swirled you into all of my poems

You induce a push in your hands so they hit the water, anticipating the usual splash, only to be met by silence which swallows whole the sound before it can reach you – just the motion without consequence, like you are mimicking swimming.

You venture once more, slower this time, slicing your hand through the pool and awaiting the tiny mayhem that should ensue…nothing, it’s like you are grazing air. You opt for another approach and exert yourself to bring your hands in front of you to clap (just to force a sound into existence, to verify that the world hasn’t been stripped down to this suffocating house you have abhorred at first sight) but your fingers don’t quite connect, hovering apart like opposing magnets repelling each other.

Turning your head toward the other side of the pool in despair, you notice them: Craig, his mouth open in what you know must be laughter as he grapples with Deran, limbs tangled in their careless violent version of playing, but the image is wrong too, slowed down, delayed, like watching them via a pane of thick glass that distorts every motion and steals every sound – existence permutated into a silent film that you are forced to be a spectator of – their voices lost beyond your reach no matter how you strain.

Andrew is there as well, closer to you than his brothers, face in your direction and lips shaping around your name, yet it doesn’t reach you, none of it does: not the action, nor the intention. Like an invisible rampart dropped between you and the rest of the world, thick and impenetrable, making you question for a second if you’ve somehow descended beneath the surface of life without realizing it.

Your throat moves, your mouth too, but you can’t utter a word. There’s only the sense of trying and failing, panic creeping slowly and coiling around your ribs as the smell catches you.

An acrid metallic sting that coats the back of your tongue as if you’ve bitten down on rust, combined with the stomach-turning reek of flesh burning that you identify easily for knowing it all too well, and it doesn’t belong here, in the clean blue stretch of the Cody’s pool underneath a Californian sky that, with a bit more heed, feels uncanny: clouds frozen in time, reminding you of a painting by Constable, the sun gradually turning murkier.

You inhale out of the fear without meaning to and the putrid odor fills your lungs, heavy and asphyxiating, eyes peering down before freezing.

The water is no longer crystalline. It’s dark, viscous, dragging along your arms and torso, feeling wrong, wrong, wrong, and when you lift your hand, it comes up coated in red, sliding down in thick strands that don’t drip so much as stretch.

The red is everywhere but it isn’t the bright, playful reflection of Nick’s inflatable crab you bought him on his last birthday dancing on the surface, nor the chimera of late afternoon sunlight breaking into shards, no, it’s a red that is dense, absorbing light rather than mirroring it. For a second, your brain refuses to name it before the recognition hits like a physical blow, knocking the air out of you as your lungs strain to deny what they have already taken in.

Blood. Their blood.

You jerk your head up but the space where they were is empty, the pool suddenly vast and endless as the house looms silent beyond like it never held joy, never held life – nothing but a hollow shell observing you from a distance that keeps on growing no matter how hard you try to orient yourself to the ladder, your body declining to respond.

There’s a pull at your limbs, a constraint you hadn’t noted until this moment, attempting to lift your arms that refuses to rise and straining uselessly against the pressure at your back, wrists bound tight enough that the skin aches under the unseen grip and ankles locked in the same manner, forcing your legs into a helpless alignment that keeps you afloat only because the liquid is sufficiently thick to hold.

(fuck, no. it’s like in…in the- no. it’s not the warehouse. none of that is real…right?)

Your mouth opens wide, the panic breaking through your chest in a violent surge, but instead of a yelp or scream, it’s a thick liquid that spills past your lips, the taste of gasoline flooding your tongue, throat convulsing as you choke on it, trying to force it out, but more follows, pouring from you while the fumes make you teary-eyed.

“…hey, sweetheart…”

Andrew’s voice cuts through the silence in fragments, distorted and stretched thin as if it has been dragged from within the pool. Pool that subtly, like removed piece by piece, gives way under your feet with its tiles slipping and dissolving into oblivion, only for your body to sink lower, the blood ingesting you more with every inch that rises to your shoulders, licks at your jaw and creeps at your lips – parted in a futile attempt to breathe.

You contemplate, distantly, that this is how it ends. Slowly.

So unbearably slow that your body has time to comprehend what is happening, to catalog each second of it, recognizing the inevitability that unfolds without mercy: you are going to die in the place where you first met Andrew, drowning in the blood of the people you love, body bound and useless.

The liquid climbs over your nose and you perceive once more his voice, nearer this time. (or…maybe you are only hallucinating it because you can’t fathom let the last thing you listen to be silence?)

“…come on…you’re okay…just breathe…”

You wish you could tell him how much you try. How your chest expands for your lungs to fight for air, drawing in instead the coagulated weight that forces its way in, your body convulsing violently as you try to expel it, only to feel a pressure that encloses around your neck. Pulse hammering against it, frantic, your body reacts even as the rest collapses, every nerve in you screaming at once.

The lights of the pool snaps off, nothingness engulfing that one suspended second: no pool, no body, no breath. Only the certainty that, right now, you are not alone in the dark, a form occupying the same space as you and close enough that you can feel the displacement of it in the glide that sends a ripple along your spine, close enough to…

You wake with a broken sound tearing out of your larynx and hands flying to your neck, searching for the source of the pressure that still lingers but instead of it, you find the cool, familiar heart-shaped pendant beneath your fingertips. The obscurity is different here, edged with the outline of furniture that don’t match the house in Oceanside – wooden and warm with life, the defiance of a man born and raised in coldness.

(home. you’re home. back in Ojai. back with the bab-)

A hand touches you, provoking a recoil in your muscles, the ghost of the dream still near, present, and for a brief second, you don’t know who it is, no, not until you hear him.

“Shh…count with me. One. Two. Three. Four.”

Turning toward it instinctively, body slower to follow than your mind due to the weight of your pregnancy making each movement heavier, you seek him out, catching on each number as you force yourself to follow him. “One. Two. Three. Four.”

The words come out broken at first, uneven, but they exist outside of your head, and that alone feels like progress – the proof that you are still there, real. Without closing the distance or overwhelming you, Andrew’s presence stabilizes, granting you to come instead of pulling you in with his hands hovering near your arms. You end up half climbing, half collapsing into him, the movement awkward due to your center of gravity altered by the pregnancy, to which he responds immediately, one arm sliding around your back to guide and support you, while the other finds yours and draws them down to your belly where they belong, grounding you both.

“It’s okay, you’re okay. You’re not there anymore.” His chin rests above your head as you settle against him, face tucked into the space beneath it and breath still jagged but beginning to shadow his, your arm wrapping around his waist so that his warmth seeps into you to replace the cold and the panic in the pit of your stomach.

“I-I know. It’s so…stupid.” The term feels wrong as it leaves your mouth, shaped out of the frustration and the lingering embarrassment that always goes with the nightmares.

“It’s not stupid. You shouldn’t say that,” he replies, his brows – that even if you can’t see, you know – knitted together, body tensed while the pad of his thumb traces slowly all around your navel.

You exhale a long breath. “I just don’t understand why I still think about this even after all this time.”

“Four months is not a lot of time,” he answers with a slight edge in his voice that you know is not directed at you but rather at the manner you have of diminishing your kidnapping, expecting yourself to be past it already.

“Still. I wish they could stop.”

“It’s okay. They will pass,” he murmurs, words belonging to him and his nightmares, who still keeps him awake every night, as much as they do to you.

Shifting, your hand travels from his waist up along his bare chest, fingertips tracing the lines you know by heart, the gesture playful despite the lingering tremor in your muscles. “Were you still not sleeping?” you ask, trying to pull the moment somewhere else.

“No.”

“Talking again?” you continue, a smile finding its way back as you tilt your head, pressing a kiss to his collarbone, the contact brief but enough to make his breath hitch in a noise that still delights you, even after a year together.

“We were agreeing that you should sleep and rest more,” he breathes, words coming out rough under your touch.

You roll your eyes, a quiet chuckle escaping past your teeth as they catch gently at his jaw. “Not even born and already conspiring with you, hm?”

“Yes,” he answers with a tiny shift in his voice, lips curving up and hand continuing its slow path along each curve and striae.

A yawn catches you off guard, stretching a body that finally begins to let go while tucking your face in the crook of his neck, voice dropping as sleep starts to pull at you again. “Fine. But if…” You stop mid-sentence. No, both of you stop breathing at the gentle, repetitive movement beneath your palms. Lifting up your head with a light laugh, you reassure him and his frown, “Hiccups,” before echoing his previous words, “It’s okay. They will pass, Andy.”

He nods, the tension in his face easing as he leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips, then lower to the hollow between your breasts, then further still, his mouth brushing your belly before he settles there, his head resting as if listening for an answer.

You grin, fingers threading into his curls, knowing what will follow – the usual murmurs directed at what’s growing beneath his hand, words you are not meant to hear, discussions that belong to them. “Don’t stay up too late, ‘kay? Don’t want any crude jokes from Craig tomorrow ‘bout me keeping you up all night,” you whisper, voice thickening with sleep.

“He won’t,” he replies with certainty, his hand moving in time with each small movement under your skin, an incandescent smile shaping his mouth as he meets what feels like a head or a foot pressing back. “Go back to sleep, I’m handling it.”

“Fine,” you yawn, eyes closing and body sinking fully into the mattress and the safety he builds around you without effort. “But no more conspiring.”

“No more conspiring.” ────────── “I think I’m being invaded by an alien. A greedy one,” you sighed, tiptoeing into the kitchen, one hand low on your stomach as if you could reason or bargain with the little marvel that had taken root inside you and now dictated the rhythm of your days with an unpredictable, sovereign appetite.

Andrew had been sitting at the table when you entered, a book open beneath his hand whose spine broke from how he had been reading the same page over and over in the past hour while you were napping without truly going forward, eyes fixed on the lines while his mind circled elsewhere, trapped in a loop of interrogations that had no responses yet – not until the first ultrasound tomorrow at least –  and no mercy in the way they returned.

(What if something was wrong? With the baby? With you? With him. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the cracks on the table.)

He turned the page despite the grip he had onto it, though he couldn’t recall the last sentence he had skimmed. A book among the dozen he purchased yesterday at the library where he had felt so ill-adapted, encircled by families, fathers who were indisputably better men, who knew what they were doing, who hadn’t spent most of their lives breaking instead of building, who were not petrified of ruining a small being with a wrong move. But still, he had obtained those books. Because he had vowed himself to become worthy of his miracle.

(Craig had told two words. Easy. Natural. That it had felt like breathing for Nick. But it didn’t feel easy. It felt comparable to standing at the edge of a cliff. Like being permitted into a place he had no right to enter. Akin to waiting for a higher power to notice the mistake and revoke this joy. One. Two. Three. Four.)

He breathed through it, struggling to cease his inner spiraling.

(For he had almost lost you. The light he learned to follow. His reason to breathe. And he had nearly lost himself before being more than what made him. Before he could merit you. Just a few inches north and the world would have closed without him knowing how to stay.)

Instead, he got to sat at a kitchen table in a home far from Oceanside, with a book about parenting in front of him, awaiting a child that had no reason to exist except that somehow, impossibly, grace had found him – a sinner being handed a blessing. His gaze lifted up when you reached the fridge, tugging it open and inclining your forehead alongside the cool edge. The content had not changed since this morning: the same containers aligned, same milk, same vegetables and yet…you appeared less upset by them.

“I think the little bean is less picky today, honey,” you informed him, quiet but with a conspiratorial grin. A habit that you had initiated recently: narrating the invisible, shaping what he couldn’t yet discern or touch, telling him hourly how you and the baby felt, what it seemed to desire or refuse, the translator of a language he felt no right to master but hopelessly craved to acquire. Because devoid of it…he was sightless, circling back his thoughts toward how he would manage to turn his promised land to ashes.

Andrew rose from the chair without a blink, leaving the book behind him, forgotten mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-fear, because none of it held more significance than you and the baby standing there. He crossed the space between you in a few steps and slid his arms around your waist, cautious not to press too firmly while his palms settled on the soft curve of your belly. Chin dipped to your shoulder, his lips brushed behind your ear.

“How bad?” he murmured.

You hummed, considering. “Not bad-bad like yesterday,” you replied, tilting your head to the side just enough for him to pursue his kisses along your neck and inhaling the remnant smell of this morning’s sex, “Just…the baby seems craving a sandwich and sweet words.” A small teasing grin broke past your lips. “Like its father.”

(Father. He was going to be a father. To a child. A being that would grow. One that he couldn’t fail. Couldn’t hurt. The word resided in his chest like a psalm. A canticle. Father. The doxology at the end of his book would chant it. Father. Now and forevermore, Andrew Cody would be a father.)

The corner of his mouth curled up, sufficiently for you to sense in on your skin. “The baby has good taste then.”

“The best,” you whispered, head turned to peer at him over your shoulder, eyes tender. “Now…let’s try to feed this foodie alien.”

He nodded once before letting you slip free to scan the shelves again, surveying every small shift in your expression, each flicker of interest or rejection to catalog them for later. You ended up grasping the container of turkey, his stomach twisting.

(Not that. Not after yesterday. Holding your hair while your body spew it out. Hearing the contrite noise you made like you were the one that failed. Apologized as if it had been your blame instead of his. He should have done better. Asked. Learned faster. Anything. But no. You had trusted him with something as simple as food and he had gotten even that wrong. And you had been sick all night. Maybe harming the baby too in his ineptitude?)

“Maybe that’s not the bes-” he started.

“That’s what the baby wants, honey,” you cut in gently, opening it.

He watched as you set it down, reaching for the bread, then the peanut butter. His head tilted slightly. “You’re mixing them?”

You smiled. “Yep.”

“That doesn’t-”

“Make sense?” you finished for him, laughing. “No, it definitely doesn’t.” You glanced back, eyes bright. “But it feels right.”

You assembled the sandwich unhurriedly, scrupulously, all too aware of him observing, like the act itself mattered. Because to his eyes, it did. And he committed it to memory: the way you held the knife, the angle of your wrist, the arrangement, how you spread the peanut butter on one slice but not the other, how you placed four pieces of turkey. Just so he could make it later if you were not able to.

Taking a bite of your sandwich, it took less than four in his mind for him to see your face crumpling, tears welling up rapidly and spilling over before you could halt them.

“What’s wrong?” His hands were already on you, one cupping your cheek and the other steadying your arm, body angled closer in a feeble attempt to shield you from what was occurring inwardly.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counted your wet lashes.)

“I…” you voice wavered, frustration breaking through. “I wanted that, and now I don’t.” Another tear slipped free, shoulders trembling enough to hit him unforgivingly. “And I can’t stop crying for a fucking ridiculous sandwich.”

“Hey, it’s okay sweetheart,” he said, shaking his head. “That’s not ridiculous.” His thumb brushed the tear away, then another, handling the utmost sacred soul that he was terrified of shattering. “I can make something else,” he continued, already shifting in problem-solving mode, planning. “Or I can go out.”

“It’s late,” you replied weakly.

“I don’t care.”

(He meant it on his life. There was no scale where your distress didn’t outweigh the rest. Time. Money. Distance. Rule. He would dismantle all of it. Tell you that it was not foolish. Never with him. That you were carrying a miracle. The plan for the future was straightforward. Learn every version of your hunger like scripture. Every change. Every need.)

He leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, then the other, lips lingering there as if he could replace each tear with his adoration. “What do you want?”

You sniffed, embarrassed. “I don’t know.”

“That’s fine. We’re gonna figure it out.”

Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding him there tightly. “I feel bad, Andy.”

“Don’t.”

“But I do!”

“Don’t,” he breathed, forehead brushing yours. “You’re growing our baby.” His hand flattened once more against your stomach, on the verge of getting back on his knees to worship the altar of your skin and hips. “You don’t have to feel bad about needing something, okay?”

You slowly nodded as he tilted his head to be able to keep the eye-contact with you.

“What about that cake?” he asked after a moment, continuing to search your face. “The red one you had last week with the frosting.”

Your whole face flickered up. “The red velvet?”

“Yes.”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Okay.”

Relief moved through him. “Good.” He kissed your lips before adding against them, “I’m back in seven.”

Retrieving back his car keys, he heard your laugh, the one that still got him through a sensation close to television static or crackling embers, tingling all throughout his body. “It’s at least fifteen!”

Opening the door, he repeated, certain. “I’m back in seven.”

When he returned – four hundred seconds later – you were curled up on the couch, blanket pulled over your legs and television on, airing a documentary about seagulls in the background. He set the box down, beside your plate and fork, opening it with the same meticulousness he applied to everything else: corner by corner, watchful not to rip it before settling by your side, who instantly rested your head on his shoulder, one hand intertwined loosely with his over your stomach while the other picked at the cake in small bites.

“Better?” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hairline to cover for the relief that flooded him at the view of food finally settling in.

You nodded with a yawn in your tone. “Much.” His hand moved along your arm in slow passes, a cadence meant to ground him as much as to soothe you, who added a soft, “Thank you, Andy.”

The television kept going, something about the water or the eggs, but he barely perceived the sound of it. All he heard was your breathing, all he felt was your weight against him and all he saw, when he allowed himself to look down, was your lashes resting on your cheeks, mouth parted.

Adjusting the blanket over you carefully, Andrew bowed his head once, thanking a celestial being for this.

(For his angel and his wonder. For the grace he didn’t earn. The penance. Paradise placed into his hands. One that he refused to turn into ash. Not this time. He would guard his blessings like relics. Let hell come later. He will meet it knowing he had held heaven in his arms.)

“You’re okay,” he promised quietly to your form and to the life under his hand. “Everything will be okay.” ────────── And just like you had prophesied the night prior, Craig shouts, “Kept him up all night, huh?” the second he gets at the entrance of the house, grin wide, stepping forward to wrap you in an unrestrained bear hug. “Look at you! I can’t even put my arms around anymore!”

You snort, breath catching. (only a little. because well…that’s what six months pregnant does to you. and due to Craig Cody, who embraces the same as everything else he carries out: wholly, boisterously and short of moderation.) “Careful, Craigo,” you scold him, though there’s no real protest in it.

He turns a deaf ear to your words, pulling back only to pivot toward Andrew, clapping a hand against his shoulder and drawing him into a rough grip. “Hey man!”

Andrew receives it with his usual stiffness, unblinking, arms hovering gawkily at his sides before landing on his brother’s dorsum, appearing hesitant to what the appropriate comeback is meant to be. “We-” he mumbles after a beat. “We’re glad to see you.”

Deran rolls his eyes – sufficient to peer at his own skull – behind Craig, walking onward himself, quieter but no less affectionate as he drags you into a hug of his own. “Don’t listen to Craig,” he whispers, voice low near your ear. “You look terrific.”

You beam on his shoulder, leaning further into it. “Thanks Deran. It’s good to see you.”

Craig is already halfway across the house by the time you step back, his voice echoing from the garden. “Bro!” A beat. Then louder, impressed, “You built a ramp out there!” You perceive the sharp clap of his palms, the sound bouncing on the walls. “It’s so sick! When did you do that? I didn’t see it the last time I came!”

Andrew exhales, slipping back into the older brother mode, striding after him and shaking his head. “Yes. But don’t go th...” His voice fades as he disappears outside and to whatever chaos Craig is about to engender near your carefully maintained backyard.

You turn back to Deran, who is already observing you with that similar prudent gaze he continuously appears to have, subsequent to discovering in the same hour that you had been abducted, harmed and pregnant. (it’s in those moments that you perceive their resemblance. this matching spark in the Cody’s eyes. this manner of verifying a situation silently.) “Everything okay with Craig?” you ask, one hand lying under your belly to support the weight.

Deran nods, his arm wrapping around yours as he guides you back inside the house, adjusting his pace to match without comment. “Yeah, Yeah. You know Craig.” You smile faintly. “He woke up at five this morning,” he adds, still baffled. “All because we were coming to see you both.”

“That’s adorable,” you giggle, nudging his shoulder. “And you? How are you doing?”

He shrugs, even though there’s something there, a thing he’s attempting not to display and failing lamentably. “An ex of mine reached out,” he tells, struggling at a casual tone. “Adrian. He was away for a while. I mean…out of the country. Told me he was coming back soon.”

You lift your brows, interest sparking. “Oh…so?” you tease, already smirking. “Are we finally gonna see mister single and brooding Deran Cody settling down for good?”

He looks away, the tips of his ears turning crimson practically instantly. “Don’t know,” he grumbles. “We’ll see where it leads.”

By the time you both reach the nursery, Andrew has fruitfully retrieved Craig from whatever hazardous idea he had for the ramp. This nursery…still comes across as unreal each day you step inside it. It’s beautiful, yes, no doubt regarding it: with its walls painted by Andrew on one of his restless nights in celadon green (not laurel green. not pastel green. celadon. he had been very serious about the distinction.) paired with animals you had added yourself despite his protestation concerning the chemicals, and the glow in the dark stars you had guided him to stick on the ceiling shaped in your constellations, the bedroom can’t possibly be any warmer or softer. But still. It feels unreal to know that in less than three months, in this exact room, there will be cries and late-night bottles.

Andrew stands in the middle of it, encircled by the boxes – crib, wardrobe, changing table, rocking chair, Andrew had purchased every single item in the store that day – in line to be assembled, shoulders tense like awaiting for one thing: their approval.

And, for his brothers read him as much as you do, Deran whistles, nodding his head. “It’s great,” quickly followed by Craig, “Yeah. Like really good.”

Andrew dips his head just a little in relief before starting to unpack the packages, fingers twitching and gaze flicking at the crews Craig has scattered around, desirous of fixing and lining them up. But he doesn’t, breathing in and out leisurely.

You linger only a moment longer, letting them settle into the task and each other. Because that’s the whole point of this day: you didn’t suggest Andrew to call them on the account of needing assistance to put together the nursery, you did because he needed his brothers – their presence, their closeness, their bond, all the things he had been missing despite their regular visits. Just being a big brother.

-

You come back less than an hour later, partly to observe their progression, partly to ask if they desire anything to drink. That is up until you are outside the nursery door, hand resting against the frame, Andrew’s tone freezing you to your spot.

“…no, it’s just…I’m scared.” Your breath halts, heart hammering in your ribcage. “What if I’m not a good father? Or…what if I pass it on?”

Craig’s voice, gentler than you’ve ever heard him, strains to respond. “Hey, man-”

“No, I’m serious,” Andrew cuts in. “All the…the quiet and the thinking and the fucking darkness.” You hear screws falling on the hardwood floor and a sob. “I don’t want anyone to be like me.”

You move closer, just enough to witness through the small gap of the door the three brothers hugging, both on each side of Andrew, comforting.

“Well,” Deran declares, “I’d be proud if my nephew or niece was anything like you. You’re the one who took care of us. Not Smurf. You. Made sure we ate. Took hits for us.”

Craig chuckles, pulling out of the embrace. “Gave hits for us too.”

Deran smacks him behind the head without even looking, too busy trying to maintain Andrew’s eye contact. “This kid is not gonna get the worst of you, ‘kay?” he continues. “And you’re gonna be a good dad. The best kind.”

In a flash, Andrew turns his head in an endeavor to contain the sentiment too enormous for his chest. “I’ll try,” he replies quietly with a hoarse voice. “I swear.”

“And that’s more than what we ever had,” Deran smiles, patting his arm.

You noiselessly walk back to the living room, struggling to ignore your eyes stinging and wet while the weight of everything (your body, the heartbeats in it, the love) suddenly feels heavier than earlier.

-

The third time you return, the room has metamorphosed, hand flying to your mouth before you can pause it: the crib stands assembled near the window, wardrobe up and doors aligned, the changing table in place…even the rocking chair sits ready in the corner.

“Oh, boys,” you breathe, stepping inside. “It’s perfect.” You cross the room, wrapping your arms around Andrew first, pressing a kiss to his lips, then turning and drawing Craig into a hug, quickly ensued by Deran. “How about we eat now?” you ask, beaming with emotion. “We can finish the rest after. Andrew and I made crab cakes this morning.”

Craig lights up instantly. “That’s what I want to hear!”

You chuckle, turning to the threshold, thinking about plates and drinks and if it’s sunny enough to eat outside.

“Hey! Wait,” Craig calls out, pointing toward the last box – unlabeled and untouched. “What’s that?”

You glance at Andrew then back at them. “Oh…Right,” your hand drifts unconsciously to your stomach. “About that…” Andrew wraps his arm around your waist as you add happily, “there’s something we need to tell you.” ────────── He let out a startled breath matching yours as the gel touched your skin, possibly even colder than anticipated despite the forewarning, spreading beneath the probe in a measured motion that made your body tense for a brief second before easing once more at the contact of his hand, which had tautened unconsciously as if the sensation had been inflicted on him instead of you, head bowed to catch your eyes, searching for a sign of unease.

(You’re okay. It’s common. The book said it would be cold. Said it would be stressful. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the sounds emitted by the ultrasound machine.)

You beamed at him, a soft curve at your mouth that utterly undid the knot in his ribcage, fingers squeezing back in silent reassurance, anchoring him back in the room like you continuously did when he didn’t recognize how to ask but still got a reply from you.

Andrew refused for his eyes to blink since you laid there, surrounded by a scent of antiseptic mixed with chlorine (which in any other occurrence, would have relieved him as it meant cleanness therefore a germ-free space), white walls and lighting designed to soothe or suggest safety. But he had discovered long ago that environments lied and that the most devastating moments often unfolded in places that looked precisely like this.

(What if there’s nothing there? Or it’s too small? Maybe his curse spread to the baby. To you. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted your lashes.)

The thoughts resumed, obstinate, circling back like it had all morning, or all week, or perhaps ever since the word ‘baby’ had entered his life. He shifted closer to you on the narrow examination table, vigilant of your position before placing a kiss on your shoulder, free hand hovering for a second up until settling on your thigh, thumb caressing once, twice…just enough to remind himself that today was supposed to be one of the most memorable of his life.

The sonographer spoke with a serene voice, practiced, explaining what she would be looking for or asking how far along you were (eleven weeks. Which meant seventy-seven days. Which meant more than six and a half million seconds.) and Andrew listened…or strived to at least, seizing fragments and holding securely onto the ones that felt important to let the rest slip past, attention solely absorbed on you – the rise and fall of your chest, the warmth of your hand in his, the curve of your body that began to show…

The probe pressed deeper onto your belly as the screen of the echograph flickered to life beside you, shapes forming and dissolving in shades of grey and white. He leaned forward regardless of grasping them, eyes fixed on it and attempting to view what he was supposed to.

(His child. Not abstract. Not theoretical. Real. His child. Inside you. Dependent on you. Dependent on him. His child. Child. Child. He needed to breathe. In. Out. In. Out.)

The sonographer halted. “Do you have any history of multiple pregnancies in your family?” she queried, her tone unchanged, neutral, as if the question held no substance beyond routine.

Andrew’s head turned, eyes snapping from the monitor to her and, body going motionless, latched onto the implication without fully understanding.

(Multiple. Why would that matter? Does it make it harder? Put you at risk? Should he have expressed it sooner? Does it-)

“Yes,” he replied, the word coming out hushed, mechanical, his fingers trembling around yours. “I’m a twin.”

She nodded, like suspecting this response or corroborating what she had witnessed and identified. Andrew’s gaze remained on her, waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the confirmation that he had somehow destroyed something good again. Rotating the screen more toward you both, the doctor’s hand lifted to point at it.

“Okay,” she started, gentle. “So. Here, you can see an amniotic sac…”

Andrew followed the movement of her finger, eyes focusing to distinct shape from shadow, his mind working through it with a desperate attention.

“…and here is the second one.”

His breath stalled momentarily, unable to perceive your relieved laugh, unable to hear you asking for the doctor to clarify because he was attempting, with everything he had, to process what the word signified, what the word entailed. How on the monitor were two individual round shapes, side by side.

The woman pointed once more, finger precisely set on a small, pulsing form. “So here is baby number one.” His eyes locked onto it, unblinking, memorizing the shape, the existence of such a tiny- “And here,” she added, moving to the other form, “is baby number two.”

The axis of his entire world shifted under his feet, everything else – the room, the sound, the air – falling away for a moment as his mind tried and failed to recalibrate around what he had just been told. Your fingers squeezed around his, a gentle pressure that met his with certainty, thumb brushing over his knuckles once, twice, four times as if you were counting for him without saying it out loud. Your gaze remained fixed on the screen, tears gathering at the edge of your lashes, yet your hand never faltered in his. And though you didn’t peer at him, he sensed it in the language you had constructed together in the quiet of nights and in the spaces where words had missed him: the way you stabilized him without breaking from the moment, like you were holding both this miracle and him at once.

(Two. His angel and his grace, multiplied. Or…mayhap twice the chance to fail. To break them. Twice the chance for them to be like him. Because what’s in his blood will pass on. And he won’t be able to shield them both. He couldn’t even protect you. The warehouse. Your tears. Your nightmares. His failure. Bad thought.)

His chest constricted, the tension running through him like a current he couldn’t shut off nor contain.

“Two?” you echoed, a small, breathless laugh threading through the word in awe as you rotated toward him, not forcing him to mirror your amazement but letting him linger in his head. “As in…two babies.”

Andrew didn’t answer. No, worse: couldn’t. His gaze was still transfixed on the screen and the two forms, his mind splitting itself in half to carry both at once – all the joy and the terror like tides with no shore to break against. He swallowed, hard, head spinning and turning away from the screen because it was starting to feel too much, too fast, too-

“It’s okay, honey,” you murmured, words meant only for him as you pressed a kiss on his knuckles. “Everything’s okay.”

He exhaled a shaky, uneven breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding with the panic, attempting a nod.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the number of letters in love. One for each of you.)

You pivoted back to the doctor, voice steadier now, a touch of curiosity and wonder threading through it despite his own lack of reaction. “Can we…hear them?” you asked.

“Of course,” the woman smiled, adjusting the settings while the room fell into a suspended hum, Andrew leaning forward, unable to stop himself, too drawn toward the source and the confirmation and whatever came next.

The sound instantly became his second favorite in the universe – right after the memory of you speaking his name for the first time in the backyard of the Oceanside’s house as you were standing near the pool. It filled the room, louder than it had any right to be, louder than anything that small should produce: a rapid tandem of heartbeats that belonged neither to you nor him.

Andrew’s head dropped before he could cease it, forehead coming to rest against your shoulder, body folding in surrender, and his hand shaking around yours as the sound lasted, sealing every empty space inside him. The other one, who was still laying on your thigh, ran up gradually to caress the side of your stomach where there was no gel like he could reach them both if he tried hard enough.

“You…” he started, his voice rough and quiet as not to disturb them, swallowed, then tried once more. “You gave me…” The words faltered, insufficient for what he was straining to say, what he was feeling and for the enormity of it pressing against his ribs. His thumb brushed against your belly.

(You. Them. Him. One. Two. Three. Four. Even number. Good number.)

“You gave me everything.” ────────── “Okay, how about…Apple and August?” you ask with enthusiasm, chin tilted to witness the precise moment Andrew’s whole body stills alongside you, one hand contracting around the handlebar of the cart while the other lingers mid-air upon a rack of small cotton onesies, gaze fixed forward like he’s bracing for impact rather than processing your words.

(three seconds to panic. new record. nice. next time you’ll come up with even worse just to see him fighting for his life.)

He doesn’t blink, not once. You can discern the calculation behind his eyes, the scrupulous determination to respond adequately, to not dismiss you, to not wound your sentiments, to not – under any circumstances – utter the incorrect thing about the names of children that don’t yet exist outside of you.

“A-Apple,” he repeats slowly, testing the structure of it, as if perchance it will rearrange itself if he gives it a sufficient amount of time, his thumb brushing distractedly against the cart as he resumes walking, guiding you down the aisle with the same silent watchfulness he has applied since the first day you met: slightly ahead of you, constantly angled in a manner that shields you without making it obvious.

You hum, pleased, one hand resting beneath your tummy to support its weight as he matches your pace, the other trailing along the shelves, grazing fabrics you don’t even register since your attention is entirely on him and the tautness in his shoulders, the way his jaw clenches, the fact that he hasn’t yet shut his eyes – all is priceless.

“It’s…original,” he finally answers, voice measured and gentle, as if he’s navigating a minefield you laid out just to find how he’d cross it.

You bite back a smirk. “Frodo?” you offer next, tilting your head and surveying him from the corner of your eye.

That one nearly wrecks him. His lips part, then press together again, breath catching enough for you to perceive and his fingers knocking four times on the handlebar before he exhales gradually through his nose, composure stumbling for just a millisecond prior to reining it back in.

“Frodo?” he echoes, quieter this time, like perhaps if he speaks sufficiently low, the name will be wiped out into thin air to never be voiced anymore.

You can’t hold it more than thirty seconds, a giggle escaping you, whole-hearted and unrestrained as you step closer to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, lips remaining there longer than necessary just to feel his skin warming under the contact as the blood rushes to his face.

“I’m joking, honey,” you murmur, amusement threading through your voice. “You should see your face.”

He respires, the tension draining from him in a noticeable wave: shoulders dropping, jaw slackening, his head tilting in your direction – recalibrating his whole brain now that the hazard has passed and that he can properly breathe once again. “Good,” he responds almost to himself.

Chuckling, you slide your arm through his free one up until the pads of your fingers caresses along the inside of his wrist to sit where his pulse thrums steady and strong. And for a minute – just a tiny one – you forget about the names, the shopping, about anything that isn’t the way his thick veins stand out underneath his skin paired with the constellation of freckles disseminated on his forearm and the flex of his muscles as he pushes the cart forward.

(those arms should be illegal. you can quote your brain and hormones on that. honestly, asking him to skip the store to go home wouldn’t be that excessive, right? not that it would change much from your daily life nowadays. being pregnant has made you crave less for food than for him.)

You spend the next aisle feigning to examine small jackets while very noticeably not, ogling back at him again and again, from his sleeves that are pushed up sufficiently to display his entire biceps to his pants, who can barely conceal his co-

Andrew throws a glance over, catching you mid-inspection, eyes dropping first to where your palm lingers on his arm and your digits tracing his veins, before lifting back to your face, a darker expression settling there, mirroring your own. Still, he exhales through his nose, forcing himself to recede into reason. “No. We’re supposed to get clothes and we’re getting them.”

“But come on,” you pout, not even pretending to move away, your grip increasing an ounce, nails grazing all along his skin in a slow, absent drag, lashes lowering purposely as you peer at him through them. “We can still do this next week.”

“Remember what the doctor said,” he replies, although it sounds more like he’s attempting to persuade himself.

You scrunch your nose, pretending annoyance. “Yes, yes. ‘Twins birth often happens at the 36th week.’”

“So, let’s finish this,” he states after a beat, voice raspy but stable now that he’s dragging himself into his own mind structure that practically never fails him. “And then we can go home after, okay?”

Examining him for a second and how the word ‘home’ shaped his mouth, you nod, the teasing ebbing away. “Okay.”

He doesn’t budge instantaneously, gaze lingering on you, scanning and assessing with the same methods he has been applying ever since your body began to change faster than he had anticipated, his hand still hovering close to your arm. “You shouldn’t have come,” he adds cautiously, placing each word down with purpose. “It’s getting harder for you to walk.”

You roll your eyes, amused, leaning in to smooth another quick kiss to his cheek. “I’m okay, Andy,” you whisper, drawing away just enough to encounter his unwavering stare. “And if I’m not, I’ll tell you. Promise.”

Studying you for half a second longer, Andrew ultimately nods, the promise being ample for him. You slip your palm onto his arm and guide him forward once more, returning into the rhythm of the aisles, the textiles under your fingertips as you move, attentive to the racks in front of you filled with babies outfits – impossibly soft and small and each more absurdly adorable than the last.

You halt in front of a display, air gone from your lungs as you raise a miniature coat with fox ears sewn into the hood, the cloth all warm and plush under your fingers. “Andrew,” you call, dragging the last syllable of his name to make him perk up from his thoughts.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t question. His eyes flick over it once, at your face lighting up, mumbles a “Looks soft,” and into the cart the two coats goes.

Moving like that through the store, drifting from one shelf to another, hands constantly reaching, touching, lifting, and comparing, every action is deliberate, done with the awareness that Andrew – despite his longing – would have to combat his own brain to be able to do this, continuously pondering about the germs and how many people have touched these exact same spots. Picking two outfits with similar cuts but different colors, not desiring for your twins to be Tweedledee and Tweedledum, you can’t help but picture your boy and girl in each and every little thing. Which, slowly, leads you to discovering more: animal onesies, socks, hats, swaddles, Andrew keeping up with you without missing a beat, nodding, adding to the cart and never once checking the price tags that hang from each piece.

(you’re positive that he would empty the store and his bank account if you asked. isn’t it what he promises every night, panting and undone above you as if there is nothing in this universe he wouldn’t place at your feet?)

Halfway down the 6 to 12 months aisle, he stops. Frozen. Rotating toward him just as his gaze fixes on something at eye level, face caught between hesitation and adulation, you track his line of sight to catch on simple green onesies with words printed across the front. Best Dad Ever.

“Do you want to take two?” you ask gently.

He huffs a breath, almost a snort – an awful attempt to dismiss the idea before it can land. “It’s ridiculous,” he mutters, already shifting his weight like he’s about to move on.

You don’t let him. You can’t, not when it has soften his eyes like that. Hand coming up to catch his wrist, you reply with certainty, “I don’t think it is.” He stills, peering back at you. “They should each have one,” you continue, thumb brushing four times over his, speaking that silent language you always fall into with him. “Because their dad really is the best ever.”

His expression flickers – small, but unmistakable for someone who knew him through and through. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t deflect and just…reaches out to take two. And into the cart they go.

By the time you both reach the fitting rooms, your legs are starting to protest, the length of your belly growing in ways you won’t ever adjust to, hand pressing into the curve of your lower back as you breathe out, desire nothing more than Andrew’s arms to wrap from behind to aid you raise your belly up – the ritual he has established on the first day you complained about the pain.

You disappear behind the curtain with an armful of dresses, Andrew waiting outside for a minute, two, until he isn’t, stepping in noiselessly so the space between you doesn’t exist anymore, staring. You try on the first dress: too tight. The second: way too much cleavage out. Huffing and adjusting the fabric, your patience thins as you glance at yourself from different angles. “This is ridiculous,” you grumble under your breath. “I don’t want to flash people!”

The next one (of course the one Andrew picked, why are you even surprised anymore?) slides on effortlessly. Pastel yellow and flowy, it falls over your body instead of fighting it, landing around you in a manner that finally feels right. You pause, turning to look at him, who hasn’t yet moved, but his gaze is…heavier now, hazel all gone to be replaced by the darkness of his pupils.

You step closer deliberately, fingers brushing his shirt as you tilt your head. “You like this one?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, nodding once for good measure.

Smiling and closing the distance fully this time, your lips find his without hesitation, the kiss soft for barely an instant before it deepens, warmth spreading through you as your hands slide up to his shoulders. “I’ll take this dress then,” you murmur against his mouth.

“What about the others?” he asks, eyes closed and mouth agape, restraint slowly giving in.

You smirk into the kiss, grazing your lips against his again. “I can always be naked. Not like you’d complain.”

He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even pretend to. He simply hums against your mouth, hand gliding behind your back so you don’t bump against the fitting room wall, the only sounds echoing now being breaths and your husband’s belt as you unbuckle it with a knowing grin, ring on your finger. ────────── The velvet box was smaller than it should have been for such heaviness. Andrew kept his hand in the pocket of his jacket nonetheless, thumb smoothing alongside the edges of it, then the hinge, followed by the curve where it would open, repeating the motion to anchor himself, hoping that the outline might become sufficiently familiar that he would cease feeling so repentant of grasping a sacrosanct object comparable to a bead on a rosary whose one prayer and oath would be echoed over and over until it became part of him.

(One. Two. Three. Four. He breathed in on one. Held it on two. Let it out on three. Blocked on four. Again. One. Two. Three. Four.)

The garden stretched in front of him, bathed in the remaining light of the day and that golden hour which softened all it touched, even his own soul. Just beyond the stone path, you were there, barefoot. You constantly ended up barefoot somehow – you once told him that you necessitated that tether to recognize for certain that this was tangible, that you were not in the limbo or back at the warehouse.

Laid out on the lounge chair like you were conscious that the glow of the setting sun had been arranged purposely to fall over you, draping the curve of your body to highlight the swell of your stomach that was just beginning to show. To him, right now, you resembled less like his angel and more like a deity who, somehow, had arrived into his life to absolve what he could never atone on his own. His throat constricted, realizing that he should have called out for you or announced himself – done something regular for once. Instead, he lingered where he was, committing to memory the sunlit tracing the line of your profile, the slow rise and fall of your chest, how your fingers enveloped your stomach in communion with what he could not yet reach.

You turned your head when you perceived him, unhurriedly, gaze finding his instantly. “Hey,” you spoke, pushing yourself up on your elbows, brow knitted together like you continuously did whenever you sensed something stirring beneath the surface. “Are you okay? You’ve been…distant today.”

He stepped closer with a barely noticeable nod, reaching the edge of the lounge chair and sitting down prudently, mindful of the space, of you, of the way every particle gravitated around you. “I’m okay,” he replied lowly, steady enough to hopefully pass. His hand found your calf, fingers wrapping around it so his thumb brushed once, twice, attuning to your skin’s language.

Head tilting and eyes narrowing to indicate that you didn’t quite believe him, you still chose not to push, hand instead shifting to caress his thigh as if to say ‘I’m here’ without requiring the words. “What were you thinking about?” you whispered.

The question reverberated in his ribcage, forcing him to look down, thumb still drawing absent patterns he didn’t register anymore, his mind struggling to organize itself into something that could be spoken aloud. “I don’t…” he started, then halted, searching for terms he had never been taught how to use, too fragile in his mouth, like porcelain that might shatter at any given moment before they extended to you. “I don’t know how to do this right. And I don’t think I ever will,” he continued, his gaze catching yours once more, forcing himself to stay there, to not retreat. “I just…have no idea.”

(He knew how to fight. To bleed. To endure. But this? This was a territory with no map, no instruction, no version of himself built to cross what lay uncharted. He could only hope that you, who had turned ruin into grace, would prevent him from burning it to ashes.)

“But I know I want you,” he breathed, and this time the words came without delay, as if awaiting fully formed for him to let them exist. “Every single day. However it comes and however it looks, for the rest of my life.” A pause reigned, in which he sensed both your breaths stopping. “And the next one,” he added, “if I’m lucky.”

His hand left reluctantly your leg then, withdrawing from your warmth to move back toward his pocket where the small box had been, fingers enclosing around it reverently, like touching a relic, and when he pulled it out, the gesture remained watchful and timid, for this was about to alter the course of his life purely by being revealed.

Your gaze followed his palm, widening as comprehension began to take shape and, in response, his own hand trembled. Sure that you could remark it, he constrained himself to tighten his grip around the package so that he could drown in the texture of the velvet, of the hinge, of all the mechanisms that composed it. The click was barely audible, and yet it gave the impression to resonate in the garden, uncovering the ring, which captured the last of the sunlight – the jewel he had bought so long along, prior to your abduction and Ojai and the children.

“Will you…” he began, but the words faltered as soon as they shaped, too scarce for the magnitude of what he was attempting to offer, what you symbolized to him, and he felt it: the inadequacy of language, how it shrank under pressure. He swallowed, forcing himself to resume. “Will you marry me?” The question sank between you, frail and naked. “Please.”

The reaction was prompt. Sitting up so hastily that the chair screeched, your hand came to his face without hesitation, cupping his cheek and eyes wet from tears that gathered without you repressing them, too busy grinning. “Yes,” you whispered, the word breaking under the force of it. “Yes, Andy. Of course, yes.”

Your lips found his before he could process it, warm and certain and real, sealing the one thing he had not known he was allowed to have. (His absolution. His grace.) He kissed you back, frightened of crushing the moment or you, he didn’t know – perhaps just petrified of proving himself correct in every doubt he had ever carried. When you pulled back, you were beaming through tears. “I love it,” you said as you extended your hand toward him. “And I love you.”

The ringing sound deafening his ears only amplified at each of your sentences. He was only able to nod, his fingers closing around yours with delicacy, yet trembled enough that, when he tried to guide the ring onto your finger, he missed, the metal brushing in between your digits instead of around it, his jaw clenching as a flash of frustration passed through him before he could contain it.

