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your legs are wrapped around his waist, his arms cuddling you to him as he walks to his room. laying you on his cozy full sized bed; he’s been meaning to go up a size, but if he’s honest, he likes that you have to basically sleep on top of him when you sleep over. he places a palm on your belly, fingers sprawling against your torso as he catches his breath.

moving to sit up, you reach for him petulantly. but andrew shakes his head “n-no. no. wanna look at you. please-wanna… gotta see you first.” falling to his knees and kissing yours. he nuzzles into your thigh, calloused thumb rubbing against the soft, sensitive, untouched skin behind your calf and under your knee.

andrew inhales, having to stop his tongue from lulling out and drooling on you. kissing the center of your cotton panties, he licks over the fabric until his tongue burns with irritation. doesn’t bother him, never could.

after peeling your panties off you, taking his hands from off of the bedroom floor to aid you, he returns back to his knees. a sudden clap of skin reverberates, andrew yanking you closer to him— eye level to your weeping cunt.

his tender green eyes flicker across her, puffy and cute in the warm light of his house. andrew’s trying to steady his breathing, but he’s a bull in a china shop; traipsing through getting you naked while desperately fighting every instinct to tear you apart with his teeth.

you whine as his thumbs move to your lips, spreading you open for him & the cold, air conditioned air. andrew’s eyes shimmer, with tears or want, who knows? either way, he pouting, the tiniest pool of saliva forming on his inner lip. he squishes your lips together, an experimental pinch to put pressure on your clit.

“oh my- oh, andrew-” “she’s so pretty.. like her so much”

he’s entranced as he responds, sitting up on his knees in focus. he swirls his tongue in his mouth, breath still coming in hard as he watches you writhe. moving his right hand back to the floor, he pushes down on his cock, trying to mirror the earlier sensation he gave you. his left thumb moves to the hood of your cunt & his mouth fills with water again at the sight of your clit trembling.

“oh, hi, baby.” he whispers, more to her than you. pressing his palm down harder on his thick cock, andrew’s breathing turns shaky as he eyes you.

your hips buck up impatiently, the room feeling entirely too hot and personal. a sudden weight across your lower tummy stops you, “p-please. just a few more minutes, bun, okay?”

nodding, you lay back down, hands covering your eyes so you don’t cry– you’ve never wanted him this badly. he returns to your cunt, pressing his thumb up and down over the hood, moving the skin to hear you whine and watch your toes clench.

he sits back on his haunches, hands pressing your thighs to spread wider. you think that if he had stirrups he’d make you use them. but his hands are on his lap, just looking, eyes flickering back and forth, back and forth. he kisses your thighs, nuzzling his nose against them before speaking, almost to himself, “just love her so much. wanna stay here all the time.”

again his thumb pulls back the skin of your cunt, clit swollen and throbbing under his stare. from above, andrew rolls his tongue before dishing out a long glob of spit. he lets it glide down your clit, and you kick your legs in anticipation, subtly crying “andyyyy”

for a moment his eyes meet yours, a brief, romantic moment. he palms at himself, slack jawed as he watches your chest heave. but the moment ends very quickly once he catches sight of his bubbly saliva melting onto your pussy.

diving forward, he whines into you. andrew’s hands return to the floor, fists pushing down onto the hardwood to ground himself as his eyes flutter shut. swirling the glob of spit in his mouth, andrew circles your bud with his tongue— slurping it back up, just to pull back and spit on your cunt again. his pointer and middle finger framing & pulling you open as he wiggles his head side to side, drowning in you.

andrew breathes deeper, whining himself as his nose nuzzles deeper into your mound of hair. his face is pressed so tightly to you, there’s nowhere for you to move, really. in between long, thick stripes, he’s pulling back, again speaking to himself before diving right back in.

“oh my god. oh my- god, oh god.”

his right hand holds your ankle, teeth nipping at your lips before his tongue sloppily licks you from hole to clit.

wedging his face further into you, if even possible, you feel his tongue prod past your entrance– desperate, reaching motions.

it’s messy, a mix of andrew’s spit and your essence. his fingers move down to run over your manicured toes as he tilts his head to rest on your thigh, tongue never disconnecting once as he breaths through his nose.

the feeling of your foot clenching at his devotion sends him over the edge. cumming untouched, andrew surges forward, a loud “fuck!” crawling out of his chest.

but he doesn’t stop, just keeps devouring you. slurping and gulping and taking breaths as he rubs his tongue raw amidst the squelching. moaning into you like he’s overstimulated.

“i-i love you. love your pretty pussy, oh- oh my god you’re so good, she’s so good.”

leaning back on his haunches, he thumbs at your clit as you thrash. his arm is planted across the pudgy flesh of your lil tummy as he speaks. figure 8s, red cheeks and a wet chin, he licks his lips.

Spencer arrives twenty-three minutes early.

Not because he means to, or because he's particularly eager, or because he spent the entire drive second-guessing whether the navy tie looked better than the burgundy one.

Twenty-three minutes early is simply what happens when Spencer Reid is nervous.

The restaurant isn't busy yet. Early evening sunlight spills through the front windows, painting everything gold and warm. The hostess smiles when he gives his name, leading him to a small table near the window.

"Your date isn't here yet," she says.

The words make his stomach immediately perform a complicated gymnastic routine.

Your date. Right.

He thanks her, sits down, and immediately regrets sitting down.

His tie feels crooked. He adjusts it. Then adjusts it again. Then once more for good measure.

It's probably fine. It was fine the first time.

Spencer knows repeatedly adjusting it only increases the likelihood of making it worse.

That doesn't stop him.

The waiter brings water. Spencer thanks him.

He checks his watch. It's only been three minutes.

Wonderful. At this rate he'll experience approximately six hundred years before you arrive.

He takes a sip of water. Checks the door. Looks away. Checks the door again.

This is ridiculous.

He's thirty-eight years old. He's negotiated with serial killers. He's stared down armed suspects. He's survived situations that should have terrified him far more than a first date.

And yet somehow the prospect of meeting one woman from a dating app has him feeling sixteen.

His fingers tap against the table in an attempt to burn off some nervous energy.

The problem is, he already really likes you.

If he'd only exchanged a few messages with you, maybe this would be easier.

Instead, the two of you have spent weeks talking.

Weeks.

It started innocently enough. A few messages. A conversation about books. A debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza. A discussion about terrible movie adaptations.

Then suddenly it was two in the morning and he was smiling at his phone like an idiot.

Now he knows your favorite color. Your favorite coffee order. The name of the stuffed animal you had as a child. The fact that you always cry during animal rescue videos but refuse to cry during actual sad movies.

He knows dozens of tiny things. Enough to feel attached. Not enough to know whether you'll look at him and immediately realize he's awkward. Or too old. Or strange. Or all of the above.

His gaze drifts toward the window.

He doesn't want to, but he thinks about the absolute disaster that had been getting ready for tonight.

Spencer has never considered himself particularly fashionable.

He owns clothes. The clothes fit. Most of them are clean. Historically, that's been enough. Apparently not anymore.

His bedroom had looked like a crime scene by the time he'd left.

One involving button-down shirts.

The blue one had been too formal. The green one had felt too casual. The gray one had somehow made him look older, which had immediately been discarded for reasons he absolutely did not want to examine too closely.

Then there had been the sweater debate.

The sweater had lasted nearly twenty minutes. Because sweaters are approachable. But maybe too approachable.

Maybe they made him look like a professor. Which he technically was.

But he didn't want to look like your professor. That thought alone had nearly sent him spiraling.

Perhaps for the first time in his life, Spencer found himself acutely aware of every year he'd lived.

Every line at the corners of his eyes. Every indication that he'd spent decades working impossible hours and carrying impossible things.

He'd stood in front of the mirror staring at himself longer than he cared to admit.

Trying to see what you would see. Trying and failing.

The problem with being a profiler is that he's exceptionally good at analyzing other people.

Himself?

Not so much.

He'd almost texted you.

I don't know what people wear on first dates anymore.

Then he'd spent several minutes staring at the message before deleting it. Because somehow admitting he could discuss quantum mechanics but couldn't choose a shirt felt too embarrassing.

In the end, he'd settled on the navy tie. The white button-down. The charcoal jacket.

Simple. Safe. Reasonable.

Which meant he'd spent the entire drive wondering if he'd made the wrong choice.

And now, sitting at the table, he resists the urge to adjust his tie again. Mostly because he's fairly certain he'll accidentally strangle himself if he keeps touching it.

The restaurant door opens. His eyes lift automatically. His heart skips.

Not you. A middle-aged couple.

Spencer immediately looks away. Then silently wonders if you're doing the same thing.

If you're checking your reflection in the mirror one last time. If you're second-guessing your outfit. If you're nervous too.

The thought settles something warm in his chest.

Because maybe he's not the only one hoping reality lives up to weeks of late-night conversations. Maybe you're just as scared of being disappointed. Maybe you're just as excited. Maybe you're sitting in your car right now trying to gather the courage to walk inside.

That possibility makes him smile.

The restaurant door opens again. Spencer glances up automatically.

And this time, it's you.

For a moment, his brain simply stops working. Because somehow, impossibly, you look even prettier than your pictures.

Your photos had been beautiful. He'd stared at them often enough to know that.

The picture of you holding an iced coffee and squinting into the sun. The one with a dog you'd met at a park. The blurry selfie you'd sent after accidentally staying awake until three in the morning talking to him.

He knows those pictures. But they hadn't prepared him for this.

For the way you move. For your smile. For the warmth in your eyes when they find him across the restaurant. 

For the fact that you're real.

Not a collection of messages on a screen. Not a voice note. Not a photograph.

You.

Actually here.

His heart immediately forgets how it's supposed to function.

You spot him and smile. And Spencer is on his feet before he even realizes he's moving. The chair scrapes softly against the floor. 

Too fast. Definitely too fast.

Normal people don't stand up that quickly. Do they?

His hands immediately become a problem.

Should he wave? Put them in his pockets? No, that's weird.

Cross his arms? That's weirder.

Shake your hand? Absolutely not. Who shakes hands on a date?

For a horrifying second he becomes intensely aware of the existence of his hands.

They're just there. Attached to him. Doing nothing useful.

You reach the table before he figures out a solution.

"Hi." Your smile widens. The sound of your voice in person nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

It's familiar. And completely different. Warmer. Softer. Real.

"Hi." The word comes out slightly strangled.

Fantastic. Great start.

You don't seem to notice. Or if you do, you're kind enough not to mention it.

Spencer swallows. His brain desperately searches for something intelligent to say. 

Something charming. Something worthy of the countless conversations you've already shared. Instead, what comes out is:

"You look really pretty."

The second the words leave his mouth, he wants to die. Not because they're untrue. Because they're painfully, embarrassingly inadequate.

Pretty?

Pretty?

That's the best his vocabulary can do?

He knows over a hundred thousand words. And somehow his brain picked pretty.

But then you smile. A little surprised. A little shy.

And suddenly he doesn't care.

"Thank you," you say softly. "You look handsome."

Handsome.

The word lands somewhere directly in his chest.

Spencer is fairly certain nobody has ever called him handsome and survived the resulting internal catastrophe.

His face grows warm. Very warm. Dangerously warm.

You laugh quietly, the sound laced wtih fondness.

And somehow that's even worse. Or better. Possibly both.

"Can I tell you something?" you ask.

He nods immediately. "Of course."

"I was really nervous."

The confession catches him off guard. "You were?"

"Extremely." You glance down briefly before looking back up at him. "I sat in my car for like ten minutes."

Spencer stares.

Then, despite himself, laughs—bright and startled, relief flooding through him all at once.

"Really?"

"Really." You point at him. "And don't look so smug. You were probably nervous too."

Spencer presses his lips together. "I got here twenty-three minutes early."

The silence lasts approximately one second.

Then you're laughing again.

The sound fills the space between you. Easy. Comfortable. Familiar.

Like the two of you have been having this conversation for years instead of thirty seconds.

And just like that, some of the tension melts away.

Not all of it. His pulse is still racing. His palms are still slightly sweaty.

You're still so beautiful it's actively distracting.

But for the first time since arriving, Spencer feels something stronger than nerves.

Hope.

Because you're smiling at him the same way you smiled through your pictures. The same way you smiled through video calls. The same way you smiled whenever his messages made you laugh.

And as he pulls out your chair for you, he can't stop thinking one thing.

Thank God.

The crowd there was the worst he’d stood in front of, and he’d grown up in Smurf’s living room, so that was a measurement that meant something. Men who bet money they needed and meant to take the loss of someone’s skin. The air thick enough to chew, smoke and sweat and the bitterness of a room full of people who’d collectively decided this was the night their luck was going to turn. 

