too hard to breathe, every little noise a hammer hitting his brain, and anger rises up his chest. 

Before he can force himself to leave, before he can turn away and disappear into Deran’s office where nobody can look at him, you glance up. And see him. 

Your entire face lights up, a smile spreading so quickly across your features it almost hurts to look at.

You lift your hand and wave.

For one terrible second he wants to believe it, wants to believe he's worthy of it. Wants to believe somebody like you could really look at somebody like him and feel joy. Then his gaze flicks back to J.

The poison wins.

His lips press together, his shoulders lock. 

He needs to leave before his hands do something terrible. Before the poison inside him, clawing desperately for somewhere to go, spills onto J through bloody fists and broken bones. Before he solves another problem the only way he's ever really known how to.

And without a word, without even looking at you again, Andrew walks straight past you and J. 

It’s for your own good. You don’t need to see him like this any more than you have, you don’t need to suffer. 

Fuck.

Stop.

Andrew drags both hands over his face before clutching at his hair, head bowed.

The alley is quiet and cold, but it does little to soothe the fire in his chest. 

Sometimes, he thinks that you’ll never be able to stitch him up, not completely. Not in a way that cleanses him wholly, not in a way that sucks every toxin from his bloodstream.

And worse, sometimes, he thinks you'll keep trying anyway. That you'll dig your hands into him over and over again, trying to pull the poison out. 

And eventually you'll get sick too. Rotten from the effort of loving somebody like him. 

"Andrew?"

His eyes squeeze shut.

"Andrew, are you okay?"

He hears your footsteps approaching slowly, cautiously, the way somebody might approach a wounded animal. The thought makes the ugly thing in his stomach twist more. 

Your hand settles gently against his arm.

Andrew jerks away immediately.

The movement is sharp enough that your hand falls away completely. The poison gets louder, itching, clawing at the back of his throat.

The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.

“You sure J doesn't mind you comin' out here to talk to me?”

“What?”

Andrew can hear the sheer confusion in your voice. 

“You know what I mean,” he grits out. “You seemed pretty busy in there. Laughin’ with him. Talkin’. Probably about shit guys your age talk about.”

The second the words leave his mouth he hates them. Hates himself.

“What? No, he was telling me a story from high school. About smoking a joint behind the football stands.”

“Oh,” his laugh is humourless. “Now you're thinkin' about smokin' weed with him too?”

There’s a pause then, a long one. Andrew hates it. 

Say something. Save me. Suck the poison out, please.

“Andrew, look at me. Turn around.”

There's an edge to your voice now. His fingers twitch erratically on his side. 

But slowly, he turns around, looks directly into your eyes. They're still looking up at him with a softness he knows he doesn’t deserve.

“Andrew, honey,” you begin carefully, “I wasn't planning on smoking weed with him, okay? We were just talking.”

His throat tightens. Suddenly the softness in your voice, in your face is too much. You can see him. 

“Don't talk to me like that.”

Your face falls, brows creasing. Andrew hates himself more. 

“Like what?” 

“Like I’m some–,” He swallows hard. “Some kid that needs to be managed.”

“Andrew, I'm not doing that. I'm just telling you what happened.”

“You are.” 

The poison speaks for him.

There's nothing you can do. He's rotted, wretched, you're better without him. 

“I know I’m just some charity case to you or somethin’. Bet you were talkin’ about me with J.” 

He knows he sounds like a petulant child, the one he accuses you of considering him to be. He makes the mistake of keeping his eyes on yours, eyes that are brimming with tears.

“What?” Your voice comes out barely above a whisper. “Is that really what you think of me?”

Andrew presses his lips into a hard line, looks down at the ground. Immediately he wants to take it back, wants to hold your face in his palms and tell you no, everything he said was a lie and he’s just terrified this won't last and that you’ll leave him. 

But he won’t, he can’t say anything.

Saying it would mean admitting how terrified he actually is. And terror has always been harder for him to feel than anger.

“Andrew,” Your voice breaks slightly. “Tell me what’s wrong, please.”

He refuses to make eye contact with you, refuses to see the hurt he’s caused. 

But you are nothing if not insistent. 

“I think you're spiralling and pushing me away because you're scared,” you begin again, gently. “And I came out here because I care about you."

That makes his heart clench. Because that's the problem. You care, you care so much it hurts. And one day he's going to ruin that.

