Indulge yourself.

Harsh sunlight streamed in from the skylights that loomed above the large science atrium lobby. You blinked away the blinding light as you scuttled your way amongst the crowd of chattering students and disgruntled professors who all seemed to do nothing but get in your way. Today was not your day. 

First, your alarm didn’t go off, then you happened to rip the jeans you so meticulously laid out for yourself the night before causing you to upend your careful outfit plan and start anew, then you seemed to hit every single red light on the face of the planet on the way to campus. You were running horribly, terrifyingly, unforgivably late. 

Your shoes dug into your heels as you rushed through the halls. Large samples of igneous rocks lined glass display cases that covered the walls leading to the elevators, lit dramatically with placards that signaled their names and areas of origins. As you hurried past, you didn’t stop to read them, you had already pored over them already on your first week here. No, you had more pressing matters to attend to. Like making it to Dr. Grace’s lecture on time. Even though the 8 am lectures were torture on your sleep schedule, Dr. Grace’s class was certainly an immediate pick me up. The subject, your molecular and cell biology lab, was easily the most exciting class you’d taken so far. 

On the first day, Dr. Ryland Grace informed your whole class that he had rewritten the entire course syllabus because in his opinion it was “outdated” and “really fucking boring.” His words, not yours. It made quite the impression on you and your classmates, and the rest was history. You personally deemed Dr. Grace your favorite professor from therein out. He was everyone’s favorite professor. Which was why you really didn’t want to be late to miss his lecture today. 

You hurried into the elevator and jammed the fifth floor button so fast it stung. You checked your watch. Three minutes until the start of class. No big deal, you could make it. You just had to book it down the hall and to the right and-

The opening of the elevator doors caught your attention. Someone had stuck their hand in, causing the doors to slowly clamor open again and delay your journey by at least another 45 seconds. Seriously, didn’t people have the decency anymore to get the hell out of the way for others that were obviously running late? You made to give the offender a big huff in protest when you recognized the sheepish grin that accompanied the body, also hurrying into the elevator. It was Jacob, your fellow microbiology doctorate student and lab partner in Dr. Grace’s class.

“Oh, hey!” Jacob smiled softly. You returned the gesture but with an ounce of pain in your teeth. You really didn’t feel like small talk. You needed to focus, gear yourself up for battle, in order to eventually weave through even more students to make it towards the lab in time once those fateful elevator doors opened again. Despite your obvious discomfort, Jacob continued. 

“Rough drive in today, huh? I felt like the traffic would just never end! I know you like getting in early too so I’m sure this is a great start to your morning,” Jacob rambled. It was true, you did like getting to the lab early, before students started trickling in. Dr. Grace was usually there setting up for the day and you enjoyed talking to him without any distractions.

 It had started as an innocent routine, as he agreed to supervise some of your research. You headed in early to ask him various questions about methodology, research techniques, and the like. Then it slowly grew into more of a casual, er, acquaintance-ship, let’s call it. You and Dr. Grace started talking more about your personal lives. Your interests, your hobbies, which you happened to share quite a bit of. It was comforting, knowing there was somebody out there that enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed his. Plus there was something so warm and inviting about his knowledge, his advice, his voice, his smile…

“...at least that’s what I’ve always thought. Right?”

You swore you physically heard your neck snap up back to Jacob. Dr. Grace had completely taken over your thoughts, as you now realized that you had no idea what Jacob had just said. He chuckled, clearly seeing right through your shitty attempt at refocusing your thoughts back on him. “I get it, focused on getting to the lab. Don’t worry, we can fight the hordes off together to make it before lecture starts.” 

You let out a weak laugh. Hey, at least Jacob understood the constant struggle of the microbiology floor. Maybe you didn’t have to brave the horrors alone today after all. The ding of the elevator rang in your ears as the doors slid open. Jacob pushed you forward, his hand placed firmly on the small of your back. You froze at first at the sudden contact, then, seemingly subconsciously, you leaned into his firm hold and pushed your way through the sea of students. Before you knew it, you were at the door of Dr. Grace’s lab with a minute to spare. 

Jacob held the door open for you and you nodded your head in thanks as you stepped through. When you looked up, you saw Dr. Grace at his rightful place at the head of the class, jotting down some chemical formula on the whiteboard, not paying any attention to his students that were seated and talking amongst themselves at this point. Today he donned a dark pair of jeans, much like yourself, with his signature tweed suit jacket covering what you can only assume was a button-down in one of the many colors of the rainbow that he owned. You had basically memorized his everyday attire by now. You had even teased him about it once. 

“Do you even own anything other than jeans and tweed, Dr. Grace?” you laughed, working across from him at a lab station. This had been one of the many mornings you decided to head in early to meet with him, for no reason other than help with one of his assignments…of course.

Dr. Grace looked up from the papers he was grading and feigned offense, making to clutch his nonexistent pearls. “You’ve got a lot of nerve as a student critiquing a professor’s fashion sense,” he said without an ounce of venom in his voice. “I happen to be one of the only professors in this entire university that wears tweed with pride!” 

You sighed. You really did miss your chats with him today. You made a mental note to set your alarm even earlier next week so you got here on time. Dr. Grace had finished writing at this point, capping the marker and turning around to place it back on his desk. As he turned, he caught your eyes. His whole demeanor seemed to brighten at your entrance, giving you a small wave and a knowing smile as he returned his markers to his desk. You almost started walking up to his desk to apologize for missing this morning when Jacob spoke again.

“You coming?” he asked, gesturing to your lab table. Your chest panged as you realized you probably didn’t have time to talk to Dr. Grace this morning at all. Your smile that you had just given to Dr. Grace faltered as you nodded to Jacob. “Yeah, yeah. I’m coming.”

-

“Alright guys, listen up,” Dr. Grace’s professor's voice was on full display this morning booming loudly, as the students automatically quieted down on their lab stools. Dr. Grace walked steadily over to the front of his desk and plopped his full body weight down on top of it. He never was the stuffy lecturer type, most of his classes were taught from the comfort of the top of his desk or sitting with his students as they worked at their lab stations. The laces of his converse swung in the breeze created by the wiggling of his feet back and forth as he spoke.

“Today is no different from last class, we’re going to continue working on the identification of the prokaryotic and eukaryotic cell samples you were working with last time,” he went on. “Everything should be as you left it from last time, providing none of you snuck in here to get a head start over the weekend,” he looked at you pointedly with a smirk. He may have caught you once or twice coming into the lab to get in some extra study hours before an exam. Instead of other professors, who may have just kicked you out, Dr. Grace stayed behind to help you fully understand the material which you greatly appreciated. His one on one tutoring always made you feel better, like you could conquer any formula he threw at you with ease.

“You and your partner should grab your kits from the back, along with your scopes and start working, you’ll have the full 90 minutes today to finish up the lab reports you’ve been working on,” he clapped his hands together and slid off the desk. “Those reports aren’t going to write themselves, people! You’re free to start” Dr. Grace shouted. 

You and Jacob had a system at this point. He would grab your guys’ supplies while you opened up the lab document on your computer. He would analyze the sample and report to you his findings, you would check his work as well and, providing you both agreed, you would type up the report. You both had found it just worked better this way, writing wasn’t necessarily Jacob’s strong suit. It made you wonder what state his dissertation was in at this point. As Jacob slid off his stool to grab your things and you opened your computer, a broader, more solid frame took his place on the stool across from you. 

“Now, how do you think I was supposed to get all the formulas written out for today without the help of my best student, huh?” 

You looked up from your notes to see Dr. Grace looking at you from his gold-rimmed glasses, a light tone to his words that jarred you from your reverie. You laughed, relieved that he wasn’t upset and maybe disproportionately eager that he had sought you out after you couldn’t make it this morning. 

“I don’t know, Dr. Grace. You’re the one with the PhD, not me. Don’t you think you should be able to do the formulas in double the time without me slowing you down?” you giggled. 

Dr. Grace’s hand came up to scratch at the invisible dagger you had lodged into his heart. “You wound me. You’re just as bright as I am, if not brighter. Plus in two months time, you too will have those fancy little letters gracing your email signature, same as me,” he replied.

You tilted your head in a joking question. “Is that all a PhD is to you? An email signature add-on?” 

Dr. Grace looked up, as if weighing his options. “I guess you’re right. It also awards you the prestigious honor of constantly being mistaken for a medical doctor, earning you the constant disappointment of family, friends, and strangers alike.” He looked back at you with a smile.This was one of anticipation as he sat, almost on the edge of the lab stool to see if his joke had earned him the pleasure of your familiar laugh in response. He breathed a sigh of relief when you returned the laugh that he was hoping to win from you. Your banter was, unfortunately, cut short as a throat cleared itself from behind Dr. Grace. You looked up. Jacob was back, carrying the heavy kit and microscope. 

Dr. Grace shot up from the stool, making way for Jacob to set everything down with a huff. He clasped his hands behind his back, almost hiding them, as if talking to you was something secretive that he should wash his hands of as quickly as possible. He rocked back on his heels. “Well, I’ll leave you two to it, just shout if you have any questions.” Dr. Grace left your table and began making his rounds with the other students that were already raising their hands, in need of assistance. 

You and Jacob fell into your routine, him analyzing, you taking your ever-diligent notes. About a half hour had passed in the class period and you had finished with your second sample. One of the small merits of being the note-taker was that you didn’t have your nose in a microscope so you were free to follow Dr. Grace with your eyes as you typed. You were transfixed on him, the way he glided around the lab with ease. Smiling at his students, getting just as excited with them as they finally understood a concept, pointing out their strengths and how far they’ve come in their work. He truly was a fantastic professor. He was pretty easy on the eyes as well, which must be the explanation for why your eyes seemed to immediately fixate on him whenever Jacob looked down at the microscope in front of you two. Dr. Grace was in the middle of helping another lab pair when his eyes met yours as he spoke. He smiled absentmindedly at the two students whom he was speaking to, the gesture clearly meant for you in disguise. You made to smile back when Jacob’s voice drew your attention back to him. 

He had looked up from the microscope entirely, now staring at you, expectantly. You froze again, much like the position he had found you in the morning as you realized this was the second time that you had completely zoned out when Jacob was speaking to you. You had to get better at this. “Wh-what did you say Jacob?” you asked.

Luckily, he didn’t seem to mind. With a short laugh, he repeated himself. “I asked what you were doing after class today.” 

Your brows furrowed in confusion. “What am I doing after class today?” 

He nodded. “Yeah, I figured if you weren’t doing anything, maybe we could grab a coffee together? Talk about the exam next week or something?” 

Your brows furrowed even further, if that was even possible. Surely, Jacob couldn’t be asking you what you thought he was asking you, right? He seemed to sense your unease.

“Look, to tell you the truth, I really love working with you here, and I admire your research!” Jacob said emphatically. “I read your proposal for the reunderstanding of the biology of basic nucleotides and it was some seriously impressive stuff. I figured, maybe, if you’d want, we could get to know each other better, like on a-” 

Jacob didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence before you noticed Dr. Grace’s hand, which had shot out to place itself on the microscope that was between you and Jacob. Where did he even come from? His arm was directly in between the two of you now, forcing each of you to back up a few steps. Dr. Grace’s back was turned to you though, creating the impression of an almost impenetrable wall between you and Jacob. Your cheeks grew hot from embarrassment. Hopefully Dr. Grace hadn’t heard you two getting too off topic.

“How’s it going over here guys?” Dr. Grace asked. 

Was his chest puffed up a little? His shoulders seemed straighter…

You could barely see Jacob over Dr’ Grace’s mop of blonde hair and squared shoulders. Nevertheless, you made out his response that was just within earshot anyway. “Uh, it’s going great, Dr. Grace…”, you heard Jacob say. He looked over Dr. Grace’s shoulder at you in apology. 

Dr. Grace cut in before Jacob could say anything more. “Really? That’s totally awesome, Jacob, totally great and awesome and uh, can you show me what you guys have found so far?” Dr. Grace seemed to lose track of his own sentence before he finally stuck the landing. You crossed your arms from behind him and moved to join in on the conversation from the other side of the table, since Dr. Grace had made eye contact with your lab partner impossible over his broad frame. 

You stretched out your hand to move the microscope closer to you. “Sure, Dr. Grace,” you added, nudging your way back into the conversation. This was your chance to prove what you had learned so far. “So, Jacob and I found…”

Dr. Grace’s hand again shot out to place itself on the microscope. Except, this time his hand covered yours completely. You quieted immediately at the contact. Dr. Grace’s hand was impossibly warm, heat seeming to radiate off him in droves, you almost needed to fan yourself with your other hand. Had somebody turned up the temperature in the lab or something? 

Dr. Grace stopped you from sliding the microscope over to you any further. “That’s alright,” he looked at you pointedly. He turned back to Jacob with a smile that looked more like a wince from where you were standing. “Jacob, why don’t you show me? You’ve been the one I’ve seen examining the samples the most, let me see whatcha got.” 