Pope wanted to lose just so they’d fuck off. 

It was run by a guy named Leo who’d met Craig at a party, late, both of them lit and certain they were about to make each other rich. Leo had the basement, the crowd, the connections that made cops uninterested, and a way of talking that made one-track-minded guys like Craig feel like they were cut in on something even as he was lifting your wallet. Pope didn’t trust him. Pope didn’t trust anybody, but he distrusted Leo with a specificity that felt like respect. 

Leo ran the place like a man who’d thought about every cent in a dollar twice. Nothing in that basement was there by accident, which was how Pope knew, eventually, that you weren’t either. 

The first night he didn’t put it together. He came up out of the third round with his ears ringing and his knuckles screaming and somebody pressed a wet rag to the back of his neck, and his body did what it always did. He came around with his elbow up and the words already out of his mouth. “Get the fuck off me.” 

You went still. You were crouched down close enough that he could see you’d done your eyes earlier in the night and they’d worn through, smudged soft at the corners, and that should have made you look tired and instead made you look like you’d been left out in the weather, gentled by it. There was a smear of someone else’s blood drying brown along your jaw—not yours, you didn’t have a mark on you, you were the only clean thing in a room built for ruining people—and you hadn’t wiped it off because your hands had been busy all night being careful with men who were far from deserving it. 

“Okay,” you said, and that was all. You stayed crouched in front of him, an arm’s length back now, holding the rag out where he could take it himself if he wanted it. 

He felt like garbage. It all arrived once, the way it did with him, fine one second and then sick with it. You couldn’t have been much more than a bucket and tape to anybody else in that room, just the girl who patched them up, and he’d snapped at you like you were one of the men in the room baying for his blood. 

He took the rag off your hands. 

And you just went back to it. You pulled his hand into both of yours like nothing had happened, like he hadn’t just shown you the worst of himself in the first ten seconds of knowing you, and started cleaning the wreck of his knuckles with a little furrow between your brows. Devotional, almost. Like his hand had been lent to you and you were supposed to return it in good condition. 

It was then he realized Leo had gotten way too lucky with you. He was sure you were used as nothing but a front. You were something soft to put at the edge of all that ugliness so men had a reason to keep their money in the room a little longer. A girl who patched up fighters, sure, but mostly a thing for them to look at, to crowd, to reach for between rounds. 

Pope wouldn’t admit it to Craig, or any of his brothers, ever, that the only reason he came back the next time was to see you again. He knew his words and then his sudden muteness probably made you read him as one more man to be careful around. He’d handed you that impression himself, and now he had to live inside it. 

The second night, you didn’t tend to him. There was another girl near the bucket—older, harder, a cigarette tucked behind her ear and no softness in her hands at all—and she did his corner between rounds like she was wiping off a dusty counter. Pope sat there and let her and looked for you over her shoulder the whole time, which was how he found you across the room, working the cash, the cigar box against your chest as your lips moved over the count. 

Pope hardly believed in coincidences. He was sure he’d snapped and you’d adjusted by putting a body between yourself and the man who’d shown his teeth. It was the smart thing. It was exactly what he’d have told you to do if he were anyone other than the man it was being done to. It sat in his chest all night like a swallowed stone, the understanding that he’d gotten precisely what he deserved and hated every second of it. 

He won. He always did; that was the whole problem with him, the thing that made his Craig rich now and him useful to Smurf and left Pope standing in basements full of people who wanted to watch him hurt somebody. The crowd howled, money changed hands, and Pope barely heard whatever Leo was saying because he was watching you seal the night’s take into a zip bag and press the air out of it with the flat of your hand carefully. 

He found you after, by the stairs, when the room had thinned to the stragglers and the smell of it had gone stale. He came up slow, hands where you could see them. 

“You drew the short straw last week,” he said, the words coming out of him too rehearsed, because that’s what he’d been doing since he noticed you and while getting his guts punched. “Patching me up.”

You looked up at him. Up close, your worn-soft eyes were tired. “I just asked Kate to take your corner tonight.”

So, not a coincidence. He’d already known, yet it did something ugly to him. He already had people who he’d known his entire life scared of him—brothers who were career criminals—and he’d made peace with it, like he had to with everything he couldn’t change. But it landed differently from you, because you didn’t have the years to back the wariness up. 

“Right,” he said, because what else was there to say?

You tilted your head, just slightly, and scanned his face like you were checking it for swelling. He knew there was none, not today. He still held still. He realized he’d have held still for anything you wanted to do to his face.

Whatever you were looking for, it seemed like you hadn’t found it. Or maybe you had. Your gaze caught on his mouth, under his jaw, and you clicked your tongue. 

“You’re not —” You shook your head faintly. “It’s easier,” you said finally, “to not get in the way of guys like you. That’s all. It’s nothing personal.” 

Guys like you. Jesus. He wanted to ask you what that meant, even though he knew. He was guys like him. He’d spent thirty-some years being exactly that. But he wanted, with an intensity that made no sense, to be not that to you. 

Any other guy would have let it go. A smarter man, a less stupid one, would’ve said that was a fair enough explanation and left you to your transparent zip bags and never come back to you unless you did to him. 

“It is though,” Pope said, voice too rough. “Personal. I wasn’t—right, after the third round.” The words, his voice, everything came out clumsy, and he briefly wondered if his eyes had dropped down his face and his nose had turned upside down. “You don’t have to put Kate—or whoever there. I’m not gonna—” He wasn’t sure how he wanted to end the sentence. “I’d rather it was you.” 

He suddenly felt like a complete idiot all over again when he watched your brows furrow slightly and your lips press together as you looked at him almost sadly. Then you let out a disbelieving chuckle as you shook your head as you twisted your neck slightly to look around. 

“Is this gonna be a problem?” you said, lowering your voice, glancing off to the side. Checking, he realized, who was still on the stairs, who might be close enough to hear. 

That was its own answer to a question he hadn’t been able to ask yet. It told him there were people you didn’t want knowing this, even though there was hardly a ‘this.’

“What?” Pope asked, playing dumb just so he could hear the words from you.

“You.” You brought your eyes back to him, and he felt slightly shaken as you pinned him with a glare that seemed almost gentle. “Saying things like that.” Your voice stayed even, but there was an edge working into it now. “I do my job here. I keep my head down—that’s better for me, okay?”

He didn’t get that. Not really. But he heard the need in it. 

“Nobody’s gonna bother you,” he said roughly. It came out flat and certain, it always did when he was truly sure of himself. “Not while I’m here.” 

You just looked at him like that again. “Go home, Pope—”

“Andrew,” he said, and he didn’t even know why he did. 

He hated that name just as much as Pope. It was just another thing Smurf had handed him that never fit anywhere in his growing life. To the room he was Pope. On the cards he counted, he was Pope. He’d been Pope so long he sometimes forgot there was anything under it. But he didn’t want to be Pope to you. Pope was guys like him. Pope was the thing on the cards coked-up wishful men put their money on. He had no clean self to offer you—God knew he didn’t—but he had the name hardly anybody used often, and so he gave you that, stupidly, like it’d be worth something to you. 

His pulse climbed into his throat. He had the sick, racing feeling he got right before things went sideways, the one that had been wrong about as often as it was right and that he'd never once been able to switch off. 

“Andrew,” you said, testing it quietly in your mouth, where Pope felt everything landed differently for some reason. And then you looked at him again, and said, “Go home, Andrew.” 

Thankfully, by some grace of God, Pope realized he may not have done it all wrong when you came to patch him up after the first round the following week. You dropped down onto the concrete in front of him with the bucket and the brown bottle and a roll of tape gone soft at the edges from your thumb. 

You took his hand like nothing had been said, as though the conversation on the stairs had been filed somewhere and this was the conclusion you’d come to on your own time, and Pope felt that he should let that be, instead of pointing it out. He’d learned that much, and tamped down the feeling like his entire week had paid off. 

“You lead with right too much,” you said, looking at his hands. “When you’re tired. You drop the left and lead with the right. That’s how they got your eyebrow.” 

Pope parted his lips and blinked. “You watch me?” 

“I watch the cash.” You pressed the tape down over his knuckle. “Fights are what make them move, but yeah.” You shrugged, and it was stiff. “You drop your left.”

Pope stayed silent for a moment, then asked, dumbly, “You a fighter?” 

It was meant to land as dry, a joke, but it never quite did with him. 

You let out the smallest of chuckles. “I watch men get hit everyday.” 

Pope swallowed, not sure how to respond to that. So he watched the top of your head instead, the part in your hair, the concentration you put into doing a job that probably paid no extra if you did it well. You wrapped him efficiently, all business now, and Pope felt that you’d closed a door he hadn’t realized you’d opened. 

It should have frustrated him. Instead, it made him want to earn that inch back slow, the way you’d coax anything that didn’t trust easy. He knew that wanting. He had it about a dog once, a half-feral thing that lived in the corners of the Cody Compound for a summer, that he’d fed in silence for weeks before it let him near. He’d never told anyone about that dog. He thought about it now, crouched-down you and careful tape, and didn’t enjoy what it told him about himself. 

“You’re done,” you said, and stood briskly. 

“Hey,” he said, the word coming out before he could think it. “Thanks.” 

You looked at him a second, and whatever you found in him, it earned him the corner of a smile. You must not have been used to being thanked very often. Pope flexed his wrapped hand, feeling something close to proudness. He wasn’t sure for what, exactly, but it felt good for the moment.

For three weeks, you rationed out small jokes that he was almost sure you didn’t realize were jokes, taped him up, and left Pope driving home with whatever you’d given him that night turning over in his chest. 

His fight hadn’t started yet. He leaned up against the support post by the stairs, hood up, trying to do everything he could to make himself look very still and very boring so the crowd would forget to look at him. From there, he had a clean line of the cash table, which meant he had a clean line on you, which was the actual reason he’d stood there. 

There was a man at your table. Big, going soft in the middle, a Lakers cap on backward and loose, oozing the sleazy confidence of someone past four beers and good judgement. He’d been talking to you a while, Pope noticed. You were wearing a smile aimed past his shoulder—a small, pleasant, and all around absent thing—and Pope watched you do it with a protective switch under his thumb. 

The man reached over and tucked a bill into your bra, slowly, like it was funny. Two fingers folded the bill below your collarbone, and you went rigid, smile staying in place while everything behind it moving.

You went somewhere way back behind your own eyes the way Pope had watched you go a dozen times, and the man laughed at his own joke and left his hand there a beat too long. 

The trouble with Pope was that most of the time, he never decided. One second he was against the post and the next he had the man’s wrist in his hand and he was bending it back off you, almost politely.

“Wrong,” Pope drawled, plucking the bill out of your collar with his free hand and pressed it to the man’s palm. He closed the man’s fingers over them. “Cash goes in the box.”

“The hell’re you —” The man turned to get a real look at him, and got the whole of him. The hood and the wrapped hands and Pope’s uncanny stillness, and Pope watched the recognition arrive, and the bluster went out of him like the air on your sealed bags. “Pope—hey, man. No harm. No harm.”

“Sure.” Pope let go of the wrist and the guy immediately melted back into the crowd. The whole thing had taken maybe nine seconds and Pope’s pulse hadn’t even climbed, which it should’ve, but some animal thing under him had considered this easy. 

“Why would you do that?” you said, voice quieting. 

“He had his hands on you.” His voice came out defensive, which he hated, because it made him understand that he’d done something wrong before he could even process it. “I’m not standing here watching some creep—”

“That was Reyes,” you said, like it meant something. It didn’t, not to Pope, and your face did something between fury and despair as he realized this. “He runs paper for Leo. You just—” You pressed your lips together and looked around quickly, the same way you’d done on the stairs except this time he could see real fear attached in it. “I don’t—I don’t need people thinking a Cody’s got a thing for me,” you finished, quieter. “You don’t.” 

“What if I—”

“You don’t, okay?” It came out sharper than you’d intended, and he saw how you caught it. “It’s fine. It’s no big deal.” You were already looking away, gathering the cash box against your chest, busying yourself. “I really am better when people don’t worry about me, Andrew.” 

You tucked a piece of hair back, gave him a quick, tired ghost of a smile that didn't reach anything, and stepped back into the crowd with your box like the last nine seconds could be put away with everything else you put away.

There was that horrible feeling tightening in his stomach again. He knew he’d done the right thing, but there was a frustration in him of being right about the wrong thing. The thing he’d done to help you had immediately become another thing for you to be frightened of, clean up, another man’s decision landing on your plate.

