i'm low on gas and you need a jacket

Andie said most things like she was issuing a command.

That was not your fault.

Mostly.

Andrew blamed you for it anyway.

You blamed the Cody side.

Craig blamed Deran.

Deran said she was simply a natural leader and everyone should stop acting surprised.

Whatever the cause, your daughter had developed a way of speaking that made even the smallest words sound like instructions from management.

"Dada sit."

"Mama up."

"Duck bed."

"No toast."

"Now."

Especially now.

Now had become a problem.

Now was no longer a word. It was a household event.

Andie used it for everything.

Bananas.

Books.

Being lifted.

Being put down after demanding to be lifted.

The yellow cup.

The other yellow cup.

A sock she had removed herself and then mourned like tragedy had personally visited her.

But there were some words she still had not quite got.

Important ones.

Soft ones.

Words you had said to her every day since before she could answer.

"Love you, baby."

At bedtime.

At breakfast.

When she left sticky handprints on your shirt.

When she shoved a cracker into your mouth with the force of a medical emergency.

When she ran toward Andrew yelling "Dada!" so hard she nearly took both of them out at the knees.

"Love you," you said constantly.

Not because you expected her to say it back.

Just because she lived inside those words.

Because they were part of the house now.

Because Andrew had lost enough time hearing love through phones and visits and recordings, and you refused to make love rare now that he was home.

The problem was that Andie had started trying to copy you.

Badly.

With confidence.

Which was the worst combination.

The first time it happened, she was sitting in the middle of the living room rug in her pink leggings, one sock, and a jumper with a small embroidered sun near the hem. Baby Duck was tucked under her arm, soft duck lay abandoned near the coffee table like old royalty displaced by a younger favourite, and Andrew was sitting cross-legged on the floor with a plastic teacup in one hand because he had apparently been invited to a breakfast meeting.

You came in from the kitchen with your coffee and stopped.

Andrew lifted the tiny cup toward you.

His expression was flat.

"Tea."

You pressed your lips together.

"Lovely."

"It's cold."

"It's pretend."

"That doesn't explain the service."

Andie reached up and pushed his hand toward his mouth.

"Dada tea."

Andrew obediently took a pretend sip.

"Thank you."

Andie nodded, satisfied, then grabbed Baby Duck and pressed the doll against her chest.

"Baby tea."

"Baby Duck wants tea too?" you asked.

Andie looked at you like you had asked whether the sky was up.

"Baby tea."

Andrew carefully tilted the cup toward the doll.

You took a sip of your actual coffee and sat on the sofa, watching them.

The sight still got you sometimes.

Andrew on the floor.

Your daughter commanding him.

The doll with the duck on its onesie.

The house full of morning noise.

A month or two ago, the idea of another baby had still felt like something you and Andrew handled with both hands, careful not to press too hard. Now it had slipped into the background of normal life. Not gone. Never gone. Just woven through.

In the calendar you had stopped staring at every time you passed.

In the vitamins tucked beside your toothpaste.

In the nights where you reached for him because you wanted him, not because a date said you should.

In Andrew's smile when Andie called Baby Duck "baby" and then immediately threw the doll into a laundry basket.

Trying had become part of life.

Not the whole of it.

This morning, the whole of it was Baby Duck receiving pretend tea while Andrew looked like a man taking toddler hospitality very seriously.

Andie cradled the doll badly, one hand around its neck, the other patting its face too hard.

"Gentle," Andrew reminded.

"Gentle," Andie repeated, patting harder.

You winced.

"Still working on gentle."

"She has the word," Andrew said.

"Not the concept."

Andie lifted Baby Duck to your face.

"Mama kiss."

You leaned down and kissed the doll's fabric forehead.

"Love you, Baby Duck."

Andie blinked.

You took another sip of coffee.

Then she pressed her face to the doll and said, very clearly:

"Luboo."

You froze.

Andrew froze.

The coffee cup stopped halfway to your mouth.

Andie, unaware that she had just cracked the morning open, continued patting Baby Duck's head.

Andrew's eyes moved to yours.

"Did she—"

"I think—"

Andie looked between you.

"Duck."

You set your coffee down very carefully.

"Andie," you said, voice already too high. "Can you say that again?"

She stared at you.

"Duck."

"No, sweetheart. The other word."

Andrew looked at you.

"The other word?"

"I panicked."

Andie hugged Baby Duck.

"Luboo."

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Andrew's entire face changed.

Not in a huge way.

Not visibly, maybe, to someone who did not know him.

But you did.

The tiny shock.

The softening.

The way his throat moved like one little toddler word had gone straight through him.

"Oh my god," you whispered.

Andie smiled.

"Baby Duck luboo."

Then she shoved the doll toward Andrew.

"Dada."

Andrew accepted Baby Duck like it was sacred.

His voice came out rougher than usual.

"Baby Duck loves me?"

Andie frowned.

"No."

You had to turn your face away.

Andrew looked wounded.

Deeply, ridiculously wounded.

"She said no very fast."

"She's still refining the concept."

Andie took the doll back from him and tucked it under her arm.

"Baby Duck luboo."

You crouched in front of her.

"Can you say love you?"

Andie looked you dead in the eyes.

"No."

Andrew muttered, "That tracks."

You shot him a look, but you were smiling too hard for it to have any real power.

"Andie," you tried again, softening your voice. "Love you."

She patted your cheek.

"Mama."

"Yes, Mama." Your heart had already climbed up into your throat. "Can you say love you, Mama?"

Andie considered you.

Then pointed toward the kitchen.

"Nanas."

Andrew made a sound.

Not a laugh exactly.

More like a man trying very hard not to lose it.

You stared at your daughter.

"I carried you."

"Nanas."

"I fed you from my actual body."

Andrew covered his mouth with one hand.

Andie looked at him.

"Dada tea."

He dropped his hand instantly.

"Yes. Of course."

You sat back on your heels.

"She said it to the doll."

"She did," Andrew said.

"First."

"Yes."

"Before either of us."

Andrew looked down at Baby Duck.

Then at Andie.

Then at you.

"She has favourites."

"She does not."

"Baby Duck first."

You pointed at him.

"You are not allowed to be jealous of a doll."

"I'm not jealous."

"You look jealous."

"I'm assessing hierarchy."

You laughed.

The sound made Andie grin.

She threw Baby Duck into your lap.

"Luboo."

Andrew looked at the doll.

Then at you.

"She meant that for the doll."

"I know."

"Not you."

"I know."

"She's being very clear."

"You are emotionally competing with Baby Duck."

"I am not."

"You are."

Andie patted Andrew's knee.

"Dada."

His whole expression softened.

Instantly.

Hopelessly.

"Yes?"

She lifted her arms.

"Up."

He picked her up.

Of course he did.

She settled on his lap, Baby Duck wedged between them, and patted his cheek with one sticky hand.

"Dada tea."

Andrew closed his eyes.

"Back to tea."

You smiled so hard your face hurt.

After the first luboo, you tried not to make it a thing.

This lasted approximately eight minutes.

In your defence, Andrew was worse.

He pretended not to be.

Badly.

He did not coax her directly. He did not crowd her or ask for it too obviously. He did not turn the word into a trick.

But he did start saying love you with suspicious frequency.

He handed Andie her yellow cup.

"Here you go. Love you."

Andie drank water and ignored him.

He caught her when she tripped over soft duck.

"Careful. Love you."

Andie shoved soft duck at his chest.

"Duck."

He helped her put blocks into a tower.

"Good job. Love you, baby girl."

Andie knocked the tower down and yelled, "Boom."

You watched from the sofa, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

Andrew looked over after the third attempt.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You have a face."

"So do you."

"I'm not doing anything."

"You are absolutely doing something."

"I tell her I love her all the time."

"You are saying it like a man leaving clues."

His mouth tightened.

Not quite a smile.

"She said it to the doll."

"Yes."

"Twice."

"Yes."

"And then to the duck."

"She loves her ducks."

"She threw soft duck at the wall yesterday."

"Love is complicated."

Andrew looked down at Andie.

She was sitting inside the laundry basket now, Baby Duck in her lap, trying to put one of your socks on the doll's head.

You could see the wanting on him.

Not jealousy.

Not really.

Nothing ugly.

Just that soft, open place fatherhood kept finding in him. The place that still looked surprised every time Andie reached for him, even though she had been doing it for months.

He wanted the word.

Of course he did.

And because he was Andrew, he also knew better than to ask for it like it was owed.

That made you love him more.

Terribly inconvenient.

You got up from the sofa and came to stand beside him.

He was leaning against the doorway between the living room and kitchen, arms folded, eyes on Andie.

You leaned into his side.

"She'll say it to you."

"I know."

"You don't know."

"I know enough."

"She may say it to Craig first."

His head turned slowly.

"That was cruel."

"She said Baby Duck first. Anything is possible."

"She'll say it to Deran and he'll never let me forget it."

You nodded solemnly.

"He will have it printed on a shirt."

Andrew looked genuinely haunted.

You laughed and tucked your hand into the crook of his elbow.

"She knows you love her."

"I know."

"She loves you."

"I know."

"She says Dada like ninety-eight times a day."

His mouth softened.

"Ninety-eight?"

"At least."

"She says Mama more."

"That's because Mama is usually holding snacks."

Andie shouted from the laundry basket, "Mama!"

You pointed.

"See?"

Andrew called back, "Mama is busy."

Andie immediately said, "Dada."

He looked at you.

"See?"

You bumped your shoulder against his.

"You want one."

"No."

"Andrew."

He sighed.

"She said it to Baby Duck."

"You are emotionally competing with Baby Duck."

"I am not."

"You are."

He glanced toward Andie.

Then back at you.

"A little."

Your chest warmed.

You rose on your toes and kissed his cheek.

"Dada luboo," you whispered.

His head turned.

His eyes narrowed faintly, but there was heat under it.

"Don't."

You grinned.

"Dada luboo."

"You're mocking my pain."

"I'm lovingly mocking your pain."

"That's still mocking."

You kissed him quickly.

"Luboo."

His mouth twitched.

"You're terrible."

"You married me."

"I know."

Andie shouted, "No sock!"

Both of you turned.

She had managed to put the sock on Baby Duck's head and was now distressed by her own success.

Andrew pushed away from the doorway.

"I've got it."

You watched him crouch by the laundry basket and carefully remove the sock from the doll while Andie lectured him in almost-words.

His shoulders were broad.

His head bent.

His hands gentle.

He looked like home.

Not the dramatic version of home.

Not the reunion version.

The ordinary one.

The one made of socks on doll heads and toddler demands and a man trying not to look disappointed that a plush duck had received affection before him.

You loved that version best, maybe.

The second luboo happened after lunch.

Not to Andrew.

This became important.

Lunch had been pasta, peas, and a small amount of chaos.

Baby Duck had been assigned a place at the table but had not been allowed in the highchair because Andie needed the highchair and also because Baby Duck had already been fed two pieces of imaginary banana and one very real pea that you had to remove from its lap.

Andrew was wiping sauce from Andie's chin when she suddenly caught his wrist and said, "No."

He paused.

"Okay."

She took the cloth from him.

Then smeared the sauce farther across her cheek.

You pressed your lips together.

Andrew stared at her.

"That was worse."

Andie smiled.

"Good."

"No."

"Good."

"No."

She looked at you.

"Mama good."

You put a hand over your heart.

"Thank you, sweetheart."

Andrew looked betrayed.

"I am also good."

Andie ignored him.

After lunch, you carried her upstairs to change her shirt because pasta sauce had made a strong attempt at becoming part of the fabric permanently.

Andrew stayed downstairs to clean the highchair, muttering something about peas and fabric dolls.

You laid Andie on the changing mat, which she tolerated for approximately two seconds before trying to roll.

"No, ma'am."

"No."

"We're changing your shirt."

"No shirt."

"Yes shirt."

"No."

"You cannot live in pasta."

"Pasta."

"Yes, exactly."

Baby Duck lay beside her, the doll's stitched smile serene in the face of domestic disorder.

You pulled the messy shirt over Andie's head and replaced it with a clean yellow one. Her hair stuck up with static.

You smoothed it down.

It sprang back.

"Hopeless," you whispered.

Andie blinked up at you.

"Mama."

"Yes?"

She lifted both hands to your face.

Her palms were still a little sticky.

You did not care.

"Mama," she said again.

Your heart softened.

"I'm here."

Her little fingers pressed into your cheeks.

Then, very seriously, very softly, she said:

"Mama luboo."

Everything stopped.

The whole house.

The air.

Your heart.

You stared at her.

Andie stared back, completely unaware that she had just turned you inside out.

"What?" you whispered.

She patted your face.

"Mama luboo."

Your eyes filled so fast it was embarrassing.

"Oh, baby."

She smiled.

Then poked your nose.

"Boop."

You laughed through a sound that was definitely not a sob, except it was.

Andrew appeared in the doorway.

"What happened?"

You turned your face toward him.

His expression changed immediately.

He looked from your wet eyes to Andie, then back to you.

"What?"

"She said it," you whispered.

Andrew went still.

"To you?"

You nodded.

His face softened.

So much.

So quickly.

There was no jealousy there.

No disappointment.

Just love.

For you.

For her.

For getting to witness some of it.

Andie lifted her arms toward him.

"Dada."

Andrew crossed the room and picked her up from the changing mat.

"What did you say to Mama?"

Andie patted his chest.

"Pasta."

You laughed, wiping your eyes.

Andrew looked at you.

You shrugged helplessly.

"She has layers."

He kissed the side of Andie's head.

Then he looked at you over her hair.

"You okay?"

"No."

His mouth softened.

"Good no?"

"Very good no."

Andie pressed her face into Andrew's shoulder.

"Dada."

He rubbed her back.

You watched him wait.

You could see it.

The tiny stillness.

The hope.

He did not say it.

Did not ask.

Did not prompt.

He just held her.

Andie lifted her head.

Looked at him.

Put one hand on his cheek.

Andrew's entire body went quiet.

You held your breath.

Andie said, "Down."

Andrew blinked.

You pressed both hands over your mouth.

His eyes closed.

"Of course."

You turned away, shoulders shaking.

"Don't laugh," he said.

"I'm not."

"You are absolutely laughing."

"I'm overcome."

"With cruelty."

"With love."

He lowered Andie to the floor.

She grabbed Baby Duck and toddled toward the hallway, leaving both of you behind like she had not just caused emotional damage.

Andrew stood there.

You stepped closer.

"She loves you."

"I know."

"She does."

"I know."

"She just wanted down."

He looked at you.

His expression was so wounded and so funny that you could not help it.

You laughed again.

He caught you around the waist before you could escape.

"That's mean."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"I'm a little sorry."

"You're not."

You wrapped your arms around his neck.

"She's making you work for it."

"I've noticed."

"You like a challenge."

His eyes warmed slightly.

"Depends."

"On?"

"Reward."

Your stomach dipped.

"Oh?"

His hands settled more firmly at your waist.

"Mm."

This was another thing that had changed lately.

Not the desire.

That had always been there.

But the ease of letting it appear in the middle of ordinary moments. In hallways. Beside changing tables. With Baby Duck abandoned somewhere nearby and pasta sauce still on your sleeve.

You lifted your eyebrows.

"Careful. Our daughter is loose."

"She's in the hall."

"With a doll and no supervision."

Andrew sighed.

"You ruin everything."

"I keep this household alive."

He kissed you anyway.

Quick.

Warm.

A little promise tucked into the pressure of his mouth.

Then he pulled back and called, "Andie?"

From the hall came a crash.

Not huge.

Not terrifying.

Just toddler-scale.

Andrew closed his eyes.

You patted his chest.

"Go earn your luboo."

He pointed at you.

"Cruel."

"Supportive."

He went.

You followed.

Andie had dropped Baby Duck into the laundry basket and looked very proud.

"Baby sleep," she announced.

Andrew crouched.

"In the laundry?"

"Sleep."

He looked at you.

You shrugged.

"Could be worse."

"Could be the bin."

"Exactly."

He nodded slowly.

"Strong standards."

By late afternoon, luboo had become a game.

A deeply unfair game.

Andie said it to Baby Duck five times.

Soft duck twice.

The suspiciously ugly duck she had not been allowed to buy, once, after apparently remembering it fondly and pointing toward the door as though it lived in the world somewhere and needed affection.

She said it to your coffee.

"Mama coffee luboo."

You understood.

You did.

She said it to the yellow cup.

"Cup luboo."

Andrew accepted that one as reasonable.

She said it to the washing machine.

"Wash luboo."

You decided not to examine that.

She did not say it to Andrew.

At all.

He handled this with dignity for about an hour.

Then Deran arrived.

That was where the situation became dangerous.

Deran came by with nappies because apparently he owed them from the calendar, though he claimed he had no memory of agreeing to this and suspected forgery.

Andie heard his voice from the hallway and sprinted toward him with Baby Duck in one arm.

"Dewan!"

Deran bent down dramatically.

"There she is."

Andie crashed into him.

He lifted her.

She grabbed his face with both hands.

You saw it happening before it happened.

So did Andrew.

He went very still.

You whispered, "No."

Andrew whispered, "Don't."

Deran looked confused.

"What?"

Andie smiled.

"Dewan."

"Yes, tiny menace?"

She patted his cheek.

"Luboo."

Silence.

Total silence.

Deran blinked.

Then his entire face changed.

Softened.

Actually softened.

"Oh," he said.

Andrew turned away.

You made a sound into your hand.

Craig, who had followed Deran in carrying an extra bag, stopped in the doorway.

"What happened?"

Deran looked at him, victorious and emotionally undone.

"She loves me."

Andrew pointed toward the kitchen without turning around.

"Leave."

Deran's mouth fell open.

"She said she loves me."

"Leave faster."

Andie clapped.

"Dewan luboo."

Craig looked delighted.

"Oh, this is excellent."

"It is not excellent," Andrew said.

You crossed to him and touched his back.

He was absolutely fine.

He was also absolutely not fine.

You were trying not to laugh because he genuinely looked like he had been betrayed by everyone in the house, including the architecture.

Deran held Andie closer.

"I'm her favourite."

"You are not," Andrew said.

"She said it to me."

"She said it to the washing machine."

Deran paused.

Then looked at Andie.

"You love the washing machine?"

Andie nodded.

"Wash luboo."

Craig choked.

You leaned into Andrew's back, laughing silently.

Deran frowned.

"That cheapens it slightly."

"Does it?" Andrew asked.

"Don't be petty."

"I'm not."

"You're jealous."

"I am not jealous of you."

"You are."

"I am jealous of the washing machine too," Craig said.

Everyone looked at him.

He shrugged.

"It does more laundry than Deran."

"Rude," Deran said.

Andie patted his cheek again.

"Dewan."

Deran softened instantly.

"Yeah, okay. Fair."

Andrew looked down at you.

You looked up at him.

His expression was flat.

You smiled sweetly.

"Good crying?"

"No."

"Good jealousy?"

"No."

"You want your luboo."

"I want peace."

"Liar."

He sighed.

Then Andie reached for him.

"Dada."

Andrew took her from Deran immediately.

Too immediately.

Deran smirked.

Andrew ignored him.

Andie settled against his chest, Baby Duck pressed between them.

For one brief, breath-held moment, you thought maybe this was it.

Maybe she had made him suffer enough.

Maybe she would pat his cheek and say the thing.

Instead, Andie turned her head toward Deran and said, "Bye."

Deran clutched his chest.

"She dismissed me."

Andrew nodded.

"Good."

Craig laughed so hard he had to put the nappies down.

Dinner was loud because Craig and Deran stayed.

That was not the plan.

It rarely was.

Craig fixed the loose shelf in the cupboard without being asked, which annoyed Andrew because he had been planning to do it, which annoyed Craig because "planning to do it" was not the same as doing it, which entertained Deran because he liked any conflict that did not require his involvement.

Andie sat in her highchair with Baby Duck in her lap and pasta sauce on her chin, saying luboo at random intervals like a tiny agent of chaos.

"Pasta luboo."

"Duck luboo."

"Cwaig luboo."

Craig went quiet.

Andrew slowly looked at him.

Craig smiled down at his plate.

"I'm saying nothing."

"You better not."

Deran leaned back in his chair.

"Where's mine?"

"You got one," you said.

"I want another."

"You are a grown man seeking validation from a toddler."

"She started it."

Andie banged her spoon.

"Dada."

Everyone froze.

Andrew did not move.

You felt your own heart leap stupidly.

Andie pointed her spoon at his plate.

"Pasta."

Deran collapsed into laughter.

Craig pressed a hand over his eyes.

Andrew stared at his daughter.

"You only want my pasta."

Andie nodded.

"Dada pasta."

You leaned over and kissed Andrew's shoulder.

"Poor baby."

He looked at you.

"Don't."

"I'm being supportive."

"You're laughing."

"Supportively."

Deran wiped his eyes.

"This is the best day I've had in months."

Andrew looked at him.

"You need to leave after dinner."

"Absolutely not. I'm staying until she says it to you or you start crying."

Andrew pointed a fork at him.

"I have never cried over words."

Craig looked at him.

You looked at him.

Deran looked at him.

Even Andie looked at him, though likely by accident.

Andrew lowered the fork.

"Recently."

You smiled into your glass of water.