Jacob turned towards the microscope slowly and peered into the lenses. “Okay...sure,” he said warily. Jacob placed his hands on the adjustment knobs and began rattling off information. This was a new slide that Jacob had placed in, you hadn’t seen it for yourself yet. 

“Looks like basic prokaryotic cell makeup. Nucleoid DNA appears to be intact in the cytoplasm, slight bunching of the flagellum that you can see in the upper right hand corner of the lens.”

Dr. Grace hummed. Whether it was in distaste or agreement, you couldn’t quite tell. Jacob looked up nervously. You had never seen him so unsure before. He seemed to tremble under Dr. Grace’s gaze. You had to admit, having never seen what you can only assume would be Dr. Grace’s more serious side, it was kind of intimidating. After having so many light-hearted talks with him, you forget that Dr. Grace is a powerhouse in the field of microbiology research. 

“Remind me again Jacob, what the purpose of the flagella is?” Dr. Grace questioned. 

Jacob looked to the floor, racking his brain for an answer. “In prokaryotes, the flagella is used for movement, also for things like adhesion, formation of biofilms, and exportation of proteins,” Jacob was regaining his footing now, looking Dr. Grace in the eyes as he delivered his answer. Dr. Grace said nothing, only moving to look into the microscope himself to check Jacob’s work. You hadn’t even answered the question, yet you were waiting with bated breath for Dr. Grace to surface again, either praising Jacob, or sealing his fate.

Dr. Grace removed himself from the microscope and looked back at Jacob. “That’s exactly right Jacob,” he said. Jacob exhaled heavily. You felt yourself doing the same.

“Or it would be, if that wasn’t a eukaryotic cell that you were looking at,” Dr. Grace stated simply. 

Your heart dropped. You couldn’t believe it. That was a rookie mistake. An undergraduate-level mistake. An absolute embarrassment of a mistake from Jacob. If that was you, and you had delivered that answer to a professional molecular biologist, you might as well drop out of the program and flee the country. 

Dr. Grace stood up even straighter, backing Jacob against the table. “Firstly you mistook the eukaryotes endoplasmic reticulum for a prokaryotic ring DNA molecule. I can only assume you had guessed that that was what it was after landing on the sample being a prokaryote instead. After that, the microvilli might have led you to believe that it was flagella? Not sure how you got there though because they look nothing alike. Looks to me like the only correct identification you made was the cytoplasm. Which are, after all, present in both cell types anyway.”

You almost wanted to shrink away, yourself. You had never heard Dr. Grace scrutinize a student that harshly before. Normally he was much gentler with his critiques, focusing on the positives his students put forth rather than the negatives. This time you could tell that each word from Dr. Grace’s  mouth broke Jacob down further and further, until he was forced to sit back down on his lab stool, looking up at Dr. Grace like a puppy that had been caught doing something he shouldn’t have.

Dr. Grace looked back at you and you almost flinched. You could tell his words were meant for Jacob, though he never seemed to tear his gaze away from yours. 

“Do me a favor and turn in your lap reports separately, please. I just want to be sure that neither one of you are relying too heavily on your partner’s write ups.” He smiled, back to good, old, Dr. Grace once again, in the blink of an eye. You looked back at Jacob, his wide-eyed stare signaling that he might not be as confident in his ability to write up this report after all. 

Dr. Grace walked back up to the front of the classroom but you stayed rooted to your spot, too shocked to say anything to Jacob. Dr. Grace now addressed the class as a whole now, rather than picking on you and your partner directly, which was a relief. 

“That’s about time, you guys. Great work today! Go ahead and email me your lab reports before we meet next so I can make sure to get you some feedback for next class, alright? I’ll see you all next week,” Dr. Grace nodded at his students, his informal way of telling them all they were free to go.

As your classmates started packing up, Jacob looked over to you finally. “Uh, sorry about that. I have, uh, I have no idea why my brain just blanked like that. I will,” he coughed. “I will make sure to write up what I have and send it over to you if you could, maybe, check it over?” Jacob was now pleading with you as opposed to casually suggesting as he was doing earlier. You nodded wordlessly. 

“Oh and uh, about that coffee-” Jacob began again. You had totally forgotten about that. It seemed a little silly for him to now bring it up again, after Dr. Grace completely humiliated his microbiology knowledge. You had no idea if you could talk to him about your work seriously now. Jacob just looked so…juvenile.

As if the science gods themselves were hellbent on making sure Jacob never got to finish a sentence today, the taps of Dr. Grace’s shoes silenced him once again. This time, Dr. Grace sidled up next to you, on the other side of the table. He seemed to get impossibly close, speaking barely above a whisper so Jacob was sure to not hear. 

“Mind staying behind today to help me disassemble everything?” Dr. Grace said lowly, leaning down to match your height. His voice seemed to burst right through your chest and grab directly at your heart strings, holding them in a vice-like grip so it was impossible for the organ to beat for anyone else. 

“Sure,” you said, dazed. Dr. Grace softened. “Great,” and he was off once again. Your heart fluttered, whether it was because Dr. Grace’s voice had released its hold on you, or because the hold was ever there in the first place, you weren’t sure. 

You turned back to Jacob, maybe with a little too much excitement. “I can’t make it to coffee today. Maybe another time?” you smiled sweetly. Jacob was already packing his bags. “Sure, another time,” he mumbled. He trudged through the lab door, not bothering to help you put any of your experiment supplies away as he left. 

You turned back to Dr. Grace as the you heard the door click back into place. The two of you were now completely alone in the lab, your professor erasing his work on the board with his back turned to you.

“I wonder if we’ll see him back next class period,” you wondered aloud. Dr. Grace turned to you and crossed his arms, leaning his back against the whiteboard. 

“Not sure,” Dr. Grace answered honestly. “Between you and me, that was a long time coming, his reports are atrocious without your writing to cover it up,” Dr. Grace said, making his way back over to you. You had started to pack up your kit and return it to its rightful place in the lab cabinet. 

“Mm. Well I think you might’ve scared him into at least B+ territory. He might even surprise you with an A minus!” You laughed to yourself and turned to look at Dr. Grace again. You started slightly, realizing he had snuck up right behind you as your back was turned again. He was looking down at his hands, picking slightly at some threads that had come loose on his suit jacket. 

You continued with a gulp. “You know, I’m lucky you came by when you did. I think he was trying to ask me out on a date,” you said incredulously, as if the very notion of a date with anyone, let alone Jacob was warranting national news. Dr. Grace laughed uncomfortably. “Yeah, he’s been checking you out for a while now. I figured it was only a matter of time.” 

You nearly dropped the thousand dollar microscope you were holding. How did he know that? You hadn’t even noticed until today. Was Dr. Grace…watching you and Jacob work together? That didn’t make any sense. Dr. Grace seemed to sense your shock as he quickly tried to recover. “From what I’ve seen that is! You know, here. In class. Where I see my students. An equal amount. Not paying attention to any one of them more than the other. Because I’m a fair professor,”he said with a very visible cringe. He scrunched his eyes up as if he was bracing for impact. After you said nothing, simply standing there, rooted in place, Dr. Grace opened his eyes and sighed.

“Look I feel like it’s my job as a professor to protect my students, and I just really didn’t like the way he looked at you, alright? Like you were some prize to be won. He should be grateful. You’ve carried him in so many of his assignments, to be honest, he owes you a lot of passing grades,” Dr. Grace said. He spoke softer now, quieter. This time it was him that looked small, looking down at his shoes, waiting for your approval after his confession. 

Your stomach flipped. Dr. Grace thought of you. He thought of you in class, about your work, about your partner, about your partner’s lack of work. He thought you were impressive. Smart, even. You smiled to yourself. 

“You know, Jacob did suggest some coffee later and, though I’m grateful for your ‘get-out-of-jail-free card’, I could use some. Do you want to…” you trailed off, hopeful that Dr. Grace would get the hint. 

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who after living a life of hell, gets whiplash from time to time from how soft everything about you is.

“breathe jackie...” you'd coo when he'd woke you up from one of his nightmares. your delicate hands running through his curls as he buried his face between your breasts. not a sexual act, more like a desperate need for comfort.

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who loves poking you. your cheeks, tummy, thighs, ass. everything! loves how you laugh while trying to swat his hand away. loves how your body recoils slightly, loves how soft your skin feels against his rough fingers.

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who just as much as he likes poking you, he also likes groping you! specially your boobs. in public, its your ass. he purposely digs his hand into the backocket of your pants, not caring if it looks in appropriate. he gets better leverage from your ass like that! occasionally squeezing your flesh there. and you dont even bat an eye.

in bed, usually after sex or even during tired, quiet evenings, he's obsessed with your breasts. with his head resting on your shoulder, his thick, rough hand is most likely than not kneading at the swell of your breasts. sometimes he even likes rubbing his face over your breasts like a kitty. and he specially loves how you let him, and how you run your fingers through his hair whole doing so.

JACK ABBOT WHO:

who loves seeing you in dresses. or anything tight. the sight of the fabric clinging to your curves makes him instantly hard, even when you're innocently prancing around the house without doing anything remotely seductive.

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who gives you the biggest bear hugs! because as thick as you are, so is he. both of you are so stubby that hugs with him usually (always) get prolonged to soft gentle whispers and jack rocking you side to side. even if it puts more strain on his prosthetic. the position is always the same: his face buried into your neck while your chin rests comfortably against his shoulder. his hands are also always on the back of your head and the swell of your hips.

the embrace is just soo comfortable that you end up falling asleep in his arms once.

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who doesnt stop just at bear hugs, he also sleeps in a very particular way. a head lock. your back pressed against chest, (he always has a hard time ignoring how the swell of your ass feel pressed against his clothed cock) cheek squished against the hard muscle of his bicep while his arm loops around your neck from behind.

you dont mind, you like the feeling of being cradled in your sleep. and he absolutely loves it. specially since it keeps you from escaping his grasp without him having to wake up. also, a little bonus, his free hand is free to wander.

he lost count the amount of times he's made you orgasm from playing with your pussy, then kissed you goodnight in that same position.

JACK ABBOT WHO:

who gets a bit shy when you drool over his thickness. he has to put all his strength in not squirming when you rub his bicep. you just cant help it! they're so thick, and god, his thighs. they're like tree logs!

“jackie you're so cute!” you'd say, as if he couldnt squish you to death with his muscles. and when he lets you please him,( which is usually never because he's a giver not a receiver) you take extra time to trace the roundness of his pecks with your tongue.

he also always melts whenever you run your hands up and down his arms, to ultimately settle your soft hands around his cheeks. you make it seem like an innocent little touch. when in reality its an excuse to feel him up. but whatever dirty thought you had is crushed when he looks at you with those puppy eyes! because to him, you treating him like the most precious thing in the world is enough to have him melting in your arms.

JACK ABBOT WHO :

who definitely bites into your rolls during rough sex.

You look at her. She doesn’t even blink. You know what she means, and you do your fucking best to keep your eyes from trailing over to the man beside you.

Still, you find yourself echoing Pope’s words.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about keeping Lena out of the system. Both of her parents are gone. Pope may be taking care of her, but with his record? Social services is going to be coming by any day now, baby.”

You swallow, and grit your teeth as you search for a comeback. For any kind of answer or solution that isn’t…

“One day at the courthouse, one little party to make it look real, and Lena is safe.” Smurf’s words sound tinny through the phone. The rest doesn’t need to be said. Can’t be said, because every phone call is recorded. No foster care. No fighting the courts. Adoption.

Adoption because you’re married.

“Okay.” Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, but it sounds…firm. The decision isn’t hard, though it probably should be.

Just a piece of paper. That’s all. It’s just a piece of paper, and you can protect Lena from the foster system.

Pope does look at you now, but you don’t break your gaze from Smurf’s. Still, you can almost feel the surprise on his face. The intensity of his stare on the side of your head.

Smurf nods, smiling in that pleased, shark-like way she has when she gets her way.

And, quietly, this time to yourself, you repeat the word.

“Okay.”

-

“You’re gonna give up your whole life for the kid you nanny for?”

“Your niece.”

“Your whole life.”

“It’s not my whole life. It’s just…paper.”

Craig stares at you. You stare at the pool.

“You’re gonna be raising her. With Pope.”

“I don’t know if you remember, but I kind of have been raising her.” It’s not like Baz has been there for fucking anything but dropping off a paycheck with an extra couple hundred bucks and an apology for being gone a few more days than promised.

Pope was there. For ice cream at the beach. To help you out on nights you were exhausted and couldn’t get a hold of Baz. To sit with you on the couch. Always so quiet, but…there. A comforting presence amidst the chaos of caring for and worrying about a little girl that isn’t even yours.

Pope was there, and he’ll be there now. You have no doubt about that.

-

The ride back is dead silent.