You’d probably spent your entire life cleaning up after other people’s choices and he’d just handed you one more.

He fought ugly and won ugly, which was somehow worse than losing altogether. The crowd got what it paid for and then some, and Pope walked out with a rib that clicked when he breathed and a cut over the eye he’d earned by leading with the right all night like the idiot you’d warned him not to be. 

He collected off Leo without a word. Pope wasn’t even sure why the guy even bothered to grin and laugh and talk to him while he counted the money; Pope had said around two words to him and won him more than two grand.

He didn’t bother hearing the compliments—the fake, complimenting bit to make sure he came back—and took his roll of cash and shoved it inside his pocket and left out the back. 

He went up the concrete steps, into the lot behind the building where the air was at least air instead of four hundred people breathing the same lungful. 

He leaned against the cinderblock wall in the dark, in the orange wash of one working lot light, and pressed the heel of his hand under the bad rib and breathed shallow and concentrated on not being anywhere, on going behind his own eyes the way he'd watched you do it, somewhere the night couldn't reach him.

The door opened and shut carefully, and the latter action made him not need to look to know. 

“You walked out without letting anybody look at that,” you said. 

“I’m fine.”

“No, I can tell,” you said drily, almost amused. Your footsteps came across the lot and stopped a few feet off, not crowding him—you never crowded him—and giving him the room he hadn’t asked for and needed anyway. “I basically heard your ribs.”

He huffed something close to a laugh. It pulled at the rib and he stopped. 

Your hands hovered around his body, like you were asking for permission to take a look without saying the words.

“Are you okay?” he asked, forcing the words out roughly. Because he needed to, it’d been gnawing at him for too long. “Is he hurting you?”

Your hands when still where they hovered. You took the rag instead, wet it from the bottle, and reached up to the cut over his eye as though he’d never asked the question. 

“Hold still,” you said. 

“That’s not—” He caught your wrist, palm loose around it, but he caught it. “I asked you something.” 

In the orange light, Pope could see the smudge of your makeup, dark and worn through around your eyes, and the rings on your fingers catching the light each time your hand moved. You let him hold your wrist without pulling away, your eyes dropping to his chest like you’d decided against looking at his face.

He could feel your pulse under his thumb, thrumming. He let go of your wrist with a sigh, and you stepped back into the work, dabbing at the cut, close enough he could feel the warmth coming off you. 

You said, after a moment, evenly, “Don’t try to help me.”

“Don’t try to help me.” 

“I didn’t say—”

“It’s written all over your face.” 

You pressed the rag a little harder than the cut needed and let you, kept his face still, watching yours. You narrowed your eyes at him when he didn’t react to the pressure, as though his stillness annoyed you. Pope didn’t know how you hadn’t realized he’d let you do anything. He’d let you press the rag as hard as you wanted and he’d sit there and take it. He’d stopped having a choice about it a while ago.

That, and the fact that your hands, so small compared to the enormity of him, were the furthest things from the worst he’d taken. 

“Are you trying to hurt me?” he asked, amused despite it all. 

“If I were, you’d know.” But the corner of your mouth tugged, just barely, before you caught it and put it away. You eased up on the rag. “Sorry.” 

“Don’t be.”

For a second, it felt easier between you two again. Then, you remembered yourself, and he watched as your lips pursed. 

“I mean it, though,” you said. “Don’t. Whatever you’re sitting there cooking up.”

“You don’t know what I’m cooking up.” 

“Andrew,” you said his name flatly, and he felt like a dog at how quickly it got his neck to tilt up to meet your eyes. You hadn’t even spoke and he was looking at you like you’d asked him a question he wanted to get correct. 

“You’re not the first one to try this,” you said softly. “It always goes the same way.” 

“Yeah?” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell me, then.” 

“Either he gets in over his head and screws up.” You wiped the last streak of blood from his brow, your hand coming to rest light against his face to hold him still. He leaned into your palm, the warmth of your hand and him moving into it like it was the most natural thing he’d ever done. 

One of your rings sat cool against his cheekbone and he felt that, too, the small contrast of it, cool metal and warm palm, and he was very aware you were still talking and he was having trouble with that. 

“ —or he sticks around for long enough to figure out it’s too much trouble, gets bored, and quits. He leaves, and either way I’m standing here worse than before,” you said, conversationally, and he did believe it was a tale as old as time for you. 

“I won’t get bored,” he managed to say. “I’m good at what I do.” 

“They all say that, too.” You smiled that sad, soft smile again. 

You took your hand back off his face and he felt the loss of it like air. He was already thinking about how to get you to put it back, which was probably the most pathetic thought he’d ever had, and he’d had some bad ones.

“When do you fight next? You shouldn’t, for a while. For your ribs.” 

He let you change the topic. He noticed you did that often.

“Next week, probably,” he said. “My brother’s already running his mouth about it.”

“Tell your brother your ribs are hurt.” You crouched to gather the bottle, the rag, the soft-edged tape, packing them back into the bucket.

“Where do you go? After this,” he asked.

He watched the careful machinery turn—watched you weigh whether it was a real question or a way in—and then something in you must've been too tired to keep the door shut, because you let it swing.

“Home. My mom’s,” you said. “She’s around, just—not a lot.” You gathered the bucket against your hip. “So it’s me and my brother mostly. He’s eleven.”

The whole shape of you tilted and resettled in the space of the word. Why you watched every dollar like it held something up. You weren't just keeping your own head down. You had a kid behind you, in the blind spot, where the room couldn't reach him.

“He know you’re here?” Pope asked.

“He thinks I wait tables.” The corner of your mouth went up, rueful. “Thinks I’m terrible at it. The tips are all over the place, so.” You shrugged. 

Pope cleared his throat. “Are they?” 

“This week, yeah,” you said. 

“Do you want to?” Pope found himself asking, “Wait tables.” 

You looked at him for a long moment that he almost thought you wouldn’t answer. “It’d be nice, I guess. To have steady cashflow and all that.” 

“Leo pays you enough?”

You shifted the bucket against your hips. “He doesn’t really—” You stopped yourself, then started again. “The tips are what they are.”

Pope hummed. “That cover everything?”

You looked at him sideways, catching what he was doing. “Most weeks,” you said hesitantly.

“This week?”

You looked off past him, and he watched you decide whether to say it. “My brother’s shoes split,” you said finally, and it’d come out in a small voice. “Bottom’s gone right through it, so.” You shrugged, making a small face as you pinched your eyes shut, like you hated saying it.  

Pope took the roll out of the jacket, thumbed off a fold of it without counting and held it out.

You looked at it, then at him. “No.” 

“For the kid.”

“Andrew.” 

“Take it.” He kept his hand out. “It’s shoes.” 

“That’s not—” You stopped. Your jaw worked. He could see all of it going on behind your face, the pride and the rule and the thing you'd spent the last few minutes telling him. “That’s just what I told you not to do.” 

“You said not to help you.” He pushed his hand further toward you. “This is shoes for a kid I never met.”

He watched your eyes rise to look at the sky and you shook your head. “You’re making this really hard.” 

He tipped his chin down. “Just take it. I don’t need it.”

You took it slow, your fingers closing over his for a second before they took the bills, and you didn't say thank you—he was glad, thanking him would’ve made it a transaction—you just held on to his hand a beat longer than you needed to, and breathed out, shaky, and let it go.

“Please don’t make this a thing,” you said, voice thick. “I can’t—I can’t say no to the money. I wish I could.” You looked at the bills in your hand. “I don’t wanna take things from you.” 

He felt himself shrug, eyeing the top of your head as you looked down. “I’d let you.” 

He’d meant to keep that to himself. Or he hadn’t. He didn’t really care, though. The money itself was nothing; what he’d just handed you was a rounding error, less than what his brothers dropped in a single night without blinking. It was the kind of number that moved in the Cody household without anyone thinking to count it; money they’d find between the cushions from five years ago. 

He had more coming in than he knew what to do with and nowhere clean to put it. You had a kid to help out with and yourself to take care of, and the situation was so simple it almost made him angry. 

It became a thing without either of you calling it one. It was a thing, in Pope’s mind, obviously, but he was sure that telling you would’ve spooked you and he wasn’t ready for that. 

You’d started taping him differently. Early on you’d wrapped him all brisk and businesslike, done before he’d thought of anything to say. He had to watch his words in general, but he had to try even harder with you, for he never wanted to say the wrong thing. Somewhere in those weeks, you slowed. You took longer than the wrap needed—smoothing the tape down twice when once would’ve held just fine, turning his hand over in both of yours to check the knuckles you’d already checked—and Pope started to pretend he didn’t notice. 

He’d sit on the folding chair with his hand lent out to you and watch the top of your head and feel his pulse come down out of his throat, slow, the dog talked off the thing. One night, he let his thumb find the inside of your wrist while you worked, resting there against the thrum of you.

He started taking on more fights and ending them earlier. He told himself it was because of his ribs, the cash, any of the reasons a man might want a thing over with. All of it when the reason was that when the basement emptied after, it was just the two of you, and Pope had started living for the after the same way men lived for the fight.

You started watching the fights now—not the cash, him—and he knew because one night he had a bad one, a hook he missed that snapped his head around. He looked for your face before he looked for anything else, and found you already wincing. 

Your hand had come up halfway to your mouth. You caught yourself and dropped it. But he’d seen it and carried it home for a week, a proof of what, he didn’t know.

Pope really, really hated asking Craig anything. He knew that he’d make him pay the toll one way or another. Sometimes by talking for forty minutes about something nobody asked about, or remembering the question to bring it up at the worst possible time. So Pope sat on it for a week; he iced the rib, didn’t fight, and drove past the ring twice without going in. He knew it was fucking pathetic.

Pope found Craig by the pool, sunburnt and shirtless and rolling something on a paper plate. 

“You know the girl,” Pope started, “at the ring, the one who does the cash?” 

He found that he wanted to keep your name to himself, in case Craig hadn’t already caught onto it. 

“Which one?” Craig asked without looking up.

“The one that does the cash, man.”

“There’s like three girls.” He licked the paper and twisted the end. “You gotta be more specific. There’s the older chick, the mean—”

“Younger. Quiet.” Pope forced his voice to stay even. “Patches people up.”

Craig looked up at him then, a slow grin spreading. “Ohhhh.” 

“Don’t.”

“No. No.” Craig held his hands up, waving them slightly, delighted. “Can’t believe you’re asking me about a girl, man.” 

“Forget it.” Pope turned to go.

“Hey—hey,” Craig said, standing from the lounger. “I’m messin’ with you. C’mon. What do you wanna know about her?” 

“Why’s she there?” 

Craig shrugged. “Pretty sure she owes Leo.”

“She owes Leo?” Pope asked, letting the surprise show in his voice. “For what?”

“Pretty sure she’s collateral.” Craig lit the thing, talking around it. “Some guy that was around. Dad. Stepdad. Who knows?” He waved the smoke out of his face. “Pretty sure she’s just workin’ the square until it pays itself off.”

“How much?” Pope asked immediately.

Craig rolled his eyes, shaking his head. “Don’t be stupid, man.”

“Just say it.”

“I’m not his accountant,” Craig said. “And she’s not worth it. It won’t work, and I’m pretty sure she’s been working there longer than she hasn’t.” 

Pope ignored that. “It’s not even hers,” he said, quietly, almost to himself. “She’s down there holding it for a guy who took off. Kid at home, no money, and she’s—”

He stopped talking once he noticed the amused and incredulous expression on Craig’s face. 

Craig’s hand moved to the side, waving vaguely in confusion. “She’s got a kid?”

“It’s her brother.”

“Jesus—how much have you talked to this chick?” Craig dragged a hand down his face. “Real talk. You go pay the guy off—say you even can, say he gives you a number and it’s a real one, which it won’t be—you know what happens? He realizes Pope Cody just dropped twenty grand on a girl who pours drinks and puts bandages on people.” He spread his hands. “Best case. Best case, man. We don’t know what else the guy’s got her doing. She’s been there a long time. Girls don’t stay in places like that just counting cash.” 

Pope felt his teeth grind. “She counts cash and she patches people up,” he said, tipping his chin down slightly to pin Craig with a glare. “That’s what she does.” 

Craig looked at him for a moment and shrugged. “Alright, man.” 

“And even if she—she doesn’t just do that. It doesn’t—” 

Pope’s jaw worked, and he had to look away from Craig. He had no words for it. It didn’t matter what you did in the basement, what Leo had you doing or what Craig was implying. You were still you, and Pope knew that. 

If the situation was larger, then Pope saw it as more of a reason to get you out, not less. That was the thing Craig wouldn’t understand. 