After dinner, Craig and Deran did leave, mostly because Andrew stood by the door with their jackets and a look that suggested the visit had expired.

Deran bent to Andie.

"Say luboo."

Andrew made a low sound.

You elbowed him lightly.

Andie looked at Deran.

"Bye."

Deran looked devastated.

Craig laughed.

"She's done with you."

Deran pointed at Andrew.

"This isn't over."

Andrew shut the door.

Then leaned against it for one second with his eyes closed.

You were holding Andie on your hip now.

She looked at him.

"Dada tired."

His eyes opened.

His face softened.

"Yeah, baby girl. Dada tired."

She reached for him.

You handed her over.

Andrew took her, and she rested her head briefly on his shoulder.

No words.

Just that.

You watched his hand spread over her back.

Maybe he had not got the word yet.

But he had this.

He knew that.

You knew he knew.

Still, when Andie lifted her head and said, "Bath now," you watched him sigh like a man denied justice.

Bedtime came with Baby Duck, soft duck, the moon book, the yellow cup, and a formal argument about whether socks were required for sleeping.

Andie said no.

You said no as well, because you had chosen survival.

Andrew looked like he wanted to object on principle, then apparently chose marriage and silence.

You sat in the doorway of the nursery while Andrew handled the last part of bedtime.

He had become good at it.

Not perfect.

No one was perfect at bedtime.

Bedtime was a battlefield disguised as a routine.

But good.

He knew which order she liked things. Water before book. Baby Duck tucked under the blanket first. Soft duck in her left arm. Moon book, then one page of rabbit book even though he still believed the rabbit book had no structural integrity. Blanket on. Blanket kicked off. Blanket on again but only over the feet. Dada sit.

He did all of it with a patience he still insisted he did not have.

Andie lay in her little bed, eyes heavy, curls wild against the pillow.

Andrew sat on the floor beside the bed, one arm resting on the safety rail.

You were half in shadow by the doorway, knees drawn up, watching.

"Night-night, Baby Duck," Andrew said softly.

Andie blinked.

"Baby Duck luboo."

"Yes. Baby Duck loves you."

"No." Her brow furrowed. "Andie luboo Baby Duck."

"Oh." Andrew nodded seriously. "Andie loves Baby Duck."

Andie looked satisfied.

She turned her face toward the soft duck.

"Soft Duck luboo."

"Soft Duck loves you too."

"No."

Andrew paused.

"Andie loves Soft Duck?"

Andie nodded.

"Yes."

He glanced at you.

You pressed your lips together.

He looked back at her.

"Okay."

Andie's eyelids drooped.

Andrew brushed a curl gently off her forehead.

"Night-night, baby girl."

She made a tiny sound.

He leaned closer.

"Love you."

Your breath caught.

Not because he said it.

He always said it.

Every night.

But because something in the room changed.

A tiny stillness.

A soft pause.

Andie blinked at him.

Once.

Twice.

Her hand lifted clumsily and touched his face.

"Dada."

His expression softened into something almost unbearable.

"I'm here."

Her fingers patted his cheek.

Sleep-heavy.

Sticky.

Perfect.

"Dada luboo."

Andrew stopped.

Fully stopped.

You watched it happen.

The way his hand tightened on the bed rail.

The way his shoulders went still.

The way his face went blank for half a second because the feeling had hit too hard and too fast for expression.

Andie sighed.

Then closed her eyes.

Because of course she did.

Because your daughter had just emotionally destroyed her father and immediately gone to sleep like a tiny menace.

Andrew did not move.

You did not move either.

The whole room held its breath.

Then, barely audible, Andrew whispered, "Love you too."

His voice was rough.

Andie was already asleep.

Rude.

Perfect.

He stayed beside the bed for a long time.

Longer than necessary.

You let him.

You did not rush in.

Did not make a joke.

Did not say good crying? even though later you absolutely might.

You let him sit there with it.

With the word.

With the years it had taken to get him here.

With the little girl in the bed he had built, mumbling love in a word that was not quite right and somehow more perfect because of it.

Eventually, Andrew stood.

Slowly.

Carefully.

He looked down at Andie one last time.

Then came to the doorway.

You stood too.

Neither of you spoke until you were in the hallway.

The nursery door stayed open behind you.

Andrew leaned one shoulder against the wall and looked at you.

His eyes were wet.

Not much.

Enough.

You smiled softly.

"Good crying?"

He closed his eyes.

"Shut up."

Which meant yes.

You stepped into him and wrapped your arms around his waist.

He held you immediately, face turning into your hair.

For a moment, he was quiet.

Then he breathed out.

"She said it."

"She did."

"To me."

"Yes."

"After Deran."

You laughed against his chest.

He huffed, but his arms tightened.

"And the washing machine," you whispered.

"That was unnecessary."

"I'm sorry."

"You're not."

"No."

His hand moved up your back.

"She said it."

Your smile softened.

"She loves you."

"I knew that."

"I know."

"But she said it."

Your eyes stung now.

"She did."

Andrew pulled back enough to look at you.

His face was still open.

Soft in that way he only got in the dark hallways after bedtime, when the house was quiet enough for everything to catch up with him.

"How are we supposed to survive another one doing that?" he asked.

There it was.

Tiny.

Gentle.

The small thread of future slipping into the present without taking it over.

You smiled, reaching up to touch his cheek.

"Poorly."

His mouth curved.

"Yeah?"

"Very poorly."

He looked toward the nursery.

Then back at you.

There was no pressure in it.

No ache that needed solving.

Just warmth.

Hope sitting lightly between you.

You leaned up and kissed him.

Slow.

Soft.

A hallway kiss.

The kind that belonged to sleeping toddlers and open doors and all the love that had managed to survive long enough to become ordinary.

When you pulled back, Andrew's forehead rested against yours.

"Luboo," you whispered.

His eyes opened.

He stared at you.

Then his mouth twitched.

"Don't."

"Dada luboo."

"You are ruining a sacred moment."

"I am enhancing it."

"You're mocking me again."

"With love."

Andie shifted in the nursery.

Both of you froze.

A tiny sigh.

Then silence.

Andrew's hand covered your mouth gently.

"No more luboo."

You nodded solemnly against his palm.

He lowered his hand.

You immediately whispered, "Luboo."

He closed his eyes.

You laughed silently, shoulders shaking.

Then he caught your waist and pulled you closer, his mouth brushing your ear.

"You're going to pay for that."

Your stomach dipped.

"Oh?"

His hand slid to the small of your back.

Not enough to start anything in the hallway.

Enough to remind you of the morning.

Of the bedroom.

Of the fact that Andrew Cody could be ruined by his daughter and still look at you like that in the same breath.

"Later," he murmured.

You smiled.

"Promise?"

His eyes warmed.

"Yeah."

From inside the nursery, Andie sighed again.

Both of you looked toward the open door.

Baby Duck lay tucked under one of her arms.

Soft duck under the other.

Her curls were wild against the pillow, mouth slightly open, love apparently distributed throughout the household in unpredictable order.

Andrew looked at her for another moment.

Then his hand found yours.

The house was quiet.

The word was new.

The future was still unknown.

And Andrew, who had survived a lot of things by holding himself still, had been undone completely by his daughter half-asleep in the little bed he built, mumbling love in a word that was not quite right and somehow perfect.

Luboo.

Taglist - 

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But more than that, you had a crush on Pope. You were pretty sure he knew what you were doing when you always came over, but he never called you out on it.

You slowly slid the terrace door open, careful not to make too much noise, and you slipped inside. You could already spot Pope, standing at the kitchen counter with his back to you. You bit your lip when you saw his choice of dark button up. You always did like his button ups.

You were about to announce yourself, let him know you were there, when you saw him stare at his palm. He hadn't even noticed you from his peripheral vision, which was saying something because Pope was usually so aware of everything around him.

You stepped closer, about to say something, when you noticed that his hand was scorching red. Red, like he'd just touched the pan next to him while it was still hot and burned his entire palm, red.

"Andrew?" you said carefully, despite your raging worry, you tried to remain calm because he seemed completely out of it. The burn looked really bad.

His head snapped up toward you, and for a second, his eyes looked blank, but then he blinked, and his gaze focused on you.

He quickly turned his back to you, reaching for a cloth and wrapping it around his hand. "Lena's in her room. Pretending to sleep," he said, his tone flat, as he lowered the temperature under the pan.

You dropped the plushies onto the table and walked toward him before you could stop yourself. He was already wiping down the counter, obsessively cleaning and trying to keep himself busy.

He turned just as you finally approached him, and for a moment, you both just stood there staring at each other, neither of you saying anything. And then you looked down at his palm, reaching for it.

You saw him flinch back for a second, but then he stopped, and he let you touch his arm. Your fingers wrapped around his elbow and you raised his arm toward you, bringing his hand closer so you could see it better. Your other hand came up to carefully unwrap the cloth he had put around it.

You bit your tongue when you saw the burn. It was worse than you'd expected. The burn covered his entire palm, spreading up his fingers and down toward his wrist. You could tell it hurt just by looking at it. And you knew, deep down in your gut, that he'd done it on purpose.

You looked up and met his hazel eyes, which were already staring down at you with that intense gaze he always had. You knew exactly what he was doing by staring at you like this. Testing you. He knew what he'd done and he knew you knew, and he was waiting to see if you'd call him out on it.

You decided against saying anything. It wouldn't help anyway.

"I'll help you take care of this," you mumbled quietly.

Pope didn't say anything. He just let you do it, his hand compliant in yours as you gently set the cloth away.

You reached for the sink, turning on the cold water and waiting for it to get properly cool. The sound of the water filled the quiet kitchen. "You'll have to stay like this for at least ten minutes," you said quietly. "Running cold water over it for ten to fifteen minutes helps reduce the swelling and keeps the burn from getting worse."

You paused, tilting your head slightly to catch his eye, waiting to see if he was ready for you to put his hand under the water. He just looked at you for a moment and then he did it wordlessly.

You kept your fingers wrapped around his wrist. "Don't use ice, by the way," you said, your voice casual, like you were just making conversation. "Ice is bad for burns. It restricts the blood vessels and can actually make the damage worse." You kept talking, explaining why water was important, why ice was bad and all the while, Pope just stared at you.

It was late, and he'd been hoping for you to finally show up. He'd been telling himself you weren't going to come, that you had better things to do than spend your evenings with him and that maybe you'd finally gotten tired of him.

He'd missed you a lot, more than he could ever say out loud. You tried to show up at least three times a week at night, and you were the highlight of his day. You were the reason he got through his days, the reason he managed to drag himself out of bed in the morning, knowing that at the end of the day, he'd see you, was what kept him going.

And you looked as pretty as ever as you softly turned his hand under the water. You had your hair free, no braids or anything, just falling around your shoulders. It was cold today, which was why he was rather concerned about your outfit. You didn't have a jacket on you, just some thin shirt that couldn't possibly be keeping you warm. He could see the goosebumps on your arms and the way you shivered slightly every now and then.

"Where's your jacket?" he spoke over the sound of the water.

You brushed a finger gently over his fingertips, checking the temperature of his skin. "Home," you mumbled distracted, squinting at his fingers. It was still red, but the water was helping. "Does it hurt?" you asked, your eyes still fixed on his palm, but you didn't get an answer right away. You glanced up and were met with Pope's naked stare, so you turned away again.

He didn't like that worried look on you. It made him feel guilty, made him wish he could take back whatever he had done that had put that expression on your face. So he forced himself to speak.

"Doesn't hurt."

It had hurt earlier, when he'd forced himself to keep pressing his hand on the hot pot. He'd needed it to hurt.

You glanced at his hand before glancing at the clock on the oven. "I'll be right back," you said quietly. "Keep it under water." You glanced at him, and he could see the worry still lingering in your eyes. You seemed reluctant to leave him alone, but you let go of his hand anyway, and Pope dropped his eyes back to the water, watching the water flow over his damaged skin.

You quickly grabbed the plushies from the table, and Pope couldn't help but notice how you'd put a bow around them, clearly made by you. You'd clearly put in the effort to make it look like a fun present for Lena.

In the process, you started taking off your shoes, hopping on one foot awkwardly as you balanced the plushies against your chest. At that, you shot him an apologetic look. You knew he hated dirt and you'd been, so caught up in the sight of his burn that you'd just walked in with your shoes on. But he didn't say anything, he just followed you with his eyes silently until you disappeared into Lena's room.

He didn't hear you say anything, so he figured Lena had finally fallen asleep. She'd insisted she wasn't tired for hours, that she wanted to stay up and watch cartoons. He was glad to know that she was finally resting.

He stayed the way you wanted him to. He stared at his red hand, watching the water cascade over his damaged skin. It was getting better.

He wasn't sure he liked the pain of his palm getting milder. That was the whole point, wasn't it? He'd done it for the pain and now he had nothing? The emptiness was already starting to creep back in and he could feel himself slipping.

When you came back, you had aloe vera gel and some small bandages with you. "Don't know why Baz has this, but it'll help," you said quietly as you finally turned off the water. The sudden silence was relieving and Pope felt his shoulders fall down finally now that the noise was gone.

You seemed relieved he'd listened to you, a soft exhale escaping your lips as you turned to face him fully. You tilted his hand gently with a concentrated look on your face.

Meanwhile, Pope stared at you again. You looked really pretty.

He hated how there wasn't a smile on your face, usually there always was. Every time you hung out with Lena, you'd help him clean up the kitchen afterward, and he'd listen to you chatter on about your day. He'd occasionally say something, but now there was nothing. It felt wrong and Pope felt uncomfortable in his skin.

But at least you were touching him. Your fingers were still wrapped around his wrist, and he could feel the warmth and softness of your skin against his.

"Let's sit on the couch," you mumbled. You grabbed his other hand and pulled him with you, and he let you lead him there.

He settled down and you sat down there right beside him. The proximity was almost too much. Your thigh pressed against his and your shoulder brushed his. He wanted to stay like this forever.

You grabbed his injured hand and put it on your thigh and he had to look away for a moment to compose himself.

You stared at his palm for a long moment before looking at him, a slightly embarrassed expression on your face. "Any idea how much of this gel I'm supposed to use?" you smiled softly. There it was.

He glanced down at his red palm. "Should be just one thin layer," he said quietly. He noticed how much you were leaning in to see his palm your face so close to his that he could practically see his reflection in your eyes. "Just enough to cover the burn. Any more and it won't absorb properly."

"Okay," you mumbled, and then you grabbed the gel and applied it gently to your fingertip. Pope tilted his head, wondering how on earth you were able to see with your hair in the way. It kept falling forward and you kept having to push it back behind your ear only for it to fall forward again.

So he just reached for your hair. His fingers brushed against the soft strands and you lifted your head immediately, staring at him in confusion. But he didn't say anything, he just grabbed it gently, managing to gather it all with one hand and hold it away from your face.

"So you can see," he said, staring back at you as his fingers brushed against the nape of your neck.

You opened your mouth to say something before closing it again. "Right. Thank you," you mumbled, looking away flustered.

He then watched you as you applied a thin layer over his palm. The gel was cool and you were right. It felt so much better and with your hair in his hand and your shoulder touching his, better didn't feel so bad right now.

If feeling better included you, he might not fear it so much anymore.

Once you were done, you set the bottle aside on the coffee table. Pope dropped his hand, watching as your hair fell all over your shoulders again. His fingers tingled slightly from where he'd been holding it, and he flexed them, already missing the feel of those soft strands between his fingers.

You grabbed tissues and cleaned your fingertip, wiping away the excess gel before tossing the tissue onto the table, missing Pope's slight frown. Then you glanced at his hand again.

"Good?" you asked softly and he nodded in response.

You then grabbed the bandage you had already gotten earlier and quickly wrapped it around his hand. You did it oh so perfectly, it was the same way he'd done it to his brothers so many times over the years.

"Tight?" you asked, your eyes still fixed on his hand, and he shook his head.

You set everything away and leaned back on the couch, staring at nothing in front of you. Pope took back his palm to his lap, resting it on his thigh. He glanced outside, at the dark sky through the window, and then back at you.

"It's late. You shouldn't drive back," he said quietly.

You brushed a hand over your face, rubbing your eyes with the heel of your palm. "Yeah. Long work day."

Pope's eyebrows furrowed. He hated when you talked about work, and you knew he hated it. He hated the way you'd come home with tired eyes and the way you'd talk about bosses who didn't appreciate you.

"You don't have to work. I can give you the money for everything you need." He'd said this before, more times than he could count. It was a conversation you've had almost every single day. He had more money than he knew what to do with and the thought of you slaving away at some job that didn't appreciate you made him want to burn the whole place down.

"Andrew," you said quietly, and that single word was enough. He pressed his lips tight together as he leaned back too, his eyes fixed on the way you pressed your knees tight together. It wasn't like the usual times, where you'd watch something on TV together and you'd softly clink your knee against his.

"Baz won't be here the entire week," he wasn't sure why he was telling you this, but he wanted you to know that you could come over without worrying about running into him.

You glanced at him, leaning your head against the couch behind you as you turned your head toward him. "Good," you said, and Pope felt his mouth twitch at that.

You were such a sweet girl, but you never quite hid your dislike for his brother. He found it entertaining. He knew why, and he knew it stemmed from a good and caring place, so he never felt the need to defend his brother to you. You weren't mean to Baz either, just a tad hostile, and Pope secretly appreciated that you had the guts to stand your ground.

Pope looked down at his bandage, closing his hand and opening it again. It hurt, and he knew it wasn't a good idea, but he did it anyway. There had to be some purpose to why he'd burned his hand. He couldn't just have it stop. But obviously you didn't let that happen.

Wordlessly, you put your hand into his. You lifted it gently from his lap and placed it in yours. He stopped moving it immediately, letting it rest there as you brushed a fingertip over the bandage.

He watched you, not bothering to hide his stare whatsoever. One of the small lights was shining on you and he could see how spaced out you were. It reminded him of himself and of all the times he'd stared at nothing. And he didn't like that. He hated hated hated it.

So he spoke the words that had been desperate to escape all night. "No one will ever have a kid with me," he said, his voice emotionless, like he was talking about the weather.

Your head snapped up at that, your eyes widening as they darted across his face. "What?" you said sounding genuinely confused. But there was also genuine terror in your voice because what a horrible thing to say about yourself and believe.

"Baz said it," was all he said, his voice still flat as he stared at you to know what you actually thought. He didn't want empty platitudes or meaningless reassurances. He wanted the truth and he would only get that by looking at your face.

You opened your mouth and closed it again, your brain scrambling for the right words. Your hand tightened on his palm, almost giving him the pain he'd been craving earlier but then you realized what you were doing and you loosened your grip.

"Your brother might be the biggest jerk I've ever known in my life," you finally said, and Pope couldn't help the small smile that formed on his face. You'd never been this direct about your hatred towards Baz. "He sucks," you added and the bluntness of it made the small smile on his face twitch wider. "He's a terrible person and he says terrible things, and none of them are true."

And then you met his eyes properly. "And he's a liar. Every word that comes out of his mouth is a lie, and you know it. You know he just says things to tear them down and to make himself feel better."

Pope stared at you, his hazel eyes studying yours, trying to find the lie he believed was there. He didn't let much emotion show on his face, but you didn't look away. It was Pope who finally looked away first, which didn't happen very often.

You stared at his side profile and then tapped his bandaged hand lightly, drawing his attention back to you. "Hey, i'm here with you, aren't I?"

He met your eyes again, not saying anything.

"You're here taking care of Lena. Not Baz. You're here making her food. Not Baz. You're the one who picked her up from school. Not Baz," you said quietly as you held his stare. "You're the one who stays up with her when she has nightmares. You're the one who plays with her and makes her laugh and reads her bedtime stories. Not Baz."

You paused, swallowing hard, your hand still resting gently over his bandaged one. "You're a better dad to Lena than Baz will ever be," your voice cracking slightly.

As he kept looking at you, you pushed yourself to hold eye contact. "You start taking Lena to the park more regularly and the moms will start throwing themselves at you when they see how good you are to her," you said, a small smile tugging at your lips. "They'll be lining up to get your attention. You'll have to fight them off with Lena."

His lips twitched at that and it made your heart flutter.

"Don't listen to him," you said, and there was so much contempt for his brother, that he found it endearing. "Don't listen to a single word that comes out of his mouth. You're too good for that."

Pope stayed quiet as his eyes drifted to the coffee table. He stared at your tissue for a while before looking back at you. "You think someone would want me?" he would never dream of asking a vulnerable question like this to anyone else, but you.

You didn't even hesitate. "I know someone would want you."

You watched him as he fixed himself again against the back of the couch. His eyes wandered far away and you could see him trying to decide if he believed any of it. You brushed a finger over his hand, as you waited for any reaction whatsoever.

"Thank you," he finally said quietly.

You looked at him and smiled softly. "You don't have to thank me for pointing out the obvious," you said softly, leaning back so your shoulder pressed hard against his. You knocked your knees against his. "Any kid would be lucky to have you as their dad, and any woman would be lucky to have you as the father of her kids."

You said that part quietly and then you looked away. You could feel your cheeks warming and you focused on the bandage on his hand. Pope watched you for a long moment, drinking in the sight of you, and then his fingers lightly reached upward until he tapped the back of your hand.

You looked up, your eyes meeting his and he didn't say anything. He just stared at you and you stared back, and you knew what he wanted to see. His nose twitched at what he saw. He was great at reading facial expressions, too good sometimes.

You let him see that you'd be one of those people who would consider themselves lucky to have him as the father to her kids. You watched the realization flash across his face and you dropped your eyes immediately.

When you dropped your head to his shoulder, you felt his sigh of relief and you smiled to yourself.

Eventually, you felt his arm shift, and then his hand came up to rest on your shoulder, his fingers curling gently around the curve of it. You leaned into it, letting him know it was okay, and his fingers tightened slightly, pulling you just a little bit closer.

"You should get some sleep," he murmured. "I'll get you some blankets."

Cycling through the Folsom database, you chose Andrew on a whim, in between puffs of a joint. His mugshot was interesting. He looked angry— who wouldn’t be—, but there was a subtle sadness behind his eyes that you could catch through the black and white grain. You even joked to your friend how cute he was, that he had guard dog face. 

You decided to handwrite it, thinking it would be the least effort you could put in what might be the worst written letter of your life. You wrote the usual “Stay Strong” spiel every example letter you found on the internet started with. 

Throughout the letter, you found yourself trailing off, telling him meaningless information— the weather outside, what songs you listened to sounded like. You tried asking about himself without being too insistent or nosy, though you weren’t even sure if you’d hear back. 

Finishing the letter unsurely, you attempted a friendly goodbye, trying not to seem like you looked down on him or pitied him in any way. 

Respectfully, Yours

You didn’t expect to hear back. 

Two weeks or so passed and an envelope from Folsom found its way into your mailbox. Having forgotten about the letter due to your event-heavy week, the government-style envelope scared you. Sure, you skipped Jury Duty once to go Cabo on Spring Break, but that didn’t warrant a direct summons from jail.

With the furrow of your eyebrows, you tore open the envelope and realized it was from Andrew. His handwriting was neat and meticulous, not messy and boyish like you thought it would be. The weight of the graphite, though, was heavy and strong, like it had been yelling at you.

Thanking you for the letter, he said he was surprised to hear from a stranger. He told you about his family, his mom and brothers, without any explicit details. You mentioned the beach and sunshine in your letter, and Andrew mentioned salt air in his, dropping that he’d grown up in Oceanside.

His letter was quite brief, sentences cut short and proper specificity thrown out the window. He didn’t say much about his conditions but he did end the letter with a

I hope to hear from you again soon. I don’t get many letters.

His slight vulnerability hit your heart with a pang. The honesty from him seemed like he really did need someone to talk to. You could’ve mistaken it as classic sympathy, but something tied you to him.

So, you wrote again, not as an assignment but just for you. Maybe you were lonely too, but a little letter could do no harm.

You told him how the initial letter was for a class, apologizing for formalities. You gave a neutral comment on his family, sharing about yours too. 

Andrew? Isn’t that too formal? Andrew. I feel like I’m scolding you just writing it. Is Andy okay? I hope it is. I won’t use it if it isn’t.

Although he basically had your home address, you shared that you also lived in San Diego, attending the public university. You told him about your classes, your favourite simple things in life. He seemed to enjoy it when you described your scenery to him, so you did. 

Writing back, he said he didn’t mind if you called him Andy. He said that no one really called him that, that his nickname back home was “Pope”— without an explanation. He shared that he didn’t finish high school, again, without an explanation, and said that you must be smart.

The letters flowed, maybe once or twice a month. Check-ins, details about your friends, things Andrew missed about the outside world, postcards, printed photos of the city, doodles of Rottweilers and Pitbulls in the margins (from you). 

You even threw in a photo your friend took of you on Crystal Pier. Wide smile, eyes squinting, skin glowing, and the waves rushing down below. Quickly and dismissively, Andrew had slipped that he thought you were beautiful, which made you blush. (Strangely, this was the most action you were getting lately.) 

Though he didn’t say, he pinned that photo of you up in his cell, and threatened anyone that commented or looked too close. He called you my girl, letting everyone interpret it as they would.

Eventually, it became a weekly thing.

Something about your gel pens scratching across the paper felt romantic to you. You felt like you were waiting for your husband to come back from war. Only, that wasn’t the case. On the off-chance you mentioned it, your friends never failed to remind you that you were writing to a dangerous man in his 30s that was locked up. It only thrilled you more.

Then, you started venting to him, telling him things you had a hard time saying aloud. Letters got deep, talking about your mental state and how you felt isolated. How much you loved San Diego, but was homesick half the time. How you craved proper human connection past fleeting moments at parties or networking around campus.

Andrew answered without judgement. He didn’t have much advice to give, but nonetheless offered his listening ears, or eyes. You never asked, but he told you about the bank robbery, how long they’d keep him in. Again, no details, you figured it was for safety. He told you about jail, the food, the walls, the boring days— nothing that mattered. He said he doesn’t get many visitors and how that made him feel even more lonely.

You shared how you wished you could visit, and you meant it. 

You were acting like one of Andrew’s friends, and not some stranger that wrote to him for a school project. You wished him a happy birthday, as he did you. Although small, you continued sending photocards, ticket stubs to movies you saw, sometimes a lipstick stain if you were feeling cheeky. You grew so attached, yet you didn’t even know him.

One month in particular was rough. Having all your midterms condensed into two weeks drove you insane. You spent most of your time at the library, then holed up in your room if not. All your time went to studying, working, then exhaustion. 

After your last midterm, your friends had mentioned Wine Wednesday and you jumped on the opportunity to go outside, only on principle.

The night was rough. Your friends had met some other people they knew at the party, and you trailed along like a beaten down horse. It was nice meeting new people, but you didn’t get comfortable. You got tipsy, though in a way that was no longer fun. When your adrenaline crashed, you decided it was time to take yourself home.

Missing your bed, you quietly toed into your apartment, locking the door behind. You thanked the gods that your roommates were on their own planets and far from your orbit. You just needed one cigarette, then to collapse and leave everything to the morning.

In your room, you reached for your light switch as you placed your keys on your table. You were mentally drafting how you’d change into your pyjamas, then head to the balcony. 

As you looked up, you saw that the articles of clothing that you had thrown around in search of an outfit hours prior were neatly folded on the bed. In fact, your room was about 50% less messy than you left it. A man had been sitting on the foot of your bed, perfect posture, dark clothes, and watching you.

“Jesus fucking Christ!” You flinched as soon as you realized. Your eyebrows furrowed, more angrily than scared this time. You figured it must be a guest of your roommates, they were always bringing interesting characters over. You peered back into the common room, like you missed something, then dipped your head back to look at him. “Who the fuck—“

“You didn’t write last week.” His voice was simple yet gruff as he spoke, standing from his position. He didn’t come towards you and his arms remained at his sides, hands empty and unthreatening.

“What?” You decided you were too tired for this bullshit, sometime in between your breaths. It took you a second, but you squinted your eyes at him when you realized, “Andrew? What the hell are you doing here?”

His name on your tongue struck him harder than he thought it would. He’d lie awake some nights, attempting to give a tone and pitch to you. Were you sweet? Did you have a harsher voice? Or maybe you were loud and obnoxious (he didn’t like this one much, but decided he could live with it). He replayed what he thought your voice sounded like a billion times in his head, but it never matched up to the real thing, to this. 

Andrew would read your letters to himself as if you were reading them aloud to him. Your writing led him to believe you didn’t sound dumb or obnoxious, maybe expressive, maybe relaxed at times. He never really settled on one thing, as your syntax changed day-to-day when he imagined you. What mattered wasn’t the persona he placed you in, just that it was you. 

“You didn’t write last week.” He repeated. 

You placed him side-by-side to his mugshot in your head. His hair was now short, untamed, choppy. His puppy dog eyes looked sweeter in person, even though there seemed to be heat behind them. The crease between his eyebrows was his most distinct tell to you, as was the flat line of his mouth that bordered on upset. He had a dimple on his left cheek, which you couldn’t see in your mental image of the photo.

“What, so you broke out of prison?” You furrowed your eyebrows with a sigh, reaching for your cigarettes and lighter on your dresser. 

“I got out on parole.” 

“You can’t just break into people’s houses, Andy.” You said, as if you forgot that he was a criminal.

“I wasn’t going to.” He offered, though even he knew it wasn’t true. “You’re usually home before this time.”

With a gulp, you nudged your head towards the balcony. 

Sitting side-by-side in your patio chairs, Andrew told you about his good behaviour that allowed his parole, that they let him out after only 3 years. He also told you that he had just gotten back that day.

“You came to see me first?” You smiled before taking a puff of your cigarette. You looked at him, a twinkle surfacing your eyes. “I’m flattered… Even though you broke into my home.”

“It’s hardly a break-in if your balcony door is unlocked.” He stated sarcastically as you passed the cigarette to him. His tight lips had gone where yours had, and he coughed up a little since his lungs weren’t accustomed to the taste anymore.

“I’m on the third floor.” You said as he simply shrugged.

In between puffs and fingers gliding against each others’, he told you what he couldn’t say in letters. Not with visceral detail, but he told you about the guards, the isolation, the torture. There was a point in the conversation where his voice cracked and stalled, like he just might shatter in front of you.

“I did a paper on institutional abuse for my criminal justice class,” You told him quietly, “I’m not going to claim to understand, but it’s rough. I’m sorry you experienced that, Andy. You didn’t deserve it.”

He didn’t say anything, just a singular nod. 

You placed a hand on his, which was resting on his thigh, “We don’t have to talk about it right now, if you don’t want to.”

Andrew’s lips quivered and his eyes hardened as he looked at you. He huffed, hand unmoving and body completely still. He wasn’t used to human touch— hell, it had been years since he'd properly seen a woman, but even before that…  Genuine affection wasn’t a familiar concept. Everything, even a hug from his own mother, bore deadweight or pity. 

When you had started being more than just nice in your letters— sharing how you’d thought of him throughout your day, how you anticipated each letter, how you felt connected to him—, he thought you were expecting something in return, money or whatever. Then, your letters carried on without manipulation. 

It was so overwhelming how much you actually seemed to care about him that it made him lightheaded. Your words, your loopy handwriting, hearts above your i’s, was a drug to him. Hitting each syllable after the next, like it was his only escape. If your letters were a puff of a joint, then your touch was heroin.

You had cased his demeanor and observed his stillness. It was like his brain shut down, eyes vacant and looking into yours. His mouth fell from the paper-thin line he pressed it into as he tried to make sense of the situation.

He was unsure what to do, but then he realized you weren’t asking anything of him or forcing anything out of him— you were giving him grace. His wrist turned over and his fingers grasped yours gently.

“Did you mean it?” He looked into your eyes again. 

“Mean what?” You tilted your head at him.

“If I could, I would visit you. I’d sit with you for as long as possible.” He recited from memory. His eyes stayed on you like a spot. “We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to, or I’d talk your ear off if you’d let me.” 

Of course you meant it, but you winced when he said it, “Was that too much?”

He swore he almost smiled.

“I swear I’m not as cheesy as I come off.” You looked away. “I just like to pretend.”

“Pretend?” He furrowed his eyebrows.

It was embarrassing, the way he made you talk. Andrew made you verbalize and illustrate how you felt in ways you ordinarily weren’t able to. The letters were that escape for you, but now, face-to-face, you felt you knew him too much to have a little whimsy without feeling ridiculous. 

“I don’t know,” you looked back at him and gulped, “Just that I know you differently.”

“Differently?” 

With a hesitant sigh, you admitted, “Like you’re my soldier away at war, and I’m waiting for you to come home… so that we can get married and have a family together.”

“Oh.” He wasn’t mocking, just acknowledging. The way his calloused hand went limp in yours, you didn’t know how to feel. His face was a hard read, always completely still and utterly stoic. Although that was basically what he did too, he didn’t know what to say without sounding insane.

“I know… Playing a fantasy? It’s stupid.” You said dismissively, looking away. 

“No.” 

You looked back at him, not ready for more of your stupidly vast imagination to come to light. His thumb ran over your knuckles as you did so, gently over then back then over again, like he wanted to remember this feeling beneath his fingers. He looked down at your hand, then back at you.

Tapping on your ring finger, “Sorry, I would’ve brought a ring if that was the case,” he joked in that deadpan voice of his.

You smiled, nearly giggled like a schoolgirl then stopped yourself out of embarrassment. You couldn’t even care that he broke into your apartment and most likely went through your things while cleaning. 

Usually, you’d think of what your friends would say, the questions your family would have, the looks you would get, but it all went away. The noise of this is insane was blocked out with his real voice and his tangible body. 

“Do you, um…” You cleared your throat. “Do you have somewhere to stay?”

Andrew remained silent, and you figured that was an answer.

You offered him clothes, some of your old boyfriends’ from years past and a big Snoopy t-shirt you got at a blood donation drive. He raised an eyebrow when you handed them to him.

“‘S all I have.” You pursed your lips with a shrug. 

While he was brushing his teeth in your bathroom, you meekly approached the door, rubbing your hands over each other. 

“I, um… I have class in the morning, but we can get lunch together after.”

Looking at you through the mirror, he nodded, face still emotionless. The t-shirt that hung on his frame casually and the loose fit of the sweatpants made him look like he belonged there. Serious face with your purple towels hung behind him and your flouncy shower curtain in the distance. Even with toothpaste on his lips, you couldn’t help but beam inside. Was it weird to extend your paper fantasy to reality? Was this unethical? 

You stared at his hand grasped around your extra toothbrush, the yellow Minions one you had stowed away for no reason in particular. The flex of his forearm intrigued you, and you wanted to reach out and feel it. You wanted to map places you’d take him on the freckles along his skin.

When you realized he was staring at you staring at him, you snapped out of it, nodding and heading back to bed.

Coming out of the bathroom, he was headed for the living room, presumably for the couch.

You don’t know why you said it but it came out anyway, “Can you stay here with me?”

When he remained still and didn’t say anything, you patted the mattress beside you. What gravitated you to his physical presence was beyond you, and it made him furrow his eyebrows. Maybe you were just as touch starved as him, but having him stay might’ve pushed it.

“I shouldn’t.” He said.

With a pause, you asked in a small voice, “But do you want to?” 

Sharply inhaling, he found the space on the left side of your bed. The mattress dipped as he laid down on his side, facing away from you. You watched him, nearly disappointed but glad he took your offer, and got under the covers yourself. 

“Goodnight, Andy.” You whispered before turning off your lamp. With a sigh, you bunched the comforter closer to your skin.

Andrew didn’t sleep until he knew you were. When your breaths slowed, he allowed his to, shutting his eyes like it was medication. It took a few minutes of forcing himself to relax, but your bed was much more comfortable than his jail cell.

At some point in the night, you had unconsciously rolled over to where Andrew was, an arm resting along his waist and your face nudging into his back. You curled up behind him, desperate to feel the heat of him on you. If you knew better and were awake, you would’ve kept to yourself. Nevertheless, his hand rested on yours.

When the sun floated by your blinds, Andrew woke up, stiff under your touch like no time had passed between last night and the morning. He realized your forehead was pressed between his shoulder blades and your hand was clutching his abdomen. He looked over his shoulder as he patted your hand with his, checking if you were awake.

Your hair was a mess over your face, mouth ajar and body relaxed. As Andrew shifted away, you let out a disappointed hum, pawing at his stomach. Although there was a thin layer of cotton beneath your fingertips, his skin burned at the movement of your fingers. 

“Five minutes,” you mumbled, morning voice hoarse and irritated.

He eased, turning over to face you. His eyes surfaced over your eyes shut tight and shoulders shrugged under your t-shirt. Your puffy cheek under the strands of hair, soft and supple, called him. His fingertips grazed over, pushing your hair out of your face and behind your ear.

Eyes fluttering open, you realized you had been clutching his middle and were now pressed against his shoulder. You inhaled sharply, sliding your hand away and onto the sheets.

“Sorry,” you mumbled, “Morning.”

You rubbed your eyes and Andrew watched how your hands came to your face and slipped down. He admired the spread of the thin fabric over your chest as you stretched your arms. He couldn’t believe this was real, that you were real.

“Did you sleep well?” Wide eyes waited for his approval after you adjusted to look at him.

He kept his lips pressed together as he nodded. 

A smile spread across your face as you pulled the blanket tight to your stomach. He felt bewildered, watching the sunrays across your nose and your crinkled eyes. Andrew remembered dreaming of this moment, not exactly but waking up next to you with everyday comfort. The normalcy of your grin and your morning eyes warmed him, face turning hot as your eyes trailed his body.

“You’re beautiful.” He let slip, like his mouth had been connected to his heart.

You wanted to scoff or make some self-deprecating quip, but his honey-glazed eyes pulled you into the moment. With a soft exhale, your lips fell into a softer and more relaxed position.

Timidly, you reached your hand to his face. His eyes followed your fingers, unsure and intrigued. The pads of your fingers reached his hairline and your fingers ran through the short strands to find the back of his head. 

By sheer force of will and desire, you moved closer to him, hovering and resting your arm on his chest. His eyes darted back to yours and, all of a sudden, you were only centimetres away. He held his breath in anticipation. Your lips fell into a pout as your eyes darted to the fine line of his mouth. 

“Andy,” you began, voice hush yet sure, “Is it okay—”

“Yes.”

So, you leaned down and pressed your lips to his. It was less of a kiss, and more of an adjustment. His eyebrows furrowed and his eyes shut as he attempted to meet you in the middle. Your lips plush and soft against his, his chin had nudged forward, like he was kissing with his whole head and not his lips. It was like kissing a soldier’s statue, solid, strong, and unbreaking.

When you pulled away, he looked like he was trying, really trying, to please you. He hadn’t kissed anyone in awhile, and when he had, he wasn’t sure if he was doing it correctly. Eyebrows knit, he sought your approval.

“Relax for me, Andy. Please?” Your eyes went wide again, big and twinkling so you could take him in. The stress on his forehead released, as did the crease of his lips. “Open your mouth a little.” You guided, stabilizing yourself over his face.

He followed directions and you dipped your head back in. He followed your lead, allowing the muscle of your lips to guide his. This time, you felt the soft flesh of his lips. Your lips spilled into each others’ as your fingers found his jaw. Soft, testing presses became pleading sucks, then his hand found your neck, urging you towards him by the base of your skull.

Your mouth had fallen open when his grip tightened slightly, causing a noise to spill from your lips. He caught his breath when he pulled back to see you. Eyes shut with need, your mouth chased him with a heavy huff. And in this moment, Andrew discovered his passion for the art of kissing. 

“Good,” You whined, eyes still closed in bliss, “Perfect, Andy.”

He nuzzled himself into you again, placing one kiss after the other, just the way you wanted. 

Your fingers gripped into his hair as your body needily drifted towards him. 

Before you could properly assess what you wanted, your phone buzzed on your nightstand with the voice memo speech your friend recorded while cross-faded. Andrew flinched beneath you and you ripped yourself away from him.

You groaned, “Shit.” 

You rolled away and Andrew felt his skin buzz at the loss of your body. Reaching for your phone, you shut off your alarm and all the ones in 15-minute increments that followed. Placing your phone down, you turned back to him, now sitting up on your knees. He was watching you with those puppy dog eyes, consumed by how you made him feel. 

“Sorry,” you laughed nervously, “I’d skip this lecture, but it’s new content.”

Face soft, he gave you a singular nod, like he’d do anything you said in that moment. He wouldn’t move until you did. He looked too good in your sheets against the morning glow, so you leaned back down, kissing him deeply again before you knew you really had to go.

Andrew ended up walking you to class, or he walked with you and you showed him around. The sun was bright against the white of the buildings and the sky was clear. He largely stayed quiet, observing the throngs of people and the breeze against his freckled skin.

In the middle of the morning foot traffic, he bluntly said he didn’t like the people on your campus, but his eyes said he was fascinated by the skateboards zipping by as you walked. You shrugged and agreed, too enthralled with his face in the sunlight.

You couldn’t help but smile at the sight of him with you. Warm skin, coated in freckles and tough lines on his face, he was more gorgeous than you ever imagined. It was embarrassing to admit, but you’d grown accustomed to daydreaming this situation. You were simply walking with Andrew and your heart felt full at the corporeal image.

Reaching your building, you pressed your hands to his chest and grinned. You hated to know you’d be away, but you loved that he’d be there when you returned.

“I’ll be done in, like, an hour.” You said, reaching your hands to the side of his neck. 

“I’ll be here.” He nodded, lips threatening a smile.

“I’m glad you’re here, Andy.” 

You leaned towards him, pressing a chaste kiss to his lips. He sighed into you, surfacing an arm on your shoulder. Pulling away, you smiled at him before skipping away to class. 

Andrew wandered around campus, while you learned about the Weimar Republic or whatever. He matched locations to places you described in your letters— the trees under which you liked to write letters at if you weren’t home, the benches where you had an overwhelmed meltdown before a Calculus exam, the booths in the library you fell asleep on for ten minutes at a time, the fast food place that you complained had bitchy cashiers. It was all there, the life before him and now the life with him.

When class ended, you were walking out with one of your friends, talking about the last episode of whatever show you were watching. When you caught Andrew in the corner of your eye, you smiled. 

Angela trailed your eyeline and gasped, hitting your abdomen with her arm.

“No fucking way.”

Andrew was exactly where you left him. He stood with his arms crossed, eyes searching for you in the crowd. She recognized him from the mugshot you showed her, when you drunkenly shared that you were sending letters to a stranger. Looking back at your face, she watched a smile grow from ear-to-ear. 

Scolding your name, she groaned, “Are you fucking serious? You cannot date a criminal.”

“We’re not dating… per se…” You mumbled, shoving your hands in your pockets

“He’s dangerous.” 

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.” 

Softly sighing to yourself, you gazed back over to Andrew, who spotted the two of you among the moving passerbys. He kept that serious stare, not exactly threatening or predatory but saying he could pounce at any moment. His eyebrow rose when you turned away.

“It was cute when it was just letters, but—”

Looking back at her, you shrugged, “You don’t know him, Ang. Not like I do.” 

Before she could respond, you shook your head and started walking away. Andrew tilted his head at you when you approached. Your hand slid into his and urged him to walk away with a slight tug.

“Who’s that?” He followed you slowly, fingers loosely clasping your knuckles.

“Just a friend.” You looked over your shoulder, where Angela was still watching from feet away. 

“Is she causing you trouble?” He stopped you in your tracks with a protective squeeze of your hand.

“Uh,” you looked into his eyes, searching for any sense of seriosity, “No, no. Just some gossip.”

He nodded, allowing you to continue leading him. 

“Are you hungry?” You nudged his shoulder with the side of your jaw. 

“Mmmhmm,” He nodded, feeling the soft breeze against him.

Andrew’s eyes softened as he watched you talk about different food places nearby. Your face amongst the cloud-streaked blue sky, green trees that weren’t withering away, and buildings that didn’t look like security walls and barbed wire. He didn’t really care where you’d take him.

When you caught him staring, you looked down at your hands then back to his face. His cheeks tensed when you smiled at him.

Then, he asked quietly, “How do we do this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“oh my god. oh my- god, oh god.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You knew this. He had told you stories in the past about how his brothers had always chosen for him the past. Activities that they liked to do. He had told you that once Julia was gone, he had found the occasion lonely, not used to blowing out the candles alone. That the three years behind bars had him forgetting when it even was.

Naturally, that had broken your heart. So you took it upon yourself to make sure that things would be different, especially now that you were around.

It was casual and intimate, just him and his family sharing drinks under the blanket of the quiet night in their backyard. The candlelight of the two candles sitting atop of the grocery store cake that Deran had brought glinting off the rippling blue pool water. After a few slices of cake and a few too many shots in Julia’s honor, the two of you were left alone, the low murmur of jovial conversation from the rest of his family muffled by the glass doors. Andrew had moved to sit on one of the loungers that were scattered around the pool, feet firmly planted on the floor. He’s got a beer in hand and a calm look on his face, staring into the water.

“Happy birthday, handsome,” you say as you approach him from behind, hands wandering across the broad expanse of his chest. Nosing into the crook of his neck, you can see the beginnings of a smile take over his features as he lays a hand atop of yours. “I hope you had a good time.”

“C’mere,” he grumbles, pulling you by the wrist and into his lap. It’s a familiar position, his strong arm wrapped around your waist. You slide a hand into his hair, nails scratching his scalp. His eyes flutter shut for a moment at the feeling, and you swear that if he was a dog you’d be able to see his tail wagging. You giggle at the thought and lean down to give him a soft kiss, one he gladly returns. “Thank you.”

With one hand settled on his shoulder, you pulled out the joint Craig had taken the time to roll for you from behind your ear. A big grin on your face, you brandish it in front of him, extending a silent invitation. He’s got an eyebrow cocked, half smile on his face at your excited expression more than anything. 

“Care to partake, Andy?” You ask, slipping the joint between your lips. Wordlessly, he pulls his lighter from his back pocket and lights it for you, flame warm as it approaches your face. With a deep inhale the cherry burns orange, and you place it between your fingers before exhaling the smoke. You place the joint between Andrew’s lips down, smirking at just how easily he accepts it from you. Smoking with Andrew was always a rare occasion; he was never one to partake at the hundreds of parties that happened at the house. It was always just you and him, sometimes the rest of his family too.

You swing a leg over his lap so you can watch him properly as he takes a toke, everything blurring into the background. He turns his head to blow the smoke away from your face, ever the gentleman. Handing it back to you, he lets out a small laugh, eyes a little glassy and he turns his head back to you. Warmth spreads through you, although you’re not sure if it’s from the weed or from the way he’s looking at you.

His eyes are half lidded, blown out pupils falling to your mouth as you take a toke of your own. He’s still wearing a goofy smile, the one he always gets when he’s able to release his inhibitions under the influence. Being high makes you hyperaware of his touch, the meaty hands settled comfortably on your hips, his body heat making your skin tingle underneath the fabric of your clothes. You lean forward and brush your lips against his, a matching smile stretching over your lips. If you didn’t know him any better, you wouldn’t have noticed his shuttery exhale over your lips as you did, or the way that his grip tightened ever so slightly on your hips. His lips chase yours as you pull back with a giggle, teasing.

Instead, you grab his face in one hand, manicured fingers resting against the soft skin of his cheeks. He’s looking up at you like you’ve hung the moon and stars but you can see the want painted on his face, clear as day. You shift in his lap and you can feel him growing hard underneath you, mouth parting silently. With a grin that can only be described as evil, you bring the joint to your lips once more. His fingers twitch as he watches you move, squirming in your grasp a little in the effort to make sure that he has the full picture. The way that he looks at you has your thighs clenching; like he wants you to eat him whole.

You hold the smoke in your mouth, fingers adding just a bit of pressure so that Andrew’s lips are puckered for you. When you lean forward, back into Andrew’s space, you can see his eyes flicker with the recognition of what you’re about to do. The smoke curls in the air between the two of you, sweeping over his face as he inhales. The sight is almost more intoxicating than the weed itself, his lashes fluttering as your hand slides down from his cheek to his neck.

And then he lets out a giggle.

It’s endearing in the best way possible, even as he cants his hips up to meet yours in a slow roll. You can’t help but follow suit, the edges of everything blurring in the most blissful way as your high takes hold of you. You’re still holding the roach between your fingers, the cherry long gone out from the night time wind. And he’s still looking at you like that and his half hard cock under you has your brain going foggy, so you surge forward and press your lips against his. He lets out a broken whimper into your mouth, hands instantly pulling you flush against him.

Andrew wastes no time licking into your mouth, already kissing you deeply. You can still feel his smile against your lips, like he just can’t get it off his face. The kiss sends your nerves alight, the feeling much too mesmerizing for you to pull away. He’s letting out these small moans, noises getting swallowed up in the sounds of your heavy breathing. The way he rolls his hips has you gripping his hair, to which he shutters and lets out a low groan.

“Gotta be quiet, Andy,” you mutter, still too wrapped up in the pleasure of the kiss to pull away for longer than a moment. He tries his best to obey to his credit, you can tell from the rumble in his chest every time you grind against the denim of his jeans.

God, his jeans.

You’ve been checking him out all day. They’re your favourite pair of jeans; they’re so tight in the right places, leaving you drooling after him. They accentuate his thick thighs and you can’t shake the thought out of your head.

The kiss is messy; wet, open-mouthed, teeth knocking like you’re trying to see who can devour each other first. It has your mind spinning but your thoughts are still with his legs, his thighs. Despite the fact that you feel like you’ve melted into his body, you pull away, moving backwards until you're settled on one of his thighs, your legs bracketing. The muscle feels strong and thick under your core; you’re sure that you’re leaving a wet spot on his jeans.

“What’re y’doing, baby?” he asks, a little desperately. His eyes are still basically closed and he’s lurching forward to follow you, still chasing your lips so he can kiss you again. You oblige for a moment, hands winding tight into the fabric of his shirt.

“I wanna ride it,” you sigh into the kiss, hips already rocking slowly against the denim. He lets out a low groan and nods his head, although you’re not entirely sure if he heard you or not. His hands are all bunched up in your skirt, skimming over the curve of your ass as you move. “Please?”

“Okay,” His answer is simple, breathless. You’re still a bit boneless, the high keeping your body relaxed, but it’s easy to keep moving with Andrew’s guiding hands on you. The pace the two of you have set is brutal, and it has you mewling and your face dropping into his shoulder after just a few minutes.

His hands slide under your skirt and his fingers hook into your panties, pulling them taut. You let out a loud moan as the fabric adds pressure to your clit, tipping your head back. He takes advantage of that and slaps a hand over your mouth, muffling your noises. You notice how quickly his eyes fly to the window that the rest of his family is seated behind but his attention is back on you in no time, blown out pupils matching yours. “Gotta be quiet, sweetheart.”

He hands your words back to you, and you’d roll your eyes at him if pleasure wasn’t building low in your stomach in a way that made your legs shake. Instead, your eyes roll back when he shifts in place, hitting a whole new angle. The chair creaks underneath you from the way the two of you move, his hips rising occasionally in an effort to release some pressure. The noises you make are still stifled by the palm of his hand, but Andrew knows your body well enough to know that you’re close. You're soaking into his jeans, chest rising and falling at a quick pace that matches his.

“So pretty,” he says mindlessly, eyes trained on your face, the way it’s twisted up in pleasure. You know that he loves watching you like this, looking at you like he’s trying to burn the memory into his mind. “You gonna cum for me?”

You nod frantically and he bares his teeth at you, just for a moment, wrapped up in the thought of you coming undone for him. His mouth is hanging open as he just watches, looking as blissed out as you feel, and you’re not even touching him. He’s getting off on this; watching you use him. The thought alone has you careening over the edge, shuttering in his lap as your orgasm overtakes you. He lets out a raspy groan at the sight, moving forward to tuck his face into the crook of your neck as your hips still on his thigh. 

You head down the stairs, rolling your eyes at the persistence and interruption to your relaxing night, ready to give him a piece of your mind for being so impatient.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

When you peer through the magic eye, however, it's not some psycho you see standing outside your house.

It's Andrew Cody.

Your brother's best friend.

And the deplorable state he's in prompts you into quick action; unlatching the lock, turning the key around and throwing the door open so you can stare at the older man in bewilderment. When the barrier between you two is no more, you take in his appearance better. There's a purpling bruise blooming on his right cheekbone and two cuts just above his left eyebrow. His lip is split and cracked, gathering dried blood flakes near the cut, and his curls sit unruly on top of his head. He's also not wearing a shirt.

His torso isn't in better state.

Ugly, dark bruises litter the expanse of his shoulders and chest, with some decorating his abdomen too, painting solid muscle a myriad of purples, blues and faint reds. There's a cut on his chest and one on his right bicep coated in dry blood the colour of furnace brown.

You're no stranger to Andrew Cody and the illegal business he gets up to. Your brother is cut from the same cloth, and you're aware it's how they got to know each other in the first place. So, the bruising and injuries aren't exactly what's shocking — it's more so that somehow, Andrew got hurt. You often find yourself suspending your disbelief that the man can get hurt. More often than not, he stands strong in the face of any and all adversities.

He does a better job at it than your brother, that's for sure.

For a moment, you two just stare at each other, two people who weren't expecting to see one another processing their new shared reality. Pope doesn't even seem phased by the state he's in.

"I need to talk to—" he begins, quiet as usual, cold, but you cut him off.

"Andrew! What the hell happened to you?!"

Your delicate, manicured hands hover over his shoulders before you move around him and gently shove him inside. He huffs, but doesn't dig his heels in. If there's anyone Andrew allows to touch him without protest, it's you.

Always you.

And it's become a habit of yours to seek him out for physical contact, sometimes before you even realise it.

"Nothing," is the dry response you receive to your question, to which you scoff.

"Doesn't look like nothing."

He steps inside your house properly, allowing you to close the door and lock it again.

"Where's Gus?"

Your brother's not home, evidently. It's two AM on a Saturday. He left earlier for a party and didn't tell you when he'd be back.

"He went out, he's probably getting sloshed somewhere— doesn't matter. What happened to you?"

Hardened hazel eyes scan the interior of a house he's familiar with instead of meeting your gaze.

"I should go, then."

You let out an incredulous noise, cross your arms across your chest and shake your head. In that state you're not letting Andrew go anywhere.

'What? Andrew, look at you. No. Let me clean you up and take care of you.'

You make your way to the stairs, gesturing for him to follow, trying to ignore the butterflies in your stomach and your accelerated heartbeats. You're alone at home with the man you've been yearning for, and all Andrew does is stare at you.

He does that a lot — staring and cataloguing information in a way only Andrew Cody does, as if he can dismantle you entirely and figure out what makes you tick like you're a piece of machinery. You don't mind it.

But this is a different type of staring.

There's a delicate, fragile glimmer in his irises, prompting a question he won't dare voice. He's silently questioning you; wondering why you've decided you're going to help. He's wondering why you aren't brushing off his injuries like a mere inconvenience and sending him on his way to lick his wounds. Why are you offering him kindness instead of a reprimand.

You've noticed over the years that this is just how he operates.

Always the sacrificial lamb, loyal to a fault, immolating himself so that anyone close to him can walk away unscathed.

Nothing but an afterthought.

You've seen him injured before; bleeding, beaten and bruised after business with your brother neither men want you to have any part in. Every time you asked your brother if Andrew was going to be okay, all you received back was a 'Oh, yeah, sure. He's a big boy. He can handle himself.' It's never been enough of an answer to quell your concerns and ease the disquiet, nauseating pit inside your stomach.

'You don't have to,' he finally murmurs, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

You offer him a soft, welcoming smile with closed lips.

'I want to. So… c'mon, Andrew.'

There's a beat of silence before he nods and follows you upstairs.

You want to tug your pajama shorts down because they're a little too short and leave the edges of your ass on display, but when you glance behind, you notice Andrew pointedly looking down at his feet.

You can't decide between being disappointed or endeared.

The two of you pass by your brother's bedroom. When you reach yours, you head inside, motioning for Andrew to follow and shut the door behind him. It closes with a soft click.

It's strange to see Pope like this — such an oddly casual sight, looking around your room with curiosity but deliberately keeping his hands to himself behind his back, his shoulders tucked, his footsteps calm and easy, trying not to occupy too much space because it's your room and he doesn't want to intrude. It's a sight you could get used to.

You've pictured it many times before: what would happen if you decided to be bold enough to make a move on him and ask him out, how often he'd be around your room, sprawled over on your bed or sat by your windowsill with a book in hand. Domesticity and romance bundled into one like you've always dreamt of when it comes to Andrew Cody.

You lead him to your wardrobe and offer him a sly little smile when he tilts his head at you in silent confusion.

'There's a little secret here. Old house and all, we have doors in weird places,' you explain as you twist the handle and pull it open.

It reveals a small, narrow corridor that leads into an ensuite bathroom, hidden behind the wardrobe like a passage to Narnia.

'Oh.' Pope breathes out. 'Let me go first.'

You don't question him. There's no one inside your bathroom, but instincts are instincts, and a man like Pope can never shake his off. Between prison and the life he leads, it's only natural. You don't know details of said life. You're not stupid; you're well aware the money your brother makes isn't gifted to him by some divine grace or the kindness of a stranger,

'Alright. Take a seat inside.'

He dips his head and walks in, checking behind your shower curtain and even inside the sink cabinet before nodding at you to follow.

When you do, he's already taken a seat on the toilet lid. His eyes never leave your figure as you move around, grabbing a bowl, a soft cotton towel, antiseptic and gauze. You fill the bowl with warm water, wet the towel and step in front of him, settled between his legs, finally meeting his relentless gaze with your own.

Those hazel eyes hide an infinitude of words he doesn't speak, and you wish you could hear every single one of them.

You gently begin to dab at the cut above his brow, cleaning up the dried blood gathered there. He doesn't flinch.

'Are you gonna tell me how you got beat up?' The question is said in an easy tone, without any underlying accusations what exactly he gets up to in his free time. It's patient, but concerned.

Andrew stays quiet long enough that you think he's going to ignore you again. When he speaks, you've cleaned up the cuts on his handsome face and have moved down to his chest.

'Cage fight,' he murmurs. 'Boxing.'

You let out a surprised noise.

'Boxing? For fun?'

Andrew shrugs. His gaze remains on you, but his hues glaze over. He grows distant as his mind wanders elsewhere.

'No,' he shakes his head gently. 'Not fun, no. Skating's for fun. Boxing's for money… and to let it all out.'

Your countenance remains open, holding that same patience and tenderness it always does when it comes to Andrew. You believe one of the reasons you two get along is that you don't ever judge him for what he does or for who he is.

To you, he's not Pope; he's Andrew, your brother's close friend who picks you up from college after you lost track of time studying at the library and your brother can't come, who always brings you your favourite chocolate when he comes over and asks about the movies you've been seeing, your college classes and your current reads, who loves skating and cleans everything in successive motions of three or five until he's satisfied and can stop counting under his breath.

Andrew is sweet and considerate.

It doesn't matter what Pope gets up to.

'Let it all out?' You hum, continuing to dab away at the scabbed blood in fear he'll stop speaking entirely if this moment between you two truly settles in.

'The rage. The noise in my head.'

He inhales shakily while you nod, setting the cloth aside and reaching for the antiseptic and some gauze next.

You want to lie to yourself and say you're not taking the opportunity to admire how the water and sweat give his pecs an alluring shine, but you're still human. Of course you're looking.

He's clearly bracing himself for a certain reaction out of you, but you remain steadfast.

'That makes sense,' you murmur, 'but isn't there a way to let out your rage that doesn't involve you getting all hurt like this? It breaks my heart to see you in this state, Andy.'

His breath hitches audibly enough that you falter. You worry you've said the wrong thing when he turns his full attention back to you.

'You… worry? About me?' Andrew questions, befuddled.

Your heart breaks just a little more.

You take his chin into one of your hands softly, tilting his head up at you.

'Yes, Andy. I worry very much. Now close your eyes. This'll sting a bit.'

You let go of his chin so you can use your hand as a makeshift shield, and you spray antiseptic on the cut on his brow. Andrew doesn't even hiss.

'Didn't know you worried about me…' he mumbles.

Strong, broad hands come up to rest at the back of your thighs.

For a second, your breath catches in your throat.

You're so very aware of those warm, heavy hands on your skin, calloused thumbs moving up and down in a caress. It's something that's so domestic and sweet that it makes butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Then, you resume your task, trying to calm your radpily beating heart.

'I always do, Andy…' you coo, moving down to spray his cheek next, always careful of his eyes.

'Why?'

The question hangs in the air between you two, heavy, important. If it wasn't important, Andrew wouldn't have asked. Those beautiful sharp eyes find yours and for once, there's no shield keeping the feelings and thoughts at bay. For once, Andrew's fragility and vulnerability is right there on display for you to do as you please, be it break the remainder of his heart or sew it back with your caring hands and tender words.

You lean in without even realising, drawing your face towards his until your breaths mingle and your noses brush. His hands tighten at the back of your thighs just as he lets out a stuttering exhale. Then and there, there's nothing and no one else; not your brother nor Andrew's family. Not the world outside and its responsibilities, not your college nor Andrew's cage fights. There's just the two of you and the weight of his unanswered question.

What you say next could change everything.

But you choose not to speak.

Instead, you lean in and press your lips to his, and the world stops spinning.

He stiffens up for a few seconds, unmoving against your lips for long enough that you take it as a rejection, but before you can pull away, Andrew finally kisses you back.

And though his lips are chapped and split from the fight, and you can taste iron and salt in his mouth, you've never experienced joy like this until now.

His mouth presses against yours more confidently, tongue darting out to lick at the seam of your lips and get you to open up for him, which you gladly do. He's ferverent, yanking you closer until you fall right onto his lap, straddling him. His tongue hungrily presses against yours, claiming you as his, swallowing down your soft moans and emitting little whimpers of his own. He licks into your mouth with abandon, taking everything he hasn't been able to since the moment you two first laid eyes on each other, and you just keep on giving and giving.

Your fingers run over strong forearms, solid biceps and broad shoulders, tracing his trapezius reverently before drifting up into his curls and tangling your digits in his soft hair. When you yank softly, the noise Andrew makes into your kiss is nothing short of desperate. Famished, wounded, needy and grateful all at once, it denounces how unaccostumed to the gentler side of human touch he is — Andrew is always on the receiving end of punches, and you know it, you've seen it; to be allowed to provide him with mutual desire and a touch that is meant to heal instead of injure tugs at your heartstrings.

When he hauls you up to stand with him, your arms promptly wrap around his neck and your ankles lock around his waist, trusting that he won't let you fall. You've always trusted him to be careful with you.

'Fuck—' He pants against your lips, barely allowing space to settle between the two of you before he's kissing you again. 'Mmph—'

He walks the two of you backward, taking his time to press you against the walls of your faux-closet and grinding his erection against your leaking core. The pressure on your clit has slick gathering at your entrance, soaking through your underwear.

'Andy—' you murmur between kisses, 'need you. Need you so bad.'

Your words prompt another wounded, desperate noise to tear from his throat.

'Yeah?' He rasps just as his lips find your pulse point, wrapping around it, tongue flattening against it until you keen.

'Yeah— ohhh— that's it, honey. Want you to make me yours.'

He growls against your throat and brings his mouth to another section of your skin and clamping down with force, leaving a hickey that will stay put for days at minimum. The delicious mixture of pain and pleasure sends electricity directly down to your clit, prompts you to roll your hips into his until the head of his cock bumps against your sensitive, clothed cunt.

'Please…' He whimpers into your neck, shaking his head.

You patiently card your fingers through his curls, scratching at his scalp with manicured nails, letting him take his time.

'Please what, honey?' You coo.

Andrew takes a stuttering breath in.

'Please don't—' he cuts himself off, takes another moment, and you press your lips to his cheek from this angle, prompting another wounded little cry from him.

'Please don't say shit like that if you're not gonna be mine— if you're gonna end up fuckin' off when you see how ugly I get.'

Your heart's acquired several little cracks over the last few months from observing Andrew and how the world interacts with him, but hearing his voice break with anticipated grief and fear of being left yet again is what shatters you.

You shake your head and bring your hands to his face, forcing him to look up at you, and you meet his glossy gaze with your own, full of affection for him.

And him alone.

It's always been Andrew.

Since your brother started bringing him around, you'd lost any semblance of interest in other people, focused solely on this mysterious man and his beautiful curls, craving to spend time around him and hear his voice.

'Andrew, I know exactly who you are. What you do. What you're capable of. It's never changed how I feel about you.'

You hear him inhale sharply. The fingers he's sinking into the flesh of your thigh and ass tighten harsh enough to bruise as he processes your words. It makes you squirm, needy.

'You can't—' Andrew cuts himself off with another sharp inhale. You can almost see the cogs in his head turning, working overdrive to find a reason to push you away. 'You can't say that— can't like me like that, baby, fuck. It's not right.'

You're not having any of it.

You crash your lips together in an urgent, passionate kiss, dismantling the walls he's trying to build between you two with each drag of your tongue against his. He moans into it, squeezes your ass harder, ruts his cock against your clothed cunt until you're both breathless. Your underwear clings to your skin, sticky with how soaked with slick you've already become.

'It is right, Andrew. You are right for me. Okay?' You murmur against his mouth before pecking his lips again. 'I want you— every part of you, including your past, your anger, your jealousy, the shit you don't talk about, I want it all. So don't try to push me away. It's not gonna work.'

Andrew stares at you through wet eyes, carrying enough grief and affection in his gaze to swallow down the world in his pain. His internal conflict lasts a mere moment.

He kisses you again, and time becomes nothing more than a suggestion, fading around you as you focus solely on Andrew and his lips on yours, your hands on his skin, his teeth on your neck and collarbone. Somewhere along the way to your bed, both of your clothes have beem haphazardly discarded, littering the floor, but you don't care because he presses you down onto your mattress and lets the weight of his body encompass yours.

His hard, heavy cock leaks onto your thigh, a tangible demonstration of the effect you have on him. As he marks down your body with hickeys, mouth descending towards your chest, Andrew slots his knee between your thighs, and you cry out when your throbbing clit grazes his hot skin.

'Oh my God— Andrew—'

You rock your hips upward, unabashedly dragging your drooling pussy along his thigh. He growls lowly before bringing his mouth to one of your breasts. His teeth scrape the areola, and pulls a gasp from your lungs. Next, a pink tongue darts out to flick rapidly over your already hardened nipple in a steady sequence of up, down, up, down, left, down, before it swirls around the nub. Electrifying pleasure shoots from your breast down your abdomen, straight to your core.

'Andy—' you whine, desperate and pliant underneath him. 'Just like that—'

Andrew growls against your neck.

'Yeah? Like having your tits played with, sweetheart?' He rasps.

His mouth closes around your breast, locking in to suck on your nipple, while one of his broad hands drift up your belly until it closes around your neglected breast, kneading, index and thumb pinching the stiff bud until you're arching your back and rutting against his thigh with abandon. Each movement tightens that familiar knot in your core, threatening to spill you over the edge.

'Yeah, fuuuck! You're gonna make me come like this—' you pant, and he responds by flexing his thigh against your cunt.

'Mmm, that's it…' he whispers. 'Want you to, honey. I'm doing this for you. So you feel good.'

But you shake your head between your sweet little moans and pleas. You don't want to come like this for the first time with him, no.

You have something else in mind.

'Nonono, I need you inside me, please! Need to come around your cock.'

Your words make him growl into your chest and pull away, climbing his way back up your body so he can properly hold your gaze. There's this animalistic, dangerous glimmer in his eyes, just barely restrained by what's left of his self control, and you want nothing more than to push his buttons until he sets it free.

'I don't got a condom, baby, fuck—' Andrew pushes the words out his mouth, his tone strangled.

It turns you on so much.

To know the risk you're about to take, of letting the man you've been pining for fuck you raw and put a baby inside you, to know you're ovulating and the chances of his seed making home in your womb. To think about putting more of Andrew out in the world in the shape of a little human for you both to cherish and love together.

You want it all.

'Even better—' you tell him, wrapping your arms around his neck, trying to pull him closer, 'what if we make a baby together, Andy? Mmm? You and me. You can slide that fat cock in me and come inside… and in less than a year we'll have a little angel of our own. Doesn't that sound good to you?'

He leans in for a kiss and makes a sound against your mouth, needy and sweet, and nods frantically at your words.

'I want that more than anything… but are you sure?' Andrew croaks through tears that gather at his long lashes and threaten to cascade down his cheeks.

You lean in to kiss his tears away, tasting the salt and sorrow in them.

'I'm sure, my love…' you coo, cupping his cheeks and making a trail of kisses down to his lips. 'I want a baby with you, Andrew. So, give it to me.'

He seals your lips together in an urgent, passionate kiss. Broad, calloused hands move to grab a pillow and lift you, tucking it underneath your hips. When the fat head of his cock nudges at your clit, you gasp and part your legs wider for him, inviting him in.

'Ohhh fuck—' you moan, rocking your hips into his, savouring the way his erection presses up right to the centre of your twitching, swollen, red clit.

You look down to watch precum bead at his slit and trickle down onto your puffy pussy, marking you as his.

'You're so perfect…' Andrew murmurs, panting. 'Got the prettiest pussy I've ever seen, sweetheart.'

He wraps a fist around his thick length and guides the leaking head to your entrance at the same time as he kisses you again.

'If it hurts, you tell me, yeah?'

'Yeah—' you aquiesce, nodding. 'Keep your eyes on me? Please?'

He pulls away just slightly, enough to be able to maintain eye contact while your breaths still mingle together in the small, compact space between the two of you. You gaze right into the interminable forest of his eyes as he breaches your entranceslowly. When the head pops inside, you moan softly and wrap your arms around his neck. You take in the way his eyebrows knit together and his forehead creases.

'Fuck, angel, you're so goddamn tight,' he breathes out, voice strained.

'And you're so fucking big,' you retort, laughing breathlessly.

Gradually and with patience, Andrew eases his whole length inside you, centimetre by centimetre until you're so full that your belly distends under the wright of his girthy cock. There's tears climbing down the sides of your face from how deliciously overwhelming it feels to be completely full.

'Andy—' you whine as your slick walls clench around him, sucking him in deeper.

'Fuckfuckfuck—' The older man rasps, letting his forehead lean against yours. 'So tight and so goddamn wet, baby— fuck. You're perfect.'

You lock your ankles around his waist and yank him closer, pressing him deeper inside you, rocking your hips impatiently.

'Then fuck me, please. I need it now— need you now, Andrew.'

Andrew doesn't need more encouragement than that.

He keeps you exactly as you are, your breathing and soft moans mingling together, and slowly bottoms out, sliding himself back in. As he slides back into your cunt, your body makes a lewd, sopping wet noise that makes him curse.

'Mmm-—' you moan softly. 'Harder, Andy, c'mon.'

He bottoms out almost all the way before shifting his hips and slamming his cock back in, finding that sweet spot inside of you that makes you see stars. Immediately, your back arches, breasts pressing to his chest, pebbled nipples dragging deliciously against your skin.

'Right there, baby?' Andrew purrs at you, wrapping an arm around your waist to pull you even closer, pulling out nearly all the way before thrusting back inside.

Your eyes roll behind your head as euphoria and warmth gathers in your core.

'Right there— keep going, please—'

He does.

He sets a steady rhythm inside you, pulling out and finding his way back with powerful, focused thrusts that hit your g-spot each time. At times, he alternates the thrusts with rolls of his hips that press his cockhead right to your most sensitive nub, making your slick walls seize around him and try to milk him dry.

The bedroom gets overtaken with the sounds of both of your moans and pants and his groans, along with the lewd noises of your wet cunt being fucked relentlessly, his balls slapping against your ass and the headboard of your bed slamming against the wall.

You've felt pleasure before, of course — often with yourself, occasionally with other people whose names you've erased from your mind by now — but it's never been anything remotely close to this. The way Andrew fucks you incinerates you from the inside you, starting at the epicentre of the matter that makes up your soul and spreading through your spirit until it reaches your body, coursing fire through your veins that gathers straight in your pussy, overwhelming you entirely.

You completely lose sight of yourself, existing solely for Andrew in that moment.

That familiar knot deep in your belly tightens in a way you've never experienced before, catapulting you towards an orgasm unlike any other. Your cunt clenches around his erection, leaking onto his shaft more and more each time he hits your g-spot.

'Ngnn— Andy— Oh, fuck, Andy, m' close—'

Your words only encourage him more.

'Yeah, doll? Me too, shit— m' so fuckin' close, honey— m' gonna put a baby in you soon, yeah? You want that? You wanna be mine forever?'

You nod frantically, pulling him down for a messy kiss that's mostly just sloppy tongue action.

'I do, Andy, I do! I wanna be yours and only yours! Don't stop, please—'

Just when you think it can't get better, Andrew finds a way to fuck you even harder, delivering sharp thrusts that make you see stars.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a tidal wave, seizeing your legs around him, making your cunt squeeze him so tightly he can hardly move for a moment. You cry out his name as you gush onto his cock, his stomach, his thighs, the sheets, everywhere, making a complete mess out of you two, and he fucks you through it.

'Fuck, baby, you squirted— oh God, I'm coming—'

He buries his nose into the crook of your neck and bites down as he lets out a broken moan into your skin. His thick, warm seed spills into you in steady ropes that he pushes further into your womb with each buckof his hips.

The two of you ride it out together until your bodies collapse together, tangled in a heap of limbs.

And then, you guide Andrew's lips to yours in a kiss, slow, deep and tender, sighing into each other's mouths.

'If this didn't make it clear, I need you to know I'm in love with you, Andy.' You rasp, offering him a soft little smile.

Andrew whimpers and kisses you with a passionate devotion that leaves you swooning.

'Just— stay with me forever. Please. Don't leave. I won't be able to…' he takes a deep breath. 'Won't be able to bear it if you do.'

You lift your pinky and take his hand, guiding him to link his pinky with yours.

'I'm never leaving, Andy. I promise you.'

It's a promise you'll do anything keep.

In the morning, your brother walks into your bedroom to tell you he's brought breakfast only to find you wrapped up in Andrew Cody's arms, asleep and undressed, while he keeps watch over you like a guard hound. And as much as he wants to beat the shit out of Pope for hooking up with his sister, something in those sharp eyes makes him pause and leave you two be.

Andrew Cody is serious about you. And your brother isn't crazy enough to fight Pope over something he holds to his chest like it's the most valuable thing he's ever touched.

It's not a battle he's ready to fight.

It's not one he can win.

please reblog if you enjoyed my work! :)

and yeah, it kind of makes him feel like he's a prized hog being weighed at the county fair. but he also doesn't know what else to do, tired of trying to ease into it, to hold the words like delicate eggshells in his hands, hoping they don't shatter and make a mess all over the floor.

he's surprised, when he wakes up the next morning to a message from an account he's never seen before. a profile of a young woman, younger than he's usually interested in and out of his set distance range. still in california, but up north, near santa barbara. you only have one photo of yourself, standing at the base of the eiffel tower, hair half-blown into your eyes and smiling, a bright toothy grin that seems to take up half your face. the other three photos are of a border collie with a lolling pink tongue and curious disposition, its head cocked to the side. the description is rather short too. all it says is your name and one line: i like dogs.

you: hi andrew, 43, uncircumcised. is that your full name? :)

andrew blinks down at the message, then he looks at the photo again, at the big smile, the dog. he types a response.

andrew: no

it doesn’t take very long for him to get one in return, phone buzzing in his hand.

you: no?

he types out another response.

andrew: it’s my first name, my age, and my dick.

his phone buzzes in his hand almost immediately. he looks down at his screen.

you: lucky me :)

you: can i see it?

his brow furrows.

andrew: see what?

you: your dick, silly

andrew regards the messages for a moment. then types back,

andrew: why?

you: just curious to see if it’s as pretty as the rest of you :)

slow warmth spreads up his chest, his neck, settling in his cheeks. he rubs at his face, sitting up a little straighter against the wall.

andrew: i’m not hard

his phone vibrates a few times as you message him.

you: oh that’s okay

you: can i still see it?

you: i really want to

you: pretty please, andrew

andrew stares down at the influx of messages, like maybe they will clarify into something else. something that’s not a rather insistent request from a stranger to see his soft penis. did women even like that sort of thing?

the messages stare back up at him, unchanged. unmoving. unmistakable.

andrew doesn't send nudes. to tell the truth, he doesn't think he's sent a photo of himself to anyone, ever. any part of him. what's up on his profile is all he's shared. a picture of him at the beach. one of him surfing. an old photo deran took years ago of him and craig wrestling in the living room at smurf's. a hand on his skateboard.

he looks at the photo in your profile again, the one of you, not the dog. your arms are stretched out wide, the lights of the eiffel tower twinkling behind you, like get a load of this. you look happy, content. young.

he slips a hand below his waistband, cups his balls and tries to imagine you standing in front of him instead, at the edge of his bed, maybe. that same pretty face but a softer smile, arms at your sides. a sweet voice he makes up to say a version of the same words, ‘pretty please, andrew. can i see it?’

yeah, okay.

he closes his eyes, inhaling, a small tug of pleasure in his belly, warming him from the inside. it makes his dick plump up just a tad against his thigh.

in his fantasy, you’re climbing onto the bed now, one knee pressed into the mattress and then the other. you're wearing the same dress as in the photo and he can see the curve of your breasts as you start to crawl. crawling up the bed, between his legs. this look on your face like you want nothing more than to see what he’s hiding beneath his waistband.

andrew lets go of his phone and slips his other hand into his shorts, wraps his fingers around the base of his cock. not jerking it, not yet, just holding it, just letting the warmth from his palm bleed through. it feels good, feels familiar. the same as it has since he was thirteen.

you’re close enough now that your head is between his knees. you’re lowering yourself down, tummy to mattress and crossing your ankles behind you like in one of those teeny-bop shows julia always had on tv when they were kids. no magazine though, just a coy smile as you prop your chin in your hand, draw a light finger over the inside of his left knee.

‘show me?’ you ask, voice still just as sweet as the first time and it makes his stomach swoop, his dick twitch a little in his hand.

maybe he's secretly a pervert and he just never knew it. a sick desire lain dormant until a woman half his age messaged him on a dating app and asked, apropos of nothing, to see his uncircumcised penis.

andrew tugs the waistband of his shorts down, lets it bunch up under his balls, the elastic pushing them up, showing them off to you, showing you everything really. the hand, the back of his bruised knuckles, the soft but warm length slowly filling out in his palm. eager beneath your gaze as you smile at him, roll your bottom lip between your teeth.

‘yeah,’ you murmur, cute, wet tongue peeking out, and drag your eyes along his dick, like you’re filing a memory for later.

andrew’s hips tilt up and he squeezes his dick and balls at the same time, his mouth dropping open a little. he’s filling out now, properly, thickening up as more blood rushes south, giving him shape, definition. enough so that he thinks he can risk it, the photo.

he picks up his phone again, sparing one last glance at your profile before he opens the camera app and tries to snap a photo at a flattering angle. it takes a couple tries. the first few are too blurry. the next has a shadow of his phone cast over half of it. the last one isn’t too bad, well-lit, soft morning sun streaming in through the windows and making sure you can see the whole thing. his dick, his hand, the bare skin of his stomach where his shirt's been rucked up.

he sends it off before he can second guess himself or the decision. and then he sits there, dick slowly softening against his thigh as the nerves eat away at him. one minute, two.

fuck, what if you hate it? what if it’s the ugliest cock you’ve ever seen? shit, he shouldn’t have sent it. shouldn’t have bothered at all. he should delete it. maybe if he deletes it fast enough you won’t have time to see it. he’ll have spared you the horrible experience completely. he’ll delete it and then he’ll delete his entire account right after.

he picks up his phone right as it buzzes in his hand. it buzzes and then it buzzes again, and again, and again and again.

swallowing his trepidation, andrew swipes open the dating app.

you: oh fuck

you: oh fuck you’re so pretty

you: like i knew you’d be pretty but seeing it is totally different

you: i knew you’d be a big boy. big like the rest of you, yeah?

you: god it’s probably heavy when you walk

andrew stares down at his phone, a burning warmth beginning to spread from the tips of his toes all the way up to the tips of his ears. his entire body feels electrified, like his skin is one second away from sparking from the heat.

another message comes through.

you: fuck, andrew. i’m really wet

he closes his eyes, sucking in a shaky breath. you’re wet. you’re wet just from seeing a photo of his half-hard cock. saliva pools in his mouth. he grinds his teeth together.

he picks up his phone.

andrew: for real?

you: yeah, for real

you: you wanna see?

he presses the heel of his hand into his cock, rolls his hips up into it.

andrew: yes

then remembering his manners, he says,

andrew: please

a minute goes by, during which andrew grips his phone in his right hand and rocks into his left. stares at the photo of you, at the messages calling his dick pretty. then his phone buzzes again and it’s not a photo you’ve sent at all. it’s a video file.

he presses play with his thumb so fast and so hard, it makes a tapping noise.

the video starts to play. a little shaky at first, like the camera (phone?) is unsteady in your hand and then it focuses, a low-lit grainy view pointing down between bare thighs, soft and spread open just enough to fit your hand. he can hear your breathing, a little fast, as you slide two fingers up and down your wet slit. he can’t see your pussy too well like this, but he can hear it, when you move the camera close enough, can hear the slick sounds it makes when you rub yourself, over your clit, he thinks, as you let slip a quiet, soft moan. the video abruptly ends.

andrew plays it again. then again. he clicks the volume button all the way up to try and catch that moan at the end, presses the speaker against his ear and pretends you’re moaning with your mouth pressed against his neck while he’s filling you up. fitting the head of his cock against your entrance and guiding you slowly down with a hand on your soft waist. the fantasy is so good. you sound so good.

he types out a message, left hand fisted around his cock, squeezing tight.

andrew: you have the sweetest voice

then,

andrew: i want to hear you say my name

when you don’t immediately respond, he thinks maybe he’s pushed too far. then another video file comes through.

the camera is balanced on your tummy this time, a straight forward view of your knees raised, hand snug between your thighs. you must be lying down now. andrew watches, ears and eyes focused to catch every single detail. you moan again as your hand moves and it takes a second for him to realize you must be fucking yourself with your fingers.

shit. andrew slowly drags his hand up and down his cock in time with your breathing.

‘andrew,’ the voice on the video suddenly murmurs, almost a whine, and he nearly dents his phone with how hard he squeezes it. ‘andrew, please.’

andrew, please.

oh fucking hell, andrew thinks, spitting in his palm and jerking himself a little faster. sweetest voice, all breathy and needy saying his name. he doesn’t even know you. a stranger messaging him from almost 200 miles away, soft and pretty and, for some reason, begging for his cock.

he flips open the camera app again, taking his own short video. fucking his fully hard dick into his hand, foreskin pulled back to show how wet and pink he’s become. he sends it over.

andrew: you’re driving me crazy

you message back almost immediately.

you: oh my god

you: oh my god fuck

you: need to feelyou inside me

you: youd stretch me out so god

you: pleasjcr nbe ver had a dick so big

the messages are full of typos, like you’re too distracted to pay attention, too busy fucking your pussy with your fingers, maybe close to release. andrew grunts, dick kicking up in his hand. he’s imagining you squirming in his lap, nails digging into his shoulders as you cry out, ‘so big, so big andrew, fuck oh my god.’

andrew: you gonna cum?

andrew: i want to hear you cum

andrew grabs the bottle of lotion off his nightstand while he waits for your response. he depresses some into his hand, warming it, then spreads it all over his dick. his bites his lip at the sensation. slick, wet. he can almost pretend it’s your pussy.

his phone buzzes. fuck. a new video file. andrew squeezes the base of his dick to keep himself from shooting off too early. just the anticipation of what’s waiting for him in that video has his head going fuzzy. he swallows and presses play.

you’ve set the camera up across the room. must have, on some type of surface. a dresser, maybe. it’s facing the bed. he can see you from the waist down and thinks you’re fully naked. because you’re kneeling upright and all he can see is gorgeous, soft skin.

god, he wants to touch you, he wants to know what sounds you’ll make when he runs his hands over your stomach, your thighs. he wants to shove his head between them and lap at your pretty cunt until you’re pushing him back with both hands, overstimulated and sensitive.

a quick, and deeply selfish thought runs through him: disappointment that he can’t see your tits like this, and then the thought is immediately diverted when he sees what’s in your hand.

a dildo. a rather life-like one from what he can tell from his vantage point across the room. thick, mushroom tip and a pair of silicone balls at the bottom. not as thick as him, of course, but still impressive. andrew hates it immediately. he’s gonna throw it out the first second gets. when he meets you for real, in person. he’s gonna throw out all your toys and fill you up with his cock instead. let you use his dick whenever you want. every day, every hour if that's what you need.

you’re balancing the stupid thing on a pillow, flat base held still as you slowly sink down.

oh fuck, he thinks, fisting his cock, watching your pussy swallow it whole.

you whine as you begin to shift your hips back and forth, grinding on it like it’s real, like it’s him, your stomach muscles tensing as you move.

andrew makes sure to time his hand perfectly in tempo as you grind. this is what you would look like if he was there with you. shaky, trembling legs and desperate noises, except his hands would be all over you. he’d make sure to cover every inch of skin.

‘andrew,’ you moan, and your voice is just as a sweet as the last video. ‘fuck, you feel so good.’

yeah, fuck. he’s gonna lay you out on your bed and use your soft thighs as earmuffs. he’s gonna stretch out your cunt so slow on his dick that you're begging him to move, hips tilted up as you whine. he’s gonna watch your tits bounce and your eyes roll back and your mouth drop open and he's gonna give you absolutely everything you ask for. he’s gonna make sure no one ever compares.

‘ohh,’ you cry, slipping your free hand between your legs to rub at your clit. ‘i need it, i need it, i need it.’

‘yeah,’ andrew says, aloud, even though you can’t hear him. ‘yeah, fuck, you do.’

‘m gonna come, please, please, andrew, i’m gonna come.’

andrew groans, fucking his fist, pleasure coursing through him as he watches you spasm and shake around the dildo, whining and grinding your way through your orgasm. he shuts his eyes and lets himself imagine coming inside you as you do, filling you up and feeling it all slide back out, getting his lap all messy when he lifts you up in his arms.

he paints his own chest with his cum, thick, steady ropes of it as stars burst behind his eyelids. he lies there, half lying, half sitting up against the wall, panting for a full minute until his heart rate slows.

jesus christ, he can't remember the last time he came that hard. he takes a photo of the mess and sends it back to you.

you: wowie

you: any chance you're open to long distance?

He can’t help it. Jack is handsome and charming; he knows that. He’s a bit of a flirt, and that charm allows him many friends in many different places.

Your dad was one of his first, before he was all charm and smirks. Before life unfolded the way it did for him. His service, his leg, his wife. So naturally, it was a no-brainer that when his daughter moved to Jack’s city that he would take good care of you.

Although Jack would never admit it, he had some selfish motives as well. He found you alluring in all the wrong ways. Skirts that were just a little too short, innocent giggles, flowery perfume. You were a guilty pleasure that he couldn’t help but indulge in from time to time.

He had picked you up from the airport when you arrived, ever the gentleman, taking your bags and loading them into his car for you. Jack had waved your thanks off, insisting that you let him handle it. On the ride over to your apartment, he had let you know that you should call him if you needed any help. That he promised your dad that he’d look after you while you were far away from home. And when you got out of his truck, he definitely didn’t let his gaze linger, eyes roaming your body.

He was even a gentleman as he carried your things upstairs, content to watch your mini skirt flutter against your soft thighs as you led him to your door. You were sweet, giving him a quick hug, promising to call if you were ever in need. He walked back to his truck with the heat of your skin still searing through his shirt. 

Weeks passed with nothing from you, leaving him conflicted. On one hand, calling him meant that you were in some sort of trouble, so it was probably better that you weren’t calling him. On the other hand, he really wanted you to call him.

As time progressed you stopped crossing his mind constantly, only in little glimmers when he saw something that reminded him of you. Every time it happened he felt a twinge of guilt. You were strictly off limits; that was something he had to remind himself often. Yet, you were creeping your way into his thoughts against his wishes.

So, when you did call, Jack very nearly dropped what he was holding to pick up.

“Hello?” He tries to feign something that vaguely resembles nonchalance, clearing his throat. 

“Jack?” Your voice is a little shaky and he tries to ignore the rush of desire that goes straight to his head at the sound, instead trying to listen to the sound of your voice. It doesn’t help. Much to his chagrin, it makes him want you even more. “I need a little help.”

“Of course, kid.” He tucks his phone in between his ear and his shoulder, He’s already pulling on his prosthetic and making his way towards his jacket as he speaks. The jacket is barely half on before he has a hand on the handle of his front door. “What’s wrong?”

“My car broke down. They’re going to tow it but…” Jack can hear the cars whizzing by in the background, almost loud enough to muffle your words. It’s still daylight outside, but he’s still worried enough that he’s setting off to his truck with a brisk walk. “Would you give me a ride home?”

“Where are you?” He asks, already in the driver’s seat. You sigh at the other end of the line, pausing.

“I’ll just text it to you.” And sure enough Jack looks down at his phone and you’ve shared your location with him. He tries not to think about taking advantage of that in any other sort of scenario and turns the key in the ignition. 

“I’ll be there in ten, sweetheart.” His phone really says fifteen, but if he speeds he can definitely cut it down. He’s pulling out of his driveway in the time that it takes for you to thank him profusely and hang up the phone.

He drums his fingers on his steering wheel as he drives towards you, lost in thought. While he did mention that you should call him if you needed help, he wasn’t anything more than hopeful. The fact that you did as he said made him smile to himself, albeit a small one. You did what you were told, and he liked that. But that also gave way to another thought, one that he couldn’t push out of his mind.

Late afternoon gold tends to run thick over the Cody lawn in the summer. It was one of your favorite things about the place when you first came to work for Smurf. How everything gleams. Shiny and incandescent.

You wade into it with a mason jar hugged to your waist, twirling the striped straw every so often.

Slivers of sun shimmer on the driveway, and you consciously uncurl the squint from your eyes and nose. Pope likes your nose exactly like it is, smooth and scrunch-free. Says it’s hard for him to concrete when you do that.

You huff as your try to keep the pink tank you grabbed from the dryer from migrating south with every passing breeze, revealing a cameo of the cream lace of your bra. No such luck.

You find Pope half-hidden beneath one of the sedan’s raised hood, back muscles flexing each time he coaxes a bolt loose, greases painting dark vines up his arms.

You move to balance on the edge of the headlight, bare knees brushing hot chrome.

The wrench freezes mid-turn.

“Hi, Pope,” you chirp, taking another sip of lemonade, “could you, um, maybe drive me to the fair later?”

Sugar granules fuse to your lip. You catch them with your tongue and the lemon pop rocks across your taste buds like fireworks.

Pope answers with nothing but a grunt, wrench ticking back alive, never even gifting you half a glance. Hard no. At least for now.

You purse your lips, frown poised to bloom into protest, then remember this morning.

One second you were stretching past him for the cereal (no bra, tank practically see-through in the window light) and the next his favorite striped mug was skidding from his hands, blue porcelain grenading on the tile in a starburst of shards. 

My fault, you’d blurted, kneeling to scoop the wreckage before the words even made sense. (Fault… why? You hadn't touched a thing.)

Pope didn’t answer, he was too busy swallowing, too busy staring at the faint chill-pebbled shapes pressing against your shirt. His neck was blotchy, pupils blow, chest rising like he’d jogged the stairs. 

When he finally blinked, it was like someone hit play: “Feet,” he barked, lifting you bodily, setting you atop the counter, bare soles dangling.

Then he dropped to his haunches, collecting splinters of mug he never once looked at, because his gaze kept ricocheting back to the cotton clinging to your chest. 

Maybe, just maybe, a girl could call that cause-and-effect. You’re not completely sure of the mechanics of it all, though.

So you decide to test it.

Carefully, you tip closer, weight settling into your elbows, neckline sagging, granting the engine and its keeper a clearer view of your breasts.

Frost-sweaty lemonade kisses the upper arc of cleavage. You gasp at the temperature but stand your ground.

The socker’s click sputters, stops.

Pope peers over the hood, eyes catching first of the condensation bead sliding downward, and his ears blaze a color Crayola forgot to name, stunned-dawn red that nearly makes you giggle. 

“It’s okay if you’re busy,” you continue, leaning closer until the garage fan sends a draft straight down your shirt, pebbling your nipples. Goosebumps race over the newly exposed skin and you let the shiver travel through your chest. You pretend not to notice, tracing the sandal strap that digs into your ankle. “I’ll walk — but the gravel might chew these up…”

The wrench kisses the concrete with a clatter. Pope straightens, dragging an ink-black sleeve across his brow like he’s erasing a private thought. 

“You shouldn’t walk that road alone.” Keys rustle in his pocket as he fishes them out, surrendering. “Give me five; I’ll clean up.”

You light up like he just offered the moon. 

“S’why you’re my hero,” you beam, bouncing up to enfold him in a hug. 

His startled grunt vibrates through sweat-slick muscle, then your chest slides over his filthy tee, soaking up a broad swath of charcoal grease. 

When you pull back there’s a smeary hand-print of engineer grime stamped across your tank, right over your chest. Like someone finger-painted possession on you. 

“Oh shoot —” You trace the smudge with a fingertip, then waggle it at him. “Do you have a little cloth, or… maybe I should rinse it before it sets?”

Pope’s stare lingers on the soot-black curve of your breasts like it’s art in a gallery. “Yeah… I’ve got a cloth.” 

But he doesn’t move right away, thumb flexing against his sides as though he’s weighing whether to wipe the mark away or keep it exactly where it declares you his.

A beat passes, two, before he jerks into motion, rummaging inside the open toolbox and coming up with a soft flannel rag. 

He offers you the cloth.

You curl your fingers around it, then look up through your lashes. “It — could you do it, Pope? I’ll only make a mess.” 

Something flashes in his eyes — impatience, protectiveness — before he bites it back and steps into your space.

His knuckles are white on the rag and he dabs at the smear in slow circles. Each pass is gentler than the last. You bite down on a small little mewl at the feeling.

“Can’t be on cleanup duty twenty-four seven,” he mutters under his breath.

“Maybe if you weren’t so distracted by my chest, there’d be nothing to clean?” 

He freezes, eyes dark, lips a hard line. That’s answer enough. Two more strokes and the stain is only a faint shadow. 

With a grunt he stuffs the rag in his pocket. “Get in the truck.”

You obey, hopping in and sliding across cracked vinyl, and by the time the hood clangs shut you’re grinning at the windshield. Pattern confirmed.

Pope can drop a man with one shot, turn grown crooks into choirboys with a look, but a flash of cleavage and the apex predator forks over both ignition and itinerary. Interesting.

MARIA NOTE short little drabble? blurb? ficlet? on my baby angels bunny reader and pope just bc i love them so much and i am in a perpetual state of thinking ab them <3 if u enjoyed pls let me know!! and my inbox is open to ideas for them :-) 🌸🌿

Comfort. Safety. Things Andrew has spent most of his life circling without ever quite touching.

When his body finally stirs into consciousness, he doesn't open his eyes. Instead, he feels. 

Under the soft heat of the morning, something warm pressed against his side. Soft, familiar. It’s your body tucked against him, an arm draped around his waist, a leg over his, your face resting in the crook of his neck. 

He can feel your soft breaths on his skin.

In, out. In, out. 

He counts each one, eyes still closed. 

One, two. One, two.

He isn't entirely sure how much time passes. A minute. Ten. Maybe more.

The rhythm settles somewhere deep beneath him, in that place where, over these last few months, something soft and molten has taken residence in his chest, unfurling beneath his ribs, spreading to heart. Finding solace there. 

Andrew does not consider himself to be a man that smiles, that shows happiness through the muscles on face very often, not that he used to feel much of the emotion in the first place. Happiness was something that was something fragile, something transactional, something that could disappear the second he looked directly at it. 

But now, he feels it. That flutter of joy he rarely ever felt with Julia, then momentarily with Cath, with Lena. And it’s brought on, by you.

The woman who lies tucked against him, trusting, her body pressed into his.

The course of the past few months has brought about stolen smiles, hidden beneath a soft snort, or pressed into your lips, smiling against your mouth.

He remembers your voice, the first time he'd let the muscles in his face soften, let them hold that gentle upturn.

“You’re so, so pretty Andrew.”

He'd fluttered his lashes, looking down, a pink hue spreading across his cheeks. Blushing. 

Now, smiling is that much easier. Natural. The way it always seems to be around you.

Slowly, Andrew shifts closer, just enough that he can feel more of your warmth. He inhales the scent of your hair, of your skin. Pockets of intimacy he only allows himself when your eyes are closed.

Andrew closes his eyes and rests, lets your breathing guide him into that soft space between sleeping and being awake, that quiet place where warmth glows steadily beneath his chest.

In, out. In, out.

You feel his chest rising and falling under you, his breathing even, as you open your eyes.  Seeing the peace on his face. The permanent tension that usually sits across his shoulders has disappeared, his jaw relaxed, mouth slightly parted.

You feel it bloom in your chest, love, swelling and beating. This man, who's spent every waking moment surrounded by violence and pain, is allowing you to rest against him, an arm wrapped protectively around you even in his sleep.

Carefully, you lift your head, brush a curl from his head. 

Then, unable to help yourself, you lean forward and press a soft kiss against his temple. 

Then the creases near his eyes.

Across his cheek.

His jaw. 

You detangle yourself from his arms, shifting yourself over him, one hand resting on the bed beside him, hovering over his face. The other remains in his curls, thumb brushing gently against his temple.

His nose scrunches slightly, brows furrowing.  

You smile, pressing a kiss in that crease.  

His eyes finally begin to flicker open, tinged with sleepiness, the sort that's rested, calm.

They find yours immediately, your face hovering over his, close. 

The furrow disappears, lips tilting up. Both his broad palms come up to encase your waist.

"What're you doin'?" he asks, voice gravelly and rough with sleep. 

You grin wider. 

"Counting your freckles.”

His eyes widen, morphing into that puppy-eyed confusion you adore. Your heart aches softly at the fact that he has never been privy to such mundane intimacy.

"Yeah?" 

You nod. 

"You have so many. They’re so pretty, Andrew."

And there it is again, that word only you seem to use to describe him with. Pretty. 

A faint blush creeps across his face, pinkening the apples of his cheeks. 

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to."

The simplicity of the answer catches him off guard, loosens something tight in his chest. You say it as though it's obvious. As though spending your morning sprawled over him, counting freckles and pressing kisses into his skin, is the easiest choice in the world.

The hand buried in his curls moves gently, slow circles against his scalp. His eyes flutter. He lets out something resembling a whimper.

"How many?" he asks quietly.

"Hmm." You tilt your head, pretending to think. "Maybe a hundred."

His eyes drop down to your mouth, his palms gripping your waist tighter. 

"Think there's more than that.”

The words come out soft, shy. Hesitant. Still unfamiliar with this kind of intimacy even after all these months. But you've learned him. You've learned the language beneath his words, the way he hides meanings behind mundane words and questions, things he wants but struggles to ask for.

And right now what he wants is obvious.

So, you lean down and kiss his forehead again. 

Then his cheeks. 

His nose. 

The corners of his mouth.

Your hand trails down to cup his jaw.

Immediately Andrew leans into it, nuzzling deeper into your palm, eyes staying on yours. He exhales softly, the sound almost a sigh.

Your heart aches, the good kind. 

"My Andrew," you murmur, the words slipping out softly.

Andrew goes still. His lips press together tightly the way they do when he feels too much, that burst of something uncontrollable inside his chest. Too much. Usually anger, or jealousy, or grief.  

For the first time, he allows himself to recognise it for what it is. Adoration.

He’s never been anyone’s before, not in the way you call him yours. 

He's been Pope - the man who's Smurf’s son, his brothers' older brother, Julia's twin. Pieces of himself given away his entire life, bound by blood or circumstance.

But this is different. This is the first time somebody has come along and chosen him. Chosen him to be theirs.  

Out of everybody in the world, you looked at Andrew, at his bruised hands, his scars, at everything broken and battered inside him, and said mine.

The realisation settles warmly inside his chest, in that space only you occupy, spreading until he can feel it beneath every rib, in his heart. 

He tilts his head up, bringing a hand to the back of your head and guiding you closer, until your mouth is hovering just above his.

“Yeah?” he whispers. "Yours?"

You smile softly. 

“Yeah, Andrew. Mine.”

Then he kisses you, a slow press of his lips against yours, lazy and unhurried, but filled with all the tenderness he can't make his mouth utter aloud.

You sigh into his mouth. He smiles into your lips. 

And for the first time in his life, Andrew finds that he doesn't mind belonging to someone at all.

Andrew woke to the sound of his daughter yelling.

Not crying.

Not upset.

Just awake and deeply committed to making that everyone else's problem.

The baby monitor crackled on the bedside table.

There was a small thump.

Then Andie's voice, loud and offended through the speaker.

"Dada!"

Andrew opened his eyes.

For one second, he stayed still.

The room was dim, early morning light pressing pale around the curtains. You were asleep beside him, one hand tucked under your cheek, hair half across your face, mouth slightly open in the exhausted, unguarded way that still did something strange to his chest.

You had not slept much the night before.

Not badly exactly.

But Andie had woken twice, then the heating had made that clicking noise that always woke him, then you had rolled toward him half-asleep and mumbled something about needing to buy bananas, and Andrew had lain there for twenty minutes afterward thinking about bananas, of all things, because this was apparently his life now.

Bananas.

Toddler socks.

The creaky chair.

The blue cup that was wrong in the morning.

Your face soft with sleep beside him.

The monitor crackled again.

"Dada!"

You shifted automatically.

Andrew's hand found your hip before you could fully wake.

"I've got her," he whispered.

Your eyes opened halfway.

Barely.

"Mm?"

"I've got her."

You blinked at him, trying to drag yourself up from sleep.

"She okay?"

"She's yelling."

"Good yelling or bad yelling?"

"Opinionated yelling."

Your eyes closed again.

"That's normal."

He almost smiled.

Normal.

That was still a word he had not quite learned how to trust.

Andie shouted again.

"Da-da!"

Andrew leaned in and kissed your shoulder.

"Sleep."

Your hand found his wrist, fingers wrapping loosely around him even half-asleep.

"You sure?"

No.

Not entirely.

It was still early enough that the house felt larger than usual. Quiet enough that every sound seemed to have an echo. He was still learning mornings. Still learning which cries meant crisis and which meant Andie had woken up furious because she remembered trousers existed.

But his daughter was calling.

And you were tired.

And he was home.

"Yeah," he said. "I'm sure."

You made a soft sound that might have been agreement and might have been unconsciousness winning.

Andrew carefully slipped out of bed.

The floor was cold under his feet.

The bedroom door was open.

He noticed that automatically now.

Noticed open doors. Clear hallways. Light under thresholds. The ordinary geography of a house that did not lock him in.

The nursery was washed in faint gold from the nightlight.

Andie was standing in her cot, hair wild, sleep sack twisted, one sock somehow already missing.

Andrew stopped in the doorway.

She saw him.

Her whole face opened.

"Dada."

There it was.

Every morning, it still hit him.

He had heard it so many times now. In the kitchen. Through the monitor. At the beach. Aimed at him, at spoons, at the coffee machine, and once at a man in the supermarket queue who had the audacity to be tall and vaguely brooding.

It still hit him.

"Hey, baby girl," he said softly.

She bounced once, gripping the cot rail.

"Up."

"Yeah. I know."

He lowered the side and lifted her out.

She came against his chest warm and heavy with sleep, smelling like baby shampoo and whatever mysterious toddler scent appeared overnight no matter how recently she had been bathed.

Her head dropped onto his shoulder for exactly two seconds.

Then she popped back up and patted his face.

"Mama?"

"Mama's sleeping."

Andie looked toward the hallway.

"Mama."

"We're letting Mama sleep."

She frowned at him.

It was the exact expression you made when he told you not to lift too many grocery bags.

Andrew nodded.

"I know. Strange concept."

Andie patted his cheek harder.

"Mama."

He carried her to the changing table and laid her down.

She immediately tried to roll.

"No."

"No," she agreed.

"We're going to do something for Mama."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

He grabbed a clean nappy and tried to keep her from taking off across the changing mat like an escaped convict.

That thought stopped him for half a second.

Then Andie shoved her foot into his stomach.

Reality returned.

He caught her ankle gently.

"You are not helping."

She smiled.

"Da."

"Yeah. I'm aware."

Getting her changed was an ordeal.

Getting her dressed was worse.

Andrew had thought, foolishly, that clothes were clothes. One shirt. One pair of trousers. Socks. Shoes. Done.

But Andie had rules.

No stiff trousers before breakfast.

No jumper with the bear unless the bear was being emotionally supported by the stuffed duck.

No socks that felt "wrong," which appeared to be all socks except the one that was missing.

He opened the drawer and stared at the options.

You had systems.

He knew you had systems.

He did not know where those systems began or why one drawer contained six nearly identical tops that, according to you, were completely different because "one was for food days."

Every day was a food day.

He picked a soft yellow jumper with a tiny duck stitched near the hem.

Safe.

Sentimental.

Likely to make you cry.

Andie saw it and grabbed the sleeve.

"Duck."

Andrew froze.

"You said that right."

She waved the jumper.

"Duck."

His chest tightened.

"Yeah," he whispered. "Duck."

He dressed her in the duck jumper, little leggings, and two socks that did not match because one had ducks and one had stars and at some point a man had to accept his limits.

She was unimpressed by shoes.

"No."

"You need shoes."

"No."

"We're going out."

Andie stopped.

Her eyes widened.

"Out?"

Andrew paused.

That was new.

Or new enough.

"Yes," he said slowly. "Out."

She kicked both legs.

"Out!"

He felt a flicker of panic.

Not because she was excited.

Because he had said it aloud.

Out.

Just the two of them.

He had thought of it while brushing his teeth the night before, watching you list things you needed from town and then abandon the list because Andie had attempted to climb into the laundry basket.

Coffee.

That was all.

Coffee from the small café two streets over.

Maybe pastries.

Maybe the little cinnamon thing you liked but always pretended was too much.

He could do that.

He could take Andie in the stroller, walk ten minutes, order coffee, come home.

Simple.

Ordinary.

Almost nothing.

Except nothing was nothing anymore.

Not when he had spent two years being told where he could walk.

Not when he had spent the first part of Andie's life loving her through walls and phones and glass.

Not when leaving the house alone with her meant being the only one there to know what to do.

Andie kicked again.

"Out!"

Andrew looked toward the hallway.

The bedroom was quiet.

You were asleep.

He imagined waking you.

He imagined saying, Come with us.

You would.

You would wake up tired and soft-eyed and come because you loved him, because you loved Andie, because you had spent too long being the only person responsible and had not yet learned how to stop.

Andrew looked back at his daughter.

She was trying to eat the strap of her shoe.

"No."

She removed it from her mouth and offered it to him, soaked.

"Da."

He took the shoe.

Okay.

He could do coffee.

For Mama.

That was a mission.

That made sense.

"We're going to get breakfast," he told her.

Andie slapped the changing mat.

"Out!"

"Quiet out," Andrew whispered.

She stared at him.

Then, at full volume, said, "Out!"

"Bad start."

The stroller lived by the front door.

Andrew knew this because he had nearly tripped over it three times.

He strapped Andie in with the kind of focus usually reserved for disarming explosives.

She watched him with solemn curiosity, one mismatched socked foot kicking against the footrest.

"Comfortable?" he asked.

Andie held up her stuffed duck.

"Duck."

"Yes."

He checked the straps again.

Then the brake.

Then the bag.

Nappies.

Wipes.

Yellow cup.

Snack.

Spare jumper.

Two toys.

One book.

The duck.

The rabbit book, because if Andie decided she needed it, society would collapse without it.

He had packed for a ten-minute walk like he was crossing a border.

Maybe he was.

He looked toward the stairs one more time.

Still quiet.

No sound from you.

He should leave a note.

He found a pen in the drawer and wrote on the back of an envelope.

Gone to get coffee. We're okay. Back soon.

Then he stared at it.

Too little?

Too much?

He added:

I have the yellow cup.

Then:

And the duck.

He stared again.

Andie kicked the stroller.

"Out!"

"Okay," he murmured. "Okay."

He set the note on the kitchen counter where you would see it.

Then he opened the front door.

Morning air moved in.

Cool.

Bright.

The street outside was already awake in small ways. A dog barking somewhere. A car passing at the end of the road. Someone's bin lid clattering.

Andrew's hand tightened on the stroller handle.

For a second, he did not move.

The doorway sat behind him.

Open.

The house behind that.

You asleep upstairs.

Andie in front of him, bundled in her duck jumper, trusting the direction he pointed her.

He almost turned back.

Andie looked over her shoulder as if she knew.

"Dada?"

He looked down at her.

Her little face was bright with expectation.

No fear.

No doubt.

Not one single thought in her head that Dada might not be able to do this.

Andrew breathed in.

"I've got you."

Then he pushed the stroller out onto the path and closed the door behind them.

The world was loud.

Not beach loud.

Not overwhelming in the same open, endless way.

Morning-neighbourhood loud.

A delivery van reversing.

A bike going too fast down the road.

A woman talking into her phone while walking a small dog in a sweater.

The clatter of cups from the café before they even reached it.

Andrew's body counted everything.

The van.

The cyclist.

The dog.

The uneven bit of pavement near the corner.

The man outside the newsagent lighting a cigarette.

The car with the engine running.

The distance home.

His own reflection in the bakery window when they passed it.

Andie, meanwhile, was having the best morning of her life.

She pointed at a pigeon.

"Bad duck!"

Andrew looked.

The pigeon strutted along the pavement with the self-importance of a corrupt official.

"Not all birds are bad ducks."

The pigeon flapped suddenly and nearly hit the side of a bin.

Andrew reconsidered.

"That one might be."

Andie laughed.

"Bad duck!"

A woman passing them smiled.

Andrew stiffened automatically.

Not because she had done anything wrong.

Because being seen still caught him sometimes.

Especially like this.

A man pushing a stroller.

A father being addressed by his daughter in public.

Not inmate.

Not Cody.

Not problem.

Dada.

The woman said, "She's adorable."

Andrew's hand tightened on the stroller handle.

Andie waved the stuffed duck at her.

"Duck!"

The woman laughed and kept walking.

Andrew let out a breath only after she passed.

Andie looked back at him.

"Dada."

"Yeah," he said softly. "I know."

They reached the crossing.

Andrew checked both ways twice.

Then a third time.

Andie kicked her feet.

"Out?"

"Not here."

"No."

"Correct."

"No."

"No road."

"No."

"Good."

They crossed.

Nothing happened.

No disaster.

No mistake.

Just one man and his daughter crossing a street to buy coffee.

Andrew almost laughed at himself.

Almost.

Then a cyclist came around the corner too quickly and his whole body snapped tight again.

The cyclist passed without incident.

Andie shouted, "Bad duck!"

The cyclist did not hear.

Andrew muttered, "Also possible."

The café was small and warm and smelled like coffee, sugar, and bread.

Andrew had been inside once with you since coming home.

You had ordered for both of you because he had gone quiet looking at the menu board and you had noticed without making a thing of it.

Too many choices.

Too many people behind him.

Too much normal arriving all at once.

Today, he had to order.

Andie slapped one hand against the stroller tray.

"Mama."

"That's who this is for."

"Mama."

"Yes."

He joined the small queue.

Two people ahead of him.

One person behind.

He moved the stroller slightly closer to his leg.

Andie chewed the duck's ear.

The woman behind the counter looked up and smiled.

"Morning."

Andrew nodded once.

"Morning."

The person in front ordered three coffees and a pastry. Easy. Fast. Normal.

Andrew read the board.

Then read it again.

Your coffee.

He knew it.

Of course he knew it.

He had listened to you order it countless times before prison. Heard you mention missing it while pregnant. Watched you reheat half-drunk mugs around the house since he came home. Seen you stand in the kitchen with Andie on your hip, eyes closed after the first sip like coffee was not a drink but a small act of survival.

He knew it.

Still, when it was his turn, his mouth went dry.

The woman smiled down at Andie.

"And who's this?"

Andie sat up straighter, duck clutched in one hand.

"Dada."

The woman laughed softly.

"Daddy-daughter morning?"

Andrew froze for half a second.

Daddy-daughter.

The words moved strangely through him.

Not painful.

Not exactly.

Too bright.

Too normal.

He looked down at Andie.

She was looking back at him like she had personally introduced them.

"Yeah," he said.

His voice came out rougher than he meant.

He cleared his throat.

"Yeah. Daddy-daughter morning."

The woman's smile softened.

"What can I get you?"

Andrew ordered your coffee.

Correctly.

Then the cinnamon pastry.

Then, after looking at the display case, a plain croissant because Andie was too little for half the things in there and would probably reject whatever he chose anyway.

"Anything else?"

He nearly said no.

Then saw the little packet of shortbread stars near the till.

For home.

For later.

Andie liked stars.

You liked keeping little treats in the tin and pretending they were "for guests," even though everyone knew guests meant you at eleven at night after Andie finally went to sleep.

"And those," he said, nodding at the stars.

The woman bagged them.

Andie reached for the card reader.

"No," Andrew said.

Andie frowned.

"No."

"That's not for you."

"No."

The woman laughed. "She's got opinions."

"She has many."

"Gets that from Dad?"

Andrew looked down at Andie.

Then said, quietly, "Probably."

He paid.

It worked.

Ridiculous that it felt like a victory, but it did.

Coffee in one hand.

Pastry bag hooked around his wrist.

Stroller in the other.

Daughter still alive.

He stepped aside.

Andie immediately reached for the coffee.

"No."

"Mama."

"Yes. Mama's coffee."

Andie lunged harder.

"Hot," Andrew said.

She yelled.

A few people glanced over.

Andrew felt heat rise up the back of his neck.

He crouched beside the stroller, setting the bag carefully on the seat beside her feet, keeping the coffee high and away.

"Andie."

She stopped yelling for half a second because his voice had changed.

Low.

Calm.

Dad voice, you called it.

He had not known he had one until you pointed it out.

"This is hot. Mama gets this one. You get this."

He pulled the snack cup from the bag and gave her one of the safe little crackers.

Andie looked at it.

Looked at the coffee.

Looked back at him.

"No."

"Yes."

She took the cracker.

Victory.

Temporary, probably.

But victory.

Andrew stood.

The woman behind the counter caught his eye.

Not pitying.

Not judging.

Just smiling like she had seen a thousand parents negotiate with tiny tyrants over hot drinks.

"You're doing great," she said.

Andrew did not know what to do with that.

So he nodded.

"Thanks."

And left before kindness could become more complicated.

The walk home was easier.

Not easy.

Easier.

He knew the route now in reverse. Knew the uneven pavement. The bin. The dog gate. The crossing.

Andie ate two crackers and dropped one.

Andrew stopped, picked it up, decided it was dead, and put it in the side pocket for later disposal.

Andie objected.

"Gone," he said.

"No."

"It touched the pavement."

"No."

"You have more."

"No."

"You're grieving one cracker while holding another cracker."

She looked at the cracker in her hand.

Then ate it.

"Yeah," Andrew said. "Thought so."

A bus passed, loud enough that Andie flinched.

Andrew's hand moved to the stroller immediately.

"You're okay."

Andie looked back at him.

"Dada?"

"I'm here."

She settled.

Just like that.

His chest ached.

The whole walk had been a series of tiny tests no one else would have known were tests.

The door closing behind him.

The crossing.

The café.

The hot coffee.

The stranger calling it a daddy-daughter morning.

The bus.

The dropped cracker.

Each one had passed.

Not perfectly.

Not without his body tightening or his thoughts racing ahead to disaster.

But they passed.

He looked down at Andie.

She had one foot propped up on the stroller bar, mismatched socks on full display, duck jumper slightly wrinkled, stuffed duck crushed under her arm.

Safe.

With him.

He touched the top of her head.

She tilted back to look at him upside down.

"Da."

"Yeah."

He smiled before he could stop it.

"We got breakfast."

"Mama."

"For Mama."

Andie kicked.

"Mama!"

"Yeah," Andrew said. "Let's bring it home."

You woke to a quiet house.

That was wrong.

Not bad wrong.

But wrong enough that your eyes opened fully before the rest of you caught up.

No monitor crackle.

No Andie yelling.

No Andrew moving around downstairs.

No cupboard opening.

No soft, low voice saying, "No, that is not food," which had become a surprisingly common soundtrack to your mornings.

You sat up.

The bed beside you was empty.

Your heart kicked once.

Then you heard the front door.

Keys.

A stroller wheel bumping lightly over the threshold.

Andie's voice, bright and triumphant.

"Mama!"

You were out of bed before you thought about it.

By the time you reached the stairs, Andrew was in the hallway, one hand on the stroller handle, coffee carrier in the other, pastry bag tucked awkwardly against his wrist.

Andie sat in the stroller wearing her yellow duck jumper, mismatched socks, a smug expression, and what appeared to be cracker dust on her chin.

Andrew looked up at you.

For one second, neither of you spoke.

Your eyes went from him to Andie.

To the coffee.

To the pastry bag.

To his nervous face.

"You went out?"

He stiffened.

Just slightly.

"I left a note."

"I didn't see it."

"I should've put it upstairs."

"No, I'm not—" You stopped at the bottom of the stairs, chest suddenly too full. "I'm not mad."

Andrew's shoulders lowered by a fraction.

Andie waved the stuffed duck.

"Mama!"

You came down the last step and crouched in front of her.

"Hi, baby."

She shoved the duck at you.

"Duck."

"I see. Very beautiful."

Andrew said, "She called a pigeon a bad duck again."

You looked up at him.

"Was it?"

He hesitated.

"Yes."

You laughed.

It came out wet.

Andrew noticed immediately.

His face changed.

"What?"

You stood slowly.

"You took her out."

His hand tightened on the coffee carrier.

"Yeah."

"By yourself."

"Yeah."

"You got coffee."

"For you."

"And brought her home."

He looked confused for a second.

Like that part was obvious.

Like it did not deserve the weight in your voice.

"Of course I brought her home."

Your eyes filled.

Andrew's expression softened then.

"Oh."

"Yeah," you whispered.

Oh.

He parked the stroller fully inside and set the coffee on the hallway table. Then he stepped toward you.

You met him halfway.

His hand came to your waist.

Yours went to his chest.

For a second, with Andie between you in the stroller, neither of you moved.

You just looked at him.

Your husband.

Your daughter's father.

The man who had spent two years waiting for doors to open for him.

The man who had opened one himself this morning, taken Andie into the world, and come back with coffee.

"I was going to leave a better note," he said.

You laughed through tears.

"Andrew."

"I had the yellow cup."

"I know."

"And the duck."

"I can see that."

"And nappies."

"You were gone twenty minutes."

"Twenty-seven."

"Of course you know that."

His mouth twitched.

You reached up and touched his face.

"How was it?"

He thought about it.

"Big."

Your chest softened.

"But okay?"

He looked down at Andie.

She was trying to remove one shoe with intense focus.

"Okay," he said.

Then, after a beat, "Good."

You smiled.

"Good."

Andie finally pulled the shoe off and held it up.

"No."

Andrew looked down.

"You fought hard to wear that."

"No."

"Fair."

You laughed.

Then your gaze dropped to the coffee.

"Is that mine?"

"Yes."

"My actual order?"

"Yes."

You took it carefully.

The cup was still warm.

You stared at it.

Then at him.

"You remembered."

His brow furrowed slightly.

"Of course I remembered."

Your mouth trembled.

He had no idea, sometimes.

How loved he made you feel with the ordinary things.

You took a sip.

Perfect.

Absolutely perfect.

Your eyes closed for half a second.

When you opened them, Andrew was watching you like the entire morning depended on your reaction.

You lowered the cup.

"Perfect."

He relaxed.

Actually relaxed.

It moved through his whole body.

You noticed.

Your chest ached.

"Come on," you said softly. "Let's have breakfast."

Breakfast was chaotic, because Andie was awake.

Andrew gave her small pieces of croissant in the highchair.

She accepted the first one.

Rejected the second.

Demanded the first again.

Could not understand why it was gone.

Andrew looked at you across the kitchen table.

"This is a trap."

"She is a trap."

Andie slapped the tray.

"Mama."

You gave her banana.

She took it.

Andrew held his breath.

She ate it.

You both stared.

Andie looked between you, suspicious of the attention.

Then threw the next piece on the floor.

"There she is," you said.

Andrew nodded.

"Balance restored."

You sat with your coffee cradled between both hands, still in your sleep shirt, hair messy, face soft from rest you had not expected to get.

The pastry bag sat open on the table.

The cinnamon pastry was warm enough in the middle to make you want to cry again, which felt excessive but also fair.

Andrew sat opposite you, one hand near Andie's tray in case she attempted to launch the cup, the other wrapped around his own coffee.

He had not drunk much.

You suspected he had been too keyed up to notice it.

"You did good," you said.

His eyes flicked to yours.

"Barely."

"No. Not barely."

"She tried to grab hot coffee."

"You stopped her."

"She yelled in the café."

"She's a toddler."

"People looked."

"And you stayed."

His jaw shifted.

You leaned forward.

"You stayed."

That landed.

He looked down at his cup.

"She was fine."

"Yes."

"I was less fine."

You smiled gently.

"But you were fine enough."

He looked at Andie.

She was attempting to feed banana to the stuffed duck.

"I kept thinking something would happen."

"I know."

"But nothing did."

"Something did," you said.

His eyes came back to you.

"You had a morning with your daughter."

He went still.

The kitchen quieted around the words.

Not actually.

Andie was still babbling. The washing machine was still doing something concerning in the utility room. A car passed outside.

But between you and Andrew, something settled.

A morning with your daughter.

Not a visit.

Not a supervised hour.

Not a phone call.

A morning.

He swallowed.

"Yeah."

"You got her dressed."

"Mismatched socks."

"That's fashion."

"One shoe was wet."

"I'm choosing not to ask."

"You shouldn't."

"You packed her bag."

"Too much."

"Correct, but sweet."

"You hate overpacking."

"I love overpacking when it comes with coffee."

His mouth twitched.

You reached across the table and touched his wrist.

"You took her out and brought her home."

His eyes softened.

"You said that already."

"I like saying it."

He breathed out slowly.

"She trusted me."

"She always has."

"No." His thumb brushed the side of your hand. "This was different."

You nodded.

"Yeah. It was."

"I kept waiting for her to realize you weren't there."

Your throat tightened.

"And?"

"She asked for you."

You smiled.

"Of course she did."

"But then she..." He looked at Andie. "She let me answer."

Your eyes filled.

"Oh, baby."

"She let me answer," he repeated, quieter.

Andie dropped the banana.

"Uh-oh."

Andrew looked down.

"Yes. Uh-oh."

He picked it up, put it aside, and handed her another piece.

She ate it.

No drama.

No argument.

A miracle.

Andrew watched her like she had solved something for him.

You squeezed his wrist.

"She knows you can answer."

His jaw worked.

"I'm learning."

"I know."

Andie pointed at your coffee.

"Mama."

"Yes," you said. "Mama's coffee."

She pointed at Andrew.

"Dada."

Andrew looked at her.

She pointed at the pastry bag.

"Da."

You laughed.

"I think the pastry is also Dada."

Andrew sighed.

"I'm losing ground to baked goods."

"It was bound to happen."

Andie grinned.

He gave her a tiny piece of croissant.

She accepted it from his fingers and leaned back in the highchair like she had won something.

Maybe she had.

Maybe all of you had.

Later, after breakfast had been eaten, thrown, wiped, and partially discovered under Andie's thigh, you found the note on the kitchen counter.

Gone to get coffee. We're okay. Back soon.

Under it:

I have the yellow cup.

And then:

And the duck.

You stood there holding the envelope, smiling so hard it hurt.

Andrew came up behind you, Andie balanced on his hip.

"What?"

You lifted the note.

He looked vaguely embarrassed.

"I didn't want you to worry."

"You listed the cup."

"It matters."

"And the duck."

"It matters too."

You turned and kissed him.

He leaned into it immediately now.

Not always with surprise.

Sometimes just with want.

Andie, trapped between you, shoved one hand against your cheek.

"No."

You pulled back, laughing.

"She is a romance killer."

"She is fourteen months," Andrew said.

"She knows what she's doing."

Andie patted his chest.

"Dada."

His face softened.

"Yeah."

You looked at the two of them.

The mismatched socks.

The duck jumper.

The missing button on Andrew's shirt that you still had not sewn back on because Andie kept finding new ones to remove.

The coffee on the counter.

The note in your hand.

The proof.

You had spent so long bringing Andrew pieces of home while he was inside.

Photos.

Letters.

Scan pictures.

Tiny stories.

First words.

Recordings played over prison phones.

Now he had brought something home to you.

Coffee.

Breakfast.

Your daughter.

Safe and bright-eyed and smelling faintly like cold air and crackers.

"I'm proud of you," you said.

Andrew's face changed.

"Don't."

"I am."

"It was coffee."

"It was not just coffee."

He looked away.

You touched his cheek and turned him gently back.

"It was not just coffee."

His eyes searched yours.

Then he nodded once.

Barely.

But he let the words exist.

That was enough.

Andie leaned forward suddenly and pressed her open mouth to your chin.

You froze.

Andrew looked delighted.

"She kissed you."

"She tried to eat my face."

"She kissed you."

You looked at your daughter.

She smiled, drool shining on her lower lip.

"Lovely," you said. "Very affectionate. Very damp."

Andrew huffed a laugh.

You kissed Andie's cheek.

Then his.

Then you held up the note.

"I'm keeping this."

His eyebrows drew together.

"Why?"

"Because I want to."

"It's a note about coffee."

"And the yellow cup."

"And the duck."

"Exactly."

His mouth softened.

You tucked the note against your chest for a second, then slipped it into the drawer where you kept the hospital bracelet, the first smile photo copy, the birthday candle they had not let you light in the prison contact room, and the little scraps of proof that love had survived in ordinary objects.

Andrew watched you do it.

He knew that drawer now.

He knew what it meant.

His arm tightened around Andie.

For a second, his face went very quiet.

Then he said, "Maybe tomorrow we can get the good bread."

You turned.

"Tomorrow?"

"If you want."

Your heart warmed.

"You want to go again?"

His eyes dropped to Andie.

She was chewing the duck's wing.

He gently moved it away from her mouth.

"No eating duck."

"No," she said.

He looked back at you.

"Yeah," he said. "Maybe."

You smiled.

"Maybe is good."

"Maybe with you."

"Or without me?"

He considered that.

Then, honestly, "Maybe both."

Your smile trembled.

"I like both."

Andrew leaned against the counter, Andie on his hip, the morning light catching the side of his face.

He looked tired.

He looked uncertain.

He looked like a man still learning how to stand inside his own life without bracing for someone to take it back.

But he was there.

Andie patted his cheek.

"Dada."

He kissed her palm.

"Yeah, baby girl."

He had spent two years waiting for doors to open for him.

That morning, Andrew opened one himself.

He took his daughter into the world, bought coffee for his wife, came home with mismatched socks and the right order, and found you waiting in the kitchen with sleep-soft eyes and love written all over your face.

It was ordinary.

Coffee.

Crackers.

A stroller.

A note on the counter.

But Andrew was learning that ordinary things could still be a kind of freedom.

And this one tasted like cinnamon, sounded like Andie laughing at bad ducks, and came home warm in his hands.

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the skimpy bikini top you had on didn't aid him in wanting to avert his gaze, but he still had to try. didn't wanna be too obvious.

you hadn't returned his stare, which was odd. he usually didn't have much of a hard time scoring a girl when they'd show up at his house nonstop. that's what these parties were mostly for. at least for baz and craig, anyway.

but even after a few chance meetings of your eyes from across the pool, you still didn't seem to get hooked on his gaze. you'd look around every so often, maybe searching for someone and finding his attention on you sporadically, never really reacting when your eyes met. he'd smile that smile that usually got a girl walking her way over to him, but you weren't taking the bait.

after some fifteen minutes or so of his fruitless attempts, baz decided to bite; he'd approach you.

it wasn't his usual thing, but with cath out of the picture and lucy still in mexico, he needed to get back on the game. a good distraction wouldn't hurt.

as he walked over to you, he threw you another smile, a little confused as to why you weren't really responding. you seemed equally as confused if anything.

baz knew when a girl wasn't interested, but you weren't giving him the usual telltale signs of someone who wanted him to fuck off.

"hey," he smiled at you once he was close enough.

you continued to let your eyes linger around the place, not finding whatever it was you were looking for before finally meeting his eyes and smiling back.

it was a reluctant smile, which made his falter a little.

"hi," was all you responded. curt.

with a guarded body language, you crossed your arms, covering your semi-nude abdomen. it wasn't as if he was ogling you or anything — at least not blatantly. he almost scoffed at the implication.

he was already regretting approaching you, but your attitude kind of intrigued him.

"what brings you here? you a friend of deran's?"

you shook your head, still distractedly looking around you. he decided to be a little annoying and block your wandering eyes with his body.

"not deran? who're you looking for, then?"

"my boyfriend," you glared at him, hands on hips.

he couldn't help but think that you were being borderline antagonistic towards him by then. he'd just been friendly so far, nowhere near deserving for you to be this frustrated with him. how the hell was he supposed to know you had a boyfriend? it was probably some guy beefing with one of his brothers. that'd explain your instant disdain for him. it wouldn't be a first.

he was more shameless in eyeing you up and down at that point. you already decided you didn't like him, anyway. maybe he could give into the whole hard-to-get thing a little.

"yeah?" he chuckled sardonically, "and who would that be?"

"me."

baz didn't spook easy, but it was a little mortifying that this was one of the few instances in which he'd been caught off guard. he jumped a little at the proximity of the voice, immediately realizing whose it was.

pope made his way next to you, giving you a chaste kiss on the temple. your demeanor did a 180 right in front of baz. rather than the sourpuss face you'd had the whole time he'd spoken to you, you smiled big and bright, body language open and receiving of pope's touch.

what the fuck.

"you... you know each other?"

pope hummed, hand comfortably resting on your lower back as it were a familiar place for it to be. you leaned into his touch.

there was a peculiar familiarity between the two of you baz didn't understand.

boyfriend? pope?

"this is baz, sweetheart. remember i told you 'bout him?"

ah, well, that explained a lot.

you glared at baz, but subtly. he could see the hostility behind the tight smile you offered him.

"yeah, baby. we were just getting to know each other."

"you're dating, then? how long?"

pope shrugged, "few weeks," he paused for a beat, "don't appreciate you checking out my girlfriend, by the way."

of course he'd been watching. when was he not? baz would be surprised if you ever went a minute without being unknowingly watched by your boyfriend — he'd have to try and do the math in his head later as to how that happened.

baz rolled his eyes, sighing, "didn't know she was your girl, pope."

"now you do."

"that's okay, handsome. only got eyes for one cody."

baz chuckled, "good thing i'm not really a cody, then."

the words left baz before he could think about what a bad idea it was to poke the bear when it came to pope. he'd already been so fucking intense about cath for the past, what, fifteen years?

"what's that?"

pope's demeanor shifted immediately. threatening, chest puffing.

baz shook his head, "nothing," he used his free hand to pat pope on the shoulder patronizingly, unable to not try and assert his superiority over his brother even in front of his girlfriend, "happy for you two, really."

baz lifted his beer as if cheers'ing for you, but he was sure the sarcasm behind his smile was obvious.

without responding you reached for pope's hand, pulling it into yours and beginning to lead him away.

"c'mon, baby, wanna show you my new bikini," you smiled up at pope before glaring at baz, "in private."

with one last glare in baz's direction, pope let you lead him away. it was eerie how quickly his features relaxed as soon as his focus was on you.

baz shook his head at how ridiculous that whole thing was. wasn't too sure he believed the whole girlfriend thing, but decided to let it go for now lest he get into another fight with pope and ruin craig's party.

-

only a few hours later after the party had died down, baz made his way to his room, opting to crash here in lieu of driving back to his place. he'd deal with pope's weird shit some other day. would probably have to check you out, make sure there wasn't anything weird going on there.

which (although baz didn't want to seem like an asshole) he was pretty sure there was. who in their right mind would actually date pope?

he would've been scared on your behalf, had he not believed with full certainty that you were simply using him for some other means. maybe you needed money, or maybe you were trying to get him to beat up some ex for you.

as he laid in bed, he went over every possibility, thinking back to the scrunch of your nose and the crinkles under your eyes as you smiled at pope. you'd stayed perched to his arm all afternoon. it didn't make sense. either pope had masterfully hidden his entire personality from you, or you were about to break pope's heart — and force baz to deal with the aftermath.

baz didn't really care. he just didn't want it all to bounce back on him.

just as he was about to call it a night, to push that curiosity to the back of his head, a loud thud was heard (and felt) against his wall. his bed frame shifted slightly from the force.

and then it repeated again.

and again.

and again.

faster and faster every time.

within the second or third time, the thud was accompanied by very loud noises coming from what baz knew was pope's room.

cries, gasps, grunts, all types of muffled sounds filled the silence of baz's room.

moans of 'andy, please—! please don't stop!' and 'feels ssoo good, baby' — or the horrible, traumatizing, 'hnng, it's so fucking big, f-fuck!,' — interrupted baz's attempts to fall asleep.

baz heard every grunt that came from pope, every instance of skin slapping, every moan of his brother's name that left your lips.

it was loud, disrupting sex. it disgusted baz. but no matter what measure he tried to take, — covering his ears, smothering his head in his pillow, going out into the guest room — he could still hear the noises emanating from pope's room.

and when he woke up from a restless, barely-there sleep, his mood only worsened when he bumped into you and pope making out against a wall in the hallway, not even able to make it out into the kitchen.

he scoffed as he walked past you, making it to the kitchen for some much needed coffee.

only two minutes of solitude passed until you practically limped your way into the kitchen, pope at your heels and immediately going into mother hen mode and starting up some breakfast for you.

baz didn't really acknowledge you verbally until you spoke first, eyes bright and happy as they rivaled his frustrated, sleep-deprived ones.

"oh, forgot to say it yesterday — it was nice meeting you, baz!"

said with just enough peppiness that it hid the glaring sarcasm in plain sight. baz rolled his eyes and offered you a tight, sardonic smile in return.

pope chuckled lowly as he cooked your eggs.

Your first Summer together, you spend a lot of days in Smurf’s backyard with Pope, enjoying the sunshine and taking dips in the pool.

You’re very diligent about your sunscreen, making sure to reapply every 90 minutes per the bottles instructions.

While he doesn’t say anything, Pope’s glad for it. He doesn’t want you to burn that soft skin of yours.

But you don’t just apply it on yourself, no. After making sure you’re thoroughly lathered up, you turn to your boyfriend.

“Here Andrew, your turn,” you say, handing him the bottle of sunscreen. You’re so casual about it, giving him something he didn’t even have to ask for, not even batting an eye.

“It’s okay, I don’t need any.”

You whip your head toward him at that.

“Yes, you do,” you say, matter of fact. Like there’s no room for argument. “I don’t want you getting burned.”

Without another word, you pop off the top of the bottle and squirt some of the white liquid into your hands, rubbing them together before starting to spread the cream up and down one of Pope’s arms.

The idea that you care about him enough to make sure he’s protected from the sun hits him entirely out of left field, causing him to flinch at the unexpected touch.

To him, it makes no sense. You’re really willing to do that for him? Make sure every inch of his body is coated in SPF just so he doesn’t get a measly sunburn? Christ, he’s never even cared about his skin as much as you do right now.

And it doesn’t just stop there. Midday, when the sun is high in the sky and blazing down violently on the two of you, making you both sticky with sweat, you gulp from your large thermos of water and pass it over to Pope without a word.

“Why am I holding this?” He asks so innocently, truly unsure of the answer.

“Drink it.”

“Why?”

“It’s hot out, you need to hydrate.”

He looks at you dumbly, puppy dog eyes shining in the sunlight. “But it’s yours.”

“No, it’s ours. I brought the big bottle so we could share.”

Pope’s heart swells at that. God, what were you doing to him?

Shyly, he takes a few gulps from the bottle and hands it back to you.

You smile, satisfied, and set the water back into your bag, away from the burning sun.

Later, after you’ve both had enough of lounging outside, you make your way indoors and settle on the sofa.

Pope flicks through the TV channels, looking for something he thinks you’d like. He hesitates for a moment when he passes by the National Geographic channel. They’re showing a documentary about sharks that he’d been wanting to watch.

But he’s got you cuddled up next to him, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck, legs kicked up over his lap, and you wouldn’t be interested in watching that.

So he flicks through a few more channels, finally settling on a romcom, a genre he knows for a fact that you enjoy. The two of you sit there in silence for a moment, your fingers still twirling in his hair.

“Andrew,” you say, more of a statement than a question.

Pope turns his head to look at you, but your eyes are still on the TV. “Yes?”

“Go back to that shark thing.”

He blinks. “Why?”

“Just go back, please.”

He obliges, looking back to the screen so he can scroll back a few channels.

“What about it?” He questions as he searches your face for answers, using the hand not holding the remote to absentmindedly draw small circles on the plush skin of your thigh.

“I wanna watch it,” you state, eyes glued to the great white that swims across the screen.

Pope’s brows furrow in confusion. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You’re only saying that because you saw me hesitate to change the channel. Don’t do that. You get to pick the show,” he grumbles.

You can feel that his eyes are still on you, but you don’t turn your gaze toward him. “I am picking. This is what I pick.”

“C’mon, be serious. I know you’d rather watch the chick flick—”

“Shhhh,” you interrupt. “I’m trying to watch this, Andrew.”

He knows you’re lying. Knows you’re not as interested in the documentary as he is. But the fact that you’d do this for him, watch something you’re only mildly interested in simply because he wants to, and make it seem like it was your idea in the first place, has a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Okay, sorry,” he responds, a blush creeping up his cheeks to the tips of his ears.

“It’s okay,” you say, laying your head against his shoulder and placing your free hand on his chest.

Pope drops the remote on the couch cushion next to him and places his hand overtop yours, interlocking your fingers.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

“For what?”

“For being so good to me. I don’t deserve it.”

You lift your head to face him, and he regrets his words as soon as he sees the look on your face. You look like he tore your heart right out of your chest.

“Everything I do for you is because I love you. Because you’re so good to me. Because nobody has ever cared for me the way you do. Don’t ever tell me that you don’t deserve that.”

You scold him like he’s just told you something awful. He realizes then that in your eyes, he did.

“I’m sorry, I just— I’ve never had someone do for me the things you do. I don’t know what to do with myself,” he admits, quietly.

Your heart shatters at that. Knowing that the sweetest man you’ve ever known hasn’t felt true, unconditional love. Love without strings, expectations, or requirements. Love that doesn’t need to be earned.

“Don’t apologize. I’m new at this too. We’ll figure it out together, okay?” you say, squeezing his hand.

“Yeah, okay,” he breathes, squeezing your hand back in response.

“Okay, good. Now shut up and let me watch this documentary. We missed all the good stuff.”

— ❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Pope is here because Smurf told him the property needs checking on. At least that’s the story he’s feeding himself.

And it makes sense. There’s water damage in one of the downstairs units and some dipshit’s been stripping cooper out of the laundry room again. If it’s not one thing going wrong, it’s another.

This building’s always two steps away from falling apart. Someone has to stop it from going to hell completely.

Plenty of good, rational reasons to be here. 

None of which do a thing to explain why he does not move from being propped on the hood of his truck just yet.

He stays at the curb as he watches the building’s familiar pulse of seedy activity.

It’s not even the worst spot owned by the Codys, not by far, but that doesn’t make it good. It’s definitely not good enough for you, not by a long shot. Run-down. Full of people who loiter outside longer than they should and pay too much attention to things that aren’t theirs.

A woman argues fervently on the stoop, body tense enough he can see the harsh jut of her collarbone from here. Two boys pretend to clean their bikes by the courtyard, their hands moving in repetitive, meaningless circles, rags never actually removing any grime.

And then there’s the smoker, with a long beard and crooked nose, leaning near the stairs, smoke rising around him.

Pope watches his sleepy gaze harden suddenly, tracking something straight ahead.

Pope’s neck cranes as his vision tunnels into pinpoint clarity, finding what the man found first: you.

Walking up the sidewalk with two grocery bags hooked over your wrists, pink flats picking their way carefully over the buckled concrete, skirt the same shade catching around your knees every time the breeze shifts. White cardigan buttoned all the way up over your chest despite the heat.

You don’t hurry. That bothers him.

You move through the courtyard with no care in the world. Unaware of the eyes that linger on your body, the curiosity you unwittingly ignite.

God he hates this place most when you’re in it. Without you, it’s just brick and mortar. But with you here, everything is suddenly hostile. A million scenarios blooming in his head. Someone following you from your car, someone hiding just around the corner waiting for you to pass by, a neighbor deciding your door lock doesn’t look so hard to force open.

He has tried to get you to stay at Smurf’s countless times now, using different tactics each time. Gentle coaxing, stubborn demands, pushing you into the kind of corner where the only real choice was already decided for you.

And those all work most nights. 

Still, every now and then, for reasons unbeknownst to him, you insist on sleeping here.

So every now and then, he comes and sits off to the side, his truck parked discreetly out of view. Always staying within striking distance should anyone dare to try anything stupid.

Thankfully he hasn’t had to act yet, people know better, whispers exchanged in doorways and hallways: that pretty little thing tucked away in apartment 2B is Cody territory. Off limits.

It takes him four long strides to reach you. 

He comes up behind you without saying anything, partly because he doesn’t want to startle you and partly because he wants to see how long it takes before you notice a man his size coming up behind you. Too long, apparently. 

You don’t notice him when his shadow cuts across the pavement beside yours, not when his boots hit the concrete close enough you should hear him, not even when he’s right behind you, inhaling the faint sweet drift of your perfume over the dirty air of the courtyard.

You just keep walking, grocery bags bumping into your legs every second step, head angled down as you watch your feet over the cracked walkway. 

Then you stop so suddenly he nearly runs into you, boots scuffing against the ground in the process.

Nearly turns into definitely when you move again, bending at the waist to grab a little carton that had tumbled out of your bag and rolled near your shoe.

He can’t dodge you fast enough before he’s crashing against you, the ample of your backside pressed flush against him, your skirt skimming his denim-clad thighs.

He grits his teeth, swallowing down the groan lodged somewhere in his throat, and his hands shoot out to grip at your waist. Half to steady you, half to hold himself back.

You jump, a sharp little gasp tearing out of you as you twist in his hold, eyes wide, lips parted.

But the fear vanishes when you realize it’s him. Dissolves so quickly into relief, then blossoming into that lovely smile of yours Pope spends half his days obsessing over. Lip gloss glistens like honey under the afternoon sun, squinting at him through the harsh glare.

“Pope,” you breathe, like he’s something good that happened to you rather than the man who decided to follow you through a parking lot to prove a point.

His fingers flex once before he makes them let go.

“You don’t pay attention,” he tells you plainly.

You smile pinches at the edges a little, like you’re trying to decide whether he’s teasing you or scolding you. You seem to assume the later. A good assumption.

“I do pay attention,” you insist, the words coming out with the stubborn certainty of someone who has already decided they're right. Then you glance down at the sidewalk as though it might testify on your behalf. One of the grocery bags slips lower on your wrist, plastic stretching, and you hitch it back up with a small huff of effort. “I was paying attention to the ground. Because last week I almost twisted my ankle right there.”

Pope follows the line of your finger.

Without a word, he reaches for the bags. His hand closes around the handles and lifts them clean off your arm before you can object. You make a small noise of surprise, letting him take them.

“What if it wasn’t me coming up behind you?” 

Your brows pull together. “But it was you.”

“Yeah, but what if it wasn’t?”

You hesitate visibly, your fingers weaving together, rocking onto the tips of your shoes. You look almost apologetic when you speak. “I dunno.”

Exactly, he thinks.

He breathes out very slowly through his nose to keep the worst of his frustration from showing. It still sits heavy on his face, he’s sure. In the hard line of his mouth, in the way his hands tighten around the plastic bags until the handles stretch thin. 

“You gotta be more aware,” he says, dipping his face towards yours, almost pleading. His gaze flickers anxiously over your face, desperate for more reassurance. “Can you do that for me? Check around when you get out of the car, look before you walk up the stairs, take a second before you open your door.” 

You open your mouth to speak, something potentially defensive at the tip of your tongue, before you reconsider, shoulders sinking just a fraction. 

“For me,” Pope urges again. No room for misunderstanding.

And because you are you, you give a gentle, almost reluctant nod in surrender. You have a hard time fighting him on anything.

He returns the gesture with his own stiff nod. He knows you don’t fully understand the fuss, not completely, but you’re trying, and that has to be enough for now. He’ll shoulder the rest.

He moves towards the staircase, leaving you to catch up. You hurry to follow behind him. 

“Why’re you here anyway?” you voice after him. “Did I miss rent or something?”

Pope doesn’t turn around; doesn’t trust himself to look at you without giving too much away.

“No,” he replies, casual, like it’s not something he thinks about every single month.

You would never be late. You are a meticulously precise creature. Keeping track of everything, neat little numbers, due dates, confirmations, all of it lined up exactly the way you like, and then you get that pleased look on your face when you send the payment, like you’ve done something worth being proud of.

Which you have. He lets you have that. But he can’t stand taking your money.

So every month he waits until that little deposit appears, waits another day or two to avoid suspicion, then finds a way to get it back to you.

Sometimes it’s hidden in elaborate Cody business expenses; other times Craig’s buddy does some invisible computer shit to push numbers back into your account, nothing ever traced to pope.

And occasionally, he just leaves cash in places he knows you’ll find it. In your purse, between pages of a book you’ve left out, tucked behind a coffee mug. 

He loves hearing you puzzle over it. You always chalk it up to luck, or fate, or some karmic gift from the universe. Never once suspecting Pope’s fingerprints on every cent.

It all sounds more complicated than it actually is.

Really, it’s just logical. You need the money. Pope has the money. Problem solved.

At the steps, Pope pauses, gently nudging you ahead of him.

It’s a selfish move. He’s got a bad feeling you don’t have shorts under that skirt, and he’s not in the mood to have that confirmed by anyone standing behind you. Better him at your back than anyone else. Better him blocking the view.

As if to confirm his fears, someone over his shoulder lets out a short laugh. “Man, a girl that pretty oughta let me buy her dinner. Hell, maybe I’d even send her home wearing a pearl necklace.”

Pope looks back and finds the bearded cigarette smoker slouched against the vending machine, filter hanging loose between two fingers, eyes still fixed on you with that same open, filthy interest. He’s got a buddy with him now, some wiry little shit standing half a step to the side, not looking too sure of himself now that Pope’s facing him. 

Pope thinks about how easy it would be. Pin the guy up against the machine, forearm to windpipe, watching the smartass shine drain out of his eyes. Pictures crushing the cigarette into the soft part of his cheek. But he can’t do that without scaring you off.

So he crouches just enough to place the bags on the stairs without jostling them, eggs and bread and whatever else cushioned upright where it won’t tip. 

When he rises, he goes back the way he came, jerking his head in your direction. “You talkin’ about her?”

“Just complimenting her.”

“No,” Pope says. “You weren’t.”