(He had to do it right. Just this once, to do it right. To approach this as one approaches a sacrament: clean hands, intent, with nothing in him that could profane it.)

His hand shifted to correct its position, the tremor even more visible as his focus narrowed to the point of contact, which he missed once more, met by your soft giggle. “It’s okay, honey,” you whispered, guiding his hand so that the ring was properly aligned before he managed to slide it into place. “There.” You looked down at it, at those three diamonds reflecting the light. “I…I really adore it.”

He exhaled, the tension leaving him in a disbelieving release as he leaned forward to press his forehead against yours, speaking for the first time since he asked the question, tone hoarse. “I love you.” Slowly, he moved behind you on the lounge chair, adjusting his position so you could lean back against him, frame fitting his like two pieces of a puzzle.

Arms extending around you instinctively, one sliding beneath your chest and the other relaxing over your stomach, finding your own to interlace your fingers over the curve that held his whole world. His chin dipped to rest against your shoulder, breath evening out against your skin as the last of the sunlight faded.

(One. You. Two. Three. His children. Four. Him. Even number. Good number.)

He closed his eyes then, because in that moment, with you in his arms, his angel, his grace, his fiancée, Andrew allowed himself to believe he had been absolved. ────────── The church is empty when he sets foot in, the door of the narthex closing behind him with a muted thud that pushes the outside away as if it had never existed, leaving only the dense, stagnant air, thick with the residue of incense from the last service threaded with the scent of old wood that has witnessed countless seasons and generations. Andrew halts just past the threshold out of habit, his breathing slowing to match the silence of the nave as though it commands a certain tranquility to permit someone further.

(He has never been sure if places like this are designed for him. He tried when he was young. Tried with that megachurch years ago, back when he had broken more than mended. But in Ojai, he comes nonetheless, drawn in whenever the world feels too sonorous. When the thoughts don’t line up and numbers don’t succeed. He is present because this house of God doesn’t expect anything of him. Doesn’t demand that he be more than what he is.)

Moving down the aisle without sound, steps measured as he passes the rows of wooden pews, he slides onto the fourth bench with an exhale. His gaze drifts intuitively to the front where the altar stands, reminiscing for a moment about you, barely four months ago, walking to him in a white dress who danced in soft folds and your hand, resting over the round curve of your stomach while your other had looped through Craig’s arm, who had stood tall and proud, heedful – for once – of your frame like it had been crystal. Andrew had stood beside the pastor, utterly undone and his ribcage tightening so abruptly that he had been assured he was about to pass out before you even reached him.

His sight had narrowed, edges of surroundings fading into a haze that placed only you in focus, each step you took measured, all too slow and fast at once, until Deran’s voice had cut through it, amused from where he stood at his brother’s side. “Blink,” he had muttered. “Or at least try to smile. You look like you’re about to die.” He hadn’t been incorrect – and Andrew would have died a happy man if it had ended there, in that suspended second of bliss.

Now, staring at this precise spot, Andrew remains motionless, enveloped in the hypothesis that if he were to look hard enough, he might still see you there: the giggle you had let slip when Craig had leaned closer to murmur something in your ear that Andrew hadn’t caught but observed landing on your face, the vows you had exchanged, the golden heart at your collarbone reflecting the sun each time you breathed or spoke. His hand slides into the pocket of his jeans, retrieving his phone to check for messages or calls that he might have missed, thumb brushing over the screen before it lights up to the lockscreen that has been his for the past year.

It’s you. Asleep. Curled alongside him on the couch back in Oceanside, your head laying on his chest while his arm had been draped around you without a care in the world for a brief instant, and in the photograph – taken by Craig without warning nor permission – Andrew is oblivious of the camera, eyes unguarded and fixed entirely on you with a gentleness in his expression that resembled peace. His eyes drifts to the corner: no missed calls, no messages, nothing.

(You had asked for an hour on your own. An hour. Sixty minutes. Three thousand six hundred seconds in which all could happen. In which the body could betray, where his miracles could be tested by fate, where he would not be there.)

“I’ll be fine, Andy,” you had said, smiling at him in that manner that always made it challenging for him to argue. “And if anything happens, I’ll call you.”

Anything. The word pressures against his head, heavier than it should be and expanding into possibilities he doesn’t want to pursue and yet can’t fully stop from forming.

(Eight and a half months is too close. Too close to a moment that doesn’t delay for a call. What if it happens now? What if you are alone when it starts? How would you get in touch with him if you fall? And if he doesn’t hear the phone? What if agreeing to this hour because he couldn’t say no turns into the moment he fails you again? What if- Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the points of contact between your bodies in the picture.)

Pushing himself up from the pew, movement controlled, he redirects the restless energy into actions he can discipline instead of letting his mind wander where it doesn’t need to go. The votive candles sit to the side of the church, arranged in rows beside a wooden prie-dieu worn smooth by years of palms that came prior to his, reciting the Paternoster and supplicating and confessing. His fingers hover above the small cluster of unlit candles before selecting two – one on behalf of you and one on behalf of them – striking the match with a skillful flick, the scent of sulfur cutting through the air before the flame stabilizes, bringing it to the first wick and inspecting as it catches. The second follows, placed nearby the first, his hand remaining in the space above the flames, hesitant of the next step.

He bows his head so that the gesture holds intention. “I…” he starts, voice raspy.

(He has no psalm to offer. No practiced litany or structured pleas to fall back on. Only the fear lodged in his heart like a splinter impossible to remove. The recognition that if there is any higher power listening, it will have to take him as he is, unpolished and unworthy, or not at all.)

Exhaling, the breath leaves him slowly. “Keep them safe,” he whispers, barely above the hush of the church as if speaking louder might wreck the fragile structure of what he is attempting. “I know what I’ve done. But…” His jaw tightens, the sentence stalling, caught between divulgence and request. “But don’t let them pay for it,” he continues in desperation. “Not her. Not them.”

His hands travel at his sides, fingers curling so tightly that it forms crescent moons on his palms. “Let it stop with me. Whatever it is. Whatever is…” he swallows, throat shrinking. “Whatever is in me. Don’t let it reach them.”

Silence pursues. Vast, stretching in the wake of his own voice, echoing in the beams and the pews and the confessional. His gaze raises then, drawn upward by the light altering above the candles and the hues that spread across the wooden floor and climbs along his shirt in a kaleidoscope. The stained glass stands tall above him, its structure held in lines of dark lead with deep cobalt blue pooling in the robes of the figure at its center, solemn, amber scattering outward in halos at the edges of the scene and vermilion, threading through the contours of hands and faces, frozen in the act of blessing.

The man in the glass doesn’t look down so much as through, his hands raised in an unmistakable motion: fingers extended, palm open, and those gathered around him tilt their heads down, arranged in a manner that implies reverence. Andrew’s gaze drifts to the side of the pane, to the small inscription painted into its frame. Saint Oliver. He stands there a second longer before drawing out his phone to the image of you, typing reflexively the four digits of the day you met before searching for it. Oliver. The result comes up instantly, condensed into a one-word definition: peace.

(If his son could be anything…If there is one thing he could hope for without feeling like requesting for too much…it would be that. Peace. A life untouched by the necessity to anticipate harm. A mind that doesn’t turn against itself. A heart that loves and is loved in return without question.)

His jaw clenches as he lowers the phone, screen dimming back into darkness as he slips it into his jeans once more, the name reverberating in his chest like an epiphany he has been waiting for. You had already selected hers. Whispered it in the dead of the night while he was pressing his temple to the spot where his children kept rolling. His throat had closed, emotion rising and forcing him to blink slowly so the tears wouldn’t spill. And so, because you had found the girl’s name, you had handed him the other half.

(He had not known how to choose. Because names aren’t just sounds. They are intentions. An idea spoken aloud and given in the hope that it would become part of that someone.) (Oliver. Peace. That’s a good hope.)

The sound of his phone vibrating cuts through the church, his body reacting before his mind can even come up with a new spiral of thoughts.

The message is from you. Concise. Clear. I think it’s starting. ────────── The sun had started to dip by the time you were all on the shore, the July heatwave no longer hitting your skin, and the tide pulling back enough to result in a wide stretch of damp ground. You stood barefoot at the edge of the makeshift court Craig had insisted on scribbling with the heel of his foot, lines uneven, half-erased by the breeze, while the grains of the Oceanside’s sand clung to your calves and the hem of your shorts, hair still carrying faint traces of salt from earlier, when you had been lying on your towel with a book open but unread, too engaged in peering up every few seconds at the three men surfing like the water belonged to them, recognized them, answered.

(and Andrew…Andrew had been less showy than Craig, less poised than Deran, but precise, like moored to his board. he had feigned not to look at you each time the tubes permitted him to do an air reverse or a rodeo flip. you had feigned not to notice your mouth go dry at the sight of him. and in itself, it had worked. barely.)

“Alright, teams are obvious,” Craig announced, tossing the ball from one hand to the other, grin wide and edged with challenge. “Me and Deran, cause we are the best, against you and Pope. Sounds good?”

You rolled your eyes, stepping closer to Andrew without thinking, your shoulder brushing his just enough to register the heat of his skin before you moved past him, as though it hadn’t stirred anything at all while you were scrambling to gather yourself back. Andrew didn’t respond to Craig’s jab, taking position beside you where he could observe everything – the ball, his brothers, you – his gaze flicking toward your own for half a second before returning forward, controlled.

(he was trying so, so hard it was endearing. but he was just as terrible as you at pretending. two weeks together and you were acting like teenagers who didn’t want to get caught by their parents.)

“Try to keep up,” Deran added dryly from across the net.

You grinned. “Fine, if you promise not to cry when we’re finished with you.”

Craig barked a laugh, turning to his younger brother. “Oh, she’s confident today.”

The game commenced, ball snapping through the air as Craig hit hard, Deran coordinating his movements from years of playing together and knowing where the other would be without requiring a second glance.  For the first few points, you were mostly reacting: swearing when you missed, laughing when the sand shifted under your feet, but Andrew…Andew was adjusting, mapping the rhythm, the angles, the way Craig favored power over precision, how Deran compensated for it, and now he played differently, forestalling where the ball would end up before it had crossed the net, his hand stroking your lower back once, twice, guiding you without words. “Focus,” he murmured under his breath.

You huffed a chuckle, breath vanishing as you pushed hair away from your face, already stepping back into position. “I am focused.”

He didn’t even look at you when he answered, mouth twitching. “Not on the game.”

The serve came rapidly once more, Craig sending it with unnecessary force just to prove a point, but you darted frontward this time, without hesitation, arms locking just in time to bump it upward, the impact stinging pleasantly as it left your skin and sending it straight between the two brothers before either could react, the sound landing sharp, quickly followed by their overlapping voices.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Craig groaned, taking back the ball.

Deran instantly shot back with a finger pointed at him. “How could you miss that?”

“You were right there too, man!” he replied, tossing it to him with no warning.

You giggled, panting, turning toward Andrew, who had stepped closer, halting just short of where it would be noticeable, hands hanging at his sides, not certain what to do with them or himself and managing a quiet, “Good.”

“Okay, okay,” Craig called, his competitive side creeping back in despite his heavy breaths. “Match point and the losers buy the beers.”

“Deal, Craigo,” you retorted.

Back and forth, the ball flew among you all in a tempo that kept building with each push, up until you slipped in the sand and your arms caught the ball low and sent it up in a high arc that hung too long. “Andrew!” you called, but he was already there, stepping in and timing it perfectly as his body aligned while he jumped, arm swinging through, the hit clean and cutting past Craig’s outstretched hand to end on the sand.

“Oh, fuck off,” Craig groaned, straightening up and dragging a hand over his face while you laughed brightly.

And before you could stop yourself or ponder about it, you were running, crossing the distance between you and Andrew in two quick steps, your arms wrapping around him as you hopped, the momentum carrying you high as he caught you mechanically, hands enclosing behind your back as if he had done it a hundred times.

“Did you see that?” you beamed, forehead resting against his. “We make a good team!”

He nodded, his fingers tightening on your hips. “Yeah.”

(and…that was it. not the massive realization that this man would be yours for the rest of your life. no, this one you had months ago, long before you were even dating. and anyone hearing you expressing that after a fortnight would most likely call you mad. fuck them. but what you realized, right here, right now, was that you couldn’t care less about what his brothers might think of you two together.)

His body stilled for half a heartbeat when your lips met his, caught off guard, but quickly giving in, hand traveling on your back to bring you even nearer as he kissed you back with the same intensity he carried in everything else.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me!” Craig’s voice cut through, followed by Deran’s satisfied laugh.

“I told you,” he replied, and you witnessed, in the corner of your eyes, his hand reaching out. “C’mon, pay up.”

Craig grumbled, digging into the pocket of his shorts, pulling out a crumpled bill and slapping it into Deran’s palm. “I thought he’d never have the guts,” he muttered.

Pulling back a little, your fingers threaded into Andrew’s curls, legs still enveloped around his waist as you met his staring, completely undone gaze. “Hi,” you whispered, unable to stop the grin that spread across your face.

His digits caressed along your spine, eyes flicking past you to his brothers before returning instantly, like he couldn’t look away for long. “Hi,” he responded with a hoarse voice.

Behind you, Craig made a noise of exaggerated disgust. “Alright, alright, we get it. Can you not do that right in front of us?”

You huffed a snort, not even turning your head as you raised your hand in his direction, middle finger extended without ceremony as you leaned back in yet again, pressing another kiss to Andrew’s mouth, nose brushing his as you pulled away. “I’m not too heavy, right?” you asked teasingly.

His hands adjusted at your back and thigh, firm, holding you effortlessly, shaking his head as he answered, “I’ve got you.” ────────── “I’ve got you.”

The words reach you despite all the layers: the sharp antiseptic smell, the distorted hum of machines, even amid the blur of passage and voices that don’t settle into meaning. You hold onto them the way you hold his hand, fingers tautening around his as if the pressure itself could help to anchor you into tangibility and not disperse with the crushing tide of sensations overtaking your body.

(it’s okay. he’s here. he made it.)

There had been a second (or ten, or a minute, an hour…you couldn’t recall) when you were alone, seated in the garden, back alongside the lounge chair that still contained the ghost of his proposal, your bare feet into the grass as the wind stirred through the oaks in a mesmerizing dance, leaves whispering together, and the next, an unequivocal warmth had flowed between your thighs – the rupture of the amniotic sacs. Just like that. No prelude, no noteworthy discomfort, only the realization that today was the day.

You recollect saying his name, or thinking it, or both, hand seizing for your phone with a slowness that didn’t match the urgency blooming inside your belly, your mind striving to hold onto the steps you had both created: call him or text, breathe, no exertion since Andrew is close. After that, the whole thing is hazy. You remember the text ‘I think it’s starting’ and his call while driving home (was he panicked? was he collected?), the door opening and his strong arms enveloping around you, muttering sweet nothings until you were sat in the vehicle. You recall the car too, or at least the motion of it, his hand gripping yours so tightly it had almost hurt while the other was on the wheel, gaze flicking from you to the road with an attention that bordered on alarm.

He didn’t let go. Even here, on your back, in a room that seems too incandescent, too clean and too full of doctors and nurses who are trying to reassure and act with purpose, none of it exists like the man at your side does, the one whose hand, with a wedding band alike yours, is right there, thumb caressing over your knuckles in slow strokes.

“I’ve got you sweetheart,” he repeats, gentler this time, leaning closer until his forehead is an inch from touching yours, as if proximity could shield from the pain. You look at him through your lashes, observing the lines of his face and the tension held in his jaw. Even his hazel eyes, so often controlled, are wide now, trembling no matter how hard he strains to contain it.

“I know,” you breathe, though your voice feels distant even to your own ears, grip tightening around his hand as another wave builds inside you, slow at first, then rising, rising, until it crests in an intensity that steals the air from your lungs. You gasp, back arching as it travels through you, nails digging into his skin as if you could hold yourself together through him.

“That’s it,” he whispers immediately, unwavering despite his eyes searching briefly toward the doctors before snapping back to you. “You’re doing so good. Just breathe. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

Someone, much closer than presumed, enters in your visual field. “Okay, Mrs. Cody,” the person says and you could practically throw your arms (no, too painful) in joy at hearing this name because it’s now your name, “when you feel the next contraction, I need you to push so your babies can see how beautiful their parents are. Sounds good?”

You nod – or at least you assume you do. The next wave comes faster, stronger, crashing into you while your body bears down and the effort draws from someplace rooted deep inside you, primal, producing a push. It hurts, stings, stretching you in ways you can’t comprehend, and yet, beneath it, there is a vaster emotion. A broken sound escapes your lips, halfway through a sob and a laugh. “I can’t-” you gasp even if your body is already giving everything it has.

“Yes, you can,” Andrew responds, his lips on your knuckles, your inner wrist, your temple, marking every spot he is permitted to attain. “You are so strong, and…” he throws a look where the doctors are working, “…just one more push, okay? Give one more.”

This one is the worst, your vision blurring at the edges, tears slipping free, body quivering under the effort as the pressure builds and builds until- A cry. The sound cuts through everything because it signifies that a baby is here, in the world, breathing and alive. “Is…” you begin, but the words vanish as the weight is placed on your chest. The weight of your very tiny and very warm son. Your hands come up instinctively, cradling, wobbling as they attempt to take in the shape of him, the rise and fall of his chest, the sound of his cries that feel impossibly loud for such a small being.

“Oh my God,” you murmur despite your continuous sobs. “Oh, honey-” You look at Andrew, whose stare is already set on the baby, and his face is open like you’ve never witnessed previously, every barrier stripped away, tears spilling unreservedly down his cheeks without halting them, his hand still clutching yours while the other hovers above your son. “Hey,” you breathe, voice softening despite the exhaustion. “Do you see that?”

“Yes,” he answers with a wrecked tone as he finally allows his fingers to brush gently against the baby as if he is sacred and could disappear with one wrong contact. “He’s- He’s here.”

The doctors ask him something indiscernible, to which he agrees, his hands shaking as they place the scissors in them and guide him toward the cord, explaining where to cut, how to hold it with no hesitation. He swallows, hard, throat working around a fear that – you guess – has less to do with the act itself but what it epitomizes, glancing once to your eyes in search of a response before returning to the fragile tube connecting you to the newborn on your chest. It’s only once you begin to count with him that he finds the control to follow through.

“One,” you whisper, mooring him the same manner he has moored you with every wave of pain.

“Two,” he continues, his grip adjusting and the tremor lessened, contained within the structure you have constructed together.

“Three.” “Four.”

The cord is severed with an exhale, his shoulders dropping as he sinks back beside you, the pad of his thumb stroking the fluid-slick curve of the baby’s ear. “I…I found the name. Oliver,” he says, the name leaving his mouth like a prayer and shaped with care. “Means peace.”

(peace. yes, you feel it in his weight. in his warmth pressed on your skin and in the frantic rhythm of his tiny heart that beats against yours. this boy is peace. not the kind that arrives after the storm. the kind that makes you forget there ever was one.)

“Oliver,” you repeat, tilting your head to peer up at Andrew once more, taking in the full extent of what this instant is doing to him, the man who rarely allows himself to be seen this way by strangers, bare and open, fingers splayed over his son’s back and counting under his breath. “I love it.”

The moment is cut short as the nurses come closer, their hands cautious but efficient as they begin to lift Oliver from your chest, their voices reassuring, explaining that they need to measure him, wash him, check that all is alright, except your body resists the separation intuitively, arms tightening around him for a second longer before you force yourself to let go.

“It’s okay,” Andrew assures, his hand returning to yours once the baby leaves your chest, unyielding. “He’s right there, don’t worry.”

You hum, though the absence feels wrong, like something has been taken from you too soon, your hands lingering uselessly in the space where Oliver had been, your body striving to focus and grasp that there is still- The contraction tears through you before the thought can fully form, harder than ever before. Your whole body attempts to arch, a cry escaping you freely, fingers clamping down around Andrew’s hand as the pain comes back in full force, more demanding.

“No.” you gasp as your head falls back, sweat running in rivulets along your back and temples. “I can’t do it again, Andy, I-”

“You can, sweetheart,” he cuts in, the tremor now long gone, buried beneath a newfound strength forged in the seconds since Oliver entered the world. “I’m right here, I’m not letting go.” His forehead connects with yours, handing you one of his smiles that uncovers the dimples. “You’re beautiful,” he adds, which earns in response the smallest huff of snort.

Instructions come faster, more urgent and insistent, your body responding despite the exhaustion that drags at every muscle, spent by the effort that has already occurred. “Again Mrs. Cody,” someone shouts.

You shake your head weakly, tears slipping sideways into your hair as you catch your breath. “Please, I can’t,” you plead.

Andrew’s grip only increases at your words. “Look at me,” he says, and you do, because you always do – and since even here, when all seems difficult, he is still the one thing that doesn’t blur nor fade. His eyes hold yours, unblinking. “One and it’s over. I promise, okay? You trust me?”

And when the next contraction comes, you meet it, for if there’s one certitude in this lifetime, it’s that Andrew would never lie to you. You use what you have left, every last piece of strength and oxygen and determination. The cry that ensues is the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard, your body collapsing back against the bed as the tension releases, an exhale tearing out of you in a sob carrying relief and incredulity in equal measure, hands reaching before they even put her on you.

And there she is, placed against you. All humid and sticky and perfect. Your daughter. Oliver positioned beside her on your chest, the world narrows once again to this: the sound of their cries, the way their bodies fit on yours like puzzle pieces. You laugh through the tears as your palms shift between them, connecting, memorizing. “Hello Juliet,” you whisper with a shaky voice, an emotion too large to contain blossoming in your ribcage. “Hello Oliver.”

Andrew leans in, his lips brushing yours, traveling to your temple, then the space between your brows as if he can’t decide where to place his affection, rapidly followed by a kiss on each of the babies’ head.

“My angels,” he breathes, the word dissolving against your skin, and it’s more than enough to fill every space that ever felt empty. ────────── “Honestly honey, if our babies turn out with dents all over, blame me,” you murmured in the dimness of the bedroom with a laugh that belonged to you and you alone – one that he loved, patiently coaxed out of hiding.

And Andrew, who had been resting his temple on the rounded curve of your abdomen, exhaled a low sound of amusement. “They won’t,” he answered, tone flat in a vain endeavor to conceal the gentleness beneath it, raising his head to glance up at you. “And if they do, we’ll say Craig dropped them.”

You snorted, fingers resuming their prodding from one side to the other, waiting with eagerness for the faintest response, who came before he could count to four with a ripple beneath his jawline. “There,” you chirped, tilting your head toward him. “Did you feel that?”

Shifting closer instead of answering right away, his body aligned alongside yours with attention, hand sliding over your stomach in an attempt to cover the space where the movement had been, where it might be again. “Yeah.”

(Again. Please. Let him feel it again.)

The mattress dipped under your motion as a hand threaded through his curls, fingertips grazing his scalp in slow, absent strokes that drew a hum from his chest. “Come closer,” you grinned, and even though there was barely any gap left to close, he obeyed, trailing kisses all along the waves. “They are pretty active tonight.” Your pinkie twirled around a piece of his hair. “I think they know you’re here.”

“They…You think?” he asked, a surge of hope breaching through before he could temper it, fragile and almost boyish in a manner he rarely conceded himself to be in the daylight. He didn’t budge a muscle. Didn’t breathe.

You smiled down at him, slowing your caresses in his hair to guide him a few inches to the side, where a new undulation brushed his face. “I do,” you answered, “you know why?” He shook his head. “Because every time you’re close, my heart is pounding like crazy.” The pad of your thumb rubbed along his temple, prying out another sound from deep in his chest. “And they feel that. They know it’s beating for their dad.”

Andrew swallowed, his throat enclosing as a sentiment rose: not honed like fear, not acrid like the void he had carried most of his existence with Smurf, but full, almost unbearably so. The man who had once been taught that affection came measured and conditional, that warmth was to be earned in only fragments as a reciprocity for whatever she commanded of him, was now in your arms, where there was no rationing, no withholding or negotiation for scraps of care. And he had one certainty: he would not starve ever again. His hand travelled up to rest on your heart, feeling its rapid pulses that matched with his own.

“They know it’s beating for their dad,” you repeated, observing him. “And that you’re their home, just like you’re mine.”

He nodded once, but the motion was small, almost imperceptible, not quite trusting himself to do more without shattering whatever fragile equilibrium he still held together. So…he did what he knew best instead: he kissed his wife, again and again, pursuing no clear pattern but his instinct, committing to memory your splendor through touch. His hand remained on your stomach, yes, but the rest of him moved up, lips connecting to the hollow between your breasts, then on each sensitive nipple, earning a small gasp from you and a hand tightening in his curls. He couldn’t stop. Not until his face found its place at the junction of your neck and shoulder, taking a lungful of your scent.

Quiet for a moment, your fingers continued their unhurried path through his scalp. “I’ve been thinking,” you ended up whispering with a tone that made him lift his head just enough to see your profile. “I…I might have an idea,” you continued, staring at the ceiling before making eye contact with Andrew. “For her name.”

“Wha-What is it?” he asked cautiously.

Leaning closer, your voice dropped to the word. “Juliet.” Silence ensued, only disturbed by Andrew’s sharp inhale. “It reminded me of…of Julia. And I thought-” Your voice faltered briefly, due certainly to his face, holding back tears, “I thought it could be a nice way to keep her close. If you want.”

(Julia. The one he couldn’t rescue from Smurf. From Baz. From drugs. From himself. The one they all left behind. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted your lashes.)

You were watching him carefully now, hesitant, almost like prepared to take the name back if it hurt. “It’s okay if-”

“No,” he cut in, his hand resuming its idle patterns on your stomach. “It’s…it’s good.”

Relief flickered across your face as your fingers weaved through every curl that fell on his forehead. “So, you like it?” you wondered timidly.

(How could he utter it? Put into words how you made him comprehend that not all had been lost? That you gave a way for Julia to no longer be abandoned. That you killed Smurf a thousand times. Defeated her in every way she would have feared. By loving him right. By burning her overpriced couch and overpriced clothes. By freeing what she had kept on a leach. No, he knew his daughter wasn’t Julia. And that was the point. You were not trying to give him back what had been taken. You were snapping the final nail in Smurf’s coffin.)

He nodded, his gaze dropping to your stomach, to the place where his children rested. “Yeah.” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder. “It’s a pretty name. Juliet.”

Yes, Andrew loved how this was how Janine Cody ended: with children she would never touch and a name she could never ruin. ────────── He strives to count but it isn’t fruitful, the numbers unraveling midway through the sequence, and even the room itself is hostile to a symmetry that could alleviate the noise in his head. His eyes keep staring at the painted patterns running along the hospital bedroom walls: uneven rows of triangles and squares and rectangles that don’t align properly, none sharing the same dimensions nor the same angles, just a cluster of shapes scattered on a chartreuse wallpaper without discipline as if whoever designed this place had never considered what it felt like to require order to be able to breathe.

(It’s supposed to be a square. But one side is longer. So it’s not a rectangle either. Wrong. It’s all wrong. The spacing is inconsistent too. Why would they- Stop. One. Two. Three. Four. He needs to count.)

His knee bounces a few more times before he stills it with a hand pushed hard against his thigh, jaw contracting sufficiently to ache while he forces his gaze elsewhere as long as it’s far from the crooked geometry threatening to splinter his concentration, searching for alternative task to latch onto while he waits. Standing by is worse than the fear itself. Worse because it leaves room for thought, and moments like this have always been treacherous territory for Andrew.

(What if one of them stopped breathing while he wasn’t there? What if you hemorrhaged? You had told him to go first in the room while they were stitching you but maybe he shouldn’t have. What if there was damage they hadn’t caught yet? Bad thoughts. One. Two. Three. Fou-)

The door opens before the spiral can wholly root, Andrew rising before his mind can even catch up, feet carrying him across the room as two nurses guide your bed inside while another pair roll the bassinets beside you, their inaudible voices and relaxed smiles altering the entire atmosphere of the room in a single instant. 

“There we are,” one of the women murmurs warmly as she blocks the brakes beneath your bed. “Mom and Dad can finally get some peace and quiet with their babies.”

The other nurse laughs under her breath while carefully steering one of the cribs. “And what adorable babies they are.”

You beam despite the exhaustion pulling at your features, your entire body dragging the evidence of what it has endured in the last hours, and yet the sight of you strikes him with ample force to disrupt his inhaling. Because you are tired, yes, but beneath it…you are radiant. Not in the simplistic sense people use for beauty, but how stained glass becomes incandescent when sunlight dances through it – the ethereal angel who gave him the right to call himself your husband.

“They get it from their dad,” you reply sleepily to the nurses’ praise, voice coarsened by the crying and exertion with a pinch of amusement amid every syllable.

Andrew lowers his gaze at the remark, unable to formulate a response, for beauty has forever been deemed divine to him, and everything divine in his existence has arrived wearing your face, not his. The staff finishes settling the room into place, checking monitors one final time, offering reassurances and congratulations that start to blur together because his attention has narrowed onto you and the bassinets beside the bed. He doesn’t even hear the nurses leave, just a sudden silence that reminds him of the church’s sacredness.

Standing there for a few more seconds without budging a muscle, he takes the entire scene in, sealing it in its own kind of mental resin: you, lying under the pale blue blanket, painted by the low golden lighting of the bedroom and the babies in diapers too large for them, making noises he couldn’t wait to decode. His family.

You notice him staring. “Honey,” you mutter, “come here. I’m missing you.” He obeys promptly, crossing the distance between you in three strides. (Three. He wants to go back and make it four. No. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four.) Reaching the bed, Andrew intertwines your hands together before lowering his forehead against them, breathing once, deeply, relishing in the contact of your skin and the cool wedding band to steady himself. “You okay?” you ask.

The question undoes him. (You are the one who carried those babies. The one who labored through tears and agony. You are the one who should be cared for. Yesterday, today, and evermore. Not him. Never him.) He lifts his head to look at you properly, eyes slowly tracing the details of your features and cataloguing the damp strands of hair against your temples, the remnants of tears dried along your cheeks. “Yeah,” he replies hoarsely. “You shouldn’t ask me that, sweetheart. Are you okay?”

Your smile widens despite all the emotions, fingers brushing against the back of his hand so tenderly it could split his chest open. “Tired but…” Your gaze drifts toward the cribs. “It was worth it.”

Andrew nods immediately, for nothing on earth has ever been truer. “And no pain?” he adds, his brows drawing together with concern that refuses to depart him since the delivery room and witnessing your body strain beyond what he had thought tolerable.

You shake your head. “No pain. I promise.” Lifting one hand weakly, you point first toward Oliver, then Juliet. “Can you bring them closer? It’s…” Goosebumps rise along your arms as if even your body protests against the distance. “…empty inside. It feels weird.”

Releasing your hand hesitantly, he moves, conducting each one nearer with measured gestures, terrified of jostling them despite the wheel barely making noise against the floor. He stops between them afterward, heed captured by the tiny forms lying there, freshly cleaned, neither dressed beyond diapers for the two of you had insisted on skin-to-skin before the onesies and the photographs and whatever endless ritual awaits outside the door. “Is it good like that?” he asks without looking away from them.

“Yes,” you murmur sleepily. “It’s perfect.” When he returns beside you, you reach for his hand and lift it toward your mouth, smoothing a lingering kiss on his knuckles as he turns his palm to cradle your cheek, thumb brushing beneath your eye. You lean into the contact, lids half closed until your expression brightens abruptly with wonder, voice dropping conspiratorially despite the emptiness of the room. “Have you seen their feet? And their hands? They are so tiny!”

His gaze flickers back toward the bassinets, hand slipping from your face as he steps to them once more, bending at the waist as his pads brush carefully over Oliver’s soft soles first, followed by Juliet’s, each impossibly small beneath the breadth of his palm.

(One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five on the other. Ten toes. Ten fingers. Good number. Her twin? Ten. Ten. Good. The babies are okay. Fine.)

“Yes,” he responds eventually, tracing the delicate curve of Juliet’s heel. “It’s…small.” But the word feels inadequate because…small could feel synonymous of meaningless, and if there’s one thing that Andrew is assured of, it’s that those two beings are the furthest definition of meaningless. He loves all of them already: the shape of their nose, Oliver’s cupid’s bow, Juliet’s thin curly hair, the rise and fall of their breathing…they are simply flawless.

The babies stir beneath his touch, tiny movements no larger than the twitch of a leaf in the breeze, yet it petrifies Andrew instantaneously as he withdraws his hand halfway and throws you an alarmed look, to which you smile, soft and reassuring. “It’s okay, Andy,” you yawn, sinking into the mattress. “You won’t hurt them.”

He poorly tries to conceal his frown at your tiredness now that the adrenaline no longer keeps you upright. “You should rest,” he says quietly. “You’ve done great today.”

A sleepy smile blooms on your face. “Okay.” Your eyes drift toward the babies before returning to him. “You can do the skin-to-skin while I sleep.”

Fear flickers through him so quickly he hopes you miss it. (Both? Alone? What if he holds them wrong? Or one slips? What if he isn’t enough for both?) Still, he nods since the last thing he wants is to place more worry onto your shoulders after everything your body has endured. “Yes.”

“You have to take off your shirt for that,” you add singingly.

Andrew’s brow furrows again. “Yes…I know.”

A grin appears on your face, weary, yes, but playful enough to make a blush spread from his chest to cheeks. “I know you know,” you whisper, giving him the smallest wink. “I just want to enjoy the view for some nice dreams.”

The sound that escapes him is half a snort, half a disbelieving breath, leaning down to press a kiss at the top of your head. “Fine, boss.” Straightening, he reaches for the hem of his shirt and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion, folding it thoroughly over the nearby chair.

One of your eyes open once more, travelling over him with obvious appreciation before you drown deeper into the pillows. “Yes,” you sigh contentedly. “Exactly what I needed.” He shakes his head, though the corners of his mouth betray him. Your lashes finally lower completely. “Wake me if there’s an issue,” you end up murmuring drowsily.

Andrew’s gaze softens at the trust embedded within the request, the ease with which you hand him your three precious lives before allowing rest to find you. “I will,” he promises to himself.

For a moment, after your breathing evens out, he remains motionless beside the bed, observing the exhaustion pulling you fully under, your hand loosely curled atop the blanket and your wedding ring glinting whenever the dim hospital light catches it, until eventually his focus drifts back toward the two beings and his pulse accelerates at the realization that the next part belongs entirely to him.

(It’s the first time he holds his children and he can’t mess it up. You’re sleeping and he doesn’t want to wake you and fail you. There’s no doctor or nurse either. Just him. He should know how to do this naturally, right? Isn’t fatherhood supposed to awake something? Maybe he is not made for that. Maybe he is a bad father already. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the wheels. He has to do the skin-to-skin. The medical staff said it was important. The book said it was important. Most importantly, you said it was important.)

He approaches so cautiously that the chair next to you barely makes a sound when he lowers himself into it, knees brushing the edge of the bassinets, positioned close enough for him to reach both without getting on his feet. His palms flatten against his thighs first, grounding himself through the contact of the textile so he can finally leans forward. Oliver naps profoundly, mouth parted and one tiny fist near his cheek, unaware of the apocalypse he has caused inside Andrew’s ribcage merely by existing, while Juliet remains awake, eyes half-open with heavy lids, like she is still attempting to comprehend the transition from darkness to light.

Hands hovering uncertainly over Oliver first, they slide beneath the baby’s body the way the nurses demonstrated earlier, supporting the weight of his head with care as he lifts him against his chest, the warmth immediate through skin-to-skin contact. And the instant Oliver settles there, Andrew understands two things concurrently: the first, that his son fits on him with terrifying perfection, heartbeat fluttering against his sternum in syncopation with the percussion of his own, and the second, that Juliet still lies awake, her small arms lunging weakly.

A sharp ache cuts through him. (Because he knows this sentiment. What it means to view affection install elsewhere first. To learn silence instead of reassurance. To become accustomed to being the second thought.) His jaw tautens at the thought. (No. Not here. Not with them. Never with them. He swore to himself that no one will spend a second wondering if they were left behind.)

Heart beginning to hammer against his ribs, Andrew shifts in the chair, adjusting Oliver higher along one side of his chest before inclining toward Juliet’s crib, actions slower now, more precise from fear of disturbing the boy already asleep. When he gathers the little girl into his free arm, she startles at the change, face scrunching in protest before he instinctively murmurs, “Hey, hey…it’s okay bug,” his voice low enough that it barely rises above the quietude, and somehow the sound reaches her because she relaxes once he positions her on the opposite side of his torso.

For a second…he simply halts there, overwhelmed by the notion that he has two entire futures entrusted in his hands. His children.

(This is what communion is. Not the wine. Nor the scripture. Not even the kneeling, begging forgiveness from a God he has never fully grasped. This. Holding his miracles close enough to feel their breathing on his skin. Holding until terror and devotion become indistinguishable. The only communion that will ever lead him closer to heaven.)

His pulse races violently beneath them, so loud he becomes convinced they must hear it too, and he forces himself to inhale slowly through his nose the way you had both worked on months ago whenever the nightmares threatened to pull you under. (One. Two. Three. Four. In. Out. In. Out.) The breath leaves him shakily. (Again.)

Oliver remains asleep through all of it, cheek pressed on the left side of Andrew’s chest, trusting and looking so much like you that it borders on painful: from the softness around his mouth, to the shape of his nose, and Andrew can’t help but stare at him in awe. But Juliet…Juliet is still awake and not crying or fussy. She is looking upward with intensity, tiny brows furrowed as if the effort of focusing on him requires all she possesses, her and her wide haz- His breath ceases. Hazel. Her eyes are hazel. Still very much clouded by the recent birth, but unmistakably close to his own shade.

No one bearing his eyes had ever peered at him with such unquestioning love before, yet here she is, only hours old, as though she had entered the world already certain that wherever he is, home will be there too. “Hello,” he whispers to her, panicked somehow of shattering the moment if he speaks louder. “I’m your dad. It’s okay.”

Juliet’s mouth opens briefly before shutting, his entire body bringing her closer despite the absence of space between them. He begins to rock, almost imperceptibly, just enough motion for the chair beneath him to shift in slow rhythm while his hands continue their adjustments minutely on their backs, terrified of supporting them incorrectly, or allowing their heads to tilt too far – all the catastrophes his mind can invent in the span of seconds.

But gradually, the movement becomes smoother. (Forward. Back. Forward. Back. Better than the breathing. Better than the counting.) “You’re okay,” he whispers again, even if he no longer can tell whether he is addressing her or himself. “Dad’s got you. You and your brother. No one’s going anywhere. I promise.”

He lowers his head, placing a kiss at the top of Juliet’s head, then Oliver’s, because yes, ‘dad’ is not an abstract word anymore. It’s his title. Andrew Cody is a father. A dad.

(He spent his existence believing he would never be one. Baz said so. Smurf thought so. A whole life thinking that inheritance could only mean damage. That the violence would be passed from hand to hand like a curse. A family ritual. Another Cody thing. Fear masquerading once more as love. But this…this is his legacy. Tenderness. Safety.)

Oliver shifts in his sleep before sinking deeper against him, tiny fingers flexing near Andrew’s chin, while Juliet’s eyelids begin to droop heavier and heavier with the help of the rocking motion. “That’s it,” he hums. “You can sleep, bug.” Her gaze lingers stubbornly for another few seconds, still fixed toward his face with a startling intensity, before at last they close fully and her small body melts into his chest beside her brother. It’s only then that Andrew slows, just enough to listen to their breaths. (In. Out. In. Out. They breathe.)

Careful not to disturb the sleeping babies, Andrew reaches blindly toward the bed until his fingertips brush your arm, and even unconscious, you lean into the contact. He doesn’t move afterward, grateful to all the stars above, for he is holding everything he has ever wanted. ────────── Craig found you prior to the ceremony, pushing through the door separating the nave from the narthex with all the subtlety of a storm. The beige suit fitted his broad frame, long hair tied back up and clean for once, which in itself felt biblical enough to mark the date, his dress shoes clicking on the parquet until he noticed you seated on the wooden bench near the entrance, bouquet clasped so tightly in your lap that the stems had commenced to crook beneath your fingers.

“You know,” he started, leaning one shoulder against the wall with a grin pulling at his mouth, “it’s still time to run if you want.”

A snort escaped you before you could prevent it, one hand sliding down over your five-month pregnant belly covered by the white silky fabric. “What’s ‘running’ again?” you asked dryly. “I forgot a while ago.”

Craig barked out a laugh, sufficiently loud that it echoed throughout the room. Recalling where he was, he lowered it into an exaggerated whisper, dropping onto the bench beside you with his knees spread wide and hands clasped together in between. “Okay, so…” He glanced sideways at you. “What are we doing here? Contemplating our lives?”

You stared down at your pair of flats peeking from the dress, at the hem of the white fabric spilling around your ankles – anywhere but him. “Maybe.”

“Maybe,” he parroted right back, nudging your shoulder with his own. “What are you thinking about?”

Your fingers slackened around the bouquet, at last, cautiously placing it by your side on the bench, inhaling leisurely through your nose while somewhere deeper in the church, you perceived the distant creak of pews and Deran speaking to someone – Andrew, who was likely standing at the altar and verifying for a thousandth time that his brother had the rings with him. “I’m just…” Your voice trailed off as your palm came to rest over your stomach once more, hoping to experience some movement today, but still nothing. “I’m just thinking about the people here today.”

Craig’s expression changed, awkwardness creeping into the lines of his face as he began picking at the edge of his sleeve with rough fingers, undoubtedly regretting that the conversation had entered the emotional territory. “Is it because there’s only Deran and I?” he asked after a beat. “Pop-I mean Andrew, told us that it was your idea, but I can go talk to h-”

“Craig.” You cut him off, smiling despite yourself. “Don’t worry. I love that Deran and you are here.” Your gaze softened. “I wouldn’t have wanted more people.” He studied you carefully, still uncertain about your claim. “We both know it wouldn’t have suited Andrew.”

That finally earned a laugh from him. “True,” he admitted. “He would’ve tried for you, but…” He grimaced, a look that conveyed all the words in the world passing through his eyes. You laughed too, the sound lighter, and for a brief second, the tension inside your chest relaxed enough to breathe properly. “So? Why the pouting then?” Craig asked, tilting his head toward you. “Isn’t this supposed to be the best day of your life?” He gestured vaguely to the stomach. “At least until…you know. Gremlin day.”

You elbowed him. “I am absolutely telling your niece or nephew that you called them gremlins.”

“Your honor, in my defense,” he said solemnly, placing a hand against his chest, “this baby has been conceived by two gremlins.”

Despite the giggle that escaped you, the emotion still lingered heavily around your ribs, which he noticed (because of course he did. it was Craig. no matter how much he feigned otherwise, he was perceptive and good-hearted). “I just meant…” Your voice quietened. “That thinking about the people here reminded me of the ones who couldn’t be.”

The teasing left his face completely then, substituted by a sincerity so genuine it caught you off guard. “Your parents would’ve been really happy for you,” he murmured.

You blinked. “You think so?”

“I know so.” He shrugged before a smirk slowly returned. “I mean…it could’ve been worse.” He angled toward you with an exaggerated flirtatious face. “Could’ve been me.”

“Ugh, as if!” you snorted, even as tears gathered unwillingly at the corners of your eyes.

Craig reached over without hesitation, thumb brushing beneath your left eye before it could fall. “Exactly,” he said firmly, though amusement still remained in his tone. “Now you’re about to marry the kindest guy on earth, so no more crying, okay?” His grin widened. “At least not until you see him in the suit.”

A watery chuckle escaped you. “Okay.” You let him fuss over you long enough to aid you blow your nose. “I bet he looks fucking hot,” you added.

Craig choked on his own guffaw, glancing to the church doors as if the pastor might appear and smite you on sight. “Mind you, this is a church!”

That only made the two of you cackle harder, filling the narthex until it became the only sound in the room. Eventually, you cleared your throat, nerves returning all at once now that the moment was sufficiently close to be palpable. “Hey, Craig?”

“Hm?” He tried to rearrange his face into seriousness again and failed miserably.

You bit at your lower lip before asking, “Will you walk me to the aisle?”

The expression that crossed his face nearly wrecked you, for all the joked disappeared in the bat of an eye, leaving only tenderness behind. “It would be…” He paused, deepening his voice halfway through to hide the emotion threatening to crack through it. “It would be an honor, to bring my sister to the aisle.”

Slowly, you rose from the bench, the movement heavier with the weight of your pregnancy, and Craig’s eyes enlarged the second he saw the full dress properly for the first time, the sunlight coming through the windows, highlighting the lace sleeves and silk white fabric. “Fuck,” he blurted out instinctively. “You’re pretty.”

You smacked his arm. “Language!”

“Sorry, sorry,” he muttered, yet he was still grinning while you slipped your hand through his arm. Then, quieter, right before he pushed open the doors, he added, “My brother is gonna lose his mind.”

The church glowed gold when you entered it, the kind of color you had only seen in films, amber and blue scarred over the pews and altar due to the stained glass windows. Andrew was there, at the end of the aisle, in a camel-colored suit that fitted him so obscenely well you momentarily forgot every coherent thought you had ever possessed.

(oh, you were absolutely getting him out of that suit tonight. no. maybe not entirely out of it. the jacket would stay on. only the jacket.)

He looked devastatingly gorgeous. And the worst part was that his face screamed you those same kind of thoughts, for the second his eyes landed on you, every part of him went still – not blinking, probably not even breathing.

Your sinful train of thought got interrupted by Craig, leaning down toward your ear. “You forgot your bouquet on the bench.”

You looked down. “…shit.”

“Language,” Craig whispered smugly.

You ignored him entirely, too busy ogling at Andrew while you continued down the short aisle, and only then did Deran leaned toward his brother and mumbled something under his breath that forced Andrew to blink twice in rapid succession. You nearly chortled out loud and by the time you reached him, your chest throbbed from the overwhelming sentiment of love. Craig pressed a quick kiss to your temple before placing your hand into Andrew’s, the whole world narrowing to him.

You barely heard the pastor speaking. Barely registered the words about devotion and covenant and holy matrimony because Andrew was looking at you as if he was witnessing a revelation in real time, his thumb moving shakily against your knuckles while emotion climbed visibly up his throat.

When it was time for the vows, he swallowed hard enough that you witnessed the movement. “I’m not good…” he began roughly, eyes locked on yours. “With words. Or with love. But I swear that I’ll spend every day trying.” Deran silently handed him the ring before Andrew even had to ask. “I’ll love you when things are easy,” Andrew continued, voice breaking on the last word while he slid the band onto your finger with trembling hands. “And when they’re not. Or we’re tired. Or scared. Or life hurts.” Your eyes stung. “I love every version of you…” He stepped closer, the pad of his thumb caressing gently the heart necklace resting at your collarbone. “…with every version of me.”

You were already crying when your turn came. “The day we met, I thought you were the quietest man I had ever known.” A laugh rippled behind you both from Craig and Deran. “Which was strange considering you have the loudest brother on earth.” Craig snorted. “But then we spent time together,” you continued, smiling through tears, “and I realized you were actually the loudest one.” Andrew’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“In your acts,” you explained. “The way you kept me safe during skateboard lessons. How you guarded my drinks at parties. How you never let me feel alone.” Deran handed you Andrew’s ring. “Andrew,” you whispered with a trembling voice, “I know you spent a long time believing you were hard to love.” His throat bobbed. “But that’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done in my life.” You slid the ring onto his finger carefully. “And I love every version of you…with every version of me.”

Andrew kissed you before the pastor could even finish the ceremony. One second you were standing there, painted in light by the windows and candles, and the next his hand was cradling your face, mouth on yours with such tenderness…You didn’t catch the pastor blessing you and declaring you husband and wife afterward, for the only thing existing in that moment was Andrew, kissing you as though devotion itself had taken human form.

And later that day, when Craig and Deran took the car to go back to Oceanside, the bedroom door closed behind you both with a clicked that seemed to hush the entire world at once, leaving only the sound of your breathing and Andrew, standing there in the light of the bedside lamp, staring at you with a similar expression to the one he had worn at the altar: overwhelmed, reverential, undone.

For an instant, neither of you moved. Then, Andrew crossed the room to you, his hands finding your waist, forehead lowering briefly against yours before his mouth brushed your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips. “So pretty,” he murmured on your skin. His fingers traced the back of your dress, fumbling until the buttons were found, each one off striping another layer of restraint from him as his breath grew rougher while the lace slipped open inch by inch beneath his hands. “So soft.” A kiss landed against your shoulder. “My wife.” Another along the curve of your neck. “Love you.”

The dress finally fell from your arms, Andrew’s pupils dilatating the more skin appeared, his hands smoothing over your sides and his lips trailing after every newly revealed part of you. “My angel.” It became increasingly difficult not to bury your fingers in his curls and tug. Andrew lowered himself onto one knee, helping you step out of the dress pooled around your feet before reaching for your flat shoes, fingers unfastening the delicate straps with concentration and not realizing that your focus was now set on the wedding band at his finger, glowing under the light.

He took the first shoe off gently, pressing a kiss on your ankle afterward, followed by the calf, then the knee and performing the same treatment with the second leg. “So beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely. By the time his mouth was on the inside of your thigh, your hand was threaded tightly into his hair, drawing a low sound from his throat that made warmth bloom in the pit of your stomach.

“Andrew,” you breathed. His eyes lifted at the sound of his name, dark and heavy and full of love. You guided him up, sitting at the edge of the bed, your dress forgotten on the floor while he remained standing between your knees. And since the sight of him like this: loosened tie, swollen lips, trembling hands, wedding band gleaming, was ample to make mischief spark alive in your veins, you tilted your head and whispered teasingly, “Come here, husband.”

The reaction was so genuine you couldn’t stop your giggle, Andrew frozen to the spot, blinking once, twice, and asking boyishly, “Can you say that again, please?”

“My husband,” you repeated, the sound coming out of his chest outright sinful, kissing you with desperation, both hands rising to cradle your face. You could feel the smile breaking on his face as he kissed you deeper, tongue dancing with yours. Pulling back just enough to breathe, your fingers traveled to the lapels of his camel jacket, smoothing over the fabric before grinning. “Everything off but this jacket.”

Andrew huffed a laugh against your mouth, forehead dropping on yours. “Bossy wife.” ────────── Two in the morning has ceaselessly seemed dissimilar from the rest of the day, even when he was but a kid, an hour where all is stripped down to its plainest frame and left exposed in the dark, every creak of the house magnified till it felt like an earthquake. Andrew lies awake, staring at the ceiling and listening to your sleepy breaths, one of your legs tangled over his and arm curled around his waist, as if even unconscious you refuse to permit distance between your bodies.

He knows why he can’t rest. Or rather, he knows but attempts to sand the edges down into practicalities instead of naming the truth directly, for issues can be solved, or catalogued, or checked off one after another until they cease clawing at his ribcage. The doors are locked (He verified them three times before bed.), the windows too, the oven is switched off, the coffee machine unplugged, the baby monitor sits on his nightstand, volume high enough that he can even perceive the sound machine in the nursery – set on a cycle of artificial ocean waves. But still…his eyes remain wide open.

(In the book, it said newborns wake every two to four hours. Oliver woke up at midnight. Juliet ten minutes later. That suggests they could wake any second now. Perhaps they’re hungry already. Perhaps one of them rolled on their belly. Or the sacks opened. Or the monitor stopped working and he didn’t notice. Or- Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the corners of the ceiling. Again. One. Two. Three. Four.)

Your grip tautens around him in your slumber as he begins to move, your forehead pressing between his shoulder blades with a hum of protest that nearly persuades him to stay, for the bed is warm and you smell like milk and lavender soap, paired with the sweetness of the lotion you rubbed onto your skin earlier while he was feeding Juliet. But the thoughts persist. Therefore, prudently, Andrew untangles himself from your hold, lifting your arm gradually enough that you merely sigh and curl toward the empty spot he leaves behind.

For a few seconds, he remains on his bare feet in the dark bedroom, wearing nothing but his boxers, anticipating for a sign, but there’s none: no crying, no fussing, only the ocean sounds spilling from beneath the nursery door. The hallway floor creaks at each of his steps as he walks to it, pulse decelerating because movement at least feels useful here, his everlasting vigilance transmuted into ritual – father keeping vigil in the middle of the night for the sake of the two souls resting down the corridor.

The nursery is dim when he slips inside, illuminated only by the pale blue glow of the baby monitor and the greenish shimmer of the stars stuck to the ceiling above the cribs, both your constellations stretching over the children in uneven lines that you had insisted looked lovelier imperfect. (Andrew had reorganized them twice afterward anyway.)

Juliet sleeps on her side despite every attempt to keep her centered, dinosaur sleep sack bunched beneath her chin as one tiny hand rest near her face, while Oliver, in the crib beside hers, lies flat on his back wrapped inside a whale-patterned sack. Watching attentively, he stands there for a while, checking the rise and fall of their chests through the haze of fatigue and panic, until eventually his exhalation unconsciously syncs to theirs.

Checking Juliet first this time, Andrew notices, with a frown, a small striped fabric that couldn’t be larger than his palm, wedged under her cheek. Her sock. “Bug,” he murmurs, leaning down, “how’d your sock get here?” Very delicately, he unzips the dinosaur sleeping bag, uncovering her foot and sliding the sock back over her ankle and smoothing the fabric into place. “There. Better.”

His fingertips brush against the sole of her foot just to feel the smoothness there, before zipping up the sack. He hasn’t even arrived at four in his mind when Oliver startles awake, his arms jolting in the air and his face scrunching in distress, mouth opening around a breath that could become tears withing seconds. Andrew reacts before thinking: hands gliding beneath him, lifting him against his bare chest with urgency while his heart hammers hard enough to quake his entire ribcage. “Shhh,” he hums, low and solid, the vibration carrying from his sternum into Oliver’s little body. “Let’s not wake your sister.”

That was a thing you had discovered during the first few days home, bringing one of the babies on his torso during a crying fit, only for the humming coming out of his throat pacifying them rapidly. “They like knowing they’re not alone,” you told him later. “That their dad is never far.”

So…that’s what he does now, because he can’t sing the way you do, soothing them with melodies effortlessly, but he can offer this at least. Oliver squirms a little against him, panic receding with his cheek pressed over Andrew’s heartbeat. The chair near the window creaks when he lowers himself into it, one broad hand spread protectively across the baby’s back as the stars overhead glow on the ceiling, the only sounds in the room being the artificial ocean and his humming, guiding Oliver once more to doze.

Andrew smooths a kiss on the top of his head, scattered with tufts of hair. “You can go back to sleep,” he whispers. “Your mom and I are next door.”

(The words still feel unreal. Mom. Son. Daughter. In their own room. In this house. Far, far from the ghosts. From Oceanside and the jobs and the blood. Where nothing would hurt them. Hurt you. There are moments where he has to repeat to himself that it’s not counterfeit. That he is just beating the odds time and time again.)

Eventually, he goes back on his feet, placing Oliver heedfully into the whale sleeping bag and adjusting the zipper (making sure four times in a row if it’s correctly fastened), checking on Juliet for good measure, the pad of his pointer hovering near her nose just to feel the air against his skin.

(They are both breathing. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts their inhales and exhales.)

When he slips back into the bedroom, you stir as he settles beneath the covers, drawing him backward until his shoulder blades rests alongside your breasts and your arm loops around his waist to pull him closer, breath warm on the shell of his ear. “Are they okay?” you mumble sleepily.

Andrew’s hand finds your under the blanket, fingers intertwining. “Yes,” he replies. “They’re breathing.”

A chuckle vibrates against his spine before you peck the spot behind his lobe that continuously makes him shiver. “Good,” you smile. “It was a very nice first week at home, don’t you think?”

He nods into the darkness. “Yeah.” A pause settles prior to the question escaping him. “You think they like the stars?”

“I’m sure they love the stars,” you whisper, another kiss ending up where his neck meets his shoulder as your fingers drift into his hair, nails scraping his scalp in slow motions that unravels every knot inside him one by one. “And I’m sure they’ll love the garden too.” His eyes start closing before he even realizes it. “And I’m even more sure they love their very attentive dad.”

The words make his brow furrow. “You don’t think I’m…” he hesitates. “Too much?”

Feeling your head shaking against his back in denial, you respond. “No.” Another soft kiss at the nape of his neck. “I’m so happy I know I can count on you.” Your voice grows quieter with fatigue yet again. “Thank you, honey.”

Andrew frowns even harder at that, genuinely unable to comprehend. (Of course you can rely on him. You carried two children inside your body until it hurt to be on your feet. You bled and sobbed and brought heaven into the world with your own hands. The least he can do is stay awake beside the children for the rest of his life. Why are you thanking him? Praising him when he should devote each morning to be on his knees at your altar?)

“Don’t,” His voice breaks with the exhaustion. “Don’t thank me.”

“Oh, shush,” you grumble, amused. “I can if I want to.” Your hand smooths lazily over his bare stomach. “After all, the love of my life is a good father, a good husband, and has the sweetest ass in the entire town.” A pause. “County. No…state. Maybe even galaxy.”

A snort spills out of him before he can think about stopping it. But what he desperately wants to tell you in return, it’s that the love of his life is the best mother he has ever seen, the gentlest wife, and the closest thing to grace he believes this world has ever produced. Exhaustion prevents him from responding though, his only thought being that down the hallway, the sound machine continues its endless tide for two babies, and that beside him, you breathe too. And for tonight, that’s sufficient to let him sleep. ────────── “Look at that!” you cooed, balancing Juliet on your left side, her head on your breast, while Oliver rested in the crook of your opposite arm, both babies bundled in soft cotton cloths like mismatched little cocoons, their faces scrunched by languor and puzzlement alike. “That’s dada!” You widened your eyes in feign awe toward the twins. “Making sure you’ll be comfortable in the big scary Sardines Soak!”

Andrew, crouched beside the bathtub with one sleeve shoved halfway to his elbow and his entire attention fixed on the thermometer floating in the water, frowned without lifting his head. “Why are you calling it that?”

“Because it’s their first time in there, so it’s big, scary…” you replied matter-of-factly, kissing the top of Juliet’s head who kept drooling on your shirt, “and they are sardines about to be packed.”

His fingers stirred the bathwater yet again in anticipation of examining the display for what had to be the tenth time in the last several minutes, brows still drawn in a concentration so solemn, you could have thought he was back to studying the plan of a job rather than preparing two inches of water for newborns. “The bath is not ready. It’s ninety-seven point eight right now.”

You beamed amorously at the sight of him, feeling close to the woman you were a year and a half ago and who fell head over heels with him as he repeatedly saved you from dropping on your ass during skateboard lessons, or drove you back from a party because you had called him and were frightened. This man, who somehow became your husband (karma probably owed you some good deeds from a past life), had the patience of squatting for the better part of twenty minutes just so the water could be between ninety-eight and one hundred degrees.

(you knew, you fucking knew, he read it somewhere. probably…in three separate books. no, you had to be realistic. five books. and from now on, the numbers would live inside his brain. honestly? that was adorable. adorable and very attractive. so much that you regretted the general lack of sleep to show him some real gratitude.)

The bathroom itself looked very Andrew-like organized, every object aligned with military precision in and around the tub: the bath seats positioned side by side, stacks of muslins arranged by sizes and shades, miniature hooded towels with ears warming over the radiator, plastic jugs lined up near his knee alongside baby cleanser and lotion placed symmetrically. At last, he nodded to himself. “Okay,” he murmured. “Ninety-eight point six.”

“There he is,” you teased gently. “The protector of our sardines.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, even if the corners of his mouth twitched upward, standing up and moving toward you, hands reaching for Juliet with an extreme caution that hadn’t yet decrease despite five continuous days of parenthood in this house. “Okay,” he reassured the babies, voice lowering into that tone reserved solely for the three of you. “Let’s do this slowly.”

The first few moments were tentative, all conscientious palms and reassuring murmurs as the twins blinked blearily at the warm water surrounding them. Oliver startled at the contact, face crumpling in outrage the second it grazed his legs, probably persuaded that existing outside the womb was not worth the inconvenience, while Juliet kicked a foot on the surface, hard enough to create the smallest splash.

“It’s okay, bug. Mom and Dad are here,” Andrew murmured instantly, one wide hand supporting her stomach while the other poured a small stream of water over her legs from the jug. “See? It’s warm.”

(you were sure your ovaries just detonated on the spot. seven days. in total, the babies had spent seven days on this earth and he already sounded like he had been built for fatherhood. which…didn’t surprise you exactly. but it certainly didn’t help your common decision for only one more pregnancy. in a few years.)

Another spatter of water interrupted your thoughts. “Ouch!” you gasped theatrically, bringing one hand to your heart as if you had been hurt, the other still on Oliver. “Jules has chosen violence today.”

“She’s your daughter,” Andrew replied, deadpan. You snorted, reaching for the other jug to stream the crystal clear liquid along Oliver’s body, covered by the yellow muslin to keep his warmth, observing his fingers flex in response while Andrew supported your daughter’s head, using cotton wool to clean her face. His shirt clung to his chest, curls commencing to darken his temples from the humidity filling the bathroom.

The sheer domesticity of the scene overwhelmed you, your throat tightening unexpectedly. Perhaps sensing it, Andrew lifted his gaze toward you, carrying with it that familiar attentiveness that always made you feel transparent to him, as though he had devoted himself so completely to loving you that your emotions had become part of his own nervous system – an invisible string tying both your souls until you couldn’t pinpoint which belonged to whom. “You okay, sweetheart?” he asked.

You nodded right before the sentiment could swallow you whole. “Yeah, yeah…” But the tenderness in his expression was becoming dangerous to your composure, so you did the only reasonable (absurd) thing you could think about, flicking your wet fingers directly at his face.

Andrew blinked once, twice. A droplet clung to one of his eyelashes while he stared at you with a tinge of disbelief, still attending to Juliet. “Did you just…throw water at me?”

“No, never,” you answered solemnly, pointing at Oliver. “He did.”

Three seconds passed before laughter burst out of you irrepressibly as you witnessed his frown expanding, giggle amply loud that Juliet let out a small indignant sound from her bath seat as Oliver’s mouth latched onto your pointer, probably as a reminder for you that feeding time was near. Somehow, Andrew’s expression only made it worse, for he looked bemused for a minute, not in possession of the textbook for this kind of situation.

(oh god. maybe it was the hormones. or maybe it was the fact that you hadn’t slept more than two consecutive hours in a week and felt the fatigue down to your bones. but this face…this gorgeous, confused, hesitant face cracked your heart open all over again. because Andrew had spent too many years deciphering people for danger. searching every smile for cruelty hidden underneath, and you knew that this sort of vigilance didn’t evaporate in the blink of an eye with love. there was no manual for dismantling decades of his mother’s voice in his head. no miracle switch that taught someone the difference between laughing at and laughing with. only this: thousands upon thousands micro moments until his body finally ceased bracing for impact.)

Parsing through your reaction, his gaze flicked from your face to his shirt who had now drips of it all over and then back at you, as if the answer might materialize somewhere between the two. “I don’t…” he muttered slowly, blinking a droplet away that rolled down his cheek. “I don’t understand what’s funny.”

And all at once, your smile faltered. “Andy, I wasn’t-” You glanced to the tiled floor fleetingly as blood crept up to your face in guilt. “I just…”

For a second, you felt the reflexive apology already gathering someplace behind his mouth regardless of the fact that he had done nothing wrong. But that only lasted a second. Because the next, water ran in rivulets all along your collarbone, a small tentative smile blooming on Andrew’s face, as if he was testing whether he had done the right thing. You gasped, intertwined with glee. “Andrew David Cody!”

A little more confidence entered his posture at your tone, sufficient that the smile reached his eyes, softening his features. “You started the war.”

You leaned a few inches to the side, maintaining a hand on Oliver’s torso and kissing Andrew, who himself was attempting to prevent Juliet from spattering larger amounts with her limbs. This was without taking you into account, who used the distraction of the kiss for your other hand to disappear beneath the hem of his shirt, running a wet palm all along his muscular chest. A groan escaped him and fell against your lips, jerking at the contact, not able to block your chuckle into the embrace.

“You’re impossible,” he murmured.

“And yet,” you replied smugly, “you’re the one who married me.”

“True.” His mouth brushed yours once more. “Terrible decision.”

“Mhm. Yes, tragic.”

The twins chose that exact moment to protest, noises rising in stereo until you both pulled apart with matching smiles, returning your attention toward them. And for a while, the bathroom did settle into a calmer rhythm, the two of you working as a tandem, alternating between cleaning and explaining to the babies step by step what was happening – even without them comprehending the words – just so they could associate baths with warmth and safety. Andrew stayed focused but less serious, tongue pressing the inside of his cheek as he rinsed Juliet’s wisps of dark curls.

Tickling your son to see him squirming, a gasp suddenly flew out of you as you felt something dripping beneath the waistband of your shorts. “Andy!”

His expression remained neutral despite the mirth lurking in his eyes, one soaked hand still hidden mischievously on the curve of your ass. “Sorry,” he said with no sincerity whatsoever. “My hand slipped.”

“You awful liar.”

A grin appeared fully, open and boyish, his dimples flashing while you stared at him in feign affront and pure affection. You scooped up another palmful of water to hit him directly across the chest this time. And suddenly the entire bathroom fell into beautiful chaos yet again: your husband retaliating, his laughter bouncing against the tiled walls – the kind of happiness people spent entire lifetimes hoping for. The kind that proved Andrew that the family he created would never resemble the one he survived. ────────── The drive back home seems endless, every mile carrying the peculiar ache of missing the three people who exist only twenty minutes away from him, yet inhabit each and every of his thoughts. Andrew keeps one hand on the steering wheel, the other tapping four times on his thigh during the red lights, the repetitive pattern less desperate nowadays, more out of habit than compulsion. Weariness persists underneath his skin after a full day at the workshop: cedar dust clinging to his jeans, forearms sore from sanding and lifting, the scent of varnish embedded into the lines of his hands no matter how thoroughly he scrubbed them before heading out.

(He still doesn’t grasp how he ended up here. Husband. Father. Carpenter. Those terms remain too beautiful and unsoiled to fit within his head. But there’s peace at least. Even in the woodshop. In the silence. In shaping raw material into furniture. He enjoys that the work leaves proof behind. Like tables, cabinets, cribs. Those are tangible things. Useful. Far from his destructive past profession.)

The closer he gets to the house, the more the stiffness between his shoulder blades eases, antsy for the sound of your voice or the babies’ cries or the impossible softness of whatever domestic noise is awaiting behind the front door. Except tonight, ahead of reaching the porch…he hears music. Andrew slows midway up the path, keys still in hand, his brows drawing together as the melody spills faintly through the screen door alongside giggles and the muffled thump of movement across the hardwood floor. It’s one of those albums you replay nonstop in the car and shower, songs he has memorized inadvertently, so much that his brain anticipates the next verse before it arrives.

Pushing open the door soundlessly, he steps inside to attain the living room, who glimmers amber with the late afternoon light distilling through the windows…and there you are, at the center of it all, swaying barefoot on the parquet in one of his old shirts and shorts, hair loose while the twins sit on the colorful playmat disseminated with stacking cups, chew cubes and plush animals.

His gaze travels back to you, taking in the faint layer of sweat on your collarbone and the sway of your hips accompanied by the tune, his mouth lifting into a small smile as he leans a shoulder against the doorway without disrupting the scene, giving himself one suspended second to capture pictures in his mind.

Oliver is the first to notice him, letting out a squeal of delight so loud it nearly overlaps the music itself, small hands absorbed into an uncoordinated attempt to clap while his whole body rocks with excitement as he sits upright among the toys. Juliet turns a heartbeat after, her hazel eyes widening before she breaks into a delighted babbling, “Dadadada…” spilling from her mouth with conviction despite the fact that Andrew knows it doesn’t really mean anything right now, that she calls almost everything dada lately, including the dogs in town and the rocking chair in their nursery.

In the twinkling of an eye, both twins begin crawling fast toward him. Well, fast…nine-month-old version of fast. “Hey,” he breathes, dropping his keys onto the nearby table and crossing the room in two strides, crouching just in time to catch Oliver prior to a faceplant of enthusiasm as Juliet reaches him half a second later with an indignant sound, lifting both arms upward in demand.

Andrew snorts under his breath – still astonished every time the sound comes out of him this easily – and gathers both babies into his arms at once, one balanced against each hip as he rises to his feet. The reaction is instantaneous: his son squeaks once more, burying both hands into his shirt’s collar while the little girl presses her forehead on his shoulder before leaning back to grin at him, curls bouncing wildly around her face. And somehow, impossibly, they laugh harder as he bounces them in his arms.

(That part is yours. It has to be. He has no memory of guffaws looking like this when he was a child. No recollection of joy not interlaced with fear. Yet these two appear to find delight in him naturally, as though his existence alone is amply entertaining.)

“My bugs,” he smiles, kissing both his children’s temple. “What are you two doing, huh?” To which he receives as a response mostly spit and excited gibberish.

You’re walking toward them, smile sufficiently bright that it sands down the remaining edges left from his workday, your arms sliding around his waist, therefore encircling too the babies and forming one general embrace in the middle of the living room. “Hello, sir,” you greet flirtatiously, tilting your face to his with that expression that still makes his thoughts short-circuit. “You come here often?”

Andrew’s pulse stumbles, for even after all this time – eternally, he suspects – you still affect him with terrifying ease. He leans down to kiss you delicately, murmuring against your lips, “Only when I know you’re around.” The sentence comes out quieter than intended, more uncertain than smug, internally wincing because after two years together, one spent married, and hundreds of thousands kisses, he still has no idea how to match your effortless teasing.

But still…your gaze drops briefly toward his mouth and traveling back to his eyes, a little hitch in your breath he overhears, making him think that, perhaps, he answered correctly after all. Juliet interrupts the moment with a vexed noise from between you both, twisting in Andrew’s hold until it becomes obvious she wants to be put back down. “Okay, okay,” he whispers. “Bossy just like your mom.”

Lowering her first, followed by Oliver, both babies resume their determined expedition toward the pile of toys neither of you manage to keep organized for more than two hours at a time, abandoning their parents now that the reunion has been completed successfully. Each picks their activity: Oliver heading directly for the stacking cups while Juliet pauses halfway there to line two cubes side by side, choosing one to chew on, brows furrowed.

Andrew observes them for a few more moments before your arms return around his neck, properly this time, his own hands on both sides of your hips as the music continues, drifting through the room to engulf you both. And without realizing it, he begins swaying with you – unconscious motions side to side, children babbling nearby. He blinks once, twice, his chin lowering to your shoulder as comprehension lands into place. “Are you…” he mutters beside your ear, voice threaded with disbelief and amusement, “…making me dance?”

Your fingers glide into the curls at the nape of his neck, twirling one. “Only took two years.”

A quiet laugh leaves him under his breath, forehead brushing yours and hands clenching around your waist. “I…” Andrew starts cautiously, as if admitting it aloud might somehow alter the balance of the universe – his, at least. “I think I like it.”

Your gaze raises back toward his, triumphant and tender. “Good.” You kiss him once. “Cause I plan on us dancing for the next fifty years.”

And Andrew right there, in this house, children playing in close proximity, wife dancing with him beneath the evening light, realizes with an overwhelming clarity that fifty years…will never be enough time to kiss every inch of gratitude from your skin. ────────── (noise…so much noise…no. not just that. crying. someone was crying. not the usual fussing, but a piercing one. fuck. the babies were crying.)

Disoriented, your hand shot across the mattress to Andrew’s side of the bed, expecting his warmth and broad shoulders and the steady rise and fall of his lungs below your palm, only to encounter cold sheets instead. Not just empty, no, cold, indicating he had been gone for a while. The realization cut through the haze in your brain in a split second.

(what if one of them couldn’t breathe? what if they were sick? what if Andrew got hurt trying to pick them up half-asleep? what if- was that how your husband’s brain functioned? were you commencing to synchronize with his spiraling?)

You were already out of bed before the thought could finish forming, practically sprinting down the hallway barefoot, one hand braced against the wall to steady yourself as the nursery light spilled from underneath the door. The sight awaiting for you inside stopped you short: Andrew sat in the rocking chair near the window with one baby in each arm, shoulders slumped and bowed around them as if attempting to physically shield them from whatever had upset them, both Oliver and Juliet crying so hard their bodies quivered with it, Andrew seeming frighteningly close to collapsing.

Hair disheveled from his anxious hands dragging through it repeatedly and chest bare with faint stains of spit near his collarbone, his tears were trailing down his cheeks as he rocked helplessly the babies, attempting to soothe both at once and undoubtedly believing he was failing at it. The instant he looked up and noticed you standing there, something inside his expression fractured further. “I…” His voice cracked. “I think one of them had a nightmare and…and I can’t stop their crying.”

“I tried everything,” he continued hoarsely, panic crowding each word until they stumbled over one another. “Food. Diaper. Humming. I checked their temperature four times and-” His grip stiffened around the babies. “Nothing works.” Another tear slipped free. “I’m useless.”

“Oh, honey.” You crossed the room, voice soft despite your own lingering alarm, and crouched beside him to press a quick kiss against his humid temple before lifting Juliet from his arms. She was red-faced from screaming, tiny fingers trying to clutch desperately at Andrew’s skin even as you gathered her alongside your chest, hiccupping sobs continuing to shake her body as you began to sway her.

“It’s okay,” you murmured, speaking to Andrew as much as to the babies. “You’re doing your best.” Juliet buried her face against your shoulder with another broken cry. “I think you’re right,” you added. “Maybe there was a nightmare.”

Andrew brought Oliver closer to his chest after your daughter left his arms, and only then did you notice the extent of the trembling running through him. Not just his hands, but from his whole body. You reached over instinctively, fingers threading through his hair to soothe him whereas Juliet persisted crying weakly against you. He shook his head hard. “I was really trying,” he whispered, shame saturating each and every syllable. “I didn’t want you to wake up.”

The sentence stung in ways he most definitely didn’t intend to, because of course he hadn’t. Of course he had sat here alone, bearing all this terror and anxiety himself instead of calling for help, genuinely convinced that struggling on his own was preferable to burdening you. Making a clicking noise with your tongue, you adjusted Juliet higher on your chest as her fist tangled into the fabric of your pajama shirt. “Andrew,” you replied, “it’s okay. You’re the one always up during the night. Always feeding and changing…”

But he couldn’t respond, his throat working uselessly around the emotion lodged there as you viewed the panic still trapped behind his eyes no matter how tightly he held the babies. Something inside you ached with understanding, for this wasn’t truly about your crying infants…it was about helplessness, fear, about loving someone sufficiently that every tear felt close to the Armageddon.

Juliet’s sobs had weakened a little by then, turned into hiccupping little cries, her face flushed red and pressed against your breast, fingers still twisting into your shirt as though she feared being set down back into her crib. You transferred her into the crook of your arm instead, brushing damp curls away from her forehead. “I know,” you cooed. “I know it’s not funny to be a baby.” Her mouth remained turned downward. “Always hungry,” you continued. “Or dirty. Or sleepy.” Your pointer smoothed gently down her forehead to the tip of her nose. “It’s not easy.”

Blinking up at you through her damp lashes, you kept going. “But when you’re very, very sad,” you murmured, glancing briefly to Andrew, “daddy gets sad too.” His throat visibly bobbed up. “And we don’t want daddy sad, okay?” Juliet sniffed again, lower lip still trembling but the cries had stopped at least, replaced by erratic inhales as you resumed stroking her forehead. “Yes,” you smiled. “That’s better like that.” Her small body melted further onto yours. “It was a very scary dream, I’m sure it was Jules,” you soothed. “But now you don’t have to be scared anymore because mommy and daddy are here.”

From beside you came the sound of Andrew panting shakily. You looked over to find him attempting to mirror your gestures on Oliver, rough hand moving with astonishing delicacy as he brushed trembling fingers over your son’s forehead. “Yes,” he whispered hoarsely to Oliver, thick from weeping. “It was probably scary.” Oliver’s palm remained over his heart. “I…” Andrew swallowed hard. “I also have nightmares.” The confession landed between all four of you. “And they scare me too.”

Lowering his head to kiss the top of Oliver’s hair, your husband’s eyes squeezed shut for a few seconds afterward as if anchoring himself through the contact. “But you know what helps me?” he asked to an Oliver who blinked sleepily at him. “Your mom.” Andrew’s palm moved slowly along his son’s back. “She’s always there for my nightmares.”

The tenderness of this sentence nearly undid you in the middle of the nursery, for he had said it with such certainty and faith – like you were the lighthouse in his mind’s tempest, the gravity that kept him on earth. Side by side, you both kept rocking the babies during the next minutes as the sea of tears eroded away into fatigue. Oliver eventually went limp and heavy on Andrew’s chest as Juliet’s lashes fluttered slower and slower against her cheeks.

The room hushed up until only faint sniffles and the artificial ocean sounds remained, briefly interrupted by the whisper of your name, uttered by your husband. You hummed in response, unwilling to speak loudly enough to disturb the babies who were drifting to sleep yet again. He took a hitching breath, another tear rolling down his face. “I’m so scared,” he admitted. “What if…” His voice faltered. “What if their nightmares…”

(you read between the lines. that those were not baby nightmares filled with monsters under the crib or loud sounds or unfamiliar shadows. that those were his nightmares. the type that caused sweat soaked sheets. the kind where he yelled for people and begged for pardon.)

Heedfully keeping Juliet safe on your arm, you extended your free hand to his face, cupping his cheek, who leaned into the touch in the blink of an eye. “Shh…They won’t be like yours, Andy,” you breathed. “I promise.” His eyes closed at the connection with your palm. “Just like they won’t be like mine.”

(because despite this whole existence…the warehouse still remained in you. buried underneath the ordinary days and the diapers and the laughter, yes. but also visible through the scars and the distress of being confined and meeting unfamiliar individuals. but of course, now neither of you said the word aloud. who wanted to bring back the worst day of their lives?)

Andrew grasped nonetheless, and you witnessed his eyes turning from cloudy hazel to clear hazel, nodding at your oath, for you were the one who had spoken it. When you finally placed Juliet back into her crib, Andrew trailed with Oliver cradled against him, both of you moving with extra slowness so the mattresses barely dipped with the babies’ weight and the zip of their sleeping sack didn’t wake them after all those efforts.

You lingered there another moment, observing their breathing rise and fall, before turning to Andrew, who still stood beside the cribs, looking wrecked by the entire ordeal. Without a word, you stepped toward him and wrapped both arms around his waist, making him fold into you with an exhale of relief. Guiding him backward until he sat back onto the rocking chair, you climbed him, straddling his lap, fingers traveling through his curls soothingly, handing him the tenderness and adoration you wished someone had once offered the little boy he used to be.

For somewhere inside this man, beneath the husband and the father and the man he had taught himself to be piece by piece, there was still a child who woke from nightmares with no one coming when he cried. So you held him tighter, kissed and kept vigil over all the versions of Andrew Cody that had once been left isolated. ────────── The kitchen, thus far, contains remnants of the birthday party regardless of the fact that two days have elapsed since the twins turned one: stray ribbons reappearing every few hours in the most random places even if Andrew has already searched and scrubbed every corner, the paper crown Juliet refused to remove until bedtime resting crookedly beside the sink.

(Three hundred and sixty five days celebrated. Eight thousand seven hundred and sixty hours. More than thirty-one million seconds since the delivery room, the cries, the blood and hearing Oliver’s heartbeat outside your body for the first time. Thirty-one million seconds since Juliet peered up at him and tilted his entire world on its axis forevermore.)

Standing at the kitchen island, methodically peeling orange slices apart for the twins, Andrew removes every trace of the white pith with a concentration that reminds him of the pre-jobs reconnaissance while the two babies sit strapped to their respective highchairs (the first objects he had constructed in his workshop). Oliver smacks both palms enthusiastically on the tray in front of him, seeking attention whereas Juliet is opting for the observation of the process with a mirrored air of attention on her features, curls spilling wildly around her face after the afternoon nap.

(Too much skin makes them spit it out. Juliet doesn’t like the texture. Oliver constantly tries to swallow pieces whole even if they are too large. Better to fix it now than panic later.  He has learned the lesson. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the seeds he takes away.)

Behind him, the microwave whirrs as you reheat the lasagna Adrian and Deran brought over after the party, insisting that the two of you shouldn’t have to cook for at least a few days after hosting everyone. (Andrew doesn’t know what he is the most grateful for. The food. The assistance the whole time to prevent a birthday disaster. Or that Adrian brought back the spark in his brother’s eyes.) You hum absently along with the music playing low from the speaker near the sink, swaying, entirely unaware – or perhaps extremely aware – of the fact that your husband has peeled the same orange slice for thirty consecutive seconds, unable to steer his gaze away from the curve of your ass.

(Focus. Focus. He is well acquainted with each inch of your body. Has traced it hundreds of times with his hands, his mouth. Knows all the idiosyncrasies that you veil to the rest of the world. And yet…he keeps picturing how easily he could lift you onto the counter and- No. No. One. Two. Three. Four. He has to focus on the orange. On the children.)

You glance over your shoulder without turning fully. “Andrew?”

He blinks at you, sheepish. “Hm?”

“You know I can feel your stare, right? And I’m pretty sure there’s no orange hiding in my shorts,” you joke, rolling said body part for good measure.

Heat crawls up from the back of his neck to the tip of his ears, and, clearing his throat, he finishes arranging the slices equally between both trays just as Juliet reaches for one in an attempt to feed a piece of it to her stuffed fox instead of herself. “No, bug,” Andrew coaxes, rescuing the plushie before it becomes fruit-coated forever. “You have to eat. Your fox doesn’t need it to grow. You do.”

Beaming at him with no remorse but a spark of comprehension behind her eyes, Juliet awaits a moment, two, and suddenly points directly at him, letting out a loud. “Dada!”

All things halt: the microwave buzz, the radio, your dance – even his own heartbeat comes to a standstill. For one hanging second, the kitchen appears submerged underwater, silence rushing around the single word pronounced by a little girl, currently radiating joy at the reaction she has caused. You turn toward him with an agape mouth, only to be met by Andrew who stares back, one orange slice still frozen between his fingers. Juliet slaps her hands against the tray. “Dada!”

The sound punches straight through his ribcage. (He has been called many things in his life. Most of them cruel. Some earned. A number in jail. Pope. The softer names only came because you came. And now…this.) The rind slips from his fingers onto the counter messily, but he can’t register for there is cotton packed inside both his ears, pulse hammering sufficiently hard to distort the room around him, barely overhearing you gasping her name.

She squeals happily at the excitement surrounding her and points once more at him with complete confidence in the term. “Dada!”

Andrew is convinced that right here, right now, he might faint in front of the three of you as Juliet continues chanting the word proudly, kicking her feet against the highchair – his little girl who could have picked many words as her first, but still chose him.

You crouch beside Juliet, face glowing with enthusiasm. “Who’s dada?” you ask her gently. “Can you show mommy where dada is?” Only for her to throw both her arms toward him, proud each time she repeats the word, chest puffed with accomplishment while Andrew stands there, slowly dismantled molecule by molecule via a twelve-month-old girl in a green tulle dress.

(There are moments in life that split existence cleanly in half. A before and an after. Meeting you. The first night you spent by his side. Kissing you in the parking lot near Deran’s bar. The bullet. The warehouse. The ultrasound. Becoming your husband. The delivery room. And now this. This tiny voice calling him with certainty.)

By the fifth ‘dada’, Andrew finally laughs weakly beneath his breath and steps toward Juliet’s chair, cupping the side of her face to place a kiss at the top of her curls. “Yeah bug,” he whispers hoarsely. “That’s me.”

A month later, the twins occupy the playmat on the floor directly in front of the television, surrounded by squeaking toys and the seventeen stuffed animals Craig continues bringing on each of his bimonthly visits despite your repeated warnings that the children most definitely don’t need a plush shark larger than themselves (to which he had counteracted last week with a giant teddy bear, claiming that he had respected your rule since it was not a shark).

Andrew absentmindedly runs his fingers up and down your periwinkle cardigan while your head rests beneath his chin, the two of you only half paying attention to the animal documentary aired because parenting has now permanently divided your brains into multiple directions at all times: currently to Juliet, who is chewing on a rubber dinosaur, and Oliver, transfixed by the television.

Outside, rain taps against the windows, the lamp in the living room the only source of light, glowing a range of warm colors around all four of you. Andrew can feel sleep commencing to drag at him – a fact that still wonders him after decades spent unable to rest properly, today nothing more but a memory, exorcised by every morning spent with your walls around him. But with a long day at the workshop and dinner and the baths…he enjoys nothing more but this pleasant buzz of fatigue.

Without warning, Oliver directs a finger at the television. “Bi’d!” Andrew blinks once as onscreen, a flock of barn swallow lifts into the sky, departing South Africa to migrate. The small boy repeats determinedly, with a frown on his face. “Bi’d!”

You both sit up. “What is he saying?” you whisper, before the realization hits simultaneously, “Bird,” you gasp.

Squeaking excitedly for someone has finally understand him, he continues. “Bi’d!”

Andrew reaches down to scoop Oliver into his arms while your own hands grab Juliet, breathing a small, “Yes. Exactly. Bird. I’m…” he runs his pointer along the bridge of his son’s nose. “I’m very proud of you, buddy.”

The documentary keeps going, long forgotten in the background as you both take the twins hands to help them clap, Juliet excited to not miss out a moment regardless of the context. “Good job Ollie!” you grin, guiding her palms together.

And sitting there with the three of you, listening to his son reiterating the word bird, Andrew can’t help but whisper, “Thank you,” to the woman by his side, the beautiful alchemist who transubstantiated the lead of his body into gold. The one he keeps falling in love over and over again, until every battlefield inside him has forgotten the shape of war, till even the oldest trenches have bloomed with lilies. ────────── The album lied open in front of you, blank pages awaiting patiently to be crammed, and every few minutes, your stare drifted toward it with a certain tenderness inside your ribcage whenever you thought about the twins, who would one day turn those pages themselves, years from now, fingers tracing images of lives that respired before they did. A hand sorting through the shots spread across the coffee table as the other supported below your stomach, you sat cross-legged on the couch while doing so, the weight heavy on your thighs.

(but you wanted them to know they were loved prior to even being born. that in this home, there had always been laughter and kisses and sunlight for them. proof. you needed them to have a physical proof.)

You had already displayed a few photographs of yourself as a child near the first page: one with a missing front tooth and grass stains on your knees, another at the beach, wrapped in a towel too large for your small body, mid-laugh with your mother. There were also the prints for the next pages: the ultrasounds slid into transparent sleeves, and a blurry snapshot Craig had taken of you and Andrew asleep together on the couch two months ago, your cheek on his chest while one of his arm curled around the swell of your belly – protective even unconscious.

Beside the album sat the old cardboard box Andrew had brought home weeks earlier from one of the Cody’s storage unit in Oceanside after you mentioned desiring pictures of both of you as babies and children for the first page, and though he had handed you the box without protest, there had been a reluctance in his posture afterward…something quiet and watchful in the manner he set it down before finding an excuse to leave the room with a muttered, “There’s probably nothing useful in there.”

At the time, you hadn’t thought much about it. But now…now you realized. For all contained her.

Your fingers slowed over another picture, brows knitting together as you studied the woman with a toddler Andrew perched stiffly against her hip, blond hair cut to her shoulders and a makeup immaculate that you could perceive in spite of the graininess of the old image, beautiful in the polished manner magazine actresses often were, and yet there was a hollowness behind her smile that made unease crawl up your spine, something performative about the affection in the picture, as though motherhood had merely been another role she liked wearing publicly.

Every shot was with her. Young Andrew and Juliet by the pool? Their mother behind in a lounge chair. Blowing a birthday candle? She was kissing his cheek. Even in one where he couldn’t have been older than four, her hand remained fixed on him too tightly as she pecked his lips, fingers curved into his shoulder with a pressure visible through the glossy paper.

But there was one…one that you stared at longer than the others: a small Andrew, sitting on the porch step of the house in Oceanside, clutching to a skateboard, curls messy from the wind with his mother inclined over him, smiling toward the camera. Despite the brightness of the image and despite the California sunlight, the little boy’s eyes already looked wary.

Still suspended onto that snapshot, you didn’t register Andrew entering in the room up until his arms slipped around your shoulders from behind and bent enough to press a kiss on your cheek, the familiar warmth of him easing the knots inside your chest and mind. “What are you doing?” he murmured.

You tilted your head to him, smiling faintly regardless of the heaviness lingering around the images. “I am…” Your fingers tapped against the album. “Starting a project for the babies. So when they are older, they get to have all the pictures.”

His gaze dropped to the table, following the spread of photographs till his attention landed on one in particular. The one you had just let go of. You witnessed the exact moment his expression altered through a tightness around the mouth. “And that?” he asked quietly.

You exhaled through your nose. “I thought it would be nice to have us on the first page when we kids but…” Your throat tightened. “There’s always…”

Andrew’s jaw flexed. “…Smurf.”

The nickname landed wrong inside you the same way it always did. You had never enquired where it came from because part of you suspected Andrew himself to no longer recall, but hearing such a childish, almost affectionate word attached to someone capable of so much cruelty had made you want to throw up since day one, like she had somehow corrupted language itself. You nodded. “Yeah.”

Andrew reached forward, picking up one of the shots with cautious fingers, eyes fixed on it with distantness. “She loved taking pictures with us,” he said eventually. “Don’t think you’ll find one where she isn’t on.” He lowered himself onto the couch by your side, posture tense in a manner that told you how his thoughts had traveled somewhere painful, and for several seconds the only sound in the room came from the ceiling fan overhead. He sighed. “What will I say?”

You frowned in lack of comprehension. “Wha-What do you mean?”

Andrew lifted his gaze toward you, and the sight of his eyes nearly undid you, moisture gathering in the corners, restrained only by the sheer habit. “To the babies,” he replied. “About Smurf.” His fingers tautened around the edges of the photograph, hard enough to bend it, guilt flashing across his face as he quickly loosened his grip. “What will I tell them? What…can I say?”

The vulnerability in the question was painful. Not because he was asking what story to tell – Andrew wasn’t a liar – but because he was questioning whether the truth itself was audible, survivable. You grasped the hand not clenched around the image, fingers threading through his. “You’ll say whatever you want, whenever you want,” you answered. “It might take years. Or decades. Or maybe you’ll never feel ready to tell them everything.” You lifted his knuckles to your mouth and kissed the back of his hand. “Andrew…”

His eyes closed at the contact. “…what you went through is terrible,” you continued. “And I understand if you don’t want to speak about her with them. This is your choice.”

His thumb caressed four times your skin, the movement embedded into him. “One day they’ll ask who their grandmother was,” he said after a long silence, voice coarsened by the emotion he was struggling unsuccessfully to contain. “And…” A bitter laugh escaped him. “…even if I want her to disappear for good…I don’t want to lie to them.”

“Then you won’t lie,” you whispered. “And the day they’re old enough to understand, you’ll tell them the truth about her.” You paused. “Or at least the truth you are willing to share.” Andrew lowered his eyes, breathing shallowly as you brought your palm to his cheek, guiding his face back to yours with infinite care. “And you’ll explain why you don’t want to talk about her,” you added. “Why their dad has nightmares some night. How certain wounds take a long time to mend.”

His mouth trembled as he whispered, “How their mom saved their dad.”

A watery chuckle escaped you (when did you start crying? you couldn’t pinpoint.). “That too.”

For a moment neither of you budged, the snapshots remaining dispersed across the table between you both like fragments of another existence. Eventually, his eyes drifted back to the one in his hand. “How about we just cut it?”

You blinked and didn’t try to hide your smile. “With pleasure.”

Reaching toward the coffee table, you grabbed the scissors beside the album while Andrew held it steadily between his fingers, and together, you cut around the outline of the small boy until the blond woman vanished entirely from the frame to fall at your feet. He stared at the altered picture, his thumb brushing over the child – over him – before placing it into the album, right by your side. Where he had always belonged. ────────── The grass is uneven below and in all sides of the picnic blanket, soft in some places and prickly in others where summer has singed the ends. But Andrew has still spent the last thirty minutes flattening them for the comfort of the twins, who are both too engaged carrying on a conversation in their own language of babbles and squeals that seem important to them. Andrew listens without interrupting, not because he comprehends any of it, but for he adores the sound too dearly to break it apart with his words, the stream of their voices filling the garden while cicadas drone in the trees.

Today has been…quite the step in his fatherhood journey: the very first day completely on his own with the babies while you were somewhere else, relaxing, existing outside motherhood for more than ninety consecutive minutes. To achieve this small miracle, he had bought you a spa day three weeks ago after noticing on the calendar that this present day marked the two years of your abduction. The cursed day that robbed a piece of you: the one who enjoyed to be outside, to speak to others, to party.

“You can still cancel it,” you had told him for perhaps the fifth time this morning, hovering near the kitchen counter, chewing at your lower lip. “I don’t mind staying home. Really.”

Andrew recalls the kiss he had placed on his lip. “How about we make a deal?” Another peck. “You try taking your car. Try going in there and try to relax. And if at any moment you don’t feel well, you call. Deal?”

And you had nodded, accepting for your world to expand outside the breastfeeding, the sleeping schedules, the isolation even just for twelve hours.

(And anyway he would sooner fistfight God himself than let you believe there is a single thing on earth he would refuse you. One day, back in Oceanside, he had thought that he could give you his bed, room, house, air in his lungs if you desired so. And to this day, he still would. After all…you gave him peace. A home. Unconditional love. Twins. And somehow, you still thanked him every night for changing diapers and waking up during the night and being a good father to his own children. How could he not give you everything after that?)

So, he had closed the shop today, and plunged into his usual state of crisis management: temperatures of the bottles checked twice in a row on the inside of his wrist, the diaper tabs secured on both sides, assuring himself that the nap monitor functioned properly (by inserting new batteries), and that the baby shampoo was rinsed completely from Juliet’s curls for he read in the parenting books that residue could irritate the scalp, therefore devoting four minutes making certain no soap remained whatsoever.

(But yes, there had been small disasters. Juliet, who cried because Oliver touched her toy. Oliver, who cried because Juliet cried. And yet, it had been one of the happiest days of his life. This one and the nine hundred forty one who had preceded it since you had met. But today the babies had belly laughed every time he had put a napkin on his face. Oliver fell asleep drooling on his shoulder after lunch. Juliet kept offering him pieces of her crackers.)

Speaking of the devil, she interrupts his thoughts with a light smack on his knee via a teddy bear she has affectionately named C’aig, for his brother who holds his role of uncle (and housemate) extremely seriously by buying all sorts of toys and sugary food whenever he is in a store (to yours and Andrew’s despair.) “Dada!”

He looks down at her. “Yeah? Showing me Craig the bear?” He lifts the plush with its tropical shirt and shorts as she beams at him, nodding with her curls wild from the humidity. Oliver, probably deciding that a conversation with his sister should include him too, crawls back across the blanket and hands a squeaky giraffe into his empty hand. Accepting this offering, Andrew whispers, “Thank you. I like it,” to his son’s delight.

For a while, the three of them remain there, with the summer sunlight slowly giving away to large stripes of tangerine and apricot shades and the mild air, till the back door slides open, every head turning to the origin of the sound. To you, the sky colors catching the edges of your hair as you step barefoot onto the patio, carrying your shoes in one hand, with a bright smile. “Hi babies!” you wave.

The reaction is chaotic, both twins almost toppling sideways, their faces lighting up with pure joy before simultaneous cries of “Mamamama!” burst from them, sufficiently loud to scatter away the birds in the trees and quiet the cicadas.

You set your bag down near the patio steps, kneeling several feet away in the grass, arms opening wide to them both. “Come here, my loves!”

Launching first with no hesitation of any kind, Oliver drops onto all fours and barrels across the lawn toward you with astonishing speed, babbling excitedly the entire way. But Juliet…Juliet has a moment of delay, which immediately sharpens Andrew’s attention. For, instead of crawling, she grips his forearm tightly and begins struggling to get onto her feet: it’s slow and tentative, his daughter rising with a wobble in the standing position, knees shaking with the effort while her curls bounce around her flushed cheeks.

One step. And then another follows after, clumsy and miraculous beyond language, arms lifted to each side of her for balance while he trails beside on his knees through the grass with both hands hovering inches from her back, your eyes shining as you cheered, “Come on Jules! Look at you!”

(She is walking. This beautiful, wonderful little girl is walking. Fourteen months ago she fitted on one side of his chest while he counted her breathing, hand wrapped around his finger. One. Two. Three. Four. He presently counts the distance she covers.)

Attempting a third step, Juliet’s equilibrium fades right there, pitching sideways with a startled cry before Andrew catches her against him, amply rapid that she never falls to the ground, but the fright alone shatters her composure. “Oh, no,” he murmurs, rocking her through her tears. “Don’t worry, you’re okay.”

From the corner of his eyes, he perceives Oliver, freezing mid-crawl and turning around at the sound of his sister crying. Then, with complete determination, he deviates of direction to go back through the grass toward them as swiftly as possible, while Andrew witnesses in stunned silent his son arriving and pushing onto his unsteady feet at the very last instant, balancing with effort his body to stumble through the remaining steps toward his twin. Facing her, he babbles a sound, patting her shoulder clumsily with one chubby hand, once, twice, and before Andrew can even process the tenderness of this whole situation, Oliver leans forward and plants a spit-covered kiss directly on Juliet’s cheek, who ceases her sobbing.

The moment doesn’t feel like an epiphany nor a violent strike of comprehension, for Andrew already recognizes this truth down to the marrow of his bones: those two babies love instinctively, with no trace of the hunger or the cruelty or the competition that once passed through the Cody bloodline like a dogma. But today, another certainty lodges inside him.

(They will take care of each other. Long after childhood. Long after schooldays and scraped knees and graduations. Long after him. Long after you.)

Crossing the grass to reach them, you are laughing and weeping at once just as Juliet clasps Oliver’s hand to pull herself upright once more, determined to strive for another step now that she knows someone will always turn back for her, help her stand, and kiss the tears from her cheeks. ────────── You blessed the daylight hours and its share of new adventures with the babies, but you blessed the dusk as well and its silence, minus the occasional muted creak of the wood. Today was one of those. Stretching across the mattress on your stomach, ankles kicking lazily in the air and your phone illuminating your face in the dimness, you were scrolling through the hundreds of shots accumulated over the last months.

There was one of Andrew that you adored, with his skateboard in the backyard, sunlight striking the droplets of sweat on his shoulders while he pushed wet hair away from his forehead, Juliet and Oliver sat on the grass applauding and beaming, cheeks covered in watermelon juice. Another, of the twins at the beach for the first time, seawater kissing their ankles while they stared at the Pacific with wonder in their gaze, grasping perhaps the immensity of the world and what it had to offer. Then, came the blurry selfie Deran had sent from Hawaii during a surfing contest, Adrian tucked beneath his arm with matching smiles at the camera, all bronze skin and ocean-light and felicity (even if you had suspected this journey to be more of the ‘elope’ sort).

Andrew entered the bedroom noiselessly, enough that most people wouldn’t have noticed him at all, yet your body recognized him instantly, attuned to his presence through an arcane instinct that had only sharpened with time up until even the quietude between you had become its own dialect.

“How are the babies?” you whispered, locking your phone.

“Sleeping,” he answered.

Your grin widened as you placed it onto your bedside table. “And Craig?”

Andrew’s voice remained perfectly deadpan as he repeated, “Sleeping,” which made you snort underneath your breath as you ducked your head in the pillow.

Craig had arrived three days ago in his truck with a duffel bag, two new plushies for the babies, and the vague announcement with a rueful smile that he ‘needed a break before he lost his fucking mind’ which translated after further interrogation from you (and beer bribery), into Renn, his everlasting on and off girlfriend, taking Nick away after a fight for an undetermined amount of time, ending up in Craig realizing that silence in his place felt less like peace and more like desertion. And Andrew, who loved with an absolute loyalty, hadn’t even required the explanation to let him stay there.

You finally turned your face as he got to the bed. (fuck. there remained moments where the sight of him still struck you with the force of kismet itself. as if the universe had aligned centuries ago solely so this exact man would one day walk to you in soft sweatpants after checking on your children.)

Sliding beside you on the bed, one leg slipping between yours while his palm rose to cradle your cheek, his thumb brushed below your eye before leaning down to press a slow kiss onto the skin just above your armpit, inhaling deeply after in the manner he perpetually did when he sought comfort from your very existence, as though you were the finest ambrosia and he could survive solely from breathing you in.

“Do you think he’ll be fine here?” he whispered, concern threading the question while his lips lingered against your skin.

Your gaze found his – those hazel eyes that had spent years, decades, trying to aid his brother with the drugs’ issues and still petrified that he could fall back in this trap. “Well…” Your fingers drifted into the curls at the nape of his neck. “Deran agreed that he needed the change of scenery with Renn and Nick gone and everything, so what better than here? Where he has us.”

Andrew exhaled leisurely. “Yes, I know, but-”

“But you don’t want me taking care of him on top of the rest,” you cut in knowingly, amused when his expression betrayed that you were correct. You kissed the top of his head. “Craig, and I know this might shock you, is technically a grown man.” You continued, “And anyway, when was the last time he actually did something catastrophically stupid since the twins were born?”

Andrew looked up at you with one eyebrow raised so high it nearly vanished beneath his curls. “Their birthday,” he replied without blinking. “When he tried hitting on the princess.”

An astonished laugh bolted out as you rolled suddenly until his back hit the mattress so you could hide your face in the crook of his neck while his arms wrapped around your waist. “Okay,” you wheezed between giggles. “So we keep all the princesses of Ojai far from him.” Andrew’s chest vibrated beneath your cheek with reluctant amusement.

You pushed yourself up onto one elbow, fingertips drifting absentmindedly along the broad place of his chest and arms, tracing veins, freckles, and all the familiar geography you could navigate blindfolded now. “Craig loves being here,” you added quietly. “And he needs support right now.” Your thumb traced over the curve of his collarbone. “That’s what families do, Andy. Helping each other. So we help him.”

A small smile appeared at the corner of his mouth, devastatingly beautiful. “I love you,” he rasped. “Have I said it enough today?”

You pretended to consider it seriously. “Oh, I don’t know…One more probably wouldn’t hurt.”

He raised his head, mouth finding yours with this particular kind of tenderness that bordered close to worship – your own, modern-day armorist. “Love you, Mrs. Cody,” he whispered against your parted lips.

Smiling into the kiss, you responded, “Love you, Mr. Cody.” You settled against his chest fully, head rising and falling with each of his breaths while his fingers wandered absently along your spine, the rhythm nearly enough to lull you to sleep. Nearly. For a thought had been sitting internally all day long, growing larger each and every hour till it became impossible to ignore anymore.

Eventually, you mumbled into the quiet, “I was thinking today.”

You didn’t require to view his features to hear the smirk in his voice. “Dangerous.”

“Hey!” you exclaimed while pinching his side sufficiently hard to make him laugh breathlessly.

“Sorry, sorry,” he surrendered, raising both hands. “I’m listening.”

You bit his shoulder lightly in retaliation before speaking once more. “I was watching the kids this morning.” Andrew hummed, his palms returning to your waist. “They were playing together, and laughing and…” You took a big breath. “And I started thinking that maybe…maybe they could have another little playmate.”

The reaction below you was instantaneous. Andrew froze as though even his heartbeat had ceased and inch by inch, his hands slid to your shoulders, elevating you to search your face directly with wide, startled eyes, attempting to decipher whether you were serious or teasing or somewhere in between. “You…” His throat worked visibly. “You’re serious?”

You wrapped your hands around both his biceps, basking in the strength displayed underneath the pads of your fingers and the prominent veins running along his forearms. “Very.”

“I thought we said-”

Tongue prying open his mouth, you swallowed the argument before it fully formed while his arms slid downward to cup your ass under the sleep shorts you wore, body responding prior to his brain managing to reorganize itself, a low sound spilling out of his lips.

“I know what we said,” you smiled once you finally pulled back, your forehead resting against his as you wetted your eyes in an exaggerated plea. “But are you really gonna make your wife beg for another baby?”

Andrew sighed, the kind coming from a man recognizing his defeat in a discussion before it properly began. “What if they’re twins again?” he asked in silent acquiescence.

A delighted grin spread across your face as you sat up enough to tug your shirt over your head. “Then we’ll have two beautiful sets of twins!” His eyes darkened as they trailed all along your exposed skin, briefly closing as you reached for the hem of his next, dragging it off while he lifted his arms to help you remove it.

“And anyway…” you added brightly, hands traveling to his sweatpants, “isn’t it nice to make them?” ────────── It’s six-thirty in the morning and Andrew, no matter how much he has sought for it all night, can’t summon sleep, lying flat on his back beside you while the pale indigo glimmer of Ojai commences to filter through the curtains, his gaze concentrated on the ceiling while his thoughts run in endless circuits that refuse to die down no matter how he attempts to organize them.

(The lunches are packed. He has prepared them last night after dinner. Apples slices soaked in lemon juice so they don’t brown. Sandwiches cut diagonally. Vegetables arranged in separate containers because Juliet dislikes when different textures touch. Their coats await by the entrance beside their shoes, laces loosened. The backpacks are ready. Folders checked. Four times. Extra clothes packed in case of accidents. Emergency contact sheet verified. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the rhythm of your breathing.)

His gaze flicks to the alarm clock on your bedside table, checking how many minutes have passed. 6:32. (Which means that if they wake at six-forty, breakfast can begin by seven, teeth brushed and dressed by seven-thirty, shoes on by seven-forty-five…)

Your fingertip presses suddenly on his jaw, redirecting his face toward you before the spiral can fully root. “Why so grumpy?” you whisper sleepily.

Andrew exhales through his nose, turning his head to look at you fully. “Do you think they’re ready?”

Your smile arises in the twinkling of an eye, fond with that effortless confidence he has so long exerted himself to comprehend and memorize. “Honey,” you reply, inching closer beneath the blankets, “they’ve spent all summer waiting for today.”

“I know.” His brows furrow farther. “I know, but I’m still…” The sentence evaporates halfway through and he opts for a sigh as a substitute. “What if they don’t make friends?”

You study him for a few breaths. “Are you afraid they won’t make friends,” you ask prudently, “or that Juliet won’t?”

The accuracy of the questioning lands with precision – a dart right in the bullseye – for yes… yes, that’s exactly it. At first it had been in the little things, habits easy to dismiss individually: how Juliet lined her toys in rows before playing with them, crying if someone moved an object out of the pattern, how loud sounds startled her into silence rather than tantrums, how she observed strangers instead of speaking to them, preferring the company of the animals at the neighboring farm.

But as she grows, the resemblance deepens beyond those peculiarities into something far more profound, till Andrew can recognize the architecture of his own mind inside hers, every similitude accompanied by visions of what it was like for him to grow up deeming your natural way of being as a flaw awaiting to be corrected.

(What if the other children notice? They are like wolves scenting blood. One. Two. Three. Fou- What if they mock the way she pauses before answering? What if they shove her aside because she doesn’t laugh at the right moment? Bad thoughts. What if they make her feel strange? Calling her weird. Or a freak. Broken. What if she comes home one day carrying the same shame, he spent half his life swallowing whole?)

He realizes too tardily that a portion of his relentless intrusive thoughts escaped aloud in a fractured soliloquy when your hand settles over his chest, thumb caressing above his heartbeat. “Sorry,” he mutters, clenching his hand four times in a row. “But I just…” He swallows with difficulty. “I want people to be gentle with her, you know? Don’t want her feeling wrong.”

The tenderness in your face aches worse somehow, as if you had mapped the labyrinthic path of his fears and entered it willingly, prepared to sand down the sharpest edges inside his soul with the same patience and devotion he uses on warped wood in the workshop until splinters transform into silk beneath his hands. You lean forward, brushing a kiss on his shoulder, followed by another at the base of his throat. “Yes, I know. And that’s why…” One finger lifts. “We’re starting with half-days.” An additional finger. “And we already talked with the teacher.” A third final one. “And you checked the background of every member of the staff. Twice.”

Andrew’s eyes narrow faintly. “You weren’t supposed to know.”

A grin spreads across your face. “Oh, I’m very aware of that.” You look unbearably pleased with yourself and Andrew desires nothing more than to mark love bites all along the delicate curve of your throat to make you confess how, when you add, “Craig can be a real rat when rightly bribed.”

He rubs a hand over his face, exhaling a long tired breath. “And he sold this information in exchange for…?”

“Watching The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives with beer and pizza.”

“Right. Of course.” The words leave him impassively, so much that you laugh, incandescent in the dawn light, with a pillow mark onto the cheek, all messy and Elysian at once, leaning forward to kiss him languidly – the sort that mutes the interference in his head better than counting ever does.

Rapid footsteps erupt without warning down the hallway. “One…” you murmur against his lips who bloom with a smile. “Two-”

The bedroom door bursts open before you can attain three. “Mommy! Daddy! It’s today!” Oliver launches himself on the bed with absolutely no regard for possible body damage or bed resistance, bouncing onto the mattress while Andrew instinctively makes a barrier with his arm between his son’s limbs and your ribs. Juliet, who arrives a heartbeat later, chooses another route and climbs with deliberate care, knees digging into the blankets before she folds herself right against his chest with a sleepy pout aimed toward her brother.

“Ollie!” she scolds, voice still thick with residual fatigue. “Stop! You’re gonna fall!”

You catch Oliver’s wrists mid-bounce before the prophecy turns into reality. “Okay, okay!” you laugh. “The little monkey can stop his acrobatics!”

Andrew brushes a curl away from Juliet’s face, pressing a kiss onto the crown of her head, breathing in the scent of her strawberry shampoo. “Pancakes?” he asks, to which they both cheer like it’s Christmas morning.

You shake your head, lowering your voice into a conspiratorial tone. “Better hurry before Uncle Craig wakes up and steals all of them.”

“No!” both twins cry in horror.

 “And don’t wake your sister!” you call after them while their footsteps thunder away down the hallway in sync with Oliver running too fast and Juliet shouting at him to slow down, allowing for silence to return after the storm.

For a second, Andrew lingers there, observing the doorway they disappeared through, a sentiment coiling in his chest at the reminder that there was once a version of him, years ago, convinced that children would fear him, that fatherhood would expose each fracture and ugliness inherited through Smurf’s blood. Yet…now his mornings begin with babies racing to the two of you, for excitement has to be shared with parents first.

Stealing one more peck from you before he can drown too deeply in his mind, Andrew pushes aside the blankets. “I should start making them now before it becomes war in the kitchen.”

“Good idea.” You stretch lazily, shirt riding up to expose patches of skin highlighted by the sunlight starting its ascent, and Andrew’s gaze catches there helplessly, dragging a hand over his face to remind himself of his initial mission. You go on your feet, smacking his ass as you pass behind him and whisper, “I’m gonna check on Evie,” the morning parting you into familiar rhythms.

The kitchen slowly fills with the scent of cooking, the butter sizzling on the pan while the twins are perched on the wooden counter chairs he finished building last month, their socked feet swinging beneath them while chatter overlaps between gulps of juice. Pouring pancake batter with concentration, Andrew makes sure that the circles are measured identically in size (half a ladle spread over two inches) before flipping them after counting till the perfect number, distributing evenly the number of chocolate chips on Juliet’s pancakes for the texture to not be ruined, and pre-opening in advance the syrup bottle for Oliver, who last time had covered the kitchen table with it.

(That doesn’t halt him from the usual ritual. Wiping the counter. Realigning the forks. Checking the stove knob. Twice. Not thinking about their school day. One. Two. Three. Four. He counts the sound of steps approaching.)

And indeed, when he throws a look mid-flip, you are back, holding Evie by the hand, the two-year-old girl still wrapped in sleepiness with her curls mussed and her tiger plush tucked firmly underneath the arm as she rubs her eyes with the back of her hand. “Look who decided to wish you a good first day at school!” you announce.

Juliet beams instantaneously, her entire face lighting from within in that manner that never fails to remind Andrew of stained glass catching the light. “Vee!” The youngest blinks at her sister from the safety of your leg. “Today you’re gonna be alone with mommy and daddy!” she explains while pushing her apple juice toward Evie once she gets settled into her highchair. “But it’s okay,” Juliet continues seriously, “Ollie and I will come back in…” She pauses to count slowly on her fingers, lips moving silently at each number. “…five hours.”

Evie stares at her hand a second, two, before raising her own with a grin. “Five!”

Oliver claps excitedly around a mouthful of pancake. “Yes, Vivi! Five!”

And for a few minutes, a tranquil ambience ensues, the twins absorbed by the food and their attempts to help their little sister grasp the notion of school. While so, Andrew moves around them to avoid all sorts of catastrophes that could potentially derail the whole schedule: cutting Oliver’s pancakes into small bites so he doesn’t choke or stuff it into his mouth at once, wiping a drop of syrup prior to reaching Juliet’s sleeve, checking Evie’s cantaloupe for signs that it went bad…

Heavy footsteps resonate down the hallway in long drags, Craig making an appearance despite the early hour, wearing a Javel-stained jogging pants and a faded Metallica shirt that has officially survived two decades in his company, long hair wild as he squints against the kitchen lamp.

“Well, well, well…” he yawns, stumbling in the room as he wraps each child into one crushing bear hug after the other, making them all giggle. “Look at my favorite little students.” His hands land heavily on Juliet and Oliver’s heads, ruffling their hair.

“Now listen carefully. School is really important. Your dad, Uncle Deran and I…” Craig trails off, just for a moment, ample for Andrew to register the flicker behind his brother’s grin, how his gaze drifts to the lunchboxes lined neatly at the corner of the counter, probably to the idea of the loving parents who made them – those ordinary things none of the Cody brothers ever possessed long enough to take for granted.

(They had jobs before they had homework. Learned additions and subtractions and divisions for them. Learned how to steal before history. Smurf necessitated arms more than report cards anyway. So, of course she agreed when Craig quitted to drive Deran around. When Deran stopped to surf. She knew her claws were confining them further into boxes.)

Craig scratches the back of his neck awkwardly, forcing the grin back into place. “We weren’t that good there. So you little gremlins better learn cool things for me, ‘kay?” Both kids nod – Oliver eagerly and Juliet seriously. “And if someone tries to give you shit-”

“Craig,” Andrew warns right away.

“-to bother you,” he corrects without missing a beat, “bite them and run.”

Both you and Andrew sigh simultaneously just as the children burst into laughter. “Craig.”

“Fine, fine! No biting.”

Despite himself, Andrew feels an odd warmth observing this scene unfold, for his younger brother has become woven to this house so tightly that occasionally he forgets there had ever been a period where Craig wasn’t ensconced somewhere inside, eating their food or teaching the children questionable life lessons and vocabulary.

(Three years ago all had still felt temporary. Deran and Adrian were still dividing their time between Oceanside and their new house in Santa Barbara. But not late after, the three Cody brothers had taken a decision. Selling Smurf’s house to severe the last rotten root their mother had left buried there. Renn left eventually too, their relationship collapsing underneath the weight of all the things neither of them knew how to mend, the custody allowing him to have Nick two weekends per month. And for a while…Craig had wandered in that old familiar way of his, with wide smiles to conceal the emptiness, with rowdy jokes to hide the terror of being alone.)

(Both of you had been so tormented by the possibility of relapse. So he had resided for days. Who became weeks. That turned into months. Until the children stopped asking when Uncle Craig was visiting and instead questioned when he was leaving. Afraid that ‘one today’ could turn into ‘today’. But for now…this place stays a haven for him. The first home constructed without Smurf evolving at the center of it.)

Eventually, breakfast turns into shoes and backpacks and repeated reminders to use the bathroom before departing, until all of a sudden…everyone is at the front door. Standing very still as you zip her green fleece jacket, Juliet’s fingers are clutched around the straps of her backpack, whispering something in your ear that makes you nod and whisper in return – an exchange completely out of Andrew’s earshot as he zips Oliver’s own jacket.

After hugs and promises to Evie of coming back soon, the twins are scooped up by Craig in one motion, shrieking with protest and laughter all the same. “Go make me proud, little Codys.”

Ushering them gently to the truck, Andrew helps his children climb up into the backseat with their bag nearly their size while you stand in the driveway, holding Evie against your chest and waving (staying back for the drop-off intentionally, giving him the space you know he needs for this part). He looks one final time in the rearview mirror, in time to register you mouthing ‘I love you’ to him.

The drive to school goes on in a strange sort of quiet, broken mostly by Oliver’s nonstop excitement that constantly reminds him of you, while Juliet stays unusually silent beside him, hands fidgeting with the hem of her jacket.

He clears his throat. “You know,” he starts carefully, eyes flicking toward them through the mirror, “if either of you feels uncomfortable or scared or anything at all, you do like we told you with your mom and you warn an adult right away.”

“Yes, Daddy,” Oliver replies.

“And stay together,” Andrew continues, fingers whitening around the wheel. “Especially at recess. Protect each other.”

His son groans. “Daddy! We’re not babies!” Next to him, his sister stares out the window thoughtfully, though one hand has gripped to Oliver’s somewhere during the drive, reminding him Andrew of the past, when his Julia had looked for their comfort in spite of each and every issue that life had thrown at them.

By the time they reach the school parking lot, there’s already chaos everywhere with children darting between adults, teachers waving signs, car doors slamming…Andrew feels his pulse spikes at the overwhelming noise pressing against his skull.

(One. Two. Three. Four. Too many people. And germs. What if they get lost? What if someone pushes Juliet because she hesitates at the doorstep of the classroom? What if they are separated? Fuck, aren’t there scissors in class? He shouldn’t have said yes. Should have negotiated with you for one more year at home. No. They want to go to school. He needs to breath. In. Out. In. Out. His thoughts are making him think the worse. He knows that. It’s not real.)

Getting out first, he helps them both onto the sidewalk before kneeling in front of them to hug Oliver, small arms launching around his neck with ample force to knock him sideways. “Goodbye daddy! Love you!”

Andrew holds him tighter for a split second, kissing the top of his hair. “Love you too, Ollie.”

Then Juliet steps forward soundlessly, wrapping her arms around him too, more cautious than her brother, cheek pressing against his shoulder, both closing their eyes. Very softly, she whispers near his ear, “Everything’s gonna be okay, dad.” His throat tightens. “I love you.” There’s a moment where he is certain he is about to cry there, in front of his children’s school.

Instead, thinking about the terrible start it would give them, he kisses her forehead and responds, “I love you too, bug.” ────────── Beads of sweat kept dripping from his forehead, only to evanesce on the plywood surface of the ramp beneath him, absorbed by the sun-warmed timber as the wheels of the skateboard maintained their pattern (Back and forth. Back and forth.), one sufficiently repetitive that his mind began to forget the nightmare that had woken him up at dawn, now lost to the movement of his knees bending with the curve of the vert ramps.

(One. Two. Three. Four. Push. Lean. Turn. Repeat.)

He couldn’t recall when he had started – an hour ago mayhap? Two? Time behaved oddly once he entered this state, each pass across the half pipe aiding him to restrict the world to questions of balance and momentum. The only thing that his mind could pay attention to anyway, was the oath he had taken last night during dinner to the twins: a whole day dedicated to them before summer ended and their first year of school commenced, each choosing an activity without any compromise with the parents.

And now there he was, absolutely not terrified by the choice made by his son…skateboarding.

(Lie. Because boards broke bones. Ramps meant head injuries. Children were smaller and therefore closer to concrete. The helmet could loosen. The knee pads could slip. Wrists were fragile and teeth too. Every possible injury replayed. Bad thought. One. Two. Three. Four. But what if he hit his head wrong? No. Bad. Thought. In. Out. In. Out.)

When Oliver finally burst into the backyard a dozen of minutes later, carrying his own skateboard with two arms and a grin that seemed to be painful for his cheeks, Andrew crouched to recheck the equipment despite the certainty that you had done it inside the house: the helmet strap was secure, the elbow pads aligned, the shoelaces tied tightly to not get caught in the wheels…Then once more, for his fingers still felt uneasy.

“You remember how to fall?” he asked seriously.

Oliver nodded impatiently. “Roll on my shoulder.”

“And?”

“Protect the head.”

“And?”

“Don’t lock my arms.”

He exhaled slowly, kissing the helmet as he lifted him to get on the half pipe. “Good.” Then, because he realized how he sounded, added, “I’m proud of you.”

The first few attempts remained hesitant, wobbling a little till finding balance as he rolled at the center of the ramp where it was flat, Andrew hovering beside him, hands close enough to catch without actually touching, every muscle inside his body wound tight with vigilance. And despite himself and the panic scratching at his ribs, another memory bled through the present: you, six years ago, laughing breathlessly in the skatepark of Oceanside as he lingered the same way, pretending stillness while internally cataloguing every possible angle you could fall from.

“I look stupid!” you had complained with a sigh.

“You’re fine.”

“I’m not fine! This is deeply humiliating. I can barely stay upright and there are twelve-year-olds doing tricks behind me! Tricks, Andrew!”

“You’re doing good.” He had attempted to comfort you while swallowing his smile – a futile endeavor.

(Back then, in the halcyon days, the skatepark had been its own country. A refuge. An excuse to steal a handful of hours with you every week to be hidden from the rest of the world. In a bubble remote from the jobs and the parties and the weight of being a Cody. Just two souls building a series of moments that neither realized would become a lifetime.)

But alas, like often, the memories turned sour.

(Because the warehouse happened. The instant where he had turned back and discovered what a world without his other half inside it felt like. What came after had never entered the ledger of his atonements and the men he executed never joined the procession of his sins. The blood, the wails, the fire he left behind…none of it visited him at night. There was no remorse. None. Not when he could still picture you on that chair, bounded, the sight carved with a precision no knife could rival. Time softened many wounds. But not that one.)

His jaw tightened unconsciously as Oliver rolled past him. (No. Not today. One. Two. Three. Four. He refused to let that memory spread its poison to the present.) So, Andrew set himself into motion, skating next to his son, who laughed every time he managed a smooth turn, matching his pace.

“Very good,” Andrew called.

Oliver beamed of pride at the compliment, dimples testifying for it. “Really?”

The approving reply didn’t even emerge from his mouth when the board under his son’s feet rolled in the wrong angle, making him crash sideways onto the ramp hard enough that the sound echoed throughout the yard. For one horrifying second, he was transported once more into the past: to you, crumpled against the concrete of the skatepark, blood running down your eyebrow as the panic drowned his mind.

Dropping to his knees, he breathed a shaky “Oliver?” hoping for an answer – any would do – only to be met by…a laugh?

The little boy sat up with a delighted grin, knee pads half-twisted and wrist guards scraped. “Did you see that, dad?” he gasped. Andrew stared at him for a few more moments, his pulse hammering in his cranium as he managed to nod. Oliver pushed himself up on his feet, adjusting the pads and helmet with determination as he repositioned the board. “Again, please?”

Andrew exhaled slowly through his nose. “Okay. But-” He tried to swallow the lump in his throat and shook his head. “Nothing. You did great. Good reflex.”

So they persevered, side by side, Oliver’s confidence growing with each attempt, his son’s elation amply loud to extinguish the darker burning corners of his mind for a little while, correcting posture sometimes and praising always. By the time the back door slid open, Oliver was achieving nice turns on his own. Glancing up, Andrew caught your eyes as you stepped into the yard holding Evie with Juliet walking beside, carrying a cardboard box that contained the unfinished puzzle she had been focused on all week.

The three girls of his life sat in the grass, Evie taking up the space between your legs to observe her big sister with wide curious eyes, Juliet organizing the pieces into rows of colors next to you, explaining patiently why she had to start from the corners to work outside in. He found himself staring instead of skating for a moment, just a little brief millisecond dedicated to watching how the daylight turned your cotton blouse in a diaphanous-like material, how his daughters leaned on you, whose attention was divided between both without either feeling left alone.

(Two decades ago he had picked up – stolen – a copy of The Odyssey from a bookstore to impress Cath. He remembered attempting to read it in secrecy so no one could mock him. Reading about Odysseus crossing oceans for twenty years to return to his wife and son. And he had understood it…at least partly. But so many years spent fighting and surviving gods and storms and shipwrecks and monsters? The idea felt romantic like so many stories were. Romantic but chimerical.)

Now, as you sat in the backyard with the two little girls and his son skating two feet away, Andrew comprehended with clarity that twenty years wasn’t that impressive. That for a man like him, it could have been fifty years or two lifetimes and it wouldn’t have been relevant, for in the end he would have ended back in the arms of his own modern-day Penelope.

He was able to see Odysseus now – his desperation, his devotion – as there was no distance he wouldn’t travel to return to you, no storm he wouldn’t walk into and absolutely no length of time that would convince him to stay away.

The only story he had read and never grasped even to this day, was the one of Orpheus, the bard who had descended into the underworld to retrieve the woman he treasured, Eurydice, and nearly succeeded, being handed an impossible miracle only to turn around and lose her all over again. What Andrew knew deep to the marrow of his bones was that he would have kept walking.

(Even if his legs gave out. If every gate to heaven had closed and every mouth of hell opened. Even if every god had barred the way. He would have kept walking. Would have dragged himself over shattered glass and rusted nails before looking back. Crawled if he could not walk. Bled if he could not crawl. He would have burned anything, even himself, if there was nothing left to offer just to make sure you made it home.)

He didn’t know when his legs had brought him here, board in hand and the shadow of his body covering you from the sun, just that all of a sudden he had the urge to exorcise your demons long held sheathed under your smile. So, he held out one of his hands toward you without a word, only a stare that carried the unvoiced request.

“Honey…” you breathed, realizing what he was implying through the gesture.

“I know,” he whispered so no one else would hear. “But just-” He tilted his head to the board in his other hand. “Just try. Please.”

Eyes flickering to the object, then to the ramp, and quickly back to him, you ended up nodding prudently, a hint of apprehension in your eyes, taking his hand and getting up. You turned to Juliet and asked, “Jules, can you watch your sister one minute?”

The girl, who was already showing to her little sister how the pieces of her puzzle connected together, nodded seriously. “Yes mom!”

Guiding you to the half pipe, Andrew’s fingers hastily found yours to lace through as your breathing grew shallower the closer you got to it, face painted with fear of the last memory you had of being on a board – the one day who had tainted and altered the rest of your existence. Your hands trembled as you placed a foot atop of it. He stepped closer. “I’ve got you,” he murmured as a reassurance, squeezing your hand twice.

The words seemed to reopen a Pandora’s box of memories because without warning, he could smell Oceanside all over again: the hot asphalt of the skatepark, the lingering aroma of saltwater, the perspiration and sunscreen of your skin after a long day at work paired with his lesson…

You pushed forward precariously. The movement was uncertain, your body summoning up the mechanics but not yet trusting them, knees bent but the shoulders tense. “One,” Andrew counted, hand locked around yours as he matched every inch of progress. “Two…”

“Wow!” Oliver shouted, coming to a halt in the middle of the flat portion of the vert ramp, awe sparkling in his eyes. “Mom! You’re doing like me!”

“I know!” you laughed breathlessly, the sound carried away by the breeze as you pushed once more, forcing Andrew to loosen his grip as his fingers slid from your palm to your knuckles, then to the tips of your own digits, maintaining that last thread until he sensed you no longer needed him to hold on.

Only a few feet were bridged. Nothing that would impress anyone else. But he knew the truth there, – the one that untied the knot in his chest – knew that each accomplishment was a form of cure, a manner of refusing for the worst day of your life to have the final word. The ramp, the board, the wind…none of that belonged to it. You didn’t. And witnessing Juliet abandon all interest in the puzzle to clap enthusiastically for her mother, Evie copying her sister for the joy of it all, while you asked Oliver for advices, Andrew knew.

(Yes, now he understood Odysseus. The stubbornness required to keep choosing the same course no matter how many times the sea tried to draw him under. Because he had spent his own life treading water too. Smurf’s voice had been its own kind of siren song, pulling every one of her boys toward the rocks and convincing them that the wreckage was part of love. The violence, the cash, the substances…endless tides dragging them farther from the shore until Julia drowned. And Cath. And Baz.)

Long gone was the man who had been standing at the mouth of inferno, imploring fate to rewrite his prophecy, for his journey was over. His children were calling for him and the one woman he would spend a thousand lifetimes finding again and again was laughing in the noontide.

He was home in his Ithaca. - The afternoon unfolded far differently from the morning: there were no cheers this time, no wheels rattling on the plywood, no excited voice shouting to pay heed to another trick, only the quiet. Juliet was not the type of child who filled every corner with words. With her it was simple: she talked when she had something to say and remained silent when she didn’t. As surprising as it was for the people who didn’t know the five-year-old girl, Juliet wasn’t one for contrived niceties.

And Andrew…comprehended that. Perhaps a little too well. Therefore, that was why, walking hand in hand inside the neighboring farm, neither seemed to mind at the quietness surrounding them.

The owners of the farm, Rhonda and Diane, had never minded the presence of the family, especially not Juliet’s, who, with her wild auburn curls, had spent so much time among the animals over the years that she had become part of the landscape herself – a small shadow drifting between the paddocks and the fences with pockets brimming with carrots and apples.

Glancing down at her as they followed the dirt path cutting through the property, her hand curled tighter around two of his fingers as her gaze remained fix somewhere ahead, studying the movements of the animals. However, after a while, Andrew noticed her pace changing, and at first it was subtle…until it wasn’t. Her legs accelerated with determination, a crease appearing between her brows and her mouth tightening in an air that he recognized as frustration – one directed at her body for not quite keeping up with the speed she sought after.

This facility of reading her every micro expression was mainly imputable to the fact that he had lived with similar ones since he was born: this irritation addressed to the self, the common agitation when not being able to catch if a stranger talking was joyful or sad…But here, all was straightforward.

Without a word, he bent down and scooped her effortlessly, the frown vanishing in a flash to make room for her smile as she looped both arms around his neck, cheek resting on his shoulder as if she had secretly been hoping for this exact outcome. “There you are my bug,” he murmured, running a hand four times alongside her back.

Her nose scrunched. “I’m not tired, dad.”

“I know you are not.”

“So why?” she asked, dragging the last word with a pout that resembled too closely to your own – the best kind of weapon there was against Andrew’s heart.

He looked at her, stare meeting stare. “I really want to see the horses too,” he replied (Not quite lying since watching the horses meant watching his daughter near them. And he really wanted to be witnessing another one of those moments.)

The grin she gave him in response was worth all the stains of mud he would end up with at the end of the day on his clothes and shoes (Yes, he realized what that meant. Stiff-bristle brush. Cold water. White vinegar. Fifty minutes. Rinse. Twice for good measure. If it was not clean by then…He couldn’t do it three times. Odd number. So he would do it four. But there was no price he wouldn’t pay for his daughter.)

Together, they continued until the horse paddock came into view, and even prior to their arrival at the fence, one particular horse lifted its head from the grass and began trotting toward them – it was the yearling appaloosa that Rhonda and Diane had let Juliet named personally after viewing one of your childhood films that had made the children jolly almost all the way whereas he had escaped to the bathroom twice to hide his tears.

Juliet straightened in her father’s arms. “Arthax!”

The horse neighed as they approached, Andrew lowering his little girl to the ground before she darted away, producing apples form the pockets of her coat, to the great pleasure of the equine who accepted the offering enthusiastically by licking the fruit clean from her hand, earning a giggle from her mouth. The sound filled Andrew somewhere deep in the chest and made him smile as well.

Reaching through the rails, the pads of her digits brushed through the horse’s dark mane before moving to stroke the velvety muzzle. “So soft,” she whispered, and it took a few seconds for Andrew to absorb that she was not addressing herself or the horse but him, like she couldn’t help but share this observation.

Andrew crouched beside her. “Yeah?”

She nodded seriously, like presenting the most essential facts to adore this horse as much as she did – narrowed down to one undisputable argument. “He is very soft.”

It was in those instants that he wished for his daughter to always know what he had spent most of his life wondering: that she was never too much, or wrong, or difficult to love.

(And it was also in them that Andrew saw an uglier truth. Because every day he spent loving his children made it harder to excuse what had happened to him. To understand. Harder to forgive it. He would cross oceans for his son. Would burn kingdoms for his daughters. So what did it signify when the woman who was supposed to love him and his siblings had so often chosen not to even cross the room?)

Arthax wandered away and back to the rest of the herd, interrupting Andrew’s bitter thoughts just as Juliet waved goodbye at the animal, assuring herself that he was returning to his mother before taking once more her father’s hand to go visit the goats – which habitually consisted in her attempting to persuade them not to chew her coat in exchange of carrots. Next were the chickens. Then the geese. And the cows.

Staying beside her through all of it and only intervening when she required it, Andrew sighted, as he looked up at the sky, that the afternoon was giving way around them. The light that had painted the paddocks in gold when they arrived was now deepened into ambery shades, long shadows spreading across the farm and cooling the air. And besides, Juliet’s energy had ebbed by then, at least enough that her steps grew slower and closer to his side.

When they reached the gate leading back to the road, Juliet halted her walk, Andrew following the action. She stared down at the dust gathered at the tip of her shoes, twisting a button of her coat between her pointer and thumb before tilting her head back to him. “Daddy?”

He hummed. “Yeah?”

She looked down at their joined hands. “Thank you for today. It was really funny.” The words arrived quietly, earnest.

Getting on his knees until they were eye-level, he replied, “You’re right. It was funny.”

Juliet smiled, a small one at a corner of her mouth at first, that quickly widened across her face, and before he could add another sentence, she stepped forward, wrapping her arms around his neck. Andrew’s breath stalled. Instantly, he folded around her, a hand settling between her shoulder blades while the other cradled the back of her head, gathering her close against his chest and ignoring how her curls tickled his jaw. His eyes drifted shut. “Thank you,” he murmured, repeating her words back to her.

(Thank you for allowing him the privilege of being her father. For the laughs, the questions, the hugs. For the miracle that transformed a man who once believed himself unworthy of love into the recipient of it. For all of it. For her.)

For another few moments, neither moved and the farm behind them set into its evening sounds, full of crickets singing in the distance and horses galloping. Andrew remained there, holding his daughter, wishing that he could preserve moments as beautiful as this in the same manner people pressed flowers between pages. ────────── “And here,” Craig announces, with in his hand a camcorder that should reside in another century, its red recording light blinking every two seconds, “we have the disgustingly beautiful married couple in their natural habitat that you also call ‘mom and dad’.”

You don’t even bother to look up from the birthday cake as you let out a sigh. “Craig.”

“Observe carefully Evie,” he continues as though you haven’t spoken, the noise of the zoom lens whirring through the kitchen as you adjust the final decorations on the birthday cake and straighten the seven candles, “when you’ll watch this in eleven years, I want you to know that your mother has spent three hours making this cake abomination.”

You seize the cake knife in hand and feign to threaten Craig. “This what?” you banter, still attempting to retain an ominous edge.

Andrew stares from the counter he has been wiping for what must be the third time in the past ten minutes, hazel eyes narrowing toward his brother with a lethal quietude – ample that Craig visibly reconsiders his life choices. “Masterpiece,” he corrects without delay but his older brother keeps glaring. “Actually, I would like the camera to officially record that this is possibly the greatest cake ever made by human hands.” Only then does Andrew nod and returns to wiping the cloth over the marble. “Thank God,” Craig addresses the camera. “I almost died. Evie, use that stare when you’re older if you want to scare men.”

You snort despite yourself while across the kitchen, Andrew finishes with the countertop and folds the cleaning cloth and gloves with his habitual precision before walking up behind you to throw crumbs into the trash. His other hand finds the small of your back as he passes, fingers brushing there in the silent grammar of your marriage – like when he pulls out the chair for you to sit, check whether you have eaten, make himself useful afore words are necessary. The kiss on your shoulder ensues a second later, all swift, delicate and natural as breathing.

Craig groans. “Oh come on! Seriously! I hate you two,” he proclaims to the camera with amusement wrapped in the complaint. “You’re absolutely sickening. Look at them, Vee.”  He points at the two of you. “Look at your parents! Do you know what this leads to?”

“Don’t.”

“Of course you know. Cause when you’ll watch this, you’ll be eighteen and we won’t have to talk about ‘the bees and the birds’ anymore,” he keeps going, ignoring your word of warning. “So if you end up with twelve more siblings by the time you have access to those images, this is why.”

Andrew and you answer at the same time. “No.”

“That’s exactly what people say and then they still have another baby.”

Shaking your head, you reply, “We are not having another baby.”

“Isn’t it what you said after the twins?” Craig asks rhetorically, zooming even more on the area where your faces are, only to be met by two pairs of eyes rolling in perfect synchrony, the coordinated movement only making the younger brother burst into laughter.

(there are days where you ponder if Craig will still be the same at eighty, sitting on a porch somewhere with silver hair, a beer balanced on the armrest and making awful sex innuendos to whoever poor person happens to be trapped withing hearing distance. realistically he will probably end up the type of man who flirts shamelessly with every woman at the retirement home so…the answer is yes. some people grow older and then there’s Craig.)

Outside, the garden has become its ordinary carnival of noise, which signifies that Adrian and Deran have cast aside any hope for serenity while lying on the lounge chairs, the children now sprinting through the yard in search of one another while Bodhi, the two men’s labrador, follows Oliver around in ecstatic circles with his tail whipping the air and looking on the verge of fainting from joy whenever he gets pet. Even Nick, who was pretending an hour ago of being too old at thirteen to play hide-and-seek, is now grinning as he helps Evie locate the best hiding spot available and lets himself be discovered by her every single time.

Arriving the previous week at Craig’s house, only two streets away, for the holiday season, Nick – with the self-conscious posture of a teenager trying hard to act older – had been nothing but helpful, always saying yes. He has said yes to hang the decorations with Andrew and you the night before, carrying boxes without being asked or complaining, to cheer louder than anyone during Juliet’s latest show-jumping competition with Arthax, to accompany Oliver to the much bigger skatepark in Ojai to show him additional tricks, and has even accepted to watch The Parent Trap with Evie three times in seven days, learning for the birthday girl the secret handshake.

There is a kindness in him that echoes Craig’s so faithfully it makes your chest ache, because for all his jests, eyerolls and perpetual endeavors to appear unaffected, Craig has always loved people with his entire heart. He simply mastered early on the art of disguising it as irritation, to wrap concern in teasing and devotion in complaints. Nick, however, has not picked up that trick.

“Found you!” Evie screams outside while Nick clutches his chest and collapses into the grass, making her and the twins giggle at their cousin’s theatrics.

Craig’s voice pulls you back. “Earth to birthday mom.”

You blink. “Hm?”

“The cake.”

Glancing down at the finished product with its heart-shaped form covered in chocolate fudge frosting and ornamental stars, you wipe your hands on a dish towel. “Well…I think it’s good,” you announce before pointing a finger at Craig, who is still holding the camera. “Now go outside and film there instead of here. We’re bringing the cake.”

“Sure I can’t have a few more scenes of your mating rituals?” he asks with a smirk.

“If you don’t go film your niece in the next thirty seconds-”

Craig clasps his heart in mock scandal and comments to the camcorder. “Fine! Fine! I am leaving the kitchen. But my niece has to know it was not without protest.” And right before stepping through the backdoor he adds, “Just don’t conceive in the kitchen!”

You open your mouth to respond, armed with at least three different threats involving the cake slicer and the garbage disposal, but he is gone before you can deliver any of them, wearing the delighted expression of a man who has survived another encounter with your husband’s deathly stare. For a second, the kitchen falls blessedly quiet and you see in the corner of your eyes Andrew, one hand coming up to pinch the bridge of his nose “Is it just me or is he getting worse with the years?” you ask, incapable of dissimulating the snort.

Andrew nods. “He is. Still don’t know how we put up with him here for so long.”

Chuckling, you reach for the box of matches during which time Andrew prudently slides both hands beneath the cake plate, counting under his breath to overcome the wave of pressure (about the precarious equilibrium of it? or about the seven candles placed there for your youngest? knowing him, it can very well be both.). Catching rapidly, the small flames dance on his face and accentuate his piercing hazel eyes, not fixed on the cake but on you with the attention of a person who has spent a decade cataloguing the shape of your existence and still hasn’t grown tired of it. “There,” you murmur with a smile.

“It’s perfect,” he replies with a raspy tone, the word not directed to the baked good.

Shaking your head, you rise onto your toes and press a kiss to his mouth – a peck at first, only for him to tilt his head into it, stealing another few seconds until permitting you to pull away. “Come on Mr. Cody, let’s not make the kids wait.”

His gaze trails all along your face, nodding before he walks a step behind you with the cake while you hold the door open for him. The song is all messy and pure at once, with Craig who can’t resist harmonizing in the worst possible key, and Adrian, sticking his tongue out to make Evie break the feigned solemn air she is taking of a princess surrounded by her court. Placing the birthday cake diligently in front of her, Andrew adjusts its position by less than an inch to the left before deeming it acceptable.

(you can bet good money that he just centered it with the wood grain of the table and his daughter’s chair.)

He steps back, hand finding yours just as the little girl closes her eyes, pressing her lips together and making a wish, blowing out the candles in one determined breath. The table erupts and for one picture perfect moment, while everyone celebrates, you look at Andrew – whose eyes are already fixed on your face. Judging by the smile spreading across his face, you suspect that whatever Evie has just wished for…he is thinking that he already got his.

Later, after the cake, the sticky fingers and the smear of frosting on Oliver’s wrist that Andrew notices and wipes before it can spread all over, it’s time for the gifts. Without being solicited, Nick glides by her side into the role of assistant, retrieving each package and handing it over, even if the first one necessitates also the help of Deran, considering the size of it. Not wrapped in paper, his and Adrian’s present is a hand painted surfboard, spattered in shades of bright blues, yellows and the names of the family intricately hidden in the patterns.

“You have the best reason to visit us in Santa Barbara for the summer,” Adrian smiles, assisting to lift it up so she can observe it closely.

Deran adds. “Yeah, we can teach you properly with your own board now.”

When it gets place to the side, Evie launches herself at both of them, thanking like she has been gifted the moon and promising to listen to her uncles when she’ll be there. Craig’s present is next, and somehow, even prior to the wrapping paper being ripped out, you just know that a disaster is coming, for his face bears the gleeful guilt of a man who has set a spark and is now awaiting for everyone else to contemplate the fire. The box reveals a drum set scaled for a child, which makes you briefly consider murder with a cymbal.

“Craig,” you articulate very quietly, concealing it with a smile and a thumbs-up directed at your youngest, “you know that I hate you, right?”

He raises his hands and shrugs, amused. “I know, I know…But what can I say? She has rhythm and I’m nurturing it! Hey, Evie!” He leans toward her and stage-whispers, “You should play it on Sunday mornings! It’s the best hour.”

(years ago you aspired to murder your brother-in-law with the closest heavy object on behalf of leaving you in the middle of a party to snort drugs so…poisoning him here would only be a ‘long-time coming’ situation, right?)

Nick delivers his present with less fanfare: a massive science kit, seeing that he heard her claiming to be the next astronaut to go walk on the moon, then Oliver, who gives her a set of acrylic paints, that he had been saving up for since she eyed it up through the shop window. Evie lights up at it, at being seen for all the things that she is: a surfer, a drummer, a scientist and a painter – young enough to believe that she can be all of them at once. Juliet hands over a bracelet she spent weeks making herself, beads spelling out ‘Vee’, accompanied by a journal with a lock, hugging her sister tightly and murmuring something in her ear that makes her grin.

Then, Andrew disappears briefly, not without squeezing your hand first. What he brings out from the garage is so large that everyone falls silent…even Craig. It’s a dollhouse. Not a flimsy toy-store version, but an entire miniature house built entirely by him, with walls painted by hand and stairs and small furniture and even a room upstairs that has bookshelves no bigger than your palm.

Evie’s mouth falls open. “Dad…”

Andrew clears his throat, placing it next to her to avoid showing how much the moment affects him, not because his children shouldn’t see him cry – he has spent many years teaching his son that tears are not to be mistaken with weakness. And you know it has nothing to do with Deran or Craig either, if anything, they would comprehend better than anyone: they had endured the same house, the same mother. But still, there are days like this one where you can witness the truth hidden beneath his features and eyes, this small part of him that whispers in his ear that it’s never meant to last. “I made it for you,” he ends up saying.

She jumps into his arms, her father now smiling through the impact while she wraps both arms around his neck, and you can see the way his face softens when the devil on his shoulder lifts its claws to let him appreciate the embrace.

Stepping forward last, you place in Evie’s hand her photo album, tied with a silver ribbon. When she opens it, her hands move page by page with growing wonder, each spread filled with pictures and notes in your handwriting. Among them: Andrew as a child, circa 1981, caught in one of the rare photographs where he is smiling, the rest of the frame meticulously trimmed away since it belonged to a history none of the children cared to revisit (a point they had made to Andrew adamantly), leaving only him and a silver glitter inscription, Your cute dad. There is also one of you with a missing tooth and a teddy bear clutched tight to your chest, annotated with Your mom who always wanted a hug.

Another picture of Andrew and you, prior to even being a couple, standing next to each other at some party Craig had forced his older brother to attend. You are cradling a beer and smiling at something he has just said while Andrew, true to form, wears his usual stern expression but yet, the image betrays him: his body angled toward yours, attention fixed solely on your lips, a softness in the eyes that makes it obvious – as clearly as if it had been underlined – that he had already fallen long before confessing it on the parking lot of Deran’s former bar.

Evie’s ultrasounds, Juliet and Oliver asleep on either side of your belly, there is even a picture of her in the crib the day she was born, another of Andrew holding her for the first time, face wrecked with awe, the twins on your bed as you show them their new sister, and a few sheets later one of Evie perched on Craig’s shoulder while he wore heart-shaped sunglasses in pure cool uncle spirit while she ate ice cream.

A page. Then another. She keeps turning them long after the others have moved on to finish their plates and drinks, and although he participates when spoken to, nods when Craig talks, answers when Oliver asks a question…you notice that part of Andrew never truly leaves Evie, his gaze returning to her over and over with the same certainty a compass returns north.

When the party finally winds down and Craig, Deran, Adrian and Bodhi pile back into Craig’s truck for the night, Nick preferring with his usual enthusiasm to stay for a sleepover with his cousins, you find Evie sitting on the sofa, album open across her knees.

Her eyes are fixed on one of the wedding photographs. You set down the face product that you are about to apply on the coffee table to sit beside her. “What are you still doing up, Evie-Lou? Don’t you want to go with the others?”

“In a minute,” she says, without looking away.

You tuck a loose piece of hair behind her ear. “What is it?”

She frows faintly while still staring at the shot of you and Andrew outside the church after the wedding, his hands framing your face while you kiss. “If…If I tell you my wish,” she asks in a small voice, “is it true that it doesn’t come true?”

You smile and smooth your hand down her back. “Well, I’m your mom, so I’m certain that the stars would still make it happen.”

Evie glances toward the hallway to make sure no one else can hear her before leaning closer. “I wished for Uncle Craig to find someone who looks at him just like you look at Daddy.”

You throat contracts painfully, enough that you have to kiss the top of her head before answering. “That’s a very good wish.” Looking up at you, her eyes are soft with all the solemnity of a child asking the universe for help. “And I’m sure,” you add gently, “that one day your wish will come true.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.” You smile and press your lips once more to her hair. “Now go to bed. And don’t stay up too late with the others!”

She nods, tucking the album against her chest, but a moment later, right before she disappears in the hallway to join them, she throws you a grin, one that tells you in a second that she has absolutely no intention of following that instruction whatsoever. ────────── Andrew had assumed he could postpone this conversation for a few more years. Not forever, no, he had never been naïve enough to think that…but longer would have allowed him to pretend a while more. Long enough that the children would be older when the questions ultimately occurred, just enough that Her cursed name wouldn’t reverberate like a corpse dragged across the floorboards of the life he had devoted over a decade building with his own hands.

He had been reiterating the same novena since his children were born, an obstinate litany of avoidance to keep them safe and permitting him to form a world where no one had to know the woman whose acrimonious love wore the face of syrupy words and tight leaches. How five children had mistaken their fear for devotion. He almost convinced himself that because She was dead, that the years had gone by and that his own children had grown up far from Her damaging nature, then perhaps the past could remain where he had locked it away.

Instead, the assignment came home on a random Tuesday afternoon, folded into their backpacks on a poster of pastel paper with an instruction from their first-grade teacher that said ‘Write about the people who make up your family’. By the time the three children had spread out around the living room coffee table that afternoon, Evie on her knees with a bowl of crayons – too little for school but eager to prove her drawing skills – while Juliet sorted them for her by shade, Oliver leaning so far over the work that his tongue poked from the corner of his mouth in concentration, Andrew knew that the safe route was already long gone.

At first it was manageable, the children filling the branches they already were familiar with: mother, father, their uncles Craig, Deran and his husband Adrian, their aunt Julia…even Baz found a place there. Then came your mother and father, the ones you had spoken about so naturally over time that the twins had long ago realized how the shape of your grief had modeled your family map, with a mother who went among the stars, as you told them, when you were twenty-one and a father who later joined her.

Oliver had been the first to ask about his own branch, pointing at a blank space that Andrew filled in with little to no information. Colin. Dead preceding Andrew and Julia being born. Not a family name. Not even a photograph of him. A father known mostly through the hollow outline of what Billy painted about him, the kind of man whose life remained a mystery because the deeper parts had been buried in the fields with him and the war in his head.

Then Juliet, who had been coloring the trunk of the tree, lifted her eyes and asked her father the one question he had wanted to avoid. “What about your mom?”

His chest constricted, as though a hammer had installed itself directly atop his ribs, but he kept his voice neutral and expression meticulously composed. No, worse, he even smiled to not reveal the hurt lurking beneath it, not knowing whether, deep down, if it was for his own sake or Juliet’s, who observed the world the same manner he did: through collecting details, patterns, pauses and drawing conclusions from all combined.

“She was…” he began, but the sentence withered before it reached the air, like flowers wilting at the sound of Her name – vowels and consonants carved onto a monument he had spent so long striving to abrade into dust. “Her name was Janine Cody.” Saying it tasted rancid, like spending years building the Hanging Gardens of Babylon stone by stone, only to glance down and discover the soil beneath his nails still came from her tomb – the decaying body in his empyrean world.

Oliver wrote it down with application. “How do you spell Janine?”

He told him, then came the next question, and the next, and the next…Andrew kept going because if he stopped now, he was certain he might never start again. “When was she bo- October eleventh. Nineteen fifty-three.” The words were clinical, stripped of love, as though he were reading information from an old file instead of speaking about the woman who had raised him.

But still…the more interrogations came…the more the panic rose in him like the flood, and in the blink of an eye, he was up on his feet, excusing himself. The bathroom door shut behind him with a soft click, bracing both hands on the sink and bending his head down over the basin, eyes shut tight as his breath came unevenly through his nose and bile climbed in the throat. For a moment, all he could hear was the rush inside his ears and the numbers he forced himself to count since counting was still one of the few things left in the world he could trust when everything began to splinter and you were not there to reassure him.

(One. Two. Three. Four. She was dead. The children were safe. It was not Oceanside. You were not back in that house. She was dead. You never met her. One. Two. Three. Four. No. She had no right to come back. No right to be here. He didn’t want her name on their family tree. She was nothing. One. Two. Three. F-)

He splashed water on his face, keeping his palms on the cool porcelain long enough for the shock of the temperature to drag him back to the present, eyes open now toward his own reflection. He stared at the face he had inherited from the one person he didn’t trust, jaw tight, eyes too bright and the mouth set in that grim line he hated sighting on himself.

(One. Two. Three. Four. In. Out. In. Out. He counted the tiles. Four across. Four down. Good number. Even number.)

He remained in the room until the fear ceased asphyxiating quite so hard, unlocking your shampoo to inhale its familiar scent, fingers lingering on the fabric of your pajamas draped over the chair to seek reassurance in the proof of your existence. When he eventually made his way back, conscious that the storm was still inscribed on his face, he found the children exactly where he had left them: bent over their drawings and giggling about the shape of Juliet’s leaves.

Sitting down, Andrew only had to wait a minute before Oliver asked him, “Was she nice like Mommy?” and the question should have been simple to answer, but how could he explain to a six-year-old that the absence of kindness can still wear the face of a mother, can still feed her kids while teaching them how to shoot a gun or rob a place, calling it love.

Andrew swallowed before responding, and even then his voice came out rougher than intended. “No.”

“She didn’t comfort you when you had a bad dream?” A shake of the head. The boy’s brow furrowed, asking earnestly, “Help you with your homework?” Again, Andrew shook his head. “Sing you a song before bed and kiss you goodnight?”

Not knowing when the tears occurred, only that warm rivulets suddenly descended his face to drop onto his jeans, Andrew covered his mouth with one of his hands, trying and failing to keep himself and his sobs together because there once had been a time where the term mother had signified surveillance and the brutal requirements of being useful. Now there was a child, no, his child, who was born out of love, asking him whether that woman had even done the simplest sort of kind acts in the world, and every answer was no, no, no, while his eyes burned and the room went blurry around the rims.

The twins comprehended what he sought perhaps better than he did, for before he could speak again, and with no discussion, nor exchange of glances, Juliet arose from her kneeling position to walk to him, small arms reaching around his waist as Oliver followed right away, curling at the other side. Then, noticing that Evie was still at the table with a pencil in hand, staring with a confusion painted across her features, her sister lifted a hand and made a beckoning motion. The crayon was abandoned, rolling uselessly in favor of a group hug.

Oliver brushed his father’s back once, twice, three times (Odd number. In. Out.), replicating the gestures he had witnessed his parents do to the siblings whenever they had a bad dream or felt sad. Now he desired to return the favor. “It’s okay, daddy,” he whispered against his shirt, voice muffled. “If you want…” He paused, probably searching for a solution clever or large enough to fix whatever was wrong. “Mommy can sing you a song!”

“Yeah?” The sound that escaped Andrew was halfway between a laugh and a sob, pulling closer his three children until they were tucked against him. “Yeah. I’d love that.”

They stayed there, in a tangle of arms, for a while, letting the panic retreat like a tide moving away from the shore, up until Oliver tilted his face up into his father’s shirt and asked, in the softest voice, “Dad?”

“Hm?”

“You know how you always tell me we are safe?”

Andrew closed his eyes. “Yeah.”

“Well,” he said quietly, squeezing him harder. “You’re safe too.”

(He couldn’t utter a word. Couldn’t even inhale past the ache in his trachea. Safety had always been the thing he provided. The thing he assembled around you. Then around the children when they were born. Through the locks and the counted exits, the background checks and the emergency plans. Never once did he expect to receive it in return and still…he did. A decade ago in the dead of the night when you had comforted him after a nightmare, when he was so convinced that you saw him as nothing more than Craig’s brother. And every single day since, as long as it was passed in your company, he knew the sentiment could be found in your embrace. But here, now, safety came from his son.)

Later, much later, when the tears had long been eased and the room no longer felt like it was tilting around him, the children came back from school with their final version of the project. When he peered at the tree laid flat across the kitchen table, he went very still, for in the careful branches and colored leaves, there was no mention of Smurf. None. No name, no date, just an empty space.

And even though he recognized that this exclusion could never fully undo the corrosion of what had been done – the Cody brothers would forever bear those scars – Andrew also knew in that instant that the blight she thought she could pass through the bloodline hadn’t been invited onto that poster. Nor into their lives. That meant only one thing: the family was safe. ────────── “Wow, wait, wait, wait young lady!” you exclaim, the apple peeler stalling midway through the motion as your gaze lifts from the kitchen island and catches sight of Evie walking past the doorway. “Is it my dress?”

She stops dead in her tracks, offering a sheepish glance in return, one that does little to veil her guilt, particularly when framed by the telltale traces of your makeup on her face with the sweep of your mascara along her lashes and the tint of your lipstick adorning her mouth. “Mom, please,” she laments, stretching the first word out.

You lower the apple in your hand with painstaking slowness, allowing the silence to expand between you, loving nothing more than to drag her suffering another minute for the theatrics of it all. “That’s strange,” you muse. “I don’t remember saying yes to you borrowing my dress.”

“Oh, please, mom.” Her expression turns Andrew-like, the eyeroll clearly wanting to happen while every muscle in her face fights to maintain composure, leaving only her eyes to communicate the full extent of her exasperation. “You never wear it.”

You look up and down once more at the dress in question, with its soft white fabric and floating shape who conveys a whole string of memories with it. The last time you wore it was, what? Eighteen, maybe nineteen years ago? It had been for a party organized by Craig and Deran in the Oceanside house, your palms jittery from craving to store your sentiments for Andrew somewhere private and safe and covert from Craig’s loud interference, therefore placing it in the purchase of a new pair of gloves so he could scrub without tearing his skin. Party where the two of you had ended up sharing a bed since Craig had stolen the couch, pretending there was nothing already half-formed between you, that you were not standing on the edge of something.

(you can still recall knocking on his door. the linen fabric of the sheet. his tense body on the mattress as you had ached to touch him. the unbearable relief when you had held each other.)

Looking back at Evie, you exhale through your nose, covering the smile. “Fine. But don’t stain it and don’t rip it.”

She makes a strangled sound of gratitude and throws herself in your arms before you can brace, hugging you so tightly that the apple almost slips from your fingers. “Thank you,” she breathes into your shoulder. “I promise I’ll be careful.”

“Mh-hm.” You kiss the top of her head. “And don’t forget protections either.”

Pulling away with such speed and horror that you are on the brink of breaking the serious façade, she grimaces. “Okay, I’m leaving!”

You place the apple and its peeler back on the counter before following her to the doorstep as she grabs her handbag from the entry table. “I’m joking. But…not really. Don’t forget tha-”

“I know,” she cuts in quickly, reciting the list that she has heard so many times she can’t omit an element while lifting her fingers. “Condoms in the slip pocket. Pepper spray and spiked drink tests in the front one. If I don’t feel safe I call Dad.” She pauses after opening the door, one eyebrow raised in the exact same expression Andrew produces when he is being asked to tolerate nonsense. “Mom, you know it’s just a party at Shelly’s.”

You raise a finger at her in warning. “Exactly. It’s a party and you’re fifteen. I’m preparing for every scenario.” A car horn sounds outside, making Evie visibly perk up as you mouth, ‘Saved by the bell’.

“Okay that’s me!” she smiles, kissing your cheek and shouting to the rest of the house, “Bye Dad! Bye Ollie!”

You shake your head as she runs down to the vehicle where Areesha, her closest friend since fifth grade and drum lessons, awaits in the driver’s seat, one arm out of the open window while music erupts from the speakers. The second she notices you watching, she calls, “Good evening Mrs. Cody!” with the same cheerful politeness she has greeted you with for years now, ever since she was a ten-year-old girl nervously asking whether she could stay for dinner after practice.

“Good evening girls, be safe!” you reply, returning the wave as Evie slides into the passenger seat beside her. And that is the reason why your anxiety loosens its grip by a fraction. If your daughter is to be somewhere other than home tonight, well at least it’s with Areesha: the girl who spent half her childhood in your kitchen, who knows where the spare blankets are kept, cried in your arms after her first heartbreak and always texts when she arrives safely. There are few people you would entrust with your children, but Areesha has always been one of them.

Evie leans out of the window to wave one final time before the car pulls away from the curb while you watch the taillights disappear into the evening. Remaining there for a few more minutes, you breath the fresh air, noticing the shadow of Juliet appearing on the path that leads the house to the farm, still in her riding breeches and muddy boots, with the peaceful demeanor she wears every time she comes back from a few hours spent in the company of Arthax and the other animals, a place where nobody requires from her to be more than she is.

“Hi mom, Vee left?” she asks as she halts just outside the threshold, bending to remove her boots and lining them against the wall and alongside the outdoor carpet.

Helping her shrug off her equestrian quilted jacket that holds the scent of hay and sweat, you nod. “Yes. She’s staying over at Shelly’s.”

Juliet gives a little hum, glancing toward the road. “You know Javier will be there.”

(of course Javier is there. the boy who started dating your daughter three months ago. her age and sweet enough in Andrew’s opinion…after background checks for a juvenile record and days of stalking. he wanted to be certain that the boy who would step foot in the house for dinner and went to the cinema with his youngest wasn’t hiding something.)

“I know, I know…” You make a vague helpless gesture with the jacket in your hand before placing it on the coat rack. “I asked her to wear protections.”

Juliet snorts while triple-checking the front door latch, then the deadbolt, and the chain. “Mom, I think she knows. She had the talk with Dad, you, and even Craig. Uncle Craig, mom!”

“Well, at least she’s informed!” At your daughter’s amused face, you shake your head and laugh, giving up entirely. “Fine. Fine. She knows.” Changing the subject, you glance at the hallway and add, “How about a movie tonight? You go take a shower and I’ll ask your father and Ollie to join us.”

“Deal!” Juliet exclaims while heading toward her room by the time she finishes the word, straightening the picture frame on the wall as she passes it and adjusting the rug by the baseboard right before she closes her bedroom door with one push and one extra check on the latch that you can overhear from the end of the hallway as you head for the back door, where you know the boys have been skateboarding earlier.

Instead of finding them on the ramp, it’s at the backyard table that you notice them, sitting side by side and backs turned to you, their voices sufficiently low that you can tell that the conversation is serious. At first, you only catch fragments of it. “-and I don’t know what to do,” Oliver bemoans, voice thin with frustration and embarrassment. “Every time I try to speak to her, I feel like the words just…vanish. She’s my best friend and now I look like an idiot!”

Andrew, with his elbows braced against his thighs and his attention fixed so completely on his son that he looks like he is holding the boy together with his stare alone, replies without judgement, “You don’t look like an idiot.”

Oliver lets out a groan and scrubs a hand over his face. “I wanted to throw up this morning before I even talked to her! She asked if I was okay and the only thing I managed to do was a thumbs-up. A thumbs-up! And the next thing I knew, my head ended up against a locker.” He drops his forehead onto the table with a long expiration. “Why is it so hard to ask someone on a date? I mean…I know her so well it should be easier, right? Not- Not so messy.”

Your husband’s answer comes after he has searched his son’s face by tilting his head until meeting his gaze, like he perpetually does when he wants his sentence to be heard loud and clear. “It’s messy because you think of the bad,” he declares slowly. “But what if it’s good?”

Oliver blinks at him, pensive, and after a beat, he asks, “How was it?”

“What?”

“For you,” your son wonders. “With Mom. Was it difficult?”

Looking down at his hands and rubbing them four times over his thighs, he answers honestly, “I was scared. Not your mom. And you know her, she is…”

“Stubborn?” Oliver offers with a small grin.

Andrew’s mouth twitches, revealing the corner of a smile and its dimples that he struggles to contain. “Yeah. She saw right through me.” His eyes drift to the sky for a moment, to the starts that commence to show in the early dark. “She’s the one who kept making all the first steps.”

Oliver is silent for a while after that answer, and you can tell by the way he leans forward that his next question has been lying in wait inside him for some time, growing roots. “When did you know?” he enquires at last. “That she would be…the one?”

Turning back to him with a gaze that makes the rest of the garden disappear, he responds, “Honestly?” and Oliver nods once. “The moment I saw her.” Despite already knowing the story, hell, despite already living the story, your heart stutters. “Your uncle Craig had told me that he wanted to introduce me to one of his friends. But the house was not clean, so…” ────────── (Craig should have warned him beforehand. Like the previous day. Fuck, even the morning would have been ample. Just enough time to scour the whole house three times until he was appeased. Until he felt like his pulse wasn’t hammering in his throat. But no.)

Last night there had been one of his brother’s infamous parties, and Andrew had spent most of it stationed at the back door that connected the kitchen to the backyard, cataloguing every water ring on the wooden tables, every muddy footprint threatening to ruin the floor, which guests wandered too close to a breakable object. And by every measurable standard for a ‘Craig’s party’, the night had gone fine. Yet now, all he could brood over were the mistakes.

(He shouldn’t have retreated so soon after the last person left. Should have scrubbed more. Or vacuumed. Instead he had lied rigid beneath the covers of his bed, staring at the ceiling while the ghosts of Smurf and Baz prowled near him in the dark. Now this guest would notice the uneven number of apples in the fruit bowl. That the labels in the cupboard weren’t facing the same direction. Would see that the outdoor carpet still showed traces of footsteps from the preceding night. Think that they’re slobs. Lazy. That he was useless. One. Two. Three. Four. He breathed while attempting to forget how much his brother should have told him earlier.)

But of course no, Craig had simply strolled shamelessly into the kitchen during lunch, hangover and naked except for a towel slung low around his hips, hair tied up, announcing as if discussing the weather that he had invited a friend over to meet them. When Andrew had inquired – with all the patience in the world he could muster – at what time that friend was coming, his brother had merely shrugged and continued drinking orange juice directly from the carton to make the oldest grind his teeth.

“Soon,” he had replied. (But soon was a useless term. It could signify right now or in an hour or not at all considering Craig’s ‘buddies’.)

So, Andrew did the most rational thing in his mind, and put on his gloves. At one o’clock he was outside the backyard, brushing leaves around the pool, cleaning the waterline of it with a sponge and chlorine, rubbing the springboard. By two he relocated inside, steam vacuuming Smurf’s bright red couch until he was certain there would be no germs, then dusting the television, the coffee table, wiping fingerprints from every flat surface…

And by three, he was in the kitchen, washing dishes that were already clean, wiping the island until even the gloves smelled like the lemon cleaner, realigning bottles in the refrigerator and turning the labels outward in the cupboard, all of that to lead to 3:59, when he heard the gate opening and his brother shouting from somewhere near, “It’s her!”

Andrew went still, as if his bones had frozen in place.

(Her? He had presumed Craig would invite another one of the coke-snorting idiot who temporarily orbited around him. One he kept close because he was bored or lonely or both. A guy he would later laugh about while smoking outside with the two other Codys. He had not prepared for a woman. Not at all. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. He counted the apples in the bowl. Uneven. Wrong, wrong, wrong.)

He sat at the kitchen counter, straightening his spine, placing both hands flat on his thighs, trying to recall what to do with his face, his body, even with his breathing. Craig’s warm voice echoed from the front door, welcoming the woman inside and teasing her for a thing Andrew didn’t understand with the sort of tone he perpetually used with the people he felt sufficiently comfortable to embarrass for jest. Footsteps approached across the parquet, each one landing closer to the kitchen until a sentiment prickled all along his spine.

There were some arrivals that didn’t feel ordinary even before they occurred, some presences that announced themselves via gravitational force rather than sound, like an irrational trajectory that always led back to the same thought. This morning, Andrew wouldn’t have grasped this notion, but now that his eyes found yours in the kitchen entrance, holding a greasy paper bag in both hands, he knew for certain that such forces existed, and that somehow they had directed you straight to him.

Craig, standing beside you with a grin, gestured toward Andrew and commented, “My brother Pope. Don’t mind him, he almost doesn’t bite,” but the oldest barely heard it – all cognitive function had deserted him the very second he took a look at your face.

Not beautiful. Beautiful was too common of a word, too diminished by overuse and too insufficient to explain the spear that just pierced underneath his clavicle to end right in his heart. You resembled a deity masquerading as a woman, the kind sculpted in marble and worshipped with blood sacrifices, the sort whose existence alone could alter the trajectory of history by the mere accident of being noticed.

It was right at this moment that Andrew comprehended why an entire city had burned, why Paris had looked at Helen and decided the world was disposable compared to the privilege of being blessed with her affection, for if even a fraction of Helen’s beauty had carried what you held so effortlessly before him, then Troy had deserved the flames and the Gods had been merciful in limiting the destruction to only one city and the war to two decades.

(He would have burned kingdoms too for one second of your smile.)

His throat constricted as his gaze traveled greedily over all the details his mind could gather before the moment vanished: the way your shoulders rounded as though attempting to make yourself smaller in an unfamiliar house, the nervous shifting of your weight from one foot to another, the parting of your lips around a breath you hadn’t yet released, and those eyes… (Jesus.) Those eyes were so impossibly alive that Andrew found himself staring while each and every violent instinct and dark impulse he had ever possessed readjusted themselves around a new unrestrained and terrifying truth: he would die for you.

Worse, he knew he would kill for you just as readily. Afterall, he had killed before, and for way less. If Achilles himself descended from Olympus, he would walk forward barehanded without hesitation, indifferent that he was to fight a man protected by gods – because what was fear measured to this? Measured to the realization that he had been waiting for you his entire life without knowing it?

(He would recognize you even if the world were plunged into the obscurity. Would perceive you were darkness absolute, silence eternal and were death itself foolish enough to separate you. In another lifetime, beneath another name and inside another body entirely, or in centuries not yet born and worlds not yet formed…he would know you still. And he would spend each borrowed existence falling in love with you over and over again.)

That thought struck Andrew with embarrassment, sharp enough that he nearly grimaced at himself.

(Craig wanted to introduce him to his friend. Friend. He shouldn’t look like the weird brother. But Craig being Craig he couldn’t cease thinking…maybe he sought for more? Was it the reason why he brought you here? Because he intended on something later? Would he have to listen to this? See you kissing and touching? One. Two. Three. Four. Friend. Just friend. He counted the blinks of your eyelashes for the seventeen seconds that had just passed since you entered the room.)

Slowly, almost timidly, you extended your hand to him, a simple gesture that made his pulse pound against his ribs so violently he became convinced that Craig could catch it from where he stood. “H-Hi,” you stammered, quickly followed by your name – emerging as the most valuable word he had ever heard.

(He wanted to repeat it right away. To memorize the shape of it. To hold the name in his mouth somewhere private and examine the sonority from every angle.)

The problem was that he stared at your hand for so long that your breathing changed and you pulled it back, clutching the bag of pastries to your chest. The sight of you retreating made him understand with horror that he had been too slow to answer, forming the worst kind of first impressions with his grim silence and jaw locked so stiffly that the muscles in his neck twitched.

You threw a look at Craig, then back at him, struggling to rescue the awkwardness of the meeting. “I brought pastries. I didn’t know what you all would like so…I kind of…guessed.”

“Thank you,” he finally managed, voice low, almost raw.

Craig, noticing his failure at being social with the friend he had brought, hissed, “Stop being weird, bro!” while Deran stepped inside the kitchen, all easy confidence and cool detachment, nodding once at you in introduction before handing beers to the three of them.

With his skin feeling too tight for his body, Andrew held the bottle with a strong grip, feeling the glass threatening under the pressure of his palm while his younger brother started to make conversation with you. “You fuckin’ with me? You live in Oceanside and can’t stand on a board?” Deran laughed, raising a brow in mock disbelief. “No worry, me or mister El Craigo here will introduce you to it. You’ll only swallow, like…a gallon of water before you get it.” You shook your head silently but politely, awaking in him the urge to tell his brothers to stop talking to hear what your voice sounded like uninterrupted.

Too focused in the impulse, he almost didn’t catch your face turning to him with a smile, turning the blood in his veins into lead and setting his nerves alight underneath the epidermis. It was a small thing perhaps – at least for most – but for Andrew, to witness that smile gave him the sentiment of being at perihelion: so close to the sun that his fingertips could have reached out to skim the edge of your light and returned gilded.

“Um…Pope,” you stumbled in a quiet voice, the sound of his nickname in your mouth so wrong that it made him feel physically ill, something hot and sour climbing up in his throat. Everyone called him that, most out of fear of what the ‘crazy Cody’ could do, but fear was the last thing he wanted you to feel.

He interrupted you before you could finish your sentence. “Andrew.” Ignoring his brothers’ shared looks, he kept his unblinking gaze on yours. He had no ability for pretending and no appetite for justifying to them why he dragged his true name from the bottom of his past, where it had sat ever since Smurf died, like a coin gathering rust in a fountain. He knew that if he were to tell his thoughts or ask his questions to Craig (Was he playing friendly only to get you in his bed? Was there someone else already?) he would sound insane – at least more than his brother thought – which was probably true.

He had only heard a few words from you and already, he wanted to hear you talk for the rest of his life. So, when you lowered your eyes to complete your earlier sentence, he flew before he could halt himself, standing too fast and, without another word, walking straight out of the kitchen and down the hall to his room.

(Closed the door. Walking in circles. One. Two. Three. Four. He counted the creases on the bedcover. Rearranged them. Then counted the steps between the door and the bed. The door and the window. The bed and the window. One. Two. Three. Four. Again. And again.)

Later that night, after Deran and Craig went on with their lives and the house quietened, Andrew lied on top of the covers, staring at the ceiling in the dark and struggling not to think of your face…which only meant he thought of it more. In the end, he surrendered, for the darkness allowed what the daylight wouldn’t, whispering your name into the bedroom, again and again until the syllables grew strange and it no longer felt like a word. Murmured it until his mouth went dry. Until he felt drunk on the sound of it.

He kept pronouncing the loveliest word language invented even as he wondered guiltily, desperately, if from wherever you were sleeping, you envisioned him too.

When sleep finally claimed him, your name was the last thing he tasted. ────────── When sleep finally releases you, your name is the first thing you perceive.

It’s exhaled against your face in the softest manner, – sensing more the feathered warmth of it rather than the sound – succeeded by an unhurried procession of kisses laid one after another with devotion across your cheek, your temple and the corner of your mouth while his weathered hands, calloused with the decades and the veins more pronounced than they once were, come to cradle your face as if committing to memory the shape of your features like it’s the first time.

“Mm,” you mutter drowsily, prying your eyes open to find Andrew studying you, silver hair mussed from the pillow and the lines around his mouth and eyes deeper, yet impossibly dearer. Without a word, he reaches to your collarbone where your necklace sits twisted, centering the heart shaped pendant before depositing another kiss on your cheek.

“My angel,” he whispers, the words going straight through you.

Grinning, you brush a curl away from his forehead, answering him with the same tenderness. “My Andy.”

Something boyish flickers in his expression, and it reminds you that loving someone for this many years means learning that time alters the body without ever truly brushing the soul. Particularly one like Andrew’s. You inch closer beneath the blankets until your foreheads meet, sharing the same air for a suspended moment before he exhales, reluctant. “I should start soon.”

You groan. “Everyone is bringing something. And I thought we said no cooking for you today?”

He sits up, seizing his glasses on the nightstand. “I know.” Mouth twitching at your stern look, he adds. “It’s for safety.”

“For safety?” you repeat, struggling to hide your amusement. “You’re impossible.”

“You married me.”

“True. Terrible decision.”

He dives for your lips once more, only pulling back seconds later to study your half-lidded eyes. “Tragic,” he smirks.

You help each other up slowly, getting into the choreography perfected over the thirty-six years that made your marriage, his fingers zipping up the back of your dress meticulously, you fastening his shirt button by button, brushing the crease flat on his shoulder simply because you can. Because it has never mattered whether either of you required aid to do these things…what has always mattered is that you chose to do them anyway.

Breakfast is occupied in its familiar domesticity, with coffee warming in the mugs, bites of toasts stolen from the other’s plate with a grin, the fruit divided for two into the same neat sections he insists on. Andrew, then, retreats into the kitchen where he begins preparing two separate dishes for lunch to accommodate everyone’s diet and appetite and texture issues. In the time that he measures the quantity of spices to place into the lamb koftas, you sit on the couch with a book open in your lap, throwing him quiet looks over the top of the page, amused at the way he checks the ladle twice before moving to the curry where he strives to get the proper consistency for the rice.

Every so often he glances back to catch you staring, trying to maintain an air of seriousness, which fails catastrophically when you wriggle your eyebrows at him after he stretches to get the cumin, blood running up in his cheeks and collar. At some point, to ease his stress for the incoming day, you go set the table outside, placing plate after plate beneath the oak trees until fifteen of them await there for the guests with cutlery and flowers you pick from the garden – gardening being one of Andrew’s favorite activities now that he can’t skateboard that much anymore.

By the time you return to the kitchen, voices are already arriving at the front door. You cross the room to slip behind your husband at the stove, kissing the soft spot behind his ear, whispering, “They’re here,” with so much delight in your voice that he looks up, listening to it too as the small line between his brows smooths out.

The door opens to Oliver, carrying bags in one hand and a foil-covered plate in the other, broad-shouldered and kind-eyed – the spitting image of his father. He pecks your cheek with a grin, hair falling over his forehead in careless waves. “Hi, Mom.” He looks around. “Where’s the man of the day?”

“In the kitchen,” you answer.

Oliver sighs as though betrayed while heading past you without missing a beat. “Dad! I thought we agreed we were bringing the food.”

“Nonsense,” Andrew replies and you hear in the edge of his voice that he is determined to be helpful today (as if he isn’t any other), whether anyone asked for it or not.

A pause. And softer, “Happy birthday, Dad.”

“Thank you, son.”

Interrupting your eavesdropping, Shani, your son’s wife, rolls into the house in her wheelchair. (there had once been a teenage Oliver, sitting at the backyard table, nearly throwing up over the possibility of asking his best friend on a date. and now here she is. the same girl from prom night. the one who had been beside him through every fertility treatment and every moment of doubt. the woman your son loves with the exact same devotion Andrew loves you.)

Across her lap naps Ava, their youngest, mouth open and head resting on her mother’s shoulder. “Let me guess,” Shani chirps quietly to not wake the three-year-old when she comes to you. “Andrew cooked?”

You shake your head, helplessly fond. “Good guess. I told him everyone was bringing something, but you know him.”

Mia, their oldest, emerges at the threshold and throws herself into your arms with the full force of a six-year-old tornado and a shrieked “Grandma!”.

“There she is,” you smile, holding her close with a hand on the small of her back. “You are the first to arrive.”

Shani arches a brow, maneuvering in the room. “Really? I thought it would be Jules.”

“No,” you reply. “She had to meet the new farrier and then stop at Craig’s to drive him here.”

That earns you a snort from the woman, who knows well that once Craig’s eyesight began to fail a few years ago, paired with the passing of his wife, it became Juliet’s personal mission to keep him from setting his house on fire and chauffeuring him whenever she was not too busy at the farm – the one that had once belonged to Rhonda and Diana up until they retired and sold it to Juliet.

Andrew comes forth behind you, wiping his hands on the towel and halting when he spots Ava, still asleep on Shani, the little girl stirring just enough to blink up at him, grin, and declare in sync with her sister Mia. “Happy birthday, Grandpa!”

Bending to kiss the crown of their heads, his face carries the same open and warm expression he wore the first times he held his children to his chest at the hospital. “Thank you Plums.”

Shani hugs him too, exchanging easy smiles with her father-in-law, shaped by twenty years of memories. “Happy birthday, Andrew.”

The front door fills with a voice you know as well as your own heartbeat. “Yeah, what’s it like turning eighty, old man?” Craig is there with a pack of beers, long hair graying in disparate patches and smirking. “How are you doing, brother?” he asks, holding his older sibling’s hand and side-hugging at once.

“Good,” Andrew replies, looking him up and down. “You even showered.”

Craig presses a hand to his chest, feigning injury. “That hurts me, man. Thinking I wouldn’t shower for this?” He crosses a few steps to wrap you in a bear hug. “There’s my favorite sister,” he says in your ear, before lowering his voice with a slight conspiratorial edge. “He cooked?”

You snort and nod. “Yep.”

“Incorrigible man.”

Juliet arrives shortly after, stepping in from the front with a quick hello to Shani – whom with her daughters head to the backyard. You ask your daughter, “How was the road? Craig wasn’t too annoying?”

She throws a look toward Craig with a deadpan tone. “Oh, he was only very annoying for the…what? Four minutes drive?”

“Hey!” he points at her immediately, scandalized. “Reminder that if you exist it’s because I introduced your mom and dad, so-”

Juliet gives him a long-suffering look. “Fine. Only annoying.”

“Much better,” Craig smiles.

She kisses her father’s cheek while he bends a little to receive it, his hand on her back. “Happy birthday, Dad.”

Andrew’s answer is almost too soft to hear. “Thank you, my little bug.”

Soon, everyone empties the house to get to the backyard, Oliver already there to set Mia and Ava on their chairs. Spotting Juliet, he practically barrels toward her, wrapping both arms around his twin with enough force to lift her half off the ground like they haven’t seen each other in a year when in reality, it has been six days. Despite living an hour away, your son comes back every week, partly to see the family and partly so that Mia, obsessed with the animals, can spend time in her aunt’s farm.

But the little girl has never known Arthax, who passed seven years ago. Juliet had cried for four consecutive days, requiring the help of her family to go on with the daily tasks of the place before waking up one day, ready to devote herself in caring for his foals with the same tenderness she had given him. She never sought more than that, no romance, nor partnership. And the day she told all of you, a decade ago, that a love of that kind simply didn’t exist inside her and never would, that children were not part of her future either, nobody questioned it. Nobody mourned what she didn’t desire. Love had always existed abundantly within Juliet…it simply lived elsewhere: in her family, her animals, in the fields – the life she has assembled herself.

The rest gets there in layers, with Deran and Adrian first, equally silver-haired and sun-kissed from the decades passed under the Santa Barbara sun and ocean, the second already shaking his head at whatever nonsense Craig is about to say.

“Still alive?” he indeed calls.

“Unfortunately,” his younger brother answers with a fist bump.

Twenty minutes later it’s Nick’s turn, transporting a cake box with his husband Yaseen by his side, one hand resting casually on the shoulder of their teenage son Sami, who quickly disappears toward the patch of grass where his younger cousins are inventing games. You smile whenever you observe Nick and who he has become – how a few months after Evie’s seventh birthday, he had moved in with Craig for good, never once returning to Oceanside.

(you have forever suspected that Oliver and Juliet told him everything they knew about Her. about what She had done to the Cody brothers. to his father. you never said Her name aloud. you know now that no one ever will. and Nick, just like everyone else, moved on from Her existence and grew up in Ojai. learned to cook and opened a bakery on Main Street. and one day, a young man named Yaseen began stopping in every morning for apple pie. at first Nick had assumed he simply liked the pie…turned out he liked Nick’s smile considerably more.)

“Sorry everyone!” The words cut you mid-thought as Evie steps through the backdoor, one hand braced on the underside of her stomach, six months pregnant and radiant. “We had to make two stops because this little bean,” she point to her bump with a helpless laugh, “had decided to make my life hell.”

Javier comes in right behind her, steadying his fiancée by the elbow and helping her into a chair before greeting Andrew with a handshake. Once everyone is finally settled, it’s easy to fall once again into the usual affectionate banter that has long defined the gatherings in this house, the backyard filling with overlapping voices and laughter while Andrew goes quiet – not the uneasy or overwhelmed one, no, the watching one. The kind where he sits back in his chair and simply absorbs everything surrounding him.

Instead of disrupting his cataloguing gaze, your hand searches for his underneath the table until they find his warmth. His reaction is immediate, thumb brushing across your knuckles and whispering numbers under his breath. Counting. And when the eighty candles arrive, you know without a doubt that your husband has no wish that he wants fulfilled, not when all he ever needed is already here, around the table with him.

Afterward, when your children and grandchildren are chasing each other across the grass, Craig and Deran recounting old stories while Adrian laughs into his glass, you sit down beside Andrew on the old lounge chair – the same one where he once asked you shakily to marry him, the one who was there when Oliver and Juliet took their first steps and there when Evie announced she was pregnant.

Your fingers slide into his, making you beam when he turns his hand over to lace them together fully. “I think we did a good job, no?” you ask.

His thumb brushes over the back of your hand four times, nodding. “The best.” He looks at you with that steady, unblinking expression you recognize so well whenever he desires to preserve an image forever, to press it into himself and not let time take it from him. You don’t need him to explain what it means. Thank you for this life. Thank you for staying. Thank you for letting me in when I thought no one would.

So, you answer the only way that feels large enough for a man like Andrew, lifting his hand to place a kiss on his knuckles. Thank you for loving me through it.

No other words ensue – none would feel sufficient to cover the extent of all that has made your life so full. Instead, you place your head on his shoulder and, hand in hand, surrounded by everything that you had both been hoping for when you were young back in Oceanside, you let yourself relax at the absolute certainty that if there is another life waiting beyond this one…

You will find him there too.

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June 2016 - Bucharest, Romania

Sleep had become a rare commodity the past couple weeks. 

The group of guy backpackers staying below you refused to turn their music down after eleven—if anything, they turned it up louder to spite you—and you could hear them fucking the poor girls who made the mistake of going home with them after the pub. Every night. Fortunately for you, the guys had awful stamina and they were finished within five minutes. This wouldn’t normally be a big deal, if you hadn’t ‘lost’ your headphones three days after you moved in to the short-term stay apartment—you were ninety-nine percent certain one of them had broken in to your room and stolen them, but you had no proof.

Sleep would welcome you for a few hours before the screaming across the hall started. The first time the deep, throaty screams made their way through your paper thin walls, you startled awake so violently you jumped out of bed and twisted your ankle. You limped out of your apartment—if you could call it that—with a Romanian dictionary held high as your weapon, your socked feet quiet on the concrete floor. It wasn’t hard to find the source of the screaming—the aftermath of a nightmare, heavy breathing and sobbing, was crystal clear through the door opposite yours. 

It was on day four of being woken up by your neighbours nightmares when you finally saw him. You were running late for your first class of the day, arms full of marked papers and keys hanging from your mouth as you opened your door, when you caught movement in your periphery. He was climbing up the stairs silently, his head titled towards the ground with a cap on top of his long dark hair, obstructing the view of his face. The first thing you noticed was the size of him—he was tall and broad, big muscles still noticeable under layers of clothes. The second thing you noticed was his gloved hands—an odd sight in the Bucharest warmth—one of them holding a bag of plums. 

Plum guy. You had seen him while out on your daily morning walks, buying plums at one of the fruit vendors down the street. You had no idea that the gentle giant you watched make quiet conversation with the vendor was the man whose sobbing and whimpering had your heart clenching at three every morning. 

The keys in your mouth dropped on top of the paper stack, the small jingle and thud making the man tense, his eyes darting to you—standing in your doorway staring at him. You quickly looked away, grabbing your keys and locking your door. 

He was opening his own door when you crossed the short distance to the stairs—and to him, given that his door was right next to the stairs. He turned his head slightly, a gloved hand clenched tight on the doorknob.

You smiled softly as you walked closer to him. “Bună dimineaţa,” you said quietly. He tracked your movements closely, offering you a brief nod before he disappeared inside his apartment. Not a talker, then. 

Later that night—or technically early the next morning—you were bent over the small kitchen table, struggling to read your student’s handwriting. You had just over a week left teaching English to Romanian middle-graders, and then you would be on a flight back home to the States. 

You were trying to rub the red ink off your hand when the first gasp echoed from across the small hallway. You looked towards the apartment door on instinct, halting your movements and waiting for another noise. It came a few seconds later—a loud gasp that sounded like someone was struggling to breathe. Then a pained shout, in what you were almost certain was Russian. The shouting turned into whimpered pleas within minutes. You felt tears well behind your eyes listening to the man across from you have another nightmare. Your heart bleed for a man you didn’t know, didn’t even know his name. You only knew he spoke gently to fruit vendors and bought fresh plums everyday.

Call it sleep deprivation, homesickness, or basic empathy, but you felt deeply enough to come up with a plan—to offer the hurting man some kindness. You finished marking papers as quietly as you could before you fell into bed, barely audible sniffling sending you to sleep with a heavy heart. 

In the morning you thought strategically about how you would approach him. Knocking on his door empty handed made no sense, and following him around the fruit market seemed an even worse idea. But, like him, you wanted to buy plums. And, it made sense to buy them on your usual morning walk.

You left earlier than you normally would, wanting to be at the market before him so it didn’t look like you were stalking him. You were making idle chit-chat with the vendor, asking what traits constituted a ‘good’ plum—half of you was interested, the other half was stalling in the hopes that plum guy would show. 

Conscious that you were in the way of paying customers, you turned to leave and found your neighbour standing two metres away, watching you apprehensively. How long had he been there?

“Bună!” You greeted him with a kind smile, a little louder now that you were outside. His eyes narrowed slightly, giving you a once over as he studied your body language. Despite how hard you worked on your Romanian pronunciation, your American accent came through strong and you knew he noticed it. 

Another brief nod was your reply. You tried to not let your disappointment show but his eyes darted to your shoulders, watching them deflate.

“Morning.” Oh. You were not expecting that. 

You were expecting the American accent even less. 

He spoke quietly, his voice rough from lack of use. He stepped to the left, turning his body slightly to let you pass. It was progress at least—you would take the simple greeting as a win. 

You saw him again later that day. You were stomping up the stairs cursing to yourself, more papers to grade overflowing your arms and a takeout bag dangerously close to slipping from your fingers. You tripped on the last step, the takeout dropping on the floor and spilling right in front of your neighbours door—half of the papers in your arms following shortly after. 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me!” You exclaimed louder than you intended, pissed that your dinner was now all over the floor—some of your students work now stained with pho. 

You bent down slowly, gently lowering the rest of the papers on the clean ground next to your ruined dinner. You didn’t notice the door in front of you opening—the sight of boots next to your mess making you flinch. You jerked your head up to find your neighbour watching you carefully, the side of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. You flushed red, embarrassed by the mess you’d made and flustered from seeing him without his baseball cap. He was handsome. 

“Shit, I—sorry, I’m in the way. I’ll just, uh…” You stumbled over your words, feeling suddenly intimidated by him. 

He squatted down to where you were crouched awkwardly, your arms still holding the pile of papers. He looked down at the mess of pho and essays, his eyes assessing the damage.

He picked up a soggy paper, a stray noodle sliding down the page. He read the page slowly, noticing the name and age in barely legible scribbles. He let out a quiet huff, his blue eyes flicking to your shocked ones. “Might have to give out a few automatic passes.”

He spoke first. He’s looking at you with amusement swirling in his gorgeous blue eyes, and he spoke to you first—even more, he made a joke.

You let out a breathy laugh, leaning closer to see what students name was written at the top. “He struggles more than anyone else in the class, giving him a pass may cause suspicion…” You trailed off with a small, teasing smile. 

He placed the ruined essay back on the mess, his movements gentle.

He stood to his full height, nodding towards the stack in your hands. “You should put those inside. I’ll clean this up.” He moved back towards his door to let you pass.

You stood back up and hesitated, biting your lip as you looked down at the mess. “No, this is my fault. I’ll sort it out.” 

“You should put those down first. Don’t wanna ruin more of your student’s work.” A muscle in his cheek twitched, like he was holding back a smile. 

“Right, yeah, that’s smart.” You stepped over the mess and walked the few steps to your door, fumbling with the keys in your bag. You glanced over your shoulder as you opened the door, seeing plum guy crouched down and picking up papers gently. You shook your head fondly at the sight—of course he would clean it up anyway.

You entered the small apartment, making your way over to the dingy kitchen table and dropping the stack of papers and your bag onto it. You closed your eyes and took a couple breaths, shaking off the nervousness seeing your neighbours face properly had caused.

He’s just a guy. A handsome, tormented, gentle guy—whose name you still don’t know. 

In the time it took to give yourself a pep talk, plum guy had finished collecting the papers and was standing in your doorframe. He cleared his throat softly causing you to turn around quickly. His eyes roamed around your small apartment while yours focused on him—he made the doorframe look small, his shoulders just as wide and his head close to touching the top. 

“You didn’t have to do that,” you said as you walked towards him.

His eyes met yours, soft and hesitant. “I know.”

He looked down at the papers in his hands, extending them towards you. You offered him a grateful smile as you grabbed them. “Thank you, I appreciate it.”

He stuffed his hands in his front pockets, shrugging his shoulders at your gratitude. “It’s fine,” he murmured, his eyes scanning you and the apartment—looking for any hidden threats. 

He took a step back, nodding his head once in goodbye.

You blurted your name out quickly, not wanting to miss the first chance you’ve had to properly connect with the man. 

He tilted his head towards the ground, a strand of hair falling in front of his face. His eyes darted side to side, like he was thinking. Hard.

Finally, he lifted his head but kept his eyes downcast. “…Bucky.”

Your eyebrows lifted a fraction of an inch, surprised by the unusual name. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bucky.” His eyes met yours again, more sure this time. 

“Likewise,” he muttered before leaving your apartment, closing the door softly behind him. 

You felt a small smile take over your face as you stood still, watching the space he just occupied. Progress.

Half an hour later you were bent over the drying essays, determined to make sense of the smudged scribbles when two sharp knocks sounded against your door.

You furrowed your brows, not sure why anyone would be knocking on your door—the only person who knew you lived here was your neighbour, Bucky. You shot up from your chair quickly—it must be him. 

You opened your door a second too late, just catching his door across the small hall closing behind him. You looked down to the floor, surprise knocking you breathless for a moment. There on the concrete at your feet was a bowl of soup, steam rising from it. You picked it up slowly, your heart doing flips in your chest. Bucky had made you soup. He had cleaned up your mess outside his door, and had made you soup to replace your ruined dinner.

That night you found yourself silently crying along with him, the sounds of his nightmare causing you physical pain. What had happened to him?

It was Saturday afternoon and you were pacing the length of your apartment, trying to hype yourself up. Bucky’s clean bowl was resting in your palms, feeling like a loaded gun. You had a plan—to return the bowl and try make conversation, maybe even get him to laugh. That would be nice, right? For him to laugh, for you to hear something from him that wasn’t sounds of agony in the middle of the night. 

You raised your hand hesitantly to his door, giving it two soft knocks. You waited patiently, straining to hear any movement behind the door. A minute passed and nothing. You tried again, knocking with more confidence this time. Thirty seconds passed and you were shifting on your feet, starting to feel disheartened.

“Bucky,” you called softly. “I—sorry for disturbing you, I just wanted to return your bowl—from the other night?” It came out as a question, your confidence fading and you started to feel silly. Obviously the guy wanted to be left alone.

You turned to leave when the door in front of you opened, Bucky’s large frame obstructing your view of his apartment. He was without his baseball cap again and his hair was damp, like he had just stepped out of the shower. He was wearing a long-sleeved shirt and jeans like usual, gloves covering his hands. His eyebrows were raised slightly at you standing in front of him, nervously biting your lip with his cheap bowl in your hands. 

You extended the bowl towards him. “Thank you, for the soup the other night. I…wasn’t expecting it. Beats the granola bar that’s been sitting in my bag for weeks.” You chuckled awkwardly.

He grabbed the bowl with a quiet nod.

“And, thank you again for cleaning up the mess I made. You really didn’t need to.”

“It’s fine. You don’t need to worry about it.” His voice was deep, still rough from lack of use. You found it comforting—you wanted to hear more.

You took a breath to steel your nerves, plastering on what you hoped was a disarming smile.

“I was planning on baking a plum pie this afternoon.” You started, watching as a confused expression took over his face. “My mom’s recipe—I used to bake with her, and I’ve been feeling homesick lately so…” You trailed off, hoping the lie wasn’t obvious. 

Your mom didn’t bake plum pies, and the last time you baked with her was when you were nine—you ended up in tears with little burns on your hands. 

“Would you…would you like some? Or want to join me?” 

His surprise at your invitation was evident, though it was quickly replaced with suspicion. 

“…Why?” 

“You like plums, right? I saw you down at the market.” He was still looking at you skeptically, his big arms now crossed over his chest. Your voice wavered slightly, “think of it as a thank you gift, for your help the other day.”

He sighed at you thanking him again.

“…Fine. I’ll come over in a couple hours.” 

Bucky looked abnormally large sitting at your small kitchen table. His shoulders were tense, his gloved hands clutched together tightly in his lap, his eyes darting around the small space absorbing every detail he could. His brows furrowed at your suitcase on the other side of the room, your clothes spilling out next to the bed.

You followed his line of sight, an embarrassed chuckle escaping you. “Sorry for the mess, this is just a temporary situation. I wasn’t expecting to be living out of my suitcase, still.”

His eyes flicked back to yours in interest. “Temporary?”

You turned back to the dirty dishes, needing something to do with your hands when he’s looking at you like that. Like he wants to know more about you.

“Yeah, I was meant to fly back home a couple weeks ago, but the school I’m teaching at asked me to stay until school finished for the year—they offered to pay for the flight transfer.” You shrugged lightly.

He shifted slightly, the small chair squeaking and straining beneath his weight. “Home?”

You noticed he didn’t talk much and when he did it was in small sentences. Though he was asking you questions now, and you took that as more progress. 

“The States—Philadelphia, to be exact.” You took a breath before asking him, “where’s home for you?”

He was silent for a minute before quietly muttering, “Brooklyn.” 

You turned to him, flashing him a bright smile you couldn’t tame. “Oh cool, my parents are planning on moving there in a couple months! Any non-touristy places they should check out?”

He hesitated again. “It’s—uh, it’s been a while since I was last…home.” He wasn’t looking at you anymore, instead staring intently at his clenched hands. You took the hint that he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. 

You bent down to check on the pie in the oven, sighing in relief that it didn’t look like an absolute disaster. 

Turning back to Bucky you tried to think of anything else to talk about, wanting to know more about the quiet man. 

“The pie should be ready in a few minutes. Do you want to…watch something, maybe? While we eat.”

His response was a small nod.

You walked over to grab your laptop off your bed. You sat down on the chair across from Bucky, noticing how he leaned away from you and put his hands in his lap.

“Anything in particular you want to watch?” You briefly glanced at him as you scrolled through the streaming apps.

“Dealers choice,” he hummed quietly. 

You picked A New Hope, deeming it an acceptable movie to watch while eating pie with your neighbour.

Bucky waited until you took your first bite of pie before he inhaled his slice in less than a minute. You let out a small laugh at the sight of him—hunched over in the small chair, shovelling the pie in his mouth like he hadn’t eaten for days. 

He looked up at you sheepishly when he heard you laugh. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, mouth full of plum and pastry.

“No, don’t apologise—I take it as a compliment,” you smiled at him, licking your fork clean. His eyes tracked the movement carefully, causing your smile to turn to a small smirk. He looked back down to his empty plate quickly, his shoulders tense after being caught staring.

You stood up and grabbed his plate, cutting a much larger slice of pie for him. He offered you a bashful smile as you put the plate in front of him. 

“Thanks…it’s, uh, pretty good.”

Your body rushed with warmth at his compliment, your cheeks flushing and a small smile now permanent on your face. 

“I’m glad.” 

He ate the second piece at a normal pace, only half interested in watching the movie playing from your laptop on the table. You caught his eyes watching you every few minutes but it didn’t put you on edge. From the few times you’ve interacted with him you gathered he’s a cautious, suspicious guy—the occasional staring didn’t bother you.

Suddenly, the floor started to shake below you—the telltale sign that the backpackers had started partying early. Their music was more bass than anything, making everything in your apartment vibrate slightly. You rolled your eyes and sighed in annoyance—you knew it was going to be a long night.

Bucky stood up and grabbed your empty plates, walking over to the sink to wash them. You opened your mouth to stop him, to tell him you’ll sort it out. He shut you up with a sharp look and shake of his head.

“That happen often? The…music?” He asked, his head tilting towards the floor.

You let out a small scoff. “Yeah, basically every night. This isn’t even the worst of it.”

He grunted in response, displeased. 

“You don’t hear it from your apartment?”

“I do, it’s just not this bad. Becomes background noise after a bit.” He let out a bitter chuckle. “It’s fucking awful music.”

You laughed at that. “Right?! I’m pretty sure they’re aspiring DJ’s…all I know is that I hate them.” He let out a deep laugh that sent a thrill through your body. God help you, you wanted to hear it again. 

“What music do you like?” You tried to ask casually.

He paused, deliberating his answer. “I like…older music, jazz. Not a fan of the modern stuff.”

That didn’t surprise you at all.

You hummed in response. “Yeah, I get that. My grandma made sure I listened to all the classics—I have a soft spot for Sinatra, among others.”

“Huh,” was all he offered. He started walking towards the door, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“This was…nice. I—um, I enjoyed your company. Pie was good, too.” 

You giggled at his nervousness—there was something so charming about this big guy being awkward. 

“Yeah, me too. We should do it again, before I go home.”

He hesitated opening the door. “When’s your flight?”

“Friday morning.”

“Monday after work. I’ll bring the plums.”

Later that night, you made the unsafe decision to take an after midnight stroll around Bucharest, choosing to potentially put your life in danger than listen to the gut wrenching sounds of Bucky’s nightmare. It was a bad one—you tried burrowing your head in all the pillows and blankets you had, but you could still hear the harrowing screams and cries. Potentially being mugged seemed a lot more appealing in that moment. 

Bucky knocked on your door an hour after you got home on Monday, with plums in his hand and a request that you teach him the plum pie recipe. 

“Oh Bucky, it’s really not that special. Any recipe you find on the internet will be just as good!” And you knew that was true, because your recipe was the first result when you googled ‘plum pie recipe’. 

“I want to know your one. Promise I won’t get in the way.” His eyes were almost pleading, and you hated the way your heart clenched at his kicked puppy expression. You could see the exhaustion lining his eyes, how his torturous, sleepless nights were taking a toll on him. Your eyes burned with tears just looking at him. 

That’s how you ended up hiding in your bathroom, staring unblinking at your phone screen trying to commit the plum pie recipe to memory. 

He didn’t get in the way, just like he promised. But you could feel him hovering over your shoulder, his eyes solely focused on your hands as you made the pie. His rapt attention made you stumble a few times, completely forgetting steps and measurements. 

He still didn’t talk much, only offering small grunts and hums when you explained techniques and made the occasional awkward—trying to be funny—comment. 

You sat closer to him at the table this time, cheering internally when he didn’t lean away or move his chair further from you. 

You let out a breathy chuckle as a thought crossed your mind.

“What?” Bucky asked curiously.

“Nothing, just had a thought.” You shook your head with a small smile, pushing around a large chunk of plum with your fork. 

“Do you not get those often?”

You gasped in shocked delight, not expecting him to make a lighthearted dig at you. You looked up from your plate at him, seeing his blue eyes twinkling and an almost smirk tugging his mouth. 

“Wow,” you dragged out. “And to think, I was just starting to like you…” You teased him back.

He huffed out a small laugh.

“M’sorry, couldn’t help it. What were you thinking about?” He shovelled more pie in his mouth, waiting for your response. 

“You remind me of a cat.”

“What?” He laughed out, his mouth full of pie.

“You’re like a cat. Aloof, wary of people, ready to run out the nearest exit.” You spoke softly, not wanting him to perceive your words as an attack. “But, with a bit of patience and treats,” you nodded towards the pie, “you start to become curious…even trust a little, maybe. It’s not a perfect analogy—it was just a thought.”

He looked at you with a strange expression on his face—something achingly tender, with a mix of disbelief and sorrow. He didn’t answer for a minute, just watched you like he still couldn’t figure you out. 

“What kind of cat would I be?”

“A black cat, for sure.”

You saw him two more times before Thursday afternoon. The first time he joined you on your morning walk around the neighbourhood, the both of you silent—basking in each other’s company and enjoying the quiet summer morning. The second time was late on Tuesday night, when you finally had enough of the backpackers bullshit and were banging on their door demanding they shut the fuck up. Bucky was there within a minute of you shouting, gently pulling you away from the door where two sleazy backpackers were leering at you.

“It’s not worth it,” he said your name softly. 

“Fucking assholes,” you seethed. “I know they stole my headphones, Bucky!” 

You were no match for his strength as he carried you up the stairs, your legs thrashing uselessly. “They were expensive,” you whined like a pouting toddler.

Saying goodbye to your students on Thursday was by no means easy. Even though you only taught there for a few months as part of your gap year, the kids had dug their way into your heart and left you in tears when they hugged you goodbye. 

You recovered by the time Bucky knocked on your door in the late afternoon, plums in one hand and a small bunch of wildflowers in the other. You were frozen, staring at him with what you were sure was a lovestruck expression on your face. 

He held the flowers out for you to grab, your hand brushing his gloved one in the process. He quickly pulled his hand back at your touch, running it through his hair as he looked everywhere but you.

“For your last day,” he said, like that explained everything. “Sorry, they’re nothing, uh, special—they were the only ones the florist had left…” He shrugged his shoulders, his eyes fixed on a spot over your shoulder.

You snapped out of your smitten daze, a soft giggle leaving you at his nervousness. He looked at you then, his shoulders relaxing.

“They’re perfect.” 

You opened the door wider for him to come in, walking to the kitchen to put the flowers in a glass of water while he closed the door behind him. 

You turned your head sideways, shooting him a teasing look. “You know…they’re going to die in a couple days. I won’t be here to look after them.”

You watched in fascination as a flush climbed up his neck, painting his cheeks red. 

He rubbed the back of his neck, letting out a nervous huff. “I didn’t think about that.”

“You can always break in after I’ve left, grab them for yourself before the pricks downstairs steal them.” 

“We don’t want that happening,” he chuckled, putting the plums on the counter next to you. “I’m starting to see why you hate them so much.”

“You’re only seeing it now? They’ve been my number one enemies since I moved in.” You grumbled bitterly. 

You rolled your shoulders back with a sigh—you didn’t want your bitterness clouding your last night with Bucky. 

“Okay, let’s change the subject,” you clapped your hands together, turning to face Bucky fully. “I’m thinking one last plum pie, and maybe we can finish that movie we were watching the other night?”

“Whatever you want.”

An hour later you were both sat at the small table, the half-eaten pie between you and Bucky barely paying attention to the movie, again. His eyes were fixated on your packed suitcase and duffel bag next to the bed. He looked…sad, mournful even. There was a small crease between his furrowed brows, the sides of his mouth downturned, and he hadn’t eaten much in the last few minutes.

“Hey,” you started, voice low and soft. “You okay?”

He whipped his head back to you, his glassy eyes meeting yours for a second. “Yeah,” his voice broke faintly. He cleared his throat, looking down at the pie.

“I’m…gonna miss you.” 

You sucked in a breath, the emotion in his voice making your throat feel tight. Tears pricked behind your eyes as you looked at the man in front of you. You wished you could take away all his pain, all his sadness.

You gently laid a hand on his arm, your eyes darting between his for any signs of unease—the only other time the two of you had touched was when he dragged you away from the backpackers door. His arm was solid and cold through his long-sleeve, almost unnaturally hard. His shocked eyes looked into yours as your thumb rubbed his sleeve faintly.

“I’m going to miss you, too.”

You removed your hand and looked back at the movie, a single tear slipping down your cheek.

Tension hung thick in the air, causing you to clear your throat and try relieve some of the tightness in your chest.

“You kinda look like him,” you said to Bucky, nodding towards your laptop—a close up shot of Luke Skywalker on the screen. 

“Yeah, I can see it,” you continued, turning your face to see him already looking at you. “If you cut your hair short, shave the beard…” You trailed off, your eyes catching on a bit of plum on his chin.

You raised a hand without thinking, your attention transfixed on the piece of fruit and his pink lips an inch above. His stubble faintly pricked your thumb, your touch featherlight as you swiped the bit of plum away. A small gasp caught in his throat, his chin leaning towards your touch unconsciously. 

Your eyes couldn’t leave his lips, a faint purple tint to them from the pie. 

“You really like plums.”

“They’re meant to help with memory,” he murmured, distracted.

That caught your attention, your eyes darting up to his in question. He let out a deep exhale, the air brushing against your hand. 

“I had an accident…a few years back. Can’t remember much from before, it’s—uh, it’s coming back in bits and pieces.” Your heart clenched painfully, the sorrow for his lost life bleeding through his eyes. 

“Is that—,” you swallowed against the lump in your throat. “Is that what your nightmares are? Memories coming back?” You asked gently, your thumb rubbing soothing circles on his chin. 

His eyes widened in panic. “You—you know about the nightmares?”

You moved your hand from his chin, your fingers brushing against his cheek as you pushed a loose strand behind his ear. His body involuntarily shivered from your gentle touch.

“Yeah…I’ve known since my first night here,” you whispered. “The walls are pretty thin.”

His eyes dropped to his lap in shame. “God, I am so sorry,” he rasped out your name, his deep voice thick with emotion. 

You cupped his face with both your hands, tilting his head up until his eyes met yours. “Never apologise for your pain, Bucky.” The anguish and self-hatred you saw in his eyes made yours tear up. “Can I—would it be okay if I hugged you?”

He stared at you for a long moment, then finally gave you a nod.

You stood up slowly with Bucky following your lead. You looked into his eyes once more, checking he was still comfortable with this, before stepping forward and winding your arms around his waist, your palms resting lightly on his back. He sucked in a sharp breath at the touch, his muscles going stiff under your hands. You gently rested your cheek against his chest, his heart beating fast beneath your ear. He didn’t reciprocate the hug for a moment, his arms hovering at his side like he didn’t know what to do.

“Breathe,” you whispered into his shirt. He took a few shuddering breaths in and out then raised his right arm slowly, hesitantly draping it over your shoulder. You felt some of the tension leave his body as he sunk into your embrace. His gloved hand instinctively traveled from your shoulder to the middle of your back, pulling you closer into his warmth—surprising you both.

“Sorry,” his voice was quiet, a slight tremble lacing through. “It’s…been a long time, since I last…hugged someone.” His voice cracked at the end and your heart broke into a million pieces. 

You hugged him tighter, your hands clutching the back of his shirt—tethering him to you. A small sound slipped out of you, something between a gasp and a pained whimper. The lump in your throat grew bigger, spreading down your chest and sitting heavy on your heart. 

He rested his chin on the top of your head, so gently you barely noticed it at first. He let out a staggering breath and then rested the weight of his head on yours fully, purposely. He moved slightly, his nose brushing against your hair as he inhaled deeply. His arm around you tightened, pulling you tight against his strong body.

“…I can’t believe you’re real.” 

You croaked out a watery laugh against his chest. Fuck, he had no clue what he was doing to you—that you were going to be leaving half of your heart behind when you got on that flight in the morning. 

You pulled away from him an inch, moving your hands from his back to cup his face gently. You looked into his glistening blue eyes before looking down at his lips, watching as his tongue peaked out to wet them.

“Can I kiss you?”

He leaned in slowly, brushing his lips on yours hesitantly. He sucked in a sharp breath before pressing his lips to yours firmly. You let him set the pace, letting him know he was the one in control here. His hand moved from your back to your waist, pulling you up into his chest as he deepened the kiss. A whimper caught in your throat when his tongue swept along your bottom lip, your mouth opening for him immediately. His chest rumbled with a low moan, his kisses growing more desperate. Your hand slipped from it’s place cupping his jaw, trailing along his skin before tangling in the long hair at the nape of his neck. He let out a whimper at the feeling, breaking the kiss and taking in deep breaths. 

“You okay?” You asked softly.

His breathy chuckle brushed against your lips. “Yeah, more than okay.”

He kissed you again, more sure this time. Both your hands tangled in his hair, gently tugging his scalp as you kissed him with just as much desperation. His stubble scratched against your skin as he moved his lips, kissing along your jaw and making you gasp. The noise encouraged him, his kisses gaining more confidence, making their way down your neck. You titled your head back, granting him more access. He kissed and licked all over your neck, gently biting down on a spot under your ear making you release a moan. He focused on the spot, sucking and biting as you let out more moans and gasps. His hand on your waist gripped tighter, his fingers digging slightly as he pulled you flush to his body. That’s when you felt it—hard and unmistakable, pressing against your lower stomach. 

You broke away from the kiss, watching his eyes flutter open to look into yours. You moved a hand from his hair, brushing your thumb against his jaw. 

“Let me help you feel good.”

He swallowed audibly, his eyes leaving yours to glance at his left arm hanging stiffly at his side. You watched an internal struggle play out on his face, his darting eyes exposing his overthinking mind. 

“We’ll only do what you’re comfortable with,” you said softly.

He let out a small, disbelieving chuckle before kissing you again—his mouth both achingly tender and bruisingly desperate against your own. 

“Did you fall from heaven?” He whispered against your lips, walking backwards and pulling you towards the bed without breaking the kiss.

You giggled and rolled your eyes at him. “Shut up,” you mumbled.

He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled you onto his lap, your knees on either side of his thighs. He took his hand off of your waist and ripped the glove off with his left hand. He brought his hand up to your face, tracing your bottom lip with his thumb and gazing at you reverently. You let out a little gasp, not expecting him to initiate skin to skin contact first. He leaned in to kiss you again, hungrily claiming your mouth with his. He moved his bare hand down to your hip, slipping tentative fingers under the hem of your shirt and brushing your skin—igniting your nerves and sending shivers along your body. His hand cupped your waist under your shirt, pressing your hips down ’til they were flush with his.

He let out a wrecked moan from the contact, his hips jerking against yours involuntarily. You rolled your hips experimentally, relishing when he let out a deep groan—his body vibrating beneath yours. You rolled your hips faster, spurred on by his noises and his bulge pressing deliciously against your jeans. He broke away from your mouth, dropping his head to your shoulder.

“Shit, I’m not gonna last long if—if you keep doing that.” He sounded ruined. A needy whine tore out of you, your need for Bucky overwhelming you. You ground down on him harder, the ball of desire in your core slicking your underwear and making you greedy. He moaned out your name, clutching your hip to stop your movements. He lifted his head off your shoulder, his glazed eyes meeting your own. 

“Do you have a condom?” He asked, panting already. 

You jumped off his lap, opening your suitcase in a rush to find a condom. You found the open—but unused—box at the bottom, grabbing a couple before joining him on the bed again. He rolled you onto your back, hovering over you with a small smirk on his face. 

“Eager, are we?” 

You nodded quickly in response, grabbing his face and pulling him down into a needy kiss. He gripped the hem of your shirt and slowly pulled it up and off your body, pausing to stare at your clothed breasts. He kissed down your neck, lavishing your collarbones and chest in tender, hungry kisses. 

“God, you’re a work of art.” He mumbled into your skin. Your heart swelled in response, unexpected tears pricking behind your eyes. No guy has ever said anything like that to you, it’s normally ‘you’re hot’ or they don’t compliment you at all.

“Take off your pants,” he muttered. He removed himself from your body, standing at the foot of the bed to take his own jeans off, your eyes widening at the impressive bulge in his boxers. You felt more wetness gather in your core, preparing you for what was to come.

You eagerly pushed your jeans down, kicking them off your feet. He climbed back over you, holding his body up with his left arm next to your head. His right hand trailed down your torso slowly, stopping at the wet patch of your panties. He pressed down on it, pulling a desperate whimper from you, your hips rolling up to his touch. He pulled your underwear down your legs one-handed, throwing them somewhere behind him.

He pulled his boxers down to his knees, grabbing one of the foil squares on the bed next to you and ripping it open with his teeth. He rolled the condom down his cock, gasping from the sensitivity. 

He leaned down to kiss you tenderly. “Still wanna do this?” He asked breathlessly.

“Please, Bucky.” You whimpered.

With his mouth on yours, he lined himself up and pushed in slowly. You both gasped at the feeling—he was the biggest you’ve had and you couldn’t control your walls clenching down on him. A pained moan tore from his chest as you gripped him tight, your hands winding through his hair and tugging the dark strands.

He mumbled curses, taking deep breaths to calm himself. He pushed in more, and you let out a sound you’d never heard before—the stretch of him sending you to another world. He started off with slow thrusts, letting you adjust to his size.

“More,” you moaned against his mouth. He picked up the pace, hitting the spot that had your back arching and stars forming behind your eyes. You clenched down on him hard, his hips stuttering and head dropping onto your chest at the feeling.

“Christ, shit—I’m not gonna last long.” He whimpered, his thrusts starting to lose rhythm. He moved his hand to your centre, finding your throbbing bundle of nerves and rubbing firm circles. Your eyes rolled back at the feeling, the fire in your core spreading through your veins.

Bucky thrusted a few more times before coming, your name slipping from his lips in a half moan, half whimper. He continued thrusting into you, his release long and overwhelming. He doubled his efforts on your clit, sending you over the edge with a sharp gasp of his name. It wasn’t an all-consuming, white hot pleasure but it was good. Warm, like golden sun rays spreading through your body.

He laid his head on your chest, the both of you panting after your releases. You raked a hand through his hair, rubbing soothing circles on his scalp. He shuddered at the feeling, tears slipping from his eyes and wetting your chest.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

“For what?”

“For making me feel human.”

You woke up before six the next morning, finding cold sheets next to you where Bucky once was. Sitting on the small kitchen table was your stolen headphones, a ripped piece of paper with chicken scratch handwriting next to them. 

You were right 

- Bucky

A week later you were at your parents place in Philly, sitting on the floor in their lounge sorting their stuff into boxes for donation or storage. Your mom turned the TV up louder, drawing your attention to the breaking news story. There on the screen was a video of the man officials suspected bombed the United Nations—James Buchanan Barnes, the Winter Soldier. Bucky.

 Oh, shit. 

Present day - Brooklyn, New York

The referee’s whistle shrieked loudly, piercing your ears and signalling the end of the soccer game. You had little time to prepare for the blur of messy dark braids and mud sprinting towards you, colliding with your legs and making you stumble back. 

“I did it, mama! I didn’t let a single goal in!” 

“I saw, peanut—I am so proud of you!” You squatted down and hugged your daughter tightly. “Did you have fun?”

She bounced in your arms, nodding vigorously. You pulled back, seeing the beaming grin on her face—proudly displaying the small gap in her top front teeth. She lost her first tooth the week before and she was ecstatic when the tooth fairy visited her—she tried to stay up two hours past her bedtime to ‘catch’ the tooth fairy, but fortunately for you she was out like a log long before you went to sleep. 

“Can we get ice cream? Pretty please?” She asked, her blue eyes wide and bottom lip jutted out in a small pout—the puppy dog expression pulling on your heart strings.

You stood up, combing the loose strands back from her face and wiping a smudge of mud off her forehead.

“Hmm, how about we go home first and get cleaned up?” The both of you headed towards the field’s exit, waving goodbye to her teammates and their parents.

She rolled her eyes. “But home is far away, the ice cream store is closer!” Where she got her attitude from, you had no idea. Well, you did—while she was the spitting image of her father, her personality was a mirror of your own. 

“You have a great point, Jamie. But—” you leaned towards her and took an audible sniff of her hair, dramatically taking a big step back and holding your nose. “—you’re stinky. We need to get you cleaned up for the public’s sake.”

She let out a high-pitched giggle, a familiar smile gracing your face at the sound. It was the most beautiful sound—your daughters joy was all that mattered to you. It meant you were doing something right.

“Okay,” she dragged out. “Does that mean I get two scoops?”

“What?! Two scoops? You won’t be able to sleep after that, bug.” 

The two of you made your way down the street, walking the normal ten minute route back home. She continued to try her luck, trying to guilt trip you into giving her more sugar and you were close to breaking once—when her big eyes glistened with tears—but you held strong even when your heart tugged. God, what you would do for those baby blues.

You were halfway home when a group of men in suits stepped out of the cafe ten metres ahead of you. They were taking up the whole sidewalk, laughing obnoxiously and all exuding alpha male energy. You pulled Jamie closer to you out of instinct, your eyes scanning for an open gap in the group of men when something—someone—caught your eye.

He looked…older, more refined. His hair was slightly shorter, the once styled strands tousled—likely from him running his hands through his hair. His suit was tailored to him perfectly, the faded blue and dark grey combination making his heavy stubble stand out. He held his head high, his shoulders rolled back in a quietly domineering stance. He looked confident, comfortable even. 

You stopped in your tracks, your heart beating wildly in your chest. The world around you faded, your attention focused solely on him as he shook his head with a small laugh, a faint smile curving his lips. 

Bucky Barnes, in the flesh. 

Shit. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Jamie’s little hand tugged on yours, confused as to why you stopped walking.

“Mama?” 

You sucked in a sharp breath, reality crashing down on you—along with a bucket of anxiety and fear.

You tightened your grip on her hand, spinning the both of you around and hurrying in the direction you came from.

“What’s wrong? Where are we going?” Jamie asked in her sweet small voice.

You brushed a hand over her head, tucking loose strands behind her hair. “Nothing’s wrong, peanut. I just—you were right, it makes sense to get ice cream now!”

She instantly perked up, her little feet walking faster than you—dragging you towards the store.

“Finally! Can I get two scoops?”

You nodded in a daze, your mind racing. “Yeah, sure. Whatever you want, honey.”

Had he seen you? Had he seen Jamie? 

You spent countless sleepless nights tossing and turning over the past five years, playing out millions of different scenarios. You had numerous scripts drafted in your head, what you would say to him—how you would tell him he had a child, a daughter. But seeing him a few feet away from you, alive and well—and so fucking handsome—your mind went blank. 

It wasn’t the right time, you told yourself. Other people were around—you couldn’t put Jamie in that situation.

Trying to get a sugar crazed Jamie to bathe was like trying to tame a sticky-fingered tornado. She jumped over furniture, slid between your legs, and slipped through crevices like she was boneless. You were starting to regret enrolling her in taekwondo classes.

“The hell? How are you moving like that?” You flopped on the couch in defeat, the pounding in your head exacerbated from chasing her around the apartment.

You blinked and suddenly a jar was shoved in your face, half full of crumpled dollar notes, glittery pink and purple letters spelling out ‘swear jar’ on the white label.

“You said a swear word!”

You pounced on her, securing your arms around her waist and pulling her tight against you. You blew raspberries on her face and neck, holding her tighter as she squirmed.

“Let me go!” She squealed through giggles, trying to wriggle out of your arms.

“Not a chance, peanut.” 

After her bedtime routine that took twice as long with the sugar in her system, you sunk into the couch with a glass of wine in one hand and your phone in the other. 

Your phone shook slightly in your grip, anxiety pinching your chest. The last time you looked up Bucky on the internet was over a year ago; you found out he was saving the world alongside Captain America and had been pardoned of his crimes from when he was the Winter Soldier. It was hard to process—that the gentle man you had spent a tender night with in Bucharest, the man that was Jamie’s father, was off saving the world when the world had been anything but kind to him.

But now, you knew he was in the same city—the same borough—as you, and you couldn’t keep running from the truth. 

Ever since that night you’ve felt an ache in your bones, like you had left a part of yourself behind in that shitty apartment. You missed him, but you were so confused. After the UN bombing you tried to find out everything you could about him, and when the two pink lines appeared clear as day on the pregnancy test you knew you had to tell him. But, he had disappeared—gone off the face of the earth and you had no ways to contact him. You thought he had died.

Then the blip happened. Jamie and you came back to find a world that had changed—that had forgotten about you. Your apartment in Philly had new residents, all your belongings gone—you had taken Jamie for a walk in the park and then suddenly five years had passed when you blinked. You moved to Brooklyn to live with your parents while you rebuilt your life, and keeping Jamie safe in a world that was torn apart was all that mattered. The Avengers had brought back half of the world, and that’s when you found out Bucky was alive—his face plastered on the TV screen along with dozens of other superheroes. You didn’t know how to reach out and you didn’t know if you wanted to—you and Jamie were just finding your footing and you didn’t want anything to jeopardise that. And truthfully, you were scared.

When Jamie asked about her dad you told her that you had lost contact when the blip happened, and that you were looking for him. You told her he was once in the army and fought for your country, that he took down bad guys like it was nothing. She occasionally asked, “have you found daddy yet?” and your heart broke every time you looked into her bright, hopeful eyes—the exact same shade of blue that you had fallen for over plum pie.

Taking a long swig of wine, you typed his name into google—your thumb shaking as you hit the search button. 

And there he was.

Congressman James ‘Bucky’ Barnes. Representative for Brooklyn.

A memory from two weeks prior surfaced, when you were slumped over your home desk—trying not to panic over the next months budget. Jamie had begged to join a swim club, even with her already busy schedule of school, soccer, and taekwondo. You were starting to struggle on your teacher’s salary, but you couldn’t say no to her. You wanted to provide her with everything she wanted and more.

You were barely paying attention to your mom on the phone, gossiping about brunch with her book club friends earlier that day.

“You’ll never guess who we saw—that new Congressman, the handsome one. You know, I heard that he’s single…” 

You sighed at her tone, knowing what she was suggesting. “Great, I’ll make sure to tell dad he’s got competition.” 

“Oh, hush! That’s not what I was implying and you know it.” You dropped your head onto the desk with a groan. “It’s about time you put yourself out there, give dating a go again. You never know who you’ll meet.”

“Mom, I’m busy—“

“We’re worried about you, honey. All you do is work and take care of Jamie—who takes care of you?”

“I don’t need anyone to take care of me, thank you very much. Jamie and I are happy on our own.” You mumbled, a headache starting to pound against your temple. 

There was a pause on her end, and you braced yourself for what was coming. 

“…Have you—has there been any updates on Jamie’s father?” 

“No—look, sorry, I’m busy with school stuff. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?” You ended the call without waiting for your mom’s goodbye, guilt gripping your chest like it always does when someone brings him up.

Little did you both know, the congressman she was gushing about was Jamie’s father. 

You gulped down the rest of your wine, saving the number for his office in your phone. 

“What the fuck.” You muttered, your voice echoing in the quiet apartment. You had no clue what you were going to do. 

Jamie’s giggles could be heard from across the grocery store, bringing an unconscious smile to your face. She was with your mom in the bakery section, giving her opinion on what her grandpa’s birthday cake should be. You could already picture the awestruck expression on her face—no doubt her nose was pressed against the glass with wide eyes taking in all the baked goods.

You were in the fruit and vegetables section, gathering ingredients for your plum pie. It had become a tradition without meaning to—baking the pie for your loved ones on special occasions, or even when they just needed comfort. It was a staple in your kitchen now, you had even altered the recipe throughout the years, truly making it your own.

In the weeks after you left Bucharest, you would find yourself making it when you missed him. When you couldn’t get to sleep at night, the sounds of his nightmares echoing in your mind, you were in the kitchen making the goddamn pie. And then when your pregnancy cravings kicked in, all you wanted was that stupid pie. And him. But you couldn’t have him, so the sugar filled pastry would have to do.

Walking through the section, you felt your phone sitting heavy in your pocket, weighed down by the numerous email drafts in your inbox and his office number in your contacts. 

You were focused on selecting the right apples—Jamie was seriously picky with them—when a deep voice called out your name. A low, gravelly, familiar voice—one that you hadn’t heard in years. 

You turned around and there he was, standing a few feet away, wearing a similar suit to when you saw him outside the cafe. His hair was just as messy, dark strands swooping on his cheeks, making his blue eyes look even more electric, intense. You watched as they widened in surprise, an awed smile overtaking his face. He took a small step towards you and you resisted the urge to take one back, your brain struggling to comprehend that Bucky was right in front of you. 

“It really is you.” He spoke softly, dazed.

You blinked.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to happen. You were meant to meet at a cafe, or a park—a safe, common ground. Not at your local grocery store after five pm on a Friday, your hair frizzy from a long day at work and running around after your daughter. 

“Bucky, hi,” you mumbled, still in shock.

“You—you look great, beautiful.” He shook his head as if in disbelief, his eyes trailing up and down your figure. 

Your nerves lit up in response, your body begging you to step closer—to close the gap between you and the man you had spent the past five years yearning for.

“How are you? Are you still teaching?” Your breath caught in your throat—he remembered. He remembered you, and he remembered the brief conversation you’d had about teaching during your gap year. 

Then, as if fate had orchestrated this whole interaction, your daughter came skipping over, a big giddy grin on her face.  

“Look, mama! Nana said I could get Pop the Captain America cake for his birthday!”

Bucky watched closely as Jamie crashed into your legs, your hand instinctively rubbing her back in soothing circles—more for you than her. You watched his eyes drift over her, starting at her messy dark braids, then taking in her taekwondo uniform, finally ending on her crocs—covered in princess and Captain America charms. 

She peered into the basket in your hands. “Oooh! Are you making plum pie tonight?!” You think the whole store heard her yell. 

Bucky’s eyes shot up to yours, a stunned and confused expression on his face. He looked speechless.

Jamie turned around, finally noticing the other adult in front of her. You watched the infectious grin take over her face, proudly showing off her missing tooth. She waved to Bucky. “Hi!” 

You had taught her the importance of stranger danger—well, as much as you could teach a five year old—but her kindness was built into her DNA, she couldn’t help smiling at and greeting every stranger she met.

Bucky was still speechless, his wide eyes looking into your daughters—seeing the same blue you imagined he saw in the mirror. He let out a stunned breath, his body swaying slightly like the rug had been pulled out from under him—because it had. You knew he knew.

“Sorry, hun. I don’t know what you feed her, but I’ve never seen a kid run that fast.” Your mom panted as she joined the accidental family reunion, the Captain America cake in her hands. She looked at the man in front of you, doing a visual double take as she recognised him. 

“Oh! Congressman Barnes, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She stuck her hand out to Bucky, shooting you a side-eye that screamed “what the fuck aren’t you telling me.” Bucky shook her hand absentmindedly, his eyes not leaving Jamie for a split second. 

You were stood frozen, unable to think. Both your mom’s and Jamie’s eyes were watching you curiously. Why weren’t you saying anything?

Bucky finally looked away from Jamie, his confused yet hopeful eyes meeting your panicked ones. He opened and closed his mouth a couple times, at a loss for words. He licked them nervously then tried again.

“…Is she—“

His voice brought you back to earth, back to your body.

“It was really great seeing you, Bucky—I hope you’re well! We’re running late—like super late, so we need to get going.” You grabbed one of Jamie’s hands tightly, using it to pull her with you and to ground yourself. Your mom hesitantly followed, her eyes darting between you and Bucky—suspicion written clearly on her face. “We’ll—I’ll see you later!” You said to him over your shoulder, scurrying towards the checkout as fast as you could.

Your hands shook as you bagged your groceries, barely noticing that you had only gotten half of what was on your list. You took in a deep lungful of air once the three of you were outside. 

Your mom called your name softly yet sternly. “What was that in there? How do you know—did you call him Bucky?”

You sighed, exasperated. “Mom, it’s nothing—“

“No, that was not nothing! You’re acting strange—what’s going on?”

“Please, just drop it!” You nodded towards Jamie next to you, completely oblivious to your inner turmoil. “We’ll talk about it later, promise.”

She narrowed her eyes at you but ultimately let it go.

The next morning you were rushing around the lounge, struggling to get Jamie into her soccer kit as she zoomed through the apartment.

“Jesus—just sit still, peanut. Don’t you wanna go play with your friends?” She nodded eagerly, stopping her mad dash around the place so you could get her shirt on. She didn’t stay still for long though, running back into her room with one sock on. “How do you always have so much energy?” You muttered to yourself.

Three heavy raps sounded against your front door. You knew who it was immediately—who else would be knocking at your door before nine am on a Saturday.

Your heartbeat hammered in your throat as you walked to the door slowly, trying to delay the inevitable. You took a deep breath in and grasped the doorknob, stopping for a second to collect yourself.

You opened the door and were greeted by the sight of Bucky, looking devastatingly handsome in a blue t-shirt and black leather jacket. It should be criminal to look that good so early in the morning. His eyes met yours and you could see the emotion swirling in them—hope, determination, and something that looked too close to hurt for your liking. Shit.

You opened your mouth to speak but he beat you to it.

“We need to talk.”

“Bucky, hi—how do you know where I live?”

“I have my ways.”

He looked over your shoulder, straining his neck to see into your apartment behind you.

“Look, I agree we need to talk—“

“Why did you run off?”

And yup, there it was—the hurt crystal clear in his voice.

You closed your eyes briefly, the familiar clench of guilt overwhelming your chest. 

“I—it wasn’t my intention to…run off, I just—“ You stopped, suddenly at a loss for words. He looked at you expectantly, the exhaustion from a sleepless night evident on his face.

“You what? Were you ever gonna tell me?”

The accusation in his tone slapped you across the face. 

“Bucky, that’s not fair—you don’t even know—“

And, like usual, your daughters timing was impeccable.

“We’re gonna be late!” She barrelled towards you, knocking you off balance as she slammed into the backs of your legs. 

Bucky instinctively grabbed your upper arms, holding you steady as you regained your balance. Your nerves buzzed alive under his hands and you couldn’t help but notice—no gloves, he wasn’t wearing gloves anymore. 

He stepped back from you just as quick, and your body felt the loss of his touch immediately. Goddamn traitor. 

He squatted down to Jamie’s level, smiling at her with the softest look you’ve ever seen on the man. 

“Hi, I’m Bucky.”

You were suddenly annoyed with him. Coming to talk to you unannounced was one thing, but introducing himself to your daughter when you hadn’t had a chance to place boundaries—yeah, that pissed you off. 

“Hi, I’m Jamie!” 

The look he shot you had some of your anger dulling, the guilt you were so familiar with clouding over. You both knew the name Jamie was no mistake, and the flurry of emotions that crossed his face showed what the name meant to him. 

“Jamie?” His voice wavered. “That’s a great name.”

She beamed brightly at him and you felt the world shift beneath the three of you. There was no going back now.

“Are you coming to my soccer game?” 

That shocked both of you.

“Only if your mom wants me there.” And then two pairs of blue eyes are staring at you—one pleading, the other just waiting, letting you know the ball is in your court. And it’s not fair.

“Jamie, we need to talk about you inviting strangers out with us.” Bucky visibly flinched at the word ‘strangers’—it hit like a punch to your gut. “But, sure. Bucky can come with us.”

The ten minute walk to the soccer field was…nice. Bucky fit in like the missing puzzle piece, and it was doing complicated things to your heart. To be fair, Jamie talked the whole time. She was excited to tell someone new all her stories from school, yapping his ear off about everything she could think of. And Bucky was lapping it up. He had a soft smile permanently plastered on his face, his eyes on Jamie the whole time. From the second you stepped outside of your building, he positioned himself to be on the car side of the street, angling his body to protect Jamie—making your heart flip in your chest even more, and waking up something dangerous in your core. 

There was no missing the looks sent your way from the other parents when you arrived—especially the looks your fellow soccer moms shot Bucky. Great, the last thing you wanted was Jamie to be stuck in the middle of their rumour mill.

Jamie sprinted towards her friends already warming up for their game, leaving you and Bucky alone for the first time. You drifted towards the other side of the field, putting distance between you and the gossip hungry parents. No one else needed to be privy of your conversation.

The air around you and Bucky grew heavy, neither of you speaking for a few minutes as you watched Jamie hug her friend after they fell, asking if they were okay. An overwhelming sense of pride took over you, tears warming your eyes at the sight of your daughter being so kind, so caring. 

Bucky cleared his throat softly.

“She’s…happy,” he said wistfully.

“Yeah,” you mumbled softly. “Means I’m doing something right.” 

He looked at you then, his eyes scanning your face as you kept your attention trained on Jamie. You couldn’t look at him. The exhaustion from the last few years was weighing heavily on you, and you knew one glance at Bucky would have you breaking.

He turned back, watching Jamie put her oversized goalie gloves on, chuckling softly as they dwarfed her hands.

“She looks like my sister.”

That had you looking away from your daughter, focusing on the man next to you offering more information about himself. You didn’t know he had a sister.

“Becca was full of energy at that age, too. We both were,” he shook his head with a small laugh. “Ma used to say our house was tornado central with all the damage we caused.”

You let out an amused huff. “I figured she got her energy from you—I was more on the reserved side as a kid. She’s now in three different after school sports activities, but I think they just make her more energised.” 

He made eye contact with you briefly. “Three, huh? That’s…a lot.” 

You both grew silent again, watching Jamie dive for a ball and successfully defending the goal.

Bucky let out a heavy sigh, stuffing his hands in his jacket pockets.

“Were you gonna tell me?” He asked again, no accusation in his voice this time—a pensive sadness in its place. It only made you feel worse, the tears from earlier blurring your eyes.

“Bucky, I—“ you took in a deep breath, trying to control your emotions. “I was planning to, I swear.” You kept your eyes on Jamie, her smile bringing you some comfort.

“When I found out I was pregnant, I tried looking for you—I really tried. But, you just vanished…I thought you were dead.”

He sucked in a sharp breath at that, looking down at the ground.

“I didn’t want to go through the pregnancy alone, I was fucking terrified. Then, Jamie was born and she became my whole world—I would do anything for her.” Your throat grew tight and a single tear slid down your cheek.

“After the blip, I could only focus on her, on building a better life for her. And then I found out you were alive, that you had helped save the world, and I was…scared. I didn’t know what I was doing half the time, and Jamie’s father—you—being a superhero, putting your life in danger…it was a risk I didn’t want to take. I didn’t want you in our lives if you were just going to be…ripped away from us. It would break Jamie—it would break me.”

Your voice cracked and Bucky lifted his head, looking at you with concern. You brushed the tears off your cheeks and continued.

“Plus, I don’t know if you know this, but getting in contact with the Avengers when you’re a civilian…it’s pretty fucking hard.”

He let out a small laugh, nodding his head. “Yeah, that tracks.”

“I thought about reaching out last year, when I saw you were fighting alongside Captain America—who Jamie is obsessed with, by the way—but I just couldn’t get past that fear. It was easier to…live without you than potentially have you torn from us. Well, that’s what I tried to tell myself.”

You both watched as Jamie hit the ground, hard. Bucky stepped forward instinctively, like he was about to run to her side. She recovered quickly, jumping back up with a giggle. 

“She’s tough,” he mumbled with a small smile. 

He turned to you, determination and longing shining in his eyes.

“I get that. I get why you didn’t reach out, you were putting Jamie’s safety, her happiness, first.” He let out a humourless chuckle, “it’s a fucking complicated position to be in, I’ll give you that.”

“I want to be in her life, in your life—if you’ll have me.” 

You looked back at Jamie in time to see her waving at you, at both of you. 

“Yeah,” you muttered softly. “I don’t think she would let you leave, even if you tried.” 

“Good.”

You both settled in to a comfortable silence, before you couldn’t resist asking what you’ve wanted to know for the last five years.

“Where were you—“

“What does she know—“

You both laughed softly. You tipped your head towards him. “You go first.”

“What does she know…about me?”

Yeah, you were expecting that.

“I told her you were in the army, that you fought bad guys…that we lost contact after the blip. She asks for updates, wanting to know where her daddy is.”

His brows pinched, his mouth trembling slightly like he was holding back tears. He cleared his throat twice. 

“How do we tell her?”

There it was, the question you had been dreading—because you had no fucking clue. 

“…I don’t know—hope she figures it out herself?” 

The look he shot you was deadly. 

You sighed. “Fine, I’ll sit her down one night, tell her gently.”

“I want to be there.” 

Of course he does. Of course he just walks back into your life and wants to be involved in everything. Half of you is fucking thrilled he’s here and wanting to be part of your lives, but the other half is terrified he’ll think it’s too much and leave you both—or worse, die and leave you broken.

His eyes watched you carefully and you knew he could sense your internal battle.

“I’m not going to leave, I promise.”

And, because it was the reason you suffered many restless nights, you couldn’t stop yourself from asking.

“What happened to you? After Bucharest?” 

He closed his eyes briefly, letting out a breath.

“I was in Wakanda. I…couldn’t trust my mind, and they helped me. Brought me a bit of peace.”

You could see it, how different he was to the man who once lived across from you. He was still gentle, soft, but more sure of himself—more confident in who he was. He no longer walked around like he was ashamed to be alive. 

“And now…you’re a Congressman? I’ll admit I’m a little shocked, it’s quite the difference to the guy who could barely make eye contact with me.” You teased lightly.

He scoffed, shaking his head with a small smirk. 

“Trust me, speaking in front of Congress is much easier than talking to the pretty girl across the hall.”

Your body flushed with warmth. Was he seriously flirting with you? 

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying to keep your emotions in check. You were not going to crumble for him that quickly. 

“We need to set ground rules, if we want this to work. For Jamie’s sake.”

He nodded solemnly, catching the seriousness in your tone.

“No showing up unannounced—we have a routine, and Jamie can get easily distracted.”

“Noted.”

“Communication is important, okay? Let me know if you want to see her, or if you have to cancel last minute. We have to be honest with each other—you need to tell me if it’s too much. If we’re too much.”

“Not gonna happen,” Bucky muttered.

“And absolutely no funny business—I’m serious, Bucky. I’m not jeopardising her relationship with you because we couldn’t keep it in our pants.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped, but he nodded regardless. 

“Whatever you say, doll.” 

You glared at him when he said ‘doll’—that was not helping. 

“Should I come ‘round tonight to tell her? I can bring dinner.” Bucky was rocking back and forth on his feet, barely containing his eagerness. You bit your lip to suppress a smile.

“No, not tonight. She has a playdate this afternoon and she’s always a nightmare to calm down afterwards.” 

“Tomorrow, then?” 

You rolled your eyes, the smile breaking out across your face.

“Fine.”

“…Any chance you can make that plum pie?”

Jamie was lying on the couch, her head hanging off the side when Bucky knocked on the door the next evening. You had told her earlier that he was coming around for dinner and she had barely sat still since. It was a pain in the ass, if you were being honest. She clung to your torso like a koala as you tried to vacuum the apartment, making the chore take twice as long. Her crayons and toys covered the dining table—you had already put them back in her room three times that afternoon but she kept on bringing them back out. And there was a purple stain on her chin—which you were fairly certain was a bit of plum pie mixture she had swiped when you turned your back. 

“I’ll get the door!” She all but screamed as she ran towards it. 

“I hope you like burgers,” came Bucky’s deep voice from behind you. You turned to find Jamie giving him a tour of the apartment, starting with the small kitchen you were standing in.

She gasped, delighted. “They’re my favourite!”

“Thank you,” you said, taking the bags from his hands and putting them on the counter. 

“Of course,” Bucky replied, his eyes traveling down your body before meeting your eyes. You tried to not let that affect you, busying yourself with gathering plates and napkins.

“Peanut, can you please grab your stuff off the table?” You asked Jamie. “Don’t forget to wash your hands, too.”

Jamie grumbled her objections but did as you asked, huffing as she gathered her mess of toys. 

You turned to Bucky. “Sorry for the mess, I cleaned earlier but…”

Bucky nodded, a small smile on his face. “Tornado central.”

You grinned at him. “Exactly.”

Jamie ran back to the kitchen, grabbing Bucky’s hand and pulling him towards the lounge. “C’mon, I’ll give you the tour.” She was no match for his super soldier strength yet he let her drag him around with no complaint. 

You put the finishing touches on the plum pie, sticking it in the oven before setting the dining table for dinner—all while listening to Jamie show Bucky your quaint apartment.

“And finally, this is mommy’s room—“

“Peanut, I don’t think he needs to see that.” You raised your voice slightly, rushing down the hallway to see them already in your doorway. You did not need Bucky in your room—that would just open pandora’s box and you were not prepared to deal with that.

“Your mom’s right, I don’t need to see her room,” Bucky said, though the small smirk on his face said something else entirely. You really hoped he didn’t catch the bra hanging from the laundry basket.

“Let’s eat before it get’s cold, yeah?” Jamie didn’t need to be told twice, forgetting her tour and sprinting down the hallway.

You and Bucky followed behind her, and he was an inch too close for your liking.

“Red, huh?” He muttered lowly. Your body went hot—he definitely saw the bra.

The burgers were good, like really good, and you weren’t afraid to tell him.

“Where did you get these? I think they’re the best I’ve had in Brooklyn—wait, no, in the city.” You practically moaned.

Bucky’s smirk was bright and smug. “It’s a small hole-in-the-wall near my office. I can take you there sometime.”

Jamie was bouncing in her chair, happily nibbling away at her food—unaware that her life was about to change in a second. You made eye contact with Bucky, both your faces falling serious. It was time.

“Hey, Jamie? There’s something I—we—need to talk to you about.” You spoke to her gently, putting your burger down and wiping your hands. Her bright eyes met yours and you knew you had her attention.

“You know how I said I was looking for your dad?” She nodded eagerly, her eyes briefly flicking to Bucky. She was a smart kid, you could practically see the gears in her brain turning.

“Well, I—uh,” you stuttered. Now that you were here, your mind had gone blank. How the hell do you tell your daughter her dad is sitting right next to her?

Bucky placed a hand on yours, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. He shot you a look saying “I’ve got this” before turning to Jamie fully. 

He sucked in a breath. “I’m…I’m your dad, Jamie. And I would love to be in your life, if you’re okay with that.”

Bucky had barely finished his sentence before Jamie lunged, wrapping her little arms tight around his neck—no doubt smearing sauce on his shirt and hair.

He was taken aback for a quick second before returning her hug, his hands gently cradling her back. And that’s when you noticed it—his arm, the left one. You had seen it in pictures, on TV, but never in the flesh. His vibranium thumb was rubbing soft circles on her back, soothing her as sobs wracked through her—her little frame overcome with emotion. A tear slipped down your cheek as you watched them—overwhelmed with guilt from keeping them apart for so long, and something else warm blooming in your chest. 

Bucky pressed a kiss to her head, closing his eyes tightly like he was fighting back tears. He pulled back slightly, his hands moving to brush away the tears on Jamie’s cheeks.

“Does this mean you’re moving in?” Jamie asked sweetly.

He let out a watery chuckle. “No, no I’ll be staying at my place. It’s not far from here.” His eyes shot up to yours quickly before continuing. “But, I’ll come ‘round as much as I can. And, I’ll be at all your soccer games—promise.”

By this point she had fully crawled onto his lap, bouncing happily in his arms. “What about taekwondo and swimming? Will you be there?”

“If I don’t have to be away for work.” 

She pouted at him, opening her mouth to argue when the oven’s timer went off. She jumped off his lap, running the short distance to the kitchen. “Plum pie!” She squealed, excited. 

You put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder. “Thank you,” you whispered. He looked at you with glassy eyes that you were sure mirrored your own. 

“Get the pie, I’ll clean this up.” He nodded towards the mess of burgers and napkins. 

You shooed Jamie away from the oven and she climbed back onto Bucky’s lap—natural, like it was where she belonged. You put your hands on the counter, dipping your head down and taking a few breaths. This was going better than you imagined, but it was also dangerously twisting your heart. 

“You’ve got no idea how much I missed this,” Bucky muttered, looking at the pie in your hands. His eyes dragged up your body, meeting your own with a darkened gaze—it was obvious he was not just talking about the pie.

Your hands shook imperceptibly as you plated up three slices. Bucky was the first to dive in, letting out a low moan as he tasted the pie for the first time in five years. Jamie giggled at him from her place in his lap.

And you? You were frozen in your chair, a warmth spreading in your core from his moan. It was fucking sinful, and he had no right to make a noise like that at your dining table—even if it was him showing his appreciation for your baking. It felt like it was more than that.

You were in the kitchen cleaning up while Jamie had convinced Bucky to sit on the lounge floor with her, showing him her favourite toys. You looked over your shoulder, catching her holding his vibranium arm in her little hands—gazing at it in wonder.

Then you watched the realisation hit her.

“…You know Captain America.” It wasn’t a question.

“Sam? Yeah, I know him.”

And then she was shrieking, hugging the arm tightly. 

“Can I meet him? Please, please, pretty please?!”

Bucky laughed loudly at her excitement. “Yeah, princess. I’ll see what I can do.”

You watched as he stood up slowly with Jamie hanging from his arm. She swung on it, giggling nonstop. A smile spread across your face, despite the way your ovaries were screaming at the sight. The ‘no funny business’ boundary you set was looking a lot less appealing now, and it had barely been twenty-four hours. 

The three of you were stood at your front door, Jamie clinging onto Bucky’s leg like her life depended on it. You and Bucky had your phones out, syncing your calendars so you were aware of each others schedules, routines. 

“You weren’t joking,” Bucky muttered, looking at the colour coded schedule you had for all of Jamie’s activities. You rolled your eyes—you took your schedule very seriously, there was no joking when it came to having your daughter’s life prepared.

Bucky squatted down, pulling Jamie into a hug. “I’ve gotta go now, angel. You be good for your mom.” He tried to pull back but she held on tighter, her little fists clenching his jacket.

“No,” she whined. “Please don’t go.”

“The sugar crash, right on schedule.” You mumbled, gently prying her hands off of him. She let out a cry as you gathered her in your arms, her little hands reaching for Bucky. “I’m sorry,” you whispered to him. He gave you a small smile and shake of his head, stepping forward to kiss Jamie’s forehead.

You were exhausted by the time you tucked Jamie into bed. She cried for half an hour after Bucky left, and it fucking broke your heart. You weren’t expecting her to get attached to him so quickly, but that was your daughter—she loved with her whole heart. And you couldn’t blame her, you felt like crying after he left too. All your feelings for him came rushing back as you watched him with your daughter—his daughter.

This was not going to be easy on your heart. 

A few weeks passed and everything felt so right. Bucky kept true to his promise—he didn’t miss a single one of her games and came to her taekwondo and swimming classes when he wasn’t needed at the Capitol. He spoiled her with gifts—even when you told him not to—and he had started spoiling you too. You tried to brush him off with an eye roll every time, but the flush on your cheeks gave you away. 

First, it was a nice bottle of wine, one you would never buy for yourself. Next, a box of expensive chocolates he had been “gifted” and didn’t want—you called bullshit. Then, it was a massage voucher—when you tried to refuse it, he promptly said “it’s either this or I give you one myself, doll” and you snatched it out of his hands before he could see the deep red crawling up your neck. The more he did for you and Jamie, the harder it was for you to ignore the way your heart tugged towards him—the way your body lit up every time he threw you that secret smirk. You were growing more frustrated each day and it was starting to show.

You were sitting in the break room at work, half paying attention to the geography teacher who was gossiping about one of her sophomore classes—apparently two of her students had a cute back and forth and she was coming up with a plan to push them together.

She called your name, looking at you expectantly.

“Huh? Sorry, bit out of it today,” you muttered, your cheeks growing warm.

“I was talking about Sophie and Ben—they’re in your third period English class, right? Don’t you think they would be cute together?” She all but squealed.

You let out a small laugh. “Yeah, I’ve noticed them. I don’t know if we should be meddling in our students relationships, though. Besides, it’d just make me feel depressed about my lacking love life…” You trailed off, your mind already wandering to Bucky and the look on his face when Jamie called him ‘daddy’ the night before.

Your colleague dropped into the chair next to you, chin in her hand as she peered at you in interest. “Oh? Are you looking to date?” You were about to shake your head, but she continued. “My cousin just moved here and I think you would be perfect for each other! You’re definitely his type.”

You rolled your eyes, the last thing you wanted was to be set up on a blind date. “No, I’m not dating. It’s fine, really—“

But she was already grabbing your unlocked phone, pulling up your calendar and looking for a free slot. She found one—next Saturday, when Jamie would be staying the night at Bucky’s for the first time. She typed on your phone, setting up an appointment for eight pm—“Date with Michael!”

“I’ll text you his details!”

There was no way in hell you were going to text him to arrange a date. You already had a date scheduled that night—your bath, a bottle of red Bucky had given you, and the toy you hadn’t unboxed yet.

Later that night, Bucky was in your kitchen drying dishes slowly, a faraway look on his face. You had just tucked Jamie in for the night, and he didn’t notice when you returned to the kitchen.

“Hey,” you started. “You okay?” 

“Who’s Michael?” He asked gruffly, his eyes boring into yours.

You furrowed your brows at him, very confused. “Michael? I don’t know a Michael.”

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, turning the screen to show you an appointment in your synced calendar—the appointment you had forgotten to delete. 

You let out a breathy chuckle, rolling your eyes. “Oh, that. My coworker was trying to set me up with her cousin, she put that in my calendar.” You shrugged.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” He looked pissed.

“Tell you what, Bucky? I’m not going.”

“I think I have a right to know if you’re dating, doll.” He crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down at you. Fuck, he looked hot. 

“I’m not dating, Buck.” He leaned against the counter behind him, still staring at you intensely.

“But, you would tell me if you were?” You were starting to get aggravated, this felt like an interrogation.

“What does it matter to you?” You said, voice louder than intended.

“We have a child together. I should know if you’re bringing random guys home.”

Now you were mad. He made it sound like you were out hooking up with any guy that showed you attention.

You stepped towards him, pressing a finger into his ridiculously sturdy chest.  “For your information,” you seethed, glaring into his darkened eyes. “I haven’t slept with anyone since Bucharest. Don’t you dare imply I’m hooking up with randoms.”

You watched as his pupils dilated, his eyes turning almost black. His vibranium arm whirred as he clenched the counter behind him. 

“You haven’t been with anyone else?” He asked, voice dangerously low. 

You hadn’t meant to let that slip, to tell him that he was the last guy you slept with.

You took a step back, dropping your hand and putting much needed space between you two. When did it get so hot in here?

“It’s a bit hard to find time for yourself when you’re raising a kid solo.” You were sick of the focus being on your nonexistent sex life.

“What about you, Bucky? Now that Jamie is going to be staying at yours, I have a right to know who you’re dating.” You were only asking for Jamie’s sake. It had nothing to do with the twisting in your gut at the thought of Bucky with anyone else.

He stepped forward, crowding you against the counter behind you. His eyes did a slow drag up your body, lingering on your lips for a few seconds.

“I’ve got all I need right in front of me.”

Goosebumps erupted across your skin, your breath hitching. This was not the Bucky you knew in Bucharest, he was never this forward.

“No funny business,” you whispered, though there was no heat to it. 

“It’s not funny business, it’s the truth. Thought you wanted me to be honest, doll.” 

You glared at him. How dare he use your words against you. 

You pushed at his chest and he took a step back, giving you some much needed breathing room.

You went back to cleaning up the kitchen, Bucky falling in step beside you after a minute.

There was a buzz in the air between you and Bucky, your body hyperaware every time he shifted next to you—slowly closing the gap.

“Do you have photos?” Bucky suddenly asked.

“Photos of what?” 

“When you were pregnant.” 

You whipped your head to him, staring at him with wide eyes.

“What? Why…why are you asking me that?”

He shrugged like it was a normal thing to ask someone. 

“I want to see.”

“Bucky, I’ve already sent you photos of when Jamie was a baby.”

“I’m not asking for those.”

You shook your head at him. “You’re weird, you know that?” He just stared at you blankly. “Fine, whatever. I’ll send you some later.” 

The side of his mouth twitched, a faint smirk ghosting his lips. 

“Good girl.” 

Every time Bucky looked at you all you could think about was those two stupid words. On their own they’re completely acceptable, harmless. Put them together and they’re a totally normal praise to say to a child. But when he said them to you in that low voice? There was nothing harmless or normal about your body’s reaction. 

And you knew he knew what he was doing to you. There was nothing subtle about the way his eyes raked over you, and the gifts he kept on getting you? They were not for the sake of co-parenting or whatever bullshit half-excuse he used. 

The bouquet of flowers he turned up with the other night? “Something nice for you and Jamie to look at.” 

The gift voucher for your favourite clothing store? “Can’t have the mother of my child wearing old clothes.” That was a bullshit excuse and you both knew it. 

“You use that massage voucher, doll?” He asked when he came to pick up Jamie for their first sleepover. 

You woke up feeling hot and flustered, with a notification on your phone telling you that you were ovulating. The heat lingered all day, your clothes irritating your skin every time you breathed. Now Bucky was standing in front of you with that half-smirk, asking about whether you used his gift, and it was not fucking helping. 

“You look…tense, it might help.” He stepped closer, your back pressing against the doorframe.

“Gotta make sure you take care of yourself, sweetheart.” 

Oh. That was new. He hadn’t called you that before.

He raised his vibranium hand slowly, running a cold fingertip along the heat blooming on your neck. “Got any plans tonight?”

You shuddered at the feeling, your brain going blank as the dull ache in your core amplified.

“…What are you doing?” You asked, voice barely a whisper. 

“Jus’ making sure Jamie’s mom is looking after herself, taking care of her needs.” 

Jamie came running from her room, her backpack unzipped and overflowing—even though you had already packed it and double-checked it had everything she needed.

Bucky took a step back, clearing his throat before turning and catching Jamie with ease. Your ovaries started a war inside you, your core cramping with need watching Bucky interact with your daughter.

“Bye Mama!” Jamie kissed your forehead, her spot in Bucky’s arms making her taller than you.

“Have a good night, sweetheart.” Bucky mumbled with a wink, grinning at your cheeks flushing even more red.

Bucky brought Jamie back early the next evening, her body slumped in his arms with little snores escaping her.

“How the hell did you get her to sleep?” You whispered, astonished that she was passed out so early.

He shrugged like it was nothing. “We did some soccer drills at the park, I let her try out some taekwondo moves on me. Helps that the serum gives me a high stamina.”

He walked Jamie to her room, tucking her into bed like it was second nature. He came back to the lounge to find you stood frozen, your mind still reeling over high stamina.

Blame it on your smart mouth, or on your ovulation obliterating your filter, but you opened your mouth without thinking.

“High stamina? Where was that in Bucharest?”

Your wide eyes gave you away—you had clearly not meant to say that. You weren’t disappointed with the sex you and Bucky had, god no, but you wouldn’t say it was a good example of super soldier stamina.

A devilish smirk spread across his face, stalking towards you like he was a predator and you were his prey. 

“Cut a guy some slack, doll. You were the first woman I’d touched since the 1940s. I’m surprised I lasted as long as I did.”

He was right in front of you now, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear—his hungry eyes latched on your lips.

“You want a redo? Want me to show you how long I can really go for?” 

Your pulse jumped in your neck, a breath getting lodged in your throat, the ache from the day before hitting your core at full force. 

“…Bucky, we—we said no funny business.” 

His hand moved to your chin, gripping it gently and tilting your head up. There was a fire blazing in his eyes as he stared into your soul.

“No, you said that.” His vibranium hand rested lightly against your hip, testing. You gasped at the cold seeping through your clothes, relieving some of the heat and making your core clench with need at the same time. 

He dropped his head, brushing his nose against yours.

“Did you take care of yourself last night, sweetheart?” His voice was low, husky.

Your body flushed even hotter. His proximity had your brain short-circuiting and butterflies raging in your stomach, the smell of his aftershave and something uniquely him overwhelming your senses with every shuddering breath you took. 

“I asked you a question,” he gripped your chin tighter, his tone bordering on demanding.

“I…had a bath, drank some wine…” the vibranium hand on your hip slipped higher, cupping your waist and pulling you closer. A tiny gasp got caught in your throat.

“Did you touch yourself?” His nose brushed across your cheek, his mouth dangerously close to your ear.

“You—you can’t ask me that, Bucky.” Your voice shook. Your hand clutched his shoulder, the vibranium cold against your palm even through his shirt. The ground beneath you felt unsteady, your body swaying towards him for support.

“Sure I can, your wellbeing is important to me. Answer the question.” The hand on your chin moved, a calloused thumb brushing your bottom lip.

The touch had your mind blanking, tingles erupting beneath his thumb and travelling through your body, gathering in the pit of your belly. Your head felt fuzzy and the world narrowed to him, only him.

“Yes,” you whispered.

He hummed, satisfied.

“Good girl.”

Your thighs clenched at the praise, the warmth in your core begging for relief. You watched his tongue swipe along his bottom lip, leaving them glistening and looking so fucking tempting. 

“It wasn’t enough though, was it?” He walked you backwards slowly, a small gasp escaping you as your back hit the wall. “No, I think you need more.” 

His head dropped to the crook of your neck, his stubble scratching your sensitive skin. You sucked in a breath, resisting the urge to moan. It had been so long since someone had touched you—since Bucky touched you—and the need pulsing through you was making you delirious.

Both Bucky’s hands dropped to your hips, squeezing tight as he stepped closer. One of his thighs slotted between your legs, the pressure against your core making you whimper. 

“You need to be more careful about what you put in your calendar, doll.” 

You struggled to understand what he was saying, too overwhelmed by his closeness and the dizziness it was causing.

He pressed a faint kiss to your throat, right where your pulse was beating wildly. He chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating against your skin.

“God, I’ve been hard ever since I saw that notification yesterday.”

That had you reeling, a fraction of reality slipping through the haze. What was he talking about? 

You found your voice, although meek and small. “What notification?”

His vibranium hand slipped from your waist to your back, pulling you into him until your back arched, your core shifting against his thigh. The slight friction made your body thrum, your hips instinctively rolling to chase the feeling.

“The one letting you—me—know that you’re ovulating.” 

You gasped, horror running through your body. You didn’t even think about how your tracking app was linked to your calendar. 

“I can smell it, sweetheart. How fucking needy you are.” His words had the horror dissolving into liquid honey, the need he was talking about dripping from your core. 

His right hand gripped your hip tighter, his fingers digging in as he moved your hips, dragging you back and forth on his jean-clad thigh.

“I wanna take care of you. Let me make you feel good.” He whispered, his mouth hot against your ear. 

Any worries you had about crossing boundaries, about ruining Jamie’s relationship with her father disappeared, replaced by a blazing fire.

“Please,” you whispered desperately.

Bucky didn’t waste a second, his lips finding yours in a bruising kiss. His hands pulled you tighter against him, your hips flush with his. Your hands found their place in his hair, tugging the soft strands and making him moan into your mouth. 

His tongue slipped past your lips with no resistance, meeting yours in a battle for dominance that you had no intention of winning. He bit your bottom lip, tugging it as he pulled back. He dropped his forehead to yours, both of you panting heavily from the kiss.

“You’ve got no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that,” he murmured, pressing small kisses to your lips like he couldn’t help himself.

You whined when he stepped back, missing his warmth and the friction between your legs. 

“Patience, doll.”

And then he was dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands sliding up the sides of your thighs and gripping the waistband of your leggings, pulling them down torturously slow. He groaned low at the sight of your panties, the dark wet patch exposing your need for him.

He pressed a quick kiss to the patch, making your head hit the wall with a thud. He chuckled at you, his eyes filled with a possessive hunger.

“So responsive.”

He placed one of you thighs over his shoulder, peppering your inner knee and thigh with soft kisses. He stopped at your mid thigh, turning his head to lavish your other leg with the same attention. Your breathing grew heavy at the teasing, the need in your core growing unbearable the more he avoided where you needed him most.

“Bucky, please, stop teasing,” you whined, your voice echoing in the apartment.

He chuckled darkly, looking up at you like you were a feast he couldn’t wait to devour. 

“Gotta be quiet, doll. Don’t wanna wake Jamie up now, do you?” His tone was mocking and you wanted to slap the smirk off his face.

He relented his teasing, rising to his full height and gripping your hips. His mouth found yours again, softer this time but still just as hungry. Your arms wound around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer as you tried to grind your core against the bulge in his jeans. He let out a small broken moan, leaving your lips to kiss along your jaw and neck. 

“Jump,” he muttered into your neck. You did as he said, your legs wrapping around his waist as he hoisted you up in his arms like you weighed nothing. His hands grasped your ass, rolling your hips against him harder. He spun you around, walking towards your room with his face still buried in your neck, biting and tugging your sensitive skin.

He closed the door behind him softly, dropping you gently onto your bed. He stood at the end, quiet as his eyes raked over your half-dressed body. He grabbed your ankles and pulled you to the edge of the bed. He dipped down to kiss you passionately. 

His hands grasped the hem of your top, dragging it up your body and over your head. He stopped momentarily, staring at your naked breasts in awe.

“I didn’t worship you like you deserved, sweetheart. I’m not making that mistake again.” 

Then he dropped his head, kissing a path down your neck and across your collarbones. He ran his tongue along your skin, biting the soft swell of your breast gently, avoiding your nipple. Your hips bucked under him, desperate for more. His hands tightened on your hips, pushing them into the bed to stop your squirming. He finally took your nipple into his mouth, sucking gently and grazing his teeth against it. You let out a sharp gasp, your hands clutching his shoulders. His flesh hand came up to palm your neglected breast, pulling and twisting the nipple between his fingers, eliciting more debauched gasps from your lips.

“So fucking pretty,” he mumbled, switching his mouth to the other breast to give it the same attention. His vibranium arm whirred as your hips tried to buck more, holding you down with ease. 

His flesh hand stayed palming your breasts as his mouth descended, his stubble scratching the soft skin of your stomach. He stopped, pulling back slightly as his eyes focused intently on your skin—more specifically, on the stretch marks covering your lower belly.

He let out a low moan, pressing his forehead against your stomach like he was collecting himself. His hand on your breast trailed down, calloused fingertips reverently tracing the jagged lines your pregnancy left behind. 

“You’re beautiful,” he murmured absentmindedly, like he was in a trance. “You’re always beautiful, but seeing those photos of you pregnant with my child.” He let out a dark chuckle. “You don’t know what that did to me, doll.” His dark eyes met yours. “I’ve fucked my fist every night looking at them. Seeing you big and round with my baby—shit, doll.” He closed his eyes and groaned. “Makes me wanna get you pregnant again.”

He dropped his mouth to your skin, his lips kissing your stretch marks with a tenderness that had your heart clenching painfully. He took his time, worshiping every scar with his lips. Your underwear was soaked, his actions and words making you so overwhelming needy that it hurt.

You pushed on his shoulders, trying to get him to move down to your core—to offer you some relief. He relented his soft kisses, grabbing your panties and pulling them down your thighs. He moaned, watching the way the fabric clung to your wet pussy—a line of slick keeping them tethered. He stuffed your panties into his back pocket once he removed them, throwing you a wink.

“A souvenir,” he muttered before diving in. 