“It doesn’t change anything. For me,” Pope said flatly. “She shouldn’t be there, that’s all.” 

Craig’s lips opened like he wanted to say something, then caught the look on Pope’s face, and said, “Yeah, man. She probably shouldn’t.”

He’d hoped that Craig would never have to meet you, at least not in the way he did. 

It happened on a night Craig hadn’t wanted him there at all. Craig had come for the first few of Pope’s fight, and realized he actually didn’t have to see his older brother take down a man twice to know the money was good. He could simply hand over the bet and go do anything else with his night. So most weeks, he dropped his cash with people and disappeared upstairs and reappeared only to collect. 

This week, he hung around the edge of the ring, three beers in, restless, and that was how he was standing right there when Pope took a cut over the cheekbone bad enough you came down to the corner with your supplies before the round was properly called.

Craig noticed it. The dumb piece of shit. One second Pope had your hands on his face, turned away from the crowd so nobody would notice your closeness, and the next he could feel the exact attention of his brother sharpening as he moved down to catch the interaction.

You were too deep in the work to notice Craig, lips pressed flat, that furrow between your brows, going fast because the round was coming. “This one’s gonna scar if you keep splitting it open,” you murmured, tipping his head toward the light. “You’re doing it on purpose at this point. You’re gonna ruin this face.” 

“What do you think about this face?” Pope said before he could think the words through. 

You rolled your eyes, lifting a hand off his face just to smack his shoulder lightly before it went right back to the cut.

“You talk too much when you’re losing blood,” you lied, but the corner of your mouth had gone soft. “Hold still.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“You’re fishing.” You pressed the butterfly closed over his cheekbone, your thumb lingering there a half-second past the job, warm against his face, and you dropped your voice even though there was nobody close enough to hear. “Ask me again when you’re not bleeding on me and I’ll think about it.” 

He felt his mouth want to move closer to yours then, and he tamped down the urge. But he must’ve let something through because when his eyes flicked up over your shoulder, there was Craig, beer halfway to his mouth, forgotten. 

You followed his eyes, found Craig, and Craig found you. Your hand came off his face and your spine went straight. “You know him?” you asked, quietly, gathering your bottle and tape as you stepped back to a safe distance. 

Pope caught your wrist. “My brother. He’s nobody. He’s dumb.”

Your eyes went over the crowd that was distracted. “You tell him anything?”

“There somethin’ to say?” he asked, raising a brow that made him wince. 

You gave him a flat look, unimpressed by the deflection. “Don’t try to be cute.”

Pope generally blamed his anger on a rage that had been planted in him from a tender age. Smurf had put it there the way you put a seed in dirt—patient, deliberate, knowing exactly what it’d grow into—and then spent thirty years acting surprised at the sheer size of it. He never thought about it. Thinking about it wouldn’t beat it away. It was just there—low and perpetual—like a pilot light he’d learned to turn down because the alternative was what happened in the ring when he forgot to. 

He forgot to that night. It had nothing to do with the guy across from him. The guy was a nobody—some gym rat Leo had matched him with, all shoulders and bad footwork—and Pope would, on any other day, put him down clean in two rounds because there was no reason to make it ugly. But Pope had spent a week with a number he didn’t own and a plan he couldn’t run with yours and Craig’s voice saying ‘don’t.’ The whole impossibility of you had stacked up in his sternum with nowhere to go, and when the guy clipped him, caught him good across the mouth first, something in Pope just opened the valve. 

He didn’t remember most of it after, and that was how he knew it was bad. The parts that came back later were wrong-angled and too bright (the kid’s head snapping, the wet sound, the way the crowd’s noise changed, going from hungry to something quieter, pulled back). Crowds like this roared throughout all of it unless they were watching a man go somewhere they wanted to stay back from. 

Somebody got between them. There were hands on his chest and a referee he had no idea even existed shouting something and the guy on the concrete not getting up the way he was supposed to. Pope was standing over it with his chest heaving and knuckles split open through the wrap and no memory of the ninety seconds at all.

The crowd parted for him when he started walking and that should’ve told him something, the way grown men stepped out of his way. He'd looked for you on the way through.

He'd looked for you the way he always did, automatically, and he'd found you at the edge of the cash table with the box held up against your chest, and you'd been looking right back at him.

Pope was distantly and too closely—both at the same time, two things too large for him—able to register you hadn’t looked at him the way you usually did.

You'd looked at him the way the crowd had. You’d gone still and careful, your eyes wide and fixed on him like he was the thing in the room, the dangerous thing, and you'd held that box to your chest like it could go between you and him. Just for a second. Just one. Then you'd caught yourself and your face had closed over it, gone professional. 

He went upstairs, and into the gap behind the stairs where there was a cot and a mop sink. It smelled like bleach. He put his head against the cinderblock and slid down it to the floor and tried to get his breathing under whatever was happening in his chest. 

Pope let himself sit on the floor with his hands ruined, the pilot light still guttering too high, and he let the worst story about himself tell itself all the way through. You’d finally seen the actual thing. You’d patched him up and made jokes and told him things about yourself, and then you had to watch him nearly kill somebody over nothing, and now you knew. Now you looked at him the way everybody did, just the way his mother had intended. 

He heard the door open, and he had to shake his head even though he wasn’t sure you could see it. 

“Don’t,” he said, and his voice came out wrecked. “You don’t have to help me or anything. Go help the guy.”

“Andrew—”

“I mean it.” His hands hung between his knees, split and shaking, and he kept his eyes on them. “Go check on him. I don’t—I don’t need it.”

He heard the door shut behind you, and then your footsteps came across the little room. “He’s up,” you said. “He’s fine. He’s got people. Concussed, probably, but he’ll be fine.” You paused, then added, “I came back here for you.” 

That made his chest pull tighter. “Shouldn’t have.” 

You set the bucket down by his feet, and then you were crouching in front of him, and he could see the toes of those wrong gray shoes in the edge of his vision and still couldn't make himself look higher. “Can I have your hands?” 

“No.”

“They’re split to the bone. Andrew, give ‘em here.” 

He didn’t. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he sat there, and before he could stop himself, he asked, “Are you scared of me?”

You stayed silent for a second, and he felt his chest seize. Then, he felt your hand—cold to the touch—against his face, turning it gently so he’d look at you. He kept his eyes trained to the ground. 

“Look at me,” you said quietly. When he refused again, your thumb slid against his cheekbone. “I’m not.”

When he said nothing, you continued, “You scared me a little out there. But look at you, you’re hiding behind the stairs. C’mon. Scariest man alive.” 

He huffed and let his eyes come up anyway, finally, and you were just looking at him. “You mean that?” 

Your bottom lip pushed the top, and you looked at him as you tilted your head. “Yeah. I mean it.” 

The plainness of the words got him. You said that as though it cost you nothing to mean it when it was the most expensive thing anyone had handed him in years. You had no idea the things he’d done so many times they stopped feeling like anything at all. You’d seen one bad night. And he wanted to tell you that maybe you should have been scared.

He kept his mouth shut. He looked at you looking at him and decided, quietly and completely, that he was going to spend whatever time he had making sure you never had a reason to find out you were wrong.

You were close. You’d been close the entire time, crouched between his knees with your hand cold on his face, and he’d been waiting for you to flinch that he hadn’t realized how close you were.

He felt it now. Like always, he didn’t decide. The same broken wiring in him was pointing somewhere new, because one second he was looking at your mouth and the next his hand had come up, ruined knuckles and all, and curved around the back of your neck. 

He stopped a breath short to give you an inch, some last careful piece left in him left it up to you, hung there close enough that he could feel your breath go uneven, waiting to see if you’d close it. 

You did, soft, slower than he’d expected. He’d always been waiting for quickness and hardness, things that got over with, and instead your mouth settled against his and stayed. Your hand came up light along his jaw, and the split in his lip stung but he didn’t move away from it. He was sure he couldn’t have this without paying for it. 

His hand was still at the back of your neck, knuckles wrecked, and he held you there carefully, just keeping you close. His thumb moved once behind your ear. You made a small sound against his mouth and he felt it more than heard it, felt it go down through his chest.

Your fingers curling at the collar of his shirt, your breath warm and uneven against his cheek between kisses.

His rib ached when he leaned into you. He leaned in anyway. He could feel the warmth of you all down his front, your weight tipped against his knees, your other hand finding his ruined one where it sat between you and holding it. 

It felt like such a stark difference to how you usually held his hand, to clean it, Pope distantly thought.

You broke off to breathe, but neither of you went far. Your forehead hovered over his, and your breath stayed uneven against his mouth. He let his hands hesitantly drift down to your waist, letting his palms run over the shape of you. 

You let them, your waist, the dip of it, the warmth coming up through your shirt, and you watched him do it with your bottom lip caught between your teeth.

“Do you like this?” Pope asked, hesitance creeping into his voice despite how hard he tried to push it out. He hated how it came out, like he had no trust in himself. But he had to know—had to hear it—because he’d just spent too long thinking you’d seen the worst of him, and now you were warm in his hands and he couldn’t quite square the two.

Your mouth curved, soft, and you tipped your forehead down against his. 

“Yeah, Andrew,” you said, like it was obvious. “I like it.” 

Your thumb moved along his cheekbone, and he let his lashes flutter slightly at the feel of your skin against so many parts of him all at once. 

“Been liking you a while,” you added, lower, a little dry, a little shy. “If you wanna know.”

Pope’s hand tightened at your waist. “How long?” 

“Not saying,” you said, smiling when you kissed him again, and he felt it against his mouth, and that was better than the answer would've been anyway.

He kissed you slow at first and then not slow, his hand sliding up your spine to press you closer, the other still spread wide and certain at your hip. 

You shifted down into him and he broke off with a rough breath, forehead dropping to your shoulder, his grip going tight to hold you still.

“Hang on,” he managed to say, low against your collarbone. All the wanting you stacked up behind his ribs with nowhere left to go, and you were so warm and so real on his lap, and he was trying not to be what he always was, too much, too fast. 

“We don’t have to—” you started.

“I know,” he said, voice rough. He lifted his head to look at you. “I wanna. I just—” He pushed his lips around, trying to find the right words. “I don’t want you doing anything back here. In this building.” His thumb moved at your hip. “You’re better than this place.” 

Your hands pressed against his chest, and he registered the smallness of them against his broad frame, and you pulled yourself back slightly and let out a staggered breath. For a second, you looked at him. Stunned, almost, like the words hadn’t landed anywhere familiar, like nobody’d ever told you that before. He watched it cross your face quickly.

One of your hands left his chest and slid up, slid back, fingers pushing slow into the short hair at the nape of his neck, your nails digging light against his scalp. Your fingers worked through his hair and curled at the base of it, and the newness of the touch—the pure uselessness of it, a touch that wasn’t for anything—went through him like a current. 

It got a low and rough sound out of him and his eyes slid shut. His face went hot at the helplessness of it, a man his size coming apart under fingers in his hair, but he couldn't stop it and he didn't pull away. He pressed back into your hand instead, into the slow drag of your nails, chasing it.

“So are you,” you said quietly after a moment.

He fluttered his eyes open halfway. 

“Better than this place,” you clarified.

Pope’s mouth twitched, wanting to tell you he wasn’t. He wanted to tell you every single bad thing he’d ever done. He wanted to lay all of it down between you so you'd see he didn't belong anywhere clean, least of all up against you, you who had never chosen to work in this shithole, you who’d probably never hurt a goddamn fly. 

The words stayed sealed, because he had a feeling you’d hand them all back if he tried. 

“Come on,” he said instead. He shifted under you, wanting to ease into the position while having to force himself to move. “Get your stuff and clock out. I’ll drive you.”

You blinked. “Where?” 

He let out a short-lived laugh. “Wherever you want to go.”

You looked at him like he’d just done a trick. “I have to be home,” you said slowly. “My brother waits up.” 

“Alright.” Pope eased you off his lap, and got a hand against the cinderblock. “So I’ll take you home.”

“You don’t have to—” You were saying from the ground.

“C’mon.” 

He held a hand out to you, then you took it and let him pull you up.

Pope was uncomfortable about everything. His entire life, he’d been uncomfortable, whether it was in his own skin, in his house, in rooms full of people. So it came as no surprise when he had no fucking clue what to do with you. He hadn’t thought this far; he’d wanted to get you the hell out, not get you. And now you were here—or as here as you could’ve been—and he didn’t have the next part. Nobody had ever handed him a good thing and let him keep it. He kept waiting for the catch, turning his pockets out for the cost of it, and the cost wasn’t coming. And that was uncomfortable, waiting for a hit that never landed. 

