HELLO!

Older boyfriend Jack who isn’t a movie lover but always goes to the cinema with you because you love it and he likes to see you happy. To be honest, at first, he didn’t enjoy it but after a while he started liking going to the cinema with you, eating popcorn and having very carbonated drinks. He loved disconnecting from work for a few hours. He always had so many comments after watching each movie.

Older boyfriend Jack who didn’t text or when he did, he texted in a dry manner, but you trained him to add emojis to his texts and sometimes he sent selfies of himself or pictures of the things he was doing, loving how you answered so enthusiastically. You loved when he sent you selfies, he was so cute, taking pictures in a boomer way, from a lower angle.

Older boyfriend Jack who found it so ridiculous you had this huge water bottle you carried everywhere you went, but he refilled everytime you ran low because he liked how you kissed him a million times as a thank you.

Older boyfriend Jack who carries a picture of you in his wallet, always sneaking a little peek whenever he can.

Older boyfriend Jack who buys you little trinkets whenever he sees one he thinks you might like. He finds it fun you have a whole collection of them on your bookshelves and other places around the apartment.

Older boyfriend Jack who likes to distress after work by smoking a cigar with you sitting next to him, legs on his thighs and him massaging them. When you kiss him he tastes like cigar.

“I have a few contacts I’ll reach out to.”

Like it’s nothing.

Like problems like this are simply small inconveniences to be tidied up before lunch.

She rises slowly from her chair, smoothing her hands down the front of her blouse as she steps away from the table. The sound of her heels against the floor is quiet but deliberate as she crosses the room.

No one stops her.

No one speaks.

They all watch.

She moves toward Pope, stopping just close enough to reach him.

Then her hand lifts.

Her fingers touch his face gently.

Light.

Almost tender.

They brush along his jaw, ghosting over the exact place your hand had rested only a few hours earlier.

The gesture looks affectionate, maternal. But the message beneath it is something else entirely. A quiet reminder. That he belonged to her first.

“You look tired, baby,” she says softly.

Her fingers linger against his jaw a moment longer than they need to, brushing lightly along the line of his cheek as though she’s simply checking on him the way a mother might after a long night.

Her touch is gentle but there’s something probing in it.

“Running on fumes?”

Pope doesn’t move under her hand.

Doesn’t lean into it.

Doesn’t pull away either.

He just stands there, letting her finish the gesture the way he always has.

Smurf’s thumb grazes his cheek once more before her hand drops slowly back to her side.

Then she exhales, the sound almost weary.

“I sure hope she’s worth it.”

The words are soft. Almost sympathetic. But they settle across the room like a blade sliding between ribs.

She turns slightly, letting her gaze drift around the room toward the others as if inviting them to share the concern.

“One body is manageable,” Smurf says quietly.

“But if someone starts asking questions… if the wrong people start sniffing around…”

Her eyes return to Pope.

“That doesn’t just affect you, baby. It affects all of us.”

The implication hangs there.

Carefully placed.

Not anger.

Not accusation.

Just quiet disappointment.

The kind meant to make everyone in the room look at Pope and wonder if he’s starting to lose his judgment.

Then she steps closer again.

Close enough that the others might see the movement, but not close enough to hear the shift in her voice when she leans slightly into his space.

Her tone drops.

Lower.

Private.

“You’ve always had a soft heart, Andrew.”

She smiles gently.

“It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

A small pause.

Her fingers brush his arm lightly as she adds—“But people know how to take advantage of that, baby.”

Pope doesn’t respond.

He just stands there, his eyes fixed on Smurf.

But his jaw ticks once.

Small.

Barely noticeable unless you’re looking for it.

And Smurf is always looking.

For a moment neither of them moves.

The room breathes around them. Baz shifting his weight by the counter. Craig’s foot tapping lightly against the couch arm. Deran watching from his chair with that quiet alertness he gets when something in the family starts to tilt.

But Pope’s attention stays locked on Smurf.

And maybe her words land deeper than he wants them to.

They always do.

Smurf has a way of speaking that makes everything feel clear when she explains it. Like she’s just helping him see the truth he couldn’t quite piece together on his own.

And when she does that, the rest of the world tends to blur around the edges.

Questions soften.

Doubts fade.

Until the version she’s offering starts to feel like the only one that makes sense.

Deran is the first one to break the silence.

The tension in the room has started to feel strange. Too quiet. Too focused on something no one else can quite see but he feels the implications, the direction Smurf is pointing, and it’s directly at you.

The silent exchange between Smurf and Pope makes the back of his neck prickle.

He shifts forward in his chair, clearing his throat slightly as he looks toward the others.

“We should start looking for this asshole.”

His voice cuts into the moment, practical and grounded, like he’s deliberately dragging the conversation back onto solid ground.

“Make sure he doesn’t go running his mouth about his friend.”

Craig straightens a little on the couch at that, interest lighting up his face again.

Baz glances over from the counter, the corner of his mouth twitching like he appreciates the shift away from whatever weird family psychology was starting to happen in the room.

J shakes his head and rubs the back of his neck uncomfortable at the promise of more violence.

Deran leans forward, elbows resting on his knees now.

“If this guy’s walking around with half his face burned off,” he adds, “someone’s gonna notice him.”

His eyes flick briefly toward Pope.

“Better we find him before somebody else does.”

Baz lets out a slow sigh, rubbing the back of his neck like the whole morning has already become more complicated than he’d hoped.

“Yeah,” he mutters after a moment. “You’re right.”

He pushes himself off the counter and straightens, slipping easily back into the role he usually takes when something needs organizing.

“We should start looking.”

His eyes move across the room, already assigning people in his head.

“Craig and Deran, I want you—”

“I’ll go with Pope.”

Deran cuts him off before he can finish.

The words come out quick. Firm.

Like the decision had already been made the second Pope walked through the door.

Craig turns toward him immediately.

“Is that—”

Pope moves before the question can finish.

For the first time since Smurf touched his face, his gaze finally breaks away from her.

It’s subtle, but everyone in the room feels the shift when it happens.

Like someone just loosened a wire pulled too tight.

Deran had thrown him a rope.

And Pope grabs it.

“It’s fine,” he says simply.

He pushes away from where he’d been standing.

“Let’s go.”

There’s no hesitation in it. No looking back for approval.

He turns toward the door without another word.

Deran stands quickly, the chair scraping lightly across the floor as he pushes himself up.

He follows after Pope, already moving toward the door, tossing a quick nod over his shoulder to the rest of the room.

“Later.”

Craig watches them go, his eyebrows pulling together slightly as the door swings open and then shuts behind them.

The house settles again.

Craig glances toward Baz.

“Is that a good idea?”

Baz watches the door for a second longer before exhaling.

He shakes his head slowly.

“I have no idea, man.”

The two brothers drift away from the tension almost instinctively.

Craig pushes himself up off the couch and claps a hand onto J’s shoulders, steering him toward the hallway with a casual shove that breaks the lingering quiet.

“C’mon,” he says, already pulling him along. “Gonna teach you how to do some scouting, little bud.”

J doesn’t protest. He lets himself be dragged down the hall, casting one last quiet glance toward the kitchen before disappearing around the corner with his uncles.

Their voices fade quickly.

The house settles again.

Smurf remains standing in the center of the room for a moment, her posture relaxed, her expression perfectly composed.

But the soft smile she had been wearing a moment ago is gone now.

Her eyes drift toward the front door where Pope and Deran disappeared.

___

Deran follows Pope out to the truck, the gravel crunching softly beneath their shoes as they cross the drive. The morning air is cool, carrying the faint smell of salt drifting in from the ocean.

Pope unlocks the truck without a word and climbs in. The door shuts with a heavy thud.

Deran slides into the passenger seat a second later.

For a moment neither of them speaks.

Pope pushes the key into the ignition and turns it. The engine rumbles to life beneath them. As it does, Deran drags a hand through his hair, pushing the messy strands back off his forehead, the motion restless.

“Is she really okay?” he asks finally.

Pope keeps his eyes forward.

“She’s scared,” he says after a beat. “But she’ll be okay.”

Deran nods slowly, absorbing that.

“Where is she?”

“My place.”

The truck idles for another second before Pope shifts it into gear. Gravel spits lightly beneath the tires as he pulls away from the Cody compound.

Deran looks out the windshield for a moment, thinking.

Then—“Can I see her?”

Pope doesn’t answer immediately.

The truck rolls toward the end of the drive, the compound shrinking behind them. For a moment Pope glances in the rearview mirror, his eyes flicking back toward the house one last time before he turns the wheel and guides the truck down the street.

His jaw tightens slightly.

Then he looks back at the road.

“That’s up to her, man.”

___

You hadn’t moved much since Andrew left.

At first you stayed in the bed, listening to the quiet settle back over the apartment after the door shut behind him.

But eventually the stillness became too heavy.

So you got up.

Now you pad slowly around the apartment, moving without much direction. Barefoot. Aimless.

You haven’t spent much time in Andrew’s place before.

He always preferred yours. Said it was warmer. Said it had more personality.

But now, walking through his apartment, you realize how much of him lives here anyway.

You see it everywhere.

In the sharp, wrinkle-free hand towels folded perfectly beside the sink.

In the spotless baseboards that run clean and white along the walls, not a single scuff or dust line in sight.

In the careful order of everything.

Nothing out of place.

Nothing left messy.

It’s the kind of neatness that doesn’t come from wanting things to look nice.

It comes from needing control.

From needing the world to stay predictable in the small ways when the bigger ones never are.

You trail your fingers lightly across the back of the couch as you pass, the fabric cool beneath your hand.

Andrew is everywhere in this place.

In the quiet.

In the stillness.

And you don’t feel as alone.

You had texted Adrian earlier that morning.

Told him you were taking the day off.

Flu.

He’d replied almost immediately, concerned in that easygoing way of his, offering to bring you soup and crackers and whatever else people usually bring someone who’s sick.

You’d turned him down. Told him you’d had a violent bout of puking and didn’t want anyone catching whatever you had.

That had been enough.

Adrian wasn’t the type to push when someone asked for space. He’d sent back a quick feel better and told you to text him whenever you were ready to come back to the shop.

Since then the apartment had been quiet.

So when your phone rings—The sound startles you. Sharp and Sudden.

Your heart jumps into your throat as you rush toward the counter where you left it, hope already rising in your chest before you even see the screen.

Maybe it’s Andrew.

Maybe he’s calling to say he’s on his way back.

Maybe they found the man who ran.

Maybe it’s already over.

Maybe he’s calling to tell you that two of you will leave all of this behind. Leave Oceanside. Leave the Cody world and the danger and the constant sense that violence is always just a few inches away.

Maybe you’ll find somewhere quiet. Somewhere small. Maybe Andrew would even adopt a cat with you.

Probably not.

But maybe.

Your hand closes around the phone.

And you freeze.

Because the name lighting up the screen isn’t Andrew.

It’s Deran.

You hesitate for a moment before answering.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” Deran says calmly on the other end.

His voice is steady and Familiar.

“I’m with Pope. He told me what happened.”

A pause.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you say.

The words come automatically now. So automatic you’re starting to feel tired of hearing them come out of your own mouth.

There’s a small silence on the other end of the line.

Then Deran speaks again.

“I want to see you.”

Your heart skips.

Deran wants to see you?

The thought lands somewhere strange in your chest. Because despite everything, despite the fallout and the awkward distance that followed, Deran has always been one of your closest friends. Your best friend and God you had missed your fucking friend.

And suddenly the idea of seeing him feels like A small, fragile piece of normal. Part of you desperately wants it. Wants to cry on someone’s shoulder who isn’t already carrying the weight Andrew is.

Wants to let Andrew rest for a moment instead of holding both of you together.

Your voice softens.

“I would really like that.”

“We’re on the way,” Deran says. “Be there in fifteen.”

Then the line goes dead.

You lower the phone slowly from your ear, staring at the blank screen for a moment as the quiet of the apartment settles back around you.

Fifteen minutes.

Your heart starts beating a little faster.

Andrew and Deran.

Together.

Coming here.

You hadn’t expected that.

You glance around the apartment, suddenly aware of the stillness again. The untouched couch. The folded blanket draped neatly over the armrest. The faint smell of Andrew hanging in the air.

For a second you just stand there, phone still in your hand, trying to decide what exactly you’re supposed to do in fifteen minutes.

Clean something?

Sit down?

Pretend you haven’t been pacing the apartment like a ghost for the last hour?

Your fingers tighten slightly around the phone.

Then you exhale.

Fifteen minutes.

And suddenly the quiet doesn’t feel quite as empty as it did a moment ago.

__

The knock comes sooner than you expect.

Not loud. Just two quick raps against the door. Still, your stomach flips.

The sound echoes through the quiet apartment in a way that feels too sharp, too sudden after the hours of stillness you’d been drifting through.

For half a second you just stand there, staring at the door like it might open on its own.

Then you move.

You cross the apartment quickly, bare feet whispering against the floor as you reach for the handle and pull the door open.

Andrew is standing there first.

Deran just behind him.

For a second none of you say anything.

The moment stretches.

Andrew’s eyes move over you immediately. Scanning. Checking.

The way they always do when something might be wrong.

Your face. Your jaw. Your arms.

The faint bruise already forming along the edge of your chin.

He takes it all in silently, cataloging the damage the way he does with everything else. Making sure you’re still in one piece.

Deran is watching you too, but his expression is different. Less controlled. More… uneasy. Like he’s not entirely sure what he’s walking into.

You step aside.

They come in.

Andrew moves automatically once he crosses the threshold, reaching back to close the door behind him. The lock clicks into place without him even looking at it.

Habit.

His eyes move through the apartment quickly, sweeping the room in a practiced glance even though he already knows it’s clear.

Deran lingers closer to the door.

He shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts and rocks slightly back on his heels like he suddenly doesn’t know what to do with the rest of his body.

For a moment nobody speaks.

The quiet hangs between the three of you, thick with everything that hasn’t been said yet.

Then Deran clears his throat.

“You really okay?”

The question comes out softer than you expected.

You nod.

“Yeah.”

The word leaves your mouth automatically. But you hear the exhaustion in it the second it’s spoken.

Deran notices too.

His mouth tightens slightly.

He exhales through his nose and runs a hand back through his hair, pushing it off his forehead as he tries to organize whatever it is he came here to say.

“I uh…” he starts.

Then stops.

You can practically see the gears turning in his head. Deran has never been great at emotional conversations.

“I know I’ve been a dick to you,” he says finally.

The words come out blunt.

Awkward But honest.

Andrew glances sideways at him, a flicker of surprise crossing his face at the admission.

Deran shrugs one shoulder slightly, still not looking directly at you.

“I didn’t handle it great.”

You lean back against the counter behind you, folding your arms loosely across your middle.

“You were scared,” you say quietly.

Deran’s head lifts a little.

“Yeah.”

A dry, uncomfortable laugh slips out of him.

“Yeah, I was.”

He rubs the back of his neck again.

“I just… felt like everything was closing in at once,” he admits. “Like everyone was trying to drag something out of me before I was ready to deal with it.”

Your chest softens.

“I should have told you,” you say.

The words come slower now.

More careful.

Your eyes drift briefly toward Andrew.

“ I should have been honest with both of you.”

Andrew shifts slightly where he’s standing. The sentence lands somewhere inside him. You can see it in the way his shoulders tighten for a second before settling again.

Deran notices too.

His eyes move between the two of you as he absorbs that. Then he steps forward.

Slowly.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

This time it’s quieter. More certain.

You don’t hesitate. You step forward and wrap your arms around him. “Please don’t apologize. I’m so sorry I hurt you.”

Deran hugs you back immediately, pulling you tight against his chest like the apology had been sitting in him longer than he realized.

For a moment neither of you says anything.

The tension that had lived between you for months dissolves quietly in the simple pressure of it. Just two friends remembering that they still care about each other.

Behind you, Andrew stands near the couch.

Watching.

He doesn’t look angry.

He doesn’t look upset.

But there’s something uncertain in his expression.

Something thoughtful.

Smurf’s voice echoes faintly somewhere in the back of his mind.

You’ve always had a soft heart, Andrew.

People know how to take advantage of that.

His jaw tightens slightly.

Then you pull away from Deran.

You turn.

Andrew is still watching you.

And suddenly the distance between you feels strange. Too big. You cross it without thinking.

Your hands come up to his face, your fingers sliding along his jaw as you pull him down into a kiss.

Your fingers curl into the back of his shirt as you hold him there for a moment, grounding yourself in the familiar feel of him.

When you pull away, your forehead rests lightly against his.

“I missed you,” you murmur.

It’s barely been a few hours.

But it feels like longer.

Andrew exhales slowly. Some of the tension drains out of his shoulders. His hand slides around your waist, pulling you a little closer without thinking. Automatic.

And as he holds you there, the quiet warmth of you pressed against him begins to cut through the lingering noise in his head. The fog Smurf had stirred there starts to thin.

Her words lose their shape.

Their certainty.

Until the only thing that feels solid again is the weight of you in his arms.

Behind you, Deran watches the two of you quietly.

He doesn’t interrupt.

He just leans back slightly against the counter, arms loosely folded across his chest as he studies the moment unfolding in front of him.

It doesn’t feel like a problem anymore. Deran had spent months convincing himself this was messy. Complicated. A disaster waiting to happen. Only concerned with himself and the effect this had on him.

But standing here now, watching the way Andrew’s hand settles instinctively at your waist, the way your body leans toward him without thinking, something about it feels… different.

Clearer.

Andrew looks at you in a way Deran hasn’t really seen before. Not like he’s protecting something. Not like he’s guarding it. Like he’s holding it.

And the way you look back at him—Like the rest of the room barely exists.

Deran’s brows lift slightly as the realization settles into place.

Oh. Oh, shit.

He watches Andrew’s thumb brush lightly against your side.

The way Andrew’s shoulders have finally relaxed.

The way the tension that followed him in through the door has completely disappeared now that you’re standing there in front of him.

Deran lets out a quiet breath through his nose.

Then he shakes his head slightly.

Andrew notices the look.

His eyes flick toward Deran, narrowing just a little.

“What’s with the face?” he asks.

Deran stares at him for another second.

Then a slow grin spreads across his mouth.

“Oh my god,” he says.

He points between the two of you.

“You’re in love, bro.”

Andrew rolls his eyes immediately.

“Shut up.”

But he doesn’t deny it.

Not even a little.

Deran laughs softly, shaking his head again like he’s still trying to process it.

“Jesus.”

Behind Andrew, you feel something warm loosen in your chest and For the first time since last night—You find yourself smiling.

“It’s okay,” you assure her with a dismissive wave of your hand. “Trust me— I’m used to it.”

“We’re never too busy for you, hun. C’mon. Let’s find you a room,” Dana assures with a gentle pat on your arm. She cranes her neck and shouts across the work station, “We got anything open, Princess?”

The woman bends at the waist to check her computer, then calls over her shoulder, “Psych 1 should be.”

“One of you find Abbot, will ya?” Dana asks the younger residents, peering at them over the top of the glasses sitting low on her nose as she escorts you down the hall. “Tell him his wife is here.”

You tense instinctively under her touch at the turn of phrase — a bitter reminder of the stack of divorce papers on the coffee table back home, which says that pretty soon you won’t be Jack’s wife anymore, or his honey. You dread telling his coworkers almost as much as you dread signing the wretched thing.

“Oh, that’s not necessary,” you assure her with a wavering grin. “It’s nothing, D, really.”

“That’s what they all say, hun,” the woman rolls her eyes.