One day you're going to wake up and realise caring about Andrew Cody is exhausting. That no matter how hard you try, no matter how many nights you spend curled against his side or mornings tangled in his sheets, there will always be a pane of glass separating him from everybody else. No matter how much of himself he gives you, the same invisible barrier that's followed him his entire life will settle between the two of you too, and eventually you'll realise what everybody else already has. 

“You don't know what you're talkin' about,” his voice comes out harsher than he intends. “You think you do, with your degree, and your grades and your-your brain, but you don’t.”

Your breath hitches. 

But the poison is louder.

He needs to stop in the voices in his head. Needs to make them shut up.

He stalks up to you, close enough so you have to arch your neck to see him, close enough that he can see the slight tremble in your bottom lip.

“You'll never know me.”

He sees your face crumple. Your eyes widen in surprise before something hard settles over them.

“Fuck you, Andrew.”

The words come out shaking.

And then you turn and leave, the door swinging shut behind you.

He’s done it. He’s spread his poison onto you. The one good fucking thing in his life, he’s ruined it. 

That burst of emotion sparks in his chest, and suddenly it's too hard to breathe, to think. Suddenly he’s seventeen again and Baz has taken Julia away from him. Then Catherine. He feels that same awful feeling of something precious slipping through his fingers while he stands there powerless to stop it.

He closes his eyes to calm himself. 

Breathe. Just breathe.

Don't do something stupid. Don't do something Pope would do.

But all he sees are flashes of your eyes looking up tearfully at him. Tears that he caused. 

Poison, that’s what Andrew was. 

He paces along the alleyway, once, twice. Your expression replays over and over inside his skull. The confusion, the hurt, the disappointment.

On a loop. Again. And again.

“Fuck!”

The shout tears out of him. 

“Stop.”

He wills his brain to stop. For the feeling in his chest to loosen. 

“Stop.”

His hands knot in his hair.

“Stop.”

His voice cracks.

“Please stop.”

The memories don't listen. Your face keeps appearing. 

A harsh thud. Pain explodes across his knuckles.

For a second he doesn't even realise what happened.

Then he looks down.

Blood trickles over his fingers. The brick wall beside him is stained red.

The poison in his head softens immediately, the way it always does when he feels physical pain. It quietens to a dull roar, manageable now. 

He sucks in a slow breath in, then out. He rests his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes. He envisions your face, your smile on that picnic he took you on a week earlier.

Five months. Five months of being yours, and Andrew still occasionally caught himself looking at you when you weren’t paying attention, trying to understand what exactly happened. Trying to understand how somebody like you ended up choosing somebody like him. 

He'd made sandwiches. The ones with the jam you liked.

You'd spent the morning sitting on a lookout above Oceanside, the ocean stretching endlessly below.

You'd been lying on your back with your head resting on his arm while his fingers idly traced shapes against your wrist. He'd been quiet beside you, content to listen to the waves and your voice.

“I had this huge Greek mythology phase when I was like… fifteen.”

Andrew hummed beside you, faintly amused. 

“‘Course you did.”

You'd elbowed him lightly.

“Shut up. It was serious. I think I was just, like, coping with how much I felt.”

He glanced down at you, but said nothing. He liked listening to you talk. Liked how animated you got when something mattered to you.

“Orpheus and Eurydice destroyed me. I mean, people hate him. Like, oh, he ruined it, he turned back, he broke the rule, whatever. But–” You'd sighed, eyes fixed on the clouds drifting overhead. “I think it's one of the most human things. That he turned back.”

Andrew remembered watching you then. The way your fingers moved when you spoke. The crease that appeared between your brows when you were thinking.

“The most tragic version is the one where he makes it out. Fully,” you swallowed. “And he's just so excited to tell her about the sun. About what he saw. About life.”

Your voice softened.

“And she hadn't made it yet.”

A pause.

“So she disappeared. Because in trying to share something stupid and tender, he lost her.”

Silence hung, soft and breathless. Andrew often didn't know what to say when you talked about things like that, things that he had never heard of. But he liked it, seeing the way your brain worked. Your voice filled spaces that had spent most of his life empty.

You'd turned to look at him, expression suddenly sheepish.

“I don’t know. I just think– it makes sense to me. That kind of love.”

Andrew didn’t speak, just stared, giving the barest tilt of his mouth. And you warmed under the weight of it.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, shifting your head on his arm. “You know I talk a lot when I’m comfortable. I don’t mean to rant–”

“Don’t apologise.”

Your eyes had lifted to his. Andrew had thought about it for a second, searching for words to let you know that he understood you, valued you.