So he did the only thing he thought he could’ve done, which was keep it quiet and keep it close. 

The cab of his truck. The back room after the basement emptied. Your mouth on his, his hands learning you slow, because he wanted to—Pope wanted to learn you the way other men wanted to win. It was the only ambition he’d ever had that belonged all to him. He wanted the map of you. He wanted to remember the exact spot in your ear that made your breath catch, that he’d found once on accident and gone back to like a man returning to the one warm room in a house that was freezing. The way you said his name, the real one—Andrew—that fit in nobody else’s mouth but yours. 

Pope had to be clear with himself about the fact that it was nothing like a life, even in his own head, because hoping for more than the thing in front of him was how you got hurt. 

When the basement ran late and your house was a long quiet drive, sometimes you’d let him take you back to his place instead, and you’d sleep there. You would actually sleep, hard and deep, in a way you’d once told him you couldn’t at your own home. 

He watched you sleep. He knew it was a strange thing to do but he did it anyway; propped on an elbow in the gray lights off the blinds, because it was the only time your face went all soft. Awake, even with him, you kept some of it back, the watching, the careful, the part of you that—like him—was always waiting for the next bad thing. 

Asleep, you let it all go. You looked younger, and Pope thought this was how you would’ve looked all the time had the world dealt you a different house. 

He must’ve shifted, or his breathing must’ve changed, because your eyes cracked open. You found him in the dark, found him watching you, and your mouth curved, slow and sleep-heavy.

“Creep,” you mumbled into the pillow. 

“Yeah,” Pope said in a whisper. 

You shifted toward him, unhurried, still half in sleep, and your hand came up to his jaw as your fingers traced the line of it. 

“You don’t sleep,” you murmured. You’d noticed it weeks ago.

“No.”

“C’mere, then,” you said, rough, tugging lightly at his jaw, and he came. 

He kissed you slow.

He always started slow—it was the only speed he trusted himself at—and you let him have it slow for a minute, warm and half-asleep against his mouth. Then you weren’t half-asleep anymore, he felt the change in you as your hand slid back into his hair and curled and pulled. The sound that the pull had dragged out of him was embarrassing.

“Quiet,” you breathed against his mouth, throwing his own word back at him—I can be quiet, he’d said once—and he huffed a rough laugh into the crook of your neck and got a hand spread wide and certain against the small of your back to pull you flush against him. 

Your leg hooked over his and your breath went uneven against his ear, and Pope allowed himself to stop thinking.

He dragged his mouth down your throat, slow, to the soft place that made your breath catch, the spot he'd mapped weeks ago and gone back to since like the one warm room in a freezing house. Got there. He felt you go boneless and then not boneless, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips shifting against his, and he made a low sound into your skin and pressed you down into the mattress with the careful weight of him.

“Andrew,” you said, rough against his collarbone. 

“Yes?” He lifted his head to look at you, and found you already looking at him. 

Your hair was loose around your face and your lips were swollen and your eyes were dark. Pope felt a sort of satisfaction he’d never felt before knowing he’d done that, that you’d come to his bed neat and composed and he’d taken you apart this much already.

Your hand still in his hair tugged him down to your ear. “Take my shirt off.” 

He went still for a second, eyes closing at the words, then he regained himself and pulled back enough to look at you. 

You lifted your arms. He got it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then he just stopped, brain short-circuiting as his body immediately reacted, shifting underneath you. His hand came up and hovered over your bare waist, not quite touching, just close. Deciding where to start.

His hand settled finally, warm and certain against your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breasts. He let out a shaky breath. “You’re so pretty,” he murmured. 

You let out a soft breath, and he let his thumb move, again, slow, up and he rubbed over the swell of your breasts through the bra, watching your face with his whole attention.

He pushed himself up onto one elbow to get a better look at you and you let him, lying there with your hair spread out and your eyes on his face. He took his time, and he could tell it made you want to squirm, and his free hand settled on your hip, holding you still. 

“Come here,” you said softly, reaching for him. 

“In a minute.” His thumb traced the underwire of your bra, following the curve of it. His eyes followed his own hand and his jaw was tight the way it got when he was concentrating. 

“Andrew.” 

“Give me a minute.” His mouth came down on your sternum and pressed there, warm, just breathing for a second, his hand still moving over your ribs, your waist, the dip of it. His lips moved to the curve of your breast, the soft skin at the edge of the fabric, and you felt his breath go unsteady against you.

“Can I—” he started.

“Yes.”

He reached around you, unclipped it with one hand—slightly clumsy, which was so unlike him—and drew it off you slowly, and then he just stopped again, forgetting how to move when he looked at you.

His mouth found you properly then, warm and slow, and you let your head tip back and your hand tighten in his hair and he made a low sound against you.

He worked his way back up to your throat, your jaw, found your mouth again, and kissed you slow until your hands were pulling at him and your hips were shifting and you’d stopped being patient entirely. 

You pressed at his chest. He went, rolling onto his back and taking you with him, and you sat up over him in the gray light and watched his face as you settled your weight down against him, and his hands went to your thighs and gripped and his eyes went briefly shut.

You leaned down and kissed him once, soft. Then his jaw, his throat, the way he'd done to you, finding the places that changed his breathing.

His hands moved up your back, down again, restless, unable to settle. You felt him swallow when your mouth reached his collarbone.

You moved lower. His stomach tightened under your mouth and his hand came up to your hair, resting there, heavy and warm, the way he did everything when he was trying to hold himself back. You looked up at him from where you were and found him already looking down at you, jaw tight, throat working.

“Are you—”

“Mhm.” 

You got his briefs off and he lifted his hips to help you without being asked, which made you press your lips together against a smile. You settled between his thighs and took him inside your hand first, and he let out a shaky, breathless sound as your fingers tightened around his length, small fingers tugging slightly. 

You shifted down, and pressed your lips to the inside of his thigh first, just to feel him react, Pope understood. His whole leg went rigid under your lips. You stayed there a moment, and his fingers curled in your hair out of impatience he wasn’t proud of at all.

“C’mon, hey—”

You did it again, the other side, taking your time, and heard him exhale hard through his nose.

Then, you started from the bottom, tongue gliding over him, base to tip, and Pope’s jaw dropped open and stopped pretending he wanted any sort of control in this situation. 

His hands fisted in your hair. Not pushing—he wasn’t going to do that—but holding on, because he really, really needed something to hold onto and you were it, you were all of it, had been all of it for months, and now you had your mouth on him and your small hand wrapped around the base of him while looking through your lashes at him like you knew exactly what you were doing to him—you absolutely did—and he wanted to do nothing about it except lie there and take it.

You took him into your mouth properly and his hips came off the mattress before he caught them, hand pressing down against his own stomach, jaw locked.

“Christ—” It came out mangled, just sound.

You set a pace that was sure to kill him, so deliberate with everything and focused attention on him entirely, and he had the distant thought that he’d never been on the receiving end of attention like this. His thighs tensed around you and his free hand found the sheets.

You pulled off just enough to say ‘don’t’ when his forearm moved toward his face, and he dropped it back, exposed, staring at the ceiling, throat working. Your hand worked what your mouth couldn’t, and he felt his vision go slightly sideways, hand in your hair tightening involuntarily, fingers curling against your scalp. 

“Let me—” He stopped when he noticed how wrecked he sounded, barely his own voice. His grip tugged you up. “Can you—Can I—”

He stumbled over the words, but you still moved up. 

You settled over him, knees either sides of his hips, and he got his hands on your waist immediately. His chest was heaving and he was sure he looked completely undone.

“Can I—” he tried again. His thumb moved against your hip, pleadingly. “I need to—” He tried again. “Will you—”

You looked down at him. “Are you asking me something?” 

“Yeah.” His jaw tightened. “Trying to.” 

“So ask.” 

He took in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the flesh of your ass. “Can I be inside you?” 

You held his eyes a second. “Yeah,” you said. “Yeah.”

The sound he let out at that was quiet and involuntary and you felt it in your sternum. His eyes closed for just a second, like he needed that, you saying it had done something to him before anything had even happened yet.

You reached between you and his breath caught audibly, hands tightening on your hips, feeling it happen, needing to feel it happen somewhere in his palms.

You sank down onto him slow and his head went back and his throat worked and his hands on your hips pulled you down the last inch with a low, helpless sound that he clearly hadn't planned on making.

He’d never felt this way before, so all-encompassed. You were so warm and close in way the months of wanting had never prepared him for, your hands braced on his chest, your weight settled on his lap, and he could feel your pulse where you were joined and his own pulse and everywhere else.

He stayed there a second, both hands spread wide on your hips, breathing. 

“You okay?” you asked, quiet.

“One second.”

You gave him the second. He sat up after that, and his arm banded around your waist and pulled you flush against him and that made you gasp, hands grabbing at his shoulders, his neck.

He was so much bigger than you like this, your knees hardly finding the mattress either side of him, and he held you there, mouth finding your throat.

“Do you like this?” he asked into your skin.

“Yes—yeah,” you said, slightly breathless. 

He bit down lightly at your pulse point, just enough, and your nails raked down his back in response, and the sound that got out of him was dark and satisfied, his hips rolling up into you slow and deliberate.

His hips set a pace after that, one hand spread flat against your lower back holding you exactly where he wanted you, the other gripping your hip, guiding you down to meet each roll of his hips. You could feel everything. He made sure of it, and he knew by the way your walls clamped down on him.

“Andrew—”

“Feels so good,” he said through a groan, mouth set on your throat. “You feel so good.” 

Your nails found his back again and he groaned into your neck and his hips stuttered, losing the rhythm for just a second before he found it again, deeper this time, and you made a sound against his shoulder that you felt him collect, felt him file away, his arm tightening around you in response.

“That good?” he murmured.

“It’s—” you started, breath catching. 

“Yeah?” His hand moved from your hip to the small of your back, adjusting the angle, pressing you down onto him, and whatever you'd been trying to say dissolved entirely into something that wasn't words at all. “There?” 

“Jesus, Andrew—” you said, a punch in your words as he pushed you down onto him. “Where’d you learn this?”

He pulled back to look at your face, and the look on his was almost amused, almost, underneath all the want. “Just wanna make you feel good,” he said, “with me.” 

Your hands coming up to his face without deciding to, cupping his jaw, and he turned into it immediately, that same helpless lean he always did when you put your hands on his face, like he couldn't help it, like you'd found the one soft spot in him nobody else had ever found.

You kissed him then, different from the others — slower, more deliberate, saying something you didn't have words for yet, and he kissed you back the same way, his pace going slow and deep and unhurried, like the night had gotten longer suddenly, like neither of you were going anywhere.

His forehead dropped to yours when you broke off, both of you breathing uneven, his hand moving up your spine, vertebra by vertebra, just feeling you.

“You with me?” he murmured.

“Yeah,” you said. “I am.”

His hand pressed you further into him, like there was any space. “Promise me.” 

It came out rougher than he meant, needier than he'd have liked, and he felt it land between you in the dark and couldn't take it back and didn't try.

You looked up at him. Whatever you found in his face made yours go soft. “Promise,” you said.

He exhaled against your mouth and his hips rolled forward and you made a small sound and your hands slid up into his hair, pulling, and whatever had gone tender between you tipped back into heat, his pace picking up, deeper now, one hand gripping the headboard above you and the other finding your hip, holding you where he wanted you.

Pope had come to the basement earlier, before his fight. He had no good reason for it—the fight was in an hour, the place was half-empty, the crowd still trickling in—but he’d gotten restless at the apartment and figured he’d find you early, steal a few minutes before the room filled up. 

He came down the concrete stairs and heard Leo’s voice before he saw anything, and the sound of it stopped Pope three steps from the bottom. Pope had never once in his life heard the guy yell, lose control, and the voice coming up was low and almost patient, like you’d talk to a child or a dog. 

“ —count it again,” Leo was saying. “‘Cause I counted it, and I’m coming up short. That’s a problem, you know that, right?”

“I counted it three times,” you said, your voice flat and so, so careful it gnawed at him. “It’s all here. I swear, it’s all—”

“Don’t swear to me, sweetheart. Count.” 

Pope came down the last steps quiet. You were at the cash table with the box open in front of you and your hands unsteady on the bills. Leo was standing close to you, like that was the point—looming, using the size of himself—as he crowded you back against the table. He was making you do the math all out in a flat, dead voice, your shoulders up around your ears, and Pope watched you flinch when Leo shifted his weight even though the guy hadn’t done anything.

“You’re light,” Leo said, soft. “You’re light and you’re trying to swear. You know what happens to my count when one of my girls gets light.” He let his words hang, tilting his head. “It comes out of the square. Adds to it. You’re going backwards, sweetheart, after all this time. Going the wrong direction.”

