Library of Love

chapter one.

Robby moved through the house on autopilot, all the years of sleep deprivation through college and twelve-hour shifts made him efficient even when he was half-awake. He stepped into Noa’s nursery, flipping on the lamp. She was working herself up in the crib, waving those little fists while her face scrunched in hunger. “Hey, sweetheart,” he whispered, scooping her up immediately. “Daddy’s here. Let’s get you sorted.”

He laid her on the changing table and made quick work of the dirty diaper, cleaning her gently with wipes and sliding a fresh one on with the ease of someone who’d been doing this every day for two months now. “There we go, you’re all clean now. Yes, you are. Who’s a clean girl?” He cooed at her, and Noa’s cries eased a little at his voice and touch, blinking up at him with those big and round eyes.

Next, he warmed one of the bottles of your pumped milk in the small warmer on the dresser, testing the temperature carefully on his wrist the way you both always do. Back in the rocking chair, he settled Noa in the crook of his arm. She latched onto the bottle hungrily, resting her tiny hands on the bottle as she drank with contented gulps.

Robby watched her with pure adoration, rocking her slowly. “You’re adorable at everything you do, you know that?” he murmured, keeping his voice barely above a whisper. “Look at you, you’re drinking like a champ. You need to be gentle with mommy, okay? She loves feeding you, but sometimes you hurt her. She’s giving you everything she’s got, we’ve gotta take care of her too, right?”

Noa paused drinking for a moment, locking her eyes onto his face as if she was truly listening to him. Robby smiled at the adorable sight. “That’s my girl. You’re so smart, just like your mom.”

When the bottle was nearly empty, he lifted her to his shoulder for burping, patting her back in steady circles. A good burp came, but as it did, she spat up a little of the milk she’d just drunk on his shoulder. “Ah, there it is,” he chuckled, not bothered in the slightest. He grabbed a clean burp cloth from the stack, wiped her mouth and chin tenderly, then cleaned himself up. “All better. Let’s get you back to sleep with that full belly.”

Robby spread the soft blanket out on the changing table. Noa’s arms flailed once, then twice, her face scrunching in that particular pre cry warning that meant she was about three seconds from protesting. “I know, I know,” he murmured. “Hold still for your old man.”

He laid her down in the center, gently guiding one arm against her side, then the other, and began the fold. One side of the blanket came across her body, tucking firmly under the opposite side. The bottom edge came up and over her legs, and the final flap wrapped around and under, snug but not too tight, until she was neatly packaged with her arms secured and her legs gently contained, the whole of her looking exactly like a tiny burrito.

For a second she went quiet, with her eyes wide with surprise, as if she couldn’t quite believe the sudden containment. Then a defeated little sigh left her. Robby grabbed her once again, holding her against his chest.

He rocked her for a few more minutes, humming a tune that came from a place buried inside of him. He had the faintest memory of hearing it once, long ago, in his mother’s voice. Or maybe it wasn’t a real memory at all, maybe his mind had simply invented the comfort, out of longing and the few soft fragments he still carried from a childhood that had never been particularly gentle. He couldn’t tell which it was, whether the memory was true or manufactured no longer seemed to matter as much as the simple fact that he was here now, holding his daughter, offering her the same soft sound that may or may not have once been offered to him. 

Robby continued rubbing her back until her eyelids grew heavy. With her belly full, Noa drifted off quickly, her body going limp and trusting in his arms. Robby held her a little longer than necessary, just savoring the weight of her, the way her head was tucked perfectly under his chin. “I love you so much, Noa,” he whispered to her. “More than anything. You and mommy… you two are my whole world.”

Carefully, he lowered her into the crib, adjusting the swaddle and making sure she was comfortable. Robby lingered by the railing for a moment, watching her sleep, wrapped like a little burrito in her swaddle, her chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. “Sleep well, baby girl. Daddy will be home before you know it.”

He still couldn’t believe this little miracle that was now sleeping in the crib. He had spent decades walking into rooms where people were dying, or already gone, or fighting for their lives. He knew the weight of failure, he knew how easily everything could be taken. And yet here she was, warm, breathing, utterly unaware of the improbable path that had led to this exact moment. He couldn’t understand it, lucky felt too small a word, it felt almost insulting. What had happened to him was closer to theft, someone or something had stolen the version of his life that was supposed to stay solitary and quietly exhausted, and replaced it with this brighter, terrifyingly fragile thing. He kept waiting for the correction, for the universe to notice the error and take her back.

But she stayed. Night after night, she stayed. And every time he looked down at her like this, he felt the same stunned ache in his chest. Not the kind that used to mean another loss, instead he felt the one that meant something had finally, against every expectation he had ever allowed himself, gone right.

The two of you had been together for exactly one year when it happened. A beautiful year of falling deeper in love than either of you expected. The pregnancy was an accident, you'd been violently ill for a week with a stomach virus, endless vomiting, dehydration, barely keeping anything down. Your birth control pill had failed in the midst of it all. When the two pink lines appeared on the test, you'd sat together on the edge of his bed, stunned into silence. "We don't have to do this if you're not ready," he'd said quietly, covering your hand with his hand. But you shook your head. "I love you. And... I've always wanted to be a mom. If you're in this with me..." Robby had pulled you close. "I'm all in. I’m so in. I’d given up on being a dad a long time ago, but with you? This feels like a second chance."

From that day forward, Robby became your rock, devoted in ways that still made your heart ache with tenderness. As a doctor, he was meticulous, scheduling every appointment around his shifts, reviewing ultrasounds, ensuring you took your prenatal vitamins religiously. As your partner, he was everything you needed. He’d satisfied every craving without complaint, driving across town at odd hours for specific street tacos or fresh strawberries. He’d massaged your aching back and swollen feet, held you through hormonal waves of emotion, and spoke to your growing belly every night in that low voice you loved. "You're going to be such a great mom," he'd whisper, kissing your forehead. "The best. Our girl is going to know nothing but love."

He spared no expense for the baby. The nursery was a dream, with high-quality furniture, the most beautiful crib, expensive onesies and blankets he couldn't resist buying, a top-tier stroller, everything chosen with care. Having a baby with you felt like a dream come true for him, a beacon pulling him away from the darkness of the pitt. You gave him purpose, a reason to be better, to leave the hospital behind each shift and step into the light.

The first month after bringing her home had been a beautiful whirlwind. Robby was utterly ensorcelled by your baby girl. He lived for those moments maybe other men dreaded, changing diapers at 3 a.m. without a hint of complaint, feeding her while you rested, simply watching her sleep in his arms with a wondering expression you'd never seen on his face before. He'd trace her tiny features, hum songs under his breath, and whisper promises about the world he'd help her explore. 

With one last glance, he slipped out of the nursery, pulled the door mostly closed, and headed to work.

The pitt was already a chaos when Robby walked through the doors. The automatic doors hadn’t even finished sliding shut behind him before the noise hit, the beeping monitors, hurried footsteps, and hum of conversations between staff welcomed him as he approached the nurse station. He was used to it, there was never a clean first hour, never a quiet stretch where a man could collect himself before the day started demanding pieces of him. The pitt didn’t offer that kind of courtesy, it only took from the moment you crossed the threshold and kept taking until the next set of doors opened and someone else walked in to take your place.

Jack was finishing up his night shift, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee.“Hey, daddy,” Jack called him out with a grin, using the nickname that’d become permanent since Noa’s arrival. “How’s my niece doing this morning?”

Robby chuckled, setting his bag down and clapping his friend on the shoulder. “She’s wrapped like a burrito and deep asleep,” he replied. “Five solid hours last night, she’s killing it.”

Jack laughed, shaking his head. “Living the good life. I wish I could swipe places with her. Burrito swaddle and zero responsibilities sounds better than this circus.” He took a sip of coffee, his eyes crinkling with genuine affection for his friend. “Seriously though, man. She’s got you wrapped around her tiny finger, and her godfather too.”

They moved into the handoff the way they always did. Robby stood with his arms crossed while Jack walked through the overnight cases one by one: the elderly woman with the troponin, the young guy with the syncope whose ct had finally cleared, the pending cultures that hadn’t resulted yet. He nodded and asked the questions that needed asking, keeping all the cases organized in his mind.

Once the essentials were covered and the board looked as controlled as it was going to get, Jack leaned in a little, dropping his just enough to make the shift from colleague to friend. “How are you both doing?” he asked. “You and your girl holding up okay with the new routine?”

Robby nodded, curving his lips into a wide smile, the same one that always appeared on instinct whenever he thought about you. “Surprisingly great. The nights are getting better. She’s a good sleeper, and we’re figuring it out together. It’s exhausting, but… it’s good. Really good.”

Jack landed his hand between his shoulder blades in a brief clap. “Glad to hear it. You deserve this, Robby. All of it.”

There was no teasing in it, just the certainty from a man who had watched him burn through too many years. Jack held his gaze a second longer, then turned and headed for the locker room and the much-needed rest waiting for him. Robby was left standing in the nurse station as the day crew filtered in.

Word had always traveled fast in the pitt. When you were pregnant, he’d kept it locked down tight. Not because the joy wasn’t there, God, it had been almost unbearable some days, the way it kept rising up in his chest at the most inconvenient moments, but because the idea of opening that part of his life to the entire department had felt like standing naked under the bright lights. His personal world was his, and yours, it wasn’t for public consumption.

Jack had been the first to know. It had happened one night over beers in the corner of a bar. Robby hadn’t planned on saying anything, but the words had simply slipped out somewhere between the second and third round. Jack had gone quiet, he sat there with the glass in his hand, and his eyes fixed on Robby’s face as they turned glassy. He shook his head as a disbelieving smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. He was simply so glad that his friend had found this in life. After the years of watching Robby carry the weight of the department, Jack looked at him like he’d been waiting a long time to see something good finally stick.

Dana had been next. He’d told her he was taking the rest of the day off, muttering something about the twenty-week ultrasound appointment, and she’d looked at him for half a second before she started to silently cry. She’d pulled him into a fierce hug right there, saying, “About time, Robinavitch.” 

Still, somehow, the rest of the department found out weeks later. Someone caught a glimpse of his phone lock screen, the unmistakable curve of your belly under one of his old t-shirts. Someone else ran into the two of you outside the movie theater on a night off and saw the way your coat no longer closed properly over the growing evidence of what you carried. After that it was inevitable. Congratulatory claps on the back, knowing smiles, the occasional quiet “Sleep while you have the chance, dr. Robby.”

And now that everyone knew the baby had actually arrived, now that he had come back from leave, they asked every single day. Begged, really, to bring her in.

Donnie leaned against the counter, grinning like he’d been waiting all morning for the opening. “Hey Robby, you gotta bring Noa in one day, just for a little visit. We can arrange a playdate with my daughter.”

Princess didn’t even look up. “Yeah, call your girl and tell her to swing by with her. We promise we’ll be gentle. No crowd-surfing the newborn or anything.”

Dana, who’d been one of the view people who’d visited the three of you in your house, was passing when she caught the last of it. She slowed, a laugh escaping her as she turned toward them. “She is the sweetest baby. Those big brown eyes and those round cheeks? I’m telling you, she’s going to break hearts one day. You’ve got no idea what you’re missing.”

Robby felt the familiar heat climb the back of his neck. He laughed and rubbed at the spot with one hand, the other still holding a half-finished note. “I’ll talk to her,” he said. “Maybe on a slow day we can make it happen. But no promises on the timing, Noa’s still tiny, and we’re trying to keep things low-key for now.”

A collective groan rose from the group. Someone called him a party pooper, someone tossed a crumpled glove in his direction, but there was no real anger in any of it. On the inside they understood, there was no arguing with him. When it came to his daughter, Robby was as protective as they came.

Throughout the shift, the requests popped up again in quieter moments, Perlah and Princess cooed over the latest photo Robby reluctantly showed from his phone after begging him for hours, and García teased him about “the Robinavitch legacy” in the making.

Robby moved through the rest of his shift with a steadier mind than he had known in years. The old restlessness was still there sometimes, but it no longer felt like it owned him. Between patients, in the brief pockets of relative calm, his thoughts kept drifting home. He would picture you dozing somewhere, maybe with a book half-open on your chest, Noa nearby, either asleep in her bassinet or awake and occupied with the serious work of being two months old. 

He wanted to be there, twelve hours had never felt longer. He found himself calculating, almost without meaning to, how many more patients, how many more hours until he could walk through the door and find the two of you waiting on the other side of it.

Then, in one of those rare stretches when everything was temporarily under control, he stepped into the break room. He leaned against the counter, pulled his phone from the pocket of his cargo pants, and for the first time all day allowed himself the luxury of opening the message thread with you.

Robby: hey love, quick break here. how are my girls doing?

You were curled up on the couch with Noa nestled in your arms when your phone vibrated on the coffee table. It was Robby. The notification made you instantly smile, shifting Noa gently so you could snap a quick selfie. You were both looking soft and content, with your hair a little messy, and Noa’s big brown eyes half-open, fisting one tiny hand in your shirt. 

You: We’re good💕 Just taking it easy today

Sometimes when he saw you and Noa like that, a thought would come unbidden. What would it have been like, he wondered, to grow up with a mother who looked at him the way you looked at Noa? Not the keeping-alive kind of care he had known in fragments, but a mother who noticed when his voice went quiet, who sat on the edge of the bed instead of behind a closed door, who made the ordinary hours feel safe simply by being present in them. Someone who would have reached for him the way you reached for your daughter without thinking.

He tried to imagine it sometimes. A different house, a different childhood, where the question why wasn’t I enough? never had to form in the first place. He wondered whether he would have been softer, less braced for loss, whether the impulse that made him push people away before they could leave might have been sanded down by something as simple and profound as being wanted without condition. He would never know what it felt like to be on the receiving end of that kind of mothering. But he knew, with an almost painful certainty, that his daughter never would have to wonder the same thing. And somehow, that had to be enough.

Robby’s response came back a few minutes later.

Robby: Are you two angels that fell from the sky? my beautiful girls.  god, I miss you both already, that smile of yours and noa’s cheeks i’m the luckiest man alive

You laughed softly, typing back while Noa made a small contented noise against you.

You: We just had lunch and now we’re relaxing. Our bellies are too full to move. Noa demolished her bottle and I ate way too much pasta. How’s your shift?

Robby: Managing, nothing too crazy yet, thinking about you two makes it easier save some of that pasta for me? love you.

The conversation tapered off the way when a multiple-car pileup sent six patients inbound, two critical, the rest still being sorted. Robby was already moving, pulling on gloves and scanning the board. And yet, even as the ED filled with the chaos of shouted vitals and the smell of blood, the picture of the two of you stayed with him. You on the couch, Noa’s body curled against your chest. For the next hour, through the first wave of stabilizations, that single image kept finding him. 

A couple of hours later, you had Noa on her play mat for tummy time, the little one determined and doing so well, pushing up on those still pudgy arms, lifting her chin clear of the mat with a concentration that made her round cheeks puff out like she was holding her breath for the effort. A soft grunt escaped her, you watched her for a second longer, then lifted your phone and caught the exact moment she managed another small raise of her head. 

You sent the photo to Robby without overthinking.

You: Look who’s being a tummy time champion today

His reply came almost the second the message left your phone.

Robby: look at her go!  she’s lifting her chin from her chest so well, she’s so strong already.  i’m melting over here Tell her daddy’s proud

By the end of his shift, Jack clapped Robby on the back as they wrapped up handoff. “Go home to your girls, man. Don’t linger here, they need you more than we do tonight.”

Robby didn’t need telling twice, he pushed through the sliding glass doors, and the cool night air hit his face. His scrubs were rumpled and his hair looked disheveled from running his hands through it during the final hours of a brutal shift. A few years ago, he would’ve walked to his car with heavy steps, feeling the depression taking over his body, wondering what the point was, if there was any light left beyond the next shift, the next inevitable loss, the next person he couldn’t save. No one would be waiting for him at home, there was no reason to keep pushing forward.

But tonight, a smile curved his lips as he unlocked his car. He exhaled slowly, feeling the tension easing from his shoulders. He was going home to you, and to her. The pitt still demanded much of him, but coming home to both of you recharged him in ways nothing else did. The memory of your face during labor, the first time he held his daughter, the way you looked now as a mother… it all fueled him. And suddenly the depression that once had haunted him post-shift felt like nothing but a distant shadow. For the first time in years, the future felt bright and full of possibility.

You heard the familiar sound of the front door clicking open and then shutting softly, followed by the thud of Robby’s shoes being kicked off in the entryway. 

Robby appeared in the doorway, his tall frame silhouetted for a moment before he stepped inside. His eyes found you immediately

He still hadn’t found the right words for what happened to him the second he stepped through the door and saw it. You were there, settled into the middle of the bed in your oversized sleep y shirt, with Noa cradled against your chest like she had been born knowing exactly where she belonged. One of your hands supported the curve of her back while the other traced absent circles between her shoulder blades. Her little face was turned into the hollow of your throat, her eyes half-lidded and her mouth working sleepily against your skin. 

The tired but genuine smile you loved so much spread across his face. He moved quietly, shedding his jacket and setting his bag down without a sound, then he approached the bed. “Hey,” he whispered, keeping his voice low so as not to startle Noa. “How are my girls doing?”

His breath brushed your cheek as he pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, then another, a softer one to your lips. He placed one of his big hands on your shoulder, resting it there, while he hovered the other tenderly over Noa’s back. Robby stroked the soft fabric of her onesie with the pad of his thumb, careful enough not to wake her. Noa made a small sigh in her sleep but didn’t stir. 

Something moved through him then, it started in his chest and spread outward until his throat tightened and his hands felt useless at his sides. He could have stood there forever just watching the two of you. The woman he loved more than he had ever allowed himself to love anyone, and the tiny person the two of you had made together. It was so quietly sweet it undid him.

You were effortless with her, so natural that it made him a little stunned still. The way you shifted her weight without thinking, the soft sounds you made under your breath, the absolute certainty in the way you held her. Noa trusted you with her whole body. Even at this age she seemed to know, the way animals sometimes knew, that you were her safe space, that you would never let anything touch her, that you loved her fiercely.

Part of him still flinched from it, the old voice that whispered he didn’t deserve this picture, that something this good couldn’t possibly be meant for a man like him. But he had learned not to feed it. Every time it rose, he heard your voice instead, you told him he deserved this, that he made you the happiest woman alive, that Noa was lucky, so lucky, to have a father who already loved her the way he did. And somehow, when it was your voice saying it, he could believe it.

He kicked off the rest of his clothes down to his boxers and slipped into bed beside you, the mattress dipping under his weight. Robby slid one arm around your shoulders, pulling you and Noa carefully against his chest as best he could without disturbing the baby. 

“How was your day?” he murmured, pressing another kiss to your temple, gently playing with the ends of your hair with his free hand. “Tell me everything, I want to hear it all.”

You shifted slightly, keeping Noa secure on your chest, and started recounting the day in a quiet voice. The morning walk around the block in the stroller when the sun was still gentle, the way Noa had stared wide-eyed at the leaves moving in the breeze. The feeding session that lasted nearly an hour around lunchtime, followed by a messy but successful attempt at tummy time where she’d managed to lift her head for a few seconds. Robby listened intently, asking gentle questions in between.

“She’s getting so good at tummy time, how long this time?” His thumb continued its soothing path along Noa’s back. “Did she fuss much when you tried the new bottle we got? Any spit-up today?”

You answered each one, smiling at his genuine interest. He wants the details, the small victories, the tiny struggles. After a while, he glanced down at Noa, then back at you. “Want me to put her in her crib so you can stretch out a little? You look like you could use the space.”

“Yes, please,” you whispered, and Robby nodded, carefully maneuvering himself into a sitting position. With infinitely gentle hands, he slid his arms under Noa and lifted her from your chest. 

She fussed for half a second at the transfer but settled quickly against his broad chest, instinctively turning her face into the crook of his neck. He stood there for a long moment, just holding her, rocking side to side with a natural rhythm.

You watched as he carried her to her nursery. From the monitor on your nightstand, you could hear everything. “Hey, my sweet girl,” he whispered to her. “Daddy’s home. I missed you so much today. You know that? I think about you and mommy every single second I’m away.” He cuddled her closer, pressing feather light kisses to the top of her head. “You are so beautiful. Look at you… those perfect little cheeks, that tiny nose. I still can’t believe we made you. Me and your mom… we created something this perfect. You’re half her and half me, and somehow you’re better than both of us combined.”

He took his time admiring her in the glow of the nursery lamp, tracing a finger along her eyebrows, marveling at the delicate curve of her ears, the way her fists stayed curled even in sleep. “My perfect Noa. I love you more than I ever thought possible. You and mommy… you saved me, baby. Gave me a reason to go on every single day.”

Eventually, he lowered her into the crib, carefully adjusting her clothes and swaddling her snugly in a fresh blanket, just the way she liked it, with her arms tucked in, secure and warm. He double-checked the swaddle, made sure the monitor camera was angled perfectly so you could check on her from your bedroom, and finally dimmed the light before whispering one last “Sweet dreams, baby girl. Your daddy loves you.”

A minute later he was back in your bedroom, closing the door behind him and climbing  into bed. Robby wrapped one arm around you immediately, pulling your body flush against his. As he tangled a leg with yours, he buried his face in your neck, inhaling deeply.

“God, I hate being away from you two all day,” he murmured against your skin, his voice coming out muffled. “Coming home this late… it kills me. I miss so much.”

You ran your fingers through his hair, soothing him. “It’s okay, Michael. Noa and I keep each other company. We’re all right.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “I don’t like leaving you alone with everything. I wish I could be more present. Help you more with the chores, the nights, all of it. You’re doing so much.”

You cupped his cheek. “You have your job. Taking care of Noa is mine right now, and we’re managing, I promise.”

Robby sighed, pressing his forehead to yours. “You should reconsider hiring someone. Just for a few hours a day at first. We could find someone certified, with lots of experience and references. She could handle the chores, watch Noa so you can rest, shower, whatever you need. I want you to have some… room to breathe.”

“I’m fine,” you reassured him softly, smiling. “I promise I’ll tell you if it gets to be too much. But today we actually had a full one-hour nap, straight through, no crying, no fussing.”

Robby’s face lit up, and he let out a quiet laugh that vibrated through his chest and into yours. “Oh wow, a full hour? No interruptions? You lucky girls.” He grinned, pulling you even closer, sliding his hand down to rest it on your hip. “I’m proud of you both, seriously. You’re incredible.”

You turned in his embrace, capturing his mouth in a kiss. What started gentle quickly deepened as Robby groaned quietly against your lips. He was roaming his hands all over your body, keeping his touch gentle but undeniably hungry, sliding them down your sides, over your hips, and up your back, as if he was relearning every curve. He pulled you closer, kissing you harder, his tongue meeting yours in a familiar dance.

He broke the kiss just enough to murmur against your mouth. “We can stop whenever you want, baby. I’m just kissing you… we don’t have to go any further if you’re not ready yet.”

“It’s fine,” you whispered, threatening your fingers through his hair. “I’ll tell you if I want to stop.”

That seemed to be all the reassurance he needed. Robby shifted, settling his body on top of yours between your legs, careful not to put too much weight on you. The familiar press of him felt comforting and new all at once. His hands moved under your shirt, lifting it slowly.

Robby’s gaze darkened with desire as he looked at you, skimming his palms reverently over your breasts. He’d always loved them, loved sucking on your nipples until you squirmed, massaging the soft flesh, teasing until you were breathless. But he knew how sensitive they still were from breastfeeding, so his touch stayed feather-light tonight, brushing his thumbs softly over your nipples without pinching or pulling.

You froze for a moment as the insecurity took over. It came quietly at first, then all at once. The hunger that had been building under your skin suddenly was overtaken by the doubts creeping in.

You couldn’t help but notice the little changes, the faint lines that marked where your body had stretched to make room for Noa, the way your breasts felt different, no longer quite the same shape he had first mapped with his mouth months before she arrived. Nothing had fully returned to what it had been, and some part of you suspected it never would. This was not the same body Robby had first fallen in love with. This was not the same woman who had turned him on that first night, confident and untouched by the irreversible work of growing and delivering a child.

What if he didn’t find it appealing anymore? What if, when he finally touched you, it would feel obligatory, something he did because he loved you, not because he still wanted you with the same desire? You lay there with the questions pressing against your ribs.

Robby pulled back immediately, a look of concern replaced the previous heat in his eyes. “What’s wrong?” he asked gently, cupping your cheek with one hand. “You want to stop?”

You shook your head, biting your lip as you looked away for a second. “I just… I feel weird about my body right now,” you admitted quietly, a little ashamed of expressing these feelings of insufficiency to him. Robby would want a confident woman, not someone afraid of taking her shirt off. “I’m… insecure, I guess. It’s changed so much, I keep thinking maybe you don’t like it anymore. That I look different… gross even. You know, with the stretch marks, and the softness, and everything. I don’t want you to think I’m gross now.”

Robby’s expression softened completely. He shifted his weight to lie beside you, pulling you close so you were facing him. He couldn’t believe you were saying something like this. You, the most gorgeous woman he had ever seen, were lying here looking at him like you somehow believed the changes in your body could make him look at you with different eyes.

He’d watched you grow Noa, had seen your body shift and soften and stretch into something stronger and more miraculous than anything he had ever put his hands on. None of it had lessened what he felt, if anything, it had made him want you even more. The idea that he could ever look at you and feel anything less than that same helpless pull was so far from reality it almost hurt. 

“Hey… look at me. I have seen you, all of you. Every day through the pregnancy, through the birth, through the recovery. And I think you are so fucking beautiful, so sexy. You look incredible to me. Your body carried our daughter, and I love it. I love every inch of you, exactly as you are right now.”

He leaned in and kissed you again, slowly, as if to drive the words home. When he pulled back, his hand continued its gentle exploration, over your stomach, your hips, your thighs. “I wouldn’t lie to you about this, never. I want you just as much as I did before, maybe more. You’re the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. The way you look, the way you feel under my body… it drives me crazy in the best way. Nothing about you is gross. You’re perfect to me. My beautiful woman, my partner, the mother of my child.”

His words wrapped around you like a blanket, easing the anxious knot of insecurity. He kept kissing you, your lips, your jaw, your neck, while his hands caressed your body with admiration. “This body,” he murmured against your skin, squeezing your hip gently, “It's so soft… I love it. I love touching you, feeling you. You’re so damn sexy it’s hard to keep my hands off you.”

You relaxed into his touch, the earlier heat returning slowly but surely. Robby stayed patient, never pushing, just showering you with affection and reassurance until the doubts faded into the background of your mind. 

Robby helped you peel his shirt off when you reached for the hem of it, tugging it upwards. He glanced down at himself with a self-deprecating chuckle, patting the gentle curve. “Look at this,” he said with humor. “I look about three months pregnant myself, and you still love me anyway.”

You laughed, the sound coming out genuine instead of forced, and pulled him closer until there was no space left between you. Your hands moved freely over him, with greed, tracing the lines of his back, the solid planes of his chest, then lower, mapping the soft give of the belly that had always made your mouth go dry. You squeezed the warm flesh of his sides, sinking your fingers in just enough to feel him.

“I love your body too. It makes me so wet,” you whispered. “Feeling you like this. Fuck, Robby…”

He groaned, the sound was pleased, vibrating against your lips. “Yeah? I know exactly how wet you get for me, baby. God, I love when you touch me like that. Don’t stop.”

You didn’t, you kept kissing him, kept your bodies pressed tight, and your palms sliding over his warm skin while his own hands began their slow descent. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down in one motion, the fabric whispered along your thighs until it was gone. The cool air kissed your bare skin for only a second before the heat of his hand replaced it.

Robby parted your thighs with insistence and touched you, sliding his fingers through the slickness already gathered between your folds, spreading it, coating himself in how ready you were.

“So wet already,” he murmured to you. “This pretty pussy is so ready for me. Look at you… you’re dripping.”

His fingers found your clit with ease, rubbing slow circles that made your hips twitch helplessly against his hand. He worked your clit with that steady pressure that felt devastating, building the pleasure in rolling waves until soft moans spilled from your throat. Your nails scraped lightly down the length of his back, leaving faint red trails as sensation crashed through you, almost too much and nowhere near enough.

“Does it feel good?” he asked with his eyes locked on your face, drinking in every reaction he managed to pull out of you.

“It feels amazing,” you gasped, your own breath hitching under the assault of his fingers. “I missed this so much… missed your hands on me, missed feeling like this.”

Robby’s touch stayed steady, still circling your clit with the pad of his thumb in those perfect strokes that had you slick and open for him. Your body was responding eagerly, your wetness coating his fingers, your inner walls fluttering with every pass… until he let those same fingers drift lower. He toyed gently at your entrance, resting the blunt tips of two fingers right there, teasing you without quite pushing in yet, spreading the slickness he’d already drawn from you.

You grabbed his wrist instinctively. The motion was sharp, almost involuntary. Suddenly a million doubts flooded your mind at once. Robby’s fingers were long and thick, you knew the exact stretch of them, the way they filled you when he was patient and when he wasn’t. You knew he’d be careful the first time after birth, you trusted him completely. But fuck, after everything your body had been through, the thought of anything inside you still felt scary. 

“Stop.” The word came out quiet but clear, your fingers locked around his wrist, holding him still.

He pulled his hand away immediately, watching you with a concerned expression across his face. “What’s wrong, love?”

You took a shaky breath, the anxiety surfacing once again. “I’m scared it’s gonna hurt… after everything. The tear, the birth… I just—”

Robby shifted once again so he was looking directly at you, resting his hand soothingly on your thigh. “The tear is fully healed. Your uterus is back to its normal size and back in place. Medically, it shouldn’t hurt. But we can stop right now if you need to wait. It’s okay. I can just keep rubbing your clit if you want, whatever feels good for you.”

You nodded, biting your lip. “I want you… but it’s scary to think about something inside me again.”

He kissed you reassuringly. “I understand. You’re really wet already, which is perfect, but we can use some lube too. It’ll help everything slide in easier, make it more comfortable. Sound good?”

“Yes,” you whispered with relief. You trusted him so fully, you knew you were in the safest hands you had ever known. Robby would never push, he would never take more than you were ready to give. Your pleasure and your comfort mattered more to him than his own.

He pressed one more lingering kiss to your lips, the kind that said I’ve got you without needing the words. Then he pulled back just enough to look at you. “Don’t move.”

As he rolled onto his side, the mattress shifted under his weight, he reached toward the nightstand, rummaging through the clutter until his fingers closed around the bottle of lube you kept there. He settled between your legs again, kneeling on the mattress as he warmed the lube between his fingers before applying it generously to your pussy. “Tell me if anything hurts or if you need to stop,” he said. “No matter what. This is all about you feeling good.”

You nodded, and once you did, he started rubbing the slick lube over your folds. His touch was gentle, coating everything thoroughly. He teased your entrance with just the tip of one finger, circling it and pressing it barely inside. The cool glide of the lube mixed with your own wetness, making everything feel smooth. He watched your face the entire time, gauging every reaction.

Little by little, he pushed his finger deeper. Robby moved with patience, the length of it easing forward only when your body gave the smallest acceptance. You felt the stretch immediately, familiar after all the times he had been inside you, yet still careful, almost tentative. It wasn’t painful, the sensation was simply full, a pressure that made your breath catch and your inner walls flutter around the intrusion. Slightly foreign at first, like your body was relearning the shape of him all over again.

He didn’t rush, every fraction of an inch was measured, his eyes remained on your face the entire time, watching for any flicker of discomfort. When at last his finger was seated all the way inside you, knuckle-deep, he paused completely. His thumb stayed gentle against your clit, offering the smallest pressure, but the rest of him went still.

The fullness settled, and so your body adjusted around him in involuntary pulses. “How does it feel?” he asked softly, brushing his thumb lightly over your clit to keep the pleasure flowing.

“Fine,” you breathed the word out. “It’s okay… good, actually.”

Robby smiled and began to move his finger slowly, sliding it in and out with careful and shallow thrusts. He crooked it gently, searching for that sensitive spot inside you. “Still good? Any pain?”

You shook your head and a soft moan escaped your lips as he found the right angle. “No pain… feels nice.”

He kept going, building a steady rhythm, fucking you with one thick finger while his thumb continued circling your clit. The combination sent waves of pleasure through your core. You started moving your hips, almost on their own, seeking more of the pressure on your clit and the deepness of his fingers inside you. Soon your breaths turned into moans and whimpers, his name fell from your lips in broken gasps. “Michael… oh god…”

After a few more minutes, finally Robby leaned down and added his mouth. The first stroke of his tongue over your clit was slow, tasting how wet you already were for him. Then the flicks came faster while he began to pump the single finger deeper, matching the rhythm of his tongue to the thrust of his hand. The dual sensation crashed through you in the best way, the thick stretch inside and the wet heat of his mouth working your clit until your thighs trembled on either side of his head.

You threaded your fingers into his hair and pulled him closer, the initial fear had burned away under the rising pleasure. “More,” you begged him. “Please—another finger…”

Robby groaned against your pussy, he answered without hesitation, carefully working a second finger in alongside the first. The stretch was deeper, but the lube and your own slickness made the slide smooth. He gave you only a moment to adjust before he began to fuck you properly with both fingers in strokes that grew harder. Robby was crooking the tips perfectly against that swollen spot inside you until sparks burst behind your eyes.

His tongue never stopped moving, he licked and sucked your clit with almost ruthless focus, occasionally glancing up just enough to watch your face as he drove you higher. You were moaning loudly now, the sounds echoing in the bedroom walls. “Don’t stop! Fuck, Michael, it feels amazing… so good, please don’t stop…”

Your thighs were trembling around his head, and you pulled his hair harder, grinding your hips against his face and hand as the pleasure coiled tighter and tighter in your belly. Robby worked you relentlessly, thrusting his fingers deeper and faster, moving his tongue from side to side on your swollen clit.

The orgasm hit you hard, making your whole body seize on the bed, your back bowing as you came with a cry of his name. Your pussy squeezed his fingers rhythmically, pulsing with wave after wave of intense pleasure. Your own thighs squeezed his head and gripped his wrist, holding him exactly where you needed him as the climax ripped through you.

Robby kept going through it all, gentling his movements but not stopping until you started to come down, whimpering from how oversensitive you felt. Only then did he slowly withdraw his fingers and lift his head, looking at you with his lips shiny with your arousal befor kissing your thigh. “You did so good, baby. You look fucking beautiful when you cum for me.”

You just lay there panting, with your body limp, as Robby climbed up to hold you close, pressing tender kisses to your face and neck while you caught your breath. “I’d missed eating this pussy so much. Missed how sweet you are, how you soak my beard when you cum. Nothing in the world compares to that.”

Pressed against your body, you could feel how hard he still was, the thick length of him against your hip. When he spoke, his voice came out almost shy. “Could you… would you mind giving me some head for a bit?” He swallowed. “I’ve missed it so fucking much. Missed the way you look when you’re on your knees for me, how wet and hot it feels when you suck me. I keep thinking about it.”

You didn’t even hesitate. “Yes,” you breathed against his lips. “I want to taste you.”

He rolled onto his back, propping himself up on his elbows so he could watch, you sat up and moved between his legs, sliding your palms over the warm skin of his thighs. The front of his boxers was tented, with a dark spot already dampening the fabric where the head of his cock pressed against it. You hooked your fingers into the waistband and dragged them down slowly, letting the elastic catch for a second under the curve of him before you pulled them the rest of the way off and tossed them aside.

His cock sprang free, leaking a clear bead of precum that slid down the underside. You wrapped one hand around the base and just looked at him for a second, then leaned in. You started slow, with open-mouthed kisses against the tip, letting your lips drag over the fat head, tasting the salty bead that kept forming there before licking it away with the flat of your tongue. Then you did it again, slower, circling the ridge, teasing the slit until his hips twitched. Another kiss, wetter this time, then a long lick from the base all the way up the underside, pausing to suck gently on the head while your eyes stayed locked on his.

“Fuck… baby…” Robby dropped his head back with a broken sound. “That’s it… look at you. So pretty with my cock on your tongue.”

You kept teasing him, kissing, licking, sucking just the tip into your mouth for a few seconds before pulling off with a soft pop and doing it all over again. Your tongue painted slow stripes up and down his shaft, getting him all shiny and slick. When you nosed lower, you mouthed at his balls, sucking one carefully into your mouth, rolling it with your tongue while your hand stroked him tight. The other ball got the same treatment, and Robby’s thighs tensed hard on either side of your head before a high, almost helpless whimper slipped out of him.

Only then did you finally take him properly. You sank down, stretching your lips wide around the girth, taking him halfway in one smooth slide. You worked your tongue on the underside as you sucked, hollowing your cheeks until the lewd wet sounds filled the quiet room. You bobbed slowly at first, getting used to the weight of him on your tongue again, then started taking him deeper, getting saliva dripping down his shaft and over your fingers. 

Every time you pulled up, you twisted your wrist just the way he liked, then sank back down with a little moan of your own. Robby was already falling apart. “Oh my god! Yes, just like that. Your mouth feels so fucking good. Missed this so much, baby, missed how good you suck cock.”

You pushed yourself further, relaxing your throat and taking him deeper until your nose was pressed against the hair at the base and his balls rested against your chin. You held him there, letting your throat flutter around the head, then pulled back just enough to breathe before doing it again. Spit ran down your chin, but you didn’t care, you just sucked him like you were starving for it, with deep strokes that made wet shuck shuck suck noises every time you took him to the root.

Robby’s moans were turning into something closer to continuous broken sounds. He whimpered when you hollowed your cheeks especially hard. He gasped your name when you focused on the head and sucked like you were trying to pull the orgasm out of him. He tangled one of his hands in your hair while his hips kept making tiny thrusts, like he was fighting the urge to fuck your throat properly.

“Shit! Look at you. You’re taking me so deep… your throat feels incredible. Fuck, baby, I’m not gonna last if you keep—”

You only sucked harder and messier, letting him hear every wet slide and every soft gag when you pushed past your comfort zone. Drool coated his cock and dripped onto his balls. You pulled off just long enough to lick him clean again, to spit on the head and smear it around with your tongue, then swallowed him back down to the base with a hungry sound.

Robby’s whole body went tight. “Stop… fuck, stop. I’m close… I’m so fucking close—” His voice cracked into another whimper. “Your mouth is too good, I can’t… I don’t want to finish yet—”

He pulled you off with a filthy sound, his cock was flushed almost purple and shiny with your spit, a string of saliva still connected your bottom lip to the tip. He was clearly right on the edge, breathing hard. Robby tugged you up into his arms instead of finishing, burying his face against your neck with a shaky laugh.

“Not yet,” he rasped. “Wanted your mouth so bad. But now I want to fuck you.”

Robby hauled you up by the waist and flipped you onto your back against the mattress, the movement was urgent, like he’d been holding himself back for too long and the last thread had finally snapped. His cock, still shiny with your spit, dragged across your thigh as he settled between your legs. He shoved your knees wide with his own, spreading you open, and looked down at the mess he’d already made of you, your clit swollen, your pussy flushed and dripping, the stretch of your entrance still slightly open from his fingers.

“Look at this pretty pussy,” hesaid. “All wet and ready for me after all that. You still want it, baby? Want me to fuck you?”

“Yes, please,” you breathed, nodding desperately. “I want you inside me. I need it.”

Before getting inside you, he took his time .He gripped the base of his cock and dragged the head up and down the length of your pussy, spreading your folds open, smearing your wetness all over himself, then pushing up to rub circles over your swollen clit until it was shiny and throbbing. Every pass left another string of your slick connecting his cock to your cunt. He did it again and again, teasing the entrance without pushing in, watching the way your hole fluttered and tried to suck at him every time the head kissed it.

“Fuck, look at this messy little pussy,” he growled. “Already trying to pull me in. You’re so greedy.”

He finally lined up properly and pushed forward, just the broad tip forcing its way past your entrance. The stretch was intense, that first flare spreading you open after so long, but how soaked you were made it slide instead of burn. He stayed right there, only the head inside, and Robby started fucking you with it in short thrusts, popping just the tip in and out of you over and over, stretching your rim around the thickest part again and again while your juices coated him.

“How’s that feel?” he asked trying to hold himself back, locking his eyes on your face. “Any pain? Tell me.”

You moaned his name loud enough that it echoed off the walls, dropping your head back against the pillow. “Good! fuck, so good, Michael. Don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

He kept those shallow thrusts going, watching every twitch of your face, every time your pussy clenched and tried to drag more of him inside. Your moans got louder as you arched hard off the bed, chasing the head that kept rubbing perfectly over the sensitive ring of muscle.

Robby groaned through gritted teeth. Gradually, he started giving you more, with every slow thrust he sank a little deeper, another inch, then another, until your pussy was visibly swallowing him, the stretched rim clinging to his shaft as he fed it to you. You wrapped your legs tight around his waist and dug your heels into the soft flesh of his ass, rolling your hips up hard. The movement forced the rest of him inside in one long slide. Robby bottomed out with a loud moan that cracked in the middle, pressing his balls flush against you, the entire thick length buried to the root.

“Fuck! Michael— fuck me,” you gasped.

He cursed loudly, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as his cock twitched deep inside you. “Jesus fucking… your pussy. You’re so goddamn perfect. It feels so tight, so hot. I missed this so much, baby. Missed being buried balls-deep in you.”

He stayed completely still for a long moment, letting you feel every pulse of him, every throb. “You feel incredible. This pussy was fucking made for my cock. So wet it’s dripping down my balls already. You’re fucking perfect, baby.”

Then you begged, your voice cracking with pure need. “Fuck me, Michael. Fuck me deep. Please… I need it.”

Robby pulled almost all the way out, then slammed back in to the root in one strong stroke. He set a deep rhythm right away, snapping his hips forward hard enough that each time he bottomed out, his heavy balls smacked against you, and the head of his cock punched that spot inside until your vision went white at the edges.

“That’s it, baby,” he growled, voice already wrecked. “Take every fucking inch”

You clung to him like you were drowning, carving red lines down his back with your nails, locking your legs tighter around his waist so he had no choice but to stay buried deep. He gripped the backs of your thighs and shoved them wider, pinning them open against his body so he could watch every inch disappear inside you. 

“Michael… oh god, Michael, don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop—”

The sound of his cock plunging in and out of your soaked cunt filled the entire room. Robby leaned over you, his sweaty chest sliding against yours, and claimed your mouth in messy kisses between thrusts, fucking his tongue  past your lips the same way his cock was fucking your pussy.

“Fuck, baby,” he snarled against your mouth, sounding desperate. “I’m trying so hard not to cum yet but this pussy is squeezing me so goddamn tight.”

One hand stayed braced beside your head for leverage, while he shoved the other between your bodies without mercy. He found your throbbing clit and rubbed tight circles in perfect time with the snap of his hips. 

You were moaning his name like a prayer now, bucking your hips up to meet every brutal stroke. “Michael! Michael! yes! fuck! I’m gonna cum—” you gasped.

“That’s it. Cum for me,” he ordered. “Cum on my cock… let me feel this pussy milk me. Soak me. Do it.”

Your orgasm ripped through you like a wave, your cunt clamped down in pulses, squeezing and fluttering around every inch of him. Robby’s control shattered with a primal groan. “Fuck— I’m cumming. I’m cumming right now, baby—”

He slammed home as deep as he could go and stayed there, stuttering as he unloaded inside you. You felt every hot rope of cum flooding your cunt, painting your walls and overflowing around the tight seal of his cock. He kept thrusting through it, forcing more of his release deeper, groaning your name into the side of your neck like it was the only word he still knew.

For a long moment afterward, the only sounds were your heavy breathing and the faint hum of the baby monitor on the nighstand. Robby collapsed on top of you, careful not to crush you, with his face buried in the crook of your neck.

“God, I love you,” he whispered, pressing soft kisses to your damp skin. “You’re incredible. Thank you for trusting me with this… with you.”

“I love you too.” You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close as your bodies stayed joined. The intimacy, the release, the love… it all settled warmly around you. Robby eventually pulled out gently, before pulling you into his arms. 

He held you tight, brushing a damp hair from your forehead with gentle fingers. “You good?” he asked softly. “Any discomfort? Did it hurt at all?”

You shook your head, a satisfied smile spread across your face. “God no. That was perfect. Even better than I remembered it. I feel… amazing.”

Robby’s face lit up with relief and pride. He leaned down to kiss you tenderly, lingering his lips there. “It was perfect,” he murmured against your lips. “You felt incredible. I missed being with you like this more than I can say.”

All of a sudden,  Noa’s cries start coming through the monitor, small at first, then building into a fussy wail. Robby stirred immediately, already moving to get up. “Stay here, baby. I’ll go.”

You sit up a little, shaking your head. “There’s no milk ready. I’ll go.”

He gently pushed you back down with a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’ll get Noa and bring her here. You rest.”

Robby slipped out of bed, pulling on his boxers and a pair of pajama pants before padding quietly down the hall to the nursery. You heard his soothing voice through the monitor as he lifted her. “Hey, sweetheart. Daddy’s got you. What’s all this fuss about?”

He checked her diaper quickly on the changing table, it was clean and dry, then scooped her up against his bare chest, rocking her as he carried her back to your bedroom. Noa’s cries eased slightly at his familiar scent and voice, but she was still hungry and fussy. Robby climbed back into bed carefully.

“Here she is,” he said, helping position her so you could nurse. You lifted your shirt and guided her to your breast. She latched on eagerly, the suckling sound filling the room. Her little hand rested on your chest as she drank, her eyes blinking slowly.

Robby lay on his side facing both of you, with one arm wrapped around your waist, hugging you close while you fed your daughter. “I feel so lucky,” Robby whispered after a while as he watched you. “I never thought I’d get this. Making love to the woman I love… then watching her feed our baby. It’s the most beautiful thing in the world… you’re the most beautiful thing.”

You smiled softly, reaching over to touch his cheek. Robby stayed right there with his arm around you, occasionally leaning in to kiss your shoulder or Noa’s head. When Noa was done, with her belly full and feeling drowsy, Robby gently took her to burp her, patting her back until a good burp came. 

“Hey, you want me to set up the side-car crib? We can put Noa next to us and co-sleep tonight.”

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes in the dim light. “Yes,” you whispered. “Please.”

He carefully transferred her into your arms while he stood. The side-car crib was already in the room, leaning against the wall where you’d both kept it for nights like this. He moved it, unfolding the frame, locking the rails and adjusting the height so the mattress sat flush with your bed. 

When it was ready he took Noa from you with infinite care, and lowered her onto the small mattress. He adjusted the light blanket over her, made sure her head was turned just so, then stood there for a second watching the rise and fall of her chest before he finally climbed back into bed behind you.

You shifted onto your side, facing the side of the crib so you could watch her. Robby moved in close behind you, pressing his chest fully against your back and sliding one arm under your neck, the other wrapping around your waist. He pulled you flush against him until there was no space left, his knees tucked behind yours, the curve of his belly warm against your lower back. “There we go,” he murmured. “All three of us.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke, you simply existed in the closeness. Robby’s voice finally broke the silence, coming out vulnerable. “There’s something about seeing you with Noa,” he whispered. “Watching how good of a mom you are… how much love you pour into her every single day. It heals something in me, deep down. Something I didn’t even know it needed healing until I saw you with her.”

You felt the slight tremble in his voice and squeezed his hand over your waist, turning your head to look at him. His eyes were glistening. “Because I know that you’d never… that you’d never leave her like… like my mother did,” he continued, and the wau his voice cracked on the last words almost undid you.

You knew the story, he’d told you once, late at night in the early days. His father had died when he was still a baby, too young for memory, only the absence left behind. After that, his mother had tried, for eight years she had tried, in the only way she knew how, which turned out not to be enough. Those years were not happy ones, the clearest pictures he carried were of a closed bedroom door and the silence behind it. Her depression had been a living thing that filled the house, keeping her in bed for days at a time, the curtains drawn, the world reduced to the small square of mattress she rarely left. A little boy learning too early that the person who was supposed to be his safe place could not even get up to meet him. He remembered standing outside that door sometimes, listening for any sign of life, and the stubborn hope that today she might open it. She never did, not really.

The night he found her on the bathroom floor stayed with him in fragments, the cold tile, the way her body looked smaller than it should have, the childish terror that something irreversible had already happened. He was eight, old enough to understand that she was gone. Losing her carved a particular kind of scar, the kind that never fully closed. He never spoke of it, but it lived in him all the same.

He was older now, and he knew better than to hate her for being ill. He’d stood in that same dark place himself more than once, close enough to the edge of death to understand how a mind could decide the world was no longer bearable. He could list the clinical reasons, the weight of grief and untreated depression and the impossible task of raising a child alone while drowning. 

He could be fair, but fairness never quite reached the part of him that was still that eight-year-old boy. That part still carried the furious question: why wasn’t I enough? Why didn’t the thought of me keep her here? If the one person meant to love him without condition could choose to leave him, what proof was there that anyone else would stay? The fear had settled deep, becoming a kind of muscle memory.

“Michael… baby,” you whispered, your heart aching a little for him. You shifted across the bed, moving to lie on top of him fully. Your body covered his, legs straddling his hips as you rested your head on his chest. You started giving him the soft little neck kisses he loved so much, gentle presses of your lips against the warm skin just below his ear, then trailing slowly down to his collarbone. Slow, loving, reassuring kisses that you knew soothed him like nothing else.

The contrast was almost painful enough, his own mother had been a closed door and a drawn curtain and the silence of a child who learned too early that love could be present in theory and still entirely out of reach. He had spent years telling himself he had made peace with that absence, but watching you with your daughter did something the years of rationalization never managed. It reached the place that still hurt and, gently, without asking permission, began to ease it.

Not all at once or dramatically. The knowledge that this little girl would never stand outside a locked bedroom door waiting for a mother who could not come, that she would grow up knowing the sound of a voice that answered when she cried, the presence of hands that reached for her without hesitation. That the woman he had somehow, impossibly, found was the kind of mother he had only ever been able to invent in the vaguest, most private corners of his mind.

It healed him, Robby would feel the old ache loosen its grip just enough to let gratitude settle in its place. He felt that in giving Noa a mother like you, the universe had, in some unexpected way, begun to give him back pieces of what had been taken before he even understood the loss.

He let out a shaky breath, wrapping his arms around you tightly, one hand stroking up and down your back. “I think it hurts a little, deep inside, when I see you taking care of her,” he admitted quietly. “It makes me wish I’d had a mom like you. What life would’ve been like if I had had that kind of love from the start. The consistency, the patience, the way you look at her like she’s the most precious thing in the world… it’s everything I missed.”

You kept kissing his neck, resting your hand over his heart. “I know. But you have me now,” you whispered between kisses. “As your partner, I’ll always love you unconditionally. I’ll look after you too, just like I look after her. You’re not alone anymore, Michael. You never have to carry that by yourself again. I’m here… we’re here.”

Robby’s arms pulled you impossibly closer. “Thank you,” he murmured. “Thank you for being so amazing with Noa, for loving her the way you do, for being such a great mom. You have no idea what it means to me… to see her safe and happy and loved every day. You’ve given me a family I never thought I’d have. You’ve given me healing I didn’t even know I needed.”

You continued the gentle kisses, moving across his neck and shoulder, occasionally nuzzling against his skin just to feel him. His hand never stopped its soothing strokes on your back. Eventually, you both drifted into a light doze, still tangled together.

He fell asleep knowing that tomorrow would be another day, another chance to do this all over again, and he couldn’t wait for the brand new morning to arrive.

A/N: If there’s one thing you need to know about me, it’s that I love imagining Robby as a father, especially as a girl dad. You’ll never catch me writing a fanfic where that man has a son.

I’ve always found it so interesting to think about how he’d experience parenthood given his difficult childhood, and how becoming a father might change the way he sees himself and the world around him. And now, knowing that canonically his mother took his own life, I think those feelings become even more complex. I’m also really interested in the idea of what it would be like for him to watch his partner be a mother to their child. To see someone love, protect, and nurture his daughter in a way that he never got to experience himself. I imagine that would bring up a lot of emotions for him, some painful, but also some incredibly healing.

That’s something I wanted to explore in this fic.I don’t know if I did it enough justice. I don’t think writing about emotions, or trying to be profound, is my strongest skill. I think there are plenty of writers who could tackle those themes much better than I can. But they were thoughts I’ve had for a long time, and they felt important enough that I wanted to try putting them into words anyway.

I hope you enjoyed it🩷 I’d love to know what you think, and as always, your comments and reblogs are very appreciated!

You only just got over the trauma of telling Jesse. Nobody else knows yet - not even Jack. You can’t even consider telling anybody until he knows. Jesse Van Horn had been unavoidable, and entirely steadfast in his support since finding out.

Are you like… alive in there?”

You can barely quell the tears enough to hiccup a yes. Given your history and constant close proximity to Jesse, there’s no point in trying to hide it from him. He’s not an idiot. He knows what morning sickness looks like, even if he hasn’t quite put it together yet.

You’re not sure your lips are capable of forming the word ‘pregnant’ right at this very moment. Instead, you reach for the door handle, and let it creak open.

You’d hate to see yourself right now - shivering and sick and curled up on the bathroom floor.

“Shit,” He curses. “What the fuck happened? Do we need to go to the Emergency Room?”

You shake your head weakly, eyes flicking to the test on the counter.

If you were picking one word to describe your roommate, collected might be the one you’d go for. Currently, Jesse Van Horn looks anything but - a perfect reminder of just how big you’ve screwed up.

“Holy fucking shit.”

You practically whine a reply. “I’m so, so fucked.”

“Is it… is it Seth’s?”

Finally, something to snap you out of your stupor. You shoot Jesse with a glare, arms covering your torso protectively. “Of course not. Don’t be stupid.”

“You’ll excuse me if he’s the only guy I’ve known you’ve slept with this year.” Almost immediately, Jesse’s usual sass is back in his tone, and you want to cry tears of joy. Most things are going to change, but maybe not all. When you don’t reply, Jesse shoots you with his own look. “So? Whose is it? Or do you not know?”

You muster up a glare. “I do know. But you can’t laugh.”

“Oh god,” He groans. “Who the hell have you been sleeping with?”

You bite your lip, ready for the impact. “Jack Abbot.”

In all the reactions you’d envisioned from Jesse, laughter is not one of them. It bursts out of him, almost like a gasp of air. All you can do is look at him in surprise, and soon he’s hunched over beside you. “I cannot believe you fucked Jack Abbot. He’s so not your type.”

“That’s your takeaway from this?”

You wish you could be as single-minded as your roommate. Unfortunately, you’re pretty sure that your life is over.

“You like ‘em annoying and pretentious. Guys in bands who like pretentious New Wave French cinema and Yoko Ono’s solo career. Not jocks who think that EDM is like the pinnacle of music.”

You don’t know why an urge to defend Jack washes over you. “Jack likes Clapton.”

“Does he like Clapton, or did he tell you that he liked Clapton so that he could get into your pants?”

You think it over, as the tears dry on your cheeks. You like to think that you wouldn’t be so quick to fall for something like that, but you’re also not going to bullshit yourself about Jack’s past. He’s a self-proclaimed womaniser that’s rarely seen with the same girl more than once.

Lip between your teeth, you shake your head. “He wasn’t lying.”

Your first instinct is not to answer the knock.

Maybe if you stay perfectly still he’ll just give up-

Another knock. He calls your name. Then Jesse’s. Letting out a sigh, you scrub furiously at your face before catching your reflection in the microwave door.

Shit.

Your eyes are swollen. You look like you haven’t slept in days. You’re a mess. Splashing cold water over your face, you dab at the mascara smeared beneath your lashes with toilet paper, and try to make yourself look mildly presentable before you open the door.

Robby takes one look at you and immediately frowns. "...Jesus. You look rough."

Despite it all, a scoff falls from your lips. "Thanks."

"You sick?"

"No."

He steps inside without waiting to be invited, duffel bag slung over one shoulder like he owns the place, and presses the back of his hand to your forehead. “You’re a little hot, but not feverish. Nausea?”

All day, every day. “Not really.”

“Diarrhoea?”

You make a face. “Gross. But also no.”

“Huh. Must just be a bug, then. Jess around?"

"Class."

He drops the bag beside the couch before turning back to you, an unreadable expression on his face. You suddenly remember that he’s just finished up a psych rotation.

Shit.

He’s spent the last six weeks analysing expressions and emotions.

You’re screwed.

"You been crying?" His voice is careful and composed, and you’d put money on it being a tone he uses with patients.

Your stomach twists. "What? No."

"Kid."

"I'm tired,” You insist. “Took ages to get over the food poisoning.”

His face says he doesn't believe you for a second. "You sure?"

"Mikey."

"What?"

"You literally just got here."

"I know."

"So maybe don't interrogate me before you've even taken your shoes off. Enough with the shrink bullshit, ‘kay?"

He studies you for another beat before sighing. "Fine. But something's up."

You busy yourself taking his jacket before he can keep looking at you.

"I'm fine."

"Liar."

*****

The afternoon is spent trailing Robby around all his old haunts. His favourite record store, just to check and see if they got that Doors record in. They didn’t.

You both grab coffee from the campus coffee shop, and then you have to talk him out of dragging you to whatever hockey practice is going on.

You argue that he can track down the guys tomorrow when you’re in class, because you want to hang with your brother tonight.

Also, one of them is the father of your niece or nephew.

That part stays in your head.

You haven’t even decided if there’s going to be a niece or nephew yet. You’ve always assumed that abortion would be the easy answer if you ever got pregnant before you were ready.

Now, despite the catastrophic consequences it could have for your life and career, you’re not sure you have it in you to go through with it.

But you also know you can’t rely on Jack. From experience, you know that Robby has little-to-no free time - how could Jack possibly be a father to a baby while pulling twelve-hour shifts?

Does Jack even want a baby?

Would he want one with you?

The answer to both is most likely no.

Finally, Robby manages to drag both you and Jesse to a local bar. It isn’t until the bartender asks for your order, and he rattles off your usual, that you realise your mistake.

You can’t drink.

You always drink with Robby.

Jesse clocks your face as the cider is pushed across the table to you, an identical one pressed into his hand. He cocks his head.

You okay?

You give the smallest shake of your head.

Not now.

His expression smooths over so quickly Robby doesn't notice.

"Didn't know you were coming up," Jesse says, an expert at changing the subject.

"Didn’t know I’d have the time off until this morning. Thought I’d surprise her - see how Sophomore year was going. Cheers."

You wrap your fingers around the cold glass, and try not to cry as you clink the glass against Robby’s.

When your lips wrap around the neck, you don’t allow any of it into your mouth.

A temporary solution, until Robby realises that your bottle isn’t getting any emptier. Jesse sips from his own, a larger gulp than you’d expect from him. Normally, he likes to nurse a drink over hours. Your brow furrows, until Robby’s head turns towards the door, and he casually takes yours instead.

"So," Jesse says loudly, taking an exaggerated sip from what had been your glass, leaving you both with half-filled bottles, "how's med school?"

Robby launches straight into a rant about anatomy labs.

You stare at Jesse.

He gives the tiniest shrug.

I've got you.

Halfway through Robby's story, he drains half his/your pint. Jesse quietly swaps your glasses back while Robby's chatting to an old friend who stopped by the pavement. The movement is so smooth you almost miss it, and before you even realise, your untouched drink disappears.

A half-empty one appears in its place.

Robby finally looks back. "Normally you’d be on your third by now."

You lift the glass and take the smallest sip imaginable. It barely wets your lips. "Nursing it."

"Lightweight."

*****

Robby stays until Monday, and you manage to avoid most further confrontations. As far as you know, he saw Jack while you were at your Friday afternoon Property Law class, and that was that. He’s tossed you a few more concerned glances, and asked about your ex-boyfriend Seth more than once, but he’s unable to get to the bottom of your sour mood.

While you love Robby, you’re more than a little relieved to see him head back down to NYC.

His presence makes everything feel so real. The baby, the hockey player father, your dwindling future.

You’ll tell him eventually. But not today.

Not when you know that Big Red are practising today, and that Jack is guaranteed to be at the rink at five. You just need to get through this goodbye with Robby, and then fight all urges to throw yourself in front of a bus before telling your one night stand that he got you pregnant.

“M’sorry I’ve been no fun this weekend,” You mumble, face pressed into Robby’s shoulder. “Just stressed. Promise I’ll be better next time I visit.”

Above you, Robby lets out a breath. "If some idiot's giving you grief..."

You’re very glad that he can’t see the tears pricking at your eyes as your arms tighten around him. "...I'll handle it."

After bidding Robby goodbye, you manage to make the fifteen-minute walk to the rink take forty. Spectators aren’t officially allowed during practice, but it doesn’t stop a group of girls from hanging around the stands.

Mostly Puck Bunnies, you note, as you take a seat a few rows back.

The term leaves a funny taste in your mouth. You can’t help but see the misogyny behind it, and yet half of these girls wear it like a badge of honour.

These are the girls Jack normally goes for, a voice in your head interrupts. Not you.

You have no idea which number Jack is, leaving you in the dark for ten minutes before you manage to find it online.

#33.

Your eyes follow him across the rink.

From what you can tell, he plays excellently. Not that you’d know. You’ve always been more of a basketball gal, even with Robby’s infatuation with hockey.

A nausea you’re becoming incredibly familiar with settles low in your belly, and you can’t discern whether it’s the nerves or the Abbot baby. Maybe it senses it’s father is near, somehow.

Maybe you’re just going crazy.

After what seems like hours, the team skate off the ice and head for the locker room. You figure the group of girls are going to congregate right outside the lockers, and decide you’d rather not have an audience for this.

Your chosen spot is by the lobby door, and you suddenly hope that there isn’t a back entrance out of this place that he might take.

When Jack finally appears, your breath hitches a little. Sweat dripping along his hairline, and t-shirt straining tight against his biceps, you hate yourself for the thoughts that pop into your head.

The memories of six weeks ago.

You’re trying to formulate your opening line when his gaze lands on you, eyes widening. There’s a girl by his side - a pretty blonde - but he shrugs her off, something murmured in her direction before she frowns and turns her attention to one of the guys leaving after him.

“Star… hey,” the nickname catches you off-guard, and for a second you think he might have mistaken you for someone else.

Great.

That’s just what you need.

The father of your baby doesn’t even remember conceiving said child.

“Uh, no,” You frown. “I’m not Star.”

“No, right, yeah,” He replies, voice almost a stammer. If you weren’t a bundle of nerves yourself, you’d be able to give it more thought. At the idea that you might make Jack Abbot nervous. “I have a shit memory when I’m drunk - couldn’t remember your name-”

Boy, do you know how to pick them.

“-so Star was kind of like a place-holder. You said you liked music, and played in a band, so… rockstar…” He trails off, cheeks tinging pink. “Whatever, it’s stupid.”

Maybe if you weren't having the worst week of your life, you'd find it endearing.

Part of you doesn’t even want to remind him of your name. You’re not sure he deserves it. Even if he is even more attractive without the haze of the alcohol.

It takes gargantuan effort to remind yourself that you’re carrying his baby. Unfortunately, a name exchange is necessary, and grit it out.

Jack smiles, grin crooked as he takes you in. “Suits you. But I still think somethin’ about you screams Star.” Just like that, the jock persona is back, and he looks totally at ease. You wish you could say the same. “Was wondering if I was gonna hear from you. When you didn’t text me, figured you weren’t interested,” He shrugs, a level of candour you don’t expect from a hockey player.

“How the hell would I text you? I didn’t have your number. I didn’t even know your last name until-”

You cut off, suddenly unwilling to share your connection to Robby. This is already awkward enough as it is - letting Jack know that he knocked up one of his best friend’s sisters would complicate it far more than necessary.

You’re simply two strangers, who made a mistake, and need to fix it.

Nothing more.

Jack’s eyes narrow a little. “I left a note. Beside the bed. With my number.”

“What? No you didn’t.”

His arms are crossed as he leans against the doorway. “Cross my heart, honey. You were the one who left me hangin’. But it’s alright - I’m not a vindictive man. I’m happy to forgive and forget.”

The urge to roll your eyes overtakes you. You don’t have time for this. “I’m not here to fuck. I… god, I don’t even remember most of what we did.”

A complete lie. You’ve replayed it almost every night since it happened.

"You've really got a way of making a guy feel memorable, you know that?"

Again with the amused expression. Like he’s in on a joke that you didn’t even know existed.

"I wasn't trying to make you feel anything."

"No?"

"No."

His grin fades just enough for something more thoughtful to settle in its place. "I thought maybe I'd said something."

"You didn't."

"Or did something."

"You didn't."

“Well then, Star,” he replies, “to what do I owe the pleasure? If you aren’t here for round two?”

No time like the present.

Glancing around to make sure that nobody else is within earshot, you prepare to break it to him gently. Maybe give him a recap on exactly how babies are made, just so he can’t try and blame you entirely. Instead, all that comes out is, “I’m pregnant.”

All amusement vanishes from his face. His expression empties so completely that, for one awful heartbeat, you wonder if he’s having some kind of stroke.

He just stares.

At you.

Not your face, exactly - his gaze flicks downward for the briefest instant before snapping back, as though the words have suddenly given your body a shape he can't quite reconcile with the one standing in front of him.

His mouth opens.

Closes.

When he finally draws a breath, it's shallow. “Well - you’re obviously getting rid of it, right?”

While you hadn’t been expecting him to jump for joy, he still manages to disappoint. You know that the answer should be an easy yes. It is a yes. You’re planning on hitting up Planned Parenthood next week, even with your lingering doubts.

But there’s something about his tone that makes you bristle.

The most illogical part of your brain is annoyed. At Robby, for making this all so much more complicated than it needed to be. At yourself, for letting it happen in the first place. At Jack, for acting like this is just some minor inconvenience, when it’s your whole life at stake.

The last thing you want is to let him think he’s got one-up on you.

“I wanted to talk to you about it, first,” You grit out. “Didn’t feel right not telling you. It is half-you, after all.”

“Is it definitely mine?”

The question stops you in your tracks, and if looks could kill, Jack Abbot would be a dead man. “Of course it’s yours. Do you really think I would lie about something like that? You’re the only person I’ve slept with in the past six months, so if it isn’t yours then this is some kind of fucking Jesus situation, okay?”

"I didn't mean-"

"No?" You cut in, your laugh sharp. "Because it sounded an awful lot like you were asking if I'd been sleeping around. Like you’re some sort of fucking saint?"

"I wasn't saying that."

"You literally just asked if it was yours."

"I just-" He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, frustrated. "People panic and they say stupid things."

"Clearly."

His jaw tightens. "I said I'm sorry."

"No," You reply evenly. "You said you didn't mean it. That's not the same thing."

“Well, I am sorry,” he concedes, gaze dropping to his shoes. “Fuck… you just - that’s not what I thought you were going to say.”

You give him a little bit of space to process, lip between your teeth while you wait for him to speak again. When he does, your mind is made up. Any sliver of you that had considered keeping the baby dies away, at the idea of having to co-parent with this man for the rest of your life.

“I can’t have a baby. We’re in the championships. I-I’m going to med school.”

“You think I don’t know that? It’s not like I don’t have plans too. Shit. I don't even know why I'm here. This was a fucking mistake."

"You’re here because you wanted me to know."

"Yeah." You nod once. "And now you do. Guess we’re done here.”

“Oh come on,” He sighs, reaching for your arm. You tug it out of reach just before he can make contact. “Don’t be like that. Do you want me to like… come, or anything? Or pay for… fuck, I don’t know.”

You snort humourlessly. “After today, I’m not sure I ever want to see you again.”

His expression morphs into one of incredulity, and you realise you’d really like to smack him right now. “You’re mad at me?”

Your jaw drops. “You just cited hockey as a reason you can’t have a baby.”

Jack lets out a sharp breath through his nose, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "That's not what I-"

"No?" Your laugh is thin and brittle. "Because that's sure as hell what it sounded like."

"Will you stop trying to put words in my mouth? I fucked up. I’m sorry. Can you blame me for being shocked? I know it's inconvenient."

"For you."

"For both of us."

You think you might scream if you have to look at him any longer. “Whatever. I have to go. I have work.”

You turn on your heel, but Jack reaches for you, hand wrapping around your wrist. You can feel each callous on his fingers, the warmth radiating from him despite the chill of the rink. "Will you... let me know you're okay?"

You sling your backpack over your shoulders, and roll your eyes. "I'll be fine. You can pretend this never happened and go back to your picture-perfect life."

You don’t give him the satisfaction of glancing back as you storm off, and yet you get the impression that his eyes don’t leave you until you’re out of sight.

Seven weeks pregnant.

At your young age, but years into blossoming womanhood, your parents had sent you to the Red Keep to find yourself a match and secure a noble alliance with a larger House. Your house was much smaller than the Lions, Stags, Wolves, Roses and so on. 

They had expectations that perhaps an Arryn or Fossoway would suit you nicely, a benefitted match joining your smaller House with a greater noble House. 

What they did not expect however, was to receive a raven delivered scroll from the Hand of the King just one moons turn after your departure stating that you were to now be a Princess of Westeros, future Queen and Wife to Baelor ‘Breakspear’ Targaryen himself. 

Baelor was taken aback upon noticing your presence within the Keep for the very first time. 

His daily duties had him stretched thin on top of the strain in which the Small Council befitted him. ‘An Heir and Spare’ they say. The Crown Prince already fathered two sons but he understood the importance of securing his line’s succession. The King was ill. Anything could befall his beloved sons at any moment, living in this world of violence, sickness and sorcery.

Fretting over decisions for the good of the realm and House Targaryen, he found himself seeking respite within the gardens of the Red Keep. Leaves rustled against the cooling breeze on this hot day. Birds were chirping soundly and the florals flourished after drinking in the sunlight. 

Exhaling slowly, Baelor felt relief within his solitude as he strode through the gardens until he reached the Godswood. It was quiet. Nobody else in sight.

And then he spotted you. 

Back against the hard bark of the Heart Tree, your focus was etched into the words of the small, leather-binded book between your smooth hands. Your skirts fanned around you and your skin glistened with a sheen of sweat from the heat.

Baelor’s steps fell short, eyeing you. He did not recognise you.

Lost in a daze of the story before you, your features contorted endearingly at whatever was progressing within the pages. Humming in seeming frustration you snapped the book shut, mumbling to yourself, “Why ought he do so? What a cumberworld!” 

Finding the corners of his mouth twitch up, Baelor realised he had been staring for more than a moment necessary. Walking closer, your head lifted to his direction, catching his movement. 

Embarrassment rushed through your veins as you scrambled to stand, book still in one hand and fluffing your skirts out with the other, upon noticing the zinc alloy Hand Of The King Pin secured onto the man before you. The pin twisted up in scaly plates which the sun reflected off. 

Curtseying before him, he noticed the way your plump lips quivered as you spoke. 

“Your Grace.”

Soft and subdued, your voice was calming in his ears. He hadn’t stopped smiling, he realised. The closer you drew, the closer he could see every feature of your face. Young, seemingly Valarr’s age and filled with unyielding beauty. 

Whichever Lord in the Red Keep had claimed you for his Wife was very lucky indeed, he thought. 

“My Lady,” Baelor returned, nodding his head in greeting. “I did not mean to disturb your reading.”

“Not at all, Your Grace,” you rushed out, worried. “I apologise if I have halted your intentions here.”

Baelor could not help but let his mixed gaze linger on you. His eyes were shining against the sunlight as he took you in. One iris so bright blue it reminded you of the Sapphire Isle waters and the other iris so darkly brown that you felt yourself becoming lost in it. The hairs on the back of your neck raised under his watch.

“I came to seek some respite, it has been a busy day.”

You noticed the way his brows pinched together slightly, recalling his troubles. “I will take my leave and let you seek what you need then, Your Grace.”

He wished that you had stayed, a fresh breath amongst his chaotic air. 

The second time that the Crown Prince saw you was at a feast hosted in the throne room of the Red Keep. He watched you with intrigue, a young lady trying to navigate her way around the nobles with a visible nervousness through your soft smile as you gently conversed amongst the Lords and Ladies. He thought he had never seen anybody so gorgeous and radiant before. Your features struck him to the core and he could not deny the pull towards you.

Baelor leaned further into his seat comfortably, turning slightly to reach his youngest brother’s ear. “Who is she?” He nodded towards your direction and you instantly stood out in your light pastel coloured gown amongst the dark fabrics of those surrounding. 

Maekar’s eyes drifted to where Baelor motioned and he hummed shortly.

“How the fuck would I know? There are always new, young ladies in Court ready to pass their maidenhood to whichever lord gives them attention first. You should know,” Maekar smirked slightly, a knowing glint in his eye. 

Baelor only chuckled lightly before stating, “you know none of those ladies have captured my attention, Brother.” 

He mulled over whether you were already wed. 

Many noble ladies had practically been throwing themselves at Baelor these past few moons, since it became aware amongst the people of Court that he was being made to seek a new wife. Whether it was simply because they thought him handsome, thought him strong and brave or were after the titles that came with being his wife, he did not entertain any of it. 

Always presenting themselves to him in tight, uncomfortably high pitched voices, decked out in the most outrageous jewels originating from Qarth and Myrish fabrics draped into gowns, their busts forcefully pushed too far up to reach their collarbones and waterfall of bootlicking compliments flowing towards him. 

It had been years since his Wife’s passing and yet, he had not felt a single fraction of attraction or connection with anyone else since. 

He settled back into his meal, eyes wandering over to your direction at any opportunity presented, watching you like a Dragon observing a lone sheep before making haste and devouring. 

After dinner was had, the tables and seating arrangements were pushed aside by the Red Keep’s staff to make way for social enjoyment and dancing. The Prince of the Realm did not hesitate to approach you with long strides in his poised steps, eager to greet you again. 

The group of nobles you were conversing with quickly came to a silence, much to your confusion. You followed their stares which were lingering behind you and slowly tilted your head around to see what had made your peers' words stop.

The Heir to the Iron Throne stood before you, posture straight, yet relaxed. His look was transfixing. 

“Y-Your Grace.” Head bowing and body leaning to curtsey, your pulse began to thump through your figure as you lifted your gaze back up to meet him. 

“May I have this next dance with you, my lady?” His vocals were deep, articulate and husk. He extended a hand, gracefully awaiting your response. 

The group behind you broke out into small gasps. The Heir to the Iron Throne was not known to dabble in such activities since his late wife, no matter how many ladies attempted to be in this very position, which you were blissfully unaware of - being new to Court.

“Of course, Your Grace.” You were in no position to deny the Crown Prince. Your small, smooth hand lifted to meet his extended one with a flush of heat rising to your cheeks. You had certainly not expected this.

He smiled slightly at your bashfulness, large hand taking in the warmth of your smaller one as his thumb moved over your knuckles whilst escorting you in small steps towards the centre of the throne room.

All eyes were burning into you both and you couldn’t help but shake at the unexpected attention. You were far from used to many a people watching your every move. 

Baelor felt the tremble of your hand in his and quietly rubbed his thumb gently across your knuckles in an attempt to soothe your uneasiness. Your heart felt like it was going to leap out of your chest.

“No need to fret, my lady.” He began lightly, “I simply wished for an opportunity to speak with you upon seeing your beautiful self.” 

His kind words had triggered fluttering within your belly. “T-thank you, Your Grace. How kind of you to say.” 

“May I?” He requested permission, motioning with his spare hand, to take hold of your waist. Ever the gentleman. 

You nodded lightly, shivering as his arm slithered around your middle, effectively pulling you towards him whilst he raised your already connected hands into the air. His brawny body loomed over you and your chest was near bouncing against him due to your rapid heartbeat. It took all his strength and honour not to look down. 

“Do tell me your name, my lady.” He spoke with a smooth, low voice, calming against the hustle of the throne room and others dancing around you to the flow of the music. 

Your smooth, youthful skin glowed against the candlelight and his blue and brown crinkled eyes locked with yours deeply as he began to sway with you to the instrumentals reverberating through the Crown Hall. 

Your name and House rolled off your tongue as you waited for the visible disappointment to reach his handsome, bearded face. But it never came. And you were surprised. 

His heterochromic eyes only twinkled in the flames of the candles situated above on the chandeliers whilst he gazed at you through his dark lashes and you thought him to be strikingly alluring. 

Many noble lords attempt to court you until they came to realise the lower level which your House remained at. Men were greedy, power hungry and title seeking. Pretty enough or not, if you were a lady of noble birth who sat lower than the great house of Westeros, many higher Lords would brush you off as if being a common whore.

But Baelor only smiled at you as if your lower status was of unimportance to him. 

He recalls the exchange of scrolls with your father, the request to send you here in order to secure a match in marriage. After many moons of pressure from the small council, it seems like The Seven had sent you straight to him. 

“Why?” You suddenly asked him with your tender lips pursing plumply and he so wondered what it would be like to lay his own on yours.  

Baelor’s mouth moved into a questioning line, a little perplexed. “Regarding?”

“You have many higher noble women to choose from and share a dance with, Your Grace. Many ladies who would be suited better for you.” The hesitancy in your vocals only made Baelor pull you closer and speed up his pace with the increased beat of the music. 

“My sweet lady,” he began with a light laugh. You flushed further at his words, becoming breathless amongst the ascending dance movements. “I am the Blood Of The Dragon, Hand of the King and Heir to my Father’s Throne. I have already provided future succession and hold the realm together through many allegiances. Nothing is of consequence to me at this point in my years of living. I have freedom to dance with who I please. And I wish to dance with you.”

Baelor sought you out every day within the Red Keep after that night. Your pretty face, soft voice and gentleness consumed him. He was wrapped up in your kindness, consideration, knowledge and the fanciful interests which you endeavored in. 

When he was with you, the responsibilities, pressure and stress of ruling the realm in his Father’s stead seemed to all dissolve and disappear. When he was with you, he did not feel like a Crown Prince of the realm, but simply a man. A man adoring and growing to love a woman as sweet and precious as you were. A man who felt comfort with your presence, gentle and reassuring but inquisitive words.

He knew you were far younger and much more lacking in experience than him but that only spurred on his courting you. He liked being the first man to show and teach you new things that nobody else had before. He liked expanding your perspective on Westeros. And he liked watching you lose composure every time he caressed a part of your body with tender, considerate hands.

Being around you, he felt like a young man again. Excitement running through his veins, shared stolen touches and an unyielding yearning to have you in his arms and never let go. 

Passion had sparked between you both and you couldn’t help but nervously reciprocate the Heir’s advances towards you. 

Nobody had ever cherished and nurtured you so dearly and genuinely before. When you spoke of any concerns, something you held close to your heart or even just the events of your day, he did not just hear you. He listened to you. Acknowledging every syllable and thought to leave your pretty mouth. 

He had begun to seek you out everywhere (much to the Council’s disarray who found their Hand gradually passing more of his duties onto them). From interrupting your daily tasks, library and embroidery lessons to interrupting late noon tea with the other court ladies to sweep you off to the Red Keep gardens for a walk with him. The ladies incessantly held their giggles and gossiping back until the Crown Prince whisked you away out of ear-shot. 

Then came the gifts. Treasured jewellery from Essos. Silk gowns from Lys. Ancient books from his personal library within the Keep. And a new bouquet of flowers by the bedside in your chambers every single day when you returned to meet slumber. 

After weeks of stolen touches, laughter, deep discussions, sly flirtations and a shared fondness for each other… Today, Baelor had something a little different planned for you both. 

Large hand resting on the small of your back, he guided you towards the courtyard of the Red Keep. However, the usually bustly area was completely void of anybody. No members of the Royal Court. No goldcloaks, no Kingsguard following Baelor, and no serving staff were to be seen. 

Walking through the halls, you drew closer and suspicion began to fill your senses. Not the bad type of suspicion but the type which had an excited knot forming in the pit of your stomach and made your heart flutter in anticipation.

“What have you arranged this evenfall, My Prince?” You couldn’t help but ask with a growing grin.

Seven Hells, how he loved it when you called him that. Yours. He wanted to be and terribly so. 

“Something special for us, my sweet lady.” There was a certain lilt in his voice which indicated something important forthcoming and it made the knot in your stomach tighten.

Gods, how you loved it when he called you that. His sweet lady. It affected you just the same as the very first time he uttered those words to you.

Further down the halls you noticed soft flickering lights, shadows dancing across the stone walls and pillars. 

A small gasp escaped your throat as you walked between the stone pillars of the courtyard.

Your right hand lifted to your heaving chest as emotion overwhelmed you from the sight before your eyes. Baelor quickly swerved to your left side, delicately swiping your left hand up into his right one. Your fingers intertwined and you squeezed around his large, rough palm. He squeezed back slightly harder, callouses catching on your smooth palm. A sign of nerves finally overcoming his typically well-composed self.

“This is ever so beautiful, truly.” You gaped at the sight before you and your heart was aflame. He had organised this, for you. 

Flamed torches hung against the shaped pillars with candles littering around the floor besides a vast amount of bright, sweetly scented, blooming floral arrangements which created a pathway into the centre of the courtyard where a small table with two cushioned chairs remained. 

A crystal flagon of wine sat atop the table next to two golden chalices, flower petals and a silver candle holder organised beside it with small plates of fruits, nuts, crackers and cheeses. 

The tiny flames flickered around the flowers on the tiled, flower covered floor, mimicking the shining stars above. 

“I know.” Baelor’s affectionate gaze did not leave you as you gushed over and complimented the scene. He smiled and gestured towards the centre, “please sit, my dearest.”

His dearest. Your mind was starting to whirl. You obeyed his instruction, hand never leaving his and pulling him along to follow. 

Baelor had the Kingsguard positioned further down each of the halls, under strict instruction to block entry way to the courtyard with no exceptions. He did not want any disturbances. 

After three cups of Arbour Gold, nibbling from the placed plates, various topics of conversation, flirtatious remarks and laughs, your head felt tipsy and your heart was thrumming ecstatically.

Comfortably perched on the cushioned seat, your gaze drifted towards the dark night sky, floating across the beam of the moon and the twinkle of the stars. 

“I have never felt so at ease and appreciated with you.” You admitted through hazy eyes, still admiring the night above. 

“And I, you.” He returned with a small smile, mouth opening to speak further but his words became caught in his throat. 

Hearing the hesitation, your gaze drifted back down to meet his and you smiled softly. “What else, My Prince?”

Pausing for a moment, Baelor contemplated his next words. He had spent many late nights in his chambers, preparing for this moment and all of those practiced speeches and words relented as soon as he saw the way you peered at him. So lovingly. So wholly. Like you didn’t see him for all his titles but just him, Baelor, alone.

“I never thought…” he drifted off in thought before straightening his posture to gaze into your orbs. “I never thought that I would be able to find affection with another, after Jena. But you, My sweet Lady, have brought life back into my withered heart. Since I laid my eyes on you for the very first time, I knew that I had to know you. And knowing you now, my heart has never felt so full.”

“Baelor,” his name was whispered breathlessly on your lips and it clung to him, seeping into his bloodstream. You had never used his first name before. He took it as a good sign. Titles and societal boundaries diminished in seconds. 

“My dearest, I fear that I can no longer live as I do without you by my side. Without you as my future Queen. The realm is in need of your gentleness and empathetic views. And I am in need of your love. I am pining for you and you alone. There is no one else that I wish to spend the remainder of my life with.” He confessed, bearing his heart on his sleeve. His mix coloured eyes were glistening, tears on the edge of his lash line whilst your own tears already spilled.

Hot on your cheeks and head dizzy from the golden wine, you carefully lifted your fingers to wipe away the wet saltiness. 

Before you could respond, the Crown Prince had maneuvered to the floor on his knees and reached to envelop your hands in his. As he rested on his knees before you, tenderly gripping your hands, you smiled through your overwhelming tears of love and devotion. 

Bringing your hands to meet his mouth, his smooth, warm lips pressed against each of your palms in a kiss. “Be mine,” he pleaded, looking into your crying eyes. “Be my Wife.”

“Yes.” You laughed lightly, gripping his hands tightly, “and be my Husband.” 

The realm was full of delight and celebration. 

At first, upon your betrothal announcement to the Heir to the Iron Throne, there had been some uncertainty from the Small Council. 

“She is not from a well-known noble House, Your Grace.”

“The Smallfolk here do not know of her, Your Grace.”

“She is not of a strong bloodline, Your Grace.”

“Her dowry is little, Your Grace.”

Baelor did not care. “I have sacrificed much for this realm. There is little consequence in whom I marry now. I have already provided two healthy heirs and there will be more now, as you all requested. Speak ill of my betrothed and you will find your tongues missing the next morn.” 

After that, the Small Council became ever gracious towards you. As did the Court, upon hearing that the Crown Prince would cut out the tongues of any bad word against you - not that there was many from your noble peers.

You were kind, playful and clever. The Court had taken a liking to you upon your arrival. 

And soon, the wedding ceremony followed. It was a lavish celebration. Baelor never left your side despite the hounds of nobles trying to converse with him, to which he politely dismissed them wanting all of his focus on you. His bride. 

There were performances, celebratory activities, dancing and a great feast following your martial vows in The Sept. Lords and Ladies alike travelled from all across the realm to attend the Crown Prince’s second wedding, and to see if his youthful bride was truly as beautiful and kind as claimed. 

“Time for the bedding!” A drunken, foolish lord from the Iron Islands shouted out late into the night, amongst the celebrations. The crowds roared with enthusiasm, eager to see the Crown Prince bed his new, young and beautiful Wife. The realm’s new Princess.

Your happy expression fell as the words reached your ears. Lips turning downward into a worried pout as you looked up at your new Husband. 

This was something you had not considered with much thought. Being from a small House, the bedding ceremony’s importance was not that of the greater noble Houses. And with Baelor already having been married perviously, the thought of a public bedding ceremony was resting at the very back of your mind. You suppose that was very silly of yourself now.

“Husband, I-I-” you were at a loss for words. 

Shaking his head, you had never seen such a fury rise within Baelor. “I will not let any man lay their eyes upon you in such a manner,” he reassured you, taking your hand tightly in his. The cool metal of his rings provides a grounding sensation amongst the chaos and his words calmed your rapid heartbeat.

The Grand Maester approached you both, slyly leaning over to His Grace’s ear. “Shall we prepare your chambers, Your Grace?”

“No,” Baelor gritted out in frustration. “We shall not.”

“But I do think it wise-”

“Rest assured, Grand Maester,” Baelor cut him off, “there will be proof of consummation in nine moons time.”

Swallowing at your beloved’s words, a foreign heat rushed to your core as you clutched Baelor’s strong hand.

And so, your new Husband whisked you away between the crowds of royals and nobles after ordering the Kingsguard to prevent any persons from following you both to your newly shared marital chambers. 

Being the epitome of chivalry and justice, Baelor had never once pressed his lips to yours during his time courting you. He knew that your young maidenhood was untouched, no man ever claiming you in such a way before. He hadn’t even attempted to steal a kiss from you no matter how dearly he wished to, especially when he confessed his feelings and asked for your hand. He hadn’t even enlightened you when you leaned into him like you desperately wanted it too. 

The door to Baelor’s chambers slammed shut and suddenly you were pushed against it. The hard wood met your back, a harsh gasp left your throat in surprise and all honour left your husband. Baelor was a starved man, itching to feel every inch of you. 

His large hand gripped the side of your face, resting on your jaw, fingers peaking between your styled hair at the back of your neck. The contact was so sudden, all air left your lungs as his other hand grasped at your waist, kneading through the fabric as he held you in place.

“My Prince,” you blurted in shock, gazing at his lustful expression. His scent filled your senses, fresh mint, burnt wood and something sweeter surrounded you. 

The hair of his beard tickled your face as he drew closer and finally, after weeks of wondering what it would be like, he pressed his mouth to yours. 

It was tender, delicate and warm. Your arms snaked up to reach his covered shoulders, pulling him closer whilst you were melting into him. 

His tongue dipped out slowly, wet and spongy against your untainted lips, begging for an entrance. Parting your lips under his ask, you began to move yours against his, following your natural instinct as he started to explore your mouth and move with you.

You couldn't help the gentle moan which vibrated onto him. The Dragon had set you alight with his flame and you wanted more. 

“Seven Hells,” he grunted against your lips as he reluctantly departed, catching his breath. “The Gods have known how long I have waited to do this.”

“You’re not the only one.” With fluttering eyelashes, you slowly pushed him back further into the room and his grasp on you loosened, allowing you to move him in the direction of the giant four-postered bed. 

His lips curled up at your movements and implication. Tonight you wanted him just as much as he wanted you. 

“Lay down, Husband.” 

Baelor felt like combusting at your command. Blood rushing to his cock, his breeches tightened whilst he sat on the edge of the plush bed to lay back. 

You approached him with a sultry look which he hadn’t seen on you before and you shifted your heavy skirts up, knees finding the padded mattress as you moved to straddle him. 

“Fuck.” The word left his mouth as he took in the sight of you climbing over him until your pelvis met his. He groaned at the weight of you pressed against his hardening length. 

You rested both hands beside his head whilst his large hands dipped under your skirts to caress your smooth, soft thighs. Whimpering slightly at the new feeling of his touch, you leaned down to meet his mouth with yours again.

You may have been a maiden but some of the Ladies you spent time with at Court were not shy about discussing their marital beds. And you listened, learning things which you did not think possible, with Baelor in mind. You expected that a man of his age had expectations and you wanted to impress him. To show him how much you wanted it too.

But you knew him. He was your Baelor. And you knew that he would not fret over the skills and movements you had yet to learn to please him.

His lips were hot against yours, mouth moving hungrily and eagerly tasting you. His hands slowly reaching over the warmth of your thighs to grip your hips tightly and push you onto him. 

Moaning at the hardness and sudden friction, your hips jolted at the contact, causing Baelor to grunt. He was painfully hard now, a wetness seeping into his breeches from his leaking tip. It feels like he has waited his whole life to see you like this. 

“Grind your hips onto me,” Baelor directed between kisses and you obeyed, small whines escaping you whilst you moved your clothed heat over his hardness. 

Calloused hands moving round to cup your arse, he kneaded the flesh, enticing a breathy moan from you. His touch felt passionate and needy and you wanted more, an ache growing deep within your core. 

“Just like that, My sweet Lady. My sweet Wife.”

“I-I want more,” you pleaded as he grabbed your cheeks harder, a soft smack making you gasp at the slight sting it left behind. 

Before you could process anything else from being too wrapped up in these new heightened feelings, his arms left your skirts, quickly grabbing your torso and flipping you around. 

You hit the bed with a quiet bounce, panting as you watched the Crown Prince top you before sinking lower and leaning off the edge of the bed. Your brows furrowed in confusion as he was on the floor leaning on his knees but his strong hands quickly distracted you, wrapping around your ankles, pulling you to the edge - you let out a small squeak in surprise.

“Lift your hips for me,” he ordered, reaching for the thin fabric of your smallclothes and swiftly pulling them down your legs as you complied. 

“Oh,” he muttered airless, taking in the sight of you. Heat rose to your cheeks and you bashfully tried to snap your legs shut, never having anybody see you like this before. He only gripped your thighs tightly, pulling you open again to offer your hot, weeping, slick cunt before him. “Gods be good.”

Heat rushed through your body as Baelor took in the sight of your spread legs, tongue darting out of his mouth to lick his lips. 

“Do you trust me?” He asked, gazing at you with passion and need burning in his blue and brown eyes. 

“Of course,” you spoke earnestly, awaiting his next move. 

Lifting his arm, his long, strong fingers moved towards your sopping heat. Slowly, he dragged his index from your wet hole up to your bundle of nerves and you shuddered pleasantly. 

“I have barely touched you and you’re already dripping for me, sweet girl.” The low, measured tone of his vocals nearly made you squirm in embarrassment. Was that not normal?

“I-I’m sorry, Y-your Grace.” You fumbled to apologise, not knowing any different, having not laid with a man before. 

“No, no, My Wife. And no more royal formalities. You are perfect,” he hummed, rubbing soothing circles on your inner thigh which made you keen. “Let me show you how perfect.”

Baelor had dreamt of this moment, eager to please and devour you, and he shifted your legs so that they rested over his shoulders. His breath was hot on your inner thighs whilst his wet tongue stuck out to drag along your skin, his beard scratchy, making you tingle at the contrast. 

A soft whine escaped you, not that you were complaining but you couldn’t help the curiosity that was consuming you. You instantly felt nerves rise within, he knew exactly what he was doing… and you did not. He had done this before and you were lacking. 

The ladies at Court had never mentioned their Husband’s head between their thighs.

“What are you doing, Husband?”

A smirk filled his features as his tongue licked up your thigh, leaving a wet trail before responding, “showing you how much I have desired to have you like this.”

As soon as those words left his mouth, his head was swiftly buried in your heat, hot tongue licking up your slit as he groaned, effectively tasting your juices. You expelled a guttural moan, back arching and hands finding their way to grip his short, soft hair. The heat of his tongue licking up your sweet, dripping folds was sensational.

Baelor was aching hard whilst his mouth worked on your soaked cunt, dipping his tongue into your entrance, he had you chanting his name like a sorcerer casting spells.

“Baelor, oh Gods! Mhmmm! B-Baelor, please!” The soft scratching of his beard made his tongue feel all the more euphoric and you never thought it was possible to feel such a way. You clung to his head harder. 

He lathered your sweet pussy with his spit, having drunk every drip of you and quickly pulled away, much to your dismay. After a beat, his fingers were back at your heat again and you mewled when his middle finger slowly slipped into you. 

“That’s it sweet girl,” he panted, drawling, beginning to work his finger in and out of your wet, velvety walls, “you’ll take what I give you. I need to make sure you’re able to take my cock.”

His words hit your core and you clenched around him, gasping for air. The feeling of his finger curling inside you was doubled as he added another digit and your moans filtered through the air with the squelch of your wet folds as you adjusted to the intrusion. 

Baelor continued to pleasure you with his fingers, mouth eventually coming back down to meet your mound with his tongue latching onto that sensitive bud of yours. His fingers curled up, hitting a specific spot within and you threw your head back, relishing in his touch and tongue flicking your bundle of nerves. Your eyes flutter shut, hands finding their way back to his dark, greying hair, pulling him closer to your core, wanting more. 

“I never want to taste anything else again,” he mumbled against you, lavishing in your wetness. 

Baelor let out breathy groans as you clung to him harder, the vibrations shooting straight against your throbbing heat. Ever so tenderly, he began to spread his fingers inside of you, scissoring you open. Your moans halted slightly as you tried to accommodate the foreign feeling of being stretched open.

His eyes drifted up to you in concern whilst his fingers continued to open your tightness. His length was throbbing in his breeches, begging to be buried deep within your pure pussy, but your discomfort made him pause. 

His mouth retracted from your core, gaze drifting over your breathless form. You peered down at the lack of movement, catching your breath. His mouth was covered in your slick, coating his beard and it stirred something within you. 

“Please do not stop,” you begged through heavy lids, lashes fluttering against your hot cheeks. “I need you desperately Baelor, I need you deep inside me,” you confessed, giving way to your carnal desires.

And that was all he needed to continue his actions, pumping in and out of you slowly, spreading his fingers within your wet walls as his lips connected with your clit again, sucking your bud until you saw stars. A pleasurable tightness in your lower region, building up so intensely that you thought you might faint. 

Your breathy cries of pleasure filled his ears whilst he increased the pace of his fingers, feeling you clench around him.  

“Husband,” your voice croaked through moans as you arched your back and pushed your hips up to meet his face. “I-I’m feeling so-”

And then Baelor went harder, sucking your bud whilst flicking it with his tongue, his strong fingers curling up in you so deliciously and repeatedly that you suddenly screamed out, reaching a heightened peak of consuming pleasure.

Waves of pleasure washed over you and tingles spread throughout your body, your soaked cunt throbbing as you leaked all over the Crown Prince’s face and he groaned against you in appreciation, drinking you up and slowing his movements as you came down from your high. 

“What the fuck was that?” You murmured, chest heaving in blind euphoria. 

Baelor chuckled, slightly shocked at the bad word rolling off your pretty lips, raising his arm to wipe the remnants of you from his mouth and glistening, thick beard. 

“That, was the first of many, My sweet Wife.” 

He began unbuttoning his doublet as you lay there breathless, stripping the top layers of the expensive materials cut to fit him seamlessly. Despite his older age, Baelor was extremely muscular and his skin was taught around his arms and abdomen until the slight pudge of his lower belly poked out. And it aroused you. Muscular with a soft stomach. He looked like he had been carefully curated by The Seven, themselves.

“Can you manage to stand, My Love? I wish to see all of the beauty that you bare.” 

Shifting onto your elbows you pushed yourself up gradually, body still reeling over the new sensations that you just experienced. Baelor’s hands went out to guide and support you. Your legs were shaking as you stood before him and he pressed his lips against yours hungrily. 

You could taste yourself on him and you whined when his tongue mixed with yours. His arms wrapped around you, fingers untying the laces at the back of your dress which held it together. Soon after undoing the lacing, he parted, hastily pulled your dress down, lifting you out of it to leave you in one last layer. A thin cotton underdress. 

The torch flames within Baelor’s chambers illuminated your every curve through the fabric and he groaned deeply, “I need you, sweet girl.” 

Before you knew it, you were stark naked, sprawled out onto the bed with your head beneath the plush pillows as his mouth worked on your breasts, sucking gently and kissing your hardened nipples. Massaging you with his hands, he was drunk on your satisfied moans and tender hands gripping his sturdy shoulders.

Baelor’s hot skin was pressed flush against yours and it felt incredible. 

“You were sent to me from the Gods, I have no doubt,” he confessed, worshipping your body. “The most beautiful woman to grace this Realm.”

“I love you,” the words tumbled from your lips and he abandoned your breasts to kiss you feverishly, uttering the same words back to you between kisses.

“I want your cock to fill me up, dear Husband.” 

Baelor’s self restraint exited his body at your crass words, his leaking tip aching and wishing nothing more than to dive into your soaked, warm depths. 

Immediately, he was rid of his breeches, letting his long, girthy cock spring free to hit his belly before he was back on you, hot mouth attached to your neck, sucking on the sweetest spot which made you mewl.

“I-is it supposed to be that big?” You asked nervously, through your pleasured moans.

“Not usually for other men.” He couldn’t help but grin into your neck. His sweet maiden. His sweet Wife.  

Trailing his fingertips down the valley of your breasts, across your stomach and onto your mound, you trembled. The pad of his thumb found your sensitive bud and began drawing slow circles against you. You whined at the sensation, bucking your hips back into him as he laid between your legs.

“Please let me feel you already!” You were desperate to feel his body connect with yours. 

“So needy,” he began, leaning back to take his length into his spare hand whilst his other continued to focus on your clit. “You’re going to take me so well.”

Spreading your legs wider to accommodate him with more room, your fingers fiddled with the silken bedsheets, watching his hand move along his cock before shifting closer to tap his swollen mushroom-shaped tip at your still soaking entrance. 

“It may hurt at first,” his concerned, mix-coloured gaze never leaving yours as he continued, “do tell me to stop if it becomes too much.”

Heart swelling, you nodded gratefully.

He resumed his movements with his thumb on your bud as his cock head dragged between your folds, picking up your slick. The sensation caused a needy whine to escape your throat. 

Baelor pressed forwards, his tip slipping into you and you hissed slightly at the sharp intrusion.

Slowly, he pulled back before sliding into you a bit further and you gasped, clutching the sheets tighter. He persisted slowly, rolling his hips back and forth, inch by inch, as you adjusted to his thick girth.

The circular motion of his thumb rubbing your nub provided the perfect relief of the tight stretch around his length. 

You exhaled blissfully, and Baelor could not get enough of the sight before him. Your hair was sprawled out amongst the pillows, eyelashes fluttering, breasts bouncing slightly with each slow thrust he made whilst his cock was slowly delving further into your depths. 

“Seven Hells,” he grunted at your tight, sopping maidenhood, “I am the luckiest man in Westeros.”

A smile reached your lips at his words until he was fully sheathed inside of you, the air leaving your lungs as you struggled to catch your breath at how deeply you felt him inside of you.

“S-So deep,” you babbled amongst moans as he began to roll his hips whilst setting and increasing his pace. 

“You’re taking me so well,” he let out a guttural groan between thrusts whilst you creamed around his long, thick cock, “you were made for me, sweet girl.” 

Soon enough, his cock was repeatedly bruising your womb, thrusting into you at an animalistic pace whilst your knees were hooked over his strong shoulders and your hands tightly gripped his muscular biceps at either side of you - nails digging into his flesh. 

“Fuck,” Baelor grunted, thrusting into you deeper, harder, “I want to fill you with my seed.”

You cried out into moans as he hit a particularly deep, spongy spot inside. All you could do was lay helpless as he pleasured and fucked into your throbbing, drenched core. 

Your pussy clenched tightly around him after his words and he noticed, a small smile appearing on his face as beads of sweat dripped from his forehead.

“Oh,” he chuckled lowly, voice rasping, “you like that? You want to be stuffed full with my dragon seed.”

“Y-yes!” Your mewls only increased with his pace and cock slamming into your womb. “Let me give you more heirs, My Prince.”

Baelor’s balls tightened as they slapped against your arse, his hips stuttering and he quickly disregarded one of your legs on his shoulder to strum the pad of his thumb against your clit again.

His groans of pleasure mixed with your moans and the wet slapping sounds of where you both connected filled the air shamelessly. The Court could not see your marital consummation but they would definitely hear it. 

The same pleasurable tightness from earlier was returning, building up from deep within your core and your whines became louder.

“B-Baelor,” you gasped out, feeling him so deeply, as if his cock was in your throat. “I’m g-getting that feeling again.”

“Good,” he breathed heavily, “that means my seed will take and you will be swollen with my little dragon in time.”

Breasts bouncing rapidly from his unrelenting thrusts, the tip of his cock kissed the deepest spot within you and with the speed of his thumb on your sensitive nub - your body convulsed underneath him, shaking euphorically and tingling with utter bliss. 

“That’s it, sweet girl.” He coaxed you through it. “My beautiful Wife. You’ve been so good for me.”

Screaming out his name as you reached that heightened sensation for the second time, you shook along with the waves that crashed over you whilst he continued to fuck you through it.

You moaned lightly, coming down from your heightened senses as you gazed at his agape face through heavy lashes. “Fill my cunt with your seed. Let me give you another dragon.”   

Baelor’s pace quickened at your words, hips slamming into you whilst his cock pulsed inside your soft, clenching walls. Groaning deeply, his cock was nestled at your deepest point, spurts of hot white seed shot into your womb, rope after rope whilst his hips stuttered.

The thick wetness shot into you caused you to whine softly as he slowed, filling you with his dragon seed. He dripped out of your hole as he rolled his hips to a halt, still buried within you and head tilted back back in pleasure. 

After a moment, he came to his own senses, warm hands carefully lifting your leg back down. Slowly, his thick length pulled away from your seed-filled cunt and you let out a whine at the loss, now feeling empty. 

Baelor was breathless as he collapsed beside you, hand reaching for your own as he pressed a kiss to your damp shoulder.

“Are you well, dear Wife?” His voice emphasised concern for you after the abuse he thoroughly conducted to your maidenhood. 

“Unbelievebly so,” you uttered, laughing lightly, despite the soreness around your core, chest still heaving. Your body was reeling over the pleasure you had just experienced.  

Flipping onto his side, he now faced your naked form with a smile, lifting your connected hands to tenderly press a kiss to your knuckles.

“Maybe a daughter this time,” he suddenly spoke, fondness shining through his orbs. “There are too many sons in this family. She would be a fiery version of you with the Blood of the Dragon.”

You couldn’t help but giggle into the hot air, “hopefully not too fiery.”

Pulling your Husband back closer to crash on top of you, you locked your lips with his in a heated kiss.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed, running over and picking you up in a bear hug to spin you around. “I didn’t know you were home.”

“Just barely,” you said as you pushed at his shoulders. “Let me go, you oaf.”

“Nope. I’m taking you back to ours. We’re having a party tonight and you’re coming.”

Before you could respond another voice interrupted.

“Put her down.”

Craig immediately complied and stepped back putting his hands up. He gave a crooked grin that said he knew something everyone else didn’t. “No problem. Make sure she comes to the party though.”

You watched him run off then turned to greet your favorite Cody. You used a hand to shelter your eyes from the sun. “Hello, Andrew.”

He nodded once in response. “You’re back.” His fingers twitched at his sides.

“Yeah. A few days ago.” You bit the inside of your lip to keep from saying something stupid. You’d had a crush on Andrew Cody since you were sixteen years old. And, while he tolerated you better than most, you were under no delusions that he felt the same.

“How long?”

“I’m back for good. School’s done.”

The corner of his mouth curled up slightly. “Good. See you later.”

Your gaze trailed him as he passed you to rejoin his brothers and sighed. You’d hoped that distance would have tamped your attraction for the man.

It had not.

The Cody house was loud and messy and exactly what you’d been expecting. Bottles and empty cups littered every surface. Music flooded the air from the speakers causing all the conversation around you to be louder to compensate. You wrinkled your nose as a tendril of smoke from a joint drifted your direction.

You leaned against the house, beer sweating in your hand as you watched Pope. He wasn’t talking to anyone. He never did at these things. He stood with his back to the fence at the far side of the yard, beer hanging from two fingers as his eyes took in everything around him in slow methodical sweeps. You’d seen him do this a hundred times. Always the still point in the Cody chaos.

You didn’t realize you’d been staring until Craig materialized at your side. “What are you doing?”

You didn’t bother glancing at him. “People watching.”

“Uh huh.” Craig leaned in, shoulder bumping yours. “You’re Pope watching. There’s a difference.”

“Fuck off.”

“He likes you.” He said it like he was handing you a winning lottery ticket and you should be eternally grateful. It was how he said most things to be honest. Always thinking he knew something the rest of the world was too stupid to see. He didn’t.

“Don’t be stupid, Craig. He does not. Why would he?”

“Just trust me.”

You turned then to blink at him in disbelief. “Why would I do that? You told Deran I had a dolphin tattoo on my ass and he spent a week trying to get a glimpse of it.”

He snorted. “That was funny.”

“Not for me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have people to watch. Not Pope. People.”

Craig threw his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine. Don’t listen to me. See if I care.” He hooked his arm around the shoulders of a passing brunette and led her into the crowd.

You made an effort to look anywhere but Pope after that.

Pope hated parties. Hated that Smurf let his brothers do whatever they wanted. He should have moved out when Baz did. A least then he’d have somewhere to escape to when they were doing this shit. He kept his eyes moving over the crowd, making sure no one fucked up his shit or overdosed in the pool. Fucking hell.

His eyes snagged on you every time they passed over you. You were wearing a tank top and shorts and looked like you belonged here. And you did, more that most of these people anyway. He should talk to you. He wanted to but you didn’t need him bugging you. You’d just gotten home, back in Oceanside where he could keep tabs on you. He didn’t want to scare you off.

Craig sidled up to him and nudged him with his elbow.

“Don’t,” Pope said, not looking at him.

“She likes you, too, you know.”

Pope’s gaze shot over to his brother before finding you in the crowd again. For a brief moment, hope swelled, then he remembered who he was talking to. “Leave it.”

Craig huffed out a breath. “Look, I’m not giving you shit. I’m being serious right now. You should ask her out. Right now. Get the both of you out of here.”

The image of the two of you sitting side by side at the beach flashed through his mind. He blinked it away. “She doesn’t like me, okay. Not like that. She couldn’t.”

Craig tilted his head back with a groan. “Can you just trust me for once? Please?”

Pope stared at him for a beat. “Why would I do that?”

His brother stared back then looked to you and back to Pope. “I hate you both.” Then he was gone, moving toward the cooler to get another beer.

The party kept moving. Music thumping, people shouting. Pope shifted his weight as his eyes drifted across the patio and found you already looking at him. He went utterly still as you held his gaze. Then, you looked away and it was as if it had never happened at all.

Pope drove past your apartment building twice before he pulled over. His hands gripped the wheel as he watched your door on the second floor. Your curtains were closed but that didn’t mean anything. Sometimes you did that to keep the heat out. He glanced at the flowers on the floorboard beside him. They were nothing fancy, but they were your favorite colors.

He’d noticed when you were at the house the day before that you were more quiet than usual. Contemplative. He missed your smile and wanted to bring it back. So flowers. You loved flowers. But would you want them from him?He swallowed, gaze moving back to your door. He’d just leave them on your doorstep. The whole point was to not make a thing of it.

Back in the truck, he drove the ten minutes to the Cody house, his brain stuck on you. Maybe he should have knocked, handed them to you directly. As he walked past the living room, he stopped cold.

You were on the couch.

Not in his head, but actually there, legs tucked under you with a glass of what looked like lemonade in your hand. You glanced up and your eyes widened a fraction when you spotted him.

He crossed the room and dropped onto the couch beside you. He sat close enough to smell the clean scent that clung to your skin. You never doused yourself in perfumes or heavily scented lotions. It was another thing he loved about you.

“What are you doing here?” he said, voice rough as always.

Your fingers tapped against the side of the glass. “Smurf wanted me to come for dinner. Is that okay?”

He studied you. Your face was doing that thing it did when you were trying to read him, the furrow between your brows, mouth turned down slightly at the corners. He’d forgotten that about you. How you watched.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” he finally said. “You can be here whenever you want.”

You gave him a small smile and a nod and something in him loosened, just a little.

At dinner, you sat across from Pope and watched the chaos around you.

Craig was talking about a wave he’d caught that morning, hands moving through the air. His voice buried Pope’s attempt to say something and the latter’s mouth snapped shut. He cut into his steak and said nothing.

Deran cut in to say something about a fight at the pier and a kid who had gotten his board stolen. “He just fucking took off like—”

Smurf turned to Craig. “Did you get the papers I asked you to pick up?”

Craig frowned. “Yeah, they’re in the other room. I told you that al—”

“Good. Deran, eat your vegetables before they get cold.”

The conversation moved around Pope, never including him. He ate methodically. Every few bites he’d look up, eyes scanning the table, taking inventory. Once, his gaze landed on you and held for a beat too long before dropping back to his plate.

You kept your face still even as you cataloged every slight.

You saw the way his jaw tightened when Craig talked over him. The way his fingers gripped the fork a little too hard when Smurf redirected the conversation for the third time. The way he chewed each bite thoroughly before swallowing. As if he was counting seconds in his head.

You saw all of it and said nothing. Because saying something would mean admitting you were paying attention and paying attention to Andrew Cody was a habit you’d promised yourself you’d break.

But you couldn’t just leave it. Couldn’t let him believe he was the least important person in the room.

The next day, you left an envelope on the windshield of Pope’s truck where it sat in the Cody driveway. Inside was a DVD of a National Geographic special about deep-sea predators and a note.

I see you. I always see you.

Deran found the envelope, bringing it in the house with him and tossing it at Pope where he sat on the couch. “Someone left that on your truck.” Just as quick as he’d appeared the boy was gone.

Pope’s brow furrowed as he opened the envelope and dumped the contents into his lap. The DVD case was warm in his hands as he turned it over to read the back. Then he saw the note.

His thumb traced the edge of the paper. He read it once. Then again. The corner of his mouth pulled up. Just barely. He folded the note and slipped it into his wallet.

Pope hadn’t seen you in three days, which was more than a little unusual. Since you’d returned to Oceanside, you’d been spending a lot of time with the Codys.

He found Craig in the kitchen, shirtless, eating cereal straight from the box, chasing it with a drink of the milk sitting on the counter beside him.

Pope’s lip curled. His brothers were disgusting. “Where is she?” he asked.

Craig looked up. “Who?”

Pope stared at him.

“Oh. Car trouble. Took it to that place on Brighton with the sign that looks like it’s falling over.”

Pope braced his hands on the counter and leaned forward. “And?”

Craig shrugged. “And they quoted her some bullshit number. Like, way high. She thinks they’re trying to scam her because she’s a girl and doesn’t know cars. So, she’s going to have it towed to get a second opinion. She’s waiting for her dad to pay her. Stingy bastard.”

“Which shop on Brighton?”

“You know, uh, Vic’s? Vinnies? Something with a V.”

Pope nodded once and poured himself a cup of coffee. He had a job for Smurf he needed to take care of. Some asshole that owed her money and took off to Ventura. The kind of thing that would take a couple of days if everything went right, longer if it didn’t. Regardless, he’d be taking a vehicle that couldn’t be traced to him.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said. “My truck will be here if you want to use it.”

Craig’s brows went up. “For real?” Craig had been driving an old beater for the last couple of months after he dumped his bike drinking and driving.

“If she needs a ride anywhere, to get groceries, to go to work, fucking anywhere, you take her. That’s the deal. Promise me or I keep the keys.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Promise me, Craig.”

“I promise, Jesus, I’ll drive her wherever she needs.”

Pope placed the keys in his hand but held onto them. “Do not wreck my truck.”

After another round of assurances from Craig, Pope finally relinquished the keys. He only hoped his brother didn’t give him a reason to regret it.

Two days later, you got a call.

“Ma’am, this is Vic’s Auto Repair. Your vehicle is ready for pickup.”

You frowned. “I didn’t authorize any work.”

“We understand that, but the repairs have been completed and the bill has been taken care of. If you could pick it up as soon as possible, we’d appreciate it.”

“Who paid for it?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have that information. Vic did request you take your vehicle elsewhere from now on. Sorry.”

You hung up and stared at the wall for a full minute, running through the short list of people in your life who both knew about the car and had the money to spare. You sent off a message.

Twenty minutes later, Craig pulled up in Pope’s truck.

You opened the door and took in the sight before you. The floor mats were covered in fast food wrappers. There was mud smeared across the dashboard. The cab smelled like cheap perfume and cheaper weed.

“What did you do, Craig?”

He leaned across the passenger seat, one arm draped over the wheel. “What? Pope said I could use it while he’s out of town.”

“You know how he is about his stuff. This is disgusting.”

He shrugged. “It’s a truck. It’s meant to get dirty.”

“This isn’t dirt. This is you being a slob. Bring it back to my apartment after we get the car. I’ll clean it.” You shook your head as you used the hand hold to haul yourself into the passenger seat, curling your lip at the filth.

“What am I supposed to drive then?”

“Oh, you’re helping. This is a two person job and you’re person number two.”

He groaned but didn’t argue, which told you he felt at least a little guilty.

“So, what happened with the second opinion? I thought you were holding off,” he asked as he drove to the shop.

“I got a call this morning that the car was fixed and the bill had been paid.”

The silence stretched. Then Craig said, “Gee. I wonder who that could have possibly taken care of that for you.”

You huffed in annoyance. “Shut up.”

“I told Pope about your car. And then he left town and gave me his truck with the specific instruction that I drive you anywhere you need.” He glanced at you. The corner of his mouth doing that thing it did when he felt particularly proud of himself. “I told you he likes you.”

“Stop. It was probably my dad or something.”

“So ask him.”

“What?” you asked.

“Ask your dad if he fixed your car,” Craig prompted.

You shook your head but didn’t say anything else. The truth was, a very large part of you wanted it to be Pope that took car of your car. A part that held out hope that one day he’d see you the way you saw him. If it wasn’t him, you really didn’t want to know. Not yet anyway. Let you enjoy your delusions for a while.

After you picked up your car, Craig followed you to your apartment. You spent two hours cleaning Pope’s truck, taking care of what you could at your place before driving to a nearby carwash. Craig complained the entire time, but did the work. By the time you were done, the truck looked better than it had before Pope left it.

“Don’t tell him we cleaned it,” Craig said as he dropped you back at your apartment.

“Why not?”

“Because then he’ll know I trashed it and I’ll have to listen to him be weird about it for a week.”

You rolled your eyes but agreed before climbing out of the truck.

Pope got back the next afternoon. The guy had paid after Pope thoroughly explained the situation by sharing his knowledge of just how many bones were in the human hand. He took the car to the junkyard and got a ride back to the house. His truck was in almost the same spot he’d left it. When he got closer and saw it was clean.

Not just clean. Spotless. The windows gleamed. The tires had been scrubbed. There wasn’t a single wrapper or smudge in sight. He walked around it once, eyes narrowed then opened the door. The inside smelt like lemon. He stood there for a minute then shrugged. Craig must have finally grown a brain. Or felt guilty. Either way, it was a miracle Pope wasn’t going to question.

Inside, he showered and changed before checking his phone. There was a text from Craig about a bonfire at the beach that night. He had no interest in going unless you were going to be there. He started to text Craig to ask about you before deleting and switching to your contact instead.

You coming to the bonfire?

You responded almost immediately. No. Sick.

He stared at the screen, a million worst case scenarios running through his head. What’s wrong?

Just a cold. Stuffy. Miserable.

He exhaled in relief, thumb hesitating for a beat before he put his phone away.

Thirty minutes later he pulled up to your apartment with two bags. One held hot chicken soup. The other held orange juice, Kleenex and cold medicine. He climbed the stairs to your apartment and prepared to knock on the door when a yell from the apartment next door caught his attention.

He turned his head listening to the man shout, mean and ugly followed by a loud thud like something hitting a hard surface. Craig had mentioned that your neighbor was an asshole but Pope hadn’t imagined anything like this. Did you have to listen to this shit all the time? You were sick. You needed your rest.

Pope set the bags on your doormat and knocked quickly on the door before walking next door. The yelling got louder. He knocked hard, three times.

The door opened a crack. A man’s face appeared, eyes red and narrowed. “Who the fuck are—”

Pope put one hand on the man’s chest and walked him backward into the apartment. The door swung shut behind them.

You answered your door a couple of minutes later, wrapped in a blanket, nose red. You found two bags on your mat and looked both directions, finding no one. You bent down and picked them up, taking them into the kitchen and placing them on the counter.

You unloaded the bags and stared at everything for a moment, debating the safety of eating soup someone left on your doorstep. But it looked good and it was hot. And there were easier ways to kill you if someone wished, rather than death by cold remedy.

You could also count on one hand the number of people who knew you were sick and you trusted all of them. You tore open the cold medicine and swallowed two capsules with a glass of water. You refilled the glass with some of the juice and took it and the soup over to the table.

Three days later, your sinuses had cleared and your energy returned. You were itching to get out of the house and headed to a small bookstore you frequented. The place smelled the way all good bookstores do, fresh paper mixed with the slight must of old books. Sunlight poured through the windows and angled across the floor.

You roamed the shelves for awhile before finding yourself in the nature section. A dark blue book with gold lettering caught your eye and you pulled it from the shelf. A hardcover book on aquatic animals, filled with vivid photographs. The text was full of facts and anecdotes from the photographers. The kind of thing that would keep someone’s attention for hours.

You bought it without hesitating.

Pope walked out of his house that afternoon, keys in hand and stopped when he saw a book sitting on the hood of his truck. The embossed title shone gold in the sunlight.

He picked up the book and flipped through the pages. It was full of sharks, jellyfish and things that lived so deep they made their own light. And then he found the note.

On the front page in the same handwriting as the first note that came with the DVD.

For Andrew followed by a heart.

He closed the book and ran his hand over the cover before climbing in the truck and setting the book on the passenger seat. He drove to an isolated section of the beach and backed into a space. He sat on the tailgate of his truck with the book open in his lap and read until the sun went down and the words faded into the dark.

Another Saturday, another Cody party. You were graced with Baz’s presence this time but your favorite Cody was nowhere to be seen. Baz’s lips twitched as you looked around the party for the third time since he’d started talking to you. “He’s not here,” he said, leaning closer so you could hear him.

Your eyes widened in surprise. “Who?”

He laughed outright at that. “Pope. He’s doing a job for Smurf. Won’t be back until tomorrow.”

You didn’t say anything for a moment. “Am I that obvious?”

Baz’s hand found your shoulder. “You never had eyes for anyone else when he was around. Been that way since we were kids.” With that, he walked off leaving you to wallow in your embarrassment.

Eventually, Craig found you. “You good?”

You nodded and sipped at your beer. “Oh, yeah, I forgot to tell you. The asshole next door broke his lease and moved out in the middle of the night.”

He smiled slow and wide. “I wonder why. Who could have possibly scared him off?”

You sighed. “Stop. How would your brother even know that guy existed?”

He held up his hands. “I’m just saying. It’s a mystery. A real whodunit. Maybe the guy won the lottery. Maybe—”

“I said stop.”

He stopped but the smile stayed. Asshole.

You started cleaning as the party wound down. No one helped but you didn’t expect them too. You didn’t want Pope coming home to this mess. Baz had left hours ago. Craig had crashed on the couch, Deran laying nearby. You shook your head as you moved around them, Deran gave you a sleepy smile and then he was out as well.

You collected every bottle, every empty cup. You wiped down every surface with cleaner and a rag and swept the floors. Then you loaded the dishwasher and started it. Trash was tied up and sat beside the can in the garage. By the time you finished, the house looked like no one had ever been there at all.

Pope drove home early the following morning. The job had been simple. Pick up a package, deliver it, come home. He spent the last hour of the drive running through the cleanup in his head. The party would have been a disaster without him there to temper it. Trash would be everywhere. Filth tracked through the house. He’d clean up the trash first, then surfaces, then floors.

He pulled into the driveway and killed the engine. The house was dark and quiet when he let himself in. He braced himself for the worst and stopped.

The house was clean.

Not tidy. Clean. He walked through the rooms trying to make sense of it. He found his brothers on the couch sound asleep. Pope smacked Craig’s shoe to wake him up.

He grunted in surprise, eyes flying open, groaning when he found Pope standing above him. “What the fuck?”

“Did you clean up?”

Craig frowned and ran a hand down his face. “What?”

“The house. Did you clean it?”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

Deran’s eyes were still closed when he said your name.

“What?” Pope asked.

“She cleaned all of it,” Deran added.

Pope focused on Craig again. “Why would she do that?”

Craig groaned again. “I don’t fucking know, Pope. Maybe she hates you and wanted to deny you the pleasure.” He paused then added, “It certainly wouldn’t be because she likes you because what the fuck do I know?”

Pope drove to your apartment without calling first. He didn’t text. Didn’t take the time to weigh the pros and cons. He’d spent too much time hesitating, second guessing.

He knocked on your door, shifting his weight as he waited for you to answer.

When you opened the door, his gaze raked over you, taking in the shorts and t-shirt you had on. He stepped forward, crossing the threshold before you could invite him in.

Your lips quirked. “Sure. Come on in.”

He stood in the middle of your living room, watching as you closed the door and turned to face him. His fingers twitched as his sides. “You cleaned up the party.”

“Yes,” you said with a tilt of your head.

“Why?”

“So you wouldn’t have to.” You crossed your arms over your chest and looked down as you shuffled your feet.

He went quiet, eyes moving around the room. Searching for something, anything to tell him what to say next. He wanted to ask you why you cared so much, why you bothered, but he was afraid you’d take it wrong. That he’d say the wrong thing and push you away. His gaze snagged on the TV. The sound was low, but the images were unmistakable. Dark water. The slow, ghostly movement of something with too many teeth.

The National Geographic special. The one from the DVD.

“I know this,” he said, before he could think about it.

You smiled, your face lighting with the action. “You watched it? I knew you’d like it.”

He looked at you then, really looked, the way he’d been avoiding for weeks. “That was you?”

You looked surprised as if you hadn’t realized what you’d said. What you’d admitted to. “Yeah.”

“But that means this is from you, too.” He pulled out his wallet and removed the note, unfolding it to show you the words within.

“You kept that?” Your voice was quiet.

He swallowed hard and nodded in answer. “Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Come on, Andy. I’ve been gone for years. You probably have a bunch of girls that want you. What do you need me for?”

His answer was immediate, tone firm and certain. “I don’t want them. I want you. Why else would I do all that stuff for you?”

Your brow furrowed. “What stuff?”

“The flowers. The car. The soup…the neighbor.” He hesitated before admitting to the last.

Your eyes widened and your mouth gaped just a little. “That was you? Why didn’t you say anything?”

He lifted one shoulder. “I thought it was obvious.”

You stepped forward. One step, then another, closing the distance between you until you were close enough for him to smell the faint trace of your detergent. You laid your hand against his face, palm cradling his cheek. Your thumb traced across his skin.

He went very still, afraid if he moved the wrong way he’d chase you off. His breathing was shallow and his eyes didn’t leave you.

You leaned in, forehead almost touching his and asked, “Is this okay?”

It was everything.

He answered by kissing you. Your mouth was warm and careful, his hand came up to curl around the back of your neck. You kissed him back and tension flowed from him as he sunk into you. For a long moment there was nothing but the two of you and the anglerfish glowing on the screen behind you.

You pulled back with a groan and Pope’s gaze flicked over your face. His hand was still on your neck. “What? What’s wrong?”

“This means I’m going to have to admit Craig was right. He’s going to be insufferable.”

Pope smiled. A rare, unguarded full smile that showed a hint of the man he might have been if the world had been gentler. And then he kissed you again.

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

“I-I…are you her…”

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

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

“I was on a date.”

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

“You don’t know what my type is.”

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

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

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

“I don’t do jobs anymore.”

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

“I told you, that was a date.”

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

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

Craig’s smile falls a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s out of prison, you know.”

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

“He keeps asking about you.”

Yeah, bullshit. “I’ll bet he does.”

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

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

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

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

And then it was all over. Just like that.

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

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

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

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

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

-

Your outfit is so fucking uncomfortable you want to die.

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

He’s in the yard.

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

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

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

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

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

-

“You’re bleeding.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why? Would that bother you?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“Stop looking at me like that.”

He doesn’t. “Like what?”

“Like you want to kill someone for me.”

“I do.”

“I know.”

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

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

This is not that plan.

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

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

“I’ve gotta…go inside.”

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

-

“We should talk.”

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

“Let go of me.”

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

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

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

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

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

The job. Focus on the job.

You can do this.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

~

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t. You snap.

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

“Stop it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The world explodes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

“You look nice.”

“Shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

Fine.

-

“I’m sorry. He refuses to see you.”

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Four exits. Three cameras. One, two…

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

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

“We need to talk.”

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

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

“You won’t talk to me. I have to-“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

Pope punched him back.

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

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

“This is bullshit. They-“

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

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

“I didn’t mean to…stir up anything.”

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

-

“What the fuck was that?”

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

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

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

“And whose fucking fault is that?”

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

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

“I’m not being a dick.”

“Pull the truck over.”

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

“I’m walking. Pull the truck over.”

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

“So I’ll take them off. Pull over.”

“Just let me talk to you. Please.”

“No.”

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

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

-

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

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

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

“Nah. Couldn’t if I tried, I think.”

You frown. “Then why did you…”

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

“I’m not your girlfriend.”

“Well, not anymore.”

“I was never-“

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

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

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

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

“I thought Smurf was gonna throw me out.”

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

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

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

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

You snort. “Craig-“

“Ego, remember? Lemme have this.”

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

You believe him.

-

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

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

“Tell me what?”

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

“Tell me what?!”

“Just tell her.”

“I’ve been trying-“

“Tell. Me. What?”

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

Oh. Oh.

‘Pope. Andrew. I didn’t leave you.’

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

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

And then you walk into his room.

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

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

“Beautiful. So beautiful. All mine…”

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

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

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

Fuck.

“Talk. You wanted to talk, so talk.”

He watches you. You watch back, tense.

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

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

“Three years.”

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

“Three. Years.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push past him, and walk out the door.

For once, he doesn’t follow.

-

“Where is she?”

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

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

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

Yeah, sounds like you.

“So, you gonna talk to her?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just…not yet.

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

-

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

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

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

His eyes trail up over your shoulder, and stop.

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

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

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

Son of a bitch.

“He’s joking.”

“Three.”

Ethan starts to scoot out of the booth.

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

“Two.”

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

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

“Who was that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re leaving.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Goddammit.

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

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

You don’t say another word.

You just leave.

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His.

-

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

Your eyes flutter open. They’re beautiful.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want a sandwich?”

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

“Sure.”

-

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

When Pope opens the door, there you are.

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

“You fixed my door.”

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

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

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

“Yeah.”

“Pope, you don’t know where I live.”

His brow furrows a little more.

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

“It was creaking.”

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

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

“Andrew.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You fucked up my job.”

“You hate those jobs. They bore you.”

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

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

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

“Coffee?”

You hesitate. Frown. “Fine.”

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

-

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

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

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

But you did well. Really well.

And then, after dinner, you disappeared.

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

“Hi.”

Shit. “Hi.”

“Wanna sit down?”

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

“Yeah.”

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

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

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

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

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

“So what’s wrong?”

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

“Too well?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

It’s a fucking whirlwind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell me you want this.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

“I didn’t.”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re not ready for that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or both.”

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

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

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

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

“Sure. Where are you?”

-

Pope hasn’t seen you in three days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then you smash the glass against the wall.

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

“Gimme another.”

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

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

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

That is, until Pope Cody shows up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you’re too late.

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

Pope punches him in the face.

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

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

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

The fight stops. The bar goes quiet.

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

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

And puke on his shoes.

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

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

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

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

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

It feels like home.

-

“Look who finally decided to come home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

That hits you. Harder than it should.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s love.

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

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

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

You walk out the door, instead.

-

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

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

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

“You’re mad at me.”

You tilt your head into his hand, and nod.

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

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

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

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

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

You curl a little closer.

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You broke up a bar fight.”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“It was…between me and Craig.”

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

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

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

“Have you slept?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You two back together?”

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

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

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

You scoff. “Shut up.”

-

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

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

“Do you wanna go home?”

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

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

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

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

You leave before he can follow.

-

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

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

“What the fuck do you want this time?”

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

“Pope had nothing to do with that.”

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

“Fuck you.”

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

“Yeah. You’ll get it when we-“

“I need it now.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

-

Split lip. Black eye. Ringing ears.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fuck.

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

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

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

“He’ll just take it off.”

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

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

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

“Get. Away. From. Her.”

Shit.

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

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

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

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

“Where is he?”

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

And he does.

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

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

And you let him.

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

You’re waiting for him in the hall.

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

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

“No.”

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What was that for?”

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

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

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

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

You believe him. You really, really believe him.

“Take off your clothes, please.”

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

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

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

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

Well, not anymore.

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

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

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

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

“Are you threatening me, you little shit?”

“Like father, like daughter.”

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

It all happens so fast.

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

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

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

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

And then the gun goes off.

-

You wake to an empty bed.

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

Huh.

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

Naked. Staring at the moon.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll do anything for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“No. No no no no no!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

“Holy shit. What happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not lying.”

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

“Too late. You done puking?”

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

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

“I love you.”

You stop, and furrow your brow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

“I love you.”

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

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

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

You shift, and he goes very, very still.

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

“…Hi.”

“You just said you loved me.”

“I…thought you were sleeping.”

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

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

He’s silent. He doesn’t look away.

“Andrew?”

“…a while.”

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought…I thought you were-“

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

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

“Do you?”

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

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

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

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

“Since I first met you.”

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

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

“When?”

“Five years ago.”

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

“Never found a perfect time.”

“Mm. Sorry for stealing your thunder then.”

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

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

“I’m glad I did it.”

“I know.”

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

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

“When the drugs wear off.”

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

“When they say you can.”

Hm. “Can we have sex?”

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

“You’re no fun.”

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

“I like where this is going.”

“I’ll never leave you again.”

“Keep talkin’, Cody.”

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

“Take me now.”

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

-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And pulling back.

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

“I have another idea.”

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

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

And pulls out a ring.

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

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

You grin. He grins back.

“You make a compelling argument.”

He kisses you, and you kiss him back.

You close your eyes tightly, but it doesn’t help. The image is burned into the back of your eyelids—Rafe. Sofia. Kissing. Twice.

That you knew about. 

You can still hear his voice through the tiny speaker of the phone, weak and distorted, yet telling his ex-girlfriend that he missed her, loud and clear. You can still see the way he didn’t pull away when she leaned in.

Two weeks of building something that felt real, something you thought was unbreakable, shattered in less than a minute.

Beside you, the sheets rustle and that’s when you're pulled back. 

Theo stirs, shifting his weight, throwing a lazy arm over the space between you. He doesn’t wake up, but just the sight of him makes a lump form in your throat.

He’s been so good to you since he got here, holding back his own feelings because he knew how wrapped up you were in Rafe. 

And look where that respect got you.

When the bedroom lights finally do click on, you don’t even have the energy to groan like the other girls do. You just pull the duvet up over your chin, still staring blankly at the wall.

A little while later, the bedroom doors creak open. The Casa boys walk in, trying to be as quiet as possible, carrying plates of food and mugs of coffee. Justin is leading, a bright smile on his face as he heads straight for Cleo’s bed. Brandon follows closely behind, looking for Rima, while Thomas carries a tray toward Kiara and a small offering for Sarah. 

Theo is right at the back. You didn’t even remember him getting up out of the bed, his eyes searching the room until they land on you. He’s carrying a plate of pancakes with strawberries and a glass of iced coffee.

"Morning, bellissima," Theo murmurs, his voice deep, gravelly. He carefully sets the plate down on your bedside table and sits on the edge of your mattress. “I did my best. You seemed exhausted.”

"Thanks, Theo," you say, your voice cracking slightly. You force yourself to sit up, leaning back against the headboard. You try to offer him a smile, but it feels barely there. "It looks amazing. You didn’t have to do all this."

"I know," he says softly, reaching out to gently nudge your knee through the covers. "I told you yesterday, I’m here for whatever you need. If you need pancakes, I make pancakes. If you need me to throw a brick at the wall for you, I can do that too." He teases, a tired smile on his face

A tiny laugh slips past your lips, and Theo’s face lights up at the sound. 

But, across the room, its noticeably miserable.

Sarah is sitting cross-legged on her bed, picking aimlessly at a piece of avocado toast that Thomas brought her, a friendly gesture. She hasn't even looked up at anyone, her eyes bloodshot. Kiara looks even worse, staring at her coffee mug, her shoulders hunched over as Thomas tries to whisper something comforting to her. 

Confessional : You “I just want to crawl under a rock.” You stare blankly. “We had just gotten back on track, and I trusted him. To see him with Sofia, telling her he misses her?” You whispered to yourself, upset. “I feel stupid, like a total idiot for sitting here being loyal while he’s practically treating Casa Amor like a vacation with his ex.”

AFTER a very tense and quiet breakfast where nobody really ate anything, the boys give you and the girls some space to get ready for the day. 

You drag yourself into the glam room, slouching into one of the chairs in front of the mirrors. Sarah sits to your left, staring blankly at her makeup bag, while Kiara slumps into the chair on your right, burying her face in her hands.

The silence is tear-jerking until Rima walks in, clapping her hands together to break the tension, rising her hands above her head like she just had the most re-energizing sleep of her life. Cleo follows right behind her, crossing her arms.

"Good morning, mamacitas," Rima starts, playful and full of love, though she looks at the three of you with a no-nonsense expression. "I, unfortunately, cannot, and will not, look at your miserable faces anymore.” She fixes you all with a tight-lipped grimace. "I hate seeing gorgeous women let stupid boys ruin their spark."

"Easy for you to say," Kiara mutters, her voice muffled by her hands. "You didn’t see the boy you were in couple with tongue-fucking two girls on camera..."

"Kieee," Rima chimes in, stepping forward. "We all saw the video. It was awful, yes. But you need a reality check. All of you. How long have we known these guys? Hm? Two weeks.” She emphasizes. “Two. Weeks. We’ve known them for fourteen days, and you’re letting them ruin your fun!"

"Exactly," Cleo agrees, just as energized this morning. "These guys are our exes, sure. But they came in here for us and, most of them, are treating us like damn royalty. Why are you wasting your tears on boys who are clearly not thinking about your feelings right now?"

Sarah sighs, leaning her head back against her chair. " We know you guys are right. We do.” She speaks for all of you. “...I’m trying not to focus on what John B said or did in that clip. I want to have fun today. But... I don't know, I’m still holding out a bit of hope.” She admits sheepishly. “I mean, I don’t know what happened during their full conversation, and it looked like they only shared kisses during challenges…” She throws out, hoping she doesn’t get flamed for her stance. “I don’t want to completely throw away what we have over something I’m not even sure is anything bad."

Kiara lets out a bitter laugh, dropping her hands from her face. Her eyes are rimmed red. "Can’t say the same for JJ. He’s clearly over there living his best life.” She scoffs, disgusted. “Kissing whatever girl is thrown at him, smiling, laughing... it’s like I don’t even exist to him. Like, was he ever actually serious about me, or was this whole thing just a big game to him?"

Rima and Cleo both nod, validating their hurt, before their eyes slowly shift over to you. You’ve been quiet the whole time, just staring at your fingernails, a knot of anger tightly twisting in your stomach.

"Babe," Cleo calls softly, tone softening as she looks at you. "What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?"

You let out a long, shaky breath, shaking your head. "...I’m just done. I’m over it."

Sarah and Kiara both turn their heads to look at you, surprised.

"I don't think there’s any misinterpretation over what I saw," you say. "We spent the last two weeks getting to know each other. We talked about things that I thought meant something. He asked me to close things off, for fuck sake. And then the second he gets a chance, he runs right back to his ex? And I can't get the image out of my head.” You shake your head, scoffing. “I can’t unhear him telling Sofia that he misses her and then just.... There’s no excuse for that. He said it out of his own mouth."

"I know it's a slap in the face," Rima says, fixing you with a sorrowful gaze. "I really didn’t think he would do that to you."

"None of us did. He fooled us, too. But," Cleo says, leaning in closer to you. "Use that video as your motivation, girl. If Rafe is over there doing whatever the hell he wants, then you need to break free. You need to start looking out for number one. You need to do what's best for you."

Rima smiles, a cheeky glint in her eye as she watches your expression shift. "...Does what you saw in that video make you a bit more open to… exploring Theo?” she taunts. “More than you’ve been allowing yourself to?"

The room goes quiet as all four girls wait for your answer. 

Everyone knows that Theo has been on you since the guys walked in, and everyone also knows that you’ve been holding back, keeping him at arm’s length because you wanted to respect Rafe.

You let out a breath that’s half-sigh, half-laugh, and a determined smile pulls at the corners of your lips.

"Hell yeah, it makes me more open," you say, a nod accompanying your words. "I’ve been sitting here considering Rafe's feelings, trying to be respectful of him, and he clearly hasn't been doing the same for me. He didn’t think about me for a second when Sofia was in front of him. So, yeah.” You realize, conviction in your voice. “From this point on, I’m here for me, just like you guys said."

"Yes! That's what I want to hear!" Rima cheers, jumping up to give you a quick squeeze around the shoulders. "No more crying over boys who don't deserve it."

Confessional : Kiara “Hearing the girls talk... it definitely gives me a bit of a push. I’m still gutted about JJ, I’m not going to lie. It hurts to feel like you’re easily forgotten.” She huffs. “But Rima and Cleo are right. I can’t just sit in a corner and rot while he’s out there clearly living it up.”

THE rest of the day unfolds, trapped in a strange, sun-drenched haze. The cloud of misery that had blanketed the villa in the morning slowly begins to fade away as you and the girls finally start giving the Casa Amor boys the time of day.

Well, most of you.

Sarah still keeps to herself for the majority of the afternoon, spreads her towel out on a sun lounger by the pool, putting her sunglasses on. True to her word, she’s holding out hope for John B. When Mattheo, the only guy who hasn’t really gotten on with anyone due to his pursuit of you, tries to slide onto the edge of her lounger with two glasses of ice water, she smiles politely, talks casually with him, but the second he tries to drop a flirty compliment, she steers the conversation back to the friend zone.

Later, she spends a good hour on the daybeds, chatting with Cleo.

Kiara, however, takes Rima and Cleo’s advice to heart. You watch from across the deck as she approaches Thomas, who is working out by the outdoor gym. She looks gorgeous in a bright red bikini, her hair tied up in a high ponytail. Thomas drops his weights the second she walks over, a grin spreading across his face.

By mid-afternoon, the two of them migrate over to the daybeds.

They’re laughing, and Thomas is leaning in close, his hand resting gently on her knee. You can see Kiara’s shoulders relax for the first time in days. As Thomas says something that makes her throw her head back and laugh, she suddenly leans forward, catching him by surprise, and presses her lips to his. It’s a long kiss, and when she pulls back, Thomas looks ecstatic.

Meanwhile, Rima is having a chat with Brandon on the beanbags. She’s twisting a strand of her hair around her finger, listening to him talk about his life back home. It’s clear she really likes him, an undeniable chemistry there, but every time Brandon tries to get her to lock things down or talk about the inevitable recoupling, she plays it cool. She hasn’t made up her mind, and she’s making him work for every single inch of her attention.

Cleo and Justin, on the other hand, look like they’ve been coupled up for months, practically attached at the hip, floating around the pool together on a giant inflatable ring, laughing so loudly that their voices echo across the courtyard. Cleo looks genuinely happy, glowing, a contrast to the version of her that existed when she was constantly worrying about Miles' trustworthiness and Pope’s uncertainty.

But your focus is on the boy sitting right next to you.

You and Theo spend almost the entire afternoon together on the large sofa in the shade. He doesn’t push you, and he doesn’t force you to talk about the video, he just provides his most comforting company.

When you randomly drop into an angry rant about how fucked up Rafe is, Theo listens, nodding along, his arm stretched out along the back of the sofa behind you.

And when you decide you want to pretend Rafe doesn’t exist, like you didn’t see what you saw, Theo is happy to switch gears, making jokes and teasing you until your stomach hurts from laughing.

He gives you the emotional space you need, letting you be messy and angry without making you feel judged.

"Alright, pop quiz," Theo says, turning his body to face you fully, his eyes sparkling. "It is time for your daily Italian lesson. You are failing miserably so far, bella."

"Hey! I am not failing," you defend yourself, laughing as you nudge his shoulder. "I remember what you taught me yesterday." You say matter-of-factly.

"Oh yeah? Alright then." He challenges. "What does...sei bellissima mean?"

"...You are very beautiful," you say smoothly, a cocky expression on your face, chin held high.

"Perfect.” His eyes glue themselves to your face. “There is hope for you yet," Theo chuckles, his voice dropping as he leans closer. "Let’s try something a little more advanced." His eyes sparkle. "If you want to tell someone that they have completely stolen your heart, you say, Mi hai rubato il cuore."

You try to mimic the words, your tongue tripping over the vowels. "Mi hai... rubato il... cuore?"

"Close, close," Theo murmurs, his eyes dropping down to your lips for a brief second before locking back onto yours. "The pronunciation needs a little bit more passion, you know? Like this,” he shifts on the cushion, reiterating his words more slowly. “Mi hai rubato il cuore. You have to mean it."

"I do mean it," you whisper through a short laugh, the playful atmosphere suddenly shifting into something more breath snatching.

Theo smiles softly, his fingers reaching out to gently brush his thumb against the soft of your cheek, his touch lingering against your skin. "Good."

Confessional: Theo “I know she’s had a rough couple of days, and I hate seeing her hurt. But selfishly... I am glad she's finally letting herself be more open to me.” He smirks, sheepish as he palms the back of his neck. “I’ve grown very fond of her and I plan to spend every second making sure she knows she deserves a guy who only has eyes for her.”

Though, the quiet bubble of the afternoon is suddenly broken by the beep-beep of multiple phones echoing across the pool deck. Rima jumps up from her beanbag, snatching her phone.

"I got a text!" she shrieks, her voice echoing.

The girls instantly crowd around her, the Casa Amor boys looking on with raised eyebrows as she reads the screen aloud, a smirk spreading across her face.

"Girls, it’s time to see who is really getting hot and bothered. Today, the Main Villa and Casa Amor will go head-to-head in the ultimate battle of desire in Temperatures Rising. #HotAndBothered #BeatTheBoys"

You all couldn’t fake the level of excitement that came out if you tried.

You needed something to lift the mood from whatever the hell happened yesterday, and since the guys wanted to take your kindness for weakness?

You’d return the favor.

"THE challenge will work in rounds. In each round, you all will go toe-to-toe against your original partner alongside your Casa partner. You’ll blindly draw your category and make your Casa partner's temperature rise to the goal first. The giant thermometers will track your real-time progress."

You read out as you all sit around the firepit where two massive prop thermometers tower on each side of a neon platform—one a hot pink for you girls, and the other a cool blue representing the boys over at Casa Amor.

Confessional : Rima "I’m so ready to show these boys what they're missing," Rima beams. “Because, clearly, they need to be reminded.”

A phone chimes just then, announcing the first matchup as Kiara reads the text.

“First up: Kiara versus JJ.”

Kiara doesn't hesitate, standing and locking eyes with Mattheo. "Get up." She urges him as he stands, trailing after her, standing on the platform as Kiara steps up to the tinted acrylic box, reaching her hand inside. She swirls her fingers around before pulling out a pink ball, turning it over.

"Tickle," Kiara reads aloud, turning the ball to face you all, grabbing the pink cat feather by the box. Kiara and Mattheo step onto the platform, and because of everything, there’s an undeniable awkwardness between them, but Kiara is determined.

The timer blares, and they get straight to it—Mattheo drops to his knees, and Kiara wastes no time getting down and dirty with the tickling. She runs the feather down his bare chest as he sheds his top, tracking his obliques, while Mattheo returns the favor, dragging his fingers up her inner thighs and along her ribs. It’s hilarious but actually kind of sexy as they give it their absolute all, squirming and laughing dirtily on the platform. 

The rest of you are all screaming, cheering them on like a pack of animals.

You glance at the thermometers, noticing the pink meter climbing steady, but suddenly, the blue thermometer spikes, going up two increments in rapid succession—fuck. And before Kiara and Mattheo can hit the threshold, a loud ding echoes as the blue meter hits the top.

A text flashes on Kie’s phone as she straightens herself out, sighing.

"JJ and Haja have won the point for Casa Amor."

Kiara scoffs, tossing the feather aside, her eyes narrowing at the blue thermometer. "Of course he did," she mutters under her breath, walking back to the group, fixing her top.

Confessional : Kiara “Like, what was the point even? Y’all put me up against Sir Lips-a-Lot, he was probably over there tickling girls with his tongue...” She rolls her eyes.

As she and Mattheo take their seats, Sarah’s phone makes a sound and she flips it open. 

“Sarah versus John B.”

Sarah steps forward, her face fierce but still holding a certain…uncertainty. "Tommy, you're with me." She urges him forward with a single, crooked finger as she marches up to the platform and ball-chamber, thrusts her hand in, and pulls out her ball. 

"Suck," she reads, a grin on her lips.

And the second the timer counts down, Sarah goes wild, no holding back. 

She throws herself at Thomas, her hands instantly gripping his hair. She goes straight for his neck, sucking fiercely against his skin, leaving a dark mark within seconds. Thomas's eyes go wide, flustered as Sarah moves to his ears, sucking the lobes before kneeling and dragging her mouth down to his fingers, taking them into her mouth one by one with an unwavering stare.

And you all go absolutely feral, sounding like a rowdy bleacher section at a baseball game. 

"YES SARAHHH!" Rima screams, pumping her fists.

Thomas is breathless, his hands holding Sarah's face just to keep his balance. The pink thermometer shoots up like a rocket, rising steadily and fast, and before the blue meter even gets halfway, it reaches the top and Rima is reading out a text.

"Sarah and Thomas have taken the point!"

You all jump up and down, the deck shaking as Sarah and Thomas walk back, wiping her mouth with a triumphant smirk, while Thomas stands there looking like his soul just left his body.

Confessional : Sarah “Who’s the better option, now?” Sarah tilts her head, blowing a kiss. “Bitch.”

And the second they’re sat, Cleo’s phone goes off— “Cleo versus Miles.”

Cleo squeals, grabbing Justin as she struts over to the box, pulling out the category— Kiss.

"Oh, I am ready," she purrs, and the buzzer sounds without her wasting a single second.

She practically launches herself at Justin, wrapping her legs around his waist as he catches her effortlessly. In one swift motion, she tears his unbuttoned shirt completely off his shoulders, letting it flutter to the ground as you all cheer her on like a pack of wolves—standing up, whooping, cheering, howling.

She shoves her tongue straight down his throat, her hands running through his short hair.

Justin catches what she throws him, gripping her thighs, spinning her around and laying her flat down on the platform. He straddles her, grinding his hips firmly against hers, over and over, making her dress ride up her thighs. He kisses her passionately, dragging his lips down her jaw, her throat, and along her collarbone while Cleo laughs, arching into him.

The pink meter is neck-and-neck with the blue meter and you all get even louder as it becomes a literal race against time. Both thermometers are hovering a millimeter from the top—

Ding.

The blue siren hits first, and the boys at Casa Amor just barely edged them out.

Cleo sighs as she digs out her phone, groaning. "Miles and Sofia have taken the lead for Casa Amor.”

You all groan, defeated, but Cleo is still satisfied, pulling Justin down for one last kiss before they return to their seats and Rima’s phone goes off, signaling her turn— “Rima versus Pope.”

Rima smiles brightly as you all clap while she grabs Brandon, her eyes fixed on the prize as she reaches into the tinted box and pulls out ‘lick’.

"Brandon, baby, get ready for the ride of your life," Rima whispers to him, a dangerous glint in her eye as she turns into a woman possessed when the timer starts. She shoves Brandon backward, pinning his wrists flat against the platform as she leans over him, her tongue tracing a slow, wet, hot line from his belly button all the way up his abs. Brandon lets out a loud, low groan that echoes through the yard.

But Rima doesn't stop, she only moves up to his chest, licking up and down his torso, using the tip of her tongue to trace the dark ink of the tattoos sprawling across his body. She pins him tighter as you all scream, her mouth working against his skin with a hunger that has the entire villa covering their mouths in shock.

The pink thermometer is moving fast, way faster than the blue meter could ever dream of when the pink light hits the top, blinking.

"Rima and Brandon have tied the score!"

You all cheer for them as Rima gets up and winks at Brandon, letting him up as he pants, dazed.

Then, the final text hits the screen as they sit down, a buzz against your skin— “Y/N versus Rafe.”

You feel a fire bloom in your chest, smirking as you look at Theo, finding his dark eyes already locked on you. You take his hand in yours as the others clap, watching you step up to the tinted chamber, plunge your hand inside, and grab the final ball. 

You pull it out and hold it up high—nibble.

You laugh, wondering how you were going to do this but everyone else seemed excited as the countdown began.

Theo turns to you, and you meet him halfway, crashing your lips into his.

It’s not a soft kiss. It's harsh, bruising, as you bite down on his bottom lip, pulling it firmly before releasing, and Theo lets out a sharp breath, returning the favor by gripping your jaw and biting your top lip, sending a jolt straight to your core.

A shiver wrecks your body as Theo moves down to your neck, nibbling his way along your pulsing veins as his hands slide up your shoulders, and using nothing but his teeth, he catches the thin straps of your dress, slowly peeling them down to reveal the skin of your chest, nibbling along the delicate curves of your exposed breasts.

The girls are losing their minds as the guys howl at Theo’s antics.

Fueled by their excitement, you grab Theo by his shoulders and flip him onto his back, straddling his lap. You lean down, nibbling sensitive spots across his chest, not even hearing every cheer about how you’d already won. 

He drags your face back up to his own, his mouth to your ear as his teeth graze your earlobe, biting down just enough to make you gasp before he whispers something against your skin.

"Sei così sexy quando prendi il controllo..."

Then, lowering yourself further, you lean down and hook the elastic waistline of his underwear that was showing right between your teeth, pulling it back and letting it pluck back against his skin.

“We won! Damn,” a voice finally breaks through, laughing.

You glance up at the meters while still hovering above a breathless Theo—the pink thermometer at its limit.

Your phone chimes and you grab it from where it landed on the deck, blowing hair out of your face as you smile. 

"Y/N and Theodore stole the game. The Villa wins!”

The girls instantly storm the platform, jumping from their places and rushing towards you, throwing their arms around you and Theo, screaming at the top of their lungs as the guys dogpile on top of you all. You connect in one, massive hug—jumping around like pre-school kids before letting go.

Without a word, Rima grabs your hand and Cleo’s with a wide smile as you both grab Sarah and Kie, the five of you sprinting up to the balcony that overlooks the surrounding hills and trees, spotting lights at Casa Amor in the distance.

Leaning over the railing, hyped up on spite and victory, you all scream at the top of your lungs into the open air, chanting the same phrase over and over

"Fuck Casa!"

"OH my god," Cleo gasps, fanning her face with her hand as she leans back against the cushions of the terrace sofa. "I needed that. I needed that, so bad."

"I think we all did," Kiara smiles, shaking her head as a smirk settles on her face. "I bet they're pissed."

"They should be!" Rima scoffs. "They thought they were out there living it up, completely forgetting who they left behind. We are the blueprints."

"That was way more fun than I though it'd be," Sarah chimes in, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I would give everything to have them tied down and watch us do it all over again." She laughs, leaning over and nudging your shoulder. "And can we talk about you?"

"Me?" you laugh nervously, looking around. "What about me?"

"Girl," Rima deadpans. "We were screaming that we'd won and you were still going." She amuses herself, the others around giggling. "Theo looked like he met God."

You feel a heat creep up your neck, laughing along with them. "I had to get the point! For...all of us..."

"More like you had to show Rafe how badly he fucked up," Cleo teases. "I don't blame you. He definitely missed a good show."

You huff, rolling your eyes, fighting a smile as, right on cue, a shadow falls over you all and footsteps sound out. You look up to find Theo standing at the stairs.

"Sorry to interrupt the after party, ladies," he says. He extends a hand toward you. "But can I steal Y/N for a chat?"

"Oooooh," the girls instantly chorus in unison, urging him to steal you away.

"Take her!"

"Don't do anything we wouldn't do!" Cleo calls out playfully as you take his hand, letting him pull you down the steps.

Theo doesn't take you far, just around the corner to the daybeds. The night air is warm, but his presence makes you warmer.

He turns to face you, leaning his hip against the edge of the daybed as he guides you to sit, his arms crossed over his chest as he looks down at you.

"So," Theo starts, his eyes twinkling. "You really pulled some tricks out there."

You tilt your head up. "What can I say?" you shrug cutely. "I like a good game."

He nods, humming, reaching out to let his hand rest against the base of your neck. "The underwear move," he starts. "Am I the first to experience that number?

You sway in your spot, tucking your lip between your teeth, thinking. "Mmm... I think you'd feel less special if I told you," you tease, looking him up and down. "Why?" You feign innocence. "Did you mind?"

"Mind?" Theo’s voice drops. His thumb tracing slow circles against your pulse. "Never." He breaths. "Not with you. I was about two seconds away from forgetting about the cameras and throwing the game just to keep you right there on top of me."

Your face grows warm at his words, biting back a smile. "You talk a big game for someone who nearly fainted from a little biting."

Theo raises an eyebrow. "Who said it was the biting that had me lightheaded?" he teases, inching closer. "What if I said it was just you?"

And he doesn’t wait for an actual answer, his hand sliding up to your jaw as he pulls you against him, both of you completely disregarding any previously set boundaries.

When his lips hit yours, it’s much different from the challenge. There's no cheering, no crowd, no theatrics—just a hunger that had been building since the moment he saw you.

He tastes like mint and something else, and the kiss starts deep, his lips parting yours with an urgency that makes you whimper into his mouth. Your hands find their way to his chest, palms flat against it, feeling the frantic thud of his heart.

Theo groans into the kiss, the sound vibrating into your chest. He pushes you back until your laying on the daybed, shifting his weight so he’s pressing you down onto the cushions. The kiss turns brutal, his tongue tangling with yours as his teeth graze your bottom lip again, pulling a gasp from your throat. His free hand slides up your thigh, his touch hot, pulling your body firmly against his hips.

By the time he finally pulls back, regaining his composure, just a fraction of an inch, both of you are breathless and your lips are wet and swollen. Theo rests his forehead against yours, his eyes dark, his chest heaving in tandem with your own.

He smirks watching you look at him with wide, lust-blown eyes, knowing you're waiting for him to dive back in. But he just huffs a low laugh, squeezing your thigh.

"You were saying?"

WHEN night falls, the exhaustion of the day, and the last few days, finally catches up to everyone.

Sarah still doesn’t even step foot into the main bedroom, grabbing a blanket and a pillow and heading straight out to Soul Ties, wanting to be alone with her thoughts and her evidently unwavering faith to John B. 

Kiara, determined to keep pushing forward, grabs Thomas’s hand and guides him out to the daybeds, deciding to spend the night sleeping under the stars with him.

That leaves just you, Theo, Cleo, Justin, Rima, Brandon, and Mattheo in the main bedroom.

And when the lights click off, plunging the room into darkness, save for the faint glow of the neon lights bleeding through the curtains, you can hear Cleo and Justin whispering softly in their bed, followed by the quiet sound of them kissing. 

Rima and Brandon are curled up together, already fast asleep with Mattheo mindlessly staring up at the ceiling, in the bed by himself.

You turn onto your side, facing Theo. The gap between you both feels incredibly small tonight and he's already facing you, his head propped up on his hand, eyes watching you in the shadows.

"Are you still awake?" he whispers, his voice a passing sound against the quiet of the room.

"Yeah," you whisper back, pulling the blanket up to your nose. "...My mind won't stop." you admit, voice shaky.

Theo slides closer to you across the bed, his free hand reaching to find yours under the covers. His fingers intertwine with your own, his skin warm and reassuring. "Parla con me," he whispers. Talk to me.

"...It’s hard," you admit softly, your eyes searching for his in the dark. "But... being with you today made it a lot easier. Thank you."

"You don't need to keep thanking me," he says, a tender smile touching his lips. He tugs gently on your hand, pulling you a bit closer. "C’mere..."

And you don’t hesitate this time, crossing the small divide until your faces are only inches apart. You can feel the warmth radiating off his body, the faint scent of him wrapping around you.

"I don’t like to see you cry," Theo whispers, his hand leaving yours to gently cup the side of your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone, his touch feather-light. "I mean it. Sei bellissima."

Your breath hitches as you take a deep one, and you can’t stop yourself as you look at his lips, then back up to his eyes, and for the first time in days, the knot in your chest melts away.

You don’t pull back. Instead, you lean forward, closing the remaining distance between you.

When your lips meet Theo’s, it’s soft. He kisses you with a certain gentleness that sends a shiver down your spine. His hand shifts to the back of your neck, his fingers pulling you in as he deepens the kiss, pulling you completely against him, lips slotting against yours, tongue dipping inside just enough to tease.

When you finally pull apart, both of you are breathing a bit heavier and Theo rests his forehead against yours, a soft, breathless chuckle escaping him.

"Yeah," he whispers against your skin. "I like that."

You smile into the darkness, wrapping your arms around his neck as you slide against him, curling your body into his chest. He wraps his arms tightly around your waist, pulling the duvet over both of you. As you fall asleep, wrapped up in his warmth, you feel a sense of peace you haven’t felt since Casa Amor started.

But deep down, you know the real storm hasn’t even hit yet.

THE next morning, nearly everything is different. The calm of yesterday has almost gone, replaced by this crushing wave of anxiety. 

When you walk out onto the terrace for the usual morning girl chat, nobody is smiling, the reality of what is about to happen tonight finally sinking in. You know today is going to be nothing short of a complete whirlwind of decisions. 

Because the boys are coming back. 

Nobody knows exactly what they did, they probably don’t know you all know anything at all, nobody knows who they’re bringing with them, and the uncertainty of where anyone is going to stand by the end of the night has everyone’s nerves fried.

"I feel sick," Kiara confesses, rocking back and forth on one of the outdoor chairs, her hands wrapped tightly around a mug of green tea. "Like, actually sick to my stomach."

"I know," Cleo says, though she looks composed compared to the rest of you, sitting with her legs crossed. "It’s terrifying, but I just want it over with. I’m tired of guessing, of wondering what’s happening over there."

"Are you completely set on your choice then?" Rima asks, leaning against the terrace railing.

"100%," Cleo says without a single second of hesitation. "Miles and I were completely dead in the water anyway, and Pope..." She shrugs, a tight-lipped grimace on her face.

Rima nods, looking down at her own feet. “I’m still... I don't know. I’ve been having a great time with Brandon, but the closer we get to the decision, the more I’m starting to think about everything, but then again, do I want to stick with Pope when I don't even know where his head is at?"

Sarah is completely quiet, just staring out over the pool. She doesn't say it, but everyone knows she’s sticking with John B. She’s putting all her cards on the table, all of her eggs in his basket, betting everything on the hope that his kisses or lack of words in her defense didn’t mean anything.

You just sit there, your stomach twisting into a million tight, tiny knots. You spent the whole night wrapped in Theo’s arms, and it felt incredible, but now that the sun is up and the recoupling is looming, the weight of it all is crashing down on you.

The boys make breakfast for everyone again, and you girls try your best to put on a brave face and have fun with them. You eat, you laugh at Justin’s jokes and Thomas’s clumsiness, and you let Theo sit next to you, his hand resting reassuringly on your thigh. Everyone is trying to enjoy the summer weather and experience, trying to pretend like the axe isn’t about to fall.

BY early afternoon, everyone is scattered around. You’re standing in the outdoor kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water, when the sound of heels catches your attention and a collective gasp echoes across the yard.

Walking into the villa, looking absolutely stunning, is Ariana.

"Oh my God," Kiara whispers, instantly jumping up from her pool chair. "No."

"Girls, boys... please, gather around the fire pit," Ariana’s voice echoes across the courtyard.

Your heart drops and you exchange a wide-eyed look with Sarah as you walk over to the seating area. The Casa boys sit on one side, while the girls sit on the other, the air deathly quiet.

Ariana stands at the center, a serious and knowing smile on her face.

"Hello, Islanders," she greets, her eyes scanning the anxious faces lined up before her. "As you know, today is the last day of Casa Amor."

A silence settles over the fire pit, everyone exchanging looks as someone finally let it be known aloud. You can hear the rustle of the palm trees in the wind, but nobody moves an inch.

"Tonight," Ariana continues, "the original boys will be returning to the villa. And by the end of the night, each of you girls—as well as your boys back at Casa Amor—will be tasked with making one monumental decision.” She dramaticizes. “You will have to decide whether you want to stick with your original partner, or twist and bring back one of these boys to explore a new connection."

She pauses, letting the words hang in the air.

"I must also remind you," Ariana adds, her tone turning ominous, "that if you do not wish to bring someone back from Casa Amor, but you also do not wish to remain in your original couple... you may decide to remain single.” She informs, her expression softening into something genuinely supportive. "It’s going to be a tough night, but remember—do what is best for you. Have fun, look after your hearts, and good luck.” She smiles pitifully. “I will see you all tonight."

With a final click of her heels, Ariana turns and walks out of the villa, leaving you all sitting around worldlessly.

AS soon as the gathering breaks up, Theo catches your eye and jerks his head toward the daybeds, silently asking to pull you for a chat. You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat, and follow him over to the Speakeasy.

The two of you sit down facing each other, the space between you heavy. Theo looks at you, his eyes serious but still gentle.

"Alright, bella," he grunts, breaking the ice and taking a deep breath as he adjusts in his seat. "I don't want to pressure you, but…I need to know what you’re thinking."

You look at him, taking in his handsome face, his kind eyes, and the genuine worry etched into his forehead. "...I want to know where your head is at first."

Theo lets out a soft laugh, shaking his head. "Me? I’ve been enjoying every second of getting to know you. I like you, piccola,” he flirts. “You are the most incredible, beautiful, and genuine girl I have ever met in my life. Sleeping in the bed with you last night... kissing you... it just confirmed everything for me. I didn’t come in here looking for anything, but I found you anyway."

Small tears prick the corners of your eyes, and you have to look down at your hands to keep from crying, cursing yourself. "You are literally one of the sweetest, most amazing guys I have ever met.” You laugh. “And I’m not just saying that. Getting to know you has been the best part of this so far."

"...But?" Theo prompts softly, sensing the hesitation in your voice.

"But... I can't give you a straightforward answer right now," you confess, your voice cracking as you look back up at him. "I am so sorry. I hate to keep you waiting. I hate feeling like I’m keeping you on a string, because you deserve a girl who can look you in the eye right now and tell you exactly what she’s going to do. But I'm still so confused. My head is a mess, and I don't want to give you an answer right now, promise you something, and then switch up at the last second." You pout. "That wouldn’t be fair to you."

Theo looks at you for a long moment, the silence stretching between you. For a second, you’re terrified he’s going to get angry, that he’s going to walk away. But he just lets out a quiet sigh and reaches out, taking both of your hands in his.

You meet his eyes, a tear finally escaping and rolling down your cheek.

"I understand," Theo says. "And, hey, no matter what happens tonight... no matter what decision you make, I want you to know that I enjoyed getting to talk to you, getting to know you. Even just sleeping in that bed next to you, feeling you close to me... it was perfect. I’ve only known you for a few days, bella, but I know that you will always be in my mind. You are an unforgettable girl." He tells you firmly. "So don't worry about me. Do what you need to do."

You fix him with a sad, half-hearted smile. "You don't hate me?" and you hate how small you sound.

But Theo just looks at you, eyes full of pity. "I could never hate you."

You nod tearfully, overwhelmed by his kindness as he pulls you into a tight hug, burying his face in your hair. 

Theo is the perfect guy on paper, the perfect guy in reality—so why is your heart still painfully aching for the boy who broke it?

THE conversation with Theo leaves you feeling emotionally exhausted and you leave the Speakeasy, wiping your tears, desperately needing to talk to someone who isn't involved in the love triangle you’ve created for yourself.

You spot Sarah sitting alone on the beanbags, and you head straight for her. The second she sees your face, her expression softens, and she opens her arms up for you. You sink onto the edge of her beanbag, burying your face in her shoulder as a fresh wave of tears overtakes you.

"Oh, sweetie," Sarah coos, rubbing your back gently as you cry. "It’s okay."

After a few minutes, you pull back, wiping your eyes. "I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m so upset...."

"Yes, you do. Don't apologize," Sarah says firmly, taking your hand. "I’m not far behind you."

You look at her, your chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. "How are you doing this? How can you still hold out so much hope on John B after seeing that video?"

Sarah lets out a long breath, looking out. "John B and I, we’ve been through a lot here already. And when I looked at that video, I really forced myself to dissect it. Some things can be so easily taken out of context. He was kissing Delaney, yes, but it looked like a challenge. I have to trust that he’s just playing the game, that his heart is still with me.” She tells you honestly. “If I don't have faith in him, then what did I come here for?"

She turns back to face you, her eyes warm. "But listen to me. No one, and I mean no one, is judging you for exploring Theo right now. Nobody is judging you for being uncertain about Rafe. If I had gotten a video of John B kissing his ex, hearing him tell her that he missed her? I’d be pretty fucking pissed, too.” She comforts. “Don’t kick yourself so much."

"That’s the thing," you sob, fresh tears spilling over your eyelashes. "I don't know what to do. I’m stuck. Half of me wants to have faith in Rafe... but then the other half says there’s nothing left to have faith in. I saw it with my own eyes. But then... what if I misunderstood something? I don't want to drag Theo along if I’m just going to run back to Rafe. But what if I really grow to like Theo, even more than Rafe? And if I didn't misunderstand anything, and I do decide to give Rafe another chance thinking I did... I will have just let a really good guy go and completely fucked myself over, basically." You rant.

Sarah pulls you into another tight hug. "I know. I know it’s a horrible position to be in. But you need to chill.” She laughs. “You being stuck between a rock and a hard place right now... it is not your fault. Rafe put you in this position, not you. You're going to make the right choice at the end of the day. And whatever choice you make at that fire pit, we're all behind you."

THE afternoon flies by in a blur, and before you know it, the dreaded text arrives.

Cleo picks up her phone from the kitchen counter. "I’ve got a text!"

"Oh God, here we go," Kiara whispers, clutching her stomach.

"Girls," Cleo reads, her voice trembling slightly. "Tonight, the boys will be returning to the villa and it will be time to make your final decisions. Please, get ready for tonight’s recoupling. #TheUltimateChoice #CasaNoMore"

The text serves as the final reminder that the countdown has basically just hit zero.

AN hour later, the makeup room is a mess. But unlike the previous nights where the room was filled with giggles and gossip, it’s incredibly serious. Now that the moment is actually here, everyone is being a lot more open about what they’re really thinking.

Sarah is sitting in front of the mirror, carefully applying a dark red lipstick. "I’m just going to hope for the best. My heart is with John B, and I’m sticking with him. Whatever happens, happens."

Kiara is zipping up her dress, her hands shaking. "Guys…my mind still isn't made up. I’m terrified.” She breathes out. “...And it doesn't help that Thomas and I kissed yesterday.” She says, the girls gasping as she blushes. “It felt really good, and it made me feel wanted for the first time in a while. I’m still torn, but..."

Cleo looks at herself in the full-length mirror, smoothing down a tight, emerald-green gown. "Well, it should be no surprise to anyone what my decision is going to be tonight.” She beams. “Justin has been a dream."

Rima is curling her hair, her expression unreadable. She catches Cleo’s eye in the mirror as she raises an expectant brow at her. "Oh, you girls are just going to have to wait and see. I’ve made my choice, but I’m keeping it under wraps. You know I like being dramatic." she shrugs cutely.

Suddenly, all four pairs of eyes turn, locking onto you. 

You’re standing in the corner, wearing a breathtaking dress that hugs you perfectly, but your face is drained and the silence stretches as they wait for you to give them something.

You look at your reflection, swallowing hard, and offer a very vague smile but no words. And before anyone can press you for more, a loud tone echoes, you picking up your phone and reading out the text.

“Islanders, please gather at the fire pit immediately. It is time for tonight’s recoupling.”

This is it. 

There’s no more time to think. No more time to cry.

And as you walk out, you find the Casa Amor boys waiting at the bottom of the stairs. 

Theo’s eyes lock onto you the second you appear, a soft expression crossing his face. He steps forward, offering you his arm with a quiet smile. You take it, your fingers trembling against his skin as the boys guide you girls over to the firepit.

And standing at the center of it all is Ariana.

The walk to the fire pit feels like a death march, and you and the girls take your seats on the semi-circular bench, while the Casa boys are told to stand next to Ariana. 

The crackle of the fire pit is the only sound breaking the silence of the night.

Ariana looks at everyone, her expression serious. "Islanders... welcome to, one of, the most important recouplings you will face during your time here."

She turns her attention to the line of Casa boys first. "Before we begin, I want to ask the boys... how did you find your experience here in the villa?"

Justin smiles, stepping forward slightly to speak first. "I loved it. It’s been an incredible experience, and I met an amazing girl. I could’ve been happier coming in but I couldn’t be any happier tonight."

Thomas nods in agreement. "Yeah, same here. It was a breath of fresh air, I appreciated the familiar faces, and I’m really grateful for the new ones."

Brandon and Theo both express similar sentiments, with Theo catching your eye and giving you a soft, supportive nod. "It was unforgettable," Theo says clearly.

But then, Ariana turns to the final boy. "Mattheo? How was your experience?"

Mattheo stands with his arms crossed, a dark scowl firmly etched onto his face. He lets out a loud, mocking scoff. "Honestly, I felt like coming here was a total waste of time.” He shrugs. “The girls here were completely closed off, stuck in the past, and I don’t think I was given a fair chance."

A collective murmur echoes from the girls and you feel anger pierce through you. After everything you’ve been through over the last forty-eight hours, you were not in the mood.

You lean forward, glaring directly at Mattheo across the fire pit. "Oh, please, Mattheo,” you hiss. “You’re literally just mad that for the first time in your life, you didn’t get what you wanted."

Everyone let out muffled sounds, while Mattheo’s face turns a bright, angry shade of red. He glares at you, but he doesn't dare say another word.

Ariana breaks the tension, an amused smirk playing on her lips before she turns her attention toward the girls. "Girls... I want to hear from you. Tell me how you felt about your Casa Amor experience, and where your faith and trust in your original boys stood, and stands, tonight."

Sarah is the first one prompted to speak, her hands clasped in front of her. "I was really excited for Casa Amor at first. And I had a wonderful time getting to know the boys and reconnecting with Thomas.” She shouts out. “But the entire time, I was really just thinking about John B. Getting that video... it hurt, I’m not going to lie. But I’m excited, and honestly terrified, to find out what he chose to do at the end of the day."

Kiara speaks up next, her voice trembling slightly. "Coming into Casa Amor... my spirits were already pretty low, to be fair. JJ and I weren't on the greatest terms before he left, and I was really trying to be positive throughout this whole experience. But getting that video... it made a really big dent on any confidence I had left in him. At the end of the day, I came here to find love, and that’s what I’m going to pursue, whether it’s with him or someone else."

Cleo goes third, looking confident. "I was super excited for Casa Amor, especially considering that I think my experience with the original boys had been really rocky or not as smooth as I had hoped coming in.” She speaks honestly. “I was excited for the opportunity to explore new connections. I will say, I was a little bit disappointed at first to see that these guys weren't brand new and that we were familiar with them in one way or another, but I’m still so grateful they came, and I truly believe I made the connection I've been waiting for."

Rima starts next, a grin on her face. "I was basically jumping for joy over Casa Amor,” She says excitedly, breaking the ice. “I could not wait for the opportunity to meet new guys. I agree with Cleo, realizing these were all past flames and exes was a little bit disappointing. But I met some pretty great guys regardless."

Finally, Ariana’s eyes land on you. "And you? How was your Casa Amor experience?"

You take a deep breath, thinking on your words. Your heart is pounding so loudly, you’re terrified everyone can hear it.

"Coming into Casa Amor, I didn't feel the greatest," you say, your voice steady despite the storm raging inside you. "I felt like Rafe and I were finally regaining our footing and getting back to that amazing place we were in when we first met. I was really starting to feel that pull toward him again that I felt during our first kiss."

You pause, taking a shaky breath, your eyes briefly flickering to Theo.

"But Casa Amor has been a rollercoaster. I’ve met some amazing guys here... some even greater guys who make me feel incredibly special and who even teach me flirty things in Italian," you add, a small, cheeky smile playing on your lips as a subtle nod is sent to Theodore, who blushes, ducking his head. "But... after getting that video from Casa... it changed my outlook on what I thought was a solid connection. It broke my trust. But at the end of the day, all I can do now is follow my heart and do what’s best for me."

Ariana nods slowly, her eyes full of sympathy. "Thank you, girls, for your honesty.” Ariana throws out. “Now... it is officially time for the decisions to be made.” She turns serious. “...I will ask each of you whether you would like to couple up with one of the boys from Casa Amor, to return to your original couple, or whether you would like to remain single," she explains. “You will then get to find out what your boys have decided as they re-enter the villa.”

The air is silent, everyone is still, hearts racing as you await Ariana’s next words.

"...Kiara," Ariana calls out. "Please, stand up." Kiara stands, her hands tightly gripping the fabric of her dress. "Kiara, you were coupled up with JJ before Casa. Tonight, you have the choice to stick with him, or twist and couple up with one of the Casa Amor boys. What is your decision?"

Kiara swallows hard, looking across at Thomas before looking back at Ariana. "Tonight... I am choosing…” She swallows, eyes tearing up. “...to stick with JJ."

A quiet murmur goes through the Casa boys and Thomas looks down, a sad but respectful expression on his face.

"I am making this decision," Kiara explains, her voice cracking slightly, "because in my connection with JJ... I can’t say I’ve always felt the most secure. But the spark I felt with him is something I have never felt with anyone else before. I’m hoping that he was simply having his fun, or maybe it was all just a big misunderstanding.” She continues. “I made a really great connection with Thomas here, and he’s an amazing guy, but...I don't think that connection overtakes the one I believe I have with JJ."

"Thank you, Kiara," Ariana says, nodding. "You have chosen to stay coupled up with JJ.” She emphasizes. “I must remind you that if JJ returns from Casa Amor alone, he is all yours. But if he returns coupled up with a new girl... you will be left single and vulnerable.” She says, eyes steady as silence overtakes the firepit. “It’s time…to see what JJ decided."

Ariana looks toward the main villa doors, everyone else following.

Everyone holds their breath, and for a few agonizing seconds, there’s nothing. 

Then, you see a pair of feet round the corner.

JJ walks out.

As he walks down into the villa, he appears to be completely alone. Kiara lets out a hopeful breath, a smile starting to form on her face—until JJ fully turns the corner.

Walking right beside him, her hand tucked firmly into his arm, is a new girl. 

A stunning, dark-skinned girl—bright smile, sharp eyes.

Kiara’s smile instantly vanishes, face turning completely pale as your jaw drops. JJ looks up, his eyes landing on her standing alone at the fire pit, and his face floods with embarrassment. He hangs his head slightly as he walks over, leading Haja to stand next to Ariana with him.

"JJ, Haja... welcome back," Ariana says smoothly. "JJ, as you can see, Kiara is standing here completely alone because she chose to stay loyal to you.” She tells sadly. “How does it feel to see her standing there?"

JJ scratches the back of his neck, refusing to look Kiara in the eye. "Uh, it feels terrible.” He winces. “I can’t lie, it really does. I feel bad seeing Kie standing there alone."

“Yeah, right,” Kiara scoffs, shuffling on her feet.

"Why did you choose to couple up with Haja?" Ariana asks, cutting the tension.

"I just... I wasn't feeling confident in my connection with Kie before I left," JJ admits, his voice low. "I think we were just way too different and that we would’ve clashed sooner or later. I am really sorry that I didn't get the chance to discuss that with Kie before..."

Ariana turns back to Kiara. "Kiara, how do you feel?”

“Stupid.” She shrugs, fighting tears. “I feel really stupid.” is all she says, all she can manage to say.

And Ariana understands as she fixes the girl with a pitiful pout, speaking once more to her. “Kiara, because JJ has coupled up with Haja from Casa Amor, that means you are now officially single and vulnerable. Please, take your seat. JJ and Haja, you may also sit." 

Kiara sits down, her jaw clenched tight, staring blankly ahead, completely ignoring JJ’s gaze as he sits on the farthest edge of the cushion with Haja by his side.

"Sarah," Ariana calls out. "Please, stand." Sarah stands up, her chest rising and falling with an anxious breath. "Sarah, you were coupled up with John B before Casa Amor.” She starts. “After this experience, what is your decision tonight?"

"To say this week has been easy would be a lie," Sarah begins, her voice trembling slightly before she finds her footing. "I think John B and I have had our fair share of ups and downs since the moment we met, and we definitely don't always make things easy for ourselves." She pauses, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"When that video clip came through... I’m not going to sit here and pretend I didn't have doubts. I spent the last few days in my head, feeling terrified, and honestly, wanting to protect myself from getting hurt. And I know it would be so much easier to just choose a new guy and save myself..." A tear slips down her cheek, yet a soft smile touching her lips.

"But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that you can't build something real if you run the second things get terrifying. What I have with this boy isn't perfect, but it’s the most real thing I've ever felt. At the end of the day, my faith in what we’ve built is stronger than my fear of what might have happened. So, I’m choosing to trust him." Sarah takes one final breath, shoulders square.

"I would like to stay with John B."

Ariana smiles. "Thank you, Sarah," she says, giving her the same warning about the consequences if John B twists. "Without much more waiting, it’s time to see what John B decided…"

Once again, all eyes dart to the villa doors and the silence is deafening.

Then, John B rounds the corner. He walks into the villa, hands in his pockets... completely alone.

You allow yourselves to release the breaths you were holding, Sarah visibly relaxing as everyone starts clapping loudly, and Sarah instantly brings her hands to her mouth, tears of joy spilling over her cheeks as John B breaks into a grin, lightly jogging down the path straight into her arms. 

He lifts her off her feet, spinning her around as she cries into his neck.

When they finally pull apart, John B stands next to her, his arm wrapped tightly around Sarah’s shoulders.

"John B, Sarah chose to stay loyal to you, and you have done the same," Ariana smiles. "How was the decision for you?"

"Casa was definitely fun, Ariana," John B admits honestly, rubbing Sarah’s shoulder. "I was open to exploring at first, and obviously the whole ex thing was a…shocker.” He lets out awkwardly. “But to be completely fair, Sarah never left my mind once. I wouldn't throw away what we have for anything."

Sarah smiles and everyone claps as the reunited couple takes their seat.

"Rima," Ariana calls next. "It’s your turn." Rima stands up, smoothing down her dress as the fire pit goes quiet, everyone leaning in, desperate to know what she’s going to do. "Rima, before Casa, you were coupled up with Pope.” Rima nods, chewing the inside of her cheek. “What is your decision tonight?"

She takes a deep breath, looking at Ariana. "I’m making this choice," Rima starts, "because, while I got on really, really well with Brandon, and I still think he is a fantastic guy with an unheard-of level of depth to him... there were just a lot of clashing factors with our lives outside of here.” Her smile falls. “He told me he’d be open to considering a move to Atlanta from New York for me, which is sweet. But the same way I don't want to just upend my entire life in Georgia for a guy I’m not totally sure about, I don't want a guy to have to do the same for me. I want something that feels natural, something we don't have to force." She pouts. “...but at the same time, I don’t think Pope and I are the matched that I once hoped we might be.” She grimaces to herself.

"So, tonight... I am choosing to remain single." She reveals. “I would not like to couple up with any of the Casa guys, but I would also not like to return to my couple with Pope.”

The fire pit erupts into gasps, all of you looking stunned. Brandon looks down at his shoes, disappointment crossing his face, though he quickly masks it with a polite, respectful nod.

Rima looks at Brandon with a gentle, apologetic smile. "Overall, the distance and the difference in our lifestyles was just a really big thing that came into play. While I think he would be a lot of fun, he just doesn't seem like the type long-term that would fit into my picture, but I stand by the fact that he truly is an amazing guy."

Ariana turns to him. “Brandon,” she calls. “How’re you feeling about Rima’s decision?”

Brandon nods, offering her a kind smile. "No offense taken,” he shakes it off. “I get it. I won’t lie and say I’m happy, but my time with her was great and, yeah,” he turns to Rima. “I wish you nothing but the best."

Rima smiles at him tearfully, nodding as she sways on her feet.

"Well, Rima," Ariana says, turning back. "Let's see what decision Pope has made,"

The villa is then quiet for a moment again. Nothing but the wind, cicadas, then the sound of footsteps as Pope rounds the corner.

And your heart sinks.

Pope is walking in... and he is not alone. Walking hand-in-hand with him, looking satisfied, is a beautiful, dark-haired girl.

Sarah’s eyes go wide, John B shakes his head while Pope looks completely bashful, hanging his head low, unable to look at you all as he stops next to Ariana.

"Pope, Kaitlyn... welcome to the villa," Ariana says, her tone casual. "Pope, Rima is standing alone as she has chosen to remain single.” She informs him. “How does it feel to see her standing there completely alone?"

Pope winces, refusing to look at Rima. "Honestly... I feel like a dick.” He sighs. “I wasn't expecting Rima to stay with me, to be fair, because I didn't consider our connection to be a super strong one before we left. And, even though she’s chosen to not couple up with me, or anyone, I still feel terrible for not being someone she could be certain about." He admits. “And I feel bad about the other people I’ve possibly confused or hurt…” His eyes lock with Cleo’s.

Rima lets out a dry laugh from her spot as Ariana turns to her. "Rima, you are now single and vulnerable. How are you feeling?"

"I feel okay," Rima says, careless. "I wasn’t even sure what I was expecting. But to be honest, I’m actually more hurt for Cleo right now than I am for myself. Because Pope, once again, led a girl on and didn't stand on his word." She lets it all out, turning to Cleo with a soft smile as Cleo returns the gesture, mouthing ‘thank you’ and holding up a heart with her fingers.

Ariana smiles sadly, quietly, before turning her eyes to arguably the most anticipated choice of the night as she calls your name.

"Please, stand."

You take a shuddering breath and stand up, knees feeling like jelly. You can feel everyone’s eyes locked onto the side of your face.

"You were coupled up with Rafe," Ariana says, her voice echoing in the air. "Tonight, the choice is yours.” She draws out. “...Do you stick with Rafe, twist and couple up with one of the Casa boys, or remain single?"

You look at Ariana, and a wave of emotion hits you so hard that tears instantly build in your eyes. You bite your lower lip, trying to stop them from falling, but a single tear slips down your cheek.

"I guess I have to start by saying that this decision is far from easy. I think everyone who’s been locked in here with me knows that…" you joke, voice trembling slightly. "I came in being 100% loyal to Rafe. I didn't want to do a single thing to mess up what we had built. I felt confident in the connection, in us, and honestly, in everything he told me. But at the end of the day, just like every guy before him..." you glare briefly at Mattheo. "Rafe made me realize how naive I was for that."

Across the fire pit, John B, Pope, and JJ’s faces twist into expressions of utter confusion and concern. They look at each other, then back at you, completely unaware of where this was going.

Because they knew Rafe’s decision. And everything that happened at Casa.

But you didn’t.

"I really enjoyed my time with Rafe. And I found myself falling for him.” You admit, tearfully. “But I won’t allow myself to be fooled by yet another spineless man, especially not with the evidence right in front of my face,” you huff, wiping your tears. “Especially when there is a much better, clearly more genuine connection standing right in front of me.” You smile, eyes drifting as you gather yourself in one breath, looking at Ariana. “So, tonight, after days of making choices for Rafe, I’m making this one for me,” you take a deep breath, fighting even more tears. 

“....And I am choosing to couple up with Theo."

Theo lets out a heavy breath, stepping forward instantly to wrap his arms around you as the guy’s jaws drop, the girls clapping for you. Theo pulls you into a tight embrace, whispering a quiet ‘thank you, bella’ into your hair before taking your hand firmly in his.

Ariana smiles gently, watching the pair of you. "You have chosen to couple up with Theo.” She announces, smile fading only a bit following her next words. “This means, if Rafe returns from Casa Amor alone, he will be single and vulnerable.” She tells you seriously. “Do you think Rafe has made the same choice?"

You look at Ariana, your jaw tightening.

"Yes," you swallow hard. “I do.”

"Well, there’s no better time to find out," Ariana says, her voice ringing clear.

The entire villa seems to hold its breath, the silence nerve-wracking. You tighten your grip on Theo’s hand, bracing yourself for the sight of Rafe walking through those doors with Sofia. You prepare your heart to feel anger, betrayal—

Then, a figure rounds the corner of the walkway.

It’s Rafe.

He walks in...

and he’s completely alone.

And you swear you’ve never felt your heart drop so fast and so far. 

Gasps and murmurs rip through the fire pit—the girls mumble curses, their mouths wide open, eyes wide. The guys are shaking their heads, confused and disappointed. You feel the blood completely drain from your body, head to toe, your heart skipping multiple beats.

Rafe is alone. 

He didn’t bring Sofia back.

He didn’t bring anyone back.

He walks down the path, his shoulders tense, jaw tightly clenched. But the second his eyes sweep over the fire pit and land on you... he stops dead in his tracks for a fraction of a second. His eyes look down at your hand tightly intertwined with Theo’s, and you can see the exact moment his heart breaks into a million pieces.

A look of hurt flashes across his face before he quickly tries to mask it as he walks over to stand next to Ariana.

"Rafe... welcome back," Ariana says, her voice full of sorrow. "Rafe, as you can see... Y/N has chosen to couple up with Theo…”

“Yeah,” his voice comes out weak as he glances down at his shoes, bouncing on his feet as he looks back up, eyes stuck on yours, a silent question in them—why? “Yeah, I see that…”

“How does it feel to see her with another guy?"

Rafe stands with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, jaw flexing violently. He swallows hard.

"Uh, shit hurts. Yeah, it really fucking hurts.” His face twists as he fights tears. “Casa Amor was terrible... especially being away from her every single day. I thought we were good, so good.” His knees buckle involuntarily, fighting himself. “I was practically counting down the days. So, to come back here and see her standing there with another guy…” he tries to find the words but can’t, opting to shrug in defeat. “But it is what it is, I guess."

You scoff, rolling your eyes, but Rafe catches it, his eyes narrow.

“Oh, I’m sorry, you’re upset?” He calls you out.

You reel your neck back at his words. “Excuse me?”

“Well, it’s almost like I’m the one standing alone and you’re pissed about it—”

“It’s not my fault you didn’t bring your fucking girlfriend back.” 

“I—”

“Let’s calm down,” Ariana interjects as Rafe stops, huffing, trying to shrug it off like it’s nothing, but everyone at the fire pit can tell he is devastated, never having seen him so wordless, so calm and casual about you. His eyes are full of a bleeding pain that makes your stomach turn.

"Rafe, you are now single and vulnerable," Ariana says softly.

He simply hums and nods, his eyes meeting yours a final time before he looks away. And you can’t help the guilt that stirs in your stomach, but it wasn’t your fault…

Right?

"Lastly," Ariana announces. "Cleo, please stand."

Cleo stands up gracefully.

"Cleo, you were coupled up with Miles.” Ariana says. “What is your decision tonight?"

The girl takes a deep breath, fighting a smile. "Coming into this villa, I made a connection right away," Cleo explains, looking at Pope. "But I don't think it was equally or mutually reciprocated. Ever since Justin walked through those doors, he gave me that feeling I missed out on the first time—the feeling of someone being 100% on me and being completely certain of it.” She smiles. “I know I was coupled up with Miles, but that connection quickly died out. And, while Pope and I had a serious conversation before he left, I just didn't see him actually standing on his word, and clearly, I was right. I have to do what’s best for me at the end of the day, so,” she sucks in a deep breath. “I’m choosing to couple up with Justin."

Justin lets out a sigh of relief, a huge grin breaking out as he steps forward to join her, all of you clapping for them.

Justin wraps his arm around Cleo’s waist, kissing her cheek before the two of them sit down together as a new couple.

"Congratulations, Cleo and Justin…but we are not quite finished," Ariana announces, turning back to the final decision. "It’s time to see what Miles decided."

And for the last time that night, all heads turn to the villa entrance, the ‘Love Me Not’ sign flickering as a shadow rounds the corner and Miles comes bounding down the walkway a moment later, looking incredibly cheerful…walking hand-in-hand with a gorgeous girl.

And when you get a good look at the girl, your breath gets lodged in your throat.

Sofia. 

Miles is holding hands with Sofia.

This time, there’s no gasps or low chatter—it is completely silent as everyone watches the pair enter the villa.

Ariana welcomes Miles and Sofia back, informing both Miles and Cleo that they are now in new couples, but you don’t really register her words. Not even as she asks Miles about his experience, and he shamelessly grins.

You chose Theo.

Rafe is single.

Miles brought Sofia back.

You finally snap back to reality when Ariana’s voice breaks through, looking at the remaining, unchosen Casa Amor boys. "Brandon, Thomas, Mattheo... unfortunately, your time in the villa has come to an end. Please, say your goodbyes."

The boys step forward, sharing quick hugs with the other guys they came in with and all of you girls as well, bidding a polite farewell and ‘good luck’ to the original boys before the three of them turn and walk out of the villa doors for good, waving goodbye as you all sit.

Cleo is under Justin’s arm, Sarah and John B are sat together, You and Theo are side by side, JJ and Haja are sat silent by one another, Miles and Sofia are slung over one another, all while Rafe, Kiara, and Rima remain at the far end of the fire pit.

Kiara is visibly fuming, Rima is unreadable, and Rafe’s eyes are glued to you.

But still, Ariana isn't finished yet.

"Islanders... unfortunately, the night is not over," she drops a final, brutal bombshell, looking at the rest of you now sitting down. "Currently, we have two single girls standing before us—Rima and Kiara. And we have one single guy—Rafe.” She reminds, looking somewhat upset. “Rafe... you must now make a choice.” She reveals, everyone getting more confused the more the seconds tick by.

“You must choose which of these two single girls you would like to couple up with.” Ariana lets out, everyone gasping. “The girl left single will be dumped from the island...tonight."

A horrific silence falls over the group as Ariana prompts both Kiara and Rima to both step forward, standing side-by-side.

Rafe stands up slowly following them, his hands still in his pockets. He looks at the two girls, but then his eyes slowly drift over to you, sitting next to Theo. His gaze never leaves yours, burning into you. There’s no anger in his eyes—just sadness.

The silence stretches as he thinks until, finally, he clears his throat.

"I don’t think it’s any secret," Rafe starts, his eyes finally moving away from you, "That there is only one girl I actually want.” he shrugs. “And I’m hoping to God I can figure out what the fuck went wrong tonight because I am at a real loss for words.” He scoffs, almost criticizing himself. “And even though I’m making a ‘choice’ right now, I think we all know I’m really not. But regardless, being faced with keeping one of these girls here, there is one who I’ve grown to think of as someone I could be friends with, and it’s pretty hard for me to make those.” He laughs, lifting the mood for only a second. “We’re both pretty headstrong, goal-oriented, and although there isn't a romantic spark between us, I’d be more than happy to hold things down with her until I can figure out what happened tonight." He sighs, glancing at you one last time.

"The girl I am choosing to couple up with... is Rima," Rafe announces, his voice firm.

Rima lets out a breath, stepping forward to stand next to him as you all clap, tears in your eyes, not only from his words, but the realization that was coming.

"Rafe, you have chosen to couple up with Rima," Ariana says, stepping forward. "Which means... Kiara,” She starts, turning to the girl as all of you tear up, audible sniffs coming from where Sarah is sitting next to John B. “You are single…vulnerable…and dumped from the island."

All of your heads drop at her words, wiping fat tears away as Sarah bursts into silent sobs. Despite all the disagreements and petty drama, Kiara was a day one, been here since the very first minute, and the thought of losing her is heartbreaking for everyone, especially Sarah, and JJ, who looks devastated by the consequences of his actions.

You and the girls don’t wait to rise from your seats, sad, and gather around Kiara, crying and hugging her tightly as Ariana concludes the recoupling and exits the villa as you and the girls disregard every major change that Casa Amor has brought and escort Kie up to the bedroom to pack her things, leaving everyone else at the firepit.

KIARA heads straight into the glam room to start packing her bags the second you’re inside the villa, and you all crowd around her, trying to help her fold her clothes through tears.

As Kiara throws some shoes into her suitcase, the door swings open. JJ walks in, his face pale, eyes bloodshot.

"Can I please talk to you for a second…before you go?" he asks, his voice cracking.

Kiara stops what she’s doing, slowly turning around to face him. The grief on her face hardens into a teary-eyed rage. "Talk to me?” she scoffs, all of you watching silently. “You want to talk to me now, JJ?"

"Please," he begs, stepping closer, further inside the room.

"No, you know what? Fine. Let's talk," Kiara snaps, her voice rising as she steps up to him, right in front of everyone, you all watching the confrontation unfold. "Right here."

"I chose you tonight, JJ." Kiara cries, her tears spilling over. "I sat there for days, missing you, holding out hope for you! And I stood at that fire pit and chose you, even after I saw what the hell you were doing over there, all for you to walk through those doors with another girl?” She seethes, hurt. “You’ve been stringing me along this entire time! Why even beg for another chance if you were just going to throw it away in a matter of days?"

"Kie, I’m so fuckin’ sorry," JJ pleads back, his hands running through his hair in frustration. "But the closer we got... it was hard, man! It was so hard for me and I just didn't see us goin' anywhere!” He finally admits. “We're just two completely different people, Kie, and I’m sorry I didn’t get the chance to tell you that—"

"No, you’re not!" Kiara fires back, her voice shaking. "You should have told me that before you left because I know you knew before then, that’s not something you realize overnight, asshole! You made me look like an idiot!"

"I didn't have a fuckin’ choice, Kie!" JJ defends himself, his voice cracking with emotion as you all step in, trying to calm them down. "There was no time—"

"There’s always time to be fucking honest, JJ!" she screams.

The argument rages on, bitter and full of unresolved hurt, until, you assume the boys hear, and John B and Pope finally step in, breaking them up and pulling a desperate JJ away as you and the girls console Kie. 

She turns back to her suitcase, finishes packing in a furious silence, and says a tearful, heartbreaking goodbye to all of you, suitcase in hand.

You all walk her down the steps, rubbing her back as she calms herself.

Goodbye Confessional : Kie "I'm not going to lie, it stings. A lot," Kiara says, a bitter laugh escaping her. "To sit there, choose to be loyal, and watch him walk through those doors with a brand new girl on his arm? It’s humiliating. But more than anything, I’m just…angry." She leans forward. " It just proves to me that he wasn't mature enough for what we had. That Thomas was right—maybe guys like JJ don’t ever change. And you know what? It’s his loss. And even though I am gutted to be walking out tonight because of him, I’m also so grateful for what I did find here.” She smiles. “Despite everything that might’ve been thrown around or said, those girls are my sisters for life. I’m gonna miss them.” Kiara wipes a stray tear from her cheek with the back of her hand, lifting her chin high as she gives a final nod to the camera. "My Love Island journey cut short, and it definitely didn't end the way I wanted it to. But I’m walking out of here with my head held high, my dignity intact, and knowing I was completely true to myself. JJ can have his fun.” She shrugs, throwing up a peace sign. “I'm going home."

She hugs you all tightly one by one, whispering farewells and apologies before she wheels her suitcase out of the villa doors for good. You all watch sadly as she goes, this goodbye significantly more emotional than the previous ones.

And once she’s gone, out of sight, the entire group spreads apart like shotgun ammo, breaking off into separate corners, because a lot of people are still very pissed off.

“You are all pieces of shit,” Sarah scoffs, hair whipping around her as she storms away from the villa entrance. 

The boys all look around cluelessly, offended. “What did we do?” John B points to himself.

"Are you serious?" Sarah yells, stepping forward with her hands on her hips. "JJ is the literal reason Kiara just got fucking dumped."

"You completely played her.” Cleo chimes in, rushing to Kie’s defense. “You humiliated her!"

"Whoa, whoa, chill!" John B steps in, throwing his arms out to shield JJ as the girls gain on him, while Miles and the other boys crowd around him too. "It can’t be entirely on JJ. You guys don't know how it went down over there!"

"Don't defend him!" you snap.

"Look, we got the text early as hell in the morning." Miles argues, raising his voice over the shouting. "JJ wanted to tell her, he wanted to explain things, but we didn't have time. Besides, let’s be real—they weren't gonna work out anyway! It’s not his fault."

“Y’all are only saying that because you all did some fucked up shit,” Rima snaps back, voice bitter. “John B was sitting here letting a copy of Sarah talk shit about her, Pope was enjoying getting his fly unzipped a little too much, Miles was dry-humping people like he gets paid for it, JJ was playing tongue-hockey for three days and three nights, and Rafe was kissing his ex!” Rima airs it all out, prompting one huge argument as everyone paces after another, dissolving into smaller, bitter arguments.

Rima pivots, pointing directly into Pope’s chest. "And don't you try to look away! You brought another girl back after literally pillowtalking Cleo and begging her for another chance?!" She hisses, Cleo standing behind her with her arms crossed.

"Rima, please, just let me—" Pope stammers, trying to side-step her to get to Cleo. “Let me talk to you. Please.”

"...Fine." Cleo interrupts smoothly, stepping between them, grabbing Pope firmly by the forearm.

Miles cuts in then and tries to step in front of them. "Cleo, wait, I would like—"

Before he can finish his sentence, Cleo shoves her flat palm into Miles’ face, dismissing him without a backward glance. "I do not care about a single thing that comes out of your mouth right now. Me and you have been done. Go play with your new girl."

As Cleo drags Pope away toward the kitchen, Sarah wraps her fingers around John B’s wrist. Her expression is serious, something heavy behind her eyes. "We need to talk." She isn't furious, but her tone leaves zero room for argument. She needs answers about what he didn't say in her defense when Delaney was throwing herself at him.

And that left you, standing near the edge of the pool deck, chest heaving as you try to process the drama around you. Rafe is single, you’re with Theo, Sofia’s in the villa, and Kie is gone. 

Your teeth are grinding, palms pressed into the socket of your eyes when you feel a presence enter your bubble, turning to find Theo. He steps closer, his hand finding the small of your back, asking if you’re okay when a shadow falls over you.

You look up. It's Rafe.

His face is twisted, jaw pulsing as he stares at you, ignoring Theo’s presence. "Can I talk to you?"

The sheer audacity of him standing there, acting like he has the right to an explanation or even a simple conversation after what he did, makes something inside you snap.

"Talk to me?” you reiterate incredulously. “Rafe, get the fuck out of my face," you spat. "You're a dick, do you know that? A...bald-headed dick."

"I've been told," Rafe doesn't even flinch as you push past him, dragging Theo with you. If anything, a desperate, broken look crosses his features. "But I can't say it doesn't hurt coming from you.” He shrugs, swallowing your sharp words down. “But I’ll be a dick. I’ll be whatever the hell you want me to be if that’s what gets you to talk to me.” He tells you, trying to catch your gaze. “Please."

You let out a mocking laugh, looking up at Theo, who gives your waist a supportive squeeze before stepping back to give you space, walking off. 

You turn back to Rafe, eyes blazing.

"You want to talk? " you snap, jerking your head toward the stairs. "Bring your bald-headed ass on then."

Rafe just huffs, and you swear there’s a hint of amusement, a faint smirk on his lips as he follows you up to Soul Ties, hands in his pockets. The silence between you is heavy and the second you hit the terrace, it all comes apart.

"What the fuck happened?" Rafe grits out, his voice strained. "We were good. I did everything right, everything you asked, and I walk back in to find you coupled up with some new guy?"

"You want to know what happened?" you seethed, tears you’ve been fighting all night finally spilling over your cheeks. You point a trembling finger directly at his chest. "You kissed her, Rafe. You kissed Sofia! Twice! We got the fucking video! I saw it with my own eyes—"

"Now, hold on, wait a minute.” He sighs, closing his eyes for a moment. “You don't understand—"

"Oh, I understand perfectly.” You cut him off, eyes wide and manic before they narrow again. “You told your ex-girlfriend you missed her and you kissed her."

"That wasn't the whole conversation!" Rafe shouts back, desperately trying to grab your hands, but you smack his fingers away. "I pushed her away! Every single time she tried something, I made it 100% clear that I wasn't into it! If I wanted to be with Sofia, don't you think I would have brought her back tonight?!” He tries to get through to you. “But I didn't! I walked through those doors alone for you!"

"Or maybe because Miles beat you to it!" you fire back, your voice cracking.

"T-That doesn’t even make sense!" Rafe yells, pacing a tight circle before storming back to you, his eyes wild. "Miles was the last to choose. I did not choose her. I could’ve and I didn’t. Because I didn’t want to! I am over her! She knows that, I thought you did, too—"

"A girl doesn't just lean in and kiss you twice unless you gave her a reason to think it was okay, Rafe!" You're crying heavily now.

Rafe flinches, agony crossing his face. He steps into your personal space, his breathing heavy as he looks down into your eyes. "It’s like you want to believe the worst in me. It’s like you literally cannot trust that I’d actually tell you the truth. You just assume I’m the bad guy."

"Yeah, Rafe! Because I have never in my entire life had a guy actually tell me the truth!" you sob, wiping your face aggressively. "I trusted you. I let my guard down, I actually saw myself with you after this, and you just fucked me over and made me look stupid as hell!"

Seeing you crumble completely breaks him. “I promise it’s not like that. You’re not letting me explain anything—” His anger vanishes, replaced by desperation as he reaches out, large hands gently catching your shoulders, trying to pull you into his chest to console you. "Hey, look at me... please, just listen to me..."

"Stop," you bite out, wrenching yourself out of his grip.

And before the argument can escalate any further, the sound of hurried footsteps echoes on the stairs as Rima, Sarah, and Cleo appear next to the pair of you. Cleo steps firmly between you and Rafe, putting an arm around your shoulders while Rima glares at him.

"That's enough," Rima says, her tone cold. "Give her space. Walk away."

Rafe looks at you, his chest heaving, eyes pleading for you to say something, but you just bury your face in Cleo’s shoulder, sobbing. With a frustrated huff, Rafe turns and storms down the stairs.

Once he’s gone, the girls lead you to Say Less.

You sit on the edge of the semi-circular cushin, tracing your fingers over your eyes to wipe away the smudged mascara, still angry-crying.

"I just can't believe him," you whisper, your voice thick with sadness. "He made me feel so stupid. And his fucking ex is in here now and I have to sit here and watch them look at each other from afar, pretending like they don't like each other when they were clearly doing shit behind everyone's backs." Your breath hitched, shaking your head. "I don't even know what kind of messed-up love triangle—love square—fuckin’ love hexagon I’ve gotten myself into. I'm sitting here with all these stupid feelings for Rafe, but then I have feelings for Theo who has been nothing but amazing to me. But then Sofia is here, clearly wanting Rafe back, but she's coupled up with Miles. Like, why the fuck did Miles even bring her back? I’m so lost on that…"

Rima rubs your back as you try to steady your breathing, the girls all giving you pity looks as you continue wiping at your eyes. "You know what? I'm done talking about it.” You breath. “Someone else speak before I flip this place upside down…"

Sarah sighs softly, leaning her head against the seat. "I get it, babe.” She pouts at you. “Honestly, I'm feeling a bit thrown off too. Things with John B are... okay, I'm glad he chose to stay coupled up with me, but I can't shake the feeling that he's holding something back.” She shakes her head. “Just now, I asked him about Delaney, he got really defensive and then immediately tried to sweet-talk me. I don’t know, I feel like there's something he's just not telling me about what happened over there with her."

“What is done in the dark will always come to the light,” Rima throws out. “I say keep pressing him about it. Because these boys can play guilty all they want, but they didn’t look too guilty when they were catching ass and swapping DNA.” Rima declares before turning her attention to Cleo. "What about you? What happened with Pope in the kitchen? Because I was this close to murdering him for you."

Cleo lets out an exhausted breath. "I don't even know if I believe a word that comes out of his mouth anymore.” She shrugs. “But he basically told me that the only reason he brought Kaitlyn back was as a safe option. He was convinced you were going to twist, and he didn't want to get eliminated before he ‘had a chance to try again with me’."

"Seriously?" Rima scoffs, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah," Cleo says. "Apparently, Kaitlyn is cool with it. She’s just happy to be here to see if she can find a connection with someone else. That’s what he says but…I don’t know if I believe that shit." Cleo huffs. “Plus, I’m really into Justin. So, it’s a toss up either way.”

“I say stick with Justin.” Rima tells the girl. “He’s been sure about you. Pope hasn’t. Case closed.”

Cleo nods, as if to say ‘you have a point’.

They continue talking about the way the night unfolded, occasionally rubbing your arm or calling out to you as you stared down at your hands. 

THE air in the glam room as all of the girls get ready for bed is no better.

Near the back of the room, the new girls—Haja, Kaitlyn, and Sofia—are unpacking their suitcases, claiming their vanity mirrors and organizing their makeup and skincare. 

Though, while Haja and Kaitlyn make polite conversation, trying to ease the tension, Sofia takes a different approach, making it a point to mark her territory.

Every few minutes, she casts a sharp glance across the room at you. When you stand up to grab something, Sofia purposefully re-routes her path directly past you, brushing her shoulder slightly against yours as she walks too close, a tiny smirk playing on her lips. 

You keep your head down, jaw clenched so tight it aches, hands trembling. You’re keeping it cool, but all of the other girls see exactly what Sofia is doing.

Confessional: Cleo “Sofiaaa, girl, you need to watch yourself.” She smiles, shaking her head. “She thinks she’s being cute and playing mean girl, but she doesn't realize she’s playing with the wrong one. My girl has already been pushed to her limit tonight, and trust me—something about that girl tells me that doesn’t play.”

WHEN the lights click off, plunging the bedroom into a darkness, the room feels like a prison.

Cleo and Justin climb into their bed, turning away from the rest of the room. 

Sarah and John B cuddle close, the unspoken doubts still hanging between them. 

Pope and Kaitlyn lie with a certain distinct distance between them, while Miles and Sofia share a bed on the far side, ignoring the glares they received before the lights went out.

You climb into bed next to Theo. He doesn't say a word about what happened with Rafe, he doesn't ask for details or push you to talk. He just opens his arms, and you slide right into them, burying your face in his chest as you let out a silent and exhausted sob. 

He holds you tightly, his fingers gently stroking your skin.

But as you lie there, you can't stop thinking about the half-empty space across the room—Rafe and Rima’s bed.

Rima is huddled under her blanket, peaceful. But out on the daybeds, Rafe is lying alone, a single blanket pulled over his broad shoulders, staring blankly up at the dark sky, seemingly unable to find the stars in it without you next to him.

And he doesn't close his eyes once. 

Knowing that every single time he did, he only saw flashes of you.

next chapter>

Cookie-making with a three-year-old was not baking. It was controlled chaos with measuring cups. Owen stood on his kitchen stool in a fresh shirt, his sleeves pushed up to his elbows, curls still wild from his nap. His stuffed triceratops had been placed on the counter far enough from the mixing bowl to remain “safe,” but close enough to supervise.

Jack had washed Owen’s hands. Then Owen had insisted Jack wash his own hands.

Then Owen had turned to you with both eyebrows raised.

“Mama,” Owen said.

You held up your hands. “Already washed.”

Owen studied you with Jack’s full skepticism. “Really?”

Jack leaned against the counter, arms crossed, mouth twitching.

You looked at him. “Do not look proud of that.”

Jack’s expression did not change. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t have to,” you said.

Owen reached for your wrist and inspected your hands with great seriousness.

After one long second, he nodded. “Clean.”

You exhaled. “Thank God.”

Jack huffed a quiet laugh.

Owen looked at him immediately. “Daddy.”

Jack straightened. “Yeah, bud?”

Owen lifted one hand. “No jokes with flour.”

You pressed your lips together.

Jack nodded gravely. “No jokes with flour.”

Owen turned to you. “Mama too.”

You nodded. “Understood.”

Owen looked satisfied. For approximately four seconds. Then Jack pulled the flour canister closer, and Owen’s entire face lit with purpose.

“I do it,” Owen said.

Jack paused with the measuring cup in hand.

You leaned one hip against the counter. “Gentle hands?”

Owen nodded immediately. “Gentle hands.”

Jack looked at you. You smiled. He handed the measuring cup to Owen and kept one hand close, not touching. Ready, but not taking over.

Owen dipped the cup into the flour. Slow. Careful. Focused. Then he lifted it with both hands and dumped half of it directly onto the counter.

Silence.

Owen looked down.

Jack looked down.

You looked down.

A soft white cloud bloomed across the counter between them.

Owen’s mouth parted. “Oh.”

Jack closed his eyes. You bit your lip.

Owen looked up at you, worried. “Mama.”

You stepped closer and brushed one hand over his back. “That surprised you.”

Owen nodded. “The flour jumped.”

Jack made a sound. Owen turned sharply. “Daddy.”

Jack covered his mouth with one hand. “I’m fine.”

Owen narrowed his eyes. “Really?”

Jack looked at you.

You lifted both hands. “I didn’t teach him that.”

Jack lowered his hand, but his eyes were warm. “You absolutely did.”

Owen looked between you, then back at the counter. “Flour is messy.”

“It is,” you said. “And we can clean it.”

Owen’s shoulders eased. Jack reached for a towel. “We can.”

Owen watched Jack wipe the counter, then looked at the bowl.

“Try again?” Owen asked.

Jack’s face softened. “Yeah, bud,” Jack said. “Try again.”

That was how the cookies went. Little spills. Little corrections. Big feelings. Tiny recoveries.

Owen cracked an egg with both hands, and Jack caught half the shell before it could fall in.

Owen stared at the egg. Then at Jack. 

“I used gentle hands,” Owen said.

“You did,” Jack said, fishing one tiny shell fragment out of the bowl. “Eggs are just fragile.”

Owen considered this. “Like banana.”

You turned your face away. Jack’s mouth softened. “Yeah. A little like banana.”

Owen nodded. “But we made banana happy.”

“We did,” you said.

Owen looked down at the bowl. “We make cookies happy, too.”

Your chest squeezed. Jack looked at you over Owen’s head. ‘There she is,’ his face said.

You pointed one finger at him. “Don’t,” you warned. 

Jack smiled.

Owen added sugar with intense concentration, then brown sugar, then softened butter that he called “squishy.”

Jack guided the mixer while Owen kept one hand over Jack’s wrist like he was assisting in a delicate procedure. The dough came together slowly.

Owen leaned closer. “It smells good.”

You nodded. “It does.”

Owen looked up at Jack. “Can we put chocolate chips now?”

Jack glanced at the recipe card. “Almost.”

Owen’s face fell. You touched his back. “Waiting is hard.”

Owen sighed. “Very hard.”

Jack looked down at him. “You’re doing it.”

Owen blinked up at him. “I am?”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. You’re waiting.”

Owen considered that. Then he smiled, small and pleased. “Good job, me.”

You made a soft sound. Jack’s face went tender. “Good job, you,” Jack said.

When the time finally came for chocolate chips, Owen treated the bag like treasure. Jack opened it carefully and handed Owen a small measuring cup. Owen looked into the bag. Then at the bowl. Then at you.

“Chocolate chips make happy,” Owen said.

You smiled. “They helped the banana.”

Owen nodded. “And they help cookies.”

Jack leaned one hand on the counter. “That’s the theory.”

Owen poured the chocolate chips into the dough. Several missed the bowl. One landed on the counter. One landed on the floor.

One disappeared into Owen’s mouth with the speed and precision of a tiny thief.

Jack looked at him. Owen froze. His cheeks rounded. You covered your mouth with one hand.

Jack lifted an eyebrow. “Bud.”

Owen chewed quickly. “Fell in my mouth,” Owen said.

You turned around. Jack lowered his head.

Owen swallowed, then patted Jack’s arm. “It’s okay. Accidents happen.”

That ended you.

You laughed into your hand, shoulders shaking, while Jack stared at your son with the expression of a man who had no one to blame but himself for the creature standing in front of him.

Owen looked at you, concerned. “Mama happy?”

You nodded, wiping under one eye. “Mama’s happy.”

Owen seemed satisfied and turned back to the dough.

Jack looked at you. “You’re encouraging crime.”

“He used emotional language,” you said.

“He stole chocolate,” Jack replied. 

You smiled brightly, “He processed it beautifully.”

Jack’s mouth twitched despite himself. Owen stirred the dough with a wooden spoon, both hands wrapped around the handle, while Jack held the bowl steady. His tongue poked out at the corner of his mouth. Jack’s concentration face sat on his little features again, devastating and familiar.

You watched them for a second. Jack and Owen. One large hand holding the bowl. Two little hands stirring with all the force his body could manage. Both of them bent over the same task, serious and careful, like cookies for Uncle Robby at Mama and Daddy’s hospital were important enough to require full attention.

Because they were.

To Owen, they were.

And somehow, that made them important to all of you.

When the dough was ready, Jack handed Owen the little scoop.

“One scoop for one cookie,” Jack said.

Owen nodded. “One scoop.”

Jack held up one finger. “Not huge.”

Owen held up one finger too. “Not huge.”

You stepped closer with the baking sheet. “And we leave space between them.”

Owen nodded again. “Cookies need personal space.”

Jack looked at you. You stared back. Then Jack said, very quietly, “He is absolutely yours.”

Your heart warmed. Owen scooped dough onto the tray. The first cookie was small.

The second cookie was a little bigger. The third cookie was mostly chocolate chips and optimism. Jack stared at it. Owen stared at it proudly.

You leaned in. “That one looks special.”

Owen beamed. “For Uncle Robby.”

Jack’s mouth softened. “Of course it is,” Jack said.

Owen looked up at him. “Because he helped.”

“He did,” Jack said.

Owen pointed to another spot on the tray. “This one for Daddy.”

You smiled. “Daddy gets one?”

Owen nodded. “Daddy fixed banana.”

Jack went still. Just briefly. Just enough.

Then Owen pointed to another empty space. “This one for Mama.”

You pressed one hand to your chest. “What did Mama do?”

Owen looked at you as if the answer were obvious. “You held me,” Owen said.

Everything in you went quiet. Jack’s eyes came to yours immediately.

Owen turned back to the dough, unaware that he had just taken you apart with four small words.

Jack’s voice was soft when he spoke. “Yeah, bud. She did.”

Owen nodded, scooping dough with great care. “Mama helps big feelings.”

Your throat tightened. Jack reached for you beneath the edge of the counter, his fingers brushing yours once. You held onto them. Just for a second.

Then Owen looked up. “Hands,” Owen said.

Jack let go immediately. You both lifted your hands like you had been caught doing something suspicious.

Owen frowned. “Cookie hands.”

You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you.

“We are very sorry,” you said.

Owen nodded, forgiving but firm. “Wash later.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Understood.”

The first tray went into the oven.

Owen stood in front of it with his hands on his hips, watching through the glass.

Jack stood behind him, one hand hovering near Owen’s shoulder without touching the hot oven door. You leaned against the counter and watched both of them.

Owen glanced back. “They are growing.”

Jack nodded. “They are.”

Owen looked at you. “Cookies get bigger in oven.”

“They do,” you said.

Owen’s eyes widened slightly. “Like me.”

Jack’s hand went still. You smiled softly. “Yeah, baby. Like you.”

Owen looked back through the oven glass, satisfied by the comparison.

By the time the kitchen smelled like butter and sugar and warm chocolate, Owen was practically vibrating. Jack pulled the tray from the oven while Owen stood behind the imaginary line Jack had made with one dish towel on the floor.

“Hot line,” Owen whispered to himself.

You crouched beside him. “Good remembering.”

Owen nodded. “Hot is for Daddy.”

Jack set the tray on the stove. “Hot is for grown-ups.”

Owen looked at him. “Daddy is grown-up.”

You nodded. “Most days.”

Jack glanced at you. “Most days?”

Owen copied him instantly, turning to you with narrowed eyes. “Most days?”

You laughed.

Jack’s face shifted. Soft. Pleased. “There she is,” he murmured.

Owen looked around. “Where?”

You bent and kissed the top of Owen’s head before Jack could answer. “Right here,” you said.

When the cookies cooled, Owen insisted on counting them. He counted eight correctly, skipped nine, declared twelve twice, and somehow ended with “lots.”

Jack accepted this math. You found a container with a lid. Owen carefully placed the special cookie for Robby in first. The oversized, mostly chocolate chip one. Then he paused.

“Uncle Robby gets big cookie,” Owen said.

Jack nodded. “He does.”

Owen added another one. “For Dana.”

You smiled. “Dana too?”

Owen nodded. “Dana asks Mama first.”

You froze. Jack froze too. Owen kept arranging cookies, entirely matter-of-fact. Your chest went tight. Jack’s hand found your lower back.

Owen added another cookie and looked up at you. “Mama and Daddy’s hospital has lots of people.”

Jack’s hand stilled against your back. “It does,” Jack said.

Owen patted the lid once it was closed. “Cookies help.”

Your throat tightened again.

 Jack crouched beside him. “Yeah, bud,” Jack said quietly. “They do.”

Owen smiled with Jack’s face. Then he reached up and patted Jack’s cheek.

“Good job, Daddy,” Owen said.

Jack closed his eyes for half a second.

You looked away because watching Jack survive that twice in one day felt indecent.

When you looked back, Jack had opened his eyes, and Owen was already reaching for his shoes.

“Mama and Daddy’s hospital?” Owen asked.

You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you. Then he smiled. “Mama and Daddy’s hospital,” Jack said.

By the time you reached PTMC, Owen was holding the cookie container like it contained something far more important than chocolate chips. Jack had offered to carry it. You had offered to carry it. Owen had looked at both of you from the back seat like you had suggested handing the cookies to a stranger in the parking garage.

“No,” Owen had said, both arms wrapped carefully around the container. “I hold.”

Jack had met your eyes in the rearview mirror. You had pressed your lips together.

Owen had patted the lid once. “Gentle hands.”

So Owen carried the cookies. All the way through the parking garage. Into the elevator. Down the hall. One hand under the container. One hand on the lid. His triceratops tucked under your arm because cookies required both of Owen’s hands, but his dinosaur still needed to see Daddy’s hospital. And Mama’s hospital.

Owen announced, very officially, “Cookies for Mama’s department first.”

That had nearly taken you out before you had even made it to the right floor. Now, standing outside the Child Life office, you looked down at your son. Owen looked back up at you, cookie container pressed to his chest.

“Ready?” you asked softly.

Owen nodded. “Ready.”

Jack stood on Owen’s other side, one hand in his pocket, the other resting loosely at his side like he was pretending he was not emotionally invested in this stop. He was failing. You knocked lightly on the half-open door.

Inside, Abby’s voice floated out first. “If that bubble wand leaked again, I’m quitting.”

Sarah answered immediately, “You said that last time.”

“And I meant it last time,” Abby said.

Brie laughed. “You absolutely did not.”

You pushed the door open a little wider. “Is this a bad time?” you asked.

All three heads turned. For half a second, nobody moved. Then Brie’s whole face changed.

“Oh my God,” Brie whispered.

Sarah’s chair rolled back so quickly it bumped the cabinet behind her. “Owen?”

Abby pressed both hands to her mouth. “No.”

Owen looked up at you. You smiled. “Say hi, bud.”

Owen took one careful step into the office. “Hi.”

Brie stood slowly, like moving too quickly might startle him or herself. “Hi, sweetheart.”

Sarah’s eyes were already shiny. “Look at you.”

Abby looked at the cookie container, then at Owen, then at you. “He’s carrying things now?”

Jack’s mouth curved faintly. “He’s been carrying things for a while.”

Abby pointed weakly at Owen. “I know that logically.”

Brie came closer and crouched, her smile soft and helpless. “Hi, Tiny Abbot.”

Owen stopped. His brow furrowed. Jack’s brow. Jack’s exact little line between his eyes.

“No,” Owen said.

Brie froze. “No?”

Owen lifted his chin, cookie container still held carefully against his chest. “I’m Owen,” he said.

Your heart flipped. Then Owen added, proud and formal, “Owen Henry Abbot.”

The office went silent. Sarah made a small sound. Abby’s eyes filled immediately.

Brie pressed one hand over her heart. “Oh.”

You looked at Jack. Jack was watching Owen with a softness that made your chest ache. Proud. Ruined. Trying very hard to keep it contained and not succeeding at all.

“Nice correction, bud,” Jack said quietly.

Owen looked up at him and nodded. “Thank you.”

Sarah turned away for one second. “I need a minute.”

Abby pointed at her. “You don’t get a minute because I also need one.”

Brie laughed, but it broke a little in the middle. Owen looked at all three of them, mildly concerned by the emotional state of the room.

Then he lifted the container. “I made cookies.”

That brought everyone back.

Brie gasped. “For us?”

Owen nodded. “For Mama’s friends.”

You put one hand over your mouth. Jack’s eyes came to yours.

Sarah pressed both hands to her chest. “I am unwell.”

Abby nodded quickly. “Same.”

Owen looked up at you. “Mama?”

You crouched beside him. “They’re happy, baby.”

Owen studied Sarah and Abby carefully. “Happy crying?” he asked.

Sarah immediately made another sound. Abby whispered, “I’m actually not surviving this.”

Brie smiled through bright eyes. “Yes, honey. Happy crying.”

Owen nodded, satisfied by the explanation, then looked down at the container. You helped him set it on the little round table near the door. Owen opened the lid with great care. All three women leaned closer. The cookies were imperfect and beautiful. Some round. Some lopsided. One still aggressively large from Owen’s declaration that Uncle Robby needed the biggest cookie because he was his doctor uncle. There were smears of chocolate on the side of the container and one tiny fingerprint in the corner of a cookie you were fairly certain Owen had already licked.

You loved every single one. Owen reached in and selected a cookie with careful fingers. He held it out to Brie first.

“This one is for you,” Owen said.

Brie blinked. “For me?”

Owen nodded. “Mama said you held me when I was tiny.”

Brie’s face crumpled. You closed your eyes. Jack’s hand found the middle of your back.

Brie took the cookie like it was something precious. “I did,” she said softly. “You were very tiny.”

Owen looked at her with deep interest. “I was?”

Sarah laughed through tears. “Very.”

Owen looked down at himself, apparently assessing the plausibility.

Then he nodded. “Now I’m three.”

Brie smiled. “Now you’re three.”

Owen picked up another cookie and turned to Sarah. “This one is for you.”

Sarah crouched in front of him. “Thank you, Owen Henry Abbot.”

Owen’s face brightened at the full name. You nearly lost it again.

Sarah accepted the cookie. “Why do I get this one?”

Owen looked at you. Then back at Sarah. “You said Mama is your favorite,” Owen said.

Your breath caught. Sarah’s face softened all over.

“I did say that,” Sarah whispered.

Owen nodded. “Mama is my favorite too.”

Jack made a quiet sound beside you. You looked at him immediately. He looked down at Owen.

His eyes were bright around the edges.

Sarah held the cookie close to her chest. “That makes sense.”

Owen turned to Abby with another cookie. Abby was already wiping under one eye.

Owen studied her carefully. “This one is for you.”

Abby sniffed. “Thank you.”

Owen held it out. “Because you cried.”

Abby laughed immediately, watery and helpless. You covered your mouth with both hands.

Jack looked toward the ceiling.

Owen’s brow furrowed. “Happy crying?”

Abby took the cookie and nodded quickly. “Happy crying.”

Owen seemed satisfied. “Okay.”

Brie looked at you, still holding her cookie.

You smiled. “We tell him stories.”

Jack’s hand moved once against your back.

Owen looked up at you. “Mama says you loved me when I was tiny and still in her belly.”

The room went quiet again. A softer quiet this time. Brie’s eyes filled.

Sarah pressed one hand to her mouth. Abby clutched her cookie like it might be the only thing holding her together. Jack looked down at your son with the same expression he had worn in the kitchen when Owen told him he fixed the banana new. You crouched beside Owen and brushed one hand over his curls.

“They did,” you said softly. “They loved you very much.”

Owen looked around the office. Then he smiled. “Thank you,” he said.

Brie gave up first. She set her cookie carefully on the table, then opened her arms just enough to ask without crowding. “Can I have a hug?”

Owen looked at you. You nodded. “Your choice, baby.”

Owen considered Brie. Then he stepped into her arms. Brie hugged him gently. Carefully. Like part of her still remembered the tiny newborn she had held against her chest three years ago, sleepy and warm and devastating an entire office by existing.

Owen patted her back twice. “There,” he said.

Brie laughed into his hair. “Thank you.”

Sarah got a hug next. Then Abby. By the time Owen stepped back, all three of them looked emotionally compromised, and Owen looked pleased with his work.

Jack crouched and closed the cookie container.

Owen touched his arm. “Not all. Some for Daddy’s hospital.”

Jack smiled faintly. “Right. Some for Daddy’s hospital.”

You looked at your son. “And Mama’s department got theirs first?”

Owen nodded. “Mama’s friends first.”

Your throat tightened again.

Jack stood and looked at you. “There she is,” he said quietly.

You shook your head, smiling through the sting in your eyes. “Jack.”

Owen sighed. All four adults looked down. Owen had one hand on the cookie container, his head tilted, Jack’s face arranged into your exact expression.

“Daddy,” Owen said.

Jack blinked. “What?”

Owen pointed toward the door. “Uncle Robby is waiting.”

Sarah made a sound. Abby turned away. Brie pressed both hands over her mouth. Jack looked at you. You looked at Jack.

Then Jack nodded solemnly. “You’re right. We should not keep Doctor Uncle Robby waiting.”

Owen smiled, satisfied. He picked up the cookie container with both hands. Gentle hands. Full name. Jack’s face. Your heart. And together, the three of you left Mama’s department to bring the rest of the cookies downstairs.

The ED was already in the strange overlap of shift change when you got downstairs. Day shift finishing notes. Night shift coming in. Coffee cups on the desk. Badge reels swinging. Phones ringing. Someone asking for the good pens. Someone else answering a call light with the exact tone of a person who had already answered it three times. PTMC, moving like PTMC.

Only this time, Owen walked into the middle of it with both hands around a cookie container and the complete certainty that he had important work to do. Jack walked on one side of him. You walked on the other.

Owen’s triceratops had been returned to your arm because, according to Owen, “cookies need two hands, and dinosaur needs Mama.”

Owen stopped just outside the nurses’ station and looked around, eyes wide and bright. Then he saw Robby.

“Uncle Robby!” Owen shouted.

Several heads turned.

Jack winced faintly. “Walking feet, bud.”

Owen immediately slowed to an aggressive march that fooled absolutely no one.

“Fast walking feet,” Owen corrected.

Robby was standing beside Dana near the desk, one hand wrapped around a coffee cup, his shoulders slightly hunched like he had been pretending not to watch the hallway. The second he saw Owen, his whole face changed. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just completely.

“Hey, kid,” Robby said, already crouching.

Owen barreled into him carefully, which was somehow very Owen. Full force in feeling, controlled in contact, because gentle hands had become a household philosophy. Robby caught him with one arm. His other hand steadied the cookie container automatically.

“You made it,” Robby said.

Owen leaned back enough to look at him. “I brought cookies.”

“I see that,” Robby said.

Owen held up the container. “For you.”

Robby looked at the cookies. Then at Owen. Then at Jack. Jack lifted one shoulder like he had absolutely no control over any of this.

Robby looked back at Owen. “For me?”

Owen nodded. “You helped banana.”

Robby’s face softened. “I did?”

Owen nodded harder. “You said Daddy can fix it.”

Robby’s eyes moved to Jack again. This time, softer. “He did fix it,” Robby said.

Owen beamed. “He fixed it new.”

Dana made a quiet sound beside Robby. You turned toward her. Dana was looking at Owen with the kind of softness she usually kept hidden beneath seventeen layers of competence. Then her eyes moved to you first. Just like they always did.

“How are you?” Dana asked.

Your throat tightened. Three years later. Same question. Same Dana. Still looking at you before the miracle.

You smiled. “I’m good.”

Dana’s eyebrows lifted slightly.

You laughed softly. “Really.”

Owen turned immediately. “Mama is good.”

Dana looked down at him. “Is she?”

Owen nodded with authority. “She had happy banana.”

Jack coughed once into his fist. You closed your eyes.

Dana looked slowly from Owen to Jack. “Happy banana?”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “There was an incident.”

Owen lifted the cookie container. “Banana broke.”

Dana nodded solemnly. “That sounds serious.”

Owen’s eyes widened with relief. “Very.”

Robby looked at Dana. “It required a consult.”

Dana looked at you. You looked at her. “It did,” you said.

Dana’s mouth twitched. Owen shifted closer to Dana, still holding the container. “Dana.”

Dana crouched too, smooth and patient. “Hi, Owen.”

Owen studied her for a second. Then he opened the container with help from Robby, reached inside, and pulled out one cookie with careful fingers. The cookie was not the biggest one. Not the smallest one. It was one of the prettiest.

Owen held it out. “For you,” Owen said.

Dana blinked. You stopped breathing a little. Dana looked at the cookie. Then at Owen.

“For me?” Dana asked.

Owen nodded. “Because you ask Mama first.”

The station seemed to quiet around that. Not fully. PTMC never fully quieted. But enough. Enough that you felt the words land. Dana’s expression shifted. Small. Controlled. Deep.

“Owen,” Dana said softly.

Owen held the cookie a little higher. “Good one.”

Dana took it carefully. Her eyes lifted to you. You pressed one hand to your chest because apparently your son had decided to emotionally destroy everyone before the cookies had even been fully distributed.

“Thank you,” Dana said to Owen.

Owen nodded. “You’re welcome.”

Robby looked down at him. “What about me?”

Owen turned back to the container. “You get big one.”

Robby’s brows lifted. “I do?”

Owen nodded. “Doctor uncle.”

Robby’s mouth softened. Jack looked away. You saw it anyway. Robby watched Owen dig through the cookies until he found the oversized one that had been mostly chocolate chips and optimism. Owen held it out with both hands.

“This one,” Owen said.

Robby took it like it was something sacred. “This is a serious cookie.”

Owen nodded. “Because you helped.”

Robby swallowed. “Anytime, kid.”

Owen’s face brightened. “You said that.”

“I did,” Robby said.

Owen leaned closer. “And I called.”

Robby’s eyes went wet. He tried to hide it by looking down at the cookie. He failed.

“You did,” Robby said, voice softer now.

Jack’s hand found your lower back. You leaned into him. Then Santos appeared from around the corner so suddenly it was like she had been summoned by the smell of sugar and emotional vulnerability.

“Oh my God,” Santos said. “Tiny Abbot brought cookies.”

Owen turned toward her. Jack immediately said, “His name is Owen.”

Owen lifted his chin. “I’m Owen.”

Santos put one hand over her heart. “My apologies.”

Owen straightened a little more. Then, proud and formal, he added, “Owen Henry Abbot.”

Santos went completely still.

Javadi appeared beside her and made a sound like she had been physically struck. “Oh, no.”

Mel stepped around the desk, smiling already. “Full name?”

Cassie pressed both hands to her chest. “He has a full name now.”

Crus came in behind Shen and Ellis, coffee in hand, his face softening the second he saw Owen. “Serious introduction.”

Shen looked down at Owen. “Clear boundary.”

Ellis smiled openly. “Good correction.”

Owen looked around at all of them, pleased that everyone seemed to understand. Jack looked painfully proud.

You nudged him lightly with your elbow. “Do not look that pleased.”

Jack’s mouth curved. “I’m not.”

Robby looked up from his cookie. “You absolutely are.”

Dana’s mouth twitched.

Santos crouched a safe distance away and lowered her voice like she was addressing royalty. “Hello, Owen Henry Abbot.”

Owen nodded. “Hi.”

Santos looked at the container. “Did you bring tribute?”

Jack stared at her. You bit your lip.

Owen looked up at you. “What is tribute?”

You brushed one hand over his hair. “A gift.”

Owen looked back at Santos. “Yes. Cookies.”

Santos’s face softened. “For us?”

Owen nodded. “For Daddy’s hospital.”

Behind you, Jack went still again. Santos heard it. You knew she did because her eyes flicked briefly to Jack, then softened in a way she tried to cover too quickly.

“For Daddy’s hospital,” Santos repeated, gentler now.

Owen looked up at you. “And Mama’s hospital.”

Your throat tightened. Jack’s hand pressed lightly against your back. Santos looked between you and Jack, and for once, she did not make the obvious joke.

“Best hospital,” Santos said.

Owen smiled. “Yes.”

Javadi crouched beside Santos. “Did you make the cookies?”

Owen nodded. “With Mama and Daddy.”

Mel smiled. “That sounds fun.”

Owen thought about it. “Flour jumped.”

Cassie laughed softly. “Flour does that.”

Jack looked at her. “Do not encourage that narrative.”

Owen turned to Jack, one hand lifting slightly. “Daddy.”

Jack stopped. You stopped. Robby’s mouth began to curve. Owen sighed. Then he tilted his head, Jack’s face arranged into your exact expression of loving exasperation.

“The flour jumped,” Owen said.

The ED went silent for half a beat. Then Santos made a sound that was half laugh, half sob. Javadi covered her mouth.

Crus looked at you. “That one was you.”

You closed your eyes. “I know.”

Jack looked down at Owen, helplessly soft. “There she is,” Jack said.

Owen looked around. “Where?”

Dana looked at you. “Everywhere, apparently.”

That almost did you in. Owen’s attention returned to the container.

“Everybody gets one,” Owen said.

Robby shifted beside him. “Want help, kid?”

Owen nodded. “Gentle hands.”

“Gentle hands,” Robby agreed.

Together, Owen and Robby began distributing cookies. Owen gave Santos one and explained that chocolate chips were “clinically indicated.”

Jack said, “They are not.”

Robby said, “They are.”

Shen looked at the cookie in his hand. “There is insufficient evidence.”

Owen frowned at him.

Santos whispered, “Careful. Full-name energy.”

Shen looked down at Owen. “I accept the cookie.”

Owen nodded. “Good.”

Ellis took hers with a soft smile. “Thank you, Owen.”

Owen looked at her. “You said Daddy looked happy.”

Ellis blinked. Jack’s head turned.

“When?” Ellis looked at you.

You lifted both hands. “Not getting involved.”

Owen nodded. “Mama said.”

Jack looked at you now. You smiled sweetly. “Stories.”

Ellis’s smile softened. “He did look happy.”

Owen looked at Jack. Then back at Ellis. “Daddy is happy,” Owen said.

Jack’s face shifted. The whole station seemed to feel it. Robby looked down. Dana looked at you. You reached for Jack’s hand without thinking. Jack took it.

Crus cleared his throat and crouched to accept his cookie. “Thank you, Owen Henry Abbot.”

Owen smiled at the full name. “You’re welcome.”

Crus looked at Jack. “Still has your face.”

Owen turned to you immediately. “And Mama’s words.”

Your breath caught. Jack went very still. Robby’s face softened.

Santos pressed both hands to her chest. “I can’t keep doing this.”

Javadi whispered, “No one can.”

You crouched beside Owen before your legs decided to stop working.

“Who told you that, baby?” you asked.

Owen looked at you like the answer was obvious. “Daddy.”

Your eyes lifted to Jack. Jack looked down at you. Soft. Certain. Home.

“I did,” Jack said quietly.

Owen nodded. “Daddy says I have Mama’s words.”

Your throat tightened.

“And Mama’s hands,” Owen added, lifting one of his own as if to prove it.

Cassie made a tiny sound. Mel blinked quickly. Dana looked down at the cookie in her hand. Robby covered his mouth with one fist. You looked at Owen’s small hand. Then at his face. Jack’s face. Jack’s thoughtful mouth. Jack’s serious brow. Your words. Your hands. Your son.

“Oh,” you whispered.

Owen studied you. “Happy cry?”

You nodded, smiling through the sting in your eyes. “Yeah. Happy cry.”

Owen set the container carefully on the floor and put both hands on your cheeks.

“You okay, Mama?” Owen asked.

You laughed softly, broken and warm. “Yeah, baby.”

Owen narrowed his eyes. “Really?” he asked.

Behind him, Jack laughed under his breath. You looked up at your husband. He was smiling at both of you. Warm. Certain. Proud in a way he had stopped trying to hide.

“Really,” you said.

Owen studied you for another second. Then he smiled. “There she is,” Owen said.

The whole ED went a little blurry. Jack crouched beside you and brushed his hand over Owen’s hair. Owen leaned into the touch automatically.

Then he looked at Jack and reached into the container again.

“For Daddy,” Owen said.

Jack accepted the cookie. “Thank you, bud.”

Owen pressed it into Jack’s hand with both of his. “Good job fixing banana.”

Jack’s expression changed. Again. Soft. Stunned. A little ruined. Robby looked away first. Dana looked at you. You smiled through the sting in your eyes.

Jack’s voice was quiet when he answered. “Thank you, Owen.”

Owen leaned forward and kissed Jack’s forehead. Just like Jack kissed yours.

“There,” Owen said.

Jack closed his eyes. You were done. Completely.

Santos whispered, “I’m not okay.”

“No one is,” Javadi whispered back.

Jack opened his eyes and looked at Owen. Then he looked at you. And there it was again. That old, familiar softness. That look that had started in quiet kitchens and hospital rooms and grown into this. Owen turned back toward the group, apparently unaware he had just emotionally flattened half the department. He picked up the container and held it out to Mel.

“Cookie?” Owen asked.

Mel laughed through tears. “Absolutely.”

The rhythm of the ED picked up around you again. Phones. Monitors. Voices. Shift change moving forward because it always did. But for one impossible second, you let yourself stand still in the middle of it. Jack beside you. Owen in front of you. Robby crouched close, eating the biggest cookie like it mattered. Dana holding the good one Owen had chosen because she asked about you first.

Child Life upstairs with cookies of their own.

The ED around you, full of people who had known Owen as a secret, as a scan, as Tiny Abbot, as a newborn sleeping in Jack’s arms, and now as Owen Henry Abbot with chocolate on his fingers and a full name he knew how to carry.

For three years, everyone had told you Owen had Jack’s face. They were right. He did.

He had Jack’s profile. Jack’s thoughtful mouth. Jack’s serious little brow. The same devastating softness when he looked at you like loving you was something he had learned before he ever had words for it.

But standing in the middle of PTMC, offering cookies because sad things deserved care and broken things could become happy again, Owen Henry Abbot sounded exactly like you.

He loved like Jack. He felt like you. He belonged to both of you.

And this time, no one had to tell you.

You saw it.

Three years later, Owen Henry Abbot still had Jack’s face. This was not up for debate. You had tried. Repeatedly. Bravely. With visual evidence, emotional arguments, and one very dramatic slideshow shown to Robby over dinner after two glasses of wine.

No one had been convinced.

Owen had Jack’s profile. Jack’s thoughtful mouth. Jack’s serious little brow. The same tiny curl at the corner when he was pleased with himself, and pretending not to be. Even his resting concentration face looked so much like Jack reading a chart that Santos had once seen a picture and texted back, with no punctuation, that baby has attending energy.

You had accepted it. Mostly.

But then Owen learned to talk. And everything changed because Owen talked like you. Not just the words. The whole thing. The inflection. The rhythm. The tiny pauses before he made a point. The way his hands moved before the sentence had fully formed, like his thoughts needed choreography to survive being spoken. Happy, mad, excited, offended, sleepy, explaining why his sock was doing something weird, Owen’s hands went with the commentary.

Jack noticed first, of course. He noticed everything. The first time Owen pointed one tiny finger in the air and said, “Actually, Daddy,” Jack had gone very still in the kitchen.

You had looked over from the sink. “What?”

Jack had stared at your son, mouth soft at one corner. “There you are,” Jack had said.

Owen had frowned up at him with Jack’s whole face. “I’m right here.”

You had laughed so hard you had to sit down. Since then, Jack said it all the time.

When Owen waved both hands while explaining that his dinosaur was “not sad, just having a quiet day.”

When Owen lifted one palm and said, “Okay, listen,” before telling Robby that his pancakes needed more syrup.

When Owen sighed at Jack’s shoes in the hallway and said, “Daddy, those are in everybody’s way.”

That one had nearly ended Jack. But the thing that really ruined you was not only that Owen talked like you. It was that he loved you like Jack. He had learned that, too.

He had learned it by watching.

By sitting on Jack’s hip while Jack kissed the top of your head over morning coffee. By standing between Jack’s legs while Jack asked if you had eaten. By leaning against the kitchen island while Jack touched your lower back as he passed, casual and constant, like loving you was simply part of moving through the house.

Owen had absorbed all of it. The forehead kisses. The quiet check-ins. The way Jack looked for you first when he entered a room. The way Jack’s hand found your shoulder when you were overwhelmed, his thumb brushing once before he asked, “You okay?”

Owen had turned all of that into three-year-old devotion. Messy. Sticky. Ferociously sincere.

So when you woke up on a Saturday morning to the smell of coffee and the distant sound of Owen narrating his own breakfast, you already knew what kind of morning it was going to be.

A good one.

A dangerous one.

The kind that made you emotional before you had even brushed your teeth.

You opened your eyes slowly.

The bedroom was warm and quiet, the curtains half-drawn against soft morning light. For one brief, luxurious second, you did not know what time it was. No alarm. No Owen calling for you. No Jack’s hand on your shoulder telling you he was home. Just quiet.

Then you heard Owen from the kitchen. “No, Daddy, that’s not where the blue cup lives.”

You smiled into your pillow.

Jack’s voice came low and patient. “It was in the cabinet.”

Owen sighed. A very familiar sigh. “Daddy,” Owen said, with the full weight of someone who had been burdened by incompetence before breakfast. “It lives by the sink when I’m using it.”

You pressed your face into the pillow to muffle your laugh.

Jack was silent for one beat. Then he said, “My mistake.”

Owen accepted this with grave generosity. “It’s okay. You’re learning.”

Your laugh escaped that time. Even on Jack’s days off, he was negotiating for patient satisfaction. You pushed yourself up on one elbow, hair messy, body still warm from sleep, and listened for another second. There was the scrape of a chair. The soft clink of a plate. Owen humming under his breath. Jack opening a drawer.

Owen saying, “Not that spoon,” with absolutely no hesitation.

Jack, sounding painfully amused, said, “Of course not.”

You closed your eyes. God, you loved them. You loved the whole ordinary sound of them. The kitchen. The cups. The spoon dispute. The low murmur of Jack’s voice and Owen’s tiny, confident commentary filling the house you had built together.

By the time you padded down the hall, still in sleep shorts and one of Jack’s old shirts, your eyes were already stinging a little. Ridiculous. You were ridiculous. You stopped just outside the kitchen. Jack stood at the counter in a black T-shirt and soft pajama pants, hair still sleep-mussed, one hand wrapped around his coffee mug. Owen stood on his little kitchen stool beside him, dinosaur pajamas wrinkled from sleep, curls messy, serious little brow drawn in concentration as he studied the fruit bowl like it contained a patient with unstable vitals.

The resemblance hit you all over again. It still did sometimes. Owen had Jack’s face. Three years old, bare feet on the stool, sleep-warm and solemn, and he still looked like someone had shrunk your husband down and handed him a stuffed triceratops.

Then Owen lifted one hand and pointed toward the bananas. “That one,” Owen said.

Jack looked at the fruit bowl. “This one?”

Owen tilted his head. “No.”

Jack picked up a different banana. “This one?”

Owen’s mouth pressed into a line. “Daddy.”

You bit your lip.

Jack glanced down at him. “What?”

Owen lifted both hands, palms up, exactly like you did when Jack was being deliberately difficult. “The one with no spots,” Owen said carefully. “Because spots are mushy, and mushy is not for morning.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Mushy is not for morning.”

Owen nodded once. “Right.”

Jack picked up the correct banana. Owen looked satisfied. “Thank you.”

Jack gave him a serious nod. “You’re welcome.”

You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed loosely over your chest, and watched them. Owen saw you first. He always did when Jack did not. His whole face lit up. Not just smiled. Lit.

“Mama,” Owen gasped.

Jack turned immediately. There it was. That same look. Three years later, and still the first thing that crossed Jack’s face when he saw you was softness. Relief. A quiet, instinctive gladness that made your chest feel too small every single time.

“Morning,” Jack said.

You smiled. “Morning.”

Owen scrambled down from his stool before either of you could stop him.

Jack set his coffee down at once. “Careful, bud.”

“I am careful,” Owen said, already hurrying toward you with the urgent confidence of someone who believed love was a full-contact activity.

You crouched just in time for him to hit your chest. His arms wrapped around your neck.

His little body was warm and solid and impossibly real, even after three years of getting to hold him.

“Hi, baby,” you said, closing your eyes.

Owen squeezed you hard. “I missed you.”

You laughed softly. “You saw me last night.”

Owen pulled back enough to look at you with Jack’s serious eyes. “That was yesterday.”

Jack made a quiet sound behind him. You looked over Owen’s head. “Don’t laugh.”

Jack lifted his mug. “I didn’t.”

“You did in your face,” Owen said.

Jack paused. Your mouth fell open. Owen turned back to you, entirely unaware that he had just ended his father before eight in the morning. Then he put both hands on your cheeks. Sticky. Warm. Small.

He looked at you very seriously. “You okay, Mama?” Owen asked.

Your heart melted straight through your ribs. Jack went still behind him.

You smiled, soft and helpless. “I’m okay.”

Owen studied you. He did not fully believe you. Of course, he did not. He had learned from the best.

“Really?” Owen asked.

You closed your eyes. Jack exhaled. Not a laugh. Not quite. Something softer.

You opened your eyes and looked down at your son.

“Really,” you said.

Owen nodded, satisfied for the moment. He pulled back, patted your cheek once, and smiled with Jack’s whole face. You stared at him. Jack looked away toward the counter like he needed a second. You did too. But Owen was not finished. He touched your cheek again, gentle in a way that made you ache.

“I love you,” Owen said. “Okay, Mama?”

Your eyes filled immediately. “I love you too, baby,” you whispered.

His expression shifted, brightening with recognition as he watched your face. Then he smiled.

“There she is,” Owen said.

That was it. You were done. Completely. You pulled him against you and buried your face in his messy hair.

Jack’s voice came softly from the counter. “He’s been waiting to do that all morning.”

You held Owen tighter. “He has?”

Jack came closer, his hand settling briefly at the back of your neck before his mouth touched your hair.

“Yeah,” Jack said. “Said you needed sleep, but he was going to give you good morning when you woke up.”

You made a sound in Owen’s hair. Owen patted your shoulder like you were the one who needed comforting.

“It’s okay, Mama,” Owen said.

You laughed, wet and overwhelmed. “I know.”

Owen pulled back and touched your face again. “Happy cry?”

You nodded because speaking felt unsafe.

Owen nodded too, solemn and certain. “Okay.”

Jack crouched beside both of you. His eyes were warm. Too warm. You looked at him.

“Do not look at me like that,” you said.

Jack’s mouth softened. “Like what?”

“Like I’m not supposed to survive breakfast.”

Owen looked between you. Then he leaned closer to Jack and whispered very loudly, “Mama is happy crying.”

Jack nodded. “I see that.”

Owen patted your cheek again. “She’s okay.”

Jack looked at you, and the softness in his face deepened. “Yeah,” Jack said. “She is.”

You looked between them. Jack’s face on both of them somehow. Jack’s quiet love in both of them too. One grown, one tiny, both looking at you like making sure you were okay, was the most natural thing in the world. Your chest hurt. In the best way.

You kissed Owen’s cheek. “I love you, bud,” you whispered.

Owen smiled and immediately wriggled out of your arms.

“Daddy is getting me a banana,” Owen announced.

Jack stood slowly. “I was.”

Owen took your hand and tugged you toward the kitchen. “You have to watch.”

You let him pull you in. “Do I?”

Owen nodded. “Yes. Because Daddy picked the right one.”

Jack looked at you over Owen’s head. “Eventually.”

Owen climbed back onto his stool, then turned and pointed one tiny finger at you.

“You sit,” Owen said.

You lifted your eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

Owen softened his voice immediately, a tiny mirror of every gentle correction you had ever given him.

“Please sit,” Owen amended.

You pressed your lips together. Jack’s mouth curved. You sat at the kitchen table, and Jack set your coffee in front of you before you could ask. Owen noticed. He looked at Jack, then at you, then back at Jack.

“Daddy loves Mama,” Owen said.

Jack went still for half a second. Then his eyes moved to yours. You smiled around the sudden tightness in your throat.

“He does,” you said softly.

Owen nodded, satisfied by this obvious fact, and turned back to his banana.

Jack leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “Good morning,” he murmured.

Your eyes closed.

Owen twisted on his stool. “Wait,” Owen said.

Jack paused. “What?”

Owen climbed down again with great determination. You watched him cross the kitchen. He came to your side, put both little hands on your knee, lifted himself onto his toes, and pressed a tiny kiss to the top of your head.

“Good morning,” Owen said.

Jack looked at him. You looked at Jack. Then Owen patted your knee once and returned to his stool like he had handled an important household responsibility.

You stared at your coffee.

Jack was silent for one long second. Then he said, very quietly, “There you are.”

You looked up at him. Your eyes were wet again. “Jack.”

His mouth curved. Owen sighed from his stool. Both of you turned. He had one hand braced on the counter, his head tilted, Jack’s face arranged into your exact long-suffering expression.

“Daddy,” Owen said.

Jack blinked. “What?”

Owen pointed to the banana. “Breakfast is waiting.”

You covered your mouth with one hand. Jack looked from Owen to you. His eyes softened with something that still had the power to undo you after all these years.

“There you are,” Jack said again.

This time, he was looking at Owen. And you knew exactly what he meant.

Jack reached for the banana, but Owen lifted one hand. “I do it,” Owen said.

Jack paused. You looked over the rim of your coffee. Owen stood on his stool in his dinosaur pajamas, serious little brow drawn in concentration, one hand hovering over the banana like he was preparing for a procedure.

Jack looked at him. “You want to peel it?”

Owen nodded. “I use gentle hands.”

Your chest softened immediately. Jack’s expression did the same. “Okay,” Jack said. “Gentle hands.”

Owen held out both hands. Jack placed the banana in them carefully, then kept one hand nearby without touching. Ready, but not taking over. That got you. It always did. Jack could be protective enough to scan every edge of the room and still somehow know when to let Owen try.

Owen pinched the top of the banana with careful fingers.

Jack leaned slightly closer. “You want help starting it?”

Owen shook his head. “I can do it.”

Jack nodded once. “Okay.”

Owen worked at the stem with immense concentration. His lips pressed together. His brow furrowed. His tiny shoulders lifted with effort. You smiled into your coffee. Jack glanced at you.

You mouthed, He’s you.

Jack’s mouth curved.

 Owen finally got the peel started. His whole face brightened.

“I did it,” Owen said.

Jack smiled. “You did.”

Owen pulled one strip down. Then another. Slow. Careful. Gentle. The banana bent slightly in his hands. Jack noticed. So did you. Neither of you moved fast enough.

Owen tugged one last piece of peel away, and the banana snapped in half. The silence was immediate. Owen stared down at the two pieces in his hands.

Jack went still. You set your coffee down.

Owen’s little mouth parted. For a second, he did not cry. He only looked confused. Then betrayed. Then deeply, personally wounded.

“Oh, baby,” you said softly.

Owen looked up at Jack. “I used gentle hands,” Owen said.

Jack’s face changed. Completely. He crouched beside the stool at once. “I know, bud.”

Owen’s eyes filled. “I did.”

“You did,” Jack said. “I saw you.”

Owen looked down at the banana again. “It broke.”

You pushed your chair back. “Come here, sweetheart.”

Owen climbed down from his stool, still holding both halves of the banana like evidence, and came straight to you. You helped him into your lap. His body was warm and tense against yours, his dinosaur pajamas soft beneath your arm. He held the broken banana pieces carefully in both hands, as if being gentle now might somehow undo what had already happened.

You kissed the side of his head. “You used gentle hands,” you said.

Owen leaned back against your chest. “It still broke.”

“I know,” you said. “That feels really disappointing.”

Owen nodded, his lower lip trembling. Jack stayed crouched in front of both of you, close and steady. You rubbed one hand slowly over Owen’s stomach. “Sometimes things still break, even when we’re careful.”

Owen stared at the banana. “That’s not fair.”

“No,” you agreed softly. “It doesn’t feel fair.”

Jack’s eyes lifted to yours. There was that look again. Soft. Quiet. A little in awe of you for doing the thing you had always done best. Making room for the feeling before trying to fix it.

Owen took a shaky breath. Then another. You felt him settle against you by degrees.

Jack watched him carefully. “I’m sorry it broke, bud.”

Owen looked at him. Jack’s face. Your tiny, serious little communicator.

“You didn’t break it,” Owen said.

Jack’s expression softened. “No. You didn’t either.”

Owen’s brow furrowed.

“It just broke,” Jack said. “Sometimes that happens.”

Owen considered this. Then he looked down at the banana again. His sadness shifted into purpose. He held both halves out toward Jack.

“Daddy,” Owen said.

Jack focused on him immediately. “Yeah, bud?”

Owen’s voice went very serious. “You’re a doctor. Fix the banana.”

You pressed your lips together. Jack blinked once. Then he looked at you.

You lifted one hand. “I’m fine.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “You are making a face.”

“I am happy,” you said.

Jack’s mouth twitched. “You are trying not to laugh.”

“I can be happy and trying not to laugh,” you said.

Owen twisted in your lap, suddenly concerned. “You okay, Mama?”

Your heart melted. “I’m okay,” you said, smiling down at him.

Owen narrowed his eyes. Just slightly. Exactly like Jack. “Really?” Owen asked.

Jack went still. You looked over Owen’s head at him. Jack’s mouth softened.

You looked back down at Owen. “Really.”

Owen studied you for one more second. Then he leaned up and kissed your forehead. Just like Jack. Your breath caught.

Owen pulled back and patted your cheek once. “I love you,” Owen said. “Okay, Mama?”

 Your eyes stung, but you smiled through it. “Okay,” you whispered. “I love you too.”

Owen watched your face carefully. Then he smiled.

“There she is,” Owen said.

You laughed softly and pulled Owen closer. “You two are ganging up on me.”

Owen looked at Jack. “Why do you say that?”

Jack looked back at him. “Say what?”

Owen tilted his head. “There she is.”

Jack’s expression gentled. “When I say that,” Jack said, “it usually means you’re doing something like Mama.”

Owen looked at you. Then down at himself. Then back at Jack. “That’s good,” Owen said.

Your chest went warm.

Jack’s eyes softened. “Yeah, bud. It’s good.”

Owen leaned back against you, satisfied. “I love Mama.”

Jack looked at you. Your throat tightened. “I do too,” Jack said.

Owen nodded like this was correct and obvious. Then he held up the banana halves again.

“But banana is still broken,” Owen said.

You dropped your face into his hair. Jack exhaled a laugh, low and helpless.

“Yes,” Jack said, reaching for the plate. “Okay. Let’s try to fix it.”

Jack set the plate on the counter like he was preparing for a procedure. Owen sat straighter in your lap. You kept one arm wrapped around his middle, partly because he was warm and soft and yours, and partly because you did not trust yourself not to fall apart if you had to watch him be this serious without holding him. Jack picked up the butter knife.

Owen watched his hand. “What are you doing?”

Jack opened the peanut butter jar. “Trying something.”

Owen’s brow furrowed. “What something?”

Jack glanced at you. You lifted your eyebrows.

Jack looked back at Owen. “I’m going to see if peanut butter can help the banana stay together.”

Owen considered that. His little mouth pressed into Jack’s thoughtful line.

“Like glue?” Owen asked.

Jack nodded once. “Like food glue.”

You turned your face slightly toward Owen’s hair. Jack saw you.

“Do not,” Jack said.

“I didn’t say anything,” you replied.

Jack’s eyes narrowed, “You breathed funny.”

Owen tilted his head back to look at you. “Mama, no breathing funny during fixing.”

You pressed your lips together and nodded gravely. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Owen patted your forearm. “It’s okay.”

Jack lowered his head for one second. You saw his shoulders move.

“Daddy,” Owen said.

Jack looked up immediately. “Yeah, bud?”

Owen pointed at him with one banana half. “You’re breathing funny, too.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “Fair.”

Owen looked satisfied. “Okay.”

Jack spread a careful layer of peanut butter onto one broken end of the banana. He did it with the kind of focus that made you bite the inside of your cheek. Owen leaned forward in your lap. You leaned with him, your arm still secure around his middle. Jack spread peanut butter on the other half too, then paused to inspect both pieces.

Owen whispered, “Gentle hands.”

Jack’s face softened. “Gentle hands,” Jack agreed.

He pressed the banana halves together. For one beautiful second, it worked. The banana held. Owen inhaled. Your eyes widened. Jack stayed perfectly still. Hope entered the kitchen. Tiny. Fragile. Peanut-butter-scented.

Then the banana slowly slid apart. One half dropped onto the plate. The other tilted sadly in Jack’s hand.

Silence. Owen stared. Jack stared. You dropped your forehead lightly against the back of Owen’s head.

Owen’s voice came out very small. “It didn’t fix.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. “No,” Jack said. “It didn’t.”

Owen looked down at the plate. “The food glue did not work.”

You made a sound in Owen’s hair.

Jack opened his eyes and looked at you.

You lifted one hand helplessly. “I’m sorry.”

“You are not sorry,” Jack said.

“I am a little sorry,” you amended.

Owen turned in your lap, concerned again. “Mama?”

You rubbed one hand over his stomach. “I’m okay, baby.”

Owen looked at your face for one careful second. Then he nodded, apparently accepting this because the banana emergency had reclaimed priority. He turned back to Jack.

Jack set the butter knife down. “I’m sorry, bud. That was not my best work.”

Owen’s shoulders sank. You felt the disappointment move through him before he said anything. Your hand slowed over his pajamas.

“Oh, Owen,” you murmured. “That felt like a big try, and it still didn’t work.”

Owen nodded. Jack stayed in front of him, quiet and patient.

“You tried too,” Owen said to Jack.

Jack’s expression softened. “I did.”

Owen looked at the banana pieces. “And it still broke.”

“Yeah,” Jack said. “It still broke.”

Owen leaned back against you. You kissed his hair. “Do you want a minute?”

Owen nodded into your chest. Jack did not rush him. He did not explain. He did not try to make it smaller. He just stayed crouched in front of you both, one hand resting on his knee, waiting with the same calm he had in every crisis except this one involved his three-year-old and a banana, which somehow made him look more emotionally compromised than half the trauma bays you had ever seen him walk out of.

Owen took one breath. Then another. You felt him settle. Not all the way. Enough. Then his head lifted. His face had changed. Still sad. But focused. Owen looked down at the broken banana. Then he looked up at Jack. Then he looked at the phone on the counter.

“We call Uncle Robby,” Owen said.

Jack blinked. “Uncle Robby?”

Owen nodded, serious and certain. “He’s my doctor uncle.”

You turned your face toward Owen’s hair.

Jack looked at you. “Do not.”

“I’m not,” you said, voice tight.

Owen looked between you and Jack. “He is.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “He is a doctor. And he is your uncle.”

Owen nodded, like that settled the matter. “Doctor uncle.”

You pressed your lips together. Jack exhaled through his nose.

Owen held up the banana halves. “And Uncle Robby always says call if I need help, and he will help.”

That softened both of you. Immediately. Jack’s face changed first. Then yours. Because Robby did say that, he said it when Owen got nervous about the big slide at the park, when Owen could not get his shoe back on by himself. When Owen cried because his stuffed triceratops had gone through the wash and come out smelling “not like him.”

Robby said it every time with the same rough, gentle seriousness. ‘Call me if you need help, kid. I’ll help.’

Owen had believed him. Of course, he had.

Jack’s voice softened. “Yeah, bud. He does say that.”

Owen leaned back against your chest, still holding both pieces of banana. “I need help.”

You kissed his hair. “Then asking for help makes sense.”

Jack looked at you. You smiled faintly. “Care team.”

Jack closed his eyes for half a second. “We are not assembling a care team for a banana.”

Owen’s head tilted. Your head tilt. Jack’s face. Devastating.

“Daddy,” Owen said.

Jack opened his eyes.

Owen lifted the banana pieces again. “It’s broken.”

Jack looked at the banana. Then at Owen. Then at you. You lifted one shoulder.

Jack sighed, but his mouth was soft when he reached for his phone. “Fine. We are FaceTiming Uncle Robby.”

Owen straightened instantly in your lap. “So he can see.”

“Yes,” Jack said, tapping the screen. “So he can see.”

The FaceTime rang twice. Then Robby’s face appeared, hair mussed, eyes narrowed, clearly still half-asleep.

“What’s wrong?” Robby asked immediately.

Jack stared at him. “Why do you always answer like that?”

Robby looked at Jack, then at you, then down at the small, serious face in your lap. His expression changed at once.

“Hey, kid,” Robby said, voice softening. “What happened?”

Owen held both banana halves up to the camera. “It broke,” Owen said.

Robby went still. Then his eyes flicked to Jack.

Jack pointed one finger at the screen. “Do not look at me like that.”

Robby looked back at Owen. “Did your dad break your banana?”

Jack’s mouth fell open. “Excuse me.”

Owen shook his head. “No. I used gentle hands.”

Robby’s face softened fully. “I bet you did.”

Owen looked down at the banana. “But it still broke.”

“Yeah,” Robby said. “That’s disappointing.”

Owen nodded hard. “Very.”

You pressed your lips together. Jack gave you a warning glance.

Robby leaned closer to the camera. “Did your dad try to fix it?”

Owen nodded. “Food glue.”

Robby blinked. “Food glue?”

Jack rubbed one hand over his mouth.

“Peanut butter,” you supplied, voice already shaking.

Robby looked at Jack. “As adhesive?”

Jack closed his eyes. You buried your laugh in Owen’s hair.

Owen frowned at the screen. “It did not work.”

Robby’s expression sobered instantly. “Okay. Then we need a different plan.”

Jack looked at the phone. “Thank you.”

Robby glanced at him. “Was that not where you were headed?”

Jack’s jaw shifted. “I was thinking.”

Owen looked from the screen to Jack. “Daddy thinks good,” Owen said.

Jack went still. Your heart squeezed.

Robby’s face softened on the screen. “Yeah, kid. He does.”

Owen looked down at the banana again. “He can fix it?”

Robby’s voice stayed gentle. “I think your dad can fix it.”

Jack looked at Owen. Owen looked back at him, trusting and serious and still a little sad. Jack set the phone against the fruit bowl so Robby could see the plate.

“Okay,” Jack said. “New plan.”

Owen’s brow furrowed. “What plan?”

Jack picked up one broken half of the banana. “We stop trying to make it one banana.”

Owen gasped. You pressed your lips together.

Jack glanced at you once, then looked back at Owen. “I know.”

Owen stared at him, horrified. “Daddy.”

“I know,” Jack said again, gentler this time. “But listen.”

Owen leaned back against your chest, suspicious but listening.

Jack set the banana half down and rested both hands on the counter. “We tried to fix it back.”

Owen nodded solemnly. “Food glue did not work.”

Robby made a small sound through the phone.

Jack ignored him with visible effort. “Food glue did not work.”

Owen’s shoulders sank.

“But,” Jack said.

Owen looked up.

Jack’s voice softened. “That does not mean we’re done.”

Your chest warmed.

Owen looked at the banana. “It’s still broken.”

“It is,” Jack said. “So we make it something new.”

Owen went quiet.

Jack picked up the knife again. “We make it better.”

Owen looked up at you.

You rubbed one hand slowly over his stomach. “Different can still be good, baby.”

Owen’s expression stayed serious. “Different good?”

You nodded. “Different good.”

Robby leaned closer to the screen. “I support this treatment plan.”

Jack looked at the phone. “Thank you.”

Robby nodded once. “Proceed.”

Owen looked at Robby. “Proceed?”

You kissed the side of Owen’s head. “It means Daddy can keep going.”

Owen turned back toward Jack and gave one firm nod. “Proceed.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. He cut the banana into small, careful rounds. Owen watched every movement. Jack moved like it mattered. Because it did. He set each banana slice flat on the plate, then added a small smear of peanut butter to the top of each one.

Owen leaned forward in your lap. You leaned with him. Jack reached for the chocolate chips.

Owen’s eyes widened. “Chocolate chips,” Owen whispered.

Jack glanced at him. “For the banana.”

Robby’s voice came through the phone, grave and approving. “Chocolate chips are clinically indicated.”

Jack closed his eyes. You made a small sound against Owen’s hair.

Owen looked up at you. “Clinically indicated?”

You nodded seriously. “Very important medicine.”

Jack pointed one chocolate chip at you. “You are not helping.”

“I am supporting the care plan,” you said.

Robby nodded on the screen. “She is.”

Jack looked at him. “You are not helping either.”

Robby’s mouth twitched. “I’m consulting.”

Owen looked between all three of you, then reached one hand toward the plate. “Chocolate chips help?”

Jack’s face softened. “Sometimes.”

Owen considered that. Jack pressed two chocolate chips into one peanut-buttered banana slice, then another, then another. He worked carefully, making each little bite neat enough for Owen to hold. You watched his hands. The same hands that had held Owen on the day he was born. The same hands that had settled on your back in crowded hallways, opened cracker packets in hospital rooms, clipped coffee bags closed, braced on counters through hard conversations, held yours over your stomach when Owen kicked beneath his palm for the first time.

Now those hands were fixing a banana. Not saving a life. Not stopping a bleed. Not commanding a room. Just making something broken feel possible again because your son had asked him to.

Your throat tightened.

 Jack looked up at you. His expression softened immediately. “You okay?”

Before you could answer, Owen tilted his head back against your chest. “Mama?”

You smiled down at him. “I’m okay.”

Owen narrowed his eyes. Jack’s eyes. Jack’s suspicion.

“Really?” Owen asked.

You laughed softly. “Really.”

Owen studied you for one more second before nodding. “Okay.”

Jack’s mouth softened at the exchange. Then he picked up one finished banana bite and held it out to Owen.

“Do you want to try it?” Jack asked.

Owen looked at the bite. Then at Jack. Then at Robby on the phone.

Robby nodded solemnly. “I would.”

Owen took the banana bite from Jack with careful fingers. You held very still. Jack held very still. Robby held very still on FaceTime.

Owen took a tiny bite. He chewed. His brow furrowed. His mouth pressed into Jack’s thoughtful line.