So silent, in fact, that you nearly jump out of your skin with surprise when Pope speaks.

“You don’t have to do this.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, or his hands off of the wheel.

“I know.” You kind of do have to. Smurf has a pretty uncanny ability to get her way, and it was more than obvious that this is what she wants you to do.

But even despite that, it’s for Lena. Lena who you all-but raised. Who you love. You would adopt her in a heartbeat, and you know Pope would too.

His hands grip the wheel a little tighter. You see a muscle jump in his jaw. “If you don’t want to-“

“I want to.” You interrupt, finally turning to him. “It’s Lena. If you think for one second that I’m going to let her get lost in the fucking foster system, you’re insane.”

“Smurf-“

“I don’t care about that. She’s right. This will work. Because right now, you paying me to help you take care of her isn’t exactly working. And if adoption is the way you wanna go, then that’s what we have to do.”

Pope doesn’t speak. He just nods, and stares at the road.

-

“This is different. This is… this is forever. This is like, building up a college fund-“

“Can’t be too hard, with your lifestyle-“

“Stop joking. I’m not kidding.”

You look at him, now. “I’m not kidding. She gets a cut. Every job, Lena gets a cut.”

“You really want to do this. Legally raise a kid that isn’t yours with fucking Pope.”

“I want her to be safe.” You finally snap, pulling your legs out of the pool so fast that you think it might splash him a little. “Why the fuck don’t you get that? Why doesn’t anyone else seem to care about this fucking kid?”

“Why do you care about her so much that you’re going to throw away your life?!”

“What life? I’m already wrapped up in this shit, and Smurf said-“

“You can’t trust Smurf.”

“She likes me. I’m not a threat to her. She has no reason to lie.”

“She always has a reason to lie.”

“Not about this. She wants Lena to be safe just as much as we do.”

Craig runs his hands through his hair again. Mumbles something about you being insane.

“I’ve watched this kid grow up. I love her.”

“More than yourself?”

“I mean…yeah.” Isn’t that what love is? You don’t think you know any other kind. “It’ll be the same as it always was. I’ll just have a rock on my finger, right?”

“This is legit marriage. And adoption. This is like, piles and piles of paperwork and shit. Plus, it’s gonna be a whole lot of lying.”

“Oh yeah, I’m really not used to lying. Where would I even start?”

Craig snorts into his beer, and you take the laughter as a win.

-

It’s a small ceremony. Just you and the Codys, save for Smuf for…obvious reasons.

There are no wide grins. No giddy family members. No flower girls or teary vows. The minister is monotone when he marries you, and Pope’s intense eyes don’t leave your face for a second.

It isn’t that you don’t like Pope. In fact, you get along with him better than anyone else in the family, save for maybe Craig, and that friendship still shocks the hell out of you sometimes. You aren’t sure when you started actually becoming friends with Craig Cody, but somewhere between him constantly hitting on you when you first started watching Lena and you rejecting his offer of drugs almost every damn night, you started actually getting along. There’s something about him that’s real, and maybe a little (or a lot) lost, and for some reason it seems to make you more patient with him than most.

But Pope. You’ve always gotten along with Pope really fucking well.

Since you started watching Lena, before he went to prison and before her parents died, you and Pope just seemed to…well, harmonize. You wash the sponges in the way he seems to like. You can sit with him in silence, and even get him to talk about things if it feels like the right time. Hell, you’ve fallen asleep on his shoulder when sitting together on Baz’s couch, and woken to him in the exact same position, like he was afraid that any movement might disturb you.

So maybe this won’t be so bad. It’s for Lena. To keep her out of the system. To keep her with the people who love her.

You expect your hand to shake a little when you exchange rings, but it’s surprisingly steady. Pope is still looking at you.

When it’s time to kiss the bride - Christ, the bride. You’re really fucking doing this - his hand comes up to your cheek, thumb brushing absently over your skin as he gives you a questioning look that is so sweet you almost laugh out loud because you’ve seen this man come home with bruised knuckles and bloodstains on his shirt. You nod, and he nods back as he ducks down and presses his lips to yours.

It’s a simple, gentle kiss - he doesn’t slam you against the wall and devour you or anything - and yet you feel a zing shoot down your spine and to your toes at the mere touch of his lips against yours. The sensation is so shocking, so good, that when he pulls away you almost reach up to pull him back to you just to see if you can feel it again.

You don’t, of course. You just meet his eyes, and try to smile.

And then you’re married. Just like that. One kiss. A couple signatures. And you’re just…married.

-

Andrew Cody has a terrible secret.

He is deeply, desperately, overwhelmingly in love with his wife.

Wife. Wife. Wife. You’re his fucking wife now. If it were any other circumstance, he might call this a dream come true. If he could just call you that for real, without the knowledge that you’re only married to protect Lena, he would be the happiest man in the fucking world.

And yet, as you all arrive back at the house and he watches that ring glimmer on your finger, remembers how your lips felt against his own even for just that one too-brief moment, he wonders if it would be fucked up to…pretend. Like he did in prison, when he kept a photo of you on the wall of his bunk and told his cellmates that the beautiful woman in the picture was his wife.

That was fucked up of him. He knows that. He knew that. But how would anyone have been able to check? He had gone to prison to protect his brother. He was serving a sentence that could potentially last much longer than three years. He was alone, and he was in love, and when someone asked him to explain the picture it just…happened. The fantasy he’d kept tucked safely away in the back of his mind had spilled past his lips, and talking about you had helped get him through the horror and monotony of those three years. In prison, you were his wife. The warm and sweet smile he would come home to, one day.

You’d visited him, too. You hadn’t taken Lena, but you’d come. Just a few times, always against Smurf’s wishes, but you’d checked on him. And he had wished with every part of his fucking being that you had come because he wasn’t just your friend, he wasn’t just Lena’s uncle, but because you cared about him. Because you missed him as much as he missed you. And he missed you and your lovely eyes and your gorgeous smile every. Fucking. Day.

This is for Lena. You’re both here for Lena.

And yes, he is almost positive that Smurf has an ulterior motive. That she knows exactly how Pope feels about you and that she’s going to use this to control him or even you, somehow. She’ll see this arrangement as her ‘giving’ you to him, as horrible as it may be. He’ll owe her for it.

But Lena will be safe. You’ll be safe. He can make sure of that.

And you won’t ever know how often he thinks about tilting your head back and sliding his lips over yours. About the noises he daydreams of hearing you make as his hands move over your body. Those hands have caused so much damage and pain for so long, but when they touch you they won’t be weapons. They’ll be as gentle as he can possibly make them as they slide over every perfect inch of soft skin he can reach.

And if he could just fall asleep watching a movie on the couch with you wrapped safely in his arms, with the smell of your perfume in his nose and the feeling of your steady breathing against his chest, he would truly be the happiest man in the world. You came close, once. When he sat with you for a while after Lena went to bed and he watched you fight yawn after yawn as you watched some random TV show together. Your head had finally thunked against his shoulder, and he had been too afraid to breathe lest he wake you and you stop touching him for even a second.

He had allowed himself to turn his nose into the top of your head. Had allowed himself one deep inhale.

He’d chased that memory for weeks, had felt so fucked up as he groaned your name into his pillow and imagined burying his nose into your hair and catching that scent of perfume and shampoo as you writhed beneath him. In those moments, alone in the dark of his empty house, his imagination would replace his own hand with you. His own labored breaths with the sound of your voice, breathing his name and begging for more as he made you feel so fucking good you would never be able to think of anyone else.

And then he would see you again the next day. He’d buy you and Lena ice cream and melt a little at the sight of your smile. He’d feel ashamed of the thoughts he had just the night before as his eyes lingered on the way your mouth wrapped around that little plastic spoon and he would nearly have to excuse himself and leave mid-conversation before he broke and slammed you into a picnic table to lick the mint chocolate chip from your lips himself.

And now you’re his fucking wife. You’re going to be living with him. Raising Lena with him. How the fuck is he supposed to keep himself together? How is he supposed to keep himself in check to be good for you?

And yet, despite how insane and wrong it might be, he’ll take this. He will wear the title of your husband, fake as it may be, like a badge of fucking honor that he will never deserve. He’ll think about kissing you, and touching you, and hold himself back from doing either of those things every single day of his life.

But he will be your husband. You’ll be his wife.

And maybe, secretly, horribly, he’ll pretend.

-

The after party, unlike the ceremony, is not small.

It’s loud. Chaotic. Takes over the entire backyard of the Cody house and makes you feel like you want to cave in on yourself. You don’t mind parties. You know Pope doesn’t like them. Even now, he’s sitting in the corner and nursing a beer, eyes still locked on you as you take a shot with Craig and do your absolute best to follow the plan. This party isn’t about having fun, at least not for you and Pope. It’s about optics. It’s about making it clear that you are now a complete, unarguable member of the Cody family.

For what might be the hundredth time tonight, your eyes drift to Pope’s. His remain locked on yours. You take a deep breath, and take another shot.

You aren’t drunk when he approaches you, but you are buzzed enough to be giggling at one of Deran’s jokes.

And then his voice is by your ear, low and soft. When his arm slides around your waist, tugs you back against him, you almost wonder if this is supposed to be part of the plan.

“You okay?” He asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear and voice so low you know you’re the only one who can hear him.

“And finally,” Craig shouts, raising another shot into the air and immediately drawing the attention of the group of people around you, “here comes the blushing groom!”

The room is suddenly filled with loud, drunken cheers. You tilt your head back, relaxing against Pope and leaning up to brush your lips over his jaw. You don’t imagine the way his arm tightens around you at the movement, but you plaster a wide grin on your face as you murmur back to him, “do you think we did enough? Can we leave?” Leave isn’t a very fitting word - the two of you are staying here tonight, but you’ll take anything that gets you away from the strangers and the chaos.

Pope smiles, and it doesn’t look entirely fake.

In a second, he’s reaching down and hooking his free arm behind your knees, lifting you against him and beginning to make his way into the back room without a word. Your own laugh is genuine, and you’re followed by cheers and whoops and some very suggestive noises as you disappear down the hallway.

-

“Are you…okay?” He keeps asking you that. You still don’t know how to answer.

Your head tilts toward his, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m in a sham marriage to ensure that a little girl I love doesn’t get forgotten by the system. I’ve had less weird days.”

“I mean…with me? Do you want me to sleep on the floor?”

“Would you? If I asked?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds uncomfortable.”

“I’ve slept in worse places.” Right. Prison. Shit.

“I didn’t know you even slept.”

He ignores your joke, your awkward attempt at deflection, and asks again. “Do you want me to move?”

“I…no.” You don’t. It surprises you how much you don’t.

You roll onto your side, tuck an arm beneath your head, and meet his stare. You’re both fully clothed, lying atop the covers of a large bed in a guest room, and you’re pretty sure that everyone at the party thinks you’re going at each other like bunny rabbits.

It’s quiet in here. It’s comfortable. Being around Pope Cody is always so comfortable. You genuinely don’t get why people are always so unnerved by him. He’s quiet, sure. Dangerous, maybe. But he has a presence that, at least to you, is calming and warm in a way you’ve never felt with anyone else before.

“Do you think this was a bad idea?”

He frowns. Furrows his brow. He rolls on his side to face you, too, and you see his hand twitch, just barely, like he might reach up and touch you.

“No. It was for Lena.” He pauses, brow crinkling again. “Do you regret it?”

“No.” For some reason, with the way the moonlight is hitting his face and alighting on the worried expression in his eyes, you can’t help but reach up, your new ring catching in the low light of the bedroom as you brush your fingers over his cheek. The gesture feels too intimate for your current arrangement. More than a little confusing. And yet, Pope blows out a shuddered breath, and leans into your touch.

After a moment, he returns the gesture, his own calloused fingers brushing the hair from your face, even as his eyes remain locked on yours.

You’re not sure how it happens, not sure who moves first, but in what feels like the span of a second and a thousand years all at the same time, his forehead is resting against your own, large hand still cradling your cheek and warm breath whispering over your lips on every barely-there exhale.

“Pope…” you murmur, and he leans helplessly closer.

“Andrew.” He murmurs back, noses bumping, brown eyes fluttering closed. “My name is Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You repeat, and you’ve hardly ever used his real name. Only hours ago, you said it in your ‘vows’, and even then it felt foreign on your tongue.

And then he kisses you.

It’s slow, careful like he’s worried he might break you with any too-sudden movements, and still it makes your heart hammer in your chest and drop to your stomach. He kisses you so slowly, so deeply, that you lose all track of time and thought. His hands are on your face, cradling you against him like you’re a delicate piece of glass that he may shatter at any moment if he holds it too tightly, and yet he kisses you like he’s dying. Like every movement of your lips against his is something he’s never even allowed himself to want, but now that he has it he’s going to cherish every fucking moment.

You stop thinking. You stop regretting. Stop worrying. You just let yourself…feel.