Leo reached and took your jaw in his hand—almost gently, tipping your face up out of the count—and your body went still, and that was the second you saw Pope behind Leo’s shoulder. 

“Don’t touch her,” Pope said, without thinking about it. 

Leo turned, unhurried, his hand still loose at your jaw before he let it drop, on his own time. He was making a point of it, Pope realized. “It’s off.” He spread the hand, easy, showing him. “See? We’re just talking. Business.” 

Then, he turned to look at you, chin tipping down. “You really messing around with this guy? I thought it was just people making shit up.” 

“People talk—” you started to say.

“You were just waitin’ around for some rich guy to come along?” He looked at you, shaking his head. “That it?” Then, he turned to Pope. “She could’ve gotten out a lot earlier—you know that right?” He shook his head, like he was disappointed. “Could’ve taken the back room, cut the number down to nothing in a couple months. Easy. Plenty of guys asking. But no, she just wanted to do it the long way.” He tipped his chin at Pope, lazy. “—And then go and give it away to you. For free.”

Pope’s pulse should’ve been climbing. It had gone flat and slow and cold. “Watch your mouth.”

“Or what?” He asked, almost fond. “You gonna—”

The gun was out before he decided to pull it. His hand went to the small of his back and came around and then the thing was there, level, steady, muzzle a few inches off Leo’s forehead. 

The guy stopped smiling. He didn’t flinch—Pope gave him that—but he went very slow, very careful, his hands drifting up off his sides. His palms were loose and open.

“Okay,” Leo said, quiet now. “Okay. Easy.”

“Are you kidding me?” Pope muttered, shaking his head. “You don’t have a damn gun on you?” 

“I don’t need a gun in my own place,” he said through gritted teeth. His eyes flicked to the stairs, then back to the muzzle. “You wanna put that down before you get stupid over nothing?”

He’d half-hoped that Leo would’ve been carrying, show any sign that he felt afraid. “Her number. Say it.”

“That’s not—” He huffed, almost a laugh, disbelieving. “That’s not how—there’s a process to this, there’s people I gotta answer to.”

Pope’s lips flattened, eyes flicking to the ceiling, annoyed. “You know I’ll do it, man. I don’t care enough not to.” 

Leo’s smile dropped then. “Half the room’s had their hands on her, you know that? She’s not somebody’s girlfriend, man. The second she doesn’t need either of us, she’s not looking back at you any more than she’s looking back at me.” 

Pope let out a short chuckle. “Now you’re getting whatever I’ve got in my pocket or I’m shooting. Your call.” 

“You’re making a mistake,” the guy said, his last call, Pope realized. “You can’t pull a gun on me and —”

“That’s tomorrow’s problem.” Pope’s hand stayed still. “Right now, you take the money, she’s square, she walks.” His head tipped, slight. “Say yes, man. You’re a smart guy. Say yes.” Pope nudged the gun slightly further into his head. He leaned his head closer to the guy’s ear, voice dropping into a register that would’ve been too low for you to hear. “I’ve put people down for less than this. You know that.”

Leo took a beat. “Fine.” The word came out flat, bitten-off. “Fine. The money. She’s square. Get it out slow, I don’t want your fucking hand movin’ fast near me.”

Pope reached into his jacket with his off hand—the gun never leaving Leo's face—and pulled the roll, the whole fight roll, thick and rubber-banded, and tossed it onto the table by the box. It landed heavy. Leo didn't look at it. He kept his eyes on Pope, and his hands stayed up, and the deal sat there in the dead air between them, made.

Leo looked at it, and a long moment passed. He let out a short, disbelieving breath through his nose. “That’s it?” 

“You should’ve said yes the first time. You knew I was good for it,” Pope said. “Say it,” he added. “She’s good. Tell her so she hears it.” 

“You’re square,” he said to you, the words ugly. “You don’t owe me shit. Don’t come back.” A muscle jumped in his cheek. “Either of you.” 

Pope held the gun where it was a beat longer than he had to—long enough to make it clear the leaving was his idea, not Leo's permission—and then he lowered it, slow, and stepped back, and reached out without looking and found your wrist.

“Let’s go,” Pope said roughly to you. 

You didn’t move at first. He had to tug your forearm once, and then you came, stumbling off the spot you’d been rooted to, and he put himself between you and Leo and walked you up the concrete stairs and out the side door into the lot, into the air that was finally air, with the gun cooling against his back and your pulse hammering under his fingers where he still had your wrist.

Pope let out a shaky breath as he tipped his neck back to look at the sky. He’d assumed that one day, he would’ve figured it out, how to help you—it would have been cleaner, probably, and wouldn’t have happened right in front of you—and he hadn’t thought it’d be fucking today. 

He still had your wrist. He made himself let it go, and turned to look at you. You were looking at nothing, at the chain-link past the lot, your arms coming to wrap around yourself, holding your elbows.

“Get in the car,” he said to you. 

You stayed still.

Pope shook his head once, pressing his lips together. He nodded at the truck. “C’mon. Just get in the truck.”

You stayed rooted there in the orange light, arms folded over yourself, shaking your head faintly—not at him, not a no exactly, just somewhere else, somewhere he couldn't reach you. He felt the impatience climb in him, the adrenaline still draining, the gun still warm against his back and the tomorrow-problem already stacking up behind his ribs, and it came out rougher than he meant.

“Just—get in the damn car.” He dragged his palm down his face and exhaled. 

You went around to the passenger side and shut the door. He got in beside you, and for a second, neither of you said anything. He pulled out the lot and drove the way he always did with you, to his apartment. You sat against the window with your knees pulled up and your arms still around yourself, and he kept glancing over, waiting for it, the thing he could feel build up.

“You mad at me?” he asked, the words coming out choked, almost like he was forcing them out. 

You took in a breath and looked out the window. “Are you gonna be fine?”

He snorted. “Yeah. Don’t worry ‘bout me. I’m safe.” 

You nodded, even though he could tell you didn’t believe it. He wanted to tell you that he was probably the most safe guy in Oceanside, part of a family that would make sure nothing happened to anyone in it, even if they all may hate each other deep down. 

“I didn’t want it to happen like this,” you said a moment later. “I wanted to do it myself.” 

Pope knew what you meant, but he wanted you to talk more, just so he could justify it. “Yeah?”

“I was gonna work it down to nothing,” you continued. “And one day it’d just be done, and I’d—walk out. And it’d be cause I did it. Me. The one thing that was gonna be mine.” 

“You weren’t getting out.” When you snapped your head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed, he forced to keep himself looking at the road. “I’m sorry, but you were never getting out. Don’t be dumb. I know you wanted to.” 

“Don’t call me dumb.”

“Then don’t be.” He shook his head. “You’re paying off a debt that’s not even yours when you could be—what? Working anywhere that gives you an actual paycheck. He wasn’t gonna let you have that. There’s no fucking contract making sure he lets you out.” 

You looked back at the window, jaw tight. “I didn’t want you buying me,” you said quietly. “That’s exactly the thing I didn’t want. Now I’m—I don’t want to owe you, Andrew. I like you.”

“You don’t owe me,” he said, voice rough, trying to ignore what the words did to his chest.

“That’s not how—”

“It’s how it works with me,” he said flatly. “I didn’t buy you. Don’t say shit like that. I bought you out.” His hands tightened on the wheel. “There’s nothing you owe me.”

“I wanted it to be clean,” you said, and Pope almost wanted to shut you up. “Us. I wanted to get out and just be—someone you liked. Not somebody you had to save or something like that.”

“Well, that’s too bad, then,” he rasped. “You can come with me. You can go wherever you want. You’re out, you can choose.” He killed the engine as the car reached his apartment. “You are someone I like already. I never liked who you had to be, but I like you—this, whatever it is. Alright?”

A part of Pope knew he shouldn’t have taken the job. Robberies were always a mess, but Baz had a fondness for them. And Baz had a kid and a whole life balanced on not going inside, and Pope had a girl who he wasn’t even sure was his girl, and no good reason in the world to be holding the bag when it went wrong.

So now there was a phone bolted to a cinderblock wall and a line of men behind him and a number he’d memorized. Thank God he’d memorized. 

It rang twice. 

“Hello?” 

The sound of your voice did something itchy to his sternum. He’d last heard it three weeks ago, before the job, when you’d been half-asleep against his shoulder in the truck outside your place. You’d told him to call you when he got home. 

“Andrew?” you asked immediately, like just an exhalation of his breath, you could recognize. “You’re in jail?” 

He forced out a dry chuckle, because the opposite would’ve gotten him kicked. “Folsom County.” 

“Jesus—why?”

“Robbery. It was a—a family thing—” He kept it short. The line was recorded; half of what he wanted to say, he couldn’t, and the other half, he wouldn’t. Especially not to you, not like this, with a guard at his back and a clock ticking somewhere. 

“Can I visit you?” you asked immediately. The hope in your words tightened something in his chest so hard he had to close his eyes to loosen it even a fraction. “How long are you in there for?” 

“No—don’t. Hey, listen,” he said, voice shaking and he hated it. “You—you gotta be safe, okay? If anything happens, I need you to look for—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can’t take care of you from here,” he said through gritted teeth. “I need to make sure you’ll be okay.”

“How long are you in for?” you asked, weary, like you’d read somewhere between the lines and realized that you were going to hate the answer.

“Six years,” he said, letting out another sigh. Then, because he couldn’t help himself when he heard you go silent on the other end, he said, “I’m sorry.” He pressed the phone harder against his ear, as if that did anything. 

“Fuck—fuck, Andrew. Six years—?” you said, voice so sharp he could feel it cut through him. He heard you breath, trying to collect yourself. “Okay. Okay—I can come there, to you. Visit you and stuff, alright?”

“You’re not living the next six years meeting me behind a glass, alright?” 

“I don’t care about that.” 

“I do.” It came out rougher than he’d intended. He pressed his forehead to the cold block, eyes shut as his free hand came up to tug at his hair. The line of men and the guards and the whole gray space fell away from him for a second, and it was just your voice in his ear and him trying, failing, to do one right thing for you. “You just got out—I’m not putting you back in. You got out, and you—you can do whatever you want.”

“I don’t want it without you,” you said, voice breaking clean down the middle, and it about took him out at the knees, standing there in his county blues with a telephone crushed to his ear. 

“You’re not thinking right,” he said, trying to get the words out slowly, like saying it that way would make you believe them. “You’re not waiting for me for six years. You know how long that is?” 

Pope was at a loss in this; he’d never had to push someone away before. Every person he’d needed gone, before he even knew he did, he’d made himself ugly enough to push it out. He didn’t have the ugly to use on you; he’d used up every bad thing in front of you already and you’d stayed anyway, and now he had nothing left to drive you away with except the truth, which was that Pope loved you too much to let you do this to yourself.

He couldn’t say that either because maybe then you’d really never leave.

You only breathed on the other end, and he could hear the hitch of your voice when you started to try saying something, then stopped. 

“I won’t like it,” he said, quieter now, “if you wait for me.”

It was a lie and you both heard it. He didn’t try to sell it harder and let it sit there, all wrong, and moved on before you could call him out from it, because he had something he needed you to have more than he needed to win the argument.

“Listen,” he said, forcing his voice to steady. “You got something to write with? Or open something on your phone to get it.” 

“Andrew—”

“Please.” 

Something in his voice must’ve reached you, because he heard you shift. 

“Okay,” you said, voice thick. “Okay.”

He recited the number, slow and twice, so you’d have it right. “That’s Baz. Alright? Barry Blackwell—write that down, too. My brother.” His teeth gritted. “You don’t ever have to call it, but you keep it. And if anything ever—” His jaw worked, and he pinched his eyes shut at the horrible thoughts. “If money gets tight or if people come sniffing around even though they shouldn’t. If you get caught up in anything—somebody gives you trouble, or anything, the car dies, whatever it is. You call him. You say you’re mine, say Pope said to call. He’ll help.” 

“I don’t want your brother to—”

He didn’t want his brother to, either. Baz had a bad track record with people Pope considered his, people Pope loved. He pressed his molars together at the thought of Baz with you, of all people. Despite how much love he held for his brother, he didn’t like the thought. Six years was a long, long time. 

Six years was long enough to forget a voice, long enough for the thing you’d been holding in your hands to shift without noticing, long enough for a warm and present man to become more real than a memory behind a glass. Baz wouldn’t. But he can’t imagine Baz ever meeting you and not seeing what Pope loved about you, what everyone could love about you. 