“It sounds like...” He'd paused. “Like he loved her so much she was all he could think about.”

You'd smiled, that soft one he’d secretly hoped was only reserved for him. Like he'd finally understood exactly what you meant, understood you. Something warm had settled beneath his ribs.

“Exactly.”

Then you reached up and brushed a curl behind his ear, your fingers grazing his skin.

Andrew had gone completely still. But he hadn't stopped you.

At the time he'd mostly been focused on you rather than the story itself, watching the way your face animated when you spoke about something you loved, but now the words come back to him with painful clarity.

A week ago, you'd been lying beside him talking about Orpheus, about a man so consumed by the thought of losing the person he loved that he reached for her too soon and lost her anyway.

Standing here in the alley, his knuckles split open and your tears still burned into the back of his eyelids, he realises he'd spent the entire night looking over his shoulder, waiting for proof that the worst thing he believed about himself was true. Waiting for proof that you'd eventually leave, that he wasn't enough.

For the first time all night the poison had quietened enough for him to see the truth.

You hadn't come outside because you were angry. You hadn't come outside to defend yourself. You'd come outside because you cared about him. You'd said his name softly, reached for him, and tried to pull him back from the edge he was standing on. 

And he'd looked at that woman standing there with tears gathering in her eyes and somehow chosen to believe the poison in his head over her. Somehow, impossibly, you'd looked at Andrew Cody and decided he was worth loving, and tonight he'd almost thrown that back in your face because he was too terrified to trust it.

“Fuck,” he whispered, clenching and unclenching his fist, letting the pain ground him.

And for the first time that night, Andrew wasn't just scared that you were going to leave him, he was scared that he'd actually given you a reason to as well.

Even after all these months, finding your way into Andrew's mind still feels like standing on the wrong side of a pane of glass, seeing him perfectly while never quite being able to reach him.

You wipe furiously at your face as you push back through the bar, keeping your head down and your eyes fixed on the floor, praying nobody, especially not J, notices the tears gathering faster than you can clear them away. Your chest feels tight, hollow and by the time you reach Deran's office you're already taking deep breaths. 

The door clicks shut behind you. You lean onto Deran’s desk and close your eyes, putting your head in your hands as you try to take deep breaths.

One breath. Then another. Then another.

But it doesn't help, because the words are still there.

You'll never know me.

The thing is, you've never wanted to possess Andrew. Never wanted to pry open every locked thing inside him or drag his secrets into the light. You've spent five months being patient, listening when he spoke, sitting beside him when he didn't, learning the shape of his silences as carefully as you'd learned the shape of his smile.

It's the fact that you came outside because you loved him, because you saw him spiralling and wanted to help, and somehow it still wasn't enough.

Somehow he looked at all the care you'd placed in his hands and decided you couldn't possibly mean it.

You'll never know me.

The words replay again. You squeeze your eyes shut.

Maybe that's the cruel part.

You know you'll never know all of him. No one ever fully knows another person.

Like no matter how softly you hold him, no matter how carefully you love him, there will always be some part of him standing on the other side of a locked door, convinced you'll leave eventually.

It’s worse because your mind immediately blames yourself, that the problem lies in you. The voices come back, the ones that whisper that maybe love is something you're always reaching for but never quite able to hold, that maybe you'll never be enough to make somebody stay.

As you inhale shakily, the door opens quietly in front of you.

You don't look up, even as you hear your name mumbled softly, the way Andrew only ever says it when he's scared.

Your chest tightens.

You hear the door click shut behind him, followed by the slow sound of his footsteps crossing the office, hesitant and careful.

You still refuse to look up, refuse to acknowledge him. 

“M'sorry.”

His voice cracks. The apology hurts almost as much as the argument.

“I’m so, so sorry.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your palms into them so hard you see little stars.

“I didn't mean that.”

You can’t help but let out a shaky laugh at that.

“But you did, Andrew. Maybe you didn't mean to hurt me, but you meant what you said.”

When you finally look up, his face is scrunched with distress, eyes glassy and red around the edges. His fists clench and unclench at his sides, fingers twitching restlessly as though he doesn't know what to do with himself.

You know he startles at tenderness sometimes, like somebody handed him something fragile and he's terrified he'll break it.

And you've been gentle.

God, you've been so gentle.

Because beneath all the rough edges and sharp words and anger sits the only man who's ever consistently been gentle with you.