Your fingers curl in his hair as the kiss deepens, as he rolls atop you until you’re pressed between his body and the sheets and it feels so good you think you might pass out.

“Andrew.” You whisper again, the name nearly swallowed by his lips, and he groans so deeply at the sound that you can feel it in your fucking toes.

Your fingers fly up to the buttons of his shirt, desperation for more coursing through your veins like liquid fire. His own skate reverently up your thigh, pulling your simple white dress up with them, and he breaks away from you just long enough to duck his face down into the hollow of your throat.

“Tell me to stop.” He half whispers, and the sound of his voice alone pulls a whimper from your throat that has him groaning again as he rocks his hips against yours, hand slamming up to the headboard behind your head like he’s trying to keep himself still above you. “If we…I don’t think I can hold back.”

“Don’t.” You breathe, and this is stupid. This is a bad idea. “Don’t stop. Don’t hold back.”

He pauses, like he’s trying to collect himself.

If he is, he fails at it.

His mouth crushes against yours, and you give up on undoing his shirt and simply yank it apart, hearing buttons scatter as he reaches up to help you pull it off of him. He grabs the back of your thigh, all-but manhandling you beneath him in one swift movement as he pushes the hem of your dress up over your thighs and presses your body between the mattress and his own.

You reach up, trying to help him unclasp the back of the dress, and he makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he catches your wrists in one hand and slams them back against the pillows above you.

“I’ll do it.”

You meet his eyes, and they’re fucking burning. Dark and starved in a way that should probably make your survival instincts explode with some kind of trepidation. They don’t. Instead, your breath catches in your throat, and you nod.

His hand releases your wrists, sliding around your back until he’s pulling you up with him and you’re straddling his lap, nearly shaking with something between anticipation and restraint as he unbuttons your dress and slides it over your shoulders with a shaky exhale.

And then he’s kissing you again. Kissing your neck, your shoulder, your collarbone, only pulling back far enough to slide the garment up and over your head before his mouth is on yours once more, and your hands are tugging him out of his pants, and his own hand tangles in your hair as he lowers you onto your back.

He’s usually so…awkward, so quiet and still that his movements in this moment shock you to your fucking core. He moves atop you like he was born to, traces over your jaw with his tongue like he’s desperate for the taste of you. He just spent three years in prison, and you’re not sure what kind of human connection he’s had since then, but he still takes the time to slide his hand down your stomach and work you apart until every breath you draw is a sharp and desperate gasp into his mouth. Still crawls down your body and drags his blunt teeth up the inside of your thigh without ever once breaking eye contact like it’s a form of fucking worship.

The distant sound of the party still raging down the hall vanishes, taking every ounce of anxiety with it as he makes you fall apart once. Twice. Drags himself back up you and pulls your hand away from where it’s covering your mouth in a weak attempt to keep you from screaming his name.

“Don’t. Let me hear you.” He growls against your ear, and when he pushes inside of you for the first time you make a noise that has him snapping his hips forward so roughly that your nails might dig into his back hard enough to draw blood.

His groan vibrates through your entire body, but he still reaches up to brush the hair from your face, angling your head back to kiss you again even as he murmurs, “sorry. I’m sorry. I’ve got you.”

You forget everything that isn’t him as Andrew Cody pulls you apart piece by piece with his lips and tongue and words. Words spoken so softly against your skin that you would barely be able to hear them if he hadn’t made himself the center of your fucking universe tonight. If you could even dream of focusing on anything other than his mouth against your skin, his soft praise as you move with him, his growled expletives as your nails drag down over his back, his whisper of your name in your ear as he takes you like you are every vice ever created and he is ready to drown himself in the addiction.

And when it’s over, after you’ve nearly sobbed his name until you forgot your own and he bit down on your collarbone and pressed your joined hands into the pillow beside your head with a groan that ingrained itself into your very bones, you can’t remember how to pull yourself back to earth.

“That…” you try, and fail, “I’m…woah.”

Pope huffs a soft laugh against your neck, and pulls you into his arms until he’s on his back and your head is resting against his chest.

“Your legs are shaking.” He observes, sounding a little too proud of himself in that quiet way he has, as his fingers skate through your messy hair.

“Shut up.” You try, and he laughs again. The sound of it is so reserved, so soft and warm, that it makes you hum as you nuzzle your nose into his chest.

You’re asleep within minutes. Exhausted, sweaty, and more content than you can remember being in a very long time.

-

You wake before him.

You have no idea what time it is, but you know it must be early. Early enough, at least, for you to be the first one up. Everyone still hanging around after the party will likely sleep until the afternoon, but Pope usually wakes at dawn. And yet, now, his chest is rising and falling in a slow and steady rhythm beneath your ear.

You’ve never seen him sleep before.

You’re about to pull back to look at him, to drink in whatever expression may be on his face, when something else catches your attention.

There, on his bare stomach, your hands are joined together. Your wedding ring blinks up at you, and his own simple band rests just above it.

Married. You’re married. For Lena.

What happens if the two of you start something, and it doesn’t work out? All that kid has lost, all of the drama and horror she’s endured in her young life, and she would just be…abandoned again.

Shit.

You shift your head, just barely, and feel Pope stir. Light sleeper, then. Makes sense.

His fingers curl a little more tightly around yours, like he doesn’t even notice that he’s doing it, and you feel a soft breath against the top of your head as he realizes that you’re awake, too.

For a moment, he’s silent. It isn’t uncomfortable, just his usual version of quiet.

“Do you want to…borrow clothes?” He finally asks, lips brushing against the top of your head, and you almost laugh. Because this is how Andrew Cody works. He isn’t exactly one to wax poetic, even after a night like last night. He just takes care of you, like he always tries to take care of everyone, in his silent and sweet way.

His hand skates up over your bare back, the touch warm and reverent, and you allow yourself to lie with him for a moment. To enjoy this.

“I don’t think I can pull off one of those buttoned up shirts.” You joke, resting your chin against his chest and blinking sleepily up at him. Something in his brown eyes goes very, very soft as he looks down at you, and a part of you melts at the sight.

“I have t-shirts.”

You do laugh, now. “I know. Just kidding.”

“Do you…like the shirts?”

“I do, yeah.” You slide your fingers over his stomach, wrap your arms around him like he’s an oversized teddy-bear, and he responds with a hum as he pulls you closer to him.

And, despite your decision, despite the fact that you need to cut this off before it really starts, every muscle in your body relaxes as his lips find yours. As he kisses you so slowly, so languidly, so sweetly that you lose all track of time and space.

He feels so good, and this feels so right that it would scare you even if it weren’t for Lena. If it weren’t for all of the other fucking factors pulling you apart.

“I think…” his lips are on your neck, and his fingers are sliding up the inside of your bare thigh, and you can’t think. “We…shit, we shouldn’t do this.,” you reach down to stop his hand, and he acquiesces immediately, pulling back to look down at you with those lovely brown eyes.

“Are you okay?”

You nod. Swallow. “I don’t… if we start something, and it doesn’t work, Lena will get hurt. She’ll feel abandoned again.”

He pauses, and reaches up to smooth your hair back again, like he’s just trying to…touch you. Somehow. Any way he can. “You think it won’t work?”

“I…no.” You admit, almost instinctively turning your face into his palm. “But we can’t know for sure. I don’t want to risk it. Not right now.”

He frowns, thumb brushing your cheek, and nods. “Okay.”

And God help you, you lean up to kiss him again.

He makes a soft noise, somewhere between desperation and torture, and the feeling of his body pressing helplessly against yours makes any thoughts of responsibility fly out the damn window.

And when you pull back, and feel his fingers tighten in your hair and his breath ghost over your lips, it is very very hard to convince yourself that this is the right decision.

-

Pope Cody isn’t sure if he’s living in heaven or hell.

Heaven. Surely. Most of the time, he’s absolutely convinced it’s heaven. Because you’re with him all the time. He gets to hear your laugh. See your smile. Feel your presence every single day. He gets to sit with you on the couch with Lena, and watch the two of you as you help her color or do a puzzle or something equally…peaceful. It’s peaceful, this life. Sure, there are still the jobs. There’s still the guilt. But he gets to come home to you and Lena and he gets to smell your perfume on his pillow and watch your relaxed expression as you sleep beside him.

And sometimes, it’s hell. Because he wants more so selfishly that it feels like a fucking sickness. Maybe it was better before. Before he knew what you tasted like. What you felt like, moving beneath him and with him and moaning his name into his ear like the most beautiful music he’s ever heard. He knows what it feels like to wake up with you, naked in his arms, soft skin against his own and contentment like nothing he’s ever known swelling in his chest.

And he can’t have that again. Because you’re right. He loves you so, so much, but you’re right. If anything were to happen, Lena would be hurt by it. He’ll never stop loving you - he knows that more than he knows how to breathe - but something could happen. His life is chaos. Dangerous. He never knows what horror might come his way next.

But he can have you now, like this, and sometimes he can pretend. He can keep up appearances with you. Get to slide his fingers between yours and feel the ring on your finger when you meet with Lena’s teachers. Murmur something in your ear at one of the parties at Smurf’s house and feel you smile in response.

And he wants to kiss you. When you’re laughing at dinner, he wants to stand up from the table and stalk over to you and press his mouth to yours. He wants to make his way into the bathroom when you’re showering, and stand beneath the water with you until the sounds of your pleasure echo off of the tile. He wants to nuzzle his nose into your hair and inhale the scent of your shampoo when you sit on the couch with him. He wants to pull you into his arms in the mornings and whisper how much he loves you as you wake up. He wants you more, and it’s selfish and shitty because what he has now is already more than he could ever fucking deserve.

So he suffers, and is simultaneously the happiest he has ever fucking been. And he endures, and he loves you.

-

Your first fight happens on a Tuesday.

“She doesn’t need a therapist.” Pope says, in that low and intense way he always has, as he stands over the sink and meticulously scrubs the dishes.

Your eyes snap up, and you have to stop the incredulous laugh that nearly bursts from you at his statement. “Yes, she fucking does.”

“She’s fine.” He looks at you. Drops his eyes to the ring on your finger. Looks back up at your face. “She’s got us.”

He looks at the ring a lot. Like when the two of you take Lena for ice cream on the beach, and he wordlessly hands you a cup of your favorite flavor. Or when he makes Lena’s lunch for school in the morning, meticulously laying out the cheese on top of the ham on top of the lettuce like he’s performing some kind of surgery while you get so wrapped up in conversation with him that you don’t even notice that he’s made you one too until he’s handing you a little brown paper bag.

You curl your fingers a little, and do your best to keep your eyes from trailing down to your hand. To keep from looking at the gold band on his own.

“She needs more than just us.”

“What does that mean?” He’s still scrubbing the same plate.

“Her parents are gone, Pope. She lost them both in a year. And now she’s being raised by her nanny and a fucking bank robber and-“

Pope freezes, and turns to you, and the look in his eyes shuts you right the hell up.

“A what?”

You should probably take it back. Or at the very least, backtrack a little, but you’ve been married a month and social workers are already showing up to talk to you both and the adoption process is going fucking nowhere and you’re honestly sick and fucking tired of pretending to be more in the dark than you are.

“Come on, of course I know what you do. I’m not stupid. Or blind. Or fucking deaf.” And Craig has always been very stupidly candid with you about being stressed about a job or being pushed around by Baz and Pope and even Jay. “But that’s not the point. The point is that Lena-“

“How much do you know.” He doesn’t say it like a question, he says it like a command, and that pisses you off a little more than you want to admit.

“Enough, but not everything. I don’t want to know everything.”

He moves to the other side of the counter, eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them as he repeats the question. “How much do you know?”

You don’t back down. “Not. Everything.” You grit out, pushing back from your chair to plant your hands on the counter and stare him down. “I don’t need to. I know you rob places. I watch the news. I don’t need to know anything else.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to be the reason anyone gets hurt.” You snap, frustrated. “I don’t need to know anything that could endanger any one of you if the wrong people ask. Keep me in the fucking dark. But if you’re gonna be so damn secretive maybe stop mentioning jobs and banks and carrying fucking guns around the fucking nanny.”

“You’re not the nanny anymore.” His eyes drop to the ring again, before they dart back up to your face.

“And what am I then? Because the adoption process isn’t exactly going our way.” You lean closer, and you can feel your own eyes burning into his. “Safe and okay are two very different things, Pope. She’s neither of those right now. And shockingly, the ex-con marrying the former nanny isn’t tossing us to the top of the Good Future Parent list.”

To your surprise, Pope’s eyes drop to your mouth. And yet, his voice is still a furious rasp when he speaks again.

“Andrew.”

You blink. His gaze does not falter.

“My name is Andrew.”

For a moment, you can’t remember why you’re mad. All you can think about is the way he murmured that on your wedding night, the way his fingers tangled in your hair and he pressed his body against yours until you were moaning that name. Until you forgot every name that wasn’t Andrew.