“It’s the only way I can do anything for you,” he said quickly, making sure you’d understand. “It’ll make me happy.”

He heard you choke slightly on the other end. “Can you call me, then? If I can’t visit you.” 

He wanted to say yes. It would've cost him nothing in the moment and it would've ruined you slow, six years of you living from phone call to phone call, your whole life arranged around fifteen minutes of a recorded line, waiting on a man in a cage. And he knew he’d rightfully deserved to be caged. He’d seen what waiting did to you. He’d pulled a gun to get you out from under exactly that.

“No,” he said. “You stay out. You got out. Stay out of all of it, including me.”

And a part of him believed he was doing you a favor, despite it all. He’d never quite gotten you all the way like he’d wanted—merged your life into his and his yours—and maybe that was for the better. As long as you were wrapped up with him, you would’ve been wrapped up with his family, the jobs, the heists, the next county lockup waiting for him somewhere down the line. 

Your little brother deserved a sister who could come home clean, someone who didn’t have a Cody-shaped problem following her through the door. He’d been told he was the worst of them; he was built up for a purpose and it wasn’t the kind of thing you brought home. Pope cared about you enough to know that; it was hard not to realize it, standing in prison. 

He heard you say a jumble of words in one breath, and he couldn’t quite catch any over the ringing in his own ears. The guard said he had sixty seconds left.

“I’d do it again, I swear,” he said, fast, before your voice cut off. “I’m sorry I couldn’t—it was short.”

Your breath stopped for a second, then you asked, forcing an even voice, “How will I know you’re okay?” 

“I’ll be fine. I got people watching my back, I swear.” 

“Please, just—”

“Bye,” he said, forcing his voice gentle. “Take care of yourself, okay? And the kid.” 

The sound you made—wet and broken, landing like a wound he’d probably carry for six years—was the last of you he let himself take. He set the receiver down slow, like slow made it kinder, before you could say his name again. Because he never would've managed it if you'd said his name again.

The line went dead under his palm.

Jack saw Shen before he saw the drink. That was his first mistake. Shen walking into the emergency department was not unusual. Shen walking into the emergency department with that particular expression on his face was.

Too calm. Too neutral. Too deliberately innocent.

Jack narrowed his eyes from the other side of the nurses’ station.

Then he saw what Shen was carrying.

For one brief and terrible second, Jack thought it was medical equipment.

Then he saw the ice. Then he saw the straw.

Then he saw your face light up like Shen had walked in carrying a diamond ring, a rescue puppy, and a winning lottery ticket.

“Oh my god,” you said, already abandoning your chart. “You got it.”

Shen set the container on the counter with the solemn care of a man presenting evidence in court. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”

You pressed both hands to your chest. “John.”

Jack looked at the bucket. Then he looked at Shen. Then he looked at you.

“No,” Jack said.

You turned toward him, smiling. “You don’t even know what this is.”

“I know enough,” Jack replied. 

“It’s the bucket,” you said, like that explained anything.

“It is not a bucket,” Shen said.

Jack stared at him. “It absolutely is.”

“It’s a beverage vessel.” Shen corrected. 

Jack stared at him. “It has a handle.”

“That doesn’t make it a bucket,” Shen grumbled. 

You leaned over the counter and kissed Shen’s cheek. Jack went still. Shen went very still, too, but not because he was nervous.

No.

Because he knew.

Jack watched Shen’s mouth twitch once before he smoothed his expression back into something infuriatingly calm.

“Thank you,” you said sweetly.

Shen nodded. “Of course.”

Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Don’t love that.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“The cheek kiss,” Jack answered. 

Shen looked down at the drink. “It was a gratitude kiss.”

Jack’s eyes shifted to him. “Dunkin.”

Shen’s brows lifted. “Is that me?”

Jack nodded once, “It is now.”

You pressed your lips together. Jack knew that face. He loved that face. He also knew that face meant you were about thirty seconds away from making his life worse on purpose.

“Jack,” you said gently.

“No,” Jack said. “You don’t get to ‘Jack’ me when Dunkin just walked in with forty-eight ounces of sugar and got kissed for it.”

Shen glanced down at the container. “It does have two straws.”

“That makes it worse,” Jack replied. 

You picked up one of the straws with reverent fingers. “It’s for sharing.”

“With your boyfriend?” Jack said, jerking his head in John’s direction. 

You smiled. “With my work husband.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. There it was. Shen took one small, thoughtful step closer to you, like a man approaching a live wire just to see what would happen.

Jack watched him do it. He watched you notice. He watched both of you decide, silently and instantly, to be problems.

“I’m sorry,” Jack said. “Your what?”

“My work husband,” you said, very seriously.

Shen nodded once. “It’s an administrative title.”

“Administrative,” Jack repeated.

“Very little romance involved,” Shen said.

Jack stared at him. “Very little?”

You touched Jack’s chest. “Jack, be fair. John and I have survived a lot together.”

“Long shifts,” Shen said.

“Bad coffee,” you added.

“Printer failures,” Shen said.

“The cafeteria meatloaf incident,” you said.

Shen’s expression darkened. “We don’t discuss that.”

You nodded. “Out of respect for the dead.”

Jack looked between the two of you and inhaled slowly through his nose. 

He was a grown man. A physician. A professional. He had handled trauma bays, impossible calls, mass casualties, and patients who thought WebMD had more authority than medical school. He was not going to let two adults and a container of dessert coffee dismantle him in the middle of his emergency department.

You slid the bucket toward Shen. “First sip goes to the provider.”

Jack’s head turned. “Provider?”

“He provided the bucket,” you said.

Shen took the straw with grave dignity. “I accept this responsibility.”

Jack watched him take a sip.

You leaned in, eyes bright. “Well?”

Shen considered it for a moment. “Sweet.”

You nodded. “Expected.”

“Artificial blueberry,” Shen said.

“But fun artificial?” You asked.

Shen took another sip. “Aggressively fun.”

You pointed at him. “That’s what I thought.”

Jack stared. “You haven’t even tasted it yet.”

You gave Jack a look, “I know John’s palate.”

Jack went still again.

Shen lowered the straw. “You walked into that one.”

“I did not walk into anything,” Jack said.

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Are you jealous of John’s palate?”

“No,” Jack replied immediately. 

Shen tilted his head. “He seems jealous of my palate.”

Jack pointed at him. “You are on thin ice.”

“Appropriate,” Shen said, glancing at the bucket. “Given the beverage.”

You made a sound like you were trying not to choke.

Jack looked down at you. “Do not laugh at that.”

You covered your mouth. “I’m not.”

“You are,” Jack said.

You pointed to Shen and said, “I’m being supportive of my work husband’s humor.”

Jack stared at you. You smiled sweetly.

Shen leaned slightly toward you. “I feel supported.”

Jack closed his eyes.

Not yet, he told himself. It is too early in this shift to ask God for intervention.

When he opened them, you were holding the straw toward him.

“Try it,” you said.

Jack shook his head, “No.”

“One sip.” You implored. 

Jack’s brow furrowed. “I already know I’m going to hate it.”

“That’s not very scientific,” Shen said.

Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin, I am not discussing the scientific method with you over a bucket of sugar milk.”

You lifted the straw another inch. “For me?”

Jack looked at your face. That was unfair. Everything about your face was unfair. He sighed like a man accepting his own execution, leaned down, and took the smallest sip possible. His face changed immediately.

You brightened. “Well?”

Jack swallowed with effort. It was worse than he expected. It was sweet in a way that felt personally aggressive. It tasted like someone had taken a blueberry muffin, drowned it in melted ice cream, panicked, and added more sugar.

Jack looked at both of you. “Well, that’s horrific.”

You gasped. “Jack.”

Jack grimaced, “It tastes like someone liquefied a blueberry muffin, panicked, and added more sugar.”

Shen took the bucket back and considered that. “Not inaccurate.”

You pointed at him. “Do not side with my actual boyfriend against me.”

Jack’s head turned. Actual boyfriend. That helped. He hated that it helped. 

He was not jealous of John Shen. He was not jealous of the drink. He was not jealous of the cheek kiss, the work husband title, or the fact that Shen apparently had a detailed working knowledge of your coffee preferences. Jack was simply opposed to nonsense.

That was all.

You smiled up at him. “Yes. Actual boyfriend.”

Shen lifted one hand. “Work husband acknowledges the hierarchy.”

Jack looked at him. “Temporary husband.”

Shen blinked. “I don’t remember agreeing to temporary.”

“You don’t need to agree,” Jack replied. 

Shen frowned, “I feel like I should.”

“You shouldn’t,” Jack said.

You took the bucket back from Shen. “For legal accuracy, the arrangement is currently suspended.”

Jack looked down at you. “The arrangement.”

You nodded solemnly. “Until further notice.”

“Or forty,” Shen added.

Jack’s gaze moved slowly back to him. “Excuse me?”

Shen took a careful breath, like he was about to present lab results. “If neither of us is married by the time we are forty, we’ve agreed to enter a mutually beneficial domestic partnership.”

You nodded. “For practical reasons.”

Jack stared at you.

“Tax benefits,” you said.

“Shared expenses,” Shen added.

“Emergency contact efficiency,” you said.

“Mutual tolerance,” Shen added.

Jack looked between you. “You rehearsed that.”

You and Shen said, “No,” at the exact same time.

Jack’s eyes narrowed. You smiled. Shen sipped the drink.

Jack looked toward the ceiling.

Dear God, he thought, then stopped himself. Not yet. He could still handle this.

“You’re not single,” Jack said.

You patted his chest. “I know.”

“So the pact is void.” Jack continued. 

Shen lifted one finger. “Suspended.”

Jack pointed at him. “Void.”

“Suspend—”

“Void.” Jack cut him off. 

You sighed softly. “This is a difficult day for the marriage.”

Shen nodded. “We’ll need time to heal.”

Jack stared at the two of you. “Marriage.”

“Future potential marriage,” you clarified.

Jack frowned, “Not better.”

Ellis, who had been pretending not to listen from two feet away, slowly lowered her chart.

“Do I want to know?” Ellis asked.

“No,” Jack said.

“Yes,” you and Shen said together.

Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted and absolutely unrepentant.

Ellis’s eyes landed on the bucket. “Is that coffee?”

“Allegedly,” Jack said.

Shen lifted the container. “Blueberry Cobbler Iced Latte. Forty-eight ounces.”

Ellis blinked. “That sounds disgusting.”

Jack pointed at her. “Thank you.”

You gasped. “Ellis.”

Ellis glanced at Jack’s face, then at Shen, then at you. “Why does this feel like I walked in on something personal?”

“Because you did,” Jack said.

Shen shook his head. “It’s not personal. It’s a product review.”

Jack looked at him. “You announced a suspended marriage pact.”

Ellis’s face lit up. “A what?”

You waved a hand. “It’s not active.”

“Not active,” Shen agreed.

Jack’s eyes shifted to him.

“Void,” Shen corrected.

Ellis blinked. “Do you two have paperwork?”

You nodded solemnly. “A shared note.”

Shen added, “Reviewed annually.”

Jack looked at him. “You have annual paperwork?”

“To assess the health of the union,” Shen said.

“Coffee compatibility,” you said.

“Update emergency contact information,” Shen added.

“Long-term tax strategy,” you finished.

Jack stared at you. “You’re making that up.”

You and Shen said, “No,” at the exact same time.

Jack’s eyes narrowed.

Ellis looked delighted. “What else is in the paperwork?”

Jack pointed at her. “Do not encourage them.”

Shen cleared his throat. “There is the intimacy clause.”

Jack went completely still. Ellis’s chart lowered another inch.

“The what?” Jack asked.

“The intimacy clause,” you said, very seriously.

Shen nodded. “One night of passionate lovemaking per calendar year to maintain the marriage.”

Jack stared at him.

You nodded along solemnly. “For the health of the union.”

“And morale,” Shen added.

Jack’s head turned toward you. “Morale.”

“It’s important,” you said.

“Vital,” Shen agreed.

Jack pointed at the bucket. “Dunkin.”

Shen blinked. “Yes?”

“Never use the phrase ‘passionate lovemaking’ in a sentence about my girlfriend again.”

Shen considered him. “Would ‘annual intimacy maintenance’ be better?”

Jack looked at him, “No.”

You pressed your lips together. “Less romantic.”

Jack looked down at you. “You are not helping.”

“I’m grieving the clause,” you said.

Jack stared at you.

Ellis made a strangled sound behind her chart.

Shen took a slow sip from the bucket. “This is difficult for all parties.”

Jack closed his eyes. Dear God, grant me patience, Jack thought. Because if you grant me strength, Shen is not making it out of this emergency department.