The remaining residents share weary looks once the two of you have disappeared into the crowd — because telling Abbot his wife is in is one thing, but telling him in the middle of the unforgiving chaos of a rather brutal shift is entirely another.

“Well, I have a patient to check on, so…” Santos trails off, ambling backward with her thumb cocked over her shoulder. She spins on her sneaker and dismisses herself with a curt wave. “Later, losers.”

“Look at this place, we all have patients to check on,” Whitaker scoffs, then cowers at the expectant looks he gets from the two women at his side. He swallows hard, adam’s apple bobbing. “But, yeah, I… I have to go, too…”

Samira laughs as she watches the blonde scurry off behind Santos.

“What’s his deal?” she scoffs and turns over her shoulder to look at Mel. Her dark brows furrow when she finds the girl backing slowly away. “Dr. King?”

“Oh, I’ve already completed all my rounds, I just… don’t wanna do it,” Mel confesses, forgetting to lie. She grimaces and turns away. “Sorry…”

Samira watches them go with a confused look twisting her features. She doesn’t understand their apprehension, or their subtle looks of sympathy — as if she’d just gotten stuck diffusing a ticking time bomb.

“O-kay, I guess I’ll do it then…” she mumbles under her breath and turns on the heel of her sneaker, starting the hunt for Dr. Abbot.

Dana stashes you in a small room on the farthest end of the E.R., away from all the chaos on the opposite side, which has since been reduced to a muted droning behind the shut door. She leaves the curtains drawn and the lights dim to ease the unwavering migraine she knows you’ve been sporting for some days now — which inevitably means it’s been plaguing you for at least a week or more before you told anyone about it.

You lie back against the angled exam table with your knees bent and your arms crossed over your eyes, feeling the pounding in your skull down into your bones. You struggle to even out your breathing and harder to relax — you tense on instinct when the door clicks open, and not just because every noise feels like a knife right to your temple.

Your stomach twists with the anticipation of seeing Jack, a sick sort of feeling at potentially having to confront the night before and the uncertain future ahead. You exhale a breath of relief when Robby slides in instead, letting in a sliver of white-blue light and a trickle of noise.

“Dana told me you were in,” he says in lieu of any real greeting, shutting the door behind him with his elbow as he reaches for the hand sanitizer on the wall at his side. He rubs it between his palms and wonders aloud, “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you assure him despite the faint grimace that twists your features when you struggle to sit up straighter on the bed. “Don’t worry about me— What the hell’s going on out there?”

Robby exhales hard through his mouth, bearded cheeks puffing. “Huge wreck, right off the highway— You didn’t see it on the way here?”

“No,” you shake your head.

“Good…” he nods. “I damn near had a heart attack when Dana told me you were in— I’m sure Abbot’s head is gonna cave in when he finds out.”

He exhales a quiet laugh and waits for you to make another stupid joke in response, just like you always do. But you avert your gaze instead and shift uncomfortably on the thin mattress, like the mention of Jack’s name is enough to make you nervous.

“What’s going on?” the man wonders with furrowed brows. You give him a shocked sort of look in response, half-confused that he’d even know you and Jack were on the outs in the first place. He elaborates soon after, “Dana said you’ve been having headaches for a while now— so that means it’s been a week, at most.”

“You guys know me so well…” you deadpan with a pair of squinted eyes. “It’s nothing, Robby. Really. I just… Had another fainting spell. And usually I wouldn’t even come in for them, but Jack said if it happened again that he’d drag me down here himself, so… I figured I’d save him the trip.”

Robby’s dark eyes narrow at the cynical smile you give him.

“Well, I’m gonna save you the lecture about waiting this long to come in… Since I’m pretty sure you’re gonna hear it from Abbot anyway, so…”

“Thank you,” you sigh.

“You sure you don’t want me to tell him you’re in?” Robby presses tentatively. “He’s with another patient right now, but he’d drop it in a second if you—”

“No,” you shake your heavy head almost instantly, ‘cause you’re not so sure how true that is anymore — Jack hasn’t exactly been too keen on dropping his work these days, which is essentially the entire reason you’re in this mess to begin with. “I don’t wanna… worry him over nothing, you know?”

Robby has a sneaking suspicion that this isn’t nothing, and that there’s something you and Abbot aren’t exactly telling him, but he doesn’t press the issue now.

“Yes, ma’am…” he nods with a huff and drops down in the cushioned stool at your bedside, silently preparing himself for the hell Abbot’s gonna raise when he inevitably finds out you’re here.

Samira finds Dr. Abbot in Trauma 2, performing an emergency surgery on a patient whose pelvis was crushed in the crash, with Dr. Garcia and a crowd of other residents at his side. The younger girl slinks through the glass door into the windowless room, and doesn’t flinch at the overwhelming scent of blood and bitter antiseptic heavying the air inside.

She plucks a surgical mask from the dispenser beside the door and holds it over her mouth as she calls out a hesitant, “Dr. Abbot?”

“Little busy here, Mohan,” Jack answers without looking at her, elbows deep in the unconscious man’s open pelvis as he readjusts the metal clamps there. Bright crimson blood stains his gloves and the stomach of his blue PPE gown as he works with expert hands.

“It’s sort of important, sir…”

Jack says nothing in response; just gives the girl a silent, expectant look from behind the safety glasses sitting low on his nose.

“Your wife is here,” she tells him, dark eyes wild from behind the mask she holds over her mouth. “She’s totally fine, she’s in psych 1 with Dana, but she—”

“Since when?” Jack snaps before she can properly get the words out, flaring red-hot with an immediate worry and a suffocating tinge of regret despite Samira’s reassurances.

Flashes of the crash plague his anxious mind. He can’t help but picture you lying as limp and as bloody as the man before him now. The brutal image hits him as hard as the memory of the last thing he said to you the night before, right before you slept in separate bedrooms.

“Well, if my work schedule makes you so damn miserable, then why don’t you just sign the goddamn papers—?”

“Um… I’m not sure,” Samira answers with a waver in her voice. “About ten minutes ago, I think? I did a few rounds before I came in here, so—”

Jack stills suddenly in place. His head snaps in the younger girl’s direction, and Samira cowers at the hardened glare in his eyes.

“Is there a reason you didn’t come to me directly?”

Samira flinches at his unusually harsh tone. Her wide eyes flit between his stern ones and the anxious looks from the residents just behind him. “Well, she said not to… But then Dana said that I should, so I wasn’t exactly sure who to listen to—”

“Me,” Jack snaps. “You listen to the attending, who told everyone to come get him if his wife came in—”

He doesn’t have time to notice his slip-up, or otherwise correct it, when Garcia steps in.

“I’ll take over here,” the older woman says in her usual deadpan. “If you guys wanna argue like children somewhere else.”

Jack doesn’t argue as he steps back from the patient, peeling off his bloodied gown and gloves with suddenly anxious hands. He chucks the PPE in the biohazard bin with an obvious fire in his touch. The sudden shift in his usually calm disposition makes Samira’s chest ache, while Garcia grins behind her mask.

“Tell your wife I said hi, Dr. Rabbit,” the woman croons with a teasing lilt and a mischievous look behind her glasses.

“She’s still not interested, Garcia,” Abbot calls over his shoulder as he storms towards the door.

“Dammit…”

Samira cowers when Jack slides past her in the doorway, not looking at her once, like he barely recognizes that she’s there at all. She watches through the glass door as he disappears into the bustling crowd outside, hands balled into trembling fists at his sides.

“Don’t worry about him, kid,” Garcia sighs, half-distracted, as she fishes her bloodied hands in the unconscious man’s open pelvis. “He’s been on his period for about a week now, and we’re all paying the price for it…”

Samira’s chest deflates with a huff. “So, that’s why no one else wanted to do it…”

The two-minute trek across the E.R. feels nothing short of two years.

The entire walk there, Jack’s anxious mind struggles to discern what Mohan could’ve meant by totally fine. Were you just a little scraped up? Were you terribly injured, but at the very least alive? Was Samira trying to soften the blow, or did she truly mean totally fine?

Jack can’t help but picture the worst-case scenario, and he expects to find you hurt.

“No, I just kinda have this headache that comes and goes, you know?” he hears you say, right before he storms inside.

“Oh— And there it is,” Jack jokes when Abbot appears suddenly in the doorway, bringing in a wave of light and noise and unadulterated panic in with him.

Jack’s tight chest relaxes slightly when he finds you totally fine — lounging in a dim room with Robby at your side, laughing at his stupid joke as he draws dark red blood from the inside of your arm.

He’s relieved that you’re okay, of course, but the sight of you smiling — when Jack hasn’t quite been able to keep food down for days with the worry that you might be leaving him — hurts him in a completely different (and only slightly jealous) way.

“Oh, fuck…” you hear yourself say when Jack storms in like a white-hot flame. Because, sure, you’ve sort of made it a point to avoid the man at every turn, but you didn’t want him finding you like this.

You know what this looks like. You know it looks like you’re going behind his back and purposefully taunting him by going to his friends instead of straight to him. You know it hurts his feelings. And you may not like him so much right now, but you never want to see him sad.

“Yeah, 'oh fuck' is right,” Jack nods as he closes the door behind him, muffling the noise as the room goes dim again.

Robby inhales sharply through his nose. He can feel the sudden tension between the two of you pressing hard on either side of him. “Little pinch,” he murmurs to you, right before sliding the needle from your vein.

“Why didn’t you come get me?” Jack asks.

“Because you were busy,” you sigh, then mumble more quietly under your breath. “Go figure…”

“Why didn’t you call before you came—”

You fight the urge to rehash the fight from the night before and roll your eyes instead. “Because it’s not a big deal, Jack—”

“Yeah, I think I’ll be the judge of that,” the man concludes with narrowed eyes and biceps that strain against his scrubs when he crosses his arms over his chest.

Robby’s dark eyes flit between the two of you behind the glasses perched on his broad nose. When he’s sure the arguing has ceased, he looks over his shoulder at Abbot and begins to explain. “I’m doing an electrolyte panel to check for any imbalances— It’ll also help us rule out anemia and hypoglycemia.”

Jack nods, brows lowered in concentration. “Okay… What about—?”

“I was gonna do an ECG when the results came back,” Robby finishes for him. “Her heart sounds fine, but I’ll have to wait for a room to open up if the bloodwork comes back abnormal, and… Who knows how long that’s gonna be?”

“Alright,” Jack nods again. “Sounds good.”

Robby turns to you, brows raised expectantly. “Sound good?”

“You’re the boss, Robinavitch,” you shrug.

“Hear that, brother?” Robby scoffs as he rises from his stool, taking the vials of blood work with him as he heads for the door. He elbows Jack on the arm when he walks by and flashes the frowning man a smug grin. “I’m the boss.”

Robby opens and shuts the door behind him, and all the playful energy leaves with him. The subsequent silence feels borderline suffocating. You and Jack, barely breathing, try to break it at the same time.

“I’m fine, Jack—”

“I can’t believe this—”

You huff and tip your aching head back. “I’m fine. So you can go back and do whatever it is you were doing before. I’m sure it’s more important.”

Jack’s light eyes narrow into thin slits. His firm stature never wavers — arms crossed tight, sneakers spread shoulder-length apart — like he’s interrogating an enemy on the battlefield.

“What happened? Did you faint again?”

“Yeah…” you answer suddenly sheepishly, averting your gaze to a faded stain on the knee of your jeans. “It was in your shower chair this time. I think I had the water too hot.”

“I told you about the hot water—”

“I know,” you huff like a stubborn child. “And you also told me that if I passed out again that I needed to come in so… I came in.”

“I still wish you would’ve called me first,” he tells you — not angry this time, not truly, but still obviously hurt. “When Mohan told me you were here, I thought something bad happened to you.”

“Well, considering you told me to leave last night, I honestly didn’t think you really gave a shit anymore, Jack...” you confess with a smile you hardly mean.

“I told you to leave because you said you wanted to,” Jack argues through gritted teeth. “You act like I pulled that shit out of thin air— Like you haven’t been looking for an out for weeks.”

“An out?” you echo, a little louder than you mean to, as your face screws in offense. “You’re the one who’s never home, Jack. So if anyone’s been looking for a fucking out, it’s you— Fuck…”

You whimper when a white-hot flare surges suddenly across your skull, from temple to temple and down the base of your neck. You wince and close your eyes, tentatively tipping your head back against the bed once more.

Jack forgets to be angry in an instant. His chest stings at the pained look that etches across your features. His legs carry him to you before his brain has decided whether or not he should.

“What?” he presses, eyes wild. “What’s wrong?”

“My head…” you squeak out.

Jack huffs. “Here…”

You know he’s towering over you without having to open your eyes. You can feel him there, warm like a heater, and smelling of cologne and a long shift at the E.R. He braces himself with one hand on the mattress beside your head and covers your eyes with his free one. You don’t flinch when his gently calloused palm splays suddenly over the length of your forehead, pinky curving in the bend of your closed eyelids.

He couldn’t possibly count the number of times he’s done this over the years — hundreds, at least. It’s the only way he knew how to soothe your headaches when the medicine was taking its sweet time kicking in. It’s the pressure that helps, though you’ve always argued that Jack must have some secret healing superpowers that he isn’t telling you about.

You’re only able take your first good breath in two weeks when he’s finally touching you so gently.

“Better?” he wonders, half-detached but still strikingly soft.

You nod once beneath his palm and fight back the urge to cry when his thumb rubs softly over your temple.

“Contrary to popular belief, honey,” the older man murmurs. “I didn’t come in here to fight with you.”

“It always ends in a fight with us, Jack,” you sigh. “You know that.”

“I thought you were hurt,” he confesses, in a voice so soft it makes you feel like crying. “Bad hurt. When Mohan came and got me, I thought for sure you were involved with all the shit going on out there.”

“Well, I’m not… So you can go now…” you tell him in a trembling voice, which you’d rather blame on the lingering ache in your skull and not the fact that you don’t truly want him to leave — that you never really wanted him to leave.

You miss the quiet smile Jack gives you in response, because he can see right through you.

“Yeah, I’m not going anywhere, honey…” he says on a gentle exhale. “And I’m not signing those stupid papers.”

Your heart drops at the mention of them, at the bitter reminder of their existence, even though it’s been plaguing your every waking thought for some weeks now.

Your trembling hands reach for the one he holds over your eyes. You wrap your fingers around his wrist and knuckles, peeling his palm away to peer up at him with a glassy gaze.

“What do you mean?” you ask on bated breath.

Jack meets your weary look with a softer, sadder smile.

“Well, I just got about a… three-minute glimpse of what my life was gonna look like without you,” Jack sighs, in lieu of confessing all the gory worst-case scenarios he couldn’t quite get out of his head. “And, turns out, I’m not strong enough for that, so… I’m officially declining your divorce, honey.”

“Jack…” you protest feebly, features crumpling at his poor excuse for a joke, while his calloused palm slips from your forehead and cups gently over your warm cheek.

He ducks down to meet your gaze when you try to turn away, bending slightly at the waist and bracing himself with his free hand curled around the top of the mattress. His nose is mere inches from yours — you can feel each of his exhales fan across your chin. You couldn’t shy away from him if you tried.

“I’m serious, honey,” he says with a stern but no less sincere look swimming in his light eyes. “You were right— I’m working too much—”

“No, don’t…” you protest with a shake of your head, because the affirmation doesn’t feel as rewarding as you’d expected it to. Instead, it makes you feel a little sick. Your gaze falls to the dog tags slipping from the inside of his scrubs, glimmering in the darkness as they sway just ahead of you. Your fingers reach to fidget with the chain on muscle memory. “It’s your job, Jack. I shouldn’t dictate how much you work—”

“You’re my wife, honey. You shouldn’t feel second to my job, because you’re not,” he tells you, brows raised to his hairline. “So, I’ll— cut down on my hours, I’ll stop picking up so many shifts, I’ll… I’ll do whatever the hell you want me to do, baby, ‘cause I’m not going anywhere, alright?”

You feel his words physically, like a white-hot knife lodged in the center of your sternum and twisting.

You struggle to find the words to respond, just as you struggle to find the air in the room to breathe. Because you’ve spent weeks thinking you’d failed at your marriage, and now you’ve failed at failing your marriage. It’s a stupid tug of war that makes you hate yourself all the more.

“Well, maybe we should wait for Robby to get back…” you murmur quietly, shifting on the mattress beneath him. “You know, before we have this conversation or whatever…”

Jack ducks his head to chase your averted gaze, brows furrowing in confusion. “What the hell does Robby have to do with this?”

“I don’t know,” you shrug. “I might have, like, a super rare blood cancer or something—”

“Jesus,” Jack grimaces before you can properly get the words out, flinching away from you when you shatter the sincere moment. “Why would you say something like that?”

“I might only have a week left to live or something,” you retort with wide eyes, only partially playful. “So we might not even have to worry about any of this, you know? …Who knows?”

Jack meets your sparkling, half-crazed look with a firm scowl. “You’re real morbid, honey. You know that?”

“Well, what can I say?” you shrug and fight the urge to smile. “Your cynicism’s rubbing off on me, Abbot.”

Robby returns about a half hour later, to a room considerably less tense than it was when he left. He forgets to comment or otherwise pry about it when he slips inside, gaze averted to the glowing iPad resting on his palm. His free hand scratches at the grey patch in his beard — an anxious tic you’ve come to know well.

“Hey, uh—” he clears his throat behind his fist when the words get stuck there.

“Oh, shit…” you waver when the door clicks shuts behind him. “I was just kidding about the whole blood cancer thing, I swear—”

Robby’s brows lower in confusion. “…What?”

“Don’t listen to her,” Jack huffs, rising from the stool at your side for the first time in thirty minutes as he rushes to Robby in long strides — ‘cause he can feel the man’s trepidation like heat off a bonfire. “What did the blood work say?”

Robby inhales sharply through his nose as he passes the man the tablet. He crosses his arms over his chest and splays his right hand over the lower half of his bearded face. His wide eyes dart between the lit-up iPad and the edge of Jack’s profile, eagerly awaiting the man’s reaction.

You watch with your heart in your throat as Jack’s eyes flit wildly back and forth across the screen. His scruffy jaw slackens slightly in shock, and Robby nods slowly in a quiet concurrence.

“Okay, what the hell?” You shatter the heavy silence. “Are you guys just gonna communicate telepathically the whole time, or is someone gonna tell me what’s going on with me?”

“You’re fine— You’re totally fine,” Robby reassures you, gesturing wildly with his right hand. “Your bloodwork came back normal, but… There’s a high level of hCG in your bloodstream. And I think that’s what’s been causing your dizziness and fainting spells.”

“HCG?” you echo, eyes darting wildly between the two men in front of you. “What the hell is hCG?”

“Human chorionic gonadotropin,” Jack answers on instinct, half-strangled, and never once taking his eyes off the screen in his hands. “Means you’re pregnant, honey…”

You feel the world fall out from under you for the second or third or hundredth time that day. You hide your crumpling features behind your hands as your head falls back against the exam table. Your following words come out muffled.

“You have got to be shitting me…”

The Professional: | @bullet-prooflove

In the cool blue | @mercvry-glow

while staying at the cody house, a small group of rivals takes you, j and nicky hostage while the other are out. pope helps you in the after math.

Back again | @/mercvry-glow

an unexpected visitor breaks into your house after having spent years locked away. unexpected, but not necessarily unwelcome.

Want and need | @/mercvry-glow

you’re tired of pope’s staring, so this time you give him something to do about it.

BLUEBIRD | @riverbends

your daughter leads you to the brooding, shark-eyed man who quietly lingers down the aisle.

Well Enough Alone: Part I  | @silens-oro

Hawk juggles her life between Julia, Julia's son J, and the Cody family. Slow Burn.

Over and over  | @lovableapocalypse

pope is let out on parole and seeks you out after 3 years

Butterflies | @/lovableapocalypse

your date goes awry but lucky for you pope is there

mine again  | @words-4u

Move On | @cedricssmile

y/n had been away from home for a while and had no idea that Andrew was getting let out of prison, the two have a past, it was a past of unresolved feelings. but y/n has moved on.. or had she

sudden death  | @/cedricssmile

there is finally a spur of quite time within the Cody family and all Andrew wants to do is spend time with y/n. everything has been tense since the Lucy drama, y/n would never be able to forgive her for taking Pope away from her and her family.

Safe | @butyoudidthis4what

Pope's there for you when things get bad.

You said maybe. | @/butyoudidthis4what

Pope thinks you're interested when a customer asks you out.

I hear you. | @/butyoudidthis4what

You come home to Pope with a bruise.

Andrew “Pope” Cody Masterlist | @rr-after-dark

Whipped, Part 2 | @/rr-after-dark

Pope Cody doesn’t handle his pregnant wife being taken hostage very well.

“Slice of Life” Prologue: A Cody Boy, Chapter One | @/rr-after-dark

Vignettes of your life with your husband, Andrew Cody, after leaving Oceanside for good as you both heal, grow, and raise your family in the Northeast, far away from the Codys.

Just Friends | @thatcorporategirlie

Andrew confesses to you that years ago, when Lena was just a baby—he and Catherine slept together when they were drunk. You try to play it cool, but realize it bothers you way more than you want to admit.

defining relationship | @/thatcorporategirlie

Forever Yours, Part 2 | @mx-pastelwriting

The Cody family finally find Pope after six years, not expecting two kids running out of a house calling him “Dad”.

Take A Break | @/mx-pastelwriting

Exchanging custody of your daughter, seeing just how wrecked Andrew looks, offering him to stay with you, to take a break away from Smurf as she was the very reason you had split.

A Little to the Left | @art-by-jas

You just wanted to hang a few things on the wall. Andrew helps.

At Last | @prettyyoungandbored

Pope reflects on the fact he got out of Oceanside.

FOUND OUT. | @love-quinn

as his favourite waitress at the only diner in town that’ll still serve him, you’re pope’s girl. doesn’t matter if you have a boyfriend, everybody in town knows you belong to andrew cody. especially your poor neighbours on the other side of your apartment’s paper thin wall. you’d usually try and be more considerate of the noise, but with your boyfriend in the trunk of his car, pope needs everybody to hear exactly what he was doing on the night of the third. for alibi purposes.

STEEL CUT. | @/love-quinn

pope’s still fairly new to domestic life with you, but he thinks he’s getting the hang of the whole thing. being a good boyfriend is fairly easy with how lovely you are, but sometimes he learns things about you that still surprise him.

Hurt | @witchbitchlovesdilfs

on her way home for a girls' night out, reader gets attacked. andrew's at home waiting for her, and he isn't happy when he sees her injuries.

𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦 𝐲𝐨𝐮 | @erwinsvow

against better judgement, you send a letter to a man at folsom with very sad eyes. against even better judgement, you send letters every week for years until he stops replying one day. and against everything you know, when he shows up at your door, you invite him inside.

𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝐦𝐞 | @/erwinsvow

you take care of lena, clean up around the house, and always leave dinner for him when he gets home late. and among constant and never-ending change, you are andrew’s northern star.

Secret child, Part 2 | @spaceyaemonds

you see andrew for the first time in six years.

Dad!pope Cody | @/spaceyaemonds

Accidental Pregnancy | @titus-danforth

Older!Andrew “Pope” Cody x Reader | @/titus-danforth

Nothing To Worry About | @ragingbookdragon

The Bigger They Are, The Harder They Fall | @/ragingbookdragon

LOVE YOU ANYWAY  MASTERLIST | @rynwrites4fun

You’re best friends with Deran Cody, a surfer with big dreams. When he brings you to a party, you meet his brothers but don’t know about their criminal lifestyle. Andrew “Pope” Cody soon realizes you don’t belong in their dangerous world

i want to wear his initial on a chain ’round my neck | @flofaiiry

show me | @/flofaiiry

Clementine | @bitters-n-sweets

You’re looking for a bodyguard and Pope is the perfect person for it

matchy match | @/bitters-n-sweets

In which Lena gifts you a friendship bracelet that looks identical to Pope's.

Fresh Out the Slammer | @showgirlshawn

yeah you wish that i was yours (so do i), part 2, part 3, part 4 | @polaris-daydreams

what happens when you keep pushing pope to play fight with you.

Easy to love | @babyjackdaniels

what it’s like to be in a relationship with Andrew when you both struggle with OCD.

Scar Tissue | @tway5314

You weren't born a Cody, Though you may as well. Attached to Deran's hip you became a shadow. So now when you need help it's time for Smurf to bring you into the family business.

Back to Oceanside | @jackabbottswife

You left Oceanside years ago, running from the chaos of the Cody family and everything that came with them—including Andrew, who never said goodbye. Now, restless and worn down by life, you find yourself pulled back to the one place that ever felt like home. The Codys welcome you back with open arms… all except Andrew, who can’t seem to say a word to you.

Being protective | @householdcryptid

Pope puts up with the parties because you like them. Once he inherited the house, they died down for a long time. But you're fun. You like music and dancing and drinking - and he loves that about you, really. Your bubbly energy brings a light to his life that he thought he didn't deserve for a long time. So he deals with it. He copes. He sips beer in the corner, makes small talk with acquaintances, and watches you flit all around the house and yard, checking in with your friends, dancing, doing shots, checking in with him whenever he gestures you over with one curled finger, never needing a word to speak to you. Better here at the house where he's in control than at some club where you might get drugged or worse.

But if there's one rule at Cody house parties, it's this: Don't mess with Pope's girl. It doesn't need to be spoken; everyone knows you belong to him. And that's how you both like it. You wear a necklace engraved with A.C. and a downright gaudy engagement ring, everything about you screaming 'POPE'S FIANCEE' as loud as possible.

So, all things considered, he's not exactly pleased when he sees one of Baz's friends that he recognizes from a job half a decade ago approaching you by the pool. You're wringing out your hair with a towel, wet white bikini clinging to your dripping frame, and Andrew's eyes had been happily devouring you a minute ago. The way your hardened nipples nudge the fabric. The ties on your hips the only barrier between him and his favorite thing in the world. Now he's on edge. He's waiting to see what's about to happen. You're good at handling yourself; he's always appreciated that about you. But he's watching. Always watching.

"Hey, gorgeous, what are you doing here all by yourself?"

With a polite smile, you flash the four-carat diamond that takes up most of the width of your ring finger. "I'm taken; try someone else."

You turn and start walking toward the house to find Andrew, but the guy chases you, catching your wrist. You haven't even finished processing the sentence when he's got you pushed against the closest exterior wall, caging you in with his arm. You know Andrew's only a heartbeat away, but your lungs still tighten and your veins turn to ice. His eyes burn right through your swimsuit as he leers. "Sweetheart, he doesn't need to know. If I had a piece of ass like you, I wouldn't be leaving you alone at some party."

"I'm not alone," you reply sharply, yanking your hand back in disgust and trying to squirrel out of his grasp by yourself. "My fiance's just-"

Before you can get it the rest of the way out -- frankly, you'd be doing the guy a favor with the warning -- Pope's on him, ripping him back by the shoulder.

"Don't touch her," Andrew snarls, teeth bared, looking like he's on the verge of something dark. Something familiar to you both. "Get the fuck off my property before I rip those hands off for putting them on something that's not yours."

"Your property?" The guy scoffs and points his beer toward Baz, who's been peacocking around all night after a big job. "Thought this was your big brother's place."

"Yup, that's it." You sigh, pitying the poor dumbass, as Andrew reaches around his waistband for the mean, bulky, all-black Desert Eagle he's been favoring lately. When he holds it, his mouthwatering arm tenses up and his veiny hand is on full display. You sit back and admire him when he's in full guard dog mode. He cocks the gun back and raises it into the air. There are three warning shots, echoing and harsh, before he points the gun squarely in the guy's forehead. Pope's voice is dark. Cold. "I won't ask twice."

The guy's gone in a split second. Andrew doesn't have to explain to the rest of the crowd that it's time to head out. When it's down to just the other Cody boys, Pope points to the strewn mess of beer cans and bottles and cigarettes all over the pool area. He grunts, "Clean this shit up."

Baz rolls his eyes and starts, "Pope, c'mon, don't be so-"

"One of your fucking friends grabbed her wrist," Andrew growls back. "And if I see him anywhere near my house again, I swear it's not just his head I'm gonna put a bullet in."

"And here I thought getting engaged would soften you," he chuckles, shaking his head. He turns to his brothers, rolls his eyes, and concedes, "Alright, it was our party. Let's get this shit clean."

Satisfied, Andrew wraps his arm around your back and guides you inside. He pulls all the blinds and curtains and locks the doors. Now that you're alone

"Let me look at you," he murmurs, lifting your wrist gently. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

You sigh softly, "I'm okay, babe."

"Not what I asked."

"He barely touched me," you assure, breaths shaky. "I promise."

"You're trembling," Andrew replies gently. He's known you long enough to know that it's not being physically hurt that gets to you. A guy like that getting too close? It shakes your sense of safety. You fold into his sturdy chest and whimper. You don't quite need to cry, but your eyes burn and you grip his shirt with your fists. He murmurs into your damp hair, "I know. I've got you, angel. I've got you now."

Pope Cody is whipped.

He knows it.

His whole family knows it.

He takes shit for it day in, day out, every day. He’s taken it for years. When he leaves a meeting early because you decided that Fridays were for date nights, not boys’ nights. When he gives up cage fighting because it makes you too nervous. When he buys you a boulder of a diamond and gives you three jobs’ worth of hundred dollar bills for your dream wedding. Especially when he stands up at said dream wedding in a tan linen suit, baby pink hyacinths and snapdragons pinned to his lapel, his hair a little grown out and moussed back because that’s how you like him to wear it.

Even when you announce you’re pregnant to the whole family, the toast isn’t ‘congratulations,’ it’s Craig holding up his shot of tequila and cheering, “Here’s to Pope getting even more whipped!”

But, to Andrew, it’s all worth it.

There’s no amount of jokes or judgment he wouldn’t take for you. To be by your side every day for the rest of his sorry life. Because you make his house a home. Because you’re everything. You make him real. Your presence baptizes him. You love him – in a way nobody’s ever loved him, not really. In a way he’ll never be able to convince himself he deserves.

So, yeah, he worships the ground you walk on.

He’s the absolute model husband. Flowers and chocolates on every weekly date night, even more extravagant things on anniversaries, which he never forgets. He does the laundry and the dishes and the car maintenance, really any chores that bother you even a little, a list that grows significantly once the pregnancy gives you sensory issues and motion sickness. When you’re not up to cooking, he orders in feasts from your favorite places.

Your nails are always done by your favorite technician, your shoes never have a scuff because he keeps them polished, and your jewelry collection is worth hundreds of thousands, if not more, all purchased from a real store, even. He makes sure there’s always at least a thousand dollars in your wallet every morning without asking.

And he keeps you fucking safe.

When the two of you are out together, he sticks close, hand on your lower back or around you or threaded with yours. He even tags along to girls’ nights at bars without your friends knowing, lingering in the shadows, standing around like a bouncer and shoving guys away when they get too close to you.

For the rare occasion you’re alone, he taught you how to use a gun when you agreed to be his girlfriend and got you one of your own a week later when he was sure you’d protect yourself with it if you had to. You share your location with him at all times because you want to; he never asked, but you know that if you texted him a single word he’d be by your side within minutes, even if he had to hijack a private plane to get there.

And, Christ, he’s ten times as bad when you’re pregnant.

He’s always preferred to drive you around himself, but now he won’t let you behind the wheel with anyone else, no matter how much he trusts them. He installs a newer, even beefier security system complete with exterior cameras and a hidden, mounted automatic rifle set to train and kill. Of course, it doesn’t call the cops, but it alerts everyone he trusts who owns a gun. On the nights he leaves you alone for work, he pays someone a thousand bucks a shift to sit in the car on the street. Just in case.

People think he’s crazy, but you know he’s going to make the best father in the world. He reads the label on everything you eat or drink, tossing out anything he doesn’t like the sound of, making sure everything is either healthy or fills your ridiculous cravings, which he’ll drive for hours in the middle of the night to get. He runs you a bath with essential oils and rubs your feet every night. He fucks you whenever you’re horny. If you get so much as a papercut, he spends an hour doting on you after. You sleep easy knowing your baby girl is never going to worry about anything.

All of that to say: Nothing scares you anymore. Not with your personal guard dog at your beck and call.

So, twenty weeks into your pregnancy, the familiar click of a gun cocking next to your head makes you sigh. It doesn’t scare you; it annoys you. Turning toward the sound, you look down the barrel of a Beretta toward a man in a tinted motorcycle helmet.

In his lowest, scariest voice, he commands, “Do what I say and you won’t get hurt.”

You roll your eyes, finish wringing out your hair in the beach shower, and say, “No problem. Can I towel off and put on my coverup before we go?”

That confuses him. “Uh, sure.”

“Great, thanks.” Better a dumb kidnapper than a smart one. With a tight smile, you pick up your towel and run it all over yourself until you’re dry enough to tug on the flowy white coverup that Andrew loves. Your neon pink bikini peeks through it still. You pause before picking up your things. To the guy training the gun on you, clearly an order-follower and not a shot-caller, you offer, “My gun’s in my bag if you want to go ahead and grab that. Don’t feel like getting bashed when you discover it on me later, if it’s all the same to you.”

Slowly, he shifts lower and rifles through your things, taking the gun, your taser, and switchblade from it. He decides there’s enough contraband, though, that he just snatches the whole bag instead.

Then he orders, “Get up. Stay quiet.”

He moves to grab your wrist, so you give a pointed look and say, “I would really recommend against being rough with me. For your own sake. I promise I’ll be good and go along.”

He shoves his meaty hand between your shoulder blades instead. Mentally, you start to tally every slight against your body, no matter how minor. When this is over, Andrew will expect a list. You get pushed off the beach with the gun pressed to your lower back. It’s late evening now and tourists are pouring between the shore and the streets, so nobody even notices. People these days.

He drags you to the alley behind the beach bathroom, where a big black van is waiting. When he yanks open the back door, you mutter, “Classic choice on the ride. Timeless, really.”

Four guys with semiautomatics strapped to their backs, all wearing different colored ski masks, sit on the bench seats in the back.

Bozo with the gun in your lower back insists, “Get in or I’ll make you.”

You eye up the tall vehicle, turn to look behind you, and ask with exasperation in your voice, “Can I get a hand here? I’m pregnant, if you hadn’t noticed. Hard for me to climb around like this.”

One of the bigger guns, with the camo ski mask, asks, “You gonna give us any trouble?”

You hold up a pinky and say, “Promise I’ll be a perfect angel just like my husband taught me.”

He reaches out his hand and helps you into the van. You mumble thanks and sit in the furthest seat, up against the driver’s side wall. After rolling your shoulders, you present your wrists and say, “I’d prefer zip ties to duct tape if you don’t mind; I have some minor allergies to adhesives.”

Motorcycle helmet joins in with the ski mask guys, wrenches a set of zip ties from his backpack, and tightens them around your wrist until you wince, the plastic snipping your skin and drawing blood. One point away from motorcycle helmet guy.

From there, you do what Andrew taught you: Stay calm, follow orders, memorize everything. Wait for your knight in shining bulletproof vest. The car starts up and you head north. Working on instinct, you track the movements in your head, figuring out what direction they’re taking you. Once it goes past a couple of minutes, though, you lose track of the turns. Whatever. They brought your phone, which has three separate GPS systems pinging directly to Andrew. Doesn’t matter if you know where you are; Andrew already does. Idiots.

Your stomach grumbles at you, so you sigh and ask, “You guys have anything to eat? I was going to get dinner after the beach – y’know, eating for two here – but my plans sorta got interrupted.”

Blue ski mask guy demands, “What the fuck is your problem?”

Resting your tied hands on your bump, you tell them, “I figured you would know already. Are you guys just grunts? I would’ve hoped I’d at least be worth a top guy being in the back with me. I’m a little offended.”

Camo ski mask bashes you on the face with the butt of his gun, the pain thudding but sharp at once, between the high point of your cheek and your temple. You see stars for a second but blink them away quickly. A trickle of blood goes down your temple. “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

“Jesus, touchy.” They clearly have orders not to rough you up too badly or they would’ve started by knocking you out. “Just trying to make small talk. Pass the time.”

Blue mask doesn’t think that’s funny either. “What is wrong with you?”

You glare. “Besides the kidnapping thing? I’m peachy.” You lean your head back and close your eyes. “The five of you will be either dead or permanently disfigured in an hour or so and I’ll be getting a foot rub from my husband while I eat cookie dough ice cream he scooped to make me feel better about it.” You open one eye and look at black ski mask, who hasn’t spoken. “Seriously, any of you have snacks? I’d kill for a bag of sour gummy worms.”

No answer.

You’ve had more entertaining kidnappers; that’s for sure.

At the drop location, the guys all haul out first. It’s motorcycle helmet again ordering, “Out. Now.”

With an annoyed huff, you hold up your tied wrists and nod to your swollen stomach. “You’re going to have to untie me so I can scoot or carry me yourself.”

Red ski mask is getting visibly tired of dealing with you; he’s used to simple jobs with simple people. He can tune out hysterics; he doesn’t know how to deal with whatever this is. “Come on.”

“I really can’t get myself in a position to-”

He reaches into the van, grabs your ankle, and yanks you forward so hard it feels like your hip’s going to pop out of your socket when you hit the can floor. That’s the first time adrenaline creeps into your blood stream. You’re off-balance, properly at their mercy. He grabs around both your thighs and tugs you to the end of the truck, your bare skin catching friction and getting scraped up by the rough interior. Then he forces you to your feet and shoves you forward. Your sandals fall off and he keeps pushing regardless, toward the door of a warehouse.

“Useless fucking whore.” He spits on you and growls, “You’re lucky I didn’t start by beating you in the stomach.”

You narrow your eyes at him, anger flaring in your throat. “Is that a threat?”

“Yeah,” he says, face close enough to breathe on you, “it is.”

You sigh, annoyed by the wet dirt beneath your feet as they bring you into the wide open empty concrete warehouse. “Andrew isn’t going to like that.” 

Of course, you cooperate as they command you to sit, zip-tying each of your legs to the chair’s. They don’t change the ties on your wrists, so you keep them resting on your bump. With a deep breath, you murmur, “Don’t worry, princess, daddy’s coming for us any minute now. We’ll be cozy in bed in no time at all.”

Once you’re secured, red ski mask punches camo in the arm and orders, “Alright, time to call the fucker.”

Knowing he means Andrew, you have the same sort of feeling you get watching a video of a cat who needs rescuing from a tree. They don’t even realize that Pope will only be worse to them if he hears any hurt your voice.

Camo gestures at motorcycle helmet, who pulls your phone from your bag. He turns to you and snaps, “Password.”

You reply, “Don’t need one.”

No point in a phone password when anyone who tries to steal it will lose the hand that touched it. Because it’s your number, Andrew picks up a fraction through the first ring. His breathing is heavy and you can hear his brothers shouting around behind him alongside lots of metallic crunching. They’re working, probably finishing a job by compacting a car or something. “What do you need, angel?”

Black ski mask points his huge gun at your forehead, a clear order to stay quiet. The safety stays on, though, so it doesn’t phase you any more than when the boys wave their guns around at home to feel all big and strong. Amateurs.

Red – he must be the boss – takes the phone and says, “Pope, how are you doing tonight?”

His familiar, gravelly voice soothes what’s left of your nerves; soon enough, that voice will be lulling you to sleep. “And who do I have the pleasure of speaking to this evening?”

“Not important.”

“Guess not.” The sound of his car starting, tires squealing. He’s already on his way, tracking your GPS. “You have my girls?”

“Baby’s a girl? Congratulations.” He laughs, harsh and unamused, and says, “We want fifty grand. You got that kinda cash right now?”

“I want to talk to her first.”

You smile to yourself as black ski mask drops his gun and nods, signaling for you to speak. “Hi, baby daddy.”

“Hey, mama.” There’s a tight chuckle in his voice. Your job right now is to help him focus, to ease his anxiety, to make sure he won’t get paranoid and falter. “Are you scared?”

You think about it and shrug even though he can’t see you. “No more than usual, I guess.”

The next question is measured. Careful. “Have they hurt you?”

“Only a little.”

His tone tightens. “But they have?”

You cut the guys a look that says ‘trust me, I’m doing you a favor,’ and say, “Nothing serious, love.”

Practically growling now, he clarifies, “Are you bleeding?”

“In a couple places. Just scrapes.”

Red ski mask presses his salty pointer finger into the cut at your temple and you gasp out from the immediate sharp pain. On the other side of the phone, Andrew’s just pushed down on the gas. Red informs him, “She’ll be bleeding a lot more if you aren’t here with the money in fifteen minutes.”

“I’m only five away.” His tone is gruff. You can imagine him in high definition white-knuckling the steering wheel. “We just pulled a job; I’ve got cash on me.”

Trying to help him calm down so he doesn’t come in guns blazing, you ask, “Does that mean you can stop for sour gummy worms on the way over? I’m craving them so bad.”

Camo rolls his eyes. “And tell her to stop annoying us!”

Andrew laughs. Good, he’s not nervous. Just pissed. “You think I’m the first man on earth to have that kind of power over my wife?”

Blue ski mask strikes you across the face. The sting radiates into your spine and your eyes well with tears that frustrate you. When you don’t make a sound, too proud, he hits you the other way, hard enough that you loose a loud whimper despite yourself. Andrew cracks his neck and takes a deep breath.

“Hear that?” Blue taunts, not realizing he’s just made the biggest mistake of his life, “It’ll be a hell of a lot worse if she keeps running her mouth. Get here. Now.”

Andrew lets out a long exhale and says simply, “You know the rules, angel. I’ll be there soon.”

“I know you will. Love you.”

Red cuts the call. As camo once again mutters something like ‘what’s wrong with these people,’ you smile and tell them, “Fifty? Really? You should’ve asked for more. Andrew brought a hundred for me last time. Now that I’m pregnant, you probably could’ve gotten at least two-fifty.”

He doesn’t even bother telling you to shut up that time.

You feel it underneath your feet before you hear it. The deep, rumbling groan of Andrew’s massive truck. There are two other cars, both big. Job cars. He brought everyone. Tires crunch over gravel and then stop outside the hangar-style door.

The kidnappers stiffen and mutter to each other in hushed tones in a language you don’t understand. Russian, maybe, or Polish. Black and blue flank you, each holding one of your arms tight to keep you in place. As if you could move on your own.

The hangar door gradually opens. Headlight beams spill in, silhouetting tall figures. The five of them, cars still running, step into the space. You don’t see any guns, but they have to be near. You make out Baz’s angular features, Craig’s restless stance, Deran’s annoyed energy, J’s unreadably dark face. They’re in battle formation. The air gets heavier.

Finally, Andrew gets out of his own truck, hauls a duffel out of the bed, and walks to the front. Your pulse climbs when you see him, relief spreading. When his heavy gaze locks on yours, he’s unshakable, unblinking, looking at you like you’re already safe. There’s no pain or fear in that expression and it steadies you.

Craig is standing centered behind him, J and Deran flanking him on either side. Baz speaks and you know it’s because Andrew is a silent storm. “Pope’s got the money, you’ve got his girl. Nice and simple.” Pope sets the bag on a nearby crate with a deliberate thud. Baz instructs, “Count it if you want, but we’re not here to waste time. It all adds up.”

“We count. You wait.”

“Then count fast,” Pope spits. You can tell he’s a millisecond away from firing. His eyes are trained on you, going rapidly between your face and your stomach. His voice is made of agony. “She’s been sitting here breathing fumes and dust for too long; I want her home.”

The gun digs into your already bruised temple and your heart starts to race. You weren’t scared when you were alone, but knowing that Pope is right there watching – hurting, upset – makes you start to break. He’s your protector, your safety, your life. All you want is to be back in his arms, to know that he’s okay.

The gun on your other side presses into your neck. “Nobody moves until we’re done.”

Andrew speaks, low and stern, as they shuffle through stacks of bills on a folding table behind your head. “She’s breathing too fast. You’ve got the money; pull the guns away.”

They listen, much to your surprise. The guns return to their backs; their hands stay on you, though, bruising into your biceps. Andrew’s eyes fix on those hands, imagining the marks they’re leaving, feeling bile rise to his Adam’s apple at the fact that he can’t cut those hands off right the fuck now.

Leaning against his car now, like he isn’t itching to do something – you’ve always been impressed by his particular cruelty – J chuckles, “Keep an eye on your friends there. Think I just saw the one in the camo pocket something for himself.” He tuts, shaking his head, and adds, “There’s always one who gets greedy when you’re not family.”

“Shut up,” the man in question cuts back. But his voice is wavering. “We’re the ones in control here.”

That’s the final straw.

Because the kidnappers don’t realize one crucial fact.

Andrew is always the one in control

Pope says, “Cutback.”

A loud clatter from the loading bay – Craig, you know, because Andrew’s told you their routine a hundred times – pulls focus. Your heart launches into your throat as bodies blur around you. Your body relies on instinct; you curl over yourself, ducking your head and shrugging your shoulders.

Everything turns into a muffled movie sequence; you can’t process it all. There’s Deran swinging wide, Baz shoving someone down, J stopping another as they try to run, Craig going on the offensive. Metal screams, guns skittering over the concrete floor. Smashing palettes, wood splintering, fast footsteps. To your surprise, there aren’t any shots fired. You guess nobody wants to be the one who accidentally shoots the pregnant girl.

Somehow, when the dust settles, there are five men hogtied on their knees, random crap shoved into their mouths as gags, each of them with a Glock pressed into their scalp.

And then Andrew’s at your side, flicking out his butterfly knife, kneeling in front of you, not ready to look into your eyes yet. He carefully works through the ties, ensuring he doesn’t so much as graze you with his blade, and then kisses each of your limbs where you’d been restrained. He kisses your knees, too, and then your hands.

Straightening up, he hugs you close then, giving you the space to let out a deep breath. You let your hands tangle in his auburn curls, the ones you hope your daughter will inherit. Kissing your hair over and over, he asks, “How badly are you hurt, angel?”

“I’m alright,” you assure him quietly. “I’ve had worse.”

His jaw hardens; he knows you’ve had worse and he’ll always hate himself for it. Then he touches your bump reverently. “How about my kid?”

“She’s been kicking like crazy this whole time,” you tell him with a little laugh, guiding his hand to where the runt’s been shoving her feet into your abdomen. That always makes Andrew smile. “Think she wants to be a fighter like her daddy. She’s gonna want to take out all the bad guys herself.”

Andrew kisses your stomach then, the tenderness such a contrast to all the violence he’ll inflict the moment you’re in any danger. “Not when she has me to do it for her.” He stands up then, guiding you to your feet. He holds your face between his hands and looks at you seriously. “You wanna go home? I can come back and handle them.”

“No. I’m staying.”

It’s your turn for dark features and a cruel voice. You aren’t like this often – usually sweet and soft as the homemade baked goods you’re always bringing to the family – but, when you are, Andrew remembers exactly how much he loves you. Why he chose you over the countless girls who’ve tried to use him over the years.

He loves your softness, how it balances him, but he knew he was going to marry you the day you suggested that him personally castrating your stalker would be a more appropriate punishment than death or prison. You’d handed him the tools while the guy was restrained and terrified, never once flinching at the gore. He knows you can handle yourself and you let him protect you instead.

So it honestly turns him on a little when you press your lips to his one more time and murmur, “I want you to hurt them. In front of me. Right now.”

He grins. “That’s my girl.”

Then he turns to his brothers, each of whom is managing their hostage a little differently (Craig always just bashes someone every time they move; Baz has a gun in each hand to manage two). “You guys mind sticking around for a minute? I want to remind them what happens when they touch what’s mine.”

“She’s our sister,” Deran, who’s been your friend the longest, says for all of them. “Don’t mind at all.”

The others nod their assent.

When he looks at your kidnappers, Andrew’s voice is frozen steel. The kind of cold that peels your skin off when you let go of it. Staring them down, he asks, “Which ones touched you, angel?”

You cross your arms over your chest. “They all did.”

“Rank them for me.”

You know what he means.

Six months into dating him, three gangbangers tried to pull something similar, holding you and J’s then-girlfriend because the Codys had supposedly taken one of their job leads. After the money had been exchanged to get you out safely, it took your boyfriend all of two hours to track down the guys.

He got the cash back easily with his brothers’ help, yes, but then he zip-tied the guys in the back of his truck, picked you up from home, took all of you to one of his secret locations, and had you tell him what each of them did to you.

The one who hadn’t touched you but had helped plan it got two bullets in the head, right in a row.

That was Pope’s version of mercy.

The two who put hands on you? They weren’t so lucky.

The first, who’d grabbed you to put you in the van, ripping your clothes in the process and groping your ass, had each of his fingers snapped off with bolt cutters, the digits left on his mother’s doorstep.

The second, their muscle, had cuffed you tight enough to bite into your wrists, slapped you across the face to stop you from talking, and beaten you when you protected poor J’s little girlfriend.

When Pope saw the mean bruise high on your cheekbone and the split in your lip, he lost it. That guy? Well, that guy got strapped to a chair, doused in gas, and set on fire, put out right before the point where he’d die from smoke inhalation, the fat beneath his skin melting off him in sloughing drips. You’d never seen anything so brutal, but it didn’t turn your stomach the way you’d expected. Then Pope shoved him into a quarry so he’d have to drag his flayed skin through the gravel to get help.

Sure, someone would try the same game every once in a while, but, for the most part, the legend of Andrew doling out punishments in exponents based on the crime had kept you safe for years. When men from other families would try to give you a hard time, even just hitting on you while you bought groceries, someone from their own crew would smack them, mutter something like ‘that’s Pope Cody’s girl,’ and leave you alone. 

Now, Andrew seems to be planning to refresh the lore about what happens when someone messes with you.

With a quick squeeze to his bicep, you start, “The one in the black mask didn’t hurt me.”

“Good.” Andrew pulls off the mask, revealing a guy younger than you, and offers flatly, “Tell her you’re sorry and I’ll let you walk out of here.”

The guy spits a curse in your direction instead.

Andrew doesn’t even acknowledge him. He just grunts, “Cover your ears, baby.”

As always, you do as he says. He lines up and fires two quick shots that land right on top of each other in the center of his forehead. Bullseyes. The booming pops ricochet around the warehouse for a moment before a lifeless body slumps forward. Free from his hostage, J grabs the duffel of money still on the floor and puts it in the back of Pope’s truck once more. Then he returns, standing on your other side, hand on his gun.

Not missing a beat even with flecks of fresh blood thrown across both your bodies, Andrew asks, “What about the other ones?”

“Motorcycle helmet is the one who took me from the beach. Held a gun to my head. I was showering, by the way.”

A higher level of rage tightens Andrew’s jaw. He steps forward and yanks off the helmet, the gesture pulling the guy’s ears harsh enough to make them bleed. Then Andrew takes out the gag and rockets the butt of his gun directly into the guy’s mouth, knocking out half a tooth that he spits onto the floor. He smashes it in another time to get the rest of the tooth and split his lips open to good measure.

When the guy has enough blood dribbling from his mouth to satisfy his anger, Andrew grips his throat and demands, “You grabbed my pregnant wife while she was in the fucking shower? Are you some kind of pervert? Need me to start by cutting off your dick? Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve done it to someone who wanted to screw her.”

The guy’s trying to scramble backwards, away from him, but Baz has him by the back of his head. “No, man, nothing- nothing like that. I’m- I was just- just following orders.”

“Couldn’t have given me a minute to get decent first?” You lean your head on Andrew’s firm shoulder and go on, “Then he tied me up. Did the zips kinda tight, if you ask me.”

You show Andrew your wrists, which are raw from the material, and point out the spots where the skin got pinched enough to bleed. Andrew rubs your tender flesh with his thumb and nods slowly, making decisions. “You hurt her wrists. There’s a cut on her right one because of you.” He looks up at his brother. “Craig, is the saw in the Suburban or my truck?”

Craig shakes his head, knowing what’s coming. “Your truck.”

As he walks over to his car, Andrew calls over his shoulder. “Sit him in the chair. Tie his wrists to the armrests.”

Craig reaches down and snaps the tie keeping his wrists bound to his ankles. Before he can try to wriggle away, Craig jams a boot down on his ankle, crunching the bone to hobble him. “You heard the man; no funny business.”

Checking with you for approval, Craig maneuvers him into the chair and undoes the restraints around his wrists. When the guy goes for his neck right away, J strides over, pulls his ear from the side of his head, and shoots a hole through it at point blank. Reeling from the noise and the blistering pain, that definitely works to get his hands off Craig, who grabs his wrists and fixes them to the chair.

Just in time for Pope to get back from his truck, holding his favorite yellow reciprocating saw with both hands, cautery pen in his front pocket. He walks right up to motorcycle helmet guy, who’s outright crying now, just quietly whimpering, and balances the saw over his right hand.

Standing over him, Andrew says calmly, “Apologize to my wife and you can keep the left hand.”

The words are immediate, fearful: “I’m fucking sorry, alright? Tell him- Tell him to-” Andrew starts up the saw, the mean buzz filling the warehouse, and the guy sobs out, “Call him off! Christ, call him off! I’m sorry, I- God, seriously, I’m sorry.”

“See? Not so hard, was it?” Andrew looks at the other guys, sweeping the air with the now-whirring saw. “Keep that in mind when it’s your turn.”

Within thirty seconds, Andrew is splattered in red. You’ve always liked the sight of him covered in someone else’s blood; it makes you feel a peculiar type of hunger. Like a lioness watching her mate take down a gazelle to bring back to the cubs. The smell of burning, smoking flesh follows shortly after. Deran has to avert his eyes; he’s never had the stomach for Pope’s relentlessness. His attention to detail. Pope won’t let someone bleed out if he wants them to suffer.

Satisfied with the DIY amputation, Pope turns off the saw and sets it on the floor while the guy snivels. From behind your husband, you give him a smile. “I forgive you, by the way. We all have to follow orders sometimes.”

Then Andrew takes a step to the right, in front of the guy in the camo ski mask, who’s now squirming and moaning around his gag after watching his buddy’s comparatively mild torment. Andrew tugs off the ski mask. He’s older, with crow’s feet and a worn-in white beard. In his blue eyes, you can see him replaying everything he did to you, terrified of what it’s going to cost him.

Andrew kisses your hand, leaving a blood stain behind, and asks, “How about him?”

You narrow your eyes at the guy and pout. “Camo was pretty nice at first. Helped me into the van when I asked. But then he gave me this one,” you tell your husband, touching the freshly scabbed bruise on the side of your forehead. “Probably gonna scar.”

When you wince, Andrew broils. “That hurt pretty bad, baby?”

Really feeling it now that you aren’t in survival mode, you nod.

So Pope takes the guy’s gun off of Baz, looks at his face like it’s a puzzle, and then thrusts the butt of it into the guy’s temple, matching the injury that you’re wearing. Then he tosses the gun away and explains, “Always good to start with an eye for an eye.”

Deran snickers from his side. “You know they say that makes the whole world blind.”

Pope scoffs, “Who does?”

“I don’t know. God or something.”

“Yeah? Well right now, I’m god.” Andrew pulls out his butterfly knife, lets it twist open in a flashy maneuver, and uses his fingers to pinch the guy’s cheek, tugging the skin hard away from the bones beneath. He holds the blade against it. “You know, I really like my wife’s face. Now there’s going to be a scar on it. How much skin do you think you deserve to lose for that?”

The guy’s eyes are wide as bowling balls, probably wishing he’d listened when you told them not to be rough with you. He’s drooling around the gag now, tears mixing with the liquid, the blood dripping into it as well.

Not wanting to take the guy’s gag out, Pope answers his own question after a beat of contemplation, “I’d say half. You only hit her on one side, after all.”

With genuine surgical precision, Andrew slices off the guy’s cheek. The screams that follow are nothing short of horrific, wet and groaning around the gag, as Andrew just keeps going. No amount of thrashing or crying could stop him once he decided on an appropriate punishment. Even Baz averts his eyes, though, staring up at the ceiling, as thick peels of skin fall to the floor.

With the guy wailing, Andrew huffs, “Mind shutting the fuck up for me? You’re lucky I’m not forcing your face down your throat to keep you quiet.”

His cries turn to muffled whimpers. When Andrew’s peeled the skin down to the fingers, he orders, “J, grab that bag of rock salt from my truck, would you?”

J does it without response. Andrew slits the bag across the top and pours it out in a six foot circle on the ground. Then he grabs the guy by the shoulder that still has skin attached to it, yanks him to his feet, and slices off all the ties. He shoves him forward, off balance, into the pile of salt. The agonized cry that comes out when exposed wounds hit salt soothes you like a lullaby.

In a hoarse voice, Andrew commands, “Once you get yourself up, you can go.”

Camo’s shouts of pain create a backdrop of noise as Pope returns to your side. “Two more.”

“This one’ll be fast,” you tell him. “Blue’s the guy who hit me when you were on the phone. Twice. It didn’t hurt too bad, but he made me cry.”

“Made you cry, huh?” He shakes his head like that’s really disappointing to him. Worse than any physical wounds. “Hold his head still, Deran.”

Deran swallows hard and gags, imagination running wild when he realizes Pope is planning to go for the eyes. “Don’t think I can watch this.”

Craig shoves him aside and steps in. He pulls off blue’s mask and wraps one hand around the guy’s chin and the other fisted in his air so he can’t turn his head either way. Pope wipes the other guy’s blood from his knife onto his jeans. Then, in four precise movements, fast but steady, he removes each eyelid, tucking them in the front pocket of the guy’s shirt.

“There,” Pope sighs, giving the guy an affectionate slap on the cheek as red streams down his face, “now you won’t be crying anymore. The blood should lubricate your eyes until you can get some saline."

After a string of curses and pleas in another language, the gag falls from his mouth from the sheer force of his flailing mouth. He stammers out, spitting blood with every word, “You can’t- you can’t just leave me like this, man! You have to-”

Andrew puts on the pathetic whining tone and taunts, “I ‘have to’ what? Since I can’t just leave you like this, should I take the eyes too? Would that make you happier to walk out of here? Up my rating on Yelp?” He shoves the barrel of his Glock directly into blue ski mask’s newly exposed eyeball. Hard. A chunk of jiggly white sclera flicks to the floor. Pope grunts, “Cut him loose now.”

Deran retches at the sight of the half eyeball making a wet spot on the concrete, so Pope reaches into his back pocket, takes out his wallet, and tosses it to his little brother. “Dump him on the side of the road and go get her a bag of fucking sour gummy worms.”

Holding his breath, Deran frees the guy’s feet and shoves him across the warehouse toward his truck, manhandling him into the backseat before peeling out. Baz rolls his shoulders, also looking a little pale, and offers to Pope, “Me and J can run the cash and jewelry out to the drop if you’re good here.”

Pope nods his approval, so Craig takes Baz’s hostage. When they’re all gone, Pope finally points his gun at red ski mask, who you’ve been looking forward to most. “And this last one?”

Your voice becomes as lethal as Pope’s, so cold and calculated it sends a chill down Craig’s spine. Pope pulls off the mask as you tell him, “Red dragged me out of the van. He grabbed my legs. Ripped my favorite coverup and made me walk barefoot. Called me a whore.”

“Called you a whore?” Andrew leans down in front of him and shoves him in the center of his chest. “You have a wife, asshole?”

The guy lunges forward as much as he can while bound and spits at him, “Yeah. I do.”

“What would you do if someone talked to her like that?”

He narrows his eyes and snarls, “I’d kill the son of a bitch.”

“That’s because you’re weak,” Pope replies. Flat. He tucks his gun around his back and plays with his butterfly knife. “Death is too good for guys who talk to women like that. I don’t think you should be able to talk anymore at all, actually. You can choose; wanna lose your tongue or your vocal cords?”

“Wait.” You touch the center of Pope’s back, snapping his attention to you. His eyes meet yours with concern, studying your features for why you’d call him off. “There’s something else, Andrew.”

If you held off on telling him, it had to be bad. He’s already pumped with adrenaline and burning rage and protectiveness, but you know he’ll reach another layer when you say the next part. Voice low, he says, “Tell me, sweetheart.”

Your voice cracks, then, for the first time since he started his work. You cradle your bump gently; she’s finally settling down in there now that your adrenaline isn’t screaming anymore. Looking up to meet red ski mask’s eyes without any fear in your own, you tell your husband, “He threatened to hurt your baby, Andrew.”

It’s impossible for his body to hold all the rage that makes him feel, too big and jagged to fit in his skin. Pope erupts into a frenzy. His knife clatters to the floor by his feet and he’s pummeling the guy with his bare fists, each one landing harder than the last. The guy thrashes around as Pope shoves him onto his back, limbs balled up beneath his body, hitting him anywhere his hands can find purchase. Any time the guy tries to curl to protect himself, Andrew’s knee thrusts into his gut, forcing him to take it. He doesn’t stop until the guy coughs out a mouthful of blood.

Breathing hard, one of his lungs collapsed and a few ribs broken, red ski mask wheezes, “Just kill me already.”

With his knife pressed flat against the guy’s Adam’s apple, Pope growls, “If you wanted me to play nice, you shouldn’t have gone after my girls.”

When Andrew’s finished beating him, you approach red too and look him hard in the eyes, lording over him and feeling the power in your stance. “I think I’ll make earrings for my daughter out of your teeth after my husband pulls them out with pliers.”

Craig snickers from behind him. “Jesus Christ, kid.”

You give him a cute smile like you didn’t just say that. “Don’t make fun of me! I’m having a hard night, if you hadn’t noticed.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He kicks the guy in the side of his head – hard, the only way the boys hit – and laughs, “I’m not planning on my teeth becoming jewelry any time soon.”

Pope squeezes the guy’s bloodied and bruised face in his large hand. “What do you want me to do with him, angel?”

With a little shrug, you reply, “Well, I definitely don’t think he should be able to knock anyone up if he’s going around threatening pregnant people.”

Red’s eyes widen and he once again tries to scrabble backwards; Pope’s weight on him is too strong for him to move very far, though. As Craig holds him still, Pope yanks the guy’s jeans down around his ankles to give himself more precision before angling the barrel of his gun so that he’ll shoot only through dick and a little thigh, missing his critical arteries.

Andrew grunts, “Cover your ears.”

And you do.

Even Craig winces as penis shrapnel flings across the room.

You don’t flinch.

Pope straightens up and asks you, “That enough for you?”

Red ski mask moans out one gurgling word: “Please.”

But you aren’t finished. You cross your arms over his chest and tell your husband, “I was being serious earlier. I want his teeth. I’ll hold his mouth open.”

“No,” Andrew vetoes. “He’ll try to bite you. Not risking that.”

When his eyes flick knowingly up to his brother, Craig scoffs in offense, “Oh, so it’s fine if he bites me? What if the fucker has tetanus or something?”

Andrew digs the pliers from his toolkit in the truck and returns to his brother’s side. “I’ll give you 5% of my take for helping.”

Craig gives a pleased nod. “That’ll do.”

Not five minutes later, you have a palmful of bloody teeth that you tuck into the side pocket of your beach bag. Pope finishes by choking the guy until he’s unconscious and turning him on his side so he won’t aspirate on the blood.

Then he stands up, tucks away his gun and his blade, puts the tools back in his truck, and says, “Craig, tell Smurf to save us a few pieces of pie for a job well done.”

“You’re not coming back to the house?”

Pope shakes his head. He slides an arm around you, tight and comfortable, and replies, “Not tonight. Tell everyone we’ll be by for Sunday brunch. I’ve gotta get my girls home.”

Craig shakes his head as he hauls himself into the Suburban, lighting up a cigarette with a laugh as he guns the ignition. “You two have some fucked up foreplay.”

The hit blindsided you like a car accident, snapping your head sideways and sending you sprawling. Your skull cracked against the concrete, white noise roared in your ears, stars burst in your vision, and the phone flew out of your hand, skidding across the pavement with a sickening sound.

You barely had time to suck in a breath before a boot drove into your stomach. You gagged on a choked wheeze, folding instinctively, arms wrapping around your middle, then your head as you curled into yourself. The kicks kept coming, your hip, your ribs, your side. Pain bloomed hot and sharp like stab wounds, flaring in your back, your skull, behind your eyelids.

They spit on you, and their footsteps retreated somewhere behind down the street.

You lay there in the harsh light of the store’s fluorescents, shaking violently, tears dripping into your hair, your whole body throbbing in time with your hummingbird heartbeat.

Minutes felt like hours before you were finally able to lift your head. Your purse had exploded across the sidewalk. Your keys, lip balm, wallet, receipts, all strewn out like an I-Spy game. Your phone lay a few feet away, screen spider-webbed, a dirty print across the back where it had been stepped on and shattered.

You dragged yourself upright, using the glass door as leverage. Your vision went blurry, then slowly steadied. Your ears rang like cymbals crashing. With shaking hands, you gathered your things back into your purse, then pushed the door open.

The bell over the door chimed and the owner appeared from the back, wiping her hands on a towel. She stopped dead when she saw you.

“Holy shit,” she breathed. “What the fuck happened to you?”

You shook your head, wiped under your nose, and your hand came away bloody. “Can I use your phone?” you rasped, pain flaring in your ribs.

She frowned, but nodded, gesturing you behind the counter. “Sit.” She dragged a chair out at the little back table and handed you the landline.

You dialed Pope’s number by heart.

It rang twice.

“Yeah.” His voice was low and rough.

You swallowed around the lump in your throat. “…Andrew,” you whimpered.

There was a beat of silence. Then rustling as he stood.

“Where are you.” Not a question. A demand.

“The little corner store,” you whispered. “Block from my place.”

“Stay there.”

The line went dead.

You handed the phone back.

“Can I get you anything?” the owner asked sympathetically.

You fumbled in your bag and came up with a crumpled five. “Water.”

She scoffed. “Girl, keep your cash.” She grabbed a bottle from the cooler and pressed it into your hand. “You want me to call the cops?”

You shook your head. “M-my boyfriend’s coming.”

She studied you, then nodded once. “Okay. Sit back here till he gets here.”

You curled into the chair, clutching the water, and waited.

***

Pope stepped into the store like a storm cloud on two legs.

His gaze swept the place, sharp and narrowed, jaw set so tight the muscle was jumping. Worry and anger simmered under his skin, barely contained.

The owner pointed toward the back table. “Boyfriend?” she guessed.

He didn’t bother answering.

He came around the counter, boots heavy on the tile, and stopped when he saw you. Dried blood under your nose and on your lips, hair askew, face already swelling, tear tracks on your cheeks.

Something in his expression flickered dangerously. His fists clenched so hard his knuckles popped.

He stepped closer, then knelt beside you. His hand lifted, slow, and hovered over your thigh, hesitating before he let it rest there; you flinched.

He pulled back immediately. “It’s me,” he said quietly. “Hey. It’s me.”

You looked up at him, really saw him, and whatever thin dam you’d built between the attack and now, cracked. A sob clawed out of your throat as you lurched forward into him.

He caught you easily, one strong arm around your waist, the other hand cupping the back of your neck. He pulled you into him, tucking you under his chin like he was trying to fold you into his ribs. His fingers pressed into your spine in slow, grounding circles.

Your tears soaked his shirt. You heard his breath catch, then steady. You felt the anger in him change shape, no longer wild, but focused, sharpened. Deadly.

After a minute, he eased back just enough to look at you.

“C’mon,” he said. The softness he reserved for you was gone, but the edge wasn’t pointed at you either.

He helped you to your feet, took your purse, and guided you out to his truck with a firm but gentle hand at the small of your back. He got you in the passenger seat, buckled you in when your hands shook too hard, and shut the door, then rounded to the driver’s side.

He pulled away from the curb, one hand white-knuckling the wheel, the other planted on your thigh, heavy and possessive.

“What happened.” He asked lowly.

You swiped at your face. “I stopped by the store to answer your texts.” You swallowed. “Someone came up behind me. Asked if I was your girl. Next thing I knew, I was kissing the sidewalk.”

His fingers tightened, digging into your leg; you whimpered softly.

He realized it immediately and loosened his grip, thumb rubbing the spot in apology. “They hit you anywhere else?”

“Caught a few kicks to the stomach. One to my hip.” You rubbed your temple. “Hit my head when I fell.”

His jaw worked harder. He didn’t like that last part. All he could see was you collapsing from a brain bleed.

“I’m taking you to the ER.”

You let your head fall back against the seat. “Just take me home, Andrew. Please. I want to go home.”

“You hit your head,” he snapped, still not looking at you. “You need to go to the ER.”

“I want to go home,” you repeated, voice small. You slipped out of the top of the seatbelt and laid down, your head on his thigh, fingers digging into his jeans. His hand shifted, resting on your neck, fingers pressing into your pulse like it could steady him. “I just…want to be home.”

He exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes briefly closing. At the next light, he flicked the turn signal, turned down the street toward your complex, and didn’t say another word.

***

Contrary to the popular Cody belief that Pope was only capable of violence, he was capable of terrifying gentleness.

He guided you into your bathroom, crowding the tiny space with his broad frame, and helped you out of your clothes piece by piece, movements efficient but gentle. He didn’t stare, didn’t linger like he would’ve on a different occasion. He checked for bruises, for swelling, for anything that made his eyes go darker. He noted the tenderness in your ribs and stomach, the bruises forming.

He wet a rag with warm water and wiped the blood and grime from your face, his touch gentle around the bruised cheek already blooming darker across your skin.

“You should’ve called me when you were leaving work,” he said. There was no bite in it, just a flatness. “I would’ve picked you up.”

Your throat tightened, tears welling again, and you dropped your gaze. “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I didn’t want to bother you. You’ve been busy.”

He set the rag aside and tilted your chin up with two fingers so you had to look at him.

“You call me,” he said seriously. “When you leave. When you get there. Any hour. Any day.” His thumb brushed your lower lip, checking the split carefully. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “You understand me?”

You nodded.

“Say it,” he demanded quietly.

“I understand,” you murmured.

He accepted that, helping you into clean clothes, then he led you to bed, tucking the blankets around you like you were something breakable he’d been entrusted with.

He disappeared down the hall and came back with a glass of water and a couple of pills in his palm.

“Take these. All the water,” he muttered.

You obeyed, swallowing the pills and draining the glass, then sank back into the pillow with a pained moan.

“Are you staying?” you asked.

“Until you fall asleep,” he replied.

“Then what?”

He looked toward the front door. When he looked back, there was a hollow, dangerous calm in his eyes. “I’m going to look for whoever put their hands on you.”

You held his gaze. “What are you gonna do?”

He stared at you for a long beat. Then he reached out and brushed his knuckles over your bruised cheek, soft and achingly tender.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he murmured.

You knew that was all you were getting out of him about the subject.

“Promise you’ll stay until I fall asleep?” you whispered.

His eyes softened in a way he almost never let anyone see. “I promise.”

You stared at him, and something in his face eased. He bent down, looking into your eyes as he promised, “No one is coming through that door. And if they do, I’ll kill them before they touch you.”

It should’ve scared you, how deadly serious he was.

But your heart thumped steady and sure, and you nodded, closing your eyes, letting yourself relax under the weight of his gaze.

***

When Pope crawled into your bed four hours later, his knuckles were busted and bandaged.

You rolled toward him in your sleep, curling into his chest like you always did. He was too wired to sleep, muscles tight, adrenaline still buzzing in his veins, but he wrapped his arms around you, pulled you in, and rested his chin atop your head.

He stared at the thin strip of light under the bedroom door until his eyes finally slipped shut.

***

For the next two weeks, Pope drove you to and from work.

You tried to argue. You told him you didn’t need it, that you could take the bus, call a cab, walk with coworkers. He didn’t bother fighting with words. He just kept showing up like he didn’t hear you. Like he didn’t care to hear you—and he didn’t.

Every morning, he was there, truck outside, engine idle, leaning against the hood, arms folded, sunglasses on, expression blank. And every afternoon at four-thirty on the dot, he was there. Same truck, same spot, watching the door like a sentry.

Your coworkers teased you about your “hot bodyguard” waiting outside every day, about the silent, sexy man who never acknowledged anyone but you. You rolled your eyes, but secretly, you got used to scanning for that familiar shape, that familiar truck.

One afternoon, on the way home, he blew past your usual turn.

You blinked and straightened. “Andy?”

He grunted.

“We, uh, missed my turn.”

“Going somewhere else,” he said.

You looked at him suspiciously. “Where?”

He didn’t answer.

You narrowed your eyes. “This isn’t a murder thing, right? Because if you need an accomplice, I got you, but I’m weak. If the cops question me, I’m going to cry and sing like a canary.”

At the next red light, he turned his head and gave you the dead, flat stare that made most people shut up.

You pursed your lips and mumbled, cheeks warm, “Just checking,”

He looked back at the road.

He drove into the nicer part of Oceanside, where the buildings were new and glossy and out of your price range just by existing.

“Reconnaissance?” you tried again, hopeful.

“Not staking out complexes,” he muttered. “Quit asking.”

“Rude.”

“Nosy,” he shot back, and you smiled, despite it.

He pulled into a lot, slid into a parking spot, killed the engine. “C’mon,” he said.

Inside, the building gleamed with polished floors, chandeliers, security cameras, the whole nine yards of “I’m rich and I know it.” He led you into the elevator, swiped a keycard, and hit the button for the third floor.

“Are we meeting someone?” you asked.

He exhaled through his nose, giving you a brief, irritated glance. “You ever stop asking questions?”

You folded your arms and retorted, “No. I ask them specifically to get a rise out of you.”

“It’s working,” he muttered. “Worse than my brothers.”

“Wow. Rude. Those guys get on your nerves like no one else.”

“Exactly.”

He walked you down the hall to thirty-one-B, pulled out a silver key, and unlocked the door. He pushed it open and jerked his chin for you to go inside.

You stepped in and immediately forgot how to breathe.

The living room alone was the size of your old apartment. Soft couches with throw pillows and blankets of velvet. Dark shelves lined with books, all your favorites. A TV mounted on the wall over an entertainment center, cable box and router already hooked up. The kitchen was open space, with marble counters and brand-new appliances that gleamed. A dark oak table with four upholstered chairs sat between the two spaces, already neat with a table runner and matching plates.

You turned in a slow circle, taking it in.

“This…is a nice apartment,” you said softly. “Very, very nice.”

You turned toward him.

Pope stood just inside the doorway, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders tight. He wasn’t looking at you. He was staring at a spot above your head like it was the most interesting thing he’d ever seen.

“It’s better than your old place,” he muttered.

“It is,” you agreed. “Whose is it?”

His eyes slid to yours. “Yours.”

You blinked. “What?”

He frowned, like he didn’t understand the confusion. “It’s yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yes.”

“…Andrew, I can’t afford a place like this.”

“Don’t have to,” he said. “Already took care of it.” His hands left his pockets, fingers tapping against his thighs. “Rent’s paid through the year.” His cheeks went faintly pink and he mumbled, “Moved your stuff while you were at work.”

“You did what?” you yelped, eyes wide. “You—you moved my—”

You broke off and rushed down the hall instead.

Sure enough, your clothes hung in the walk-in closet, your makeup bag sat on the massive bathroom vanity, your robe on the hook behind the door. Your bedroom furniture had been upgraded, bed, dresser, all of it, but your things were in all the right places.

“Andrew Cody!” you shouted, appearing in the bedroom doorway.

You marched back into the living room, gaping. “You moved my stuff when I was at work!”

He blinked at you, genuinely confused why this was an issue. “Some guys owed me a favor. I moved everything for you.”

You pressed your hands over your mouth, staring at him.

“How long have you been working on this?” you asked, voice softer.

He shifted, eyes sliding away. “A while.”

“How long.”

He let out a pointed breath. “Since the night you got hurt.”

Your hand went instinctively to your eye. The bruise had mostly faded, but he still looked at that side of your face first, every time.

“Andrew…”

“Your building’s shit,” he said bluntly, like he was stating a fact—a very true fact. “No cameras. No lights in the back. Doors don’t close right. Manager doesn’t care.” His jaw clenched. “Bus stop’s too far. Street’s too dark.”

“Yeah, but—”

“Landlord’s not fixing it,” he cut in, talking over you now, words coming faster like he needed to outrun his own discomfort. “Cops aren’t gonna do shit if something happens again. So.” He jerked his chin at the apartment. “This.”

He shoved his hands back into his pockets, shoulders hunching. “If you hate it, I’ll…fix it,” he muttered. “Can get your stuff back. Find another place. Whatever.”

You just stared at him.

At this man who had absolutely committed felonies for you, and now looked like a kicked dog for buying you an apartment.

“You are genuinely insane,” you said, matter of fact.

He flinched like you’d hit him—like you’d just confirmed his worst fears.

You crossed the space between you two, and took his face in your hands.

“You bought me an apartment?” you asked gently.

He nodded, very slightly between your palms.

“I’ll fix it if you don’t like it,” he whispered, desperate to make it all better. “I…I can fix it.”

Your fingers pressed into the back of his neck, at the base of his skull. His eyes fluttered closed, a quiet sound escaping his throat.

“I just…want you safe,” he muttered. “Somewhere I know you won’t get hurt again.” His jaw worked. “I don’t sleep. I don’t sleep when I don’t know if you’re safe. You forget to text me and I just…” He broke off, shaking his head once, frustrated with himself. “I wait. For you to say you’re okay. And I—”

“I love you, Andrew Cody,” you said, cutting him off gently.

His eyes snapped open, staring at you in disbelief.

You sighed, all fond and exasperated, and in love. “You absolutely crazy-in-love man. I love you so much.”

His cheeks went crimson. He did everything in his power not to look directly at you.

“’m not in love,” he muttered.