“She needs therapy.” You try again, but the intensity of his gaze on your mouth feels like a kiss all on its own and you can’t remember how to breathe right.

“She doesn’t.”

“She will be taken away from us.” Your palm slaps against the counter. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t look away from you.

He just frowns, and his eyebrows do that little twitchy thing, before his gaze flickers back up to your eyes.

“It didn’t work for me.”

“But it might for her.” You try, meeting his eyes. Fuck, he’s beautiful. “Andrew, we can love her, but we can’t help her. Not like that. It’s not enough.”

He stays quiet. He moves back to the sink, and starts scrubbing the dish again.

You move over from behind the counter, and catch his arm.

“Stop that.” Your voice is firm, and he doesn’t look up again. “Please.”

His eyes finally rise to yours, and he goes very still.

“Fight with me.” Your voice is too soft for this argument, but you don’t care. “I need you to fight with me. You have opinions. I do too. Stop scrubbing the paint off of that thing, and argue.”

His eyes drop to your mouth again, before they move back up to your own.

“I don’t want to get angry.”

“You’re already angry.” You don’t break his gaze.

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” You’ve never been more confident of anything in your life.

He sets the plate down, moves forward, and cages you in against the counter so quickly that you gasp. The air shifts, and his eyes are so dark that you wonder if you should be afraid. Better yet, if there’s something wrong with you because you don’t feel afraid.

“I don’t want to lose Lena.” When did the air in here get so thin? Why can’t you draw breath right? His nose ducks down, moving slowly up over your throat until he’s face to face with you again, gaze burning into yours. “I don’t want to lose you.”

“You won’t.” You swallow. “You won’t. She just needs-“

His hand is at the small of your back, forehead against yours and an intensity in his eyes that is so heavy it makes your knees wobble.

“She needs help.”

“She’ll think something is wrong with her.” He presses even closer, like he’s not aware that he’s doing it, and you can’t tell if he’s frustrated or seeking comfort. If this is how he gets frustrated with you, you aren’t sure if this or any argument is going to get very far.

“Did you think something was wrong with you?”

His lips are almost brushing your own. His hand slides up beneath your shirt, feeling the skin of your back. He doesn’t answer for a long, tense moment. Your skin burns beneath his touch and it feels way, way too good.

“There’s a lot wrong with me.”

You want him so badly it hurts. “This isn’t what I meant by fighting.”

“I can’t fight with you.” His lips brush yours for the briefest of seconds as his nose skates over your cheek. As his fingers curl against your back. “I want to. I’m trying. I can’t…”

You can’t remember how to breathe right for the life of you. Your hand moves up as if of its own accord, and your fingers slide through his hair. This is the closest you’ve been to each other since your wedding night. Sure, you sleep in the same bed, but he’s usually in bed after you and awake before you. He doesn’t linger. You wonder now if he’s been doing that on purpose. If this is what he’s been trying to avoid. If he was really so close to snapping that all it took was high emotions and you coming into his space for five fucking seconds.

The thought makes you shiver, and hand moves up over your back again, like he senses the silent question and his touch is the answer. His lips find the hollow of your throat. Just one soft, simple kiss, but it makes you feel like you’re on fucking fire.

“I…” you start, seconds away from pulling him back and slamming your mouth to his, when a soft voice makes you jump out of your skin.

“Can I watch TV?”

Pope releases you, stepping back, and you wonder how flushed your face must be as you look down to see Lena standing in the doorway, holding a stuffed bunny.

You blink, and try to focus on anything but the absence of Pope’s hands on your skin.

“Nightmares again?” You ask, and she nods.

And just like that, it’s over, and you spend the next hour sitting with Lena and watching cartoons as Pope returns to the dishes, gaze like a physical touch against your back.

And, not for the first time, you wonder how the fuck you’re going to manage this marriage.

-

Lena is gone.

And you kept it together. You kept it all together. You didn’t cry or scream or even try to fight with Pope after the social workers took her away. When she went into the system and you just had to sit there, helpless, and watch her get into that car.

And you showed up, when Pope went down to the office and made a scene. You all-but dragged him out of there, followed closely by security guards, and let him wrap his arms around you in the parking lot as you both shook with grief and worry and pain. You buried your face in his shoulder, and promised you would get her back. You both would. You’ll figure it out, because you love her, and you’re going to fight tooth and nail to make sure she knows how much you do.

And then Smurf, fucking fresh-out-of-prison Smurf, actually got her back. And it all went to shit.

“Why…” you pause, eyes scanning the room. The movers. The pink. She doesn’t even like pink. Why is there so much pink? “Why is it…here?”

“It’s just for now.” Smurf answers, flippant. “You just got her taken away. Andrew is an ex-convict. The courts will be a lot more lenient if she stays with me for a while.”

You feel cold. You fight the urge to fidget with your ring.

“But we’re…” married. You and Pope got married. That was supposed to help. She told you that.

She doesn’t even look up from where she’s folding yet another small pile of pink clothes. “You know, it would probably be best for you two to stay here, too. To keep her comfortable.”

Oh.

Oh fuck, you’re an idiot.

And then Lena is dropped off, and she’s miserable, and she wants to go home. Not home with you and Pope. Not home to the house. Home to her foster family, and her new sister.

And it all hits you like a fucking brick to the face.

This. This whole life is not safe for her. She has the opportunity to thrive, and grow, and live in a world where she will never be a pawn in someone else’s schemes. As much as you love her, as much as Pope loves her, this world is never going to be safe or healthy for her.

She’s gonna be okay. It’s gonna break your fucking heart, but she’s gonna be okay.

So you find Pope, and you fight your tears back, and you both take her back to her foster house. You take her home.

The car ride back to Smurf’s is silent.

It takes six minutes for you to break.

“Pull over.”

He does.

You lurch out of the truck, wondering if you’re going to be sick, and nearly stumble off of the side of a cliff before he catches you.

And he holds you too tightly. Tries to murmur something too sweet against your hair as the tears try to fight their way free. His arms feel too good around you. His touch is too comforting. You want to melt into him, and you can’t.

“This was all so fucking stupid.” You breathe, ragged and pained, and he holds you closer.

“Don’t say that.”

“Why not?” You whirl on him, try to shove him back, and he lifts you and spins you back towards the car and away from the cliff before he lets you go. “This whole fucking thing was just…we were just…” breathe. You can’t breathe right. “She tricked us. Don’t you get it? She fucking made me a Cody so she can control you through Lena and she can control me somehow and this is all so fucked up, Pope-“

“Andrew.”

You pause, momentarily distracted despite your horror and anger. “Why do you do that?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Why do you correct me when we’re fighting? Or…” Memories of your wedding night rip through you, threatening to overwhelm you even more. You push them back so quickly it nearly gives you whiplash.

He doesn’t answer again, and you glare so hard you think your eyes might actually be burning.

“It makes me feel better, when you say it. I don’t like it when you’re upset with me.”

“Why the fuck aren’t you upset?”

“I am.” His head ducks, and tilts to the side a little as he looks at you with that familiar intensity. And then, quieter, he repeats, “I am.”

You pause at the pain in his voice. Feel your heart constrict so hard it hurts.

“It didn’t work.” You finally say, agony and grief ripping through you like your soul has been tossed into a fucking wood chipper. “It didn’t work, and I’m… I’m not going to be a fucking pawn in whatever game Smurf is playing.”

“I won’t let you.” Pope says, fingers flexing like he might move towards you. “I won’t let her hurt you.”

“She already has. All of this shit is…it’s too…” you sniffle, to your humiliation, and run a hand through your hair. “It’s over. It didn’t work. This is done. It needs to be done.” Because you’re all that’s left, and she is going to use you to hurt him now, and you can’t let that happen.

It needs to be done.

-

You show up, of all places, at Craig Cody’s place with a duffel under your arm and tears in your eyes.

“Oh shit.” He has a bottle of tequila in his hand. He’s shirtless, and there are people inside.

“I’m…interrupting.” You mumble, suddenly feeling oddly small. Oddly pathetic. But that’s why you’re here, because he has never made you feel that way. Never spoken down to you, never shown you anything but respect despite his ridiculous lifestyle and poor decision making skills. Even when you were just the nanny, and he hit on you so much it was borderline ridiculous, there was something about him that was…good. Lost, of course, but good.

You turn to go.

“Nuh uh. Hey, c’mere.” He spins you, and suddenly crushes you to him so tightly that your noise of surprise is muffled by his chest.

“You smell like sweat.” You mumble, miserable, and he laughs so hard that you shake in his dumb gigantic arms.

“Just got back from the water.” His hand comes up to the back of your head, an odd brotherly touch that makes you actually start to fucking cry. He holds you tighter, smushing you even more against him, and drops his chin against the top of your hair.

“Want me to beat Pope’s ass?”

You shake your head.

“Want some coke?”

You puff an irritated breath, and he laughs again.

“Okay, okay.” He pats your back, and pulls back a little. “How ‘bout a shot?”

You take the bottle from his hand, and take a swig.

“There ya go.” You sputter a little, and he pats your back. “C’mon. You stayin’ here for a bit?”

You nod, and take another swig from the bottle.

“You’re lucky I’ve got a guest room.” Craig ruffles your hair, and you frown as he takes the bottle back from you. “My couch is uncomfortable as fuck.”

“Well, better than - wait, what are you - hey!”

He crouches, grabs you, and tosses you over his shoulder, duffel bag and all, and as he walks back into his house with a shouted announcement of his ‘new roommate’, you decide that maybe the Codys aren’t all bad.

-

“Ow. Ow. Ow.” You mumble, curled into a chair in the corner of Craig’s kitchen with your head in your hands.

“Pope’s freakin’ out, by the way.”

“Thank you. You’re really helping.” You cross your arms on the counter, and bury your face in them, muffling your next words. “How’re you not hungover?”

“I’m hungover as shit.” You hear the fridge open, and hear the frown in Craig’s voice as he examines whatever is inside. “We should get something delivered.”

“We should burn this place to the ground. Might be the only way to get it clean.”

“You sound like your husband.”

“Don’t call him that.”

You don’t lift your head, but you feel Craig lean against the other side of the counter. He chuckles, and ruffles your hair until you groan and try to squirm away. “Damn, I knew you didn’t party, but a few shots of tequila took you out.”

“Shut up.” It was more than a few. Actually, you vaguely remember him holding your hair back in the front yard at some point.

He ruffles your hair again, presumably just to mess with you, and you swat him away.

“Gotta go to Smurf’s in a few.” He finally says, popping open a beer as you peek an eye open to glare at him. “Want me to tell Pope that you’re here?”

You frown, and shake your head.

He frowns back. “He’s freaking out.”

“Why? Lena’s gone. Doesn’t matter.”

“You know you’re being a dick, right?”

“Rude.”

“And you know he’s like, obsessed with you.”

Your heart twists, and you narrow your eyes. “He’s not.”

He puffs a laugh, and takes a swig of his beer. “Sure, sure.” He pats your cheek until you look up at him, eyes squinted and head pounding.

“Damn, you still look hot hungover.” He says, grinning, and you glare harder. “Shoulda got to you first. You wouldn’t have gone for me, though. You’re fuckin’ perfect for Pope.”

“M’not-“

“Go back to bed. Sleep all day. Not like you’ve got anything to do if you’re gonna be in hiding.” Craig cuts you off, already moving to the door to pull his boots on.

“You’re a tool.” You grouch, settling your aching head back into your arms.

“You came to me.” He retorts, and you groan again as you hear the door shut behind him.

-

You don’t talk to Pope Cody for two months.

You don’t take the ring off.

Deran gives you a job at the bar, and you’re good at it. You work too hard, too much, just to shut your brain off for as long as humanly possible before you have to go home and think about Lena. About Pope.

Weirdly enough, living with Craig isn’t too bad. Sure, you have to deal with the parties, have to clean up beer bottles in the mornings and kick him awake sometimes as his phone blows up with calls from his brothers.

But even when he’s fucked up, even when he’s acting like an asshole, he’s always there for you. Sometimes he sits and watches TV with you, rather than going out. Sometimes you manage to drag him to the grocery store, or even get him to clean the house as he grumbles about how ridiculous and uptight you are.

One day, he comes home, and doesn’t joke. Doesn’t comment about you being a neat-freak (you’re not, but you’re not about to let him leave dishes in the sink for a fucking month), and sits on the coffee table across from where you lay on the couch.

You raise your eyebrows, having just flopped down onto the cushions, still in your work uniform and aching with exhaustion.

“You gotta go over there.” His voice is serious, and his eyes are doing that crazy intense thing. Kind of like Pope, but different. You’ve always blamed the drugs, but now you wonder if it’s a familial trait.

“To Smurf’s?” You frown. “Why?”

“He’s fuckin’ losing it, that’s why.” Craig doesn’t snap at you, but the tone of his voice is sharp enough to catch your attention. “All he ever does is sit in front of the TV or stand in the yard and break shit. It’s fucking creepy.”

“You always call him creepy.” And yet, your resolve is already cracking. Shit.

“I don’t get this. You married him. You get along great. Like, better than I’ve ever seen him get along with anyone. He’s obsessed with you. You fucked on your wedding night, but you tell me you haven’t done anything since and with all that damn staring I believe you- hey!”

You swat at him, eyes wide with horror. “How the fuck did you know that?”

“Jesus, chill. You hit me a lot, you know that?”

“Craig!”

“Dude, my room was right next door to that guest room. I was trying to hook up too, but the sound of my brother getting off is kind of a boner killer.”

“That and the pounds of coke.” You grouch, still trying and failing to hide your mortification.

“That’s never been a problem. I’m built different.”

“You’re the fucking worst. Seriously, I’m gonna-“

“Smurf’s got him fighting.”

And there it goes. The last bit of hesitation. Your eyes snap upwards, concern curling in your stomach.

“What?”

“Yeah. Boxing matches and shit.” Craig looks genuinely earnest. “He’s fucked up, dude. Something’s not right. He’s got this look in his eyes like…like he doesn’t give a shit what happens to him.”

That’s all it takes.

You’re out the door in five minutes.

-

When you find him, he’s sitting in the yard, staring at the moon.

You don’t think he even notices your approach as you make your way around the pool, but when you get closer, he turns to look up at you so slowly that you wonder if he’s been aware of your presence since you pulled into the driveway.

His eyes are dark. His face is bruised and cut and you can’t hold back a sharp breath at the sight. Fuck. He looks like he got put through a fucking meat grinder.

“Holy shit.” You whisper, crouching down beside him. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t tear his eyes away from you. Doesn’t even blink.

“Are you real?” His voice a whisper of gravel, and he’s looking at you like you’re an angel that fell from heaven and landed in the grass before him. Like he’s living up to his nickname and fucking worshipping you.

You nearly burst into tears. You feel something crack in your chest. Something deeper and more vital than your heart.

You reach out, and brush your fingers over a healing cut below his eye. And then, like a woman possessed, you move until you’re straddling his lap, knees on either side of his hips, and press your forehead against his.

“I’m real.” You whisper back, fingers sliding into his hair. “I’m real, Andrew.”

His breath rattles in his lungs. His hand shakes as it comes up to move over your back, pulling you closer to him when you don’t vanish with a gentle, aching desperation.

His head drops down to your shoulder, and he turns to bury his face in your neck. Your fingers continue to skate through his soft curls, and the sob that rips its way from his throat makes that final piece of your soul shatter like broken glass.

You hold each other like that for some time, silent tears streaming down your cheeks as Pope holds you like you could disappear any moment.

“Don’t leave again.” He finally whispers, and you hold him a little tighter.

“I won’t.” You murmur. “Not tonight.”

“Don’t leave ever. Please. Please, I’ll…I’ll do anything. Stay. Stay with me.” He crushes you to him almost too tightly, now, and your heart breaks.

“Andrew...” You whisper, but whatever you may have said is quickly cut off by his mouth as he kisses you. Hard. Desperate. Rough.

And you kiss him back.

The moment you do, he makes a noise that sounds almost pained, one large hand moving up to tangle in your hair as your breath stops in your throat. He shifts beneath you, lowering you until your back hits the grass as he slides his body atop yours and holds you to him like a mere inch of distance might kill him.

This is a bad idea. He’s clearly out of his mind. You’re both hurting too much.

And yet, it feels so fucking good you can’t think straight. Like this, this is everything you’ve been missing for all these weeks. You want to drown yourself in it. You want him to make it all better. You want to make it all better for him.

But you can’t. Even as you catch his lip between your teeth, arch your back beneath him, and hear him almost whimper as he presses you down against the grass, you can’t do this. Not now. Not like this.

You pull back, and he nearly sobs as he pushes you back down. As he uses his grip on your hair to pull your head back so he can trace his tongue over your jaw.

“P-Pope-“ you try, and he shakes his head, nuzzling closer and rocking his hips against yours.

“Don’t. Don’t make me stop. Please.” His voice is low. Desperate. “Let me touch you. I-I’ll make it better. I’ll fix everything. Everything. Just stay with me.”

Everything in you screams to keep going. To never stop chasing this feeling. He senses your hesitation, and kisses you again like he knows that your brain is short-circuiting and he’s just too desperate to care. Like he can convince you if he just keeps trying.

“Stop…” You whisper, squeezing your eyes shut as his hand moves down your side, up beneath your shirt, trailing sparks behind the touch that make you bite back a whimper.

He hears it, and he doesn’t stop.

“You want me. I know you do. I know you. I can…I can fix this. Please. Please, let me fix this.”

Your body betrays you, back arching a little beneath him again, and he makes a soft noise of approval as his fingers begin to work the button of your jeans.

This isn’t right. He’s out of his fucking mind right now. This isn’t right.

“Pope.” You try again, hand reaching down to catch his wrist as his fingers begin to skate beneath your waistband.

“Call me Andrew. Say my name.” He pleads, breath warm and ragged against your ear, and it takes every ounce of strength in your heart to pull at his wrist as his fingers slide lower. Lower.

“Stop.” You try again, and when he pulls back to kiss you, you turn your head away. “Pope. Stop.”

Finally, he freezes. His hand pauses, and you can feel his entire body shake with restraint and hunger above you. “Don’t make me.” One last, desperate plea.

“Stop.” You say again, and he moves back with a subtle, heartbroken little nod.

You re-button your jeans, and push yourself away as he pulls back a little more. He’s breathless. His eyes are still dark as they look over you, still pained and lacking clarity, and you nearly start to cry at the horrified tone of his voice when he asks his next question.

“Did I hurt you?”

No. God, no. You’re about to fall apart with how badly you want him. With how hard it is to keep from flinging yourself into his embrace again. But he’s asking, because he’s so out of it that he doesn’t know. And you’re fucked up for letting it get this far.

“I have to go.” You whisper, pulling yourself upright on shaky feet. “I’m sorry. I…I have to go.”

He doesn’t reach for you. He doesn’t follow. He just watches you as you walk to the gate, and you feel his gaze linger like the soft prickle of frost until he’s out of sight.

And even then, when you get home, you still feel it. And you cry.

-

You’re shutting down the bar when he comes in.

“We’re closed.” You say, barely bothering to raise your gaze as the stranger pushes himself through the door, and you’re a little surprised to be met with silence. No drunken apologies or insistence that they’ll ‘jus’ be here f’r one.”

You look up.

The man before you is smiling. And it isn’t a good smile.

“Cody.” He says, like a predatory growl, and you freeze as he moves closer. Even with a foot of bar between you, the way his gaze is raking over your body feels like a physical touch. “Right? You’re Pope’s wife.”

You don’t back up. Remind yourself not to show weakness. “…Yeah. I am.”

On paper, yeah. But you’ve been in and around this family long enough to know that the title holds a certain amount of power. Pope Cody’s wife. A member of the Cody family. Maybe the confirmation will make this asshole-

“Good.” He says, and snatches your wrist faster than you can form your next thought. He yanks you half over the bar, grabs the back of your head, and slams you onto it.

You’re out cold the moment your head makes contact with the wooden surface, and you don’t even have a quarter of a second to realize that you are absolutely fucked.

-

Your head is pounding. You taste blood. There’s warmth trickling down from your temple.

You’re on the ground, cold concrete pressed against your swollen cheek. Not good. Not good not good not good.

Somewhat shakily, you try to push yourself up, and a booted foot meets the small of your back to slam you back down hard enough that it pulls a sharp yelp from your throat.

“The fucking Codys…” the man grumbles, and you hear the pop of a beer bottle cap above you. Great. You just did inventory. Though that should probably be the least of your concerns right now. “They fucked me over, ya know? Met Pope in prison, he says when we get out we’ll do jobs, and then nothing. Not a fuckin’ word. He just comes home to his pretty wife and family and leaves me on the streets like a fuckin’ dog.”

You try to sit up again. The boot meets your back again. Your head screams with pain, and you have to fight the urge to curl in on yourself like a wounded animal.

“Gotta leave a message, sweetheart. You know how it is.”

Your focus is still swimming. Think. Think think think.

“Knew you’d be pretty, too. He talked about ya all the time. Gonna feel bad messing up that sweet face, though.”

You start to drag yourself up for a third time, but the man grabs your hair and yanks you quickly to your feet. It hurts. Everything hurts already, and you know that’s not a good sign. That it’s gonna hurt a lot more when the adrenaline wears off.

He slams you back against the bar, and his hand wraps around your throat until you can’t breathe.

He’s still holding your hair, hard enough that your eyes sting with tears of pain, and you can see a thousand horrible plans forming in his eyes as he looks you up and down. Your fingers scramble uselessly at the ones locked around your neck, and you blindly reach out to feel around the bar beside you with your free hand as your vision starts to swim with black spots.

“Thinkin’ I break those fingers first, sugar.” You can smell the whiskey and beer on his breath, a rancid mix that would probably make you choke if you weren’t already suffocating. You grit your teeth. You can feel consciousness slipping away, and you have maybe seconds before you pass out again from lack of oxygen. God knows how you’ll wake up after that. “Then we work down to that pretty little-“

Your fingers close around something metal, and you don’t think before you slam it hard into his neck.

He stumbles backward, hand flying up to where a fork now protrudes from his jugular, and you have never seen a man die before.

You don’t move. You watch every second. The way he falls to the ground. The way he convulses. The way his eyes begin to fog over and he stops trying to tug the fork out of his neck, body going limp before you.

You sink to the floor.

You can’t look away. For too long, you just stare at him. Watch the shaky rise and fall of his chest come to a shuddered halt as blood begins to pool beneath his body. So much blood. Too much blood. There’s no way a human body can have that much blood, is there?

Shock is cold and numbing. You can’t feel your fingertips. You can’t think. You don’t think you’re breathing, either.

He definitely isn’t breathing. He’s dead. You killed him.

Oh, fuck.

-

You should call the police. You should call Deran, the owner of the damn bar. Maybe Craig.

You don’t. You don’t even think to.

You call your husband.

He answers on the first ring. He’s on a job. They all are. You know better than to call any of them when they’re on a job.

The river of blood is spreading, and you kick away before it can reach your sneakers, until your back is pressed against the bottom part of the bar.

“Hey.” He sounds a little breathless. You hear a furious shout, and he mumbles a curse. “I’ll call you back in-“

“A-Andrew I…” Words. Words. You have to remember how to say words. “I’m s-sorry. I didn’t mean to-“

“What happened?” Pope’s voice is low. Gentle. Your ears are ringing.

“I-I don’t…I’m at the bar. I…he…” you shouldn’t say anything over the phone, right? You know that much. You can’t confess to killing someone over the phone. Oh God, you killed someone.

“Are you safe?”

No. Yes. You nod, before you realize that he can’t actually see you. “I think so.” You can’t stop staring at the body. You might be sick.

“I’ll be there.” Silence. A muffled argument. The slamming of a car door. And then, softer. “Don’t move, okay?”

You nod again.

It might take five minutes. It might take an hour. You haven’t moved. You’re not sure if you’ve even blinked. The phone is still pressed to you ear. You don’t remember when he hung up.

But Andrew Cody is suddenly crouching before you, hands painfully gentle as he reaches up to guide your hand and the phone gripped in it down into your lap. His jaw is tight, dark eyes more intense than you’ve ever seen them as he tilts your head to inspect what must be a nasty wound on your forehead. One side of your face hurts. You probably have a black eye, and your cheek feels warm with what is very likely blood.

“The body.” You whisper, eyes still locked on man on the ground, and this time he turns your face towards his own.

“Don’t look at that. Look at me.” Gentle. Soft. His voice can be so, so soft. He’s wearing what looks like a security guard uniform, with a heavy jacket and boots and backwards ballcap. It’s probably not appropriate right now to think that he looks unfairly good like this, and you wonder what they were robbing before you called him. You almost ask, still in too much shock to remember that you told him you don’t want to know.

But when you look at his face, and feel the way his thumb is brushing featherlight over your cheek, you almost reel back at the rage in his expression. It isn’t directed at you, but it’s burning so deeply that you can’t make yourself look away. His hands are gentle on you, yes, but everything else about him is screaming danger.

Oh. That’s why people are so fucking scared of him, huh? You’ve never seen it before. Never really understood it until now. Still, you couldn’t be less afraid of him if you tried.

You feel really cold, and really numb in a way that scares you, and you don’t think you ever want him to stop touching you.

When you inhale, he nods, like he’s acknowledging that you’re doing a good job, and brushes his fingers through your bloody hair as you wince.

“Where else did he hurt you?” He asks, and you feel those fingers curl a little against the back of your head. His eyes fall down to your neck, which aches and burns in a way that tells you that you probably have angry red marks from the man’s fingers around your throat.