Then Shen set the bucket down and hooked an arm around your shoulders. You did not miss a beat. You slid your arm around Shen’s waist and leaned into his side with a grave little nod. “Privacy would be appreciated during this difficult transition.”

Jack opened his eyes. Ellis’s mouth opened slightly.

Jack pointed between you and Shen. “Separate.”

You blinked at him. “What?”

“Immediately,” Jack said.

Shen looked down at you. "Our bond threatens him.”

“I am threatened by nothing,” Jack said.

You patted Shen’s stomach. “It’s okay. He’s processing.”

Jack’s jaw flexed. “You have three seconds.”

Shen’s arm stayed exactly where it was. “Before what?”

Jack smiled.

It was not a nice smile.

Shen removed his arm.

You removed yours too, biting your lip hard enough that Jack could see the fight not to laugh all over your face.

“Smart,” Jack said.

Shen picked up the bucket again. “For the record, that separation felt hostile.”

Jack looked at him. “Good.”

You let the moment hang for exactly one second. Then you slid right into Jack’s side, your body fitting against his like that was where you had meant to be the whole time.

Jack’s eyes dropped to you.

Your smile went soft and wicked at the same time. “Better?”

Jack held your gaze. He was still annoyed. He was still trying not to look pleased. He was still failing.

“Marginally,” he said.

You hummed and smoothed your hands over his scrub top. “Only marginally?”

His hand settled at your waist before he could pretend he wasn’t going to touch you. “You’re pushing it, sweetheart.”

You grinned. “Don’t worry, Jack. You’re hotter than him.”

Shen’s head lifted. “Rude.”

Jack didn’t look away from you. “Dunkin.”

“Yes?” Shen replied. 

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Drink your muffin soup.”

You laughed into Jack’s chest. His mouth twitched despite himself, and his hand tightened gently at your waist.

“Better,” he admitted, quieter this time.

Ellis finally gave up pretending she was working. “Can I try the divorce coffee?”

Jack’s eyes shifted to her. For the first time since Shen walked in, Jack looked almost pleased.

“Divorce coffee,” he repeated.

You brightened. “Oh, that’s good.”

Shen nodded. “Accurate, but emotionally painful.”

“It is not emotionally painful,” Jack said. “It’s legally clarifying.”

Ellis held out a hand. “So can I try it?”

“Don’t,” Jack warned.

“Yes,” you and Shen said together.

Jack looked down at you. You smiled up at him, bright and delighted. Jack looked at the bucket. Then at Shen. Then at you. Then he exhaled slowly through his nose.

“Okay,” Jack said.

You blinked. “Okay?”

Jack nodded toward the other end of the nurses’ station. “You’re coming with me.”

Your mouth fell open, offended and delighted at the same time. “What?”

“I have been very patient,” Jack said.

“You have,” you said solemnly.

He continued, “I tried the muffin soup.”

“You did.” You agreed. 

“I tolerated the cheek kiss,” Jack added. 

You nodded, “You did.”

“I tolerated the work husband,” Jack said, almost with a grimace.

“Barely,” Shen said.

Jack pointed at him without looking away from you. “Temporary husbands do not get commentary.”

Shen nodded. “Understood.”

Jack looked back at you. “And now I’m taking my girlfriend ten feet that way so I can remember why I love her without Shen making tax comments.”

You glanced back at Shen, then at the bucket in his hand. Your face went dramatically mournful. 

“No,” you whispered. “My husband. My coffee.”

Jack went completely still. Ellis made a sound behind her chart.

Shen looked down at you with grave sympathy. “I’ll miss you.”

Jack’s head turned slowly toward him. “Dunkin.”

Shen lifted one hand. “Right. Sorry.”

You pressed your lips together, shoulders shaking.

Jack looked down at you. “You are walking away with me, or I am confiscating the coffee.”

Your eyes widened. “You wouldn’t.”

“I absolutely would,” Jack replied. 

You frowned, “You hate it.”

“I hate many things about this situation,” Jack said. “That has not stopped me yet.”

Shen hugged the bucket closer to his chest. “For the record, I object to seizure of communal property.”

“It is not communal property,” Jack said.

“It’s divorce coffee,” Ellis said.

Jack pointed at her. “Helpful.”

Ellis smiled. “Thank you.”

You slid your hand into Jack’s. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Jack’s fingers closed around yours. “Thank you.”

“But under protest.” You added. 

Jack nodded once, “Noted.”

“And I want visitation rights.” You said. 

Jack looked at you. “To Shen or the coffee?”

You looked genuinely torn. Jack’s eyes narrowed.

“The coffee,” you said quickly.

Shen nodded. “Hurtful, but wise.”

Jack tugged gently on your hand. “Move.”

You let Jack lead you away, still laughing under your breath. Halfway down the nurses’ station, you glanced back over your shoulder.

Shen mouthed, I miss you.

You coughed to hide your laugh.

Jack stopped walking. You froze.

He looked down at you. “What did he do?”

You replied quickly. “Nothing.” 

Jack turned. Shen looked immediately busy with a chart, one hand still wrapped around the bucket.

Jack narrowed his eyes. “Dunkin.”

Shen did not look up. “Yes?”

“Do not make me come back there.”

Shen nodded, still not looking up. “Of course.”

Jack stared for another second, then turned back to you. You smiled up at him, innocent and hopelessly pleased. Jack shook his head, but his hand squeezed yours.

“You’re trouble,” he said.

Your smile brightened. “You love me.”

“I do,” Jack said.

You stepped closer, sliding your free hand up his chest again. “And I love you.”

Jack’s irritation loosened instantly. He hated how fast it happened.

No, he didn’t.

He loved it. Loved the way you could tug him out of himself with three words and one hand on his chest. Loved the way you smiled at him like he was exactly where you wanted to be, like Shen and the coffee and every ridiculous thing you had said were only funny because Jack was there to react to them.

“Even if John brings me forty-eight ounces of coffee,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched.

“Even if he’s my work husband.” You continued. 

His eyes narrowed slightly.

“Former work husband,” you corrected.

Jack nodded once, “Better.”

You smiled and rose onto your toes, brushing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “You’re my actual everything.”

Jack went very still.

Behind you, Shen called, “Rude.”

Jack didn’t look away from you. For once, he didn’t even answer Shen. His hand slid more firmly around your waist, and his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it.

“Yeah?”

You nodded, still smiling. “Yeah.”

Jack’s expression softened completely. Then he dipped his head and kissed you, quick but warm, like he couldn’t help it. When he pulled back, he looked almost annoyed with himself for melting so fast.

You grinned. “Better?”

Jack exhaled, thumb brushing once at your waist. “Much better,” he said.

“yeah?” he replies short, tilting his head — his eyes darting below him, tracing over your body like he’s studying you to see what you’d do next before he’s releasing your ankle, and your instantly attempting to flip backside against the mattress — but the moment you try, you fail because pope’s immediately pinning your wrists above your head.

you let out an exasperated laugh, unable to move. currently stuck in what seems to favor a doggy fashion. “c’mon, andiee.” you playfully drag his name, “you know this is unfair, you’re way stronger than me.” you testify, attempting to free your wrists from out of his grasp but he’s not budging.

instead, he’s lowering himself onto you. pressing his weight against you the moment he feels your wrists wiggling in between his palm.

“andy?” you call his name a little suspiciously only to receive silence as he ducks his head down, causing your spine to arch deeper as his pelvis nudges into your ass making you feel the bulge in his pants.

“you don’t wanna play no more?” pope asks, mouth nipping at any area of exposed skin he can see. “thought you wanted to play.” he adds before giving you the chance to answer. and you can feel the slight increase of your pulse quicken, and breathing stagger from more than just the game.

he grinds ever so slightly against the entrance of your pussy clothed by the fabric of your panties, as you let out a noise that makes him groan in response. “an—”

“shhh— all you need to do is find a way to get free.” he cuts you off, tightening his grip around your wrists as he mummers.

and this is was the moment where you knew that the once innocent game you two were just playing, wasn’t so innocent anymore.

but it seemed like not his ears.

because no matter what corner he turned, what time of the day he avoided certain parts of the house, he seemed to be haunted by your constant presence, your sounds, your voice.

and worst of all, your seemingly endless desire for his brother.

now, he could've walked away. he could have turned the other way the moment he realized he just so happened to be in ear-shot of yours and pope's (supposed) private conversation. but it seemed like he enjoyed the inconvenience.

he'd been sitting there first, hoping to catch some vitamin d before the sun went down and taking advantage of that short period of time in which oceanside's heat wasn't scorching hot.

pope had had the same plan, which craig didn't raise any brows to.

within some moments, it was revealed to craig that you'd also shared a similar idea, except that unlike craig or pope, you walked past the empty chair to their left and opted to take pope's lap as your seat of choice.

so, yeah, the moment the pda made its way to craig's evening, he probably should've walked away lest he want to listen to his brother and his girlfriend loving up on each other.

but being the sick guy that he was, craig used some of those mental gymnastics that he'd been exercising quite a lot lately and did his best to remove his brother from the equation.

pope was a quiet guy, and from what it appeared, this time around he was simply sitting back and taking in your every word — which craig understood, because who would want to interrupt you when you were saying those words into his ear?

with his hands shamelessly laid on your bikini-clad ass (barely even a bikini, craig noted, as it covered absolutely nothing), pope squeezed every so often, pulling you closer at certain words that got to both him and craig.

craig had to pretend like he couldn't hear the whispered words that were meant for pope's ears only, but the hushed voice only made his focus even sharper.

"yeah? what're you gonna do to me, baby?" pope had asked with a patronizing tone as soon as you laid atop him, half straddling him, half simply perched on his lap.

your lips were slowly running up and down his jaw, sometimes flicking your tongue at it, sometimes leaving a wet kiss.

"wanna suck your dick, andy," you began, voice practically a hushed whine, "want it in my mouth so bad."

you were pent up the moment you walked out into the patio. craig had watched you enough to know your tells. your words only confirmed that.

"been thinking about it all day," you huffed out, pouting. your nails scratched lightly at pope's chest in defiance, "keep thinking about your dick in my mouth... how heavy it is, how good it tastes," you continued, voice breathy.

"wanna do that thing you like," pope groaned audibly at this, encouraging you to keep going, "wanna do it till you pull me off and bend me over the bed."

by then, your hand had sneakily made its way from his chest, reaching one of his nipples and discretely running the tip of your finger around it. pope's hands tightened on your ass, basically molding it like playdoh.

"i'll put on any outfit you want," you started, licking at his earlobe slowly, "that one with the blue lace?" you began listing them quietly, some teasing tone overtaking your voice, "or the pink one with the little bows? or maybe the maid one?"

you whispered that last one extra softly, but it made craig jump a little.

craig didn't understand how pope hadn't thrown you over his shoulder and dragged you away like a caveman. craig would've given in within the first sentence. probably within a single look.

but you seemed to be into the chase of it all. your every word was whinny, breathy. there was no way this wasn't just some weird foreplay for you guys.

craig kept on listening.

"baby..."

"i'll let you take me any way you want," you interrupted pope, "i'll take it from behind, or i'll ride you. i'll ride you sweet and slow, just how you like," you moaned as if entranced by the thought, "and when you're about to cum, i'll take you in my mouth again."

craig's eyes almost rolled back.

"and i promise i'll swallow every drop, baby."

pope pulled you closer, readjusting you into a straddling position so he could kiss you. the kiss was short but filthy from what craig could hear. if you were trying to be discreet, you were failing horribly.

"and then what? hm?"

craig had never known pope to be greedy. quite the opposite, actually.

but with you sat on his lap? with you offering yourself up like this? any man would've been crazy to not take as much as you were willing to give.

you kissed him again, this time whispering into his lips.

"i'll let you fuck me again," you slurred, trailing your way back to his ear to whisper into it once more, "and i'll let you cum inside."

pope's groan was a little louder this time.

it didn't really matter. not when it was immediately followed by him getting up with you in his arms, not letting you touch the ground as he lifted you bridal style.

craig had to pretend to busy himself up with his phone, make it seem like he hadn't been listening in on every word (and taking them all in more than he should've).

giggling, you let yourself be carried away back into the house. deran just so happened to be coming outside just then, leaving the sliding door open for pope as he led you indoors with very obvious intentions in mind.

pope grunted as a wordless thank you to deran while deran rolled his eyes lightheartedly at what was by then a common occurrence between pope and his girlfriend.

by the time deran made it to the lounge chair you and pope had just been sharing, craig finally left his little trance, nodding absentmindedly as a silent greeting in deran's direction.

he didn't receive a greeting in return. instead: