all her paths are peace

Maybe that's why he liked you so much, liked to be around you all the time, because people didn't stare at you strangely or murmur around you. You were merely the pretty girl with the big heart and even bigger smile who enjoyed going for walks on the beach.

It was strange how different you were from each other.

He'd notice how you had to say a quiet 'excuse me' at every opportunity since people wouldn't pay attention to you. Even when you announced yourself, they would barely move for you, as if you were meant to be content with the minimal space they had left available for you. Despite everything, you'd continue to smile and express gratitude.

Unlike Pope, who people purposefully tried to avoid, trying not to touch him at any cost. They'd move away even if they didn't have to, just so they'd show him their hatred, remind him that he wasn't welcome. He knew that later on they'd gossip, talk in whispers about how Pope Cody walked by them today, how they feared for their life.

Invisibility seemed to be a curse for you, while it remained a wish for him. 

He watched your face fall whenever people ignored you. You hated people not acknowledging you. You hated recognizing people from high school and seeing them glance at you in passing like you were a stranger, unable to assign you a name, because they'd never cared enough to find out. You despised the fact that even if they did remember you, all they'd recall was you being the quiet girl in the back, that they'd cheat off and use for assignments, because she was too scared to say no.

It was so different from the image that Pope had, that sometimes he felt like the devil simply for keeping you company. Because despite it all, he knew how much you hated attention. 

All you wanted was to be acknowledged, not to be stared at.

He felt guilty when he'd help you get groceries and watch your eyes dart to the men staring at Pope with both angry and fearful expressions. You'd eye them cautiously, before glancing back at Pope, who would stare back to see how you would react. And all you would do was ask him if he thought this brand of cookies was nice. And he could feel his shoulder relax somewhat in relief. Relief he wasn't supposed to feel because there was nothing to be relieved about.

You were being put in an uncomfortable position because of him, yet you persevered because you were too kind for your own good. He could see your eyes dart back to the men, nervous, like you were afraid they'd start something, like you were afraid he'd start something. 

He couldn't possibly know that you were staring at them wishing they would stop, that for once in his life they'd let Pope have an outing with no stares. That, of course, you were uncomfortable, but all you wanted was for them to quit making Pope uncomfortable first.

It sat on your chest heavily, the knowing that this is what Pope's life was. At home, he could hardly take two steps without Smurf's piercing stare and outside, her influence remained, the poison she'd fed to everyone residing in every oceanside local.

Pope didn't have a home.

At least that's how you saw it. His home wasn't a real home, a home was supposed to be a place of warmth, one where you could go if you were restless, if you were feeling uneasy, to let your emotions out. Smurf's house, instead, was one where his emotions would pile up, where Pope was put through a ringer of emotions: anger, sadness, frustration, depression. 

It seemed like everyone else had an escape. Craig had his friends, Renn, parties. He had an active social life, he was liked and people looked at him with delight, asking him if he wanted to surf, if he was planning to throw a party later this week, if they could show up. Deran's bar had a life of its own. Not just socially, but also financially. And his own place. 

They both had places to go back to.

Pope had nothing and no one seemed to care about it.

So you tried to make your place as homely as you could. Every chance you got, you'd invite him over.

You'd never considered your home to be a home. It was too big and too empty. No one came and no one left. The kitchen only had your finger trips all over it, and so did every other inch of the place. You thought about getting a cat, but you figured you weren't good enough to take care of it. You were all over the place most of the time, had too much on your mind. 

So, instead, you kept cat food at your place. If a stray cat showed up you'd feed it, but that was it. No other heart was beating in your bed. No other living being breathed the same air as you. Everything was one. One frozen pizza. One toothbrush. One pile of laundry.

Neither you nor Pope realized how slowly it happened.

You'd been at the beach, sitting on a bench, thinking about putting your feet in the water, when you'd heard Pope talking on the phone. Ears perking up like a cat, you'd turned and spotted him immediately, leaning against his car, phone against his ear.

You didn't announce yourself, instead turning your body back to the beach, fingers restlessly tapping against your thigh as you watched a little girl be swept up by her feet by her dad and dragged to the water, where she screeched loudly and happily.

You felt a smile form on your face as you watched her and her father get drenched in the water. So distracted you didn't notice Pope approach you, able to recognize you merely from the back of your head. He stepped closer until he was standing right next to your bench.

You glanced to the side, already seemingly having expected him to notice you. Because he just always did.

You greeted him with a soft smile. "Hi Andrew."

"Hey," he glanced at the beach, eyes immediately locking onto the same father daughter duo you'd had been watching. His face didn't form a smile like yours had earlier. No, you saw something almost sad creep into his expression. And you hated to think that this reminded him of Lena.

You spoke up quickly. "What are you doing at the beach?" patting the bench next to you.

"Work," was all he said as he settled down next to you.

You'd been always content enough with that response. You didn't want to know the details, didn't care to know the specifics. You had a vague understanding that the Codys did things that did not strictly abide by the law, but you had no interest in finding out what exactly.

"You?" he asked, remembering his manners that he was so hard trying to work on when it came to you. 

He might've spent one night skipping one of his nature documentaries and instead looked for a channel with a romantic comedy playing. He'd figured he'd learn a thing or two from it, considering you were so very fond of theses movies. 

You always rented them at the library, and he remembered the first time you'd told him about it. He'd furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "People still use DVDs?" You'd been gravely offended.

He didn't learn anything from the movie, except that he was nothing like those men and that the happy endings just left him feeling hollow. 

"Work was tiring. Just needed to relax for a bit." You smiled at him, finally lifting your eyes from the girl who was still giggling around with her father.

Pope hummed. He would have loved to offer you money to help you out, he'd even tried to get you to move into one of his buildings. But you loved your apartment too much, telling him it wasn't much, but it was close to the beach and the ice cream stand you liked so much. So, instead, he resorted to helping you in small ways. Groceries, ice cream, your books, even paying for your library card.

He tried his hardest to be the gentleman he wished to be. 

No one in his life would describe him as a gentleman, he was sure he'd be laughed at if he ever even attempted to pretend like he was in front of his brothers, but he liked to be imagine that he was for you. He liked to pretend that maybe you looked at him and thought, oh he's chivalrous and generous, that he took care of you, that he was capable of it.

You looked back at the father daughter duo when you spoke. "Might make some pasta at home, you wanna join me?"

Pope turned his head to you, watching your profile, lit up by the sun setting behind you. "Yeah." he said, after taking some time to admire you.

You weren't amazing at cooking, but your food was, as cheesy at it sounded, cooked with love. And that was much better than whatever Smurf put on the table. Smurf's food was filling, but it never lived up to what your food did to him. 

The warmth he'd feel, the solace. He'd understood what comfort food was, the first time you'd made pasta. And it hadn't been amazing. Just normal pasta cooked by the young girl, who'd barely ever had to cook for more than herself.

But it had made him feel better than anything Smurf had ever forced him to stuff his mouth with.

The drive wasn't long. You'd walked to the beach, but Pope insisted on driving you home. So, you slid into the passenger seat, and he'd turned down the music he had been playing before. He'd noticed your tense expression, every time you stepped out of the car with Craig, as if he'd practically blasted your eardrums and made them bleed.

You shot him a grateful look, one he didn't meet because it would be too much for something so small. You always seemed to be grateful for little things. Little things that were just as simple as accommodating you or remembering something about you. Like you were hard to remember.

Pope couldn't remember a single minute since he first laid eyes on you where he hadn't thought of you. You had created a garden in his brain. Filled with flowers, blooming everywhere, while everyone else was growing poisonous vines that stretched throughout his body, killing him with every second. But not you; never you.

When you arrived, Pope turned off the car and quickly muttered. "Wait here."

You looked at him, confused, but you waited, and when you realized what he was doing, you let out a happy breath in the empty car.

Pope opened the door for you, and you smiled so wide at him, he almost believed the sun was rising instead of setting.

"Thank you," you jumped out the car, waiting for him to shut the door behind you.

An hour later, Pope was helping you with the pasta. You'd been worried about your cooking skills, so you'd asked him, and he'd been truthful. 