Slammed to the floor. Boot on your back. Fork in his neck. So much blood. Fuck fuck fuck fuck-

“Hey, hey. Look at me.” And you do, and you swallow.

Your shaky fingers come up to your throat. Neck. Fork in neck. Dead body and you’re the one that killed him.

“Can you stand?”

You nod again, and he lifts you to your feet, pulling you to him. He smells like gunpowder and bleach, and you press your nose into his shoulder and try to inhale the scent that you know better. The one that is soft and a little spicy and very much him.

He presses gently on the back of your head. “Here?”

You shake your head.

Lower, to your back. This time, you jump a little in his arms.

He nods, gentle and careful, and turns you to lift your shirt and inspect the wound.

You can’t see him, but you hear his breath get a little harsher. A little more shallow.

“Is it bad?” You ask, quiet and hoarse, and you feel him pull your shirt back down before he turns you and pulls you into his chest again. He’s breathing too shallowly. He’s holding you too tightly. He’s trying to keep himself calm, and it isn’t working.

“There’s a boot print. On your back.” He murmurs, and you wince at the memory of that boot kicking you back down.

You reach up, and slide your hands over his back, tucking your face into the crook of his neck, soothing him even as you seek comfort from him.

For a while, he holds you. Careful. Tight. Like if he loosens his grip even the smallest bit, something might rip you away.

Finally, he takes a deep breath, and presses his lips to the side of your head. Still gentle. Still soft.

“I’m gonna call Craig, okay? He’s gonna take you home, and then I’m gonna…take care of this.” The words are murmured into your hair, and you wince. Tense.

“No.” You feel so…weak. You fucking hate it, but you can’t think straight and the idea of Pope leaving you or even letting you go in this moment makes you feel fucking sick. “Don’t. Don’t go. Not right now.”

He goes impossibly more still, before he pulls back to trace his fingers over your bruised cheek, eyes searching yours with an intensity that makes your toes curl despite the situation.

“Okay.” His head tilts a little, in the direction of the back room. “Go in the back. Sit down.”

And you do.

You hear a few noises in the front room, the low sound of Pope’s voice on the phone, something being pulled from a storage closet, and then he’s crouching before you on the couch, fingers reaching up to brush over your neck once again before he pauses, like it just occurred to him that you might not want to be touched.

“Is this…okay?”

You nod. It hurts to speak, so you don’t bother to try. You don’t need to, with him. You never have.

He tilts your head to the side, fingers tightening imperceptibly on your chin as he sees the bruises once again, and for a moment you both just sit there in silence, staring at each other.

And maybe…maybe it’s because you’re alive. Maybe it’s because you just fucking killed a man. Maybe it’s because you haven’t seen him in over a month. Maybe it’s because you miss Lena and you miss him but…

But you pull him up with a hand fisted in the front of his t-shirt, and you kiss him like you’re fucking drowning.

He makes a soft, surprised noise against your lips, but he kisses you back. He kisses you back like he’s fucking drowning, too. Like he missed you just as much as you missed him.

His hands slide up to your cheeks, so gentle it almost hurts more than your wounds, and you drag him down with you onto the couch. He comes like he’s magnetized to you, lays you back beneath him like you’re made of glass and every millimeter of his skin against yours is heaven on fucking earth.

He braces himself atop you, pulling back to meet your eyes, and you grab his face in your hands and drag his mouth back to yours and it is incredible. He feels incredible and you missed him so much you finally feel like you’re breathing again.

He parts your lips with his own, groans as tongue sweeps into your mouth like the taste of you is a drug, and you arch against him as he presses you down into the couch, the feeling of his own need quickly making itself evident against your thigh. This. This this this. The feeling of his control cracking, of his desperation to touch you making him walk the line between gentle and rough until every touch sends sparks through your body, this is what you need. What you missed. This is making it all better.

You whimper, and he kisses you harder, and you are on fucking fire as his teeth catch your bottom lip, hand sliding up to your cheek as you begin fumbling with his belt and he rocks his hips against yours and-

And then his calloused fingers press a little too hard against your bruised cheek, and you jump as pain shoots down your spine, and he pulls back like you just burned him.

“No. No no no-“ you start, out of your mind with lust and the desperate need to forget. Just for a minute. When he’s kissing you, when he’s against you, you feel so much better when all you’ve felt is emptiness and pain for months.

Let me forget. Let me forget please don’t make me think about what just happened and Lena and how much I missed you please please please just-

“Stop.” He rasps, breath ragged as his hand slides beneath your head, cradling it as his nose brushes over your cheek. He’s shaking with restraint, and you’re sure that if you can just get his damn belt off he’ll cave but his free hand comes down to catch your wrists and you almost fucking cry. “You’re hurt.” And then, softer, closer to your ear and dripping with guilt and regret, “you’re hurt.”

“I don’t care.” And you don’t. And it’s a little scary how much you don’t care. You just want him. You haven’t even seen him in weeks, since that night in the backyard, and you feel like everything might be better if he just keeps touching you.

You reach up to scrape your fingers through his hair, and his forehead drops against yours, his hold tightening on your hip.

“I can’t.” His voice is a low rasp, nose bumping against your own as his eyes fall closed like the mere feeling of you touching him may be all that he needs.

“Please, Andrew.”

He grips you tighter, and leans back down.

And then the door to the bar slams open, loudly enough that the sound echoes into the back room, and he pulls away like he’s just fallen back to earth.

You almost protest, but then Deran and Craig are pushing their way into the back, and Craig is crouching before you.

“Oh, fuck. You look like shit.”

You laugh, and then, to your horror, you start to cry.

“Fuck. Fuck, okay. I’ve gotcha.”  He pulls your face into his shoulder, like he might hide your ridiculous weeping, and turns his head to look at Pope. “You didn’t do any of this, right?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” The level of danger in the other man’s voice nearly sends a chill down your spine.

“Chill, just checking.” Your head is pushed back again, surprisingly gently, and Deran hisses as he takes in the sight of you.

“Christ.” And then he’s beside you, touching the wound on your head. “She might need to go to Tijuana or some shit.”

“That’s for bullet wounds.” Pope snaps, eyes still on yours and body angled towards you like he might shove the two other men away at any moment. “She needs a few stitches. I’ve got her.”

“You’ve gotta take care of the…“

Body. The body. The body you made because you stabbed that guy in the neck and he-

“Take her home. I’ll be there soon.”

Craig nods, beginning to pull you to your feet. “Okay, c’mon. We can watch that dumb reality show you like. Just-“ he starts, and Pope stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“Take her home.” He says, and the implication would make you frown if you weren’t still in shock. “Not to your place.”

Craig looks at you. You look at him. You look at Pope.

You turn back to Craig, and nod.

He steps back, and Pope moves forward to press his lips against your forehead, pulling back to tilt your chin up and look you in the eyes.

“I’ll be there soon. Is that okay?”

Always, always asking if you’re okay. Always checking on you. Always putting you first.

“Yeah.”

And when he leaves, and Craig takes you home, you feel his loss like a phantom limb.

-

Pope is gone for hours.

Craig fusses over your head for all three of those fucking hours.

“Fucking-ow!” You hiss, as he pulls the needle through your skin again, instinctively trying to shove him back for maybe the fiftieth time.

“Sorry. Shit, I usually have this done to me. Hang on.”

You sputter as he spills a shot of tequila over the wound again, and shove him some more.

“Knock it off. I’m disinfecting.”

“I don’t think that’s how that works.”

“Will you relax?”

“You’re definitely not doing it right.”

“Well it’s not every fuckin’ day I have to stitch up my best friend’s open forehead wound while she sits on my brother’s couch with a fucking boot print on her back.”

“Don’t act like you haven’t seen weirder shit.”

He stops, and crouches in front of you, one hand still holding the needle while the other rests on your shoulder.

“That’s it. C’mon, look at me for a sec.”

You do, and you’re still trying to glare, but with your puffy, red-rimmed eyes and bruised face, you know it doesn’t hold much weight.

“You saved your own life tonight. You know that?”

“I killed someone.” Your voice sounds too small.

“He was gonna kill you. Probably worse.” Craig doesn’t get…intense, often. The way he’s looking at you now only proves just how dire the situation was tonight, and you have to grit your teeth to keep from shaking. He squeezes your shoulder, and offers you a small smile.

“You make a hell of a Cody, ya know that?”

Ugh. You might start crying again.

You hug him instead, stitches be damned, and he barely has time to maneuver the needle so it doesn’t rip your forehead apart before he’s hugging you right back.

“And,” he adds, one large hand rubbing soothingly over your bruised back, “if Pope doesn’t kill everyone that guy’s ever known, I will. No one’s gonna hurt you again. Promise.”

You laugh, as fucked up as it is, and you feel a whole lot better.

-

You’re leaning against Craig’s shoulder on the couch, aching all over and trying to lose yourself in the conversation, when Pope Cody comes through the door and sits down in front of you faster than you can even register that he’s home.

There’s blood on his face. Dirt on his hands.

“Are you okay?” His voice is quiet, fingers skating through your hair in that wonderfully familiar way as he inspects your wound.

“No.” There’s no need to lie. He’ll see right through it, anyway.

“Okay.” He traces a gentle, calloused touch over your cheek. Down to your neck, where the barely there pressure on the bruises on your throat make you flinch, less from pain than from memory.

Craig leaves with one more gentle ruffle of your hair, and then you’re alone. You let Pope touch you, let him move his eyes and fingertips over every single wound on your face and body. Watch the rage build in his eyes again as he takes in the state of you.

“I should have done your stitches. Craig never ties them right.” He pulls back, earnest like his next words might matter to you. “This is gonna scar.”

“I think I’m in love with you.”

What a truly fucked up thing for you to say right now. You just killed a guy. Pope just hid the body for you. He’s your fake husband and you’ve barely spoken in months.

He pauses, and pulls back to look at you. And then he looks at your head, like he’s inspecting the wound again.

“Stop. I’m not concussed. I mean, I don’t think I am.” You frown, and reach up to catch his hand. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said-“

“I love you.” He interrupts, and curls his fingers around yours. “I love you so much I can’t think. I can’t sleep without you. I can’t breathe right. You…” his eyes are intense, locked onto yours, but he’s fighting for the words. “You’re everything to me. You have been since I met you.”

That catches your attention. You blink at him, opening your mouth to try to find something to say, but he keeps going.

“I would die for you. I would kill for you. Sometimes I want you to ask me to kill for you, just so I can show you how much…” your eyes widen, and he frowns. “I won’t, though. But I…I would.”

“I think the way you measure love is a little fucked up.”

His lips quirk, like he’s fighting a smile. “I’m fucked up.”

“Yeah, you are.” You concede, and offer him a smile of your own. “But I love you.”

His smile falls, but his thumb is still doing that sweet thing where it brushes over your cheek. “I’ve killed people before.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to kill that guy tonight. I was hoping he wasn’t dead yet, so that I could kill him.”

“You’re not gonna scare me off, Pope.”

“Andrew.”

“Andrew.” You smile, and he leans forward to rest his forehead against yours. “You’re not gonna scare me off, Andrew.”

This time, when he kisses you, he doesn’t stop.

-

EPILOGUE - SOME TIME LATER

“I’ve literally never seen a baby look so pissed off all the time.” Craig’s hand drops to Pope’s shoulder, giving him a friendly little shake. “Congrats, dude. Definitely yours.”

“I think that’s just his poop face.” You cock your head down at the baby in question. “And his hungry face. And his…happy face.”

Pope makes a quiet noise, and moves forward to lift the dour-faced child into his arms. There’s something about watching him, scarred face and gigantic muscles and all, hold such a small bundle with so much fondness that it still makes you grin every time.

“You’ve gotta bounce him a little.” He says, in his rough and quiet voice, before doing exactly that, and then…

A quiet, cooing giggle. A tiny hand reaching up to grab at his father’s nose. And finally, brightest of all, Pope Cody grinning from ear to fucking ear.

“See, he smiles.” Pope reaches up to catch the baby’s hand, tiny fingers wrapping around his pointer, and you think your heart might explode.

“You look fucking scary like that, dude.”

“Oh, shut up.” You catch Pope’s chin, and pull him down for a quick kiss. He’s still smiling, and you smile back, and Craig groans. “He hasn’t slept in like, three days. He’s out of his mind. It makes him more smiley than usual.”

“I’ve slept.” He mumbles, turning back to the baby.

“You have not. You keep waking me up with your fingers on my pulse. Or standing over his crib.”

“The birth was traumatic.”

“The birth was three months ago.”

He grunts, and the baby coos, and he smiles again.

All jokes aside, he’s been doing that a lot lately.

And, a month or two back, when Lena’s now-parents let the two of you come over to the house to show her her new cousin, she had seen that smile, looked up, and smiled right back.