The only man who's ever looked at your strange little tangents and endless thoughts and treated them like they mattered. And so it hurt, it hurt when he thought that you’ll leave him, that you’ll never be enough to understand him. 

“I understand you,” you whisper. “I do. I understand this ache inside of you, and how badly Smurf fucked you up, and why you think the things you do sometimes."

He sucks a breath in at that.

“And I care about you.”

Andrew's face crumples. You watch him take a step toward you.

Immediately, you lift a hand.

“No. Stay there.”

His entire body goes rigid.

You know that if he comes any closer right now you'll fold immediately, and there are things sitting inside your chest that need to come out first.

“You think you're the only person with things in their head?" you ask softly. "You think you're the only one who has a voice telling them awful things?”

His brow furrows in confusion. 

“I know it isn't the same as what you've been through. I know that.”

A tear slips free, and you wipe it away angrily. Your throat tightens.

“But I have things too. You know I do.”

Andrew's eyes never leave your face, pooling with tears now. Guilt. 

“You think that voice telling you people would be better off without you is unique?” Your voice breaks. “Andrew, I’ve spent most of my life feeling like I'll never be enough for anybody.”

“I spend so much time worrying that everybody eventually leaves. That eventually people get tired of me. That one day they're gonna wake up and realise I'm too much work.” 

Andrew closes his eyes, squeezing them shut like you've hit him.

“It’s why I've always felt like I was seen by you. And when you said that stuff tonight, when you said I'd be better off with somebody else, I just- I felt–,” your voice breaks. 

You cover your face again to muffle your sob. 

You hear Andrew moving across the room, ignoring your earlier instruction entirely.

He drops to his knees, hard, the sound reverberating in the quiet of the office. 

“Andrew, get up–”

“I’m sorry."

He presses his forehead against your chest, breath uneven. 

“M'so fucking sorry.”

You keep your head in your hands, not having the courage to look into his teary eyes. 

His arms wrap around your waist, tight.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” he whimpers into your chest. 

Again. And again. The words become increasingly broken each time they leave him.

“M’sorry, I didn't mean it.”

“But you did.”

“I know, I just–”

His voice cracks completely.

"I know."

You feel him press his face harder against you, like he's trying to disappear.

“Didn't want the poison gettin' on you.”

The words are muffled, barely audible. You still at that, at the thought that even in doing all that he was caring about you. 

His shoulders shake harder.

“Seeing you with J–”

He swallows, voice breaking off into a whimper.

“I just kept thinkin' you'd be better off with somebody like him.”

That gets your hands to fall away from your face immediately.

Your heart breaks, because somewhere along the way, Andrew had convinced himself that the way you loved him wasn't enough to drown out the things his own mind spat at him when it got quiet.

Both your hands come up to cradle his face, firm enough that he can't look away, your palms warm against his cheeks as you gently force his eyes back to yours.

“Andrew, honey, no.”

His eyes are red and wet when they meet yours, lashes clumped together with tears he's trying desperately not to let fall.

“Don't you do that," you whisper, your own voice breaking. “Don't you ever decide what I deserve for me.”

Your thumb brushes over his cheek gently.

“I chose you.”

His breath catches.

“I choose you.”

He whimpers, face scrunching up. For a long moment he simply stares up at you like that, like he's trying to fit the words somewhere inside himself, words that he’s felt never belong there. 

His lips press together and tremble. 

One tear slips free. Then another.

You wipe them away immediately with your thumbs, your heart aching at the way he instinctively turns his face into your touch, nuzzling into your palms. His hands come up to wrap around your wrists, holding them tight.

That’s when you look down and see it. Dark bruises are blooming across his right knuckles, the skin split and raw, fresh blood drying in the creases of his hand.

You gasp his name softly, “Andrew.”

You lift his hand carefully between both of yours, turning it over gently, your thumb barely brushing across the broken skin.

“Baby, what did you do?”

Shame floods his face immediately as he looks away from you, his brows furrowing. 

“I’m sorry.”

He tries to pull his hand away, ashamed, but you don't let him.

“Andrew, hey, it’s okay–”

“M'sorry," he repeats, his voice cracking this time. “I always ruin things. I don't... I don't know how not to.”

The end of his words dissolve into a shaky breath as he shakes his head. You feel your chest cave in.

“Hey,” you say softly, urging him to look up at you. “Hey, s'okay, honey. I’m not mad.”

You bring his injured hand up carefully, cradling it against your chest.

“Let me fix it, please. C'mon. Let me clean you up.”

Before you can move, his other hand comes up, clutching your wrist tightly, fingers suddenly tightening around you.

“Wait.”

His eyes search yours frantically. The panic returns to his face so quickly you feel your own heartbeat quicken.

“You're not gonna leave me... right?”

The question comes out as a broken whimper, so quiet that you can barely hear it.

“You're not- you're not gonna leave?” He repeats, voice a bit louder. 

Your heart shatters.

Without thinking, you move closer until your foreheads are touching, feeling his shaky breath fan your face, one hand cupping his cheek while the other remains wrapped around his bruised knuckles.

“No, Andrew.”

You brush your nose gently against his.

“Never.”

His eyes flutter shut. Yours do too. 

“Never,” you whisper again.

Andrew looks down at you as you kneel between his legs, your positions now switched on Deran's sofa. The first aid kit sits open beside you, strips of gauze and antiseptic scattered across the floor as you gently cradle his hand in both of yours, wiping away the dried blood from his knuckles with tenderness.

The noise inside his head has quietened now. Not disappeared. He isn't sure it ever truly will.

But the poison has retreated to something distant, a dull, hollow murmur instead of the deafening roar it had been only half an hour ago. Quiet enough that he can finally hear your breathing again. Quiet enough that he can watch the concentration etched across your face as you work without the voices twisting every expression into something sinister.

Your face is clear of judgement, or pity, only sheer understanding. 

Andrew thinks, maybe for the first time, that the glass between himself and the rest of the world has finally begun to crack. Before, even with you, there had always been pieces he'd kept tucked away, corners of himself he'd convinced himself were too ugly to survive the light. Not because he didn't trust you, but because he didn't know how not to.

Over the past five months he'd told you things he'd never imagined saying aloud. About Smurf. About Julia. About Cath. Words spoken in hushed whispers in the night with your bodies tangled under the sheets, his face buried safely in the crook of your neck or hidden against your chest where he didn't have to look at you while he spoke. You'd never rushed him. Never filled the silences. Just carded your fingers through his curls and listened until the shaking stopped.

But never like today. Never with him kneeling on the floor, arms wrapped around your waist, begging you not to leave him with tears in his eyes, looking like a frightened boy. 

The thought alone makes shame curl low in his stomach momentarily, before it dissolves into something warm, before it becomes poison.

He'd let you see him at his smallest, at his most frightened. 

And somehow… you'd stayed.

His eyes drift back down to your hands.

You dab carefully at another split across his knuckles before smoothing ointment over it with featherlight touches, treating him with the same gentleness you'd shown from the moment you walked into his life. Like he wasn’t something broken to something to recoil from, but something to hold a little more carefully.

He knows this conversation isn't over, knows that once when his brain isn’t so hazy, or yours so tired, you'll ask him about tonight. About the things he'd said, about the poison. About why seeing you laughing with someone else had unraveled him so completely.

But for the first time in his life, the thought doesn't fill him with dread.

Because he has faith that you'll listen, that you'll let him stumble over his words, pause for him, let him lose himself halfway through a sentence while your hand rests in his curls. That you'll answer with those soft, placating whispers that somehow never make him feel small.

It makes heat rush through him, down his spine, molten and hot. 

He tries not to get hard, but he can’t help it, not when you’d wrapped his bloody hands with such care. Especially not now, when you look up at him from under your lashes, and press a kiss so gentle and full of care against his bandaged knuckles. 

You see the tent in the pants as you drop his hand gently, and smile softly, smirk, even. Looking up at him, you rest your palms on his thighs, rubbing gentle circles over the denim.

Somehow, you always know what he wants without him saying it. 

“Do you want me to make you feel better Andrew?”

He nods, please.

He hadn't had sex with you, not yet, but you’d done other things, things involving his mouth pressed against you, lapping your slick, or your hand barely wrapping around him as you jerked him off. His relationship with sex and intimacy was always complicated, but you made him feel safe. 

You understood when he wanted to bury his fingers into you and exert his frustrations, be rough, but also when he wanted to quietly nuzzle his face into your breasts, licking, as you cooed at him. 

It felt nice, surrendering control, making something uncharacteristically warm bubble in his chest.  

“Words, Andrew,” you say more sternly. “Do you want me to suck you off?”

His cock twitches under his pants at your words, and he nods.

“Yes please, m’sorry.”

“No need to apologise, honey," you coo as you unzip his pants. He lifts up to help you pull them down along his boxers. 

Your breath hits his cock immediately as it slips out, slapping against his stomach. 

Fuck. 

He lets out a whine when you purse your lips and spit, a thin line of saliva connecting your mouth to his cock. You don’t break eye contact as you wrap a hand around him, spreading your saliva and precum down his length.

The poison becomes a dull thrum barely discernible as you slowly jerk him off. 

“Yeah, you like that Andrew?”

“It feels so- so good.”

“Good boy.”

His hips jerk up, cock throbbing. 

“Fuck, say it– say that again,” he whines.

“Say what?” you smirk as you bring your tongue down, lapping at his tip. “That you’re my good boy?”

He whimpers, the sound breaking into a loud moan as you slip him into your mouth.

“Fuck- s’warm.”

He has to force himself not to jerk up into your mouth, pleasure spiking, as you take him in, deeper, and deeper. 

You bob your head slowly, up and down his cock, fingers wrapped around what your mouth can’t fit. 

He clenches his fists on his sides in the gruelling effort to not touch you. 

You notice, somehow attuned to him even now, and take your mouth of him. 

“It’s okay baby, you can hold me,” you say, panting slightly as you gently bring his hands to your head. “Help me out. Be my good boy, c’mon.”

He groans, buries his hands in your hair, holding tight, as he slowly pushes your head down on him. 

“Just like that, fuck,” he moans. 

You suck him even harder, letting him control your movements over his cock. Spit dribbles down the corners of your mouth, onto his thighs.

“Fuck– fuck you feel s’good.”

You moan at his praise, the sound vibrating against his cock. He grunts as his hands guide you, his own thighs twitching.

Your eyes stay on his, reddening at the edges. And just as he feels like that bubble of pleasure is about to burst, you pull off suddenly.

He whines. 

You shush him gently, gently stroking him in your hands as you pant. 

“Don’t worry, keep going honey, okay?”

You press a kiss to his drooling tip, keeping your eyes on his.  

“I’m never gonna leave you.”

He moans your name, loud, closing his eyes. Fuck. 

You’re never going to leave him. 

He feels that familiar burst of heat, fingers flexing against your head, before his hands push you onto his cock again, hard. 

You gag slightly, but don't stop bobbing your head, and the sound turns him on more than it should.   

As he opens his eyes, he notices your hand has travelled down to between your legs.

Fuck, are you touching yourself?

The fast movement of your hands suggests that yes, you’ve got a hand buried in your cunt. The idea of sucking him off bringing you pleasure makes something hot shoot up his spine.

His hands tighten in your hair, a thumb rubbing your forehead.

“Fuck, m’gonna come, fuck!” 

He babbles curses as his hips jerk up once, twice, before he moans loudly and comes, face scrunched, staring at you the entire time. 

You twitch under him, moaning as his cum fills your mouth, some of it dribbling down the sides of your mouth. 

He leans back, panting. Silence, warmth fills the room.  

You slip him out from your mouth, and swallow before lapping at your hand and wiping your mouth. Cleaning yourself up. 

His cock twitches between his thighs as he pants, eyes boring into you.  

He can’t control it then, the urge to have you close. He wanted it, needed it.

“Take your clothes off and c’mere, please,” he grits out as he pats his thighs.

You nod, stripping and straddling him, thighs pressed on either side of him. He immediately wraps his arms around your waist, feeling your warmth.  

He leans in, pressing his forehead against yours as he breathes you in, your musk, him on you. 

You giggle against his lips, “You're like a puppy, you know?”

Warmth spreads across his cheeks. Even after rendering him speechless, after sucking him off, you still managed to make warmth bloom in his chest. 

He shakes his head, muttering a quiet “shut up” before he presses his lips to yours. 

You moan into his mouth, bringing your hands up, one cupping his face while the other buries itself in his curls. 

“Take your shirt off, please,” you whimper into his mouth. 

Without taking his eyes off yours, he grabs the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head before tossing it aside. The moment it's gone, he's reaching for you again, one arm tugging you closer. 

Your lips move against each other sloppily, unhurried. 

The poison retreats to a distant murmur, drowned beneath the weight of your presence until all that's left is you. Your hands in his hair. Your soft moans against his lips. Your tongue sliding against his.

His other hand drags down your breasts, your stomach, until he reaches your mound.

He sucks in a deep breath when he feels your slick, immediately rubbing slow circles on your clit.

“You’re so wet, baby. S’all for me?” He asks softly, seeking assurance even as he has you pressed against him.

You nod, eyes hazy.

“Yes Andrew, s'all for you, honey.”

His expression softens almost imperceptibly, the corners of his mouth threatening the smallest smile. The warmth blooming in his chest has nothing to do with his own desire and everything to do with being wanted, with being looked at as though there is nowhere else in the world you'd rather be.

“Gonna make you feel even better,” he mumbles as he brings his fingers to his mouth, sucking them to taste your slick. His cheeks hollow, and you whine, “please, please inside me Andrew.”

He smirks slowly at that, at how desperate you sound for him, as he brings his hand down. His thumb continues rubbing slow circles as he presses two fingers at your entrance. 

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

He pushes them in, and you let out a loud groan against him. Thrusting his fingers in and out against your warm walls, watching your face scrunching up in pleasure. His own cock twitches up, hardening under your ass.

Both of you pant against each other as he brings you closer and closer to your release, fingers speeding, jerks his own thighs up to rub his own cock against your soft skin. 

“Yeah, you like that?”

“Fuck– yes! Please don’t stop,” you moan as you grind your hips against his hand, riding his fingers. His hand tightens around your waist, guiding you.

AS he circles your clit faster, he presses his fingers against the spot inside you that always makes your back arch, makes you moan harder.

Andrew isn’t one to dirty talk too much, but he thinks of how gentle you were with him, how good you were to him, and the words just slip out.

“Such a good girl for me. My good girl.”

You moan, the loudest you have all night, eyes drooping as your hips move faster against him, hands tightening in his curls. 

He feels your cunt clench around him so tight he halts his movements. And then you come, pulsing around his fingers, brows furrowed and eyes closed. 

Fuck, his cock pulses, twitches. 

Seeing you reach your peak is always Andrew’s greatest pleasure, watching the way your face scrunches, the way your moans change their cadence. 

And he can’t help but lean forward, pressing his face against your neck, tears pooling in his eyes as his pleasure snaps, and he comes untouched. He thrusts up abruptly against your ass, groaning loudly as he covers it in his cum.  

The room falls quiet again as he slips his fingers out of gently, save for the sound of both of your pants.

You twitch against him, still catching your breath, and murmur a quiet, "come here." 

He lifts his head immediately at the sound of your voice, letting you guide him upward with gentle hands. You cup his face and press a slow, lingering kiss against his lips, your foreheads touching when you part.

Then your thumb brushes beneath his eye. He hadn't even realised tears had slipped as he came again. You wipe them away with impossible care, smiling at him as though they aren't something to be embarrassed by.

“M'not gonna leave you, yeah?" you whisper. His lashes flutter.

“Especially not for J.”

The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself.

“...Still don't like him,” he mutters.

You let out a little giggle, the sound small and tired and impossibly beautiful, before shaking your head and tucking your face into the crook of his neck.

One arm circles your waist, the other cradles the back of your head.

He buries his face in your hair and closes his eyes.

With the way he feels the poison quieten with you, with the way you understand him, maybe you could stitch him up, piece by piece. He’d still have scars, Smurf made sure of that, years of violence made sure of that. But maybe they didn't have to keep bleeding forever.

And maybe, a scarred thing can still be tended to, can still turn out to be how Andrew feels in moments like these, something dangerously close to whole.

Jack Abbot has the nicest lips you’ve ever kissed. 

And yes, maybe that would sound more profound if you had a wider frame of reference.

What you do have to compare him to amounts to a few teenage makeouts under splintered bleachers, some smattering of questionable judgment calls at frat parties, and then essentially nothing once medical school dragged your life into an alley and shot it dead.

Still. Even a limited sample can yield a clear, uncontestable result, and the result is Jack. 

Jack, whose kisses arrive so confidently, like he has never once doubted where his mouth belongs, golden and fizzing, like champagne left to bloom in the heat of summer while your whole body hitches in open-mouthed amazement just to feel it.

Even now, even when the cool air whispers in through the balcony door and skims over your legs beneath tangled sheets, raising goosebumps in delicate lines along your thighs. 

Jack notices instantly, the faintest smile warning against your lips as he shifts closer, chasing off the chill and dimming everything else until he is all you know.

When he kisses you again, it’s slower, lush and lazy, every nerve in you waking and stretching toward him, and when he pulls back, it’s only far enough that his lips barely graze the corner of your mouth.

Waiting, poised, always right there if you need more.

And you always seem to need more.

“C’mon,” he urges, his voice raspy from sleep, infused with a smugness you’d like to resent — because he knows he’s won this round. “Tell me again how much better I am than everyone else.”

You laugh before he can kiss it back out of you, a warm burst of affection filling in the little space between you.

“Such an ego trip,” you mutter softly. “But, unfortunately for literally every other man on earth, you are kind of ruining the curve here, Dr. Abbot.” 

“That’s what I thought.” 

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling anyway. “See, that confidence really shouldn’t be as attractive as it is —especially since you spent all last night watching Victoria and Samira scout alternatives for me.”

His fingers tense slightly against your waist, pulling you that much closer as his brows lift with genuine offense. “Should I have been worried?”

“Maybe a little,” you tease, unable to help yourself. “They were getting ambitious by the end there.”

He exhales, voice husky and low. “Let them get ambitious. They’ll just have to get used to being disappointed.”

You cant your head to the side and let your lips skim the sharp, firm line of his jaw, feeling the small catch in his breath as it happens.

That tiny lovely moment that reminds you all that swagger is something wonderfully human, something you can touch and affect and undo a little.

“They just don’t know the position’s already been monopolized.” 

“And it’s a position I’m extremely attached to, baby.” His lips twitch as his thumb keeps tracing small circles into your skin. “Although,” he murmurs, “there are a few other positions I’m equally invested in exploring with you.”

“Cheeky.”

The accusation loses most of its force when you can feel the tips of your ears burning.

You don’t wait for him to answer. That would only give him room to keep going, and he is very good at that, good at pressing exactly where you are weakest until you dissolve on contact. 

So you put a hand to him instead and guide him back, trading positions until his shoulders are against the mattress and he is looking up from the pillows.

He lets you do it without a fight (the only way you could manage it), only smiling as he runs his hands along your naked sides in long idle strokes until his palms settle against the valet of your chest.

After that you have to look away. Or rather, down. It’s easier to fold yourself against him than to hold his gaze when it gets like that, open and intent and almost too knowing.

Better to focus on the terrain of him. The freckles and beauty marks and scattered dark points across his skin that your fingers can follow and reorder into something legible. A constellation, naturally. Andromeda before they put her back up in the night sky where everyone could stare and nobody could touch. 

A sudden knock at the door jolts both of you apart, but you barely make it half an inch away from Jack before the door swings open anyway, accompanied by a voice you would recognize in any state of consciousness. 

“Babe, please tell me you’re awake, because we’ve all been dying to hear if you liked that guy from last night. Also, we found his Instagram and —” Victoria’s voice dies on the spot.

You make a tiny, strangled sound of pure horror.

Thankfully, Jack reacts for you, rolling you back into the mattress and yanking the sheet up over your head like that is somehow going to undo the last ten seconds instead of simply turning you into a very obvious person-shaped lump.

Which also doesn’t solve the larger issue, namely that there is a very naked senior attending what is meant to be your bed, in your room.

So much for plausible deniability.

“Oh,” Victoria says. Then, apparently finding that insufficiently expansive: “oh my god.” Beneath the sheet your face goes so hot it feels chemical. “Wow. This is —” She breaks off. You can practically hear the competing impulses at work: decorum on one side, unrestrained glee on the other. “I mean, congratulations, but also wow.”

Jack does not even have the decency to sound flustered. “Thanks.”

You sigh. At this point you’re not sure there’s really anything left to do but surrender gracefully to the smoking ruin of your secret. 

“Would you believe he’s just here for a really, really thorough rounds update?” you ask, peeking out from the sheets with what you feel is a very convincing amount of innocence. 

“On vacation?” she asks flatly. “Wow. Healthcare workers are getting more and more dedicated.”

Jack settles further back against the pillows. “Patient care never stops.”

Victoria presses her lips together tightly. It’s obvious she is fighting for her life not to laugh, and maybe not even fighting that hard.

“Right. Message received. I’m gonna give you two your privacy. Samira owes me forty bucks, so I need to go collect on that anyway.”

She slams the door shut behind her. 

You drop the sheet at last and look up at the ceiling, momentarily unable to imagine a more useful direction in which to direct your face.

“So,” you say, sitting up and giving Jack what you mean to be a stern glare, “I think the secret aspect of this relationship may be over.” 

He glances at you. “Did we even have a secret, really?”

“Maybe for like, a week.”

He kisses you again. The thesis remains intact. Jack Abbot has the nicest lips you’ve ever kissed, and now, apparently, that is no longer private research.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!