"It tastes good," he'd said, and you'd said his name in a slow voice. And he glanced behind you at the boiling pot. "I think it's just—needs a bit more… work." He'd tried to phrase it as nicely as he could, and it seemed to work because you'd giggled embarrassed.

"That bad, huh?"

"No—no, not that bad," he'd lifted his hand like pushing the thought away. "Good. Just—it could be better." He almost winced.

But you were still smiling, so he figured he hadn't hurt your feelings yet. "Go ahead then, Gordon Ramsay," you turned your body and pointed with your hand at the pot.

So here he was, stirring the pasta as you sat on the counter, already having given up on being useful. "Is it looking good?" you asked, your legs moving, achilles heel hitting the cabinet below you over and over again. Pope threw you his tenth concerned look this evening, not liking the way you kept hurting yourself. 

"Better than yours," he mumbled, and you let out a laugh of disbelief.

"Andrew!"

And he looked at you, first to see if you were actually offended, but you were smiling and his lips quirked up. "It's the truth," he mumbled, and you giggled, and he wanted to hear it forever.

You jumped off the counter, still shaking your head with a smile. You opened the cabinets, grabbing two plates as you went to set the table. 

You didn't give it much thought as you picked out the plate Pope preferred, or the juice he liked most. He'd always appreciated that your fridge wasn't stocked with beer and drugs like his at home. You didn't think anything of it either, when you asked him if he was okay with using one of the smaller forks, because his fa orite was still in the dishwasher. Neither did he.

Neither of you thought about how you'd made yourself a routine. One in which he became frustrated with Smurf, and went to the beach, somehow knowing that you'd be there. Even if some days you weren't, he knew eventually you would be. The same way, you knew what part of the beach he liked most, where he liked to park his car most. The way coincidentally but also not, you both would meet up without officially planning on it.

You didn't notice how your apartment seemed to transform into a home by the second.

That the things in your cupboard were piling up, that everything had doubled. That the elderly cashier at your usual grocery store had stopped hesitating before reaching for the bill Pope was holding out, but instead watched the two of you with almost an almost nostalgic gleam in her eyes. She'd watch Pope quarrel with you over placing items in the grocery bag because that was his job, taking the bag out of your hands with a disappointing huff. She'd watch you bite your lip shyly, as you handed him the bag, purposefully letting your hand brush his. The cashier's eyes would soften as she'd watch the oldest Cody brother take care of you so gently, almost making her regret the looks she'd given him over the years.

Pope had found himself a home and your home had gotten less empty.

Even if at night, Pope never stayed.

You were happy enough with what you got, like when Pope washed the dishes, not allowing you to move a finger.

Once he was done, he dried his hands and headed for the door. "Thank you—for dinner," he said, almost forgetting to add the last two words. He was thankful for more than just the food.

"Don't have to thank me," you smiled. "You did all the cooking." 

He shook his head. "I just helped," he said, and you wanted to disagree, but he shot you a look.

You bit your lip. "See you around?" 

Pope nodded, and he waited for a second, watching you lean against your door. And you watched him. He looked so pretty, relaxed and content if you even dared to say. Happiness suited him. 

With a racing heart and on the verge of passing out from fear, you stepped closer, placing a hand on the side of his neck before gently kissing his cheek. "Thank you," you whispered. Thank you for spending time with me. Thank you for cooking. Thank you for being so considerate of me. Thank you.

Pope's head nearly tilted towards your palm, wishing for more warmth, more tenderness, more of you. But then you dropped it, too nervous, too scared to ever do anything courageous and stick with it.

He didn't say anything which frightened you. Why did you kiss him? You could still feel his face warm beneath your lips and his pulse quickening under your fingertips, and you almost wanted to do it again, despite Pope's lack of response. 

But then your gaze went to his face, and you noticed the smile there. Barely there, but there was something. And your worried expression faded into a cheerful one.

You took a step back, hand on the door, and he did too. "Bye Andrew." You finally broke the quiet between you, and he managed out a barely audible. "Bye," before turning and leaving

You'd kissed his cheek. You liked him. You were thankful for something he did for you.

He just cooked. He just fed you. All he did was feed you. He didn't even have to put so much effort into it. He didn't have to shed blood, sweat and tears for it.