“Uh-huh.” You arched an amused brow. “And what do you call buying an apartment for your girlfriend?”

“Assurance,” he shot back, trying to scowl. “Security.”

You giggled, nuzzling your nose against his. “Mhm. Assurance, he says. Security, he says.”

“It is,” he insisted with a growl.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Andy.”

He huffed. “Door auto-locks,” he said firmly. “Alarm sets at night on stay mode. You’ll be safe here.”

You hummed, leaning up to kiss him. He went stiff for a heartbeat, then melted, hands finding your hips, pulling you closer as he tried to press deeper into your mouth.

“You bought me an apartment,” you mumbled against his lips.

He lowered his head to your jaw, nipping softly. “Was gonna buy you a car too,” he admitted.

“Oh my God.” You laughed breathlessly. “Andrew, no.”

“Car’s a piece of shit. It’s an oh-six.”

“No.”

“Why.”

You pulled back and looked him dead in the eye, smirking. “Because I have a handsome chauffeur who drives me everywhere.”

His cheeks went warm again. His fingers tightened at your hips.

“Handsome,” he scoffed—you knew he didn’t believe you.

“Handsome. Beautiful. Ridiculously gorgeous,” you teased. “Rockin’ body, muscles, cute bu—”

“Stop,” he growled, cheeks aflame.

“Never,” you grinned, pecking his lips, once, twice, a third time, before slipping out of his hands and heading for the kitchen.

He followed at a slower pace, leaning against the doorway as you opened cabinets and drawers, checking everything out.

“…you like it?” he asked quietly, unsure now.

“I love it,” you replied honestly. You turned, meeting his eyes. “I love it so much. No one’s ever done something like this for me.” Your throat tightened, and you admitted, “Not without wanting something in return.”

Pope pushed off the wall and came up to you, placing a calloused hand on your cheek. You leaned into the warmth and his thumb brushed your skin, slow and sure.

“I just want you safe,” he murmured.

“I’m always safe with you,” you said gently.

He inhaled, exhaled. “I’ll do everything to keep it that way.”

You smiled and turned your head to kiss his palm. “I love you, Andy.”

His jaw worked. He pulled his hand away, scratched the back of his neck, and then gestured awkwardly at you. “…you too,” he muttered.

Your smile hit him right in the sternum like a hollow-point round. You turned to open the fridge, the double-door fridge to see it fully stocked.

“Oh?” you mused, glancing back over your shoulder. “Andrew Cody, you bought me groceries?” You grinned cheekily. “Are you buttering me up to make you dinner?”

A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Definitely wouldn’t say no.” he shifted on his feet. “I love your cooking.”

You melted, all ooey and gooey. “Go sit down. Relax. I’ll make us something.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He lingered for a moment, watching you rummage in the fridge and start pulling things out, before finally retreating to the couch. He sank down, let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since the night at the corner store, and pressed a hand to his chest.

His heart was still beating a mile a minute.

But warmth spread through him as he listened to your humming, the clink of pots and pans, the sound of you moving around in the apartment he’d bought to keep you safe.

For once, the noise in his head went quiet and one thought became true to him.

Okay. She's right. There's a higher chance that Jack is somewhere fighting a bear right now rather than sleeping. After almost 5 years together, nothing shocks you about him anymore. But one thing's for certain, you really don't want him seeing you like this.

It's the 4th of July. It's messy, there are people dressed up in all sorts of red, white and blue, and you've administered more banana bag IVs to too-drunk, too-young patients than you have in your entire nursing career. You were so busy, running around, keeping things in order while Dana was with an SA victim, no wonder you didn't notice the puddle of puke from said patients right in the middle of the floor.

Yeah, totally acceptable. 100% fine for a nurse with as much experience as you have. No biggy, right?

Except for the fact that you're now sitting in room 3 with blood covering the lower portions of your face, a pretty bad black eye, and an ego so bruised you think it hurts more than your nose that's twisting awkwardly to the right-hand side. You begged Dana to keep you off the charts and ignore your emergency contact. Your very sleep deprived, very grumpy, very worried all of the time older boyfriend. You're pretty sure you've convinced her. And that's when you hear it.

Boot Steps. Shit.

You can hear it amongst the rushed, rubber soled shuffle of the doctors and nurses, amonst the chaotic clatter of gurney wheels. You can hear it because you're used to it, they're the kind of footsteps that don't ask permission to enter a room.

Your stomach drops, and Dana's voice drifts down the hall, outside of the curtain. "Abbot, funny seeing you here-"

And there he is. In a SWAT medic vest, sleeves shoved up to his forearms, sweat stuck to his brow and enveloped within the silver curls your fingers often call home. His jaw is tight enough to crack a tooth, and you can just imagine what he smells like, if it wasn't for the, y'know, the obvious olfactory blockage situation you have going on.

His eyes are on you in an instant, and he can't ignore how his usually steady hands feel a slight tremor in them. You open your mouth to speak first. "Okay, I know this looks bad, but before you say anything-"

He runs his right hand over his face. Jack is too old for this.

"What the hell happened?"

"Huh, um. Y'know. 4th of July. Occupational hazard. Gravity is a thing and puke is slippery and everything was just a complete mess. Hey, why are you wearing your SWAT gear?"

His tired eyes drag over your face with a clinical precision that only a seasoned attending has. Bloody nose, the beginning of a black eye, the swelling already setting in. He steps closer without asking. You hate how your heart rate spikes as the monitor Dana has insisted you wear exposing you with a soft, but albeit faster, beep.

Right about now, you wish you had a way cooler story to tell your hot, sweaty boyfriend. Maybe now's not the time to be thinking about the way his arms are tensing in that uniform.

"One of the guys took a round right to the neck. Brought him in ten minutes ago. You know how much I hate golf, sweetheart"

Of course he did. Of course the universe would do this to you.

Jack's fingers take a soft hold of your chin, moving your face from side to side, so much gentler than the rest of him looks capable of right now. His thumb brushes under your nose, checking the bleeding.

"Jack, are you okay? I mean-"

"Shut up and hold still"

And there's the Jack you know. The Jack you met for the first time five years ago, elbow deep in someone's chest, shouting orders to Shen and Ellis to get an OR ready. Doctor voice Jack has suddenly made you completely forget about the thumping between your eyebrows. He's commanding, focused, knows exactly who he is and why he's here, and knows he's damn good at it, too.

You glare at him anyways. "I am not one of your patients", you mumble, extremely aware of the fact that you look like death warmed up right about now.

"No," he agrees, eyes narrowing at the angle your nose sits at. "You're so much worse."

Worse. Because you're his. Because he knows you wouldn't have called. Because he knows you're easily embarassed. Because he knows how much you worry about him, and how you never let him worry about you.

You watch the moment any ounce of anger melts into something else. It's fear. It's subtle, but you know him too well to recognise it as anything else. There's a tightness around his eyes and a swallow he tries to hide. His calloused fingers have a small shake in them and you curse yourself for whatever fucked up thing you did in a past life to make the love of your life feel like this.

"Did you lose consciousness?"

"No"

"Nausea? Vomiting?"

"No. Just complete humiliation. Santos picked me up off the floor. And she's the cool one I'm trying to impress."

His mouth twitches. It's almost a smile. Almost.

He leans closer, inspecting your eye. "You're gonna have one hell of a shiner, kid"

"Oh, good. Adds to my charm, don't you think?"

Jack snorts.

Dana, the traitor that she is, quietly slips out of the room.

You exhale slowly. "It was stupid. There was like, a whole puddle of vomit on the floor I didn't see and I just went down. It's not dramatic. Just, like, ridicously embarrassing"

His jaw flexes. "You could've broken your orbital. Or your neck"

"But I didn't"

You cross your arms, which is kind of hard to do when you're sitting on a hospital bed in scrubs with a large amount of gauze in your lap. Jacks eyes narrow at your sudden movement, and you roll your eyes.

"You're being intense"

"Sweetheart, I'm always intense"

"Jack-"

His hands slide to your wrist before you can finish. You catch the way his eyes are looking directly at the gauze below you, covered in blood. He knows as well as you do that any injury around the head always bleeds worse and looks worse than it actually is.

"Just, you don't get to scare me like that. That's my job"

You blink.

This isn't existential crisis, grumpy Dr Jack Abbot. This is the version of him only you get to see. The one who pretends he doesn't hover, pretends the hair tie in his truck is one you left there and not from a pack he bought especially for you. This Jack Abbot knows you prefer sugar free strawberry apricot redbull to any other sweet drink, and how much time you spend picking out a cute undershirt for your scrubs in the morning. (It's white with tiny little love hearts, by the way)

"I didn't mean to. I'm really sorry"

Jack laughs. "I know. Don't apologise"

His thumb brushes over your pulse point, as if to check you're still here with him.

"You should be home," you murmur. "It's the fourth. You worked literally all night."

He gives you a pointed look. "And you slipped in some teenager's vomit and rearranged your face"

"Okay. Rude."

"Accurate."

You huff out a small laugh through your nose, and wince immediately.

His hand finds your jaw again. "Easy."

He sighs, that deep, exhausted exhale that sounds like it carries the weight of every shift he's ever worked.

"I spend my nights watching people hurt, and bleed, and some don't even get that chance to do that before they're taken away in a damn body bag," he says. "I don't need to walk into my own hospital and find you on a stretcher"

"This is a bed, you know"

He glares. You swallow.

His hands fall to your thighs, moving you sideways so you're sat upright with your legs swinging off the side of the bed. The gauze falls then, but the way he steps inbetween your knees makes both of you forget about it.

"Next time," he says, his voice firm again, "you call me. Straight away"

"Even if I just bruise my ego?"

"Especially then"

You search his face. The gruff edges. The salt and pepper threading through his stubble. The very man who pretends he's made of stone but made you heart shaped pancakes for Valentines day.

"You're off shift"

"Jesus, Jack. I'm fine-"

"You're off," He repeats. "I'll talk to Dana"

You squint at him. "It's the fourth. You can't just-

"Oh. I absolutely can"

"You're not my boss, Abbot", you smile then, poking his bicep.

"No," He says, brushing a stray piece of hair away from your face and moving his right hand up towards your cheek, holding you there. "I'm worse"

There it is again.

Because he loves you. Even if he rarely says it first.

His hold on your chin is protectice, an automatic thing that has you leaning against the warm palm of his hand.

"You're done playing hero for tonight"

You nod.

"Good."

He leans down, and presses a kiss to your temple, careful of where you're hurting the most. You feel like putty under his hands as he touches you like you're made of gold.

"You sure know how to keep an old man on his toes," he murmurs against your skin.

You smile faintly. "Whoops?"

He huffs a laugh. A real, honest laugh.

And who's gonna hold you like me? And who's gonna know you, if not me?

The chatter and chaos were in full swing when you stepped out of the elevator and walked over to the counter to review one of your patients' charts. Perlah and Princess were gossiping about something in Tagalog when the sound of doors slamming echoed through the emergency room.

It was just enough for you to look up and see the reason you've been sneaking through the hallways, running away like a criminal. Jack Abbot in his SWAT uniform entered the room as if he knew every inch of it like the back of his hand—and in fact, he did.

Your heart skipped a beat, your eyes widened slightly, until you lowered your head and muttered, “I'm gonna kill myself.”

The only problem was that it wasn't low enough. Dana, who was a few steps away, turned to you over her glasses with an almost incredulous expression. Robby was passing by at that very moment, pulling on a pair of gloves as he walked toward the stretcher that Abbot was pushing through the emergency room.

“Should I be worried, kid?” It was just a quick glance before he continued walking.

You felt ice flood your veins, your heart beating faster than normal.

Holy shit.

"Whitaker.“ he pointed at you. ”You. With me."

“But I—”

Robby didn’t look back. You swallowed whatever protest you had and followed, the obedient resident instinct kicking in as your feet carried you toward Trauma 1.

Hiro’s neck was already prepped, collar cut away. You slipped in on autopilot, hands steady, brain sharp, working the airway with Robby while Jack took the head of the bed. Suction, oxygen, clean lines of communication. Al-Hashimi appeared in the doorway and offered help. Jack waved her off without looking. “I’ve got it.”

Then Jack begins to saturate Hiro's trachea and Garcia calls out findings on a growing flank hematoma. You tracked everything, adrenaline humming just under your skin, acutely aware of Jack’s presence and refusing to let it show.

From across the stretcher, you caught Al-Hashimi watching Jack, like, really watching him. Then Jack glanced up, met her eyes, and smiled.

The moment landed wrong in your chest.

Once Hiro was wheeled to the OR, you stayed behind to help Robby wrap up and were surprised to hear Al-Hashimi talking to Jack. And the worst came later, when he suggested a “date” to exchange war stories.

No fucking way.

Robby turned from the monitor to look between them. You focused on your breathing, tried to ignore the irritation blooming sharp and fast, like an infection you hadn’t caught early enough.

“All set. I'm going back to my patient.”

Robby nodded and glanced at you.

“Hey kid, is there something I should know?”

What? Your stomach dropped.

“About...?”

“I don’t know,” he said mildly. “You tell me.”

You swallowed hard, afraid that your feelings were overflowing on the surface. Afraid that Robby knew about you and Jack, not that you were anything, but that something definitely happened between you.

As Jack approached, you quickened your pace, trying to avoid any kind of interaction with him.

“No. I have to go.”

And you left without saying another word.

Your patient complained loudly when you left the room—for the second time—to track down Robby. Second-degree burns, courtesy of a whole chicken and a bucket of oil. He insisted it was “basically a fryer.”

You found him putting alcohol gel on his hand after leaving Trauma 4.

“Robby, quick consult. Bay three. Hot oil burn. Tried to deep-fry a whole chicken in a bucket.”

He snorted. “God bless the 4th of July. Where?”

“Right forearm, some splash onto the chest. Second degree. Big blisters.” You hesitated. “I cleaned it, but it looks deeper than I expected.”

You stopped mid-hallway. Robby took the chart from your hands and skimmed it.

“Oil burns lie,” he said. “They stick, they retain heat. What’s your estimate?”

“Eight percent. Maybe nine.”

“Then it's not ‘just’ a nasty burn anymore.”

You exhale slowly, clenching your fingers.

“The blisters are intact. I didn't touch them.”

“Good call. If it's not broken, leave it alone. The skin is still trying to help.”

He continues leafing through the medical record.

“All the oil off?” he asked, glancing up briefly.

“Yes. IV fluids, careful cleaning.” The words come out with a breath of air, almost an ostentatious relief.

“Great. No fancy stuff.” Then he pauses. “Plan?”

“Non-adherent dressing, bacitracin, analgesia. Range of motion looks okay, but it crosses the elbow.”

Robby raises his eyebrow.

“That's the problem. If it affects the joint, the risk isn't just infection. You’re fighting stiffness.”

You bite your lip, a little frustrated. “Plastics?”

“I’d have them look, yes. Early consult isn’t failure, it’s judgment.” He handed the chart back. “Pain?”

“Significant. I started meds, but I may need to escalate.”

He nodded, already stepping away. “You’re doing fine, kid. Grab me if you need backup.”

Santos was already halfway out the door, his hand raised to call Robby, but you spoke again.

“Hiro?”

Robby didn’t slow. “He’ll be fine.”

Well, that's good. You almost asked more, almost asked the wrong name, but you swallowed it, nodded, and turned back toward your patient. 

Because even if Jack had vanished without a word, even if it still sat heavy in your chest, you cared.

And that part, inconvenient as it was, hadn’t burned away yet.

A few more hours crawl by. You’re running on cold coffee and a protein bar that MaCkay tosses across the hub without breaking stride. You catch it on instinct, already moving the other way.

Then you see him on the other side of the emergency room leaning against the wall talking to a nurse, and you freeze.

Why is he still here?

The question lands heavy, unwelcome. You hate that your body reacts before your brain can catch up, heart stuttering, mood collapsing in on itself. You hate that it touches your concentration, that it steals your balance. You’re the one who smiles through twelve-hour shifts, who threads through chaos like it’s choreography. That’s who you are. Or were.

But Jack Abbot took that away from you the day he decided to be a huge asshole.

You hadn’t meant for it to happen. Not really. It started the way these things always do, glances held a second too long, flirtation tossed casually into the air like it didn’t matter. Jack is a straightforward man—he always has been. So when he wants something, he takes it for himself. And that's what he did with your heart, no mercy whatsoever.

A coffee between shifts that turned into half a sandwich in a 20-minute break—romantic, I know—which escalated to lunch at a restaurant, then dinner, until finally his bed.

It was perfect because you were opposites and attracted each other precisely because of that, your brightness against his gravity. He told you once, quietly, that when he looked at you after a bad day, the noise in his head settled. You knew his baggage. The war. The ex-wife. The things he didn’t talk about. You went in anyway, eyes open, because it felt like momentum more than choice.

Jack and you, it was inevitable.

You stole kisses in the break room, exchanged glances in a crowded room when no one was noticing, you had created a technicolor universe where only the two of you could see. Or so you thought.

Because two weeks ago, when you opened your heart and told him how you felt about him, Jack Abbot disappeared. No calls, no texts, no glances, nothing.

It was as if a fairy tale had turned into a nightmare. And you hated having to see him at shift change, or when he showed up unannounced, like today, like a damn hero, putting his own life at risk.

And it's not like you were married, or even dating, but you found yourself—again—inevitably in love with a man knee-deep in chaos.

Jack turned his face and then saw you. And you expected pure indifference, because he had probably grown tired, given up on what you were living and was moving on, just without telling you.

He held your gaze, the way he always does, his microexpressions saying a little more than he’d like to reveal. You take a deep breath and break eye contact just as Langdon touches your elbow.

“Hey! Want to jump in on this case?”

“What’ve you got?” you ask, already moving. You shove the protein bar into your pocket and snap on gloves as you follow him down the hall.

You push open the door to the room thinking you'll finally get five minutes of silence. Five. No more, no less.

Instead, you see skin.

Jack’s back is to you. Shirtless. Broad shoulders bent slightly forward as he reached, unsuccessfully, for his own shoulder. Gauze hangs half-applied, tape stuck crooked, a smear of dried blood near his collarbone. The cut isn’t dramatic, clean, shallow, already scabbing. Exactly the sort of injury he’d wave off. Exactly the sort of thing he’d never ask for help with.

You freeze.

The room tilts, pressure building in your chest like a door slammed shut from the inside.

“Sorry,” you say too fast. “I—I thought this room was empty.”

Your hand is already on the doorknob when you hear the sound of the stretcher creaking.

“Wait.”

His voice is low, hoarse. Familiar in a way that fills your chest with rage.

“I have to go,” you reply instantly, without turning around. You close your eyes and squeeze them tight. “I just need five minutes.”

“Me too.”

He gets up from the stretcher and is one step away from you. The barely started bandage hangs from his back, and you hate the fact that your eyes go straight to the wound before you remember everything else. Before you remember the two weeks. The silence, the emptiness.

“Not now.”

“I know I screwed up...”

“Jack, please.”

“And that I disappeared and...”

Your stomach twists hard. The urge to flee spikes sharp and sudden, like nausea.

“I can't do this right now.”

“Then just listen to me.”

You almost laugh. “Listen to you? You had all the time in the world to gather all your bullshit and talk to me.”

Your chest rises and falls frantically. Jack looks down at you, that taciturn gaze, which is another trait of his that makes your heart trip over itself.

“You wanted to disappear. This isn't a delayed conversation, it's a choice you made.”

He takes another step. You don't back away, but you don't move forward either. You're stuck in that tiny, uncomfortable space.

And you give it your all to maintain self-control, where your hands ache to finish the bandage, to smooth tape against warm skin, to count freckles you already know by heart.

“Just let me explain,” he says. “It’s not just that.”

“It's never ‘just that’ with you, Jack. That's the fucking problem.”

You feel the burning in your throat and that uncontrollable urge to cry, but there are at least five patients waiting for you and you can't let yourself get upset during a shift.

“I get it,” you continue, quieter now. “If you don’t want me. If you don’t want this. All I ever wanted was honesty.” A breath. “I guess that was too much to ask.”

“What? No—that’s not—”

“There's nothing to talk about,” you say, more quietly now. “You've said enough by staying away.”

Jack opens his mouth, closes it. For the first time since you walked in, he seems truly at a loss for words.

The door closes behind you with a click too soft for the weight left on the other side.

And the five-minute break never comes.

The door still vibrates slightly when Robby appears in the hallway. He almost bumps into you as you leave, your steps too fast, your eyes too glazed, your hands clenched as if holding something invisible.

He peeks as you turn the corner like a hurricane and then peeks into the room, Jack is still standing there. Shirtless. Gauze hangs uselessly from his shoulder, like he’s forgotten why he started bandaging himself at all.

Robby crosses his arms.

“Care to explain why my favorite resident just ran down the hall like she saw a ghost?”

Jack doesn't answer right away. He runs his hand over his face, dragging his fingers across his jaw, as if trying to reorganize his thoughts.

“She... came in here.”

Robby deadpans. “Astute.”

Jack lets out a short, humorless breath. “Remember the person I told you I was seeing?”

“Yeah,” Robby says. “You haven’t shut up about her for two weeks and—”

It hits him.

Robby's eyes widen and he takes a deep breath, finally connecting the dots. He exhales slowly, looking from the hallway to Jack, then back again.

“Oh,” he says. “Oh, shit.”

“It wasn't supposed to happen like this.” Abbot confesses, putting on his black shirt.

“You have...” Robby looks at his watch and then at Abbot. “Two minutes and fifteen seconds to tell me why I'm having to explain to the rest of the team why two of the most competent people in this hospital can't stay in the same room.”

Jack doesn’t answer. Which, somehow, is answer enough.

The clock strikes 6:42 p.m.

You’ve made it. Another shift survived. Another day where you held yourself together through sheer will, teeth clenched, tears packed away like contraband. You feel wrung out, empty in the way that only comes after sustained effort. Like you’ve been bracing for impact for twelve hours straight.

You avoid Robby for the rest of the shift with surgical precision. You reroute. You duck into rooms. You answer questions with clipped efficiency and give him nothing to latch onto. The fewer conversations, the fewer cracks.

With your backpack on, you sneak past Santos, who is showing Javadi something on her phone. You are finally ready to go when Dr. Shen appears.

“Has anyone seen Dr. Abbot around?”

Javadi and Santos look at Dr. Shen, while you pretend not to have heard the question.

“Last time I saw him,” Javadi says, “he was taking the elevator.”

Oh, damn.

Dr. Shen thanks you and heads off. As you walk toward the exit with Santos and Javadi, your steps slow, the weight in your chest pulling you back like gravity has shifted.

“Aren't you coming?” Javadi asks.

“I—uh.” You swallow. “I forgot my charger in the break room. You guys go ahead. I’ll catch up.”

Santos shrugs easily. “Cool. I’m starving. I’d sell my soul for a burger right now.”

Instead of going straight to the break room—another lie you had told—you took the elevator to the PTMC terrace.

As you pushed open the heavy door, the pleasant breeze hit you full force. Sirens wail below, traffic hums and collides and stretches endlessly into the city, the soundscape overwhelming, catastrophic, alive.

And there he is.

You took a deep breath and walked slowly until you were close enough.

Only you and Robby knew about this “hiding place.” How Jack hid from all the chaos, even from his own mind, by coming up here.

Jack stands at the railing, back to you, staring out at the horizon like the city owes him answers. The wind tangles his short, graying hair, pulls at the hem of his black shirt, presses fabric to muscle in a way that feels deeply unfair. The outline of him is unmistakable, so solid and familiar.

You draw in a slow breath and force your feet to move, each step deliberate, cautious, like approaching a live wire. The wind carries the scent of concrete and exhaust and something faintly metallic. The city pulses beneath you, indifferent.

Jack doesn’t turn.

For a moment, you wonder if he knows you’re there anyway. If he’s always known.

Jack glances over his shoulder, registers you there, then turns back to the horizon like it’s safer than looking at you for too long.

“They're looking for you down there,” your voice cut through the wind.

Jack nodded slightly. “I'll be back in a minute.”

“Should I be worried?”

“I'm fine.”

You nod, because that’s what you do when you don’t believe someone but don’t have the strength to argue. Your fingers curl tighter around your bag strap. When you turn to leave, you take two steps.

Again, he turned and closed his eyes, admiring the beauty of the silence between him and the abyss. When he opened his eyes again, you were there, beside him.

“What are you doing?”

“Looking.”

“Be careful.”

You gave him a ‘seriously?’ look. Because you knew how to take care of yourself and he knew it, but looking out for you was a reflex he couldn't help.

The city roars below you, filling the void as you hold on to the only thing that could keep you from falling.

“I’m furious with you,” you say, the words scraping their way out. “I’m so furious, Jack.”

“I know, sweetheart.” Jack lowers his head and then takes a deep breath. “And I hate myself for it.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitate, then push forward anyway. “You could’ve talked to me, you know?” you say. “I would’ve understood. You know I’d have.” You turn toward him, hair whipping across your face, the vertigo of the height buzzing in your bones. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”

“Careful—”

Jack takes a deep breath and grabs your arm, and that alone is enough to make your heart race. Quickly, he grabs your waist and helps you jump over the steel bar to the inside of the terrace. 

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You almost killed me.”

“Jack.”

He drags a hand down his face, frustration etched into every line of him. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Do what, Jack?” you almost scream, desperate for an answer, but your voice is swallowed by the wind, by the noise of everything.

He doesn’t answer right away, his jaw tightens. 

“Love you,” he concludes. “I don’t deserve it. I don’t know if I’m even capable of giving you what you deserve.”

You stand there, listening to the man you love explain—quietly, honestly—why he’s afraid he will never be enough.

You stand there, stunned, tears drying around your eyes, hair whipping your face.

“I should’ve said something sooner, because this—this is all I want.” He exhales, a short, humorless laugh slipping out. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted. I mean… look at you.”

There’s no charm in it. Just pure disbelief.

“From the first time I saw you, you tormented my every thought and made me believe that I still deserved it, that I was still worthy of it, of this feeling, of love.”

There were unshed tears in his eyes, just as there was a rock-hard honesty on his face.

“Bottom line, kid,” he says, voice cracking, “I don’t deserve you. My head’s too fucked up to be in a relationship. To let myself fall into something where I know I’ll drag you somewhere dark, somewhere even I can’t get out of. Fuck, that's—that's fucking unfair to you because I—”

His breathing is shallow, fragile, and choppy.

“I love you,” he says finally. “I loved you long before you ever said it out loud.” 

He shrugs like the admission costs him something vital and stuffs his hands into his pockets, as if he might come apart if he doesn’t anchor himself.

You blink a few times, feeling the sting of tears splashing your vision.

“So when you say I didn’t want you—when you think that—” His voice breaks. “My God, you’re the thing I want most in this world.”

You step closer. The distance between you collapses like it was never real to begin with, and then look deep into his eyes.

“I’m right here,” you whisper, eyes locked on his. “I’ve been here the whole time.”

“I know, sweetheart.” His mouth tilts sadly. “I’m just an old man with too many ghosts for you.”

“Don’t say that.” You scold him while a tear slips free, hot against your cheek. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“It's just—”

“Jack,” you interrupt softly. “I love you. When I said I loved you that day, it's because I feel it here,“ you place your hand over your chest, where your heart is pounding like a drum. ”It's because my heart overflows with happiness when I'm with you, because you complete me in every possible way. And I’ve never felt anything this real before. So when I say it, I mean it.”

Jack hesitates, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

You move closer, touching his face with your fingertips, as if he might disappear at your touch.

“I want all of you,” you say through your tears. “The good and the heavy and the parts you think make you unlovable. We’ll carry it together. I want to make it lighter for you, if I can.”

He exhales, shaky. “I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

“Of all people, Jack Abbot,” you say quietly. “You have my heart.”

“And you have mine,” he adds without hesitation.

“Then let’s do this together,” you whisper. “Please.”

That crooked half-smile appears, the one that undoes you completely. He pulls you in by the waist, and the relief of being held hits you so hard you laugh softly, breathless, because this is where you belong. You sway slightly, forehead to forehead, both of you trying to memorize the feeling of still being here.

“Are you sure?” he asks.

“I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He kisses the top of your head, and you rest against his chest, his warmth surrounding you like shelter. Your hand slips up his back, carefully, until it brushes the edge of the bandage. He shudders.

“That’s for flirting with Al-Hashimi,” you murmur.

You feel his chest vibrate as he laughs. “I'm sorry I hurt you, sweetheart.”

You lift your head, cradle his face. “You're forgiven. Now, I need you to do something...”

You’re too close now. The wind whistles around you. His hands tighten at your waist. His nose brushes yours, breath mingling, familiar and grounding.

“You don't have to ask twice.”

When he kisses you, devouring your lips with a hunger full of longing, you melt into his arms. You are as one, tangled up in wind, salt tears, and love. Jack makes a point of showing you how desperate he was without you: hands everywhere, lips eager and full of lust as he guides your head back each time he moves forward.

When you finally pull back, you wrap your arms around his neck and smile into his shoulder.

“Shen’s going to kill you when he finds you.”

“Worth it.”

You brush your thumb along his cheekbone, your eyes shining. There are still tears there, but they’re different now, it’s a love that overflows there, a strong and vibrant love that you want to give him without asking for anything in return.

“I love you,” you whisper.

He holds you tighter, kisses your head.

You hold the thin sheet to your bare chest and shift further up the headboard, bending your knees to accommodate his body when he sits on the edge of the mattress to tie his laces. Your eyes soften, waiting for him to look back at you.

He never does.

More quietly, you tell him, “I asked if you wanted to order food. ‘Cause I don’t really feel like cooking right now and, depending on what you want, we should probably wait to order ‘cause Love Island doesn’t come on for another hour, and—”

Jack’s scruffy chin brushes the thin fabric of his shirt as he turns his head slowly to look at you. There’s a distance in his eyes that cuts you off, like you’re a quick fuck that doesn’t know when to stop talking, like he’s waiting for you to stop so he can get away.

“I think I’m gonna head out now, actually,” he tells you, then returns to knot his laces.

“Oh…” you hum, half-breathless, and pretend his foreign dismissiveness doesn’t tear your chest in two. “Are you… Are you okay—?”

“Yeah,” he shrugs and rises from the mattress. “I’m fine. I just— Need to get home.”

You follow him with wet eyes as he rounds the bed for the opposite side, where his phone and wallet sit on the nightstand and his branded rucksack rests on the floor. “Well, do you want me to wait to watch it with you? ‘Cause then I have to text Princes and tell her not to spoil it for me in the morning—”

“Go ahead,” Jack shrugs, with a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, as he slides the camo strap over his broad shoulder. “I think I’ll survive a week without it.”

Your frown deepens at his joke.

“Did I do something?” you wonder in a meek voice that makes his chest ache.

“No,” he scoffs. “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

“I don’t know…” you murmur shyly, shifting on the mattress and grimacing slightly when the sticky sheets cling to your thighs. “You never leave right after we have sex, so I— I didn’t know if, maybe… It wasn’t good for your something, or if I said something—”

“No, it was great—” Jack interjects, but cuts himself off quickly thereafter, like he was about to say something he shouldn’t.

The word ‘honey’ was about to roll off his tongue the way it always does when he’s talking to you, but it feels wrong to say it now, for a reason he still can’t name that threatens to strangle him all the same.

“I just gotta go now. Okay?”

At a loss for what else to do, or what else to say that might make him stay, you just nod with a sad smile. “Sure…”

Jack leaves with a polite nod — like the sex was some sort of mindless transaction he’s thanking you for and not something you’ve done quite regularly for the past several months. He doesn’t speak another word to you when he walks out, and doesn’t look back at you once when he shuts the door behind him.

You stew in his absence and forget to eat.

Your tired body functions the following day on nothing but heartache and half a granola bar.

You drown in the bustling emergency department, and in the void of the white screen ahead of you, where you try and fail to do your charting. You can’t quite garner the strength to use your hands, much less use your brain to put letters on the screen that’ll just look like alphabet soup to you anyway. You’re stuck idling in the emptiness inside of you, where your heart withers along with your stomach.

Robby watches from afar, studying you as he flits between patients and residents requiring his attention. He has, self-admittedly, quite the soft spot for you — because you’re the smartest person on this floor and the most sensitive, too, which makes for a great doctor but very often the saddest person you’ll ever meet. He waits for you to correct yourself before he has to step in, and potentially make your day worse than it’s obviously already going.

You don’t move for six minutes straight.

He timed it.

“What is going on over here?” Robby wonders slowly, leaning over the top of the desk and peering down at you with a pair of stern brown eyes.

You blink rapidly to clear the haze of rumination from your vision and shrink into your cushioned seat like a scolded child. “Charting…” you answer with an unconvincing waver in your voice.

“Looks like it,” Robby scoffs with a hint of a smile that gets lost in his greying beard. He taps the desk with his palm and stands to full height again, nodding his head and urging you to follow him. “C’mon. Walk with me.”

He saunters off in the opposite direction of the work station, taking a tablet that Dana hands to him as he goes. It takes a long moment for his words to compute, and you scramble to your feet when he throws you an expectant look over his shoulder. You fall into step with the older man as he drags his glasses from the shirt pocket of his black scrubs.

Robby sets the black frames on the bridge of his nose and wonders aloud with his gaze turned to the screen in his hand, “What’s going on with you today, kid?”

“It’s nothing,” you shrug dismissively, sticking close to the man’s side as you weave within the crowded hall.

He flashes you an unenthusiastic glare in return. His eyes dart between your furrowed brows, to your anxiety-bitten lips (where your teeth dig into the delicate skin even now), to where you wrench the hem of your long-sleeved undershirt into trembling fists. Whatever it is, it’s very clearly not nothing.

“I’m not asking to be polite, kid,” the older man tells you, firm but not entirely unkind. “I can tell something’s wrong, and it’s affecting your work, so— Just tell me.”

You swallow hard and struggle to find the courage to speak, or to meet the man’s gaze as your eyes dart everywhere but back at him.

“It’s about your friend…” you confess in a sheepish murmur that gets lost in the droning of the bustling E.R.

It takes Robby a moment or more to catch your meaning.

“Jack?” he presses, because he knew the two of you were seeing each other, but not that it was quite so serious to warrant the off-day you’re having now. He makes a mental note to ream Abbot out for it the next time he sees him — ‘cause he can’t have any of his residents upset, least of all you.

You nod with an averted gaze. “He’s just… been off—”

“He’s always off,” Robby scoffs.

“Well, not with me,” you tell him, foreignly firm in your quiet argument. “And now he’s not talking to me, and I have no idea what I did…”

“Well, knowing Jack, you probably didn’t do a damn thing,” Robby concedes with a heavy sigh and flashes you a sympathetic look as you turn the corner. “Just give him some time, alright? He’ll come around. He always does. For now, you’ve got a patient in 8 that’s asking for you—”

Before you can make a guess on who it is — though you think you already know the answer — a strong hand wrenches suddenly around your wrist.

The man’s fingers are warm, calloused, and unwavering against your delicate skin. Your heart lurches into your throat at the sudden panic as your chin snaps towards the man towering over you. He’s tall, bearded, rugged, and so angry he’s red in the face.

“I have been waiting out there…” the man starts, taut voice wavering with a withheld fire. “…For four hours. When the hell am I gonna see somebody?”

“How did you get back here?” is the first thing you think to squeak out, because you vaguely recall McKay sending him back to Chairs after taking his vitals some time ago.

Robby steps in then, cutting between you and the stranger to urge him backward and away from you. You rub at your tender wrist when the man’s brutal touch is gone.

“We’re seeing the sickest patients first, sir. So count yourself lucky you aren’t back here,” Robby explains in an even voice, sounding much calmer than he really feels. “But touch anybody in here like that again, and you won’t be seen at all. Got it?”

The man caves with a heavy breath and with his weathered palms splayed in surrender. “I was just asking a question, man…”

“I’ll handle it, boss,” Ahmad cuts in, rushing towards the three of you after catching sight of the altercation from down the hall. He steps between the two of you and the angry patient and ushers him back toward the waiting room.

“Don’t touch me,” you hear the man spit, but complying anyway.

“Trust me, man,” Ahmad quips. “I don’t want to.”

It takes you a long moment thereafter to catch your breath.

It was certainly not the first time you’ve been grabbed by an unhappy patient, and it would certainly not be the last, but you can never quite get used to the fear. The panic is slow to ebb from your veins, even as the man is escorted back to Chairs. You find him sneering silently at you when you catch his eyes, moments before the door shuts behind him.

Robby steps into your tunnel vision, ducking down to meet your gaze with dark eyes glimmering with worry. “You alright, kid? Did he get you?”

“I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory and muster a smile that doesn’t quite meet your eyes. “I’ve seen my fair share of assholes, Robby. Today, even.”

“Well, yeah,” the man scoffs playfully. “You’re with Abbot— I’m sure you’re an expert at dealing with assholes by now…”

By all accounts, you were not supposed to have favorites at the PTMC. And you didn’t really; everyone who stepped foot into the E.R. got the same level of medical care from you — even the assholes. But Louie Cloverfield was different, special. He was the first patient you ever saw as an R1, and when he kept coming in, and you kept picking up his cases, he became your patient.

If Louie was in, and you were on shift, you were the one tending to him. Always.

So, you stay by his side when he loses his pulse, even when the rest of the E.R. reduces to the inevitable chaos of the afternoon rush — even when you know the rest of your co-workers could probably use your help out there now — even when you know there’s nothing more you can do for Louie to keep him alive.

Sweat beads on your forehead as you kneel at his bedside, pounding firmly at the man’s chest in a feeble attempt to keep his heart beating. You’ve lost feeling in your arms now — they’ve gone from aching, to burning, to utterly numb — but your attempt at resuscitation never stops, not even as dark crimson blood spits from his breathing tube; the clearest sign of blood in his lungs.

Robby watches from the back of the room, keeping a close eye on you and the bodies donned in camo outside the window — as the TEMS unit treats a trauma patient across the way, with Jack Abbot among them. He catches the man glancing around the crowded E.R. for a moment, peering over passing heads for a glimpse of you, before the work inevitably drags him away.

Robby knows you have not yet noticed Jack’s presence.

You’ve got the sort of tunnel vision you always get in a crisis, when you refuse to move on until you’ve helped the person in front of you first — which has undoubtedly made you the very backbone of the PTMC patient satisfaction score, though at a detriment to yourself perhaps. Because you never know when to stop; and then, when you inevitably have to, you’ll always find a way to blame yourself for it.

“Three minutes since the epi,” you hear Perlah say, over the sound of your pounding heartbeat in your ears.

“Hold compressions,” Robby commands.

You stop on instinct, and feel the ache done into your bones. You exhale heavy breaths as you wipe sweat from your brow with the back of your gloved hand, careful to avoid the drops of blood spotted there. You feel like your chest is tearing in two when that same, menacing beeping sound fills the air.

“Aystotle,” Robby sighs. “Resume compressions.”

“Give me another amp of epi— and more suction,” you say through panted breaths, situating your palms back over the older man’s sternum. You look past the rogue flyaways falling over your eyes and the nurses crowded around you, peering at Robby with a determined but no less pleading gaze. “What do we do? Should we— Should we give PCC?”

Robby shakes his head with his arms crossed over his chest. “No, it’s too late for that…” he hums sympathetically. “And he’s not an ECMO candidate, so—”

“Well, can you tell me something that we can do?” you snap, harsher than you mean to.

Robby only softens further, dark eyes going tender around the edges as he tells you, “There’s nothing else we can do for him, kid…”

“Robby,” you whimper, flinching like he’s hurt you, but never once stopping your compressions. “C’mon. Please, we can— We can think of something— We still have two more rounds of epi, maybe it’ll—”

“He’s gone, kid…” Robby tells you, voice taut. “It’s okay.”

You exhale a punched-out breath, like not being able to save Louie hits you like a fist to the stomach. Your aching arms tingle with numbness when you part from the unconscious man. That wretched beeping fills the air once more, ringing through your ears and pounding skull.

“12:07,” you hear Robby announce the time of death, as Perlah’s soft hands grasp gently at your shoulders.

“C’mon. I’ll clean up,” the woman tells you, sniffling. “You take a second.”

“I’m fine,” you shrug, half-strangled, as you slip the bloodied gloves from your half-numb hands. You blink back burning tears as you walk them to the trash.

“You’re not,” Robby murmurs, head bowed to meet your averted gaze. “And that’s okay. Just take a second.”

You remind yourself to breathe — in for seven beats and out for eight — as the muffled exam room breaks away into the chaotic E.R. The rest of it becomes a blur in your tunnel vision, and the calls for concern turn to inaudible slurs in your ears.

“Whoa… you okay?” you only vaguely hear Trinity ask as you storm past the work station.

“Fine,” you squeak on instinct, despite the obvious.

“Oh, yeah, he totally croaked in there,” Ogilvie murmurs, as though to gossip with her, but forgetting to be subtle about it.

“Do you ever think before you speak?” Santos quips. “Or is the stupidity genetic?”

Your heavy eyes search for an empty room to duck into, to at least muffle your screams before you cry in front of everyone. There is no patient in the bed in Central 15, so you burst into that one, still struggling to catch your breath.

Your much-needed inhale gets caught in your chest at the sight you find in the corner of the room — Jack Abbot, stripped off his shirt and wiping blood from his stomach, with Samira standing just behind him, tending carefully to the scrape on his back.

Your sneaker scuffs the tile as you still suddenly in place.

The sound of your sudden presence makes them freeze, too. Their heads dart in your direction, gaping with wide eyes and parted mouths as if you’d just caught them doing something terrible. In a way, it feels like you have.

It feels like you’ve stumbled upon some achingly tender moment between them, of which you had been deprived for some time now — because even when Jack was with you, he was a thousand miles away. You wonder if, maybe, a part of him wanted to be here — with Samira, perhaps — and if that’s why he had left you so abruptly last night, as if it had only occurred to him then that you were no longer what he wanted.

You wouldn’t have blamed him for it, if that were the case. You just wish he would’ve told you before now, so it would feel like less of a white-hot knife lodged into the center of your sternum to find him this way.

“Sorry,” you just barely manage to choke out, though it gets lost in a whimper as you fight back the urge to cry.

Jack’s scruffy chest pinches with worry at the crack in your fragile voice and the visibly frazzled sight of you, all wild-haired and glassy-eyed. It hurts him far worse than the wounds burning red-hot on his pale skin now.

“What happened?” he asks, greying brows lowered in concern.

Samira stills with her soft fingers on Jack’s broad, freckled shoulder, touching him with a tenderness he hasn’t let you give him in some time.

“Are you okay?” she wonders, soft with a worry that is always sincere coming from here, but finds you more like a slap in the face just now.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer on muscle memory, then sniffle as you shake your head at yourself. “I’m not, actually— I don’t know why I said that— Louie just died. Pulmonary hemorrhage. And I was just looking for an empty room to cry in, I didn’t mean to… to interrupt…”

“You didn’t,” Jack assures you, parting from Samira to take a step closer to you.

It takes quite a lot of strength from you to turn away from him, instead of leering at his shirtless form or cowering at the gentle look in his light eyes. “I-I’ll see myself out,” you stammer hopelessly. “Sorry…”

You just barely hear Jack calling your name before the heavy glass door shuts behind you.

With nowhere else to go, and not willing to face the embarrassment of walking back the way you came, you make a beeline for the ambulance bay. The automatic doors part for you, and the cool air outside takes your breath away a second later.

Your chest hitches as you inhale a sniveling breath, trying and failing to regulate your breathing. You stand at the edge of the curb with one hand balled into a fist and one hand clutching your aching chest. Your heart’s telling you that you’re having an embolism and you’re about to keel over at this very moment; your brain’s telling you that you’re just having a panic attack and you need to suck it the hell up.

“Hey,” a man calls from further down the sidewalk.

Your head snaps in the direction of the familiar voice. You tense at the sight of the man who had grabbed you earlier, and your aching heart forgets to beat when you see him storming over to you. You find he’s wearing a smile on his bearded face when he’s close enough, but it looks more cynical than kind.

“You’re the nurse who got me kicked out earlier, aren’t you?” he asks.

You don’t have the breath or the bravery to correct him now.

“I’m sorry, sir…” you sniffle, wet-eyed, and turn away. “It’s just… It’s been a long day, okay? I didn’t mean for you to get escorted out. You just scared me, that’s all. I’m—”

You turn to face him again when he’s standing ahead of you. But before the words of an apology can spill from your mouth, his weathered fist collides with your nose.

You hear a sharp crack, a wet whoosh, and then the dull slap of your body hitting the pavement. You grimace when the back of your skull meets the concrete, and struggle to blink away the black spots from your vision.

The very first face you see is Langdon’s, though you’re not quite sure how long it’s been since your eyes have closed — a few seconds, maybe, or several minutes. You’re still lying on the rough pavement when you come to, with Frank’s gentle fingers brushing the hair out of your eyes with one hand and shining his penlight into your eyes with the other.

“There you are…” the man coos. “What happened to you out here?”

You hardly hear him, like he’s speaking to you from underwater. You answer him with a question of your own, lifting your trembling fingers to the dull throbbing sensation in your nose.

“Is… Is it bad?” you wonder aloud, half-slurring. You grimace first at the wet feeling on your cupid’s bow, then at the bright scarlet blood staining your fingertips. You whisper, voice breaking. “Ow…”

“Whoa, careful there…” Mel wavers, rushing from behind Langdon to help you when you try to sit up on your own. She crouches down beside him and takes you by the elbows in a pair of gentle hands. She squints behind her glasses when your inhale rattles in your chest. “Did you fall on your back?”

“Did somebody hit you?” Langdon presses from her other side, bushy brows lowered in worry.

“Wow…” you mumble, blinking hard, and wincing when you taste blood in your mouth. “So many questions…”

Mel and Langdon share a panicked look you don’t see.

“Yeah, c’mon. Let’s go,” the older man sighs, urging you up by the elbows and steadying you when you sway softly in place. “Come with me…”

“I can walk,” you protest through your ragged breaths, and through the blood dripping from your cupid’s bow and into your mouth. You pull your arm out of his grasp when the strength to do so returns to you, and stagger the rest of the way to the entrance until you regain your footing. “Just… Be normal, alright?”

“Right…” Langdon scoffs and fights back the urge to laugh — because you obviously have no idea how you look right now, with the lower half of your face all covered in blood, as if you’ve just been rescued from a bar fight. There’s hardly anything normal about that.

You try to be, anyway, as you stroll through the crowded E.R., hoping to be blanketed by the chaos inside. Everyone’s too busy charting or rushing to patients to notice your being there. You’re five or more steps away from making it to the bathroom when Robby’s eagle-eyed stare locks in on you from behind his computer.

“Jesus fucking Christ…” the older man blurts, sliding off his glasses and rising from his chair. He abandons his work without a second thought and rounds the workstation to rush to your side.

“I’m okay,” you tell him with a dismissive wave of your hand, pressing onward even when you hear his footsteps nearing you. He stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder and steps in front of you to block your path.

“What the hell happened to you?” he wonders aloud, looking past you to Langdon and Mel as he drags a pair of gloves from his scrub pockets.

“We found her like this,” Frank shrugs.

“I told you to take a break, not get into a bar fight.”

“Ha-ha,” you monotone, then flinch when it hurts to smile. “Ow…”

“Who did this, huh?” Robby asks, cupping your bloodied face in his gloved hands. He runs his fingers over the back of your head first, to make sure you have no wounds there, before pressing his thumbs gently to the apples of your cheeks. “It wasn’t that asshole from before, was it?”

“I didn’t see him,” you lie through your teeth.

“Any trouble seeing? Any double vision?”

You shake your head against his hands, then inhale another rattling breath.

“Did you fall on your back?” he asks you then.

You nod once.

“What about a headache?”

“I always have a headache,” you answer. “I’m fine, Robby. I just need to get cleaned up—”

“Look at you— You’re not fine,” the man snaps. “Now, c’mon. You’re coming with me.”

You have no choice but to follow him when he wraps a firm, gentle hand around your arm, ushering you to walk ahead of him. You ignore the looks and calls of concern from the coworkers around you, except for Mel’s voice, which comes from behind you.

“Should I find Dr. Abbot?” she wonders aloud.

Your head snaps over your shoulder to look at her, and it makes your vision swim.

“Absolutely do not do that,” you answer, a little harsher than you mean to.

“O-kay…” she stammers and trails off.

“In here,” Robby urges, swinging open the door to the nearest empty room. He keeps a steady hand on your back to keep you stable and turns back to Mel before he follows you inside. “Find Abbot,” he tells her.

You lie on your back on the hospital bed while Robby does an impromptu exam. He presses the cold chestpiece of his stethoscope to your skin and listens to your breathing until it evens out again, from where the air had rushed out of your lungs after the fall. He finds your pupils both equal and reactive, and your nose free from swelling or cracking — “Nothing that mother nature can’t fix,” he says, and takes to cleaning you up instead.

“These beds are so hard,” you murmur, shifting uncomfortably with an icepack pressed to your nose, which Princess had brought by some minutes ago. “We should really get new ones in here. How are patients supposed to be comfortable in these?”

“Yeah, I’ll go tell Gloria,” Robby scoffs, dabbing at your nose with a wet wipe. “I’m sure she’ll get right on that…”

He parts from you to chuck the red-tinted napkin into the bin at his side and waits for you to laugh at his stupid joke. You stay silent. You don’t even give him a pity giggle, and you always, at the very least, give him a goddamn pity giggle. His brows furrow in a mixture of confusion and concern.

“Can I ask you a stupid question?”

“Better than anyone I know, Dr. Robby…”

“Ha-ha,” he deadpans, reaching for another wipe with a gloved hand. It’s freezing against the burning skin of your neck as it dabs it gently there. “Why didn’t you want me telling Abbot about this, huh?”

“Because he doesn’t care…” you mumble cynically, almost inaudibly so.

“Oh, c’mon,” Robby scoffs. “Even you don’t believe that.”

You don’t. Not really. You know Jack cares, if only because it’s in his blood to do so. His basic human empathy is what made him such a good doctor. You just aren’t sure that he cares about you in the way you thought he did — in the way you wanted him to — and you’re not quite sure how to voice that to Robby now.

“He’s busy right now,” you answer instead, still half-hidden behind the icepack. “Too busy for me, and I don’t wanna bother him, so… Just drop it.”

Robby flashes you a sympathetic smile that you don’t see as he swipes at the last bit of blood from your skin. “I know he may not act like it, kid, but he does care about you.”

“You’re right,” you mumble. “He doesn’t act like it—”

Jack Abbot bursts into the room like a red-hot flame through a burning house. His broad chest heaves with panted breaths beneath the thin navy shirt he wears in place of his tactical gear, though his camo pants still sit heavy on his waist.

His wild eyes scan your form. “What the hell’s going on in here?” he blurts.

You glare at Robby from behind the icepack. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, I know…” the man sighs, dropping the crumpled wipe into the trash beside him.

“What happened?” Jack presses, more firmly this time.

“Nothing,” you murmur shyly, unable to meet his gaze when he towers at your bedside with his hands on his hips. “It’s not the first time someone’s swung at me—”

“Yeah, but it’s the first time it’s been this bad. Bad enough that someone had to come get me,” Jack argues, made a bit harsher with the concern pinching at his chest. His head whips over his shoulder. “Who the hell did this?”

“Some guy from Chairs, I think,” Robby shrugs. “Name’s Driscoll. Ahmad’s already handling it. He’ll deal with the police.”

“Good,” Jack nods, firm in a way you’ve always adored about him. He was inherently resolute where you were perpetually indecisive. It mostly came in handy when you struggled to figure out what to eat for dinner, not usually in situations like this. “‘Cause we’re pressing charges on this asshole, alright?”

“Honestly, Jack, I don’t care what you do…” you sigh. “But my head is really starting to hurt, and I really don’t feel like handling this right now.”

“On it,” Robby nods, taking the hint and stalking out of the room. He shuts the curtains after him and dims the light as he goes. The noise of the Pitt muffles again when the door closes behind him, leaving you and Jack alone in the not-quite-silence and the not-quite-dark.

“Here. C’mon,” the man urges suddenly, motioning with his chin. “Make room for me.”

“What?” you ask, eyes squinted in confusion as the man turns to sit on the edge of the twin-sized bed, adjusting his prosthetic to swing it over the side.

He gives you an expectant look over his shoulder. “Scooch,” is all he says, in a strangely strong voice despite the very silly command.

You shift on the thin mattress despite your better judgment to make room for him. Jack urges his right leg up first, then his left one second. He settles in beside you and urges the railings up to keep him from falling off the side. You try to do the same, though you possess a lot less strength with only one hand than the man beside you.

Your breath catches when he reaches over you with a strong hand, helping you lift the barrier the rest of the way.

“Thanks…” you mumble, half-shy.

“Don’t mention it,” he huffs politely, with one arm on his stomach and the other curled around your shoulders, keeping you close to accommodate both your bodies on the twin-sized bed. He smells of sweat and musky cologne and antiseptic. It takes everything in you not to melt into his warmth. You remain tense beside him, feeling slightly strange in his hold in a way you never have before.

“I’m sorry about, Louie—”

“You don’t have to do this—” you blurt simultaneously.

His head snaps over to you. He has to jerk his scruffy chin back to look at you properly from the dwindling proximity between you. His eyes dart between your averted gaze and the slowly melting icepack you fidget with like a stress ball.

“Do what?” he asks.

“I didn’t mean to walk in on you and Samira, okay?” you confess quietly, ‘cause any octave higher, and your voice will start to shake. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean to make it a whole thing, you know? So you don’t have to come in and pretend to be all nice just because you think I’m upset, ‘cause I’m not.”

(Your rambling is hardly convincing in the matter, but he makes no mention of it.)

“Okay. I hear you,” Jack murmurs gently, always so patient with your rambling, even though he can only halfway comprehend it a lot of the time. “But I’m still not sure what Mohan has to do with this—”

Honey, he wants to say, but doesn’t allow himself.

“If you want to be with her, that’s okay— Or if it’s just because you don’t wanna be with me, that’s okay, too,” you explain in a strangely even voice. “But I wish you would’ve just told me, instead of bailing on me last night—”

“I didn’t bail on you—”

“—So then I wouldn’t have to catch you and Samira doing…” you trail off, face screwed. “Whatever the hell you were doing back there.”

“Catching us?” Jack echoes with a laugh you can feel rumbling against your shoulder. “That would imply we were doing something worth getting caught. She just walked in on me while looking for her patient, that’s all.”

“Yeah, well…” you hum, gaze averted to the icepack in your lap. “It seemed pretty intimate…”

“It wasn’t.”

“More intimate than you’ve been with me,” you argue sheepishly.

“Well, not to be crude here, but…” Jack trails off with an audible smile in his voice. “We literally had sex last night.”

“Yeah, and you left,” you spit, turning to look at him for the first time since he stormed in. You wear a wet look in your glassy eyes and a bruise blooming on the bridge of your nose. “And I cried myself to sleep about it. Which means I didn’t get to watch Love Island, which means I forgot to eat, which means I’m running on fumes on what has arguably been the worst shift of my whole life.”

You take a much-needed breath when the words are gone from your mouth.

Jack does not jump immediately to defend himself. He knows he doesn’t deserve it now. He just lets himself stew in your fiery words instead, so you know they’ll have a real impact on him before he responds.

“You’re right,” he sighs after a few long moments. “I’m sorry—”

“Don’t be sorry,” you shake your head at his apologetic tone. “Just don’t… Don’t be so mean, you know? If you don’t wanna be with me anymore, why can’t you just say?”

“Because I do want to be with you,” he answers, weathered features screwed in offense. “How would you ask me that?”

“Because you aren’t acting like it—”

“Because I almost told you that I loved you,” Jack blurts suddenly, in a stern tone of voice that snatches the breath from your lungs. He swallows hard and continues. “Last night, I mean, when we… I almost said it… Because I felt it, but then I… I realized I hadn’t said that to anyone since my wife passed, and it freaked me out.”

“But…” you start in a broken whisper. “Why does that have to be such a bad thing?”

“‘Cause it makes me feel guilty,” Jack answers. “The way I love you makes me feel guilty, like I’m abandoning her. And I… I don’t know what to do with all that… grief.”

You feel your heart aching, for the third or hundredth time that day. You notice Jack’s right hand hanging on your shoulder, how his fingers fidget anxiously there, and how his left hand scratches at the rough fabric of his camo pants — made overwrought by his confession, and unsure what to do with it now.

“Why don’t you just give it to me?” you wonder quietly, then shrug at the confused look Jack gives you a second later. “Your grief, I mean. I can take it. You know, make it a little more bearable for you. So you don’t have to carry it all on your own.”

The softness of your words knocks the breath from Jack’s lungs.

The corner of his mouth quirks in a wavering smile as he blinks burning tears out of his eyes. “Jesus, we're a couple of goddamn sad sacks, aren’t we, honey?” he scoffs a sad laugh and runs his free hand down his scruffy face.

Your lips twitch upward, feeling giddy but fighting it. “That’s the first time you called me that in two days…” you observe distantly.

“What?”

“Honey.”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “I’m sorry for that, too…”

“Don’t be sorry,” you repeat, this time with a smile. “Just— kiss me or somethin’…”

“Gladly,” Jack says with a wider grin.

You tilt your chin up to meet him halfway when he leans down to kiss you. His nose bumps into the side of your bruised one, as your hand reaches for his wounded shoulder. You flinch against each other in tandem.

“Ow,” you whimper.

“Ouch,” Jack winces. “Shit, honey— Sorry.”

“Are you okay?” you ask with a sympathetic scrunch to your features, cupping his scruffy face in your delicate hands. “I haven’t checked in on you yet, I know you’re hurt—”

“I’m fine,” he assures with a shake of his head, leaning instinctively into your touch. “I got a little banged up, but… I’m good now.”

“Promise?” you whisper, swiping an eyelash from his cheek with your thumb.

“I promise. I'll tell you about later,” he nods once and smooths his calloused fingers across your temple, looking at you with a tenderness you’ve been craving all day. “What about you, honey— Are you okay?”

You inhale sharply through your bruised nose and nod on a slower exhale.

“I will be,” you answer honestly for the first time all day.