His mouth was hot on your core, his tongue dragging a line up your slit before latching onto your clit. He sucked greedily, a hum sounding in the back of his throat. Your hands flew to his hair, grasping the strands and pushing him further into your core. He switched between sucking your clit and fucking you with his tongue, listening to your moans and whines to see what you liked. His flesh hand splayed against your stomach, stroking the marks there as he held you down. It was both tender and dirty, and it had the heat in your core spreading like wildfire. His vibranium hand trailed along the top of your thighs, making you gasp and shiver. 

He lifted his mouth off you, your slick glistening on his lips and beard—you almost came from the sight alone. He watched you closely as his hand inched higher, a cold finger brushing against your lower lips. You gave him a quick nod, muttering “please” and he didn’t waste any time.

He dipped a finger into your entrance, moaning at the wet heat and little resistance. He pumped it slowly, sucking your clit back into his mouth—making your back arch and hands tug harder, pulling at his scalp and making him moan into you. The noise had you preening, the ball in your core tightening. He inserted another cold finger, curling against the spot that had your legs shaking. You let out a long moan, your breath coming quick as you climbed higher. 

“Come for me, sweetheart.” He mumbled, his voice vibrating against your core. A third finger joined in and the stretch had tears brimming your eyes, the pleasure he was unleashing on your body too much. You came with a cry, your body tensing and shaking under him. He slowed down slightly, dragging your pleasure out until you were whimpering and pushing his head away from the overstimulation.

He crawled up your body, peppering more kisses on your skin as you struggled to catch your breath, coming down from your high slowly. You giggled as his stubbled tickled your stomach. He brushed your cheeks gently, wiping away the few tears that escaped from your pleasure. He looked at you with what looked like love in his eyes, causing your cheeks to flush and heart to beat harder.

He kissed you deeply, the taste of you on his tongue turning you on more. You returned the kiss with fervour, wrapping your legs around his clothed waist and grinding your hips against his bulge.

He moaned at the feeling, his arms on either side of your head shaking with restraint.

“Can I fuck you, doll?” You responded with an eager nod.

“Will you let me fill you up?” You continued nodding, a little whine and pleads leaving your lips.

He removed himself from you, ripping his clothes off in a hurry. He dropped on top of you and you relished at the feeling of his bare chest against yours. Your hands found his shoulders as he rubbed his cock along your dripping slit. You both let out matching moans.

“Wanna give Jamie a little sibling.” It wasn’t a question.

You nodded deliriously, your breath hitching as his tip caught your entrance. He pushed in achingly slow, kissing you as a high pitched moan escaped your throat. He grabbed your legs, wrapping them around his waist as he plunged deeper—a deep groan rumbling in his chest. You whimpered at the stretch of him. He thrusted slow and gentle at first, closing his eyes and savouring the feel of your tight walls hugging him. He picked up the pace, hitting your sweet spot—sharp gasps escaping you with every thrust. Your hands clutched his back tighter, your nails digging into the flesh slightly. The obscene sounds of skin slapping against skin, your breathy pants and gasps, and his low moans filled the room.

His hand moved from your hip to your core, rubbing circles on your clit in time with his thrusts. You were still sensitive from your first orgasm and you could feel the fire spreading from your belly at record speed.

“That’s it, that’s my good girl,” Bucky muttered against your lips. You clenched around him tightly, the praise adding more fuel to the fire. “You like that? You like when I call you a good girl?” You nodded, babbling incoherently as everything became too much and you seized below him. A harsh gasp escaped you as you came a second time, your nails scratching along his back and drawing blood. 

“Fuck—squeezing me so tight, sweetheart. Shit,” he grumbled out as he continued to fuck you through your high, only slowing down when you let out a sob.

He cradled your face in his hands, brushing away tears with a concerned look on his face. “Hey, hey, you’re okay. Just breathe,” he cooed softly, pushing hair back from your face. His eyes roamed over your features as you collected yourself, gasping in small breaths as your mind came back to your body. 

“You still with me?” You nodded shakily. “Wanna keep going?” 

“Please, need you to come inside me.” You whispered, a shaky hand grabbing his jaw and kissing him softly.

He groaned into your mouth, his cock dragging inside you slowly—making you whine.

“You got any idea what you do to me, doll? Fucking begging me to breed you,” he gave a harsh thrust and you let out a broken sob. 

He shushed you, moving his flesh hand to your mouth as he continued to thrust mercilessly.

“You’re gonna wake Jamie up.” You moaned behind his mouth, your eyes rolling back and your body feeling weightless.

He pulled out suddenly, making you let out a pained cry at the loss of him. “No, no, please, don’t stop.” You babbled, your hands grabbing his arms trying to get him back inside you.

He chuckled at your desperation before grasping your hips and flipping you over, positioning you on your hands and knees. You had little time to adjust to the new position before he was slamming into you, his cock pounding your walls at a relentless speed. Your moans were muffled by the pillow beneath your head, the fabric getting soaked in your drool and tears.

“Fuck, you look so good like this, baby,” he moaned, clutching your ass cheek before bringing his palm down in a harsh slap. Your body jumped forward, pain radiating from his slap and morphing into pleasure. You clenched down on him in a vice like grip, his hips stuttering in response. 

“You want another baby, doll? Want me to get you pregnant again?” 

You nodded your head vigorously, mumbling out “yes” and “please” like they were the only words you knew.

He slapped your ass two more times and you let out a broken sob, tears flowing down your cheeks as the pleasure became too much. You could feel Bucky getting close, his thrusts losing rhythm and his grunts increasing in volume. 

“God, you’re gonna look breathtaking, not gonna be able to keep my hands off you.” He muttered out, cursing as you gripped him even tighter. His hand moved from your hip to your clit, rubbing harsh circles. Your back bowed from the oversensitivity, trying to escape his touch but needing it at the same time. You bit the pillow below you as you came for a third time, your wail ringing out in the dark room. Bucky thrusted three more times before stilling, coming inside you with a long drawn out groan. He kept pumping inside you, his warm seed filling you completely. You sighed at the feeling, bliss running through your veins. Bucky caught you as your body collapsed, all your strength leaving you. You felt completely ruined.

Bucky pulled out with a groan, gently rolling you over so you were laying on his chest. His hand trailed up and down your back in soothing patterns, the both of you quiet as you came down. He pressed a kiss to your head, breathing you in deeply. You traced a pattern on his sweaty chest, sleep pulling at the corners of your eyes.

“We should probably talk,” you mumbled.

“Later,” another kiss to your head. “Wanna enjoy you in my arms a little longer.”

More tears pricked at your eyes and you hugged him tighter. You took in a shaky breath as you prepared yourself to say what’s been on your mind since Bucharest.

“I…I think I love you, Bucky.”

Bucky’s chest shook with a trembling exhale below you.

“I know I love you, sweetheart.” 

Ortho had a reputation and Brendon had leaned into it wholeheartedly. Fast, brutal, precise, and deeply uninterested in anything that didn't have to do with bone mechanics or operative planning. 

Park the Shark. He'd heard the name passed between residents in the corridor like a warning, and he hadn't minded. Warnings kept the noise down.

He was, all told, completely fine.

And then he met you. At the hospital coffee counter on a Wednesday morning, over a cup of black americano, and everything went sideways.

The barista set his coffee down and he was on his way to get it. Pretty normal stuff. Stuff that happened everyday. 

But before he could get there, there was you, his cup in your grasp, and then between your lips. 

He'd opened his mouth to say something. Sharply, probably. The same voice that made interns forget how to speak. But then, you drank. 

Your face did something spectacular. Nose scrunching up, eyes going slightly wide, mouth opened like a fish, as though you were offended, devastated, betrayed by a fucking beverage. You stared into the cup for a full second like you were waiting for it to apologize. "Okay," you said, to the cup, mostly. "That's — what is that?"

Brendon stared at you.

"What'd they put in this?" you continued, as if you were workshopping a complaint, a comical lilt to your voice. 

In the fifteen seconds of you taking his drink and drinking it, it didn’t occur to you that you’d just consumed something belonging to someone else. The coffee — he didn’t think you’d agree for it to be called a coffee, to be really honest — had shaken you so much that it took you a minute to compose yourself. 

When you did, you turned the cup in your hand, read the side and looked up, a sheepish smile on your lips. 

As you found him just standing there, gaze locked on you, your eyes dropped between him and the cup. "Oh, it's got your name on it." You had the audacity to look adorable — what the fuck did he just think? "Is this yours?"

Brendon nodded. Fucking nodded. 

Embarrassment should not have looked that good on anyone. How could someone look like that while questioning life decisions, evaluating choices that led to this moment?

"Right." You set it down on the counter between, like you were disarming a situation. "Sorry. I genuinely thought — mine's supposed to be a latte and I just grabbed it, I wasn't looking at the name. I'm really sorry."

Dark circles under your eyes, hair pulled back like it was done in thirty seconds without a mirror, lime green scrubs that had no reason looking good, no reason making you look good. Who even looked good in that colour? Who even chose that colour? 

You were somewhere between mortified and trying to hold it together, which was fair, because you had just walked up to a stranger's drink and had at it. "Can I at least — I'll pay for a new one, here—"

You were reaching into your pocket and Brendon, who had been on the verge of saying something very reasonable like it's fine, not a problem— "No."

Accidentally spoke in the voice. He didn't always mean to use, it just comes out that way by default, making fourth-year residents straighten their spines. And he’d used it. To you. 

You looked up at him with an expression he could only describe as a deer having second thoughts about the road.

He hadn't meant — he wasn't angry. He'd said no out of reflex. Most things he said were out of reflex, and now this person was staring at him like he'd personally threatened her. He had the strange and unfamiliar experience of wanting to walk it back. "I meant—" he started.

But you'd pulled yourself together, apparently deciding that whatever his problem was, it was his problem. 

"Okay, no." You held your hands up, like you were placating a toddler. "Noted. For future reference though, why would you get it like that, it's — is this fun for you? Like do you enjoy it?"

He blinked, heat rising up to his cheeks. He could only hope you didn’t notice it.

What you did notice was that he looked clueless and you clarified, "the coffee," you pointed to his cup. "There's nothing in it. I took one sip and I think my tongue is still reeling from it."

"That's what coffee tastes like," Brendon said.

"That's a very sad thing to believe." You stated, completely without malice, which made it worse somehow. A genuine opinion. To make matters worse, you were already looking back toward the counter, scanning for your actual order.

Brendon stood there holding his americano while everyone else and everything else continued their life, including you. 

The barista called your name. You went to get it, came back briefly into his sightline, and gave him a small, still-somewhat-mortified wave on your way out the door.

He watched you go and drank his coffee, the same one your lips touched. It tasted exactly like it always did, which was fine, he liked it fine.

Do you enjoy it?

He took another sip. It was objectively bitter.

Lime green. A colour he couldn't immediately place. It bothered him, sitting in the back of his head while he moved through his afternoon. 

PTMC colour-coded by department. He knew this. He just didn't have them all memorized, a gap he'd never needed to fill before.

He decided to ask his ward nurse, Delgado, at the end of his post-ops. Casual as he could make it, which for him was still pretty clinical — "lime green. You know which department?" 

Delgado looked up from her chart. "Lime green," she repeated, slowly, like she was checking the words for a hidden compartment.

“Yeah.” 

“Are we talking about scrubs here, Dr Park?” She had her eyebrows crossed like she was trying to read him. 

“Yes.”

“Neonatology,” she answered. 

Four floors up, the opposite end of the building, behind two sets of badge-locked doors and a hand-washing protocol longer than some of his procedures. He'd been in there exactly twice in his career, both times for consults that took fifteen minutes and ended in a referral elsewhere.

It made sense. You looked like sunshine incarnate, all airy and beautiful, effortlessly skilful — not that he’d seen you work, but he had an idea. 

"Right." He turned back toward the board.

"Dr. Park."

"Mm."

"Are you — Is there something involving neonatology that I should know about?"

A small, unwelcome lurch happened inside his chest. He kept his face the way he kept it in the OR — nothing on it, nothing to read — and he could tell, with horrible clarity, that it wasn't working.

“Something?”

“A case?” 

Brendon could see that she’d worded it carefully. "No."

"Okay," Delgado said. "No reason then." She didn't believe a word of it and had decided not to push, which was worse because he could’ve handled an argument. An argument had an end.

Without looking at her, he said, “you can go.”

"I'm charting."

"You can chart elsewhere."

"This is the nurses' station, Dr. Park."

She was smiling. He knew that without even looking. He went back to his board and did not say anything else, hoping this was the end of it. 

It was in no way shape or form, the end of anything. It only took him five minutes to look it up. Not you specifically, he wasn’t doing that. Yet, the back of his mind supplied. 

He was just reading about fellowship timelines, the NICU admission criteria for some reason? He also learned it’s two or three more years of training, all of it happening four floors above his OR in a unit he had approximately zero clinical reason to enter.

The fact that he even went down this road is embarrassing. But he went a whole another mile. 

Clavicular fractures were the most common birth-related bone injury. Unfortunately — now, he hated himself for even thinking the word — they were managed entirely conservatively. Swaddle the arm, follow up in two weeks. It wouldn't require an orthopedic surgeon, much less him, to stand in a NICU looking purposeful.

For about four seconds, he entertained inventing a reason. He got as far as picturing himself walking through those doors in his scrub cap with some flimsy excuse half-formed, and the picture was so stupid — so transparently, embarrassingly stupid — that he closed his laptop immediately.

The hospital was large and your departments were, in practical terms, on separate planets. 

You’d been in the coffee shop on Wednesday, which meant you probably used it, which meant theoretically he'd encounter you again just by existing in the building. He told himself he wasn't going to engineer anything, he was just aware of the possibility. That was all.

Two days passed. He did four surgeries including a complicated tibial nail revision that took three hours and came out beautifully, and one very satisfying conversation with a referring physician who had misread an MRI and needed correcting. Normal week, right? 

Next day, he got his coffee at six forty, same as every morning, and stood at the counter a beat longer than the transaction required, scanning the line behind him without meaning to. Nobody in lime green. He told himself that meant nothing, took his americano, and left.

Friday, same thing. He noticed himself doing it the second time, which didn't help — like catching his own reflection mid-expression and not recognizing the face looking back.

He didn't see you. Abnormal week. 

ER consult. Friday, mid-afternoon. A fracture dislocation that the ER attending had flagged as needing operative planning. Brendon came down at two-thirty, and found Abbot by trauma three looking over a film.

Coming down to the ER wasn't his favorite part of the day. Not the work — the work was fine, usually obvious, usually somebody else's problem until it became his — but the way the place ran, all motion and noise hot under his skin. Abbot, somehow, thrived in it.

They'd gotten through about two minutes of the consult — Abbot walking him through the case, Brendon pulling up the images, the two of them doing back-and-forth of people who'd worked a building together long enough to skip the preamble. Uneventful. 

But then the ER entrance on the left side of the bay opened and you walked through it.

Same lime green scrubs and a your Dunkin' cup in hand. Shen next to you, also holding a Dunkin' cup, saying something Brendon couldn't hear from this distance, and you were laughing. Brendon, to his disappointment, noticed it was not a poilte laugh. Your shoulder bumped into Shen’s with the force of it, a fully open-mouthed laugh, and you looked gorgeous.

The sight in front of him was only fogged by the fact that it was Shen who was at the receiving end of it.

The blush climbed before he could stop it, heat crawling up the back of his neck and into his ears. He thanked every god he didn't believe in, that Abbot was still looking at the film and not at him.

Brendon's jaw locked. Back teeth coming together, the muscle in his jaw pulling. He knew it’d give him a headache if he kept it up. 

He didn’t really know Shen, not really. Having entirely met him through corridors and in consultations. But in that moment he decided, with an immediate, total conviction usually reserved for diagnoses, that he didn't like him.

Because he didn’t want to stare, he looked back at the X-ray on the tablet. "So the fracture pattern —" he spoke.

"You okay?" Abbot cut in.

Brendon looked at him. Abbot looked like he already knew the answer and was just asking to pull his leg, like most ER attendings. 

"Fine," Brendon said. "The fracture is comminuted. Needs ORIF. I’ll book an OR, do it first case tomrorw morning."

Abbot nodded as he scribbled on the iPad. Didn't look fully satisfied with the fine but let it go. Brendon knew that about Abbot — the latter picked his moments.

Brendon looked back at the X-ray.

In his peripheral vision, you and Shen had stopped near the nurse’s station, still talking. You had the cup halfway to your mouth, nodding at whatever he was saying, and then you laughed again, smaller this time, shaking your head. Like whatever Shen had said was ridiculous and you were conceding it anyway.

His molars hurt from pressing down too hard. "ORIF tomorrow, first case," he said again, to the iPad at his hand, to no one.

"You already said that," Abbot noted.

He pulled up the next item on his consult list — a possible Montaggia fracture, a cakewalk for him, nightmare for others. "I'm confirming."

He was not confirming. He had no idea why he'd said it twice. 

You'd moved further into the ER now, past his sightline, and he found himself looking at the entrance you'd come through for a second before he caught himself and looked back at Abbot. The latter was watching him like he was trying very, very hard not to smirk.

"Do you need something?" Brendon asked.

"I'm just standing here," Abbot said.

"You're doing something with your face."

"I'm a person, Park, my face does things." Abbot tucked his hands in his pockets. Nodding towards the general direction of where you might be standing, Abbot said, "I didn't know you knew anyone in neonatology."

"I don't," Brendon interjected soon. Too soon. 

"Hm." Abbot’s head did a sweep of the ER, probably searching for you, and then looked back at Brendon. "Right."

Brendon put his iPad under his arm, said he'd have the operative plan by end of day and walked back toward the elevator, which took him directly past the nurse’s station, where you had apparently remigrated with Shen, talking to the desk coordinator about something.

He did not slow down.

But in the two seconds he passed within range, he did clock that you smelled like coffee and something warm underneath it, something sweet, vanilla maybe. You didn't notice him, but Shen did and nodded. Brendon nodded back and kept walking, very normal. Walk of a man who was fine.

The elevator took forty-five years to arrive.

He stood in front of it for all forty-five of those years, staring at the closed doors with his hands in his coat pockets, acutely, miserably aware that Park the Shark had just sped up his pace to get past a girl with a Dunkin' and was now standing at an elevator hoping it would hurry up.

Somewhere behind him, he was fairly sure, Abbot was still smiling.

It was a horrible week for the ortho residents. And it wasn’t even Tuesday. 

It wasn’t because of the caseload. The caseload was what it always was, a rotating carousel of fractures and dislocations and the occasional spectacular screw-up from another department who'd missed a bone scan. 

No, the residents had a terrible week because Brendon Park had decided, somewhere between Friday evening and Tuesday afternoon, that their technique was uniformly sloppy and their pre-op prep was an embarrassment to the profession, and he'd said so. Repeatedly. In front of each other.

It wasn't personal. He thought so and would tell you so, if anyone asked him. No one was brave enough. 

His residents just kept standing in his eyeline when he was already irritated, and that was their problem, really.

Delgado, to her eternal credit, had not said a single word about it. She'd watched him tear into a second-year over a chart — like who enters the date wrong? — and kept her face entirely professional. The kid went pale, stuttering through his apology, and Brendon didn’t care. 

He'd noticed it himself. The snapping. He was moving through the ward with even less patience than usual, which was saying something. He did a K wire banding, ate lunch at his desk, reviewed post-op films, and at six-fifteen found himself at the hospital coffee counter scanning the room before his order was called. It was mortifying enough on its own, and you weren't there, so it brought double the mortification. 

He went back Tuesday. Sat down, which was something he genuinely had never done. He had always taken his coffee to go. There was no reason to sit, the hospital was across the street, he drank it walking. 

But this time, he sat. Kept his phone out, drank his coffee and checked his messages. He absolutely did not look at the door every ninety seconds.

You weren't there Tuesday either. Which was fine. People had schedules. Neonatologists especially — the NICU didn't exactly run on a nine-to-five, he knew that much. He'd looked it up. For professional reasons, of course. For someone who’d prided himself for working 24/7, he was humbled real quick. 

Wednesday, he sat again. He had a consultation at nine, no reason to rush. He could drink his coffee like a human being who used chairs. He pulled up his post-op notes on his phone, found Abbot's message about a fracture dislocation follow-up, which Abbot didn’t have to do but does it anyway. Abbot was like that sometimes. 

When he looked up, his coffee was in front of him. And so were you.

Lime green scrubs, your own drink in your other hand, and you were sliding his cup toward him. The look on your face that said you'd been watching him not notice it for at least thirty seconds. He had been reading an MRI report. A fascinating one.

"I really should get you a coffee," you said.

Brendon laughed. It was him. That was his laugh. Coming out of his face, in a coffee shop, at seven in the morning.

It came out before he could stop it or do anything about it. Just a short, but real sound, surprising him enough that he almost looked around to check if someone else had made it. 

You were watching him with that same expression from the first time, like you found him interesting the way you'd find an unusual rock formation interesting. Curious but not unkind. It was doing things to his blood pressure.

"You're still doing that to yourself, I see." You nodded at his cup.

"It's coffee."

"Doesn't taste like it, though." Your nose scrunched up, just like the first time, just as adorable. Did he just say adorable again? 

He picked up the cup, took a sip purely out of spite, and looked back at you.

You sat down across from him. Which he had not expected and also had absolutely expected. Two things existing simultaneously, almost fucking him up. 

"You're here a lot," you said.

"The hospital's down the street."

"Is it?" You glanced at him, stirring your drink. "Because I've only ever seen you take it to go, and now you're sitting." You took out the stirrer and placed it on a tissue. "Three days in a row."

The back of his neck went warm, mouth opening to say something. Deny it probably, which was stupid and a waste of time. But you interrupted him. 

Brendon Park is not someone who’s interrupted. People let him talk, and only think about answering when they’re sure he’s finished. 

You, on the other hand, did not care. "You're kinda hard to miss with all the brooding going on."

"I don't brood."

You took a sip of your drink, watching him over the lid, expression doing a tremendous amount of work without saying anything. 

He held your gaze. You lowered the cup. "You totally brood. It's an ortho thing, right? Comes with it."

"You know I'm ortho?"

"Everyone knows you're ortho." You said it completely matter-of-factly. Like, yes Brendon, the sky is blue and you’ve got an Ortho bro vibe going on. "You have the whole —" You made a vague gesture in his direction, encompassing, apparently, all of him. "You've got the OR energy."

"Half the people here have OR energy. It's a hospital."

"No, see, ER people have this sort of —" you tilted your head, "— controlled chaos thing. They're always braced for something. But, you walk around like you’ve won everything already. It's very obvious, easy to pick out."

Pick out what? Him from a line-up?

He watched you say all of this with zero self-consciousness, just stating observations, a woman delivering a verdict. He realised his coffee was halfway to his mouth and he hadn't drunk it. You talked about him like he was a case study, and he was sitting there letting you, taking all of it.

"So where else do you brood," you asked, "besides here and the OR?"

"I don't brood."

"Besides here and the OR?" You prompted, dismissing his non-answer. 

"The ER… sometimes," he heard himself say it. See, he did not think of saying it, but said it anyway. Crystal-clear experience of a man who had just walked directly into something. He'd had five years of attendings trying to catch him out on rounds. None of them had managed it. You'd done it in under ten minutes, twice, while drinking a latte.

You made a sound. Not quite a laugh, more like an intake of breath with amusement in it. "The ER."

"Consults."

"Right." You traced the rim of your cup with one finger. "Were you in the ER last Friday?"

And… there it was.

He could've said he didn't remember. He could've been very busy, very unbothered, a man who passed through ERs constantly and didn't register the days. He was a surgeon. He was in various hospital departments routinely. There was nothing notable about Friday.

"Yes," his mouth admitted.

You nodded slowly, like something had confirmed itself. "I thought I saw you. You walked really fast."

He put his coffee down. "I had somewhere to be."

"Okay." The word stretched, like you weren’t entirely convinced. He wouldn’t blame it, he wasn’t exactly convincing. An infant could catch him in a lie, and you apparently were their queen. You went quiet for a second and then looked back at him, debating whether to say it or not. Affirmative won apparently. "You saw me with Shen."

It wasn’t a question. And he wasn’t exactly thrilled to answer it. He'd spent five days being awful to residents over it. A little late to play it cool.

"I figured." The amusement on your face was warm rather than sharp, which made the ache in his chest somehow worse. Whoa, whoa, what ache? "We have a thing going, me and Shen. Whoever lost the bet had to do the coffee run. I'd just lost." You paused. "For the fourth time. I'm apparently terrible at predicting admission numbers."

"The fourth time," Brendon parotted.

"In a month. I know." You shook your head, shaking the thought, a soft sigh leaving your parted lips. "I don't know why I keep agreeing to it. Every time I'm like, this time I'll get it right, and then the board goes completely feral and I'm standing at Dunkin' at two in the afternoon getting Shen's ridiculous—" You stopped to look at him, and he had his utmost attention on you. "Anyway. That was just the loser tax."

Loser tax. He sat with this for a second. The whole week reshuffled. Him being a monster to those unsuspecting residents — it’s not like it's unwarranted, but still. 

You and Shen, a bet. A coffee run. A losing streak that apparently had nothing to do with the bond between the two of you and everything to do with ER admission patterns, which, if he was being honest, were genuinely unpredictable, nobody could forecast those accurately, it wasn't —

"You walked so fast," you spoke again, this time interrupting his thoughts. He noticed you liked to do that, keep him on his toes. There was a laugh behind it now, delighted almost. "I didn't know an orthopedic surgeon could move like that without a reason."

"I had a reason."

"What was it?" You prodded.

I just couldn’t stand you bumping shoulders with Shen like you belonged together. 

His eyes dropped to his coffee at his hand and found you again. You looked back at him. You had the same ‘interested in rock formation’ thing going on, except closer now and clearer somehow. He had the increasingly urgent sense that you knew exactly what you were doing.

"You were with someone.” He sighed.

A smile adorned your lips like you’d won, finally beat him. 

Like your mind was displaying in neon, Sunshine neonatologist : 1. Big bad ortho guy : 0. 

You let it sit there between you while you took another sip of your drink. "I was getting Shen's order," you said finally. "Because I lost a bet."

"I know that now."

"But you didn't walk fast because of Shen specifically. Did you?"

His molars found each other again. What is with you and asking him impossible questions? Was this like your hobby? Hit the ortho guy until he falls over? At what point in medical school had someone taught you to do this, and could he have a word with them?

Without giving him a moment to recover, you spoke again. "So," you set your cup down, straightened up a little in the chair, met his eyes with an expression so direct it nearly made him blink. "When are you buying me a coffee?"

He stared at you. Staring was not his thing. He assessed, evaluated, and arrived at conclusions. What he did not do was stare, sit with his mouth slightly open like a fucking goldfish. 

"That's what you've been trying to do, right?" Your voice was mild, conversational, voice of a woman confirming a meeting time. "For three days. In a row. Sitting here."

The heat that climbed his face was complete, total and immediate, and there was absolutely nothing to be done about it. Park the Shark. Sitting in a coffee shop for three days like a golden retriever who'd learned to use a chair.

You laughed. It filled the air and came right back to him. And he thought, sitting there red-eared with his black coffee, that it was the best sound he'd heard all week.

Possibly longer.

He only remembered that you asked a question when you raised your eyebrows. Right. The question. Which he totally didn’t forget when he was staring at your lips and thinking about how they would feel pressed to his. 

"I have a nine o'clock," he said. "Seven works."

"That's very early."

"You work in a NICU. You guys are up since five."

You looked at him for a moment and he had no idea what you were looking at. But he sat very still, which was insane on his part. He only hoped he passed whatever test you were conducting. Apparently having looked enough, you picked your cup up, along with the tissue paper and the stirrer you discarded, and stood. "Seven," you said. "Don't brood while you wait."

He watched you walk out. He looked down at his americano. He drank it.

It still tasted exactly like it always did, and he liked it fine, and he was aware, in a dim and reluctant and completely inescapable way, that this was probably not going to be the last time he sat in this coffee shop.

Not by a long shot.

MY MASTERLIST !

The razor sharp chill of the ground below you and the air that surrounds you are the only things tethering you to what little remains of your sanity.

You never thought that you would be so thankful for your feet to be going numb, but after feeling like every fiber of your being is getting melted with a hot branding iron for - what? Ten? Twelve hours now? You had to resist the temptation to submerge your entire body in the multiple feet of snow that had accumulated since nightfall.

You hear the front door of the cabin creak open from behind you. You don't have to turn around to know that he's standing in the doorway with the same look of pleading desperation that he's been giving you since the two of you had realized what was happening.

“You need to come back inside,” he says delicately. His voice is muffled by the roar of the snowstorm, but right now with heightened senses, you hear him just fine. “You're going to get hypothermia.”

You don't respond. The mere sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth together so hard that you're surprised the tiny bones don't shatter.

He keeps to the doorway, scared that if he takes one step closer, you'll flee into the miles of thick woods that surrounds you in only a pair of old sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. He murmurs your name in a tone that begs you to come in from the below freezing temperatures.

“What time is it now?” You barely recognize your own voice - low and strained, it sounds like you haven't had anything to drink in days.

You clear your throat, though you doubt it'll make any difference.

“Just after four o'clock.”

Eleven hours into this hell, then. Best case scenario, another half a day of this. Worst case scenario, close to two.

Either way, you knew that these symptoms had yet to hit their peak. This would undoubtedly get worse before it gets better.

You stare out into the endless thicket of snow covered hemlocks and spruces. The illumination from the full moon makes the white powder on the branches glisten in the darkness.

Daylight was still hours away, and with it, hope for some means of communication with the rest of your team back in New York. The snowstorm had brought a widespread power outage across the city. Cell phone signal was nonexistent right now.

“Go on back to your room,” you tell him. “I'll come back inside in just a moment.” You continue to watch the blizzard before you, knowing that he's still just a few feet away from you. “I promise,” you add, hoping that he’ll believe you and return to the bedroom you'd been forcing him to keep to.

The drug coursing through your veins had amplified every one of your five senses. Even with him behind the closed door of the bedroom, you could still smell faint traces of the earthy musk of his deodorant and something warm that is uniquely him.

You wouldn't chance coming back into the house until his scent has dissipated from the entrance - not unless you want to feel as though all air is being stripped from your lungs.

Even simply standing here, with him behind you and the wind blowing his scent in the opposite direction, is nearly intolerable.

You hear footsteps retreat into the house, growing quieter and quieter as he makes his way back down the hallway, until you finally hear the click of his bedroom door. You exhale a breath that you weren't aware you had been holding in.

You have no doubt that he'll try to drag you back inside by the ankles if he has to, so you make good on your promise and return to the sweltering interior of the six hundred square foot log cabin.

A sharp, stabbing pain radiates from the center of your body at that thought - the exact kind of thoughts you were actively trying to avoid having. Thoughts of his hands digging into your thighs, his wet mouth on your throat, his bare chest pressed against yours as he fucks you into the likely thirty-something year old couch - those thoughts. Dangerous territory thoughts - the kind you didn't trust yourself not to act on if dwelled upon for too long.

Apparently, the thought of him putting his hands around your ankles and dragging you kicking and screaming falls into that category.

You settle onto the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest in an effort to alleviate the ache in your lower belly. You notice that Bucky has crammed more wood into the fireplace, which currently serves as the main source of light for the cabin, save for a few candles that have been placed sporadically throughout the small space.

Sweat begins to bead across your skin within seconds of sitting down in front of the fire. You know that Bucky is just trying to keep the temperature of the house from dropping below zero while also providing enough light to see during the middle of the night while you are in too much discomfort to sleep, but you feel like you are locked in a sauna after running five miles.

You think back to all of the times that you've given Sam shit for taking ice baths after his workouts. Now nothing sounds better than an ice bath.

Almost nothing, anyway. The only thing that could possibly feel even better is laying down behind a closed door less than twenty feet away.

And he'd offered - begged, actually, to take this pain away from you.

“Please,” he whispers, kneeling on the ground next to the couch, where you sit hunched over in pain. He's so close to you and it's fucking suffocating. He places his hand on your knee and you have to dig your nails into the suede upholstery to keep from whimpering. He notices the reaction and retracts his touch.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he says louder, the pet name finally getting you to meet his gaze for the first time since you dropped the glass jar of the firetruck red powder in the former HYDRA warehouse two hours ago.

Big mistake. Looking at him is a big fucking mistake. From the way his blue eyes bore into yours with sincere concern to the way that his plump, pink lips are slightly chapped from the cold weather -

“No,” you say firmly, shaking your head into your hands. “I can't ask that of you. I can't make you do that. I would never forgive my–”

“You wouldn't be asking or making me do anything,” he tries to reason with you. There's sincerity in his voice but you're too delirius to hear the truth of his words. “I'm offering. Because I care about you. Because I don't want to see you in any kind of pain if there's anything I can do about it. Because I think you'd do the same for me if the situation were–”

“Bucky,” you cut him off in a strained gasp. “Your voice is making this so much worse right now.”

“Then let me help you. Let me make you feel good.”

His words alone are enough to have you clenching your thighs around nothing but the thick material of your sweatpants. You can feel your cotton panties becoming more drenched with each word he speaks.

“Not like this.” You're on the verge of tears - from pain, from anger at the entire situation, from how goddamn badly you need to feel him inside you. “It can't happen like this. I never wanted it to happen like this.”

His features soften, a look of understanding spreading across his face.

“When we fuck, I want it to be because we want to fuck,” you say as you jump up from your position on the couch, desperately needing to distance yourself from him before you do something you can't take back. “I don't want it to be because we feel like neither of us have a choice in the matter.”

“But we do have a choice,” he murmurs from where he's still kneeling on the floor next to the couch. “And I'd choose to go back to that HYDRA facility and infect myself with this shit, too, if it means you'd feel a little less guilty about saying yes.”

Your answer to that was, of course, a big, giant absolutely fucking not. The snow started pouring down shortly after, making his irrational proclamation an impossibility, anyway.

Almost half a day later, here you are. Surrounded by miles and miles of snow and ice in a town with no power or semi-functioning cell phone towers, just trying to endure the fire coursing through your veins until the effects of the HYDRA made drug have worked through your system.

You're coming up on the twelve hour mark now, and there's no denying that you're desperate for relief in one way or another.

Worth a fucking shot, you think.

You prop your feet up on the glass coffee table in front where you sit on the couch, spreading your thighs apart by a few inches.

You hesitate for a moment, listening for any kind of indication that Bucky's no longer in the confines of the cabin’s singular bedroom.

Dead silent, except for the crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace.

You snake your hand down the front of your pants, past the waistband of your underwear and to your center that's been aching for hours now.

You stroke your fingers up and down your folds, stopping at the apex of your core to massage your clit in circular motions.

Your head rolls back on the couch at the sensation, immediately feeling the slightest sense of relief. You dig your teeth into your lower lip to keep from moaning - hard enough to draw blood, the taste of iron flooding your mouth.

You slip two fingers past your entrance, not requiring any foreplay to plunge them to the hilt. It feels good - the way you're working yourself with rapid scissoring motions. Really fucking good, actually. Better than fingering yourself has ever felt.

But only a mere minute into the ministrations, you fear that it won't be enough to satiate you in the way that the drug requires.

Still, you try. You yank your t-shirt above your tits, bringing your free hand to paw at your breast as you continue working your pussy with your fingers, the heel of your palm putting pressure against your clit.

“That's not going to work, you know.”

You yank your hand out of your pants, snapping your head to the side to see him leaning against the frame of the small hallway. You had been so immersed in attempting to find some amount of relief that you hadn't heard him exit the bedroom. He's looking at you with sympathy and concern, not judgment - you don't think you'd be able to find it within yourself to feel embarrassed even if he were. Not in your current state of discomfort.

“How do you know that?” Frustration is evident in your voice. You look away from him, back to the fire in front of you as you pull your shirt back down. The floor creaks as he steps out of the hallway and makes his way over to the opposite end of the small couch. He sits a foot away from you, close enough so that his scent and warmth invades your senses, sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core.

“Because I've been through what you're going through right now.”

Your eyes break away from the ember that you've been staring at, your gaze snapping to him. You don't know why this comes as a surprise to you. It shouldn't, not with every other form of torment that HYDRA had inflicted upon him for over half a century.

“Why didn't you tell me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I was embarrassed,” he answers with a small half-shrug, breaking your stare. “I didn't.. handle it as well as you are,” he continues, shame in his voice and cheeks rosy. “You’re doing everything you can to fight something that you didn't ask for. That's more than I can say for myself.”

“You were brainwashed, Bucky,” you remind him delicately. It's a risky move that makes your skin burn and belly clench, but you scoot closer to him on the couch - your outermost thigh brushing against his knee. If the two of you weren't both wearing sweatpants, the minimal touch might even aid in bringing you some relief. Instead, you’re left feeling desperate for more of him.

But you push the feeling down, wanting to do what little you can to comfort him - wanting him to know that you don't think poorly of him for what was forced onto him, and what is now being forced onto you, too.

“I would never judge you for anything they made you do,” you assure him.

“I know you wouldn't,” he murmurs, turning to face you again. His blue eyes glow in the low lighting of the fire. The closeness between the two of you is dizzying, and electrifying, and -

“And I want you to know that I would never judge you for giving into this torture,” he adds.

You snort a laugh. “I'm starting to think you want me to give into this.” You mean for the statement to sound light-hearted, but a sharp pang in your gut makes you wince in pain and your voice goes shrill. You clutch your lower belly, hunching over at the pain.

He leans in closer, putting one hand on your lower back and one on your thigh. You whimper at the pressure of his fingers against your spine and inner thigh. Even through your clothes, the contact feels like heaven compared to hell you've been enduring for the last twelve hours.

You lean into his touch - you don't even think about it, you just do it. You rest your head in the crook of his neck, your forehead nuzzling the warm skin of his throat.

You take a deep inhale, attempting to steady your breathing, and you realize quickly that is a mistake - his scent is so euphoric, it feels like inhaling flames.

“Would it make it easier for you if I said that I do want you to give in?” His voice is low, his breath fanning across your face from his position above you.

“Fuck, Bucky, you can't say that to me right now,” you whine. You fist your hands into the fabric of his t-shirt, your eyes squint shut.

“Look at me,” he commands. You force your eyes open, pulling your head back enough to look up at him through your eyelashes.

“I want it to be your choice.” He brings a hand up to cup your jawline. His thumb skims the outline of your bottom lip. “But I would be lying if I said that I'm not relieved that I'm the one here with you, or that I wouldn't enjoy every second of helping you feel better.”

He brings his hands to yours, pulling them away from where they still clutch his shirt. You release your grip, allowing him to hold you by your wrists. He pulls your right hand up to his face, stopping just under his nose. Your brows furrow in confusion, until it dawns on you what it is he's doing.

He inhales deeply, then lowers your hand to his parted mouth. He slips the tips of your index and middle fingers past his lips, and then swirls his tongue around the two digits.

The exact two that had been inside your pussy not even five minutes ago.

Right now, you think you could come from him sucking on your fingers and nothing else.

You don't even try to stop the groan that slips past your lips as you shove your fingers deeper into his mouth. He moans around them as he finishes cleaning them off, the sound sending vibrations up your arm and throughout your body.

You pull your fingers from between his lips and immediately crush your own lips to his in their place. You feel the drug surging through your veins, but this time it's less excruciating - it now feels like pure adrenaline bubbling under your skin, spurring you on.

He opens his mouth to you, your lips and tongue moving with his in synchronicity. It's hurried and messy, and maybe not as romantic as you had imagined it in your head before this night - but it's exactly what you need right now.

He maneuvers you so that you're laying down on the couch, and nestles himself between your thighs. You can feel the hard outline of his erection through the thin material of his sweatpants. He ruts against you, dragging the bulge across your clothed center as he yanks your t-shirt up and over your head. He tosses it somewhere behind the couch before attaching his mouth to one of your nipples and palming the other with the cool metal of his left hand.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling the full weight of his body down against you. You stick your hands up the back of his t-shirt, scratching your nails down the skin of his back.

“I need more,” you gasp out as he pinches your nipple between his teeth, rolling it in his lips. The clothing that separates the two of you feels like a prison. “I need to feel you.”

He pulls away, leaning back to perch on his knees between your legs. Your eyes roam down the chiseled planes of his chest until they land on the defined “V” shape that disappears into the waistband of his low-hanging pants.

He hooks his fingers into your sweatpants and underwear and tugging them both down past your ankles, then throwing them somewhere across the room with both of your long-forgotten shirts.

His eyes trail your body from your breasts to your thighs, his pupils dilating in the firelight. He splays his hands across the meat of your inner thighs, pinning your legs open wide for him. He lowers himself back down on the couch, belly down so his face hovers just above your pussy.

“Bucky, I swear if you don't put your mouth–”

He laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle before his tongue slips between his lips. It darts to your hole, licking a soft strip up to your clit. You exhale a sharp hiss of pleasure, your hands shooting to lace your fingers through tendrils of his hair. You arch into his touch, meeting the thrusts of his tongue with thrusts of your hips. He eats like you're the best thing he's ever tasted - like he's wanted this for way longer than this drug has been in your system.

You're coming on his face in an embarrassing amount of time, really. Thanks to the influence of the pollen, you currently have the stamina and endurance of a teenager losing their virginity. Your thighs are clenched around either side of his head, writhing above him as you ride out your orgasm on his face.

The relief that you feel as you come down from your high feels like years of pent up frustration leaving your body all at once.

You don't quite feel entirely like yourself - there's still a dull ache in your core, and your skin’s still feverish - though that could be due to the fire that the two of you are just feet away from. But you're now able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Come here,” you whisper, your voice low and honeyed. He crawls over you, his chest brushing against yours as he centers himself above you. His skin shines with a thin layer of sweat that mingles with your own. You reach a hand between your two bodies, palming his erection through the sweatpants that he has yet to shed. You keep your eyes locked on his face, watching as his eyes roll back into his head and his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip as you massage him through the fabric. Your other hand juts down to the waistband of his pants and you tug them downwards, far enough to help him shimmy them down to his knees.

His cock springs forward and he takes himself in his flesh hand, pumping his length several times before teasing your folds with his tip. He collects your slick along his length, lubricating himself before nudging his head just past your entrance.

You're more than ready for him - hours of desperation in addition to already having come on his face leaves you needing no further preparation before he's filling you up with his impressive length and girth. There's a slight burn at the sheer fullness of it, but there's also a wave of relief that your body has been craving for hours.

He pulls out halfway, then rocks back into you. He starts slow - trying to hold back for his own sake or for yours, you're unsure. Gradually, he increases his speed, hitting your cervix at that sweet angle that not everyone knows how to work. You lean forward, raising your head enough to capture his lips in yours once more.

You taste yourself on him - a dichotomy of sweet and salty mixed with something entirely unique. He brings his flesh hand in between your bodies, lowering his fingers to your clit where he begins rubbing pressured circles. You moan his name into his mouth and he responds by biting your lip between his teeth, his movements becoming messier.

“You gonna come on my cock?” he asks in a low growl when he feels your pussy clenching around him. “Gonna fill you up and make you feel all better.”

His words send you tumbling over the edge for the second time - that telltale warm coil in your belly bursting at the same time that he begins spilling his warmth into you.

He collapses, pinning you between his body and the couch beneath you. Starting at your shoulder, he peppers kisses along your collarbones and up your neck until he’s finally eye-level with you.

“We can do that again,” he says in a breathy voice, still inside you. “If you need to, that is. Or if you just want you.” There's a mischievous grin spread across his face and a twinkle in his eyes. It's the most carefree you've seen him since the two of you left New York to come here for this mission. You put your hands on his chest, jokingly attempting to shove him away from you.

“Oh, I don't think I need to,” you jab at him. “I'm feeling pretty great now, but thank you for your services.” He laughs, pulling out of you and sitting back against the couch. He pulls you up with him, wrapping his flesh arm around your waist and tucking you into his side. “But I think I might want to again. You know, now that I'm no longer in excruciating pain.” He hums in agreement, stroking his flesh fingers across the side of your stomach.

“I'm glad you were the one here with me too, Bucky."

thank you for reading! i know sooo many people have done this trope, especially for bucky, but it's truly one of my all time favorites and i just needed to get this out of my system so i hope you all enjoyed

comments and reblogs are always appreciated!!