“What?” Pope had asked, looking down at the little girl the two of you had come together to raise so long ago. The little girl who also smiles more openly, now. Who giggles and comes to life more easily and is so excited to show the two of you her drawings from school and the new swing in the backyard.

“You guys don’t look sad anymore.” She said, simply, and you had burst into fucking tears, hormonal and happy and sleep-deprived as you were, and Pope had laughed out loud as he’d pulled you into his arms, sandwiching your baby between the two of you.

Now, you stand beside him by the pool, heart swelling in your chest again as you watch him smile, and he leans over to press his lips to the side of your head.

“We should renew our vows.” He hums, and you laugh.

“You really wanna throw another party?”

He smiles again, and kisses your cheek. “No. I want to marry you again. The right way.”

He’s said the same thing a few times, now. When you got pregnant, when you were pregnant, complaining about your swollen ankles and aching back, when you were lying in the hospital bed and half awake after the birth, when you were both half awake again holding your crying two week old on the couch…

And now, you finally answer.

“Ask me.”

He smiles again. The baby slaps fitfully at his cheek.

“Will you marry me?”

You grin right back at him, and lean up to press your lips to his.

Pope’s eyes remain alert, scanning for possible threats between families, couples, and groups of men or women. Like a guard dog, he’s ready to attack at a moments notice.

One wrong move, one wrong look—

“Andy, can you do my back?”

The soft rhythm of your voice lulls him back to you, eyes blinking away that darkness he tends to find himself struggling to swim in. It’s one of those things that grabs him and pulls him under before he can register the shift himself.

Pope softens when he looks at you, the corners of his mouth feathering up in a ghost of a motion. Somewhere halfway between the beginnings of a smile and a smirk.

A nod of his head is enough of an answer before he’s reaching for your sun lotion, squeezing a generous dollop onto his rough palms.

Nothing goes unnoticed by Pope. He catches the shudder beneath your skin when his flesh touches yours. He notices the way you relax immediately after, takes note of the sigh that falls from your lips when he begins to knead and massage the lotion into your shoulders.

It sends a wave of warmth straight into his chest, one that he’s still learning not to question or refuse.

You turn your head, resting your cheek on the back of your palm as you face him with a lazy smile. “Why aren’t you in the water?”

He shrugs a shoulder, wipes his hands off on a cloth to rid the excess lotion from his skin. “I like sitting with you.”

“You’re sitting like you’re my bodyguard.” The words come out airy on a laugh, eyes playfully squinted when Andrew's eyes harden slightly, not appreciating the tease.

“Forgive me for wanting to make sure my girlfriend can enjoy the sun in peace.” His words are drawled out lazily, a lilt of unbothered sass woven between each syllable.

A louder chuckle escapes you at that and you find yourself sitting up on your knees beside him, hands pawing at his biceps. Pope's skin is hot beneath your touch, freckled from the sun and tinged slightly pink.

He watches you with an intense, heated gaze. Like you're something he struggles to control himself around.

"No one's going to approach me," you try to gently reassure him.

Andrew cocks a brow, unimpressed.

"Do you want me to cover up—"

"No," he cuts you off quickly before softening his tone and hardening expression. "No, you should be able to wear whatever you want."

You regard him for a moment, head tilting like you're trying to read his mind. You don't need to, though. You know how protective he is over you, how the thought of another mans eyes on your body sets his blood on fire.

You're no better when it comes to ogling women—something that your sweet Andy is a bit too unaware of. Maybe it's a good thing he's not in that wetsuit today...

It's without much more of a thought that you lay back down on your towel, head propped up against another rolled up towel, and spread your legs and pat your stomach.

Andrew watches with pinched brows when you pat your abdomen again.

"If you're not going to go in the water, you might as well get comfy."

He takes the offer immediately, shuffling across the towel to lay between your legs. Not the usual situation for this position, but he'll take whatever closeness he can get.

So, Andrew lays on his back—not his stomach, he still wants to be alert— and rests his head against your thigh. He feels motion at the side of his face, notices the brief movement of you reaching for your book.

"Want me to read to you?"

His heart pulsates at the offer. Part of him wants to refuse, something so tender that's usually only shared in the darkness of the night when he can't sleep.

But he can feel himself growing irritable beneath the scorching sun, can feel his shoulders tensing more and more every time someone so much as walks past you.

If anything can begin to soothe him, it's your voice.

you're just a slut looking for attention, Tammi's words not his, and god does he give it to you.

when you show up at his door all pouty and looking worried sick, still in your nightie, claiming that your sink was leaking like crazy and you needed his help cause "it's wet alll over, Sammy please".

when your car shit the bed (a miracle your little fiat even held on that long) and you'd asked all syrupy sweet if Sammy could "take care of me, please Officer?".

even when your IKEA furniture came in and you needed "someone big and strong" like him to assemble it for you because you'd just gotten your nails done and couldn't afford breaking one.

and he'd willingly play along, frowning all unsure and going "eh…I dunno, sweetheart…" only to show up as soon as his wife was out of the house.

it was perfectly neighborly of him to help you, an upstanding member of his community. or at least that's what he reasoned with while he mowed your lawn on a hot-ass Sunday afternoon while Tammi was out of town.

all while trying his best to ignore how good you looked all splayed in your lawn-chair and little bikini, lips pursed around the straw of your fruity drink as your heated gaze raked over Sammy's buff, chubby body. the unforgiving July sun had made his white tee stick to his sweaty torso like saran, and you'd lapped up every detail like you'd owned him. his meaty, defined pecs, the outline of his belly pressing against the drenched fabric, the strain of his sleeves fighting against his flexing biceps…

Sammy couldn't possibly know you wanted him, but your looks were hungry, eyes voraciously gorging on every detail as he stopped mowing to stretch his back. his hand came up to wipe the beads of sweat dotting his brow and rolling down the side of his pink, plump cheeks. a small resigned sigh escaping him as he hesitantly tugged at the hem of his shirt.

"It's soooo hot…" you whine in your comfy seat in the shade, lower lip caught between your teeth in view of his thick triceps and back muscles flexing. good god was Sammy Bryant wide. built like an ox, broad shouldered and burly under a healthy layer of chub, and you wanted nothing more than to take a bite out of him. or three. "why don't you take your shirt off, honey?"

the suggestion seems to have hit a nerve, Sammy straightening up like a meerkat, his head whipping to your direction nervously. "wh-what?" he squeaks before clearing his throat. "i mean- i-…no, no i'm fine. no one wants to see the fat guy shirtless."

he doesn't understand why you look so confused at his self depreciating comment, brows pinched and nose ever so slightly scrunched as you slide off your seat and walk over to him. "That's mean, Sammy," you say, grasping the hem of his white tee to slowly peel the sticky, offending garment off his soft pudgy belly and broad chest. "I wanna see you shirtless." you admit to your married neighbor without a lick of shame. "'sides, it's hot out."

and what the fuck is he supposed to say to that except babble out a confused "thank you?" and ignore the pink flush moving from his cheeks down to his neck at record speed?

you giggle in response, clearly unfazed, or perhaps delighted, and reach up to squeeze his biceps. They're firm under your manicured fingers, a bulging vein jumping when you stroke it with your thumb. "You've got sooo many freckles!" you coo, the tips of your nails trailing down his chest like the world's horniest game of connect the dots. "Lemme get my sunscreen and I can do your back, yeah?"

any other man would probably have enough sense to push you off and hightail it to his home that he shares with his wife, but Sammy finds himself sat at the edge of your sun lounger with you kneeling behind him, almost trembling as you slather sunscreen on his freckled shoulders and back.

"Ooh..see, you're already turnin' pink, honey" you chirp, voice all sweet and bubbly. god, you sounded like you didn't have a care in the world, let alone worried that Tammi might catch you two. your hands take the opportunity to grope Sammy for all he's worth, naughty fingers grasping at his back muscles and sides with the excuse of "getting every inch!", even going as far as to pinch his love handles and laugh in his face when poor Sammy squeaks. "Goodness, you're jumpy officer!"

"Tammi…my wife…" Sammy starts, his protests melting into a soft whimper as you cup and knead his pecs, sunscreen forgotten.

"What about her?" you hum in return, peeking over his shoulder to look at his flushed face and puppydog eyes.

"Well.." Sammy starts, voice unsure "She won't be happy if you keep touchin' me like this, sweeth-heart," he stammers when you move down to rub down his pudgy belly, digits digging into the fat possessively. "Um…just worried, I guess. Don't want her to come fight you or-or something-"

you stop him in his tracks with a bold kiss to his shoulder, lipgloss staining the skin a glistening strawberry pink. it's completely out of order, a step far removed from your thus far mostly innocent flirting, and it makes Sammy's pulse thrum when he should be pushing you off.

"Oh I can handle Ms. Tammi, honey," you throw back, unperturbed by the possibility of Tammi rightfully getting in your face or even getting physical. "So you can tell her she's welcome to come over and try somethin'"

Really, you should’ve known better when Jack was gone longer than he was supposed to be. Yes, your son was a toddler—and in his squirmy wiggly worm stage—but haircuts don’t take that long. Even if they were both getting one.

So when you heard your front door open two hours later, you didn’t know what to expect.

“Mama! We’re home!” Jack’s voice filled the house.

You could hear your son’s quiet giggles and Jack’s best attempts at softly shushing him.

With the basket of laundry on your hip you headed towards the living room, stopping in your tracks when you rounded the corner.

Jack was standing there with a bouquet of all your favorite flowers in his hands. It was almost bigger than him. You knew he was up to something; but still, you couldn’t stop the immediate swell and softness in your heart.

“What’s all this for?”, You ask, putting down the laundry basket; eyes flitting between Jack and your son—who clung to your husband’s pant-leg—hood still up.

Jack shrugged, leaning in and kissing your cheek softly as he handed you the bouquet; “Just something for my wife.”

You narrow your eyes are him, leaning into the kiss; “I can see that, but why?”

Jack tsks once; “Can’t a guy just spoil his wife?”

“He can”, You nod, “But when he’s two hours late from a haircut and shows up with flowers, said wife tends to get suspicious.”

You take in Jack’s haircut; the same he always gets, just a little shorter on the sides—curls trimmed neatly on the top and curling at the base of his neck. He looked extra handsome, cleaned up nice with hair still slightly damp.

“Don’t get mad”, Jack says, trying his best to bite back a smirk.

Immediately thoughts start going through your head; “Last time you said that we ended up with a kitten.”

You look at the guilty smile he’s wearing; “Please do not tell me there’s another kitten.”

Jack laughs; “No animals this time, Mama.”

You sigh in relief, not that you didn’t love the little ball of grey fur that your boys brought home three months ago, or the lack of personal space it brought with it.

Jack leans down to your son, speaking softly: “Wanna show Mama your new look?”

Immediately you’re thinking buzz cut. Jack took your son out and buzzed all his beautiful red curls off and you’re preparing to kick his ass now.

But when your son giggles with a nod and pulls his hood down, your jaw drops.

“Oh my god, Jack-“

A mullet. Your son has a mini mullet.

Hair shaved short on the sides, and strawberry blonde curls on the top leading down to the back where it’s slightly longer. But damn it, he looks cute.

“He picked it out himself”, Jack smirks, hands nonchalantly in his pockets as he rocks on the balls of his feet like a teenager in trouble.

“Mama like?”, Your son asks, beaming up at you with the widest smile you’ve ever seen and cheeks so round you could squish them forever.

You just laugh, actually laugh. Probably in relief your son still has hair.

So you kneel down, arms open and outstretched as your son runs immediately into them—careful to set the flowers down on the hallway table before your tiny speedster can squish them.

“You look so handsome, baby!”, You tell him, kissing his freshly cut curls and turning his head gently with your hands to get a better look.

Your son giggles, smile stolen from Jack’s face and eyes to match.

In the midst of it all—Jack clears his throat behind you—a shy smile on his lips.

You roll your eyes, standing up with a ruffle to your son’s hair as he runs off towards his playroom; pulling Jack in by his shirt collar.

“Daddy looks handsome too”, You say, eyes dancing over his face, hands in his freshly trimmed curls.

“Yeah?”, Jack asks giddily, eyebrows raised as he locks eyes with you.

“Definitely.”

You bite your bottom lip softly before standing on your tiptoes, pressing a soft kiss to his lips that has him humming a content sigh.

“…Think Robby’ll babysit tonight?”

Jack’s smile turns mischievous—fingers digging a little more into your hips—still not hard enough to hurt: “Oh he better.”

Jack leans in again, but you stop him with a finger to his lips.

“You’re just lucky you didn’t shave his head.”

Jack fakes a gasp when you move your finger to point it at him.

“I’d never.”

“Good”, You say, “Cause you’d be homeless or living with Robby.”

Jack laughs softly, grabbing your waist and pulls you in close again; “You’d miss me.”

“Maybe.”

Then his lips are on yours again, drowning out every worry you had and replacing them with the thought of how lucky you are to have your boys.